Lord Tony’s Wife - Baroness Orczy (red novels txt) 📗

The whole of that wretched mournful day Yvonne Dewhurst spent upon the deck of the ship which was bearing her away every hour, every minute, further and still further from home and happiness. She seldom spoke: she ate and drank when food was brought to her: she was conscious neither of cold nor of wet, of well-being or ill. She sat upon a pile of cordages in the stern of the ship leaning against the taffrail and in imagination seeing the coast of England fade into illimitable space.

Part of the time it rained, and then she sat huddled up in the shawls and tarpaulins which the woman placed about her: then, when the sun came out, she still sat huddled up, closing her eyes against the glare.

When daylight faded into dusk, and then twilight into night she gazed into nothingness as she had gazed on water and sky before, thinking, thinking, thinking! This could not be the end⁠—it could not. So much happiness, such pure love, such perfect companionship as she had had with the young husband whom she idolised could not all be wrenched from her like that, without previous foreboding and without some warning from Fate. This miserable, sordid, wretched journey to an unknown land could not be the epilogue to the exquisite romance which had suddenly changed the dreary monotony of her life into one long, glowing dream of joy and of happiness! This could not be the end!

And gazing into the immensity of the far horizon she thought and thought and racked her memory for every word, every look which she had had from her dear milor. And upon the grey background of sea and sky she seemed to perceive the vague and dim outline of that mysterious friend⁠—the man who knew everything⁠—who foresaw everything, even and above all the dangers that threatened those whom he loved. He had foreseen this awful danger too! Oh! if only milor and she herself had realised its full extent! But now surely! surely! he would help, he would know what to do. Milor was wont to speak of him as being omniscient and having marvellous powers.

Once or twice during the day M. le duc de Kernogan came to sit beside his daughter and tried to speak a few words of comfort and of sympathy. Of a truth⁠—here on the open sea⁠—far both from home and kindred and from the new friends he had found in hospitable England⁠—his heart smote him for all the wrong he had done to his only child. He dared not think of the gentle and patient wife who lay at rest in the churchyard of Kernogan, for he feared that with his thoughts he would conjure up her pale, avenging ghost who would demand an account of what he had done with her child.

Cold and exposure⁠—the discomfort of the long sea-journey in this rough trading ship had somewhat damped M. de Kernogan’s pride and obstinacy: his loyalty to the cause of his King had paled before the demands of a father’s duty toward his helpless daughter.

It was close on six o’clock and the night, after the turbulent and capricious alternations of rain and sunshine, promised to be beautifully clear, though very cold. The pale crescent of the moon had just emerged from behind the thick veil of cloud and mist which still hung threateningly upon the horizon: a fitful sheen of silver danced upon the waves.

M. le duc stood beside his daughter. He had inquired after her health and well-being and received her monosyllabic reply with an impatient sigh. M. Martin-Roget was pacing up and down the deck with restless and vigorous strides: he had just gone by and made a loud and cheery comment on the weather and the beauty of the night.

Could Yvonne Dewhurst have seen her father’s face now, or had she cared to study it, she would have perceived that he was gazing out to sea in the direction to which the schooner was heading with an intent look of puzzlement, and that there was a deep furrow between his brows. Half an hour went by and he still stood there, silent and absorbed: then suddenly a curious exclamation escaped his lips: he stooped and seized his daughter by the wrist.

“Yvonne!” he said excitedly, “tell me! am I dreaming, or am I crazed?”

“What is it?” she asked coldly.

“Out there! Look! Just tell me what you see?”

He appeared so excited and his pressure on her wrist was so insistent that she dragged herself to her feet and looked out to sea in the direction to which he was pointing.

“Tell me what you see,” he reiterated with ever-growing excitement, and she felt that the hand which held her wrist trembled violently.

“The light from a lighthouse, I think,” she said.

“And besides that?”

“Another light⁠—a much smaller one⁠—considerably higher up. It must be perched up on some cliffs.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. There are lights dotted about here and there. Some village on the coast.”

“On the coast?” he murmured hoarsely, “and we are heading towards it.”

“So it appears,” she said indifferently. What cared she to what shore she was being taken: every land save England was exile to her now.

Just at this moment M. Martin-Roget in his restless wanderings once more passed by.

“M. Martin-Roget!” called the duc.

And vaguely Yvonne wondered why his voice trembled so.

“At your service, M. le duc,” replied the other as he came to a halt, and then stood with legs wide apart firmly planted upon the deck, his hands buried in the pockets of his heavy mantle, his head thrown back, as if defiantly, his whole attitude that of a master condescending to talk with slaves.

“What are those lights over there, ahead of us?” asked M. le duc quietly.

“The lighthouse of Le Croisic, M. le duc,” replied Martin-Roget dryly, “and of the guardhouse above and the harbour below. All at your service,” he added, with a sneer.

“Monsieur.⁠ ⁠…” exclaimed the duc.

“Eh? what?” queried the other