Part 69 (1/2)
”You have no idea how I've improved, Marsden:--just see!” and he pointed to a glove nailed to a tree. ”I've hit that mark twice in five times; and every time I have gone straight enough along the line to have killed my man.”
”Ay, the mark itself does not so much signify,” said Mr. Marsden, ”at least, not in actual duelling--the great thing is to be in the line.”
While he spoke, Lord Lilburne's ball went a third time through the glove. His cold bright eye turned on Vaudemont, as he said, with a smile,--
”They tell me you shoot well with a fowling-piece, my dear Vaudemont--are you equally adroit with a pistol?”
”You may see, if you like; but you take aim, Lord Lilburne; that would be of no use in English duelling. Permit me.”
He walked to the glove, and tore from it one of the fingers, which he fastened separately to the tree, took the pistol from d.y.k.eman as he walked past him, gained the spot whence to fire, turned at once round, without apparent aim, and the finger fell to the ground.
Lilburne stood aghast.
”That's wonderful!” said Marsden; ”quite wonderful. Where the devil did you get such a knack?--for it is only knack after all!”
”I lived for many years in a country where the practice was constant, where all that belongs to rifle-shooting was a necessary accomplishment--a country in which man had often to contend against the wild beast. In civilised states, man himself supplies the place of the wild beast--but we don't hunt him!--Lord Lilburne” (and this was added with a smiling and disdainful whisper), ”you must practise a little more.”
But, disregardful of the advice, from that day Lord Lilburne's morning occupation was gone. He thought no longer of a duel with Vaudemont. As soon as the sportsman had left him, he bade d.y.k.eman take up the pistols, and walked straight home into the library, where Robert Beaufort, who was no sportsman, generally spent his mornings.
He flung himself into an arm-chair, and said, as he stirred the fire with unusual vehemence,--
”Beaufort, I'm very sorry I asked you to invite Vaudemont. He's a very ill-bred, disagreeable fellow!” Beaufort threw down his steward's account-book, on which he was employed, and replied,--
”Lilburne, I have never had an easy moment since that man has been in the house. As he was your guest, I did not like to speak before, but don't you observe--you must observe--how like he is to the old family portraits? The more I have examined him, the more another resemblance grows upon me. In a word,” said Robert, pausing and breathing hard, ”if his name were not Vaudemont--if his history were not, apparently, so well known, I should say--I should swear, that it is Philip Morton who sleeps under this roof!”
”Ha!” said Lilburne, with an earnestness that surprised Beaufort, who expected to have heard his brother-in-law's sneering sarcasm at his fears; ”the likeness you speak of to the old portraits did strike me; it struck Marsden, too, the other day, as we were pa.s.sing through the picture-gallery; and Marsden remarked it aloud to Vaudemont. I remember now that he changed countenance and made no answer. Hus.h.!.+ hus.h.!.+ hold your tongue, let me think--let me think. This Philip--yes--yes--I and Arthur saw him with--with Gawtrey--in Paris--”
”Gawtrey! was that the name of the rogue he was said to--”
”Yes--yes--yes. Ah! now I guess the meaning of those looks--those words,” muttered Lilburne between his teeth. ”This pretension to the name of Vaudemont was always apocryphal--the story always but half believed--the invention of a woman in love with him--the claim on your property is made at the very time he appears in England. Ha! Have you a newspaper there? Give it me. No! 'tis not in this paper. Ring the bell for the file!”
”What's the matter? you terrify me!” gasped out Mr. Beaufort, as he rang the bell.
”Why! have you not seen an advertis.e.m.e.nt repeated several times within the last month?”
”I never read advertis.e.m.e.nts; except in the county paper, if land is to be sold.”
”Nor I often; but this caught my eye. John” (here the servant entered), ”bring the file of the newspapers. The name of the witness whom Mrs.
Morton appealed to was Smith, the same name as the captain; what was the Christian name?”
”I don't remember.”
”Here are the papers--shut the door--and here is the advertis.e.m.e.nt: 'If Mr. William Smith, son of Jeremiah Smith, who formerly rented the farm of s.h.i.+pdale-Bury, under the late Right Hon. Charles Leopold Beaufort (that's your uncle), and who emigrated in the year 18-- to Australia, will apply to Mr. Barlow, Solicitor, Ess.e.x Street, Strand, he will hear of something to his advantage.'”
”Good Heavens! why did not you mention this to me before?”
”Because I did not think it of any importance. In the first place, there might be some legacy left to the man, quite distinct from your business.
Indeed, that was the probable supposition;--or even if connected with the claim, such an advertis.e.m.e.nt might be but a despicable attempt to frighten you. Never mind--don't look so pale--after all, this is a proof that the witness is not found--that Captain Smith is neither the Smith, nor has discovered where the Smith is!”
”True!” observed Mr. Beaufort: ”true--very true!”