of the whilom favourite of Fashion, Sir John Oxon. But a few weeks
before the coming happiness of the old Earl of Dunstanwolde was made
known to the world, there had been a flurry of gossip over a rumour
that Sir John, whose fortunes were in a precarious condition, was about
to retrieve them by a rich marriage. A certain Mistress Isabel Beaton,
a young Scotch lady, had been for a year counted the greatest fortune
in the market, and besieged by every spendthrift or money-seeker the
town knew. Not only was she heiress to fine estates in Scotland, but to
wealth-yielding sugar plantations in the West Indies. She was but
twenty and had some good looks and an amiable temper, though with her
fortune, had she been ugly as Hecate, she would have had more suitors
than she could manage with ease. But she was not easily pleased, or of
a susceptible nature, and 'twas known she had refused suitor after
suitor, among them men of quality and rank, the elegant and decorous
Viscount Wilford, among others, having knelt at her feet, and--having
proffered her the boon of his lofty manner and high accomplishments
--having been obliged to rise a discarded man, to his amazement and
discomfort. The world she lived in was of the better and more
respectable order, and Jack Oxon had seen little of it, finding it not
gay and loose enough for his tastes, but suddenly, for reasons best
known to himself and to his anxious mother, he began to appear at its
decorous feasts. 'Twas said of him he "had a way" with women and could
make them believe anything until they found him out, either through
lucky chance or because he had done with them. He could act the part of
tender, honest worshipper, of engaging penitent, of impassioned and
romantic lover until a woman old and wise enough to be his mother might
be entrapped by him, aided as he was by his beauty, his large blue
eyes, his merry wit, and the sweetest voice in the world. So it seemed
that Mistress Beaton, who was young and had lived among better men,
took him for one and found her fancy touched by him. His finest
allurements he used, verses he writ, songs he made and sang, poetic
homilies on disinterested passion he preached, while the world looked
on and his boon companions laid wagers. At last those who had wagered
on him won their money, those who had laid against him lost, for 'twas
made known publicly that he had won the young lady's heart, and her
hand and fortune were to be given to him.
This had happened but a week or two before he had appeared at the ball
which celebrated young Colin's coming of age, and also by chance the
announcement of the fine match to be made of Mistress Clorinda
Wildairs. 'Twas but like him, those who knew him said, that though he
himself was on the point of making a marriage, he should burn with fury
and jealous rage, because the beauty he had dangled about had found a
husband and a fortune. Some said he had loved Mistress Clorinda with
such passion that he would have wed her penniless if she would have
taken him, others were sure he would have married no woman without
fortune, whatsoever his love for her, and that he had but laid
dishonest siege to Mistress Clo and been played with and flouted by
her. But howsoever this might have been, he watched her that night,
black with rage, and went back to town in an evil temper. Perhaps 'twas
this temper undid him, and being in such mood he showed the cloven
foot, for two weeks later all knew the match was broken off, Mistress
Beaton went back to her estates in Scotland, his creditors descended
upon him in hordes, such of his properties as could be seized were
sold, and in a month his poor, distraught mother died of a fever
brought on by her disappointment and shame.
Another story was told in solution of the sudden breaking off the
match, and 'twas an ugly one and much believed.
A wild young cousin of the lady's, one given to all the adventures of a
man about town, had gone to Tyburn, as was much the elegant fashion, to
see a hanging. The victim was a girl of sixteen, to suffer for the
murder of her infant, and as she went to the gallows she screamed aloud
in frenzy the name of the child's father. The young scapegrace looking
on, 'twas said, turned pale on hearing her and went into the crowd,
asking questions. Two hours later he appeared at his cousin's house
and, calling for her guardian, held excited speech with him.
"Mistress Isabel fell like a stone after ten minutes' talk with them,"
'twas told, "and looked like one when she got into her travelling-coach
to drive away next day. Sir John and his mother had both raged and wept
at her door to be let in, but she would see or speak to neither of
them."
From that time it seemed that all was over for Sir John. He was far
worse than poor and in debt, he was _out of fashion_, and for a man
like himself this meant not only humiliation, but impotent rage. Ladies
no longer ogled him and commanded the stopping of their chairs that
they might call him to them with coquettish reproaches that he neither
came to their assemblies nor bowed and waved hands to them as he sate
on the stage at the playhouse; beaux no longer joined him in the
coffee-house or on the Mall to ask his opinion of this new beauty or
that, and admire the cut of his coat, or the lace on his steenkirk; the
new beauty's successes would not be advanced by his opinion--a man whom
tradespeople dun from morn till night has few additions to his wardrobe
and wears few novelties in lace. Profligacy and defiance of all rules
of healthful living had marred his beauty and degraded his youth; his
gay wit and spirit had deserted him and left him suspicious and bitter.
He had been forced to put down his equipages and change his fashionable
lodgings for cheaper ones; when he lounged in the park his old
acquaintances failed to see him; when he gambled he lost. Downhill he
was going, and there was naught to stop him. For one man in England he
had, even in his most flourishing days, cherished a distaste--the man
who was five inches taller than himself, who was incomparably
handsomer, and whose rank was such, that to approach him as an equal
would have savoured of presumption. This man, who was indeed my Lord
Duke of Osmonde, had irked him from the first, and all the more when he
began to realise that for some reason, howsoever often they chanced to
be in the same place, it invariably happened that they did not come in
contact with each other, Sir John on no occasion being presented to my
lord Duke, his Grace on no occasion seeming to observe his presence
near him. At the outset this appeared mere accident, but after a few
such encounters ending in nothing, Sir John began to guess that 'twas
the result of more than mere chancing, and in time to mark that, though
he was not clumsily avoided, or in such manner as would leave any room
for complaint, my lord Duke forebore to enter into any conversation in
which he took part, or to approach any quarter where he was stationed.
Once Sir John had even tried the experiment of addressing an
acquaintance who stood near his Grace, meaning to lead up to a meeting,
but though the Duke did not move from the place where he stood, in a
few moments he had, with ease and naturalness, gathered about him a
circle which 'twould have been difficult indeed to enter. Sir John went
away livid, and hated and sneered at him from that hour, all the more
bitterly, because no hatred was a weapon against him, no sneer could do
more than glance from him, leaving no scratch. 'Twas plain enough, the
gossips said, that Sir John's passion for her ladyship of Dunstanwolde
had not been a dead thing when he paid his court to the heiress; if for
a little space he had smothered it from necessity's sake, it had begun
to glow again as soon as he had been left a free man, and when my lady
came to town and Court, surrounded by the halo of rank and wealth and
beauty, the glow had become a flame he could not hide, for 'twas
burning in his eyes and his every look spoke of it as if with
bitterness.
It scarcely seemed a flame of love; 'twas to be seen so often when he
looked fierce and resentful.
"'Tis more than half envy of her," said one wise lady, who had passed
through a long life of varied experiences. "'Tis more hate than love.
His star having set, it galls him that hers so rises. And as for her,
she scarce will deign to see him."
And this was very true, for she had a way of passing him by as if he
did not live. And none but herself knew that sometimes, when he stood
near, he spoke low to her words she disdained to answer. There were
many bitter things she held in mind which were secret from all others
upon earth, she thought, but from himself and her who had been Clo
Wildairs in days gone by, when, as it now seemed to her, she had been
another woman living in another world. There were things she understood
which the world did not, and she understood full well the meaning of
his presence when she, with the ducal party, came face to face with him
at the great ball given in the county town when the guests were
gathered at Camylott.
The night was a festal one for the county, the ball being given in
honour of a great party movement, his Grace and his visitors driving
from Camylott to add to the brilliance of the festivities. The Mayor
and his party received them with ceremony, the smaller gentry, who had
come attired in their richest, gathered in groups gazing, half
admiring, half envious of the more stately splendour of the Court
mantua-makers and jewellers. The officers from the garrison assumed a
martial air of ease as the _cortége_ advanced up the ballroom, and
every man's eyes were drawn towards one tall goddess with a shining
circlet set on raven-black braids of hair coiled high, yet twisted
tight, as if their length and thickness could only be massed close
enough by deftest skill.
"'Tis said 'tis near six feet long," whispered one matron to another;
"and a rake at Court wagered he would show a lock of it in town some
day, but he came back without it."
Sir John Oxon had come with a young officer, and stood near him as the
ducal party approached. The Countess of Dunstanwolde was on his Grace's
arm, and Sir John made a step forward. Her ladyship turned her eyes
slowly, attracted by the movement of a figure so near her; she did not
start nor smile, but let her glance rest quiet on his face and curtsied
calmly; my lord Duke bowed low with courtly gravity, and they passed
on.
When the ball was at an end, and the party set out on its return to
Camylott, the Duke did not set out with the rest, he being at the last
moment unexpectedly detained. This he explained with courtly excuses,
saying that he would not be long held, and would mount and follow in an
hour.
He stood upon the threshold to watch the last chariot leave the
courtyard, and then he made his way to a certain supper-room, where a
lingering party of officers and guests were drinking. These being of
the young and riotous sort, there was much loud talk and laughter and
toasting of ladies, sometimes far from respectfully, and Sir John Oxon,
who was flushed with wine, was the central figure, and toasted her
ladyship of Dunstanwolde with an impudent air.
"'Tis not my lady I drink to," he cried, "but Clo Wildairs--Clo astride
a hunter and with her black hair looped under her hat. Clo! Clo!" And
with a shout the company drank to the toast.
"There was a lock of that black hair clipt from her head once when she
knew it not," Sir John cried next. "'Twas lost, by God, but 'twill be
found again. Drink to its finding."
Then my lord Duke stepped forward and, passing the open door, went
through the house and out beyond the entrance of the court and waited
in a place where any who came forth must pass. He had but gone within
to see that Sir John had not yet taken his departure.
There be deeps in the nature of human beings which in some are never
stirred, possibilities of heroism, savagery, passion, or crime, and
when the hour comes which searches these far secret caverns and brings
their best and worst to light, strange things may be seen. On the
night, at Dunstanwolde, when he had fought his battle alone, my lord
Duke had realised the upheaval in his being of frenzies and lawlessness
which were strange indeed to him, and which he had afterwards pondered
deeply upon, tracing the germs of them to men whose blood had come down
to him through centuries, and who had been untamed, ruthless savages in
the days when a man carried his life in his hand and staked it
recklessly for any fury or desire.
Now as he stood and waited, his face was white except that on one cheek
was a spot almost like a scarlet stain of blood; his eyes seemed
changed to blue-black, and in each there was a light which flickered
like a point of flame and made him seem not himself, but some new
relentless being, for far deeps of him had been shaken and searched
once more.
"I wait here like a brigand," he said to himself with a harsh laugh,
"or a highwayman--but he shall not pass."
Then Sir John crossed the courtyard and came forward humming, and his
Grace of Osmonde advanced and met him.
"Sir John Oxon," he said, and stood still and made a grave bow.
John Oxon started and then stood still also, staring at him, his face
flushed and malignant. His Grace of Osmonde was it who had gazed above
his head throughout the evening, when all the country world might see!
"Your Grace deigns to address me at last," he said.
"Hitherto there has been no need that either should address the other,"
answers my lord Duke in a steady voice. "At this moment the necessity
arises. Within there"--with a gesture--"I heard you use a lady's name
impudently. Earlier in the evening I also chanced to hear you so use
it; I was in the ball-room. So I remained behind and waited to have
speech with you. Do not speak it again in like manner."
"Must I not!" said Sir John, his blue eyes glaring. "On Clo Wildairs's
name was set no embargo, God knows. Is there a reason why a man should
be squeamish of a sudden over my Lady Dunstanwolde's? 'Tis but the
difference of a title and an old husband."
"And of a man made her kinsman by marriage," said my lord Duke, "who
can use a sword."
"Let him use it, by God!" cried Sir John, and insensate with rage he
laid his hand upon his own as if he would draw it.
"He will use it and is prepared to do so, or he would not be here," the
Duke answered. "We are not two Mohocks brawling in the streets, but two
gentlemen, one of whom must give a lesson to the other. Would you have
witnesses?"
"Curse it, I care for none!" flamed Sir John. "Let the best man give
his lesson now. 'Tis not this night alone I would be even for."
The Duke measured him from head to foot, in every inch of sinew.
"I am the better man," he said; "I tell you beforehand."
Sir John flung out a jeering laugh.
"Prove it," he cried. "_Prove_ it. Now is your time."
"There is open moor a short distance away," says his Grace. "Shall we
go there?"
So they set out, walking side by side, neither speaking a word. The
night was still and splendid, and just upon its turn; the rich
dark-blue of the Heavens was still hung with the spangles of the stars,
but soon they would begin to dim, and the deepness of the blue to pale
for dawn. A scented freshness was in the air, and was just stirring
with that light faint wind which so often first foretells the coming of
the morning. When, in but a few minutes, the two men stood stript of
their upper garments to their shirts, the open purple heath about them,
the jewelled sky above, this first fresh scent of day was in their
lungs and nostrils. That which stirred John Oxon to fury and at the
same time shook his nerve, though he owned it not to himself, and would
have died rather, was the singular composure of the man who was his
opponent. Every feature, every muscle, every fibre of him seemed
embodied stillness, and 'twas not that the mere physical members of him
were still, but that the power which was himself, his will, his
thought, his motion was in utter quiet, and of a quiet which was deadly
in its significance and purpose. 'Twas that still strength which
_knows_ its power and will use it, and ever by its presence fills its
enemy with impotent rage.
With such rage it filled John Oxon as he beheld it, and sneered. He had
heard rumours of the wonders of his Grace's sword-play, that from
boyhood he had excelled and delighted in it, that in the army he had
won renown, through mere experiments of his skill, that he was as
certain of his weapon as an acrobat of his least feat--but 'twas not
this which maddened the other man but the look in his steady eye.
"You are the bigger man of the two," he jeered, impudently, "but give
me your lesson and shut my mouth on Clo Wildairs--if you can."
"I am the better man," says my lord Duke, "and I will shut it. But I
will not kill you."
Then they engaged, and such a fight began as has not been often seen,
for such a battle is more of spirit than body, and is more like to be
fought alone between two enemies whose antagonism is part of being
itself, than to be fought in the presence of others whose nearness
would but serve to disturb it.
John Oxon had fought duels before, through women who were but his
despised playthings, through braggadocio, through drunken folly,
through vanity and spite--but never as he fought this night on the
broad heath, below the paling stars. This man he hated, this man he
would have killed by any thrust he knew, if the devil had helped him.
There is no hatred, to a mind like his, such as is wakened by the sight
of another's gifts and triumphs--all the more horrible is it if they
are borne with nobleness. To have lost all--to see another possess with
dignity that thing one has squandered! And for this frenzy there was
more than one cause. Clo Wildairs! He could have cursed aloud. My Lady
Dunstanwolde! He could have raved like a madman. She! And a Duke
here--this Duke would shut his mouth and give him a lesson. He lunged
forward and struck wildly; my lord Duke parried his point as if he
played with the toy of a child, and in the clear starlight his face
looked a beautiful mask, and did not change howsoever furious his
opponent's onslaught, or howsoever wondrous his own play. For wondrous
it was, and before they had been engaged five minutes John Oxon was a
maddened creature, driven so, not only by his own fury, but by seeing a
certain thing--which was that this man could kill him if he would, but
would not. When he had lost his wits and made his senseless lunge, his
Grace had but parried when he might have driven his point home; he did
this again and again while their swords clashed and darted. The stamp
of their feet sounded dull and heavy on the moor, and John Oxon's
breath came short and hissing. As he grew more wild the other grew more
cool and steady, and made a play which Sir John could have shrieked out
at seeing. What was the man doing? 'Twas as if he would show him where
he could strike and did not deign to. He felt his devil's touch in a
dozen places, and not one scratch. There he might have laid open his
face from brow to chin! Why did he touch him here, there, at one point
and another, and deal no wound? Gods! 'twas fighting not with a human
thing but with a devil! 'Twas like fighting in a Roman arena, to be
played with as a sport until human strength could bear no more; 'twas
as men used to fight together hundreds of years ago. His breath grew
short, his panting fiercer, the sweat poured down him, his throat was
dry, and he could feel no more the fresh stirring of the air of the
dawning. He would not stop to breathe, he had reached the point in his
insensate fury when he could have flung himself upon the rapier's point
and felt it cleave his breastbone and start through his back with the
joy of hell, if he could have struck the other man deep but once. The
thought made him start afresh; he fought like a thousand devils, his
point leaping and flashing, and coming down with a crash; he stamped
and gasped and shouted.
"Curse you," he cried; "come on!"
"Do I stand back?" said my lord Duke, and gave him such play as made
him see the air red as blood, and think he tasted the salt of blood in
his dry mouth; his muscles were wrenched with his violence, and this
giant devil moved as swift as if he had but just begun. Good God! he
was beaten! Good God! by this enemy who would not kill him or be
killed. He uttered a sound which was a choking shriek and hurled
himself forward. 'Twas his last stroke and he knew it, and my lord Duke
struck his point aside and it flew in the air, and Sir John fell
backwards broken, conquered, exhausted, but an unwounded man. And he
fell full length and lay upon the heather, its purple blooms crushed
against his cheek; and the sky was of a sweet pallor just about to
glow, and the first bird of morning sprang up in it to sing.
"Damn you!" he gasped. "Damn you," and lay there, his blue eyes
glaring, his chest heaving as though 'twould burst, his nostrils
dilated with his laboured, tortured puffs of breath. Thereupon, as he
lay prostrate, for he was too undone a man to rise, he saw in his Grace
of Osmonde's eyes the two points of light which were like ruthless
flames and yet burned so still.
And his Grace, standing near him, leaned upon his sword, looking down.
"Do you understand?" he said.
"That you are the better sword--Yes!" shrieked Sir John, and added
curses it were useless to repeat.
"That I will have you refrain from speaking that lady's name?"
"Force me to it, if you can," Sir John raved at him. "You can but kill
me!"
"I will not kill you," said the Duke, leaning a little nearer and the
awful light in his eyes growing intenser--for awful it was and made his
pale face deadly. "How I can force you to it I have shown you--and
brought you here to prove. For that, I meant that we should fight
alone. Myself, I knew, I could hold from killing you, howsoever my
blood might tempt me. You, I knew, I could keep from killing me, which
I knew you would have done if you could, by foul means if not fair. I
would not have it said I was forced to fight to shield that lady's
name--so I would have no witness if it could be helped. And you will
keep the encounter secret, for I command you."
Sir John started up, leaning upon his elbow, catching his breath, and
his wicked face a white flame.
"Curse you!" he shrieked again, blaspheming at a thing he had not
dreamed of, and which came upon him like a thunderbolt. "Curse your
soul--you love her!"
The deadly light danced--he saw it--in his Grace's eyes, but his
countenance was a marble mask with no human quiver of flesh in any
muscle of it.
"I command you," he went on; "having proved I can enforce. I have the
blood of savage devils in me, come down to me through many hundred
years. All my life I have kept them at bay. Until late I did not know
how savage they were and what they could make me feel. I could do to
you, as you lie there, things a man who is of this century, and sane,
cannot do. You know I can strike where I will. If you slight that
lady's name again I will not kill"--he raised himself from his sword
and stood his full height, the earliest gold of the sun shining about
him--"I will not kill you, but--so help me God!--I will fight with you
once more, and I will leave you so maimed and so disfigured that you
can woo no woman to ruin again and jest at her shame and agony with no
man--for none can bear to look at you without a shudder--and you will
lie and writhe to be given the _coup de grace_." He lifted the hilt of
his sword and kissed it. "That I swear," he said, "by this first
dawning of God's sun."