the same time, the young as well as the old have their cares,
troubles, and anxieties, though these in most cases result from
different causes. You are preoccupied to-day――there is doubtless good
reason for this.”
“Nothing in particular,” said Ethalwood――“but you must understand that
at times I feel the effects of the severe fall I had some time ago.”
“Ah, true, no doubt; but if there is nothing more serious than
that――well, I think you’ll get over it in good time.”
[Sidenote: No. 66.]
[Illustration: THE MEETING OF THE RIVALS.]
The conversation was continued much in this strain, when by artfully
calculated means the chevalier soon succeeded in drawing from Lord
Ethalwood the cause of his preoccupation, and, indeed, of all that had
happened in the house of Madame Trieste.
Monsieur de Monpres’ eyes sparkled and his whole face was lit with an
expression of joyousness when Lord Ethalwood had finished his
confession. He was wholly in his element; he had before him a young
man trembling on the brink of a moral abyss, and his was not the hand
to be stretched forth to save him.
“Ha, ha!” laughed the old chevalier. “Carrying on a flirtation with
the mistress and her maid both at the same time――excellent! Why you
are a perfect Don Giovanni, my young friend. By the way I know
Lieutenant Trieste, the husband of the lady whose house afforded you
such timely shelter; but, of course, a man in your exalted station
would never for a moment contemplate uniting yourself to a person in
Mademoiselle’s humble position――that’s altogether out of the
question.”
“It is quite out of the question.”
“Good; I am glad to hear you say so, because it proves to me that you
are a sensible young man. I should not trouble myself much about the
young mountaineer; fellows of his character are not worth wasting
one’s thoughts over. Bah! she’ll never marry him――never――take my word
for it.”
“Unless I return to England.”
“Ah, that’s quite a different matter, but you do not intend to
return?”
“Not just at present, at any rate,” added the chevalier, with a
sarcastic smile. “I think I know you too well for that, although our
acquaintance is of such short duration. Be of good cheer, and don’t
give up the girl to a boor like that.”
The chevalier took the young man’s soul, as it were, and softened it
in the fire of passions which he excited with his contaminating
breath; then he kneaded it like molten wax, and gave it back more or
less after the pattern of his own.
His language had the glitter of the serpent, that seems to caress its
victim the better to destroy it. Without once wounding the sensibility
of his listener, the chevalier scoffed down all his beliefs,
demolished all his illusions.
Lord Ethalwood had heard much of the lax morals of our continental
neighbours, and in Monsieur de Monpres he had a bright example.
“Come, come,” said the latter, “you must bear a more cheerful aspect.
I tell you freely I don’t intend to take my departure from your
hospitable house until I see you looking bright and cheerful.”
The old Frenchman kept his word, for he remained several days with the
young earl. During his stay he was explanatory as regards Madame
Trieste, whom he described as a very clever and cunning mother,
speculating on the inexperience of a young man of name and fortune,
with the view of entrapping him into a marriage with her daughter.
This, he said, was all fair enough. She had a perfect right to do the
best she could for her child, but on the other hand the earl had an
equal right to take excellent care not to snap at the bait so artfully
presented to him.
Finally he demonstrated that Gerome Chanet, the girl’s betrothed
husband, was simply a supernumerary called in to play a part, to serve
the ends of the chief actors in the drama, by exhibiting himself in
the character of a betrothed, to force his lordship into a declaration
of love.
Ethalwood listened to all his unprincipled counsellor had to say, and
pointed out to him that Chanet was desperately and madly in love with
Theresa.
At this the old Frenchman shrugged his shoulders and shook his head in
a most significant manner.
When the chevalier had taken his departure Ethalwood felt in some
measure relieved. While he was with him he lent an attentive ear to
all he had to say, and he was inclined to believe that he was
tolerably right so far as the main facts were concerned, but despite
this he could not bring himself to believe that the young mountaineer
was playing a double game, or acting as a subordinate to others. It
appeared to be altogether foreign to his nature; besides, Agatha
herself had told him that Chanet was very much in earnest, and this
declaration was proved but too plainly by subsequent events.
“I cannot believe all he says,” murmured Ethalwood, “but nevertheless
there is much truth in many of his observations. Doubtless he is
enabled to see things much more clearly than I can myself. He’s a
sharp-sighted old gentleman, without a doubt, and he hasn’t been too
particular at any period of his life. I wonder what the proud old earl
could have seen in him to make him his companion. I suppose he did do
so? I never heard him mention his name, though. But, Lord bless me!
how many years ago must it have been?”
Lord Ethalwood was restless and fidgety――so much so, that he could not
remain any longer at his own chateau; so he determined upon paying
Madame Trieste another visit. He longed to learn something about the
fair Theresa, and was a little piqued that no messenger had been sent
by Madame Trieste to inquire how he was, or bring him an invitation.
As he was proceeding in the direction of madame’s house he was met by
the chevalier, who was being driven along in his old lumbering
post-chaise.
“Going to the widow’s――are you?” said the chevalier――“good, excellent!
I am going close to where she lives. Jump in, and we’ll drive there.
That is close to her house; you can then alight, and walk the
remainder of the distance alone.”
Ethalwood availed himself of the offer, and drove within half a mile
or so of his destination. He alighted and walked rapidly on. When he
presented himself he found Madame Trieste in her garden. She was
alone, and as he passed through the gate she raised her eyes with such
a look of astonishment as to almost imply that she did not recognise
him.
This a little disconcerted him, and he felt half disposed to turn back
and go away in dudgeon. The probability is that he would have done so
had not the widow advanced a few steps and exclaimed in a tone of
surprise――
“What! my lord? Well, you do astonish me.”
“And pray, madame, what reason is there for astonishment? I have not
heard from you. Not a scrap of intelligence has reached me from either
yourself or your daughter, and hence it is I have deemed it my duty to
call.”
“Ah, yes, of course,” observed Madame Trieste; “yes, quite natural you
should do so, and――ahem――have you quite recovered from the effects of
your accident?”
“Yes, I hope so.”
Her manner was constrained, not to say cold, and the earl was at a
loss to account for her altered demeanour.
“I am glad you are yourself again.”
“And so you see, madame,” he observed, assuming a cheerful,
confidential tone, “I could not keep away from you any longer――so I’ve
just run over to see how you all are.”
“Certainly; it’s very kind of you, I’m sure.”
Lord Ethalwood was under the impression from the lady’s manner that
his presence in her chateau was not altogether desired, but he did not
choose to take any notice of this. There might be something amiss, and
he was determined, if possible, to find out what that something was.
Without invitation he unslung his game-bag and ascended the stairs
leading to the apartment he had before occupied.
Madame Trieste looked a little surprised, but said nothing.
On the landing he met Agatha.
“Gracious me!” she ejaculated――“you here, my friend.”
“Certainly. Is there anything astonishing in that? I am here, as you
see.”
The maid drew back and seemed to be a little disconcerted.
“Like mistress, like maid,” murmured his lordship to himself. “It does
not much matter――I don’t intend to be baffled if I can help it. Hang
their blank looks and frigid manner.”
Agatha still stood contemplating her mistress’s visitor.
“Why, what ails you, my little pet? You look scared.”
“Do I?”
“I fancy so. Are you not well?”
“I am well enough, as far as health is concerned.”
“Are you in trouble then?”
“Oh, my lord!” returned the girl. “You went away from here leaving
sorrow behind you. This you ought to know without my telling you, and
you have returned to bring misery and despair.”
“Upon my word, Agatha, for the life of me I cannot understand what you
mean. Explain yourself.”
“Let me pass,” exclaimed Agatha.
He endeavoured to detain her, but she refused to answer his questions,
and fled along the passage with the speed of an antelope.
“Perverse, obstinate girl!” exclaimed the English nobleman. “What can
possess the little jade? The whole household appears to be under some
malign influence, which is both extraordinary and unaccountable.”
As he passed on towards the apartment he had previously occupied, he
observed in one of the sitting-rooms Theresa Trieste, who was
reclining in a large arm-chair in a pensive attitude.
“Mademoiselle Theresa,” ejaculated Lord Ethalwood, “whence this
altered demeanour?”
“My lord!” cried the French maiden――“you here!”
“Yes――may I enter?”
“If it pleases you to do so――you can of course.”
Lord Ethalwood entered, and crept up to the chair on which the young
woman was seated.
“Tell me,” said he in a voice of deep emotion, “the reason for my
being received so coldly by the inhabitants of a house where I was
wont to receive nought but kindness. Have I done ought to offend you,
Theresa?”
“Nothing whatever,” was the quick response, “but the aspect of affairs
has greatly altered since you were last here, and I am no longer my
own mistress――am not free to do as I might wish.”
“Not your own mistress? Surely you are not united to that――――”
“No, I am not,” she answered, interrupting him quickly; “but I was
under an engagement which is now broken off. Ah, why did you leave so
precipitately?” she added, regarding him with a reproving look.
“Why?” he replieed. “For a very cogent reason, Theresa. I learned from
your mother that you were affianced to the young man I was introduced
to just before I took my departure. I was duly impressed with the
awkwardness of the situation in which I so suddenly and unexpectedly
found myself, and felt it my duty to retire from a scene in which I
appeared to be an interloper. From prudential motives I deemed it
expedient to leave.”
“Just at a time when your presence was most needed,” returned Theresa.
“Just at a time when my presence was least needed――so I concluded.”
“You might have consulted me on the subject, my lord, before you took
your departure. I am free to confess that I think you have not acted
altogether so prudently as you might have done under the
circumstances.”
“So you upbraid me. This is most wicked. I durst not trust myself here
any longer. But oh, Theresa, you have been for ever uppermost in my
thoughts, and I could no longer remain away――hence it is I am here
now. You will not――you cannot――find it in your heart to censure me――me
who would lay down my life for you.”
“Ah, sir, these are but words――idle words――the past cannot be
recalled, but the actual present is absolute, and the future is
terrible.”
“Why terrible, Theresa?”
“Do not ask me such a question, my lord. It comes with ill grace from
you.”
Lord Ethalwood was puzzled, as well he might be. He did not very well
know how to construe the meaning of the young girl’s words. He
remained silent and thoughtful for some little time, and then said in
a low tone――
“Possibly I may be mistaken. This young man who has caused us all so
much anxiety may not be after all the one you would have chosen for a
husband of your own free will, but your mother――――”
“He is her choice――not mine,” cried Theresa, with sudden energy.
“Tell me frankly, dearest,” said Lord Ethalwood, bending fondly over
her――“do you love him?”
“No――a thousand times no!” she answered. “I should have thought that
was self-evident.”
“Theresa,” said he, taking her hand within his own, “I thank you for
this candid avowal. I have no desire to see you sacrificed on the
altar of filial duty or affection. Be bold and resolute――discard him,
dearest, send him adrift.”
“You wish me to do so?”
“I do most earnestly desire it; since I feel perfectly well assured
that your future happiness will be sacrificed by so ill-assorted a
match.”
He bent over her and kissed her on either cheek as a brother might
kiss a sister.
Her face flashed up, and she burst into tears.
“Leave me now, my lord,” she exclaimed suddenly. “Madame my mother
will wonder what has become of you. Possibly she may suspect
something. Rejoin her, I pray.”
“But you? I cannot consent to part so suddenly from one I hold so
dear.”
“Go, my lord; it is not well for you to remain any longer here.”
“But when shall we be able to converse further on this subject? When
can I see you again?”
“Offer to take me out for a walk towards evening. This you can easily
do.”
“Enough――so be it. I will do so.”
Lord Ethalwood returned to his own chamber, where he reflected overall
the incidents of the day. It was evident enough that Theresa Trieste
was greatly piqued at his abandoning the field, and leaving her to the
control of her mother, and he assumed that she was desirous of evading
or cancelling the contract made with Gerome Chanet. This was evident
enough, but the earl found himself on the horns of a dilemma. He could
not make honourable proposals to the widow’s charming daughter, and
how to act in the matter he could not very well determine. He came to
the conclusion that it would be best to trust to chance. After
remaining for some time in his own apartment he deemed it advisable to
pay his respects to the mistress of the establishment. So he descended
below, and found Madame Trieste at work in the summer-house. She was
alone, and Lord Ethalwood without further ceremony entered the rural
retreat and sat himself down beside the widow.
“You see, madame, I don’t stand on ceremony,” said he, in a tone of
familiarity, “I take the privilege accorded to an old friend of the
family. I come without invitation, and I remain without much
pressing.”
“You are welcome, Lord Ethalwood,” said madame, with a furtive glance
at her visitor.
“Ah, that’s well. I feel assured of that.”
He then inquired about the health of Theresa.
“She has not been at all herself for some days past,” observed madame.
“Indeed she has been constrained to keep her room.”
“Goodness me! I hope she is not in danger,” cried his lordship, with
well-simulated anxiety.
“I hope not. It would be a source of great anxiety and trouble to me
if I thought there was anything serious in the malady of my poor dear
child.”
“And it would be an equal source of trouble to me.”
The widow looked up, but made no reply to this last observation.
“Is your daughter’s indisposition likely to delay the ceremony
appointed to take place at no very distant date?” observed the earl.
“You ask me a question I shall find it difficult to answer, monsieur,”
returned the lady.
“And why so, I pray?”
“I am not certain that the marriage will ever take place at all. We
can none of us tell what may happen. It is an old saying that ‘there’s
many a slip between the cup and the lip.’”
“But I understood,” stammered out his lordship, “at least such was my
impression, that all the preliminaries were arranged, and that a
special time had been appointed.”
“So it had, but what of that?”
“I presume the contracting parties have no desire to withdraw from the
covenant?”
“I don’t know about that. There is a new aspect in affairs, and one of
the contracting parties has imprudently chosen to withdraw.”
“Indeed, you surprise me. Which may it be? Excuse my plain
questioning. I am deeply interested in all that concerns your dear
amiable daughter.”
“You are very kind, I am sure,” observed madame, with something like
sarcasm in her tone.
Lord Ethalwood bowed courteously.
“You surprise me, madame,” said he. “One of the parties has a wish to
withdraw――eh?”
“It is more than a wish――it is a positive refusal. Theresa will not
consent under any circumstances to give her hand to Monsieur Chanet.”
“How very remarkable!”
“Not at all so, monsieur. There is nothing at all remarkable or
surprising in the matter. Theresa is inflexible.”
“But what is her reason?”
Madame shrugged her shoulders.
“Ah, sir,” she remarked, “you would be a clever man if you could
account for the caprices and fancies of a young maiden. Theresa will
not give me any reason. All she says is, that she will not become the
wife of Gerome, and he, poor fellow! probably doats upon her.”
“Then he is very much to be pitied.”
“He is. You are just right――he is greatly to be pitied, but of what
avail is pity or commiseration to a despairing lover?”
“Not much avail.”
“None whatever.”
“I do hope and trust he will get over the disappointment.”
“I don’t think he ever will.”
“That is very sad, indeed. But cannot you divine the reason for her
objecting to the union?”
“I have my ideas upon the subject; but these are only surmises, which
are vague and unsupported by facts. Still, I am under the impression
that there is a reason――what this is I do not care to say.”
“Oh, no――I suppose so. Far be it from me to intrude upon family
secrets. These are matters which no man has a right to inquire into.”
“It is altogether a most unfortunate affair, and one I have great
reason to regret. I wish now we had never seen Gerome Chanet. I fancy
we should all of us have been spared a great deal of anxiety had we
not known him.”
“That is likely enough, madame,” returned Ethalwood, “but it is
impossible for the wisest of us to foresee these things. It would have
been well, perhaps, if I had not been so close an intimate of the
family.”
“I have not said so, my lord.”
“No, madame, you are a great deal too considerate to make such an
uncourteous observation, but we cannot alter the events which are now
past. We have to consider the future, and your daughter’s happiness in
the years that are to come.”
“I am afraid she is tossed about in a stormy sea of trouble at the
present moment. How it will end none of us can determine.”
“She has a sincere and attached friend in me, and anything I can
possibly do to serve her will be most cheerfully done.”
“She looks upon you as her friend, Lord Ethalwood. I hope she is not
mistaken.”
“Mistaken, madame! Do you doubt my sincerity?”
“I have the greatest possible esteem for you,” returned Madame
Trieste.
The conversation was abruptly brought to a close by the girl, Agatha,
making her appearance. She announced the arrival of a visitor.
At first Ethalwood thought it was his rival, but he was presently
informed that the new arrival was an old lady who was a near neighbour
of his hostess. The latter left the summer-house, and Lord Ethalwood
soon found himself alone in the little alcove.
He was ill at ease, troubled in his mind, and did not know very well
how to act. The matter could be easily enough brought to a
satisfactory conclusion by his openly avowing his attachment for the
French maiden, but for prudential reasons he refrained from adopting
such a course.
His oath to his deceased relative was an insurmountable barrier, and,
in addition to this, there were others of a lesser note.
Nevertheless, he was not disposed to give up the beauteous young
female who held him in bondage.
“I am a silly, weak, love-sick fool,” he murmured, “to be hesitating
and vacillating after this fashion. I haven’t a grain of resolution
left in my whole composition. What must――what can be the end of all
this? Nothing but trouble and difficulty! And yet I appear to be
powerless. I cannot――nay, I will not――abandon Theresa.”
These words were hardly out of his mouth when the party in question
made her appearance in the garden. Lord Ethalwood at once rose to meet
her.
She was dressed as if about to go abroad, and he at once remembered
her suggestion respecting an afternoon walk.
“This is most kind and considerate on your part,” he exclaimed. “I
perceive you are ready, and, I hope, willing, to do me the honour of
becoming my companion for a short ramble.”
The young girl nodded, and said, “You must mention the subject to
madame, my mother.”
“By all means, Mademoiselle Trieste,” said he, leading her to the
alcove, and conducting her to a seat. This done, he flew into the
house and informed Madame that he and her daughter were about to take
a ramble over the mountains for an hour or so. The widow made no
objection, and the young man and the maiden were soon far away from
the house, taking their way over a narrow footpath, which was the
beaten track of travellers who took delight in wandering over the
mountains.
The conversation between the two was, as may readily be imagined, of a
tender nature. Lord Ethalwood was profuse in his protestations. He
told his companion that he found life insupportable when he was away
from her, and a thousand other declarations of a similar character,
one or two of which would have sufficed to turn the young girl’s head.
She listened to him, and, like an infatuated fool that she was,
believed all he said. She was flattered by the encomiums he passed
upon her, charmed with his protestations of love. He, in his turn, was
at no loss to perceive the effect his words had on her, and he felt
proud that he had so much power over a young and confiding maiden.
They sat on the promontory of a rock, and looked out at the distant
mountains, whose peeks were now gilded with the rays of the setting
sun. Here he again poured into her ear the soft and delusive whispers
of love, and Theresa Trieste was enraptured by his eloquence, which
sounded as sweet and seductive as the Arcadian lutes did to the
village maidens of old.
While thus seated together, their arms encircling each other’s waist,
their hands locked together and touching, a dark form was visible on
an adjacent rock. It was that of a hunter, who paused, and whose eyes
of flame were instantly fixed on the lovers. This was Gerome Chanet,
who stood like a statue――still, silent, and immovable. Fire was at his
heart, and the demon of jealousy had him in his clutches.
“Theresa!” he hissed between his clenched teeth, “and with _him_――with
the Englishman. Heaven be merciful to me, for I feel as one about to
sink into some dark and fathomless abyss.”
Neither Lord Ethalwood nor his companion was aware that their actions
were being watched by the terrible and vengeful young mountaineer.
When by chance either of them turned their heads Gerome crept behind a
mountain peak and stood motionless.
He was the very personification of mute despair.
No wonder. Theresa Trieste had cast him off. The reason was now but
too palpable. Gerome felt that he had lost the dearly-coveted prize he
had sought with such pertinacity for so many years.
The looks, the attitude, the low whispers which the loving pair were
exchanging told the mountaineer of the utter hopelessness of his case.
Theresa would not condescend to even look at him after this.
He felt so supremely miserable at this time that the thought crossed
his mind of committing suicide there and then by precipitating himself
from the promontory upon which he stood.
But upon second thoughts he made up his mind to make one last
desperate effort. He would send a messenger to the earl and ask him to
give him an interview. As a gentleman, he could not refuse this
request.
Having made up his mind to this course of action, Gerome Chanet crept
like a guilty thing over the rocks, and had his dark and miserable
hours all alone.
Meanwhile the lovers had lingered, as lovers usually do, much longer
than they had intended, and warned by the shadows of the evening, they
both rose and made the best of their way back to Madame Trieste’s
residence.
The widow cast an inquiring look at the lovers. She judged rightly
enough that ample time had been afforded them for explanations as to
the past and promises and good resolutions for the future. As may be
readily imagined nothing would have pleased her better than seeing
Lord Ethalwood in the character of an acknowledged suitor of her
daughter, but she was far too prudent to suggest or even hint at such
a thing. Like a prudent mother she thought it best to leave the young
people alone, as in any case matters would not be forwarded by her
interference.
The evening passed over pleasantly enough; the inmates of the chateau
were more sociable and in better spirits than they had been in the
earlier portion of the day. From Theresa’s manner Madame Trieste
augured that she had had a satisfactory _tête-a-tête_ with the earl,
and he on his part was more than usually pleasant and animated.
CHAPTER CXXVII.
THE RIVAL LOVERS.
On the following day Lord Ethalwood sallied forth alone. In the course
of his migrations he met the chevalier in his lumbering old
postchaise. He affected to be overjoyed to meet his young friend, and
rallied him on his intrigue, as he termed it. He informed Ethalwood
that he was stopping in the neighbourhood with a friend, to whose
house he invited him to spend an evening when quite disengaged. The
earl promised to do so, albeit he was not at all disposed to do so,
since he was otherwise engaged. However, he felt constrained to treat
the chevalier with becoming courtesy; so he took leave of him with a
promise to see him again as early as possible.
After his ramble he returned to the widow’s house and dined with her
and her daughter. In the after part of the day he noticed outside the
garden gate a ragged sheep boy making signs and motions to attract his
attention. He was under the impression that the lad in question was a
beggar, who was about to ask alms, but at the same time he was rather
surprised at his pertinacity.
“Confound the fellow’s impudence!” he exclaimed thrusting his hand in
his pocket, with the intention of throwing him a piece of money; but
the lad, who had noticed his action, shook his head, and signified by
motions that he wished to speak to him. Upon this, the earl went
direct up to the gate.
“What are you nodding like a Chinese mandarin, for, you young rascal?”
said he. “Be off, without further ado.”
“Are you the English milor who is stopping with Madame Trieste?”
inquired the boy.
“And if I am, what business is it of yours, you impudent young
jackanapes?”
“Pardon, monsieur, I’ve got something for you,” returned the lad, in a
submissive and respectful tone.
“What is it?”
“This letter.”
As he spoke he drew from his pocket a large-sized letter, which he
handed to the earl. It was carefully folded and sealed, and addressed
in a firm, bold handwriting.
“And who may this be from?” inquired Ethalwood.
“Please read it, sir; then you will see who sends it.”
The earl broke the seal, and read the contents of the missive, which
ran as follows:――
“Milor,――Although far beneath you in station, I claim as a right some
explanation for the great wrong you have done me. I have always been
given to understand that an English gentleman is never wanting in
courtesy towards a stranger, however humble may be his birth, and I
hope I am not mistaken. I request an interview. This surely you will
not deny me, for I have a terrible reckoning to demand of you. If I
were a reckless bravo, a lawless freebooter, I should waylay you and
have my revenge, but I am neither of these. You know best how deeply
you have injured me, and as a man of honour you cannot refuse to hear
what I have to say. I shall await you at the foot of the large
lime-tree, which stands at the corner of Alacia Pass. Tell my
messenger whether you will be there.”
The letter was signed “Gerome Chanet.”
“Umph!” exclaimed the earl, “a nice, amiable sort of person to meet;
but, however, I suppose there is no other way than seeing the young
ruffian.”
“What answer am I to take back?” inquired the boy.
“What answer, my lad? Oh, I haven’t time to write any reply, but you
can tell him I will be there at the appointed time.”
“You will be there?”
“Most certainly I will. Here is something for yourself.”
He handed the boy a silver coin, which he at first refused. After a
little pressing, however, he consented to accept the proffered
gratuity.
He then scampered off like a mountain goat, and was soon lost to
sight.
“I don’t like the business,” muttered the earl, “and it strikes me
that I shall get myself into trouble. An injured parent or a
despairing lover is a dangerous person at the best of times, and from
all accounts this young fellow is a sort of fire-eater. Well, I will
hear what he has to say.”
Shortly before the specified time Lord Ethalwood started off in the
direction of the lime-tree named in Chanet’s note.
On reaching the spot indicated he found the young mountaineer seated
on a large moss-covered stone.
He appeared to be in a depressed state; his head was bent forward, and
rested on the palms of his hands, which were pressed firmly against
his temples.
The miserable young man was heedless of the earl’s presence, so
absorbed and abstracted did he appear to be.
“So,” exclaimed Lord Ethalwood, in a loud voice, “I am here, agreeable
to the request made in your uncourteous and intemperate letter. What
would you with me?”
Chanet regarded the speaker with a malevolent look.
“What would I?” he repeated.
“Aye, surely you sent for me. Pray――inform me what for?”
Rising from his seat Chanet made a courteous obeisance, and then
said――
“I am not mistaken, then――you have condescended to grant me a
meeting?”
“That is evident. Now, your business. Proceed, if you please. In this
letter,” said the earl, drawing the missive from his pocket, “you
speak of a terrible reckoning you have to demand from me. I must
frankly confess I do not at present understand the meaning of this
expression. Perhaps you will enlighten me, for at the present moment I
am in the dark. I hope you are not labouring under some hallucination.”
A bitter smile passed over the swarthy features of the mountaineer,
who shook his head ominously.
“I will explain, milor, and hope to make you comprehend plainly enough
the nature of the injury you have done, and for which I now seek
reparation.”
“Do so, then, and let it be done as briefly as possible, for I have
not much time to spare, and if I had I should not be disposed to a
prolix account of real or imaginary injuries.”
Chanet leaped over a narrow ditch which formed the boundaries of a
wood, and bade the earl follow him.
“What would you have me do? Whither would you lead me?” inquired the
latter.
“A hundred paces in the forest,” replied Chanet.
“I don’t see any necessity to go farther. I can hear what you have to
say here. What is your reason for penetrating the forest? Come back.”
“We cannot talk here, because we shall be liable to interruption, and
what I have to say is for your ear alone.”
“You are a strange person, and I don’t know that I shall accede to
your request.”
For a moment or so the idea that Gerome Chanet sought to draw him into
the forest for the purpose of murdering him crossed Lord Ethalwood’s
mind, and he did not, therefore, comply with the demand made by his
companion; but reflection quickly banished this apprehension, which,
if it was ill-founded, would be an insult to his rival, and might in
any case call down upon himself a suspicion of prejudice.
Lord Ethalwood deemed the suspicion an unworthy one, and without
further hesitation he followed Chanet. He took care, however, to be
upon his guard, and keep a sharp look-out for any sudden surprise.
The two men moved forward for a hundred paces or so, and Chanet
stopped in a kind of opening among the trees.
“Well, sir,” said the earl, “is this the spot you have selected for
our conference?”
“Yes,” was the answer. “We can now converse freely.”
“Proceed. I am all attention.”
“I will.”
“Be good enough to abridge as much as possible whatever you may have
to say, as otherwise you might exhaust what little patience I happen
to possess.”
Chanet darted upon the speaker a look as bitter and vengeful as that
with which he had first regarded him when they met at the lime-tree,
but by a violent effort he controlled his feelings and assumed an air
of tranquillity.
“You wish me to be brief, and not trouble you with too many words,”
said he.
“I do,” returned his companion.
“Enough. I will endeavour to explain as quickly as the circumstances
of the case will admit.”
“Thank you,” returned the earl, with an air of condescending hauteur.
“Milor, I will try and be calm and unimpassioned, although my heart
seems to be almost ready to burst,” exclaimed Chanet. “You will not
perhaps be surprised at this when I tell you I love Mademoiselle
Trieste. Oh, how fondly, how sincerely, no one knows save myself.”
“Surely you have not drawn me hither for no other purpose than to make
this declaration. I have been given to understand that you love her.
What of that?”
“What of it!――are you mad?”
“Certainly not. You were engaged to her――were you not?”
“Yes, I was to have married her in four weeks from this time.”
“That I also understood.”
“You did――from whom?”
“From madame, her mother.”
Chanet was perfectly astounded at the coolness displayed by his
companion.
“Oh, from madame, eh?” he stammered.
“Yes, from her; and are you not going to be married to mademoiselle at
the time you have just named――in five weeks from this date?”
“No!” thundered forth the mountaineer. “No, I am not.”
“Indeed you surprise me.”
“Do I?”
“Well, yes, I confess you do. May I ask why you are not able, or
possibly it may be willing, to keep your engagement?”
“Willing!” yelled Chanet in a voice of concentrated passion. “Do not
aggravate me――do not taunt me.”
“I have no desire to do so――you are quite excited enough already.”
“You ask me why I am not going to marry Theresa Trieste. You do not
know, I suppose?”
“I cannot say I do.”
“I will tell you, then,” said Chanet, with forced calmness.
“You will be conferring a great favour on me if you do, my dear M.
Chanet,” remarked the earl.
“You are the cause of the engagement being broken off――you, Lord
Ethalwood, and no other person. Sacre! don’t attempt to deny it. You
have been the blight in the bud, which sooner or later will destroy so
fair a rose. I am ashamed of myself to be pleading and beseeching one
who has done me such a deadly injury.”
“You have not done so as yet; that is, if you mean me, which I presume
you do.”
“You endeavour to carry the matter off with a high hand, milor. It is
the way with you English; but you can’t deceive me. You cannot deny
that you have no right to gain the love of my darling Theresa, and by
so doing you have robbed me of my betrothed――my future wife and my
happiness. Do you think it possible for me to be calm and unmoved
under such an affliction?”
“I make every allowance for your excitement, which is, perhaps, but
natural under existing circumstances,” replied the earl, in the same
measured tone of dignity and hauteur he had assumed from the
commencement; “but at the same time, Monsieur Chanet, I must observe
that you have fallen into a grievous error, which, in justice to
myself, I feel bound to correct.”
“What error do you allude to?”
“You make a great mistake in asserting that I have robbed you of the
love of Theresa. The Ethalwoods never rob or steal.”
“You have supplanted me in her affections, then, which is much the
same thing, call it by what term you please,” cried Chanet. “Like a
wolf, you have stolen into the house, and stolen from me the fairest
and most beautiful young creature that ever human eyes lighted on. You
have driven me to desperation, made my life one long and hopeless
sorrow, and now at the present moment I should feel thankful if death
would come and release me from my sufferings. Oh, milor, you don’t
know――you cannot possibly know――the deep, deep affliction that has
fallen upon me.”
There was an amount of pathos in the manner as well as the words the
young mountaineer had given utterance to that for a moment touched the
heart of his rival.
“Poor fellow,” thought Ethalwood, “he is most terribly in love.”
There was a pause, after which the nobleman said in a less cold tone――
“I very much regret that you should take this matter so much to heart;
but, upon my word, Monsieur Chanet, I cannot see how you can blame
me.”
“Not blame you! You have won from me the love of the only woman I had
ever loved.”
“No such thing. It is a mere supposition on your part. A chimera――a
dream.”
“It is no dream, milor. It is a certainty.”
“But what proofs have you to offer? Assertions without proofs are
valueless――everybody knows that.”
“Proofs!” iterated Chanet. “Oh, milor, don’t deny it. Last night I saw
you and Theresa seated on the platform of a rock; your hands locked
together, your cheeks touching, and you breathing soft words into her
ear. Do you take me for a fool to doubt after what I have seen?”
The earl’s face became at once of a heightened colour, and he
stammered out――
“We are attached friends, it is true. I won’t deny that.”
“Friends!” ejaculated Chanet, with ineffable disgust. “Bah, I’m not to
be cozened in that way. You are her lover, and she is attached to
you.”
“You are in error, my friend.”
Chanet shook his head sorrowfully and said――
“I wish I could think so.”
“I wish you could, because you would then be a more contented man.”
“From the day on which I first set eyes upon Mademoiselle Trieste,”
said Chanet, sorrowfully, “I loved her――loved her with all my heart
and soul, loved her with a love which nothing can extinguish――a love
which will go down with me to the grave. It is little to say, perhaps,
that I would lay down my life for her, and if she asked me to give her
up for a more wealthy suitor, a man of title, such as you are, if I
thought, if I could believe that it was her own special desire for me
to do so I would resign her; and this, it is true, would be a terrible
alternative――a miserable sacrifice as far as I am individually
concerned, but it should be done nevertheless. My father asked of
Madame Trieste the hand of her daughter for me, and my suit was
accepted by both mother and daughter. All went on well enough till you
came upon the scene, and then――――”
“But surely you do not mean to say that I am answerable for the
caprices of a young maiden. Was she attached to you? Answer me that
question――I mean before I came upon the scene, as you are pleased to
term it.”
“Well, monsieur, I am free to confess that I don’t think she cared for
me nearly so much as I did for her.”
“I am sure she did not; that’s better than thinking.”
“She did not?” exclaimed Chanet, in a tone of surprise.
“No.”
“Not since you have been here――that I admit, for since you made your
appearance she became so completely changed that I hardly knew her as
the same person. You have poisoned her mind against me.”
“I have done no such thing. Look here, my young friend, I charge you
to be a little more careful in your observations, or if you are not it
is just possible we may quarrel.”
“Quarrel!” cried the mountaineer, with a horrible laugh.
“Yes, that was my word. Have you invited me here for the purpose of
picking a quarrel with me? It looks like it, and if that be the case I
shall take my departure forthwith.”
“You must not go yet.”
“Must not!――and why, pray?”
“Because I have much more to say.”
“You had better be quiet about it then, for I am getting tired of the
subject, which, to say the truth, is becoming wearisome.”
“Well, then, I will come to the point,” said Chanet. “Theresa has
refused me, after giving her solemn word to become my wife. What
reason is there for this? Now I ask you, monsieur, on what other
ground than that of her love for you is it possible to explain her
sudden and absolute change of mind and refusal to redeem her promise
to me. From her birth Theresa has known but two young men――yourself
and me. She loves one of these two. It is not me; therefore it must be
you.”
“You sum up the case like a judge,” said the earl, with a smile.
“Assuming your hypothesis to be correct――what then?”
“That is just what I am coming to. Theresa loves you and you love her.
Let me ask you one question. Will you marry her? Tell me you will, and
I will leave this country to-morrow, and never trouble either you or
her again. That is the point I have been trying to reach all the
time.”
“I am not likely to ask your permission in such a case. What business
is it of yours whether I marry her or not? You are begging the
question, and I do not choose to be dictated to by my inferiors.”
“I do not like you. I disliked you when we first met; now I hate you
with a deep deadly hate!” cried Chanet, his countenance becoming lurid
with ill-suppressed passion.
“It is as I suspected,” he added, with supreme bitterness.
“Is it?”
“Yes; you take it so,” he cried, in a half-suffocating voice. “You
will not marry Theresa Trieste?”
“I do not choose to answer such a question. I am not called upon to
marry all the young girls who may happen to decline the honour of
marrying you, Monsieur Chanet.”
“Is that all the reason you choose to give?”
“Most certainly it is.”
“Then hear me, monsieur. From this moment I claim all the rights over
Mademoiselle Trieste, given me as an accepted suitor.”
“You are justly entitled to them, I suppose, and welcome as far as I
am concerned.”
“I will watch over my betrothed and guard her from stain――not her
honour, which is unassailable, but her maiden reputation.”
“Well, sir, you are at liberty to do so. What has all this to do with
me?”
“A very great deal. T forbid you to pass another hour under the roof
of Madame Trieste.”
“Your insolence is intolerable,” exclaimed the earl, in a fury. “Do
you suppose I am likely to submit to the dictation of a low-born
peasant? You forbid! Be thankful I do not chastise you on the spot.”
“I am not to be intimidated――I have a duty to perform,” cried Chanet.
“I say again I forbid you.”
Lord Ethalwood now became furious. He had listened complacently enough
to a long and to him a tedious harangue, but his patience was by this
time quite exhausted. He closed his fist and shook it in the face of
his companion, who folded his arms and looked calmly but resolutely at
the earl.
“I ought not to have lowered myself by consenting to this meeting, and
now much regret having done so, since it has resulted in my being
subject to insults from one who evidently does not know his own or my
position. Get thee hence. I will have nothing more to say to you.”
And with these words, Lord Ethalwood struck Chanet a violent blow on
the chest. The act was, to say the least of it, a most imprudent one,
for had the mountaineer chosen to take reprisals――which, all things
considered, it was surprising he did not――he could have slain his
adversary there and then. Indeed, for the moment, the earl thought
Chanet meditated drawing a knife upon him.
He was, however, too honest a fellow for that, and would scorn to take
any mean advantage――albeit he was almost trembling with passion. For a
brief period both men stood motionless and silent.
CHAPTER CXXVIII.
THE HOSTILE MEETING――A DUEL TO THE DEATH.
It was pretty plainly demonstrated in our last chapter that the
interview between the rivals was working up to a climax, and, to say
the truth, it could not possibly be otherwise, unless Lord Ethalwood
had agreed to a compromise, by declaring his intention of espousing
Theresa Trieste.
This declaration would have at once disarmed Chanet, who had only the
interest of his affianced at heart, but it was not to be.
The earl, when he fell in love with the French maiden, forgot the
promise made to his ancestor――a promise he held sacred beyond all
else.
“So,” exclaimed Chanet, “you have chosen to dishonour me by a vile and
cowardly blow; but it is, perhaps, just as well, for it must end in
the death of one of us.”
“Indeed, sir! pray explain yourself.”
“I demand satisfaction,” cried the mountaineer.
“The Ethalwoods have been accustomed to fight with their equals.”
“Do you refuse then? Are you so base?”
“I do not refuse――I am at your disposal. I have brought this upon
myself――that I freely admit.”
The young earl bitterly regretted his rash act. Not that he was
indisposed to any hostile meeting, but he felt both shame and remorse
at the action which rage had driven him to commit.
An action which he recognised as being one of odious and unjustifiable
brutality. But pride, which was at the bottom of the nature of every
member of the race to which he belonged, forbade him from temporising
with his adversary.
[Sidenote: No. 67.]
[Illustration: THE DUEL――DEATH OF GEROME CHANET.]
“You demand satisfaction, Monsieur Chanet――so be it. Name your
conditions. I will agree to anything you propose.”
“I suppose by that you mean to confer a favour.”
“Nothing of the sort. It is but justice. You are the offended party.”
“I am, in more ways than one.”
“Admitted; we will not discuss that question. You feel yourself
aggrieved or injured, which you will.”
“Deeply injured.”
“That is understood. What do you desire, then?”
“The conditions I propose will be very simple, and will be as fair to
you as they are to me.”
“It is simply a question of appointing seconds.”
“We do not want any.”
“Absurd! A duel without seconds! It is not to be thought of for a
moment.”
“I hope I am dealing with an honourable gentleman.”
“I am sure you are――that’s better.”
“Well, then, we can trust each other.”
“We can do so, of course, but it is not the usual course of procedure;
and I strongly object to a hostile meeting under such circumstances.”
“But I understood you to say that you were willing to accede to any
terms I chose to propose.”
“Any reasonable terms. I do not want you to be charged with murder, or
myself either, which most assuredly we, one of us, should be, unless
we had seconds. Custom dictates that this should be done.”
“What do I care for custom, or what I may be charged with?”
“That may be so; but the case is very different as far as I am
concerned. I must have some regard for my own reputation, and,
therefore, decline to meet you upon the conditions you propose.”
“Would you have me brand you as a coward?”
“I must again inform you, Monsieur Chanet, that you would do well by
being more guarded in your expressions. As a matter of courtesy I
waive all distinctions, and am willing to give you the satisfaction
you require, provided the arrangements are in accordance with the
recognised rules which are invariably adopted in such cases. Do not
for a moment imagine I have any desire to shrink from the performance
of what, after all, must be deemed only an act of justice.”
“When a duel takes place between two Corsicans,” said Chanet, “each of
the adversaries places himself at the opposite end of a newly-dug pit,
and whenever one of them falls rolls into this grave dug by himself.
Doubtless, you know, that in obedience to a physical law――which I will
not attempt to explain――a man struck by a bullet in the front of the
head or chest falls face forward.”
“Very likely. I will not dispute your theory, but I am not a Corsican;
neither are you, I presume.”
“No, I am not.”
“Well, then, this being so, we are governed by the rules adopted by
our own countrymen, and therefore is it that I insist upon having
seconds.”
“I do not wish my dear Theresa to be compromised, and I would,
therefore, prefer dispensing with witnesses; but if you insist――――”
“I do insist. So there ends the matter.”
“You shall have your own way then. You bring a second, and I will do
the same. Will that satisfy you?”
“Certainly; and now please to name the time and the place.”
“The place must be where you struck me; on that spot must the battle
be fought, and one of us must not leave the ground alive.”
“Agreed, let that be understood. Now the weapons.”
“Six-chambered revolvers――have you one?”
“Yes.”
“So have I. We will charge all barrels. If the first shot produces no
effect we will fire till one of us falls dead.”
“This may be all very well, but it does not accord with the practice
of civilised communities,” said the earl, carelessly. “It seems to me
more like deliberate murder than anything else.”
“It is not murder. It is a duel to the death――that is all.”
“Oh, I see, a mere trifle, of course, in your estimation, perhaps.
Have a care, young man――be not so relentless.”
“The injury I have received from your hands admits of no atonement. I
am resolved,” replied Chanet.
“Well, if that be the case, I will not offer any opposition. Now about
the hour?”
“At six o’clock to-morrow evening――will that suit you?”
“I am master of my own time――say six then.”
“You will keep your word?”
“There is no fear of that. I will be on the spot at that time with my
second, if I can procure one.”
“If? Do you doubt being able to do so?”
“No! I believe there will not be much difficulty as far as that is
concerned, and so our conference is at an end, monsieur.”
The earl bowed, turned on his heel, and took his departure.
“Agatha was quite right,” he ejaculated, when far removed from the
spot where the strange interview had taken place. “He’s a desperate,
determined fellow, and means to send me to the next world if he
possibly can; but there is no help for it now, I cannot retract: even
if I were disposed to do so the chances are that I should be waylaid
and murdered. I must meet this young ruffian and trust in Providence.
I wish now I had not consented to have an interview with him, but one
can never foresee these things until it is too late. Hang the fellow,
what is the value of his life in comparison to mine?”
Hurrying on with rapid steps he soon came within sight of Madame
Trieste’s chateau.
He paused, and endeavoured to assume as calm a demeanour as possible;
but, despite his fortitude, he was greatly troubled at the issue of
affairs.
He began to consider seriously whether the fascinating and beauteous
Theresa was worth the sanguinary encounter which had been appointed to
take place on the morrow.
Taking a common-sense view of the question, the conclusion would be
that she was not, but hot-headed lovers have generally but a small
modicum of common sense left in their whole composition, and such
appeared to be the case with Lord Ethalwood, who had, in a great
measure, brought himself into his present difficulty.
As to Chanet, he was so wild and furious that it was not possible for
him to be brought under the influence of reason.
Upon entering the house of his hostess, Lord Ethalwood put a bold face
on the matter, and succeded in being as cheerful and pleasant as
heretofore, but, despite this, an air of melancholy seemed to hover
over the little household.
Theresa said but little. She, however, ever and anon cast inquiring
looks at the earl, who at such times whispered words of comfort in her
ear.
It was not possible for him to determine whether any of them suspected
that he had seen Gerome Chanet. If they did they were remarkably
silent on the subject, and never in any way alluded to the young
mountaineer.
When he retired to his chamber Madame Trieste bade him farewell as if
he had been a traveller setting forth upon a journey from which he
would in all probability never return. She kissed him affectionately
on the forehead, and was more than usually demonstrative in her
expressions of friendship.
Theresa had at this time betaken herself to her own apartment.
The earl was a little puzzled at the widow’s altered demeanour, but he
said nothing beyond responding to the good wishes she expressed.
He was, as may be readily imagined, in no very enviable frame of mind,
and on reaching his chamber he looked at his watch, and found that the
night had not passed away.
He opened the window of his sleeping chamber, and looked out at the
sky. The thought crossed his mind that possibly it might be the last
night he had to pass in this world, and this was not a very agreeable
reflection.
How different was the aspect of the sky on which his eyes now rested!
And oh, how different the circumstances! Instead of being lit by
myriads of stars, the heavens were as sombre as his own thoughts.
Nature seemed, as it were, shrouding itself in a mantle of darkness.
In spite of himself he fell into a reverie, and his reflections were
tinged with a melancholy which he could not shake off.
What course could he adopt?
He deemed it expedient to sally forth in the morning and consult the
chevalier whom he proposed to appoint his second.
He was a brave, gallant old gentleman, and as courteous as he was
brave.
No one was better qualified to act in such a capacity, and he felt
perfectly well assured that he could count upon his services on such
an occasion.
The more he pondered the more convinced he was that there was now no
possibility of retreating from the position in which he had been
placed by the force of circumstances, conjointly, it must be admitted,
with his own rashness and imprudence.
He felt that the position was a false one, and the fatal words, “it is
too late,” fell from his lips again and again, and he could only
resolve to drain the bitter cup which he had madly filled for himself.
He sat for an hour or two ruminating on the aspect of affairs, but the
more he reflected the more distressed did he feel, until at length,
worn out with bitter thoughts, he threw himself on his couch and sank
into a fitful slumber.
On the following morning, immediately after his morning meal, he
sallied forth and hastened at once to the house of the gentleman where
the chevalier had taken up his quarters.
The man servant who admitted him said that the chevalier had not
risen, but he would inform him of the earl’s presence, and in the
course of a few minutes after this he was shown into an elegantly
furnished bijou apartment, in which his friend was seated, sipping a
cup of fragrant mocha. He professed to be overjoyed at seeing the
earl, to whom he apologised for having kept waiting.
The old Frenchman looked jaded and worn, but he soon pulled himself
together, and was as cheerful and vivacious as heretofore.
Lord Ethalwood was of course more than usually grave and thoughtful.
“It is a matter of business I have come upon, monsieur,” said he.
“Indeed, I may say it is rather a serious business.”
“Ah, my worthy friend!” exclaimed the old Frenchman. “A little
escapade, I suppose. Well, you may command both my advice and
services. I need hardly intimate that.”
“I am perfectly well assured you will do your best to serve me,”
returned the earl. “First and foremost let me put you in possession of
all the facts connected with the case.”
The Frenchman bowed, and his companion proceeded. He gave him an
unvarnished narrative of the events which led up to the proposed
hostile meeting.
“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed the chevalier. “Risk your life in a duel with a
low-born peasant, that’s not discreet. Bah! It’s madness. Positive
madness.”
“It can’t be helped――I must give him satisfaction, I have pledged my
word, and my honour is at stake,” observed Ethalwood.
“You ought to have seen me before undertaking such a foolhardy
enterprise. What, fight with a ruffian of that type! Bah, it’s
monstrous.”
“It is very indiscreet, I admit, but as I before observed, I cannot
refuse now, and therefore have come hither to ask you to be my
second.”
“Oh, oui, certainly; if you are determined to carry out your promise
given to this low-bred hound, well, I am at your service.”
“I am determined. So don’t upbraid me for my rashness and folly.
Promise to be ready at the appointed time.”
“The fellow is half a savage, and would not scruple to murder you if
he had a chance of doing so.”
“I do not think that. No, monsieur, he is not without honour.”
“Bah! Don’t you mislead yourself supposing anything of the sort. You
don’t know what sort of a man you have to deal with. A duel with such
a person――well, I won’t say any more, but the whole affair appears to
me altogether incomprehensible.”
“Why so?”
“How? Why that you should have suffered yourself to fall into such a
trap. But you must bring your man down. Now you are in the scrape you
must get out of it in the best way possible.”
“Then you agree to accompany me, and see fair play?”
“I should not be worthy the name I bear if I refused,” cried the
chevalier, with a flourish of his right hand, and a significant nod.
“Oh, yes, you may rely upon my services in this business――in this
unfortunate business. But, my dear young friend, I will not attempt to
conceal from you that I am greatly concerned at the course of
events――greatly concerned.”
“I am not very well pleased myself, to speak the truth, but this is
between ourselves.”
“We must make the best of a bad job. You are a good shot, that’s one
thing in your favour――an excellent shot.”
“So is he, I should imagine.”
“With a rifle,” observed the chevalier, carelessly.
“And with a pistol as well, I presume.”
“These fellows as a rule are not so good at handling a pistol as a
gun. Oh, you’ll wing your man, I dare say. Sacre! You must do so; and
by gar, you shall.”
Ethalwood laughed, and said: “You speak in a confident tone.”
“And mean it,” cried the old Frenchman. “And now about the place of
meeting and the hour?”
“The hour is six o’clock this evening; the place is on the skirts of
the forest. I will show you where it is, for we had better go
together.”
“By all means. We can drive over in my post-chaise.”
“That might attract attention. Better walk.”
“No, we will drive there. Never mind about attracting attention. I
don’t care about walking. Let us drive there.”
“But we must not have an attendant.”
“Well, so be it. I will drive myself. We don’t require a coachman. We
will go by ourselves. Will you call here for me, or shall I call for
you?”
“I had better call here.”
“As you please. Let that be understood then. Six o’clock in the
evening, eh? It ought to be in the morning, that is the usual course.”
“It ought, but the time is named and agreed upon. It is to be this
evening at the hour I have named.”
“Bah, it does not much matter whether a man is sent out of the world
in the evening or the morning for the matter of that.”
“I have passed my word.”
“Certainly. Now you will find some fine old cognac by your side there.
Just help yourself to a glass. It will steady your nerves.”
“No, I thank you, I will not take anything just now.”
“But you must――I insist, just one glass. You are now in my hands, and
must do as I tell you. This is not the first affair of honour I have
been engaged in by a good many, and I may say that I have been
singularly fortunate bringing my men through. Before we start this
evening you will have to take another glass of brandy with a few drops
of laudanum in it. It will wind you up like a clock, and you will be
able to see through a brick wall. That is my specific for duellists.
It’s the finest thing to take under the circumstances.”
“But I don’t require any stimulant.”
“No matter whether you require it or not, I intend to have my own way,
and you have but to passively submit to my dictation. Leave all to me,
I am an old soldier, and know pretty well what is requisite in such
cases. My dear young friend, valour is one quality, and a very
important element it is, but experience is another. Be of good cheer,
for although I say it myself you are in good hands.”
“I am perfectly well assured of that,” returned the earl, “and esteem
myself fortunate in having the assistance and services of so valuable
an ally as yourself.”
“I am not likely to allow this headstrong young man to ride roughshod
over you. Act according to my instructions, and it will go hard with
us if you don’t polish off your man. I intend you to do so, and that
is sufficient for our purpose.”
The chevalier Gustave de Monpres was on this occasion, as he had been
in many similar cases, determined to have his own way. To say the
truth the earl could not possibly have enlisted the services of any
one better adapted to befriend him than the chevalier.
He was duly impressed with this fact, and felicitated himself upon
having applied to him on this trying occasion.
After some further conversation he took leave of his friend, with the
understanding that he was to call for him on his way to the fatal
spot.
Lord Reginald Ethalwood returned to the widow’s house, where he dined,
and strove as best he could to assume an air of cheerfulness, which,
to say the truth, he was far from feeling. The day wore on, not very
brightly, it is true, but it passed over, nevertheless. On consulting
his watch, the earl found that the appointed hour was fast
approaching.
Unobserved by any of the inmates of Madame Trieste’s chateau he passed
through the garden gate and sallied forth, and at once bent his steps
in the direction of the house in which his friend the chevalier was
anxiously awaiting him.
He was much pleased at being able to leave the widow’s residence
without attracting the notice of any one, as he thought, but he had
reckoned without his host. His movements had been watched; and he had
not got more than a hundred and fifty yards or so from the chateau
when he became aware that someone was behind him. His attention was
attracted by footsteps. He stopped to listen, and then the sound
ceased.
“I am full of idle fancies. No wonder,” he ejaculated, and once more
he continued on his way.
But again the sound fell upon his ear. It was at this time nearer and
more distinct.
“Umph, I was not mistaken after all,” he murmured. Upon turning round
and looking behind him he observed a female which, much to his
surprise, he found to be Theresa Trieste.
“You here, darling?” he ejaculated. “Whither are you bound for?”
“It is not a question of whither I am bound for,” returned the French
maiden. “That is of no import. Where are you going, my lord?”
“Where am I going, Theresa?”
“Yes, where?”
“Well, if you must know, I am about to pay a visit to my friend,
Monsieur de Monpres.”
“Don’t think to deceive me by such a shallow pretext,” cried Theresa.
“Deceive you, my sweet pet, it is not at all likely I should attempt
to do so.”
“I wish I could bring myself to believe what you say is true.”
“But it is true. There, see I pledge my most solemn word it is. What
more can you desire? Why, my dear girl, you are trembling like an
aspen leaf shaken by the winter’s blast.”
“Oh, my lord, there is something afoot which you are keeping from
me――I feel assured there is. A boy brought you a letter yesterday――who
was it from?”
“Who? What matters? It was a private matter. I will tell you all about
it when I return.”
“Tell me who sent that letter, and tell me also what business takes
you from our home this evening.”
“I have already told you I am about to pay a visit to the chevalier.”
“Nothing else?”
“Well, I cannot tell what our movements may be. I am going direct to
him now; that’s all I am able to say at present.”
“Come back with me, and go to the chevalier to-morrow evening
instead.”
“It may not be. I have passed my word.”
“Passed your word?”
“Yes!”
“To meet Gerome Chanet. Is it not so?”
Lord Ethalwood started back in surprise.
“What could possibly have put that in your head?” he ejaculated.
“It matters not how it came into my head. I feel too well assured that
such is the case. Oh, my lord, avoid that man; have naught to say to
him, and, above all, do not give him a meeting.”
“I will bear in mind what you have said. I like him not; but at the
same time, my dear Theresa, you must permit me to be master of my own
actions.”
“I saw a boy deliver a letter to you yesterday at the garden gate. I
judged who it was from――Gerome Chanet――and judged also its purport. He
would speak to you. Is that not so?”
“Assuming it is, what of that? I am not afraid of Gerome Chanet.”
“I am sure you are not, but tell me where he is waiting for you?”
“Waiting! What idle fancy is this? Have I not already told you that I
am going to see the chevalier? What more do you require?”
“You shall not go to meet Chanet! I say you shall not!” she cried,
vehemently.
“Who will prevent me if I am so disposed?”
“I will.”
“You will! Why, my dear Theresa, surely you do not mean me to
understand that I am to act under the control of you. By what right do
you assume this position?”
“By what? By the right of my love――my love for you, wild, hopeless as
it is――my love that hangs upon your life, though it may be as the
drowning wretch who clings to a spar that will but lengthen his
torment and desert him at last.”
“I am not complimented by the simile. It is not at all likely that I
should desert you. Be reasonable, dearest. I have an appointment, and
as a gentleman and a man of honour I must keep it.”
While this conversation had been taking place both the earl and
Theresa had walked side by side, not very rapidly, it is true, but
nevertheless, every step they took brought them nearer to the house in
which the chevalier was located.
Theresa Trieste saw plainly enough that the earl was not to be turned
from his purpose; entreaties and arguments were alike in vain――so she
continued to walk by his side, in the hope of discovering if her
suspicions were correct.
He on his part did not appear at all disinclined to have her as a
companion, and this threw her a little off her guard.
When she accosted him at first she was under the impression that he
was going direct to some appointed spot to meet Chanet.
She had no idea, however, that it was for the purpose of fighting a
duel with the young mountaineer, but she dreaded a meeting under any
circumstances, and had striven hard to prevail upon her aristocratic
lover to return to her mother’s residence.
“You seem very suspicious, Theresa,” said the earl, in a tone of
banter. “I don’t know what I have done to give rise to this feeling.
However, we are now more than half-way towards the residence where the
chevalier is at present sojourning. You will be satisfied, I suppose,
if you see me there――see me enter the house.”
“Oh, I am satisfied that you are going there, if that is what you
mean,” she returned. “Monsieur de Monpres is a stranger to me, and it
would not be seemly for me to be introduced to him under the present
circumstances. Perhaps I had better turn back, and make the best of my
way home.”
“As you please, Be of good cheer, my darling,” exclaimed the earl. “I
will return as soon as possible. Let me have a little license to
night, and then we will pass a happy hour or so before bedtime. Come,
Theresa, do not be so downcast.” He placed his arms round her
shoulders and gave her a long embrace.
“Oh, my lord, this love of mine will be fatal to one or both of us,”
she ejaculated. “But of what avail is it to repine? I do love you so.”
“I feel assured of that, Theresa; and so I must leave you to a lonely
walk home.”
“Return as soon as possible.”
“I will――I promise that.”
And so the two parted.
Lord Ethalwood walked on with accelerated speed. He looked once more
at his watch, and found there was ample time for him to be at the
place of appointment.
Nevertheless, he was anxious and troubled. Most men are under similar
circumstances.
He found upon his arrival the Chevalier de Monpres, dressed in his
uniform, looking like an officer in the Old Guard.
“I am glad you have come thus early. Nothing like taking time by the
forelock,” cried De Monpres, in high glee, for he made it a rule to be
in the best of spirits and assume an air of confidence in all cases of
this sort. “Why, mon Dieu, are you mad?” exclaimed the old Frenchman,
glaring at his visitor.
“Mad, no! What’s amiss, then?”
“Amiss! Goodness me, you are never going to face your man in that
costume?”
“Why not?”
“What――in a white waistcoat! It’s not to be thought of for a moment.
The act of a lunatic, mon ami――a wild lunatic!”
“I do not understand you.”
“What, a white waistcoat. Why, it’s offering a mark for your
adversary. I won’t have it. Certain death if the fellow is anything of
a shot.”
“I never thought of that. I’ll button up my coat.”
“I won’t permit you to wear a white waistcoat, not under any
circumstances. Sacre, it’s ridiculous. Take it off and wear one of
mine. It won’t fit you very well I dare say, but that’s a matter of
secondary importance. Off with your waistcoat without further ado; and
an open white shirt front! Here is a waistcoat which will button up to
the throat――that’s the garment to fight a duel in.”
Lord Ethalwood smiled, took off his waistcoat, and put on the one
handed to him by the old officer.
“There,” said the latter, “that’s better. Offer no mark to the enemy;
and now, mark you, we must bring down our man at the first shot, if
that be possible. We’ll manage it, I have made up my mind as to that,
but let me see. Oh, yes, the brandy.”
“I don’t want any.”
“You will have to take it nevertheless.”
De Monpres poured out a glass of cognac, into which he carefully let
fall a few drops of laudanum.
“That will steady your nerves――make you as bold and fearless as a
lion. Top it off.”
“Must I?”
“Yes you must, and what is more, you shall.”
Although the earl objected to such a course, he knew it was no use
refusing; so he made a virtue of necessity, and swallowed the draught.
“That will put new life into you,” cried the Frenchman; “and now the
weapon. Have your brought it with you?”
“Yes, here it is.”
De Monpres made a minute inspection of the revolver, which was a
six-shot one.
“Yes, a good weapon,” said he; “very good. We shall have to load on
the ground, that is the usual course adopted in affairs of this sort.
The seconds load and the principals fire.”
“How about time?” said Ethalwood.
“We’ve loads of time. My postchaise is in the back yard, and can be
driven off at a moment’s notice. Everything is prepared, and may you
bring down your man at the first shot――it will save us a deal of
trouble. By-the-way, don’t aim at the head――at the chest; that’s
better. Mind, cover him well with your barrel before the word to fire
is given, and stand as firm as a rock. Oh, we’ll polish the scoundrel
off.”
“You seem very confident, monsieur――I wish I was the same.”
“You must be――you must be confident――it’s half the battle. Go in and
win.”
The loquacious Frenchman rattled on, cheering up his companion by an
animated conversation during the whole of the journey. He never
suffered Lord Ethalwood’s spirits to droop, and certainly he was in
all things considered a most invaluable adviser and ally in a case of
this sort. Without him the earl would have been quite lost.
Upon arriving at the appointed place of meeting the earl and Monsieur
de Monpres found Chanet and a young man awaiting them at the outskirts
of the forest.
“You are punctual,” said Gerome. “I expected you would be so.”
“The Chevalier de Monpres,” returned the earl, introducing his friend.
Chanet bowed and introduced the young man he had brought for a second
as Monsieur Vasseralt. Then there was another exchange of courtesies
and the chevalier and Vasseralt drew on one side and conversed in
whispers; meanwhile the two principals stood silent and motionless.
“We had better proceed to the glade in the forest without further
hesitation,” observed the chevalier; “by standing here we may probably
attract attention. Forward, gentlemen,” added he, as he led the way.
The three other gentlemen followed.
“Now, gentlemen, you had better take your positions.”
“Perhaps we had better charge the weapons first,” suggested Vasseralt.
“As you please, sir,” returned the chevalier, “it is not a matter of
very great moment. We will charge them.”
“The six barrels are to be loaded,” said Gerome, “and we are to keep
on firing till one of us falls. That is the understanding.”
“It is against all rules laid down in such cases,” observed the
chevalier, “and it is a most murderous and un-Christianlike mode of
procedure, but if it is an agreement, of course we must, I suppose,
abide by it.”
“It is an agreement. Ask your friend,” cried Gerome.
“Let it be as Monsieur Chanet wishes; I offer no objection,” said the
earl.
“I enter my protest against such a course, but will do as you desire
me. So be it――the six chambers have to be charged.”
The seconds proceeded to carry out these instructions, after which the
two principals were placed in position.
De Monpres walked up to the side of the earl and handed him his
pistol.
“Be sure you stand firm and aim at his body――not at the head. You’ll
bring down your man. That fellow has no idea of loading a pistol; in
addition to which his powder is of the very worst description. You
have every chance in your favour, and must come off victor.”
Having delivered himself of this speech the chevalier withdrew.
“Now, gentlemen,” said he, “it has been agreed upon that I am to give
the signal for firing. It is this: one, two, three――fire! When the
last of these words is uttered you discharge your weapons. How say
you? Do you understand?”
Both the belligerents answered in the affirmative.
The chevalier glanced anxiously for a moment at his man; then he said
in slow, deliberate voice――
“One, two, three――fire!”
Both weapons were discharged simultaneously. The earl was conscious of
the fact that a bullet passed within an inch or two of his head.
Gerome Chanet staggered for a moment, threw up his arms, and then fell
forward on his face.
“See to your man, Monsieur Vasseralt,” exclaimed the chevalier.
Advancing quickly, and in an evident state of trepidation, the young
Swiss bent over the prostrate form of his friend, whom he called by
name but received no answer. He then turned him over and observed a
dark stream of blood oozing from his chest. The ill-fated Chanet
breathed one last sigh and expired.
“He is dead! Gracious heaven, he is dead!” exclaimed the Swiss. “Come
this way――for mercy’s sake come.”
The chevalier walked deliberately forward and looked in the face of
the dead man.
“It is all over with him,” he ejaculated. “He has fallen at the first
shot. Well, he brought it on himself, and he has paid the penalty.”
“I wish I had not had any hand in this business,” said Vasseralt. “I
do most bitterly regret ever giving my consent to act as second. It is
the first time I have been engaged in such a capacity, and I will take
good care it shall be the last. Can nothing be done for him?”
“My good fellow, we cannot restore the dead to life,” return De
Monpres. “If young men will be rash and hot-headed, and rush into
affairs of this sort, they must abide the issue. Your friend is slain,
but has died honourably――what more need be said?”
“Oh, but it’s very terrible.”
“Can I do anything to serve you?” said the courteous old Frenchman.
“If so, command me.”
“Inform his family of this dreadful tragedy.”
“No, I cannot do that. It would not be in conformity with the usual
course of events. It is your duty to apprise his friends of the manner
of his death――not mine. Permit me as an old soldier to express my most
unqualified satisfaction of your conduct throughout the whole of this
painful affair, and so good night.”
He offered his hand to Vasseralt, which the latter accepted, and then
withdrew from the ground in company with Earl Ethalwood, who, now that
it was all over, fairly broke down.
“It is of no use your pulling a long face,” said de Monpres. “You have
reason to be thankful, and I congratulate you. Didn’t I tell you how
it would end? I knew you would put him to bed with the first shot, and
my words were prophetic. Ah, mon ami, he meant mischief. A
blood-thirsty scoundrel the world is well rid of! Come, here is the
postchaise; let us drive off at once, before the affair gets wind.
Jump in.”
The earl obeyed mechanically, for he appeared to be in a perfect state
of bewilderment. It was the first time he had slain a fellow-creature,
and he upbraided himself for the part he had played in the dark and
sanguinary crime. He could not conceal from himself that his adversary
had been deeply wronged, that he had during their interview in the
forest displayed a nobleness of purpose in regard to Theresa, which
could not fail to command the respect of all right-minded persons. He
was willing to make any sacrifice for the woman he loved, even to
giving her up to his rival, if he could thereby have ensured her
happiness. The earl pondered over all these circumstances, and
acknowledged to himself that he had committed a great wrong.
“It seems to me, my friend,” said the chevalier, “that you are letting
this little affair disturb your equanimity. Why, Lord bless us, it is
after all but an everyday occurrence. The fellow is better out of the
world than in it. Cheer up――don’t look so cursedly miserable.”
“I don’t feel very well satisfied with myself, I candidly confess,”
murmured Ethalwood. “It has been a most unfortunate business.”
“No such thing――not as far as you are concerned. On the contrary, it
has, to my thinking, been most fortunate. You’ve got out of a scrape
in a most satisfactory and I may say gallant manner. We’ll just have a
bottle of sparkling hock and a choice cigar, and that will put you all
right again.”
“Ah, my dear de Monpres, I am afraid it will take a great deal more
than that to efface from my mind the fearful incidents of to-night. I
feel myself to be a guilty wretch, an assassin, and murderer.”
“Mon Dieu, monsieur, you are talking in a wild, incoherent manner.
Assassin and murderer――bah! Be reasonable if you please. Don’t talk in
such a false and ridiculous strain. Come, here we are at our domicile.
Jump out, and come in――ha, ha! and make your life happy. I won’t have
you accuse yourself thus wrongfully. Murder――bah! it is ridiculous.”
The chevalier rattled on in his accustomed vivacious and loquacious
manner, endeavouring as best he could to reassure the earl, who was,
however, despite his friend’s playful pleasantries, greatly troubled
at the tragic event of the evening. He, however, strove to play up to
the exuberant Frenchman, and upon entering the house he drained off in
rapid succession several glasses of champagne. Under the influence of
the sparkling wine he became greatly exhilarated, and was enabled to
listen with something like satisfaction to the lively discourse of his
companion, the chevalier.
An hour or so passed away, and then the earl remembered the promise he
had given to Theresa.
Making the best excuse he could, he rose to take his departure, but De
Monpres did not feel disposed to part with him, and pressed him to
remain at the chateau for the remainder of the night.
“You can return to the widow’s residence as early as you choose in the
morning,” said the chevalier.
“I am under a pledge to be back early to-night,” answered Ethalwood,
“and I am quite sure you will excuse me.”
“When a lady’s in the case all things must give place,” observed his
companion, “and therefore I will let you have your own way――but I
don’t care about your going alone, so with your permission I will
drive you there, and see you safely housed. What say you?”
Ethalwood hesitated for a brief period, and then said――
“Perhaps you are right. All things considered it would, perhaps, be
just as well for me to have a companion, and I cannot have a better
one than yourself.”
The postchaise was once more brought into requisition, and the
chevalier drove his friend home――or rather to the widow’s abode, where
he had taken up his quarters. When the vehicle arrived in front of the
garden-gate, the earl alighted and begged the chevalier to enter the
house that he might be introduced to the inmates.
The chevalier, however, politely declined.
“No,” said he, “not now. I will be introduced to Madame Trieste on
some other occasion――this certainly cannot be considered a favourable
one. No, my lord, I will leave you now, and hope to see you some time
to-morrow. Be of good cheer, and do not let this little affair dash
your spirits, and so farewell for the present.”
The two gentlemen shook hands, and De Monpres drove off.
CHAPTER CXXIX.
AFTER THE TRAGEDY.
Lord Ethalwood had some misgivings respecting the inmates of the
chateau he was about to enter. He did not know very well what to say
to the widow or her daughter. Being perfectly well assured the fatal
deed would be the subject of conversation with everybody in the
neighbourhood, and that the whole circumstances would on the following
day become known to Theresa and her mother, it was not possible for
him to remain silent on the subject. He therefore stood irresolute at
the garden gate, not knowing very well what course to take.
To all appearance the inmates of the establishment had retired to
rest, for he could not see any light gleam from the window of the
sitting-room, and all was as silent as the grave.
The earl at this time felt like some guilty wretch who had returned
red-handed from the perpetration of an act of violence.
He strove as best he could to muster an air of intrepidity to his
brow, but his heart beat audibly as he passed into the little garden
surrounding the house. He observed the faint glimmer of light over the
doorway; this proceeded from the small window above the entrance.
He paused for a few moments, and then gently tapped at the door, which
was opened by Agatha, who, pale as ashes, started back at beholding
him.
“Agatha, dear, what ails you?” inquired the earl, not knowing at the
time what to say. “You seem scared, my lass.”
“Oh, my lord,” exclaimed the maid, “you have returned. Heaven be
praised for that!”
“Where is madame?” was the next question.
“She is out――gone to attend upon a neighbour who is dangerously ill.
She will not return till the morning.”
The earl was thankful for this piece of information.
“Well, it is very good of her,” said he, entering the parlour.
“And you――――” cried the maid, glancing at him with a look of
wonderment.
“I am right enough. Where is Mademoiselle Theresa?”
“She has retired to rest――has been watching and waiting for you till
she is fairly worn out.”
“It is not so very late, Agatha.”
“I don’t say it is, but――”
“Well, what, girl?”
“My young mistress has passed a miserable time since you left.”
“And why, pray?”
“I cannot tell you any more than she has had a foreboding of evil――a
presentiment that something dreadful would happen to-night.”
“And you?”
“I have been much the same. But you are safe?”
“Yes, and your fears are groundless, you see.”
The girl flung herself into the arms of Lord Ethalwood and burst into
tears.
He strove as best he could to comfort her, and presently she dried her
eyes and gave a faint smile.
“You should not give way to idle fancies, my darling,” said the earl.
“What is the matter?”
“You seem so strange――your manner is so different――you do not appear
to be like your former self.”
“Bah! mere fancies. I am just the same as I always have been since you
first knew me.”
“Are you?” said Agatha, seating herself in a chair and endeavouring to
collect her thoughts, which, to say the truth, at that particular
period were in rather a deranged state.
The sound as of a low moan, sigh, or wail, fell upon the ears of the
earl; it seemed to proceed from one of the upper rooms.
Upon the impulse of the moment he rushed upstairs. On reaching the
first landing he stumbled over something. Upon recovering himself he
discovered that it was a prostrate figure of a human being, and upon
closer inspection he found it to be the senseless form of Theresa
Trieste, who had from some cause or other swooned.
Lord Ethalwood stooped down and raised the senseless Theresa, whom he
carried into an adjoining room. He was so overcome with terror and
anxiety that he did not know very well how to act, but after a
moment’s reflection he laid her on a sofa and then sought for some
vessel containing water. When this was found he bathed her forehead
and temples. She heaved two or three deep-drawn sighs, and then opened
her eyes.
“It is you, my lord. The saints be praised you are alive and well,”
she ejaculated.
“Yes, dearest――I have returned, as you see. And you?”
Ah, my lord――my dear Reginald, I have passed a miserable time, and
thought some terrible misfortune had befallen you. For mercy’s sake
tell me where you have been, and what has happened.”
“I have been to De Monpres, as I told you.”
“Ah! nowhere else?”
“Why do you ask? I am here by your side. Be satisfied.”
“I am more than satisfied.”
He knelt by her side, and gazed upon her wan features. He did not
remember her ever looking so beautiful as she did at that time. He was
absorbed in contemplating her expressive and charming face. The
terrible incidents of the night were for a moment or so effaced from
his memory――he thought only of Theresa.
He leant over her and embraced her tenderly.
Theresa’s large eyes were bent upon Lord Ethalwood, upon whom she
gazed with an expression of dreamy astonishment, and at first he was
half disposed to think that she intended to repulse him, but in this
he was mistaken. Tears came to her relief, and in piteous accents she
exclaimed――
“I have reason to be thankful, to rejoice――for you are safe. Gracious
heaven! it is almost more than I have expected.”
Her companion made no reply, but wound his arms lovingly around her.
She entwined her arms about his neck with an _abandon_ that proved her
heedlessness of the peril in which she was placing herself, but her
love for the English nobleman was so strong that she was thereby held
in bondage, and prudence was forgotten.
It would indeed have been better for her had she been more circumspect
and less demonstrative, but she was impulsive by nature and had not as
yet learnt to put a restraint upon her actions.
She had been plunged into almost hopeless despair while he was
away――now her spirit seemed to rebound, and she forgot all else save
the happy present. The man she loved was by her side, and
demonstrating the strongest affection for her.
Alas! a thousand times better had it been for her had her innocence
been less perfect. How many tears of unavailing anguish might have
remained unshed by her? How many years of bitter remorse might have
been spared Lord Ethalwood?
But neither the young maiden nor her lover viewed the subject by the
cold light of reason. It is true, however, that the earl had at this
time some qualms of conscience he could not fail to acknowledge to
himself estranging the affection of a young maiden whom he could not
under any circumstances consent to view in the character of a lawful
wife.
The earl was not at this time a heartless seducer, but he was so
enamoured of the fair Theresa that passion got the better of his
judgment and reason. The end may be readily imagined.
“You have not been candid,” said Theresa. “I feel assured that
something dreadful has happened. Do not conceal anything from me; I
charge you as you love me to tell me all. You have met Gerome Chanet,
I feel assured of that.”
“Well, what if I have?” returned Lord Ethalwood, turning from her.
“Suppose I admit it――what then?”
“You cannot do otherwise than admit it, my lord. What has happened?”
“We had a hostile meeting.”
“I knew it. I felt assured of that. And how did it end?”
Upon this the earl made a clean breast of it, and made Theresa
acquainted with every minute particular connected with the tragedy in
which he had played so conspicuous a part.
His companion listened to the harrowing details with forced calmness.
She did not betray outwardly any great emotion, but a heavy weight
seemed to fall upon her, and she was supremely miserable.
“What a dreadful ending――what a terrible calamity! Poor Gerome! He was
true to the last, then?”
“He was determined to have my life if possible; failing that, he was
prepared to render up his own. The end was inevitable. Do not blame
me, Theresa.”
“I do not blame you, but what a risk you have run! Alas, you did not
know the sort of man you had to deal with. Gracious Heaven! how very
terrible is all this! But you must not stay in this neighbourhood. His
death will be avenged. There are those who will watch and wait for
you――those who will not scruple to slay you without pity or remorse.
Oh, my dear Reginald, beware in time. Take heed of what I say ere it
is too late. Your life may be sacrificed without a moment’s notice.
You do not know the sanguinary nature of those who watch and waylay
unwary travellers in the mountain fastnesses. You are utterly heedless
of the risk you run. They would not scruple to take your life to make
reprisals for the loss of their comrade. You must not remain here. It
would be madness to do so. But oh, how terribly hard it is for me to
part with you. But it must be done, indeed it must, dearest.
Consider――――”
“I have considered,” exclaimed the earl; “and I am well capable of
taking care of myself.”
“You are powerless in such a case as this. No man can guard against
treachery――not the most valiant. You must not――nay, you shall
not――remain here.”
“Whither would you have me fly, then?”
“It matters not――your own country, or to France, anywhere you please,
but don’t stay here. Oh, Reginald, for my sake promise me to go away.”
[Sidenote: No. 68.]
[Illustration: PEACE BARGAINING WITH THE JEW RECEIVER.]
“You take a dark view of the aspect of affairs.”
“It is not more dark and dismal than actual reality. Oh, this fatal
love! How will it end? In death!”
As she gave utterance to this last speech she burst into tears, and
her limbs trembled with excitement.
“Do you hear what I have been saying?” she ejaculated with bitterness.
“Of course I have, my own sweet darling, and with me your wishes are
law. I will leave the neighbourhood at my earliest convenience.”
“At your earliest convenience! At once! You must do so at once.”
“Well, at once, then. So be it; but not to-night.”
“No, not to-night. It is already morning.”
“To-morrow, then, if you desire me to do so.”
“I do desire it. Oh, mercy on me, I am overwhelmed with sorrow and
sadness. I repent the past, and tremble for the future.”
“I will act in accordance with your expressed wishes. Do not give way
to needless fear. Come, sweetest, cheer up――be not so downcast. It is
a melancholy ending, but, as I before observed, it was inevitable.”
He strove as best he could to pacify the wretched Theresa, whose only
thoughts were for his safety. He promised to fly on the following day.
They remained, exchanging words of love and vows of constancy, till
the first few hours of the morning had passed away.
When Lord Ethalwood sought his own couch it was with an aching head
and a heavy heart that he sought repose. His slumbers were disturbed
by hideous dreams, and he arose hot, feverish, and excited.
Madame Trieste had returned, and was in the breakfast parlour when he
presented himself. She tossed up her hands and heaved a deep sigh as
her eyes lighted on him.
She told him she knew all――knew of the duel and the death of Gerome
Chanet, but she did not upbraid him, or express any dissatisfaction at
the line of conduct he had chosen to pursue. On the contrary, she said
that she knew it had been forced upon him, and that he had no other
alternative than to accept the challenge.
The Chevalier de Monpres had taken the precaution of sending to the
earl’s residence, with the request that his groom should bring round
one of his master’s saddle horses, and the man arrived at the widow’s
chateau with a magnificent animal before the inmates of the
establishment had finished breakfast.
“It is very kind and considerate of the chevalier,” cried Madame
Trieste, “and redounds very much to his credit. He, like ourselves, my
lord, knows the class of people we have to deal with.”
“Yes, I have good reason to be thankful for the active part the
chevalier has taken. He has befriended me in a way I had no reason to
expect from one whose acquaintance I had so recently made. I owe him a
deep debt of gratitude.”
“To crown all,” cried the widow, “he must be a most worthy man in
addition to being a remarkably clever and courteous one.”
“I should very much have liked to introduce him to you,” observed the
earl; “and indeed it would be as well, perhaps, to do so now.”
“No, no――some other time. A more favourable opportunity will occur,”
said Theresa. “Do not linger here for any such purpose.”
“Upon my word, mademoiselle, it seems to me that you are in a
monstrous hurry to get rid of me,” said the earl, with a sickly smile.
“It is only out of consideration for you, my lord,” returned Madame
Trieste. “My dear Theresa would not willingly part with you unless the
urgency of the case demanded it.”
“I am well convinced of that, madame――at least, I flatter myself that
such is the case,” returned Lord Ethalwood.
The groom informed his master that the Chevalier de Monpres had sent a
message, requesting the earl to call at the chateau where he was
staying as he proceeded on his road home.
“I will do so, Curtis,” said Lord Ethalwood. “Ride on and inform the
chevalier that I will be with him in less than an hour from this
time.”
The groom upon this started off, leaving Lord Ethalwood’s horse ready
caparisoned at the garden-gate of the widow’s house.
“So you are going to ride over to your residence?” said Madame
Trieste, “and without an attendant, it would seem.”
“Nay, not so,” observed the earl. “Curtis will attend me.”
“But he has gone on to Monsieur de Monpres.”
“True, I shall be by myself part of the way.”
“And do you not think that very bad policy?”
“Why so, madame?”
“Suppose two or three ruffians were to attack you――what then?”
“I should have to defend myself to the best of my ability――that is
all,” returned the earl, with a smile.
“You make light of the matter, my lord. I look upon it from a
different point of view. I consider your path beset with danger, and
that you cannot be too cautious. You ought not to travel without an
escort.”
“It would be as well, perhaps, to have company on the road, but it is,
after all, of no very great moment. I dare say I shall be able to
reach home in safety.”
“I hope so, I am sure,” said Madame Trieste, “but you don’t know the
natives of these parts so well as we do.”
“Certainly not. I don’t pretend to do so.”
“They are by nature treacherous, and are not to be trusted.”
“I don’t intend to put any trust in them, and for this reason I have
no confidence in any of the rascals. But, my very dear friend,” said
Ethalwood, in an altered tone, “there is now an imperative necessity
for me to take my departure. I am constrained by the force of
circumstances to leave. Before doing so I have to express to you my
deep sense of gratitude for all your kindness――which will be
remembered for the remainder of my life. Let me, my dear Madame
Trieste, assure you that, although from the force of circumstances I
am constrained to take an abrupt leave of you, that I shall bear with
me the most lively sense of your motherly kindness, and at the same
time that I shall always look upon you as one of my most attached
friends, for beneath your roof I have passed the happiest years of my
life.”
“Oh, my lord,” exclaimed the widow, “I am indeed proud of the
encomiums you are pleased to pass upon me; but although we part now
from stern necessity we shall, I hope, meet again under happier
circumstances.”
“I hope so, I am sure,” said the earl, bending over her and imprinting
a kiss on her forehead. “And now, my dear Theresa,” he added, “do not
think I shall forget you. I shall bear you in my remembrance, and long
for the time when we may be reunited.”
“Oh, my lord, my heart is too full for me to express myself in words.
Be cautious――be mindful of the great peril you are now in, and for the
rest let me hear from you. You will not forget your poor unhappy
Theresa?”
“Never――never! I swear it,” cried the earl, embracing the young maiden
with fervour.
He was not disposed to prolong the scene, which, to say the truth, was
a trying one. He therefore made at once for the garden-gate and
mounted his steed; then with another embrace and a blessing on the
inmates of the chateau, he trotted off.
Theresa Trieste watched the horse and its rider till both were out of
sight――then she gave a faint scream and fell back into the arms of her
mother.
Lord Ethalwood trotted on until he came to a steep hill, with the
precipitous rocks on either side. He drew the rein and walked his
horse up the acclivity. He was ruminating on past events, and for a
short time was lost in a reverie, when all of a sudden he heard the
sharp crack of a rifle, which reverberated with a thousand echoes
through the rocks overhead. A bullet was flattened against a stone
wall which stood within a few paces from him.
Aroused to a sense of the danger, which was so immediate, he clapped
spurs to the flanks of his steed, and galloped up the hill.
“Ah,” he murmured, “a narrow escape. Theresa was right; there are
murderous villains prowling about, and the chances are that this may
not be the only shot that will be fired.”
He did not give much time for his assailant or assailants to take
deliberate aim, but put out his high-mettled steed to the utmost, and
was thankful when the house in which the chevalier was located came
within view. He found his groom awaiting his appearance at the
entrance gates, which were thrown open, whereupon the earl rode at
once into the yard. The gates were then closed.
De Monpres presented himself, and was overjoyed to see his friend,
whom he at once conducted into the interior of the chateau.
“Well,” said the old Frenchman, “what news? How goes it?”
“The scoundrels are afoot. I was fired at, and a bullet was flattened
against the wall beside the road.”
“I guessed it would be so,” returned the chevalier. “I was a fool to
let you come alone. My dear friend, you don’t know what those fellows
are. The greatest caution is now needed, for I believe one or more of
them have sworn to have your life, but we will baffle them. The worst
is now over, and for the rest――――”
“Well, how about the rest?” inquired the earl.
“It’s just this――you must cut and run. Don’t imagine for a moment that
such a course of action is discreditable to you; on the contrary, it
is most wise and discreet. Of what avail is it seeking to hunt down or
bring to justice a parcel of lawless miscreants who lie in ambush? My
good fellow, I know what a guerilla war is――have gone through it: they
pick you off before you know where you are; and, mind you, they would
take a pride in making dogs’ meat of you. No, no, my lord, we won’t
risk that, and to remain here to be a mark for sharp-shooting――why, it
would be madness. They have sworn to have your life.”
“Have they?”
“Do you doubt it?”
“I don’t know what to say――am in perfect ignorance of their
movements.”
“I think you have already had proof sufficient. I tell you that they
lie concealed in all parts. The first question that occurs to me is,
how you are to reach your chateau in safety.”
“I will ride there.”
“You will do no such thing.”
“Why not?”
“Because I won’t let you――that’s why.”
“But what would you have me do then?”
“That depends upon circumstances. We will, if you please, hold a
council of war.”
As the chevalier made this last observation, a stout, good-humoured-looking
gentleman entered the room.
“Ah,” cried De Monpres, “I am glad you have come back, Monsieur. This
is my friend, Earl Ethalwood, of whom you have heard me speak. My
lord,” said he in continuation, addressing himself to the earl,
“Monsieur Jantie, my friend and host.”
“I am proud to make your acquaintance,” said Jantie, “and have to
express my regret that it is not under more favourable circumstances,
as I shall not have the pleasure of your society for long.”
“No, no, not for long,” said the chevalier with a laugh, “you may rest
assured of that. The wolves are prowling about, seeking whom they may
devour, and my friend, Ethalwood, is a marked man.”
“Ah, surely you are taking an unfavourable view of the case,” remarked
the earl.
“Bah! don’t be so dubious,” cried De Monpres. “I had it upon the best
authority that a group of mountaineers――unscrupulous desperadoes――swore
over the dead body of their comrade, Gerome Chanet, to have your life.
What more do you need in confirmation of my statement?”
“Is it possible?”
“Possible――it is a fact beyond all controversy.”
“And how came this to your knowledge?”
“Well, I don’t know that I am bound to secrecy. Monsieur Vasseralt,
who after all turns out to be a good fellow enough, gave me the
information. Now are you satisfied?”
“Perfectly. Monsieur Vasseralt――eh?”
“Yes, he was my informant; but, mark you, this unholy and sanguinary
proceeding was not countenanced or approved of by him. He has,
however, given me a caution, a timely warning, which we shall do well
to remember.”
“The infamous wretches!”
“Ah, but they think it a praiseworthy action. It all depends upon how
men view these matters.”
“I am beset with difficulties, it would seem,” said the earl.
“We’ll pull you through――leave the matter in my hands. An old soldier
like myself will prove too much for these fellows, I expect,” said De
Monpres.
“You must place yourself in De Monpres’ hands,” observed Monsieur
Jantie, addressing himself to the earl.
“I have the utmost confidence in the chevalier,” observed the
latter――“I wish I had his experience and wisdom.”
The chevalier bowed courteously, and the conversation was continued in
a lively strain. Monsieur Jantie treated the earl with marked
politeness and attention, and begged of him as a personal favour to
spend the remainder of the day with him. This honour, however, Lord
Ethalwood declined, upon the plea that there was an imperative
necessity for him to be at his own chateau.
It was ultimately arranged that Ethalwood and the chevalier were to be
driven home in one of the close carriages of M. Jantie. The reason for
this may be readily imagined.
The sharpshooters from the surrounding hills would be baffled. It was
just possible, however, that an attempt might be made by a lawless
band to stop the carriage. There was no telling how far the audacity
of the men might carry them. It was, therefore, upon the advice of
Vasseralt, Chanet’s second, that the carriage was drawn under the
escort of some half-a-dozen lusty yeomen retainers of Monsieur Jantie.
These persons carried loaded weapons, and were otherwise armed to the
teeth, and so, with these precautionary measures, Earl Ethalwood and
his friend the Chevalier de Monpres contrived to arrive home in
safety.
On the following day the earl set out on his journey, and made the
best of his way to his native country.
CHAPTER CXXX.
CHARLES PEACE AND HIS UNLAWFUL GAINS――A VISIT TO MR. SIMMONDS――A
SURPRISE AND ESCAPE.
Once more we are constrained to return to the Evalina-road, for the
purpose of seeing how it fares with the hero of this work.
Charles Peace had up to the present time not only escaped detection,
but had managed his affairs with such success that not the faintest
breath of suspicion fell upon him.
He was looked upon by his neighbours as the same easy-going, agreeable
old gentleman of independent means as he had been deemed ever since
the first few months of his life at Peckham.
His musical evenings were as frequent as of yore. He was seen
occasionally in the garden and at the front entrance of his
habitation, and appeared to be a quiet, discreet person, who to all
appearance was what he professed to be――a man of thoughtful, studious
habits, and the general impression was that there was no harm in him.
It is true that at times there were evidences of a storm within the
house at No. 4, but this was attributable more to the irritable nature
of the female residents than to the quiet and unobtrusive master of
the establishment.
But Peace, during this interval of time was industriously pursuing his
lawless practices. The number of burglaries that had been committed in
the surrounding districts seemed perfectly incredible, but no one
suspected that Mr. Thompson had any hand in them.
Peace’s house was crammed with articles of almost every conceivable
description, which were, as may be easily conjectured, the produce of
lawless depredations.
His two female companions must have been perfectly well aware that he
was a wholesale and unscrupulous robber, although they both of them
afterwards declared that they knew nothing about his numerous
burglaries.
This upon the face of it appears to be altogether incredible, but it
is perhaps just as well to give them the benefit of the doubt. They
might have suspected, but possibly they were discreet enough to close
their eyes to actual facts.
The house in the Evalina-road was at this time so crammed full of
stolen goods that its occupant deemed it expedient to get rid of the
greater portion of the articles.
If by any chance the place underwent an inspection by the police,
there would be no possibility of Peace accounting for the possession
of such a heterogeneous collection of property.
When in any difficulty he generally called into requisition his
faithful comrade and ally, Bandy-legged Bill.
So one evening, when the sagacious Mr. William Rawton was engaged with
a fragrant weed and a bit of music at the house in the Evalina-road,
Charles Peace broached the subject.
The two women were at this time at the house of a neighbour, and
Willie Ward had been sent on an errand.
“I say, Bill, old man,” observed Peace, “I am a bit lumbered up here
with a lot of things which would be best out of the way. Do you see?”
“Well, I should just say I did see, and no flies,” cried Bill. “Why,
Charlie, you’ve got what one might call a regular museum, a sort of
old curiosity shop, stowed away in nooks and corners. It would not be
particularly healthy for yer if the pleece were to take a review of
all the blessed lot――not at all healthy.”
“I quite agree with you, Bill. So I’ve been thinking we had better
have a clearance――get shut of the whole blooming lot, eh?”
“Right you are, guv’nor. Turn the whole blessed collection into ready
money. Get as many quids as you can for them, and then snap your
fingers at the blooming bobbies.”
“That’s just what I intend to do. So you see, Bill, we will, now the
place is all to ourselves, set about the business at once.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just this. I’ve got two or three old hampers in the stable, and I
want your assistance.”
“All right; I’m on.”
“Very well. We will at once proceed to fill the hampers, and
to-morrow, please the pigs, will get them off to the East-end, to old
Simmonds――he’ll give as much as anybody.”
“Don’t care a great deal about Simmonds――he’s not a square sort of
chap, to my thinking.”
“It does not matter what ‘fence’ we take them to. All I want to do
to-night is to get the goods ready for starting.”
Peace lighted a hand-lamp and bade his companion follow him. Then the
two conveyed a number of articles to the stables, and when there they
packed them up in as small a compass as possible in the hampers to
which Peace had made allusion.
The greater portion of the property was safely stowed away in the
hampers, which were afterwards tied down with long cord.
All this had been done in an incredibly short space of time. Then the
burglar and his horsey companion sat down on the corded baskets and
discussed the intended procedings of the morrow.
“Poor Tommy, my beautiful little pet, is gone!” said Peace, with
something like sorrow in his tone. “I shan’t get another like him in a
hurry, Bill. But it’s of no use grieving――it was to be, I suppose, and
so there’s an end of that matter.”
“Ah, poor old Tommy! but lord bless you, nothing in the world would
have saved him. But it ain’t of no use dwelling on that now. These
precious hampers have to be got, somehow or other, to Whitechapel――that’s
quite certain. There won’t be much difficulty about that ere. I’ll
bring a trap round we can shove ’em in, and the rest is an easy
matter. I shall be glad when we’ve got shut of them.”
“So shall I. Are you going to borrow a trap, then?”
“Ah, yes, Joe Starker will lend me one in a minute. There ain’t no
manner of trouble about that. Say the word, Charlie. Tell me what time
I am to be here, and it shall be done like a shot, and no flies.”
“Eight o’clock to-morrow evening will do very well, I think.”
“All right, guv’nor, eight o’clock let it be, then.”
“And drive round to the back yard, without saying a word to anyone.”
“I’m on; so be it, Charlie.”
This little matter having been thus satisfactorily arranged, Peace and
the gipsy returned to the parlour.
Willie Ward had by this time returned, and he and our hero, as usual,
began to play duets.
Presently the ladies of the establishment presented themselves, and a
social and convivial evening was passed.
Rawton left at a little before twelve, with a promise to be there on
the following evening.
Peace, of course, did not go out on a depredating excursion for that
night.
Punctual to his appointment, Bandy-legged Bill drove into the back
yard of No. 4 at about a quarter before eight on the succeeding night.
Peace was ready to receive him, and the hampers were quickly lifted
into the cart, whereupon the two friends proceeded at once in the
direction of Whitechapel.
“We’ll try Simmonds first,” said our hero. “Cunning Isaac, as we call
him, is a rapacious old scoundrel, who wants things for next door to
nothing. Simmonds is worth two of him.”
“I don’t like either of them, if the truth is to be told,” cried the
gipsy; “but, lord, they aint any of them worth much, as far as that is
concerned. The whole biling of them are a set of bloodsuckers, but
there, I dare say you will ask what’s a cove to do.”
“Yes, that’s just where it is. We can’t do without them, Bill――there
aint any mistake about that. I look upon it that men and women prey
upon one another like wild beasts. The ‘fence’ preys upon the
‘cracksman,’ the cracksman――well, he preys upon the public――that is,
the rich public――and they in most cases have made their money out of
the poor. From the lowest to the highest it is one system of cheating
and robbing――that’s my view of the matter.”
“Oh, you are not far off the mark, it’s right enough,” returned Bill.
“You are never so happy as when you are moralising,” he added, with a
laugh.
“Ah, you may laugh,” cried Peace, “but pray tell me how many persons
you know in this world as you can trust――just you answer that
question.”
“Jolly few, if that’s what you mean. You may count ’em on your
fingers, and not want all on ’em to do so.”
“No. I should think not.”
“But, I say, what blooming crib are yer bound for?” said the gipsy;
“for we are coming to close quarters, now.”
“Oh, we will see what Simmonds says. I shall leave you to strike the
bargain. Take one hamper into him, and see what he offers.”
“I tell yer what it is, Charlie, I don’t care about the job, cos
why――he don’t like me, and I’ve no affection for him. You’ll do a deal
better with him than what I can――so just pop down upon the old rascal,
and I think I shall be able to work Isaac.”
“Oh, you prefer Isaac, do you?”
“Well, yes I do. Every man has his fancy. Some can get along with one,
which perhaps another cove wouldn’t be able to work not nohow
whatsoever.”
Mr. Simmonds’s establishment stood in one of the streets which ran at
right angles out of the Whitechapel-road.
It was not an aristocratic-looking shop, and the immediate
neighbourhood surrounding it could not be considered either cleanly or
odoriferous.
Mr. Simmonds himself was not altogether a pattern of cleanliness――neither
could he be considered particularly handsome. His nose was long, and
his mouth was wide. In short, his features, taken altogether, would
lead a superficial observer to the conclusion that he was a gentleman
of the Hebrew persuasion.
Still Mr. Simmonds had contrived to drive a very profitable trade. He
was very well known, and always ready to purchase goods of every
conceivable description, and it was not his practice to ask
impertinent questions.
He therefore drove a profitable trade.
Charles Peace was very well acquainted with him, and had had with him
many business transactions.
A well-known journalist, at the time Peace carried on his lawless
practices in the Evalina-road, was desirous of knowing how he disposed
of his plunder. “There is more in this question,” said he, “than the
police were able to discover.”
In cases of common burglary the usual course is for the thief to make
his way direct to some safe “fence” and drive the best bargain he can
of the receiver. But Peace was no common burglar.
The more I enquire into the life and habits of those in his
establishment at Peckham, the less disposed I am to believe that Mrs.
Thompson acted as a “go-between.” Certainly the boy, “Willie Ward,”
was not entrusted with such delicate missions, and I am pretty certain
the services of Mrs. Ward would only be resorted to when things were
growing desperate.
The impression at Peckham was, that Peace had a male accomplice, a
clever unscrupulous fellow like himself, and not at all dissimilar
physically, but even superior to Peace himself.
This surmise on the part of the journalist in question was correct,
the accomplice in question being none other than “Bandy-legged Bill.”