THE HUT IN THE HOLLOW
Geography, in itself a tiresome thing, concerned with such soulless
matters as lengths, depths, heights, breadths, and the like, gains
interest so soon as it establishes a connection with the history of
kingdoms, and the ambitions, passions, or fortunes of mankind; so that
men may pore over a map with more eagerness than the greatest of
romances can excite, or scan a countryside with a keenness that the
beauty of no picture could evoke. To Captain Dieppe, a soldier, even
so much apology was not necessary for the careful scrutiny of
topographical features which was his first act on reaching the Cross on
the hillside. His examination, hindered by increasing darkness and
mist, yet yielded him a general impression correct enough.
Standing with his back to the Cross, he had on his right hand the slope
down to the village which he had just ascended; on his left the road
fell still more precipitately in zigzag curves. He could not see it
where it reached the valley and came to the river; had he been able, he
would have perceived that it ran down to and crossed the ford to which
the landlord of the inn at Sasellano had referred. But immediately
facing him he could discern the river in its bottom, and could look
down over the steep grassy declivity which descended to it from the
point at which he stood; there was no more than room for the road, and
on the road hardly room for a vehicle to pass another, or itself to
turn. On all three sides the ground fell, and he would have seemed to
stand on a watch-tower had it not been that behind him, at the back of
the cross, the upward slope of grass showed that the road did not
surmount the hill, but hung on to and skirted its side some fifty paces
from the top. Yet even where he was he found himself exposed to the
full stress of the weather, which had now increased to a storm of wind
and rain. The time of his earlier appointment was not quite due; but
the lady knew her way. With a shiver the Captain turned and began to
scramble up towards the summit. The sooner he found the shepherd's hut
the better: if it were open, he would enter; it not, he could at least
get some shelter under the lee of it. But he trusted that the Countess
would keep her tryst punctually: she must be come and gone before seven
o'clock, or she would risk an encounter with her enemy, Paul de
Roustache. "However I could probably smuggle her away; and at least he
should n't speak to her," he reflected, and was somewhat comforted.
At the top of the hill the formation was rather peculiar. The crown
once reached, the ground dipped very suddenly from all sides, forming a
round depression in shape like a basin and at the lowest point some
twenty feet beneath the top of its enclosing walls. In this circular
hollow--not in the centre, but no more than six feet from the base of
the slope by which the Captain approached--stood the shepherd's hut.
Its door was open, swinging to and fro as the gusts of wind rose and
tell. The Captain ran down and entered. There was nothing inside but
a rough stool, a big and heavy block, something like those one may see
in butcher's shops (probably it had served the shepherds for seat or
table, as need arose), and five or six large trusses of dry maize-straw
flung down in a corner. The place was small, rude, and comfortless
enough, but if the hanging door, past which the rain drove in fiercely,
could be closed, the four walls of sawn logs would afford decent
shelter from the storm during the brief period of the conference which
the Captain awaited.
Dieppe looked at his watch; he could just see the figures--it was ten
minutes to six. Mounting again to the summit, he looked round. Yes,
there she was, making her way up the hill, painfully struggling with
refractory cloak and skirt. A moment later she joined him and gave him
her hand, panting out:
"Oh, I 'm so glad you 're here! There 's the most fearful trouble."
There was, of more than one kind; none knew it better than Dieppe.
"One need not, all the same, get any wetter," he remarked. "Come into
the hut, madame."
She paid no heed to his words, but stood there looking forlornly round.
But the next instant the Captain enforced his invitation by catching
hold of her arm and dragging her a pace or two down the hill, while he
threw himself on the ground, his head just over the top of the
eminence. "Hush," he whispered. His keen ear had caught a footstep on
the road, although darkness and mist prevented him from seeing who
approached. It was barely six. Was Paul de Roustache an hour too
early?
"What is it?" she asked in a low, anxious voice. "Is anybody coming?
Oh, if it should be Andrea!"
"It's not the Count, but-- Come down into the hut, madame. You must
n't be seen."
Now she obeyed his request. Dieppe stood in the doorway a moment,
listening. Then he pushed the door shut--it opened inwards--and with
some effort set the wooden block against it.
"That will keep out the rain," said he, "and--and anything else, you
know."
They were in dense darkness. The Captain took a candle and a cardboard
box of matches from an inner pocket. Striking a match after one or two
efforts (for matches and box were both damp), he melted the end of the
candle and pressed it on the block till it adhered. Then he lit the
wick. The lady watched him admiringly.
"You seem ready for anything," she said. But the Captain shook his
head sorrowfully, as he laid his match-box down on a dry spot on the
block.
"We have no time to lose--" he began.
"No," she agreed, and opening her cloak she searched for something.
Finding the object she sought, she held it out to him. "I got that
this afternoon. Read it," she said. "It's from the man you met last
night--Paul de Roustache. The 'Other quarter' means Andrea. And that
means ruin."
Captain Dieppe gently waved the letter aside.
"No, you must read it," she urged.
He took it, and bending down to the candle read it. "Just what it
would be," he said.
"I can't explain anything, you know," she added hastily, with a smile
half rueful, half amused.
"To me, at least, there 's no need you should." He paused a moment in
hesitation or emotion. Then he put his hand in his waistcoat-pocket,
drew forth a small object, and held it out towards his companion
between his finger and thumb. In the dim light she did not perceive
its nature.
"This," said the Captain, conscientiously and even textually delivering
the message with which he was charged, "is the pledge of love."
"Captain Dieppe!" she cried, leaping back and blushing vividly.
"Really I--! At such a time--under the circ-- And what is it! I
can't see."
"The pledge of love renewed"--the Captain went on in a loyal hastiness,
but not without the sharpest pang--"of Andrea's undying love for you."
"Of Andrea's--!" She stopped, presumably from excess of emotion. Her
lips were parted in a wondering smile, her eyes danced merrily even
while they questioned. "What in the world is it?" she asked again.
"Your wedding-ring," said the Captain with sad and impressive
solemnity, and, on the pretext of snuffing the candle which flickered
and guttered in the draught, he turned away. Thus he did not perceive
the uncontrollable bewilderment which appeared on his companion's face.
"Wedding-ring!" she murmured.
"He sends it back again to you," explained the Captain, still busy with
the candle.
A long-drawn "O--oh!" came from her lips, its lengthened intonation
seeming to express the dawning of comprehension. "Yes, of course," she
added very hastily.
"He loves you," said the Captain, facing her--and his task--again. "He
can't bear his own sorrow, nor to think of yours. He withdraws his
demand; your mere word to hold no communication with the person you
know of, without his knowledge, contents him. I am his messenger.
Give me your love to--to carry back to him."
"Did he tell you to say all that?" she asked.
"Ah, madame, should I say it otherwise? Should I who--" With a mighty
effort he checked himself, and resumed in constrained tones. "My dear
friend the Count bade me put this ring on your finger, madame, in token
of your--your reunion with him."
Her expression now was decidedly puzzling; certainly she was struggling
with some emotion, but it was not quite clear with what.
"Pray do it then," she said, and, drawing off the stout little gauntlet
she wore, she presented her hand to the Captain. Bowing low, he took
it lightly, and placed the holy symbol on the appropriate finger. But
he could not make up his mind to part from the hand without one
lingering look; and he observed with some surprise that the ring was
considerably too large for the finger. "It 's very loose," he
murmured, taking perhaps a sad, whimsical pleasure in the conceit of
seeing something symbolical in the fact to which he called attention;
in truth the ring fitted so ill as to be in great danger of dropping
off.
"Yes--or--it is rather loose. I--I hate tight rings, don't you?" She
smiled with vigour (if the expression be allowable) and added, "I 've
grown thinner too, I suppose."
"From grief?" asked he, and he could not keep a touch of bitterness out
of his voice.
"Well, anxiety," she amended. "I think I 'd better carry the ring in
my pocket. It would be a pity to lose it." She took off the symbol
and dropped it, somewhat carelessly it must be confessed, into a
side-pocket of her coat. Then she seated herself on the stool, and
looked up at the Captain. Her smile became rather mocking, as she
observed to Captain Dieppe:
"Andrea has charged you with this commission since--since last night, I
suppose?"
The words acted--whether by the intention of their utterer or not--as a
spark to the Captain's ardour. Loyal he would be to his friend and to
his embassy, but that she should suspect him of insincerity, that she
should not know his love, was more than he could bear.
"Ah," he said, seizing her ungloved hand again, "since last night
indeed! Last night it was my dream--my mad dream-- Ah, don't be
angry! Don't draw your hand away."
The lady's conduct indicated that she proposed to assent to both these
requests; she smiled still and she did not withdraw her hand from
Dieppe's eager grasp.
"My honour is pledged," he went on, "but suffer me once to kiss this
hand now that it wears no ring, to dream that it need wear none, that
you are free. Ah, Countess, ah, Emilia--for once let me call you
Emilia!"
"For once, if you like. Don't get into the habit of it," she advised.
"No, I 'll only think of you by that name."
"I should n't even do as much as that. It would be a-- I mean you
might forget and call me it, you know."
"Never was man so unhappy as I am," he cried in a low but intense
voice. "But I am wrong. I must remember my trust. And you--you love
the Count?"
"I am very fond of Andrea," said she, almost in a whisper. She seemed
to suffer sorely from embarrassment, for she added hastily,
"Don't--don't press me about that any more." Yet she was smiling.
The Captain knelt on one knee and kissed her hand very respectfully.
The mockery passed out of her smile, and she said in a voice that for a
moment was grave and tender:
"Thank you. I shall like to remember that. Because I think you 're a
brave man and a true friend, Captain Dieppe."
"I thank God for helping me to remain a gentleman," said he; and,
although his manner was (according to his custom) a little pronounced
and theatrical, he spoke with a very genuine feeling. She pressed her
hand on his before she drew it away.
"You 'll be my friend?" he asked.
She paused before she replied, looking at him intently; then she
answered in a low voice, speaking slowly and deliberately:
"I will be all to you that I can and that you ask me to be."
"I have your word, dear friend?"
"You have my word. If you ask me, I will redeem it." She looked at
him still as though she had said a great thing--as though a pledge had
passed between them, and a solemn promise from her to him.
What seemed her feeling found an answer in Dieppe. He pressed her for
no more promises, he urged her to no more demonstration of affection
towards him. But their eyes met, their glances conquered the dimness
of the candle's light and spoke to one another. Rain beat and wind
howled outside. Dieppe heard nothing but an outspoken confession that
left honour safe and inviolate, and yet told him the sweetest thing
that he could hear--a thing so sweet that for the instant its sadness
was forgotten. He had triumphed, though he could have no reward of
victory. He was loved, though he might hear no words of love. But he
could serve her still--serve her and save her from the danger and
humiliation which, notwithstanding Count Andrea's softened mood, still
threatened her. That he even owed her; for he did not doubt that the
danger, and the solitude in which, but for him, it had to be faced, had
done much to ripen and to quicken her regard for him. As for himself,
with such a woman as the Countess in the case, he was not prepared to
own the need of any external or accidental stimulus. Yet beauty
distressed is beauty doubled; that is true all the world over, and, no
doubt, it held good even for Captain Dieppe. He had been loyal--under
the circumstances wonderfully loyal--to the Count; but he felt quite
justified, if he proved equal to the task, in robbing his friend of the
privilege of forgiveness--aye, and of the pleasure of paying fifty
thousand francs. He resolved that the Count of Fieramondi should never
know of Paul de Roustache's threats against the Countess or of his
demand for that exorbitant sum of money.
With most people in moments of exaltation to resolve that a result is
desirable is but a preliminary to undertaking its realisation. Dieppe
had more than his share of this temper. He bent down towards his new
and dear friend, and said confidently:
"Don't distress yourself about this fellow--I 'll manage the whole
affair without trouble or publicity." Yet he had no notion how his
words were to be made good.
"You will?" she asked, with a confidence in the Captain apparently as
great as his own.
"Certainly," said he, with a twirl of his moustache.
"Then I 'd better leave it to you and go home at once."
The inference was not quite what the Captain had desired. But he
accepted it with a tolerably good grace. When a man has once resisted
temptation there is little to be gained, and something perhaps to be
risked, by prolonging the interview.
"I suppose so," said he. "I 'll escort you as far as the village. But
what's the time?"
He took out his watch and held it down to the flame of the candle; the
lady rose and looked, not over his shoulder, but just round his elbow.
"Ah, that's curious," observed the Captain, regarding the hands of his
watch. "How quickly the time has gone!"
"Very. But why is it curious?" she asked.
He glanced down at her face, mischievously turned up to his.
"Well, it's not curious," he admitted, "but it is awkward."
"It's only just seven."
"Precisely the hour of my appointment with Paul de Roustache."
"With Paul de Roustache?"
"Don't trouble yourself. All will be well."
"What appointment? Where are you to meet him?"
"By the Cross, on the road outside there."
"Heavens! If I were to meet him! He must n't see me!"
"Certainly not," agreed the Captain with cheerful confidence.
"But how are we to avoid--?"
"Ah, you put no real trust in me," murmured he in gentle reproach, and,
it must be added, purely for the sake of gaining a moment's reflection.
"Could n't we walk boldly by him?" she suggested.
"He would recognise you to a certainty, even if he didn't me."
"Recognise me? Oh, I don't know. He does n't know me very well."
"What?" said the Captain, really a little astonished this time.
"And there 's the rain and--and the night and--and all that," she
murmured in some confusion.
"No man who has ever seen you--" began the Captain.
"Hush! What's that?" whispered she, grasping his arm nervously. The
Captain, recalled to the needs of the situation, abandoned his
compliment, or argument, whichever it was, and listened intently.
There were voices outside the hut, some little way off, seeming to come
from above, as though the speakers were on the crest of the hill. They
were audible intermittently, but connectedly enough, as though their
owners waited from time to time for a lull in the gusty wind before
they spoke.
"Hold the lantern here. Why, it's past seven! He ought to be here by
now."
"We 've searched every inch of the ground."
"That's Paul de Roustache," whispered the Captain.
"Perhaps he 's lying down out of the storm somewhere. Shall we shout?"
"Oh, if you like--but you risk being overheard. I 'm tired of the job."
"The ground dips here. Come, we must search the hollow. You must earn
your reward, M. de Roustache."
The lady pressed Dieppe's arm. "I can't go now," she whispered.
"I 'm willing to earn it, but I 'd like to see it."
"What's that down there?"
"You don't attend to my suggestion, M. Sevier."
"Sevier!" muttered the Captain, and a smile spread over his face.
"Call me Guillaume," came sharply from the voice he had first heard.
"Exactly," murmured Dieppe. "Call him anything except his name. Oh,
exactly!"
"It looks like--like a building--a shed or something. Come, he may be
in there."
"Oh!" murmured the lady. "You won't let them in?"
"They sha'n't see you," Dieppe reassured her. "But listen, my dear
friend, listen."
"Who 's the other? Sevier?"
"A gentleman who takes an interest in me. But silence, pray, silence,
if you--if you 'll be guided by me."
"Let's go down and try the door. If he 's not there, anyhow we can
shelter ourselves till he turns up."
There was a pause. Feet could be heard climbing and slithering down
the slippery grass slope.
"What if you find it locked?"
"Then I shall think some one is inside, and some one who has discovered
reasons for not wishing to be met."
"And what will you do?" The voices were very near now, and Paul's
discontented sneer made the Captain smile; but his hand sought the
pocket where his revolver lay.
"I shall break it open--with your help, my friend."
"I give no more help, friend Sevier--or Guillaume, or what you
like--till I see my money. Deuce take it, the fellow may be armed!"
"I did n't engage you for a picnic, Monsieur Paul."
"It's the pay, not the work, that's in dispute, my friend. Come, you
have the money, I suppose? Out with it!"
"Not a sou till I have the papers!"
The Captain nodded his head. "I was right, as usual," he was thinking
to himself, as he felt his breast-pocket caressingly.
The wind rose to a gust and howled.
The voices became inaudible. The Captain bent down and whispered.
"If they force the door open," he said, "or if I have to open it and go
out, you 'd do well to get behind that straw there till you see what
happens. They expect nobody but me, and when they 've seen me they
won't search any more."
He saw, with approval and admiration, that she was calm and cool.
"Is there danger?" she asked.
"No," said he. "But one of them wants some papers I have, and has
apparently engaged the other to assist him. M. de Roustache feels
equal to two jobs, it seems. I wonder if he knows whom he's after,
though."
"Would they take the papers by force?" Her voice was very anxious, but
still not terrified.
"Very likely--if I won't part with them. Don't be uneasy. I sha'n't
forget your affair."
She pressed his arm gratefully, and drew back till she stood close to
the trusses of straw, ready to seek a hiding-place in case of need.
She was not much too soon. A man hurled himself violently against the
door. The upper part gave and gaped an inch or two; the lower stood
firm, thanks to the block of wood that barred its opening. Even as the
assault was delivered against the door, Dieppe had blown out the
candle. In darkness he and she stood waiting and listening.
"Lend a hand. We shall do it together," cried the voice of M.
Guillaume.
"I 'll be hanged it I move without five thousand francs!"
Dieppe put up both hands and leant with all his weight against the
upper part of the door. He smiled at his prescience when Guillaume
flung himself against it once more. Now there was no yielding, no
opening--not a chink. Guillaume was convinced.
"Curse you, you shall have the money," they heard him say. "Come, hold
the lantern here."