Chapter 11 The Hounds of God by Rafael Sabatini
THE DEPARTURE
If Don Pedro's skill in the deciphering of human documents was great, as I have said, great, too, were his longings. And longings blunt the senses to all things outside of their own aim. So that, by the following morning, Don Pedro had come to doubt the accuracy of his reading of Margaret and the irrevocable quality of the decision she had made. This hope renewed and fortified the longings from which it sprang.
Desire was something which this spoilt child of fortune had never been schooled to repress. With him it had ever been but the sweet preface to possession. He had never known the meaning of denial. He knew it now, and the torment of it. All night that knowledge and that torment abode in him, until he swore at dawn that he would not submit, could not endure it to continue.
Outwardly, however, on that last day of his at Trevanion Chase he showed nothing of his inward suffering. Sharp searching eyes might have detected the imprint of it on his countenance, but in his manner no hint of it was betrayed. He had been well schooled in the art of self-possession; it had been one of his maxims that who would prevail must never allow his purpose to be read.
And so, whilst pain searched his soul, whilst the hunger for Margaret, sharpened by her denial of him, gnawed at his heart, he smiled as affably as ever and preserved unchanged his cool, urbane, impassive air.
So completely did this deceive her that she came to conclude that his heart was not so seriously involved as his words had seemed to imply. He had been swept away, she thought, by a momentary yielding to emotional impulses. She was glad and relieved to discover it. She liked him more than any maxi she had ever met save one; and she must have suffered had she remained under the conviction that she had sent him forth in pain.
She had shown the pearls to her father, who had curtly pronounced them fripperies, whereupon, in protest and so as to compel his attention, she had ventured a hint of their value. It had not impressed him.
"I can well believe it," he had said. "There's naught in the world so costly as vanity, as you may come to learn in time."
Then she told him what the gift implied; that Don Pedro's ransom being paid he now claimed the liberty to depart, and would be leaving them that evening.
"Very well," said the Earl, indifferently.
It chilled her. So that he was left alone in this musty library to pursue, over quagmires of human speculation, the will o' the wisp of knowledge, whoever chose might come and go at Trevanion Chase. She might depart, herself, and not be missed. Indeed, he might regard her presence as no more than a source of interruptions, and would perhaps welcome, as putting a definite end to these, her departure overseas to Spain. But another there was, who would not be so indifferent. The thought of him warmed her again, and she found in his protracted absence a deserved reproach to herself for her harshness with him. She would send him a note to tell him that Don Pedro was leaving that evening, and to bid him come and receive his forgiveness at her hands. It was jealousy of Don Pedro that had driven him, and she now perceived how right had been the instincts in him which had prompted it. There had been more occasion for it than ever she had suspected.
With Don Pedro that day she was kind and courteous, and he made this possible by the masterly circumspection I have mentioned. He had no packages to make. What odds and ends he had caused to be procured for him whilst there, to eke out his temporary wardrobe, he now bestowed upon the servant who had ministered to him, together with a rich gift of money.
Old Martin, too, was handsomely rewarded for his attentions to the Spanish prisoner who had known how to command his regard.
After an early supper, going as he came, with no more than the clothes in which he stood, Don Pedro was ready to depart. To his lordship, still at table, he addressed a very formal graceful speech of thanks for the generous entertainment he had received at Trevanion Chase, of which his heart would ever hold and cherish the most pleasant memories. To Heaven also he expressed his deep gratitude for having vouchsafed him the good fortune of falling into such noble, kindly generous hands as those of the Earl of Garth and his daughter.
The Earl having heard him out, gave him answer in phrases springing from his innate courtliness, the courtliness which had been his before the events had driven him to become a hermit. He concluded all by wishing Don Pedro a felicitous voyage to his own land and all happiness in his abiding there. Thereupon he effaced himself, leaving his daughter to speed the departing voyager.
Martin fetched Don Pedro his weapons, a hat and a cloak. When he had assumed them, Margaret went with him to the hall, and then down the steps, and on through the garden with scarcely a word passing between them. Their farewells might quite properly have been spoken at the door. But it was as if he drew her on with him by the very force of his will.
On the edge of the spinney she halted, determined to go no farther, and put forth her hand. "We part here, Don Pedro."
Having halted with her, he now faced her, and she saw the pain that flickered in his melancholy eyes. "Ah, not yet!" It was a prayer. He became almost lyrical. "Do not deprive my soul of those few moments I had hoped to savour before darkness closes over it. See, I have been a miracle of reticence, a model of circumspection. Since you said what you said to me yesterday, by no single word or glance have I importuned you. Nor would I now. Yet I ask of you one little thing; little to you but meaning so much—dear God, how much!—to me. Walk with me but a little way farther: to that blessed spot in the dell, where first my eyes were gladdened by the lovely sight of you. There, where I looked my first upon you, let me look my last, and thus departing count all a dream that happened in between. Of your sweet charity, accord me this. Margaret!"
She was not stone to resist this perfervidly poetical, heart-broken supplication. After all, as he said, it was such a little thing to ask. She consented. Yet on the way through the gloom that was gathering in the dingle, no word was spoken.
Thus in silence they came to their first meeting-place.
"It was here," she said. "Yonder you stood on that white rock, when Brutus leapt at you."
He paused, considered her, and fetched a heavy sigh. "Your greatest cruelty was when you stayed him." He paused again, still considering her, as if he would print each feature for ever on his brain. And then: "How grudgingly," pursued that very subtle gentleman, "you accord me the exact alms I begged of your charity. ''Twas here!' you say, and on the very spot, careful to an inch of ground, you halt. Well! Well!"
"Ah, no," she answered him, her generous heart responding to the touch of that skilful player. "I'll bear you company yet a little farther."
He breathed his thanks, and they continued the descent, following the course of the brook, which was the merest trickle now. And as they went, there came from the beach below the grating of a keel upon the shingle.
Forth from the shadows of the trees they stepped on to the edge of the sands now, shimmering faintly in the evening light. By the water's-edge there was a boat, and about it, dim and shadowy, a dark group.
At sight of this Don Pedro raised his voice, and called some words in Spanish. Two men instantly detached themselves and came speeding up the beach.
Margaret put forth her hand for the third time, and her tone was brisk and resolute.
"And now, farewell! God send you a favourable wind to Spain and bring you safely home."
"Home?" said he sadly. "An empty word henceforth. Ah, stay! Stay yet a moment!" His grip upon her hand detained her. "There is something yet I wish to say. Something I must say before I go."
"Then say it quickly, sir. Your men are almost here."
"It is no matter for them. They are my own. Margaret!" He seemed to choke.
She noticed that his face shone oddly white in the deepening twilight, that he was actually trembling. A vague fear possessed her. She wrenched her hand free. "Farewell!" she cried, and abruptly turned to go.
But he sprang after her. He was upon her. His arms went round her, holding her close and powerless as in a snare of steel. "Ah, no, no," he almost sobbed. "Forgive, my Margaret! You shall forgive! You must; you will, I know. I cannot bear to let you go. Be God my witness, it would kill me."
"Don Pedro!" There was only anger in her voice. She sought to break from, him; but he held her firmly. Such an indignity as this' had never touched her pure young life, nor had she ever dreamt of such a possibility. "Let me go!" she commanded, her eyes scorching him with their fury. "As you are a gentleman, Don Pedro, this is unworthy. It is knavish! Vile!"
"A gentleman!" he echoed, and laughed in furious scorn of all such shams as in this moment he accounted them. "Here is no gentleman. We are just man and woman, and I love you."
At last she understood the full villainy of his purpose, sensed the utter remorselessness of his passion, and a scream sped upwards through the dingle. Came a roar from above to answer her. Almost inarticulate though it was she recognised the voice and thrilled at the sound of it as never yet she had thrilled. Twice she called his name in ringing accents of fearful urgency.
"Gervase! Gervase!"
Momentarily she was released, and then almost before she could realise it and attempt to move, a cloak was flung over her head to muffle her. She was lifted from her feet by strong pinioning arms, and hurried swiftly away. After her bearers came Don Pedro at speed.
"Handle her gently on your lives, dogs," he thundered in Spanish to his men. "Make haste! Away! Away!"
They gained the boat as Gervase came through the trees on to the open beach. One of the Spaniards levelled a musketoon across the bows to make an end of that single pursuer. Don Pedro kicked the weapon into the sea.
"Fool! Who bade you take so much upon yourself? Push off! And now give way! Give way!"
They floated clear as Gervase came bounding to to the water's-edge. Nor did the water check him. On he came, splashing through it.
"Don Pedro, you Spanish dog!" he cried in mingled rage and anguish.
The boat drew off under the stroke of his six long oars and swiftly gathered way.
Yet Gervase in his mad agony went after it to his armpits. There he checked, raving, with the wash of the boat about his neck. He raised an impotent fist and shook it in the air.
"Don Pedro!" he called across the water. "Don Pedro de Mendoza! You may go now. But I come after you. I shall follow you, though it be to Hell!"
Don Pedro in the sternsheets, catching the note of agony in those accents, looked through the gloom at the man who had wielded the musketoon.
"I was wrong," he said. "It would have been a mercy to have shot him."