Captain Dieppe Part 18

The Countess took it from her pocket and handed it to her husband. "I 'd rather you 'd put it on yourself," she said.

The Count took her hand in his and placed the ring on her finger. It fitted very well, indeed. There could be no doubt that it was made for the hand on which it now rested. The Count kissed it as he set it there.

At last, however, he found time to remember the obligations he was under to his friend.

"But where can our dear Dieppe be?" he cried. "We owe so much to him."

"Yes, we do owe a lot to him," murmured the Countess. "But, Andrea--"

"Indeed, my darling, we must n't forget him. I must--"

"No, we must n't forget him. Oh, no, we won't. But, Andrea, I--I 've got another piece of news for you." The Countess spoke with a little timidity, as if she were trying delicate ground, and were not quite sure of her footing.

"More news? What an eventful night!"

He took his wife's hand. Away went all thoughts of poor Dieppe again.

"Yes, it's so lucky, happening just to-night. Lucia has come back! An hour ago!"

"Lucia come back!" exclaimed the Count, gladly. "That's good news, indeed."

"It 'll delight her so much to find us--to find us like this again, Andrea."

"Yes, yes, we must send for her. Is she in her room? And where has she come from?"

"Rome," answered the Countess, again in a rather nervous way.

"Rome!" cried the Count in surprise. "What took her to Rome?"

"She does n't like to be asked much about it," began the Countess, with a prudent air.

"I 'm sure I don't want to pry into her affairs, but--"

"No, I knew you would n't want to do that, Andrea."

"Still, my dear, it 's really a little odd. She left only four days ago. Now she 's back, and--"

The Count broke off, looking rather distressed. Such proceedings, accompanied by such mystery, were not, to his mind, quite the proper thing for a young and unmarried lady.

"I won't ask her any questions," he went on, "but I suppose she 's told you, Emilia?"

"Oh, yes, she 's told me," said the Countess, hastily.

"And am I to be excluded from your confidence?"

The Countess put her arms round his neck.

"Well, you know, Andrea," said she, "you do sometimes scoff at religion--well, I mean you talk rather lightly sometimes, you know."

"Oh, she went on a religious errand, did she?"

"Yes," the Countess answered in a more confident tone. "She particularly wanted to consult the Bishop of Mesopotamia. She believes in him very much. Oh, so do I. I do believe, Andrea, that if you knew the Bishop of--"

"My dear, I don't want to know the Bishop of Mesopotamia; but Lucia is perfectly at liberty to consult him as much as she pleases. I don't see any need for mystery."

"No, neither do I," murmured the Countess. "But dear Lucia is--is so sensitive, you know."

"I remember seeing him about Rome very well. I must ask Lucia whether he still wears that--"

"Really, the less you question Lucia about her journey the better, dear Andrea," said the Countess, in a tone which was very affectionate, but also marked by much decision. And there can be no doubt she spoke the truth, from her own point of view, at least. "Would n't it be kind to send for her now?" she added. In fact the Countess found this interview, so gratifying and delightful in its main aspect, rather difficult in certain minor ways, and Lucia would be a convenient ally.

It was much better, too, that they should talk about one another in one another's presence. That is always more straightforward; and, in this case, it would minimise the chances of a misunderstanding in the future. For instance, if Lucia showed ignorance about the Bishop of Mesopotamia--! "Do let's send for Lucia," the Countess said again, coaxingly; and the Count, after a playful show of unwillingness to end their tete-a-tete, at last consented.

But here was another difficulty--Lucia could not be found. The right wing was searched without result; she was nowhere. On the chance, unlikely indeed but possible, that she had taken advantage of the new state of things, they searched the left wing too--with an equal absence of result. Lucia was nowhere in the house; so it was reported. The Count was very much surprised.

"Can she have gone out at this time of night?" he cried.

The Countess was not much surprised. She well understood how Lucia might have gone out a little way--far enough, say, to look for Captain Dieppe, and make him aware of how matters stood. But she did not suggest this explanation to her husband; explanations are to be avoided when they themselves require too much explaining.

"It's very fine now," said she, looking out of the window. "Perhaps she's just gone for a turn on the road."

"What for?" asked the Count, spreading out his hands in some bewilderment.

The Countess, in an extremity, once more invoked the aid of the Bishop of Mesopotamia.

"Perhaps, dear," she said gently, "to think it over--to reflect in quiet on what she has learnt and been advised." And she added, as an artistic touch, "To think it over under the stars, dear Andrea."

The Count, betraying a trifle of impatience, turned to the servant.

"Run down the road," he commanded, "and see if the Countess Lucia is anywhere about." He returned to his wife's side. "One good thing about it is that we can have our talk out," said he.

"Yes, but let 's leave the horrid past and talk about the future,"

urged the Countess, with affection--and no doubt with wisdom also.

The servant, who in obedience to the Count's order ran down the road towards the village, did not see the Countess Lucia. That lady, mistrusting the explicitness of her hurried note, had stolen out into the garden, and was now standing hidden in the shadow of the barricade, straining her eyes down the hill towards the river and the stepping-stones. There lay the shortest way for the Captain to return--and of course, she had reasoned, he would come the shortest way. She did not, however, allow for the Captain's pardonable reluctance to get wet a third time that night. He did not know the habits of the river, and he distrusted the stepping-stones. After his experience he was all for a bridge. Moreover he did not hurry back to the Castle; he had much to think over, and no inviting prospect lured him home on the wings of hope. What hope was there? What hope of happiness either for himself or for the lady whom he loved? If he yielded to his love, he wronged her--her and his own honour. If he resisted, he must renounce her--aye, and leave her, not to a loving husband, but to one who deceived her most grossly and most cruelly, in a way which made her own venial errors seem as nothing in the Captain's partial, pitying eyes. In the distress of these thoughts he forgot his victories: how he had disposed of Paul de Roustache, how he had defeated M. Guillaume, how his precious papers were safe, and even how the Countess was freed from all her fears. It was her misery he thought of now, not her fears. For she loved him. And in his inmost heart he knew that he must leave her.

Yes; in the recesses of his heart he knew what true love for her and a true regard for his own honour alike demanded. But he did not mean that, because he saw this and was resolved to act on it, the Count should escape castigation. Before he went, before he left behind him what was dearest in life, and again took his way alone, unfriended, solitary (penniless too, if he had happened to remember this), he would speak his mind to the Count, first in stinging reproaches, later in the appeal that friendship may make to honour; and at the last he would demand from the Count, as the recompense for his own services, an utter renunciation and abandonment of the lady who had dropped the locket by the ford, of her whom the driver had carried to the door of the house which the Countess of Fieramondi honoured with her gracious presence.

In drawing a contrast between the Countess and this shameless woman the last remembrance of the Countess's peccadilloes faded from his indignant mind. He quickened his pace a little, as a man does when he has reached a final decision. He crossed the bridge, ascended the hill on which the Castle stood, and came opposite to the little gate which the Count himself had opened to him on that first happy--or unhappy--night on which he had become an inmate of the house.

Even as he came to it, it opened, and the Count's servant ran out. In a moment he saw Dieppe and called to him loudly and gladly.

"Sir, sir, my master is most anxious about you. He feared for your safety."

"I 'm safe enough," answered Dieppe, in a gloomy tone.

"He begs your immediate presence, sir. He is in the dining-room."

Dieppe braced himself to the task before him.