The Unspeakable Gentleman Part 18
A fire of exultation leapt through me. I grinned at my father over the crossed blades, for I could read something in his face that steadied my hand. My best attack might leave him unscathed, but I was doing more, much more, than he had expected. I lunged again, and again he stepped back, thrusting so quickly that I had barely time to recover.
"Excellent!" said my father. "You are quick, my son. You even have an eye."
"Mademoiselle!" I called sharply. "The paper! In the breast pocket of his coat. Take it out and burn it."
"Good G.o.d!" exclaimed my father.
"You see," I said, "I have my points."
"My son," he said, parrying the thrust with which I ended my last words, "pray accept my apologies, and my congratulations. You have a better mind and a better sword than I could reasonably have expected. Indeed, you quite make me extend myself. But you must learn to recover more quickly, Henry, much more quickly. I have seen too many good men go down for just that failing. It may be well enough against an ordinary swordsman, my son, or even a moderately good one, but as for me, I could run you through twice over. Indeed I would, if--"
"The paper, Mademoiselle," I called again. "Have you got it?"
"Exactly," said my father. "The paper. If the paper were in my pocket, you, my son, would now be in the surgeon's hands. The paper, however, is upstairs in my volume of Rabelais. And now--"
His wrist suddenly stiffened. He made a feint at my throat, and in the same motion lowered his guard. As I came on parade, my sword was wrenched from my grasp. At the same time I stepped past his point, and seized him around the waist.
"You heard, Mademoiselle," I cried. "The door!" and we fell together.
My father uttered something which seemed very near a curse, and clutched at my throat. I loosened my grasp to fend away his hand, and he broke away from my other arm, and sprang to his feet. Just as he did so there was a blow, a splintering of wood. The door was carried off its hinges, and Brutus leapt beside him. The floor had not been clean. My father brushed regretfully at the smudges on his cambric shirt.
"My coat, if you please, Mademoiselle," he said. "I see you have it in your hands. Gad, my son! It was a nearer thing than I expected. On my word, I did not know that Brutus was back."
"He is like you, captain," said Mademoiselle, handing the coat to him.
"You are both stubborn."
For some reason I could not fathom, her good nature had returned. It was relief, perhaps, that made her smile at us.
"It is a family trait," returned my father.
As though kicking down the door had been a simple household duty, Brutus turned from it with quiet pa.s.sivity, and adjusted the folds of the blue broadcloth with an equal thoroughness, while my father straightened the lace at his wrists.
"Huh," said Brutus suddenly. Then I noticed that his stockings were caked with river mud, and that he had evidently been running. My father, forgetful of his coat for the moment, whirled about and faced him.
"To think I had forgotten," he cried. "What news, you black rascal?"
"Huh," said Brutus again, and handed him a spotted slip of paper. My father's lips parted. He seized it with unusual alacrity, read it, and tossed it in the fire. Then he sighed, like a man from whose mind a heavy weight of care has been lifted. The tenseness seemed to leave his slim figure, and for an instant he looked as though the day had tired him, and as though another crisis were over.
"He's there?" he demanded sharply.
"Huh," said Brutus.
"Now heaven be praised for that," said my father, with something that was a close approach to fervor. "I was beginning to wonder if, perhaps, something had happened."
Mademoiselle looked up at him demurely.
"The captain has good news?" she asked.
He turned to her and smiled his blandest smile.
"Under the circ.u.mstances," he said, "the best I could expect."
Still smiling, he smoothed his coat and squared his shoulders.
"Our little melodrama, my lady, is drawing to its close."
XI
The sun had finally broken through the clouds, and already its rays were slanting into the room, falling softly on the dusty furniture, and making the shadows of the vines outside dance fitfully on the wall by the fire; and the shadows of the elms were growing long and straight over the rain soaked leaves, and the rank, damp gra.s.s of our lawn. It was the dull, gentle sunshine of an autumn afternoon, soft and kindly, and yet a little bleak.
"Yes," said my father, "it is nearly over. It turns into a simple matter, after all. I wonder, Mademoiselle, will you be sorry? Will you ever recall our weeks on the high-road? I shall, I think. And the Inn in Britanny, with Brutus up the road, and Ned Aiken swearing at the post boys. At least we were living life. And the _Eclipse_--I told you they would never beat us on a windward tack. I told you, Mademoiselle, the majority of mankind were very simple people."
"And you still feel so?" she asked him.
"Now more than ever," said my father. "I had almost hoped there would be one sane man among the dozens outside, but they all have the brains of school boys. No wonder the world moves so slowly, and great men seem so great."
And he wound the handkerchief around his hand again.
"The captain has arranged to sell the paper?" asked Mademoiselle.
"Exactly," said my father. "The price has been fixed, and I shall deliver it myself as soon as the day grows a little darker. I am sorry, almost.
It has not been uninteresting."
"No," said Mademoiselle, "it has not been uninteresting."
"You are pale, my son," said my father, turning to me. "I trust you are not hurt?"
I shook my head.
"It is only your pride? You will be better soon. Come, we have always been good losers. We have always known when the game was up. Let us see if we cannot end it gracefully, as gentlemen should. You cannot get the paper. Why not make the best of it? You have tried, and tried not unskilfully, but you see now that the right man cannot always win--a useful lesson, is it not? I do not ask you to like me for it. You have seen enough of me, I hope, to hate me. And yet--let us be philosophical.
Be seated, my son. Brutus, it is three o'clock. Bring in the Madeira, and the noon meal."
I did not reply, and he stood for a moment watching me narrowly. Brutus threw another log on the fire, which gave off a brisk crackling from the bed of coals. He then stood waiting doubtfully, until my father nodded.
"Take the door out as you go," my father directed. "Mademoiselle, permit me."
He pointed out an armchair beside the fire. "And you, my son, opposite.
So." From the side pocket of his coat he drew a silver mounted pistol, which he examined with studious attention.
"Come," he said, slipping it back, "let us be tranquil. Is there any reason to bear ill will simply because we each stand on an opposite side of a question of ethics? If you had only been to the wars, how differently you would see it. There hundreds of men stab each other with the best will in the world, none of the crudeness of personal animosity, only the best of good nature. In a little time now we shall part, never, if I can help it, to meet again. You have seen me as a dangerous, reckless man, without any principles worth mentioning. Indeed, I have so few that I shall have recourse to violence, my son, if you do not a.s.sume a more reposeful manner. The evening will be active enough to make any further excitement quite superfluous. Have patience. An hour or so means little to anyone so young."
There fell a silence while he stood immovably watching us. A gust of wind blew down the chimney, and scattered a cloud of dust over the hearth. The rafters creaked. Somewhere in the stillness a door slammed. The very lack of expression in his face was stamping it on my memory, and for the first time its phlegmatic calm aroused in me a new emotion. I had hated it and wondered at it before, and now in spite of myself it was giving me a twinge of pity. For nature had intended it to be an expressive face, sensitive and quick to mirror each perception and emotion. Was it pride that had turned it into a mask, and drawn a curtain before the light that burned within, or had the light burned out and left it merely cold and unresponsive?
"The captain is thinking?" said Mademoiselle.