The Comtesse underrated her powers of endurance. For two more whole days
she encouraged Captain Twinely to make love to her. She sat with him in
the sandhills, she walked with him along the strand, she flattered him,
ogled him, enticed him, till the man was beside himself with the
desire of her. But in private it was not safe to speak to her about the
captain. Her temper, when the hours of her love-making were over for the
day, was extremely bad. Even Hannah, who was a match for most women in
the use of her tongue, shrank from the sharp gibes of the Comtesse. Una
tried in vain to soothe the ruffled lady, and had to bear much from her,
but Una could have borne anything patiently. The east wind blew gently
day and night, bringing--surely bringing--the white sails of the brig.
The sea remained calm and she was able to go twice more to the cave. She
saw the yeomen spread over the country, searching everywhere, through
fields and hills and along the river banks, by the shore, among the
rocks, over the Causeway cliffs, through the sandhills, the ruins of
Dunluce, among the white cliffs of Port-rush Strand, at high tide and
low tide, everywhere except the one place--the nook where Una bathed.
Estelle de Tourneville secured that spot from the searchers’ gaze. No
man dared go there. Una could forgive the worst of tempers to the woman
who purchased such security. And the Comtesse was excusable. Doubtless,
she paid a heavy price for a delicately-nurtured and fastidious lady. No
one ever knew what she endured. Neither to Una nor any one else did she
tell at the time or afterwards the details of the captain’s courtship.
At last, one evening after dusk, Maurice rode in from Ballycastle.
He brought glorious news. Captain Getty was on his way. He might be
expected off the coast the next day. Maurice had left the brig at the
quay at Greenock ready to sail. Next morning he was up early. He took
bread and meat and went alone to Pleaskin Head, carrying his father’s
long telescope with him. All morning he lay on the edge of the cliff
peering eastward across the sea. He was strangely nervous now that the
critical moment had arrived. He understood that the coast was being
carefully watched, that the sight of a ship lying-to a mile or two
from the shore, would certainly excite suspicion; that it might be very
difficult for him to take his boat round to the cave where Neal lay
hidden without being followed. It was absolutely necessary for him to
catch sight of the brig before any one else did, to get off from the
shore before the brig lay to, to be well on his way to her before any
other boat put out to chase him. He knew that his own movements were
watched. He was followed from the house to Pleaskin Head by two yeomen.
As he lay on the cliffs he saw them a few hundred yards inland keeping
guard on him.
At ten o’clock he caught sight of the topsails of a ship far east,
beyond the blue outline of the Rathlin hills. The wind, very feeble at
dawn, was freshening slightly. The lower sails of the vessel rose slowly
into view. Maurice guessed her to be a brig--to be the brig he looked
for. He lay still, watching her intently, till he was sure. Then he
went home. He found Una and the Comtesse in the breakfast room. Captain
Twinely, on the lawn outside, leaned on the window sill and talked to
them. Maurice, uncontrollably excited, whispered to Una--
“Now.”
She rose, and followed him from the room. Captain Twinely eyed them
sharply. He had ceased to distrust the Comtesse, but he was keenly
suspicious of Maurice. Since he had been robbed of his clothes in Antrim
he hated Maurice nearly as bitterly as he did Neal, and was determined
to have him strictly watched.
“Pardon me, dear lady,” he said, “I must give some orders to the
patrol.”
“Don’t be long, then,” she said, “I want you to-day, Captain Twinely.
Come back to me.”
Their eyes met, and the Comtesse felt certain that her victim would
return to her. She leaped from her chair the moment he left her and ran
from the room.
“Una,” she cried. “Una, Maurice, where are you?”
She found them; they were packing clothes in a hand-bag--clothes, she
supposed, for Neal.
“He’s gone to give orders to his men about you, Maurice. I know he has.
I haven’t a moment to explain. Leave everything to me. I’ll manage him,
only trust me and do what I say. Una, are you a born idiot? Take those
things out of the bag. How can you go about with that travelling-bag in
your hand and not excite suspicion? If you must have clothes wrap them
in a bathing-sheet. Oh, what a fool you are!”
She left them no time to answer her, but fled back to the
breakfast-room. A moment later Captain Twinely found her, lounging--a
figure of luxurious laziness--among the cushions of Lord Dunseveric’s
easy chair.
“We are going on the sea to-day,” she said, “my nephew, Maurice, has
promised to take us in a boat to the Skerries. I have never been there,
but I hear they are delightful. I hope you will come with us. Please say
yes. I should feel so much safer in a boat if you were there. My nephew
is very rash. He frightens me. I do not trust him. I shall not feel
secure or easy in my mind unless you come, too. Besides”--her voice
sank to a delicious whisper--“I shall not really enjoy myself unless
you are there.”
She stretched her hand out and laid it with the tenderest motion of
caress on his hand. Captain Twinely could not hesitate, he promised to
go with her. In the back of his mind was a feeling that if he were of
the party Maurice St. Clair could not attempt to communicate with the
fugitive.
“Maurice,” said the Comtesse, “Maurice, are you ready? Captain Twinely
is coming with us to the Skerries for a pic-nic. Won’t that be nice?
Come along quickly, we are starting.”
She took the captain with her, and walked down to the cove where the
boat lay. Una and Maurice, with their bundles of clothes, followed.
“Una,” said Maurice, “what does she mean? I can’t take this man in the
boat, and I won’t. What does she mean by inviting him?”
“I don’t know, but we must trust her. We can trust her. She’s been
wonderful all these last three days. Only for her I could never have got
food to Neal.”
“Well,” said Maurice, “I suppose if the worst comes to the worst it will
only be a matter of knocking him on the head with an oar. I don’t want
to do that if I can help it. My lord will be angry if he has to get
me out of a fresh scrape. It will be a serious matter to assault this
captain in cold blood. I’ll do it, of course, if necessary, but I would
rather not.”
The boat was dragged down the beach. The Comtesse looked at it, and
protested.
“Maurice, surely you are not going in that little boat. It’s far too
small. It’s not safe.”
“Oh, it’s safe enough,” said Maurice, “and anyway there’s no other.”
“There is,” said the Comtesse. “There, look at that nice broad, flat
boat. I’ll go in that.”
“The cobble for lifting the salmon net!” said Maurice, with a laugh. “My
dear aunt, you couldn’t go to sea in that. She can’t sail, and it takes
four men to pull her as fast as a snail would crawl. Who ever heard of
going off to the Skerries in a salmon cobble?”
“Well,” said the Comtesse, angrily, “I won’t go in the other. I know
that one is too small. Isn’t she too small, Captain Twinely? Look at the
size of the sea. Look how far off the island is! No, I won’t go. If you
persist in being disobliging, Maurice, you and Una can go by yourselves.
Captain Twinely and I will stay on shore.”
The boat was already in the water and Una sat in the stern. Maurice,
ankle deep in water, held her bow. Maurice laughed aloud. He began to
understand his aunt’s plan.
“Come, Captain Twinely, we will go for a walk along the cliffs.”
Her hand was on his arm. She held him. He looked at the boat. A swift
doubt shot through his mind. Something in the way Maurice laughed
aroused his suspicion. He took a step forward. The Comtesse clung
tightly to his arm. Maurice gave a vigorous shove and leapt forward over
the bow. The boat shot out and floated clear of the land.
“Isn’t he a disagreeable boy?” said the Comtesse. “You wouldn’t have
refused to do what I asked you, would you, Captain Twinely?”
Her eyes sought his, but he was watching the boat uneasily. Maurice had
the oars out, and was pulling round the Black Rock.
“He’s not going to the Skerries,” he said, “he’s going in the other
direction.”
“What does it matter where he goes? Besides, you know what stupid things
boats are. They always turn away from the place they want to go to. It’s
what they call tacking. Maurice must be tacking now. Let him manage his
horrid boat himself. We needn’t trouble ourselves about him. We will go
for a walk on the tops of the cliffs.”
“I thought you did not like walking on the cliffs, you never would walk
there with me before.”
“Please don’t be cross with me. May I not change my mind?”
She stroked his hand and looked up into his face with eyes which
actually had tears in them. “I shall be so miserable if you are cross.
I shall feel that I have spoiled your day. I wish now that I had gone in
the little boat. I wish I had been upset and drowned. Then perhaps you
would have been sorry for me.”
She was crying in earnest now. Captain Twinely yielded, yielded to her
tears, to the fascination of her presence, to the passion of his love
for her. Very tenderly and gently he led her up the steep path to the
top of the cliffs. Holding her hands in his he walked silently beside
her. He was a bad man, revengeful, cruel, cowardly, but he really loved
the woman beside him. His was no heroic, spiritual love, but it was the
best, the strongest, of which his nature was capable. He could never
for her sake have lived purely and nobly, or learned self-denial, but,
cowardly as he was, he would have died for her.
Suddenly she stood still, snatched her hand from his grasp, and stepped
away from him.
“Now,” she cried, “at last! at last! There, Captain Twinely, there is
the boat with the sail spread, shooting out to sea. Look at her; look
carefully; look well. How many people are there in her? Can you see? I
can see very well. There are three, and who is the third?”
The tears were gone out of her eyes now. They blazed with triumph and
satisfaction. She laughed aloud, exultingly, bitterly.
“Who is the third? Can you see? He is Neal Ward, the man you’ve chased,
the man you’ve been seeking day and night. There”--she pointed further
eastwards--“there is the American brig which will bear him away from
you. Do you understand?”
Captain Twinely followed her gaze and her pointing finger. He began to
understand.
“And I did it. I fooled you. I blinded your eyes while my niece fed him
in his hiding-place. I encouraged you to seek everywhere, and kept you
back from the place where he was. I--I made pretence of tolerating your
hateful presence. I made you think that I cared for you, loved you, you,
you--I would rather love a toad.”
“You have deceived me, then, all the time, played with me.”
“Yes,” she laughed wildly, “deceived you, played with you, fooled you,
cheated you, and hated you--yes, hated, hated the very sight of you, the
abominable sound of your voice, the sickening touch of your hand.”
“And I loved you,” he said, simply. “I loved you so well that I think I
would have done anything for you. There was no need for you to fool me.
I would have let the man go if you had asked me. I would have let him
go, though I hate him, and I could not have asked leave even to kiss
your hand for my reward. I would have been content just to have pleased
you. Why did you cheat me?”
The Comtesse had no pity for him. The memory of the words he had spoken
to her, of his foolish face, of his amorous ways, of the touchings of
his hands which she had endured, thronged on her. Her lips curled back
over her teeth. Her eyes were hard like shining steel.
“I hate you,” she hissed at him. “I have always hated you since the
night when you seized me and dragged me into the meeting-house. I would
have revenged myself for that even if there had been no prisoner to save
from you.”
“I did not do that,” said Captain Twinely, “and I did not know who you
were at the time. Be just to me even if you hate me. God knows that I
would have died to save you from the smallest hurt.”
He fell on the ground before her.
“Oh,” he cried, “have some pity for me. I love you with all my soul. Let
me serve you, let me wait on you. Let me see you sometimes and hear your
voice. Have you no pity for me? I do not ask for love, or friendship, or
the meanest gift. Only do not hate me. I have led an evil life, I know
it, but for your sake, for your sake, if you will pity me, I will do
anything. I will be anything you bid me. But do not hate me. For the
love of God, by the mercy of Christ the Saviour, do not cast me utterly
away from you. Do not hate me.”
He crawled forward, and clutched the bottom of her skirt with his hand.
With a swift movement she snatched it from his grasp.
“I do hate you,” she cried, “and I shall always hate you. From this out
I shall always hope and pray and strive to get to heaven when I die,
not for the love of the saints or because I think that I shall be happy
there, but just because I shall be safe from the sight of you, for you
will surely be in hell.”
She turned and walked down the path they had ascended together. She left
him grovelling on the ground, his face slobbered with tears and grimy
with the clay his hands rubbed over it.