The Unspeakable Gentleman Part 26

But oddly enough, he was not disturbed.

"On the road, to be sure," said my father. "You are right, Henry, you may keep the paper. But tell me one thing more. Was there no one here when you arrived?"

"There was," I said, "but I sent him away--to our house, father."

He sighed and smoothed his cloak thoughtfully.

"I fear that I have become quite hopeless. As you say, if I fire a pistol, they will come, and now I can hardly see any reason to keep them away. So you sent him to the house, my son? And Jason is still alive? And you have got the paper? Can it be that I have failed in everything?

Strange how the cards fall even if we stack the deck. Ah, well, then it is the pistols after all."

There was a blinding flash and the roar of a weapon close beside me, and I heard Mademoiselle scream. My father turned to quiet his horse.

"Do not be alarmed, Mademoiselle," he said gently, "we are not killing each other. I am merely using a somewhat rigorous method of bringing my son to his senses."

He paused, reached under his cloak, drew a second pistol and fired again.

From the road there came a sound that seemed to ring pleasantly to my father's ears.

"Nearer than I thought," he said brightly. "They should be here in three minutes at the outside. Shall we sit a while and talk, my son? It is gloomy here, I admit, but still, it has its advantages. They thought my rendezvous was ten miles to the north. Lord, what fools they were!

Lawton bit at the letter I let him seize as though it were pork. Ah, if it had not been for Jason! Well, everything must have an ending."

He threw his bridle over his arm, and was walking toward the doorstep, lightly buoyant, as though some weight were lifted from his mind. Hastily I seized his arm.

"Stop!" I cried. "What is to become of Mademoiselle? We cannot leave her here like this. Have you forgotten she is with us?"

Seemingly still unhurried, he paused, and glanced toward the road, and then back at me, and then for the first time he laughed, and his laughter, genuine and care-free, gave me a start which the sound of his pistol had not. The incongruity of it set my nerves on edge. Was there nothing that would give him genuine concern?

"Good G.o.d, sir!" I shouted furiously. "There's nothing to laugh about!

Don't you hear them coming?"

"Ah," said my father, "I thought that would fetch you. So you have come to your senses then, and we can go on together? Untie your horse, Henry, while I charge the pistols."

My hand was on the bridle rein, when a shout close by us made me loosen the knot more quickly than I intended. I could make out the black form of a horseman moving towards us at full gallop.

"It must be Lawton," observed my father evenly. "He is well mounted, and quite reckless. I suppose we had better be going. I shall help Mademoiselle, if she will permit. No, it is not Lawton. I am sorry."

He raised his arm and fired. My horse started at the sound of his shot, and as I tried to quiet him, I saw my father lift Mademoiselle to the saddle.

"Yes," he said again, "I think it is time to be going. These men seem to have a most commendable determination. Ha! There are two more of them.

Put your horse to the gallop, my son. The tide is out, and we can manage the marsh."

"The mars.h.!.+" I exclaimed.

"Quite," he replied tranquilly. "If Brutus is alive, he will have a boat near the dunes opposite. It seems as though we might be obliged to take an ocean voyage."

It seemed to me he had gone quite mad. The marsh, he knew as well as I, was as full of holes as a piece of cheese. Even in the daytime one could hardly ride across it. And then I knew that what he said was true, that he would stop at nothing; and suddenly a fear came over me. For the first time I feared the quiet, pleasant man who rode beside my bridle rein, as though we were traversing the main street of our town.

"Ah," said my father, "it is pleasant to have a little exercise. Give him the spurs Henry. We shall either get across or we shall not. There is no use being cautious."

I put my horse over a ditch, and straight ahead, I may have ridden four hundred yards with the even beating of his horse behind me, before what I feared happened. My horse stumbled, and the pull of my bridle barely got him up again. I gave him the spur, but he was failing. In a quarter of a minute he had fallen again, and this time the bridle did not raise him. I sprang free of him before he had entirely slipped down in the soft sea mud. He was las.h.i.+ng about desperately, nor could I get him to answer when I pulled at the bridle. My father reined up beside me and dismounted.

"His leg is broken," he said. "It is inopportune. Ah, they are still after us." And he turned to look behind him.

"Why are you waiting?" I cried. "Ride on, sir!"

"And leave you here with the paper in your pocket?" said my father. "The fall has quite got the better of you. The other pistol, Mademoiselle, if you have finished loading it. Here they come, to be sure. Would you not think the fools would realize I can hit them?"

He fired into the darkness and a riderless horse ran almost on top of us.

With a snort of fright, he reared and wheeled, and a second shot answered my father's.

"Ah," said my father, "they always will shoot before they can see. The pistol from the holster, if you please, Mademoiselle."

They had not realized we had halted, for the last rider charged past us before he could check himself. I had a glimpse of his face, white against the night, and I saw him tug furiously at his bit--an unfortunate matter, so it happened, for the footing beneath the marsh gra.s.s was bad, and his horse slewed and fell on top of him.

"Pah!" exclaimed my father. "It is almost sad to watch them. Let us go, Henry. He is knocked even more senseless than he was before. Keep the saddle, Mademoiselle, and we will lead you across. I fancy that is the last of them for a moment."

So we tumbled through the mud at a walk, slipping noisily at every step, but my father was correct in his prophecy. Only the noise of our progress interrupted us. The sand dunes were becoming something more than a shadow. My father walked in tranquil silence at the bridle, while I trudged beside him.

"Are you hurt, Captain?" Mademoiselle demanded.

"Indeed not," he replied. "What was there to hurt me? I was thinking.

That is all; but why do you ask, my lady?"

"Only," said Mademoiselle, "because you have been silent for the past five minutes, and you never are more gay than when you embark on an adventure. I never heard you say two words, Captain, until that night on the Loire."

"Let us forget the Loire," replied my father. "Shall I be quite frank with you, Mademoiselle?"

"It would be amusing," she admitted, leaning from the saddle towards him, "if it were only possible," she added.

"Then listen, Mademoiselle," he continued, "and I shall be very frank indeed. It must be the sea air which makes me so. I seldom talk unless I feel that my days for talking are nearly over, and at present they seem to stretch before me most interminably. In a moment we shall see the boat, and in a moment the _Sea Tern_. I fear I have been very foolish."

"Father," I inquired, "will you answer me a question?"

"Perhaps," said my father.

"What has my uncle to do with the paper?"

"My son," said my father, "may I ask you a question?"

"Perhaps," I replied.

"How much money did your mother leave you at her death?"

"She had none to leave," I replied quickly.

"Ah," said my father, "have you ever wondered why?"

"You should be able to tell me," I answered coldly.

"Indeed," said my father. "But here we are at the dunes. The boat, my son, do you see it?"