AN OLD SCORE PAID.
It is needless to explain, that on Harding Knowles Wyverne's anger was
chiefly concentrated. Clydesdale came in for his share; but, so far, it
was difficult to establish the extent of the Earl's connection with the
plot. When the Divine warning, "Vengeance is Mine," has once been
ignored, very few men are so cold-blooded, as to exclude entirely from
their plan of retribution, the old simple method of exacting it with
their own right hand. As Alan sat thinking, a vision would rise before
him, dangerously attractive: he saw a waste of sand-hills stretching for
leagues along the coast of France; so remote from road or dwelling, that
a shot would never be heard unless it were by a strange fishing-boat out
at sea; so seldom traversed, that the body of a murdered man might lie
there for days undiscovered, unless the gathering birds told tales; he
saw the form of his enemy standing up in relief against the clear
morning-light, within a dozen paces of the muzzle of his pistol. I fear
it was more the impracticability of the idea than its sinfulness, which
made Alan decide that it ought to be relinquished. Sometimes it needs no
great casuistry to enable even the best-natured of us to give, in our
own minds, a verdict of Justifiable Homicide. But upon calm
consideration, it was about a million to one against Harding's being
induced to risk himself in a duel, which he might guess would be to the
death, where the chances would be heavily against him. As a rule,
forgers don't fight.
There were great difficulties too, about a public exposure--so great
that Alan never really entertained the idea for a moment. He would just
as soon have thought of publishing a scurrilous libel about those whom
he loved best, as of allowing their names to be paraded for the world's
amusement and criticism.
While he was still in doubt and perplexity, he chanced to meet one
morning, a famous physician, with whom he was rather intimate, though
he had never employed him professionally. Dr. Eglinton was a general
favourite; many people, besides his patients, liked to hear his full
cheery tones, and to see his quaint pleasant face, with the _fin
sourire_ that pointed his inexhaustible anecdotes; he was the most
inveterate gossip that ever steered quite clear of ill-nature.
"You're not looking in such rude health as one would suspect at the end
of the hunting season," the Doctor said, "but I suppose there's nothing
in my way this morning. I wish I could say as much for an old friend of
yours, whom I have just left at the Burlington. It's the Rector of Dene.
By the bye, it would be a great charity if you would call on him to-day:
he seems lonely and out of spirits--indeed, the nature of his disease is
depressing. I know he's very fond of you, and you might do him more good
than my physic can. I fear it is a hopeless case--a heart-complaint of
some standing--though the symptoms have only become acute and aggravated
within the last two years. Do you know if he has had any great domestic
troubles or worries of late? He was not communicative, and I did not
dare to press him. Nothing can be so bad for him as anything of the
sort; and any heavy or sudden shock might be instantly fatal."
It was not only surprise and pain, but sharp self-reproach too, that
made Wyverne turn so pale. Revenge is essentially selfish, even when it
will reason at all; he had actually forgotten his kind old friend's
existence while pondering how to punish his son. He knew right well what
had been the great trouble that had weighed on Gilbert Knowles's heart
for the last two years. The Rector was of course unable to intercede or
avert the catastrophe; but, when he heard of the final rupture of
Helen's engagement, he bowed his head despairingly, and had never raised
it since. I told you how he loved her, and how sincerely he loved Alan.
On their union rested the last of his hopes; when that was crushed, he
felt he should never have strength or spirits enough to nourish another.
No wonder Wyverne's reply was strangely embarrassed and inconsequent:
"I don't know--yes--perhaps there may have been some trouble on his
mind. The dear old Rector! I wish I had heard of this before. Of course
I'll go to him; but not to-day--it's impossible to-day. Good-bye: I
shall see you again very soon. I shall want to hear about your patient."
His manner, usually _pose_ to a degree, was so abrupt just then, that it
set the Doctor musing as he walked away.
"There's something wrong there," he muttered, half aloud (it was a way
he had); "I wish I knew what it was; he's well worth curing. He's not
half the man he was when he was ruined. None of us are, for that matter:
I suppose there's something bracing in the air of poverty. I did hear
something about a cousinly attachment, but it can't be that: Wyverne is
made of too sterling stuff to pine away because an _amourette_ goes
wrong: besides, he's always with Lady Clydesdale now, they say. What
_don't_ they say, if one had only time to listen," &c., &c.
The good physician had a little subdued element of cynicism in his
nature, which he only indulged when soliliquizing, or over the one cigar
that professional decorum winked at, when the long day's toil was done.
"Not to-day." No; Alan felt that it would be impossible to meet the
father, till the interview with the son was over. He went back to his
rooms, and sat there thinking for a full hour. Then he took some papers
from a locked casket, and went straight to the Temple.
Knowles's servant chanced to be out, so he came himself to open the door
of his chambers. He was prosperous and careful, you know, and could meet
the commercial world boldly, abroad or at home; but the most timorous of
insolvents never felt so disagreeable a thrill at the apparition of the
sternest of creditors, as shot through Harding's nerves when he saw on
the threshold, the calm courteous face, of the man whom he disliked and
feared beyond all living. There was something in that face--though a
careless observer would have detected no ruffle in its serenity--that
stopped the other in his greeting, and in the act of offering his hand.
Not a word passed between the two, till Knowles had followed his visitor
into the innermost of the two sitting-rooms, closing the doors
carefully behind them. Then Wyverne spoke--
"An old friend of mine has given me a commission to do. I had better get
through that before coming to my own business. You advanced several sums
to Hugh Crichton at different times, lately; will you be good enough to
say, if that list of them is right?"
There could not be a more striking proof of how completely Knowles's
nerves were unstrung, than the fact, that he looked at the paper without
having a notion as to the correctness of the items, and without the
faintest interest in the question. He answered quite at random, speaking
quick and confusedly--
"Yes, they are quite right; but it doesn't in the least matter. I never
expected--"
"Pardon me," Alan interrupted, "it doesn't matter very much--_to us_.
Perhaps since you have become a capitalist, you can afford to be
careless of such trifles. Hugh Crichton does not think it a trifle to
owe money to you. Here is the exact sum as far as he can remember it. It
is your own fault if you have cheated yourself. I will not trouble you
for a receipt. I dare say you did not expect to be paid, still less by
my hand. That is settled. Now I will talk about my own affairs."
Though he spoke so quietly, there was a subtle contempt in his tone,
that made every word fall like a lash. Again and again, Harding tried to
meet the steady look of the cold grave eyes, and failed each time
signally. He tried bluster, thus early in the interview, in sheer
despair.
"I can't guess at your object, but your manner is not to be mistaken. It
is evident you come here with the deliberate purpose of insulting me.
I'm afraid I must disappoint you, Sir Alan. I decline to enter into your
own affairs at all, and I consider our conversation ended here."
The other laughed scornfully, and his accent became harder and more
_tranchant_ than ever.
"Bah!--you lose your head! There are two gross errors in that last
speech. I don't come to insult, because, to insult a person, you must
presume he has some title to self-respect. I utterly deny your right to
such a thing. And you will listen as long as I choose to speak; you may
be sure I shall not use an unnecessary word. I come here to make certain
accusations and to impose certain conditions--or penalties, if you like.
It's not worth while picking expressions."
Harding sat down, actually gnashing his teeth in impotent rage, leaning
his elbows on his knees, and resting his chin on his clenched hands.
"Go on, then," he snarled, "and be quick about it."
"I accuse you," Alan answered, steadily, "of having played the part of
common spy; of having composed, if you did not write, two anonymous
letters to Lady Mildred and her daughter; afterwards, of having maligned
a woman whom you never spoke to, by causing her handwriting to be
forged; of having made a dear friend of mine, a gentleman of birth and
breeding, unwittingly your accomplice, when he was brought so low that
the Tempter himself might have spared him; of having done me, and
perhaps my cousin, a mortal injury, when neither of us had ever hurt you
by word or deed. I accuse you of having done all this for hire, for the
specific sum of L5,000, paid you by Lord Clydesdale within a month after
your villany was consummated. You need not trouble yourself to
contradict one syllable of this, unless you choose to lie for the
pleasure of lying. I have the written proofs here."
Knowles's head went down lower and lower while Wyverne was speaking;
when he raised his face, it was fantastically convulsed and horribly
livid, like one of those that we see in the illustrations to the
_Inferno_, besetting the path of the travellers through the penal
Circles. He was too anxious to escape from his torture, to protract it
by a single vain denial; but he would not throw one chance of palliation
away.
"It was not a bribe," he gasped out, "it was a regular bet. Look, I can
show it you."
He drew his tablets out and tore them open with a shaking hand; and,
after finding the page with great difficulty, pointed it out to Wyverne.
The latter just glanced at the entry, and cast down the book with
crushing contempt.
"Five thousand to fifty," he said; "I've been long enough on the turf to
construe those odds. The veriest robber in the ring would not have dared
to show your 'regular bet.' Now, answer me one question--'How far was
Clydesdale cognizant of your plot?'"
"He has never heard one word of it, up to this moment," the other
answered, eagerly. "I swear it. You may make any inquiries you like. I
_can_ defy you there. But some one else did know of it, and approved it
too; that was----"
Wyverne's tone changed savagely as he broke in.
"_Will_ you confine yourself to answering the questions you are asked? I
don't want any confessions volunteered, I attach no real importance to
them, after all; but it grates on one to hear people maligned
unnecessarily. Now, I'll tell you what I mean to do about it. I thought
at first of inducing you to cross the Channel, and giving you a chance
of your life against mine there; but I gave that up, because I knew you
would not come. Then I thought--a brutal, last resource--of beating you
into a cripple, here. I gave that up, because I never could thrash a dog
that lay down at the first cut, writhing and howling; I know so well
that would have been your line. Do you want to say anything?"
A sudden change in Harding's countenance made Alan pause. You may have
seen how utterly deficient he was both in moral and physical courage;
but the last faint embers of manhood smouldered into sullen flame, under
the accumulation of insult. He had risen to his feet with a dark
devilish malice on his face, and made a step towards a table near him.
Wyverne's keen gaze read his purpose thoroughly, but never wavered in
its freezing contempt.
"Ah, that's the drawer where you keep your revolver," he said. "If you
drive a rat into a corner, he will turn sometimes. I don't believe you
would have nerve to shoot; but I mean to run no risks. I came prepared
after I gave up the bastinado. There's something heavier than wood in
this malacca. I'll break your wrist if you attempt to touch the lock.
That's better; sit down again and listen. Then--I thought of bringing
the matter before a committee of every club you belong to, suppressing
all the names but my own. I could have done it; my credit's good for so
much, if I choose to use it. I only gave up that idea three hours ago.
It was when I heard of the Rector's being so seriously ill. The fathers
suffer for the sins of the children often enough; but I have not the
heart to give _yours_ his death-blow. You will appreciate the weakness
thoroughly, I don't doubt. On one condition I shall keep your treachery
a secret from all, except those immediately concerned; that condition
is, that you never show yourself in any company where, by the remotest
chance, you could meet either Lady Clydesdale, Mrs. Lenox, any of the
Dene family, or myself. I'll do my duty to society so far, at all
events. Do you accept or refuse?"
"I have no choice," the other muttered, hoarsely and sullenly; "you have
me in a vice, you know that."
"Then it is so understood," Wyverne went on. "You needn't waste your
breath in promising and swearing. You'll keep your quarantine, I feel
sure. If not,----" (it was a very significant pause). "After all, my
forbearance only hangs on your poor father's life, and I fear that is a
slender thread indeed."
The mention of Gilbert Knowles's name seemed to have no effect whatever
upon his son; he did not even appear grateful for its mute intercession
between him and public shame: but Alan's voice softened insensibly as he
uttered it. When he spoke again, after a minute's silence, his tone was
rather sad than scornful.
"If you wanted money so much, why, in God's name, did you not come to
me? I would have sold my last chance of a reversion, and have begged or
borrowed from every friend I had, sooner than have let Clydesdale outbid
me. The plunge was taken, when you could once think of such infamy; you
might as well have sold yourself to me. Those miserable thousands must
have been your only motive, for you had no reason, that I know of, to
dislike me."
For the first time since the interview began, Harding Knowles looked the
speaker straight in the eyes: his face was still white as a corpse's,
but its expression was scarcely human in its intense malignity.
"You're wrong," he said, between his teeth: "the money wasn't the only
motive. Not dislike you! Curse you!--I've hated you from the first
moment that we met. Do you fancy, I thank you for your forbearance now?
I'd poison you if I could, or murder you where you stand, if I dared. I
hated your languid ways, and your quiet manner, and your soft speech,
and your cool courtesy--hated them all. You never spoke naturally but
once--on the hall-steps of Dene. Do you suppose I have forgotten that,
or the look in your cousin's eyes? I tell you I hated you both. I felt
you despised and laughed at me all the while, and you had no right to do
so--then. It is different--different--now."
His brain, usually so calculating and crafty, for the moment was utterly
distraught; he could not even command his voice, which rose almost into
a shriek while he was speaking, and in the last words sank abruptly into
a hollow groan. It was a terrible and piteous sight. But you have heard
how implacable at certain seasons Alan Wyverne could be: neither the
agony of the passion, nor the misery of the humiliation, moved his
compassion in the least; he watched the outbreak and the relapse, with a
smile of serene satisfaction that had been strange to his face for some
time past.
"So you really disliked my manner?" he said, in his own slow, pensive
way. "I remember, years ago, an ancient Duchesse of the Faubourg telling
me it had a savour of the _Vieille Cour_. I was intensely flattered
then, for I was very young. I am not sure that I ought not to be more
gratified now. I think I am. The instincts of hate are truer than those
of love. Mde. de Latreaumont was as kind as a mother to me, and might
have been deceived. I have no more to say. You know the conditions: if
you transgress them by a hair's breadth, you will hear of it--not from
me."
He left the room without another word. It is doubtful if Knowles heard
that last taunt, or knew that his visitor was gone. He had buried his
face again in his hands; and so, for minutes sat motionless. All at once
he started up, went to the outer "oak," and dropped the bolt which made
his servant's pass-key useless, and then returned to his old seat, still
apparently half stunned and stupefied.
Do you think the forger and traitor escaped easily? It may be so; but
remember the exaggerated importance that Harding attached to his social
position and advancement. I believe that many, whose earthly ruin has
just been completed, have felt less miserable, and hopeless, and
spirit-broken, than the man who sat there, far into the twilight,
staring at the fire with haggard eyes, that never saw the red coals turn
grey.
It is true, that when Nina Lenox heard from Alan a _resume_ of the day's
proceedings, she decided at once that the retribution was wholly
inadequate and unsatisfactory. But one need not multiply instances to
prove the truism, if women are exacting in love, they are thrice as
exacting in revenge. I cannot remember where I read the old romaunt of
the knight who came just in time to save his lady from the burning, by
vanquishing her traducer in the lists. The story is commonplace and
trite to a degree. I only remember the one instance that made it
remarkable. The conqueror stood with his foot on the neck of the enemy;
his chivalrous heart melted towards the vanquished, who, after all, had
done his devoir gallantly in an evil cause. He would have suffered him
to rise and live, but he chanced to glance inquiringly towards the pale
woman at the stake, and, says the chronicler, "by the bending of her
brows, and the blink of her eyes, he wist that she bade him--'not
spare!'" So the good knight sighed heavily, and, turning his sword-point
once more to the neck of the fallen man, drove the keen steel through
mail and flesh and bone.
Ah, my friend! may it never be your lot or mine, to lie prone at the
mercy of a woman whom we have wronged past hope of forgiveness; be sure,
that eyes and brows will speak as plainly as they did a thousand years
agone, and their murderous message will be much the same.