SIR JOHN DERING
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
The Broad Highway
The Amateur Gentleman
The Money Moon
The Hon. Mr. Tawnish
The Chronicles of the Imp
Beltane the Smith
The Definite Object
The Geste of Duke Jocelyn
Our Admirable Betty
Black Bartlemy’s Treasure
Martin Conisby’s Vengeance
Peregrine’s Progress
_Sampson Low, Marston & Co., Ltd._
SIR JOHN DERING
A ROMANTIC COMEDY
BY
JEFFERY FARNOL
AUTHOR OF “THE BROAD HIGHWAY” ETC.
[Illustration]
LONDON
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & CO. LTD.
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY PURNELL AND SONS
PAULTON, SOMERSET, ENGLAND
TO
MY FRIEND OF YEARS
AND RIGHT TRUSTY COMRADE
HERBERT LONDON POPE
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK AS A SMALL TRIBUTE
TO HIS PATIENCE, FAITHFULNESS, AND UNFALTERING
LOYALTY: WITH THE EARNEST HOPE
THAT TIME MAY BUT KNIT US EVER MORE CLOSE
JEFFERY FARNOL
SUSSEX
CONTENTS
PAGE
PROLOGUE 1
CHAP.
I. WHICH INTRODUCES THE DOG WITH A BAD NAME 6
II. WHICH DESCRIBES A FORTUITOUS BUT FATEFUL MEETING 20
III. TELLETH OF MRS. ROSE, THE GUILEFUL INNOCENT 29
IV. SHEWETH THE WICKED DERING IN A NEW RÔLE 34
V. THE ALLURE OF SIMPLICITY: MOONLIGHT AND AN ELOPEMENT 39
VI. OF SOULS, SOLITUDE AND A DUSTY ROAD 46
VII. WHICH INTRODUCES MY LORD SAYLE AND THE CLASH OF STEEL 54
VIII. OF A POST-CHAISE, INIQUITY AND A GRANDMOTHER 65
IX. DESCRIBES THE ADVENTURES OF THE _TRUE BELIEVER_ 71
X. FURTHER CONCERNING THE SAME 79
XI. OF AN ALTRUISTIC SCOT 85
XII. DESCRIBETH THE DUPLICITY OF INNOCENCE 94
XIII. CONCERNING THE ADVENT OF JOHN DERWENT 99
XIV. HOW THE MAN OF SENTIMENT SENTIMENTALISED IN A DITCH 109
XV. WHICH INTRODUCES A FRIEZE COAT AND ITS WEARER, ONE
GEORGE POTTER 119
XVI. DESCRIBES A SCANDALOUS ITEM OF FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE
AND THE CONSEQUENCES THEREOF 129
XVII. HOW SIR JOHN DERING CAME BACK TO MAYFAIR 140
XVIII. HOW SIR JOHN DERING WENT A-WOOING 143
XIX. TELLS HOW SIR JOHN WENT “BEAR-BAITING” 149
XX. HOW SIR JOHN PLEDGED HIS WORD: WITH SOME DESCRIPTION OF
THE PROPERTIES OF SNUFF 156
XXI. OF GEORGE POTTER, HIS WHISTLE 163
XXII. MY LADY HERMINIA BARRASDAILE WEAVES WEBS FOR AN UNWARY HE 176
XXIII. HOW GEORGE POTTER CIRCUMVENTED THE PREVENTIVES 181
XXIV. OF MR. BUNKLE AND THE ROOM WITH FIVE DOORS 193
XXV. TELLETH HOW SIR JOHN BEHELD THE GHOST 200
XXVI. CONCERNS ITSELF MAINLY WITH THE “MORNING AFTER” 206
XXVII. TELLETH HOW MR. DERWENT BEGAN HIS WOOING 212
XXVIII. TELLETH HOW MY LADY ADOPTED A FAIRY GODMOTHER 223
XXIX. GIVETH SOME DESCRIPTIONS OF A TEA-DRINKING 228
XXX. IN WHICH SIR JOHN RECEIVES A WARNING 238
XXXI. BEING A CHAPTER OF NO GREAT CONSEQUENCE 243
XXXII. TELLETH HOW SIR JOHN DERWENT WENT A-WOOING 247
XXXIII. WHICH, AMONG OTHER SMALL MATTERS, TELLETH OF A SNUFF-BOX 251
XXXIV. CONCERNS ITSELF WITH ONE OF THE MANY MYSTERIES OF THE
‘MARKET CROSS INN’ 258
XXXV. BEING THE SHORTEST IN THIS BOOK 271
XXXVI. WHICH CONTAINS FURTHER MENTION OF A CERTAIN SNUFF-BOX 273
XXXVII. WHICH GIVETH SOME DESCRIPTION OF A MURDERER’S HAT 281
XXXVIII. OF THE TERROR BY NIGHT 289
XXXIX. HOW THEY WARNED CAPTAIN SHARKIE NYE 299
XL. DESCRIBES, AMONG OTHER THINGS, HOW MY LADY TRAMPLED
TRIUMPHANTLY AT LAST 308
XLI. TELLETH OF THE DUEL ON DERING TYE 318
XLII. MR. DUMBRELL MEDIATES 325
XLIII. IN WHICH SIR JOHN DEVOTES HIMSELF TO THE MUSE 331
XLIV. IN WHICH THE GHOST FLITS TO GOOD PURPOSE 337
XLV. WHICH, AS THE READER OBSERVES, BEGINS AND ENDS WITH
MY LORD SAYLE 344
XLVI. TELLS HOW SIR JOHN DERING FLED THE DOWN-COUNTRY 352
XLVII. TELLETH HOW MY LADY HERMINIA BARRASDAILE WENT A-WOOING 360
XLVIII. WHICH IS, HAPPILY, THE LAST 366
SIR JOHN DERING
PROLOGUE
The light of guttering candles fell upon the two small-swords where they
lay, the one glittering brightly, the other its murderous steel horribly
bent and dimmed; and no sound to hear except a whisper of stirring leaves
beyond the open window and the ominous murmur of hushed voices from the
inner chamber.
Suddenly the door of this chamber opened and a man appeared, slender,
youthful and superlatively elegant from curled peruke to buckled shoes,
a young exquisite who leaned heavily, though gracefully, in the doorway,
glancing back over his shoulder while the slim fingers of one white hand
busied themselves to button his long, flowered waistcoat and made a
mighty business of it.
“Dead?” he questioned at last in a tone high-pitched and imperious. “Dead
... is he?”
Receiving an affirmative answer, his lounging figure grew tense and,
turning his head, he stared at the guttering candles.
Wide eyes that glared in the deathly pale oval of a youthful face, pallid
lips compressed above a jut of white chin, nostrils that quivered with
every breath, sweat that trickled unheeded beneath the trim curls of his
great periwig; a face that grew aged even as he stood there. Presently,
with step a little uncertain, he crossed to the open lattice and leaned
to stare out and up into the deepening night-sky, and yet was conscious
that the others had followed him, men who whispered, held aloof from him
and peered back toward that quiet inner chamber; and, with his wide gaze
still upturned to the sombre heaven, he spoke in the same high, imperious
tone:
“He died scarce ... ten minutes ago, I think?”
“Aye, thereabouts, sir,” answered the surgeon, wiping podgy hands upon a
towel. “I did all that was possible, but he was beyond human aid when I
arrived. Æsculapius himself——”
“Ten minutes!... I wonder where is now the merry soul of him?... He died
attempting a laugh, you’ll remember, sirs!”
“And thereby hastened his end, sir,” added the surgeon; “the hæmorrhage——”
“Aye ... aye,” quavered young Mr. Prescott. “Lord ... O Lord, Dering—he
laughed ... and his blood all a-bubbling ... laughed—and died ... O Lord!”
“’Twas all so demned sudden!” exclaimed Captain Armitage—“so curst sudden
and unexpected, Dering.”
“And that’s true enough!” wailed Lord Verrian. “’S life, Dering, you were
close engaged afore we had a chance to part ye!”
“To be sure I ... have pinked my man!” retorted Sir John Dering a little
unsteadily and with so wild a look that Lord Verrian started.
“Nay, Dering,” quoth he soothingly. “’Twas he drew first ... and you’d
scarce made a push at each other—and both o’ ye desperate fierce—than
poor Charles slips, d’ye see, and impales himself on your point ...
a devilish business altogether—never saw such hell-fire fury and
determination!”
“I’ faith, my lord,” answered Sir John, dabbing daintily at pallid lips
with belaced handkerchief, “to hear you one might imagine that ...
Charles and I were ... the bitterest enemies i’ the world rather than
the ... best o’ friends—aye, the best! For it seems ... a man may love a
man and ... kill a man. So in yonder room lieth my poor friend Charles,
very still and silent, freed o’ debts and duns at last, and I——” Sir John
checked suddenly as from the stairs without stole a ripple of laughter.
“By God—a woman!” gasped Lord Verrian. Young Mr. Prescott sank down into
the nearest chair, head between twitching hands; Captain Armitage sprang
to bar the door, but, as he did so, it swung open and a girl smiled in
upon them—a tall, handsome creature, black-eyed, full-lipped, dominant in
her beauty.
“Lord, gentlemen!” she exclaimed, glancing swiftly from one face to
another; “I protest y’are very gloomily mum—as I were a ghost. Nay—what
is it? Are you all dumb? Where is Charles?... He was to meet me here!
You, my Lord Verrian ... Captain Armitage—where is Charles?”
Lord Verrian turned his back, mumbling incoherencies; Mr. Prescott
groaned. And then her quick glance had caught the glitter of the swords
upon the table. “Charles!” she cried suddenly. “Charles! Ah—my God!”
Captain Armitage made a feeble effort to stay her, but, brushing him
imperiously aside, she fled into the inner room.
Ensued a moment of tense and painful stillness, and then upon the air
rose a dreadful strangled screaming, and she was back, the awful sound
still issuing from her quivering lips.
“Who ... who,” she gasped at last, “which of you ... which of you ... did
it?”
No one spoke, only Sir John Dering bowed, laced handkerchief to lip.
“You—ah, ’twas you?” she questioned in hoarse whisper. “I ... do not know
you.... Your name, sir?”
“I am called John Dering, madam.”
“Dering,” she repeated in the same tense voice—“John Dering—I shall not
forget! And ’twas you killed him—’twas you murdered my Charles—you—you?”
And now she broke out into a wild farrago of words, bitter reproaches
and passionate threats, while Sir John stood immobile, head bowed,
laced handkerchief to lip, mute beneath the lash of her tongue. Softly,
stealthily, one by one, the others crept from the room until the twain
were alone, unseen, unheard, save by one beyond the open casement who
stood so patiently in the gathering dusk, watching Sir John’s drooping
figure with such keen anxiety.
“... God curse you!” she panted hoarsely. “God’s curse on you for the
murderer you are! Aye, but you shall suffer for it, I swear! You shall
rue this night’s work to the end of your life——” The passionate voice
broke upon a gasping sob, and then Sir John spoke, his head still bowed:
“True, madam, I shall ... suffer and grieve for this ... to the end o’ my
days for ... Charles was ... my friend——”
“And you are his murderer, John Dering—so am I your enemy!” she cried.
“Your sin may be soon forgot—the world may forgive you—even God may, but
I—never will! My vengeance shall follow you, to end only with your last
breath——”
Sir John coughed suddenly, the handkerchief at his mouth became all
at once horribly crimson, and, sinking to his knees, he swayed over
sideways; lying thus, it chanced that the long, embroidered waistcoat
he had so vainly sought to button, fell open, discovering the great and
awful stains below.
For a moment the girl stood rigid, staring down at the serene but
death-pale face at her feet; and then the door swung violently open to
admit a very tall man who ran to kneel and lift that slender form, to
chafe the nerveless hands and drop hot tears upon the pallid cheek.
“John, John.... O John.... O lad—is this the end——”
Sir John Dering’s eyes opened, and he stared up into the square, bronzed
face above him with a faint smile.
“Hector ... is’t you, Hector?” he whispered. “Tell her ... the lady ...
that I think ... her vengeance will end ... to-night! Which is ... very
well—”
“Woman,” cried the man Hector, lifting agonised face, “if ye be true
woman run for the surgeon quick, ere he die!”
“Die?” she echoed. “Aye—’twere better he died, far better for him—and for
me!” So saying, she turned and sped from the room, laughing wildly as she
ran.
CHAPTER I
WHICH INTRODUCES THE DOG WITH A BAD NAME
Sir John Dering, at loss for a rhyme, paused in the throes of composition
to flick a speck of dust from snowy ruffle, to glance from polished
floor to painted ceiling, to survey his own reflection in the mirror
opposite, noting with a critical eye all that pertained to his exquisite
self, the glossy curls of his great, black periwig, the graceful folds
of full-skirted, embroidered coat, his sleek silk stockings and dainty,
gold-buckled shoes; and discovering naught in his resplendent person to
cavil at, turned back to his unfinished manuscript, sighing plaintively.
“‘Soul’!” he murmured; “a damnable word, so many rhymes to’t and none of
’em apt! Roll, coal, hole, foal, goal, pole ... a devilish word! Mole,
shoal, vole—pish!”
It was at this precise juncture that the latch behind him was lifted
softly and upon the threshold stood a man whose height and breadth seemed
to fill the doorway, a man whose hard-worn clothes were dusty with
travel, whose long, unkempt periwig, set somewhat askew, framed a lean,
brown face notable for a pair of keen, blue eyes and the fierce jut of
brow, cheek-bone and jaw: a shabby person, indeed, and very much at odds
with the dainty luxury of the chamber before him.
Thus, Hector MacLean, or more properly, General Sir Hector Lauchlan
MacLean, six foot four of Highland Scot, having surveyed painted walls,
polished floor and frescoed ceiling, folded mighty arms, scowled at Sir
John’s shapely, unconscious back and emitted a sound that none but a
true-born Scot may ever achieve.
“Umph-humph!” exclaimed Hector MacLean; whereupon Sir John started,
dropped his quill and was upon his feet all in a moment, modish languor
and exquisite affectations all forgotten in eager welcome.
“Hector!” he exclaimed, grasping the Scot’s two bony fists; “Hector man,
what should bring you all the way to Paris—and me—after all this time?”
“Four years, John, four years and mair!” nodded Sir Hector. “Four years
and they might be eight, judging by y’r looks. Lad, I’d hardly know ye
... sic a mighty fine gentleman an’ sae pale——”
“A delicate pallor is the mode, Hector,” smiled Sir John. “But what
brings you to Paris?”
“Aye—what, John?” retorted Sir Hector, with a dour shake of the head.
“Who but yourself! What’s all this I’m hearing concerning ye, John?”
“Evil beyond a doubt, Hector—evil, I’ll wager. But ’tis no reason you
should stand and scowl when you might sit and smile like the old friend
you are——”
“Aye, always your friend, lad, if ’twere only for your father’s sake!”
“And mine also, I hope, Hector?”
“Aye, John, though you’re no the man your father was!”
“I know it, Hector.”
“And ’tis memory o’ him and the promise I made him to be ever mindful o’
your welfare hath brought me these weary miles to Parus——”
“And since you are here, you shall stay with me, Hector. Egad, ’twill be
like old times!”
“No, no, John,” sighed MacLean, glancing round the luxurious apartment;
“you’ve grown too fine for me, these days! My dusty claes wad foul your
dainty chairs and silken cushions. No, no, lad, you’re become too grand a
gentleman for a poor, rough, old soldier——”
“Tush and a fiddlestick!” exclaimed Sir John, forcing him down into the
nearest chair. “My home is yours whenever you will, Hector.”
“Hame, John?” retorted MacLean. “Hame, d’ye call it? Look at this
room—all silken fripperies like a leddy’s boudoir.... And talkin’ o’
ladies—look up yonder!”—and he stabbed a bony finger at the painted
ceiling where nude dryads sported against a flowery background. “Aye
... obsairve ’em!” snorted MacLean, forsaking precise English for broad
Scots—a true sign of mental perturbation. “Gude sakes, regaird yon
painted besoms wi’ ne’er a clout tae cover ’em—’tis no’ a sicht for
decent eyes!”
“They were done by a famous painter, Hector, and represent the three
Graces——”
“Dis-graces, I ca’ ’em! Man, they’re ... fair owerpowerin’!”
“Then don’t heed ’em, Hector; regard me instead.”
“Yourself, is it?” sighed MacLean. “O man, there’s enough o’ lace an’
broidery aboot ye tae rig oot a’ three o’ y’r dis-graces frae top tae
tae. Ah, Johnnie lad, when I obsairve a’ y’r finery o’ claes an’ mind hoo
y’r father was dressed the day he panted his life oot in my arrms wi’ a
French bayonet in his wame ... an auld tattered sairvice coat.... Aweel,
aweel, he was a man, John ... dead before you were old enough to ken him,
mair’s the peety ... aye, mair’s the peety. An’ to-day, lad, here’s me
wi’ ane fut i’ the grave, and here’s yersel’ vera prone tae a’ manner o’
follies an’ sic by reason as you’re wilfu’ and over-young——”
“I’m twenty-seven, Hector!”
“Aye, a wilfu’ bairn, John, and a’m an auld man ill able tae cope wi’ ye,
laddie, bein’ vera feeble and bowed wi’ years.”
“Sink me, Hector, but you’re strong as a horse and straight as your
sword, and can’t be a day older than fifty-five or six——”
“Feefty-ane, John, fifty-one, whateffer! But I was ever a quiet, plain,
simple body tae follow the skirl o’ the war-pipes ... battle, skirmish
an’ siege ... juist a puir, God-fearin’ soger-body——”
“Though King William made you a knight and a General, Sir Hector!”
“Och aye ... but best of a’—I was y’r father’s friend, his comrade an’
brither-in-arms in camp an’ field, y’ ken!” Sir Hector was silent a
moment; when next he spoke, his English was more precise than usual.
“When your noble father died, John, he left you and your mother to my
care.... So soon as the wars were over I hasted to take up this sacred
charge and found your mother dying ... but you were alive enough—a
bonnie, braw, wee thing.... And since then, John, since then——”
“You have been everything to me, Hector—my only true friend!”
“God knoweth I have tried to be faithful to the trust, to keep my word to
your father and do my duty by his son——”
“And, sir, indeed you have!”
“Ah, but have I, John—have I so, indeed? Have I trained you up to be the
honourable gentleman your father would have been proud of calling son?
Have I, lad—have I?”
“I trust so, sir.”
“And yet, John—and yet——” Sir Hector rose, his grim lips twitching
strangely, and began to pace the floor in sudden agitation. Now, as he
turned, it chanced that the scabbard of his long, broad-bladed Andrea
Ferrara swept a dainty Sèvres ornament to the floor, whereupon he halted
to stare down at the fragments with eyes of horrified dismay.
“Forgi’e me, John, forgi’e me!” he exclaimed, unheeding Sir John’s
reassurances; “but ye see, lad, a’m no juist the man tae be trusted amang
sic dainty trifles as yon. Look at it—shivered beyond repair ... ’tis
like a man’s honour! An’ talking of honour, John, your father was a noble
gentleman, proud of his honourable name, who kept that name unsullied
all his days.... Have you done as much, John? O lad, you that are my dead
friend’s son, you that I have bred from your youth up—have you done as
much?”
“Do you doubt it, Hector?”
“Aye, I do, John. God help me, I must—unless report lies.”
Sir John’s pale cheek flushed, his sensitive nostrils quivered, but his
air and tone were placid as usual when he spoke:
“To what do you refer, Hector?”
“To your wild doings and devilments, John, your godless life and riotous
wickedness, your hell-fire and damnable practices generally——”
“Sit down, Hector. Pray sit down and fetch your breath,” smiled Sir John.
“Egad, you’re so full o’ news concerning me that ’tis plain you have met
some friend o’ mine of late——”
“Look’ee, John, scarce have I set foot in Parus than I hear some
scurrilous tale o’ yourself and some Marquise or other——”
“Ah, the Marquise?” sighed Sir John, turning to glance at his unfinished
composition. “I was inditing an ode to her, but my muse halted for an apt
rhyme to ‘soul,’ Hector.”
“’Twas a curst discreditable affair as I heard it, John!”
“Why, to be sure, Hector, my affairs are always discreditable. But the
scandal being well-nigh a week old begins to grow stale, and the Marquise
will be out o’ the public eye already, poor soul, unless she hath
contrived some scheme to revive it, and she’s a clever creature, on my
soul she is—ah, and that reminds me! What the deuce rhymes with ‘soul,’
Hector? There’s roll and poll and dole and goal and——”
“Hoot-toot, man!” exclaimed MacLean. “The de’il awa’ wi’ y’r rhymes!”
“With all my heart, Hector, for they’re bad enough, I fear,” sighed Sir
John.
“Sic sinfu’ repoorts as I’ve been hearin’ o’ ye, John!” exclaimed
MacLean, striding up and down the room again. “Sic a gallimaufry o’
waefu’ wickedness, sic lug-tingling tales.... O man, John, y’r reputation
fair stinks!”
“It does, Hector!” nodded Sir John placidly. “Indeed, ’tis a reputation I
find something hard to maintain and live up to—though I do my best——”
“Your best, whateffer? Aye, wi’ your gamblin’, your duellin’ an’ your
fine French hussies—like this Marquise—a feckless body and shameless——”
“And therefore fashionable, Hector! Remember, this is Paris!”
“Parus!” snorted MacLean; “O Parus! Edinb’ro’s a sinfu’ town, forbye
it hath its savin’ graces. Lon’non’s waur, but—Parus! Man, I’m no’ an
archangel, y’ ken, but—Parus! And this brings me back tae yoursel’, John.”
“And pray what have you heard concerning me particularly, Hector? Come,
what are my latest sins? Whose wife have I lured from sorrowing spouse?
What young innocent is my latest victim? What hopeful youth have I ruined
at the gaming-table?... and in heaven’s name—smile, man!”
“How, smile is it, and my heart waefu’ for ye, lad? Repoort speaks ye a
very deevil, John.”
“Aye, but even the devil is never so black as he is painted, Hector!”
“Ha, will ye be for tellin’ me repoort hath lied, John?”
“Let us rather say it hath not spoke truth.”
“Whaur’s the differ, lad?”
“Report, Hector, doth trumpet me forth a very monster of politely-vicious
depravity. I am Sin manifest, perambulating Iniquity. Do I sit me down
to the gaming-table I am bound to ruin some poor wretch, do I but kiss a
woman’s finger-tips she is forthwith a mark for every scandalous tongue.
My sins, Hector, be all superlative and very pertinaciously come home to
roost. Egad, I befoul my own nest with a persistency that amazes me! But
then, it seems some are born to iniquity, some achieve iniquity, and some
have iniquity thrust upon ’em——”
“How so, John lad, what d’ye mean?”
“That I have an enemy—nay two, rather! The one being myself—and he is bad
enough o’ conscience—but the other—ah, Hector, this other one is more
implacable, more unrelenting and a thousand times more merciless!”
“Who is he, lad, a God’s name?”
“’Tis no he,” sighed Sir John.
“Aha!” exclaimed Sir Hector, coming to an abrupt stand; “you mean—her?”
“I do, Hector! ’Tis an ill thing to have an enemy, but if that enemy be
a woman, young, beautiful, of high estate and very wealthy—the situation
becomes desperate.”
“A wumman!” repeated Sir Hector, rasping thumb and finger across bony
chin. “You mean ‘the Barrasdaile,’ of course, John?”
“Aye, the Lady Herminia Barrasdaile.”
“To be sure I mind weel how she raved and vowed vengeance on ye, lad, the
night Charles Tremayne was killed——”
“Poor, reckless Charles ... I can see him now, Hector, as he laughed ...
and died——”
“Tush, laddie, forget it! ’Twas he drew first, and himsel’ no better
than——”
“He is dead, Hector! Sometimes I’ve thought you had been wiser, kinder,
to have let me die also, rather than ha’ dragged me back to this
emptiness we call ‘life’——”
“Emptiness, laddie? Hoot-toot—and yersel’ the joy o’ the leddies, the
envy o’ the men! ‘The glass o’ fashion an’ mould o’ form,’ wi’ every
young sprig o’ gallantry to copy the cut o’ your waistcoats? And you
think, John, you think that my Lady Barrasdaile is actually carrying her
threat into execution?”
“Well, these last few years, Hector, have proved singularly eventful to
me one way or another. I have been involved so often in so many unsavoury
affairs and had so many duels forced upon me that my reputation is grown
a little threadbare, as you know, and myself notorious.”
“And now it seems you’ve another duel on your hands.”
“A duel, Hector? Egad, and have I so? With whom, pray?
“Losh, man, you should ken that weel enough.”
“Hum!” quoth Sir John, pondering.
“I caught but a snatch of idle gossip concerning you, John, and some
English Viscount or other——”
“An Englishman, Hector, mark that! Ha,” mused Sir John, “I have a vague
recollection of throwing somebody’s hat out of some window some time or
other—but whose hat, or what window, or when, I cannot recall for the
life o’ me. We must look into this, Hector. Let us summon the Corporal
and hear what the perspicacious Robert hath to say.”
“What, Corporal Bob? He’s still with you, then, John lad?”
“To be sure, Hector,” answered Sir John, ringing the small silver bell
at his elbow. “He is my major-domo, my valet, my general factotum, and
will never be anything but a grenadier to the day of his death. Here he
is!” At this moment was a short, sharp double knock and the door opened
to admit a very square-shouldered, sharp-eyed man extremely precise as to
clothes, speech and gesture, who, beholding Sir Hector’s stalwart figure,
halted suddenly, whipped up right hand as if to touch neat wig but,
thinking better of it, bowed instead and immediately stood at attention.
“Stiff and straight as though on parade, Hector!” murmured Sir John,
whereupon the Corporal flushed and immediately “stood easy.”
“Ha, Corporal Robert!” exclaimed Sir Hector. “Dae ye mind the day we
stormed the barricades afore Maestricht, and me wi’ yon Frenchman’s
baggonet through me arrm? If ye hadna been there, I shouldna be here—so,
Corporal Bobbie, gi’e’s a grup o’ y’r hand.” The Corporal’s cheek flushed
again and his eyes glowed as their fingers gripped, but when he spoke it
was to his master.
“You rang, Sir John?”
“I did, Robert. I desire you to inform us if I was particularly drunk or
no last night?”
“By no manner o’ means, Sir John.”
“You are ready to swear that?”
“Bible oath, Sir John!”
“I am not often drunk, I believe, Bob?”
“Never more than the occasion demands, sir—and then very genteelly!”
“When was the last occasion, Bob?”
“Two days ago, sir, being the night of the Marquise de Sauvray’s
reception.”
“Was I—‘genteelly’ so, that night, Bob?”
“Maybe a leetle—elevated, sir.”
“Yes,” nodded Sir John, “I’ve a dim memory of breaking my cane over the
link-boy’s head!”
“Link-boy was insolent, sir. Link-boy deserved it.”
“I rejoice to know it, Robert. Was there aught else remarkable in my
home-coming on this occasion?”
“Nothing at all, sir! Though to be sure—you sang——”
“Sang, did I?” sighed Sir John. “Anything else, Bob?”
“No, sir! Except for gentleman’s perook stuffed into your honour’s
right-hand coat-pocket.”
“A peruke, Bob? Oh, begad! If we have it still, show it to me!”
The imperturbable Robert vanished into Sir John’s bedchamber and
instantly returned with the article in question, turning it upon his hand
for his master’s inspection.
“A brown Ramillie!” mused Sir John. “No, Bob, I don’t seem to know it—it
calls up no memory of its erstwhile owner. What sword did I wear that
night?”
“Your favourite dress sword, sir, with the gold hilt.”
“Fetch it, Bob.” The weapon was duly brought and, unsheathing it, Sir
John eyed it keenly from pierced shell to glittering point. “Ha!” sighed
he, returning blade and scabbard. “What has not been, will be, I fear!
A gentleman’s hat out of a window and a gentleman’s peruke in my pocket
would seem to indicate a meeting soon or late with some one or other!”
“With Viscount Templemore, sir, as I am give to understand.... Young
gentleman has been taking of fencing lessons constant ever since,”
answered Robert imperturbably.
“Templemore!” exclaimed Sir Hector. “Viscount Templemore, is it? Man
Jack, ye no can fecht wi’ him, he’s but a lad—a child—a bairn in breeks!”
“And but lately from England, eh, Bob?” questioned Sir John.
“He has been here scarce a week, sir, I am give to understand.”
“Mark that, Hector!”
“Man John, what d’ye mean?”
“Robert, pray how many duels have I had forced upon me since we came to
Paris five years since?”
“Twenty-three, Sir John.”
“And most of ’em gentlemen newly arrived from England—mark that also,
Hector! Gentlemen, these, who ha’ scarce made my acquaintance than they
discover an urgent desire to cross steel with me. Some day I may have an
accident and kill one of them, which would grieve me, since he would die
in evil cause, Hector.”
“Man Jack, what cause are ye meaning?”
“The cause of my Lady Herminia Barrasdaile, Hector, beyond doubt!”
Sir Hector made a turn up and down the room.
“But save us a’,” he exclaimed, halting suddenly, “the wumman must be a
pairfict deevil!”
“Nay, she’s merely a vengeful female, Hector.”
“But this puir Templemore laddie. I kenned his father weel—man Jack,
ye’ll no’ fecht the boy?”
“Pray, how may I avoid it, Hector? If he annoyed me t’other night—as
he must ha’ done, it seems that I affronted him in turn most
flagrantly—there is his wig to prove it! How, then, can I possibly
refuse him satisfaction? You have fought ere now and must appreciate the
delicacy of my position.”
“Umph-humph!” exclaimed Sir Hector, and took another turn up and down the
room.
“Do not distress yourself,” sighed Sir John; “if we must fight I shall
endeavour to disarm him merely——”
“And may accidentally kill the lad, swordsman though ye be, John ...
remember Charles Tremayne! So, man Jack, ye’ll juist no’ fight the
laddie.”
“Not fight?” echoed Sir John.
“Having regaird tae his extreme youth and inexperience and y’r ain
reputation as a duellist and man o’ bluid....”
“But, Hector, you must see that if I refuse on account of his youth
’twill make him the laughing-stock of all Paris.”
“Why then, Johnnie lad, ye maun juist rin awa’——”
“Run away, Hector?”
“Juist that, John; ye maun gi’e Parus a chance tae laugh at
yersel’—howbeit you’ll rin awa’ fra’ the puir lad as a man of honour
should.”
“Impossible, Hector.”
“Man, there’s naething impossible tae the son o’ your father, I’m
thinkin’!”
Sir John frowned and, crossing to the window, beheld a carriage drawn up
in front of the house.
“Robert,” said he, “we’ve visitors, I think; pray show them up here.”
Robert departed forthwith and presently reappeared to announce:
“My Lord Cheevely and Monsieur le Duc de Vaucelles.” And into the room
tripped two very fine gentlemen enormously bewigged and beruffled, who,
having been duly presented to Sir Hector, flourished laced hats and
fluttered perfumed handkerchiefs, bowing profoundly.
“Let me die, Sir John,” piped Lord Cheevely. “’Od rabbit me, but ’tis
pure joy to see ya’, I vow ’tis! Pray forgive our dem’d sudden intrusion,
but our mission is delicate, sir, dooced, infinite delicate, and admits
o’ no delay, as my friend Vaucelles will tell ya’!”
“Parfaitement!” quoth Monsieur le Duc, hat a-flourish.
“Briefly and to the point, m’ dear Sir John,” continued his lordship, “we
come on behalf of our very good friend, Viscount Templemore, who, with
the utmost passible humility i’ the world, begs the honour of a meeting
with ya’ at the earliest passible moment.”
“Templemore?” repeated Sir John, tapping smooth forehead with slender
finger. “Templemore? I have met him somewhere, I fancy. He is but lately
come to Paris, I think, my lord?”
“A week ago or thereabouts, m’ dear Sir John.”
“And he desires a meeting?”
“Most ardently, Sir John; the point in question being, as ya’ remember,
of a distinctly—personal nature.”
“Indeed,” nodded Sir John, “a brown Ramillie wig.”
“Parfaitement!” answered Monsieur le Duc, with a flourish.
“Precisely, Sir John!” answered Lord Cheevely. “’Twill be small-swords, I
presume?”
“No, my lord,” sighed Sir John.
“Ah, you decide for pistols, then?”
“Nor pistols, my lord. I do not intend to fight with Viscount Templemore.”
“Not—not fight?” gasped his lordship, while Monsieur le Duc started and
dropped his hat.
“No, my lord,” answered Sir John. “I am returning Viscount Templemore’s
wig with my sincerest regrets so soon as ’tis combed and ironed——”
“D’ye mean, sir, that—that you actually refuse Viscount Templemore’s
challenge?”
“Actually and positively, my lord!”
“But—but,” stammered Lord Cheevely. “Oh, demme, such action is
impossible—was not—cannot be!”
“That is why I do it, my lord.”
“Oh, rat me!” murmured his lordship, goggling. “Oh, split me ... not
fight! Dooce take and burn me—this from you, Sir John! You that ha’ never
baulked ... had so many affairs ... gone out so frequently—oh, smite me
dumb!”
“My lord,” sighed Sir John, “I have been out so very frequently that I am
grown a little weary. You will therefore pray tell Viscount Templemore
that I have given up duelling as a pastime for the present, and purpose
rusticating awhile——”
“If—if you are serious, sir,” exclaimed Lord Cheevely, rolling his eyes,
“demme, sir, if you are serious, permit me to tell ya’ ya’ conduct is
dem’d strange, devilish queer and most dooced, dem’d irregular!”
“Parfaitement!” added Monsieur le Duc.
Sir John smiled faintly, though his dreamy blue eyes grew suddenly very
keen and piercing.
“Gentlemen,” he retorted, “I am about to leave Paris for an indefinite
period; when I return, should you have any strictures to make upon my
conduct, I shall be charmed to notice ’em. Until then, sirs, I have the
honour to bid you adieu.”
And so Sir John bowed, the gentlemen bowed and betook themselves away
with never another word.
“Man Jack,” exclaimed Sir Hector, as the door closed, “leave Parus, is
it? O John, laddie—d’ye mean it?”
“Aye, I do, Hector. What with one thing and another, I begin to find
Paris a little wearing.”
“Is it hame at last, Johnnie—hame tae England?”
“Where else, Hector?”
“When dae we start, lad?”
“Sure, no time were better than the present. We ride to-day, Hector.”
“Ou aye—yet bide a wee! Wha’ bee’s in y’r bonnet, now, laddie?”
“I go to find my enemy, Hector.”
“Save us a’! D’ye mean the leddy?”
“Herminia!” nodded Sir John. “’Tis a pretty name! Indeed, Hector, ’tis a
sweet, pretty name—though vastly difficult to find a rhyme for——”
“And what’ll ye be after wi’ the deevilish jade?”
“To exact a just and lasting vengeance, Hector.”
“Hoot awa’, Johnnie—hoot-toot, ye canna fecht a wumman——”
“I can do worse, Hector!”
“Man John, wha’ dae ye mean?”
“I can marry her, Hector.”