word to proceed, Bentley and I riding first, then Raikes and the
Captain, and last of all the fellow, pistol in hand. So thus it was, in
the dusk of the evening, that we came into Tonbridge Town, with never a
word betwixt us--myself silent from sheer amazement, the Captain for
reasons of his own, Sir Harry Raikes for very obvious causes, but mostly
(as I judge) on account of his chattering teeth, and Bentley because a
man cannot whistle "Lillibuleero" beneath his breath and talk at the
same time.
Lights were beginning to gleam at windows as we entered the High Street,
and here I made sure the highwayman would have left us--but no, on
turning my head, there he rode, close behind--his battered hat over his
nose, and his pistol in his hand, for all the world as if we were back
on the open road rather than the main thoroughfare of a Christian town.
By this time we were become a mark for many eyes; people came running
from all sides, the air hummed with voices; shouts were heard, mingled
with laughter and jeers, but we rode on, and through it all at a gallop.
As we passed "The Chequers" I saw the windows full of faces, and
Truscott and Finch with five or six others came running out to stare
after us open mouthed. So we galloped through Tonbridge Town, and never
drew rein until we were out upon the open road once more. There the
fellow stopped us.
"Masters all," says he, "'tis here we part--maybe you'll forget
me--maybe not--especially one of you; d'ye take me?" and he pointed to
the shivering figure of Raikes. "The wind is plaguily chill I'll allow,
but burn me! could I be blamed for that, my masters--what, all silent?
Well! Well! Howsomever, give me that trinket, Master--just to show
there's no ill-feeling, so to speak; and he indicated a small gold
locket that Raikes wore round his neck on a riband, who, without a word,
or even looking up, slipped it off and laid it in the other's
outstretched hand.
"Well, good-night, my masters, good-night!" says he, in his jovial
voice; "maybe we shall meet again, who knows? My best respects to you
all--me being respectful by natur'. Good-night." So, with an awkward
flourish of his hat, he wheeled his horse and galloped away towards
London.
CHAPTER FIVE
_Concerning the true Identity of our Highwayman_
'Twas some half-hour later that we found Jack in his library, seated
before the fire, his wine at his elbow and Pen at his feet, reading
aloud from Mr. Steele's "Tatler."
Upon our sudden appearance Penelope rose, and looked from myself to
Bentley a trifle anxiously I thought. Now, as I made my bow to her, I
heard Bentley softly begin to whistle "Lillibuleero," and though I had
heard him do so many times before, it suddenly struck me that this was
the air the highwayman fellow had whistled as he sat swinging his legs
upon the bridge.
"Bentley, to-day is Wednesday!" I expostulated, as breaking off in the
middle of a bar, he kissed Pen full upon the lips.
"To be sure it is," says he, and kissed her again upon the cheek.
"And ten o'clock," added Jack, "and time all maids were abed."
"Not before I even matters," says I. "I'll give second place to none,
least of all Bentley!" And I having kissed her twice--once upon the
cheek for Wednesday, and once upon the lips for myself,--she dropped us
a laughing courtesy, and with a final good-night kiss for Jack, and a
nod to each of us, ran up to bed. But even then Bentley must needs
follow her out to the stairs and stand there whispering his
nonsense--which goes but to prove the jealous nature of the man!
"What's to do?" says Jack, pushing the wine towards me. "I've sat here
with the cards beside me ever since eight o'clock--what's to do?"
"Why, you must know," I began, "we were stopped at the cross roads by a
highwayman--myself and Bentley, with Captain Hammersley and Sir Harry
Raikes--"
Here Bentley, returning, must needs throw himself into a chair, laughing
and choking all at once.
"Raikes--" he gasped,--"in his shirt--by the Lord! Oh, egad, Jack!
fluttering in the wind--"
"What in the world!" began Jack, staring. "Is he drunk or mad?"
"As I tell you," says I, loosening Bentley's cravat, "we were stopped by
a highwayman--" and forthwith I plunged into an account of the whole
matter.
"Egad!" cries Bentley again, breaking in ere I was half done, "here was
Dick offering Raikes a choice betwixt his horsewhip and his sword--and
he, look you, a full six inches shorter in the reach, while I--"
"You!" says I, "he couldn't help but pink you somewhere or other at the
first pass--"
"Well, Raikes was a-sneering as I say," pursued Bentley, "when up comes
our highwayman and coolly strips him to his very shirt, Jack--ties him
to his horse, and parades him all through Tonbridge--rat me!--and as I
tell you, the wind, Jack--'t was cursedly cold, and--and--oh! strike me
purple!" Here Bentley choked again, and while I thumped his back, he and
Jack rolled in their chairs, and shook the very casements with their
laughter.
"His shirt?" gasped Jack at last, wiping his eyes.
"His shirt," groaned Bentley, wiping his.
"Lord!" cries Jack, "Lord! 'twill be the talk of the town," says he,
after a while.
"To be sure it will," says Bentley, and hereupon they fell a-roaring
with laughter again. For my part, what betwixt thumping Bentley's back
and the memory of Christmas morning now so near, I was sober enough.
They were still howling with laughter, and Bentley's face had already
assumed a bluish tinge, when the door opened and a servant appeared, who
handed a letter to Jack. Still laughing, he took it and broke the seal;
at sight of the first words, however, his face underwent a sudden
change. "Is the messenger here?" says he, very sharp.
"No, Sir John."
"Humph!" says Jack, "you may go then;" and he began to read. But he had
not read a dozen words when he broke out into his customary oath.
"May the devil anoint me! Did you ever hear the like of that, now?"
"What?" says I.
"I say, did you ever hear the like of it?" he repeated. "Dick and
Bentley, this fellow is the very devil!"
"What fellow?" says I.
"Lay you fifty it's Tawnish," gurgled Bentley.
"Done!" says I.
"A deuced pretty coil, on my soul!" says Jack, beginning to limp up and
down, "oh, a deuced pretty coil--damn the fellow!"
"What fellow?" says I again.
"Make it a hundred?" says Bentley, in my ear.
"What fellow?" cries Jack, taking me up, "d'ye mean to sit there and ask
what fellow--whom should it be?"
"Aye, who indeed?" added Bentley.
"If it's Raikes--" I began.
"Raikes," roars Jack, snatching his wig off, "Raikes--bah!"
"Then supposing you will be so very obliging as to tell us who the devil
you do mean?"
"Why, aren't I trying to?" cries Jack, indignantly, "but you give a man
no chance between you. Listen to this." And, having re-settled his wig,
he drew the candles nearer to him and read as follows:
"'My very dear Sir John--'
("The devil anoint his very dear Sir John!)
"'It gives me infinite pleasure to have the honour of telling you--'
("There's a line for you!)
"'of telling you that the second of my tasks is now accomplished--to
wit, that of making Sir Harry Raikes a laughing-stock.'"
"What?" I cried.
"Listen," says Jack.
"'Whether a gentleman riding abroad in naught but his hat and shirt
is a sufficiently laughable matter, or an object of derision,
depends altogether upon the point of view, and I must leave your
friends, namely, Sir Richard Eden and Mr. Bentley, to decide. There
remains now but one more undertaking, that of putting you
all--together and at the same time--at a disadvantage, which I shall
confidently hope to perform so soon as Dame Fortune will permit.
"'I am returning their pistols to Sir Richard Eden and Mr. Bentley
to-night.
"'Trusting that you and yours are blooming in all health, I beg to
subscribe myself,
"'Your most obedient, humble servant to command,
"'HORATIO TAWNISH.'"
"Tawnish?" says I.
"Tawnish," says Bentley.
"Tawnish!" says Jack. "Devil take him!"
"By heaven!" says I, remembering the grim, determined figure of the
highwayman, "by heaven, he has a man's body beneath his silks and laces
after all."
"Egad!" says Jack, sourly, "I almost think you love the fellow."
"On my soul!" says I, "I almost think I do."
CHAPTER SIX
_Of the Dawning of Christmas Day_
In most lives (as I suppose) there is a time which, looming ahead of us
dark and sombre, fills us with a direful expectancy and a thousand
boding fears, so that with every dawn we thank God that it is not yet.
Still, the respite thus allowed brings us little ease, for the knowledge
of its coming haunts us through the day and night, creeping upon us
nearer and nearer with every tick of the clock, until the last chime has
rung--until the sand is all run down in the glass, and we are left face
to face with our destiny to front it as we may.
Christmas Day was dawning. From my window I had watched the first pale
light gather little by little beyond the distant trees, until the whole
dismal scene had come into view.
It had snowed all night, and now everything showed beneath a white
burden that, as I watched, seemed horribly suggestive of shrouds; so I
turned from the casement with a shiver, and drawing the curtains, sat
down before the fire (which I had mended during the night), dejected in
mind, and heavy with lack of sleep. Somewhere further down the corridor
I could hear Bentley snoring, and the sound, rising and falling in the
quietude with wearisome monotony, irritated my fractious nerves to that
degree that I was of half a mind to go and wake him. Since Penelope had
left for London, two days before, he and I had been staying with Jack at
the Manor. And very silent the great place had seemed without her; Jack
had been more fretful than usual, and more than once I had thrown down
my cards in a huff, for cards, after all, were a very sorry substitute
for our lovely, laughing Pen. Hereupon I must needs fall to thinking of
her mother (as indeed I oft do of late)--dead now these twenty years and
more. But what are years after all to one who has loved as I? And from
the broken threads of my life that was, I began to weave a life of the
"might have been"--a fuller, richer life, perfected by love, and a
woman's sweet companionship--so very different to the lonely life that
was mine. Well, she had decreed otherwise,--and now--now she was
dead--and I an old man, and lonely. But Jack had loved her passing well,
and he was lonely too--and Bentley likewise--Bentley, who was snoring
like a grampus. I rose, and slipping on some clothes, stepped out into
the corridor. But with my hand upon the latch of his bedroom door I
stopped, and changing my mind, went down the stairs to the library. To
my surprise the candles were still burning, and through the open door I
saw Jack sprawled across the table, his face buried in his hands, and
beside him Penelope's miniature. Now as I stood there hesitating, I saw
his shoulders heaving very strangely, wherefore, turning about, I began
to creep softly up the stairs again, lest he should find himself
discovered. Half-way up, however, I heard the scrape of his chair as he
rose, and a moment after the sound of his step, firm and resolute as
ever, noting which I turned and came down again, coughing very naturally
as I reached the last stair.
"Ah, Dick!" says he, as he turned and saw me, "A Merry Christmas to
thee."
Now it had ever been our custom, since he and I and Bentley were lads
together at Charterhouse, at this so happy season to greet each other
thus, but for once I found the words to stick most woefully, and for no
reason in the world my eyes wandered from his face to the miniature upon
the table, seeing which he picked it up--yet kept it covered in his
hand.
"Dick," says he, staring up at the cornice very hard, "we loved her
mother well--passing well--you, and Bentley, and I."
"Aye," says I, "we did."
"This was the first great sorrow of my life--that by my happiness you
two were rendered desolate," says he, laying his hand upon my shoulder.
"No, no," says I.
"Yes," says he, "think you I have been so blind, Dick?"
"You were her choice," says I.
"True, I was her choice," he repeated, "and methinks it came nigh
breaking both your hearts, yet you were my friends still--the old bonds
were too strong for self to break them."
"'T were a poor friendship else," says I.
"And now, Dick," says he, with his eyes on the cornice again, "there is
Pen," and I saw his lips quiver slightly.
"Aye," I nodded, "there's Pen--our Pen."
I felt his fingers tighten on my shoulder, but he was silent.
"When I go out to-day," says he at last, and stopped.
"When I go out to-day--" he began once more, and stopped again; then,
with a sudden gesture, he thrust the miniature into my hand. "You and
Bentley!" says he, and turned to the papers that littered the table.
"You understand?" says he, over his shoulder.
"Yes," says I, from the window, gazing across the bleak, grey desolation
of the park. "Yes, I understand."
"I've been setting my papers in order, Dick,--a hard business," says he,
with a rueful shake of the head, "a hard business, Dick--and now I'm
minded to write a few lines to her, and that methinks will be harder
yet." And passing his hand wearily over his brow, he took up his pen.
"Oh Jack--Jack," says I, suddenly, "there may be hope yet--"
"None," says he, quietly; "I was ever a fool with the small-sword, as
you will remember, Dick. But I do not repine--you and Bentley are left."
So I presently went up-stairs again, and this time I did not pass
Bentley's door, but entering, found him already nearly dressed, and as I
live!--a-whistling of his eternal "Lillibuleero."
"Bentley," says I, sharply, "you surely forget what day it is?"
"No," says he, reaching out his hand with a smile. "A Merry Christmas,
Dick!"
But seeing my look, and how I shrank from his proffered hand, his face
grew solemn all in a moment.
"Good God, man!" I cried, "cannot you understand!" and with the words, I
held up the miniature before his eyes. "From to-day she is in our care
alone--her mother died twenty years ago--and to-day--poor Jack--oh, damn
your Merry Christmas!--are you so utterly heartless and without feeling,
or only a blind fool?"
And with this I turned my back fairly upon him and hurried from the
room.
CHAPTER SEVEN
_Which deals, among other Matters, with
the Ring of Steel_
My anger toward Bentley, sudden though it may appear, was scarcely the
outcome of the moment. I could not but call to mind the thousand little
things he had both done and said during the past weeks that demonstrated
the strange indifference he had shown toward the whole affair. Thus, as
the day advanced, my feeling against him grew but the more intense.
Looking back on it now, I am inclined to put this down partly to the
reason already stated, partly to lack of sleep, and partly to the
carking care that had gnawed at my heart all these weeks--though even
now I am inclined to think that his conduct, as I then viewed it,
justified my resentment.
I noticed as the day advanced that he seemed to be labouring under some
strong excitement, and more than once he manifested a desire to speak
with me aside, but I took good care to give him no opportunity. At
length, however, Jack chancing to be out of the room for a moment, he
seized me by the arm ere I could escape him.
"Dick--" he began.
"Sir!" I cut in, shaking myself free of him, "whatever explanation you
may have to offer for your strange, and--yes, sir--utterly heartless
conduct of late, I beg that you will let it stand until this most
unhappy affair is over--I'm in no mood for it now." He fell back from
me, staring as one utterly bewildered for a moment, then he smiled.
"If you will but listen, Dick--"
"Sir," says I, drawing away from him, "I have asked no explanation at
your hands, and desire none--the callousness which you have shown so
persistently of late has utterly broken down and severed once and for
all whatever feeling of friendship I may have entertained for you
hitherto."
"You don't mean it--you can never mean it," says he, stretching out an
eager hand towards me. "Dick, do but listen--"
"Mean it, sir!" I repeated, "I tell you it is but the memory of that
dead friendship which stays me from calling upon you to account to me
with your sword."
"But," he stammered, "you--you would never--you could never--"
"Enough, sir," says I, "I have no desire for further speech with
you--save that it would be well at least to keep up an appearance of the
old relationship, until this affair is over and done with."
"Why, Dick!" says he, his lips twitching strangely, "why--Dick!" and
with the word he turned suddenly and left me.
The duel had been settled for twelve o'clock, and it was exactly half
after eleven by my chronometer when a servant came to warn us that the
coach was at the door. So we presently descended and got in with never
a word betwixt us. When men know each other so thoroughly, there is no
need for the mask of gaiety to be held up as is usual at such times;
thus we rode very silent and thoughtful for the most part, until we
heard Purdy, the surgeon, hailing us from where he stood waiting at the
cross roads as had been arranged.
"Well, sirs," says he, nodding and frowning at us in his sharp way as he
took his seat, "and how is the foot?"
"Right as a trivet!" says Jack.
"I question that," says Purdy, dogmatically; "that tendon cannot be well
for a full month yet--curse me if it can! They tell me," he went on,
"that the other side has young Prothero--gentlemen, mark my
words!--Prothero's a stark, staring fool--a positive ass!--A man breaks
his leg--'Give him a clyster!' says Prothero. A child has
teething-rash!--'A clyster! a clyster!' cries Prothero. A boy has the
collywobbles or mumps--'A clyster!' says Prothero. Mark me, gentlemen,
should Sir John here pink his man, depend upon it Prothero will finish
him with a clyster!"
This journey, which I had made a thousand times and more, never seemed
so short as it did upon this Christmas morning, yet I for one
experienced a feeling akin to relief as we were ushered into the sanded
parlour of "The Chequers."
We found Raikes arrived before us, seated at a table with Hammersley,
Finch, and four or five others whose faces were familiar, and a
heathenish uproar they were making. Upon our entrance they fell silent,
however, and exchanged bows with us ere we sat down.
If the episode of the shirt was not forgot, 'twas at least accounted by
most the wiser policy to let it so appear, though all Tonbridge--nay,
all the country round--rung with the story behind Sir Harry's back, and
indeed (as I well know) 'tis laughed over by many to this day.
And now being here, and noting the cleared floor and the other
preparations for what was to follow, and looking at Jack beside me so
full of strength and life, and bethinking me of what he might be so very
soon, a deadly nausea came upon me, such as I had never felt before on
such occasions, so that I was forced to sit down.
"Nay, Dick," says Jack, shaking his head, "I have no mind to wait; get
it over for me as soon as may be."
"No, no," says Bentley, sharply, "at least let us have a bottle of wine
first," and on this point he was so insistent that Jack was ultimately
forced to give in to him, though even then Bentley seemed ill-content,
for he fell to fidgetting awkwardly in his chair, and compared his
chronometer with the clock full a dozen times in as many minutes.
The crowd at the other table grew uproarious again, and more than once I
heard the Captain's high-pitched laugh.
"Bentley," says I, "'tis past twelve o'clock."
"Yes," says he, and began straightway upon "Lillibuleero."
Jack started and looked up.
"Come, Dick, let us begin at once."
"The wine's not all out yet," says Bentley, with his eyes upon the clock
again; and now I noticed for the first time that his cheeks were devoid
of all colour and his face seemed strangely peaked and haggard.
At this moment, Jack rising, I had perforce to do the same, seeing which
the party at the other table ceased their uproar of a sudden and a deep
silence fell as Captain Hammersley advanced to meet me, and having
bowed, spun a coin in the air to decide choice of ground.
"Jack," says I, as I rejoined him, "you will fight with your back to
the door, though there is little difference save that the wall is a
trifle lighter there, and will make you less conspicuous."
Jack nodded, and with Bentley's aid, began removing his coat and
waistcoat.
"Dick," says Bentley, in my ear, speaking in a strange, uneven voice,
such as I had never heard from his lips before, while Jack busied
himself untying his cravat--"Dick, they must not--shall not fight," and
I saw that the sweat stood out in great drops upon his brow.
"In God's name, Bentley, what's to stop them now?" says I, whereupon he
turned away with a strange wringing motion of his hands, and seeing how
those hands trembled, I became aware that mine were doing the same.
"Be so good as to take your ground, gentlemen," said Captain Hammersley,
advancing with the small-swords beneath his arm. Jack stepped forward at
once, followed a moment later by Raikes. Each in turn took his weapon,
saluted, and fell to his guard.
I was just holding the crossed blades and Hammersley had scarce begun
the count, when there arose a sudden clamour without, the door was flung
open, and Mr. Tawnish stood bowing upon the threshold.
"Ah!" says he, tripping forward daintily, in one hand his handkerchief,
while with the other he gracefully waved his laced hat, "an affair of
honour, I perceive. On my soul now, it gives me real pain to intrude
myself thus--it desolates me, positively it does--but, gentlemen, this
cannot go on."
"Cannot go on--the devil, sir!" broke in the Captain loudly, "and who
says so?"
"I say so, sir," returned Mr. Tawnish, with his slow smile, "and should
you care to hear it, I'll say so again, sir."
"On what grounds?" says Hammersley, frowning.
"On the grounds that mine is the prior claim to the sword of Sir Harry
Raikes."
"Bah!" cries Raikes, with a short laugh, "give the count, Hammersley,
and we will begin."
Mr. Tawnish closed and fobbed his snuff-box.
"I think not, sir," says he, very quietly.
"Mr. Tawnish," says Jack, "I have waited over a month to fight this
gentleman."
"Sir John," says Tawnish, bowing, "your pardon, but I have waited even
longer--"
"Whatever quarrel you may have with me, sir," Raikes broke in, "shall
wait my time and pleasure."
"I think not," says Mr. Tawnish again, his smile more engaging and his
blue eyes more dreamy than ever; "on the contrary, I have a reason here
which I venture to hope will make you change your mind."
"A reason?" says Raikes, starting as he met the other's look. "What
reason?"
"That!" says Mr. Tawnish, and tossed something to Sir Harry's feet.
Now as it lay there upon the sand, I saw that it was a small gold
locket. For maybe a full minute there was a dead silence, while Raikes
stared down at the locket, and Mr. Tawnish took a pinch of snuff.
"Who gave you this?" says Raikes suddenly, and in a strange voice.
Mr. Tawnish flicked-to the enamelled lid of his snuff-box very
delicately with one white finger.
"I took it," says he, blandly, "from a poor devil who sat shivering in
his shirt."
"You!" says Raikes, in so low a tone as to be almost a whisper--"you?"
"I," returned Mr. Tawnish, with a bow.
"Liar!" says Raikes, in the same dangerously suppressed murmur.
"As to that," says Mr. Tawnish, shrugging his shoulders, "I will leave
you to judge for yourself, sir."
With the words, he slipped off his wig and turned his back to us for a
moment. When he fronted us again, there stood our highwayman, his
restless eyes gleaming evilly through the slits of his half-mask, the
mocking smile upon his lips, the same grotesque figure beyond all doubt,
despite his silks and laces.
"So, my masters," says he, in the same rough, half-jovial tone there was
no mistaking, "I says to you, maybe we should meet again, I says, and
I've kept my word--such being my natur'--d'ye take me?"
There broke from Sir Harry's lips an inarticulate snarl of fury as he
leaped forward, but I managed to get between them, and Bentley had
wrested the sword from his grasp in an instant.
"Damnation!" cries he, quivering with passion, "give us the swords."
"Sir," says Mr. Tawnish, bowing to the Captain, "you see, I was right,
after all--the gentleman seems positively eager to oblige me."
And, having readjusted his wig, he proceeded in his leisurely fashion to
remove his coat and high-heeled shoes, and to tuck up his long ruffles.