THE LUCK OF LORD ROSMORE
Harriet Payne did not move. The curtain over the door concealed her, but
it hung a little apart at one side, and she could see into the room,
could see both men as they stood facing each other. For a while there
was absolute silence, then Rosmore made a quick movement towards a side
table on which lay a pistol.
"Stop, or you are a dead man!" said Crosby.
Rosmore stopped. He knew too much about his unwelcome guest to imagine
that he would not be as good as his word. He paused a moment, then went
to the table on which were the remains of the supper.
"I have no fear that you will shoot an unarmed man, Mr. Crosby," he said
quietly. "I have heard many things against you, but never that you were
a coward. I marvel that you have the courage to walk abroad in
Dorchester, and wonder, even more, that you come into this room."
Crosby also walked to the table, and so they stood erect on either side
of it, face to face, man to man, deadly enemies feeling each other's
strength.
"We may come to the point at once, Lord Rosmore. Where is Mistress
Barbara Lanison?"
"I hear that she is a prisoner in Dorchester."
"By your contriving."
"It is natural you should think so, seeing the position I hold in the
West Country at the present time."
"I do not think, I know," Crosby answered. "By a trick, and through a
lying messenger, you induced her to travel to Dorchester and had her
arrested on the journey."
"Let us suppose this to be the case, is it not just possible that there
may be a legitimate reason for such a trick?"
"I am ready to listen," said Crosby.
"Always supposing that your knowledge is correct, is it not possible
that Mistress Lanison may foolishly believe herself enamoured of a
certain somewhat notorious person, and that those who have her
well-being at heart think it necessary to protect her from this
notorious person until she becomes more sensible?"
Harriet Payne watched him as he spoke. There was a smile upon his
handsome face such as any honest man's might wear when dealing with an
excitable and imaginative opponent. Then, as Crosby spoke, she looked at
him.
"I will tell you the truth," he said, speaking in a low, clear, and
incisive tone. "You would yourself marry Barbara Lanison, and, having
established a hold over her guardian, you have attempted to force her to
such an alliance by threats. At every turn in the game you have been
foiled. You have failed to impress Mistress Lanison; you failed in a
villainous endeavour to defend her against a drunken man who was acting
on your suggestion; you failed to capture me at Lenfield when you had no
warrant but your own will for attempting such a capture."
"You have sat at the feet of an excellent taleteller, sir, or else you
have a prodigious imagination of your own."
Harriet Payne's eyes were fixed upon Rosmore. She watched him, and
looked no more at Crosby.
"Failing in these endeavours, you made other schemes," Crosby went on.
"Having taken a servant girl from Lenfield, you make use of her. She was
an honest girl, I believe, not ill-intentioned towards me, but in your
hands she was as clay. How you have deceived her, or what promises you
have made to her, I do not know, I can only guess, but, to serve your
own purposes, you have made a liar and a cheat of her. She has brought
Mistress Lanison to Dorchester for you, that you may once more attempt
to force a marriage which is distasteful to the lady. That is the story
up to this moment."
"You appear to know the lady's secrets as well as mine."
"No, not as well as I know yours," Crosby answered. "Had I done so, I
might have outwitted you and have prevented her coming to Dorchester."
"For a man who so easily believes every tale he hears, you are an
exceedingly self-reliant person."
"And fortunate, too," said Crosby, "since I have an opportunity of
showing you the end of the story."
"A prophet, by gad!" exclaimed Rosmore.
"I entered this room in time to hear your transaction with Judge
Marriott," said Crosby. "Now the story ends in one of two ways. You have
two orders of release, one for Mistress Lanison, one for me. I know
their value, or you would not have been so anxious to get them, and I
have at least one friend in Dorchester who can execute those orders
without any question being raised. Those orders you will deliver to me,
here and now."
"May I know how else the story might end?" Rosmore asked contemptuously.
"With your death," was the quiet answer. "Oh, no, not murder; death in
fair fight. You are hardly likely to scream for help, I take it; you
have yourself carefully locked the door, and no one is likely to pass
along the alley outside that window. You may choose which way the story
shall end."
"You so nearly make me laugh at you, Mr. Crosby, that I find the utmost
difficulty in quarrelling with you. The orders I shall not part with,
and I am half minded to call for help."
"You would not need it when it arrived," Crosby answered.
"And you would hang to-morrow."
"You have worked so secretly that I hardly think suspicion would fall
upon me. I could go as quietly as I came, and no one be any the wiser."
"You shall be humoured, Mr. Crosby. I never thought to cross blades with
a man ripe for Tyburn Tree, but the blade can be snapped afterwards."
"It is the way I should prefer the story to end," Crosby returned.
Rosmore pushed back the table, then the swords rang from their
scabbards.
The girl behind the curtain did not move. She had watched Rosmore's face
to try and learn whether Crosby's story were true. She travelled from
doubt to belief, then back to doubt again, and now as the swords crossed
she was fascinated, held there, it seemed, by some power outside
herself, unable to move, powerless to cry out. She knew not what to
believe. Lord Rosmore had not admitted the truth of the story, still he
had not denied it. He had fenced with it. Harriet Payne had been at
Lenfield long enough to understand the estimation in which her master,
Gilbert Crosby, was held; he was not a man to lie deliberately, and she
dared not face him, knowing the part she had played. She had played it
because she loved this other man, but, dispassionately described as
Crosby had told it, the offence she had committed seemed far greater
than she had imagined. If Rosmore had deceived her! The thought burnt
into her soul and sent the hot blood to her cheeks. Was she merely a
silly wench, as were hundreds of others, won by a smooth tongue,
stepping easily down into shame at the bidding of the first man whose
words had enough flattery in them? Was there truth in what the trooper
Watson had suggested? So, with her hand strained against her side, and
leaning forward a little, she watched the play of the swords.
Rosmore was not smiling now. He was a master of fence, had proved it a
dozen times, more than once had sent his man to his account. He had
never yet faced an antagonist whose skill was quite equal to his own.
Even to-night he would not admit to himself that he had found his equal.
He remembered that he had drunk much wine, yet, before this, he had not
fought the worse upon such a quantity. He had known sudden encounters
over dice and cards when the settlement followed hard upon the quarrel,
as well as more formal duels, and in none had he been beaten. Truly this
Crosby was no mean opponent, but no glow of satisfaction at meeting a
worthy foeman came to Lord Rosmore. This must be a fight to the death,
and twice in quick succession he attempted a thrust, a famous thrust of
his, which had so often carried death with it. Now it was parried,
easily it seemed, and barely could he turn aside the answering point
which flashed towards him. For a few moments he was entirely on the
defensive, with never an opening to attack.
Gilbert Crosby's actual experience was not equal to his skill. Once only
had he fought a duel, and had wounded his man on that occasion. He was
confident of his skill as he faced Lord Rosmore, but he knew that he
must lack something of that assurance which comes to the persistent
duellist, that detachment of self which so often helps to victory. He
was conscious of a certain anxiety which made him more than usually
cautious. He fought as a man who must, not as one who glories in it, and
it was well for Rosmore, perhaps, that it was so. It was for Barbara
Lanison that he fought, the conviction in his mind that now or never
must she be saved. No other way seemed open. It was of her he
thought--of all she must have suffered, of the despicable trickery which
had been practised upon her, of the fate which awaited her if she were
not rescued. He loved her, that was as sure as that he lived, but it was
not his love he thought of just then. As Rosmore once more attacked him
fiercely the idea of defeat came to him for an instant. For himself he
cared not, but what would it mean for her! The fight must end. It should
end soon in the only possible way, honesty triumphant over villainy.
Lord Rosmore's thoughts wandered, too. The end did not really trouble
him; he had never known defeat--why should it come to him now? Other men
had parried a difficult thrust twice, and had failed to do so the third
time; yet he remembered Barbara Lanison's speculation when he had spoken
of breaking his sword after killing the highwayman. What would the
highwayman do, she had wondered, if he should prove the victor, and
Rosmore found himself wondering what Crosby would do in the event of
such an end. Then he remembered Harriet Payne. What was the girl doing
behind the curtain? Why had she not rushed into the room, as he had
fully expected she would do? Had she swooned at the sight of the
fighting? That he fought in an unrighteous cause he did not think about.
For him right meant the attainment of what he desired, and his head was
scheming as he parried Crosby's attack. The fight must end quickly. It
was very certain that the wine he had taken was telling upon his
endurance. He almost wished that the girl would scream for help; he was
half inclined to call for it himself. It would be an easy way to bring
the end. Lord Rosmore was not himself to-night.
Harriet stood motionless and watched. In her ignorance she thought that
each thrust must end it, so impossible did it seem to turn aside, now
this flashing blade, now that; but presently it was evident, even to
her, that the fight was fiercer. The panting breaths came quicker, the
blades rang more sharply. She wondered that the house had not been
aroused, wondered that those passing in the streets had not heard this
quarrel of steel with steel, and sought to know the reason. Then for the
first time through long, long minutes her eyes wandered. The power which
held her immovable and speechless was lessening, but the tension was not
gone yet. Her eyes wandered, and her ears heard something besides the
ringing steel. The curtains over the window shook a little, stirred by a
breath of wind from the alley without. Then the window must have been
left open! How was it no one without had heard the noise?
Crosby's back was to the window; he could not see that the curtains
stirred, his ear caught no sound to startle him.
Rosmore, although he faced the window, saw nothing, heard nothing. His
eyes were fixed upon those of his enemy, who was growing fiercer, more
deadly every moment. The end was coming. Rosmore knew it, and felt
weary. Every moment his enemy's point came nearer. It was parried this
time and that, and again; but still it came. It touched him that time,
not enough to scratch even, still it touched him! Next time! No, once
more it was turned aside, and then it touched him again. It was nothing,
but there was blood on his arm. In a moment that blade which had begun
to dazzle him would be in his heart.
The curtains stirred again, floating out slightly into the room.
Harriet's eyes turned to Rosmore, and saw the blood on his arm. She knew
that this was the end. Then the curtains parted swiftly, and Crosby's
blade fell with a clatter to the floor. For an instant he was struggling
in the grasp of two men who had rushed upon him from behind, and was
then borne to the ground. It was at this moment, too, that Harriet flung
back the curtain from the door and stood in the room. Perhaps she
expected Rosmore to make one late thrust at the falling man.
For a moment there was silence.
"Tie this handkerchief round my arm, mistress," said Rosmore; "the
honours have gone against me."
She did as she was told.
"Shall we secure him, sir?"
"Yes, Sayers, but gently. I would not have him hurt. Forgive me, Crosby,
I had no hand in this interruption; but, since it comes, I am glad to
take advantage of it. What brought you here, Sayers?"
"Chance," was the answer. "We were wondering where the alley led to, saw
the window unfastened, and heard the steel."
"Thank you, Harriet," said Rosmore, as she finished binding up his arm.
"Help Mr. Crosby to a chair, Sayers. Give me that pistol on the table
yonder. Here is the key of the door--catch; shut the window, one of you.
Now go, and wait in the passage until I call you."
"Shall I go?" said Harriet.
"No; stay."
"You may well want to go, girl," said Crosby. "You have betrayed an
innocent woman into the hands of her enemies, and for reward--what has
this man promised you for reward?"
"Will you listen to me a moment, Mr. Crosby?" said Rosmore.
"Your confederates have made it impossible for me to refuse."
"That is unworthy of you," Rosmore answered. "I assure you I had no
knowledge of their presence until I had made up my mind that your point
was in my heart. I am glad they came for my own sake. I should have been
a dead man had they been a moment later. I admit my defeat. Technically
I am in your debt. If these bottles on the table are some excuse for me,
I yet own that to-night the better man won."
"It hardly looks like it, does it?"
"Life is full of queer chances," said Rosmore, smiling. "You could find
only two ways of ending your story. You see there is at least a third."
"It but delays the true ending," Crosby answered.
"No; believe me, I see in it a happy ending to the tale, but the tale is
not quite as you imagine it. It is true that I take a sincere interest
in Mistress Lanison, and I grieve to think that she has somewhat
misjudged me, even as you have. You have also spoken some hard words
against my valued companion here, Mistress Payne. Few men can see eye to
eye, Crosby. You know Mistress Payne only as in your service--an
honourable service, I know, yet one she was not intended for. I have
seen her in different circumstances. Will you favour me by taking back
the hard words you have said?"
"Yes, when she can prove her innocence, when she can prove that she has
not betrayed another woman into your hands."
"I think I can prove that," said Rosmore. "Finding Mistress Payne here
to-night may lead you to surmise many things. Strange to say, I was
beginning to explain matters to her when we were interrupted, first by
Judge Marriott, then by you. That is so, is it not?"
"Yes," Harriet answered in a whisper.
"The explanation may be made for your benefit, too, Mr. Crosby, but
first let me assure you that Barbara Lanison is a woman I would
befriend, and is nothing more to me. Mistress Payne has done me the
honour to see in me a worthy man. As soon as this detestable work of
taking inhuman revenge on poor peasants is over, Mistress Payne will
become Lady Rosmore--my wife."