TELLETH OF THE DUEL ON DERING TYE
Reaching the old cross, Sir John paused instinctively and leaned there,
oblivious to all but this most bitter of truths. She had acted ... from
the very first! The gentle Rose with her sweet simplicity was no more
than a figment of his own imagining. The cold, vindictive Herminia had
lured him on for this.... Here, indeed, was the culmination of her
heartless scheming. Her vengeance was accomplished.... And Rose had never
existed!
Here, lifting clenched hand, he saw a slow trickle of blood that crept
beneath lace ruffle.... She had said his hand was bloody ... and to be
sure she had gripped and wrenched his injured arm.
Now as he leaned thus against the cross, watching these slow-creeping
drops, he became aware of hoofs approaching at a wild gallop, and,
glancing up, espied a horseman who rode very furiously, and it was with
a faint surprise that he recognised Mr. Hartop; on came the parson,
spurring his plump steed mercilessly, until, perceiving Sir John, he
abated his speed somewhat.
“Sir—sir,” he cried, his voice thin and high, “they are killing the
witch ... old Penelope Haryott! The mob is out ... my Lord Sayle will do
nothing. They’ve wrecked her cottage.... I’m for Sir Hector MacLean and
any who are men ... pray God we be in time! You, sir—quick, I beseech ...
High Dering.”
“Sayle?” repeated Sir John. “Is he there?”
“Sir, ’twas by his orders they ransacked her cottage seeking the man
Potter.... God help the poor soul! Haste, sir, if ye would be o’ service!”
Next moment Sir John was before the ‘Market Cross Inn’ shouting for
horse, ostlers and the Corporal.
“Sir?” questioned the imperturbable Robert, hurrying downstairs.
“To horse, Bob, at once! Nay, first my sword with the rapier blade!” And,
unhooking the gold-hilted weapon at his side, Sir John tossed it upon the
table.
“The one you bid me sharpen, sir?”
“Yes, yes—and hurry, man, ’tis life and death!” And away hasted Sir John
to see the horses saddled, to mount and fume at the ostlers until the
Corporal came running, the sword beneath his arm.
“Is’t sharp, Bob, is’t sharp?” questioned Sir John, as he buckled the
weapon on.
“As a razor, your honour, both edges, from the p’int six inches up——”
“Then up with ye and—spur, Bob!” The Corporal sprang to saddle, found his
stirrups, and, wheeling the high-mettled animals, they dashed into the
street and away at full gallop: and spur how he would, the Corporal had
much ado to keep Sir John in sight.
Now presently, as they raced thus, they heard a distant sound that might
have been wind in trees, a vague murmur that grew upon them with every
stride, waxing ever louder and more terrible, a sound than which there is
surely none more dreadful, the ferocious, inarticulate roar of an angry
mob.
With this awful clamour in his ears, Sir John spurred his horse to
yet faster pace; but across country he might save half a mile or so;
therefore steadying the mare he set her at a gate, cleared it gallantly,
and away pounded the sorrel at stretching gallop, taking dykes and brooks
in her stride: across and over and through ditch and fence and hedge,
swerving for nothing, staying for nothing, until, clearing hedge and
ditch at mighty bound, her fast-galloping hoofs thundered upon dusty road
again.
And presently Sir John saw the thatched roofs of High Dering, and then
he was racing down its winding street; a moment more and he was upon the
Tye or village green where swayed a tumultuous, roaring crowd; and in the
midst, her white head horribly bedabbled, a mark for every gibing tongue
and merciless hand, reeled old Penelope Haryott.
And now a demon awoke in Sir John; his modish serenity was utterly gone,
his eyes glared, his teeth gleamed between snarling lips and, spurring
his rearing horse, he drove in upon the mob, striking savagely with heavy
whip at the faces of such as chanced nearest: whereupon the full-throated
roar changed to shouts of anger and dismay, to screams of pain and fear,
to a whine. But, spurring upon the shrinking people, he lashed at them
as they had been curs, until the heavy whip broke in his grasp, and like
curs they ran before him, howling. Then chancing to espy Mr. Oxham, who
stood beside Sturton before ‘The Dering Arms,’ he wheeled and galloped up
to them.
“Rogues!” he panted. “Where’s your master?—where is Lord Sayle?... Tell
him ... Sir John Dering ... awaits him.”
“Sir John—Dering?” exclaimed Oxham, staring, while Mr. Sturton, uttering
a gasping moan, sank down upon adjacent bench and bowed his head between
clasping hands. And then Mr. Oxham was pushed aside and my Lord Sayle
stepped from the inn.
Sir John lightly dismounted.
“Ah, my lord,” quoth he, “so I find ye trespassing and murdering on my
land.”
“I am here, sir,” retorted his lordship, scowling, “in the exercise of my
duty. If your tenants be minded to duck a notorious witch, ’tis no affair
o’ mine. And I warn ye, sir, that in yon old hag’s cottage we have found
indisputable evidence that——”
“Tush!” exclaimed Sir John, “do not weary me with the details o’ your
man-hunting trade, sir. Your arm is strong enough to flourish a whip,
I perceive, and mine, you’ll observe, is less sound than it might be.
Come, then, my lord—the grass is smooth and level on Dering Tye—let us
forthwith earnestly endeavour to make an end o’ one another—for, by
heaven, I’ll wait no longer!”
“Orme,” cried his lordship, “ha’ the goodness to bring my sword.”
The Major hastened to obey and, taking the weapon, my lord stepped from
under the porch to where Sir John awaited him; side by side they walked
together, and together reached the smooth green, watched by the silent
crowd, which slowly closed about them until they stood within a wide ring
of hushed and awestruck spectators. Then Sir John tossed aside laced hat,
drew his sword, tossed the scabbard after the hat, and, point to earth,
watched his lordship do the same; but scarce was his blade free than
Lord Sayle sprang with glittering point out-thrust, but Sir John, ever
watchful, leapt nimbly aside, avoided the stroke, laughed, and steel met
steel. And, standing thus, poised, alert, eyes glaring into eyes, blade
pressing blade, Sir John spoke in his high, clear voice:
“A murderous trick, my lord, and worthy of ye. Now, look around you, note
the beauty of this fair afternoon—’tis your last, my lord, for so sure as
you hold sword, I mean to kill ye!”
The stamp of sudden foot, a flurry of twirling blades in thrust and
parry, and they were motionless again.
“Kill and end ye, my lord!” repeated Sir John. “But first, for the
behoof of our so numerous spectators, we will show ’em a few gasconading
flourishes. Your coat, my lord, they shall see it flutter in merest rags
about you ere we finish—thus! So ho, my lord, one—two!” A sudden whirl of
close-playing steel, the flash of darting point, and now, as they thrust
and parried, all eyes might see my Lord Sayle’s brown velvet disfigured
by two gaping rents from waist to hem, and from the watching throng rose
a hoarse murmur of amazement. But my lord, nothing dismayed, fought but
the more warily, while Sir John, it seemed, grew ever the more reckless;
ensued long periods of fierce action, thrust, parry and counter-thrust,
followed by sudden pauses, tense moments of utter stillness wherein blade
felt blade and eye glared to eye.
Foremost among the spectators loomed the gigantic figure of Sir Hector,
his face suffused and damp, who babbled prayers as the murderous steel
flashed and darted, while beside him stood Corporal Robert, deadly pale,
who muttered fitful curses.
“Damme, sir, his arm’s begun a-bleeding!” groaned the Corporal.
“Guid love us a’—so ’tis!” exclaimed Sir Hector, seizing the Corporal
by the collar; “an’ O Rabbie—man, see how wild he is.... Sayle will hae
him yet!” Here Sir Hector nearly swung the Corporal from his legs in his
emotion.
For, indeed, Lord Sayle’s point time and again flashed perilously near;
once it flickered through the ringlets of Sir John’s peruke, and once it
tore the laces at his throat, but after every desperate rally it was to
be noticed that my lord’s brown velvet coat showed ever more woefully
tattered.
Suddenly, albeit a little breathlessly, Sir John spoke, plain for all to
hear:
“So much for your coat, my lord! And now for yourself—let us make an end
... you shall receive your quietus on the count of three.... One! Two!”
A sudden clashing of desperate steel, then my lord leapt out of distance
and, uttering a hoarse cry of bitter despair, hurled his useless sword
from him and stood dreadfully pale, bathed in sweat, and, striving to
voice his passionate hate, gasped mouthing incoherencies.
“Take up your sword, sir—take up ... your sword and ... let us finish!”
panted Sir John. But Lord Sayle folded his arms, staring upon his
antagonist with eyes of murder.
Then Sir John laughed.
“What, have ye enough, sir?” he questioned scornfully. “Are ye done so
soon and never a drop o’ blood, nor so much as a scratch?” Receiving no
answer, he laughed again and turned his back. “Robert,” he cried—“Robert,
see the pitiful fellow off my land.”
Stung to madness, Lord Sayle reached swiftly for his fallen sword, but
the Corporal was before him and, snapping the weapon across his knee,
tossed the pieces aside.
“My lord,” said he, “your horse is yonder, I think.”
Lord Sayle raised haggard face from earth to sky, stared round him upon
the gaping throng with expression bordering on despair, and strode
whither the Corporal’s finger pointed. And, as he went, the skirts of
his brown velvet coat fluttered grotesquely about him, yet of all who
watched, no one spoke, much less laughed. Reaching his horse, he mounted
and, without one backward glance, gathered up the reins and, spurring
savagely, galloped away, leaving his friends and servants to follow as
they would.
“And now, Hector,” said Sir John, catching up his hat, “what of old
Penelope? How is she?”
“Guid forgi’e me, Johnnie, I clean forgot the puir soul.”
Reaching the little cottage, they found its new-planted garden a trampled
wilderness, its windows shattered, its newly painted door battered from
its hinges, and within, a scene of cruel wreckage.
“Ah, well,” laughed Sir John fiercely, “my Lord Sayle yet lives!” And
then was a light foot upon the dark stair and my Lady Herminia faced
them, very pale.
“Guid be thankit ye’re here, my bonny Rose!” exclaimed Sir Hector
fervently. “Hoo is yon puir Penelope?”
“Alive, sir! You were in time, I thank God. I have put her to bed and
shall remain with her. I pray you bid my aunt to me hither and the maid
Betty.”
“Ah, Rose,” cried Sir Hector, catching my lady’s hands and kissing them,
“thou bonny, muckle-hearted lass! O Johnnie, was there e’er sic a maid as
our Rose?”
“Never, Hector—there never was! For Gad’s my life, Rose is not, was not,
nor ever will be——”
“Eh—eh, Johnnie?”
“The lady before us, Hector, is merely that blooming ‘toast,’ the
bewitching Barrasdaile.”
“Losh, man John, wha’s a’ this?”
“This, Hector, is the Lady Herminia Barrasdaile, niece to her Grace the
Duchess of Connington, whom we know here as ‘Mrs. Saunders.’ But as for
our loved Rose, alas, she was no more than a passing whim!”
“Why—why.... O John!” stammered Sir Hector, loosing my lady’s nerveless
hands and falling back a step in sheer amazement. “O Rose, my bonny Rose,
wha’s a’ this?” he questioned.
“The truth, sir,” she answered gently. “I am indeed Herminia Barrasdaile.
And now, by your leaves, I will go back to old Penelope.”
And so, with a gracious curtsy, my lady turned and went softly up the
dark and narrow stair.