A Mad Marriage, May Agnes Fleming [best big ereader .TXT] 📗

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end of the matter.”

 

“An end of the matter! Ah! very likely. And where, all this time, will

be Dynely?”

 

Terry reddened.

 

“Dynely will be asleep—drugged. I have taken care of that.”

 

Again Boville paused—in genuine, unfeigned amazement.

 

“Dennison! drugged! By Jove! And who will drug him?”

 

“His mother. At my request.”

 

“By Jove!” exclaimed Boville again, and laughed softly, “if this isn’t

the wummest go. By Jove, Terry, how fond you must be of Eric!”

 

Once more Terry reddened violently in the dark.

 

“Look here, Boville,” he said again, “it isn’t that. It isn’t altogether

for Eric’s sake. I—I don’t mind telling you, it’s for the sake of his

mother and wife. Their very lives are bound up in him—if he is killed

it will kill them. And I owe his mother everything—everything, I give

you my word, Boville. I stand pledged to her, solemnly pledged to save

her son. And I mean to keep that pledge. There, you have it.”

 

“And you expect me to aid and abet you in this Quixotic—yes,

Dennison—Quixotic scheme? By Jove! I’ll see you shot first!”

 

“You will probably see me shot at, at least,” Terry answered with a

slight laugh. “Come now, Boville, I rely upon you in this. It’s for the

best all round. Di Venturini will shoot Eric as dead as Queen Anne—now

I don’t mean to let him shoot me. I flatter myself my chances are as

good as his. I will not break my word to Lady Dynely. If you refuse to

aid me, I will go to Argyll—he will not, I know.”

 

“Has Lady Dynely asked you to meet the prince in her son’s place?”

 

“Of course not—she would be the last to permit such a thing. All the

same; I have promised to save him, and there is no other way. As I tell

you, she has been my benefactress all my life. If Dynely were killed,

his mother and wife would break their hearts. And,” Terry drew his

breath in hard, “there is no one to care for me.”

 

Boville looked at him suddenly. In the dim light the tall figure was

curiously like Eric’s—he noticed it for the first time. Was his

relationship to handsome Eric nearer than the world knew?

 

They had come close upon the Hotel Louvre—the brilliant boulevards

almost deserted this wet night. Dennison stopped, and grasped his

companion’s hand.

 

“You will do this for me, Boville? I can depend upon you?”

 

“Not with my will, I swear, Dennison! But if you insist—?”

 

“I do insist. What is the hour?”

 

“Before seven. But your scheme won’t wash. I warn you, Di Venturini and

De Concressault will know.”

 

“They will not know. Until six to-morrow, then, Boville, old fellow,

good-night, and sound sleep.”

 

*

 

In Crystal’s room the light burned dim. Pale, motionless, she lay, Lady

Dynely watching by her side. It was close upon midnight, when a servant

came in and softly announced Mr. Dennison.

 

“Terry!” She started up and went to meet him in the outer room.

“Well?” she whispered, breathlessly.

 

“It is all right,” he answered, in the same tone; “and Crystal?”

 

“Crystal is asleep and—safe. It was but a small artery ruptured, and

she will be about in a few weeks, so the doctors say.”

 

“Thank Heaven!” she heard him murmur. Then “where is Eric?”

 

“Eric is asleep, too. I have done as you bade, Terry. He has had the

glass of port, and the opiate in it. He took it as quietly as a child.”

 

Her lip quivered. He took her in his arms for a moment, and kissed her.

 

“Keep up heart, mother. I will keep my word. All will be well with Eric.

And now,” with strange shyness, “before I go—may I go in for a moment

and look at Crystal?”

 

She motioned him to enter, remaining outside herself. He went softly in,

and knelt reverently down by the little white bed. Like a lily she lay,

so cold, so white, so pure.

 

“My little Crystal,” he said, under his breath, “my little love, if by

the sacrifice of my own life I can bring happiness to you, then I resign

it willingly. My own little one! good-by, and God bless and keep you

always.”

 

Lady Dynely had quitted the dressing room for a moment to glance at her

slumbering son. He lay deeply asleep, his head pillowed on his arm, his

fair Greek profile turned to the faint light. Then she hurried back to

say one last word to Terry, but Terry was gone.

 

CHAPTER XVII.

 

HOW THE MORNING BROKE.

 

The rain fell softly and ceaselessly all night—it was falling softly

and ceaselessly still when morning dawned. The gray, ragged light was

struggling wanly through the leaden sky when a fiacre drove rapidly

toward the Bois de Boulogne, and three men got out. They were Dennison,

Boville, and an English surgeon, resident of Paris.

 

“You will wait here,” Boville said to the cabman; and the three men

hurried rapidly along to a secluded and distant spot, where, under the

waving trees, scores of “meetings of honor” had taken place before.

 

They were a very silent party. Boville looked perplexed and gloomy, and

gnawed his mustache uneasily.

 

“I feel as though I were helping to slaughter you, Dennison,” he had

groaned as they first started. The band of comradeship between him and

Terry was one of many years’ standing, and the settled conviction was

upon him this dreary morning that Terry was going to his death. The

miserable weather, perhaps, had something to do with his forebodings,

also the unearthly hour at which he had been obliged to get up, but most

of all Di Venturini’s reputation as a dead shot.

 

“Wish to Heaven I had never got mixed up in the infewnal business,” he

growled, inwardly. “Eric was bad enough, but this is worse. Nevew heard

of such an awangement before—nevew. If Dennison’s shot, as he’s sure to

be, I shall feel like a murdewer all my life.”

 

They strode silently on together now, beneath the dripping trees.

 

“We’re wather ahead of time, I think,” Boville remarked drearily, once,

as they passed swiftly over the short, wet grass.

 

“It’s always well to err on the right side,” Dennison answered

cheerfully. “Di Venturini isn’t the sort to keep anyone waiting when

this kind of thing is on hand.”

 

He was looking pale and rather jaded. He had slept little or none all

night. He had written a brief note to Lady Dynely and another to Eric,

and intrusted them to Boville, to be delivered in case of the worst. And

the worst would happen, that he felt as surely as Boville himself. The

quarrel between Di Venturini and Dynely was of that deadly sort that

admitted of no half measures. As surely as he walked here he knew that

the prince meant to kill him—if he could.

 

He had altered himself greatly during the preceding night.

All his profuse, flame-colored beard had been shaven off, his great,

ruddy, trooper mustache trimmed down, and waxed at the points, to

resemble Eric’s dandy, golden, facial adornment. It deepened the faint

likeness between them incredibly—even Boville was genuinely surprised.

That impurpled swelling between the eyes had been reduced by judicious

applications; the slouched, felt hat, pulled far down, hid it

altogether. His coat-collar was turned up, naturally, to exclude the

rain, and with the vague, general air of resemblance in their figure and

walk, it would really have required a suspicion of the truth to make

either Di Venturini or his second suspect the exchange.

 

They reached the spot chosen. It was deserted. Boville looked at his

watch.

 

“A quarter of seven. They ought to be here. It won’t do to loiter about

after—”

 

“Hark!” Dennison interrupted, lifting his finger. Footsteps and voices

were approaching rapidly. “I thought his excellency would not keep us

waiting long. Here they are.”

 

They came in view at the moment. Terry pulled his hat a little farther

over his brow, and busied himself in lighting a cigar. Di Venturini

bowed to him profoundly, with all the debonnaire grace for which his

highness was justly famed. Dennison, like a true-born Briton, returned

it stiffly and distantly. De Concressault approached Boville with

profuse gesture and apologies for the brief delay.

 

“A million pardons. He was disgusted at having necessitated their

waiting in the rain. It was all the fault of their most infamous pig of

a driver. Would they proceed to business at once? There was no time to

lose.”

 

Terry was turned, his face averted, still absorbed by his cigar and

refractory Vesuvians, which, dampened by the mist, refused to light. Di

Venturini, buttoned up to the throat in a tight black coat, no speck of

white anywhere visible, stood leaning against a tree some forty rods

distant, a half-smile of devilish malignity and triumph on his face.

 

The preliminaries of the duel were soon arranged; great practice had

rendered M. de Concressault an adept in these nice matters of honor. The

combatants were to fire simultaneously, at fourteen paces, at the

dropping of a handkerchief and the old “une, deux, trois.”

 

“Stand here, M. le Prince, if you please,” Boville said, marking the

spot; and the prince, with that smile of demoniacal malice and triumph

still in his yellow face, bowed and obeyed.

 

“You’ll take your place here, Dennison,” Boville continued, in an

undertone; “and for Heaven’s sake fire the very instant I say three.”

 

Dennison nodded, threw away his cigar, received his pistol, and took his

place. His heart beat fast, with absolute terror, lest he should be

recognized. But the shaven beard, the hat pulled down, the coat collar

turned up, concealed him effectually. A shapely nose and a ruddy

mustache were alone visible; for the rest, the general figure and

bearing were sufficiently like Eric’s to pass muster in that dull light.

 

There was a moment’s pause—Boville held out a white handkerchief.

 

“Ready, messieurs?” Then a pause, “One—two.” Another pause, a quick,

warning glance at Dennison. “Three!”

 

The white handkerchief fell, and simultaneously two shots rang sharply

out on the still morning air.

 

Again there was a pause, brief, terrible. The smoke cleared away—both

men stood as they had been placed. The prince’s left wrist hung broken.

Boville’s eyes were fixed on Terry. Was he untouched? No. As he looked

he saw him sway blindly forward, wheel half-round, and fall like a log

on his face.

 

Boville and the surgeon rushed forward, the latter first, and turned him

over and raised his head. The face was ghastly, the eyes closed, and

from the breast in the region of the heart a small stream of blood was

making its way through his clothes.

 

“Is he dead?” Boville asked, himself almost as white as the fallen man.

 

“No—fainted, but—”

 

He tore open coat and shirt and examined the wound. A small, livid hole

beneath the heart was there on the broad, marble-like bosom, from which

that slender red stream yet trickled.

 

“It doesn’t look very bad, it doesn’t seem to bleed much,” Boville

cried, in an agony of impatience. “For Heaven’s sake, Jackson, speak

out! what do you think?”

 

The doctor looked grimly up from his manipulation.

 

“I think there is internal bleeding, Mr. Boville. This young man won’t

live two hours.”

 

Boville rose suddenly, and turned away.

 

“His highness, the prince, does his work well. It’s a pity, too—it’s

the finest physique I ever saw in