CHAPTERCXXVII.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 dearM.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.
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 dearM.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.