MISS ARMYTAGE'S PEARLS
Lady O'Moy and Miss Armytage drove alone together into Lisbon.
The adjutant, still occupied, would follow as soon as he possibly could, whilst Captain Tremayne would go on directly from the lodgings which he shared in Alcantara with Major Carruthers - also of the adjutant's staff - whither he had ridden to dress some twenty minutes earlier.
"Are you ill, Una?" had been Sylvia's concerned greeting of her cousin when she came within the range of the carriage lamps. "You are pale as a ghost." To this her ladyship had replied mechanically that a slight headache troubled her.
But now that they sat side by side in the well upholstered carriage Miss Armytage became aware hat her companion was trembling.
"Una, dear, whatever is the matter?"
Had it not been for the dominant fear that the shedding of tears would render her countenance unsightly, Lady O'Moy would have yielded to her feelings and wept. Heroically in the cause of her own flawless beauty she conquered the almost overmastering inclination.
"I - I have been so troubled about Richard," she faltered. "It is preying upon my mind."
"Poor dear!" In sheer motherliness Miss Armytage put an arm about her cousin and drew her close. "We must hope for the best."
Now if you have understood anything of the character of Lady O'Moy you will have understood that the burden of a secret was the last burden that such a nature was capable of carrying,. It was because **** was fully aware of this that he had so emphatically and repeatedly impressed upon her the necessity for saying not a word to any one of his presence. She realised in her vague way - or rather she believed it since he had assured her - that there would be grave danger to him if he were discovered. But discovery was one thing, and the sharing of a confidence as to his presence another. That confidence must certainly be shared.
Lady O'Moy was in an emotional maelstrom that swept her towards a cataract. The cataract might inspire her with dread, standing as it did for death and disaster, but the maelstrom was not to be resisted. She was helpless in it, unequal to breasting such strong waters, she who in all her futile, charming life had been borne snugly in safe crafts that were steered by others.
Remained but to choose her confidant. Nature suggested Terence.
But it was against Terence in particular that she had been warned.
Circumstance now offered Sylvia Armytage. But pride, or vanity if you prefer it, denied her here. Sylvia was an inexperienced young girl, as she herself had so often found occasion to remind her cousin.
Moreover, she fostered the fond illusion that Sylvia looked to her for precept, that upon Sylvia's life she exercised a precious guiding influence. How, then, should the supporting lean upon the supported?
Yet since she must, there and then, lean upon something or succumb instantly and completely, she chose a middle course, a sort of temporary assistance.
"I have been imagining things," she said. "It may be a premonition, I don't know. Do you believe in premonitions, Sylvia?"
"Sometimes," Sylvia humoured her.
"I have been imagining that if **** is hiding, a fugitive, he might naturally come to me for help. I am fanciful, perhaps," she added hastily, lest she should have said too much. "But there it is.
All day the notion has clung to me, and I have been asking myself desperately what I should do in such a case."
"Time enough to consider it when it happens, Una. After all - "
"I know," her ladyship interrupted on that ever-ready note of petulance of hers. "I know, of course. But I think I should be easier in my mind if I could find an answer to my doubt. If I knew what to do, to whom to appeal for assistance, for I am afraid that I should be very helpless myself. There is Terence, of course. But I am a little afraid of Terence. He has got **** out of so many scrapes, and he is so impatient of poor ****. I am afraid he doesn't understand him, and so I should be a little frightened of appealing to Terence again."
"No," said Sylvia gravely, "I shouldn't go to Terence. Indeed he is the last man to whom I should go."
"You say that too!" exclaimed her ladyship.
"Why?" quoth Sylvia sharply. "Who else has said it?"
There was a brief pause in which Lady O'Moy shuddered. She had been so near to betraying herself. How very quick and shrewd Sylvia was! She made, however, a good recovery.
"Myself, of course. It is what I have thought myself. There is Count Samoval. He promised that if ever any such thing happened he would help me. And he assured me I could count upon him. I think it may have been his offer that made me fanciful."
"I should go to Sir Terence before I went to Count Samoval. By which I mean that I should not go to Count Samoval at all under any circumstances. I do not trust him."
"You said so once before, dear," said Lady O'Moy.
"And you assured me that I spoke out of the fullness of my ignorance and inexperience."
"Ah, forgive me."
"There is nothing to forgive. No doubt you were right. But remember that instinct is most alive in the ignorant and inexperienced, and that instinct is often a surer guide than reason. Yet if you want reason, I can supply that too. Count Samoval is the intimate friend of the Marquis of Minas, who remains a member of the Government, and who next to the Principal Souza was, and no doubt is, the most bitter opponent of the British policy in Portugal. Yet Count Samoval, one of the largest landowners in the north, and the nobleman who has perhaps suffered most severely from that policy, represents himself as its most vigorous supporter."
Lady O'Moy listened in growing amazement. Also she was a little shocked. It seemed to her almost indecent that a young girl should know so much about politics - so much of which she herself, a married woman, and the wife of the adjutant-general, was completely in ignorance.
"Save us, child!" she ejaculated. "You are so extraordinarily informed."
"I have talked to Captain Tremayne," said Sylvia. "He has explained all this."
