“Have you consulted Sir Philip?” I asked. “It is his place to take up the question.”
“What question? There is no question. The thing is proved. My duty is plain. Sir Philip is too old to see to it. The Squire is a spooney. The Commodore is not here yet. I have spoken to his wife, who is a very sweet and wise lady; and she agrees with me that it will save the family a world of scandal; and perhaps failure of the law, for me to take the law into my own hands, and thrash this blackguard within an inch of his life.”
“To be sure, and save her husband from the risk of tackling a desperate man. It is most wise on her part. But I beg you, my dear sir, for the sake of your dear uncle and your good mother, keep clear of this quarrel. You know not the man you have to deal with. Even if you can thrash him, which is no easy business, he will shoot you afterwards. He is the deadest shot in the county.”
“Hurrah!” cried Rodney, tossing up his hat; “that entirely settles it. Come along, old fellow, and show us the way: and not a word to anyone.”
Now this may seem a very mad resolve for a man of my sense to give into. But whether I turned myself this way or that, I could see no chance of bettering it. If I refused to go, young Rodney (as I could see by the set of his mouth) would go alone, and perhaps get killed, and then how could any of the family ever look at me again? On the other hand, if I should go to the Colonel, or to the General, for opinion, and to beg them to stop it, my interference—nine chances to one—would only end in giving offence among the superior orders. Add to this my real desire to square it out with Chowne himself, after all his persecution, and you may be able to forgive me for getting upon horseback, after many years of forbearance, and with my sugar-nippers screwed on, to lay hold by the forestay, if she should make bad weather. Also, I felt it my duty to take a double-barrelled pistol, heavily loaded and well primed.
Captain Rodney forged ahead so on a real hunting-craft, that my dappled grey, being warranted not to lurch me overboard, could not keep in line whatever sail I made upon her. My chief rule in life is not to hurry. What good ever comes of it? People only abuse you, and your breath is too short to answer them. Moreover, I felt an uneasy creaking in my bends from dousing forward, and then easing backward, as a man must do who knows how to ride. The Captain was wroth with me, out of all reason; but as he could not find the way to Nympton Moors without me, I was enabled to take my leisure, having the surety of overgetting him when the next crossroad came. Therefore it was late afternoon when we turned into the black fir-grove which led up to the house of Chowne, and Rodney Bluett clutched the big whip in his hand severely. For we had asked at the little inn of which I spoke a long time ago, whether the Parson was now at home.
“Ay, that ’un be,” said the man with a grin, for we did not see the landlady; “but ye best way not to go nigh ’un.”
Already I seemed not to feel as I hoped, in the earlier stage of the journey. My thoughts had been very upright for a while, and spirited, and delighted; but now I began to look at things from a different point of view almost. It is not man’s business to worry his head about righting of wrongs in this world, unless they are done to himself; and if so, revenge is its name, and an ugly one. Long life leads one to forgive, when to carry it on would be troublesome.
Through the drip of dying leaves, the chill of dull November now began to darken over us as we turned the corner of Chowne’s own road, and faced his lonely mansion. The house had a heavy and sullen look, according to my ideas, not receiving light and pleasure of the sun when possible. Heavy fir-trees overhung it, never parting with their weight; and the sunset (when there was any) could not pierce the holm-oaks.
“What a gloomy and devilish place!” cried Rodney Bluett, beginning to tremble from some unknown influence. “Upon my soul, if I lived here, I should be hatching plots myself. Or is it the nature of the man that has made the place so horrible?”
“Let us go back,” said I; “come back, my good sir, I conjure you. Such a man should be left to God, to punish in His own good time.”
“Hark!” cried Rodney, pulling up, and listening through the gloomy wood; “that was a woman’s scream, I am sure. Is he murdering some more little ones?”
We listened, and heard a loud piercing shriek, that made our hair stand on end almost, so mad was it, and so unearthly; and then two more of yet wilder agony; and after that a long low wailing.
“On, on!” cried Rodney Bluett; “you know these paths, gallop on, Davy.”
“You go first,” I answered; “your horse is fresher; I am coming—to be sure I am—do you think I am frightened?”
“Well, I don’t know,” he replied; “but I am not ashamed to own that I am.”
Clapping spurs to his horse, he dashed on; and thoroughly miserable as I felt, there was nothing for me but to follow him.
In the name of the Lord, what a sight we came on,
