LORD DENNINGHAM FIGHTS ONCE TOO OFTEN
Lord Denningham was waiting, not patiently--that virtue had never been
his--but with a growing irritation.
After all this was a fool's game.
Notoriety was cheap, and he could--if he had willed--have sought and
found it in far more amusing paths than those of political intrigue.
He had a good mind to throw up the whole business and return to England
by the next boat.
A fit of indigestion--or was it spleen? Perhaps the latter, for he was
thinking of pretty Gabrielle Conyers.
If he went to England she should go with him. Yes! he had sworn that,
and she might think herself a lucky woman that he would take her as
Lady Denningham. He smiled over the thought, and then set his lips in
a thin, tight line.
My Lady Denningham! Yes; he would teach the chit who was master, and
she would love him the more for it.
As for this business of Trouet's, it was the means to an end.
He would masquerade as a converted marquis, teach a crowd of loutish
peasants the tune of the Marseillaise, consign a few of these
mock-heroic aristos to the devil, and take home his bride by way of
reward, with the substantial thanks of the Committee of Public Safety
and France in general.
It was a perfectly satisfactory picture. In the meantime he was more
than ready for the first act of the little comedy wherein the ci-devant
Marquis de Varenac would make his bow to good patriots as the Citizen
Morice.
Involuntarily he chuckled as he thought of one morning, a few days
since, when he had put a superfluous Morice de Varenac safely out of
the way.
Confound that fellow Trouet! was he never coming?
My lord was getting restless.
A passing curiosity led him to the library.
Pity old Steenie had met such a paltry fate; he might have helped wile
away a heavy hour with the cards.
Poor Steenie!
Jack Denningham slowly took a pinch of snuff as he looked down at the
still figure at his feet.
A sight to point a moral.
The handsome but bloated face, the rich dress, helpless hands, and the
broken bowl, with the sickening smell of punch-fumes mingling with the
close atmosphere of the room.
Faugh! My lord turned to throw open a window, and came face to face
with the dead man's son.
It might have been an embarrassing situation for most, but Jack
Denningham was noted for his sang-froid.
"In good time," quoth he. "My condolences and congratulations, Sir
Michael. The loss of a father is not always a bereavement his heir
finds it hard to bear."
One swift glance towards the hearth, then back at the sneering, smiling
face before him.
"I await explanations," said Michael sternly.
Denningham burst into a loud laugh.
"Stap me, sir, but you take it coolly," quoth he. "One would almost
have thought you were prepared for the blow."
"As I am to find the striker," replied Michael coldly.
"Ha, ha! You do me the honour of suspecting my hand in the matter? A
pretty compliment, my young friend. May I repay it?"
The speaker's tone was yet more insolent. Michael looked his adversary
full in the face. Perhaps he guessed why my lord was so ready to pick
a quarrel.
Denningham was still smiling mockingly.
"Berrington Manor needed a new master--_and mistress_!" he questioned.
"But you must be careful, my friend, in your daydreams, or there will
be an unexpected awakening."
"You will explain your words, my lord, or give me satisfaction."
"Ha, ha! You have been a frequenter of the King's Theatre. I grant
you John Parkington is superb; but I prefer melodrama _only_ on the
stage. I am too prosaic for you, Sir Michael."
"Your prose should be readable then."
"Have I not made it so already? But I assure you, sir, that you must
be careful which way you look. Mistress Gabrielle will have the honour
of being Lady Denningham one day soon."
"You lie!"
"Tut, tut! ugly words, ugly words, my Irish mongrel. You will do well
to be discreet, seeing----"
He nodded towards the hearth.
"You dare----"
Lord Denningham had succeeded admirably; his adversary was ablaze with
unrestrainable anger.
"Ah! you will prove your innocence. Of course, of course. Do not lose
your temper, I implore you, sir. Only you will not deny that your
father's murder was a matter of no surprise to you. And as your
father's heir----"
"You will answer me for your insults, my lord--and at once."
"I am always at the service of a gentleman. Would you prefer swords or
pistols?"
"Swords. On guard, my lord."
"As hot at fighting as in love-making. Aha! this mongrel blood! Come,
if you will have it so; but I shall teach you a lesson, my friend.
Afterwards----"
"Afterwards----?"
"I shall marry pretty Gabrielle Conyers and take to writing poems."
Mockery and laughter, meant to goad on his adversary to mad
indiscretion.
But Michael Berrington was sobered already.
If he fell in the duel, Gabrielle would be at this man's mercy.
Fool that he had been to be so trapped!
But it was too late now, and there was murder sure enough in
Denningham's half-veiled blue eyes.
A duel a l'outrance.
They did not speak after the swords had once crossed.
It was for a woman they fought, and each knew it, whatever the reason
given.
A mad fight in a dying light, traitor shadows to baulk each thrust.
Yes, it would be more luck than skill which should proclaim the winner.
Not a flicker of an eyelid, not a smile to part stern lips. A cruel
fight, with Death to guide the quick thrusts which each parried in turn.
To and fro, to and fro. As near the window as possible to gain the
advantage of every glimmer of light.
And by the hearth the gloom deepened into darkness.
The breathing of the antagonists was getting more laboured now. But
the eyes were hard and unflinching as ever beneath sweating brows.
To and fro, to and fro, till they were shadows amongst shadows.
And then, whilst victory hung in the balance, and Death stood back to
await his victim, the door opened.
It was Denningham who faced it--Denningham who, for the briefest
second, looked up and saw a figure standing there, watching the scene
with curious, wondering eyes.
A brief second and yet it was enough.
A look of horror swept over the mocking face, which became ghastly in
its pallor. With a scream of fear, he lurched forward, almost falling
upon Michael Berrington's sword.
"Conyers! My God! Conyers!" he sobbed, sinking to the ground--and
never spoke again.
It had all been the work of an instant, too brief for realization. No
time for Michael, indeed, to have lowered his sword before that fatal
stagger.
And the duel was over.
Not skill, not luck, but fate itself decided it, and Jack Denningham
lay dead. It was a fate he had so often meted out to others, and the
day of reckoning must come at last.
It had come now.
But it was no ghost who knelt by the dead man's side, looking down into
the grey, horror-stricken face, but Morice Conyers in the flesh--a
little paler, a little thinner, but himself for all that.
"He is dead," he said, looking up into Michael's face. "It was just
that he should die. The fellow was rogue and villain."
"Rogue and villain I grant," replied Michael slowly, "but I would that
the duel had ended before you entered."
Morice shrugged his shoulders.
"Witnesses are always useful," he said. "And there was no shadow of
blame to you."
"Even so, I would----"
"Tush, tush! there's no time for discussing the nicety of a thrust now,
as de Quernais will tell you."
"De Quernais?"
Michael looked with surprise towards the young Count, who stood beside
his cousin.
It was bewildering to find these two together after the happenings of
the past three days.
"What mean you?"' he asked briefly.
Morice Conyers straightened himself.
"I come hither as Marquis de Varenac," he replied.
"As Marquis de Varenac? And Trouet----"
The latter question was involuntary.
"Is as much my enemy as that of my cousin here."
His eyes sought Count Jehan's.
"Yes, yes," answered the latter quickly. "All is explained. My good
friend and cousin is here with me to do what he can to save his people
from themselves--and Marcel Trouet."
"If it be not too late," murmured Morice bitterly.
Michael held out his hand.
"At least we are comrades together," he replied, with one of those
winning smiles which transformed the dark grimness of his face. "And
Trouet is not here yet."
"But he is on his way."
"Yes, and I do not think he is far off. Denningham"--he glanced down
at the dead man--"was to have played the Marquis."
"Was that his own idea?"
"Ah! I wonder. It did not occur to me. Perhaps----"
"It is possible that Trouet has already been here."
"The girl Olerie told me there were two."
"Denningham--and Sir Stephen."
"Nay; _after_ my father had--had been murdered."
Both listeners started.
"Murdered!"
They had not seen what lay in the shadows beyond the window.
"Yes," said Michael grimly, "murdered." And he pointed to where a dim
outline was visible, huddled together on the hearth.
Morice sprang forward with a cry of dismay. He had been fond of
Steenie Berrington.
"How did it happen? Who did it? Ah! Steenie, poor Steenie!"
It was pitiful sight enough on which he gazed down.
"That is what I asked Denningham here. He suggested that it was a case
of parricide."
"He would have picked a quarrel. But had he done it himself?"
"I hardly think so. My father was no one's enemy but his own. And it
was foul murder."
It was Count Jehan who spoke next.
"Did you not say a girl brought the news?" he questioned abruptly.
Michael nodded.
"Olerie Koustak. I was forgetting. She told me some tale of her
father being in danger of his life--accused of the deed."
He flung open the door as he spoke, stepping out into the passage.
"Olerie, Olerie," he cried.
The girl was not long in responding. Crouched in a corner behind the
salon door, she had been awaiting developments in an agony of fear.
"Where is your father, child?" rapped out Morice peremptorily.
"Ah! Monsieur, in the room above."
"He is locked in?"
"Si, si! The English milord has the key."
She crossed herself as though speaking of the devil.
"The English lord? I will bring it."
Count Jehan spoke quietly. He had no fear or passing pity for the dead
in that darkened room behind them.
He was not long absent. But Olerie was the only one who smiled on his
return.
Together they hastened to the room above.
On their way Michael found tongue to ask what happened at Kernak.
Again it was the Count who answered.
"They are safe," he said. "Our servants are faithful, and Pere Mouet
is with them. They know that danger threatens. If it draws too near
they will not await us, but escape across the landes to the coast."
"To the coast?"
"Yes, yes. There is a cave. It has the name of the Cave of Lost
Souls. Our peasants are superstitious, Monsieur Berrington. They
declare that the souls of unshriven mariners lodge there, and that to
hear their wailing cries strikes madness into the hearts of listeners.
They would not enter it after sundown if they thought that King Louis
himself were hidden there."
"And then----"
"There are boats there. It will be easy to escape to Jersey and thence
to England."
The last words were warm with comfort.
But, alas! England was some way from the Manor of Varenac, and
evidently the Terror was near.
It was an affecting sight to see the joy of old Pierre Koustak when
they liberated him, telling him that at last M'nsieur le Marquis had
come to his own.
He wept and sobbed over Morice's hand, kissing it again and again,
calling him his dear, dear master.
But it was not the moment for sentiment. The tale of poor Pierre's
false accusation and imprisonment was told with some preamble, mingled
with many explanations of his whereabouts prior to the crime.
"There were two men in the library," interrupted Michael shortly.
"Describe the one who was not the English lord."
"A little man, M'nsieur, with a villainous face and villainous red cap.
He had the air of a Republican leader, and there was a scar, very red,
across his forehead."
"Marcel Trouet!"
The three looked at each other.
Michael's face was very grim.
"It was he who murdered my father."
"But why?"
Morice's voice faltered a little over the question.
"I cannot tell. But there can be no second possibility. He may have
mistaken him for another."
"For----"
Count Jehan shrugged his shoulders.
"For you yourself, my cousin. He may have heard too much talk of the
Marquis and too little of the Citizen. It is wonderful how news
spreads. Meantime----"
"Meantime," Michael replied slowly, "the men of Varenac will come
hither to greet their new lord."
"Their new lord?"
"Denningham told me of a proposed masquerade."
"Ah!"
They were understanding now.
It was time.
A scream from Olerie, who stood at the window, was echoed by a dull
roar from without as she threw the casement open. Instinctively the
four men ran to her side. Up the avenue of stately oaks--the pride of
many a generation of Varenacs--came a crowd of men and women.
Uncertainly at first, but with growing strength, rose the sounds of the
familiar tune:
"Aux armes, citoyens!
Le jour de gloire est arrive."
Then a pause.
"Citoyen Varenac! Citoyen Varenac! Citoyen!"
The cry went up from hundreds of throats, a deep, exultant roar of
welcome and anticipation.
Morice moved forward.
A tiny balcony without would give him the opportunity he desired.
"Citoyen Varenac! Citoyen!"
Bareheaded he stepped out.
"I am the Marquis de Varenac," he cried.