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Title: Heritage Perilous
Author: Farnol, John Jeffery (1878-1952)
Date of first publication: 1946
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   Toronto: Ryerson, 1947
Date first posted: 9 February 2010
Date last updated: 9 February 2010
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #477

This ebook was produced by: Al Haines




HERITAGE PERILOUS


_By_

JEFFERY FARNOL



THE RYERSON PRESS -- TORONTO




COPYRIGHT, CANADA, 1947, BY

THE RYERSON PRESS, TORONTO



All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form
(except by reviewers for the public press), without permission in
writing from the publishers.


_First Canadian Edition, 1947_


PRINTED AND BOUND IN CANADA

BY THE RYERSON PRESS, TORONTO




_By the same Author:_

  THE BROAD HIGHWAY
  THE AMATEUR GENTLEMAN
  THE MONEY MOON
  CHRONICLES OF THE IMP
  BELTANE THE SMITH
  THE HONOURABLE MR. TAWNISH
  THE GESTE OF DUKE JOCELYN
  THE DEFINITE OBJECT
  OUR ADMIRABLE BETTY
  BLACK BARTLEMY'S TREASURE
  MARTIN CONISBY'S VENGEANCE
  PEREGRINE'S PROGRESS
  SIR JOHN DERING
  THE LORING MYSTERY
  THE HIGH ADVENTURE
  THE QUEST OF YOUTH
  GYFFORD OF WEARE
  THE SHADOW
  ANOTHER DAY
  OVER THE HILLS
  THE JADE OF DESTINY
  CHARMIAN, LADY VIBART
  THE WAY BEYOND
  WINDS OF FORTUNE
  JOHN O' THE GREEN
  A PAGEANT OF VICTORY
  THE CROOKED FURROW
  THE LONELY ROAD
  THE HAPPY HARVEST
  A MATTER OF BUSINESS
  ADAM PENFEATHER, BUCCANEER
  MURDER BY NAIL
  THE KING LIVETH
  THE 'PIPING TIMES'
  EPICS OF THE FANCY
  A BOOK FOR JANE
  A NEW BOOK FOR JANE




To

ARTHUR CATLING

(The Unconquered)

  _Whose brave, glad spirit is an inspiration
  more especially to his friend_

_Eastbourne_                  JEFFERY FARNOL
                                  1946




CONTENTS


BOOK NUMBER ONE

THE SAILORMAN

CHAPTER

       I.  INTRODUCES THE INHERITOR
      II.  GIVETH BRIEF DESCRIPTION OF A NEW EARL
     III.  CONCERNING CAPTAIN EDWARD HARLOW, WEDLOCK AND A WIDOW
      IV.  OF NOTHING IN PARTICULAR
       V.  OF ARGUMENT BY THE WAY, WHICH ENDS WITH A SCREAM
      VI.  OF FISTS--AND--THE BLACK-HAIRED, GOLDEN-EYED ANDROMEDA
     VII.  INTRODUCES AN ODDITY
    VIII.  HOW THEY CAME TO WILLOWMEAD
      IX.  HOW AND WHY SAM BECAME A "GRANDSON"
       X.  INTRODUCES MR. JENNINGS
      XI.  GIVES SOME DESCRIPTION OF A FATHER, A SON AND ONE OTHER
     XII.  TELLS, WITH ADMIRABLE BREVITY, HOW UNCLE AND NEPHEW MET
    XIII.  TELLS HOW AUNT DEBORAH MINISTERED
     XIV.  GIVES SOME DESCRIPTION OF THE GREAT HOUSE OF WRYBOURNE FEVERIL
      XV.  DESCRIBES CERTAIN WILLOWMEAD FOLK
     XVI.  IN WHICH SAM HAS OMINOUS WORD WITH JASPER SHRIG, OF BOW STREET
    XVII.  IN WHICH MR. SHRIG DISCOURSES UPON THE CAPITAL ACT
   XVIII.  CONCERNING A MURDER, THE HOW OF IT
     XIX.  CONCERNING THE SUBTLETIES OF A SCYTHE
      XX.  HOW SAM LOST HIS PIPE
     XXI.  DESCRIBES A "FAIRY AUNT"
    XXII.  CONCERNING THE "WHO" OF MY LORD, THE EARL
   XXIII.  TELLS HOW MURDER STRUCK AMISS
    XXIV.  OF TWO IN A FOUR-WHEELED CART
     XXV.  OF ANDROMEDA, SAM, AND FRIENDSHIP
    XXVI.  TELLS HOW SAM MADE A PROPHECY
   XXVII.  TELLS, AMONG OTHER MATTERS, OF A STEAK AND KIDNEY PUDDING
  XXVIII.  IN WHICH IS MENTION OF A MOTHER AND SON
    XXIX.  TELLS OF THE DAY BEFORE
     XXX.  TELLS HOW LORD JULIAN LAUGHED AND SAM FOUND HAPPINESS
    XXXI.  TELLS HOW SAM SAVED HIS LIFE AND TOLD A FORTUNE
   XXXII.  HIS LORDSHIP COMMANDS
  XXXIII.  TELLS OF "THE HOUR OF VENGEANCE"
   XXXIV.  TELLS OF A PARTING
    XXXV.  TELLS HOW AND WHY SAM WAS "TOO LATE"
   XXXVI.  IN WHICH JASPER SHRIG BIDS "GOOD-BYE"
  XXXVII.  HOW THEY PARTED FOR THE SECOND TIME
 XXXVIII.  IN WHICH SAM IS MY LORD PROCLAIMED
   XXXIX.  TELLS HOW SAM MADE A DECISION


BOOK NUMBER TWO

THE ARISTOCRAT

       I.  OF SIR JOHN ORME AND VANITY FAIR
      II.  TELLS HOW MY LORD CAME TO VANITY FAIR
     III.  TELLS HOW VANITY FAIR RECEIVED MY LORD
      IV.  IN WHICH MY LORD ENGAGES A SECRETARY AND WINS FRIENDSHIP
       V.  IN WHICH MY LORD BECOMES MERELY SAM
      VI.  GIVES FURTHER BRIEF DESCRIPTION OF VANITY FAIR AND OF MY
           LORD'S BEHAVIOUR THEREIN
     VII.  WHICH, HAVING LITTLE TO TELL, IS ADMIRABLY BRIEF
    VIII.  TELLS HOW MY LORD MET TEMPTATION
      IX.  TELLS OF BARE FLESH AND COLD STEEL
       X.  TELLS HOW MY LORD LANGUISHED, DESPAIRED AND PLEADED IN VAIN
      XI.  HOW THEY FARED--HOMEWARDS




BOOK NUMBER ONE

THE SAILORMAN


CHAPTER I

INTRODUCES THE INHERITOR

Sam stared down at the blunt toes of his big, clumsy shoes and shook
his big, rather clumsy head that appeared set rather awkwardly on his
powerful shoulders as, crouched ungracefully in the elbow-chair, he
pondered this amazing thing that had befallen, while the keen-faced
lawyer, silver-rimmed spectacles on sharp nose, viewed him with a
certain supercilious perplexity.

"Money, eh?" enquired Sam, at last.  "A lot of it, eh, sir?"

Mr. Joliffe, having smoothed his trim wig, coughed and waxed eloquent:

"Indeed, a vast heritage!  An e-normous fortune!  Quite stu-pendous!
Your father, the late Earl of Wrybourne, was an immensely wealthy
person----"

"And a dev'lish scoundrel!" growled Sam, with gesture so fierce and
sudden that Mr. Joliffe started and clutched his toppling spectacles;
then, having readjusted them, gazed at the speaker with even closer
scrutiny.  This tall, muscular fellow whose shabby garments smacked of
the sea, and whose sun-tanned face, grim by nature, was rendered even
more so by the line of a newly healed scar that ran from left eyebrow
to vanish in the thick-curling chestnut hair.

"Ha!" exclaimed Sam, fiercely.  "Earl or no, I hate to think he was my
father.  Are you sure o' this, sir?"

"Beyond all possible doubt----"

"Then curse him for that too!"

"May I venture to enquire why--what you know or may have heard--"

"Ay," replied Sam, clenching his hands to quivering fists, "I know he
compelled my mother to slave or starve....  She did both!"

Mr. Joliffe coughed gently behind two fingers and was about to speak
when Sam continued:

"All this dam' money!  And now! when it's too late!  Things always did
go dev'lish contrary with me--"

"Contrary?" echoed Mr. Joliffe, clutching at his spectacles again.

"Contrary, ay!" nodded Sam.  "This money and so on will come pretty
handy, I suppose, but--not as it might ha' done, for, d'ye see--she's
dead!  This mother o' mine ... and not so long ago!  This money might
have helped her to ride out the storm and weather Old Man Death,--but
no, it comes too late!  She'd worked so precious hard all her life--she
forgot to leave off....  Worked?  Ay, she did so--and mostly for me, my
schooling--to feed, clothe and keep me decent--ah, she was a noble
mother!"  The deep, gentle voice hushed on the word and Mr. Joliffe
peered through his glasses and over them at the speaker's bronzed,
scarred features, beneath tousled shock of hair, thick brows knit above
long-lashed, grey eyes, arrogant jut of nose and chin with
close-lipped, shapely mouth between; finally he coughed again and
enquired:

"You are, or were, a sailor, a privateer's man, I understand?"

"Ay, sir, first mate of the _Fortune_, privateer.  And mighty fortunate
she's been, thanks to her commander, Captain Ned Harlow."

"You have apparently been in action recently?"

"Off and on," answered Sam, touching his scar with sinewy finger.  "I
got this when we boarded and took the _Citoyenne_ frigate off Toulon.
Ay, I've been at sea a pretty goodish time and afore that, tried my
hand at many things.  For Lord love me--even as a boy I couldn't bear
to see that mother o' mine slaving her life away--stitching, washing
and scrubbing for other folk, so I cut school and turned general
handy-man and finally shipped myself to sea in the _Albatross_ whaler,
became a chief harpooner and made good money, took to privateering and
made a good deal more, prize-money, d'ye see--most of which I saved and
brought home to mother, too late, of course ... seeing she'd been dead
and buried a month or more.  No word of complaint in any of her letters
... such cheery letters--  Oh, but damme," he broke off, "you don't
want to hear all this!  So get on, sir, and talk business."

"Con-found business!" exclaimed Mr. Joliffe, to his own surprise, and
moved despite himself by the deep, passionate sincerity of these
softly-uttered, slow-spoken words.  "Pray continue!  Tell me more of
yourself and your heroic--mother."

"Thankee, Mr. Joliffe!  'Heroic' is the word, for she was indeed such a
grand soul--ay, brave to the end ... smiling away tears!  A lady born
and a lady always, d'ye see--up to her poor elbows in soapsuds or on
her weary knees scrubbing floors, there was always about her a gentle
dignity and graciousness ... God's very woman and angel of mercy to all
in affliction.  And she died ... worn out ... for lack of what money
can buy--so today she is in her grave and I am rich!  Ah, but any good
that is in me, and there's little enough, comes from her."  Again the
deep, solemn voice was hushed and when Mr. Joliffe next spoke it was
with look almost apprehensive.

"And did she never mention ... never refer to the Earl of Wrybourne?"

"Not a word!  She was too proud, God bless her.  I knew she was highly
born and of course that she was a widow, but she never spoke of her
people and I never enquired....  But now, sir, what more o' this
heritage?  A while ago you said something about a handle--a title, pray
let's have it again, let's know exactly who I am and what I
possess--money and so on."

Instead of answering, Mr. Joliffe sat dumb, indeed he seemed strangely
ill at ease--he shifted in his chair, took off his spectacles, wiped,
put them on again and stared down at littered desk, up at dingy
ceiling, round upon book-lined walls--anywhere but at his questioner;
finally he coughed again and, with gaze still averted, spoke:

"I fear what I have to say will prove somewhat of a--hum--a shock to
you."

"Oh well, sir," Sam replied, grim-smiling, "a man gets pretty well used
to shocks of all sorts at sea, 'specially aboard a privateer, ay--and
one commanded by such a daredevil as Captain Edward Harlow--so out with
it, sir."

"Then," said Mr. Joliffe, taking up a quill pen and staring at it, "I
am ... compelled to inform you that ... this brave and gracious lady
who so wrought and slaved to your welfare, was ... not your mother."

"Not--?"  Sam leapt afoot, his tall form towering above the lawyer
almost threateningly, so that Mr. Joliffe leaned back in his chair to
gaze up into the contorted face above him with eyes of understanding
wherefore their gaze did not waver as he continued, gently:

"Your mother, the Lady Monica Devine, an orphan and lady in her own
right, was a wealthy heiress who eloped from school and married the
Earl, your father, lived with him six months or thereabout, and fled
his brutality in fear of her life.  She found harbourage with her
widowed cousin Ruth Felton in the village of Alciston, Sussex.  There
you were born and there, shortly after, your mother, the Countess of
Wrybourne, died.  Upon this sad event, Mrs. Felton, this good and noble
lady, adopted you, poor though she was, and brought you up as her own
child.  Thus instead of Samuel Felton you are Japhet Eustace Scrope,
Earl of Wrybourne."

"And what," demanded Sam, deep-breathing, "what of my--real mother's
fortune?"

"Reverted naturally to her husband the noble Earl, your father--every
acre, every stick and stone, to the uttermost farthing!  Your mother
would have been quite destitute but for her cousin Mrs. Felton's
generosity."

"Then," said Sam, in a harsh whisper, "may the Earl my father be
everlastingly damned!  I grieve he is dead and beyond my reach."

"Indeed," sighed Mr. Joliffe, laying down the quill pen and shaking his
trim head at it, "some men are ... much better ... dead!"

"But--but how," stammered Sam, hoarsely, "how am I ... how are you
assured of ... of all this?"

"Be pleased to sit down, my lord, and--"

"Don't call me--that!"

"But, my lord, I must, since indeed lord you are henceforth and Earl of
Wrybourne.  Yes, my lord, as I said before, instead of Samuel Felton,
mariner, you are most truly, Japhet Scrope lord and Earl of----"

"Belay!" growled Sam.  "Sounds a lot of tomfoolery to me."

"However, my lord, pray be seated, compose yourself and permit me to
explain fully as I may....  Thus, then, when the late Earl, your
father----"

"Call him the Earl--and be cursed to his fatherhood!"

"Certainly, my lord.  When the Earl died, thirteen months
and--hum--five days since--by the way he was killed by his horse, the
animal threw him, breaking his neck--"

"A cheer for the horse!" growled Sam.

"Hum--ha!" murmured Mr. Joliffe, caressing smooth-shaven chin.  "The
horse is, I believe, and has ever been regarded as a highly intelligent
animal!  However, my lord the Earl being dead, instant enquiry was made
for his wife without result until I called in the aid of a certain
perspicacious Bow Street officer well beknown to me, one Jasper Shrig,
by whose efforts your--hum--unfortunate mother was traced, evidence of
your birth established, and yourself--well--here you are, my lord,
thanks to the unfailing Shrig.  You'll remember him, of course."

"Ay," nodded Sam, "an odd, rum sort of customer--talked of murderers
and murder-ees."

"I'll warrant he did and of vindictiveness also....  Now as to proofs
of identity, they are here for your perusal--certificates of your
parents' marriage and your birth, by which it seems you are aged
twenty-eight and seem, if I may say so, much older than your years, by
which I opine a seaman's life is far other than a--hum--bed of roses?"

"More especially, sir, in time o' war," answered Sam, frowning at the
documents Mr. Joliffe had set before him.  Having glanced through these
proofs of his identity and apparently limitless wealth, Sam passed
fingers through and through his thick, chestnut hair until it stood on
end, then sinking back in his chair, shook his head in helpless manner,
saying:

"Sir, I'm taken all aback ... shivering in the wind's eye ... falling
off and on like a rudderless ship, ay damme I am!"

"It is, as I told you, a vast heritage, my lord!"

"Too vast!" groaned Sam.  "And seems quite utterly preposterous!  I'm a
sailorman and content so to be--"

"Ah but," quoth Mr. Joliffe, finger upraised portentously, "you are
also a great landowner with huge rent-roll from estates in three
several counties, hence your responsibilities are correspondingly
great, especially in regard to your tenantry."

"Lord love me!" groaned Sam.

"Amen!" murmured Mr. Joliffe, his eyes twinkling.  "And thus, m'lord,
with your permission, I should like, indeed I will venture to proffer a
few--hum--suggestions, if I may--"

"Ay, pray do, heave ahead, sir, I shall be grateful."

"I thank you for the assurance, my lord."

"Well?" enquired Sam.  But again Mr. Joliffe sat mute--for the eyes of
his questioner, wide-set, well-opened, black-lashed, were unexpectedly
shrewd, strangely compelling and lit up his rugged features, softening
their grimness so wonderfully that the lawyer, this student of faces,
could but gaze in surprised and ever-growing interest, and once again,
seemed vaguely disquieted.

"You were going to make me some suggestions," Sam reminded him.

"I was ... I am ... and yet--"  Mr. Joliffe paused as if deliberating
pro and con....

"And yet?" Sam prompted.  Mr. Joliffe resettled his spectacles, and
looking keenly into the bronzed, battle-scarred face before him, read
there so much of fearless truth and inherent honesty that when next he
spoke it was in warmer, more intimate tone and with a certain grave
anxiety:

"My lord, henceforth the world is yours, all the glory and all the
folly of it.  You are become a master of life, a mighty power for much
good or great evil.  This heritage of yours, this vast wealth must and
will make or mar you, prove you a man capable of much or merest
weakling able only to his own eventual destruction.  You are indeed a
dangerously wealthy young man!"

"Dangerously?" murmured Sam.

"Yes," sighed Mr. Joliffe, "and in more senses than one!  Great wealth
is always a very mixed blessing, if blessing indeed it be, and a lure
to rogues and harpies of every sort."

"Ay, true enough!" nodded Sam.  "I've run athwart 'em, men and women in
every port half round the world, so I've learned enough to keep 'em in
my lee, give 'em a wide berth, d'ye see--steer clear of 'em, if you
know what I mean, sir."

"Ah but," said Mr. Joliffe, leaning nearer, "there is an even greater
danger threatens you, closer ... more insistent, a ... cold and deadly
menace that, given opportunity, may strike unseen ... swiftly and
without ... mercy!"  Now as he listened Sam was amazed to hear Mr.
Joliffe's voice sink to a hissing whisper, to see his brows knit above
fierce or anxious eyes while the hand that had grasped his sleeve was
shaking.

"Sir," questioned Sam, laying his own large, vital hand upon these
clutching fingers, "what is this menace?"

"Your paternal uncle, Lord Julian Scrope."

"Uncle, eh?" murmured Sam.  "Never knew I had one, but since I
have--what about him?"

"He is your father's only brother and would have succeeded to this
great heritage but for you, my lord!"

"Ah, I see!" nodded Sam.  "I suppose he wishes you'd never discovered
me--finds me damnably in his way?"

"Pre-cisely!" exclaimed Mr. Joliffe, with quick, sharp nod.  "He would
yet succeed were you to die--suddenly!"

"Um!" mused Sam.  "Then he might perhaps desire ... my removal--or ...
even consider the how of it, eh sir?"  Mr. Joliffe, resettling his
glasses, did not speak, but his look was so eloquent that Sam nodded in
turn, saying:

"So!  He's that sort of cove, is he?"  Here ensued a brief silence
wherein Sam stared down at his shoe again while Mr. Joliffe, fumbling
in pocket of his embroidered satin waistcoat, drew thence a gold
snuff-box, tapped, opened and proffered it to Sam.

"Thankee, no, sir," he answered, "I take mine in a pipe."

"Then pray smoke if you will, my lord."  But instead of so doing, Sam
leaned back and with those grey eyes of his now eloquent and wistful,
said:

"Mr. Joliffe, ever since I went seafaring to help that mother of mine,
for I shall always think of her as my real mother, I've spent my life
mostly aboard ship, whaling or fighting the mounseers, d'ye see.  So
today I'm a stranger.  In all this big London ay and England too, I've
no friend to trust or advise me except my old messmate and Captain, Ned
Harlow.  Now if you, sir, could manage to feel yourself friend enough
to bear a hand with help and advice I should be ... well ... mighty
grateful.  And if you can so contrive, then please to let go all this
'my lordship' foolery, at least when we're alone, and call me--just
Sam.  So now, sir, what's the word?"

Mr. Joliffe snuffed with gusto, closed and fobbed his box, dusted
himself with snowy handkerchief and glancing up--smiled.

"Sam," quoth he, in tone altered as his look, "I am a bachelor, with
few interests outside business and fewer cares, reasonably selfish and
fond of comfort as a cat!  Today, in this last half-hour, I am
distinctly uncomfortable, have actually forgotten myself and am in a
state of extraordinary disquiet, not to say perturbation, and all by
reason of--you!"

"Why so, Mr. Joliffe?"

"Because though you are a belted Earl and peer of the realm, you remain
so essentially--just Sam!"

"Why d'ye see, I'm not a changeable kind of cove."

"Exactly!  You remain the Sam who came into this stuffy office like a
fresh sea-breeze, and this heartened me.  Then, instead of gloating
upon your sudden great good fortune, you gloomed, and this surprised
and won my interest.  But your grief was because your devoted mother
could have no joy of it--and this touched me sensibly!  And now, Sam,
knowing poor Humanity as I do, its shams and hypocrisies, its
crookedness and double-dealing, I prove you so ... so very much the
reverse and opposite of all this ... with the best of your life before
you, that I cannot bear to think you may risk losing it unwarned by me.
And I begin by advising you that blind Fate, or devilish spiteful
Fortune, has raised and armed two enemies who must destroy you
or--themselves go down to irretrievable ruin!"  Here Mr. Joliffe
fumbled again for his snuff-box.

"Lord!" murmured Sam.  "Two of 'em?  Sounds interesting."

"Eh?" exclaimed Mr. Joliffe, pinch of snuff suddenly arrested within an
inch of his nose, "did you say 'interesting'?"

"Yes, sir.  I mean to say--two of 'em!  I guess my uncle for one but
who's t'other?"

"His only son, your cousin Ralph."

"Oh?" enquired Sam.  "Ah!  What like is he?"

"About your own age and size, but a regular Buck, a dashing Corinthian
and perfect terror by all accounts."

"How a terror, sir?"

"He is esteemed a fistic expert."

"Ah!" sighed Sam, his eye brightening.  "You mean a fibber, a bruiser,
a fancy article, eh sir?"

"Just so.  I am informed by Shrig how the Honourable Ralph is famous,
or infamous, as a two-fisted smasher through all the countryside."

"Which countryside, sir?"

"Sussex.  He is a quarrelsome hothead to be avoided, and especially by
you, Sam!"

"Ay but d'ye see, I've also done a trifle of fibbing afloat and ashore
and if so be we chance to meet and he feel inclined--"

"No, no!" cried Mr. Joliffe so vehemently that his pinch of snuff was
scattered broadcast.  "You must not meet and certainly--oh, certainly
not be drawn into quarrel!  No, this would be their opening ... give
them their chance----"

"For what, sir?"

"Listen, Sam, and draw your own conclusions ...  I know your uncle, my
lord Julian, only too well, having been compelled to deal with him in
business.  We Joliffes have been lawyers and agents to the Scrope
family for generations.  Thus I have known Lord Julian all his life and
understand him as few possibly can--and the more I have learned of his
inner self the more appalled have I been!  For, Sam, I do assure you he
is beyond Nature, an anomaly, a--creature without a
conscience--absolutely!"

"He sounds pretty inhuman!" murmured Sam.

"Listen and be warned!  Lord Julian is a law unto himself, beneath
handsome person and courtly manners he masks a beast of insatiate
appetites and a boundless will--and with none of those moral restraints
imposed by civilization!  Highly esteemed in Society and privileged
courtier, he is famous as a sportsman, known for reckless gambler,
heartless libertine, unerring pistol-shot and notorious duellist with
two deaths to his account already!"

"Lord!" exclaimed Sam again.  "Lord love me!"

"Amen!" said Mr. Joliffe, with fervour.  "So, this is the man who
confidently expected and would have inherited this great fortune but
for you, Sam, but for you!  And I know how very desperately he is
circumstanced, how deep he is in the clutches of the
money-lenders--without this heritage he is ruined beyond redemption, he
and his son!  So now you are warned, Sam, are you warned?"

"Ay, I am indeed!  And pray know me vastly grateful, friend."

"Then you will take all due, all needful precautions?"

"That will I.  Now, pray, sir, what does he know, what has he heard of
me?"

"Nothing beyond the fact of your being the legal heir and lately from
abroad."

"Does he know I'm a seaman?"

"He does not!  And shall learn nothing more of you--at least from me."

"Good!  Then should I venture athwart his hawse it shall be under false
colours, braces manned to bear up and go about, ay and with guns run
out and double-shotted."

"All of which means precisely what, Sam?"

"That should we chance to meet, he shall not know who I am, yet should
he suspect my true identity I'll duck and dodge but be ready to give
more than I take.  Besides I shan't be quite alone, for d'ye see I'm
due to meet my Captain and friend, Ned Harlow, three days hence at the
White Hart in Lewes.  And, Mr. Joliffe, blow foul or fair there's none
like Ned!"

"You esteem him very highly?"

"Sir, he's my friend!  Ay and saved my life besides, and what's more a
finer seaman never trod plank and a fighting captain few can match!  To
see him take his ship into action is pure joy for d'ye see he follows
Nelson's own maxim 'engage the enemy more closely.'  It's keep the
weather-gauge and board and Ned himself generally first on the enemy's
deck.  Sixteen prizes we took on our last cruise, for says he to me as
we laid the _Intrepide_ frigate aboard, 'It shall be competence for
life, shipmate, or Davy Jones'."

"A regular fire-eater, eh, Sam?"

"Ay, sir.  Yet mild-spoken and meek-seeming as the most parson-y
parson!  Seldom put out, never swears--much, never at a loss and
choke-ful o' book-learning.  Shakespeare, poetry, the classics, Homer,
Virgil, Horace, and reads 'em in the original too--learned himself
Greek and Latin to do it."

"Your captain is truly an original, Sam."

"Ay b'George, sir, that's the word!"

"Consequently, Sam, I'm relieved and glad to know you will be companied
by such a man, especially as it seems you intend for Sussex."

"Why oddly enough, sir, this was Ned's idea, he has friends living
there and, 'twixt you and me, I'm sadly afraid he means to live there
too, being so flush o' prize-money he talks of buying a farm which,
seeing he's such prime sailor-man is great pity."

"Howbeit, Sam, for reasons aforementioned Sussex holds danger for you.
Wherefore I shall take such measures for your protection as I deem
proper----"

"Lord, sir!  I do hope you won't."

"I know, Sam, I know.  But then I am also aware and too uncomfortably
certain of the malign cunning and utter ruthlessness of the evils
opposing us.  And I say 'us' because to more or less degree I intend
sharing these perils."

"But, sir--it's very handsome of you, but--why should you?"

"Sam, look around you, these musty tomes, this stuffy office and myself
like a human spider spinning webs to catch malevolent villainy ...
pitting my wits against their devilish cunning and usually, I am glad
to say, with the happiest results.  Here I work plotting their
destruction, unknown, unheard, unseen....  But sometimes if the case is
sufficiently remarkable, I take occasion to witness the criminal's
arrest and--hum--final exodus."

"Exodus?  You mean--by hanging?"

"I do.  Precisely!  I have witnessed the execution of several
cold-blooded scoundrels with my natural horror tempered by a very
lively satisfaction, knowing the world a cleaner, better place for
their removal.  You have never seen a hanging?"

"No!  I've seen too many hearty fellows die by steel or bullet but
never by rope and hope I never shall."

"Indeed 'tis a sordid, a dreadful yet, I fear, most necessary business,
not as a deterrent but to be rid of social evil."

"Yet evil persists, sir."

"Alas--and always must, Sam, until the curse of Cain is lifted,
ignorance banished and Humanity turns to and seeks for the hidden good
rather than the too blatant evil."

"Ay, but when shall this be, sir?"

"When Mankind has grown wiser by suffering.  There are only two ways in
life's journey, Sam, up or down, the right or wrong, and we are free to
choose, more or less, and this alone lifts us above the brutes whose
only guide is instinct.  Talking of evil naturally brings me back to
your uncle, Lord Julian.  And I now take occasion to assure you,
strictly betwixt ourselves, that I am setting in motion such latent
forces as shall render him powerless to harm you--or anyone else!  But
this will need time, six months or more.  So I must ask you to be
patient and make no effort to assume your title and lofty rank in
Society until you may do so with perfect safety.  Meanwhile, of course,
you are at liberty to draw what monies you require, to buy any
properties you fancy or sell such of your own as you will.  Only, and
again, I beg you to have patience."

"That will I, sir.  For, d'ye see, I've no mind to this title, and as
for Society, why damme, sir, I should be like fish out o' water, ay
helpless as hulk in a driftway."

"Ah, but," chuckled Mr. Joliffe, "you will be one of the wealthiest
bachelors in England and able to choose the proudest beauty in town or
out!  Mothers with marriageable daughters will haunt you----"

"Lord love me!" groaned Sam.  "I'd liefer turn farmer along o' Ned."

"Which reminds me--where in Sussex do you and your captain propose to
stay?"

"With friends of his, I understand, though where, I've no idea."

"The chiefest of your many estates, Wrybourne Feveril, is in Sussex,
Sam, and 'tis but natural you should wish to see the glory of it, but--"

"Ay ay, sir, I'll be wary, trust me."

"Are you lodged here in town?"

"At the Turk's Head on Snow Hill, sir."

"Sam if, as I hope, we are to be friends, pray know that my name is
Ebeneezer--'Ben' to my intimates--and that I have a house amid trees in
Streatham village where I shall be happy to entertain you so long as
you will.  What do you say?"

"With all my heart, Ben."

"Good!" said Mr. Joliffe, consulting his watch.  "In five minutes my
carriage will be at the door, we'll drive to Snow Hill for your
baggage, then home, and on the way I will give you more particulars of
your blue-blooded, extremely arrogant, most discreditable family."

It was as they descended the outer steps towards Mr. Joliffe's waiting
carriage that Sam was aware of one who chanced to pass by, and this
such a very commonplace, ordinary seeming person, indeed so entirely
unremarkable that Sam would never have noticed him had not their eyes
happened to meet--a swift, casual glance instantly forgotten as Sam
took his seat in the carriage.  But no sooner had the vehicle rolled
away than this unremarkable person did an odd, not to say remarkable
thing--halting suddenly, he took out a small pocket memorandum wherein
he scribbled hastily, whispering as he did so:

"Six foot tall, or thereabout.  Aged about thirty.  Tough and
determined-looking.  Tanned complexion.  Scar on left side of brow.
So--there y'are m'lud Earl, but--for how long?  I wonder."  Then
pocketing his notebook, this so ordinary person set off at no ordinary
speed.




CHAPTER II

GIVETH BRIEF DESCRIPTION OF A NEW EARL

Japhet Eustace Scrope, fifth Earl of Wrybourne, set forth on his
travels not in pride of state with gleaming coach, footmen and
outriders like the aristocrat Fortune had determined he should be, but
as the man he was, that is to say, with no pageantry of hoofs, wheels
and servants attendant, but alone and upon his own sturdy legs.
Moreover, as if to defy Fortune's so compelling decree, he had rigged
his muscular person in most sailorly fashion.  Thus upon his thick
newly-cropped hair a glazed hat was cocked at devil-may-care angle,
about brawny throat was a blue neckerchief brightly patterned with
large, yellow anchors, its loose ends fluttering gaily; round his lithe
middle a broad belt with vast, gleaming buckle, supported nether
garments of dashing, nautical cut; in one powerful hand he grasped a
knotted, bludgeon-like stick, in the other a trim bundle tied neatly in
large, spotted handkerchief of the kind made notable by that great
fistic champion Jem Belcher.  Thus equipped, vigorous of movement,
cheery of visage, alert for instant action and ready to engage all
comers as the Navy itself, this new Earl of Wrybourne strode on to
front grim Destiny and perilous Circumstance like the English sailorman
he was.




CHAPTER III

CONCERNING CAPTAIN EDWARD HARLOW, WEDLOCK AND A WIDOW

In pleasant chamber of the White Hart Inn overlooking the busy street
sat Captain Edward Harlow.  Richly though sombrely clad, he seemed more
like studious landsman than the hardy captain of a battle-scarred
privateering vessel whose many daring exploits had won renown in the
narrow seas and beyond--for Captain Ned's comely head was bent over an
open book, his clean-shaven, shapely lips forming soundlessly the noble
lines he was reading.

It was thus Sam found him as pausing upon the threshold, he enquired:

"What is it this time, Ned, Virgil or Horace?"

"Neither, shipmate.  Shut the door, sit down, listen and tell me."

And forthwith he read aloud:

  "'This royal throne of kings, this sceptr'd isle,
  This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
  This other Eden, demi-paradise;
  This fortress built by Nature for herself--
  Against infection and the hand of war:
  This happy breed of men, this little world;
  This precious stone set in the silver sea
  Which serves it in the office of a wall,
  Or as a moat defensive to a house,
  Against the envy of less happier lands;
  This blessed plot, this earth, this realm--
  --This England.'"


"Shakespeare, an't it, Ned?"

"Ay--who else could frame our England in words so apt and deathless
true?  Ha, Sam, the oftener and further I voyage, the happier and
prouder am I of this right blessed old island!"

"So am I, Ned, but it goes without saying--for I've no words for it."

"However you've bled for it, Sam, and that's far better....  But what
luck with your lawyers?"

"'Pon my soul, Ned, I don't know!  For it seems I'm confoundedly rich,
ay, money enough to build and fit a ship o' my own--a fleet!  Ha, but,
along with all this wealth I've relatives who are, or will be, after my
blood!  For d'ye see, messmate, but for me they would have come in for
this heritage and without it they're in shoal water with rocks alee and
certain to founder."  Captain Ned closed his battered volume on a
finger and leaning back regarded Sam with a pair of the mildest-seeming
blue eyes which widened beneath lifting brows as they took in the
various items of his companion's attire.

"Eh--Sam," he exclaimed, "why this too-nautical rig?  Scupper me, if
you don't show like the Navies, Royal and Merchant, all rolled into
one!"

"Ay, I do, Ned, I do indeed!  Nobody could possibly mistake me for
anything but a slap-up sailorman, a regular Jack-ashore."

"Only a jack afloat--he'd certainly damn you as too sailorly to be
true!"

"Ah but," quoth Sam, tossing the glazed hat upon the nearest chair,
"I'm rigged for the eye of shore-biding folk--especially two!  No
landsman spying yon hat and this neckerchief only could possibly
mistake me for a blue-blooded aristocrat, eh Ned?"  The Captain closed
his book, laid it aside and looked Sam over with closer regard.

"Shipmate," said he, "I've never known that tough figurehead of yours
affected by liquor or sun, and yet now I'm ... wondering--"

"Same here, Ned!  It all sounds too curst ridiculous for belief--so
let's cut it adrift--tell me instead, when does your widow clap you
aboard and grapple you in wedlock for better or worse, my poor, old
lad--when?"  Captain Ned winced, his athletic form appeared to wilt and
he uttered sound like a stifled groan ere he answered:

"Sam, I ... don't know.  I ... I haven't seen her--yet!"

"Oh?" said Sam.  "Why?"

"I waited for you to ... to stand by and bear a hand as messmate
should."

"Well, here I am, Ned, ready and willing to do all I may.  Though women
are craft I steer clear of as you know--ever since that French mamselle
so very nearly--"

"All I want is your advice, Sam.  For here am I with hard Duty hauling
me one way and ... tender inclination the other.  For though pledged to
the widow I'm ... well ... yearning to be free."

"And rightly so, Ned, for this means you're clean out of love with her.
Agreed?"

"Ay, that is so!" groaned the Captain.  "But then--she has my word."

"However, since you're not in love this alters the case, for without
love d'ye see--"

"Ah, but I am in love, Sam, deeply!  Heart and soul!"

"Why then this alters the case back again, though you're steering a
plaguey erratic course, Ned.  Still, if you're in so deep, why not
marry your widow and be done with it?"

"Because ... Sam ... messmate, I ... love another!"

"Not another widow, Ned?"

"No, damme!" groaned the Captain.  "Never again!  No more widows for
me!"

"Well then, don't marry this widow."

"Ah, but Sam, duty compels!"

"Oh!" murmured Sam.  "Ah?  Then the widow it must be after all--I
suppose.  Though lookee, Ned, wedlock without love is all lock!  Ay and
consequently means breakers in your lee and a foul anchorage.  Love,
d'ye see, Ned, is wedlock's sheet anchor, that gone, marriage is
wrecked soon or late."

"Ah, Sam, that is what dreads me!  And yet she has waited years for me
to make enough money, and now that I have ... well ... how can I go
about, sheer off and leave her desolate, how?"

"Sounds a foulish course, Ned.  But what of the one not a widow?  Does
she wait too--and know you love her?"

"I ... yes ... I fancy she guessed it, for I never dared tell her.  No,
indeed, I've kept a fairish offing for fear I might speak--and myself
no free man!  So there's the case, Sam--what is your counsel?"

"'Tis plaguey awkward situation, Ned."

"It confounds me, Sam.  This is why I ask your advice--seeing you are
my mate and friend of years besides.  So out with it."

"Well first, is your widow mercenary?"

"N-no, I should say 'prudent'."

"Does she love you deeply, heart and soul?"

"Y-es, I ... suppose so."

"Can't you be sure and certain, Ned?"

"Hardly, Sam.  She is not ... not a very ... demonstrative person."

"Oh!" murmured Sam, pondering deeply.  "Ah!"

"Well, shipmate, what's the word?"

"Cut her adrift, Ned, your widow and--"

"Impossible!  Not to be thought on!  For as I told you--"

"Ay, ay, duty compels, I know!  But Ned, such duty will surely compel
the three of you to misery all your days--it will so!  Your properest
course is to be now as desperate bold ashore as you are afloat.  Up now
and bear away for the widow, speak her fair, gently though firm.  If
she rages, comfort her with cash.  If she weeps console her with more.
Come now, tacks and sheets, let's stand away at once."

So, together they rose, took hats and sticks and together descended to
the street where all was stir and bustle for it was market-day; nor had
they far to go, for presently the Captain halted before a small, neat
dwelling.

"Sam," said he, dabbing moist brow with dainty handkerchief, "you'll
remember that night we boarded and cut out the _Serapis_ under the
batteries at Brest?"

"Shall I ever forget it, Ned!  B'gad 'twas touch and go with us!"

"It was, messmate--yet I never felt then as I do now.  Look at
me--damme, I'm all of a quake!"

"Well, to it, Ned, to it!  Cutlasses out and boarders away!"

"You'll keep an offing but stand by, Sam."

"Ay, I'll bear away for a sight o' the castle yonder, you'll find me
thereabout.  Now 'bold' is the word and good luck, old fellow!"

"Well, here's for it!"  So saying, Captain Ned breathed deep, squared
his shoulders and striding forward knocked upon the door of this small,
neat house.




CHAPTER IV

OF NOTHING IN PARTICULAR

Meanwhile Sam stood gazing up at this Castle of Lewes, stately in its
ruin, massive gateway, scowling battlement and mighty keep, this hoary
monument of an age remote and well-nigh forgotten, its lofty walls
rising up and up in rugged grandeur against an azure sky; this part of
old England whose very stones might be so eloquent for those blessed
with ears to hear, crying out of battle, siege and storm, of cheers for
victory, of the cries and groans of martyrs amid the vicious crackle of
searing flame--and of a virile nation's upward struggle through blood
and suffering and anguished tears, to that freedom which is England's
glory and makes its hallowed earth the secure haven for all those
fleeing from tyranny and oppression:

  "This fortress built by Nature for defence
  Against invasion and the ills of war:
  This mighty isle set in the silver sea
  To fling back foes and shelter all distressed."

Sam was thus misquoting, and such were his thoughts when he became
aware of one beside him, a person, this, so ordinary and altogether
unremarkable that Sam merely glanced towards him, then gave all his
attention to the old castle again, until a perfectly expressionless
voice remarked:

"A noble spectacle, friend!"

"Ay, ay!" answered Sam, carelessly, but meeting the glance of the
speaker's small, colourless eyes, he set the glazed hat to lower more
jaunty angle over his scarred brow, with light tap on the crown.

"You are a mariner, I see."

"You were blind else, my hearty."

"Yet greatly interested in ancient ruins!"

"Why lookee, I'm wondering how yon old place 'ud look arter say a
couple o' broadsides from a seventy-four."

"Ah, you have served in a battleship, my friend?"

"Off an' on, sir.  But gimme the little craft for action."

"I see.  And you are but new-landed, I fancy?"

"Ay, ay, that's me!  And loaded to the hatches wi' rhino, my hearty!"
Here Sam winked, slapped his pockets and made a sudden gesture with his
sailorly legs like the beginning of a hornpipe.

"So now you are on your way home, I suppose?"

"Mate, you suppose true!  Foller in my wake, ay, keep astarn o' me and
you shall see sich welcome for jolly jack as'll warm the very cockles
o' y'r 'eart."

"Is your home far from here?"

"Depends on what you'd call far."

"Is it a mile?"

"Ay and more."

"Where then?"

"D'ye know Brighthelmstone?"

"I've heard of it."

"Well, it ain't theer."

"Eh, not?"

"No, my home lays 'twixt and 'tween here and theer--"  At this moment
came a familiar hail:

"Ahoy, Sam!"

"Snoggers!" he exclaimed.  "Sink and burn me if theer ain't my Cap'n!"
Saying which, Sam turned hastily and left the man in the shadow of this
great castle showing the more insignificant by contrast....  But the
Captain's step was light, his blue eyes shone, and he flourished his
stick triumphantly.

"Sam, oh Sam," he exclaimed joyfully, "Lord be thanked--she refused me,
d'ye hear, refused me!  And what d'you say to that?"

"Congratulations!  And what now?"

"A bottle, Sam, a bottle!  And of the best, for this is an occasion!
It seems she couldn't wait any longer and so, ha, messmate--the day
after tomorrow she's being married to a town barber-surgeon and
I--shake hands, Sam, I'm free!  So a bottle it is and then we'll bear
away together for--never mind, but we will!  And this night, Sam, you
shall eat of the best, and sleep 'twixt sheets white as lilies and
sweet with lavender!  Ah, you shall taste such cookery and see such
beauty as bless this old world too seldom."




CHAPTER V

OF ARGUMENT BY THE WAY, WHICH ENDS WITH A SCREAM

The white road winding upwards between shady hedge-rows, led round a
sharp corner to show them suddenly a wide, fair prospect of richly
green, undulating country stretching away, lush meadow, glittering
stream, darkling coppice and bowery hamlet, away to a line of noble
hills rising afar in gentle majesty.

Here Captain Ned, who had walked some while in musing silence, paused
to feast his sight and say:

"Ha, Sam, here is Will Shakespeare's 'demi-paradise.'  Ay, 'this land
of such dear souls, this dear, dear land, dear for her reputation
through the world!'  And all unchanged since his day, thank God!  'Let
us be backed by God and with the seas ... in them and in ourselves our
safety lies ...  England is safe if true within herself.' Ah, Will knew
and said it all, eh, Sam?"  Finding him silent, the Captain turned to
see his companion's sombre gaze was backward towards Lewes town already
vague with distance.

"Messmate," he demanded, "why must you peer astern of us so often?"

"Spies, Ned--one at least.  Ay, they're after me already it seems."

"Eh?  What?  Who are?"

"My relations, I fancy.  This bloody-minded nunks o' mine ... this
accursed heritage!"

"How, Sam, then was that dog-watch yarn you spun me of a fortune left
you--was it true fact?"

"Ay, true as death, Ned!  So today I'm being dogged and spied on, or so
I think.  For, d'ye see yonder by the old castle a strange fellow
brings to alongside and tries to pump me, but got only foolery for his
pains, because, Ned, I'd glimpsed this same fellow in London by the
lawyer's office ... and now I'm wondering if he's away to warn my
relations how I'm on the road to 'em."

"What like is he?"

"B'gad, Ned, it's hard to say, for he's so exactly like everybody else
that he may be anybody, nobody, or somebody more than he seems----"

"Easy, shipmate, easy!" quoth the Captain, in frowning perplexity; Sam
chuckled.

"I mean," he explained with white-toothed grin, "this insignificant,
ordinary-seeming fellow may be one to reckon with, so I'm keeping my
weather-eye lifting for squalls."

"Ah!" said Captain Ned, also glancing back whence they had come.  "You
think he is standing after us, a stern-chase, hey?"

"However, there's no sign of him, so let's carry on.  Tell me now,"
said Sam as they went on down the hill, "are you still minded, quite
determined to ... quit the sea, Ned?"

"Yes, I am indeed.  I mean to try my hand at farming--in a snug,
comfortable way ... a farmstead, not too small, bowered in trees, in a
garden not too large with a row of beehives, and a few acres with cows,
say eight, an orchard and a paddock with an easy-going nag to jog
around on ... in a word, Sam, Home, ay, with a capital aitch!  A quiet
anchorage at last, a peaceful haven ... to pass the rest of my days."

"How so, Ned?  D'you mean in sowing and mowing--hayricks and so on, eh?"

"Naturally!  Then besides I shall always have my books."

"And beehives, Ned."

"Why yes, so I said--"

"And cows, Ned."

"Ay, I mentioned 'em, too."

"And a nag--but what beside, messmate?  An't you leaving out the one
most important and necessary item?"

"Eh, what tack are you off on now, Sam?"

"Woman, Ned!  A wife!  I've heard no home is complete without one.
Though I've heard also that when woman comes in at door, peace flies
out up the chimney.  And for my part I'm pretty sure 'tis only too dam'
true."

"You would, Sam, being such confirmed, ay, and confounded, woman-hater."

"Not woman-hater, Ned, merely a female evader, plying well to windward
o' their feminine bewitchments."

"Yet what of that Spanish dame in Rio who knifed you?"

"All quite natural, Ned, for d'ye see a don was throttling her, I
floored him and she knifed me because he happened to be her newest
husband, which was only to be expected, she being a woman--and dago
besides."

"Some day, Sam, you'll meet a real woman--I hope!"  After this, they
went in silence, Sam trudging heavily, head bowed in frowning thought,
Captain Ned striding blithely, shoulders squared, blue eyes fixed
yearningly on the distance before them until:

"Listen!" said he, suddenly.  "Hear the song of that lark and be glad
you're alive--and in England!"

"Ay, but," growled Sam, hardly troubling to lift his frowning gaze,
"yon's only a bird!  Yet away there is ocean calling ... calling day
and night: 'Oh sons o' mine, come ye, dare me--trust me and I'll give
ye life and maybe death.  Ah, but while ye breathe, no living may
compare with the joys and dangers of me, the glad freedom of my rushing
winds, the hiss and surge of my ever-restless, hungry billows!  So come
ye mariners of England that are my children all, dare me, trust me as
ye have done through the ages!'  Can't you hear it, Ned, don't you
hear?"

"Sam," exclaimed the Captain, halting suddenly to stare his amazement,
"now God bless my soul!  What's this you're quoting?"

"My thoughts, Ned, put into words this time because I'm troubled----"

"You've been reading poetry, Sam."

"Not I.  Can't abide the stuff."

"Yet you were talking it, or very nearly."

"No, what I said had never a jingle or rhyme."

"There is such thing as blank verse, Sam.  So keep a bright look-out or
you'll be turning poet or some such."

"However," answered Sam, shaking his head, "what I said was for my
grief, ay, and Old England's too, that we must lose prime sailor, such
ship-master and leader o' men as yourself, Ned.  I've seen you in
tempest and battle, how our lads would jump, instant t' your command or
follow the gleam o' your cutlass no matter the odds, follow you to
victory, ay, and death often enough, just because you were--you!  And
now ... that you should turn farmer!  You of all men--"

"Hell and damnation!" exclaimed the Captain, his usual placidity
ruffled at last.  "Why the devil shouldn't I?"

"Because you are yourself, Ned, while yonder at sea lie Old England's
foes waiting and watching their chance to foul this island, dammem!
Ha, and Nelson dead and Buonaparte across the Channel, back in triumph
and making ready to spring--"

"Well, let him, the sooner the better.  For:

  "'Come the three corners of the world in arms
  And we shall shock them.  Naught can make us rue
  If England to itself do rest but true.'


"So says our Will.  And true she will be, says I.  And as for me, like
you I've shed my blood and will again if need be....  But today ... I'm
nigh forty years old and have sailed the seas since a lad.  I've
roughed it afloat and ashore doing my duty how best I may, and so will
I ever."

"This I know, messmate, this I surely know."

"Why then I have as surely earned a right to peace at last, home and
maybe a ... a happiness I scarce dare think on.  However, if England
must be fought for, I'll do it on English soil.  Ha--and there it is!"

"What?" enquired Sam, in startled accents.  "Where?"

"Yonder, Sam, behind those trees to starboard--the Old Dun Cow which
suggesting milk shall supply something stronger.  How say you,
shipmate?"

"Ay, ay, Captain, with all my heart!"  But as they approached this
quiet, tree-shaded inn, from somewhere nearby rose a sudden, gasping
scream.




CHAPTER V

OF ARGUMENT BY THE WAY, WHICH ENDS WITH A SCREAM

The white road winding upwards between shady hedge-rows, led round a
sharp corner to show them suddenly a wide, fair prospect of richly
green, undulating country stretching away, lush meadow, glittering
stream, darkling coppice and bowery hamlet, away to a line of noble
hills rising afar in gentle majesty.

Here Captain Ned, who had walked some while in musing silence, paused
to feast his sight and say:

"Ha, Sam, here is Will Shakespeare's 'demi-paradise.'  Ay, 'this land
of such dear souls, this dear, dear land, dear for her reputation
through the world!'  And all unchanged since his day, thank God!  'Let
us be backed by God and with the seas ... in them and in ourselves our
safety lies ...  England is safe if true within herself.' Ah, Will knew
and said it all, eh, Sam?"  Finding him silent, the Captain turned to
see his companion's sombre gaze was backward towards Lewes town already
vague with distance.

"Messmate," he demanded, "why must you peer astern of us so often?"

"Spies, Ned--one at least.  Ay, they're after me already it seems."

"Eh?  What?  Who are?"

"My relations, I fancy.  This bloody-minded nunks o' mine ... this
accursed heritage!"

"How, Sam, then was that dog-watch yarn you spun me of a fortune left
you--was it true fact?"

"Ay, true as death, Ned!  So today I'm being dogged and spied on, or so
I think.  For, d'ye see yonder by the old castle a strange fellow
brings to alongside and tries to pump me, but got only foolery for his
pains, because, Ned, I'd glimpsed this same fellow in London by the
lawyer's office ... and now I'm wondering if he's away to warn my
relations how I'm on the road to 'em."

"What like is he?"

"B'gad, Ned, it's hard to say, for he's so exactly like everybody else
that he may be anybody, nobody, or somebody more than he seems----"

"Easy, shipmate, easy!" quoth the Captain, in frowning perplexity; Sam
chuckled.

"I mean," he explained with white-toothed grin, "this insignificant,
ordinary-seeming fellow may be one to reckon with, so I'm keeping my
weather-eye lifting for squalls."

"Ah!" said Captain Ned, also glancing back whence they had come.  "You
think he is standing after us, a stern-chase, hey?"

"However, there's no sign of him, so let's carry on.  Tell me now,"
said Sam as they went on down the hill, "are you still minded, quite
determined to ... quit the sea, Ned?"

"Yes, I am indeed.  I mean to try my hand at farming--in a snug,
comfortable way ... a farmstead, not too small, bowered in trees, in a
garden not too large with a row of beehives, and a few acres with cows,
say eight, an orchard and a paddock with an easy-going nag to jog
around on ... in a word, Sam, Home, ay, with a capital aitch!  A quiet
anchorage at last, a peaceful haven ... to pass the rest of my days."

"How so, Ned?  D'you mean in sowing and mowing--hayricks and so on, eh?"

"Naturally!  Then besides I shall always have my books."

"And beehives, Ned."

"Why yes, so I said--"

"And cows, Ned."

"Ay, I mentioned 'em, too."

"And a nag--but what beside, messmate?  An't you leaving out the one
most important and necessary item?"

"Eh, what tack are you off on now, Sam?"

"Woman, Ned!  A wife!  I've heard no home is complete without one.
Though I've heard also that when woman comes in at door, peace flies
out up the chimney.  And for my part I'm pretty sure 'tis only too dam'
true."

"You would, Sam, being such confirmed, ay, and confounded, woman-hater."

"Not woman-hater, Ned, merely a female evader, plying well to windward
o' their feminine bewitchments."

"Yet what of that Spanish dame in Rio who knifed you?"

"All quite natural, Ned, for d'ye see a don was throttling her, I
floored him and she knifed me because he happened to be her newest
husband, which was only to be expected, she being a woman--and dago
besides."

"Some day, Sam, you'll meet a real woman--I hope!"  After this, they
went in silence, Sam trudging heavily, head bowed in frowning thought,
Captain Ned striding blithely, shoulders squared, blue eyes fixed
yearningly on the distance before them until:

"Listen!" said he, suddenly.  "Hear the song of that lark and be glad
you're alive--and in England!"

"Ay, but," growled Sam, hardly troubling to lift his frowning gaze,
"yon's only a bird!  Yet away there is ocean calling ... calling day
and night: 'Oh sons o' mine, come ye, dare me--trust me and I'll give
ye life and maybe death.  Ah, but while ye breathe, no living may
compare with the joys and dangers of me, the glad freedom of my rushing
winds, the hiss and surge of my ever-restless, hungry billows!  So come
ye mariners of England that are my children all, dare me, trust me as
ye have done through the ages!'  Can't you hear it, Ned, don't you
hear?"

"Sam," exclaimed the Captain, halting suddenly to stare his amazement,
"now God bless my soul!  What's this you're quoting?"

"My thoughts, Ned, put into words this time because I'm troubled----"

"You've been reading poetry, Sam."

"Not I.  Can't abide the stuff."

"Yet you were talking it, or very nearly."

"No, what I said had never a jingle or rhyme."

"There is such thing as blank verse, Sam.  So keep a bright look-out or
you'll be turning poet or some such."

"However," answered Sam, shaking his head, "what I said was for my
grief, ay, and Old England's too, that we must lose prime sailor, such
ship-master and leader o' men as yourself, Ned.  I've seen you in
tempest and battle, how our lads would jump, instant t' your command or
follow the gleam o' your cutlass no matter the odds, follow you to
victory, ay, and death often enough, just because you were--you!  And
now ... that you should turn farmer!  You of all men--"

"Hell and damnation!" exclaimed the Captain, his usual placidity
ruffled at last.  "Why the devil shouldn't I?"

"Because you are yourself, Ned, while yonder at sea lie Old England's
foes waiting and watching their chance to foul this island, dammem!
Ha, and Nelson dead and Buonaparte across the Channel, back in triumph
and making ready to spring--"

"Well, let him, the sooner the better.  For:

  "'Come the three corners of the world in arms
  And we shall shock them.  Naught can make us rue
  If England to itself do rest but true.'


"So says our Will.  And true she will be, says I.  And as for me, like
you I've shed my blood and will again if need be....  But today ... I'm
nigh forty years old and have sailed the seas since a lad.  I've
roughed it afloat and ashore doing my duty how best I may, and so will
I ever."

"This I know, messmate, this I surely know."

"Why then I have as surely earned a right to peace at last, home and
maybe a ... a happiness I scarce dare think on.  However, if England
must be fought for, I'll do it on English soil.  Ha--and there it is!"

"What?" enquired Sam, in startled accents.  "Where?"

"Yonder, Sam, behind those trees to starboard--the Old Dun Cow which
suggesting milk shall supply something stronger.  How say you,
shipmate?"

"Ay, ay, Captain, with all my heart!"  But as they approached this
quiet, tree-shaded inn, from somewhere nearby rose a sudden, gasping
scream.




CHAPTER VI

OF FISTS--AND--THE BLACK-HAIRED, GOLDEN-EYED ANDROMEDA

"Eh--a woman?" quoth Sam, glancing about.

"Ay.  The inn-yard, I fancy."

So thither went they and beheld--a rough-clad man on hands and knees,
dripping blood from battered nose, two young dandies who laughed, and a
woman struggling vainly in the arms of a third, a tall, powerful young
fellow whose dashing air and foppish attire from buckled hat to
be-tasselled hessian boots, proclaimed him, in sporting parlance, for a
"bang-up tippy," a "go" and regular "buck"; the woman, whose shabby,
rumpled garments betrayed too much of her young shapeliness, was silent
now, striving desperately against the large, white hands that became
ever more aggressive and masterful until--the jaunty hat was whisked
from his astonished head and he became suddenly aware of painfully
intrusive fingers that twisting themselves in his ornate cravat,
wrenched and twisted, drawing him irresistibly towards a bronzed,
lowering face lit by grey eyes fiercely wide.

"S-so, my buck?" hissed Sam, and flung him away so violently that he
reeled backwards and would have fallen but for the wall that checked
and propped him.  At this so sudden and unexpected assault ensued a
moment of amazed silence; then with encouraging shout, forward strode
the two dandies, one of whom flourished a modish cane, which slim
elegance was instantly beaten to earth by Captain Ned's bludgeon-like
stick.

"Sirs," quoth he pleasantly, glancing from one to other, "fair play if
you please, or I shall be happy to engage you singly or together.  And,
messmate, if you must, do not hit too hard!"

Sam, about to reply, closed lips firmly instead, for the Buck, square
chin tucked well in, powerful fists up, was advancing against him,
poised gracefully on toes of his gleaming hessians, and with all the
easy assurance of a finished boxer.

So they fronted each other, eye to eye, gallant Buck all arrogant
confidence by reason of past victories in academy and ring--and rugged
sailorman, lithe, grim, and hardened by exposure, who had fought many a
time and not for glory but life itself.

The Buck feinted gracefully, leapt nimbly and smote viciously; the
sailor ducked as nimbly, countered heavily, was away and in again with
hard-driving left.  So the battle was joined.  And now for some while
there followed such dexterous foot and fist-work seldom witnessed;
grace of powerful bodies in swift, lithe action that as time passed
became only the more furiously purposeful....  The Buck, a gay and
joyous fighter, sailed in, both fists going with more or less effect;
the sailor using powerful left, stung and checked him, yet watching for
chance to use his ever-menacing right, meeting determined attack with
light though punishing defence.

Thus as time passed the Buck grew more cautious, the Sailor more
aggressive; both now were bleeding, both seemed tiring, especially the
Sailor whose feet seemed heavier and blows less accurate, so that it
became a matter of skill backed now by sheer strength, grim fortitude
and experience.

The two dandies, both lovers of the Game, had been first thralled
beyond speech, then plaintively anxious, were now jubilant and
vociferous:

"Go it, old fellow," cried Number One, "you've got him!  Ha demme, what
su-perb fibbing, eh, Bob?"

"Mag-nificent!" gasped Number Two.  "'Pon honour ... never saw th'
equal ... no, not even Jackson himself!  Ha, Ralph ... he's groggy!
Level him!  Measure him for a finisher!"  So they encouraged their
champion while Captain Ned, keenly watchful, poised himself for swift
action, waiting for the expected moment which came with dramatic
suddenness--stamp of foot, thudding impact of unerring right fist ...
the Buck's head jerked violently up and back....  Then Captain Ned
leapt, caught the falling body and lowered it gently to earth; the
gleaming hessians kicked feebly once or twice and were still, and for a
moment none seemed to move or breathe; then:

"Sam," quoth the Captain, chidingly, "why must you hit so hard?  Had I
not caught him he would certainly, ha' cracked his skull on the
cobbles.  You always use needless force!"

"Ay ...  I do," panted Sam meekly, as he wiped blood from his torn
cheek.  "Always ... forget my ... strength, damme!  How is he, Ned?"

"He requires a good souse of water," replied the Captain.  "Come,
sirs," said he, beckoning the two apparently stupefied fine gentlemen,
"stir yourselves and carry your friend indoors--"

"Why so we will," cried Number One, "ha but, by God, sir, if he is
anyway seriously hurt you shall hear of it, I promise you!  You shall
be hounded to prison, the pair of you, by George!  For let me tell you
his father--"

"All right, Bob, he's coming to!  See, he's stirring!  How are y'now,
Ralph, m'dear fellow?  Can y' walk?  Help me with him, Bob, can't you?"
So together they lifted their feebly-moving hero and half led, half
carried him into the house.

"Lord!" exclaimed Sam, looking after them, "I believe I've floored one
o' the family!"

"Eh, what family?"

"A ... most discreditable one.  However, he's a pretty tidy
article--nearly levelled me twice!"

"So I noticed.  And he cut your face."

"Ay, he wears a ring on his left like a knuckle-duster, consequently
I'm sore, he got in one or two ribroasters.  Wherefore, Ned, my present
need is ale and--"  He paused and turned at sound of hoofs and wheels
and thus beheld a plump, sleek-coated pony harnessed to a
weather-beaten, four-wheeled cart wherein sat, or was enthroned--The
Woman.

Her gloveless hands grasped the reins, her small, close bonnet,
weather-beaten almost as the cart, shaded a face shadowed already by a
vague sadness, such face as drew and held Sam's gaze and the Captain's,
too,--oval, sunburned, framed in hair black as midnight lit by strange,
golden eyes beneath low-arching brows; and when she spoke it was in
voice matching the tender beauty of the lips that uttered these words:

"Sir, I hope he did not hurt you very much ... and I'm trying to ...
find words to thank you properly ... as I would.  But oh, I'm glad,
very glad you hit him so nice and hard ... that brutish satyr."

"Lady," murmured Sam, looking up into these strange, golden eyes, "I
... it was a pleasure!"  At this she smiled, though very wistfully,
saying:

"Well, please know that I am truly ... deeply grateful!"

"Please ... one moment," pleaded Sam, as she made to drive away, "do
you chance to know the name of yon ... fine gentleman?"

"Oh yes, he is well known, quite notorious hereabouts, his name
is--Scrope, the Honourable Ralph Scrope ... yes, that beast is called
'honourable.'  And he hurt poor John Dobbs, John is the ostler here who
sometimes looks after our pony Joshua, this is Joshua.  John did his
best to defend me but that beast was too strong for him.  I've been
bathing his poor, bruised face--I mean John's, of course.  And now I'll
thank you again and go----"

"First," said Sam, a little awkwardly, "may I know ... will you ...
favour me with your name?"

"Why y-es," she answered almost unwillingly, "though I expect you, a
sailor, will think it quite ridiculous, but I was christened
Andromeda....  Good-bye!"  Then poking Joshua with the whip she drove
out and away.

"An-dromeda!" murmured Sam, gazing after her.

"Ah!" said the Captain, gazing at Sam, "and your phiz might show a
trifle less grim if you washed away the gore, Sam--though I ought to
call you Perseus now."

"Oh?" enquired Sam, "Why?"

"Because, according to the Classics, he also saved his Andromeda from a
monster."

"Ah?" murmured Sam, "let's hear."

"Not 'til you are washed and I have been close engaged with a tankard,
shipmate."




CHAPTER VII

INTRODUCES AN ODDITY

The afternoon was hot and airless, the road dusty, but Captain Ned held
on at the same brisk, seemingly tireless pace, his blue gaze ever upon
the distance ahead until at last, Sam, removing the glazed hat to wipe
perspiring brow, enquired:

"Are we in any particular hurry, Ned?"

"No, Sam, no, only when I walk, I--walk."

"Well now, let's bring to among the trees yonder and sit to smoke a
sociable pipe."

So presently seated within this leafy shade they puffed in companionly
silence and content until at last the Captain enquired, drowsily:

"You've never fancied any particular woman, have you, Sam?"

"Twice!" he answered.  "But--never again.  Not I!"

"Sam," quoth the Captain, viewing his Chief Officer's stalwart form and
grimly confident visage with twinkling eyes, "you are a fair navigator,
a prime officer afloat, but first-rate jackass and juggins ashore!"

"Oh?" enquired Sam, pondering this.  "Ah!  Why?"

"Because, my over-confident numbskull, this man and woman business,
this mutual attraction, call it love, disease or madness, takes a
fellow before he's aware, and if 'tis the real thing, brings him up
with a round turn, has him in irons, ay, helpless as dismasted hulk
rolling to every sea.  Or, conversely, so inspires him that daring all
he stands away fair weather or foul, heedless of tempest, fire, fury
and hell itself--so he may come to his heart's desire."

"Sounds a pretty desperate business, Ned."

"Why so it is, shipmate.  And should you ever catch this disease,
you'll take it badly, Sam, badly!  So--watch out!"

"I will, Ned, I will indeed, for d'ye see I--"

At this moment with rustle and flurry of leaves, out from thicket
nearby stepped a pony, sleekly plump and well groomed; which animal
having paused to survey these two humans with leisured, dispassionate
gaze, snorted gently and stooped graceful head to crop the richly
succulent grass with slow-crunching gusto.

"A brown cob!" said Sam.

"A bay pony!" quoth the Captain.

"Looks familiar, eh, Ned?"

"Joshua!" called a voice at no great distance, whereat the pony cocked
his ears and both men sat up to gaze expectantly in the one direction,
for this voice though raised, was sweet-toned and clear.  Then the
leaves parted again and Sam was looking into a pair of golden eyes set
between black lashes and was so instantly and perfectly aware of her
beauty that he wondered how it had failed to impress him before; he
noticed also that she was older than he had then supposed.  At sight of
them she stood suddenly arrested, yet with no least sign of awkwardness
or confusion.

"Miss Andromeda," said Sam rising, hat in hand, as did the Captain, "I
am glad to see ... to meet you again."

"Oh?" said she, in her very lovely voice (thought Sam), but with glance
direct and almost challenging, "Why?"

"First to tell you that instead of ridiculous I think your name is a
... well ... a very ... lovely name.  I do indeed!  And secondly to
make known to you my friend Captain Edward Harlow of the _Fortune_
privateer."

Andromeda curtsyed gracefully, Captain Ned bowed gallantly, saying:

"And may I, Miss Andromeda, present to your notice my First Officer,
Sam Felton, who should be called 'Perseus', don't you think?"

"Perseus?" she repeated, wrinkling her dark brows, "Ah yes, of course!
Perseus rescued his Andromeda from a vile monster, didn't he?  So, Mr.
Felton, this Andromeda thanks her Perseus again ... and very truly.
And now, I'm wondering if you--"

"Meda!  Meda child, where are you?"  Uttering this petulant summons, a
little, plump, rosy-cheeked gentleman tripped into view, such
breath-taking vision of silk-stockinged, belaced and embroidered
elegance as should have been gracing a London drawing-room rather than
these rustic solitudes; now even as Sam, so thinking, gazed--this
plumply cherubic face underwent a sudden and terrible alteration--the
eyes glared, between parted lips was gleam of clenched teeth, the white
lock of hair above scowling brows seemed to rise like a hackle.

"Ch-ild," he demanded, hissing the word ferociously, "are these
scoundrels molesting you?"  And with motion incredibly fast, his right
hand had armed itself with a small though deadly-looking pistol.

"No, Uncle dear," she answered in her smooth, soft voice and seeming
wholly unperturbed, "no, these are the good friends who were my
protection at the inn, as I told you.  So put away your pistol, like a
pet--"  The little gentleman dropped the weapon as if it had stung him
and leapt forward, both hands outstretched, crying:

"Oh, friends, oh, gentlemen both, I beseech on you the benediction of
Almighty God!  Defenders of helpless Purity, avengers of offended
Innocence, smiters of impious Iniquity, accept my profound gratitude.
For this my Andromeda, this beloved child is the one sweet bond that
chains me to this loathed living!  Your hands, sirs, your hands!  Now
would I bathe them with tears of my gratitude ineffable, but my tears
were all shed long and long ago!  I am no more than withered wisp, a
human husk.  This my niece is my truest consolation, without her--I
perish!  Meda love, the fire burns, kettle singeth, go brew tea!  These
our friends shall drink with us and eat.  Nay, I protest you must and
shall.  For, sirs," said the little gentleman, taking an arm of each
and leading them whither Andromeda led, "you will be conferring a
notable favour.  In me you behold one Arthur Verinder, a son of sorrow,
sore smit by the hammer of a merciless fate, since when I have existed
in a world of woe.  But I am also a child of the Muses--Clio, Euterpe,
Thalia and Melpomene.  I paint, I play, I sing, I dance, and in each
find some faint respite and relief....  Ah, we arrive--be welcome,
sirs, to our vagrant home and hospitality!"

They had reached a grassy clearing shut in by dense thickets and great
trees where stood a large, varnished caravan with, close beside it, a
roomy though weather-worn tent.  Here also blazed a fire of crackling
sticks above which a blackened kettle steamed and sang merrily;
Andromeda with crooked stick and handful of grass was trying to lift
this when Sam, stepping forward, did it for her.

"Oh wait!" she cried, "you'll burn yourself!"

"I have!" he admitted, setting down the kettle very hastily.

"Let me look!"

"It's nothing--"

"Show me!"  Out to him came her hand, which Sam noticed instantly was
roughened by hard work yet beautifully shaped and, like her golden
eyes, so compelling, that he obeyed.

"Blistered, of course!" said she, shaking her head.

"Oh, well--a dab o' grease," he suggested.

"No, water first.  Come with me to the brook.  Uncle Arthur," she
called, "you must brew the tea."

"I cannot!" he wailed, fretfully.  "I cannot, Meda.  You know very well
I--"

"Allow me, sir!" said Captain Ned.  So, while this was doing, Andromeda
led her submissive patient to a brook that rippled pleasantly nearby
and there, kneeling side by side, while Sam laved his throbbing fingers
in this sweet coolness, she drew a handkerchief from her bosom, and
having soaked and folded it:

"Now," said she, holding out this dripping bandage; and Sam, mutely
obedient, watched her tie up his hurt.

"There!" sighed she, sitting back on her heels, "that should relieve
the smart a little."

"It has," he answered.  And now, struck again by wistful sadness of her
face as she gazed down at the sparkling water of the brook, he
questioned her in his forthright manner:

"Pray, Miss Andromeda, why are you troubled--is it--your uncle?"

Without raising her eyes she answered, almost whispering:

"He was such a man ... once ... so greatly gifted!  Today he is such a
child and ... so wayward.  Years ago he had a shock and ever since he
has been as you see, a--little queer.  He has a horror of roof and
walls ... had they shut him up he would have pined to death....  So we
roam the countryside vagrant as the wind....  This is why he carries
the pistol, though it is never loaded, I take great care of that...."

"And you've devoted yourself to his welfare, tending, working for him?"

"Mr. Felton, I love him ... I am all he has in the world.  And then
besides--"

"An-dromeda!  Tea waits and the bread and butter to cut!  Come, we
famish!" cried a querulous voice.  "Attend this moment, we need you,
Meda!"

"Coming, dear!" she called in answer and, rising with effortless grace,
went back where her uncle, throned in padded, wicker arm-chair, watched
Captain Ned buttering and slicing a crusty loaf with sailorly dexterity.

"Gentlemen and good friends," said Mr. Verinder, his bright-hovering,
bird-like glance on the growing stack of thin-cut bread and butter,
"here with God's own firmament for canopy and His verdant sward for our
table, His kindly sun to bless us, we make you welcome to our simple
fare--Meda, my love, have we no jams or jellies to honour our guests?
I seem to remember a conserve of wild strawberries you concocted for me
some while ago, and richly delicate I deemed it!  Have we no meats or
savouries?  Have we not?"

"Yes, dear, we've a ham and tongue with--"

"Let them appear eftsoons, child!"

"Allow me to help you," said Sam.  "Please!" he added as she hesitated.
So she brought him to the caravan and following her up its three steps,
Sam was amazed to see it so spacious, richly furnished and carpeted,
with a luxurious bed at the one end in a sort of curtained alcove, with
beside this a small, collapsible table whereon lay gold-backed brushes
and comb with other toilet articles and bottles of cut glass.

"At least," said he, glancing round upon this unexpected splendour,
"you are housed like a princess here, Miss Andromeda."

"Not here," she answered, opening a beautifully carved locker, "this is
Uncle Arthur's--"

"Eh?" exclaimed Sam.  "Meaning you live--sleep--in that dingy tent
thing?"

"Of course!  Uncle would perish in the tent and I should stifle here!
And the tent is not dingy, it's my home and I love it, especially in
summer when the stars peep at me and with the moon to light me."

"Ay, but how when it blows, storms and rains?"

"I always set up my tent in the most sheltered places and--"

"D'you mean you pitch it alone?  Doesn't your uncle bear a hand?"

"Dear me no.  He would only get all tangled up in the guy-ropes--he did
once and nearly strangled himself, poor dear!  But you see I'm used to
it now and it is quite simple and soon done."

"How d'you manage in winter when it sleets and snows?"

"Oh, I have plenty of blankets.  And besides I don't mind--  Oh, there
is Uncle calling me!  Will you please carry this large dish?"

"Ay, ay, and the little one, too.  Anything else?"

"No, I can manage."

Thus laden, back they went and with this goodly fare set out on snowy
cloth spread upon the grass, a hearty and joyous repast they made.

"I am a soul," quoth Mr. Verinder, selecting a well-buttered slice of
bread and forking thereon a pinkly-delicate slice of ham, "I am a soul,
good my friends, that fain would soar to the infinities yet pent, alas,
in prison fleshly!  My pinions ethereal clipped by accursed
Circumstance!  For sixty and two years my spirit has striven to win
free of this earthly envelope--body is the clog that cumbers and
circumscribes my natural genius.  Ah, but for body I should be a very
demi-god to sing with the everlasting spheres--to paint Perfection that
is deathless--to strike forth melodies that should echo eternally the
joys and sorrows of God's creation."

"Ay, sir," nodded Sam, helping Andromeda to some of her own
wild-strawberry jam, "but can you do any o' the ordinary, common-place
things o' life, trivial and yet so necessary, like f'r instance,
washing up these tea-things, chopping wood for the fire, or scrubbing
your own shirts?"

Mr. Verinder recoiled so violently that his wicker chair squeaked
aloud, and when he spoke it was in tone of shocked disdain:

"Young man, such things do nowise interest me and therefore have for me
no actuality!"

"Yet, sir, you use cups and saucers and wear shirts!"

"Alas I do!" he sighed, now plaintively reproachful.  "Base humanity so
compelling I confess I do, but as the wind blows and flowers spring, by
no volition or care of mine.  Thus, young sir, even as the sun shines
and stars wink, my shirts are washed I know not how, yet am duly
grateful therefor.  As to cups and saucers, their cleaning I have
attempted and broken them ere now.  Wood also I have chopped, or made
the endeavour, to mine own injury, since when I have left the axe, that
crude and cruel implement, to hands more able----"

"Your niece's, sir?"

"Why of course!" said Andromeda, in her gently serene voice.  "I am
quite expert with the axe--or bill-hook, yes and hammers, too.  Uncle
Arthur's hands were made and meant for nobler use."

"Oh?" murmured Sam, pondering this.  "Ah!  What, pray?"

"The painting of glorious pictures!  The making of divine music--could
you but hear him play his great harp!  But it is away being mended
because last week I ... oh, I let it fall...."

"Careless of you, Andromeda, criminally careless!  However, I say no
more....  And we yet have our small harp, child, a sweet though feeble
thing in comparison, yet it shall serve!"

"Oh, Uncle!" she exclaimed breathlessly.  "Oh, will you play, my pet,
will you?"

"We will attempt it, child, though alas--without inspiration!  This
moment, Meda, we feel like abysmal creature writhing 'neath the heel of
our own unworthiness.  Yet in honour of these our guests we shall
attempt.  You shall sing and perchance I also!  Go fetch the
instrument, child."  Away sped Andromeda and presently returned bearing
the harp, a smallish though beautifully made instrument.  With this
upon his knee Mr. Verinder sat mute and still, his bright eyes upturned
to the blue, cloudless heaven; then slowly he lifted hands and touched
the strings, waking them to soft, sweet whisper of sound, then struck a
full chord that melted to a rippling ecstasy such as only a master's
fingers might evoke, a melody that rose and fell with deep suggestion
of laughter and tears, a glory of sound rising to a fervour that held
his audience spellbound till--with sudden, harsh discord, he cried, as
in swift agony:

"Oh--ineptitude!  Oh, accursed, clogging flesh that bars me from
achievement of the dreamed Perfection....  Take it, Meda!  Take it lest
I rend the strings that but for these earthly fingers might now wake to
glory the very melody of God!  Take it--away!"  And he spurned the
instrument from him so furiously that it would have fallen had she not
been ready to catch it.

"You see, good friends?" he cried, looking round on them with
tear-filled eyes.  "You see how it is with me?  I dream perfection so
absolute that myself being mere base human may never attain ... thus is
my soul stultified by base body!  Play you, my Andromeda, you my
comfort and consolation, play now and soothe my so bitter grief--play!"

So Andromeda played, and though her music was tenderly soothing and the
movements of her sun-tanned arm and hand so wonderfully graceful that
Sam could look no other where, her performance lacked the power and
glorious resonance of her Uncle's passionate mastery.  Now presently
her slender fingers wove from the quivering strings a sweetly plaintive
air and she began to sing in full, rich contralto; and after a little
while, her Uncle joined in with rich and flexible baritone, and these
the words they sang together:

  "Grieve not, dear love, although we oft do part
  But know that Nature doth us gently sever,
  Thereby to train us up with tender art
  To brook that day when we must part forever.

  "For Nature doubting we should be surprised
  By that sad day whose dread doth chiefly fear us,
  Doth keep us daily schooled and exercised
  Lest that the grief thereof should overbear us.
  Then grieve not, dear love, although we oft do part."


The duet ended in a sigh with soft throb of harp like a stifled sob,
and for a moment none spoke; then:

"That," murmured Sam, "was almost ... too beautiful!"  Scarcely had he
spoken than Mr. Verinder reached out a hand, plump, dimpled, delicately
white, and clasped Sam's sinewy fingers, saying:

"Oh, my friend, Nature, I perceive, has blessed you with ears that do
truly hear--for this song is as truly beautiful, the words are
anonymous, the music was composed by my young friend Eustace Jennings,
a youth dowered with genius--and it was perfectly played--God bless
you, Meda love!  And as perfectly sung, God bless us both!  Dear my
young sailor-friend, what didst say thy name was?"

"Sam Felton, sir.  Pray call me Sam!"

"No, no!  Alas--ha, poor young man to be cursed with such patronymic,
so flat, so utterly toneless, sodden as a swamp!  No, no, I shall call
you Felton, there sings in Felton a fugitive chime.  Well, Felton, my
dear, since God has blessed you with hearing, has He also dowered you
with sight, an eye to see latent beauty in the mere obvious--a tree, a
stock, a stone?"

"Well, sir," answered Sam, rubbing his square, shaven chin, "I have
seen a ... a glory of ocean at sunset and daybreak, likewise something
grand in raging tempest and breaking seas.  Then in the sparkle o' the
little brook yonder there is--"

"Ha--the brook!" cried Mr. Verinder, leaping in his chair, "I painted
it this very morning ... apeep amid shadows, glad with sun like the
smile of God in woeful world.  Child, ha, Meda, go bring hither my
canvas, and take heed for 'tis wet.  Ah, but you," said he, turning on
the Captain as Andromeda hastened to do his bidding, "you, sir
Captain--Harlow is the name, I think?  You are very pensive, your
thoughts are not with us, I fear?"

"The fact is, sir," said Captain Ned, "time is getting on, and so
should we," here he drew out and consulted his watch, at sight of
which, Mr. Verinder groaned:

"A timepiece--hateful thing!  Put it away, sir, put it away!  'Time was
made for slaves!'  Time is a tyrant without mercy or reason!  That we
should fail to hold your interest is a grief and--ah, Meda," he cried
passionately as she approached carrying her awkward burden, "be
careful!  Merciful heavens, have a care!  No, no, Felton, do not touch
my picture, wait--wait, she will manage best alone--"  But, unheeding
this fretful clamour, Sam hastened forward and had relieved Andromeda
of the large painted canvas almost before she knew, and now bearing it
rather carelessly enquired:

"Where will you have it, sir?"

"There--against that tree," answered Mr. Verinder with sullen
petulance.  "Turn it to your left, more--more--another inch!  So!  Now
stand back--look and tell me all you see, how much or--how little.
Look and speak!"

A delicate harmony of greens--stately trees with leaves that seemed
astir in gentle wind, blooming thickets and velvet sward; fugitive
shadows leading the eye to a verdant gloom pierced by vivid sun-ray
reflected back from glimpse of radiant water.

"Well ... well?  What of it, friends?"  The words came in a gasping,
broken whisper.

"Wonderful!" murmured Sam.

"Uncle, it is beautiful, as I told you!"

"Yes," said the Captain, "wonderful, beautiful and--much beside!"

Gazing upon his handiwork, Mr. Verinder leaned down slowly from his
chair and as slowly gathered a handful of grass; then uttering a
wailing, heart-broken cry, he leapt and scrubbed that artfully blended
glory of colour into a hideous, formless smudge.

"There!" he cried, passionately, hurling the ruined picture one way and
handful of clotted grass, the other, "So perish all unworthiness!  This
that I meant for vision of the hidden Godhead smiling love upon His
Creation, was no more than tawdry picture of trees and bubbling water,
a mess of paint!  Oh God ... God of Mercy, when--when shall I
attain--achieve the dreamed perfection, when oh--when?"  And with this
desolate, wailing cry, Mr. Verinder went bounding to hide himself
within the splendour of his caravan.

"Poor ... fellow!" murmured Sam.

"Ay," nodded the Captain, "yonder is tragedy!"

"And yet," sighed Andromeda, kneeling to collect her crockery, "very
soon he will be playing his flute or violin."

"So?" enquired the Captain, kneeling also (as did Sam) to help her, "is
your wonderful uncle master of these also?"

"Oh yes, there is hardly an instrument that he cannot play, though some
better than others."

"A truly astonishing person!" said the Captain, as he and Sam, laden
with crockery, followed Andromeda to the brook, for the washing-up.
And with these two deft-handed sailormen to help, this business was
soon done; yet there a while they lingered to talk.

"Yes," said Captain Ned, "your uncle, Miss Andromeda, as painter or
musician is equally great."

"He was a genius--once!" she murmured, her golden eyes uplift and
radiant.  "First, spoiled by too much money, then ... shocked by
bitter, terrible grief and loss!"

"A woman, of course," said the Captain.

"Yes, she ... was found dead in the Black Pool at Wrexford old mill ...
a dark and deathly place even now--especially of an evening!"

"Pray how did it happen?" enquired Captain Ned.

"I don't know ... I never heard."

"But ... you suspect?"

Dumbly, slowly she bowed her head....  And now, all at once, sweet and
rich as pipe of thrush or blackbird, merry as song of mounting lark,
came the clear notes of a flute trilling in a very ecstasy of gladness.

"There!" sighed Andromeda, with her slow, wistful smile, "he has
forgotten....  Nature is not always cruel...."  Even as she spoke the
fluting ceased and instead of this lovely sound a querulous voice cried:

"An-dromeda!"  Slowly she arose and glancing from Sam to the Captain
and back again, gave them each a hand, saying as she did so:

"Thank you for your help--and company!  And now ...  Good-bye!"  With
the word, she turned and left them, walking with unhurried grace but
not one backward glance.

Quoth Sam after some while of musing silence, as they came out upon the
dusty road:

"The old buffer's mad, of course!"

"More or less, Sam, but only in the one direction.  Nor-nor-east, say."

"Ay," growled Sam, "knows which side his bread is buttered ... and
makes a slave of--her!  Did you notice her hands?"

"Ay, I did, messmate!  Hands roughened by devotion, glorified by
service.  Yes, I noticed her hands, Sam, and her clothes."

"What of 'em, Ned?"

"Glorified by her and 'spite their shabbiness."

"Shabby, ay!" growled Sam again, "nigh threadbare, yet how can they be
any otherwise and she always at work for that dam' selfish, pinkly
plump--"

"Cherub, Sam!  He seems no more than child-man and yet, ah, by old Davy
Jones, he is so greatly more--a veritable master!"

"Ay--but what of--her?"

"Well, my Perseus, your Andromeda might be a rare beauty if she would,
but she cares nothing for her appearance and never will--no, not till
LOVE, spelt in capitals, Sam, wakes her selfless, sleeping womanhood!"

"Oh!" quoth Sam and strode on in such gloomy abstraction and for so
long that the Captain nudged him at last and enquired:

"What d'you think of her, Mister Mate?"  And Sam replied in most
sombrely ponderous manner:

"That she is the ... saddest woman creature I ever saw, ay, and the
bravest ... except one.  For d'ye see, Ned, her little hands are as
hard with patient service, and as rough, almost, as the hands of ... my
devoted ... mother."




CHAPTER VIII

HOW THEY CAME TO WILLOWMEAD

It was an evening lit by glowing sunset when they came to the parting
of the ways, for here three roads converged; and here Sam paused to mop
brow, glance about and enquire:

"What course d'ye give me, Captain, how do we steer, sir?"

"Larboard, Master, full and by."

"Ay, ay, sir, full and by it is.  But, if I may make so bold, where do
we bring-to for the night?"

"In snug harbour, Sam, a right good anchorage, messmate!  Now--hard
a-starboard!"  So saying, Captain Ned turned sharp right down a
pleasant, tree-shaded lane, along which they had not gone very far when
Sam halted again and suddenly; for before them was an age-mellowed,
thatched farmhouse not too small, set within a flowery garden not too
large, beyond which was a paddock wherein a plump steed nibbled; here
also stood a row of beehives, and beyond these an orchard with beyond
this again, a lush meadow where several corpulent cows chewed in
somnolent beatitude.  Beholding all this, Sam drew a deep breath and
spoke:

"Ned," he began--but at this moment the cottage door opened and a woman
appeared, a tall, handsome creature in shady sun-bonnet and sprigged
gown and who, espying the travellers stood suddenly arrested, then,
with both hands outstretched in welcome, she came hurrying and her face
the more lovely for the look it now wore.

"Edward!" she cried, breathlessly.  "Oh, Ned!"  And striding forward,
the Captain took those welcoming hands and said in voice quite new to
Sam:

"Katherine ...  Oh, my Kate ... at last!"  He drew her close, her
shapely body yielding to his arms, and seemed about to kiss her,
checked the impulse, saying instead:

"Katherine, I've brought my First Officer along, this is the Sam I've
told you about, Sam Felton, he improves on acquaintance!  Sam--Mistress
Katherine Ford."

"Mr. Felton," said she with smile of hearty greeting, "indeed you are
very welcome."

"Miss Ford," he answered, taking off the glazed hat as their hands met,
"I'm very grateful and as greatly relieved."

"Relieved?" she enquired.  "Good gracious--why?"

"To find all things so vastly better than expected."

"What did you expect?"

"A cottage, a garden, beehives, a horse, cows and--a woman."

"Well, I am a woman."

"Ay," nodded Sam, "such woman as might spoil the best sailor-man that
ever trod deck."

"Oh, but how spoil him, pray?"

"By turning him into a landsman, Miss Ford."  She laughed, flushing
consciously as she met the Captain's adoring gaze.

"Well, now come indoors ... we've a barrel of ale, home brewed, and
cider besides perry and small beer--come!"

"First," said Sam, "by your leave, Miss Ford, I'll bear away for a look
at those beehives and the cows."  So saying, off he went, leaving them
together; scarcely was he out of sight than they were in each other's
arms.

"Oh, Ned," she whispered, clinging to him, the sun-bonnet crushed
against his breast, "are you ... free?  Have you come home ... home to
me at last?"

"Yes," he answered, "yes, thank God, I'm home at last ... here in your
arms, Kate, your heart on mine ... nevermore to let you go...."

Meanwhile Sam, having looked at the beehives from a respectful
distance, and surveyed the cows who blinked at him with drowsy
graciousness, wandered on and thus presently found himself back in the
shady lane.  Here he paused and stood, somewhat at a loss, looking at
nothing in particular, for remembering the sudden, deep tenderness in
his Captain's voice, the look of inexpressible joy in Katherine's face,
he felt himself stranger in a world unknown, with sense of greater
loneliness than he had ever found leisure to experience in all his busy
and hazardous life.

It was a narrow lane this, with steep, grassy banks where ferns
sprouted and wild flowers bloomed; here sinking down rather wearily,
Sam began to ponder his altered circumstances and then muse upon his
immediate future until these ruminations were interrupted by a child's
voice upraised in song, a sweet though timeless chant that had to do
with someone called "Bluebell" and a personage named Jane.

Presently the singer herself appeared, carrying a very large doll, and
stood instantly mute, staring at Sam, who gazed as dumbly on her; and
when this silence had endured for perhaps half a minute, he smiled and
she, beholding his face thus transfigured, smiled also and spoke:

"I'm granny's Jane, who's are you?"

"Oh, I'm nobody's Sam," he answered, "I'm all alone."

"Alone?" she repeated.  "Haven't you got any granny to hear you say
your prayers an' tuck you up in bed with a kiss, haven't you?"

"No," he answered, gravely, "not any longer, because my dear mother is
dead."

"Ooh--so's mine!" exclaimed this small person, brightly.  "That's why
I've got a granny instead, and a auntie too!  Have you?"

"Not one."

"Then you must be awful' lonely--so you shall be a uncle for me.  I've
only got one and have my child a bit to comfort you while I talk to
you, and her name's Batilda."

"Eh, Matilda?"

"No, Ba-tilda, and when she's not naughty nobody could be gooder and
she's good now and'll comfort you--take her!"  Obediently Sam folded
the doll in his great arms as the child seated herself beside him.

"Now if I'm your uncle, you must be my niece--and your name's Jane, is
it?"

"Yes, an' 'Charmian' too an' I b'long to my granny what has a donkey
named Robert.  And your name's Sam and I like it b'cause it's nice and
quick."

"And I like 'Jane' because it means you."

"And I like everybody 'cept Mr. Tangy."

"Who's he, Jane?"

"Well, he is the man who always makes my granny pay too much rent, she
always says so because she's a lorn widow's body this thirty weary
years and money is hard come by.  I've heard her say so lots 'n' lots
of times.  And now I think I hear her calling me."

"Then I suppose you'd better go, my dear."

"Oh no!  If I only wait patiently she'll come to me, she always does."

"Oho?" murmured Sam.  "Aha!"

"Yes!" nodded Jane.  "So 'course I always wait ... why are you smiling
at me for?"

"Thoughts, my dear."

"Well, I like you even more when you smile 'cause it makes your face
nicer."

"It's not much of a face, eh, little Jane?"

"Well, no it's not," she answered, gazing up at him in wide-eyed
scrutiny.  "And you've been hurting it, but I like it--in places."  Now
at this, Sam chuckled and felt so strangely glad that minded to kiss
her, he laughed instead.

"Jane, come you ... to me!" cried a voice resonant, commanding, albeit
somewhat short-winded; Sam held out the doll, saying:

"I think you'd better go, little Jane."

"Very well!" she sighed.  "Only you must come too an' carry my Batilda."

So up they rose, but had gone only a little way when round a bend in
this winding lane strode an aged though formidable dame; she wore a
black dress that rustled to her every vigorous stride, she bore a
ponderous stick, and she glared on the universe beneath a large poke
bonnet, tied on somewhat askew.

"So--oh!" she exclaimed, halting suddenly with a thump of stick upon
the earth before her and scowling portentously.  "There you are--hey,
mistress, hey?"

"Yes, here's me, Granny, an' this is a man called Sam what I've found
for my uncle an' he needs a granny too because he's a lonely lorn body
like you."

"Ho--indeed!" exclaimed this intimidating old lady, surveying Sam with
such keen and terrible eye that he almost cowered.  "Have I not told
you over and over again never to talk with strangers--and especially
men, Ma'm Disobedience?"

"Yes, Granny, only Sam looked so all alone an' I like him though he
hasn't got much of a face--he told me so, and my Batilda likes him too."

"And, indeed," said Sam, taking off the glazed hat, "I'm a little
better than I look, marm, and well beknown to Captain Edward Harlow."

"So don't you think, Granny, that we ought to take him home and tuck
him up in bed with a 'kiss me good-night' like a nice granny should,
don't you?"

"No, I do--not!  And you," she demanded, frowning upon Sam again, "how
am I to know the Captain is your friend?"

"By stepping so far as Miss Ford's house."

"Ha!  So you know Kate Ford?"

"Yes, marm, since about half-an-hour ago."

"So the Captain is there again, is he!  A rolling stone like all
sailormen and no fit mate for any sensible woman--rickety-racketsome
rovers as they are--and you're another by your looks?"

"Yes, marm, though I fancy our roving days are over--at least Captain
Ned's are, I'm afraid, which is marvellous great pity!"

"What then, is he leaving his seafaring ways at last?"

"He shall tell you himself if you trouble to go far as the farmhouse,
marm."

"I will, seeing I'm on my way there now to borrow a goffering-iron and
a pinch o' tea.  So lend me your arm, young man, these hills,
drattem--make me know my age."

"And you're so awful' old, aren't you, Granny?"

"No older than I feel, child."

"And you feel such lots, don't you, Granny?  Lots an' lots 'cause
you're such a poor, old, lorn, widow's body this thirty year, aren't
you, Granny dear?"

"Hoity-toity, chatterbox!  Cuddle your dolly and hush!" quoth the old
lady, clutching Sam's ready arm in surprisingly powerful grip, saying
as she did so: "Now not too fast, young man, remember I'm not so young
as I was."

"He's a nice big Uncle Sam, isn't he, Granny?"

"He is, child--"

"Bigger'n Uncle Captain Ned, isn't he?"

"Oh, kiss your dolly and be silent, Jane!"

"But how can I when Sam's nursing her?  And she isn't a dolly now
'cause she's growed herself into my child an' I told you her name's
Batilda--"

"Now did you ever hear such a pert little magpie?"

"No," answered Sam, "but now that I do it does me a power o' good."

"Ha!  You are fond of children?"

"Well, yes I ... I suppose so, marm."

"What d'you mean by 'suppose so'?"

"Why d'ye see, I've never seen or heard any at close quarters till now."

"No children of your own, then?"

"Lord--no!"

"Married?"

"No, marm, certainly not and no will that way."

"Which comes of your roisterous roving!"

"Not so, marm, for women and--"

"Hush, not before the child!  And don't tell me of your wanton
wanderings from port to port and most of them foreign, of course,
sinfully shamefully foreign, eh, young man, eh?"

"More or less, marm, but----"

"No, no, young man, your 'buts' will butter no parsnips with me--No,
no!  For as a respectable Englishwoman and great-grand-mother at that,
I do--not--hold with foreigners, especially females, with their jargon,
their foreign ways and lawless goings on--no!  Just look what they did
to their poor, dear Queen Antoinette in that wicked Paris with their
nasty guillotine and tumbrils and things!  Think what they would do to
us if they could!  Thank God for our Lord Nelson to 'frustrate their
knavish tricks'! say I----"

"He was a 'roving sailor' also, marm."

"And also the preserver of England, and that means the whole wide world
too, God bless him!  And now that he is dead, having ascended through
the smoke of battle and blood of Trafalgar, he is risen with his one
arm and poor blind eye to be a bright angel of--

"Ooh, but Granny, can a bright angel be a real angel with only one arm
and a blind--"

"He can, Jane, he has!  I think our merciful Creator has cherished and
healed his poor, maimed body--if not, then the wounds he suffered for
England and the right, will only make his heavenly glory shine the
brighter."

"But, Granny--"

"Be hushed, child, and suffer your elders to speak!  Young man, there's
a look about you strikes a familiar note, and I'm wondering how and
why!  Be pleased to inform me--your name."

"Felton, madam, Sam Felton, and humbly at your service."

"Ha!" she exclaimed, glancing at him with her keen old eyes.  "You
spoke that as if you really meant it."

"Because I do--indeed!" he answered.

"Well, I am Anne Leet, who used to have servants at her beck and call,
male and female, forty-six and a half of 'em--the half was Joe Tangy
the boot-boy.  But this was when I ruled the Great House, years ago."

"Where is that, marm?"

"Mr. Felton, when the Great House is mentioned hereabouts it can only
mean one and that is Wrybourne Feveril, of course."

"Oh!" murmured Sam, thoughtfully.  "Ah?"

"Yes, indeed, young man, you would say 'Oh' and 'Ah' if you could see
it--all the glory of it!  Throned on its three terraces--gable and
chimney and noble frontage!  And then its panelled chambers, painted
ceilings, great carved mantels, and splendid hall, the gardens English
and Dutch, the deer park!  Ah, you ought to see it for yourself!"

"I should like to--with you to show it to me, Mrs. Leet--could you?"

"Why yes, to be sure.  Mr. Perkins, the butler, is still there and
Thomas, the first footman.  I've shown hundreds of visitors over,
before now, the splendid furniture and famous pictures, Lely, Holbein,
Reynolds--and many other famous painters....  And here we
are--already!" she exclaimed as Sam opened the garden gate.  "This
Willowmead is a pretty farm-house, I always think, eh, Mr. Felton."

"Ay, it is, marm, being neither too large nor yet too small."

"And cosy as it looks.  Come your ways in--no need to knock!"  So
saying she led the way into a spacious chamber, half parlour, half
kitchen, its walls adorned by one or two dim pictures and many brightly
burnished pots and pans of glowing copper and shining pewter, its wide
generous hearth where spicy logs smouldered, flanked by roomy,
cushioned settles, its massive, age-blackened rafters hung with bunches
of sweet herbs and one or two noble, smoked hams.

Beyond the open, many-paned lattice was a garden where flowers bloomed,
growing how they would, to blend their many-hued sweetness in a very
glory of colour and fragrance--a place this of leafy nooks and shady
corners where birds chirped or piped melodiously--an unpretentious and
therefore lovable garden, and all the more so because of the two who
walked there seeing only each other and talking murmurously as they
approached until suddenly, as by mutual consent, they turned to clasp
and kiss one another....

"Gemini!" exclaimed the aged dame, her keen eyes widening on these
unseeing happy ones.  "Goodness me!"  Then rapping the window frame
with her ponderous staff, she called in ringing tones: "Aho--Ned,
Kate--what do I see?"

And turning to smile on her questioner, Katherine answered:

"Happiness, Anne!  My love has come home to me--at last."

"True enough, Grannyanne," said the Captain, advancing with hand
outstretched, "the banns go up at once ...  Kate will be my wife soon
as possible!  Yes, I've quit the sea, Granny, from now on, I'm Kate's
farmer and man of all work."

"Ha, well, Ned," said Mrs. Leet, shaking hands with vigorous
heartiness, "you've served your country at sea against the moosoos and
done mighty well, I hear.  But now you're safe home with your Kate my
prayer is may the Lord bless ye to each other and send you sturdy
children to be your joy and serve Old England after you!  And now,
Kate, I've dragged my poor old bones here, with this young man's help,
to ask the loan of a goffering-iron and a pinch or so of tea."

"Why yes, Granny, and you'll bide for supper, of course."

"No, Katie, no thankee--here's my little Jane should be in bed--"

"An' I found this Sam all alone, Auntie Kate, to be a nuncle for me,
isn't he nice an' big!  An' he's carried my Batilda all the way 'cause
she likes him an' so do I!"

"Bless the child!" laughed Kate as she entered the house, seeming to
bring something of the glad sunshine with her.  "Come and kiss me,
Jane."

Up reached the childish arms and down to them stooped the graceful
woman.

"Now," said Jane when they had embraced, "now Auntie Kate, I want you
to be Sam's auntie, too, 'cause he's so all alone that he hasn't got
any aunties or even a single granny.  An' you see he's been hurting his
poor face, an' he says it's not much of a face but I like it in parts,
don't you?"

"Yes," answered Katherine, her shapely lips made lovelier by the smile
that curved them, "yes, I do."

"Well then, won't you be his auntie too, an' tuck him up at night an'
kiss--"

"Goodness--gracious--me!" gasped Mrs. Leet.  "Hoity-toity!  Come you
home at once--"

"No, Granny, no--please!" Katherine pleaded in laugh-shaken tones.
"Pray let her sleep here tonight with me.  And besides, Granny, you
must stay and sup with us, I insist--for by the happiest chance I have
something in the oven, my dear, that I hope may be worthy of this--oh,
this most wonderful occasion--a favourite dish of yours, too!  Now
Jane, let's go to the cook-house and see what Nancy and I can find for
you."

Speaking, Katherine opened a certain door--and lo!  Upon the ambient
air stole such mouth-watering, hunger-begetting, palate-wooing savour
of luscious, cunningly seasoned baking meats that Mrs. Leet sighed,
handed her staff to Sam and removing her enormous bonnet, gave it to
Captain Ned; then throned upon nearest settle, she spread her
voluminous skirts, folded her hands, and drawing a long breath through
her rather hawk-like nose, sighed again, saying:

"Ah, Ned, Captain Ned, I hope you are duly aware what extreme fortunate
man you are to have won to wife such beauty, so much gentle loveliness
as Kate--a wife who can not only bewitch the eye, but also gratify the
stomach--"

"Eh?  Stomach?" repeated Captain Ned.

"Of course!" nodded Mrs. Leet.  "For a wife's beauties, alas, fade with
time--look at me--but a good cook improves with age!  And our Kate is
most excellent housewife and cook.  Now, for instance, my nose is
informing me, and it is never wrong, that we are shortly destined to
enjoy a hare, jugged, in thick gravy enriched by port-wine and seasoned
with force-meat balls....  Ah, Captain Ned, I say again you are an
exceedingly fortunate man!"




CHAPTER IX

HOW AND WHY SAM BECAME A "GRANDSON"

The jugged hare had become a joyous memory and one that was to endure;
little Jane, having been kissed "Good-night" had climbed the "wooden
hills" and kneeling by Auntie Kate had said her brief though vociferous
prayers and thereafter had been tucked up with her Batilda in Auntie
Kate's big bed with its dainty curtains; and now her elders, sitting in
comfort of soft candlelight and cosy fireglow, for the night was
chilly, began to converse, thus:

MRS. LEET (_Producing knitting from capacious reticule_): Betsy
Pardoe's sow farrowed yesterday, eleven and all doing well!

CAPT. NED (_Taking out pipe and tobacco_): Ah, of course, we must have
pigs, Kate!  May we smoke?

KATE: Let me fill your pipe....  There are tapers on the mantel-shelf.

SAM (_Beginning to fill his own pipe_): Miss Ford, I----

KATE: No, please call me Kate or Katherine and I shall call you "Sam,"
because though we only met tonight, you are no stranger.  Ned has often
told me about you--oh yes, and how you saved the second harpooner from
drowning when that great whale upset the boat in his dying flurry.  And
afterwards when you went to fight the French and boarded the corvette
off Toulon was it? how you drove off the enemies who would have killed
him--my Ned----

SAM (_Busy with pipe_): But I'll warrant he never told you how he
dragged me from death aboard the _Citoyenne_ frigate when they'd downed
me with a musket-butt, kept the mounseers at bay and with only his
cutlass until our lads charged to our rescue.

KATE (_Looking up at her Captain with adoring eyes_): No, Sam, he never
mentioned that!

SAM: Nor yet when I rammed my head against a froggies' boarding-pike
and should have been trampled but for him, or the time when our
main-top-mast was shot away and I, going aloft to clear it, got fouled
by the wreckage and should have gone overboard but that he--

CAPT. NED (_Stooping to light taper at the fire_): Belay now, Sam,
let's be done with the past and talk of the future--

KATE: No, Sam, go on--tell me more about my sailorman----

CAPT. NED: Who is turning farmer, Kate, your farmer!  Ay, and I'm
hoping Sam will swallow the anchor likewise and turn landsman, too.
How about it, messmate?

SAM: (_Smiling into Kate's happy face as she holds the lighted taper to
his pipe_): Why as to that, Ned, I'm nowise sure--yet.

NED: However, you'll stand by long enough to bear a hand on--the day!
My best man, eh, Sam?

SAM (_Puffing_): Ay, with all my heart!

MRS. LEET (_Clicking her knitting-pins indignantly_): That Tangy wretch
called on me today!  Sat on his horse at my gate and shouted me, he
did!  I was hoeing weeds and felt like hoeing him--clouting his nasty
arrogant head.

KATE: Yes, Mr. Tangy can make himself very unpleasant.  Was it your
rent, Granny?

MRS. LEET: Of course!  It always is!  And because I ventured to
complain again of my roof leaking.  A hard master makes a harder man!

NED: This Tangy is Lord Wrybourne's bailiff, isn't he?

MRS. LEET: That he is--and many's the time I've boxed his impudent
young ears when he was a bit of a boy--and foot-boy at that!  Ah, but
now, Kate, now my Earl is dead, and good riddance--I'm wondering and so
are others, what the new Earl will be.

KATE: Yes, everyone is talking of that.  Yesterday when I drove to
Lewes market, old Farmer Bagshaw told me our new Earl was abroad,
living in foreign parts, and----

MRS. LEET (_With ferocious contempt_): Foreign!  Then, Kate, so much
the worse for us and the rest of his tenantry!  For, now mark my words,
he will have turned foreign in his ways--and I'd rather put up with a
hard English landlord than a bad foreign one!

KATE: But, Granny, being the old Earl's son he is English really, and
you remember his mother, don't you?

MRS. LEET: To be sure I did--and before!

SAM: (_Forgetting to smoke_): How so, marm?  Pray what might you mean
by "before"?

MRS. LEET: I mean, young man, before she was a mother.  Ah, before the
Earl married, and so suddenly, too--I was in charge of the Great House
which I always thought much too good, all too noble and splendid for
such a base wretch!

SAM: What wretch, marm?

MRS. LEET: The Earl, of course, with his drinking and nameless
abandonments!  How such a sweet, gentle creature could ever have
married him I don't know and can't think!  However, she did--ah,
but--poor child--from the very day, the first hour he brought her home,
she began to be afraid of him, to pine and languish, and he to neglect
and then abuse her, frightening the poor, sweet soul till she'd fly to
me for protection!

SAM (_Polishing pipe-howl absently on broad palm_): And did you ...
protect her?

MRS. LEET: I think so, I hope so!  It comforts me now to know I truly
did my best ...

SAM: And was ... she ... comforted?

MRS. LEET: Ah--no!  That is the dreadful part of it!  So things went on
for nigh six awful months, getting from bad to worse until one evening
she came running to me, breathless, white as a sheet and all of a
tremble.  "Oh, Anne!" she gasps, clinging to me, "he's going to whip
me!"  "Oh, no!" says I, clasping her, "he shan't do that, my lady."
"Ah, but he will," she sobbed, "he will, he's got a whip and he's after
me--now--ah, listen!"  "My lady," says I, reaching for the fire-irons,
"get you behind my easy-chair," but before she could we heard the
jingle of his spurs and in he came, dressed for hunting and, sure
enough, a whip in his hand!  Yes--in he rushed but checked suddenly,
for there was I, fire-shovel in one hand, tongs in the other.

"My lord," says I, "this is my room, so out you go or take these!"

But he only laughed at me and made a step forward----


Here Mrs. Leet, having roused her audience to pitch of breathless
suspense, went on with her knitting until stayed by Sam's large though
very gentle hand and voice in subdued but eager question:

"And what did you do?"

"Threw the shovel at him," she replied, with ferocious nod, "then the
tongs, and when he saw me snatch up the poker, he laughed again but
went.  So I slammered the door and locked it."

"Yes," enquired Sam, "yes and what then?"

"That night was a grand party for other wretches abandoned as himself,
fine gentlemen and ladies too--leastways males and females!  And so it
was we found chance to run away, my lady and I.  And when we'd left the
Great House far behind and we both breathless with running, 'Where now,
my dear lady'? says I.  'To my cousin Felton at Alciston, she will
shelter me if only for tonight and he can never find me there,' says my
poor lady.  So to her cousin Felton we came and kindly welcome they
made her, Mrs. Felton and her good husband.  And there her baby was
born, this same new Earl, though his sorrowful, too-sweet, much
too-gentle mother didn't live long enough to enjoy him properly, she
faded like a flower and died with a smile on her lovely face and her
poor, motherless head upon this bosom, these arms of mine close about
her..."  The long, steel knitting-pins clashed and were stilled, the
bright, fierce old eyes were gentled and dimmed by sudden, kindly tears.

"Ah, Granny dear," sighed Katherine, "'tis very piteous, dreadful
story!  You never told me this before."

"No reason to," quoth Mrs. Leet, her knitting-pins clicking busily
again.  "And I don't know why I spoke of it now....  Though it's odd
your name should be Felton too, eh, young man?"

"Yes ... I suppose so," answered Sam; and then after musing hesitation:
"Marm," said he, very diffidently and staring hard at my Granny too,
"if ... if you will so honour me ... and so, pray call me 'Sam,' will
you?"

"Sam!" snapped the old lady, instantly, clicking away at her knitting
but viewing him with her sharp, steady eyes, "and I'll 'Granny' you so
long as you're in sight or sound of me--if only because my little Jane
put you in her prayers this night, which means a great deal, for the
eyes of children, especially girl-children, are quick to see and--heed!
And my small, great-granddaughter is no fool!  Besides you're a friend
and shipmate of our Captain Ned, and this means a great deal also--eh,
Kate?"

"Yes, Granny.  And, Sam, this is why we are hoping, Ned and I, that we
may persuade you to settle down with us.  You shall have the
gable-room, it's all ready for you now!  Because Ned and I--if we can
only buy this farm, are hoping we may learn you to love the land, this
rich, good, kindly earth better than you ever did the treacherous sea.
Ah, if only we could buy this dear place, this home to be our very own
for ever!  But Lord Wrybourne is so hatefully rich I'm afraid he will
never sell."

"Oh?" murmured Sam, pondering this.  "Ah!  So this house and so forth
belongs to the Earl, does it?"

"Of course, Sam!  All the land hereabout is his--far as you can see,
and beyond."

"Shame!" growled Sam.  "What's he ever done to own so much, worked for
it?  Not a hand's turn!  Fought for it?  Never a stroke, I'll warrant,
not he--"

"Oh, but Sam, his ancestors did, in some wars and battles long ago and
some King gave it as reward.  The Scropes have been here for hundreds
of years--"

"Then it's about time they were cleared out--for a precious fine lot
they seem to have been!"

"Very true, Sam!" nodded Granny.  "All too true!  But lords of the soil
they were, are, and will be, good or bad--and that's England, and the
wonder of it.  But now, seeing it is past ten o'clock, your Granny is
going to ask--no, demand the loan of that big arm of yours so far as
her cottage."

"And here it is, Granny, at your service whenso you need it," answered
Sam, rising to help the old lady to her feet, while Katherine brought
her large bonnet and Captain Ned, her stick.

"And when," she demanded, as Katherine tied her bonnet-strings, "when
does your Aunt Deborah return?"

"Tomorrow, Granny, thank goodness!  Sam, you'll love her, for she's the
dearest, smallest, gentlest Aunt that ever was, I do believe."

"Ah!" nodded Granny.  "'Tis pity she never was wed, some man lost
notable good wife in Deb.  Well, good night, my dears both, the Lord
bless and keep ye!"  Then grasping her ponderous stick in one fist and
Sam in the other, forth she led him into a night where stars were
paling to herald a rising moon.

"Talking of wives and marriage," said Granny, as they turned into the
lane, "yon shall be a good, true mating, I pray God--present joy with
the future gladness of children!  When shall you do likewise, Sam?"

"Eh?  Me?  Oh no, Granny, for d'ye see, I'm not the marrying sort ...
no airs or graces to catch a woman's eye--"

"Tush and nonsense, Sam!  You're a born lover, and consequently will
become a respectably married husband--let's hope."

"Lord, Granny, you seem uncomfortably sure and certain of it!"

"I am!  With those black-fringed, wide-spaced eyes, that aggressive
nose, that mouth and chin you will be tempestuous, all fire and fury as
a lover, take heed you're not too serenely placid as a husband!"

"But, Granny, I've no inclination that way or--"

"Pish and fiddlestick!  You have and you are--it's all in the cut o'
your jib, Sam."

"Cut o' my--marm, I mean Granny, you're a wonder!  You talk now like--"

"Ay, ay, like my own father, Sam, for he was a seaman too and sailed
round the world with Lord Anson aboard the _Centurion_ and was wounded
beside him afterwards in battle--there's honour for you!  Some day, if
you don't run off and leave us too soon, I'll show you his
fighting-sword and one presented to him, with other things I treasure.
But now yonder is my cottage with its dratted leaky roof!  Yet before
we part, I'll tell you something of that too-beautiful sweetness named
Katherine and the danger that threatens her."

"Danger?" enquired Sam, halting suddenly, "what danger, Granny?"

"Oh, Beauty's usual menace, a man of course--but this such an arrogant,
calmly assured, most determined villain, who beneath a courteous
respect and specious promises masks brutish lust--an infamous fine
gentleman notorious for his gallantries, Lord Julian Scrope, no less!"

"Ah!" murmured Sam.  "It would be!"

"So you know of him?"

"Ay, enough--but--does Kate?"

"She does, Sam, and avoids him all she may.  Ah, but my lord troubles
himself to ride this way all too frequently."

"Oh!" quoth Sam.  "Ah?  About how old is he?"

"Forty or thereabouts, the dangerous age and a very dangerous man!"

"And what are his--um--days of call?"

"Whenever wickedness prompts him, and so my new anxiety is lest Captain
Ned antagonize him, because, as I tell you, my lord is such a cold,
deadly-dangerous wretch."

"Ay, but then," murmured Sain, "so is Ned!  And, for that matter, under
certain circumstances, I'm no pet lamb."

"Oh, well," she sighed, as Sam opened her cottage gate, "maybe I'm
over-anxious.  Good night--bring me my little Jane in the morning and
I'll show you some of my treasures, my father's sword of honour, with
other curious oddments.  Now, good night and God keep you all, ay--the
three of you!"

On his way back, Sam pondered whether or no to warn Captain Ned of this
lurking threat to his peace and future happiness; finally and for
obvious reasons, he decided to say nothing, but since this foul menace
was his own uncle, to make it a family affair should violence become
necessary.  Thus, later on, as they lit their candles for bed, Sam
remarked, casually:

"On second thoughts, Kate and Ned, because I know you meant it, I'll
accept your hospitality right gladly and bide here at Willowmead till
some foul wind sends me adrift."

"Small fear of that, Sam, with such tried seaman as yourself."

"Thankee, Ned, but the best of us are apt to be taken aback sometime or
other."

"However," said Katherine, "you're staying for the present!  And we'll
teach you to reap and mow, to stack and thatch and lay a hedge, eh,
Ned?  And, ah, Sam, the more you learn and longer you remain the harder
you'll find it ever to go away!  And now," said she, as they followed
her up the wide, old stair, "tread softly lest you wake our Jane."




CHAPTER X

INTRODUCES MR. JENNINGS

The Honourable Ralph, dismounting in stable-yard, scowled at the
bow-legged old groom who hobbled forward to take his hard-ridden steed.

"What the devil are you staring at?"

"Nought!  Never nothing at all, Master Ralph."

"Then don't look as if you were."

"Been a bit fierce like wi' your 'Lassie,' ain't you, sir?" said the
old groom, running gentle, experienced hand along the mare's drooping
crest.  "Eh, sir?"

"Yes, yes, I have, damme!  I wasn't thinking--that is, I was thinking
too devilish hard of other things.  Look to her, Tom, a good rub down
and--no, let Will.  Ho, Will, come and take the mare!"  At which
summons a young groom appeared who chewed a straw, knuckled an eyebrow
and led the distressed animal away.  "Come now, Tom," said the Hon.
Ralph as soon as they were alone, "out with it!  Is my chivvy, my
phiz--is my face much damaged ... very noticeably, eh, Tom?"

"Well," replied the old groom, surveying the speaker's usually almost
too-handsome visage, its beauty of outline now marred by sundry lumps
and abrasions, "a bit--odd-like it be, sir."

"Eh, curse it!  How so, Tom?"

"Lop-sided, Master Ralph!  A bit more of it one side than t'other."

"Oh, damn!" muttered Ralph, feeling the left and more damaged side of
his face with tenderly exploring fingers.  "Tell me, is it so dev'lish
noticeable, Tom?"

"Rather so, Master Ralph.  But only o' the one side, t'other 'un be all
as it should ought for to be--almost."

"Hell!" snarled Ralph.  "Is the Governor in?"

"Ay!  And 'e wants ee--very pertickler, sir--"

"Does he, b'gad!  What for?  Damnation, what's up now?"

"Dunno, sir, only 'e's sent that Mr. Jennin's along yere twice, to say
as 'ow you was to go to m'lord in the libree the moment as you rode in
yere, Master Ralph."

"Not me, Tom, damme no!  He mustn't see me like this!  Here's where I
lie low, ay--I'll sleep in your cottage tonight and your Martha shall
doctor this damaged phiz o' mine and get me a change of linen."

"Ay, your shirt be very tore and bloody, sir.  Looks like lions and
tigers 'ad been maulin' of ee--wild beasts wi' claws and sich."

"And egad, Tom, this was a beast and wild enough--on two legs and a
left, Tom, a left pepperer there was no getting past and--no avoiding!
Ha, but I'll seek him out and have another go, by George, I will.  And
next time--"

"Better luck, let's 'ope, sir!  Now off with ee, Martha'll put ee to
rights and--no, too late, Master Ralph!"

"Eh?  What d'ye mean, what the devil--"

"Devil, ah--Mr. Jennin's, sir!  He's seen ee and comin' for ee, Master
Ralph."

"Ha, that pallid wriggler!  How I loathe the fellow."

"Same yere, sir!" muttered old Tom as they watched my lord's gentleman
pick his way daintily and with quite unnecessary care across the
clean-swept stable-yard.  "Look at 'im!" growled the old groom.  "Picks
up they pretty trotters of his like any delicate miss!  'E ought for to
be in petticuts!"

"You're right, Tom!  But whichever and however he's a wriggling worm,
the Governor's pet, consequently a power and he knows it, damn him!"

Mr. Jennings was indeed a delicate and dainty creature, his air, attire
and every graceful movement proclaimed the fact--he also wriggled, that
is to say, whenever he bowed to or addressed anyone he did so with a
graciously insinuating sideways twist, and when he spoke it was in a
flute-like tenor softly modulated, while his sloping shoulders
performed this slow, quite graceful writhing movement; as they were
doing now:

"Oh, my Ralph, dear fellow," he fluted, "my lord your Father presents
his compliments and begs the favour of your presence in the library,
immediately, dear boy, this mom--"

"Cut it, Jennings!  What he really said was: 'bid that dam' son o' mine
to me at once'--eh?"

"Oh, Ralph, your knowledge of him confounds my poor diplomacy," sighed
Mr. Jennings with a writhe.  "Yes, my lord's message was phrased a
little more bluntly.  But, as you are aware, your noble sire has been
much perturbed of late!  A bolt, Master Ralph, a bolt from the blue,
dear sir!  So unexpected!  So direly sudden!  So preposterously----"

"Ah, to be sure!" nodded Ralph.  "This new heir, damn him!  Yet here's
no reason why the Governor should vent his spleen on me--"

"Spleen?" repeated Mr. Jennings, in gently-shocked accents and writhing
graceful reproof.  "Ah no, indeed no!  Never that.  My lord is never
anything but his own superb and stately self--"

"Except when foxed or--"

"Foxed?"  Mr. Jennings' delicate eyebrows registered innocent enquiry.
"Foxed, Master Ralph----"

"Don't call me 'Master' Ralph, as if I were a dam' boy--"

"Very well--though I cannot forget you are three years my junior.  But
pray what do you mean by--foxed?"

"Oh--drunk, then!"

"D-drunk?" fluted Mr. Jennings, recoiling in graceful horror.  "Oh,
dearest boy!  I really must venture protest, for I cannot hear, I must
not hear such--"

"Dammit, Eustace, you know better than I, how he's taken to brandy o'
late, guzzles it like water--and when he's been at it long enough the
devil himself couldn't match him for--"

"No--no!" piped Mr. Jennings.  "Your lordly father may be all you
say--and even more, but I must not hear you say so, my dear Ralph, you
really must not!  For your own sake I beseech--ah!"  The flute-like
voice rose to a sweet, soft scream.

"What the devil now?" demanded Ralph, starting.

"Blood!" gasped Mr. Jennings, backing away on slim, elegant feet.
"There's blood on you!  Oh, how dreadful!  And your poor beautiful
face--now so horrible!  So bruised, so battered, so marred!  All, my
poor, dearest Ralph, what dire mischance has befallen you, what
oh--what?"

"Two dev'lish hard fists, if you must know," answered Ralph, sullenly.
"And this blood ain't all mine, we clinched once or twice and I tapped
his claret pretty well, I'm glad to say.  And anyhow there's no real
harm done--except to my shirt.  So I'll go in and change before
tackling the Governor--"

"No, no, you must not!  You cannot!  Oh Ralph, I dare not wait upon my
lord with such message--you must to him at once!  If he knows you are
home and not instantly in his presence, I dread to think what may
eventuate!  For he is in such mood--"

"Ha, a mood, eh?  A brandy mood, I'll warrant!  He'll be all mocking
devil or ferocious brute----"

"Hush, dear boy, do pray remember that devil or brute, his lordship
though a lord is also a man and therefore formed in God's own image!
So are you and so am I----"

"You!" exclaimed Ralph, contemptuously, "I can't understand how the
Governor puts up with you."

"My dear Ralph, I am happy to assure you that my lord is bound to me,
as I to him with bonds nothing can ever break.  Now I suggest you hurry
to him."

"Oh well, if I must, I must!"  Saying which, the Hon. Ralph removed
jaunty hat, ran fingers through his luxuriant, jet-black curls, squared
his stalwart shoulders and strode away to the ancient Manor House
which, like all things hereabout, showed signs of neglect....  Reaching
a certain gloomy door he gave a perfunctory tap thereon, opened it,
closed it behind him, and thus stood to front this superb creation and
highly-polished gentleman of quality, his father.




CHAPTER XI

GIVES SOME DESCRIPTION OF A FATHER, A SON AND ONE OTHER

Lord Julian Scrope was seated at a writing-table whereon among other
things stood a decanter and glass, together with an open letter, and it
was down at this that his heavy-lidded gaze was directed; and thus he
remained without speech or movement and for so long that Ralph shuffled
nervously, then contrived to jingle a spur, then recoiled a step, for
his father, without raising head, was looking up at him--and in those
wide, dark eyes a glow he knew only too well, yet when my lord spoke it
was in tone very pleasantly casual:

"What is your age, Ralph?"

"Twenty-six, sir."

"Then you are old enough to--Dear me!" he exclaimed, gently.  "You show
bloody as a slaughter-house or the last scene of Hamlet!  You have not
been killing anyone, I suppose--this new earl, for instance?  But no,
this would be too much to expect of you, or hope for!  Your tattered
and gory person, a repellent spectacle, is merely evidence of your
distressing addiction to vulgar fisticuffs, of course.  In my youth,
instead of brutal fists, a gentleman's weapons were delicate
small-sword or hair-triggers."

"They are yet, sir, if one's honour be involved."

"Are you well in practice with such tools, Ralph?"

"Naturally, sir--though not so much with swords, the 'sharps' are
becoming dmod, but with 'pops'-pistols, sir, these new saw-handles,
I'm very well--though not so deadly accurate as yourself, of course.
Still, I fancy I could get my man, should honour compel."

"Honour!" repeated Lord Julian.  "The little flame that shows off our
gentility, so soon extinguished and therefore to be nurtured so
tenderly and shielded at hazard of our blue blood!  Ah but--there is
that which I esteem even more precious ... more compelling ... to be
guarded and preserved at all and every cost, Ralph!"

"And pray what is that, sir?"

"Existence, my son!  Freedom to live and do how we will!  To be lords
and masters of Circumstance!  For this we must dare and venture all.
This is, my son, an axiomatic fact we must accept."

"Yes, sir, though I've no idea just what you--"

"Ralph, you are twenty-six, a man, my only son and, to the best of my
belief, the child of my own begetting.  Hence, I deem it time you were
better informed and made a little more aware of how we stand in regard
to--let us still call it Circumstance.  You may sit down--that
chair--here beside me--so!  Now," continued Lord Julian, tapping the
open letter upon the table before him with one long, white finger,
"pray, how should you describe this?"

"A letter, sir, I suppose."

"Your supposition is correct, it is a letter, and yet--so much, so very
much more!  For here, Ralph my son, is our ruin, shame of beggary,
death sudden and sharp or one more lingering--in a debtors' prison."

"Oh, but ... but, sir," stammered Ralph, "how ... how is this?  Are you
telling me we are so ... so utterly destitute?"

"I am!  This house, the furniture, the horses in their stables, the
very clothes on our backs, all can be seized by our creditor."

"Good--God!  Sir, how ... how comes this?"

"Ralph, your question is one you should be well able to answer....
Inform him, Eustace."

Thus summoned, Mr. Jennings, who had entered unheard and unseen by
Ralph, now writhed into his sight, piping in melodious tenor:

"The new Earl, my dear Ralph!  Who other could or should possibly cause
your noble Father such harrowing disquietude?"

"But," said Ralph, turning his back on the speaker, "but indeed,
Father, I ... I know this house was ours, yes and all the country for
miles around ... two or three villages ... farms!  Then how, how in
God's name----"

"Ralph, while your Uncle Japhet and my brother the late Earl
lived--unmarried, our future was perfectly assured and we lived as
became our station--though on borrowed money!  When brother Japhet
married but--died so suddenly, I as the natural and legal heir,
anticipated the fact, took old Time by the forelock and spent largely
until, and like thunder-clap, came news of--"

"Ha--yes, sir, yes," cried Ralph, "of course, I remember now--this
accursed new heir turned up from nowhere and claimed everything!"

"No, my son--this heir of whose birth and existence none had ever heard
or even suspected, was deliberately sought for, diligently enquired
after, and--on the mere, bare possibility that there might be a child
of my brother's hasty marriage!  And all those many months and weeks of
ceaseless effort and unremitting labour were inspired by one whose only
aim was and is--my injury, and, yes, Ralph, our ruin and utter
destruction, yours and mine!"

"Then curse the fellow!  Who ... who is he, sir?"

"That lawyer person--Joliffe.  A rat or rather, a mole-like creature
who has burrowed and delved without let or respite until--from Heaven
knows where, he has unearthed this unknown, unheard-of young man,
proved his legitimacy, claimed and thus despoiled us of this heritage
that, I hold, should be most justly ours by ties of blood and long
tradition.  Eh, Eustace?"

"Oh, my lord, yes!" piped Mr. Jennings.  "Yes, most emphatically--yours
by every right, justice and equity--or even otherwise!  Oh, beyond all
possibility of doubt!  For this new-found heir, besides being an
absolute stranger hereabouts, was born all unknown to the Earl his
father, which was an impertinence, by a run-away mother, among
strangers and in place unknown--which, certainly was most inconsiderate
to your noble father!"

"Egad, sir," cried Ralph, "this all sounds so dev'lish odd ...
something might and must be done ... can't we fight the fellow ... in
the courts ... law and so on?"

"Oh, yes," sighed my lord, "we can fight the fellow, we certainly shall
fight the fellow, because we must fight or perish!  But--not in any
court of law.  Joliffe has proved young Japhet's legitimacy beyond all
chance of doubt or cavil and is far too able a lawyer to have left us
any smallest loophole--and you may be sure I have had the best legal
opinion, consulted the highest authorities.  So, today, my son, thanks
to Mr. Joliffe, we are worse than paupers!  We stand upon the very
brink of destruction ... the abyss of absolute ruin."

"But ... but, sir ... Father, surely ... oh, surely something can be
done, something--anything to--"

"Four months hence--and a few odd days, my son, we, you and I, must to
the sordid oblivion of a debtors' prison, without hope of delivery!
Four months hence, we pass out of our world to a lingering and most
discomfortable death.  But, Ralph, I do not intend to die, no indeed!
If anyone is to be destroyed, if anyone must perish as victim of damned
Circumstance, it shall not be us!  Eh, Eustace?"

"Ah no, my lord!" fluted Mr. Jennings with agonized writhe, "no, no a
thousand times!  The mere thought is horror and smites me to the heart!
He must be found, he must!  Oh indeed, indeed he must--and induced to
nobly sacrifice all for the honour of his family--this side of it, of
course!"

"He shall be found!" murmured Lord Julian.

"Who?" Ralph demanded.

"Eustace, tell my son.  He knows, of course, yet pray inform him."

"Why then, Master Ralph," whispered Mr. Jennings, writhing so near that
Ralph jerked back his chair, "if you will insist on plain and brutal
fact, whom should my lord mean but this--ah--this detested interloper,
your cousin Japhet, the new Earl of Wrybourne--"

"Yes, yes, but where is he?" enquired Ralph, turning to his father,
"where on earth is he, sir?"

"Where?" echoed my lord, gently, yet as he uttered the word, his long,
white, cruel-looking fingers clenched slowly, crumpling the letter they
held.  "Where else but in Joliffe's tender care.  Thus much we do know,
and shall learn more--Eustace?"

"Oh, indubitably, my lord, and undoubtedly soon!  The man Jupp is a
cunning fellow, a perfect bloodhound of a creature never at fault for
long.  Our dear Mr. Joliffe may be astute, he may be shrewd--nay even
crafty, but--there are others!  Oh yes, there are others!  If Joliffe
is a mole, our Jupp is a perfect worm!  Your cousin, Ralph, your cousin
Japhet--this utterly preposterous heir that could not, should not,
and--must not be, will, I am happy to know, be run to earth before
long!"

"Yes, and--what then?" enquired Ralph, and turning to ask this of his
father, saw Lord Julian's thin but shapely lips curl to such smile that
he quailed and, glancing from that smiling mouth to the clutching hand
that crumpled the letter so remorselessly, Ralph turned away and made
as if to rise, then checked and sat very still as my lord said:

"Son Ralph, the Earl your uncle died of a fall from his horse ... some
such way must be found for the Earl your cousin."

"Sir, what ... what are you ... suggesting?"

"I am not suggesting, Ralph, I inform.  I would also remind you of
those time-honoured saws, namely: Desperate ills need desperate
remedies, and, Necessity knows--no law!"

"Good ... God!" exclaimed Ralph, in broken whisper, and sank back as if
all strength failed him, while his stately father regarded him with an
aloof though curious interest, saying as he did so:

"Eustace, my poor boy shows faint, pray administer water ... a sip of
brandy....  Ah no, he revives, he is better!  Dear me, Ralph, you
appeared about to sink and swoon in manner quite feminine!  Ha, yes,
now grit those white teeth of yours, set that dimpled yet masculine
chin--excellent!  Yet it seems that although son of mine, you are very
much the child of your lamented mother."

"Thank God ... she's dead!" muttered Ralph.

"Amen!" sighed his father.  "For indeed these are days of desperate ill
to be fronted only by men of as desperate and resolute mind--and
purpose!  Men who for that purpose, must, and will, hazard all--"

"What is--that purpose?" demanded Ralph, hoarsely.

"To live, my son!  Ah, yes, to live, honoured of course,
respected--perhaps, but--in that pride of estate and leisured ease the
which is ours by right of birth, education and long ancestry."

"But what ... what of the heir who being legally so as you say, is
therefore the rightful inheritor, what of him and----"

"My ... dear ... boy," drawled his father, "think rather of yourself
and then ... of me!  Shall we allow Circumstance to shame and then
exterminate us--for me the twitch of a trigger and oblivion--for you
the slow rot and slower death of a hopeless debtors' prison--shall we?
Emphatically no!  Instead, my son, Circumstance itself shall
be--eradicated, and we enjoy, to the full at last, that lofty station
in life to which we were predestined!  And to this vital and most
necessary purpose, we all--our Eustace included, have our several parts
to play."

"And what is ... mine, sir?"

"Marriage, Ralph--the Hawkins widow, of course!"

"But I detest the woman!"

"Which proves your admirable taste, my son--for she is truly a
pathetically uncomely creature.  But then as all the world knows, her
late spouse endowed her with more than a sufficiency of worldly goods,
the figure is somewhere near a million, eh, Eustace?"

"More.  Oh, far more, my lord, and all of it well invested--a vast sum
in the funds!"

"Then also, my son, this 'Golden Widow' dotes on you already!  At mere
sight of your stalwart form and handsome features, she flushes,
palpitates, and so breathless, poor soul, she can scarce
articulate--this I have observed for myself and I am never wrong as
regards--The Sex.  And you are quite ridiculously handsome, my boy, and
though so disgustingly bloody--could she behold you now she would be
ready to swoon with womanly pity or kiss your bruises for--"

"No, sir, no!" cried Ralph, sitting up and squaring his shoulders.
"You know very well that--"

"That you have but to speak, my son, and she will be in your arms, or
you in hers."

"Never, sir!  For as you are aware, I am in love with--"

"Thus, Ralph, so soon as it is known my son is to espouse the 'Golden
Widow', we can defy damned Circumstance, form our plans at leisure and
bide our time----"

"Sir, you ... you know I love Cecily Croft--"

"Ah yes, the farmer's buxom daughter!  Yes, a fine, handsome creature,
Ralph.  Well, you may continue to love her as well--or better when
married to your widow--"

"Nothing of the kind, sir!  You mistake, for, sir, I do most truly love
and respect Cecily, and I'll never wed any other--"

"Fool!" said my lord, and though the word was softly uttered, he now
and for the first time, allowed a frown to crease and trouble the
arrogant placidity of his darkly handsome features.  "Dunderhead!
Sentimental dolt!  Beggars have no choice!  Have you ever heard
of--Jasper Gaunt?"

"Yes, sir, I fancy so, a money-lender, isn't he?"

"A ... money-lender!" repeated my lord, in tone of weary scorn.
"Eustace, pray describe this lender of money fully yet briefly as
possible--inform my innocent offspring."

"Oh, my very dear Ralph--Oh, my dearest boy!"  The words were a piping
wail.  Mr. Jennings writhed as in acutest agony.  "Jasper Gaunt is the
very mammon of all unrighteousness--a heartless monster, a merciless
bloodsucker whose victims high and low are everywhere and many in their
graves!  Suicide is in his shadow, for whoso falls into his clutches is
forever doomed, yes--ah, yes--to a perpetual damnation, never--Oh,
never more to win free--"

"Admirably expressed, Eustace!  Now, son of mine, pray oblige your
father by hearing this!  Have I your attention?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then listen to this that must be the inspiration to our instant
counter action."

So saying, Lord Julian, with leisured, graceful movement of his
well-cared-for hands, smoothed out the crumpled letter and read aloud:


Kirby Street,
  June 1, 1807.

To LORD JULIAN SCROPE: MY LORD,

Having lately become possessed of all and every of your many
liabilities, accounts long over due, I beg to give notice they must be
met and liquidated in toto.  June the 30th proximo being the extremest
limit of time that can be allowed.

I am, my lord, your lordship's most faithful

JASPER GAUNT.


"So, my son, here is our sentence of ruin and damnation!  Eh, Eustace?"

"Beyond all doubting, my lord, ruin in this life and damnation
hereafter--as you so truly say."

"Someday," sighed my lord, laying down the letter, "yes, someday Mr.
Jasper Gaunt will be ... very properly ... murdered, and would I might
be there to see.  A foolish wish, of course, yet extremely natural!
However, there is the compelling fact, my son--unless you wed your
'Golden Widow' and we ... achieve our Heritage of Wrybourne, you and
I--and Eustace of course--our course is run!"

Up starting from his chair, Ralph crossed unsteadily to the door, but
there his father's commanding voice and gesture stayed him:

"Where away, my boy?"

And speaking the words between hard-shut teeth, Ralph answered:

"To Cecily!"

"Ah, yes!" murmured his lordship, smiling at his son's drooping,
disconsolate figure, "wisely chosen!  Thus shall we make Circumstance a
stepping-stone--up and back to our so rightful place.  Adieu and God
bless you, my son."




CHAPTER XII

TELLS, WITH ADMIRABLE BREVITY, HOW UNCLE AND NEPHEW MET

Willowmead, small for a farm yet very much too large for a cottage, lay
drowsing in the afternoon heat; birds chirped sleepily beneath the
deep-thatched eaves, the roomy old house was hushed save for distant
voices where Nancy and her four maids were busied in kitchen and dairy,
for Katherine and her Ned had driven away in the gig on a shopping
expedition, while Sam, seated by the open window, was writing this
letter:


Willowmead,
  Sussex,
    June 8, 1807.

To E. Joliffe, Esqr.

SIR AND DEAR BEN,

This being a strictly business letter written to a friend in spirit of
friendship, I am, Sir, trying, my dear Ben, to combine the two.  And
first to business.  You, Sir, being agent for the Wrybourne Estates, I
therefore and herewith give you notice that I desire to sell the farm
known as Willowmead, and all appertaining thereto from trucks to
keelson, lock, stock and barrel, and at as reasonably low a price as
possible, because the purchaser will be my friend and shipmate, Captain
Edward Harlow.  So much for business, Mr. Joliffe, sir.  But now, Ben,
you must know there is a marriage in the offing between friend Ned and
a very beautiful lady Mistress Katherine Ford--wherefore I want your
advice as to some gift, a wedding present worthy such a pair.  Here I
revert again to business--re the Scropes, father and son.  The more I
hear of them, the more your estimate of them is proved correct.  Cousin
Ralph I have met in a regular set to with naked mauleys and though a
pretty fancy performer he could not last and I finished him with a
right hand leveller that knocked him completely out of time, to my
satisfaction and yours too, I hope, Ben, when I tell you he is totally
unaware he was floored by his cousin.  Lord Julian I have not seen as
yet though I have heard enough, as for instance that he casts a goatish
eye on a certain lady Miss Katherine herself no less, and Ned when
properly roused is such very terrible fellow that my present care is to
keep him in ignorance and thus prevent him from taking action.  So I
mean to keep it in "the family" should violence become unavoidable, and
if so my lord Julian shall know and experience me only as a rough
tween-decks tar, free of speech and fist as British mariner usually is.
And here I come to a question I have thought over a great deal lately,
this Ben--I feel myself to be little better than a dam' intruder in
this Wrybourne Heritage so would it not be more just and better for all
concerned if I should divide the estates with these Scropes father and
son to save them from the disaster you mentioned?  Lord knows here is
more money etc. than I can ever use or want.  How say you, Ben?  Or, as
per business--Sir, I desire your considered opinion, legal and human,
on this matter.  As for me, friend Ben, here am I in snug berth and
sweetly peaceful haven, this dear old farmhouse set amid beautiful
country the more so because from the home meadow I can glimpse and
smell the sea.  Truly a lovely land is Sussex and breeds lovely folk.
I have already acquired a sweet, small niece named Jane and a somewhat
formidable though gentle-hearted Granny, and as for Ned's Katherine,
words fail me.  And here glancing over what I have written it seems
there are words too many, especially for such busy man of law and
weaver of webs as yourself.  So here I end, dear Ben, Yours in
friendship most sincerely,

SAM.


Sam was reaching for the sand-box to dust and dry his flourished
signature when he became aware of approaching footsteps upon the
flagged path outside, and knowing that whoever came must pass this
window to reach the front door, he listened and waited expectant ...

Footsteps slow and deliberate; assured feet these (thought Sam) that
trod with such irritating deliberation, pausing now and then as if
their owner had stayed to look around him or listen for some expected
or familiar sound, then came on again more slowly, planting themselves
masterfully and with small, soft jingle of spurred heels.

Sam put down the sand-shaker and leaned forward as into his line of
vision strolled a tall, stately personage whose every garment was a
work of art and worn with a languid grace; the elegantly-booted feet
halted, and Sam, knowing at once and instinctively who this dominating
person must be, spoke in gruffest and most offensive challenge:

"Belay there!  If your name's Lord Scrope bear up and tack
about--smartly now!"

My lord Julian, used to and expectant of that somewhat slavish
deference ever accorded to his dignity and rank, especially in his own
county, opened his eyes rather wider than usual while the hand grasping
his heavy riding-whip, gripped and half-raised it in sudden,
instinctive menace, yet his voice was pleasingly modulated when he
troubled to speak:

"Drunk, of course ... and so early in the day!  However, if your legs
will serve you so far, you may go and inform Mistress Kate that Lord
Julian Scrope desires her presence--"

"Avast!" growled Sam, leaning out from the window with threatening
gesture, "drunk I mebbe, and then again mebbe I ain't.  'Owsever, I'm
sober enough to know dirt when I sees it, ay and a land-shark afore I'm
bit.  As for the lady you mentions so free, I'm warning ye as she's
agoin' to be spliced to my Cap'n.  So, m'lud, you clap your desires
under hatches or heave 'em overboard and sheer off."

"Ah?" murmured his lordship never stirring and surveying Sam's scowling
visage feature by feature.  "You are not so drunk as I deemed, no--you
are endeavouring to be insolent----"

"Lord," snarled Sam, leaning farther out of the window and looking his
grimmest, "I'm tellin' ye to sheer off and give Willermead a wide berth
from now on!  I'm likewise warnin' ye as there be summat yereabouts as
ain't 'ealthy for your sort and that's me!  And what's more, I'm sayin'
as 'ow if ye don't tack about and show me your starn right smart, I
know a cove as'll take and heave ye out into the lane yonder, and
that's me again."

With languid gesture Lord Julian lifted the quizzing-glass that dangled
on broad ribbon upon his breast and peering through it at Sam, murmured
as if to himself:

"A sailor by his looks ... and if not drunk, he is perhaps a little mad
... a touch of the sun ... or that ugly scar ... a recent wound, I
fancy.  However, an extremely obnoxious fellow I am quite sure--"

"Do ye go?" demanded Sam, making to climb out through the window.
"D'ye march on y'r own legs or do I heave ye out into the--"

My lord's seeming languor changed to instant and ferocious action, the
heavy riding-crop whizzed--a blow so sudden, so vicious and truly aimed
that Sam, smitten upon his scarcely-healed wound, dropped to his knees
and for a moment remained thus, dazed and half-blinded by gush of
blood; then somehow, anyhow, he was up and out of the window--to be met
by another blow as calmly and truly aimed, but as he fell this second
time, his long arm shot out instinctively, his fingers grasped slim
riding-boot--jerked, twisted, and my lord went down backwards, to lie
half stunned.  Then Sam arose and grasping Lord Julian by the collar,
dragged him along the path, out through the gate and so into that shady
lane where a splendid horse stood tethered.

"So ... there y'are, lord!" panted Sam, wiping blood from his eyes.
"I've spattered ye a bit wi' my good blood....  Y'r coat's tore, and
you ain't s' dam' dignified as you was....  So this'll do ... till next
time.  But if y'ever do venture back 'ere to Willermead wi' y'r desires
and that like, it'll be worse for ye, lord--ay, ay it'll be one on us
... or both ... for good and all!"




CHAPTER XIII

TELLS HOW AUNT DEBORAH MINISTERED

Housewards went Sam but being much shaken and in no little pain, turned
aside where stood a rustic seat, and sinking there made some attempt to
staunch his bleeding while he waited for the sick faintness to pass.
And it was now that a gentle, cooing voice came to him:

"Oh, paladin!  Are you Roland, Oliver or Saint George for Merrie
England?  The Dragon has gone, thank heaven--and you, of course!  But,
oh, did you--do you know who he really is--do you?"  Glancing up, Sam
beheld a small, gracious lady whose coquettish plumed bonnet framed a
small, pretty face and smooth and unwrinkled though remorseless Time or
Circumstance had turned her ringlets of glossy hair to shining silver.

"Oh, my gracious!" she exclaimed, clasping small, mittened hands, "he's
all blood ... wounded and going to swoon--"

"Not I, marm, no I'll just ... close my eyes 'gainst the sun-glare...."
And, sinking back, Sam lay upon the border of unconsciousness until
roused by a blessed refreshment, he opened swimming eyes to find the
lady sponging his wound with hand very deft and light, cooing
murmurously as she did so:

"Goodness gracious me!  A ghastly gash--most murderous.  The villain!
Do I hurt you--do I?"

"No, marm, there's healing in your touch."

"My word!  What a courtly mariner--such very gallant jack-tar!  Are you
able to walk now, out of this hot sun, can you?"

"Why of course," answered Sam and rising too hastily, staggered and
would have sunk down again but that she propped and stayed him, saying
in most determined manner:

"No, no!  I must get you out of this heat ... there now, lean on me,
lean I say, this moment!  Though not over-large I'm prodigiously
powerful--for my size.  Yes, that's it ... your arm over my
shoulder--now walk, slowly--be careful!"  With rueful and shaky laugh
Sam obeyed and thus she brought him into the fragrant coolness of the
spacious kitchen.

"On the settle!" she commanded.  "Full length!  This cushion under your
poor head--so!  Now while I comfort and cherish your ghastly wounds, my
bold Dragon-dragger, if you can talk--talk and tell me why you did it
and if you know who our terrible Dragon really is.  Do you know and did
you?"

"Yes, marm, he called himself Lord Julian Scrope."

"Well--so he is!  And you dared!  You actually dragged him--like a sack
of something very nasty, which he truly is, of course--and you hauled
him away by his lordly collar, his stately limbs sprawling!  Oh sweet,
sweet spectacle!  Ah, what grandly brave, heroically bold defenders our
gallant stalwart sailors are--for you are a sailor, of course?"

"At your service, marm."

"No, no, I am at yours, with this sponge and on my knees too!  And
while I am, let me tell you of our Dragon--that stately Wickedness!  If
you only knew how we have feared and dreaded him--his politely
persistent, pernicious persecution--there's alliteration for you!  His
lofty arrogance and the determined evil of him!  Kate's horrified
loathing of him--Kate's my niece and a beauty--and my anxiety for her!
He so serenely, hatefully assured and masterful and we so helpless!
With no man to our protection!  But now, ah now--to have seen him
felled in his sinful pride and dragged away and kicking and
helpless--Oh glory!  So now Paladin, my heroic and hardy sailor-man,
this night you shall be in my prayers, so how shall I name you?"

"Sam," he answered, glancing up at her rather shyly over the sponge,
"Sam Felton--"

"Ah, then you must be--you are--Captain Ned's friend, he has often
mentioned you--his first officer."

"And you, marm, at a guess, are Aunt Deborah."

"Yes, of course I am.  Now lift your head that I may set this bandage."

"Is that needful, marm?  I'm hoping the others won't notice anything
of--"

"It is, and they will!"

"Couldn't it be hidden under my hair, marm?"

"It could--not!  Good gracious no!  It is quite a bad wound--the cruel
monster must have struck you terribly hard--  Oh, quite murderously!"

"He happened to strike where I rammed my head against something a lot
harder a while since at sea."

"Oh, just what, pray?"

"A French musket-butt, or some such, marm."

"Ah--in a battle?"

"Yes, marm.  But what's bothering me is this, d'ye see, I don't want
anyone, especially Ned, to know how I got this--no, nor anything about
Lord Julian Scrope."

"Because you think there would be more trouble betwixt him and the
Dragon?"

"Marm, if Ned ever knew this lord had ever tried to ... molest his
Kate, t'would mean sure death for one or other of them.  So, marm, d'ye
see, I want to keep, yes, b'George, I must keep this business strictly
between our two selves and if I must wear this bandage we must think of
some other way to account for it.  But the question is how and what,
marm?"

"Perfectly simple!" said she, securing the bandage in question and
bestowing a soft pat on his curly head, "and in place of 'marm-ing' me
so very persistently, don't you think I should sound a great deal
better as 'Aunt Deborah' or even 'Deb'?"

"I do indeed," he answered, heartily, "yes, marm!"

"Well, nephew Sam, say it--this moment, sir."

"Then pray, Aunt Deborah, will you show me how to account for this
bandage."

"Can you walk without tottering or tumbling?"

"To be sure I can."

"Come then," said she, and leading him across this wide kitchen to a
tall dresser stored with crockery, pointed to a large dish on lofty
shelf, saying:

"Tall nephew, reach that down for me.  Now bring it to the fireplace.
Now--drop it."

"But, Aunt Deb, 'twill surely break."

"Of course it will, so--drop it!"  Sam obeyed and the dish splintered
upon the hearth-stone.  "Well, nephew, there is your explanation, you
see--or don't you?"

"I'm afraid I don't," said Sam, rubbing his chin perplexedly, "unless--"

"Return to the settle, nephew Sam, sit--no, lie down again and while I
sweep up these fragments I will explain--are you listening?"

"I am indeed."

"Then," said she, busied with the broom, and quite gracefully, "what
happened was this: I asked you to reach me the dish, which you did, so
that's true.  You dropped it--so that's true again!  The nasty thing
struck you upon your poor, wounded brow--which it did not, but there is
the explanation of your hurt, two truths and only one very small,
perfectly white fib.  Does that meet the case?"

"It does and very cleverly."

"Then, nephew, express your thanks."

"Aunt Deborah, I am very truly grateful."

"And now being such a very sailorly mariner you'll be yearning for rum
or grog in a noggin?  But no, spirits would only heat your wound, you
shall drink tea and so will I.  And we will toast the muffins I brought
and soak them with butter.  So if you will take the bellows and blow up
the fire, I'll put on the kettle and brew tea; real Soochong that never
paid a farthing duty, this is Sussex remember--dear, naughty, lovely
old Sussex by the sea."




CHAPTER XIV

GIVES SOME DESCRIPTION OF THE GREAT HOUSE OF WRYBOURNE FEVERIL

It was in the radiant sunshine of an early afternoon that Sam for the
first time beheld the Great House, this "seat of his nobility,"
Wrybourne Feveril.

"Pull up!" said Mrs. Leet, sitting beside him in Kate's gig borrowed
for the occasion, "I always think this the best of all the distant
views, so pull up, Sam, stop, or perhaps I should say 'back your
tops'ls and heave to.'  There!" sighed she, with wide-armed sweep of
mittened hand, "there's stateliness for you!  There's glory of stone,
tile and brick, ay and carved oak besides!  There's true beauty framed
in a grandeur mellowed by Time ... reaching back and back through the
ages, for they say the foundations are Roman.  And there are two Norman
towers, the rest is early Tudor.  Yes, there is the Great House, Sam, a
home for kings, and indeed kings and queens have slept there--ah yes
and villains too!  For the Scropes are a breed unworthy such great and
noble heritage!  Well, what d'you think of it?"

"Vast!" he replied.  "Too hugely big for comfort and impossible as a
home."

"Fiddle-de-dee and nonsense, Sam!  Folk have lived there since the dim
ages.  According to tradition it was first a Roman fortress, then a
Saxon stronghold, next a Norman castle, then a noble mansion, and
now--well--the stately glory you behold."

"However," quoth Sam, shaking his bandaged head (though gently) "it's
not my idea of homely comfort, nothing cosy or home-y about it,
Grannyanne."

"Oh, but there is!" she retorted vehemently, "I mean--there are all
sorts and kinds of cosy nooks and corners, with lovely home-y rooms too
besides the big state apartments, the huge hall and galleries.  The
Great House has everything to suit all tastes and moods.  Ah yes,
Wrybourne Feveril is a place of wonders!  Drive on and I'll show
you--some, at least.  Heave ahead, Sam."

So he touched up Jabez, the sleekly powerful horse, and away they sped
across richly-wooded, undulating park where graceful deer stood to
watch them gentle-eyed; ah, but the great house itself was watching
them and very differently (or so thought Sam).  This huge thing of
carved wood, grey stone and ruddy brick which persisting through the
ages must therefore know so much of living and dying, so little of
good, so much of evil, yet proud and arrogant ever--which even now was
glaring down on him with all its many latticed windows so haughtily
that Sam instantly scowled in return as he watched this home of his
hateful ancestry grow upon his sight.  Nearer and nearer it rose and
spread before and above him, lofty gable and twisted chimney, soaring
tower, battlement and turret, chilling him with its sheer immensity.

"Sam," demanded Mrs. Leet, "why d'you frown so?"

"Because, Grannyanne, your Great House is too much so."

"Too much what, pray?"

"Great and--splendid.  Aha, and yonder in the splendid doorway of all
this magnificence is a person, no--a person-age as stately as the place
itself."

"Oh no," said Mrs. Leet, waving a hand to this imposing creature, "that
is no more than Henry James Perkins the butler, though he was merely
the fifth footman in my time."

"However, he's all butler now!" quoth Sam, as the personage wafted
airily in response.  "Such awesome dignity, Grannyanne!"

"He always was, even as a footman and it's grown on him, it seems.
Well, Perkins," she called as the gig came to a standstill, "you look
as well as I feel.  The years have been kind to us, James."

Mr. Perkins descended the broad, marble steps with dignity as a butler
should, then bowed as few butlers could, for he did it with a certain
restrained majesty of look and gesture, and when he spoke it was in
throaty voice schooled to chaste and genteel murmur:

"Mrs. Leet, pray be welcome!  And as to looks, indeed you bloom, marm,
you bloom.  Allow me to assist you to terrier firmer, marm."

"Thankee, James," said she, performing this somewhat intricate
manoeuvre with surprising agility, which done, she enquired, "Now,
James, what of the horse and gig?"

From the snowy frills at his bosom Mr. Perkins extracted a large silver
whistle attached to him by broad, black ribbon and blew a mellow though
resounding note, in answer to which call presently appeared a footman
ornate as to livery and large as to ears, shoulders and calves, to
whom, with dignified gesture towards the vehicle, Mr. Perkins issued
the command:

"To the stables, William, grooms.  Begone!"

"Sam," said Mrs. Leet, as William led horse and trap away, "Mr.
Perkins!  James, here is my grandson--by adoption, Mr. Felton."

"Honoured, sir!" quoth the butler, performing his bow again.  "Any
friend or relation of Mrs. Leet is persony greater with myself!  For
Mrs. L. marm, to us of the--ahem--old reggime you were, are and ever
will be part and, as it were, parcel, marm, of this 'the Great House,'
the time-honoured faybrick called Wrybourne Feveril, this most truly
historic and----"

"Thankee, James!  So now since there's so much I want my grandson to
see here, let's begin."

"So be it, marm.  Though first may I venture to enquire if you can tell
or inform me aught of our new lord whose present whereabouts, like
himself, is a profound mystery and hence a source of carking anxiety to
boot.  So if you have the least scrap or tittle of news--"

"Nothing, James.  All I know is that he has been resident abroad,
hobnobbing with foreigners--Lord frustrate their knavish tricks--and
therefore will be full of foreign fads and faddles, all shrugs and
scrapes and will probably speak broken English!"

"Oh, this is sad news, marm, heavy tidings and highly woeful to
contemplate.  Yet, even so, our new Lord can hardly be
more--ahem--more--"

"Villainous, James?"

"Marm, I was about to say 'trying'."

"Ay, to be sure, James, he was ever trying and succeeding in some
devilry or other--"

"A-ham!" quoth Mr. Perkins, and led the way (almost hastily) into the
great echoing hall dim lit by small narrow windows set high in ancient
walls hung with pennons and banderols dingy and faded by Time, yet
bright with glittering array of antique weapons, while ranked below
stood effigies in burnished armour of different periods.

"Ha-hum!" quoth Mr. Perkins again.  "I observe you are interested in
our armour, Mr. Felton."

"Yes," answered Sam, "you keep 'em very bright."

"We do, sir, we do.  I have them all dooly and reverentially cared for,
since each helped, as it were, to erect and maintain the glory of this
do-main of Wrybourne Feveril.  Fif-teen suits, sir, cap'a pee!  Here
you behold the pan-o-plee wore by Sir Amyot at Agincourt--the next Sir
John Scrope used at Cressy, he was boon companion to Sir Walter Manny
and Sir John Chandos and was honoured by King Edward himself ... helm
and breastplate bear marks of combative violence you'll pray notice....
And so on through the ages, sir, to that mag-nificent soot that adorned
the person of Sir James Scrope at the Field of the Cloth of Gold, sir,
then yonder we have the splendid harness worn by Sir Japhet Scrope at
Naseby, Newberry, Marston Moor and other fee-rocious encounters--"

"Well now," said Mrs. Leet, "now, James, we'll to the galleries, and
there, Sam, you shall see pictures of the wearers.  Give me your arm."

Through echoing chambers cold and stately she led him, through rooms
snug and cosily furnished, along deeply-carpeted, richly-panelled
corridors, and so to a vast gallery, its splendour of carved woodwork
and painted ceiling lighted by many long windows that showed row upon
row of portraits, noble lords and gracious dames who scowled, smiled,
simpered or merely stared from backgrounds dim or glowing; bearded and
shaven ferocities in heavy armour, gloomy gentlemen in ruffs, gallants
who smirked or gazed, pensively passionate, between curled lovelocks
and--a grim-faced nobleman in black half-armour who leaned negligently
upon a large cannon with a distant though furious sea-battle in
progress just above his right shoulder.  Now before this portrait Mrs.
Leet halted suddenly, exclaiming:

"Ha!  Yes, of course, now I remember!  Sam, look at this one!  Well,
what do you say?"

"That he's no beauty, Grannyanne, and by the ships a seaman, I suppose."

"He was indeed!" quoth Mr. Perkins.  "Sir, you behold the likeness of
my Lord Japhet Scrope, Vice Admiral of the Blue, wounded in the three
days' battle with the Dutch off Beachy Head.  He was also, you will
notice--"

"Yes, yes, James," said Mrs. Leet, "but what else do you notice?"

"I notice, Mrs. Anne, marm, no more than I have beheld hundreds of
times when showing visitors around and----"

"Then you, Sam, what do you notice?"

"That he looks a pretty grim sort of customer--"

"So do you, Sam, when you scowl as he has been doing all these years!
James, don't you see the strange likeness?  Look, man, here and there!"

"Ah-ham!" exclaimed Mr. Perkins, glancing from Sam to the portrait and
back again.  "Ye-e-s," he admitted, "I do remark a vague, a faintish
seemularity, Mrs. Anne."

"Vague, d'you say, James?  Put Sam in that same black armour, it's out
there in the hall, and they would be as like as two peas!"

"Lord!" exclaimed Sam.  "If I'm really like that old cut-throat I hope
I'm better than I show."

"Sam, the Admiral was a very brave gentleman and one of the few good
ones--for a Scrope!"

"In-deed yes!" quoth Mr. Perkins.  "The Admiral restored the old Norman
chapel and built the public almshouses--"

"And what of this lady?" enquired Sam, turning towards a portrait that
seemed mostly eyes, ringlets and bosom.

"The Lady Araminta--a baggage, Sam!  A bold, heartless vixen!  The less
said of her the better."

"Ah, but," added Mr. Perkins, "a famous beauty and toast, Mrs. Anne!
Gentlemen fought doo-els very frequently on her account--"

"More fools they, James!"

"But, oh ponder, marm, consider the wicked age she lived in, Mrs.
Anne--"

"She did her best to make it worse, James!  And now the tapestries;
they are truly famous, Sam, though their subjects, one or two, are
inclined to be a little so-so.  And thereafter, James, tea if you
please in Queen Elizabeth's small parlour."

"Mrs. Anne, I was myself about to suggest same.  I go, proceeding this
moment to order it."

And away past these rows of long-dead Scropes paced Mr. Perkins,
himself more imposing than any of them.

"Strange!" exclaimed Mrs. Leet, glancing back towards the pictured
Admiral.  "Among all the many hundreds of visitors I have shown through
these galleries in my time, I have never known it happen before.  Never
did anyone of them resemble in the slightest degree any of these
pictured Scropes.  And now ... today ... at last ... you, Sam, and the
Admiral!  And he was a sailorman, too!  Don't you think it strange and
surprising?"

"Well, no, Granny, for if you go on comparing faces long enough, you'll
be sure to find someone like somebody else some time or other, it
stands to reason."

"Hum--yes, perhaps ... and yet, Sam, he was a sailor, too."

"Yet looks more like a pirate, Granny!  But tell me, did Queen
Elizabeth really stay here?"

"To be sure she did, and frequently.  You shall see the bed she slept
in, the goblet she drank from--ale, Sam, and quite a large goblet!
I'll show you the fine embroidered shoes she wore and silk stockings
out of Spain, great rarities in those days.  Then there's a bow she
used for shooting deer, poor things--the glove she gave Sir Julian who
wore it on his helmet at a tournament.  Oh, there are lots more glories
and wonders for you to behold, Sam!"

"And yet, if you please, Grannyanne, I would much rather see the room
that was your own, I mean that one where you once hove fire-irons at a
lordly brutish villain."

"Then of course you shall, Sam, 'tis much the same now as it was then,
not very splendid--but you can see the very marks upon the door and
panelling....  Ah, but thank goodness--yonder comes our pompous James
to say tea awaits us!"


"Well," sighed Mrs. Leet, as they turned into the leafy, home lane,
"thank you for the drive, Sam, it has done me a power o' good."

"And thank you, Granny, for showing me the wonders of Wrybourne
Feveril."

"Ay, the Great House!" she sighed.  "A rare treasure-house, a jewel of
antiquity that has grown with and is part of this Old England of
ours....  How should you like to live there, Sam?"

"I shouldn't!" he answered, frowning.

"Ha!" she exclaimed, glancing up at him with her shrewd, old eyes.
"Yes, it is odd how strangely you resemble my lord the Admiral when you
scowl, Sam.  And he was one of the good ones!"

"And that is truly much more odd, Granny, for the Scropes, past and
present, run to pretty foul villainy of all sorts and kinds."

"Still, there have been good ones, a few, here and there, Sam, they
happened every fifty years or so.  Maybe this new Earl will turn out a
good one, by some happy chance.  I'm hoping so with all my heart, for a
very particular reason."

"Oh?" murmured Sam.  "Pray why?"

"Because a good Earl might be induced to grant our Kate and Ned their
own hearts' desire and allow them to buy the freehold of Willowmead!
And besides," she continued, seeing Sam lost in silent contemplation of
the long, winding lane before them, "he might even be persuaded to
allow my cottage roof to be mended--it leaks shamefully.  I've a great
idea of writing Mr. Joliffe direct about it."

"Oh?" enquired Sam.  "Ah, so you know of Mr. Joliffe?"

"Why, of course!  I've writ him many a letter on business of the Great
House, and many's the cup o' tea he's drank with me in my sitting-room
there.  Mr. Joliffe has been lawyer to the family all his life, like
his father before him, he and I are old friends....  Oh, but you're
driving past my cottage!"

"Ay, Granny, I am.  According to orders--"

"Whose, I'd like to know?"

"Kate's.  For d'ye see, I was commanded to bring you back to supper--"

"Oh, but, Sam, I--"

"Stuffed breast o' veal, Granny!  Not to mention such oddments as--a
vast, cold ham, beef roast--cold, and beef boiled--spiced!  Also Ned
will brew grog, though he calls it 'punch,' for you specially,
Grannyanne, to hearten you after this long drive.  And orders being
orders, d'ye see--here we are!"  So saying he pulled up in the
farm-yard fragrant and spicy with scent of ricks and stables, where
presently came Ned and Kate to welcome them.




CHAPTER XV

DESCRIBES CERTAIN WILLOWMEAD FOLK

It was a glad, golden morning and Sam, wandering into the cool, trim
dairy, paused to marvel at the swift dexterity of Nancy, this buxom,
though ineffably demure creature, skimming rich, yellow cream from wide
pans of milk; then turned to watch Kate, in apron and print gown, her
lovely round arms bare, performing that everyday miracle--the making of
yellow, luscious butter.  In the midst of this homely occupation she
glanced up at his gravely intent face and enquired:

"Have you never seen butter made before, Sam?"

"Never.  And now that I do, I'm wondering how it happens and why."

"I'm wondering too," she sighed.  "I could scarcely sleep last night
for wondering!"

"Not about butter, of course, Kate?"

"No, about Ned ... travelling all that great way to London ... and the
roads so unsafe!  The Mail was stopped only last week by highwaymen and
the guard wounded, poor man!"

"Ay, but Ned is Ned and safe in London by now, I'll warrant."

"Dear Sam!" she murmured.  "What a comfort you are!  But if he is there
safe, I'm wondering if he has seen Mr. Joliffe, the lawyer, yet.  And
if he has I'm wondering still....  Oh, Sam, how I'm wondering what the
outcome will be."

"The best, Kate, depend on 't.  Ned deserves the very best of life if
ever a man did, for he's earned it, also he has been mighty fortunate,
seeing he has you."

"'Deed yes, Sam, to be sure he has me for ever, but--"

"And b'Jingo, Kate, you're a prize rich enough to content any man
breathing."

"But I'm not rich, Sam, I can hardly make the farm pay and should have
failed long ago but for my good Ben Toop and his dear old father.  I'm
quite poor--"

"Ay, but rich in all that makes a woman lovely and that's the only
riches worth having."

"Why--Sam!  You'll make me blush!  Such compliments and--from you!"

"Not compliments, Kate, I can't manage 'em, being no lady's man, d'ye
see, I speak straight forrard and mean what I say, every word.  And
what I'm meaning now is--that when Ned takes such prize as you and tows
her safely into the Harbour of Matrimony he is far richer than those
Maya folk in South America, Aztec and Inca, who mined and used gold by
the ton as we do iron.  So, although personally I keep well to windward
of wedlock, I'm saying that, blow foul or fair, Ned is mighty fortunate
to have you alongside..."  At this moment the grandfather clock that
had ticked on the wide old stair time out of mind, uttered its mellow
chime.

"Eleven o'clock!" sighed Kate.  "At this very moment Ned should be with
lawyer Joliffe!  He will have asked if we can buy Willowmead ... not
that I dare suppose it possible ... but ... if he only could....  Oh,
Sam, the thought almost ... chokes me with joy ... but it seems too
wonderful ever to come true."

"I don't see why, Kate."

"Then ...  Oh, Sam, do you think there is the least possible chance, do
you?"

"I can't see why not."

"But the Earls of Wrybourne are all so terribly rich.  The old lord
would never part with an acre to anyone and this new lord may be the
same."

"Too true!" nodded Sam.  "And yet again he may not.  No, he may be an
altogether different sort of fellow, in fact I believe he is."

"Do you, Sam, do you?  Oh, if he only is!  But what makes you believe
so?"

"Why, Kate, d'ye see, it so happens," answered Sam, cautiously, "I've
heard that he's been, well, knocking about the world, hither and yon,
the seven seas, port to port, and consequently seen so much of the
world in general that this particular bit of it may not seem so
almighty precious to him as it was to his hoggish ancestors.  It stands
to reason."

"Does it?" she questioned wistfully, lovely head drooping.  "I wish I
could be as certain of this as you seem to be--why are you so sure,
Sam?"

"Lord knows!" he answered, avoiding her glance.  "Of course, there's
few things sure or certain in this world, Kate, yet I believe in
looking on the bright side ... hoping for the best and--well--while
there's life there's hope, d'ye see?"

"Yes, Sam, I'm hoping now and praying, in thought, that you may be
right."

"Good!" he nodded.  "Then you may depend upon it that I am right.  So
smile, Kate, God bless you, smile!  Ah, good again!  Now I'll bear away
for the orchard to smoke a pipe or so and listen to the birds, I never
heard them sing as they do here at Willowmead--"

"Wait, Sam!  Before you go do please tell me all you know or have ever
heard about our new lord.  Have you in all your wanderings ever met him
or seen him perhaps--Oh, have you?"

Sam turned to gaze out through open doorway across the sunny garden,
saying after momentary hesitation:

"Now God love you, Kate, how should I?  Earls and lords don't usually
ship aboard whalers or privateers or join company with seafaring men
the like o' me, it goes without saying ... stands to reason, Kate, d'ye
see?"

"Yes--yes, of course!" she sighed, "I was only ... hoping and wondering
again."

"Ay, ay, that's the word--hope!  Hope hard, Kate, so will I and who
knows but our wish may come safe to harbour all a-tauto alow and
aloft."  So saying, he smiled and stepped out into the sunshine.  Now
on his way to the orchard he met a man, a stalwart, blue-eyed, comely
fellow (though just at present grimly woeful of aspect) and busily
sharpening a scythe with a certain neat deftness of movement that Sam
was quick to heed.

"Good morning," said he, pausing.  "You are Tom, I think?"

"Ay, sir.  Tom Toop, at your service."

"And you've been a sailor, Tom."

"Lor-dee, sir, 'ow should ye know that?"

"By your smart and general handiness, Tom.  Royal Navy, eh?"

"Yessir, afore I larned enough to quit."

"Don't tell me the sea didn't agree with you."

"'Twern't the sea, sir, 'twere my brother Willum as got took off by a
cross-bar-shot alongside o' me just arter Lord Nelson were struck down."

"Ah, so you saw, you were there, Tom?"

"Ay, sir, sarving a quarter-deck starboard carronade.  Poor Will were
beyond speech, him being nigh cut in two--but says Lord Nelson as Cap'n
Hardy stooped to lift him, 'They've done for me this time, at last,'
says he.  Well, sir, there was brother Willum and Lord Nelson done for,
so when us _Victory_ men got paid off, I bore away for home soundings
and yere I've been ever since.  Ye see, sir, there was a right tidy
lass yereabouts and waiting for one or t'other on us, though which she
favoured Willum and me never could nowise decide.  So arter he was took
off, I bore down, laid her alongside--but--" here Tom sighed deeply,
his cheery visage glooming, "only to larn as t'were poor Willum as she
favoured arter all!"

"Dam' hard luck, Tom.  And you say she lives hereabouts?"

"She do, sir.  And she be in dairy at this yere instant."

"Eh?  You mean--?"

"Nancy, sir."

"And a tight, handsome craft she is, Tom."

"Ay, no question, sir, though she ain't--complete."

"Eh?  Not--?"

"No, sir, can't nowise be, seeing as how."

"As how what, Tom?"

"As how part of her be missing, sir."

"Oh!" murmured Sam, pondering this.  "Ah?  What, Tom?"

"Her heart, sir, 'tis laying fathoms deep along o' poor Will."

"Did she tell you so?"

"Constant, sir."

"Ha!" murmured Sam.  "Well, what d'you think?"

"Sir, I dunno what, so 'Id be obleeged for your opinion."

"Then I'm pretty sure her heart is in the right and proper place and
waiting for the right man to take it!  And who better than a Nelson and
Trafalgar man?"

"Meaning ... me, sir?"

"Of course.  You'll mind Lord Nelson's fighting signal: 'Engage the
enemy more closely,' eh Tom?"

"Ay, ay, sir--but a mounseer's broadside is easier for to face."

"Then get the weather-gauge and board, man, board!"

Tom rubbed his well-shaven chin with the whetstone and glancing askance
on Sam, smiled though very ruefully, saying:

"Sir, I tried it once but was repelled wi' loss, ay, the casuallities
was pretty heavy."

"Took it amiss, did she?"

"Well, sir, if a rap across my figurehead be amiss, she did.  And,
what's more, she ain't took heed o' me by look nor word since."

"So?" exclaimed Sam, also rubbing shaven chin but with thumb and
forefinger.  "Why then, since the Navy never accepts defeat, the only
means left is surprise, a dashing boat action, a cutting-out attack and
damn the shore batteries!"

"E'cod sir, I never thought o' that ... muffled oars ... surprise ...
neck or nothing ... close quarters!"

"Think it over, old '_Victory_ and Nelson' man."

"I will, sir, ay, I will, and thankee.  But, sir, if I may make s'bold,
will ee--would you, sir, be s'good to speak her a word on my
behalf--should opportoonity offer?"

"Ay, Tom, I will so."  Then Sam rambled on his way while Tom started
mowing, but now his lips, no longer grim-set, were puckered to a soft,
melodious whistling.




CHAPTER XVI

IN WHICH SAM HAS OMINOUS WORD WITH JASPER SHRIG, OF BOW STREET

Reaching the orchard at last, this green remoteness pleasantly shaded
by aged trees, apple and pear, Sam lay down beneath one of the largest,
broad back to rugged bole and began to fill his pipe.

But so quiet was it and the warm air so conducive to sleep that
presently Sam closed his eyes slumberously and, after some while,
opened them drowsily--then sat up suddenly broad awake; for here in
this peaceful seclusion where it seemed, a moment before, no man save
himself had been, a man was now standing and within a yard of him.  A
shortish, broad-shouldered youngish man trimly clad in blue spencer,
cords and top boots; a round-faced, keen-eyed, powerful-looking fellow,
who grasped a shaggy-napped hat in one fist and a remarkably knotted
stick in the other.

Now meeting Sam's astonished gaze, this sudden visitor beamed, lifted
the knobbly stick to his right eyebrow, saying in voice hoarse though
soft:

"Ax parding, sir, for this here in-troosion, but I'm begging the favour
of a vord or say--a couple, say--three or four."

"Lord!" exclaimed Sam, blinking.  "Where in the world did you spring
from?"

"The immejit vi-cinity, sir."

"Ha!" quoth Sam, picking up his fallen pipe.  "And you're Mr. Shrig,
the Bow Street officer."

"That werry i-dentical, sir.  And, sir, my wisitation is on a werry
personal and private matter."

"Oh," enquired Sam.  "Ah!  What, pray?"

"Vich, sir, seeing as how you're a-sitting there so nice and
see-clooded as no creeping crawlers can unseen hear nor yet hark, I'll
tell you frank and free as 'tis a matter o' life and death."

"Ah?" murmured Sam again.  "Whose?"

"Your werry own, sir."

"Yes," nodded Sam, "that is rather personal.  Bring-to, Mr. Shrig,
beside me, if you don't mind the grass, and let's hear."  Down sat Mr.
Shrig with surprising nimbleness and nodding at Sam's pipe took out his
own, a short, blackened, villainous-looking clay, enquiring as he did
so:

"No objections, sir, I hope?"

"Of course not," answered Sam, proffering his tobacco-box, whereat Mr.
Shrig beamed but shook his head, saying:

"Much obleeged, sir, but I prefers my own."  And when both pipes were
aglow and drawing well, Sam leaned back against his tree; thus having
puffed once or twice in silent content, Mr. Shrig removed his pipe an
inch or so from his lips and spoke:

"Talking o' bandages, sir----"

"Eh?  Bandages?" Sam repeated.  "But we're not."

"Hows'ever, Mr. F. sir, I'm glad to see as your damaged tibby is now
getting along vithout same."

"Yes--though it wasn't much, just a bit of an accident, d'ye see----

"Ar--in shape of a vip, sir, a pretty heavy 'un as vips go."

"Ay, but how should you know?"

"Observation, Mr. F., and evidence received, sir.  I likewise know as
your ass-aylant vich, naming no names I'll call Number Vun, downed you
wi' two ex-tremely wicious strokes!  Yet, arter said strokes you downed
Number Vun and throwed him out into the lane."

"So then you saw--"

"No, sir, no, I were denied that pleasure, but I had eyes as see for
me."

"Ha, a spy?"

"A ass-istant, sir--viskers and a red vaistcoat, answering to the name
o' Dan'l."

"Dammit!  Mr. Shrig, I strongly object to being spied upon!"

"And werry natral too, sir!" answered Mr. Shrig, puffing serenely.
"But then I object jest as strongly to seeing you a bleedin' corpse
afore your time!  'Twouldn't do, sir, and myself in charge o' the case!
So you mustn't go getting yourself shot, nor yet stabbed, p'izened nor
drownded, 'twould be bad for the both on us."

"It would!" Sam agreed fervently, yet with flashing grin.  "Especially
me, so I'll do my best to keep alive--if only for your sake."

"Sir," retorted Mr. Shrig with reproachful shake of head, "you take
this here ugly business altogether too cool and calm.  Murder ain't
never to be sneezed at--no, sir.  Being The Capital Act it should ought
to be treated accordingly."

"Oh?" murmured Sam, watching the blue smoke wreathes of his pipe ascend
into the still air.  "Ah?  How, Shrig?"

"Respectful, sir!  Ar, vith a respect bordering on h-awe."  Here Mr.
Shrig, having puffed vehemently to keep his pipe going, continued:
"Sir, or, seeing as there's nobody to peek nor hark, should I ought to
say 'my lord'--?"

"No!" answered Sam.  "Certainly not!"

"Werry good, sir, then allow me to inform you as how, ever since the
moment I run you to earth and diskivered your true i-dentity, you have
been and are, a werry large fly in my ointment, risking your precious
life to no purpose and my constant ang-ziety."

"You think my life in such peril, eh, Shrig?"

"I do, sir!  Ar and so does Mr. Joliffe!  So why don't you think the
same and act according?"

"Well," answered Sam, musingly, "I'm pretty sure, of course, that if my
noble nunks could blast me by mere word or wish, I should be dead this
moment!  Yes, considering I must be his ruin I can well understand his
burning desire to be rid o' me at any or every cost--ay, even at risk
of his lordly, confounded neck!  A most determined, desperately cool
gentleman, Shrig."

"As any cowcumber, sir!  And besides," here Mr. Shrig leaned nearer to
whisper harshly: "if ever I see a true, hell-fire Capital Cove, 'tis
him, Number Vun!  I'm glad you've took notice and hope as you'll go
werry cautious henceforrard."

"Ay, I will so!  But then, d'ye see, for chance to come at me he must
first of all find me ...  and he has no least idea where I am or what I
look like--ay, before he can act he must find me out and make sure of
my identity----"

"Ar!  And so soon as he does, how then, sir?"

"Eh?  Soon?  Are you so sure he will?"

"Sir, I am so werry sure and cartain of it that I'm a-sitting here at
this pre-cise moment to tell you sich is so."

"Oh!" exclaimed Sam, forgetting to smoke.  "B'gad, are you?  Pray
explain."

"Sir, how much d'you know con-earning a Mr. Tobias Jupp?"

"Nothing at all, I never hear the name.  But tell----"

"Vich don't sap-rise me none, sir, though he knows a on-common lot
about you!"

"Oh?" exclaimed Sam, again.  "How?"

"By creeping, sir, crawling, and likewise peeping and prying.  He spoke
to you in Lewes, by the old castle."

"Ay to be sure!  You mean that remarkably unremarkable fellow."

"That werry same.  A most ex-tryordinary ordinary cove is Tobias,
that's his partickler line o' business, a werry downy bird is Tobias!
Having been a lawyer he's full of it and up to all the moves, but then,
sir, 'twixt you and me, so am I.  Therefore, so soon as Tobias J. left
London and took arter you, me the Gimblet and Dan'l took arter Tobias,
in my gig, to keep our peepers or, as you might say, ogles on both o'
you."

"So that's how you saw me in Lewes, eh, Shrig?"

"Ar, and that's how I'm seeing you here, sir.  But while we sits here
puffing our steamers so werry sociable--in a old, ruinated mill werry
picture-esquee and not so far hence, blindfolded, gagged, tied up
precious secure and com-pletely flummoxed, Tobias Jupp aforesaid is
lying at this pre-cise moment, pondering how it all happened and oo
dropped on him so sudden and onexpected!"  Here Mr. Shrig, glancing
askance on his hearer, emitted a soft, throaty chuckle.

"Aha!" murmured Sam, leaning nearer in his turn and lowering his voice.
"Grassed him, levelled the fellow, did you, b'George?"

"Mr. F. sir, I did--full length, face down'ards, and afore he knowed oo
or what, I'd got same tied up helpless as a ninfant and blind as a
kitten noo born, sir."

"Shrig," quoth Sam, with that sudden, white-toothed smile which so
lighted and transfigured his grim features, "give me your hand."

"Honoured, sir."

"Lord love me!" chuckled Sam as their hands met.  "Assault and
battery--and you a limb of the law!"

"Sir," answered Mr. Shrig, gravely, "there's times like this here, when
I'm all Law--arms, legs, body and soul!  Ar, and I perform according
with fist, brain, boot or bludgeon if tackling (as in dooty bound)
Wiciousness afore it can act, Murder as creeps unseen and crawls
unheard upon its onsuspecting wictim.  So there lays Tobias in the old
mill and here, Mr. F. sir, is the reason thereof."  And from the breast
of his trim, blue, bright-buttoned coat, Mr. Shrig drew a pocket-book
which he opened, saying as he did so:

"This here little reader belongs to Tobias, you shall see it in a
minute, sir, but listen first to what he's wrote down here."  And now
leaning still nearer, Mr. Shrig read aloud, though very softly:

"'Six foot tall about and powerful build.  Darkish hair, chestnut.
Bold features of sat-ter-nine cast.  Strides long and vith rolling
gait.  Looks formidable.  N.B.  Now dressed as a sailor and bears
newly-healed scar above left eyebrow.  Impossible to mistake and
therefore easy to i-dentify!'  A remarkable true and acc'rate
description, eh, sir?"

"Yes!" nodded Sam, grimly.  "Yes, damme, I'm easy to recognize!
Whoever reads that will know me at a glance--"

"Ar--like a flash o' lightning, sir!  Now, hark again."  And in the
same hushed accents Mr. Shrig read this:

"'To whom it may con-cern.  Gentlemen, at no little bodily risk,
trouble, labour and ex-pense, the information required is now in the
writer's possession.  But owing to unforeseen risk and labour
aforesaid, cannot be handed over except the sum, already stipulated, be
doubled.  The writer may be heard of at the Stag's Head, Wrexford, but
for three days only, by reason of risk aforementioned.'  And now, sir,"
said Mr. Shrig, passing letter and pocket-book, "take a look at 'em
yourself."

"Evidently a cunning rascal!" said Sam as he returned these, after
reading.

"'Cunning' is the vord, sir.  Our Mr. T. J. is a slimy article as has
dodged The Law frequent--so far."

"But you have him safe and sound for the present, have you?"

"As the Bank of England, sir!  Tobias can't see nor speak nor yet stir
a finger."

"And what now, friend Shrig?"

"All depends on you, Mr. F. sir."

"How so?"

"Sir, just so soon as Tobias J. passes on this here information to--us
knows oo, vich same he'll do soon or late, Windictiveness (ar and with
a werry large Wee) will be afoot--up and arter you, sir.
Wiciousness'll be in the werry air you breathe!  Murder'll creep and
crawl, seeking chance to commit The Fact--to strike you dead, sir,
sudden, sharp and final!"  Here Sam, finding his pipe had gone out,
shook his head at it and began to polish it thoughtfully upon his broad
palm, while Mr. Shrig continued:

"But sir, you have now two courses o' pro-ceedure as I can offer--"

"Two, eh?" questioned Sam, still polishing his pipe-bowl.  "Only two,
Shrig?"

"Two, sir, and no more!"

"Not a large selection, but let's hear."

"First, sir, you can skip and run--vay-cate or, as you might say, hop
this here rustical perch, me keeping Tobias werry close and see-cure
for a day or so till you can get safe onto some ship and sail off--ar,
and keep sailing till Mr. Joliffe sends you the office as how he's
laid--you know oo by his willainous heels and you may come home in
perfect safety.  That's your first course, sir, the most commonsense,
safest and therefore ad-wiseable."

"Ah!" murmured Sam.  "Yes, to be sure.  And what's your course Number
Two?"

"To stay as y'are, sir, taking a chance but trusting to me.  Risking
your precious life as a dee-coy drawing on Wiciousness to attempt The
Act, thereby giving me the opportoonity to trap Wiciousness, tackle
Murder and end same prompt--for good and all.  So there 'tis, sir, the
ch'ice is yourn! ...  How d'ye say, Mr. Felton, sir?"

"That the sooner we make a start the better."

"Eh, 'start,' sir?  Meaning as you'll--go?"

"No, damme!  I'm flying the signal for 'close action, enemy sighted.'
So we'll bear down on 'em together, Shrig."

"To-gether?" he repeated, his bright eyes seeming rounder than usual.
"Meaning as you'll--take a chance?"

"Just so!" nodded Sam.  "For, d'ye see, I like Sussex and the folk
hereabout.  And, for another thing, when trouble shows in the offing,
instead o' bearing up and standing away from it, I believe in Lord
Nelson's maxim 'engage the enemy more closely.'  So, friend Shrig,
we'll engage 'em together, bring 'em to action yardarm to yardarm, ay,
we'll fight it out broadside for broadside, dare all and hope for the
best."

"Sir," quoth Mr. Shrig, beaming, "you are a gen'leman, ay, and a man,
my lord, as 'tis a rare pleasure to vork for--"

"Not 'for' but 'with,' Shrig, 'with'! ...  And since we are going to
fight this action like shipmates, we'll ha' done with any 'lording' or
'mistering'.  For in spite o' what Fortune means me to be, Nature made
me an ordinary sort of fellow, a seafaring cove and my name is Sam."

For a space Mr. Shrig looked at Sam and slowly his lips curved to a
smile, yet when he spoke, his tone was grave:

"Sir, if so be a gen'leman so honours me wi' his baptismal monnicker,
like as now, then I regards that same as my 'pal'--vich is a gipsy vord
meaning 'brother'--ar and more than brother!  So now, sir, I begs to
regard you as 'my pal Sam,' sir, and herevith proffers you my daddle."
Saying which, Mr. Shrig reached forth his hand, which Sam grasped and
shook heartily.

"And now, sir and pal, if you have the time and incli-nation, my gig's
handy, I could take you a little drive and tell you, ar--and show you
summat as I fancy'll prove inter-esting and werry suggestive.  And, Sam
pal, my name to you henceforth is Jarsper.  So how about it?"

"Ay, ay, Jasper, I'm with you, so heave ahead, shipmate."




CHAPTER XVII

IN WHICH MR. SHRIG DISCOURSES UPON THE CAPITAL ACT

In the lane stood a vehicle mounted upon a pair of the tallest wheels
Sam had ever seen, drawn by a slim-legged, speedy-looking horse, and
driven by a meek-seeming individual remarkable for a red waistcoat and
woebegone visage, which was rendered even more so by a pair of
drooping, hay-like whiskers of the kind sometimes known as "weepers."
This person Mr. Shrig forthwith addressed, saying:

"Dan'l, you know this gen'leman."  Dan'l nodded and touched whipstock
to straw-coloured eyebrow in silent greeting.  "But," continued Mr.
Shrig, "but what you don't know is--Mr. F. is also my pal!"  Dan'l
instantly bared his tow-coloured head, gave his hat a peculiar spin and
replaced it, all in as many moments, saying in feeble, die-away voice:

"Greetin's, sir!  D'you drive, Gov, or me?"

"You, Dan'l.  And go easy for I'm a-going to use my chaffer--a council
of vor, pal Sam, sir, a talk on vays and means, sir.  So it'll be the
back seat for you and me--arter you, pal."

Up they mounted, and seated side by side, away they drove at leisured,
ambling pace.

But now as they rolled smoothly through the warm kindly air of this
bowery, peaceful countryside, they talked of the sure and certain
approach of murderous evil, thus:

MR. SHRIG: Pal Sam, sir, it now be-hooves us to--are you harking, Dan'l?

DAN'L: Yus, Gov.

MR. SHRIG: Werry good!  It be-hooves us to consider the methods warious
by vich willainy may attempt The Act upon you.

SAM: Meaning my murder, Jasper?  I suppose there are many ways it could
be done.

MR. SHRIG: Oceans!  So let's take 'em in doo order.  And first, by
shooting, eh, Dan'l?  Shooting's pretty common.

DAN'L: Yus, Gov, it are.  Though knives is commoner and razors is
frequent.

MR. SHRIG: Ar, in back streets, cellars, dives and rookeries, Dan'l.
But this is the country all coverts and rabbit varrens, so I put
shooting first.  F'instance, pal and sir--you take a evening stroll to
see the sun set or moon rise--a shot from the leafage and there y'are,
dead as mutton and nobody to heed, for if said shot is heard 'twill be
put down to poachers.  Second--stabbing, pal.  Say you pause by a stile
or gate to hear the birds a-varbling as the shadders fall--ah, but
there comes a shadder as creeps soundless, a knife upraised behind
you--and down you go, said knife in your back and only the birds to see
the how and who of it and they can't talk nor tell.
Thirdly--throttling, Sam pal, strangu-lation, sir.  But you're sich a
tough, powerful fighting-cove you'd take a deal o' throttling, so we'll
pass that and come to: Fourthly--drownding.  'Spose you're standing to
admire a rippling brook or silent, lonesome pool--the crack of a
bludgeon on your on-suspecting tibby--and in you go to a reg'lar vatery
grave.  There's a pool as us'll pass werry soon----

DAN'L: Wrexford Old Mill dam.

MR. SHRIG: Ar, and a bee-u-tiful place for it, as by Natur' formed for
The Act.  Fifthly, pal Sam, there's--p'izen--in your food or drink vith
death in every swaller and gulp!

SAM: That would be worst of all, Jasper.

MR. SHRIG: It is, pal, or it ain't, according to the p'izen used or
a-dopted.  Sixthly, there's--accidents, Sam and sir, a tripline to
throw you headlong, say downstairs, say down a old mine-shaft, cliff or
quarry or other deadfall.  Seventhly--

SAM: Belay, Jasper, avast!  B'George, you've said enough!

MR. SHRIG: Eh?  Enough to make you think better of it, hop the perch
and toddle ... take ship and go a-sailing, 'stead o' chancing death by
such bloody wiolence, eh, sir?

SAM: I've chanced it pretty often afore now.  And violent death isn't
always so horrid or bloody as you describe, Jasper.  I've seen too much
of it aboard ship and I know.

MR. SHRIG: Then you ain't a-going to fly the coop or, as you might say,
e-lope?

SAM: No.  I'm scheming how we can force the enemy to action.  For, d'ye
see, I've no mind to hang i' the wind or ply off and on.  The sooner we
can get to close quarters the better.

MR. SHRIG (_Heaving sigh_): Ah, pal Sam, dog bite me if I didn't
think--no matter!  But as to a-bringing of 'em to action--

SAM: That's it, Jasper!  I want 'em face to face, none o' this hole and
corner business or--

MR. SHRIG (_With sudden anxiety_): Hold hard, sir!  Lord love you, hold
precious hard!  The vord for us, and 'specially you, is--caution!  Ar,
and wrote in capitals!  To act too soon or anyways previous vould be
our con-flammeration, and p'raps your death.  So, pal, and I say this
werry earnest indeed--you must leave the how and when and where of it
to me!  You must continny to lay low, do nothing and make no move till
my plans is laid and trap dooly baited!  You--

SAM: When will that be, Jasper?

MR. SHRIG: Pal, ekker alone replies.  But, sir, you must gimme your
solemn oath, ar a word of honour into the bargain not to stir foot nor
finger till I give you the office, or my case is ruinated and yourself
stiff and cold in death--

SAM: But, dammit, man, where do I come in?

MR. SHRIG: Sir, you'll come in, like I say, as a poor, bleeding corpse
if you move afore I'm ready.

SAM: Well, I'd risk even that for chance of right prompt action.

MR. SHRIG: 'Twould be more than risk, sir.  'Twould be sure and sartin
fact.  So gimme your oath not to--

SAM (_Impatiently_): Oh, very well!

MR. SHRIG: Good!  You have took a load off my throbber.

DAN'L (_With sideways jerk of mournful head_): The old mill, Jarsper.

MR. SHRIG: Then pull up, Dan'l.  Now gimme the reins and cut along to
see if Toby J. is safe and snug.

DAN'L (_Reining up beside a stile and descending from lofty
driving-seat_): Must I feed him, Gov?

MR. SHRIG: You give him brea'fast, didn't you?

DAN'L: Ar, a lump o' cheese, two slices o' bread and a mug o' water.

MR. SHRIG: Then he'll do till supper-time.  Cut along now--and take
care he don't spy your chiv, Dan'l, nor hear you speak, the less he
knows, the better for all con-sarned.

DAN'L: Righto, Jarsper.

MR. SHRIG: Then cut along.

"Ay, Gov," said Dan'l, in his softly doleful voice and turning, leapt
the stile with surprising agility and was gone.  Left thus alone, the
two sat mute a while, Mr. Shrig's quick, bright glance roving to and
fro and round about, Sam gazing down across hedgerow and spinney where
in the valley below lay a pool very still and dark for it was bowered
in tangled thickets and shaded by tall trees, amid which dense leafage
showed a crumbling ruin.

"Ar!" exclaimed Mr. Shrig, with a sigh that had a certain gloating
ecstasy in it.  "The old ruinated mill--there's a sight, pal and sir!
'Tis on Wrybourne land, three mile over yonder lays the Dower House,
they call it the Manor, and in the Manor lives--us knows oo, Number
Vun, and that there old mill belongs to him.  Look at it, pal--there's
a picter for a painting cove to set about, eh?"

"Yes," replied Sam, adding on impulse, "and a very hateful one!"

"Eh, hateful?"

"Very!  It's so ... dam' desolate ... and worse!"

"How so, pal Sam?"

"There's something evil about it."

"Now burn my neck if there ain't!  'Evil,' says you, 'werry much so,'
says I, for, I've got Tobias J. tied up there and Toby's a pretty evil
article.  But the old mill, you'll allow, is picturesky.  I never see
any place properer and more bee-u-tifully fit for The Act!  No murderer
could resist it--so nice and lonesome, so fur from any hope or chance
of ass-istance, ar and a pool so handy, all ready and vating to receive
or drownd all as remains of Murder's poor, bleeding wictim!  Nobody'll
wenture nigh the place at night, and few b'day--vich ain't to be
expected, con-sidering!"

"What, Jasper?"

"As how a murder and two sooicides has befell there already.  And 'tis
there, as I should like to end this here case and bring Willainy to its
just and proper doom, by means o' you, pal Sam, sir."

"Eh?  Me?" enquired Sam, starting.  "Oh?  Very good!  How?"

"Pal," sighed Mr. Shrig, shaking his head rather mournfully, "up to the
present ekker alone responds 'how indeed'?  But, sir, you are my cheese
for the trap, lime for my twig and vorm for my hook as I shall use wi'
all doo care, hoping for the best.  For, if agreeable to you, I shall,
this werry night and soon as 'tis black dark, turn loose Tobias Jupp,
expecting and also hoping as he'll do and per-form his heenious part
and set Murder a-crawling on your dewoted heels."

"Oh?" murmured Sam, pondering this, chin in hand.  "Ah!  And what am I
to do?"

"Bide snug at Villersmead, lay low, ar precious low and leave it all to
me--and Dan'l.  For--"

"Not I!" quoth Sam, clenching his fists.  "No, damme!  I mean to take
my part and fight this action along o' you.  D'ye think I'll cower and
skulk and be inactive----"

"Ay, I do, sir, and laying inactive for ever still--in a vooden
overcoat, elm, sir, and silver fittings--if you don't!  Sir, if you go
out looking for Murder--Murder'll find you, ar--sure as death!"

"I'll take my chance o' that as I have before."

"Ar, but that was at sea, in a clean fight, man to man--but this'll be
Murder as crawls and you the dee-fenceless wictim."

"You seem dev'lish sure of it."

"Nat'rally, sir.  For in this here Wale o' Sorrow and Iniquity, there's
murder-ers and murder-ees, born for each other and so to be.  Therefore
wictim never can and never did escape, dodge, nor yet e-lood his
murderer or there'd be neither vun nor t'other.  And there y'are!"

"However," Sam retorted, squaring shoulders and jaw, "if my life is
attempted--"

"As 'twill surely be, sir."

"Then I shall stand to my guns and go down fighting, if I must--"

"Vich, sir, down indeed you'll surely go."

"Jasper, you're a confounded misery!"

"Werry true, sir, and you so eager to play ducks and drakes wi' your
precious life and----"

"Oh, but I'm not--"

"And also seeing as how Mr. Joliffe made me ree-sponsible for your
safety--Though,' says he to me, 'you'll find him a handful, Shrig!'
says he.  And dog bite my neck if you ain't!  So here's myself, and for
the last time, axing you--no, pleading of you to lay low, leave all to
me and not try nor yet at-tempt the impossible."

"Ay, but--what is 'the impossible,' Jasper man?  If Old England hadn't
attempted--ay and done it pretty often through battle and storm ever
since King Alfred invented The Navy, then History would have a very
different tale to tell.  And what d'you say to that, Shrig?"

"Sir, all I can ree-spond is--your own tale'll be told pretty soon--but
by others, seeing as your tongue, or as you might say 'chaffer' 'll be
for ever dumb as any eyster!  And talking of Holy Writ, the Bible----"

"Eh?  But we've never mentioned it--"

"Hows'ever, you read it now and then, I hope, sir?"

"Why yes, but what the--"

"Then you may remember as a gent, a law officer name o' P. Pilate
vashed his hands on a certain o-ccasion?"

"Yes, but----"

"Sir, though I ain't got no vater, I'm a-doing the werry same at this
i-dentical moment!  I'm soaking my daddles as a sign that I'm done wi'
this here case and am off to London, prompt, to report same to Mr.
Joliffe."

"Ha!" exclaimed Sam, rather bitterly.  "Leaving me to tackle this foul
business alone, eh?"

"No, sir, leaving your sorrowful friends to la-ment over your
unfort'nate remains."

"Is that so!" Sam demanded, scornfully.

"Ar!" nodded Mr. Shrig, dejectedly.  "So it is!  But you'll make a
werry handsome corpse--arter they've cleaned you up and laid you out."

"Well, that's something!" said Sam.

"It is, sir.  But arter I've took your murderer and seen him dooly
scragged, topped, hung and jibbeted--though that can't do you no manner
o' good, I shall grieve for a pal as got himself cut off so reckless,
so young, and all to no purpose--a wictim as need never have been."

Here ensued a silence wherein Mr. Shrig sighed mournfully, shook his
head dismally and turned to watch for the return of Dan'l; then,
hearing a chuckle, he glanced round and meeting Sam's flashing smile,
instantly beamed in response, saying:

"So, pal Sam, you was only flamming me, a flam, eh?"

"No, Jasper, I meant every word, for d'ye see, I can't imagine myself
any sort of victim.  But since you got me into this ugly business by
discovering my true identity, dammit--I'm going to leave you to get me
out of it the best you can and in your own way."

"And," quoth Mr. Shrig, drawing a bulbous pocket-book from the breast
of his trim, blue coat, "you couldn't do better nor say fairer.  So
now, being pals and ass-ociated in this here case, I'll ax you," here
he opened the book and consulted a certain page, "talking o' the old
mill yonder, did you ever hear tell of a Lady Barbara Stowe?"

"Never!" answered Sam, glancing again at that dark and stilly pool.
"Who is she?"

"Vich aren't to be expected o' you, pal Sam, seeing as she ain't,
con-sidering as twenty-two year ago she was found a-floating there."

"Eh?  That dev'lish pool ... drowned, Jasper?"

"Werry com-pletely, pal, and nobody knows the oo, the how or why--yet!
Then four year and six months ago Susan Marsh also gets drowned there,
but she'd been crossed in love, poor lass, so us can pass her case as
feller-de-see.  Two year ago Thomas Jeffs a Preeventive officer is
found dangling from a beam."

"Another suicide, Jasper?"

"Hardly so, pal, seeing as according to evidence, said Thomas had
received nineteen stabs."

"Were his murderers ever caught?"

"Never a soul, pal, no!  And talking o' souls, can you tell me anything
con-cerning a Mr. Eus-tiss Jennings?"

"No, I can't."

"Yet I hoped as you might, pr'aps."

"How on earth could I?  I'm as strange hereabouts as you are."

"Hows'ever, I know as he's a neighbour o' yourn, lives yonder at the
Manor, along o'--Number Vun."

"Well, I never heard of the fellow.  What's he like?"

"A werry dainty, soft-spoke gen'leman as I took to on sight and so
amazing, that I've got him down here in my little reader as--Number
Two."

"Oh?" questioned Sam, "why?"

Before Mr. Shrig could reply, the man Dan'l reappeared, vaulted nimbly
over the stile, nodded feebly and said, in his die-away voice:

"All's bowmon, Jarsper."

"Good!" exclaimed Mr. Shrig, thrusting away his "little reader."
"Tobias is nice and snug then?"

"Yes, Gov, 'e grunted and jigged a bit when he felt me move the 'ay."

"Hay?" enquired Sam.

"Ar," beamed Mr. Shrig, "I've got Toby J. covered up agin chance
obserwation though same aren't likely in sich bee-ooti-fully lonesome
spot.  How 'much further, Dan'l?" he enquired as that unexpectedly
agile person swung up to the lofty driving-seat.

"Next gate, top o' the 'ill, Gov."

"Sam pal, you have never yet seen nor heered tell of Bracton spinney
and the chalk pit, eh?"

"No, I haven't."

"Then if youm so minded, you shall see same, ar, and hear the
dee-ductions as I have drawed therefrom, making things, as seem pretty
ugly now, ass-oom a aspect even and ever more hijjeous.  How about it,
Sam pal, are y' game?"

"Ay, ay, Jasper, I'm with you."

"Then drive on, Dan'l."




CHAPTER XVIII

CONCERNING A MURDER, THE HOW OF IT

An age-worn gate with beyond a narrow glade or ride that curved away
through dense woodland where rabbits scurried and birds piped amid a
hush of leaves, for the day was hot and very still.  Reaching this gate
Mr. Shrig paused to lean there, yet with a tense alertness in every
line of his powerful body; motionless he stood, head bowed as though
listening intently while under close-knit brows his bright eyes shot
quick, roving glances above and all around, until Sam demanded,
impatiently:

"Why are we hove-to, Jasper, what are you waiting for?"

"To look, pal, to heark and ax questions--the grass, the leaves, ar,
every indiwidual bush and tree--as I have done afore now, and someday
they're agoing to answer."

"Answer what?"

"The truth, the whole truth and nothing but.  For Natur' can't lie,
leastways not to me it don't!"

"Jasper, you've set me all aback, shivering in the wind's eye!  Speak
plain, Shrig man, plain."

"Werry good!" he answered, and opening the gate paced on beside Sam at
leisured amble and explained thus:

"The reasons as I questions Natur' hereabouts is for the follering--are
you listening?"

"Ay, be sure I am."

"Then, pal Sam, sir, along this here track so leafily re-mote, upon a
fair summer's eve, your dad the late Earl o' Wrybourne rode to his
sudden death.  So the first question I asks is: Verefore should his
lordship come a-wisiting in such desolate soli-tood?  And, Nature
vispers: 'Jarsper S., my lord being a Scrope, the answer is in the
Femi-nine Gender'!  So here he comes galloping so gay and free--and
yonder, for good and all, he ends--look!"  They had turned a sudden,
sharp bend in the track; and here Mr. Shrig halted to point with
knobbly stick, saying:

"What d'ye see, pal?"

"A stretch of grass," Sam replied, "and a broken fence."

"Ah!  And now, pal, treading werry cautious, come and look beyond said
fence ... now, what d'ye see?"

"An abyss," answered Sam, peering down and beyond these broken palings.
"And mighty steep, too."

"Ab-biss?" repeated Mr. Shrig.  "This is a new un to me as I'll make a
note on later--ab-biss.  But this here same abbiss is a werry ancient
chalk-pit and a sheer drop, two hundred feet and more.  And through yon
fence, down into this here ab-biss aforesaid tumbled the late Earl,
hoss and all, to lie stone dead, corpses both, at the bottom.  And Sam,
sir, nobody grieved except for the hoss as was a mare and a good un,
nobody mourned the Earl, quite the contrairy!  For when a werry rich
man hops the mortal perch, there's always some folks as re-j'ices in or
out'ardly, vich, arter all, is only nat'ral.  So now my next and second
question is: Oo benefits?  And Natur' answers werry plain: Us knows oo!
And my next question is: How should my lord's mare come to shy at the
vun and only place where certain death must en-soo?  Also, from
information received, said mare being a creeter never known to shy--so
how came she so to do?  A sudden fright ... a stumble ... a headlong
plunge to final o-blivion.  So I ax how could such fright, stumble and
fall be con-trived?  And, Sam pal, Natur' vispers and werry soft
indeed: 'A trip-line! a rope tied low 'twixt two trees--

"Good God!" exclaimed Sam, speaking himself in harsh whisper, "Jasper,
are you suggesting ... murder?"  Instead of replying, Mr. Shrig
beckoned and Sam followed--away from that fatal spot to a small
clearing beside the track and here Mr. Shrig seated himself upon a
fallen tree, saying in the same hushed tones:

"My lord and pal, you being a sailorman too, know the blessed
conso-lation of tobacker smoke drawed gentle through a pipe be it vood
or clay, so sit down and smoke along o' Jarsper and let's talk open and
free.  Also," he continued, easing a large silver watch out of his fob,
"in about ten minutes--say fifteen, I'm expecting a country cove, a
poacher as chanced hereabouts on that fatal eve and is therefore a
vitness-by-ear!  Name o' Barnes baptismal Ezra, a simple sort o' cove
but nat'ral born slinker."

"You mean he heard something, Jasper?"

"Ar!  And if he hadn't been such a werry furtive slinker he might ha'
seen.  But that 'ud be too much to hope or ex-pect--"

"Ay, ay, but what did he hear, man, what?"

"The mare's hoofs coming at a gallop--then said hoofs checked to
stumbling stagger, then the crash o' the breaking fence, and then--ha,
then--the scream o' the Earl as he pitched down ... and down ... to his
finish ... screaming in mid air ... screaming vords, pal, till they
ended for evermore in the final bump."

"Rather ... horrible, Jasper."

"Ar!"

"Well--what were the words?"

"Pal, all as ekker alone can respond is--vot indeed?  For Ezra Barnes
didn't hear, or don't remember, but arter he'd took courage to go down
and take a peep at the re-mains, the Earl and his poor mare lay mangled
corpses, werry mangled indeed, vich you'll agree was a fairish ugly
end."

"Yes," growled Sam, "a bad end for a worse man!  For d'ye see--" he
paused as his keen, sailorly eyes glimpsed something that moved amid
the nearby thickets, an indeterminate object that presently resolved
itself into a weather-beaten moleskin cap crowning a bewhiskered visage
that peered furtively through the dense leafage; Mr. Shrig's roving
glance had seen also, for he hailed cheerily:

"Greetin's, friend Barnes!  Step forrard and earn five shillings, seven
and six--say ten."  Thus admonished, Mr. Barnes sidled through the
leafage, shambled into the open and thumbed his cap, saying:

"Ten shillin', maister, roight!  Wot'll oi say?"

"The truth, Ezra lad, the gospel truth, friend!  As f'rinstance--about
a year ago on a sunny evening you are doing a bit o' poaching, setting
snares in' the spinny hereabout and you hears summat, eh?"

"Ay, hoss-huffs, maister."

"So what did you do, Ezra?"

"Lays me flat in' the bracken, maister."

"And werry nat'ral too!  Then--what did ye see?"

"Th' Earl, maister, ay, Oi sees mlord ride by."

"Was he going fast or slow?"

"Fast--full gallop loike 'e allus did."

"Could ye see his face?"

"Ay, I did, maister."

"How did it look, angry or pleased, smiling or scowling, hey?"

"More smiling loike, Oi'd say."

"So!  And then, Ezra lad, and then?"

"Then, maister, I heered the mare's huffs check, then a shout, then the
crack o' the fence a-goin', and then--th' Earl shrieked--turned me
ice-cold, it did!"

"And you're sartin-sure 'twasn't a wooman's scream; eh, Ezra, ye're
sure?"

"Ay, Oi be mortal sure.  No woman ever could cry so wild and 'oarse
like.  'Orrorsome, it were and freezed me good blood like!"

"Then what did you, Ezra?"

"Dropped me snares and run!  Ah, but that gashly cry followered me till
it ended sudden like in a gert thump--down there in old chalk-pit."

"Ar!  And how then, lad?"

"Then, maister, Oi lays me down, sick and faint like, for Oi knowed as
that gert thump meant death."

"Hows'ever, you took a peep to make sure, eh?"

"Sure-ly, maister.  After a bit down Oi crep' and--there they was, in
their blood, arl broke up like....  Ah, blood--"

"Plenty of it, eh, Ezra?"

"Plenty, maister?  Lordy, Oi never seen s'much in arl me days, no not
even when I 'elped Sim Brooke to slaughter 'is prize 'og!"

"Ha!  So that's all you can remember of it, eh, lad?"

"No, maister.  'Cause arter you axed me of it t'other day, I moinded,
arter you'd gone, 'ow I'd forgot to tell ee o' the face."

"Eh?" exclaimed Mr. Shrig, nearly dropping his precious clay pipe,
"face?  Oo's face?"

"Dunno, maister, only 'twere a face as peeped down from upalong.  For
whiles I'm lookin' at the Earl, and him so on-common dead, I 'ears a
sound above, and sees a face a-peepin' down at me through the broke
fence--"

"Wot sort o' face?  Male or fee-male?"

"Couldn't say, maister, only 'twere smallish face ... longish 'air and
nary a whisker."

"Should ye know it again, Ezra, eh?"

"Nay, maister, Oi got but a glimp' loike, 'twere gone in a flash."

"Ho!" sighed Mr. Shrig, mournfully.  "Only a glimp'!  And this here
face seemed like it were taking a peep down at you and his lordship's
re-mains, eh?"

"Ay, maister."

"Took a peep it did and wanished at sight o' you, eh?"

"Ay, maister, so then Oi didn't boide f'no more but crep' off--along
'ome, Oi did."

"But didn't meet anybody or glimp' anything on your road, eh?"

"Nary soul nor thing, sir.  So that be arl as Oi can tell ee ... so now
... you says summat about ten shillin'."

"Ar, I did so!" nodded Mr. Shrig, thrusting hand into pocket of his
neat cord breeches.  "But afore I pay you same, tell me this, Ezra: As
you crep' off homevards did you happen to--hear anything--say a
rustling in the bushes, a shout, a cry or even a visper?  Think now and
think precious hard--did you ketch any sich sound?"

"No, maister, none o' they loike, arl as I 'eered was only the sound of
a axe."

"Ha!" exclaimed Mr. Shrig again, his whole form stiffening suddenly.
"Only ... the sound of ... a naxe, hey!  Come, that's better, Ezra,
that's oceans better!  Now did this axe sound near and plain or faint
and far off?"

"A bit faint and fur loike, maister."

"Still, you could hear it pretty distinct, eh, Ezra?"

"Ay, Oi could and did--chop, it went, chop, chip, and chop again."

"Good!" nodded Mr. Shrig, beaming.  "Sounded like somebody chopping in
a precious great hurry, did it?"

"Ay, so it did, maister, the strokes sounded very quick loike, they
did."

"And did this same chopping come from afore you or from be-hind?"

"Back along, maister."

"Good!" exclaimed Mr. Shrig again, his eyes brighter than the plate
buttons of his smart coat.

"And that be arl as I can moind or tell ee--'

"And here's your ten shillings, Ezra!  Take 'em and good luck t'ye."

"Thankee, maister, Oi'm sure!  Good day, gen'lemen!"  So saying, Mr.
Barnes touched moleskin cap with scrawny finger and edging himself back
amid the denser undergrowth, vanished like the furtive creature he was.
And when all sound of him had died away, Mr. Shrig sighed happily,
tapped out his cherished though fragmentary pipe very tenderly, and
beaming on Sam, murmured in hushed accents:

"A naxe!"

"Well, what of it, Jasper?"

"Sir and Sam, said impli-ment answers a most wexatious,
con-flummerating question--I hope!"

"Oh?" questioned Sam, as they rose, "ah!  Pray what, Jasper?"

"A tree, pal!  A tree as should ought to be, yet ain't!  A tree as must
be if the dee-ducktions as I've drawed is co-rrect and according to The
Fact."

"Afraid I don't get your meaning, Jasper."

"Pal, I didn't ex-pect as you could.  Hows'ever come along o' Jarsper
and let's take a obserwation."

So back they went to halt again where the track made the sudden bend to
skirt the ancient chalk-pit; and now, turning his back to broken fence
and the green abyss beyond, Mr. Shrig pointed with his stick, saying:
"Here 'pon our left is trees and 'specially this un beside the
track--this un as has growed itself year by year, day arter day
for--The Purpose!"

"Eh?  Purpose?  You mean--?"

"The Deed, pal Sam!  Murder, sir!  The Capital Act!"

"But, Jasper, I don't see----"

"No more did I and no more I don't now spy that tree as should be
standing opposite this un but ain't.  Therefore, pal, seeing as there's
none other near enough for suspected fee-lonious purpose, all I can do
is hope and--seek."  As he spoke, Mr. Shrig turned aside and began
searching where tall bracken grew thick and grass lush, questing to and
fro much like hound on the scent, though never far from the track
itself, while Sam, puffing his pipe, watched with puzzled frown.

"Jasper," said he, at last, "say what you're after and I'll be glad to
bear a hand."

"No need," replied Mr. Shrig, straightening broad back, "I've found it!
Ar, by goles, and in the right and proper place, too!  Come and take a
peep."  Stepping forward, Sam looked down where Mr. Shrig's stick had
put aside bracken and undergrowth to show the hacked stump of a small
tree.

"Look!" murmured Mr. Shrig, gazing down upon this jagged object as if
he loved it, "how much does this here tell you, Sam pal?"

"That whoever felled this was either in desperate haste or quite unused
to such work."

"Both, ar--he was both!  The party as chopped down this little tree,
chopped wild--look at the cuts--chipped and chopped to destroy
evidence.  The hands as used axe so werry orkard was the same as tied
the trip-line so neat--'twixt this same little tree and the big un
yonder, fixed it fast and true enough to tumble the Earl to his doom."

"The hands," murmured Sam, frowning thoughtfully down at this jagged
stump, "of someone--unused to the axe!  A terribly suggestive thought!"

"Werry much so!"

"And you are convinced here was--murder?"

"I am, pal Sam, for that's what this place, or the woice o' Natur' is
telling me....  If only it had befell a veek ago, or even a month, I'd
ha' been werry sure.  But time vorks changes, trees grow, ditter grass
and bushes, so the woice o' Natur' is hushed thereby.  Hence, from
con-cloosions drawed I can only suspect and--hope werry hard."

"For what, Jasper?"

"Proof, pal, proof!  For by The Law of England the goriest willain is
innocent as frisking lamb or babe noo-born till proof, with a Capital
Pee, shows him guilty!  So I can suspect and, in my mind, be sure o'
guilt till I'm black in the phiz for no proof--no guilt and all is
labour in wain.  Ar, Guilt can cock a snook at me and toddle off to
more willainy, leaving your pal J.S. helpless as a poor bird vith
broken ving.  Lord love you, but for proof there'd be many a murderer
jigging in a rope collar at this i-dentical minute!  Proof is a
stumbling block and the ruination o' my business--sometimes.  So I can
only vork, as in dooty bound and hope, as is my natur."

Then, together and as by common consent, they turned and left that
place of death and sinister brooding solitude where now (or so it
seemed to Sam) no leaf stirred, no rabbit frisked, and no bird sang;
the blessed sun shone bright and warm as ever, yet Sam felt suddenly
chilled by sense of lurking, implacable evil, a hateful menace that
filled the woodland all about him and was to haunt him day and night,
following his every step with a dreadful patience until--at last...

"Jasper," he demanded, "why so dam' silent and speechless?  What are
you thinking?"  And instantly Mr. Shrig replied, and very wistfully:

"Foam, Sam pal!  Froth atop of a pewter pint pot, wi' summat cool and
moist and nutty below, eh?"

"Ah-h!" quoth Sam, lengthening his stride, "the sooner the better,
messmate!"




CHAPTER XIX

CONCERNING THE SUBTLETIES OF A SCYTHE

The jaunty glazed hat, the too-ornate neckerchief and sailorly jacket
were adorning a gate-post of the five acre meadow, for Sam, bare-armed,
intent of eye and square of jaw, was performing on that so ancient and
subtle implement, the scythe, and doing it very badly.

Thus after some while of violent hacking and slashing and all to
distressingly small effect, he had paused to mop perspiring brow and
survey the meagre result of his powerful efforts in rueful surprise
when, hearing a hoarse chuckle behind him, he glanced round and beheld
a small, old man perched precariously upon the gate, a wizened,
frail-seeming old fellow in wide-eaved hat and neat smock frock, who
chuckled, laughed, choked and finally enquired:

"Young man, wot be ee a-doin' of, I wonder?"

"Well," replied Sam, shaking his head, "I thought I was mowing, but--"

"But you ain't!" quoth the old man, with beaming nod.  "No, that you
ain't, no'ow.  You'm jest mickin' and muckin' about, ah no question!
That theer thing as you'm misusin' of so shameful, bean't a axe, nor
yet a swop-'ook, bill or saw, 'tis a scythe, that's wot it be."

"So I believe," answered Sam, meekly.  "But the dam' thing must be
blunt."

"Young man, dam' thing be sharp as razor!  I see and 'eered my Tom
a-whettin' of it jest afore 'e were called away by Mistus Kate."

"However, it won't cut--"

"Ay, but 'twill--if ee uses un proper and like as a scythe should ought
for to be used."

"Oh?" murmured Sam, wistfully.  "Ah!  Then it seems I haven't the right
trick of it, eh?"

"That you ain't, no, nor like to 'ave neether, the crool way as you
'andles un."

"Well," said Sam, taking a fresh grip, "I'll have another go and hope
for the----"

"Wait!" screeched the old man, "I can't abear for to watch ee slish and
slash so 'orrid wild and fierce!  Bide a bit and I'll show ee 'ow, for
I be Toop--Silas Toop--that's oo I be, and no man could larn ee better!
I'll show ee."

"I'd be grateful," said Sam.

"Oh?" demanded Mr. Toop.  "'Ow grateful?"

"Very grateful."

"Would your gratitood run to a pint--or say, a couple?"

"Yes, indeed, and--"

"Very good!  Ketch 'old o' me stick and I'll come down."

"Shall I help you, Mr. Toop?"

"No, you shan't, young man.  I clumb gates and stiles 'igher than thus
un, long afore you was born, and I bean't so doddlish as I can't yet."
So saying, the aged man very deliberately and with the utmost care,
descended safely to earth, smoothed his smock, resettled his hat upon
silvery hair, moistened his palms and said:

"Gimme that scythe!"  Sam obeyed--and lo!  As these old hands took and
gripped, the small form seemed to dilate, the bowed back to straighten,
eyes brightened, age and feebleness seemed forgotten as, leaning
forward, Mr. Toop began to mow, cutting a wide, clean swath with such
effortless skill and unconscious grace of movement that Sam exclaimed,
impulsively:

"Marvellous!"

"No, it ain't!" snapped the Aged One, when at last he paused.  "'Tis
jest bein' used and knowin' 'ow."

"But," said Sam, admiringly, "you don't even puff and blow!"

"Not likely!" retorted Mr. Toop, with lofty scorn, "I were champeen
mower in my young days, ah and old days tu!  Mow arl day, I could,
faster, cleaner, straighter than any on 'em, I could!  Lookee, here's
the way on it--keep p'int up a bit, heel down a bit, swing un smooth
and steady, don't ee hurry un, give un time for to cut!  Don't ee drag
nor slash nor yet chop, no jiggin' nor jaggin'!"

"I see!" said Sam, deeply interested.

"Ay, but 'tis one thing tu see and another thing tu do!"

"Well, let me have another go."

"Ay, ay, there y'are!  Mind now--p'int up a bit ... foller y'r p'int,
swingin' steady and slow, easy now!  Ay, that be a mite better!  Don't
ee force un--no driggin' nor draggin', nor slishin' nor slashin'!  Ef
ee du mind wot I says and keep at it every day for a week or so you'll
mebbe use a scythe pretty good someday--mebbe.  And now in the matter
o' your gratitood--"

"Here, Mr. Toop, behold it!"

"Gorramitey!" exclaimed the old fellow, goggling at the coins upon his
horny palm.  "Yere be a sight more'n I expected!  I rackon yu must be
the gen'tleman sailor friend as come home a long o' Cap'n Ned 'Arlow."

"'Home'!" repeated Sam, glancing away to a certain thatched roof
peeping above distant tree-tops.  "By George--yes, home it is ... and
growing more so every day!"

"Well then, sir, seein' as youm so powerful grateful, I'll come 'long
frequent and larn ee arl as I can.  And now, afore I goo, I'll show ee
'ow tu keep a edge on scythe so sharp as razor.  Gimme the stone as
lays yonder.  So!  Now lookee, lay stone pretty flat for to gi'e un a
good, longish edge, then stroke un easy like back and forth, first o'
one side, then t'other, kind and gentle, so and so!  Now I'll leave ee
to it, young sir, wi' my thanks and best respex till I see ee again,
for I've worked yere at Willowmead for sixty odd year and my Tom do
work yere now."

"Yes, I've met your Tom--"

"Ay mebbe, but you 'aren't never met my Willum and never will no'ow and
nowhen for Willum were snatched up to Glory Everlastin' by a cannon
ball along o' Lord Nelson, God bless 'em--on the _Vict'ry_.  Well, good
arternoon, sir!"  So saying, Mr. Toop touched his hat, nodded and
hobbled away.

And now, heedful of the old man's words and example, and being so
patiently determined in all things, Sam truly began to mow--watching
the gleam and listening to the whisper of the long keen scythe-blade as
he swung it rhythmically back and forth, cutting smoothly, cleaning
with every leisured stroke.

Thus, heartened by achievement and taking joy in his labour as a man
should, Sam worked on through the long afternoon heedless of time,
heat, fatigue, and all else except the work in hand, until evening
began to fall.

Meanwhile...




CHAPTER XX

HOW SAM LOST HIS PIPE

Seldom or never in all its many years had the cosy old farmhouse of
Willowmead held more joy or echoed to happier voices than upon this
same midsummer evening, for Captain Ned was safe home again and had
returned in triumph with a certain document that he now spread out upon
the table before his glad-eyed, momentarily speechless Kate.  A large,
formidable-looking document this, beautifully inscribed on fair
parchment, couched in terms quite incomprehensibly legal yet with many
repetitions of such phrases as: "Parties of the First Part" and
"Parties of the Second Part" ... "As aforesaid," "In perpetuity," "As
above mentioned," "Tenements and messuages," etc. etc.

"Oh, my goodness!" sighed Kate, flushed of cheek and radiant of eye,
glancing from this to Ned's happy face, and round about the spacious
parlour where Aunt Deb sat crocheting on one side of the wide hearth
while Mrs. Leet knitted on the other.

"Does this mean ... oh, is Willowmead ours, Ned, really and truly--for
ever and ever?"

"Ay," he answered, stooping to touch her bright hair with his lips,
"every stick and stone of it, Kate, ours to have and to hold--"

"Till death do you part!" added Mrs. Leet.  "And then----"

"Lord, Anne!" exclaimed Aunt Deborah, "what horrid suggestion!  So
odious!"

"And then," continued Mrs. Leet, imperturbably, "'twill be for the
heirs o' your bodies which will--"

"Dear me, Anne!" cried Aunt Deb, "what a suggestion!  So
extremely--previous!"

"Which will be," continued Mrs. Leet, "perfectly right, proper, hoped
for and expected."

"Oh, Anne!  And they aren't even wedded yet!"

"Meanwhile," pursued Mrs. Leet, serenely, "I suggest pigs, pigs pay----"

"Being so--well--prolific!" added Aunt Deb.

"And cows!" quoth Mrs. Leet, "a herd----"

"With plenty of sheep!" nodded Aunt Deb.  "We ought to have flocks of
nice, woolly sheep--"

"Certainly--not!" quoth Mrs. Leet, clicking her knitting-pins.  "This
should be a dairy farm pure and simple, Deborah!"

"With sheep, Anne, sheep and lambs to flock and frisk!  How say you,
Ned?"

"Yes to both!" he laughed.  "But where's Sam?  Sam must see this
portentous document and hear the news--where on earth is he?"

"In the five acre meadow," replied Aunt Deb, "performing powerfully and
perspiring profusely upon a scythe, poor dear----  Gracious me--there's
alliteration!"

"Sam?  A scythe?" exclaimed Ned and Kate together.

"Now you're both doing it and so will I--so I tell you again Sam's
swinging a scythe as sailor should, so strongly that his bronzed brow
is beaded with the energetic efforts of his excessive exertions."

"Why then," laughed Ned, "let's give him a hail before he sinks, swoons
and languishes o' labour.  Come, Kate!"

"Yes," nodded Aunt Deb, "go fetch him, my dears, he has probably mowed
the whole meadow by now."

Thus it was that Sam, now master of this very difficult and therefore
fascinating implement, had paused to re-sharpen his blade and glance
back with no little satisfaction at the result of his persistent and
determined labour, when his ears were gladdened by a clear, resonant,
long-familiar hail:

"Ahoy--Sam!  Sam, old hearty, stand by!"

And turning, he beheld Ned and Kate hastening towards him through the
radiant sunset glow.

"Old fellow--" began the Captain.

"Oh, Ned dear," cried Kate, and both speaking together again; and then:

"Sam, the expedition succeeded!"

"Oh, Sam, Willowmead is ours, for ever and ever!"

"And the heirs of our--"

"Hush, Ned!  Oh, Sam dear, when you tried to comfort my doubts and bade
me hope, I couldn't though I tried, because it seemed so impossible.
But now--"

"Now, old shipmate, you are standing on our own particular bit of Old
England!"

"Yes," said Kate, taking him by one arm, "and mowing our very own
meadow, Sam--"

"In proof whereof," said the Captain, taking him by the other arm,
"yonder in our own farmstead, signed, sealed and attested is a--no--the
document, Sam, large as a mizzen-tops'l--almost!  Come and see."

"Hurrah!" quoth Sam, heartily.

"Oh, but," said Kate, as they turned housewards, "your hat and
coat--where are they?"

"Athwart the field on the gate-post yonder."

"My gracious!" exclaimed Kate, as they crossed the meadow, "Sam, what a
lot you have mowed!  I'd no idea you could use a scythe."

"Nor had I," he answered, "until old Mr.----"  He paused and stood
gazing in mute surprise ... for the glazed hat, the gaudy neckerchief
and smart, too-nautical jacket had given place to a grimy, shapeless
old cap and bedraggled something that had once been a coat.

"Soho!" he murmured, glancing about instinctively.  "Piracy, b'Jingo!"

"Oh!" gasped Kate, "do you mean ... someone has stolen your clothes?"

"Ay!" he nodded, surveying these unlovely things askance, "Though I
suppose exchange is no robbery.  However, my things are gone--"

"So much the better!" chuckled Ned, "I can't imagine where or why you
got 'em, Sam!  That jacket all jauntiness and buttons!  That ghastly
scarf and the hat--like the dashing, jolly jack-tar in that silly opera
Black-eyed Susan!"

"Ay," nodded Sam, "that's where I got the idea."

"Well, they're a good riddance!" quoth the Captain.

"So they are, Ned.  Yes, I'm well rid of 'em--ah but--"  Sam shook his
head woefully.

"Ah," said Kate, "was there money in the pockets?"

"Only a guinea or so, but I shall grieve for my good old pipe."

"Then I'll buy you another," said the Captain.  "But now, confound it
all, sheet home, man, and bear away for our farmhouse, Kate's and mine,
and we'll drink to it, ay--to the future and to each other, love and
long life, Kate!  Friendship and prosperity, old fellow--come!"

And so, with happy Kate on one arm, his friend and captain on the
other, Sam went to this cosy, old farmhouse where lights began to beam
as the evening shadows fell.




CHAPTER XXI

DESCRIBES A "FAIRY AUNT"

The Five Acre was mowed smooth as a lawn and Sam perched upon a gate
was viewing this green expanse with prideful content; birds in the
leafy hedgerows round about him twittered drowsily, from the shady
orchard nearby thrush and blackbird piped melodiously yet no sweeter
than the clear, childish voice carolling this old song:

  "In Scarlitt Town where I was borned
  There was a fair maid dwellin'
  Made all the lads sigh well-a-day
  Her name was Bar-bree Alling."


With this song on her lips, the sun bright in her hair and Batilda
tucked lovingly beneath her arm, Jane came seeking her uncle, saying as
she stood on tip-toes to be kissed:

"Auntie Kate said I'd find you here, so now I've come to take you a
walk."

"Ay, ay, Sweetheart," said he, slipping long arm about her, "whereaway
this time?"

"To the--Deep Dark!" she whispered, small finger to rosy lip.

"'Oho?" he laughed.  "That sounds nice and mysterious."

"It is--yes awful' 'steerious, 'cause it's by the chanted forest where
my Fairy Auntie lives with her Esau."

"Good!" he nodded, "I'd like to meet a fairy."

So, hand-in-hand, away they went, by shady lane, over stiles, across
lush, sunny meadow where lazy cows blinked at them, puffing fragrance
as they chewed sleepily and flicked their tails drowsily.

"You're not afraid of cows, eh, Sweetheart?"

"No.  I like them lots 'cause they smell so nice and cow-y, and they're
always eating 'cept when they're being milked and sometimes even then.
Our Tom let me try to milk Daisybell once, she's the oldest and has had
lots of children, Tom says.  Yesterday at supper I tried to chew like a
cow, sideways you know, only my Granny said I might be struck like it
an' grow horns, an' I shouldn't like that.  And why are you so changed,
Uncle Sam?"

"Eh?  Changed?  D'you mean--"

"I liked you more in your nice sailor's clothes, your shiny hat and
bright buttons!"

"Oh?" he questioned, glancing down at the neat stockings and
knee-breeches that now moulded his brawny limbs.  "Did you, my Jane?
Why?"

"'Cause now your legs look so 'normous and bumpy."

"Aha!" said he, chuckling.  "But then just look at my lovely shoes,
Sweetheart, so trim and shiny--with real silver buckles, too!  So watch
my buckles flash and forget my legs."

"But how can I when they're so long an' big?"

"However," said he, smiling down at her, "I hope my face is still
nice--in places, here and there, eh, my sweetness?"

"Yes," she nodded, "'specially when you smile.  And over there's the
Deep Dark, look!"

Now glancing whither she directed Sam glimpsed beyond tangled thickets
and lofty trees, a ruin of broken roof and crumbling walls.

"Ah!" he murmured, halting suddenly.  "You mean the old mill pool,
Jane?"

"Yes, but you mustn't go a-nigh it 'cause my Granny says 'tis a bad
place waiting to drownd folks like it nearly drownded me once long ago
when I was only a child."

"Lord!" exclaimed Sam, clasping his arm about her, instinctively.  "How
was that, my Jane?"

"'Cause I went with some other children to peep at it and they pushed
me in.  So the Deep Dark took me and tried to drownd me dead only my
Fairy Aunt came down to me and took me out and dried me and telled me
tales and kissed me and took me safe home, that's how I found her.  And
today I'll let you kiss her, if you like.  Should you?"

"Yes," he laughed, "I should like to kiss a fairy aunt--"

"Look!" said she again, pointing to a little shady coppice they were
approaching.  "There's our 'Chanted Forest and in it there's a great,
big tree with 'normous waggly branches what was struck by lightning so
it's a magic tree.  And my Fairy Auntie says if you stand there in its
shade and wish--it'll all come true, if you're very good an' say your
prayers an' wish hard enough, so I did, and that's how I got my
Batilda."

"By just wishing under the old tree, Sweetheart?"

"Yes.  I wished out loud and said my prayers every night and was a
good, p'lite, obedient child every day--'cept now and then.  So on my
birthday my Batilda came to me by James Purvis, the Carrier, in a
great, big box tied with blue ribbon.  So this time, Uncle Sam, I'm
going to wish for a nice big cradle for Batilda with curtains, what
rocks, 'cause in two days I've got another birthday an' so has my Fairy
Auntie, our birthdays are always together, and I'll have growed myself
to seven!"

They were close upon the coppice when from its green shadow leapt a
great, shaggy dog, such powerful, fierce-looking animal that Sam
instinctively took firmer clutch on the heavy stick he carried and was
about to snatch Jane up to his shoulder; but with a cry of "Esau!
Esau!" she sped forward and dog met child in a glad and riotous
greeting.  And despite ferocious look, a dog of dignity this who now
quelling his joyful exuberance, sat down to proffer one great paw,
though with much flicking of tongue and thumping of stumpy tail; having
thus welcomed the child he advanced stiff-legged and cautious, to take
stock of the man, and they surveyed each other like the strangers they
were until a voice, sweet though imperious cried:

"Friends, Esau--shake hands!"  Instantly the dog obeyed, and Sam,
grasping his shaggy paw, glanced up to see Jane being clasped and
kissed by Andromeda--but this Andromeda glorified by a new tenderness
very lovely to behold, or so thought Sam as he stepped forward, hat in
hand, the great dog at his heels.

"Oh, Auntie Mee," cried Jane, "in two days I'll have growed myself to
seven and then it'll be your birthday too, so I've brought you two
lovely presents--and one's only just me--here I am--and the other's my
great, big, nice Uncle Sam, and there he is, so if you want to kiss him
like I do, I shan't mind a bit--"

Sweet as trill of bird or ripple of brook Andromeda laughed, for the
first time in Sam's hearing, and showed the more beautiful for the rich
colour that swept from rounded chin to night-black hair, or so thought
Sam as her golden eyes met his in swift up-glance ere their long lashes
veiled their light.

"Oh, but ... Jane dear," she laughed, "such great, big uncles are only
meant for little girls like you to kiss."

"Yes, I know," said Jane, smoothing Batilda's somewhat rumpled
petticoats, "only he said how he'd like to kiss a fairy aunt an' she's
you, so--why don't you?"

"Not today, Jane dear."

"Very well, Auntie Mee, only if he ever kisses you you won't please
smack his face like our Nancy did to our Tom in the dairy, will you?"

"Indeed, I--might!" laughed Andromeda, with another swift up-glance at
silent Sam who now, laughing also, said:

"So you are Jane's mysterious lady, her wonderful 'Fairy Aunt'!  I
might have guessed it."

"So now," said Jane, setting Batilda beneath Sam's ready arm, "please
let's all take hands and go into the 'Chanted Forest' and I'll wish to
our dear, old, magicy tree."

So, thus linked together, they entered the coppice, the great dog
pacing solemnly behind, until they came where stood a gnarled, old oak
tree, its massive trunk storm-riven and warped by Father Time yet still
hale and hearty, judging by the myriad leaves that decked its knotted
wide-flung boughs.

Here Jane stayed them and stole forward on tiptoe; and now, standing
beneath this aged tree, Jane did a quaint and Jane-like thing, for
clasping her small arms about its huge bole, she kissed its rugged bark
and laying her soft cheek against it, spoke to it in her clear, young
voice:

"Please, dear old Tree, I have come to wish you many happy returns of
my berfday in two days and please I do so want a nice big cradle for my
Batilda, with curtains, that rocks.  So 'cause I know you won't let me
be dis'pointed, I'll thank you in my prayers every night till I've
growed myself to eight.  So now thank you and good-bye you dear, old
Tree."

"A child's faith is very beautiful and touching," murmured Andromeda.

"Very!" answered Sam.  "She'll get her cradle, of course?"

"Yes, by Purvis, the Carrier, on her birthday."

"I'm wondering what I can give her, Miss Andromeda?"

"Well, I know she hasn't a doll's house."

"Ay, b'Jingo, the very thing!  Where could I get one?"

"Hush, here she comes!  But I happen to be driving to Lewes tomorrow."

"Splendid!" exclaimed Sam.  "Then will you, that is, could you--would
you allow me to go with you?"

"If you don't mind our shabby, old cart, Mr. Felton."

"Where, and when?" he enquired, almost eagerly.

"At the end of Willowmead Lane, about half-past ten."

"There!" cried Jane, returning to clasp their hands again.  "Did you
hear our dear old Tree whisper me with all its leafs, like it was
saying: Yes, Jane dear, Yes-s-s?  So now, Auntie, let's go an' make a
fire an' boil your big, black kettle an' brew tea--though my Granny
says I ought only drink milk--so let's."

"But, Sweetheart, it isn't time for tea yet, or is it, Miss Andromeda?"

"It will be, when the kettle boils.  Though," said she, as they began
collecting dry sticks, "I suppose, being a sailor you prefer ale and
rum and such like, Mr. Felton?"

"Ay, but," he answered, "since coming to Willowmead, I'm learning to
appreciate tea though it seems uncommonly expensive at twelve shillings
the pound.  Yet to be sure this is Sussex ... a free-trade country and
everyone's a smuggler more or less, I suppose.  By the way, do you know
the Willowmead folk, Kate, Aunt Deborah, Grannyanne?"

"I've met them, but I know Mrs. Leet best--through little Jane."

"When you saved her from drowning?" he enquired.  "And in that ... that
hateful pool."

"Yes.  And it is a horrible place.  I always avoid it.  But that day I
was looking for Joshua who had wandered away, and got there quite by
accident and--just in time, thank God!"

"Ay, thank God!" repeated Sam, fervently.  "She is such a sweet little
soul, ay, and I'm proud to tell you she adopted me the instant we met,
or very nearly."

"Yes," said Andromeda, gravely, "that was a great compliment because
Jane does not take to many people, for instance--poor Uncle Arthur, she
can't bear him."

"How is Mr. Verinder?"

"Very well, thank you.  He is away at present.  Staying in London with
friends."

"London?" repeated Sam.  "Oh?  Ah!  And for how long?"

"He said a week, but it may be longer."

"And you," growled Sam, "in this desolation--alone!"

"Oh no, I have my Esau dog.  And I--like solitude."

"But have you no friends in London to stay with?"

"No," she answered, stooping to pick up more firewood, "no, not now.
Besides, I prefer the country."

"So do I!" nodded Sam.

"And I'm such a very unsociable person."

"Same here!" nodded Sam.

"And I cannot make friends easily."

"Neither can I!" quoth Sam.  "And that's what surprises me--for here we
are, d'ye see ... making friends in spite of ourselves."

"Oh?" she questioned, sitting back on her heels the better to survey
him.  "Are we?"

"Ay, to be sure," he answered, with his transfiguring grin, "or we
shouldn't be here gathering sticks together--it stands to reason."

"Oh!" said she again, pondering this; then her ruddy lips curving to
the smile that was all too rare, she enquired, "Can gathering firewood
inspire friendship?"

"Hardly, but it can help, like a favouring breeze.  Ay, and friendship,
d'ye see, is one of the truest blessings of this life!  So, Miss
Andromeda, if you can so honour me you will bless me also."

"But," she demurred, her golden eyes holding his steady grey, "can a
man and woman be and remain--only friends?"

"Ay, most certainly--speaking for myself, they can.  For d'ye see, Miss
Andromeda, I'm a cove--a fellow who's run foul of and--well--seen so
much of--t'other thing and the troublesome foolery of it, that nowadays
I take mighty good care to give that sort o' thing a wide berth, keep
it well to loo'ard and steer clear--if you know what I mean."

"Yes, I think I do," she murmured, "if by that sort of thing, you mean
'love'."

"Ay," he answered, rather grimly, "or that which goes by the name in
home ports and foreign all round this world.  So, d'ye see, Miss
Andromeda, I'm a man you can trust as a friend and no more, ever and
always.  So pray, what's your answer?"  But at this moment (of course)
came Jane, her arms full of kindling wood, with Esau pacing beside her,
bearing in his powerful jaws a diminutive twig.

And now Andromeda led them to a merry chattering brook that guided them
by devious leafy ways to a grassy clearing where stood the luxurious
caravan, the dingy tent and Joshua chewing busily as usual.

"So then," quoth Sam, glancing around, "you have changed camp!"

"Yes, we often do.  Uncle Arthur can never bide in one place very long,
though we seldom go far from our dear Sussex and usually keep on
Wrybourne land."

"Oh?" murmured Sam.  "Ah?  Why?"

"Because there's so much of it, I suppose, and besides, Uncle knows the
agent, a Mr. Joliffe."

"Ah!" nodded Sam.  "And does he likewise know Lord Julian Scrope?"
Instead of replying Andromeda knelt and began arranging sticks for the
fire until Sam interposed, saying:

"No, please let me."

"Thank you!  Then I'll go fill the kettle and--"

"No, I'll do that too."

"Very well.  Jane and I will get the tea things and--"

"Not yet," said Sam, kneeling to build the fire.  "Do pray sit down and
be idle for once!"

Mutely she obeyed, crouching nearby with her work-roughened hands
folded in her lap, watching Sam very pensively.

"Yes," she murmured, at last, "you know how to lay a fire."

"I ought to!" he nodded.  "For when not aboardship I've lived in some
pretty wildish places, d'ye see."

"Tell me of them."

"Ay, so I will.  But first let me say how glad I am you're camping so
much nearer Willowmead, and gladder still you have that great, hairy
ferocity--a regular fighting-dog by his looks."

"Yes, he is," she sighed.  "Esau has saved me from ... hatefulness more
than once.  Last time a two-legged beast stabbed him--"

"Eh--a man?" demanded Sam, scowling.

"Of course.  A horrible man who caught me alone ... he had a dog too
... and he ... but I called Esau ... and when he had killed the dog, he
would have killed the man if I had not called and dragged him off."

"Hurrah for Esau!" quoth Sam.

"It was not until I had allowed the man to run away that I found he'd
stabbed my poor Esau so badly that I had to take him to Mr. Bobbins in
Lewes to be doctored."

"Ah," nodded Sam, "that's why I didn't see your Esau until today.
Well, I'm heartily glad he's such a savage creature."

"Yet he can be gentle too!  Look at him now!"

Glancing whither she directed Sam beheld the dog crouched and with
Batilda between his big paws while Jane was twisting wild flowers in
his shaggy coat.

"Ay," nodded Sam, "a grand fellow despite his looks, Miss Andromeda."

"A ragamuffin," she nodded, "with the manners of a courtly gentleman.
I bought him years ago from the gipsies for two shillings.  He was all
eyes and hair and paws then, so very hairy that of course I named him
Esau.  Then he grew and grew until, well--there he is!  Just what, or
how many breeds is he, d'you suppose?"

"Evidently all that's biggest and best," answered Sam, taking out his
tinder-box, "mastiff, retriever, sheepdog and bull most likely--though
I don't know much about dogs."  Here Sam set fire to the kindling that
blazed with merry crackle.  "So now," said he, returning to his
previous question, "does your Uncle know Lord Julian Scrope, are they
friends?"

"No!" she answered, vehemently.  "Oh--no!  Quite the reverse!  And I
must ask you never--ah, never to mention that name in Uncle Arthur's
hearing, it affects him so ... terribly."

"Ah?" murmured Sam, "then of course I won't.  But--why should it?"

"Because years ago, before I was born, I believe they had a dreadful
quarrel ... I remember vaguely to have heard they fought a duel."

"A woman, I suppose?" Sam enquired, gently.

"I ... don't know."

"Could she have been the Lady Barbara Stowe?"

Andromeda started to her knees with hands outflung against him in
strange, wild gesture.

"Hush!" she whispered.  "Oh, hush!  This is another name must never be
spoken!  This is the dread, the terror that haunts me day and night!
Ah, what must I ... what can I do?"

Now taking these outstretched, trembling hands in his strong, warm
clasp, Sam drew her nearer and strove to comfort her, saying with look
and tone very humbly gentle:

"Andromeda, tell me your fear, let me share your trouble as a friend
should.  You poor, lonely child, honour me with your confidence and
trust....  Is it ... your uncle?"

"Yes," she whispered and, with the word, all strength seemed to fail
her and she leaned to him, pillowing her troubled head upon his breast
and, with her face thus hidden, continued in whispered, feverish haste:

"Sometimes he frightens me because I don't understand him....  Not long
ago I found him rolling on the ground in a sort of fit, crying on God
for vengeance and, oh--clasped to him he had ... the pistol and he ...
was kissing it!  When at last I coaxed it from him and asked what he
meant, he told me it was a means to God's purpose--to rid the world of
evil and that he only waited for proof and then God would show him how
and where and when.  So that night after he was asleep I crept away and
threw the pistol into that ... dreadful mill pool.  But since then he
has bought others and hides them from me now....  And this terrifies
me."

"Ay," murmured Sam, "you think, because of their old quarrel he means
to kill Lord Julian?"

"I ... don't know!  Don't ask me!  But I'm so dreadfully afraid that
sometimes at night when the wind rustles the leaves I have to steal out
of bed to go and make sure he is sleeping--as he always has been--so
far, thank God!  Yet some night when I'm asleep, he may go ... creeping
... away in the darkness to some ... awful purpose.  Yes, some night he
may elude my care ... and no one to help me!"

"Oh yes," said Sam, "I shall."

She had whispered all this in the strong comfort of his arms, her cheek
pillowed upon his breast, but now she lifted her head to look up at him
wide-eyed:

"You?" she whispered, "but how?"

Looking down at this lovely face, in especial these sensitive,
quivering lips, Sam was about to reply when they started and turned to
find Jane beside them who, nodding small bright head, enquired casually:

"Are you kissing him, Auntie Mee, like I said you could?"

"No--oh no!" answered Andromeda, rather breathlessly.  "No, dear, of
course not."

"Well, you looked just as if you----"

"Tea!" cried Andromeda, leaping afoot.  "Tea, Jane!  Come and help me
while your--your Uncle Sam fills the kettle and sets it to boil, come!"
So off they sped together, leaving Sam very grave and thoughtful.

However, with a good deal of merry bustle and chatter, especially on
Jane's part, a dainty cloth was spread upon the grass, then while Jane
set out the crockery, Andromeda began cutting thin bread and butter:

"Though," said she, ruefully, "I have no cake to offer you."

"Aha, but," quoth Sam, stoking the fire, "you have, or had, some most
delicious wild-strawberry jam, Miss Andromeda."

So tea was brewed and they began a meal the more joyous because of
Jane's merry, inconsequent chatter, until Esau, who of course made one
of the happy party, growled suddenly with show of sharp white fangs
while the hair on neck and crest seemed to rise and bristle; and now it
was that Sam pulled his hat lower above his betraying scar.

"Someone is coming!" said Andromeda, glancing swiftly up and round
about, with expression so very like terror that Sam glanced about also
and with look threatening as the dog's growl.

"It must be a stranger," said Andromeda, huskily, "or ... someone he
doesn't like.  Esau, come here!"  Instantly the great dog obeyed and
she grasped his brass-studded collar as somewhere amid the surrounding
thickets was a leafy rustle ... growing louder, nearer until--out from
the undergrowth stepped a slim, elegant person who, beholding Sam,
halted suddenly, then glancing from him to round-eyed little Jane,
smiled and baring sleek, black head, bowed with an odd though graceful
writhing movement.

"Miss Andromeda," said he in tenor voice altogether too sweet (or so
thought Sam), "I fear you may deem this ... my advent ... an
intrusion."  Nevertheless and even as he uttered the words, he strode
forward with a serene assurance at odds with his soft-spoken words.  "I
was not aware ... I could not know you would be--entertaining company,
or--"  Here Esau growled again and was silenced by his mistress who,
glancing from her elegant visitor to Sam in his yeoman-like homespun,
made them known to each other, saying:

"Mr. Jennings, this is ... my friend, Mr. Felton."

"Friend?" questioned Mr. Jennings, softly but with shapely lips grim as
Sam's own.  "Friend?  Indeed!  Mr. Felton should feel extremely
honoured."

"I do!" retorted Sam, "and I am!"  Then he reached for another piece of
bread and butter while Mr. Jennings fidgeted nervously with a portfolio
he carried beneath his arm, yet when he spoke, his voice though soft as
ever, sounded vaguely aggressive, or so thought Sam.

"Dear Miss Andromeda, am I graciously permitted to join you?  May I sit
down?"

"Of course," she answered, though almost before she spoke, down sat he
between Andromeda and Jane, who immediately shrank nearer to Sam.

"Will you have tea?" enquired Andromeda, making to rise.

"Ah, no!" he answered, staying her with gracious gesture.  "Thank you,
no, pray do not trouble yourself.  I am here only to show your Uncle
Verinder another ... and latest ... composition of mine and to crave
his valued opinion----"

"But, Mr. Jennings, I thought you knew he was away----"

"Indeed no, dear Miss Andromeda, I was not aware..." he answered,
gazing upon her almost possessively while his white hands trembled,
fumbling nervously as he opened the portfolio.  "But since Mr. Verinder
is absent, perhaps you will be so good, so very kind as to afford me
your judgment upon my ... my poor efforts ... though you will find them
nothing very great, I fear."  Saying this, he gave Andromeda certain
sheets of manuscript music beautifully written and, while she studied
them, sat watching her bold-eyed, yet all the while his long pale hands
were clasping and wringing each other as in a very agony of nervousness.

And indeed a gentleman of violent contrasts was Mr. Jennings and
apparently at odds with himself; for beneath a dreamer's brow his eyes,
large and softly luminous, showed deeply sad and wistful, while beneath
jut of delicately aquiline nose, a mouth, shapely though thin-lipped
above long, pointed chin, had in its close, down-trending curve
something harsh, sneering and utterly relentless.

An old-young man was Mr. Jennings, for though his face had the ivory
pallor of age, it was unmarked by any line or wrinkle, yet his sleek,
thick hair was touched with silver.

All this Sam noted as he sat munching bread and butter while Andromeda
studying this music, uttered such expressions as:

"But, Mr. Jennings, this passage in the minor is simply heavenly!  ...
Oh, and this sudden change of key and tempo ... so unexpected!  Almost
terrifying! ...  Ah, but these arpeggios leading up and up to the
finale....  These grand chords! ...  Mr. Jennings, this is the best you
have ever done or that I have seen, and truly beautiful!  I'm sure
Uncle Arthur will tell you the same."

"Oh ... Miss Andromeda!" he exclaimed breathlessly, leaning swiftly
towards her, his pallid face radiant, his lithe, shapely body
performing that graceful writhing movement which Sam thought so
peculiarly revolting.  "Dear Miss Andromeda, do you ... ah, do you
really ... really think so?" he stammered, his great, sad eyes even
more beautiful now because of the sudden tears that gemmed and softened
them until--turning to meet Sam's lowering gaze, these same tearful
eyes took on a fierce glitter while the sweet, soft voice no longer
stammering, deepened instead to harsh menace, or so it appeared to
watchful Sam as Mr. Jennings addressed him:

"Ah, do not mock me, sir!  Do not contemn me for these tears which
spring from purest joy and gratitude that any work of mine can evoke
such kindly praise and--understanding.  For this little moment I am
happy--almost.  So, Mr. Felton ... do not ... mock me!"

"Not I, sir!" answered Sam, gruffly.  Here Esau thought fit to utter
another growl that ended in sharp-fanged snarl as Mr. Jennings leaned
slowly towards him, saying mournfully:

"Alas--even your nice, ugly dog hates me, dear Miss Andromeda!  I
wonder why, for I never gave him cause.  Indeed I should greatly like
to win his friendship, for even the love of a dog would be a joy in
such loveless life as mine--"

"Ah--no!" she cried.  "Don't touch him!"  But she warned vainly, for
Mr. Jennings reached suddenly across her, laid his hand upon Esau's
shaggy head, a slender hand that stroked, patted, then clutched
bristling hair as the great creature, cowering beneath this unwelcome
caress, snarled fiercely and attempted to snap.

"Down, Esau, down!" cried Andromeda, striving to hold the powerful
animal.

"Let me!" said Sam, rising to his knees.

"Ah no!" sighed Mr. Jennings, tightening the grip of his long, white
fingers.  "Pray do not trouble or be alarmed, he will not bite me--he
shall not!  Dear me, no--I will not allow him.  So please let him rave
and struggle till he weary, I have him quite securely."

"Ay," growled Sam, "but he'll have you unless you cast loose and sheer
off--easy now!"  So saying he took such grasp of Esau's collar that the
dog, aware of the power and mastery of this big hand, ceased his fierce
struggles, and bowing shaggy head, whimpered and lay still.

"Ah sir," said Mr. Jennings in gentle reproach, "pray be more gentle,
do not hurt the poor creature on my account, I beg you, I implore--"

"No need!" quoth Sam.

"Instead, sir," sighed Mr. Jennings, rising, "I will take my departure."

"Ay, I think you'd better!" said Sam, ungraciously.

Mr. Jennings instantly sat down again and meeting little Jane's
wondering, round-eyed gaze, smiled.

"Little girl," said he, in tender, pleading tone.  "Oh, Sweet
Innocence, could you ... will you ... bless me with a kiss?"

"No!  Oh no ... thank you!" she whispered, shrinking from his
outstretched hand with such very evident aversion that he cowered also,
hiding his bowed face in clutching fingers--then, glancing up and
around, with sudden, wild gesture:

"Oh--am I accursed?" he whispered through clenched teeth.  "First the
dog, now the child!  Am I so loathsome?  So utterly repulsive?  Is
there some hideous mark, some foul stain upon me that all creatures
shun me? ...  Lonely as a child, solitary as a youth, desolate as a man
... am I foredoomed, predestined to be for ever loveless,
friendless--an outcast? ...  Well, I have in music an outlet for my
grief, a comfort for my sorrows....  And you, Miss Andromeda, you at
least can find a gentle word to greet me--and for this your sweet mercy
I am and shall ever be most truly and very humbly grateful!"  Cramming
his manuscript back into the portfolio, he leapt afoot, then stood
hesitant, looking here and there like one dazed and lost.

"Dear Miss Andromeda," said he, at last, "kind and gentle mistress,
I--bid you good-bye--for the present!  Mr. Felton, sir--your servant."
Having said which, he writhed at them, turned and hastened away at such
rapid pace that soon all sound of him had died away.  Then, loosing
Esau's collar, Andromeda enquired:

"Jane dear, why wouldn't you kiss that gentleman?"

"'Cause he made me all shivery cold."

"Same here, Sweetheart!" quoth Sam.  "He's a very shivery sort of
customer."

"And I think," said Andromeda, "that he is a very sad gentleman and
greatly to be pitied."

"But I," Sam retorted, "I'm pretty sure he is a hysterical fellow and
could be deadly dangerous.  So, consequently, I hope he doesn't often
trouble and spoil your solitude--with his 'dear Miss Andromeda's,'
confound him!"

"Oh, but he does, Mr. Felton--I mean he visits us quite frequently."

"Does he, b'Jingo?  And why, pray?"

"For one reason because he is such a very clever musician.  Uncle
Arthur esteems his compositions most highly."

"Ha!" growled Sam.  "That's only one reason!  What are the others?"

"Perhaps because he is indeed a lonely man."

"However, he is no fit company for you, that's mighty certain."

"Oh?  Indeed, Mr. Felton!" she exclaimed, knitting her dark brows at
him.  "And who are you to pass judgment?"

"Marm, I'm a fellow, d'ye see, who's roughed it ashore and afloat, ay,
and run athwart enough evil to know it on sight.  Ay, b'George--and I'm
warning you as yon fine gentleman who can weep for and pity himself so
readily, would have small mercy on anyone else.  So, I'm warning--no,
I'm begging you to give Mr. Jennings a wide berth--I mean steer clear
of him--that is--discourage the fellow--no friendship--if you get my
meaning?"

"Oh yes, I can guess what you mean, Mr. Felton, and now I mean you to
understand that you must leave me to choose my own friends.  And I take
it very ill in you to so vilify this poor gentleman and--in his
absence!"

"Marm, but for your presence he should have heard it to his too-smooth
face.  Next time I----"

"Sir, there shall be no 'next time'!"

"Oh?" growled Sam, pondering this.  "Ah!  Just how must I take that,
pray?  I mean to say what d'you mean--exactly?"

"That if you intend to insult this unhappy gentleman and in my
presence--"

"Not likely, marm."

"But I think it so very likely that I must ask you to ... please keep
away from here."

"Very--good, Miss Andromeda!  Ay, ay, marm, so be it.  Though I should
like to know why you must call the fellow 'poor gentleman,' so very
tenderly?"

"Because I believe he is very sad, very lonely, and I pity him deeply."

"Ha!" exclaimed Sam.  "And pity is akin to love, they say!"

"Mr. Felton, you are presuming!"

"Ay, I am.  However, no one can ever call me 'poor gentleman,' thank
God!"

"No," she retorted, with flash of eye, "that would be quite impossible!"

"Too true, marm," said he, rather grimly, "I'm only a seafaring fellow
and no fine gentleman, but I'm pretty sound and wide-awake, and I tell
you again--"

"Indeed, I beg you won't."

"Right-ho!" he growled and at his grimmest.  "Thanks for the tea.  I'll
slip my moorings and bear away."

"Thanks for nothing!  And you'd better!" said Andromeda, at her
stateliest.  So, for a moment they eyed each other; then as Sam made to
rise, Jane spoke:

"Ooh, Auntie Mee, you're frownding at my nice Uncle Sam an' he's
frownding at you an' you're bofe cross 'n' angry at each other, so
won't you kiss 'n' be friends again--just to please me?"

"Sweetheart," answered Sam, his grim features instantly transfigured by
that winning smile of his, "dear little Jane, I should--love to
and--not only to please you, my Heart's delight."

"Well then, Uncle Sam, whyever don't you?"

"Because, my Jane, I've never kissed a fairy aunt and feel too shy--so
I'm waiting, ay, and hoping she will do her best to please you by
showing me how."

"Oh!  Then, Auntie Mee, I suspose you'd better kiss him first--he isn't
hard to kiss 'cause his face is nice an' bare.  I don't like kissing
hairy faces, do you?"

"No, dear, I----Oh, I don't know--I've never tried--"  Andromeda's
ruddy lips quivered, she smiled, she laughed; then rising to her knees
and reaching out her arms, said: "Anyhow I had much rather kiss you--so
come!"  So, having propped Batilda against a tussock of grass, Jane
came to kiss and be kissed--but in this same moment she reached out to
Sam who now rose also to his knees; and thus standing between them with
her small arms about both, she compelled them to each other, drawing
them slowly ever nearer, until--Andromeda closed her eyes....

"There!" demanded this small so fateful person.  "Wasn't that nice an'
easy?"

"Yes," answered Sam, a little unsteadily, marvellously shaken by a now
unforgettable memory of the shy, soft caress of lips that had met and
quivered beneath his own.  "Yes, Jane ... my darling!"

"So now you're bofe friends again, aren't you, Auntie Mee?"  But, with
sound that was neither sob nor laugh yet something of each, perhaps,
Andromeda kissed her again, saying:

"Now come and help me to wash up the tea-things--both of you."

When this was done, and all too soon, thought Sam, a distant
church-clock, chiming the hour of six, warned him of the amazing flight
of time, he rose to be gone, saying awkwardly:

"Miss Andromeda, if we ... or I ... should chance to bear up for the
'Chanted Forest' now and then ... and spy you in the offing ... may I
hope to ... find a welcome?"

"Of course!" she answered, lightly.  "And especially from Esau, he has
accepted you ... quite surprisingly."

"Dogs," quoth Sam, "are highly intelligent creatures and your Esau
being as wise as he's big knows honesty when he sees it and whom he may
trust--ay, and his mistress too!  At sea," he continued, his voice
hushed now and solemn as his look, "we have a saying--'there's a sweet,
little cherub who sits up aloft to look after the life of poor Jack'
and ... Miss Andromeda, I'm ... I'm wishing this same cherub, ay, and
all the holy angels may look after you and ... have you in their
keeping ... ever and always."

"Oh!" she murmured, her eyes widening in surprise, as she looked up
into his grave face, "that sounded ... almost ... like a prayer."

"It was!" he nodded.  "And is!"

"Then," said she, giving her hand to his ready clasp, "I think ... I
know now that Esau was right.  So I shall trust you as he does and
accept you as my friend--most gladly, yes more gladly than I can ever
tell."

"And like Esau, I shall never fail you," he answered, looking down at
her slim, toil-roughened hand as if he meditated kissing it.

"I know it," she answered, softly.  "Yes, I'm sure of it.  But"--and
here her lovely sensitive mouth quivered with her rare smile, "shall
you be obedient as he?"

"Almost!" answered Sam, smiling also.  "But now, before I go--mine
isn't much of a name, I know, d'ye see, but will you--I mean I should
like to hear you say it."

"Sam!" she murmured, obediently.

"Ay," he nodded, "it can sound better than I thought.  Good-bye, until
tomorrow morning--at the end of the lane."

"At half-past ten!" she added.

"Pray, how long should it take us to fetch up with Lewes?"

"Over an hour, I'm afraid."

"Good!" he nodded.  Then, still looking down at her hand as if he would
have kissed it, he loosed it instead that she might bid Jane farewell.
Then, with this small personage perched jubilant upon his shoulder,
homewards they went, through the "Chanted Forest" where birds near and
far were already beginning their evensong, past the Deep Dark gloomy
and sullen, waiting with a dreadful patience for that which was yet to
be, and so at last to Willowmead as evening shadows lengthened.




CHAPTER XXII

CONCERNING THE "WHO" OF MY LORD, THE EARL

"Miracles," quoth Mrs. Leet, throned this same evening in the ingle,
knitting in hand, "miracles still happen and wonders will never cease!"

"Very true, Anne!" nodded Aunt Deborah, glancing up from her tatting.
"For indeed it is a monstrous and mighty miracle that any clutching,
clawing grimly-grasping, scoundrelly Scrope should ever part with an
inch of his ill-begotten heritage."

"Ah, but," said Mrs. Leet, "every now and then a good Scrope happens
somehow or other, and The Admiral was one, and a very good one, too!"

"What Admiral, Anne?  Who, what and when?"

"Lord Japhet Scrope, Admiral of the Blue, wounded in the three days'
battle with the Dutch off Beachy Head."

"Goodness gracious, Anne!  That happened so many years ago that your
Admiral must be very completely dead and dusty by now."

"Yes, Deborah, of course he is, good, brave gentleman.  But The Family
lives on and maybe the good Admiral or his spirit has come back to live
again in our new, young Earl."

"Holy heavens, Anne, what an idea--so grim and ghostly, so spookey and
spectral!"

"But," said Captain Ned, glancing up from The Document whose abstruse
legalities still engaged him, "a very interesting idea, Aunt Deb.  The
transmigration of souls has been argued long before we hammered the
Dutch off Beachy Head.  However, this new earl must be a pretty good
sort of fellow, according to Mr. Joliffe----"

Here Aunt Deb, Kate and Mrs. Leet demanded in chorus:

"What did he tell you?"

"Well first," answered the Captain, smiling at their so evident
curiosity, "that his lordship is a young man----"

"Is he tall and handsome?" demanded Aunt Deb.

CAPT. NED: Ay, he's pretty tall--a burly fellow, though his looks are
nothing in particular.

KATE: Is he dark or fair?

CAPT. NED: Neither, Kate.  Mr. Joliffe's word was "darkish."

MRS. LEET (_Knitting-pins, suddenly idle_): Was he ever a seaman, Ned?
Did Mr. Joliffe tell you that?

CAPT. NED: No, Grannyanne, he merely said the Earl had been a great
traveller, has lived mostly abroad, is at present greatly busied with
family affairs, and that his first name, oddly enough, is Japhet.

MRS. LEET: Ha!  That was the Admiral's name!  Yes, this was the good
Admiral's name!  Did Joliffe tell you anything more of our new Lord
Japhet, his air, speech, manner?

CAPT. NED: Not a word, Granny.

"Well!" exclaimed Mrs. Leet, glancing where Sam, in corner of the long,
cushioned settle, was puffing thoughtfully at his second-best pipe.
"Well, what say you to all that, Grandson Sam?  Has Admiral Japhet, the
good Earl, come back again as this new Lord Japhet, think ye?"

"Maybe," answered Sam, meeting her keen scrutiny with his flashing
smile, "but if he shows anything like your old Admiral, the poor fellow
must look a regular-beetle-browed ruffian."

"And yet," said Captain Ned, folding up The Document very carefully,
"he has let us have dear, old Willowmead and for such surprisingly
moderate price that he must be better than his looks, handsome or no."

"And a dear!" sighed Kate, glancing up and around with eyes gladly
bright.  "Yes, he is--he must be a good Scrope, as Granny says, a
generous, kindly gentleman!  I only wish I could thank him.  I shall if
ever we meet and--if I dare."

"You will, m'dear!" quoth Mrs. Leet and with the utmost finality.
"Tell me, Ned, did Lawyer Joliffe say when the Earl would be coming to
The Great House, Wrybourne Feveril?"

"No, Granny."

"Or--where he is at present?  You enquired, of course?"

"I did, but he evaded the question."

"Which does not surprise me.  And may I know what you paid for
Willowmead?"

"Exactly one thousand pounds, Anne."

"Ha!  Reasonable indeed!"

"Yes.  I was prepared to offer double, ay and more!"

"However," quoth Mrs. Leet, "this doesn't surprise me either."

"Why not, Granny, for it astonished me."

"Because, Ned, my Admiral was reputed to be generous as he was brave,
and Admiral Lord Japhet was an extremely valiant gentleman.  Ah well,
well, 'tis time I was homing to my cottage with its dratted leaky roof."

"Not yet," said the Captain, "for before you go we are all of us going
to drink a toast to Lord Japhet, Earl of Wrybourne--and in something
worthy."

"Yes, Ned dear," said Kate, rising, "the special port wine you sent me
out of Spain, so long ago and we then so unhappy...."

Thus presently standing all and with glasses abrim, these dear folk, so
rare yet truly English (thought Sam) drank "health, happiness and long
life to their new, young Earl of Wrybourne."

Thereafter, Mrs. Leet having been tied into her vast bonnet by Kate's
gentle hands and received her club-like staff from Ned, took Sam's
ready arm and with him sallied forth into a fragrant night radiant with
stars.

"Hum!" quoth she, after they had gone a little way.  "Ha!  That was
very excellent port wine, Sam!"

"It was!" he chuckled.  "I mind the time we took it out of a French
prize, for d'ye see, Granny, 'twas meant for Old Boney himself."

"I can well believe it!  Though such noble wine should not be guzzled
by such Beast of blood and suffering as Buonaparte!"

"Too true, Grannyanne!"

"Sam, we have left wonderful happiness there in Willowmead."

"And well they deserve it!" said he, fervently.  "Ay, they do so and
indeed, Granny!"

"And how," she demanded, peering up at him in the dim starshine, "how
are you feeling tonight, Sam?"

"Hale and hearty, thankee Granny--"

"So you should!" she nodded.  "Ay, so you should, Sam, for never in
this world was toast drunk with deeper, truer sincerity--Health,
Happiness and long life to--my lord Japhet, the Earl."

"Oh-ho!" murmured Sam, peering down at her.

"Ah-ha!" quoth Mrs. Leet; after which they walked some while in silence.

"How glorious," said she, at last, "how bright and beautiful the stars
are tonight!"

"Yes, Grannyanne.  I've seen them so many a night at sea.  I think they
show better from the deck of a lonely ship."

"Maybe, Sam, maybe.  But I'm hoping they are going to shine brighter
upon Wrybourne Feveril and bring more true comfort and happiness to its
many folk than ever they did through all the long, past years.  How
think you, grandson Sam?"

"That you are right," he answered.

"Ay, I know it!" said she, nodding up at him, "and having the power,
what gladsome privilege to make this poor, old world a little better
... a happier place.  That brute-man Buonaparte has power, Sam, and
just see how he is misusing it--the countless dead and maimed, the
breaking hearts and bitter tears, a devil's work, Sam.  Ah, but how
godlike to use such power for the joy, the comfort and preservation of
the sorrowful, the weak and helpless--instead of ruinous desolation, a
flowery garden, in place of tearful anguish, song and laughter....
Well, here's my cottage, so good-night, tall grandson--though I'm not
sure I should continue to name you so----"

"Grannyanne," said he, taking her hands, club-like staff as well, "when
you honoured and adopted me it was for good and all, d'ye see--besides
I shall need your wise counsel later on--so as the years draw on they
must only ... draw us with 'em, closer; ay, closer, d'ye see, Granny."

"Ha!" she exclaimed, almost fiercely.  "Now for that I shall even dare
to kiss you--stoop, tall grandson, stoop!  There and--there again!  Oh,
what a world it is!  I feel as happy tonight--yes, even as your Captain
and his Kate.  Now good-night, grandson mine, home with you and as you
go--look up at the stars and think of all there is to do."

Thus presently home went Sam, a very thoughtful Sam indeed.

Now as he walked the moon arose, making a pale glory all about him.




CHAPTER XXIII

TELLS HOW MURDER STRUCK AMISS

Sam was reaching to open the gate at Willowmead when he stood instantly
arrested, heavy stick clenched in ready hand, for, in shadow of the
tall hedge a denser shadow moved--then from this imminent leafage a
voice whispered, hoarsely:

"Hold 'ard, Mr. F., the word is--'Jarsper'!"

"Dammit!" exclaimed Sam pettishly, though greatly relieved.  "Is that
you, Daniel?"

"Ar's me, sir!  And I were to say as Jarsper needs ye very special and
immediate."

"What's he want?  And at this time o' night?"

"You, sir."

"Yes, yes--but why?"

"Jarsper'll tell and likewise show ye."

"Where is he?"

"Not s'very fur, sir--and I've got the gig handy."

"I'm asking you whereaway is Jasper?"

"Up along by Dickerdyke Spinney, sir."

"Never heard o' the place!  Is it a mile away?"

"Ay and more, sir."

"Two miles?"

"Nearer six, sir, but I've got the----"

"Oh, come on!"  And away strode Sam at great pace though Dan'l kept
beside him with no apparent effort.

"Here's a dev'lish time to be abroad!" growled Sam.

"Ay, sir.  And yonder's the gig."

Into this vehicle they mounted forthwith and away they drove by leafy
by-ways fretted by pale moonbeams, through a bowery countryside ghostly
and all unreal in this pallid radiance.

"Can't you tell me what Jasper wants with me at such an hour?"

"Ay, sir, I could but, orders being so, 'twouldn't do nohow."

"Shrig is always so confoundedly mysterious and over-cautious!"

"Mebbe so, sir.  But then--mebbe not.  And sir, I notice as you ain't
rigged in your sailorly duds--coat, sir, 'at, sir, nor yet your fine
neckerchief."

"No."

"Ar!  You give 'em away, sir, p'raps?"

"Not I."

"Then mebbe they was took, p'raps, nabbed, filched or stole?"

"Ay.  And my favourite pipe along with 'em."

"Bad luck, sir!  Hows'ever, seamanly duds ain't particklar healthy in
these yere parts!  So mebbe 'twas all for the best, sir."

"Eh?  Daniel, just what d'you mean?"

"Jarsper'll explain, sir."

"Ha--damme!" exclaimed Sam as a distant church clock struck eleven.
"How much further?"

"Top o' the 'ill yonder, sir, then down along by the spinney."

"And a cursed odd hour to be meeting in dam' spinneys, or anywhere
else!"

"Ay, so 'tis, sir.  But the carcumstances is precious odd, sir--and
growing odder!"

They topped the long hill at last and turning down a narrow by-way,
rounded a sharp bend and thus beheld Mr. Shrig seated on grassy bank
and puffing his short, clay pipe.

"Eighteen minutes and a bit!" said he, rising as the gig drew up.
"You've been pretty slippy, Dan'l!  Greetings, sir and pal!  I've had
Dan'l fetch you along so as I could show and prove t'ye as your pal
J.S. don't paint no roses, gild lilies nor yet cry 'fire' without doo
cause."

Sam frowned and shook his head, saying:

"Jasper, you're too dam' mysterious as usual!  Be plain, for I haven't
the vaguest notion what you're----"  Sam's voice died away and he stood
mute and strangely disquieted; for Mr. Shrig's head was bare and,
perhaps because of the ghostly light for the moon now stood right above
them, Mr. Shrig's face placid no longer, showed strangely pale and
haggard as slowly he turned and moved aside.

"Pal," said he, pointing with his stick, "take a peep at this!"

Sam looked--gasped, recoiled suddenly and caught his breath, yet
staring down in horrified amazement at a frightful object that sprawled
half in shadow, a ghastly, blood-soaked something had once been a
powerful, burly man but whose face was now only a flattened, dreadful
smear; but beside this shattered head lay the glazed hat; about the
gory throat was the neckerchief, its gaudy design of anchors blotted
out here and there; buttoned across the broad and motionless chest was
the jaunty coat--that too smart, fatally betraying jacket with its rows
of gleaming buttons....

"God--Almighty!" whispered Sam, at last.  "It might be--me!"

"Ar!" nodded Mr. Shrig.  "There you lay, pal, or so I thought, and
small vonder, seeing as this yere misfort'nate cove is rigged as I see
you last and his face shot off into the bargain!  Ay--there y'are!"

"Yes," said Sam, hoarsely, "even now ... he looks the very image of me."

"Ar!" sighed Mr. Shrig.  "So werry much so that b'goles--it give me
quite a turn!  Even arter I rolled him over, him laying face
down'ards--even then, pal, seeing his chivvy is all blowed off, I could
ha' took my oath as he was you--till I noticed as his right daddle
lacked a finger, as you can see.  Yet still I couldn't be quite sartin
sure, because fingers can be shot off easier than faces."

"Jasper, I've seen many, too many dead men in my time, but ... nothing
worse than this!  A fowling-piece and fired at close quarters, eh,
Jasper?"

"Yes, pal, his murderer stood just behind yon bush, his tracks is werry
plain."

"Poor fellow!" murmured Sam.  "Poor, unlucky cove--for if our
suspicions are right, he died of--my hat and coat."

"Nary a doubt o' that, pal.  Said hat and coat marked you for death so
soon as Tobias J. tipped the office to--US knows OO."

"Well?" enquired Sam, turning from this horror, "what now?"

"Now, sir and pal, this yere poor relic must--wanish!  The Law shall
take charge of it and--all unbeknown to a living soul except The Law
and us.  Ar, and unbeknown it shall remain till I lays my awenging
daddle on its murderer!"

"Ay, and what must I do?"

"Nary thing, sir and Sam, except con-tinny to lay low."

"But, Jasper----"

"Sir, take another peep at our misfort'nate relic and be dooly varned!
Creeping Murder has crawled and struck wrong but thinks it has struck
right!  Werry good!  So let it think, ar--and so must it think till
'tis fast in my trap, stuck tight to my twig or wriggling wainly on my
hook!  So now, sir, while I sit yere along o' this werry de-funct party
oo might ha' been you but for ass-tounding luck, Dan'l shall drive ye
back to Villersmead and pleasant dreams--I hope!  Good night, pal, and
thank your stars for a poor thief as saved your precious life."

"Ay, Jasper, so I do indeed!  Good night--no, first--how did you chance
to find the poor fellow?"

"Not b'chance, pal, 'twere obserwation, sir!  I've other eyes besides
mine and Dan'l's vatching over ye now.  So ever since yon poor cove
nabbed your clobber he's been trailed----"

"How?  You saw him steal my----"

"Not me, Sam pal, 'twere other ogles as see the fact, other feet as
follered in hopes as in your garments he'd lead us to US knows OO--vich
he might ha' done if he hadn't dodged too clever and so got hisself
shot thereby--and unseen, more's the pity!  Good night, sir and Sam
pal, and remember, more than ever now, the vord is Caution, vith a
werry large C."




CHAPTER XXIV

OF TWO IN A FOUR-WHEELED CART

In this busy old world, besides the woeful discordancy of man's evil to
man, there are, thank God, many lovely sounds to charm the ear, warm
the heart and gladden the soul; and yet (thought Sam) never a one of
them all, and especially upon this particular summer morning, so gladly
welcome as the steady, very deliberate clip-clop of hoofs with the
creak and rattle of a certain weather-beaten, four-wheeled cart.
Though Sam, the dunderhead, had no idea why this should be so--as yet!
Not even when Joshua was reined to a stop and Andromeda was smiling
down on him; nor when he was seated beside her and so near that their
knees and shoulders touched whenever this small, rickety vehicle jolted
over some rut or stone, no--not even then!

"Of course," said Andromeda, poking this sleek, very deliberate Joshua
with the whip to no apparent effect, "the question is, Mr. Felton, just
how much money you wish to spend."

"Money?" he repeated, glancing at her profile--delicate line of nose,
full, ruddy lips and rounded chin.

"Yes, for little Jane's birthday present."

"Ay, to be sure.  Well, anything you think right."

"You can buy quite a good doll's house for about--ten shillings."

"Ay, but I want the best, d'ye see, something worthy of our Jane."

"Then naturally that will cost more."

"Yes," said Sam, eyeing a wind-blown curl apeep below the brim of her
small, close bonnet, "I thought--about five or six pounds."

"Goodness!" she exclaimed, turning to look at him and thus becoming
aware of his intent gaze, looked away again.  And now except for the
creak and rattle of the cart, they travelled in silence awhile, yet a
very pleasant companionable silence until, as by mutual consent,
glancing at each other again, she smiled, as did Sam; then with her
lovely mouth thus up-curving:

"Five pounds would be ridiculous!" she said.

"Oh?  Why, pray?"

"Because it is a great deal too much!"

"It can't be," he answered, "for, d'ye see, I owe our small, sweet Jane
so very much more.  Now will you please ask me how and why?"

"No!" said Andromeda, and though she smiled again, the rich colour
deepened in her cheek.  Here ensued another brief silence; then, quoth
Sam, wistfully:

"You haven't said it once, yet!"

"I know I haven't."

"I mean my name."

"Of course!" she nodded.  "Nor have you uttered mine--though
'Andromeda' is such a very awkward name."

"Yet it suits you--that is--what I mean is--it's beautiful, though it
would be easier said--without the 'miss'," he suggested, almost shyly.

"Yes," she agreed, "at least it would be that much shorter."

"Then will you--would you mind--may I----"  Sam floundered and she let
him, until, words failing, he was dumb--while the cart rattled and
creaked as if in derision; then above its clatter--sudden, unexpected
yet ineffably sweet rose her laughter, ending all too soon, as she
answered:

"Yes, Sam, you may.  And I'll call you 'Sam'--though to be sure it
seems quite too shockingly familiar, considering we scarcely know each
other."

"Oh, but we do!" quoth he.

"Having met each other exactly three times!" she retorted.

"Ay, too true!" he admitted.  "But then, d'ye see, ours is to be a
friendship that shall never hope or ask for anything more, Andromeda."

"Never?" she demanded, turning to regard him with her level,
calmly-appraising glance.

"No, never!" he repeated.

"But you are a sailor, are you not?"

"Ay, I am--or was.  And how then?"

"Don't sailors--have wives in every port?"

"Ay, and that's my trouble!  I never have and never could take women
lightly enough, d'ye see.  That's why I very nearly ran foul of wedlock
twice and weathered it each time by a miracle."

"Oh?" enquired Andromeda, quite unaware that Joshua's leisured trot had
become a lazy amble.  "Tell me of it, if you--can."

"Ay, willingly," he answered.  "Yes, you'd best know the sort of fool I
am.  The first time was in Old Mexico, a Spanish donna----"

"Was she young and beautiful?"

"Both!" he nodded.  "Ay, she was indeed!  A devout Catholic and seemed
too good, ay--too pure and holy for such rough fellow as myself--I was
only a fore-mast jack, then.  But ... I discovered she was ... well ...
so unspeakably the reverse that I came pretty nigh death.  For, like
the young fool I was I'd taken it all--too seriously!  So I shipped
aboard a regular floating hell, hoping to die.  But 'twas others did
the dying and I ended that voyage as master's mate.  The second time,
ay, and the last, happened when I was prisoner o' war in France ... she
was a lady too and kindly gentle as she was beautiful and I, like the
too-serious, dam' fool I am, broke my fool heart again--or nearly so."

"Why ... Sam?"  Two words only, but in their soft utterance was that
which lifted Sam's bowed head, banished his painful frown, softening
his grim features so wonderfully that in this moment, as he turned to
look at her, he seemed younger than years of hardship had made him,
and--yes, almost handsome, or so it seemed to this woman whose calm,
deep eyes were so quick to see and determine.  Also when now he spoke
her name it was in voice gentled and deepened with gratitude.

"Andromeda ... then you know?  You understand how such fool as I ...
can suffer?"

"Yes," she answered, softly, "yes ... and I know that a fool never did
or ever could feel such grief."

"Andromeda," said he again, and both of them totally unaware that
Joshua, this artful creature, had stopped to graze, "you are and have
been a constant surprise to me ever since we met."

"Such a little while ago!" she reminded him, with her grave smile.
"But tell me of the French lady, was she--like the Spanish?"

"Well, no, for d'ye see, contrariwise, she was a wife already and the
Spanish lass should have been."

"I see.  And so you were a prisoner in France?"

"Yes.  But enough of me, pray what of you?"

Here Andromeda becoming aware that the cart was motionless, poked
Joshua to his leisured trot and enquired:

"What would you know of me?"

"Everything!" answered Sam, promptly.  "Or--as much as you'll honour me
by telling.  I'd greatly like to know why you always look so sad,
yes--even when you smile?"

"Do I?" she questioned.  "I didn't know it ... the looking-glass in my
tent is very small and I don't use it often.  I'm growing too careless
of myself, I'm afraid."

"Yes!" said forthright Sam.  "You are."

"Oh--indeed?" she exclaimed, flashing her golden eyes at him.

"Yes," he repeated, "and more's the pity because you are shaped so ...
so very beautifully."

"How do you know?" she demanded, glancing from him down at the garments
whose shabbiness was the more manifest because of the splendours they
half revealed; so much so that she spread their close, betraying folds
with whip-hand and gracefully dexterous kick of slim foot, then
flushing consciously, looked at him defiantly, saying casually, "This
happens to be my marketing dress and quite good enough for me to--"

"No!" said he, almost harshly.  "It's nothing like good enough for you,
Andromeda, any more than that tent!  B'George, I hate to think of you
in that flimsy thing--at night."

"But I like it!" she retorted.  "Day or night ... perhaps because I was
born in a tent."

"Oh?" murmured Sam.

"Yes!" said she, turning to face him.  "My mother Rosalind Verinder
committed the social crime of marrying an inferior, or so her family
deemed it--she ran away with an actor, though they called him a
strolling player and vagrant!  And so he was, I suppose, though he had
his own travelling company and was a great actor--the Robert Sheldon
Players were famous everywhere--except London.  However, my poor mother
was outcast by her family, the Verinders were too proud of their
ancient lineage ever to acknowledge her again."

"Was your brave mother happy?"

"Supremely and my poor father was devoted to her."

"Then, outcast or no, she did right well."

"Yes, she was very happy, though not for long, she died giving me
life--I killed her, and my father too, almost.  For when she died all
the best of him died too.  He lost all ambition ... became a hopeless
drunkard--though always kind and gentle to everyone, especially to
me----  Oh, the poor, poor dear!  So from famous actor and master of
all, he sank to last and the willing drudge of all--oh, the pity of it."

"Ah, and what--what of you?"

"Oh, I lived somehow until I was old enough to--take care of him ... he
became my great, big helpless child ... until he died.  And then I
should have been lost!  But then ... ah, then, by God's mercy, my Uncle
Arthur found me, my wonderful, rich uncle--ah, he was very different
then, so vital, so grandly masterful--he swept me up and away from all
that sordid misery--to the wonder and luxury of his great house.  He
loved me, had me educated, yet taught me far more by his own inspiring
genius.  He took me to all the great centres of art in Europe, opened
to me the glorious world of music.  He was, oh, so much more to me than
a father that when ruin came, loss of money and the woman he
adored--when he was stricken, as you see him now, and all friends
except very few, deserted him--can you, do you wonder that I devoted
myself to him, to shield and care for him in his helplessness, as I
always must and shall--do you wonder that I love and shall serve him so
long as he needs me?"

"No," answered Sam, though rather gloomily.

"Well then, why are you frowning?"

"Because," he answered, heavily, "you are indeed Andromeda!  For
according to what Ned tells me, he's a classical scholar, d'ye see, the
first Andromeda was exposed as a--a willing sacrifice for others."

"Well," sighed Andromeda, "if I am or--must be a sacrifice, I also
shall be willing ... even though it break my heart at last."

Here for some while the cart rattled its four wheels and creaked its
worn timbering while Joshua from lazy amble betook him to lazier walk
and all unheeded for Sam was thinking unhappily of Andromeda and she
stealing sideways glances at his grimly woeful visage and guessing the
reason therefor, roused him at last with the question:

"Were you at Trafalgar and have you been in many battles?"

Hereupon Sam (as only English sailormen usually do, unless inspired by
Bacchus) told the dashing exploits and valiant deeds of shipmates with
scant mention of himself until she "brought him up with a round turn,"
demanding:

"Yes, but how did you get that ugly wound--there above your left
eyebrow, Sam?"

Over this betraying scar he instantly jerked his hat-brim, saying as he
did so:

"It was either a Froggie's pike, cutlass or musket-butt, I could never
be sure which, the time we boarded the--"

Horse-hoofs on the narrow road behind them and approaching at such
furious gallop that Sam turned, in angry alarm, while Andromeda reined
aside and only just in time as a horseman dashed by in cloud of dust, a
wild figure who glanced back at them from a face contorted and streaked
very oddly.

And when this choking cloud had subsided, Sam enquired:

"Did you notice who that was?"

"Oh, yes--the hateful Honourable Scrope."

"Ay, and looked as if he had been weeping--shedding tears and plenty of
'em."

"Yes, Sam.  But can such man ever shed tears?  If so, I hope they
sting."




CHAPTER XXV

OF ANDROMEDA, SAM, AND FRIENDSHIP

The doll's-house had been purchased, though indeed this was a veritable
palace in miniature and as sumptuously furnished even to pictures on
the walls; a toy of such dainty splendour that Andromeda (despite its
costliness) clasped her hands and exclaimed for sheer feminine joy of
it.

This magnificence having been duly packed and stowed in the cart, Sam
decided they must both wine and dine--unheeding Andromeda's
protestations that she was not hungry, was too untidy ... dusty ... in
her very oldest bonnet....  However, Sam's sailorly eye having singled
out the White Hart Inn--thither he led her; and once within these
hospitable portals, no high-bred lady in all Christendom more sweetly
dignified, more stately and gracious than Andromeda despite her aged
bonnet.

Thus with obsequious waiters to attend, they enjoyed such meal that
Sam, because of its growing intimacy, was to remember with a wistful
yearning--such meal that Andromeda even forgot her aged bonnet, or very
nearly.

This magical repast ending, too soon of course as all such happiness
must, forth they went into the busy street that Andromeda might do her
marketing.  Now while she was thus busied, Sam chancing upon a
jeweller's shop entered forthwith and accosted the presiding genius,
who beamed on him through a ferocity of curling whisker:

"I want something in diamonds--not too overpowering."

"Sir," quoth the jeweller, exhibiting a circlet of flashing gems,
"behold the very article!"

"No!" said Sam.  "Nothing like it."

"Ah!" sighed the jeweller, grasping the whiskers with restraining hand.
"You desire something less expensive----"

"No!" answered Sam.  "Something less showy."

"Aha!" exclaimed the jeweller, releasing the whiskers.  "Then here,
sir, behold this brooch or pendant, a perfect work of art, or should we
say 'heart'--ha, ha--being indeed a heart involved or enwrought with a
cross for Truth and an anchor for Hope."

"Yes, this'll do!" nodded Sam, thrusting hand into pocket.  So, the
brooch being paid for, was neatly boxed and away rolled Sam with his
seaman's lurch, and was pondering just how and when he should bestow
this gift when Andromeda rejoined him.  He was still meditating this
vexed question when the cart was rattling and creaking under them, and
so profoundly that she questioned him at last:

"Why are you so thoughtful--or is it only drowsiness?  I'm sleepy
too....  For I seldom or never take wine...."  Here she yawned behind
slim fingers and quite bewitchingly, or so thought Sam--as he answered:

"Well then, why not have a nap?"

"I should love to ... but how can I?"

"By closing your eyes, in the wood yonder, or any other shady place.
I'd take care nothing and no one disturbed you, though you know that, I
hope?"

"Yes," she answered, meeting his look with her serenely direct gaze,
"and I haven't been sleeping very well, lately."  Now here, there
rushed upon him the dreadful memory of that ghastly, blood-stained
thing he had looked down upon last night...

"Andromeda," said he, impulsively, "I hate to think of you so utterly
alone in your camp ... that wilderness!"

"Oh, but," sighed she, looking up at him slumberously, "I'm a very
light sleeper--when I have not had wine, of course!  Besides I have my
Esau dog.  I left him on guard in my tent ... and there he will be ...
waiting to greet me, bless him!"

"Ay," growled Sam, "thank God for those sharp fangs of his!"

"Yes, though I'm never afraid--except for Uncle Arthur.  And today ...
just for the present, even that dread is ... soothed away ... I never
felt so ... deliciously sleepy!  So, won't you please take the reins?"

"I'd much rather take you into the shade where you can lie and sleep
properly ... know complete rest if only for a little while."

"I should love to!" she murmured.  "Oh, I ought not to have drunk ...
so much wine."

"You should have drunk more, Andromeda.  You are mentally exhausted.
I'll warrant you slept little, last night."

"Not very well," she admitted.

"Then you shall sleep here and now."

"Oh, but I couldn't ... it would be too ridiculous!"

"But very sensible, Andromeda.  You're dead beat with anxiety and
constant worry.  So now--lean against the seat-back and my shoulder!
And if I set my arm about you it will be only because I'm compelled to
save you from lurching overboard--into the road, d'ye see!  There--are
you quite comfortable?  You don't look it, but--are you?"

"Yes," she murmured, drowsily.

"Then," said he, setting long arm about her, "close your eyes and
sleep."  The which she did, and so profoundly that once or twice she
snored, though very gently to be sure....

Now looking down at this sleeping face too strong and resolute for
prettiness, too haggardly pale for beauty, Sam felt the heart within
him surge and swell, his eyes grow dim, his arm tighten about her--yet
still the dunderhead fellow didn't guess.

Thus at a plodding walk they traversed these leafy by-ways and the
vociferous cart now so hushed and silent that Sam could hear
Andromeda's soft, slow breathing that told of deep, untroubled,
soul-refreshing slumber.

How often he looked down at this head now pillowed on his breast, at
this face with its black, low-arching brows, these wide-set,
long-lashed eyes, this gently-aquiline nose and well-rounded chin that,
together, held more than suggestion of indomitable will and courage,
though softened by the sensitive, full-lipped, ruddy mouth all sweet
curves and so lusciously provoking that he averted his eyes and stared
at Joshua's ears instead, though it is doubtful if he noticed them.
Yet so long and fixedly he gazed that he was unaware the sleeper had
waked until she spoke, and almost gaily:

"Goodness, how he scowls!  Am I such a burden?"  Sam started and
Andromeda sat up to smooth her petticoats, glance around and enquire:

"How ever long have I slept?"

"Scarcely half-an-hour."

"My gracious, and we are not half-way back!  Joshua must have crawled."

"He did, lest he should wake his mistress."

"And don't tell me she--snored."

"Only now and then, and very sweetly!"

"Can any snore be sweet?"

"That depends upon the snorer."

"However, I feel wonderfully better for my sleep.  But now, since there
is no possibility of my falling, or--'lurching overboard'--was it?  I
think you can venture to release me."

"Ay, to be sure!" said he, withdrawing his arm.

"I suppose," she murmured, straightening her bonnet, "considering how
long you have been embracing my slumbering form, I ought now to be all
blushing, maidenly coyness, don't you think?"

"Lord, no!" he answered.  "Why should you?"

"The question is," she demanded, looking up at him with her gravely
wistful gaze, "why shouldn't I and why don't I?"

"Because," answered Sam, believing he spoke merest truth, "the arm
around you was simply the arm of a friend."

"Ah yes!" she murmured.  "To be sure, yes.  I'm glad you--did not
forget."

"Of course not!" quoth Sam, with a vehemence that surprised himself.
"Certainly not!  As though I ever should--or could!"

"Is it so unthinkably impossible--Sam?"

"Quite!" he answered, with the same excess of fervour.  "Oh--quite!
This is why I ventured to buy you a small gift, a keepsake, a memento
of the occasion, d'ye see--"  So saying he produced, opened and
presented the jewel-box, in as many moments.

Motionless and silent Andromeda gazed down upon it, then closed her
eyes as if the flash and sparkle of the gems had dazzled her, while up
from round, white throat to raven hair rose a painful flush; then with
sudden, almost fierce gesture she thrust this gift back into his
unwilling hold, saying as she did so:

"This would be too absurdly out of place on me ... my general
shabbiness would be----"

"No!" exclaimed Sam harshly.

"Yes!" she retorted, positively.  "Your jewels would be ill-suited to
me as Shakespeare's 'pearl in an Ethiope's ear'."

"Don't you like the thing?" growled Sam.

"Of course I do!  Yes!  Any woman would love it....  Only this woman
cannot accept it."

"Then, damme, I'll throw it away----"

"No, don't do that.  And, Sam, do--not--swear!  Instead, let me look at
it again."  So, once more she sat gazing down at these sparkling gems
that were no brighter than her eyes, nor so lovely as the smile that
slowly curved her sensitive lips--or so thought Sam, who now ventured
to explain his gift:

"The anchor, d'ye see, stands for steadfast hope and the cross for
faith--truth everlasting--"

"Yes," she murmured, "but what does this heart mean?"

"Friendship!" he replied, instantly.  "Unfailing loyalty, reverence and
friendship.  And it is in their name that I beg you'll--honour me by
accepting their token."

"Then," said Andromeda, closing the box and folding it between her two
hands, "in their name I will and do accept it ... gladly and more ...
gratefully than I can tell--"  Here she turned to smile up at him
though her eyes brimmed with tears bright as any jewels.

"But, Andromeda, why are you crying?"

"Because at last I do, I must believe such reverent friendship is real
and true.  And so," said she, giving him her two clasped hands, "now
with your token I take you for my friend ... I that was so terribly,
bitterly alone yet never allowed myself to realize it ... because I
have always known I must be lonely.  So I shall wear your precious gift
... round my neck ... hidden ... upon my heart."

Now looking down upon these hands that nestled so confidingly in his,
Sam stooped and kissed them--hard, and yet so reverently that, though
her lips quivered to a smile, her voice matched her tearful eyes as she
enquired:

"Was that for merest friendship--Sam?"

"Yes," he answered.  "Yes--indeed!"

"But mine are not kissable hands--so rough and two broken nails!"

"Ay," said he, very gently, "these are hands glorified and made holy by
unselfish devotion and service.  My beloved mother had such
hands-though I never thought to kiss them."

"Tell me of her, Sam."

And so, while Joshua ambled at his laziest pace, even pausing when so
minded to crop succulent mouthfuls of grass, Sam with all his heart,
told of his most sacred memory while with all her heart Andromeda
listened and questioned.

And never had any cart, on four wheels or two, borne a man more glad to
be alive, through countryside so altogether lovely; though Sam, the
addle-pate, still had no idea of how or why this should be so.




CHAPTER XXVI

TELLS HOW SAM MADE A PROPHECY

14, Clifford's Inn,
  June 21, 1807.

MY DEAR SAM:

I begin this hurried letter with the word BEWARE writ large, since
Shrig's latest despatch informs me that you and your whereabouts are
now known to that Walking Evil who must contrive your destruction or
perish himself.  For I have spun such web and to such effect that soon
he will be in close durance whence shall be no deliverance or escape.
But, alas--he is also aware of this and in fury of desperation and to
avoid his own utter and final ruin will (as I fear and Shrig
confidently hopes and expects) make some determined effort against your
life by any and every means.  Wherefore, my dear Sam, in God's name and
for your own sake, do not be fool-hardy, run no avoidable risk, be
constantly alert day and night, and above all be guided in everything
by Jasper Shrig, who has lately called certain others to his aid.  And
this alone doubles my anxiety for you.  Five weeks and two days hence
this Deadly Menace, this Two-legged Evil will be removed, shut away for
good and all and you in safety may enjoy your Inheritance.  But in this
space of time what will and how much may happen?  I can but trust in
the continued mercy of a Divine and all just Providence, in your own
prudence and the often proved sagacity of Shrig who, in my experience,
has so frequently outmatched devilish cunning by a guileful astuteness
and methods as unexpected and original as himself.  And here I end this
most unbusiness-like but entirely friendly epistle as I began, viz.:
with that same ominous word--Beware!

This from your sincere friend and well-wisher,

ED. JOLIFFE.


Outstretched at ease in the shady orchard, Sam read this letter very
carefully, then having pondered it awhile, went indoors to his cosy
bedchamber, the gable room where stood his brass-bound, seaman's chest
and battered ditty-box whence he rummaged in turn a formidable
sheath-knife and belt, together with a brace of small, beautifully-made
pocket-pistols which he duly loaded and primed.

Thus armed, downstairs he went and taking hat and stick, stepped out
into the sunny yard just as Nancy fitted a yoke upon her buxom
shoulders whereby to carry two large pails of creamy milk.

"Nancy, belay!" said he.  "What I mean is--pray allow me."

"La, sir," she exclaimed, returning his smiling look, "I be so used for
to carry a yoke----"

"However," said Sam, yoking himself instead to these luscious burdens,
"your pretty shoulders and white neck will show prettier without it."

"Nay, sir," said she, dimpling.  "Oh, Mr. Felton, ee du say such
things--I be all of a blush."

"Good!" he nodded.  "It well becomes you, for you're even handsomer
when you blush.  Ay, a right seamanly eye has Tom----"

"Lud, sir, what's Tom got to do wi' my blushes?"

"Everything, Nancy, or so I thought, but now--well, I'm nowise sure----"

"Not--sure?  Oh, Mr. Felton, whatever do ee mean?"

"Nay, faith, Nancy--Tom must do his own explaining, if he will or if
you can wheedle the truth out of him, coax him to tell you who she is
and--when it's to be.  However, if she does or has said 'yes' I shall
be first to wish him joy and so will you, I'm sure.  Though she's a
lucky, ay, a right fortunate girl to have won such a smart, handsome
fellow as Tom--and he one of Lord Nelson's 'hearts o' the oak'----"

"What 'she,' sir?  Oh please, please tell me who ... who and what like
she be."

"Not I, Nancy, 'twouldn't do!  Only Tom can tell you--if he will.  Not
that he's likely to say a word till it's all over and done."

Nancy stopped to clasp her large though shapely hands upon her splendid
bosom as if to still its tempestuous surge.

"Oh, sir ... Mr. Felton," she said, breathlessly, "du ee mean ... oh,
can it be ... is it that ... Betty Noakes, or Mistus Cec'ly Croft over
tu Deepways Farm?  Yet no, 'twouldn't be she, her be breaking her poor
heart for that Mr. Ralph--and him a Scrope!  No, 'twill be that Betty
... and if 'tis ...  Oh, Mr. Felton sir, be she the one?"

Instead of replying, Sam hastened his steps and setting down pails and
yoke in the dairy, glanced at Nancy's flushed and troubled face saying,
gently:

"Nancy, I must not tell you of the fortunate lass Tom means to make his
wife, it wouldn't be fair.  But you're clever as well as lovely, use
your wits and find out from Tom himself: for no sailorman could resist
such handsome lass--and especially such eyes as yours when they are
gentled and lovelier for their tears as they are at this moment."
Which said, away strode Sam hastily to avoid further questioning and to
find Tom and presently espied him busied with a pitchfork among the
fragrant ricks.

"Tom," said he, "Tom, you chuckleheaded lubber, you've been so far out
in your reckoning that I've just left your lovely Nancy ready to weep
all over you because she thinks you mean to wed another----"

"Eh?  Another, sir?  What--me?" gasped Tom.  "What could ha' put such
dam' fullishness into her pretty head?"

"I did, Tom!  And to right good effect.  So now, here's your course,
d'ye see--keep away and well to wind'ard, plying off and on, till of
her own accord she bears up and ranges alongside or runs you aboard."

"Ay, sir, ay, ay!" said Tom, eagerly, his blue eyes very bright.
"Ah--but," he sighed, glooming again in sudden doubt, "suppose she
don't."

"Still keep the weather of her, and she will, Tom, she will."

"Ay, and if so--how then, sir?"

"Leave her to loose the first broadside.  Be dumb as a dead eye till
she question you.  I'll lay my oath she will, like the honest-hearted,
high-spirited, sweet lass she is."

"Ay, she's all that, sir!  And how then?"

"Tell her the truth, of course, and then, old _Victory_-man, use those
arms o' yours as a sailorman should, and 'twill be victory again, I'll
warrant--or damme!"

"Sir," quoth Tom, in awed tone, "Mr. Felton, sir--if I bring it off, if
only I can, sir----"

"'If' is no word for a Navy man, Tom, as well you know and have proved
afore now!  The word is 'when'! ...  And when you have, good luck and
happiness t' both o' ye, say I, and a right prosperous wind."

Then away went Sam with his long, rolling stride, off and away in the
one and only direction and wondering, like the addle-pate he was, just
why the green world around him seemed more lovely than usual, the sky
bluer, and why the birds were singing and piping in blither chorus....
Ah but--as he passed that place of gloomy trees and tangled thickets
which little Jane called "The Deep Dark," he was checked suddenly,
smitten by such ghastly dread as for the moment left him sick and
faint--the sound of a woman's desperate weeping ... a breathless,
wailing cry:

"Oh God ... make me ... brave enough----"

Then Sam leapt to action swift though silent until coming in sight of
that sullen, dismal pool, he stopped again, breathing his relief in a
deep, shuddering sigh.

She lay face down upon the very margin of the pool, so near indeed that
her long, yellow hair was already afloat--heedful of which, he spoke
her very gently:

"It would be very cold, dear lass.  And besides I hate swimming in my
clothes."

She started violently and turned showing thus a face of surprising
beauty though now all marred, blotched and swollen with her grief.

"Who ... who be ... you?" she sobbed.

"A friend--I hope.  And my name is Sam, d'ye see and I----"

"Oh--go away ... leave me alone ... I ... want to be ... dead!" she
gasped.

"Why so you will, someday, but not here or in that dam' pool.  No man
is worth such death--no--not one!  And more especially," said Sam,
hazarding a guess, "such fool and villain as Ralph Scrope."

"He's neither!" she cried, sitting up to say it the fiercer.

"He's both!" said Sam, sitting down to say it the more provokingly.
"Ay, he's both, and a liar besides!  A worthless scoundrel--it stands
to reason."

"No, he's not ... he's not!" she panted, glaring on Sam through the
tears that filled her very beautiful though grief-reddened eyes.

"Then why is he breaking your heart?  Why are you here in this vile,
desolate place?  The fellow's a heartless rogue----"

"No!" she wailed.  "His poor heart be breaking likewise, for he do love
me true."

"Oh?" murmured Sam, pondering this.  "Ah?  Then why d'you wish for
death?"

"Because he be such great and noble gentleman and I be--only me."

"Ay!" nodded Sam.  "And so beautiful--when your lovely eyes and pretty
nose aren't so red--that I'm right certain you are much too good and
lovely for such as he.  Why d'ye love the fellow?"

"Because I do!  I always have and always shall."

"Even though he deserts you and breaks your heart along with all his
promises?"

"Yes, but--'tis only because he must leave me ... to save his family
from ruination!"

"Ah?" murmured Sam.  "Tell me--how?"

"By marrying a very rich lady ... and I'm only a farmer's daughter to
... milk and churn, and bake and brew ... though I've tried to speak
and act like a lady should ... for to be his ... lady wife.  But I ...
haven't any money....  So that's why cruel Fate compels my poor Ralph
to break my loving heart..."

"Lord!" exclaimed Sam, shaking his head in helpless manner.  "Whoever
heard the like o' this?"

"We've loved each other," she continued as if now her sorrow found some
relief in speech, "ever since we were boy and girl ... and with every
year my love grew ... and so 'tis I know I'll have to go on loving him
till I die."

"Such love," murmured Sam, "is perfectly unreasonable, very pitiful,
but b'George--altogether wonderful."

"And so," she continued, heeding only her own grief, "this is why I
came here to end it all ... because it is all so hopeless!  But when I
saw the pool ... so still and dreadful dark ... I was afraid and ...
couldn't."

"Good!" nodded Sam.

"Though maybe," she whispered, gazing down into these same dark waters
and shivering, "maybe ... someday I shall be ... braver."

"No!" said Sam.  "Oh, no!  If you can love such fellow so wonderfully,
you must have the fellow.  We'll see what can be done about it----"

"Ah--what, what do you mean by 'have him'?"

"Marrying him, of course."

"Ah, but how ... how can I?" she wailed, beginning to sob again.

"In the usual way," answered Sam, "parson, ring and so on.  Now swab
your tears--dry those pretty eyes--or shall I?"

"Nay but ... who be--who are you?"

"Your friend, Sam.  So take my handkerchief, clean this morning, and
dry your eyes, Cecily.  You are Cecily Croft, aren't you?"

"Yes," she answered, taking the handkerchief, but gazing at Sam in
growing wonder, "yet how du ee--do you know my name?"

"Put it down to friendship, Cecily.  For Friendship, d'ye see,
especially mine, can and shall work wonders, if you'll do your part."

"Oh, but what--what must I do?"

"Be patient, have faith in yourself and the future, never say die and
soon or late you shall be your beloved Ralph's lady wife."  Sam uttered
these words in tone of such convincing sincerity and with look of such
serene assurance, such absolute certainty that Cecily started to her
knees, looking at him above hands clasped as if in prayer.

"Oh," she whispered, "if only this could come true!"

"It shall!" he nodded.  But now, once again, tears blinded her.

"Ah, no--no!" she wailed, bowing golden head and cowering in hopeless
misery.  "Tis past my hope ... and you ... you be only ... making mock
o' me."

"Not I, lass!  No, damme!  Do I seem the sort of animal to mock any
woman's grief?  Sit up--take a good look at this figure-head--this face
o' mine!  Do I look such vile brute?"

Obediently she raised her lovely head, shook it miserably and sobbed:

"No ... no, you don't.  But how ... oh, how ever can I ... how dare I
hope for ... or believe such joy when I do know 'tis so impossible?
Oh, how can I?"

"Because," he answered, with his flashing smile, "in this old world
there's nothing impossible to our Navy, and I'm a sailorman, d'ye see!
So all shall come right for you soon or late--it stands to reason."

"Oh, but--how?" she questioned, with a new eagerness and (hopeful sign)
beginning to pay attention to her beautiful, corn-coloured hair, "I
don't understand you."

"Of course you don't," he answered, with another cheery grin, "you
don't have to.  Your part will be to--work instead of weep, hope
instead of despair, never say die or even think of it, say your prayers
and trust to the Lord and the Navy and Friendship.  So, what d'ye say?"

"'Deed I don't know what to say or think," she sighed--but beginning to
braid her lustrous hair, "you talk so strange and--wild!  I seem like I
were in some dream."

"Ay, and in dreams all things are possible!  So dream on, lass, till
Friendship makes your dream a reality and you wake to find 'tis true."

"Oh, but," sighed she, "my Ralph be gentleman o' The Quality, like I
tell you, and must wed money, and I be only----"

"Your own beautiful self," nodded Sam, "a loveliness far too good for
your Ralph--ay, a woman any man would be right proud to wed, money or
no!  There'll be plenty will envy your Ralph when he marries you."

"Marries ... me?" she repeated breathlessly.

"Ay, to be sure!" quoth Sam and with the utmost conviction.  "And when
you are his wife I'm pretty certain you'll be his salvation also, if
anyone can save the fellow--I believe you'll raise him, lift him up to
be worthy, almost, of your sweet lovely self."  Her busy hands fell
idle, her long-lashed eyes gazed upwards as if, for the moment, they
looked upon a rapture ineffable.

"If I only could!" she whispered.  "Oh, God, most merciful, if only I
could...."  Then she drew a long, shuddering breath, crowned herself
with the shining coronet of her hair and rose.

"I think," said she, looking on Sam now as if noticing him for the
first time, "you must be Captain Harlow's friend back along with him
from the wars and staying at Willowmead.  And so now, sir, I be--I
am--trying to thank you for doing your best to comfort me in--in my
black hour.  For though you talked a lot of fullishness, I know 'twas
well meant."

"It was, Cecily, it is!  And my name's Sam.  And now you are going
straight home, I hope."

"No.  My home went when father died.  So I'm going back to Uncle
Roger's farm to help to milk his cows, and churn and brew and bake,
same like as usual."

"However," answered Sam, as they went on side by side, "even such hard
work is better than lying dead--back there in that hellish pool?"

"I wonder?" she murmured.

Thus, presently they came up from that place of gloom, out into the
pure, blessed sunlight.  And here Sam halted to enquire:

"I suppose you don't believe in fairies any more, Cecily?"

"No," she sighed, "not since I were a child--and happy."

"But do you believe in prayer?"

"Yes ... I suppose so ... of course," she faltered, "though I've prayed
and I've prayed but all to no purpose."

"Only because you haven't prayed quite long enough.  So keep at it and
someday sure as a gun, I shall salute you like this, hat in hand,
saying: 'Your humble servant, madam.  Good day and God bless you, my
Lady Scrope!"

And so, having bowed with a flourish, Sam turned and strode away,
leaving Cecily gazing after him wide-eyed but with the dawn of a smile
upon her lips.

Sam also was smiling as he strode these sunny meads (always in the one
and only direction) his grey eyes alight with such purpose that
presently he began whistling softly an old sea-chanty as he meditated
how best and soonest to effect this same purpose.  On he went and in
such profound abstraction that he had passed little Jane's 'Chanted
Forest quite unnoticed when he halted again, arrested by a sound of all
sounds most unexpected in such place--the high, sweet notes of a fiddle
with the sweeping chords of a harp; but this, as he quickly realized, a
fiddle played as he had never heard before--an instrument that sang in
joyous triumph, that laughed awhile then was hushed to wailing
supplication, a murmurous, sobbing melody of heartbreak and despair,
rising anew but swelling now to fiercer, wilder strain until the very
air seemed to throb with diabolic scream of hate, of
vengeance--changing, all at once, to a trill of ecstasy that sank and
was lost in the deep, sweet chords of the harp.

"Glorious....  Oh ... wonderful!" sighed Andromeda.

"Mag-nificent!" cried Mr. Verinder.

"Good morning!" said Sam.




CHAPTER XXVII

TELLS, AMONG OTHER MATTERS, OF A STEAK AND KIDNEY PUDDING

Into Sam's ready hand the dog Esau thrust his shaggy head, though his
mistress, standing tall and stately, uttered no word of greeting;
wherefore Sam looked grim as he demanded:

"Why did they, your Uncle and that Jennings fellow, sheer off at sight
o' me, Andromeda?"

"Well," she answered, resentfully, "perhaps because you made it so very
evident that you cannot and do not appreciate great music."

"But I do--especially when played so very well."

"Then you showed your appreciation very strangely!"

"However," growled Sam, "I can enjoy the fiddle without adoring the
fiddler or looking at him with eyes of such confounded worship."

"Pray--what are you--suggesting?"

"I mean that a fellow is no better because he scrapes a fiddle pretty
well."

"'Pretty well'!" she repeated, scornfully and turned away with a
hopeless gesture.  "If you had the faintest conception of music you
would know that Mr. Jennings is not only a wonderful composer but a
most brilliant ... an exceptionally great violinist--a master--"

"Well, I prefer your dog!" quoth Sam, fondling Esau's shaggy head.  "He
at least is glad to see me and was so kind to give me welcome."

"Being--only a dog!" she retorted.

"Was that worthy of you, Andromeda, or just to your dog?"

"No!" she admitted.  "For I do believe my Esau has more taste for
glorious music than Mr. Felton--at least he did not howl!"

"Nor I, as a remember."

"No, you merely gloomed and scowled--black as a thunder-cloud!  You
also growled."

"Maybe I did--while you gazed on that Jennings fellow as if you longed
to devour him--fiddle and all!"

"A hatefully repulsive suggestion!"

"Ay--like the cove himself!"

"That is a hideously vulgar word."

"And suits him."

"Mr. Felton, I will bid you 'Good morning'--"

"And time too!" said Sam, removing his hat with a flourish.  "Good
morning t'you, marm, your humble servant!  And now, Andromeda, come
down from aloft--be your own sweet self, let's enjoy each other's
friendship and talk as friends should."

"I do--not feel at all friendly this morning."

"Nor look it!" he agreed.  "However, I'll put up with all that just
because you're Andromeda and may presently bless me with a smile or
kinder looks, as a friend--Lord!" he exclaimed, for they had come
within sight of her tent and he halted to view it with the utmost
disapproval:

"Lord love me!" Sam repeated.

"It is to be hoped so!" she retorted.  "And He may, of course, being
all merciful!  But why call on the Deity--and so suddenly?"

"That tent-thing of yours!  It's a menace!  A sudden squall, or mere
cap-full o' wind and it would carry away."

"Carry what away?"

"Itself--and you along with it."

"It never has yet, so why should it?"

"First of all--the stays are rotten."

"If you mean the guy-ropes, they are much stronger than they appear."

"And those bits o' stick instead o' proper pegs!  They'd never hold--"

"But they do hold, and very well--as you see!"

"Only because there's no wind to strain 'em.  Should it blow hard and
the confounded thing came down on you with a run 'twould half stifle
you before you could crawl free.  So why not have proper pegs?"

"Because they were all lost ages ago."

"Why then," said Sam, drawing his broad-bladed seaman's knife and
testing its keen edge, "though I can't scrape catgut I can shape you
some proper pegs."

"Pray do not trouble yourself, Mr. Felton."

"Andromeda, don't be silly--so dam' statuesque and aloof."

"Mr. Felton, I refuse to be sworn at!"

"Then don't waste your dignity on me, dear lass."

"I also object strongly to your--your maritime familiarity."

Sam chuckled; gave a sailorly hitch to his belt fore and aft, executed
the first steps of a hornpipe, struck an attitude and exclaimed in tone
extremely hoarse and nautical:

"Marm, you may keel-haul me if you ain't taken me all aback!  I'm
shivering in the wind's eye, falling off and on and drifting to
loo'ard!  Raked fore and aft I am by that theer 'maritime familiarity'
broadside o' yourn!"

"Don't be so ridiculous," said she, frowning still but with the ghost
of a dimple beside her ruddy lip.

"Andromeda," he rejoined, suddenly grave, "I'd do or give a great deal
to bring laughter to that lovely mouth of yours and see happiness in
your eyes."

"Oh?  Why?" she demanded.  "Why ever trouble about me?  Why are you
here now?"

"All in the way of friendship!" he replied.

"I see!  Of course!" she nodded.  "Though you think I have--a 'lovely
mouth'!"

"I do!  I do indeed.  I were blind else.  And you know it, too, of
course."

"I know it serves me to eat with.  And this reminds me!"

"Of what?"

"Steak and kidney pudding!  I promised Uncle Arthur and it is a
favourite dish of his."

"And no wonder!" quoth Sam.  "Where is he, by the way, and that--that
Jennings blo--fellow?"

"Talking music together somewhere, you may be sure.  And now I think
you had better go, I'm going to be busy."

"Good!" exclaimed Sam, cheerily.  "So am I, d'ye see.  While you're
making your duff and so on, I'll get busy with your tent pegs."

"That great knife of yours looks horridly sharp."

"Ay, it is.  But a saw would be useful, if you have one, though I
suppose that's too much to expect."

"Of course I have a saw," said she, indignantly, "quite a large one!
You will find it with my other tools in the box over there."

And true enough, amid a jumble of rusty pliers, pincers, shaftless
hammers and jagged chisels, Sam extracted that which had once been a
saw; he shook his head at it, sighed over it and enquired, gently:

"Do you use this for cutting through bolts and nails, Andromeda?"

"Of course not!" she replied, tying herself into a large apron, "I
never do except when they get in the way.  I sometimes have to saw up
boxes for kindling, in wet weather, and they are such naily things."

"You dear soul!" he murmured and so tenderly that she turned to frown
at him, saying--though not very angrily:

"I believe you are--daring to--pity me."

"No, I'm picturing you on a damp, chilly morning, turning out to hack
away with this poor, blunt old saw, to light a fire with your only dry
kindling--for my lord's breakfast."

"And my own!  So, I'll not be pitied--do you hear?"

"Ay, ay, Cap'n!" said he, saluting her with the rusty saw as if it had
been a cutlass; then away he went in quest of wood suitable for his
pegs and presently returned with a stout sapling and in time to prevent
her dragging a table from the tent.

"Where will you have it?" he enquired, picking it up.

"There, in shade of the big tree.  Though I can manage quite well
alone."

"I know you can--and do!" said he, rather grimly.  "But just at present
you are not alone, and while I'm about you shall neither haul, heave
nor hoist, d'ye see.  Is that understood?"

"Ay, ay, Captain!" she mocked, saluting him with the rolling-pin.

"Very good!" said Sam, and began cutting his sapling into precise
lengths with the almost toothless saw while Andromeda, rolling up her
sleeves, commenced to make and knead her dough.

The saw whose teeth were so very blunt and gappy, required and received
dexterous manipulation, yet long before it had been coaxed to
successful performance, Sam was perfectly certain he had never seen
arms so deliciously round and smooth, their dazzling whiteness the more
apparent because of sun-browned wrists and hands--nor elbows so
bewitchingly dimpled....

All this, Sam contrived to notice while Andromeda, working her dough
with both slim fists, was as truly aware of him, his lithe strength,
the balanced ease of his every movement, his grim features which yet
could soften to such unexpected gentleness that, with his wide-set,
grey eyes and shapely mouth, made him quite handsome--or almost.

Thus though both were apparently intent upon their work, each was
supremely aware of the other.

The saw having been persuaded to do its duty, Sam now took his knife
and seated with his back against the tree and legs crossed
sailor-fashion, began to shape and trim the first peg with quick, sure
hand.  And now as they wrought, they talked--thus:

SHE: That knife looks horribly sharp!

HE: Yes, a knife should be.

SHE: I've heard sailors are handy men.

HE: They have to be.

SHE: However, you'll cut yourself if you don't watch your work instead
of staring at me--with such odious slyness.

HE (_With flashing grin_): Not slyness, Andromeda.

SHE: Yes, a detestable furtiveness.

HE: No, "askance" is the word.  I merely venture to glance up at you
now and then sideways or a-jee.

SHE: Just because my arms are bare!

HE: No.  Just because they are yours.

SHE: Whatever is the difference?

HE: That they belong to you and no other woman, of course.  So I thank
the Lord for their beauty.

SHE: You are extremely personal.

HE: Certainly I am, and also perfectly sincere, and you too, I hope.
So let's go on being personal--tell me now of myself--or the sort of
fellow you think I am.

SHE: I won't be so cruel.

HE: Ah well, I asked for that--and got it because I admired your arms
and was honest enough to say so, eh, Andromeda?  What more d'ye think?

SHE: That you are supremely--impertinent.

HE: Yet very meek and humble--and yourself so proud and fierce--and in
such naughty temper!  Your cheeks flushed and eyes so bright!
B'George, anger suits you, for your mouth could never be anything but
its lovely self--

SHE: Are you trying to offend me?

HE: You know I'm not.

SHE: Then cease your odious personalities!  (_Here she turns her back
on him with movement that is almost a flounce._)

HE: Very well, Miss Andromeda.  And may I humbly suggest a sprinkle of
salt?

SHE (_Glancing down at him over her shoulder_): Salt?  Whatever do you
mean now?

HE (_Becoming gruff jack tar_): In your duff, lady.  'Twill sweeten it
ye'll find.

SHE: What do you know of such things?

HE: Plenty, missis.  I were ship's cook years ago.

SHE: Ah--indeed!

HE: Ay.  And don't look s' scornful, lady, for I were a mighty good
'un, d'ye see.  Bake or boil, stoo or fry, there was few to ekal Sammy!
And as for puddens, you should ha' tasted my spotted dog.

SHE (_Shuddering with extreme violence_): Repulsive!  I feel unwell at
the mere suggestion.

HE: Then besides, marm, I could do more wi' a good, fat lump o' pickled
pork than most--

SHE: Horrible!  If I must endure your company do--not talk of such
utterly revolting things--or like a vulgar sailor.

HE: But these revolting things are what poor sailormen must eat or
starve--and I am a vulgar sailor.

SHE: Well, if you must talk--speak as you usually do.

HE; Why, so I will--if instead of showing me your back, which I'll own
is very shapely and perfect as feminine back should be, yet I--

SHE (_Turning in sudden appeal_): Oh, Sam, why are you trying to anger
and annoy me?

HE (_Speaking in tone suddenly gentle as his look_): My dear, for this
little while you haven't thought of your anxieties--I've made you even
forget that Uncle of yours, haven't I?

SHE (_Softly_): Yes, you have.

HE: Because, Andromeda, I'd do much, very much--anything to make you a
little happier.  You believe this, don't you?

SHE (_More softly_): Yes.

HE: I hope we are going to be--closer, better friends than ever,
because very soon I shall be ... pretty lonely, ay, I shall so!  For in
a week's time my friend Ned, Captain Harlow will marry his Kate.

SHE (_Sighing_): I hope they will be very happy.

HE (_Rather bitterly_): Oh, they will!  So happy they won't want me
cruising in their waters.  That's the worst o' marriage, it so often
casts off Friendship and sends it adrift.  So don't you go marrying
anyone, Andromeda.

SHE (_Beginning to line a basin with dough_): I never shall--never.

HE (_Fervently_): Good!  Neither shall I.

SHE: Why not?

HE: Because having made two fool attempts I shall never make
another--not I.  Besides, should this threat of invasion continue I
shall ship myself off to fight the mounseers.

SHE: So should I--were I a man.

Here she began cutting up the steak, but made such a business of it
that Sam rose and taking the knife from her (_very gently to be sure_)
shook his head at it, saying:

"As I thought--blunt as my finger!  Use my knife while I find a stone
and put an edge on this."

So Andromeda took the keen, glittering blade and found such ease in its
usage that Sam promptly gave it to her, showing how she must wear it in
its sheath belted around her slender waist.

The pudding was duly tied up and set to do its best in the black pot
above the fire; then while Sam went on with his peg-making, Andromeda,
throned upon a stool nearby, prepared the vegetables....  And now they
worked and talked in an ever-growing intimacy and understanding.

"Have you met Kate Ford?" he enquired.

"No, but I have seen her frequently at Lewes Market.  She is a
splendidly handsome creature."

"Ay, she's all that.  Ned's a mighty lucky fellow--and deserves to be."

"Have you many friends, Sam?"

"I had, but most of 'em got killed, one way or another ashore or
afloat.  So today my only real friend is Ned, Lord love him."

"No lady friends, Sam?"

"Only one--with golden eyes that ought to laugh yet never do."

"Perhaps they can't," she sighed, "or don't know how."

"Then I'll try to learn 'em.  For, d'ye see, no laugh is real unless it
somehow gets into the eyes."

"I fear I am a very depressing person, Sam."

"No, for there's a dimple in your cheek sometimes, and that mouth of
yours was made for laughter and--"  Sam closed his lips on the word,
whereupon she, of course, instantly demanded:

"What, Sam?"

"Smiles," he answered.  Here she glanced up from the potato she was
peeling, and with smile so unexpected, so altogether lovely and
dazzling that Sam very nearly cut himself.

"You were going to say 'kisses', weren't you?"

"Yes," he admitted.

"And very silly, very foolish of you, Sam--if you want my friendship."

"Oh?" he murmured.  "Ah?  Why?"

"Because my kisses would destroy friendship--utterly and forever."

"How?" he enquired.  "Why?  Just what do you mean?"

"Think and find out!" said she, and went on peeling the potato.  And
when Sam had chipped and pondered awhile, he changed the subject by
enquiring:

"Do you happen to know Cecily Croft?"

"Quite well, why?"

"What sort of person is she?"

"A fool, of course, but a very beautiful one.  She is sweet and good
and gentle, but a fool because she is wasting herself on that
abomination called Ralph Scrope."

"Ay, she told me some such--"

"Oh!  Indeed!" exclaimed Andromeda, and dropped a potato.  "Do you know
her so well?"

"I met her for the first time this morning on my way here."

"I see!" murmured Andromeda, reaching down for the errant vegetable.
"Well, don't you think she is a--supremely beautiful girl?"

"Ay, I do indeed."

"With--the most glorious hair?"

"Yes, like ripe corn."

"And you admire that colour, of course?"

"Yes, though I prefer black."

"You feel compelled to say that, I suppose?"

"I do, for d'ye see truth compels."

"Are you so extremely truthful--always?"

"I hope so--except when truth is like to hurt."

"Yes, and how then?"

"Why then I pipe down, stow my jaw-tackle and hold my tongue."

"Are you going to hold it now?"

"No--why should I?"

"Then tell me how Cecily came to be so confiding to you--a stranger?"

"First, do you like her, Andromeda, are you her friend?"

"Yes, she saved my life."

"Did she, by George?"

"No, by her strong arms--and they are as 'round and white' as mine,
please understand."

"Tell me about it."

"It was that day I brought our little Jane up from death in that awful
pool.  I am a strong swimmer but the horrid weeds caught and held me
down ... there in the frightful dark ... grasped and clutched me like
slimy hands and arms....  It was Cecily who lifted me half dead from
that ghastly water at last."

"Hurrah for Cecily!  And it was by that same accursed pool I met her
this morning, crying her eyes out and so near death that her long hair
was awash."

"That horrible place!" gasped Andromeda.  "Oh, my poor, poor Cecily!
There is something very--terrible about that pool!"

"So I think," Sam agreed.  "'Tis an evil place should be blotted out,
and shall be--someday, and pretty soon, maybe--"

"Yes, Sam.  Too many have died there in the past....  And now--poor,
distraught Cecily!  Do you think she too--?"

"Only the Lord knows that."

"Ah," whispered Andromeda, shivering, "love can be very frightful ...
such an agony ... to drive one so sweetly simple, so purely good as
Cecily to even think of death so dreadful and for such brute beast as
Ralph Scrope!  Love can be the bitterest curse!"

"Too true!" nodded Sam.  "And yet the holiest blessing and comfort
also, my dear--for such happy ones as Ned and Kate.  As for Cecily--her
love is so deep, so true and marvellous that I can only wonder and
feel--well--humble and almost envious of such a love."

"Oh!  Why?"

"By the glorious unreason and beautiful folly of it.  For in spite of
everything she adores the dam' fellow still!  Told me he was only
breaking her heart because 'twas his duty to save his family from ruin
and that she'd love him till she died, ay--and that he was breaking his
own heart, too."

"Impossible!" exclaimed Andromeda, scornfully.  "Such abhorrent wretch
has no heart to break!"

"I wonder?" queried Sam.

"Good gracious--why?"

"That time we saw the fellow gallop past us in the lane his dusty face
was all streaked with tears--and I'm hoping they were for Cecily."

"Why ever should you?"

"Because d'ye see, I promised she shall wed the fellow--ay, and within
the year!"  Here, Andromeda gazed at Sam in such speechless amazement
that he enquired:

"What's so wonderful?"

"Not wonderful!" she retorted, indignantly.  "Only wickedly foolish and
cruel.  You told her that--that absurd nonsense merely to soothe and
comfort her, I suppose?"

"Of course!  And it acted like a charm."

"An evil charm that can only work greater misery and evil later on, as
you must know."

"But I don't.  Why should it?"

"Because your easy promise is quite beyond your power to fulfil!  You
know it is all quite, quite impossible.  So why deceive the poor soul
with false hopes?"

"Not false but sincerely true, my dear--"

"I am not your dear.  And it was a cruelly impossible promise!  So why
make it?"

"Well, let's say because I am a seaman."

"What on earth has that to do with it?"

"Everything!  For d'ye see my--Andromeda, seamen are always doing the
impossible and always will--"

"Oh, Sam, what preposterous nonsense!  Seamen are only human, the poor
men often drown and their great ships are wrecked because it is
impossible to save them--"

"No!  Because they are summoned aloft by the Lord High Admiral of us
all."

"Sam, you are evading the question."

"However," said he, shaping the last peg, "I believe nothing is
impossible until we make it so.  And I'm so sure Cecily shall wed her
confounded Ralph that I'm ready to lay you a wager on it.  Let's say--a
new collar for Esau here, bless his shaggy hide--to one of your oldest
shoes."  At this she glanced up in a surprise made utterly delightful
by the swift, conscious flush that could soften the too-austere beauty
of her too such shy and gentle loveliness--or so thought Sam, as she
exclaimed, though very tenderly:

"How absurd!  What ever could you do with such a thing--supposing you
won?"

"Treasure it!" he answered, adding promptly: "As a token of
friendship--and patient service.  So, what do you say?"

"No, of course not!  First, because my shoes are never too old until
they fall to pieces and then I burn them or throw them away.  And
secondly, because when not going to town, I usually wear things like
these, as I'm sure you have noticed, but--look again!"  And she thrust
out a slender foot and ankle tied into such thick-soled, clumsy boot
that Sam frowned, demanding:

"Why wear such things?"

"To keep out the early morning dew.  I usually change them later, but
today I forgot because of Mr. Jennings' magnificent playing.  Why do
you so dislike the poor man?"

"Well," enquired Sam, "why does Esau?  He and I are of the same mind.
Eh, old lad?" said he, patting the great animal who lay couched beside
him.  "Well, your pegs are finished, Andromeda."

"And I'm very grateful, Sam."

"Then come and help me to fix 'em."

"I'm afraid the hammer is broken."

"Only needs a new shaft.  I'll make one."

"The axe is over there."

"Ay, and blunter than your knife.  I'll sharpen it presently."

"You have made these pegs quite--beautifully."

"Because they are for you.  Tomorrow I'll rig new stays----"

At this moment a distant church clock struck the hour.

"Twelve!" gasped Andromeda.  "Twelve o'clock--already!"

"Am-azing!" exclaimed Sam, driving the last peg.

"And those vegetables ought to be on!"

"Well, let's put them on!" quoth Sam; which done, he set to work
sharpening the axe with a stone from the brook that made a soft
rippling nearby like elfin laughter, while Andromeda, seated upon the
stool again, now busied herself with needle and thimble.  And after she
had stitched and he had ground awhile in silent though eloquent
communion, Sam enquired:

"Are you never idle?"

"Yes, often.  Why?"

"I can hardly believe it."

"Oh, but I am.  Sometimes I sit doing nothing for hours."

"Then do it now--for half-an-hour.  Give those hard-worked hands a
rest."

"When I have mended these stockings."

"Such silken splendours!" said Sam.

"Yes, they are lovely."

"Your uncle's, of course."

"Yes, he can't bear anything coarse or common."

"Though others must."

"If by 'others' you mean me, pray understand that I also wear
silk--sometimes, though I prefer worsted or wool to work in."

"Does he ever work--ever try to help you?"

"He does his best."

"Does he ever turn those soft, white hands of his to anything besides
his confounded harp and paint-brush?"

"Oh yes--sometimes.  But why should he when I am only too glad to do
anything--all I can for him?"

"Precisely!  You are his too-willing slave and he accepts all your
ceaseless labour as his due because he is a wilful do-nothing, a
selfish, domineering autocrat--a tyrant who is killing you in his
service, stealing your youth, spoiling your life and will leave you
desolate at last..."

"Have you done?" she enquired gently when Sam paused for breath.

"No, I could go on and--"

"Then please don't, it would be of no avail, I must and shall live for
and serve him so long as he needs me no matter what the end may be."

"Ha!" growled Sam, looking up at her beneath close-knit brows.  "So you
will sacrifice yourself because he saved you-his own sister's
child--from poverty, which was no more than act of common decency to
his own flesh and blood!  So why make a kind of saint of him, why
glorify him for being human and doing no more than his duty?  Ay, and
to one of his own family!  Any man worth the name would have done as
much."

Andromeda's busy needle was suddenly stilled, and for a moment she sat
as if lost in unhappy reflection: when at last she spoke: it was
unwillingly and with an effort:

"Then I must tell you ... how Uncle Arthur not only saved my young mind
from ... ruinous evil but my childish body also....  I can never
describe all the sordid shame and misery I endured after my poor
father's death....  But I was nearly fourteen and had become the
wretched drudge of a cruel mistress and ... a man so unspeakably vile
that ... at last ... one day ... he--"  The words died on her quivering
lip, her eyes widening to such remembered horror that Sam instinctively
cowered, waiting in sickening apprehension of what he must hear:

"Andromeda--?" he said, at last; and in this one word, harshly
whispered, such agony of dread that instinctively she reached out her
hand to comfort him, saying and more tenderly than he had ever heard:

"Dear Sam!  No!  God sent my salvation--it was then Uncle Arthur found
me at last!  And when he had nearly killed the man, he bore me away to
his loving care--a great, glad life at last.  He saved me from living
death and gave me instead all the best and noblest of life....  So
today, in his weakness, I remember him for the wonderful man he was and
shall love him, watch over and serve him--to the end.  So now, Sam, you
understand, don't you?"

"Yes," he answered, mournfully.  "Yes, I understand."

"Well now--don't look such a woeful Sam--come and help me to dish up
our dinner."

"Ours?" he enquired.

"If you will honour our simple board, Mr. Felton, sir."

"Ay, but--what of Mr. Verinder?  I'm pretty sure he don't like me, d'ye
see--"

"He will welcome you, of course, like the gracious gentleman he is."
At this moment Esau cocked his ears and wagged stumpy tail, for, as if
conjured up by mention of his name, Mr. Verinder appeared, advancing
with his short, tripping stride.

"Ah, Mr. Felton," said he, bowing hat in hand, "do I see you yet?"

"Ay, sir," answered Sam, returning this salute rather awkwardly,
"though I was about to bear up and stand away--go, d'ye see, sir."

"That is well, Mr. Felton, that is very well, for I am not well, indeed
no!  Meda, my love, I think I will lie down a while."

"But, Uncle, the steak-pudding!  See, it is all ready----"

"There are kidneys also, I trust?"

"Of course, with onions and seasoned as you like it--"

"Then you may bear us a small portion to the caravan, child--though we
doubt if we can touch a morsel--but we will attempt it--for your sake,
Meda love.  Pray do not tarry....  Good morning, Mr. Felton, or--should
I say--Good-bye?"  Uttering which, Mr. Verinder turned and tripped away
to his caravan.

"Now I wonder," sighed Andromeda, "what can have upset him--he looked
dreadfully pale."

"However," said Sam, rather grimly, "it is just as well you didn't
forget the kidneys!  Well--now, Andromeda, '_a dieu_' as the mounseers
say, but--I shall see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," she repeated, glancing towards the caravan with look almost
apprehensive, and Sam frowned to see the trouble was back in her eyes
again.  "No--not tomorrow," she sighed.

"Ah?" exclaimed Sam, also glancing towards the caravan.  "Well, if not
tomorrow--when?"

"I ... I'm not sure," she answered in voice troubled as her look, "I'll
send you word by Cecily Croft."

"Then please," said Sam, baring head in farewell, "please let it be
soon and I hope ... no, tell me you'll be glad to see me--a little."

"Yes," she answered, giving him her hand, "yes, I shall be--very glad."




CHAPTER XXVIII

IN WHICH IS MENTION OF A MOTHER AND SON

Very thoughtful was Sam as he trudged homewards, indeed so profoundly
abstracted that he went astray and became lost in a maze of
field-paths, cart-tracks and narrow lanes; but guiding himself with
sailorly instinct, came out at last upon an unfamiliar road shut in by
trees and tall hedges.  Therefore he paused to take his bearings and
thus espied the thatched roof of a cottage, a small, wicket gate and a
motionless woman who leaned across it, peering intently away from him
along this shady road.  So thither went Sam, his feet soundless upon
the grass bordering this road, while the woman continued to gaze away
with the same fixed and motionless intensity.  Now as he approached
thus silently, he became aware of two things--that this slender,
graceful woman was no rustic cottage-body, and that there was something
almost dreadful in her strained attitude and utter stillness ... a
fearful, an agonized expectancy.

He was close enough for speech, when, as if warned by some sense other
than hearing, she started violently, turned and shrank away, showing a
face, haggard though still beautiful, framed in grey hair and lit by
dark eyes wide in such swift terror that Sam halted amazed beyond
words, and before he could find utterance, she spoke in dreadful,
gasping voice:

"He is ... not ... here!  I tell you ... he is not ... here!  Why is he
being ... spied upon?  Why do you ... follow him?"

"Madam," Sam replied, gently as he might, "I've no idea what you mean.
But don't, pray don't be so alarmed."

"But, he told me," she whispered, "of ... eyes that watched ... through
the leaves, footsteps that ... creep--"

"My poor soul," quoth Sam, strangely moved by the agony in her voice
and look, "Lord love you now, here is nothing to dread ye.  I'm but a
stranger who has lost his way, d'ye see, off my course and beg to ask
if you can direct me to Willowmead Farm."

"Oh--oh, then, I--I crave your pardon," she said, in the same nervous,
breathless manner.  "I ... I am not well ... my nerves ... pray forgive
me.  Yes, this road will take you there ... to Willowmead, though a
quicker way is by the field path ... the lane opposite ... across the
stile to your left."

"Thank you, lady," quoth Sam, hat in hand, "I'm mighty sorry I so
frightened you ... and if you are in any trouble, say the word and I'll
be glad to do my best--"

"No--no!" she answered hurriedly.  "Thank you--no!  And your way
is--down the lane you see opposite and over the stile to your left."

So thither went Sam, and more thoughtful than ever.  He had crossed the
stile and gone but a short distance when again he stood arrested, this
time by the sound of hasty, strangely uneven footsteps upon the road,
feet that strode apace and broke frequently into a stumbling run.  Now
peering through the tall screening hedge beside him, he saw this
hurrying pedestrian was Mr. Jennings; the lady had seen also, for
throwing open the wicket gate, she sped to clasp and welcome him,
but--sinking to his knees he buried his face in her gown, half stifling
his wailing, desolate cry:

"Oh, Mother ... beloved ... I'm lost again in the dreadful dark!  Oh,
Mother now ... you are threatened ... homeless ... destitute--"

"Eustace," she answered, stooping to lift and comfort him, "my darling,
never mind!  He can never hurt me any more, never again!  Come you
indoors, my dear one, music shall make us forget awhile ... I have
schemed an accompaniment to your Rondo, come let us try it over, my own
darling--come!"  So saying, tender mother led grievous son away into
the little cottage.

Thus, gazing wistfully after them, Sam must needs remember that sweetly
gentle woman who, despite poverty and hardship having mothered him so
wonderfully, had died worn out and, of course, too soon!  And thinking
of all he might now have done for her, the cottage chimney, thatched
roof and little wicket gate grew suddenly all blurred upon his sight....

Thus, when a hand touched him and, starting, he beheld Mr. Shrig, Sam
forthwith cursed and damned his eyes the more fervently because of the
tears that were half-blinding his own.

"And nobody," said Mr. Shrig, placidly, "has ever cursed me more fluent
and hearty!  But talking o' mothers, pal Sam, these yere eyes o' mine
as you've damned so eloquent, never see my own ma to remember, yet if I
could pick me a mother--yonder she goes along o' Number Two."

"Ay," nodded Sam, as they went on together, "a lovely person, Jasper,
though very sad and--strangely fearful."

"'Sorrer' is often another name for 'mother', pal ... and there's more
o' same a-coming yonder!  And talking o' sorrer and grief nat'rally
brings us to steak and kidney pudden."

"Eh?" exclaimed Sam, halting in surprise.  "Why what the devil----"

"No, pudden, pal, coupled vith the name o' Mr. A. Werinder as has
lately took sich a werry strong awersion agin you b'reason o' Number
Two and all because of a certain young female party vith a crack-jaw
name as I'll call Miss A, same as kips or dosses in a tent----"

"Avast, Jasper!  Haul your wind and speak plain!  Just what are you
trying to tell me?"

"That you are raising more windictiveness agin yourself, ar--you're
driving Number Two frantic and ditter Mr. Werinder and my anxiety is
rose according."

"How so, Jasper?"

"Along o' you making love to Miss A, aforesaid--"

"Making love?  Who?  Me?" gasped Sam, in fury of indignation that swept
him above all mere rules of grammar.

"Ar--you, pal."

"What dam' nonsense!  Who says so?"

"Seeing's believing."

"Believing what?"

"Sir and Sam, if a young cove--'specially a sailorman, looks at a young
fe-male party as if he could eat or as you might say, de-wour her, it
argufies love on his part.  And if aforementioned young fe-male looks
at him as if she yearned to run into his arms and be de-woured or give
him the chance thereof, it argufies love on her part.  Vich I therefore
repeats seeing's believing."

"Now damme!" exclaimed Sam.  "This means you've been prying on us--a
spy, eh?"

"No, sir, 'tis others is the spies.  I'm your own partickler hark-angel
in top-boots to see, according to Holy Writ, as you don't dash your
stamper agin a rock neether run yourself into any kind o' danger.  And
there y'are!"

"Hell!" exclaimed Sam, striding on again.  "Are you always on my heels?"

"Not always--no, that ain't hardly to be expected, but I do my best, as
in dooty bound."

"This is perfectly damnable!"

"It is!" said Mr. Shrig with fervour.  "Damnable's the vord, pal, for
dog bite me if you ain't more leery-skittish than any vill-o'-the-visp,
risking your precious carkiss here and theer, if not afoot, then in a
cart along o' that young fe-male party aforesaid--"

"Lord love me!" groaned Sam, with hopeless gesture.  "This is sheer,
dev'lish persecution!  Ay, b'gad, the whole countryside must be full o'
your spies, for Mr. Joliffe writes you have called others to help you."

"Ar!" sighed Mr. Shrig.  "But I called in wain!  For because o' this
hot weather, Crime in London and Wiciousness in general has growed that
rampagious that The Law has all its limbs occupied com-plete.  So today
here's only self, Dan'l and my Gimblet to prewent you being measured
untimely for a vooden overcoat.  Now if you ax me about said Gimblet--"

"I don't!" quoth Sam, lengthening his stride.

"Then," said Mr. Shrig, following suit, "I'd better tell ye all about
the same, for your own sake hereafter.  Are y' listening?"

"Ay, ay, since I must."

"Then, pal, my Gimblet is a London street arab, a little orphan vaif as
I've took under my ving to eddicate up to The Law and sich sharp young
shaver that I've named him Gimblet and for oo's be-hoof I now take
partickler care vith my h-aitches!  A werry bright lad rising fifteen
or thereabouts for nobody can't be sure to a year or so, and you'd
better look him over so as you'll know him again."  Here, Mr. Shrig
whistled a trill of soft, melodious notes and out from the leafage
close by a small shape emerged with hardly a rustle; a trimly clad boy
with the quick, bright eyes and sharp, impish features of the true
cockney urchin.  Halting before them he touched cap with up-flung
finger, saying:

"'Ere I ham, Gaffer."

"Ar," nodded Mr. Shrig, "but you've got your aitch in the wrong place,
Gimblet.  And don't call me 'Gaffer'."

"Very good, Gov."

"Tell us, lad, oo is this here gen'leman?"

"Felton, Gov'nor, likewise Sam-u-el, First Orficer o' the _Fortun'_
privateer."

"Right, lad.  But oo else is he, and speak soft."  And the boy
answered, whispering:

"Jaff-et, Lord Scrope, h-earl o' Wrybourne."

"Right again, Gimblet, only you've got a aitch now as shouldn't be."

"Ax pardin, Gov, but them aitches is allus a-ketchin' of me onexpected
like."

"Ar!" nodded Mr. Shrig.  "They do!  For, Gimblet, this here letter
Aitch is a reg'lar double-faced leery-lurcher.  He's a dodger and a
ducker, he's as slippery as a werry moist eel!  He's a changeable
customer, sometimes hissing like snakes and sarpents and sometimes
silent as ghosts and phaintums, so take doo heed, my lad!  Now,
anything to report?"

"No, Gov--'cept when I tracks 'em to the cottage I hears Number Two
cryin' and sobbin' like billy-o and so was she, but I left 'em fiddlin'
and playin' the h-arp."

"Werry good!  Now cut along to your dinner and tell Dan'l to have
summat kept hot for me."

"Right-o, Gov'ner.  An' if Mr. Felton wasn't a h-earl, and in our
charge, I'd cock a fair snook at 'im I would, for frownin' at me like
as he is now."  Sam chuckled suddenly, laughed and took out a
half-crown, saying:

"Let's see."  Instantly Gimblet set thumb to snub-nose, spread his
fingers, wagged them and shot out his tongue with hideous grimace--all
in as many moments.

"Pretty good!"  Sam nodded and tossed the coin which Gimblet caught
dexterously, spat upon for luck, spun aloft and finally pocketed; which
done, the boy took off his cap to say, with odd little bow:

"Thankee, sir, best respex, sir!"  And away he sped.

"Yes," said Sam, looking after him with a smile, "a smart little
fellow, Jasper."

"Ar--and though full of impidence, fuller still o' gratitood.  And
you'll know him again, I hope, because like as not you're a-going to
see him pretty often--so soon as Number Vun makes a move as he's bound
to do before long."

"The sooner the better, and when he does--how then?"

"Pal, ekker alone replies!  But--so soon as Number Vun finds out as you
ain't so nice and dead as he now hopes and believes, then--Murder'll be
up and arter you again, ar--morning, noon and night.  If you should
wenter abroad in lonesome places, every bush and tree'll be a wital
menace!  Death'll creep in your werry shadder!  So, Sam and sir--take
heed!"

"Ay, ay, Jasper.  But now, talking of steak and kidney pudding--"

"Eh?" exclaimed Mr. Shrig, halting in surprise.  "Did you say steak
and--"

"Kidney pudding--yes!"

"Ar!" quoth Mr. Shrig with quick side-glance.  "Coupled, I suppose,
vith the name o' Miss A."

"Yes, Jasper.  I'd have you tell me again exactly how she looked."

"Prime!" answered Mr. Shrig, his keen eyes twinkling.  "A ree-markable
handsome young fe-male.  She looked prime, pal, and werry kissable."

"Did she, b'George?"

"No, by you, sir and Sam."

"Jasper, if you are friend o' mine--talk sense."

"So be it.  Then hark you and heed!  In hopeful expectation as Numbers
Vun and Two must shortly make a move, I'm keeping a werry sharp ogle on
same.  Consequently this morning I ob-serve Number Two peeping and
prying on Miss A and you."

"Then curse the fellow!"

"He is so, pal!  For if ever I see a cove in torment--'twas him!  Every
look you give her is vips and scorpions for him--ar, but--'twas a
dagger in his buzzum every time she looked at you!"

"Oh?" murmured Sam.  "Ah?  Just how did she look at me, then?"

"Love, pal!  All her throbber or as you might say, heart in them big,
soft eyes o' hers--lovely sad eyes she's got--like a cow."

"Eh?" gasped Sam.  "Damme--a what, Jasper?"

"Cow, Sam and sir.  Some cows can look at ye so werry plaintive, vith
ogles sad enough to make some folks veep for sympathy.  So there's this
lovesome Miss offering herself to you in every look and you all
unregardful, chopping sticks vith that sharp knife o' yourn, then
looking at her as if you could eat her!  Vich therefore your friend
J.S. now makes bold to ad-wise you....  Are you listening?"

"Of course I am!" Sam answered, rather pettishly.  "So carry on,
man--what is your advice?"

"That you coax or veedle her into that there pony-cart and drive off
vith her as fast and far as ye can go, ar--the further the better!
Result--con-tentment for both o' you, con-flummeration for Vun and Two,
relief for me and the pot set a-biling generally."

"How," demanded Sam, halting again, "are you suggesting I--elope with
her?"

"That i-dentical."

"But ... good Lord--to do such thing I'd have to be desperately in
love."

"Well--ain't you?"

"No, certainly not."

"Sure o' that?"

"Yes ... yes, of course I am."

"Then," said Mr. Shrig, easing large, silver watch from his fob, "it
being now thirty-two and a half minutes past twelve, all I can say
is--Good-arternoon!"

"The same to you, Jasper, and I'll thank you not to make your care of
me so all-pervading, dammit--and overpowering."

"Werry good, sir and Sam--and so soon as you've got yourself
com-pletely flummaxed you'll allus find me, if you ain't a cadaver,
under the name of Caleb Brown at the Ring o' Bells t'other side
Wrybourne Willage.  So pray, remember--Caleb Brown allus at your
service."  Then with airy flourish of his stick, Mr. Shrig trudged off.

This same evening after supper, Sam indited the following letter:


Willowmead, June 26.

SIR AND MY DEAR BEN,

Thanks for yours of the 21st with its warm-hearted and friendly
warning.  But I have to inform you that the Walking Evil you mention
now supposes me dead, thanks to a poor wretch who stole my clothes and
thus got himself shot and killed in my stead.  Thus our Two Legged Evil
imagines me a corpse and Shrig, fostering this belief, now waits the
next move.  Meanwhile I am the victim of Jasper Shrig's unrelenting
care, he watches over me so remorselessly that he is continually
running athwart my hawse and falling aboard of me and always when least
wanted or expected.  However, I write now to beg you as friend (and
command you as my esteemed man of business) to meet me not later than
Thursday next two days hence at the "White Hart" Lewes on matter that
can best be transacted face to face and man to man.  Also I shall be
right glad to see you, Ben.  Therefore, Mr. Joliffe, fail not

Your obliged and sincere friend,
    SAM.




CHAPTER XXIX

TELLS OF THE DAY BEFORE

Willowmead was in a feminine turmoil for tomorrow was--the Wedding Day.

Light feet tripped and sped to and fro, upstairs and down, gay voices
called, laughed and chattered; Kate in the parlour with Grannyanne and
Aunt Deb attendant and critical, was trying on her wedding-gown;
Captain Ned, having got himself in everybody's way, finally wandered
forth in a sort of daze, to look at his new pig-sties, while Sam in the
orchard was hard at work constructing a rustic seat in the shade of his
favourite apple-tree.  Thus, presently guided by the purposeful ring of
hammer, thither wandered the Captain to watch and pace restlessly to
and fro nearby as if upon the quarterdeck of his ship and with never a
word until Wrybourne Church clock struck the hour, whereat Captain Ned
halted to say and very wistfully:

"Twelve of the clock, old messmate!"

"Ay!" replied Sam, busied now with saw.

"And tomorrow, Sam, tomorrow at this hour, we shall be just about
completing it."

"What, Ned?"

"The service, messmate--the--wedding.  And this is a very solemn
thought."

"It is so, Ned."

"At this hour tomorrow, old fellow, I shall be a Benedick!"

"Eh?" enquired Sam, glancing up.  "A what, Ned?"

"A bride's-man, shipmate."

"Oh!  Ah!" said Sam, driving another nail.  "Well, long life and
happiness to you, old lad, ay--to both of you."

"Thanks, Sam!" quoth the Captain and turned again to his quarter-deck
walk and Sam to his hammering.  But soon, back came the Captain to say:

"I shall be mighty glad when 'tis all over, messmate, the ceremony, I
mean."

"And so shall I!" answered Sam, fervently.  "For d'ye see, Ned, I'm
nowise sure I shan't miss stays or be taken aback--botch the whole
business and stead of your 'best man,' prove the opposite--"

"Not you, Sam!  Your sole duty will be to stand by and leave it to the
parson and me.  Tomorrow!  B'gad I can hardly believe it even now ...
that Kate and I ... at last ... so soon!  Seems too wonderful for
belief ... such marvellous happiness!"

"Ay, you're mighty lucky fellow, Ned, yet you deserve it all--or damme
if ye don't."

"Thanks again, Sam.  When are you going to follow my example, old
fellow?"

"How, Ned?"

"Marry of course and settle down."

"Now God love ye, Ned, who'd want me for her bride's-man or--Benedick,
was it?"

"Ay, and how about that handsome Miss Andromeda?"

"Well," demanded Sam, changing saw for hammer, "what of her?"

"Messmate, that's what I'm asking you."

"Ay, Ned, and why should you mention her?"

"Because--well, you've been in her company so often lately that we were
hoping, Kate and I, that perhaps you and she might make a match of it
and settle down somewhere near us, neighbours, Sam!  Could anything be
better?"

"Nothing in this world, Ned, only I'm pretty sure it can't ever be,
d'ye see."

"Why the devil not?"

"Well, since you ask, because I'm nothing near so well educated as
yourself, Ned, I'm too rough and ready, little better than an ordinary
fo'c'sle jack ... and I'm not up to my ears in love like you.  As for
Miss Andromeda--the chief reason for my visits is that little, precious
niece o' mine--Jane."

"Gammon!" laughed the Captain.  "Is little Jane the reason you have
been so moody of late?--not she!  Has little Jane put you off your
feed?  Not she!  Did little Jane drag you unwillingly in a certain
direction so often lately?  Certainly not!  No, Sam, my poor, old
juggins, you're in love, and you've taken it badly as I foretold.
Andromeda haunts you.  Her beautiful, sad face is in your thoughts
morning, noon and night!  Isn't this true?  Come, speak up, shipmate,
tell the truth and shame the Devil."

"Well," Sam began, then paused as his roving glance espied a hat
emerging slowly from behind a tree at no great distance, a familiar hat
followed by the wrinkled visage of old Mr. Toop who, catching Sam's
eye, winked his own and beckoned with stealthy though portentous finger.

"Sam, what now?" demanded Captain Ned.  "What the devil are you staring
at?"

"Yonder, Ned--our aged Mr. Toop."

"Ay, so I see.  Well, Gaffer, what can I do for you?"

"Nowt, Cap'n!" answered the old fellow, hobbling forward.  "Nowt wi'
you, maister, my business be wi' Mus' Felton an' strickly private,
strickly!"

"However," said Sam, "you can speak out now, Gaffer.  For Ned, d'ye
see, Mr. Toop, has been good enough to choose me your wedding
present----"

"Ay, that Oi 'ave!" chuckled the aged man.  "Ar and 'ad the toime o' me
loife, I 'ave!  To fairs and markets I 'ave druv and nigh two wiks it's
took me choosin' an' checkin'--and allus the best--if not, then: 'Tek
'em away' say Oi, for Oi be buyin' f'r a gen'leman as wants only the
proimest o' the proime!  Money's no objec', Oi sez.  Ar and b' the pyx
Oi've got 'em tu--the best as eyes ever see."

"Good!" nodded Sam.  "Where are they?"

"Comin' 'long lane yonder.  And theer ain't another 'erd to ekal 'em in
arl the South Country nor nowheres else!  Coats so silky, s' smooth and
glossy as the down on a babby's 'ead!  Udders on 'em like so many
gally-oons!"

"How many?" Sam enquired.

"So many as we can 'commodate, maister--twenty and four, and every one
on 'em--in milk!"

"Lord!" exclaimed the Captain, hushed of voice but eyes aglow, "Lord
love you, old shipmate, I--Damme, I've no words to thank you--"

"Don't ee try, Cap'n!" piped Mr. Toop.  "Norra word till you've seed
'em.  Come now and lemme show ee!"  Thus jubilant of air though rather
tottery of gaitered legs, old Mr. Toop hurried them into the spacious
farm-yard that seemed full of tossing horns, sleek bodies and swishing
tails--a truly magnificent herd whose lowing had drawn hither an amazed
and admiring audience.

"Ours, Kate, ours!" cried the Captain.  "Sam's wedding present!"

"My merciful Maker!" exclaimed Aunt Deb.

"La, what booties they be!" cried Nancy.

"Ha--a very lordly gift!" quoth Grannyanne.

"Oh!" sighed Kate, viewing these splendid animals with eyes of knowing
and rapturous appraisal.  "Oh, Sam ... my dear ... you must have spent
a fortune!  Ned, how can we ever thank him?"

"We can't!" replied the Captain, shaking his comely head.  "It goes
beyond mere words, yet we can try----"

"No need!" quoth Sam, almost gruffly.  "None at all, Kate and Ned,
because d'ye see--you've given me such home and you're learning me to
love the good land so much more than I thought possible that 'tis I am
the grateful one.  And if the herd is so good, 'tis old Mr. Toop here
you have to thank--he chose 'em, d'ye see--"

"Ay--'tis me!" chirruped the aged man.  "'Tis me as done arl the
choosin' and chafferin', 'tis me as picked they--every one!  And, oh
me, dear souls, a pretty penny they costed--ah, a mort o' money, never
see s'much in arl me days, if I wur to tell ee 'ow much----"

"No, no," laughed Sam, "mum for that, Gaffer, not another word and ...
why, Lord love me, there's my little sweetheart!"  So saying, he sped
away where Jane was singing her song of "Barbree Alling," in her sweet,
high voice.




CHAPTER XXX

TELLS HOW LORD JULIAN LAUGHED AND SAM FOUND HAPPINESS

"Oh, Uncle Sam, I have come to tell you 'bout my dolly's-house what my
dear, old Magic Tree sent with the cradle what I asked him for and I
love it.  So now please I want you to take me so I can thank him--so
will you?"

"Ay, to be sure I will, sweetheart.  So you love your dolly's-house, do
you?"

"Oh, Uncle Sam, I just 'dore it and so does my Batilda, too.  So now
let's go, shall us?  'Cause when I've said my thanks, we can call for a
visit to my Auntie Meda an' I can tell her about my lovely
dolly's-house too!"  So away they went along the winding lane and
seldom speaking because Jane was giving all her thought to her
wonderful dolly's-house while Sam pondered the whether or no of the
Captain's words:

"My poor, old juggins, you're in love with her and you've taken it
badly."

"By--George!" he exclaimed at last, removing his hat to run fingers
through his crisp-curling hair.  "By Jove and Jingo--I am!"

"What are you?" enquired Jane, turning to look up at him.

"In love, sweetheart!  Isn't that wonderful?"

"Oh no, 'cause everybody's always in love with somebody, like Tom an'
Nancy this morning, 'cause I heard him say 'Oh, Nancy, I love you
more'n I can say'--so then he kissed her an' she kissed him lots an'
lots--an' another time I heard my Uncle Ned say, 'Oh, Kate, I 'dore
you,' then he kissed her.  An' I like you best without your hat 'cause
your hair's so nice an' twisty...."

And now it was that round a bend in the lane, his horse's hoofs unheard
upon the turf, came Lord Julian Scrope, riding for once, at a walk;
also he sat bent in the saddle, arrogant head bowed as if in utter
weariness or profound thought.  Slowly he advanced until suddenly
espying Sam's burly figure and scarred brow, he jerked swiftly upright,
checking his horse so violently that the animal, snorting to pain of
fiercely-drawn bit, reared, subsided and stood shivering while his
master neither spoke nor moved.  Rigid and dumb Lord Julian stared
haggardly from a face whose deathly pallor was the more ghastly because
of the awful fixity of his wide-lidded, smouldering gaze....

So indescribably dreadful was his look that little Jane clasped Sam's
nearest leg; even the horse appeared to sense something terribly amiss,
for he fretted and champed, backed and sidled until at last came his
rider's hand to pat and soothe him, in which moment Lord Julian spoke
and with all his usual arrogance of look and tone:

"Tell me, fellow,--have I not seen you before?"

"Ay, my lord, you have," answered Sam, taking firmer grip on his heavy
stick.  "If you'll trouble to think hard enough, you may remember 'twas
at Willowmead.  We became somewhat familiar there, in fact
quite--closely connected."

"Ah-h-h!" sighed his lordship.  "At--Willowmead!"

"Yes, my lord.  Though I was in sailor rig then, but, d'ye see,
somebody shot my seafaring clothes and in 'em the poor thief that stole
'em, which though hard on him, was lucky for me and confoundedly
disappointing for--others.  How think you, my right noble lord?  Let's
hear your opinion on't, come now."

But instead of speaking, Lord Julian did that which Sam was never to
forget--his pallid lips quivered, parted to slow, terrible smile that
grew and widened upon sharp, white teeth, then--back went his stately
head and he began to laugh ... and laughed loud and louder ... until
his nervous horse whinnied shrilly in unison, and breaking into a
canter, was spurred viciously to such furious gallop as soon took them
out of sight; yet even then the echo of that frightful, mockery of
laughter rang upon the startled air--or so it seemed to Sam.

"Ooh!" cried Jane, clinging to him close as ever.  "Didn't he
laugh--drefful?"

"He did, sweetheart."

"And why d'you suppose?"

"Perhaps, my dear one, because he fancied he saw a ghost."

"But do folkses laugh at ghostesses?"

"Ay--some do, it seems, now and then, sweetheart.  However, let's
forget all about it and talk of your fairy aunt, instead."

"Yes, let's.  An' I think we ought to kiss and comfort her a bit, Uncle
Sam dear, 'cause sometimes her eyes look so weepy, don't they?"

"They do, my Jane, and so we will."

But at the end of this winding lane they beheld Cecily Croft hastening
towards them, and Sam was struck anew by the beauty of her.  Swiftly
she came and flushed with haste, said breathlessly:

"Oh, Mr. Felton, sir ... I come from--someone in trouble, someone who
wants you, please."  Now saying this, she glanced furtively at Jane and
shook her head.

"Thankee, Cecily," answered Sam, then stooping to Jane, he kissed her,
saying:

"Sweetheart, we must put off our visit because I'm wanted, d'ye see.
So now go home with Cecily and you shall take me a walk soon as I come
back."

Then up and away strode he, heedless of lurking perils and forgetful of
all things on earth except this "someone" who wanted him.

"And," said he, between shut teeth, as he lengthened his swinging
stride, "by God she shall have me!"

Very soon and with not even a glance towards the "Deep Dark"--that
place of brooding evil, he reached Jane's 'Chanted Forest, then halted,
suddenly breathless with great leap of his heart, for Andromeda was
coming towards him; thus it was beneath the broad, kindly shadow of
little Jane's "Magic Tree" that they met.

"Oh, Sam!" she sighed, and gave him both her hands.

"Andromeda!" he said, and took her in his arms, drawing her near,
folding her close upon his heart.  "My own ... beloved..." he
whispered, brokenly, and kissed her hair, her sad eyes, her ruddy lips
that, quivering beneath his, kissed him back....  And in this moment
Sam knew at last the Joy Ineffable--for now he felt her clinging arms
about him, her whole lovely body yielding to his in mute surrender.
Then leaning back that she might look up into his eyes, she questioned:

"Ah, Sam, is this your--mere friendship?"

"No!" he answered and quite fiercely.  "No, this is love at last, thank
God!  Ay, such as I have never known or imagined.  You are mine and I
am yours forever!  So, Andromeda ... oh, my dear, when shall--how soon
can we get married?"  Now instead of replying, she clung to him again
and, sobbing, began to kiss his rough coat until he lifted these
caressing lips to his own, murmuring:

"But, Andromeda, why must you weep?"

"For our love," she whispered, "because it is so vain ... so hopeless."

"No!" said he, at his grimmest.  "Oh no!  We belong to each other, we
always have and always shall--"

"Dear love," she sighed, in tone sadder than any tears, "such happiness
is not for us ... it can be only a passing dream because reality is so
vile, so hatefully cruel and wicked ... and may become so horrible that
now ... at last ... I am terribly afraid."

"Afraid?" he repeated, kissing her bowed head.  "All the more reason
for you to marry me soon, my beloved, ay--soon as possible."

"Loose me, Sam dear--let me show you a horror of the past and
a--growing terror of the present----"

"Is it your uncle again?"

"Yes, but--oh Sam, let me show you why--"

Instead, he swung her up in his arms and carrying her beneath this aged
tree of "magic," sat down with his back against its mighty bole, her
loveliness still close in his embrace, and for a never-to-be-forgotten
while, she nestled to him, clinging instinctively to his strength; and
thus with his lips upon her fragrant, midnight hair, he said, rather
breathlessly:

"I know now ... that I've always ... loved you, Andromeda ... yes even
before I saw you ... it was you I was looking for ... you, the other
part of myself, d'ye see!  So I shall always love you ... because I
must, it ... it stands to reason.  So when ... how soon shall we be
married?"

"Oh, my dear, my dear," she sighed, "how can I answer when you know I
shall never forsake poor Uncle Arthur, you know this."

"Ay, I do.  And so, if you must be his devoted slave, I'll be yours and
... help my sweet wife to take care of him by taking dam' good care of
her.  Yes, my Andromeda, besides your husband, I'll be your lover, your
'hewer of wood and drawer of water,' yours to serve--"  Here, with
soft, inarticulate cry, she drew him to the grateful passion of her
kiss; and thus sweetly dumb they, for a while, knew a rapture far too
deep for any words.  And now being conscious only of each other, how
should they be aware of the furtive eyes that watched their happiness
with such deep anguish, the pale lips close-set to such relentless
purpose?  Until:

"Oh--listen!" gasped Andromeda, roused to swift anxiety by a distant
though ferocious barking, "something is wrong!  I left Esau tied up
because he's been so strangely fierce and nervous lately ... but he
never barks so without reason!  Oh, hark to him!  Yes, something is
very wrong!  Oh, how glad I am to have you beside me, for I am nervous
too!  Come with me, Sam dear."

"To the world's end!" said he, drawing her hand within his arm.  Side
by side they hurried through this shady coppice until they came where
stood tent and caravan--with Esau straining at the stout cord that held
him, at sight of them he ceased his raving clamour, wagging stumpy
tail, but kept his fierce eyes glaring in the one direction.

"There must be someone hidden in the wood!" said Andromeda, glancing
around apprehensively as she stooped to pet and soothe the great dog.

"Lord!" muttered Sam, and invoked a silent malediction on Jasper
Shrig's all-pervading watchfulness.

"Whoever it was has gone now," said Andromeda as Esau, having flicked
red tongue at her caressing hand, composed himself in stately attitude
yet with shaggy ears cocked and bright eyes alert.

"Dearest lass," said Sam, kissing the hand he had retained, "why are
you trembling?  What is it so 'frights you?"  And drawing his long, and
very ready, arm about her shapeliness, she answered:

"Sit with me under our big tree yonder, your tree, Sam dear, where you
made my tent-pegs, and I'll tell and show you why at last I am so
greatly afraid."  So thither they went and there seated, he drew her
close and feeling how she nestled to him, kissed her, saying very
tenderly:

"You've a very beautiful body, Andromeda, and for this I love you.  Ah
but, d'ye see, in all this loveliness you have such sweet, ay, such
strong and valiant soul that for this I ... oh, I worship you so truly,
so reverently that I'm shamed by my own unworthiness.  For, d'ye see,
I'm such rough sort o' fellow with none of the airs and graces I would
have for your dear sake.  So now I'd like to know ... well--just how
you think of me.  And if you can say 'Sam, I love you' 'twould hearten
me, for you haven't yet--"

"Oh, but I have--repeatedly!"

"Not in so many words.  So if you can, pray do."

"Well then," said she, obediently, "Sam, my darling, I admire you for
your strength and grimly dogged manliness, but----  Oh, I love you for
these dear, grey, truthful eyes that have shown me so much of your
great, clean, gentle heart.  And mine is a love shall comfort you in
adversity, suffer with you in pain or grief, glory in your triumphs and
welcome hardship and, with you, death itself, rather than life without
you.  This is how I love you now, but if we are to be so blest--to
share life together, the years shall only make me more your own to
serve you, cherish and comfort you to--the end--and beyond.  So now,
Sam, are you content?  Why----  Oh, now you are crying!"

"Ay, I am!" he confessed, blinking.  "For ... oh, damme--how can I ever
be worthy such wonder of--"

But here, she proceeded to silence him; when at last she permitted him
speech:

"Andromeda," sighed he, "though you're such angel o' light, ay--so holy
I'd scarce dare touch you, yet thank God you're a woman also--for my
lips to kiss, these arms o' mine to clasp, this rough body o' mine
to--"  Here she silenced him again; which done, she resettled herself
beside him and holding his nearest hand in both her own, spoke now in
tone so dreadfully altered that Sam enquired anxiously:

"Eh--why, dear heart, what now?"

And, drawing a deep, shuddering breath, Andromeda told him:

"Last night Esau woke me and sitting up in the dark, I heard a
strangely awful mewing sound.  Sick with fear, I lit the storm-lantern
and with this in one hand and my other on Esau's collar, I went out to
see what it was.  Esau led me in among the thickets until I saw
something on the ground ... a dreadful shape that moved and twisted....
Then I heard that awful sound again, but ... it was not a poor animal
mewing--ah no, it was Uncle Arthur weeping more terribly than I ever
heard.  I ran and lifted him, his poor face all stained with earth and
wet with tears ... and then I saw that in his hand he grasped a
crumpled paper.  And with his terrible weeping he was whispering these
words, over and over again like a prayer--'Oh, God of Justice, give me
strength, give me vengeance.'  For a long time he lay there writhing
and twisting as if in torment and I could do nothing with him.  So I
prayed too, for God to help me, and my prayer was answered, for at last
my poor Uncle suffered me to bring him into his caravan.  The fire was
not quite out, so I warmed some milk and made him drink it, then
stroked his poor troubled head until he was soothed and fell asleep.
Then very gently I drew the crumpled paper from his fingers....  This
letter, Sam, this cause of my dear Uncle's anguished madness and my
growing terror!  Read with me this frightful, heart-breaking
message--though I know it almost by heart."  From her bosom, Andromeda
drew a folded paper, smoothed it out and together they read these words:


Julian, your heartless abandonment of me at such time as this, must be
God's punishment on me for my sin and wicked treachery to poor Arthur.
Without you I am desolate, and since you are so merciless I must seek
through death the abiding mercy of God--or solace of forgetfulness.
Yet, oh Julian, I am so greatly afraid of what I must do, yet even so
and with my last breath I pray God forgive you, for your wretched,
dying Barbara loves you still.  So now for the last time, Good-bye and
farewell.


"The Lady Barbara Stowe!" murmured Sam.  "Poor soul ...  God pity and
bless her!"

"Lord ... Julian ... Scrope!" hissed Andromeda, between shut teeth.
"He drove her, through anguish of love, to her death.  He drove my
Uncle Arthur, through anguish of grief, to ruin and madness!  Oh!" she
cried, leaping afoot.  "Such inhuman monster is too vile to live--I,
yes, I--could kill him!"  And flashing that keen knife from the sheath
at her girdle, she struck such passionate blow that Sam, rising
swiftly, cried:

"No--for God's sake, not you!  Here's no work for a woman's hand,
'specially this dear, gentle hand o' yours!"  Seizing this hand he
kissed it until she let the knife fall and turning, hid her face
against his breast, saying breathlessly:

"Oh, Sam ... had he been here ... I should have ... killed him!  Ah ...
horrible!  Hold me close, close ... take care of me for I'm afraid of
... the future and ... myself.  Marry me if you will ... when you will!
Take me and keep me ... safe in your strength--"

"Ay," growled Sam, "this will I, by God!"

"Alleluia!" exclaimed a voice so near that Sam turned, scowling, as out
from the leafage tripped Mr. Verinder.

"Glory!" said he, baring his white head reverently.  "Glory to God,
alleluia and amen!  And frown not, young man, for you are become my
blessing."

"Uncle Arthur.  Oh, my dear, what--"

"Beloved child, God has called me to his most holy work, His inspired
instrument I and in His mercy will presently free me of this futile
body and lift me, perfected by death, to His light and perfection of
achievement at last.  My only grief in dying was that I must leave
thee, my beloved niece, solitary, forlorn and unprotected.  Ah, but God
has now raised up this Felton, sent us this young, strong man to
espouse you and free me of all care, banish my last grief and
strengthen me to God's holy purpose and thereafter--bless me with
death--"

"What purpose, sir?" Sam enquired gently.  "And if you are His
instrument, how will God make use o' you, pray?"

"Dear Felton," said the little gentleman, patting his hand
affectionately.  "Ah, my dear, dear youth, here is subject too sacred,
and far, far too holy to discuss, even with you.  Instead, go you, I
beg, I plead, rouse fire and fill kettle ... Meda, my love, the day
wanes, I suggest tea--let it prepare.  And yes--thereafter, my loved
ones both, I will play for you a solo on my great harp, a song of
Life's supremest blessing--death.  So now let tea brew for I thirst,
likewise hunger."

With Sam's deft aid the meal was soon prepared--and who so witty, so
glad and unaffectedly joyous as Mr. Verinder.  Thereafter, down sat he
to this imposing instrument and from quivering strings wooed, plucked
and compelled such splendour of sound as held them rapt, enthralled by
the wonder of his artistry until evening shadows began to creep.

The wonder of this music was still haunting him when at last, with
Andromeda's parting kiss sweet upon his lips, Sam left her in the
shadows and turned unwillingly homewards.




CHAPTER XXXI

TELLS HOW SAM SAVED HIS LIFE AND TOLD A FORTUNE

The sun had gone down in glory, but the sky was still radiant with a
soft light that blessed the quiet world about him with a gentle,
wistful loveliness much like the beauty of his own so beloved
Andromeda....  He would see her again tomorrow ... ay, tomorrow he
would know again the rapture of her touch, her kiss, the
softly-yielding, vital feel of her in his arms ... tomorrow....  Thus
homewards fared Sam, musing happily of her and all the joys to
be--until, from dreaming lover he was suddenly transformed to grim,
fierce-eyed man strung for instant deadly action--and this merely
because a partridge had whirred unexpectedly from the woodland to his
right--where now every tree seemed a threat, each bush a menace,
especially a certain dense thicket.  Sam halted, took out his pipe and
setting it between his teeth, thrust hand into pocket and fumbled as if
for his tinder-box, but all the while his keen gaze was upon this
particular thicket; he heard it rustle faintly, saw leaves stir gently
and whipping out pistol, fired and tumbled headlong as from these
leaves leapt roaring red flame and death that hissed close above him.
And now rose a shrill scream with tempestuous flutter of petticoats and
Cecily Croft was kneeling beside him, had lifted him in soft, strong
arms, then, seeing his white-toothed grin, loosed him, saying
breathlessly:

"God ha' mercy--I thought--you was killed!"

"So did I, Cecily."

"Be you anywise--are you at all hurt, sir?"

"No, thank God!"

"It looked like you was being shot at deliberate, Mr. Felton!"

"Ay, so it did.  Confound these poachers!  'Twas from that
bush--yonder!" said he, and while Cecily glanced thither, Sam stole the
pistol back into pocket.

"Hush!" she warned.  "They're still there--listen!"

"Yes!" said Sam and leapt afoot; for now indeed the wood seemed full of
stir and movement, a distant leafy tumult swelling to vague clamour
suddenly hushed to a rustle that presently died away.  So came silence
sweetly broken all at once by the plaintive fluting of a blackbird.

"Well," said Sam, still watching this ominous wood where shadows
gloomed darker, "they've gone now, whoever they were, and we may as
well do the same.  I'll convoy you--see you safe home, if I may."

"Thank you, Mr. Felton, but you don't have to.  Uncle's farm do lie
down yonder, scarce five minutes if I run.  But before I go, sir, I'd
like to know why you told me all that fullishness about....  Oh, about
my poor Ralph wedding me when he can't and never will, and about me
being called ... Lady Scrope!  Such fullish nonsense, Mr. Felton--and
why?"

"Cecily, did you ever have your fortune told?"

"Well--once I crossed a gipsy's palm with sixpence."

"Well, what did she prophesy?"

"She said I'd ... marry my love and have ... oh ... sixteen children."

"Lord!" exclaimed Sam, with his transfiguring smile.  "She gave you
full money's worth, Cecily.  Now I'll tell your fortune, give me your
hand--either will do."

For a moment she hesitated, saying:

"Mine isn't a fine lady's hand all soft and white--'tis a hand to work
itself rough and hard----"

"So much the better!" quoth Sam, fervently, "for it is such hands are
our blessing--ay, and only such hands can make and keep a home,
Cecily."  So she gave him her hand warm with young life and strongly
capable; then gazing down into its open palm, Sam uttered this prophecy:

"Here I see gold, much wealth.  You are going to be a very rich woman.
But here I see a prison also and in this prison--your Ralph--"

"No!" she wailed, trying quite vainly to free her hand.  "Ah, no!"

"Oh yes!" quoth Sam.  "But to this vile prison and in splendid coach,
drives a grand and beautiful lady named Cecily Croft--"

"Me?" she gasped.

"At her command the prison gates open, by the power of her money the
poor prisoner is freed, and when he kneels to thank her she cries his
name and he recognizes his loving faithful Cecily.  And in that
moment--I hope--he knows his own unworthiness and growing humble,
becomes a better man."

Now when Sam released her hand she stood a while as though
entranced--until a shrewish voice at no great distance, cried:

"Cec'ly!  Oh, Cec'ly, where be ee gone--and all they cows to milk!
Come your ways now!"  So, waking from her dream Cecily glanced at its
inspirer through sparkle of tears, nodded dumbly and hurried away to
her never-ending labour.

Sam was still gazing after her when once again he heard a rustling
behind him and starting round, saw how the ever-deepening shadows had
transformed the woodland to a glooming mystery wherein something
stirred.  Every bush and tree became a menace, a stealthy threat to his
life--a life now so very precious because of Andromeda; wherefore,
thrusting hand into pocket Sam drew his second pistol, cocked it and
stood waiting.  The leafy rustling grew louder, nearer, until out from
the shadows stepped a figure bloody of face, dishevelled of person and
bare of head, who, beholding Sam, let fall a battered hat and leaning
heavily upon his stick, exclaimed in shaken accents:

"Blow ... my ... dicky!"

"Jasper!" cried Sam, hurrying to him.

"Dog ... bite me!" sighed Mr. Shrig distressfully.  "Ar, you can burn
my de-woted neck if I didn't expect to find you a bleeding ...
stiffening ... ca-daver--instead o' threatening me with that pop."

"Sink me!" exclaimed Sam, uncocking and repocketing his weapon.  "What
happened, Jasper, old fellow?  You've been grassed and your head cut--"

"Scratted, sir, only scratted, but--oh, pal, I have been diddled and
ditched by--your vould-be ass-assin!  I hears the shot, I speeds
thereto, I has my daddles on the murderer--almost, but--"

"Then you saw him, Jasper?"

"Ar, but----"

"Who was he?"

"A countryman, a yo-kel, ar--werry much so, hat, neckercher, smockfrock
and gaiters--all complete."

"Oh, ah, you mean a poacher?"

"No, a murderer--as proved too much for J. Shrig.  So my sperrits is
low, sir, and I'm shook mind and body!  J.S. is so hu-miliated, ar--I'm
that humble I can hardly bear my own company!"

"No, no," laughed Sam, setting arm about the speaker's drooping
shoulders.  "Cheer up, old fellow, we're not beat yet, far from it.  So
let's sit down, smoke a pipe and talk it over, come."

"Sir," said Mr. Shrig, mournfully, "ven I named you 'pal' being flashed
for 'brother,' I named you right!  For if Failure--vith a werry big
eff--chills the beating throbber and o-bases the soul, Friendship can
varm it and give a leg-up.  So, now, tobacker it is!"  Down they sat
forthwith, and when their pipes were alight and drawing, Mr. Shrig
sighed:

"Pal Sam, no man can't trooly enj'y sitting down till he's been shook
up and flattened out by the butt of a gun."

"That was the way of it, eh, Jasper.  I fancy I heard something of the
business, but never guessed it could be you."

"And ... I had him!" said Mr. Shrig with sigh like a groan.  "But he
broke free and fetched me such clout vith his gun as must ha' done for
me and been my final and to-tal qui-eetus but for this here noble dicer
o' mine!"  And taking up his hat, Mr. Shrig gazed wistfully at a great
dent in its crown.

"Looks ruined, Jasper."

"No, pal, all as it needs is a hammer."

"Eh, hammer?"

"Ar, 'tis lined wi' iron, y'see, my inwention again.  Windictiveness in
the form o' brick-bats, bludgeons and a occasional chimbley-pot, though
a gun-butt is coming it a bit strong!  Consequently here upon my tibby
is a lump like a negg!  Ar, but for my dicer I'd be at this i-dentical
moment, laying flat as a flounder and dead as mutton."

"And the fellow was dressed like a countryman, eh, Jasper?"

"Ar--even to his boots--hobnails."

"Did you see his face?"

"No, his chivvy vas hid by his neckercher and hat, and 'twas pretty
darkish among the trees, but--I see the end of his conk and caught a
glimp' of his eyes and--I shall know 'em again!"

"Then we're still in the dark, Jasper, still not sure of his identity?"

"Ar!  And us had better get on afore it grows any darker and somebody
tries another shot and makes surer this time."

So up they rose and on they went, both somewhat gloomy and silent,
until before them lay Willowmead, its latticed casements beaming homely
welcome.  At the wide yard gate they halted and, sighing gustily, Mr.
Shrig held out his hand, then let it fall, saying mournfully:

"Sir, I've growed that humble as I can't expect you to take the hand of
a failure, but----"

"Now damme," exclaimed Sam, seizing this hand to grasp it firmly,
"don't be such a juggins, Jasper!  I've never felt such kindness for
you as I do tonight, because d'ye see I'm going to be married."

"To Miss A?"

"Ay, none other."

"Then sir, Sam and pal, though grievous and werry desponding, I humbly
vish ye j'y, first a gal and then a b'y."  Having said which, Mr. Shrig
sighed, shook his head and trudged heavily away.




CHAPTER XXXII

HIS LORDSHIP COMMANDS

Mr. Joliffe's trim wig was somewhat askew, his lean face showed
slightly pink, his eyes sparkled as he sat opposite Sam at this
choicely-laden table; he ate with gusto, drank with the respectful
deliberation due to such noble vintage, he talked and laughed--yet all
the while was sternly repressing some powerful emotion, or so thought
Sam.  Thus when at last they leaned back in their chairs, comfortably
replete, Sam enquired:

"Well, Ben, what's on your mind?"

Mr. Joliffe smiled, viewed the wine in his glass with look very like an
ogle and sighed happily:

"This has been a meal worthy the occasion--a great--hem--truly
memorable and very singular occasion, for this is indeed a day of days.
So now, and before I explain more, I think since you informed me how
your fire-eating Captain Harlow is so happily tamed by matrimony and
even now upon his honeymoon, we should recharge our glasses and
pledge----"

"Ay, with all my heart!" cried Sam, reaching for the wine.  "Thanks,
Ben!  Come now and no heel-taps--health, joy and long life to
them--bless 'em!"

Now when this toast had been properly honoured, Mr. Joliffe set down
his empty glass, took out his snuff-box, glanced at it absently, fobbed
it again and leaning forward, said in hushed though jubilant tone:

"And now, Sam, now--'tis my pleasure to inform you that I
have--hem--spun webs to such effect that your blackguardly young cousin
the Honourable Ralph is--under lock and key, safely and securely
prisoned with no hope or possibility of enlargement or escape!"

"Good!" nodded Sam.

"Ah, but--better yet, his villainous sire, my lord Julian will be as
closely jailed three days hence!  Yes, Sam, positively in three short
days you will take your lofty station in Society as your true self
Japhet, Earl of Wrybourne!"

"Oh?" murmured Sam, rather gloomily.  "Ah!  And what then?"

"This of course is for you to decide, though, upon my soul, the
prospect appears to distress you!"

"It does, Ben, it does, damme!  For, d'ye see, I'm merest sailorman and
shall make such a fool of an earl!  Ay, sink me--I shall be a sheer
hulk ... all adrift ... or forever on my beam-ends."

"No, Sam, dear me, no!  To provide against such awkward contingency, I
shall engage the offices of a certain gentleman of ancient very noble
lineage to be your Maecenas, your mentor, guide and perambulating
vade-mecum, who shall instruct you as to your dress, address and
general deportment."

"Which," groaned Sam, "sounds very perfectly damnable!"

"Yet--most necessary!" said Mr. Joliffe, hiding a smile, what time Sam
scowled at his wine-glass.

Out came Mr. Joliffe's gold snuff-box again, but this time he extracted
a pinch, saying as he did so:

"Cheer up, my dear fellow.  Things might be worse--even though you are
young, an earl and stu-pendously rich!  Yes, indeed, there are worse
troubles.  And now regarding the business you wrote about, pray how can
I serve you?"

"Well--first, Ben, at a rough estimate--about how much am I worth?"

"Ah!" sighed Mr. Joliffe, closing his snuff-box and laying it carefully
upon the table.  "Such vast possessions constantly increasing since
money begets money, are difficult to compute exactly, but I can
confidently assert that your total fortune already amounts to
considerably more than a million sterling!"

"Hell!" exclaimed Sam, "I was afraid it would be pretty much but this
is worse than I expected----"

"Eh?" gasped the lawyer with clutch at his toppling spectacles.
"Worse,' d'ye say?"

"Ay.  So much worse, Ben, that I can't bear it."

"Can't ... bear--"  Mr. Joliffe's voice failed him.

"No, Ben, I can't and won't!  So I must get rid of some of it, let's
say half a million, and soon as possible."

"Half a mill--"  Mr. Joliffe seemed to choke.

"So you'll please draw up a deed of gift to this amount in the name
of--"

"Sam ... my dear fellow ... you are joking----"

"Ben, I was never more serious."

"But ... a gift ... five hundred thousand pounds ... such vast sum ...
a gift--"

"A million would be more, of course, Ben, so on second thoughts--"

"Sam ... Sam ... what are you saying?" gasped Mr. Joliffe, peering at
him anxiously through and over his spectacles.  "You are not
yourself--the wine perhaps--?"

"I'm sober as a barn owl, Ben."

"Then--a touch of the sun--or that wound in your head!  However, my
dear Sam, do nothing in a hurry, I beg--I plead!  Defer this matter for
a day or so, give yourself time to think ... I protest you confound me,
indeed you alarm me, Sam!"

"Ben," he sighed, a little wearily, "I'm neither drunk nor sun-struck
nor crazed with my wound, and being perfectly sound o' mind and body, I
now desire you to draw up the necessary legal what-nots, deeds,
indentures, conveyances and so on, for the bestowing of half my
heritage to----"

"Good, great Je-hovah!" gasped Mr. Joliffe, dabbing at moist brow with
a table napkin.  "Oh, Sam, think--for God's sake think what you would
do!  Be advised and give up this incredible, this preposterous folly."

"Mr. Joliffe," quoth Sam, becoming quite grim, "here and now my
lordship Japhet, Earl of Wrybourne, commands you as his lawyer to
prepare the proper legal instruments whereby my Lord of Wrybourne can
give, bestow and transfer half this fortune to Mistress Cecily
Croft--at once."

"A million!" repeated Mr. Joliffe in ghostly whisper, writhing as if in
bodily anguish.  "This ... oh, this is unheard of ... unbelievable!
It's utterly preposterous!"

"Ay, damme, preposterous it is, Ben, that one man should own so much,
and that man myself.  For, d'ye see, I never wanted all this cursed
money.  In fact, had these Scropes not been scoundrels they should have
had this dam' Wrybourne heritage, ay--every penny.  As it is, I'm
mightly glad to rid myself of even this small part of it."

"Small part!" repeated Mr. Joliffe in voice like a moan.  "Small!  Good
Lord deliver us!  Ha, Sam, d'ye know how much, have you any conception
of the vast sum you are throwing away so lightly, so recklessly, so--"

"Not throwing away, Ben, I'm giving it to a very worthy young--"

"Woman, of course!" snapped Mr. Joliffe.  "A poor creature who will be
victimized, hunted, pursued, hounded and beset by rogues and rascals of
every sort, fortune hunters all."

"Ay, but, d'ye see, Ben, she's of such sort herself that she desires
and will accept only one of these rogues and rascals, one only, Ben,
because he is truly of all rogues--the one, ay--her own particular,
long-chosen rascal.  So get the business done soon as you can,
according to my lordship's herewith express order and command, Mr.
Joliffe."

"Then," said the lawyer, miserably, "you positively mean it?  I am
actually ordered by your lordship to proceed in this--this matter?"

"Mr. Joliffe, you are.  And immediately."

"In-credible!"

"Yet true, be assured, sir."

"Ah-ha!" sighed Mr. Joliffe, relaxing and with the twinkle back in his
eyes.  "Do I comprehend?  Am I to infer that this so extremely
fortunate young lady is ... your future countess?"

"No, Mr. Joliffe.  This lady is quite determined to marry a scoundrel."

"Then," groaned Mr. Joliffe, with gesture of hopeless resignation,
"I--give up!"

"And no wonder!" said Sam, with flashing grin.  "So, Ben, let's finish
the bottle--"

But even as he spoke, came a hollow knocking on the door, and Tragedy
entered in the dusty person and woebegone whiskers of "the man Dan'l."




CHAPTER XXXIII

TELLS OF "THE HOUR OF VENGEANCE"

"Well," enquired Mr. Joliffe, "well, Daniel, my good fellow, what news
this time?"

"Sir, all as I can say is, gen'lemen both, the word is 'Jarsper.'
You're wanted immediate and very special--gig's a-waiting."

"But this," said Mr. Joliffe, sitting up, "this is very sudden and most
unusual.  Has anything happened?"

"Mr. Joliffe, sir, things is always so a-doing.  And, sir, 'tis nigh on
three o'clock and gig's a-waiting.  So's Jarsper!  Therefore, and by
your leaves, I'll desire you to obleege by stepping down to the gig
and, sirs, the livelier the better."

"But where are you taking us?" enquired Sam.

"To Jarsper, sir."

"Damme, I know that!  Where is Jasper?"

"Half-a-mile or so t'other side o' Wrybourne village, sir."

"But where, you oyster, where exactly?"

"That old mill, sir."

"Ah!" exclaimed Sam, and said no more until they were throned aloft on
this high-wheeled vehicle and driving rapidly out of the town; then:

"That accursed place!" said he abruptly.  "Ay, it would be there!"

"What would be where?" enquired Mr. Joliffe, clutching his hat as they
took a corner at speed.

"D'you know that old mill, Ben, a desolate ruin by a murderous pool?"

"Of course I do.  It pertains to the Manor estate.  Lord Julian's
property."

"Well, it has always seemed to me there's a curse hanging over it.  If
ever a place should be haunted--that's the place!"

"Haunted?  Pooh, Sam, tut-tut!  You surely don't credit such
tarradiddleish foolery?  Yet to be sure I've heard superstition still
sails the seas and you are a seaman though, being also educated--"

"Half-educated, Ben!  However, if bitter grief, blank despair and
merciless evil can haunt a place they're lying there, ay, and with
springs on their cables ready to let go--ghosts o' vengeance waiting
their hour!"

"Dear me, Sam, you're very fanciful!"

"Ay, I am, for I hate the place!  And you must have heard evil has been
there more than once."

"Oh yes, I'm aware people have been drowned there--two only, I believe.
But, my dear Sam, if the act of self-destruction can eternally curse a
place with ghosts, then what multitudes of apparitions must forever
haunt London Bridge, for instance."

"But, d'ye see, Ben, what I mean is that there are particular places
where the evil once wrought, still lives--waiting and forever on the
look-out."

"Good gracious!  What for?"

"Lord knows--vengeance, maybe."

"Vengeance on whom?"

"Well--let's say the first cause of all the suffering and despair."

"Nonsense, Sam!"

"May-be-so, Ben.  But there are places on this old Earth where strange
things do happen----"

"Con-found it!" exclaimed Mr. Joliffe, clutching at his flighty hat
again.  "Daniel, I forbid such perturbing speed!  Drive less
recklessly!"

"Ax pardon, but not recklessly, Mr. Joliffe, sir--no!"

"Then abate this most discommoding pace."

"Can't be, sir."

"Why not?"

"Jarsper's orders, sir!  'Dan'l,' says he to me, 'you should do it
under the hour,' says he."

"Pree-poss-terous!" cried Mr. Joliffe jerkily as they jolted in and out
of a rut.  "Scandalous....  Insane--"

"Very good, Mr. Joliffe, sir!"

"Oh, confound you, Daniel!"

"Yessir!"

"Bah!" exclaimed the lawyer in indignant bafflement.  "Sam, I shall be
boxing his ears if we don't talk and forget the crass fellow and his
driving.  So tell me--you must have seen some queer things in your
travels."

"Plenty, Ben, especially in the wilder parts along the Main, Inca,
Aztec and Maya Indians.  I lived with 'em once and right folk I found
them.  Then among the savages o' the islands, I've known a magic
whereby a man may kill by word or just pointing with a bone or some
such--'You,' he'll say, 'must die in three days,' and damme, Ben, die
he does and in the three days!  How it's done, I don't know, but done
it certainly is."

"Ah," nodded Mr. Joliffe, "I opine by the power of suggestion,
hypnotism or the like deviltries, of course."

"Ay, may be.  Then there are cures just as wonderful..."

Thus Mr. Joliffe questioned, Sam held forth and Dan'l drove until they
were speeding through Wrybourne village just as the church clock struck
four.

"Astounding!" quoth Mr. Joliffe, resettling his ever-restive hat, "we
are here already and--alive!  How much further, Daniel?"

"About six minutes, sir."

Turning from the high-road down a narrow lane Dan'l whistled, reined up
and out from some leafy nook shot the boy Gimlet who, taking the
lathered horse by the bit, cried:

"Right-ho, Dan!  Shall I drive him up an' down a bit to cool 'im off?"

"Ar!" replied Dan'l, socketing whip and reins.  "And you've dropped an
aitch!"

"Oh, blow that, Dan'l!  'Op down and lemme git h-up!"

"Now," sighed Dan'l, descending to earth with lithe agility, "now
you've got 'em in the wrong places; This way, gents both, foller me."

Off from the lane amid thickets he led them by a mazy track, past that
sullen, gloomy pool, and so at last through a yawning doorway into a
musty twilight shut in by mouldering, age-old walls, up crumbling steps
to a place bright with sunbeams flooding in at a jagged hole that once
had been a small window, a pleasant light which showed them Mr. Shrig,
pipe in mouth, seated upon a broken box beside a long, muffled form
couched upon a bed of rotting hay and wind-drifted leaves.

"Afternoon, sirs!" said Mr. Shrig, rising and tapping out pipe upon
broad palm very tenderly.  "I have made bold to send for you to inform
you as how this here case has turned itself upside down and inside out!
Vich sirs, J. Shrig here and now is bound to con-fess as Fortun'--not
content vith diddling and ditching same, has now fetched your humble a
leveller as has fair doubled me up, sirs, and knocked me and this here
case sky high!  And if you ax me how so, I now begs you, sirs both,
to--take a look at this."

As he spoke, Mr. Shrig stooped, twitched away the dingy covering--to
show that at sight of which Mr. Joliffe recoiled with a strangled cry,
while Sam leaned nearer to gaze down with expression of speechless
disbelief changing to certainty and sickening dread:

For there, gazing up at him with awful fixity, faint-smiling, couched
with gracious ease, white hands folded reverently upon motionless
breast, lay Lord Julian Scrope.

"Not ... not dead, Shrig?" whispered Mr. Joliffe.

"Ar! ...  As mutton, sir."

"In-credible!  For ... oh, my God ... he looks alive ... and younger
... handsomer even than I ever remember him and actually ... saintly!
His hands ... folded in prayer----"

"Vell--no, sir.  I shouldn't hardly call it prayer, Mr. Joliffe."

"But why not?  What d'ye mean?"

"This, sir!" answered Mr. Shrig, and stooping, drew and held apart
those so reverently folded hands to show what they had been clasping.
And now Sam also recoiled, lifting his hands instinctively as against
some blinding horror ... the haft of that knife had once been his own,
its keen blade now deep-driven ... Andromeda's knife....  While he yet
stared, sick with an ever-growing dread, Mr. Shrig covered this awful
thing with the stained old horse blanket that did duty for a shroud.

"Sam," whispered Mr. Joliffe, taking his nerveless arm, "now I'm
remembering your words, yes and almost believing--this is the ghostly
hour of vengeance."




CHAPTER XXXIV

TELLS OF A PARTING

They were out again all three in the sunny air, Mr. Joliffe pale,
shaken though full of pertinent enquiry.  Sam as livid, but frowning
and speechless; yet it was upon him that Mr. Shrig kept his keen gaze
as he answered the lawyer's questions.

"When did this happen?"

"From information received, sir, I'd put it about dinner-time, 'twixt
ha-past twelve and two o'clock."

"Have you any clues, Shrig, any suspects?"

"Ar, cloos a-plenty, sir, and suspects three or four.  Because, as
corpses go, his lordship's a pretty informative stiff and has told me
two or three helpful fax."

"You mean, I suppose, by his general appearance?"

"I do, Mr. Joliffe.  In the first place he tells me as how he has come
to this here bee-utifully lonesome spot to meet a friend--an ooman,
p'raps, some willage beauty or, p'raps again, a young ladylike
fe-male!"  Here, the keen eyes watched Sam's motionless, silent figure,
saw the powerful hands clench suddenly.

"But, Shrig, why should you suspect any woman?"

"Sir, his lordship being a Scrope was therefore nat'rally add-dickted
to The Sex.  Also this here solitood!  Also the motive ain't robbery.
Then you'll ha' noticed as he died smiling werry loverlike!  Verefore
and therefore my first suspect is of the femmy-nine gender."

"Ye-es, the inference is reasonable, Shrig.  Well--hum--to whom do your
suspicions point?  Have you any particular woman in mind?"

A moment of tense silence, of agonizing expectancy and Sam's eyes
closing as against some unbearable vision.

"Well, Shrig, I asked you----"

"Ar, Mr. Joliffe, you did.  And, sir, I now answers you full and
free--ekker alone responds--as yet."

"Ah, then you are not certain the--hem--culprit is a woman?"

"No, sir, not by no manner o' means--so fur!"

"And indeed," mused Mr. Joliffe, "on second thoughts this would hardly
seem a woman's crime.  The fatal weapon, I noticed, was powerfully
driven, completely buried, suggesting strength with perfect accuracy,
which argues coolness and determination."

"Werry true, sir.  But some females can be cool as icicles and most
ex-tremely determinated.  How say you, Mr. Felton, sir?"

"Eh?" exclaimed Sam, starting.  "Oh, I'll sheet home, bear away and
leave you to it."  And off he went at leisurely pace until beyond their
sight and hearing--then he began to run as if Despair itself were on
his heels, nor checked until he was in the leafy shade of Jane's
"'Chanted Forest."  Here he paused to fetch his breath and seeing the
great old "magic tree" before him, went and leaned dejectedly against
its rugged bole while he strove desperately to order the wild and
fearful commotion of his mind.

For some while he stood thus until hearing a cry he glanced up and saw
Andromeda speeding towards him.

"Sam....  Oh, Sam!" she panted and sinking into his ready arms, clung
to him shuddering so violently that fearful doubt grew to a great
horror surging over him like a wave.  Then she was looking up at him
wide-eyed:

"My dear," she whispered, fearfully.  "What is it?  What have you come
... to tell me?"

And whispering also, he answered:

"Lord Julian is dead."

"Yes," she sighed, hiding her face against him.  "What must I do now?"

"Then ... Andromeda, you ... knew?"

"Yes ... I knew ... hours ago."

"But how ... how could you?"

"Because ... Uncle Arthur told me."

"When, Andromeda, when?"

"What can it matter now ... why are you so strangely, so dreadfully
altered?"

"Oh, my dear," he whispered, gesturing towards the empty sheath at her
girdle, "where is the knife?"

"Why, Sam--ah, why do you ask?"

"Because it was that knife ... mine ... your knife that killed him!"
Now at this, she cried out as if he had struck her and crouching
against the tree, covered her face.  Then Sam's arms were about her
protectingly.

"My own dear," said he, drawing her close, "nothing matters except our
love--"  Swiftly she looked up at him, and seeing all the agony in his
too honest eyes, nodded her head, saying in oddly expressionless voice:

"Why, of course--only yesterday you saw the knife in my hand--you saw
me strike that murderous blow--you heard me say I could kill him!  And
now he lies dead!  Oh, my poor dear--and you love me still."

"Of course, and for ever."

"Even though you think, you suspect----"

"Hush, for God's sake!" he whispered harshly.  "Yesterday I saw you
drop that cursed knife--tell me--did you pick it up again?"

"Why do you ask, Sam dear?"

"Because I've been hoping, yes and praying--as I am now--that you
forgot it--left it lying here by this tree, and that someone else found
it."

"And suppose," said she, looking deep into his eyes, "suppose I tell
you that I found it--and used it?"

"Then tonight, no--this very hour, I'll carry you away to the coast ...
a harbour I know ... there I'll buy or steal a boat o' some kind ...
stand away down channel and pray God we may win to France or be picked
up by French or Spanish cruisers so we get clear of England and English
ships."

"And what," she whispered, "oh, what of poor Uncle Arthur?  Would you
take him with us?"

"Ay, even that--for your sake."

Andromeda sighed deeply and hiding her face against him murmured:

"Oh, my brave, faithful, beloved man!  Then so you must--for I did lose
the knife and Uncle found it."

"Thank the Lord!" Sam breathed.  "You saw him find it?"

"No.  But last night I kept watch.  I heard Wrybourne Church clock
strike eleven and a little while after ... he stole from the caravan
... the moon was up and I saw the flash of that hateful knife and--Oh,
my dear--he raised it heavenwards and kissed it as if it had been some
holy thing.  Then I called to him and ran, but he fled from me into the
wood and I lost him....  So I sent Esau after him, but the dog loves
him, and after all he is only a dog.  Uncle Arthur was away all night
but returned today all broken with fatigue and...  Oh, from words I
heard him muttering--I knew Lord Julian was dead and ... Lady Barbara
avenged.  So then I prayed God to send you to me--and here I am, safe
in your dear arms and at peace for a little while."

"And here," said Sam, folding her closer, "here you shall be safe while
I have life and strength--"

"Meda!  My love, my joy and only consolation ..."  Wailing these words,
Mr. Verinder tottered into view, a woeful figure, his finery of
garments rumpled and stained, his unshaven face convulsed by sharpest
agony.  "Oh Meda," he gasped, "I am lost--lost, broken and abandoned of
my God ... disappointed, heartbroken, hopeless and abject.  And now
since God has denied me the vengeance I hoped, prayed and lived for,
you cannot, must not, shall not desert and render me utterly
desolate----"

"Sir," began Sam, but she checked him with a gesture, saying:

"But, Uncle Arthur, your enemy is dead, so how has God denied you?
Lord Julian is dead----"

"Yes, yes, I know this, I saw him, child.  Yes, I beheld him lying--in
his glory, beautified by death!  Yes, he--this vile wretch, this foul,
black-hearted villain lay there with his youth renewed, hands folded
upon his dead breast, showing like a sleeping saint--his face so evil
in life, now in death, most fair, its wickedness all smoothed away by
deadly steel deep driven and, oh malediction--by other hand than mine!
He at peace and glorious in death--I alive and woeful--So does God mock
me--"

"But, Uncle, you had the knife."

"The knife, yes--ah, the sweet, sharp knife, I had it but--Oh God, Oh
God--I lost it in the wood, dropped it in the hateful, blinding dark.
I sought it, upon my knees I sought it, praying--yet vain, all vain
alike my seeking and my prayers, for I found it not.  But in the dawn I
came upon a stone, a sharp-edged, jagged flint-stone, though I yearned
for the sharp, bright knife..."

"Yes, Uncle, and what did you do then?"

"Fell asleep, child, and dreamed gloriously until the birds waked me
with their singing.  So I lay and harkened to this that is the very
music of God--until I heard a laugh that changed to the bleating of a
sheep and after this a rush and rustle of wind....  Then I found myself
close to that ruined mill I have twice essayed to paint and there I
found him dead and mocking me with his glory.  So, because it seems God
has turned from me I fled to thee, my one remaining comfort and only
joy, confiding in the hope, nay, the assurance thai you will never
abandon me, never--never forsake me--"

"Neither will I, sir," said Sam and rather grimly.  "You shall find me
ever ready to serve you when Andromeda is my wife.  Here will we live
and together we--"

"No--and no!" cried Mr. Verinder, wildly.  "You are but common clay
with no music in your soul.  Your presence is a blight I cannot, must
not endure.  Your very shadow chills the genius within me and for which
alone I endure life!  Wed him, Meda, if you will, yield that sweet and
lovely body to his brutish love, but--"

"Avast!" growled Sam.  "Hold hard, Mr. Verinder!  How can my love be
'brutish' now when last time we met I was your 'dear Felton' and 'a man
raised up by God!'  Ay, and you gave us your blessing into the
bargain----"

"Yes, yes I did!" said Mr. Verinder, peevishly.  "Of course I did.  But
since then, God has changed towards me and therefore all else is
changed--quite, quite altered and--especially my unhappy self!"

"Ay," nodded Sam, "you're a confoundingly changeable customer, sir, but
then, d'ye see, I'm not, and especially as regards Andromeda.  So the
sooner you change back again the better.  However, instead of one slave
you're going to have two, ay--just as soon as wedlock can make me so--"

"How--how?" panted Mr. Verinder, clenching plump, white fists.  "Do I
understand you will force your attentions upon my beloved niece, this
sweet child of my adoption?  Will you actually defy me?"

"No, sir, ignore you."

"Oh, insolence!  Had I a whip I should strike you--"  Here Andromeda
took him in her arms, but even while she strove to soothe him he
flourished dimpled fists, crying: "Ah, were you a gentleman I'd call
you out and shoot you--"

"Uncle Arthur, hush now!  Oh, my dear, calm yourself--there, there!
Come and rest while I brew tea--come!"

"Tea?  Ah, yes, yes.  I'm all foredone, I languish!  Tea, that blessed
panacea--yes, go prepare it, beloved child, and hurry, hurry!  Felton
and I shall follow.  Dear Felton, forgive me, I was hasty.  I am not
myself--so pray, dear Felton, say I am forgiven."

"Ay, sir, heartily."

"So, you hear the dear, good fellow, Meda?  Go you now, my ever
precious, go--go!"  Slowly she turned and unwillingly obeyed.  Now
scarcely was she out of sight than Mr. Verinder uttered a pitiful,
wailing cry and leapt headlong at Sam, who thus surprised had some
difficulty in fending off this attack, so that Andromeda, speeding back
to this outcry, arrived just in time to see her Uncle fall heavily.

"Ah--trickery!" exclaimed Sam.  "Damme, I scarce touched him"; but
writhing upon the grass, Mr. Verinder gasped:

"Meda ...  Oh Meda, now ... you see ... how he hates and misuses me--"

"No!" retorted Sam, bitterly.  "You aren't worth my hate, I scorn you
for the deceitful, miserable half-wit you are."

"No, no!" wailed Mr. Verinder, covering his face.  "I am not mad--not
that--Ah God--not mad!"

"Better so," growled Sam, driven beyond endurance, "better mad than
selfish liar and trickster."

"Andromeda," gasped her uncle, crawling to her feet and writhing there,
"oh, my brave darling, comfort me, cherish me, save me!  You are my
very life----"

"Be silent--you!" cried Sam harshly.  "Now, Andromeda, be warned....
Oh, my dear, you are wasting your life and mine for a selfish, cowardly
trickster who plays upon your fears and makes your devotion fetters to
enslave you to his service, damn him--"

"Beloved child," sighed Mr. Verinder, rising feebly to his knees,
"without you I cannot and will not live.  Wed this man if you will,
this cruel man so harsh, so brutal--wed him and in that hour I die.
Yes, here kneeling before the Great God of our Salvation, I swear I
will end my hated life and give back my poor soul to my Creator!  So
choose between us, my dearest one, choose."

"Ay," muttered Sam, bitterly, seeing her look and reading it aright,
"choose and be done."

Now glancing from yearning, stalwart man down to the piteous suppliant
at her feet, she hesitated, yet when at last she found speech she
answered as he had dreaded and expected, saying firm-lipped though with
lifeless voice:

"Sam dearest, I have chosen ... as I must ... because I am ...
Andromeda."

"You mean," he demanded, brokenly, "sacrifice?  That you ... I ... this
is the end?"  And in the same dull, passionless tone, she answered:

"Yes ... my beloved."

Sam's powerful fists quivered, his grim lips parted in a snarl,
but--reading the supplication in her golden eyes, he choked back
bitterness of despair with fury of reproach and bowed his head, saying
after a moment and very humbly:

"As you will ... but I shall always love you."

"And I," she murmured, and always in the same dreary monotone, "I shall
be ... always ... only yours."  But saying this, she drew from her
bosom the gold chain and jewelled pendant, his gift, and held it out to
him on her open palm, whispering:

"Oh, my darling, I have never worn it because I wanted your dear hands
to set it about me, so do it now, but kiss it first that it may comfort
me the more when I shall touch and kiss it--in my loneliness.  Kiss it,
dear, then fasten it about my throat."  Dumbly he obeyed though his big
hands were very unsteady as he locked the chain about this round white
neck.  And when this was done at last:

"Kiss me!" she murmured.  So their lips met in a sweet agony of
farewell.

"Now," she sighed.  "Oh now, my ever dearest, go ... in mercy to us
both--ah, beloved--go!"

Then, uttering no word, Sam turned and with not one backward glance,
trudged away to--emptiness.




CHAPTER XXXV

TELLS HOW AND WHY SAM WAS TOO LATE

And now treading this well-remembered path, Sam checked and stumbled
more than once, for, though his scowling eyes were tearless, grief was
blinding him to all save the memory of Andromeda's last despairing look
in such pitiful contrast to the firm-set, too-resolute lips that for
duty's sake had bidden him away; thus now, because of her indomitable
will, Sam despaired also.

The countryside about him, radiant with sun, was beautiful as ever,
birds near and far piped and chirruped joyfully as ever, but Sam
blundered and stumbled through a bleak desolation towards a blank
dreariness where for him was no future.  Only with him went the memory
of Andromeda's beloved, stricken face that seemed to blot out the very
universe.

In this state of bitter despair and hopeless dejection Sam had reached
a certain familiar stile when he espied a woman crouched beneath the
hedge nearby and was about to pass on, but something in her look and
attitude arrested him and he knew her for the lady of the lonely
cottage in the by-road and he paused.

"Your pardon, marm," said he, hat in hand, "but is anything wrong?"

"I--I'm afraid so, sir," she answered, with shyly rueful smile.
"Crossing the stile very awkwardly, I have turned my ankle so painfully
that I can neither stand nor go, and my cottage is too far to hop,
though I have done my best."

"Then of course I'll carry you--if you'll allow."

"Oh, but I--I could not--you could not.  I mean it is some distance."

"However, we'd manage it by easy stages."

"You are greatly kind, sir ... and this is such a lonely place ... and
I cannot remain here all night."

"No, marm, it stands to reason you can't."

"But to--to so burden you, sir, a stranger."

"Not quite, marm, I spoke to you some days ago."

"Yes, of course you did.  I remember now you are the gentleman who
wished to be directed."

"Not gentleman, just a sailorman and my name is Felton, Sam Felton--you
may have heard mention of it--perhaps?"  Now as he propounded this
question, Sam watched the almost too-sensitive features of this lady,
the luminous eyes, delicate nostrils and mouth with its sweetly-gentle
curves, and read in this face such unaffected surprise, such artless
sincerity that he knew she spoke truly when she answered:

"No, Mr. Felton, how could I and why should I?"

"Well," said he, keen gaze still intent, "I thought maybe my name had
been mentioned by your son."

"My son?" she repeated, her pale face suddenly glorified by the
mother-light beaming in her long-lashed eyes.  "Then you know my
Eustace?  I am glad, for he needs a friend, poor boy--he like his
mother is very solitary and much too sensitive.  So I should like you
for his friend--if it may be."

"Why, marm, d'ye see, I ... we have met only once or twice and then I
... we ... well, didn't seem to have much in common."

"I ... I am not surprised, sir," sighed she and with such mournfulness
of look and tone that Sam flinched.  "He is much too high-strung and of
a quite painful shyness--but then so am I, so perhaps I'm to blame.  As
it is, he lives only for his music--and me, and yes, poor hopeless boy,
one other!  And he is my hope, his tender love has been my one joy and
solace, for Mr. Felton, in this one particular I am humbly like the Man
of Sorrows, because I too am 'acquainted with grief'--though thank our
kind God, I have my dear son."

"And he," murmured Sam, "should be thankful for such mother, mine's
dead, d'ye see."

"Poor boy!" she whispered, touching his sleeve very gently.  "I see you
loved her deeply.  So now this mother would comfort you if she
could--please know me better if you will.  I am Ruth Jennings and--"

"Now God love you!" exclaimed Sam impulsively, "'Ruth' was my mother's
name and therefore the loveliest in all this world--except one"--and
speaking, he bowed his head to kiss this slender, comforting hand.

"Dear boy!" she sighed.  "I dare to think your so loved mother looking
down on us from God's light, is blessing me now in her son's kiss.  So
more, oh, more than ever I hope that some day perhaps you may bless my
son with your friendship.  And now--if you will help me I shall be so
very grateful."

Laying by his stick, Sam raised her in his powerful arms, saying as he
did so:

"Now pray rest easy.  Try to think we are very old friends."

"That will not be difficult," said she, smiling, "though you are quite
a boy really, but then all men creatures are great big children....
And I do hope you don't find me too heavy."

"On the contrary you are much too light," he answered, striding along
with her easily.  "But I'm wondering why you were so--startled when
first I spoke to you in the lane?"

"That was because my poor Eustace has been so terribly nervous lately.
He imagined he was being followed--especially in the woods--a pale man
and an impish boy who grinned and peeped--which sounds absurdly
fanciful, and yet for the moment I thought you must be one of them."

"But why should anyone watch your son?"

"I don't know, I cannot imagine.  I hope and believe it is all his
fancy--though for some time now he has seemed changed."

"Oh?  Ah?" said Sam, keeping his gaze on the path before them.  "Since
when?"

"More than a year.  He came flying to me one evening crying out that he
was lost in the dark--as he used to do sometimes when a little boy.
But I comforted him at last by playing part of a sonata he was
composing--such lovely music!  Yet there are times even now when he
seems--dreadfully troubled ... and it hurts me to know he has a secret
from his mother.  To be sure he is deeply in love, but this is no
secret."

"Oh?" murmured Sam.  "Who with?"

"A very beautiful young lady though rather odd, I think, because she
lives like a gipsy in the woods with an even odder relative....
Perhaps, after all, she may be the true reason for his grief--you see,
he has loved her so long and quite without hope, he tells me.  It is
when he visits these people, they are very musical, that he thinks he
is being watched and followed.  Only the other day my darling came to
me in quite frantic state--indeed I do not know what I should have done
but for that good, kind Mr. Brown--"

"Eh, m'lady--who?"

"Oh, a Mr. Caleb Brown, such a dear, quaint, kindly person.  Do you
happen to know him?"

"Oh, yes.  Pray how did he manage--I mean how did you meet him?"

"Months ago!  I was trying to dig my garden, but the ground was so hard
and I am not at all clever with a spade.  Mr. Brown happened to see me
and proffered his help and he was so very kindly, so quaint and gentle
that I could not refuse.  Since then he has helped me quite often."

"Does he know your son?"

"Oh, yes.  Mr. Brown loves to sit and hear him play his violin while I
accompany on the harp or pianoforte--though he often says--I mean Mr.
Brown, of course--that he has an untutored ear, though he calls it an
'untootered year.'  Now do pray put me down and take a rest--"  But at
this moment was a cry and Cecily Croft hurried to meet them, enquiring
anxiously:

"Oh, Mr. Felton, is she hurt?  Dear Mrs. Jennings, whatever is it?"

"Dear child, nothing more than a sprained ankle."

"'Tis bad enough, mam--so terrible swollen!  Can I help?"

"If you will hurry on to the cottage and put on the kettle for tea----"

"Yes, I'll run.  I was on my way there with your butter and a loaf I
made special for you....  And I'll have things ready to tend that poor
ankle!"  And away sped Cecily, fleet and graceful as a stag and despite
the basket she carried.

"So beautiful!" sighed Mrs. Jennings, looking after her.  "So sweetly
good!  I do hope she at least will have a happy life."

"D'you think she won't, m'lady?"

"Well, her uncle and aunt are not very kind to her and I'm afraid the
dear innocent has given her love unwisely."

"Ay, you mean young Ralph Scrope.  D'you know him, m'lady?"

"Yes," she answered, averting his look.  "I did once, but now I--do
not."

"Would you say he might be altered for the better?"

"No, never--with such a father."

"D'you think such a father would be much better--dead?"

"Yes!" she whispered.

"So do I!" nodded Sam.  "And others ha' thought the same.  And, m'lady,
now we'll carry on, if you're ready?"

"Yes," she answered, smiling up at him now.  "Yes, my gentle Hercules.
But please why do you call me your lady?"

"Because, next to 'Mother' and 'home' and 'woman,' it's the best word I
know."

Then Sam bore her on again nor stayed until somewhat breathless and
spent, he reached the cottage gate at last and there halted and
scowled--to see Mr. Shrig in the trim garden standing very still and
apparently lost in profound contemplation of a flower-pot.

"Oh, Mr. Brown, how nice to see you!"

Starting violently, Mr. Shrig turned, stared--then hastened to open the
gate, hat in hand.

"Dear Mr. Brown, how pale you are!  And there really is nothing
serious, merely a twisted ankle.  Pray come indoors and when Cecily has
helped me bathe it, we will all have a nice, cosy tea."

Unspeaking, Sam bore her into the cottage, laid her gently upon a
couch, smiled away her thanks and stepped out into the garden, where he
beheld Mr. Shrig staring fixedly at an onion, one of a row.

"Jasper," he demanded, "how the devil can you do it?"

"Eh?" murmured Mr. Shrig, his gaze still intent.

"How can you trick yourself into such home as this--worm your way
between such mother and her son?  Damme, it's not decent!"

"Ar!" sighed Mr. Shrig.  "And, pal, talking o' vorms I'll ax you to
remember as I'm Caleb Brown yereabouts."

"Yours is a cursed deceitful profession!"

"Ar, that it are, so right you are, Sammy pal.  And I'd like you to
in-form me at vich partickler p'int in the landskip you found Mrs. J.?"

"The stile beyond the second spinney."

"Vas she a-coming or a-going?"

"I don't know, and shouldn't tell you if I did."

"Ho!" exclaimed Mr. Shrig.  "So?  Im-pede The Law now, is it?  For J.
Shrig being a Limb o' the Law is thereby, as in dooty bound,
com-pelled--"

At this moment Mrs. Jennings called to them through the open lattice.

"Do please come in and sit down, Cecily has nearly finished with me and
so cleverly, bless her!  Then we--Oh, Mr. Brown, I hear the kettle
boiling over--in the kitchen, will you please see to it?"

"A pleasure, marm!"

Thus presently seated all four in this small parlour, a strangely
pleasant meal they had, thanks to the charm and unaffected grace of
their gentle hostess.  Thereafter, assisted by Mr. Shrig's sturdy arm,
she crossed to the piano, saying very diffidently:

"Now ... if you do not mind, I--I should like to show you why I am so
proud of my dear son....  I will play for you--music he composed for
and has dedicated to his mother, may I?"

"Do please!" answered Sam.

"Honoured, marm!" murmured Mr. Shrig.

"You know I always love to hear you play it, marm," said Cecily.

Then reaching her slender hands to the keyboard, this mother filled the
air with a son's love wrought into splendid sound, a sweetly plaintive
melody often lost in surging counter-themes, yet as often recurring--a
melody that was to haunt Sam hereafter.

"Oh ... lovely!" sighed Cecily, when the last echo had died away.

"That," said Sam, "that is noble music."

"Yes," she answered, smiling, "Eustace has genius ... some day ...
perhaps it will bless the world.  I have great hopes of my dear son."

And presently, with her gently spoken thanks and farewell in his ears,
Sam followed Mr. Shrig out of this small, lonely cottage and for some
while neither uttered a word.  When at last Sam spoke it was with a
diffidence very strange in him.

"Jasper, you're a law officer and will think me a sentimental fool when
I tell you I feel as if we had been on--holy ground ... for d'ye see,
that gracious, gentle lady makes her little cottage a holy place ...
sacred ... just because of her own goodness."

"Agreed, pal--ar, werry much so!"

"And now, Jasper, now damme I'm wishing, for her sake, I'd been ... a
little kinder, less hostile to her son.  However, I'll make up for it
next time we meet, ay, I'll be more friendly."

"You can't, pal."

"Eh?  And why the devil not?"

"Because you're too late."

"How can that be?"

"Pal," said Mr. Shrig, easing out his large, silver watch and
consulting it, "you have missed him by eggs-ackly two hours and
fifty-three minutes--"

Grasping his arm, Sam halted him and thus face to face, demanded in
harsh whisper:

"Jasper, are you trying to tell me it was--her son killed Lord Julian
and is now safe away?  If so, good luck to him say I!  Come, let's
hear--speak man, speak will ye."

"Pal," sighed Mr. Shrig, "never in all my puff have I been so near
piping my eye as this here afternoon, and the cause thereof--his
mother's vords--you'll mind 'em: 'Some day,' says she, 'he'll bless the
vorld!  I've great hopes o' my dear son,' says she--and all the time
this son she's so proud of--is laying stiff and cold and werry
damp--poor lady!"  Sam fell back a step and when he spoke it was in
dreadful, broken whisper:

"Jasper ... oh, Jasper ... you never mean ... ha--what do you mean?"

"Death, pal!  Her son has took the only road, the best, ar--and the
cleanest road up and out of it all.  Fellerdesee!  That conwenient
pool!  By my con-ni'vance!  For his mother's sake!"

"Christ-Jesus," gasped Sam.  "Christ pity her ... the poor, sweet,
gentle soul....  God comfort her!"

"Same here and amen!" muttered Mr. Shrig.  "I come to break the noos to
her, but s'soon as I see her in your arms s'helpless, I couldn't say a
word, my chaffer refused its office, ar--burn my neck if it didn't!
And now--" here, fumbling in breast, he drew thence his bulbous
pocketbook wherefrom he extracted a folded paper, saying: "Seeing as
how there's mention o' your lordship herein, your lordship had better
look it over."  Unfolding this paper he passed it to Sam, who read
these words hastily though firmly written in pencil:


I scribble these lines in gratitude to that kind friend who for my
mother's sake permits me the better way.  I killed Lord Julian because
he was my father.  I discovered this but lately with the fact that he
had deceived my beloved mother with a false marriage and would have
harmed her yet again.  I have also to inform you that together with the
lately deceased Lord Julian I was concerned in the death of his brother
and my uncle, the late Earl, thirteen months since.  Now in my turn I
go where I must, but in the comforting hope of joyous reunion with the
one solitary soul whose faith and love never failed me, she who has
made my sorry existence bearable, this pure angel on earth--my beloved
mother.  May I venture to hope the new Earl Japhet, known as S. Felton,
will care for her in this pitiful life until she in due time shall join
me in the greater and happier.  In which hope I subscribe myself, for
the first and last time,

EUSTACE (by natural right) LORD SCROPE.


"And," said Mr. Shrig, taking and refolding this letter, "there y'are!"

"But, oh damme!" exclaimed Sam, greatly troubled.  "This frightful news
will pretty near kill her!  It must be broken to her very gently by
someone she knows well ... a friend....  Ay--Jasper, this must be your
duty for she calls you 'friend'----"

"No, pal!  That's the reason as I can't.  It must be you--ar, you've
had her in your arms--so you it is!"

"Never in this world!"

"Werry good, then I must make it that there handsome young fe-male
Ces'ly, Mistress Croft.  Let's turn back and meet same."

"No, Jasper, I've had enough for one day, ay--too much, damme!  For,
d'ye see, had I only been a little kinder to the poor fellow ... been
his friend ... this might never have happened."

"And yet again, it might, Sam pal.  For I can lay sich information agin
Number Vun deceased as'll make you vonder as he didn't get hisself
de-ceased long afore today, and makes his bloody finish werry nat'ral
and proper--though being Murder and hence The Capital Act, the Law must
take its course, Justice be windicated and myself the means of--Ah, by
Goles--there's Missis Ces'ly crossing the medder yonder--now's our
chance!"

"Ay, so I'll leave you to it, Jasper, and bear away for home."




CHAPTER XXXVI

IN WHICH JASPER SHRIG BIDS "GOOD-BYE"

The old farmhouse lay very hushed and silent for Captain Ned and his
bride were still away.  Aunt Deborah was visiting Grannyanne, and Sam,
finding it thus deserted, went forth into the orchard and the better to
occupy his troubled mind, set himself to construct a rustic table to
match the seat that now stood invitingly beneath his favourite tree.

But in a little while, as if lured by the rasp of saw and ring of busy
hammer, came Nancy, light of foot, bright of eye and flushed of cheek,
who having saluted him with shy curtsy, said between ruddy, smiling
lips:

"La, sir, you was all wrong about--my Tom!  'Twas me as he intended for
arl the time."

"Good!" sighed Sam.  "And you said 'yes,' I hope?"

"'Deed, sir--I had to, for Tom were that sudden--so fierce and
masterful that ef I hadn't give him 'yes,' I du b'leeve--Oh my--he'd
ha' stifled me, he would!"

"All quite proper and ship-shape, Nancy.  I hope he'll stifle you as
properly and pretty often when you are his ... wife."  Here Sam,
hesitating at the word, sighed again.

"La, sir, what things ee du say!  But, oh, Mr. Felton, why du ee sigh
so heavy and show so grievous?"

"Do I, Nancy?"

"Ay, that ee du.  Your eyes be that woeful sad!  Shall I bring ee a jug
o' our home-brew?  There be nought like strong ale for to comfort a
man's sorrows."

"Thanks, Nancy.  You're wise as you're lovely.  Lord, what a wife
you'll make!  Tom's a mighty lucky fellow!"

"Lud--Mr. Felton!" she exclaimed, with smiling, conscious blush, and
away she sped.

Sam was miserably contrasting Tom's happy lot with his own misery when
Tom himself came striding to salute in smart, quarterdeck manner,
saying:

"Sir, by your leave I'm here to report operation com-pletely successful
and now begs to express gratitood for same, very much so, sir."

"Good!" quoth Sam again, with another deep sigh and scowling blackly at
his hammer.  "Though damme if I know why some fellows have all the
luck!"

"Ay, sir, true enough.  And I'm one o' the luckiest and all b'reason o'
you, sir.  For, according to your orders, I stood away to wind'ard,
plying off and on, kept her in my lee until of her own accord, sir, she
bore up, run me aboard and brought me to close action."

"Ay," nodded Sam, dejectedly, "and how then?"

"Why then, sir, she demands the who of it, so I grapples her and lets
her have the truth of it."

"With a--a kiss, I suppose, Tom?"

"No, sir--with a whole broadside of 'em--till she was breathless and
finally struck her colours with a 'yes.'  So the banns'll be read for
us at once, and all thanks to you, Mr. Felton, sir."

"I'm--glad!" said Sam, though with sigh like a groan.

"Thankee, sir, though, axing pardon, you don't hardly look it, sir."

"However, I am glad, Tom, and wish you and your Nancy every happiness."

"Thankee again, sir, and heartily.  And talking o' happiness--why, Lord
love us--here be mine coming now--on her two pretty feet----!"  And,
indeed, back came Nancy bearing the ale, but now with no eyes or
thought except for her comely Tom, as he for her.  And beholding their
radiant joy, Sam could not bear to look, so commenced banging away with
his hammer until this happy pair left him to his labours, whereupon he
must needs watch them go and bitterly envious, poor fellow.

But there was the good ale, so he gulped at it fiercely, and there were
the tools, so he wrought with them furiously until a voice arrested him
and glancing up, he beheld Cecily looking at him through glitter of
tears.

"Mr. Felton, 'tis so awful!  That poor lady ... her dear son!  However
can I tell her?  Mr. Brown do say 'tis I must break the news ... this
dreadful accident to her only son!  And 'tis I must tell her--"

"Yes, it must be you, Cecily.  You are so sweetly gentle it will come
better from you than any other."

"But ... her only son as she so loves ... and him so clever ... and now
dead ... and in that same dreadful pool!  How ever can I bear to tell
her?"

"Just because your tender sympathy can make the blow less harsh and
cruel, Cecily.  Your gentle arms may be her comfort, your gracious
strength may help her to bear this new sorrow."

"Mr. Felton," said she, dashing away her tears to view him the better,
"you're a strange man and talk so that you make me feel better and
stronger than I really am or ever thought I could be."

"Only because you are naturally good and so may be able to comfort this
poor stricken lady--if you will only try."

"Yes, yes, of course I'll try, though 'twill nigh break my heart!"

"Indeed, Cecily, you are so very much too good for any Scrope,
especially young Ralph--do you really love him?"

"Yes, yes I do--only God knows how much ... and this be my own grief he
is now to London, for to woo and wed that rich lady----"

"No, my dear, oh no!  Your rogue Ralph shall never marry this lady,
never!  So don't grieve----"

"Oh, but--Mr. Felton, how--how can you be so certain-sure?  Oh, please,
what do ee mean?  For dear God's sake--what?"

"Just what I say, Cecily, and by your dear God I swear it!  Now go
comfort that sorrowing mother like the good, beautiful angel you are."

Slowly she turned and went her way, taking much of the sunlight with
her, or so Sam was thinking, when back she sped to say:

"Oh, my gracious, I was forgetting!  Miss Andromeda met me and gave me
this note for you, here 'tis.  And," she added shyly as Sam took this
precious thing, "I do hope as you ... and she will be happy, very happy
... together."

"Thanks!" muttered Sam, hoarsely, gazing down at this very small
missive.  "Thank you, Cecily--dear!"  When she had gone, he unfolded
this paper and read these pencilled words:


Oh, my dear, I cannot sleep tonight without writing you one last word.
And this word, beloved, is Hope.  Without this I think my heart would
die within me.  If you can wait, if only you can be patient--some day I
shall come back to you.  This must be a short note because I cannot
bear to write more, yet these few words and this small piece of paper
bear to you all the best of me with the yearning, deathless love of your

ANDROMEDA.


Seated upon his rustic bench Sam read this message over and over again
and was still thus intent when he was roused by a familiar voice and
glancing up, exclaimed, peevishly:

"Damme, Jasper, you're dev'lish silent and sudden!"

"Ax your pardon, m'lord--"

"Belay all that, the very word sickens me!  What d'ye want with me,
Jasper?"

"Sir, this here case having con-clooded itself so fur as I'm
con-carned, seeing as how Numbers Vun and Two at this i-dentical moment
is being carted to the mort-u-ary at Lewes in a vaggon borryed for the
o-ccasion, I've dropped in for a parting vord and puff at my steamer
along o' you--if agreeable?"

"Yes, of course, old fellow.  If I seemed a bit short with you I ask
pardon, but you startled me as usual, and besides this frightful
business has upset me."

"Ditto here, pal."

"Isn't Mr. Joliffe with you?"

"No, sir, he's off to ketch the night mail.  For, says he, 'tell the
Earl (meaning you o' course) as how this terrimendious happening calls
me (that's him) back to London for some days at least, but that I (him
again) shall visit his lordship (that's you again) in Wrybourne soon as
possible and shall write in the meantime.'"

"Oh well, sit down, Jasper, light your pipe and tell me how you found
the--the killer."

"I didn't, pal, 'twas him found me!  Ar, and I'll tell jest how, s'soon
as I've got my puffer a-going."

This being accomplished, Mr. Shrig puffed, sat down and talked, nor did
Sam utter a word until the narration was ended.

"Dan'l and me has got his lordship's carkiss into the afore-mentioned
vaggon and are having a delayed bite at the Wrybourne Arms and in
strolls Mr. Jennings carrying his fiddle in its case.  'Mr. Brown,'
says he, wery affable, 'may I beg the favour of a vord vith you alone?'
So arter Dan'l has left us, 'Sir,' says Mr. J., ''tis only lately as
I've found our supposed friend Mr. Brown is also a Bow Street Orficer.'
'Correct, sir,' I says, 'but that don't alter friendship o' same,
'specially for your lady mother.'  'I'm glad o' that,' says he,
'because I'm here to inform you as I killed Lord Scrope because he vas
my father and also to rid the vorld, but especially my mother of a
cruel, black-souled willain.'  'Vich, sir,' says I, 'don't sap-prise
me, seeing as I've suspicioned you might kill same ever since I
diskevered how he come to be your father.'  'Oh!' says he, 'then you
know some part of his vileness.  I myself discovered this fact only
recently or I should certainly have destroyed him before now.'  'Sir,'
says I, 'your motive vas werry powerful thereto, but Murder is The
Capital Act and myself being a limb o' The Law must per-form
according.'  'Oh, certainly,' he says and werry agreeably.  'You must
do your duty and I must pay the penalty, that's the reason I'm here.
So pray tell me, Mr. Brown--arter they've hanged me--must my wretched
body be jibbeted, hung in chains and--hereabouts?'  'Sir,' I says,
''tis usually so done on or near the site o' The Deed.'  'Yes,' says
he, nowise troubled, 'so I understand.  But, Mr. Brown, if you are
truly my mother's friend, I beg you will arrange for my jibbet to stand
as far from Wrybourne as possible--for (and here he gives a little
cough) her sake--my mother.'  'Sir,' I replies, 'for the sake o' that
same (and here I gives a cough) dear, gentle lady, I begs to suggest a
method by vich you can pay the aforementioned penalty vithout eether
hanging nor yet jibbeting--you might con-trive a accident vith a
firearm or tumble into a pool.'  'Oh, Mr. Brown,' says he, looking
remarkable grateful, 'you are indeed a true, kind friend'--and here for
the only time his big eyes is tearful, 'sich friend,' says he, 'that
vere-ever I must go, be it heaven or hell, I shall treasure your memory
for my dear mother's sake.  And now p'raps I'd better put my admission
in writing, Mr. Brown?'  'Ar, it would be best,' says I, so I lends him
my pencil, gives him a page out o' my pocketbook, and he writes cool
and calm as if to his tailor.  Then, never troubling to read it over,
he gives it to me, saying: 'Mr. Brown, I have wentured to address Mr.
Felton the noo earl on my mother's behalf.  I may be wrong, but he
seems a somevat hard sort o' person, if therefore you'll be good enough
to second my appeal, a humble but desperately anxious plea, you'd add
to my deep gratitood.'  'Sir,' says I, 'all as you ax I'll do for your
own sake and your lady mother's.'  Then up he gets, puts on his dicer
and takes up his fiddle, saying: 'If you don't object I'll take my
wiolin along o' me because 'twas a present from my mother.  And now,
Mr. Brown, good-bye and farewell and,' says he, hesitating, 'I should
esteem it greatly and find it a comfort if you'd, for one moment, take
the hand of a ass-assin'."

"Jasper, I hope you did?"

"Ay, I did so, pal.  Then he looks at his vatch and says he, 'Pray give
me half-an-hour.'  And off he goes....  Pal, I give him a full hour,
then calling Dan'l, off I goes to that there Mill pool.  And the first
thing I sees is--the fiddle-case a-floating like a little barge, and as
I'm trying to fish this ashore, Dan'l says: 'Here he is, Jarsper, here
among the reeds'--and pal, there he is--floating too--and face uppards.
And so--there y'are!"

"Jasper, he was a man!"

"Werry true, and a aristocrat besides."

"Ha--damme!" exclaimed Sam, leaping afoot.  "I shall regret him all my
life!"

"Howsomever," said Mr. Shrig, rising also, "seeing as how his life has
been neether a bed o' roses not yet all beer and skittles, I hope as
your lordship'll do summat in regard to his dewoted and now grieving
lady mother."

"Good God, man, of course!  She shall have every comfort, every care.
I'll do all--Oh, hell--what can I or anyone do for such grief as hers?"

"Ekker," murmured Mr. Shrig, shaking his head, "ekker alone responds!"
Then having tapped out his fragmentary clay pipe very tenderly as usual
upon his palm, he rose, saying rather mournfully:

"Pal, Sam, sir, this here has been a werry onsatisfactory
case--'specially for your humble--but you still draw the wital air
instead o' being meat for vorms, and that's summat arter all--you're
all a-blowing and a-blooming vith the best o' life afore you and
happiness--I hope.  So now in bidding ye Good-bye, Sam and sir, being
also your pal, I now begs leave to offer you a bit of adwice."

"Well," enquired Sam, as they clasped hands, "out with it, Jasper."

"Talking o' steak and kidney pudden, same being wholesome and
succulent--I suggest that there pony-cart or any other conweyance in
the hope that some day mebbe I shall make my bow to your lovely young
count-ess.  And so, my lord, good-bye!"

For some while after Jasper Shrig had departed, Sam remained gazing
thoughtfully at Andromeda's note, until slowly his grief and yearning
gave place to indignation, and this again to a coldly purposeful anger;
inspired by which, he rose, donned his coat, rammed on his hat and went
striding furiously, to achieve this purpose.




CHAPTER XXXVII

HOW THEY PARTED FOR THE SECOND TIME

Andromeda was busied preparing supper while Mr. Verinder seated
comfortably nearby played dreamy music to her on his flute--when up
leapt Esau with joyous clamour; thus rudely interrupted they looked up
to behold Sam scowling at them.  Andromeda gazed speechless and utterly
still.  Mr. Verinder, on the contrary, flourished his silenced flute as
it had been weapon of offence, demanding truculently:

"What, sir, will you trouble us again?  Must you plague us yet?"  Then
finding himself quite disregarded, he laid down his flute and rose,
saying desperately:

"Mr. Felton, if you come to plead your selfish love, you may begone.
If you are here to assail my ewe lamb her precious innocence, I shall
defend her with my very life."

"Avast, Chatterbox," growled Sam.  "Belay your silly prattle.  Stow
your gab.  I'm not come pleading, but to make an end o' this foolery
one way or t'other.  Andromeda, I've read your note.  I know it by
heart.  You bid me wait, you ask me to be patient--why?  Must I waste
months, ay, maybe years till my lord here changes his mind again?  Not
I, no damme!  And will you allow this sly, drivelling lubber to trick
you into ordering our two lives now and in the future?  If so, then
I'll not be a party to such curst, sickly, sentimental nonsense."

"Is this an ultimatum?" she enquired, gently.

"Ay, call it that.  However, I'll not drag out my days in empty
yearning, hoping and waiting until your sly hypocrite here graciously
permits you to become my wife.  I tell you he shall not rule my destiny
or victimize me as he does you--"

"Liar!" cried Mr. Verinder.

"Andromeda, I tell you this thing you call 'uncle' is a clinging
misery, a vampire sucking your very life away!  So it's now or
never--will you die his worn-out slave or live as my beloved--"

"Oh, abom--abominable!" panted Mr. Verinder.  "Ruffian and liar depart
or I shall certainly assail you!  Go, I say!"

"You--!" snarled Sam, at his worst and grimmest, "you cursed little
pest, you shall, damned tyrant.  You----"  Sam choked back the fo'c'sle
epithet and ended the more lamely, "Come on and I'll trounce ye across
my knee."  Instantly Mr. Verinder rose, clenched dimpled fists and
leapt--to be as instantly collared and whirled face downwards across
Sam's brawny thigh and so viciously that Andromeda interposed.

"Ah," she cried, grasping Sam's upraised, vengeful hand in both her
own, "you would never strike him--"  And scowling down on his writhing
victim, Sam answered, fiercely:

"Loose me and see!"

"No!" she answered as fiercely, "you shall not."

"Watch now!"  Despite all her efforts, Sam freed his hand, raised it.

"Don't!" she pleaded.  "For my sake!  I beg you----"

Even as she spoke, Sam's big hand fell with resounding slap--then his
hat went flying and stung by this blow, he loosed his struggling
prisoner and turned to see Andromeda poised to strike again.

"Hold!" cried Mr. Verinder.  "Stop now and listen to me."  Seating
himself cross-legged upon the grass like a plump though indignant imp,
he reproached them like the odd, serenely dignified, little gentleman
he was:

"Mr. Felton, behold how you can debase a gracious gentlewoman to the
odious level of a screeching fishwife--your detested face bears the
stigmata of her fingers and I am glad.  Ah, but--my niece comported
herself like vulgar harridan and this shames and grieves me!  And you,
Andromeda, now see what coarse, horrid brute is this Felton, a common,
loutish sailor who, as your husband, would drag you down to his own
sordid depths and might even beat and outrage your tender loveliness
with--"

"Yes," nodded Sam, "I probably should if she deserved it, as she does
now for being so easily bamboozled by the like o' you.  Ay, she ought
to be slapped.  However, I'll go instead, like the dam' fool I am--"

"And a monster!" added Mr. Verinder.  "A coarse tar, a savage and
barbarian!"

"As you will, sir," quoth Sam, mournfully, stooping to pick up his hat
and putting it on dejectedly, "yes, I am coarse, I suppose, according
to your lights, and maybe a bit brutal....  I shouldn't have slapped
your poor, little tyrant, Andromeda.  But I'm just a roughish
sailorman, as I told ye, with no manners, no airs or graces and never a
spot o' polish.  No proper spouse for a fine lady--though she don't
wear silk stockings, poor soul, and clumps about in heavy boots,
working her pretty hands rough and horny for a selfish do-nothing----"

"Do not heed him, Meda love!  Do not listen!"

"But she must, sir.  She's going to hear me say that had she followed
Love and wed this brutal sailor she might ha' gentled him and maybe
learned him the trick o' prettier manners.  As it is, he remains his
brutish self, but will love her truly as any fine gentleman.  So now,
here's my final good-bye, Andromeda, unless you bid me otherwise."

But as she neither moved nor spoke, Sam turned, sighed and trudged
away.  But he had not gone far when his heart leapt to the flutter of
her petticoats and he saw her speeding after him.

"Andromeda--?" he questioned, striding towards her, but she stayed him
with a gesture saying, rather breathlessly:

"Did I hurt that ... dear, scowling face?"

"It would be all the better for a touch of that lovely mouth," he
suggested.

"No, stay where you are or I shall fly."  Sam frowned but obeyed.
"Once," she continued, "when you were less fierce--indeed almost
gentle, you wished for one of my worn-out shoes--here is one!"  And she
tossed it towards him, adding: "And nearly always I do wear silk
stockings, as some day ... perhaps ... I will show you----"

"Oh, Andromeda," he pleaded, "will you marry me and damn your tyrant--"

"Never!" she cried and fled from him, swift and graceful as a dryad.

"Ay, ay--never it is!" he shouted after her; then spying her shoe
within reach, kicked the poor little thing into a bramble bush--and
scratched his passionate hands getting it out again; which done he
cursed it, kissed it, crammed it into his pocket and strode away like
the furious, disappointed sailorman he was.




CHAPTER XXXVIII

IN WHICH SAM IS MY LORD PROCLAIMED

"A week!" said Aunt Deb, plying busy needle as she sat upon the rustic
seat while a gloomy Sam laboured at his half-completed table, "a whole
week since this truly terribly tragic affair!  The entire County agog
and all astir, Sam--and still no sign or word of our new lord.  One
would have thought that as head of The Family he would certainly have
attended the funeral--and such a funeral!  But, oh dear no--there was
no least sign of him!  Now mark me, my dear, in his persistent and so
absolute absence, I sense a strangeness, Sam, a mystery of moment!"

"What did you think of the funeral, Aunt Deb?"

"Intensely impressive, my dear!  Such crowds--horsed and afoot!  So
many carriages of The Quality--and all so truly decorous."

"Ah!" snorted Sam.  "And all to see the last of a Scrope, which of
course means a scoundrel--"

"Hush, Sam!  My dear--forbear!  One should not speak ill of the dead."

"Why not, Aunt?  For, d'ye see, it's the way folk talk of us when we're
gone, the memory we leave is our true epitaph, the monument to be
honoured or spit upon--"

"Very true!" quoth Mrs. Leet, thudding across the grass towards them
with her ponderous stick.  "Though I wouldn't waste my good spittle on
such Scrope as Lord Julian.  As for Eustace Jennings, poor boy, I'm
glad they buried him away from Wrybourne."

"I suppose you knew him well, Grannyanne?"

"All his life or nearly, Sam," answered Mrs. Leet, seating herself
beside Aunt Deborah and loosing the strings of her vast bonnet.

"His was a sad life, eh, Granny?"

"Yes, poor boy.  And no wonder!"

"You mean because Lord Julian was his father--"

"Oh--never!" exclaimed Aunt Deb, busy needle suddenly arrested.  "Sam,
whatever are you saying?"

"Truth, Deborah!" nodded Mrs. Leet.  "I learned this years ago on a
night when Lord Julian and the Earl quarrelled; they were drunk, of
course, at least the Earl was, and taxed Julian with it--a vile, wicked
tale of how he had deceived Ruth Jennings, poor lady--actually rigged
one of his friends as a clergyman!  This the Earl was shouting as I
went in to 'em crying them hush for decency's sake.  And so they did
but took their swords to each other--then I, like a fool, snatched a
tablecloth and caught their blades--ha, better I'd let 'em kill each
other!  But I was young then."

"Yet, Granny, how came Eustace to live with such a man?"

"Because he never knew the shameful secret of his birth.  When his poor
mother discovered Julian's vileness she fled, but he never rested till
he found her, for he loved her----"

"Oh, but, Anne, he couldn't have."

"But he did--as much as such man could.  That's why he stole her baby
away--to keep her near him.  He used the boy kindly, had him well
educated as the son of a friend and thus won the boy's gratitude--a
shy, too-sensitive boy as I mind him--won him body and soul, then used
him to compel his helpless mother!  Ha, the monster should ha' been
slaughtered long ago!  Pah--let's talk o' something cleaner."

"Yes, Anne, though--my Gracious, what a wicked family!  'Tis dreadful
to think there's yet another Scrope somewhere about who may be just as
bad."

"And if not, Deb, if this new Scrope should be of the better sort,
think of all the evil for him to undo, all the wrongs to be
righted--and my dratted cottage roof yet to mend!"

"We must hope that he will be good, Anne, though he is not beginning at
all well."

"Oh, why not, Deborah?"

"He ought to have been at the funeral, his absence was marked, folk are
scandalized and talking."

"Well, our Scropes are, or were, a scandal--so let folk talk.  Our new
Lord Japhet will have the more to live down, that's all."

"If he ever can, Anne!"

"I think he will, Deb."

"Then he will have to be a brave, strong-souled young man, Anne."

"I believe he is, Deborah."

"Oh, why should you?"

"Because, as I said before, it's about time a good Scrope happened."

"Well, Anne, seeing is believing."

"How say you, Grandson Sam?"

"I'm hoping your kind faith will be justified, Grannyanne.  But where's
my little sweetheart, what's become of our Jane?"

"Away to Deepways Farm with Cecily Croft.  A right grand girl that!
Yes, without her I do believe poor Mrs. Jennings would ha' died, for
she was beyond my power to comfort."

"So you were with her, Granny, I'm mighty glad o' that."

"Sam, of course I was.  But as I say, 'twas Cecily she clung to in her
desolation, Cecily it was who soothed her!  I never saw such grief and
hope I never shall again!  Yes, a fine, a splendid girl is Cecily."

"True, Anne, though far, far too dangerously, bewitchingly beautiful!
And a fool of course to waste herself on that Ralph Scrope!  Which
reminds me--I didn't see him at the funeral either--and his own
father's funeral too!  Terribly odd, hatefully unfilial, dreadfully
disrespectful and surpassingly strange, eh, Anne?"

"Of course, but then he's a Scrope.  So no more o' him!  Instead tell
me when must we expect Ned and his Kate?"

"About six o'clock."

"And what have we for dinner, or is it supper?"

"Both or either, Anne.  And we have fried soles, boiled beef, a green
goose, peas, beans, a gooseberry pie and currant tart."

"Then, m'dear, I hope they won't be late for I'm hungry already."

"Grannyanne, how often do you visit Mrs. Jennings?"

"Every day, Sam."

"Then I should like to go with you tomorrow if I may?"

"Of course.  She speaks very kindly of you--how you carried her.  Yes,
and she seems to have taken a great fancy to that queer person Mr.
Brown, she was asking after him--"

"Hark!" cried Aunt Deb, laying by her sewing.  "Surely I hear wheels in
the lane--"  As she spoke came a seamanlike roar mellowed by distance:

"House ho!  Ahoy, Sam!  Messmate--ahoy!"

And instantly, his gloom forgotten a while, Sam bellowed in cheery
response.  Then with Grannyanne on one arm and Aunt Deb on the other
away they hastened to welcome Captain Ned and his lady.  And a right
joyous reunion it was; the old farmhouse rang again with laughter and
happy voices which, after some while, were somewhat muted by reason of
the boiled beef, goose, etc.

And afterwards, seated about the wide hearth, with its cosy ingles,
where winter and summer a fire blazed or smouldered, they talked or
were comfortably silent like the real friends they were.

And it was upon this scene of happy peaceful domesticity that Nancy
opened the door to announce:

"Mr. Joliffe, if you please."

Forthwith in he came bowing and smiling as they rose to greet him.

"God bless you all, how snug you look!  I am the more ashamed to
disturb you, but by your leaves, I must crave a few words with his
lordship here."

"Eh, sir?" questioned the Captain.  "His lordship did you say?"

"Ay, to be sure I did," said Mr. Joliffe.  "How then," he chuckled,
seeing Captain Ned's blank look, "are you not aware--Sam, haven't you
told them--aha--evidently not!  Then, my dear friends, in this scowling
Sam of ours, I have the honour to present my lord Japhet, Earl of
Wrybourne...."




CHAPTER XXXIX

TELLS HOW SAM MADE A DECISION

These words, so merrily spoken, smote Sam like an icy blast, a
blighting wind that swept the spirit of warm, sweet intimacy from this
homely fireside where now these faces so dearly familiar became all
suddenly cold and strange; Kate, wide-eyed, shrank from him nearer her
husband, who regarded him beneath brows knit in perplexity or anger.
Aunt Deborah stared open-mouthed, only Mrs. Leet, watching all, knitted
serenely in a breathless silence, an unnatural stillness growing ever
more unbearable, a hush broken only by the click of her knitting-pins,
even this homely sound ended at last--and then she enquired:

"Well, why are we all so speechless?"

"Because," Sam answered, bitterly, "I'm cursed with the name of Scrope!
Ay, and the curse is come on me already, shutting me away from you all,
shattering this that was my home, making me an outcast--"  With the
word he started afoot and strode out and away to the orchard where
shadows were deepening.

And here presently Grannyanne found him crouched disconsolate on the
rustic settle.

"Sam," she murmured, touching his bowed head, "dear boy, make room for
your granny."

"Oh, Grannyanne," he sighed, setting his arms about her, "thank God
you're here and--didn't use my accursed title."

"Not yet," said she, seated herself beside him, "but Sam, my dear, 'tis
for you to make this title honourable again, respected and I
hope--loved....  But, my word, a fine to-do you've made yonder, there's
Kate weeping, Ned swearing, under his breath, Joliffe trying to explain
and apologize for springing such surprise, and Deb still goggling in
amaze, and here's me come for my grandson's arm."

"Which is always at your service, God bless you!  But you're not
bearing up for your cottage yet because, d'ye see, I need the comfort
of you--so you won't leave me yet awhile?"

"No, my hearty, oh no," she replied, as her sailor father might have
done, "we'll beat to quarters and square away for the parlour--"

"Not yet, Granny, I can't face 'em so soon--"

"Ay, but you must, if only to put 'em all at their ease, for if you're
taken all aback, Sam, they're on their beam-ends!  So it's tack about
and bear away, my hearty.  And for goodness' sake don't look such a
hang-dog, guilty wretch, for though you are a Scrope 'tis no fault of
yours."

"Grannyanne, when were you sure I was of this cursed family?"

"The night we looked at the stars, Sam, though I suspected it when you
stood beneath the Admiral's portrait.  Come now, my Admiral Two, tack
about and smartly."

"God love you, Granny, what a joy and comfort you are!"  So back they
went ... to be met and welcomed by Kate's glad cry:

"Oh Sam, dear, dear Sam--oh, my lord, I'm trying to thank you as I said
I would, though even now I hardly dare and don't know how--"

"Why then," said he, rather hoarsely, "kiss me instead and make our
Captain jealous!"  And kiss him she did, right heartily, and after her
Aunt Deb; then Captain Ned grasped his hand, saying:

"Sink me, old messmate, this calls for a bottle!"

Thus that invisible, so English barrier of Caste melted away, the
awesome spectre named Rank fled before the genial Spirit of Home, and
my lord Japhet, Earl of Wrybourne became also Sam and one of this
joyous family circle.  Though Aunt Deb murmured at fitful intervals:

"Amazing!  Astounding!  Our Sam!  My Saint George!  Astonishing!"

So once again they drank the toast: "Health, happiness and long life to
Japhet the Earl."

"Well now," said Sam, rather awkwardly, fumbling his wine glass, "I'm
going to pledge you all ... God love and keep you all and may you be
the ... the same dear folk when I come back, for, d'ye see, I'm off to
fight the mounseers again, but this time--in my own ship."

"Oh--no!" gasped Kate.

"Ah--don't!" cried Aunt Deb.

"Pre-posterous!" exclaimed Mr. Joliffe.  "Sam ... my lord, you must
not----"

"Folks," said Mrs. Leet, rising majestically, "I dare to think he
won't.  And now I'll get me beneath my dratted leaky roof.  Grandson,
your arm!"  And so, when she had been tied into her bonnet and armed
with her formidable staff, forth she went with Sam into a fragrant
night.

"But, Granny," said he, opening the gate, "surely it's every man's duty
to defend his home 'gainst invasion?"

"Of course, Sam.  But thank God, there are thousands of brave men to do
that, but only one man to do what you must.  So your duty is to fit
yourself for your new responsibilities and they are great.  'Tis London
for you, Sam, to take your place as peer o' the realm and help to
govern our troubled old England.  Any man that is a man can fight with
his hands--you must fight an everlasting battle with your mind, your
wits, the influence of your character and the enormous power of your
wealth."

"But, Grannyanne, I'm a sailor with little education, and besides a
hard life has made me such a rough, mannerless sort o' fellow--"

"But the good Lord made your body strong, your heart clean and true and
fearless.  Fortune has made you an Earl, 'tis for you to make yourself
a gentleman.  Ha, Sam, you are going to be right busy here in England
with fights a-plenty, battles with yourself and circumstance without
seeking 'em at sea!  Then besides, and lastly----"

"Well, Granny?"

"There's Jane's Fairy Aunt."

"Yes," he sighed, "there will always be Andromeda.  Do you know her,
Granny?"

"No, not properly, but I mean to, if you love her, do you?"

"Ay, beyond the telling!"

"However, did you tell her?"

"Yes," he answered again and with another sigh.

"Ha!  And she denied you?"

"Well, she has and she hasn't--"

"Under the hedge, Sam--here in the moonlight, sit down and tell me all
about it."

There seated beside her, Sam told of his love briefly yet with such
deep sincerity and unconscious eloquence that when he had finished,
Grannyanne instantly rapped him with her ponderous stick though not
very hard, saying:

"Sam, y'great silly numps, you lubberly jack, you handled the affair
quite wrongly!"

"Oh, did I, Granny?  Pray how?"

"You slapped the little gentleman abaft, didn't you?"

"Ay, I did and now regret it."

"And so you should, you great gowk, for making such fool mistake."

"Eh?  Mistake, but--how d'you mean?"

"I mean you slapped the wrong one.  You should have ignored the uncle
and slapped the niece!  Such delicate, fine lady would take it
kindly--done properly and by the right man, of course.  However, this
can always be amended next time you meet her....  Ha, and yonder comes
Ben Joliffe seeking you.  Here we are, Ben, under the hedge!"

"Well," enquired Mr. Joliffe, anxiously, "have you talked our hot-head
into reason, Anne?  Have you convinced him of his duty?"

"I think so, I hope so--ask him!"

"Then, Sam, will you waste yourself at sea--or to London and follow
your high destiny?"

"You must give me time to decide," answered Sam, aiding Grannyanne to
her feet.

"Of course," sighed Mr. Joliffe wearily, "but how long will that take
you?"

"Until we reach Granny's cottage," answered Sam, whereat she gave his
arm a squeeze, saying as she did so:

"And must I remind your lordship that the cottage your lordship permits
me to inhabit at a price, has a leaky roof--drat it!"

"Ay, but then, Mrs. Leet, d'ye see, marm, I'm hoping you will take
command again at my lordship's house called Wrybourne Feveril."

"Sam--you never mean it?"

"Ay, but I do."

"No, no, I'm too old for such responsibility."

"Then I'm too young ever to live in such a confounded old rabbit-warren
without you, Granny."

"And here," said Mr. Joliffe, "here we are at the cottage.  So which
and what is it to be, Sam?"

"Why, London, of course, Ben.  Who can resist Grannyanne?  Not I!
She's but to fire a shot athwart my forefoot and I strike my colours.
God bless her!  So kiss me Good-bye, Grannyanne, and wish your loving
grandson good luck, b'Jingo he'll need it!"

So kiss him she did and left a tear on his cheek, saying thereafter:

"Oh, drat you, Sam, you've made me cry!  But with these tears I'm
praying our Almighty Father will give you strength to be a true
noble-man, the best and greatest of all the Scropes to bring love and
honour to the name at last.  Good-bye, Grandson, and God bless you!"

"And there," said Sam, when the cottage door had shut her from sight,
"there is a truly grand soul, Ben!"

"I have known it these many years, Sam!  Anne Leet was always
profoundly wise and utterly fearless.  She only could manage or dared
outface your--hem--lordly sire in his drunken furies.  While she ruled
the Great House there was at least some show of decency."

"Ay, truly 'tis privilege to know such as she!"  So saying, Sam turned
and slipping hand within Mr. Joliffe's arm enquired, rather gloomily:

"When d'you propose we start for London, Ben?"

"At your convenience, m'dear fellow, but--the sooner the better."

"Then," quoth Sam, sighing deeper than ever, "let it be tomorrow."




TO THE READER:

who having followed Sam thus far, the Author dares to regard as his
friend.


Here this narrative might conclude, since here end the bodily dangers
of this Heritage Perilous.  Yet because in this life are perils more
insidious though no less deadly, your Author, and friend (I hope)
ventures to describe briefly as possible those dangers that still
awaited Sam amid the teeming riot of London's then cobbled streets and
in the perfumed bowers of great Vanity Fair that has been, is, and ever
will be the lure to buoyant, exuberant youth for eventual good or ill.

Here then begins Book Number Two called:

_The Aristocrat_.




BOOK NUMBER TWO


CHAPTER I

OF SIR JOHN ORME AND VANITY FAIR

The clock of St. Clement Danes was striking the hour of three as Mr.
Joliffe turning from the roar and clatter of the busy Strand, led Sam
beneath a shadowy arch into the comparative quiet of Clifford's Inn
where, beyond cobbled walks, grass grew and trees made pleasant shade
for buildings which, though grimed and dingy, were yet gracious and
dignified by age and long tradition.

Entering a certain gloomy portal they ascended a gloomier stair, up and
up until they arrived at the dingiest of doors which opening promptly
to Mr. Joliffe's knock, disclosed a sombre person who, bowing
speechlessly, conducted them to a bare little room with no carpet, one
picture, two small, hard chairs, and a shock-headed man in faded
dressing-gown and slippers performing on a squeaking quill pen.

"M'lord," said Mr. Joliffe ceremoniously, "I have the honour to present
Sir John Orme, Sir John, the Earl of Wrybourne."

"Servant!" snapped Sir John, his pen still squeaking.  "You are a
little before your time, Joliffe.  Pray sit down until I have slaved my
allotted span.  Be seated."

"Thankee," answered Sam, a little grimly, "I'd liefer stand."

"And rightly so," said Sir John, still writing busily, "those
four-legged discomforts are meant to discourage idle sitters and
fatuous chatterers, for this, sir, is my room of penance.  Five minutes
longer and I shall give you my attention."

So while Mr. Joliffe perched uncomfortably on inadequate chair, Sam
glanced from this harsh-spoken, shabby man, round about this
ostentatiously barren little room until arrested by the one picture,
the portrait of a young, delicately-beautiful woman; he was yet
regarding this when Sir John's harsh voice exclaimed:

"My wife, sir!  She died twelve years ago.  I killed her.  She came to
me like sweet flower of Spring, and I killed her.  She was for me the
one dearest thing in life and I murdered her as surely as if these
hands had strangled her."

"Though," Mr. Joliffe interpolated, "she was always extremely delicate."

"My lord," continued Sir John, more harshly, "I was one of those human
curses known euphemistically as a dashing sportsman, a gambler on the
heroic scale and comported myself so heroically that in one night of
heroic folly I lost all--yes even the bed she lay upon!  Three months
later, in room small and wretchedly bare as this, she died in the arms
of the remorseful wretch who had killed her.  Then, having lost all
that made life endurable, I should have tossed that away also, but for
my good friend Joliffe ... later he found me work as a law-writer, thus
I eke out an existence and better than I deserve thanks to my man
Jeremiah.  So I have made life a penance, part of which is thus to
trample pride underfoot and make confession so painful to you, sir, a
man so much younger than myself.  Well, my lord, what have you to say?"

Now looking down at the speaker, Sam beheld a face framed in shag of
long, grey hair, pale, high-nosed, square of chin and lit by eyes so
much the reverse of his abrupt, harsh manner that, finding no words,
Sam held out his hand instead, to have it grasped with such unexpected
heartiness that he said, impulsively:

"Sir, I hope we are going to be friends."

"Joliffe," said Sir John, rising, "he'll do!  Now leave we this room of
penance for one where we may talk in more comfort.  This law-writing is
weary business, I've been quill-driving since dawn.  Come away!"  And
presently seated in cosy chamber: "My lord," said he, "our friend
Joliffe has of course informed me of you and your change of fortune and
I am curious to know what you intend to do with yourself and how I can
help you?"

"Sir," answered Sam, "a few weeks ago I was a seaman and a rough sort
of fellow, today greatly against my will, I'm an earl and what's worse,
a Scrope!  I belong to a family of blue-blooded scoundrels who have
been a curse to themselves and others--back through the ages.  And now
it seems I must assume my lordly position and responsibilities and my
trouble is how to do it worthily being only myself and cursed
beforehand with such villainous name?"

Sir John, sitting up in his chair, was now regarding Sam with new and
keenest interest; Mr. Joliffe watching both, was hiding a smile in his
hand as Sam continued:

"What's more, sir, besides my accursed name, you must know I'm no fine
gentleman, I've no graces o' manner and little education.  Yet I've a
mind to lift this damned name of Scrope out o' the mud and do something
to better the condition of my tenantry and the country at large, use
the power o' my money--Joliffe says I've lots of it--for good 'stead of
evil and--well, d'ye see--be an Earl to the best o' my ability."

"So," repeated Sir John, leaning forward to say it, "you would be an
earl--to the best of your ability--and how, pray?"

"By service, sir.  Giving as well as taking.  By mixing with my folk,
giving 'em a lead in their work and pastime.  For, d'ye see, I know and
ha' proved this aboard ship--that I can get the best out of a fighting
crew by leadership rather than command.  'Boarders away--go to it,
lads'! is one way--'Follow me, my hearties'! is another and better.  I
know, for as I say, I've proved it.  But, sir, to be a proper Earl, it
seems I must bear up for the Fashionable World, learn the manoeuvres of
Polite Society, eh, Joliffe?"

"Undoubtedly, my lord!"

"So, d'ye see, Sir John, my need is for someone to pilot me among these
shoals, learn me the ropes and how to box the social compass, to learn
me gentlemanly ways with the how and what of it all.  Well, Sir John,
our friend Joliffe speaks of you so highly that here am I to beg you'll
so oblige me--if you will I shall be very truly grateful.  So, what's
the word, sir?"

"My first word," answered Sir John, sinking back in his chair again,
"is astonishment!  And my second--gratitude!  Yes, Joliffe old friend,
I am profoundly grateful for chance of such joyous adventure, which I
accept gladly!  For, 'pon my soul, Ben, our young lord is like a fresh,
clean breeze and one that may become a gale to scatter age-old cobwebs,
even shake Vanity Fair and of course eventually prove his own social
ruin."

"Oh?" murmured Sam, pondering this.  "Ah!  Pray how, sir?"

"By contravening those unwritten laws, breaking every rule whereby
Vanity Fair troubles to govern itself."

"And what," enquired Sam, "what is Vanity Fair?"

"Aha!" exclaimed Sir John, with something very like a chuckle.  "There
spake our innocent man of the sea!  Vanity Fair, my lord, is
a--sentient nebulosity that judges all and every thing by externals,
believes only what best pleases itself, refuses to see or hear anything
disagreeable to itself, troubles itself only for itself, exists but to
pleasure itself, and may be summed up therefore in the one
word--Itself.  By such criterion you must see how entirely wrong are
your values.  In Vanity Fair the name of Scrope stands high, your
family being old and of long tradition is therefore honoured.  Your
Uncle, the late Lord Julian, will be politely lamented as a mordant wit
and famous sportsman.  Consequently you as a Scrope of Wrybourne will
be hailed and made free of Vanity Fair not for yourself or because of
your prodigious wealth, but for your blue blood and long ancestry, in
fine because you are an aristocrat."

"Lord!" exclaimed Sam, with hopeless gesture, "Lord love me!  Now I'm
greatly minded to turn farmer along o' Ned or fit out a ship against
the mounseers."

"And in either," sighed Sir John, "you would find more true happiness
and content."

"But," said Mr. Joliffe warningly, "your duty points another way!"

"Ay, ay!" groaned Sam.  "But now I'm fairly out o' my reckoning."

"And no wonder!" chuckled Mr. Joliffe.  "This is why we sought aid of
Sir John."

"Which I am happy to afford."

"Then, sir," quoth Sam, "since we are to be associated, will you favour
me by dropping my title, cutting it adrift and calling me Sam?"

"Gladly, on condition that you reciprocate."

"Thankee.  Then how do we begin, John, and how?"

"I suppose," suggested Mr. Joliffe, "the first and most urgent need
is--a tailor?"

"No, Ben, not a tailor--the tailor, my own!  I believe he still
condescends to fashion creations and create fashions for the favoured
few.  We will call on him today, so soon as I am ready."

"Excellent!" exclaimed Mr. Joliffe.  "For in the hope you might prove
agreeable, my dear Sir John, all is prepared for your reception at my
lord's town house."

"Though," added Sam, dismally, "'tis more like an hotel--with a crew o'
servants, butlers, footmen and what not--enough to man a ship o' the
line, besides a host o' women."

"And one other," said Sir John, smiling, "my man Jeremiah, who is a
host in himself.  Which reminds me!"  And rising, he pulled the
bell-rope, whereupon the door opened and the sedate Jeremiah entered,
bearing a tray laden hospitably with bottles and glasses.  Towards
these Sir John gestured, saying:

"Give me half-an-hour."

"Well, Sam," quoth Mr. Joliffe, as the door closed, "yonder goes your
guide, philosopher and, I hope, friend, than whom I could have chosen
none more able as events shall prove.  For Sir John was once a famous
and brilliant denizen of Vanity Fair--today a man of even greater parts
... made wise by bitter experience.  I hope you approve my choice?"

"Why, so far as I can tell at present, Ben, I echo his words and
heartily--'he'll do.'  No wine, thankee!  And I've been thinking, Ben."

"Oh, indeed?" enquired Mr. Joliffe, filling his own glass.

"Yes, a matter of business--Joliffe!"

"Ah, what now, my lord?" he enquired, apprehensively.  "No more
stupendous bequests, I hope?"

"Yes and no.  I'm wondering what I can do to make life a little easier,
if possible, for that very unfortunate and gentle lady, Mrs. Jennings."

Mr. Joliffe sighed heavily, set down his wine untested:

"Money, my lord?"

"Of course!"  Mr. Joliffe moaned faintly as Sam continued: "The
question is--how much and how best I can get her to accept it without
hurting her pride, d'ye see?  I've been trying to scheme how we might
let it appear to be a legacy from Lord Julian's estate ... and yet,
considering he's proclaimed bankrupt and his son at present in a
debtor's prison--"

"Whence he can never win free!" added Mr. Joliffe, sipping his wine
with relish.  "A prisoner for life--"

"Precisely, Joliffe ... I thought about five hundred a year and the
cottage she occupies or any other she may choose----"

"But, my lord, my dear fellow, Oh, Sam, consider--Mrs. Jennings has but
her own simple needs--she is alone, and for a single woman five hundred
per annum is quite exorbitant--"

"Then, Mr. Joliffe, considering her loneliness, let's make it six
hundred and a house or cottage.  Is this understood?"

"Yes--yes!" gasped the lawyer.  "But, my lord, permit me to remark--"

"That you think we should do better, another hundred or so--"

"No, no!  Great good Jehovah--no!"

"Very well, my dear Ben.  Now as to the method, the how and when of it.
I think the only person who can help us is your old friend and that
wise Grannyanne o' mine.  So, tomorrow, Joliffe, you will proceed to
Wrybourne and consult with her."

"Tomorrow, my lord?  But, my dear fellow, I--"

"Tomorrow, Mr. Joliffe, sir!  For, d'ye see, I want the matter
completed at once.  Then besides, regarding Mistress Cecily Croft----

"Yes, oh yes!" moaned the lawyer.  "Very soon this innocent young
creature will be harassed by this fabulous wealth which--"

"And, Mr. Joliffe, I must impress upon you again how she must have no
idea--not the least suspicion as to the who or why of it!  Is this also
understood?"

"It is, my lord, I do assure you."

"Then, Ben, my dear old fellow--"  At this moment the door opened and
glancing thither, Sam was dumb, for upon the threshold stood a tall,
stately person, such truly imposing figure that Sam rose instinctively
to his feet.

Sir John's wild shag of grey hair had been combed back into a queue,
his patched and faded dressing-gown had given place to garments whose
sombre elegance lent him an added dignity while his lean face lit by
wide, bright eyes, showed power in its every feature and line--gentled
all at once by a smile that seemed oddly wistful as he said, and in
voice altered as was his appearance:

"Gentlemen, I am at your service."

"Ah, Sir John," said Mr. Joliffe, rising in his turn, "my dear Sir
John, I am happy to welcome you back to life ... the world of action--"

"And," sighed Sir John, "the tragical follies of Vanity Fair."




CHAPTER II

TELLS HOW MY LORD CAME TO VANITY FAIR

A month has elapsed and my lord the Earl of Wrybourne stands scowling
at the resplendent young gentleman who scowls back at him--a tall,
shapely, young exquisite whose garments seem moulded upon his powerful
body, more especially his skin-tight pantaloons, that reveal his nether
man from hip to ankle with an almost disquieting frankness.

It is at these brawny, too-evident limbs of his that my lord is gazing
with such very Sam-like scowl while his two valets hover anxiously in
the background, when the door opens to admit Sir John, whereupon my
lord turns from his reflection in the long, cheval-glass, saying
gloomily:

"John, I'm well enough aloft, but alow--damme, I feel and look like a
skinned rabbit!"  At this, my lord's two valets exchange glances and
even venture to appear horrified, while Sir John, lifting gold-rimmed
quizzing-glass adangle on broad ribbon, inspects my lord from curly
pate to gleaming pumps, walks slowly round about my lord, inspecting
him from every angle and finally remarks:

"I find nothing about you to disparage--indeed you are quite
point-devise!  And knee-breeches, my dear Japhet, are becoming dmod,
and this new, hideous fashion of cossack trowsers is not permissible
for such occasion as this!  Also at such function to be a trifle late
is modish, to be devilish late is deuced bad form and--we are a trifle
late!"

Thus presently side by side these two fine gentlemen descend wide,
curving stair to spacious, pillared hall, where four ornate footmen
moving as one, open ponderous door, bow them down marble steps and into
luxurious carriage that bears them away through, but not of, these busy
London streets.

And now as they bowl along, my lord still very conscious of those legs
of his, says unhappily:

"Damme, I'm shaking fore and aft!  I'm nervous, John!"

"Well, thank heaven you don't show it!  And after all you've only to
look the part, which you do--say little, bow often and remember our
many lessons in speech and deportment."

"Ay, you've been very patient with me, John, all these weeks, and
taught me a great deal."

"You are an apt pupil, my dear Japhet, and quick to learn, though to be
sure Nature made you a gentleman.  I have but added a little polish I
venture to believe."

"And I'm grateful, John, and only hope I may do justice to your
instruction.  Though, 'pon my soul, I'd rather be fighting a close
action in gale o' wind than front all these fine folk.  Have you any
last orders?"

"Merely to reiterate--first--do not stride with your seaman's roll and
lurch.  Second--bear yourself always like the aristocrat you are.
Third--when you converse modulate your voice and use few gestures.
Fourth--if you are angered or troubled, smile.  Pray remember that you
must, under all circumstances, preserve an immutable calm, an
unshakable, nay a pertinacious serenity!  Rein in and govern your
emotions--"

"Ay, but suppose some fellow affronts me?"

"Be gracious and return his insult with a bow.  And this reminds me,
being a fighting seaman you are used to firearms?"

"Of course, John, though I'm happier with a boarding-axe or cutlass ..."

Talking thus, they arrive in due season at another great house, vast of
gates, portico and courtyard where other stately carriages trundle in,
deposit their precious cargoes and rumble away, making room for others.
For here today Her Grace the Duchess of Camberhurst is to introduce my
lord the Earl of Wrybourne to the World of Fashion, which is eager to
take him to its polite bosom since he is "One of the Wicked Scropes, my
dear"! also, "One of the wealthiest young bachelors in England, my
love"!

Wherefore, as these many carriages rumble and roll, beplumed and
turbaned mamas give final keen scrutiny to their daughters, with such
instructions as: "Remember to bear yourself swimmingly, child!  When
you make your reverence, miss, your curtsy must be graciously slow with
becoming droop of lashes and--forget not to surge your bosom a little
pantingly, my dear, and do--not point your elbows!"

Up carpeted steps, between rows of powdered flunkeys, sweep stately
dames, gallant gentlemen and visions of youthful loveliness; dainty
petticoats flutter, plumes nod, jewels sparkle, bright eyes beam--and
all to meet to greet and give welcome to this Child of Fortune, this
blue-blooded aristocrat my lord the Earl of Wrybourne-Feveril....  But
he, completely overwhelmed and giving way to sudden panic, eludes Sir
John amid this crowded magnificence, steals away like hunted wretch,
finds a door that opens upon the free air and is off and away.  He is
speeding along a path between tall yew hedges when he collides with one
who, reeling from the impact, splutters a strangled curse, a tall
gentleman this, chiefly remarkable for teeth that are large and
cruel-looking and eyes that are small but exceedingly fierce.

"Curse you, sir!" gasps this gentleman, large teeth bared and small
eyes narrowed.  "What the devil, sir--hey, sir----"

"Damn your eyes!" retorts my lord, harshly as any sailorman possibly
could.  "If y'must run me aboard, speak me more mannerly or be dumb,
blast ye!"

"Eh--eh?" cries the gentleman, opening his eyes wide as possible.  "Who
the--what the devil--"

"Avast!" snarls my lord, becoming Sam at his grimmest, "I'm in no mood
to parlez-vous with the likes o' you, so sheer off--and lively!"  At
this, the gentleman seems to breathe with difficulty, he chokes, gives
a ferocious tug at his high cravat, then snapping large teeth hisses:

"S-s-sir, you are addressing ... and provoking Sir Robert Chalmers--the
Chalmers--"

"Deah me!" says Sam the mariner becoming my lord the Earl.  "Then I
take joy to inform Sir Robert Chalmers that I do not like the sound of
him any better than the sight of him and beg him to oblige me by
removing himself--"

"Oh, I see," nods Sir Robert, "you are a stranger to town--ignorance
excuses you, also I am pressed for time!  But--should you annoy me
again--if you are then no wiser, be warned now."  So saying, Sir Robert
strides rapidly away.  My lord is still gazing after him when he hears
a slow step nearby, glances thither and beholds a slender, youthful
though extremely languid gentleman who bowing feebly, says, as if
speech were an effort almost beyond his strength:

"Sir, not th' faintest notion who y'are, but f' sake o' pure humanity,
beg t'offer word o' warning 'f I may."

"Oh?" enquires the Earl.  "Ah?  Pray do."

"F'ler Chalmers, dooced notorious, dead shot, killed several.  Don't do
t'quarrel with--dey'vlish dangerous f'ler.  Hope m'advice don't 'ffend
ya."

"I'm grateful, sir.  Whom have I to thank?"

"Standish, sir.  Henry--no one in particular--'d afternoon!"  And with
another feeble bow, young Mr. Standish ambles away rather like a
tottery old gentleman.

And now, hearing a merry babblement of voices chiefly feminine, away
speeds my lord in the opposite direction and turning a corner in full
career, comes upon a lady so suddenly that before he knows it, she is
in his arms.

"Gracious mercy of Heaven!" she exclaims.  "What a bear!  My feet yards
above the earth!  Put me down this moment, sir."  All stammering
apology my lord obeys and sees her for a very small person of
indeterminate age, an extremely dignified, small lady, whose curls are
suspiciously black, cheeks as suspiciously pink, though her eyes are
remarkably bright and quick with perennial youth; now looking down into
these beautiful and quite wonderful eyes, my lord (this hunted wretch)
feels instinctively that here is a friend so for a brief space they
regard each other eye to eye, then before he can speak, she demands:

"Well, sir, where on earth were you going in such furious hurry?"

"Anywhere, marm--madam, so long as I keep well to wind'ard of the
Duchess--"

"Oho!  So you're running away from the Duchess, are you?"

"Ay, I am indeed--"

"Then give me your hand and let's run!"

"Lady," says my lord, taking the very small hand she proffers.  "God
love you--those eyes o' yours spoke me true, for the moment they looked
at me I--"

"Run!" says she, imperiously!  So away they flee, hand-in-hand, until
this very small lady gasps: "Wait ... oh, I'm breathless ... wait--no,
you must carry me if you--"  Powerful arms swung her lightly aloft and
thus cradled, she directs him until in remote corner they reach an
arbour shaded by trees and bowered in roses.  Here he sets her down and
she having adjusted her somewhat ruffled frills and furbelows, seats
herself upon cushioned settle and beckons him beside her, saying:

"Now continue!  What were you remarking about my eyes?"

"That they are mighty sharp, marm--madam, very wise yet kind, like the
eyes of a friend."

"Ho!  Is this all?  Don't you think they are very beautiful eyes?"

"Yes, marm----"

"Then why not say so?"

"Because a friend's eyes are always beautiful--"

"Fiddle-faddle and nonsense!  I know friends with eyes like pigs' eyes,
and holes in blankets, and Friendship cannot alter the fact, so don't
you try."

"No, madam, for just at present your eyes are a bit too sharp for
friendship--"

"In-deed!  Well now, tell me why you are running away from the Duchess."

"Not from her so much, madam, as the fact that she's to introduce me to
her lady friends--hundreds of 'em!  I'm to bow and scrape and be
paraded before them all which you'll agree is enough to shake any man."

"But I do not agree.  Oh no, not for a moment!  Most men would adore
such occasion and why not you?"

"Because I'm clean out o' my reckoning and no soundings!  All these
fine folk!  This isn't my world.  I'm a stranger here and what's more I
don't belong and never shall."

"Then why are you here?"

"All John's fault, marm, Sir John Orme, he's a friend o' the Duchess
and well, here I am, and heartily wishing myself anywhere else."

"So--you are the Earl of Wrybourne!"

"Ay, I am," his lordship admits and with look so abject and sigh so
very like a groan that the lady's mobile lips twitch, her bright eyes
twinkle though her voice is perfectly solemn as she enquires:

"Why so miserable, pray?"

"Oh, marm," exclaims the Earl, forgetting everything except that he is
Sam, "I loathe the very idea of it, because of the hateful name I bear
and all that goes with it!  Then besides I'm a sailor and pretty rough
though Sir John, bless his heart, has been schooling me in ways of
speech and gentle manners, ay, he's done his best with me, but I'm only
the more certain my proper place is aboard ship instead of a palace the
like o' this!  As a sailorman I was well enough, but as an earl and
aristocrat I'm all adrift and like to founder.  So here am I on my
beam-ends, as I knew I should be, feeling mere clumsy fool and
terrified of all these fine ladies.  This is why I'm so glad, so
thankful to have found one like you!"

"Why?" she demands, studying his troubled face with keenly appraising
scrutiny.  "Because of my so beautiful eyes?"

"Yes!" he answers gravely.  "And all the rest of you.  So, marm,
although I'm Japhet and an earl by law and must so be to everyone else
in London, I'd like you to know me for what I truly am--"

"I believe I do!" she nods.

"Then if you'll bless me with your friendship will you call me 'Sam'?"

"I will, on condition that when you are made known to the company as
you must be, you will play your part as boldly as you did on your ship
in battle--Oh, I've heard a few facts about you from Sir John.  And
now, if we are to be friends, tell me why you so hate the rank and
wealth you have inherited?"

"I despise my name because the Scropes have generally been such
scoundrels, and I hate all the money because it makes me grieve all the
more for my dead mother."

"I should like to hear of her, if I may--Sam."

So once again he told that tale of hardship, grinding poverty and a
woman's selfless devotion, told it simply, briefly though with such
deep and tender sincerity that when his last words had been uttered,
there ensued a silence--broken at last by sound of hasty footsteps and
a dignified, somewhat flurried personage stands to bow profoundly and
say breathlessly, though with the utmost deference:

"Madame, your guests are all assembled and await your Grace's pleasure."

"Very well, Smedley, you may inform them that we, Lord Wrybourne and
myself, shall join them shortly."

"I thank your Grace!" with which the personage bows himself away.

"Marm ... madam--" stammers Sam, rising in no little dismay.  "So
you--you are--the Duchess."

"My lord," she answers, rising also and sinking before him in graceful
curtsy, "I have the honour to present myself to your lordship!  Now
Sam--bow!  A trifle lower--y-e-e-s.  Ha!  Sir John's efforts have not
been wasted, as I shall tell him.  Come now.  Your arm!"




CHAPTER III

TELLS HOW VANITY FAIR RECEIVED MY LORD

So, beneath the aegis of this small but very potent lady, my lord makes
his obeisance to the World of Fashion; he bows to noble dames stately
and otherwise, who smile, chatter, or merely stare; he touches hands
with gentlemen who talk of the weather, the war, Old Bony, our Nelson,
England's glory and loss, they shake grave heads, snuff and pass on;
Beauty parades itself with demure coyness or shyly provocative
glances--until a voice somewhat muted, drawls:

"Takin' liberty t' warn y'again--Gorgon 'pproaches!  Advise
y'dodge--this way!"  Turning, my lord beholds the languid form of Mr.
Standish who, beckoning feebly, moves with unexpected celerity, guiding
my lord who follows instinctively until in remote corner of broad
terrace, he sinks upon a cushioned ottoman, saying:

"She was after y', m'lud, the Juggernaut, full cry, champin' the bit,
all maternal determination!"

"Who was?" enquires my lord, glancing about uneasily.

"The Marwood mama, th' dem dowager, awf'lest of 'em all, wi' th'
loveliest daughter in Creation--can't think how she managed
it!--t'mother such daughter!  One o' Nature's mysteries and--demme,
she's flushed us--I'm an off 'un!"  And off goes Mr. Standish,
vanishing in the moment that a full-throated imperious voice exclaims:

"Japhet--oh, Japhet!  My dear, dear Wrybourne!  Oh, my heart!"
Glancing round in no little apprehension, my lord beholds a tall
be-plumed dame of commanding presence, whose awful stateliness
overwhelms him, whose determined graciousness saps his will-power,
whose appalling familiarity smites him dumb.  Sinking magnificently
upon the ottoman she beckons him beside her with a dreadful coquetry.

"Wrybourne, my dearest boy," says she between carmined lips that smile
beneath arrogant nose and eyes that languish soulfully, "my poor heart
so beats, so leaps and flutters--as of yore!  For, ah me--you are the
breathing image of your splendid gallant father, your handsome sire,
the Japhet of my adoring youth!"

"Indeed, marm?" his lordship mutters.

"And indeed!" she sighs.  "Ah, what a man--so charmingly compelling!
So deliciously audacious!  Years ago ... he and I....  Ah me, how
fleeteth cruel Time!  The rose of yesterday--alas, so soon to fade!"
Here my lady pausing to sigh and gaze upon him as in fond recollection,
his lordship shifts uneasily yet contrives to murmur:

"Really, marm?"

"Yes," she sighs, "the dear past is real again, my dear boy, lives
again in you--so does your noble father."  Here my lord seems about to
protest but sighs instead and the Dowager Lady Marwood continues: "Oh
memory, memory!  And you are Japhet, too, with his chestnut, curling
locks!  The years roll back and I am young again!  Then there was
Julian, poor, gallant Julian!  Alas, what an end for such gay Lothario!
So tragical!  So dramatic and yet how like dear, wild Julian!  How
handsome, how witty, how splendid was he!  I mourn him as loved friend!
Ah, but now you shall tell me of yourself, Japhet, you are or were a
sailor?"

"Yes, m'lady."

"Well, I adore all sailors from our lamented Nelson our national hero,
down to the humblest tar.  Were you with our Nelson, one of his
glorious 'band of brothers'?"

"No, marm."

"A pity!  He was so truly heroic though small, not so tall as your
shoulder!  I danced a gavotte with him once in Italy it was.  And he so
debonnaire, so graceful despite his empty sleeve pinned across his
breast ablaze with stars and orders, though it flapped so comically
each time he bowed!  You were at Trafalgar, of course."

"Yes, marm, though had no part in the action, we were carrying
despatches."

"No matter, you were there and--ha, yonder is my dove at last, my olive
branch, my one beloved pledge--my only child!  So wilful, Japhet, I
spoil her but so do the gentlemen, such homage--a reigning toast
already!"  Here, in rich contralto the Dowager calls: "Oh, my love!
Rowena, my precious one, be pleased to approach."

My lord glances up, draws a deep breath and sits motionless, gazing at
the most radiantly beautiful vision of loveliness he has ever seen:
slowly, gracefully she advances all dainty seduction from slender,
sandalled foot to the crowning glory of her gleaming yellow hair.

"My own," says her mother, tenderly, "you behold here beside me the
dear son of a dearer old friend of my girlhood--Rowena, my love, I make
known another Japhet, Earl of Wrybourne-Feveril!"

Dumbly my lord rises, speechlessly he bows before this shape of
splendid young womanhood....

Her watchful lady-mother, seeing him thus spellbound, smiles happily
while the arching nostrils of her haughty nose palpitate slightly as
she rises, saying:

"I must have a word with the dear Duchess.  Meanwhile, Japhet, I charge
you with the care of my beloved child.  Ah, youth--youth!" sighs she,
striking an attitude of rather awesome ecstasy as she gazes upon them,
"ah, youth--the rosy, rosy hours, alas how soon they fleet, how fast
they speed away!  Bring me my precious Rowena within the hour, Japhet."

My lord bows and still dumb, glances again at the radiant creature
beside him, smitten anew by the exquisite daintiness and delicate grace
of her, as she stands gazing down at her own slim, sandalled foot, yet
so perfectly aware of his admiring scrutiny that, still motionless and
without even glancing towards him, she enquires:

"Well, my lord, what do you think of me?  I'm for sale, you know."

"Sale?" he repeats, and in such tone of shocked amazement that she
troubles to look up at him and with eyes shrewd as they are beautiful.

"Why, of course," she replies, delicate brows lifting, "surely you
know?  This is the marriage market, the highest bidder takes
me--perhaps!  And this is my first season--so what offers, my lord?"

"Lady Rowena," says he, trying not to scowl, "I think we'll change the
subject."

"Oh no, my lord," and now in her soft voice is a note of bitterness,
"business is business!"

"Ay, but I'm no business man, I'm only a sailor."

"Why--of course," says she, more naturally, "this explains why you are
so different."

"Oh?" he murmurs, pondering this.  "Pray how?"

"In every way."

"You mean I'm awkward ... clumsy, ay, so I am."

"Wrong!"  And now her voice is kind as her look.  "You are just
natural.  Yes, I think--no I'm sure that you are the most unaffected
person I have ever met.  And now, my lord, what is your estimation
of--me?"

"I--well--it goes beyond my poor words."

"Which is mere evasion!" she nods.  "Then since you won't venture to
pronounce judgment on me, what do you think of--Her?--with a very
capital aitch!" and the beautiful head inclines itself in a certain
direction.  "I may tell you that some call her the Carronade because
she's so very devastating at close quarters, some--the Buccaneer,
others--the Juggernaut and lots of other things!  So what say you of
her, my lord?"

"Which 'her'?  Who, pray?"

"Darling mama, of course!"  And lo--the bitterness is marring this
sweet voice again.

"Why since you ask me," says my lord, a little stiffly, "I think of her
as your ladyship's mother."

"Goodness gracious--a snub!  You reproach me for being unfilial!
You'll dare to censure me--"

"Oh no!  Only I respect all mothers because of my own, for, d'ye see, I
loved her--"

"Because she did not put you up for sale to the highest bidder!  Twice
I have been nearly sold, once to a man old enough to be my grandfather,
and once to an awful creature who should have been buried!  But I
escaped thanks to Henry and my own wit--oh, pray let us walk!  No, not
that way," says she, as they descend the terrace steps, "I cannot bear
company just yet ... today I hate them all!"

"All?" enquires my lord.

"Yes--yes!" she exclaims, fiercely.  "I detest all this fulsome
make-believe, our superior affectations, for we are all so cat and
doggy, really--oh, most politely inhuman--bows and curtseys, teeth and
claws!"

"Lord!" murmurs the Earl, glancing askance at this beautiful Ferocity.
"Lord love us!"

"I wonder if He can?" says she, bitterly.  "Such pompous Insincerities
as we are, such charming shams.  And I'm as bad as any--a niminy-piminy
claw-cat!  Today I meet my three closest friends, we embrace, we kiss,
we call each other 'my love,' 'my darling,' 'my dearest,' though our
real names are Jealousy, Malice and Envy.  Yes, I'm a cat with very
sharp claws, or I should have been gobbled up before now!  And being
such a very catty cat, I'm wondering what sort of dog you are--my lord?"

For the first time today he laughs and so joyously that beautiful
Ferocity shows less fierce as he answers:

"I'm a dog with no pretty tricks, that seldom barks, never
bites--except with just cause, wags his tail to friendly whistle and
his name, to his friends, is--Sam."

"Sam?" she repeated, as if trying the sound of it, her mouth lovely and
smiling again.

"A somewhat plebeian name, I suppose," he suggests, "but then, so is
Tom, Dick and--Harry!"

"Ah?" she murmurs, the smile vanishing.  "You know him?"

"If he is Mr. Standish I met him about half-an-hour ago."

"Here?" she exclaims, in sudden anxiety.  "Oh and I warned him!  I told
him not to come..."

"May I ask you if he is--the one?"

"Yes," she replies, after momentary hesitation, "yes, it is Harry.  It
would be the poorest of them all!  You see his reckless father gambled
everything away before he died leaving his son almost destitute.  Yes,
it's Harry--and always will be....  Though I don't know why I am
talking to you so--so very unreservedly."

"Perhaps because you believe I'm the kind of dog that seldom barks and
never bites--a friend."

Now at this, she turns to look at him very wistfully.

"Oh," she murmurs, "you can never guess how friendless we are, how
utterly helpless, poor Harry and I.  Some people have good angels to
watch over them--ours must have flown very far away!"

"However," says my lord, rather diffidently, "a dog can be useful now
and then."

Lady Rowena is looking at him now through a sparkle of tears as she
enquires:

"Does this mean that you--you of all people would help us, my lord?"

"Ay, it does.  And this dog's name is Sam."

With her eyes still tearful she laughs, saying rather brokenly:

"Oh, Sam, you are going to be ... a terrible disappointment to ...
darling mama!  For at this very moment she fondly imagines you ... a
sighing victim of her daughter's ... all-powerful charms!  And instead
... here you are ... offering me a chance of freedom at last ... of
happiness with my Harry!  You are very, very wonderful, but nobody can
possibly help us--not even you."

"Of course not," he answers, "until you begin helping yourselves."

"How, tell me--how ever can we?"

"Are you afraid of poverty?"

"Not with Harry."

"Then why not elope, marry, and dare the future?"

"So I would," sighs she, clasping her hands.  "Ah, God knows I would
have done, but I ... dare not!"

"Oh?" murmurs my lord, "may I know why?"

"Take me into the arbour yonder, and I'll tell you."

So in that same fragrant bower where the Duchess had listened to his
story, Beauty now tells hers, though with more fire and passion:

"There is a hateful brute and loathly beast named Robert Chalmers, we
were children together and he was my boyish sweetheart though he was a
beast of a boy, selfish and masterful, said I belonged to him, and says
so today--he persecutes me, haunts me----"

"Yet he must love you very greatly."

"Yes, though his love would frighten and shame me were I a timid miss,
but I am not easily terrified, thank heaven!"

"What says your mother of him?"

"Oh, darling mama favours him, of course, because failing a better, he
is a very good match, highly connected and plenty of money!  And
besides, she is terribly afraid I shall throw my precious self away on
Harry."

"Then she knows of him?"

"Of course!  Darling mama has eyes everywhere and knows everything.
She must have warned Robert for he came to me and in his dreadful,
smiling way suggested I had better discourage Harry or he would.  Of
course I did not, and of course he did--with a bullet."

"Was Mr. Standish wounded?"

"Desperately!  Robert forced the meeting and then--while my poor Harry
lay between life and death, the beast told me he had spared his life
just this once but that if there had to be a 'next time'--these were
the brute's very words--'he would be less merciful'!"

"Oh?" murmurs my lord, thoughtfully.  "Ah!  And is this gentleman so
deadly?"

"Indeed yes--yes, he is.  Oh, Robert is terrible!  They say he can 'hit
his man wherever he chooses' and that 'he never misses'!  He has fought
very often, here and in France----  Oh, and he always wins!  This is
why the beast is so honoured and respected wherever he goes!"

"No," murmurs my lord, "only here--in Vanity Fair...."  It is now that
Lady Rowena shrinks instinctively, whispering a startled "Hush!"  For,
as if conjured thither by their words, this very redoubtable gentleman
is seen approaching, an angry-seeming gentleman in such hurry that he
would have passed without espying them had not my lord coughed loudly,
whereat Sir Robert halts, stares, and comes striding like the perfectly
assured, extremely formidable person he knows himself to be.

"Aha," says he, with show of large, white teeth, "a game of hide and
seek, m' sweet soul?  Well, I've found you as I always do and always
shall, because I am your destiny--and you know it!  I am also your
devoted slave, joyous as ever to serve you, but--a slave who must not
be denied--"

"Oh, be done!" sighs she, wearily.  "For mercy's sake--leave me in
peace."

"Rowena," he retorts, his smile widening, brows knitting above small,
glittering eyes, "sweet fool, you cannot escape your destiny.  Come, I
will escort you to madam your mother."

"No, Robert!  Darling mama placed me, her so precious asset--in charge
of Lord Wrybourne whom you see here."

"Egad!" he exclaims, glancing at my lord, in affected surprise, "now
you mention him, I do.  Servant, m'lord.  Now, Rowena, go with me--or
must I show you how there is no escaping your destiny?  Come, I say!"
And he reaches out a hand so possessively that she recoils with a
fierce, gasping: "Don't!"

And now it is that my lord thinks proper to intervene; he rises
languidly, makes a leg, sailor-fashion, corrects this into a
ceremonious bow with elaboration of gesture and advances slowly, saying
in carefully modulated, sweetly dulcet tones:

"My dear, my very dear sir, three times--no less, you have proclaimed
yourself to be--Destiny!  To this remarkable, not to say astounding
claim, I must beg leave to take exception, though with all the humility
possible, and for the following reasons--"

Now as he speaks, my lord continues his insidious advance until the
crested gold buttons of his coat (this work of art) are in contact with
the person of Sir Robert, who instinctively steps back--and yet back,
for my lord, while talking, continues his slow and gentle advance; in
which ridiculous posture, breast to breast, these two fine gentlemen
move on together, Sir Robert backward, my lord forward, saying as he
smiles into the baronet's narrowed eyes: "For, d'ye see, my dear sir,
that any mere human, ay, even you, should dare claim to be Destiny,
makes me bold to imagine that I may become--Nemesis."

By this time they are screened from the arbour by a tall yew hedge--and
here my lord suffers a dire "sea-change," for the smilingly-gracious,
gentle-spoken Aristocrat is transmuted into the grim, harsh-voiced,
fighting sailorman, whose large hand, swift-moving, grasps the
baronet's startled face, covers it, shakes it, hurls it away--and Sir
Robert, thus outrageously surprised, falls backward and lies for the
moment shocked beyond speech or movement, staring up at his aggressor,
who scowling down on him with eyes quite as merciless as his own, says
in fierce, snarling voice:

"'Destiny,' d'ye call yourself?  Why, y'poor, damned, lubberly hulk,
what's to stay me running ye under, treading ye into the earth?  Get
up, Mister Destiny, and Nemesis shall knock ye flat again!  Stand up!"

Still dazed and shaken, Sir Robert struggles up to an elbow, glances
around, is relieved to see that no one has apparently witnessed his
discomfiture, and looking up at his assailant, draws a deep breath and
despite his lowly posture, contrives to speak with a certain dignity
and the utmost venom:

"My lord, though you speak and act like blackguardly ruffian, I promise
you shall die like a gentleman."

"Sir Robert," my lord replies, becoming again the urbane fine
gentleman, "of this I am perfectly aware."

"Naturally, my lord!  But what you cannot and shall not know until I so
please, is the precise hour when I shall accord you this honourable
death, which shall be sudden and preferably in the open air--at dawn or
sunset.  But, pray mark this--at my pleasure and in my own time!  I
shall allow your lordship a brief span of living, a few days, weeks, or
even months, as best pleases me and suits my convenience.  So while I
permit you to live, let me urge your lordship to make the most of it,
enjoy it to the full--with this certainty that soon or late, whenever
the whim takes me, I shall call you to account and shoot you like a
dog."

"Oddly enough, sir, Lady Rowena and I were talking of dogs a while
since, before an odd creature calling itself 'Destiny' intruded, and I
was saying something to the effect of how some dogs are all bark and no
bite and others all bite and never a bark--now you, sir, not only bark
quite damnably, but you also yap."

"Bark or yap, my lord, I shall permit you to live awhile that you may
ruminate as to the exact hour of your dying and become aware of this
fact that 'in the midst of life we are in death.'  Think on this, my
lord, eat and drink with it, sleep and wake with it, expect me to
summon you at any moment to die--and be damned!"

"Sir," says my lord, shaking his head as in gentle though shocked
reproof, "I find you so very truly detestable, such pernicious pest and
ugly blot that when you summon me and we meet, then, sir, instead of
simply maiming you for life as I intended, I shall be greatly minded to
end you for good and all, ay, and for the good of all.  We shall see
when the time comes.  However, sir, do not let us have any more of your
'destiny' nonsense.  And now, finding your air, face and person so
repulsive I'll be rid of 'em.  But until I am gone, pray make no
attempt to rise or I must pleasure myself by flattening you out again,
therefore pray lie still.  So, until our next happy meeting, ay, and
after, the devil keep you, sir."

Then with airy flourish, my lord strides lightly away.




CHAPTER IV

IN WHICH MY LORD ENGAGES A SECRETARY AND WINS FRIENDSHIP

Returning to the arbour he is met by a pale, great-eyed Rowena who,
clasping her hands, exclaims tearfully:

"Oh, what have you clone?  Merciful heaven--how will it end?  Oh, my
lord, my lord!"

"The name is Sam!" he reminds her.

"That beast means to kill you--and he will!  There was death in the way
he looked at you."

"Ah, then you saw?"

"Of course!  I heard your voice so I stole and peeped....  And, oh God,
forgive me--this is my fault!  I led you into this!  Your blood will be
upon me--"

"Oh no!  No indeed!  Sir 'Destiny' and I ran into each other before I
had the joy of meeting you.  Ay, we ran foul of each other in every
sense."

"Ah, my lord--Sam, is this true?"

"Abs-lootly!" drawled a familiar voice and into the arbour stepped Mr.
Standish, saying: "Hope I don't intrude.  But, m'dear ... simply must
tell you!  Amazin' business!  Wrybourne's method is quite dooced
original and arrestin'--he merely takes his man by the face and--throws
him away!"

"I know, Harry, I know!" gasps Rowena, "I saw--he did actually throw
Robert away!  Oh, and this means bloodshed--death!  But, oh, did you
see how Robert fell?  Legs in the air--feet above his head!  Oh,
Harry--Sam--"  Here, not knowing whether to laugh or cry, Rowena does
both, to the consternation of her hearers.

"Hold hard, m'dearest!" Mr. Standish implores.  "Curb now--curb!  Sit
tight, m'love!  Oh dem, she's goin' t'swoon or somethin'!  Take her
other hand, Wrybourne--now open it--now slap it like I do--smartly,
m'dear f'low, smartly!"  So, while Rowena sobs, laughs and chokes,
these two dismayed gentlemen slap her pink palms until they glow pinker
and their lovely owner gasps:

"Stop--stop, you great sillies ... I'm only laughing ... now!"

"Eh?  Only laughing?  Sure o' that, m'dear?"

"Yes, though it's perfectly horrid of me when--it may mean--death!  Oh,
my lord--"

"Yes, b'James!  I was f'gettin' too!  Chalmers'll be after your blood,
Wrybourne--thirstin' for 't--tongue lollin', m'dear f'low.  And, oh
demme, he'll have it too, for he's calamitous wi' the barkers or
sharps!  And he'll keep y' in suspense--it's a trick he uses t' shake
his 'ponent's nerve!"

"However," says my lord, glancing from one anxious young face to the
other and touched by their very evident sincerity, "pray sit down, Mr.
Standish, and let us converse of something more pleasant, ourselves,
for instance, for I'm happy to say your lovely and gracious Rowena has
honoured me with her friendship."

"Yes, indeed, Hal!" she breaks in, giving a hand to each.  "Here we sit
joined in friendship because, Harry, instead of the sighing, ogling
wooer I dreaded and darling mama hoped he would be, I have proved Lord
Wrybourne so truly a friend that he is 'Sam'--yes, and almost before I
knew it, I was telling him--confiding to him all about--us!"

"Ha!  Did y' tell him how and why you eternally blight me with a
continual, dem, everlasting 'no'?"

"Yes," she replies mendaciously, "I said it was because I fear poverty."

"Naturally, m'dear, so do I!  Yet with you I'd dare even that....  I'm
keepin' the old farmhouse--last bit o' the mater's dowry, in hopes!
Not much of a place, but with you in it, well--you could make it--home,
y'know."

"Could I, Hal?" she murmurs, leaning towards him.

"Yes," he answers, leaning towards her.  "That's why I haven't sold the
old place, hopin' you might--some day!  I shall always hope, y'know."

"Shall you, Hal?" she whispers; no bitterness now in beauteous face or
tender voice, also Mr. Standish has quite forgotten his languor and
shows for the vitally-eager, manly young fellow he truly is--or so
thinks my lord, watching them critically, and they so completely
oblivious of him and everything except each other that they start
almost guiltily as he says in his hearty seaman's voice:

"Ay, hope's the word, never say die!  And if we're to be friends--I'll
take a stroll, as a friend should.  But before I leave you together a
while, here's an offer for your consideration, Mr. Standish--I need a
private secretary who will also be a friend, will you accept?"

"Eh?  A secretary?  Me?  But, m'dear, old lord, I hardly know how t'
write----"

"Harry!" exclaims his lady, indignantly.  "Do not be so ridiculous!  He
writes extremely well, Sam--indeed quite legibly--sometimes!"

"No, m'angel," sighs Mr. Standish, "can't let him be deluded b'
friendship!  Fact is, old f'low, as a scribe I'm a poor fish--"

"Harry, you shall not disparage yourself so outrageously!  He writes
beautiful letters, Sam--to me!"

"And no wonder!" smiles the Earl.  "Then, Mr. Standish, I've quite a
number of horses in town, but I ride like a sailor and shall need some
lessons."

"Aha!" exclaims Mr. Standish.  "That's certainly more in my line--"

"Harry can ride anything, Sam."

"Then I hope he will oblige me by accepting."

"He will!  He shall!  He does--say so, Harry, at once!"

"And, by the way, I offer six hundred a year to begin with--if you
think this adequate!"

"Adequate!" sighs Rowena, clasping her hands.

"No, Wrybourne, no!" says Mr. Standish, forgetting to drawl, "it's too
much!  I should never be worth it--"

"You will, Harry!  You must be--"

"But, m'dearest gal, I never earned a penny in my confounded life!"

"Then begin now, for--my sake, Hal."

"Eh?  Your sake?  It's a go!  Then what about yoke o'
matrimony--nothing to stay you--double harness--what's to stop you?"

"Nothing!" says my lord, rising.  "So I'll leave you to talk it over."
Scarcely has he stepped from the arbour than he espies Sir John Orme
approaching and hurries to meet him.

Now though Sir John's fine face shows serene as ever, his voice is low
and troubled as he says:

"Ah, Sam, you have shocked me profoundly!  For I was a distressed
witness of your quite ruffianly assault upon Sir Robert Chalmers!
Instead of quarrelling with dignity and finesse as gentlemen should,
you comported yourself like a veritable--coal-heaver!"

"No, John--like the sailorman I am.  The fellow deserved knocking down,
instead I merely pushed him over."  Sir John's mobile lips twitch, but
his black brows knit themselves above hawk nose as he continues:

"I warned you repeatedly how when a gentleman sees fit to quarrel, he
should do so with grace, and eschew all violence of tone or gesture.
Also I am much concerned for--Oh, my dear boy, you are not aboard ship
now where such affairs are settled by honest fists and forgotten, but
in Vanity Fair, this world of make-believe which is yet so terribly
real and nothing more so than the abstraction called 'Honour' which,
though possessing here a far less noble meaning than that given in the
dictionary, is yet so precious that noble gentlemen must fight and die
for it or be outcast.  Thus Sir Robert will certainly call you out and
do his utmost to kill you."

"Ay, so he assured me, John."

"Consequently I am gravely anxious on your account--for he is esteemed
a dangerous fellow, a much experienced duellist, or so the Duchess
informs me."

"Eh?  The Duchess, John?  But how--"

"Unfortunately Her Grace was with me and also witnessed your very
lamentable exhibition of--how not to do it."

"Oh Lord!" exclaims the Earl, greatly dismayed.  "Lord love me!"

"It is to be hoped so," sighs Sir John, "all things considered!"

"Was she as shocked as yourself, John?"

"I cannot say.  But she desires to see you alone before you depart."

"Does she, b'George!  Then I'll slip my moorings now--Oh, damme,
there's 'darling mama,' Lady Marwood, John, bearing down on us!  Hold
her in play while I go speak word o' warning!"

Back to the arbour speeds my lord at sight of whom up starts Mr.
Standish, saying:

"So ho--the Juggernaut approaches, I see b'your look.  I'll vanish!"

"I shall expect you tomorrow!" says my lord, as they shake hands.

"Without fail, Wrybourne, and many thanks!  But th' dear soul still
says 'no'!  Can't think why--no reason now!  Goo'-bye!"

"My lady," begins the Earl so soon as they are alone.

"No, Sam, please use my name."

"Rowena, why is it still 'no'?"

"Because I still dare not say 'yes'--and if I explained to Harry he
would fight again and be killed."

"Oh!" murmurs my lord.  "Ah?  Then you must think I shall also be
killed?"

"Oh, pray do not talk of it--don't!  It is too frightful!
You--we--might have all been such dear friends and yet it must end so
horribly whenever Robert desires."

"So you are quite sure he will end me?"

"He is so terrible!  But I shall--pray for you, Sam, yes with all my
heart, day and night--"  So saying she gives him both her hands so
impulsively and with such eloquent look that my lord, as impulsively,
stoops and kisses them, then starts as a throaty voice cries:

"Oh, fie upon us, Sir John, we intrude!  We shall fright away shy Eros,
terrify sweet Cupid the rosy roguish archer, let us fly!  Dear Japhet,
my sweet child, enjoy the brief, glad hour--we will waft ourselves
hence----"

"Then, darling mama, we will waft along with you!"

Thus presently, back went they all four to mingle with the throng (and
more or less envious mamas) wherefore my Lady Marwood's stately head is
so proudly borne, her plumes nodding so triumphantly that Rumour is
bred and Envy indeed follows in her train.




CHAPTER V

IN WHICH MY LORD BECOMES MERELY SAM

My lord finds the little Duchess in small, cosy chamber, performing
with a very large, silver teapot.

"Well, Sir Ferocity," says she, nodding, "you may sit down and take tea
with me; you probably detest it, but you shall drink it as a
penance--though to be sure I'm grateful to you for affording me a
thrill by out-bruting Sir Brutality Chalmers so outrageously."

"Oh?" murmurs my lord.  "I was afraid your Grace would be shocked."

"Indeed I was--delightfully!  You showed like battle, murder and sudden
death all rolled into one, though considering you are a sailor your
language fell much below expectation, neither oath nor curse--and only
one chastely demure 'damn'!  However, your actions were completely
satisfactory, Sir Brutality fell beneath your arm with a pleasing
violence that must have shaken his nasty person from top to toe, inside
and out.  Ah, but--though you stood above his writhing form like Ajax
defying innumerable thunderbolts, he will probably slay you for it soon
or late--and all for that Marwood minx."

"Minx, madam?  Can you possibly mean----"

"Rowena--certainly I do!  Is it any use warning you that she is
heartless as she is beautiful and mercenary as her odious mother--is it?

"No, madam, not a bit, because----"

"Ha!  So she has her pretty claws in you already, has she?"

Now here my lord abandoning his fine airs, becomes merely Sam, and
retorts bluntly:

"No, marm!  And you do her gross injustice."

"Oh, do I--indeed!"

"Yes, marm, that you do!  Your judgment of her is entirely wrong, ay,
you're completely out o' your reckoning."

"Well!" exclaimed this little, great lady, setting down her cup, the
better to stare and give effect to her amazed resentment.  "Great
goodness!  Upon my immortal soul I never heard such--such audacious
impertinence!"

"No, only truth, marm.  For indeed you are very cruelly wrong.  Lady
Rowena has honoured me with her friendship and I----"

"Fiddle-de-dee and flap-jack!  Tush, boo and bah!  No mere man could be
merely a friend to such beautiful witch as she!"

"Probably not, marm, unless a man happened to ... well ... love another
'she' just as beautiful."

"Eh?  Aha--another?  Then you are already in love?"

"Heart and soul, marm!"

"Deeear me!  What passion is here!  How sighfully romantic--"

"No," said Sam, beginning to scowl, "pray don't try to make light
mockery o' this love of mine, because it is the best part of me.  Ay,
'tis clean and sweet as the open sea, 'tis better suited to fragrant
countryside, the leafy solitude of woods at twilight sweet wi' the song
of lonely bird, rather than this mockery called Vanity Fair.  So, my
lady, pray don't try to make joke of it because this, to me, is a--very
holy thing."

The Duchess lifts her tea-cup as if about to drink, sets it down again,
and says in voice marvellously altered:

"No, Sam, I will not mock your love.  God forbid!  For such great
passion ennobles man and woman, makes this world the sweeter--and alas,
is all too rare!  Indeed there are very few so blessed--to find such
love."

"Ay," nodded Sam, "I've knocked around the world and I'm sure o'
that--and so it is all the more precious to me, d'ye see?"

"Does she return your love?"

"So she tells me."

"Then why is she not your countess?"

"Because she places duty first."

"May I know her name?"

And after brief hesitation, he answers:

"Andromeda."

Her Grace, in the act of taking up the teapot, pauses, blinks those
beautiful though very sharp eyes of hers, but all she says is:

"Let me refill your cup, Sam."

"Thank you!" he answers.

"So you actually do like tea?"

"Ay, marm, though I didn't know it until she learned me."

"Your Andromeda, of course.  A quaint name--will you tell me about her?"

Quick to heed the speaker's new gentleness of look and tone, Sam
responds and with such simple eloquence that the Duchess utters no word
(a remarkable fact) until he ends with sigh and the question: "So
that's how things are, and what can I do?  What d'you think of it all?"

"Girl's a fool, of course!  And you trounced the uncle across your
knee, did you?"

"Ay, and grieve to confess it."

"So you should, for he has always been most tragically unfortunate,
poor Arthur!"

"Eh?  Oh--you know him, madam?"

"All his unhappy life, he is a kinsman of mine.  Ah--so greatly gifted
he would have achieved greatness but for his cruel reverses.  The woman
he adored jilted him and he nearly died of grief.  Your Uncle Julian
shot him in a duel, a head wound, and he was never the same after.
Then his fortune was lost in some bank crash or other.  Today he is
little better than a child, his great gifts all wasted and he now a
peevish recluse, would be entirely desolate but for his niece's
perfectly self-less, untiring devotion!"

"Yet, marm, you called her a fool."

"So I did, so I do, and so she is--"

"And so it is I love her--though, d'ye see, I'm all too rough and
unworthy such an angel----"

"Stuff and nonsense!  No man ever can love an angel, her wings would be
so incommodious and forbidding, not to mention her halo--if angels wear
the things.  However, it's high time Andromeda remembers she is merely
a woman all flesh and blood with a dash of the divine, like the rest of
us, and acts accordingly, You say she loves you--then we must see that
she behaves as a fine, healthy woman should."

"Ay, if she only would!" he sighs.  "But what of her uncle, for, d'ye
see, he vows he'll end himself if she leaves him or marries me.

"Fiddlesticks!  And yet--he might, poor soul--unless I take him in hand
as I have before now.  Yes, I'd manage him--"

"Oh, marm!" Sam exclaims with an almost breathless eagerness.  "If you
only could and would!"

"Of course I could and would--and will--on a condition!"

"Anything," cries Sam.  "I'll agree to anything--" here, warned by her
look, he sat up, became the Earl, and added: "except one thing, madam."

"Ah!" quoth she, nodding.  "You've guessed aright, my condition is that
you give up your meeting with that death-dealing monster Sir Robert
Chalmers.  And of course you're going to say 'no'."

"True, madam, 'no' it is and must be."

"You know he carries certain death in that right hand of his?"

"I have heard so, your Grace.  But the weapons I shall choose will set
us upon a pretty fair equality."

"Sam, if I beg and entreat you not to fight--for my sake, how then?"

"No, my lady."

"If I implore you for Andromeda's sake?"

"It must still be no, madam."

"Even though I offer to set Andromeda in those nice, strong arms of
yours--to hold and to have till----"

"Oh, madam, in mercy don't torment me!"

"Very well, then--if instead of the warm, sweet loveliness of your
Andromeda, with the blessed joy and hope of children, you will choose
death and a clammy grave, so be it, my poor Sam.  Good-bye, my lord, I
shall send a very large and lovely wreath for your coffin."

"Your Grace, madam--Oh, marm, will you allow me to call and see you
again?  May I, please?"

"Why, of course, Sam.  I shall always be glad to see you at any
time--so long as you are alive.  When do you fight this abominable
duel?"

"I've no idea."

"Well, today is Friday--I shall expect you next Thursday, without
fail--if you happen to be alive.  However, you shall hear from me.  Now
good-bye, and I think I like the sailor of you, Sam, better than the
earl, Japhet--so far.  However, time shall prove this--unless Death
should supervene, which God forbid, my poor, my foolish, my dear Sam."

"Lord love you," says he, gratefully, "what friends we are going to be!"

"Perhaps," she sighs, "only perhaps!"

"Pray marm," he enquires, gazing down at the small vital hand that
clasps his big one so heartily, "just what might you mean by 'perhaps'?"

"Well, instead, let us make it 'if,' Sam--if you are not killed too
dreadfully soon."

"Ay," he murmurs, "Old Man Death is never very far from some of us, I
guess....  Now suppose, marm, I had accepted your condition and the ...
joy of Andromeda instead of doing what I must and shall--how then?"

"Why then, Sam, my dear, I should have commended your prudence
highly--but from a very great distance and never, never have compelled
you to drink tea with me again, of course!"

"Oh, marm--my lady," he exclaims, his grim features all at once
transfigured by his flashing smile, "what a blessing and comfort you
are!"  Then stooping, he kisses her small, rather bony fingers with
such fervour that when he is gone, she glances down at these same
fingers very wistfully.




CHAPTER VI

GIVES FURTHER BRIEF DESCRIPTION OF VANITY FAIR AND OF MY LORD'S
BEHAVIOUR THEREIN

My lord is a success, Vanity Fair throws wide its portals and all
within may be his--at a price.  Favoured by Fashion's small arbiter her
Grace of Camberhurst, Fashion does the like; and thus, backed by his
ancient name, his prodigious wealth and forthright personality, he
becomes a, or rather, the celebrity more especially with The Sex.  His
occasional lapses into "merely Sam," his blunt turns of speech and
vigour of gesture are declared "so essentially male" and he is
pronounced "an absolute original" and "charming oddity."  So in
drawing-room and assembly he becomes "the rage" and "persona grata" in
the clubs.

Then besides, having more money than he can ever spend, he spends it so
lavishly, wins and loses with such placid disregard, that he becomes
almost too popular among the younger element, dashing bucks and superb
dandies--gilded youth but sportsmen all--by whom his somewhat awkward
gestures are copied together with the tie of his cravats, cut of his
hair, tilt of his hat and seaman's rolling stride which Sir John has
endeavoured so vainly to correct and eradicate.  So my lord achieves
Popularity, this panoply of glittering tinsel, and wears it with
careless ease, to the more or less articulate jubilation of Mr.
Standish, now his devoted and trusty henchman, and the dignified
surprise of Sir John, which sentiment he expresses on a certain morning
at the breakfast table, thus.

SIR JOHN: I find your popularity, Sam, quite surprising.

SAM (_Busied with the luscious fare before him_): So do I.

MR. STANDISH: 'S amazin'!  Sam's positively the glass o' fashion and
mould o' form!  Acme of elegance and so forth--put Brummel's nose out
o' joint, y'know.  They're advertisin' a new line o' waistcoats  la
Wrybourne--fact 'pon honour!  And then the ladies, bless 'em--such
sighful languishing, b'Gad--

SIR JOHN: What astonishes me, Sam, is that all this does not seem to
embarrass you in the least.

SAM: Well, no, John, for, d'ye see, I don't bother about it.

MR. STANDISH: 'Xackly, John!  Sam's cold-blooded as confounded fish!

SIR JOHN: Indeed?  Then pray inform me, Sam, why I am so frequently
hearing your name associated with that of Lady Rowena Marwood?

SAM (_Puffing at the hot coffee in his cup, to Sir John's very evident
and startled disapproval_): For a very good purpose.  Harry--explain.
(_He drinks._)

MR. STANDISH: Well, S'John, it's all f' my sake and the behoof o' The
Juggernaut, Darling Mama----

SAM: He means Lady Marwood, John.

MR. STANDISH: 'Xactly, sir, t' draw the wool over her dooced uncommonly
keen peepers.  Sam woos Rowena f' me, proposes romantic midnight
elopement, Darling Mama agrees with joy.  At 'pointed hour, Sam's
fastest carriage 'pears, out gets Sam, gives signal, to him steals
Rowena--watched, be sure, by gloating Mama--and away they go--pull up
here--out pops Sam, in pop I and away we dash, Rowena and I, to
Matrimony and rapture while Darling Mama sleeps blissfully content.
That's it, John, in nutshell.  What d'ye think of it, sir?

SIR JOHN (_Shaking stately head in grave reproof_): I forbear comment!
Except to declare that----  He pauses at sudden rap on the door which
opens to discover Robins, the stately butler, portentous of mien, who
bears a silver tray whereon repose two cards, the which he presents
with solemn bow, saying:

"My lord, the gentlemen desire instant speech with your lordship on
matter of extreme moment!"

"So?" says my lord, glancing at these cards.  "Then you may inform
Major Topham of the Guards, and Viscount Twily that I will see them
here and now."

"But, my dear boy," demurs Sir John, a little anxiously, "in your
dressing-gown?"

"Precisely so, John."

"This will be Chalmers' formal challenge, Sam."

"Ay, so I think.  Harry, d'you know these gentlemen?"

"So dooced well, my dear old f'low--that I--don't!  Especially Twily,
bit of a blackleg, y'know.  Here they are!"  Again a tap--the door
opens and two exquisite beings appear, the Viscount slim, pallid and
slightly vulpine, the Major tall, red-faced, bewhiskered and inclined
to swagger and corpulence.  Bows are exchanged, my lord wafts his
visitors to chairs, suggests refreshment which is refused, takes up his
coffee-cup and enquires:

"Well, sirs?"

The Major clears his throat, Viscount Twily smiles thin-lipped, and
they speak alternately:

"M'lord," booms the Major, making the most of his whiskers, "we have
the honour to represent our friend Sir Robert Chalmers, who has
appointed us his seconds----"

"To demand," smiles the Viscount, "a meeting with your lordship,
satisfaction, my lord, and I may add--to the uttermost and last
extremity!"

My lord, sipping his coffee, looks at the speaker, sets down his cup
and says, musingly:

"Sir, until now I have never had the extremity of joy to see or hear
you, yet you sound remarkably bloody, why?  Or is this your natural
charm of manner?  But no matter--instead pray tell me just when does
your principal propose to kill me, where and how?"

"Yours, my lord," answers Major Topham, "yours is the choice of
weapons, pray be good enough to name 'em."

"And," says the Viscount, with muted eagerness, "our principal, Sir
Robert, will perform upon your lordship at Barn Elms, ten days hence.
The hour he sets you is eight o'clock precisely, morning, of course.
You will choose pistols, I presume?"

"Well--no," answers my lord, slowly, as if pondering the question, "no,
sir--not--pistols."

"Ha!" exclaims the Major, nodding brightly.  "Then small swords, of
course."

"N-no," murmurs my lord, still hesitant, "no, Major, nor small swords."

"Oh?  Eh--not?  Then egad--sabres!"

"No," answers my lord, as if making up his mind at last, "certainly not
sabres."

"Why then," says the Viscount, acidly, "suppose my lord your lordship
troubles to inform us?"

The Earl takes up his coffee-cup, finds it empty and shakes his head at
it, saying:

"I am deliberating, gentlemen, whether to make it boarding-axes or
cutlasses."

Major Topham falls back in his chair, redder of face than ever, he
emits a strangled gasp and then:

"B-b-boarding-axes!" he repeats, explosively, while Viscount Twily,
pallidly vicious, rises to his feet.

"Cutlasses?" he hisses.  "If this is a jest, I resent it!  B'God, sir,
this is no matter for jest or lightsome trifling--no!  This affair is
to be without respite--to the death!  So I warn you--"

"Sir," my lord breaks in, setting down his coffee-cup very tenderly but
speaking in the voice of Sam, "be damned t'you and your warning!  My
choice is cutlasses, ordinary ship's cutlasses, d'ye see,
thirty-two-inch blades--these or nothing."

"Oh, but--but," splutters the Major, groping for his whisker rather
dazedly, "these--oh, I beg, I plead--my lord, pray consider--these are
no weapons for a gentleman!"

"However, they are mine," nods my lord, "you may take 'em or leave
them.  If Sir Robert feels himself too much of a gentleman to use them,
let him send me an apology for thus disturbing me at my breakfast and
we'll say no more about it.  But, gentlemen both, pray
understand--cutlasses it shall be--or an apology I must have."

"Ap-pology!" whispers the Viscount, between lips tighter now than ever.
"Ha, my lord, I take joy to inform you that Sir Robert Chalmers never
apologizes--never."

"Very good!" nods my lord.  "Then in ten days' time, he and I will chop
at each other with cutlasses.  And now, gentlemen, since we have
settled the matter so happily, unless you will join us, be good enough
to permit that we finish breakfast."

Scarcely have these indignant gentlemen stalked out and away, than Mr.
Standish is convulsed with uncontrollable mirth, he gasps, he groans
and finally wheezes:

"Sam ... oh, Sam ... m'dear ... old lord ... oho--cutlasses!  Their dem
faces!  Cutlasses--what a prime move....  Oh, Sam!"  Even Sir John's
gravity relaxes and he smiles though with shake of stately head, saying:

"With the exception of your one regrettable show of temper, Sam, you
bore yourself well.  Your choice of weapons is original and should make
your chances more even--I hope!"

"Though, demme old f'low, they were right, y'know, a cutlass is no
weapon for a gentleman--never heard o' such thing!"

"However, I've used one pretty often, Harry, and am fairly handy with
one."

"D'y'think you'll--get him, old f'low?"

"Well, d'ye see, it's his pistol-hand I'm after.  By the way, John, I'm
hoping you'll act for me--my seconds, you and Harry--make all the
arrangements--will you, please?"

"Assuredly!" answered Sir John, sighing.

"Honoured, my dear, old lord!"

Breakfast done, my lord ascends to his sumptuous bed-chamber, where
with the aid of his valets he is prepared and attired for the street,
when a bowing footman appears to inform him that "a Mr. Joliffe desires
speech with him."  So my lord in his splendour presently greets the
lawyer with a very Sam-like heartiness.

But Mr. Joliffe is in state of such indignant perturbation that no
sooner is the door closed than he exclaims:

"Sam--oh, Sam, he's free!  My months of planning and contriving are
proved to-tally vain!  Villainy triumphs!  Your cousin the
Honourable--no, confound him--Lord Ralph Scrope--is free!"

"Good!" nods my lord.

"Eh--good?  Good, d'ye say?  But I'm telling you he is free, and
moreover--a rich man!"

"So ho!" says my lord, becoming Sam.  "She's married him already has
she, bless her loveliness!"

"Eh?  Married?  She?" gasps Mr. Joliffe.  "Then you know?  You've
heard?"

"Nothing, Ben, I only guess.  For, d'ye see, I schemed for this--"

"You--you schemed--?"  Here, words failing him, Mr. Joliffe snorted
instead.

"Sit down, Ben, old fellow, compose yourself and tell me all about it.
Come, let's hear."  And very indignantly Mr. Joliffe obeys, saying:

"No sooner has this young Croft person become possessed of her immense
legacy and recovered from the shock of it, than with her friend Mrs.
Jennings, she hastens to London, outfits herself like a princess,
drives in state to the Marshalsea and having before-hand paid your
cousin's liabilities to the last farthing, frees the prisoner, marries
him by special licence, and is now back at the Manor House, which is
being renovated from cellarage to attics--and all this your own doing
by the bestowal of such vast sum to an inconsequent, irresponsible,
hare-brained miss--"

"No, Ben, a very lovely, strong-souled woman who has acted precisely as
I wished and hoped she might."

"Wished?" repeated the lawyer, staring, "do you mean me to infer----"

"Ben, this was the best way I could think of--I mean--how to share some
portion of this dam' heritage with the family.  And Cecily Croft, God
love her--was the means.  So all's well, for if anyone can ever make a
good man out of a Scrope, it is she.  And therefore," says my lord,
rising and crossing to the sideboard where stood promising array of
bottles, decanters and glasses, "let us drink to her, this dear,
faithful soul, may her beauty be her husband's inspiration and he prove
her abiding happiness."  When they have honoured this toast, my lord
enquires:

"Ben, does she guess--about this money, has she any suspicions?"

"My dear Sam, of course!  Being an astute young person, she suspected
it was your doing, at once--and was oddly unwilling to receive--"

"Ay, I guessed she would be!  And how then?"

"I was necessitated to argue and finally--almost to compel her
acceptance.  And a fine time I had of it, for then she began to weep,
which profoundly upset me, then she laughed, and then did both
together, which perfectly dismayed me, then she told some wild, quite
fantastic story of how you had told her fortune.  So that when at last
the business was settled and she gone--well, I am a more confirmed
bachelor than ever!  And now, Sam, I'll quit your lordship's noble
mansion for my dingy office--though, as a friend, permit me to remark
your desperate gambling is a by-word--Sir John is greatly perturbed,
and I venture to----"

"However, Ben, I don't always lose, d'ye see.  So never worry--instead
tell me of Cecily--you said she actually brought Mrs. Jennings here to
London with her, which surprises me, considering--"

"Ah, to be sure, Sam, there was something of a miracle, or so says Anne
Leet.  She vows that, but for this girl, Mrs. Jennings would certainly
be in her grave....  Eh?  Twelve o'clock!" he exclaims, as a clock
chimes the hour.  "And I've an appointment!  Good-bye, my lord, for the
present, Sam."

Mr. Joliffe having departed, my lord takes the air with Mr. Standish,
who opines it will be a busy day.  Reaching Whites, they lounge, wine
and exchange news with other "busy" gentlemen; they saunter as far as
Wattiers to yawn over the gazette; thence they amble to Boodle's for a
glass or so of a certain famous sherry; they dine at Brooke's where my
lord elects to gamble, which he does for preposterously high stakes and
with varying success until supper-time.  Thereafter, wearying of the
cards and Mr. Standish having departed long since, my lord calls for
hat and cane, when he is accosted by Major Topham who says, engagingly:

"Will your lordship be so very obleeging as to follow me?"  My lord
does so and comes face to face with Sir Robert Chalmers, who bows and
smiles, at least he shows his large teeth, as he enquires and quite
pleasantly:

"Ah, my lord, pray what is this fantastic nonsense my friends report to
me concerning your choice of weapons for our little affair?"  And my
lord, bowing in turn, answers as pleasantly:

"If your friends befool you, sir, I suggest you chide 'em--"

"Sir, they talk of--of--cutlasses!" says Sir Robert, spitting out the
word as if it were something extremely nasty.

"Then they speak truly, Sir Robert, cutlasses are my choice."

"Damnation, sir--these are no weapons for gentlemen!  They are
irregular, they are utterly preposterous, and outrageous!"

"However, Sir Robert, permit me to assure you that one gentleman may
hack another gentleman very well indeed with such tools.  Yes, sir,
properly used cutlasses are excellent for chopping, you'll find--though
should you prefer boarding-axes or even pikes--"

"Oh, the devil!  Here will be a very ridiculous exhibition.  The vulgar
travesty of what is and should be a very solemn, gentlemanly business!
Suppose I refuse to accept such plebeian, such cursedly boorish
weapons?"

"In that event, Sir Robert, I shall take joy to publish you in all the
clubs as a cowardly braggart."

Sir Robert's small eyes open their widest to glare, his big teeth snap,
his hands clench to quivering fists; noting all of which, my lord
smiles provokingly and nods:

"Pray do--but this time I shall not merely--push you down!"

Sir Robert's fury being now far beyond words, he says nothing, he
merely looks all he cannot utter, then turns and strides away,
gesturing like a madman.




CHAPTER VII

WHICH, HAVING LITTLE TO TELL, IS ADMIRABLY BRIEF

The rarefied atmosphere of Vanity Fair is vibrant with rumours of the
impending duel; whereby my lord's now assured popularity is decidedly
increased.  The Sex is bewitchingly horrified; bright eyes now languish
more soulfully or contrive to dim their radiance with anticipatory
tears, more or less genuine; there are even signs that angels,
extremely feminine of gender, would fain comfort his few remaining
hours.

In club and coffee-house he is greeted more warmly, his hand clutched
in heartier grip, voices hail him more jovially--and thus, wherever he
goes, my lord becomes aware that he is regarded as a dying man whose
hours are numbered to the precise moment, a victim foredoomed to
certain death.

Wagers of course are freely laid upon his chances of survival, which
are esteemed so poor that certain gallant sportsmen are bold enough to
offer heavy odds that he "will be snuffed out at the first exchanges."

Yet my lord goes his way apparently serene as ever, his smile as ready
and laugh as hearty as usual--no Sam-like frown is ever seen to furrow
his well-marked, low-set brows--until a certain afternoon....  He lies
drowsing in shady corner at Brooke's, remote from the throng, when his
sleepy ears are assailed by a high-pitched voice, arrogant, assured,
uttering these words:

"Wrybourne's a goner, of course--good as dead already!"

"Agreed, Denby," says a second voice, "but no need to proclaim the
fact, dem bad form, I call it!"

"Bad form or not, Hewitt, that's my belief and I'm backing it at ten to
one!  Who'll take me?  What, none o' you?  Then b'God, I'll make it
fifteen, d'ye hear?  Fifteen to one I'm offering against the earl
lasting five minutes!  What, still no one?"

"Ya-as," drawls a new voice, "I take y', Denby."

"Eh?  Oh, it's you, Standish.  Well, what'll you lay me--fives?"

"No, tens."

"Oho, you're dev'lish bold!  Will you venture to make it twenties?"

"No, 's make it hundreds--"

"Eh--what--what?"

"Layin' y' a hundred at twenty t'one, Denby.  Are y'on?"  Here ensues
an excited babblement:

"Well, how about it, Denby?"

"Aha, Denby, won't you take him?"

"Are you backing down now, Denby?"

"Certainly--not!" shrills Mr. Denby.  "I'll book him at the figure--or
any other man.  But as for you, Standish, come again--make it two
hundred."

"No, Denby, let's say five--a monkey.  Though per'f'kly willing t' make
it a thousand, y'know--"

This bold challenge causes an uproar--and it is now that my lord's dark
brows knit in a Sam-like scowl.

"That's got you, Denby!"

"Aha, that's a leveller!"

"One right in the wind, eh, Denby?"

"What's the word, Denby?"

"If," says Mr. Standish, "if y' want any more shall be dooced glad
t'oblige, y'know."

"No, demme, I'm satisfied..."

My lord being now extremely wide awake, consults his watch, rises
without noise and as silently steals away, for this is the afternoon he
is to visit Her Grace of Camberhurst.




CHAPTER VIII

TELLS HOW MY LORD MET TEMPTATION

Thus the clocks are proclaiming the hour of four when my lord entering
the ducal portals, is relieved of hat, cane and gloves, and ushered
into that same small, cosy chamber where, as once before, he is to
drink tea with the Duchess; just at present he finds it is vacant
wherefore he crosses to the window and stands there gazing out, so lost
in thought that he is unaware the door behind him has opened, so does
not move until a soft voice says:

"My lord!"  Then, starting violently, he swings round and stands
motionless and dumb.

For instead of the little Duchess he beholds a lady graciously tall,
whose raven hair parted on white brow, falls in glossy ringlets to
frame the proud, high beauty of her face; her silken robe,
high-bosomed, clings her loveliness, revealing such shape as the first
Andromeda showed the happy Perseus who beholding thus beauty's
perfection, had no eyes (of course) for the grimly, snake-locked
Medusas, sea-monsters or anything else.

So here before my lord is beauty far more wonderful than Sam had ever
dreamed, a glowing, dainty thing of loveliness looking at him with the
golden eyes of gipsy drudge, woodland dryad and--the one woman.

"An-dromeda!" he breathes at least and makes a step towards her, then
halts, awed by the sheer wonder of her.

"Sam!" she murmurs, reaching out both hands to him....  Then he has her
in his arms and, trying to speak, is dumb now for very joy.  So he
kisses her instead--lustrous, silky hair, these fragrant, midnight
tresses, long-lashed eyes and vivid mouth that with an equal passion,
meet and return his caress.

Now leaning back within the fervour of his embrace, she looks up at
him, saying tremulously:

"Oh, my beloved ... you are ... marvellously ... wonderfully changed!"

"Only outwardly," he answers, "for I'm still truly--only Sam, a common
sort o' fellow, but ... all yours if you'll only take him ... and here
am I crushing your dainty finery in such brutal hug--"

"Well--crush it!" she whispers, clinging to him.  "For ... oh Sam, if
you are mine, I am all yours, as I always have been and must be.  Life
is an empty dreariness ... and I am lost without you--ah yes," she
murmurs, seeing where he looks, "your keepsake, the cross and heart and
anchor, I wear it always upon my heart and it shall never leave me so
long as you are my Sam!" and she lays slim finger on the small gold
chain that gleams about her round white throat; so he kisses finger,
chain and throat, whispering:

"Oh, Andromeda ... beloved, are you here to give yourself to me at
last--my wife?"

"Yes, beloved man, I am here for your taking--soon, oh, soon!  You can
marry me by special licence and take me away anywhere you will--away
from this hateful London."

"But, your uncle?"

"He is here with my godmother and will remain--"

"Godmother?"

"The Duchess, yes--so if you want me as I need you, it must be soon, my
dearest, very soon."  Now as she utters these words his arms relax,
wherefore she hides her face against his breast and clings him the
tighter.

"Andromeda," he demands, kissing her hair again, "then you have heard,
you know I am to fight?"

Without lifting head she nods "yes."

"And you have come," he demands, "to cheer and strengthen me for it
with your love?"

Now at this, she shakes her head, saying:

"No, I have come to shield you with my love--to stand between you and
death!"  Here she looks up at him wide-eyed, "I am here to command
you--beg and entreat you not to throw away your life, our happiness,
and my love--wasting them all to such foolish, wicked purpose and so
needlessly!  Oh, Sam, my own dear, you shall not, must not."

"Now Lord love me!" he groans, "you should know me better than to ask
of me such thing as this--"

"But I do ask it, I must--I must--"

"Don't!" he gasps.  "Ah--don't!"  His arms fall from her and she, as if
bereft of strength, sinks to her knees before him.

"Oh, my beloved," she sighs, looking up at him above clasped hands,
"here at your feet I do now implore you not to peril your life and our
future--all the wonder that may be for us ... because, if you are
killed I think I shall die too ... it is for you to choose.  Think,
dearest, think, I might ... be so blessed to ... give ... an heir to
your name....  Oh, Sam, how can there be any choice--what, what is it
you would die for?"

"Now God help me!" he groans, lifting clenched hands to his temples.
"Why, why in God's name must you be so sure I shall be killed--why?"

"Because the Duchess is so dreadfully certain--and tells me that
everyone--yes everyone believes the same.  So now again, for the last
time, I beg--entreat you to live for me and--our future--instead of
dying for this--this code of honour which has nothing to do with honour
that is real and true.  Be brave enough to refuse this duel and if you
are branded craven, wear the stigma like a glory, for my sake."

"Ay, so I would, for I care nothing for the opinion of these grand
folk--and I fight for no dam'-fool code of honour, d'ye see, but to
make it impossible for a fine gentleman to kill or maim any other fine
gentleman ever again, more especially a certain one.  So, Andromeda,
don't tempt me with your beauty--to run away and shield myself in your
arms.  Could you love me if I did?  If so, then such love would shame
us both.  Ay, by God, I would rather die loving you as I do now with
honour, than, taking all you offer, live to despise the beauty that
made me despise myself.  So now, Andromeda, 'stead o' weeping, be
furious and glare those golden eyes at me--reproach and berate me and I
will be my lordliest--like this: Madam, my hand--suffer that I aid you
to rise----"  But this she does unaided and avoiding his touch.

"Yes," says she, viewing him through tears that do not fall, "yes, I
have indeed shamed myself bitterly ... for your sake, and this I shall
not forgive.  Deeply and truly as I loved my rough seaman, my simple,
clean-hearted Sam, just so truly do I hate and despise this selfish
wretch called lord and Earl of Wrybourne....  To Sam I would have given
myself utterly, sharing his poverty joyfully--to my lord of Wrybourne I
say--go, fight your vile duels, shed your foolish blood, waste your
precious life so vainly if you will, but expect no tear from me!  A man
who will die for such useless folly is not worth any woman's grief!
Yes, my lord, when you go to fight this duel, I shall abominate your
lordship because--you take my beloved Sam with you."

"Madam," says my lord, with elaborate bow, "through the lips of my so
detested lordship, your ever-loving Sam speaks you his sincere
gratitude and undying hope of you.  And now, dearest madam, my lordship
humbly begs leave to say that though you now show in your splendour,
beauteous as Venus glorified by the golden eyes of Andromeda of the
sorry cotton hose and clumsy boots, you talk like very peevish,
excessively petulant miss!  And so, madam, pray give me leave to bid
you a very fair good afternoon!"  Then my lord turns and leaves her...

And now indeed her tears fall at last, hot and painful, tears of
yearning for this her chosen man and he so wishful to die and be done
with her.

So Andromeda sinks to her knees sobbing a prayer, and then to her face
and thus outstretched abandoned to her grief, weeps more bitterly than
she has ever done in all her not-too-happy life.




CHAPTER IX

TELLS OF BARE FLESH AND COLD STEEL

It is a fine autumnal morning when in pleasant rural surroundings
remote from chance of interruption, two gentlemen accompanied by their
friends, reasoning creatures all, meet--with the avowed and sole
intention of maiming or killing one another as expeditiously and, of
course, politely as possibly.

Hats flourish and backs bend in gracious salutation, grave voices
murmur, solemn eyes take heed to the angle of a new-risen sun this
giver of life, to the evenness of ground and smoothness of turf
destined to be enriched anon by something other than rain.

Sir John is here, placid and stately as usual, with Mr. Standish a
trifle paler than wont, yet bearing himself with a confident air that
is almost jaunty.  Major Topham is here, very stiff as to back and
whiskers; Viscount Twily is here, smiling and sardonic; here also the
two surgeons standing together in muttered confab.

And here of course are the two protagonists--my lord apparently lost in
thoughtful contemplation of a skylark carolling joyously above them and
thus perfectly oblivious of Sir Robert Chalmers' persistent, lowering
stare, until Mr. Standish draws his attention thereto, saying
low-voiced:

"Remark our Sir Bob, his demd fighting-face, his fee-fi-fo-fummy
expression!  That's 'nother trick of his--t'stare his man out o'
countenance t'shake his nerve."

Made thus aware of his antagonist's lowering scrutiny, my lord nods
airily, draws out his handkerchief and enquires:

"Eh, a smut, Sir Robert?  On my nose--my chin?  Be good enough to tell
me which or where."

Sir Robert mutters fierce incoherencies and turns his back, whereat Mr.
Standish nods derisively and murmurs:

"First blood t'you, my dear, old lord!"

But now the Major approaches to say:

"M'lord, as this is to be the cold steel, it is proper and usual, also
my principal demands you fight bare-chested.  Is this agreed?"

"Certainly," answers my lord and begins to cast off surtout and
close-fitting coat, in which business he is assisted by Mr. Standish.

Thus presently bare of arm and breast the two adversaries front each
other ...  Viscount Twily now advances to present their weapons--my
lord bows to Sir Robert, who takes the nearest, swings the broad,
curved blade with practised hand, cursing its weight and clumsiness,
while my lord stands with point to ground, waiting.

"My lord," says the Viscount, backing away, "pray remember, Sir Robert
demands this shall be without stay or respite--to the death!"

"Gentlemen," booms the Major, "are you ready?"

"Yes!" hisses Sir Robert between those big teeth of his that seem
crueler than ever--my lord merely nods.

"Then, engage--go!"  The keen blades flicker in swift action to meet
with ringing clash, and for a moment they remain thus crossed,
then--with fierce "Ha!" and stamp of foot Sir Robert, swiftly
disengaging, thrusts straight at his antagonist's throat, his deadly
point glitters dreadfully near, is beaten aside--and he leaps back from
the counter-stroke.

Mr. Standish, gasping relief, takes off his hat, looks at it and puts
it on again; Sir John, keen eyes intent upon this murderous steel,
fumbles unsuccessfully for his snuff-box and frowns, while this combat
rages with ever-growing fury.

Sir Robert, well-used to the more delicate small-sword, relies chiefly
upon the point, but my lord, expectant of this, watches this
swift-leaping point, meets and parries its every darting thrust, and
waits for the full-armed lunge that will give him the opening for the
stroke which shall end this murderous business...

And now while the spectators scarcely breathe, is close, desperate
flurry of cut and thrust, point and edge, the broad blades clashing in
fierce attack and violent parry, whirling in glittering arcs or
flashing in lightning thrust...

Mr. Standish has doffed his hat again and clasps it to his bosom; Sir
John has found his snuff-box but forgotten to open it.  For as this
relentless combat progresses it becomes ever more terribly apparent
that Sir Robert indeed means to kill....  Time and again his vicious
thrusts are turned only just in time--quick of hand he is also swift of
foot, avoiding counter-blow and thrust as much by agility of body as
skill of blade, while my lord, keen-eyed and watchful, stands his
ground--waiting.

"Oh--demme!" murmurs Mr. Standish, donning his hat only to take it off
again.  "This can't last, y'know!  Can't possibly!  'Tisn't
human--never saw such dooced endurance ... ha, look at Chalmers,
there's animus ... hate and bloody murder!  There--and there again--"

"Hush!" says Sir John, fingers clenching his forgotten snuff-box.  "The
end will be ... sudden and ... soon--"

"Oh God, John....  Oh God ... look at Sam, he's failing ... ah--blood!"

"I see, Harry!  Yes, Chalmers means death."

Ceaseless ring and clash of ever-whirling steel, stamp and shuffle of
feet....  Thus, hand-to-hand, foot-to-foot, and eye-to-eye, they
strike, parry, and thrust at each other's lives, circle and sway--Sir
Robert, sweat-streaked, fiercely relentless as ever--my lord grim and
steadfast.  Both now are breathing hard, both seem tiring at last--and
upon my lord's sweat-glistening sword-arm is trickle of blood ...

Mr. Standish stifles a groan, crushes his hat shapeless, lets it fall,
and holds his breath in horrified dismay.  For my lord's blade seems to
waver, he shifts his ground awkwardly--then reels back with Sir
Robert's weapon driven through his arm--but this arm is his left and,
recovering balance, he laughs grimly, his own blade whirls, flashes
down in the stroke for which he has watched--and Sir Robert, losing his
weapon, stumbles backward and is caught in the Major's embrace while my
lord stands looking down at the dangling steel transfixing him.

Then Sir John drops the crushed fragments of his snuff-box and with Mr.
Standish hastens to support him, while the surgeon proceeds to withdraw
the clumsy blade from my lord's ugly wound, at which Mr. Standish
winces as if this arm had been his own, exclaiming:

"Oh dooce and the devil ... my dear old f'low ... how the devil are
you?"

"Better than I look," answers my lord rather breathlessly and between
pallid lips.  "But, Harry--his pistol hand--tell me--"

"M'dear old lord, no need t'tell you--look yonder!"

Now glancing whither he is directed, my lord beholds, lying upon
smeared grass, that which will never more grasp murderous duelling
weapon.

"Lord!" murmurs Sam, between lips even paler now.  "Ned ... tells me I
always strike ... harder than necessary----"




CHAPTER X

TELLS HOW MY LORD LANGUISHED, DESPAIRED AND PLEADED IN VAIN

The duel and its unexpected ending sets the crowning glory on my lord's
popularity, and he is now famous.  He is also a scowling, gloomy
misery.  Cards and flowers pour in upon him, visitors of both sexes,
old and young, call to do homage, but are received with gracious
urbanity by Sir John who, pleading my lord's wound, fills his place
with a charm that tempers disappointment at my lord's
non-appearance;--so they enquire the more tenderly after his health,
commiserate his hurt, glorify his success, and depart, feeling
themselves more his friends than ever....  While my lord, having shut
himself away with his wound, his pipe, a few books, and his broken
hopes, becomes ever the more dejected.

Thus daily he languishes--for this fighting seaman whose precept has
been "no surrender and never say die," now does both.  Weakened by his
bodily hurt, he despairs at last and sinks to such deeps of woeful,
hopeless despondency from which Mr. Standish strives to rouse him and
so vainly that both he and Sir John becoming daily more anxious, summon
the most eminent doctors--surgeons and physicians (to my lord's
disgust)--even nurses are threatened (to my lord's indignant horror)
for no one, not even his devoted Harry, suspects that it is not so much
bodily wound troubling him as a bewitching affliction called--Andromeda
... until:

Upon a certain morning, my lord having cursed his two valets out and
away, Mr. Standish finds him doing his one-armed best to clothe himself.

"Goo' Lord!" exclaims that gentleman, aghast, "m'dear old tulip, no,
no, naughty-naughty!  Y' ought ta be in bed, y'know!"

"Not me!" snarls my lord, becoming Sam at his worst.  "No, damme, I've
had enough o' this cosseting and cursed inaction--I'm off!"

"Eh, off?  Off where?  What for--"

"No matter!  Bear a hand wi' this dam' shirt."

Mr. Standish, alarmed by something wild in my lord's looks and tone,
becomes extremely articulate and quite determined as Sam himself, as he
says:

"No, dear fellow!  Your place at present, is bed--and it's not the
least good your cursing me, for back to bed you're going--and at once!"

"Well, damn your eyes!" growls Sam, actually clenching his one good
fist.  "D'ye think you or any other man could stay me or keep me from
her?"

"Ah!" exclaims Mr. Standish, recoiling as if indeed from a physical
blow.  "Then ... yes, that's it--you're in love with--"

"Ay, what else!  Come, bear a hand with my shirt."

"I ought," says Mr. Standish, swallowing with difficulty, "ought to
have guessed.  Yes ... of course ... it was only to be expected!  You
have not----" here another difficult swallow, "told her yet, naturally?"

"What of?"

"Your ... love--"

"Ay, that I have."

"Oh?  A trifle hasty, weren't you?"

"Well," says Sam, pondering, "yes, come to think of it, I was." "And
does she," again Mr. Standish gulps, "does she ... return your
sentiments?"

"If you mean my love, Harry, yes--yes, I believe she does, and this is
my one comfort."

"And I wish," sighs Mr. Standish, "you were cured of your wound because
then I should express to you--my sentiments."

"Oh?" murmurs Sam, pondering this.  "Ah?  Harry, what d'ye mean?"

"That were you a sound man, Wrybourne, I should express myself rather
forcibly--as it is I merely suggest it would have been fairer to me and
more honourable in you to have warned me first."

"Warned you?  Damme--what about?"

"Your love for Rowena."

"Oho!" exclaims Sam.  "My poor, old Harry-fool!"  And for the first
time since his scene with Andromeda he laughs, while Mr. Standish, pale
and stern, watches him.  "B'George!" he exclaims, his merriment
subsiding.  "That's done me a power o' good!  So now for your good,
Harry, I tell you my love instead of gold is black as midnight, her
eyes a golden glory, herself the only woman for me in all this world.
Sit down, my hearty, and let me tell you...."

And thus, with many other particulars, Mr. Standish, this faithful,
trusty friend, learns the wherefore of my lord's disease that has
perplexed everyone.

"So d'ye see, Harry," he ends mournfully, "she's braced about, borne
away and left me in the dam' doldrums, no--worse, a dismasted hulk,
helpless, waterlogged and rolling gunn'le under for the final,
everlasting plunge!"

"Nothin' o' the sort, m'dear, old f'low--no!  All that's needed is
judgment and manage.  First, did your lady toss your engagement ring
back at you--with scorn and so forth?"

"No, but--"

"Good--"

"Only because she never had one to toss."

"Ha!  And she's stayin' wi' th' Duchess?"

"She was."

"And the Duchess is her godmother you tell me?  Well, she thinks no end
o' you, th' Duchess, fact!  Called three times t' enquire--pity you
refused t'see her."

"Yes, Harry, I was a curst fool!  But I felt such a poor, miserable,
sick dog--I couldn't bear anyone near me."

"No wonder!  You'd lost gallons o' gore--artery or something 'cording
to the surgeon.  And egad, Sam, I thought Chalmers had skewered more
than your arm--frightful minute for me, old f'low!  How the dooce did
it happen?"

"Chalmers was so clever, Harry, I had to give him an opening to get in
the blow I wanted--ay, he certainly could fight!"

"But never again, m'dear, old lord, unless he's ambidextrous, for the
hand that shot me--and others, is now rotti----"

"And now," says Sam, rather gruffly, "I'll thank you to help me into my
clothes, Harry."

"Cer-tainly not, old f'low--you're not fit--lot weaker than you think,
loss o' blood and so forth, y'know."

"But damme, I must see the Duchess."

"So you shall, by proxy.  I'll see her for you, give her any message
and, better still, a letter to your Andromeda, a few heart-felt
words--if you can manage to write--"

"Of course!  Bring me the pen and ink, Harry."

Thus, with writing materials before him, Sam (and despite the weakness
that surprised and angered him) contrives to scrawl, very shakily,
these words:


EVER BELOVED, I am not dead, but it is for you to bless me with the
very joy of life, if only you will.  So if you will, pray come to me.
However I am now and always--only your SAM.


Folding this missive he superscribed it

To THE ONE.


Then Mr. Standish seals it carefully, thrusts it tenderly into the
bosom of his coat and turns to go, saying gaily:

"Have patience, old f'low, don't work y'self into another dooced
fever----"

"Into her hand only, Harry!"

"None other, old lord--I'm an off 'un!"  And off he speeds accordingly.
Scarcely has he gone than my lord, buoyed up by hope, summons his
valets and makes an elaborate toilette, tries vainly to get himself
inducted into his newest, tightest coat, is folded into loose
dressing-robe instead, and sits down to await the outcome of his
written appeal.  Hoping against hope, yearning for sound and sight of
her ... to see the door open and Andromeda standing with arms reached
out to him....  He ponders just what his first words shall be, how he
will greet her--he even selects the chair that shall be so blessed as
to support and embrace her loveliness....

Thus he frets and fumes, alternating between radiant hope and black
despair until the door indeed opens at last to admit--only Mr.
Standish, his gaiety somewhat dashed, but saying, cheerfully as
possible:

"No luck, old f'low!"  And he gives back the letter, and Sam, seeing
the seal unbroken, crams it fiercely into his pocket, demanding:

"Was she out?"

"Well," answers Mr. Standish as if considering this question, "no--not
exactly."

"Ah--then she saw you?"

"Oh yes.  Yes, certainly--she saw me."

"And you gave her my--my dam' letter?"

"Well--not precisely."

"Harry, what the devil d'you mean?"

"I handed it to her, old fellow, at least I--held it out to her, but
she ... didn't--"

"Ha!  She refused even to touch it, eh, Harry?"

"Yes, Sam."

"Did she--say anything?"

"Yes, something that I didn't and don't understand--dooced perplexing,
y'know, Sam, can't make head or tail--"

"Well, out with it, man--her very words."

"When I proffered your letter she merely smiled at it, shook her head
at it and said, 'No, sir, you have brought Lord Wrybourne's billet-doux
to the wrong person'."

"Eh, wrong person?  Did you ask what she meant?"

"I did, but she merely smiled and left me."

"So, Harry, that ends it!"

"No, old fellow, this begins it!  We now attack her with flowers.
Nothing like flowers, old boy, t' touch the feminine heart, blooms and
blossoms--properly applied, y'know.  So I'll away and begin our flowery
campaign--violets t' begin with or lilies o' the valley, suggestin' a
sweetly tender humility!  So cheer up, old f'low.  I'll set about it at
once."  And off he speeds again, but very soon reappears, to say in
awed tone and with looks of consternation: "Sam, oh, Sam--the
Juggernaut's below with Sir John, demanding speech with you.  So, dear,
old lord--will you, for my sake--the elopement business--will you?"

Sam scowls but unwillingly and perforce agrees--whereupon his faithful
Harry murmurs gratefully and hastens away on his self-imposed mission.

Thus presently my lord rises as Lady Marwood is ushered in by Sir John
who, after a few perfunctory remarks, bows himself out again.

Lady Marwood surveys this hoped-for son-in-law, her eyes large with
yearning, and strikes an attitude:

"Ah--he is pale!" sighs she, as to an invisible audience.  "Pale yet so
romantically pallid!  Ah, Japhet, thou art our hero, our conqueror
triumphant!  Thou art indeed the--"

"Oh, madam, pray be seated," says my lord bowing, and reaches for a
chair wherefore my lady emits a tender scream:

"No!  Ah--no!  Thine arm--thy wound that badge of glory--trouble it
not.  See, unaided--I sit!  Come you beside me, dear, heroical boy.
Ah, what maternal bosom but would swell with pride for such son?  What
gentle, sweet-shy feminine heart could resist you?  Surely not mine nor
the heart of my beloved Rowena--"

"My lady, you overwhelm me!"

"Dear Japhet, if I do, 'tis with a mother's devotion--for doth not my
sweet child adore you--her hero?  Thus when I surprised the secret of
your proposed elopement I kept the secret locked within my bosom, even
from my own child--for the sweet romance of it all--to fly
together--upon speedy wheels--at midnight's hour--Oh, very ecstasy!
Ah, but, I have to warn you, there is a--hitch!  And all owing to the
Duchess!  For her Grace has sent us such pressing, such very urgent
invitation, indeed she is so persistent that I cannot possibly refuse.
So that, dear boy, on the night appointed for your elopement Rowena and
I shall be domiciled with the Duchess."

"I see!" murmurs my lord.  "We must alter our arrangements somewhat."

"Precisely!  Ah, dear Japhet, could you but enlist her Grace's aid--you
are already high in her esteem--with her to assist you, all would be
well."

"Yes," nods my lord, "it would be mere plain sailing then.  I'll try
it."

"Then--you will succeed!  Yes, you will bear from me my olive branch,
my one beloved child--you and she to rapture!  Ah, but my lonesome
pillow will be moist with a mother's tears--tears of woe for my
loneliness, but of joy for her and your happiness!"

My Lady Marwood's large, soulful eyes are indeed moist with tears, real
or so well simulated that my lord feels a twinge of something very like
remorse when at last he bows her out and away.

Being alone he remembers his useless letter to Andromeda and intending
to destroy it, thrusts hand into the pocket of his dressing-robe and
finds there his handkerchief and nothing more--begins a languid search
for it, wearies and thinking of Andromeda, forgets all about it....

It is about now that Mr. Standish, this indefatigable friend, having no
better fortune with flowers, yet indomitable as ever, demands word with
the Duchess herself in my lord's name, is admitted to her dominating
presence and there pleads his lordship's woeful plight to such effect
that this small, potent lady knits her brow and gazes wide-eyed on
vacancy, like a musing Sibyl, nods her arrogant head like chiefest of
the remorseless Fates, giggles suddenly, like a schoolgirl, and
beckoning Mr. Standish near, bestows such counsel that he giggles
also--and returns jubilant to find my lord sunk in a gloom deeper than
ever.

"Well, Harry?" his lordship demands, hopelessly.

"Ex-ceeding well!" nods Mr. Standish, at his jauntiest.  "The Duchess
and I have arranged it all!  Three nights hence you will elope--but
from--her Grace's house!"

"Ay, I know that!" growls Sam.  "But--what o' me and--"

"You, m'dear f'low, will drive away--not in your own but in one of her
Grace's carriages and with four relays o' horses on the road.  You
should arrive at th' chiefest inn at Wrybourne in time for
breakfast....  And there you will find happiness."

"Is there such a thing?" groans Sam.  "But what the devil--why all this
confounded mystery, this--"

"M'dear, old lord, no mystery, no!  At eleven precisely, three nights
hence, you step into her Grace's carriage and--"

"But why hers?  What the--"

"That's all I can tell you.  Now curse me if y' feel so inclined
but--ha, thank heaven, there's the supper bell!  C'on old f'low, let's
peck and sip--do us both good--"




CHAPTER XI

HOW THEY FARED--HOMEWARDS

Rain, and a wind that raves in angry gusts, the clocks chiming
eleven--and my lord, guided by Mr. Standish, reaches the shelter of a
dim seen gateway, hears a sound of hoofs and wheels, sees in the
rain-lashed darkness the loom of a carriage that stops and is helped up
into its black interior; then the door slams, hoofs clatter, wheels
grind and away rumbles this vehicle.

My lord has not travelled very far when he raises his voice above
rumble and clatter and hiss of wind-driven rain, to say--far more
pleasantly than he feels:

"Well, Rowena, we're off!  But--what a night for us!  How are you
feeling?"  But instead of the sweet voice expected, all he hears is
rumble and clatter and rush of wind.

Surprised and startled, he tries again:

"Rowena, you're here, of course--but where are you?"  Still nothing to
hear save the rumble and rush of their going.  So my lord reaches out
his one serviceable hand ... touches velvet, feels beneath this a firm,
round arm that snatches itself from his contact.

"Good Lord!" he exclaims.  "Surely you're not--afraid of me, Rowena?"

"No!" answers a voice, richly sweet though bitterly scornful.  "Oh no,
she would probably be in your arms--but I would rather be lying out in
the mud and rain!"

"Well ... now ... damme!" gasps Sam, hardly believing his ears.  "What
the--how--Andromeda!  What in the world are you doing here?"

"It seems your lordship has entered the wrong carriage!"

"Oh no, madam, no!" says my lord, "it is only too perfectly evident
that you are kidnapping me."

"Lord Wrybourne, bid your coachman turn and drive me back at once, or
you will compel me to--to scream."

"Madam, you would merely waste your precious breath, for my coachmen
never heed women's screams, indeed they usually drive faster.  So,
instead, pray inform me what astounding and happy chance brings you
within reach of my arms----"

"Never dare to touch me again!"

"Oh, but I must--yes, my lady, you shall lie--cradled upon my bosom,
unless you explain how and why you are here."

"Because of your lying message."

"But I sent you no message, and my letter you refused--"

"Yet I received your deceitful note--here it is."

"May I have it?"

"Yes, pray take the loathsome thing!"  In the darkness this paper is
given and taken by fingers that shrink from each other's touch.

"And now, madam," says my lord, slipping this into his pocket, "since
it is too dark for reading, pray tell me what is written--the words of
this message."

"Oh, no," sighs she, wearily, "you know all its cruel falsity."

"However, madam, I beg you'll tell me--or know the hideous shame of my
embrace."

"Anything rather than--that!" she retorts.  "This deceitful note, so
far as I recall, says: 'If you would see him in life and before the
end, go at once to Mrs. Leet's cottage at Wrybourne'."

"Ha!" exclaims my lord.  "So at once you set out--and in this storm!  I
wonder why?"

"Because I believed he was my clean, pure-hearted Sam--instead of
this--this false, hateful profligate and brutal duellist, Lord
Wrybourne."

"Madam, now you astonish me!  For here are you even now, kidnapping
this same unfortunate, misunderstood gentleman, who fondly imagined he
was eloping with a lady beautiful as yourself--though her silky tresses
are a glorious gold instead of--merely black."

"Oh, how incredibly vile to so parade her shame and your own!  I beg
you will say no more--for her wretched sake."

"So be it, madam.  Though 'pon my soul, I'm greatly wondering where she
can have got to.  I should be carrying her south and indeed thought I
was.  Why aren't I?  Where is she?  There's something vastly wrong
somewhere.  The question is--what?"

"No, my lord, the question is--why!  Why are you not upon your
death-bed in Mrs. Leet's cottage?"

"Oh, lady!  Are you reproaching, blaming me for daring to be alive to
retort upon you instead of lying dead, a poor object for your gracious
pity and all-too-late endearments?"

"No, my lord, I blame myself for believing there ever was a Sam."

"Then, madam, is my so detested, libertine lordship to understand that
you truly loved this Sam fellow?"

"God knows I did."

"Then why in God's name, did you make a football of his poor simple
heart?  How could you let him go out to fight for his life with scorn
in your eyes, upon your lips, and anger in your heart?  Madam, I await
your answer."  Instead, she turns on him to demand, breathlessly:

"Oh ... how dare you ... affront me with such questions?  You ... whose
name is the subject of such infamous gossip ... duellist, gambler, base
seducer--how dare you speak to, much less question me?  Drive back, my
lord, drive back, and in my place take up that poor, frail creature you
expected, this miserable girl who is so unwise ever to trust herself to
such as you!  Go back and if in you is one spark of honour--cloak her
shame with marriage."

For some while after this wild tirade, no word is uttered; even after
cobbled streets have given place to the open road and their going
smoother and less noisy, my lord remains speechless.

And so, once again, out of the darkness nearby this fiercely scornful
voice lashed him:

"Do I then plead your wanton's cause in vain?  Why do you not return
and take her to your arms?  Is it because your lordship is already
wearied, sated, and seek newer prey?  Well, here am I--alone and at
your mercy, but--"

"Yes, madam, you are certainly alone, but alas--I have only one arm to
serve me.  Wherefore you may know yourself, for the time at least, safe
from my brutality.  But, my lady, being now in the dark and unable to
feast my wicked eyes on your enticing beauty, I can the better
appreciate and realize the acid venom of your tongue, the hidden
cruelty of you that, perched upon your pinnacle of chastity, can so
condemn and vilify your sister woman.  Ah, the Lord protect me, ay, and
especially all unfortunate she creatures, from the merciless rage of a
virtuous woman!"

"While your lordship takes breath, may I suggest once more that you
turn back and exchange me for your--"

"Don't say 'wanton' again!"

"Sir, I shall say precisely as I will ... but now, because," here her
voice falters, "because of what I once ... believed you to be ... I beg
you will order the carriage to turn back or ... suffer me to alight."

"A light?" he repeats.  "Happy thought!"  And fumbling in the darkness
he finds the check-string at last, pulls it and the carriage jolts to a
halt.  Then the door opens on wind-swept blackness and a voice enquires:

"Yes, m'lord?"

"Why are we driving without lights?"

"Wind do blow 'em out, sir."

"Have we no lamp in the carriage?"

"Yes, m'lord."

"Then light it."

"I be reekin' wet, m'lord."

"No matter--light it."  In comes a rain-scattering shape and, after
some to-do, the lamp is lit and seems quite dazzling.  "How far to the
first stage?"

"Matter o' five mile, m'lord."

"Then lock both doors!"

"Yes, m'lord!"

Now as they drive on again, the flickering light showing that beloved
face and form, my lord keeps his eyes averted as he says:

"Madam, as I have been compelled to hear your reproaches, you shall now
hear me--are you listening?" he demands, for she has turned, hiding her
face in the deep shade of her bonnet.

"Yes, since I must!  But why weary me and shame yourself with more
lies?"

"Ah, what venom!" sighs my lord.  "Should you ever wed, your spouse is
to be pitied.  However, you with poisonous tongue have defamed a sweet
and lovely lady, called her wanton, not that you know this for truth
but merely because of rumour that I love her--"

"Can you--dare you deny it?"

"Certainly I can--and do!"

"Oh, insufferable!  I tell you Lady Marwood boasts how you love her
daughter, Rowena herself admits it!  And tonight----"

"Tonight, madam, I should have eloped with her that she might wed the
man she loves, my friend Harry Standish.  A promising scheme which you
have wrecked very completely.  And why?  Be pleased to inform me."

Now at this, Andromeda turns to look at him with such fury of
passionate contempt as for the moment seems beyond utterance, yet when
she contrives to speak it is in quite passionless tone:

"Lord Wrybourne, being a Scrope, shameless evil is part of your
heritage----"

"Too true!" he sighs.

"So now to spare myself the shame of hearing you perjure yourself any
longer, I will show evidence of your base deception--words written and
signed by you!"  And from the bosom of her cloak she draws a letter and
tosses it contemptuously upon the seat beside him--taking this up, my
lord sees it is superscribed: To The One, and as contemptuously tosses
it back, saying:

"This is the letter poor Sam wrote to Andromeda----"

"Oh, no!" she retorts, bitterly.  "This is the letter my Lord of
Wrybourne sent to the woman for whom he fought, risked his life, and
maimed her then acknowledged lover!"

"Then pray how did you come by it?"

"Lady Marwood's French maid delivered it to me--by mistake, of course!"

"And you kept it for proof of my lordship's infidelity!  Yet, madam, I
tell you again--that letter was written to you by poor, grievous,
woeful, wounded Sam pleading your mercy--the letter that merciless,
hard-hearted you returned--it is the same letter poor, desperate Sam,
heart-broken by your cruelty, rammed into his pocket and lost while
listening to the Marwood Mama who must have found or taken it under a
misapprehension, believing 'The Only One' to be her daughter--no pray
do not interrupt!  Finding her mistake this 'Darling Mama' gave it to
the right and Only One, either to help or hurt her--"

"Oh, why plague me with this absurd rigmarole, all these audacious,
wicked--"

"Don't say lies'!" he warned her.  "Instead, tell me--did you show this
letter to the Duchess--did you?"

"Yes, I did and--"

"Then God bless her nimble wits!  Ah, what a woman!  For you are her
riposte, her counter-stroke to 'Darling Mama,' yes--you!  For by her
contrivance here you are, despite yourself and your silly, cruel
doubts--within reach of my arms--no--my arm!"  So saying he rose and
seated himself beside her and so near that she drew away, shrinking
further into her corner, saying as she did so:

"My lord--no--I beg--"

"Oh damme!" exclaimed Sam, scowling.  "Andromeda, don't be such a
fool."  Now though his voice was harsh and face grim, she sighed deeply
and her whole quivering body relaxed because instead of cynical,
smiling, gently-spoken aristocrat here beside her was gruff sailorman.

"Now, woman," he growled, "you're going to hear God's truth and,
believing it, come into my arms--no, arm, and lie here on my heart
where you belong--ay, and shed a tear or so, that I may kiss 'em
away--or--call me 'liar' again, but--for the last time on this earth.
So--are you listening?"

"Yes!" she answered, looking into these grey eyes of his that were
always too steadfast for deceit.  "Tell me--Sam!"

And so, beginning with his arrival in London, tell her he did, and with
such minute detail that they lost count of time, nor heeded how often,
where or when they stopped at the various stages to change horses.

"Now," he demanded, when at last this very protracted narration was
ended, "are you going to pipe your lovely eye with regret for your loss
o' faith and cruel treatment of poor Sam?  Are you going to cuddle up
to me close as possible and confound my arm!  Are you going to give me
that lovely beloved mouth that is quivering already, or--"  Andromeda,
swift and passionate in her remorse, did all he bade....  Lips to lips
and breast to breast she clung to him, though tenderly careful of his
slung arm, her coquettish bonnet back-thrown upon loosened strings that
she might see him the better.

"Oh," sighed she, at length, removing her bonnet altogether, "thank God
the detestable Earl is gone and my Sam come back to me."

"Madam," says my lord, "it is but right you should know and fully
apprehend that both you and your Sam are now and henceforth my
lordship's own particular property."

"Indeed, my lord," she answers, almost shyly, "I can well believe it
and do own it gladly--when I am safe on the breast of my Sam."

Thus, stage by stage, southward they journeyed through the rushing
darkness, yet now about them was a radiance not of the flickering lamp,
but a glory all their own.  And when at last he bade her try to sleep,
she pillowed her head upon his breast and with a sigh of happy
weariness, obeyed.

As for Sam, looking down upon this beloved head, this splendid woman
that he knew at last was all his own--and remembering how and why--he
called down fervent benedictions upon the little Duchess and presently
slumbered also....  He awoke to find his head softly pillowed (a
fragrant pillow this that slowly, gently rose and fell) and the golden
eyes of Andromeda looking down upon him in a radiant dawn.

"You slept," she murmured, "like a baby.  And sometimes you are very
like a child.  Now lie still and hear me tell my Lord of Wrybourne it
is the sailor, just Sam that I so truly love----"

"Which, madam, is a marvel!"

"And because I love only Sam, my lord must woo and win me for
himself--for Sam's sake."

"This, my lady Witchery, shall be my lordship's persistent and joyous
endeavour.  Though I am astonished that you, a lady born and bred can
stoop to bless such rough, clumsy fellow.  So I desire to know how and
why--your Loveliness can possibly love this graceless Sam?"

"At first, my lord, just because he was Sam, and later because he is so
very much more than I ever dreamed--so wise and generous that he could
give back half his fortune, so magnanimous that he could even free his
avowed enemy from prison and allow him the chance of new life and
happiness, and--yes--such a man that he could outwit and outfight the
merciless wretch everyone believed quite invincible!  These, my lord,
are a few reasons why I love--only Sam.  I shall find many others later
which I will mention to your lordship.  And now, Sam dear, where are
you taking this woman of yours?"

"First to Grannyanne's cottage, according to that mysterious note--'if
you would see him in life' and so on.  I'm still wondering who wrote
it."

"I guess that godmother of mine, all things considered."

"Ha, the Duchess again!  So I guess, and God bless her!  She's a grand
person, ay, and so is Grannyanne, you've learned to know her lately,
haven't you?"

"So well that I understand why Sam is so fond of her."

"And what of your Uncle Arthur?"

"Godmother has commanded him to paint her portrait."

"Splendid!  And when it's done, she won't allow him to destroy it--not
she!  It may do him a power o' good, let's hope so....  Listen--there's
Wrybourne church-clock striking eight!  Soon we shall be kissing
Grannyanne and having breakfast with my shipmate Ned and his Kate at
Willowmead where we shall bring to--anchor, d'ye see, till our wedding
day.  That day of days when you will glorify Sam into your
husband--learn him something of your own gracious dignity and
gentleness.  And then, Andromeda, with you always within hail o' me--"

"With my 'acid tongue,' Sam dear!"

"Ay, to be sure, your sweetly acid little tongue to rake me fore and
aft with shattering broadside when needed, or bring me up with a round
turn if I'm in shoal water with social rocks in my lee!  Ah, but--then
my Andromeda, we together, you and I, will steer such course that soon
or late, this cursed name of Scrope shall come to be honoured and some
day, maybe--even loved."

"It will be, my dear one--oh, it shall be!"

"Why then, if ...  Oh, Andromeda, if we should be so blest ...
children, d'ye see, my dearest, we should leave them something
worthy--to live and strive for."

"A heritage truly honourable, my Sam, a heritage noble as my own
sailorman--to endure long after us, I pray God, clean, strong and true
as Old England itself.  Oh, lovely thought!"

"And yonder," said Sam, drawing her arm closer about him, "yonder is
Wrybourne Church where, soon as may be, a sailorman will be spliced to
his lass--so now, my lady, pray kiss your lord, to seal the blessed
compact."

Thus, in this new day, through a world all green and fragrant after
last night's storm--now, with rumble of wheel and thud of hoof, they
turned into that familiar, shady lane in time to hear, sweet as any
piping bird, Jane's high, clear voice upraised in her favourite song:

  "In Scarlitt town where I was borned
  There was a fair maid dwellin'
  Made every lad cry lack a day
  Her name was Bar-bree Alling..."


Then rose the deep, joyous barking of a dog.

"And there," said Andromeda, sitting up to adjust her cloak, smooth
frills and furbelows, and tie on her plumed bonnet, "there is our
welcome home!"

"Ay, 'home'!" repeated Sam.  "The dearest word in any language, and
with you in it, Andromeda, the loveliest, the holiest, the
most........"  But here, with murmur rather like a sob, Andromeda
kissed him.




[End of _Heritage Perilous_ by Jeffery Farnol]
