"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.

And now, all being ready, the thin, narrow blades rang together. Raikes was too expert a swordsman to let his passion master him a second time, and as the two faced each other there was not a pin to choose betwixt 'em: nay, if anything, Sir Harry would almost seem the better man, what with his superior height and length of limb. There was, too, a certain gleam in his eye, and a confident smile on his lips that I remembered to have seen there the day he killed poor Richards.

He opened his attack with a thrust in tierce, followed by a longe so swift and well timed that it came nigh ending the matter there and then, but it was parried—heaven knows how—and I heard Jack sigh behind me.

Indeed, on this occasion Sir Harry fought with all that impetuosity which, seconded by his incredible quickness of recovery, had rendered him famous. A very dangerous opponent he looked, with his great length of arm; and his face, with its menacing brow and gritted teeth, spoke his purpose more plainly than any words. Mr. Tawnish, on the other hand, preserved his usual serene composure, fencing with a certain airy grace that seemed habitual with him in all things.

Momentarily, the fighting grew but the fiercer, Sir Harry sending in thrust after thrust, with now and then a sudden, vicious longe which, it seemed, Mr. Tawnish had much ado to put aside; twice, in as many moments, Sir Harry's point flashed over his shoulder, missing his throat by a hair, and once it rent the cambric of his sleeve from the elbow up; yet the pale serenity of his face remained unchanged, his placid calm unbroken, save, perhaps, that his eyes were a trifle wider and brighter, and his chin more than usually prominent. And still they fought, fast and furious as ever, and though Raikes came dangerously near time and time again, his point was always met and parried.

Minutes passed that seemed hours—there were sudden pauses when we could detect the thud of feet and the hiss of breath drawn sharply between shut teeth. And now, to my amazement, I saw that Mr. Tawnish was pressing the attack, answering thrust with thrust, and longe with longe. The fighting grew to a positive frenzy; the shivering blades rang with their swift changes from quarte to tierce.

"Such a pace cannot last," says I, to no one in particular, "the end must come soon!"

Almost with the words, I saw Mr. Tawnish's blade waver aimlessly; Raikes saw it too, and drove in a lightning thrust. There was a sharp clash of meeting steel, a flurry of blades, and Sir Harry Raikes staggered back, his eyes wide and staring, threw up his arms, and pitching forward, rolled over with a groan.



CHAPTER EIGHT

Wherein the Truth of the old Adage is made manifest—to wit: All's well that ends well

So swift and altogether unexpected had been the end, that for a long minute there was a strange, tense stillness, a silence wherein all eyes were turned from the motionless form on the floor, with the ever-widening stain upon the snow of his shirt, to where Mr. Tawnish stood, leaning upon his small-sword. Then all at once pandemonium seemed to break loose—some running to lift the wounded man, some wandering round aimlessly, but all talking excitedly, and at the same time.

"Dick and Bentley," says Jack, mopping at his face with his handkerchief, "it's in my mind that we have made a cursed mistake for once—the fellow is a man."

"I've known that this month and more," says I.

"I say a man," repeated Jack, "and devil anoint me, I mean a man!"

"Who writes verses!" added Bentley.

"And what of that, sir?" cries Jack, indignantly. "I did the same myself once—we all did."

"A patched and powdered puppy-dog!" sneers Bentley; "look at him."

Now at this, glancing across at Mr. Tawnish, I saw that he still stood as before, only that the point of his sword was buried deep in the floor beneath his weight, while his pale face seemed paler even than its wont. As we watched, his hand slipped suddenly from the hilt, and he tottered slightly; then I noticed for the first time that blood was running down his right arm, and trickling from his finger-tips.

With an exclamation, I started forward, but Bentley's grasp was on my shoulder, and his voice whispered in my ear: "Leave him to Jack—'tis better so." And indeed Jack was already beside him, had flung one arm about the swaying figure, and half led, half carried him to a chair.

"Ah!" says Purdy, laying bare a great gash in the upper arm—"a little blood, but simple—simple!" and he fell to work a-sponging and bandaging, with a running exordium upon the humanity of the sword as opposed to the more deadly bullet—until at length, the dressing in place, Mr. Tawnish sighed and opened his eyes.

"Sir John," says he, sitting up, "give me leave to tell you that my third and last task was accomplished this morning."

"Eh?" cries Jack, "but first, let me get you out of this."

"What of Sir Harry Raikes?" says Tawnish, rising.

"Serious," says Purdy, shaking his head, "serious, but not altogether dangerous."

"Good!" says Jack, giving his arm to Mr. Tawnish, "I'm glad of that."

"Though," pursued Purdy, "he will be an invalid for months to come, the right lung—as I pointed out to my colleague, Prothero—a man of very excellent sense, by the way—"

At this juncture, at a sign from Prothero, Purdy left us with a bow. Hereupon we saluted the others, and turning into an adjacent room, called for wine and filled our glasses to Mr. Tawnish, with all the honours.

As he rose to make his acknowledgment, for the first time in my recollection he seemed ill at ease.

"Sir John, and gentlemen," says he, slowly, "I had scarce looked for this kindness at your hands—it makes what I have to say harder than I had thought. Gentlemen," he continued, after a brief pause, "you each in turn set me an undertaking, little thinking at the time that there was any likelihood of my fulfilling them. As you know, however, the first two I accomplished some time since, and this morning I succeeded in the last, namely, in taking all three of you, together and at the same time, at a disadvantage. Sir John, gentlemen—scarce an hour ago the Lady Penelope Chester became my wife."

Jack started up from the table with an oath, and fell back, staring at the speaker with knitted brows—while Bentley gazed open-mouthed—as for me, I could do nothing but think that our Pen was gone from our keeping at last.

"By Gad, Jack, he's done us," cried Bentley, fetching the table a great blow with his fist.

Now, as I stood with my back to them, staring out into the yard below, my eyes encountered a great, four-horsed travelling chariot, and as I watched it, gloomily enough, the door was flung suddenly open, and ere the waiting footman could let down the steps a lady leapt lightly out and stood looking up at the windows. All at once she turned and gazed straight up at me—then I saw that it was Pen. With a wave of her hand she darted up the steps, and a moment later was in the room.

"Oh, I could wait no longer!" she cried, looking round with the tears in her lovely eyes, "we have been wed but an hour, and I have sat there praying 'twixt hope and fear, until methought I should go mad."



Here, catching sight of Tawnish with his wounded arm, she uttered a low cry, and in a moment was kneeling beside him, kissing his uninjured hand, and fondling it with a thousand endearing terms. And seeing the infinite tenderness in his eyes and the love-light in her own, I was possessed of a sudden, great content. In a while, remembering us, she looked up, and, though her cheeks were red, her glance met ours freely and unashamed.

"Father," says she, "this is my husband—and I am proud to tell you so."

There was a moment's silence, and Jack's frown grew the blacker.

"Father," says she again, "I am not so simple but that I found out your quarrel with Sir Harry, and knew that you came hither to-day to meet your death—so—so I sought aid of this noble gentleman. Yet first I begged of him to marry me, that if—if he had died to-day in your place, I could have mourned him as a beloved husband. Can you forgive me, father?"

As Pen ended, she rose and approached Jack with outstretched hands; for a moment longer he hesitated—then he had her in his embrace.

"And you, Uncle Bentley," says she, looking at us from Jack's arms, "and, Uncle Dick, dear, tender Uncle Dick, can you forgive your wilful maid?"

"God knows, my dear, there's naught to forgive," says I, "save that you are leaving us—"

"Nay, Sir Richard," cries Mr. Tawnish, "Uncle Bentley has seen to that—"

"Uncle!" says Jack.

"Uncle!" says I.

"Can it be possible," says Mr. Tawnish, rising, "that you are still unaware of the relationship?"

"Bentley," cries Jack, "explain."

"To be sure," says Bentley, in his heavy way, pointing to Mr. Tawnish, "this is my sister's only child, Viscount Hazelmere!"

"What!" cries Jack, while I stood dumb with astonishment.

"As you remember, Jack and Dick," says Bentley, getting ponderously to his feet, "it was ever our wish that these two should marry, but, being young and hot-headed, the very expression of that wish was but the signal for them to set themselves to thwart it, even before they had ever seen each other. Therefore acting upon that very contrariness, I wrote to my graceless nephew there, telling him that he need have no fear for his freedom—that we had changed our plans with regard to him—that our Pen was a thousand times too good and sweet for such as he—which she is, mark you!—that she was a beauty, and reigning toast of all the South Country—which she likewise is, mark you—and, in a word, forbidding him to think any more about her. Whereupon, my young gentleman comes hot-foot back to England, to learn the why and wherefore—did the mightily indignant, an' it please you—and ended by vowing he'd marry her despite all three of us. As for Pen—oh, egad! I spun her a fine tale, I promise you—spoke of him as a poor young gentleman, penniless but proud, a man 'twould be folly for any maid to wed—and oh, Jack and Dick, it worked like a charm—she saw him and promptly fell in love with him, and he with her. Yet at this juncture, Jack, you must needs go nigh ruining all by your quarrel with Raikes; however, knowing my young rascal there plumed himself monstrously upon his swordsmanship, I offered to put it to the test, and found him mighty eager. But oh, curse me! as I watched them preparing to murder you, Jack, a little while since, and this nephew of mine failed to come, methought I should go mad! And to think that they were marrying each other all the time! Rat me, Dick and Jack! to-day will be the merriest Christmas of all—how say you?"

So, laughing and rejoicing together, they presently went out, and I heard their happy voices below, ringing clear and crisp in the frosty air of the yard. But I remained, staring into the fire, bethinking me of my treatment of Bentley. The mystery of his seeming indifference was cleared up now; where I had failed in my design of averting Jack's duel, he had succeeded, nay, had even brought together these two, as had been the wish of our hearts for years past. And now I had insulted him, wantonly, beyond forgiveness. Yet we had been friends so long—perhaps, if I told him humbly—

"Dick!" said a voice behind me, and a great hand was laid upon my shoulder, "Dick!"

"Bentley," says I, hurriedly, "I was wrong—will you—can you forgive—"

"Man, Dick," says he, grasping my hand. "A Merry Christmas to thee! Come, the others are waiting you, and Pen's a-dying to kiss you, I swear."

So he took me by the arm, and we went down-stairs together. And when I paused, and would have spoken further of my fool's mistake, he clapped me upon the shoulder again, and fell a-whistling of "Lillibuleero."

THE END