CHAPTER XI
The baroness walked to the window as the servant retired, throwing upon me as she went by a look of mingled triumph and disdain. I had no word to say for myself, and I awaited the progress of events with wonder. The baroness looked out upon the street, with her tiny foot tapping at the carpet, until the servant returned.
“Well?” said she, imperatively turning on him.
The man looked confused and stammered.
“Well?” she repeated, with an angry impatience.
“I beg your pardon, Madame la Baronne, but I am to say—”
“You are to say?” she echoed, scornfully, seeing that he paused and stammered anew. “Say what you are to say.”
“Perhaps it would be better,” the man said, “if I spoke to madame alone.”
“Say what you have to say,” his mistress commanded. “I presume you have an answer from Miss Pleyel?”
The man who was a young and by no means ill-looking fellow, was evidently in considerable distress. “It is not my fault, Madame la Baronne,” he said, with an appealing glance at me, “but Miss Pleyel's message is that she declines to meet Captain Fyffe under any circumstances.”
“That will do,” said his mistress. “You can go.”
The man retired once more. I could see that the baroness was disappointed, but she made the best of the circumstances.
“I am not surprised,” she said, with as fine an expression of scorn as she could command.
“Nor am I,” I responded. “It is natural that Miss Pleyel should not wish to meet one who knew her fifteen years ago.”
“It is like a man and a soldier,” she said, “to presume upon the natural delicacy of a lady under such circumstances. She shrinks from you and fears you. She dare not encounter you even in the presence of so dear a friend as I am. But I do not shrink from you, Captain Fyffe, and I am not afraid of you. I tell you once more that I think your coming here is, all things considered, as pretty a piece of audacity as I can remember.”
“Madame,” I answered, “I came here with a purpose. When I have fulfilled that purpose I will relieve you of my presence.”
“Go on,” she interjected, contemptuously.
“The position is both difficult and delicate, but my duty is plain, and I see no way of escape from it.”
“Your duty to yourself,” said the baroness, “is plain enough. Such a man as I see you now to be will make it his duty, at any cost, to defend himself.”
“To defend himself from what, madame?” I asked, surprised at her boldness.
“From the plain truth,” she answered, with an expression of anger and disdain which, if not real, was an excellent bit of acting in its way. “The brave Captain Fyffe is ambitious, and has made up his mind to marry money; but Miss Rossano, whom I have the honor to know, might shrink from Captain Fyffe if she knew him to be not merely a penniless adventurer, but a perjured and heartless villain.'
“Madame,” I replied, “I will not be so poor a diplomatist as to lose my temper over these charges. There are hundreds of people still alive in my native place to whom Miss Pleyel's miserable history is known, and such a charge as you are making could only excite derision if it were openly brought against me.”
“You came here with a purpose,” she said, coldly. “I shall be obliged if you will fulfil your purpose, and—”
“When I have fulfilled my purpose I will go. I will be as brief as I can. When I was a lad of twenty I was desperately in love with Miss Constance Pleyel, or thought I was, which at that time of life is pretty much the same thing.”
“It will serve at any time of life,” said the baroness. She listened with an air of aversion and impatience, which made a painful task more painful to perform.
“My father was a half-pay officer,” I went on, “very poor and very proud. Miss Pleyel's father was a tradesman, an Austrian Jew, rich, vulgar, and ostentatious.”
“Rich, certainly,” the baroness responded. “I can congratulate you on one point, Captain Fyffe; you have not yet, so far as I can learn, suffered sentiment to blind you to the charms of wealth.”
I passed the sneer. When a man is resolutely bent upon a journey he does not stop to fight the flies that tease him.
“We moved in different circles. I spoke to Miss Pleyel perhaps a dozen times, but in the hot enthusiasm of youthful love I wrote to her often.”
“I have seen your letters,” said the baroness, with a short, contemptuous laugh. “They might have deceived any woman.”
I allowed myself to be diverted for a moment.
“She keeps them? It is a sign of grace in her that she cares, after so many years, to remember an honest, boyish passion.”
“A sign of grace?” cried the baroness, passionately. “Oh, I lose patience with this cool infamy!”
Now all this time has gone by I can recall this scene as if it were a bit of stage play; and now that I can read every motive and understand every movement, I am inclined to think the baroness's part in it the finest piece of stage work I have ever seen.
“If you will permit me, madame, I will try to put the case in such a way that there shall be no mistake as to what I mean to say. I saw Miss Pleyel rarely, and never once in private. I wrote to her often; I wrote reams of boyish nonsense, which was all meant in fiery earnest then. Then news came. Miss Pleyel ran away from her father's house with Colonel Hill-yard, a man of wealth, a married man with a large family, and, in spite of that fact, a notorious roue. They lived abroad for six months, and Miss Pleyel ran away from Colonel Hillyard with a Russian officer, with whom she went to St. Petersburg, where she caught a grand duke, who was so far fascinated as to contract a morganatic marriage with her. Since that time Miss Pleyel's adventures have been before the world. Her name has been lost under a score of aliases, but there is no pretence between you and me, and no dispute as to her identity.”
“Captain Fyffe,” said the baroness, “I do not yet think so poorly of you as to believe that you have invented this abominable story, but I can tell you that it is, from beginning to end, a tissue of falsehoods.”
“Pardon me, madame,” I responded, “there is no man living who knows that wretched history half so well as I do.”
“Oh, you men, you men!” cried the baroness, sweeping her little white hands towards the ceiling, and wringing them above her head with a tragic gesture. She turned upon me suddenly, with an admirable burst of passion and feeling. “Captain Fyffe, I am a woman of the world; I am expérimentée—unhappily for me, too, too bitterly experienced. Believe me, I already have the very poorest opinion of your sex. I beseech you not to lower it further.”
“The most casual inquiry,” I answered, “if you should care to make it, will confirm every word I have so far spoken. And now I need detain you little longer. It is a terrible thing to say to a lady, but it must be said. It is all the more terrible to say, because I had at one time a sentimental worship for that poor creature who has proved herself so often to be unworthy of any honest man's regard. No lady who knows the reputation of Miss Constance Pleyel, or who, being warned of her reputation, declines to test the truth of the warning and remains her friend, can be permitted to associate, to my knowledge, with anybody for whom I entertain the slightest regard or esteem.”
“Do I understand you to threaten me, Captain Fyffe?” asked the baroness. “You must permit me for a moment to instruct you. My position in society is secure enough to enable me to defend any protégée of mine against any insinuation which Captain Fyffe may make.”
“I make no insinuation,” I returned. “I lay plain facts before you. I will send you by messenger, within an hour, the names and addresses of a score of people who know the facts of the case. You shall, if you choose, employ an agent, whose charges I will defray, and whose report I will never ask to see.”
“Thank you, sir,” she answered. “I do not spy upon the people to whom I profess to give my friendship.”
That was perhaps as heroic a lie as even a lady of the baroness's profession ever uttered; but at that time I was not master of the facts of the case, and the little woman spoke with so much dignity and nature that she imposed upon me. I was really half ashamed of having suggested to her a course which only a minute before seemed quite natural.
“Madame,” I said, “the position is a peculiar one, and it cannot be encountered by ordinary means. I accept without reserve the declaration you offer of your belief in Miss Pleyel's innocence. But then, you see, unhappily, I know the whole story, and I am forced, however unwillingly, to offer you an ultimatum.”
“Pray let me hear it,” she answered, in a tone of sarcasm.
“It is briefly this,” I said. “It is impossible that the Baroness Bonnar should retain her association with Miss Pleyel and with Lady Rollinson at the same time.”
“You guarantee that?” asked the baroness. “May I ask what means you propose to adopt?”
“If I am compelled,” I answered, “but only in case I am compelled, I shall take the one possible, straightforward course, and shall tell to Lady Rollinson the story I have told to you.”
The baroness tried another tack.
“I have often heard it said,” she began, bitterly, “that it is only women who have no mercy upon women. Do you tell me, Captain Fyffe, that you can have the heart to hound this poor creature down, even if all you charge against her were true, if all her life until now had been one huge mistake? Is she to have no chance of amendment? Do not suppose,” she cried, “that your story convinces me for a moment! I am looking at your side alone, that is all.”
“Pardon me,” I felt constrained to answer, “I see no sign of any wish for amendment. The only defence yet offered lies in a gross and groundless accusation against myself. When I came here I had no idea that Miss Pleyel meant to be dangerous to me. I learn from you the course on which she has decided.”
“She!” cried the baroness. “She has decided upon nothing. Perhaps I have been led too readily to leap at a conclusion. She has made no accusation against you, poor thing; but I confess that I thought she was striving to defend you. She was terribly agitated by the chance sight she caught of you in the street last night. She has been weeping ever since. She gave me your letters with some broken words, which perhaps I may have misconstrued. If I have done you wrong, I beg your pardon. If I have done you wrong, I beg your forgiveness with all my heart. But surely, Captain Fyffe, you do not in cold blood propose to one woman that she shall throw another on the world, that she should cast her, however frail she may have been, into new temptations. You must let me tell you,” she hurried on, raising her hand against me to arrest any interruption I might have been disposed to make—“you must let me tell you that I exercise some little forbearance in taking this tone at all. No slander has ever touched my reputation, and I do not intend that it shall smirch it now. I have but to say I have been deceived to establish myself in the sight of all who know me. Tell me, sir, if you have ever heard a whisper against my honor. Did ever man or woman breathe a word in your hearing with respect to me which might not have been spoken of a sister of your own?”
The plain truth was that I knew nobody but Bru-now who had any acquaintance with the little lady's antecedents. He had certainly spoken of her often in terms which I should have been very sorry to have heard applied to a sister of mine if I had been so fortunate as to own one. But, then, Brunow was a man about town, and a braggart at the same time, and I had attached no more importance to his talk than to the irresponsible babble of a baby. It was not my business to repeat Brunow's stupid follies, and I kept silent. She, however, was not disposed to let me off that way, but pressed me for an answer.
“Madame,” I was forced to say, “I am not so impertinent as to call your reputation into question for an instant. I will not be so insolent as to sit in judgment upon so delicate a question for a moment. I have said all I had to say, and can see no reason for recalling any part of it.” I bowed, and made a movement to retire, but she flashed between me and the door, and faced me with supplicating hands.
“Think again, Captain Fyffe,” she besought me; “think again. Poor Constance is not the heartless wretch you fancy her. She is alone in the world; she is friendless, penniless. There is nobody to lend her a helping hand, nobody to believe in her wish to lead a better life but only poor little me. And of what avail is my belief in her, of what avail is my wish to lift her from the mire if you should go from me and trumpet her past abroad. I knew her, Captain Fyffe, when she was richer and happier than she is now, when she was received by society in St. Petersburg, when she was courted, admired, adored. I am sorry for her in my soul. It would wring my heart to let her go. And notice, Captain Fyffe, I am not trying to thrust her on the world, I am not trying to introduce her to any friend of mine. When you saw us in the street yesterday she drove out for the first time in my company in London. Ah, Captain Fyffe, we cannot do much good in this miserable world if we try ever so hard. I have never tried very hard. I have been a frivolous, butterfly, useless creature; but at my time of life, you see, one begins to have serious fancies. And it was mine to find this poor creature an asylum, where she might hide her head from shame, and be free of all temptation. You are a stern man, Captain Fyffe, you have shown me that, but do not be all justice and no mercy.” She actually cried and clung to me as she spoke, and even now it seems difficult to believe that there was no genuine feeling at the bottom of it all, though I know perfectly well that there was no ground for the merest scrap of it.
The situation was horribly embarrassing, and yet if I had been the most yielding fool alive there was no escape. It was simply impossible that I, with my eyes open, should permit any woman who openly associated with Constance Pleyel to associate with Violet.
“I have no wish,” I answered, “to speak one word to Miss Pleyel's disadvantage, and I have no right, to dictate terms to you; but if you should insist on continuing your acquaintance with Miss Pleyel and with Lady Rollinson, it will be my bounden duty to tell her ladyship what I know, and leave her to act for herself.”
“Ah, well,” she cried, in a voice of despair, “I do not even know that I can blame you; but am I to be sure that I can buy your silence?”
“That you can buy my silence?” I repeated.
“Yes,” she answered, despondently, looking up at me with tear-stained eyes. “I mean—will you say nothing if I promise to visit Lady Rollinson no more and to meet Miss Rossano no more? I am asking nothing for myself, Captain Fyffe, remember, and I would not stoop to make terms at all if it were not for this unhappy woman's sake. Will you promise me this?”
I thought the matter over for a minute, and I promised. As it turned out, I never did an unwiser thing; but I had no means of knowing how unwise it was, and I was affected by her tears and protestations. If Baroness Bonnar had not had the skill to bedevil cleverer men than myself, and men twenty times as experienced, she would never have risen to the position of eminence she occupied.
We parted on the understanding that she was to pay no more visits to Lady Rollinson's house, but was to do her loyal best to avoid Violet and her chaperon. I went away half inclined to think myself a brute for having exacted that undertaking from her. Of course, if I had been the man of the world I thought myself, I should never have gone to see her, never have shown my hand, but should have awaited the development of events after having told Lady Rollinson what I knew, and having left her to safeguard her own interests and mine.
The whole business had been cruelly unpleasant, and I left the baroness's house thinking that on the whole I was very well out of it. I was sorry for the little lady herself, and did really and seriously give her credit for good intentions, which proves either that she was an exceptionally fine actress, or that I was an exceptional greenhorn.
I had scarcely left the house when I heard my name called in a loud whisper, and, turning, saw the gaunt figure of Ruffiano within half a dozen yards of me. He was astonishingly shabby still, but he rejoiced in clean linen, and had been recently shaven, so that he looked far more presentable than usual.
His eyes were blazing, and the whole of his long bony frame was hitching and jolting with suppressed excitement.
“I have news!” he said; “such news! Which way go you? The man is here.”
I turned in the direction indicated, and saw a foreign-looking fellow in a huge beard, a slouched hat, and a melodramatic cloak, looking for all the world like a conspirator in an Adelphi or Olympic drama at that date. It was raining slightly, but the man stood with folded arms in the middle of the pavement at the street corner, like a statue of patience, with the keen February wind buffeting his long cloak picturesquely about him, and blowing his wild hair and beard in all directions. At a signal from Ruffiano he crossed over to us, and the droll old Quixote, with superabundant gesture, began to question him in Italian, the man answering, of course, in the same tongue. When they had talked together for four or five minutes Ruffiano turned upon me with his hands spread wide, and his face beaming with triumph.
“You see,” he said.
“You forget, my dear count,” I told him, “that I don't understand a word of what you have been saying.”
The count reviled himself, and plunged into apologies so fluent as to be only half intelligible.
“This gentleman,” he said, indicating the shaggy melodramatist, “has but now arrived by the morning train from Paris. The hour is here at last. Louis Philippe has run away, and by this hour we suspect he is in England. You know what that means for us?”
I knew what it meant very well, but I was not disposed to believe the story without examination. I found that the messenger spoke no word of any language but his own, and resolved on carrying him at once to Count Rossano. To that end I called a hackney-coach, not greatly caring, I confess it, to be seen in broad daylight in London streets with such an astonishing pair of guys as poor old Ruffiano and his friend.
The count was at home, and, receiving us at once, heard the story with an excitement equal to that of the narrator. When it was ended he turned on me with the very phrase Ruffiano had used: “The hour is here!”
“You can trust this man?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” he responded.
I confessed that I should prefer to await a confirmation of his story by the newspapers, but the count interrupted me with a wave of the hand.
“You will see,” he said, “that the newspapers will confirm the story to-morrow, and in the meantime we shall have saved a day. France is awake, and the awaking of France is the dawn of liberty for Italy. We must hold a meeting to-night. You will wait?” he asked me. “I have a hundred things to talk of, but I must first despatch Count Ruffiano to our friends.”
“Yes,” cried Ruffiano, with a more than common emphasis on the superfluous vowels he used, “we must meet to-night. The hour is here. In a week from now we shall have the usurper by the throat. Wait but a day, and you shall hear such news from Milano! They are ready there, and there will be no holding them back this time.”
The count silenced him, and gave him rapid instructions in Italian. I could follow most of what he said in this case, for I was familiar with every name he mentioned. He was calling out the astutest and most influential of the Italian refugees then in London. The revolutionary Italian party, like all the revolutionary parties known to history, was split up into sections. There were moderates and immoderates among them, men to whom the name of Carlo Alberto was an oriflamme, and others to whom it was the very signal of scorn and loathing. The count was calling the extremists of both schools together, and Ruffiano expostulated.
“This is a time,” said the count, addressing me, “at which we must sink all divisions. We shall find ample time to quarrel when the work is done. In the meantime the work lies before us, and no good Italian can hang back from it.”
“We shall do nothing but quarrel,” Ruffiano protested. “We shall be at daggers drawn among ourselves.”
“Leave that to me,” said the count, “and do you do my bidding.”
After this there was no more question, and Quixote set off, taking his brigand of a companion with him. The count paced the room in a sort of silent fury for a while, but he was easily tired, and after two or three minutes of this violent exercise he dropped, pale and panting, into an arm-chair, and wiped the thick beads of perspiration from his forehead.
“There is no doubt about the news,” he said then; “and even if it were not true to-day, it would be true to-morrow or the day after.”
I pointed out to him that its very likelihood should make us resolve that our evidence was perfect before we acted on it.
“Yes, yes,” he cried, with an angry impatience; “but we must be ready for action, and I propose no more. There is just one thing in respect to which I have not yet taken you into confidence. I have had an opportunity offered me of the purchase of a stock of arms. They were made in Birmingham, at the order of one of the South American republics which fell into bankruptcy just as the order was fulfilled. They are to be had at a very low price, and I am inclined to buy them. I ask your judgment on this matter on two grounds, Captain Fyffe. To begin with, it is twenty years since I knew the world, and the fashion of arms has so changed during that time that I am a judge no longer. I shall want you to decide on the quality of the weapons.” I nodded assent to this, and he went on. “The second reason is much more personal to yourself. The cause is poor, but my daughter, in the course of a few days, will have in her own hands a large sum of money inherited from her mother, and increased by interest through her long minority. In round figures she will receive something like forty thousand pounds. She proposes to offer that sum to her father's country. You ought to know of that.”
I did not see what concern this was of mine, and I said so. Violet's fortune, so far as I was concerned, was entirely at her own disposal. I felt this so strongly that I did not dare to express myself quite unreservedly, lest I might seem guilty of a pretence of too great disinterestedness. But I added that if the money were my own, I could think of no better way of spending it, and the count was satisfied.
He was in the very act of describing to me the weapons he proposed to buy when a servant entered with a card.
“This is my man,” said the count, and bade the servant show the visitor in.
CHAPTER XII
“Mr. Alpheas P. Quorn” was the name printed on the card of the visitor just announced, and I had scarcely cast my eye upon it when the man came in. He was a prodigiously fat man, with a pigeon breast, and a neck so short that his tufted chin was set low down between his high shoulders. He was dressed in actual burlesque of the fashion then prevailing; but, spruce as he was, he nursed undisguisedly a huge quid of tobacco in one clean-shaven cheek, and his hands, which were covered with rings of no great apparent value, were very dirty, and the nails uncared for. He bowed with a great flourish of politeness, spat copiously in the fire, and bade the count good-day in a thin and shrill-pitched voice, so out of keeping with his monstrous size that I had to cough and turn away to disguise a laugh.
“My respects, count,” said Mr. Quorn, “my respects and compliments. I presoom, sir, you have heard the noos from the European Continent.”
“I am in pretty constant receipt of news,” the count responded, with a swift glance in my direction; “but I do not know that it is yet common property.”
“Wal,” said Mr. Quorn, “I'm inclined to think it is. But my folks are pretty considerably damn smart, and so, I guess, are yours.” He paused, looked hard at me, and turned his quid reflectively. “This gentleman—?” he said, interrogatively.
“This gentleman,” the count responded, “is in full possession of my confidence. This is Mr. Quorn, Captain Fyffe. I was telling Captain Fyffe at the moment of your arrival,” he continued, “the nature of our business. I shall rely upon his judgment of the goods you have for sale.”
“That's all right,” said Mr. Quorn. “I've got the real thing to sell, and I want a man as knows the real thing to see it before it's bought. Then you're satisfied and I'm satisfied. If I ain't mistaken now, Captain Fyffe's the man that hooked you out of that blasted Austrian dungeon.”
“It is to Captain Fyffe,” the count answered, “that I owe my liberty.”
“Then you owe him a lot,” retorted Mr. Quorn. “There's nothing sweeter on the face of the earth, and I presoom, sir, that you know it. I am a foe to slavery, gentlemen, everywhere and always. In the sacred cause of freedom I have been tarred and feathered and rode upon a rail. In comparison with twenty years in Austrian hands that ain't a lot, but it was more than I bargained for, and as much as I wanted. In the sacred cause of freedom, gentlemen, I'm willing to sacrifice even a pecuniary consideration. I could do a trade with Austria that would increase my profits by fifty per cent. But I'm all for freedom, and you get first offer.”
“What is your news from the Continent, Mr. Quorn?” inquired the count.
Mr. Quorn looked about him for a convenient spot, selected the fireplace, spat again, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and winked with a slow deliberation.
“What's yourn?” he asked. The count smiled and shook his head. “Wal,” said Mr. Quorn, “I'll tell you what I'll do with you. I'll letter it with you. L.”
“O,” said the count, still smiling.
“U,” said Mr. Quorn.
“I,” said the count.
“It appears to me,” said Mr. Quorn, “we're on the same trail. The exalted individual we've got in mind, count, has done something. What's he done now?” He rolled his big head between his fat shoulders as he put the question, and chewed away at the great plug of tobacco in his cheek as if he were paid to do it, and as if he were paid by piecework.
“Yes,” said the count, “he has done something, but that is a little vague.”
“Wal, yes,” Mr. Quorn allowed, seating himself and setting both elbows on the table, “I allow it's vague, but it won't be vague to-morrow morning.”
“You allude,” said the count, “to the rumor that Louis Philippe has—”
“Yes, sir,” retorted Mr. Quorn, with a very bright twinkle of both eyes, “that is the rumor I allood to. That ain't vague, captain, is it? We both know all about it,” he went on, “and I reckon it ought to grease this contract just a little and make it run smooth. Your time's here, if ever it will be, and I propose we strike a bargain.”
“When can you supply the goods?” asked the count.
“Where?” asked Mr. Quorn, as if he were chopping something with a hatchet.
“Ah,” said the count, “that has to be considered.”
“Yes,” the visitor assented, “that has to be considered. I'm for having everything above-board. It ain't easy to handle the contrabands of war at a time like this, when every heraldic bird and beast in Europe is on his hind-legs and looking nine ways for Sundays. If Captain Fyffe likes to come down with me to Blackwall I can show him something. On my side I'm all ready, and when I know where the goods are to be landed I'll undertake to fulfil my part of the contract. I'll leave you to yours. Money down on delivery is the only terms. I want to know the money's there, and you want to know the goods are there. The name of the Count Ro-Say-No would be a sufficient guarantee for anybody in the world but a cuss like me. I'm business. In matters of business, gentlemen, delicacy and consideration for high-flown feelings don't enter into my composition, not for a cent's worth. If I was trading with Queen Victoria I should want to know where the money was coming from. Forty thousand sterling is a lot of money, and I expect you, as a man of the world, to excuse my curiosity.”
The count rose from his seat and rang the bell by the fireplace. A servant answered it, and he said, simply:
“Ask Miss Rossano to be kind enough to see me here.”
The servant retired, and Mr. Quorn filled in the time of waiting by walking about the room with his hands under his coat-tails, making a cursory inspection of the furniture and the engravings on the walls, and walking from time to time to the fireplace to expectorate. When Violet entered, the count placed a seat for her, but she remained standing, with an interrogative look from Mr. Quorn to me which seemed to ask an explanation of that gentleman's presence.
“My dear,” said the count, “we have often spoken together of the necessity for the purchase of arms for The Cause.”
“Yes,” she said.
“This gentleman,” the count indicated our visitor, “has arms to sell. We have had news this morning which makes it necessary that we should move at once.”
Her face turned pale for a moment and her lips trembled, but she spoke an affirmatory word only, and waited.
“Mr. Quorn,” said the count, “has fifty thousand stand of arms to dispose of.”
“I suppose this is all right,” interrupted Mr. Quorn, “but I may be allowed to say that I have been in a business of this sort more than once in my time, and I never knew any good come out of the introduction of a petticoat.”
Violet looked at him, and I saw her lips twitch with an impulse towards laughter; but Mr. Quorn obviously misunderstood the emotions he had inspired.
“Do not suppose from that, madame,” he said, with great solemnity, “that I have not the reverence for your sex which rules every well-regulated masculine boozom, but this, if it means anything at all, means secrecy, and that is not your sex's strong point.”
“That is a matter, Mr. Quorn,” returned the count, “with which, as I think, you need not concern yourself.”
“That's all right,” returned Mr. Quorn. “I merely mentioned it. It's no affair of mine.”
“Mr. Quorn,” said the count, “has fifty thousand stand of arms to sell. With them he has three million percussion-caps and three million cartridges. His price for the whole is—” he paused there and waited, looking towards the visitor.
“Forty thousand pounds sterling,” said Mr. Quorn.
I interrupted the conversation at this point, asking when the cartridges in question had been made. That was more than Mr. Quorn could say; but I insisted upon an examination of their quality before any bargain with respect to their purchase could be begun. No sportsman shoots with last year's cartridges, and a man whose life depends upon his ammunition should be at least as careful as a sportsman.
“Now,” said Mr. Quorn, “I like this—this is business. This comes of talking to an expert.”
But all the same I could see that he was not over-pleased by my interference at this point.
“We will leave that to your judgment, my dear Fyffe,” said the count. “But in the meantime Mr. Quorn desires to be satisfied of our ability to purchase. You have consulted your lawyer, dear, and you know at what time you will have control of your money—”
“On the twelfth of next month,” said Violet. “I have a letter to that effect. If this gentleman desires to see it I shall have great pleasure in showing it to him.”
“Thank you, miss,” said Mr. Quorn. “I should feel satisfied if I could see the document.”
Violet left the room with a furtive smile on her lips, and in a minute or so returned with the letter, which she handed to Mr. Quorn. He drew from his coat-pocket a spectacle-case, and took from it a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. He breathed on these, and polished them with his handkerchief, and then read the letter.
“Richardson & Bowdler,” he said, tapping the paper with one bejewelled, dirty finger, “Acre Building, Cheapside. No objection, I presoom, to my calling on these gentlemen and ascertaining if this document is genuine?”
“Sir,” said the count, stiffly, “the whole matter is open to your investigation. You will take any course which seems to you to be justified by your own interests.”
“That's above-board,” said Mr. Quorn, calmly pocketing the letter and returning his glasses to their case. “I'll take a run down to these folks at once, and things being satisfactory there, I'll be at Captain Fyffe's service any minute. If you've nothing better to do this afternoon, captain, I'll run you down to Blackwall and show you what is to be seen.”
It was arranged that he should call for me between three and four o'clock, and on that understanding he took his leave, retiring with many flourishes and an assurance, specially addressed to Violet, that he was flush on the cause of freedom anywhere and everywhere, the hull globe over, and dead against them blasted Austrians anyhow.
“You must remember, my child,” said the count, when we three were left alone, “that you are spending a great sum of money in this enterprise, that it may all be wasted, and that even if by your help The Cause should win you can never hope to see one pound of your money back again.”
Violet had seated herself beside him at Mr. Quorn's departure, and now, when he began to speak, she slid one arm about his neck and nestled closely to him, with her ripe young cheek touching his grizzled and lined old face.
“I have thought of all that, father,” she answered. “I shouldn't care much in any case what became of the money, for I shall have plenty left. But if it were the last penny, you and Italy would be welcome to it.”
“I know that, my dearest,” the count answered; “but all the same I could wish it were my own. You have not yet heard to-day's news?”
“No,” she said, drawing a little away from him, in order that she might look into his face. “What is it?”
“France is up!” he responded. “Louis Philippe has flown away, and is either on the road here or here already.”
“And that means?” she said.
“'Instant action,” returned the count. “Action without one hour's unnecessary delay.”
“Tell me,” she said, “exactly what it means.”
“We have called a meeting for to-night,” said the count, “and until that is held I can tell you nothing final. But you have a right to know my own design. We can really do nothing practical until we are armed. But I shall propose to quit England to-morrow. I shall leave Captain Fyffe to the negotiations with Quorn, and shall arrange for communications across the frontier, which will enable me to judge of the best place and the wisest hour for an attack. I shall go alone, because I wish to excite as little notice as possible.”
“You must not go alone,” she said, and made a movement towards him with her hands half extended. It was just such a movement as you will see a mother make towards a child that has not quite learned to walk and is in danger of falling. I could see the maternal instinct beaming in her face. The beautiful girl beside this grizzled and prematurely aged man was motherly all over, and it was a lovely and a touching thing to see. The count saw her meaning in a second, and drew back from her with a melancholy and affectionate smile, holding out both hands against her.
“I must go alone,” he said.
“No, no!” cried Violet, taking both his outstretched hands in hers, and bending over him with a look of infinite protection. “My poor dear, have you not suffered enough, and run dangers enough already? I could not bear to be away from you.” He was about to speak, but she closed his lips gently with the palm of her hand. “I have not been your daughter long,” she said, with a little catch in her voice which took me at the throat and made my heart ache with tenderness and pity for her. “I can give you up, dear, when the time comes, but not an hour before.”
“Should I not be happy, Fyffe?” asked the count, turning to me with tears in his eyes. “No, no, dearest, you will wait in England. I shall leave you in safety, for I will take nothing with me—no, not a thought, if I can help it, which would make me a coward for Italy.”
“I can give you up when the time comes,” she repeated, simply, “but not now. I will not ask you to take me into any danger. I don't think,” she went on, striving to make something of a jest of it, and to hide the deeper feeling which controlled her so strongly—“I don't think that I am fond of danger or that I should like it at all; but there is no real reason why I should not be with you just at first.”
“Aye, yes,” cried the count, “there is every reason. I do not know where I may have to go. I do not know how I am to live—to travel—with what associates I must combine. My dear child, you must know the truth; my love must venture to speak it. You would be a drag upon every step, and with you I should not dare to face a single peril. I must go alone; I know the hardship, but that is the task of women. They wait at home and suffer, while the man goes out to enjoy adventure and excitement. It was your mother's fortune, my child, and you inherit it. She was all English, and yet she endured it for my sake. You are at least half of Italy, and Italy has need of both of us. If Italy needs my life, she is welcome to it. If she had need of yours, I would say not a word to hold you back. But your place is at home. Is it not so, Fyffe?”
I was a selfish advocate enough, but he had reason on his side, and I should have been blind indeed not to have seen it.
“It will be wiser—wiser far,” I urged, “to stay at home. To speak plainly, you could not fail, in any sudden emergency, to hamper your father's steps. He would be nervous about you, and anxious for your safety.”
“But there is no need for that,” she cried, with a tender impatience. “I am not afraid. If I were a man you should not talk to me so.”
“No,” said the count, rising and folding his arms about her. “If you were a man, my dearest, you should have your way.”
“Oh,” she said, with a downward gesture of her clinched hands, “I hate these thoughts about women. Why should we not have courage? Why shouldn't we share danger with those we care about? I am not afraid of danger. But I could keep you away from it when there was no reason for it.”
“Violet,” said her father, gently, “I am not inclined to be rash; not now. I have had twenty years of warning, remember.”
“Remember, poor dear!” she cried, with both arms round his neck and her face hidden on his shoulder, “I have never forgotten for a moment since I knew that you were alive. But don't let me be so useless. Let me do something. Let me be near you. Don't leave me behind.”
“You do much already,” said the count, soothing her as he spoke with one loving hand upon her flushed and tear-stained cheek. “You surrender your father and your plighted husband, and a great slice of your fortune. Ah, dearest, you do enough!”
“I do nothing,” she declared. “Oh, I wish I were a man!”
“So do not I,” said the count. “I should quarrel with any wish the fulfilment of which robbed me of my daughter.”
She moved away from him gently, and dried her eyes. Her father watched her solicitously, and by-and-by she walked to the window of the room and said, in a tone of commonplace: “You cannot prevent me from following you.”
“I can forbid it,” he said, in a tone of pain.
“And I can follow all the same,” she answered. He looked at her with a glance in which I read both surprise and grief, and for a minute he found no answer. When she moved to look at him he had turned away, and did not see how timid and beseeching her eyes were, for all the rebellion in her words.
“My child,” he said, “I am at a grave disadvantage. It pleased God to part us, and to deny us even the knowledge of each other's existence. I am still a stranger.”
“No, no, no!” she cried. She turned and ran to him, and it was plain that an appeal couched in such terms was more than she could bear. “You are my father,” she sobbed, “my dear, dear father! All the dearer,” she went on, in words made half inarticulate by her tears, and all the more expressive and affecting—“all the dearer because we never knew each other through all those dreadful years! I love you, dear, and I am not undutiful, and I will do whatever you ask me; but I want to be with you, I want to be with you. I have had you for such a little time. I want you—I want you always!”
“You must spare me to Italy,” said her father, kissing her hands and stroking them within his own.
“Italy! What would Italy be to me if you were not a part of it?” The Southern blood broke out there plain to see, and in her flashing eyes and vivid face and the free gesture with which she spoke she was Italian all over. “Do you think a girl can love a country or a name as she loves her father? Do you think she cares about your houses and intrigues, your Piedmonts and Savoys, your Cavours and Metterniches? I would give everything I have to Italy, but I would give it all to Austria just as soon if you were on her side!”
The count stood as if stricken dumb. I do not believe that this human natural aspect of the case had ever occurred to him as being within the broadest limits of possibility. Italy had come to mean everything in the world to him. The word meant love, revenge, ambition, the very daily bread and water of his heart and soul. The fate of Italy overrode, in his mind, every personal consideration—not only for himself, but, unconsciously, for every living creature. It was natural that it should be so. It would have been strange, perhaps, had it been otherwise. I could see that his daughter's outburst sounded in his ears almost like a blasphemy. He stood wonder-struck and silent.
“If you,” he said at last, with a face as white as a ghost's, and raising a shaking hand towards her—“if you, my daughter, the living remembrance of my wife—if she herself were back here from her repose in heaven—if all that ever were or could be dear to me stood on the one side, and my country's freedom on the other, I would lose you all—I would sacrifice you with my own hand for that great cause as willingly as I would sacrifice myself.”
“Of course you would,” she answered, with an amazement almost equal to his own. “What was the use of proclaiming a truth so self-evident as that? You are a man and a patriot, and you love your country”—her voice rang and her bosom heaved—“and you have given all the best years of your life in suffering for her; and that is why I love and honor you. But that is what a man could never understand. You love your cause, and we women love you for loving it; and love it because you love it, and we would die for it just as soon as you would. Oh, you heroic, noble, beautiful—goose!” She rushed at him, and kissed him with a passionate impetuosity. “And you think it's all Italy. It isn't Italy; it's you! You're my father, and you're a hero, and a—and a—martyr, and the noblest man that ever lived; and I love you, and I'm proud of you, and—Italy! You're my Italy, dear!”
I know that I have not even recorded the words she spoke, well as I fancied I remembered them. But there is no recording the manner, all fire and passion and melting tenderness; and such a sudden sense of fun and affection in the very middle of it all that I was within an ace of crying at it. The count did cry, without disguise, and so did she, and I did what I could to look as if I were not in the least moved. But when her outburst was over, and we had all settled down again, there was no further hint of disobedience. Violet sat down submissively on a little footstool at the count's side, holding his hand and resting her head against his knee while he detailed his plans, so far as they were ripe, or speculated beyond them, looking into the possibilities of the future.
In a while, according to arrangement, Mr. Quorn returned, and this broke up our conclave. I knew already the hour and place appointed for that night, and the count and I agreed to meet there. 12