"Stop!"
Mark turned round, frowning and scowling.
"You don't belong to my regiment, my lad, but you know that this is not
the way to address an officer."
"That will do, Mark Frayne," cried Richard, sternly. "It is time we
understood one another."
"Mark Frayne!" cried the officer, angrily. Then, with a half-laugh,
"Oh! I see--205th, from the Town Barracks. You have got hold of my
name, my lad."
"Got hold of your name!" exclaimed Richard, angrily. "There, no more of
that. I tell you I can bear this no longer. It is time we came to an
understanding."
"My good fellow, have you been drinking?" said Mark, with a forced
laugh; "or is it a touch of sunstroke? Here, you had better make for
the nearest stream, have a good draught of water, and then get back to
barracks."
"So that's how Mr Mark Frayne would prescribe for sunstroke!" said
Richard, sarcastically.
"My good fellow, we are not in garrison now, and I like to be kind and
friendly to men in the ranks; but there are bounds. Recollect that you
are addressing your officer, and do not be insolent!"
"Insolent?" cried Richard.
"Yes, sir, insolent!" said Mark, speaking in a low voice. "You have got
hold of my name; but I am Sir Mark Frayne."
"Mark Frayne," cried Richard, fiercely, "and my cousin! Once more I
tell you that this can go on no longer!"
"Are you mad, fellow?" said Mark, speaking beneath his breath.
"Almost, at being face to face with you alone after all I have suffered
at your hands! There, set aside this miserable show of not knowing me!
You recognised me that night of the ball. You knew me directly, though
you tried hard to assume ignorance. Now, then, I don't want to be hard
upon you. I have held back from going to lawyers, for I have felt that
it would be better if we settled the matter ourselves. Do you dare to
tell me that you do not know me?"
Mark gazed at him searchingly, and then his face seemed to light up.
"Why, yes; of course, I know you now--the bandsman Smithson. Of course.
You are the man who helped me out of the burning tent."
"Yes; I saved the life of one who had sent me into this miserable
exile!"
"Of course, I see now. You had a serious illness after, Smithson, and
it affected your head. The doctor told me all about it."
"It was needless," said Richard, gazing full in the eyes which were
half-closed, and which kept on glancing from their corners up and down
the long dim alley where they stood.
"No; I am glad he told me, my lad. That explains a good deal. Now,
take my advice, and get back to barracks. You were not fit to come so
far."
This assumption of ignorance staggered Richard for the moment. Then,
with his voice sounding very deep and stern--
"Look here, Mark," he said; "your poor father is dead, but I presume
that my aunt is living, and for her sake I am unwilling to take steps
that may give her pain. You proved yourself an unprincipled scoundrel
over that bill transaction, and now, even as an officer, you cannot act
like a gentleman."
Mark was very pale now as he stood facing his cousin; but he showed no
sign of resentment, and Richard went on--
"Your conduct towards Miss Deane has been that of a dishonourable
blackguard; towards Mr Lacey, that of a sharper and a cheat. You see,
I know; but I am willing to spare you, for your mother's sake. You will
at once communicate with your lawyers, and tell them your assumption of
the property and title has been a mistake, and that you are willing to
surrender all claims at once."
"Poor fellow!" said Mark, softly, as he stood with his hands in his
jacket pockets and with a peculiar thin smile upon his tightened lips;
"the result of the fever. What a fancy to get into his head!"
"Do you mean to take that line?" said Richard. "Think better of it, and
give it up. It will save you trouble, your mother pain, and I promise
you that I will not be ungenerous toward you."
"How singular these crazes are!" said Mark, softly, as if speaking to
himself.
"Then you mean to fight me?" said Richard.
"My poor fellow, what nonsense you have got into your bewildered head!
I had a cousin, Sir Richard Frayne, who once, in a mad fit, attacked me,
and afterwards threw himself into a river, and was drowned."
"And was not drowned," said Richard, quietly.
"Yes, he was drowned. They found the body, and he was buried close to
his estate, and in the church there is a handsome monument to his
memory, saying kindly things that he did not deserve, for he committed
suicide in remorse for having obtained money by false pretences."
"You are an unmitigated scoundrel, Mark!" said Richard, with his brow
now knit angrily. "Once more, will you accept my terms?"
"He is dead and buried," said Mark, with his eyes more than half-shut
now; "and if Richard Frayne rose from the dead no one would believe his
tale."
"Will you accept my terms, or must I denounce you as one who has proved
treacherous to his friend, acted like a blackleg at cards, and who
obtained a hundred pounds by forging his cousin's name, and whose title
and estate he now holds?"
Mark stood there, white as a sheet, glaring at the speaker.
"How will you stand then, Mark, with officers and men of honour. Take
my offer before you fall."
"I tell you," whispered Mark huskily, "that Richard Frayne is dead, and
that you are an impostor."
"And I tell you that I will have no mercy now," cried Richard,
excitedly. "I tried to spare you, but this life is intolerable since
you came here. Once more, will you accept my terms?"
"Impostor!"
"Then take your chance!"
"Take yours!" cried Mark, in the same low whisper, as he snatched a
revolver from his pocket and fired quickly at his cousin, who sprang
back, dragged a hop-pole from the side of the alley, snapping it in two,
and, wild with agony and excitement, made a rush at Mark, who met it by
standing firm, now taking aim at his cousin's head.
But he did not fire; for all at once Richard's knees gave way, the stout
pole fell from his grasp, and, flinging up his hands, he swayed over
backward with a crash, bearing down a portion of the hop-bine as he
fell.
Mark stood there with his arm still rigidly extended, but altering his
position now. Then, taking a step or two forward, he bent over, gazing
fixedly at his cousin's distorted face, and taking aim once more as he
stooped. He was about to draw the trigger, when the sharp barking of a
dog arose from two or three hundred yards away.
The barking ceased, and Mark hurriedly thrust the pistol back in his
pocket, but a sudden thought struck him, and, quickly stooping down, he
seized his cousin's clenched right hand, dragged the fingers apart, and
placed the weapon in his grasp; then laying the broken piece of hop-pole
back, as if it had been broken in the fall, he rose and looked sharply
up and down the alley, and stepped into the next, after peering through
and looking up and down that.
The next moment his white and alarmed face reappeared, avoiding the body
lying prone, as his eyes peered here and there till they fell upon the
freshly-lit cigar he had dropped from his lips; for a faint streak of
smoke rose from where it lay, and betrayed its presence.
Reaching forward, he caught it up, drew back and disappeared through the
drooping hops, passing from one alley to another, till he elected to
walk straight on to a coppice on the other side; here lighting his cigar
afresh, he began to walk back toward Ratcham at a slow steady pace, and
without meeting a soul; neither did he hear the barking of the dog
again.