"… Bring her to reason, by gad!" said the slighter of the two, setting down his empty glass with a bang, "oh, trust me to know their pretty, skittish ways, trust me to manage 'em; I've never failed yet, by gad!"
"Curse me, that's true enough!" said the other, and here they sank their voices again.
My ale being finished, I took up my staff, a heavy, knotted affair, and turned to go. Now, as I did so, my foot, by accident, came in contact with the gold-mounted cane I have mentioned, and sent it clattering to the floor. I was on the point of stooping for it, when a rough hand gripped my shoulder from behind, twisting me savagely about, and I thus found myself staring upon two rows of sharp, white teeth.
"Pick it up!" said he, motioning imperiously to the cane on the floor between us.
"Heaven forbid, sir," said I; "'is thy servant a dog that he should do this thing?'"
"I told you to pick it up," he repeated, thrusting his head towards me; "are you going to do so, or must I make you?" and his nostrils worked more than ever.
For answer I raised my foot and sent the cane spinning across the room. Somebody laughed, and next moment my hat was knocked from my head. Before he could strike again, however, I raised my staff, but suddenly remembering its formidable weight, I altered the direction of the blow, and thrust it strongly into the very middle of his gayly flowered waistcoat. So strongly did I thrust, indeed, that he would have fallen but for the timely assistance of his companion.
"Come, come," said I, holding him off on the end of my staff, "be calm now, and let us reason together like logical beings. I knocked down your cane by accident, and you, my hat by intent; very well then, be so good as to return me my property, from the corner yonder, and we will call 'quits.'"
"No, by gad!" gasped my antagonist, bending almost double, "wait—only wait until I get—my wind—I'll choke—the infernal life out of you—only wait, by gad!"
"Willingly," said I, "but whatever else you do, you will certainly reach me my hat, otherwise, just so soon as you find yourself sufficiently recovered, I shall endeavor to throw you after it." Saying which, I laid aside my staff, and buttoned up my coat.
"Why," he began, "you infernally low, dusty, ditch-trotting blackguard—" But his companion, who had been regarding me very closely, twitched him by the sleeve, and whispered something in his ear. Whatever it was it affected my antagonist strangely, for he grew suddenly very red, and then very white, and abruptly turned his back upon me.
"Are you sure, Mostyn?" said he in an undertone.
"Certain."
"Well, I'd fight him were he the devil himself! Pistols perhaps would be—"
"Don't be a fool, Harry," cried the other, and seizing his arm, drew him farther away, and, though they lowered their voices, I caught such fragments as "What of George?" "changes since your time," "ruin your chances at the start," "dead shot."
"Sir," said I, "my hat—in the corner yonder."
Almost to my surprise, the taller of the two crossed the room, followed by his friend, to whom he still spoke in lowered tones, stooped, picked up my hat, and, while the other stood scowling, approached, and handed it to me with a bow.
"That my friend, Sir Harry Mortimer, lost his temper, is regretted both by him and myself," said he, "but is readily explained by the fact that he has been a long time from London, while I labored under a—a disadvantage, sir—until your hat was off."
Now, as he spoke, his left eyelid flickered twice in rapid succession.
"I beg you won't mention it," said I, putting on my hat; "but, sir, why do you wink at me?"
"No, no," cried he, laughing and shaking his head, "ha! ha!—deyvilish good! By the way, they tell me George himself is in these parts—incog. of course—"
"George?" said I, staring.
"Cursed rich, on my life and soul!" cried the tall gentleman, shaking his head and laughing again. "Mum's the word, of course, and I swear a shaven face becomes you most deyvilishly!"
"Perhaps you will be so obliging as to tell me what you mean?" said I, frowning.
"Oh, by gad!" he cried, fairly hugging himself with delight. "Oh, the devil! this is too rich—too infernally rich, on my life and soul it is!"
Now all at once there recurred to me the memory of Tom Cragg, the Pugilist; of how he too had winked at me, and of his incomprehensible manner afterwards beneath the gibbet on River Hill.
"Sir," said I, "do you happen to know a pugilist, Tom Cragg by name?"
"Tom Cragg! well, I should think so; who doesn't, sir?"
"Because," I went on, "he too seems to labor under the delusion that he is acquainted with me, and—"
"Acquainted!" repeated the tall gentleman, "acquainted! Oh, gad!" and immediately hugged himself in another ecstasy.
"If," said I, "you will have the goodness to tell me for whom you evidently mistake me—"
"Mistake you!" he gasped, throwing himself upon the settle and rocking to and fro, "ha! ha!—mistake you!"
Seeing I did but waste my breath, I turned upon my heel, and made for the door. As I went, my eye, by chance, lighted upon a cheese that stood at the fat landlord's elbow, and upon which he cast amorous glances from time to time.
"That seems a fine cheese!" said I.
"It is, sir, if I might make so bold, a noble cheese!" he rejoined, and laid his hand upon it with a touch that was a caress.
"Then I will take three pennyworth of your noble cheese," said I.
"Cheese!" faintly echoed the gentleman upon the settle, "three pennyworth. Oh, I shall die, positively I shall burst!"
"Also a loaf," said I. And when the landlord had cut the cheese with great nicety—a generous portion—and had wrapped it into a parcel, I put it, together with the loaf, into my knapsack, and giving him "Good day!" strode to the door. As I reached it, the tall gentleman rose from the settle, and bowed.
"Referring to George, sir—"
"George!" said I shortly; "to the devil with George!"
Now I could not help being struck by the effect of my words, for Sir Harry let fall his cane, and stared open-mouthed, while his companion regarded me with an expression between a frown and wide-eyed dismay.
"Now I wonder," said I to myself as I descended the steps, "I wonder who George can be?"
Before the inn there stood a yellow-wheeled stanhope with a horse which, from his manner of trembling all over for no conceivable reason, and manifest desire to stand upon his hind legs, I conceived to be a thorough-bred; and, hanging grimly to the bridle, now in the air, now on terra firma, alternately coaxing and cursing, was my friend the Semi-quavering Ostler. He caught sight of me just as a particularly vicious jerk swung him off his legs.
"Damn your liver!" he cried to the horse, and then, to me: "If you'll jest call Joe to 'old this 'ere black varmin for me, I'll—fill yer—eye up."
"Thanks," said I, "but I much prefer to keep it as it is; really there is no need to trouble Joe, and as for you, I wish you good morning!"
And when I had gone a little way, chancing to glance back over my shoulder, I saw that the Outside Passenger stood upon the inn steps, and was staring after me.
Following the high road, I came, in a little, to where the ways divided, the one leading straight before me, the other turning sharp to the left, where (as I remember) is a very steep hill.
And at the parting of the ways was a finger-post with the words: "To LONDON. To TONBRIDGE WELLS. To PEMBRY." Now as I stood beneath the finger-post, debating which road I should take, I was aware of the sound of wheels, and, glancing about, saw a carrier's cart approaching. The driver was a fine, tall, ruddy-faced fellow, very spruce as to his person, who held himself with shoulders squared and bolt upright, and who shouted a cheery greeting to me.
"If so be you are for Pembry, or thereabouts, sir," said he, bringing his horses to a standstill, "why, jump up, sir—that is, if you be so minded."
"My course lies anywhere," said I.
"Then—if you be so minded—?"
"I am so minded," said I.
"Then, sir, jump up," said he.
"Thanks!" said I.
So I climbed upon the seat beside him, and then I saw that he had a wooden leg, and straightway understood his smart bearing, and general neat appearance.
"You have been a soldier?" said I.
"And my name's Tom, and I could tell you a sight about them Spanishers, and Frenchies—that is, if—you be so minded?"
"I am so minded; fire away, Tom."
"Well," he began, fixing his eyes on the "wheeler's" ears, "they Frenchies ain't so bad as is thought, though they do eat frogs, but what I say is—if they be so minded, why frogs let it be!"
"To be sure!" said I.
"And after all they're well worth fighting, and that's more than you can say for a many!"
"True," said I, "one generally has a certain respect for the man one fights."
"Then there's Old Bony."
"Have you ever seen him?"
"I have, sir; I were captured outside the Lines of Torres Vedras, and I saw Old Bony eating his breakfast off a drum-head wi' one hand and a-writing a dispatch wi' the other—a little fat man not so high as my shoulder, look you. There's some as says as Old Bony lives on new-born babies, but I know different. Because why, says you? Because I've seen with these 'ere 'peepers,' says I—bread it were, and cheese, and garlic, and a uncommon lot at that."
"And where did you lose your leg, Tom?"
"Vittoria—I 'appened to be carrying my off'cer, Ensign Standish his name, barely eighteen year old. Shot through the lung he were, and a-trying to tell me to put him down and go, the fire being uncommonly 'ot there, you'll understand, sir, and as I say, he were trying to tell me to drop him and run for it, and blowing blood-bubbles wi' every word, when all at once I feels a sort of a shock, and there I was on my back and him atop o' me; and when I went to get up—damme! there was my leg gone below the knee, and no pleasant sight, neither."
"And afterward?"
"Arterwards," he repeated. "Why, that were the end o' my sojerin', ye see; we lay in the same 'ospital 'im an' me, side by side, and he swore as I'd saved his life—which I 'adn't, look you, and likewise swore as he'd never forget it. And he never 'as either, for here am I wi' my own horse and cart, Tom Price by name, carrier by trade, an' very much at your service, sir, I'm sure."
Thus we climbed the hill of Pembry, by tree and hedge, and lonely cottage, by rolling meadow, and twilit wood, Tom the Soldier and I.
Much he told me of lonely night watches, of death sudden and sharp, of long, weary marches, and stricken fields, of the bloody doings of the Spanish Guerrillas, of Mina, and his deviltries. And in my ears was the roar of guns, and before my eyes the gleam and twinkle of bayonets. By the side of Tom the Soldier I waited the thunderous charge of French Dragoons, saw their stern, set faces, and the flash of their brandished steel as they swept down upon our devoted square, swept down to break in red confusion before our bristling bayonets; and the air was full of the screams of smitten horses, and the deep-throated shouts and groans of men. By the side of Tom the Soldier I stormed through many a reeking breach, swept by fire, and slippery with blood; and all for love of it, the munificent sum of eightpence per day, and that which we call "Glory." Bravo, Tom the Soldier!
And presently I became aware that he had stopped his horses, and was regarding me smilingly.
"Tom," said I, "you are a wonderful talker!"
"And you, sir," said he, "are a better listener, and, look you, a good listener is mighty hard to come by. Howsomever, here's the end o' my journey, more's the pity, but if you—"
"Tom," said I suddenly, "you never heard of Tom Cragg, did you?"
"Can't say as I have," he answered, stroking his chin thoughtfully, "though there was a Dick Snagget in the 'Thirty-Ninth,' I remember."
"And you don't know who 'George' is, of course?" I continued musingly.
"Why, I've knowed a many Georges in my time," said he, "and then there's George, Prince o' Wales, the Prince Regent, as they calls him now."
"George, Prince of Wales!" said I, staring; "by heavens, Tom, I believe you've hit it!" And, with the word, I sprang down from the cart.
"My cottage is near by, sir, and I should be proud for you to eat supper wi' me—that is—if you be so minded?"
"Many thanks," said I, "but I am not so minded, and so, good-by, Tom!" And, with the words, I wrung the soldier's honest hand in mine, and went upon my way.
"George, Prince of Wales!" said I to myself; "could this be the 'George' they had meant? If so, then who and what had they supposed me?" Hereupon, as I walked, I fell into a profound meditation, in which I presently remembered how that Tom Cragg had also mentioned the Prince, giving me to understand that his Highness had actually ordered him (Tom Cragg) to leave London; and why? "Arter that theer kidnappin', an' me 'avin' laid out Sir Jarsper Trent—accordin' to yer order."
Sir Jasper Trent! I stopped stock still in the road. Sir Jasper Trent! At last I remembered the name that had eluded me so persistently. Remembered it? Nay, indeed, it was rather as if the Pugilist had whispered the words into my ear, and I glanced round almost expecting to see him.
"Arter that theer kidnappin', an' me 'avin' laid out Sir JarsperTrent—accordin' to yer orders!"
According to my orders, or rather, the orders of the man for whom he (in common with the two gentlemen at "The Chequers") had mistaken me. But who was that man? Of him I knew two facts—namely, that he was much like me in person, and had formerly worn, or possibly still wore, whiskers. And beyond these two facts I could get no farther, revolve the matter how I might, so I presently shrugged my shoulders, and banishing it from my thoughts for the time being, set forward at a good pace.
The sun was already westering when I came to a pump beside the way; and seizing the handle I worked it vigorously, then, placing my hollowed hands beneath the gushing spout, drank and pumped, alternately, until I had quenched my thirst. I now found myself prodigiously hungry, and remembering the bread and cheese in my knapsack, looked about for an inviting spot in which to eat.
On one side of the road was a thick hedge, and, beneath this hedge, a deep, dry, grassy ditch; and here, after first slipping off my knapsack, I sat down, took out the loaf and the cheese, and opening my clasp-knife, prepared to fall to.
At this moment I was interrupted in a rather singular fashion, for hearing a rustling close by, I looked up, and into a face that was protruded through a gap in the hedge above me.
It needed but a glance at the battered hat with its jaunty brim, and great silver buckle, and the haggard, devil-may-care face below, to recognize the individual whom I had seen thrown out of the hedge tavern the morning before.
It was a very thin face, as I have said, pale and hollow-eyed and framed in black curly hair, whose very blackness did but accentuate the extreme pallor of the skin, which was tight, and drawn above the cheek bones and angle of the jaw. Yet, as I looked at this face, worn and cadaverous though it was, in the glance of the hollow eyes, in the line of the clean-cut mouth I saw that mysterious something which marks a man, what we call for want of a better word, a gentleman.
"Good evening!" said he, and lifted the battered hat.
"Good evening!" I returned.
"Pardon me," said he, "but I was saluting the bread and cheese."
"Indeed!" said I.
"Indeed!" he rejoined, "it is the first edible I have been on speaking terms with, so to speak, for rather more than three days, sir."
"You are probably hungry?" said I.
"It would be foolish to deny it, sir."
"Then, if you care to eat with me in the ditch here, you are heartily welcome," said I.
"With all the pleasure in life!" said he, vaulting very nimbly through the hedge; "you shall not ask me twice or the very deuce is in it! Believe me, I—" Here he stopped, very suddenly, and stood looking at me.
"Ah!" said he gently, and with a rising inflection, letting the ejaculation escape in a long-drawn breath.
"Well?" I inquired. Now as I looked up at him, the whole aspect of the man, from the toes of his broken boots to the crown of the battered hat, seemed to undergo a change, as though a sudden, fierce anger had leapt into life, and been controlled, but by a strong effort.
"On my life and soul, now!" said he, falling back a step, and eyeing me with a vaguely unpleasant smile, "this is a most unexpected—a most unlooked for pleasure; it is I vow—it is."
"You flatter me," said I.
"No, sir, no; to meet you again—some day—somewhere—alone—quite alone, sir, is a pleasure I have frequently dwelt upon, but never hoped to realize. As it is, sir, having, in my present condition, no chance of procuring better weapons than my fists, allow me to suggest that they are, none the less, entirely at your service; do me the infinite kindness to stand up."
"Sir," I answered, cutting a slice from the loaf, "you are the third person within the last forty-eight hours who has mistaken me for another; it really gets quite wearisome."
"Mistaken you," he broke in, and his smile grew suddenly bitter, "do you think it possible that I could ever mistake you?"
"I am sure of it!" said I. "Furthermore, pray do not disparage your fists, sir. A bout at fisticuffs never did a man any harm that I ever heard; a man's fists are good, honest weapons supplied by a beneficent Providence—far better than your unnatural swords and murderous hair-triggers; at least, so I think, being, I trust, something of a philosopher. Still, in this instance, never having seen your face, or heard your voice until yesterday, I shall continue to sit here, and eat my bread and cheese, and if you are wise you will hasten to follow my so excellent example while there is any left, for, I warn you, I am mightily sharp set."
"Come, come," said he, advancing upon me threateningly, "enough of this foolery!"
"By all means," said I, "sit down, like a sensible fellow, and tell me for whom you mistake me."
"Sir, with all the pleasure in life!" said he, clenching his fists, and I saw his nostrils dilate suddenly. "I take you for the greatest rogue, the most gentlemanly rascal but one, in all England!"
"Yes," said I, "and my name?"
"Sir Maurice Vibart!"
"Sir Maurice Vibart?" I sprang to my feet, staring at him in amazement."Sir Maurice Vibart is my cousin," said I.
And so we stood, for a long minute, immobile and silent, eyeing each other above the bread and cheese.
"Sir," said my companion at last, lifting the battered hat, "I tender you my apology, and I shall be delighted to eat with you in the ditch, if you are in the same mind about it?"
"Then you believe me?"
"Indubitably, sir," he answered with a faint smile; "had you indeed been Sir Maurice, either he or I, and most probably I, would be lying flat in the road, by this."
So, without more ado, we sat down in the ditch together, side by side, and began to eat. And now I noticed that when he thought my eye was upon him, my companion ate with a due deliberation and nicety, and when he thought it was off, with a voracity that was painful to witness. And after we had eaten a while in silence, he turned to me with a sigh.
"This is very excellent cheese!" said he.
"The man from whom I bought it," said I, "called it a noble cheese, I remember."
"I never tasted one of a finer flavor!" said my companion.
"Hunger is a fine sauce," said I, "and you are probably hungry?"
"Hungry!" he repeated, bolting a mouthful and knocking his hat over his eyes with a slap on its dusty crown. "Egad, Mr. Vibart! so would you be—so would any man be who has lived on anything he could beg, borrow, or steal, with an occasional meal of turnips—in the digging of which I am become astonishingly expert—and unripe blackberries, which latter I have proved to be a very trying diet in many ways—hungry, oh, damme!"
And after a while, when there nothing remained of loaf or cheese save a few scattered crumbs, my companion leaned back, and gave another sigh.
"Sir," said he, with an airy wave of the hand, "in me you behold a highly promising young gentleman ruined by a most implacable enemy—himself, sir. In the first place you must know my name is Beverley—"
"Beverley?" I repeated.
"Beverley," he nodded, "Peregrine Beverley, very much at your service—late of Beverley Place, Surrey, now of Nowhere-in-Particular."
"Beverley," said I again, "I have heard that name before."
"It is highly probable, Mr. Vibart; a fool of that name—fortunate or unfortunate as you choose to classify him—lost houses, land, and money in a single night's play. I am that fool, sir, though you have doubtless heard particulars ere now?"
"Not a word!" said I. Mr. Beverley glanced at me with a faint mingling of pity and surprise. "My life," I explained, "has been altogether a studious one, with the not altogether unnatural result that I also am bound for Nowhere-in-Particular with just eight shillings and sixpence in my pocket."
"And mine, as I tell you," said he, "has been an altogether riotous one. Thus each of us, though by widely separate roads—you by the narrow and difficult path of Virtue, and I by the broad and easy road of Folly—have managed to find our way into this Howling Destitution, which we will call Nowhere-in-Particular. Then how does your path of Virtue better my road of Evil?"
"The point to be considered," said I, "is not so much what we now are, but rather, what we have done, and may ultimately be, and do."
"Well?" said he, turning to look at me.
"For my own achievements, hitherto," I continued, "I have won the High Jump, and Throwing the Hammer, also translated the works of Quintilian, with the Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter, and the Life, Lives, and Memoirs of the Seigneur de Brantome, which last, as you are probably aware, has never before been done into the English."
"Ha!" exclaimed Mr. Beverley, sitting up suddenly, with his ill-used hat very much over one eye, "there we have it! Whoever heard of Old Quin—What's-his-name, or cared, except, perhaps, a few bald-headed bookworms and withered litterateurs? While you were dreaming of life, and reading the lives of other fellows, I was living it. In my career, episodically brief though it was, I have met and talked with all the wits, and celebrated men, have drunk good wine, and worshipped beautiful women, Mr. Vibart."
"And what has it all taught you?" said I.
"That there are an infernal number of rogues and rascals in the world, for one thing—and that is worth knowing."
"Yes," said I.
"That, though money can buy anything, from the love of a woman to the death of an enemy, it can only be spent once—and that is worth knowing also."
"Yes," said I.
"And that I am a most preposterous ass!—and that last, look you, is more valuable than all the others. Solomon, I think, says something about a wise man being truly wise who knoweth himself a fool, doesn't he?"
"Something of the sort."
"Then," said he, flinging his hat down upon the grass beside him, "what argument can you advance in favor of your 'Narrow and Thorny'?"
"The sum of eight shillings and sixpence, a loaf of bread, and a slice of noble cheese, now no more," said I.
"Egad!" said he, looking at me from the corners of his blue eyes, "the argument is unanswerable, more especially the cheese part, against which I'd say nothing, even if I could." Having remarked which, he lay flat on his back again, staring up at the leaves, and the calm serenity of the sky beyond, while I filled my negro-head pipe from my paper of tobacco, and forthwith began to smoke.
And, presently, as I sat alternately watching the blue wreaths of my pipe and the bedraggled figure extended beside me, he suddenly rolled over on his arm, and so lay, watching me.
"On my soul!" he exclaimed at length, "it is positively marvellous."
"What is?" I inquired.
"The resemblance between you and your famous cousin."
"It would appear so," said I, shrugging my shoulders, "though, personally, I was unaware of this fact up till now."
"Do I understand that you have never seen Sir Maurice Vibart, never seen 'Buck' Vibart?"
"Never!" said I.
"Too much occupied—in keeping to the Narrow and Thorny, I suppose?Your cousin's is the Broad and Flowery, with a vengeance."
"So I understand," said I.
"Nevertheless, the resemblance between you, both in face and figure, is positively astounding! With the sole exception that he wears hair upon his face, and is of a ruddy complexion, while you are pale, and smooth smooth-cheeked as as a boy—"
"Or yourself!" said I.
"Ah—exactly!" he answered, and passed his fingers across his chin tentatively, and fell again to staring lazily up into the sky. "Do you happen to know anything about that most remarkable species of the 'genus homo' calling themselves 'Bucks,' or 'Corinthians'?" he inquired, after a while.
"Very little," said I, "and that, only by hearsay."
"Well, up to six months ago, I was one of them, Mr. Vibart, until Fortune, and I think now, wisely, decreed it otherwise." And herewith, lying upon his back, looking up through the quivering green of leaves, he told mad tales of a reckless Prince, of the placid Brummel, of the "Dashing" Vibart, the brilliant Sheridan, of Fox, and Grattan, and many others, whose names are now a byword one way or the other. He recounted a story of wild prodigality, of drunken midnight orgies, of days and nights over the cards, of wine, women, and horses. But, lastly and very reverently, he spoke of a woman, of her love, and faith, and deathless trust. "Of course," he ended, "I might have starved very comfortably, and much quicker, in London, but when my time comes, I prefer to do my dying beneath some green hedge, or in the shelter of some friendly rick, with the cool, clean wind upon my face. Besides— She loved the country."
"Then there are some women who can't be bought?" said I, looking at his glistening eyes.
"Mr. Vibart," said he, "so far as I know, there are two—the Lady HelenDunstan and the 'Glorious' Sefton."
"The Lady Sophia Sefton of Cambourne?" said I.
"And—the Lady Helen Dunstan," he repeated.
"Do you know the Lady Sophia Sefton?"
"I have had the honor of dancing with her frequently," he answered.
"And is she so beautiful as they say?"
"She is the handsomest woman in London, one of your black-browed, deep-eyed goddesses, tall, and gracious, and most nobly shaped; though, sir, for my own part, I prefer less fire and ice—and more gentle beauty."
"As, for instance, the Lady Helen Dunstan?" said I.
"Exactly!" nodded Mr. Beverley.
"Referring to the Lady Sophia Sefton," I pursued, "she is a reigning toast, I believe?"
"Gad, yes! her worshippers are legion, and chief among them his RoyalHighness, and your cousin, Sir Maurice, who has actually had thetemerity to enter the field as the Prince's avowed rival; no one but'Buck' Vibart could be so madly rash!"
"A most fortunate lady!" said I.
"Mr. Vibart!" exclaimed my companion, cocking his battered hat and regarding me with a smouldering eye, "Mr. Vibart, I object to your tone; the noble Sefton's virtue is proud and high, and above even the breath of suspicion."
"And yet my cousin would seem to be no laggard in love, and as to thePrince—his glance is contamination to a woman."
"Sir," returned Mr. Beverley very earnestly, "disabuse your mind of all unworthy suspicions, I beg; your cousin she laughs to scorn, and his Royal Highness she had rebuffed as few women have, hitherto, dared do."
"It would almost seem," said I, after a pause, "that, from what I have inadvertently learned, my cousin has some dirty work afoot, though exactly what, I cannot imagine."
"My dear Mr. Vibart, your excellent cousin is forever up to something or other, and has escaped the well-merited consequences, more than once, owing to his friendship with, and the favor of his friend—"
"George?" said I.
"Exactly!" said my companion, raising himself on his elbow, and nodding: "George."
"Have you ever heard mention of Tom Cragg, the Pugilist?" I inquired, blowing a cloud of smoke into the warm air.
"I won ten thousand guineas when he knocked out Ted Jarraway of Swansea," yawned my companion; "a good fighter, but a rogue—like all the rest of 'em, and a creature of your excellent cousin's."
"I guessed as much," I nodded, and forthwith plunged into an account of my meeting with the "craggy one," the which seemed to amuse Mr. Beverley mightily, more especially when I related Cragg's mysterious disappearance.
"Oh, gad!" cried Beverley, wiping his eyes on the tattered lapel of his coat, "the resemblance served you luckily there; your cousin gave him the thrashing of his life, and poor Tom evidently thought he was in for another. That was the last you saw of him, I'll be bound."
"No, I met him afterwards beneath the gibbet on River Hill, where, among other incomprehensible things, he gave me to understand that he recognized me despite my disguise, assumed, as he supposed, on account of his having kidnapped some one or other, and 'laid out' a certain Sir Jasper Trent in Wych Street according to my orders, or rather, it would seem, my cousin's orders, the author of which outrage Sir Jasper had evidently found out—"
"The devil!" exclaimed Mr. Beverley, and sat up with a jerk.
"And furthermore," I went on, "he informed me that the Prince himself had given him the word to leave London until the affair had blown over."
Now while I spoke, Mr. Beverley had been regarding me with a very strange expression, his cheeks had gone even paler than before, his eyes seemed to stare through, and beyond me, and his hands were tight-clenched at his sides.
"Mr. Beverley," said I, "what ails you?"
For a moment he did not speak, then answered, with the same strange look:
"Sir Jasper Trent—is my cousin, sir."
My negro-head pipe slipped suddenly, and fell into the grass, happily without injury.
"Indeed!" said I.
"Can you not see what this means, sir?" he went on hurriedly. "Jasper will fight."
"Indeed," said I again, "I fear so."
"Jasper was always a bit of a fish, and with no particular affection for his graceless kinsman, but I am his only relative; and—and he hardly knows one end of a pistol from the other, while your cousin is a dead shot."
"My cousin!" I exclaimed; "then it was he—to be sure I saw only his back."
"Sir Jasper is unmarried—has no relations but myself," my companion repeated, with the same fixed intentness of look; "can you appreciate, I wonder, what this would mean to me?"
"Rank, and fortune, and London," said I.
"No, no!" He sprang to his feet, and threw wide his ragged arms with a swift, passionate gesture. "It means Life—and Helen. My God!" he went on, speaking almost in a whisper, "I never knew how much I wanted her—how much I had wilfully tossed aside—till now! I never realized the full misery of it all—till now! I could have starved very well in time, and managed it as quietly as most other ruined fools. But now—to see the chance of beginning again, of coming back to self-respect and—Helen, my God!" And, of a sudden, he cast himself upon his face, and so lay, tearing up the grass by handfuls. Then, almost as suddenly, he was upon his feet again, and had caught up his hat. "Sir," said he somewhat shamefacedly, smoothing its ruffled nap with fingers that still quivered, "pray forgive that little ebullition of feeling; it is over—quite over, but your tidings affected me, and I am not quite myself at times; as I have already said, turnips and unripe blackberries are not altogether desirable as a diet."
"Indeed," said I, "you seemed strangely perturbed."
"Mr. Vibart," said he, staring very hard at the battered hat, and turning it round and round, "Mr. Vibart, the devil is surprisingly strong in some of us."
"True," said I.
"My cousin, Sir Jasper, is a bookish fellow, and, as I have said, a fool where anything else is in question; if this meeting is allowed to take place, I feel that he will most certainly be killed, and his death would mean a new life—more than life to me."
"Yes," said I.
"And for a moment, Mr. Vibart, I was tempted to sit down in the ditch again, and let things take their course. The devil, I repeat, is remarkably strong in some of us."
"Then what is your present intention?"
"I am going to London to find Sir Maurice Vibart—to stop this duel."
"Impossible!" said I.
"But you see, sir, it so happens that I am possessed of certain intelligence which might make Sir Maurice's existence in England positively untenable."
"Nevertheless," said I, "it is impossible."
"That remains to be seen, Mr. Vibart," said he, and speaking, turned upon his heel.
"One moment," said I, "was not your cousin, Sir Jasper, of the middle height, slim-built and fair-haired, with a habit of plucking at his lips when at all nervous or excited?"
"Exactly; you know him, sir?"
"No," I answered, "but I have seen him, very lately, and I say again to stop this duel is an impossibility."
"Do you mean—" he began, and paused. Now, as his eyes met mine, the battered hat escaped his fingers, and lay all unheeded. "Do you mean—" he began again, and again stopped.
"Yes," said I, "I mean that you are too late. Sir Jasper was killed at a place called Deepdene Wood, no longer since than to-day at half-past seven in the morning. It was raining at the time, I remember, but the day grew glorious later."
For a long moment Mr. Beverley stood silent with bent head, then, apparently becoming aware of the hat at his feet, he sent it flying with a sudden kick, and watched it describe a wide parabola ere it disappeared into the ditch, some yards away. Which done, he walked after it, and returned, brushing it very carefully with his ragged cuff.
"And—you are sure—quite sure, Mr. Vibart?" he inquired, smoothing the broken brim with the greatest solicitude.
"I stood behind a hedge, and watched it done," said I.
"Then—my God!—I am Sir Peregrine Beverley! I am Sir Peregrine Beverley of Burnham Hall, very much at your service. Jasper—dead! A knight banneret of Kent, and Justice of the Peace! How utterly preposterous it all sounds! But to-day I begin life anew, ah, yes, a new life, a new life! To-day all things are possible again! The fool has learned wisdom, and, I hope, become a man. But come," said he in a more natural tone, "let us get back to our ditch, and, while you tell me the particulars, if you don't object I should much like to try a whiff at that pipe of yours."
So, while I recounted the affair as briefly as I might, he sat puffing at my pipe, and staring away into the distance. But gradually his head sank lower and lower, until his face was quite hidden from me, and for a long moment after I had ended my narration, there was silence.
"Poor Jasper!" said he at last, without raising his head, "poor oldJasper!"
"I congratulate you, Sir Peregrine," said I.
"And I used to pummel him so, when we were boys together at Eton—poor old Jasper!" And, presently, he handed me my pipe, and rose. "Mr. Vibart," said he, "it would seem that by no effort, or virtue of my own, I am to win free of this howling desolation of Nowhere-in-Particular, after all; believe me, I would gladly take you with me. Had I not met with you it is—rather more than probable—that I—should never have seen another dawn; so if—if ever I can be of—use to you, pray honor me so far; you can always hear of me at Burnham Hall, Pembry. Good-by, Mr. Vibart, I am going to her—in all my rags—for I am a man again."
So I bade him good-by, and, sitting in the ditch, watched him stride away to his new life. Presently, reaching the brow of the hill (there are hills everywhere in the South country), I saw him turn to flourish the battered hat ere he disappeared from my sight.
"You won't be wantin' ever a broom, now?"
I sat up, sleepily, and rubbed my eyes. The sun was gone, and the blue sky had changed to a deep purple, set here and there with a quivering star. Yet the light was still strong enough to enable me to distinguish the speaker—a short, thick-set man. Upon his shoulder he carried a bundle of brooms, a pack was slung to his back, while round his neck there dangled a heterogeneous collection of articles—ribbons, laces, tawdry neck chains, and the like; indeed, so smothered was he in his wares that, as he stood there, he had more the aspect of some disordered fancy than of a human being.
"You won't be wantin' ever a broom, now?" he repeated, in a somewhat melancholy tone.
"No," said I.
"Nor yet a mop?"
"Nor that either," said I.
"A belt, now," he suggested mournfully, "a fine leather belt wi' a steel buckle made in Brummagem as ever was, and all for a shillin'; what d'ye say to a fine belt?"
"That I have no need of one, thank you."
"Ah, well!" said the man, spitting dejectedly at a patch of shadow, "I thought as much; you aren't got the look of a buyer."
"Then why ask me?"
"Hinstinct!" said he, "it's jest hinstinct—it comes as nat'ral to me as eatin', or walkin' these 'ere roads."
"Have you come far to-day?"
"Twenty mile, maybe," he answered, setting down his bundle of brooms.
"Are you tired?"
"'Course I'm tired."
"Then why not sit down and rest?"
"Because I'd 'ave to get up again, wouldn't I?"
"Are you hungry?
"'Ungry aren't the word for it."
"And how is trade?"
"Couldn't be worse!"
"I perceive you are a pessimist," said I.
"No," said he, "I'm a pedler—baptism'l name Richard, commonly known as'Gabbin' Dick.'"
"At least yours is a fine healthy trade," said I.
"'Ow so?"
"A life of constant exercise, and fresh air; to-day for instance—"
"'Ot as a hoven!" said he.
"Yet there was a good, cool wind," said I.
"Ah! an' with dust enough to choke a man! And then there's the loneliness o' these 'ere roads."
"Loneliness?" said I.
"That's the word; sometimes it gets so bad as I'm minded to do away wi' myself—"
"Strange!" I began.
"Not a bit," said he; "when you've been a-walkin' an' a-walkin' all day past 'edge and 'edge, and tree and tree, it's bad enough, but it's worse when the sun's gone out, an' you foller the glimmer o' the road on and on, past 'edges as ain't 'edges, and trees as ain't trees, but things as touch you as you pass, and reach out arter you in the dark, behind. Theer's one on 'em, back theer on the Cranbrook road, looks like an oak-tree in the daytime—ah, an' a big 'un—it's nearly 'ad me three times a'ready—once by the leg, once by the arm, and once by the neck. I don't pass it arter dark no more, but it'll 'ave me yet—mark my words—it'll 'ave me one o' these fine nights; and they'll find me a-danglin' in the gray o' the dawn!"
"Do you mean that you are afraid?" I inquired.
"No, not afeared exactly; it's jest the loneliness—the lonely quietness. Why, Lord! you aren't got no notion o' the tricks the trees and 'edges gets up to a' nights—nobody 'as but us as tramps the roads. Bill Nye knowed, same as I know, but Bill Nye's dead; cut 'is throat, 'e did, wi' one o' 'is own razors—under a 'edge."
"And what for?" I inquired, as the Pedler paused to spit lugubriously into the road again.
"Nobody knowed but me. William Nye 'e were a tinker, and a rare, merry 'un 'e were—a little man always up to 'is jinkin' and jokin' and laughin'. 'Dick,' 'e used to say (but Richard I were baptized, though they calls me Dick for short), 'Dick,' 'e used to say, 'd'ye know that theer big oak-tree—the big, 'oller oak as stands at the crossroads a mile and a 'alf out o' Cranbrook? A man might do for 'isself very nice, and quiet, tucked away inside of it, Dick,' says 'e; 'it's such a nice, quiet place, so snug and dark, I wonder as nobody does. I never pass by,' says 'e, 'but I takes a peep inside, jest to make sure as theer aren't no legs a-danglin', nor nobody 'unched up dead in the dark. It's such a nice, quiet place,' e used to say, shakin' 'is 'ead, and smilin' sad-like, 'I wonder as nobody's never thought of it afore.' Well, one day, sure enough, poor Bill Nye disappeared—nobody knowed wheer. Bill, as I say, was a merry sort, always ready wi' a joke, and that's apt to get a man friends, and they searched for 'im 'igh and low, but neither 'ide nor 'air o' poor Bill did they find. At last, one evenin' I 'appened to pass the big oak—the 'oller oak, and mindin' Bill's words, thinks I—'ere's to see if 'tis empty as Bill said. Goin' up to it I got down on my 'ands and knees, and, strikin' a light, looked inside; and there, sure enough, was poor Bill Nye hunched up inside of it wi' a razor in 'is 'and, and 'is 'ead nigh cut off—and what wi' one thing and another, a very unpleasant sight he were."
"And why—why did he do it?" I asked.
"Because 'e 'ad to, o' course—it's jest the loneliness. They'll find me some day, danglin'—I never could abide 'blood myself—danglin' to the thing as looks like a oak tree in the daytime."
"What do you mean?" said I.
The Pedler sighed, shook his head, and shouldered his brooms.
"It's jest the loneliness!" said he, and, spitting over this shoulder, trudged upon his way.
And, in a little while, I rose, and buckled on my knapsack. The shadows were creeping on apace, but the sky was wonderfully clear, while, low down upon the horizon, I saw the full-orbed moon, very broad and big. It would be a brilliant night later, and this knowledge rejoiced me not a little. Before me stretched a succession of hills—that chain of hills which, I believe, is called the Weald, and over which the dim road dipped, and wound, with, on either hand, a rolling country, dark with wood, and coppice—full of mystery. The wind had quite fallen, but from the hedges came sudden rustlings and soft, unaccountable noises. Once, something small and dark scuttered across the road before me, and once a bird, hidden near by, set up a loud complaint, while, from the deeps of a neighboring wood, came the mournful note of a night-jar.
And, as I walked, I bethought me of poor Bill Nye, the Tinker. I could picture him tramping upon this very road, his jingling load upon his back, and the "loneliness" upon and around him. A small man, he would be, with a peaked face, little, round, twinkling eyes, grizzled hair, and a long, blue chin. How I came to know all this I cannot tell, only it seemed he must be so. On he went, his chin first upon one shoulder, and now upon the other, shooting furtive glances at hedges which were not hedges, and trees which were not trees. Somewhere there was a "thing" that looked like a big oak tree in the daytime—a hollow oak. On he went through the shadows, on and on. Presently he turned out of the road, and there, sure enough, was the oak itself. Kneeling down, he slipped off his burden and pushed it through a jagged hole at the root. Then he glanced round him, a long, stealthy look, down at the earth and up at the sky, and crept into the tree. In the dimness I could see him fumble for the thing he wanted, pause to thumb its edge, and, throwing up his chin, raise his hand—
"Folly!" said I aloud, and stopped suddenly in my stride.
The moon's rim was just topping the trees to my left, and its light, feeble though it was as yet, served to show that I had reached a place where four roads met.
Now, casting my eyes about me, they were attracted by a great tree that grew near by, a tree of vast girth and bigness. And, as I looked, I saw that it was an oak-tree, near the root of which there was a jagged, black hole.
How long I stood staring at this, I cannot say, but, all at once, the leaves of the tree were agitated as by a breath of wind, and rustled with a sound indescribably desolate, and from the dark mass rose the long-drawn, mournful cry of some night bird.
Heedless of my direction, I hurried away, yet, even when I had left it far behind, I glanced back more than once ere its towering branches were lost to my view.
So I walked on through the shadows, past trees that were not trees, and hedges that were not hedges, but frightful phantoms, rather, lifting menacing arms above my head, and reaching after me with clutching fingers. Time and again, ashamed of such weakness, I cursed myself for an imaginative fool, but kept well in the middle of the road, and grasped my staff firmly, notwithstanding.
I had gone, perhaps, some mile or so in this way, alternately rating and reasoning with myself, when I suddenly fancied I heard a step behind me, and swung round upon my heel, with ready stick; but the road stretched away empty as far as I could see. Having looked about me on all sides, I presently went on again, yet, immediately, it seemed that the steps began also, keeping time with my own, now slow, now fast, now slow again; but, whenever I turned, the road behind was apparently as empty and desolate as ever.
I can conceive of few things more nerve-racking than the knowledge that we are being dogged by something which we can only guess at, and that all our actions are watched by eyes which we cannot see. Thus, with every step, I found the situation grow more intolerable, for though I kept a close watch behind me and upon the black gloom of the hedges, I could see nothing. At length, however, I came upon a gap in the hedge where was a gate, and beyond this, vaguely outlined against a glimmer of sky, I saw a dim figure.
Hereupon, running forward, I set my hand upon the gate, and leaping over, found myself face to face with a man who carried a gun across his arm. If I was startled at this sudden encounter he was no less so, and thus we stood eyeing each other as well as we might in the half light.
"Well," I demanded, at last, "what do you mean by following me like this?"
"I aren't follered ye," retorted the man.
"But I heard your steps behind me."
"Not mine, master. I've sat and waited 'ere 'arf a hour, or more, for a poachin' cove—"
"But some one was following me."
"Well, it weren't I. A keeper I be, a-lookin' for a poachin' cove just about your size, and it's precious lucky for you as you are a-wearin' that there bell-crowned 'at!"
"Why so?"
"Because, if you 'adn't 'appened to be a-wearin' that there bell-crowner, and I 'adn't 'appened to be of a argifyin' and inquirin' turn o' mind, I should ha' filled you full o' buckshot."
"Oh?" said I.
"Yes," said he, nodding, while I experienced a series of cold chills up my spine, "not a blessed doubt of it. Poachers," he went on, "don't wear bell-crowned 'ats as a rule—I never seed one as did; and so, while I was a-watchin' of you be'ind this 'ere 'edge, I argies the matter in my mind. 'Robert,' I says to meself, 'Robert,' I sez, 'did you ever 'appen to see a poachin' cove in a bell-crowner afore? No, you never did,' sez I. 'But, on the other 'and, this 'ere cove is the very spit o' the poachin' cove as I'm a-lookin' for. True!' sez I to meself, 'but this 'ere cove is a-wearin' of a bell-crowner 'at, but the poachin' cove never wore a bell-crowner—nor never will.' Still, I must say I come very near pullin' trigger on ye—just to make sure. So ye see it were precious lucky for you as you was a-wearin' o' that there—"
"It certainly was," said I, turning away.
"—that there bell-crowner, and likewise as I'm a man of a nat'ral gift for argiment, and of a inquirin'—"
"Without doubt," said I, vaulting over the gate into the road once more.
"—turn o' mind, because if I 'adn't 'a' been, and you 'adn't 'a' wore that there bell-crowner—"
"The consequences are unpleasantly obvious!" said I, over my shoulder, as I walked on down the road.
"—I should ha' shot ye—like a dog!" he shouted, hanging over the gate to do so.
And, when I had gone on some distance, I took off that which the man had called a "bell-crowner," and bestowed upon it a touch, and looked at it as I had never done before; and there was gratitude in look and touch, for tonight it had, indeed, stood my friend.
Slowly, slowly the moon, at whose advent the starry host "paled their ineffectual fires," mounted into a cloudless heaven, higher and higher, in queenly majesty, until the dark world was filled with her glory, and the road before me became transformed into a silver track splashed here and there with the inky shadow of hedge and trees, and leading away into a land of "Faerie."
Indeed, to my mind, there is nothing more delightful than to walk upon a country road, beneath a midsummer moon, when there is no sound to break the stillness, save, perhaps, the murmur of wind in trees, or the throbbing melody of some hidden brook. At such times the world of every day—the world of Things Material, the hard, hard world of Common-sense—seems to vanish quite, and we walk within the fair haven of our dreams, where Imagination meets, and kisses us upon the brow. And, at his touch, the Impossible straightway becomes the Possible; the Abstract becomes the Concrete; our fondest hopes are realized; our most cherished visions take form, and stand before us; surely, at such an hour, the gods come down to walk with us awhile.
From this ecstasy I was suddenly aroused by hearing once more the sound of a footstep upon the road behind me. So distinct and unmistakable was it that I turned sharp about, and, though the road seemed as deserted as ever, I walked back, looking into every patch of shadow, and even thrust into the denser parts of the hedges with my staff; but still I found no one. And yet I knew that I was being followed persistently, step by step, but by whom, and for what reason?
A little farther on, upon one side of the way, was a small wood or coppice, and now I made towards this, keeping well in the shadow of the hedge. The trees were somewhat scattered, but the underbrush was very dense, and amongst this I hid myself where I could watch the road, and waited. Minute after minute elapsed, and, losing patience, I was about to give up all hope of thus discovering my unknown pursuer, when a stick snapped sharply near by, and, glancing round, I thought I saw a head vanish behind the bole of an adjacent tree; wherefore I made quickly towards that tree, but ere I reached it, a man stepped out. A tall, loose-limbed fellow he was, clad in rough clothes (that somehow had about them a vague suggestion of ships and the sea), and with a moth-eaten, fur cap crushed down upon his head. His face gleamed pale, and his eyes were deep-sunken, and very bright; also, I noticed that one hand was hidden in the pocket of his coat. But most of all, I was struck by the extreme pallor of his face, and the burning brilliancy of his eyes.
And, with the glance that showed me all this, I recognized the OutsidePassenger.
"Good evening, sir!" he said, in a strange, hurried sort of way, "the moon, you will perceive, is very nearly at the full to-night." And his voice, immediately, struck me as being at odds with his clothes.
"Why do you stand and peer at me?" said I sharply.
"Peer at you, sir?"
"Yes, from behind the tree, yonder." As I spoke, he craned his head towards me, and I saw his pale lips twitch suddenly. "And why have you dogged me; why have you followed me all the way from Tonbridge?"
"Why, sir, surely there is nothing so strange in that. I am a shadow."
"What do you mean by 'a shadow'?"
"Sir, I am a shadow cast by neither sun, nor moon, nor star, that moves on unceasingly in dark as in light. Sir, it is my fate (in common with my kind), to be ever upon the move—a stranger everywhere without friends or kindred. I have been, during the past year, all over England, east, and west, and north, and south; within the past week, for instance, I have travelled from London to Epsom, from Epsom to Brighton, from Brighton back again to London, and from London here. And I peer at you, sir, because I wished to make certain what manner of man you were before I spoke, and though the moon is bright, yet your hat-brim left your face in shade."
"Well, are you satisfied?"
"So much so, sir, so very much so, that I should like to talk with you, to—to ask you a question," he answered, passing his hand—a thin, white hand—across his brow, and up over the fur cap that was so out of keeping with the pale face below.
"A question?"
"If you will be so obliging as to listen, sir; let us sit awhile, for I am very weary." And with the words he sank down upon the grass. After a momentary hesitation, I followed his example, for my curiosity was piqued by the fellow's strange manner; yet, when we were sitting opposite each other, I saw that his hand was still hidden in the pocket of his coat.
"Perhaps, sir," said he, in his nervous, hurried manner, "perhaps you would be better able to answer my question were I first to tell you a story—an ordinary, a very commonplace one, I fear, but with the virtue that it is short, and soon told."
"My time is entirely my own," said I, leaning with my shoulders against the tree behind me; "proceed with your story."
"First, then, my name is Strickland—John Strickland!"
Here he paused, and, though his head was bent, I saw him watching me beneath his brows.
"Well?" said I.
"I am a supercargo."
Again he paused expectantly, but seeing I merely nodded, he continued:
"Upon one of my voyages, our vessel was wrecked, and, so far as I know, all save myself and six others—four seamen and two passengers—were drowned. The passengers I speak of were an old merchant—and his daughter, a very beautiful girl; her name was—Angela, sir."
Once again he paused and again he eyed me narrowly.
"Well?" said I.
"Well, sir," he resumed, speaking in a low, repressed voice, "we seven, after two miserable days in a drifting boat, reached an island where, that same night, the old merchant died. Sir, the sailors were wild, rough men; the island was a desolate one from whence there was seemingly no chance of escape, it lying out of the usual track of ships, and this girl was, as I have said, very beautiful. Under such conditions her fate would have been unspeakable degradation, and probably death; but, sir, I fought and bled for her, not once but many times, and eventually I killed one of them with my sheath-knife, and I remember, to this hour, how his blood gushed over my hands and arms, and sickened me. After that they waited hourly to avenge his death, and get me out of their way once and for all, but I had my long knife, and they but such rude weapons as they could devise. Day after day, and night after night, I watched for an opportunity to escape with the boat, until at last, one day while they were all three gone inland, not dreaming of any such attempt, for the sea was very dangerous and high, with the girl's help I managed to launch the boat, and so stood out to sea. And I remember those three sailors came running with great shouts and cries, and flung themselves down upon the beach, and crawled upon their knees, praying to be taken off along with us, and begging us not to leave them to perish. After three days' buffeting at the mercy of the seas, we were picked up by a brig bound for Portsmouth, and, six months later, were in England. Sir, it is impossible for a man to have lived beside a beautiful woman day by day, to have fought for and suffered with her, not to love her also. Thus, seeing her friendless and penniless, I wooed and won her to wife. We came to London, and for a year our life was perfect, until, through stress of circumstances, I was forced to take another position aboard ship. Well, sir, I bade farewell to my wife, and we set sail. The voyage, which was to have lasted but three months, was lengthened out through one misadventure after another, so that it was a year before I saw my wife again, At first I noticed little difference in her save that she was paler, but, gradually, I came to see that she was unhappy. Often I have wakened in the night to find her weeping silently.
"Oh, sir!" he broke out, "I do not think there is anything more terrible than to witness in one we love a sorrow we are unable to reach!" Here he paused, and I saw that the sweat stood out upon his brow, and that his hand was tight clenched as he drew it across his temples. "At last, sir," he went on, speaking once more in a low, repressed tone, "returning home one day, I found her—gone."
"Gone?" said I.
"Gone, sir."
"And she left no trace—no letter?"
"No, she left no letter, sir, but I did find something—a something that had rolled into a corner of the room."
"And what was that?"
"This, sir!" As he spoke, his burning eyes never leaving mine, he thrust a hand into his bosom—his left hand, for his right was where it had been all along, hidden in his pocket—and held out to me a gold seal such as gentlemen wear at their fobs.
"Ah!" I exclaimed.
"Take it!" said the man, thrusting it towards me; "look at it!" Obediently I took the trinket from him, and, examining it as well as I might, saw that a letter was engraved upon it, one of those ornamental initials surrounded by rococo scrolls and flourishes. "What letter does it bear?" asked the man in a strangled voice.
"It looks very like the letter 'Y,'" I answered
"The letter 'Y'!" cried the man, and then, with a gesture sudden and fierce, he snatched the seal from me, and, thrusting it back into his bosom, laughed strangely.
"Why do you laugh?" said I.
"To be sure," said he harshly, "the light might be better, and yet—well! well! my story is nearly done. I lived on in my lonely house from day to day, and month to month, hoping and waiting for her to come back to me. And one day she did come back to me—just about this hour it was, sir, and on just such another evening; and that same night—she died."
"Good God!" I exclaimed. "Poor fellow!" And, leaning forward, I laid my hand upon his knee, but, at my touch, he drew back so quickly, and with a look so evil, that I was startled.
"Hands off!" said he, and so sat staring at me with his smouldering eyes.
"Are you mad?" said I, and sprang to my feet.
"Not yet," he answered, and once again he passed his hand up, and over his face and brow; "no, not yet, sir." Here he rose, and stood facing me, and I noticed that one hand was still hidden in his pocket, and, thereafter, while I listened to him, I kept my eyes directed thither. "That night—before she—died, sir," he continued, "she told me the name of the man who had destroyed her, and killed my soul; and I have been searching for him ever since—east, and west, and north, and south. Now, sir, here is my question: If I should ever meet that man face to face, as I now see you, should I not be justified in—killing him?"
For a moment I stood with bent head, yet conscious all the while of the burning eyes that scanned my face, then:
"Yes," said I.
The man stood utterly still, his mouth opened as if he would have spoken, but no word came. All at once he turned about, and walked unsteadily five or six paces. Now, as I looked, I saw him suddenly draw his hand from his pocket, then, as he wheeled, I knew, and hurled myself face downward as the pistol flashed.
"Madman!" I cried, and next moment was on my feet; but, with a sound that was neither a groan nor a scream, and yet something of both, he leapt into the thickest part of the underbrush, and made off. And standing there, dazed by the suddenness of it all, I heard the snapping of twigs grow fainter and fainter as he crashed through in headlong flight.