CHAPTER XX. THE RESIGNATION
At once, as he sat there, his elbows on the table, his head in hishands, he found himself surrounded by those three, against each of whomhe had sinned under the spell of the jealousy that had blinded him andled him by the nose.
His wife put an arm about his neck in mute comfort of a grief of whichshe only understood the half--for of the heavier and more desperatepart of his guilt she was still in ignorance. Sylvia spoke to him kindlywords of encouragement where no encouragement could avail. But whatmoved him most was the touch of Tremayne's hand upon his shoulder, andTremayne's voice bidding him brace himself to face the situation andcount upon them to stand by him to the end.
He looked up at his friend and secretary in an amazement that overcamehis shame.
"You can forgive me, Ned?"
Ned looked across at Sylvia Armytage. "You have been the means ofbringing me to such happiness as I should never have reached withoutthese happenings," he said. "What resentment can I bear you, O'Moy?Besides, I understand, and who understands can never do anything butforgive. I realise how sorely you have been tried. No evidence moreconclusive that you were being wronged could have been placed beforeyou."
"But the court-martial," said O'Moy in horror. He covered his face withhis hand. "Oh, my God! I am dishonoured. I--I--" He rose, shakingoff the arm of his wife and the hand of the friend he had wronged soterribly. He broke away from them and strode to the window, his face setand white. "I think I was mad," he said. "I know I was mad. But to havedone what I did--" He shuddered in very horror of himself now that hewas bereft of the support of that evil jealousy that had fortifiedhim against conscience itself and the very voice of honour. Lady O'Moyturned to them, pleading for explanation.
"What does he mean? What has he done?"
Himself he answered her: "I killed Samoval. It was I who fought thatduel. And then believing what I did, I fastened the guilt upon Ned, andwent the lengths of perjury in my blind effort to avenge myself. Thatis what I have done. Tell me, one of you, of your charity, what is thereleft for me to do?"
"Oh!" It was an outcry of horror and indignation from Una, instantlyrepressed by the tightening grip of Sylvia's hand upon her arm. MissArmytage saw and understood, and sorrowed for Sir Terence. She mustrestrain his wife from adding to his present anguish. Yet, "How couldyou, Terence! Oh, how could you!" cried her ladyship, and so gave way totears, easier than words to express such natures.
"Because I loved you, I suppose," he answered on a note of bitterself-mockery. "That was the justification I should have given had I beenasked; that was the justification I accounted sufficient."
"But then," she cried, a new horror breaking on her mind--"if this isdiscovered--Terence, what will become of you?"
He turned and came slowly back until he stood beside her. Facing now theinevitable, he recovered some of his calm.
"It must be discovered," he said quietly. "For the sake of everybodyconcerned it must--"
"Oh, no, no!" She sprang up and clutched his arm in terror. "They mayfail to discover the truth."
"They must not, my dear," he answered her; stroking the fair head thatlay against his breast. "They must not fail. I must see to that."
"You? You?" Her eyes dilated as she looked at him. She caught her breathon a gasping sob. "Ah no, Terence," she cried wildly. "You must not; youmust not. You must say nothing--for my sake, Terence, if you love me,oh, for my sake, Terence!"
"For honour's sake, I must," he answered her. "And for the sake ofSylvia and of Tremayne, whom I have wronged, and--"
"Not for my sake, Terence," Sylvia interrupted him.
He looked at her, and then at Tremayne.
"And you, Ned--what do you say?" he asked.
"Ned could not wish--" began her ladyship.
"Please let him speak for himself, my dear," her husband interruptedher.
"What can I say?" cried Tremayne, with a gesture that was almost ofanger. "How can I advise? I scarcely know. You realise what you mustface if you confess?"
"Fully, and the only part of it I shrink from is the shame and scorn Ihave deserved. Yet it is inevitable. You agree, Ned?"
"I am not sure. None who understands as I understand can feel anythingbut regret. Oh, I don't know. The evidence of what you suspected wasoverwhelming, and it betrayed you into this mistake. The punishment youwould have to face is surely too heavy, and you have suffered far morealready than you can ever be called upon to suffer again, no matter whatis done to you. Oh, I don't know! The problem is too deep for me. Thereis Una to be considered, too. You owe a duty to her, and if you keepsilent it may be best for all. You can depend upon us to stand by you inthis."
"Indeed, indeed," said Sylvia.
He looked at them and smiled very tenderly.
"Never was a man blessed with nobler friends who deserved so little ofthem," he said slowly. "You heap coals of fire upon my head. You shameme through and through. But have you considered, Ned, that all may notdepend upon my silence? What if the provost-marshal, investigating now,were to come upon the real facts?"
"It is impossible that sufficient should be discovered to convict you."
"How can you be sure of that? And if it were possible, if it came topass, what then would be my position? You see, Ned! I must accept thepunishment I have incurred lest a worse overtake me--to put it at itslowest. I must voluntarily go forward and denounce myself before anotherdenounces me. It is the only way to save some rag of honour."
There was a tap at the door, and Mullins came to announce that LordWellington was asking to see Sir Terence.
"He is waiting in the study, Sir Terence."
"Tell his lordship I will be with him at once."
Mullins departed, and Sir Terence prepared to follow. Gently hedisengaged himself from the arms her ladyship now flung about him.
"Courage, my dear," he said. "Wellington may show me more mercy than Ideserve."
"You are going to tell him?" she questioned brokenly.
"Of course, sweetheart. What else can I do? And since you and Tremaynefind it in your hearts to forgive me, nothing else matters very much."He kissed her tenderly and put her from him. He looked at Sylviastanding beside her and at Tremayne beyond the table. "Comfort her," heimplored them, and, turning, went out quickly.
Awaiting him in the study he found not only Lord Wellington, but ColonelGrant, and by the cold gravity of both their faces he had an inspirationthat in some mysterious way the whole hideous truth was already known tothem.
The slight figure of his lordship in its grey frock was stiff anderect, his booted leg firmly planted, his hands behind him clutching hisriding-crop and cocked hat. His face was set and his voice as he greetedO'Moy sharp and staccato.
"Ah, O'Moy, there are one or two matters to be discussed before I leaveLisbon."
"I had written to you, sir," replied O'Moy. "Perhaps you will first readmy letter." And he went to fetch it from the writing-table, where he hadleft it when completed an hour earlier.
His lordship took the letter in silence, and after one piercing glanceat O'Moy broke the seal. In the background, near the window, thetall figure of Colquhoun Grant stood stiffly erect, his hawk faceinscrutable.
"Ah! Your resignation, O'Moy. But you give no reasons." Again his keenglance stabbed into the adjutant's face. "Why this?" he asked sharply.
"Because," said Sir Terence, "I prefer to tender it before it is askedof me." He was very white, yet by an effort those deep blue eyes of hismet the terrible gaze of his chief without flinching.
"Perhaps you'll explain," said his lordship coldly.
"In the first place," said O'Moy, "it was myself killed Samoval, andsince your lordship was a witness of what followed, you will realisethat that was the least part of my offence."
The great soldier jerked his head sharply backward, tilting forwardhis chin. "So!" he said. "Ha! I beg your pardon, Grant, for havingdisbelieved you." Then, turning to O'Moy again: "Well," he demanded, hisvoice hard, "have you no
thing to add?"
"Nothing that can matter," said O'Moy, with a shrug, and they stoodfacing each other in silence for a long moment.
At last when Wellington spoke his voice had assumed a gentler note.
"O'Moy," he said, "I have known you these fifteen years, and we havebeen friends. Once you carried your friendship, appreciation, andunderstanding of me so far as nearly to ruin yourself on my behalf.You'll not have forgotten the affair of Sir Harry Burrard. In all theseyears I have known you for a man of shining honour, an honest, uprightgentleman, whom I would have trusted when I should have distrusted everyother living man. Yet you stand there and confess to me the basest,the most dishonest villainy that I have ever known a British officer tocommit, and you tell me that you have no explanation to offer for yourconduct. Either I have never known you, O'Moy, or I do not know you now.Which is it?"
O'Moy raised his arms, only to let them fall heavily to his sides again.
"What explanation can there be?" he asked. "How can a man who hasbeen--as I hope I have--a man of honour in the past explain such an actof madness? It arose out of your order against duelling," he went on."Samoval offended me mortally. He said such things to me of my wife'shonour that no man could suffer, and I least of any man. My temperbetrayed me. I consented to a clandestine meeting without seconds. Ittook place here, and I killed him. And then I had, as I imagined--quitewrongly, as I know now--overwhelming evidence that what he had toldme was true, and I went mad." Briefly he told the story of Tremayne'sdescent from Lady O'Moy's balcony and the rest.
"I scarcely know," he resumed, "what it was I hoped to accomplish in theend. I do not know--for I never stopped to consider--whether I shouldhave allowed Captain Tremayne to have been shot if it had come to that.All that I was concerned to do was to submit him to the ordeal which Iconceived he must undergo when he saw himself confronted with the choiceof keeping silence and submitting to his fate, or saving himself by anavowal that could scarcely be less bitter than death itself."
"You fool, O'Moy-you damned, infernal fool!" his lordship swore at him."Grant overheard more than you imagined that night outside the gates.His conclusions ran the truth very close indeed. But I could not believehim, could not believe this of you."'
"Of course not," said O'Moy gloomily. "I can't believe it of myself."
"When Miss Armytage intervened to afford Tremayne an alibi, I believedher, in view of what Grant had told me; I concluded that hers was thewindow from which Tremayne had climbed down. Because of what I knew Iwas there to see that the case did not go to extremes against Tremayne.If necessary Grant must have given full evidence of all he knew, andthere and then left you to your fate. Miss Armytage saved us from that,and left me convinced, but still not understanding your own attitude.And now comes Richard Butler to surrender to me and cast himself uponmy mercy with another tale which completely gives the lie to MissArmytage's, but confirms your own."
"Richard Butler!" cried O'Moy. "He has surrendered to you?"
"Half-an-hour ago."
Sir Terence turned aside with a weary shrug. A little laugh that wasmore a sob broke from him. "Poor Una!" he muttered.
"The tangle is a shocking one--lies, lies everywhere, and in the placeswhere they were least to be expected." Wellington's anger flashedout. "Do you realise what awaits you as a result of all this damnedinsanity?"
"I do, sir. That is why I place my resignation in your hands. Thedisregard of a general order punishable in any officer is beyond pardonin your adjutant-general."
"But that is the least of it, you fool."
"Sure, don't I know? I assure you that I realise it all."
"And you are prepared to face it?" Wellington was almost savage in ananger proceeding from the conflict that went on within him. There washis duty as commander-in-chief, and there was his friendship for O'Moyand his memory of the past in which O'Moy's loyalty had almost been theruin of him.
"What choice have I?"
His lordship turned away, and strode the length of the room, his headbent, his lips twitching. Suddenly he stopped and faced the silentintelligence officer.
"What is to be done, Grant?"
"That is a matter for your lordship. But if I might venture--"
"Venture and be damned," snapped Wellington.
"The signal service rendered the cause of the allies by the deathof Samoval might perhaps be permitted to weigh against the offencecommitted by O'Moy."
"How could it?" snapped his lordship. "You don't know, O'Moy, that uponSamoval's body were found certain documents intended for Massena. Hadthey reached him, or had Samoval carried out the full intentions thatdictated his quarrel with you, and no doubt sent him here dependingupon his swordsmanship to kill you, all my plans for the undoing of theFrench would have been ruined. Ay, you may stare. That is another matterin which you have lacked discretion. You may be a fine engineer, O'Moy,but I don't think I could have found a less judicious adjutant-generalif I had raked the ranks of the army on purpose to find an idiot.Samoval was a spy--the cleverest spy that we have ever had to deal with.Only his death revealed how dangerous he was. For killing him whenyou did you deserve the thanks of his Majesty's Government, as Grantsuggests. But before you can receive those you will have to stand acourt-martial for the manner in which you killed him, and you willprobably be shot. I can't help you. I hope you don't expect it of me."
"The thought had not so much as occurred to me. Yet what you tell me,sir, lifts something of the load from my mind."
"Does it? Well, it lifts no load from mine," was the angry retort. Hestood considering. Then with an impatient gesture he seemed to dismisshis thoughts. "I can do nothing," he said, "nothing without being falseto my duty and becoming as bad as you have been, O'Moy, and withoutany of the sentimental justification that existed in your case. I can'tallow the matter to be dropped, stifled. I have never been guilty ofsuch a thing, and I refuse to become guilty of it now. I refuse--do youunderstand? O'Moy, you have acted; and you must take the consequences,and be damned to you."
"Faith, I've never asked you to help me, sir," Sir Terence protested.
"And you don't intend to, I suppose?"
"I do not."
"I am glad of that." He was in one of those rages which were as terribleas they were rare with him. "I wouldn't have you suppose that I makelaws for the sake of rescuing people from the consequences of disobeyingthem. Here is this brother-in-law of yours, this fellow Butler, who hasmade enough mischief in the country to imperil our relations withour allies. And I am half pledged to condone his adventure at Tavora.There's nothing for it, O'Moy. As your friend, I am infernally angrywith you for placing yourself in this position; as your commandingofficer I can only order you under arrest and convene a court-martial todeal with you."
Sir Terence bowed his head. He was a little surprised by all this heat."I never expected anything else," he said. "And it's altogether at aloss I am to understand why your lordship should be vexing yourself inthis manner."
"Because I've a friendship for you, O'Moy. Because I remember thatyou've been a loyal friend to me. And because I must forget all thisand remember only that my duty is absolutely rigid and inflexible. If Icondoned your offence, if I suppressed inquiry, I should be in duty andhonour bound to offer my own resignation to his Majesty's Government.And I have to think of other things besides my personal feelings, whenat any moment now the French may be over the Agueda and into Portugal."
Sir Terence's face flushed, and his glance brightened.
"From my heart I thank you that you can even think of such things atsuch a time and after what I have done."
"Oh, as to what you have done--I understand that you are a fool, O'Moy.There's no more to be said. You are to consider yourself under arrest.I must do it if you were my own brother, which, thank God, you're not.Come, Grant. Good-bye, O'Moy." And he held out his hand to him.
Sir Terence hesitated, staring.
"It's the hand of your friend, Arthur Wellesley, I'm offering you, notthe hand of yo
ur commanding officer," said his lordship savagely.
Sir Terence took it, and wrung it in silence, perhaps more deeply movedthan he had yet been by anything that had happened to him that morning.
There was a knock at the door, and Mullins opened it to admit theadjutant's orderly, who came stiffly to attention.
"Major Carruthers's compliments, sir," he said to O'Moy, "and hisExcellency the Secretary of the Council of Regency wishes to see youvery urgently."
There was a pause. O'Moy shrugged and spread his hands. This message wasfor the adjutant-general and he no longer filled the office.
"Pray tell Major Carruthers that I--" he was beginning, when LordWellington intervened.
"Desire his Excellency to step across here. I will see him myself."