Tremayne elbowed his way through the gorgeous crowd, exchanging greetings here and there as he went, and so reached the ballroom during a pause in the dancing. He looked round for Lady O’Moy, but he could see her nowhere, and would never have found her had not Carruthers pointed out a knot of officers and assured him that the lady was in the heart of it and in imminent peril of being suffocated.
Thither the captain bent his steps, looking neither to right nor left in his singleness of purpose. Thus it happened that he saw neither O’Moy, who had just arrived, nor the massive, decorated bulk of Marshal Beresford, with whom the adjutant stood in conversation on the skirts of the throng that so assiduously worshipped at her ladyship’s shrine.
Captain Tremayne went through the group with all a sapper’s skill at piercing obstacles, and so came face to face with the lady of his quest. Seeing her so radiant now, with sparkling eyes and ready laugh, it was difficult to conceive her haunted by any such anxieties as Miss Armytage had mentioned. Yet the moment she perceived him, as if his presence acted as a reminder to lift her out of the delicious present, something of her gaiety underwent eclipse.
Child of impulse that she was, she gave no thought to her action and the construction it might possibly bear in the minds of men chagrined and slighted.
“Why, Ned,” she cried, “you have kept me waiting.” And with a complete and charming ignoring of the claims of all who had been before him, and who were warring there for precedence of one another, she took his arm in token that she yielded herself to him before even the honour was so much as solicited.
With nods and smiles to right and left—a queen dismissing her court—she passed on the captain’s arm through the little crowd that gave way before her dismayed and intrigued, and so away.
O’Moy, who had been awaiting a favourable moment to present the marshal by the marshal’s own request, attempted to thrust forward now with Beresford at his side. But the bowing line of officers whose backs were towards him effectively barred his progress, and before they had broken up that formation her ladyship and her cavalier were out of sight, lost in the moving crowd.
The marshal laughed good-humouredly. “The infallible reward of patience,” said he. And O’Moy laughed with him. But the next moment he was scowling at what he overheard.
“On my soul, that was impudence!” an Irish infantryman had protested.
“Have you ever heard,” quoth a heavy dragoon, who was also a heavy jester, “that in heaven the last shall be first? If you pay court to an angel you must submit to celestial customs.”
“And bedad,” rejoined the infantryman, “as there’s no marryin’ in heaven ye’ve got to make the best of it with other men’s wives. Sure it’s a great success that fellow should be in paradise. Did ye remark the way she melted to him beauty swooning at the sight of temptation! Bad luck to him! Who is he at all?”
They dispersed laughing and followed by O’Moy’s scowling eyes. It annoyed him that his wife’s thoughtless conduct should render her the butt of such jests as these, and perhaps a subject for lewd gossip. He would speak to her about it later. Meanwhile the marshal had linked arms with him.
“Since the privilege must be postponed,” said he, “suppose that we seek supper. I have always found that a man can best heal in his stomach the wounds taken by his heart.” His fleshy bulk afforded a certain prima-facie confirmation of the dictum.
With a roll more suggestive of the quarter-deck than the saddle, the great man bore off O’Moy in quest of material consolation. Yet as they went the adjutant’s eyes raked the ballroom in quest of his wife. That quest, however, was unsuccessful, for his wife was already in the garden.
“I want to talk to you most urgently, Ned. Take me somewhere where we can be quite private,” she had begged the captain. “Somewhere where there is no danger of being overheard.”
Her agitation, now uncontrolled, suggested to Tremayne that the matter might be far more serious and urgent than Miss Armytage had represented it. He thought first of the balcony where he had lately been. But then the balcony opened immediately from the ante-room and was likely at any moment to be invaded. So, since the night was soft and warm, he preferred the garden. Her ladyship went to find a wrap, then arm in arm they passed out, and were lost in the shadows of an avenue of palm-trees.
“It is about Dick,” she said breathlessly.
“I know—Miss Armytage told me.”
“What did she tell you?”
“That you had a premonition that he might come to you for assistance.”
“A premonition!” Her ladyship laughed nervously. “It is more than a premonition, Ned. He has come.”
The captain stopped in his stride, and stood quite still.
“Come?” he echoed. “Dick?”
“Sh!” she warned him, and sank her voice from very instinct. “He came to me this evening, half an hour before we left home. I have put him in an alcove adjacent to my dressing-room for the present.”
“You have left him there?” He was alarmed.
“Oh, there’s no fear. No one ever goes there except Bridget. And I have locked the alcove. He’s fast asleep. He was asleep before I left. The poor fellow was so worn and weary.” Followed details of his appearance and a recital of his wanderings so far as he had made them known to her. “And he was so insistent that no one should know, not even Terence.”
“Terence must not know,” he said gravely.
“You think that too!”
“If Terence knows—well, you will regret it all the days of your life, Una.”
He was so stern, so impressive, that she begged for explanation. He afforded it. “You would be doing Terence the utmost cruelty if you told him. You would be compelling him to choose between his honour and his concern for you. And since he is the very soul of honour, he must sacrifice you and himself, your happiness and his own, everything that makes life good for you both, to his duty.”
She was aghast, for all that she was far from understanding. But he went on relentlessly to make his meaning clear, for the sake of O’Moy as much as for her own—for the sake of the future of these two people who were perhaps his dearest friends. He saw in what danger of shipwreck their happiness now stood, and he took the determination of clearly pointing out to her every shoal in the water through which she must steer her course.
“Since this has happened, Una, you must be told the whole truth; you must listen, and, above all, be reasonable. I am Dick’s friend, as I am your own and Terence’s. Your father was my best friend, perhaps, and my gratitude to him is unbounded, as I hope you know. You and Dick are almost as brother and sister to me. In spite of this—indeed, because of this, I have prayed for news that Dick was dead.”
Her grasp interrupted him, and he felt the tightening clutch of her hands upon his arm in the gloom.
“I have prayed this for Dick’s sake, and more than all for the sake of your happiness and Terence’s. If Dick is taken the choice before Terence is a tragic one. You will realise it when I tell you that duty forced him to pledge his word to the Portuguese Government that Dick should be shot when found.”
“Oh!” It was a gasp of horror, of incredulity. She loosed his arm and drew away from him. “It is infamous! I can’t believe it. I can’t.”
“It is true. I swear it to you. I was present, and I heard.”
“And you allowed it?”
“What could I do? How could I interfere? Besides, the minister who demanded that undertaking knew nothing of the relationship between O’Moy and this missing officer.”
“But—but he could have been told.”
“That would have made no difference—unless it were to create fresh difficulties.”
She stood there ghostly white against the gloom. A dry sob broke from her. “Terence did that! Terence did that!” she moaned. And then in a surge of anger: “I shall never speak to Terence again. I shall not live with him another day. It was infamous! Infamous!”
“It was not infamous. It was almost noble, almost heroic,” he amazed her. “Listen, Una, and try to understand.” He took her arm again and drew her gently on down that avenue of moonlight-fretted darkness.
“Oh, I understand,” she cried bitterly. “I understand perfectly. He has always been hard on Dick! He has always made mountains out of molehills where Dick was concerned. He forgets that Dick is young a mere boy. He judges Dick from the standpoint of his own sober middle age. Why, he’s an old man—a wicked old man!”
Thus her rage, hurling at O’Moy what in the insolence of her youth seemed the last insult.
“You are very unjust, Una. You are even a little stupid,” he said, deeming the punishment necessary and salutary.
“Stupid! I stupid! I have never been called stupid before.”
“But you have undoubtedly deserved to be,” he assured her with perfect calm.
It took her aback by its directness, and for a moment left her without an answer. Then: “I think you had better leave me,” she told him frostily. “You forget yourself.”
“Perhaps I do,” he admitted. “That is because I am more concerned to think of Dick and Terence and yourself. Sit down, Una.”
They had reached a little circle by a piece of ornamental water, facing which a granite-hewn seat had been placed. She sank to it obediently, if sulkily.
“It may perhaps help you to understand what Terence has done when I tell you that in his place, loving Dick as I do, I must have pledged myself precisely as he did or else despised myself for ever. And being pledged, I must keep my word or go in the same self-contempt.” He elaborated his argument by explaining the full circumstances under which the pledge had been exacted. “But be in no doubt about it,” he concluded. “If Terence knows of Dick’s presence at Monsanto he has no choice. He must deliver him up to a firing party—or to a court-martial which will inevitably sentence him to death, no matter what the defence that Dick may urge. He is a man prejudged, foredoomed by the necessities of war. And Terence will do this although it will break his heart and ruin all his life. Understand me, then, that in enjoining you never to allow Terence to suspect that Dick is present, I am pleading not so much for you or for Dick, but for Terence himself—for it is upon Terence that the hardest and most tragic suffering must fall. Now do you understand?”
“I understand that men are very stupid,” was her way of admitting it.
“And you see that you were wrong in judging Terence as you did?”
“I—I suppose so.”
She didn’t understand it all. But since Tremayne was so insistent she supposed there must be something in his point of view. She had been brought up in the belief that Ned Tremayne was common sense incarnate; and although she often doubted it—as you may doubt the dogmas of a religion in which you have been bred—yet she never openly rebelled against that inculcated faith. Above all she wanted to cry. She knew that it would be very good for her. She had often found a singular relief in tears when vexed by things beyond her understanding. But she had to think of that flock of gallants in the ballroom waiting to pay court to her and of her duty towards them of preserving her beauty unimpaired by the ravages of a vented sorrow.
Tremayne sat down beside her. “So now that we understand each other on that score, let us consider ways and means to dispose of Dick.”
At once she was uplifted and became all eagerness.
“Yes, Yes. You will help me, Ned?”
“You can depend upon me to do all in human power.”
He thought rapidly, and gave voice to some of his thoughts. “If I could I would take him to my lodgings at Alcantara. But Carruthers knows him and would see him there. So that is out of the question. Then again it is dangerous to move him about. At any moment he might be seen and recognised.”
“Hardly recognised,” she said. “His beard disguises him, and his dress—” She shuddered at the very thought of the figure he had cut, he, the jaunty, dandy Richard Butler.
“That is something, of course,” he agreed. And then asked: “How long do you think that you could keep him hidden?”
“I don’t know. You see, there’s Bridget. She is the only danger, as she has charge of my dressing-room.”
“It may be desperate, but—Can you trust her?”
“Oh, I am sure I can. She is devoted to me; she would do anything—”
“She must be bought as well. Devotion and gain when linked together will form an unbreakable bond. Don’t let us be stingy, Una. Take her into your confidence boldly, and promise her a hundred guineas for her silence—payable on the day that Dick leaves the country.”
“But how are we to get him out of the country?”
“I think I know a way. I can depend on Marcus Glennie. I may tell him the whole truth and the identity of our man, or I may not. I must think about that. But, whatever I decide, I am sure I can induce Glennie to take our fugitive home in the Telemachus and land him safely somewhere in Ireland, where he will have to lose himself for awhile. Perhaps for Glennie’s sake it will be safer not to disclose Dick’s identity. Then if there should be trouble later, Glennie, having known nothing of the real facts, will not be held responsible. I will talk to him to-night.”
“Do you think he will consent?” she asked in strained anxiety—anxiety to have her anxieties dispelled.
“I am sure he will. I can almost pledge my word on it. Marcus would do anything to serve me. Oh, set your mind at rest. Consider the thing done. Keep Dick safely hidden for a week or so until the Telemachus is ready to sail—he mustn’t go on board until the last moment, for several reasons—and I will see to the rest.”
Under that confident promise her troubles fell from her, as lightly as they ever did.
“You are very good to me, Ned. Forgive me what I said just now. And I think I understand about Terence—poor dear old Terence.”
“Of course you do.” Moved to comfort her as he might have been moved to comfort a child, he flung his arm along the seat behind her, and patted her shoulder soothingly. “I knew you would understand. And not a word to Terence, not a word that could so much as awaken his suspicions. Remember that.”
“Oh, I shall.”
Fell a step upon the patch behind them crunching the gravel. Captain Tremayne, his arm still along the back of the seat, and seeming to envelop her ladyship, looked over her shoulder. A tall figure was advancing briskly. He recognised it even in the gloom by its height and gait and swing for O’Moy’s.
“Why, here is Terence,” he said easily—so easily, with such frank and obvious honesty of welcome, that the anger in which O’Moy came wrapped fell from him on the instant, to be replaced by shame.
“I have been looking for you everywhere, my dear,” he said to Una. “Marshal Beresford is anxious to pay you his respects before he leaves, and you have been so hedged about by gallants all the evening that it’s devil a chance he’s had of approaching you.” There was a certain constraint in his voice, for a man may not recover instantly from such feelings as those which had fetched him hot-foot down that path at sight of those two figures sitting so close and intimate, the young man’s arm so proprietorialy about the lady’s shoulders—as it seemed.
Lady O’Moy sprang up at once, with a little silvery laugh that was singularly care-free; for had not Tremayne lifted the burden entirely from her shoulders?
“You should have married a dowd,” she mocked him. “Then you’d have found her more easily accessible.”
“Instead of finding her dallying in the moonlight with my secretary,” he rallied back between good and ill humour. And he turned to Tremayne: “Damned indiscreet of you, Ned,” he added more severely. “Suppose you had been seen by any of the scandalmongering old wives of the garrison? A nice thing for Una and a nice thing for me, begad, to be made the subject of fly-blown talk over the tea-cups.”
Tremayne accepted the rebuke in the friendly spirit in which it appeared to be conveyed. “Sorry, O’Moy,” he said. “You’re quite right. We should have thought of it. Everybody isn’t to know what our relations are.” And again he was so manifestly honest and so completely at his ease that it was impossible to harbour any thought of evil, and O’Moy felt again the glow of shame of suspicions so utterly unworthy and dishonouring.
In a small room of Count Redondo’s palace, a room that had been set apart for cards, sat three men about a card-table. They were Count Samoval, the elderly Marquis of Minas, lean, bald and vulturine of aspect, with a deep-set eye that glared fiercely through a single eyeglass rimmed in tortoise-shell, and a gentleman still on the fair side of middle age, with a clear-cut face and iron-grey hair, who wore the dark green uniform of a major of Cacadores.
Considering his Portuguese uniform, it is odd that the low-toned, earnest conversation amongst them should have been conducted in French.
There were cards on the table; but there was no pretence of play. You might have conceived them a group of players who, wearied of their game, had relinquished it for conversation. They were the only tenants of the room, which was small, cedar-panelled and lighted by a girandole of sparkling crystal. Through the closed door came faintly from the distant ballroom the strains of the dance music.
With perhaps the single exception of the Principal Souza, the British policy had no more bitter opponent in Portugal than the Marquis of Minas. Once a member of the Council of Regency—before Souza had been elected to that body—he had quitted it in disgust at the British measures. His chief ground of umbrage had been the appointment of British officers to the command of the Portuguese regiments which formed the division under Marshal Beresford. In this he saw a deliberate insult and slight to his country and his countrymen. He was a man of burning and blinded patriotism, to whom Portugal was the most glorious nation in the world. He lived in his country’s splendid past, refusing to recognise that the days of Henry the Navigator, of Vasco da Gama, of Manuel the Fortunate—days in which Portugal had been great indeed among the nations of the Old World were gone and done with. He respected Britons as great merchants and industrious traders; but, after all, merchants and traders are not the peers of fighters on land and sea, of navigators, conquerors and civilisers, such as his countrymen had been, such as he believed them still to be. That the descendants of Gamas, Cunhas, Magalhaes and Albuquerques—men whose names were indelibly written upon the very face of the world—should be passed over, whilst alien officers lead been brought in to train and command the Portuguese legions, was an affront to Portugal which Minas could never forgive.
It was thus that he had become a rebel, withdrawing from a government whose supineness he could not condone. For a while his rebellion had been passive, until the Principal Souza had heated him in the fire of his own rage and fashioned him into an intriguing instrument of the first power. He was listening intently now to the soft, rapid speech of the gentleman in the major’s uniform.
“Of course, rumours had reached the Prince of this policy of devastation,” he was saying, “but his Highness has been disposed to treat these rumours lightly, unable to see, as indeed are we all, what useful purpose such a policy could finally serve. He does not underrate the talents of milord Wellington as a commander. He does not imagine that he would pursue such operations out of pure wantonness; yet if such operations are indeed being pursued, what can they be but wanton? A moment, Count,” he stayed Samoval, who was about to interrupt. His mind and manner were authoritative. “We know most positively from the Emperor’s London agents that the war is unpopular in England; we know that public opinion is being prepared for a British retreat, for the driving of the British into the sea, as must inevitably happen once Monsieur le Prince decides to launch his bolt. Here in the Tagus the British fleet lies ready to embark the troops, and the British Cabinet itself” (he spoke more slowly and emphatically) “expects that embarkation to take place at latest in September, which is just about the time that the French offensive should be at its height and the French troops under the very walls of Lisbon. I admit that by this policy of devastation if, indeed, it be true—added to a stubborn contesting of every foot of ground, the French advance may be retarded. But the process will be costly to Britain in lives and money.”
“And more costly still to Portugal,” croaked the Marquis of Minas.
“And, as you, say, Monsieur le Marquis, more costly still to Portugal. Let me for a moment show you another side of the picture. The French administration, so sane, so cherishing, animated purely by ideas of progress, enforcing wise and beneficial laws, making ever for the prosperity and well-being of conquered nations, knows how to render itself popular wherever it is established. This Portugal knows already—or at least some part of it. There was the administration of Soult in Oporto, so entirely satisfactory to the people that it was no inconsiderable party was prepared, subject to the Emperor’s consent, to offer him the crown and settle down peacefully under his rule. There was the administration of Junot in Lisbon. I ask you: when was Lisbon better governed?
“Contrast, for a moment, with these the present British administration—for it amounts to an administration. Consider the burning grievances that must be left behind by this policy of laying the country waste, of pauperising a million people of all degrees, driving them homeless from the lands on which they were born, after compelling them to lend a hand in the destruction of all that their labour has built up through long years. If any policy could better serve the purposes of France, I know it not. The people from here to Beira should be ready to receive the French with open arms, and to welcome their deliverance from this most costly and bitter British protection.
“Do you, Messieurs, detect a flaw in these arguments?”
Both shook their heads.
“Bien!” said the major of Portuguese Cacadores. “Then we reach one or two only possible conclusions: either these rumours of a policy of devastation which have reached the Prince of Esslingen are as utterly false as he believes them to be, or—”
“To my cost I know them to be true, as I have already told you,” Samoval interrupted bitterly.
“Or,” the major persisted, raising a hand to restrain the Count, “or there is something further that has not been yet discovered—a mystery the enucleation of which will shed light upon all the rest. Since you assure me, Monsieur le Comte, that milord Wellington’s policy is beyond doubt, as reported to Monsieur, le Marechal, it but remains to address ourselves to the discovery of the mystery underlying it. What conclusions have you reached? You, Monsieur de Samoval, have had exceptional opportunities of observation, I understand.”
“I am afraid my opportunities have been none so exceptional as you suppose,” replied Samoval, with a dubious shake of his sleek, dark head. “At one time I founded great hopes in Lady O’Moy. But Lady O’Moy is a fool, and does not enjoy her husband’s confidence in official matters. What she knows I know. Unfortunately it does not amount to very much. One conclusion, however, I have reached: Wellington is preparing in Portugal a snare for Massena’s army.”
“A snare? Hum!” The major pursed his full lips into a smile of scorn. “There cannot be a trap with two exits, my friend. Massena enters Portugal at Almeida and marches to Lisbon and the open sea. He may be inconvenienced or hampered in his march; but its goal is certain. Where, then, can lie the snare? Your theory presupposes an impassable barrier to arrest the French when they are deep in the country and an overwhelming force to cut off their retreat when that barrier is reached. The overwhelming force does not exist and cannot be manufactured; as for the barrier, no barrier that it lies within human power to construct lies beyond French power to over-stride.”
“I should not make too sure of that,” Samoval warned him. “And you have overlooked something.”
The major glanced at the Count sharply and without satisfaction. He accounted himself—trained as he had been under the very eye of the great Emperor—of some force in strategy and tactics, a player too well versed in the game to overlook the possible moves of an opponent.
“Ha!” he said, with the ghost of a sneer. “For instance, Monsieur le Comte?”
“The overwhelming force exists,” said Samoval.
“Where is it then? Whence has it been created? If you refer to the united British and Portuguese troops, you will be good enough to bear in mind that they will be retreating before the Prince. They cannot at once be before and behind him.”
The man’s cool assurance and cooler contempt of Samoval’s views stung the Count into some sharpness.
“Are you seeking information, sir, or are you bestowing it?” he inquired.
“Ah! Your pardon, Monsieur le Comte. I inquire of course. I put forward arguments to anticipate conditions that may possibly be erroneous.”
Samoval waived the point. “There is another force besides the British and Portuguese troops that you have left out of your calculations.”
“And that?” The major was still faintly incredulous.
“You should remember what Wellington obviously remembers: that a French army depends for its sustenance upon the country it is invading. That is why Wellington is stripping the French line of penetration as bare of sustenance as this card-table. If we assume the existence of the barrier—an impassable line of fortifications encountered within many marches of the frontier—we may also assume that starvation will be the overwhelming force that will cut off the French retreat.”
The other’s keen eyes flickered. For a moment his face lost its assurance, and it was Samoval’s turn to smile. But the major made a sharp recovery. He slowly shook his iron-grey head.
“You have no right to assume an impassable barrier. That is an inadmissible hypothesis. There is no such thing as a line of fortifications impassable to the French.”
“You will pardon me, Major, but it is yourself have no right to your own assumptions. Again you overlook something. I will grant that technically what you say is true. No fortifications can be built that cannot be destroyed—given adequate power, with which it is yet to prove that Massena not knowing what may await him, will be equipped.
“But let us for a moment take so much for granted, and now consider this: fortifications are unquestionably building in the region of Torres Vedras, and Wellington guards the secret so jealously that not even the British—either here or in England—are aware of their nature. That is why the Cabinet in London takes for granted an embarkation in September. Wellington has not even taken his Government into his confidence. That is the sort of man he is. Now these fortifications have been building since last October. Best part of eight months have already gone in their construction. It may be another two or three months before the French army reaches them. I do not say that the French cannot pass them, given time. But how long will it take the French to pull down what it will have taken ten or eleven months to construct? And if they are unable to draw sustenance from a desolate, wasted country, what time will they have at their disposal? It will be with them a matter of life or death. Having come so far they must reach Lisbon or perish; and if the fortifications can delay them by a single month, then, granted that all Lord Wellington’s other dispositions have been duly carried out, perish they must. It remains, Monsieur le Major, for you to determine whether, with all their energy, with all their genius and all their valour, the French can—in an ill-nourished condition—destroy in a few weeks the considered labour of nearly a year.”
The major was aghast. He had changed colour, and through his eyes, wide and staring, his stupefaction glared forth at them.
Minas uttered a dry cough under cover of his hand, and screwed up his eyeglass to regard the major more attentively. “You do not appear to have considered all that,” he said.
“But, my dear Marquis,” was the half-indignant answer, “why was I not told all this to begin with? You represented yourself as but indifferently informed, Monsieur de Samoval. Whereas—”
“So I am, my dear Major, as far as information goes. If I did not use these arguments before, it was because it seemed to me an impertinence to offer what, after all, are no more than the conclusions of my own constructive and deductive reasoning to one so well versed in strategy as yourself.”
The major was silenced for a moment. “I congratulate you, Count,” he said. “Monsieur le Marechal shall have your views without delay. Tell me,” he begged. “You say these fortifications lie in the region of Torres Vedras. Can you be more precise?”
“I think so. But again I warn you that I can tell you only what I infer. I judge they will run from the sea, somewhere near the mouth of the Zizandre, in a semicircle to the Tagus, somewhere to the south of Santarem. I know that they do not reach as far north as San, because the roads there are open, whereas all roads to the south, where I am assuming that the fortifications lie, are closed and closely guarded.”
“Why do you suggest a semicircle?”
“Because that is the formation of the hills, and presumably the line of heights would be followed.”
“Yes,” the major approved slowly. “And the distance, then, would be some thirty or forty miles?”
“Fully.”
The major’s face relaxed its gravity. He even smiled. “You will agree, Count, that in a line of that extent a uniform strength is out of the question. It must perforce present many weak, many vulnerable, places.”
“Oh, undoubtedly.”
“Plans of these lines must be in existence.”
“Again undoubtedly. Sir Terence O’Moy will have plans in his possession showing their projected extent. Colonel Fletcher, who is in charge of the construction, is in constant communication with the adjutant, himself an engineer; and—as I partly imagine, partly infer from odd phrases that I have overheard—especially entrusted by Lord Wellington with the supervision of the works.”
“Two things, then, are necessary,” said the major promptly. “The first is, that the devastation of the country should be retarded, and as far as possible hindered altogether.”
“That,” said Minas, “you may safely leave to myself and Souza’s other friends, the northern noblemen who have no intention of becoming the victims of British disinclination to pitched battles.”
“The second—and this is more difficult—is that we should obtain by hook or by crook a plan of the fortifications.” And he looked directly at Samoval.
The Count nodded slowly, but his face expressed doubt.
“I am quite alive to the necessity. I always have been. But—”
“To a man of your resource and intelligence—an intelligence of which you have just given such very signal proof—the matter should be possible.” He paused a moment. Then: “If I understand you correctly, Monsieur de Samoval, your fortunes have suffered deeply, and you are almost ruined by this policy of Wellington’s. You are offered the opportunity of making a magnificent recovery. The Emperor is the most generous paymaster in the world, and he is beyond measure impatient at the manner in which the campaign in the Peninsula is dragging on. He has spoken of it as an ulcer that is draining the Empire of its resources. For the man who could render him the service of disclosing the weak spot in this armour, the Achilles heel of the British, there would be a reward beyond all your possible dreams. Obtain the plans, then, and—”
He checked abruptly. The door had opened, and in a Venetian mirror facing him upon the wall the major caught the reflection of a British uniform, the stiff gold collar surmounted by a bronzed hawk face with which he was acquainted.
“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” said the officer in Portuguese, “I was looking for—”
His voice became indistinct, so that they never knew who it was that he had been seeking when he intruded upon their privacy. The door had closed again and the reflection had vanished from the mirror. But there were beads of perspiration on the major’s brow.
“It is fortunate,” he muttered breathlessly, “that my back was towards him. I would as soon meet the devil face to face. I didn’t dream he was in Lisbon.”
“Who is he?” asked Minas.
“Colonel Grant, the British Intelligence officer. Phew! Name of a Name! What an escape!” The major mopped his brow with a silk handkerchief. “Beware of him, Monsieur de Samoval.”
He rose. He was obviously shaken by the meeting.
“If one of you will kindly make quite sure that he is not about I think that I had better go. If we should meet everything might be ruined.” Then with a change of manner he stayed Samoval, who was already on his way to the door. “We understand each other, then?” he questioned them. “I have my papers, and at dawn I leave Lisbon. I shall report your conclusions to the Prince, and in anticipation I may already offer you the expression of his profoundest gratitude. Meanwhile, you know what is to do. Opposition to the policy, and the plans of the fortifications—above all the plans.”
He shook hands with them, and having waited until Samoval assured him that the corridor outside was clear, he took his departure, and was soon afterwards driving home, congratulating himself upon his most fortunate escape from the hawk eye of Colquhoun Grant.
But when in the dead of that night he was awakened to find a British sergeant with a halbert and six redcoats with fixed bayonets surrounding his bed it occurred to him belatedly that what one man can see in a mirror is also visible to another, and that Marshal Massena, Prince of Esslingen, waiting for information beyond Ciudad Rodrigo, would never enjoy the advantages of a report of Count Samoval’s masterly constructive and deductive reasoning.
Sir Terence sat alone in his spacious, severely furnished private room in the official quarters at Monsanto. On the broad carved writing-table before him there was a mass of documents relating to the clothing and accoutrement of the forces, to leaves of absence, to staff appointments; there were returns from the various divisions of the sick and wounded in hospital, from which a complete list was to be prepared for the Secretary of State for War at home; there were plans of the lines at Torres Vedras just received, indicating the progress of the works at various points; and there were documents and communications of all kinds concerned with the adjutant-general’s multifarious and arduous duties, including an urgent letter from Colonel Fletcher suggesting that the Commander-in-Chief should take an early opportunity of inspecting in person the inner lines of fortification.
Sir Terence, however, sat back in his chair, his work neglected, his eyes dreamily gazing through the open window, but seeing nothing of the sun-drenched landscape beyond, a heavy frown darkening his bronzed and rugged face. His mind was very far from his official duties and the mass of reminders before him—this Augean stable of arrears. He was lost in thought of his wife and Tremayne.
Five days had elapsed since the ball at Count Redondo’s, where Sir Terence had surprised the pair together in the garden and his suspicions had been fired by the compromising attitude in which he had discovered them. Tremayne’s frank, easy bearing, so unassociable with guilt, had, as we know, gone far, to reassure him, and had even shamed him, so that he had trampled his suspicions underfoot. But other things had happened since to revive his bitter doubts. Daily, constantly, had he been coming upon Tremayne and Lady O’Moy alone together in intimate, confidential talk which was ever silenced on his approach. The two had taken to wandering by themselves in the gardens at all hours, a thing that had never been so before, and O’Moy detected, or imagined that he detected, a closer intimacy between them, a greater warmth towards the captain on the part of her ladyship.
Thus matters had reached a pass in which peace of mind was impossible to him. It was not merely what he saw, it was his knowledge of what was; it was his ever-present consciousness of his own age and his wife’s youth; it was the memory of his ante-nuptial jealousy of Tremayne which had been awakened by the gossip of those days—a gossip that pronounced Tremayne Una Butler’s poor suitor, too poor either to declare himself or to be accepted if he did. The old wound which that gossip had dealt him then was reopened now. He thought of Tremayne’s manifest concern for Una; he remembered how in that very room some six weeks ago, when Butler’s escapade had first been heard of, it was from avowed concern for Una that Tremayne had urged him to befriend and rescue his rascally brother-in-law. He remembered, too, with increasing bitterness that it was Una herself had induced him to appoint Tremayne to his staff.
There were moments when the conviction of Tremayne’s honesty, the thought of Tremayne’s unswerving friendship for himself, would surge up to combat and abate the fires of his devastating jealousy.
But evidence would kindle those fires anew until they flamed up to scorch his soul with shame and anger. He had been a fool in that he had married a woman of half his years; a fool in that he had suffered her former lover to be thrown into close association with her.
Thus he assured himself. But he would abide by his folly, and so must she. And he would see to it that whatever fruits that folly yielded, dishonour should not be one of them. Through all his darkening rage there beat the light of reason. To avert, he bethought him, was better than to avenge. Nor were such stains to be wiped out by vengeance. A cuckold remains a cuckold though he take the life of the man who has reduced him to that ignominy.
Tremayne must go before the evil transcended reparation. Let him return to his regiment and do his work of sapping and mining elsewhere than in O’Moy’s household.
Eased by that resolve he rose, a tall, martial figure, youth and energy in every line of it for all his six and forty years. Awhile he paced the room in thought. Then, suddenly, with hands clenched behind his back, he checked by the window, checked on a horrible question that had flashed upon his tortured mind. What if already the evil should be irreparable? What proof had he that it was not so?
The door opened, and Tremayne himself came in quickly.
“Here’s the very devil to pay, sir,” he announced, with that odd mixture of familiarity towards his friend and deference to his chief.
O’Moy looked at him in silence with smouldering, questioning eyes, thinking of anything but the trouble which the captain’s air and manner heralded.
“Captain Stanhope has just arrived from headquarters with messages for you. A terrible thing has happened, sir. The dispatches from home by the Thunderbolt which we forwarded from here three weeks ago reached Lord Wellington only the day before yesterday.”
Sir Terence became instantly alert.
“Garfield, who carried them, came into collision at Penalva with an officer of Anson’s Brigade. There was a meeting, and Garfield was shot through the lung. He lay between life and death for a fortnight, with the result that the dispatches were delayed until he recovered sufficiently to remember them and to have them forwarded by other hands. But you had better see Stanhope himself.”
The aide-de-camp came in. He was splashed from head to foot in witness of the fury with which he had ridden, his hair was caked with dust and his face haggard. But he carried himself with soldierly uprightness, and his speech was brisk. He repeated what Tremayne had already stated, with some few additional details.
“This wretched fellow sent Lord Wellington a letter dictated from his bed, in which he swore that the duel was forced upon him, and that his honour allowed him no alternative. I don’t think any feature of the case has so deeply angered Lord Wellington as this stupid plea. He mentioned that when Sir John Moore was at Herrerias, in the course of his retreat upon Corunna, he sent forward instructions for the leading division to halt at Lugo, where he designed to deliver battle if the enemy would accept it. That dispatch was carried to Sir David Baird by one of Sir John’s aides, but Sir David forwarded it by the hand of a trooper who got drunk and lost it. That, says Lord Wellington, is the only parallel, so far as he is aware, of the present case, with this difference, that whilst a common trooper might so far fail to appreciate the importance of his mission, no such lack of appreciation can excuse Captain Garfield.”
“I am glad of that,” said Sir Terence, who had been bristling. “For a moment I imagined that it was to be implied I had been as indiscreet in my choice of a messenger as Sir David Baird.”
“No, no, Sir Terence. I merely repeated Lord Wellington’s words that you may realise how deeply angered he is. If Garfield recovers from his wound he will be tried by court-martial. He is under open arrest meanwhile, as is his opponent in the duel—a Major Sykes of the 23rd Dragoons. That they will both be broke is beyond doubt. But that is not all. This affair, which might have had such grave consequences, coming so soon upon the heels of Major Berkeley’s business, has driven Lord Wellington to a step regarding which this letter will instruct you.”
Sir Terence broke the seal. The letter, penned by a secretary, but bearing Wellington’s own signature, ran as follows:
“The bearer, Captain Stanhope, will inform you of the particulars of this disgraceful business of Captain Garfield’s. The affair following so soon upon that of Major Berkeley has determined me to make it clearly understood to the officers in his Majesty’s service that they have been sent to the Peninsula to fight the French and not each other or members of the civilian population. While this campaign continues, and as long as I am in charge of it, I am determined not to suffer upon any plea whatever the abominable practice of duelling among those under my command. I desire you to publish this immediately in general orders, enjoining upon officers of all ranks without exception the necessity to postpone the settlement of private quarrels at least until the close of this campaign. And to add force to this injunction you will make it known that any infringement of this order will be considered as a capital offence; that any officer hereafter either sending or accepting a challenge will, if found guilty by a general court-martial, be immediately shot.”
Sir Terence nodded slowly.
“Very well,” he said. “The measure is most wise, although I doubt if it will be popular. But, then, unpopularity is the fate of wise measures. I am glad the matter has not ended more seriously. The dispatches in question, so far as I can recollect, were not of great urgency.”
“There is something more,” said Captain Stanhope. “The dispatches bore signs of having been tampered with.”
“Tampered with?” It was a question from Tremayne, charged with incredulity. “But who would have tampered with them?”
“There were signs, that is all. Garfield was taken to the house of the parish priest, where he lay lost until he recovered sufficiently to realise his position for himself. No doubt you will have a schedule of the contents of the dispatch, Sir Terence?”
“Certainly. It is in your possession, I think, Tremayne.”
Tremayne turned to his desk, and a brief search in one of its well-ordered drawers brought to light an oblong strip of paper folded and endorsed. He unfolded and spread it on Sir Terence’s table, whilst Captain Stanhope, producing a note with which he came equipped, stooped to check off the items. Suddenly he stopped, frowned, and finally placed his finger under one of the lines of Tremayne’s schedule, carefully studying his own note for a moment.
“Ha!” he said quietly at last. “What’s this?” And he read: “‘Note from Lord Liverpool of reinforcements to be embarked for Lisbon in June or July.’” He looked at the adjutant and the adjutant’s secretary. “That would appear to be the most important document of all—indeed the only document of any vital importance. And it was not included in the dispatch as it reached Lord Wellington.”
The three looked gravely at one another in silence.
“Have you a copy of the note, sir?” inquired the aide-de-camp.
“Not a copy—but a summary of its contents, the figures it contained, are pencilled there on the margin,” Tremayne answered.
“Allow me, sir,” said Stanhope, and taking up a quill from the adjutant’s table he rapidly copied the figures. “Lord Wellington must have this memorandum as soon as possible. The rest, Sir Terence, is of course a matter for yourself. You will know what to do. Meanwhile I shall report to his lordship what has occurred. I had best set out at once.”
“If you will rest for an hour, and give my wife the pleasure of your company at luncheon, I shall have a letter ready for Lord Wellington,” replied Sir Terence. “Perhaps you’ll see to it, Tremayne,” he added, without waiting for Captain Stanhope’s answer to an invitation which amounted to a command.
Thus Stanhope was led away, and Sir Terence, all other matters forgotten for the moment, sat down to write his letter.
Later in the day, after Captain Stanhope had taken his departure, the duty fell to Tremayne of framing the general order and seeing to the dispatch of a copy to each division.
“I wonder,” he said to Sir Terence, “who will be the first to break it?”
“Why, the fool who’s most anxious to be broke himself,” answered Sir Terence.
There appeared to be reservations about it in Tremayne’s mind.
“It’s a devilish stringent regulation,” he criticised.
“But very salutary and very necessary.”
“Oh, quite.” Tremayne’s agreement was unhesitating. “But I shouldn’t care to feel the restraint of it, and I thank heaven I have no enemy thirsting for my blood.”
Sir Terence’s brow darkened. His face was turned away from his secretary. “How can a man be confident of that?” he wondered.
“Oh, a clean conscience, I suppose,” laughed Tremayne, and he gave his attention to his papers.
Frankness, honesty and light-heartedness rang so clear in the words that they sowed in Sir Terence’s mind fresh doubts of the galling suspicion he had been harbouring.
“Do you boast a clean conscience, eh, Ned?” he asked, not without a lurking shame at this deliberate sly searching of the other’s mind. Yet he strained his ears for the answer.
“Almost clean,” said Tremayne. “Temptation doesn’t stain when it’s resisted, does it?”
Sir Terence trembled. But he controlled himself.
“Nay, now, that’s a question for the casuists. They right answer you that it depends upon the temptation.” And he asked point-blank: “What’s tempting you?”
Tremayne was in a mood for confidences, and Sir Terence was his friend. But he hesitated. His answer to the question was an irrelevance.
“It’s just hell to be poor, O’Moy,” he said.
The adjutant turned to stare at him. Tremayne was sitting with his head resting on one hand, the fingers thrusting through the crisp fair hair, and there was gloom in his clear-cut face, a dullness in the usually keen grey eyes.
“Is there anything on your mind?” quoth Sir Terence.
“Temptation,” was the answer. “It’s an unpleasant thing to struggle against.”
“But you spoke of poverty?”
“To be sure. If I weren’t poor I could put my fortunes to the test, and make an end of the matter one way or the other.”
There was a pause. “Sure I hope I am the last man to force a confidence, Ned,” said O’Moy. “But you certainly seem as if it would do you good to confide.”
Tremayne shook himself mentally. “I think we had better deal with the matter of this dispatch that was tampered with at Penalva.”
“So we will, to be sure. But it can wait a minute.” Sir Terence pushed back his chair, and rose. He crossed slowly to his secretary’s side. “What’s on your mind, Ned?” he asked with abrupt solicitude, and Ned could not suspect that it was the matter on Sir Terence’s own mind that was urging him—but urging him hopefully.
Captain Tremayne looked up with a rueful smile. “I thought you boasted that you never forced a confidence.” And then he looked away. “Sylvia Armytage tells me that she is thinking of returning to England.”
For a moment the words seemed to Sir Terence a fresh irrelevance; another attempt to change the subject. Then quite suddenly a light broke upon his mind, shedding a relief so great and joyous that he sought to check it almost in fear.
“It is more than she has told me,” he answered steadily. “But then, no doubt, you enjoy her confidence.”
Tremayne flashed him a wry glance and looked away again.
“Alas!” he said, and fetched a sigh.
“And is Sylvia the temptation, Ned?”
Tremayne was silent for a while, little dreaming how Sir Terence hung upon his answer, how impatiently he awaited it.
“Of course,” he said at last. “Isn’t it obvious to any one?” And he grew rhapsodical: “How can a man be daily in her company without succumbing to her loveliness, to her matchless grace of body and of mind, without perceiving that she is incomparable, peerless, as much above other women as an angel perhaps might be above herself?”
Before his glum solemnity, and before something else that Tremayne could not suspect, Sir Terence exploded into laughter. Of the immense and joyous relief in it his secretary caught no hint; all he heard was its sheer amusement, and this galled and shamed him. For no man cares to be laughed at for such feelings as Tremayne had been led into betraying.
“You think it something to laugh at?” he said tartly.
“Laugh, is it?” spluttered Sir Terence. “God grant I don’t burst a blood-vessel.”
Tremayne reddened. “When you’ve indulged your humour, sir,” he said stiffly, “perhaps you’ll consider the matter of this dispatch.”
But Sir Terence laughed more uproariously than ever. He came to stand beside Tremayne, and slapped him heartily on the shoulder.
“Ye’ll kill me, Ned!” he protested. “For God’s sake, not so glum. It’s that makes ye ridiculous.”
“I am sorry you find me ridiculous.”
“Nay, then, it’s glad ye ought to be. By my soul, if Sylvia tempts you, man, why the devil don’t ye just succumb and have done with it? She’s handsome enough and well set up with her air of an Amazon, and she rides uncommon straight, begad! Indeed it’s a broth of a girl she is in the hunting-field, the ballroom, or at the breakfast-table, although riper acquaintance may discover her not to be quite all that you imagine her at present. Let your temptation lead you then, entirely, and good luck to you, my boy.”
“Didn’t I tell you, O’Moy,” answered the captain, mollified a little by the sympathy and good feeling peeping through the adjutant’s boisterousness, “that poverty is just hell. It’s my poverty that’s in the way.”
“And is that all? Then it’s thankful you should be that Sylvia Armytage has got enough for two.”
“That’s just it.”
“Just what?”
“The obstacle. I could marry a poor woman. But Sylvia—”
“Have you spoken to her?”
Tremayne was indignant. “How do you suppose I could?”
“It’ll not have occurred to you that the lady may have feelings which having aroused you ought to be considering?”
A wry smile and a shake of the head was Tremayne’s only answer; and then Carruthers came in fresh from Lisbon, where he had been upon business connected with the commissariat, and to Tremayne’s relief the subject was perforce abandoned.
Yet he marvelled several times that day that the hilarity he should have awakened in Sir Terence continued to cling to the adjutant, and that despite the many vexatious matters claiming attention he should preserve an irrepressible and almost boyish gaiety.
Meanwhile, however, the coming of Carruthers had brought the adjutant a moment’s seriousness, and he reverted to the business of Captain Garfield. When he had mentioned the missing note, Carruthers very properly became grave. He was a short, stiffly built man with a round, good-humoured, rather florid face.
“The matter must be probed at once, sir,” he ventured. “We know that we move in a tangle of intrigues and espionage. But such a thing as this has never happened before. Have you anything to go upon?”
“Captain Stanhope gave us nothing,” said the adjutant.
“It would be best perhaps to get Grant to look into it,” said Tremayne.
“If he is still in Lisbon,” said Sir Terence.
“I passed him in the street an hour ago,” replied Carruthers.
“Then by all means let a note be sent to him asking him if he will step up to Monsanto as soon as he conveniently can. You might see to it, Tremayne.”