‘No!’ he said hotly. ‘You are only suited to a fellow like Lavisse! He will do very well for you, and I wish you joy of him!’
‘Thank you,’ she said, with a crooked smile. ‘I have not yet accepted him, however.’
‘Why not? He’s as rich as Croesus, and he won’t care how you behave as long as you don’t interfere with his little pleasures. You’ll make a famous pair!’
He slammed out of her presence, and sought Colonel Audley. The interview was rather a trying one for the Colonel, for there was no curbing Harry’s impetuous tongue. ‘Oh, I say, sir, don’t give her up!’ he begged. ‘She’ll marry that Belgian fellow if you do, sure as fate!’
‘My dear boy, you don’t—’
‘No, but only listen, sir! It ain’t vice with Bab—really it ain’t, She’s spoilt, but she don’t mean the things she says, and I’m ready to swear she’s never gone beyond flirtation. I daresay you’re thinking of that Darcy affair, but—’
‘I am not thinking of any affair, Harry.’
‘Of course I know she has the devil’s own temper—gets it from my grandfather: George has it too—but perhaps you don’t understand that the things they do when they are in their rages don’t mean anything. Of course, George is a shocking fellow, but Bab isn’t. People say she’s heartless, but myself I’m devilish fond of her, and if she marries a damned rake like Lavisse it’ll be just too much to bear!’
‘I’m sorry, Harry, but you have it wrong. It wasn’t I who broke the engagement.’
‘But Charles, if you would only see her!’
‘Do you imagine that I am going to crawl to your sister, begging to be taken on the strength again?’
Harry sighed. ‘No. No, of course you wouldn’t do that.’
‘You say that she is going to marry Lavisse. If that is so, there is no possibility of our engagement’s being renewed. In any case—No! it will not do. I have been brought to realise that, and upon reflection I think you must realise it too.’
‘It’s such a damned shame!’ Harry burst out. ‘I don’t want Lavisse for a brother-in-law! I never liked any of the others half as well as you!’
He sounded so disconsolate that in a mood less bleak the Colonel must have been amused. His spirits were too much oppressed, however, for him to be able to bear such a discussion with equanimity. He was glad when Harry at last took himself off.
Harry’s artless disclosures left a painful impression: an unacknowledged hope had lingered in the Colonel’s mind that Barbara’s encouragement of Lavisse might have been the outcome merely of pique. But Harry’s words seemed to show that she was indeed serious. Her family looked upon the match as certain; Colonel Audley was forced to recall the many occasions during their engagement when she had seemed to feel a decided partiality for the Count. He had believed her careless flirtations to be only the expression of a certain volatility of mind, which stronger ties of affection would put an end to. It had not been so. The mischief of her upbringing, the hardening effect of a distasteful marriage, had vitiated a character of whose underlying worth he could still entertain no doubt. That the heart was unspoiled, he was sure: could he but have possessed himself of it he was persuaded all would have been different. Her conduct had convinced him that he had failed, and although, even through the anger that had welled up in him at their last meeting, he had been conscious of an almost overpowering impulse to keep her upon any terms, a deeper instinct had held him silent.
He had passed since then through every phase of doubt, sometimes driven so nearly mad by the desire to hold her in his arms that he had fallen asleep at night with the fixed intention of imploring her to let everything be as it had been before their quarrel, only to wake in the morning to a realization of the impossibility of building happiness upon such foundations. Arguments clashed, and nagged in his brain. He blamed himself for lack of tact, for having been too easy, for having been too harsh. Sometimes he was sure that he had handled her wrongly from the start; then a profounder knowledge would possess him, and he would recognise with regret the folly of all such arguments. There could be no question of tact or mishandling where the affections were engaged. He came back wearily to the only thing he knew to be certain: that since the love she had felt for him had been a light emotion, as fleeting as her smile, nothi
ng but misery could attend their marriage.
After prolonged strife the mind becomes a little numb, repeating dully the old arguments, but ceasing to attach a meaning to them. It was so with Colonel Audley. His brain continued to revolve every argument, but he seemed no longer capable of drawing any conclusions from them. He could neither convince himself that the rift was final nor comfort himself with the hope of renewing the engagement. He was aware, chiefly, of an immense lassitude, but beneath it, and underlying his every word and thought, was a pain that had turned from a sharp agony into an ache which was always present, yet often ignored, because familiarity had inured him to it.
The unfortunate circumstance of his being obliged to remain in Brussels, where he must not only see Barbara continually but was forced to live under the eyes of scores of people whom he knew to be watching him, imposed a strain upon him that began very soon to appear in his face. Judith obliged to respect his evident wish that the affair should be forgotten, was goaded into exclaiming to Worth: ‘I could even wish the war would break out, if only it would take Charles away from this place!’
Upon the following day, June 14th, it seemed as though her wish would be granted. She was at Lady Conynghame’s in the evening, congratulating Lord Hay upon his win at the races at Grammont upon the previous day, when Colonel Audley came in with news of serious movement on the frontier. On June 13th, Sir Hussey Vivian, whose hussar brigade was stationed to the south of Tournay, had discovered that he had opposite him not a cavalry picket, as had previously been the case, but a mere collection of douaniers, who, upon being questioned, had readily disclosed the fact of the French army’s concentration about Maubeuge. Shortly after the Colonel’s entrance some other guests came in with a rumour that the French had actually crossed the frontier. All disbelief was presently put an end to by the Duke’s arrival. He was calm, and in good spirits, but replied to the eager questions put to him that he believed the rumour to be true.
Seventeen
On the following morning the only news was of Sir Thomas Picton’s arrival in Brussels. He was putting up at the Hôtel d’Angleterre with two of his aides-de-camp, Captain Chambers of the 1st Footguards, and an audacious young gentleman who ought to have been in London with the 1st battalion of that regiment, but who had procured leave, and contrived to get himself enrolled on Sir Thomas Picton’s staff as honorary aide-de-camp. It seemed reasonable to Mr Gronow to suppose that he could quite well take part in a battle in Belgium and be back again in London in time to resume his duties at the expiration of his leave.
While Sir Thomas, a burly figure in plain clothes—for the trunks containing his uniforms had not yet arrived in Brussels—was seated at breakfast, Colonel Canning came in to say that the Duke wished to see him immediately. He finished his breakfast, and went off to Headquarters. He met Wellington in the Park, walking with the Duke of Richmond and Lord Fitzroy Somerset. All three were deep in conversation. Sir Thomas strode up to them, accosting his chief with his usual lack of ceremony, and received a chilling welcome.
‘I am glad you are come, Sir Thomas,’ said his lordship stiffly. He looked down his nose at the coarse, square-jowled face in front of him. He valued old Picton for his qualities as a soldier, but he had never been able to like him. ‘As foul-mouthed an old devil as ever lived,’ he had once said of him. Picton’s familiarity annoyed him; he delivered one of his painful snubs. ‘The sooner you get on horseback the better,’ he said. ‘No time is to be lost. You will take the command of the troops in advance. The Prince of Orange knows by this time that you will go to his assistance.’
A slight bow, and it was plain that his lordship considered the interview at an end. Picton was red-faced, and glaring. Richmond, sorry for the rough old man’s humiliation, said something civil, but Picton was too hurt and angry to respond. He moved away, muttering under his breath, and his lordship resumed his conversation.
No further news having arrived from the frontier, Brussels continued its normal life. It was generally supposed that the previous night’s report had been another false alarm. The usual crowd of fashionables promenaded in the Park; ladies looked over their gowns for the Duchess of Richmond’s ball; gentleman hurried off to the market to order posies for their inamoratas.
Colonel Audley had left his brother’s house before Judith was up, but he came in about midday for a few minutes. There was no news; he told her briefly that the chances were that the concentration on Maubeuge was the prelude to a feint; and was able to assure her that no alarm was felt at Headquarters. The Duchess of Richmond’s ball would certainly take place; the Prince of Orange was coming in from Braine-le-Comte to dine with the Duke about three; Lord Hill was already in Brussels; and Uxbridge and a host of divisional and brigade commanders were expected to arrive during the course of the afternoon, for the purpose of attending the ball. This certainly did not seem as though an outbreak of hostilities was expected; and further confirmation was later received from Georgiana Lennox, who, meeting Judith on a shopping errand during the afternoon, was able to report that Lord Hill had called in the Rue de la Blanchisserie, and had disclaimed any knowledge of movement on the frontier.
The Prince of Orange arrived in Brussels shortly after two o’clock, in his usual spirits, and after changing his dress in his house in the Rue de Brabant, went round to Headquarters. He had heard no further news, set very little store by the previous night’s report, and had ridden in light-heartedly to take part in the evening’s festivities, leaving Constant de Rebecque in charge at Braine-le-Comte.
‘Well, well!’ drawled Fremantle, when his Highness had gone off upstairs to pay his respects to the Duke. ‘Our Corps Commander! One comfort is that old Constant will do much better without him. Think there’s anything brewing, Canning?’