III
The Challenge
Roxhythe shut the door.
“And now what is it?”
Crewe was standing by the fire. At my lord’s words he swung round.
“It is this, sir! I’ll not have my wife’s name dishonoured by such as you! For nearly three years it has gone on! At first I thought nothing; she had her admirers, but she loved me. And then you gradually stole her from me, until she thinks of naught save when she shall next be with you! Oh, I’m not blind! I’ve watched and waited. But tonight I could no longer contain myself! One of us dies, my lord!”
“Very fine,” applauded Roxhythe. “But you make a deal out of nothing. Let us say that I fascinated Lady Crewe. We played at love, bien sûr. Now we have agreed to end the game. As to her good name, no harm is like to come to that.”
“No harm, you say? All the town will talk of this. How do I know that there is not more between you?”
The fine lips curled contemptuously.
“Faith, you have a good opinion of your wife!” said Roxhythe. Then he grew grave. “You foolish boy, what have you been about all this time? You say you have watched us? Then why a-God’s name did you not act? By heaven, I would let no man steal my wife’s heart!”
“If it can be stolen I do not want it! I’ll make no effort to win her from you, my lord! She—she has earned my contempt! my hatred!”
“The tragic hero, egad! One would think there was more to this affaire than a series of very mild flirtations.”
“I do think it!”
“Then you are a foolish child. Strive to be wiser. I suggest you take your wife away, and woo her afresh. She will very soon forget me.”
Crewe gripped a chair-back. His face was white with anger.
“How dare you mock me? One would think that I was to blame for all this!”
“Most undoubtedly you are. Instead of freezing the girl you should have shaken her soundly and taken her away. Mordieu, you drove her to my arms, with your coldness and your scowls!”
“I thought her above—this kind of intrigue! I—heaven, what did I not think her? I have found that she is no better than the commonest trull that walks the streets!”
“La-la! What a fury! I begin to pity your wife.”
Two hectic spots of colour burned on Sir Henry’s cheeks.
“We’ll have done, if you please, sir—”
Roxhythe sighed with relief.
“Now God be thanked, here’s sense at last!”
“Will you name your friends?”
Roxhythe looked him up and down.
“Oh. You want satisfaction? Bethink you, you’ll damage your wife’s reputation as I have not done all this time.”
“I will take care of that, I thank you. Will you name your friends?”
“No,” said Roxhythe. “I will not.”
It seemed that Crewe was dumbfounded. He stared in amazement.
“You will not? You will not? Am I to call you coward then?”
“My dear boy, you may call me what you will if it eases you at all. Roxhythe does not fight with every fly that buzzes in his ear.”
Crewe sent a chair spinning across the room.
“Yet you will fight me, sir!”
“If you continue in this vein it seems very likely. I counsel you to calm yourself. It is no light matter to fight Roxhythe.”
“I am not afraid! Right is on my side!”
“But in this world it is more often might that triumphs. My tragic hero, do you not realize that I could pink you within—one minute?”
“I care not! And I believe that I can kill you!”
“The worse for you then. You were as effectually damned. You would have to reckon with King Charles. I’d not envy you that task. No, I will not fight you.”
“Then you are a coward! a coward! a coward! All the world will call you one!”
“All the world will laugh at you for your pains, Crewe. The world knows what manner of man I am.”
“You insult me! Am I unworthy of your sword?”
“By no means. But I do not murder babes.”
Crewe looked up into the mocking eyes. His hand fumbled in the breast of his coat and came out. With one laced glove he struck my lord across the face.
“Is that enough?” he panted.
The straight brows contracted swiftly.
“Almost enough to earn you a thrashing at my hands, Crewe,” said Roxhythe, a hint of grimness in his smooth voice.
Sir Henry fell back. A sob tore at his throat.
“My God, are you made of stone? You’ll swallow that insult?”
My lord shrugged.
“I have already told you; I do not murder babes.”
“Damn you, am I to strike you again?”
Roxhythe smiled.
Crewe’s hand clenched on the glove, twisting it round and round.
“Can I say nothing to move you? What have I done that you should scorn to fight me? Do you not owe me at least that much?”
“My good child, no. I have not damaged Lady Crewe’s reputation; I am even preventing you from so doing.”
“I will cry this shame against you! All London shall know how you refused to fight! were afraid to fight!”
“You would be very ill-advised. You would ruin your wife, and make yourself a laughingstock. Do you think I cannot afford to refuse to fight without injuring mine honour?”
Crewe stood still, seething with rage and impotence.
“Why will you not fight me? What reason have you?”
“I thought that I told you that,” said Roxhythe.
“Bah! ’Tis not from any desire to spare my life, I know!”
“Why then, we will say that it is not my will.”
“Do you think to put me off with that excuse? You treat me as though I were of no account! as though you had not ruined my happiness, disgraced my wife!”
My lord rearranged his cravat.
“I’ve no taste for heroics off the stage, my friend.”
The young man’s breath was coming short and quick. His hands trembled; his eyes burned dark in his pale face.
“Don’t mock at me! You—you goad me to what I will not think of! I could kill you where you stand, you smiling devil!”
My lord was still busy with his cravat. He stood with his back to Crewe looking into the mirror.
“Eh bien! Kill me.”
Crewe swung round on his heel. Up and down the room he paced, with white lips and trembling hands. He came at last to a standstill, facing my lord.
“Once more I ask: will you name your friends?”
Roxhythe studied his reflection pensively.
“I will not.”
Crewe was almost hysterical with rage. He tore at his sword, wrenching it from the scabbard.
“You shall fight! If you will not have it in order, it shall be here and now! On guard, my lord!”
Roxhythe gave a finishing touch to his laces, and turned.
“What have we now? Corbleu! A sword! Am I to fling myself on its point?”
“Draw, curse you!”
Roxhythe snapped his fingers scornfully.
“So much for that pretty plaything! I do not fight you now or at any time. Body o’ me, am I to fight every young cockerel who fancies himself injured by me? Put up your sword and be thankful that I do not choose to take offence.”
The sword clattered to the ground.
“Devil! Devil!” gasped Sir Henry, and sprang at him.
There was a short struggle, a strangled oath from Crewe. Roxhythe had both the boy’s wrists in a vice-like grip. He did not appear to exert himself in the least, but Crewe could not break free. The pressure tightened relentlessly.
“Fool!” said my lord evenly. “I could ruin you ten times over for this. What madness has come over you that you dare to challenge me in such a fashion?”
Sir Henry was silent, clenching his underlip hard between his teeth. The grip on his wrists was agony. Roxhythe looked down at him contemptuously.
“If you like I will swear that at my hands Lady Crewe has received no ill, save, perhaps, a little heartache. Is that enough?”
“No, no! Damn you, let me go! I’ll allow no man—to make love to—my wife—and go—unpunished!”
“I applaud you. But yours would be the punishment an I met you.”
“I’ll take my chance of that! Let go my wrists! Do you think I care whether I live or die? Oh, name your seconds! Name them!”
“No.”
“For God’s sake forget that you are Roxhythe for one moment!”
“It is as well that one of us should remember it.”
“ ’Sdeath! Are you a creature of flesh and blood? I’ve struck you! I have offered you every insult! Is it possible that you can still refuse me satisfaction?”
“In truth, I am very forbearing,” sighed Roxhythe.
Crewe struggled to be free of him.
“Then again I call you coward! I’ll never rest until I have met you!”
Roxhythe released him.
“If you pester me it will be my painful duty to have you removed. I repeat: neither now or at any other time will I fight you. That is my last word.”
Crewe fell back. The marks of Roxhythe’s fingers were on his arms; dry sobs shook him. He collapsed into a chair, resting his head in his hands.
Roxhythe shook out his ruffles.
The door was opened; Sir Henry heard the snap as it was closed again. He was alone.
Ten minutes later Roxhythe was at Mrs. Carthew’s side, drawling witticisms.
Lady Frances came up with Mr. Fletcher at her elbow. She smiled sweetly.
“Mrs. Carthew, may I present Mr. Fletcher?”
The lady bowed.
“Will you dance, Madam?” simpered Fletcher.
Madam was uncertain. Plainly she liked Roxhythe’s company. But her hostess was already engaging his attention.
“Thank you, sir.” She was led away.
Lady Frances sat down beside my lord.
“Roxhythe, why have you tampered with that poor child?” Her voice was very calm.
“My dear Fanny, need we pursue the subject? I do not care to dwell on my mistakes.”
“You admit that it was a mistake? David, I implore you, let it end here!”
“It ended an hour since. I found myself growing paternal.”
“I am thankful for’t. The girl fancies herself in love with you. I pray heaven ’tis but a fancy. I have told her what manner of man you are.”
“Really? What manner of man am I?”
She disregarded him.
“David, it was not right; it was not fair. I’d say naught if she were a Court miss, versed in these ways. She is not. She knew no harm until you came into her life. And now—God and you know what harm has been wrought.”
“None.”
“That is true, Roxhythe?”
“As I live. I believe I must always have felt paternal towards her. It was a very mild intrigue.”
Lady Frances heaved a sigh of relief.
“I feared—she was so very overwrought—If you say it is not so, I believe you. But, oh, David, why? Why try to break her poor, foolish little heart? Were there not enough women besides her? Women who knew you and your ways?”
“It was her sweet simplicity that attracted me,” said Roxhythe.
“So you broke her for your pleasure. Sometimes I think that you are utterly without heart, David.”
“Mayhap. However, you’ll agree that I am not without forbearance when I tell you that for the past hour I have been closetted with the husband, refusing to fight him.”
“Ah! You will not fight him?”
“Certainly not. Why should I?”
“I know why you should not! ’Twere Lady Crewe’s ruin an you did.”
“So I thought. Unhappily he did not. He did all in his power to provoke me to wrath.”
“He failed?”
“Can you ask? I have told him that I will not meet him now or at any other time.”
“David, promise me that you will not go back on that!”
“I promise.”
She touched his hand, smiling a little tremulously.
“You’re not all bad, David. I believe that you are sorry for this—mistake.”
“I regret it with all my heart. The child took me more seriously than I knew.”
Lady Frances dabbed surreptitiously at her eyes.
“My dear,” said Roxhythe, “if you cry, I shall depart. I have had naught but tears and ravings all the evening.”
“Poor David! Oh me! I should be angry with you, I suppose. Somehow I cannot. You had best make love to me next time. Then neither of us will be hurt.”
Roxhythe kissed her hand.
“Two women there are, Fanny, whom I esteem above all others. One is now a memory.”
Frances looked up.
“Who was she?”
“She was Madame.”
“Madame! Roxhythe, you loved her?”
“I respected and admired her above all women. The other is your sweet self. If ever I love, or have loved a woman, you are she.”
“How dear of you!” sighed my lady. “To how many women have you said that?”