Читать книгу Mr. Rowl - Pemberton Max - Страница 10

Table of Contents

The Bassa was carried in chains to Constantinople, and his name was mentioned no more.—Rasselas, chap. xxiv.

Fragments of a correspondence exchanged at the end of March, 1813.

From Miss Laetitia Bentley to the Hon. Juliana Forrest

Northover, March 24

My dearest Juliana, when she pays her promised visit to Northover next month will, I feel sure, sadly miss one agreeable presence from our little gatherings and one very pleasing voice from our musical diversions, and she will be distressed at the reason for it. Captain des Sablières, sad to say, has been sent as a prisoner to the dépôt at Norman Cross in Huntingdonshire, for breaking his parole under some mysterious circumstances which Mr. Bannister will not reveal, but which are given out to be particularly discreditable. Your Laetitia cannot believe this latter charge, nor Papa either, who says, however, that since Mr. Bannister is a perfectly honest man, and was formerly very well disposed towards M. des Sablières, it is clear that the latter must have committed some breach of the parole regulations. It is said that he had all but completed his arrangements for escaping. If that should be so, how were we deceived in him! But no—I do not, will not, credit it!

. . . . Is it true that everything in London at present is à la Russe, and have you, my Juliana, observed any real élégantes wearing the hair, in evening or opera dress, “flat on the sides, and in waved curls in front, and confined in full curls at the back of the head, with an apparent stray ringlet falling on one shoulder,” as I have read is the mode? Pray be sure to bring back all the fashionable intelligence of this kind. . . .

From the Hon. Juliana Forrest to

Sir Francis Mulholland, Bart.

Grosvenor Square, March 27, 1813.

My Dear Francis:

I am greatly distressed to hear that M. des Sablières has been sent to Norman Cross prison for breaking his parole, since I cannot but connect it with his coming to my rescue in Fawley Copse, as I described to you. But surely he could not have been convicted for an act so plainly one of chivalry—yet still less can I imagine his having transgressed the obligations of his parole. I am deeply uneasy about the whole matter, and implore you to relieve my anxiety.

From Sir Francis Mulholland to the Hon. Juliana Forrest

Mulholland Park, March 30, 1813.

My Dearest Juliana:

Sorry as I am to lower the high opinion in which I know you hold M. des Sablières, I must, as you urge me, tell you the truth of the matter—or at least so much of it as is known to me. It was not his having gone to your assistance in Fawley Copse (which could, in the circumstances, easily have been overlooked) that was the cause of his committal to Norman Cross, but a much more serious happening which came to light immediately after your departure. Bannister refuses to reveal the circumstances, but as far as I can gather, they must be very black: it is generally understood that the Frenchman had all but completed the arrangements for his escape when they were discovered.

I look back, my dear Juliana, with regret to the thought that we could ever have had a difference of opinion over so unworthy an object, nor do I wish to lay stress on the fact that it is not I who am proved wrong by the sequel. You will, I am sure, be glad now that you gave me your promise that last evening here not to say a word to any one of your encounter with the tramp: as much as I myself will you wish to preserve your name from association with that of a man who has violated his word of honour.

You cannot guess how I count the days till your arrival at Northover, where, I hope, Miss Bentley will not find me too assiduous a visitor. . . .

Spring was a fact, not a promise, when Juliana came back to Wanfield, and Northover welcomed her with pear and apple blossom. As for Laetitia, she and her dearest friend might have been parted for a year instead of a month, so rapturous was her greeting. Sir Francis Mulholland’s also was everything which a young lady could desire of her swain, and when he paid his first visit to Northover the day after Juliana’s arrival, Laetitia thought him strangely improved in manner, and commented upon the fact to her Papa, who opined that somehow or other Miss Juliana, when last at Wanfield, had given him a fright, and that he was walking delicately in consequence.

It was true that Sir Francis had need to walk delicately, but it was more on account of his own actions than of Juliana’s. He had been—he was still—playing a terribly risky game, but he had taken precautions.

When, on returning to Mulholland Park that evening after laying information against des Sablières, he heard from Juliana herself the reason of the Frenchman’s rushing up to the copse, he was greatly chagrined, both by the check to his newly formed plan of getting rid of him, and by Juliana’s openly displayed gratitude and admiration for his timely succour. On top of this—for it did not take much to bring out what Miss Juliana had always half intended that he should know . . . for his own good . . . came the stunning intelligence that she had previously met her rescuer, by appointment, at the bridge.

The shock convinced her betrothed that his apprehensions were far from being idle. Drastic action was absolutely necessary now. But he behaved to the transgressor with a circumspection of which he was afterwards to reap the reward. By the exercise of really praiseworthy self-control he contrived to avoid making a scene over this mortifying discovery, confining himself to pointing out the patent results of having returned home unescorted. And Juliana, worked upon by this moderation as she would never have been by reproaches, admitted to having been at least foolish, and gave her affianced without much difficulty the promise that she would not only abstain from mentioning the clandestine meeting even to Laetitia Bentley, but that the tramp episode also should be buried in deep oblivion. For she was sufficiently ashamed now of the one and shaken by the other to agree that it was not desirable to have her name coupled in Wanfield gossip with her rescuer’s, since blame might thereby accrue to Sir Francis, who certainly could not with justice be accused of having willingly let her return home unescorted.

After this interview Sir Francis spent a good part of the night weighing the risks of the all-too-tempting course open to him; and, with this revelation of Juliana’s self-will before him, decided to take them. It was quite useless for her to declare (as she had done) that the Frenchman had not attempted in the slightest degree to make love to her, or that he was not jointly responsible, at the very least, for the meeting; Sir Francis simply did not believe her. Yet without Juliana’s early departure next morning he could hardly have carried through his unscrupulous design. His one really uncomfortable moment in Bannister’s office was when his victim threatened to call a witness of Miss Forrest’s whereabouts; but, since he did not do it, and Juliana had said nothing of any one having seen them together, Sir Francis decided that this threat was mere bravado. Bannister’s mouth he subsequently shut by the very reasonable-sounding request that he would abstain from mentioning in Wanfield the ground on which des Sablières had been sent to prison, because Miss Forrest’s name had been brought—though unjustifiably—into the affair. The one risk against which it was impossible to guard was that of the Frenchman’s writing from prison to Juliana in person and asking her to corroborate his challenged statement; indeed, it was not until Sir Francis received Juliana’s own letter of enquiry that he knew for certain that this had not happened.

After that it remained only to provide against Juliana herself making inconvenient investigations at Wanfield on her return, and this, too, the ingenious gentleman had devised a means of preventing. He put his plan into practice when, on the third day of her stay at Northover, she drove, with Laetitia Bentley, to call on Mrs. Mulholland, bearing with her for the old lady a large shawl of Siberian wool edged with sealskin.

Juliana’s future home, which stood upon an eminence, had been Grecianized and stuccoed over at the end of the last century, and one looked from between an intolerable number of pillars down a good mile or so of park-like distance which included fallow deer. The other two ladies tactfully remaining in the drawing-room (from which indeed Mrs. Mulholland rarely stirred), Sir Francis drew his betrothed through the pillars on to the terrace.

“You have very much improved the view from here since I last saw it, Francis,” remarked Juliana with appreciation.

“I am so glad that you think so, my dearest. I hoped it would please you.” He took her hand and carried it tenderly to his lips.

He was to-day much more the man who had swept her off her feet in January, strong, self-confident, handsome, smiling, yet lover-like, and as she looked at him Juliana began to feel that she had been unduly hard on him that afternoon in the Chinese room at Northover, that it was she, perhaps, who had exaggerated his care and devotion into jealousy. He had behaved so well over the test—Fawley Bridge!

But what of her companion that day by the stream? Her face clouded. Sir Francis, watching it, felt that he knew on what subject she was about to embark, and welcomed the topic, for the finishing stroke had to be put to his own security.

He was right. “Francis,” she said in a troubled voice, sinking down on a stone seat which faced the view, “this sad business about Monsieur des Sablières? I cannot believe what is said of him! I want to go into the matter more fully—I want you to institute enquiries. I am certain there is a mistake somewhere. Yet you told me in your letter that Mr. Bannister will not say a word, and Mr. Bentley, I find, knows nothing, distressed as he is about the affair. And you know nothing. . . . But I am determined to find out. You must recognize that gratitude alone——”

“Oh, yes, my dear, I recognize that, and I quite agree with you,” said the follower of Machiavelli. “But since I wrote to you Bannister has told me the story—the whole story. My lips, however, are unfortunately sealed, even to you, Juliana, for it involves the honour of someone of consequence.” (He was not referring to himself, but to some entirely mythical personage.) “No good to des Sablières, I assure you, could come of investigation, and it would only bring shame on this other person—if you succeeded, that is. So I implore you, my dear one, to give up the attempt.”

This man, the lover of four months ago, she would listen to, and so she looked at him mutely, impressed, and with no thought of doubting what he said.

“You realize, Juliana, do you not,” he went on gently, “that des Sablières, who was undoubtedly a favourite of Bannister’s and had received privileges from him, would never have been sent off to a prison without strong proof of his guilt?”

“And you know the story,” said Juliana slowly, looking at him as if she only wished she could read it on his face. “Can you not assure me, at least, that it was not very disgraceful—from M. des Sablières’ point of view?”

How she fought for him! But the shade of Machiavelli inspired Sir Francis to his best stroke. Instead of replying, in the style of Mr. Ramage, that it was disgraceful, scandalous and disgraceful, he said temperately: “I suppose, Juliana, that one must make allowances for a poor devil of a prisoner who is tempted to regain his liberty at the price of his honour. Perhaps we, who are perfectly free, have not the right to blame him very much.”

Juliana Forrest sighed and looked away at the long vista, and her betrothed looked at her. The doubt had already begun to work, perhaps? If she thought the fellow had really behaved ill, he believed she had too much feeling for him (curse him!) ever to set to work to unveil the details of his misconduct.

“And the other man involved?” asked Juliana after a moment.

Sir Francis slightly smiled and shook his head. “I have given my word to Bannister that not a syllable shall pass my lips. You, surely, are not the woman to tempt me to break it, my Juliana? . . . Will you look at the new shrubbery before we go in again?”

She assented, and in the shrubbery allowed him to kiss her.

* * * * *

“Did you have an agreeable talk in the garden, Francis, you and dear Juliana?” quavered old Mrs. Mulholland when, some half hour later, her son returned from handing the ladies into the Northover barouche. “I thought the dear girl looked a little sad when she came in, but you seemed in such spirits that I daresay I was mistaken and I had mislaid my spectacles. . . . Dear Laetitia Bentley and I had such an interesting discussion about woolwork while you were out there.”

“We had a very satisfactory conversation indeed,” replied he, “and she quite approves of the new shrubbery.”

“Dear Juliana has very good taste,” rippled on Mrs. Mulholland, gazing fondly at her new acquisition. “This exquisite shawl—so warm, too! I wished to ask her if she liked my new cap, but I feared that it might be crooked and thought it better not to draw her attention to it.”

“It is certainly crooked now,” observed Sir Francis. “I will put it straight for you.” He did so, and gave his mother a kiss—a somewhat rare event. But when a man has just brought off a very delicate stroke of diplomacy, he is naturally rather expansive.

* * * * *

So Juliana became once more a part of the merry little gatherings at Northover which, as the weather grew warmer, tended to overflow from the drawing room and the pianoforte into the spring-decked garden. Another French officer or two had superseded Raoul des Sablières, whose name was practically never heard there now, for the discussion of the crop of black surmises raised by Mr. Bannister’s determined refusal to give even a hint of why he had been sent to prison was dying down by this time. Yet Juliana had declared to her friend that she did not believe one of the damaging conjectures which were repeated to her, had even declared it once or twice vehemently in public; after which she never spoke of the young Frenchman again. Only Laetitia noticed that on the day when young Mr. Curtis from Stoneleigh Manor sang “Since First I Saw Your Face” in her hearing she made an excuse and slipped from the room.

But inwardly Juliana still told herself that she never doubted there had been some misunderstanding; indeed she could not, illogically perhaps, quite rid herself of the feeling that after all the rush to her succour had had something to do with the business. But she could do nothing now, after what Francis had said. And perhaps there had come to “Mr. Rowl” some sudden violent temptation . . . he had said that day something significant about his inactivity . . . Francis, who knew the truth, had suggested that he should not be blamed overmuch . . . that was so generous of Francis . . . so different from Mr. Ramage, who on the same theme was intolerable. Knowing the sentiments of M. de Sainte-Suzanne on the subject of parole-breaking, she was careful never to mention Raoul’s name before him; but the topic of his disgrace did come up one day in the Comte’s presence, and he behaved in an unexpected and inscrutable manner, puzzling her not so much by what he said as by what he did not say.

Meanwhile there began to be talk of her wedding, some time in the autumn. It was to take place from her father’s house in Grosvenor Square. Every time she went over to Mulholland Park Mrs. Mulholland reconsulted her about her headgear for that occasion, and Juliana and her betrothed, in the new communion which seemed to have sprung up between them, smiled together over her anxiety.

* * * * *

The pear blossom fell; the apple blossom was at its zenith. In a certain wood not far from Wanfield were reported to be great quantities of bluebells; and there, on the twenty-eighth of April, the young people proposed to partake of a cold collation. Sir Francis Mulholland (on horseback) and Mr. Bentley were also to be of the party. But early on the morning of this expedition Juliana, who was without her maid, discovered that the dress which she designed to wear on this occasion was in need of a new tucker, and since there was plenty of time to supply this want, she and Laetitia ordered the barouche early and drove into Wanfield.

Just before they alighted from the carriage in the High Street Juliana observed a French naval officer salute Miss Bentley, and enquired who it was.

“It was Lieutenant Lamotte,” replied her friend. “I have met him at the Curtises. He lodges with Miss Hitchings—where poor M. des Sablières used to lodge.”

At the mention of that name Juliana’s face had clouded, but she said nothing, and in another moment they were descending at the door of the linen-draper’s shop. But, as they were on the point of entering, they heard hasty steps, and turning, saw the young Frenchman hurrying towards them.

“Miss Bentley,” said he in his own language, “I have a commission—that is, if this lady is Miss Forrest, as I think, and if you will be so obliging as to present me? The commission was entrusted to me by my comrade, Captain des Sablières, before his departure.”

Juliana coloured. Lieutenant Lamotte was presented, and thereupon addressed her directly.

“Captain des Sablières entrusted me, Mademoiselle, with an English book to return to you. If it is not improper, would you allow me to discharge the commission now . . . provided it would not be burdening you . . . for Mulholland Park is out of bounds for me.”

“But Miss Forrest is not——” began Laetitia, and was too much arrested by the expression on her friend’s face to finish.

“I lent M. des Sablières no book, Monsieur,” said Juliana slowly.

“But yes, Mademoiselle! You have forgotten your kindness. Rasselas, by the Doctor Johnson. If you will allow me—as I see that you are on the point of entering this shop—I will run meanwhile to my lodgings and get it and wait for you here.”

“Do, pray,” said Juliana. She was looking oddly grave and discomposed, and in the shop paid but small attention to the choice of a tucker.

When they emerged there was the young man awaiting them.

“This is the book, Mademoiselle. When Captain des Sablières came out of gaol he was allowed a short time in his room to get together his effects, and he charged me with it. I was to give it to you in person with the expression of his regrets that in so short a time he had not been able to finish reading it.”

Juliana, now colouring deeply, took the book. Why had Mr. Rowl returned it? She had given it to him to keep—he knew that. It surely was not possible that he felt himself unworthy?

“I suppose,” she said falteringly, “that M. des Sablières was not allowed to take his possessions with him to Norman Cross?”

“Oh, yes, Mademoiselle; he took what he had—it is true it was not much. I think this book, being your property, was the only thing he left behind . . . and he charged me most particularly to return it to you in person at the first opportunity.”

Juliana looked down at the little calf-bound volume, and was back nearly six weeks in time, and heard the stream ripple again and the thrush call, which he who had been with her then could hear no longer.

“And that was all the message?”

“Yes, Mademoiselle, that he regretted he could not finish the book in the time. In effect,” said M. Lamotte as if to excuse his compatriot, “he had only that one evening before he was sent to the gaol here.”

“Which evening was that?” asked Juliana quickly.

“The evening when, coming to sup with him, I found him deep in that book; and he told me that he had only just received it that afternoon. I remember observing the title—a strange one. And when I saw him again three days afterwards, under guard, he gave me the book for you, as I say.”

“He—he did not say then why he was being sent to Norman Cross?” asked Juliana with a beating heart.

“No, Mademoiselle. But I suppose it was for the same cause which had led Mr. Bannister to put him practically under arrest on the evening to which I was referring. Mr. Bannister had been to see him, and bade him not to leave the house; Captain des Sablières did not tell me why, only that it was on account of some misunderstanding which would be put right in the morning. Certainly it did not trouble him much that evening,” said Lieutenant Lamotte reminiscently. “But yet in the morning it was not put right.”

Fawley Copse . . . her rescue . . . Rasselas had been there, too . . . oh, was it Fawley Copse which had ruined him? “Oh, Monsieur, if you could but tell me which evening that was! Forgive me—but the exact date is so important! I—I know something which might help M. des Sablières to clear himself, for I have never believed that he broke his parole.”

“Nor I, Mademoiselle,” said the sailor simply. “And I do not need any effort to remember the date, as it happens. It was on the evening before the birthday of the King of Rome that des Sablières was confined to the house—Friday, the nineteenth of March. The birthday itself, which is on the twentieth, the poor des Sablières spent in gaol, but for a certain reason we had celebrated it the evening before, the nineteenth. I am quite certain of that, Mademoiselle.”

“The nineteenth of March—the Friday—the same day!” said Juliana, apparently speaking to herself. “So it had to do with that—it was not something which was discovered later! Thank you, Monsieur,” she added, “and forgive my questions. Your friend has had a great injustice done him; it must be put right at once!”

Her voice was firm, but she was very pale. Lieutenant Lamotte bowed and took himself off. Laetitia put her arm through her friend’s.

“What is the matter, dearest Juliana?” she asked anxiously. “You are unwell! Let us go back into the shop.”

But Juliana shook her head. Clutching Rasselas to her she said solemnly: “Letty, I shall never, never play with fire again! It is other people who get burnt. I am sure it is all my fault that he was sent to prison—but if it is I am going to repair it. Please desire your coachman to set us down at Mr. Bannister’s office without delay.”

Three quarters of an hour later the barouche was bearing back to Northover two very different damsels, not only from those who had set out upon that brief shopping expedition, but even from those who had entered the office of the astonished Agent to set right an injustice . . . and had discovered and fired a mine. Laetitia was frankly crying; Juliana, shivering with a strange inner cold, sat staring straight before her. It had needed only her initial remark to Mr. Bannister—“I fear it is on account of the service he rendered me that day in Fawley Copse that M. des Sablières got into difficulties with you?”—to bring down like a pack of cards all Sir Francis Mulholland’s elaborate edifice of lies. But the effect of the fall on Bannister and themselves had been like that of a landslide.

As they came in sight of the gates of Northover Laetitia dabbed her eyes.

“Oh, Juliana, what shall we do? We cannot go to the wood—at least, I feel too wretched . . . and what will Papa and everybody say if we do not?”

“I am going to the wood,” responded Juliana firmly. “I want to see . . . Sir Francis . . . at once. He joins us there, you remember. And you must come, Laetitia, because you must, if necessary, contrive an opportunity for me to see him alone. Do you understand? Pull your bonnet down a little, and perhaps no one will observe that you have been crying.”

Her resolution and self-command amazed the weaker spirit, who made haste, however, to obey her. Fortunately, they were so late—Mr. Bentley was already waiting on the doorstep, and two other carriages full of laughter and expostulations were in the drive—that there was no time for any one to notice discomposure, and if the two young men who drove with the just-returned young ladies observed anything unusual, they had perforce to keep their speculations to themselves.

The bluebells were even bluer and more numerous than had been expected, the collation was voted excellent, the weather perfect. But Sir Francis Mulholland, if no one else, noticed that his bride-to-be looked pale and distraite, and himself made the opportunity she wished for by suggesting, soon after the company had risen from their cold chicken and ham, that they should take a stroll to see more bluebells.

Juliana assented, but almost inaudibly, and she did not take his proffered arm. Side by side they walked away from the others.

“I am alarmed about you to-day, my love,” observed Sir Francis solicitously, as they went. “You are so pale; you tired yourself, I fear, by going into Wanfield, as I hear you did, this morning.”

The moment had come—so soon. Speech was not easy. Juliana fixed her eyes on the stump of a tree, and the words came out slowly and heavily. “Yes, I had a great shock in Wanfield this morning. . . . I do not imagine that, however long I live, I shall ever receive a greater.”

The colour left her lover’s face, too. “What were you doing in Wanfield?” he asked uneasily.

“I went to Mr. Bannister’s office.” She heard him give an inarticulate exclamation. “I do not need to tell you what I learnt there—what an incredible story of deceit, of mean revenge, came out.” She turned her beautiful, accusing eyes on him. “Francis, Francis, how could you do it—how could you descend to such inexpressible baseness!”

“Because you drove me to it!” he cried wildly. “You scorned my entreaties, my warnings! And what of your own deceit? After your meeting him like that at Fawley Bridge I had to get rid of him. And I did nothing so very blameworthy, after all; Norman Cross is the best of the war prisons . . . and he was a prisoner in any case; it cannot have done him much harm. If you had listened to me——”

The inward cold grew and spread till Juliana’s very heart seemed frozen with disgust. “Then, if I can drive you to such an act as knowingly to take away an innocent man’s honour, and to say that you have not hurt him—and to such monstrous lies to cover it—it is my duty as well as my wish to sever our relationship!” And she slipped the ruby from her finger. “Pray take back your ring, for our engagement is at an end.”

He would not take it, and finally it dropped between them among the croziers of the young fern. He blustered, he raved, he pleaded; he even went on his knees to her among the bracken and the bluebells. “Juliana, have mercy! It was because I loved you so . . . I’ll do anything—retract what I said, write to Norman Cross—”

“Mr. Bannister is already doing that!”

Sir Francis got to his feet; his face was patched and chalky. “I shall be ruined if this gets about!”

She surveyed him with deeper contempt. “And what of the man you have ruined?”

“It can be undone, Juliana—I swear I’ll reinstate him, whatever it costs! You don’t know how you maddened me. . . . For God’s sake, think better of it! Put that ring on again and I will never be jealous of you again in my life. . . . Where is the ring?” He stooped and began to fumble with shaking hands among the dead leaves and sand.

“Jealous!” exclaimed Juliana. “It is the lies, the subterfuges—the chain of subterfuges! . . . Why, I should never be able to believe a word you said to me as long as I lived. And once I thought . . . Oh, Francis, Francis——” The tears came over her own lost happiness, and the ideal figure she had been rebuilding—on a foundation of mud. And for the sake of what she once had thought him she promised, before she left him, that in the rehabilitation of his victim he should be spared as much as possible, that she would ask Mr. Bannister to say locally that there had been a mistake . . . misunderstandings . . . anything to cover his disgraceful conduct. For she, too, felt humiliated to the dust.

And finally she went away from him rather stumblingly, and a little later was found by Mr. Bentley crying at the foot of an oak tree, and that good friend, after letting her finish on his shoulder, had the carriage brought up and sent her home alone with Laetitia, on the plea of sudden illness.

But the ruby ring, after exercising the wits of a number of ants and beetles, was found next year by Zachary Miller as he was putting a ferret down a rabbit hole, and, cautiously disposed of at a distance, contributed not a little towards his marriage and the consequent begetting of a number of assistants and successors to carry on his activities in the Mulholland woods and elsewhere.