Part 2, Chapter IV.
Let Sleeping Dogs Lie.
The two young men had no thought of the consequences that might ensue, as they hurried over the short elastic turf towards where, almost a giant among his kind, Jock Morrison lay prone upon his broad back, his powerful arms crossed upon his chest, and his battered old soft felt hat drawn over his face to shade it from the sun—rather a work of supererogation, for the god of day would have had to work hard to tan it of a richer brown.
Artingale was first, but Magnus was close behind, and as they saw the man before them who had caused so much annoyance to, and so insulted those they loved, the feeling of indignation in their breasts bubbled up rapidly, and overflowed in hot passion before which that better part of valour known as discretion was swept away. Artingale looked upon the great fellow as something to be soundly thrashed, but Magnus, in spite of his weakness, seemed as if his rage had regularly mastered him. He saw in those brief instants, degrading as was the idea, a rival as well as an enemy, and panting and excited he strove to be there first, so as to seize the fellow by the throat, his weakness and suffering from his late illness being forgotten in the one stern desire to grapple with this man, and look at him face to face.
But Artingale was there first, and shouted to the fellow to get up, but without eliciting any reply.
“Do you hear? Get up!” cried Artingale.
Still the man did not stir, but Magnus noted a slight motion of the hairs of his thick beard, as if his lips had twitched slightly. In other respects he was motionless, his arms folded across the deep chest and the cap over his face.
“He’s not asleep, he’s shamming,” cried Artingale angrily; and bending down he snatched the hat from the fellow’s face and sent it skimming over the cliff, revealing a pair of fierce dark eyes glaring at him like those of some wild beast.
“Now then, young gentlemen! what’s the matter?” came now in a deep voice like a growl.
“You scoundrel!” began Magnus, but he had over-rated his strength. His illness had told upon him terribly, and he could neither speak, move, nor act, but pale and haggard stood there holding his hand pressed upon his breast.
“Who are you calling names?” said the fellow fiercely.
“Leave him to me,” cried Artingale. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Oh, two of you, eh?” exclaimed Jack; “two of you to a man as is down. Well, as I said before, and I say again, what’s the matter?”
“Look here, you dog!” cried Artingale, planting his foot upon the man’s broad chest, but without eliciting a movement, “I know everything about you, and where you come from.”
“Oh, do you?” said the fellow with a chuckle. “And so do I know you. You’re a game preserver from Lincolnshire.”
“Never mind who or what I am,” cried Artingale, who felt in his excitement as if he had never spoken worse in his life; “but just you listen to me, you scoundrel. I know how you have followed and insulted those two young ladies.”
“What two young ladies? I don’t know anything about two young ladies.”
“I know that you have watched for their coming, and, knowing that they were unprotected, you have tried to alarm them into giving you money, I suppose, and so far you have escaped the police.”
“Ho!” said the fellow, making Artingale’s foot rise and fall, as he indulged in a rumbling chuckle; “it’s a police case, then, after all? Lawford magistrates?”
“No, not now,” cried Artingale, angrily. “Keep back, Magnus, I’ll manage him,” he cried; “you’re not fit. I say, it is not a police case now.”
“Oh!” growled the fellow, laughing defiantly, “what may it be, then?”
“A thrashing, you dog, for if ever there was a time when a gentleman might dirty his hands by touching a blackguard it is now.”
“Ho! it’s a leathering is it, your lordship!”
“Yes,” cried Artingale, “it’s a thrashing now, you great hulking brute; and after that, if ever you dare approach those ladies again—if ever you speak to them, or look at them, or annoy them, directly or indirectly, either here or down at home, I’ll half kill you, and hand you over afterwards to the police.”
“Ho, you will, will you?” said the fellow, mockingly.
“And I—I—” cried Magnus, bending down and approaching his pale, passion-distorted face to that of the great robust scoundrel at his feet.
“Yes, I see there’s two,” growled the fellow. “And what’ll you do?”
“I’ll shoot you like a dog!” There was something horrible in the intensity of hatred and passion contained in the low, hissing voice in which these few words were uttered; and as he lay there and heard them the great ruffian’s brown face became of a dirty grey. But the look of dread was gone on the instant, and his chest heaved as he indulged in a mocking burst of laughter.
“All right,” he said; “fire away, and if you do kill me, I’ll come when I’m a ghost and see you hung. There, be off both of you. This is free land. This isn’t Lawford, and I haven’t been taking any of your lordship’s rabbuds this time.”
“What are you doing here?” said Artingale.
“Doing here!” said Jock, musingly; “why don’t you know I’m a Lawford man?”
“Yes; I know that,” cried Artingale.
“Well, my parson’s down here; I miss him when he comes away.”
“Get up, you scoundrel!” cried Artingale, throwing off the brown velvet coat he was wearing, and taking off his watch and chain.
“Not I,” growled the fellow. “There’s lots o’ room for you to pass, man, and ’taint your path. That’s the gainest road back.”
“Get up?” roared Artingale, rolling up his sleeves over his white arms. “Do you hear?”
“Oh, ah! I can hear,” growled the fellow.
“Get up, then.”
“Not I. It’s comfortable here.”
“You cowardly ruffian, get up!” roared Artingale.
“Nay, it’s not me as is the coward,” said Jock, coolly. “You’re two to one. Besides, I don’t want to hurt your lordship.”
“Get up!” roared Artingale again, but Jock did not move, only lay there gazing mockingly in his face, making the young man’s blood seem to seethe with rage.
“Get up!” he roared once more.
“Weant!”
As the word left the ruffian’s lips, Artingale’s passion knew no bounds, and before his companion realised what he was about to do, he had given Jock Morrison a tremendous kick in the ribs.
The effect was instantaneous.
With a roar like that of an angry bull, the fellow scrambled to his feet, and as Magnus sprang forward to seize him, he struck the artist full in the chest, sending him staggering back to fall heavily, hors de combat, for he was as weak almost as a child.
It was the work of moments, for even as he struck Magnus he turned upon Artingale, receiving two heavy, well-directed blows, dealt in good scientific style right in the jaw and cheek, but making no more of them than if they had been slaps from the open hand of a boy, as he caught the young man in a tremendous grip like that of a wrestler, and swayed and struggled with his adversary to and fro, roused now to a pitch of rage that was murderous.
Artingale knew it. He read it in the fierce eyes so close to his, as he felt himself crushed against the great fellow’s chest. He read it in the grinding teeth, and felt it in the hot breath that came full in his face, and he put forth all his strength and all the cultured activity gained in lessons of the best athletic school. But it was all in vain, for he felt as helpless as a boy in the giant’s grip.
It was but the work of moments; a few struggles here and there, and the knowledge forced upon him of the scoundrel’s murderous aim before Artingale felt himself swung from his feet as they neared the cliff, and then, in spite of his manhood, he felt his blood turn cold.
He roused himself though for a supreme effort, and clutching his adversary with all his might, he strove to recover his foot-hold.
But no—he was mastered. He could do nothing but hold on with all his might, as he mentally swore that Jock Morrison should share his fate.
Vain oath, vain effort! There was a swing, a jerk, and what seemed to be a paralysing blow upon his muscles, as he was forced away from his hold, and the next instant he was falling headlong from the cliff-edge into the void beneath.
End of Volume Two.