by J. C. Snaith
CHAPTER XXII
THE LAST
In the end it was neither his Grace nor I who broke the spell. Mr.Waring took the wisp of straw from his teeth, and says:
"Tiverton, my dear fellow, you amuse me."
"I rather amuse myself," says I, a little wearily. "We are come to thelast act in this somewhat pitiful poor-hearted sort of farce, and Isuppose we must continue furiously to laugh until the curtain is rungdown."
"Of course, my dear fellow, of course," says Waring. "But before we doso, would it not be as well if we had a few brief explanations in thetrue stage manner? In the first place, may I ask why you sopersistently shun the society of the one person who is the most likelyto contribute something towards setting you right in the eyes of theworld?"
"I confess I do not understand you," says I.
"Then I am sorry for it," says my rival, with a strange frank smile."For, after all, the person I refer to is myself."
"You?" says I.
The incredulity in my voice caused the man to open his snuff-box verydeliberately, and to offer its contents to me.
"Perhaps, after all," says he, "there is no particular reason why youshould take my meaning. For you have doubtless forgotten that I am theonly person now alive who was privileged to witness a certain incident.But that of course may be a fact you may wish to forget; or theincident in question may be too trifling for your recollection. In anycase I ask your pardon if I weary you."
"On the contrary," says I coldly, "you interest me vastly."
"The topic is one I should crave your pardon for mentioning," says theother, with his baffling air; "were not your interest so greatly atstake. I presume you are not unacquainted with the construction theworld hath already put upon this matter?"
"I am not," says I curtly.
"Then I hope, my dear fellow," says Waring, "you will accept a service,however slight, at my hands. My testimony may be of some little valueto you before a jury of your peers."
My rival held out his hand with a jovial grace. I stood looking at it,groping, with the wine still in my brain. For the candour sparkling inthe fellow's eyes was a thing I had never seen in that place before;the winning earnestness of it was so hard to realize that itoverwhelmed me. The bitter truth suddenly poured into my heart like atorrent.
"My God," says I, "all this time I have been weighing your character bythe measure of my own. Is it not ever the fate of the mean and thelittle to do so? You have been the phantom, from whom we have fled.The phantom, however, was not in a chaise and pair, but in our ownhearts!"
"The old fault, Tiverton, I protest," says Waring. "What a trite,pragmatical, moralizing fellow it is! I do hope you will not, likeyour damned old ancestor, lay a burden on an unprovoking posterity andwrite a book."
"Ecod, I will," says I, "one day. I will take a revenge of my meanmind by exhibiting it naked to the sneers of the world. But in themeantime, Waring, I must show you in your true colours to my littleCynthia. Even her feminine penetration had not divined them."
It was a light word, lightly uttered; and I cursed myself. The man wasas pale as his neckcloth, and the old mocking whimsicality--alas! Ihad nearly writ ugliness--was in his eyes. There was but an instant inwhich this was to be observed, however, for with shaking fingers heopened his snuff-box, and regained possession of himself.
I offered him my hand.
"Waring," says I, "we cannot ever be friends. You will continue toloathe me as you would a thief; and I on my part shall continue to hateyou for the consummate hypocrite and charlatan you are. But, curse myjacket, sir! as a dilettante in the arts, as a lover of the beautiful,I shall reverence for ever your singularly noble character."
"Then I am repaid," says this cynical, candid devil. "'Tis the rewardI had looked for, my good Tiverton, that you, robber and ruffian as youare, whose foremost desire will ever be to put an inch of steel in myheart, should yet be condemned to lay your neck in the dust whileHumphrey Waring walks upon it. I do not think I could desire aprettier revenge. 'Tis a dear pretty chit, though."
Involuntarily his eyes wandered across the room to Cynthia. Minefollowed them, in spite of myself, jealously. It was then I saw that astrange thing had happened. Father and daughter were seated together,tears streaming down their faces, locked in one another's arms.
"Your victory is completer than I had supposed," says my rival coolly.
At the moment I did not perceive the full force of his meaning. Aninstant later, however, I had that felicity. The old man in a brokenvoice called me over to him. The tears still streamed down his cheeks.
"I am a foolish, fond old man," says his Grace. "Curse it all, wasthere ever such a damned, snuffling, weak old fool as I am! Ecod, Imust be very old. How old am I, Humphrey?"
"Eighty-two in December, Duke."
"Curse me, so I am," says his Grace. "If I hadn't been so old--if Ihad been eighty now, if I had been eighty--I would 'a broken a stickacross your shoulders, miss, and I would 'a peppered your hide withlead, young what's-your-name. But as I'm so old, 'od's lud! I supposeI must be benevolent. Miss says she loves you, young man--don't you,my pretty pet?--And she says you love her, so I suppose you had bettermarry her. Humphrey won't mind; will you, Humphrey? You be an oldbachelor, and don't be plagued with daughters. But I forget thefellow's name; what's his name, Humphrey?"
"Tiverton," says Humphrey.
"Of course," says the Duke. "Knew your father, young man; thin manwith a bald head and no chin; used to stutter when he got excited.Knew your grandfather too. Of course I knew your grandfather, he, he,he! Was at Eton with him. Great man, your grandfather; writ apamphlet or something. Dirty little varlet at Eton; had red hair.What is the amount of your debts, young man? I suppose I must pay 'em,though why I don't know. But we'll go into it to-morrow, youngTiverton. I must go to bed. Give me your shoulder, Humphrey."
Here is the end of my prosaic history. The Duke's credit andinfluence, and Mr. Waring's testimony averted those calamities that hadbeen such a nightmare to us. We also had the banns cried; and weremarried all over again by Parson Scriven, lest any irregularities inregard to the union of Jane Smith and John Jones, or Jane Jones andJohn Smith, should recoil on their heirs. Mr. Waring lives on hisproperty in Ireland, troubles Saint James's little, and Devonshireless. Mr. Sadler, as I have said, came to be hanged. No man of theworld was more courteous and polite than he; no man was more genial;yet I should be the last to deny that his fate was richly merited.Even in the very moment of our reconciliation on that eventful night,he stole away. A pair of cameos of great price went with him, I grieveto say. It may, of course, have been his boast that he too was a loverof the beautiful.
THE END
LONDON: WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED.
