CHAPTER XXIITHE LASTIn the end it was neither his Grace nor I who broke the spell. Mr. Waring took the wisp of straw from his teeth, and says:"Tiverton, my dear fellow, you amuse me.""I rather amuse myself," says I, a little wearily. "We are come to the last act in this somewhat pitiful poor-hearted sort of farce, and I suppose we must continue furiously to laugh until the curtain is rung down.""Of course, my dear fellow, of course," says Waring. "But before we do so, would it not be as well if we had a few brief explanations in the true stage manner? In the first place, may I ask why you so persistently shun the society of the one person who is the most likely to contribute something towards setting you right in the eyes of the world?""I confess I do not understand you," says I."Then I am sorry for it," says my rival, with a strange frank smile. "For, after all, the person I refer to is myself.""You?" says I.The incredulity in my voice caused the man to open his snuff-box very deliberately, and to offer its contents to me."Perhaps, after all," says he, "there is no particular reason why you should take my meaning. For you have doubtless forgotten that I am the only person now alive who was privileged to witness a certain incident. But that of course may be a fact you may wish to forget; or the incident in question may be too trifling for your recollection. In any case I ask your pardon if I weary you.""On the contrary," says I coldly, "you interest me vastly.""The topic is one I should crave your pardon for mentioning," says the other, with his baffling air; "were not your interest so greatly at stake. I presume you are not unacquainted with the construction the world hath already put upon this matter?""I am not," says I curtly."Then I hope, my dear fellow," says Waring, "you will accept a service, however slight, at my hands. My testimony may be of some little value to you before a jury of your peers."My rival held out his hand with a jovial grace. I stood looking at it, groping, with the wine still in my brain. For the candour sparkling in the fellow's eyes was a thing I had never seen in that place before; the winning earnestness of it was so hard to realize that it overwhelmed me. The bitter truth suddenly poured into my heart like a torrent."My God," says I, "all this time I have been weighing your character by the measure of my own. Is it not ever the fate of the mean and the little to do so? You have been the phantom, from whom we have fled. The phantom, however, was not in a chaise and pair, but in our own hearts!""The old fault, Tiverton, I protest," says Waring. "What a trite, pragmatical, moralizing fellow it is! I do hope you will not, like your damned old ancestor, lay a burden on an unprovoking posterity and write a book.""Ecod, I will," says I, "one day. I will take a revenge of my mean mind by exhibiting it naked to the sneers of the world. But in the meantime, Waring, I must show you in your true colours to my little Cynthia. Even her feminine penetration had not divined them."It was a light word, lightly uttered; and I cursed myself. The man was as pale as his neckcloth, and the old mocking whimsicality—alas! I had nearly writ ugliness—was in his eyes. There was but an instant in which this was to be observed, however, for with shaking fingers he opened his snuff-box, and regained possession of himself.I offered him my hand."Waring," says I, "we cannot ever be friends. You will continue to loathe me as you would a thief; and I on my part shall continue to hate you for the consummate hypocrite and charlatan you are. But, curse my jacket, sir! as a dilettante in the arts, as a lover of the beautiful, I shall reverence for ever your singularly noble character.""Then I am repaid," says this cynical, candid devil. "'Tis the reward I had looked for, my good Tiverton, that you, robber and ruffian as you are, whose foremost desire will ever be to put an inch of steel in my heart, should yet be condemned to lay your neck in the dust while Humphrey Waring walks upon it. I do not think I could desire a prettier revenge. 'Tis a dear pretty chit, though."Involuntarily his eyes wandered across the room to Cynthia. Mine followed them, in spite of myself, jealously. It was then I saw that a strange thing had happened. Father and daughter were seated together, tears streaming down their faces, locked in one another's arms."Your victory is completer than I had supposed," says my rival coolly.At the moment I did not perceive the full force of his meaning. An instant later, however, I had that felicity. The old man in a broken voice called me over to him. The tears still streamed down his cheeks."I am a foolish, fond old man," says his Grace. "Curse it all, was there ever such a damned, snuffling, weak old fool as I am! Ecod, I must be very old. How old am I, Humphrey?""Eighty-two in December, Duke.""Curse me, so I am," says his Grace. "If I hadn't been so old—if I had been eighty now, if I had been eighty—I would 'a broken a stick across your shoulders, miss, and I would 'a peppered your hide with lead, young what's-your-name. But as I'm so old, 'od's lud! I suppose I must be benevolent. Miss says she loves you, young man—don't you, my pretty pet?—And she says you love her, so I suppose you had better marry her. Humphrey won't mind; will you, Humphrey? You be an old bachelor, and don't be plagued with daughters. But I forget the fellow's name; what's his name, Humphrey?""Tiverton," says Humphrey."Of course," says the Duke. "Knew your father, young man; thin man with a bald head and no chin; used to stutter when he got excited. Knew your grandfather too. Of course I knew your grandfather, he, he, he! Was at Eton with him. Great man, your grandfather; writ a pamphlet or something. Dirty little varlet at Eton; had red hair. What is the amount of your debts, young man? I suppose I must pay 'em, though why I don't know. But we'll go into it to-morrow, young Tiverton. I must go to bed. Give me your shoulder, Humphrey."Here is the end of my prosaic history. The Duke's credit and influence, and Mr. Waring's testimony averted those calamities that had been such a nightmare to us. We also had the banns cried; and were married all over again by Parson Scriven, lest any irregularities in regard to the union of Jane Smith and John Jones, or Jane Jones and John Smith, should recoil on their heirs. Mr. Waring lives on his property in Ireland, troubles Saint James's little, and Devonshire less. Mr. Sadler, as I have said, came to be hanged. No man of the world was more courteous and polite than he; no man was more genial; yet I should be the last to deny that his fate was richly merited. Even in the very moment of our reconciliation on that eventful night, he stole away. A pair of cameos of great price went with him, I grieve to say. It may, of course, have been his boast that he too was a lover of the beautiful.THE ENDLONDON: WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED.WARD, LOCK & CO.'SSevenpenny Net NovelsCloth Gilt. With frontispiece, and attractive coloured wrapper, 7d. net.Fiction-lovers have welcomed the appearance in this dainty and attractive form of some of the best work of leading modern novelists. All the stories included are copyright and of proved popularity. The type is large and readable, and the neat cloth binding renders the volumes worthy of permanent preservation.THE GARDEN OF LIES.JUSTUS MILES FORMANThe novel with which Mr. Forman attained popularity. A real romance, full of vigour, passion and charm.ANNA, THE ADVENTURESS.E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIMMr. Oppenheim excels himself in this story, which has been the most successful of all his novels.RAINBOW ISLAND.LOUIS TRACY."Should be hailed with joyous shouts of welcome."—The Literary World.THE IMPOSTOR.HAROLD BINDLOSS.Will live and always rank as its author's most powerful and engrossing work.THE MOTHER.EDEN PHILLPOTTS."This is Mr. Phillpotts' best book," saidThe Daily Telegraph.A STUDY IN SCARLET.(The first book about Sherlock Holmes.)A. CONAN DOYLE."One of the cleverest and best detective stories we have seen."—London Quarterly Review.A MAKER OF HISTORY.E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM.Mr. Oppenheim's skill has never been displayed to better advantage.BUCHANAN'S WIFE.JUSTUS M. FORMAN.A thoroughly fine book from start to finish.THE PILLAR OF LIGHT.LOUIS TRACY.A wonderfully fascinating and breathlessly exciting story, told in Mr. Tracy's best style.A BID FOR FORTUNE.GUY BOOTHBY.The first and best of all the exciting adventures of Dr. Nikola.THE DAY OF TEMPTATION.WILLIAM LE QUEUX.An enthralling mystery tale.THE BEAUTIFUL WHITE DEVIL.GUY BOOTHBY.A more exciting romance no man could reasonably ask for.WHEN I WAS CZAR.A. W. MARCHMONT.A really brilliant novel, full of dramatic incident and smart dialogue.THE CRIMSON BLIND.FRED M. WHITE.One of the most ingeniously conceived detective stories ever written.THE LODESTAR.MAX PEMBERTON.A fine and distinguished romance.IN WHITE RAIMENT.WILLIAM LE QUEUX.Absolutely the most puzzling and enthralling of Mr. Le Queux's many popular romances.NOT PROVEN.ALICE AND CLAUDE ASKEW.The finest emotional and entertaining story these authors have written.YOUNG LORD STRANLEIGH.ROBERT BARR."The most amusing and at the same time the most exciting novel of the year."—Manchester Courier.THE DUST OF CONFLICT.HAROLD BINDLOSS.Another excellent story of adventure comparable to its Author's great success "The Impostor."TWO BAD BLUE EYES."RITA."A delightfully charming and exciting story of strong human interest.MR WINGRAVE, MILLIONAIRE.E. P. OPPENHEIM.A rattling good novel of remarkable power and fascination.THE CORNER HOUSE.FRED M. WHITE.Crammed with sensation and mystery—an excellent romance that will be eagerly read.IN STRANGE COMPANY.GUY BOOTHBY.A capital novel of the sensational-adventurous order.THE SPORTING CHANCE.A. AND C. ASKEW.A bright and alluring story that is well worth reading.THE GOLD WOLF.MAX PEMBERTON.Throbbing with interest and excitement from start to finish.THE SECRET.E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM."One of the most engrossing stories we have read."—Daily Telegraph.A DAMAGED REPUTATION.HAROLD BINDLOSS."Once more we repeat that Mr. Bindloss has stepped into the shoes of the late Seton Merriman."—Daily Mail.THE SOUL OF GOLD.JUSTUS MILES FORMAN.This story has been acclaimed byThe Daily Telegraphas worthy of much praise and cleverly worked out.THE MARRIAGE OF ESTHER.GUY BOOTHBY.A story full of action, life, and dramatic interest.LADY BARBARITY.J. C. SNAITH."'Lady Barbarity' would cheer a pessimist in a November fog."—Black and White.BY WIT OF WOMAN.A. W. MARCHMONT.The ingenuity of this exciting story positively takes one's breath away.LOUIS TRACY.THE WHEEL O' FORTUNE.A bright and breezy adventure story.THE SLAVE OF SILENCE.FRED M. WHITE.Plot and counterplot, mystery and excitement, sentiment and romance—all skilfully blended.DARBY AND JOAN."RITA."One of Rita's most enthralling tales.THE RED CHANCELLOR.SIR WILLIAM MAGNAY.A romantic and breathlessly exciting yarn.THE TEMPTRESS.WILLIAM LE QUEUX.A fascinating mystery story of holding interest.PRO PATRIA.MAX PEMBERTONShows Mr. Pemberton at his best.THE FASCINATION OF THE KING.GUY BOOTHBY.Fairly bristles with thrilling passages, exciting adventures, and hairbreadth escapes.WILD SHEBA.ALICE AND CLAUDE ASKEW.Brimful of life and amusement.BY SNARE OF LOVE.A. W. MARCHMONT.One of the most rousing romances of modern times.BENEATH HER STATION.HAROLD BINDLOSS.A powerful and well written story of hardihood, love and adventure.HOPE MY WIFE.L. G. MOBERLY.Provides much sentiment and pathos.THE MISSIONER.E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM.Deeply engrossing as a novel, pure in style, and practically faultless as a literary work.THE MESSAGE OF FATE.LOUIS TRACY.Written in a clear and crisp style, the story abounds with thrilling situations, in which love, jealousy, intrigue and mystery play an important part.THE WAYFARERS.J. C. SNAITH.Pulsing with strong healthy life, and brimming over with incident.TOMMY CARTERET.JUSTUS MILES FORMAN.Another triumph from the pen of the author of "The Garden of Lies," "Buchanan's Wife," etc.
In the end it was neither his Grace nor I who broke the spell. Mr. Waring took the wisp of straw from his teeth, and says:
"Tiverton, my dear fellow, you amuse me."
"I rather amuse myself," says I, a little wearily. "We are come to the last act in this somewhat pitiful poor-hearted sort of farce, and I suppose we must continue furiously to laugh until the curtain is rung down."
"Of course, my dear fellow, of course," says Waring. "But before we do so, would it not be as well if we had a few brief explanations in the true stage manner? In the first place, may I ask why you so persistently shun the society of the one person who is the most likely to contribute something towards setting you right in the eyes of the world?"
"I confess I do not understand you," says I.
"Then I am sorry for it," says my rival, with a strange frank smile. "For, after all, the person I refer to is myself."
"You?" says I.
The incredulity in my voice caused the man to open his snuff-box very deliberately, and to offer its contents to me.
"Perhaps, after all," says he, "there is no particular reason why you should take my meaning. For you have doubtless forgotten that I am the only person now alive who was privileged to witness a certain incident. But that of course may be a fact you may wish to forget; or the incident in question may be too trifling for your recollection. In any case I ask your pardon if I weary you."
"On the contrary," says I coldly, "you interest me vastly."
"The topic is one I should crave your pardon for mentioning," says the other, with his baffling air; "were not your interest so greatly at stake. I presume you are not unacquainted with the construction the world hath already put upon this matter?"
"I am not," says I curtly.
"Then I hope, my dear fellow," says Waring, "you will accept a service, however slight, at my hands. My testimony may be of some little value to you before a jury of your peers."
My rival held out his hand with a jovial grace. I stood looking at it, groping, with the wine still in my brain. For the candour sparkling in the fellow's eyes was a thing I had never seen in that place before; the winning earnestness of it was so hard to realize that it overwhelmed me. The bitter truth suddenly poured into my heart like a torrent.
"My God," says I, "all this time I have been weighing your character by the measure of my own. Is it not ever the fate of the mean and the little to do so? You have been the phantom, from whom we have fled. The phantom, however, was not in a chaise and pair, but in our own hearts!"
"The old fault, Tiverton, I protest," says Waring. "What a trite, pragmatical, moralizing fellow it is! I do hope you will not, like your damned old ancestor, lay a burden on an unprovoking posterity and write a book."
"Ecod, I will," says I, "one day. I will take a revenge of my mean mind by exhibiting it naked to the sneers of the world. But in the meantime, Waring, I must show you in your true colours to my little Cynthia. Even her feminine penetration had not divined them."
It was a light word, lightly uttered; and I cursed myself. The man was as pale as his neckcloth, and the old mocking whimsicality—alas! I had nearly writ ugliness—was in his eyes. There was but an instant in which this was to be observed, however, for with shaking fingers he opened his snuff-box, and regained possession of himself.
I offered him my hand.
"Waring," says I, "we cannot ever be friends. You will continue to loathe me as you would a thief; and I on my part shall continue to hate you for the consummate hypocrite and charlatan you are. But, curse my jacket, sir! as a dilettante in the arts, as a lover of the beautiful, I shall reverence for ever your singularly noble character."
"Then I am repaid," says this cynical, candid devil. "'Tis the reward I had looked for, my good Tiverton, that you, robber and ruffian as you are, whose foremost desire will ever be to put an inch of steel in my heart, should yet be condemned to lay your neck in the dust while Humphrey Waring walks upon it. I do not think I could desire a prettier revenge. 'Tis a dear pretty chit, though."
Involuntarily his eyes wandered across the room to Cynthia. Mine followed them, in spite of myself, jealously. It was then I saw that a strange thing had happened. Father and daughter were seated together, tears streaming down their faces, locked in one another's arms.
"Your victory is completer than I had supposed," says my rival coolly.
At the moment I did not perceive the full force of his meaning. An instant later, however, I had that felicity. The old man in a broken voice called me over to him. The tears still streamed down his cheeks.
"I am a foolish, fond old man," says his Grace. "Curse it all, was there ever such a damned, snuffling, weak old fool as I am! Ecod, I must be very old. How old am I, Humphrey?"
"Eighty-two in December, Duke."
"Curse me, so I am," says his Grace. "If I hadn't been so old—if I had been eighty now, if I had been eighty—I would 'a broken a stick across your shoulders, miss, and I would 'a peppered your hide with lead, young what's-your-name. But as I'm so old, 'od's lud! I suppose I must be benevolent. Miss says she loves you, young man—don't you, my pretty pet?—And she says you love her, so I suppose you had better marry her. Humphrey won't mind; will you, Humphrey? You be an old bachelor, and don't be plagued with daughters. But I forget the fellow's name; what's his name, Humphrey?"
"Tiverton," says Humphrey.
"Of course," says the Duke. "Knew your father, young man; thin man with a bald head and no chin; used to stutter when he got excited. Knew your grandfather too. Of course I knew your grandfather, he, he, he! Was at Eton with him. Great man, your grandfather; writ a pamphlet or something. Dirty little varlet at Eton; had red hair. What is the amount of your debts, young man? I suppose I must pay 'em, though why I don't know. But we'll go into it to-morrow, young Tiverton. I must go to bed. Give me your shoulder, Humphrey."
Here is the end of my prosaic history. The Duke's credit and influence, and Mr. Waring's testimony averted those calamities that had been such a nightmare to us. We also had the banns cried; and were married all over again by Parson Scriven, lest any irregularities in regard to the union of Jane Smith and John Jones, or Jane Jones and John Smith, should recoil on their heirs. Mr. Waring lives on his property in Ireland, troubles Saint James's little, and Devonshire less. Mr. Sadler, as I have said, came to be hanged. No man of the world was more courteous and polite than he; no man was more genial; yet I should be the last to deny that his fate was richly merited. Even in the very moment of our reconciliation on that eventful night, he stole away. A pair of cameos of great price went with him, I grieve to say. It may, of course, have been his boast that he too was a lover of the beautiful.
THE END
Cloth Gilt. With frontispiece, and attractive coloured wrapper, 7d. net.
Fiction-lovers have welcomed the appearance in this dainty and attractive form of some of the best work of leading modern novelists. All the stories included are copyright and of proved popularity. The type is large and readable, and the neat cloth binding renders the volumes worthy of permanent preservation.
THE GARDEN OF LIES.
JUSTUS MILES FORMAN
The novel with which Mr. Forman attained popularity. A real romance, full of vigour, passion and charm.
ANNA, THE ADVENTURESS.
E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM
Mr. Oppenheim excels himself in this story, which has been the most successful of all his novels.
RAINBOW ISLAND.
LOUIS TRACY.
"Should be hailed with joyous shouts of welcome."—The Literary World.
THE IMPOSTOR.
HAROLD BINDLOSS.
Will live and always rank as its author's most powerful and engrossing work.
THE MOTHER.
EDEN PHILLPOTTS.
"This is Mr. Phillpotts' best book," saidThe Daily Telegraph.
A STUDY IN SCARLET.
(The first book about Sherlock Holmes.)
A. CONAN DOYLE.
"One of the cleverest and best detective stories we have seen."—London Quarterly Review.
A MAKER OF HISTORY.
E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM.
Mr. Oppenheim's skill has never been displayed to better advantage.
BUCHANAN'S WIFE.
JUSTUS M. FORMAN.
A thoroughly fine book from start to finish.
THE PILLAR OF LIGHT.
LOUIS TRACY.
A wonderfully fascinating and breathlessly exciting story, told in Mr. Tracy's best style.
A BID FOR FORTUNE.
GUY BOOTHBY.
The first and best of all the exciting adventures of Dr. Nikola.
THE DAY OF TEMPTATION.
WILLIAM LE QUEUX.
An enthralling mystery tale.
THE BEAUTIFUL WHITE DEVIL.
GUY BOOTHBY.
A more exciting romance no man could reasonably ask for.
WHEN I WAS CZAR.
A. W. MARCHMONT.
A really brilliant novel, full of dramatic incident and smart dialogue.
THE CRIMSON BLIND.
FRED M. WHITE.
One of the most ingeniously conceived detective stories ever written.
THE LODESTAR.
MAX PEMBERTON.
A fine and distinguished romance.
IN WHITE RAIMENT.
WILLIAM LE QUEUX.
Absolutely the most puzzling and enthralling of Mr. Le Queux's many popular romances.
NOT PROVEN.
ALICE AND CLAUDE ASKEW.
The finest emotional and entertaining story these authors have written.
YOUNG LORD STRANLEIGH.
ROBERT BARR.
"The most amusing and at the same time the most exciting novel of the year."—Manchester Courier.
THE DUST OF CONFLICT.
HAROLD BINDLOSS.
Another excellent story of adventure comparable to its Author's great success "The Impostor."
TWO BAD BLUE EYES.
"RITA."
A delightfully charming and exciting story of strong human interest.
MR WINGRAVE, MILLIONAIRE.
E. P. OPPENHEIM.
A rattling good novel of remarkable power and fascination.
THE CORNER HOUSE.
FRED M. WHITE.
Crammed with sensation and mystery—an excellent romance that will be eagerly read.
IN STRANGE COMPANY.
GUY BOOTHBY.
A capital novel of the sensational-adventurous order.
THE SPORTING CHANCE.
A. AND C. ASKEW.
A bright and alluring story that is well worth reading.
THE GOLD WOLF.
MAX PEMBERTON.
Throbbing with interest and excitement from start to finish.
THE SECRET.
E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM.
"One of the most engrossing stories we have read."—Daily Telegraph.
A DAMAGED REPUTATION.
HAROLD BINDLOSS.
"Once more we repeat that Mr. Bindloss has stepped into the shoes of the late Seton Merriman."—Daily Mail.
THE SOUL OF GOLD.
JUSTUS MILES FORMAN.
This story has been acclaimed byThe Daily Telegraphas worthy of much praise and cleverly worked out.
THE MARRIAGE OF ESTHER.
GUY BOOTHBY.
A story full of action, life, and dramatic interest.
LADY BARBARITY.
J. C. SNAITH.
"'Lady Barbarity' would cheer a pessimist in a November fog."—Black and White.
BY WIT OF WOMAN.
A. W. MARCHMONT.
The ingenuity of this exciting story positively takes one's breath away.
LOUIS TRACY.
THE WHEEL O' FORTUNE.
A bright and breezy adventure story.
THE SLAVE OF SILENCE.
FRED M. WHITE.
Plot and counterplot, mystery and excitement, sentiment and romance—all skilfully blended.
DARBY AND JOAN.
"RITA."
One of Rita's most enthralling tales.
THE RED CHANCELLOR.
SIR WILLIAM MAGNAY.
A romantic and breathlessly exciting yarn.
THE TEMPTRESS.
WILLIAM LE QUEUX.
A fascinating mystery story of holding interest.
PRO PATRIA.
MAX PEMBERTON
Shows Mr. Pemberton at his best.
THE FASCINATION OF THE KING.
GUY BOOTHBY.
Fairly bristles with thrilling passages, exciting adventures, and hairbreadth escapes.
WILD SHEBA.
ALICE AND CLAUDE ASKEW.
Brimful of life and amusement.
BY SNARE OF LOVE.
A. W. MARCHMONT.
One of the most rousing romances of modern times.
BENEATH HER STATION.
HAROLD BINDLOSS.
A powerful and well written story of hardihood, love and adventure.
HOPE MY WIFE.
L. G. MOBERLY.
Provides much sentiment and pathos.
THE MISSIONER.
E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM.
Deeply engrossing as a novel, pure in style, and practically faultless as a literary work.
THE MESSAGE OF FATE.
LOUIS TRACY.
Written in a clear and crisp style, the story abounds with thrilling situations, in which love, jealousy, intrigue and mystery play an important part.
THE WAYFARERS.
J. C. SNAITH.
Pulsing with strong healthy life, and brimming over with incident.
TOMMY CARTERET.
JUSTUS MILES FORMAN.
Another triumph from the pen of the author of "The Garden of Lies," "Buchanan's Wife," etc.