INDECISION
Mornay waited while the Englishman smothered his rage. Then, with a
sudden motion, he brushed his kerchief across his temples, as though to
wipe the clouds from his forehead.
“If madame will but bear with my brutality a little longer”--he
smiled--“a little longer--then she will have done with me forever.”
The gesture and the air of contrition were rather racial than personal
characteristics. But, as one sometimes will in times of great stress,
Mistress Barbara could not but compare Mornay’s ease and sang-froid
with the heavy and somewhat brutal bearing of Captain Ferrers. She
hated herself for the thought, and, as Monsieur Mornay spoke, turned
her face resolutely to the window and away from him.
“If madame will remember what I have had the honor to tell her, she
will now discover how Monsieur Ferraire becomes concerned.” He glanced
at Ferrers, who stood to one side, his arms folded, his features sullen
and heavy with the impotence of his wrath. The Frenchman was playing a
desperate game, with every chance against him. To unmask the secret,
he must take the somewhat heavier Englishman off his guard. Of one
thing he felt sure, Ferrers knew little more as to the papers than did
Cornbury and himself. He began abruptly, without further preface:
“Madame has just learned from my lips of certain matters, Monsieur
le Capitaine, which bear strongly upon her interests in the estate
of Bresac. She has yet to learn how much a part of it all you have
become. She has been told of the fortunes of Eloise d’Añasco and of
the rightful heir to the estates. What she wishes most to learn is the
contents and purport of the papers in your possession.”
Mornay had spoken slowly, to give force to his words, and the effect
of his information upon Ferrers was remarkable. The lowering crook
came out of his brows, and his hand made an involuntary movement to his
breast, the fingers trembling a moment in the air. His face relaxed
like heated wax, and he stared at the Frenchman, his mouth open, the
picture of wonderment and uncertainty.
Mistress Clerke, who had been about to speak, paused bewildered.
Ferrers stammered awkwardly, as though gathering his wits for a reply.
“The papers!” he gasped at last. “The papers!” And then with a futile
attempt at sang-froid, “What papers, monsieur?”
If the Englishman had not been so completely off his guard he would
have seen a flash of triumph in the Frenchman’s eyes. Mornay narrowly
watched his discomfiture; then continued, quietly:
“Monsieur le Capitaine Ferraire, René d’Añasco has been found. The
son of Eloise de Bresac has come to life and is to-day in London. He
knows of the sale of his birthright. He has discovered the proofs of
his mother’s marriage and of his birth at Amiens. He but awaits a
favorable opportunity to bring the matter before a court.” By this time
Captain Ferrers had recovered a certain poise. He swaggered over to the
mantel, where he turned to Mistress Clerke.
“A fine tale!” he sneered. “A pretty heir, Mistress Barbara, to send
a hunted man as his ambassador.” Then the presence of Cornbury at the
dying confession came to his memory, and the situation dawned upon him
for the first time. He laughed aloud with real blatant merriment.
“I see!” he cried. “It is you--_you_, Mornay, the outcast--Mornay, the
broken gambler, the man without a creed or country, who is now become
the Vicomte de Bresac. It is a necromancy worthy of Dr. Bendo.”
He was firm upon his feet again. The very absurdity of the claim had
restored his heavy balance--somewhat disturbed by the announcement of
his possession of the papers. He turned to Mistress Clerke and found
her eyes, full of wonder and inquiry, still turned upon him. She was
sensible of an influence which the Frenchman’s words had wrought,
and felt rather than saw the surprise and alarm which underlay the
somewhat blustery demeanor of Captain Ferrers. During the dénouement
not a word had passed her lips. When she had tried to speak it seemed
as though she had been deprived of the power. She had sat looking from
the one to the other, fear and doubt alternating in her mind as to the
intentions of the Frenchman. What did it all mean? Captain Ferrers,
at the best of times, was not a man who could conceal his feelings;
but why had he lost countenance so at the mention of papers? Why had
he not done something at the first that would prove the Frenchman the
cheat and impostor that he was? Why did the irony of his words fall
so lightly upon the ears of Monsieur Mornay that he seemed not even
to hear them? Why were the Frenchman’s eyes so serious, so steady, so
clear to return her gaze? With an effort she slowly arose, struggling
against she knew not what--something which seemed to oppress her and
threaten the freedom of her speech and will. A feeling that she had
allowed herself, if even only for a moment, to be influenced against
her better judgment, filled her with resentment against this man who
had broken past her barriers again and again, and now offended not only
the laws of society but the laws of decency by brutally pushing past
her servants and holding her against her will a prisoner in her own
apartments. As she stood upon her feet she regained her composure, and
when she spoke her voice rang with a fearlessness that surprised even
herself. It was the exuberance and immoderation of fear--the sending of
the pendulum to the other end of its swing.
“For shame, sir, to make war upon a woman! Is there not left a spark
of the gallantry of your race that you should break into a woman’s
house like a cutpurse, a common pirate and outlaw? Have you no pride
of manhood left--no honor? No respect for the sanctity of the sex that
bore you? Would you oppress and hold a helpless woman in restraint?
Monsieur, you are a coward!--a coward! I repeat for the last time, I
do not believe you. I would not believe you if you gave me your oath.”
Ferrers said nothing, but the curl of his lips told the volume of his
pleasure.
They were dreadful words to Mornay, but he looked at her with a
calmness that gave no sign of hidden discomfiture. His eyes did
not drop under her lashing sneers. Instead, as she paused he began
speaking, with a quiet insistence in which there was the least touch of
patronage.
“Madame, hear me out, I pray you. I have come brutally into your house.
I have been the bully with you and yours. I have held you prisoner.
To ask your pardon would be still further to insult you. But I leave
London to-night and--” As Ferrers interposed, he raised his hand.
“Pardon, monsieur, a moment and I have done. I leave London to-night,
and I shall not trouble you more.”
“Thank God for that!” she said, bitterly.
Mornay continued as though he did not hear her: “I have broken in
upon you because it was the only way that I could see you--the only
way that I could tell you what I had to say. That I have sinned is
because--well, because I had hoped that, after all, madame, perhaps the
blood could flow warmly from your heart.” He tossed his chin defiantly.
“You have scorned me for one who bears false witness, though you have
seen your English captain go pale at the mention of those papers. You
will believe what he says and scorn me, in whom runs the blood of the
same grandparents as yourself. You have looked upon me as an impostor.
_Eh bien._ Think what you will. Impostor I am not.” He drew himself up
and said, clearly, in a full measure of pride and dignity, “I am René
de Añasco, Vicomte de Bresac.”
He moved to the door, looking not at her or even noticing the
contemptuous laugh of Captain Ferrers; then, slowly, “I leave you,
madame. To-morrow I will be but a memory--an evil dream, which soon
passes away. You have chosen to be my enemy and to send me away from
you in scorn, hatred, and disbelief. Let it be so. But remember,
madame, when I am gone every pretty sweetmeat you put in your mouth,
every dainty frock you put upon your back, every slipper, every glove,
every ring and spangle that you wear, is mine--all mine.”
She shrank back with horror at the thought, and Ferrers broke in with
an illy suppressed oath:
“One moment, sirrah!” he cried. “If the play-acting’s done, I’d have a
word with you. Will you permit Mistress Clerke to withdraw?”
Mornay took his hand from the knob of the door and turned, while a
gleam of satisfaction crossed his features. In that look Mistress
Barbara read a sinister intention. She thrust herself before Captain
Ferrers.
“No! No!” she cried. “You shall not! There shall be no more--no more
blood-shedding, Captain Ferrers! Let the man go. Let him go, I tell
you! Let him go! As you love me, let him go!”
Captain Ferrers disengaged her arms from about his shoulders, while
Mornay watched them, half amused, half satirical.
“Fear nothing for him, madame,” he interrupted, dryly. “There will be
no fight with Capitaine Ferraire. ’Tis only a touch of irritation and
will speedily pass when I am gone.” He opened the door and called into
the hall, “Vigot!--the coach!”
But Captain Ferrers had put Mistress Clerke aside.
“You must go!” he cried, furiously, almost jostling the shoulder of the
Frenchman.
“Tush, monsieur!” said Mornay, sternly. “You forget yourself. I will
be at the Fleece Tavern to-night at eleven. If you would see me before
I leave England, you will find me there. Madame, your servitor.” In a
moment he had closed the door and was walking down the hallway.
Monsieur Mornay knew that Ferrers would lose but little time in
arousing the servants of Mistress Clerke, and that before he should
have gone very far upon his way there would be a hue and cry after him.
But he had great confidence in Vigot, and the coachman and outriders
were rogues with comfortable consciences, who, if they were well paid,
could be depended on. He entered the coach and waved his hand. The
coachman snapped his lash over the heads of the leaders. The fire flew
from the cobbles as the animals clattered into a stride.
The vehicle had not moved its own length before Ferrers and two lackeys
came running out of the house, shouting at the top of their bent. But
Vigot had his instructions. The lash came down again and the horses
broke into a brisk trot. One of the lackeys sprang for the bridle of
the nearest outrider, but the horseman gave the man a cut across the
face with his whip, and he fell back with a scream of pain. Ferrers was
absolutely helpless. There were not half a dozen people in the street.
Monsieur Mornay thrust his head out of the window of the coach and took
off his hat.
“The Fleece Tavern at eleven,” he said.
Ferrers hurled a curse at him and renewed his shouting, to the end
that men by this time came running from the houses and shops farther
up the street, through which the coach must pass. But the horses were
moving at a full gallop. It would have been easier to stop a charge of
cavalry. Most people simply looked back at Ferrers and stared. One or
two venturesome fellows rushed out, but a sight of the resolute faces
of the outriders, who guarded the leaders’ heads, was enough to make
them pause, and the coach clattered on to safety. There were twenty
plum-colored calashes in the city, and Mornay knew that detection would
be difficult if not impossible at this time of the evening, when the
streets were cleared and the coach could wind deviously to the distant
purlieus of Fenchurch Street. Soon the clamor they had made was lost
in the turns of the winding streets, and the coach was brought by a
distant route to the spot at which Monsieur Mornay had entered it--not
a stone’s-throw from the Swan.
Cornbury was awaiting him upstairs. He had puffed the room full of
smoke, and a look of relief passed over his face as Mornay entered.
“Well, monsieur?” he asked.
Mornay did not answer. He tossed his hat down and threw himself into a
chair.
“I’ve lost,” he muttered at last. He said no more, and Cornbury did not
press him for information. But presently, when the supper was brought,
and his eye alighted upon the face of his servant, he broke into a
smile.
“Ah, Vigot!” he cried. “Did my honest rogues get back to their stable?”
“In perfect safety, monsieur. ‘Scaldy’ Quinn and Tom Trice are not
the ones to be caught napping. They only wish another venture in your
service.” Mornay sadly shook his head. “Vigot, I shall need no further
service in England. You, too, shall go back to France--and I--” He
paused as a sudden thought came to him. He brought his fist down upon
the table. “_Parbleu!_ Wait, Vigot! Perhaps we may yet have need for
these fellows. Tell them to come here quietly by ten of the clock.”
Cornbury had been watching him narrowly. Now he broke out angrily.
“Can ye not be satisfied? Why must ye go forever risking yer neck
in the noose? Ye’ve escaped this time. How, God knows, save by that
presumption which ye wear as a garment. Come, now, I’ve made up my mind
to go to the Plantations. Take ship with me, man. I know of a venture
there that is worth the pains of the trouble twenty times over. Come
at least for the present, until yer peril is grown less.”
Mornay was holding his chin in his hand, lost in thought.
“_Mon ami_,” he said at last, “I’ve shot my bolt and lost. There was
never so heartless a maid since the world began.”
“Tush, dear man! Must ye be forever thinking of the girl? A wench is a
wench in England or Ameriky.”
Mornay arose and put his hands frankly upon the other’s shoulders.
“I’ll go with you, my good friend, where you please--after to-night.”
“Ay, and to-night--ye may go to the devil--”
“’Tis so. I have an appointment with Captain Ferrers at the Fleece for
eleven.”
Cornbury’s face fell.
“Egad, man, ye’re incorrigible! And d’ye think he’ll meet ye?”
“I don’t know. He may not, alone. But I think that he will, in company.
If he does, I’ll not fail him.”
“Don’t ye go. It will be a trap. The man will not fight, I tell you,
while the law of England can do his vengeance for him. Ye’ll run afoul
of an army of constables.”
“I know it, but I’ll risk it.”
“And if ye kill him ye destroy the last proof of yer birth,” sneered
the Irishman.
“I don’t know,” replied Mornay, coolly. Cornbury stormed up and down
the room in a rage.
“Ye’ll have your will,” he cried, “for the sake of a little fight.
Go to your death, rash man that ye are, but don’t say that I haven’t
warned ye.”
“Cornbury, listen. I’ve a desire to look into the pockets of this
Capitaine Ferraire.”
“And what do ye think ye’ll find there--the blessing of the Pope?”
Mornay laughed outright. “Perhaps, but not for me. An idea has grown
upon me, and now possesses me body and soul. It is that these papers
are in the coat of Monsieur Ferraire.”
Cornbury sent out a sudden volume of smoke to signify his disgust.
“P’sh! Do ye think the man has but one suit? Ye’ll lose your labor,
sir. He has hidden yer proofs most secretly by this.”
“None the less, _mon ami_, I’m going to pick his pocket!”
There was a thin skim of storm over the face of the moon as Mornay and
Cornbury left the Swan Tavern. The wind was fitful in the streets,
and, though the season was June, as they passed a corner now and then
a heavy gust, full of the dampness and rigor of October, flew full in
their faces and caused them to pull their summer cloaks more closely
about them. Following in their footsteps were three men, one of whom
was Vigot. The other two were the rascals who had served as outriders
to Monsieur Mornay in the afternoon: Tom Trice, a tall and slender,
stoop-shouldered man, who peered uneasily to left and right, and
“Scaldy” Quinn, who was short, with a most generous breadth of leg and
shoulder. The Frenchman had paid them liberally before leaving the
Swan, and the understanding was that they should follow instructions
without question, and if necessary be prepared to strike a sturdy
blow or two for monsieur, who was going into the camp of his enemies.
The Fleece Tavern had lately gained a bad name by reason of the many
brawls and homicides that had occurred within its walls. The place was
not inaptly named, for its master, Papworth, took money when and how he
might, and bore the name of one who would not stop at a sinister deed
if it would avail him to achieve his end. But in spite of its disrepute
among the more careful of its gamesters at the court, the Fleece was
still frequented by a larger following than any other gaming-house in
London. There was more money to be seen there. Most of its rooms were
filled at all hours with a motley crowd of men of the town, noblemen,
and soldiers of fortune, who would play at dice, basset, and quinze for
days and nights at a time, dropping out only when the lack of food and
sleep made it necessary.
Cornbury strode along, muttering in his cloak.
“Why go on this d----d fool’s errand?” he said, at last. “Why will
ye not take ship comfortably, like a gentleman? Like ye the look of
a prison that ye must be prying and poking yer head inside the bars?
Ye’re a fool, man.”
Mornay paused to look at him curiously for a moment, and then he
laughed.
“I am. And you’re another, _mon ami_, for going with me.” They walked
along for a moment in silence before the Frenchman spoke again. “Here
is what we shall do, Cornbury: Vigot shall go into the house next to
the Fleece, which is upon the corner. It is a mercer’s shop, with
lodgings above, to let. He will choose a room, and so gain his way to
the roof. He will then steal over the leads to the dormer of the Fleece
and down into the hall, making all clear for our escape. The other two
rascals will enter by the cook-room, and, gaining their way upstairs,
await our signal there. We will then meet Capitaine Ferraire and his
friend with an eye in the back of our heads for any signs of his
followers.” As Mornay proceeded he could see the eyes of the Irishman
flash with delight in the moonlight.
“’Tis a good plan,” he returned, “and but for one thing--”
“What?”
“They may be too many for you. Ferrers will have half of the watch with
him, for by this there’s a pretty premium upon your head.”
“The more credit, then, in outwitting them”; and then, sinking his
voice, “Silence, monsieur, we are already in the shadow of St. Paul’s.”