Part 2

Once more the world reeled visibly before Mr Dupuy’s eyes, and he rose up from that hospitable club table, leaving his mutton cutlet and tomato sauce almost untasted. In the heat of the moment, he was half inclined to go back again immediately to his native Trinidad, and brave the terrors of vivisection, rather than stop in this atrocious, new-fangled, upsetting England, where the family honours of the fighting Dupuys of Orange Grove were positively reckoned at less than nothing. He restrained himself, however, with a violent effort, and still condescends, from summer to summer, fitfully to inhabit this chilly, damp, and unappreciative island. But it is noticeable that he talks much less frequently now of the Dupuy characteristics than he did formerly (the population of Great Britain being evidently rather bored than otherwise by his constant allusions to those remarkable idiosyncrasies); and some of his acquaintances have even observed that since the late baronet’s lamented decease, a few months since, he has spoken more than once with apparent pride and delight of ‘my son-in-law, Sir Harry Noel.’

It is a great consolation to Tom Dupuy to this day, whenever anybody happens casually to mention his cousin Nora in his presence, that he can rub his hands gently one over the other before him, and murmur in his own peculiar drawl: ‘I always told you she’d end at last by marrying some confounded woolly-headed brown man.’

THE END.

REBEL-CATCHING.

We were in camp, and our chief was a very distinguished officer of middle age, who had won his first spurs in the Indian Mutiny, and had been winning additional spurs ever since. We were a small party, which perhaps partly accounted for the chief’s communicativeness, for to induce him to narrate any of his own experiences under ordinary circumstances was well nigh an impossibility. Be this as it may, on this occasion he did abate a little of his habitual reserve, and though he would not even hint at one of the score of incidents in which his coolness and gallantry had been almost historical, still, what he did tell us may be of some general interest. Moreover, to the best of my knowledge—and I can claim something more than a nodding acquaintance with the literature of the Sepoy Revolt—the two following stories have never been even alluded to in print. I am sorry I cannot recollect the exact words in which they were told; but I will do my best, and will only ask that any deficiencies in the narrative may be attributed to me, and not to the anonymous speaker.

‘Talking of catching rebels reminds me that I had a good deal to do in that line in the Mutiny days. I was only a youngster, not much more than a boy at the time; but I suppose I was rather zealous and active, for I was given a small independent command, a troop of native cavalry and a handful of infantry, and posted near the Nepal frontier to look out for rebels. This was quite at the fag-end of the Mutiny; and my chief duty was to catch, if possible, one or two noted scoundrels who had hitherto escaped, and who, it was supposed, might try to take refuge in the Nepal valley. Amongst the objects of my especial solicitude was a subahdar [native officer] who had taken a prominent part in the massacre of women and children at Cawnpore. I had full permission to shoot this hound if only I could catch him; and I waited longingly for some tidings of his whereabouts. At last, one evening a native arrived at my post, and declared that the subahdar was lying hid in a village some little distance off, on the Nepal side of the frontier. I had got my chance, and I was not going to lose it by delay. Getting together my troop of cavalry, I made a night-march to the village, and in the very early morning, before any of the inhabitants were astir, I drew a _cordon_ round it, and waited. When day broke, I sent a message to the head-man of the village and explained matters. I called upon him to deliver up the subahdar, and pointed out that I was master of the situation. To my disgust, the head-man declared that he could not give up the subahdar, for the simple reason that he was not in the village at all. However, my information had been trustworthy, and I did not like the idea of having had a long and troublesome march for nothing, so I ordered a search. This was accordingly made, but with no results except that of putting me into a rather bad temper. Finally, I said to the head-man that every single inhabitant of the place should turn out by a given time that day, or I would burn the village over their heads. The head-man sorrowfully consented; and man, woman, and child evacuated the huts, after which the troopers scoured the village in their endeavours to find their man. But not a sign of him was present, and I began to feel that I had been befooled. Somewhat sick at heart, I ordered my troopers to stop searching and to prepare for the return march.

‘As the troopers were trotting up to fall in, one of them happened to pass a small hut in which was a heap of most innocent-looking but not very savoury rubbish. Through the doorway the trooper casually poked his lance at this heap, more for swagger or to show his zeal than with any hope of making a discovery. Suddenly, up from the rubbish jumped a scared figure, who was promptly caught and brought to me. It was the subahdar!’

The speaker went on to say that they made short work of the scoundrel, who had reddened his foul hands with the blood of English ladies and children. He had his trial; but the evidence was conclusive, and mercy was out of the question. The subahdar was shot; and when one reads the details of the two massacres at Cawnpore, one is tempted to think that the death was too good for him. Our chief concluded this episode by noting that he subsequently had no difficulty in explaining to the Nepalese authorities his conduct towards the villagers, which had been, to say the least, somewhat brusque. These authorities looked upon the matter as rather humorous than otherwise, and certainly not worthy of serious notice.

‘Another curious thing happened to me,’ continued the chief, ‘during the time that I was rebel-hunting. One day I caught a criminal with a very peculiar face, one that I could not help remembering rather more clearly than I generally remember the countenances of natives. This particular rebel had done something particularly bad, and had to be shot without delay. I gave the necessary orders for a firing-party to be formed, and the execution was duly carried out. Something prevented me from being actually present on the ground, but there was a native officer, and my men were presumably to be trusted. I remember distinctly hearing the volley delivered by the firing-party, and when I subsequently inquired whether everything had been all right, it was reported to me that the man was dead.

‘About a fortnight afterwards, a man was brought in to me whose face seemed strangely familiar. Suddenly it flashed on my mind that this was the very man whose death-knell I had heard only a few days ago. Looking at him closely, I said: “How is this? Who are you? Surely I had you shot a fortnight ago?”

“It is true, sahib,” said the poor wretch. “I am the man your soldiers caught, and I was brought before your honour, and you ordered me to be shot. I was taken out, and they stood me on the edge of a _nala_ [a dried-up watercourse], and fired. Sahib, they hit me; but I was not dead, and I dropped into the _nala_ and crept away. Your soldiers never came to look for me, and I escaped. By evil chance, I have been captured again. But, sahib, do not order me to be shot again.”

“No,” said I; “I will not do that—not this time, at anyrate. You are free, and had better make the best use of your legs. But if I catch you again, I shall really be obliged to have you shot in downright earnest. Be off, and take care you don’t fall a third time into my hands.”

‘And he didn’t.’

Our chief commented on the native’s tale of his hairbreadth escape as being what Yankees would call ‘rather thin.’ He seemed himself to think that the firing-party had been tampered with, a contingency which he had, in his subsequent rebel-catching adventures, taken care to avert.

BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.

CHAPTER III.

Le Gautier was not far wrong in his estimate of Carlo Visci. The game the former was playing was a dangerous one. He had met the youthful Genevieve in one of his country excursions, and, struck by her beauty, conceived the idea of finding some slight amusement in her society. It was not hard, in that quiet place, with his audacity and talents, to make himself known to her; nor did the child—for she was little more—romantic, passionate, her head filled with dreams of love and devotion, long remain cold to his advances. Friendship soon ripens into love in the sunny South, where temperaments are warmer, and the cold restraints of northern society do not exist. The Frenchman had no sinister intentions when he commenced his little flirtation—a mere recreation _pour passer le temps_ on his side; but alas for good intentions; the moth may not approach too near the flame without scorching its wings. Begun in playfulness, almost sport, the thing gradually ripened into love—love such as most women never know, love encountered by keen wit and a knowledge of the evil side of life. When the story opens, Genevieve had known Le Gautier for six months—had known him, loved him, and trusted him.

But Le Gautier was already tired of his broken toy. It was all very well as a pastime; but the gilded chains were beginning to chafe, and besides, he had ambitious schemes into which any calculations of Genevieve never entered. He had been thinking less of dark passionate eyes lately than of a fair English face, the face of Enid Charteris; so in his mind he began to revolve how he could best free himself from the Italian girl, ere commencing his campaign against the heart and fortune of Sir Geoffrey Charteris’ heiress. Come what may now, he must file his fetters.

Filled with this virtuous and manly resolution, he set out the following afternoon for the Villa Mattio. It was Visci’s whim to keep his sister there, along with a younger sister, a child as yet, little Lucrece, both under the charge of a sleepy old _gouvernante_. In spite of his faults, Visci was a good brother, having too sincere an affection for his sister to keep her with him among the wild student spirits he affected, fearing contamination for her mind. And so she remained in the country; Visci running down from the city to see her, each time congratulating himself upon the foresight he had displayed in such an arrangement as this, little thinking he had thus caused the greatest evil he had to fear.

Le Gautier walked on till the white façade and stucco pillars of the villa were in sight, and then, striking across a little path leading deep into a thick shady wood, all carpeted with spring flowers, threw himself upon the grass to wait. There was a little shrine here by the side of a tiny stream, with the crucifix and a rude stone image of the Virgin in a dark niche; evidently a kind of rustic woodland sanctuary. But Le Gautier did not notice these things as he lay there; and there was a frown upon his brow, and a thoughtful, determined look upon his face, which boded ill for some one.

He had not long to wait. Pushing the branches of the trees aside and coming towards him with eager, elastic step, was a girl. She was tall and slight; not more than seventeen, in fact, and her dark eyes and clear-cut features gave promise of great beauty. There was a wistful, tender smile upon her face as she came forward—a smile tinged with pain, as she noted the moody face of the man lying there, but nevertheless a smile which betokened nothing but perfect, trusting, unutterable love. Le Gautier noted this in his turn, and it did not tend to increase his equanimity. It is not easy for a man, when he is going to commit a base action, to preserve his equanimity when met with perfect confidence by the victim. For a moment she stood there, looking at him, neither speaking for a brief space.

‘How ridiculously happy you look, Genevieve,’ Le Gautier said irritably. ‘It is a great compliment to me, but’——

The girl looked at him shyly, as she leant against a tree, the shafts of light through the leaves playing upon her lustrous coronal of dusky hair and showing the happy gleam in her eyes. ‘I am always contented when you are here, Hector,’ she answered softly.

‘And never at any other time, I suppose?’

‘I cannot say that. I have many things to do, but I can always find time to think of you. I dwell upon you when you are away, and think what I should do if you were to leave me. Ah, yes, I know you will not do that; but if you did, I should die.’

Le Gautier groaned inwardly. Time had been when he had dwelt with pleasure on these outpourings of an innocent heart.

‘You are not one of the dying order of heroines, Genevieve. By no means. And so you often wonder what you would do if I were to leave you?’

The girl half started from her reclining position, with her scarlet lips parted, and a troubled expression on her face. ‘You speak very strangely to-day, Hector,’ she exclaimed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Precisely what I say. You are anxious to know how you would feel if I left you. Your curiosity shall be gratified. I am going to leave you.’

‘To leave me! Going away, Hector, and without me?’ Genevieve wondered vaguely whether she heard the words aright. She started and pressed her hand to her heart, as if to still its rebellious beating. Going away? The warmth seemed to have departed from the scene, the bright light grew dim as gradually the words forced themselves upon her; and the cold numbness of despair froze her trembling limbs.

‘Yes, I am going away,’ Le Gautier repeated in a matter-of-fact manner, but always with his eyes anywhere but on the girl’s face. ‘Indeed, I have no alternative; and as to taking you with me, it is impossible.’

‘I have dreamt of something like this,’ Genevieve intoned in a low vague voice, her look seemingly far away. ‘It has been forced upon me, though I have tried not to think so, that you have been growing colder day by day. And now you come and tell me that you are going to leave me! There is no regret in your voice, no sorrow in your face. You will go away and forget, leaving me here in my sorrow, mourning for my lost love—leaving me here heartbroken—deceived!’

‘You should go on the stage,’ Le Gautier replied sardonically. ‘Your talents are wasted here. Let me assure you, Genevieve, speaking as a man who has had a little experience, that if you can get up a scene like this upon the boards, there is money in it.’

‘You are cruel!’ the girl cried, dashing her tears away impetuously—‘you are cruel! What have I done to deserve this from you, Hector? You wish to leave me; that you will not come back again, my heart assures me.’

‘Your heart is a prophetic organ, then, _caro mio_. Now, do look at the thing in a rational light. I am under the orders of the League; to disobey is death to me; and to take you with me is impossible. We must forget all our little flirtations now, for I cannot tell when I may be in Italy again. Now, be a sensible girl; forget all about unfortunate me. No one possibly can know; and when the prince appears, marry him. Be assured that I shall tell no foolish tales.’

Gradually, surely, the blood crept into the girl’s face as she listened to these mocking words. She drew herself up inch by inch, her eyes bright and hard, her head thrown back. There was a look of infinite withering scorn upon her as she spoke, sparing not herself in the ordeal. ‘And that is the thing I loved!’ she said, each word cold and clear—‘that is the thing to which I gave all my poor heart! I understand your words only too well. I am abandoned. But you have not done with me yet. My turn will come, and then—beware!’

‘A truce to your histrionics,’ Le Gautier cried, all the tiger aroused in him now, and only too ready to take up the gage thrown down. ‘Do you think I have no occupation, nothing to dwell upon but romantic schoolgirls one kills pleasant hours with in roaming about the world! You knew well enough the thing could not last. I leave for London to-morrow; so, be sensible, and let us part friends.’

‘Friends!’ she echoed disdainfully. ‘You and I friends! You have made a woman of me. From this moment, I shall only think of you with loathing!’

‘Then why think of me at all? It is very hard a man cannot have a little amusement without such a display of hysterical affection as this. For goodness’ sake, Genevieve, do be sensible!’

Stung to madness by this cruel taunt, she took one step towards him and stopped, her whole frame thrilling with speechless, consuming rage. It would have gone hard with him then, could she have laid her hand upon a weapon. Then all at once she grew perfectly, rigidly calm. She stepped to the little sanctuary, and took down the wooden cross, holding it in her right hand. ‘Before you go, I have a word to say to you,’ she said between her clenched white teeth. ‘You are a man; I am a poor defenceless girl. You are endowed with all the falseness and deceit that flesh is heir to; I am ignorant of the great world that lies beyond the horizon. You fear no harm from me now; I shall evoke no arm in my defence; but my time will come. When you have nearly accomplished your most cherished schemes, when you have your foot upon the goal of your crowning ambition, when fortune smiles her brightest upon your endeavours—then I shall strike! Not till then shall you see or hear of me; but the hour will come. Beware of it!’

‘Perfection!’ Le Gautier cried. ‘You only want’——

‘Not another word!’ the girl commanded. ‘Now, go!—mean, crawling hound, base deceiver of innocent girls! Go! and never look upon my face again; it shall be the worse for you if you do! Go! and forget my passionate words; but the time will come when they shall come back to you. Go!’ With steady hand she pointed to the opening in the wood; and without another word he slunk away, feeling, in spite of his jaunty air, a miserable, pitiful coward indeed.

As he turned to go, Genevieve watched him down the long avenue out of sight, and then, sinking on her knees, she sobbed long and bitterly, so full of her grief and care that she was oblivious to her surroundings. Her face was deadly pale, her white lips moved passionately, as she knelt there weeping, half praying, half cursing herself in her despair.

‘Genevieve!’

The word, uttered in a tone of wonder and alarm, was repeated a second time before the agitated girl looked up. Salvarini was standing there, his usually grave face a prey to suspicion and alarm, a look which did not disguise entirely an expression of tenderness and affection. Genevieve rose to her feet and wiped away her tears. It was some moments before she was calm enough to speak to the wondering man at her side.

‘I have chosen an unfortunate moment for my mission,’ Salvarini mournfully continued; ‘I am afraid my presence is unwelcome here.—Genevieve, there is something behind this I do not understand. It must be beyond an ordinary grief to move you like this.’

‘There are some sorrows we dare not think of,’ Genevieve replied with an air of utter weariness.—‘Luigi, do not press me now. Some day, perhaps, I will ask you to help me.’

‘I am afraid a brother is the fittest confidant in a case like this. Pardon me, if I am wrong; but when I hear you talking to a man—for his voice came to me—and then I find you in such a plight as this, I must think.—O Genevieve! my only love, my idol and dream since I first saw your face, to have given your heart to some one unworthy of you. What will Carlo say, when he hears of it?’

‘But he must not hear,’ Genevieve whispered, terrified. ‘Luigi, you have surprised me; but you must keep my secret—I implore you.’

‘I can refuse no words of yours. But one thing you must, nay, shall do—you must tell me who this man is; you must have an avenger.’

‘Luigi,’ the girl said, laying her hand gently upon his arm, ‘I shall be my own avenger—that I have sworn by the cross I hold in my hand. If it is for years, I can wait—and hope.’

‘That is a wrong spirit,’ Salvarini replied sorrowfully. ‘You are mad just now with your wrongs. Stay here at home, and let me be your champion. I love you too well to admire such sentiments from you yet. I shall not press you now; but all time, for good or for evil, I shall wait for you.’

‘Luigi, you are a good man, far too good for me. Listen! I must gratify my revenge; till then, all must wait. Things alter; men change; but when the time comes, and you are still the same, say “Come to me,” and I shall be by your side.’

‘I shall never change!’ he replied as he touched the outstretched hand with his lips gently.

Slowly and sadly they walked back towards the house—Genevieve calm and collected now; Salvarini, mournfully resigned; pity and rage—pity for the girl, and rage against her deceiver—alternately supreme in his heart. For some time neither spoke.

‘Will you come in?’ she asked.

‘Not now,’ he replied, feeling instinctively that his presence would only be an unwelcome restraint. ‘I had a message to bring from Carlo. He and Sir Geoffrey and Miss Charteris are coming to-morrow.—And now, remember, if you want a friend, you have one in me.—Good-bye.’

‘Good-bye, Luigi,’ she said mechanically. ‘You are very good. I shall remember.’

Strangers coming to-morrow. The words bear on her brain like the roar of countless hammers. Strangers coming; and how was she to meet them now, with this wild sense of wrong burning within her vengeful Italian heart, bruised but not crushed? She walked slowly up-stairs and sat down in her room, thinking, till the evening light began to wane, and the lamps of distant Rome to twinkle out one by one. The very silence of the place oppressed her.

‘Are you coming down to supper, Genevieve?’