Retribution (Farnol)

HE moon was at the full and the clock of Saint Clement the Dane was chiming midnight when Mr. Merriam, reaching the arched doorway of Clifford's Inn, raised his hand to knock upon the wicket—a white hand, slim and elegant like himself, but a hand whose symmetry was marred by the loss of its little finger.

Mr. Merriam, then, raised his hand to knock, but, in the very act, checked himself and turned to peer over his shoulder.

It was Christmas Eve and freezing hard; in a cloudless firmament a myriad stars glittered, their vivid light scarcely dimmed by the pale glory of an orbed moon that cast an ugly blotch before Mr. Merriam wherever he moved, the grotesque, foreshortened shadow of his immaculate and stately self; beholding which, he frowned and lifted scowling eyes to glare up at the refulgent heaven and round about the silent thoroughfare. Then, slowly retracing his steps, he turned eastwards and sauntered towards the grim shadow of Temple Bar. From a sedan-chair a-swing between its trotting bearers issued a quavering voice upraised in song tipsily discordant; here and there a belated pedestrian, muffled to the eyes, hastened by; from dark corners misery peered and murmured hoarse supplications. But Mr. Merriam strolled leisurely on, all unheeding, and apparently impervious to the cold, left hand poised gracefully upon the hilt of his small-sword, right hand clasping silver-mounted cane, but his eyes—set in the oval of a handsome face, pale by contrast with the black curl of his great periwig—small, bright, and very keen eyes, scanning the loom of Temple Bar with a fixed and expectant scrutiny.

Almost within the shadow of the Bar he paused to lean gracefully upon his cane and peer up at a row of rusted iron spikes that crowned the central arch, divers of which spikes were topped by awful, shapeless, festering things that had once been human. It was upon one of these dismal objects that Mr. Merriam focussed his keen gaze, a head so much fresher and less weather-beaten than its ghastly fellows that Mr. Merriam could plainly descry the pallid features in detail—the eyes that seemed to leer down at him beneath drooping lids, the pinched nostrils, the dark orifice of the mouth horribly agape.

Mr. Merriam smiled and, taking out his snuff-box, helped himself to a pinch, which he inhaled delicately and with an appearance of much enjoyment.

Many other eyes had doubtless looked upon this gruesome thing since it had been set up that morning, but surely none with such an expression of malignant satisfaction as those of Mr. Merriam.

"Egad, and so there you are, my lord!" said he in a soft, murmurous voice. "Not precisely the Apollo Belvedere you were, my lord, no. She would shudder away from you now, my lord, as she was wont to shudder from me. Aha, Barbara, my proud Lady Disdain, would ye kiss him now? Egad, I venture to doubt it, madam—aye, upon my soul, I do! So there are you, my lord, no very pleasing object, though you will look worse yet when the wind and rain and sun have been at you a while. There I have you, and there I leave you—to rot and rot, my lord—and over the Border is Barbara, waiting to be comforted I She shall be less cruel than she was, mayhap. We shall see anon. And so a merry Christmas, my lord, a fair good night, and may she forget you as speedily as you shall rot"

"Was you speaking to me, sir?"

Mr. Merriam stood utterly still for a moment, then, fobbing his snuff-box, spun round upon the speaker, whipping out his sword as he did so.

A very tall man in a long, loose cloak, his features hidden in the shade of his wide-eaved hat, repeated the question:

"Was you speaking to me, sir?"

"I was not," answered Mr. Merriam, and, stepping quickly back, he levelled his sword threateningly. "Lift your head and let me look at you!" he commanded.

The man obeyed, showing a lean face with high cheekbones and a shock of fiery red hair.

"You'll be a Scot?" said Mr. Merriam, scowling.

"I am that."

"Well, yonder's another!" quoth Mr. Merriam, gesturing with his cane to the freshly-decapitated head above them. "Take my advice and don't prowl hereabouts, lest you come to a like end. Now, out of my path!"

The man stepped mutely aside, and Mr. Merriam sheathed his sword, then, becoming conscious of the other's fixed stare, thrust his mutilated hand hastily into his pocket.

"What the devil d'ye stare at?" he demanded angrily.

"Nothing, sir, forbye it ain't there. You ha'e lost a finger, and him up yonder his head! 'Tis you are the lucky ane—so far, I'm thinkin'. But as ye say, sir, here is no juist a verra healthy place for us Scots, so here's ane as will awa'. Gude nicht tae ye!"

Mr. Merriam stood to scowl until the flutter of the long cloak was lost in the shadows of Temple Bar, then went his way. Once he turned to glance back, and it seemed to him that amid these shadows were two forms now, crouching motionless to peer after him as he went.

Thus Mr. Merriam's step was a little more hurried and his knock a little louder and more imperious than usual upon the wicket, which, opening in due season, discovered Job, the night-watchman, lanthorn in hand.

"Is it you, Mr. Merriam, sir?" exclaimed Job. "'Ere's me thought I know'd all Clifford's genelmen by their indiwidual knocks, an' I took ye for Cap'en Standish a bit drunker than ord'nary."

"Has anyone inquired for me since I went out, Job?"

"Norra living soul, sir!"

"Egad, 'twould hardly be a dead one, I fancy."

"You don't believe in ghosts, then, sir—phantoms an' sich?"

"Tush and fiddle-de-dee, man!"

"Maybe, sir, but I've 'eerd tell as Clifford's do be 'aunted."

"By what, Job?"

"Can't say, Mr. Merriam, sir, but there's been enough folk die in Clifford's one way or another. And then there's the Bar, d'ye see. Will ye step into my lodge for a spell, sir?"

"Thank you, no—that is, yes, I will, if you've a fire; 'tis perishing cold."

"Aye, so 'tis, sir—reg'lar Christmas weather an' all. But I've a fire as shall warm your outards an' innards in no time."

"You keep yourself very comfortable, Job," said Mr. Merriam, seating himself at the hearth and stretching his legs to the fire.

"Aye, pretty snug, sir, pretty snug! And there's a noo 'ead top o' the Bar. Did ye 'appen t' see it as you come along, sir?"

"Aye, I took some notice of it, Job."

"'Twere set up this werry mornin', sir. There be a friend o' mine, Ben Bowker by name, drove a roarin' trade wi' 'is spyglass all day—a'penny a look—must ha' made a fortun'. Took a peep myself, though strictly grattus. A nice 'ead, sir—a young—ah, a werry young genelman, by his looks, sir, judging by 'is 'ead, young an' 'andsome,"

"D'ye think so. Job? Who was he?"

"One o' them there rebel Scotch lords as was hexecuted yesterday. My darter went to see it, an' a werry nice affair it was, by all accounts."

"I rejoice to hear it, Job."

"Though they do say as this here young lord weren't s' guilty as some."

"Ha, do they, Job? What else do they say?"

"Well, as 'e were hexecuted on false ewidence, an' as they be a-seekin' an' a-searchin' for the informer."

Mr. Merriam blinked drowsily at the fire and pinched his pointed chin.

"I wonder if they'll find him, Job?" he murmured.

"I 'opes so, sir. I don't 'old wi' informers, not me. I mind Titus Gates, d'ye see."

"I wonder," yawned Mr. Merriam—"I wonder who this informer could have been?"

"Well, sir, Mr. Grice, at Number Fifteen, as is a lawyer, do tell me as this 'ere informer were the poor, dead young lord's very own cousin."

"Remarkable!" sighed Mr. Merriam, fingering a scar that marked his handsome face. "Mr. Grice, at Number Fifteen, would seem to be a singularly well-informed gentleman. However, the young lord is certainly dead—yes, very thoroughly dead, it appears."

"Aye, sir, nobody was ever deader. And s' young—no more than twenty-three, they do say. An' such a death!"

"Decapitation is a swift death, Job, and consequently a merciful."

"Maybe, sir, but think what goes afore the stroke—the soldiers, the crowds, the shouting, the 'eadsman, the haxe itself! And 'im so very young, and at Christmas, too—I calls it oncommon 'ard! What I say is, if ever a dead man turned hisself into a ghost and took to 'aunting—flittin' an' flyin', moanin' an' groanin'—it should be this here young lord, and, what's more" Job paused suddenly as if to listen.

"Ah, did you hear it, Job?"

"Aye, sir. Sounded like the wicket shuttin' to."

Mr. Merriam's drowsiness vanished in an instant, and he was upon his feet, his keen gaze upon the door.

"There is someone outside," said he softly.

"Aye, but 'oo should open or shut the wicket without me, sir? It ain't reg'lar."

Deigning no answer, Mr. Merriam crossed to the door, jerked it suddenly open, and, peering into the gloom of the arch, uttered a fierce exclamation and clapped hand to sword.

"Neil! Ah, thank Heaven!" exclaimed a soft voice, and forth of the darkness came a muffled shade, white hands outstretched.

"A young 'ooman!" quoth Job, contemptuous.

"Barbara!" gasped Mr. Merriam, then, seizing those white hands, stood a long moment staring into the face upraised to his, a beautiful face, though deadly pale beneath the shadowy hood. Then, with sudden, masterful gesture, he drew the unresisting hand within his arm and led the lady across the Inn towards the privacy of his chambers.

Job, peering after them, had the vague impression of a black shade that flitted behind them in the denser gloom, but, thinking this mere fancy, shook his head and shut himself in with his fire.

"Barbara," said Mr. Merriam, gripping the passive fingers he held, "here, in London! Can this indeed be you?"

"Wherefore not, Neil?"

"You are vastly changed since last we met, my lady."

"I am a year older and—wiser."

"And infinitely gentler. Egad, I can scarce believe you are that proud termagant that had me turned out—aye, driven from her haughty presence by her lackeys."

"I am not, Neil," she answered in the same low, even tone.

"And why are you here?" he demanded a little bitterly. "Why do you come to me?"

"Because I am solitary, Neil, and very lonely, and—you loved me—once."

"Aye, by Heaven, once and for always, my lady!" he answered passionately. "I have waited a long time for this hour, and Oh, Barbara," he whispered, stooping to behold her face, "how beautiful you are! Nay, why do you tremble? Are you cold?"

"Yes," she whispered, "yes, Neil, dreadfully cold—as cold as—death!"

"Come, then, I have a fire within doors yonder."

Mr. Merriam's chambers were on the ground floor, and he was stooping to fit key to lock, when he started suddenly erect and turned to find her close behind him.

"Did you hear anything, Barbara?" he questioned.

"Nothing, Neil."

"I thought I heard the chink of iron—a rattling sound like someone climbing the gate that opens into Fetter Lane yonder."

"'Twas the wind, Neil."

"But there is no wind, child."

"A shutter, then, the rattle of a casement. You are fanciful!"

"Belike I am," he laughed, "though 'tis something strange in me."

Then he opened the door and, having closed it behind them, heard her breathe distressfully as he struck flint and steel. When at last he had lighted the candles, he saw her leaning against the door, her whole form shaken by violent tremors.

"What, Barbara, are ye so very cold?"

"Yes, Neil," she gasped.

At this he made haste to seat her in the great elbow-chair before the hearth, to kick the smouldering fire to a blaze, to fill her a glass of brandy.

"You are worn out, my sweet soul," said he, feasting his hungry eyes on her loveliness while she sipped the fiery spirit.

"Yes, Neil."

"And more beautiful than ever!" And, speaking, he took and fondled her nerveless hand.

"They—killed him yesterday, Neil!" said she, staring into the fire.

"So I hear," answered Mr. Merriam, kissing her cold, limp fingers.

"I—watched it done, Neil. And he saw me. Yes, amid all those thousands of faces his eyes found mine, and—he smiled on me, Neil—and his cheeks so pale—so very pale!"

"Fie, child, 'tis over and done! Poor Roderick is dead indeed, but his troubles are done with. So forget this doleful business, banish these past, sad memories, and think rather of the future. To-morrow I was intending for Scotland and you—you, my Barbara."

"Poor Roderick!" she sighed. "Oh, 'twas pitiful to see how his hands shook and trembled despite his brave bearing!"

"Aye," exclaimed Mr. Merriam between gnashing teeth, "beyond a doubt it was upon his account you adventured all this way to London."

"'Twas to save you, Neil!"

"Me?" he echoed. "To save me, Barbara? From what?"

"A needless sin," she sighed. "I mean the murder of your Cousin Roderick."

Mr. Merriam sprang to his feet and stood scowling down at her, his handsome face suffused, his long, white fingers opening and shutting. "Madam!" he exclaimed. "Ha, my lady, dare ye name me murderer? "

She never so much as stirred or troubled to look at him.

"Yes," she answered in the same sighing voice, "I name you murderer because I know you intercepted that incriminating letter from France. I know 'twas you formed and laid the information against him. I know 'twas you sent Roderick to his death, and all—ah, Heaven—all for love of me!"

"Do you dare to think 'twas I"

"I know," she murmured, and, turning slowly in her chair, she looked at him at last; and before this calm, dispassionate scrutiny Mr. Merriam's bold assurance was shaken, his keen glance wavered, and he plucked nervously at his ruffle. "Ah, Neil," she sighed, "you sent Roderick to his death because you thought I loved him, and, had you but known, my heart was yours!"

Mr. Merriam gasped and fell back a step, voiceless and staring.

"And so," she continued in the same passionless tone, "I came hasting to tell you the truth, but was delayed on the road, and reached London only in time to—watch him die, and you that I loved become his murderer."

Mr. Merriam stared down at the beautiful, impassive face with eyes wide in horrified dismay.

"If this be true!" he gasped. "Oh, Barbara, if this indeed be true! Nay, but 'twas ever and always Roderick with you, and never a chance for me—aye, 'twas ever Roderick, curse him, curse him! You loved him. I saw it in your eyes a thousand times!"

"Oh, blind!" she cried, rising to her feet. "Oh, blind! I loved you then, Neil, and, God forgive me, I love you yet!"

"Barbara!" he cried, exultant, and reached out his arms to her. "Barbara!"

"Ah, no, no!" she panted, shrinking from him. "Your hands are red with Roderick's blood! Do not touch me!"

"But you love me, Barbara, you love me?"

"Aye, but there is your sin betwixt us!"

"Love should forgive all, Barbara!"

"But first must be confession, Neil."

"Confession?" he muttered.

"Oh, Neil," she sighed, "how shall sin be forgiven without confession?"

"So be it!" he answered, and, reaching out masterful arms, he clasped her, shivering, in his embrace. "Come to me, Barbara, your head upon my bosom, your eyes on mine, so! Now, loved woman, hear me! I have loved you beyond imagining, and, dreading to lose you to that lordly fool, my cousin, I took means to remove him!"

"By the letter, Neil!"

"By the letter."

"You laid the information that brought his head 'neath the axe?"

"I did! And you—you are my reward! So here, then, is my confession! And now kiss me, my Barbara!"

But from those quivering lips so near his own rose a sudden awful scream that grew ever higher and more shrill as, breaking from his lax hold, she flung herself down upon her knees before the elbow-chair and crouched there, her face bowed and hidden in her arms. And so came silence. But presently upon this silence came a rustling at the window, a soft padding against the glass. Mr. Merriam turned and stood motionless; only his long, white fingers clutched and clutched at the laces of his cravat; for pressed close against the pane was the pallid oval of an awful face that seemed to leer in at him beneath drooping lids and with mouth horribly agape.

With a tinkle of breaking glass, the lattice swung open and, as if borne on the chilly air, this ghastly thing projected itself into the room towards him.

Mr. Merriam uttered a dreadful, choking cry, and, crashing over backwards, lay very still, staring up at the rafters with eyes fixed and wide.

But though Mr. Merriam's eyes were so very wide open, he saw nothing of the figure that wriggled into the room—a very tall, bony man with fiery-red hair—and his ears heard nothing of the hoarse whisper—

"A' richt, my leddy. I ha' it safe doon from yon gate for ye. So awa' wi' ye ootside, an' leave the rest tae me. I'll no be verra long."

Next morning, his nightly watch over, Job, muffled to the ears, stepped out into the chilly morning air—an air vibrant with the joyous welcome of Christmas bells—and trudged off homewards. But, being close upon Temple Bar, he must needs halt a moment to glance upward at that pitiful thing which had been the cynosure of so many eyes, and had filled Ben Bowker's pockets at one halfpenny per look. Glancing upwards, therefore, Job stood suddenly agape, forgetful alike of cold, of breakfast, and the comfort of bed that awaited him, for there, in place of the head of that poor young lord, was another, with eyes fixed in a wide and horrified stare—a handsome face, pale by contrast with the black curls of its great periwig that stirred gently in the cold wind, the head and face of Mr. Merriam.