"Stop!" exclaimed Alvaston. "Your lambs'll never do, Ben!"
"Od sir, I say egad, why not?"
"Because lambs don't hail 'n' if they could hail their hail would be a 'baa' and being a baa Bet would ha' t' be a sheep t' understand 'em which Gad forbid, Ben! An' the bottle's with——"
"A sheep sir, a sheep?" spluttered Sir Benjamin. "Malediction! What d'ye mean?"
"I mean I object t' Betty being turned int' a sheep either by inference, insinuation or induction—I 'ppeal t' the company!"
Here ensued a heated discussion ending in his lordship's objection being quashed, whereupon Sir Benjamin, his face redder than ever and his elegant peruke a little awry, continued:
"Ye feathered songsters blithely singYe snowy lambkins frisk and springTo Betty let our glasses ringIn joyous Westerham!"
Sir Benjamin sat down amidst loud acclaim, and there immediately followed a perfervid debate as to the rival merits of the several authors and finally, amid a scene of great excitement, Mr. Marchdale was declared the victor.
And now appeared a mighty bowl of punch flanked by pipes and tobacco at sight of which the company rose in welcome.
"Gentlemen," said Sir Benjamin, grasping silver ladle much as it had been a sceptre, "the Muses have departed but in their stead behold the jovial Bacchus with the attendant sprite yclept Virginia. Gentlemen, it hath been suggested that we shall drink glass and glass and——"
"Damned be he who first cries 'hold enough'!" murmured Alvaston.
"Gentlemen, the night is young, let now the rosy hours pass in joyous revelry and good-fellowship!"
So the merry riot waxed and waned, tobacco smoke ascended in filmy wreaths, songs were sung and stories told while ever the glasses filled and grew empty and the Major, lighting his fifth pipe at a candle, turned to find Lord Cleeve addressing him low-voiced amid the general din across a barricade of empty bottles.
"—don't like it Jack," he was saying, "no duty for a gentleman and King's officer, we're no damned catchpolls ... word hath come in roundabout way of a Jacobite rebel in these parts.... Two o' my captains out with search parties ... poor devil!"
Slowly the clamour of voices and laughter died away, the candles burned low and lower in their sconces and through a blue haze the Major espied Sir Benjamin asprawl in his chair, his fine coat wine-splashed, his great peruke obscuring one eye, snoring gently. Hard by, Alvaston lay forward across the table, his face pillowed upon a plate, deep-plunged in stertorous slumber while the Colonel, sitting opposite, leaned back in his chair and stared up solemnly at the raftered ceiling. Candles were guttering to their end, the long chamber, the inn itself seemed strangely silent and the broad casement already glimmered with the dawn.
"Jack," said the Colonel suddenly, "'tis odd—'tis devilish odd I vow 'tis, but place feels curst—empty!" The Major glanced around the disordered chamber and shivered. "Jack, here's you and here's me—very well! Yonder's Sir Benjamin and Lord Alvaston—very well again! But question is—where's t'others?"
"Why I think, I rather think George, they're under the table."
Hereupon the Colonel made as if to stoop down and look but thought better of it, and stretching out a foot instead, touched something soft and nodded solemnly:
"B'gad Jack—so they are!" said he and sat staring up at the rafters again while the pallid dawn grew brighter at the window.
"Man Jack," he went on with a beaming smile, "'tis a goodish spell since we had an all-night bout together. Last time I mind was in Brabant at——" The Colonel sat up suddenly, staring through the casement where, in the sickly light of dawn, stood a figure which paused opposite the window to stare up at the sleeping inn, and was gone.
"Refuse me!" exclaimed the Colonel, still staring wide of eye, "Jack—did ye see it?"
"Aye, George!"
"Then Jack if we're not drunk we ought to be—but drunk or no, we've seen a ghost!"
"Whose, George?"
"Why, the spirit of that ravishing satyr, that black rogue you killed years ago in Flanders—Effingham, by Gad!"
"Ah!" sighed the Major.
Viscount Merivale sat alone in the hutch-like sentry-box; his handsome face was unduly grave, his brow care-worn and he bit at his carefully tended nails, which last was a thing in him quite phenomenal.
All at once he clenched his fist and smote it softly on the table:
"Damn him!" he muttered and sat scowling at his torn nails. "Ha, madam, it seems you are like to be the death o' me yet! ... O Woman! ... Howbeit, fight him I will!" Here, chancing to lift his frowning gaze, he saw the Sergeant approaching with a spade on his shoulder.
"What, Zebedee!" he called. The Sergeant glanced round, wheeled and, halting before the arbour, stood at attention. "Ha, Zeb, good old Zeb, come your ways. Sit down, yes, yes, here beside me. I'm beset by devils, Zeb, devils damned of deepest blue, your honest phiz shall fright 'em hence, mayhap—stay though!" The Viscount rose and drew his sword: "That lunge o' yours in tierce, Zeb, 'tis a sweet stroke and sufficiently deadly, show me the 'haviour on't. 'Twas somewhat on this wise as I remember." And falling into a graceful fencing posture, the Viscount made his long, narrow blade flash and dart viciously while Sergeant Zebedee, taking himself by the chin, watched with the eye of a connoisseur. "'Twas so, I think, Zeb?" The Sergeant smiled grimly and shook his head.
"You've got same all mixed up wi' fashionable school-play, Master Pancr—Tom, my lud, which though pretty ain't by no means the real thing."
"How so, Zebedee?"
"Why sir, this here posturing and flourishing is well enough a-'twixt fine gentlemen as happens to draw on each other after a bottle or to wipe out an ill word in a drop or so o' blood—yes. But 'tis different when you're opposite a skilled duellist as means to kill. His honour the Major now, he learned in a hard school and his honour learned me."
"He's had several affairs I think, Zeb?"
"Twenty and two, sir!"
"Ha!" sighed the Viscount, "I've had one and got pricked in the thigh! Here, show me the way on't, Sergeant." So saying, he turned weapon across forearm and bowing in true academic manner, proffered the jewelled hilt to the Sergeant who took it, tested spring and balance of the blade with practised hands, saluted and fell to the "engage"; then he lunged swiftly and recovered, all in a moment.
"'Tis a stroke hard to parry, sir!" said he.
"Gad love me!" sighed the Viscount, "do't again Zeb—slowly man and with explanations."
"Why look'ee sir, 'tis a trick o' the wrist on the disengage. You are in tierce—so, your point bearing so—very good! You play a thrust, thus d'ye see, then—whip! up comes your point and you follow in with a lunge—so! Try it, my lud."
"Hum!" said the Viscount, taking back his sword.
But having "tried it" once or twice with very indifferent success, he shook his head and, sheathing his weapon, sat down again and grew more despondent than ever. "Sit ye down, Zeb," said he, "the blue devils have me sure."
"Devils, Master Tom sir," said the Sergeant, seating himself on the bench his own hands had contrived, "I aren't nowise surprised, same do haunt the place o' late, this here orchard being 'witched d'ye see and full o' hocus-pocus."
"'Tis hard to believe, Zeb, what with the sky so blue and the grass all dappled with sunlight. Nay 'tis a fair world, Zeb, and hard to leave. Life's a desirable thing and hard to lose! Save us! What a world 'twould be if all women were sweet as they seemed and men as true!"
"Sure there's a deal o' roguery i' the world Master Pancras—Tom, sir! As witness—last night!"
The Viscount winced, muttered between clenched teeth and scowled at his fist again:
"Is the Major come home yet?" he enquired.
"Yes, sir. Come in along with Lord Cleeve, same as served under his honour years agone."
"How were they, Zeb?"
"His honour oncommon solemn and my lord oncommon talkative—wouldn't nowise part wi' his boots, threatened to shoot the first man as dared touch same. Last night must ha' been—a night, sir!"
"Aye!" nodded the Viscount absently. "You told me last night you actually caught the fellow one night—in the orchard here?"
"Fellow, my lud?"
"Mr. Dalroyd."
"I so did, sir—same being in the act o' scaling wall—taking my lady's garden by escalade as ye might say."
"'Twas Dalroyd, you're—quite sure, Zeb?"
"If 'twasn't—'twere a ghost sir."
"What d'ye mean?"
"The ghost of an officer of Ogle's as his honour killed in Flanders in a duel, Master Tom."
"Ah!" said the Viscount thoughtfully. "A duel!"
"Aye, sir, only this man's name were Effingham."
"A duel!" repeated the Viscount. "'Twas over a woman of course?"
"Aye sir, and an evil tale it is and I'm a man o' few words—but if so be you've a mind for't——"
"I have, Zeb—proceed——"
"Well, it seems this Captain Effingham with his company had took prisoner a French officer in his own chateau, d'ye see, and meant to shoot same in the morning for a spy. But to Captain Effingham comes the officer's wife—young she was and very handsome, and implored the Captain to mercy, which he agreed to if she'd consent to——"
"I take you, Zeb!"
"'Twas for her husband's life and she was very young, sir—I chanced to see her arterwards. So the Captain had his way. Next morning, very early, comes a roll o' musketry. She leaps out o' bed, runs to the lattice and there's her husband being carried by—dead! So she falls distracted and kills herself wi' the Captain's sword and arter comes his honour the Major and kills the Captain. 'Twas a pretty bout, sir, for the Captain was a master at rapier-play and famous duellist—laid his honour's head open from eye to ear at the first pass and, what wi' the blood-flow and heavy boots I thought his honour was done for more than once—and if he had been, well—I had finger on trigger and 'twould ha' been no murder—him!"
"The Major killed him?"
"Dead as mutton, sir."
"Did you bury the villain?"
"No time, sir, we were a flanking party on a forced march, d'ye see."
"And you say Dalroyd is like him?"
"As one musket-ball to another, Master Tom."
"And she was young and beautiful, Zeb?"
"About my lady Betty's age sir, and much such another."
"Ah!" murmured the Viscount and scowled at his fist again. "Look'ee Zeb, 'tis my fancy to master that thrust, every morning when you've done with the Major you shall fence a bout or so with me, eh?"
"'Twill be joy, Master Tom."
"But, mark this Zeb, none must know of it—especially my uncle. I—I'm minded to surprise him. So not a word and——"
On the warm, sunny air rose a woman's voice rich, sonorous and clear, singing a plaintive melody. The Viscount rose, flicked a speck from velvet coat-skirts and, crossing the orchard, swung himself astride the wall. My lady Betty was gathering a posy; at the Viscount's sudden appearance she broke off her song, swept him a curtsey then, standing tall and gracious, shook white finger at him.
"Naughty lad!" said she. "Since when have you taken to philandering in country lanes after midnight?"
The Viscount actually gasped; then took out his snuff-box, fumbled with it and put it away again.
"I—I—Gad preserve me, Bet!" he stammered, "what d'ye mean?"
"I mean, my poor Pancras, since when ha' you taken to spying on me?"
The Viscount's cheek flushed, then he leaned suddenly forward his hands tight-clenched:
"Betty," said he, his voice sunk almost to a whisper, "O Bet, in God's name why d'you meet a man of Dalroyd's repute—alone and at such an hour?" My lady's clear gaze never wavered and she laughed gaily:
"Dear Pancras," she cried, "your tragical airs are ill-suited to the top of a wall! Prithee come down to earth, smooth that face of care, dear creature, and let us quarrel agreeably as of yore!"
The Viscount obeyed slowly and looking a little grim:
"Look'ee Bet," said he as they trod the tiled walk together, "I have lived sufficiently long in this world to know that the mind of a woman is beyond a man's comprehension and that she herself is oft-times the sport of every idle whim——"
"'Tis a Daniel come to judgment! O excellent young man!'" she mocked. Whereat the Viscount became a little grimmer as he continued:
"Yet, because my regard for you is true and sincere, I do most humbly implore you to forego this madcap whim——"
"Whim, Viscount Merivale, my lord?"
"Aye—whim, fancy, mischief—call it what you will! 'Tis impossible you can love the fellow and not to be thought on."
"Dear Pan," she sighed, "I vow there are times I could kiss you as I used, when we were children."
"Trust me instead, dear Bet! Confess, the fellow hath a hold over you? Have you met him often at night?"
"Twice!"
"Shall you meet him again?"
"Thrice!"
"Alone? And—at midnight? Alone, Betty?"
"Quite alone."
"God!" he exclaimed, "what will the world think?"
"The world will be asleep."
"But how if you should be seen as I saw you—in the lane?"
"'Tis small chance," she answered, brushing her roses across red lips a-pout in thought. "'Tis why I choose a spot so remote and so late an hour."
"But alone—at midnight—with Dalroyd! By heaven, Betty, you run greater and more ugly risks than you know."
"I think not, Pan."
"But I tell you, and God forgive me if I misjudge the fellow—from what I know—from what I hear he's a very satyr—a——"
"Indeed I think he is!" she sighed. "So do I go prepared."
"How—how?" he demanded. "I say no maid should run such risk, willingly or no——"
"Pancras!" She turned and faced him suddenly. "You never doubt me—you?"
"Never Bet, never, I swear. But 'tis only that I've known you all your days and because I know you commit this folly and risk these dangers for Charles's sake. But Betty, in God's name what will the end be?"
"An end shall justify the means!"
"The means—the means! Aye, but there are some means so shameful that no end may ever justify—you never think to sacrifice yourself to——"
My lady laughed; then seeing the anxiety of his face, the tremor of his clenched fist, she took that fist in her soft, cool fingers and drawing him within the arbour made him sit beside her.
"Pan dear," she said gently, "O rest secure in this:—'tis true I love my brother but no tender martyr am I so brave or so unselfish, even for his dear sake, to yield myself up to—the beasts. This body of mine I hold much too precious to glut their brutish appetite."
"Why then, Bet, promise me this folly shall cease, you'll see Dalroyd no more, at least at such an hour—promise me."
"No, Pancras."
"Ha! And wherefore not?"
"Because 'tis so my whim."
"Why then you leave me but one alternative, Betty."
"Prithee—what?"
"I'll stop it in despite of you."
"Cry you mercy, sir—how?"
"Very simply."
"Ah, Pancras, you mean a—duel? No no, not that—you shall not—I forbid such folly!" The Viscount smiled. "He'd kill you, Pan, I know it—feel it!" The Viscount's smile grew a little rueful.
"None the less, 'twould resolve the problem—at least for me," he answered.
"But, Pancras, see how clumsily! O Lud, these meddling men!" she sighed.
"Heavens, these wilful women!" he retorted.
"Still, Sir Wiseacre, being a woman I'll meet and outwit the beast with a woman's weapons. So now prithee let there be no thought of such clumsy weapons as this!" and tapping the ornate hilt of the Viscount's sword, she rose. "Come," said she, reaching him her hand, "take me within-doors and I will stay thee with flagons."
Now as they crossed the broad lawn together the balmy air was suddenly pierced by a shrill and flute-like whistle.
"Aha!" exclaimed the Viscount, stopping suddenly to glance about.
As he stood thus he was amazed by an object which, hurtling from on high, thudded upon the grass, and stepping forward he picked up a much worn and battered shoe. From this sorry object his gaze, travelling aloft, presently discovered a figure which had wriggled itself half out of a small dormer window beneath the eaves and, despite this perilous position, was beckoning to him vigorously.
"Oho!" exclaimed the Viscount, turning to my lady Betty. "So you have him here, 'tis as I thought!" But when he would have waved and saluted his lordship of Medhurst in return, Betty stayed him with a gesture.
"The servants, Pan—" she warned him.
"You'll take me up, Bet, you'll let me see the old lad?" the Viscount pleaded. "I've been scheming out ways and means of getting him first to my place in Sussex and then over seas——"
"Phoh!" exclaimed my lady. "And yourself and him dungeoned in the Tower within the week. How should you know he was hereabouts—'twas that Major d'Arcy, I'll vow!"
"True, he mentioned the matter and moreover——"
"Ha!" cried my lady stamping her foot, "so he must be talking already!"
"Aye—to me, Bet, why not i' faith! And—though a Whig——"
"A flapdragon!" exclaimed my lady.
"I say though a Whig he is as ready to aid Charles into safety as you or I. Nay, he hath even proffered to harbour him in his own house."
"Mm!" said my lady, smiling down at her roses, "I wonder why a Whiggish soldier should run such risk for Charles, a stranger?"
"Because the Major chances to be the best, the bravest, the most unselfish gentleman I have the honour to know!" replied the Viscount.
"Dear Pancras!" she sighed, "an you would talk with Charles, you shall, so come your ways and be silent—Pancras dear!"
So she brought him into the house and, finger on lip, led him up back stairways and along seldom used passages to a door small but remarkably strong; here she paused to reach a key from a dark corner, a key of massive proportions at sight of which the Viscount whistled.
"You see, Pan," she explained, fitting it to the lock, "Charles is quite determined to get away at once for my sake, but I'm quite determined he shall stay for his own sake, until I judge him sufficiently recovered, and—hark to him, Pan, hark to my naughty child!" She laughed as an impatient fist thumped the stout door from within and a muffled voice reached them. "Be silent, sir!" she commanded. Followed a sulky muttering, the door swung open and my lord of Medhurst appeared, petulant and eager:
"What Pan!" he cried. "What Tom—Tommy lad! Y'see how she treats me!"
"Hush!" exclaimed my lady, closing the door.
"Gad, Charles!" exclaimed the Viscount as they embraced, "you're thin and pale, is't your wound?"
"Nay—nay, I vow I'm well enough, Tom——"
"But I protest art worn to a shadow——"
"A shadow—aha!" His lordship laughed gaily. "Say a shade, Tom, a ghost and you're in the right with a vengeance. But tell me the latest town news, Tommy, who's in and who's out? Stands London where it did——"
"Nay first, Charles, I'm here to smuggle you away to my Sussex place there to keep you hid until I can arrange for you to cross into France. 'Twill be the simplest matter i' the world, Charles, I'll have a couple of fast horses in the lane at midnight, we shall reach my place by dawn or thereabouts. How say you?"
"Why I say, dear lad, 'tis all very well but you forget one thing."
"And that?"
"Your own risk, Pan."
"Tush!" exclaimed the Viscount.
"Quite so, Tom," nodded my lord, "but d'ye dream I'd ever shelter myself behind thy faithful friendship? How say you, Bet?"
"Spoken like my own Charles!" she answered and clasping her arm about him set her cheek to his, and the Viscount, glancing from one face to the other, fell back in staring surprise.
"Gad love me!" he exclaimed. "'Tis years since I saw you out of a peruke, Charles and now I do—I vow your likeness to Bet is greater than ever—faith 'tis marvellous! Same features, same gestures, same height——"
"Nay I swear I'm taller by a good inch, Tom——"
"But the similarity is wonderful——"
"Except for his voice!" sighed my lady, "and that—hush! 'Tis the coach returned, aunt is back from Sevenoaks already!" So saying, she crossed to the window and leaned out. "Heavens!" she cried, "aunt must ha' driven home galloping, the horses are all in a lather o' foam. I wonder——"
"Betty!" cried a voice, "O Betty!"
"Save us!" ejaculated my lady, crossing to the door and turning the key, "she's coming up!"
"Betty!" cried Lady Belinda from the landing without, "O Betty, let me in—let me in!" Here the strong door was shaken by eager hands. "Let me in, Betty, O I know who's there—I've known for days. Let me in for O Lud—I've such terrible news—quick, open the door!"
Instantly Betty obeyed and Lady Belinda tottered in, closed it again and leaned there breathless.
"Charles!" she cried. "My wicked wanderer! My wayward boy! O I shall faint—I swoon!" But Lady Belinda did neither, instead she caught the earl to her bosom, kissed him tenderly and spoke. "My dears, there are soldiers at Sevenoaks seeking our fugitive—they may be here at any time!"
"The devil!" exclaimed the fugitive.
"We must do something!" said the Viscount.
"We will!" nodded my lady.
Colonel Lord George Cleeve sat perched astride a chair on the desk in the corner and watched where the Major and Sergeant Zebedee fronted each other for their wonted morning's fencing-bout:
"You'll find me a little sluggish as 'twere after last night, Zeb," said the Major, taking his ground.
"Why there have been other nights, sir, and I never found you so yet," answered the Sergeant, as, returning the Major's salute, he came to his guard, and, with a tinkle and clash of steel, they engaged, the Major, light-poised and graceful, the Sergeant balanced upon stockinged feet, cunning, swift and throbbing with vigorous strength. Now as their play became closer it seemed that the weapons were part of themselves, this darting, twining steel seemed instinct with life and foreknowledge as lightning thrust was met by lightning parry; while the Colonel, craning forward in his chair, cursed rapturously under his breath, snorted and wriggled ecstatic. It was a long, close rally ending in a sudden grinding flurry of pliant blades followed by a swift and deadly lunge from the Sergeant met by an almost miraculous riposte, and he stepped back to shake his head and smile; while the Colonel slapped his thigh and roared for pure joy of it.
"Sir," said the Sergeant, "'tis me is sluggish it seems! Clean through my sword-arm!"
"Faith, Zeb, I saw it coming in time."
"Joy!" cried the Colonel, sprinkling himself copiously with snuff, "O man Jack 'tis a delight t' the eye, a balm t' the soul, a comfort t' the heart! Rabbit me, Jack, Sergeant Zeb is improved out o' knowledge."
"Aye, George, Zeb is an apt pupil. Come again, Sergeant."
At this moment the door opened and the Viscount lounged in, but seeing what was toward, seated himself on a corner of the desk as the foils rang together again. Before the next venue was decided the Colonel was on his legs with excitement and the Viscount's languor was forgotten quite, for, despite their buttoned foils, they fought with a grim yet joyous ferocity, as if death itself had hung upon the issue. Their blades whirled and clashed, or grinding lightly together seemed to feel out and sense each other's attack; followed cunning feints, vicious thrust or lunge and dexterous parry until, at last, the Major stepped back and lowered his point:
"'Tis your hit, Zeb—here on my wrist!"
"Why 'twas scarce a hit, your honour."
"Most palpable, Zeb!"
"Gad love me!" murmured the Viscount, "and they don't sweat and they ain't panting!"
"Music!" snorted the Colonel, bestriding his chair again, "poetry, pictures—bah! Here you have 'em all together! A fine 'ooman's a graceful sight I'll allow, but sirs, for beauty and music, poetry and grace all in one, give me a couple o' well-matched small-sworders!"
"Parfectly, sir!" bowed the Viscount. "Though, nunky, if I may venture the remark and with all the deference in the world, your play is perhaps a trifle austere—lacking those small elegancies and delicate refinements——"
The Colonel rolled truculent eye and sprinkled himself with snuff again.
"Master Tom sir—Pancras my lud," said the Sergeant, "I were thinking p'r'aps you'd play this third venue with his honour?"
"Gad, nunky, 'twould be a joy," murmured the Viscount. So saying he took the Sergeant's foil. "You'll mind sir, how you disarmed me last time——"
"'Twas but a trick, Tom, and you were all unsuspecting."
"At least, sir, this time I shall play more cautious." And the Viscount saluted and fell to his guard, one white hand fanning the air daintily aloft. The foils crossed and, as the bout progressed, the Viscount's self-assurance grew, he even pressed the Major repeatedly and twice forced him to break ground; time and again his point missed by inches while the Sergeant watched between a smile and a frown and the Colonel wriggled on his chair again:
"Faith!" cried he, as the foils were lowered by common consent. "The lad hath a wrist, Jack, and a quick eye for distance—he should make a fencer one o' these days—with pains——"
"Gad so, sir!" exclaimed the Viscount, a little huffed, "I rejoice to know it!"
"And though his point wavers out o' the line like a straw i' the wind and his parade is curst inviting and open, still——"
"Let me perish, what d'ye mean, my lord?"
"Come again, Tom and I'll show you!" said the Major.
"Those are fairly large buttons on your waistcoat. I'll take the top four. On guard, Tom!"
Again the foils met and almost immediately the Major's blade leapt and the Sergeant counted "One—two!" The Viscount broke ground, then lunged in turn and the Sergeant counted again, "Three—four!" The Viscount stepped back, pitched his foil into a corner and stared at the Major in rueful amaze, whereupon Lord Cleeve laughed, and, clambering from the table, clapped him on the shoulder:
"Never be discouraged, Viscount," said he, "never be peevish, sir, in your place I should ha' fared little better. Few may cope with d'Arcy o' the Buffs—or Sergeant Zebedee for that matter!"
"Gad love me sir," answered the Viscount smiling, "'twould seem so."
"And now, man Jack, I'm for Sevenoaks on small matter o' business, moreover 'tis like my lady Carlyon will be thereabouts and young Marchdale promised to make me known to 'Our Admirable Betty.' Will ye ride with me, Jack?"
"Why thank'ee George, no—there's my chapter on the Defects of Salient Angles d'ye see, for one thing——"
"Devil burn your salient angles!"
"But here's Tom now. Tom might join you," suggested the Major with a meaning glance at his nephew.
"'Twould be a joy, sir!" murmured the Viscount dutifully.
"Why then I'll go get into my boots," nodded the Colonel and strode from the room.
"Nunky," said the Viscount, rearranging his cravat before the mirror with scrupulous care, "there are soldiers at Sevenoaks and the man they seek lieth hid—next door, if I mistake not!"
"Art sure, Pancras?"
"I spoke with Charles himself a while since, and my lady Belinda saw the soldiers to-day. Question, what's to do, sir?"
"'Tis a problem, nephew, and one requiring a nice judgment. Let me think! Sergeant, I'll thank you for my Ramillie coat. And she hath him hid?" enquired the Major, getting into the garment in question.
"Under lock and key, nunky. Charles would have been away ere this for her sake, but she'd locked him in. You see he is still scarce recovered of his wound and hardships, and Betty is determined to keep him till he be quite strong again."
"To be sure!" nodded the Major, fingering the tarnished buttons of his old campaigning coat. "And she locked him in—'twas like her! As for the soldiers, Tom, having traced him so far, they will be here next 'tis sure and her house will be searched first, of course."
"Gad sir!" exclaimed the Viscount, striding to and fro in sudden perturbation. "You take it devilish calm and serene! If they search there they'll find him beyond doubt——"
"Not so, Tom, I'll see to that."
"You sir—how?"
"He shall come here."
"Here nunky—here in this house—with Colonel Cleeve your guest?"
"Precisely, Tom—I must hide him under old George's honest nose. 'Tis irregular, as 'twere—aye, 'tis vastly irregular, and yet——" Here there rose a distant roaring, a hoarse and intermittent clamour.
"Gad love us!" exclaimed the Viscount, starting, "what's here?"
"'Tis only George roaring for thee, Tom."
"And the horses are at the door, my lud!" added the Sergeant, glancing from the window.
"So begone, Tom and——"
"No no, sir, I'll stay and aid you with——"
"Nay, look'ee Tom, you ride to Sevenoaks with George. You learn precisely when the soldiers march for Westerham and, if need be, you make your excuses and ride back to warn me of their coming. Your dapple-grey is the fastest thing on four legs and—ah, George—I do but stay my nephew to give him certain commissions and, as I was saying, his big dapple-grey is the fastest——"
"Ha—rot me, Viscount, we'll see that—we'll see that!" nodded the Colonel pulling on his gauntlets. "Now, if you're ready, sir?"
"Quite, my lord, quite!" smiled the Viscount, and, taking hat, gloves and whip from Sergeant Zebedee, he bowed and followed the Colonel out. Thereafter rose the clatter of their horse-hoofs which died rapidly away until they were lost altogether.
"Zeb," said the Major, sinking heavily into his chair and leaning head on hand, "Sergeant Zebedee, I go about to do a thing I never thought to do. We fought and bled for England and Queen Anne Zeb, you and I, and after for King William and then for King George, and now, it seems, I must forget my loyalty for the sake of a youth I've never seen, a Jacobite fugitive, Zeb, whose life is held forfeit—but, he is the brother of one—one I hold—very dear, Zeb. And for her sake I am about to be false to the oath I swore as an officer, I am about to give aid and shelter to an enemy of my king. This is a grief to me, Zeb, a great grief, since honour was very dear to me, but she—is dearer still! So shall I do this thing gladly—aye, even though it lose me all as well as honour—even life itself because 'tis for—her." Here the Major paused to sigh and the Sergeant finding nothing to say, saluted. "But as for you yourself, Zeb, all these long, hard years you've served faithfully and kept your record clean, and God forbid I should smirch it. So, Zebedee, you will take a week's leave—you will get you to London or——"
"Which, saving your presence, can't nowise be, your honour!" answered the Sergeant. "King George is very well and I say, God bless same. But then King George and me don't chance t' have fought for England together side by side, nor yet have saved each other's life, sir—very good! But, says I, in action or out, wheres'ever you've led I've folleyed most determined, and I'm too old to change my tactics, sir. So, your honour, I'm with you in this, in that, or in t'other, heretofore, now and hereafter, so be it, amen!" Having said which, the Sergeant saluted again and stood at ease.
"You risk your neck, Zeb!"
"I've risked every member I possess afore now, like your honour."
"I mean there is a danger that——"
"Dangers has been our daily meat and drink, sir, and perils our portion. Consequently if dangers and perils should threaten your honour 'tis only nat'ral I should share same, besides 'tis become a matter o' dooty wi' me, d'ye see, sir?"
"Zeb," said the Major, rising, "Zebedee—ha—Sergeant Tring, give me your hand! And now," he continued, as their hands gripped and fell apart, "bring me my hat and cane, Zeb, I'll to my lady." These being produced, the Major clapped on laced hat, took ebony cane in hand and crossed to the door; but there the Sergeant stayed him:
"Sir," said he in gentle remonstrance, "you'll never go in your old coat?
"And wherefore not, Zeb?"
"'Tis not in keeping wi' your brave new hat, your honour!"
"Maybe not, Zeb," sighed the Major, "but then 'tis in most excellent keeping with my—my limp, d'ye see. So let be, Zeb, let be!"
And so the Major went forth upon his errand and, being a little perturbed as to his possible reception, fell to planning himself a line of conduct for the forthcoming interview and forming stern resolutions that should govern him throughout. Thus, as he walked, head a-droop and deep-plunged in thought, his limp was rather more pronounced than usual.
And so my Lady Carlyon sitting in her arbour, lovely head bent above a book on surgery, presently espied the Major's tall figure advancing towards her; and beholding the familiar features of the Ramillie coat, its threadbare seams, its tarnished braid and buttons, she had the grace to blush, and felt her breath catch unwontedly.
The rosy flush still mantled her cheeks as she rose to greet him, quick to heed the courtly grace of his stately bow and his air of gentle aloofness.
"Madam—my lady, pray pardon this unwarranted intrusion, but——"
"O sir," she murmured, eyes a-droop, "most fully."
"I am come on account of your brother, my Lord Medhurst."
"Ah!" she sighed, "you mean my dear rebel—will't please you to sit, sir?"
"Thank you, I had—rather stand," he answered gently.
"And pray sir, what of my brother?"
"My lady, it seems the soldiers—a search-party have reached Sevenoaks and may be on their way hither, and your house would prove but a dangerous hiding-place, I fear. They would naturally search there first and very thoroughly."
"And you are here to warn me?"
"I am here to offer him the more secure shelter of the Manor."
Here my lady sighed, glanced swiftly up at his averted face and made room for him beside her on the rustic bench.
"Will you not—sit down, sir?" she asked softly.
"Thank you but I—am very well here!" he answered; whereupon my lady frowned at her book and fluttered its pages with petulant fingers.
"Can it be sir," she questioned, "can it possibly be that Major John d'Arcy so—so sternly orthodox and——and Whiggish is willing to give shelter to a Jacobite rebel?" The Major bowed. "And you are a—loyal soldier?"
"I—was!" he answered, sighing so deeply that she glanced at him again and beholding his troubled face, her petulant fingers were stilled, her frown vanished and her voice grew suddenly pleading and tender.
"Prithee, Major John will you not—sit awhile?" and she drew aside the folds of her gown invitingly.
"Indeed I—I had—rather not!" he answered, drawing back a step.
My lady's round bosom heaved tempestuous and she glanced at his averted face with eyes of scorn.
"Sir," said she, "the soldier who shelters the enemies of his king is a—traitor!" The Major winced. "And traitors are sometimes—hanged, sir!"
"Or shot, or beheaded!" he murmured.
"And you, Major d'Arcy, you are willing to run all these risks and wherefore?" The Major prodded diligently at a patch of moss with his cane, while, chin on hand, she watched him, waiting his answer.
"Need you ask?" he muttered.
"I do ask, sir," said she, her watchful gaze unwavering; and he, conscious of this intent look, flushed, grew uneasy, grew abashed; finally he raised his head and returned her look and in his eyes was that which called imperious to all her womanhood, that before which her own eyes fell though his voice was very tender as he answered:
"My lady you know well 'tis—for you. You know my love is one that counteth not risk, now or—or ever."
At this, my lady having seen and heard all she had desired, bowed shapely head and was silent awhile, staring down at the page before her headed: "Quartern Ague." When at last she spoke her voice quavered oddly and he flinched, believing that she laughed at him again.
"Your coat is more—more threadbare and—woebegone than—ever, John!" Here he sighed, still thinking that she mocked him but, as he turned away, he saw something that fell sparkling upon the page before her, followed by another and another. The Major stood awe-struck.
"My lady!" he exclaimed, "mam——"
"Do—not——" my lady sobbed but stamped her foot at him none the less.
"Madam," he corrected hastily.
"Nor that, sir! I'll not be 'madam-ed' or 'my lady-ed'—by you—any longer."
"Betty! O Betty!" he cried yearningly.
"John!" she sighed, "Jack!" And lifting her head she looked at him with eyes brimful of tears, tears that would not be winked away, so she dabbed at them with her handkerchief and sobbed again. The Major stepped hastily into the arbour.
"Betty?" he questioned in awed wonderment.
"Yes—I'm weeping, sir," she confessed. "I'm shedding—real tears and 'tis not a custom of mine, sir—consequently 'tis not so easy as to faint or—swoon. I hate to—sob and weep, and I—despise tears—besides they hurt me, John." He came a quick step nearer. "O 'tis very cruel to make a poor maid weep—how can you, John dear?"
"I?" he exclaimed aghast, "I—make you weep?"
"Indeed you—you! O cruel!"
"In heaven's name, how—what have I done?"
"Heaped coals of fire, John! Burnt me! Scorched me!"
The Major stared, utterly at a loss and fumbled with one of his tarnished buttons; then, seeing his bewilderment, she laughed through her tears and, choking back her sobs, rose and stretched out her arms to him.
"John," she murmured, "you dear, noble, generous Jack—ah, don't you see? When I made a public mock of you the other day, you hid your pain for my sake—and to-day, O to-day you come ready and willing to aid my brother heedless of risks and dangers. And now—now you—stand so—far off! John dear, if—if you won't sit down—prithee come a little nearer for me—just to—touch you."
Now hearing the thrill in her voice, beholding the melting tenderness of her look, his doubts were all forgotten and his stern resolutions swept clean away; so he came near, very near and, sitting down, clasped her yielding loveliness to the shabby, war-worn Ramillie coat.
"My dear, brave, noble John," she sighed, "and I such a beast to thee! To make a mock of thee for fools to laugh at—but none so great a fool as I—yes, Jack I repeat——" But here the Major closed her self-accusing lips awhile. "Yes, dear John," she continued, "I was a positive beast—though 'tis true you did anger me vastly!"
"How?" he questioned, drawing her yet nearer.
"You would not heed my signals—my fan, my handkerchief, both unregarded."
"Fan?" he repeated. "Handkerchief? You mean—Egad!" His fervent arms grew suddenly lax and he sighed. "Dear," said he, shaking rueful head, "I fear you do find me very obtuse, very dull and stupid, not at all the man——"
"The only man!" she whispered.
"But to think I could be so dense, such an unutterable blockhead, such a——" Here my lady in her turn stopped his self-reproaches and thereafter, taking him by two curls of his great periwig, one either side, nodded lovely head at him.
"Though indeed, 'tis true sir, I was a little put out——"
"And no wonder!" he agreed. "Any other man would ha' known and understood. But I, being nought but a simple——" Again she sealed his lips, this time with one white finger.
"Nay, Major John sir—I do protest your grave simplicity hath a potent charm in a wilderness of wits and beaux! 'Twas that same, methinks did first attract me, for dear John, hear me confess, I have loved thee from our first meeting—to-day I honour thee also. Dost mind that first hour—when you caught me stealing your cherries? Dost remember, John?"
"Aye, truly," he answered, "'twas in that hour happiness found me—a happiness I had never thought to know!" Here, meeting his ardent gaze, she flushed and drooped her lashes, yet nestled closer.
"John," she whispered, "thou'rt so placid as a rule, so serene and calm yet, methinks there might come a time when I—should—fear thee—almost. Our love is not politelyà la mode, John!"
"Nor ever could be!" he answered.
"'Tis thing so wondrous great John, that I do tremble—and you—you too, John! Ah prithee loose me awhile. Love is so vastly different from what I dreamed—'tis methinks a happiness nigh to pain. And yet our love hath not run so smooth dear, there have been doubts, and fears, and misconceptions and—mayhap John, there shall be more."
"Heaven forefend, sweet. For indeed thou art my light, without thee this world were place of emptiness and gloom and I a lonely wanderer lost and all foredone. Ah Betty, since love looked at me through thine eyes life hath become to me a thing so precious——"
"Yet you would peril it, John, and with thy life my happiness."
"Nay, but my Betty——"
"Aye, but my John, this shall not be! Think you I'll permit that you hazard yourself——"
"But, dear heart, I have a plan very excellent——"
"So have I, John, a plan more excellent, nay—most!"
"But sweeting, I am here to——"
"To listen to me, of course, my Jack. See now, Charles is my brother and if danger come I, as his sister, am proud and willing to share it with him or to—endure much for his sake. But dear, whiles I live none other shall jeopardise life or fortune in his behalf, on this I am determined and he also. Besides, I have a plan, a wondrous plan, John, shall save my dear Charles from all the soldiers 'twixt here and London town. If they will search my house—let them, but they shall not find him. And after, when he's strong enough, he shall win to France and none to give him let or stay. Moreover John I shall be very sweetly avenged in certain trifling matter. Nay—no questions sir, only meddle not in this and, beyond all, have faith in thy Betty."
The sun had set long since, evening deepened into night but, when he would have gone, she stayed him with gentle hands, with sighs and plaintive murmurs.
"'Tis not yet late ... life holdeth so few hours the like of this ... and John dear, I do feel troubles are nigh us ... doubts, John ... sorrows belike... And yet surely our love is too great... But if you should ... hear aught of evil ... or ... should see——"
"Betty—O Betty, alas, alas!" It was Lady Belinda's voice and in it a note that brought Betty to her feet, suddenly pale and trembling. "Betty, O Betty!" With the cry on her lips Lady Belinda appeared in the half-light hurrying towards them distractedly and wringing her hands as she came: "Alas, Betty!"
"Yes, aunt—dear heaven, what's amiss?"
"'Tis Charles—our dear Charles!"
"What—what of him?"
"O Betty, he's—gone!"
"Gone? But aunt 'tis impossible, his door was locked——"
"Aye, but the window—the window! He's gone, Betty—ropes and things—bed-clothes and what not. O my heart! There they are—dangling from the window—to and fro. But poor, naughty, wilful Charles is gone!"