Devil’s Cub

Chapter VIII

Miss Challoner had pleaded fatigue, but it was long before she slept. Her desperate problem leered at her half through the night, and it was not until she had reached some sort of a decision that she could achieve slumber.

She was shocked to realize that for a few breathless moments she had forgotten Sophia in a brief vision of herself wedded to his lordship. “So that’s the truth, is it?” said Miss Challoner severely to herself. “You are in love with him, and you’ve known it for weeks.”

But it was not a notorious Marquis with whom she had fallen in love; it was with the wild, sulky, unmanageable boy that she saw behind the rake. “I could manage him,” she sighed. “Oh, but I could!” She did not permit herself to indulge in this dream for long. Marriage, on all counts, was out of the question. He did not give the snap of his fingers for her; he must marry, when the time came, some demure damsel of his own degree; and — the greatest bar of all — she could not steal a bridegroom from under Sophia’s nose.

Having disposed thus of his lordship, Miss Challoner set herself resolutely to think of her own future. Vidal had shown her the impossibility of a return to Bloomsbury; it would be equally impossible to seek shelter with her grandfather. After pondering somewhat drearily upon this sudden isolation, she dried her eyes, and tried to think of an asylum. At the end of two hours, being a female of considerable strength of mind, she decided that her wisest course would be to remain in France, to assume a new name, and to try to obtain a post as governess in a respectable French household.

She began, eventually, to compose a letter to her mother, and in the middle of a phrase which had become strangely involved, she fell asleep.

She partook of chocolate and a roll in bed next morning, and when she at length came downstairs to the private parlour, she was met by the discreet Fletcher, who informed her, not without a note of severity in his voice, that his lordship’s arm had broken out bleeding again in the night, and looked this morning uncommon nasty. His lordship was still abed, but meant to travel.

“Has a surgeon been sent for?” inquired Miss Challoner, feeling like a murderess.

“His lordship will not have a surgeon, madam,” said Fletcher. “It is the opinion of Mr. Timms, his lordship’s valet, and myself, that he should see one.”

“Then pray go and fetch one,” said Miss Challoner briskly.

Fletcher shook his head. “I daren’t take it upon myself, ma’am.”

“I don’t ask you to,” Miss Challoner replied. “Have the goodness to do as I bid you.”

“I beg pardon, madam, but in the event of his lordship desiring to know who sent for the surgeon — ?”

“You will tell the truth, of course,” said Miss Challoner. “Where is his lordship’s bedchamber?”

Fletcher eyed her with dawning respect. “If you will allow me to show you, madam,” he said, and led the way upstairs.

He went ahead of her into the room. Miss Challoner heard Vidal say. “Oh, let her come in!” and awaited no further invitation. She went in, and when the door had shut behind Fletcher, walked up to the big four-poster bed and said contritely: “I did hurt you. Indeed, I am sorry, my lord.”

Vidal was sitting up in bed, propped by pillows; his eyes looked a little feverish, and his cheeks were flushed.

“Don’t apologize,” he said. “You did very well for a beginner. I regret receiving you like this. I hoped you’d sleep later. Will you be ready to set forward at noon?”

“No, I fear I shall not,” she answered. “We will stay where we are for to-day.” She picked up a pillow from the floor, and arranged it carefully under Vidal’s injured arm. “Is that more comfortable, sir?”

“Perfectly, I thank you. But whether you are ready, or not, we start for Paris today.”

She smiled lovingly at him. “It’s my turn to play the tyrant, sir. You will stay in bed.”

“You are mistaken; I shall do no such thing.”

He sounded cross; she wanted to take his face between her hands and kiss away his ill-humour. “No, sir, I am not mistaken.”

“May I ask, ma’am, how you propose to keep me a-bed?”

“Why yes, I have only to remove your clothes,” Miss Challoner pointed out.

“Very wifely,” he commented.

She winced a little at that, but said without a tremor: “I have sent your man for a surgeon. Pray do not blame him.”

“The devil you have!” said his lordship. “I’m not dying, you know.”

“Certainly not,” replied Miss Challoner. “But you drank a great deal too much wine yesterday, and I have little doubt it is that that has made you feverish, and maybe inflamed the wound. I think you should be blooded.”

My lord regarded her speechlessly. She drew a chair up and sat down. “Do you feel well enough to talk with me for a few minutes, sir?”

“Of course I am well enough to talk with you. What do you want to talk about?”

“My future, if you please.”

He looked frowningly at her. “That’s my affair, ma’am.”

She shook her head. “It is kind in you, my lord, but I do not aspire to be your wife. I have thought very deeply, and I believe I know what will be best for me to do. May I tell you what I have decided?”

He said with a flash of humour: “There seems to be a vast deal of decision about you this morning, my dear. Tell me, by all means.”

She folded her hands in her lap; it occurred to him that she was a very restful woman. “What you said last night, my lord, was true; I cannot return to my home. You must not think that this will grieve me overmuch. I have never been very happy there. So I have formed a plan for my future which I believe to be tolerably sensible. If you will take me to Paris I shall be grateful for your escort. Once I am there it is my intention to seek a post in a genteel family as governess. I thought, perhaps you would be able to put me in the way of it, since I suppose you have a large acquaintance in Paris.”

His lordship broke in at this point. “My good child, are you proposing that I should recommend you to some respectable matron?”

“Couldn’t you?” asked Miss Challoner anxiously.

“I could, of course, but — Lord, I’d give a monkey to see the matron’s face!”

“Oh!” said Miss Challoner. “I see. It was stupid of me not to think of that.” She relapsed into profound thought. “Well, if I cannot find anyone to recommend me as a governess, I think I shall become a milliner,” she announced.

He stretched out his right hand, and clasped both of hers in it. He was no longer laughing. “I don’t often suffer from remorse, Mary, but you are fast teaching me. Come, can’t you stomach me as a husband?”

“Even if I could, my lord, do you think I would steal you from my sister? It was not for that I took her place.”

“Steal me be damned!” said his lordship rudely. “I’d never the smallest notion of marrying Sophia.”

“Nevertheless, sir, I could not do it. The very thought of marriage is absurd. You do not care for me nor I for you, and my estate is too far removed from yours.”

“What is your estate?” he asked. “Who was your father?”

“Does it matter?” she said.

“Not a whit, but you puzzle me. You did not get your breeding on the distaff side.”

“I was fortunate enough to be educated at a very select seminary, sir.”

“You were, were you? Who placed you there?”

“My grandfather,” answered Miss Challoner unexpansively.

“Your father’s father? Is he alive? Who is her

“He is a general, sir.”

Vidal’s brows drew together. “What county?”

“He lives in Buckinghamshire, my lord.”

“Good God, never tell me you are Sir Giles Challoner’s grandchild?”

“I am,” said Miss Challoner calmly.

“Then I am undone, and we must be married at once,” said Vidal. “That stiff-necked old martinet is a friend of my father’s.”

Miss Challoner smiled. “You need not be alarmed, sir. My grandfather has been very kind to me in the past, but he disowned my father upon his marriage, and has washed his hands of me since I choose to live with my mother and sister. He will not concern himself with my fate.”

“He’ll concern himself fast enough if he gets wind of his granddaughter in a milliner’s shop,” said Vidal.

“Of course I shall not become a milliner under my own name,” Miss Challoner explained.

“You won’t become one under any name, my girl. Make the best of it: marriage with me is the only thing for you now. I am sorry for it, but as a husband I believe you won’t find me exacting. You may go your own road — I shan’t interfere with you so long as you remain discreet — I’ll go mine. You need see very little of me.”

The prospect chilled Miss Challoner to the soul, but observing my lord’s heightened colour she judged it wiser not to argue with him any further at present. She got up, saying quietly: “We will talk of it again presently, my lord. You are tired now, and the surgeon will soon be here.”

He caught her wrist and held it. “Give me your word you’ll not slip off while I’m laid by the heels!”

She could not resist the temptation of touching his hand. “I promise I’ll not do that,” she said reassuringly. “I won’t leave your protection till we reach Paris.”

When the surgeon came he talked volubly and learnedly, with a great many exclamations and hand-wavings. His lordship suffered this for some time, but presently became annoyed and opened his eyes (which he had closed after the first five minutes) and disposed of the little surgeon’s diagnosis and proposed remedies in one rude and extremely idiomatic sentence.

The doctor started back as from a stinging nettle unwarily grasped: “Monsieur, I was informed that you were an Englishman!” he said.

My lord said, amongst other things, that he did not propose to burden the doctor with the details of his genealogy. He consigned the doctor and all his works, severally and comprehensively described, to hell, and finished up his epic speech by a pungent and Rabelaisian criticism of the whole race of leeches.

Whereupon the doctor, who had listened rapt to the unfaltering diatribe, said with enthusiasm: “But it is wonderful! An Englishman to have so great a command of the French tongue! It is what compels the admiration! I shall now bleed you. Madame will have the goodness to hold the basin. The English have such phlegm!”

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 rôle, 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 faint 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 this 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, living 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.”

Miss Challoner’s motherly instincts were aroused. She moved forward. “If I could be of assistance, sir?”

The neat gentleman turned quickly, and executed a bow. “You are very kind, madam. I find myself unable to converse with these fellows. It is amazing to me that amongst them all there is not one with a knowledge of the English tongue.”

Miss Challoner smiled. “It is most reprehensible, sir, I agree. But if you will explain your difficulties to me, I may be able to interpret them to the landlord.”

“I shall be excessively indebted to you, ma’am. Permit me to make myself known to you. My name is Comyn, and I have but this moment landed from the packet. It is my intention to travel by the stage-coach to Paris, and I was endeavouring when you came upon me to ascertain from these fellows when and where I may find the diligence.”

“I will ask Plançon,” said Miss Challoner, and turned to the landlord.

Perceiving that she had constituted herself interpreter, M. Plançon opened negotiations with an impassioned plea to be preserved from these mad Englishmen who expected honest Frenchmen to understand their own barbarous language — and this in France, voyez-vous!

At the end of an animated dialogue lasting for five minutes, Miss Challoner was able to inform Mr. Comyn that the diligence would start for Paris in an hour’s time, and from this very inn.

Mr. Comyn thanked her, and begged that she would add to her kindness by informing the landlord that he required dinner immediately.

Cheered by this information, M. Plançon disappeared to execute the order, and his hirelings drifted away upon their respective businesses.

Mr. Comyn said that he had been prodigiously fortunate to have found a countrywoman in Dieppe, and inquired politely whether Miss Challoner was also bound for Paris.

Miss Challoner replied tranquilly that her plans were uncertain, and was about to retreat to the shelter of the parlour when Timms came down the stairs, bowed to her and said with distressing clarity: “His lordship’s compliments, madam, and he will do himself the honour of dining with you at five o’clock.”

Miss Challoner blushed scarlet, felt herself quite unable to meet Mr. Comyn’s look of mild surprise, and fled.

Ten minutes later, one of the inn-servants scratched at Vidal’s door, and upon being bidden to come in, presented his lordship with a note.

Vidal was seated before the dressing-table. He took the note and read in Miss Challoner’s handwriting: “Pray, my lord, be careful. There is an Englishman here, of the name of Comyn. I fear I have been indiscreet, but I was obliged to speak with him, and while I was still in his company, your message was delivered to me, so that I was quite undone.”

My lord swore softly and appeared to meditate for a moment. Then he tore up the note and resumed his toilet. In a few minutes he was ready, and made his way downstairs to the coffee-room. Mr. Comyn was standing by the window, consulting his watch. He looked up as the Marquis came in, and exclaimed: “Lord Vidal! So it was — ” He broke off, and coughed.

“It was,” said his lordship. “But why in the fiend’s name you must needs come to Dieppe is a matter passing my comprehension.”

“I cannot conceive why it should pass your comprehension, sir,” replied Mr. Comyn. “Considering that it was yourself who told me to journey to France.”

“I seem to spend my time telling people to do things I have not the smallest desire they should do,” said the Marquis bitterly. “Mr. Comyn, you have, I think, met a lady in this inn.”

“I have, sir.”

The Marquis said: “Contrive to forget it.”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Comyn, bowing.

Vidal smiled. “Egad, I’m beginning to like you, my prospective relative. That lady is shortly to become my wife.”

“You surprise me,” said Mr. Comyn truthfully.

“I am sure I do. Permit me to inform you that her presence in this inn is due, not to her own choice, but to my forcible abduction of her. She is a lady of unimpeachable virtue, and I shall be obliged if you will forget that you have ever seen her in my company.”

“Sir,” said Mr. Comyn, a stickler for exactitude, “I never have seen her in your company, and I have therefore nothing to forget.”

“You’re a good fellow,” said his lordship, with unusual kindness. “I’ll trust you.” He sat himself down in the window, and favoured Mr. Comyn with a brief, unvarnished account of the happenings of the past two days.

Mr. Comyn listened with grave attention, and remarked at the end that it was an edifying story. He added that he was honoured by his lordship’s confidence, and begged to proffer his felicitations upon his approaching nuptials.

“Oh, go to the devil!” snapped the Marquis, exasperated.