"He said that he should not return to-night; further than that we do not know."

"Oh, why did you not have me called? Why did you not detain him and send for me?" demanded Roland, in the tone of a deeply injured individual.

"My dear fellow, I did not happen to see the colonel, or hear of him, until after he was gone. The head waiter had charge of him, and gave the message he left for the house," mildly pleaded the bartender.

"Oh-h-h! what a disappointment!" cried Roland, leaving the bar to go in search of the head waiter.

He found that functionary in the public dining room, and questioned him closely in regard to the movements of Col. Anglesea; but the head waiter could only repeat the message left with him by the colonel; and this, of course, threw no new light on the subject.

Roland went out and questioned the hostler, but the latter knew even less than the others about the missing guest.

Finally Roland, in spite of his disappointment and anxiety, feeling the keen hunger of a healthy youth, went in and sat down and ate a very hearty breakfast.

Then he paid his bill and left the Calvert, leaving every one, from the host to "boots," wondering what on earth the young man could have wanted with the colonel, to have kept him waiting all night for him.

But, finally, some one remembered that Mr. Roland Bayard was mate of the ship which had brought the colonel's forsaken wife--his first wife, as they called her--from California to Maryland, and that the same Mr. Roland Bayard had escorted the lady to the neighborhood, and had even introduced her to his own aunt, the good Miss Sibby Bayard, who had entertained the stranger without knowing who she really was, or what the nature of her business in the neighborhood might be.

Therefore, the gossips and wiseacres of the Calvert decided that young Roland Bayard must be a messenger from "his first wife."

Roland, meanwhile, unmindful of the discussion he had left behind him, st.u.r.dily strode on his way over the frozen highroad, under the winter sky, toward Greenbushes, to report to Leonidas Force.

Greenbushes was full five miles from Calvert's, so he walked on.

CHAPTER x.x.xII

PREPARING FOR FATE

Leonidas Force, after leaving Forest Rest, put spurs to his horse and galloped all the way to Greenbushes, only pausing when it became necessary to open a gate that crossed the road, by which chance the hard-pressed steed got a moment in which to recover his wind.

When he reached Greenbushes, he sprang from his saddle, threw the bridle to a boy who came up to take the horse, and hurried into the house.

His colored housekeeper came to ask him if he was going to stay home all night, or to return to Mondreer, so that she might know whether she was to get supper, and to make a fire in his bedroom.

Le told her that he should stay at home all night.

The woman went away to attend to his comforts.

Le opened the door of that little, oak-paneled parlor on the right of the hall of entrance, where there was always a fire kept alive for the master, and a round table covered with account books, piles of paper, bundles of pens and bottles of ink.

Le threw off his riding coat, hat and gloves, drew off his boots, thrust his feet into slippers, and dropped into the large, leather armchair before the table, and laid his head upon his folded arms on its top.

Le was not the least of a coward. He knew no fear. Yet he fully realized the awful gravity of the situation in which he had voluntarily placed himself. His Christian conscience began to trouble him.

"Thou shalt not kill!" it whispered to him.

He tried not to hear it.

"The dastardly villain ought to be punished," he said to himself. "My uncle cannot call the beast out. He is a justice of the peace; he is a vestryman in the church; he is a husband and a father. He cannot fight the monster! And he has no son to act for him! I am his nearest male relative, and I have no ties to bind me and keep me from doing a man's part in this matter; it seems my duty. I do not want to kill the wretch, though he deserves to die; I do not want to kill him! I think I would far rather he killed me! But I cannot help it! I must call him out, and he must take the risk! I must avenge Odalite!"

His conscience again spoke:

"Vengeance is mine, and I will repay, saith the Lord."

Luke, an old servant attached to the plantation, came in and laid fresh logs on the fire, and then went out again.

But Le, absorbed in his argument with his own conscience, never noticed the man's entrance or his exit.

"The die is cast now," he said, in conclusion, "and I must abide the issue. The challenge is sent. The scoundrel is a soldier, and he will accept it! I must meet him! And, if I kill him, I must take the consequences in this world and--in the next!"

Martha, the housekeeper, came in with a large tray on which she had arranged her master's supper. She set it down on a side table, while she removed the books and stationary from the center table and spread a white cloth over it. Then she set out his supper, and said:

"Do, please, young marster, try to eat somefin'. That racket at the church seems to hev upset yer so that yer look downright ill."

Le was feverish and thirsty, and he drank cup after cup of tea, nearly as fast as the housekeeper could pour it out. But he could not eat a morsel.

"'Deed, I'm feared yer gwine to have some sort of a fever, young marster!

'Deed, I am!" said Martha, as she began to clear the table, after finding all her persuasions fruitless to induce the young man to eat.

When the woman was gone, Le replaced all the paper, pens and ink upon the table again, and sat down, poor fellow, to write his "last will and testament."

It was very short and plain. He left all his real estate and personal property to his three dear cousins, Odalite, Wynnette and Elva, daughters of his dear relative, Abel Force, of Mondreer, share and share alike, subject only to some trifling legacies to old servants and to a bequest of ten thousand dollars to his dear friend Roland Bayard, of Forest Rest; and he const.i.tuted Abel Force and Roland Bayard joint executors.

Next he wrote farewell letters to his friends and relatives.

All this work kept him up long after midnight. When it was finished, he gathered all the doc.u.ments together and took them with him up to his bedroom, and locked them in the upper drawers of his bureau.

Finally, with the guiltiest conscience, the darkest spirit and the heaviest heart that he had ever experienced in his young life, he laid himself down on his bed. He could not sleep, and he dared not pray. Never before had he laid down to rest without having prayed. But how could he pray now, when he was deliberately planning to break, and make others break, one of the most awful commandments in the decalogue?

So the boy lay awake through all the long and dreary night, waiting for the day. What would the day bring forth? Where would he be the next night?

"If it were only my life that was to be taken! Even if it were only my soul that was to be risked! But the awful fiat of the Most High to be broken! Purposely, deliberately broken! Oh, Heaven! how one man's sin makes many men's crimes!"

So thinking, so feeling, so suffering, Le pa.s.sed the most miserable night of his whole life.

The gray light of the winter day dawned at last.

Then Le arose and slowly dressed himself.

Roland, he thought, would soon be with him, bringing the acceptance of his challenge and the program of the hostile meeting.

Slowly he descended the stairs and entered the parlor.

Early as it was, the window shutters had been opened, the fire kindled and the room put in order.

Le threw up the window sash to inhale the fresh air. It was keen and cold this winter morning, yet refreshing to his fevered head.