THE CLOVEN HOOF
Sir Ralph Westleigh was in the storehouse, Maggie Stone was gossiping
with Dame Trigget, and Beatrix was alone by the fire when Captain
d'Antons rapped on the cabin door, and entered without waiting for a
summons. He was dressed in his bravest suit and finest boots. After
closing the door behind him, he bowed low to the girl at the farther end
of the room. She instantly stood up and curtseyed with a deal of grace,
but no warmth whatever.
"My father is not in, Captain d'Antons," she said.
He smiled and approached her with every show of deference.
"Ah, mademoiselle," he murmured, "I have not come to see the good
baronet. I have come to learn my fate from the dearest lips in the
world."
The girl blushed crimson, with a tumult of emotions that almost forced
the tears past her lids. Fear, hate, and a reckless joy at the thought
that she was done with pretence struggled in her heart. She tried to
speak, but her voice caught in her throat, and accomplished nothing but
a dry sob.
D'Antons' eyes shone with ardour. The hope which had been somewhat
clouded of late flashed clear again. "Beatrix," he cried, softly, "I
have wooed you long. Is it not that I have won at last beyond
peradventure? Do not deny it, my sweet." He caught her to him, and
attempted to kiss her bright lips; but, with a low cry and a quite
unexpected display of strength, she wrenched herself from his embrace.
She did not try to leave the room. She did not call for help. She faced
him, with flashing eyes and angry cheeks and clinched hands.
The fellow stood uncertain for a moment, showing his chagrin and
amazement like any country clown. But his recovery was quick. His mouth
took on a thin smile; his eyes darkened with sinister shadows. He looked
the girl coolly up and down. He laughed softly.
"This feigned anger adds to your beauty, Beatrix," he said.
"I beg you to leave me, sir," she replied, trembling. "Your presence is
distasteful to me."
"A sudden turn," said he. "Now a month ago, or even a week ago, you
seemed of a different mind. As for the days of our first meeting in
merry London--ah, then your lips were not so unattainable."
"I hate you," she murmured. "I despise you. I loath you. You taint the
air for me. Dog, to make a boast of having filched a kiss from a
light-hearted girl--who did not know you for the common fellow that you
are."
"Beatrix," cried the man, "this is no stage comedy. We are not players.
I have asked you, too many times, to be my wife. I ask you once more.
You know that your father's life is in my hands. Tell me now, will you
promise to marry me, or will you let your father go to the gallows in
the spring, and this plantation be put to the torch? Whatever your
choice, my beauty, you will accompany me to New Spain next summer. It is
for you to say whether you go as my wife or my mistress."
At that the girl's face went white as paper. But her eyes were steady.
D'Antons lowered his gaze. He was half-ashamed, nay, more than that, of
his words.
"It would be hard to say," she replied, very softly, "which would be the
most dishonourable position for an English gentlewoman to occupy. That
of your wife, I think, monsieur--for, as your wife, she would be known
by your name."
His shame leaped to anger at that soft-spoken insult. He caught her
roughly by the wrists.
"Nay," she said, "you must be more gentle. You seem to forget that you
are not sacking a defenceless town. Also, you forget that you have not a
friend or a follower in this wilderness, and that any man or woman in
the fort would shoot you down like a dog at a word from me."
For a little while they eyed each other steadily enough--her face still
beautiful despite the bantering cruelty of lips and eyes, and the
loathing in every line of it; his the face of a devil. Then, with a
muttered oath, he closed his fingers on her tender flesh, pressing with
all his strength.
"Ah, my fine lady," he cried, harshly, "you think yourself strong enough
to flout Pierre d'Antons, do you? Strong enough to spurn the protection
of a soldier and a gentleman! Cry now for your girl-faced Kingswell--for
your golden-haired fellow countryman."
By that even her lips were colourless, and her eyes were wet. "There is
no need," she said, bravely, "for I hear my father at the door."
D'Antons dropped her wrists and took a backward step. In doing so, his
heel struck the leg of a stool, and the scabbard of his sword rang
discordantly. He reeled, recovering himself just as Sir Ralph crossed
the threshold. Before either of the men had time to speak, Beatrix
darted forward and struck the Frenchman savagely across the face with
her open hand. Then, without a word of either explanation or greeting to
her father, she passed D'Antons swiftly, sped down the length of the
room, and entered her own chamber.
"What does this mean, captain?" inquired the baronet, coldly. D'Antons,
scarcely recovered from the blow, strode toward him.
"What does it mean?" he cried. "It means, my fine old cock, that your
neck will be pulled out of joint when we get away from this
God-forgotten desolation. Ah, you liar, why did I not have you strung up
to a yard-arm when you were safely in my power? Stab me, but I've been
too soft--and my reward is insults from the wench of an exiled
card-cheat and murderer."
His voice was raised almost to a scream. His face quivered with passion.
He thrust it within a few inches of the baronet's.
"Liar and cheat," he cried, furiously.
"Softly, softly," replied Sir Ralph. "I cannot abide being bawled at in
my own house, especially by such scum of a French muck heap as you. Keep
your distance, fellow, or, by God, I'll do you a hurt. What's this!
You'd presume?"
They withdrew on the instant. The two swords came clear in the same
second of time.
"_Gabier de potence_," cried D'Antons.
"_Canaille_," replied the baronet, blandly. Evidently the rasp of the
steel had mended his temper. He even smiled a little at his adoption of
his adversary's mother-tongue.
The men were excellently matched as swordsmen. But not more than half a
dozen passes had been made and parried before Beatrix ran into the room,
crying to them to put up their swords.
"Go back," said the baronet, with his eyes on D'Antons, "go back to your
room, my daughter, and make a prayer for this fellow's soul. It will
soon stand in need of a petition for God's mercy."
The girl went softly back and closed the door, in an effort to shut out
the rasping and metallic striking of the blades. She prayed, but for
strength to her father's wrist and not for the Frenchman's soul. She was
afraid--desperately afraid. The truth of her father's skill in French
sword-play had been kept from her. To her he was but a courteous,
middle-aged gentleman who needed her care, and who had been maligned and
robbed by the world into which he had been born. He was a good father.
He had been a loving and considerate husband. She knelt beside her bed
and beseeched God to succour him in this desperate strait.
In the meantime the fight went on in the outer room with more the air of
a harmless bout for practice than a duel to the death. It was altogether
a question of point and point, in the Continental manner, perfectly free
from the swinging attack and clanging defence of the English style. The
combatants were cool, to judge by appearances. Neither seemed in any
hurry. The thrusts and lunges, though in fact as quick as thought, were
delivered with a manner suggestive of elegant leisure.
"I believe you have the advantage of me by about three inches of steel,"
remarked the baronet, diverting a lightning thrust from its intended
course.
"A chance of the game," replied D'Antons, smiling grimly.
Just then the baronet's foot slipped on the edge of a book of verses
which Mistress Beatrix had left on the floor. For a second he was
swerved from his balance; and, when he recovered, it was to feel the
warm blood running down his breast from a slight incision in his left
shoulder. But his recovery was as masterly as it was swift, and the
Frenchman found himself more severely pressed than before, despite the
advantage he possessed in the superior length of his sword. The little
wound counted for nothing.
Just what the outcome of the fight would have been, if an untimely
interruption in the person of Maggie Stone had not intervened, it is
hard to say. Perhaps D'Antons' youth would have claimed the victory in
the long run, or perhaps the baronet's excellent composure. In skill
they were nicely matched, though the Englishman displayed superiority
enough to even the difference in the length of the blades. But why take
time for idle surmises? Maggie Stone, looking in, all unheeded, at the
open door, saw her beloved master engaged in a desperate combat with a
person whom she despised as well as feared. She saw the sodden stain of
blood on her master's doublet. In her hand she held a skillet which she
had just borrowed from Dame Trigget. Without waiting to announce
herself, she rushed into the room and dealt Captain d'Antons a
resounding whack on the head with the iron bowl of the utensil. The long
sword fell from the benumbed fingers and clanged on the floor. With a
low, guttural cry, the Frenchman followed it, and sprawled, unconscious,
at the feet of the surprised and indignant baronet.