"Let none think to fly the danger,
For, soon or late, Love is his own avenger."
Christmas-tide had come round again, and hall, manor-house, and castle
were filling fast. But the pheasants had a jubilee at Kerton, to the
great discouragement of Mallett, who "could not mind such another
breeding season." Foxes were strong and plentiful with the Belvoir and
the Pytchley; and, during two months of open weather, many a
straight-goer had died gallantly in the midst of the wide
pasture-grounds, testifying with his last breath to the generalship of
Goodall and Payne. But the best shot and the hardest rider in
Northamptonshire lingered on still in Paris, wasting his patrimony in
most riotous living, and trying his iron constitution presumptuously.
Lady Catharine sat alone in the gray old house, paler and more care-worn
than ever. I think she would have preferred the noisiest revel that ever
broke her slumbers in the old times to the dead silence that brooded
like a mist in the deserted rooms.
Guy had always been a bad correspondent, and now he hardly ever wrote to
her; but rumors of his wild life reached his mother often, though dimly
and vaguely. It was best so; what would that poor lady have felt if she
could have guessed at the scene in which her son was the principal
figure as the Christmas morning was breaking?
It is the close of a furious orgie; the Babel of cries, of fragments of
songs, of insane, meaningless laughter, is dying away, through the pure
exhaustion of the revelers; on the gay carpet and the rich damask are
pools of spilled liquors, heaps of shivered glass, and bouquets and
garlands that have ceased to be fragrant hours ago. All around, in
different attitudes--ignoble and helpless--are strewn the bodies of
those who have gone down early in the battle of the Bacchanals: they lie
in their ranks as they fell. One figure towers above the
rest--pre-eminent as Satan in the conclave of the ruined angels--the
guiltiest, because the most conscious of his own utter degradation. The
frequent draughts that have prostrated his companions have only brought
out two round scarlet spots in the pale bronze of his cheeks; his voice
retains still its deep, calm, almost solemn tone. Listen to it as he
raises to his lips an immense glass brimming-full of Burgundy: "One
toast more, and with funeral honors--'To the memory of those who have
fallen gloriously on the 24th of December.'"
Is it true that, six months ago, the soft, pure cheek of Constance
Brandon rested often on the broad breast that pillows now the disheveled
head of that wild-eyed, shrill-voiced Mænad? Draw the curtains closer
yet; shut out the dawn of the Nativity for very shame.
Mohun was breakfasting with Livingstone on a cold, gusty January
morning, that succeeded a night of heavy drinking and heavier play. The
colonel would see him through one of these readily enough, but if there
was even a single female face present he would retreat in disgust and
contempt unutterable. Guy had been hit so hard that it made him graver
than usual as he thought of it, though he was tolerably inured and
indifferent to evil fortune; so the conversation languished during the
meal. After it was over, Mohun rose to light a cigar, while his
companion took up a pile of letters and began to glance at them
listlessly. Suddenly the former dropped the match from his hand,
starting in irrepressible astonishment.
He had seen strong men die hard, mangled and shattered by sabre or
bullet, but he had never heard a sound so terribly significant of agony
as the dull, heavy groan that just then burst from Livingstone's lips.
In those few seconds his face had grown perfectly livid; his eyes were
riveted upon a small note that he held in his shaking fingers; they
glittered strangely, but there was no meaning or expression in their
fixed stare.
"In the name of God, what has happened?" Ralph asked.
Guy's lips worked and moved, but no sound came from them, except an
irregular catching of the breath and a gasping rattle in the throat.
Mohun took the note from his hand without his seeming to be aware of it,
and read it through. These were the words:
"I have tried very hard to persuade myself that you never received the
letter I wrote to you two months ago. I think you would have answered
it, for you would know how much I must have suffered before my pride
broke down so utterly. Yet I could not have risked being scorned a
second time if I had not learned yesterday that my life must now be
reckoned by weeks, if not by days. I do not know if I shall be allowed
to see you if you come. But you will come; will you not? Dear, dear Guy,
I can not die as I ought to do, contentedly, unless I speak to you once
again. In spite of all, I will sign my last letter
"Your own CONSTANCE BRANDON."
It was dated Ventnor.
Hard and cynical as he was, Mohun was thoroughly shocked and grieved;
but the urgency of the crisis brought back the prompt decision of
thought and purpose that were habitual to the trained soldier. He sprang
to his feet, alert and ready for action, as he would have done in the
old times, from his bivouac, to meet a night-surprise of the wild
Hungarians.
"Get every thing ready," he said to the servant, who entered at that
moment; "your master is going to England immediately. The train starts
for Havre at two o'clock. You will catch the night-boat for
Southampton."
When the man had left the room he turned to Guy: "Rouse yourself, man!
There is all a lifetime for remorse, but only a few hours for the little
amends you can make. You will be at Ventnor to-morrow; and mind--you
_must_ see her, whatever difficulties may be thrown in your way. You
won't lose your temper if you meet her brother? Ah! I see you are not
listening."
Then Livingstone spoke for the first time, in a hoarse, grating
whisper, articulating the words one by one with difficulty.
"I never dreamed of this. I did not mean to kill her."
Mohun knew his friend too well to attempt consolation or sympathy, even
if these had not been foreign to his own nature; so he answered
deliberately and coldly,
"Of having brought bitter sorrow on Constance Brandon I do hold you
guilty; of having caused her death, not, and so you will find when you
know all. But her note of two months ago--of course you never saw it?
You must have overlooked it; you are so careless with your papers."
"It never reached me," Livingstone replied. "I have always looked at the
outside of my letters, and I should have known that handwriting among
ten thousand. Some one must have intercepted it. I wish I knew who." He
was recovering from the first stunning effects of the shock, and the old
angry light came back into his eyes.
"I will find out when you are gone," said Mohun. "You have not a moment
to spare. I won't ask you to write; I will join you in England in three
days. Only remember one thing--keep cool. Yes, I know what you mean; but
your patience may be tried more than you have any idea of." He was
thinking of Cyril Brandon.
The hurry of departure prevented any further conversation. At the
station, just before the train started, Ralph said, grasping his
comrade's hand as he spoke, "I did not think you loved her so dearly."
It was very long before he forgot the dreary look which accompanied the
answer, "I did not know it myself till now."
"I must trace the note," the colonel muttered, as he strode away from
the station. "That handsome tiger-cat has laid her claw on it, I am
certain. But she won't confess; red-hot pincers would not drag a secret
from her, if she meant to keep it. I doubt if she will even betray
herself by a blush. Poor Constance! What chance had she against such a
Machiavel in petticoats? I am bad at diplomacy, too. If I only had the
slightest proof, or if she had any weak point--unless she loses her head
when she hears where Guy is gone, I have no chance of finding out much
in that quarter. There's Willis, to be sure--she bribed him, no doubt.
D--n them both!" In this complimentary and charitable mood, he went
straight to Flora Bellasys.
He found her alone. She was sitting in her riding-dress, and the broad
Spanish hat, with its curling plumes, lay close beside her, with the
gauntlets and whip across it.
She did not much like Mohun, for she had an idea that his sarcasms, with
her for their object, had made Guy smile more than once approvingly. She
knew, too, that all her fascinations recoiled harmlessly from that
rugged block of ironstone. Whatever he might have been in early years,
he was harder of heart than stout Sir Artegall now. Radigund, unhelming
her lovely face, would never have tempted him to forego his advantage
and throw his weapons down.
However, she greeted him with perfect composure and satisfaction.
"Do you join our party this afternoon, Colonel Mohun? I expect them to
call for me every moment. We are going to the Croix de Berny, to see the
ground for the race next week. Mr. Livingstone was to have lunched here;
but I never reckon on his keeping an engagement."
There was something in Ralph's manner which made her uncomfortable. She
took up her whip, and began twisting its slender stock rather nervously;
you would not have thought there was so much strength in the delicate
fingers.
"You are right," he replied, coolly, "not to count too much on Guy's
punctuality. He _is_ very uncertain in his movements. I fear he can not
accompany you this afternoon. He would have charged me with his excuses,
I am sure, if he had not been so hurried."
Flora looked up quickly.
"It must have been something very sudden, then. Have you any idea where
he is now?"
Ralph consulted his watch. "About Mantes, I should imagine. He started
for Havre by the last train. He will be at Southampton, to-morrow, and
the same day he can reach--"
He stopped, gazing at his companion with a cold, cruel satisfaction. The
blood was sinking in her cheeks, not with a sudden impulse, but
gradually--as the sunset rose-tints fade from the brow of the Jungfrau,
leaving a ghastly opaque whiteness behind them. During the silence that
ensued, a sharp tinkle might be heard as the jeweled head of the
riding-whip, snapped by a convulsive movement, fell at Flora's feet.
It _was_ weak in her to betray such loss of self-command, but,
remember, the blow came unexpectedly. She saw the edifice she had
plotted, and toiled, and risked so much to build, ruined and shattered
to its foundation-stone. How many whispers, and smiles, and eloquent
glances had been lavished, only to end in this Pavia, where not even
honor was saved from the utter wreck!
Was not the perfect waxen mask of the first Napoleon shivered in that
terrible abdication-night at Fontainebleau? Where was Cleopatra's
queenly dignity when she heard that Antony had rejoined Octavia?
"Why has he gone? What called him back?"
Her voice had lost the clear ring of silver, and sounded dull and flat,
like base metal.
"Constance Brandon wrote to tell him she was dying. Do you wonder that
he went to her?"
A passing cloud of horror swept across Flora's pale face; but after it
broke forth a gleam of strange, ferocious exultation, which stifled the
rising pity in her hearer's breast, and changed it into contempt.
"I don't believe it," she cried, passionately. "It is a trick. She was
quite well two months ago. At least, she said nothing--"
She checked herself, but too late. The practiced duelist laughed grimly
in his mustache, as he might have done on discovering the weak point in
his enemy's ward which laid him open to his rapier.
"You make my task easier," he said; "I came to inquire about a note
which miscarried about the time you speak of. I _will_ know what became
of it, Miss Bellasys, though I wish to spare you unnecessary exposure
and shame."
He had gained a momentary advantage, but it did not profit him much.
There are swordsmen who will not own that they are touched, though their
life-blood is ebbing fast. Flora rose without a sign of yielding or
weakness in her dry eyes, drawing up her magnificent figure proudly.
Ralph could not help thinking how like her father she was just then.
"I will answer, though I deny your right to question me. I have not the
faintest idea of what you refer to. I have seen no note, except such as
were addressed to myself; and you will hardly think that Miss Brandon
would choose me as a _confidante_ or correspondent."
Mohun saw that she would persist to the last, undaunted as Sapphira. So
he rose to leave her, without another word.
"You do not doubt me?" Flora asked, as he turned away after saluting
her. It was a rash question, all things considered, and scarcely worthy
of the accomplished speaker. There is no more useful maxim in diplomacy
than this: _Quieta non movere_.
Ralph faced her directly. "Miss Bellasys, when a lady tells me what I
can not believe, I question--not her word, but--her agent." He was half
way down stairs before she could answer or detain him.
He found out Willis's direction at Guy's hotel, but he had to wait some
time before obtaining it; and other things delayed him _en route_, so
that it was nearly two hours before he reached the modest lodgings, _au
quatrième_, where the discharged valet was hiding his greatness.
Willis had an extensive connection; this, and his well-known talents,
made him tolerably sure of a situation whenever he chose to seek one. He
had luxurious tastes, and thoroughly appreciated self-indulgence; so he
determined to devote some time and a portion of his perquisites to
relaxation before going into harness again.
On this particular evening he had in prospect a little dinner at
Philippe's--not uncheered by the smiles of venal beauty--and had just
completed a careful toilette. He was above the small peculations of his
order; indeed, had he been inclined to plunder his late masters
wardrobe, the absurd disproportion in their size would have saved him
from that vulgar temptation. He was somewhat choice in his tailors, and
his clothes fitted him and suited him well. He was reviewing the general
effect in the glass with a complacent and rather _égrillarde_ expression
in his little eyes, when between him and his _partie fine_ rose the
apparition of the colonel, like that of the commander before a bolder
profligate. He knew that the interview must come, and did not wish to
avoid it, but just at this moment it was singularly ill timed. What a
contrast between the stern, fixed gaze that seemed to nail him to the
spot where he stood and the well-tutored glances of fair, frail Héloise!
He felt as if he had been put into the ice-pail by mistake for the
Champagne. However, he met his ill luck placidly, and, handing his
visitor a chair, begged to know "what he could do to serve him."
"You can tell me what became of a letter from Miss Brandon, which ought
to have reached yow master two months ago, and miscarried."
Willis was forewarned and armed for the question; but, even with this
advantage given in, his blank, unconscious look and start of
astonishment did him infinite credit.
"A letter, sir?" he said, vaguely, as if consulting his recollections.
"From Miss Brandon? I have never seen or heard of such a thing. If I
had, of course I should have given it to Mr. Livingstone. What else
could I have done with it?"
"I will give a thousand francs for it," Mohun went on, without noticing
the denial, "or for a written acknowledgment of how you disposed of it,
and at whose orders." He laid the bank-note on the table.
The flats changed; the look of bewilderment gave place to one of injured
innocence--an appeal against manifest injustice. It was really
artistically done.
"I am sorry, sir, that you should think I want a bribe to serve you or
Mr. Livingstone. It is quite out of my power now. I don't know what you
refer to."
"I have no time to bargain," Ralph growled, and his eyes began to
glisten ominously. "Name your price, and have done with it."
Finale and Grand Tableau--virtuous indignation--the faithful servant
asserting his dignity as a man. There was a hitch here somewhere; the
scene-shifter was hardly up to his work, so that it was rather a
failure.
"I have told you twice, sir, that I do not know any thing about it. I
beg you will not insult me with more questions. You have no right to do
so; I am neither in your service nor Mr. Livingstone's now."
Mohun bent his bushy brows in some perplexity. After all, he had not a
shadow of proof, though he felt a moral certainty. His sheet-anchor was
the avarice of the scoundrel he was dealing with, and this seemed to
fail. Evidently a strong counter-influence had been at work.
"Curse her!" he muttered between his clenched teeth, "she has been here
before me."
Then he looked up suddenly, and what he saw caused the shallow cup of
his patience at once to overflow.
In Willis's eyes was an ill-repressed twinkle of exultation and
amusement, and on his thin lips the dawning of an actual sneer. It was
but seldom the trained satellite allowed himself the luxury of betraying
any natural feeling. In truth, he chose his time badly for its
exhibition now. Before he could collect himself so as to utter a cry, he
lay upon his back on the carpet, a heavy foot on his chest; and the
colonel was gazing down on him with a fell murderous expression, that
made the victim's blood run cold.
"By G--d!" Mohun said, in the smothered tones of concentrated passion,
"if you trifle with me ten seconds longer--if you open your lips except
to answer my question, I'll crush your breast-bone in."
Willis knew the desperate character of the man who held him in his
power; it was no vain threat he had just heard; the pressure on his
chest was agonizing already.
"For God's sake don't murder me!" he gasped out; "I--I gave it to Miss
Bellasys."
"Of course you did," Mohun said, coolly; "I knew it all along. Now get
up, and write that down."
He spurned away the fallen man as he spoke till he rolled over and over
on the floor.
There is nothing which disconcerts a nature long used to obey like a
sudden brutal _coup de main_. Remember the Scythians and their slaves.
The rebels met their masters boldly enough on a fair field with sword
and spear, but they cowered before the crack of the horsewhips.
All the spider-webs of the unfortunate Willis's diplomacy were utterly
swept away; his powers of thought and volition were concentrated now on
one point--to get rid of his visitor as soon as possible.
He rose slowly and painfully (for the mere physical shock had been
heavy), and, placing himself at a table, tried to write the few words of
acknowledgment that Mohun dictated; but his hand trembled so excessively
that he could hardly form the letters. As he looked up in piteous
deprecation, evidently fearing lest his inability to comply should be
construed into unwillingness or rebellion, he presented a spectacle of
degraded humanity so revolting in its abasement that even the cynic
turned away in painful disgust.
It was done at last. As Willis saw his confession consigned to Mohun's
pocket-book, his avarice gave him courage to try one last effort to gain
something by the transaction--a salve to his bruises--a set-off against
the _relicta non bene parmula_.
"I hope you will consider I have done all I can, sir," he said, looking
wistfully at the bank-note, which still lay on the table. "I shall be
ruined if this becomes known."
The cast-steel smile which was peculiar to him hardened the colonel's
face.
"You must come down on Miss Bellasys for compensation. She pays well, I
have no doubt. You never get another _sou_ from our side, if it were to
keep you from starving. My second thought was the best, after all; it
saved time and--money. (He put the note back into his purse.) I'll give
you one caution, though. Keep out of Mr. Livingstone's way. If he meets
you, after hearing all this, he'll break your neck, I believe in my
conscience." So he left him.
For the second time that evening Willis looked in the glass--the
reflection was not so satisfactory. Was that unseemly crumpled ruin the
white tie, sublime in its scientific wrinkles, on which its author had
gazed with a pardonable paternal pride? No wonder that he stamped in
wrath, not the less bitter because impotent, while he shook off the dust
from his garments as a testimony against Ralph Mohun.
He repaired the damages, though, to the best of his power, and then went
off to keep his appointment; but the _pâtés à la bechamelle_ were as
ashes, and the _gelée au marisquin_ as gall to his parched, disordered
palate. He made himself so intensely disagreeable that poor Héloise
thenceforth swore an enmity against his compatriots, which endured to
the end of her brief misspent existence. "_Gredin d'Anglais, va!_" she
was wont to say, grinding her little white teeth melodramatically,
whenever she recalled that dreary entertainment, and the failure of her
simple stratagems to enliven her saturnine host.