CHAPTER LV.

RELIEF OF MIND.

BUT what I had heard about Downy Bulwrag rooted itself more and more in my mind. Since the departure of Tony Tonks (who would never have been invited to that grand dinner, for even racing people must draw the line somewhere), I had made up my mind to go and see the arch-enemy, as soon as ever he should be in his proper health again. And with an eye to that, I had written to Mrs. Wilcox, requesting her to let me know of his first re-appearance.

It was not my desire to fall upon this villain, at a time when he could not defend himself, for I did not intend to mince matters with him, if once I could come to close quarters. And even of those who insist most strongly on the Christian duty of forgiveness, and look down from the greatest height upon the littleness of resentment, probably few—if they cared to speak the truth—would have put up with things as I did.

It was all very fine for the people to say—“Take it easily, my dear friend. With patience, and the will of God, you will find everything come right; and by-and-by, you will be surprised at your own excitement about it.”

The thing that surprised me most of all was my own power of endurance; and sometimes I felt quite hot inside, at having two strong arms, and doing nothing with them. “It was not thus you won your Kitty, but by knocking down Sam Henderson,” the springy part of my conscience said sometimes to the spongy half of it; “if you let rogues have their way, you are only a rogue yourself, and a coward.”

This reproach I did not deserve. No fear of bodily harm to myself had crossed my thoughts for a moment; but the dread of some reckless act had been perpetually with me. It was easy enough to do violent things; to cut myself off for ever from all hope of love and happiness, without much chance of even learning the secret of my misery. The enemy I feared, in the burst of pent-up fury, was myself.

I began to forget this discretion now. That the man, who had ruined my life to gorge some filthy spite of his own, should now jump up in the world, and crow, and dance, with gold in his pockets, and love in his arms, while I lay a widower on two chairs; that he should have grins on his vile yellow face, while my Kitty was weeping her eyes out somewhere; and that every one should take it as a thing of course, and praise his sagacity and worship him—if justice had broken her beam like this, what law could there be to bind any one? The scoundrel had come to gloat upon my sorrow; I would just return the call, and have a word with him.

Fearing the loss of my self-command, I took not even a walking-stick, nor the true Briton’s mainstay, an umbrella, although the day was showery. Neither did I change my working-clothes, but without a word to any one, saddled old _Spanker_, and started directly after breakfast. In an hour, I dismounted at the door of Mrs. Wilcox, and gave the sharp boy my horse to lead about.

“Whatever can be the matter with you, Master Kit?” his mother inquired very kindly. “You don’t look a bit like yourself, sir. Do come in; I have got a sight to tell you.”

“Thank you; when I come back will do. I am going to pay a little call—not more than half an hour.” Before she could answer, I was out of hearing.

“When I rang and knocked loudly at the door of the old house, a man servant came, and I was glad of that; for I could not have forced my way past a woman.

“I wish to see Mr. Bulwrag,” I said.

“Never sees any one at this time of day. He has not finished breakfast yet,” answered the man.

“It does not matter. I must see him. I have heard that he is quite well again.”

“Oh, yes, he is well enough;” the man gave a smile, which meant—a great deal better than he deserves to be—“but you must call again in the afternoon.”

“Thank you. I intend to see him now. Show me the room, if you please, my friend.”

“That is the room. But you must not go in.” He offered no resistance, when he saw that it would not stop me; and I knocked at the door, and then entered.

Donovan Bulwrag wore a dressing-gown, braided with gold, and was lighting a cigar, after making (as the dishes showed) a long and goodly breakfast.

“Holloa! Who are you?” His tone was rough and arrogant; but I saw by his eyes that he knew me, and his heavy mouth was twitching. “What the devil do you mean, by coming in like this?”

“Are you in your usual health and strength?” I would not have touched him, if he had answered, “No.”

“To be sure, I am. But what business is that of yours? I always kick insolent cads out of the room.”

“I will not foul my tongue with any words to you. My business is to lead you three times round this room, by the nose. Now try to stop me.” As I spoke, I was putting on a gardening glove.

He struck at me with all his force; but I dashed up his fist with my left hand, while with the right I got a firm grip upon his bulky nose. In vain he let fly at me, right and left; I did not even feel his blows, though the marks were plain long afterwards. Then he tried to grapple me; but I would not have it. Three times round the room I led him, while he roared and shrieked with pain, and then I flung him backward into his easy chair.

I cannot say how I was enabled to do this; and I doubt whether any one can explain it. But before I felt the difficulty, it was over; and I was fit to do it again, if needful.

Downy Bulwrag had never been amazed before, because he was a cold-blooded fellow; and that made it all the worse for him, when he could not avoid it. I am thankful to the Lord—who has always guided me, when I do not depart too far from Him—that this happened so; for my heart was up, and my brain had not a whisper left in it. Life and death are mere gossamer, at such moments.

On the table lay a long sharp ham-knife. If Bulwrag had said a word, or even stirred, he would never have done one or other again. That knife would have been in his heart. And I—well, the gallows and the devil would be welcome to me afterwards. He saw my eyes dwell on that blade, and he was cowed. He knew that he had a madman standing over him; and happily for both of us, he fell into a faint.

“Blackguard,” I shouted, “you have had a narrow shave. This comes of meddling between man and wife.”

I seized the long knife, while he pawed with his fat hands, and flung it just clear of his big yellow head. The blade cleft the panel of black oak behind him, and quivered, and rang like the tongue of a bell.

Without another word I left him thus, flinging the door of the room wide open, that every one might see his condition. The footman, or whatever he called himself, fell back against the wall, and let me pass, which was the only wise thing he could do. Then I walked away quietly, and found my horse, and declining all talk with Mrs. Wilcox rode back to Sunbury with a great weight off my mind.