University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER IV.

As he entered his hotel, the morning had not begun
to break, although it was near the hour. To his astonishment
he found the front door ajar, and two horses
saddled, and held by Beaufort, who was easily distinguished
by the lamplight. On entering, the door of
Denham's room was also open. He thought it strange,
and stopped a moment. A light step sounded within.
He listened. It was a man's. Was Denham up?
was he ill? Perhaps his wife—or the lovely little
girl? If he should knock! he might disturb them.
He approached. Denham was standing within, with
his back to him, in a riding-coat, boots, and spurs,
completely dressed. He shook violently, bending his
head to his outspread hands. Then he stepped forward
breathlessly, noiselessly, towards his bedroom
door. As he did so, Claude caught a full view of his
countenance in a mirror. It was as white as ever
lay bound with linen in a coffin. His gaze was fixed
on an object in the adjoining apartment.

Extremely shocked, Claude advanced and followed
with his eyes those of his friend. He started, however,
at what there met his view, and was about retiring,
for he found himself gazing upon the face of
Mrs. Denham, tranquilly sleeping. A kind of bewilderment
held him chained to the spot. The lovely
sleeper was apparently lost in a pleasant dream. She
was very beautiful. Her long hair lay in a kind of
charming negligence around her face—her hand had
fallen over her head—her cheeks were rosy—her lips
touched with a smile. A happiness—a beauty—a placid

peace gave to her countenance the loveliness of a
seraph. Denham approached her—leaned over her.
Again he shook violently. He bent his lips near hers,
but did not touch them, and then turned away. He
appeared to feel no surprise on seeing Claude. He
seized his arm, and they hurried into the hall.

“How late is it?” said Denham.

“Daybreak.”

“Already?”

“Certainly. Great God! my friend, what is the
meaning of this?”

Denham turned as if startled by the sound of his
voice, and now recognised him.

“What, Wyndham!”

“Yes. What is the matter? Why is Beaufort at
the door? The horses—your dress—where are you
going?”

“You don't know?”

“No!”

“Adieu, my friend.” He turned very pale, and silently
pointing with his inverted thumb to his room,

“Claude, I commit her to your care. God help
you—good-by!”

“But, where? who? what?” stammered Claude.

For so completely had he been stunned by the last
night's scenes, that no trace of Denham's interference
and its consequences had struck his attention. As his
friend broke away, and he heard the sound of horses'
feet driven at a rapid gallop over the pavement, a dim,
dreamy idea of Denham—and hot words—and he knew
not what, came over him. It seemed the recollection
of a dream. Denham, then, had been implicated in
his quarrel, and was gone to fight a duel. To fight
for him, perhaps. The thought affected him more
terribly than all his own pangs. He rushed to the
door. He went into the street. Nothing was to be
seen. The pale morning light was broadening over
the heaven. One or two street-passengers were already
out—labourers going to their toil—milk-women

with their little dog-carts. He went out and looked in
the direction in which he had heard the horses' feet.
Nothing was to be seen of the fugitives. He returned
to the hotel. The waiters were stirring. He spoke
to a boy, and asked if he had seen any one pass. No,
he had seen nothing. He suspected nothing. And
Claude suddenly thought of the police, and instantly
set off with the determination to call in their aid. As
he went into the street again, a young boy came along,
singing aloud. His face was round and rosy, his gait
careless and thoughtless, his eyes bright, clear, and
happy-looking. Ah, boyhood! how its recollections
and an appreciation of its sweet exemption touched
his soul. He went on. Every common thing looked
strange to him, for death was in his thoughts. A maid
was washing windows and humming an air; a man
drove his cart by with a crack of the whip; in the
building next the police, an old blind man had commenced
his rounds, and was playing a merry tune
on his organ; a bill—“Furnished rooms to let”—hung
over the door. He hastened on. The large doorway
was closed. The great gates and little door were
equally closed and fastened. He rang—no one came.
He rang again and again. At last the door sprang
open. He went in. The large, dirty hall was empty.
All the doors around were closed. That one where
he had entered to lay his complaint against Le Beau
was also shut. He rang and knocked—no one came.
Did they know his deep impatience? Did they know
death and life depended on their steps? He waited
there half an hour. At length a rough-looking bumpkin
came in out of the court, scratching his uncombed
head, and gaping at him.

“Where are they—where are the police?”

“Nein! nein!” said the man, shaking his head.

“Can I see no one here?”

“Nein! nein!”

“It's shut?”

“Ja!”

“How can I see them? Where?”

“Eight o'clock!”

“Not before? Can't you tell me where to find
them?”

“Nein! nein!” said the man; and, taking out a
flint and steel, he drew from his pocket his pipe, lighted
it, and went leisurely out of the front door.

Every attempt made by Claude to see the police
was vain, and he was about returning to the hotel, when
he suddenly thought of Elkington. What if he went
to his hotel! He determined to do so, notwithstanding
the reluctance, the repugnance he felt to show
himself there or anywhere among his fellow-men;
farther, he remembered again that he bore the evidence
on his brow of the insult inflicted upon him the
preceding evening. He went, and gave the servant
his card for Lady Beverly.

“She is asleep,” said Scarlet, bluntly.

He begged she might be awakened.

“Impossible,” said Scarlet.

“It affects the life of her son!”

“Perhaps so,” said the man.

“What do you mean, you scoundrel?” said Claude.

“Come, come,” said Scarlet, “a civil tongue, if
you please; you've got a whole eye yet, and you'd
better keep it if you know when you're well off.”

“I will go myself,” said Claude, “to Lady Beverly's
door. She cannot know what's going on.”

He stepped forward. The man laid a brawny hand
upon his arm, and coolly clinched the other fist.

“I tell you what, my rum chap,” said Scarlet, “if
it wasn't for mere shame's sake, I'd bung up that
t'other eye of your'n in less than no time. I'd sarve ye
as master did—good for nothing, cowardly poltroon you
are—to let another man go out and get shot, all for
avenging of your cuffs. If I couldn't be a better gentleman
than that, I wouldn't be none, no how.”

Claude grasped the fellow by the throat and dragged
him a few steps with a force which greatly astonished

him, who thought he had only a chicken to deal
with; and his astonishment was not diminished when,
just as he thought he was to receive a “drubbing,”
Claude released his hold, and said,

“Poor fellow! while your master goes unpunished,
you ought to have free room. Let me see Lady Beverly,
and here is my purse.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Scarlet, very respectfully;
“but milady can't be seen. Indeed, she's not
here—she's out of town.”

“Out of town?”

“Last night! gone! and not to come back! We're
to follow in a day or two.”

“I understand,” said Claude, with a sickening heart.
“Your master is also out?”

“Yes, sir,” said Scarlet, in a low tone.

“And you are his confidential servant?”

Scarlet was silent.

“I will give you £10 if you will direct me to where
he is before anything happens.”

“I might take your money, sir,” said Scarlet, “but
it wouldn't be of no use. It's too late. It's all over
by this time.”

“Great Heaven!”

“It is, sir, that's certain. They be gone out now
two good hours.”

“And when did the arrangements take place?”

“Last night. Master up and struck Mr. Denham
—I believe the poor gentleman's name's Denham—
ain't it, sir? and he's game too—true blood—no backing
out there—up to the mark! It wasn't fifteen minutes,
sir, afore he had a gentleman here, and in a half an hour
the hull was settled. I hearn it all myself. I was
ordered to stand and keep watch afore the door.”

“And where is it they have gone?”

“Oh, don't fret yourself, sir. It's impossible to help
it. The poor gentleman's good stuff; but, Lord, sir!
he might as well put his head into a forty-nine pounder
when it's a gitten fired, as to go out with master.

He never went out with a man yet without pinking
him. The poor gentleman's tucked under the green
sod an hour ago. I hope he haint got no family, has
he, sir? These ere is awkward things in such cases;
but when a man's called a `d—d rascal,' what ken he
do, you know? How's your eye this mornin, sir?”