A Duel. Marsh Richard

but I doubt if I'd ever be able to get up again."

      He grunted as if in disapprobation.

      "Can you hold the reins while I get down?"

      "I daresay I could do that."

      He passed her the reins and descended. She heard a gate swing back upon its hinges. He reappeared at the horse's head.

      "I'd better lead her through and up to the house; it's as black as the devil's painted under the trees. I ought to have brought my lamps, but I came away in such a hurry. When some folks are dying they will not wait."

      They passed through a darkness which was so intense that she could not see the horse which was drawing her on. The avenue seemed a long one. It was some minutes before, drawing clear of the overhanging foliage, they stopped in front of a house which loomed grim and ominous in the shadows. Apparently their approach had been heard. No sooner had they stopped than the door was thrown wide open. The figure of a woman was seen peering out into the darkness, with a lamp in her hand.

      "Is it the doctor?" she demanded.

      "Yes, it's the doctor. And how is he now?"

      "He's as near to death as he can be to be still alive. I believe he's only keeping the breath in his body till he gets a sight of you."

      "To be sure that's uncommonly good of him. Now, madam, will that ankle of yours permit you to tumble down with the help of a hand from me?"

      Without answering Isabel commenced a laborious and painful descent. At sight of her the woman on the doorstep evinced a lively curiosity.

      "Why, doctor, who is it you're bringing with you?"

      "It's a visitor for you, and another patient for me, Nannie. You'll have to find her a corner somewhere while I go up to see the laird. When I've done with him I'll have to start with her. I'm hoping that she'll be the easier job of the two. Come, lend a hand. It's beyond my power to get her into the house alone, and it seems that by herself she'll never do it."

      Between them they got her up the steps, through the door and into a room which, immediately after passing it, was entered on the right. They placed her on a couch.

      "Now, madam," observed the doctor, "here you'll have to stay until I've seen my other patient. And since Heaven only knows how long he'll keep me, you'll have to make the best of it until I come. So keep up the character you told me of and don't you faint, or any silliness of that kind, but just make yourself as comfortable as ever you can."

      With that the speaker left her, the woman going with him. She had placed on a table the lamp which she had borne in her hand. It was a common glass affair, which did not give too good a light. For some minutes Isabel showed no inclination to avail herself of its assistance to learn in what manner of place she was. By degrees, however, as the time continued to pass, and there were still no signs of any one appearing, she began to show a languid interest in her surroundings. She was dimly conscious that the room was not a large one; that it was sparely, even austerely, furnished. She was aware that the couch on which she lay was of the old-fashioned horsehair kind, both slippery and uncomfortable. She had a vague suspicion that if she was not careful she would slip right off it, and her misty imaginings became mistier still. Before she knew it she was asleep.

      She slept for two good hours before she was disturbed; at least that period of time had elapsed before the doctor made his reappearance in the room. The sight of the sleeping woman seemed to occasion him surprise. He observed her with a slight smile adding another pucker to his wrinkled cheeks. He was a little, thin man, clean shaven and bald-headed. He had a big, aquiline nose. His eyes were sunk deep in his head, looking out from overhanging shaggy eyebrows. His lips were drawn so tightly together as to hint at a paucity of teeth.

      "Who are you, I wonder? You've youth, health, good looks-three good things for a woman to have. You're not ill-dressed. And yet there's that about you, as you lie sleeping there-we're all of us apt to give ourselves away when we're asleep-which makes me wonder who you are, and how you came to sprain your ankle on Crag Moor when going to Carnoustie. However that may be, there's an adventure lying ready to your hand-if you've a fancy for adventures. And, unless I'm much mistaken, I think you have."

      He laid his hand upon the sleeper's shoulder. The touch was a light one, but it was sufficient to arouse her. With a start she sprang up to a sitting posture, crying-

      "You shan't! It's a lie! You shan't." She put her hand to her bodice, as if to guard something which was hidden there. The doctor said nothing; he stood and watched. Waking to a clearer sense of her surroundings, she perceived him standing by her side. "Oh, it's you. How long have I been asleep?"

      "Sufficiently long, I hope, to rest you. Will you allow me to introduce myself? My name is Twelves-David Twelves, M.D., of Edinburgh. May I ask if you have any objection to introduce yourself to me, and tell me your name?"

      "Not the least; why should I have? I'm not ashamed of my name. Why do you want to know it?"

      "Because the immediate object of my presence here is to make you what is to all intents and purposes an offer of, say, twenty thousand pounds, and I have a not unnatural desire to know to whom I am offering it."

      She sat more upright on the couch, swinging round so as to bring her feet upon the floor, looking at him with eyes which were now wide open.

      "What do you mean? You are making fun of me."

      "I am doing nothing of the kind. This is likely to be one of the most serious moments of your life. I am not disposed to lighten it by misplaced attempts at playfulness." Yet even as he spoke again that nebulous smile seemed to add another pucker to his cheeks. "What I say is said very much in earnest. There is a man upstairs who's dying. Perhaps he is already dead while I stand here talking to you. If he's not dead, before he dies he wants another curious thing-a wife."

      "A wife! – and you say he's dying!"

      "It's because he's dying that he wants her. He has had no need of such an encumbrance living. I have come to ask you if you'll be his wife."

      "I be his wife!"

      Instinctively she doubled up the finger on which was the wedding-ring. She still wore her gloves, so it had remained unnoticed.

      "Yes, you. You're the only woman within reach, except old Nannie, who hardly counts, or I wouldn't trouble you. Answer me shortly-yes or no-will you be his wife?"

      "Marry a perfect stranger! – a man I've never seen! – who you say is dying!"

      "Precisely; it is a mere formula to which I'm asking your subscription. He'll certainly be dead inside two hours, possibly in very much less. You'll be a widow in one of the shortest times on record; in possession of a wife's share of all his worldly goods-and that, by all accounts, should be worth fully twenty thousand pounds."

      "Twenty thousand pounds! But why should he want to marry any one if he's dying?"

      "There's not much time for explanation, but I'll explain this much. He's made a will in favour of a certain person. That will he is anxious to revoke. If he marries it will become invalid. As matters stand it will be easier for him to take a wife than to make another will."

      "You are sure he will be dead within two hours?"

      "Quite. I shall not be surprised to learn that he's dead already. You are losing your chances of becoming a well-to-do widow by lingering here."

      "You are certain he will leave me twenty thousand pounds?"

      "The simple fact of his death will make it yours. So soon as the breath is out of his body you will become entitled to a wife's inheritance-if you are his wife."

      "You are not playing me any trick? It is all just as you say?"

      "On my honour, it is all just as I say. There is no trick. If you will come with me upstairs you will be able to judge for yourself."

      "But how can we be married at a moment's notice? Is there a clergyman in the house?"

      "You forget you are in Scotland. Neither notice nor clergyman is needed. It will be sufficient for you to recognise each other as husband and wife in the presence of witnesses; that act of mutual recognition will in itself constitute