It was a time of stress and even of temptation for Sir Terence. Honour
and pride demanded that he should keep the appointment made with
Samoval; common sense urged him at all costs to avoid it. His frame of
mind, you see, was not at all enviable. At moments he would consider
his position as adjutant-general, the enactment against duelling, the
irregularity of the meeting arranged, and, consequently, the danger in
which he stood on every score; at others he could think of nothing but
the unpardonable affront that had been offered him and the venomously
insulting manner in which it had been offered, and his rage welled up to
blot out every consideration other than that of punishing Samoval.
For two days and a night he was a sort of shuttlecock tossed between
these alternating moods, and he was still the same when he paced the
quadrangle with bowed head and hands clasped behind him awaiting Samoval
at a few minutes before twelve of the following night. The windows that
looked down from the four sides of that enclosed garden were all in
darkness. The members of the household had withdrawn over an hour ago
and were asleep by now. The official quarters were closed. The rising
moon had just mounted above the eastern wing and its white light
fell upon the upper half of the facade of the residential site. The
quadrangle itself remained plunged in gloom.
Sir Terence, pacing there, was considering the only definite conclusion
he had reached. If there were no way even now of avoiding this duel, at
least it must remain secret. Therefore it could not take place here in
the enclosed garden of his own quarters, as he had so rashly consented.
It should be fought upon neutral ground, where the presence of the body
of the slain would not call for explanations by the survivor.
From distant Lisbon on the still air came softly the chimes of
midnight, and immediately there was a sharp rap upon the little door set
in one of the massive gates that closed the archway.
Sir Terence went to open the wicket, and Samoval stepped quickly over
the sill. He was wrapped in a dark cloak, a broad-brimmed hat obscured
his face. Sir Terence closed the door again. The two men bowed to each
other in silence, and as Samoval’s cloak fell open he produced a pair of
duelling-swords swathed together in a skin of leather.
“You are very punctual, sir,” said O’Moy.
“I hope I shall never be so discourteous as to keep an opponent waiting.
It is a thing of which I have never yet been guilty,” replied Samoval,
with deadly smoothness in that reminder of his victorious past. He
stepped forward and looked about the quadrangle. “I am afraid the moon
will occasion us some delay,” he said. “It were perhaps better to
wait some five or ten minutes, by then the light in here should have
improved.”
“We can avoid the delay by stepping out into the open,” said Sir
Terence. “Indeed it is what I had to suggest in any case. There are
inconveniences here which you may have overlooked.”
But Samoval, who had purposes to serve of which this duel was but a
preliminary, was of a very different mind.
“We are quite private here, your household being abed,” he answered,
“whilst outside one can never be sure even at this hour of avoiding
witnesses and interruption. Then, again, the turf is smooth as a table
on that patch of lawn, and the ground well known to both of us; that, I
can assure you, is a very necessary condition in the dark and one not to
be found haphazard in the open.”
“But there is yet another consideration, sir. I prefer that we engage
on neutral ground, so that the survivor shall not be called upon for
explanations that might be demanded if we fought here.”
Even in the gloom Sir Terence caught the flash of Samoval’s white teeth
as he smiled.
“You trouble yourself unnecessarily on my account,” was the smoothly
ironic answer. “No one has seen me come, and no one is likely to see me
depart.”
“You may be sure that no one shall, by God,” snapped O’Moy, stung by the
sly insolence of the other’s assurance.
“Shall we get to work, then?” Samoval invited.
“If you’re set on dying here, I suppose I must be after humouring you,
and make the best of it. As soon as you please, then.” O’Moy was very
fierce.
They stepped to the patch of lawn in the middle of the quadrangle, and
there Samoval threw off altogether his cloak and hat. He was closely
dressed in black, which in that light rendered him almost invisible. Sir
Terence, less practised and less calculating in these matters, wore an
undress uniform, the red coat of which showed greyish. Samoval observed
this rather with contempt than with satisfaction in the advantage
it afforded him. Then he removed the swathing from the swords, and,
crossing them, presented the hilts to Sir Terence. The adjutant took
one and the Count retained the other, which he tested, thrashing the air
with it so that it hummed like a whip. That done, however, he did not
immediately fall on.
“In a few minutes the moon will be more obliging,” he suggested. “If you
would prefer to wait--”
But it occurred to Sir Terence that in the gloom the advantage might
lie slightly with himself, since the other’s superior sword-play would
perhaps be partly neutralised. He cast a last look round at the dark
windows.
“I find it light enough,” he answered.
Samoval’s reply was instantaneous. “On guard, then,” he cried, and on
the words, without giving Sir Terence so much as time to comply with
the invitation, he whirled his point straight and deadly at the greyish
outline of his opponent’s body. But a ray of moonlight caught the
blade and its livid flash gave Sir Terence warning of the thrust so
treacherously delivered. He saved himself by leaping backwards--just
saved himself with not an inch to spare--and threw up his blade to meet
the thrust.
“Ye murderous villain,” he snarled under his breath, as steel ground on
steel, and he flung forward to the attack.
But from the gloom came a little laugh to answer him, and his angry
lunge was foiled by an enveloping movement that ended in a ripost. With
that they settled down to it, Sir Terence in a rage upon which that
assassin stroke had been fresh fuel; the Count cool and unhurried,
delaying until the moonlight should have crept a little farther, so as
to enable him to make quite sure that his stroke when delivered should
be final.
Meanwhile he pressed Sir Terence towards the side where the moonlight
would strike first, until they were fighting close under the windows of
the residential wing, Sir Terence with his back to them, Samoval facing
them. It was Fate that placed them so, the Fate that watched over Sir
Terence even now when he felt his strength failing him, his sword
arm turning to lead under the strain of an unwonted exercise. He knew
himself beaten, realised the dexterous ease, the masterly economy of
vigour and the deadly sureness of his opponent’s play. He knew that he
was at the mercy of Samoval; he was even beginning to wonder why the
Count should delay to make an end of a situation of which he was so
completely master. And then, quite suddenly, even as he was returning
thanks that he had taken the precaution of putting all his affairs in
order, something happened.
A light showed; it flared up suddenly, to be as suddenly extinguished,
and it had its source in the window of Lady O’Moy’s dressing-room, which
Samoval was facing.
That flash drawing off the Count’s eyes for one instant, and leaving
them blinded for another, had revealed him clearly at the same time to
Sir Terence. Sir Terence’s blade darted in, driven by all that was left
of his spent strength, and Samoval, his eyes unseeing, in that moment
had fumbled widely and failed to find the other’s steel until he felt it
sinking through his body, searing him from breast to back.
His arms sank to his sides quite nervelessly. He uttered a faint
exclamation of astonishment, almost instantly interrupted by a cough. He
swayed there a moment, the cough increasing until it choked him. Then,
suddenly limp, he pitched forward upon his face, and lay clawing and
twitching at Sir Terence’s feet.
Sir Terence himself, scarcely realising what had taken place, for the
whole thing had happened within the time of a couple of heart-beats,
stood quite still, amazed and awed, in a half-crouching attitude,
looking down at the body of the fallen man. And then from above, ringing
upon the deathly stillness, he caught a sibilant whisper:
“What was that? ‘Sh!”
He stepped back softly, and flattened himself instinctively against the
wall; thence profoundly intrigued and vaguely alarmed on several scores
he peered up at the windows of his wife’s room whence the sound had
come, whence the sudden light had come which--as he now realised--had
given him the victory in that unequal contest. Looking up at the balcony
in whose shadow he stood concealed, he saw two figures there--his wife’s
and another’s--and at the same time he caught sight of something
black that dangled from the narrow balcony, and peered more closely to
discover a rope ladder.
He felt his skin roughening, bristling like a dog’s; he was conscious
of being cold from head to foot, as if the flow of his blood had been
suddenly arrested; and a sense of sickness overcame him. And then to
turn that horrible doubt of his into still more horrible certainty came
a man’s voice, subdued, yet not so subdued but that he recognised it for
Ned Tremayne’s.
“There’s some one lying there. I can make out the figure.”
“Don’t go down! For pity’s sake, come back. Come back and wait, Ned. If
any one should come and find you we shall be ruined.”
Thus hoarsely whispering, vibrating with terror, the voice of his
wife reached O’Moy, to confirm him the unsuspecting blind cuckold that
Samoval had dubbed him to his face, for which Samoval--warning the
guilty pair with his last breath even as he had earlier so mockingly
warned Sir Terence--had coughed up his soul on the turf of that enclosed
garden.
Crouching there for a moment longer, a man bereft of movement and of
reason, stood O’Moy, conscious only of pain, in an agony of mind and
heart that at one and the same time froze his blood and drew the sweat
from his brow.
Then he was for stepping out into the open, and, giving flow to the
rage and surging violence that followed, calling down the man who had
dishonoured him and slaying him there under the eyes of that trull who
had brought him to this shame. But he controlled the impulse, or else
Satan controlled it for him. That way, whispered the Tempter, was too
straight and simple. He must think. He must have time to readjust his
mind to the horrible circumstances so suddenly revealed.
Very soft and silently, keeping well within the shadow of the wall,
he sidled to the door which he had left ajar. Soundlessly he pushed
it open, passed in and as soundlessly closed it again. For a moment he
stood leaning heavily against its timbers, his breath coming in short
panting sobs. Then he steadied himself and turning, made his way down
the corridor to the little study which had been fitted up for him in the
residential wing, and where sometimes he worked at night. He had been
writing there that evening ever since dinner, and he had quitted the
room only to go to his assignation with Samoval, leaving the lamp
burning on his open desk.
He opened the door, but before passing in he paused a moment, straining
his ears to listen for sounds overhead. His eyes, glancing up and down,
were arrested by a thin blade of light under a door at the end of the
corridor. It was the door of the butler’s pantry, and the line of light
announced that Mullins had not yet gone to bed. At once Sir Terence
understood that, knowing him to be at work, the old servant had himself
remained below in case his master should want anything before retiring.
Continuing to move without noise, Sir Terence entered his study, closed
the door and crossed to his desk. Wearily he dropped into the chair
that stood before it, his face drawn and ghastly, his smouldering eyes
staring vacantly ahead. On the desk before him lay the letters that
he had spent the past hours in writing--one to his wife; another
to Tremayne; another to his brother in Ireland; and several others
connected with his official duties, making provision for their
uninterrupted continuance in the event of his not surviving the
encounter.
Now it happened that amongst the latter there was one that was
destined hereafter to play a considerable part; it was a note for the
Commissary-General upon a matter that demanded immediate attention, and
the only one of all those letters that need now survive. It was marked
“Most Urgent,” and had been left by him for delivery first thing in the
morning. He pulled open a drawer and swept into it all the letters he
had written save that one.
He locked that drawer; then unlocked another, and took thence a case of
pistols. With shaking hands he lifted out one of the weapons to examine
it, and all the while, of course, his thoughts were upon his wife and
Tremayne. He was considering how well-founded had been his every twinge
of jealousy; how wasted, how senseless the reactions of shame that had
followed them; how insensate his trust in Tremayne’s honesty, and, above
all, with what crafty, treacherous subtlety Tremayne had drawn a
red herring across the trail of his suspicions by pretending to an
unutterable passion for Sylvia Armytage. It was perhaps that piece of
duplicity, worthy, he thought, of the Iscariot himself, that galled Sir
Terence now most sorely; that and the memory of his own silly credulity.
He had been such a ready dupe. How those two together must have laughed
at him! Oh, Tremayne had been very subtle! He had been the friend, the
quasi-brother, parading his affection for the Butler family to excuse
the familiarities with Lady O’Moy which he had permitted himself under
Sir Terence’s very eyes. O’Moy thought of them as he had seen them
in the garden on the night of Redondo’s ball, remembered the air of
transparent honesty by which that damned hypocrite when discovered had
deflected his just resentment.
Oh, there was no doubt that the treacherous blackguard had been subtle.
But--by God!--subtlety should be repaid with subtlety! He would deal
with Tremayne as cruelly as Tremayne had dealt with him; and his wanton
wife, too, should be repaid in kind. He beheld the way clear, in a flash
of wicked inspiration. He put back the pistol, slapped down the lid of
the box and replaced it in its drawer.
He rose, took up the letter to the Commissary-general, stepped briskly
to the door and pulled it open.
“Mullins!” he called sharply. “Are you there? Mullins?”
Came the sound of a scraping chair, and instantly that door at the end
of the corridor was thrown open, and Mullins stood silhouetted against
the light behind him. A moment he stood there, then came forward.
“You called, Sir Terence?”
“Yes.” Sir Terence’s voice was miraculously calm. His back was to the
light and his face in shadow, so that its drawn, haggard look was not
perceptible to the butler. “I am going to bed. But first I want you
to step across to the sergeant of the guard with this letter for the
Commissary-General. Tell him that it is of the utmost importance, and
ask him to arrange to have it taken into Lisbon first thing in the
morning.”
Mullins bowed, venerable as an archdeacon in aspect and bearing, as he
received the letter from his master: “Certainly, Sir Terence.”
As he departed Sir Terence turned and slowly paced back to his desk,
leaving the door open. His eyes had narrowed; there was a cruel, an
almost evil smile on his lips. Of the generous, good-humoured nature
imprinted upon his face every sign had vanished. His countenance was a
mask of ferocity restrained by intelligence, cold and calculating.
Oh, he would pay the score that lay between himself and those two who
had betrayed him. They should receive treachery for treachery, mockery
for mockery, and for dishonour death. They had deemed him an old fool!
What was the expression that Samoval had used--Pantaloon in the comedy?
Well, well! He had been Pantaloon in the comedy so far. But now they
should find him Pantaloon in the tragedy--nay, not Pantaloon at all,
but Polichinelle, the sinister jester, the cynical clown, who laughs in
murdering. And in anguished silence should they bear the punishment he
would mete out to them, or else in no less anguished speech themselves
proclaim their own dastardy to the world.
His wife he beheld now in a new light. It was out of vanity and greed
that she had married him, because of the position in the world that he
could give her. Having done so, at least she might have kept faith; she
might have been honest, and abided by the bargain. If she had not done
so, it was because honesty was beyond her shallow nature. He should have
seen before what he now saw so clearly. He should have known her for
a lovely, empty husk; a silly, fluttering butterfly; a toy; a thing of
vanities, emotions, and nothing else.
Thus Sir Terence, cursing the day when he had mated with a fool. Thus
Sir Terence whilst he stood there waiting for the outcry from Mullins
that should proclaim the discovery of the body, and afford him a pretext
for having the house searched for the slayer. Nor had he long to wait.
“Sir Terence! Sir Terence! For God’s sake, Sir Terence!” he heard the
voice of his old servant. Came the loud crash of the door thrust back
until it struck the wall and quick steps along the passage.
Sir Terence stepped out to meet him.
“Why, what the devil--” he was beginning in his bluff, normal tones,
when the servant, showing a white, scared face, cut him short.
“A terrible thing, Sir Terence! Oh, the saints protect us, a dreadful
thing! This way, sir! There’s a man killed--Count Samoval, I think it
is!”
“What? Where?”
“Out yonder, in the quadrangle, sir.”
“But--” Sir Terence checked. “Count Samoval, did ye say? Impossible!”
and he went out quickly, followed by the butler.
In the quadrangle he checked. In the few minutes that were sped since
he had left the place the moon had overtopped the roof of the opposite
wing, so that full upon the enclosed garden fell now its white light,
illumining and revealing.
There lay the black still form of Samoval supine, his white face staring
up into the heavens, and beside him knelt Tremayne, whilst in the
balcony above leaned her ladyship. The rope ladder, Sir Terence’s swift
glance observed, had disappeared.
He halted in his advance, standing at gaze a moment. He had hardly
expected so much. He had conceived the plan of causing the house to
be searched immediately upon Mullins’s discovery of the body. But
Tremayne’s rashness in adventuring down in this fashion spared him even
that necessity. True, it set up other difficulties. But he was not sure
that the matter would not be infinitely more interesting thus.
He stepped forward, and came to a standstill beside the two--his dead
enemy and his living one.