_ BOOK II. SHADOW
CHAPTER X. TELLS HOW A MYSTERY WAS RESOLVED
I opened my eyes on a bleak dawn full of a pallid, stealthy mist, to find myself cramped in my chair before the open lattice and with Anthony bending over me, his comely features haggard in the sickly light.
"Ha, you didn't go to bed then?"
"Evidently not!" I answered, shivering. "But I slept--"
"Well, I did--and never a wink, confound it! And here's you basking before an open window--and on such a perfectly damned morning--have you ill again!" and, shivering in his turn, he proceeded to close the lattice and light the candles.
"Pray what o'clock is it, Anthony?"
"A quarter to four. I have ordered a chaise to be ready in half an hour; seems this 'Anchor' Inn is some eight miles away--and better be a little early than late."
After a somewhat hasty toilet, during which Anthony contrived to cut himself, we descended to find a goodly breakfast and a cheerful fire; but scarcely were we at table than Anthony tugged at the bell rope.
"Good morrow to thee, Thomas!" quoth he to the portly and somnolent landlord who responded to the summons. "Chaise will be round soon, I hope?"
"Whenever ye do so wish, Mr. Anthony, sir."
"Excellent! Then pray, Tom, take hence this stuff!" And he pointed to a bottle at his elbow.
"Stuff, sir! Oh, Mr. Anthony--stuff?" exclaimed the landlord in sorrowful reproach, his somnolence forgotten in surprise. "It be brandy, sir--best French--your very own particular--"
"Aye, Tom, I know it is, and begad, I'm lusting for a mouthful--that's why I bid you take it away--drink coffee instead, confound it! So hence with it, Thomas--away!"
Very round of eye, the landlord took up the bottle and wandered off with it like one in a dream.
Anthony gulped his coffee, but, though the fare was excellent, ate little, fidgeted with his stock, shuffled in his chair, glanced frequently and stealthily at his watch and, in fine, discovered all those symptoms that indicated an extreme perturbation of mind.
"Devil take it, Perry--how you eat!" he exclaimed at last.
"The ham is delicious, Anthony--".
"Dooced stuff would choke me! Oh, by heaven, I'd give anything--everything, to take your place for the next hour!"
"But then, Anthony, it would probably be I who could not eat!"
"Tush, man, I'll hit you the ace of spades six times out of seven at twelve paces! Four o'clock, by heaven! I wonder if that confounded chaise will be ready yet!" And up he sprang and hasted away into the yard and almost immediately came hurrying back to tell me the vehicle was at the door.
Outside the mist seemed thick as ever, though the east was brightening to day; so I entered the chaise, followed by Anthony growling disgust, the door slammed, and through the open window came the round head of Tom the landlord to bob at us in turn.
"'T will grow finer mayhap by an' by, sirs," quoth he, "hows'ever, good luck an' good fortun' to ye, gentlemen--all right, Peter!" he called to the postillion. Whereupon a whip cracked, the chaise lurched forward and landlord and inn vanished in the swirling mist.
For a while we rode without talking, Anthony scowling out of his window, I staring out of mine at an eddying haze which, thinning out ever and anon, showed vague shapes that peeped forth only to be lost again, spectral trees, barns and ricks, looming unearthly in the half-light.
"Perry, you--you are confoundedly silent!"
"You are not particularly loquacious either," I retorted, slipping my hand within his arm.
"Why, no--no, b'gad--I'm not, Perry. But then, it's such a peculiarly damnable morning, d'ye see."
"Well, it will mayhap grow finer later on, remember."
"Hope to heaven it does!"
"It would make things--a little pleasanter, Anthony."
"Peregrine, if--should anything--anything--er--dooced happen to you, I'll--aye, by God, I'll fight the fellow myself."
"I beg you will do no such thing--I implore you Anthony."
"Oh? Damme and why not?"
"For the sake of Barbara--your Loveliness--your future happiness--"
"Tush, man!" he exclaimed bitterly. "That dream is over!"
"And I tell you Happiness is awaiting you--will come seeking you very soon, I feel sure."
"How should you know this?"
"You may have heard, Anthony, that people in such a position as mine--people who are facing the possibility of speedy dissolution, are sometimes gifted with a clearer vision--an intuition--call it what you will. However, I repeat my assurance that Happiness is awaiting you, coming to you with arms outstretched, if you will but have faith and patience--a happiness greater, fuller, richer than you have ever known."
At this, he turned to scowl out of the window again and I out of mine, and thus we came to an end of the rutted by-lanes we had been traversing and turned into the smoother going of the main road.
We had gone but a mile, as I judge, when, borne to our ears came the faint, rhythmic beat of fast-galloping hoofs growing momentarily louder.
"Someone in the devil's own hurry!" exclaimed Anthony, letting down his window. "No man would gallop his horse so without reason! Hark--hark, he must be riding like a madman--and in this fog! What the devil? Nobody to lay us by the heels--eh, Perry?"
"God forbid!" I exclaimed fervently, as Anthony leaned from the window.
"Nothing to see--mist too thick!" said he. "But road's dooced narrow hereabouts, yet hark--hark how the fellow rides!" And indeed it seemed to me that there was something terrible in the relentless beat of these wildly galloping hoofs that were coming up with us so rapidly. Anthony was peering from the window again; I heard him shout, felt the chaise swing jolting towards the hedge and the horseman was by--a blurred vision that flashed upon my sight and was gone.
"Missed by inches--dooced reckless, by Gad!" exclaimed Anthony, and I saw that his frown had vanished.
"What kind of a person was he?" I demanded.
"Muffled up to the ears, Perry, hat over his eyes--big horse--powerful beast. Going to clear up and be a fine day after all, I fancy."
"And it is nearly five o'clock!" said I, glancing at my watch.
"Hum!" sighed Anthony. "And here you sit as serenely untroubled, as placidly assured, as if you were the best shot in the world instead of the worst."
"Listen, Anthony!" I cried suddenly. "Do you hear anything--listen, man!" A faint throbbing upon the air, a pulsing beat growing louder and louder. "Do you hear it, Anthony, do you hear it?"
"No--yes--begad, Perry, it sounds like--"
"Another horse at full gallop, Anthony--and coming up behind us. Another horseman--from the same direction!"
"Dev'lish strange, Perry. How many more of 'em?"
"There will be no more!" I exclaimed bitterly, and then, the chaise beginning to slow up, I thrust my head from the window to demand why we were stopping.
"Turnpike, sir!" answered the postboy. And peering through the haze before us I saw the tollgate, sure enough, and I turned to stare back down the road towards the second hard-riding horseman, and presently beheld a vague blur that resolved itself into a rapidly oncoming shape that swept down upon us through the swirling mist; the flutter of a long cloak, a spurred boot, a shadowy form bowed low in the saddle--all this I saw in one brief moment; then rose a hoarse shout from the eddying mist ahead; the jingle of flung coins and, lifting his animal at the tollgate, the horseman cleared it at a bound and, plunging into the haze beyond, had vanished like a phantom.
And now I was seized with a passion of haste and began to shout fevered orders at our postboy.
"Hurry--hurry! A guinea--ten guineas for your best speed! Drive, man, drive like the devil. Whip--spur!"
I remember tossing money to a hoarse-voiced toll-keeper in a fur cap, and we were off in full career, the light chaise rocking and swaying. I remember Anthony's look of surprise and my answering his half-hearted questions at random or not at all, for now I rode, my head out-thrust from the window, hearkening for the sound of galloping hoofs ahead of us.
And so at last, after an eternity as it seemed, the chaise slowed again and came to an abrupt standstill before a dimly-seen building and, peering out, I made out the sign:
THE ANCHOR INN.
Next moment I had sprung out into the road and, not waiting for Anthony, hastened into the place, opened a door at random, and found myself in a small room where smoked a miserable fire over which lounged two languid gentlemen well coated and muffled against the chill of dawn.
"Sirs," said I, acknowledging their bows, "pray have you seen two horsemen pass lately?"
"Horsemen, sir?" repeated a dashing gentleman who seemed all whiskers, teeth and greatcoat. "'Pon my honour, no--stop a bit--yes, I did! They rode towards Maidstone, I fancy, sir."
"Did they stop to make any enquiries--either of them?"
"Stop, sir? No, sir--devil a bit!" answered the gentleman, flashing his teeth and shaking his whiskers to such a degree that I doubted him on the spot. At this moment Anthony appeared, whereupon ensued more polite bows and flourishes; and now the other gentleman addressed us, a plethoric, red-faced man in a furred, blue frock.
"Our friend Trenchard desired us to await you, gentlemen, to inform you that he has changed the ground. The--the--ah--affair will not take place behind the inn here as first intended, but in a place somewhat more secluded. If you will pray have the goodness to accompany us, we will--ah--show you the way."
So we set out accordingly, I, for one, little heeding or caring whither we went.
Now it chanced we came to a narrow way where but two might go abreast and I found myself walking beside the whiskered gentleman who prattled to me very pleasantly, I believe, though of what I cannot recall. After a while the path brought us to a rough track hard beside a little wood and here stood a roomy travelling-chaise and beside this the man Trenchard or Devereux, talking and laughing with Captain Danby and another.
I remember returning their salutes with a perfunctory bow, but recollect little else, for now that my time was so near, a numbness seemed to cloud my brain and I could think only that this little copse, full of the grey mist of dawn, was perhaps the last object my eyes should ever see.
"I told one of 'em," said Anthony in my ear, "fellow in blue frock yonder, that you were the dooce an' all with a hair trigger--almost as dead a shot as your uncle Jervas or Gronow of the Guards, and begad, it's set 'em all by the ears, Perry, especially that scoundrel Danby."
At this I laughed, I think, wondering the while if Anthony would ever know how much I loved and admired him.
I remember a stretch of green turf screened by trees; a solemn pacing to and fro by various grave-faced persons; a careful measuring of distances and selection of ground.
I remember some objection that Anthony made as to the light, whereupon the solemn measuring and pacing was gravely done all over again. I also recall that Anthony, while discussing or overseeing these grave proceedings, would often lift his head and glance hastily round about with a swift, keen-eyed expectancy.
I remember the sun peeping forth at last to make the world glorious and warm the chill in my bones.
And then Anthony came towards me, carrying a pistol, and I noticed that his hand shook as he offered it to me.
"God love you, Perry," he said, a little huskily. "You look as unconcerned, as cool as--as a confounded cucumber! And now, Perry, remember to aim low, all pistols are apt to throw high--so, for heaven's sake aim low, old fellow."
"Do I stand here, Anthony?"
"Yes--damned fellow insists on twelve paces!" said he, his voice sounding hoarser than ever, and I saw his glance wandering again, here and there, to and fro, in almost desperate fashion.
"Mr. Vere-Manville," called Devereux's second, "may I trouble you a moment, pray?"
Left alone, I stood watching the play of sunshine amid the leaves, when I was roused by a touch and found Captain Danby beside me.
"Your flint looks a trifle loose, sir," said he softly, "Suffer me!"
I relinquished the weapon with a murmur of thanks and stood again absorbed until I felt the pistol thrust into my grasp and heard a loud voice speaking.
"Pray attention, gentlemen! Take notice, the word will be 'one--two--'"
The loud voice faltered suddenly, was lost in the trampling of horse's hoofs and into the grassy level between Devereux and myself rode my uncle Jervas with my uncle George close behind.
My uncle Jervas reined in his horse and sat glancing serenely round about him, his lips curling in his bleak, sardonic smile, his prominent chin something more aggressive than usual.
"Ah, gentlemen," said he gently. "Your humble servant, I bid you good morning. Sir Geoffrey Devereux, we are very well met--at last. This is a pleasure I much desired when--we were younger, as you will doubtless remember, but I imagined, until very recently, that you were dead, sir, and damned, and necessarily out of my reach. You have hidden yourself surpassingly well, sir."
Very deliberately my uncle Jervas dismounted and proceeded to tether his horse to an adjacent tree, while Devereux watched him, head bowed and black brows puckered slightly above his smouldering eyes, his snowy cravat stained with a small mark of blood from an ugly scratch beneath his chin and which, despite his icy assurance seemed to worry him, for he dabbed at it now and then with his handkerchief. And now my uncle Jervas approached me, his hand outstretched imperiously, but when he spoke his voice was strangely gentle:
"Peregrine, dear boy, oblige me with that pistol."
"God bless you, Uncle Jervas!" said I fervently grasping that hand. "I thought I recognised you when your horse leapt that tollgate, but fate elected I should arrive here first, as I prayed."
"We were wilfully misdirected and went astray. And now, Peregrine, give me the pistol!"
"No, sir! Indeed you cannot, shall not take my place. This quarrel is wholly mine--a quarrel, sir, of two years' standing--"
"But mine, Peregrine, is of twenty-one years'."
"None the less, sir, you shall not shield me thus--none other shall take my place, I am here to meet that scoundrel yonder--"
"Ah, Peregrine," said my uncle, speaking very slowly and distinctly, "the scoundrel yonder, Sir Geoffrey Devereux, is the man who foully murdered your father and my brother! Give me the pistol, boy!"
As he spoke he grasped my wrist and had possessed himself of the weapon or ever I could prevent. Then he turned and faced Devereux, his eyes very keen and bright.
"George," said he in his quiet, authoritative voice, "pray give us the word."
My uncle George, still sitting his horse, lifted his right hand and I saw that he also held a pistol.
"Devereux," said he, his handsome face very fierce and grim, "if--this time--you fire before the word, even by one fraction of a second, I shoot you where you stand for the vile murderer you are--by God, I will! Now mark me! The word will be 'One--two--three--fire!' Is this understood?"
"Yes, George!" said my uncle; Devereux nodded.
"Ready!" said uncle George distinctly. "One--two--three--fire!"
A single sharp report and my uncle Jervas, lurching slightly, stared down at his weapon that had merely sparked and, letting it fall, staggered aside to a tree and leaned there.
In an instant uncle George was off his horse and together we ran to him.
"Aha, George--" he gasped in a horrible, wheezing voice, "it--it was unprimed--lend me--yours!"
"O God!" groaned my uncle George. "You're hit, Jervas--are you hurt?"
"A little, George--your pistol--quick!"
But even as he spoke and despite all his resolution and indomitable will, he seemed about to swoon; I saw his knees slowly bending under him, his stately head sank, and crying out in horror, I reached out to clasp him in my arms.
"No, no, Perry!" he gasped. "Don't touch me--yet--I have sufficient strength--dear boy." For a moment he closed his eyes and when next he spoke his voice was strangely loud and clear.
"Devereux, if ever you prayed--pray now!" Yet as he uttered these words, he sank to his knees and leaned feebly against the tree, his pallid face suddenly contorted by a dreadful spasm, so that I could scarcely bear to look. Then, sweating with the agonising effort, slowly--slowly--he raised his arm, dwelt a moment on his aim, and fired; the smoking weapon dropped from his lax fingers and, swaying sideways, he sank down, his face among the grass.
I remember my uncle George running to aid me lift this heavy head; and glancing from these dreadfully pallid features, the pitiful helplessness of this once strong form, I saw a group of pale-faced men who knelt and crouched above a twisted thing that had once answered to the name of Devereux.
"Dead, George?" questioned my uncle Jervas faintly.
"Dead, Jervas!"
"The right eye, George--I think?"
"Yes, Jervas. How is it with you, dear old fellow?"
"Very well--I'm going on--ahead of you, George. Don't--don't grieve, George--'t is none so terrible. And the great conundrum is answered, the mystery is solved, George--I mean--our Julia--she will--marry you, George, after all--I think she always loved you--best. God bless you--both! And Peregrine--my dear lad--your gipsy--a strong--angel of God--Diana--" and with this word his noble spirit passed.
And thus even death was denied me and I, it seemed, was doomed to be no more than an idle spectator.
I remember helping to bear him back to the "Anchor" Inn--laying him reverently upon a settle. And then, because I could not bear to see him so pale and still and silent, I covered him with my cloak.
I remember the tears wet upon Anthony's haggard face and my uncle George crouched in a chair, clenched fists beneath square chin, staring wide-eyed on vacancy.
"Dead!" he exclaimed in an agonised half-whisper. "I mean to say he's dead, d'ye see. Jervas--dead--seems so impossible! If it could only have been me--it wouldn't ha' mattered so much, d'ye see. There never was any one like old Jervas. And now he's--dead, my God!" The agonised whispering ceased and silence fell that was almost as terrible. But suddenly upon this awful hush broke a sound of wheels--quick footsteps; then the door swung open and Diana stood upon the threshold.
"Peregrine!" she cried. "Oh, praise God you are alive--Peregrine--speak to me! Ah--dear God in heaven! What is it?" And hasting to me, she caught my hand, clasping it to her bosom. "Oh, what is it, Peregrine?" she whispered.
So I brought her to the settle, and reverently turning back my cloak, showed her what it had hidden.
"This!" said I. "Look upon your handiwork and go--wanton!"
Uttering a soft, inarticulate cry, she cowered away, shrank back and back across the room and out into the road beyond.
Then, treading as softly as I might, I crossed the room also and, closing the door very silently, locked and barred it securely. _