Letting the coat slip to the floor he sank back in the chair, staring long at superscription and seal; then he drew the candle nearer and opening the letter read as follows:
"DEAR SIR,
If this sorry coat looketh a little more creased and rumpled than it is wont to do, this is entirely my fault. And because I am as much a woman as our common mother Eve I have read every document in every pocket. And because every document was for me or of me I have kept them. Yet because, after all, I am truly a very honest person, I do return this your garment herewith together with all other articles soever herein contained, as namely and to wit: Item, one clay pipe and smells! Item, tobacco-box of silver, much scratched. Item, a tobacco-stopper of silver-gilt. Item, a silver sixpence with a hole in it. Item, one purse containing three guineas, one crown piece and a shilling. Item, a small knife for making pens and very blunt. O John, O Jack, great strong tender chivalrous man, and doth thy poor heart break? Stay then, my love shall make it whole again. And wilt thou to the cruel wars? Then will I after thee. And wilt thou die? Then will I die with thee. But O John if thou wilt live, then will I live to love thee better day by day for I am thine and thou art mine henceforth and for ever. But now do I lie here sleepless and grieving for thee and writing this do weep (see how my tears do blot the page) and none to comfort me save thine old coat. O John, John, how couldst have writ such things—to tear my heart and blind me with my tears—yet do I love thee. And thou didst break thine oath to me and yet do I love thee. And thou wouldst have left me—stolen away to give thy body unto cruel death and slay me with despair but still—still do I love thee dearest John. Shouldst thou steal away like a very coward I would be bold to follow thee—aye even into battle itself—so fly not John. And since thou didst break thine oath—thou shalt sue me an humble pardon. And since I do lie sleepless here and weep by reason of thee—so shalt thou make unto me a comfortable reparation. So dear John to-morrow night at nine-thirty of the clock thou shalt meet me at our stile—where we did watch the dawn—and there all thy doubts and fears shall be resolved and vanish utterly away for ever and ever and thou (as I do think) shalt learn to love me even a little better. So come my John at nine-thirty of the clock but not an instant sooner and fail not for my sake and thy sake and Love's sweet sake. O John my love 'tis nigh to dawn, art thou waking or asleep I wonder? Since I am thine so utterly, fain would I write that which I dare not write yet in these lines read all thou fain wouldst read. God keep thee my love and waking or sleeping thou hast the prayers and thoughts of thy Betty.
My poor eyes are all bleared with my weeping and my nose is woeful. And John dear take care of this dear old coat it shall be my comforter this night."
Having read to the end, the Major carefully re-folded the letter and thrust it into an inner pocket; took it out again, unfolded it and having re-read every word once more put it away. Then rising, he set the Ramillie coat upon a chair-back and taking out his handkerchief dusted it, touching its rumpled folds with hands grown almost reverent, which done he sat down and propping square chin on fist gazed at it with a new and wonderful interest. Then he took out the letter again, read it through again and pressed it to his lips; thus he sat, his attention divided between the letter and the coat, until the clock struck two. He was reading the letter for perhaps the sixth time when came a knock at the door and the Sergeant entered.
"Ax your pardon sir, but what o' the horses?" he enquired.
"Horses?" repeated the Major vacantly.
"Aye sir, they've been a-standing in their stalls saddled and bridled a hour or more."
"Have they, Zeb?"
"Aye sir, a-waiting for your honour to give the word to march."
"Why then Zeb," said the Major rising and taking the Ramillie coat over his arm, "you may unsaddle 'em, my honour has decided—not to march."
"Very good, sir!" The Sergeant blinked, saluted and wheeled about.
"Sergeant Zebedee!" The Sergeant wheeled back again.
"Sir?"
"I think—ha—I rather fancy I called you a damned obstinate fellow as 'twere and er—so forth."
"You did so, sir. Likewise 'ass' and 'dolt.'"
"Why if I said 'em, I meant 'em, Zebedee and——" The Major strode forward impulsively and grasped Sergeant Zebedee's hand. "'Twas true Zeb, 'twas true every word, so you are, but—God bless thee for't, Zeb!" Saying which the Major went upstairs to his chamber bearing the Ramillie coat much as if it had been some sacred relic rather than the rumpled, unlovely thing it was.
Being alone the Sergeant stared at his right hand, smiled, took it in his left and shook it heartily. "Sapperment!" he exclaimed, "All I says is, O woman!"
The Major stood chin in hand staring at the weather-beaten stile, set a little back from the road between high hedges and shaded by the spreading boughs of a great tree; its worn timbers were gnarled and twisted with years and the rigours of succeeding winters and, in its length of days, many were the lovers had sighed and kissed and plighted troth beside it; and yet of them all surely never a one had waited with more impatience or hearkened more eagerly for the quick, light tread of approaching feet than Major John d'Arcy, for all his quiescent attitude and apparent calm, as he stood in the light of the rising moon staring gravely at the rickety fabric.
It was here he had held her to his breast as night melted into day, it was here he had kissed her in the dawn—and to-night——The Major's big hand touched the warped crossbar and rested there a little tremulously. And standing thus he fell to thinking of love and the never-ceasing wonder of it and to-night——!
"So dear John to-morrow at nine-thirty of the clock thou shalt meet me at our stile—where we did watch the dawn and there all thy doubts and fears shall be resolved and vanish utterly away for ever and ever, and thou (as I do think) shalt learn to love me even a little better. So come my John at nine-thirty of the clock but not an instant sooner and fail not for my sake and thy sake and Love's sweet sake."
How well he remembered those oft-read lines, he knew every twirl and flourish that her pen had made——
Soft with distance the church clock chimed the hour of nine. Half an hour to wait! He was earlier than he had thought. The Major sighed and leaning across the stile, stared away towards the rising moon. Half an hour and then——?
"Come my John at nine-thirty of the clock but not an instant sooner."
And wherefore not? he wondered. Was it on his account or—? Here he fell to frowning thought and gradually a vague unease came upon him; standing erect he half turned, meaning to walk awhile and return at the appointed time, then paused suddenly to listen.
The night was warm and so very still that sounds carried far and thus he heard a throb upon the air which his trained senses instantly recognised as the sound of horse-hoofs coming at a gallop. Wondering, he moved forward until, standing in the shadow of the high hedge, he could see the road stretching away white under the moon; and presently upon the road were two horsemen, travellers these who rode close side by side, despite their speed. Instinctively the Major stepped back into the shadow and had reached the stile again when he started and wheeled swiftly about—above the drumming of rapidly approaching hoofs he had caught the sound of a laugh, a lazy laugh full of languid amusement; the Major clenched his fists and standing in the shadow, watched the oncoming horsemen under knitted brows. Nearer they came until he could see that one of the riders was a woman; nearer yet until he could make out the pale, aquiline features of Mr. Dalroyd; on they came at speed until—the Major's breath caught suddenly for beneath the lady's riding-hood he saw a face framed in glossy, black curls—the delicate profile, the long-lashed eye, that sweet, proud, red-curving mouth—the face of my lady Betty herself.
'So 'twas thus she came to meet him! Well, even so—' he took an uncertain pace forward. 'But was she there to meet him?' She rode loose-reined at the same swift pace; twelve yards, six! 'Was she indeed coming to keep her appointment? No, by God!' For once in his life the Major's iron self-control was not, a wild rage possessed him; he wore no sword, but, acting upon blind impulse, unarmed as he was, he sprang for the head of Dalroyd's horse. A startled, breathless oath, a wild hurly-burly of stamping hoofs and rearing of frightened horses, then, whipping out one of his ever-ready pistols, Mr. Dalroyd levelled it point-blank at his dim-seen opponent, but as he pulled the trigger his arm was knocked up and the weapon exploded in the air. A desperate smiting in the shadow then, spurring his rearing horse, Mr. Dalroyd broke free and the Major, struck by the shoulder of the plunging animal, was hurled violently into the ditch. When at last he got to his feet, my lady and her escort were nearly out of sight.
"Ha—d'Arcy was it!" said Mr. Dalroyd a little breathlessly as he thrust discharged pistol into holster. "Egad, sweetheart, 'tis relief to know it, I thought 'twas—d'Arcy was it, poor devil. By heaven, Betty, since you are mine at last I can almost find pity for the poor devil, he loved you with a death-in-life adoration, sweet Bet, worshipped you with lowly fervour as you were a saint—you, all warmth and love and passion. O, 'tis a pitiful lover you'd ha' found him, sweetheart, 'tis a smug fool and would ha' driven you frantic with his grave and reverent homage. Now I on the other hand Bet——" Mr. Dalroyd paused suddenly to glance over his shoulder and rode on for a few moments, his head aslant in that attitude of patient listening.
"Didst hear aught, sweetheart? A horse galloping?"
"Nay indeed!" voice muffled in her cloak.
"Good!" Hereupon Mr. Dalroyd entered into a full and particular account of his own virtues as a lover, though more than once he paused in the recital to glance over his shoulder and to listen.
"Indeed, sweet Bet, 'tis as well you are set on Paris henceforth for 'tis necessary I should quit England for awhile. I had the misfortune to offend a gentleman some months since and last week the thoughtless fellow was so mistaken as to die—hence I must to France awhile—but with thee 'twill be a very paradise." Here Mr. Dalroyd reached out to touch his companion's hand but in the act of doing so, paused and glanced over his shoulder and immediately proceeded to change the pistols in his holsters.
"'Twas folly in my lord your brother to choose a different route, Bet, I have post-horses waiting all along the road and a lugger waiting in a certain snug cove. If he should be behind——"
"We must wait!" said my lady.
"Wait—aye Bet, we'll wait a reasonable while, though 'tis torment to an eager lover. To-morrow morning we should reach Boulogne and in Boulogne you shall wed me and——"
My lady turned and scanned the long road behind.
"Ha—d'ye hear hoofs, Bet—a horseman?" My lady shook her head, but now Mr. Dalroyd grew silent and rode alert and watchful.
So they rode, staying only to change horses and on again; even when they paused for refreshment, Mr. Dalroyd spoke little except to urge haste and often would cross to door or window and stand there, head aslant, listening.
It was after they had changed horses for the last time that Mr. Dalroyd lifted his head suddenly and glared back over his shoulder as, faint and far, but plain to hear, came the rhythmic throb of galloping hoofs.
"Ha!" he exclaimed in a long-drawn breath. "Dost hear aught, Bet?"
"One gallops behind us!" said my lady faintly.
"Art wearied, sweetheart?"
"Nay—not very."
"Then ride—spur!"
"Nay, 'tis Charles—my brother, perchance."
"'Tis not your brother!"
"How can you tell?"
"I know!" said he grimly and lifted his holster-flap. Thus, mile after mile they rode with never a word between them, yet, despite their speed, faint and far behind was that rhythmic beat of pursuing hoofs, now lost, now heard again, faint but persistent, never any nearer yet never any further off. And often Mr. Dalroyd glared back across his shoulder and spoke only to encourage his companion to faster pace.
Uphill and down they spurred and across wind-swept levels while the moon waned and the stars paled to the dawn; and with the first chill breath of coming day there reached them the sharp, salt tang of the sea. Mr. Dalroyd uttered a short, fierce laugh and, seizing his companion's rein, spurred his jaded animal to the hill before them. A sloping upland, wild and desolate, a treeless expanse clothed with bush and scrub, with beyond, at the top of the ascent, a little wood. Spurring still, they reached this wood at last and here Mr. Dalroyd drew rein, whipped pistols into pockets and dismounting, lifted my lady from the saddle; then he turned and looked back to see, far away upon the lonely road, a solitary horseman indistinct in the half-light.
"I can do it yet!" he laughed and, catching his companion's hand, hurried through the wood, across a short stretch of grass and so to the edge of a cliff with the sea beyond, where a two-masted vessel rode at her anchor close inshore, while immediately below them was a little bay where a boat had been drawn up. Mr. Dalroyd whistled shrilly, at which signal two men rose from where they had sprawled on the shingle and ran the boat to the edge of the tide.
Then Mr. Dalroyd turned and laughed again.
"Come Betty—my Betty!" he cried. "Yonder lies France and happiness."
"But Charles——"
"He's aboard like enough."
"But——"
"Come!" he cried, glancing toward the little wood.
But now my lady's petticoats must catch which caused much delay; free at length she, not troubling for Mr. Dalroyd's hand, went on down the precipitous path. The sailors, seeing her coming, launched their boat, and my lady, not waiting for their aid and heedless of wet ankles, sprang in, motioning them to do the same.
"But th' gentleman, mam—you'll never run off wi'out your fancy man, lady!" laughed one of the men and pointed to where Mr. Dalroyd yet stood upon the edge of the cliff, staring back towards the wood.
"Lady do be in a 'urry an' no mistake. Tom, give my lord a hail!"
The fellow Tom hailed lustily whereupon Mr. Dalroyd shook clenched fist at the little wood and turned to descend the cliff, but in that instant was a faint report; Mr. Dalroyd staggered, wheeled round, took a reeling pace towards that dark wood and fell.
"Lord—Lord love me, Tom!" gasped the sailor.
"Shove off!" cried my lady.
"But mam—your ladyship——"
"Shove off, I say." Almost instinctively the men obeyed, shipped the oars and sat waiting.
"Row!" cried my lady.
"But Lord—Lord love 'ee mam, what o'——"
"Row!" commanded my lady again, "Row and be damned!" And from under her cloak came a hand grasping a long-barrelled pistol. The little boat shot away from shore out towards the lugger.
Mr. Dalroyd lay motionless, outstretched upon the grass, one arm hidden beneath him and with blood welling between his parted lips; and presently, forth from the shadow of the little wood a masked figure crept, head out-thrust, shoulders bowed, big hand yet grasping the smoking pistol; cautiously and slowly the man drew near and stood looking down on his handiwork. Then Joseph, his obsequiousness gone for ever, laughed harshly and spurned that limp and motionless form with the toe of his heavy riding-boot.
With sudden, mighty effort the dying man struggled to his knees and glaring up into the masked face of his slayer, levelled the weapon he had drawn and cocked with so much agony and stealth.
"Ha, worm!" he groaned, "I waited and you—came. Die—vermin!" Steadying himself he pulled the trigger and Joseph, throwing up his arms, fell and lay staring up, unwinking and sightless, on the pallid dawn. Then Mr. Dalroyd laughed, choked and sinking slowly to the grass, moved no more. The death which had pursued him so relentlessly had caught up with him at last.
By a kindly dispensation of Nature all great and sudden shocks are apt to deaden agony awhile. Thus, as the Major stared along the deserted road he was conscious only of a great and ever-growing wonder; his mind groped vainly and he stood, utterly still, long after the throb of horse-hoofs had died away.
At last he turned and fixed his gaze upon the weatherbeaten stile again.
It was here he had held her to his heart, had felt her kisses on his lips, had listened to her murmurs of love. It was here she had promised to meet him and resolve his doubts and fears once and for all. And now? She was away with Dalroyd of all men in the world—Dalroyd!
The Major stirred, sighed, and reaching out set his hand upon the warped timber of the old stile, a hand that twitched convulsively.
She was gone. She was off and away with Dalroyd of all men! Dalroyd—of course! Dalroyd had been the chosen man all along and he himself a blind, self-deluding fool.
The Major bowed his head, loathing his fatuous blindness and burning with self-contempt. Slowly those twitching fingers became a quivering fist as wonder and shame gave place to anger that blazed to a fury of passion, casting out gentle Reason and blinding calm judgment. Truly his doubts and fears were resolved for him at last—she was off and away with Dalroyd! So she had tricked—fooled—deceived from the very first!
The big fist smote down upon the stile and, spattering blood from broken knuckles, the Major leapt over and hasted wildly from the accursed place; and as he strode there burned within him an anger such as he had never known—fierce, unreasoning, merciless, all-consuming. Headlong he went, heedless of direction until at last, finding himself blundering among underbrush and trees, he stopped to glance about him. And now, moved by sudden impulse, he plunged fierce hand into bosom and plucked forth her letter, that close-written sheet he had cherished so reverently, and, holding it in griping fingers, smiled grimly to see it all blood-smeared from his torn knuckles; then he ripped it almost as though it had been a sentient thing, tore it across and across, and scattering the fragments broadcast, tramped on again. Thus in his going he came to the rustic bridge above the sleepy pool and paused there awhile to stare down into the stilly waters upon whose placid surface the moon seemed to float in glory.
And she had once stood beside him here and plied him with her woman's arts, tender sighs and pretty coquetry—and anon proud scorn as when he had vowed her unmaidenly and he, poor fool, had loved and worshipped her the while. And now? Now she was away with—Dalroyd of all men in the world, Dalroyd who, wiser in woman, loved many but worshipped never a one.
Borne to his ears on the quiet night air came the faint sound of the church clock chiming ten. The Major shivered forlornly and turning, tramped wearily homeward.
Sergeant Zebedee, opening to his knock, glanced at him keen-eyed, quick to notice lack-lustre eye, furrowed brow and down-trending mouth.
"Sir," he enquired anxiously, "your honour, is aught amiss?"
"Nought, Zeb," answered the Major heavily, "nought i' the world. Why?"
"Why sir, you do look uncommon—woeful."
"'Tis like enough, Zeb, like enough, for to-night I have—beheld myself. And I find, Zeb, yes, I find myself a pitiful failure as a—a county squire and man o' leisure. Thisotium cum dignitateis not for me so I'm done with it, Zeb, I'm done with it."
"Meaning how, sir, which and what, your honour?"
"Meaning that Nature made me a man of limitations, Zeb. I am a fair enough soldier but—in—in certain—other ways as 'twere I am woefully lacking. I'm a soldier now and always, Zeb, so a soldier I must live and a soldier, pray God, I'll die. Last night you were in a mind to follow me to the wars—doth the desire still hold?"
"Aye sir. Dooty is dooty. Where you go—I go."
"So be it, Zeb. We will ride to-morrow for Dover at five o' the clock."
"Very good, sir."
"Are the servants all abed?"
"Aye, sir, and so's the Colonel."
"Then lock up and go you likewise, I have certain writings to make. And mark this, Zebedee, 'tis better to die a man of limitations than to live on smug and assured the sport of coquette Fortune as—as 'twere and so forth. D'ye get me, Zeb?"
"No sir, I don't."
"Egad, 'tis none surprising Zeb," said the Major ruefully, "I express myself very ill, but I know what I mean. Good-night, Zeb—get ye to bed."
Reaching the library the Major crossed to the hearth and sinking down in a chair beside the fire, sat awhile staring into the fire, lost in wistful thought. At length he arose and taking one of the candles opened the door of that small, bare chamber he called his study; opened the door and stood there wide-eyed and with the heavy silver candlestick shaking in his grasp.
She sat crouched down in his great elbow-chair, fast asleep. And she was really asleep, there was no coquettish shamming about it since coquetry does not admit of snoring and my lady snored distinctly; true, it was a very small and quite inoffensive snore, induced by her somewhat unwonted posture, but a snore it was beyond all doubt.
The Major rid himself of the candle and closing the door softly behind him leaned there watching her.
She half sat, half lay, lovely head adroop upon her shoulder, one slender foot just kissing the floor, the other hidden beneath her petticoats; and as she lay thus in the soft abandonment of sleep he could not help but be struck anew by the compelling beauty of her: the proud swell of her bosom that rose and fell with her gentle breathing, the curves of hip and rounded limbs, the soft, white column of her throat. All this he saw and, because she lay so defenceless in her slumber, averted his gaze for perhaps thirty seconds then, yielding himself to this delight of the eyes, studied all her loveliness from dark, drooping lashes and rosy, parted lips down to that slender, dainty foot. And as he gazed his eyes grew tender, his fierce hands unclenched themselves and then my lady snored again unmistakably, stirred, sighed and opened her eyes.
"John!" she whispered, then, sitting up, uttered a shy gasp and ordered her draperies with quick, furtive hands, while the Major, eyes instantly averted, became his most stately self.
"O John are you come at last and I asleep? And I fear I snored John, did I? Did I indeed, John?"
The Major, gaze bent on the polished floor, bowed.
"I don't as a rule—I vow I don't! 'tis hateful to snore and I don't snore—ask Aunt Belinda. And O pray John don't be so grim and stately."
"So," said he gently but his voice a little hoarse, "so you have—have thought better of your bargain, it seems."
"Bargain, dear John?"
"Your—cavalier, madam. Mr. Dalroyd rides alone after all, 'twould appear."
"Mr. Dalroyd!" she repeated, busied with a lock of glossy hair that had escaped its bonds.
The Major bowed with his gravest and grandest air.
"Nay prithee John," she sighed, "beseech thee, don't be dignified. And the hour so late and I all alone here."
"And pray madam, why are you here?" he questioned. Now at this, meeting his cold, grey eye, she flushed and quailed slightly.
"Doth it—displease you, Major John?"
"Here is no place for you, madam, nor—nor ever can be, nor any woman henceforth."
At this she caught her breath, the rosy flush ebbed and left her pale.
"Must I go, sir?" she asked humbly, but with eyes very bright.
"When you are ready I will attend you as far as your own house."
"If I go, John," said she a little breathlessly, "if I go you will come to me to-morrow and plead forgiveness on your knees, and I am minded to let you."
"I think not, my lady—there is a limit I find even to such love as mine."
"Then is my love the greater, John, for now, rather than let you humble yourself to beg forgiveness for your evil thought of me, I will stoop to explain away your base suspicions. To-night you went to the stile before the time appointed and saw that hateful Dalroyd eloping with my brother Charles in my clothes as you saw him once before—upon the wall."
"Your brother!" cried the Major. "Dear God in heaven!"
"Is it so wonderful?" she sighed. "Had you been a woman you would have guessed ere now, I think. But a woman is so much quicker than a blind, blundering man. And you are very blind, John—and a prodigious blunderer."
The Major stood silent and with bowed head.
"So this was my scheme to save my dear Charles and avenge myself upon Mr. Dalroyd—and see how near you brought it to ruin, John, and your own life in jeopardy with your fighting. But men are so clumsy, alas! And you are vastly clumsy—aren't you, John?"
The Major did not answer: and now, seeing him so humbled, his grand manner quite forgotten, her look softened and her voice grew a little kinder.
"But you did save Charles from the soldiers, John. And after, did save me from Mr. Dalroyd's evil passion—wherefore, though I loved thee ere this, my love for thee grew mightily—O mightily, John. But now, alas! how should a poor maid wed and give herself into the power of a man—like thee, John? A man so passionate, so prone to cruel doubt, to jealousy, to evil and vain imaginings, to cruel fits of—of dignity—O John!"
The Major raised his head and saw her leaning towards him in the great chair, her hands outstretched to him, her eyes full of a yearning tenderness.
"Betty!" He was down before her on his knees, those gentle hands pressed to his brow, his cheek, his eager lips.
"I have been blind, blind—a blind fool!"
"But you were brave and generous also, dear John, though over-prone to cruel doubt of me from the first, John, the very first."
"Yes, my lady," he confessed, humbly.
"Though mayhap I did give thee some—some little cause, John, so now do I forgive thee!"
"This night," said he sighing, "I destroyed thy dear letter."
"Did you, John?"
"And thought to destroy my love for thee with it!"
"And—did you, John?"
"Nay, 'tis beyond my strength. O Betty—canst love me as I do thee—beyond all thought and reason?"
At this she looked down at him with smile ineffably tender and drew his head to her bosom and clasping it there stooped soft lips to cheek and brow and wistful eyes.
"Listen, dear foolish, doubting John, my love for thee is of this sort; if thou wert sick and feeble instead of strong, my strength should cherish thee; wert thou despised and outcast, these arms should shelter thee, hadst thou indeed ridden hence, then would I humbly have followed thee. And now, John—unless thou take and wed me—then solitary and loveless will I go all my days, dear John—since thou art indeed the only man——"
The soft voice faltered, died away, and sinking into his embrace she gave her lips to his.
"Betty!" he murmured. "Ah God—how I do worship thee!"
The hours sped by and rang their knell unheeded, for them time was not, until at last she stirred within his arms.
"O love," she sighed, "look, it is the dawn again—our dawn, John. But alas, I must away—let us go." And she shivered.
"Art cold, my Betty, and the air will chill thee——"
"Thy old coat, John, the dear old coat I stole away from thee." So he brought the Ramillie coat and girded it about her loveliness and she rubbed soft cheek against threadbare cuff. "Dear shabby old thing!" she sighed, "it brought to me thy letters—so shall I love it alway, John."
"But thy shoes!" said he. "Thy little shoes! And the dew so heavy!" My lady laughed and reached up to kiss his anxious brow.
"Nay," she murmured as he opened the door——
"'Tis dabbling in the dew that makes the milkmaids fair."
Hand in hand, and creeping stealthily as truant children, they came out upon the terrace.
"John," she whispered, "'tis a something grey dawn and yet methinks this bringeth us even more joy than the last."
"And Betty," said he a little unsteadily, "there will be—other dawns—an God be kind—soon, beloved—soon!"
"Yes, John," she answered, face hidden against his velvet coat, "God will be kind."
"And the dew, my Betty——"
"What of it, John?" she questioned, not moving.
"Is heavier than I thought. And thou'rt no milkmaid, and beyond all milkmaids fair."
"Dost think so, John dear?"
"Aye, I do!" he answered. "So, sweet woman of my dreams—come!"
Saying which he caught her in compelling arms and lifting her high against his heart, stood awhile to kiss hair and eyes and vivid mouth, then bore her away through the dawn.
And thus it was that Sergeant Zebedee Tring, gloomy of brow, in faded, buff-lined service coat, in cross-belts and spatterdashes, paused on his way stablewards and catching his breath, incontinent took cover behind a convenient bush; but finding himself wholly unobserved, stole forth to watch them out of sight. Now though the dawn was grey, yet upon those two faces, so near together, he had seen a radiance far brighter than the day—wherefore his own gloom vanished and he turned to look up at Mrs. Agatha's open lattice-window. Then he stooped and very thoughtfully raked up a handful of small gravel and strode resolutely up the terrace steps.
Being there he paused to glance glad-eyed where, afar off, the Major bore my lady through the dawn, and, as the Sergeant watched, paused to stoop again and kiss her.
"Glory be!" exclaimed the Sergeant and instantly averted his head: "All I says is—Joy!"
Then, with unerring aim, he launched the gravel at Mrs. Agatha's window.