Devil's Cub (16 page)

Vidal became aware of Miss Challoner standing demurely by the door. “What, are you here?” he said. “Do you understand French?”

“Tolerably well, sir,” she replied placidly. “How well?” demanded his lordship. A glint of amusement shone in her grey eyes. “Well enough to understand the doctor, my lord. But I could not follow very much of what you said. Most of the words you used were strange to me.”

“Thank God for that!” said Vidal. “Now go away, there’s a good girl, and leave me to deal with this fellow.”

“Having phlegm, sir, I am to hold the basin,” replied Miss Challoner. “You did as much for me, after all.”

He grinned. “I’d a notion you’d never forgive me for that, whatever else you forgave.”

“Forgive you? I was exceedingly grateful,” said Miss Challoner matter-of-factly.

“You’re a remarkable woman,” he said. “But I’ll have none of this blood-letting for all that.”

Miss Challoner had the bowl ready. She said kindly: “It will not hurt you, sir, I assure you.”

For the second time that morning his lordship was bereft of speech.

Miss Challoner said, as one reasoning with a rebellious child: “If you desire to be well, and able to make .the journey to Paris, you will do as the surgeon advises. But if you are minded to be stupid and obstinate, I shall find the means to go to Paris by myself.”

His lordship sat up. “Thunder and turf, how old do you take me for?”

“Not very old,” said Miss Challoner, “or you would have more sense.” She smiled at him, a warm smile of understanding. “Please permit this poor man to blood you, my lord.”

“Oh, very well!” snapped his lordship, relaxing again. “And for the future, ma’am, I’ll thank you not to interfere in my concerns.”

“I’ll try and remember your expressed wish, sir,” promised Miss Challoner.

My lord gave his wrist up to the surgeon, but continued to look at Mary. “If I don’t end by wringing your neck, my girl, you will be in no way to blame,” he informed her.

The cupping left his lordship too weak to attempt the journey to Paris. He slept most of the day, and when he lay awake seemed disinclined to talk. Miss Challoner, a capable female, took charge of the entire party, and issued a number of orders concerning my lord’s well-being that made Mr. Fletcher exchange startled looks with Mr. Timms. Both these highly discreet gentlemen treated her from the first with proper respect (which surprised her), but by the end of the day their respect was no longer due to their fear of his lordship.

The Marquis had the first intimation of the change that was taking place in his household at four in the afternoon, when Fletcher, his face like a mask, presented him with a bowl of thin gruel. He had received it from Miss Challoner, and meeting Mr. Timms upon the stairs, had said with great presence of mind: “You may take this to his lordship, Horace.”

Mr. Timms, after one glance at the tray, declined the office. “And if I was you, Mr. Fletcher, I would send it by one of these Frenchies,” he recommended.

The suggestion offended Mr. Fletcher’s dignity, and he said stiffly: “And why, my lad, can you not wait upon his lordship?”

“Because I don’t want a basin of gruel thrown at my head,” replied Mr. Timms with brutal frankness.

The Marquis looked at the contents of the bowl in the silence of amazement. Then he looked at his major-domo, who stared woodenly at the bed-post. “My good fool,” said the Marquis, “what is this repulsive pap?”

“Gruel, my lord,” replied Fletcher, expressionless. The Marquis leaned his head back on the pillows, and continued to survey his henchman. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” he inquired softly.

“No, my lord.”

“Then what the devil do you mean by bringing me a bowl of gruel? Where did you get it? Don’t dare to tell me a Frenchman perpetrated such an abomination!”

The lady prepared it, my lord.”

There was a short but pregnant silence. “Take it away,” said his lordship, with dangerous restraint.

“The lady told me, my lord, that I was on no account to do so,” said Fletcher apologetically.

My lord’s fingers crooked themselves round one of the handles of the bowl. “Are you going to take it away, Fletcher?” he inquired very gently.

Fletcher, with one eye warily on the movement of that white hand, said, abandoning the struggle: “Certainly, my lord.”

Vidal removed his hand from the bowl. “I thought so. Bring me something fit to eat, and a bottle of claret.”

Fletcher bowed and removed both himself and the tray. Three minutes later the door was opened again. Miss Challoner came in bearing the same tray. She set it down on the table by the bed, and handed his lordship a napkin. “I am sorry I cannot let you have your bottle of claret, sir,” she said. “But I think you won’t find my gruel so very bad. I am thought to make it tolerably well.”

There was a spark of anger in Vidal’s eyes. “You’re outside your r61e, ma’am,” he told her. “I don’t require either your solicitude or your gruel. Have the goodness to refrain in future from meddling in my concerns.”

Miss Challoner was not noticeably dashed. “Very well, sir, but will you not, to oblige me, at least taste my gruel?”

“No, ma’am, I will not.”

Miss Challoner picked the tray up again, with a small unhappy sigh. “I did not mean to offend you, my lord,” she said wistfully. “I thought, perhaps, that if I prepared it very carefully you would not be so unkind as to refuse even to partake of a spoonful.”

“Then you are wrong, ma’am,” replied his lordship icily.

“Yes,” Miss Challoner said rather sadly “I see that I was. I suppose it was presumptuous of me. I am sorry, sir.”

She went slowly to the door. My lord said, in the voice of one goaded beyond endurance: “Oh, bring it back, girl—bring it back! I’ll swallow the brew if it will please you.”

Miss Challoner seemed to hesitate. “Yes, indeed, it would please me, but I do not at all desire to plague you with it.”

“For God’s sake let’s have no more words!” besought Vidal. “Give it to me, and have done!”

Miss Challoner obediently brought back the tray. She sat down by the bed, and watched his lordship drink the gruel. He looked suspiciously at her, but she preserved an innocent front. He finished what was left in the bowl, and put it down. “Mary,” said he, “come a little closer and present your left cheek.”

A dimple quivered. “Why, sir?”

“Don’t you know?” said Vidal.

She laughed. “Why yes, sir. You would dearly love to box my ears.”

“I should,” he said. “Don’t think I’m deceived by that meek face! Where are you going?”

“Down to the parlour, sir.”

“Stay with me. I want to talk to you.” This was decidedly a command. Miss Challoner raised her eyebrows in fault hauteur. Vidal grinned. “Dear Mary, pray do me the honour of remaining at my side.”

She sat down again, slightly inclining her head. “Certainly, sir, but I do not think I gave you leave to call me Mary.”

“Give me leave now, then,” said Vidal. “Are we not betrothed?”

She shook her head. “No, my lord.”

“Dominic,” he corrected.

“No, my lord,” repeated Miss Challoner steadily.

“Mary,” said his lordship, “may I proffer a piece of good advice?” She looked inquiring. “Do not be for ever arguing with me,” said the Marquis. “It will be very much better for you to refrain. My intentions are admirable, but I seldom act up to them, and I should not like to lose my temper with you again.”

“But, indeed, my lord, I cannot—”

“Dear Mary,” said his lordship, “hold your tongue!”

“Very well, sir,” replied Miss Challoner obediently.

“First,” Vidal said, “I must ask you to keep within doors while we remain in Dieppe. I don’t want a chance traveller to see you here.”

Miss Challoner wrinkled her brow thoughtfully. “I will do as you wish, of course, but I do not think I number among my acquaintance anyone likely to be visiting France at ibis season.”

“Possibly not,” answered the Marquis. “But I number many. Second, I much regret that it will not be possible for me to marry you immediately we arrive in Paris.”

“Do you mean, sir, that you have, upon reflection, perceived the wisdom of my plans?”

“No, ma’am, I do not,” Vidal said. “I mean that there are Certain difficulties attendant upon the marriage of English Protestants in France.”

“Oh!” said Miss Challoner hopefully.

“The obvious course is to visit the Embassy,” said my lord, “but since the Ambassador is related to me and I know personally at least three of the Secretaries, the Embassy is the last place I shall visit.”

“If,” said Miss Challoner, “you feel so much aversion from displaying me to your numerous friends, sir, I wonder that you still persist in this determination to wed me,”

“And if,” said the Marquis with some asperity, “you would put yourself to the trouble of employing the brain I imagine you must possess, you might possibly perceive that my reluctance to display you to my numerous friends arises from motives of the most disinterested chivalry.”

“Indeed?” Miss Challoner said, unabashed. “Well, I could scarce be expected to think that, could I?”

“Oho!” said his lordship. “So you’ve claws, have you?” Miss Challoner said nothing. “To put it plainly, Miss Challoner, the Ambassador, my esteemed cousin, and his Secretaries, my unregenerate friends, have not infrequently visited my hôtel when a lady was there to act as hostess. They would not consider the presence of a lady under my roof worthy of comment. But were I to walk into the Embassy with a request to be married at once to a lady, Irving already under my protection, I should cause, not comment, but something in the nature of an uproar. Within a week, my dear, it would be all over town that you’d run off with me, and trapped me into wedding you.”

“Oh!” said Miss Challoner, flushing.

“Precisely, my love,” said his lordship sardonically. “So since the reason for our marriage is to stop any breath of scandal attaching to your fair name, we shall be wed as quietly as I can contrive. After which, I can easily make it appear that I met you, very properly, in Paris, where you were sojourning with friends, and married you, most romantically, out of hand.”

“I see,” said Miss Challoner. “And how do you propose to achieve all this, my lord?”

“There are still Protestants in France, my dear. All I have to do is to find a pastor. But it may not be easy, and until I have done it you will have to remain hidden in my house. I can’t trust my aunt or I’d place you in her charge.” He paused. “There is of course my obese great-uncle Armand de Saint-Vire. No. His tongue wags too much.”

“You would appear to have many relatives in Paris, sir,” remarked Miss Challoner. “I felicitate you.”

“You need not,” said Vidal. “I am more in the habit, myself, of consigning ’em all to the devil. Not only is my mother a Frenchwoman, but my paternal grandmother must needs have been one too. The result, ma’am, is that my damned French cousins litter Paris. There is the aunt in whose charge I’ll not place you. She is more properly a cousin, but is known to my generation as Tante Elisabeth. You’ll meet her. She has a fondness for me. The rest of the family need not concern you. I never permit ’em to disturb me.”

“And your obese great-uncle?” inquired Miss Challoner.

“Ah, he don’t belong to that side of the family. He’s the head of my mother’s family. He married upon coming into the title, very late in life. He is a friend of my father’s, and like him, has one son, my cousin Bertrand. You’ll meet him, too.”

“Shall I?” said Miss Challoner. “When?”

“When I’ve married you.”

“The prospect is naturally alluring, sir,” said Miss Challoner, rising, “but even these treats in store don’t tempt me to marriage.” Upon which she curtsied gracefully and walked to the door.

“Vixen,” said his lordship, as she opened it.

Miss Challoner curtsied again, and withdrew.

Upon the following morning she found his lordship partaking of a substantial breakfast, and since he seemed to be very much better, she made no demur. The surgeon visited the inn at noon, and although he exclaimed aloud against Vidal’s intention to travel that day, he had no objection, he said, to his patient leaving his bed for a short time. When he had gone Miss Challoner prevailed upon the Marquis to postpone their departure one more day. She spent the afternoon in her own room, but came down to the private
salle
shortly before the dinner hour, and walked plump into an agitated conference at the foot of the stairs.

Several excited persons were gathered about a neat and unemotional gentleman in travelling dress of unmistakable English cut. M. Plançon, the landlord, was apparently trying to make himself intelligible to this gentleman, but in the intervals of volubility, he cast up despairing hands to heaven, while two serving-men and an ostler took up the tale with the maximum amount of gesticulation and noise.

Miss Challoner hesitated, mindful of his lordship’s instructions, but at that moment the traveller said in a placid voice: “I regret, my good fellows, that I do not understand more than one word in ten of your extremely obliging advice, but I am English—
Anglais, vous savez
,
and I do not speak French.
Ne comprenny pas
.”