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Title: The Owl
Date of first publication: 1932
Author: Jeffery Farnol (1878-1952)
Date first posted: Nov. 8, 2019
Date last updated: Nov. 8, 2019
Faded Page eBook #20191111

This eBook was produced by: Al Haines
This file was produced from images generously made available by www.unz.com/print/Colliers-1932feb06-00032




[Transcriber's note: Text surrounded by + signs is +bolded+.]




[Source: Colliers, February 6, 1932]



The Owl


By Jeffery Farnol


  _+Young Sir Roland fights a pistol duel
  with Mr. Darvell--who had never been
  known to miss+_



Young Roland gazed haggard-eyed upon the dawn, viewing everything
with an almost fierce intensity since he felt very sure this was the
last dawn he would ever live to see ... vague trees rising from a
pearly mist that brimmed every hollow, a somber sky lightening
towards the east with promise of day; and from somewhere in this
dimness, sudden and loud, an owl hooted dismally.  Sir Roland
shivered and, drawing the candles near, bent to finish the letter
that had been worded with such painful care; he read it with haggard
eyes, sighed, tore it up and, dipping quill, wrote again:


"Dear Heart:

"If I must go out into the unknown, I shall not fear because I know
that the sweet spirit of your love will guide me through the dark to
the light beyond, for thine own am I through death and the hereafter,
ever and always,

"ROLAND."


Having sanded and sealed this letter he turned back to the casement
and saw the sky shot with glory where the sun was rising.  Presently
on the door was a soft knocking and Captain Standish entered:

"Hey--dooce take me!  Up and dressed already, Roly?"

"I haven't been to bed, Tom."

"Not?  Oh the deyvil ... 'twill never do!  Limp as a dem'd rag, Roly;
hand shakes like cursed aspen and--er--so forth!  Lie down, old
f'low, compose, rest, breathe deep and--ah--so on--"

"No use, Tom, and no matter.  There can be but one end; I know it and
so do you.  Darvell never misses and ... well, I'm prepared.  But why
aren't you asleep?"

"Well, I was, y'know ... at least very nearly but what with one
dooced thing and another, I--oh dem!"

"I know, Tom, I know and thanks for your sympathy, it ... it makes
matters easier for me."

"And that dem'd owl!  Hooting, y'know, like an accursed dem'd soul!
What a plaguey, desolate, infernal gloomy hole this old house o'
yours is, Roly!"

"Why, I seldom come near the place," sighed young Roland, "indeed all
too seldom ... and now--"

"Darvell couldn't sleep either, Roly.  I heard him tramp, tramping
... chamber next mine, y'know, and once he stuck head out o' lattice
and cursed every owl that ever was hatched ... that dem'd owl!"

"Yes, I heard it.  But surely nothing could possibly shake Darvell's
iron nerves, Tom."



"No, he's precious cool ... dem'd iceberg ... shoot a man and smile
... oh, curse!  And yet, Roly," said the Captain, shaking comely head
and seating himself on the unused bed, "I ain't so sure.  Queer thing
happened as we rode down here ... narrow lane and we riding three
abreast, Darvell, Ponsonby and self in the middle, when we met a
gypsy hag, stalwart old soul, stout and tall as a grenadier, dem'd
fine, buxom creeter once--well, she stands aside but not quick enough
for Darvell.  The dam' f'low swears and flicks her with his whip--and
Roly, b'Gad ... panthers, lions, tigers?  Dooce take me but she's at
him like 'em all in one, claws the whip from him, tosses it over
hedge, and demme--out flies a monstrous white owl....

"'See you, ye gorgio dog!' she screams.  'An owl's your fate ... a
black and bloody fate!  When ye see or hear an owl, tremble
and--beware!' says she.  ... Well, I tossed her a crown and on we
rode, making light on't, though Darvell showed mighty glum twixt
whiles, and his hand so ripped and torn he lapped handkerchief round
it to stay the bleeding....  And now, old f'low, lookee!"  And the
Captain laid a dueling pistol on the table.  "How are you with the
poppers?"

"Worse than bad, Tom," sighed Sir Roland, viewing the murderous thing
askance.

"Oh demme!" wailed the Captain.  "Then how shall you contrive?"

"Close my eyes probably and trust to fortune."

"But, Roly ... strike me purple, 'twill be murder!"

"Most duels are."

"Look now, for the love o' Gad!  You've taken your ground, facing
your man 'cross your right shoulder--thus!  Your pistol 'gainst your
right leg--so!  At the word 'one' you raise it slowly--so!  At 'two'
you bring it to a level--so!  At 'three' you depress a bit, say to
the third button on--"

"Thanks, Tom, but 'tis no good.  I shall forget everything the moment
we are placed.  Let's talk o' something else."

"But, Roland ... Roly, upon my perishing soul--" stammered the
Captain aghast, "this ... this is monstrous, absurd ... too
infernally preposterous!"

"It is!" nodded Roland drearily.  "But then I struck the arrogant,
foul-tongued beast and must abide the consequences."

"But to ... to walk out and be shot like a ... a poor, dem'd,
defenseless lamb--"

"Nay, Tom, I shall shoot back."

"But have y'ever fired a pistol?"

"Once or twice.  However, I've drawn my will, Tom, settled all my
affairs--"

"Oh, rat me!" moaned the Captain.  "This comes o' your Gentleman
Jackson 'stead of Angelo--preferring fists to a gentleman's weapons--"



"Yes," answered Roland, clenching his fist and sighing over it, "were
it honest naked mauleys I could thrash the fellow very handsomely; as
'tis, Tom, he will probably ... well, if I ... should the expected
happen, pray bear me this letter to my ... to ... Deborah."

"Lady Carstairs?  I will ... I will certainly.  Trust me, Roly.  To
be sure.  But ... let's hope--!  Ha, curse it, another two hours to
wait ... two mortal, dem'd hours!"

"Only two!" sighed young Roland.  "They'll soon pass, Tom!  Look at
the morning; how glorious!  Let's out and walk before breakfast."

And a fresh, sweet world they found it--radiant with sun that set a
myriad dewy gems a-sparkle, and glad with the joyous clamor of
new-waked birds ...  And to Roland as he gazed around with that same
eager intensity, this familiar prospect took on new beauties he had
never noticed until now; and since he was to lose all so dreadfully
soon, he viewed all with a passionate yearning.  The Captain, eying
his friend's rapt features and sensing the reason, sank from gloom to
a hopeless despondency; and thus they walked together in that silent
communion only friendship may know.

"Aha, see yonder, Roly--trespassers, b'Gad!" Sir Roland started,
glanced at the travel-worn van and dingy tent pitched in the little
glade before them, and shook his head.

"No, Tom, gypsies," he sighed.  "I let 'em camp hereabouts, like my
father before me, and on the whole they behave surprisingly well,
save for an occasional rabbit or--" he stopped suddenly, for the door
of this van had opened and a tall old woman stood looking down on
them--a handsome, stately creature despite her age, and crowned with
a splendor of white hair and who, lifting hand in salutation, spoke
soft-voiced:

"_Kosko divvus_, my gorgio rye!  And God bless 'ee, young master, you
as be's good to the Poor Folk.  Shoot ye when the owl hooteth!  But,
oh mark ye this--let it be nigh unto th' old tithe-barn, for thy
safety shall be hid there ... th' old tithe-barn--remember!"  Then
she waved her hand again and vanished into the van.



"Dooce take me!" exclaimed the Captain.  "But 'twas she Darvell
struck ... and flew at him like a dem'd fury.  A rare, handsome
creeter once, Roly!"

"I wonder what she meant by the owl ... and tithe-barn?"

"Dooce knows!  But when you fight--demme if I don't place you as near
the barn as possible, Roly."

"As well there as anywhere else, Tom.  And now come in to breakfast."
Approaching the house, they beheld two elegant creatures sunning
themselves on the terrace: one a tall, rosy, jovial personage, the
other a smallish, slim gentleman, very languid yet extremely
sinister.  Perceiving them, these gentlemen paused to salute them,
hats a-flourish.

"A delightful morning for our little affair, Sir Roland."

"Perfect, Mr. Darvell," answered the young baronet, contriving to
meet the unwinking stare of the speaker's pale eyes.  "You have
breakfasted?"

"Thank you, yes.  And, by the by, the ... surgeon has arrived."
Young Roland blenched and, aware of this, flushed, bowed and turned
away and entered his house to greet the cheery doctor and thereafter
to sit at table and make pretense of eating; hearing nothing, seeing
nothing except the hands of the clock creeping remorselessly on and
on to his death hour....  He started violently to feel the Captain's
friendly hand on his shoulder.

"It's the damned suspense!" Roland whispered.  "So come, let's be
done, Tom; let's have it over--now!"  Arm in arm they went forth into
the sunshine, but a sun this with no power to warm him.  He followed
dumbly whither he was led.  He saw the old barn ... Surgeon Purdy
laying out glittering instruments on a white cloth....  Then a pistol
was thrust into his fingers, he saw Darvell take the other ...  Mr.
Ponsonby was speaking loud and high:

"Gentlemen, the word will be: One!  Two!  Three!  Fire!  On the word
'Fire' I shall drop my handkerchief.  Are you ready?"

Roland heard Darvell's languid "yes" and nodded dumbly.

"One!" cried Ponsonby.  Roland lifted his weapon, and then the air
thrilled to the sudden fierce hooting of an owl.  Darvell spun round
upon his heel to glare round about him, crying: "Damnation!  What was
that?"

"Sounded like a dem'd owl," answered the Captain, staring round about
also.

"But true owls don't cry i' the sun!" snarled Darvell.  "Count again,
Ponsonby."

So once more Roland heard that high-pitched, fateful voice: "One ...
Two ... Three ... Fire--"

Even as Roland pulled trigger he was aware of something that wheeled
heavily in the air above him, monstrous, silent, ghastly white ...
then Darvell's gasping, agonized voice:

"'Twas the owl ... the damned white owl ... distracted my aim ..."
He saw Darvell writhing in the arms that supported him, glaring at
the dripping, red ruin of what had been his deadly pistol hand ...
Like one a-dream he watched that twisted, pain-racked form carried
away.  Then, letting fall smoking pistol, young Roland drew a deep
breath and glanced from earth to heaven like one awaking to a new and
greater life....  A voice spoke softly behind him and, turning, he
espied a white head nodding to him from the gloom of the old
tithe-barn; the voice spoke again:

"The Hearns gives good for good!"  Here she held up a large basket.
"They likewise gives ill for ill!"  Here she gestured fiercely
towards where Darvell's blood spattered the grass.  "And so, long
life and happiness to 'ee, young master.  _Kosko divvus_!"


[The end of _The Owl_ by Jeffery Farnol]