His speech and manner appeared to be so much in keeping with the prevailing grim philosophy that Billings, after a glance at the others, went on. “Ef you left afore the first rains,” said he, “you must have left only the steamer ahead of Fletcher, when he run off with Clementina Harcourt, and you might have come across them on their wedding trip in New York.”
Not a muscle of Grant's face changed under their eager and cruel scrutiny. “No, I didn't,” he returned quietly. “But why did she run away? Did the father object to Fletcher? If I remember rightly he was rich and a good match.”
“Yes, but I reckon the old man hadn't quite got over the 'Clarion' abuse, for all its eating humble-pie and taking back its yarns of him. And may be he might have thought the engagement rather sudden. They say that she'd only met Fletcher the day afore the engagement.”
“That be d——d,” said Peters, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and startling the lazy resignation of his neighbors by taking his feet from the stove and sitting upright. “I tell ye, gentlemen, I'm sick o' this sort o' hog-wash that's been ladled round to us. That gal Clementina Harcourt and that feller Fletcher had met not only once, but MANY times afore—yes! they were old friends if it comes to that, a matter of six years ago.”
Grant's eyes were fixed eagerly on the speaker, although the others scarcely turned their heads.
“You know, gentlemen,” said Peters, “I never took stock in this yer story of the drownin' of 'Lige Curtis. Why? Well, if you wanter know—in my opinion—there never was any 'Lige Curtis!”
Billings lifted his head with difficulty; Wingate turned his face to the speaker.
“There never was a scrap o' paper ever found in his cabin with the name o' 'Lige Curtis on it; there never was any inquiry made for 'Lige Curtis; there never was any sorrowin' friends comin' after 'Lige Curtis. For why?—There never was any 'Lige Curtis. The man who passed himself off in Sidon under that name—was that man Fletcher. That's how he knew all about Harcourt's title; that's how he got his best holt on Harcourt. And he did it all to get Clementina Harcourt, whom the old man had refused to him in Sidon.”
A grunt of incredulity passed around the circle. Such is the fate of historical innovation! Only Grant listened attentively.
“Ye ought to tell that yarn to John Milton,” said Wingate ironically; “it's about in the style o' them stories he slings in the 'Clarion.'”