FATE IN A LAURELLED POST-CHAISE
All the tongues of Rumour agreed that the Bayfield entertainment had
been a success, and Endymion Westcote received many congratulations
upon it at the next meeting of magistrates.
"Nonsense, nonsense!" he protested lightly. "One must do something to
make life more tolerable to the poor devils, and 'pon my word 'twas
worth it to see their gratitude. They behaved admirably. You see, two-
thirds of them are gentlemen, after a fashion; not, perhaps, quite in
the sense in which we understand the word, but then the--ah--modicum
of French blood in my veins counteracts, I dare say, some little
insular prejudices."
"My dear fellow, about such men as de Tocqueville and Rochambeau there
can be no possible question."
"Ah! I'm extremely glad to hear you say so. I feared, perhaps, the way
they managed their table-napkins--"
"Not at all. I was thinking rather of your bold attitude towards
Sunday observance. What does Milliton say?"
Endymion's eyebrows went up. Mr. Milliton was the vicar of Axcester
and the living lay in the Westcotes' gift. I am not--ah--aware that
I consulted Milliton. On such questions I recognise no responsibility
save to my own conscience. He has not been complaining, I trust?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Ah!" Endymion looked as if Mr. Milliton had better not. "I take, you
must know, a somewhat broad view on such matters--may I, without
offence, term it a liberal one? As a matter of fact I intend going yet
farther in the direction and granting permission for a small reunion on
Sunday evenings at 'The Dogs,' when selections of purely sacred music
will be performed. I shall, of course, deprecate the name 'concert ';
and even 'performance' may seem to carry with it some--ah--
suggestions of a theatrical nature. But, as Shakespeare says, 'What's
in a name?' Perhaps you can suggest a more suitable one?"
"A broad-minded fellow," was the general verdict; and some admirers
added that ideas which in weaker men might seem to lean towards free
thought, and even towards Jacobinism, became Mr. Westcote handsomely
enough. He knew how to carry them off, to wear them lightly as
flourishes and ornaments of his robust common sense, and might be
trusted not to go too far. Endymion, who had an exquisite flair for the
approval of his own class, soon learned to take an honest pride in his
liberalism and to enjoy its discreet display. 'The entertainment at
Bayfield' was nothing--a private experiment only; the unfamiliar must
be handled gently; a good rule to try it on your own household before
tackling the world. As a matter of fact, old Narcissus had enjoyed it.
But if the neighbouring families were really curious, and would promise
not to be shocked, they must come to "The Dogs" some Sunday evening:
No, not next Sunday, but in a week or two's time when the prisoners,
as intelligent fellows, would have grasped his notions.'
Sure enough, on the third Sunday he brought a round dozen of guests;
and the entrance of the Bayfield party (punctually five minutes late),
and their solemn taking of seats in the two front rows, thereafter
became a feature of these entertainments. On the first occasion the
musicians stopped, out of respect, in the middle of a motet of
Scarlatti's; but Endymion gave orders that in future this was not
to be.
"I have been something of an amateur myself," he explained, "and know
what is due to Art."
It vexed Dorothea to note that after the first two or three
performances some of her best friends among the prisoners absented
themselves, General Rochambeau for one. Indeed, the General had taken
to declining all invitations, and rarely appeared abroad. One March
morning, meeting him in the High Street, she made bold to tax him with
the change and ask his reasons.
The hour was eleven in the forenoon, the busiest of the day. In twenty
minutes the London coach would be due with the mails, and this always
brought the prisoners out into the street. The largest crowd gathered
in front of "The Dogs," waiting to see the horses changed and the bags
unloaded. But a second hung around the Post Office, where the
Commissary received and distributed the prisoners' letters, while
lesser groups shifted and moved about at the tail of the butchers'
carts, and others laden with milk, eggs, and fresh vegetables from the
country; for Axcester had now a daily market, and in the few minutes
before the mail's arrival the salesmen drove their best trade.
General Rochambeau tapped his snuffbox meditatively, like a man in two
minds. But he kept a sidelong eye upon Dorothea, as she turned to
acknowledge a bow from the Vicomte de Tocqueville. The Vicomte, with
an air of amused contempt, was choosing a steak for his dinner, using
his gold-ferruled walking-stick to direct the butcher how to cut it
out, while his servant stood ready with a plate.
"To tell you the truth, Mademoiselle, I find a hand at picquet with
the Admiral less fatiguing for two old gentlemen than these public
gaieties."
"In other words, you are nursing him. They tell me he has never been
well since that night of the snowstorm."
"Your informants may now add that he is better; these few Spring days
have done wonders for his rheumatism, and, indeed, he is dressed and
abroad this morning."
"Which explains why you are willing to stop and chat with me, instead
of hurrying off to the Post Office to ask for his letter--that letter
which never comes."
"So M. Raoul has been telling you all about us?"
Dorothea blushed.
"He happened to speak of it, at one of my working parties--"
"He has a fine gift for the pathetic, that young man; oh, yes, and a
pretty humour too! I can fancy what he makes of us--poor old Damon
and Pythias--while he holds the skeins; with a smile for poor old
Pythias' pigtail, and a tremor of the voice for the Emperor's
_tabatière_, and a tear, no doubt, for the letter which never comes.
M. Raoul is great with an audience."
"You do him injustice, General. An audience of half-a-dozen old women!"
General Rochambeau had an answer to this on his tongue, but repressed
it.
"Ah, here comes the Admiral!" he cried, as the gaunt old man came
shuffling down the street towards them, with his stoop, his cross-
grained features drawn awry with twinges of rheumatism, his hands
crossed above his tall cane. All Axcester laughed at his long blue
surtout, his pigtail and little round hat. But Dorothea always found
him formidable, and wanted to run away. "Admiral, I was just about to
tell Miss Westcote that the time is come to congratulate her. Here is
winter past--except that of two years ago, the hardest known in
Axcester; and, thanks to her subscription lists and working parties,
our countrymen have never gone so well fed and warmly clad."
"Which," growled the Admiral, "does not explain why no less than eight
of them have broken their parole. An incredible, a shameful number!"
"As time goes on, Admiral, they grow less patient. Hope deferred--"
_Ta-ra, tara-ra! Ta-ra, tara-ra-ra!_ The notes of the guard's horn
broke in upon Dorothea's excuse. Groups scattered, market carts were
hastily backed alongside the pavement, and down the mid-thoroughfare
came the mail at a gallop, with crack of whip and rushing chime of
bits and swingle-bars.
Dorothea watched the crowd closing round it as it drew up by "The
Dogs," and turned to note that the Admiral's face was pale and his
eyes sought those of his old friend.
"Better leave it to me to-day, if Miss Westcote will excuse me."
General Rochambeau lifted his hat and hurried after the crowd.
Then Dorothea understood. The old man beside her had lost courage to
pick up his old habit; at the last moment his friend must go for the
letter which never came. She cast about to say something; her last
words had been of hope deferred--it would not do to take up her
speech there . . .
The Admiral seemed to meet her eyes with an effort. He put out a hand.
"It is not good, Mademoiselle, that a man should pity himself. Beware
how you teach that; beware how you listen to him then."
He turned from her abruptly and tottered away. Glancing aside, she met
the Vicomte de Tocqueville's tired smile; he was using his cane to
prod the butcher and recall his attention to the half-cut steak. But
the butcher continued to stare down the street.
"Eh? But, dear me, it sounds like an _émeute_," said the Vicomte,
negligently; at the same time stepping to Dorothea's side.
The murmur of the crowd in front of "The Dogs" had been swelling, and
now broke into sharp, angry cries for a moment; then settled into a
dull roar, and rose in a hoarse _crescendo_. The mail coach was
evidently not the centre of disturbance, though Dorothea could see its
driver waving his arm and gesticulating from the box. The noise came
ahead of it, some twenty yards lower down the hill, where the street
had suddenly grown black with people pressing and swaying.
"There seems no danger here, whatever it is," said the Vicomte,
glancing up at the house-front above.
"Please go and see what is the matter. I am safe enough," Dorothea
assured him. "The folks in the house will give me shelter, if
necessary."
The Vicomte lifted his hat. "I will return and report promptly, if the
affair be serious."
But it was not serious. The tumult died down, and Dorothea with her
riding-switch was guarding the half-cut steak from a predatory dog
when the Vicomte and the butcher returned together.
"Reassure yourself, Miss Westcote," said M. de Tocqueville. "There has
been no bloodshed, though bloodshed was challenged. It appears that
almost as the coach drew up there arrived from the westward a post-
chaise conveying a young naval officer from Plymouth, with despatches
and (I regret to tell it) a flag. His Britannic Majesty has captured
another of our frigates; and the high spirited young gentleman was
making the most of it in all innocence, and without an idea that his
triumph could offend anyone in Axcester. Unfortunately, on his way up
the street, he waved the captured tricolor under the nose of your
brother's _protégé_, M. Raoul--"
"M. Raoul!" Dorothea caught her breath on the name.
"And M. Raoul leapt into the chaise, then and there wrested the flag
from him--the more easily no doubt because he expected nothing so
little and holding it aloft, challenged him to mortal combat.
Theatrically, and apart from the taste of it (I report only from
hearsay), the coup must have been immensely successful. When I
arrived, your brother was restoring peace, the young Briton holding
out his hand--swearing he was sorry, begad! but how the deuce was he
to have known ?--and M. Raoul saving the situation, and still
demanding blood with a face as long as an Alexandrine:
"_'Ce drapeau glorieux auquel, en sanglotant,
Se prosternent affaises vos membres, veterans!'_
"'Vary sorry, damitol, shake hands, beg your pardon.'"
The Vicomte forgot his languor, and burlesqued the scene with real
talent.
Dorothea, however, was not amused.
"You say my brother is at 'The Dogs,' Monsieur? I think I will go
to him."
"You must allow me, then, to escort you."
"Oh, the street is quite safe. Your countrymen will not suspect me of
exulting over their misfortunes."
"Nevertheless--" he insisted, and walked beside her.
A mixed crowd of French and English still surrounded the chaise, to
which a couple of postboys were attaching the relay: the French no
longer furious, now that an apology had been offered and the flag
hidden, but silent and sulky yet; the English inclined to think the
young lieutenant hardly served, not to say churlishly. Frenchmen might
be thin-skinned; but war was war, and surely Britons had a right to
raise three cheers for a victory. Besides he had begged pardon at once,
and offered to shake hands like a gentleman--that is, as soon as he
discovered whose feelings were hurt; for naturally the fisticuffs had
come first, and in these Master Raoul had taken as good as he brought.
As the Vicomte cleared a path for her to the porch, where Endymion
stood shaking hands and bidding adieu, Dorothea caught her first and
last glimpse of this traveller, who--without knowing it, without
seeing her face to remember it, or even learning her name--was to
deflect the slow current of her life, and send it whirling down a
strange channel, giddy, precipitous, to an end unguessed.
She saw a fresh-complexioned lad, somewhat flushed and red in the face,
but of frank and pleasant features; dressed in a three-cornered cocked-
hat, blue coat piped with white and gilt-buttoned, white breeches and
waistcoat, and broad black sword-belt; a youngster of the sort that
loves a scrimmage or a jest, but is better in a scrimmage than in a
jest when the laugh goes against him. He was eying the chaise just now,
and obviously cursing the hour in which he had decorated it with laurel.
Yet on the whole in a trying situation he bore himself well.
"Ah, much obliged to you, Vicomte!" Endymion hailed the pair. "There
has been a small misunderstanding, my dear Dorothea; not the slightest
cause for alarm! Still, you had better pass through to the coffee-room
and wait for me."
Dorothea dismissed M. de Tocqueville with a bow, passed into the dark
passage and pushed open the coffee-room door.
Within sat a young man, his elbows on the table, and his face bowed
upon his arms. His fingers convulsively twisted a torn scrap of
bunting; his shoulders heaved. It was M. Raoul.
Dorothea paused in the doorway and spoke his name. He did not look up.
She stepped towards him.
"M. Raoul!"
A sob shook him. She laid a hand gently on his bowed head, on the dark
wave of hair above his strong, shapely neck. She was full of pity,
longing to comfort . . .
"M. Raoul!"
He started, gazed up at her, and seized her hand. His eyes swam with
tears, but behind the tears blazed a light which frightened her. Yet--
oh, surely!--she could not mistake it.
"Dorothea!"
He held both her hands now. He was drawing her towards him. She could
not speak. The room swam; outside the window she heard the noise of
starting hoofs, of wheels, of the English crowd hurrahing as the chaise
rolled away. Her head almost touched M. Raoul's breast. Then she broke
loose, as her brother's step sounded in the passage.