"Quit, Jerry, quit!" growled the man Benno. "Hold that dasher o' yourn won't 'ee——"
"No, Benno my cove, if I do ha' a mind for t' sing, I'll sing and burn all, says I!"
"I keep my prancer and two peppsA tattle in my cly.When bowsing——"
"Keep your chaffer still, won't 'ee!" snarled the other. "'Swounds, a pal can't hear hisself! Ha, Bet!" he roared, "old Bet—what grannam, oho—lights, more lights here!"
"Lights—aye," nodded Jerry, "lights inside's well enough but lights outside's the devil! Look at Oliver, look at th' moon, well—curse th' moon says I and—O ecod! What's yon i' the corner? A ladder as I'm a roaring boy—a ladder! Well, here's to see what's above. A doxy, aha, a dimber-dell, oho—"
"When my dimber-dell I courtedShe had youth and beauty too——"
As he sang he whipped a pistol from his pocket and lurched towards the ladder; and Sergeant Zebedee, watching through one of the many crevices, smiled happily and drew his bayonet. Jerry had one foot on the ladder when his companion caught his shoulder and swung him roughly away.
"How now?" he demanded. "What's your ploy?"
"Look'ee Benno, if you're a-hiding of some dimber mort aloft there I'm the cove to——"
"Ah, you're lushed, Jerry, foxed t' your peepers, sit down—sit down and put away your popp—afore I crack your mazzard!"
Sulkily enough Jerry obeyed and seating himself at the table turned, ever and anon, to view the ladder with a drunken stare.
"Lushed am I?" he repeated. "Drunk hey? Well, so I am and when lushed 'tis at my best I am, my lad. And look'ee a ladder's meant for to climb ain't it? Very well then—I'm the cove to climb it! And look'ee, what's more 'tis a curst dog-hole this for a genty-cove o' the high pad and——" But here his companion roared again for "Old Bet" and "Lights" until the old woman hobbled in.
"Eh, eh?" she whimpered, blinking from one to the other. "Did ye call, dearie?"
"Aye—bring more glims, d'ye hear——"
"Candles, dearie, eh—eh?"
"Aye, candles! And I'm expecting company, so bring candles and get ye to bed, d'ye hear?"
"Aye, aye, I hear, dearie, I hear—candles, candles," and muttering the word she hobbled away and presently was back again and stood, mowing and mumbling, to watch the candles lighted.
"Now get ye to bed," cried Benno, "to bed, d'ye hear?"
"Dead, dearie?" she croaked. "Who's dead now? Not me, no, no, nor you—yet. No no, but 'tis coming, aha—'tis coming—dead oho!"
The man Benno fell back a step, eyes wide and mouth agape, then very suddenly made a cross in the air before him, while Jerry, getting on his feet, did the same with unsteady finger on the table.
"The evil eye! 'Tis the evil eye!" he muttered, while old Betty nodded and chuckled as her quick, bright eyes flashed from one to the other.
"I said 'bed'!" roared the gipsy-looking fellow clenching his fists fiercely but falling back another step from old Betty's vicinity, "bed was the word——"
"Aye, aye, dearie!" she nodded, "some in bed an' some out—dead, aye, aye, some by day and some by night—all go dead soon or late, you an' me and all on us—one way or t'other—dead, dearie, dead!"
So saying old Betty hobbled out of the room closing the door behind her.
"A curst old beldam, a hag, a damned witch as I'm a roarer!" exclaimed Jerry shaking his head, while his companion wiped sweat from his brow. "O rot me, a nice dog-hole this and wi' a ladder look'ee, leading devil knoweth where, but I'm the cove to see——"
"Sit still—sit still and take a sup o' this, Jerry!" And crossing to a corner Benno brought thence a stone jar and a couple of mugs and brimming one unsteadily he tossed it off; then sitting down at the rickety table they alternately drank and cursed old Betty.
"Come now, Benno my dimber cove," cried Jerry at last, "what's the game? What ha' ye brought me here for? Tip us the office!"
"Why then we're on the spiriting lay—a flash blowen—a genty mort, Jerry."
"Aha, that should mean shiners, plenty o' lour, Benno?"
"Fifty apiece near as nothing."
"Here's game as I'm a flash padder. What more, cove, what more? Let's hear."
"Not me, Jerry—there's one a-coming as will tip you the lay—an old pal, Jerry, a flaming buck o' the high pad, a reg'lar dimber-damber, a—hist! 'Tis him at last, I think, but ha' your popps ready in case, Jerry."
Here Benno arose and crossing a little unsteadily to the door stood there listening: after a while came a knock, a muffled voice, and, opening the door, he admitted three men. The first a great, rough fellow who bore one arm in a sling, the second a little man,point-de-vicefrom silvered spurs to laced hat, yet whose elegant appearance was somewhat marred by a black patch that obscured one eye; the third was the obsequious Joseph, but now, as he stood blinking in the candle-light, there was in his whole sleek person an air of authority and command, and a grimness in the set of smooth-shaven jaw that transfigured him quite.
At sight of him Jerry sprang up, nearly upsetting the table, and stood to stare in gaping astonishment.
"'Tis Nick!" he cried at last, "Galloping Nick, as I'm a hell-fire, roaring dog! 'Tis Nick o' the High Toby as hath diddled the nubbing-cheat arter all, ecod! Ha, Nick—Nicky lad, tip us your famble and burn all, says I!"
Joseph suffered his hand to be shaken and nodded.
"Drunk as usual, Jerry?"
"Ecod and so I am! Drunk enough t' shoot straight—drunk as I was that night by the gravel-pits on Blackheath. You'll mind that night, Nick and how you——"
"Bah, you're talking lushy, Jerry! Here's Captain Swift and the Chicken so—let's to business."
"Aye, to business, my cullies!" cried Jerry saluting them in turn. "To business—'tis the spiriting of a genty mort, eh Nick?"
"A fine lady, aye!" nodded Joseph. "There's two hundred guineas in't, which is fifty for me and the rest atween you, share and share."
"Which is fair enough, rabbit me!" said the Captain.
"Now hark'ee all," continued Joseph beckoning them near and lowering his voice. "You, Jerry and the Captain will come mounted and meet us at the cross-roads beyond——"
"Cross-roads?" hiccoughed Jerry, "not me, Nick, no, no—there's cross-roads everywhere hereabouts I tell'ee, and I don't know the country hereabouts—no meetings at cross-roads, Nicky, burn my eyes no——" Here Joseph cursed him and fell to biting his nails.
"Why not meet here?" suggested Benno.
"No, nor here!" snarled Jerry, "I don't like this place, 'tis a dog-hole and wi' a ladder look'ee a ladder leading devil knoweth where look'ee—a ladder as is meant to climb and as I'm a-going to c-climb——" But as he rose unsteadily Joseph's heavy hand dragged him down again.
"There's the mill then," said he, "the ruined mill beyond Westerham, we'll meet there. We all know it——"
"I don't," growled Jerry, "and don't want——"
"The Captain does and you'll ride with him. At the ruined mill then to-morrow night a half after ten—sharp."
"And what then, Nick—ha?" enquired the Captain, taking a pinch of snuff.
"Why then——" Here Joseph sunk his voice so low as to be inaudible to any but those craning their necks to listen.
"'Tis a simple plan and should be no great matter!" nodded the Captain. "Aye, rat me, I like your plan, Nick——"
"Aye, but the genty mort," demurred Jerry, "now if she squeal and kick—burn me I've had 'em scratch and tear d-damnably ere now——"
"Squeeze her pretty neck a little," suggested the Captain.
"Or choke her with her furbelows," grinned Benno.
"No!" said Joseph, scowling, "there's to be no strangling—no rough work, d'ye take me—it's to be done gentle or——"
"Gentle, ho—gentle, is it!" cried Jerry fiercely. "And how if she gets her claws into me—the last one as I culled for a flash sportsman nigh wrung my ear off—gentle? 'Tain't fair to a man it don't give a man a chance, it d-don't——"
"And that's all now!" said Joseph, rising. "To-morrow night at the ruined mill—I'll give you your last instructions to-morrow at half after ten. Now who's for a glass over at the inn—landlord's a cull o' mine." At this everyone rose excepting Jerry who lolled across the table scowling from one candle to another.
"Ain't you a-coming, Jerry?" enquired the gipsy-looking fellow, turning at the door.
"No—not me!" snarled Jerry. "Bones do ache—so they do! 'S-sides I've drunk enough, and I—I'm a-going—to climb—that ladder an' burn all, says I."
"Then climb it and be damned!" said the other and strode away after his companions, slamming the door behind him. Jerry sat awhile muttering incoherently and drew a pistol from his pocket; then he rose and steadying himself with infinite pains against the rickety table, fixed his scowling gaze upon the ladder and lurched towards it. But the liquor had affected his legs and he staggered from wall to wall ere, tripping and stumbling, he finally reached the ladder that shook under the sudden impact. For a long moment he stood, weapon in hand, staring up into the blackness above, then slowly and with much labour began the ascent rung by rung, pausing very often and muttering hoarsely to himself; he was already half-way up and the Sergeant, crouched in the shadow, was waiting to receive him with upraised pistol-butt, when he missed his hold, his foot slipped and pitching sideways he crashed to the floor and lay still, snoring stertorously. Almost immediately old Betty appeared, crossed to the outstretched body, looked at it, spat at it and spoke:
"'Tis all well, dearies—he be nice and fast what wi' drink and fall. Come down, my dearies, come down and get ye gone."
The Major followed Sergeant Zebedee down the ladder and crossing to the old woman, removed his hat.
"Mam," said he, "'tis like enough you have saved a great wrong being committed and I am deeply grateful. Words are poor things, mam, but henceforth it shall be my care to see your remaining days be days of comfort. Meantime pray accept this and rest assured of the future." Saying which the Major laid a purse upon the table, then turned rather hastily to escape old Betty's eager, tremulous thanks and stepped from the cottage.
"Zebedee," said he as they led their horses out of the coppice, "I recognised two of these rascals. One is the tramping gipsy I broke my cane over and the other——"
"The other is Mr. Dalroyd's man Joe, sir."
"Ha! Art sure o' that, Zeb?"
"I am so, sir!"
"Excellent!" said the Major, swinging to saddle. "Our expedition to-night hath not been in vain, after all."
"Where now, sir?" enquired the Sergeant, gathering up his reins.
"Home!"
"What—ha' we done, your honour?"
"Until to-morrow night—at the ruined mill, Zeb."
"To-morrow night—zounds, sir!" chuckled the Sergeant as they broke into a trot. "'Twill be like old times!"
"'Twill be five to two, Zebedee!" said the Major thoughtfully.
"Warmish, sir—warmish! Though t' be sure the big rascal bore his arm in a sling, still, 'tis pretty odds, I allow."
"There must be no shooting, Zeb."
"Why your honour, pistols are apt t' be a trifle unhandy for close work, d'ye see. Now, a bagnet——"
"And no steel, Zeb. We'll have no killing if it can be avoided!"
"No steel sir?" gasped the Sergeant. "No steel—!"
"Bludgeons will be best if it should come to fighting," continued the Major thoughtfully, "though I hope to effect their capture without any undue violence——" The Sergeant turned to stare:
"What, is there to be no violence now, your honour?" he sighed.
"Violent methods are ever clumsy, Zeb, I propose to use the element of surprise."
"Ah!" exclaimed the Sergeant and smiling grimly up at the moon he slowly closed one eye and opened it again.
After this they rode some time in silence, the Sergeant's mind preoccupied with the "Element of Surprise" as applied to the odds of five to two, while the Major, looking round about on the calm beauty of the night, dreamed ever of my lady Elizabeth Carlyon as had become his wont and custom.
In due time they reached a certain quiet bye-lane and here the Major checked his horse.
"Sergeant," said he, "'tis a fair night for walking what with the moon—er—the moon d'ye see and so forth——"
"Moon, sir?"
"Aye, the moon!" said the Major, dismounting. "Do you go on with the horses, I've a mind for walking." So he handed Sergeant Zebedee the reins of his horse and turned aside down this quiet bye-lane.
This lane that led away between blooming hedges, that wandered on, haphazard as it were, to lose itself at last in a little wood where nightingales sang; this bye-lane wherein he had walked with her that never-to-be-forgotten night and stood with her to watch the world grow bright and joyous with a new day; this leafy sheltered lane that held for him the sweet magic of her presence and was therefore a hallowed place.
Thus as he walked, his slow steps falling silent on soft mosses and dewy grass, the Major took off his hat.
Bareheaded and with reverent feet he wandered on dreaming of those joys that were to be, God willing, and turning a sharp bend in the lane stopped all at once, smitten to sudden, breathless immobility.
She sat upon the wall, dainty foot a-swing, while below stood Mr. Dalroyd who seized that shapely foot in irreverent hands, stooped and covered it with kisses that grew more bold and audacious until she, stifling laughter in her cloak, freed herself with a sudden, vigorous kick that sent Mr. Dalroyd's hat flying—
The Major turned and hurried away looking neither right nor left; becoming conscious of the hat in his hand, he laughed and crammed it on his head. So he went with great strides until he reached a stile beside the way and halting, he leaned there, with face bowed upon his arms. Long he stood thus, silent and motionless and with face hidden. At last he raised his head, looked up at heaven and round about him like one who wakes in a new world, and limped slowly homewards.
"Sir," said the Sergeant, meeting him at the door, "Colonel Cleeve is here."
"O!" said the Major, slowly. "Is he, Zeb? That is well!"
"A-snoring in the library, sir!"
"Aye, to be sure—to be sure!" said the Major vaguely.
"Y' see 'tis getting late, your honour," continued Sergeant Zebedee, viewing the Major's drawn features anxiously.
"Why then—go you to bed, Zebedee."
"Can I get you aught first, sir—a bite o' something—a bottle or so?"
"No, Zeb, no—stay! Bring me my Ramillie coat."
Colonel Lord George Cleeve, blissfully slumbering in deep armchair beside the library fire, choked upon a snore and, opening his eyes, perceived the Major opposite in another deep chair; but the Major was awake, his frowning gaze was bent upon the fire and ever and anon he sighed deeply.
"Refuse me, Jack!" exclaimed the Colonel, "to hark to you one would think you in love and—er—damnably forlorn, you sigh, man, you sigh, aye, let me perish, you puff grief like any bellows."
"And you snore, George, you snore man, aye, egad, like a very grampus! None the less I joy to see thee, George," said the Major, rising and extending his hand. "When did you arrive?"
"Some half-hour since. And snore, did I? Well, 'tis late enough, o' conscience. Faith Jack, Sir Benjamin brews a devilish strong punch—I supped with the company at the George. Then strolled over with Tom to visit ya' charming neighbours. Man Jack, she's a damned fine creature—ha?"
"She is!" sighed the Major.
"And with an air, Jack—an air." The Major sighed and seemed lost in thought. "I say an air, Jack."
"An air George, as you say."
"Full up o' womanly graces and adornments feminine."
"True, George."
"And thoroughbred, Jack!" The Major stared pensively into the fire. "I say all blood and high breeding, Jack."
"Aye, true George, true!"
"Well then, a man might do worse—ha?" The Major started. "How think ye, Jack? I'm not a marrying man, Jack, as you know, the sex hath never been a weakness o' mine but I'm touched at last, Jack—aye touched with a curse on't!"
"God—bless—my—soul!" exclaimed the Major, staring harder than ever.
"'Fore Gad, man Jack, it came on me like a charge o' cavalry. Like you I meant to live and die a free man and now—O Gad! 'Tis her eyes, I think, I see 'em everywhere—blue, you'll mind, Jack, blue as—as—well, blue."
"Aye, they're blue!" nodded the Major, all grave attention at last.
"Well, 'tis her eyes, Jack, or else her dooced demure airs, or her languishing graces, or her feet, or her shape, or the way she smiles, or—O damme! Howbeit I'm smitten, Jack—through and through—done for and be curst to it!"
"You too!" sighed the Major and stared into the fire again.
"Aye—and why not i' faith? I'm a man sound in wind and limb and but few years ya' senior—why the devil not? She's free to wed and if she's willing and I've a mind for't who the devil's going to stay me—ha?" The Major sighed and shook his head. "Save us, Jack, but ya're curst gloomy, I think!"
"Why as to that, as to that, George, I fear I am. Perhaps if we crack a bottle before we go to bed—how say you?"
"With all my heart!" So the Major brought bottle and glasses and, having filled to each other, they sat awhile each staring into the fire. "And now," continued the Colonel, "what's to stop me a-marrying, Jack, if I'm so minded, come?"
"Is she likely to—to make you happy, George?"
"Rabbit me—and why not?"
"Well," said the Major hesitatingly, "her age——"
"Dooce take me, she's none so old——"
"Old!" repeated the Major, "nay indeed I——"
"She's no filly I'll allow, Jack, but then I shed my colt's teeth long ago. Nay, she's rather in her blooming prime, summer—er—languishing to autumn——"
"Autumn!" murmured the Major, staring.
"No—I see nought against it unless—O smite me, Jack!" The Colonel set down his glass and stared at the Major who stared back at him.
"Unless what, George?"
"Unless y'are bitten too." The Major frowned into the fire again. "If y'are, Jack, if y'are, why then damme I'll not come athwart ya'—no, no—old friends—Gad, no! I'll ride away to-morrow and give you a clear field."
"I shall never marry—never, George!" said the Major and sighed deeper than ever. The Colonel refilled his glass, raised it to his lips, sighed in turn and put it down again.
"Love's a plaguy business!" he groaned. "How old are ye, Jack?"
"Forty-two, almost."
"And I'm forty-five—quite. And i' faith, Jack, when the curst disease plagues men of our age 'tis there to stay. None the less, man Jack, if ya' love her, why then Belinda's not for me——"
"Belinda!" exclaimed the Major.
"Aye, who else? What the dooce, man?"
"I—egad, George, I thought—"
"What did ya' think?"
"'Twas Lady Betty you had in mind."
"Lady Bet——!" The Colonel whistled. "So-ho!" he exclaimed and turned, full of eager questions but seeing how the Major scowled into the fire again, sipped his wine instead and thereafter changed the subject abruptly.
"Ya'r Viscount's a fine lad, Jack!" The Major's brow cleared instantly.
"Aye, indeed, Tom's a man, 'spite all his modish airs and affectations, a man! Where is he, by the way?"
"Went to bed hours since and very rightly, seeing what's toward."
"As what, George?"
"His forthcoming duel with Dalroyd." The Major sat suddenly upright.
"A duel with—Dalroyd!"
"What, didn't ya' know?"
"Not a word."
"Why true, it only happened this evening."
"And when do they fight?"
"That's the curst queer thing about the affair. I don't know, he don't know—nobody knows but Dalroyd. 'Tis a black business, Jack, a black business and looks ill for the lad!"
"Aye!" said the Major, rising and beginning to pace to and fro. "Pray tell me of it, George."
"Well, i' the first place, 'tis a hopeful youth, your nephew, Jack, a lovely lad. Smite me, I never saw an affront more pleasantly bestowed nor more effectively! Such a polished business with him and pure joy for the spectators, he insulted his man so gracefully yet so thoroughly that their steel was out in a twinkling. But the place was cluttered with chairs and tables, so Alvaston and Tripp fell upon Dalroyd and I and Captain West on the Viscount and parted 'em till the matter could be arranged more commodiously for 'em. Well, we cleared the floor and locked the door, they seeming so eager for one another's blood and then—damme, Dalroyd refuses to fight. 'No, gentlemen,' says he, smiling but with death aglare in his eyes, 'I grant Viscount Merivale a day or so more of life, when it suits me to kill him I'll let him know,' and off he goes. 'Tis a vile black business, for if ever I saw a killer, 'tis this Dalroyd. Though why the lad goes out of his way to affront such a man, God only knows. And talking of the affront I've told the story plaguy ill. Here sits Dalroyd, d'ye see, at cards, Jack, and along comes my fine young gentleman and insults him beyond any possibility o' doubt. 'Ah,' says Dalroyd, laying down his cards, 'I believe, I verily believe he means to be offensive!' 'Gad love me, sir,' smiles the Viscount, 'I'm performing my best endeavour that way.' 'You mean to quarrel, then,' says Dalroyd. ''Twill be pure joy, sir!' bows the Viscount. 'Impossible!' sneers Dalroyd. 'Why then, sir,' beams the Viscount, 'perhaps a glass of wine applied outwardly will make my intention quite apparent, because if so, sir, I shall be happy to waste so much good wine on thing of so little worth.' O Jack, 'twas pure—never have I seen it better done. But 'tis an ill business all the same, for when they meet 'twill go ill with the lad, I fear—aye, I greatly fear!"
"Why then, they shan't meet!" said the Major gently.
"Eh—eh?" cried the Colonel. "Damme, Jack—who's to prevent?"
"I, of course, George."
"Aye, but how, a Gad's name?
"First, I do know Dalroyd a rogue unworthy to cross blades with the Viscount——"
"I doubt 'twill serve, Jack, I doubt."
"Secondly, I intend to cross blades with Dalroyd myself."
"You Jack—you? O preposterous! Smite me, 'tis most irregular."
"Indeed and so it is, George, but——" the Major smiled, and knowing that smile of old the Colonel shrugged his shoulders. "I will but ask you to be here in this room to-morrow night at—say twelve o'clock—alone, George."
"When you use that tone, Jack, I know you'll do't. But how you'll contrive thing so impossible is beyond me. And talking of Dalroyd the resemblance is strong, he's very like——"
"Ah, you mean like Effingham."
"Aye, like Effingham—and yet again he's—different, Jack, and besides 'tis impossible!"
"Ten years must needs alter a man," said the Major thoughtfully. "George, I'd give very much to know if Dalroyd bears a certain scar."
"Impossible, Jack—quite, your thrust was too sure."
"Hum!" said the Major, "howbeit I cross blades with Dalroyd as soon as possible, which reminds me I've made no will and 'tis best to be prepared, George, and you shall witness it if you will."
So the document was drawn up, blunt and soldier-like, and duly attested.
"A will, Jack," said the Colonel throwing down the pen, "is a curst dust to dust and dry bones business, let's ha' another bottle."
"Egad, and so we will!" answered the Major. "And drink success to thy wooing, George."
My lady Betty opened the bedroom door and sneezed violently:
"Aunt Bee," she gasped, "O!"
"Heavens, child, how you pounce on one!" cried Lady Belinda, starting and dropping her powder puff. "What is't?"
"Snuff, aunt—O!"
"Snuff—O Lord! Where? Who?"
"Your Colonel—Cleeve, aunt—O!"
"Colonel Cleeve? Here again? O Heavens!" cried Lady Belinda, flushing.
"He's been waiting below and sprinkling me with his dreadful snuff this half-hour and more, as you know very well, aunt!"
"Indeed miss, and how should I know?" cried Lady Belinda indignantly, stealing a glance at her reflection in the mirror.
"You saw him come a-marching up the drive of course, dear aunt. O he uses the dreadfullest snuff I vow—'tis like gunpowder—and scatters it broadcast! 'And pray how's your lady aunt?' says he, sprinkling it over the window-seat and me. 'O sir, in excellent health I thank you,' says I, 'twixt my sneezes. 'I trust she finds herself none the worse for her walk last night, the air grows chill toward sunset,' says he through a brown cloud. 'Indeed sir,' I choked feebly, 'aunt enjoys the evening air hugely.' 'Then,' says he, speaking like Jove in the cloud, 'I'm bold to hope that she perhaps—this afternoon——' 'I'll go and see,' I gasped, and staggered from the room strangling. 'Tis a dear, shy soul, aunt, for all his ogreish eyes and gruff voice."
"Betty!" exclaimed Belinda clasping her hands, "when I think of him downstairs and our poor, dear Charles abovestairs I could positively swoon——"
"Nay, aunt, the Colonel's presence here is Charles' safeguard surely, and the Colonel's a true soldier, a dear, gentle man 'spite all his bloodthirsty airs and ferocious eyes——"
"Do you think them so—so fierce, Betty?" questioned Lady Belinda wistfully.
"Go down and see for yourself, aunt."
Lady Belinda crossed to the door, but paused there, fumbled with the latch and then, all at once, sobbed, and next moment Betty had her close in her arms.
"Why, aunt!" she whispered. "My dear, what's your grief?"
"O Betty!" whispered Lady Belinda, trembling in those strong young arms, "O my dear I'm—so—old——"
Betty's eyes filled and stooping she kissed that humbly bowed head:
"Aunt Belinda," she murmured, "Love is never old, nor ever can be. If Love hath come to thee when least expected, Love shall make thee young. Thy years of waiting and unselfish service these have but made thee more worthy—would I were the same. There, let me dry these foolish tears, so. Now go, dear, go down and may'st thou find a joy worthy of thy life of devotion to thy Betty who loveth thee and ever will. I'll upstairs to Charles!"
"Now look'ee Bet," my Lord of Medhurst was saying five minutes later, "I'll not endure it another week—I'll not I say. To lie mewed up here, to creep out like a very thief—'tis beyond my endurance——"
"And mine too, Charles—almost," sighed Betty. "To have to live a hateful lie, to be forced to meet one I despise, to endure his looks, his words, his touches—O!"
"God forgive me, Bet—I'm a beast, a graceless, selfish beast!" cried his lordship, clasping her in his arms. "When I think of all you've done for me I could kick this damned carcass o' mine—forgive me! But ha!" his lordship chuckled boyishly, "Deuce take me Bet, but I avenged you to some extent last night. I sat on the wall, Bet, as coyly as you please and true to a minute along comes my gentleman and kisses my hand and I more demure and shy than e'er you were. 'Betty,' says he, low and eager, 'by heaven, you're more bewitching than ever to-night!' His very words, Bet, as I'm a sinner!" Here my lord chuckled again, laughed and finally fell to such an ecstasy of mirth that he must needs gag and half-choke himself with his handkerchief, while Betty laughed too and thereafter gnashed white teeth vindictively:
"What more?" she questioned, her eyes bright and malevolent.
"Why then, Bet, the fool falls to an amorous ecstasy—pleads for a taste o' my lips—damn him! and finally catches me by the foot and falls to kissing that and I bursting with laughter the while! So there he has me by the foot d'ye see and I nigh helpless with suppressed joy, but when I wished to get away he did but hold and kiss the fiercer. So Bet, I—full of prudish alarms as it were—bestowed on him—a kick!" Here his lordship found it necessary to gag himself again while Betty, leaning forward with hands clasped, watched him gleefully.
"You kicked him!" she repeated. "Hard?"
"Fairly so—enough to send his hat flying, and Bet, as luck would have it who should chance along at that precise moment but Major d'Arcy and——"
Uttering an inarticulate cry my lady sprang to her feet.
"Did he see—did he see?" she demanded breathlessly, "Charles—O Charles—did he see?"
"Begad, I fear he did—why Bet—Betty—good God—what is it?" For, covering her face, Betty had cowered away to the wall and leaned there.
"What will he think!" she murmured. "O what will he think of me?"
My lord stood speechless awhile, his delicate features twitching with emotion as he watched her bowed form.
"Betty dear," said he tenderly at last, "doth it matter to thee—so much?"
"Charles!" she cried, "O Charles!" and in that stricken cry and the agony of the face she lifted, he read her answer.
"Dearest," said he after awhile, clasping his arm about her, "here is no cause for grief. I'll go to him in—in these curst floppy things—he shall see for himself and I'll tell him all——"
"No!" said she rising and throwing up proud head. "I'll die first! We will go through with it to the end—nobody shall know until you are safe—none but you and I and Aunt Belinda. To speak now were to ruin all. So, my Charles, whatsoe'er befall you shall not speak—I forbid it!"
"Forgive me, Bess," he pleaded, "wilt forgive me for jeopardising thy—thy happiness so?"
"Aye to be sure, dear boy!" she answered, kissing him. "Only now I must go!"
"Go, Betty?"
"To him!" she sighed. "I must find out—just how and what he thinks of me."
"Gad's my life, Bet!" sighed his lordship ruefully as he followed her to the door, "I do think thou wert ever the braver of the two of us."
"Consequently Tom, dear lad," the Major was saying as he walked the rose-garden arm in arm with the Viscount, "feeling for thee as I do and because of the years that have but knit our affections the closer, I am bold to ask thee what hath moved thee to run so great a risk o' thy life—a life so young and promising."
"Why nunky," answered the Viscount, pressing the arm within his own affectionately, "in the first place I'll confess to a pronounced distaste for the fellow."
"Yes, Tom?"
"His air of serene assurance displeases me."
"Quite so, Tom."
"His air of cold cynicism annoys me."
"Well, Tom?"
"In fine sir, not to particularise, Mr. Dalroyd, within and without and altogether, I find a trifle irksome."
"And so, Tom, for these trivialities, you picked a quarrel with a man who is a notorious and deadly duellist?
"I believe I objected to his method of dealing cards, among other things, sir."
"And now, Tom," said the Major, sitting down beside the sun-dial and crossing his legs, "may I suggest you tell me the real reason—your true motive?"
The Viscount began to pull at and arrange the rich lace of his steenkirk with gentle fingers.
"Gad save my poor perishing soul!" he sighed, "but you're a very persistent nunky!"
"Tom," said the Major softly, "you—you love my lady Betty, I think?"
The Viscount, sitting beside him, was silent a moment, still pulling gently at the lace of his cravat.
"And—and always shall, sir," he answered at last.
"This," said the Major, staring straight before him, "this brings me to a matter I have long wished to touch upon—and desired to tell thee, Tom. For I also thought—that she ... I ... we..."
"Love each other, sir," said the Viscount gently.
"You knew this, Tom?"
"Sir, I guessed it a few days since."
The Major bowed his head and was silent awhile.
"Pancras," said he at last, "'twas none of my seeking. I thought myself too old for love—beyond the age. But Love stole on me all unbeknown, Love gave me back my vanished youth, changed the world into a paradise wherein I, dreaming that she loved me, found a joy, a happiness so great no words may tell of it. And in this paradise I lived until—last night, and last night I found it but the very paradise o' fools, dear lad——"
"Last night!" exclaimed the Viscount, "last night sir?"
"I chanced to walk in the lane, Tom."
The Viscount clenched white hand and smote it on his knee:
"Damn him!" he cried, "he must ha' bewitched her in some infernal manner! That Betty should act so—'tis incredible! Yet 'twas none so dark! And I saw! 'Twas shameless—a vulgar country-wench would never——"
"Hush, Tom, hush!" cried the Major, flushing. "She's—after all she's so young, Tom, young and a little wilful—high-spirited—and—and—young, as 'twere——"
"Betty's no child, sir, and 'fore heaven——"
"'Tis strange I missed you, Tom," said the Major a little hastily.
"The lane makes a bend there sir, and when I saw I stopped——"
"So here's the true cause of your quarrel, Tom?"
"Nay, sir, I've known Betty from childhood, I've honoured and loved her but—'twas not so much on her account——"
"Then whose, Tom?"
"Why sir I—knew you loved her too——"
"God bless thee, lad!" said the Major and thereafter they sat awhile staring studiously away from each other.
"The vile dog hath bewitched her somehow!" explained the Viscount suddenly at last, "I've heard tell o' such cases ere now, sir."
"Heaven send he bewitch none other sweet soul!" said the Major fervently.
"He sha'n't—if I may stop him!" said the Viscount scowling.
"I don't think—no, I don't think he ever will, Tom!"
"Gad love us!" exclaimed the Viscount suddenly in altered tone. "Nunky—sir—look yonder! 'Tis Betty herself and she's seen us! O Lard, sir—she's coming!"
Glancing swiftly round, the Major sat with breath in check watching where my lady was descending the steps into the rose-garden, as fresh, as fair and sweet as the morning itself. With one accord they rose and, side by side, went to meet her.
"Heavens!" she cried as they came up. "How glum you look—and the sun so bright too! Ha' you no greeting for me?"
"Madam," said the Viscount with a prodigious bow, "I was but now relating how, last night, I saw you in a lane, seated upon a wall."
"Was I, Pan?"
"Indeed, my lady!" he answered, taking out his snuff-box.
"And did you see me, too?"
"Who else should see you?" questioned the Viscount staring.
"I thought 'twas only Major d'Arcy—thought to see."
"I saw you also, madam."
"Art sure, Pan?"
"O pasitive, madam!"
"And prithee—what saw you?"
"'Tis no matter——"
"What saw you, Pan—Tom?"
"I saw that Dalroyd fellow—brutalise your foot."
My lady's cheek grew rosy and her delicate nostrils expanded suddenly, but her voice was smooth and soft as ever.
"Will you swear it, Pan?"
"On oath!" he answered.
"Alack!" she sighed. "On what slender threads doth woman's reputation hang! And if I say I was not there?"
"Then, my lady, I am blind or, having eyes, see visions——"
"Was ever such a coil!" she sighed. "Dear Pan, hast ever been my second brother, so do I forgive thee and, thus forgiving, bid thee go, thinking on me as kindly as thou may'st and believing that thine eyes do verily see visions." So the Viscount bowed and went, somewhat stiff in the back and making great play with his snuff-box. "Dear Pan!" she murmured as she watched him go, "I might have loved him had I any love to spare. And now—you, John—will you rail at me, too?"
"No, my lady," he answered dully, "never again!"
"Yet your voice is cold and hard! Did you think to see me too?"
"Aye, I saw—I saw," he answered wearily.
"And if I say you saw me not?"
"Then, my lady, I will say I saw you not."
Now at this she came near, so near that he was conscious of all her warm and fragrant loveliness and thrilled to the contact of her hand upon the sleeve of the war-worn Ramillie coat.
"And—wilt believe, John?" she questioned softly. The Major stood silent and with head averted. "This dear old coat!" she murmured. "Dost remember how I sewed these buttons on?"
"Aye, I remember!" he groaned.
"And—wilt believe, my John?" she questioned, and drew nearer yet, until despite her soft and even tone, he could feel against him the swell and tumult of her bosom; yet he stood with head still averted and arms, that yearned to clasp her, rigid at his sides. "Wilt believe, John?"
"Betty," he answered, "ask me to believe the sun will rise no more and I'll believe, but not—not this!"
"Yet, dost love me—still?" she whispered.
"Aye, my lady—through life to death and beyond. The love I bear you is a love stronger than death and the agony of heartbreak and dead hopes. Though you take my heart and trample it in the dust that heart shall love thee still—though you profane the worship that I bear you still shall that worship endure—though you strip me of fame and honour and rob me of my dearest ideals still, ah still shall I love you until—until——" His voice broke and he bowed his head. "O Betty!" he cried. "In God's name show me—a little mercy—let me go!"
And turning he limped away and left her standing alone.