Read Ebook: Sir John Dering: A romantic comedy by Farnol Jeffery

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Ebook has 3620 lines and 104305 words, and 73 pages

CHAP.

XL. DESCRIBES, AMONG OTHER THINGS, HOW MY LADY TRAMPLED TRIUMPHANTLY AT LAST 308

SIR JOHN DERING

The light of guttering candles fell upon the two small-swords where they lay, the one glittering brightly, the other its murderous steel horribly bent and dimmed; and no sound to hear except a whisper of stirring leaves beyond the open window and the ominous murmur of hushed voices from the inner chamber.

Suddenly the door of this chamber opened and a man appeared, slender, youthful and superlatively elegant from curled peruke to buckled shoes, a young exquisite who leaned heavily, though gracefully, in the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder while the slim fingers of one white hand busied themselves to button his long, flowered waistcoat and made a mighty business of it.

"Dead?" he questioned at last in a tone high-pitched and imperious. "Dead ... is he?"

Receiving an affirmative answer, his lounging figure grew tense and, turning his head, he stared at the guttering candles.

Wide eyes that glared in the deathly pale oval of a youthful face, pallid lips compressed above a jut of white chin, nostrils that quivered with every breath, sweat that trickled unheeded beneath the trim curls of his great periwig; a face that grew aged even as he stood there. Presently, with step a little uncertain, he crossed to the open lattice and leaned to stare out and up into the deepening night-sky, and yet was conscious that the others had followed him, men who whispered, held aloof from him and peered back toward that quiet inner chamber; and, with his wide gaze still upturned to the sombre heaven, he spoke in the same high, imperious tone:

"He died scarce ... ten minutes ago, I think?"

"Ten minutes!... I wonder where is now the merry soul of him?... He died attempting a laugh, you'll remember, sirs!"

"Aye ... aye," quavered young Mr. Prescott. "Lord ... O Lord, Dering--he laughed ... and his blood all a-bubbling ... laughed--and died ... O Lord!"

"'Twas all so demned sudden!" exclaimed Captain Armitage--"so curst sudden and unexpected, Dering."

"And that's true enough!" wailed Lord Verrian. "'S life, Dering, you were close engaged afore we had a chance to part ye!"

"To be sure I ... have pinked my man!" retorted Sir John Dering a little unsteadily and with so wild a look that Lord Verrian started.

"Nay, Dering," quoth he soothingly. "'Twas he drew first ... and you'd scarce made a push at each other--and both o' ye desperate fierce--than poor Charles slips, d'ye see, and impales himself on your point ... a devilish business altogether--never saw such hell-fire fury and determination!"

"Lord, gentlemen!" she exclaimed, glancing swiftly from one face to another; "I protest y'are very gloomily mum--as I were a ghost. Nay--what is it? Are you all dumb? Where is Charles?... He was to meet me here! You, my Lord Verrian ... Captain Armitage--where is Charles?"

Lord Verrian turned his back, mumbling incoherencies; Mr. Prescott groaned. And then her quick glance had caught the glitter of the swords upon the table. "Charles!" she cried suddenly. "Charles! Ah--my God!"

Captain Armitage made a feeble effort to stay her, but, brushing him imperiously aside, she fled into the inner room.

Ensued a moment of tense and painful stillness, and then upon the air rose a dreadful strangled screaming, and she was back, the awful sound still issuing from her quivering lips.

"Who ... who," she gasped at last, "which of you ... which of you ... did it?"

No one spoke, only Sir John Dering bowed, laced handkerchief to lip.

"You--ah, 'twas you?" she questioned in hoarse whisper. "I ... do not know you.... Your name, sir?"

"I am called John Dering, madam."

"Dering," she repeated in the same tense voice--"John Dering--I shall not forget! And 'twas you killed him--'twas you murdered my Charles--you--you?"

And now she broke out into a wild farrago of words, bitter reproaches and passionate threats, while Sir John stood immobile, head bowed, laced handkerchief to lip, mute beneath the lash of her tongue. Softly, stealthily, one by one, the others crept from the room until the twain were alone, unseen, unheard, save by one beyond the open casement who stood so patiently in the gathering dusk, watching Sir John's drooping figure with such keen anxiety.

Sir John coughed suddenly, the handkerchief at his mouth became all at once horribly crimson, and, sinking to his knees, he swayed over sideways; lying thus, it chanced that the long, embroidered waistcoat he had so vainly sought to button, fell open, discovering the great and awful stains below.

For a moment the girl stood rigid, staring down at the serene but death-pale face at her feet; and then the door swung violently open to admit a very tall man who ran to kneel and lift that slender form, to chafe the nerveless hands and drop hot tears upon the pallid cheek.

Sir John Dering's eyes opened, and he stared up into the square, bronzed face above him with a faint smile.

"Hector ... is't you, Hector?" he whispered. "Tell her ... the lady ... that I think ... her vengeance will end ... to-night! Which is ... very well--"

"Woman," cried the man Hector, lifting agonised face, "if ye be true woman run for the surgeon quick, ere he die!"

"Die?" she echoed. "Aye--'twere better he died, far better for him--and for me!" So saying, she turned and sped from the room, laughing wildly as she ran.

WHICH INTRODUCES THE DOG WITH A BAD NAME

Sir John Dering, at loss for a rhyme, paused in the throes of composition to flick a speck of dust from snowy ruffle, to glance from polished floor to painted ceiling, to survey his own reflection in the mirror opposite, noting with a critical eye all that pertained to his exquisite self, the glossy curls of his great, black periwig, the graceful folds of full-skirted, embroidered coat, his sleek silk stockings and dainty, gold-buckled shoes; and discovering naught in his resplendent person to cavil at, turned back to his unfinished manuscript, sighing plaintively.

"'Soul'!" he murmured; "a damnable word, so many rhymes to't and none of 'em apt! Roll, coal, hole, foal, goal, pole ... a devilish word! Mole, shoal, vole--pish!"

It was at this precise juncture that the latch behind him was lifted softly and upon the threshold stood a man whose height and breadth seemed to fill the doorway, a man whose hard-worn clothes were dusty with travel, whose long, unkempt periwig, set somewhat askew, framed a lean, brown face notable for a pair of keen, blue eyes and the fierce jut of brow, cheek-bone and jaw: a shabby person, indeed, and very much at odds with the dainty luxury of the chamber before him.

Thus, Hector MacLean, or more properly, General Sir Hector Lauchlan MacLean, six foot four of Highland Scot, having surveyed painted walls, polished floor and frescoed ceiling, folded mighty arms, scowled at Sir John's shapely, unconscious back and emitted a sound that none but a true-born Scot may ever achieve.

"Umph-humph!" exclaimed Hector MacLean; whereupon Sir John started, dropped his quill and was upon his feet all in a moment, modish languor and exquisite affectations all forgotten in eager welcome.

"Hector!" he exclaimed, grasping the Scot's two bony fists; "Hector man, what should bring you all the way to Paris--and me--after all this time?"

"A delicate pallor is the mode, Hector," smiled Sir John. "But what brings you to Paris?"

"Aye--what, John?" retorted Sir Hector, with a dour shake of the head. "Who but yourself! What's all this I'm hearing concerning ye, John?"

"Aye, always your friend, lad, if 'twere only for your father's sake!"

"And mine also, I hope, Hector?"

"Aye, John, though you're no the man your father was!"

"I know it, Hector."

"And since you are here, you shall stay with me, Hector. Egad, 'twill be like old times!"

"Tush and a fiddlestick!" exclaimed Sir John, forcing him down into the nearest chair. "My home is yours whenever you will, Hector."

"Hame, John?" retorted MacLean. "Hame, d'ye call it? Look at this room--all silken fripperies like a leddy's boudoir.... And talkin' o' ladies--look up yonder!"--and he stabbed a bony finger at the painted ceiling where nude dryads sported against a flowery background. "Aye ... obsairve 'em!" snorted MacLean, forsaking precise English for broad Scots--a true sign of mental perturbation. "Gude sakes, regaird yon painted besoms wi' ne'er a clout tae cover 'em--'tis no' a sicht for decent eyes!"

"Dis-graces, I ca' 'em! Man, they're ... fair owerpowerin'!"

"Then don't heed 'em, Hector; regard me instead."

"I'm twenty-seven, Hector!"

"Aye, a wilfu' bairn, John, and a'm an auld man ill able tae cope wi' ye, laddie, bein' vera feeble and bowed wi' years."

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