Jerome had gone, and De Rothan walked up and down the brick-paved path between the porch and the gate, with the two yew-trees cut in the shape of peacocks spreading their tails on either side. There were climbing roses flowering over the rust-red front of the house. The stone pillar of the sun-dial had an edging of rank, green grass.
De Rothan stood by the sun-dial and stared at it reflectively. What a thing was Time, how trivial and yet how urgent with its little droppings of sand or the slow stealing of a shadow! And time, delay, was everything to De Rothan for the moment. It was as though a marvellous clock had been constructed; that he had set it going and was waiting to hear it chime all manner of tunes at the hour of noon, when chance, in the shape of a Sussex squire, threatened to send a pistol bullet into the works, and to ruin the whole mechanism.
How was the thing to be prevented?
De Rothan's consciousness of the imminent peril of a betrayal was like the barking of dogs about a man who was trying to puzzle out some problem. The need for immediate action importuned him. He must have silence, for a week, two weeks, a month, silence till Napoleon's schemes matured, till Villeneuve made his dash for the Channel, and the French bayonets glittered in English meadows.
Supposing he killed this man?
So far as he could see, this grim attempt at a solution would only plunge him into further difficulties. There would be a huge outcry, for it would be next to impossible for him to hope to keep it secret. Even if he pleaded that it had been an affair of honour, the gentry here would not be in a mood to show much pity.
Moreover, Jasper Benham might have handed on his information, though it had been in his possession only a few hours.
It took De Rothan some time to strike the one possible line of attack. The idea came to him as an inspiration. He seized it, and turned it over and over in his mind with the exultant audacity of a man recovering his self-confidence.
De Rothan returned to the parlour, and sat down before the oak bureau by the window. The scratching of a quill pen ran on through the silence. He frowned, and moved restlessly in his chair as he wrote, his whole mind-force concentrating itself upon the wording of that letter. When he had finished it and sealed it, he sat awhile, reflecting. Some one was moving now in the house. Gaston and the other two servants were stirring.
De Rothan went out into the hall and waited. A door opened. Heavy footsteps came down the stairs.
"Gaston."
"Monsieur?"
"Quick, man, come in here."
He took the slow, surly fellow into the parlour, poured him out a glass of wine, and began to talk decisively and quickly. Gaston listened, sipping his wine, and staring at De Rothan with the intelligence of a shrewd and ugly dog.
"You can trust me, monsieur."
"It will not be for nothing."
"No, no, one does not risk one's neck for nothing."
"You know Rush Heath Hall; we have often ridden that way. Saddle a horse at once, and take this letter to Mr. Jasper Benham. Give it to none but him. Answer no questions. Wait for him if he is not at home."
"Yes, monsieur."
"I will look to things here. François and Jean will obey you, if needs be?"
"They fear me, monsieur."
"Good. There is the south attic. We can knock staples into one of the oak posts, and fasten rings to the floor. Off with you, Gaston. By the Emperor, there is no time to lose."
It happened that De Rothan's man did not have to ride all the way to Rush Heath that morning. As he was coming down Hog Lane into the road from the direction of Bexhill, he sighted a gentleman on a brown cob trotting toward him. Gaston was none too sure of the way, and he hailed the man on the brown cob.
"To Rush Heath, sir?"
Jasper reined in with a stare at this queer-looking rogue in livery on a smart-looking horse. He was riding home from Tom Stook's cottage after two hours' sleep on a bundle of bracken, the bracken being cleaner than Tom's bed.
"Yes. What do you want at Rush Heath?"
"I carry a letter."
"From the Chevalier de Rothan, perhaps?"
"From the Chevalier de Rothan to Meester Jasper Benham."
Gaston chewed at his broken English, for he was a man who talked as though he were munching a crust.
"I can save you two miles. I am Mr. Jasper Benham."
Gaston eyed him critically.
"All right, monsieur, you need not doubt me being myself. I was expecting to hear from your master."
Gaston handed the letter over.
"It is urgent, monsieur."
"No doubt."
"Good day to you, monsieur."
"Good day to you."
And they parted company, Jasper riding on toward Rush Heath.
Curiosity pinched him, and he stopped his horse under the shade of one of the big chestnut-trees by Lavender's Forge, and opened De Rothan's letter. It was written in a fine hand upon fine paper, and the heads and tails of the letters ran into curls and flourishes, making it quite a courtly document where each word kept up a kind of royal progress.
MR. JASPER BENHAM.
SIR—
I send this in haste by the hands of my servant. Seeing that I have had news that calls me to London, and seeing that I must chastise you before I go, I ask you to meet me in the clearing in Darvel's Wood. You will know the place. They tell me charcoal-burners used to burn charcoal there.
I have no time to attend to formalities and to send you my friends. I desire to fight you as man to man, and I shall go alone to Darvel's Wood.
Bring a sword and pistols. We will take our choice.
I shall be in the wood by seven o'clock this evening, and I shall wait there for an hour. If you do not come to me I shall be constrained to scorn you as a coward, and shall go my way, promising to deal with you on my return.
DE ROTHAN.
The audacity and the informality of the challenge were all to Jasper's liking. De Rothan was giving him the opportunity that he desired, and its very nearness made him realise the utter seriousness of the adventure. De Rothan would show him little consideration when their swords crossed or their pistols pointed in the middle of Darvel's Wood. It was a question of nerve, steadiness, and determination. Men pull themselves together to meet such hazards, more easily perhaps when they have learned to take big risks in some such school as the hunting field. Moreover, Jasper Benham had pledged himself, and he was in love.
He would ride to Darvel's Wood and fight De Rothan. His confidence steadied itself on a quiet belief in his own strength and skill. There was just that simmer of exhilaration in his mood that makes a man a little better than his normal self. It was his day. He felt on the top of the game, with all the confidence of a man who attacks.
He rode on toward Rush Heath, putting his plans in order.
There was Jeremy Winter to be considered, and he had to decide that he would tell Jeremy nothing. Winter would never consent to let him fight upon such terms, and would insist on going with him to Darvel's Wood. Jasper knew what Jeremy could be when he was obstinate, and that it was hard to beat him from a position when he had once chosen it. He would have to keep Jeremy Winter out of the adventure.
At Rush Heath Jasper found that Jeremy had ridden into Hastings, and might not be back till supper time. This was useful in its way, and Jasper showed his sound sense by making a light meal and going straight to bed. He wanted steady nerves and a fresh body, and though few men could have slept on the edge of such an adventure, Jasper accomplished it, a point to his credit. He had told Jack Bumpstead to call him at four o'clock, and at that hour he arose, dressed himself, went below, and made a meal.
To get from Rush Heath to Darvel's Wood one could go by way of Stonehanger Common, and Jasper rode that way, meaning to see Nance. A glimpse of her would be as a cup of red wine to him, though the melancholy of fatalism was not part of his nature. His own imagination was not strong enough to force upon him a vision of his own body lying dead in Darvel's Wood. He neither felt like dying nor being beaten, but he had the sense to realise that in a couple of hours he might be dead. The thought did not frighten him, but roused a sense of cheerful incredulity.
Anthony Durrell had become nothing more than De Rothan's dupe, the man of the arm-chair being the servant of the man of the sword, and Jasper did not trouble his head about Durrell's prejudices. He rode into the yard at Stonehanger, fastened Devil Dick to the ring by the stable door, and, leaving his sword and pistols there, walked round the house to Nance's garden on the terrace.
He found her there, cutting the dead blooms from the rose-bushes, and the sight of her gave his mood the touch of deeper solemnity that it had lacked. He felt of a sudden that life was a very serious and passionate affair, and that no one was justified in risking it lightly. The girlish figure bending over the rose-bushes made him bend more reverently over her fate and his own.
"Nance——"
She had not heard his footsteps on the grass, and it was a coy, flushed face that she turned to him. Her eyes might have shown him that she did not regret anything. The kiss upon her mouth had enriched life for her, and made it more dear and desirable.
"You! It is rash of you to be here!"
"I don't think so. Is your father at home?"
"No; he went out for a walk over the common."
"Either way, it does not matter."
They moved to a seat under one of the yews, Jasper's hand holding Nance's arm just above the elbow. She looked round and up at him with shy and shining eyes.
"How did things happen last night after I left you?"
"Quite happily. Father was waiting. He said nothing."
"What do you make of that?"
"Perhaps he does not know whether to tell me everything or nothing."
"Why not make him trust you?"
"Against his will?"
Jasper held both her hands in his.
"Nance, I shall have news for you to-morrow, news that should sweep all these deceits aside. I shall come and talk to your father—as I promised. And you will help me to make him see the uselessness of further plotting with the French."
Nance's hands tightened on his. She understood what his words portended.
"You mean——"
"Nothing as yet. I may have good news."
"Then there is danger."
"Don't let the thought of that trouble you."
She looked him steadily in the eyes, compelling them to acknowledge the truth.
"Jasper?"
"Well, dear—"
"You know you are trying to hide this from me. You are going to fight this man."
"Well, do I look like a dead man, or one who is not sure of pulling through? I never meant you to know this, but things will out."
"When is it?"
"In an hour or so."
"Oh, Jasper!"
He showed a fine and tender cheerfulness.
"I have been longing to fight him, Nance, and here is my chance. What's the hour? By George, I must be going."
She caught his hands and would not let him go for the moment. Her eyes were afraid.
"It's wrong of me to let you do this."
"No, no."
"If the wrong thing should happen!"
"Nance, it has to be; it's an affair of honour. Do you think I would let a man like De Rothan call me a coward? No, by God, I am going to take him by the shoulders and thrust him out of your life."
He rose, and his arm went round her as they crossed the terrace, and passed round to where Devil Dick waited in the stone-paved yard. The pistol butts sticking out of the holsters, and the sword leaning against the stable wall made Nance's mouth quiver.
"Who is going with you?"
"No one."
"Where is it to be?"
"In Darvel's Wood. I shall ride back here."
He talked so as to hearten her as they passed through the wild shrubbery to the gate. Her tense, white face hurt him. It was so near to tears and yet so very far from them.
"God bless you, Nance. In two hours I shall be back again."
He kissed her, and felt her lips answer his with quick and passionate abandonment.