Captain Dieppe Part 8

"That will keep out the rain," said he, "and--and anything else, you know."

They were in dense darkness. The Captain took a candle and a cardboard box of matches from an inner pocket. Striking a match after one or two efforts (for matches and box were both damp), he melted the end of the candle and pressed it on the block till it adhered. Then he lit the wick. The lady watched him admiringly.

"You seem ready for anything," she said. But the Captain shook his head sorrowfully, as he laid his match-box down on a dry spot on the block.

"We have no time to lose--" he began.

"No," she agreed, and opening her cloak she searched for something.

Finding the object she sought, she held it out to him. "I got that this afternoon. Read it," she said. "It's from the man you met last night--Paul de Roustache. The 'Other quarter' means Andrea. And that means ruin."

Captain Dieppe gently waved the letter aside.

"No, you must read it," she urged.

He took it, and bending down to the candle read it. "Just what it would be," he said.

"I can't explain anything, you know," she added hastily, with a smile half rueful, half amused.

"To me, at least, there 's no need you should." He paused a moment in hesitation or emotion. Then he put his hand in his waistcoat-pocket, drew forth a small object, and held it out towards his companion between his finger and thumb. In the dim light she did not perceive its nature.

"This," said the Captain, conscientiously and even textually delivering the message with which he was charged, "is the pledge of love."

"Captain Dieppe!" she cried, leaping back and blus.h.i.+ng vividly.

"Really I--! At such a time--under the circ-- And what is it! I can't see."

"The pledge of love renewed"--the Captain went on in a loyal hastiness, but not without the sharpest pang--"of Andrea's undying love for you."

"Of Andrea's--!" She stopped, presumably from excess of emotion. Her lips were parted in a wondering smile, her eyes danced merrily even while they questioned. "What in the world is it?" she asked again.

"Your wedding-ring," said the Captain with sad and impressive solemnity, and, on the pretext of snuffing the candle which flickered and guttered in the draught, he turned away. Thus he did not perceive the uncontrollable bewilderment which appeared on his companion's face.

"Wedding-ring!" she murmured.

"He sends it back again to you," explained the Captain, still busy with the candle.

A long-drawn "O--oh!" came from her lips, its lengthened intonation seeming to express the dawning of comprehension. "Yes, of course," she added very hastily.

"He loves you," said the Captain, facing her--and his task--again. "He can't bear his own sorrow, nor to think of yours. He withdraws his demand; your mere word to hold no communication with the person you know of, without his knowledge, contents him. I am his messenger.

Give me your love to--to carry back to him."

"Did he tell you to say all that?" she asked.

"Ah, madame, should I say it otherwise? Should I who--" With a mighty effort he checked himself, and resumed in constrained tones. "My dear friend the Count bade me put this ring on your finger, madame, in token of your--your reunion with him."

Her expression now was decidedly puzzling; certainly she was struggling with some emotion, but it was not quite clear with what.

"Pray do it then," she said, and, drawing off the stout little gauntlet she wore, she presented her hand to the Captain. Bowing low, he took it lightly, and placed the holy symbol on the appropriate finger. But he could not make up his mind to part from the hand without one lingering look; and he observed with some surprise that the ring was considerably too large for the finger. "It 's very loose," he murmured, taking perhaps a sad, whimsical pleasure in the conceit of seeing something symbolical in the fact to which he called attention; in truth the ring fitted so ill as to be in great danger of dropping off.

"Yes--or--it is rather loose. I--I hate tight rings, don't you?" She smiled with vigour (if the expression be allowable) and added, "I 've grown thinner too, I suppose."

"From grief?" asked he, and he could not keep a touch of bitterness out of his voice.

"Well, anxiety," she amended. "I think I 'd better carry the ring in my pocket. It would be a pity to lose it." She took off the symbol and dropped it, somewhat carelessly it must be confessed, into a side-pocket of her coat. Then she seated herself on the stool, and looked up at the Captain. Her smile became rather mocking, as she observed to Captain Dieppe:

"Andrea has charged you with this commission since--since last night, I suppose?"

The words acted--whether by the intention of their utterer or not--as a spark to the Captain's ardour. Loyal he would be to his friend and to his emba.s.sy, but that she should suspect him of insincerity, that she should not know his love, was more than he could bear.

"Ah," he said, seizing her ungloved hand again, "since last night indeed! Last night it was my dream--my mad dream-- Ah, don't be angry! Don't draw your hand away."

The lady's conduct indicated that she proposed to a.s.sent to both these requests; she smiled still and she did not withdraw her hand from Dieppe's eager grasp.

"My honour is pledged," he went on, "but suffer me once to kiss this hand now that it wears no ring, to dream that it need wear none, that you are free. Ah, Countess, ah, Emilia--for once let me call you Emilia!"

"For once, if you like. Don't get into the habit of it," she advised.

"No, I 'll only think of you by that name."

"I should n't even do as much as that. It would be a-- I mean you might forget and call me it, you know."

"Never was man so unhappy as I am," he cried in a low but intense voice. "But I am wrong. I must remember my trust. And you--you love the Count?"

"I am very fond of Andrea," said she, almost in a whisper. She seemed to suffer sorely from embarra.s.sment, for she added hastily, "Don't--don't press me about that any more." Yet she was smiling.

The Captain knelt on one knee and kissed her hand very respectfully.

The mockery pa.s.sed out of her smile, and she said in a voice that for a moment was grave and tender:

"Thank you. I shall like to remember that. Because I think you 're a brave man and a true friend, Captain Dieppe."

"I thank G.o.d for helping me to remain a gentleman," said he; and, although his manner was (according to his custom) a little p.r.o.nounced and theatrical, he spoke with a very genuine feeling. She pressed her hand on his before she drew it away.

"You 'll be my friend?" he asked.

She paused before she replied, looking at him intently; then she answered in a low voice, speaking slowly and deliberately:

"I will be all to you that I can and that you ask me to be."

"I have your word, dear friend?"

"You have my word. If you ask me, I will redeem it." She looked at him still as though she had said a great thing--as though a pledge had pa.s.sed between them, and a solemn promise from her to him.

What seemed her feeling found an answer in Dieppe. He pressed her for no more promises, he urged her to no more demonstration of affection towards him. But their eyes met, their glances conquered the dimness of the candle's light and spoke to one another. Rain beat and wind howled outside. Dieppe heard nothing but an outspoken confession that left honour safe and inviolate, and yet told him the sweetest thing that he could hear--a thing so sweet that for the instant its sadness was forgotten. He had triumphed, though he could have no reward of victory. He was loved, though he might hear no words of love. But he could serve her still--serve her and save her from the danger and humiliation which, notwithstanding Count Andrea's softened mood, still threatened her. That he even owed her; for he did not doubt that the danger, and the solitude in which, but for him, it had to be faced, had done much to ripen and to quicken her regard for him. As for himself, with such a woman as the Countess in the case, he was not prepared to own the need of any external or accidental stimulus. Yet beauty distressed is beauty doubled; that is true all the world over, and, no doubt, it held good even for Captain Dieppe. He had been loyal--under the circ.u.mstances wonderfully loyal--to the Count; but he felt quite justified, if he proved equal to the task, in robbing his friend of the privilege of forgiveness--aye, and of the pleasure of paying fifty thousand francs. He resolved that the Count of Fieramondi should never know of Paul de Roustache's threats against the Countess or of his demand for that exorbitant sum of money.

With most people in moments of exaltation to resolve that a result is desirable is but a preliminary to undertaking its realisation. Dieppe had more than his share of this temper. He bent down towards his new and dear friend, and said confidently:

"Don't distress yourself about this fellow--I 'll manage the whole affair without trouble or publicity." Yet he had no notion how his words were to be made good.

"You will?" she asked, with a confidence in the Captain apparently as great as his own.