To the surprise and the relief of his fellow-conspirators, who had feared he might prove the weak link in their chain, Claud, perhaps because he found himself for the first time in his life the star round which the other members of the family revolved, came artistically to his senses, and, seizing the cue afforded by Lord Darracott’s demanding to be told how the devil he had come to be shot, at once took command of the scene, in a manner that won even his brother’s admiration. Punctuating his utterances with winces, stifled groans, and dramatic pauses during which he stiffened into rigidity, with his eyes closed, and his lower lip clenched between his teeth, he disclosed that he had been set upon by two Bedlamites, both of whom had jumped out from behind a bush, roaring at him like a couple of ferocious wild beasts, and one of whom had fired at him, “Knew at once!” he said, shuddering at the memory. “Ackletons!”
The Sergeant cast a doubtful glance at Lieutenant Ottershaw, for, in his opinion, this had a false ring. His men, as he frequently informed them, put him forcibly in mind of many things, ranging from gapeseeds, hedge-birds, slush-buckets, and sheep-biters, to beetles, tailless dogs, and dead herrings, but none of them, least of all the two raw dragoons in question, had ever reminded him of a ferocious wild beast. Field-mice, yes, he thought, remembering the sad loss of steel in those posted to watch the Dower House; but if the young gentleman had detected any resemblance to ferocious wild beasts in his assailants, the Sergeant was prepared to take his Bible oath they had not been the baconbrained knock-in-the-cradles he had posted (much against his will) within the grounds of Darracott Place.
But Sergeant Hoole had never, until this disastrous evening, set eyes on Mr. Claud Darracott. Lieutenant Ottershaw had beheld that Pink of the Ton picking his delicate way across the cobbles in Rye, clad in astonishing but unquestionably modish raiment, and holding a quizzing-glass up to his eye with one fragile white hand, and it did not strike him as remarkable that this Bartholomew baby should liken two overzealous dragoons to wild beasts.
“Did you recognize them, Claud?” Vincent asked.
Claud feebly shook his head, as it rested on one of the sofa-cushions, and instantly contracted his features in an expression of acute anguish, drawing a hissing breath, and ejaculating: “O God!—No, how could I? Too dark to recognize anyone at that distance. Besides,—only saw them for a minute. Dash it!—you don’t suppose I stopped to ask ’em for their visiting-cards, do you? Knew it was the Ackletons. Couldn’t have been anyone else!”
“As I apprehend the matter, it might well have been somebody else,” said Vincent.
Claud opened his eyes, and regarded him with disfavour. “Well, it mightn’t!” he said. “I daresay half the county may want to murder you, but—” He broke off, recalling his injury, and groped with his right hand. “Vinaigrette!” he uttered, in failing accents. “Polyphant!”
“Don’t agitate him, Vincent!” begged Anthea, as Polyphant hastened to his master’s side. “It must have been a terrible experience for him, poor Claud! And how he contrived to escape from those murderous bullies, and to struggle to the house, bleeding as dreadfully as he must have been, I can’t imagine! I think it shows the greatest determination!”
“Yes, indeed, cousin: most creditable! But I think you have not exactly understood how the case stands. We have every reason to suppose that Claud was not attacked by the Ackletons, but by a couple of dragoons, precisely as Hugo told you.”
“But that’s nonsensical!” she exclaimed.
Lord Darracott, who, after one glance at Richmond, had stalked over to the fireplace behind him, and taken up a position there, with his hands gripped behind his back, said in a voice of suppressed passion: “Is that what you call it, girl? Preventives posted in my grounds without my knowledge or consent, one of my grandsons accused of being a common felon, another fired upon—fired upon!—because he don’t choose to account for himself to a couple of loutish dragoons—”
“What?”interrupted Claud, once more opening his eyes. “Dragoons? Dragoons?”
His lordship swept on remorselessly. “My house broken into at midnight, warrants thrust at me by a damned jack-at-warts with no more conduct than wit—”
“What’s a common felon?” suddenly demanded Richmond. He had been lounging in his chair, with his left arm on the table, an empty glass loosely held in his hand, his right hand dug into his pocket, and his gaze fixed on nothing in particular, but he now judged it to be time to demonstrate to Lieutenant Ottershaw that he was in no way incapacitated. His left arm was not entirely powerless: if the elbow was supported, he could make slight movements with his forearm, and he knew that he still had the use of that hand. He was in considerable discomfort, any strain on his hurt shoulder was exquisitely painful, and he had lost enough blood to weaken him to the point of hovering on the brink of collapse; but none of these ills had the power to daunt him, or to subdue the fearless spirit that responded with alacrity to the spur of danger, and found a strange enjoyment in flirting with disaster. It had flickered and sunk for an instant when a single, fleeting glance at his grandfather’s face has brought home to him the enormity of what he had done, but only for an instant. Somewhere, at the back of his mind, lurked shame, repentance, grief for an old man’s agony, but there would be time enough later to think of such things: no time now, when disaster, so often defeated, was grinning at him in triumph. Richmond Darracott, pluck to the backbone, grinned back at disaster, gaily accepting a grim challenge.
He sat up. “’Nother thing!” he pronounced, staring frowningly at the Lieutenant. “That’s Ottershaw! What’s he doing here?”
The Lieutenant, watching him with narrowed eyes, took a few steps into the room, and replied: “I am here to see you, sir!”
“See me,” repeated Richmond, slurring his sibilants. His gaze remained fixed on the Lieutenant’s face, frowning in an effort of concentration. Suddenly, to that serious-minded officer’s discomfited surprise, his eyes began to dance, and a mischievous smile curled his lips. He giggled.
“Be silent, Richmond!” commanded Lord Darracott. “You’re drunk!”
“But I don’t understand!” complained Anthea, looking helplessly round. “Why should you want to see my brother, sir? At this hour, too? Why did dragoons shoot Claud? Why—Oh, for goodness sake, tell me, somebody, before I go into strong hysterics, which, I warn you, I shall, at any moment!”
“Nay, lass, it’s naught but a storm in a teacup!” said Hugo soothingly. “There’s no need to be in a worry!”
She rounded on him. “No need to be in a worry, when I find Richmond in this odious condition, and Claud bleeding to death?”
“None regrets the accident to Mr. Claud Darracott more than I, ma’am,” said the Lieutenant. “It is a mistake which—”
“It is a mistake which is going to cost you dear!” interrupted Lord Darracott.
As Richmond Darracott responded to the challenge of danger, so did Lieutenant Ottershaw to that of threats. Where the injury to Claud was concerned (if such an injury existed), he knew himself to be standing on thin ice, but he answered at once: “I would remind you, my lord, that it is the absolute duty of any person, when commanded to halt in the King’s name—”
“Help me up!” commanded Claud, making ineffectual efforts to heave himself on to his sound elbow.
“Take care!” cried Anthea, hurrying back to the sofa. “No, no, Claud, pray be still! Vincent—Polyphant!”
“Help me up!” repeated Claud. “Dash it—can’t—talk to that fellow—like this! Going to sit up! Going to—sit up—if it kills me!”
“Keep still, brother!” Vincent said, pressing him down again. “I will talk to the fellow—have no fear of that!”