Larks, high in air, carolled faint and sweet, birds chirped joyously from fragrant hedgerows, a gentle wind set leaves dancing merrily, and the Major's big bay mare, being full of life and the joy of it, tossed her shapely head and beat a tattoo with her four round hoofs; but the Major rode with shoulders drooping and in gloomy silence, wherefore the Sergeant trotting behind on his stout cob, stared at the woebegone figure and shook anxious head:
"She's a bit skittish, sir," he hazarded at last as the powerful bay pranced sideways toward the hedge, "a bit wilful-like, your honour!"
"She's so young, Zeb," answered the Major absently, "so young, so full of life and youth that 'tis but to be—eh, what the devil are you saying, Sergeant Zebedee?"
"Why your honour, I——"
"Hold your tongue, sir!"
"But sir," began the Sergeant, wondering to see his master's face so red all at once, "I did but——"
"Be silent!" said the Major and, giving his mare the rein, rode on ahead while the Sergeant trotted after staring in turn at the blooming hedges, the white road, the blue sky and the Major's broad back.
"'Sniggers!" he exclaimed at last under his breath,
Presently the road narrowed between high, sloping banks clothed with brush and bramble from amid which tangle a man rose suddenly, a tall, dark, gipsy-looking fellow, at whose unexpected appearance the Major's bay mare swerved and reared, all but unseating her rider; whereat the fellow laughed vindictively, the Sergeant swore and the Major soothed his plunging steed with voice and hand. Breathing fierce anathemas and dire threats, the Sergeant was in the act of dismounting when the Major stopped him peremptorily.
"But sir, 'tis a rogue, 'tis a plaguy rascal, 'tis a——"
"'Tis no matter, Zeb."
"But damme sir, same do be a-shaking his dirty fist at your honour this moment! Sir, I beg——"
"'Tis very natural, Zeb."
"Nat'ral sir, and wherefore?"
"I—er—had occasion to—ha—flog the fellow."
"Flogged him, sir?"
"And broke my—ha—very modish cane a-doing it!"
"Cane, sir?" repeated the Sergeant, jogging alongside again. "Ha, and brought home his bludgeon instead, I mind, not so ornymental—but a deal handier, your honour."
Here the Major fell again to gloomy abstraction, observing which the Sergeant held his peace until, having climbed a steepish ascent, they came where stood a finger-post at the parting of the ways and here the Sergeant ventured another question:
"And wherefore flog same, sir?"
"Eh?" said the Major, starting, "O, for a good and sufficient reason, Zeb, and——" He broke off with a sudden breathless exclamation and the Sergeant, following the direction of his wide gaze, beheld three people approaching down a shady bye-road.
"Why sir," he exclaimed, "here's my Lady Carlyon as——"
The Major wheeled his big bay and, clapping in spurs, galloped off in the opposite direction.
"Sapperment!" exclaimed the Sergeant. He was yet staring in amazement after his master's rapidly retreating figure when he became aware that my lady had reined up her horse beside him.
"Why Sergeant," she questioned, "O Sergeant, what is't? Why did he spur away at sight of me?"
"Bewitchment, mam—black magic and sorcery damned, my lady!" answered the Sergeant, shaking rueful head. "Last night, your ladyship, he see the devil, same being in form of a apparation——"
"Sergeant Zebedee, what do you mean?"
"A gobling, mam—a ghost as vanished itself away into your garden, my lady—we both see same and his honour followed it."
"Into—my garden?" she questioned quick-breathing, her eyes very bright, her slender hand tight-clenched upon her riding-switch.
"Aye mam, your garden. Since when he's been witched and spell-bound, d'ye see."
"How—how?"
"Why, a tramp—tramping in his study all night long and groaning to himself—right mournful, mam."
"Groaning?"
"And likewise a-sighing—very dismal. And this morning I took the liberty of observing him unbeknownst—through the window, d'ye see—me not having had a wink o' sleep either—and when he lifted his head——"
"Well?" she said faintly.
"'Twas like—like death in life, mam."
My lady's head was bowed but the Sergeant saw that the hand grasping the whip was trembling and when she spoke her voice was unsteady also:
"I—I'm glad you—told me, Sergeant. I—O I must see him! Get him home again—into the orchard. I—must speak with him—soon!"
"But mam, he's set on riding to Inchbourne—means to look over the cottages as Jennings has let go to rack and ruin, and when he's set on doing a thing he'll—do it."
"He ran away at sight of me, Sergeant?"
"He did so, mam, by reason of the black art and——"
"And he shall run away again—I'll ride to Inchbourne ahead of you and frighten him back home——"
"Zounds!" exclaimed the Sergeant.
"And when he reaches home contrive to get him into the orchard——"
"Zooks!" exclaimed the Sergeant.
Here Mr. Dalroyd, who had been chatting with the Marquis hard by but with his gaze ever upon my lady's lissom figure, urged his horse up to them.
"The Major would seem in a hurry this morning," said he, smiling down into my lady's pensive face, "or is it that his horse bolted with him?"
The Sergeant snorted but, before he could speak, Lady Betty's gloved hand was upon his arm.
"Sergeant Zebedee," said she gently, "I—trust to you and you won't fail me, I know!" Then, smiling a little wistfully she turned and rode away between her two cavaliers.
"Now all I says is," said the Sergeant, rasping his fingers across his big, smooth-shaven chin, "all I says is that look o' hers has drove the word 'fail' clean off the field wi' no chance o' rallying. All I asks is—How?" Having questioned himself thus and found no answer, he presently set off in pursuit of the Major, as fast as his stout cob would carry him.
The Major sat his fretting mare beneath the shadow of trees, but despite this shade he looked hot and uncomfortable.
"You've been the deuce of a while, Zebedee," said he, fidgeting in his saddle.
"No help for it, your honour," answered the Sergeant, saluting, "her ladyship having halted me, d'ye see."
"Ha—what did she say, Zeb?"
"Demanded wherefore you bolted, sir."
"And—what did you tell her?"
"Explained as 'twere all on account o' witchcraft and sorcery damned, sir."
"Then be damned for a fool, Zebedee!" The Sergeant immediately saluted. "Then—er—what did she say?"
"Stared, sir, and cross-examinationed me concerning same, and I dooly explained as you did see a apparation in form of the devil—no, a devil in form of a——" The Major uttered an impatient ejaculation and rode on again. And after they had ridden some distance in silence the Sergeant spoke.
"Begging your pardon, sir, but you're wrong!"
"I think not, Zeb,'" sighed the Major, "'tis for the best."
"But sir, 'tis the wrong way to——"
"On the contrary 'tis the only way, Zeb, the only way to save her pain and vexation. I couldn't bear to see her shrink—er—ha, what a plague are you saying now, in the fiend's name, Sergeant?"
"Why sir, I only—"
"Be silent, Zebedee!"
"Very good, your honour, only this be the wrong way to Inchbourne."
"Egad!" exclaimed the Major, staring. "Now you mention it, Zeb, so 'tis!" And wheeling his horse forthwith, the Major galloped back to the cross-roads. Being come thither he halted to glance swiftly about and seemed much relieved to find no one in sight.
"Zebedee," said he suddenly as they rode on, knee to knee, "tis in my mind to go a-travelling again."
"Thought and hoped our travelling days was done, sir."
"Aye, so did I, Zeb, so did I—but," the Major sighed wearily, "none the less I'm minded to go campaigning again, leaving you here to—er—look after things for me, as 'twere, Zeb."
"Can't and couldn't be, your honour! You go and me stay? Axing your pardon, sir—Zounds, no!"
"Why not, pray?"
"Well first, sir, what would your honour do without me?"
"Truly I should—miss you, Zeb——"
"So you would, sir, so why think of going? Secondly, here's me been hoping—ah, hoping right fervent as you'd bring it off, sir, wi' colours flying and drums a-beating as gay as gay."
"Bring what off, Zeb?"
"Wedlock, sir." The Major flinched, then turned to scowl:
"Be curst for a presuming fool, Zebedee!" The Sergeant immediately saluted. "Whom should I marry at my time of life, think you?"
"Lady Elizabeth Carlyon, sir."
The Major's bronzed cheek burned and he rode awhile with wistful gaze on the distance.
"I shall—never marry, Zebedee!" said he at last.
"Why sir, asking your pardon, but that depends, I think."
"Depends!" repeated the Major, staring. "On what?"
"The Lady Elizabeth Carlyon, your honour."
Here ensued another long pause, then:
"How so, Zeb?"
"Sir, when some women makes up their mind to a man it ain't no manner o' good that man a-saying 'No'!"
"Pray what d'you know of women, Sergeant Zebedee?"
"That much, sir!"
"Hum!" said the Major. "Nevertheless I shall never wed, Zebedee!"
Here he sighed again and the Sergeant did likewise.
"Which I do sadly grieve to hear, sir, for your honour's sake, her ladyship's and—my sake!"
"And why yours, Zeb?"
"Sir, if you was to wed my lady and vicey-versey, the which I did hope, why then belike I might do the same with Mrs. Agatha and versey-vicey."
"God—bless—my soul!" exclaimed the Major.
"She's a pro-digious fine figure of a woman, your honour!"
"She is so, Zeb, she is indeed. But I had no idea——"
"Nor did I, sir, till a few days ago and then it came on me—ah, it come on me like a flash, your honour, quick as a musket-ball!"
"Then, if she's willing, Zeb, marry by all means and before I go I'll——"
"Begging your pardon, sir, can't be done—not to be thought on—if you wed why then I wed, if so be as she'll have me, sir, and vicey-versey, but if you don't, I don't and versey-vicey as in dooty bound, sir."
"But, if you love each other—why not, Zeb?"
"Because sir, you a bachelor, me a bachelor now and for ever, amen!"
"A Gad's name—why?"
"Your honour, 'tis become a matter o' dooty wi' me d'ye see."
"You're a great fool, Sergeant, aye—a fool, Zebedee, but a very faithful fool, Zeb!"
"Aye sir! And yonder's Inchbourne!" said the Sergeant, pointing to a hamlet bowered amid trees in the valley below them.
The thatched cottages of Inchbourne village stood upon three sides of a pleasant green and in this green was a pool shaded by willows and fed by a rippling brook.
"'Tis a mighty pretty place!" said the Major.
"Aye, sir—to look at—from a distance, but there ain't a cottage as aren't damp, nor a roof as don't leak like a sieve. Still 'tis pretty enough I'll not deny, though 'tis an ill-conditioned folk lives there, your honour, hang-dog rascals, poachers and the like——"
"And small wonder if things be so bad, ill-conditions beget roguery, Zeb, I marvel what Jennings can have been doing to let things come to such a pass!"
"Co-lecting rents mostly, sir!"
"You've no particular regard for Mr. Jennings, Zebedee."
"I never said so, your honour."
"He complained of you once, Zebedee——"
"Sir, the same month as you and me come a-marching into this here estate said Jennings turned old Bet Seamore out of her bit o' cottage whereupon I dooly ventured a objection——"
"Hum!" mused the Major, staring down at the peaceful hamlet. "He will be awaiting us——"
"At the d'Arcy Arms!" nodded the Sergeant.
"Jennings was agent here in my uncle's time and bears an irreproachable character, Zeb——"
"Character!" quoth the Sergeant. "Sir, his character worries him to that degree he's a-talking of it constant. Says he to me, old Betty a-sobbing over her bits o' furniture as was a-lying there in the road, 'no rent no roof!' says he, ''tis my dooty to look arter Squire's interests,' says he, 'and dooty's part o' my character. I was born with a irreproachable character,' says he, 'and such I'll keep same,' he says. 'Why then,' says I, 'since I can't kick your character, I'll kick you instead,' I says, which I did forthwith, wherefore complaint to you as aforesaid, sir."
"Ha!" said the Major, frowning. "'Twas wrong in you to assault my agent, Zeb, very wrong, but——I must enquire into the matter of the eviction. You should have told me before." Saying which, he gave his mare the rein and they began to descend the hill.
"They call old Betty a witch, sir," continued the Sergeant, his keen gaze roving expectantly among the scattered cottages, "aye, a witch, sir, and now owing to Mr. Jennings' character d'ye see she do live in the veriest pigsty of a place which is the reason as my Lady Carlyon has took to riding over and a-visiting of her constant——"
"Has she, Zeb, has she?" said the Major, his voice very gentle.
"Aye sir, folks hereabouts know her well—she stays wi' 'em hours sometimes and—Zounds, there she is!"
"Where?" demanded the Major, reining his mare upon its haunches.
"Yonder, sir, see, she's a-going into old Bet's cottage now and——"
But the Major had wheeled about and was already half-way back up the hill.
"Sir," cried the Sergeant as they reached the brow of the hill, "what about that there Mr. Jennings as is a-waiting——"
"He must wait awhile—we'll come back later, Zeb."
"No manner o' use, sir, my lady'll stop a couple of hours and by that time he'll be drunk, d'ye see. Best get home, sir——"
"Why?"
"Well first there's your great History o' Fortification in ten vollums a-waiting to be wrote, and secondly you can come here another day——"
"So I can, Zeb, so I can!" agreed the Major and straightway fell into a profound meditation while Sergeant Zebedee began to turn over in his mind various ways and means of achieving the second part of my lady Betty's so urgent request, pondering the problem chin in hand, his fierce black brows close-knit in painful thought. Suddenly he smiled and slapped hand to thigh.
"What now?" enquired the Major, starting.
"Why sir, there do be some evolutions as a man ain't so nat'rally adapted for as a fe-male so, thinks I sir, I'll ask Mrs. Agatha——"
"Zebedee," said the Major, staring down at his empty desk, "what's become of my manuscript and papers?"
"I' the orchard, sir."
"The orchard—why there?"
"Why sir, seeing the day s'fine, the sun s'warm and the air s'balmy I took 'em out into the arbour, your honour."
"And who the plague told you to?"
"Mrs. Agatha, sir, and seeing 'tis quiet there wi' none to disturb, d'ye see, I took same, hoping what wi' the sun so warm and the air so balmy and your History o' Fortification in ten vollums you might—capture a wink or so o' sleep, p'r'aps, you not having closed a optic all last night, your honour."
"Ha!" growled the Major and, limping to the open casement, scowled out upon the sunny garden.
"And you was ever fond o' the orchard, sir."
"Damn the orchard!"
"Heartily, sir, heartily if so commanded, though 'tis for sure a pleasant place and if you, a-sitting there so snug and secluded, could nod off to sleep for an hour or so, what with the sun so warm and the air so balmy, 'twould do you a power o' good, sir, you being a bit—strange-like to-day, d'ye see."
"Strange? How?"
"Your temper's a leetle shortish and oncertain-like, sir."
"Aye," nodded the Major grimly, "belike it is, Zeb." He turned and limped slowly to the door but paused there, staring down at the polished floor. "Zebedee," said he suddenly, without lifting his frowning gaze, "what a plague gave you to think there was—there could be aught 'twixt my lady and me?"
"Observation, sir." The Major's scowl grew blacker:
"And—Mrs. Agatha?" he enquired, "does she know?"
"Being a woman, sir, she do—from the very first."
"Ha!" exclaimed the Major bitterly, "and the maids—I suppose they know, and the footmen, and the grooms, and the gardeners and every peeping, prying——"
"Sir," said the Sergeant fervently, "I'll lay my life there's no one knows but Mrs. Agatha and me—her by nat'ral intooitions and me by observation aforesaid."
"Do I——show it so——plainly, Zeb?"
"No, sir, but Mrs. Agatha's a remarkable woman—and I've learned to know you in all these years, to know your looks and ways better than you know 'em yourself, sir, wherefore I did ventur' to put two and two together and made 'em five, it seems. For (I argufies to myself) it ain't nowise good for man to live alone seeing as man be born to wedlock as the sparks do up'ard fly and what's bred i' the bone is bound to be. Moreover man cleaveth to woman and vicey-versey, your honour. Furthermore (argues I) wedlock is a comfortable institootion—now and then, sir, and very nat'ral 'twixt man and maid whereby come heirs o' the body male and female, your honour. And furthermore (I argues) you're a man and she's a maid and both on you apt and fit for same, therefore, if so—why not? Moreover again (thinks I) if two folk do love each other and there ain't any kind o' just cause nor yet impedimenta—why then (says I) wherefore not obey Natur's call and——your honour——d'ye see——there y'are, sir!" Here the Sergeant stopped and stood at attention, breathing rather hard, while the Major, who had averted his head, was silent awhile; when at last he spoke his voice sounded anything but harsh.
"You're a good soul, Sergeant Zeb, a good soul. But that which is——impossible can—er—can never be.
'Youth is joyous; Age is melancholy:Age and Youth together is but folly.'
"'Tis a true saying, Zeb," he sighed, "a true saying and not to be controverted."
"Certainly not, sir," answered the Sergeant, "and you'll find your History o' Fortification a-laying on the table in the arbour, sir, also pens and ink, also pipe and tobacco, also tinder-box, also——"
"Why then, Zeb, since as you say the sun is so warm and the air so balmy I'll go out and sit awhile and dream I'm young again, for to youth all things are possible—or seem so." And, sighing, he limped forth into the sunshine. But now, as he went slowly towards the orchard, he smiled more than once, and once he murmured:
"God bless his honest heart!"
Thus, slow and listless of step, he came at last into the pleasant seclusion of the orchard and, with head bowed and shoulders drooping like one that is very weary, entered the cool shadow of the hutch-like sentry-box and started back, trembling all at once and with breath in check.
She sat looking up at him, great-eyed and very still, yet all vigorous young life from the glossy love-lock above white brow to her dainty riding-boot.
"Why John," said she softly, "do I fright you? Will you run from me again you great, big, 'Fighting d'Arcy'?" And now, because of his look, over snowy neck and cheek and brow crept a rosy flush, her lips quivered to a shy smile, never had she seemed so maidenly or so alluring; the Major clenched his fists and bowed his head. "John," she commanded tenderly, "come you hither to me!" and she patted the seat beside her with white hand invitingly. Major d'Arcy never stirred, so she reached out and catching him by the skirt of his coat, drew him near and nearer until he was seated beside her.
"And now," she questioned, "why do you tramp to and fro sleepless all night? Why do you gallop away at sight of me? Why are your poor cheeks so pale and your eyes so heavy with pain? Why do you sit and stare mumchance? Why? Why? Why?"
Now looking down into these bright eyes that met his so unflinchingly, hearkening to her soft and tender voice, his own eyes blenched and putting up his hands he covered his face that he might not see all the beauty of her and when he spoke his voice was hoarse and broken.
"My lady—why are you here—after last night? Dear God!"
"Because you need me, John, to comfort you, 'twould seem. If indeed you are bewitched by cruel fancies I am here to drive them away."
"Would to God you might," he groaned, "or that I had died before last night!"
"John," said she gently, "John—look at me! Do I seem changed, less worthy your love?"
"No, no, and yet—God help me—I saw, I heard!"
"What did you hear?"
"Your words of love—last night—in the arbour—your kisses."
At this, she started but her glance never wavered.
"What did you see?"
"I saw—him—damn him—leap back over the wall—Dalroyd!"
"Dalroyd!" she gasped, "Dalroyd—are you sure?"
"I had him in my grip! I looked into his evil face——"
"Dalroyd!" she whispered, and with the word her proud head drooped and he saw her hands were shaking.
"Betty," said he hoarsely, "O Betty, 'tis not that my dream of possessing you is done, but—dear heaven—that it should be—such a man! For if I do guess aright he is one so vile, so——"
"John!" she cried, "O think you 'twas to meet—him, I was there?"
"Aye, I saw him—fresh from your embraces—the damnable rogue boasted of it and I was minded to strangle him—but—for your sake——"
"My sake?"
My lady rose and stood very pale and still, looking down at the Major's agony.
"And you think," she questioned softly, "you believe I was there to meet—him, at such an hour?"
"Betty—Betty—God help me—what am I to think?"
"What you will!" she answered. "Therein shall be your punishment!" And turning she would have left him, but he caught at her habit.
"My lady," he pleaded, "for God's sweet sake be merciful and deny it. Tell me I dreamed—say that my eyes saw falsely, tell me so in mercy and I'll believe."
"No!" she said dully, "No! Were I to swear this on my knees yet deep within your heart this evil doubt would still rear its head——"
"Nay, nay—I vow—I swear!"
"You have been so swift to spy out evil in me from the first," she went on in the same passionless voice, "first you thought me a wild hoyden, then unvirginal, now—now, a sly wanton! So will I make your evil thoughts so many whips to scourge you for all your cruel doubt of me!"
Saying which, she broke from him and crossing the orchard on flying feet reached the ladder set for her there by the Sergeant's willing hands, she mounted, then paused to glance back over her shoulder but seeing how the Major remained meekly where she had left him, his head bowed humbly between clasping hands, she frowned, bit her lip, then gathering up the voluminous folds of her riding-habit climbed back very dexterously over the wall, frowned at him again, shook her head at him and vanished.
But then—ah then, being hid from all chance of observation she leaned smooth cheek against the unfeeling bricks and mortar of that old weather-beaten wall and fell to a silent passion of grief.
"O John!" she whispered, "O foolish, blundering, cruel John dear—I wonder if you'll ever know—how much I yearned—to kiss your dear, sad, tired eyes!"
Then, drying her tears, she lifted proud head and walked with much dignified composure into the house.
The tap-room of the ancient "George and Dragon" Inn is a long, low, irregular chamber full of odd and unexpected corners in one of which, towards the hour of three, sat Sergeant Zebedee Tring as was his wont so to do. A large tankard of foaming Kentish ale stood before him from which he regaled himself ever and anon the while he perused a somewhat crumpled and ragged news-sheet. But to-day, as the Sergeant alternately sipped and read he paused very often to frown across the length of the room towards a noisy group at the farther end; a boisterous company, whose fine clothes and smart liveries proclaimed their gilded servitude and who lounged, yawned, snuffed, sipped their wine or spirits and lisped polite oaths and fashionable scandal all with as fine, as correct and supercilious an air as either of their several masters could have done or any other fine gallants in St. James's. Moreover it was to be noticed, that each of them had modelled himself, in more or less degree, upon the gentleman who happened to rejoice in his service; hence man was faintly reminiscent of master.
"Josh, my nib," said an extremely languid individual, sticking out a leg and looking at it with as much lazy approval as my Lord Alvaston might have regarded his own shapely limb, "Josh, my sunbeam, there's something up—stap my vital organ!"
"Up, sir, up?" enquired a stoutish, pompous person, inhaling a pinch of snuff with all the graceful hauteur of Sir Benjamin himself, "Up, William—up what, up where? Od, sir—pronounce, discover."
"Josh, my bird, here's my guv'nor—here's Alvaston been a-sweating and swearing, writin' o' verses—poetical verses all the morning—which same is dooced queer, Josh, queer, fishy and highly disturbing—burn my neck if t'ain't."
"Od!" exclaimed the dignified Josh, "Od, sir, I protest 'tis a amazing co-in-seedence, here's mine been doing the actool same—I found Sir Benjamin up to the same caper, sir—ink all over 'imself—his ruffles—'oly heaven. And poitry too, William, s'elp me!"
"Egad! My eye!" exclaimed a pale youth remarkable for a long nose and shrill voice, "O strike me pale blue, 'tis a plague o' po'try and they've all been and took it. Here's Marchdale rings me up at three o'clock in the morning and when I tumbled up, here's him in his nightcap and a bottle o' port as I thought I'd put safe out of his reach, a-staring doleful at a sheet o' paper. 'Horace,' says he, fierce-like, 'Give me a rhyme for "Bet,"' says he. 'Sir, I hasn't got e'er a one about me,' I says. 'Then find one this instant,' says he. 'Why then sir, 'ow about "debt?"' I says and he—ups and throws the bottle at me!"
"'Twas a poetical frenzy, Horace," explained a horsey-looking wight, winking knowingly, "most poits gets took that way when they're at it—Alton does, only 'twas his boot which me ducking—went clean through the winder."
"Pink my perishing soul!" ejaculated the languid William in sleepy horror, "so they're all at it!"
"'Od refuse me, gentlemen," said Josh, smiting plump fist on table, "we must look into this before it goes too far——"
"I'm with you, Josh," piped the shrill Horace, "a bottle at your head ain't to be took smiling—nor yet to be sneezed at, strike me pink! Besides I ain't drawed to po'try—it ain't gentleman-like, I call it damned low, gentlemen, eh?"
"Low?" repeated the solemn Josh musingly, "why no, it's hardly that, sir, there's verse, ye see, and there's poetry and t'other's very different from which—O very."
"And what's the diff, my flower?"
"Why, there's poetry, William, and there's verse, now verse is low I grant you, 'od sir, verse is as low as low, but poetry is one o' the harts, O poetry's very sooperior, a gentleman may be permitted to write poetry when so moody and I shan't quarrel with him, but—writing it for—money! Then 'tis mere verse, sir, and won't do not by no means. Verse is all right in its place, Grub Street or a attic, say, but in the gilded halls of nobility—forbid it, heaven—it won't do, sir, it ain't the thing, sir—away with it!"
"Ah, but we ain't in the gilded halls, we're in the country, sir, and the country's enough to drive a man to anything—even poetry, Josh, my tulip! Nothing to see but grass and dung hills, hedges and haystacks—O damme!"
"And a occasional dairymaid!" added Horace, laying a finger to his long nose, "Don't forget the dear, simple, rural creeters!" At this ensued much loud laughter and stamping of feet with shouts of: "A health, Horace is right! A toast to the rural beauties!"
Hereupon the Sergeant lowered the crumpled news-sheet and his scowl grew blacker than ever.
"Dairymaids?" exclaimed the languid William, turning the wineglass on his stubby finger, "Dairymaids—faugh, gentlemen! Joe and me and Charles does fly at higher game, we do, I vow. We've discovered a rustic Vanus! Rabbit me—a peach! A blooming plum—round and ripe—aha! A parfect goddess! Let me parish if London could boast a finer! Such a shape! Such a neck! Such dem'd, see-doocing, roguish eyes, egad!"
"Name—name!" they roared in chorus, "Spit out her name, William!"
"Her name, sirs, begins with a A and ends with another on 'em." Here the Sergeant sat up suddenly and laid aside the crumpled news-sheet. "Begins with a A, sirs," repeated William, still busy with his wineglass, "and ends with a A and it ain't Anna. And—aha, such a waist, such pretty wicked little feet, such——"
"Name!" chorused the others, "Name!"
But, at this juncture the door opened and a man entered rather hastily: his dress was sedate, his air was sedate, indeed he seemed sedateness personified, though the Sergeant, scowling at him over his tankard, thought his eyes a little too close together. He was evidently held in much esteem by the company for his entrance was hailed with acclaim:
"What, Joe! Joey—ha, Joseph," cried the pompous Josh, "you do come pat, sir, pat—we'm just a-discussing of the Sex—Gad bless 'em!"
"Dear creeters!" added Horace, fingering his long nose.
"Woman—divine Woman for ever!" said Joseph, "Woman, sirs, man's joy and curse, his woe and consolation!"
"Sweet creeters!" added Horace. "But William here tells us of a rural beauty—a peach and a Vanus as you and him's got your peepers on, Joe, so we, being all friends and jolly dogs, demands the fair one's name."
"One minute and I'm with you," answered the sedate and obsequious Joseph, "business first, pleasure after!" So saying he beckoned to a man who had followed him in from the road, a tall dark, gipsy-looking fellow at sight of whom the Sergeant clenched his fists and murmured "Zounds!" The obsequious Joe having brought the fellow into an adjacent corner remote from the noisy company, broke into soft but fierce speech:
"So you'll follow me—even here, will you?"
"Why for sure, Nick, for sure I'll follow you to——"
"My name's Joe, curse you!"
"Then 'Joe' we'll make it, Nick. And I foller ye for the sake o' past merry days, Joey, and—a guinea now and then, pal."
The Sergeant, who had risen, sat down again.
"Blackmail, eh?" snarled Joseph.
"Don't go for to be 'arsh, Joey lad—a guinea, come! Or shall I ax 'ee, here afore your fine pals to pipe us a chaunt o' the High Toby——"
"Hold your dirty tongue you——"
"A guinea, pal—say a guinea, come!"
"Take it and be damned!"
"Thank 'ee kindly, Joey, and mind this—now as ever I'm your man if you should want anyone——" here the fellow made an ugly motion with his thumb, nodded, winked, and crossing to the door, took himself off.
Sergeant Zebedee was about to follow when he checked himself and clenched his fists again.
"Begins with a A and ends with another A?" cried one of the company. "Question remains—who, Joey, who? Speak up, Joseph."
The sedate Joseph had crossed to his companions and now stood glancing sedately round the merry circle.
"Well, since you ask," he answered, "who should it be but Mistress Agatha—pretty Mrs. Agatha at the Manor House."
The Sergeant's nostrils widened suddenly and his grim jaws closed with a snap.
"Such a shape!" repeated the languid William. "Such a waist! Such dem'd, see-doocing, roguish eyes, begad!"
"Ah, and she knows it too!" piped Horace, "not a civil word for e'er a one on us, let alone a kiss or a sly squeeze! And why——?"
"Because," drawled Joseph, shaking sleek head, "because—since you ask me, I answer you as she is meat for her betters—her master, belike—the Major with the game leg—Squire d'Arcy of the Manor."
The Sergeant glanced into his tankard, found therein a few frothy drops, spilled them carefully upon the floor and hurled the empty vessel at the last speaker. Fortunately for himself the discreet Joseph moved at that moment and the heavy missile, hurtling past his ear, caught the long-nosed Horace in the waistcoat and floored him. Whirling about, Joseph was amazed to see the Sergeant advancing swiftly and with evident intent, and the next moment all was riot and uproar. Over crashed the table, chairs and their occupants were scattered right and left and there rose a cloud of dust that grew ever thicker wherein two forms, fiercely-grappled, writhed and smote and twisted.
And, after some while, the dust subsiding a little, the startled company beheld Sergeant Zebedee Tring sitting astride his antagonist who writhed feebly and groaned fitfully. Seated thus the Sergeant proceeded to re-settle his neat wig which had shed much of its powder, to tuck up his ruffles and to dust the marks of combat from his garments; having done which to his satisfaction and recovered his wind meantime, he addressed the gaping company.
"One o' you sons o' dirt bring me my hat!" The article in question being promptly handed to him, he put it on, with due care for the curls of his wig and glared round upon each of the spectators in turn:
"Now if," said he at last, "if there's any other vermin-rogue has got aught to say agin his betters, two in particular, I shall be happy to tear his liver out and kick same through winder! Is there now?"
Ensued a silence broken only by a faint groaning from the obsequious Joe; whereupon the Sergeant proceeded:
"You will all o' you notice as I'm sitting on this here piece o' filth as is shaped like a man—I don't like to, but I do it because he won't stand up and fight, if he would—ah, if he only would, I'd have his liver so quick as never was, d'ye see, because he spoke dirt regarding two o' the sweetest, noblest folk as brightens this here dark world. Further and moreover I, now a-sitting on this piece o' rottenness, do give warning doo—warning to all and sundry, to each and every—that if ever a one o' you says the like again—ah, or whispers same, in my hearing or out, that man's liver is going to be took out and throwed on the nearest dung-hill where same belongs. Finally and lastly, if there's ever a one o' you as feels inclined to argufy the point let him now speak or for ever hold his peace and be damned! Is there now?"
As no one breathed a word, the Sergeant sighed, rose from the moaning Joseph and, crossing the room, picked up his battered tankard and shook gloomy head over it; then, handing it to the round-eyed landlord, sighed again:
"That'll be the second tankard I shall ha' paid for in the last six weeks, Jem," said he, "I do seem oncommon misfort'nate with pewter-ware!"
So saying, he nodded and turning his back on the silent and chastened company, marched blithely homeward.
Now presently as he went, he was surprised to see the Major, who stood beside the way, his hands crossed upon his crab-tree staff, his laced hat a little askew, his grey eyes staring very hard at a weatherbeaten stile. As the Sergeant drew near, he started, and lifting his gaze, nodded.
"Ha, Zeb," said he, thoughtfully, "I'm faced with a problem of no small magnitude, Zeb—a question of no little difficulty!" and he became lost in contemplation of a lark carolling high overhead.
"Nothing serious I hope, your honour?"
"Serious, why—no Zeb, no. And yet 'tis a matter demanding a nice judgment, a—er—a reasoned deliberation, as 'twere."
"Certainly, sir!"
"Yet for the life of me I can come to no decision for one of 'em is much like t'other after all save for colour, d'ye see, Zeb, and serve the same purpose. Yet to-morrow—to-morrow I would look my very best and—er—youngest as 'twere, Zeb."
"Meaning which and who, sir—how and where, your honour?"
"Come and see, Zeb."
Herewith the Major turned and strode away, the Sergeant marching exactly two paces in his rear and without another word until, reaching the study in due course, the Major carefully closed the door and pointed with his crab-tree staff to some half-dozen of his new suits of clothes disposed advantageously on table and chairs.
"There they are, Zeb," said he, "though egad, now I look at 'em again they don't seem exactly right, somehow——"
"Why, sir, you've only got 'em mixed up a bit—this here dove-coloured coat goes wi' these here breeches and vicey-versey—this mulberry velvet wi'—
"Aye, to be sure, Zeb, to be sure. Now I see 'em so, I rather think we'll make it the mulberry, though to be sure the pearl-grey hath its merits—hum! We must deliberate, Zeb! 'Twill be either the mulberry or the grey or the blue and silver or t'other with the embroidery or—hum! 'Tis a problem, Zeb, a problem—we must think—a council of war!"
"Aye, sir!" answered the Sergeant, staring.
"Anyway, 'twill be one of them, Zeb—to-morrow afternoon. To be sure I rather fancy the orange-tawney, and yet the blue and silver—hum!"
Here the perplexed Major crossed to the mullioned window and standing there drew a letter from his pocket and unfolding it with reverent fingers read these words:
"DEAR AND MOST CRUEL MAJOR JOHN,
To-morrow is to be an occasion, therefore to-morrow I do invite you to come at four of the clock, or as soon after as you will, to look upon the sad, pale and woeful face of
deeply wronged,much abused,cruelly slandered,ELIZABETH.
To Major ill-thinking, vile-imagining, basely-suspecting d'Arcy—these."