Miss Challoner looked quickly towards the door. A tall, rakish man of middle age was standing there, his Rockelaure thrown open to display a rich suit of purple cloth with gold lacing, and a fine flowered waistcoat. He did not perceive Miss Challoner, and conscious of her dishevelled appearance, she drew back into the ill-lit passage. The landlord, hearing the shout, came hurrying past her, and was greeted by a fluent demand to know what the devil ailed the place that there wasn’t so much as a groom to be seen.
The landlord’s apologies and explanations were cut short by the somewhat tempestuous entrance of a copper-headed lady in a gown of green taffeta, and a cloak clutched round her by one small hand. ‘It is not at all deserted, because my son is here,’ asserted this lady positively. ‘I told you we should find him, Rupert. Voyons, I am very glad we came to Dijon.’
‘Well, he ain’t here so far as I can see,’ replied his lordship. ‘Damme, if I can make out what this fellow’s talking about!’
‘Of course, he is here! I have seen his chaise! Tell me at once, you, where is the English monsieur?’
Miss Challoner’s hand stole to her cheek. This imperious and fascinating little lady must be my lord’s mother. She cast a glance about her for a way of escape, and seeing a door behind her, pushed it open, and stepped into what seemed to be some sort of a pantry.
The landlord was trying to explain that there were a great many English people in his house, all fighting duels or having hysterics. Miss Challoner heard Lord Rupert say: ‘What’s that? Fighting? Then I’ll lay my life Vidal is here! Well, I’m glad we’ve not come to this devilish out-of-the-way place for nothing, but if Vidal’s in that sort of a humour, Léonie, you’d best keep out of it.’
The Duchess’s response to this piece of advice was to demand to be taken immediately to her son, and the landlord, by now quite bewildered by the extremely odd people who had all chosen to visit his hostelry at the same time, threw up his hands in an eloquent gesture, and led the way to the private parlour.
Miss Challoner, straining her ears to catch what was said, heard Lord Vidal exclaim: ‘Thunder an’ Turf, it’s my mother! What, Rupert too? What the devil brings you here?’
Lord Rupert answered: ‘That’s rich, ’pon my soul it is!’
Then the Duchess’s voice broke in, disastrously clear and audible. ‘Dominique, where is that girl? Why did you run off with Juliana? What have you done with that other one whom I detest infinitely already? Mon fils, you must marry her, and I do not know what Monseigneur will say, but I am very sure that at last you have broken my heart. Oh, Dominique, I did not want you to wed such an one as that!’
Miss Challoner waited for no more. She slipped out of the pantry, and went through the coffee-room to the stairs. In her sunny bedchamber, looking out on to the street, she sank down on a chair by the window, trying to think how she could escape. She found that she was crying, and angrily brushed away the tears.
Outside, the Duchess’s chaise was being driven round to the stables, and a huge, lumbering coach, piled high with baggage, was standing under her window. The driver had mounted the box, but was leaning over to speak to a fat gentleman carrying a cloak-bag and a heavy coat. Miss Challoner started up, looked more closely at the coach, and ran to the door.
One of the abigails who had lately had her ear glued to the parlour door, was crossing the upper landing. Miss Challoner called to her to know what was the coach at the door. The abigail stared, and said she supposed it would be the diligence from Nice.
‘Where does it go?’ Miss Challoner asked, trembling with suppressed anxiety.
‘Why, to Paris, bien sûr, madame,’ replied the girl, and was surprised to see Miss Challoner dart back into her room. She emerged again in a few moments, her cloak caught hastily round her, her reticule, stuffed with her few belongings, on her arm, and hastened downstairs.
No one was in the coffee-room, and she went across it to the front door. The guard of the diligence had just swung himself up into his place, but when he saw Miss Challoner hailing him, he came down again, and asked her very civilly what she desired.
She desired a place in the coach. He ran an appraising eye over her as he said that this could be arranged, and asked whither she was bound.
‘How much money is needed for me to travel as far as Paris?’ Miss Challoner inquired, colouring faintly.
He named a sum which she knew to be beyond her slender means. Swallowing her pride, she told him what money she had at her disposal, and asked how far she could travel with it. The guard named, rather brutally, Pont-de-Moine, a town some twenty-five miles distant from Dijon. He added that she would have enough left in her purse to pay for a night’s lodging. She thanked him, and since at the moment she did not care where she went as long as she could escape from Dijon, she said that she would journey as far as Pont-de-Moine.
‘We shall arrive before ten,’ said the guard, apparently thinking this a matter for congratulation.
‘Good heavens, not till ten o’clock?’ exclaimed Miss Challoner, aghast at such slow progress.
‘The diligence is a fast diligence,’ said the guard offendedly. ‘It will be very good time. Where is your baggage, mademoiselle?’
When Miss Challoner confessed that she had none, he obviously thought her a very queer passenger, but he let down the steps for her to mount into the coach, and accepted the money she handed him.
In another minute the driver’s whip cracked, and the coach began to move ponderously forward over the cobbles. Miss Challoner heaved a sigh of relief, and squeezed herself into a place between a farmer smelling of garlic and a very fat woman with a child on her knee.
Seventeen
Upon the Duchess of Avon’s entry into the parlour, Vidal had come quickly towards her, and caught her in his arms. But her opening speech made him let her go, and the welcoming light in his eyes fled. His heavy frown, so rarely seen by her, descended on his brow. He stepped back from Léonie, and shot a scowling look at Lord Rupert. ‘Why did you bring my mother here?’ he said. ‘Can you not keep from meddling, curse you?’
‘Easily, never fear it!’ retorted Rupert. ‘Fiend seize you, d’ye think I want to go chasing all over France for the pleasure of seeing you? Bring your mother? Lord, I’ve been begging and imploring her to come home ever since we started out! God bless my soul, is that young Comyn?’ He put up his glass, and stared through it. ‘Now what the plague are you doing here?’ he inquired.
Léonie put her hand on Vidal’s arm. ‘It is of no use to be enraged, mon enfant. You have done a great wickedness. Where is that girl?’
‘If you are speaking of the lady who was Miss Challoner,’ replied Vidal icily, ‘she is upstairs.’
Léonie said quickly: ‘Was Miss Challoner? You have married her? Oh, Dominique, no!’
‘You are entirely in the right, madame. I have not married her. She is married to Comyn,’ said his lordship bitterly.
The effect of this pronouncement on the Duchess was unexpected. She at once turned to Mr Comyn, who was trying to put on his coat again as unobtrusively as possible, and caught his hand in both her own. ‘Voyons, I am so very glad! It is you who are Mr Comyn? I hope you will be very happy, m’sieur. Oh, but very happy!’
Juliana gave a strangled cry at this. ‘How can you be so cruel, Aunt Léonie? He is betrothed to me!’
‘Damme, if he’s betrothed to you how came you to go off with Vidal?’ demanded Lord Rupert reasonably.
‘I didn’t!’ Juliana declared.
‘I said it was not so!’ said her grace triumphantly. ‘You see, Rupert!’
‘No, I’ll be pinked if I do,’ replied his lordship. ‘If it was Comyn you ran off with, why did you say you’d gone with Vidal, in that devilish silly note of yours?’
‘I didn’t run off with Frederick! You don’t understand, Uncle Rupert.’
‘Then whom in the fiend’s name did you run off with?’ said his lordship.
‘With Vidal – at least, I went with him, but of course I did not elope, if that is what you mean! I hate Vidal! I wouldn’t marry him for the world.’
‘No, my girl, you’d not have the chance,’ struck in the Marquis.
Léonie at last released Mr Comyn’s hand, which all this time she had been warmly clasping. ‘Do not quarrel, mes enfants. I find all this very hard to understand. Please explain to me, one of you!’
‘They’re all mad, every one of ’em,’ said Rupert with conviction. He had put up his glass again, and was observing his nephew’s attire through it. ‘Blister it, the boy can’t spend one week without being in a fresh broil! Swords, eh? Well, I’m not saying that ain’t better than those barbarous pistols of yours, but why in thunder you must be for ever fighting. – Where’s the corpse?’
‘Never mind about that!’ interrupted Léonie impatiently. ‘I will have all of this explained to me at once!’ She turned once more to Mr Comyn, who had by now pulled on his boots and was feeling more able to face her. She smiled engagingly at him. ‘My son is in a very bad temper and Juliana is not at all sensible, so I shall ask you to tell me what has happened.’
Mr Comyn bowed. ‘I shall be happy to oblige you, ma’am. In fact, when your grace entered this room, I was about to make a communication of a private nature to his lordship.’
Vidal, who had gone over to the fireplace, and was staring down into the red embers, lifted his head. ‘What is it you have to say to me?’
‘My lord, it is a communication I should have desired to impart to you alone, but if you wish I will speak now.’
‘Tell me and be done with it,’ said my lord curtly, and resumed his study of the fire.
Mr Comyn bowed again. ‘Very well, sir. I must first inform your lordship that when I had the honour of making Miss Challoner’s acquaintance at the house of Mme. de Charbonne in Paris –’
Léonie had sat down in the armchair, but started up again. ‘Mon Dieu, the friend of Juliana! Why did I not perceive that that must be so?’
‘Because if anyone spoke a word about aught save Dijon you would not listen,’ said Rupert severely. ‘And that reminds me, Vidal: what in thunder brought you here? I’ve been puzzling over it all the way, and stap me if I can make it out.’
‘I had a reason,’ Vidal answered briefly.
‘It does not matter in the least,’ said her grace. ‘But it was very stupid of me not to see that of course the friend of Juliana must be this Mary Challoner. It was stupid of you too, Rupert. More stupid.’
‘Stupid of me? Lord, how the devil should I guess Vidal would take his –’ He encountered a sudden fiery glance from his nephew, and stopped short. ‘Oh, very well!’ he said. ‘I’m mum.’
‘So you went to Tante Elisabeth?’ cried Juliana. ‘I see!’
Mr Comyn, who had waited in vain for the interruptions to cease, saw that he must be firm if he wished to make himself heard in this vociferous family. He cleared his throat, and continued loudly: ‘As I was saying, my lord, when I first had the honour of making Miss Challoner’s better acquaintance I was under the impression that not only was your lordship’s suit disagreeable to her, but that you yourself were constrained to wed the lady out of consideration – which I confess surprised me – for her reputation, and were not prompted by any of the tenderer feelings. Being convinced of this, I had little compunction, upon Miss Marling’s sundering our secret betrothal, in offering for Miss Challoner’s hand; an arrangement which I believed would be preferable to her than a marriage with your lordship.’
My Lord Rupert, who had been listening in rapt admiration to this speech, said in what he imagined to be a whisper: ‘Wonderful, ain’t it, Léonie? Never heard aught to equal it. The boy always talks like that, y’know.’
Juliana said throbbingly: ‘Indeed, Frederick? And the marriage was, I need hardly ask, more to your taste than our contract?’
‘Madam,’ replied Mr Comyn, looking steadily across at her, ‘when you informed me that you had no desire to wed one so far removed from your world as myself, it mattered very little to me whom I married. I had for Miss Challoner a profound respect; and on this I believed it would be possible to lay the foundations of a tolerably happy marriage. Miss Challoner was so obliging as to accept my offer, and we set forth immediately for this town with what speed we could muster.’
‘Hold a minute!’ besought Rupert, suddenly alert. ‘Why Dijon? Tell me that!’
‘You take the devil of a time arriving at the point of your story,’ struck in the Marquis impatiently. ‘Be a little more brief, and to hell with your periods.’
‘I will endeavour, my lord. Upon the journey –’
‘Damn it, am I never to know why you came to Dijon?’ said Rupert despairingly.
‘Hush, Rupert! Let Mr Comyn speak!’ reproved Léonie.
‘Speak? The dratted fellow’s never ceased speaking for the past ten minutes,’ complained his lordship. ‘Well, go on, man, go on!’
‘Upon the journey,’ repeated Mr Comyn with unwearied patience, ‘I was gradually brought to realise that Miss Challoner’s affections were more deeply involved than I had supposed. Yet I could not but agree with her that a marriage with your lordship would be unsuitable in the extreme. My determination to marry her remained unshaken, for I believed your lordship to be indifferent to her. But when the late accident occurred it was apparent to anyone of the meanest intelligence that you felt for the lady all the most tender passions which any female could wish for in her future husband.’
The Marquis was watching him intently. ‘Well, man? Well?’
The question was destined to remain unanswered. A fresh interruption occurred. The landlord scratched on the door, and opened it to say: ‘There is another English monsieur desires to see M. Comyn. He calls himself Mr Hammond.’
‘Tell him to go to the devil!’ said Lord Rupert irritably. ‘Never heard of the fellow in my life! He can’t come in now.’
‘Hammond?’ said the Marquis sharply. He strode up to Mr Comyn, his eyes suddenly eager. ‘Then you’ve not done it? Quick, man, it was a lie?’
‘It was a lie, my lord,’ answered Mr Comyn quietly.
Lord Rupert listened open-mouthed to this interchange, and glanced hopelessly at the Duchess. Her eyes had begun to twinkle, and she said frankly: ‘It is quite incomprehensible, mon vieux. Me, I know nothing, and no one tells me.’
‘Plague take it, I won’t have it!’ roared his lordship, goaded beyond endurance. ‘What’s a lie? Who’s this fellow Hammond? Oh, I’ll end in Bedlam, devil a doubt!’
‘Shall I tell the English monsieur that M. Comyn is engaged?’ asked the landlord doubtfully.
‘Bring him in here at once!’ commanded Rupert. ‘Don’t stand there goggling, fatwit! Go and fetch him!’
‘Yes, go and fetch him,’ said the Marquis. He was still looking at Mr Comyn, but he was frowning no longer. ‘Good God, Comyn, do you know how near to death you have been?’ he asked softly.
Mr Comyn smiled. ‘I am aware, my lord. The heat of the moment – excusable, you will agree – being happily past, I can make allowances for the very natural fury of a man deeply in love.’
‘Mighty good of you,’ said his lordship with a rather rueful grin. ‘I’ll admit I’m a thought too ready with my hands.’ He turned as the door was once more opened to admit a gentleman dressed in a black habit and bands, and a Ramillies wig. ‘Mr Hammond?’ he said. ‘In a very good hour, sir!’
The cleric looked him over with patent disapproval. ‘I have not the pleasure, I think, of your acquaintance, sir,’ he said frigidly. ‘I am come here, much against my will, at the request of Mr – ah – Comyn.’
‘But it is I who need your services, sir,’ said his lordship bris
kly. ‘My name’s Alastair. You are, I believe, making the Grand Tour in charge of Lord Edward Crewe?’
‘I am, sir, but I fail to understand what interest this can be to you.’
Light broke upon Lord Rupert with dazzling radiance. Suddenly he smote his knee and called out: ‘By the holy Peter, I have it! The man’s a parson, and that is why you came to Dijon! Lord, it’s as plain as the nose on your face!’
Mr Hammond looked at him with acute dislike. ‘You have the advantage of me, sir.’
‘Eh?’ said Rupert. ‘Oh, my name’s Alastair.’
Mr Hammond flushed angrily. ‘Sir, if this is a pleasantry it is one that in no way amuses me. If you summoned me here, Mr Comyn, for some boorish jest –’
Léonie got up, and came towards him. ‘But do not be enraged, m’sieur,’ she said kindly. ‘No one jests, I assure you. Will you not be seated?’
Mr Hammond thawed a little. ‘I thank you, ma’am. If I might know whom I have the honour of addressing – ?’
‘Oh, her name’s Alastair, too,’ said Rupert, who was fast lapsing into a rollicking mood.
Mr Comyn intervened hastily as the divine showed signs of deep offence. ‘Permit me, my lord! Let me make you known to her grace the Duchess of Avon, sir. Also her grace’s son, my Lord Vidal, and her grace’s brother-in-law, Lord Rupert Alastair.’
Mr Hammond recoiled perceptibly, and stared in horror at the Marquis. ‘Do I understand that this is none other than that Marquis of Vidal who – sir, if I had known, no persuasion would have sufficed to draw me into this house!’
The Marquis’s brows lifted. ‘My good sir,’ he said, ‘you are not sent for to condemn my morals, but to marry me to a certain lady at present staying in this inn.’
Léonie cried out, aghast: ‘But you cannot, Dominique! You said that she is married to M. Comyn!’