“I SENT A LETTER TO MY LOVE”
“O thou unfaithful, still as ever dearest,
That in thy beauty to my eyes appearest,
In fancy rising now to reawaken
My love unshaken;
All thou’st forgotten, but no change can free thee,
No hate unmake thee; as thou wert I see thee.
. . . . . . . .
O thou my star of stars, among things wholly
Devoted, sacred, dim and melancholy,
The only joy of all the joys I cherished,
Thou hast not perished.” —ROBERT BRIDGES.
Fortune was markedly kind to the fugitives. The bar-parlour of the
Soleil d’Or, whence indeed a considerable clamour was heard to issue,
lay in the front of that hostelry; the stable-yard was completely
deserted, and its deep dirt silenced the horses’ hoofs. In less
than ten minutes after their reunion, the three men were riding
unchallenged along the high-road, into which the lane from the yard
had conveniently and unostentatiously conducted them.
“We are in luck, by Gad!” observed Mr Trenchard feelingly. “I cannot
be sufficiently grateful for your warning, Monsieur. May I, without
indiscretion, know whom I have the privilege of addressing? My name is
Trenchard.”
“Forgive me,” said Louis, “and let me present my cousin, the Marquis
de Château-Foix. He has a fancy for travelling as a druggist, and
you may address him as the Citizen Pomponne. I am the Vicomte de
Saint-Ermay, his incompetent assistant.”
“If I had only known——” began the Englishman in some confusion.
“You would not have given me ten sols,” finished Louis, laughing. “I
know it, but I shall not return your bounty.”
The Marquis remarked politely that he was glad to make Mr Trenchard’s
acquaintance, though in unpropitious circumstances, and asked him how
long he had been in France.
“Quite long enough,” responded Mr Trenchard, “to see that this
country, if you will pardon my saying so, is in a devilish bad way,”
and launched therewith into a narrative of his experiences in Burgundy
and Franche-Comté, in the course of which he contrived to impart to
his companions a quantity of information about their native land, and
to lay open his own convictions with no sparing hand. Louis, who rode
in the middle, listened with concealed amusement; the Marquis scarcely
attended to the sense of Mr Trenchard’s utterances, but the knowledge
that somebody whom he did not know was talking copiously about matters
which did not personally concern him, acted as a kind of vent for his
own thoughts, and he let his mind float away on the stream. There
reached him occasional fragments of what appeared to be a lecture on
the English constitution—“the noblest in the world,” on the English
system of local government, “which is just what your lower orders
need,” on the duty of a landlord to reside on his estate. “I am so
thankful,” he heard Mr Trenchard to remark at this point, “to think
that the tradition of our own country is that the interests of the
landlords are the interests of his tenants, and that he is always
welcome back among them. Here, I am afraid it is very different; and
this, it seems to me, is the root of the whole trouble.”
“I must tell you,” said Louis, with a note of enjoyment in his voice,
“that my cousin has always lived on his estates, from choice.”
“Indeed!” said the Englishman, a little taken aback, and Gilbert was
conscious that he was craning his neck in the darkness to look at him.
“I did not believe that there was a single proprietor in France who
did so; I had heard rumours, but discredited them.”
“There are,” said the Vicomte judicially, “a number of such persons,
and in my opinion it is they who are responsible for the Revolution.”
The champion of the resident landlord could by no means accept this
staggering statement, and he proceeded to combat it with due vigour,
evidently expecting the Marquis to bear his part in rebutting the
charge brought against him by his kinsman. But nothing was further
from Gilbert’s intentions, and the argument, which had now taken the
place of the lecture, continued as a duologue.
Owing to the inferior horses of the cousins, the little cavalcade
progressed but slowly, but it did not appear that Mr Trenchard was at
all chafing at having to accommodate his pace to theirs. Indeed, when
pressed once or twice to leave them, he absolutely refused, asserting
that since the Frenchmen were making for the Loire at Varades or
Ingrande, and he was going to Nantes, their ways lay together as far
as Candé. Dawn, therefore, found the three still jogging along the
high-road. But since the paling of the stars conversation had flagged,
and when, about six o’clock, the travellers came in sight of a little
village, they drew rein not unwillingly. Having got a good meal, they
then bought provisions, made an unsuccessful attempt to obtain better
horses, an equally abortive one to induce Louis to rest for an hour,
and set off again unmolested. At midday they rested themselves and
their nearly worn-out horses by the side of the lonely road, and,
though scanned curiously by a passing peasant or two, were unmolested
by questions. Slow as their progress was thereafter, they had crossed
the Oudon by five o’clock. A little later Mr Trenchard, who seemed
determined to find characteristics markedly dissimilar in every one of
the newly formed departments, realised that he had been for some time
on the soil of Maine-et-Loire, and began to look about him with new
interest that he might differentiate it from that of Mayenne. In so
doing his glance fell upon a clump of wayside poppies.
“That—unfortunately—reminds me of my native Suffolk!” he exclaimed,
pointing to it with his whip.
“You come from Suffolk, then?” asked Gilbert, surprised. He might have
heard the fact being imparted to him during the night, had he been
attending more closely.
“I live near Bury St Edmunds,” replied the Englishman. “But I suppose
that conveys little to you, Monsieur le Marquis.”
“On the contrary,” returned Gilbert, “I know the neighborhood quite
well. My mother’s sister married an Englishman, Sir William Ashley of
Ashley Court, near Mildenhall. My cousin and I both stayed with him
some years ago.”
Trenchard expressed considerable surprise, though he knew, it
appeared, that Sir William’s late wife had been a Frenchwoman. Having
elicited from Château-Foix that he had stayed in Suffolk partly
for the sake of gaining an acquaintance with English methods of
agriculture, he entered into a discussion of these which lasted for
another five miles or so.
“When we part,” he concluded heartily, “you must let me take some
message from you to Ashley Court. The distance is inconsiderable, and
it would give me the greatest pleasure in the world.”
“You are very kind, Monsieur,” murmured Gilbert.
“There is Candé,” broke in Louis suddenly. He had not spoken a word
since the Englishman’s revelation of his domicile.
They all pulled up, while Trenchard and the Marquis debated whether
they should enter the little place or no, and finally agreed that
the night could well be spent in a thick clump of pine trees some
quarter-mile off the road, but that the Marquis was to push on
a little towards Candé with the intention of making a sort of
reconnaissance and also of procuring further provisions.
Nineteen hours on a bad horse had not improved the condition of Louis’
wounded shoulder, but he was not particularly occupied with the
curious little shoots of pain along the top of his left arm as he sat
in the fir wood with his back against a tree, and looked at Trenchard,
busy with the horses at a short distance. For as he gazed at him he
detached him from his surroundings, and saw him riding up the wide
sweep of carefully gravelled avenue that led to Ashley Court, with a
letter from Gilbert to Lucienne in his pocket. That Gilbert would send
a letter he did not doubt. It seemed to Louis as if, armed with
the overwhelming desire which swept through him, it would not be
impossible by sheer force of will to dispossess Trenchard’s spirit
from its habitation, and himself journey to England in its place. He
shut his eyes and put his head back against the fir bole. His mind,
wrenched from its moorings by physical fatigue and pain, was floating
away from his control, and seemed to him to be curiously independent
of his body. Scene after scene of the last few days swept mistily
through his mind, but all the time, at the back of them, was some
thought which he was reaching after and could not grasp. At last,
quite abruptly, it formulated itself, and fell, as it were, into his
hand, and he held it, a tangible object, for a moment in his palm. He,
too, could send a letter to Lucienne.
The blood leaped in his veins, and he opened his eyes and saw
Trenchard beside him.
“I thought you might be asleep,” said the Englishman half apologetically.
“I believe I was dozing,” responded Louis.
“You would be more comfortable lying down.”
“I suppose I should,” returned Saint-Ermay; but he made no movement,
and continued to gaze at Trenchard so intently that the latter began
to feel somewhat uncomfortable.
“No,” said Louis at last aloud, “I can’t!” And immediately he shifted
his position, and with the aid of his unfettered arm slipped down to
his full length at the foot of the tree.
Trenchard, rather alarmed, sprang up and stood over him. “Are you
faint? I have some brandy in my holsters.”
“No, thanks,” said Louis. “I think I am sleepy.”
“Oh, very well,” returned the Englishman. “Look here, I’ll get you a
saddle. You’ll be much more comfortable.”
* * * * * *
And meanwhile, seated on a fallen tree about half a mile away, his
horse grazing beside him, Gilbert also was occupied about a letter to
Lucienne. But there was in his mind no conflict over the question of
sending it—what detained him was its contents. As he sat there, pencil
in hand, there ran through him a thrilling desire, not indeed to
accuse, but to beg for some explanation, for the recital of some
condoning circumstance. Stronger motives stifled it. The events of the
last few days had transmuted his love for Lucienne into a passion
intensely protective, half lover-like, half paternal. He could not
bear for her to have so far to humiliate herself as to acknowledge
that her heart had strayed from him. Moreover, how short a way had it
strayed! He took out and re-read the little singed letter. “I cannot
bear it! Come to me!” The cry, forlorn and despairing, seemed to
flutter across the miles which separated her from him, and to nestle,
faint as a whisper, in his heart. He put the letter back, and a
consuming rage lit his face. Yes, it was so; she _had_ appealed for
protection against Louis—Louis, the traditional _homme à bonnes
fortunes_, who had amused himself with her, no doubt, for a month or
two, and passed on, regardless of the ruin he had caused. By God! it
should be no one’s ruin but his own! Again the image of the copse
smiled at Gilbert, and this time with preciser details. It was
sunrise, and the Vicomte, in his reddening shirt, the sword fallen
from his hand, lay writhing on the woodland grass. . . .
As he came in sight of the clump of firs Gilbert perceived his cousin
lying under a tree with a saddle for a pillow, and a cloak spread
carefully over him. Near him sat the owner of both. “What an excellent
opportunity!” the rider reflected with a sneer.
Château-Foix slept little that night. Towards morning he sank into a
deep slumber, from which he woke with a start to find Trenchard
saddling the horses. Louis, apparently himself again, was assisting
him as well as he could. Château-Foix remembered that they had
arranged overnight for an early start and separation, since their ways
no longer lay together—and it was already six o’clock.
“Why did you not wake me before?” he asked.
“It seemed a pity,” answered Louis cheerfully, pulling at a strap.
“Conceive, also, the virtue I feel at being up before you. Can I help
you with that girth, Mr Trenchard?”
“Thanks, I have finished,” said the Englishman. “What is our next move
to be?”
“Breakfast,” responded Louis promptly. “Don’t I gather that Gilbert
went foraging last night? We used to think an al fresco meal the
height of bliss when we were boys.”
The Marquis went silently to his saddlebags and produced their
contents. Louis talked throughout the brief meal which followed with
his accustomed spirits. Château-Foix said very little. The minutes
were slipping away, and he wished with all his heart that he could
draw Trenchard aside to give him the letter to Lucienne, but it was
impossible to do it without attracting Saint-Ermay’s attention. The
idea that Louis would know all the time his purpose in doing so was
insupportable to him. Sooner than that he would deliver his commission
in front of him.
It was what he had to do in the end. Somewhat reluctantly the three
led their horses out of the little wood. The upland was astir with the
breath of a new morning. Trenchard’s way lay south-west; and to join
his road, whose signpost rose against the sky half a mile away, ran a
bridle path among the gorse. He mounted slowly; the others stood by
their horses in front of him.
“I wish, by George, that this was not good-bye,” he said with real
feeling. “I can’t make speeches, you know . . . but I’m deuced
grateful to you both. If there’s ever anything I can do I hope you
will command me. Ah, by the way, M. de Château-Foix, what about taking
a message from you to Sir William Ashley?”
Gilbert paled a little. “I mean to take advantage of your kind offer,”
he said, slipping his hand inside his coat. “I will ask you to convey
this letter, not to Sir William himself, but to Mademoiselle Lucienne
d’Aucourt, my affianced wife, who is at present under his care.”
“I shall be only too much honoured,” replied Trenchard, with an
inclination.
“You will be putting me under a great obligation,” said Gilbert. He
glanced mechanically at the letter as he held it, address uppermost.
Louis, leaning against his horse’s neck, was looking away into the
distance, and only his profile was visible. His air of unconcern stung
the Marquis, in some inexplicable fashion, more sharply than any
display of the vital interest he knew it to conceal. The constraint
that he had been putting on himself snapped suddenly, like an
overdrawn bow. “You have perhaps a message to send her too?” he said,
launching the words at his cousin like a missile.
The second that they were out of his mouth he would have given
all that he possessed to recall them. He saw, or thought he saw,
Trenchard’s eyebrows go up, and the color ebb from Louis’ face as he
turned sharply round and faced him. He had himself in hand again in a
moment, and with a control immeasurably stronger for his outburst.
“My cousin and I were both brought up with Mademoiselle d’Aucourt,” he
said to Trenchard with some sacrifice of accuracy. The same ease was
apparent in his tone as he turned to the Vicomte and repeated his
question. Louis had had time to collect himself, as he was meant to
have. He forced a smile.
“Tell Mademoiselle d’Aucourt that I hope she is improving her
English,” he said to Trenchard. He did not look at Gilbert, who handed
to the Englishman the letter, which Trenchard put silently into
an inner pocket. A moment later they had shaken hands with their
companion.
“Good luck to you both,” said he, gathering up the reins. “May I say
‘Au revoir’? I shall expect to see you some day, Monsieur le Marquis,
at Bury; it is a promise, is it not, if ever you come to Suffolk.”
“Certainly,” replied Château-Foix, with something resembling a smile.
Then he drew himself up. “I hope to be at Ashley Court before very
long.”
“To claim your betrothed,” finished Trenchard, crossing the t’s of
this declaration without guessing at its significance. “Naturally.
Well, I hope that day will soon come. Good-bye, sir. Good-bye,
Vicomte. I trust your shoulder will not give you much more trouble.
The invitation, of course, extends to you as well. If ever you can
contrive it, I should be glad to hear from either of you . . . The
best of luck! Au revoir!” He raised his hat and turned his mare.
Gilbert had but one thought in his mind—to repair his error. The last
thing in the world that he desired at present was to provoke an
explanation with Louis, and he bent his energies, quickened by
apprehension, into the attempt to pass off his unfortunate remark as a
natural question, or at least to prevent the Vicomte from thinking it
over. He had never seen a situation more clearly, nor acted on his
knowledge more promptly. Trenchard turned back once or twice in the
saddle to wave his hand. At last he put his mare to the trot; he
gained the signpost and was on the high-road, turned round for the
last time, was seen to cram his hat more firmly on his head, and to
set his face resolutely westward. The episode of the Englishman was
over.
Gilbert plunged instantly into action. “There goes a good son of John
Bull,” said he. “I trust that he will have a safe and pleasant journey
to his native Suffolk. There is no doubt that he will instruct his
neighbours in French methods of agriculture, but I am afraid that he
will not represent them as superior to British. Did I not hear him
lecturing you too on the subject, Louis?”
The Vicomte was looking at him rather oddly, but a smile strayed round
his mouth at the remembrance. “There was more about the country
gentlemen of England than about their farms, so far as I can recall,”
he answered.
“I suspect,” observed Gilbert, pulling at his horse, “that the English
country gentleman is to our friend the embodiment of all political and
social virtue. I am sure that he thinks it a greater privilege to
belong to that sacred class than to be born a Rohan or a Montmorency
in France. . . . Well, shall we be starting? Can you manage to mount?”
“Perfectly, thanks,” responded the Vicomte, his foot in the stirrup.
This solicitude was new, and the sudden flow of conversation amazed
him.
“My idea,” resumed the Marquis, as he turned his horse’s head, “is to
push on as far as La Cornuaille, and then, if we cannot possibly get
other horses, to proceed on foot. These creatures will certainly not
carry us further than that. We could then make up our minds whether to
cross at Ingrande or Varades. Don’t you think that would be best?”
“Certainly,” answered the bewildered Louis.