Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  She was ashamed at last of the persistence with which her thoughts ran on him, and she tried to think of other things, and so thought of him again, and, awaking to the fact, smiled. But without blushing; partly because, whatever he was, he stood a great way from her, and partly because it was only her fancy that was touched, and not her heart; and partly again because she knew that he would be gone by mid-day, and could by no possibility form part of her life. Nevertheless, it was not until her time for rising came that anxiety as to her brother’s safety and her father’s anger eclipsed him. Then, uncertain how much the Vicomte knew, how near the truth he guessed, she forgot her hero, and thought exclusively of her father’s resentment.

  She might have spared her fears. The Vicomte was a sour and embittered man, but neither by nature nor habit a violent one. Rage had for an hour rendered him capable of the worst, capable of the murder of his son if, having an arm in his hand, he had met him, capable of the expulsion of his daughter from his house. But the fit was not natural to him; it was not so that he avenged the wrongs which the world had heaped upon him — since Coutras. He fell back easily and at once into the black cynical mood that was his own. He was too old and weak, he had too long brooded in inaction, he had too long wreaked his vengeance on the feeble to take strong measures now, whatever happened to him.

  But some hours elapsed before Bonne knew this, or how things would be. It was not her father’s custom to descend before noon, for with his straitened means and shrunken establishment he went little abroad; and he would have died rather than stoop to the rustic tasks which Roger pursued, and of which Bonne’s small brown hands were not ignorant. She had not seen him when, an hour before noon, she repaired to a seat in the most remote corner of the garden, taking with her some household work on which she was engaged.

  The garden of the château of Villeneuve — the garden proper that is, for the dry moat which divided the house from the courtyard was planted with pot-herbs and cabbages — formed a square, having for its one side the length of the house. It lay along the face of the building remote from the courtyard, and was only accessible through it. Its level, raised by art or nature, stood more than a man’s height above the surrounding country; of which, for this reason, it afforded a pleasant and airy prospect. The wall which surrounded and buttressed it stood on the inner side no more than three feet high, but rose on the outer from a moat, the continuation of that which has just been mentioned.

  The pleasaunce thus secured on all sides from intrusion consisted first of a paved walk which ran under the windows of the château, and was boarded by a row of ancient mulberry-trees; secondly, beyond this, of a strip of garden ground planted with gooseberry-bushes and fruit-trees, and bisected by a narrow walk which led from the house to a second terrace formed on the outer wall. This latter terrace lay open towards the country and at either end, but was hidden from the prying eyes of the house by a line of elms, poled and cut espalier fashion. It offered at either extremity the accommodation of a lichen-covered stone bench which tempted the old to repose and the young to reverie. The east bench enabled a person seated sideways on it — and so many had thus sat that the wall was hollowed by their elbows — to look over the willow-edged river and the tract of lush meadows which its loop enclosed. The western seat had not this poetic advantage, but by way of compensation afforded to sharp eyes a glimpse of the track — road it could not be called — which after passing the château wound through the forest on its course to Vlaye and the south.

  From childhood the seat facing the river had been Bonne’s favourite refuge. Before she could walk she had played games in the dust beneath it. She had carried to it her small sorrows and her small joys, her fits of nursery passion, her moods as she grew older. She had nursed dolls on it, and fancies, dreamed dreams and built castles; and in a not unhappy, thought neglected girlhood, it had stood for that sweet and secret retreat, the bower of the budding life, which remains holy in the memory of worn men and women. The other bench, which commanded a peep of the road, had been more to her elder sister’s taste; nor was the choice without a certain bearing on the character of each.

  This morning, she had not been five minutes at work before she heard footsteps on the garden path. The sun, near its highest, had driven her to the inner end of the seat, where the elm in summer leaf straggled widely over it, growing low, as elms will. She knew that whoever came she would see before she was seen.

  It turned out as she expected. M. des Ageaux lounged onto the terrace, and shading his eyes from the sun’s rays, gazed on the prospect. She judged that he thought himself alone, for he took a short turn this way and that. Then, after a casual glance at the empty seats — empty as he doubtless judged, though she from her arbour of leaves could watch his every movement — he wheeled about, and, facing the château, seemed to satisfy himself that the wall of pollard elms sheltered him from sight.

  His next proceeding was mysterious. He drew from his breast a packet, of parchment or paper, unfolded it, and laid it flat on the wall before him. Then he stooped and after poring over it, glanced at the view, referred again to the paper, then again to the lie of the country, and the course of the river which flowed on his left. Finally he measured off a distance on the map. For a map it was, beyond doubt.

  A shadow fell on her as she watched him. Nor did his next movement dispel the feeling. Folding up the map he replaced it in his breast, and leaning over the wall he scrutinised the outer surface of the brickwork. Apparently he did not discover what he sought, for he raised himself again, and with eyes bent on the tangle of nettles and rough herbage that clothed the bottom of the moat, he moved slowly along the terrace towards her. He reached, without seeing her, the seat on which she sat, knelt on it with one knee, and leaning far over the moat, allowed a low laugh to escape him.

  She fought the faint suspicion that, unwelcome, asserted itself. He had behaved so honourably, so reticently, in all that had happened that she was determined not to believe aught to his discredit. But her folly, if foolish she was, must not imperil another. She made a mental note that there was one thing she must not tell him. Very quickly that reflection passed through her brain. And then —

  “Why do you laugh?” she said.

  He wheeled about so sharply that in another mood she must have laughed, so much she had the advantage of him. For an instant he was so taken aback that he did not speak. Then, “Why did you startle me?” he asked, his eyes smiling.

  “Because — yes, my brother came in that way.”

  “I know it,” he answered; “but not why you startled me, mademoiselle, a minute ago.”

  “Nor I,” she retorted, smiling faintly, “why you were so inquisitive, M. des Voeux?”

  “I am going to tell you that,” he said. He seated himself on the bench so as to face her, and doffing his hat, held it between his face and the sun. He was not, we know, very amenable to the charms of women, and he saw in her no more than a girl of rustic breeding, comely and gentle, and something commonplace, but a good sister whose aid with her brother he needed. “I am going to tell you,” he said; “because I am anxious to meet your brother again and to talk with him.”

  She continued to meet his eyes, but her own were clouded. “On what subject,” she asked, “if I am not too curious?”

  “The Crocans.”

  On her guard as she was, the word put her out of countenance. She could not hide, and after one half-hearted attempt did not try to hide, her dismay. “The Crocans?” she said. “But why do you come to me?” her colour coming and going. “What have we to do with them, if you please? Or my brother?”

  “He has been banished from his home for some offence,” the Lieutenant answered quietly. “Your father forbids the mention of the name Crocans. It is reasonable to infer that the offence is connected with them, and, in a word, that your brother has done what any young man with generous instincts and a love of adventure might do. He has joined them. I do not blame him.”

  “You do not blame
him?” she murmured. Never had she heard such words of the Crocans — except from her brother. “You mean that?”

  “I say it and mean it,” the Lieutenant replied. But he spoke without emotion, emotion was not his forte. “Nor am I alone,” he went on, “in holding such opinions. But the point, mademoiselle, is this. I wish to find a means of communicating with them, and he can and probably will be willing to aid me. For certain, if the worst comes to the worst, I can aid him.”

  Bonne’s heart beat rapidly. She did not — she told herself that she did not distrust him. Had it been her own secret he was seeking she would have delivered it to him freely. But the manner in which he had borne himself while he thought himself alone, the possession of the map, and the shrewdness with which he had traced her brother’s movement and surprised a secret that was still a secret from the household, frightened her. And her very inexperience made her pause.

  “But first, I take it, you need his aid?” she murmured.

  “I wish to speak with him.”

  “Have you seen my father?”

  He opened his eyes and bent a little nearer. “Do you mean, mademoiselle — —”

  “I mean only,” she said gently, “that if you express to him the views on the Crocans which you have just expressed to me, your opportunities of seeing my brother will be scant.”

  He laughed. “I have not opened them to him,” he said. “I have seen him, and whether he thinks that he was a little more exigent last night than the danger required, or he desires to prove to me that midnight alarms are not the rule at Villeneuve, he has not given me notice to go. His invitation to remain is not, perhaps,” he smiled slightly, “of the warmest. But if you, mademoiselle, will second it — —”

  She muttered — not without a blush — that it would give her pleasure. And he proceeded, “Then no difficulty on that point will arise.”

  She stooped lower over her work. What was she to do? He wanted that which she had decided she must not give him. Just that! What was she to do?

  She was so long in answering, that he dubbed her awkward and mannerless. And thought it a pity, too; for she was a staunch sister, and had shown herself resourceful; and in repose her face, though brown and sunburnt, was not without grace. He came to the point. “May I count on you for this?” he asked bluntly.

  “For — what?”

  “That as soon as you can you will bring me face to face with your brother?”

  She looked up and met his gaze. “As soon as I think it safe to do so,” she said, “I will. You may depend on me.”

  He had not divined her doubt, nor did he discern her quibble. Still, “Could I not go to him to-day?” he said. “If he is still in the neighbourhood?”

  She shook her head. “I do not know where he is,” she answered, glad that she could say so much with truth. “But if he show himself, and it be safe, I will let you know. Roger — —”

  “Ha! To be sure, Roger may know?”

  She smiled. “Roger and I are one,” she said. “You must not expect to get from him what I do not give.” She said it naïvely, with just so much of a smile as showed her at her best, and he hastened to say that he left himself in her hands. She blushed through her sunburn at that, but clung to her quibble, telling herself that this was a stranger, the other a brother, and that if she destroyed Charles she could never forgive herself.

  He saw that she was disturbed, and he changed the subject. “You have always lived here?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she answered, “but I can remember when things were different with us. We were not always so broken. Before Coutras — but,” with a faint smile, “you have heard my father on that, and will not wish to hear me.”

  “The Vicomte was present at the battle?”

  “Yes, he was in the centre of the Catholic army with the Duke of Joyeuse. He escaped with his life. But we lay in the path of the pursuit after the flight, and they sacked the house, and burned the hamlet by the ford — the one you passed — and the two farms in the bend of the river — the two behind you. They swept off every four-legged thing, every horse, and cow, and sheep, and left us bare. One of the servants who resisted was killed, and — and my mother died of the shock.”

  She broke off with an uncontrollable shiver. She was silent. After a pause, “Perhaps you were at Coutras, M. des Voeux?” she said, looking up.

  “I was not of the party who sacked your house,” he answered gravely.

  She knew then that he had fought on the other side; and she admired him for the tact with which he made it known to her. He was a soldier then. She wondered, as she bent over her work, if he had fought elsewhere, and under whom, and with what success. Had he prospered or sunk? He called himself a poor gentleman of Brittany, but that might have been his origin only, he might be something more now.

  In the earnestness of her thoughts she turned her eyes on his ring, and she blushed brightly when with a quick, almost rude movement he hid his hand. “I beg your pardon!” she murmured. “I was not thinking.”

  “It is I should beg yours,” he said quietly. “It is only that I do not want you to come to a false conclusion. This ring — in a word I wear it, but the arms are not mine. That is all.”

  “Does that apply also,” she asked, looking at him ingenuously, “to the pistols you carry, M. des Voeux? Or should I address you — for I saw last evening that they bore a duke’s coronet — as your Grace?”

  He laughed gaily. “They are mine, but I am not a duke,” he said.

  “Nor are you M. des Voeux?”

  Her acuteness surprised him. “I am afraid, mademoiselle,” he said, “that you have a mind to exalt me into a hero of romance — whether I will or no.”

  She bent over her work to hide her face. “A duke gave them to you, I suppose?” she said.

  “That is so,” he replied sedately.

  “Did you save his life?”

  “I did not.”

  “I have heard,” she returned, looking up thoughtfully, “that at Coutras a gentleman on the other side strove hard to save the Duke of Joyeuse’s life, and did not desist until he was struck down by his own men.”

  “He looked to make his account by him, no doubt,” the Lieutenant answered coldly. “Perhaps,” with a scarcely perceptible bitterness, “the Duke, had he lived, would have given him — a pair of pistols!”

  “That were a small return,” she said indignantly, “for such a service!”

  He shrugged his shoulders. And to change the subject —

  “What are the grey ruins,” he asked, “on the edge of the wood?”

  “They are part of the old Abbey,” she answered without looking up, “afterwards removed to Vlaye, of which my sister is Abbess. There was a time, I believe, when the convent stood so close to the house that it was well-nigh one with it. There was some disorder, I believe, and the Diocesan obtained leave to have it moved, and it was planted on lands that belonged to us at that time.”

  “Near Vlaye?”

  “Within half a league of it.”

  “Your sister, then, is acquainted with the Captain of Vlaye?”

  She did not look up. “Yes,” she said.

  “But you and your brothers?”

  “We know him and hate him — only less than we fear him!” She regretted her vehemence the moment she had spoken.

  But he merely nodded. “So do the Crocans, I fancy,” he said. “It is rumoured that he is preparing something against them.”

  “You know that?” she exclaimed in surprise.

  “Without being omniscient,” he answered smiling. “I heard it in Barbesieux. It was that, perhaps,” he continued shrewdly, “which you wished to tell your brother yesterday.”

  On that she was near confessing all to him and telling him, in spite of her resolutions, where on the next day he could find her brother. But she clung to her decision, and a minute later he rose and moved away in the direction of the house.

  When they met at table the mystery of the Vicomte’s sudd
en impulse to hospitality, which was something of a puzzle to her, began to clear.

  It had its origin in nothing more substantial than his vanity; which was tickled by the opportunity of talking to a man who, with some pretensions to gentility, could be patronised. A little, too, he thought of the figure he had made the night before. It was possible that the stranger had been unfavourably impressed. That impression the Vicomte thought he must remove, and to that end he laboured, after his manner, to be courteous to his guest. But as his talk consisted, and had long consisted, of little but sneers and gibes at the companions of his fallen fortunes, his civility found its only vent in this direction.

  Des Ageaux indeed would gladly have had less of his civility. More than once — though he was not fastidious — his cheek coloured with shame, and willingly would he, had that been all, have told the Vicomte what he thought of his witticisms. But he had his cards sorted, his course arranged. Circumstances had played for him in the dangerous game on which he was embarked, and he would have been unworldly indeed had he been willing to cast away, for a point of feeling — he who was no knight-errant — the advantages he had gained.

  Not that he did not feel strongly for the two whose affection for one another touched him. Roger’s deformity appealed to him, for he fancied that he detected in the lad a spirit which those who knew him better, but knew only his gentler side, did not suspect. And the girl who had grown from child to woman in the rustic stillness of this moated house — that once had rung with the tread of armed heels and been gay with festive robes and tourneys, but now was sinking fast into a lonely farmstead — she too awakened some interest in the man of the world, who smiled to find himself embedded for the time in a life so alien from his every-day experiences. Concern he felt for the one and the other; but such concern as weighed light in the balance against the interests he held in his hands, or even against his own selfish interest.

  It soon appeared that the Vicomte had another motive for hospitality, in the desire to dazzle the stranger by the splendours of his eldest daughter, on whom he continued to harp. “There is still one of us,” he said with senile vanity— “I doubt if, from the specimens you have seen, you will believe it — who is not entirely as God made her! Thank the Lord for that! Who is neither clod nor clout, sir, but has as much fashion as goes to the making of a modest gentlewoman.”