The Tiger Lily Part 38

"Leronde? Told you?"

"Of course he did. Came to me to be your other second."

"The idiot! Where is he?"

"Locked up where he'll stay till I let him loose."

Armstrong used a strong expression.

"And so we must have a duel, must we? Go out to Belgium to fight this Italian organ-grinder. Curse him, and his Jezebel of a wife!"

"Silence, man!" cried Armstrong excitedly. "Pacey, no more of this!

Where is Leronde? He must be set free at once. My honour is at stake."

"His what?" cried Pacey, bursting into a roar of ironical laughter. "My G.o.d! His honour! You adulterous dog, you talk to me of your honour and duelling, and all that cursed, sickly, contemptible code that ought to have been dead and buried, and wondered at by us as a relic of the dark ages--you talk to me of that? Why, do you know what it means? First and foremost, murdering Cornel Thorpe: for, as sure as heaven's above us, that organ-man will shoot you like the dog you are, and in killing you he'll kill that poor girl. I swear it. She can't help it. She gave her love to you, poor la.s.sie, and she's the kind of woman who loves once and for all. There's the first of it. As for you, well, the best end of you is that you should be buried at once, out of the way, as you would be if I let you go to meet this man."

"If you let me?" raged Armstrong.

"Yes, if I let you; for I won't. Why, you're mad. That Jezebel has turned your brain, and I'll have you in a strait waistcoat, and then in a padded room, before I'll let you go to save your honour and his. Ha, ha! His honour! The Italian greyhound! He never took any notice of his wife till he found she had a lover, but was after as many light-famed creatures as there are cards in the devil's books. Then-- his honour! Ha, ha! his honour! Why, the whole gang of French and Italian monkeys never knew what honour is, and never will. Now then, I said I'd thrash you, and I have. I only wish Dellatoria had jolly well fractured your skull, so as to make you an invalid for six months. Look here; I've locked up Leronde, I'll lock up you, and if the Conte comes here, I'll kick him downstairs."

"You are mad. I must meet him."

"I'm not mad, and you shan't meet him."

"You mean well, Pacey, but it is folly to go on like this. Run back and set Leronde at liberty."

"I'm going to do what I like, not what you like," cried Pacey fiercely, pulling out a knife; "and first of all, I'll finish that cursed picture."

He swung the great easel round, and in a few minutes had slashed the canvas to ribbons, and torn it from the frame.

"There's an end of that!" he roared.

"So much the better," said Armstrong, who had looked on unmoved.

"Oh! you like that, then?" cried Pacey. "You're coming round."

"Now go," said Armstrong, "and end this folly."

"You'll swear first of all that you will not meet this man?"

"I'll swear I will," said Armstrong coldly.

"He'll shoot you dead."

"I hope so."

"Armstrong, lad, listen to me," said Pacey, calming down. "You'll be sensible?"

"Yes."

"And give it up? For poor Cornel's sake?"

"Silence! or you'll drive me really mad."

"Now then, get your hat, and come with me."

"Will you go?"

"Will you come with me?"

"Look here," said Armstrong. "I can bear no more. I want to be cool and act like a man to the end, but you are pushing me to the very brink.--Will you go?"

"Yes," said Pacey, b.u.t.toning up his coat. "I'm off now, boy."

"Where?"

"Straight to the police. I'll swear a breach of the peace against you both, and have you seized, or bound over, or something. This meeting shan't take place. For Cornel's sake--do you hear? For her sake, so there!"

He strode to the door, unlocked it, opened, and banged it loudly behind him, and Armstrong stood thinking what course he ought to pursue, while Pacey went straight away, not to the police, but to Thorpe's hotel, where he told the doctor how matters stood.

"I don't know what you are to do, sir," said Thorpe coldly. "I wash my hands of the whole business. He has behaved horribly to my poor sister, and turned her brain. Let him go and be shot."

"Likely," growled Pacey. "Nice Christian advice to give. Why, it would kill her."

"Not it. She has too much womanly determination in her, poor girl. But I can do nothing. She has been to him again and again in opposition to my wishes--forgotten all her woman's dignity."

"To try and save your old schoolfellow, her lover."

"Bah! she has cast him off, sir, as the scoundrel deserves."

"Not she," said Pacey. "She loves him still in spite of all, and in time she would forgive him, if he behaved like a man."

"Not if I can prevent it," retorted Thorpe. "She shall not forgive him."

"Well, sir," said Pacey, "I have not come to dispute with you about that. He is almost your brother, and he is in deadly peril of his life.

That Italian has challenged him; they will fight, as sure as we stand here, and the malignant, spiteful scoundrel will shoot Armstrong like a dog."

"Nonsense! What can he care for such a wife?"

"Nothing; but his honour is at stake."

"His honour!" cried Thorpe contemptuously.

"Exactly so. What such men call their honour. Armstrong will evade me somehow, and go off to Belgium, I am sure; and if he does, he is so careless of his own life now, in his despair, misery, and degradation, that he will never come back alive."

"Pish!"

"It is a fact, sir. I have heard that Dellatoria is deadly with sword or pistol, and he has been out more than once before--Good heavens, Miss Thorpe! are you there?"