THE DEPARTURE
/If/ Don Pedro’s skill in the deciphering of human documents was
great, as I have said, great, too, were his longings. And longings
blunt the senses to all things outside of their own aim. So that by
the following morning, Don Pedro had come to doubt the accuracy of his
reading of Margaret and the irrevocable quality of the decision she
had made. This hope renewed and fortified the longings from which it
sprang.
Desire was something which this spoilt child of Fortune had never been
schooled to repress. With him it had ever been but the sweet preface
to possession. He had never known the meaning of Denial. He knew it
now, and knew the torment of it. All night that knowledge and that
torment abode in him, until he swore at dawn that he would not submit,
could not endure it to continue.
Outwardly, however, on that last day of his at Trevanion Chase, he
showed nothing of his inward suffering. Sharp, searching eyes might
have detected the imprint of it on his countenance, but in his manner
nothing was betrayed. He had been well schooled in the art of
self-possession; it had been one of his maxims that who would prevail
must never allow his purpose to be read.
And so, whilst pain seared his soul, whilst the hunger for Margaret,
sharpened by her denial of him, gnawed at his heart, he smiled as
affably as ever and preserved unchanged his cool, urbane, impassive
air.
So completely did this deceive her that she came to conclude that his
heart was not so seriously involved as his words had seemed to imply.
He had been swept away, she thought, by a momentary yielding to
emotional impulses. She was glad and relieved to discover it. She
liked him more than any man she had ever met save one; and she must
have suffered had she remained under the conviction that she had sent
him forth in pain.
She had shown the pearls to her father, who had curtly pronounced them
fripperies, whereupon in protest and so as to compel his attention she
had ventured a hint of their value. It had not impressed him.
‘I can well believe it,’ he had said. ‘There’s naught in the world so
costly as vanity, as you may come to learn in time.’
Then she told him what the gift implied; that Don Pedro’s ransom being
paid he now claimed the liberty to depart, and would be leaving them
that evening.
‘Very well,’ said the Earl indifferently.
It chilled her. So that he was left alone in this musty library to
pursue, over quagmires of human speculation, the will-o’-the-wisp of
knowledge, whoever chose might come and go at Trevanion Chase. She
might depart, herself, and not be missed. Indeed, he might regard her
presence as no more than a source of interruptions, and would perhaps
welcome, as putting a definite end to these, her departure overseas to
Spain. But another there was, who would not be so indifferent. The
thought of him warmed her again, and she found in his protracted
absence a deserved reproach to herself for her harshness with him. She
would send him a note to tell him that Don Pedro was leaving that
evening, and to bid him come and receive his forgiveness at her hands.
It was jealousy of Don Pedro that had driven him, and she now
perceived how right had been the instincts in him which had prompted
it. There had been more occasion for it than ever she had suspected.
With Don Pedro that day she was kind and courteous, and he made this
possible by the masterly circumspection I have mentioned. He had no
packages to make. What odds and ends he had caused to be procured for
him whilst there, to eke out his temporary wardrobe, he now bestowed
upon the servant who had ministered to him, together with a rich gift
of money.
Old Martin, too, was handsomely rewarded for his attentions to the
Spanish prisoner who had known how to command his regard.
After an early supper, going as he came, with no more than the clothes
in which he stood, Don Pedro was ready to depart. To his lordship,
still at table, he addressed a very formal, graceful speech of thanks
for the generous entertainment he had received at Trevanion Chase, of
which his heart would ever hold and cherish the most pleasant
memories. To Heaven also he expressed his deep gratitude for having
vouchsafed him the good fortune of falling into such noble, kindly,
generous hands as those of the Earl of Garth and his daughter.
The Earl, having heard him out, gave him answer in phrases springing
from his innate courtliness, the courtliness which had been his before
the events had driven him to become a hermit. He concluded all by
wishing Don Pedro a felicitous voyage to his own land and all
happiness in his abiding there. Thereupon he effaced himself, leaving
his daughter to speed the departing voyager.
Martin fetched Don Pedro his weapons, a hat and a cloak. When he had
assumed them, Margaret went with him to the hall, and then down the
steps, and on through the garden with scarcely a word passing between
them. Their farewells might quite properly have been spoken at the
door. But it was as if he drew her on with him by the very force of
his will.
On the edge of the spinney she halted, determined to go no farther,
and put forth her hand. ‘We part here, Don Pedro.’
Having halted with her, he now faced her, and she saw the pain that
flickered in his melancholy eyes. ‘Oh, not yet!’ It was a prayer. He
became almost lyrical. ‘Do not deprive my soul of those few moments I
had hoped to savour before darkness closes over it. See, I have been a
miracle of reticence, a model of circumspection. Since you said what
you said to me yesterday, by no single word or glance have I
importuned you. Nor would I now. Yet I ask of you one little thing;
little to you, but meaning so much--dear God, how much!--to me. Walk
with me but a little way farther: to that blessed spot in the dell,
where first my eyes were gladdened by the lovely sight of you. There,
where I looked my first upon you, let me look my last, and thus
departing count all a dream that happened in between. Of your sweet
charity, accord me this. Margaret!’
She was not stone to resist this perfervidly, poetical, heartbroken
supplication. After all, as he said, it was such a little thing to
ask. She consented. Yet on the way through the gloom that was
gathering in the dingle, no word was spoken.
Thus in silence they came to their first meeting-place.
‘It was here,’ she said. ‘Yonder you stood on that white rock, when
Brutus leapt at you.’
He paused, considered her, and fetched a heavy sigh. ‘Your greatest
cruelty was when you stayed him.’ He paused again, still considering
her, as if he would print each feature for ever on his brain. And
then: ‘How grudgingly,’ pursued that very subtle gentleman, ‘you
accord me the exact alms I begged of your charity. “’Twas here!” you
say, and on the very spot, careful to an inch of ground, you halt.
Well! Well!’
‘Ah, no,’ she answered him, her generous heart responding to the touch
of that skilful player. ‘I’ll bear you company yet a little farther.’
He breathed his thanks, and they continued the descent, following the
course of the brook, which was the merest trickle now. And as they
went, there came from the beach below the grating of a keel upon the
shingle.
Forth from the shadows of the trees they stepped onto the edge of the
sands now shimmering faintly in the evening light. By the water’s edge
there was a boat, and about it, dim and shadowy, a dark group.
At sight of this, Don Pedro raised his voice, and called some words in
Spanish. Two men instantly detached themselves and came speeding up
the beach.
Margaret put forth her hand for the third time, and her tone was brisk
and resolute.
‘And now, farewell! God send you a favourable wind to Spain and bring
you safely home.’
‘Home?’ said he sadly. ‘An empty word henceforth. Ah, stay! Stay yet a
moment!’ His grip upon her hand detained her. ‘There is something yet
I wish to say. Something I must say before I go.’
‘Then say it quickly, sir. Your men are almost here.’
‘It is no matter for them. They are my own. Margaret!’ He seemed to
choke.
She noticed that his face shone oddly white in the deepening twilight,
that he was actually trembling. A vague fear possessed her. She
wrenched her hand free. ‘Farewell!’ she cried, and abruptly turned to
go.
But he sprang after her. He was upon her. His arms went round her,
holding her close and powerless as in a snare of steel. ‘Ah, no, no,’
he almost sobbed. ‘Forgive, my Margaret! You shall forgive! You must;
you will, I know. I cannot bear to let you go. Be God my witness it
would kill me.’
‘Don Pedro!’ There was only anger in her voice. She sought to break
from him; but he held her firmly. Such an indignity as this had never
touched her pure young life, nor had she ever dreamt of such a
possibility. ‘Let me go!’ she commanded, her eyes scorching him with
their fury. ‘As you are a gentleman, Don Pedro, this is unworthy. It
is knavish! Vile!’
‘A gentleman!’ he echoed, and laughed in furious scorn of all such
shams as in this moment he accounted them. ‘Here is no gentleman. We
are just man and woman, and I love you.’
At last she understood the full villainy of his purpose, sensed the
utter remorselessness of his passion, and a scream sped upwards
through the dingle. Came a roar from above to answer her. Almost
inarticulate though it was, she recognized the voice and thrilled at
the sound of it as never yet she had thrilled. Twice she called his
name in ringing accents of fearful urgency.
‘Gervase! Gervase!’
Momentarily she was released, and then, almost before she could
realize it and attempt to move, a cloak was flung over her head to
muffle her. She was lifted from her feet by strong pinioning arms, and
hurried swiftly away. After her bearers came Don Pedro at speed.
‘Handle her gently on your lives, dogs,’ he thundered in Spanish to
his men. ‘Make haste! Away! Away!’
They gained the boat as Gervase came through the trees onto the open
beach. One of the Spaniards levelled a musketoon across the bows to
make an end of that single pursuer. Don Pedro kicked the weapon into
the sea.
‘Fool! Who bade you take so much upon yourself? Push off! And now give
way! Give way!’
They floated clear as Gervase came bounding to the water’s edge. Nor
did the water check him. On he came, splashing through it.
‘Don Pedro, you Spanish dog!’ he cried in mingled rage and anguish.
The boat drew off under the stroke of six long oars and swiftly
gathered way.
Yet Gervase in his mad agony went after it to his armpits. There he
checked, raving, with the wash of the boat about his neck. He raised
an impotent fist and shook it in the air.
‘Don Pedro!’ he called across the water. ‘Don Pedro de Mendoza! You
may go now. But I come after you. I shall follow you, though it be to
hell!’
Don Pedro in the sternsheets, catching the note of agony in those
accents, looked through the gloom at the man who had wielded the
musketoon.
‘I was wrong,’ he said. ‘It would have been a mercy to have shot him.’