Mr. Dalroyd was a man of habit and of late it had become his custom to take particular heed as to the lock and bolts of his chamber door of nights and to sleep with his pistol beneath his pillow.
He had formed another habit also, a strange, uncanny habit of pausing suddenly with head aslant like one hearkening for soft or distant sounds; though to be sure his eyes were as sleepy and himself as languid as usual.
But the stair leading to Mr. Dalroyd's bedchamber was narrow and extremely precipitous and, descending in the gloom one evening, he had tripped over some obstacle and only by his swordsman's quickness and bodily agility saved himself from plunging headlong to the bottom. He had wakened in the middle of the night for no seeming reason and, sitting up in that attitude of patient listening, had chanced to glance at the door lit by a shaft of moonlight and had watched the latch quiver, lift silently and as silently sink back in place.
He had moreover become cautious as to how he took up his pistols, having found them more than once mysteriously at full cock. So Mr. Dalroyd continued to lock and double-lock his door at night and, in the morning, seated before his mirror, to watch Joseph the obsequious therein: as he was doing now.
"Sir," said Joseph, eyes lowered yet perfectly aware of his master's watchful scrutiny, "everything is packed save your brushes and the gillyflower water."
"Why then, my snail, you may pack them also."
"I will, sir."
"It is now half after ten, Joseph—we ride at eleven."
"To London, sir?"
"Order the horses to the door at that hour, Object."
"Yes, sir. Pray, sir," said he humbly, head bowed and big hands twitching nervously, "regarding your promise of permitting me to—to—quit your service—pray when is it to be?"
"I don't know, Joseph, I can't say."
"Sir—sir—d'ye mean——"
"I mean that I don't feel I can endure to part with you, Joseph."
"You mean—you—won't?"
"You interest me, Joseph. Yes, you amuse me vastly, there is about you such infinite repression, Joseph, such latent ferocity. Yours is a nature of great and unexpected possibilities. Ferocity, duly in check, allures me, Joseph; so I shall continue to be your master and to—master you, Animal. Reach me my pistols."
Joseph crossed the room to where they lay beside the bed.
"Sir," said he, taking up the weapons, "you won't let me go, then?"
"Are they loaded, Joseph?"
"Yes, sir."
"Are they cocked?"
"No, sir."
"Which is just as well, Joseph. With your hands shaking like that you might have had the misfortune to shoot me and be infallibly hanged for a deplorable accident."
Joseph's eyes flickered and he stood, still grasping a pistol in either hand.
"Sir," said he thickly, "do you mean to let me go—yes or no?"
"Hanged, Joseph, for—knowing you as I do, Reptile, I am leaving behind me a letter to the effect that should I meet with any sudden or untoward misfortune on my journey, a knife in the back, say, or a bullet, Joseph, justice may be done on the body of one Joseph Appleby, alias Galloping Nick, already wanted for the murder of——"
The weapons thudded to the floor and Joseph cowered.
"For the love of God!" he whispered hoarsely. "Sir—sir——" And he clenched and wrung his hands together.
"Pick up the pistols, Worm, and handle them carefully, they've taken to cocking themselves of late, 'twould seem. And I, Joseph, I've taken to locking and bolting my door a-nights and being particular how I tread in the dark."
So saying, Mr. Dalroyd smiled and went downstairs humming softly, where the company were gathered to see him off.
In due time the horses were brought to the door and Mr. Dalroyd, pulling on his gauntlets, prepared to mount; but before doing so, drew his pistols from their holsters and found that their primings had been shaken out. Whereupon he beckoned Joseph smilingly—saw them re-primed and, smiling still, kicked Joseph viciously.
Then he mounted, watched Joseph do the same, waved an airy farewell to the company and rode gracefully away.
Reaching the open road, Mr. Dalroyd summoned his follower to ride beside him.
"On the whole, Joseph," said he, "I prefer to have a man of your—infinite possibilities beside me, at my elbow—within reach. Besides, I'm in the mood for conversation, let us talk, creature." Joseph's heavy brow grew rather more lowering and he kept his gaze bent obsequiously on the dust of the way as he drew level with his master, who had reined his horse to a gentle, ambling pace.
"You were educated above your station, Joseph—the law, I think?"
"Yes, sir."
"Owing to your mother's exertions—hence the extreme warmth of your—ah—filial regard."
"She also shielded me from a father's brutality, sir."
"Hence, Joseph, as I say, the ardour of your regard for her. 'Tis strange to find that even in the basest, most depraved natures the softer qualities of gratitude and love may occasionally be remarked by the philosophical observer, a fact sufficiently strange and interesting!" Joseph's wolverine mouth twitched and he lifted his gaze slowly as high as the top of the hedge and kept it there. "Your first noteworthy exploit," continued Mr. Dalroyd good-humouredly, "was the forgery of a bill——"
"Sir—sir," stammered Joseph, glance abased to the dust again, "pray why must you——"
"My good Object, I would see that I have the facts sufficiently clear. To begin again, you forged a bill on one Hilary Girard, he, discovering your criminality, taxed you with the fact, whereafter poor Mr. Girard suddenly died—misfortunate wight! Lead poisoning was it, or powdered glass?" Joseph uttered a sound between a choke and a groan. "Nay, after all, 'tis no matter which," continued Mr. Dalroyd, "suffice it—he died. Thereafter you took to the highway, became famous for your daring, were finally betrayed by a jealous beauty, were sentenced to hang, escaped on a legal quibble, and were cast for transportation, effected your escape and—Fortune sent you to me and I give you life, Joseph, and a certain amount of freedom so long as you are of use to me."
Joseph's mouth had become a twisted line and he moved in his saddle as if undergoing some sharp, physical discomfort, while Mr. Dalroyd lapsed into pleasant reverie as they rode on through the warm and fragrant air.
They held a course south-easterly staying only to change horses at the various stages where Joseph, acting on his master's instructions, ordered post-horses to be in readiness three nights hence. Towards late afternoon Mr. Dalroyd halted at Tenterden for refreshment; after an excellent meal he sauntered out into the yard and summoned Joseph, but without avail, the obsequious Joseph was not to be found. Mr. Dalroyd's modish languor changed to a sudden cold ferocity before which ostlers, post-boys and stablemen quailed; within five minutes he had roused the whole place and set everyone searching, from host to pot-boy. Every hiding-place, likely and unlikely, was ransacked, the inn, the stable and scattered outbuildings, but to no end, Joseph had vanished. Finally he ordered his horse to be saddled and while this was doing, stood, chin in hand, like one lost in vexed thought yet more than once fell into that attitude of strained attention as though listening for distant sounds. Roused by the clatter of his fresh horse's hoofs on the cobbles of the yard as it was led from the stables, he glanced up and surveyed the animal with quick, appraising eye and prepared to mount; but, before doing so, stayed to lift his holster-flaps and found that his pistols were gone. At this he laughed suddenly—a strange laugh, at sound of which the fellow holding the horse put up an elbow and cowered behind it as if expecting a blow; but Mr. Dalroyd, laughing still, turned and beckoned to the landlord with his gold-mounted riding-whip.
"Look'ee," said he, his mirth still distorting his features, "I've been robbed by the rascal and among other things, of my pistols. I must have another pair—at once!"
"Sir," began the landlord, bobbing apologetically, "there ain't a pair in the house Lord love me, no such thing except a blunderbuss——"
"Blockhead!" exclaimed Mr. Dalroyd, pointing at the speaker with his whip, "I said a pair of pistols, go get 'em—how and where you will, but get them and bring 'em to me and don't keep me waiting, my good oaf." So saying, Mr. Dalroyd turned and sauntered up and down the shady side of the yard apparently lost in dreamy reverie. Very soon the landlord came hurrying back triumphantly bearing a long-barrelled weapon in either hand. Mr. Dalroyd took one, balanced it and cursed its weight and clumsiness.
"Careful, sir," warned the landlord, flinching, "they're loaded."
Mr. Dalroyd glanced around; overhead a crow flapped heavily on lazy wings. Mr. Dalroyd aimed the weapon and while the report still rang and echoed, the crow turned over and over, a shapeless bundle of ragged feathers and thudding down into the grassy ditch opposite the inn lay there struggling and croaking dismally.
"They'll serve!" nodded Mr. Dalroyd, "have the thing loaded again and hasten!" Watched by many awestruck eyes, Mr. Dalroyd crossed to his horse, mounted, and oblivious of the interest he caused, sat awhile with eyes half-shut and head aslant, listening, until the weapon was brought; then he examined each with care, flint, priming and charge, and thrust them into his holsters.
"Landlord," said he, as he put away his purse, "did you take any heed to the general appearance of that runaway rogue of mine?"
"Aye sir, a tall chap wi' big hands and a way o' lookin' down his nose and—come to think on't, a fresh-healed scar just over one eye-brow——"
"Caused by a cut-glass perfume bottle!" nodded Mr. Dalroyd. "A just and fair description, landlord. Should you ever chance on such a fellow anywhere at any time you will do well to apprehend him——"
"For robbery, sir——?"
"For murder, landlord!" As he spoke Mr. Dalroyd touched spurs to his horse and cantered away, leaving the landlord to stare open-mouthed and the crow to thrash broken wing and croak dismally in the ditch as, reaching the highway, he spurred to a gallop.
All the afternoon he kept the road, and as the day waned he became ever more alert, his quick eyes scanned the road before and behind and he rode for long stretches with his head leaned to that angle of patient listening for sounds afar. Now, as evening fell he had an unpleasant feeling that he was being followed, more than once he fancied he caught the faint throbbing of distant hoofs, now lost, now heard again, never any nearer yet never any further off. Once he reined up suddenly to hearken but heard nothing save the desolate sighing of wind in trees; yet when he went on again he could have sworn to the distant beat of galloping hoofs, wherefore, ears on the stretch, he loosed the flaps of his holsters.
So day drew to evening and evening to night and with every mile the fancy grew within him, little by little, until it became an obsession and he spurred fiercely uphill and down, often turning to glance back along the darkening road and with his pistols cocked and ready.
The Major's rib mended apace; nevertheless his fits of gloom and depression seemed but to grow more pronounced, insomuch that he would seize any and every opportunity to escape from Colonel Cleeve's cheery presence or the Viscount's affectionate solicitude and, locking himself into his study, would strive feverishly to banish thought with his gabions, angles of fire, etc.
To-day the Viscount and Colonel Cleeve had ridden abroad together, and being alone, the Major had ventured forth into the orchard and now sat in the hutch-like sentry-box hard at work on his History of Fortification.
The afternoon was very still and very hot, so hot indeed that he had laid by coat and wig and sat in shirt-sleeves, his close-cropped, brown head bent above his manuscript, writing busily. But presently he set this aside and leaning head on hand wearily, became lost in troubled reverie, then, sighing deeply, took pen and paper and began to indite a letter. At first he paused often as if the composition were difficult, but, little by little, his thoughts seemed to flow more freely for his quill flew rapidly, never staying until the letter was finished. Having sanded it, he read over what he had written, folded it, paused, shook his head and tore it across and across in his sinewy fingers, made as if to throw the scraps aside, checked himself and crammed them into one of the yawning side-pockets of the Ramillie coat. Thereafter, he sat staring straight before him until, moved by sudden impulse, he drew to him a new sheet of paper and wrote again busily. Then, not staying this time to read over what he had set down, he sanded, folded, sealed it, and turning, thrust it carefully into a pocket of the Ramillie coat and so turned back to his history once more.
All at once he started, lifted his head and glanced across at a certain part of the old, red-brick wall and, dropping his pen, got stealthily to his feet.
"A young cavalier he rode on his waySinging heigho, this loving is folly."
The singing voice on the opposite side of the wall was drawing nearer, wherefore the Major snatched up his wig, clapped it on anyhow and incontinent fled.
My lady Betty, having watched this hasty retreat, frowned, plucked a leaf, bit it with sharp, white teeth and—espied the Ramillie coat. The wall was rather high and there was no ladder this side, but my lady was of courageous temper and determined character, so——
The Major, turning a sharp corner of the yew walk, ran full tilt into Sergeant Zebedee.
"Ha, Zeb," said he, a little breathlessly, "I—I was looking for you——"
"Same likewise, sir," answered the Sergeant, standing at attention. "There's Colonel Cleeve, Sir Benjamin, and the Viscount a-waiting to play cards wi' you——"
"Excellent! I'll join 'em at once——"
"But your—your coat, sir?"
"Aye, to be sure! You'll find it in the arbour, Zeb, bring it to me in the library."
"Now, I wonder," murmured the Sergeant as the Major hastened away with long strides, "I wonder wherefore so rapid?"
So my lady jumped. She had just caught up the Ramillie coat when she heard the approach of heavy steps and, being as resourceful as she was determined, she folded the garment compactly and sat upon it.
The Sergeant, about to enter the arbour, paused, started and stood at attention.
"Good day, Sergeant Zebedee!" quoth she demurely.
"Same to you my lady and thank'ee."
"And pray how is the Major?"
"Ha'n't you just seen him mam?"
"Indeed, but he—he vanished before I could speak a word, Sergeant."
"Zounds!" murmured the Sergeant.
"What d'you say, Sergeant Zebedee?
"Why my lady, 'tis his coat I'm after——"
"Coat?" repeated my lady.
"Aye mam, his Ramillie coat, sent me here for same——"
"I don't see it, do you, Sergeant?"
"Why no, my lady, I don't! But he says he left same here and——"
"But it doesn't seem to be, does it?"
"No my lady, unless you——"
"And how is the Major, pray?"
Sergeant Zebedee sighed and shook his head.
"Lord, my lady, he is that gloomy, he do sigh continual—mopes in his study when he should be out i' the sun and wanders abroad when he should be snug abed——"
"But he sat out here to-day——"
"Aye, for a wonder! 'Twas Mrs. Agatha and me as coaxed him out."
"He seems to be a very—uncomfortably—moody kind of man, Sergeant."
"Aye—but only of late, my lady."
"I wonder why?" The Sergeant glanced down into her bright eyes, looked at earth, looked at sky, and scratched his chin.
"Why, since you put the point, my lady, I should say 'tis either on account o' petticoats or witchcraft or—maybe both. And talking o' witchcraft, there's his coat now, p'r'aps you might chance to be——"
"He seems mighty set on this coat," said she, deftly spreading out her voluminous petticoats, "and 'tis such a shabby, woeful old thing."
"True mam, but I follered that coat through the smoke and dust of Ramillies fight though 'twas gayer then, d'ye see, but even now it shows the rents in skirt and arm o' bullet and bagnet as he took that day. 'Tis a wonderful garment, my lady."
"It would irk him to lose it, belike?"
"Lose it! Mam, it aren't to be thought on!"
"Still I think 'twould do him a world of good if 'twere lost awhile, it seems to affect him so evilly."
"Nay, I think 'tis t'other way about, mam. Says I to him one day, 'Sir,' says I, 'when at all put out wherefore and why the Ramillie coat?' 'Because Zeb,' says he, 'when I put it on I seem to put on some of my lost youth also.' Still, there's limits, mam, there's limits, and for a gentleman o' his degree to go out in same, and among his tenants d'ye see, well, it aren't right—though I've darned same constant. No wonder Widow Weston, which same is a scold, my lady, but 'tis no wonder she contradictioned of his honour no later than yesterday arternoon towards four o' the clock as ever was——"
"Aye, I know Widow Weston!" smiled my lady. "Contradicted him—aye—she would."
"And did, my lady! Here's his honour in his old coat a-bowing to her and a-choking and coughing d'ye see, on account of her chimbley a-smoking woeful. 'Mam,' says he, 'I fear your chimbley smokes.' 'It don't!' she cries, 'it don't, and if it do 'tis no worse than it was in my husband's time and if it did for him 'twill do for me,' she says. Whereon his honour bows himself into the air and wipes the soot out of his eyes all the way home, mam."
"But referring to the coat, Sergeant——"
"Begad, yes mam, saving your presence. There's him a-waiting for same."
"You must insist on his leaving it off, Sergeant."
"Insist? Zounds, my lady, insist—to the Major. Couldn't nowise be done, mam."
"Why then he must lose same, Sergeant Zeb," said my lady roguishly.
"Lose it, mam! Lord mam, his honour would never forgive me."
"He would—O he would. Besides you didn't lose it. And it isn't here, is it?"
"Why it aren't apparent to human observation, my lady. But p'r'aps you might chance to be sit——"
"Hush!" cried my lady, white finger upraised. "Is someone coming?" The Sergeant stepped outside to glance about, listened dutifully and shook his head.
"No mam, but I must get back to the house, his honour will——"
"How is he progressing in health, Sergeant—his appetite—doth he eat well?
"Eat, my lady!" exclaimed the Sergeant dolefully, "he's forgot how."
"Truly I do begin to think he hath a soul after all, Sergeant."
"Soul, mam? The finest as ever was! He's all soul, my lady, 'tis his body as do worry me—vading mam it be, vading and a-languishing away. Aye, 'tis his body——"
"There seems plenty of it left, Sergeant, and it looks solid enough—O Lud!" she exclaimed all at once and clasped her hands, as from afar rose a hoarse, growl that swelled into a deep-lunged roar. "A mercy's sake, what is it?"
"My lady, 'tis the Colonel a-calling me. I must go, my lady, and consequently humbly request you to——"
"Stay, dear Sergeant Zeb, first pray go fetch me a ladder."
"Ladder, my lady?"
"How may I get back over the wall without it?"
The Sergeant turned and stared at the wall, shook his head and rubbed his chin:
"Question is, how did you get over, my lady?"
"'Tis no matter! Go—go fetch the ladder, I must not be seen here—go this instant!" The Sergeant went.
Once out of eyeshot my lady sprang up, sped across the orchard, hurled the Ramillie coat over the wall into her own garden and was back in the arbour a full half-minute before the Sergeant re-appeared, ladder on shoulder.
"You dear Sergeant Zeb!" she exclaimed, rising and crossing the orchard beside him. "The bravest soldiers and strongest men are always the kindest and gentlest to women, aren't they?"
"Are they, mam?" said the Sergeant flushing a little as he planted the ladder where she directed.
"To be sure they are," she sighed, gathering up her petticoats, "see how hard you kicked that hateful Jennings——"
"Shall I hold the ladder, my lady?" he enquired, flushing deeper.
"Thank you—no!" she answered and set a slender foot upon the lowest rung. "Sergeant Zebedee!"
"My lady?"
"Right about face!" The Sergeant turned automaton-like and stood so until a laughing voice cried, "Sergeant Zebedee—as you were!" And swinging round he beheld her smiling down at him from her own side of the wall. "Thank you, dear Sergeant Zeb, thank you!" she said, and nodding, vanished from sight.
The Sergeant, being orderly in all things, proceeded to set back the ladder in the tool-house, to dust his coat and re-settle his wig, then crossed to the arbour and stood there for a full minute staring at the empty bench.
"Zounds!" he exclaimed at last, and wheeling, marched very thoughtfully into the house.
"Eh—not there—not there, Zeb?" exclaimed the Major, laying down his cards and turning to glance at the Sergeant's expressionless face.
"Your honour, it are—not!"
"But—God bless my soul—it must be!"
"Why then sir, if 'tis it aren't apparent to human observation!"
"But I distinctly remember taking it off there!"
"Why then sir, it hath gone and vanished itself away!"
"Pish!" exclaimed the Major rising. "I'll fetch it myself."
"O rot me, Jack!" cried the Colonel, "here's a curst rampageous business over an old rag. 'Tis time 'twas lost——"
"Or burned, nunky!" added the Viscount.
"So let be, Jack—Sergeant Zeb shall bring you another!"
But the Major was determined, and presently sallied forth with Sir Benjamin, the Viscount, Colonel Cleeve and the Sergeant at his heels. Reaching the orchard, they searched the arbour within and without, they peered and prodded under bushes, they sought high and they sought low without avail.
"Very remarkable!" exclaimed the Major at last.
"Most extraordinary, od's my life!" assented Sir Benjamin, mopping heated brow. "Are you sure you had it on, sir?"
"Belike some stray cur hath taken a fancy to it and run off wi' it!" the Colonel suggested.
"Mistaking it for—er—something equally unpleasant, nunky!" added the Viscount.
"'Tis not so much the loss of the coat itself that gives me worry as—er—the contents of the pockets!" said the Major, wrinkling his brow.
"What, your purse, sir?" enquired Sir Benjamin.
"Nay that—would scarce ha' mattered."
"Ya' snuff-box, Jack?"
"Letters, uncle?"
"No, no, not—exactly letters as 'twere and yet—ah—O demme!" So the Major gave up the useless search. "Come, gentlemen—if 'tis gone, 'tis gone. Come, let us get back to our game."
"Aunt Belinda," said my lady, pausing on the broad stair with lighted candle, "pray how do you refrain?"
"From what, dear Betty?"
"Sneezing, aunt!"
"O naughty puss!"
"All the evening by my reckoning you have sneezed but once. Sure you must be getting snuff-proof or——"
"O wicked, teasing baggage!"
"Art very happy, dear aunt?"
"Ah my sweet, so happy that I yearn to have thee happy too!"
"In two days, aunt, two little days! Charles will wait no longer and—I'm glad."
"Hast been up to wish him good-night, Bet?"
"Nay, he was asleep, dear boy, and looked so young, aunt, for all his trials."
"Trials do but better us, child—or should do. Good-night, my sweet, and pleasant dreams!" So they kissed each other and went their several ways.
Reaching her chamber my lady sent her maid to bed, locked the door, took a key from her bosom and, from its hiding-place among dainty, perfumed garments and laces, drew forth the Ramillie coat. Then she set it upon the back of a chair and, hanging thus, the well-worn garment fell into such natural folds and creases that its owner might almost have been inside it. The night was hot and still, and through the open lattice stole the languorous perfume of honeysuckle, and breathing in the sweetness my lady sighed as she began to undress; yet in the midst of this dainty business, chancing to glance at the Ramillie coat she blushed and started instinctively so lifelike was that broad back and the set of those square shoulders.
And now in dainty night-rail and be-ribanded cap she sat down and leaned near to snuff delicately at the worn and faded garment.
Tobacco! How coarse and hateful! And yet how vividly it brought his stately presence before her, his slow, grave smile, his clear, youthful eyes, his serene brow, and all his shy yet virile personality.
Tobacco! Him! O was there in all the world quite such another man, so brave, so chivalrous—and so unmodish?
Here in the sleeve was a rent, even as the Sergeant had said, and very featly mended by the Sergeant's own skilful fingers; a jagged rent it had been and even now she could see a faint stain—she shivered, for now she saw other like stains were here also. So my lady shuddered, yet, doing so, leaned nearer and drew the threadbare sleeve about her snowy neck and thus espied the yawning side-pocket. My lady peeped into it, hesitated, then plunged slim hand into those cavernous depths.
His clay pipe. His silver tobacco-box. A mass of torn paper. A letter sealed with his signet, and my lady sighed rapturously for it was addressed thus:
"To Lady Elizabeth Carlyon."
With this in one hand, the Ramillie coat in the other, she crossed to her great high bed and, seated there, the coat beside her on laced pillow, drew the candles a little nearer, broke the seals and read:
"DEAR LADY AND MY LOVE,
When you receive this I shall be beyond seas and 'tis like I shall not see you again for I leave suddenly and unknown to any.
All this summer afternoon I have sat here striving to tell you why this must be, and now my labour is lost for I have destroyed my letter since it doth seem that it might perchance have pained you to read it almost as much as me to write. So I have destroyed it since I would spare you pain now and ever. Of late I have been sick, not of body so much as mind, and mayhap once or twice have suffered harsh thoughts of thee, but to-day these are gone and out of mind, and love for thee burns within me true and steadfast as it shall do until I cease to be—aye, and beyond. For if I have grieved of late yet have I known joys undreamed and have looked and seen what Happiness is like unto, wherefore I do not repine that Happiness hath not stayed. Love and I have lived so long estranged that now methinks I am not fitted, so do I go back to the things I understand. But Happiness hath stooped to me a little while to brush me with his pinions ere he fled and hath left with me a glory shall never fade. So now, dear maid that I do love and ever shall beyond mine understanding, here do I take my leave of thee. I ride alone henceforth yet shall I not be solitary since thy sweet memory goeth beside me even unto my journey's end.
JOHN D'ARCY."
And now my lady turned and looked upon that war-worn coat through a mist of tears and sinking down, laid soft cheek upon its tarnished braid and lay thus a long while, the letter clasped to swelling bosom. Then starting up she gathered those torn scraps of paper and strove to piece them together; but they were inextricably mixed, yet here and there the fragment of some sentence would leap to meet her.
"... my breaking heart ... ever doubted thine eyes so sweet and true ... joy for me is dead, the world a black nothingness ... O that night with thee in the dawn when earth touched heaven ... if Death should meet me in the field I'll meet him gladly ... my Love, my Betty, leaving thee I leave my very soul behind ... my farewell to thee and to love ... forget thee never..."
These she saw and many more. Every scrap of crumpled paper she smoothed with gentle fingers and every written word she read and laid tenderly aside.
And now, since she had pried thus far, she opened the other missive also, a folded sheet of paper, and saw this:
"I, John d'Arcy of Shevening Manor, Westerham, Kent, in the event of my falling in action do will and bequeath as follows:
To Zebedee Tring my servant late of His Majesty's Third Regiment of Foot the sum of Five Thousand Pounds and any cottage he may choose on my estate.
To Mrs. Agatha Ridley the sum of One Thousand Pounds: But should she marry the aforesaid Zebedee Tring then I bequeath to them a marriage portion of Four Thousand Pounds making Ten Thousand Pounds in all.
And all the rest I die possessed of soever both land and monies I leave unconditionally to my dear Lady Elizabeth Carlyon.
JOHN D'ARCY."
Having folded this up again and laid it by, Lady Betty sat awhile very still, staring out into the fragrant, summer night. Then she blew out the candle and lying amid the gloom, fell to sudden, stifled sobbing and muffled, passionate whispers, her head pillowed upon a certain mended coat-sleeve; and when at last she fell asleep, that shabby, war-worn garment lay close about her loveliness.
The Sergeant was at all times an early riser, but this morning he was abroad with the sun itself—a sun whose level beams wrought gloriously in dew-spangled grass underfoot, in scarlet, pink and flaming gold overhead and added fresh beauty to herb and leaf and flower; a fair, fragrant, golden morning where dismal Doubt had no place and Hope lilted in the joyous pipe of the birds, insomuch that the Sergeant paused to snuff the balmy air and to glance up at radiant sky and round about upon radiant earth feeling that life was sweet and held its best yet in store even for a battered sergeant of forty-three. And standing thus, his grim features relaxed, and for once in his busy life he fell to dreaming and forgot awhile the work that had lured him forth so very early; at length he roused himself and marched across wide lawns and along yew-bordered walks to his small tool-house, whistling softly as he went. And now, armed with nail-box, hammer, saw etc., he presently reached the work—a rustic pergola in course of construction; a very artful work this, in every respect, requiring many fierce contractions of the eyebrows, sudden fallings back two paces to the rear with head jerked suddenly left or right to judge of angle, alignment, nice proportion and the like.
The Sergeant, whistling still, had driven his first nail and had fallen back, eyebrows contracted, to judge the effect, when he wheeled suddenly about and dropped the hammer:
"Sergeant—O Sergeant Zebedee!"
Picking up the hammer, he set off at the double and reaching the orchard, halted at the foot of the wall, saluted and stared up wondering at my lady's lovely, anxious face.
"You be early abroad, mam."
"O I was here before dawn—waiting for you. Tell me, is—is the Major in?"
"The Major, mam? Aye, and sound asleep!"
"Are you sure—quite sure, Sergeant?"
"Sure, my lady. I went in but now to draw his curtains according to custom and found him sleeping soft as any child, God be thanked. But why——"
"Because he intends to go away—soon."
"Where to, my lady?"
"Back to the wars."
The Sergeant swore, apologised immediately, and saluted.
"Be you sure, my lady?"
"Quite, O quite, Sergeant."
"But he would never go without me, mam, couldn't possibly—'twould be agin natur', d'ye see."
"But he will, Sergeant, he hath written me so—he will ride away—steal away at midnight—alone—to-night mayhap or to-morrow night—we must stay him."
The Sergeant stared grimly at a bold thrush that hopped upon the grass near by.
"Do you hear, Sergeant?"
"Aye, I hear, my lady, I hear!"
"Well—say something——"
"Mam, there aren't no words as'll fit—not one!"
"Well, what can you do?"
"Pipeclay my cross-belts for one thing and then there's my spatterdashes——"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean if he goes, my lady, I go——"
"O folly, Sergeant, folly——"
"Agreed mam, heartily, but dooty is dooty and when his honour commands, I obey—'tis become a matter o'——"
"But he doesn't command—he means to ride without you."
"Same couldn't nowise be, my lady, consequently and therefore notwithstanding, if he goes—I go."
"And pray what of poor Mrs. Agatha?"
At this the Sergeant's grim mouth twitched and he turned to watch the thrush again.
"Dooty is dooty, my lady."
"Do you want to go fighting again?"
"No mam, I thought my soldiering was done, but if he goes, I——"
"And never try to stay him—you'll do nought——"
"Stay his honour the Major? My lady, if his mind's set on't, a whole troop o' cavalry couldn't stop him—no, not even a picked company o' the Third itself—earthquakes, fires, floods nor furies couldn't——"
"No, but I can, Sergeant, and I will!" said my lady setting her dimpled chin resolutely. "Lord!" she exclaimed fervently, "what troublesome, wayward children men are—and how helpless!"
"Children, my lady?"
"Aye—both of you! He so wilfully wayward and you so helpless. Prithee go fetch me Mrs. Agatha."
The Sergeant started. "Why mam—my lady, I——" he stammered, flushing, "'tis so early and she asleep and I—she being asleep, d'ye see, 'twouldn't be—that is I——"
"Sergeant," sighed my lady, "bring hither the ladder like a good child. I'll e'en wake her myself."
So the ladder was brought, the Sergeant turned his back and in the twinkling of an eye my lady was over the wall and walking across the dewy grass beside him; reaching the house he pointed to a latticed casement above their heads.
"'Tis rather high, Sergeant, but a handful of gravel——"
"Gravel, my lady?"
"Gravel, child—launched into the air and truly aimed——"
"But mam——" The Sergeant glanced from the loose gravel underfoot to the open lattice above and flushed. "Zounds mam, I—never did such a thing in all my days——"
"Then 'tis time you began, you're quite old enough—gravel, Sergeant—aimed carefully!"
The Sergeant obeyed and almost immediately out of the window came Mrs. Agatha's pretty face framed in a dainty, be-ribanded nightcap; at sight of the Sergeant, she flushed rosily, perceiving my lady, who beckoned imperiously, she smiled, nodded and vanished.
"Mrs. Agatha hath a pretty taste in nightcaps, Sergeant Zebedee!" said my lady demurely. The Sergeant looked sheepish, grew red, became exceedingly grim and finally answered:
"Aye, my lady."
"And a pretty face below, Sergeant!" said she, watching a lark that soared, carolling, against the blue.
"Aye, my lady!"
"And you will go a-marching to the wars, Sergeant!"
At this he uttered a sound between a sigh and a groan and thereafter looked grimmer than ever.
In surprisingly short time Mrs. Agatha appeared, as neat, demure and self-possessed as usual.
"Is aught amiss, my lady?" she enquired, dropping a curtsey.
"Only this, Mrs. Agatha, Major d'Arcy will away campaigning again and the Sergeant feels he must needs go too, so I have summoned you from bed that we together may end such folly."
The Sergeant stared.
"And end it once and for all!" added my lady firmly.
"Aye for sure, madam," said Mrs. Agatha, calmly.
The Sergeant gaped.
"Then come to the orchard and let us talk."
Seated in the arbour my lady beckoned Mrs. Agatha to sit beside her:
"I don't think we need the Sergeant, do we?" she enquired.
"I'm sure we don't, my lady."
"Then Sergeant, go and hammer!"
The Sergeant went like one in a dream.
"Man Jack," sighed the Colonel, ogling the wine in his glass, "now mark me, Jack, for pure Christian drink there's nought may compare with wine of Oporto, 'tis a heart-warmer, a soul-expander, a sharpener o' th' intellect, a loosener o' tongues. Moreover it doth beget good fellowship and love o' mankind in general. Begad sir, wine of Oporto is—is—I say Oporto wine is—is, well—wine. So give me Oporto——"
"And now and then a dish of tea, George!" added the Major solemnly. At this Colonel Cleeve might have been observed to quail slightly.
"You have acquired the taste—very lately, I think, sir?" enquired the Viscount.
"True, sir," answered the Colonel, rolling his eyes, "and on the whole ha' managed it very well. Tea is none so bad—once 'tis disposed of, I've drank worse stuff ere now—aye and so has Jack. Tea hath its virtues, sir, first 'tis soon over—a dish or so may be swallowed readily enough when cool by a determined effort——"
"Though," murmured the Viscount, "though 'tis better thrown out o' the window, 'twould seem, sir."
Colonel Cleeve rolled his fierce eyes again, sprinkled himself with snuff and finally laughed:
"Agad, Viscount, ya' ha' me there true enough. Look'ee now, one dish I can manage creditably enough, two at a pinch with my lady's eye on me, but three and with Belinda's eye off me—damme, no! So—out o' the window it went, aha! But how came ya' to spy me do't—eh?"
"I came to bring you news, sir, but seeing you so—ah—particularly engaged I let it wait."
"What news, lad—ha?"
"I am become a soldier, sir. I have secured a commission in His Majesty's Third Regiment of Foot."
"Ha, the old regiment—dooce take me, Viscount, but I rejoice to hear it!" exclaimed the Colonel and leapt to his feet with hand outstretched. "The 'Third' is the one and only—eh, Jack? And hath the noblest and highest traditions, yet—high and noble though they be, I'm bold to say you'll do 'em credit and be worthy of 'em, Viscount Tom—eh, man Jack?"
"Nay sir," answered the Viscount, clasping the proffered hand, "if I can but emulate in some small way nunky's and your achievements I shall be proud indeed."
"Whose company are ya' 'tached to—and when?"
"Ogilvie's sir—a fortnight hence."
"Begad, but Ogilvie's hath been cast for foreign service."
"'Tis why I chose it, sir."
"Aha!" exclaimed the Colonel, "Oho! Another case o' the heart, I judge. There was young Denholm talking but yesterday about a red coat, death and glory, or bleaching his dead bones on some foreign shore." The Viscount smiled serenely:
"I do confess love hath something to do with it, sir," said he, "though not altogether. I've had the project in mind for some time."
"Love—God bless it!" exclaimed the Colonel, "love hath made a many fine soldiers ere now, sir, and begad there's nought can cure a heartache like a brisk campaign. Come, a toast—and bumpers! Here's health and long life, honour and fortune to Ensign Viscount Merivale!" So my Lord Cleeve and the Major rose and drank the toast with hearty goodwill while the Viscount, his smooth cheek a little rosier than usual, bowed his acknowledgments.
"And now," quoth the Colonel, setting down his empty glass, "the bottle's out, 'tis near twelve and I'm for bed. To-morrow, Viscount, I'll give ya' certain advices may be of service to ya' in the regiment and write ya' a letter to Ogilvie. And so good-night, sir!"
"Good-night, George!" said the Major and reaching out suddenly he grasped Lord Cleeve's hand and wrung it hard.
"Why Jack!" said the Colonel, staring, "y'are dooced impressive, one would think ya' were going out to-night on a forlorn hope. Talking o' which, d'ya' remember the storming o' Douai, Jack? Aha, those were times—stirring times—but past and done, since, like you, I mean to quit the service for wedlock—'tis a great adventure that, Jack, belike the greatest of all, may we front it with a like resolution."
With which the Colonel bowed and betook himself to bed.
"Tom," said the Major, staring wistfully into the fire, "I'm glad you've chosen the old regiment—'ours'—very glad, because I know you will be worthy of it and this England of ours and help to add to the glory and honour of both. But Tom, as to your—your—er—love trouble, dear lad, I—trust 'tis no mistaken idea of self-sacrifice, no idea that—that she loveth—that she—I——"
"Nay sir, that you love her I do know right well, that she loveth you I cannot doubt, aye, despite the—despite the wall, with a curse on't! But that she loveth not me I am perfectly sure. So here is no self-sacrifice, nunky, never fear. And sir," continued the Viscount, taking out his snuff-box and tapping it with one delicate finger, "sir, I have a feeling, a premonition that, so far as you and she are concerned, matters will right themselves anon. For if—if she did sit on that—that curst wall, she is always her pure, sweet self and remember, sir, she kicked the damned fellow's hat off!" Here he opened his snuff-box and gazed into it abstractedly as he went on: "Sir, when love cometh to such as you and she, there are few things in earth may thwart or stay such a love, 'tis a fire consumeth all obstacles and pettiness. And indeed, in my mind I see her, in days to come, here beside you, filling this great house with gladness and laughter and, wherever I may be, you will know that in your happiness I am happy too. And sir, as she is the only woman i' the world, I do think you are the only man truly worthy of her and I—ha—I therefore—nunky—er——" Here the Viscount inadvertently took a pinch of snuff and immediately sneezed violently: "O Lard—O Lard!" he gasped. "'Tis the damndest stuff! Always catches me—vilely! A—a curse—on't and—goo'-night, sir!" And, turning abruptly away he sneezed himself out of the room.
For a long while the Major stood looking down into the dying fire, then he stirred, sighed, shook his head and, extinguishing the candles, tramped heavily upstairs, closing the door of his bedchamber a little louder than was necessary. Then, seated at his writing-table he fell to work and wrote so industriously that the clocks were striking the hour of one when at last he rose and stood listening intently. The house lay very still, not a sound reached him save the whisper of the night-wind beyond his open lattice. Treading softly, he crossed to the hearth, above which the Sergeant had hung his swords, half-a-dozen light, richly-hilted walking-swords and his heavier service blade, the colichemarde. This he reached down, drew it from shabby leathern scabbard and found the steel bright and glittering with the Sergeant's unremitting care; so he sheathed it, girded it to his side and, opening a tall, carved press, took thence his old campaign cloak, stained by much hard service, and a pair of long and heavy riding-boots. Kicking off buckled shoes he proceeded to don this cumbrous footgear but paused, and rising, took the spurred boots under his arm together with the cloak and crossing the wide room in stockinged feet, softly opened the door and stood again to listen; finally he took his candle, closed the door with infinite care and crept softly down the great, wide staircase. Reaching the foot he paused to look back up that noble stair and to glance round the spacious hall with its tapestries, its dim portraits, its gleaming arms and armour then, sighing, took his way to the library. Here he paused to shift the candle from one hand to the other; then he opened the door and fell back, staring.
The Sergeant advanced one pace and came to attention. Very upright he stood in ancient, buff-lined, service coat, in cross-belts and spatterdashes, his hat at its true regimental cock, his wig newly ironed and powdered—a soldier from the crown of his head to the lowest button of his long, white gaiters, a veteran grim and ineffably calm. The scarlet of his coat was a little faded, perhaps, but the sheen of broad white belts and the glitter of buckles and side-arms made up for that. His chin, high-poised above leathern stock, looked squarer than usual and his arm seemed a trifle stiffer as he saluted.
"Your honour," said he, "the horses are saddled and ready."
"Zeb—Zebedee!" exclaimed the Major, falling back another step. "A Gad's name what does this mean?"
"Sir," answered the Sergeant, staring stonily before him, "same do mean as I, like the horses, am ready and waiting to march so soon as you do give the word."
"Then, damme Zeb, I'll not permit it! I ride—alone. D'ye hear?"
"I hear, sir."
"You understand, Zebedee, alone!"
"Aye, sir."
"Consequently you will go back—back to bed, at once, d'ye hear?"
"Aye sir, I hear."
"Then begone."
"Axing your grace, your honour, but same can't nowise be, orders notwithstanding nevertheless—no!"
"Ha! D'ye mean you actually—refuse to obey?"
The Sergeant blinked, swallowed hard and saluted:
"Your honour—sir—I do!"
"God—bless—my—soul!" ejaculated the Major and stared wide-eyed at cross-belts, buckles and spatterdashes as if he had never seen such things in all his forty-one years. "Is it—insubordination, Sergeant Zebedee?" he demanded, his cheeks flushing.
"Your honour—it be. Same I do admit though same regretting. But sir, if you are for the wars it na't'rally do follow as I must be. Wheresoever you go—speaking as soldiers sir, I must go as by natur' so determined now and for ever, amen."
"And what o' the estate, ass? I ha' left you agent here in Mr. Jennings' room."
"Same is an honour, sir, but dooty demands——"
"And what of Mrs. Agatha, dolt?"
The Sergeant's broad shoulders drooped quite perceptibly for a moment, then grew rigid again:
"Dooty is—dooty, your honour!"
"And you are a damned obstinate fellow, Zebedee, d'ye hear?"
The Sergeant saluted.
"I say a dolt and a preposterous fool to boot—d'ye take me, Zeb?"
The Sergeant saluted.
"And you talk pure folly—curst folly, d'ye understand, Zebedee?"
"Folly as ever was sir, but—folly for you, folly for me, says I!"
Now at this the Major grew so angry that he dropped a riding-boot and, stooping for it at the same instant as the Sergeant they knocked their hats off and were groping for these when there came a soft rapping at the door and, starting erect, they beheld Mrs. Agatha, smiling and bright-eyed and across one arm she bore—the Ramillie coat.
"Your honour," said she, curtseying, "'tis very late, I know, but I'm here to bring your old battle-coat as I found to-day in the garden, knowing 'tis such a favourite with you. Good-night, sir!" So Mrs. Agatha dimpled, curtseyed and sped softly away, surreptitiously beckoning to the Sergeant.
Left alone, the Major let fall his boots and sinking into a chair sat staring at the Ramillie coat, chin on breast; then he leaned forward to take it up but paused suddenly arrested by a fragrance very faint and elusive yet vaguely familiar; he sighed and sinking deeper into his chair became lost awhile in reverie. At last he roused himself and reaching the garment from where Mrs. Agatha had set it on the table, drew it upon his knees, made as if to feel in the pockets and paused again for now the fragrance seemed all about him, faint but ineffably sweet, a sweetness breathing of—Her. And, inhaling this fragrance, the glamour of her presence was about him, he had but to close his eyes and she was there before him in all her warm and vivid beauty, now smiling in bewitching allurement, now plaintive and tender, now quick-breathing, blushing, trembling to his embrace—even as he was trembling.
So the Major sat grasping his old coat and sighed and yearned amain for the unattainable; imagination rioted and he saw visions and dreamed dreams of happiness as far beyond expression as they were beyond hope of realisation. Wherefore he groaned, cursed himself for a fool and casting the Ramillie coat to the floor, set his foot upon it; and frowning down at this worn-out garment, how should he guess of those bitter tears that had bedewed its tarnished braid, of the soft cheek that had pressed it, the white arms that had cradled it so recently? How indeed should Major d'Arcy as he scowled down at it know aught of this? Though to be sure there was that haunting fragrance, that sweetness that breathed of—Her. Suddenly he stooped and picking it up, raised it to his nostrils; yes it was here—particularly the right sleeve and shoulder. He closed his eyes again, then opening them very wide plunged a hand into the nearest pocket.
His pipe! His silver tobacco-box! In another pocket his purse and a few odds and ends but nothing more. He ransacked the garment feverishly but in place of will, torn paper and letter, he found only one other letter, sealed and addressed thus,
"To Major d'Arcy."