Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “He will guess that I have told her,” the Countess thought. “For her, God help her, poor girl!” She looked after her with deeper feeling than any of her friends would have placed to her credit. She stood for a time, staring at the lamp and passing her handkerchief over her lips. Then she went slowly back to the drawing-room.

  Charlotte looked up from her work. “What a long time you have been,” she said.

  “Yes, I was detained.”

  “There was nothing the matter, I hope?”

  “No,” my lady said negligently, “as it turned out, nothing. But it was well that I went up. Have you finished the spray of roses?”

  CHAPTER XIX

  A GLASS OF WINE

  A KEEN, bright morning had followed a night of frost, a hard frost coming late in the winter. The sky, pale-blue and veiled in mist towards the horizon, was without a cloud. The sun, melting the hoar that had gathered on the grass, was reflected from a million pin-points bright as diamonds. The sound of a squirrel munching beech-mast, or of feet pressing through the dried bracken, could be heard forty paces away. The smoke from the many chimneys of Queen’s Folly rose straight upward, and about the entrance the robin, man’s friend, and the sparrow, his parasite, awaited his operations in hopeful expectancy.

  Colonel Ould, with all his faults, was a sportsman; and the prospect of a bright day in the open drew him early from the house. But early as he was, the Captain was before him, and Ould could not withstand the temptation to plague him; a dislike, natural between two men so different, was augmented by the rivalry that in that day existed between the services. “Hallo, George,” he said, “looking for the early — governess, eh? No, she’s not out yet. I haven’t caught so much as the gleam of her petticoat for a week past.”

  “Well, I haven’t either,” the Captain replied snappishly. “She is not well, I am told.”

  “So I hear too. All the better for Ann! And I’ll bet that quaint little devil will make the most of it. I suspect she’s pining for you, George.”

  “Who? Ann?”

  “No, the little filly.”

  “You be hanged,” the Captain retorted. “I see no more of her than you do.”

  “But I don’t look for her. And you seem to know more about her than most of us. Talk of the devil, here’s her next-door neighbour! Good morning, Mr. Girardot.” He greeted the tutor with a cool nod. “You are early. Going into the forest?”

  “For a short time,” the tutor replied rather curtly. “I am on an errand.” He passed out through the great gates.

  Ould looked after him. “Got the black dog on his back,” he said thoughtfully. “No doubt about that. Now I wonder what’s the matter with him. Looks as if he had been ill! As if he had not slept for a sennight, by gad! I’ll tell you what, my friend. I’m d —— — d if I would keep that good-looking Jemmy Jessamy in my house a day if I were Fred. I’m hanged if I would.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s not why, but if. If I had a handsome wife, my Trojan. That’s why.”

  The Captain, who was snapping the lock of his gun and trying the flint, looked up. “What the devil do you mean?” he said. “You know you are too fond of that kind of thing, Ould. If I thought you meant anything by it—”

  “Well? What?”

  “I should ask you for an explanation.”

  “And if I meant anything,” the other answered carelessly, “you should have one.”

  They were verging on dangerous ground and both knew it; and the Captain’s temper was rising. Fortunately my lord appeared at this moment and joined them. “Hallo, hallo!” he said cheerily. “Bickering again, you two? What about? What about? What about? as the old boy at Windsor would say.”

  “What men always bicker about,” the Colonel replied. “Woman, lovely woman. Your establishment, if you must know, Fred. What of the little governess? George here has been out and on the look-out this half-hour and not caught so much as the whisk of her petticoat. Says she’s ill — pining for him, I say.”

  My lord grinned. “I expect George made the chase too hot for her. But have you heard about Bobbie? Bobbie got Ann to take him up to the schoolroom — nothing he liked so much as a schoolroom tea. Only just out of it himself, d’you see, so it’s natural. Well, Bobbie was done to a turn! The little girl wasn’t showing — wasn’t well, she said, and Bobbie had to stuff thick bread-and-butter with Ann that the imp might not see through him! And what’s worse, my lady heard of it and smelled a rat, and turned the cold shoulder to the Beau at dinner! I saw there was something afoot and I wondered what he had done!” My lord laughed at the recollection.

  “Bobbie’s growing up,” said Ould.

  “Young puppy!” growled the Captain, and moved away towards the keepers.

  The Colonel’s eyes followed him, though his next words appeared to bear no relation to him. “I just saw that bear-leader of Bodmin’s go out,” he said. “There are the makings of a Don Juan about that young man, Fred, unless I am mistaken.”

  “Yes, good-looking chap. Plays the devil in the village, I’ll wager. But the boy likes him.” My lord for his part liked everybody, had a good word for everyone, called the men by their names and chucked the maids under the chin — was hail-fellow-well-met with everybody — with one exception.

  The two moved away to join the rest of the party. But Ould, who loved mischief and had a rare nose for a secret, was thoughtful. He had remarked the tutor’s drawn face and feverish eyes and was sure that they meant something. Of the man’s relation to Rachel he had no inkling; of his surprising good looks there could be no question. And trained by habit to think the worst, and believing in no woman’s virtue, the Colonel began to suspect that he had hit on the secret of my lady’s coldness.

  He was so much taken with the idea — his favourite maxim was, “The proper study of mankind is woman” — that early in the afternoon he fell out of the line on the ground that his Manton was out of order. Turning homeward, he strolled thoughtfully back to the house. He alone of the party had laid some siege to the Countess, and his wits were sharpened, and his malice excited, by the complete failure of his efforts. But knowledge is power, and he reflected that there were more ways than one of arriving at an end.

  He entered by the side-door and, ridding himself of his gun, he placed himself on the watch at a window. He was well aware that the odds, even if he were right, were against his learning anything; but the tutor’s face had impressed him, he argued from it that a crisis of some kind was at hand, and the interval during which the men were abroad — and Charlotte Froyle had joined them — was one that favoured happenings. It was such an unguarded time as the cautious might use — and once on the track his patience was as great as his flair for mischief was acute.

  By and by, when he had been on the watch no more than five minutes, he was rewarded — against all the probabilities. He saw the tutor leave the house and make for the forest, and three minutes later he saw the Countess follow with every sign of haste. She went in the same direction.

  “By G — d!” the watcher muttered, slapping his thigh. “I believe I’m right! There’s for our spotless lady! But they are all alike! All of a feather! Well, if I don’t learn enough now to hold her, hang me for a fool!”

  He stood awhile, gazing jealously at the scattered trees that, leafless as they were, foiled his curiosity, and here, pressing in upon the gardens, there retreating to a greater distance, hid the secret that he must win. He considered the possibility of following the two, but he decided that the chances were too much against him. He did not know the woodland and could not count on surprising them. He contented himself with taking his hat and riding-coat, and thus prepared he awaited their return. “Let me but have a good look at my lady,” he thought, “and if she does not give away the secret I’m less clever than I think.”

  He had to wait some time. He saw the governess come in, but intent on higher game he paid no heed to her. At last he caught the flutter of a woman’s dress in the distance
, now appearing between the trees, now masked by a clump of hollies, and he acted. With a languid air he lounged across the hall and outside paused for a moment before the house, as if undecided which way to turn. Then carelessly swinging his cane he sauntered away, and met Lady Ellingham a furlong or so from the house.

  Secretly he clapped himself on the back, for a single glance assured him that she was not herself. A less suspicious eye must have remarked her flushed cheeks and over-bright eyes; she met him, moreover, with an embarrassment singular in one so cold and self-contained. He chuckled to himself, confirmed in his worst impressions — this lily too was not without its stain! But he took care to mask his suspicions under an easy address.

  “I see you have been taking exercise,” he began. “I came home early. My gun played me tricks and put me out of temper. But I am rewarded by this meeting. I hope I may have the pleasure of accompanying you to the house.”

  Her tapping foot — they had both come to a stand — betrayed her impatience. “Pray don’t do so,” she said. “Don’t let me deprive you of your walk. I shall be at the house in a minute.”

  “I was merely strolling for pleasure.”

  “Then do continue,” she answered with decision. But he saw that her eyes avoided his and that her breast still heaved with the swell of a half-spent storm.

  “Do not let me divert you,” she added, with an effort at civility.

  With that she would have passed on, but he did not give way. He judged that it was time to unmask his battery. “You look a little disturbed,” he said, with solicitude. “The woods are lonely. Nothing has occurred to alarm you, I trust? You have not met with any impertinent who has ventured—”

  “Oh dear no!” she rejoined. “Nothing of the kind.” But though she spoke with calmness, her changing colour betrayed a distress very unusual with her, and as she raised her hand to her mouth he saw that the hand shook. A little more, and he fancied that she would break down.

  Such signs meant much in such a woman. They confirmed all that Ould suspected, and he looked in the direction whence she had come. “If I thought so — if I thought, Lady Ellingham, that any one had,” he said, “I would soon—”

  “Oh dear no!” she repeated eagerly. “Nothing of the kind. I have perhaps walked — a little too quickly.” And suddenly changing her tactics she invited him to return with her. “If you really were not meaning to go far?”

  He read her motive — she feared that if he went on he would discover the person with whom she had been in company. But he knew that already and it suited him to comply. He offered his arm, and, having learned to his cost that he was no favourite with her, he was strengthened in his suspicions by the docility with which she accepted it as well as by the unsteadiness of the hand that rested on his arm.

  Anew he patted himself on the back. He held her secret and in due time he would use it, and make his market of it. But the present was not the time, the secret would keep, and for the moment he refrained from pressing her further. In the hall he parted politely from her, trusting that she would speedily recover from her fatigue: and he went up to his room, whistling softly. He hardly knew whether he was better pleased with his own acumen, or with the prize on which he counted to reward it. But a little added proof would not be unwelcome, nor difficult to find now that he knew in what direction to look; and when he had that he would move. For the present, silence and open eyes. He was a man who liked to work in the dark, to lay his mine deep, and to apply the spark only when success was assured.

  But the Colonel had left one thing out of his count. He was politic when cool, but he was also one to whom his wit and the use of it were a constant temptation. He could not be long in company without desiring to shine, nor long among his fellows without seeking occasion to provoke them. And a disclosure made an evening or two later as the men, flushed with wine, were rising from the table, a disclosure that threatened his well-laid plans, proved too much for his prudence.

  It was Sir Austin who laid the train. “What’s this about that handsome fellow of Bodmin’s?” he asked, as he got a little unsteadily to his feet, the sherry decanter in his hand. “Going, my girl tells me. Is it true, Fred?”

  “He’s gone,” my lord replied, shortly for him.

  “Gone? Gone away? Yoicks!” Lord Robert crowed. “What’s he been up to? Weeping virtue and aged father tearing hair, eh? That it? And immaculate Fred sitting in judgment as lord of the soil?”

  “Something of the kind,” my lord grunted, as he turned towards the door. ‘ Come, it’s too late for the drawing-room, you’ve overstayed your welcome there, and you’ve punished the cellar enough! Who’s for faro?”

  “Faro?” Ould repeated with a sneer. Like the others he had taken rather more wine than was good for him. “No, d — n faro! Let’s hear a bit about Joseph — far more amusing! Who’s the Potiphar’s wife that has fled and left her garment with him?”

  “Go to the devil!” my lord answered. “Come! Time, time!” He strolled out ahead of the company.

  “Costive, eh?” Bobbie said with a tipsy wink.

  “Very close,” old Froyle agreed, raising his eyebrows.

  “Deuced unlike him,” said a guest, who had come in from outside. “What is the story? Bit of scandal?”

  “There is no story,” the Captain said. He threw down his napkin and moved towards the door. Then he seemed to change his mind and turned about, waiting for the others.

  “Is it that handsome dandy that I’ve seen with the boy?” the strange guest asked.

  “The same,” Ould said, an angry glint in his eyes. “And if I may make a guess, I fancy the young Adonis has raised his eyes a bit above him — a good bit above him. And Fred—”

  “What of Fred?” There was a very ominous note in the Captain’s voice.

  “Fred? Oh, Fred has opened his?” the Colonel sneered, his chagrin getting the better of his prudence.

  The Captain made a hasty movement, but Bobbie struck in before him. “What? Opened his eyes?” he hiccoughed. “Lord, what a devilish joke! I’d give all the money I’ve lost at White’s this twelvemonth to hear Fred holding forth as the moral man.”

  My lord put his head in at the door. “Whip up those sulkers, George,” he said, out of patience. “Are you going to stay there all night?”

  Sir Austin led the way out. Bobbie, still chuckling over Fred’s morality, tailed after. The Captain held back as if to give place to Ould, who was the last to move. But the moment they were alone, “Ould, what the devil did you mean?” he demanded.

  “A little lower tone, if you please,” the Colonel replied quietly, but there was an ugly look in his eyes. “By what, my friend?”

  “By what you said of that fellow — looking above him?”

  “Just what I said. And I’ll wager he did not look for nothing!”

  “Then,” said the Captain slowly, “you’re a d — d swab, Ould!” And taking up the sherry which Froyle had poured out but not drunk, he flung the wine in the Colonel’s face. “And a liar besides!”

  The Colonel took out his handkerchief. “Thank you,” he said and wiped his face and stock. “Cockpit manners! But that’s enough. Very good!”

  “After you,” the Captain said, and he stood aside, pointing to the door.

  Ould bowed and went out before him, outwardly unmoved. The rencontre had sobered him, though it was not his first experience of the kind. But inwardly he was cursing himself for a babbling fool, who had thrown away such chances as remained to him. Whatever came of it, he saw that George and his own temper had spoiled his game.

  CHAPTER XX

  DOUBLE OR QUITS

  WHEN Girardot learned on the morning after the surprise on the stairs that Rachel kept her room, he guessed that the Countess had betrayed his secret; and foreseeing that trouble of more than one kind might come of it, he cursed his luck. But of Rachel at any rate, and whatever the consequences, he did not despair, he was far from despairing. His experience of the frailer sisters and the
ir ways was warrant for him that with tact and some eating of humble pie he might regain both his influence and her confidence; and regain them under conditions which would make his final triumph the more easy and certain.

  But to effect anything he must get at the girl, he must see her, for it was only by his powers of persuasion and his personal charm that he could work. And this he failed to do. To a question casually dropped to Priscilla, the answer was that Miss South was not well; and when, venturing on a stronger step, he sent Rachel a note by the schoolroom maid, ostensibly about a book, the note was returned to him unopened. He received it as if all were right, and with a word of regret that the young lady still ailed. But Priscilla’s solemn face warned him that he was suspected, and he dared go no further, for with all his audacity he shrank from addressing the Countess; to whom for the rest he was careful to give a wide berth. He could only wait and watch.

  But with growing impatience, for he had not been wont to fail, or to be denied. He had taken what he fancied where he found it, desiring things not too delicate, and telling himself that without these stolen pleasures he would find his dull life intolerable. Now he saw the bird that he had captured escaping from the net, and the charm of its plumage grew on him with each moment of uncertainty. The prospect of disappointment blew passion to a white heat, and that which had begun as an idle fancy now possessed him. He pictured Rachel in every desirable light that experience suggested, and was consumed with longing, which seven or eight days of suspense, during which he neither saw her nor heard of her, did but aggravate. He persuaded himself that he had never loved before, never known the pain of a thwarted pursuit; and beside this little girl, with whom he had intended to amuse an idle hour, beside the pale face that only a certain piquancy and a pair of soft eyes saved from insignificance, the rustic, full-blown beauties whom he had pursued lost their charm and faded to nothingness.