The moment I saw him, I perceived that in his face which warned me of the truth of my vague anticipations. Pale, stern, and collected, he walked slowly a few steps into the room, bowed with an ominous and icy formality to Captain Jennings, and, in a tone so cold and deadly, as I think I never heard before, or since, said—
“Captain Jennings, I presume you apprehend the subject of my visit?”
It was scarcely necessary to put the question. He had advanced to receive Chadleigh with his usual air of frank and easy gaiety, their eyes met, and in the encounter he read the truth—the smile passed away in an instant from his countenance, and was succeeded by a look, to the full as stern and ominous as that which confronted him. The young men felt that a deadly quarrel lay between them, and I think I never saw a more portentous greeting.
“You have not announced it, sir,” said Jennings, with cold and measured politeness; “but I have no hesitation in saying, that I do suspect the cause of your visit.”
“Good, sir!” replied Chadleigh, in the same constrained voice; “I came on behalf of Miss Mary Chadleigh’s father, and in my own right, as her brother, to demand of you, in the first place, where that young lady at present is.”
“Without meaning to dispute your right to put that question,” replied Jennings, “I mean to stand upon mine, to decline answering it.”
“You refuse to answer?” said his visitor, while his countenance darkened.
“I do—most distinctly refuse,” repeated he.
“Pray, think better of it, sir,” retorted Chadleigh, with a ghastly mimicry of courtesy.
“Mr. Chadleigh,” replied Jennings, haughtily, “I recommend you strongly to act as a man of the world in this business. The mischief, whatever it be, is now past cure. If you will only allow events to take their course, scandal may be avoided, and a great deal of unnecessary trouble, exposure, and violence spared. If you will persist in pushing this matter to extremity, do so; upon your head be the consequences.”
“Sir,” said Chadleigh, “you greatly mistake me, if you fancy that your mean and perfidious conduct, in spiriting away the daughter of a gentleman, who frankly told you that he peremptorily declined the connection which your conduct seemed to offer—if you fancy that your base and mercenary conduct in inveigling her, a young lady entitled to a fortune, and with most suitable prospects before her, into a marriage with you, a mere adventurer—”
“Mr. Chadleigh, before you proceed further, let me ask you, have you actually made up your mind to push this affair to a public quarrel?” insisted Jennings.
“Yes, sir,” retorted Chadleigh, proudly and bitterly. “Mary Chadleigh has selected for herself—embraced her own degradation—married a man whom her father expressly forbid his house, because he suspected him of entertaining the schemes he has but too securely realized. She is now, and henceforward, to Sir Arthur and to me, a stranger; we renounce and disown her; and by ⸻, she shall not stand between you and the punishment you deserve.” He paused; and added emphatically—“I presume you will be at home by eleven o’clock tonight?”
“Certainly, sir,” answered Jennings, calmly.
His visitor bowed sternly, and began to withdraw.
“I wish, if you please, to add one word,” said Jennings.
“Certainly,” said Chadleigh, returning.
Jennings looked down for a moment, in agitated and guilty abstraction—bit his lips, and grew deadly pale, as though inwardly agonized with a mortal struggle.
“I have to request your attention, too, Mr. ⸻,” he said, addressing me, and arresting my departure. “It is, unfortunately, due to myself that you should hear what I am about to say.”
“Be so good as to say, without further delay, what you desire me to hear,” said Chadleigh.
“Yes, sir; you have forced me to it,” said Jennings, drawing himself up, and looking with a steady, and singularly evil scowl, full in his visitor’s face. “You talked of marriage?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Chadleigh.
“Well, sir, as you will have it a quarrel between us, it is, unfortunately, due to myself to say, that there is no such thing as marriage in the case.”
Jennings spoke these words with a resolute and measured distinctness, which left no room for misapprehension.
“No!—no marriage!” said Chadleigh, after a hideous pause of some seconds, and speaking almost in a whisper, like one half-stunned, while he returned the guilty gaze of his transformed friend with a stare of actual horror.
For my own part, I confess I was scarcely one degree less astounded than Chadleigh, at this utterly unlooked-for declaration.
“Not married—not married! Why, great God, can it—is it credible! You monstrous, measureless villain—”
The flimsy varnish of affected courtesy was gone, and the hell-born passions it had masked broke forth in an instant, in undisguised and titanic revelation. With one hoarse execration, shrieked rather than spoken, Chadleigh advanced toward Jennings.
“Take care, Chadleigh—take care; I would not harm you,” said Jennings, sternly.
“Hold, for God’s sake,” I cried, interposing between the two young men. “Mr. Chadleigh, I implore of you—remember, consider; what can come of this?”
“Let me go, sir,” cried Chadleigh, hoarsely.
“Mr. Jennings,” I cried, still clinging to Chadleigh, for in his furious paroxysm of excitement, I could not tell what dreadful results might possibly attend a physical encounter, “for God’s sake, avoid this; you’ll have bloodshed else. Mr. Chadleigh, reflect; stay for one moment.”
“Let me go, sir; let me go, or by ⸻, I’ll strike you down,” cried Chadleigh, straining and struggling to reach the object of his fury.
“Get into your room, Mr. Jennings, unless you wish for murder. Go, for Heaven’s sake,” I repeated. “I can’t prevent it longer. I tell you go—go, in God’s name. Will you go, or not?”
Jennings’ momentary agitation had entirely disappeared with the immediate menace of such an encounter as that which threatened him. His physical courage no one had ever doubted; and the moment it was tasked, his intrepid calmness instantly returned. He hesitated for a second; then, with one glance of
