"Anthony, give me the pistol!"
"Damme, no—ha' patience! Meantime take this—more useful if it comes t' scrimmage!" And he twisted a stake from the flower bed we were trampling and thrust it into my hand. "Enemy's country, Perry,—qui vive! Hist! Attention and all the rest of it! Forward an' curse the consequences!"
So we stole forward like the madmen we were, but very silent and very determined.
The house stood upon a noble terrace, a large house of many gables and windows, most of these last being unlighted. Fortune seemed to favour us, for we met with none to oppose us, and mounting a broad flight of stone steps, reached the terrace unmolested. But as I stood glancing about for some door or likely window whereby we might force entrance, Anthony dragged me down suddenly into the shadow of the balustrade, as round a corner of the house two men appeared.
"Wot," growled one, pausing, the better to spit in passionate disgust, "put the 'orses to the phaeton, must I? And at this time o' night—an' all for a couple o' light country Molls as is afeard to foot it 'ome in the dark, curse 'em!"
"She ain't no country Moll, Ben, leastways not 'er as I see—a reg'lar 'igh-stepper—all the lady, Ben—such eyes, ecod—such a shape to 'er, Ben—"
"Well, dang 'er shape, I says! Why can't she go as she come?"
"Summat in the wood give 'er a turn, scared 'er like, an' back she run to the Guv'nor an' orders 'im to 'ave the phaeton round, which the Guv'nor does; an' there's 'im an' t' others a-toastin' of 'er this 'ere werry minute. Oh, she's a lady, Ben, an' mighty 'igh an' 'aughty, by 'er looks."
"'Aughty!" sneered Ben, spitting again. "Lady! We know th' kind o' ladies as comes a visitin' th' Guv'nor or the Captain 'ere a-nights—"
"Shut your trap, Ben, an' get to your 'osses, lady or no."
"Lady—ha, fine doin's—fine doin's! Shameless 'ussies—"
"Close up, Ben, close up—mum's the word hereabouts! The Guv'nor's got a quick eye for a fine young woman—ah, an' so's you an' me, for that matter! An' I tell ye, this 'un's a fine lady, even if a bit frolicsome. So git to your 'osses, Ben—an' sharp's the word."
The man Ben sniffed and, muttering evilly, slouched away, leaving his fellow to sigh gustily and stare up at the moon; a square-shouldered, bullet-headed man who, leering up at Diana's chaste loveliness, began to scrape and pick at his teeth with a thumb nail. And then Anthony sneezed violently. The man stood rigid, thumb at mouth, peering.
"'Oo's there?" he demanded gruffly, and began to advance, head bowed and arms squared in a posture of offence.
In one moment, as it seemed, Anthony was upon him; ensued a scrape of feet, a thudding of blows, a strangled cry, and they were down, rolling upon the gravel and with never a chance for me to get in a stroke with my unwieldy hedge stake. At last Anthony arose, panting a little and smiling grimly, looking from the man's inert form to his own bleeding knuckles.
"This," he whispered breathlessly, "this is doing me—power o' good! Toughish customer—forced to give him—tap with pistol butt. How about the fellow Ben?"
"No, no, Anthony! The door yonder—quick—this way!"
I remember a long, dim-lit passage, a narrow stair, and we found ourselves in a broad and spacious hall where shaded lamps burned and nude statues gleamed against rich hangings.
Borne to our ears came a jingle of glasses, the line of a song and boisterous laughter. A door opened suddenly and a man stepped into the hall, his bulky figure outlined against the lights of the room behind him, but he paused upon the threshold to glance back and flourish something triumphantly.
"Treasure trove!" he laughed. "The memento of a delightful hour!"
With the words upon his lips he turned, and I recognised Captain Danby. He was halfway across the hall when he espied us and stopped to glare in wide-eyed amazement; something fluttered to the floor and he began to retreat softly and slowly before us, but Anthony was pointing down at a small bundle of lace with hand that shook and wavered strangely.
"Look at it, Perry—look!" he muttered. "Look, man! Why—God's death, Perry—it's her lace scarf—belongs to my Loveliness, Perry—should know it anywhere—it's—hers, man—and here! Oh, damnation!"
In a flash he had picked it up and, roaring like a madman, hurled himself against the closing door. For moment was a desperate scuffling and frenzied straining and gasping, a creaking of stout panels, then the door swung violently open and we burst into the room.
A disordered supper table littered with bottles, three or four breathless gentlemen who panted and glared, and a curtained doorway in one corner; all this I was aware of, though my gaze never left the face of him who stood before this curtained door, a tall, slender man very elegantly calm and wholly unperturbed, except for the slight frown that puckered his thick brows,—a handsome face the paler by contrast with its dark and glossy hair.
For a tense moment there was silence but for Anthony's loud and irregular breathing; when at last he spoke his voice sounded wholly unfamiliar:
"Damned scoundrels—look at this! My wife's scarf—is she here? By God, if she is, I'll find her if I have to kill you one by one and wreck this hellish place—"
"Fellow's drunk!" suggested some one, whereupon Anthony cursed them one and all, and I heard the sharp click of the pistol as he cocked it, but I restrained him with a gesture:
"Mr. Trenchard," said I, "Mr. Haredale—Devereux or whatever name you happen to be using, I have forced myself upon you to-night to inform you that, knowing you at last for the foul and loathsome thing you are, I am very earnest that you should pollute the world no longer. Two years ago you struck me in the yard behind the Chequers Inn, at Tonbridge; I call upon you to account for that blow to-night—here and now!"
"Let any man stir and I shoot to kill!" said Anthony between shut teeth; his heavy tread shook the floor behind me, then he had swung me aside and fronted Devereux the pistol in his hand, face convulsed and murder glaring in his eyes.
"Trenchard," said he in strange, hissing whisper, "there is a curtained door behind you—whom are you hiding in there? Trenchard, I am yearning to kill you and kill you I will, so help me God, unless you draw that curtain and open that door—d'ye hear me?"
Trenchard's tall form seemed to stiffen, his mocking smile vanished, but his eyes never wavered.
Anthony levelled the pistol.
"Trenchard," said he softly, "I'll count three!"
Then Trenchard laughed lightly.
"Egad, sir," said he with a flourish, "drunk or no, you have a devilish persuading air about you. Behold then, and judge of my felicity!"
Thus speaking, he drew aside the curtain and reached white hand towards the door behind, but at this moment and before he could touch it, the door swung open and Diana stepped forth.
"Mr. Vere-Manville," said she, her soft voice calm and even, "pray give me my scarf, your wife made me a present of it days ago!" And she reached out her hand with the old, imperious gesture that I remembered so well. So Anthony gave her the handful of lace and turned his back upon us.
"O Perry!" he exclaimed with a groan, "O Perry, dear friend—what haveI done! God forgive me—"
"Heavens, Anthony!" quoth I. "Pray why distress yourself upon a matter so trivial—besides, I knew already. And now, Mr. Trenchard or Haredale or Devereux, if this lady will be so obliging as to retire, we can settle our small concern very comfortably here across the table."
"No, Peregrine!" said Diana in the same even tone.
"Mr. Trenchard—" I began.
"I say you shall not, Peregrine!" said she softly.
"Mr. Haredale—" quoth I.
"O Peregrine," she sighed, "suspicion has poisoned your mind against me or you would never stoop to doubt me—even here—"
"Mr. Devereux," said I, "will you pray have the courtesy to desire your charming friend to leave us awhile—"
"O Peregrine!" she gasped, and though I never so much as glanced in her direction, I knew she had shrunk farther from me. "Some day, oh, some day, Peregrine, you will regret this bitterly—bitterly—" Her voice broke, and in its place came Devereux's hateful tones:
"'My charming friend' is well aware that her society is my joy and delight, nor shall I cheat myself of one moment on your account, sir, whoever you chance to be."
"Why, then," said I, laying my card on the table, "the lady's presence need not deter us, I think. Let us be done with the affair at once."
"Absolutely and utterly impossible, sir!" he answered, taking up my card. "Since you desire me to kill you, I will do so with a perfect pleasure, but at my own time and place and—" Here he paused as he read my name, and stood a moment staring down at the pasteboard with that same faint pucker of the brow; then he laughed suddenly and tossed my card to Captain Danby. "Odd, Tom!" said he; then turning to me, "Mr. Vereker, I will meet you at the very earliest moment—shall we say five o'clock to-morrow morning? There is a small tavern called 'The Anchor' a few miles along the Maidstone road, a remote spot very suitable for a little shooting. And now, sir, pray begone. I am occupied, as you see—while my friends pour libations to Bacchus, I worship at the shrine of Venus."
Here, turning very ostentatiously, he bowed to Diana, viewing her with look so evil that I clenched my fists and made to spring at him, but Anthony's powerful hand arrested me:
"Come away, Perry," he whispered, "you can do no more to-night. Don't show 'em your pain—pride, man, pride! Come away, old fellow."
So I suffered him to lead me whither he would, following the impulse of his guiding arm like a blind man, for the shadow had closed in blacker than ever, to engulf me at last, and it seemed that my only escape from this horror was to grasp the kindly hand of Death.
Once clear of this accursed house I was seized of a great disgust, a nausea that was both mental and physical, and I groaned aloud in my extremity.
"O God, Anthony! Oh, my God!"
At this he clasped me in his arms and I stood awhile, shivering, my face hidden in his bosom.
"Dear fellow!" he muttered. "Women are the devil. I know—I'm married, d'ye see!"
Faint and far away a church clock struck the hour.
"What time was that?" I enquired.
"Eleven o'clock, Perry."
"Six weary hours to wait!" I groaned.
"B'gad, yes—only six hours!"
"Thank God!" quoth I fervently, and so we went on again, arm in arm.
"You mean to kill that damned fellow, Peregrine?"
"If they place us near enough."
"You are good for twelve paces, I suppose?"
"I don't know."
"But you—you shoot reasonably well, of course?"
"Very badly! This was why I was so anxious to do my shooting across a table—"
"But you—you—O Lord, Perry—you are familiar with the weapon—practised at the galleries occasionally?"
"I have shot once or twice at a target to please my uncle Jervas, but never succeeded in hitting it that I remember."
"Oh, damnation!"
"That is what my uncle Jervas said, I remember."
"But then—why how—oh, man!" stammered Anthony, viewing me in wide-eyed dismay, "how in the fiend's name d' you expect to hit your man?"
"I don't know, Anthony—except, as I say, across a table or a handkerchief. But what matter? After all, perhaps it is—yes—just as well—"
"Why, then 't will be rank murder! Ha, by heaven, Perry, you—you mean to let the fellow murder you—is this it?"
"I mean to shoot as straight as I can."
"It will be murder!" he cried wildly, and then tossing up his long arms in a helpless, distracted manner, he cried, "By God, Perry, you are as good as dead already!"
"Why, then," said I, grasping him by the arm, "listen to the voice of a dying man and one who has never accomplished anything as yet—indeed, I have been a failure all my life—"
"You, Perry? A failure—how, man, how?"
"Well, I yearned to be a poet—and failed. I tried to be a painter—and failed again. I endeavoured to become a man and have achieved nothing. I am a sentient futility! But to-night—ah, to-night kind fortune sent me—you. And you were drunk again!"
"I'm sober enough now, b'gad!"
"Drunkenness, Anthony, as you know, is the refuge for cowards and weaklings, and all unworthy such a man as Anthony Vere-Manville—"
"Egad, will you preach at me, Perry?"
"Call it so if you will, but to-night is something of an occasion and here is a setting excellently adapted to the sermon of a dying man."
And indeed it was a night to wonder at, very still and silent and filled with the splendour of a great moon whose peaceful radiance fell upon the sleeping countryside like a benediction.
"Look," said I, "look round you, Anthony, upon this wonder of earth and heaven! Does it not wake in you some consciousness of divinity, some assured hope that we in our nobler selves are one with the Infinite Good?"
"Why, to be sure, now you mention it," he answered easily, glancing from me to the radiant heaven and back again, "it is a very glorious night!"
"Yes!" said I. "'In such a night stood Dido with a willow in her hand upon the wide sea banks and wafted her love to come again to Carthage!'"
"Eh?" exclaimed Anthony, peering at me anxiously.
"'In such a night Medea gathered the enchanted herbs,'—and in such a night your friend, who may never see another—takes occasion to ask a promise of you."
"What is it, Perry?"
"That henceforth you will be drunk no more. Give me your word for this, Anthony, and come what will, I shall not have lived in vain."
"Why, Peregrine," he mumbled, "dear fellow—not quite yourself—very natural—quite understand—"
"On the contrary, I have never been so truly myself as now, Anthony. Grant me this and—if death find me to-morrow morning, I shall indeed have accomplished something worthy at last. So, Anthony—promise me!"
For a moment he stood very still, gazing up at the moon, then, all in a moment, had caught my hand to wring it hard; but the pain of his grip was a joy and the look on his face a comfort beyond words.
"I—I Swear it!" said he between quivering lips. "God's love, man, I'd promise you anything to-night! And now—laugh, man, laugh—oh, dammit!" Here he choked and was silent awhile.
"Where are you taking me, Anthony? I cannot return to the 'SoaringLark.'"
"Of course not. You're coming with me to 'The Bear' at Hadlow. I have a room there. And you'll promise to be guided by me until this—this cursed affair is over—place yourself and the affair in my hands, Perry?"
"Most thankfully."
"Then I stipulate for supper and bed as soon as possible."
"Very well, Anthony—though I ought to draw up some sort of a will first, oughtn't I?"
"Yes, it is customary, dear fellow."
"There's my Wildfire, I'll leave him to you—if you'll have him."
"Of course—and thank you, Perry."
"You'll soon grow to love the rascal in spite of his mischievous tricks—"
"I hope to heaven I never have the chance—oh, curse and confound it—don't be so devilish calm and assured. You—you talk as if you were going out to your execution!"
"No, no, Anthony," I answered, slipping my hand within his arm, "let us rather say—to my triumph."
I opened my eyes on a bleak dawn full of a pallid, stealthy mist, to find myself cramped in my chair before the open lattice and with Anthony bending over me, his comely features haggard in the sickly light.
"Ha, you didn't go to bed then?"
"Evidently not!" I answered, shivering. "But I slept—"
"Well, I did—and never a wink, confound it! And here's you basking before an open window—and on such a perfectly damned morning—have you ill again!" and, shivering in his turn, he proceeded to close the lattice and light the candles.
"Pray what o'clock is it, Anthony?"
"A quarter to four. I have ordered a chaise to be ready in half an hour; seems this 'Anchor' Inn is some eight miles away—and better be a little early than late."
After a somewhat hasty toilet, during which Anthony contrived to cut himself, we descended to find a goodly breakfast and a cheerful fire; but scarcely were we at table than Anthony tugged at the bell rope.
"Good morrow to thee, Thomas!" quoth he to the portly and somnolent landlord who responded to the summons. "Chaise will be round soon, I hope?"
"Whenever ye do so wish, Mr. Anthony, sir."
"Excellent! Then pray, Tom, take hence this stuff!" And he pointed to a bottle at his elbow.
"Stuff, sir! Oh, Mr. Anthony—stuff?" exclaimed the landlord in sorrowful reproach, his somnolence forgotten in surprise. "It be brandy, sir—best French—your very own particular—"
"Aye, Tom, I know it is, and begad, I'm lusting for a mouthful—that's why I bid you take it away—drink coffee instead, confound it! So hence with it, Thomas—away!"
Very round of eye, the landlord took up the bottle and wandered off with it like one in a dream.
Anthony gulped his coffee, but, though the fare was excellent, ate little, fidgeted with his stock, shuffled in his chair, glanced frequently and stealthily at his watch and, in fine, discovered all those symptoms that indicated an extreme perturbation of mind.
"Devil take it, Perry—how you eat!" he exclaimed at last.
"The ham is delicious, Anthony—".
"Dooced stuff would choke me! Oh, by heaven, I'd give anything—everything, to take your place for the next hour!"
"But then, Anthony, it would probably be I who could not eat!"
"Tush, man, I'll hit you the ace of spades six times out of seven at twelve paces! Four o'clock, by heaven! I wonder if that confounded chaise will be ready yet!" And up he sprang and hasted away into the yard and almost immediately came hurrying back to tell me the vehicle was at the door.
Outside the mist seemed thick as ever, though the east was brightening to day; so I entered the chaise, followed by Anthony growling disgust, the door slammed, and through the open window came the round head of Tom the landlord to bob at us in turn.
"'T will grow finer mayhap by an' by, sirs," quoth he, "hows'ever, good luck an' good fortun' to ye, gentlemen—all right, Peter!" he called to the postillion. Whereupon a whip cracked, the chaise lurched forward and landlord and inn vanished in the swirling mist.
For a while we rode without talking, Anthony scowling out of his window, I staring out of mine at an eddying haze which, thinning out ever and anon, showed vague shapes that peeped forth only to be lost again, spectral trees, barns and ricks, looming unearthly in the half-light.
"Perry, you—you are confoundedly silent!"
"You are not particularly loquacious either," I retorted, slipping my hand within his arm.
"Why, no—no, b'gad—I'm not, Perry. But then, it's such a peculiarly damnable morning, d'ye see."
"Well, it will mayhap grow finer later on, remember."
"Hope to heaven it does!"
"It would make things—a little pleasanter, Anthony."
"Peregrine, if—should anything—anything—er—dooced happen to you,I'll—aye, by God, I'll fight the fellow myself."
"I beg you will do no such thing—I implore you Anthony."
"Oh? Damme and why not?"
"For the sake of Barbara—your Loveliness—your future happiness—"
"Tush, man!" he exclaimed bitterly. "That dream is over!"
"And I tell you Happiness is awaiting you—will come seeking you very soon, I feel sure."
"How should you know this?"
"You may have heard, Anthony, that people in such a position as mine—people who are facing the possibility of speedy dissolution, are sometimes gifted with a clearer vision—an intuition—call it what you will. However, I repeat my assurance that Happiness is awaiting you, coming to you with arms outstretched, if you will but have faith and patience—a happiness greater, fuller, richer than you have ever known."
At this, he turned to scowl out of the window again and I out of mine, and thus we came to an end of the rutted by-lanes we had been traversing and turned into the smoother going of the main road.
We had gone but a mile, as I judge, when, borne to our ears came the faint, rhythmic beat of fast-galloping hoofs growing momentarily louder.
"Someone in the devil's own hurry!" exclaimed Anthony, letting down his window. "No man would gallop his horse so without reason! Hark—hark, he must be riding like a madman—and in this fog! What the devil? Nobody to lay us by the heels—eh, Perry?"
"God forbid!" I exclaimed fervently, as Anthony leaned from the window.
"Nothing to see—mist too thick!" said he. "But road's dooced narrow hereabouts, yet hark—hark how the fellow rides!" And indeed it seemed to me that there was something terrible in the relentless beat of these wildly galloping hoofs that were coming up with us so rapidly. Anthony was peering from the window again; I heard him shout, felt the chaise swing jolting towards the hedge and the horseman was by—a blurred vision that flashed upon my sight and was gone.
"Missed by inches—dooced reckless, by Gad!" exclaimed Anthony, and I saw that his frown had vanished.
"What kind of a person was he?" I demanded.
"Muffled up to the ears, Perry, hat over his eyes—big horse—powerful beast. Going to clear up and be a fine day after all, I fancy."
"And it is nearly five o'clock!" said I, glancing at my watch.
"Hum!" sighed Anthony. "And here you sit as serenely untroubled, as placidly assured, as if you were the best shot in the world instead of the worst."
"Listen, Anthony!" I cried suddenly. "Do you hear anything—listen, man!" A faint throbbing upon the air, a pulsing beat growing louder and louder. "Do you hear it, Anthony, do you hear it?"
"No—yes—begad, Perry, it sounds like—"
"Another horse at full gallop, Anthony—and coming up behind us.Another horseman—from the same direction!"
"Dev'lish strange, Perry. How many more of 'em?"
"There will be no more!" I exclaimed bitterly, and then, the chaise beginning to slow up, I thrust my head from the window to demand why we were stopping.
"Turnpike, sir!" answered the postboy. And peering through the haze before us I saw the tollgate, sure enough, and I turned to stare back down the road towards the second hard-riding horseman, and presently beheld a vague blur that resolved itself into a rapidly oncoming shape that swept down upon us through the swirling mist; the flutter of a long cloak, a spurred boot, a shadowy form bowed low in the saddle—all this I saw in one brief moment; then rose a hoarse shout from the eddying mist ahead; the jingle of flung coins and, lifting his animal at the tollgate, the horseman cleared it at a bound and, plunging into the haze beyond, had vanished like a phantom.
And now I was seized with a passion of haste and began to shout fevered orders at our postboy.
"Hurry—hurry! A guinea—ten guineas for your best speed! Drive, man, drive like the devil. Whip—spur!"
I remember tossing money to a hoarse-voiced toll-keeper in a fur cap, and we were off in full career, the light chaise rocking and swaying. I remember Anthony's look of surprise and my answering his half-hearted questions at random or not at all, for now I rode, my head out-thrust from the window, hearkening for the sound of galloping hoofs ahead of us.
And so at last, after an eternity as it seemed, the chaise slowed again and came to an abrupt standstill before a dimly-seen building and, peering out, I made out the sign:
Next moment I had sprung out into the road and, not waiting for Anthony, hastened into the place, opened a door at random, and found myself in a small room where smoked a miserable fire over which lounged two languid gentlemen well coated and muffled against the chill of dawn.
"Sirs," said I, acknowledging their bows, "pray have you seen two horsemen pass lately?"
"Horsemen, sir?" repeated a dashing gentleman who seemed all whiskers, teeth and greatcoat. "'Pon my honour, no—stop a bit—yes, I did! They rode towards Maidstone, I fancy, sir."
"Did they stop to make any enquiries—either of them?"
"Stop, sir? No, sir—devil a bit!" answered the gentleman, flashing his teeth and shaking his whiskers to such a degree that I doubted him on the spot. At this moment Anthony appeared, whereupon ensued more polite bows and flourishes; and now the other gentleman addressed us, a plethoric, red-faced man in a furred, blue frock.
"Our friend Trenchard desired us to await you, gentlemen, to inform you that he has changed the ground. The—the—ah—affair will not take place behind the inn here as first intended, but in a place somewhat more secluded. If you will pray have the goodness to accompany us, we will—ah—show you the way."
So we set out accordingly, I, for one, little heeding or caring whither we went.
Now it chanced we came to a narrow way where but two might go abreast and I found myself walking beside the whiskered gentleman who prattled to me very pleasantly, I believe, though of what I cannot recall. After a while the path brought us to a rough track hard beside a little wood and here stood a roomy travelling-chaise and beside this the man Trenchard or Devereux, talking and laughing with Captain Danby and another.
I remember returning their salutes with a perfunctory bow, but recollect little else, for now that my time was so near, a numbness seemed to cloud my brain and I could think only that this little copse, full of the grey mist of dawn, was perhaps the last object my eyes should ever see.
"I told one of 'em," said Anthony in my ear, "fellow in blue frock yonder, that you were the dooce an' all with a hair trigger—almost as dead a shot as your uncle Jervas or Gronow of the Guards, and begad, it's set 'em all by the ears, Perry, especially that scoundrel Danby."
At this I laughed, I think, wondering the while if Anthony would ever know how much I loved and admired him.
I remember a stretch of green turf screened by trees; a solemn pacing to and fro by various grave-faced persons; a careful measuring of distances and selection of ground.
I remember some objection that Anthony made as to the light, whereupon the solemn measuring and pacing was gravely done all over again. I also recall that Anthony, while discussing or overseeing these grave proceedings, would often lift his head and glance hastily round about with a swift, keen-eyed expectancy.
I remember the sun peeping forth at last to make the world glorious and warm the chill in my bones.
And then Anthony came towards me, carrying a pistol, and I noticed that his hand shook as he offered it to me.
"God love you, Perry," he said, a little huskily. "You look as unconcerned, as cool as—as a confounded cucumber! And now, Perry, remember to aim low, all pistols are apt to throw high—so, for heaven's sake aim low, old fellow."
"Do I stand here, Anthony?"
"Yes—damned fellow insists on twelve paces!" said he, his voice sounding hoarser than ever, and I saw his glance wandering again, here and there, to and fro, in almost desperate fashion.
"Mr. Vere-Manville," called Devereux's second, "may I trouble you a moment, pray?"
Left alone, I stood watching the play of sunshine amid the leaves, when I was roused by a touch and found Captain Danby beside me.
"Your flint looks a trifle loose, sir," said he softly, "Suffer me!"
I relinquished the weapon with a murmur of thanks and stood again absorbed until I felt the pistol thrust into my grasp and heard a loud voice speaking.
"Pray attention, gentlemen! Take notice, the word will be 'one—two—'"
The loud voice faltered suddenly, was lost in the trampling of horse's hoofs and into the grassy level between Devereux and myself rode my uncle Jervas with my uncle George close behind.
My uncle Jervas reined in his horse and sat glancing serenely round about him, his lips curling in his bleak, sardonic smile, his prominent chin something more aggressive than usual.
"Ah, gentlemen," said he gently. "Your humble servant, I bid you good morning. Sir Geoffrey Devereux, we are very well met—at last. This is a pleasure I much desired when—we were younger, as you will doubtless remember, but I imagined, until very recently, that you were dead, sir, and damned, and necessarily out of my reach. You have hidden yourself surpassingly well, sir."
Very deliberately my uncle Jervas dismounted and proceeded to tether his horse to an adjacent tree, while Devereux watched him, head bowed and black brows puckered slightly above his smouldering eyes, his snowy cravat stained with a small mark of blood from an ugly scratch beneath his chin and which, despite his icy assurance seemed to worry him, for he dabbed at it now and then with his handkerchief. And now my uncle Jervas approached me, his hand outstretched imperiously, but when he spoke his voice was strangely gentle:
"Peregrine, dear boy, oblige me with that pistol."
"God bless you, Uncle Jervas!" said I fervently grasping that hand. "I thought I recognised you when your horse leapt that tollgate, but fate elected I should arrive here first, as I prayed."
"We were wilfully misdirected and went astray. And now, Peregrine, give me the pistol!"
"No, sir! Indeed you cannot, shall not take my place. This quarrel is wholly mine—a quarrel, sir, of two years' standing—"
"But mine, Peregrine, is of twenty-one years'."
"None the less, sir, you shall not shield me thus—none other shall take my place, I am here to meet that scoundrel yonder—"
"Ah, Peregrine," said my uncle, speaking very slowly and distinctly, "the scoundrel yonder, Sir Geoffrey Devereux, is the man who foully murdered your father and my brother! Give me the pistol, boy!"
As he spoke he grasped my wrist and had possessed himself of the weapon or ever I could prevent. Then he turned and faced Devereux, his eyes very keen and bright.
"George," said he in his quiet, authoritative voice, "pray give us the word."
My uncle George, still sitting his horse, lifted his right hand and I saw that he also held a pistol.
"Devereux," said he, his handsome face very fierce and grim, "if—this time—you fire before the word, even by one fraction of a second, I shoot you where you stand for the vile murderer you are—by God, I will! Now mark me! The word will be 'One—two—three—fire!' Is this understood?"
"Yes, George!" said my uncle; Devereux nodded.
"Ready!" said uncle George distinctly. "One—two—three—fire!"
A single sharp report and my uncle Jervas, lurching slightly, stared down at his weapon that had merely sparked and, letting it fall, staggered aside to a tree and leaned there.
In an instant uncle George was off his horse and together we ran to him.
"Aha, George—" he gasped in a horrible, wheezing voice, "it—it was unprimed—lend me—yours!"
"O God!" groaned my uncle George. "You're hit, Jervas—are you hurt?"
"A little, George—your pistol—quick!"
But even as he spoke and despite all his resolution and indomitable will, he seemed about to swoon; I saw his knees slowly bending under him, his stately head sank, and crying out in horror, I reached out to clasp him in my arms.
"No, no, Perry!" he gasped. "Don't touch me—yet—I have sufficient strength—dear boy." For a moment he closed his eyes and when next he spoke his voice was strangely loud and clear.
"Devereux, if ever you prayed—pray now!" Yet as he uttered these words, he sank to his knees and leaned feebly against the tree, his pallid face suddenly contorted by a dreadful spasm, so that I could scarcely bear to look. Then, sweating with the agonising effort, slowly—slowly—he raised his arm, dwelt a moment on his aim, and fired; the smoking weapon dropped from his lax fingers and, swaying sideways, he sank down, his face among the grass.
I remember my uncle George running to aid me lift this heavy head; and glancing from these dreadfully pallid features, the pitiful helplessness of this once strong form, I saw a group of pale-faced men who knelt and crouched above a twisted thing that had once answered to the name of Devereux.
"Dead, George?" questioned my uncle Jervas faintly.
"Dead, Jervas!"
"The right eye, George—I think?"
"Yes, Jervas. How is it with you, dear old fellow?"
"Very well—I'm going on—ahead of you, George. Don't—don't grieve, George—'t is none so terrible. And the great conundrum is answered, the mystery is solved, George—I mean—our Julia—she will—marry you, George, after all—I think she always loved you—best. God bless you—both! And Peregrine—my dear lad—your gipsy—a strong—angel of God—Diana—" and with this word his noble spirit passed.
And thus even death was denied me and I, it seemed, was doomed to be no more than an idle spectator.
I remember helping to bear him back to the "Anchor" Inn—laying him reverently upon a settle. And then, because I could not bear to see him so pale and still and silent, I covered him with my cloak.
I remember the tears wet upon Anthony's haggard face and my uncle George crouched in a chair, clenched fists beneath square chin, staring wide-eyed on vacancy.
"Dead!" he exclaimed in an agonised half-whisper. "I mean to say he's dead, d'ye see. Jervas—dead—seems so impossible! If it could only have been me—it wouldn't ha' mattered so much, d'ye see. There never was any one like old Jervas. And now he's—dead, my God!" The agonised whispering ceased and silence fell that was almost as terrible. But suddenly upon this awful hush broke a sound of wheels—quick footsteps; then the door swung open and Diana stood upon the threshold.
"Peregrine!" she cried. "Oh, praise God you are alive—Peregrine—speak to me! Ah—dear God in heaven! What is it?" And hasting to me, she caught my hand, clasping it to her bosom. "Oh, what is it, Peregrine?" she whispered.
So I brought her to the settle, and reverently turning back my cloak, showed her what it had hidden.
"This!" said I. "Look upon your handiwork and go—wanton!"
Uttering a soft, inarticulate cry, she cowered away, shrank back and back across the room and out into the road beyond.
Then, treading as softly as I might, I crossed the room also and, closing the door very silently, locked and barred it securely.
A fortnight has elapsed and I sit here in my study at Merivale, idly adding these words to this book of mine which it seems is never destined to be finished. As my pen traces these words, I am conscious of the door opening softly, but, pretending absorption in my task, I never so much as lift my head but glance up surreptitiously to behold my aunt Julia, a little pale, her proud, full-lipped mouth not quite so firm as of old, but handsomer, lovelier than ever in her black gown, it seems to me.
"O Peregrine, do you really mean to go?"
"I do!"
"Ah, will you run away again, from us—from your duties—will you leave Diana to break her heart?"
"Can hearts break, dear Aunt?"
"Oh, poor Diana, poor child—after all she has done for you—"
"Indeed, Aunt, she has done a great deal for me, I admit—but—"
"You know how she came in the dead of night to warn your uncles of your peril—your mad folly? You know this?"
"Yes, yes, dear Aunt," said I, a little impatiently. "I know, too, how my noble uncles very nearly quarrelled as to which of them should risk his life for unworthy, miserable me—"
"It was George rode away first that dreadful morning," said my aunt, clasping her shapely hands, "and I shall never forget the look on the face of Jervas when he found that George had stolen away before him—poor, brave Jervas!"
"Yes, Aunt! If the place of meeting had not been altered—it would have been—uncle George, perhaps."
"Ah, yes!" sighed my aunt, shuddering and bowing pale face above her clasped hands. "But Diana—saved you, Peregrine."
"At least, Aunt, she caused a better man to die in my stead. As he is to-day, I would be—at rest!"
"Hush, oh, hush, Peregrine, you talk wildly! Indeed, sometimes I think you have never been quite the same since your illness, you are so much colder—less kind and gentle. And now you mean to go away again! What of the estate—your tenants?"
"Surely I cannot leave them in better, more capable hands than these, dear Aunt Julia!" and stooping, I kissed her slim, white fingers. "But go I must—I cannot bear a house; I want space—the open road, woods, the sweet, clean wind!"
"Where shall you go, Peregrine?"
"Anywhere—though first to London."
"And what of your book?"
"I shall never finish it, now!"
"And what of me? Will you leave me lonely? O Peregrine, can you leave me thus in my sorrow?"
"Hush, dear Aunt—listen!"
Through the open casement stole a soft, small sound—a jingle of spurs, the monotonous tramp of one who paced solitary upon the terrace below.
"Your uncle George!" she breathed, her hands clasped themselves anew and into her pale cheeks crept a tinge of warm colour. "I did not expect—your uncle George today!"
"He is lonely too, Aunt Julia. He does nothing but grieve! Indeed I think he is breaking his great generous heart for the brother he loved and honoured so devotedly."
"Poor—poor George!"
"Being a man of action, uncle George was never much of a talker, as you know—but he is more silent than ever these days. In London he would sit all day long in a dreadful apathy, and all night long I would hear him go tramping, tramping to and fro in his chamber—"
"O Perry dear—if he could only weep!"
"Aunt Julia, there is but one power on earth could bestow on him such blessed relief, and that is your love, the certain assurance that you do love him—the touch of your lips—"
"O Peregrine—oh, hush! Do you mean—" and my goddess-like aunt faltered and sat there, lovely eyes downcast, blushing like the merest girl.
"Yes, you beautiful Aunt," said I, "this is what I mean—this whose simple mention has turned you into a girl of sixteen, this wonderful truth that uncle Jervas had divined already." And I told her of his dying words: "'You will marry her after all, George—our Julia. I see now that she always loved you best!'"
"Oh, dear Jervas!" she murmured.
"He has left uncle George who loved him so greatly, very solitary—listen, dear Aunt!"
Up to us through the open lattice, borne upon the fragrant air, came that small, soft sound where my uncle George paced ceaselessly to and fro amid the gathering dusk.
"Poor George!" she whispered tenderly.
"He is so—utterly forlorn, Aunt."
"Dear George!"
"And so very much a man, Aunt!"
"And such a child!" she murmured. "So big and strong and such a helpless baby! Dear George!"
Here I turned to my writing again, heard the door close softly and, glancing up, found myself alone. Then, tossing down my pen, I arose and from a cupboard reached forth a hat and well-filled knapsack which last I proceeded to buckle to my shoulders; this done, I took a stout stick from a corner and stood ready for my wanderings. Thus equipped, I crossed to the window that I might see if the coast was clear, since I meant to steal away with no chance of tears or sorrowful farewells.
They were standing on the terrace in the gathering dusk; as I looked, Aunt Julia reached up and, taking his haggard face between her gentle hands, drew it down lower and lower; and when she spoke, no ear save his might catch her soft-breathed words.
And then his great arms were fast about her and there broke from him a sobbing cry of ecstasy.
"O Julia—at last. He was right then—our Jervas was right!"
And so my uncle George learned to weep at last and found within her loving arms the blessed relief of tears.