"But 'tis so—unseasonable! So altogether—er—irregular, as 'twere——"
"Egad sir and you're i' the right on't!" she mocked. "'Tis unseasonable, unreasonable, unwomanly, unvirginal and altogether unthinkable as 'twere and so forth d'ye see! Major d'Arcy is probably pining for his downy bed. Major d'Arcy must continue to pine unless he will leave a poor maid to wander alone among bats and owls and newts and toads and worms and goblins and other noxious things——"
"But Betty, indeed——"
"Aye, John—indeed! To-night you did look on me as I had committed—as I had been—O 'twas a hateful look! And for that look I'll be avenged, and my vengeance is this, to wit—you shall sleep no wink this night! Your arm sir, come!"
Almost unwillingly he gave her his arm and they went on slowly down the lane; but before they had gone very far that long arm was close about her and had swept her into his embrace.
"Betty," he murmured, "to be alone with you thus in a sleeping world 'tis surely a foretaste of heaven." He would have drawn her yet nearer but she stayed him with arms outstretched.
"John," said she, "you ha' not forgot how you looked at me to-night, as I were—impure—unworthy? O John!" The Major was silent. "It angered me, John but—ah, it hurt me more! O Jack, how could you?" But now, seeing him stand abashed and silent, her repelling arms relaxed and she came a little nearer. "Indeed John, I'll allow you had some small—some preposterously pitiful small excuse. And you might answer that one cannot come nigh pitch without being defiled. But had you said anything so foolish I—I should ha' sent you home to bed—at once!" Here the Major drew her a little nearer. "But John," she sighed, "you did doubt me for awhile—I saw it in your eyes. Look at me again, John—here a little closer—here where the light falls clear—look, and tell me—am I different? Do I seem any less worthy your love than I was yesterday?"
"No," he answered, gazing into her deep eyes. "O my Betty, God help me if ever I lost faith in you, for 'twould be the end of hope and faith for me."
"But you did lose faith to-night, John—for a little while! And so you shall sue pardon on your knees, here at my feet—nay, 'tis damp, mayhap. I'll sit yonder on the bank and you shall kneel upon a fold of my cloak. Come!"
So the Major knelt to her very reverently and taking her two hands kissed them.
"Dear maid that I love," said he, "forgive the heart that doubted thee. But O love, because I am a very ordinary man, prithee don't—don't put my faith too oft upon the rack for I am over prone to doubts and jealous fears and they—O they are torment hard to bear." Now here she leaned forward and, taking him by two curls of his long periwig, drew him near until she could look into his eyes:
"Jack dear," she said, very tenderly, "I needs must meet this man again—and yet again——"
"Why?" he questioned, "Why?"
"Because 'tis only thus my plan shall succeed. Will you doubt me therefore?"
"No!" he cried hoarsely, "not you—never you, sweet maid! Tis him I doubt, he is a man, strong, determined and utterly ruthless and you are a woman——"
"And more than his match, John! O do but trust me! Do but wait until my plan is ripe——"
"Betty, a God's name what is this wild plan?"
"Nay, that I may not tell thee——"
"Could I not aid?"
"Truly—by doubting me no more, John. By trusting me—to the uttermost."
The Major groaned and bowed his head:
"Ah Betty!" he sighed, "yet must I think of thee as I saw thee to-night—alone with that—that satyr and nought to protect thee but thy woman's wit. God!" he cried, his powerful form shaking, "God, 'tis unthinkable! It must not be—it shall not be!" here he lifted face to radiant heaven, "I'll kill him first—I swear!"
Now seeing the awful purpose in that wild, transfigured face, she cried out and clasping him in tender arms, drew him near to kiss that scowling brow, those fierce, glaring eyes, that grim-set, ferocious mouth, pillowing his head upon her bosom as his mother might have done.
"O my John," she cried, "be comforted! Never let thy dear, gentle face wear look so evil, I—I cannot bear it."
"I'll kill him!" said the Major, the words muffled in her embrace.
"No, John! Ah no—you shall not! I do swear thee no harm shall come to me. I will promise thee to keep ever within this lane when—when we do meet o' nights——" Here the Major groaned again, wherefore she stooped swiftly to kiss him and spoke on, her soft lips against his cheek; "Meet him I needs must, dear—once or twice more if my purpose is to succeed—but I do vow and swear to thee never to quit this lane, John. I do swear all this if thou too wilt swear not to pursue this quarrel."
"He will insist on a meeting, Betty—and I pray God soon!"
"And if he doth not, John—if he doth not, thou wilt swear to let the quarrel pass?"
"Art so fearful for me, Betty?"
"O my John!" she whispered, her embrace tightening, "how might I live without thee? And he is so cold, so—deadly!"
"Yet art not afraid for thyself, Betty!"
"Nor ever shall be. So promise me, John—O promise me! Swear me, dear love!" And with each entreaty she kissed him, and so at last he gave her his promise, kneeling thus his head pillowed between soft neck and shoulder; and being in this fragrant nest his lips came upon her smooth throat and he kissed it, clasping her in sudden, passionate arms.
"John!" she whispered breathlessly. "O John!"
Instantly he loosed his hold and rising, stood looking down at her remorsefully.
"Dear—have I—angered you?" he questioned in stammering humility.
"Angry—and with thee?" and she laughed, though a little tremulously.
"Betty, I do worship thee—revere thee as a goddess—and yet——"
"You tickle me, John! You are by turns so reverent and humble and so—so opposite. I do love your respect and reverent homage, 'tis this doth make me yearn to be more worthy—but alack! I am a very woman, John, especially with thine arms about me and—and the moon at the full. But heigho, the moon is on the wane, see, she sinketh apace."
"Dawn will be soon, Betty."
"Hast seen a many dawns, John?"
"Very many!"
"But never one the like of this?"
"Never a one."
"O 'tis a fair, sweet world!" she sighed, "'tis a world of faerie, a dream world wherein are none but thou and I. Here is neither doubt nor sorrow, but love and faith abiding. Come let us walk awhile in this our faerie kingdom."
Slowly they went beneath the fading moon, speaking but seldom, for theirs was a rapture beyond the reach of words. So at last they came to a stile and paused there to kiss and sigh and kiss again like any rustic youth and maid. Something of this was in my lady's mind, for she laughed soft and happily and nestled closer to him.
"My Master Grave-airs," she murmured, "O Master Grave-airs where is now thy stately dignity, where now my fine-lady languor and indifference? To stand at a stile and kiss like village maid and lad—and—love it, John! How many rustic lovers have stood here before us, how many will come after us, and yet I doubt if any may know a joy so deep. Think you paradise may compare with this? Art happy, John?"
"Beloved," he answered, "I who once sought death boldly as a friend now do fear it like a very craven——"
"Ah no!" she cried, "speak not of death at such an hour, my Jack."
"Betty," said he, "O Betty, thou art my happiness, my hope, my very life. I had thought to go wifeless, childless and solitary all my days in my blindness and was content. But heaven sent thee to teach me the very joy and wonder of life, to—to——"
"To go beside thee henceforth, John, my hand in thine, learning each day to love thee a little more, to cherish and care for thee, men are such children and thou in some things a very babe. And belike to quarrel with thee, John—a little——" At this he laughed happily and they were silent awhile.
"See John, the moon is gone at last! How dark it grows, 'tis the dawn hour methinks and some do call it the death hour. But with these dear arms about me I—shouldn't fear so—very much."
Slowly, slowly upon the dark was a gleam that grew and grew, an ever waxing brightness filling the world about them.
"Look!" she whispered, "look! O John, 'tis the dawn at last, 'tis the dayspring and hath found me here upon thy breast!"
Thus, standing by that weatherbeaten stile that had known so many lovers before them, they watched day's majestic advent; a flush that deepened to rose, to scarlet, amber and flaming gold. And presently upon the brooding stillness was the drowsy call of a blackbird uncertain as yet and hoarse with sleep, a note that died away only to come again, sweeter, louder, until the feathered tribe, aroused by this early herald, awoke in turn and filled the golden dawn with an ecstasy of rejoicing.
Then my lady sighed and stirred:
"O John," said she, "'tis a good, sweet world! And this hath been a night shall be for us a fragrant memory, methinks. But now must I leave thee—take me home, my John."
So he brought her to the rustic gate that opened upon the lane and setting it wide, stooped to kiss her lips, her eyes, her fragrant hair and watched her flit away among the sleeping roses.
When she had gone he closed the door and trod a path gay with dewy gems; and hearkening to the joyous carolling of the birds it seemed their glad singing was echoed in his heart.
Mr. Dalroyd kicked the obsequious Joseph soundly and cursed him soft-voiced but with a passionate fervour; yet such violence being apt to disarrange one's dress and to heat and distort one's features, Mr. Dalroyd reluctantly checked the ebullition and seating himself before the mirror surveyed his handsome face a little anxiously and with glance quick to heed certain faint lines that would occasionally obtrude themselves in the region of eye and mouth.
"Positively, I'm flushed!" he panted, "and for that alone I'd kick you downstairs, my poor worm, were it not that 'twould disorder me damnably. As 'tis I'll restore you to the hangman for the rogue you are!"
"Sir," said Joseph, bowing obsequious back and keeping his eyes humbly abased, "you ask a thing impossible——"
"Ask, animal? I never ask, I command!"
"But indeed—indeed sir I cannot even though I would——"
"Think again, Joseph, and mark this, Joseph, I saved you from the gallows because I thought you might be useful, very good! Now the instant you cease to be of use I give you back and you hang—so think again, Joseph."
"Lord—Lord help me!" exclaimed Joseph, writhing and wringing his hands but keeping his eyes always lowered. "Sir, 'tis impossible, 'tis——"
"In your predatory days, Joseph, you were of course well acquainted with other debased creatures like yourself, very good! You will proceed forthwith to get together three or four such—three or four should suffice. You will convene them secretly hereabouts. You will form your plans and next Saturday you will escort my lady Carlyon to a coach I shall have in waiting at the cross-roads."
"Abduct her, sir?"
"Precisely, Joseph! You and your—ah—assistants will bear her to the coach——"
"By force, sir?"
"Force! Hum, 'tis an ugly word! Say rather by gentle suasion, Joseph, but as silently as may be—there must be no wails or shrieking——"
"You mean choke her quiet, sir?" enquired Joseph gently, his eyelids drooping more humbly than ever.
Mr. Dalroyd turned from his toilet and smiled, "Joseph," said he softly, "if I find so much as a bruise or a scratch on her loveliness I'll break every bone in your rogue's carcass. So, as I say, you will see her conveyed silently into the coach, you will mount the rumble with your weapons ready in case of pursuit and upon arrival at our—destination I disburse to you certain monies and give you—quittance of my service."
"Abduction is a capital offence, sir."
"Egad, I believe it is. But you have run such chances ere now——"
"True sir. There was your uncle, since dead——"
"Ha!" exclaimed Mr. Dalroyd and, soft though his voice was, Joseph blenched and cowered.
"I—I've served you faithfully hitherto, sir!" said he hastily.
"And will again, grub!" nodded Mr. Dalroyd. "You will take two days' leave to make your necessary arrangements and on second thoughts I will give you two hundred guineas; one half as earnest-money you shall take with you in the morning—now go. I'll dispense with your services to-night. Begone, object! You shall have the money and further instructions in the morning."
Joseph took a hesitating step towards the door, paused and came back.
"Sir, how if—our scheme fail?"
"The—scheme will not fail."
"Sir, how if I make off with the money?"
"Why then, Joseph, there is your bedridden mother you have so great a weakness for—she cannot abscond."
Here Joseph raised his eyes at last and Mr. Dalroyd happening at that moment to glance into the mirror saw murder glaring at him, instantly Joseph's gaze abased itself, yet a fraction too late, Mr. Dalroyd's hand shot out and catching up a heavy toilet-bottle he whirled about and felled Joseph to his knees.
"Ha!" he exclaimed softly, staring down at the fallen man who crouched with bloody face hidden in his hands, "I've met and mastered your like ere this! Out, vermin—come out!"
And stooping, he seized the cowering form in strong, merciless hands, dragged him across the floor and kicked him from the room. Then, having closed the door Mr. Dalroyd surveyed himself in the mirror again, examined eye and mouth with frowning solicitude and proceeded to undress. Being ready for bed, he took up the candle, then stood with head bent in the attitude of one in thought or like one who hearkens for distant sounds, set down the candle and opening a drawer took out a silver-mounted pistol and glanced heedfully at flint and priming; with this in his hand he crossed the room and slipping the weapon under his pillow, got into bed and blew out the candle. But, in the act of composing himself to sleep, he started up suddenly, and sat again in the attitude of one who listens; then very stealthily, he got out of bed and crossing to the door felt about in the dark and silently shot the bolt.
Sergeant Zebedee having pinked the Viscount in every vital part of his aristocratic anatomy, lowered his foil, shook his head and sighed while the Viscount panted rueful.
"You reached me seven times I think, that bout, Zeb?"
"Eight, sir!"
"Ha, the dooce! How d'ye do it?"
"'Tis your own self, m' lud. How can I help but pink you when you play your parades so open and inviting?"
"Hm!" said the Viscount, frowning.
"And then too, you're so slow in your recoveries, Master Pancras—Tom, sir!"
"Anything more, Zeb?"
"Aye, m' lud. Your hand on your p'int's for ever out o' the line and your finger-play——" The Sergeant shook his head again.
"Devil burn it, Zeb! I begin to think I don't sound over-promising. And yet—Gad love me, Sergeant, but you've no form, no style, y' know, pasitively none! In the schools they'd laugh at your play and call it mighty unmannerly."
"Belike they would, sir. But 'tis the schools as is the matter wi' you and so many other modish gentlemen, same be all froth and flourish. But flourishes though taking to the eye, is slow m' lud, slow."
"Nay, I've seen some excellent fencing in the schools, Zeb, such poise o' bady, such grace——"
"Grace is very well, m' lud—in a school. But 'tis one thing to play a veney wi' blunted weapons and another to fight wi' the sharps."
"True, Zeb, though La Touche teacheth in his book——"
"Book!" exclaimed the Sergeant and snorted.
"Hm!" said the Viscount, smiling, "howbeit in these next three days, I'd have you teach me all you can of your—unmannerly method."
"And wherefore three days, sir?"
"Why as to that Zeb—er—Lard save me, I'm to ride with the Major to Sevenoaks, he'll be waiting! Here, help me on with this!" And laying by his foil, the Viscount caught up his coat.
"Three days, Master Tom, and wherefore three?" enquired the Sergeant as Viscount Merivale struggled into his tight-fitting garment.
"Take care, Zeb, 'tis a new creation."
"And seems much too small, sir!"
"Nay, 'twill go on in time, Zeb, in time. I shall acquire it by degrees. Ease me into it—gently, gently—so!"
"And wherefore three days, sir?" persisted the Sergeant, as the coat being "acquired" its wearer settled its graceful folds about his slender person.
"Why three is a lucky number they say, Zeb," and with a smiling nod the Viscount hasted serenely away.
"Three days!" muttered the Sergeant, looking after him. "Zounds—I wonder!" So saying, he put away the foils and taking a pair of shears set himself to trim one of the tall yew hedges, though more than once he paused to rub his chin and murmur: "Three days—I wonder?"
This remark he had just uttered for perhaps the twentieth time when, roused by a hurried, shambling step, he glanced up and saw Roger, one of the under-gardeners who, touching an eyebrow, glanced over right shoulder, glanced over left, and spoke:
"Sergeant I do ha' worked here i' the park an' grounds twenty-five year man an' boy, an' in all that length o' days I never knowed it to happen afore, an' now it 'ave happened all of a shakesome sweat I be, hares-foot or no—an' that's what!"
"What's to do, Roger?"
"'Tis the eyes of 'er, Sergeant! 'Tis 'er mumping an' 'er mowing! 'Tis all the brimstoney look an' ways of 'er as turns a man's good flesh to flesh o' goose, 'is bones to jelly an' 'is bowels to water—an' that's what!"
"Nay, but what is't, Roger man?"
"'Ere's me, look'ee, trimming them borders, Sergeant, so 'appy-'earted as any bird and all at once, I falls to coldsome, quakesome shivers, my 'eart jumps into my jaws, my knees knocks an' trembles horrorsome-like, an' I sweats——"
"Zounds!" exclaimed the Sergeant.
"Then I feels a ghas'ly touch o' quakesome fingers as shoots all through my vitals—like fire, Sergeant and—there she is at my elber!"
"Who, Roger?"
"And 'er looks at me doomful, Sergeant, an' that's what!"
"Aye, but who, Roger, damme who?"
"'Tis th' owd witch as do be come for 'ee an' that's what!"
"Name of a dog!" exclaimed the Sergeant. "For me?"
"Aye," nodded Roger, glancing over his shoulder again, "'I want the Sergeant,' says she roupysome and grim-like, 'bring me the fine, big, sojer-sergeant,' she says."
"And what's her will wi' me?" enquired the Sergeant, glancing about uneasily.
"Wants to blast 'ee belike, Sergeant," groaned Roger. "Or mayhap she be minded only to 'witch 'ee wi' a bloody flux, or a toothache, or a windy colic or—Angels o' mercy, there she be a-coming!"
Turning hastily the Sergeant beheld a bowed, cloaked figure that hobbled towards them on a stick. The Sergeant let fall the shears and thrusting hand into frilled shirt, grasped a small, gold cross in his sinewy fingers.
Being come up to them the old creature paused and showed a face brown, wrinkled and lighted by glittering, black eyes; then lifting her staff she darted it thrice at the trembling Roger:
"Hoosh! Scow! Begone!" she cried in harsh, croaking voice, whereupon Roger forthwith took to his heels, stumbling and praying as he ran while the Sergeant gripped Mrs. Agatha's gold cross with one hand while he wiped sweat from his brow with the other as he met her piercing eyes.
"Good morrow, mam!" said he at last. The old woman shook her head but remained silent, fixing him with her wide-eyed stare. "Mam," he ventured again, "what would ye wi' me? Are you in trouble again, old Betty? If so—speak, mam!"
The old woman, bowed upon her staff, viewed his tall figure up and down with her bright eyes and nodded:
"'Tis my tall, fine sojer!" she said at last, and her voice had lost its shrill stridency. "'Tis my kind sojer so like the one I lost long and long since. I'm old: old and knew sorrow afore the mother as bore ye. Sorrow hath bided in me all my woeful days. Pain, pain, and hardship my lot hath been. They've hunted me wi' sticks and stones ere now, I've knowed the choking water and the scorch o' cruel fire. I mind all the pain and evil but I mind the good—aye, aye! There's been many to harm and few t' cherish! Aye, I mind it all, I mind it, the evil and the good. And you was kind t' old Betty because your 'eart be good, so I be come this weary way to warn 'ee, my big sojer."
"Warn me—of what, mam?"
"A weary way, a woeful way for such old bones as Betty's!"
"Why then come sit ye and rest, mam. Come your ways to the arbour yonder." Moaning and muttering the old woman followed whither he led, but seeing how she stumbled he reached out his hand, keeping the other upon his small gold cross and so brought her into the hutch-like sentry-box. Down sat old Betty with a blissful sigh; but now, when he would have withdrawn his hand, her fingers closed upon it, gnarled and claw-like and, before he could prevent, she had stooped and touched it to her wrinkled cheek and brow.
"'Tis a strong hand, a kindly hand," she croaked, "'tis a sojer's hand—my boy was a sojer but they killed him when the world was young. I'm old, very old, and deaf they say—aha! But the old can see and the deaf can hear betimes, aha! Come, ope your hand, my dear, come ope your hand and let old Betty read. So, here's a big hand, a strong hand—now let us see what says the big, strong hand. Aha—here's death——"
"Zounds!" exclaimed the Sergeant, starting. "You're something sudden mam, death is our common lot——"
"Death that creeps, my dear. Here's ill chances and good. Here's sorrow and joy. Here's love shall be a light i' the dark. But here's dangers, perils, night-lurkers and creepers i' the gloom. Death for you and shame for her."
"Ha—for her!" cried the Sergeant, his big hand clenching on the feeble, old fingers. "D'ye mean—Mrs. Agatha, mam?"
"No, no, my dear, no no!" answered old Betty, viewing his stern and anxious face with her quick bright eyes. "'Tis not her you love, no, no, 'tis one as loveth him ye serve. 'Tis one with a soul as sweet, as soft and white as her precious body, 'tis one as is my namesake, 'tis——"
"Sapperment!" exclaimed the Sergeant. "You never mean my lady Betty, my lady Carlyon——"
"Aye, aye my dear—'tis she!"
"And in danger, d'ye say? Can ye prove it, mam?"
"Come ye to-morrow t' my cottage at rise o' moon and I'll show ye a thing, ye shall see, ye shall hear. Bring him along o' you him—ssh!" The old woman's clutch tightened suddenly, her bowed figure grew more upright, and she stared wide of eye: "Come," she cried suddenly, in her shrillest tones, "you as do hearken—come! You in petticoats—aha, I can see, I can hear! Come forth, I summon ye!"
A moment's utter silence, then leaves rustled and Mrs. Agatha stood in the doorway, her eyes very bright, her cheeks more rosy than usual.
"Sergeant Tring," she demanded, "what doth the old beldam here?"
Old Betty seemed to cower beneath Mrs. Agatha's look, while the Sergeant fidgeted, muttered "Zounds" and was thereafter dumb. "'Tis an arrant scold and wicked witch," continued Mrs. Agatha, "and should to the brank, or the cucking-stool——"
"No, no!" cried the old woman, shivering and struggling to her feet. "Not again a God's love, mistress—not again! I'll be gone! Let me go!"
"Nay, not yet mam," said the Sergeant gently as he rose; "you are weary, sit ye and rest awhile. Mrs. Agatha mam, you speak woman-like——"
"Aye, aye," nodded old Betty, "'tis ever woman is cruellest to woman!"
"As you will, Zebedee Tring!" nodded Mrs. Agatha. "Yonder is Roger Bent shook with a shivering fit at sight of her while you sit here and let her scrabble your hand, but as you will!" and crossing her arms over opulent bosom Mrs. Agatha would have turned away but old Betty stabbed at her with bony finger.
"Woman," she croaked, "I'm here t' save the man you love. Come sit ye and list to my telling." Mrs. Agatha faltered, whereupon the Sergeant caught her hand, drawing her into the arbour: and there, sitting beside the old woman they hearkened to her story.
"Mam," said the Sergeant, "ha' ye told my lady Carlyon aught o' this?
"Nay, nay," answered old Betty, "I had a mind to—but they wouldna let me see my lady—the footmen and lackeys laughed at poor old Bet and turned her from the door—so I did come to tell my brave sojer-sergeant."
"'Tis just as well, mam," nodded the Sergeant, "for now you shall come wi' us to his honour, the Major will hear you, I'll warrant me, so come your ways, mam."
"Aye," said Mrs. Agatha, "and you shall eat and drink likewise and after the Sergeant shall drive you back to Inchbourne an he will."
Thus Roger Bent, busied in the herb-garden, chancing to lift his head, stood suddenly upright, staggered back and fell into a clump of parsley; and propped upon an elbow, stared, as well he might, for into the sacred precincts of her stillroom went Mrs. Agatha and the Sergeant but between them tottered the bowed form of old Betty the witch.
"Lord!" exclaimed Roger, ruffling up his shock of hair. "My eyes is sure a-deceiving of me—an' that's what!"
"And what time doth the moon rise, Zebedee?" enquired the Major as they swung their horses into the high road.
"Ten forty-five about, your honour,"
"Then we've no need for hurry. And egad Zeb, it sounds a wild story!"
"It do so, sir, cock and bullish as you might say."
"To abduct my lady, Zeb!"
"On Saturday night next as ever was, your honour."
"And this is Friday night!" said the Major thoughtfully.
"Which do give us good time to circumvent enemy's manoover."
"How many of the rogues will be there, think you?"
"Can't say for sure, sir. 'Twas three on 'em as ambushed me t'other night."
"Why as to that Zeb, as to that I imagine you brought that drubbing on yourself by your somewhat frequent and indiscriminate—er—pewter-play as 'twere."
"Mayhap sir, though if so be rogues were same rogues I should ha' knowed same, though to be sure 'twere a darkish night and they were masked. Howsobe, my Lord Medhurst pinked one of 'em, his point was prettily bloodied."
"Are you armed, Zeb?"
"Nought to speak of, sir."
"What have you?"
"A sword sir, and a brace o' travelling-pistols as chanced to lay handy which, with your honour's, maketh four shot, two swords and a bagnet."
"Lord, Zeb, we're not going up against a troop!" said the Major, smiling in the dark, "and why the bayonet?"
"'Tis the one I used for to carry when we were on outpost duty at night, sir—the one as I had shortened for the purpose, your honour. You'll mind as there's nought like a short, stiff bagnet when 'tis a case o' silence. And as for a troop you ha'n't forgot the time as we routed that company o' Bavarian troopers, you and me, sir, thereby proving the advantages o' the element o' surprise?"
"Aye, those were desperate times, Zebedee."
"Mighty different to these, sir."
"Aye, truly, truly!" said the Major, gently.
"But if there is to be a little bit o' cut and thrust work to-night, your honour, 'tis as well to be prepared."
"You think old Betty is to be relied on, Zeb?"
"Aye sir, I do."
"None the less I'm glad my lady Carlyon knoweth nought o' the matter, 'tis best, I think, to keep it from her—at least until we are sure, moreover 'tis like enough she—" the Major paused to rub his chin dubiously, "'tis very like she would only——"
"Laugh, your honour?"
"Hum!" said the Major.
"Lord sir, but she's a woundy fine spirit!" exclaimed the Sergeant.
"True, Zeb, very true!" The Major nodded. "Yet I would she were a thought less venturesome and—ah—contrary at times as 'twere, Zeb——"
"Contrairy, sir? Lord love me, there you have it! Woman is a contrairy sect, 'tis born in 'em! Look at Mrs. Agatha, contrairiness ain't no word for same!"
"How so, Zeb?"
"Why, d'ye see sir, when thinking I'd soon be under marching orders—you then talking o' campaigning again—there's me don't venter to open my mind to her touching matrimony though her a-giving me chances for same constant. To-day here's me—you being settled and wi' no wish for foreign fields—here's me, d'ye see, looking for chances and occasions to speak wedlock and such constant and her giving me no chances what-so-ever. And that's woman, sir!"
They rode at a gentle, ambling pace and with no sound to disturb the brooding night-silence except the creak of their saddles and the thudding of their horses' hoofs dulled and muffled in the dust of the road. A hushed and windless night full of the quivering glamour of stars whose soft effulgence lent to hedge and tree and all things else a vague and solemn beauty; and riding with his gaze uplifted to this heavenly host, the Major thought of Life and Death and many other things, yet mostly of my lady Elizabeth Carlyon, while Sergeant Zebedee, gazing at nothing in particular, dreamed also.
"'Tis as well she should learn nought of the ugly business!" said the Major at last.
"But sir, Mrs. Agatha——"
"I mean her ladyship, Zebedee."
"Aye, aye for sure, sir, for sure!"
"And if there be indeed villainy afoot—if there is, why then egad, Sergeant Zeb, I'll not rest until I know who is at the bottom on't!"
"Aye—who, sir? 'Tis what we're a-going to find out to-night I do hope. And when we do find out, sir—how then?"
"Why then, Zeb—ha, then—we shall see, we shall see!"
After this they rode on in silence awhile, the Major staring up at the glory of the stars again.
"If so be we should be so fortuned as to come in for a little bit o' roughsome to-night, your honour," said the Sergeant thoughtfully, "you'd find this here bludgeon a vast deal handier than your sword and play very sweet at close quarters, sir."
"By the way, Zebedee, I think you once told me you surprised—er—Mr. Dalroyd i' the orchard one night?"
"I did so, your honour."
"And did you chance to—ah—to see his face, to observe his features clear and distinct, as 'twere, Zeb?"
"Aye, sir."
"Well?"
"Aye, very well, sir!"
By this time they had reached the cross-roads and here the Major checked his horse suddenly, whereupon Sergeant Zebedee did likewise.
"Sergeant!"
"Sir?"
The Major leaned from his saddle until he could peer into the Sergeant's eyes.
"Did Mr. Dalroyd remind you of—of anyone you have ever seen before?"
"Of Captain Effingham as your honour killed years agone."
"Ah!" said the Major and sat awhile frowning up at the stars. "So you likewise marked the resemblance, did you, Zeb?"
"I did so, sir."
"And what did you think——"
"Why sir, that Captain Effingham having been killed ten years agone, is very dead indeed, by this time!"
"Supposing he wasn't killed—how then, Zeb?"
"Why then sir he was alive arter all—though he looked dead enough."
"'Twas a high chest-thrust you'll mind, Zeb."
"Base o' the throat, sir."
"Why have you never mentioned your suspicions, Zebedee?"
"Because, your honour, 'tis ever my tactics to let sleeping dogs lie—bygones is bygones and what is, is. If, on t'other hand Mr. Dalroyd's Captain Effingham which God forbid, then all I says is—what is, ain't. Furthermore and moreover Mr. Dalroyd would be the last man I'd ha' you cross blades with on account o' the Captain's devilish sword-play—that thrust of his in carte nigh did your honour's business ten years ago, consequently to-day I hold my peace regarding suspicions o' same."
"D'ye think he'd—kill me, Zeb?"
"I know 'twould sure be one or t'other o' ye, sir."
"And that's true enough!" said the Major and rode on again. "None the less, Zeb," said he after awhile, "none the less he shall have another opportunity of trying that thrust if, as I think, he is at the bottom of this vile business."
But now they were drawing near to Inchbourne village and, reining up, the Major glanced about him:
"What of our horses, Zebedee?" he questioned. "'Twill never do to go clattering through the village at this hour."
"No more 'twill, sir. Old Bet's cottage lieth a good mile and a half t'other side Inchbourne, d'ye see. Further on is a lane that fetcheth a circuit about the village—this way, your honour." So they presently turned off into a narrow and deep-rutted lane that eventually brought them out upon a desolate expanse with the loom of woods beyond.
"Yonder's a spinney, sir, 'tis there we'll leave our horses."
Riding in among the trees they dismounted and led their animals into the depths of the wood until they came to a little dell well hidden in the brush. Here, having securely tethered their horses they sat down to wait the moonrise.
"Sir," said the Sergeant, settling pistols in pockets, "this doth mind me o' the night we lay in such another wood as this, the night we stormed Douai, you'll mind I was wounded just arter we carried the counterscarp——"
"By a pike-thrust meant for me, Zeb."
"'Twas a pretty fight, sir, 'specially the forcing o' the palisadoes—'twere just such another night as this——"
"Only we were younger then, Zeb, years younger."
"Why as to that, sir, I've been feeling younger than e'er I was, of late—and yonder cometh the moon at last! This way, sir!"
The moon was fast rising as they left the shadow of the trees and crossing a meadow presently saw before them the loom of a building which, on near approach, proved to be a very tumble-down, two-storied cottage. The Sergeant led the way past a broken fence through a riotous tangle of weeds and so to a door whereon he rapped softly; almost immediately it was opened and old Betty the witch stood on the threshold peering into the dimness under her hand.
"Mam," said the Sergeant, "'tis us—we've come!"
"Aha!" she croaked. "'Tis you—'tis my big sojer—my fine sojer-sergeant an' the lord squire o' the Manor! Come your ways—come your ways in—'tis an ill place for fine folk but 'tis all they've left me. Come in!" Following Sergeant Zebedee's broad back the Major stumbled down three steps into a small, dim chamber, very close and airless, lighted by a smoky rushlight. Old Betty closed the door, curtseyed to the Major and clutching at Sergeant Zebedee's hand, stooped and kissed it, whereupon he glanced apologetically at the Major and saluted.
"'Tis her gratitood, sir," he explained, "on account o' Mr. Jennings me having kicked same, as dooly reported."
"An ill place for the likes o' your honour," croaked the old woman, "an evil place for evil men as will be here anon—the rogues, the fools! They think old Betty's blind and deaf—the rogues! Come, dearies, the moon's up and wi' the moon comes evil so get ye above—yonder, yonder and mum, dearies, mum!" As she spoke old Betty pointed to a corner of the dingy chamber where a rickety ladder gave access to a square opening above. "Go ye up, dearies and ye shall see, ye shall hear, aha—but mum, dearies, mum!"
Forthwith they mounted the ladder and so found themselves in a small, dark loft full of the smell of rotting wood and dank decay. Above their heads stars winked through holes in the mouldering thatch, beneath their feet the rotten flooring showed great rents and fissures here and there through which struck the pallid beams of the twinkling rushlight in the room below.
"God bless my soul!" exclaimed the Major, "does this pestiferous ruin belong to me, Zeb?"
"Well, I don't rightly know, your honour, 'tis a mile and a half out o' the village d'ye see, and hath stood empty for years and years they do tell me, on account of a murder as was done here, and nobody would live here till old Betty come. Folk do say the place is haunted and there be few as dare come nigh the place after dark. But old Betty, being a powerful witch d'ye see sir, aren't nowise afeard of any ghost, gobling nor apparation as ever—ssh!"
Upon the night without, was a sound of voices that grew ever louder, the one hoarse and querulous the other upraised in quavering song:
"O 'tis bien bowse, 'tis bien bowse,Too little is my skew.I bowse no lage, but one whole gageO' this I'll bowse to you——"
"Stow the chaunting, Jerry!" growled the hoarse voice, "close up that ugly gan o' yourn. Oliver's awake——"
"Oliver? Aye, so 'tis with a curse on't! The moon's no friend o' mine. Gimme a black night, darkmans wi' a popper i' my famble and t'other in my cly and I'm your cull, ecod!" Here the door of the cottage swung open and two men entered, the one a tall, wild, gipsy-looking fellow, the other a shortish man in spurred boots and long riding-coat from the side-pockets of which protruded the brass-heeled butts of a pair of pistols.
"What, Benno, my lad—what Benno," he cried, scowling round the dismal room beneath the cock of his weatherbeaten hat, "blind me, but here's a plaguy dog-hole for a genty-cove o' the high-toby!"
"O, the high pad is a delicate tradeAnd a delicate trade o' fameWe bite the cully of his coleAnd carry away his gameOho, and carry away——"