"Now a plague take all created things, Lady Kitty!" cried Mary Connynge, petulantly flinging down a silken pattern over which she had pretended to be engaged. "There are devils in the skeins to-day. I'll try no more with't."
"Fie! For shame, Mary Connynge," replied Lady Catharine Knollys, reprovingly. "So far from better temperance of speech, didst ever hear of the virtue of perseverance? Now, for my own part—"
"And what, for your own part? Have I no eyes to see that thou'rt puttering over the same corner this last half hour? What is it thou art making to-day?"
The Lady Catharine paused for a moment and held her embroidery frame away from her at arm's length, looking at it with brow puckering into a perplexed frown.
"I was working a knight," said she. "A tall one—"
"Yes, a tall one, with yellow hair, I warrant."
"Why, so it was. I was but seeking floss of the right hue, and found it difficult."
"And with blue eyes?"
"True; or perhaps gray. I could not state which. I had naught in my box would serve to suit me for the eyes. But how know you this, Mary Connynge?" asked the Lady Catharine.
"Because I was making some such knight for myself," replied the other. "See! He was to have been tall, of good figure, wearing a wide hat and plume withal. But lest I spoil him, my knight—now a plague take me indeed if I do not ruin him complete!" So saying, she drew with vengeful fingers at the intricately woven silks until she had indeed undone all that had gone before.
"Nay, nay! Mary Connynge! Do not so!" replied Lady Catharine in expostulation. "The poor knight, how could he help himself? Why, as for mine, though I find him not all I could wish, I'll e'en be patient as I may, and seek if I may not mend him. These knights, you know, are most difficult. 'Tis hard to make them perfect."
Mary Connynge sat with her hands in her lap, looking idly out of the window and scarce heeding the despoiled fabric which lay on her lap. "Come, confess, Lady Kitty," said she at length, turning toward her friend. "Wert not trying to copy a knight of a hedge-row after all? Did not a certain tall young knight, with eyes of blue, or gray, or the like, give pattern for your sampler while you were broidering to-day?"
"Fie! For shame!" again replied Lady Catharine, flushing none the less. "Rather ask, does not such a thought come over thine own broidering? But as to the hedge-row, surely the gentleman explained it all proper enough; and I am sure—yes, I am very sure—that my brother Charles had quite approved of my giving the injured young man the lift in the coach—
"Provided that your Brother Charles had ever heard of such a thing!"
"Well, of that, to be sure, why trouble my brother over such a trifle, when 'twas so obviously proper?" argued Lady Catharine, bravely. "And certainly, if we come to knights and the like, good chivalry has ever demanded succor for those in distress; and if, forsooth, it was two damsels in a comfortable coach, who rescued two knights from underneath a hedge-row, why, such is but the way of these modern days, when knights go seeking no more for adventures and ladies fair; as you very well know."
"As I do not know, Lady Catharine," replied Mary Connynge. "To the contrary, 'twould not surprise me to learn that he would not shrink from any adventure which might offer."
"You mean—that is—you mean the tall one, him who said he was Mr. Law of Lauriston?"
"Well, perhaps. Though I must say," replied Mary Connynge, with indirection, "that I fancy the other far more, he being not so forward, nor so full of pure conceit. I like not a man so confident." This with an eye cast down, as much as though there were present in the room some man subject to her coquetry.
"Why, I had not found him offering such an air," replied Lady Catharine, judicially. "I had but thought him frank enough, and truly most courteous."
"Why, truly," replied Mary Connynge. "But saw you naught in his eye?"
"Why, but that it was blue, or gray," replied Lady Catharine.
"Oh, ho! then my lady did look a bit, after all! And so this is why the knight flourisheth so bravely in silks to-day—Fie! but a mere adventurer, Lady Kitty. He says he is Law of Lauriston; but what proof doth he offer? And did he find such proof, it is proof of what? For my part, I did never hear of Lauriston nor its owner."
"Ah, but that I have, to the contrary," said Lady Catharine. "John Law's father was a goldsmith, and it was he who bought the properties of Lauriston and Randleston. And so far from John Law being ill-born, why, his mother was Jean Campbell, kinswoman of the Campbell, Duke of Argyll; and a mighty important man is the Duke of Argyll these days, I may tell you, as the king's army hath discovered before this. You see, I have not talked with my brother about these things for naught."
"So you make excuse for this Mr. Law of Lauriston," said Mary Connynge. "Well, I like better a knight who comes on his own horse, or in his own chariot, and who rescues me when I am in trouble, rather than asks me to give him aid. But, as to that, what matter? We set those highway travelers down, and there was an end of it. We shall never see either of them again."
"Of course not," said Lady Catharine.
"It were impossible."
"Oh, quite impossible!"
Both the young women sighed, and both looked out of the window.
"Because," said Mary Connynge, "they are but strangers. That talk of having letters may be but deceit. They themselves may be coiners. I have heard it said that coiners are monstrous bold."
"To be sure, he mentioned Sir Arthur Pembroke," ventured Lady Catharine.
"Oh! And be sure Sir Arthur Pembroke will take pains enough that no tall young man, who offers roses to ladies on first acquaintance, shall ever have opportunity to present himself to Lady Catharine Knollys. Nay, nay! There will be no introduction from that source, of that be sure. Sir Arthur is jealous as a wolf of thee already, Lady Kitty. See! He hath followed thee about like a dog for three years. And after all, why not reward him, Lady Kitty? Indeed, but the other day thou wert upon the very point of giving him his answer, for thou saidst to me that he sure had the prettiest eyes of any man in London. Pray, are Sir Arthur's eyes blue, or gray—or what? And can you match his eyes among the color of your flosses?"
"It might be," said Lady Catharine, musingly, "that he would some day find means to send us word."
"Who? Sir Arthur?"
"No. The young man, Mr. Law of Lauriston."
"Yes; or he might come himself," replied Mary Connynge.
"Fie! He dare not!"
"Oh, but be not too sure. Now suppose he did come—'twill do no harm for us to suppose so much as that. Suppose he stood there at your very door, Lady Kitty. Then what would you do?"
"Do! Why, tell James that we were not in, and never should be, and request the young man to leave at once."
"And never let him pass the door again."
"Certainly not! 'Twould be presumption. But then"—this with a gentle sigh—"we need not trouble ourselves with this. I doubt not he hath forgot us long ago, just as indeed we have forgotten him—though I would say—. But I half believe he hit thee, girl, with his boldness and his bow, and his fearlessness withal."
"Who, I? Why, heavens! Lady Kitty! The idea never came to my mind. Indeed no, not for an instant. Of course, as you say, 'twas but a passing occurrence, and 'twas all forgot. But, by the way, Lady Kitty, go we to Sadler's Wells to-morrow morn?"
"I see no reason for not going," replied Lady Catharine. "And we may drive about, the same way we took the other morn. I will show you the same spot where he stood and bowed so handsomely, and made so little of the fight with the robbers the night before, as though 'twere trifling enough; and made so little of his poverty, as though he were owner of the king's coin."
"But we shall never see him more," said Mary Connynge.
"To be sure not. But just to show you—see! He stood thus, his hat off, his eye laughing, I pledge you, as though for some good jest he had. And 'twas 'your pardon, ladies!' he said, as though he were indeed nobleman himself. See! 'Twas thus."
What pantomime might have followed did not appear, for at that moment the butler appeared at the door with an admonitory cough. "If you please, your Ladyship," said he, "there are two persons waiting. They—that is to say, he—one of them, asks for admission to your Ladyship."
"What name does he offer, James?"
"Mr. John Law of Lauriston, your Ladyship, is the name he sends. He says, if your Ladyship please, that he has brought with him something which your Ladyship left behind, if your Ladyship please."
Lady Catharine and Mary Connynge had both arisen and drawn together, and they now turned each a swift half glance upon the other.
"Are these gentlemen waiting without the street door?" asked Lady Catharine.
"No, your Ladyship. That is to say, before I thought, I allowed the tall one to come within."
"Oh, well then, you see, Mary Connynge," replied Lady Catharine, with the pink flush rising in her cheek, "it were rude to turn them now from our door, since they have already been admitted."
"Yes, we will send to the library for your brother," said Mary Connynge, dimpling at the corners of her mouth.
"No, I think it not needful to do that," replied Lady Catharine, "but we should perhaps learn what this young man brings, and then we'll see to it that we chide him so that he'll no more presume upon our kindness. My brother need not know, and we ourselves will end this forwardness at once, Mary Connynge, you and I. James, you may bring the gentlemen in."
Enter, therefore, John Law and his brother Will, the former seeming thus with ease to have made good his promise to win past the door of the Earl of Banbury.
John Law, as on the morning of the roadside meeting, approached in advance of his more timid brother, though both bowed deeply as they entered. He bowed again respectfully, his eyes not wandering hither and yon upon the splendors of this great room in an ancestral home of England. His gaze was fixed rather upon the beauty of the tall girl before him, whose eyes, now round and startled, were not quite able to be cold nor yet to be quite cast down; whose white throat throbbed a bit under its golden chain; whose bosom rose and fell perceptibly beneath its falls of snowy laces.
"Lady Catharine Knollys," said John Law, his voice deep and even, and showing no false note of embarrassment, "we come, as you may see, to make our respects to yourself and your friend, and to thank you for your kindness to two strangers."
"To two strangers, Mr. Law," said Lady Catharine, pointedly.
"Yes"—and the answering smile was hard to be denied—"to two strangers who are still strangers. I did but bethink me it was sweet to have such kindness. We were advised that London was cruel cold, and that all folk of this city hated their fellow-men. So, since 'twas welcome to be thus kindly entreated, I believed it but the act of courtesy to express our thanks more seeming than we might as that we were two beggars by the wayside. Therefore, I pay the first flower of my perpetual tribute." He bowed and extended, as he spoke, a deep red rose. His eye, though still direct, was as much imploring as it was bold.
Instinctively Mary Connynge and Lady Catharine had drawn together, retreating somewhat from this intrusion. They were now standing, like any school girls, looking timidly over their shoulders, as he advanced. Lady Catharine hesitated, and yet she moved forward a half pace, as though bidden by some unheard voice. "'Twas nothing, what we did for you and your brother," said she. She extended her hand as she spoke. "As for the flower, I think—I think a rose is a sweet-pretty thing."
She bent her cheek above the blossom, and whether the cheek or the petal were the redder, who should say? If there were any ill at ease in that room, it was not Law of Lauriston. He stood calm as though there by right. It was an escapade, an adventure, without doubt, as both these young women saw plainly enough. And now, what to do with this adventure since it had arrived?
"Sir," said Lady Catharine at length, "I am sure you must be wearied with the heavy heats of the town. Your brother must still be weak from his hurt. Pray you, be seated." She placed the rose upon the tabouret as she passed, and presently pulled at the bell cord.
"James," said she, standing very erect and full of dignity, "go to the library and see if Sir Charles be within."
When the butler's solemn cough again gave warning, it was to bring information which may or may not have been news to Lady Catharine. "Your Ladyship," said he, "Sir Charles is said to have taken carriage an hour ago, and left no word."
"Send me Cecile, James," said Lady Catharine, and again the butler vanished.
"Cecile," said she, as the maid at length appeared, "you may serve us with tea."
"You mistake, sir! I am no light o' love, John Law!"
Thus spoke Catharine Knollys. She stood near the door of the great drawing-room of the Knollys mansion, her figure beseeming well its framing of deep hangings and rich tapestries. Her eyes were wide and flashing, her cheeks deeply pink, the sweet bow of her lips half a-quiver in her vehemence. Her surpassing personal beauty, rich, ripe, enticing, gave more than sufficient challenge for the fiery blood of the young man before her.
It was less than two weeks since these two had met. Surely the flood of time had run swiftly in those few days. Not a day had passed that Law had not met Catharine Knollys, nor had yet one meeting been such as the girl in her own conscience dared call better than clandestine, even though they met, as now, under her own roof. Yet, reason as she liked, struggle as she could, Catharine Knollys had not yet been quite able to end this swift voyaging on the flood of fate. It was so strange, so new, so sweet withal, this coming of her suitor, as from the darkness of some unknown star, so bold, so strong, so confident, and yet so humble! All the old song of the ages thrilled within her soul, and each day its compelling melody had accession. That this delirious softening of all her senses meant danger, the Lady Catharine could not deny. Yet could aught of earth be wrong when it spelled such happiness, such sweetness—when the sound of a footfall sent her blood going the faster, when the sight of a tall form, the ring of a vibrant tone, caused her limbs to weaken, her throat to choke?
But ah! whence and why this spell, this sorcery—why this sweetness filling all her being, when, after all, duty and seemliness bade it all to end, as end it must, to-day? Thus had the Lady Catharine reflected but the hour before John Law came; her knight of dreams—tall, yellow-haired, blue-eyed, bold and tender, and surely speaking truth if truth dwelt beneath the stars. Now he would come—now he had come again. Here was his red, red rose once more. Here, burning in her ears, singing in her heart, were his avowing, pleading words. And this must end!
John Law looked at her calmly, but said nothing. One hand, in a gesture customary with him, flicked lightly at the deep cuff of the other wrist, and this nervous movement was the sole betrayal of his uneasiness.
"You come to this house time and again," resumed Catharine Knollys, "as though it were an ancient right on your part, as though you had always been a friend of this family. And yet—"
"And so I have been," broke in her suitor. "My people were friends of yours before we two were born. Why, then, should you advise your servant, as you have, fairly to deny me admission at the door?"
"I have done ill enough to admit you. Had I dreamed of this last presumption on your part I should never have seen your face again."
"'Tis not presumption," said the young man, his voice low and even, though ringing with the feeling to which even he dared not give full expression. "I myself might call this presumption in another, but with myself 'tis otherwise."
"Sir," said Lady Catharine Knollys, "you speak as one not of good mind."
"Not of good mind!" broke out John Law. "Say rather of mind too good to doubt, or dally, or temporize. Why, 'tis plain as the plan of fate! It was in the stars that I should come to you. This face, this form, this heart, this soul—I shall see nothing else so long as I live! Oh, I feel myself unworthy; you have right to think me of no station. Yet some day I shall bring to you all that wealth can buy, all that station can mean. Catharine—dear Lady Kitty—dear Kate—"
"I like not so fast a soothsaying in any suitor of mine," replied Lady Catharine, hotly, "and this shall go no further." Her hand restrained him.
"Then you find me distasteful? You would banish me? I could not learn to endure it!"
Lady Catharine looked at him curiously. "Actually, sir," said she, "you cause me to chill. I could half fear you. What is in your heart? Surely, this is a strange love-making."
"And by that," cried John Law, "know, then the better of the truth. Listen! I know! And this is what I know—that I shall succeed, and that I shall love you always!"
"'Tis what one hears often from men, in one form or another," said the girl, coolly, seating herself as she spoke.
"Talk not to me of other men—I'll not brook it!" cried he, advancing toward her a few rapid paces. "Think you I have no heart?" His eye gleamed, and he came on yet a step in his strange wooing. "Your face is here, here," he cried, "deep in my heart! I must always look upon it, or I am a lost man!"
"'Tis a face not so fair as that," said the Lady Catharine, demurely.
"'Tis the fairest face in England, or in the world!" cried her lover; and now he was close at her side. Her hand, she knew not how, rested in his own. Something of the honesty and freedom from coquetry of the young woman's nature showed in her next speech, inconsequent, illogical, almost unmaidenly in its swift sincerity and candor.
"'Tis a face but blemished," said she, slowly, the color rising to her cheek. "See! Here is the birth-mark of the house of Knollys. They tell me—my very good friends tell me, that this is the mark of shame, the bar sinister of the hand of justice. You know the story of our house."
"Somewhat of it," said Law.
"My brother is not served of the writ when Parliament is called. This you know. Tell me why?"
"I know the so-called reason," replied John Law. "'Twas brought out in his late case at the King's Bench."
"True. 'Twas said that my grandfather, past eighty, was not the father of those children of his second wife. There is talk that—"
"'Twas three generations ago, this talk of the Knollys shortcoming. I am not eighty. I am twenty-four, and I love you, Catharine Knollys."
"It was three generations ago," said the Lady Catharine, slowly and musingly, as though she had not heard the speech of her suitor. "Three generations ago. Yet never since then hath there been clean name for the Banbury estate. Never yet hath its peer sat in his rightful place in Parliament. And never yet hath eldest daughter of this house failed to show this mark of shame, this unpurged contempt for that which is ordained. Surely it would seem fate holds us in its hands."
"You tell me these things," said John Law, "because you feel it is right to tell them. And I tell you of my future, as you tell me of your past. Why? Because, Lady Catharine Knollys, it has already come to matter of faith between us."
The girl leaned back against the wall near which she had seated herself. The young man bent forward, taking both her hands quietly in his own now, and gazing steadily into her eyes. There was no triumph in his gaze. Perhaps John Law had prescience of the future.
"Oh, sir, I had far liefer I had never seen you," cried Catharine Knollys, bending a head from whose eyes there dropped sudden tears.
"Ah, dear heart, say anything but that!"
"'Tis a hard way a woman must travel at best in this world," murmured the Lady Catharine, with wisdom all unsuited to her youth. "But I can not understand. I had thought that the coming of a lover was a joyous thing, a time of happiness alone."
"Ah, now, in the hour of mist can you not foresee the time of sunshine? All life is before us, my sweet, all life. There is much for us to do, there are so many, many days of love and happiness."
But now the Lady Catharine Knollys veered again, with some sudden change of the inner currents of the feminine soul.
"I have gone far with you, Mr. Law," said she, suddenly disengaging her hand. "Yet I did but give you insight of things which any man coming as you have come should have well within his knowledge. Think not, sir, that I am easy to be won. I must know you equally honest with myself. And if you come to my regard, it must be step by step and stair by stair. This is to be remembered."
"I shall remember."
"Go, then, and leave me for this time," she besought him. But still he could not go, and still the Lady Catharine could not bid him more sternly to depart. Youth—youth, and love, and fate were in that room; and these would have their way.
The beseeching gaze of an eye singular in its power rested on the girl, a gaze filled with all the strange, half mandatory pleading of youth and yearning. Once more there came a shift in the tidal currents of the woman's heart. The Lady Catharine slowly became conscious of a delicious helplessness, of a sinking and yielding which she could not resist. Her head lost power to be erect. It slipped forward on a shoulder waiting as by right. Her breath came in soft measure, and unconsciously a hand was raised to touch the cheek pressed down to hers. John Law kissed her once upon the lips. Suddenly, without plan—in spite of all plan—the seal of a strange fate was set forever on her life!
For a long moment they stood thus, until at length she raised a face pale and sharp, and pushed back against his breast a hand that trembled.
"'Tis wondrous strange," she whispered.
"Ask nothing," said John Law, "fear nothing. Only believe, as I believe."
Neither John Law nor the Lady Catharine Knollys saw what was passing just without the room. They did not see the set face which looked down from the stairway. Through the open door Mary Connynge could see the young man as he stepped out of the door, could see the conduct of the girl now left alone in the drawing-room. She saw the Lady Catharine sink down upon the seat, her head drooped in thought, her hand lying languidly out before her. Pale now and distraught, the Lady Catharine Knollys wist little of what went on before her. She had full concern with the tumult which waged riot in her soul.
Mary Connynge turned, and started back up the stair unseen. She paused, her yellow eyes gone narrow, her little hand clutched tight upon the rail.
As Law turned away from the door of the Knollys mansion, he walked with head bent forward, not looking upon the one hand or the other. He raised his eyes only when a passing horseman had called thrice to him.
"What!" cried Sir Arthur Pembroke. "I little looked to see you here, Mr. Law. I thought it more likely you were engaged in other business—"
"Meaning by that—?"
"What should I mean, except that I supposed you preparing for your little affair with Wilson?"
"My little affair?"
"Certainly, with Wilson, as I said. I saw our friend Castleton but now, and he advised me of your promptness. He had searched for you for days, he being chosen by Wilson for his friend—and said he had at last found you in your lodgings. Egad! I have mistook your kidney completely. Never in London was a duel brought on so swift. 'Fight? This afternoon!' said you. Jove! but the young bloods laughed when they heard of it. 'Bloody Scotland' is what they have christened you at the Green Lion. 'He said to me,' said Charlie, 'that he was slow to find a quarrel, but since this quarrel was brought home to him, 'twere meet 'twere soon finished. He thought, forsooth, that four o'clock of the afternoon were late enough.' Gad! But you might have given Wilson time at least for one more dinner."
"What do you mean?" exclaimed Law, mystified still.
"Mean! Why, I mean that I've been scouring London to find you. My faith, man, but thou'rt a sudden actor! Where caught you this unseemly haste?"
"Sir Arthur," said the other, slowly, "you do me too much justice. I have made no arrangement to meet Mr. Wilson, nor have I any wish to do so."
"Pish, man! You must not jest with me in such a case as this. 'Tis no masquerading. Let me tell you, Wilson has a vicious sword, and a temper no less vicious. You have touched him on his very sorest spot. He has gone to meet you this very hour. His coach will be at Bloomsbury Square this afternoon, and there he will await you. I promise you he is eager as yourself. 'Tis too late now to accommodate this matter, even had you not sent back so prompt and bold an answer."
"I have sent him no answer at all!" cried Law. "I have not seen Castleton at all."
"Oh, come!" expostulated Sir Arthur, his face showing a flush of annoyance.
"Sir Arthur," continued Law, as he raised his head, "I am of the misfortune to be but young in London, and I am in need of your friendship. I find myself pressed for rapid transportation. Pray you, give me your mount, for I must have speed. I shall not need the service of your seconding. Indulge me now by asking no more, and wait until we meet again. Give me the horse, and quickly."
"But you must be seconded!" cried the other. "This is too unusual. Consider!" Yet all the time he was giving a hand at the stirrup of Law, who sprang up and was off before he had time to formulate his own wonder.
"Who and what is he?" muttered the young nobleman to himself as he gazed after the retreating form. "He rides well, at least, as he does everything else well. 'Till I return,' forsooth, 'till I return!' Gad! I half wish you had never come in the first place, my Bloody Scotland!"
As for Law, he rode swiftly, asking at times his way, losing time here, gaining it again there, creating much hatred among foot folk by his tempestuous speed, but giving little heed to aught save his own purpose. In time he reached Bradwell Street and flung himself from his panting horse in front of the dingy door of the lodging house. He rushed up the stairs at speed and threw open the door of the little room. It was empty.
There was no word to show what his brother had done, whither he had gone, when he would return. Around the lodgings in Bradwell Street lay a great and unknown London, with its own secrets, its own hatreds, its own crimes. A strange feeling of on-coming ill seized upon the heart of Law, as he stood in the center of the dull little room, now suddenly grown hateful to him. He dashed his hand upon the table, and stood so, scarce knowing which way to turn. A foot sounded in the hallway, and he went to the door. The ancient landlady confronted him. "Where has my brother gone?" he demanded, fiercely, as she came into view along the ill-lighted passage-way.
"Gone, good sir?" said she, quaveringly. "Why, how should I know where he has gone? More quality has been here this morning than ever I saw in Bradwell Street in all my life. First comes a coach this morning, with four horses as fine as the king's, and a man atop would turn your blood, he was that solemn-like, sir. Then your brother was up here alone, sir, and very still. I will swear he was never out of this room. Then, but an hour ago, here comes another coach, as big as the first, and yellower. And out of it steps another fine lord, and he bows to your brother, and in they get, and off goes the coach. But, God help me, sir! How should I know which way they went, or what should be their errand? Methinks it must be some servant come from the royal palace. Sir, be you two of the nobility? And if you be, why come you here to Bradwell Street? Sir, I am but a poor woman. If you be not of the nobility, then you must be either coiners or smugglers. Sir, I am bethought that you are dangerous guests in my house. I am a poor woman, as you know."
Law flung a coin at her as he sped through the hall and down the stair. "'Twas to Bloomsbury Square," he said, as he sprang into saddle and set heel to the flank of the good horse. "To Bloomsbury Square, then, and fast!"
Meantime, at the Knollys mansion, there were forthcoming other parts of the drama of the day. The butler announced to Lady Catharine, still sitting dreaming by the window, Sir Arthur Pembroke, now late arrived on foot. Lady Catharine hesitated. "Show the gentleman to this room," she said at length.
Pembroke came forward eagerly as he entered. "Such a day of it, Lady Kitty!" he exclaimed, impulsively. "You will pardon me for coming thus, when I say I have just been robbed of my horse. 'Twas at your very door, and methinks you must know the highwayman. I have come to tell you of the news."
"You don't mean—"
"Yes, but I do! 'Twas no less than Mr. Law, of Scotland. He hath taken my horse and gone off like a whirlwind, leaving me afoot and friendless, save for your good self. I am begging a taste of tea and a little biscuit, for I vow I am half famished."
The Lady Catharine Knollys, in sheer reaction from the strain, broke out into a peal of laughter.
"Sure, he has strange ways about him, this same Mr. Law," said she. "That young man would have come here direct, and would have made himself quite at home, methinks, had he had but the first encouragement."
"Gad! Lady Catharine, but he has a conceit of himself. Think you of what he has done in his short stay here in town! First, as you know, he sat at cards with two or three of us the other evening—Charlie Castleton, Beau Wilson, myself and one or two besides. And what doth he do but stake a bauble against good gold that he would makesept et le va."
"And did it?"
"And did it. Yes, faith, as though he saw it coming. Yet 'twas I who cut and dealt the cards. Nor was that the half of it," he went on. "He let the play run on till 'twasseize et le va, thenvingt-un et le va, then twenty-five. And, strike me! Lady Catharine, if he sat not there cool as my Lord Speaker in the Parliament, and saw the cards run totrente et le va, as though 'twere no more to him than the eating of an orange!"
"And showed no anxiety at all?"
"None, as I tell you, and he proved to us plain that he had not two-pence to his name, for that he had been robbed the night before while on his way to town. He staked a diamond, a stone of worth. I must say, his like was never seen at cards."
"He hath strange quality."
"That you may say. Now read me some farther riddles of this same young man. He managed to win from me a little shoe of an American savage, which I had bought at a good price but the day before. It came to idle talk of ladies' shoes, and wagers—well, no matter; and so Mr. Law brought on a sudden quarrel with Beau Wilson. Then, though he seemed not wanting courage, he half declined to face Wilson on the field. Sudden to change as ever, this very morning he sent word to Wilson by Mr. Castleton that he was ready to meet him at four this afternoon. God save us! what a haste was there! And now, to cap it all, he hath taken my horse from me and ridden off to keep an appointment which he says he never made! Gad! These he odd ways enough, and almost too keen for me to credit. Why, 'twould not surprise me to hear that he had been here to make love to the Lady Catharine Knollys, and to offer her the proceeds of his luck at faro. And, strike me! if that same luck holds, he'll have all the money in London in another fortnight! I wish him joy of Wilson."
"He may be hurt!" exclaimed the Lady Catharine, starting up.
"Who? Beau Wilson?" exclaimed Sir Arthur. "Take no fear. He carries a good blade."
"Sir Arthur," said the girl, "is there no way to stop this foolish matter? Is there not yet time?"
"Why, as to that," said Sir Arthur, "it all depends upon the speed of my own horse. I should think myself e'en let off cheaply if he took the horse and rode on out of London, and never turned up again. Yet, I bethink me, he has a way of turning up. If so, then we are too late. Let him go. For me, I'd liefer sit me here with Lady Catharine, who, I perceive, is about now to save my death of hunger, since now I see the tea tray coming. Thank thee prettily."
Lady Catharine poured for him with a hand none too steady. "Sir Arthur," said she, "you know why I have this concern over such a quarrel. You know well enough what the duello has cost the house of Knollys. Of my uncles, four were killed upon this so-called field of honor. My grandfather met his death in that same way. Another relative, before my time, is reputed to have slain a friend in this same manner. As you know, but three years ago, my brother, the living representative of our family, had the misfortune to slay his kinsman in a duel which sprang out of some little jest. I say to you, Sir Arthur, that this quarrel must be stopped, and we must do thus much for our friends forthwith. It must not go on."
"For our friends! Our friends!" cried Sir Arthur. "Ah, ha! so you mean that the old beau hath hit thee, too, with his ardent eye. Or—hang! What—you mean not that this stranger, this Scotchman, is a friend of yours?"
"I speak but confusedly," said the Lady Catharine. "'Tis my prejudice against such fighting, as you know. Can we not make haste, and so prevent this meeting?"
"Oh, I doubt if there be much need of haste," said Sir Arthur, balancing his cup in his hand judicially. "This matter will fall through at most for the day. They assuredly can not meet until to-morrow. This will be the talk of London, if it goes on in this pell-mell, hurly-burly fashion. As to the stopping of it—well now, the law under William and Mary saith that one who slays another in a duel of premeditation is nothing but a murderer, and may be hanged like any felon; hanged by the neck, till he be dead. Alas, what a fate for this pretty Scotchman!"
Sir Arthur paused. A look of wonder swept across his face. "Open the window, Annie!" he cried suddenly to the servant. "Your mistress is ill."
Mischance delayed the carriage of Beau Wilson in its journeying to Bloomsbury Square. It had not appeared at that moment, far toward evening, when John Law, riding a trembling and dripping steed, came upon one side of this little open common and gazed anxiously across the space. He saw standing across from him a carriage, toward which he dashed. He flung open the carriage door, crying out, even before he saw the face within.
"Will! Will Law, I say, come out!" called he. "What mad trick is this? What—"
He saw indeed the face of Will Law inside the carriage, a face pale, melancholy, and yet firm.
"Get you back into the city!" cried Will Law. "This is no place for you, Jack."
"Boy! Are you mad, entirely mad?" cried Law, pushing his way directly into the carriage and reaching out with an arm of authority for the sword which he saw resting beside his brother against the seat. "No place for me! 'Tis no place for you, for either of us. Turn back. This foolishness must go no further!"
"It must go on now to the end," said Will Law, wearily. "Mr. Wilson's carriage is long past due."
"But you—what do you mean? You've had no hand in this. Even had you—why, boy, you would be spitted in an instant by this fellow."
"And would not that teach you to cease your mad pranks, and use to better purpose the talents God hath given you? Yours is the better chance, Jack."
"Peace!" cried John Law, tears starting to his eyes. "I'll not argue that. Driver, turn back for home!"
The coachman at the box touched his hat with a puzzled air. "I beg pardon, sir," said he, "but I was under orders of the gentleman inside."
"You were sent for Mr. John Law."
"For Mr. Law—"
"But I am John Law, sirrah!"
"You are both Mr. Law? Well, sir, I scarce know which of you is the proper Mr. Law. But I must say that here comes a coach drove fast enough, and perhaps this is the gentleman I was to wait for, according to the first Mr. Law, sir."
"He is coming, then," cried John Law, angrily. "I'll see into this pretty meeting. If this devil's own fool is to have a crossing of steel, I'll fair accommodate him, and we'll look into the reasons for it later. Sit ye down! Be quiet, Will, boy, I say!"
Law was a powerful man, over six feet in height. The sports of the Highlands, combined with much fencing and continuous play in the tennis court, indeed his ardent love for every hardy exercise, had given his form alike solid strength and great activity. "Jessamy Law," they called him at home, in compliment of his slender though full and manly form. Cool and skilful in all the games of his youth, as John Law himself had often calmly stated, in fence he had a knowledge amounting to science, a knowledge based upon the study of first principles. The intricacies of the Italian school were to him an old story. With the single blade he had never yet met his master. Indeed, the thought of successful opposition seemed never to occur to him at all. Certainly at this moment, angered at the impatient insolence of his adversary, the thought of danger was farthest from his mind. Stronger than his brother, he pushed the latter back with one hand, grasping as he did so the small-sword with which the latter was provided. With one leap he sprang from the carriage, leaving Will half dazed and limp within.
Even as he left the carriage step, he found himself confronted with an adversary eager as himself; for at that instant Beau Wilson was hastening from his coach. Vain, weak and pompous in a way, yet lacking not in a certain personal valor, Beau Wilson stopped not for his seconds, tarried not to catch the other's speech, but himself strode madly onward, his point raised slightly, as though he had lost all care and dignity and desired nothing so much as to stab his enemy as swiftly as might be.
It would have mattered nothing now to this Highlander, this fighting Argyll, what had been the reason animating his opponent. It was enough that he saw a weapon bared. Too late, then, to reason with John Law, "Beau" Law of Edinboro', "Jessamy" Law, the best blade and the coolest head in all the schools of arms that taught him fence.
For a moment Law paused and raised his point, whether in query or in salute the onlookers scarce could tell. Sure it was that Wilson was the first to fall into the assault. Scarce pausing in his stride, he came on blindly, and, raising his own point, lunged straight for his opponent's breast. Sad enough was the fate which impelled him to do this thing.
It was over in an instant. It could not be said that there was an actual encounter. The side step of the young Highlander was soft as that of a panther, as quick, and yet as full of savagery. The whipping over of his wrist, the gliding, twining, clinging of his blade against that of his enemy was so swift that eye could scarce have followed it. The eye of Beau Wilson was too slow to catch it or to guard. He never stopped theriposte, and indeed was too late to attempt any guard. Pierced through the body, Wilson staggered back, clapping his hands against his chest. Over his face there swept a swift series of changes. Anger faded to chagrin, that to surprise, surprise to fright, and that to gentleness.
"Sir," said he, "you've hit me fair, and very hard. I pray you, some friend, give me an arm."
And so they led him to his carriage, and took him home a corpse. Once more the code of the time had found its victim.
Law turned away from the coach of his smitten opponent, turned away with a face stern and full of trouble. Many things revolved themselves in his mind as he stepped slowly towards the carriage, in which his brother still sat wringing his hands in an agony of perturbation.
"Jack, Jack!" cried Will Law, "Oh, heavens! You have killed him! You have killed a man! What shall we do?"
Law raised his head and looked his brother in the face, but seemed scarce to hear him. Half mechanically he was fumbling in the side pocket of his coat. He drew forth from it now a peculiar object, at which he gazed intently and half in curiosity, It was the little beaded shoe of the Indian woman, the very object over which this ill-fated quarrel had arisen, and which now seemed so curiously to intermingle itself with his affairs.
"'Twas a slight shield enough," he said slowly to himself, "yet it served. But for this little piece of hide, methinks there might be two of us going home to-day to take somewhat of rest."
Late in the afternoon of the day following the encounter in Bloomsbury Square, a little group of excited loiterers filled the entrance and passage way at 59 Bradwell Street, the former lodgings of the two young gentlemen from Scotland. The motley assemblage seemed for the most part to make merry at the expense of a certain messenger boy, who bore a long wicker box, which presently he shifted from his shoulder to a more convenient resting place on the curb.
"Do 'ee but look at un," said one ancient dame. "He! he! Hath a parcel of fine clothes for the tall gentleman was up in third floor! He! he! Clothes for Mr. Law, indeed!"
"Fine clothes, eh?" cried another, a portly dame of certain years. "Much fine clothes he'll need where he'm gone."
"Yes, indeed, that he will na. Bad luck 'twas to Mary Cullen as took un into her house. Now she's no lodging money for her rooms, and her lodgers be both in Newgate; least ways, one of un."
"Ah now, 'tis a pity for Mary Cullen, she do need the money so much—"
"Shut ye all your mouths, the lot o' you," cried Mary Cullen herself, appearing at the door. "'Tis not she is needing the little money, for she has it right here in the corner of her apron. Every stiver Mary Cullen's young men said they'd pay they paid, like the gentlemen they were. I'll warrant the raggle of ye would do well to make out fine as Mary Cullen hath."
"Oh now, is that true, Mary Cullen?" said a voice. "'Twas said that these two were noble folk come here for the sport of it."
"What else but true? Do you never know the look of gentry? My fakes, I'll warrant the young gentleman is back within a fortnight. His brother, the younger one, said to me hisself but this very morn, his brother was hinnocent as a child; that he was obliged to strike the other man for fear of his own life. Now, what can judge do but turn un loose? Four sovereigns he gave me this very morn. What else can judge do but turn un free? Tell me that, now!"
"Let's see the fine clothes," said the first old lady to the apprentice boy, reaching out a hand and pulling at the corner of the box-lid. The youth was nothing loath to show, with professional pride, the quality of his burden, and so raised the lid.
"Land save us! 'Tis gentry sure enough they are," cried the inquisitive one. "Do-a look in there! Such clothes and laces, such a brand new wig, such silken hose! Law o' land! Must have cost all of forty crowns. Mary Cullen, right ye are; 'twas quality ye had with ye, even if 'twas but for little while."
"And them gone to prison, him on trial for his life! I saw un ride out this very yesterday, fast as though the devil was behind un, and a finer body of a man never did I look at in my life. What pity 'tis, what pity 'tis!"
"Well," said the apprentice, with a certain superiority in his air. "I dare wait no longer. My master said the gentleman was to have the clothes this very afternoon. So if to prison he be gone, to prison must I go too." Upon which he set off doggedly, and so removed one of the main causes for the assemblage at the curb.
The apprentice was hungry and weary enough before he reached the somber portals, yet his insistence won past gate-keeper and turnkey, one after another, till at length he reached the jailer who adjudged himself fit to pass upon the stolid demand that the messenger be admitted with the parcel for John Law, Esquire, late of Bradwell Street, marked urgent, and collect fifty sovereigns. The humor of all this appealed to the jailer mightily.
"Send him along," he said. And the boy came in, much dismayed but still faithful to his trust.
"Please, sir," said the youth, "I would know if ye have John Law, Esquire, in this place; and if so, I would see him. Master said I was not to bring back this parcel till that I had seen John Law, Esquire, and got from him fifty sovereigns. 'Tis for his wedding, sir, and the clothes are of the finest."
The jailer smiled grimly. "Mr. Law gets presents passing soon," said he. "Set down your box. It might be weapons or the like."
"Some clothes," said the apprentice. "Some very fine clothes. They are of our best."
"Ha! ha!" roared the jailer. "Here indeed be a pretty jest. Much need he'll have of fine clothes here. He'll soon take his coat off the rack like the rest, and happen it fits him, very well. Take back your box, boy—or stay, let's have a look in't."
The jailer was a man not devoid of wisdom. Fine clothes sometimes went with a long purse, and a long purse might do wonders to help the comfort of any prisoner in London, as well as the comfort of his keeper. Truly his eyes opened wide as he saw the contents of the box. He felt the lapel of the coat, passing it approvingly between his thumb and finger. "Well, e'en set ye down the box, lad," said he, "and wait till I see where Mr. Law has gone. Hum, hum! What saith the record? Charged that said prisoner did kill—hum, hum! Taken of said John Law six sovereigns, three shillings and sixpence. Item, one snuff-box, gilt. Hour of admission, five o'clock of the afternoon. We shall see, we shall see."
"Sir," said the jailer, approaching the prisoner and his brother, who both remained in the detention room, "a lad hath arrived bearing a parcel for John Law, Esquire. 'Tis not within possibility that you have these goods, but we would know what disposition we shall make of them."
"By my faith!" cried Law, "I had entirely forgot my haberdasher."
The jailer stood on one foot and gave a cough, unnecessarily loud but sufficiently significant. It was enough for the quick wit of Law.
"There was fifty sovereigns on the charge list," said the jailer.
"Sixty sovereigns, I heard you say distinctly," replied Law. "Will, give me thy purse, man!"
Will Law obeyed automatically.
"There," said John Law to the jailer. "I am sure the garments will be very proper. Is it not all very proper?"
The turnkey looked calmly into the face of his prisoner and as calmly replied: "It is, sir, as you say, very proper."
"It would be much relief," said John Law, as the turnkey again appeared, bearing the box in his own hands, "if I might don my new garments. I would liefer make a good showing for thy house, friend, and can not, in this garb."
"Sirrah," said the jailer, "there be rules of this place, as you very well know. Your little chamber was to have been in corridor number four, number twelve of the left aisle. But, sir, as perhaps you know, there be rules which are rules, and rules which are not so much—that is to say—rules, as you might put it, sir. The main thing is that I produce your body on the day of the hearing, which cometh soon. Meantime, since you seem a gentleman, and are in for no common felony, but charged, as I might say, with a light offense, why, sir, in such a case, I might say that a gentleman like yourself, if he cared to wear a bit of good clothes and wear it here in the parlor like, why, sir, I can see no harm in it. And that's competent to prove, as the judge says."
"Very well, then," said Law, "I'll e'en deck out with the gear I should have had to-night had I been free; though I fear my employment this evening will scarce be pleasing as that which I had planned. Will, had I had but one more night at the Green Lion, we'd e'en have needed a special chair to carry home my winnings of their English gold."
Enter then, a few moments later, "Beau" Law, "Jessamy" Law, late of Edinboro', gentleman, and a right gallant figure of a man. Tall he was indeed, and, so clad, making a picture of superb manhood. Ease and grace he showed in every movement. His long fingers closed lightly at top of a lacquered cane which he had found within the box. Deep ruffles of white hung down from his wrists, and a fall of wide lace drooped from the bosom of his ruffled shirt. His wig, deep curled and well whitened, gave a certain austerity to his mien. At his instep sparkled new buckles of brilliants, rising above which sprang a graceful ankle, a straight and well-rounded leg. The long lapels of his rich coat hung deep, and the rich waistcoat of plum-colored satin added slimness to a torso not too bulky in itself. Neat, dainty, fastidious, "Jessamy" Law, late of Edinboro', for some weeks of London, and now of a London prison, scarce seemed a man about to be put on trial for his life.
He advanced from the door of the side room with ease and dignity. Reaching out a snuff-box which he had found in the silken pocket of his new garment, he extended it to the turnkey with an indifferent gesture.
"Kindly have it filled with maccaboy," he said. "See, 'tis quite empty, and as such, 'tis useless."
"Certainly, Captain Law," said the turnkey. "I am a man as knows what a gentleman likes, and many a one I've had here in my day, sir. As it chances, I've a bit of the best in my own quarters, and I'll see that you have what you like."
"Will," said Law to his brother, who had scarce moved during all this, "come, cheer up! One would think 'twas thyself was to be inmate here, and not another."
Will Law burst into tears.
"God knows, 'twere better myself, and not thee, Jack," he said.
"Pish! boy, no more of that! 'Twas as chance would have it. I'm never meant for staying here. Come, take this letter, as I said, and make haste to carry it. 'Twill serve nothing to have you moping here. Fare you well, and see that you sleep sound."
Will Law turned, obedient as ever to the commands of the superior mind. He passed out through the heavily-guarded door as the turnkey swung it for him; passed out, turned and looked back. He saw his brother standing there, easy, calm, indifferent, a splendid figure of a man.