A RUSE DE GUERRE.
Colonel Dacre stood quite still for several minutes, holding Lady
Gwendolyn’s letter in his hand, and so completely stunned by the
misfortune that had come upon him, he could scarcely realize its
magnitude as yet. Had Lady Gwendolyn’s accident been a mere pretense
and blind? And, if so, had she any excuse for her deception?
These were the two questions he put to himself the moment he could
reason. There was only one thing that could have justified such a
course of action on Lady Gwendolyn’s part; and if she had had this
motive, he was ready to forgive her. He would not judge her, then,
until they had met and he had interrogated her, when, even if her
tongue labored to deceive him still, he should know the truth by her
eyes.
But he could not present himself at the Castle a second time that day,
and he might have betrayed Lady Gwendolyn by so doing; as there was
just the chance that she had been able to get home without Lord and
Lady Teignmouth knowing anything about her little adventure.
He must wait, therefore, until the morrow for a solution of the double
mystery, trying as the suspense was.
Before the household was astir he got up, plunged into a cold bath to
freshen himself a little, and then went out into the lanes, which he
paced up and down until breakfast-time.
The meal was a farce--he was much too excited to eat; but he thought it
necessary to sit down to table, and help himself from one of the savory
little dishes which the butler forced upon his notice. He did not care
to set them gossiping in the servants’ hall; and Graham had already
remarked, with the freedom of an old retainer, that “he feared his
master must have had a bad night, since he had risen so much earlier
than usual.”
To wait until the afternoon was beyond Colonel Dacre’s courage; and as
he and Lord Teignmouth had been at Eton together as boys, he thought he
might venture to make a morning call for once in a way. So he ordered
his horse at a quarter to twelve, and got through the interval as best
he could.
Lord Teignmouth was at home, and received him cordially in the library.
He was a hearty, pleasant-mannered man, who managed to enjoy life
vastly, although the countess was not reckoned, in the neighborhood, to
be a very satisfactory wife. But, if frivolous and vain, her ladyship
was sweet-tempered, and accorded as much liberty to her husband as she
took herself; so that they kept on excellent terms--all the better,
perhaps, that they were so seldom together.
It was purely an accident that they were both at the Castle now, as her
ladyship had an engagement elsewhere; but a slight feverish attack had
brought her down to Teignmouth for rest and fresh air, and she was as
much charmed as surprised when she found her husband and sister-in-law
ruralizing, also.
“It is so seldom one can manage to be quite en famille,” she said
affably; “the world is such a tyrant, it is always claiming one. I am
horribly tired of gaiety, but one must do as others do, you know.”
And when the earl laughed, as he always did at his wife’s logic, she
opened her large blue eyes, and added innocently:
“Well, but mustn’t one, dear?”
Colonel Dacre asked after the countess’ health with great apparent
solicitude, as he shook hands with his host, and was, of course,
delighted to hear that she had entirely recovered from her recent
indisposition. Then he added, with assumed nonchalance:
“I trust Lady Gwendolyn is equally well.”
“Oh! that’s where the land lies, is it?” thought the earl. But aloud he
said, with a certain twinkle of the eye:
“I trust she is, too; but I haven’t seen her since last night.”
“No?” put in the colonel, waiting eagerly for further information.
“The fact is,” Lord Teignmouth went on, in a confidential tone, “girls
are never of the same mind two days together. Yesterday morning Gwen
was enchanted with Teignmouth, and declared she would give up all her
engagements and stay here for the autumn; in the evening, at dinner,
she suddenly announced that she was bored to death, and should leave by
the first train in the morning.”
“And this morning she changed her mind for the third time, I presume?”
“Not a bit of it! I thought she would, of course, and quite expected to
see her at breakfast; but when, on her not presenting herself, I made
inquiries, I found that she had left Teignmouth by the first train.”
Colonel Dacre felt himself turn pale, but managed to say, with
tolerable composure:
“I am sorry for that, as she was kind enough to lend me a book the
other day, and I have not had the opportunity of returning it. But
perhaps you will kindly give me her address, and then I can send it by
post.”
“Her address. Let me see,” said the earl, with provoking deliberation.
“I know it is somewhere in the North.”
“I am afraid that is rather vague.”
“I am afraid it is,” he answered, with his frank laugh. “But I have
such a confoundedly bad memory. Pauline would remember, I dare say. She
is generally my prompter. Supposing you go and ask her yourself?”
“Are you sure I should not be intruding on Lady Teignmouth?” inquired
Colonel Dacre, whose eyes had suddenly brightened at the proposition.
“On the contrary, I am certain her ladyship will be delighted to see
you.”
Lady Teignmouth was reclining on a lounge by the open window as Colonel
Dacre entered, and her very attitude showed how thoroughly bored she
was; but at the sound of his name she turned, with evident relief, and
held out her hand.
“How very kind of you to take compassion on a poor recluse!” she said
gaily. “I am literally dying of ennui! I do hope you have brought me
some news.”
“On the contrary, I have come here for news,” he answered, seating
himself in the chair her ladyship pointed out.
“Then you have been taken in, I am afraid. Nothing new ever happens at
Teignmouth.”
“I don’t know about that,” he said, his voice trembling a little; “Lady
Gwendolyn’s sudden departure is something new.”
“I am so accustomed to these strange caprices of hers, they never seem
new to me,” replied Lady Teignmouth, hardening a little. “It is a great
misfortune when a mere girl has such a horror of anything like control.
I am going away to-morrow myself, and she might as well have waited
and traveled with me as far as town, but she would not listen to my
proposition. She preferred to be quite free, she said; and so she is
gone off, goodness knows where, in spite of everything I could say.”
“Lord Teignmouth told me she had left you her address,” hazarded the
colonel timidly.
The countess gave him a sudden, keen look right in the eyes, and then
shook her head.
“You know poor dear Reginald always does make blunders, Colonel Dacre.
Gwen said something about letting us know shortly where she was to be
found, but I think it was only a parting civility to which it would not
do to attach much importance.”
“But what motive could she have for concealing her whereabouts?”
“I never profess to understand Gwen’s motives for anything, Colonel
Dacre; nor do I, as a rule, interfere in her plans. The best thing that
could happen to her would be to get a husband who would keep her in
order, for what little authority Teignmouth might have as her guardian
he never exercises, so that she is getting more and more lawless every
day.”
“Lady Gwendolyn may consider that she is justified in pleasing herself
so long as Lord Teignmouth does not remonstrate; he is the only person
who has a right to take this tone with her as yet.”
“Oh! I never interfere, if that is what you mean,” responded her
ladyship, smiling that sweet, stereotyped smile of hers which imposed
upon so many. “I have no right, as you say.”
Colonel Dacre had not said exactly this, but he let it pass, and
observed, after a pause:
“Then you cannot give me any idea where Lady Gwendolyn is to be found?”
“Not the faintest. But she may write in a day or two, and then I will
let you know, if you like.”
“Thank you very much,” he said; and then he added, with assumed
carelessness: “She was quite well, I hope, when she went away?”
“Perfectly,” answered Lady Teignmouth, opening her eyes very wide, as
if she were surprised at the question.
“She did not complain of her foot at all?”
“Why should she?”
“Oh! I thought she might possibly have sprained her ankle,” he said
evasively. “She walked so much more here than she is accustomed to do.”
“She pleased herself; there was a carriage always at her disposal. You
ought to know, Colonel Dacre, that my husband is absurdly weak, so far
as Gwen is concerned, and would try to get her a slice of the moon if
she wanted one.”
“It is a very amiable weakness,” said the colonel, smiling.
“But not always a convenient one for his wife.”
Colonel Dacre began to understand the countess better now. She was
jealous of her beautiful sister-in-law. She never made the faintest
effort to retain her husband’s affection; still she did not want him to
care for anybody else, and was never so near losing her temper as when
anything reminded her of the good understanding that existed between
the brother and sister.
Then, again, although a pretty woman, the countess was quite eclipsed
by Lady Gwendolyn, which was another reason why she should not regard
her with much favor. However, she did not care for an outsider to know
exactly the terms they were on, for she added, in an indulgent tone:
“I dare say it is very natural, after all. There are only two of them
left now, and their mother left Gwen in Reginald’s charge, so that he
looks upon her as a sacred legacy. Only, of course, she is but young,
and it would be better if he looked after her a little more, would it
not?”
“Perhaps it would,” he admitted. “But it is just possible Lady
Gwendolyn would not submit to be dictated to.”
“In that case she ought to marry, and take the responsibility off our
shoulders, Colonel Dacre,” replied the countess, with more decision
than she usually infused into her company manner. “I am sure you would
hardly believe how worried I was by her numerous flirtations last
season.”
“I should have fancied there was safety in numbers,” remarked her
listener dryly.
“For her, perhaps; but I am afraid it only made it more dangerous for
them. If this were a dueling age, Gwen would have a good many on her
conscience, I fancy.”
“But, you see, men do not always care to risk their lives for a woman
whom they know is trifling with them,” said Colonel Dacre slowly.
“Well, you speak very philosophically of love, as if it were a light
feeling that helped you through a few idle hours, but was not likely to
take any deeper hold.”
“You quite misunderstand me, I assure you. I think love a terrible
thing, and pity those who fall into it, with all my heart.”
“While taking warning by their example,” insinuated Lady Teignmouth,
smiling.
A quick flush passed over the colonel’s face. The significance of
her manner made him tremble for his secret, which he feared was in
very unsafe keeping. He hastened to deny the “soft impeachment” in
self-defense.
“Exactly. As a mere looker-on I can judge the question dispassionately,
which would not be the case, supposing my feelings were implicated.”
This time her ladyship laughed outright. She evidently thought his
logic rather defective. Then, becoming suddenly grave, she said:
“If love is a terrible thing under ordinary circumstances, what must it
be under extraordinary circumstances?”
“What do you mean by extraordinary circumstances?”
“Well, if you cared for a coquette--we will say?”
“I hope I never should, Lady Teignmouth.”
“I hope not, too, for your own sake. And, unfortunately, I have seen
so many poor moths consumed in a certain flame that I tremble now for
every one that approaches. The only chance, so far as my experience
goes, is to keep out of the way.”
“On the principle that ‘prevention is better than cure,’” he answered
lightly. “I agree with your ladyship there, up to a certain point;
still, if one were always on the lookout for painful possibilities,
life would not be worth living, would it?”
The countess yawned demonstratively.
“Is it now, do you think?”
“Yes,” he answered, with decision. “I find it so.”
“You really surprise me;” and she leaned back on her couch with an air
of extreme languor. “Do you know, Colonel Dacre, I often wonder what
some people are made of--nothing seems to trouble them.”
“Possibly those are just the people who feel things the most. Real
suffering is generally quiet.”
She turned on him abruptly.
“Is that why you are so quiet now?”
“I cannot think why your ladyship will persist in attributing to me a
secret sorrow or passion,” he retorted. “Do I look very Byronic?”
“No,” she answered readily; “but you see I have got quite into the way
of looking upon every man I have seen with Gwen as one of her victims,
and you have been very often with her of late.”
“So have half a dozen others. I suppose they were my companions in
misfortune?”
“Don’t jest upon such a serious subject,” she said, with her malicious
smile.
“Anyhow,” he observed, rising, “however hard hit I may be, I shall know
it is not of any use appealing to your ladyship for sympathy--Lady
Gwendolyn’s ‘victims’ seem to make excellent sport for you?”
“When they don’t bore me. You know it is too much to expect one woman
to sit and listen to another’s praises for two or three hours together.
That is occasionally my fate; and I must frankly confess that I
dislike it extremely. If I were to show the least sign of weariness, I
should be looked upon as a monster, for every one ought to enjoy the
capitulation of Gwen’s marvelous perfections. Do you know I sometimes
quite wish I were her mother; I suppose I should like all this vastly
then, especially if they had the tact to refer now and then to my past
triumphs, and insinuate that my daughter was just what I must have been
at her age. But--you are surely going to stay to luncheon, Colonel
Dacre? My husband won’t forgive me if I don’t keep you, and I am sure
you would not like to be the cause of our first conjugal difference,
would you?”
“Nothing would distress me more; but Lord Teignmouth is too just to lay
my fault at your door.”
“But, really, Colonel Dacre, you must stay. A man without home-ties has
no excuse for refusing an invitation of any sort. I look upon bachelors
as public property myself. Come,” she added persuasively, “I will make
a bargain with you. Stop and lunch with us, and I will tell where I
think it probable you may find Lady Gwendolyn--supposing you really
wish to see her?”
“Would your ladyship mind telling me why you so particularly want me to
stay?” said the colonel; led by the countess’ manner to suspect some
trick.
“Certainly; we are quite alone to-day, and I have private reasons of my
own for avoiding a tête-à-tête with my husband. Are you satisfied with
my explanation?”
Colonel Dacre bowed silently. He was not satisfied, by any means, but
it was rather difficult to say so.
“Then you will stay?” added Lady Teignmouth, after a minute’s silence.
“With pleasure.”
A smile, so full of malicious triumph, shone in the countess’ eyes,
that if Colonel Dacre had only seen it before, it would have served
as a warning to him. But having accepted, he could not retract now,
although he was more than ever persuaded that the countess was playing
him a trick.
This idea was confirmed when, just as he was pocketing the card on
which his companion had written the address he wanted, the Handley drag
drove up to the door, and emptied its living freight into the hall,
which swept on up the wide staircase, laughing and talking. But Lady
Teignmouth was equal to the occasion. She looked straight at her guest,
without so much as a blush on her cool, pink cheek.
“It is the Handley party come to luncheon--how very kind of them. No
fear of a matrimonial tête-à-tête now.”
“Then I am not wanted any longer, Lady Teignmouth?”
“On the contrary, you are wanted more than ever. You know how difficult
Clara Handley is to amuse.”
“I am afraid I can’t be facetious to order, Lady Teignmouth.”
“You can pay compliments, and that is all Clara cares about,” responded
the countess, who had by no means a high opinion of her own sex. Then
she went forward to greet the young lady herself with great affection,
kissing her on both cheeks, and congratulating her upon the effect of
her new hat, leaving the colonel quite bewildered and pained in his
heart, for he had always had a chivalrous respect for women, and it
grieved him to know that even one could be so false.
He had to take Clara Handley into luncheon, and exerted himself to be
agreeable, but his thoughts were elsewhere, and he was glad when the
meal was over. When the whole party adjourned to the grounds to play
lawn-tennis, he shook hands with Lord Teignmouth, and slipped quietly
away.
He was just congratulating himself upon having paid Lady Teignmouth a
little trick as anticipative vengeance for the one he suspected her of
having planned for him, when he suddenly found himself face to face
with the countess herself.
“I just ran away for a minute from the others to wish you good-by,
and bon voyage,” she said, her whole face in a glitter of malicious
delight. “I am sure you will enjoy yourself up there, the country is so
picturesque. Give my love to Gwen, and tell her that directly she is
tired of solitude, I shall be happy to chaperon her anywhere.”
Shaking himself to get rid of the disagreeable impression her ladyship
had left behind, Colonel Dacre rode rapidly toward home, and scarcely
felt safe from Lady Teignmouth’s shafts until he found himself once
more in the library of Borton Hall.