"Vulgar needs! Oh, fie, Mr. Waverton. A divine creature." ColonelBoyce looked wicked, and his easy hand designed in the air MissLambourne's shape.
Lady Waverton tittered. Geoffrey blushed, and "You do me too much honour sir, indeed," he stammered.
Colonel Boyce turned smiling upon Lady Waverton. "I vow, ma'am, a man hath twice the modesty of a maid."
"You are a bad fellow," said Lady Waverton, very well pleased.
"You go too fast, sir;" with so much mirth about him Geoffrey feared for his dignity. "There is nothing between me and Miss Lambourne."
The Colonel shook his head. "I confess I thought better of you, sir.What, is miss her own mistress?"
"Miss Lambourne has no father or mother, sir."
"And her face is her fortune? Egad, 'tis the prettiest romance!"
Geoffrey and his mother laughed together. "Not quite all her fortune, sir. She is the only child of Sir Thomas Lambourne."
"What! old Tom Lambourne of the India House?" Colonel Boyce whistled. He looked with a new interest at her as she stood by Harry, absorbing the lecture on medals, and as he looked his face put on a queer air of mockery. This he presented to Geoffrey. "Something of a plum, sirrah. Well, well, some folks have but to open their mouths."
Mr. Waverton, not quite certain whether the Colonel ought to be so familiar, concluded to be pleased, and laughed fatuously. During which music the butler announced "Mrs. Weston."
Lady Waverton and Geoffrey exchanged a glance of disgust. Lady Waverton murmured, "What a person!" It escaped their notice that Colonel Boyce had stiffened at the name. His full face lost all its geniality, all expression. He was for the first time singularly like his son.
Mrs. Weston was Alison's companion of the coach, a woman of middle age, inclining to be stout; but her face was thin and lined, belying her comfortable aspect,—a wistful face which had known much sorrow, and had still much tenderness to give.
Lady Waverton put out a languid and supercilious hand. "I hope you are better."
"Thank you. I have not been ill."
"Oh, I always forget."
"Your servant, ma'am." Geoffrey bowed.
"Oh,"—Lady Waverton turned on her elbow. "Colonel Boyce—Mrs. Weston,Alison's companion. Faith, duenna, I think."
"Your most obedient, ma'am." Colonel Boyce bowed low.
Mrs. Weston stared at him, seemed to try to speak, said nothing, and hurried across the room.
"Alison, dear, are you ready?" her voice sounded hoarse.
"Am I ever ready?" Alison laughed. "Weston, dear, we are finding friends here;" she pointed to Harry.
Colonel Boyce had followed. He laid his hand on Harry's shoulder: "My son, ma'am," said he.
Mrs. Weston's eyes grew wide, and her face was white and drawn, and she swayed. As Harry bowed to her, a lacquered box was swept off the table with a great clatter, and Colonel Boyce cried, "Odds life, Harry, you are a clumsy fellow. Here, man, here," and made a great commotion over picking it up.
Alison had her arm about Mrs. Weston: "Why, Weston, dear, what is it? Are you seeing a ghost?" She laughed. "Pray, Mr. Boyce, come to life."
"I ask pardon, ma'am." Harry rose with the box.
"'Bid me to live and I will live,'" said the Colonel, with a grand air.
"Come away, dear, come," Mrs. Weston gasped, in much agitation.
"Why, Weston, he is not our highwayman, you know," Alison was still laughing, and then seeing her distress real, took it in earnest. "You are shaken, poor thing. Come!" She mothered the woman away and, turning, called over her shoulder—
"Revanche, Mr. Boyce." There was an explanation to Lady Waverton: poor Weston had been so alarmed by the highwaymen that she was not fit to be out of her bed, and anything alarmed her; even Mr. Boyce; so dear Lady Waverton must forgive them. And Geoffrey took them to their carriage.
"What a person!" said Lady Waverton.
Mr. Hadley came out of his corner and looked Harry up and down with dislike. "Let me know when you play the next act, Mr. Boyce," he said, and turned to Lady Waverton. "My lady, I beg leave to go with my friends."
In a small, bare room Colonel Boyce sat himself down on a pallet bed and made a wry face at his son. "My poor, dear boy," he said, and shifted uneasily, and looked round at the stained walls and shivered. "It's damp, I vow it's damp," he complained.
"Oh yes. It's damp after rain, and it's hot after sun, and it's icy after frost. It's a very sympathetic room," said Harry.
"They are barbarians, these Wavertons. I vow they give their horses better lodging."
"Oh yes. I am not worth so much as a horse," said Harry.
"Lud, Harry, don't whine,"—his father was irritated. "Have some spirit.I hate to hear a lad meek."
"I thought you did," said Harry.
The Colonel laughed. "Oh, I am bit, am I?Tant mieux. But why the devil do you stay here?"
"Now why the devil do you want to know?" said Harry.
"No, that is not kind, boy."
"Oh, Oh, are we kind?"
"My dear Harry, I have not seen you for six years, and I have not come now to quarrel."
"Then why have you come?" said the affectionate son.
"You are a gracious cub." Colonel Boyce would not be ruffled. "When I saw you last, Harry—"
"You borrowed a shilling of me. I remember I was glad that I had not another."
"You can have it back with interest now. There is plenty in the purse,Harry, and half of all mine is yours."
"You have changed," Harry said. "Odds life, Harry, bear no grudges. I dare say I was hard in what you remember of me. Well, things were hard upon me and I lived hard. You shall find me mellow enough now."
"Hard? I don't know that you were hard. I thought you were as cold as ice. I believe, sir, I am still frozen."
"Egad, Harry, you must have had a curst childhood."
"Oh, must we be sympathetic?" said Harry.
"You're right, boy. The past is past. 'Tis your future which is the matter. So again—why do you stay here?"
Harry laughed. "They give me bed and board, and a shilling or two by the month."
"Bed?" His father shifted upon it. "A bag of stones, I think. And for the board—bread of affliction and water of affliction by what I saw of the remains. Egad, Harry, they are savages, these Wavertons."
"I did not hear you say so to madame. And Geoffrey is not a bad fellow as far as he has understanding."
"A dolt, eh? He might take a woman's eye, though. These big dreamy fellows, the women hanker after them queerly. Take care, Harry." He looked knowing. "Bed and board—bah, you can do better than that. Now what do you think I have been doing?"
"Something profitable, to judge by your genial splendours. Have you turned highwayman?"
"You all talk about highwaymen in this house," said the Colonel with a frown and a keen glance.
"Damme, no."
"Why, are you really a colonel?"
"Faith, you may come see my commission,"—Colonel Boyce was not annoyed,—"and, egad, share my pay." He pulled out a fat purse and thrust some guineas upon Harry. "Don't deny me now, boy," he said, with some tenderness.
"I never meant to," said Harry, and counted them. "But how long have you been a soldier? I never knew you were anything."
"I have been with his Grace of Marlborough in every campaign since Blenheim. Do you think it's a good service, Harry?" he smiled at his own opulence.
"For a versatile man," said Harry, and looked at his father curiously.
"Why, I can take the field as well as another. Egad, when Vendome fell back from Oudenarde I was commanding a battalion. But it is not in the field that my best work is done."
"Faith, I had guessed that," Harry said.
"You have a sharp tongue, Harry. It's a dangerous weakness. Be careful to grow out of it. Then I think you may do well enough."
"In your profession, sir? To be sure, you flatter me."
"In my profession—" His father looked at him keenly. "I am not sure.Maybe you can do better, which will be well enough. Now, what can you do?You can use a sword, I suppose, though you wear none?"
Harry shrugged. "I know the rigmarole, the salutes; I could begin a duel,par exemple. It's the other man who would end it."
"Duels—bah, only dolts are troubled with them. You must learn to hold your own in a flurry. You can ride, I suppose?"
"If the beast has a mane."
"Humph. You speak French?"
"As we speak it in England."
"Yes." His father nodded. "When a man is no fool, he finds his profit in not doing things too well. Well, Harry, are you Whig or Tory—Jacobite or Hanoverian?"
"Whichever you like, sir."
"By the Lord, you take after me mightily. Now look 'e, thus it is. The Queen grows old. She eats too well and drinks too well, and she has the gout. It's common among all who know her ways that she cannot last long. The poor soul will not be wise at dinner. But even if she should last, we are in an odd case. For Anne hath a conscience as well as a stomach, and it seems they grow together. As the old lady gets fatter, she feels remorse. When she's tearful after dinner now she asks her women what right she has to be queen and keep a good cellar while her poor half-brother Prince James lives in exile onvin ordinaire."
Harry shrugged his shoulders. "'Poor, dear lad,' says she, 'and to be sure I am a sad, bad woman. But I think I'll die a queen.' What then, sir?"
"I don't say you are wrong, Harry. She's more like to drown the lad in tears than right him. And meanwhile our rightful king, James the Pretender, is left to hisvin ordinaire. Faith, it's a proper liquor, for rightful heirs which can't right themselves. And yet there is a chance. The Queen has always been religious, and when a woman hath religion she may play the devil with your reason any minute. But here is what's more likely. You know when an old fellow hath played the knave with some wardship or some matter of trust, often he holds fast to it all his life and then seeks to commend himself to the day of judgment by bequeathing his spoils to those from whom he stole them. Well, it's whispered among them that know her that Madame Anne will do her possible to make Prince James King when she is gone."
"A dead Queen is but a corpse," said Harry. "When she is gone 'twill not be for her to say who shall reign."
"That's half a truth. You know the law is so that Prince George of Hanover should be the King. About him no man knows anything save that he hath a vile taste in women. I do suspect Marlborough is in the right—he has a nose for men—when he saith there is nought to know. Well, we tried a Dutchman once for our King and liked him ill enough. Who is to say that we shall like a German better? Now Prince James—he is half an Englishman at least, though they say he has his father's weakness for priests. I'll not hide from you, Harry, that I am in the confidence of some great men. It's laid upon me to go to France with an errand to Prince James."
"I suppose that is high treason, sir."
Colonel Boyce smiled queerly. "You see how I trust you, Harry. Bah, you are not frightened of words. Who is the worse for it, if I find out what's Monsieur's temper and how he would bear himself if he were King?"
"And what he would pay any kind gentlemen who chose to turnJacobites apropos."
"If you like." Colonel Boyce laughed. I promise you, Harry, there are great men in this. Now I need a trusty fellow to my right hand: a fellow who can talk and say nothing: a fellow who is in no service but mine: and all the better if he hath some learning to play the secretary. So I thought of you. And since it may carry you to something of note, I chose you with right good will."
"Do you wonder that you surprise me?"
"I profess you're not generous, Harry. It's true enough, I have done little for you yet. But the truth is I could do nothing. As soon as I have it in my power, I come to you—"
"And offer me—a game at hazard."
"Why, Harry, you're not a coward?"
"Faith, I can't tell. Perhaps I will go with you. But I have no expectation in it."
"I suppose you have some here," his father sneered. "What do they call you? You seem to be something better than Master Geoffrey's valet and a good deal worse than my lady's footman."
"Why, I believe you have lost your temper." Harry laughed. "Oh, admirable sight! Pray let me enjoy it! The father rages at his son's ingratitude!"
But Colonel Boyce had quickly recovered his equanimity. "They used to tell me that I was a cold fellow. But I vow you are a very fish. So you have half a mind to stay here, have you? Well, I bear no malice."
"It is only half a mind," Harry said. "Are you in a hurry?"
"Oh, you may sleep on it. Damme, I suppose there is little to do here but sleep. What does Master Geoffrey want with you? He is old to keep a tame schoolmaster."
"I listen to his poetry."
"Oh Lud!" said Colonel Boyce, with sincere sympathy. "I suppose they are wealthy folk, your Wavertons. Do they keep much company?" Harry shrugged. "Who is this Mrs. Weston?"
"I never saw her before." Harry paused, and then with a laugh added—"before yesterday."
"That's a fine woman, her mistress. Do you do anything in that quarter, sirrah?"
"Why should you think so?"
"She was willing enough that you should try."
"She is meat for my betters," said Harry meekly.
"For Master Geoffrey?" The Colonel looked knowing. "Do you know, Harry, I think Master Geoffrey is a pigeon made to be plucked. Well. What was the pretty lady's talk about highwaymen?"
Harry looked at his father for some time. "The truth is, I don't understand Benjamin," he said at last. "I wonder if you will. Faith, sir, here is a pretty piece of family life. The good son confides in his father alone of all the world."
"Go on, sir," Colonel Boyce chuckled. "I play fair."
So Harry told his tale of Benjamin and Benjamin's companion and their disaster. It was that appearance in the crisis of the fight of other gentlemen on horseback which most interested Colonel Boyce. "So they went in pursuit of the fellow who had fled and they never came back again." He looked quizzically at his son. "These be very honest gentlemen."
"Why, sir, I thought nothing of that. They were plainly travelling at speed. I suppose they missed him, and had no time to waste in searching."
"Then why o' God's name did he not come back to help his fellow? He was mounted, he was armed, and only you and your cudgel against him. Bah, Harry, do not be an innocent. Consider: these fellows went after him at speed. He cannot have been far away. It is any odds that he had his bolting horses in hand before he had gone two furlongs. Then—allow him some sense—then he must have turned and come back for his friend. And then these other honest gentlemen swept down on him. Well. Why have you heard no more of them or him?"
"Faith, sir, you are right," Harry conceived for the first time some admiration for his father. "I had missed that: and, egad, it is the chief question of the puzzle. But—"
"Puzzle! Oh Lud, there's no puzzle. They were all one gang, these fellows."
Harry laughed. "Then there was not much honour among the thieves. They abandoned their Benjamin to me with delight."
"Ah, bah, you do not suppose they were out for such small game as your pretty miss. They would not work in a gang to stop a simple, common coach, be it never so rich. Come, Harry, use your wits. Did you hear of any great folks on the road yesterday?"
Harry made an exclamation. "Odds life, sir, you would make a great thief-catcher. You have hit it. There was your friend, the Duke of Marl-borough, stuck in the mud below Barnet Hill." And he told that part of the story.
"Humph. So they came too late," his father said. "You see how it is. This gang was charged to stop his Grace, and was something slow about it. The two first, your Benjamin and his friend, I suppose they should have held the Duke's fellows in play till the others came up. They missed him, or they shirked it, and instead, tried to stay their stomachs with some common game. The rest of the gang would be well enough pleased that you should baste Benjamin while they hurried on after the Duke. Did you mark any of them, what like they were?"
"Not I. I was too busy with Benjamin."
"And your pretty miss, eh? A pity. But it's well enough for your first affair."
"First? Why, am I to spend my life tumbling with gentlemen of the road?"
"And a profitable, pleasant life too, if you use your wits."
Harry opened his eyes. "Do you know it well, sir? Now, what I don't understand is why a gang of highwaymen should appoint to set upon the Duke of Marlborough. It's dangerous, to be sure—"
"You will understand why, if you come to France," said Colonel Boyce, with a queer smile. "There be many would pay high for a sight of his Grace's private papers," and he laughed to himself over some joke. "Nay, but you have done very well, Harry," he condescended. "I like this business of leaving Benjamin tied up on the road. 'Tis damned nonsense, to be sure, but it has an air, a distinction. Your pretty miss will like that. And I judge you have not told the Wavertons you were the hero, nor let miss tell them. 'Tis your little secret for yourselves. A good touch, Harry. Odds life, I begin to be proud of you. I suppose you will soon go pay your respects—to Mrs. Weston." He laughed heartily.
Harry was not amused. "Do you know, I think I like you much less than you like me," he said.
Colonel Boyce seemed very well content.
Colonel Boyce was established in the house, a guest of high honour.
Harry, dazed at the mere fact, could not be very sure how it had happened or why. The Wavertons, mother and son, had assaulted the Colonel with hospitality—for a night—for another—for longer and longer—and he, appearing at first honestly dubious, remained with a benign condescension.
There is no doubt that, in an honourable way, Lady Waverton was fascinated by Colonel Boyce. She saw nothing coarse in his highly-coloured manners, suspected no guile in his flattery or his parade of importance. Harry, who had never supposed her a wise woman, was surprised by her complete surrender. He had credited her with too much pride to succumb to flattery, which was to his taste impudently gross. But he was not yet old enough to allow that other folks might have tastes wholly unlike his own, and he had himself—it is perhaps the only trait of much delicacy in him—a shrinking discomfort under praise.
Colonel Boyce took his victory with a complacency which Harry thought oddly fatuous in a man so acute.
"Egad, the old lady would go to church with me to-morrow if I asked her;" he laughed, and seemed to think that in that at least my lady showed sense.
"You had better take her, sir," said Harry, with a sneer. "I know she has a good dower. And a fool and her money are soon parted."
"Damme, Harry, you are venomous!" For the first time in their acquaintance Colonel Boyce showed some signs of smarting. "What harm have I done you? No, sir, you have a nasty tongue. I intend the old lady no harm, neither. What if she has a tenderness for me? I suppose that does not make me a fool."
"To be sure, sir, I did not know your affection was serious." Harry laughed disagreeably.
"I believe you would not miss a chance to say a bitter thing though it ruined you, Lud, Harry, if you can't be grateful, don't be a fool too. What a pox are your Wavertons to me? I don't value them a pinch of snuff. What I am doing, I am doing for you. You know what you were when I found you—no better than a footman out of livery. Now, they treat you like a gentleman."
"And all for thebeaux yeuxof my father. Well, it's true, sir. But I don't know that I like any of us much the better for it."
To his great surprise his father looked at him with affectionate admiration. "Egad, you take that tone very well," said he. "It's a good card. Maybe it's the best with the women."
Harry had to laugh. "I think you have the easiest temper in the world, sir."
"Aye, aye. It has been the ruin of me."
And so they parted the best of friends. Indeed Harry had never liked his father so well or felt so much his superior. Thus from age to age is filial affection confirmed.
But he had to allow some adroitness in his father. Not only Lady Waverton, but Geoffrey too, succumbed to the paternal charms. That was the more surprising. Geoffrey, behind his vanity and his affectation, was no fool. He had also a temper apt to dislike any man who made a show of position or achievement beyond his own. Yet he hung upon the lips of Colonel Boyce. What they gave him was indeed a pleasing mixture—secrets about great affairs flavoured with deference to his ingenious criticisms. There was something solid about it, too. The Colonel, displaying himself as a man of much importance, perpetually hinted that only the occasion was needed for Mr. Waverton to surpass him by far, and to that occasion he could point the way. It appeared to Harry that his father had in mind to enlist Geoffrey for the proposed mission to France, or some other scheme unrevealed. And being unable to see any reason for wanting Geoffrey as a man, he suspected that his father wanted money.
He saw clearly that nobody wanted him, and was therewith very well content. At this time in his life he asked nothing better than to be left alone with his whims and the open air. He covered many a mile of sticky clay in these autumn days, placidly vacant of mind, and afterwards accounted them the most comfortable of his life.
Mr. Waverton's house was set upon a hill, at one end of a line of hills which now look over the wilderness of London, falling steeply thereto, and upon the other side, to northward and the open country, more gently. In the epoch of Harry Boyce those hills were all woodland—pleasant patches still remain,—and if the need of great walking was not upon him he was often pleased to loiter through their thickets. It was on a wild south-westerly day when the naked trees were at a loud chorus that Alison came to him.
The dainty colours of her face laughed from a russet hood, russet cloak and green skirt wind-borne against her gave him the delight of her shape.
"'Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about you,'" she cried.
"You're poetical, ma'am."
"I vow not I. I say what I mean. There's an unmaidenly trick. And, faith,I am here to rifle you, Mr. Boyce."
"Wish you joy, ma'am. What of?"
"Of your conceit, to be sure. Have you anything else?"
"I have nothing which could be of any use to Miss Lambourne. So God knows why she runs after me."
"Oh, brave!" Miss Lambourne was not out of countenance. "'Tis a shameless maid indeed which runs after a man"—she made him a curtsy. "But what is the man who runs away from a maid?"
Harry Boyce cursed her in his heart. She was by far too desirable. The rain-fraught wind had made the dawn tints of her clearer, lucent and yet more delicate. Her grey eyes danced like the sunlight ripples of deep water. Her lips were purely, brilliantly red. She fronted him and the wind, flaunting the richness of her bosom, poised and strong. She seemed the very body of life. For the first time he felt unsure of himself. "Did you come to call names, ma'am?" he growled.
"I allow you the privileges of a gentleman, Mr. Boyce."
"Gentleman? Oh Lud, no, ma'am. I am an upper servant. Rather better than the butler. Not so good as the steward."
"It won't serve you, sir. You have insulted me, and I demand satisfaction." She drew off her gauntleted glove and flicked him in the face with it. "Now will you fight?"
"Oh, must we slap and scratch then?" Harry flushed darker than the mark of the glove. "I thought we had been fighting."
Miss Lambourne laughed. "You can lose your temper then? It's something, in fact. Yes, we have been fighting, sir, and you don't fight fair."
"Who does with a woman?" Harry sneered. "I cry you mercy, ma'am. You are vastly too strong for me. Let me alone and I ask no more of you."
To which Miss Lambourne said, very innocently, "Why?" Harry looked up and saw her beautiful face meek and appealing, with something of a demure smile in the eyes. "Come, sir, what have I asked of you? You have done me something of a great service. There was a man handling me—do you know what that means? "—she made a wry face and gave herself a shaking shudder—"You rid me of him, and with some risk to your precious skin. Well, sir, I am grateful, and I want to show it. Odds life, I should be a beast did I not. I want to thank you and to sing your praises—to yourself also perhaps. And you are pleased to be a churl and a boor."
"In effect," said Harry coolly. "Egad, ma'am, let me have the luxury of hating you. For I am the Wavertons' gentleman usher and you are the nonpareil Miss Lambourne, vastly rich and—" he ended with a shrug and a rueful grin.
"And—?" Miss Lambourne softly insisted.
"And damnably lovely. Lord, you know that."
"I thank God," said Miss Lambourne devoutly.
"Is it true, Mr. Boyce—do the meek inherit the earth?" She held out her hands to him, one bare, one gloved, she swayed a little towards him, and her face was gentle and wistful. "Nay, sir, I ask your pardon. Call friends if you please and will please me."
Harry lost hold of himself at last. The blood surged in him, and he caught at her and kissed her fiercely.
It was he who was embarrassed. As he stood away from her, eyeing her with a queer defiant shame, she smiled through a small matter of a blush, and breathing quickly said: "What does it feel like, sir?"
"The world's a miracle," Harry said unsteadily and would have caught her again.
She turned, she was away light of foot, and in a moment through the wind he heard her singing to a tune of her own the child's rhyme:
"Fly away, Jack,Fly away, Jill,Come again, Jack,Come again, Jill."
Where the lane from Fortis Green crosses the high road there stood an ale-house. On the wettest days, and some others, the place was Harry's resort. Not that he had a liking for ale-house company—or indeed any company. But within the precincts of the Wavertons' house tobacco was forbidden and—all the more for that—tobacco he loved with a solid devotion. The alehouse of the cross roads offered a clean floor, a clean fire, air not too foul, a tolerable chair, a landlord who did not talk, and until evening, sufficient solitude. There Harry smoked many pipes in tranquillity until the day when on his entry he found Mr. Hadley's sardonic face waiting for him. He liked Charles Hadley less than many men whom he more despised. Nobody in a position just better than menial can be expected to like the condescending mockery which was Mr. Hadley'smetier. But Harry—it is one of his most noble qualities—bore being laughed at well enough. What most annoyed him was Mr. Hadley's parade of a surly, austere virtue. He did not doubt that it was sincere. He could more easily have forgiven it if it had been hypocritical. A man had no business to be so mighty honest.
Mr. Hadley nodded at Harry, who said it was a dirty day, and called for his pot of small ale and his pennyworth of Spanish tobacco. Mr. Hadley was civil enough to pass him a pipe from the box. Both gentlemen smoked in grave silence.
"So you are still with us," said Mr. Hadley.
"By your good leave, sir."
"I had an apprehension the Colonel was going to ravish you away."
"I hope I am still of some use to Mr. Waverton."
"Damme, you might be the old family retainer. 'Faithful service of the antique world,' egad. I suppose you will end your days with Geoffrey, and be buried at his feet like a trusty hound."
"If you please, sir."
They looked at each other. "Well, Mr. Boyce, I beg your pardon," Hadley said. "But you'll allow you are irritating to a plain man."
"I do not desire it, sir."
"I may hold my tongue and mind my own business, eh? Why not take me friendly?"
"I intend you no harm, Mr. Hadley."
"That's devilish good of you, Mr. Boyce. To be plain with you, what do you want here?"
"Here? Oh Lord, sir, I come to smoke my pipe!"
"And what if I come to smoke you? Odds life, I know you are no fool. Do me the honour to take me for none. And tell me, if you please, why do you choose to be Master Geoffrey's gentleman in waiting? You are good for better than that, Mr. Boyce."
"No doubt, sir. But it brings me bread and butter."
"You could earn that fighting in Flanders."
Harry shrugged. "I am not very brave, Mr. Hadley."
"You count upon staying here, do you?"
"If I can satisfy Mr. Waverton," said Harry meekly.
Hadley's face grew harder. "I vow I do my best to wish you well, Mr. Boyce. I should be glad to hear that you'll give up walking in the woods."
There was a moment of silence. "I did not know that I had asked for your advice, sir." Harry said. "I am not grateful for it."
"Damme, that's the first honest answer you have made," Hadley cried."Look 'e, Mr. Boyce, I am as much your friend as I may be. I have anuncle which was the lady's guardian. If I said a word to him he wouldcarry it to Lady Waverton in a gouty rage. There would be a swift end ofMr. Boyce the tutor. Well, I would not desire that. For all your airs,I'll believe you a man of honour. And I ask you what's to become of Mr.Boyce the tutor seeking private meetings with the Lambourne heiress?Egad, sir, you were made for better things than such a mean business."
"Honour!" Harry sneered. "Were you talking of men of honour? I suppose there is good cover in the woods, Mr. Hadley."
Hadley stared at him. "It was not good enough, you see, sir." He knocked out his pipe and stood up. "Bah, this is childish. You don't think me a knave, nor I you. I have said my say, and I mean you well."
"I believe that, Mr. Hadley"—Harry met him with level eyes—"and I am not grateful."
"You know who she is meant for."
"I know that the lady might call us both impudent."
"Would that break your bones? Come, sir, the lady hath been destined forMaster Geoffrey since she had hair and never has rebelled."
"Lord, Mr. Hadley, are you destiny?"
Mr. Hadley let that by with an impatient shrug. "So if you be fool enough to have ambitions after her, you would wear a better face in eating no more of Master Geoffrey's bread."
"It's a good day for walking, Mr. Hadley. Which way do you go? For I go the other."
"I hope so," Mr. Hadley agreed, and on that the two gentlemen parted, both something warm.
We should flatter him in supposing Harry Boyce of a chivalrous delicacy. Whether the lady's fair fame might be the worse for him was a question of which he never thought. It is certain that he did not blame himself for using his place as Geoffrey's paid servant to damage Geoffrey in his affections. And indeed you will agree that he was innocent of any designed attack upon the lady. Yet Mr. Hadley succeeded in making him very uncomfortable.
What most troubled him, I conceive, was the fear of being ridiculous. The position of a poor tutor aspiring to the favours of the heiress destined for his master invites the unkind gibe. And Harry could not be sure that Alison herself was free from the desire to make him a figure of scorn. Such a suspicion might disconcert the most ardent of lovers. Harry Boyce, whatever his abilities in the profession, was not that yet. But the very fact that he had come to feel an ache of longing for Alison made him for once dread laughter. If he had been manoeuvring for what he could get by her, or if he had been merely taken by her good looks, he might have met jeering with a brazen face. But she had engaged his most private emotions, and to have them made ludicrous would be of all possible punishments most intolerable. The precise truth of what he felt for her then was, I suppose, that he wanted to make her his own—wanted to have all of her in his power; and a gentleman whom the world—and the lady—are laughing at for an aspiring menial cannot comfortably think about his right to possess her.
There was something else. He was not meticulously delicate, but he had a complete practical sanity. He saw very well that even if Alison, by the chance of circumstance, had some infatuation for him, she might soon repent: he saw that even if the affair went with romantic success—a thing hardly possible—his position and hers might be awkward enough. Her friends would be long in forgiving either of them, and find ways enough to hurt them both. Mr. Hadley, confound him, spoke the common sense of mankind.
There was one solution—that estimable father. By the time he came back to the house on Tether-down, Harry was resolved to enlist under the ambiguous banner of Colonel Boyce.
With grim irony Harry congratulated himself on his decision. When first he came into the house he heard Alison singing. There was indeed (as he told himself clearly) nothing wonderful about her voice—it resembled the divine only in being still and small. Yet he could not (he called himself still more clearly a fool) keep away from it, and so he slunk into Lady Waverton's drawing-room. Only duty and stated hours were wont to drag him there. Lady Waverton showed her appreciation of his unusual attendance by staring at him across the massed trifles of the room with sleepy and insolent amazement. But it was not the glassy eyes of Lady Waverton which convinced Harry that flight was the true wisdom. Over Alison at the harpsichord, Geoffrey hung tenderly: their shoulders touched, eyes answered eyes, and miss was radiant. She sang at him with a naughty archness that song of Mr. Congreve's:
"Thus to a ripe consenting maid,Poor old repenting Delia said,Would you long preserve your lover?Would you still his goddess reign?Never let him all discover,Never let him much obtain.
Men will admire, adore and dieWhile wishing at your feet they lie;But admitting their embracesWakes 'em from the golden dream:Nothing's new besides our faces,Every woman is the same."
She contorted her own face into smug folly by way of illustration. Then she and Geoffrey laughed together. "I vow you're the most deliciously wicked creature that ever was born a maid."
"D'ye regret it, sir? Faith, I could not well be born a wife."
"No, ma'am, that's an honour to be won by care and pains."
"Pains! Lud, yes, I believe that. But, dear sir, I reckon it the punishment for folly. Why,"—she chose to see Harry—"why, here is our knight of the rueful countenance!"
Mr. Waverton laughed. "It is related of the Egyptians—"
"God help us," Alison murmured.
He went on, giggling. "It is related of the Ancient Egyptians that they ever had a corpse among the guests at their feasts."
"Were their cooks so bad?" said Alison.
"To remind them that all men are mortal. Now you see why we keep Harry."
"I wonder if he looked as happy when he was alive," said Alison, surveying his wooden face.
"De mortuis nil nisi bonum," Geoffrey laughed. "No jests about the dead, Alison. But to tell you a secret, he never was alive. He doesn't like it known."
Colonel Boyce, who had listened to the song and the first coruscations of wit with the condescending smile of a connoisseur, now exhibited some impatience. "Egad, Harry, why will you dress like a parson out at elbows?"
"His customary suit of solemn black," said Geoffrey.
"He is in mourning for himself, of course," Alison laughed.
"I have two suits of clothes, ma'am," said Harry meekly. "This is the better."
"Poor Harry!" Geoffrey granted him a look of protective affection. "I vow we are too hard on him, Alison." And then in a lower voice for her private ear. "A dear, worthy fellow, but—well, what would you have?—of no spirit." Alison bit her lip.
"Oh, Mr. Waverton," Harry protested, "indeed, I am proud to be the cause of such wit."
Colonel Boyce stared at his son with an enigmatic frown. Alison's eyes brightened. But Geoffrey suspected no guile. "Not witty thyself, dear lad, but the cause of wit in others, eh? Odds life, Harry, you are invaluable."
"'Tis your kindness for me makes you think so, Mr. Waverton. And, to be sure, I could ask no more than to amuse your lady."
Alison said tartly, "Oh, it takes little to amuse me, sir."
"I am sure, ma'am," Harry agreed meekly.
"It's a happy nature." and he bowed to Geoffrey, humbly congratulating him on a lady of such simple tastes.
Geoffrey, who had now had enough of his good tutor, eliminated him by a compliment or so on Alison's voice and the demand that she should sing again. He found her in an awkward temper. She would not sing this, she would not sing that, she found faults in every song known to Mr. Waverton. Yet in a fashion she was encouraging. For this new method of keeping him off was governed by a queer adulation of him: no song in the world could be worth his distinguished attention; her little voice must be to his accomplished ear vain and ludicrous; the kind things he was so good as to say were vastly gratifying, to be sure, but they were merely his kind condescension. And, oh Lud, it was time she was gone, or poor, dear Weston would be imagining her slaughtered on the highway.
Geoffrey could not make much of this, but was pleased to take it as flattering feminine homage to his magnificence. By way of reward, he announced an intention of riding home with her carriage. "Faith, you are too good"—her eyes were modestly hidden—"but then you are too good to everybody. Is he not, Mr. Boyce?"
"Oh, ma'am, we all practise on his kindness," Harry said.
"A good night to your mourning," she said sharply, "dear Lady Waverton."They kissed. "Colonel Boyce, I hold you to your promise."
"With all my heart, ma'am. Your devoted."
She was gone, and Harry, with a look of significance at his father, went off too….
In that shabby upper chamber of his, Harry again offered the Colonel a choice between the bed and the one chair. Colonel Boyce made a gesture and an exclamation of impatience, and remained standing. "Now, what the devil do you want with me?" he complained.
"I want to be very grateful. I want to enlist with you. When shall we start?"
His father frowned, and in a little while made a crooked answer, "Do you know, Harry, you are too mighty subtle. I was so at your years. It's very pretty sport, but—well, it won't butter your parsnips. The women can't tell what to make of it. Having, in general, no humour, pretty creatures."
"I am obliged for the sermon, sir. Shall we leave to-morrow?"
"Egad, you are in a fluster," his father smiled. "Well, to be sure, he is a teasing fellow, the beautiful Geoffrey."
Harry made an exclamation. "You'll forgive me, sir, if I say you are talking nonsense."
"Oh Lud, yes," his father chuckled.
"Whether I am agreeable to women, whether Mr. Waverton is agreeable to me—odds life, sir, I don't trouble my head about such things. Pray, why should you? As well sit down and cry because my eyes are not the same colour."
"No. No. There is something taking about that, Harry," his father remonstrated placidly.
"When you please to be in earnest, sir," Harry cried, "if this affair of yours is in earnest—" "Oh, you may count on that." Colonel Boyce was still enjoying himself.
"Then I am ready for it. And the sooner the better."
"Hurry is a bad horse. The truth is, something more hangs on this affair than Mr. Harry's whims. Oh, damme, I don't blame you, though. He is tiresome, our Geoffrey."
"Why, sir, if we have to waste time, we might waste it more comfortably than with the Waverton family. Shall we say to-morrow?"
Colonel Boyce tapped his still excellent teeth. "Patience, patience," he said, and considered his son gravely. "As for to-morrow, I have friends to see, and so have you. Your pretty miss engaged me to ride over with you to her house. And behind the brave Geoffrey's back, if you please. She is a sly puss, Harry." He expected so obviously an angry answer that Harry chose to disappoint him.
"I shall be happy to take leave of Miss Lambourne. And shall I ride pillion with you, sir? For I have no horse of my own."
"Bah, dear Geoffrey will lend me the best in the stable."
"I give you joy of the progress in his affections."
Colonel Boyce laughed. "You are pledged for the forenoon then," he paused. "And as to that little affair of mine—you shall know your part soon enough."
"It cannot be too soon, sir."
"No." Colonel Boyce nodded. "I think it's full time."
He took leave of his son with what the son thought superfluous affection.
Half an hour afterwards he was in Mr. Waverton's room—a place very precious. Everything in it—and there were many things—had an air of being strange. Mr. Waverton slept behind curtains of black and silver. His floor was covered with some stuff like scarlet velvet. There was a skull in the place of honour on the walls, flanked by two Venetian pictures of the Virgin, and faced by a blowsy Bacchus and Ariadne from Flanders. The chairs were of the newest Italian mode, designed rather to carry as much gilding as possible than to comfort the human form. Colonel Boyce, regarding them with some apprehension, stood himself before the fire and waved off Geoffrey's effusive courtesy.
"I hope you have good news for me, Mr. Waverton?" So he opened the attack.
"Why, sir, I have considered my engagements," Geoffrey said magnificently. "I believe I could hold myself free for some months—if the enterprise were of weight."
"You relieve me vastly. I'll not disguise from you, Mr. Waverton, that I am something anxious to secure you. I could not find a gentleman so well equipped for this delicate business. You'll observe, 'tis of the first importance that we should have presence, an air, theje ne sais quoiof dignity and family."
"Sir, you are very obliging." Geoffrey swallowed it whole.
"When I came here I confess I was at my wit's end. Indeed, I had a mind to go alone. The gentlemen of my acquaintance—either they could not be trusted with an affair of such value, or they had too much of our English coarseness to be at ease with it. Faith, when I came to see my poor, dear Harry, little I thought that in his neighbourhood I should find the very man for my embassy." The two gentlemen laughed together over the incompatibility of Harry with gentlemanly diplomacy.
"Not but what Harry is a faithful, trusty fellow," said Mr. Waverton, with magnificent condescension.
"You are very good to say so. A dolt, sir, a dolt; so much the worse for me. Now, Mr. Waverton, to you I have no need of a word more on the secrecy of the affair. Though, to be sure, this very morning I had another note from Cadogan—Marlborough'sâme damnéeyou know—pressing it on me that nothing should get abroad. So when we go, we'll be off without a good-bye, and if you must leave a word behind for the anxieties of my lady, let her know that you are off with me to see the army in Flanders."
"I profess, Colonel, you are mighty cautious."
"Dear sir, we cannot be too cautious in this affair. There's many a handsome scheme gone awry for the sake of some affectionate farewell. Mothers, wives, lady-loves—sweet luxuries, Mr. Waverton, but damned dangerous. Now here's my plan. We'll go riding on an afternoon and not come back again. Trust my servant to get away quietly with your baggage and mine. We must travel light, to be sure. We'll go round London. I have too many friends there, and I want none of them asking where old Noll Boyce is off to now. Newhaven is the port for us. There is a trusty fellow there has his orders already. I look to land at Le Havre. Now, the Prince, by our latest news, is back at St. Germain. As you can guess, Mr. Waverton, to be seen in Paris would suit my health even less than to be seen in London. Too many honest Frenchmen have met me in the wars, and, what's worse, too many of them know me deep in Marlborough's business. I could not show my face without all King Louis's court talking of some great matter afoot. What I have in mind is to halt on the road—at Pontoise maybe—while you ride on with letters to Prince James. I warrant you they are such, and with such names to them, as will assure you a noble welcome. It's intended that he should quit St. Germain privately with you to conduct him to me. Then I warrant you we shall know how to deal with the lad." He paused and stared at Geoffrey intently, and gradually a grim humour stole into his eyes. He began to laugh. "Egad, I envy you, Mr. Waverton. To be in such an affair at your years—bah, I should have been crazy with pride."
"You need not doubt that I value the occasion, sir," Geoffrey said grandly. "Pray, believe that I shall do honour to your confidence."
"To be sure you will. Odds life, to chaffer with a king's son about kingdoms, to offer a realm to a prince in exile (if only he will be a good boy)—it's a fine, stately affair, sir, and you are the very man to take it in the right vein."
"Sir, you are most obliging. I profess I vaunt myself very happy in your kindness. Be sure that I shall know how to justify you."
"Egad, you do already," Colonel Boyce smiled, still with some touch of cruelty in his eyes.
"Pray, sir, when must we start?"
"When I know, maybe I shall need to start in an hour."
"I shall not fail you. I shall want, I suppose, some funds in hand?"
Colonel Boyce shrugged. "Oh Lud, yes, we'll want some money. A matter of five hundred pounds should serve."
"I will arrange for it in the morning," said Mr. Waverton, too magnificent to be startled. "Pray, what clothes shall we be able to carry?"
"Damme, that's a grave matter," said Colonel Boyce, and with becoming gravity discussed it.
Thus Colonel Boyce blandly arranged the lives of his young friends. It is believed that he had a peculiar pleasure in manoeuvring his fellow-creatures from behind a veil of secrecy. For in this he sought not merely his private profit (though it was never out of his calculations); he enjoyed his operations for their own sake; he liked his trickery as trickery; to push and pull people to the place in which he wanted them without their knowing how or why or to what end they were impelled was to him a pleasure second to none in life. And on a survey of his whole career he is to be accounted successful. Though I cannot find that he ever achieved anything of signal importance even for himself, at one time or another he brought a great number of people, some of them powerful, and some of them honourable, under his direction, he had his complete will of many of them, and was rewarded by the bitter hostility of the majority. He contrived, in fact, to live just such a life as he liked best. What more can any man have?
So he told Harry nothing of his engagement of Mr. Waverton, and Harry, you have seen, was not likely to guess that anyone would enlist his Geoffrey for a serious enterprise. On the next morning, indeed, Harry did remark that Geoffrey was more portentous than usual, but thought nothing of it. He was embarrassed by thinking about himself.
There was, as Colonel Boyce predicted, no difficulty about a horse for Harry. When the Colonel suggested it, Geoffrey showed some satirical surprise at Harry's daring, but (advising one of the older carriage horses) bade him take what he would. Colonel Boyce spoke only of riding with his son. He said nothing of where they were going. Harry wondered whether Geoffrey would have been so gracious if he had known that Alison was their destination, and, a new experience for him, felt some qualms of conscience. It was uncomfortable to use a favour from Geoffrey, even a trifling favour granted with a sneer, for meeting his lady; still more uncomfortable to go seek the lady out secretly. But if he announced what he was doing, there would be instantly something ridiculous about it, and he would have to swallow much of Geoffrey's humour. Geoffrey might even come with them, and Alison and he be humorous together—a fate intolerable. There was indeed an easy way of escape. He had but to stay away from the lady. But, though he despised himself for it, he desired infinitely to see her again. She compelled him, as he had never believed anything outside his own will could compel. After all, it was no such matter, for he would soon be gone with his father to France. He might well hope never to see her again.
So on that ride through the steep wooded lanes to Highgate, his father found him morose, and complained of it. "Damme, for a young fellow that's off to his lady-love you are a mighty poor thing, Harry."
"My lady-love! I have no taste for rich food. I thought it was your lady we were going to see."
"What the devil do you mean by that?" Colonel Boyce stared.
"Oh, fie, sir! Why be ashamed of her?"
"God knows what you are talking about." Colonel Boyce was extraordinarily irritated. "Ashamed of whom?"
"Of the peerless Miss Lambourne, to be sure. Oh, sir, why be so innocent?How could she resist your charms? And indeed—"
"Miss Lambourne! What damned nonsense you talk, Harry."
"I followed your lead, sir," said Harry meekly. "But if we are to talk sense—when shall we start for France?"
"You shall know when I know."
And on that they came to the top of the hill and the gates of the Hall. The wet weather had yielded to St. Martin's summer. It was a day of gentle silver-gold sunlight and benign air. With her companion, Mrs. Weston, Miss Lambourne was walking in the garden. She met the gentlemen at a turn of the drive by rampant sweetbriers. "Here's our knight of the rueful countenance, and faith, on Rosinante, poor jade," she patted Harry's aged carriage horse. "Oh, and he has brought with him Solomon in all his glory," she made a wonderful curtsy to the splendours of Colonel Boyce. "Now, who would have dreamt Don Quixote's father was Solomon?"
"I suppose I take after my mother, ma'am," Harry said meekly. "It's a hope which often consoles me."
"Why, they say Solomon had something of a variety in wives, and among them—"
Colonel Boyce dismounted with so much noise that the jest was hardly heard and the end of it altogether lost.
"You did not tell me"—Mrs. Weston was speaking and seemed to find it difficult—"Alison, you did not tell me the gentlemen were coming." It occurred to Harry that she looked very pale and ill.
"Why, Weston; dear, I could not tell if they would keep troth." She began to hum:
"Men were deceivers ever,One foot on sea, and one on shore,To one thing constant never."
"Nay, ma'am, sigh no more for here are we," Colonel Boyce said brusquely.
"Oh Lud, he overwhelms us with the honour." She laughed. "How can we entertain him worthily? Sir, will you walk? My poor house and I await your pleasure."
"I am vastly honoured, ma'am. I have never had a lady-in-waiting."
"Oh, celibate virtue!" quoth Miss Lambourne. And so to the house Colonel Boyce led her and his horse, and a little way behind Harry followed with his and Mrs. Weston.
She had nothing to say for herself. She looked so wan, she walked so slowly, and with such an air of pain that Harry had to say something about fearing she was not well. Then he felt a fool for his pains; as she turned in answer and shook her head he saw such a sad, wistful dignity in her eyes that the small coin of courtesy seemed an absurd offering. A fancy, to be sure, in itself absurd. Yet he could not make the woman out. There was something odd and baffling in the way she looked at him.
She led off with an odd question, "Pray, have you lived much withColonel Boyce?"
"Not I, ma'am." Harry laughed. "If I were not a very wise child I should hardly know my own father. Lived with him? Not much more than with my mother, whom I never saw."
"Oh, did you not?" Her eyes dwelt upon him. After a little while, "Who brought you up then?"
"Schools. Half a dozen schools between Taunton and London, andWestminster at last."
"Were you happy?"
"When I had sixpence."
"But Colonel Boyce is rich!" she cried.
"I have no evidence of it, ma'am."
"I cannot understand. You hardly know him. But he comes to you at Lady Waverton's; he stays with you; he brings you here. I believe you are closer with him than you say."
"Why, ma'am, it's mighty kind in you to concern yourself so with my affairs. And if you can't understand them, faith, no more can I."
She showed no shame at this rebuke of impertinence. In a minute Harry was sorry he had amused himself by giving it. There was something strangely affecting in the woman. Middle-aged, stout, faded, bound in manner and speech by a shy clumsiness, she refused to be insignificant, she made an appeal to him which he puzzled over in vain. Her simplicity was with power, as of a nature which had cared only for the greater things. He felt himself meeting one who had more than he of human quality, richer in suffering, richer in all emotion, and (what was vastly surprising) under her dullness, her feebleness, of fuller and deeper life.
From vague, intriguing, bewildering fancies, her voice brought him back with a start. "He brought you here?" she was asking.
To be sure, she was wonderfully maladroit. This buzzing, futile curiosity irritated him again into a sneer. "He is no doubt captivated by the beautiful eyes of Miss Lambourne."
"He! Mr. Boyce?"—she corrected herself with a stammer and a blush—"Colonel Boyce? Oh no. Indeed, he is old enough to be her father."
"I think we ought to tell him so." Harry chuckled. "It would do him good."
"I think this is not very delicate, sir." Mrs. Weston was still blushing.
"Egad, ma'am, if you ask questions, you must expect answers," Harry snapped at her.
"Why do you sneer at her? Why should you speak coarsely of her? I suppose you come to the house of your own choice? Or does he make you come?"
Harry saw no occasion for such excitement. "Why, you take away my breath with your pronouns. He and she—she and he—pray, let's leave him and her out of the question. Here's a very pretty garden."
"Indeed, we need not quarrel, I think." She laughed nervously, and gave him an odd, shy look. "Pray, do you stay with the Wavertons?"
"Alas, ma'am, I make your acquaintance and bid you farewell all in one day."
"Make my acquaintance!" Again came a nervous laugh, and it was a moment before she went on. "We have met before to-day."
"Oh Lud, ma'am, I would desire you forget it."
"I am to forget it!" she echoed. "Oh … Oh, you are very proud."
"Not I, indeed. The truth is, ma'am, that silly affair with our highwayman, it embarrasses me mightily. I want to live it down. Pray, help me, and think no more about it."
"I suppose that is what you say to Alison?" For the first time there was a touch of fun in her eyes.
"Word for word, ma'am."
"Why do you come here then?"
"As I have the honour to tell you—to say good-bye."
She checked and stared at him. She was very pale. But now they were at the steps of the house, and Colonel Boyce, who had resigned his horse to a groom, turned with Alison to meet them.
"I am hot with the Colonel's compliments, Weston, dear," she announced. "I must take a turn with Mr. Boyce to cool me. 'Tis his role. A convenient family, faith. One makes you uncomfortably hot and t'other freezes you. You go get warm, my Weston. Though I vow 'tis dangerous to trust you to the Colonel. He has made very shameless love to me, and you have a tender heart."
It occurred to Harry that Mrs. Weston and his father, thus forced to look at each other, wore each an air of defiance. They amused him.
"I am not afraid," Mrs. Weston said.
"I profess I am abashed," said Colonel Boyce. "Pray, ma'am, be gentle to my disgrace," and he offered his arm. She bowed and moved away, and he followed her.
Harry and Alison, face to face, and sufficiently close, eyed each other with some amusement.
"Oh, Mr. Boyce," said she, and shook her head.
"Oh, Miss Lambourne," Harry exhorted in his turn.
"You have fallen. You have walked into my parlour."
"I am the best of sons, ma'am. I endure all things at my father's orders—even spiders."
She still eyed him steadily, searching him, and was still amused. She moved a little so that the admirable flowing lines of her shape were more marked. Then she said, "Why are you afraid of me?"
Harry shook his head, smiling. "Vainly is the net spread in the sight of the bird, ma'am. But, faith, it was a pretty question, and I make you my compliments."
"So. Will you walk, sir?" She turned into a narrow path in the shadow of arches, clothed by a great Austrian brier, on which here and there a yellow flame still glowed. "Mr. Boyce—when I meet you in company you shrink and cower detestably; when I meet you alone, you fence with me impudently enough and shrewdly; and always you avoid me while you can. I suppose there's in all this something more than the freaks of a fool. Then it's fear. Prithee, sir, why in God's name are you afraid of me?"
"Miss Lambourne got out of bed very earnest this morning," Harry grinned."But oh, let's be grave and honest with all my heart. Why, then, ma'am,I've to say that a penniless fellow has the right to be afraid of MissLambourne's money bags."
"Fie, you are no such fool. If one is good company to t'other, which is rich and which is poor is no more matter than which fair and which dark."
"In a better world, ma'am, I would believe you."
"And here you believe kind folks would sneer at Harry Boyce for scenting an heiress. So you tuck your tail between your legs and go to ground. I suppose that is called honour, sir."
"Oh no, ma'am. Taste."
"La, I offend monsieur's fine taste, do I?"
"Not often, ma'am. But by all means let us be earnest. I believe I mind being sneered at no more than my betters.Par exemple, ma'am, when you laugh at me for being shabby, I am not much disturbed."
She blushed furiously. "I never did."
"Oh, I must have read your thoughts then," Harry laughed. "Well, what matters to me is not that folks laugh at me but why they laugh. That they mock me for being out at elbows I swallow well enough. That they should sneer at me for making love to a woman's purse would give me a nausea."
Miss Lambourne was pleased to look modest. "Indeed, sir, I did not know that you had made love to me."
"I am obliged by your honesty, ma'am."
Miss Lambourne looked up and spoke with some vehemence. "It comes to this, then, you would be beaten by what folks may say about you. Oh, brave!"
"Lud, we are all beaten by what folks might say. Would you ride intoLondon in your shift?"
"I don't want to ride in my shift," she cried fiercely.
"Perhaps not, ma'am. But perhaps I don't want to make love to your purse."
"Od burn it, sir, am I nothing but a purse?"
"I leave it to your husband to find out, ma'am, and beg leave to take my leave. My kind father offers me occupation at a distance, and I embrace it ardently. Who knows? It may provide me with a coat."
"You are going away?"
"I have had the honour to say so."
"And why, if you please?"
Harry shrugged. "Because, ma'am, without my assistance, Mr. Waverton can very well translate Horace into his own sublime verse and Miss Lambourne into his own proud wife."
He intended her to rage. What she did was to say softly: "You do not want to see me that?"
"I have no ambition to amuse you, ma'am." Miss Lambourne looked sideways. "What if I don't want you to go away?"
"Egad, ma'am, I know you don't." Harry laughed. "You amuse yourself vastly (God knows why) with baiting me."
"Why, it amuses me." Alison still looked at him sideways. "Don't you know why?"
He did not choose to answer.
"Indeed, then, if I am nought to you why do you care what folks say of you and me?"
Harry made a step towards her. "You mean to have it again, do you?" he muttered.