FURTHER CONCERNING THE AFORESAID GENTLEMAN, ONE ANTHONY
So we walked on together, side by side, through leafy byways and
winding paths, past smiling cornfield and darkling wood; we talked of
the Government, of country and town, of the Fashionable World and its
most famous denizens, concerning which last my companion's knowledge
seemed profound; we spoke but little of books, of which he seemed
amazingly ignorant--in fine, we exchanged thoughts and reflections on
any and everything except ourselves. And thus, as evening drew nigh,
we came to the top of a hill. Here he stopped all at once and taking
off his dilapidated hat, pointed with it up at the thing that rose
above us, looming against the sunset-glory, beam, cross-bar and chain.
"Look at that!" quoth he, staring up at something hideously warped and
weather-beaten and clasped round with iron bands,--an awful shape that
dangled from rusting chain. "But for my light heels--I might have come
to that--and yet why not--his troubles are over. So in a year--six
months--who knows,--there hang I--"
"God forbid, Anthony?" cried I.
Now at this he whirled round and, clapping his two hands upon my
shoulders, burst forth into vehement oaths to my deep amazement until
I saw the tears in his haggard eyes.
"....Curse and confound it!" he ended. "Why must you call me Anthony!"
"Because it is the only name I know you by, for one thing."
"Well!" said he, blinking and scowling savagely.
"And because I like the name of Anthony."
"Oh! egad do you? Well, I like the name Peregrine."
"Good!" said I, and we walked on down the hill together. "My other
name is Vereker," I volunteered, seeing he was silent.
"Vereker?" he repeated and stopped to stare at me. "No relation to Sir
Jervas Vereker?"
"His nephew!"
"The devil you are!" And here he stood looking down at me from his
superior height, rasping his fingers up and down his thin, unshaven
cheek like one quite dumbfounded.
"Do you happen to know my uncle?"
"I do--or rather I did, humbly and at a distance, for Sir Jervas is,
and always will be, magnificently aloof from all and sundry--but you
know this, of course?"
"On the contrary, though I have seen him frequently, I know him not in
the least."
"My dear Vereker--who does?"
"My name is Peregrine!" said I, whereupon came that impulsive hand to
rest lightly upon my shoulder again for a moment.
"My dear Peregrine, your uncle is unique; there never was any one
quite like him unless it were Sir Maurice Vibart, the famous Buck,
though your uncle, perhaps, is not quite so coldly devilish; still,
he's sufficiently remarkable."
"How so?"
"Well, he has fought three duels to my knowledge, won a point-to-point
steeplechase not so long ago and a fortune with it--came down at the
first jump and rode with a broken arm though nobody knew until he
fainted. Youthful despite years, quick of eye, hand and tongue,
correct in himself and all that pertains to him, one who must be
sought--even by Royalty, it seems--who might have married among the
fairest and lives solitary except for his man John. Sir Jervas Vereker
is--Sir Jervas."
"You seem to know my uncle rather well."
"I did--for my name besides Anthony is Vere-Manville!" Here he paused
as expecting some comment but finding me silent, continued: "My father
was killed with Sir John Moore, at Corunna, and I was brought up by a
curmudgeonly uncle, the most preposterous unavuncular uncle that ever
bullied a defenceless nephew to the dogs. Well, I grew up and was a
moderately happy man despite my uncle, until I took to my bosom a
friend who deceived me and a mistress who broke my heart."
"Oh," said I, not a little touched by this gloomy and romantic tale,
"then this explains your--your--"
"My present misery, Peregrine? Not altogether. Had I been a
philosopher and bent to the storm, I might perchance have gone my
solitary way a broken and embittered man, but philosophy and bending
to storms is not in me, unhappily, for chancing to encounter my
faithless friend, I twisted his nose to such a tune that he demanded
satisfaction which resulted in my wounding him; after which I
consigned my perjured mistress to perdition; after which again, purely
because she happened to be a wealthy heiress, my curmudgeonly uncle
cast me adrift, cut me off and consigned me to the devil."
"Here is a very moving story!" said I.
"It is, Peregrine, it is, egad--and consequently I have been moving
ever since and going to the devil as fast as I can, though sadly
hampered by lack of funds."
"What do you mean by 'going to the devil?'"
"Why, there are many ways, Peregrine, as of course you know, but mine
would be ale, beer, wine, brandy--had I the necessary money."
"Are you determined on it?"
"Absolutely!" said he, taking off his battered hat to scowl at it and
clap it on again. "Absolutely, Peregrine--I am firmly determined to
drink myself to the final exodus."
"How much money should you require, Anthony?"
At this he turned to stare with an expression of whimsical dubiety and
thereafter fell to rubbing his unshaven chin as rather at a loss.
"Let us say fifty guineas--no, we'll make it a hundred while we're
about it--a hundred guineas would do the thing admirably--though to be
sure much might be done with less."
"I have only eighteen pounds," said I, thrusting hand into pocket;
"which will leave nine for you--"
"Hey!" he exclaimed, stopping in his sudden fashion. "What's
this--what the devil--I say, curse and confound everything, man, what
d'ye mean?"
"Being both solitary wanderers, we will share equally so far as we
may--"
"No--not to be thought of--preposterous--"
"So I ask you to honour me by accepting these nine pounds--"
"I'll be shot if I do!"
"They may help you to--"
"To my drunken dissolution? Ridiculous! Nine pounds' worth would never
do it, I'm so infernally healthy and strong! Nine accursed, miserable
pounds--what use to a drinker such as I?"
"Many, Anthony, and I think I can guess one of the first--"
"And that?"
"To procure yourself a shave!"
"Egad!" cried he with a sudden, merry look, "I believe you're in the
right of it! A stubbly chin makes a man feel such a pernicious,
scoundrelly, hangdog walking misery."
"Precisely!" said I, holding out the nine pounds. "So take your money,
Anthony."
"Positively no!" said he, scowling down at the coins. "I thieve
occasionally, but I don't beg--yet, and be damned t' you!" And
thrusting hands into pockets, he went on again. So I put up the money
and we walked on, but in silence now, while the shadows deepened about
us. And thus we went for a great while until with every stride this
silence became painfully irksome--at least, to me. All at once his arm
was about my shoulders, a long, nervous arm drawing me to him, then he
had freed me and we stood facing each other in the gathering dusk.
"Perry!" said he, in strange, shaken voice. "Dear fellow, will you
forgive a graceless dog? You meant kindly, but I couldn't--I should
despise myself more than I do--so--Oh, curse and confound it--what
about it?"
For answer I reached out and took his hand; so we stood for a long
moment speaking never a word. And presently we went on down the
darkling road together.