CHAPTER III. LADY O'MOY
Across the frontier in the northwest was gathering the third army ofinvasion, some sixty thousand strong, commanded by Marshal Massena,Prince of Esslingen, the most skilful and fortunate of all Napoleon'sgenerals, a leader who, because he had never known defeat, had come tobe surnamed by his Emperor "the dear child of Victory."
Wellington, at the head of a British force of little more than onethird of the French host, watched and waited, maturing his stupendousstrategic plan, which those in whose interests it had been conceivedhad done so much to thwart. That plan was inspired by and based uponthe Emperor's maxim that war should support itself; that an army on themarch must not be hampered and immobilised by its commissariat, but thatit must draw its supplies from the country it is invading; that it must,in short, live upon that country.
Behind the British army and immediately to the north of Lisbon, in anarc some thirty miles long, following the inflection of the hills fromthe sea at the mouth of the Zizandre to the broad waters of the Tagusat Alhandra, the lines of Torres Vedras were being constructed under thedirection of Colonel Fletcher and this so secretly and with such carefulmeasures as to remain unknown to British and Portuguese alike. Eventhose employed upon the works knew of nothing save the section uponwhich they happened to be engaged, and had no conception of thestupendous and impregnable whole that was preparing.
To these lines it was the British commander's plan to effect a slowretreat before the French flood when it should sweep forward, thusluring the enemy onward into a country which he had commanded should belaid relentlessly waste, that there that enemy might fast be starvedand afterwards destroyed. To this end had his proclamations gone forth,commanding that all the land lying between the rivers Tagus and Mondego,in short, the whole of the country between Beira and Torres Vedras,should be stripped naked, converted into a desert as stark and emptyas the Sahara. Not a head of cattle, not a grain of corn, not a skin ofwine, not a flask of oil, not a crumb of anything affording nourishmentshould be left behind. The very mills were to be rendered useless,bridges were to be broken down, the houses emptied of all property,which the refugees were to carry away with them from the line ofinvasion.
Such was his terrible demand upon the country for its own salvation. Butsuch, as we have seen, was not war as Principal Souza and some of hisadherents understood it. They had not the foresight to perceive theinevitable result of this strategic plan if effectively and thoroughlyexecuted. They did not even realise that the devastation had better beeffected by the British in this defensive--and in its results at thesame time overwhelmingly offensive--manner than by the French in thecourse of a conquering onslaught. They did not realise these thingspartly because they did not enjoy Wellington's full confidence, and in agreater measure because they were blinded by self-interest, because, asO'Moy told Forjas, they placed private considerations above publicduty. The northern nobles whose lands must suffer opposed the measureviolently; they even opposed the withdrawal of labour from those landswhich the Militia Act had rendered necessary. And Antonio de Souza madehimself their champion until he was broken by Wellington's ultimatum tothe Council. For broken he was. The nation had come to a parting of theways. It had been brought to the necessity of choosing, and however muchthe Principal, voicing the outcry of his party, might argue that theBritish plan was as detestable and ruinous as a French invasion, thenation preferred to place its confidence in the conqueror of Vimeiro andthe Douro.
Souza quitted the Government and the capital as had been demanded. Butif Wellington hoped that he would quit intriguing, he misjudged his man.He was a fellow of monstrous vanity, pride and self-sufficiency, ofthe sort than which there is none more dangerous to offend. His woundedpride demanded a salve to be procured at any cost. The wound had beenadministered by Wellington, and must be returned with interest. So thathe ruined Wellington it mattered nothing to Antonio de Souza that heshould ruin himself and his own country at the same time. He was likesome blinded, ferocious and unreasoning beast, ready, even eager, tosacrifice its own life so that in dying it can destroy its enemy andslake its blood-thirst.
In that mood he passes out of the councils of the Portuguese Governmentinto a brooding and secretly active retirement, of which the fruitsshall presently be shown. With his departure the Council of Regency,rudely shaken by the ultimatum which had driven him forth, becamemore docile and active, and for a season the measures enjoined by theCommander-in-Chief were pursued with some show of earnestness.
As a result of all this life at Monsanto became easier, and O'Moy wasable to breathe more freely, and to devote more of his time to mattersconcerning the fortifications which Wellington had left largely in hischarge. Then, too, as the weeks passed, the shadow overhanging him withregard to Richard Butler gradually lifted. No further word had therebeen of the missing lieutenant, and by the end of May both O'Moy andTremayne had come to the conclusion that he must have fallen into thehands of some of the ferocious mountaineers to whom a soldier--whetherhis uniform were British or French--was a thing to be done to death.
For his wife's sake O'Moy came thankfully to that conclusion. Under thecircumstances it was the best possible termination to the episode. Shemust be told of her brother's death presently, when evidence of itwas forthcoming; she would mourn him passionately, no doubt, for herattachment to him was deep--extraordinarily deep for so shallow awoman--but at least she would be spared the pain and shame she mustinevitably have felt had he been taken and, shot.
Meanwhile, however, the lack of news from him, in another sense, wouldhave to be explained to Una sooner or later for a fitful correspondencewas maintained between brother and sister--and O'Moy dreaded the momentwhen this explanation must be made. Lacking invention, he applied toTremayne for assistance, and Tremayne glumly supplied him with thenecessary lie that should meet Lady O'Moy's inquiries when they came.
In the end, however, he was spared the necessity of falsehood. For thetruth itself reached Lady O'Moy in an unexpected manner. It came about amonth after that day when O'Moy had first received news of the escapadeat Tavora. It was a resplendent morning of early June, and the adjutantwas detained a few moments from breakfast by the arrival of a mail-bagfrom headquarters, now established at Vizeu. Leaving Captain Tremayne todeal with it, Sir Terence went down to breakfast, bearing with him onlya few letters of a personal character which had reached him from friendson the frontier.
The architecture of the house at Monsanto was of a semiclaustralcharacter; three sides of it enclosed a sheltered luxuriant garden,whilst on the fourth side a connecting corridor, completing thequadrangle, spanned bridgewise the spacious archway through whichadmittance was gained directly from the parklands that sloped gentlyto Alcantara. This archway, closed at night by enormous wooden doors,opened wide during the day upon a grassy terrace bounded by a balusterof white marble that gleamed now in the brilliant sunshine. It wasO'Moy's practice to breakfast out-of-doors in that genial climate, andduring April, before the sun had reached its present intensity, thetable had been spread out there upon the terrace. Now, however, it waswiser, even in the early morning, to seek the shade, and breakfast wasserved within the quadrangle, under a trellis of vine supported in thePortuguese manner by rough-hewn granite columns. It was a deliciousspot, cool and fragrant, secluded without being enclosed, since throughthe broad archway it commanded a view of the Tagus and the hills ofAlemtejo.
Here O'Moy found himself impatiently awaited that morning by his wifeand her cousin, Sylvia Armytage, more recently arrived from England.
"You are very late," Lady O'Moy greeted him petulantly. Since she spenther life in keeping other people waiting, it naturally fretted her todiscover unpunctuality in others.
Her portrait, by Raeburn, which now adorns the National Gallery, hadbeen painted in the previous year. You will have seen it, or at leastyou will have seen one of its numerous replicas, and you will haveremarked its singular, delicate, rose-petal loveliness--the gleaminggolden head, the flawless outline of
face and feature, the immaculateskin, the dark blue eyes with their look of innocence awakening.
Thus was she now in her artfully simple gown of flowered muslin with itswhite fichu folded across her neck that was but a shade less white; thuswas she, just as Raeburn had painted her, saving, of course, that herexpression, matching her words, was petulant.
"I was detained by the arrival of a mail-bag from Vizeu," Sir Terenceexcused himself, as he took the chair which Mullins, the elderly,pontifical butler, drew out for him. "Ned is attending to it, and willbe kept for a few moments yet."
Lady O'Moy's expression quickened. "Are there no letters for me?"
"None, my dear, I believe."
"No word from Dick?" Again there was that note of ever ready petulance."It is too provoking. He should know that he must make me anxious by hissilence. Dick is so thoughtless--so careless of other people's feelings.I shall write to him severely."
The adjutant paused in the act of unfolding his napkin. The preparedexplanation trembled on his lips; but its falsehood, repellent to him,was not uttered.
"I should certainly do so, my dear," was all he said, and addressedhimself to his breakfast.
"What news from headquarters?" Miss Armytage asked him. "Are thingsgoing well?"
"Much better now that Principal Souza's influence is at an end. Cottonreports that the destruction of the mills in the Mondego valley is beingcarried out systematically."
Miss Armytage's dark, thoughtful eyes became wistful.
"Do you know, Terence," she said, "that I am not without some sympathyfor the Portuguese resistance to Lord Wellington's decrees. They mustbear so terribly hard upon the people. To be compelled with their ownhands to destroy their homes and lay waste the lands upon which theyhave laboured--what could be more cruel?"
"War can never be anything but cruel," he answered gravely. "God helpthe people over whose lands it sweeps. Devastation is often the least ofthe horrors marching in its train."
"Why must war be?" she asked him, in intelligent rebellion against thatmost monstrous and infamous of all human madnesses.
O'Moy proceeded to do his best to explain the unexplainable, and since,himself a professional soldier, he could not take the sane view of hissane young questioner, hot argument ensued between them, to the infiniteweariness of Lady O'Moy, who out of self-protection gave herself to thestudy of the latest fashion plates from London and the considerationof a gown for the ball which the Count of Redondo was giving in thefollowing week.
It was thus in all things, for these cousins represented the two polesof womanhood. Miss Armytage without any of Lady O'Moy's insistent andexcessive femininity, was nevertheless feminine to the core. But herswas the Diana type of womanliness. She was tall and of a clean-limbed,supple grace, now emphasised by the riding-habit which she waswearing--for she had been in the saddle during the hour which LadyO'Moy had consecrated to the rites of toilet and devotions done beforeher mirror. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, vivacity and intelligence lent hercountenance an attraction very different from the allurement of hercousin's delicate loveliness. And because her countenance was a truemirror of her mind, she argued shrewdly now, so shrewdly that she droveO'Moy to entrench himself behind generalisations.
"My dear Sylvia, war is most merciful where it is most merciless," heassured her with the Irish gift for paradox. "At home in the Governmentitself there are plenty who argue as you argue, and who arewondering when we shall embark for England. That is because theyare intellectuals, and war is a thing beyond the understanding ofintellectuals. It is not intellect but brute instinct and brute forcethat will help humanity in such a crisis as the present. Therefore,let me tell you, my child, that a government of intellectual men is theworst possible government for a nation engaged in a war."
This was far from satisfying Miss Armytage. Lord Wellington himself wasan intellectual, she objected. Nobody could deny it. There was the workhe had done as Irish Secretary, and there was the calculating genius hehad displayed at Vimeiro, at Oporto, at Talavera.
And then, observing her husband to be in distress, Lady O'Moy put downher fashion plate and brought up her heavy artillery to relieve him.
"Sylvia, dear," she interpolated, "I wonder that you will for ever bearguing about things you don't understand."
Miss Armytage laughed good-humouredly. She was not easily put out ofcountenance. "What woman doesn't?" she asked.
"I don't, and I am a woman, surely."
"Ah, but an exceptional woman," her cousin rallied her affectionately,tapping the shapely white arm that protruded from a foam of lace. AndLady O'Moy, to whom words never had any but a literal meaning, setherself to purr precisely as one would have expected. Complacently shediscoursed upon the perfection of her own endowments, appealing ever andanon to her husband for confirmation, and O'Moy, who loved her with allthe passionate reverence which Nature working inscrutably to her ends sooften inspires in just such strong, essentially masculine men for justsuch fragile and excessively feminine women, afforded this confirmationwith all the enthusiasm of sincere conviction.
Thus until Mullins broke in upon them with the announcement of a visitfrom Count Samoval, an announcement more welcome to Lady O'Moy than toeither of her companions.
The Portuguese nobleman was introduced. He had attained to a degreeof familiarity in the adjutant's household that permitted of his beingreceived without ceremony there at that breakfast-table spread in theopen. He was a slender, handsome, swarthy man of thirty, scrupulouslydressed, as graceful and elegant in his movements as a fencing master,which indeed he might have been; for his skill with the foils was amatter of pride to himself and notoriety to all the world. Nor was it byany means the only skill he might have boasted, for Jeronymo de Samovalwas in many things, a very subtle, supple gentleman. His friendshipwith the O'Moys, now some three months old, had been considerablystrengthened of late by the fact that he had unexpectedly become oneof the most hostile critics of the Council of Regency as latelyconstituted, and one of the most ardent supporters of the Wellingtonianpolicy.
He bowed with supremest grace to the ladies, ventured to kiss the fair,smooth hand of his hostess, undeterred by the frosty stare of O'Moy'sblue eyes whose approval of all men was in inverse proportion to theirapproval of his wife--and finally proffered her the armful of earlyroses that he brought.
"These poor roses of Portugal to their sister from England," said hissoftly caressing tenor voice.
"Ye're a poet," said O'Moy tartly.
"Having found Castalia here," said, the Count, "shall I not drink itslimpid waters?"
"Not, I hope, while there's an agreeable vintage of Port on the table. Amorning whet, Samoval?" O'Moy invited him, taking up the decanter.
"Two fingers, then--no more. It is not my custom in the morning. Buthere--to drink your lady's health, and yours, Miss Armytage." Witha graceful flourish of his glass he pledged them both and sippeddelicately, then took the chair that O'Moy was proffering.
"Good news, I hear, General. Antonio de Souza's removal from theGovernment is already bearing fruit. The mills in the valley of theMondego are being effectively destroyed at last."
"Ye're very well informed," grunted O'Moy, who himself had but receivedthe news. "As well informed, indeed, as I am myself." There was a notealmost of suspicion in the words, and he was vexed that matters whichit was desirable be kept screened as much as possible from generalknowledge should so soon be put abroad.
"Naturally, and with reason," was the answer, delivered with a ruefulsmile. "Am I not interested? Is not some of my property in question?"Samoval sighed. "But I bow to the necessities of war. At least it cannotbe said of me, as was said of those whose interests Souza represented,that I put private considerations above public duty--that is the phrase,I think. The individual must suffer that the nation may triumph. A Romanmaxim, my dear General."
"And a British one," said O'Moy, to whom Britain was a second Rome.
"Oh, admitted," replied the amiable Samoval. "You proved it by yo
uruncompromising firmness in the affair of Tavora."
"What was that?" inquired Miss Armytage.
"Have you not heard?" cried Samoval in astonishment.
"Of course not," snapped O'Moy, who had broken into a cold perspiration."Hardly a subject for the ladies, Count."
Rebuked for his intention, Samoval submitted instantly.
"Perhaps not; perhaps not," he agreed, as if dismissing it, whereuponO'Moy recovered from his momentary breathlessness. "But in your owninterests, my dear General, I trust there will be no weakening when thisLieutenant Butler is caught, and--"
"Who?"
Sharp and stridently came that single word from her ladyship.
Desperately O'Moy sought to defend the breach.
"Nothing to do with Dick, my dear. A fellow named Philip Butler, who--"
But the too-well-informed Samoval corrected him. "Not Philip,General--Richard Butler. I had the name but yesterday from Forjas."
In the scared hush that followed the Count perceived that he hadstumbled headlong into a mystery. He saw Lady O'Moy's face turn whiterand whiter, saw her sapphire eyes dilating as they regarded him.
"Richard Butler!" she echoed. "What of Richard Butler? Tell me. Tell meat once."
Hesitating before such signs of distress, Samoval looked at O'Moy, tomeet a dejected scowl.
Lady O'Moy turned to her husband. "What is it?" she demanded. "Youknow something about Dick and you are keeping it from me. Dick is introuble?"
"He is," O'Moy admitted. "In great trouble."
"What has he done? You spoke of an affair at Evora or Tavora, which isnot to be mentioned before ladies. I demand to know." Her affectionand anxiety for her brother invested her for a moment with a certaindignity, lent her a force that was but rarely displayed by her.
Seeing the men stricken speechless, Samoval from bewilderedastonishment, O'Moy from distress, she jumped to the conclusion, afterwhat had been said, that motives of modesty accounted for their silence.
"Leave us, Sylvia, please," she said. "Forgive me, dear. But you seethey will not mention these things while you are present." She made apiteous little figure as she stood trembling there, her fingers tearingin agitation at one of Samoval's roses.
She waited until the obedient and discreet Miss Armytage had passed fromview into the wing that contained the adjutant's private quarters, thensinking limp and nerveless to her chair:
"Now," she bade them, "please tell me."
And O'Moy, with a sigh of regret for the lie so laboriously concoctedwhich would never now be uttered, delivered himself huskily of thehideous truth.