A Mad Marriage by May Agnes Fleming (mini ebook reader .TXT) 📕

no! not as I loved him. Do you remember what I said to you that day?

Do you remember what you promised me?”

He does not answer. She does not know what she is asking him to do. She

does not know of the struggle that is going on in the heart, beating in

such hard throbs against her own.

“I recall it all, as though it were this moment,” she softly went on. “I

said to you, ‘Be a friend, a brother to my boy. He is not like you—he

is reckless and extravagant, easily led, self-willed, and wild. He will

go wrong, and you must be his protector. Let nothing he ever says,

nothing he ever does, tempt you to anger, tempt you to desert him.

Promise me that.’”

Still silent—still with that strange, rigid look on his face, that half

frightens her in the midst of her supremely selfish pleadings, and which

she does not understand.

“You knelt down,” she went on, “you kissed my hand; and kneeling there,

alone with God and me, this is what you said:

“‘Nothing Eric can ever say, can ever do, will tempt me to anger—that I

swear. For his sake and for yours, I will do all mortal man can do. You

have been the good angel of my life—I would be less than man if I ever

forgot it.’ You promised that, Terry—the time has come now for you to

keep your word.”

Still silence. Oh! if he would but speak, if that dark, strange, rigid

look would but leave his face.

“My Terry! my Terry!” she whispered, “you have been brave and noble in

the past. For sake of him and me, you gave up name, fortune, love—for

sake of him and me, I call upon you now in some way to save his life.”

He drew a long, hard breath, and looked down upon her. Did she know

what she asked? No, he saw she did not. All the same though, so that

he saved Eric, it didn’t much matter.

“Terry, speak to me,” she pleaded, “don’t stand and look at me like

this. Oh! if you ever loved me, if you ever loved Crystal, save him who

is the life of our lives. Terry, I call upon you—save Eric!”

He stooped and kissed her.

“Say no more, mother. If mortal man can do it, I will save Eric.”

She gave a great sob of unutterable joy and relief, laid her face on his

shoulder and was still.

“You need have no fear,” he went on; “Eric shall not fight Di Venturini.

And now, too much time has been spent here already. You must go to the

Hotel du Louvre at once. Crystal is ill.”

“Ill?”

Rapidly and concisely he narrated his visit to Eric, only suppressing

Eric’s own insulting language—how Crystal had overheard, and the

result. At any other time Lady Dynely would have been unspeakably

horrified—now the greater horror had swallowed up all lesser.

“Yes, yes, I will go to her at once. Oh, poor child! Terry, will you

tell me—how do you mean to save Eric?”

He smiled.

“You will learn later. At present do not in any way let Eric suspect

that you know anything. And—that my plan to save him may succeed—you

must give him an opiate to-night.”

“An opiate?”

“He must be made to sleep beyond the hour of meeting, else, not even

Crystal’s death could keep him away. To steady his nerves for to-morrow

some sleep will be necessary—he will, therefore, probably retire early.

In fact, you must see that he does, and induce him to take a glass of

wine, or beer, and administer an opiate in the drink that will hold him

for eight hours at least. All depends upon that.”

“Oh, I can do that. I have done it often before.”

“Very well; that is all you are to do. Now go quickly to the Louvre, and

perform your part. In about two hours I will call to see how Crystal is.

I have other business of importance meantime. For the present good-by.”

*

The last act of “La Sorci�re d’Or” is over, the ballet has begun, and a

group of gentlemen are loitering about the vestibule of the theatre, not

quite sure whether they will return to their stalls for the great

display of legs and lime-light, or go virtuously home to bed. Mr.

Boville is among them, and Mr. Boville is debating within himself the

advisability of a little game of lansquenet, as a soothing preparation

for slumber, when a man strides hurriedly up and lays his hand heavily

on his shoulder.

“Boville! I thought I would find you here. Will you leave the theatre

and come with me?”

Boville swings round and faces his interrogator.

“You, Dennison! Certainly, my dear fellow. But what the deuce is the

matter? On my word you look like your own ghost.”

“Come with me,” Dennison replies, hurriedly, and Boville links his arm

through the dragoon’s and goes.

Without a word, Terry leads him away from the glare and gaslight glitter

of the thronged boulevards to some distant, dimly-lighted, deserted

street.

Without a word Boville follows. This is something serious, he feels. Has

the duel got wind? Dennison and Dynely are relatives, Boville hazily

recollects—relatives of some sort; he is not quite clear about it. No

doubt Dennison has come to speak of the duel; but why with that face?

“Boville,” Terry abruptly begins, “Lord Dynely and Prince Di Venturini

fight to-morrow, do they not, and you are Dynely’s second?”

“Weluctantly—yes. It’s a bad business, old boy. Dynely hasn’t a ghost

of a chance, and so I’ve told him. But a wilful man—you know the

proverb. Besides, weally, you know,” Mr. Boville has a rooted objection

to the letter R, “I don’t see how he is going to get out of it. The

Prince—confound him! would bwand him as a coward far and wide, and

Eric’s not that. My dear Terry,” they are passing under a street lamp at

the moment, and the light falls full upon his companion’s face, “what

have you been doing to yourself? There is a bwuised swelling the size

of an egg between your eyes.”

Dennison’s face turns crimson, a deep, burning, tingling crimson once

more. He pulls his hat far over his eyes, and tries to laugh.

“An accident, Boville. Never mind my face—I’ve no beauty to spoil. I’ve

come to talk to you about this duel. At what hour do they meet?”

“At first peep of day, between half-past six and seven. It won’t do to

be later. But who told you? De Concressault or Dynely himself?”

“Both. Boville, this meeting must never take place!”

“Delighted, I’m shaw, to hear it,” drawled Mr. Boville, opening two very

small, very sleepy blue eyes to their widest; “never was accessory to a

murder in my life—don’t want to begin now. But, at the same time, how

do you pwopwose to pwevent it?”

“You can refuse to act for Eric.”

Boville shrugged his shoulders and inserted his glass in his eye.

“And have my bwains blown out for my pains. Haven’t got many bwains,

thank Heaven—never was in our family—still, the few I’ve got I pwopose

to keep. That dodge won’t work, Terry, twy something else.”

“It will be downright slaughter, Boville—nothing less.”

“Know it, dear boy—told Dynely so; but what’s the use of telling? He’s

got into this infernal little scwape, and must take the consequences.

He’s had his three weeks’ flirtation with Felicia—now he’s got to pay

the penalty. Apropos des bottes, she was in capital fawm to-night—at

her loveliest. If it were she that was to be shot to-morrow, I’d assist

at the cewemonial with the gweatest pleasure.”

There is a moment’s silence, and the two men walk on in the rain. Then

Dennison speaks in an altered voice.

“There is one way, Boville—only one.”

“Vewy pleased to hear it, dear boy. Give it a name.”

“I must go out in Dynely’s place.”

It is the proud boast of Herbert Boville’s life that since he was in

pinafores he has never felt surprise or any other earthly emotion. But

now—he actually stops in the rain, and stares at his companion, aghast.

“Go out in—my dear Dennison, I don’t think I can have heard you

awight. Will you kindly wepeat your last wemark?”

“Oh nonsense, Boville—your hearing’s all right. I must go out in

Dynely’s place; such has been my intention from the first, and I call

upon you to aid and second me.”

Boville fixed his glass in his eye, and tried in the darkness to see his

friend.

“I always thought,” he said in a helpless tone, “that I had less bwains

myself than any other fellow of my acquaintance. Now I know I was

mistaken. Pway, Terry, when did you take leave of your senses?”

Terry muttered something forcible and strong.

“Look here, Boville,” he cried impatiently; “don’t let us waste time

chaffing. As surely as we both stand here, I mean this. Dynely hasn’t a

ghost of a chance, as we both know; for him to meet Di Venturini would

be sheer murder. Now with me it is different. I may not be the same dead

shot the prince is, and I haven’t had his experience with living

targets, but my pistol hand is tolerably sure for all that. And I mean

to meet Di Venturini to-morrow.”

He said it with a dogged determination that convinced Boville at last.

“By Jove!” he said, “this is a rum go! Do you mean to tell me, Terry,

that Eric will stand by and allow this?”

Eric knows nothing about it—will not until all is over. He is the last

man on earth who would allow it. The devil himself is not more

obstinate or more plucky than Dynely.”

“You must be awfully fond of him, Terry, old boy! Gad! I never heard of

such a thing in all my life. Knocks Damon and the other fellow into a

cocked-hat. By Jove! it does. At the same time you stand no more chance

before the prince than Dynely.”

“I don’t think so,” Dennison responded, coolly; “as I tell you, I’m a

very fair shot and can hold my own with most men.”

“With most men, perhaps—not with the prince. And, then, it’s

impossible—oh, utterly impossible! You don’t suppose, now, Dennison,

you don’t suppose Di Venturini will fight you instead of Dynely?”

“I don’t suppose he would, if he knew. It is not my intention to let him

know.”

“Ah, how will you help it?”

“Simply enough. Di Venturini never saw Eric in his life.”

“But he has seen you, dear boy, and De Concressault knows Eric like a

book. How do you propose to baffle two pair of eyes?”

“Boville,” said Terry, earnestly, “this thing has to be done, that is

the whole amount of it. Even if I were sure—which I am not at all—that

Di Venturini would shoot me, I would still meet him. It will be the

early dawn of a dark and rainy morning. I shall wear this slouch hat,

which, to a great degree, will hide my face. And in figure and general

air Dynely and I are alike—have often been accosted for each other.

They will never suspect—how should they? They will take it for granted

that I am Lord Dynely, and the duel will be fought, and there will be