short, ma’am, I found him very loth to take a part in so equivocal an affair.”
Miss Challoner was conscious of a stab of impatience. “But you explained to him — you persuaded him, surely?”
“I endeavoured to do so, ma’am, but with indifferent success. Happily — or so I trust it may be found — I had my card about me, which in part reassured him as to my standing and credentials. I venture to think that had I been able to be private with him a little longer I might have prevailed with him. But, as we apprehended, he is a guest in the chateau, and his host — a gentleman of a choleric disposition — broke in on us with some demand which I, insufficiently conversant with the French tongue, was unable to understand. Mr. Hammond, not being desirous (as one might readily comprehend) of presenting to the Comte such a dubious visitor as I must have seemed, was at pains to be rid of me. I had nothing to do but to take my leave. I did so, with what grace I could assume under conditions which I found vastly disconcerting, and begged Mr. Hammond to be so good as to wait upon us here this afternoon.”
Miss Challoner had listened to this speech with great patience. At the end of it she said, trying not to sound waspish: “But will he, sir?”
“I am inclined to believe so, ma’am.” A smile disturbed the primness of Mr. Comyn’s face. “When he showed reluctance, I promised to return to the chateau to seek another interview with him. A needy divine, ma’am, who has the good fortune to be in charge of a young gentleman making the Grand Tour, has of necessity to be careful of the company he keeps. I, Miss Challoner, appeared to be of so disreputable a character that Mr. Hammond, at the mere hint of a second visit, acceded to my request. I venture to think that when he has made your acquaintance he will see the matter in a more favourable light.”
She had to laugh. “Of the pair of us, sir, it is you who are the most respectable, I fear. If this provoking Mr. Hammond knows my — my lamentable story he will scarcely look on me with approval.”
“He does not, ma’am. Though not apt in the fabrication of lies, I was able to deceive the reverend gentlemen. With your leave, I will now bespeak luncheon.”
“I suppose there is nothing else to be done,” agreed Miss Challoner, accepting the situation.
Luncheon was served in the private parlour, but Miss Challoner’s appetite had forsaken her. She was so sure that the Marquis would pursue her that even an hour’s delay fretted her unbearably. Mr. Comyn said gently that he wished he could convince her of the impossibility of his lordship’s preventing the marriage. But Miss Challoner, having by now acquired a very fair knowledge of the Marquis’s temper, could not be convinced. Feeling, however, that her prospective bridegroom had already a good deal to put up with, she tried not to appear anxious. Had she but known it her consideration was wasted, for Mr. Comyn had a profound belief in the frailty of female nerves, and would have felt himself to be more master of the situation had he been obliged to allay her alarms. Her calm appeared to him to be the expression of an unimaginative nature, and instead of admiring her control, he wondered whether she was stupid, or merely phlegmatic.
Towards three o’clock Miss Challoner’s inward fears were justified. A clatter of hooves and carriage wheels announced the arrival of a chaise. Miss Challoner grew rather pale, and put out her hand towards Mr. Comyn. “It’s my lord,” she said unsteadily. “Please do not allow him to force you into a duel! I cannot bear to bring so much trouble on you!” She got up, twining her fingers together. “If only we were safe married!” she said despairingly.
“Madam, if this is indeed his lordship, I propose, to save you from his importunities, to inform him that we are married,” said Mr. Comyn. He too rose, and glanced towards the door. A voice there was no mistaking was heard outside, raised in a peremptory demand. Mr. Comyn’s lips tightened. He looked at Miss Challoner for a moment. “It seems that you were right, ma’am,” he said drily. “Do you desire me to say that we are already wed?”
“Yes,” she answered. “No — I don’t know. Yes, I think.”
A quick step was coming down the passage; the handle of the door was twisted violently round, and the Marquis of Vidal stood on the threshold, booted and spurred, and with raindrops glistening on his greatcoat.
His gaze swept the room, and came to rest on Miss Challoner, standing motionless beside her chair. “Ah, Miss Challoner!” he said. “So I find you, do I?” He strode forward, casting aside the riding-whip he carried, and gripped her by the shoulders. “If you thought to escape me so easily, you were wrong, my dear.”
Mr. Comyn said in a voice of polite coldness: “Will your lordship have the goodness to unhand my wife?”
The grip on Miss Challoner’s shoulders tightened so suddenly that she winced. The Marquis glared at Mr. Comyn, his breath coming short and fast. “What?” he thundered. “Your
Mr. Comyn bowed. “The lady has done me the honour to wed me this day, my lord.”
The Marquis’s fierce eyes reached Miss Challoner. “Is that true? Mary, answer me! Is it true?”
She stared up at him; she was as white as her tucker. “Perfectly, sir. I am married to Mr. Comyn.”
“Married?” he repeated. “Married?” he almost flung her from him. “By God, then, you shall be widowed soon enough!” he swore.
There was murder in his face; one stride brought him to Mr. Comyn, who felt instinctively for his sword-hilt. He had no time to draw steel; my lord’s lean fingers had him by the throat, choking the life out of him. “You dog! You little damned cur!” my lord said through his shut teeth.
Miss Challoner, seeing the two men swaying together in the throes of a desperate struggle, started forward, but before she could reach the combatants a piercing scream came from the doorway, and Miss Marling, just arrived on the scene, flew across the room, and cast herself into the fray.
“You shall not! you shall not!” shrieked Miss Marling. “Let him go, you wicked, wicked brute!”
Miss Challoner, who saw that Mr. Comyn was hopelessly over-weighted, looked round for a suitable weapon. She caught sight of the water-jug still standing on the table, and with her usual presence of mind picked it up. “Stand aside, Juliana!” she said coolly, and dashed the water impartially over both men. Miss Marling, having paid no heed to the warning, also received her share, and fell back, gasping.
The sudden shock must have sobered his lordship, for he released his grip on Mr. Comyn’s throat, and put up his hands to wipe the wet out of his eyes. Mr. Comyn went staggering backwards, feeling his neck, and coughing. Miss Marling ran to him, sobbing: “Frederick! oh, my poor Frederick, are you hurt?”
It was to be seen that Mr. Comyn had lost his prim punctiliousness. He thrust her off unceremoniously, and said angrily: “Hurt? No!” He tried to straighten his damaged neckcloth. He was in as great a rage as the Marquis by this time, and stuttered a little in his haste to utter his challenge. “Swords or pistols?” he demanded. “Choose your weapon, and choose it quickly.”
“No!” cried Juliana, trying to fling her arms round him. “Vidal, you shall not! Frederick, please, please, be calm!”
He disengaged himself from her clinging hands. “Madam, I have nothing whatsoever to say to you,” he snapped. “Be good enough to stand away from me! Well, my lord? Which is it to be?”
The Marquis was looking at Miss Challoner with an odd smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “Mary, you little wretch!” he said softly. He turned his head, and his eyes hardened again as they rested on Mr. Comyn’s pale countenance. “Either will do your business for you, you treacherous cur!” he said. “Choose which you will.”
Juliana wrung her hands. “Oh, you’ll kill him! I know you will!” she wailed.
“I shall,” said his lordship silkily.
Miss Challoner grasped the edge of the mantelpiece. “This has gone far enough,” she said. “Please listen to me for a moment.”
Mr. Comyn, who was struggling with his top-boots, said quickly: “Nothing you can say will deter me from fighting his lordship! Pray hold your peace! We will have this out with swords, my lord, and I trust that I may be able to rid the world of one whose instincts are more those of a beast than of a gentleman of breeding.”
“Oh, but you will never succeed in killing him!” almost wept Miss Marling. “Oh, Frederick, I am sorry for everything! Don’t fight Vidal! I implore you not to!”
Mr. Comyn turned a flint-like face towards her. “Madam, I have already informed you that I have nothing to say to you. I do not know why you are here, but you come in excellent time to felicitate me. Miss Challoner has done me the honour to marry me.”
Miss Marling clutched at a chair-back for support. “Married?” she faltered. “Oh, oh, oh!”
Only Miss Challoner paid any heed to this fit of mild hysterics. The Marquis took off his greatcoat, coat, and boots, and stood in his shirt and breeches, testing the flexibility of his slim blade. The Dresden ruffles of his shirt fell over his hands, but Mr. Comyn rolled up his own sleeves with business-like haste. He cast his lordship a look of angry dislike, and as he pulled his rapier from the scabbard, he said in a low, unsteady voice: “You have called me
