"Ay, that's the plan! I'll try it, if only my nerves keep as steady as they feel to-day."
The chief inn of Earlshall, a small town on the borders of Northshire, was full and busy one morning in May, more than twelve months from the opening of this true history. It was market-day, and the coffee-room resounded with the loud voices and creaking boots of the neighboring farmers, who had looked in for a mouthful and "a drop of drink" somewhat stronger than coffee.
The stables were full of strong, serviceable nags, worthy of the shire which bred them, and the busy hostlers had scarce time to attend to the demand of a stranger, who had been staying for the last two days at the inn, that one or other of them should saddle the horse he had ridden each day since he arrived.
"Hand it over to me, and I'll saddle him myself," he said at length. "I am no fool about a horse, and can generally manage all I want with my own hands." So saying, he proceeded to saddle the steed he had selected, and soon trotted out of the yard.
A stranger was a novelty at Earlshall, and several inquiries were addressed to "mine host," who mixed on pleasant, easy terms with his guests. "The visitor was from 'Lunnon' or from furrin parts." But he knew a horse when he saw one; he had been over to Denham all day long; the landlord's opinion was that likely he came from a newspaper, and he hoped as how he would write up the 'Black Horse.' There was a letter for him that morning from Denham. "I know the paper and the crest stamped outside," added the host; "I dare say he's an electioneering chap."
Unconscious of these comments Lambert rode on, with a grey, set face, and firmly-closed mouth. The letter he had received that morning had been brief:—"I will hear what you have to say, but I do not wish a criminal to cross my threshold. You must meet me by the Deer's Barn in the Beech Wood, about a mile from the village. Any one will direct you." This had no signature, and was addressed to "Mr. Smith." Lambert took it out and read it, gnashing his teeth as he did so.
"The insolent, daring villain," he muttered; "can I do nothing to turn his flank? If he had a gleam of conscience he would be less daringly unscrupulous, but he hasn't enough to make a coward of him. Glynn is my best card, but Deering knows his strength; he has only to lie boldly, and I am at his mercy. But he'll never get hold of her: she is safe from him." Then his thoughts wandered away to a bit of country near Mrs. Kellett's home, where in some of his many visits to his darling daughter, he had led her little Welsh pony, while she talked to him of her own simple fancies—of her dearly loved pets, of the wild flowers, and birds, and insects, all of which were so familiar to the country-bred child. What a foretaste of heaven it all was! No soiled sinner purified by purgatorial fires and admitted into the divine calm of celestial joy could have felt more keenly the sense of regeneration and revival than the poor battered wanderer who had devoted himself to the care of his enemy's orphan; and now, as he reflected that he had brought misfortune to the creature he so fondly loved, that he had unconsciously put her and himself into the power of a bold scoundrel, his heart throbbed with fury so wild, so overpowering, that he was almost alarmed at himself.
"I must keep my brain clear," he muttered. "I wish I could get quit of this mad desire to shoot Deering,—it wouldn't do,—it wouldn't do. I could never stroll through cool country lanes with my Elsie again; I never could stroke her bright hair with this right hand if it had committed murder. That I have never done. No, Deering, you infernal liar, never!—only in fair fight have I killed my man."
He stopped with an odd sense of confusion, finding that he spoke aloud. His horse stumbling at the same time, the current of his thoughts changed. He began to look forward. Elsie and Glynn were married; they had a beautiful home in London, and he (Lambert) a snug little apartment in Paris—he was more at home in Paris—and they visited each other. Then as years stole on, and he didn't care to move about much, he would sit in his chair, and Elsie would soothe him with her heavenly songs, her delicious voice. Ah well, he might bring Deering to reason; if not, well, he could never meet Elsie's eyes when opened to the knowledge of deeds hidden away in his past life. Anyhow he must commit no act of violence; this 'must not' but thinly veiled a strange kind of conviction that something beyond himself would compel him to do a desperate deed.