“He’s not heart of oak, isn’t that chap!” said Slap-Jack, as he turned noiselessly into the stable, where he proceeded to divest himself of the bullock’s hide he had worn for his masquerade, and so much of the filth it had left as could be effaced by scraping his garments and washing face and hands with soap and water. But the jest which had been compiled so merrily with his friend and sweetheart seemed to have lost all its mirth in the execution, for the seaman looked exceedingly grave and thoughtful, stealing quietly into the bar in search of his shipmate, with whom he presently disappeared to hold mysterious conference outside the house, secure from all eavesdroppers.
Captain Bold, though for a short space well-nigh frightened out of his wits, was not so inexperienced in the maladies of those who, like himself, applied freely and continuously to the brandy bottle, to be ignorant that such jovial spirits are peculiarly subject to hallucinations, and often visited by phantoms which only exist in their own diseased imaginations. He had scarcely reached the bar, therefore—a refuge he sought unconsciously and by instinct—ere he recovered himself enough to remember that alcohol was the only specific for the horrors, and he proceeded accordingly to swallow glass after glass till his usual composure of mind should return. He was nothing loth to use the remedy, yet each succeeding draught, while it strung his nerves, seemed to increase his depression, and for the first time in his life, he felt unable to shake off an uncomfortable conviction, that whether the phantom was really in the chimney or only in his own brain, he had that night received a warning, and was doomed.
There was little leisure, however, either for apprehension or remorse. Malletort, booted and well armed beneath his cassock, was already descending the stairs, and calling for his horse. To judge by his open brow and jaunty manner, his final interview with Florian, whom he had again summoned for a few last words, must have been satisfactory in the extreme. The latter, too, carried his head erect, and there was a proud glance in his eye, as of one who marches to victory.
“You will not fail at the last moment?” said the Abbé, pressing St. Croix’s hand while they descended the wooden staircase in company, and Florian’s reply, “Trust me, I will not fail!” carried conviction even to the cold heart of the astute and suspicious churchman.
So Captain Bold tossed off his last glass of brandy, examined the priming of his pistols, and swung himself into the saddle. His staunch comrades were at his side. The Abbé, of whose administrative powers he entertained the highest opinion, was there to superintend the expedition. It was easy, it was safe. Once accomplished, his fortune was made for life. As they emerged upon the snow, just deep enough to afford their horses a sure foothold, the bay mare shook her bit and laid her ears back cheerfully. Even Black George, usually a saturnine personage, acknowledged the bracing influence of the keen night air and the exhilarating prospect of action. He exchanged a professional jest with Blood Humphrey, and slapped his commander encouragingly on the shoulder; but, for all this, a black shadow seemed to hover between Captain Bold and the frosty stars—something seemed to warn him that the hour he had so often jested of was coming on him fast, and that to-night he must look the death he had so lightly laughed at in the face.
CHAPTER LIX
A SUBSTITUTE
We left Sir George watching in the cold, under a clump of yews, for the chance of seeing his wife’s shadow cross one of the lighted windows in the gallery. He remained there far longer than he supposed. So many thoughts were passing through his mind, so many misgivings for the future, so many memories of the past, that he was conscious neither of bodily discomfort nor lapse of time, the chill night-wind nor the waning evening. At length he roused himself from his abstraction with a smile of self-contempt, and, wrapping his cloak around him, would have departed at once, but that his attention was arrested by a muffled figure passing swiftly and stealthily into the garden through the very door he had been watching so long. A thrill of delight shot through him at the possibility of its being Cerise, followed by one of anger and suspicion, as he thought she might, in sheer despair at her lover’s absence, be preparing to follow Florian in his flight. But the figure walked straight to his hiding-place, and long before it reached him, even in the doubtful light, he recognised the firm step and graceful bearing of the Marquise.
How did she know he was there? How long could she have been watching him? He felt provoked, humiliated; but all such angry feelings dissolved at the sound of her sweet voice, so like her daughter’s, while she asked him softly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world that he should be waiting outside within twenty paces of his own house—
“George, what is it? You are disturbed; you are anxious. Can I help you? George, I would do anything in the world for you. Are you not dear to me as my own child, almost?”