“Sir,” he said bitterly, “by ⸻, you shall answer for this.”
“When and how you please, Mr. Chadleigh,” I replied, sadly. “I have done my duty, and no more, in preventing a murderous fray; and I thank God I have succeeded.”
He stood undecided for a few seconds. At last he said—
“Perhaps you were right, sir; and I ought to ask your pardon. You were right, sir, and I was wrong. Pardon me.”
I gave him the assurance he required, and he added abruptly—
“This is no place for me. Good night, sir.”
So saying, he left the room; and I, from the window, saw him reenter the carriage, and drive away, ere I returned to turn the key in Jennings’ room. I did so, and called him; there was no answer. I pushed the door open a little, and looked in. He had thrown himself into a chair, and was sitting close by a table, his forehead laid upon his arm, and his face concealed—he was sobbing. He started up abruptly, on becoming aware of my presence, and with a violent effort commanded himself.
“Mr. ⸻,” said he, “pray don’t leave me, for a few minutes. Mr. ⸻, you don’t know what I am suffering, and what I have suffered. I am about the most miserable and unfortunate mortal you have ever seen or heard of—indeed I am. Sir, you can’t understand—I can’t explain to you the horrors of my position.”
“The poor young lady,” I said, coldly, “is certainly impressed with the belief that she is legally married. Dr. Robertson distinctly told me so—nay, he himself believed it.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” he interrupted, vehemently; “but I can prove it is not so. The paper I have placed in your hand will show you that there has been no such thing. She thinks it—she believes, no doubt, poor creature; but she’s wrong—quite wrong.”
I was greatly shocked at the sinister eagerness with which Jennings laboured to impress this fact, which, of all others, I thought he ought naturally to be most anxious to conceal for the present, upon my conviction; and I could not forbear saying—
“At all events, you will not fail to make all the reparation now in your power, and—”
“What reparation?” he asked, vehemently.
“There is but one,” I answered, “which you can now offer; and that is, marriage.”
“You are right, indeed,” he answered, sullenly, after a long pause; “it is the only—the only reparation for such a wrong.”
He sank into a moody and compunctious silence. At last he said, abruptly—
“They talk of generosity, and impulse, and all that, but take my word for it, prudence is worth them all. My own utter want of reflection has done it. I have been drawn into a situation in which I am powerless, at least for good; but do me justice, sir; you must do me justice, for, by ⸻, I designed no wrong; I am not a cold-blooded wretch. I was led away by passion—misguided and betrayed into a position, as I told you, where I am no longer a free agent, and then my conduct is criticised, as if I could do just as I pleased. Is this justice or honesty? I’m railed at like a cold, scheming villain, and damned for not making reparation—I, that never laid a deliberate plot in my life, or hesitated to make atonement where I could. By heavens, sir, I tell you truth. Is this fair dealing—is it candour—is it common toleration?”
I reminded Jennings that I had no right to judge in the matter; and also intimated that I had already stayed too long, and so rose to take my departure.
“Well, well, well,” he said, with a dreary sort of shrug; “patience, and shuffle the cards—who knows what may turn up—who knows? Though, egad, take it which way you will, it is about as cursed, black a looking business, as ever man was in for. It is hard—hard, by ⸻. It looks as if they were all in a savage conspiracy to ruin me; and what good, in the devil’s name, can come of it—a pack of fools!”
I now took my leave. A feeling of curiosity, and, still more strongly, one of intense interest in the unfortunate young lady, with whose fate he was so disastrously connected, had tempted me, minute after minute, to prolong my visit. It was already nearly dark, and the streetlamps were burning. I had reached the corner of Grafton-street, buried in profound abstraction, when I was suddenly accosted by a familiar voice. It was that of my friend Fitzgerald, a wild fellow, and a pleasant one to boot, and an accomplished adept in all the then important mysteries of the small-sword and pistol, and learned in all the lore of points of honour.
“Can you tell me,” said he, after our greeting, and taking me at the same time by the arm, and drawing me with him, “whether Dick Chadleigh has got into a scrape?”
“What kind of a scrape do you mean?” I asked, evasively.
“Why, he called on me when I was out, not half-an-hour ago,” he replied, “and left a hurried note, telling me I must go to him without a moment’s delay, on my return, about a little business. Now, there is but one kind of business I understand”—here he raised his arm once or twice significantly, as if balancing a pistol—“and I strongly suspect it must be upon that he has called me to counsel; all my friends make use of me, you know, on such occasions. Have you heard anything of Chadleigh’s being likely to want my services in that way—eh?”
I told him I knew that high words had passed between him and Captain Jennings.
“Jennings—ho, ho!” said he, with
