That night the British soldiers camped in the village. All over the
country the rebels had been scattered and beaten, and Bonaventure had
been humbled and injured. After the blind injustice of the fearful
and the beaten, Nicolas Lavilette and his family were blamed for the
miseries which had come upon the place. They had emerged from their
isolation to tempt popular favour, had contrived many designs and
ambitions, and in the midst of their largest hopes were humiliated,
and were followed by resentment. The position was intolerable. In
happy circumstances, Christine’s marriage with Ferrol might have been a
completion of their glory, but in reality it was the last blow to their
progress.
In the dusk, Ferrol and Christine sat in his room: she, defiant,
indignant, courageous; he hiding his real feelings, and knowing that all
she now planned and arranged would come to naught. Three times that day
he had had violent paroxysms of coughing; and at last had thrown himself
on his bed, exhausted, helplessly wishing that something would end it
all. Illusion had passed for ever. He no longer had a cold, but a mortal
trouble that was killing him inch by inch. He remembered how a brother
officer of his, dying of an incurable disease, and abhorring suicide,
had gone into a cafe and slapped an unoffending bully and duellist in
the face, inviting a combat. The end was sure, easy and honourable. For
himself--he looked at Christine. Not all her abounding vitality, her
warm, healthy body, or her overwhelming love, could give him one extra
day of life, not one day. What a fool he had been to think that she
could do so! And she must sit and watch him--she, with her primitive
fierceness of love, must watch him sinking, fading helplessly out of
life, sight and being.
A bottle of whiskey was beside him. During the two hours just gone he
had drunk a whole pint of it. He poured out another half-glass, filled
it up with milk, and drank it off slowly. At that moment a knock came
to the door. Christine opened it, and admitted one of the fugitives of
Nicolas’s company of rebels. He saw Ferrol, and came straight to him.
“A letter for M’sieu’ the Honourable,” said he “from M’sieu’ le
Capitaine Lavilette.”
Ferrol opened the paper. It contained only a few lines. Nicolas was
hiding in the store-room of the vacant farmhouse, and Ferrol must assist
him to escape to the State of New York.
He had stolen into the village from the north, and, afraid to trust any
one except this faithful member of his company, had taken refuge in a
place where, if the worst came to the worst, he could defend himself,
for a time at least. Twenty rifles of the rebels had been stored in the
farmhouse, and they were all loaded! Ferrol, of course, could go where
he liked, being a Britisher, and nobody would notice him. Would he not
try to get him away?
While Christine questioned the fugitive, Ferrol thought the matter over.
One thing he knew: the solution of the great problem had come; and the
means to the solution ran through his head like lightning. He rose to
his feet, drank off a few mouthfuls of undiluted whiskey, filled a flask
and put it in his pocket. Then he found his pistols, and put on his
greatcoat, muffler and cap, before he spoke a word.
Christine stood watching him intently.
“What are you going to do, Tom?” she said quietly. “I am going to save
your brother, if I can,” was his reply, as he handed her Nic’s letter.