"'When drowsy night with sombre wings
O'er this world his shadow flings
And thou, dear love, doth sleep,
Then do I send my soul to thee
Thy guardian till the dawn to be
And thy sweet slumbers keep.'"
"'Slumbers keep,'" snorted Jack, "the insolence of the fellow! Now look on t'other side."
"'I shall be in the orchard to-morrow at the usual hour, in the hope of a word or a look from you.'"
Bentley read, and laid down the paper.
"At the usual hour—d'ye mark that!" cries Jack, thumping himself in the chest—"'tis become a habit with 'em, it seems—and there's for ye, and a nice kettle o' fish it is!"
"Ah, Bentley," says I, "if only your nephew, the young Viscount, were here—"
"To the deuce with Bentley's nephew!" roars Jack. "I say he shouldn't marry her now, no—not if he were ten thousand times Bentley's nephew, sir—deuce take him!"
"So then," says I, "all our plans are gone astray, and she will have her way and wed this adventurer Tawnish, I suppose?"
"No, no, Dick!" cries Jack; "curse me, am I not her father?"
"And is she not—herself?" says I.
"True!" Jack nodded, "and as stubborn as—as—"
"Her father!" added Bentley. "Why, Jack—Dick—I tell you she's ruled us all with a rod of iron ever since she used to climb up our knees to pull at our wigs with her little, mischievous fingers!"
"Such very small, pink fingers!" says I, sighing. "Indeed we've spoiled her wofully betwixt us."
"Ha!" snorted Jack, "and who's responsible for all this, I say; who's petted and pampered, and coddled and condoned her every fault? Why—you, Dick and Bentley. When I had occasion to scold or correct her, who was it used to sneak behind my back with their pockets bulging with cakes and sticky messes? Why, you, Dick and Bentley!"
"You scold her, Jack?" says Bentley, "yes, egad! in a voice as mild as a sucking dove! And when she wept, you'd frown tremendously to hide thine own tears, man, and end by smothering her with your kisses. And thus it has ever been—for her dead mother's sake!"
"But now," says I after a while, "the time is come to be resolute, for her sake—and her mother's."
"Aye," cries Jack, "we must be firm with her, we must be resolute! Penelope's my daughter and shall obey us for once, if we have to lock her up for a week. I'll teach her that our will is law, for once!"
"You're in the right on 't, Jack," says I, "we must show her that she can't ride rough-shod over us any longer. We must be stern to be kind."
"We must be adamant!" says Bentley, his eyes twinkling.
"We must be harsh," says I, "if need be and—"
But here, perceiving Bentley's face to be screwed up warningly, observing his ponderous wink and eloquent thumb, I glanced up and beheld Penelope herself regarding us from the doorway. And indeed, despite the pucker at her pretty brow, she looked as sweet and fresh and fair as an English summer morning. But Jack, all innocent of her presence, had caught the word from me.
"Harsh!" cries he, thumping the table at his elbow, "I'll warrant me I'll be harsh enough—if 'twas only on account of the fellow's poetry-stuff—the jade! We'll lock her up—aye, if need be, we'll starve her on bread and water, we'll—"
But he got no further, for Penelope had stolen up behind him and, throwing her arms round his neck, kissed him into staring silence.
"Uncle Bentley!" says she, giving him one white hand to kiss, "and you, dear uncle Dick!" and she gave me the other.
"What, my pretty lass!" cries Bentley, rising, and would have kissed the red curve of her smiling lips, but she stayed him with an authoritative finger.
"Nay, sir," says she, mighty demure, "you know my new rule,—from Monday to Wednesday my hand; from Wednesday to Saturday, my cheek; and on Sunday, my lips—and to-day is Tuesday, sir!"
"Drat my memory, so it is!" says Bentley, and kissed her slender fingers obediently, as I did likewise. Hereupon she turns, very high and haughty, to eye Jack slowly from head to foot, and to shake her head at him in dignified rebuke.
"As for you, sir," says she, "you stole away my letter,—was that gentle, was it loving, was it kind? Uncle Bentley—say 'No'!"
"Why—er—no," stammered Bentley, "but you see, Pen—"
"Then, Sir John," she continued, with her calm, reproving gaze still fixed upon her father's face the while he fidgetted in his chair, "then yesterday, Sir John, when I found you'd taken it, and came to demand it back again, you heard me coming and slipped out—through the window, and hid yourself—in the stables, and rode away without even stopping to put on your riding-boots, and—in that terrible old hat! Was that behaving like a dignified, middle-aged gentleman and Justice of the Peace, sir? Uncle Richard, say 'Certainly not!'"
"Well, I—I suppose 'twas not," says I, "but under the circumstances—"
"And now I find you all with your heads very close together, hatching diabolical plots and conspiracies against poor little me—heigho!"
"Nay, Penelope," says Jack, beginning to bluster, "we—I say we are determined—"
"Oh, Sir John," she sighed, "oh, Sir John Chester, 'tis a shameful thing and most ungallant in a father to run off with his daughter's love-letter. Prithee, where is her love-letter? Give her her love-letter—this moment!"
Hereupon Jack must needs produce the letter from his pocket (where he had hidden it) and she (naughty baggage) very ostentatiously set it 'neath the tucker at her bosom. Which done, she nods at each one of us in turn, frowning a little the while.
"I vow," says she, tapping the floor with the toe of her satin shoe, "I could find it in my heart to be very angry with you—all of you, if I didn't—love you quite so well. So, needs must I forgive you. Sir John dear, stoop down and let me straighten your wig—there! Now you may kiss me, sir—an' you wish."
Hereupon Jack kissed her, of course, and thereafter catching sight of us, frowned terrifically.
"Now, look'ee here, Pen—Penelope," says he, "I say, look'ee here!"
"Yes, Sir John dear."
"I—that is to say—we," began Jack, "for Dick and Bentley are one with me, I say that—that—er, I say that—what the devil do I mean to say, Dick?"
"Why, Pen," I explained, "'tis this stranger—this—er—"
"Tawnish!" says Bentley.
"Aye, Tawnish!" nodded Jack. "Now heark'ee, Pen, I repeat—I say, I repeat—"
"Very frequently, dear," she sighed. "Well?"
"I say," continued Jack, "that I—we—utterly forbid you to see or hear from the fellow again."
"And pray, sir, what have you against him?" says she softly,—only her slender foot tapped a little faster.
"Everything!" says Jack.
"Which is as much as to say—nothing!" she retorted.
"I say," cried Jack, "the man you come to marry shall be amanand not a mincing exquisite with no ideas beyond the cut of his coat."
"And," says I, "a man of position, and no led-captain with an eye to your money, or needy adventurer hunting a dowry, Pen."
"Oh!" she sighed, "how cruelly you misjudge him! And you, Uncle Bentley, what have you to say?"
"That whoso he be, we would have him in all things worthy of thee, Pen."
"Aye!" nodded Jack, "so my lass, forego this whim—no more o' this Tawnish fellow—forget him."
"Forget!" says she, "how lightly you say it! Oh, prithee don't you see that I am a child no longer—don't you understand?"
"Pooh!" cries Jack. "Fiddle-de-dee! What-a-plague! This fellow is no fit mate for our Pen, a stranger whom nobody knows! a languid fop! a pranked-out, patched and powdered puppy-dog! So Penelope, let there be an end on't!"
Pen's little foot had ceased its tattoo, but her eyes were bright and her cheeks glowed when she spoke again.
"Oh!" says she, scornfully. "Oh, most noble, most fair-minded gentlemen—all three of you, to condemn thus, out of hand, one of whom you know nothing, and without allowing him one word in his own behalf! Aye, hang your heads! Oh, 'tis most unworthy of you—you whom I have ever held to be in all things most just and honourable!"
And here she turned her back fairly upon us and crossed to the window, while we looked at one another but with never a word betwixt us; wherefore she presently went on again.
"And yet," says she, and now her voice was grown wonderfully tender, "you all loved the mother I never knew—loved her passing well, and, for her sake, have borne with my foolish whims all these years, and given me a place deep within your hearts. And because of this," says she, turning and coming back to us, "yes, because of this I love thee, Uncle Dick!" Here she stooped and kissed me (God bless her). "And you too, Uncle Bentley!" Here she kissed Bentley. "And you, dear, tender father!" Here she kissed Jack. "Indeed," she sighed, "methinks I love you all far more than either of you, being only men, can ever understand. But because I am a woman, needs must I do as my heart bids me in this matter, or despise myself utterly. As for the worth of this gentleman, oh! think you I am so little credit to your upbringing as not to know the real from the base? Ah! trust me! And indeed I know this for a very noble gentleman, and what's more, I will never—never—wed any other than this gentleman!" So saying, she sobbed once, and turning about, sped from the room, banging the door behind her.
Hereupon Jack sighed and ruffled up his wig, while Bentley, lying back in his chair, nodded up at the ceiling, and as for myself I stared down at the floor, lost in sombre thought.
"Well," exclaimed Jack at last, "what the devil are you shaking your heads over? Had you aided me just now instead of sitting there mumchance like two graven images—say like two accursed graven images—"
"Why," retorted Bentley, "didn't I say—"
"Say," cries Jack, "no sooner did you clap eyes on her than it's 'My sweet lass!' 'My pretty maid!' and such toys! And after all your talk of being 'harsh to be kind!' Oh, a cursed nice mess you've made on't betwixt you. Lord knows I tried to do my best—"
"To be sure," nodded Bentley, "'Come let me straighten your wig' says she, and there you sat like—egad, like a furious lamb!"
"Jack and Bentley," says I, "'tis time we realized that our Pen's a woman grown and we—old men, though it seems but yesterday we were boys together at Charterhouse. But the years have slipped away, as years will, and everything is changed but our friendship. As we, in those early days lived, and fought, and worked together, so we loved together, and she—chose Jack. And because of our love, her choice was ours also. And in a little while she died, but left us Pen—to comfort Jack if such might be, and to be our little maid. Each day she hath grown more like to what her sweet mother was, and so we have loved her—very dearly until—to-day we have waked to find our little maid a woman grown—to think, and act, and choose for herself, and we—old men."
And so I sighed, and rising crossed to the window and stood there awhile.
"Lord!" says Bentley at last, "how the years do gallop upon a man!"
"Aye!" sighed Jack, "I never felt my age till now."
"Nor I!" added Bentley.
"And now," says Jack, "what of Raikes; have you seen aught of him lately?"
"No, Jack."
"But I met Hammersley this morning," says Bentley, "and he was anxious to know when the—the—"
"Meeting was likely to take place?" put in Jack, as he paused; "Purdy tells me I shan't be able to use this foot of mine for a month or more."
"That will put it near Christmas," added Bentley.
"Yes," nodded Jack, "I think we could do no better than Christmas Day."
"A devilish strange time for a duel," says Bentley, "peace on earth, and all that sort of thing, you know."
"Why, it's Pen," says Jack, staring hard into the fire, "she will be at her Aunt Sophia's then, which is fortunate on the whole. I shouldn't care for her to see me—when they bring me home."
For a long time it seemed to me none of us spoke. I fumbled through all my pockets for my snuff-box without finding it (which was strange), and looking up presently, I saw that Bentley had upset his wine, which was trickling down his satin waistcoat all unnoticed.
"Jack," says I at last, "a Gad's name, lend me your snuff-box!"
"And now," says he, "suppose we have a hand at picquet."
Chapter Three
Of a Flight of Steps, a Stirrup, and a Stone
Autumn, with its dying flowers and falling leaves, is, to my thinking, a mournful season, and hath ever about it a haunting melancholy, a gentle sadness that sorts very ill with this confounded tune of "Lillibuleero," more especially when whistled in gusts and somewhat out of key.
Therefore, as we walked along towards the Manor on this November afternoon, I drew my arm from Bentley's and turned upon him with a frown:
"Why in heaven's name must you whistle?" I demanded.
"Did I so, Dick? I was thinking."
"Of what, pray?"
"Of many things, man Dick, but more particularly of my nephew."
"Ah!" says I scornfully, "our gallant young Viscount! our bridegroom elect who—ran away!"
"But none the less," added Bentley, stoutly, "a pretty fellow with a good leg, a quick hand and a true eye, Dick—one who can tell 'a hawk from a hern-shaw' as the saying is."
"Which I take leave to doubt," says I, sourly, "or he would have fallen in with our wishes and married Pen a year ago, instead of running away like a craven fool!"
"But bethink you, Dick," says Bentley flushing, "he had never so much as seen her and, when he heard we were all so set on having him married, he writ me saying he 'preferred a wife of his own choosing' and then—well, he bolted!"
"Like a fool!"
"'Twas very natural," snorted Bentley, redder in the face than ever. "And what's more, he's a fine lad, a lovable lad, and a very fine gentleman into the bargain, as you will be the first to admit when—" but here Bentley broke off to turn and look at me mighty solemn all at once: "Dick," says he, "do you think young Raikes is so great a swordsman as they say?"
"Yes," I answered bitterly, "and that's why I grieve for our poor Jack."
"Jack?" says Bentley, staring like a fool, "Jack—ah yes, to be sure—to be sure."
"I tell you, Bentley," I continued, impressively, "so sure as he crosses swords with the fellow, Jack is a dead man."
"Humph!" says Bentley, after we had gone some little way in silence. "Man Dick, I'm greatly minded to tell thee a matter."
"Well?" I enquired, listlessly.
"But on second thoughts, I won't, Dick," says he, "for 'silence is golden,' as the saying is!"
"Why then," says I, "go you on to the house; I'm minded to walk in the rose-garden awhile," for I had caught the flutter of Pen's cloak at the end of one of the walks.
"Walk?" repeated Bentley, staring. "Rose-garden? But Jack will be for a game of picquet—"
"I'll be with you anon," says I, turning away.
"Hum!" says Bentley, scratching his chin, and presently sets off towards the house, whistling lustily.
I found Penelope in the yew-walk, leaning against the statue of a satyr. And looking from the grotesque features above to the lovely face below, I suddenly found my old heart a-thumping strangely—for beside this very statue, in almost the same attitude, her mother had once stood long ago to listen to the tale of my hopeless love. For a moment it almost seemed that the years had rolled backward, it almost seemed that the thin grey hair beneath my wig might be black once more, my step light and elastic with youth. Instinctively, I reached out my hands and took a swift step across the grass, then, all at once she looked up, and seeing me, smiled.
My hands dropped.
"Penelope," I said.
"Uncle Dick," says she, her smile fading, "why, what is it?"
"Naught, my dear," says I, trying to smile, "old men have strange fancies at times—"
"Nay, but what was it?" she repeated, catching my hands in hers.
"Child," says I, "child, you are greatly like what your mother was before you."
"Am I?" says she very low, looking at me with a new light in her eyes. Then she leaned suddenly forward and kissed me.
"Why, Pen!" says I, all taken aback.
"I know," she nodded, "on Monday my hand, on Wednesday my cheek, and on Sunday my lips—"
"And to-day is Friday!"
"What if it is, sir," says she, tossing her head, "I made that rule simply for peace and quietness sake; you and Uncle Bentley were forever pestering me to death, you know you were."
"Were we?" says I, chuckling, "well, I'm one ahead of him to-day, anyhow, Pen."
Talking thus, we came to the rose-garden (Pen's special care) and here we must needs fall a-sorrowing over the dead flowers.
"And yet," says Pen, pausing beside a bush whereon hung a few faded blooms, "all will be as sweet, and fresh, and glorious again next year."
"Yes," I answered, heavily, "next year." And I sighed again, bethinking me of the changes this next year must bring to all of us.
"Tell me, Uncle Dick," says she, suddenly, laying a hand on either of my shoulders, "how did father hurt his foot?"
"Why, to be sure," says I, readily, "'twas an accident. You must know 'twas as we came down the steps at 'The Chequers', Pen; talking and laughing, d'ye see, he tripped and fell—caught his spur, I fancy."
"But he wore no spurs, Uncle Dick," says she, mighty demure.
"Oh—why—didn't he so, Pen?" says I, a little hipped. "Well, then he—er—just—tripped, you know—fell, you understand."
"On the steps, Uncle Dick?"
"Aye, on the steps," I nodded.
"Prithee did he fall up the steps or down the steps, Uncle Dick?"
"Down, Pen, down; he simply tripped down the steps and—and there you have it."
"But prithee Uncle Dick—"
"Nay, nay," says I, "the game waits for me, Pen—I must go."
But at this moment, as luck would have it, Bentley reappeared, nor was I ever more glad to see him.
"Aha, man Dick," cries he, wagging his finger at me. "Walk in the rose-garden, was it? Oh, for shame, to so abuse my confidence—Dick, I blush for thee; and Jack's a roaring for thee, and the game waits for thee; in a word—begone! And to-day, Pen," says he, as I turned away, "to-day is Friday!" and he stooped and kissed her pretty cheek.
I had reached the terrace when I stopped all at once and, moved by a sudden thought, I turned about and hurriedly retraced my steps. They were screened from sight by one of the great yew hedges, but as I approached I could hear Bentley's voice:
"His horse?" says Bentley.
"Yes," says Pen, "and Saladin's such a quiet old horse as a rule!"
"But what's his horse got to do with it?" says Bentley.
"Why, you were there, Uncle Bentley. Saladin jibbed, didn't he, just as father had one foot in the stirrup ready to mount?"
"Oh! Ha! Hum!" says Bentley. "Did Jack tell you all that, Pen?"
"Who else?" says she, "'twas you caught his bridle, wasn't it?"
"I? Hum! The bridle?" says Bentley, "why—egad, Pen—"
"And Uncle Dick caught father as he fell," she continued.
"Did Jack tell thee all that?" says Bentley.
"How should I know else?" says she.
"Lord!" says Bentley.
"And 'twas you caught the bridle, now, wasn't it?" says she, carelessly.
Page 80.
"Oh! Ha! Hum!" says Bentley, "did Jack tell youall that, Pen?"Page 80.
"Why—er—since you mention it, —yes—I suppose so," mumbled Bentley, "oh, yes, certainly I caught the bridle—surprisingly agile in one o' my size, Pen, eh? But egad, the game waits—I must be off, but a kiss first—for saving thy father for thee, Pen."
Waiting for no more, I turned and set off towards the house, but as I once more reached the terrace, up comes Bentley behind me, whistling lustily as usual.
"Why Dick," says he, "where have you sprung from?"
"Bentley," says I, shaking my head, "it's in my mind you've been a vasty fool!"
"For what, Dick?"
"For catching that bridle!" says I. "Why on earth couldn't you be content to let him trip down the steps as we agreed a week ago?"
"Why then, what of Jack's story of Saladin's jibbing—though strike me purple, Dick, if I thought he had enough imagination."
"Do you think he did tell her so?" says I.
"To be sure he did, Dick, unless—"
"Humph!" says I, "let's go and ask him."
Side by side we entered the great hall, and side by side we came to the door of the library; now the door was open, and from within came the sound of Jack's voice.
"I tell thee 'twas nought but a stone, Pen," he was saying, "I say, an ordinary, loose cobble-stone! Good Gad, madam, and why shouldn't it be a cobble-stone? Gentlemen are forever twisting their ankles on cobble-stones! I tell you—" Hereupon Bentley threw open the door, but I entered first.
"No, no, Jack!" I cried, "'twas down the steps—you tripped down the steps at 'The Chequers,' you know you did!"
"Nay, 'twas Saladin jibbed,—don't you remember?" says Bentley.
"Why, Dick and Bentley!" cries Jack, staring from one to the other of us, "what a plague's all this? Don't I know how I hurt my own foot? I say 'twas a cobble-stone, and a cobble-stone it shall be. Lord! how could ye try to fill our maid's pretty head with such folly? Shame on ye both! Why not stick to the truth—and my cobble-stone?"
"And now, dear Sir John," says Pen, very soft and demure, "pray tell me—howdidyou hurt your foot?"
"Hey—what?" spluttered Jack, "don't I tell you—"
"A flight of steps, a stirrup, and a stone!" sighed Pen, shaking her head at us each in turn.
"Now look'ee, Pen," says Jack, trying to bluster, "I say I'm not to be badgered and brow-beaten by a slip of a girl—I say I'm not, by heaven!"
"Oh, my dears, my dears!" sighed Pen, reprovingly, "Isn't it time you learned that you can keep few—very few secrets from me, who understand you all so well because I love you all so well? I have been your playfellow and companion so long that, methinks, I know you much better than you know yourselves; I, who have had my word in all your councils? How foolish then to think to put me off with such flimsy stories. Of course I shall find out all about it, sooner or later, I always do. Yes, I shall, even if I must needs hide in corners sirs, and hearken at keyholes, and peep and pry—so I warn you." And with this, she nodded and turned and left us to stare blankly at one another.
"That settles it!" said Bentley, gloomily, "she'll no more swallow thy cobble-stone than Dick's flight of steps, Jack. She'll know the truth before the week is out!"
"The minx!" cried Jack, "the jade!" And with the word he snatched off his wig and hurled it into a corner.
"Jack," says I, "what's to be done?"
"Done?" he roared, "I'll pack her off to her Aunt Sophia to-morrow!"
"Aye," says Bentley, "but—will she go?"
"Bentley," says Jack, "I'll thank you to reach me my wig!"
Chapter Four
Of how We fell in with a Highwayman atthe Cross Roads
Myself and Bentley were returning from another dog-fight. This time my dog had lost (which was but natural, seeing its very unfit condition, though to be sure it looked well enough at a glance). Alas! the sport is not what it was in my young days, when rogues can so put off a sick dog upon the unsuspecting. Methinks 'tis becoming a very brutal, degrading practice—have determined to have done with dog-fighting once and for all. Bentley was in a high good humour (as was but to be expected, seeing he had won nigh upon two hundred guineas of me), but then, as I have said, Bentley never wins but he must needs show it.
"By the way," said he, breaking off in the middle of the air he was humming, "did you see him at the fight?"
"Him?" says I.
"Raikes," nodded Bentley. "Man Dick, I never see the fellow but my fingers itch for his throat. I heard some talk that he had won a thousand or so from young Vesey, by this one bout alone."
"Humph!" says I.
"Come, Dick," says Bentley, "let's get on; he cannot be so very far behind, and I have no stomach for his society—I'll race you to the cross roads for fifty."
"I'll hurry myself for no such fellow as Raikes!" says I.
"Nor fifty guineas?"
"No," says I, "nor fifty guineas!"
Whereupon, Bentley yielding to my humour, we rode on with never a word betwixt us. It lacked now but a short three weeks to Christmas, and every day served but to bring Jack nearer to his grave, and add a further load to that which pressed upon my heart. At such times the thought of Pen, and the agony I must see in her eyes so soon, drove me well-nigh frantic. In this rough world men must be prepared for fortune's buffets—and shame to him that blenches, say I—but when through us Fate strikes those we fain would shelter, methinks it is another matter. Thus, had Jack proved coward, I for one should have rejoiced for Pen's sake, but as it was, no power on earth could stay the meeting, and this Christmas would bring her but anguish, and a great sorrow. With all these thoughts upon my mind I was very silent and despondent—and what wonder! As for Bentley, he, on the contrary, manifested an indifference out of all keeping with his character, an insensibility that angered and disgusted me not a little, but surprised and pained me, most of all.
So it was in moody silence that we walked our horses up the hill where the beacon stands, and were barely on top, when we heard the sound of rapidly approaching hoofs behind us, and a few minutes later Sir Harry Raikes with his friend, Captain Hammersley, galloped up.
Hereupon Bentley, in his usual easy, inconsequent fashion, fell into conversation with them, but as for me, having bowed in acknowledgment of their boisterous salutation, I relapsed once more into gloomy thought. Little by little however, it became apparent to me that for some reason I had become a mark for their amusement; more than once I caught them exchanging looks, or regarding me from the corners of their eyes in such fashion as set my ears a-tingling. The Captain was possessed of a peculiarly high-pitched, falsetto laugh, which, recurring at frequent intervals (and for no reason as I could see), annoyed me almost beyond bearing. But I paid no heed, staring straight before me and meditating upon a course of action which had been in my head for days past—a plan whereby Jack's duel might be prevented altogether, and our sweet maid shielded from the sorrow that must otherwise blight her life so very soon. As I have said before, there was a time, years ago, when I was accounted a match for any with the small-sword, and though a man grows old he can never forget what he has learned of the art. I had, besides, seen Raikes fight on two or three occasions, and believed, despite the disparity of our years, that I could master him. If on the other hand I was wrong, if, to put it bluntly, he should kill me, well, I was a very lonely man with none dependent upon me, nay, my money would but benefit others the sooner; moreover, I was a man of some standing, a Justice of the Peace, with many friends in high authority, both in London and the neighbourhood, who I know would raise such an outcry as would serve to rid the county of Raikes once and for all. And a better riddance could not well be imagined.
Thus, I argued, in either case my object could not fail, and therefore I determined on the first favourable opportunity to put the matter to a sudden issue. Presently the road narrowed so that we were forced to ride two abreast, and I noticed with a feeling of satisfaction that Raikes purposely reined in so as to bring himself beside me.
"By the way, Sir Richard," says he carelessly, "what of Jack Chester?"
"You possibly allude to my friend Sir John Chester," I corrected.
"To be sure," he answered, staring me in the eyes—"to be sure—Jack Chester." Hereupon the Captain giggled. "They tell me his leg yet troubles him," continued Raikes, seeing I was silent.
"'Tis nearly well," says Bentley, over his shoulder, and at the same time I noticed his great mare began to edge closer to the Captain's light roan.
"Can it be possible?" cried Raikes, in mock surprise. "On my soul, you astonish me!" At this the Captain screeched with laughter again, yet he broke off in the middle to curse instead, as his horse floundered into the ditch.
"Pink my immortal soul, sir!" says he, as he got down to pick up his hat, "but I verily believe that great beast of yours is gone suddenly mad!" And indeed, Bentley's mare was sidling and dancing in a manner that would seem to lend truth to the words.
"No," says Bentley, very solemn, "she has an objection to sudden noises—'twas your laugh frightened her belike."
The Captain muttered a curse or two, wiped the mud from his hat, and climbing back into the saddle, we proceeded upon our way.
"Speaking of Jack Chester," began Raikes, but here he was interrupted by Bentley, who had been regarding us for some time with an uneasy eye.
"Gentlemen," says he, pointing to the finger-post ahead of us, "'tis said Sir Charles d'Arcy was stopped at the cross roads yonder by a highwayman, no later than last night, and he swears the fellow was none other than the famous Jerry Abershaw himself, and he is said to be in these parts yet."
"The devil!" exclaimed the Captain, glancing about apprehensively, while I stared at Bentley in surprise, for this was the first I had heard of it. As for Sir Harry Raikes, he dismissed the subject with a careless shrug, and turned his attention to me once more.
"Speaking of Jack Chester," says he, "I begin to fear that leg of his will never mend."
"Ah?" says I, looking him in the eyes for the first time, "yes?"
"Considering the circumstances," he nodded.
"It would seem that your fears were wasted none the less, sir."
"My dear Sir Richard," he smiled, "as I was saying to some one only the other day, an injured arm—or leg for that matter, has often supplied a lack of courage before now."
As he ended, the Captain began to laugh again, but meeting my eye, stopped, for the moment I had waited for had arrived, and I reined round so suddenly as to throw Sir Harry's horse back upon its haunches.
"Damnation!" he cried, struggling with the plunging animal, "are you mad?"
"Do me the favour to dismount," says I, suiting the action to the word, and throwing my bridle to Bentley.
"And what now?" says Raikes, staring.
"You will perceive that the road here is passably even, and the light still fairly good," says I.
"Highly dramatic, on my soul!" he sneered.
"Sir Harry Raikes," says I, stepping up to his stirrup, "you will notice that I have here a sword and a whip—which shall it be?"
The sneer left his lips on the instant, his face as suddenly grew red, and I saw the veins start out on his temples.
"What," cries he, "is it a fight you're after?"
"Exactly!" says I, and laid my hand upon my small-sword; but at this moment Bentley rode betwixt us.
"By God, you don't, Dick!" says he, laying his great hand upon my shoulder.
"By God, but I do!" says I, endeavouring vainly to shake off his grasp.
"Man, Dick," cries he, "you are a madman—and full six inches shorter in the reach! Now I—"
"You!" I broke in, "you are a mountain—besides, the quarrel is mine—come, loose me, Bentley—loose me, I say."
"No! Devil take me—do you think I'll stand by and see you murdered?"
"Bentley," I cried, "if ever you were friend of mine you will free my arm this instant."
All this time Raikes sat regarding us with a look of such open amusement as came nigh driving me frantic.
"Mr. Bentley," says he, with a flourish of his hat, "I fancy 'twould be as well for Sir Richard were I and Captain Hammersley to ride on before, yet do not loose him till I am out of sight, I beg."
"You hear, Bentley?" says I, trembling with passion. "Come—let us go—fool," I whispered under my breath, "for her sake!" Bentley's fingers twitched upon my arm.
"Ah, I thought so!" he nodded.
"Then quick, do as I bid, and get it over."
"On condition that you settle the affair in the meadow yonder—'tis a better place in all respects," says Bentley, under his breath.
"I care not where it be," says I.
"So," sneered Raikes, "you are bent on fighting, then?"
"In the meadow yonder," nodded Bentley, pointing with his whip to a field that lay beyond the narrow stone bridge, some little distance ahead.
"As you will," says Raikes, shrugging his shoulders; "but whatever the consequences, I call you all to witness that Sir Richard's own impulsiveness is entirely to blame."
So, having remounted, we rode forward, Raikes and the Captain leading the way.
Now as we drew nearer to the bridge I have mentioned, I noticed a solitary figure wrapped in a horseman's cloak who sat upon the coping, seemingly absorbed in watching the flow of the stream beneath. We were almost upon him when he slowly rose to his feet, and as he turned his head I saw that he was masked, and, furthermore, that in either hand he held a long-barrelled pistol.
"Abershaw, by God!" exclaimed the Captain, reining up all of a sudden.
"Stand!" cried a harsh voice, whereupon we all very promptly obeyed with the exception of Raikes, who, striking spurs to his horse, dashed in upon the fellow with raised whip. There was the sound of a blow, a bitter curse, and the heavy whip, whirling harmlessly through the air, splashed down into the stream.
"Ah! would you then?" says the fellow, with the muzzles of the pistols within a foot of Sir Harry's cowering body. "Ah, would you? Curse me, but I've a mind to blow the heart and liver out of you—d'ye take me?"
"I'll see you hanged for this," said Raikes, betwixt his teeth.
"Maybe aye, maybe no," says the fellow, in the same rough yet half-jovial voice, "but for the present come down—get down, d'ye hear?" Muttering oaths, Sir Harry perforce dismounted, and being by this still nearer the threatening muzzles, immediately proceeded to draw out a heavy purse, which he sullenly extended toward the highwayman, who, shifting one pistol to his pocket, took it, weighed it in his hand a moment, and then coolly tossed it over into the stream.
"What the devil!" gasped Raikes, "are you mad?"
"Maybe aye, maybe no," says the fellow, grinning beneath his mask, "but that's neither here nor there, master, the question betwixt us being a coat."
"What coat?" cries Raikes, with a bewildered stare.
"This coat," says the fellow, tapping him upon the arm with his pistol barrel, "and a very passable coat it is—fine velvet, I swear, and as I'm a living sinner, a flowered waistcoat!—come, take 'em off, d'ye hear?"
Very slowly, Sir Harry obeyed, swearing frightfully, while the fellow, sitting upon the parapet of the bridge, swung his legs and watched him.
"Humph!" says he, as if to himself, "buckskin breeches, and boots brand new—burn me!" and then suddenly in a louder tone: "Off with them!"
"What d'ye mean?" snarled Raikes, and his face was murderous.
"What I says," returned the other, with a flourish of his pistols, "such being my natur', d'ye take me? And if the gentleman in the muddy hat moves a finger nearer his barkers, I'll blow his head off—curse me if I won't." Saying which the highwayman began to whistle softly, swinging his legs in time to himself. As for the Captain, the hand which had crept furtively towards his pistols dropped as if it had been shot, and he sat watching the fellow with staring eyes.
And indeed he made a strange, fantastic figure sitting there hunched up in the fading light, with the quick gleam of his ever restless eyes showing through the slits of his hideous half-mask, and the pout of his whistling lips beneath; nay, there was about the whole figure, from the rusty spurs at his heels to the crown of his battered hat, something almost devilish, with an indefinable mockery beyond words.
"Bentley," I whispered, as Raikes slowly kicked off his boots one after the other, "this fellow's a madman beyond a doubt, or we are dreaming." Bentley's reply was something betwixt a groan and a choke, and looking round, I saw that his face was purple.
"Man, don't do that," I cried, "you'll burst a blood-vessel!"
"Come," says the fellow, breaking off his whistle of a sudden, and turning over the garments at his feet with the toe of his boot, "you wouldn't go for to cheat me out of your breeches, would you? Come now, master, off with 'em, I say, for look ye, I mislike to be kept waiting for a thing as I wants—such being my natur', d'ye take me?"
Sir Harry Raikes stood rigid, his face dead white—only his burning eyes and twitching mouth told of the baffled fury that was beyond all words. Twice he essayed to speak and could not—once he turned to look at us with an expression of such hopeless misery and mute appeal as moved even me to pity. As for the highwayman, he began to whistle and swing his legs once more.
"Bentley," says I, "this must go no farther."
"What can we do?" gasped Bentley, and laid his heavy hand upon my arm.
"Come," says the fellow again, rising to his feet.
"No," cries Raikes, in a choking voice, "not for all the devils in hell!"
"I'll count five," grinned the fellow, and he levelled his pistols.
"One!" says he, but Raikes never stirred—"Two," the harsh, inexorable voice went on, "three—four—" There was a sudden wild sob, and Sir Harry Raikes was shivering in his hat and shirt. The highwayman now turned his attention to Raikes's horse—though keeping a wary eye upon us—and having drawn both pistols from their holsters, motioned him to remount. Sir Harry obeyed with never so much as a word; which done, the fellow gave a whistle, upon which a horse appeared from the shadow of the hedge beyond, from whose saddle he took two lengths of cord, and beckoning to the Captain, set him to bind Raikes very securely to the stirrup-leathers. As one in a dream the Captain proceeded about it (bungling somewhat in the operation), but it was done at last.
"Now, my masters," says the fellow briskly, "I must trouble each one of you for his barkers—and no tricks, mark me, no tricks!" With this he nodded to Bentley, who yielded up his weapons after a momentary hesitation, while the Captain seemed positively eager to part with his, and I in my turn was necessitated to do the same.
It may be a matter of wonder to some, that one man could so easily disarm four, but 'tis readily understood if you have looked into the muzzle of a horse-pistol held within a few inches of your head.
Thus, all being completed, the highwayman, having mounted, gave us the word to proceed, Bentley and I riding first, then Raikes and the Captain, and last of all the fellow, pistol in hand. So thus it was, in the dusk of the evening, that we came into Tonbridge Town, with never a word betwixt us—myself silent from sheer amazement, the Captain for reasons of his own, Sir Harry Raikes for very obvious causes, but mostly (as I judge) on account of his chattering teeth, and Bentley because a man cannot whistle "Lillibuleero" beneath his breath and talk at the same time.
Lights were beginning to gleam at windows as we entered the High Street, and here I made sure the highwayman would have left us—but no, on turning my head, there he rode, close behind—his battered hat over his nose, and his pistol in his hand, for all the world as if we were back on the open road rather than the main thoroughfare of a Christian town.
By this time we were become a mark for many eyes; people came running from all sides, the air hummed with voices; shouts were heard, mingled with laughter and jeers, but we rode on, and through it all at a gallop. As we passed "The Chequers" I saw the windows full of faces, and Truscott and Finch with five or six others came running out to stare after us open mouthed. So we galloped through Tonbridge Town, and never drew rein until we were out upon the open road once more. There the fellow stopped us.
"Masters all," says he, "'tis here we part—maybe you'll forget me—maybe not—especially one of you; d'ye take me?" and he pointed to the shivering figure of Raikes. "The wind is plaguily chill I'll allow, but burn me! could I be blamed for that, my masters—what, all silent? Well! Well! Howsomever, give me that trinket, Master—just to show there's no ill-feeling, so to speak; and he indicated a small gold locket that Raikes wore round his neck on a riband, who, without a word, or even looking up, slipped it off and laid it in the other's outstretched hand.
"Well, good-night, my masters, good-night!" says he, in his jovial voice; "maybe we shall meet again, who knows? My best respects to you all—me being respectful by natur'. Good-night." So, with an awkward flourish of his hat, he wheeled his horse and galloped away towards London.
Chapter Five
Concerning the true Identity of our High-wayman
'Twas some half-hour later that we found Jack in his library, seated before the fire, his wine at his elbow and Pen at his feet, reading aloud from Mr. Steele's "Tatler."
Upon our sudden appearance Penelope rose, and looked from myself to Bentley a trifle anxiously I thought. Now, as I made my bow to her, I heard Bentley softly begin to whistle "Lillibuleero," and though I had heard him do so many times before, it suddenly struck me that this was the air the highwayman fellow had whistled as he sat swinging his legs upon the bridge.
"Bentley, to-day is Wednesday!" I expostulated, as breaking off in the middle of a bar, he kissed Pen full upon the lips.
"To be sure it is," says he, and kissed her again upon the cheek.
"And ten o'clock," added Jack, "and time all maids were abed."
"Not before I even matters," says I. "I'll give second place to none, least of all Bentley!" And I having kissed her twice—once upon the cheek for Wednesday, and once upon the lips for myself,—she dropped us a laughing courtesy, and with a final good-night kiss for Jack, and a nod to each of us, ran up to bed. But even then Bentley must needs follow her out to the stairs and stand there whispering his nonsense—which goes but to prove the jealous nature of the man!
"What's to do?" says Jack, pushing the wine towards me. "I've sat here with the cards beside me ever since eight o'clock—what's to do?"
"Why, you must know," I began, "we were stopped at the cross roads by a highwayman—myself and Bentley, with Captain Hammersley and Sir Harry Raikes—"
Here Bentley, returning, must needs throw himself into a chair, laughing and choking all at once.
"Raikes—" he gasped,—"in his shirt—by the Lord! Oh, egad, Jack! fluttering in the wind—"
"What in the world!" began Jack, staring. "Is he drunk or mad?"
"As I tell you," says I, loosening Bentley's cravat, "we were stopped by a highwayman—" and forthwith I plunged into an account of the whole matter.
"Egad!" cries Bentley again, breaking in ere I was half done, "here was Dick offering Raikes a choice betwixt his horsewhip and his sword—and he, look you, a full six inches shorter in the reach, while I—"
"You!" says I, "he couldn't help but pink you somewhere or other at the first pass—"
"Well, Raikes was a-sneering as I say," pursued Bentley, "when up comes our highwayman and coolly strips him to his very shirt, Jack—ties him to his horse, and parades him all through Tonbridge—rat me!—and as I tell you, the wind, Jack—'t was cursedly cold, and—and—oh! strike me purple!" Here Bentley choked again, and while I thumped his back, he and Jack rolled in their chairs, and shook the very casements with their laughter.
"His shirt?" gasped Jack at last, wiping his eyes.
"His shirt," groaned Bentley, wiping his.
"Lord!" cries Jack, "Lord! 'twill be the talk of the town," says he, after a while.
"To be sure it will," says Bentley, and hereupon they fell a-roaring with laughter again. For my part, what betwixt thumping Bentley's back and the memory of Christmas morning now so near, I was sober enough.
They were still howling with laughter, and Bentley's face had already assumed a bluish tinge, when the door opened and a servant appeared, who handed a letter to Jack. Still laughing, he took it and broke the seal; at sight of the first words, however, his face underwent a sudden change. "Is the messenger here?" says he, very sharp.
"No, Sir John."
"Humph!" says Jack, "you may go then;" and he began to read. But he had not read a dozen words when he broke out into his customary oath.
"May the devil anoint me! Did you ever hear the like of that, now?"
"What?" says I.
"I say, did you ever hear the like of it?" he repeated. "Dick and Bentley, this fellow is the very devil!"
"What fellow?" says I.
"Lay you fifty it's Tawnish," gurgled Bentley.
"Done!" says I.
"A deuced pretty coil, on my soul!" says Jack, beginning to limp up and down, "oh, a deuced pretty coil—damn the fellow!"
"What fellow?" says I again.
"Make it a hundred?" says Bentley, in my ear.
"What fellow?" cries Jack, taking me up, "d'ye mean to sit there and ask what fellow—whom should it be?"
"Aye, who indeed?" added Bentley.
"If it's Raikes—" I began.
"Raikes," roars Jack, snatching his wig off, "Raikes—bah!"
"Then supposing you will be so very obliging as to tell us who the devil you do mean?"
"Why, aren't I trying to?" cries Jack, indignantly, "but you give a man no chance between you. Listen to this." And, having re-settled his wig, he drew the candles nearer to him and read as follows:
"'My very dear Sir John—'
("The devil anoint his very dear Sir John!)
"'It gives me infinite pleasure to have the honour of telling you—'
("There's a line for you!)
"'of telling you that the second of my tasks is now accomplished—to wit, that of making Sir Harry Raikes a laughing-stock.'"
"What?" I cried.
"Listen," says Jack.
"'Whether a gentleman riding abroad in naught but his hat and shirt is a sufficiently laughable matter, or an object of derision, depends altogether upon the point of view, and I must leave your friends, namely, Sir Richard Eden and Mr. Bentley, to decide. There remains now but one more undertaking, that of putting you all—together and at the same time—at a disadvantage, which I shall confidently hope to perform so soon as Dame Fortune will permit.
"'I am returning their pistols to Sir Richard Eden and Mr. Bentley to-night.
"'Trusting that you and yours are blooming in all health, I beg to subscribe myself,
"'Your most obedient, humble servant to command,
"'Horatio Tawnish.'"
"Tawnish?" says I.
"Tawnish," says Bentley.
"Tawnish!" says Jack. "Devil take him!"
"By heaven!" says I, remembering the grim, determined figure of the highwayman, "by heaven, he has a man's body beneath his silks and laces after all."
"Egad!" says Jack, sourly, "I almost think you love the fellow."
"On my soul!" says I, "I almost think I do."
Chapter Six
Of the Dawning of Christmas Day
In most lives (as I suppose) there is a time which, looming ahead of us dark and sombre, fills us with a direful expectancy and a thousand boding fears, so that with every dawn we thank God that it is not yet. Still, the respite thus allowed brings us little ease, for the knowledge of its coming haunts us through the day and night, creeping upon us nearer and nearer with every tick of the clock, until the last chime has rung—until the sand is all run down in the glass, and we are left face to face with our destiny to front it as we may.
Christmas Day was dawning. From my window I had watched the first pale light gather little by little beyond the distant trees, until the whole dismal scene had come into view.
It had snowed all night, and now everything showed beneath a white burden that, as I watched, seemed horribly suggestive of shrouds; so I turned from the casement with a shiver, and drawing the curtains, sat down before the fire (which I had mended during the night), dejected in mind, and heavy with lack of sleep. Somewhere further down the corridor I could hear Bentley snoring, and the sound, rising and falling in the quietude with wearisome monotony, irritated my fractious nerves to that degree that I was of half a mind to go and wake him. Since Penelope had left for London, two days before, he and I had been staying with Jack at the Manor. And very silent the great place had seemed without her; Jack had been more fretful than usual, and more than once I had thrown down my cards in a huff, for cards, after all, were a very sorry substitute for our lovely, laughing Pen. Hereupon I must needs fall to thinking of her mother (as indeed I oft do of late)—dead now these twenty years and more. But what are years after all to one who has loved as I? And from the broken threads of my life that was, I began to weave a life of the "might have been"—a fuller, richer life, perfected by love, and a woman's sweet companionship—so very different to the lonely life that was mine. Well, she had decreed otherwise,—and now—now she was dead—and I an old man, and lonely. But Jack had loved her passing well, and he was lonely too—and Bentley likewise—Bentley, who was snoring like a grampus. I rose, and slipping on some clothes, stepped out into the corridor. But with my hand upon the latch of his bedroom door I stopped, and changing my mind, went down the stairs to the library. To my surprise the candles were still burning, and through the open door I saw Jack sprawled across the table, his face buried in his hands, and beside him Penelope's miniature. Now as I stood there hesitating, I saw his shoulders heaving very strangely, wherefore, turning about, I began to creep softly up the stairs again, lest he should find himself discovered. Half-way up, however, I heard the scrape of his chair as he rose, and a moment after the sound of his step, firm and resolute as ever, noting which I turned and came down again, coughing very naturally as I reached the last stair.
"Ah, Dick!" says he, as he turned and saw me, "A Merry Christmas to thee."
Now it had ever been our custom, since he and I and Bentley were lads together at Charterhouse, at this so happy season to greet each other thus, but for once I found the words to stick most woefully, and for no reason in the world my eyes wandered from his face to the miniature upon the table, seeing which he picked it up—yet kept it covered in his hand.
"Dick," says he, staring up at the cornice very hard, "we loved her mother well—passing well—you, and Bentley, and I."
"Aye," says I, "we did."
"This was the first great sorrow of my life—that by my happiness you two were rendered desolate," says he, laying his hand upon my shoulder.
"No, no," says I.
"Yes," says he, "think you I have been so blind, Dick?"
"You were her choice," says I.
"True, I was her choice," he repeated, "and methinks it came nigh breaking both your hearts, yet you were my friends still—the old bonds were too strong for self to break them."
"'T were a poor friendship else," says I.
"And now, Dick," says he, with his eyes on the cornice again, "there is Pen," and I saw his lips quiver slightly.
"Aye," I nodded, "there's Pen—our Pen."
I felt his fingers tighten on my shoulder, but he was silent.
"When I go out to-day," says he at last, and stopped.
"When I go out to-day—" he began once more, and stopped again; then, with a sudden gesture, he thrust the miniature into my hand. "You and Bentley!" says he, and turned to the papers that littered the table. "You understand?" says he, over his shoulder.
"Yes," says I, from the window, gazing across the bleak, grey desolation of the park. "Yes, I understand."
"I've been setting my papers in order, Dick,—a hard business," says he, with a rueful shake of the head, "a hard business, Dick—and now I'm minded to write a few lines to her, and that methinks will be harder yet." And passing his hand wearily over his brow, he took up his pen.
"Oh Jack—Jack," says I, suddenly, "there may be hope yet—"
"None," says he, quietly; "I was ever a fool with the small-sword, as you will remember, Dick. But I do not repine—you and Bentley are left."
So I presently went up-stairs again, and this time I did not pass Bentley's door, but entering, found him already nearly dressed, and as I live!—a-whistling of his eternal "Lillibuleero."
"Bentley," says I, sharply, "you surely forget what day it is?"
"No," says he, reaching out his hand with a smile. "A Merry Christmas, Dick!"
But seeing my look, and how I shrank from his proffered hand, his face grew solemn all in a moment.
"Good God, man!" I cried, "cannot you understand!" and with the words, I held up the miniature before his eyes. "From to-day she is in our care alone—her mother died twenty years ago—and to-day—poor Jack—oh, damn your Merry Christmas!—are you so utterly heartless and without feeling, or only a blind fool?"
And with this I turned my back fairly upon him and hurried from the room.
Chapter Seven
Which deals, among other Matters, withthe Ring of Steel
My anger toward Bentley, sudden though it may appear, was scarcely the outcome of the moment. I could not but call to mind the thousand little things he had both done and said during the past weeks that demonstrated the strange indifference he had shown toward the whole affair. Thus, as the day advanced, my feeling against him grew but the more intense. Looking back on it now, I am inclined to put this down partly to the reason already stated, partly to lack of sleep, and partly to the carking care that had gnawed at my heart all these weeks—though even now I am inclined to think that his conduct, as I then viewed it, justified my resentment.
I noticed as the day advanced that he seemed to be labouring under some strong excitement, and more than once he manifested a desire to speak with me aside, but I took good care to give him no opportunity. At length, however, Jack chancing to be out of the room for a moment, he seized me by the arm ere I could escape him.
"Dick—" he began.
"Sir!" I cut in, shaking myself free of him, "whatever explanation you may have to offer for your strange, and—yes, sir—utterly heartless conduct of late, I beg that you will let it stand until this most unhappy affair is over—I'm in no mood for it now." He fell back from me, staring as one utterly bewildered for a moment, then he smiled.
"If you will but listen, Dick—"
"Sir," says I, drawing away from him, "I have asked no explanation at your hands, and desire none—the callousness which you have shown so persistently of late has utterly broken down and severed once and for all whatever feeling of friendship I may have entertained for you hitherto."
"You don't mean it—you can never mean it," says he, stretching out an eager hand towards me. "Dick, do but listen—"
"Mean it, sir!" I repeated, "I tell you it is but the memory of that dead friendship which stays me from calling upon you to account to me with your sword."
"But," he stammered, "you—you would never—you could never—"
"Enough, sir," says I, "I have no desire for further speech with you—save that it would be well at least to keep up an appearance of the old relationship, until this affair is over and done with."
"Why, Dick!" says he, his lips twitching strangely, "why—Dick!" and with the word he turned suddenly and left me.
The duel had been settled for twelve o'clock, and it was exactly half after eleven by my chronometer when a servant came to warn us that the coach was at the door. So we presently descended and got in with never a word betwixt us. When men know each other so thoroughly, there is no need for the mask of gaiety to be held up as is usual at such times; thus we rode very silent and thoughtful for the most part, until we heard Purdy, the surgeon, hailing us from where he stood waiting at the cross roads as had been arranged.
"Well, sirs," says he, nodding and frowning at us in his sharp way as he took his seat, "and how is the foot?"
"Right as a trivet!" says Jack.
"I question that," says Purdy, dogmatically; "that tendon cannot be well for a full month yet—curse me if it can! They tell me," he went on, "that the other side has young Prothero—gentlemen, mark my words!—Prothero's a stark, staring fool—a positive ass!—A man breaks his leg—'Give him a clyster!' says Prothero. A child has teething-rash!—'A clyster! a clyster!' cries Prothero. A boy has the collywobbles or mumps—'A clyster!' says Prothero. Mark me, gentlemen, should Sir John here pink his man, depend upon it Prothero will finish him with a clyster!"
This journey, which I had made a thousand times and more, never seemed so short as it did upon this Christmas morning, yet I for one experienced a feeling akin to relief as we were ushered into the sanded parlour of "The Chequers."
We found Raikes arrived before us, seated at a table with Hammersley, Finch, and four or five others whose faces were familiar, and a heathenish uproar they were making. Upon our entrance they fell silent, however, and exchanged bows with us ere we sat down.
If the episode of the shirt was not forgot, 'twas at least accounted by most the wiser policy to let it so appear, though all Tonbridge—nay, all the country round—rung with the story behind Sir Harry's back, and indeed (as I well know) 'tis laughed over by many to this day.
And now being here, and noting the cleared floor and the other preparations for what was to follow, and looking at Jack beside me so full of strength and life, and bethinking me of what he might be so very soon, a deadly nausea came upon me, such as I had never felt before on such occasions, so that I was forced to sit down.
"Nay, Dick," says Jack, shaking his head, "I have no mind to wait; get it over for me as soon as may be."
"No, no," says Bentley, sharply, "at least let us have a bottle of wine first," and on this point he was so insistent that Jack was ultimately forced to give in to him, though even then Bentley seemed ill-content, for he fell to fidgetting awkwardly in his chair, and compared his chronometer with the clock full a dozen times in as many minutes.
The crowd at the other table grew uproarious again, and more than once I heard the Captain's high-pitched laugh.
"Bentley," says I, "'tis past twelve o'clock."
"Yes," says he, and began straightway upon "Lillibuleero."
Jack started and looked up.
"Come, Dick, let us begin at once."
"The wine's not all out yet," says Bentley, with his eyes upon the clock again; and now I noticed for the first time that his cheeks were devoid of all colour and his face seemed strangely peaked and haggard.
At this moment, Jack rising, I had perforce to do the same, seeing which the party at the other table ceased their uproar of a sudden and a deep silence fell as Captain Hammersley advanced to meet me, and having bowed, spun a coin in the air to decide choice of ground.
"Jack," says I, as I rejoined him, "you will fight with your back to the door, though there is little difference save that the wall is a trifle lighter there, and will make you less conspicuous."
Jack nodded, and with Bentley's aid, began removing his coat and waistcoat.
"Dick," says Bentley, in my ear, speaking in a strange, uneven voice, such as I had never heard from his lips before, while Jack busied himself untying his cravat—"Dick, they must not—shall not fight," and I saw that the sweat stood out in great drops upon his brow.
"In God's name, Bentley, what's to stop them now?" says I, whereupon he turned away with a strange wringing motion of his hands, and seeing how those hands trembled, I became aware that mine were doing the same.
"Be so good as to take your ground, gentlemen," said Captain Hammersley, advancing with the small-swords beneath his arm. Jack stepped forward at once, followed a moment later by Raikes. Each in turn took his weapon, saluted, and fell to his guard.
I was just holding the crossed blades and Hammersley had scarce begun the count, when there arose a sudden clamour without, the door was flung open, and Mr. Tawnish stood bowing upon the threshold.
"Ah!" says he, tripping forward daintily, in one hand his handkerchief, while with the other he gracefully waved his laced hat, "an affair of honour, I perceive. On my soul now, it gives me real pain to intrude myself thus—it desolates me, positively it does—but, gentlemen, this cannot go on."
"Cannot go on—the devil, sir!" broke in the Captain loudly, "and who says so?"
"I say so, sir," returned Mr. Tawnish, with his slow smile, "and should you care to hear it, I'll say so again, sir."
"On what grounds?" says Hammersley, frowning.
"On the grounds that mine is the prior claim to the sword of Sir Harry Raikes."
"Bah!" cries Raikes, with a short laugh, "give the count, Hammersley, and we will begin."
Mr. Tawnish closed and fobbed his snuff-box.
"I think not, sir," says he, very quietly.
"Mr. Tawnish," says Jack, "I have waited over a month to fight this gentleman."
"Sir John," says Tawnish, bowing, "your pardon, but I have waited even longer—"
"Whatever quarrel you may have with me, sir," Raikes broke in, "shall wait my time and pleasure."
"I think not," says Mr. Tawnish again, his smile more engaging and his blue eyes more dreamy than ever; "on the contrary, I have a reason here which I venture to hope will make you change your mind."
"A reason?" says Raikes, starting as he met the other's look. "What reason?"
"That!" says Mr. Tawnish, and tossed something to Sir Harry's feet.
Now as it lay there upon the sand, I saw that it was a small gold locket. For maybe a full minute there was a dead silence, while Raikes stared down at the locket, and Mr. Tawnish took a pinch of snuff.
"Who gave you this?" says Raikes suddenly, and in a strange voice.
Mr. Tawnish flicked-to the enamelled lid of his snuff-box very delicately with one white finger.
"I took it," says he, blandly, "from a poor devil who sat shivering in his shirt."
"You!" says Raikes, in so low a tone as to be almost a whisper—"you?"
"I," returned Mr. Tawnish, with a bow.
"Liar!" says Raikes, in the same dangerously suppressed murmur.
"As to that," says Mr. Tawnish, shrugging his shoulders, "I will leave you to judge for yourself, sir."
With the words, he slipped off his wig and turned his back to us for a moment. When he fronted us again, there stood our highwayman, his restless eyes gleaming evilly through the slits of his half-mask, the mocking smile upon his lips, the same grotesque figure beyond all doubt, despite his silks and laces.