Part 98 (1/2)
”And why,” says Fairthorn, bluntly and coa.r.s.ely, urging at least reprieve; ”why, if it must be, not wait till you are no more? Why must the old house be buried before you are?”
”Because,” answered Darrell, ”such an order, left by will, would seem a reproach to my heirs; it would wound Lionel to the quick. Done in my lifetime, and just after I have given my blessing on his marriage, I can suggest a thousand reasons for an old man's whim; and my manner alone will dispel all idea of a covert affront to his charming innocent bride.”
”I wish she were hanged, with all my heart,” muttered Fairthorn, ”coming here to do such astonis.h.i.+ng mischief! But, sir, I can't obey you; 'tis no use talking. You must get some one else. Parson Morley will do it--with pleasure too, no doubt; or that hobbling old man whom I suspect to be a conjurer. Who knows but what he may get knocked on the head as he is looking on with his wicked one eye; and then there will be an end of him, too, which would be a great satisfaction!”
”Pshaw, my dear d.i.c.k; there is no one else I can ask but you. The Parson would argue; I've had enough of his arguings; and the old man is the last whom my own arguings could deceive. Fiat just.i.tia.”
”Don't, sir, don't; you are breaking my heart--'tis a shame, sir,”
sobbed the poor faithful rebel.
”Well, d.i.c.k, then I must see it done myself; and you shall go on first to Sorrento, and hire some villa to suit us. I don't see why Lionel should not be married next week; then the house will be clear.
And--yes--it was cowardly in me to shrink. Mine be the task. Shame on me to yield it to another. Go back to thy flute, d.i.c.k.
'Neque tibias Euterpe cohibet, nec Polyhymnia Lesboum refugit tendere barbiton!'”
At that last remorseless shaft from the Horatian quiver, ”Venenatis gravida sagittis,” Fairthorn could stand ground no longer; there was a shamble--a plunge--and once more the man was vanished.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE FLUTE-PLAYER SHOWS HOW LITTLE MUSIC HATH POWER TO SOOTHE THE SAVAGE BREAST--OF A MUSICIAN.
Fairthorn found himself on the very spot in which, more than five years ago, Lionel, stung by Fairthorn's own incontinent p.r.i.c.kles, had been discovered by Darrell. There he threw himself on the ground, as the boy had done; there, like the boy, he brooded moodily, bitterly--sore with the world and himself. To that letter, written on the day that Darrell had so shocked him, and on which letter he had counted as a last forlorn--hope, no answer had been given. In an hour or so, Lionel would arrive; those hateful nuptials, dooming Fawley as the nuptials of Paris and Helen had doomed Troy, would be finally arranged. In another week the work of demolition would commence. He never meant to leave Darrell to superintend that work. No; grumble and refuse as he might till the last moment, he knew well enough that, when it came to the point, he, Richard Fairthorn, must endure any torture that could save Guy Darrell from a pang. A voice comes singing low through the grove--the patter of feet on the crisp leaves. He looks up; Sir Isaac is scrutinising him gravely--behind Sir Isaac, Darrell's own doe, led patiently by Sophy, yes, lending its faithless neck to that female criminal's destroying hand. He could not bear that sight, which added insult to injury. He scrambled up--darted a kick at Sir Isaac--s.n.a.t.c.hed the doe from the girl's hand, and looked her in the face (her--not Sophy, but the doe) with a reproach that, if the brute had not been lost to all sense of shame, would have cut her to the heart; then, turning to Sophy, he said: ”No, Miss! I reared this creature--fed it with my own hands, Miss. I gave it up to Guy Darrell, Miss; and you shan't steal this from him, whatever else you may do, Miss.”
SOPHY.--”Indeed, Mr. Fairthorn, it was for Mr. Darrell's sake that I wished to make friends with the doe--as you would with poor Sir Isaac, if you would but try and like me--a little, only a very little, Mr.
Fairthorn.”
FAIRTHORN.--”Don't!”
SOPHY.--”Don't what? I am so sorry to see I have annoyed you somehow.
You have not been the same person to me the last two or three days. Tell me what I have done wrong; scold me, but make it up.”
FAIRTHORN.--”Don't holdout your hand to me! Don't be smiling in my face!
I don't choose it! Get out of my sight! You are standing between me and the old house--robbing me even of my last looks at the home which you--”
SOPHY.--”Which I--what?”
FAIRTHORN.--”Don't, I say, don't--don't tempt me. You had better not ask questions--that's all. I shall tell you the truth; I know I shall; my tongue is itching to tell it. Please to walk on.”
Despite the grotesque manner and astounding rudeness of the flute-player, his distress of mind was so evident--there was something so genuine and earnest at the bottom of his ludicrous anger--that Sopby began to feel a vague presentiment of evil. That she was the mysterious cause of some great suffering to this strange enemy, whom she had unconsciously provoked, was clear; and she said, therefore, with more gravity than she had before evinced:
”Mr. Fairthorn, tell me how I have incurred your displeasure, I entreat you to do so; no matter how painful the truth may be, it is due to us both not to conceal it.”
A ray of hope darted through Fairthorn's enraged and bewildered mind. He looked to the right--he looked to the left; no one near. Releasing his hold on the doe, he made a sidelong dart towards Sophy, and said: ”Hush; do you really care what becomes of Mr. Darrell?”
”To be sure I do.”