Out of the door of the house there stepped a tall, flaxen- haired man, such a figure as one would choose for the flank of a Grenadier company. As he turned his brown face and his blue eyes toward us I recognised Lord Dacre. With long strides he came down the gravel path straight for the spot where we lay.
“Come out, Ned!” he shouted; “you&csq;ll have the game- keeper putting a charge of shot into you. Come out, man, and don&csq;t skulk behind the bushes.”
It was not a very heroic situation for us. My poor friend rose with a crimson face. I sprang to my feet also and bowed with such dignity as I could muster.
“Halloa! it&csq;s the Frenchman, is it?” said he, without returning my bow. “I&csq;ve got a crow to pluck with him already. As to you, Ned, I knew you would be hot on our scent, and so I was looking out for you. I saw you cross the park and go to ground in the shrubbery. Come in, man, and let us have all the cards on the table.”
He seemed master of the situation, this handsome giant of a man, standing at his ease on his own ground while we slunk out of our hiding-place. Lord Rufton had said not a word, but I saw by his darkened brow and his sombre eyes that the storm was gathering. Lord Dacre led the way into the house, and we followed close at his heels. He ushered us himself into an oak-panelled sitting-room, closing the door behind us. Then he looked me up and down with insolent eyes.
“Look here, Ned,” said he, “time was when an English family could settle their own affairs in their own way. What has this foreign fellow got to do with your sister and my wife?”
“Sir,” said I, “permit me to point out to you that this is not a case merely of a sister or a wife, but that I am the friend of the lady in question, and that I have the privilege which every gentleman possesses of protecting a woman against brutality. It is only by a gesture that I can show you what I think of you.” I had my riding glove in my hand, and I flicked him across the face with it. He drew back with a bitter smile and his eyes were as hard as flint.
“So you&csq;ve brought your bully with you, Ned?” said he. “You might at least have done your fighting yourself, if it must come to a fight.”
“So I will,” cried Lord Rufton. “Here and now.”
“When I&csq;ve killed this swaggering Frenchman,” said Lord Dacre. He stepped to a side table and opened a brass-bound case. “By Gad,” said he, “either that man or I go out of this room feet foremost. I meant well by you, Ned; I did, by George, but I&csq;ll shoot this led- captain of yours as sure as my name&csq;s George Dacre. Take your choice of pistols, sir, and shoot across this table. The barkers are loaded. Aim straight and kill me if you can, for by the Lord if you don&csq;t, you&csq;re done.”
In vain Lord Rufton tried to take the quarrel upon himself. Two things were clear in my mind–one that the Lady Jane had feared above all things that her husband and brother should fight, the other that if I could but kill this big milord, then the whole question would be settled forever in the best way. Lord Rufton did not want him. Lady Jane did not want him. Therefore, I, Etienne Gerard, their friend, would pay the debt of gratitude which I owed them by freeing them of this encumbrance. But, indeed, there was no choice in the matter, for Lord Dacre was as eager to put a bullet into me as I could be to do the same service to him. In vain Lord Rufton argued and scolded. The affair must continue.
“Well, if you must fight my guest instead of myself, let it be to-morrow morning with two witnesses,” he cried, at last; “this is sheer murder across the table.”
“But it suits my humour, Ned,” said Lord Dacre.