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“It does, Hector!” nodded Sir John placidly “Indeed, ’tis a reputation I find something hard to maintain and live up to—though I do my best——”
“Your best, whateffer? Aye, wi’ your gamblin’, your duellin’ an’ your fine French hussies—like this Marquise—a feckless body and shameless——”
“And therefore fashionable, Hector! Remember, this is Paris!”
“Parus!” snorted MacLean; “O Parus! Edinb’ro’s a sinfu’ town, forbye it hath its savin’ graces. Lon’non’s waur, but—Parus! Man, I’m no’ an archangel, y’ ken, but—Parus! And this brings me back tae yoursel’, John.”
“And pray what have you heard concerning me particularly, Hector? Come, what are my latest sins? Whose wife have I lured from sorrowing spouse? What young innocent is my latest victim? What hopeful youth have I ruined at the gaming-table?... and in heaven’s name—smile, man!”
“How, smile is it, and my heart waefu’ for ye, lad? Repoort speaks ye a very deevil, John.”
“Aye, but even the devil is never so black as he is painted, Hector!”
“Ha, will ye be for tellin’ me repoort hath lied, John?”
“Let us rather say it hath not spoke truth.”
“Whaur’s the differ, lad?”
“Report, Hector, doth trumpet me forth a very monster of politelyvicious depravity. I am Sin manifest, perambulating Iniquity. Do I sit me down to the gaming-table I am bound to ruin some poor wretch, do I but kiss a woman’s finger-tips she is forthwith a mark for every scandalous tongue. My sins, Hector, be all superlative and very pertinaciously come home to roost. Egad, I befoul my own nest with a persistency that amazes me! But then, it seems some are born to iniquity, some achieve iniquity, and some have iniquity thrust upon ’em——”
“How so, John lad, what d’ye mean?”
“That I have an enemy—nay two, rather! The one being myself— and he is bad enough o’ conscience—but the other—ah, Hector, this other one is more implacable, more unrelenting and a thousand times more merciless!”
“Who is he, lad, a God’s name?”
“’Tis no he,” sighed Sir John.
“Aha!” exclaimed Sir Hector, coming to an abrupt stand; “you mean—her?”
“I do, Hector! ’Tis an ill thing to have an enemy, but if that enemy be a woman, young, beautiful, of high estate and very wealthy—the situation becomes desperate.”
“A wumman!” repeated Sir Hector, rasping thumb and finger across bony chin. “You mean ‘the Barrasdaile,’ of course, John?”
“Aye, the Lady Herminia Barrasdaile.”
“To be sure I mind weel how she raved and vowed vengeance on ye, lad, the night Charles Tremayne was killed——”
“Poor, reckless Charles ... I can see him now, Hector, as he laughed ... and died——”
“Tush, laddie, forget it! ’Twas he drew first, and himsel’ no better than——”
“He is dead, Hector! Sometimes I’ve thought you had been wiser, kinder, to have let me die also, rather than ha’ dragged me back to this emptiness we call ‘life’——”
“Emptiness, laddie? Hoot-toot—and yersel’ the joy o’ the leddies, the envy o’ the men! ‘The glass o’ fashion an’ mould o’ form,’ wi’ every young sprig o’ gallantry to copy the cut o’ your waistcoats? And you think, John, you think that my Lady Barrasdaile is actually carrying her threat into execution?”
“Well, these last few years, Hector, have proved singularly eventful to me one way or another. I have been involved so often in so many
unsavoury affairs and had so many duels forced upon me that my reputation is grown a little threadbare, as you know, and myself notorious.”
“And now it seems you’ve another duel on your hands.”
“A duel, Hector? Egad, and have I so? With whom, pray?
“Losh, man, you should ken that weel enough.”
“Hum!” quoth Sir John, pondering.
“I caught but a snatch of idle gossip concerning you, John, and some English Viscount or other——”
“An Englishman, Hector, mark that! Ha,” mused Sir John, “I have a vague recollection of throwing somebody’s hat out of some window some time or other—but whose hat, or what window, or when, I cannot recall for the life o’ me. We must look into this, Hector. Let us summon the Corporal and hear what the perspicacious Robert hath to say.”
“What, Corporal Bob? He’s still with you, then, John lad?”
“To be sure, Hector,” answered Sir John, ringing the small silver bell at his elbow “He is my major-domo, my valet, my general factotum, and will never be anything but a grenadier to the day of his death. Here he is!” At this moment was a short, sharp double knock and the door opened to admit a very square-shouldered, sharp-eyed man extremely precise as to clothes, speech and gesture, who, beholding Sir Hector’s stalwart figure, halted suddenly, whipped up right hand as if to touch neat wig but, thinking better of it, bowed instead and immediately stood at attention.
“Stiff and straight as though on parade, Hector!” murmured Sir John, whereupon the Corporal flushed and immediately “stood easy.”
“Ha, Corporal Robert!” exclaimed Sir Hector. “Dae ye mind the day we stormed the barricades afore Maestricht, and me wi’ yon Frenchman’s baggonet through me arrm? If ye hadna been there, I shouldna be here—so, Corporal Bobbie, gi’e’s a grup o’ y’r hand.” The Corporal’s cheek flushed again and his eyes glowed as their fingers gripped, but when he spoke it was to his master.
“You rang, Sir John?”
“I did, Robert. I desire you to inform us if I was particularly drunk or no last night?”
“By no manner o’ means, Sir John.”
“You are ready to swear that?”
“Bible oath, Sir John!”
“I am not often drunk, I believe, Bob?”
“Never more than the occasion demands, sir—and then very genteelly!”
“When was the last occasion, Bob?”
“Two days ago, sir, being the night of the Marquise de Sauvray’s reception.”
“Was I—‘genteelly’ so, that night, Bob?”
“Maybe a leetle—elevated, sir.”
“Yes,” nodded Sir John, “I’ve a dim memory of breaking my cane over the link-boy’s head!”
“Link-boy was insolent, sir. Link-boy deserved it.”
“I rejoice to know it, Robert. Was there aught else remarkable in my home-coming on this occasion?”
“Nothing at all, sir! Though to be sure—you sang——”
“Sang, did I?” sighed Sir John. “Anything else, Bob?”
“No, sir! Except for gentleman’s perook stuffed into your honour’s right-hand coat-pocket.”
“A peruke, Bob? Oh, begad! If we have it still, show it to me!”
The imperturbable Robert vanished into Sir John’s bedchamber and instantly returned with the article in question, turning it upon his hand for his master’s inspection.
“A brown Ramillie!” mused Sir John. “No, Bob, I don’t seem to know it—it calls up no memory of its erstwhile owner. What sword
did I wear that night?”
“Your favourite dress sword, sir, with the gold hilt.”
“Fetch it, Bob.” The weapon was duly brought and, unsheathing it, Sir John eyed it keenly from pierced shell to glittering point. “Ha!” sighed he, returning blade and scabbard. “What has not been, will be, I fear! A gentleman’s hat out of a window and a gentleman’s peruke in my pocket would seem to indicate a meeting soon or late with some one or other!”
“With Viscount Templemore, sir, as I am give to understand.... Young gentleman has been taking of fencing lessons constant ever since,” answered Robert imperturbably.
“Templemore!” exclaimed Sir Hector. “Viscount Templemore, is it? Man Jack, ye no can fecht wi’ him, he’s but a lad—a child—a bairn in breeks!”
“And but lately from England, eh, Bob?” questioned Sir John.
“He has been here scarce a week, sir, I am give to understand.”
“Mark that, Hector!”
“Man John, what d’ye mean?”
“Robert, pray how many duels have I had forced upon me since we came to Paris five years since?”
“Twenty-three, Sir John.”
“And most of ’em gentlemen newly arrived from England—mark that also, Hector! Gentlemen, these, who ha’ scarce made my acquaintance than they discover an urgent desire to cross steel with me. Some day I may have an accident and kill one of them, which would grieve me, since he would die in evil cause, Hector.”
“Man Jack, what cause are ye meaning?”
“The cause of my Lady Herminia Barrasdaile, Hector, beyond doubt!”
Sir Hector made a turn up and down the room.
“But save us a’,” he exclaimed, halting suddenly, “the wumman must be a pairfict deevil!”
“Nay, she’s merely a vengeful female, Hector.”
“But this puir Templemore laddie. I kenned his father weel—man Jack, ye’ll no’ fecht the boy?”
“Pray, how may I avoid it, Hector? If he annoyed me t’other night— as he must ha’ done, it seems that I affronted him in turn most flagrantly—there is his wig to prove it! How, then, can I possibly refuse him satisfaction? You have fought ere now and must appreciate the delicacy of my position.”
“Umph-humph!” exclaimed Sir Hector, and took another turn up and down the room.
“Do not distress yourself,” sighed Sir John; “if we must fight I shall endeavour to disarm him merely——”
“And may accidentally kill the lad, swordsman though ye be, John ... remember Charles Tremayne! So, man Jack, ye’ll juist no’ fight the laddie.”
“Not fight?” echoed Sir John.
“Having regaird tae his extreme youth and inexperience and y’r ain reputation as a duellist and man o’ bluid....”
“But, Hector, you must see that if I refuse on account of his youth ’twill make him the laughing-stock of all Paris.”
“Why then, Johnnie lad, ye maun juist rin awa’——”
“Run away, Hector?”
“Juist that, John; ye maun gi’e Parus a chance tae laugh at yersel’—howbeit you’ll rin awa’ fra’ the puir lad as a man of honour should.”
“Impossible, Hector.”
“Man, there’s naething impossible tae the son o’ your father, I’m thinkin’!”
Sir John frowned and, crossing to the window, beheld a carriage drawn up in front of the house.
“Robert,” said he, “we’ve visitors, I think; pray show them up here.” Robert departed forthwith and presently reappeared to announce:
“My Lord Cheevely and Monsieur le Duc de Vaucelles.” And into the room tripped two very fine gentlemen enormously bewigged and beruffled, who, having been duly presented to Sir Hector, flourished laced hats and fluttered perfumed handkerchiefs, bowing profoundly.
“Let me die, Sir John,” piped Lord Cheevely. “’Od rabbit me, but ’tis pure joy to see ya’, I vow ’tis! Pray forgive our dem’d sudden intrusion, but our mission is delicate, sir, dooced, infinite delicate, and admits o’ no delay, as my friend Vaucelles will tell ya’!”
“Parfaitement!” quoth Monsieur le Duc, hat a-flourish.
“Briefly and to the point, m’ dear Sir John,” continued his lordship, “we come on behalf of our very good friend, Viscount Templemore, who, with the utmost passible humility i’ the world, begs the honour of a meeting with ya’ at the earliest passible moment.”
“Templemore?” repeated Sir John, tapping smooth forehead with slender finger. “Templemore? I have met him somewhere, I fancy. He is but lately come to Paris, I think, my lord?”
“A week ago or thereabouts, m’ dear Sir John.”
“And he desires a meeting?”
“Most ardently, Sir John; the point in question being, as ya’ remember, of a distinctly—personal nature.”
“Indeed,” nodded Sir John, “a brown Ramillie wig.”
“Parfaitement!” answered Monsieur le Duc, with a flourish.
“Precisely, Sir John!” answered Lord Cheevely. “’Twill be smallswords, I presume?”
“No, my lord,” sighed Sir John.
“Ah, you decide for pistols, then?”
“Nor pistols, my lord. I do not intend to fight with Viscount Templemore.”
“Not—not fight?” gasped his lordship, while Monsieur le Duc started and dropped his hat.
“No, my lord,” answered Sir John. “I am returning Viscount Templemore’s wig with my sincerest regrets so soon as ’tis combed and ironed——”
“D’ye mean, sir, that—that you actually refuse Viscount Templemore’s challenge?”
“Actually and positively, my lord!”
“But—but,” stammered Lord Cheevely. “Oh, demme, such action is impossible—was not—cannot be!”
“That is why I do it, my lord.”
“Oh, rat me!” murmured his lordship, goggling. “Oh, split me ... not fight! Dooce take and burn me—this from you, Sir John! You that ha’ never baulked had so many affairs gone out so frequently—oh, smite me dumb!”
“My lord,” sighed Sir John, “I have been out so very frequently that I am grown a little weary. You will therefore pray tell Viscount Templemore that I have given up duelling as a pastime for the present, and purpose rusticating awhile——”
“If—if you are serious, sir,” exclaimed Lord Cheevely, rolling his eyes, “demme, sir, if you are serious, permit me to tell ya’ ya’ conduct is dem’d strange, devilish queer and most dooced, dem’d irregular!”
“Parfaitement!” added Monsieur le Duc.
Sir John smiled faintly, though his dreamy blue eyes grew suddenly very keen and piercing.
“Gentlemen,” he retorted, “I am about to leave Paris for an indefinite period; when I return, should you have any strictures to make upon my conduct, I shall be charmed to notice ’em. Until then, sirs, I have the honour to bid you adieu.”
And so Sir John bowed, the gentlemen bowed and betook themselves away with never another word.
“Man Jack,” exclaimed Sir Hector, as the door closed, “leave Parus, is it? O John, laddie—d’ye mean it?”
“Aye, I do, Hector. What with one thing and another, I begin to find Paris a little wearing.”
“Is it hame at last, Johnnie—hame tae England?”
“Where else, Hector?”
“When dae we start, lad?”
“Sure, no time were better than the present. We ride to-day, Hector.”
“Ou aye—yet bide a wee! Wha’ bee’s in y’r bonnet, now, laddie?”
“I go to find my enemy, Hector.”
“Save us a’! D’ye mean the leddy?”
“Herminia!” nodded Sir John. “’Tis a pretty name! Indeed, Hector, ’tis a sweet, pretty name—though vastly difficult to find a rhyme for ——”
“And what’ll ye be after wi’ the deevilish jade?”
“To exact a just and lasting vengeance, Hector.”
“Hoot awa’, Johnnie—hoot-toot, ye canna fecht a wumman——”
“I can do worse, Hector!”
“Man John, wha’ dae ye mean?”
“I can marry her, Hector.”
CHAPTER II
WHICH DESCRIBES A FORTUITOUS BUT FATEFUL MEETING
The Fates, those mysterious, unearthly sisters who are for ever busied upon the destinies of poor, finite humanity—the Fates, it seems, decreed that my Lady Herminia Barrasdaile, travelling full speed for Paris, should be suddenly precipitated upon the soft, resilient form of her devoted maid, Mrs. Betty, to that buxom creature’s gasping dismay and her own vast indignation; wherefore, the huge vehicle coming to an abrupt standstill, down fell the window and out went my lady’s angry, albeit lovely, countenance to demand instant explanation from coachmen, footmen and the world in general.
“Why, ye see, my lady,” answered red-faced Giles, the coachman, his Sussex calm entirely unruffled, “it do so ’appen as our off-side rear spring’s gone, mam.”
“Gone, man, gone? Who’s stolen it? What a plague d’you mean, Giles?” demanded her ladyship.
“I means broke, my lady, snapped, mam, parted-loike. We’m down on our back-axle—an’ theer y’are, mam!”
“Why then, mend it, Giles; mend it at once and let us get on—I must reach Paris to-night if possible.”
“Aye, we’ll mend it, my lady, sure to goodness—in toime——”
“How long?”
“Why, it du all depend, my lady—maybe an hour, maybe tu——”
Wide swung the heavy coach-door and forth sprang her ladyship, a slim and graceful fury who, perceiving the damage and necessary delay, swore as only a very fine lady might, with a tripping
comprehensiveness and passionate directness that reduced Giles and the two footmen to awed silence.
“Hush, mam!” pleaded Mrs. Betty, as her lady paused for breath. “Don’t ’ee now, there’s a duck——”
“But, zounds, wench,” cried her mistress, “you know ’tis a case o’ life and death ... to be delayed thus....”
“Aye, I know, mem—but do ’ee take a sniff at your vinaigrette, my lady——”
“Tush!” exclaimed her ladyship. “Hold your silly tongue, do!”
“Yes, my lady ... but there’s a light yonder among the trees—an inn, I think, mam——”
“Ha—an inn? Thomas, go, see—and bring help instantly—and order another coach if there be one! Run, oaf, run!” Away sped Thomas, a long-barrelled pistol protruding from either side-pocket, while my lady paced to and fro, fuming with impatience, until back he scurried with two chattering French ostlers at his heels, to say it was an inn, sure enough, but that no manner of conveyance was to be had.
“We’ll see about that!” exclaimed my lady. “Come, Betty!” And off she hasted forthwith, the meek and obedient Betty attendant. It was a small, drowsy inn, but at my lady’s advent it awoke to sudden life and bustle, its every chamber seemed full of stir, tripping feet and chattering voices; and all for the English Miladi’s comfort and welfare.
Insomuch that, embarrassed by attentions so pervading and multifarious, my Lady Barrasdaile caught up Betty’s cloak of homespun, a hooded garment for country wear, and, muffled in its ample folds, went a-walking.
The road, bordered by shady trees, led up a hill, and, lured by the sunset glory, and joying, moreover, to stretch her limbs, cramped by the long journey, my lady ascended the hill and, reaching the top, had paused to admire the view, when she became aware of two horsemen approaching from the opposite direction, and instantly
apprehending them to be highwaymen, she slipped aside into an adjacent thicket, waiting for them to pass.
Now as she stood thus, seeing but unseen, the mysterious Fates decreed that Sir John Dering, reaching the hilltop in turn, should rein in his horse within a yard of her, to glance round about him upon the peaceful countryside, little dreaming of the bright eyes that watched him so keenly, or the ears that hearkened so inquisitively.
“A sweet prospect, Hector!” he exclaimed; “fair and chaste and yet a little sad. ’Tis like looking deep into the eyes of a good woman—if there be such! It fills the soul with a sense of unworthiness and sorrow for the folly o’ the wasted years.”
“Aye, John! An’ fower pistols in oor holsters an’ twa in my pockets gi’e us six shot in case o’ eeventualities.”
“The wasted years!” murmured Sir John, musing gaze upon the distant horizon. “’Tis a night to grieve in, Hector, to yearn for better things.”
“Aye! And though six shot is fair I’m wishin’ ye carried a rale sword like my Andrew here,’stead o’ yon bodkin!”
“How then,” smiled Sir John, rousing; “are you expecting battle, murder and sudden death, Hector?”
“A dinna say no or aye t’ that, Johnnie man, forbye these French roads be aye ill-travellin’, an’ I was ever a cautious body, y’ ken. ’Tis peety ye left Corporal Rob behind; he’s a fair hand wi’ pistol or whinger, I mind. However, let us push on ere it be dark.”
“Nay, there’s the moon rising yonder, Hector.”
“The moon—and what o’t, John? I’m for having my legs under a table and something savoury on’t, lad.”
“Then do you ride forward, Hector, and order supper—there is an inn down yonder, I remember; I’ll wait for the moon to rise——”
“Mune-rise? I’fegs, lad, she’ll do’t very weel wi’ oot ye, I’m thinkin’!”
“Aye, but I’m minded to dream awhile, Hector; the moon ever stirs my imagination——”
“Hoot-toot! De’il awa’ wi’ y’r dreamin’ an’ imaginationin’! ’Tis mysel’ wad tak’ ye for a puir, moonstruck daftie if I didna ken ye for John Dering and son o’ your father!”
“If,” sighed Sir John, “if, Hector, you could suggest an apt rhyme for ‘soul,’ now, I should take it kindly ... though, to be sure, ‘dole’ might do at a pinch.”
“Umph-humph!” snorted General Sir Hector MacLean, and urged his horse on down the hill.
Being alone, Sir John dismounted, and tethering his animal, seated himself on grassy bank and gave himself up to introspective reverie.
The awesome, brooding stillness, the splendour of the rising moon, the mystery of the surrounding landscape, and all the magic of this early midsummer night wrought in him a pensive melancholy, a growing discontent of himself and the latter years, and he luxuriated in a consciousness of his infinite unworthiness.
Thus, with wistful gaze upon the full-orbed moon, Sir John had already mentally forsworn the world, the flesh and the devil, when he was roused suddenly by a rustling of leaves near by and the sharp crack of a dried twig; next moment he was beside his horse and had whipped forth, cocked and levelled one of his travelling pistols.
“Qui va la?” he demanded, and then in English: “Come out! Show yourself, or I fire!”
“Don’t!” cried a voice. “Don’t!” The leaves parted suddenly, and Sir John beheld a woman within a yard of him; majestically tall she was, and muffled in the long folds of a coarse cloak, beneath whose shadowy hood he glimpsed the pale oval of a face and a single strand of curling hair darkly innocent of powder.
Sir John lowered the pistol and, removing his hat, bowed.
“Welcome, Phyllida!” said he.
“That ain’t my name,” she answered.
“Then it should be, for ’tis a charming name and suits you.”
“You—you’m English, sir?” she questioned.
“I thank God!” he answered gravely.
“Then—oh, I am safe!” she sighed, and sinking upon the grassy bank, hid her face in her hands.
“Safe?” he repeated, touching her bowed head very gently. “Never doubt it, child—all heaven be my witness. ’Tis easy to guess you English also, and of the sweet south country, I think?”
At this she raised her head and he saw a handsome face framed in dark, rebellious curls, eyes wide and innocent, and a vivid, fulllipped mouth.
“O sir, ye du be a mortal clever guesser—I were born in Sussex!” she answered.
“Sussex?” murmured Sir John. “Seely Sussex! I was born there too, ’twixt the sheltering arms of Firle and Windover The gentle South Downs ... I loved every velvet slope of them! I mind the sweet, warm scent of the wild thyme, and the dance of the scabious flowers in the wind ... ’tis years since I saw them last.”
“But the wild thyme is still sweet i’ the sun, sir, an’ the scabious flowers do be a-noddin’ an’ beckonin’ as we sit here.”
“Beckoning, child? ’Tis a sweet thought! Beckoning me back to England ... to the reverent stillness of the immemorial hills ... my loved Downs! Beckoning me back to the old house that has stood empty so long! Paris behind me, London before me ... but deep in my heart a memory of the silent Downs ... and of a better living.”
“’Ee du talk tur’ble strange, sir!” she exclaimed, her wide gaze searching his wistful features.
“’Tis the moon, child—blame the moon! Though her Lunatic Majesty doth usually afflict me with a poetic fervour that erupts in somewhat indifferent verse. But what o’ yourself, child? Whence are you—what do you so far from home?”
“Nay, sir,” she retorted, shaking her head, “you’m so clever you must guess if ye can.”
“Agreed!” smiled Sir John. “Suffer me to sit beside you—thus, and whiles we gaze up at stately Luna, Chaste Dian, Isis the mysterious, I, her most humble votary, will strive to rede thee thy past, present and future. And first—thy name? It should be sweet and simple like thyself and breathe of England. And if it is not Phyllida, it should be Rosamond or Lettice or Anthea or——”
“Nay, sir,” she sighed, “’tis only Rose!”
“Aye, and what better!” quoth he. “’Tis a sweet English name and easy to rhyme with. Let us try.” And with his gaze uplift to the moon, Sir John extemporised thus:
“O flower of Love, thou fragrant Rose Thy love methinks should be A balm to soothe all earthly woes A sweetness that unfading blows Through all eternity——
“Hum! ’Tis not so bad, though ’faith it might be better. That last line is something trite perhaps! Aye, I may better it with a little thought!”
“Nay—nay,’tis well as ’tis!” she exclaimed. “’Tis excellent, I ... ’deed, sir, I do think you’m a tur’ble clever gentleman!”
“Though no poet, Rose, I fear! So much for thy name! Now as to thyself. Thou’rt a woman and young, and hast therefore dreamed o’ love——”
“La, sir, how should’ee know that? ’Ee du make me blush!”
“And have you loved often, child?”
“Oh, fie and no, sir! I’m no fine lady——”
“Heaven be praised!” exclaimed Sir John fervently, and lowered his gaze to the face so near his own, which was immediately averted.
“Pray won’t your honour please tell me some more about myself?” she pleaded.
“As what, child?”
“What I am, what I do for a livin’—an’ all about me?”
“Why, then,” pursued Sir John, “you are maid to serve some prideful, painted creature——”
“Oh,’tis wonderful!” she murmured.
“Some haughty, ineffective she who perchance rails at thee, pinches and slaps thee, pulls thy pretty hair, envying thy sweet, fresh beauty.”
“Oh, ’tis like witchcraft!” she murmured in awestruck tones.
“And thou’rt in France, child, because she is here and travels belike to Paris.” Sir John turned to find her regarding him in speechless wonder.
“Well, child?” he questioned.
“O sir!” she whispered. “’Tis all—so—marvellous true. Now tell me, oh, please your honour—tell me o’ the future. Shall I ever be a fine, grand lady—shall I?”
“God forbid!” he answered. “Nature formed thee a better thing! Thou’rt artless as the flowers that bloom, and the birds that sing because they must, for pure joy of it. Thou’rt sweet and fresh as the breath of Spring—heaven keep thee so, if ’tis indeed to Paris you journey, child.”
“Indeed, sir, and so ’tis.”
“Ha—Paris!” quoth he and scowled. “Alas, child, you shall find there no fragrance of wild thyme, no dancing scabious flowers.... And your mistress drags you to Paris, because she is a fine lady, an exotic, blooming best in an atmosphere that for thee ... ah, child ... alas, sweet Rose! Heaven send a clean wind to cherish thee lest thy sweetness languish fade and wither Ha, the devil! Why must she drag you to Paris?”
“O, your worship, ’tis on a matter o’ life an’ death. We should be agalloping at this moment but that the coach broke down, and my lady in a mighty pet—such tantrums! So after I’d put her to bed—and such a bed! I crept out o’ the inn—and such an inn! And lost my way
and a man ran after me and so I I found you, sir An’ now I must be a-goin’ back an’t please you, sir, for I must be on my road to Paris, along o’ my lady an’ all to stop two gentlemen fightin’ each other!”
“Ha, a duel, child? Do you chance to know these gentlemen’s names?”
“For sure, sir, my lady talks o’ naught beside! One’s Viscount Templemore, an’ t’other’s Sir John Dering—‘the Wicked Dering,’ as they call him at home.”
“Humph!” said Sir John, staring up at the moon again. “Ha!” And in a little, turning to regard his companion, he found her watching him bright-eyed from the shadow of her hood. “So they call him ‘the Wicked Dering’ at home, do they, Rose?”
“Oh yes, sir, ever an’ always.”
“Ah, well!” sighed Sir John. “Howbeit, child, you can assure your lady that her journey to Paris is wholly unnecessary.”
“How, sir.... Oh, d’ye mean she is ... too late? Have they fought already?”
“I mean they cannot fight, because Sir John Dering hath run away.”
“Run away ... Sir John Dering? Without fighting?” she questioned breathlessly. “Oh, ’tis impossible!”
“’Tis very truth—upon my honour.”
“You ... you are sure, sir?”
“Absolutely, child! I happen to know Sir John Dering and something of his concerns.”
“Oh ... you are ... his friend, sir?”
“Nay, hardly that, Rose,” sighed Sir John; “indeed, some might call me his most inveterate enemy.... But for Sir John Dering I might have been a ... happier man.”
“And so ... you hate him?”
“Let us rather say—I grieve for him.”
“But they say he is very wicked—a devil!”
“Nay, child, he is merely a very human man and something melancholy.” After this they sat side by side in silence for a while, Sir John gazing up at the moon and she at him.
“However,” said he suddenly, “your lady need no longer drag you to Paris, seeing her journey is unnecessary. So soon as we reach the inn, I myself will make this sufficiently manifest to her.”
“You—you will see my lady, sir?”
“Aye, I will, child.”
“Then an’t please your honour—’tis time I found the inn.”
“Found it, child?”
“Alack, yes, sir, for I’ve lost it! But if your honour will only help me find it ... your honour is so marvellous clever!”
“Nay, Rose, our wiser course were to sit here and let it find us—or rather, my friend will come a-searching me so soon as supper be ready and ... indeed, yonder he comes, I fear! Yes,” sighed Sir John, as the huge form of Sir Hector loomed nearer, “I grieve to say he is here already!”
Perceiving Sir John’s companion, MacLean halted suddenly.
“Losh, man Jack!” he exclaimed.
“’Tis I, Hector. Have you ordered supper?”
“I hae that!”
“Then pray mount my horse and lead the way. Rose and I follow.”
“Umph-humph!” quoth Sir Hector, and, mounting forthwith, he trotted down the hill, but profound reprobation was in the cock of his weatherbeaten hat and the set of his broad shoulders as he went.
CHAPTER III
TELLETH OF MRS. ROSE, THE GUILEFUL INNOCENT
“Strip, wench, strip!” cried Lady Herminia Barrasdaile, tossing the disguising cloak into a corner of the bedchamber. “Off with your clothes, girl, off with ’em—we’re both of a size, thank heavens—so strip, Betty, strip, as I’m a-doing!”
“Yes, my lady,” sighed comely Betty, large and patient and calmly indulgent to the unexpected whims and caprices of her imperious mistress. “But pray, mam, why should us undress afore bedtime?”
“That we may dress again, sure, Bet; to-night I am you and you are me ... except that my name is ‘Rose—Rose,’ you’ll remember!” admonished her ladyship, kicking off her fine gown.
“Yes, mam,” answered placid Mrs. Betty; “but why for ‘Rose’?”
“Because ’twas the first name occurred to me. Come, tie me these strings, wench! Sir John Dering is below, and if he should demand to see me—I mean you——”
“Sir John, my lady? Dering? O lud, not—not the Sir John Dering— not him, my lady?”
“Himself at last, face to face, Bet. Help me into this gown o’ yours.... O gad, what an infinity of buttons! Fasten me in, child! See, you are bigger in the waist than I, Bet ... and devilish tight above here ... I vow I can scarce breathe! Nay, button away, girl, I’ll endure it.... I must breathe prettily, pantingly. My Lady Felicity Flyte hath the trick on’t and ’tis much admired, so I’ll e’en pant and endure! Now, one o’ your mobs, girl, a cap with ribbands to’t ... aye, this shall serve —so! Now, how am I?”
“Ravishing, my lady! O mam!”
“Why, your things become me, I think.”
“Vastly, mem! O my lady!”
“Now,’tis thy turn, Bet. Shalt wear my yellow lute-string wi’ the panniers.”
“O my lady, but you ha’ wore it but once!”
“No matter,’tis thine, Betty. Come, out with it and on with it. Nay, first your hair must be powdered and pomatumed, your cheeks smeared wi’ rouge—yourself sufficiently pulvilled——”
“But, O mam, why must I——”
“In case Sir John desires speech with you—that is to say, with me. He may not and yet again he may, and you must be prepared.”
“O mem,” quavered Betty. “O my lady—suppose he stare at me?”
“Stare back at him, for sure—like any other lady o’ fashion!”
“But what must I say?”
“As little as possible! So long as you look sufficiently handsome and stare bold enough, ’twill serve. Now, let me look at you! Cock your chin, girl—so! Gad’s life, but you’re a handsome creature and look as haughty a fine city-madam as need be. Now mind to be sufficiently disdainful of all and sundry and especially of me——”
“Nay, my lady, ’twere impossible! I shall be calling you mam and madam, for sure.”
“Zounds no, Bet, ’twould ruin all! You must be mighty short with me, rap my knuckles with your fan and rail on me if possible——”
“Rail on thee, my dear lady—oh, I couldn’t!”
“You must, girl! And if you could swear a little ’twould be pure!”
“Swear, mem—me? Who at?”
“At Sir John Dering if possible.”
“But I don’t know how to swear, mem.”
“You’ve heard me often enough!”
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