Mr. Dalroyd stepped out into a summer night radiant with moonbeams and full of the heady perfume of ripening hay. Far as eye could see the wide road stretched away very silent and deserted, not a light gleamed anywhere, the village had been deep-plunged in slumber hours ago.
Mr. Dalroyd sauntered on, past silent cottages, across a trim green and so to the churchyard gate, beyond which the tombstones rose, phantom-like beneath the moon. For a while he stood to contemplate this quiet scene, then started and glanced up at the church tower as a deep-toned bell began to chime the hour of midnight. One by one he counted the deliberate strokes, waited until the last had boomed and died away, then, opening the gate, stepped into the churchyard and strolled on among the graves, his cane airily a-swing, following the paved walk that led round the church. Thus he presently passed from light into shadow, a gloom all the deeper by contrast with the moon's bright splendour, a gloom in which carved headstone and sarcophagus took on strange and unexpected shapes. Suddenly Mr. Dalroyd's cane faltered in its airy swing, stopped, and he stood motionless, his body rigid, his breath in check, his eyes wide and staring. Before him loomed a great mausoleum, its pallid outline vague in the half-light, but on this side the weatherworn marble was cracked and split and from this yawning fissure a ghastly radiance streamed; then this unholy light vanished and upon the stillness came a ghostly rustling, a soft thud and the sound of heavy breathing. Mr. Dalroyd shrank cowering into the deeper shadow of a buttress and dropping his cane upon the grass groped for the hilt of his small-sword. Then, as he stared unwinking, forth from the tomb a dim form wriggled, crouched awhile fumbling, stood upright, and Mr. Dalroyd saw a vague head, awful and shapeless and crowned with curving horns. This dreadful thing stood awhile as if listening for distant sounds then took a stride forward, floundered over a grave and cursed fluently. Mr. Dalroyd loosed rigid fingers from his sword-hilt, picked up his cane and, keeping well in the shadow, began to follow this strange figure; ghost-like it flitted on among the tombs until, reaching the wall, it leapt nimbly over, stood to listen and glance furtively about, then set off down the road at a smart pace. Mr. Dalroyd, treading with infinite caution for the night was very still, followed whither it led, viewing the shapeless thing with gaze that never wavered. Thus, in a while, they reached a grassy bye-lane flanked on the one side by a thick hedge and on the other by a high wall. Here the figure paused and Mr. Dalroyd, shrinking into the shadow of the hedge, saw it glance up and down the lane, saw it lift long arms and heard a faint scuffling as, mounting this wall it paused awhile athwart the coping ere it vanished on the other side. Looping his cane on his wrist Mr. Dalroyd crossed the lane and drawing himself up peered over the wall in time to see this mysterious figure flit among the trees of an orchard, mount yet another wall and vanish again. Without more ado Mr. Dalroyd in turn clambered up and over the wall and dropping on soft, new-turned earth, continued the pursuit, that is to say he had crossed a smooth stretch of lawn and was in the very act of mounting the other wall when strong hands seized him from behind and a gruff voice said in his ear:
"You ain't no ghost, I'll swear! Right about turn and show us your face!" And Mr. Dalroyd was swung round so violently that his hat fell off. "Zounds!" exclaimed the Sergeant, "'tis nought but one o' these fine London sparks arter all!" Mr. Dalroyd swore. "Sir," said the Sergeant imperturbably, "why and wherefore d'ye trespass, and so late too? Sir, what's the evolution, or shall we say, manoover?"
"Rogue," said Mr. Dalroyd, "pick up my hat!"
"Rogue, is it?" mused the Sergeant.
"Animal, my hat!"
"Animal, now?"
"D'ye hear, vermin?" Mr. Dalroyd stood, his head viciously out-thrust so that the long curls of his peruke falling back from brow and cheek discovered more fully his haughty features, delicately pale in the bright moonlight; and beholding this face—its fine black brows, aquiline nose, fierce eyes and thin-lipped mouth the Sergeant fell back, staring:
"Zounds!" he exclaimed, and gaped.
Something in the Sergeant's attitude seemed to strike Mr. Dalroyd who, returning this searching look, lounged back against the wall, one hand toying with the curls of his wig, and when next he spoke his voice was as languidly soft as usual.
"What now, ass?" The Sergeant drew a deep breath:
"Talking o' ghosts and apparations," said he, "I aren't so sure as you ain't one, arter all."
"Why, worm?"
"Because if you happened to be wearing an officer's coat—red and blue facings, say, and your legs in a pair o' jack-boots, I should know—ah, I'd be sure you was a ghost."
"What d'ye mean?" Mr. Dalroyd's slender brows scowled suddenly, and before the malevolence of his eyes the Sergeant gave back another step.
"What d'ye mean, toad?"
"I mean as you'd be dead! But your coat ain't red, is it, sir? And your jack-boots is buckle-shoes, and you're very much alive, ain't you, sir—so I'll ax you to pick up your property and to get back over the wall yonder and to do it—prompt, sir."
The Sergeant was a powerful fellow, at his hip swung a heavy hanger and in hairy fist he gripped a very ugly, knobby bludgeon, observing which facts, Mr. Dalroyd did as was suggested; but, ere he dropped back into the lane he turned and smiled down at the stalwart Sergeant.
"My very good clod," said he, "one of these fine, sunny days you shall be drubbed for this—soundly, yes, soundly!"
The Sergeant nodded:
"Sir," said he, "same will be welcome, for, though life in the country agrees wi' me on the whole better than expected, things is apt to grow over quiet now and then and any little bit o' roughsome as you can offer will be dooly welcome and do me a power o' good!"
"Be it so!" nodded Mr. Dalroyd and, smiling, he dropped from view.
Then the Sergeant, whistling softly, strode bedwards quite unaware of the shapeless, horned head that watched him as he went.
"DEAR MAJOR D'ARCY,
"Burning yet with a natural womanly indignation by reason of your shameless accusations, each and all as cruel, as unmanly, as unwarranted as unjust I——"
"Pho!" exclaimed Lady Betty and tearing up her unfinished letter, threw it on the floor and stamped on it.
"To MAJOR D'ARCY:
"SIR,
"Though unvirginal, unmaidenly, unwomanly, and lost to all sense of modesty and shame, I am yet not entirely removed from the lesser virtues and amongst them——"
"Pish!" cried Lady Betty, and rent this asunder also.
"MY DEAR MAJOR D'ARCY,
"By this time of course you are duly sorry and deeply ashamed, for the very many indelicate expressions you gave voice to concerning me. You have perchance passed a sleepless night and such is but your due considering the abandoned and shameful treatment you accorded me. But seeing you saved me from the brutal arms of——"
"Pshaw!" cried Lady Betty, and this letter shared the fate of its predecessors.
Her black brows frowned, her pink finger-tips were ink-stained, her cheeks glowed, her bosom heaved, her white teeth gnashed themselves, in a word, Lady Betty was in a temper.
"Aunt Belinda, I—hate you!"
"Lud Betty, do you child!" murmured that lady, opening sleepy eyes, "Pray what's amiss now?"
"Why must you tattle of me to Major d'Arcy?"
"I? Tattle? O Gemini!"
"Of me—and breeches?"
"Breeches! La miss and fie! I should swoon to name 'em to a man! So indelicate, so immodest, so——"
"Unvirginal!" cried Betty, and stamped pretty foot more angrily than ever.
"Truly, miss! Indeed such a word has never crossed my lips to one of the male sex and never shall——"
"And when you told him he was duly shocked, I suppose, and rolled up his eyes in a spasm of virtue and lifted his hands in prudish horror?" demanded Lady Betty, kicking savagely at the litter of torn paper.
"Nay, he frowned, I remember, and positively blushed—and no wonder!"
"He blushed!" cried Betty scornfully, "and he a man—a soldier! By heaven he seems more virginal than Diana and all her train! Fie on him, O, 'tis shameful—so big, so strong, so—squeamish! O Lord, how I hate, detest and despise him!"
"Gracious heaven!" ejaculated Lady Belinda, sitting up suddenly, "I do verily believe you're in love with him!"
"In love with—him! I?" cried Lady Betty, "I in love with——" she gasped and stopped suddenly, staring down at the torn paper at her feet and, as she stared, her lashes drooped and up over creamy chin from rounded throat to glossy hair crept a wave of vivid colour.
"O Betty," wailed her aunt, "Betty, is it true—is it love or are you only taken with his—his medieval airs?"
"Aunt Belinda," said Betty, turning her back and staring out through the open lattice, "there are times when I wonder I don't—bite you!"
"He's so much your elder, Betty!"
"And so much my younger, aunt—in some ways, he's a very child! But suppose I do marry him, what then, aunt?"
"Marry him! Heaven above—marry Major d'Arcy? Betty, are you mad? You so young and giddy, he so—so mature and grave——"
"You never saw him climb a wall, aunt!"
"Old enough to be your father, girl! So very sober and reserved! So very serious and quiet——"
"You haven't seen him in his plum-coloured velvet, aunt!"
"But you—O Bet, you never really—love him!"
"Of—course—not! What has love to do with marriage, dear aunt? Love-marriages are so unmodish—'tis like plough-boy and dairy-wench—hugging and kissing—faugh, so vulgar and nauseous! Nay, aunt, I desire a marriageà la mode: 'Good-morrow to your ladyship, I trust your ladyship slept well?' A solemn bow, a kiss upon one extreme finger-tip!' O, excellently, sir, I hope you the same.' A smile and gracious curtsey—and so to breakfast. Now Major d'Arcy is a gentleman, rich, sufficiently handsome, and once a husband would be fairly easy to manage! Indeed I might do worse, aunt!"
"But so much—ah, so very much better, girl. There is the Duke of Nairn——"
"A drunken old reprobate! Charles told me that once, being more tipsy than usual he——"
"Hush, miss! He worshipped you. Then there is His Grace of Hawcastle——"
"An addle-pated popinjay!"
"Fie, Betty! Then there is Lord Alvaston, the Marquis, Viscount Merivale and the rest——"
"Aye, but I can't wed 'em all, aunt, so will I wed none!"
"Lud child, here's scandalous talk! But O Betty, what—what of love?"
"True, dear aunt—what?"
"Ah, child, 'tis fair woman's crowning joy and strong man's consolation sweet——
"'Tis a disease and megrim o' the mind, aunt, the which, I do thank heaven, hath ne'er yet come anigh me——"
"Aye but it will, Betty, it will!"
"Then with pill and purge and bolus I will drive it hence again."
"Nay child," sighed the Lady Belinda, as her niece arose, "talk how you will, but when love comes to thee, as come he will, why then, Ah me! what with thy ardent temperament, thy headstrong spirits, thy bustling health then—O then shall I tremble for thee!"
"Nay, prithee spare yourself, dear aunt, I can tremble for myself when needful." Saying which my lady went out into the garden.
Very slowly she went, her head bowed, her bright eyes grave and troubled; once she stopped to frown at a hollyhock and once to cull a rose only to drop it all unnoticed ere she had gone a dozen yards. Thus thoughtful and preoccupied she came to that secluded corner of her garden where, against a certain wall a ladder stood invitingly: mounting forthwith, she perched herself upon the broad coping and glanced down into the Major's orchard. The hutch-like sentry-box showed deserted but at the foot of the wall and almost immediately below her, Sergeant Zebedee stooped above a new-turned border of earth, busily engaged with a foot-rule. Lady Betty reached softly over and plucking an apricot, dropped it with remarkable accuracy into the very middle of the Sergeant's trim wig.
"Sacré nom!" he ejaculated, and starting erect, glanced up into my lady's serene blue eyes.
"'Tis Sergeant Zebedee, I think?" she enquired gravely.
The Sergeant saluted and stood at attention:
"I was so baptised, my lady, and an uncommon awk'ard name I've found it."
"Nay, 'tis a quaint name and suits you. If you have any children——"
"Chil——!" The Sergeant gasped.
"They should be called James and John, of course! So the poor Major passed a sleepless night, did he, Sergeant?"
"O!" said the Sergeant, staring, "Did he, mam?"
"Well, hasn't he?"
"Not as I know of, my lady."
"And when will he come home?"
"Home?" repeated the Sergeant, scratching his wig, "Why, mam, he has, I mean he hasn't, him not having been out, d'ye see."
"He must be a great trial and worry to live with, Sergeant?"
"No, my lady, no—except when he don't take his rations reg'lar—food and drink, d'ye see."
"Ah, doth his appetite languish of late?"
"Never was better, mam! He do seem to grow younger and brisker every day."
"Indeed, 'tis pity he's so wild!"
"Wild, mam? The Major——?"
"So gay, so bold and audacious." The Sergeant could only stare. "His wife will lead a sorry life I fear, poor soul!"
The Sergeant fell back a step opening eyes and mouth together:
"Zooks!" he muttered, "axing your ladyship's pardon but—does your ladyship mean—Zounds! Axing your pardon again, my lady, but—wife! Does your ladyship mean to say——? Is't true, madam?"
"So 'tis said!" nodded her unblushing ladyship.
"But who, my lady, and—when?"
"Nay, he's very secret."
"Pro-digious!" exclaimed the Sergeant, his eyes shining. "His honour was ever a great hand at surprises—ambuscades d'ye see, madam—ambushments, my lady, sudden onfalls and the like, and for leading a forlorn hope there was none to compare."
"You mean he has fought in a battle, Sergeant?"
"A battle, mam!" The Sergeant sighed and shook reproachful head. "Twenty and three pitched battles, my lady and twelve sieges, not to mention sorties, outpost skirmishes and the like! 'Fighting d'Arcy' he was called, madam! Sixteen wounds, my lady, seven of 'em bullet and the rest steel——"
"Heavens!" exclaimed my lady, "I marvel there is any of him left!"
"What is left, my lady, is all man! There never was such a man! There never will be."
"'Fighting d'Arcy'!" she repeated. "It sounds so unlike—and looks quite impossible—see yonder!" And she turned towards where, afar off, the object of their talk limped towards them his head bent studiously above an open book from which he raised his eyes, ever and anon, as if weighing some abstruse passage; thus he presently espied my lady and, shutting the book, thrust it into his pocket and hastened towards her. Hereupon the Sergeant saluted, wheeled and marched away, yet not before he had noted the glad light in the Major's grey eyes and, from a proper distance, had seen him clasp my lady's white hand and kiss it fervently. Instantly the Sergeant fell to the "double" until he was out of sight, then he halted suddenly, shook his head, smacked hand to thigh and laughed:
"All I say is, as there ain't, there never was, there never will be a word for it—not one!"
So the Major kissed my lady's hand, kissed it not "on one extreme finger-tip," but holding it in masterful clasp, kissed it on rosy palm and dimpled knuckles, kissed it again and again with all the ardour of a boy of twenty; and my lady sighed and—let him kiss his fill.
She wore her rustic attire but her simple gown was enriched here and there, with the daintiest of lace as was her snowy mob-cap; and surely never did rustic beauty blush more rosily or look with eyes more shy than she when at last he raised his head:
"Good morrow to your worship!" said she softly, "I trust your honour slept well?"
"No!" he answered, speaking with a strange, new vehemence, "I scarce did close my eyes all night for thought of you——"
"Of me?"
"And of my—my folly! I looked for you this morning—I wished to tell you ... I ... I——" Seeing him thus at a loss, my lady smiled a little maliciously, then hasted to his relief:
"This morning?" said she gently, "I was making more butter for my poor folk—with the aid of my lord of Alvaston, Captain West, and Sir Jasper. But they proved so awkward with the churn that Sir Benjamin must needs show 'em how 'twas done. And after he made much of my rhubarb wine and would have them all taste it and insisted on the Captain drinking three glasses—poor man!"
"Wherefore 'poor'?"
"Why, sir, 'tis truly excellent wine—to look at, but I fear 'tis perhaps a trifle—sourish!" Here she laughed merrily, grew solemn and sighed, glancing shyly at the Major who stood, head bowed, fumbling with one of the gold buttons of the plum-coloured coat.
"I—trust your ladyship is well after your—your fright of yesterday," said he at last.
"My ladyship is very well, sir," she sighed, "though vapourish!"
"Which means?"
"Perhaps I—mourn my lost divinity."
Her tone was light, but he saw that her lips quivered as she averted her head.
"Betty," he cried impulsively, "I was a fool! All night long I've burned with anger at my folly, for I do know you could never be aught but pure and maidenly no matter what you—you chanced to wear. So do I come craving your forgiveness."
"O Major—Major Jack," she sighed, leaning towards him, all glowing tenderness, "first hear me say you spoke me truth, it—it was indeed—unworthy—a hoyden trick! But I have trod a different world to you—a world of careless gaiety and idle chatter, where nought is serious, reverence unknown and love itself a pastime. So I have loved no man—save my brother Charles for we've been lonely all our days—nay, Major John!" for he had caught her hand to his lips again.
"And I dared think you unmaidenly!" he murmured, in bitter self-reproach.
"So would the mother I never knew had she seen me as—as poor Aunt Belinda saw me—and yet—I vow 'twas monstrous laughable!" and my lady hovered between laughter and tears.
"Am I forgiven?" he pleaded.
"Aye, most fully!"
"Why then—to prove it—will you ... would you——"
"Well, your honour?" she questioned humbly.
"Would you permit me to show you the rose-garden?"
"But I have seen it!"
"Aye to be sure, so you have!" he answered, a little dashed. "Though the roses were scarce in bloom then."
"Truly I do love roses, Major Jack——"
"And they are in the full splendour of their beauty——"
"But—this wall?" she demurred. "And ... no ladder!"
He reached up eager arms. "O Major John!" she exclaimed and drew back, blushing as rosily as the shyest maid that ever tripped in dairy. "'Twould be so—so extreme unmaidenly—wouldn't it?" The Major flushed and his arms dropped. "Though indeed I—do love roses!" she sighed. The Major glanced up eagerly. "But 'tis so awkward and someone might see——"
"Not a soul!" he assured her.
"Then ... if you'll turn your head a moment ... and are sure none can spy ... and will be vastly careful ... and are quite, quite sure you can manage——"
It was managed almost as she spoke, he with an assured adroitness, she with such gracious ease that, in the same moment they were walking side by side over the smooth turf, as calm and unruffled as any two people ever were or will be. "'Tis a dear orchard, this!" she sighed, stopping to pat the rough bark of a huge, gnarled apple-tree.
"'Twas here I first saw you," said he.
"Stealing your fruit!" she nodded.
"It seems long ago."
"And yet 'tis but a few short weeks."
Slowly they went on together, past lily-pool asleep in marble basin, through green boskages amid whose leafy shade marble dryads shyly peeped and fauns and satyrs sported; beneath the vast spread of mighty trees across smooth, grassy levels, by shady walks and so at last to the blazing glory of the rose-garden. Here my lady paused with an exclamation of delight.
"Indeed, indeed, 'tis lovely—lovelier than I had dreamed! Are you not proud of it?"
"Yes," he answered, "more especially since I never owned a foot of land till of late—or a roof to shelter me, for that matter."
"You were a soldier!"
"And a very poor one!" he added.
"And they called you 'Fighting d'Arcy!'" said she, looking into the grey eyes she had been wont to think almost too gentle.
"That sounds strange—on your lips," said he with his grave smile, "I perceive the Sergeant has been talking."
"He has been boasting to me of all your wounds, sir!" The Major laughed. "He is greatly proud of you, sir."
"He saved my life more than once."
"You must have been a very desperate soldier to have been wounded so very often, Major John!"
"Why you see, at that time," he answered, handing her down the steps into the garden, "I wished to die."
"To die?" she repeated. "O, prithee why?"
"This was twenty years ago, I was a boy then," he sighed. "To-day I am——"
"A man, and therefore wiser," said she as they went on together among the roses. "And pray why did you seek death?" she questioned softly.
"Because I had lost the woman I loved."
"So then you—have—loved?"
"As a boy of twenty may," he answered. "She—I was an ensign without influence and prospects and—they forced her to wed a wealthier than I."
"O! And she did?" Lady Betty stopped to stamp an angry foot.
"Indeed they—compelled her——"
"Major John sir, no woman that is a woman can be compelled in her affections!"
"She was very young."
"Pooh, sir! I am not yet a withered and wrinkled crone, yet no one shall or should compel me!" And here, with a prodigious flutter of her print gown, my lady seated herself on rustic bench beside the sundial.
"No indeed," said he, "you are—are different." At this she flashed him a swift up-glance and, meeting his gaze, dimpled, drew aside her garments' ample folds and graciously, motioned him beside her. The Major sat down.
"And was she happy?"
"No!"
"Which doth but serve her to her deserts!" The Major winced, perceiving which, my lady faced him. "How, do you love her yet?" she questioned.
"My lady, she is dead," he answered. Lady Betty turned and leaning to a rose that bloomed near by, touched it with gentle fingers.
"And—do you—love her yet, Major John?" she asked softly.
"I held her in my memory as the sweetest of all women until a few weeks ago," he answered simply. My lady's caressing fingers faltered suddenly.
"She was the third woman in your life?"
"Yes," he answered, "because of her memory I have lived a hard life and let love go by nor thought of it."
"Not once?"
"Not once, until of late." My lady was silent, and, leaning nearer, he continued: "Twenty years ago I gave my love and, being hopeless, sought for death and never found it. So, hating war, I made of war my life. I became a soldier of fortune and wheresoever battle was, there was I; when one campaign ended I went in quest of others. So I have learned much of men, of foreign countries, and war in every shape, but of women and love—nothing whatever. Indeed I should be fighting yet but for this unexpected legacy. And now——" He sighed.
"And now?" she repeated softly.
"Now I find that youth has fled and left but emptiness behind!"
"Poor, O poor, decrepit, ancient man!" she sighed, "with your back so bent and your arms so feeble! So wrinkled, so toothless, and so blind!" And rising she turned away and leaned round elbows on the sundial. Now presently he came and stood beside her, looking into her lovely, down-bent face then pointed to the legend graven on the stone.
"Read," said he, "read and tell me—is't not wisdom?" And, very obediently, she read aloud:
"Youth is joyous; Age is melancholy:Age and Youth together is but folly."
"Indeed," she nodded, "'tis a very wise proverb and, like most other proverbs, sayeth very plainly that black is black and white is white. And truly I do think you a great coward, Major 'Fighting d'Arcy'!"
"Betty?" said he, a little breathlessly.
"You may be very brave in battle but in—in other things you are a very coward!"
"My lady—O Betty! Do you mean ... is it possible that such miracle could be... You in the bloom of your youth and beauty, I——"
"So bent with years!" said she in tender mockery, "so feeble and so—very—blind!"
The Major's philosophic calm was shattered, his placid serenity gone all in a moment; he reached out sudden, passionate arms but without attempting to touch her.
"Betty," he cried, "God knows if I'm presumptuous fool or blessed beyond my hopes, but hear me say—I love you, for all your dainty loveliness, your coquette airs and graces, but, most of all, for the sweet, white, womanly soul of you. And 'tis no flame of youthful passion this, soon to fade, 'tis a man's enduring love desiring all, asking nothing.... I mean, Betty, whether you wed me or no, needs must I love you to the end of time!"
"E'en though I should love and wed another?" she questioned softly.
"Aye, truly!"
"Indeed, you are nobler than I—because"—here she paused to trace out the time-worn lettering on the dial with pink finger-tip—"because if you should love, or wed another, then I—should die of rage and jealousy and grief and——"
The Major's long arms were close about her and, stooping, he kissed her again and again, her fragrant hair, her eyes, her tender mouth.
"O Betty," he sighed, "my beautiful Betty, the wonder of it!"
"O John," she sighed tremulously, "O Jack, indeed 'tis a very furious lover you are! You make love as you fight—as if you loved it—nay, show mercy!" He released her instantly and stood back staring down at her with dazzled eyes.
"Am I rough?" he asked anxiously. "Dear, forgive me! But 'tis all so strange, so unexpected, so marvellous beyond belief! There be so many to love you that I——"
"Shall teach you what love truly is," she murmured, "And I—don't mind—a little roughness, Jack dear!"
"God, 'tis marvellous!" said he at last, holding her away to feast his eyes on her glowing loveliness. "'Tis passing wonderful that of all your throng of lovers you should choose such as I—so much older, so much——" his breath caught, the strong hands that clasped her so tenderly quivered suddenly. "Betty," said he hoarsely, "'tis no coquettish whim, this—no youthful fancy? You do love me indeed?" Now seeing the haggard pleading of his eyes, the quiver of his lips and all his shy humility, she uttered a soft cry and drawing him close, pillowed his troubled brow against her soft cheek.
"Ah dearest," she whispered, "why must you doubt? Love for you hath been in my heart from the first I think, though I never guessed 'twas love until to-day. And for your age—O foolish! I would not have thee younger by an hour and—for my love, 'tis here deep within my heart and will but grow with length of days for to know thee more is to love thee more. You think me over-young, I know, light-thoughted, belike and careless, but in her heart a woman is ever older than a man, and, despite my seeming heedlessness your Betty is methinks much the woman you would have her be."
"Aye, truly," he answered, "the sweetest, the loveliest, noblest woman, I do think, in all this big world!" But when he would have caught her to him again she, blushing, laughing, stayed him to straighten lacy mob-cap and pat rebellious curls with hands a little tremulous, then, sitting down, crossed slim feet demurely and motioned him beside her.
"'Deed, sir," she sighed, "you do make love to perfection! And yet—your love is so—so wonderful that I grow a little fearful lest I prove unworthy——"
"Ah, never!" he cried, drawing her hands to his lips.
"Such love doth make me very humble, Jack dear, 'tis all so different, so reverent and yet also 'tis a little—fierce!" she whispered, yielding to his compelling arms.
"Nay, am I so?" he asked, anxiously, his hold relaxing.
"Ele-mentally!" she murmured, pillowing cheek on plum-coloured velvet regardless of lace cap. "Yet methinks I do—love such ferocity!"
"O Betty, when will you wed me?"
"O John, here is a question to ponder. First, when would you have me?"
"To-day! To-morrow! Soon!"
"O impatient youth!" she murmured. "Second, shall your wife enjoy all liberty?"
"So much as she desire," he answered tenderly.
"Third, shall she live in town i' the season, attend balls, theatres, routs, card-parties, masquerades, drums and the like?"
"If she so wish," said he, a little sadly; perceiving which, she nestled closer to him.
"Fourth, will you swear to be a husbandà la mode?"
"What may that be?" he enquired.
"Will you be very polite to your wife and seldom intrude upon her privacy as is the modish custom, will you keep separate establishments, will you——"
"By heaven—no!" exclaimed the Major; whereat, and very suddenly, she kissed him.
"Indeed I do think you will make almost as good a husband as lover!" she sighed. "And—Major Jack, dear—if you would wed me soon——"
"Nay sweet," he broke in, "here was a selfish thought! You are so young——
"A ripe woman of twenty-two, sir!"
"But youth loveth freedom, my Betty, so shall you enjoy it while you will and come to me—when you will!"
"Nay, dear, foolish John, you do speak as you were a prison! What is maiden freedom compared to—wifehood?" she breathed.
"Wife!" he repeated reverently, "'tis a sweet word, Betty!"
"So is—husband, John."
"My Betty—dear—when?"
"Is three months hence too long?"
"Aye, 'tis very long—but——"
"Six weeks, Jack?"
O never-to-be-forgotten hour! Hour long dreamed and yet expected never, so swift to haste away but whose memory was to blossom, sweet and all unfading.
"Dear," said she at last, "since you are not for marriage 'à la mode' I shall plague you mightily——"
"God!" he exclaimed softly, "what a life 'twill be!"
But all at once she started from him as, afar off, a faint wailing arose:
"Betty, my love! O Bet—my Betty love!"
My lady frowned and rising, laid rosy finger to lip.
"Not a word yet, my John! Let our secret be ours awhile. Come, let us meet her."'
Slowly they went amid the roses and sighed for the hour that was gone and wondered to see the sun so low; and thus they presently beheld Lady Belinda twittering towards them escorted by the Sergeant and the tall, well-fed menial.
"O naughty Bet!" she cried, "O wicked puss and truant! I've sought thee this hour and more, I've called thee until my poor voice grew languishing and weak! Ah, dear Major, scold her for me, prithee scold!"
"Nay, madam," he answered, bowing, "I fear the blame is mine, I was for showing my lady the roses as 'twere, and—er——"
"La, dear aunt," said my lady, "how warm you look, so red—so flushed and fulsome!"
"'Tis the sun—the sun!" cried Lady Belinda, "I vow I cannot abide the sun, it nauseates me!"
"Then let us into the shade, mam," said the Major, offering his arm. "'Twill be cool on the terrace, a—er—a dish of tea——"
"Nay, nay, sir, alack and no, we have neighbours expected. Sir Oliver and Lady Rington, Mrs. Wadhurst, and Lady Lydia Flyte—and that minds me, naughty Bet, you were to have gone a-riding to-day with Mr. Dalroyd and Sir Jasper—they called expectant and you were not! Then came poor young Mr. Marchdale, in a great taking, to know if you'd object to his rhyming 'Bet' with 'sweat!' The Captain called, too, with dear Sir Benjamin Tripp—so modish—so elegant! But solemn as two owls, though why owls should be solemn I don't know never having seen one near enough! So you see, dear Major, we positively must away!"
The Major, having escorted them to his park gates, stood to watch that slender, shapely form out of sight, then, sighing, limped slowly housewards lost in happy dreams. As he went he remembered with an odd relief that the Viscount was in London and would remain there several days. Presently he came upon the Sergeant who bore a rake "at the trail" much as if it had been a pike: and the Sergeant's face was beaming and his bright eye almost roguish:
"Ha, Zeb," said the Major, halting to view him over, and his own eyes were shining also, "why Zeb, how deuced smart you look!"
"My best clothes, sir, new ones being on order as commanded, sir."
"Aye, but 'tis not your clothes exactly, you seem—younger, somehow."
"Why, sir," said the Sergeant, a little diffidently, "I took the liberty o' powdering my wig,—no objections I hope, your honour?"
"None at all Zeb, no, no! Egad, 'tis like old times!" So saying, the Major smiled and passed on to the house, whistling softly as he went.
It was a night of midsummer glory; an orbed moon rode high in queenly splendour filling the world with a radiance that lent to all things a beauty new and strange. Not a breath stirred, trees, tall and motionless, seemed asleep, so still were they.
Thus the Major, on his way to bed, paused to lean from the open casement of his study and to gaze, happy-eyed, upon the radiant heaven and to dream of the future as many a man has done before and since. All at once he started and stared to behold Sergeant Zebedee abroad at this witching hour. But the Sergeant was there for other things than dreaming, it seemed, for upon his shoulder he bore a blunderbuss, a broadsword swung at his thigh, and from one of his big side-pockets appeared the heavy, brass-mounted butt of a long-barrelled pistol. Wondering, the Major stepped out through the casement and followed. Sergeant Zebedee marched with elaborate caution and was keeping so sharp a lookout before that he quite overlooked the Major behind him; but all at once a stick snapped, round wheeled the Sergeant, blunderbuss at "the ready" but, seeing the Major, he immediately lowered his weapon and stood easy.
"'S'noggers, sir," said he, "I thought you was it!"
"It, Zebedee?"
"Aye, your honour, it, him, or her. If it ain't a him 'tis a her and if it ain't a her it's an it—or shall us say a apparation, sir. Same being said to walk i' the orchard o' nights lately——"
"An apparition—in the orchard, Zeb? Have you seen it?"
"Why no, sir, not exactly, but what I did see was—hist!"
The Sergeant halted suddenly, crouching in the shadow of a hedge; they were close on the orchard now and, upon the stilly air was a soft rustle, a faint scraping sound and, parting the leafy screen, the Major saw a dark figure silhouetted above the wall, a nebulous shape that seemed to hang suspended a moment ere it vanished over the wall into my lady's garden.
"That weren't no apparation, sir!" whispered the Sergeant, looking to pan and priming, and, hurrying forward, pointed to a footprint in the soft, newly-turned soil. "Never heard as spectres wore shoes, sir." The Major, staring at that slender footprint, felt suddenly cold and sick, and wondered; then, as the Sergeant prepared to climb the wall, checked him:
"Wait—wait you here!" he muttered. "Make way!" Reaching up, the Major swung himself astride the coping and silently mounted the wall. Before him was a flagged walk which, as he remembered, led to the arbour; this walk he avoided and, stepping in among the bushes, began to advance cautiously, eyes and ears on the strain, for the shadows lay dense hereabouts. Thus he was close upon the arbour when he stopped suddenly, arrested by the sound of a man's voice, low and muffled.
"... 'tis you now, Bet, and only you——"
"... Ah God, how may I? And yet ... my own dear, have I ever refused thee ... I've yearned for thee so..." Here the sound of passionate kisses.
It was her voice indeed, but so tender, so full of thrilling gentleness! The Major shivered and a sudden faintness and nausea seizing him, leaned weakly against a tree, and ever, as he leaned thus, their voices reached him—his low and eager, hers a-thrill with tenderness.
The Major turned and, groping like one blind, crept back until he came to the wall and crouching there, his head between his arms, seemed to shake and writhe as with some horrible convulsion.
"That you, sir?" a voice whispered hoarsely. Silently the Major drew himself up and dropped back into his own grounds.
"What was it, sir?"
"Nought, Zeb."
"D'ye mean 'twere a ghost, arter all?"
"Aye!"
"Didn't notice if 'twere a her or a him, sir?"
"No!"
"Why then, did you chance to ob-serve——" but seeing the Major's face, Sergeant Zebedee broke off with a gasp and, dropping his blunderbuss, reached out quick hands: "Good God! Your honour! What's amiss?"
"Let be, Zeb, let be," said the Major wearily, putting by these kindly hands, "'tis nought to worry over—nought to matter, nought i' the world, Zeb. Leave me awhile. Go to bed!"
"Bed, your honour? And leave you alone? Sir, I beg——"
"Sergeant Tring—get you indoors!"
The Sergeant stiffened, saluted, and, wheeling about, marched away forthwith, but, once in the shadows, turned to glance anxiously at the lonely figure so pale and still and rigid under the moon.
Being alone, the Major seemed to shrink within himself, and, limping slowly into the gloom of the hutch-like sentry-box, cast himself face down across the table and lay there; and from that place of shadows came sounds soft but awful. At last he lifted heavy head, and, staring before him, perforce beheld that part of the wall where he had first seen her; and again he writhed and shivered. But, all at once, as the spasm passed, he leaned forward tense and fierce, for in that precise spot a man was climbing the wall. The Major rose and stood with breath in check, watching as the unknown clambered into view, a slender figure that paused for a lingering, backward glance, then leapt down into the orchard; but, doing so, the unknown tripped, lost his hat and cursed softly, and in that moment the Major gripped him in iron hands and stared into the pale, fierce face of Mr. Dalroyd; the long curls of his peruke had fallen back leaving his features fully exposed in the strong moonlight, and now, as the Sergeant had done before him, the Major blenched and drew back, his fingers loosing their hold.
"Effingham!" he gasped, "Effingham—by God!"
Mr. Dalroyd smiled and fingered his curls:
"'Tis Major d'Arcy, I think!" said he gently. "And Major d'Arcy is either drunk or mad, my name, as he very well knows, is Dalroyd much and ever at his service. Though, permit me to say 'tis scarce a—laudable or honourable thing to—spy upon the tender hours of his fair neighbours! 'Tis true I trespass, but love, sir, love——!" Mr. Dalroyd smiled, sighed and picked up his hat. "If you wish to quarrel, sir, you lose your labour for I quarrel with no man—to-night!"
"Sir," said the Major, his voice calm and unshaken, "whoever you are and whatever your name, I advise you to go—now, this instant!"
Mr. Dalroyd surveyed the Major with languid interest, the pallid serenity of his face, the smouldering eyes, the haggard lips, the moist brow, the nervous, clutching fingers, and smiling, went his way leaving the Major to his agony.
For now indeed it seemed that all the fiends of hell had risen up to mock and gibe and torture the quivering soul of him; beneath their obscene hands his reverent love lay shamed and writhing in the dust.
"Betty!" he whispered, "O my love!" Yet even as he spoke he knew that the woman he had worshipped was not and never had been; he had clothed her warm youth and beauty with divinity, had adored and made of her an ideal and now his dream was done, his ideal shattered and by one who wore the cold, satyr-like face of Effingham—Effingham who had died upon his sword-point years ago in Flanders; almost unconsciously his quivering fingers sought and touched the scar upon his temple. And now, remembering her voice as he had heard it, thrilling with ineffable love and tenderness, he alternatively shivered in sick horror and burned with shame, a shame that crushed him to his knees, to his face. That it should be Effingham of all men, or one so hatefully like! So the Major, grovelling there beneath the moon, knew an agony in his stricken soul, deeper, fiercer than flesh may ever know; and thus, towards the dawn-hour, Sergeant Zebedee found him.
"Sir—sir," said he, kneeling beside that prostrate form, "God's love, sir—what's amiss?"
The Major raised himself and stared round about with dazed eyes.
"Ah Zeb," said he, slowly, "I do think I must ha' slept of late and dreamed, Zeb, a fair sweet dream that later changed to nightmare—but 'twill pass. I've lived awhile i' the paradise of fools!"
"Nay sir, here's spells and witchcraft! 'Tis an ill place and an ill hour—come your ways wi' me, sir."
"Aye, 'tis witchcraft—spells and enchantments, as 'twere, Zeb, but 'twill pass. Lend me your arm." So saying the Major rose and began to limp towards the house. But, as they went thus, side by side, he paused to glance up at the waning moon. "'Tis a fair night, Zeb, I've never seen a fairer. What o'clock is it?"
"Nigh on to three, your honour."
"So late! How time doth flee a man once youth be gone. We've kept many a night-watch together ere now, Zeb, but the hours never sped so fast in those days, we were younger then, Zebedee, so much younger, d'ye see."
Being come into his study the Major stood beside his desk staring down at his orderly papers and documents, vacant-eyed.
"You'll come to bed now, sir?" enquired the Sergeant anxiously.
"Nay Zeb, 'tis so late I'll e'en sit and watch the dawn come."
"Why then sir, you'll take something to eat and drink? Do now!"
The Major shook his head:
"I want nought, Zeb, save to be—alone."
Sergeant Zebedee sighed heavily, shook doleful head and going out, shut the door softly behind him.
"That it should be Effingham of all men, or one so hatefully like!"
The Major clenched his hands and began to pace restlessly back and forth. And now came Memory to haunt him—her sweet, soft voice, the droop of her black lashes, the way she had of pouting red lips sometimes when thoughtful, her eyes, her hands, her quick, light feet, and all the infinite allurement of her. And now——!
"That it should be—Effingham!"
Here again he was seized of faintness and nausea, fierce tremors shook him and sinking into his elbow-chair he sat crouched above the desk, his face bowed between clutching hands. Sitting thus, the great house so still and silent all about him, he must needs remember how she had called it a "desolate" house. And, in truth, so it was and must be for him now until the end. The end?
Once more he rose and took to his restless pacing. What end was there for him now but a succession of dreary days, while old age crept upon him bringing with it loneliness and solitude—a great, empty house and himself a solitary, loveless old man. And he had dreamed of others perchance to bear his name! God, what a life it might have been! And now, this was the end; he had walked in a "fool's paradise" indeed.
Pausing in his tramping he lifted haggard eyes to the pistols on the wall; with fumbling hands he opened a certain drawer in his desk, and, taking thence a brown wisp that once had been a fragrant rose, looked down at it awhile with eyes very tender, then let it fall and set his foot upon it, and leaning back in his chair stared down at all that remained. Long he sat thus, chin on breast, his drawn face half buried in the gay curls of his glossy peruke, but now his gaze had wandered back to the pistols on the wall. The candles, guttering in their sockets, burned low and lower, flickered and went out, but he sat on, motionless and very still; at last he sighed, stirred, rose from his chair, reached groping hand up to the wall and stood suddenly rigid.
"Major John, dear, some of your tenants are miserably poor, Major John!"
It was as if she had uttered these words again, the small room seemed to echo her soft voice, the darkness seemed full of her fragrant presence. The Major sank back in the chair and covered his face with twitching fingers; but, little by little, upon the gloom about him stole a faint glow, a tender radiance, an ever-brightening glory and lo, it was day. And presently, beholding this gladsome light, he lifted drooping head and glanced about him.
"Betty!" he whispered, "O sweet woman of my dream, though the dream vanish memory abideth and in my memory I will hold thee pure and sweet and fragrant everlastingly!"
Then he arose and heeding no more the pistols on the wall, went forth calm-eyed into the golden, joyous freshness of the dawn.