Puck — October 31, 1877 — page 12: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

12 PUCK. wo fnaves and a ffueen, AN ENGLISH STORY. By FRANK BARRETT. (This Story was begun in No. 4. Back Numbers can be obtained at the office of PUCK, 13 North William st. (conrinvrn.) CHAPTEN XXX. HE ascent of the hill by the path which M. de Gaillefontaine and Mr. Fox took was steep, and tried the strength of the elder man. “Tam getting old,” he said, pausing and straightening himself with the back of his hand. “When I was as young in the service of the Biron family as you, I was as active and brisk as you; but now—"" “Ah, it is a happiness when one can rest in the season for rest! It must be a great pleasure to you that you have nothing to trouble your mind at this time.” “You are right, monsieur. The relief from care and anxiety is a blessing not to be over- estimated. What is better than the «quus ani- mus of one who has nothing to regret, nothing tofear? Ihave recovered my strength; shall we proceed?” M. de Gaillefontaine offered the support of his arm, which Mr. Fox, with smiling gratitude, accepted, and they walked forwards —Mr. Fox with effort--slowly. “T recall your observation,” said M. de Gaillefontaine presently. ‘‘ Your composure is a silent compliment to me, which I appreciate truly. Another in your position would trouble himself—my faith, would trouble me also very much at this time, hearing of these canards, which I am told are flying about.” “Quels canards?” asked Mr. Fox, looking about innocently. “The rapports, the rumors. It is said, I am told, that I am about to marry the Miss Biron.” Mr. Fox laughed outright. “Why, that nonsense is not worthy of be- lief! Some statements hardly deserve to be ranked as reports. If a newspaper boy told you that the Thames was on fire, you would not spend even a halfpenny to convince yourself that he lied. It is said that you are married to Miss Biron; and I would as readily believe that ~ as the other absurd statement.” “ But why ?” “Because you are too clever, monsieur, to take such a step without consulting me. Those who make these statements, and those who be- lieve in them, don't know you; Ido. And you know me, and we both know Miss Biron. Of course it is possible that one day youwill marry Miss Biron, but before that you will give up the half of the will you hold as an assurance that my annuity will be paid when you hold the property in your hands. Had I not known you so well, monsieur, and not entertained so high an opinion of your sagacity; had I, in short, been a fool—I should long ago have ‘troubled ' you and myself, as you express it. I knew there was no occasion to enter into discussion upon the subject before matters were sufficiently ad- vanced for you to speak. I should have been content to wait until next week, or next month, or next year, had you not chosen to open the subject before. I suppose it is with a view to some little arrangement after dinner that you are pleased to ask me to dine with you? Oh, my back! Will you allow me to rest again?” They had reached the top of the hill. Aslight handrail runs beside the path for the protection of those passing at times when mist or darkness obscures the danger. The beech-covered hill that runs steeply yet gradually down to the riverside is here cut away abruptly within six feet of the rail. It is one of several deserted quarries that pit the Berkshire bank of the ‘Thames, and gives the wood its name. Mr. Fox leaned His elbows and his back against the rail and breathed quickly. “My breath is very short, and the hill tries me excessively. You don’t know how weak and trembling I feel about my knees. Dear me, my breath. O Lord, O Lord! I should not have talked so much,” “Will you sit yourself?” “No, no, it’s my breath, chiefly; and this rests my back and my legs nicely. But I mustn’t talk. Oh, dear; oh, dear, my breath —tut, tut, tut!” M. de Gaillefontaine, a‘ter a few expressions of sympathy, became silent and drew out his cigar-case, looking sidelong at this weak, trem- bling, thin old gentleman, so helpless and fati- gued in all except mental function. In that he was as strong as, ay perhaps stronger than M. de Gaillefontaine. Yes, this Mr. Fox could, and no doubt would, give his friend a good deal of trouble after dinner, and might make some unpleasant stipulations with regard to keeping silent. It may be thought that the revengeful Gascon was pleased to see the bodily suffering of him who could inflict inconvenience of another kind. But no such thought came within M. de Gaillefontaine’s consideration. He was thinking how weak the support was upon which Mr. Fox rested, only strong enough to bear the weight of such a slight, fibreless old man. One good push would break it away and pitch Mr. Fox within a foot of the quarry’s edge; and a kick with the foot would then send him ‘hurtling down to the rubble fifty feet below, and where would his power to annoy be then? A fall half that depth would knock out the feeble spark of life from this decrepit body. And why should it not be knocked out, instead of smouldering on, giving light to none, but offense to M. de Gaillefontaine? What is the good of life to one so infirm that even a plea- sant country walk isa pain? One ought to be thankful to have such an existence terminated speedily and without more than a minute’s consciousness of the approaching crash, with perhaps no more than a moment's pain. Such an end were ten thousand times preferable to a lingering deathbed. M. de Gaillefontaine slowly nibbled off the end of his cigar. What of all things he would have liked at that moment was a blow from Mr. Fox, or some sudden insult which called for personal violence. He, feeling so powerful and strong, had a repugnance to thrusting this old man through the fence and over the edge of the quarry whilst his thoughts were so collected and his passions so still. Yet he felt that now he had an opportunity which might never recur. ‘The wind was high; there was plenty of noise amongst the swaying boughs; but down below there all was silent and still as a grave. Sound would be hushed in a pit so surrounded by growth. And the path they had traversed was empty, and to the foot of the hill on the other side no one was in sight. He moved to look down the path, and that brought him in front of Mr. Fox; and he looked at him as the cat in the fable must have looked at the mouse, whose partnership she wanted to bring to a close. He rolled the cigar between his lips, nibbling the leaf nervously, and his heart began to beat and his breath to thicken, and he felt as one feels upon whom the determination grows to stake his last note on a card. ‘They had been silent both for two minutes, and Mr. Fox was breathing more easily. The | opportunity was going; yet it should not—it must not. M. de Gaillefontaine felt that the slightest thing would give him just the modicum of impulse he wanted. A touch might do it, Almost without voluntary effort he raised his hand and laid it on Mr. Fox's right arm just above the elbow. Mr. Fox looked up into his face and trembled. Quicker de Gaillefontaine raised his other hand and gripped the left arm. For half a minute he stood thus, yet wanting resolution. Mr. Fox was white, his legs gave under him, his trembling body began to sink. Then the beast-like fury towards its escaping prey came upon de Gaillefontaine, and with a fierce short cry he thrust forwards with his whole strength. ‘The rail was tougher than he expected, and Mr. Fox more slippery. ‘The old man seemed to slide inside his clothes; his arms were loose, and his body had no rigidity. He got his shoulders down to the rail, and his legs twined like a cable around his antagonist’s. ‘To stop were madness in M. de Gaillefontaine. He put out his whole strength and pushed forwards, but downwards, as Mr. Fox's position obliged him todo. The rail broke, but there were five feet of solid ground between the men and the edge of the quarry. M. de Gaillefontaine found him- self hampered, for the old man’s legs clasped his as if they had grown about him, and his hand had clutched him by the shirt-front and held him rigidly at arm’s length above him. M. de Gaillefontaine struggled hand and foot, but not for long. Light was suddenly shut from his eyes and respiration rendered difficult by a rough bag that was drawn over his head and fastened about his throat with a quick jerk of a cord that made him gasp for breath; the next moment a knee was thrust in his back, and his arms and hands dragged from Mr. Fox. He was nearly choked by the tight cord about his throat; but in addition to that there was loose fur in the strongly-smelling bag, which got into his nostrils and throat with every inspiration. Tt was a giant that held him rigidly a few inches from Mr. Fox, whose furtive hands were quickly groping and feeling about the breast of his coat and waistcoat. He kicked and struggled-to free his legs, but that flaccid, breathless old man had recovered his wind and muscle and did not give aninch, Next M. de Gaillefontaine felt the bosom of his shirt being torn, and then those long, cold, gloved fingers were touching his body. Mr. Fox was not silent all this time, but for one who had lately shown much exhaustion, he talked with surprising ease. “I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you, my good man,” he said to John Smith, who had whipped the bag over M. de Gaillefontaine’s head, and now held him fast. “I don’t know what I should have done had you not come to my assistance. I do think this French gentle- man intended to hurt me, I do indeed; and it was very unkind, inasmuch as he asked me‘to dine with him, and _he saw that I was fatigued and out of breath. If I can but get safely away from him, it will be all right. Oh, dear, see I've torn his shirt-front; tut, tut! It is all his own fault. 1 did not wish to struggle. Why, what is this you wear round your neck, monsieur—a little bag with something sewn in it? God bless me, this is very odd; here’s the very piece of paper I have been hoping to find. How very strange, tobe sure! Jt does not belong to you cither,so you cannot blame me if I take it away. So. And now, my brave fellow, if you will just hold this gentleman until I have time to place inyself under the protection of the police, I shall be very much obliged. Here is something for your kindness. As your hands are full, I will put it in your pocket.” “Shove it in my mouth, governor,” said John Smith, who, holding M. de Gaillefontaine, did not command a view of his pocket. “And now, how long am I to hold this furiner ?”” “Let me see: ten minutes to five, and the up-train is due at a quarter past. If you will