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Title: The Honourable Mr. Tawnish
Author: Farnol, Jeffery, 1878-1952
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Honourable Mr. Tawnish" ***
[Illustration: Very slowly Sir Harry obeyed, swearing frightfully.
_Frontispiece._ _See page 104._]
THE HONOURABLE
MR. TAWNISH
BY
JEFFERY FARNOL
AUTHOR OF "THE BROAD HIGHWAY," AND
"THE AMATEUR GENTLEMAN"
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
CHARLES E. BROCK
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1913
_Copyright_, 1913,
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
----------
_All rights reserved_
Published, October, 1913
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
TO
DOROTHY
THE BEST AND GENTLEST OF SISTERS
THE TRUEST AND BRAVEST OF COMRADES
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK
JEFFREY FARNOL
LONDON, August 28, 1913
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I Introducing Mr. Tawnish, and what
befell at "The Chequers" 1
II Of the further astonishing conduct of
the said Mr. Tawnish 39
III Of a Flight of Steps, a Stirrup, and a
Stone 70
IV Of how We fell in with a Highwayman
at the Cross Roads 87
V Concerning the true Identity of our
Highwayman 113
VI Of the Dawning of Christmas Day 123
VII Which deals, among other Matters,
with the Ring of Steel 132
VIII Wherein the Truth of the old Adage
is made manifest--to wit: All's
well that ends well 152
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Very slowly, Sir Harry obeyed, swearing
frightfully _Frontispiece_
"I believe I have the felicity of addressing
Sir John Chester?" PAGE 12
"Oh! Ha! Hum!" says Bentley, "Did
Jack tell you all that, Pen?" 80
"Father," says she, "this is my husband--and
I am proud to tell you so 159
THE HONOURABLE
MR. TAWNISH
CHAPTER ONE
_Introducing Mr. Tawnish, and what befell
at "The Chequers"_
Myself and Bentley, who, though a good fellow in many ways, is yet a
fool in more (hence the prominence of the personal pronoun, for, as
every one knows, a fool should give place to his betters)--myself and
Bentley, then, were riding home from Hadlow, whither we had been to
witness a dog-fight (and I may say a better fight I never saw, the dog I
had backed disabling his opponent very effectively in something less
than three-quarters of an hour--whereby Bentley owes me a hundred
guineas)--we were riding home as I say, and were within a half-mile or
so of Tonbridge, when young Harry Raikes came up behind us at his usual
wild gallop, and passing with a curt nod, disappeared down the hill in a
cloud of dust.
"Were I but ten years younger," says I, looking after him, "Tonbridge
Town would be too small to hold yonder fellow and myself--he is becoming
a positive pest."
"True," says Bentley, "he's forever embroiling some one or other."
"Only last week," says I, "while you were away in London, he ran young
Richards through the lungs over some triviality, and they say he lies
a-dying."
"Poor lad! poor lad!" says Bentley. "I mind, too, there was Tom
Adams--shot dead in the Miller's Field not above a month ago; and before
that, young Oatlands, and many others besides--"
"Egad," says I, "but I've a great mind to call 'out' the bully myself."
"Pooh!" says Bentley, "the fellow's a past master at either weapon."
"If you will remember, there was a time when I was accounted no mean
performer either, Bentley."
"Pooh!" says Bentley, "leave it to a younger man--myself, for instance."
"Why, there is but a month or two betwixt us," says I.
"Six months and four days," says he in his dogged fashion; "besides," he
went on, argumentatively, "should it come to small-swords, you are a
good six inches shorter in the reach than Raikes; now as for me--"
"You!" says I, "Should it come to pistols you could not help but stop a
bullet with your vast bulk."
Hereupon Bentley must needs set himself to prove that a big man offered
no better target than a more diminutive one, all of which was of course
but the purest folly, as I very plainly showed him, whereat he fell
a-whistling of the song "Lillibuleero" (as is his custom ever, when at
all hipped or put out in any way). And so we presently came to the
cross-roads. Now it has been our custom for the past twelve years to
finish the day with a game of picquet with our old friend Jack Chester,
so that it had become quite an institution, so to speak. What was our
surprise then to see Jack himself upon his black mare, waiting for us
beneath the finger-post. That he was in one of his passions was evident
from the acute angle of his hat and wig, and as we approached we could
hear him swearing to himself.
"Bet you fifty it's his daughter," says Bentley.
"Done!" says I, promptly.
"How now, Jack?" says Bentley, as we shook hands.
"May the Devil anoint me!" growled Jack.
"Belike he will," says Bentley.
"Here's an infernal state of affairs!" says Jack, frowning up the road,
his hat and wig very much over one eye.
"Why, what's to do?" says I.
"Do?" says he, rapping out three oaths in quick succession--"do?--the
devil and all's to do!"
"Make it a hundred?" says Bentley aside.
"Done!" says I.
"To think," groans Jack, blowing out his cheeks and striking himself a
violent blow in the chest, "to think of a pale-faced, pranked-out,
spindle-shanked, mealy-mouthed popinjay like him!"
"Him?" says I, questioningly.
"Aye--him!" snaps Jack, with another oath.
"Make it a hundred and fifty, Bentley?" says I softly.
"Agreed!" says Bentley.
"To think," says Jack again, "of a prancing puppy-dog, a walking
clothes-pole like him--and she loves him, sir!"
"She?" repeated Bentley, and chuckled.
"Aye, she, sir," roared Jack; "to think after the way we have brought
her up, after all our care of her, that she should go and fall in love
with a dancing, dandified nincompoop, all powder and patches. Why damme!
the wench is run stark, staring mad. Egad! a nice situation for a loving
and affectionate father to be placed in!"
"Father?" says I.
"Aye, father, sir," roars Jack again, "though I would to heaven Penelope
had some one else to father her--the jade!"
"What!" says I, unheeding Bentley's leering triumph (Bentley never wins
but he must needs show it) "what, is Penelope--fallen in love with
somebody?"
"Why don't I tell you?" cries Jack, "don't I tell you that I found a set
of verses--actually poetry, that the jackanapes had written her?"
"Did you tax her with the discovery?" says I.
"To be sure I did, and the minx owned her love for him--vowed she'd
never wed another, and positively told me she liked the poetry stuff.
After that, as you may suppose, I came away; had I stayed I won't answer
for it but that I might have boxed the jade's ears. Oh, egad, a pretty
business!"
"And I thought we had settled she was to marry Bentley's nephew Horace
some day," says I, as we turned into the High Street.
"It seems she has determined otherwise--the vixen; and a likely lad,
too, as I remember him," says Jack, shaking his head.
"Where is he now, Bentley?" says I.
"Humph!" says Bentley, thoughtfully. "His last letter was writ from
Venice."
"Aye, that's it," says Jack, "while he's gadding abroad, this mincing,
languid ass, this--"
"What did you say was the fellow's name?" says I.
"Tawnish!" says Jack, making a wry face over it, "the Honourable Horatio
Tawnish. Come, Dick and Bentley, what shall we do in the matter?"
"Speaking for myself," I returned, "it's devilish hard to determine."
"And speaking for us all," says Bentley, "suppose we thrash out the
question over a bottle of wine?" and swinging into the yard of "The
Chequers" hard by, he dismounted and led the way to the sanded parlour.
We found it empty (as it usually is at this hour) save for a solitary
individual who lounged upon one of the settles, staring into the fire.
He was a gentleman of middling height and very slenderly built, with a
pair of dreamy blue eyes set in the oval of a face whose pallor was
rendered more effective by a patch at the corner of his mouth. His coat,
of a fine blue satin laced with silver, sat upon him with scarce a
wrinkle (the which especially recommended itself to me); white satin
small-clothes and silk stockings of the same hue, with silver-buckled,
red-heeled shoes, completed a costume of an elegance seldom seen out of
London. I noticed also that his wig, carefully powdered and ironed, was
of the very latest French mode (vastly different to the rough scratch
wigs usually affected by the gentry hereabouts), while the
three-cornered hat upon the table at his elbow was edged with the very
finest point. Altogether, there was about him a certain delicate air
that reminded me of my own vanished youth, and I sighed. As I took my
seat, yet wondering who this fine gentleman might be, Jack seized me
suddenly by the arm.
"Look!" says he in my ear, "damme, there sits the fellow!"
Turning my head, I saw that the gentleman had risen, and he now tripped
towards us, his toes carefully pointed, while a small, gold-mounted
walking cane dangled from his wrist by a riband.
"I believe," says he, speaking in a soft, affected voice, "I believe I
have the felicity of addressing Sir John Chester?"
"The same, sir," said Jack, rising, "and, sir, I wish a word with you."
Here, however, remembering myself and Bentley, he introduced us--though
in a very perfunctory fashion, to be sure.
"Sir John," says Mr. Tawnish, "your very obedient humble;
gentlemen--yours," and he bowed deeply to each of us in turn, with a
prodigious flourish of the laced hat.
[Illustration: "I believe I have the felicity of addressing Sir John
Chester?" _Page 12._]
"I repeat, sir," says Jack, returning his bow, very stiff in the back,
"I repeat, I would have a word with you."
"On my soul, I protest you do me too much honour!" he murmured--"shall
we sit?" Jack nodded, and Mr. Tawnish sank into a chair between myself
and Bentley.
"Delightful weather we are having," says he, breaking in upon a somewhat
awkward pause, "though they do tell me the country needs rain most
damnably!"
"Mr. Tawnish," says Jack, giving himself a sudden thump in the chest, "I
have no mind to talk to you of the weather."
"No?" says Mr. Tawnish, with a tinge of surprise in his gentle voice,
"why then, I'm not particular myself, Sir John--there are a host of
other matters--horses and dogs, for instance."
"The devil take your horses and dogs, sir!" cries Jack.
"Willingly," says Mr. Tawnish, "to speak the truth I grow something
tired of them myself; there seems very little else talked of
hereabouts."
"Mr. Tawnish," says Jack, beginning to lose his temper despite my
admonitory frown, "the matter on which I would speak to you is my
daughter, sir, the Lady Penelope."
"What--here, Sir John?" cries Mr. Tawnish, in a horrified tone, "in the
tap of an inn, with a--pink my immortal soul!--a sanded floor, and the
very air nauseous with the reek of filthy tobacco? No, no, Sir John,
indeed, keep to horses and dogs, I beg of you; 'tis a subject more in
harmony with such surroundings."
"Now look you, sir," says Jack, blowing out his cheeks, "'tis a good
enough place for what I have to say to you, sanded floor or no, and I
promise it shall not detain you long."
Hereupon Jack rose with a snort of anger, and began pacing to and fro,
striking himself most severely several times, while Mr. Tawnish, drawing
out a very delicate, enamelled snuff-box, helped himself to a leisurely
pinch, and regarded him with a mild astonishment.
"Sir," says Jack, turning suddenly with a click of spurred heels, "you
are in the habit of writing poetry?"
The patch at the corner of the Honourable Horatio's mouth quivered for
a moment. "Really, my dear Sir John--" he began.
"You sent a set of verses to my daughter, sir," Jack broke in, "well,
damme, sir, I don't like poetry!"
"I do not doubt it for a moment, sir," says Mr. Tawnish, "but these were
written, if you remember, to--the lady."
"Exactly," cries Jack, "and you will understand, sir, that I forbid
poetry, once and for all--curse me, sir, I'll not permit it!"
"This new French sauce that London is gone mad over is a thought too
strong of garlic, to my thinking," says Mr. Tawnish, flicking a stray
grain of snuff from his cravat. "You will, I think, agree with me, Sir
John, that to a delicate palate--"
"The devil anoint your French sauce, sir," cries Jack, in a fury, "who's
talking of French sauces?"
"My very dear Sir John," says Mr. Tawnish, with an engaging smile, "when
one topic becomes at all--strained, shall we say?--I esteem it the wiser
course to change the subject, having frequently proved it to have
certain soothing and calming effects--hence my sauce."
Here Bentley sneezed and coughed both together and came nigh choking
outright (a highly dangerous thing in one of his weight), which
necessitated my loosening his steenkirk and thumping him betwixt the
shoulder-blades, while Jack strode up and down, swearing under his
breath, and Mr. Tawnish took another pinch of snuff.
"French sauce, by heaven!" cries Jack suddenly, "did any man ever hear
the like of it?--French sauce!" and herewith he snatched off his wig and
trampled upon it, and Bentley choked himself purple again. I will admit
that Jack's round bullet head, with its close-cropped, grizzled hair
standing on end, would have been a whimsical, not to say laughable sight
in any other (Bentley for instance)--but Jack in a rage is no laughable
matter.
"By the Lord, sir," cries he, turning upon Mr. Tawnish, who sat
cross-legged, regarding everything with the same mild wonderment--"by
the Lord! I'd call you out for that French sauce if I thought you were a
fighting man."
"Heaven forfend!" exclaimed Mr. Tawnish, with a gesture of horror,
"violence of all kinds is abhorrent to my nature, and I have always
regarded the duello as a particularly clumsy and illogical method of
settling a dispute."
Hereupon Jack looked about him in a helpless sort of fashion, as indeed
well he might, and catching sight of his wig lying in the middle of the
floor, promptly kicked it into a corner, which seemed to relieve him
somewhat, for he went to it and, picking it up again, knocked out the
dust upon his knee, and setting it on very much over one eye, sat
himself down again, flushed and panting, but calm.
"Mr. Tawnish," says he, "as regards my daughter, I must ask--nay
demand--that you cease your persecution of her once and for all."
"Sir John," says Mr. Tawnish, bowing across the table, "allow me to
suggest in the most humble and submissive manner, that the word
'persecution' is perhaps a trifle--I say just a trifle--unwarranted."
"Be that as it may, sir, I repeat it, nevertheless," says Jack, "and
furthermore I must insist that you communicate no more with the Lady
Penelope either by poetry or--or any other means."
"Alas!" sighs Mr. Tawnish, "cheat myself as I may, the possibility will
obtrude itself that you do not look upon my suit with quite the degree
of warmth I had hoped. Sir, I am not perfect, few of us are, but even
you will grant that I am not altogether a savage?" As he ended, he
helped himself to another pinch of snuff with a pretty, delicate air
such as a lady would use in taking a comfit; indeed his hand, small and
elegantly shaped, whose whiteness was accentuated by the emerald and
ruby ring upon his finger, needed no very strong effort of fancy to be
taken for a woman's outright. I saw Jack's lip curl and his nostrils
dilate at its very prettiness.
"There be worse things than savages, sir," says he, pointedly.
"Indeed, Sir John, you are very right--do but hearken to the brutes,"
says Mr. Tawnish, with lifted finger, as from the floor above came a
roar of voices singing a merry drinking-catch, with the ring of glasses
and the stamping of spurred heels. "Hark to 'em," he repeated, with a
gesture of infinite disgust; "these are creatures the which, having all
the outward form and semblance of man, yet, being utterly devoid of all
man's finer qualities, live but to quarrel and fight--to eat and drink
and beget their kind--in which they be vastly prolific, for the world is
full of such. To-night it would seem they are in a high good humour,
wherefore they are a trifle more boisterous than usual, indulging
themselves in these howlings and shoutings, and shall presently drink
themselves out of what little wit Dame Nature hath bestowed upon 'em,
and be carted home to bed by their lackeys--pah!"
"How--what?" gasps Jack, while I sat staring (very nearly open-mouthed)
at the cool audacity of the fellow.
"Are you aware, sir," cries Jack, when at last he had regained his
breath, "that the persons you have been decrying are friends of mine,
gallant gentlemen all--aye, sir, damme, and men to boot!--hard-fighting,
hard-riding, hard-drinking, six-bottle gentlemen, sir?"
"I fear me my ignorance of country ways hath led me into a grave error,"
says Mr. Tawnish, with a scarce perceptible shrug of the shoulders;
"upon second thoughts I grant there is about a man who can put down one
throat what should suffice for six, something great."
"Or roomy!" adds Bentley, in a strangling voice.
"We are at side issues," says Jack, very red in the face, "the point
being, that I forbid you my daughter once and for all."
"Might I enquire your very excellent reasons?"
"Plainly, then," returns Jack, hitting himself in the chest again, "the
Lady Penelope Chester must and shall marry a man, sir."
"Yes," nodded Mr. Tawnish, "a man is generally essential in such cases,
I believe."
"I say a man, sir," roared Jack, "and, damme, I mean a man, and not a
clothes-horse or a dancing master, or--or a French sauce, sir. One who
will not faint if a dog bark too loudly, nor shiver at sight of a
pistol, nor pick his way ever by smooth roads. He must be a man, I say,
able to use a small-sword creditably, who knows one end of a horse from
another, who can win well but lose better, who can follow the hounds
over the roughest country and not fall sick for a trifle of mud, nor
fret a week over a splashed coat--in a word, he must be a man, sir."
"Alas, what a divine creature is man, after all!" sighs Mr. Tawnish,
with a shake of the head, "small matter of wonder if I cannot attain
unto so high an estate; for I beg you to observe that though I am
tolerably efficient in the use of my weapon" (here he laid his hand
lightly upon the silver hilt of his small-sword), "though I can tell a
spavined horse from a sound one, and can lose a trifle without positive
tears, yet--and I say it with a sense of my extreme unworthiness--I have
an excessive and abiding horror of mud, or dirt in any shape or form.
But is there no other way, Sir John? In remote times it was the custom
in such cases to set the lover some arduous task--some enterprise to try
his worth. Come now, in justice do the same by me, I beg, and no matter
how difficult the undertaking, I promise you shall at least find me
zealous."
"Come, Jack," cries Bentley, suddenly, "smite me, but that's very fair
and sportsmanlike! How think you, Dick?"
"Why, for once I agree with you, Bentley," says I, "'tis an offer not
devoid of spirit, and should be accepted as such."
Jack sat down, took two gulps of wine, and rose again.
"Mr. Tawnish," says he, "since these gentlemen are in unison upon the
matter, and further, knowing they have the good of the Lady Penelope at
heart as much as I, I will accept your proposition, and we will, each of
us, set you a task. But, sir, I warn you, do not delude yourself with
false hopes; you shall not find them over-easy, I'll warrant."
Mr. Tawnish bowed, with the very slightest shrug of his shoulders.
"Firstly, then," Jack began, "you must--er--must--" Here he paused to
rub his chin and stare at his boots. "Firstly," he began again, "if you
shall succeed in doing--" Here his eyes wandered slowly up to the
rafters, and down again to me. "Curse it, Dick!" he broke off, "what the
devil must he do?"
"Firstly," I put in, "you must accomplish some feat the which each one
of us three shall avow to be beyond him."
"Good!" cries Jack, rubbing his hands, "excellent--so much for the
first. Secondly--I say secondly--er--ha, yes--you must make a public
laughing stock of that quarrelsome puppy, Sir Harry Raikes. Raikes is a
dangerous fellow and generally pinks his man, sir."
"So they tell me," nodded Mr. Tawnish, jotting down a few lines in his
memorandum.
"Thirdly," ended Bentley, "you must succeed in placing all three of
us--namely, Sir Richard Eden, Sir John Chester, and myself--together and
at the same time, at a disadvantage."
"Now, sir," says Jack, complacently, "prove your manhood equal to these
three tasks, and you shall be free to woo and wed the Lady Penelope
whenever you will. How say you, Dick and Bentley?"
"Agreed," we replied.
"Indeed, gentlemen," says Mr. Tawnish, glancing at his memoranda with a
slight frown, "I think the labours of Hercules were scarce to be
compared to these, yet I do not altogether despair, and to prove to you
my readiness in the matter, I will, with your permission, go and set
about the doing of them." With these words he rose, took up his hat, and
with a most profound obeisance turned to the door.
At this moment, however, there came a trampling of feet upon the stairs,
another door was thrown open, and in walked Sir Harry Raikes himself,
followed by D'Arcy and Hammersley, with three or four others whose faces
were familiar. They were all in boisterous spirits, Sir Harry's florid
face being flushed more than ordinary with drinking, and there was an
ugly light in his prominent blue eyes.
Now, it so happened that to reach the street, Mr. Tawnish must pass
close beside him, and noting this, Sir Harry very evidently placed
himself full in the way, so that Mr. Tawnish was obliged to step aside
to avoid a collision; yet even then, Raikes thrust out an elbow in such
a fashion as to jostle him very unceremoniously. Never have I seen an
insult more wanton and altogether unprovoked, and we all of us, I
think, ceased to breathe, waiting for the inevitable to follow.
Mr. Tawnish stopped and turned. I saw his delicate brows twitch suddenly
together, and for a moment his chin seemed more than usually
prominent--then all at once he smiled--positively smiled, and shrugged
his shoulders with his languid air.
"Sir," says he, with a flash of his white teeth, "it seems they make
these rooms uncommon small and narrow, for the likes of you and me--your
pardon." And so, with a tap, tap, of his high, red-heeled shoes, he
crossed to the door, descended the steps, turned up the street, and was
gone.
"He--he begged the fellow's pardon!" spluttered Jack, purple in the
face.
"A more disgraceful exhibition was never seen," says I, "the fellow's a
rank coward!" As for Bentley, he only fumbled with his wine-glass and
grunted.
The departure of Mr. Tawnish had been the signal for a great burst of
laughter from the others, in the middle of which Sir Harry strolled up
to our table, nodding in the insolent manner peculiar to him.
"They tell me," said he, leering round upon us, "they tell me your
pretty Penelope takes something more than a common interest in yonder
fop; have a care, Sir John, she's a plaguey skittish filly by the looks
of her, have a care, or like as not--"
But here his voice was drowned by the noise of our three chairs, as we
rose.
"Sir Harry Raikes," says I, being the first afoot, "be you drunk or no,
I must ask you to be a little less personal in your remarks--d'ye take
me?"
"What?" cries Raikes, stepping up to me, "do you take it upon yourself
to teach me a lesson in manners?"
"Aye," says Bentley, edging his vast bulk between us, "a hard task, Sir
Harry, but you be in sad need of one."
"By God!" cries Raikes, clapping his hand to his small-sword, "is it a
quarrel you are after? I say again that the wench--"
The table went over with a crash, and Raikes leaped aside only just in
time, so that Jack's fist shot harmlessly past his temple. Yet so fierce
had been the blow, that Jack, carried by its very impetus, tripped,
staggered, and fell heavily to the floor. In an instant myself and
Bentley were bending over him, and presently got him to his feet, but
every effort to stand served only to make him wince with pain; yet
balancing himself upon one leg, supported by our shoulders, he turned
upon Raikes with a snarl.
"Ha!" says he, "I've long known you for a drunken rascal--fitter for the
stocks than the society of honest gentlemen, now I know you for a liar
besides; could I but stand, you should answer to me this very moment."
"Sir John, if you would indulge me with the pleasure," says I, putting
back the skirt of my coat from my sword-hilt, "you should find me no
unworthy substitute, I promise."
"No, no," says Bentley, "being the younger man, I claim this privilege
myself."
"I thank you both," says Jack, stifling a groan, "but in this affair
none other can take my place."
Raikes laughed noisily, and crossing the room, fell to picking his teeth
and talking with his friend, Captain Hammersley, while the others stood
apart, plainly much perturbed, to judge from their gestures and solemn
faces. Presently Hammersley rose, and came over to where Jack sat
betwixt us, swearing and groaning under his breath.
"My dear Sir John," says the Captain, bowing, "in this
much-to-be-regretted, devilish unpleasant situation, you spoke certain
words in the heat of the moment which were a trifle--hasty, shall we
say? Sir Harry is naturally a little incensed, still, if upon calmer
consideration you can see your way to retract, I hope--"
"Retract!" roars Jack, "retract--not a word, not a syllable; I repeat,
Sir Harry Raikes is a scoundrel and a liar--"
"Very good, my dear Sir John," says the Captain, with another bow; "it
will be small-swords, I presume?"
"They will serve," says Jack.
"And the time and place?"
"Just so soon as I can use this leg of mine," says Jack, "and I know of
no better place than this room. Any further communication you may have
to make, you will address to my friend here, Sir Richard Eden, who will,
I think, act for me?"
"Act for you?" I repeated, in great distress, "yes, yes--assuredly."
"Then we will leave it thus for the present, Sir John," says the
Captain, bowing and turning away, "and I trust your foot will speedily
be well again."
"Which is as much as wishing me speedily dead!" says Jack, with a rueful
shake of the head. "Raikes is a devil of a fellow and generally pinks
his man--eh, Dick and Bentley?"
"Oh, my poor Jack!" sighed Bentley, turning his broad back upon Sir
Harry, who, having bowed to us very formally, swaggered off with the
others at his heels.
"Man, Jack," says I, "you'll never fight--you cannot--you shall not!"
"Aye, but I shall!" says Jack, grimly.
"'Twill be plain murder!" says Bentley.
"And--think of Pen!" says I.
"Aye, Pen!" sighed Jack. "My pretty Pen! She'll be lonely awhile,
methinks, but--thank God, she'll have you and Bentley still!"
And so, having presently summoned a coach (for Jack's foot was become
too swollen for the stirrup), we all three of us got in and were driven
to the Manor. And I must say, a gloomier trio never passed out of
Tonbridge Town, for it was well known to us that there was no man in all
the South Country who could stand up to Sir Harry Raikes; and moreover,
that unless some miracle chanced to stop the meeting, our old friend was
as surely a dead man as if he already lay in his coffin.
CHAPTER TWO
_Of the further astonishing conduct of the
said Mr. Tawnish_
Myself and Bentley were engaged upon our usual morning game of chess,
when there came a knocking at the door, and my man, Peter, entered.
"Checkmate!" says I.
"No!" says Bentley, castelling.
"Begging your pardon, Sir Richard," says Peter, "but here's a man with a
message."
"Oh, devil take your man with a message, Peter!--the game is mine in six
moves," says I, bringing up my queen's knight.
"No," says Bentley, "steady up the bishop."
"From Sir John Chester," says Peter, holding the note under my nose.
"Oh! Sir John Chester--check!"
"What in the world can Jack want?" says Bentley, reaching for his wig.
"Check!" says I.
"Why, what can have put him out again?" says Bentley, pointing to the
letter--"look at the blots."
Jack is a bad enough hand with the pen at all times, but when in a
passion, his writing is always more or less illegible by reason of the
numerous blots and smudges; on the present occasion it was very evident
that he was more put out than usual.
"Some new villainy of the fellow Raikes, you may depend," says I,
breaking the seal.
"No," says Bentley, "I'll lay you twenty, it refers to young Tawnish."
"Done!" I nodded, and spreading out the paper I read (with no little
difficulty) as follows:
DEAR DICK AND BENTLEY,
Come round and see me at once, for the devil anoint me if I ever
heard tell the like on't, and more especially after the exhibition
of a week ago. To my mind, 'tis but a cloak to mask his cowardice,
as you will both doubtless agree when you shall have read this note.
Yours,
JACK.
"Well, but where's his meaning? 'Tis ever Jack's way to forget the very
kernel of news," grumbled Bentley.
"Pooh! 'tis plain enough," says I, "he means Raikes; any but a fool
would know that."
"Lay you fifty it's Tawnish," says Bentley, in his stubborn way.
"Done!" says I.
"Stay a moment, Dick," says Bentley, as I rose, "what of our Pen,--she
hasn't asked you yet how Jack hurt his foot, has she?"
"Not a word."
"Ha!" says Bentley, with a ponderous nod, "which goes to prove she doth
but think the more, and we must keep the truth from her at all hazards,
Dick--she'll know soon enough, poor, dear lass. Now, should she ask
us--as ask us she will, 'twere best to have something to tell her--let's
say, he slipped somewhere!"
"Aye," I nodded, "we'll tell her he twisted his ankle coming down the
step at 'The Chequers'--would to God he had!" So saying, we clapped on
our hats and sallied out together arm in arm. Jack and I are near
neighbours, so that a walk of some fifteen minutes brought us to the
Manor, and proceeding at once to the library, we found him with his leg
upon a cushion and a bottle of Oporto at his elbow--a-cursing most
lustily.
"Well, Jack," says Bentley, as he paused for breath, "and how is the
leg?"
"Leg!" roars Jack, "leg, sir--look at it--useless as a log--as a cursed
log of wood, sir--snapped a tendon--so Purdy says, but Purdy's a damned
pessimistic fellow--the devil anoint all doctors, say I!"
"And pray, what might be the meaning of this note of yours?" and I held
it out towards him.
"Meaning," cries Jack, "can't you read--don't I tell you? The
insufferable insolence of the fellow."
"Faith!" says I, "if it's Raikes you mean, anything is believable of
him--"
"Raikes!" roars Jack, louder than ever, "fiddle-de-dee, sir! who
mentioned that rascal--you got my note?"
"In which you carefully made mention of no one."
"Well, I meant to, and that's all the difference."
"To be sure," added Bentley,--"it's young Tawnish; anybody but a fool
would know that."
"To be sure," nodded Jack. "Dick," says he, turning upon me suddenly,
"Dick, could you have passed over such an insult as we saw Raikes put
upon him the other day?"
"No!" I answered, very short, "and you know it."
Jack turned to Bentley with a groan.
"And you, Bentley, come now," says he, "you could, eh!--come now?"
"Not unless I was asleep or stone blind, or deaf," says Bentley.
"Damme! and why not?" cries Jack, and then groaned again. "I was afraid
so," says he, "I was afraid so."
"Jack, what the devil do you mean?" I exclaimed.
For answer he tossed a crumpled piece of paper across to me. "Read
that," says he, "I got it not an hour since--read it aloud." Hereupon,
smoothing out the creases, I read the following:
TONBRIDGE, OCTR. 30th, 1740.
MY DEAR SIR JOHN,
Fortune, that charming though much vilified dame, hath for once
proved kind, for the first, and believe me by far the most
formidable of my three tasks, namely, to perform that which each one
of you shall avow to be beyond him, is already accomplished, and I
make bold to say, successfully.
To be particular, you could not but notice the very objectionable
conduct, I might say, the wanton insolence of Sir Harry Raikes upon
the occasion of our last interview. Now, Sir John, you, together
with Sir Richard Eden and Mr. Bentley, will bear witness to the fact
that I not only passed over the affront, but even went so far as to
apologise to him myself, wherein I think I can lay claim to having
achieved that which each one of you will admit to have been beyond
his powers.
Having thus fulfilled the first undertaking assigned me, there
remain but two, namely, to make a laughing stock of Sir Harry Raikes
(which I purpose to do at the very first opportunity) and to place
you three gentlemen at a disadvantage.
So, my dear Sir John, in hopes of soon gaining your esteem and
blessing (above all), I rest your most devoted, humble, obedient,
HORATIO TAWNISH.
"This passes all bounds," says I, tossing the letter upon the table, "such
audacity--such presumption is beyond all belief; the question is, whether
the fellow is right in his head."
"No, Dick," says Bentley, helping himself to the Oporto, "the question
is rather--whether he is wrong in his assertion."
"Why, as to that--" I began, and paused, for look at it as I might
'twas plain enough that Mr. Tawnish had certainly scored his first
point.
"We all agree," continued Bentley, "that we none of us could do the
like; it therefore follows that this Tawnish fellow wins the first
hand."
"Sheer trickery!" cries Jack, hurling his wig into the corner--"sheer
trickery--damme!"
"Fore gad! Jack," says I, "this fellow's no fool, if he 'quits himself
of his other two tasks as featly as this, sink me! but I must needs
begin to love him, for look you, fair is fair all the world over and I
agree with Bentley, for once, that Mr. Tawnish wins the first hand."
"Ha!" cries Jack, "and because the rogue has tricked us once, would you
have us sit by and let Pen throw herself away upon a worthless,
fortune-hunting fop--"
"Why, as to that, Jack," says Bentley, "a bargain's a bargain--"
"Pish!" roared Jack, fumbling in his pocket, "why only this very morning
I came upon more of his poetry-stuff! Here," he continued, tossing a
folded paper on the table in front of Bentley, "it seems the young
rascal's been meeting her--over the orchard wall. Read it, Bentley--read
it, and see for yourself." Obediently Bentley took up the paper and read
as here followeth:
"'Dear Heart--'"
"Bah!" snorted Jack.
"'Dear Heart!'" read Bentley again and with a certain unction:
"'DEAR HEART,
I send you these few lines, poor though they be, for since they were
inspired by my great love for thee, that of itself, methinks, should
make them more worthy,
Thine, as ever,
HORATIO.'"
"You mark that?" cries Jack, excitedly, "'hers as ever,' and 'Horatio!'
Horatio--faugh! I could ha' taken it kinder had he called himself Tom, or
Will, or George, but 'Horatio'--oh, damme! And now comes the poetry-stuff."
Hereupon Bentley hummed and ha'd, and clearing his throat, read this:
"'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 a _man_ and 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.
[Illustration: "Oh! Ha! Hum!" says Bentley, "did Jack tell you all 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--how _did_ you 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 at
the 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 Highwayman_
'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, with
the 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.
"So, my masters," says he, in the same rough, half-jovial tone there was
no mistaking, "I says to you, maybe we should meet again, I says, and
I've kept my word--such being my natur'--d'ye take me?"
There broke from Sir Harry's lips an inarticulate snarl of fury as he
leaped forward, but I managed to get between them, and Bentley had
wrested the sword from his grasp in an instant.
"Damnation!" cries he, quivering with passion, "give us the swords."
"Sir," says Mr. Tawnish, bowing to the Captain, "you see, I was right,
after all--the gentleman seems positively eager to oblige me."
And, having readjusted his wig, he proceeded in his leisurely fashion to
remove his coat and high-heeled shoes, and to tuck up his long ruffles.
And now, all being ready, the thin, narrow blades rang together. Raikes
was too expert a swordsman to let his passion master him a second time,
and as the two faced each other there was not a pin to choose betwixt
'em: nay, if anything, Sir Harry would almost seem the better man, what
with his superior height and length of limb. There was, too, a certain
gleam in his eye, and a confident smile on his lips that I remembered to
have seen there the day he killed poor Richards.
He opened his attack with a thrust in _tierce_, followed by a _longe_ so
swift and well timed that it came nigh ending the matter there and then,
but it was parried--heaven knows how--and I heard Jack sigh behind me.
Indeed, on this occasion Sir Harry fought with all that impetuosity
which, seconded by his incredible quickness of recovery, had rendered
him famous. A very dangerous opponent he looked, with his great length
of arm; and his face, with its menacing brow and gritted teeth, spoke
his purpose more plainly than any words. Mr. Tawnish, on the other hand,
preserved his usual serene composure, fencing with a certain airy grace
that seemed habitual with him in all things.
Momentarily, the fighting grew but the fiercer, Sir Harry sending in
thrust after thrust, with now and then a sudden, vicious _longe_ which,
it seemed, Mr. Tawnish had much ado to put aside; twice, in as many
moments, Sir Harry's point flashed over his shoulder, missing his throat
by a hair, and once it rent the cambric of his sleeve from the elbow up;
yet the pale serenity of his face remained unchanged, his placid calm
unbroken, save, perhaps, that his eyes were a trifle wider and brighter,
and his chin more than usually prominent. And still they fought, fast
and furious as ever, and though Raikes came dangerously near time and
time again, his point was always met and parried.
Minutes passed that seemed hours--there were sudden pauses when we could
detect the thud of feet and the hiss of breath drawn sharply between
shut teeth. And now, to my amazement, I saw that Mr. Tawnish was
pressing the attack, answering thrust with thrust, and _longe_ with
_longe_. The fighting grew to a positive frenzy; the shivering blades
rang with their swift changes from _quarte_ to _tierce_.
"Such a pace cannot last," says I, to no one in particular, "the end
must come soon!"
Almost with the words, I saw Mr. Tawnish's blade waver aimlessly; Raikes
saw it too, and drove in a lightning thrust. There was a sharp clash of
meeting steel, a flurry of blades, and Sir Harry Raikes staggered back,
his eyes wide and staring, threw up his arms, and pitching forward,
rolled over with a groan.
CHAPTER EIGHT
_Wherein the Truth of the old Adage is made
manifest--to wit: All's well that
ends well_
So swift and altogether unexpected had been the end, that for a long
minute there was a strange, tense stillness, a silence wherein all eyes
were turned from the motionless form on the floor, with the
ever-widening stain upon the snow of his shirt, to where Mr. Tawnish
stood, leaning upon his small-sword. Then all at once pandemonium seemed
to break loose--some running to lift the wounded man, some wandering
round aimlessly, but all talking excitedly, and at the same time.
"Dick and Bentley," says Jack, mopping at his face with his
handkerchief, "it's in my mind that we have made a cursed mistake for
once--the fellow is a man."
"I've known that this month and more," says I.
"I say a man," repeated Jack, "and devil anoint me, I mean a man!"
"Who writes verses!" added Bentley.
"And what of that, sir?" cries Jack, indignantly. "I did the same myself
once--we all did."
"A patched and powdered puppy-dog!" sneers Bentley; "look at him."
Now at this, glancing across at Mr. Tawnish, I saw that he still stood
as before, only that the point of his sword was buried deep in the floor
beneath his weight, while his pale face seemed paler even than its
wont. As we watched, his hand slipped suddenly from the hilt, and he
tottered slightly; then I noticed for the first time that blood was
running down his right arm, and trickling from his finger-tips.
With an exclamation, I started forward, but Bentley's grasp was on my
shoulder, and his voice whispered in my ear: "Leave him to Jack--'tis
better so." And indeed Jack was already beside him, had flung one arm
about the swaying figure, and half led, half carried him to a chair.
"Ah!" says Purdy, laying bare a great gash in the upper arm--"a little
blood, but simple--simple!" and he fell to work a-sponging and
bandaging, with a running exordium upon the humanity of the sword as
opposed to the more deadly bullet--until at length, the dressing in
place, Mr. Tawnish sighed and opened his eyes.
"Sir John," says he, sitting up, "give me leave to tell you that my
third and last task was accomplished this morning."
"Eh?" cries Jack, "but first, let me get you out of this."
"What of Sir Harry Raikes?" says Tawnish, rising.
"Serious," says Purdy, shaking his head, "serious, but not altogether
dangerous."
"Good!" says Jack, giving his arm to Mr. Tawnish, "I'm glad of that."
"Though," pursued Purdy, "he will be an invalid for months to come, the
right lung--as I pointed out to my colleague, Prothero--a man of very
excellent sense, by the way--"
At this juncture, at a sign from Prothero, Purdy left us with a bow.
Hereupon we saluted the others, and turning into an adjacent room,
called for wine and filled our glasses to Mr. Tawnish, with all the
honours.
As he rose to make his acknowledgment, for the first time in my
recollection he seemed ill at ease.
"Sir John, and gentlemen," says he, slowly, "I had scarce looked for
this kindness at your hands--it makes what I have to say harder than I
had thought. Gentlemen," he continued, after a brief pause, "you each in
turn set me an undertaking, little thinking at the time that there was
any likelihood of my fulfilling them. As you know, however, the first
two I accomplished some time since, and this morning I succeeded in the
last, namely, in taking all three of you, together and at the same time,
at a disadvantage. Sir John, gentlemen--scarce an hour ago the Lady
Penelope Chester became my wife."
Jack started up from the table with an oath, and fell back, staring at
the speaker with knitted brows--while Bentley gazed open-mouthed--as for
me, I could do nothing but think that our Pen was gone from our keeping
at last.
"By Gad, Jack, he's done us," cried Bentley, fetching the table a great
blow with his fist.
Now, as I stood with my back to them, staring out into the yard below,
my eyes encountered a great, four-horsed travelling chariot, and as I
watched it, gloomily enough, the door was flung suddenly open, and ere
the waiting footman could let down the steps a lady leapt lightly out
and stood looking up at the windows. All at once she turned and gazed
straight up at me--then I saw that it was Pen. With a wave of her hand
she darted up the steps, and a moment later was in the room.
"Oh, I could wait no longer!" she cried, looking round with the tears in
her lovely eyes, "we have been wed but an hour, and I have sat there
praying 'twixt hope and fear, until methought I should go mad."
[Illustration: "Father," says she, "this is my husband--and I am proud
to tell you so." _Page 159._]
Here, catching sight of Tawnish with his wounded arm, she uttered a low
cry, and in a moment was kneeling beside him, kissing his uninjured hand,
and fondling it with a thousand endearing terms. And seeing the infinite
tenderness in his eyes and the love-light in her own, I was possessed of
a sudden, great content. In a while, remembering us, she looked up, and,
though her cheeks were red, her glance met ours freely and unashamed.
"Father," says she, "this is my husband--and I am proud to tell you so."
There was a moment's silence, and Jack's frown grew the blacker.
"Father," says she again, "I am not so simple but that I found out your
quarrel with Sir Harry, and knew that you came hither to-day to meet
your death--so--so I sought aid of this noble gentleman. Yet first I
begged of him to marry me, that if--if he had died to-day in your place,
I could have mourned him as a beloved husband. Can you forgive me,
father?"
As Pen ended, she rose and approached Jack with outstretched hands; for
a moment longer he hesitated--then he had her in his embrace.
"And you, Uncle Bentley," says she, looking at us from Jack's arms,
"and, Uncle Dick, dear, tender Uncle Dick, can you forgive your wilful
maid?"
"God knows, my dear, there's naught to forgive," says I, "save that you
are leaving us--"
"Nay, Sir Richard," cries Mr. Tawnish, "Uncle Bentley has seen to
that--"
"Uncle!" says Jack.
"Uncle!" says I.
"Can it be possible," says Mr. Tawnish, rising, "that you are still
unaware of the relationship?"
"Bentley," cries Jack, "explain."
"To be sure," says Bentley, in his heavy way, pointing to Mr. Tawnish,
"this is my sister's only child, Viscount Hazelmere!"
"What!" cries Jack, while I stood dumb with astonishment.
"As you remember, Jack and Dick," says Bentley, getting ponderously to
his feet, "it was ever our wish that these two should marry, but, being
young and hot-headed, the very expression of that wish was but the
signal for them to set themselves to thwart it, even before they had
ever seen each other. Therefore acting upon that very contrariness, I
wrote to my graceless nephew there, telling him that he need have no
fear for his freedom--that we had changed our plans with regard to
him--that our Pen was a thousand times too good and sweet for such as
he--which she is, mark you!--that she was a beauty, and reigning toast
of all the South Country--which she likewise is, mark you--and, in a
word, forbidding him to think any more about her. Whereupon, my young
gentleman comes hot-foot back to England, to learn the why and
wherefore--did the mightily indignant, an' it please you--and ended by
vowing he'd marry her despite all three of us. As for Pen--oh, egad! I
spun her a fine tale, I promise you--spoke of him as a poor young
gentleman, penniless but proud, a man 'twould be folly for any maid to
wed--and oh, Jack and Dick, it worked like a charm--she saw him and
promptly fell in love with him, and he with her. Yet at this juncture,
Jack, you must needs go nigh ruining all by your quarrel with Raikes;
however, knowing my young rascal there plumed himself monstrously upon
his swordsmanship, I offered to put it to the test, and found him mighty
eager. But oh, curse me! as I watched them preparing to murder you,
Jack, a little while since, and this nephew of mine failed to come,
methought I should go mad! And to think that they were marrying each
other all the time! Rat me, Dick and Jack! to-day will be the merriest
Christmas of all--how say you?"
So, laughing and rejoicing together, they presently went out, and I
heard their happy voices below, ringing clear and crisp in the frosty
air of the yard. But I remained, staring into the fire, bethinking me of
my treatment of Bentley. The mystery of his seeming indifference was
cleared up now; where I had failed in my design of averting Jack's duel,
he had succeeded, nay, had even brought together these two, as had been
the wish of our hearts for years past. And now I had insulted him,
wantonly, beyond forgiveness. Yet we had been friends so long--perhaps,
if I told him humbly--
"Dick!" said a voice behind me, and a great hand was laid upon my
shoulder, "Dick!"
"Bentley," says I, hurriedly, "I was wrong--will you--can you forgive--"
"Man, Dick," says he, grasping my hand. "A Merry Christmas to thee!
Come, the others are waiting you, and Pen's a-dying to kiss you, I
swear."
So he took me by the arm, and we went down-stairs together. And when I
paused, and would have spoken further of my fool's mistake, he clapped
me upon the shoulder again, and fell a-whistling of "Lillibuleero."
THE END
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