The Snare
by Rafael Sabatini
(first published in 1917)
Chapter XI
The Challenge
Rebuke awaited Captain Tremayne at the hands of Lady O'Moy, and it came as soon as they were alone together sauntering in the
thicket of pine and cork-oak on the slope of the hill below the
terrace.
"How thoughtless of you, Ned, to provoke Count Samoval at such a
time as this!"
"Did I provoke him? I thought it was the Count himself who was
provoking." Tremayne spoke lightly.
"But suppose anything were to happen to you? You know the man's
dreadful reputation."
Tremayne looked at her kindly. This apparent concern for himself
touched him. "My dear Una, I hope I can take care of myself, even
against so formidable a fellow; and after all a man must take his
chances a soldier especially."
"But what of Dick?" she cried. "Do you forget that he is depending
entirely upon you—that if you should fail him he will be lost?"
And there was something akin to indignation in the protesting eyes
she turned upon him.
For a moment Tremayne was so amazed that he was at a loss for an
answer. Then he smiled. Indeed his inclination was to laugh
outright. The frank admission that her concern which he had fondly
imagined to be for himself was all for Dick betrayed a state of
mind that was entirely typical of Una. Never had she been able to
command more than one point of view of any question, and that point
of view invariably of her own interest. All her life she had been
accustomed to sacrifices great and small made by others on heir own
behalf, until she had come to look upon such sacrifices her absolute
right.
"I am glad you reminded me," he said with an irony that never
touched her. "You may depend upon me to be discreetness itself, at
least until after Dick has been safely shipped."
"Thank you, Ned. You are very good to me." They sauntered a little
way in silence. Then: "When does Captain Glennie sail?" she asked
him. "Is it decided yet?"
"Yes. I have just heard from him that the Telemachus will put to
sea on Sunday morning at two o'clock."
"At two o'clock in the morning! What an uncomfortable hour!"
"Tides, as King Canute discovered, are beyond mortal control. The
Telemachus goes out with the ebb. And, after all, for our purposes
surely no hour could be more suitable. If I come for Dick at
midnight tomorrow that will just give us time to get him snugly
aboard before she sails. I have made all arrangements with Glennie.
He believes Dick to be what he has represented himself—one of
Bearsley's overseers named Jenkinson, who is a friend of mine and
who must be got out of the country quietly. Dick should thank his
luck for a good deal. My chief anxiety was lest his presence here
should be discovered by any one."
"Beyond Bridget not a soul knows that he is here not even Sylvia."
"You have been the soul of discreetness."
"Haven't I?" she purred, delighted to have him discover a virtue so
unusual in her.
Thereafter they discussed details; or, rather, Tremayne discussed
them. He would come up to Monsanto at twelve o'clock to-morrow
night in a curricle in which he would drive Dick down to the river
at a point where a boat would be waiting to take him out to the
Telemachus. She must see that Dick was ready in time. The rest
she could safely leave to him. He would come in through the
official wing of the building. The guard would admit him without
question, accustomed to seeing him come and go at all hours, nor
would it be remarked that he was accompanied by a man in civilian
dress when he departed. Dick was to be let down from her ladyship's
balcony to the quadrangle by a rope ladder with which Tremayne
would come equipped, having procured it for the purpose from the
Telemachus.
She hung upon his arm, overwhelming him now with her gratitude,
her parasol sheltering them both from the rays of the sun as they
emerged from the thicket into the meadowland in full view of the
terrace where Count Samoval and Sir Terence were at that moment
talking earnestly together.
You will remember that O'Moy had undertaken to provide that Count
Samoval's visits to Monsanto should be discontinued. About this
task he had gone with all the tact of which he had boasted himself
master to Colquhoun Grant. You shall judge of the tact for yourself.
No sooner had the colonel left for Lisbon, and Carruthers to return
to his work, than, finding himself alone with the Count, Sir Terence
considered the moment a choice one in which to broach the matter.
"I take it ye're fond of walking, Count," had been his singular
opening move. They had left the table by now, and were sauntering
together on the terrace.
"Walking?" said Samoval. "I detest it."
"And is that so? Well, well! Of course it's not so very far from
your place at Bispo."
"Not more than half-a-league, I should say."
"Just so," said O'Moy. "Half-a-league there, and half-a-league back:
a league. It's nothing at all, of course; yet for a gentleman who
detests walking it's a devilish long tramp for nothing."
"For nothing?" Samoval checked and looked at his host in faint
surprise. Then he smiled very affably. "But you must not say that,
Sir Terence. I assure you that the pleasure of seeing yourself and
Lady O'Moy cannot be spoken of as nothing."
"You are very good." Sir Terence was the very quintessence of
courtliness, of concern for the other. "But if there were not that
pleasure?"
"Then, of course, it would be different." Samoval was beginning to
be slightly intrigued.
"That's it," said Sir Terence. "That's just what I'm meaning."
"Just what you're meaning? But, my dear General, you are assuming
circumstances which fortunately do not exist."
"Not at present, perhaps. But they might."
Again Samoval stood still and looked at O'Moy. He found something
in the bronzed, rugged face that was unusually sardonic. The blue
eyes seemed to have become hard, and yet there were wrinkles about
their corners suggestive of humour that might be mockery. The Count
stiffened; but beyond that he preserved his outward calm whilst
confessing that he did not understand Sir Terence's meaning.
"It's this way," said Sir Terence. "I've noticed that ye're not
looking so very well lately, Count."
"Really? You think that?" The words were mechanical. The dark
eyes continued to scrutinise that bronzed face suspiciously.
"I do, and it's sorry I am to see it. But I know what it is. It's
this walking backwards and forwards between here and Bispo that's
doing the mischief. Better give it up, Count. Better not come
toiling up here any more. It's not good for your health. Why, man,
ye're as white as a ghost this minute."
He was indeed, having perceived at last the insult intended. To be
denied the house at such a time was to checkmate his designs, to set
a term upon his crafty and subtle espionage, precisely in the season
when he hoped to reap its harvest. But his chagrin sprang not at
all from that. His cold anger was purely personal. He was a
gentleman—of the fine flower, as he would have described himself—
of the nobility of Portugal; and that a probably upstart Irish
soldier—himself, from Samoval's point of view, a guest in that
country—should deny him his house, and choose such terms of
ill-considered jocularity in which to do it, was an affront beyond
all endurance.
For a moment passion blinded him, and it was only by an effort that
he recovered and kept his self-control. But keep it he did. You
may trust your practised duellist for that when he comes face to
face with the necessity to demand satisfaction. And soon the mist
of passion clearing from his keen wits, he sought swiftly for a
means to fasten the quarrel upon Sir Terence in Sir Terence's own
coin of galling mockery. Instantly he found it. Indeed it was not
very far to seek. O'Moy's jealousy, which was almost a byword, as
we know, had been apparent more than once to Samoval. Remembering
it now, it discovered to him at once Sir Terence's most vulnerable
spot, and cunningly Samoval proceeded to gall him there.
A smile spread gradually over his white face—a smile of
immeasurable malice.
"I am having a very interesting and instructive morning in this
atmosphere of Irish boorishness," said he. "First Captain
Tremayne—"
"Now don't be after blaming old Ireland for Tremayne's shortcomings.
Tremayne's just a clumsy mannered Englishman."
"I am glad to know there is a distinction. Indeed I might have
perceived it for myself. In motives, of course, that distinction
is great indeed, and I hope that I am not slow to discover it, and
in your case to excuse it. I quite understand and even sympathise
with your feelings, General."
"I am glad of that now," said Sir Terence, who had understood
nothing of all this.
"Naturally," the Count pursued on a smooth, level note of amiability,
"when a man, himself no longer young, commits the folly of taking a
young and charming wife, he is to be forgiven when a natural anxiety
drives him to lengths which in another might be resented." He bowed
before the empurpling Sir Terence.
"Ye're a damned coxcomb, it seems," was the answering roar.
"Of course you would assume it. It was to be expected. I condone
it with the rest. And because I condone it, because I sympathise
with what in a man of your age and temperament must amount to an
affliction, I hasten to assure you upon my honour that so far as
I am concerned there are no grounds for your anxiety."
"And who the devil asks for your assurances? It's stark mad ye are
to suppose that I ever needed them."
"Of course you must say that," Samoval insisted, with a confident
and superior smile. He shook his head, his expression one of
amused sorrow. "Sir Terence, you have knocked at the wrong door.
You are youthful at least in your impulsiveness, but you are surely
as blind as old Pantaloon in the comedy or you would see where your
industry would be better employed in shielding your wife's honour
and your own."
Goaded to fury, his blue eyes aflame now with passion, Sir Terence
considered the sleek and subtle gentleman before him, and it was in
that moment that the Count's subtlety soared to its finest heights.
In a flash of inspiration he perceived the advantages to be drawn by
himself from conducting this quarrel to extremes.
This is not mere idle speculation. Knowledge of the real motives
actuating him rests upon the evidence of a letter which Samoval was
to write that same evening to La Fleche—afterwards to be
discovered—wherein he related what had passed, how deliberately
he had steered the matter, and what he meant to do. His object was
no longer the punishing of an affront. That would happen as a mere
incident, a thing done, as it were, in passing. His real aim now
was to obtain the keys of the adjutant's strong-box, which never
left Sir Terence's person, and so become possessed of the plans of
the lines of Torres Vedras. When you consider in the light of this
the manner in which Samoval proceeded now you will admire with me
at once the opportunism and the subtlety of the man.
"You'll be after telling me exactly what you mean," Sir Terence
had said.
It was in that moment that Tremayne and Lady O'Moy came arm in arm
into the open on the hill-side, half-a-mile away—very close and
confidential. They came most opportunely to the Count's need, and
he flung out a hand to indicate them to Sir Terence, a smile of
pity on his lips.
"You need but to look to take the answer for yourself," said he.
Sir Terence looked, and laughed. He knew the sect of Ned Tremayne's
heart and could laugh now with relish at that which hitherto had
left him darkly suspicious.
"And who shall blame Lady O'Moy?" Count Samoval pursued. "A
lady so charming and so courted must seek her consolation for the
almost unnatural union Fate has imposed upon her. Captain Tremayne
is of her own age, convenient to her hand, and for an Englishman
not ill-looking."
He smiled at O'Moy with insolent compassion, and O'Moy, losing all
his self-control, struck him—slapped him resoundingly upon the cheek.
"Ye're a dirty liar, Samoval, a muck-rake," said he.
Samoval stepped back, breathing hard, one cheek red, the other
white. Yet by a miracle he still preserved his self-control.
"I have proved my courage too often," he said, "to be under the
necessity of killing you for this blow. Since my honour is safe I
will not take advantage of your overwrought condition."
"Ye'll take advantage of it whether ye like it or not," blazed Sir
Terence at him. "I mean you to take advantage of it. D' ye think
I'll suffer any man to cast a slur upon Lady O'Moy? I'll be
sending my friends to wait on you to-day, Count; and—by God!—
Tremayne himself shall be one of them."
Thus did the hot-headed fellow deliver himself into the hands of
his enemy. Nor was he warned when he saw the sudden gleam in
Samoval's dark eyes.
"Ha!" said the Count. It was a little exclamation of wicked
satisfaction. "You are offering me a challenge, then?"
"If I may make so bold. And as I've a mind to shoot you dead—"
"Shoot, did you say?" Samoval interrupted gently.
"I said 'shoot'—and it shall be at ten paces, or across a
handkerchief, or any damned distance you please."
The Count shook his head. He sneered. "I think not—not shoot."
And he waved the notion aside with a hand white and slender as a
woman's. "That is too English, or too Irish. The pistol, I mean
—appropriately a fool's weapon." And he explained himself,
explained at last his extraordinary forbearance under a blow. "If
you think I have practised the small-sword every day of my life for
ten years to suffer myself to be shot at like a rabbit in the end
—ho, really!" He laughed aloud. "You have challenged me, I
think, Sir Terence. Because I feared the predilection you have
discovered, I was careful to wait until the challenge came from you.
The choice of weapons lies, I think, with me. I shall instruct my
friends to ask for swords."
"Sorry a difference will it make to me," said Sir Terence. "Anything
from a horsewhip to a howitzer." And then recollection descending
like a cold hand upon him chilled his hot rage, struck the fine Irish
arrogance all out of him, and left him suddenly limp. "My God!" he
said, and it was almost a groan. He detained Samoval, who had
already turned to depart. "A moment, Count," he cried. "I—I had
forgotten. There is the general order—Lord Wellington's enactment."
"Awkward, of course," said Samoval, who had never for a moment been
oblivious of that enactment, and who had been carefully building
upon it. "But you should have considered it before committing
yourself so irrevocably."
Sir Terence steadied himself. He recovered his truculence.
"Irrevocable or not, it will just have to be revocable. The
meeting's impossible."
"I do not see the impossibility. I am not surprised you should
shelter yourself behind an enactment; but you will remember this
enactment does not apply to me, who am not a soldier."
"But it applies to me, who am not only a soldier, but the
Adjutant-General here, the man chiefly responsible for seeing the
order carried out. It would be a fine thing if I were the first
to disregard it."
"I am afraid it is too late. You have disregarded it already,
sir."
"How so?"
"The letter of the law is against sending or receiving a challenge,
I think."
O'Moy was distracted. "Samoval," he said, drawing himself up, "I
will admit that I have been a fool. I will apologise to you for
the blow and for the word that accompanied it."
"The apology would imply that my statement was a true one and that
you recognised it. If you mean that—"
"I mean nothing of the kind. Damme! I've a mind to horsewhip you,
and leave it at that. D' ye think I want to face a firing party on
your account?"
"I don't think there is the remotest likelihood of any such
contingency," replied Samoval.
But O'Moy went headlong on. "And another thing. Where will I be
finding a friend to meet your friends? Who will dare to act for me
in view of that enactment?"
The Count considered. He was grave now. "Of course that is a
difficulty," he admitted, as if he perceived it now for the first
time. "Under the circumstances, Sir Terence, and entirely to
accommodate you, I might consent to dispense with seconds."
"Dispense with seconds?" Sir Terence was horrified at the suggestion.
"You know that that is irregular—that a charge of murder would lie
against the survivor."
"Oh, quite so. But it is for your own convenience that I suggest
it, though I appreciate your considerate concern on the score of
what may happen to me afterwards should it come to be known that I
was your opponent."
"Afterwards? After what?"
"After I have killed you."
"And is it like that?" cried O'Moy, his countenance inflaming again,
his mind casting all prudence to the winds.
It followed, of course, that without further thought for anything
but the satisfaction of his rage Sir Terence became as wax in the
hands of Samoval's desires.
"Where do you suggest that we meet?" he asked.
"There is my place at Bispo. We should be private in the gardens
there. As for time, the sooner the better, though for secrecy's
sake we had better meet at night. Shall we say at midnight?"
But Sir Terence would agree to none of this.
"To-night is out of the question for me. I have an engagement
that will keep me until late. To-morrow night, if you will, I
shall be at your service." And because he did not trust Samoval
he added, as Samoval himself had almost reckoned: "But I should
prefer not to come to Bispo. I might be seen going or returning."
"Since there are no such scruples on my side, I am ready to come
to you here if you prefer it."
"It would suit me better."
"Then expect me promptly at midnight to-morrow, provided that you
can arrange to admit me without my being seen. You will perceive
my reasons."
"Those gates will be closed," said O'Moy, indicating the now gaping
massive doors that closed the archway at night. "But if you knock
I shall be waiting for you, and I will admit you by the wicket."
"Excellent," said Samoval suavely. "Then—until to-morrow night,
General." He bowed with almost extravagant submission, and turning
walked sharply away, energy and suppleness in every line of his
slight figure, leaving Sir Terence to the unpleasant, almost
desperate, thoughts that reflection must usher in as his anger
faded.
To the Next Chapter of
The Snare
Return to The Snare Menu
|
