“I think,” said he, “that questions such as those you’ve asked can be of no service to you. To me they are intended only to be injurious.”
“They’re as a preface to what is to come,” said Robert Lefroy, with an impudent leer upon his face. “The questions, no doubt, are disagreeable enough. She ain’t your wife no more than she’s mine. You’ve no business with her; and that you knew when you took her away from St. Louis. You may, or you mayn’t, have been fooled by someone down in Texas when you went back and married her in all that hurry. But you knew what you were doing well enough when you took her away. You won’t dare to tell me that you hadn’t seen Ferdinand when you two mizzled off from the College?” Then he paused, waiting again for a reply.
“As I told you before,” he said, “no further conversation on the subject can be of avail. It does not suit me to be cross-examined as to what I knew or what I did not know. If you have anything for me to hear, you can say it. If you have anything to tell to others, go and tell it to them.”
“That’s just it,” said Lefroy.
“Then go and tell it.”
“You’re in a terrible hurry, Mister Peacocke. I don’t want to drop in and spoil your little game. You’re making money of your little game. I can help you as to carrying on your little game, better than you do at present. I don’t want to blow upon you. But as you’re making money out of it, I’d like to make a little too. I am precious hard up—I am.”
“You will make no money of me,” said the other.
“A little will go a long way with me; and remember, I have got tidings now which are worth paying for.”
“What tidings?”
“If they’re worth paying for, it’s not likely that you are going to get them for nothing.”
“Look here, Colonel Lefroy; whatever you may have to say about me will certainly not be prevented by my paying you money. Though you might be able to ruin me tomorrow I would not give you a dollar to save myself.”
“But her,” said Lefroy, pointing as it were upstairs, with his thumb over his shoulder.
“Nor her,” said Peacocke.
“You don’t care very much about her, then?”
“How much I may care I shall not trouble myself to explain to you. I certainly shall not endeavour to serve her after that fashion. I begin to understand why you have come, and can only beg you to believe that you have come in vain.”
Lefroy turned to his food, which he had not yet finished, while his companion sat silent at the window, trying to arrange in his mind the circumstances of the moment as best he might. He declared to himself that had the man come but one day later, his coming would have been matter of no moment. The story, the entire story, would then have been told to the Doctor, and the brother-in-law, with all his malice, could have added nothing to the truth. But now it seemed as though there would be a race which should tell the story first. Now the Doctor would, no doubt, be led to feel that the narration was made because it could no longer be kept back. Should this man be with the Doctor first, and should the story be told as he would tell it, then it would be impossible for Mr. Peacocke, in acknowledging the truth of it all, to bring his friend’s mind back to the condition in which it would have been had this intruder not been in the way. And yet he could not make a race of it with the man. He could not rush across, and, all but out of breath with his energy, begin his narration while Lefroy was there knocking at the door. There would be an absence of dignity in such a mode of proceeding which alone was sufficient to deter him. He had fixed an hour already with the Doctor. He had said that he would be there in the house at a certain time. Let the man do what he would he would keep exactly to his purpose, unless the Doctor should seek an earlier interview. He would, in no tittle, be turned from his purpose by the unfortunate coming of this wretched man. “Well!” said Lefroy, as soon as he had eaten his last mouthful.
“I have nothing to say to you,” said Peacocke.
“Nothing to say?”
“Not a word.”
“Well, that’s queer. I should have thought there’d have been a many words. I’ve got a lot to say to somebody, and mean to say it;—precious soon too. Is there any hotel here, where I can put this horse up? I suppose you haven’t got stables of your own? I wonder if the Doctor would give me accommodation?”
“I haven’t got a stable, and the Doctor certainly will not give you accommodation. There is a public-house less than a quarter of a mile further on, which no doubt your driver knows very well. You had better go there yourself, because after what has taken place, I am bound to tell you that you will not be admitted here.”
“Not admitted?”
“No. You must leave this house, and will not be admitted into it again as long as I live in it.”
“The Doctor will admit me.”
“Very likely. I, at any rate, shall do nothing to dissuade him. If you go down to the road you’ll see the gate leading up to his house. I think you’ll find that he is downstairs by this time.”
“You take it very cool, Peacocke.”
“I only tell you the truth. With you I will have nothing more to do. You have a story which you
