Read CHAPTER XIII - VAIN REMONSTRANCES of The American Baron, free online book, by James De Mille, on ReadCentral.com.

Hawbury had immolated himself for as much as half a dozen times to gratify Dacres.  He had sacrificed himself over and over upon the altar of friendship, and had allowed himself to be bored to death because Dacres so wished it.  The whole number of his calls was in reality only about five or six; but that number, to one of his taste and temperament, seemed positively enormous, and represented an immense amount of human suffering.

One day, upon reaching his quarters, after one of these calls, he found Dacres there, making himself, as usual, very much at home.

“Well, my dear fellow,” said Hawbury, cheerfully, “how waves the flag now?  Are you hauling it down, or are you standing to your guns?  Toss over the cigars, and give an account of yourself.”

“Do you know any thing about law, Hawbury?” was Dacres’s answer.

“Law?”

“Yes.”

“No, not much.  But what in the world makes you ask such a question as that?  Law!  No ­not I.”

“Well, there’s a point that I should like to ask somebody about.”

“Why not get a lawyer?”

“An Italian lawyer’s no use.”

“Well, English lawyers are to be found.  I dare say there are twenty within five minutes’ distance of this place.”

“Oh, I don’t want to bother.  I only wanted to ask some one’s opinion in a general way.”

“Well, what’s the point?”

“Why this,” said Dacres, after a little hesitation.  “You’ve heard of outlawry?”

“Should think I had ­Robin Hood and his merry men, Lincoln green, Sherwood Forest, and all that sort of thing, you know.  But what the mischief sets you thinking about Robin Hood?”

“Oh, I don’t mean that rot.  I mean real outlawry ­when a fellow’s in debt, you know.”

“Well?”

“Well; if he goes out of the country, and stays away a certain number of years, the debt’s outlawed, you know.”

“The deuce it is!  Is it, though? I’ve been in debt, but I always managed to pull through without getting so far.  But that’s convenient for some fellows too.”

“I’m a little muddy about it, but I’ve heard something to this effect.  I think the time is seven years.  If the debt is not acknowledged during the interval, it’s outlawed.  And now, ’pon my life, my dear fellow, I really don’t know but that I’ve jumbled up some fragments of English law with American.  I felt that I was muddy, and so I thought I’d ask you.”

“Don’t know any more about it than about the antediluvians.”

“It’s an important point, and I should like to have it looked up.”

“Well, get a lawyer here; half London is on the Continent.  But still, my dear fellow, I don’t see what you’re driving at.  You’re not in debt?”

“No ­this isn’t debt; but it struck me that this might possibly apply to other kinds of contracts.”

“Oh!”

“Yes.”

“How ­such as what, for instance?”

“Well, you see, I thought, you know, that all contracts might be included under it; and so I thought that if seven years or so annulled all contracts, it might have some effect, you know, upon ­the ­the ­the marriage contract, you know.”

At this Hawbury started up, stared at Dacres, gave a loud whistle, and then exclaimed,

“By Jove!”

“I may be mistaken,” said Dacres, modestly.

“Mistaken?  Why, old chap, you’re mad.  Marriage?  Good Lord! don’t you know nothing can abrogate that?  Of course, in case of crime, one can get a divorce; but there is no other way.  Seven years?  By Jove!  A good idea that.  Why, man, if that were so, the kingdom would be depopulated.  Husbands running off from wives, and wives from husbands, to pass the required seven years abroad.  By Jove!  You see, too, there’s another thing, my boy.  Marriage is a sacrament, and you’ve not only got to untie the civil knot, but the clerical one, my boy.  No, no; there’s no help for it.  You gave your word, old chap, ’till death do us part,’ and you’re in for it.”

At this Dacres said nothing; it appeared to dispel his project from his mind.  He relapsed into a sullen sort of gloom, and remained so for some time.  At last he spoke: 

“Hawbury!”

“Well?”

“Have you found out who that fellow is?”

“What fellow?”

“Why that yellow Italian that goes prowling around after my wife.”

“Oh yes; I heard something or other today.”

“What was it?”

“Well, it seems that he saved her life, or something of that sort.”

“Saved her life!” Dacres started.  “How? where?  Cool, too!”

“Oh, on the Alps somewhere.”

“On the Alps! saved her life!  Come now, I like that,” said Dacres, with bitter intonation.  “Aha! don’t I know her?  I warrant you she contrived all that.  Oh, she’s deep!  But how did it happen?  Did you hear?”

“Well, I didn’t hear any thing very definite.  It was something about a precipice.  It was Lady Dalrymple that told me.  It seems she was knocked over a precipice by an avalanche.”

“Was what?  Knocked where?  Over a precipice?  By a what ­an avalanche?  Good Lord!  I don’t believe it.  I swear I don’t.  She invented it all.  It’s some of her infernal humbug.  She slid off over the snow, so as to get him to go after her.  Oh, don’t I know her and her ways!”

“Well, come now, old man, you shouldn’t be too hard on her.  You never said that flirtation was one of her faults.”

“Well, neither it was; but, as she is a demon, she’s capable of any thing; and now she has sobered down, and all her vices have taken this turn.  Oh yes.  I know her.  No more storms now ­no rage, no fury ­all quiet and sly.  Flirtation!  Ha, ha!  That’s the word.  And my wife!  And going about the country, tumbling over precipices, with devilish handsome Italians going down to save her life!  Ha, ha, ha!  I like that!”

“See here, old boy, I swear you’re too suspicious.  Come now.  You’re going too far.  If she chooses, she may trump up the same charge against you and the child-angel at Vesuvius.  Come now, old boy, be just.  You can afford to.  Your wife may be a fiend in human form; and if you insist upon it, I’ve nothing to say.  But this last notion of yours is nothing but the most wretched absurdity.  It’s worse.  It’s lunacy.”

“Well, well,” said Dacres, in a milder tone; “perhaps she didn’t contrive it.  But then, you know,” he added, “it’s just as good for her.  She gets the Italian.  Ha, ha, ha!”

His laugh was forced, feverish, and unnatural.  Hawbury didn’t like it, and tried to change the subject.

“Oh, by-the-way,” said he, “you needn’t have any further trouble about any of them.  You don’t seem inclined to take any definite action, so the action will be taken for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that they are all going to leave Naples.”

“To leave Naples!”

Dacres uttered this in a voice of grief and surprise which astonished Hawbury and touched him.

“Yes,” he said.  “You know they’ve been here long enough.  They want to see Rome.  Holy-week, you know.  No end of excitement.  Illumination of St. Peter’s, and all that sort of thing, you know.”

Dacres relapsed into sombre silence.  For more than half an hour he did not say a word.  Hawbury respected his mood, and watched him with something approaching to anxiety.

“Hawbury,” said he at last.

“Well, old man?”

“I’m going to Rome.”

“You ­to Rome!”

“Yes, me, to Rome.”

“Oh, nonsense!  See here, old boy.  You’d really better not, you know.  Break it up.  You can’t do any thing.”

“I’m going to Rome,” repeated Dacres, stolidly.  “I’ve made up my mind.”

“But, really,” remonstrated Hawbury.  “See here now, my dear fellow; look here, you know.  By Jove! you don’t consider, really.”

“Oh yes, I do.  I know every thing; I consider every thing.”

“But what good will it do?”

“It won’t do any good; but it may prevent some evil.”

“Nothing but evil can ever come of it.”

“Oh, no evil need necessarily come of it.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Hawbury, who began to be excited.  “Really, my dear fellow, you don’t think.  You see you can’t gain any thing.  She’s surrounded by friends, you know.  She never can be yours, you know.  There’s a great gulf between you, and all that sort of thing, you know.”

“Yes,” repeated Dacres, catching his last words ­“yes, a great gulf, as deep as the bottomless abyss, never to be traversed, where she stands on one side, and I on the other, and between us hate, deep and pitiless hate, undying, eternal!”

“Then, by Jove! my dear fellow, what’s the use of trying to fight against it?  You can’t do any thing.  If this were Indiana, now, or even New York, I wouldn’t say any thing, you know; but you know an Indiana divorce wouldn’t do you any good.  Her friends wouldn’t take you on those terms ­and she wouldn’t.  Not she, by Jove!”

“I must go.  I must follow her,” continued Dacres.  “The sight of her has roused a devil within me that I thought was laid.  I’m a changed man, Hawbury.”

“I should think so, by Jove!”

“A changed man,” continued Dacres.  “Oh, Heavens, what power there is in a face!  What terrific influence it has over a man!  Here am I; a few days ago I was a free man; now I am a slave.  But, by Heaven!  I’ll follow her to the world’s end.  She shall not shake me off.  She thinks to be happy without me.  She shall not.  I will silently follow as an avenging fate.  I can not have her, and no one else shall.  The same cursed fate that severs her from me shall keep her away from others.  If I am lonely and an exile, she shall not be as happy as she expects.  I shall not be the only one to suffer.”

“See here, by Jove!” cried Hawbury.  “Really.  You’re going too far, my dear boy, you know.  You are, really.  Come now.  This is just like a Surrey theatre, you know.  You’re really raving.  Why, my poor old boy, you must give her up.  You can’t do any thing.  You daren’t call on her.  You’re tied hand and foot.  You may worship her here, and rave about your child-angel till you’re black in the face, but you never can see her; and as to all this about stopping her from marrying any other person, that’s all rot and bosh.  What do you suppose any other man would care for your nonsensical ravings?  Lonely and an exile!  Why, man, she’ll be married and done for in three months.”

“You don’t understand me,” said Dacres, dryly.

“I’m glad that I don’t; but it’s no wonder, old man, for really you were quite incoherent.”

“And so they’re going to Rome,” said Dacres.  “Well, they’ll find that I’m not to be shaken off so easily.”

“Come now, old man, you must give up that.”

“And I suppose,” continued Dacres, with a sneer, “our handsome, dark-eyed little Italian cavalier is going with us.  Ha, ha, ha!  He’s at the house all the time, no doubt.”

“Well, yes; he was there once.”

“Ah! of course ­quite devoted.”

“Oh yes; but don’t be afraid.  It was not to the child-angel.  She appears to avoid him.  That’s really quite evident.  It’s an apparent aversion on her part.”

Dacres drew a long breath.

“Oh,” said he; “and so I suppose it’s not her that he goes after.  I did not suppose that it was.  Oh no.  There’s another one ­more piquant, you know ­ha, ha! ­a devoted lover ­saved her life ­quite devoted ­and she sits and accepts his attentions.  Yet she’s seen me, and knows that I’m watching her.  Don’t she know me?  Does she want any further proof of what I am ready to do?  The ruins of Dacres Grange should serve her for life.  She tempts fate when she carries on her gallantries and her Italian cicisbeism under the eyes of Scone Dacres.  It’ll end bad.  By Heaven, it will!”

Scone Dacres breathed hard, and, raising his head, turned upon Hawbury a pair of eyes whose glow seemed of fire.

“Bad!” he repeated, crashing his fist on the table.  “Bad, by Heaven!”

Hawbury looked at him earnestly.

“My dear boy,” said he, “you’re getting too excited.  Be cool.  Really, I don’t believe you know what you’re saying.  I don’t understand what you mean.  Haven’t the faintest idea what you’re driving at.  You’re making ferocious threats against some people, but, for my life, I don’t know who they are.  Hadn’t you better try to speak so that a fellow can understand the general drift, at least, of what you say?”

“Well, then, you understand this much ­I’m going to Rome.”

“I’m sorry for it, old boy.”

“And see here, Hawbury, I want you to come with me.”

“Me?  What for?”

“Well, I want you.  I may have need of you.”

As Dacres said this his face assumed so dark and gloomy an expression that Hawbury began to think that there was something serious in all this menace.

“’Pon my life,” said he, “my dear boy, I really don’t think you’re in a fit state to be allowed to go by yourself.  You look quite desperate.  I wish I could make you give up this infernal Roman notion.”

“I’m going to Rome!” repeated Dacres, resolutely.

Hawbury looked at him.

“You’ll come, Hawbury, won’t you?”

“Why, confound it all, of course.  I’m afraid you’ll do something rash, old man, and you’ll have to have me to stand between you and harm.”

“Oh, don’t be concerned about me,” said Dacres.  “I only want to watch her, and see what her little game is.  I want to look at her in the midst of her happiness.  She’s most infernally beautiful, too; hasn’t added a year or a day to her face; more lovely than ever; more beautiful than she was even when I first saw her.  And there’s a softness about her that she never had before.  Where the deuce did she get that?  Good idea of hers, too, to cultivate the soft style.  And there’s sadness in her face, too.  Can it be real?  By Heavens! if I thought it could be real I’d ­but pooh! what insanity!  It’s her art.  There never was such cunning.  She cultivates the soft, sad style so as to attract lovers ­lovers ­who adore her ­who save her life ­who become her obedient slaves!  Oh yes; and I ­what am I?  Why they get together and laugh at me; they giggle; they snicker ­”

“Confound it all, man, what are you going on at that rate for?” interrupted Hawbury.  “Are you taking leave of your senses altogether?  By Jove, old man, you’d better give up this Roman journey.”

“No, I’ll keep at it.”

“What for?  Confound it!  I don’t see your object.”

“My object?  Why, I mean to follow her.  I can’t give her up.  I won’t give her up.  I’ll follow her.  She shall see me every where.  I’ll follow her.  She sha’n’t go any where without seeing me on her track.  She shall see that she is mine.  She shall know that she’s got a master.  She shall find herself cut off from that butterfly life which she hopes to enter.  I’ll be her fate, and she shall know it.”

“By Jove!” cried Hawbury.  “What the deuce is all this about?  Are you mad, or what?  Look here, old boy, you’re utterly beyond me, you know.  What the mischief do you mean?  Whom are you going to follow?  Whose fate are you going to be?  Whose track are you talking about?”

“Who?” cried Dacres.  “Why, my wife!”

As he said this he struck his fist violently on the table.

“The deuce!” exclaimed Hawbury, staring at him; after which he added, thoughtfully, “by Jove!”

Not much more was said.  Dacres sat in silence for a long time, breathing hard, and puffing violently at his cigar.  Hawbury said nothing to interrupt his meditation.  After an hour or so Dacres tramped off in silence, and Hawbury was left to meditate over the situation.

And this was the result of his meditations.

He saw that Dacres was greatly excited, and had changed completely from his old self.  His state of mind seemed actually dangerous.  There was an evil gleam in his eyes that looked like madness.  What made it more perplexing still was the new revulsion of feeling that now was manifest.  It was not so much love for the child-angel as bitter and venomous hate for his wife.  The gentler feeling had given place to the sterner one.  It might have been possible to attempt an argument against the indulgence of the former; but what could words avail against revenge?  And now there was rising in the soul of Dacres an evident thirst for vengeance, the result of those injuries which had been carried in his heart and brooded over for years.  The sight of his wife had evidently kindled all this.  If she had not come across his path he might have forgotten all; but she had come, and all was revived.  She had come, too, in a shape which was adapted in the highest degree to stimulate all the passion of Dacres’s soul ­young, beautiful, fascinating, elegant, refined, rich, honored, courted, and happy.  Upon such a being as this the homeless wanderer, the outcast, looked, and his soul seemed turned to fire as he gazed.  Was it any wonder?

All this Hawbury thought, and with full sympathy for his injured friend.  He saw also that Dacres could not be trusted by himself.  Some catastrophe would be sure to occur.  He determined, therefore, to accompany his friend, so as to do what he could to avert the calamity which he dreaded.

And this was the reason why he went with Dacres to Rome.

As for Dacres, he seemed to be animated by but one motive, which he expressed over and over again: 

“She stood between me and my child-angel, and so will I stand between her and her Italian!”