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Title: The Way Beyond
Author: Farnol, John Jeffery (1878-1952)
Date of first publication: 1933
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   Toronto: Ryerson Press, 1933
Date first posted: 4 May 2011
Date last updated: 4 May 2011
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #781

This ebook was produced by Al Haines






THE WAY BEYOND


BY

JEFFERY FARNOL




TORONTO

THE RYERSON PRESS




COPYRIGHT, CANADA, 1933

BY

THE RYERSON PRESS, TORONTO




To

JOSEPH DAVID HUGHES

MY GOOD AND VERY DEAR FRIEND

I DEDICATE THIS BOOK

IN

ABIDING AFFECTION




THE WAY BEYOND




CONTENTS

CHAPTER

       I. WHICH OPENS THIS NARRATIVE AND INTRODUCES OLD FRIENDS
      II. IN WHICH CHARMIAN MEDITATES
     III. CONCERNS ITSELF WITH RICHARD'S FATHER AND THE EARL OF
          ABBEYMERE
      IV. WHICH INTRODUCES THE "CAUSE"
       V. OF THOMAS LETHBRIDGE, POACHER
      VI. TELLETH MERELY OF RICHARD'S FATHER AND RICHARD
     VII. IN WHICH THIS NARRATIVE LUMBERS SOMEWHAT HEAVILY
    VIII. TELLS OF ANOTHER SIRE AND SON, AND HOW THE EARL'S LIFE WAS
          THREATENED FOR THE SECOND TIME
      IX. INTRODUCES ONE CLIPSBY, A NON-ENTITY (ALMOST)
       X. WHICH TRANSPORTS THE PATIENT READER TO SCENES FAMILIAR BUT
          FORGOT AWHILE
      XI. CONCERNS ITSELF AMONG OTHER THINGS WITH KERSEYMERE BREECHES
     XII. WHICH GIVES PARTICULARS OF A FATEFUL NIGHT
    XIII. CONCERNS ITSELF WITH A HUSBAND--AND A WIFE
     XIV. TELLETH HOW RICHARD BEGAN HIS PILGRIMAGE
      XV. TELLETH OF DIVERS ADVENTURES BY THE WAY
     XVI. REPEATETH, AND BOLDLY, SOME OF THE FAULTS OF CHAPTER XV
    XVII. TELLETH OF RICHARD AND BLACK GEORGE AND HOW THEY CLASPED HANDS
   XVIII. TELLETH HOW ROSEMARY, THOUGH OF SEX GENTLE, MET CRUEL FORTUNE
          WITH THE FORTITUDE OF ANY MAN OR (AND WHAT IS MORE) OF ANY
          WOMAN
     XIX. WAFTS OUR ROSEMARY TO A NEW WORLD AND EXPERIENCES MORE OR
          LESS STRANGE
      XX. CONCERNS ITSELF (AND BRIEFLY) WITH A LETTER
     XXI. WHICH BEING SUCH SPEECHFUL CHAPTER, SPEAKS FOR ITSELF
    XXII. WHICH RECOUNTS AN INCIDENT BY THE WAY
   XXIII. WHICH IS, AT LEAST, A CHAPTER OF ACTION
    XXIV. TELLETH HOW THE EARL FOUND HIM A LITTLE FAIRY GODMOTHER
     XXV. TELLETH HOW SIR PETER WENT INVESTIGATING
    XXVI. WHICH IS A CHAPTER OF QUESTION AND ANSWER AND OF A
          TRANSFORMATION
   XXVII. IN WHICH THE READER LIKE THE WRITER MAY FIND MATTER FOR
          SURPRISE
  XXVIII. IN WHICH MR. CLIPSBY CONTINUETH TO SURPRISE
    XXIX. WHICH BEING OF NO GREAT INTEREST IS COMMENDABLY BRIEF
     XXX. TELLETH HOW RICHARD HEARD MR. PUNCH SQUEAK TO GOOD PURPOSE
    XXXI. GIVETH SOME ACCOUNT OF AN AFFRAY AND MR. JASPER SHRIG
   XXXII. SHOWETH HOW RICHARD SWORE AN OATH
  XXXIII. TELLETH HOW BLACK GEORGE LEFT LONDON TOWN
   XXXIV. CHIEFLY CONCERNING MR. MORDAUNT'S EYE, AN EPISTLE
          EXTRAORDINARY AND HOW CHARMIAN PREPARED FOR BATTLE
    XXXV. GIVETH SOME DESCRIPTION OF AN AFFRAY FEMININE
   XXXVI. TELLS HOW ROSEMARY CAME HOME
  XXXVII. TELLETH HOW TWO VIBARTS RODE FORTH TOGETHER, AND WHY
 XXXVIII. IN WHICH MR. SHRIG SETS FORTH AND SUMMARISES THE CASE
   XXXIX. CONCERNING SIR PETER, HIS CONSCIENCE
      XL. TELLETH HOW MR. SHRIG READ A LETTER AND ASKED QUESTIONS
     XLI. DESCRIBING WHAT BEFELL AT ABBEYMERE
    XLII. OF A GATHERING SHADOW
   XLIII. TELLETH HOW VALENTINE SMILED AND WENT A JOURNEYING
    XLIV. OF JASPER SHRIG, HIS SCHEME, AND VERY BRIEFLY
     XLV. TELLS HOW EUSTACE CLIPSBY SAW THE DAWN
    XLVI. WHICH, THOUGH IT SHOULD END THIS NARRATIVE, DOES NOT
   XLVII. THE LAST




THE WAY BEYOND



CHAPTER I

WHICH OPENS THIS NARRATIVE AND INTRODUCES OLD FRIENDS

Old Sol, throned in splendour on a cloud, like a jovial and beneficent
god, smiled down upon this right pleasant land of Sussex,--shady woods
and sparkling rills, wide flowery meads where somnolent cows,
sightfully content, puffed fragrance: wide-sweeping downlands where
cloud-shadows played across a myriad flowers and lonely shepherds
sought what shade they might ... a hot, stilly afternoon lulled by the
drowsy hum of little unseen wings.

And nowhere did Old Sol beam more warmly than upon a certain ancient
manor-house and its immediate vicinity; a very aged house this,
glorified by successive generations from the simple Saxon steading it
had once been, into a very thing of beauty,--mellow of brick, heavily
timbered, wide of frontage and stately, its many latticed windows set
wide open to the fragrant air.

On this goodly homestead most particularly Old Sol seemed to have fixed
his huge, beaming orb,--a great, fiery, extremely inquisitive eye that,
peeping in at each and every casement, beheld and peered at:

_Number One_: At Sir Peter Vibart in his book-lined library, seated at
large desk littered with many papers, an open volume before him, and
himself very sound sleep.

_Number Two_: At his secretary, young Mr. Mordaunt, seated remotely at
another desk and very wide awake, his large eyes turned up in ox-like
(yet soulful) contemplation to the cavern ceiling-beams, his brow
furrowed in the throes of composition, a quill pen idle in his fingers,
a sheet of fair paper before him whereon, beautifully inscribed, Old
Sol might have read

  THE EPIC AMOROSO.

  She walks in beauty and all stately grace;
  All Beauty throned is in her lovely face;
  Where'er she be, then hallowed is that place.

  I must be dumb, and ever nameless she
  That in my heart must aye unuttered be
  All ye that love, Oh lovers, pity me!

  This which lies hid thus hidden must remain,
  I may but look and, looking, sigh in vain.
  Unutterable love, unutterable pain.

  She is a wife, alas, and I--a slave--
  Do serve her lord--

_Number Three_: At Mr. Jacob Mayhew, the dignified and portly butler,
snoring in his pantry and therefore, just at present, not so dignified
as usual but just as portly.

_Number Four_: At Tom, the one-legged ex-soldier, tying up posies and
talking murmurously to Rose.

_Number Five_: At Rose, my lady's maid, blushing like her namesake and
listening to Tom.

_Number Six_: At young Richard Vibart in his shirt sleeves, waistcoat
unbuttoned, hair much ruffled, busied with rapid quill inditing a
letter that begins,

  "My own ever adored Rosemary."

_Number Seven_: At Mrs. Mayhew, the housekeeper, napping demurely in
her own little sitting-room.

_Number Eight_: At Miss Janet McFarlane, in the still-room, girt with
clashing chatelaine but just now bending (witchlike) over a seething
pot with Lucy the stillroom maid.

_Number Nine_: At Charmian, Lady Vibart, in her boudoir, gracefully
disposed upon cushioned settee and yawning sleepily over the book she
has dropped three times to her own startled awakening.  She,
persevering, reads a headline twice, her long lashes droop, the book
slips for the fourth time and lies unheeded, and she is upon the sweet
borderland of sleep when she is roused by gentle rap on the door and in
comes Richard's comely, ruffled head.

"Oh, Richard," she sighed, stretching luxuriously, "you may come in, my
dear ... and tell me why you have been sticking your hair into
elf-locks and Indian wigwams as your father does when things put him
about."  In came Richard closing the door decorously behind him, but
then began to stride up and down the dainty chamber, and being in boots
and spurs, he jingled.

"Indeed," murmured Charmian, watching him fondly and askance, "you grow
very like your father!  But don't ramp, my dear, stop jingling.  Now
come and sit beside me, and when you're ready--tell me who and what,
and how."

"My dear," he answered, taking her nearest hand to kiss as a matter of
course, "briefly it's the Governor."

"You mean your father, Richard."

"Of course, though he seems more like a governor.  He seems to forget
that I'm a man."

"Are you, Richard?"

"Indeed I hope so.  I shall be twenty in less than a week."

"So soon!" she sighed.  "Well, what of your father?"

"He's been at it again, Mother ... this Beverley girl; he's trying
desperately hard to ram marriage down my throat!  Why--good Lord, I
hardly know her!"

"This is your fault, Richard.  Rosamond Beverley is an exceedingly good
match."

"But I don't love her----"

"Don't you, my dear?"

"No ... no of course not!  And never could."

"Oh?" murmured Chairman.  "But pray--why 'of course not'?"

"Because ... oh well, I ... I never could ... not possibly--no!"

"Ah!" murmured Charmian, sitting up suddenly, though gracefully, "you
are so extremely negative that I naturally wonder and ask: who is it,
dear?"

"Who is what, Mother?"

"The cause of such very positive negation.  Whoever she is you will
tell me she is all that is beautiful, of course, Richard,--but is she
worthy?  Is she--nice?  Who is she?  I can find out for myself as you
know--I always do, but I'd rather you told me."

Up jumped young Richard, to stride and jingle again while his lovely
mother watched him a little anxiously until, meeting her wistful
regard, he answered, a little incoherently:

"Mother dear, I ... I worship ... I adore her with all my body and
soul!  And of course she's worthy ... holy ... much too good for me ...
pure as an angel and ... oh beautiful ... beautiful as ... Venus!"

"Goodness--me!" murmured Charmian, widening her eyes at him.  "But who
is she, Richard--who?"

"She's Rosemary, Mother, Rosemary Ford."

"Gracious goodness--me!" ejaculated Charmian, rising suddenly to her
feet, "Black George's daughter----"

"Yes, Mother, yes--and I love her with----"

"So you told me."

"And I believe ... I hope ... she loves me too."

"Then you have actually--told her?"

"Dear Mother, I've asked her, begged, implored her to marry me next
week----"

"Richard, don't be so idiotically ridiculous!  Such mad impetuosity!
Such extravagant haste!  Such wild precipitation!  Have you dared to
tell your father this?  Have you?"

Richard's proud young head drooped, he shook it despondently, he sighed
dismally, avoiding his mother's eyes.

"No, my dear, no!" he confessed miserably.  "I've tried to speak more
than once ... I have indeed.  But he is so ... unaware, so ... so
confoundedly aloof and stately that I ... I get dry in the mouth and
quite tongue-tied ... like a frightened boy, a dolt, a fool, an ass----"

"Precisely, Richard dear!  And you will be all of these if you continue
to think or even dream of marrying anyone so ridiculously soon.  And
what does Rosemary say to such mad haste and hurricane wooing, poor
child?"

"That's just it, mother--this is just where you can help me, if you
only will.  She refuses to give me any answer until I have broken it to
you and father and won your positive consent.  So----"

"A sweet girl ... and very wise!" nodded Charmian.  "Yes, very wise
indeed!  Well, so she should be, being my own god-daughter."

"And so, Mother dear," said Richard, rather shame-facedly but
altogether supplicating.  "I ... I came to you with my trouble, as I
always do, hoping that ... perhaps ... you might....  Oh, will you
speak to father ... tell him for me?"

"No, Richard!" said his mother, sitting down again with a certain
finality.  "Most certainly not, my dearest; being so very grown-up and
such a man you are man enough to do this for yourself, I hope."

"Lord love me!" groaned Richard, dolefully.

"Of course He will, my dear, and help you too, though you must do your
share.  And when you have told Sir Peter, I will talk too."

"Will you, Mother!  Oh, my dear, then all will be well, you can do
anything with him, of course."

"Of course, Richard."

"Then first, will you ... would you be so sweet to ...to have a word
with him--now?  Just to sound him ... see how the wind blows?  Will
you, dear?  For ... oh, Mother, she is my very life----"

"Do you love her? ... truly Richard?  I mean not only for her vivid
beauty ... do you, my son?"

Down before her on his stalwart knees thudded Richard, and looking deep
into her wise, questioning eyes with eyes steadfast as her own,
answered in voice sunk to note of reverence:

"Mother, I swear to God and you that I love her for what she is, more
than what she seems--for her sweet gentleness, her strength, her white
purity.  I think I have loved her all my life ... since we played
together as children, yet I only found this out since I came back from
Europe.  Mother, indeed, indeed I love her most truly...."

Very gently Charmian drew this eager young face near, to smooth the
ruffled hair, to kiss the eyes so very like her own.

"Such love should prove a blessing, my Richard," said she, softly, "and
I ask God's blessing on it--now."  Then she arose and settling her
dainty petticoats with a little, dexterous shake, looked up at her tall
son with roguish eye.

"Now," said she, "I'll go and see just how ... the wind blows."




CHAPTER II

IN WHICH CHARMIAN MEDITATES

And thus it was that Mr. Mordaunt, warned by gentle rap on the door,
hastily covered up "The Epic Amoroso" and rose to bow as "she who
walked in beauty" walked into the room.

"Oh, Charles," she whispered, slim finger on roguish-smiling lip, "I
observe Sir Peter so very busy that I dare to think he will not need
you for a little while so--fly, Charles, fly!"

And when Mr. Mordaunt had sighed, bowed and gone, Charmian proceeded to
twist her sleeping husband's dark hair into conical spikes (what she
called "wig-wams") until he stirred, sighed, opened his eyes and
sitting up, very hastily, looked at her rather guiltily.

"God bless me!" he exclaimed.  "Amazing!  I believe I almost dozed----"

"Slumbered, Peter, slept like a great, big, beautiful innocent baby."
Sir Peter, becoming aware of the "wigwams," smoothed them out, frowned,
laughed and, drawing her upon his knee, kissed her:

"What a child you are!" said he.  "And good Lord--woman, how I love
you!"

"Which is only to be expected," she laughed, yet looking at him very
tenderly, "and quite as it should be seeing I am your wife and very
wedded spouse....  But come now, walk me out into the garden, I love
sunshine!"

"With all my heart!" he answered, reaching her his hand.  So forth they
went strolling together along broad terrace and down the steps, by trim
and winding walks, across smooth lawns, beneath the shade of great old
trees, on and on until they reached a bowery arbour.

"I have sometimes wondered," said Sir Peter as they sat down together,
"indeed I have pondered frequently upon that very inexplicable assault
on me in Paris."

"Paris?" repeated my lady, looking at him beneath lifted brows.  "Why
that was ages since."

"Not quite twelve months," he answered, taking himself by the chin.
"God bless us, how time flits!"

"It flies, Peter!  It rushes, gallops--oh, hatefully!"

"But what so greatly puzzles me," he continued, "is to determine the
reason why I was seized and carried off in such a very----"

"Undignified manner, Peter?"

"No, I was about to say--such a highly mysterious fashion, my dear."

"Why, Paris swarms with thieves and robbers."

"Yet these rascals stole nothing, not even my fob-seals."

"Mm--yes," murmured Charmian, viewing him askance, "that was a
mistake----"

"A ... mistake?" exclaimed Sir Peter, turning to look his surprise, "A
mis----"

"Why, of course, Peter, that robbers should not rob is so very
surprising,--and this reminds me!  What were you saying to Richard this
morning, out there on the terrace?"

"But, Charmian I----"

"Indeed, you looked so preternaturally parental and poor Richard so
miserably self-conscious that I am naturally curious to know why."

"Well, my dear," answered Sir Peter, a little ponderously, "I took
occasion to touch upon my wishes for his future, that he should think
seriously of settling down and----"

"Not marrying?" she enquired.  "Of course, you never mentioned the word
'marriage'?"

"Certainly.  I said that I hoped he would marry thus early because----"

"Oh, Peter!  But you didn't, ah you didn't say who----"

"'Whom', my dear soul, the pronoun being in the objective----"

"Oh, drat your grammar!  However, you have probably quite ruined all
our plans and spoilt things----"

"Spoilt things?" repeated Sir Peter, amazed and a little shocked.
"Now, my dear, is it likely?"

"Very!  You are sometimes so exactly like a bull in a china shop."

"A ... bull?" exclaimed Sir Peter.

"Yes!" she nodded.  "A bull!  A very stately bull, but a bull!  For
instance, you didn't tell the dear boy that I had made up my mind--I
mean that we were determined he should be married early next year?"

"Certainly not!"

"And you didn't so much as hint who--no, whom I--we--had chosen for
him?"

"Why ... to be sure ... now you mention it," answered Sir Peter, taking
up a book and putting it carefully down again, "I did, and I think very
naturally, mention----"

"Not Rosamond?  Oh, gracious, merciful heavens!  Not Rosamond Beverley?"

"Why, yes," answered Sir Peter, eyeing his lady very much askance, "I
did, my dear.  To be sure I did.  And pray why the expletive?"  Now at
this, Charmian folded her shapely hands, sighed deeply, shook her head
and surveyed Sir Peter beneath wrinkled brows and yet more in resigned
sorrow than petulant anger; meeting which look, Sir Peter stirred,
rather uneasily, and began to rub at his clean-shaven chin.

"And so," she murmured at last, "our poor, dear bull in his stately
bullishness has positively wrecked all the china!"

"But ... my dear...."

"As I say, Peter, you have jeopardised our scheme, yes, beyond all
hope.  Can you remember exactly what you said?"

"Well, I told him----"

"Your exact words, Peterdear."

"Then, so far as I remember, they were these: 'Richard,' said I, 'may I
suggest that as regards beauty, rank and disposition you could do no
better than pay your addresses to my old friend Beverley's daughter
Rosamond----'"

"Yes, my poor Peter.  And what said our Richard?"

"To be frank I hardly noticed."

"Of course, you continued to expatiate on poor Rosamond's many
attractions?"

"Yes, to be sure I did----"

"And with every word you uttered, my dear blind, blundering wretch, you
damned Rosamond's chances fatally, hopelessly----"

"Eh?  Damned?  Dear me, Charmian--damned, do you say?  Tut, tut."

"It's no use tutting at me, Peter.  You have played the ponderous
parent so effectively that you have quite, oh quite ruined any chance
of this marriage."

"But how?" demanded Sir Peter, starting up from his chair.  "Charmian,
in the blessed name of Reason,--how?"

"Well, for one thing," she sighed, "I understand this son of ours so
well----"

"Yes, but so do I.  Heavens alive, Charmian, so do I!"

"Of course, Peterdear, but--only as a father, and no mere father can
ever possibly know a son so surely as his mother can.  Now had you not
meddled----"

"Meddled?  Good heavens."

"Meddled, Peter, I would have had them married almost before they knew
it.  Yes, Richard should have wooed the sweet child to please himself,
or imagined so, and not in obedience to any stern parental mandate.  As
it is----"  Charmian sighed and shook her head at him.

"But ... confound it all----"

"Yes, indeed, Peter, you have confounded all beyond recovery.  Richard
will never marry Rosamond Beverley now."

"Great heavens!" exclaimed Sir Peter, a little wildly.  "Did we not
agree that Rosamond is altogether suited,--an unexceptional match?
Didn't we?"

"We did, Peter, but Richard didn't and--won't!"

"And why not, pray?"

"Because he is our son----"

"Exactly!  And shall therefore obey us.  There is such a virtue as
filial piety, a son's duty to his parents and I,--I am his father----"

"Oh, dear heart," sighed Charmian dolefully, "that's what troubles
me----"

"Eh?  Troubles you?"  Sir Peter nearly gasped.

"Yes, Peter.  Because, you see, Richard is so dreadfully like--both of
us.  And you were always so frightfully dogged, so serenely unshakable,
so sedately determined and politely--unreasonable.  And I, though
tenderly mild, Peter, and so very sweetly meek and gentle, am not
altogether destitute of a quite ferocious will----"  Here Sir Peter
chuckled, laughed and clasped long arm about the lovely speaker.

"You?" he laughed.  "On my soul, you are as meek as a thunderstorm and
ferocious as a dove--as gentle as a tiger----"

"But resolute as you are, Peter.  So it is only to be expected our
Richard must be determined as you and wilful as I am, to choose his own
course and pursue it fearless of consequences."

"Hum!" quoth Sir Peter, frowning.  "However, he shall not thwart our
wishes----"

"Oh, he won't, my dear, he won't," said Charmian, "you see I have
changed my mind."

"Eh?  Changed your mind?  How ... what----" said Sir Peter in
bewilderment.

"Oh, about Rosamond Beverley.  I am sure she is not the wife for
Richard ... entirely unsuited in every way, Peter."

"Not the wife ... unsuited----"

"Perfectly, Peter."

"But ... but, good Heaven, it was you suggested----"

"Well, I've changed my mind."

"Astounding!" he exclaimed.  "Amazing!"

"But true, Peterdear.  And, as for Richard, soon he will be of age and
must inherit all Sir Richard Anstruther's money ... he will be a rich
man, in one little year, Peter!"

"None the less, Charmian, so long as I am his father----"  Sir Peter
arose and, becoming his stateliest self, held forth at some length and
in what Charmian called his "ponderously paternal manner"; whereat she
instantly yawned behind a finger; and then towards them came a rhythmic
jingle faintly suggestive of spurs, rattling sabres and clinking mail,
which martial sound heralded the approach of Miss Janet herself,
striding martially upright, being armed with large scissors and a
basket abrim with fresh-cut flowers; to her my lady now signalled, and
of course wholly unperceived by Sir Peter, who stopped short in the
middle of a rolling (and very paternal) period as into the arbour
marched Miss Janet jingling like a heavy dragoon by reason of the
large, silver chatelaine belted about her frame.

"What and are ye here?" she demanded.  "Now what I'll ask the baith o'
ye is----"

She stopped suddenly.  Charmian clenched her white fingers upon her
husband's arm, for upon the warm, still air was clatter of approaching
horse-hoofs.

"Peter, who comes, I wonder?"

"Some visitor or messenger.  But why that look, dear soul?"

"Don't you remember the last time we walked here and a messenger came
galloping?  Let us meet--whoever it is."

Stepping out into the broad avenue they beheld a horseman in smart
livery who, touching hat to them, drew rein and tendered Sir Peter a
letter.

"From my lord the Earl of Abbeymere, sir,--and no answer," said the
messenger, and touching his hat again, rode away.

"Now I wonder," quoth Sir Peter, scowling at the letter, "I wonder what
Abbeymere can be writing about?"

"Probably something unneighbourly," sighed Charmian; "that hateful
right of way, or the poacher you refused to prosecute."

Sir Peter nodded:

"Tom Lethbridge,--the likeable rascal!"

"But he has a very bad name, Peter, and he is a poacher, isn't he?"

"Undoubtedly!  But then so were we, once upon a time.  At least we used
to eat the lady Sophia Sefton's rabbits, you and I, my dear."

"Those dear, wonderful days!" sighed Charmian.  "Our little cottage in
the Hollow, Peter!"

"Ay," snorted Miss Janet, "you there making love tae your Peterman and
I in London breakin' my puir heart and fair crazed wi' anxiety."

"But I didn't make love to my Peterman, Janet.  Or at least if I did he
was quite too deaf and blind and never saw or heard until he had to."

"Had to?" enquired Sir Peter, rubbing his chin.  "I fear I don't
apprehend."

"Well then, Peter, until your love for me and Black George's cudgel
drove you nearly mad, my poor dear, and then of course I had to flaunt
my love in your face and--marry you."

"And upon my soul," sighed Sir Peter, "that was a pretty grim fight, a
truly desperate encounter! ...  A splendid man was George ... poor old
fellow ... so lonely these days!"

"And you wrote so beautifully of me!" sighed Charmian.  "So
beautifully, and some of it very nearly true."

"It was all true, Charmian, if you allude to the _Broad Highway_.  I
wrote with a youthful pen and from a full heart, and with the utmost
sincerity.  Yes,--it was all true."

"Oh but, Peter!  I was never such a sugary prude as you described me, I
mean when you lay bleeding in my arms almost battered to death after
your fight with Black George.  Why, I kissed you back to life, Peter,
and told you I loved you.  And yet when you wrote of it you made me
such hateful wretch that I always yearn to tear out that page whenever
I read it, oh you make me quite a loathsome creature!"

"Surely not, my dear."

"But you do, sir.  Pray have you deigned to read my novel since you
wrote it ... just before we were married, have you?"

"Only once, a great while ago."

"Well, when you lay there between life and death, first--according to
you--my eyes 'scorched you with virgin shame' (how frightful!) then you
make me say: 'And I thought Mr. Vibart was a man of honour, like a
knight of old-time romances, high and chivalrous!'--such dithering
nonsense, Peter, and you only just kissed back to life!"

"I only wrote as I remembered, Charmian dear."

"Then your memory was entirely wrong.  But no wonder, for that awful
blow on the head quite deranged you for a time, you were ill and
strange for a long while."

"However, my Charmian, you did bring me back to life, a greater and
better life than I had ever dreamed."

"For that, of course, I must kiss you!" she laughed yet with a glory in
her eyes, and did so forthwith.  "And anyway I love the book for your
sake, Peter.  Besides it describes me very perfectly on all the other
pages, indeed it's a lovely novel, isn't it, Janet?"

"Aweel," answered Miss Janet, jingling, "though it mebbe no juist
pairfect, I like it vera weel ... here and there."

"Someday, Peter, I want you to write me another book about our Richard
and you and me, of course, and Janet."

"Heaven forbid!" he answered, fervently.

"Though first you must re-write those pages of the _Broad Highway_ that
were mislaid, the part telling exactly how Black George escaped and
about the Beverleys."

"I might do that," sighed Sir Peter, "could I but find that prancing
pen of my youth....  And, good Lord, here I am with Abbeymere's letter
still unopened."

"Oh then read the thing and tear it up!  Let us sit in the shade
yonder."  And presently Sir Peter unfolded the letter, read it once and
scowled, read it again and actually swore, whereat Miss Janet jingled
instant reproof and Charmian looked inquiry.

"I say damn the fellow!"

"Certainly, Peterdear, but why?"

Sir Peter crumpled the letter in scornful hand, smoothed it
contemptuously and read this:


"'MY DEAR VIBART.  It may interest you to learn that your son Richard
is concerned in a (probably vulgar) intrigue with one of my sister Lady
Bedingham's domestics.  Alas, these young bloods!  And yet the lad has
judgement, for the she in question is a young, prime piece, a rarely
handsome creature to stir the pulses of any male.  You may surprise
them of a Monday afternoon or Saturday evening in Fallowdean Copse.

Yours in reasonable amity,
  ABBEYMERE.'"


Now in this very instant while Sir Peter scowled blackly at this
screed, Charmian glanced swiftly askance at Miss Janet who returned the
look and in the eyes of each something very like dismay.

"Man's a liar, of course!" quoth Sir Peter, thrusting the letter into
his pocket.

"An odious wretch!" nodded Charmian.

"And to-day," mused Sir Peter, gazing down at his immaculately shod
feet, "to-day is Monday----"

"Oh, but Peter--my dear," said my lady, glancing at his grim visage
almost apprehensively, "you would never stoop to spy upon your own
son,--you!"

"God forbid!  But where is Richard?"

"Well, it's just possible he rode over to see the Beverleys, eh, Janet?"

"Ou ay, it's juist possible."

"Or the Vane-Temperleys.  However, tear up that vile letter and forget
about it, my dear heart."

"Why, yes," said Sir Peter, kissing her suddenly and rising with a
certain very youthful alacrity, "I shall certainly go and destroy it at
once."

"Go?" repeated Charmian.  "Go where?  Now, Peter, what do you mean?"

"That Abbeymere shall watch me do it," answered Sir Peter, in voice
grim as his look.  Then away he strode light of foot and with head
blithely aloft and yet with such stern resolution in every line of his
stately figure that Charmian, rising to follow, sat down again and
opening her lips to call him back, sighed instead.

"Oh, Janet, these men of mine!  These wayward boys!"

"Ay!" nodded Miss Janet, with a snap of her scissors.  "Men are nae
mair than grown-up bairns and unco wilfu'."

"Mine are, Janet, and always in mischief, it seems.  For ever after
something to win and conquer, something with strife and danger in it.
I suppose it's their nature ... and mine to worry and scheme for their
safety ... weave counter-plots....  Well this is better than gaping
over a novel or yawning over a tambour-frame.  But now, Janet, this
hateful letter, my Richard ... what do you think?"

Miss Janet merely jingled.

"A vulgar intrigue, Janet!  The suggestion is odious as the detestable
writer."

"Ay, it is that."

"And ... oh Janet ... a domestic!"

"But ... vera beautiful, forby!"

"No, my dear, the hateful words were something about a prime piece, a
handsome creature ... the phrasing stamps the Earl for the vile wretch
scandal paints him."

"Umph-humph!" quoth Miss Janet, jingling accord: after which they sat
awhile in silent, troubled revery.

"My dear," said Charmian at last suddenly, "what are you thinking?"

"That Richard is vera young, vera high-spirited----"

"But you don't,--you never can think this vile slander true?  Remember
he is my boy, he is Peter's son."

"Ay!  And ye're neither o' ye icicles, m'dear!"

"Then,--oh you do believe----"

"No harm of the dear laddie, Charmian.  Na, na, I'm juist wonderin'."

"What, Janet dear, what?"

"Aweel, whaur he gangs riding every Monday afternoon and Saturday
evening,--where?  And why?"

"Yes, my dear," nodded Charmian, setting dimpled chin.  "I'm wondering
this so much that he shall tell me--to-night."




CHAPTER III

CONCERNS ITSELF WITH RICHARD'S FATHER AND THE EARL OF ABBEYMERE

Sir Peter rode slowly through the sleepy village but so lost in thought
that he seemed quite heedless of the little old woman, who curtseyed to
him so repeatedly, until he had passed her some distance, but then
becoming suddenly aware of her he instantly reined his mettlesome
animal about to salute the aged dame, hat in hand.

"How are you, Mrs. Lethbridge?" he enquired, smiling down into the
small, wrinkled face with its rosy cheeks and bright eyes.  "Pretty
well, I hope?"

"La and thankee kindly, S'Peter, I be wonnerful spry 'cept for me
chacketin' o' nights an' th' axey as ketches me crool in me pore old
knees and elbers, and me baccy arl gone an' me pore b'y Tummus, sir."

"Why now what's the matter with Tom?  Isn't he back home again with
you?"

"'Las, no, dearie sir," sighed the little, old woman, shaking her head
woefully, "y'see th' Ab'mere keepers do ha' swore a afferdavit again
'im,--and arter your honour a-lettin' of 'im off,--took my Tum t'jail,
they 'ave, S'Peter, an' left 'is pore, old mother t'starve,--like the
'eartless ruffians as they be, sir."

"Lord Abbeymere's keepers?" murmured Sir Peter, frowning.  "But Tom was
caught on my land."

"Which do be Gospel true, dearie sir, but they Ab'mere keepers do swear
as e' were a-poachin' o' th' Earl's land likewise, which can't nowise
be no'ow.  An' if they proves pore Tum guilty this time, sir, they do
say as my b'y 'll be sent overseas t' Botany Bay."  Here the bright,
old eyes were dimmed by sudden tears.

"There, there my good soul don't grieve!  Hope for the best.  I'll
speak to the Earl on Tom's behalf ... and ... do pray get yourself some
tobacco to comfort you."  So saying, Sir Peter drove hand into pocket
rather hastily and set divers coins in the work-gnarled hand the old
creature lifted up to him, and wheeling his impatient horse, left her
pouring benedictions on his head.

And now as he traversed this broad road he viewed the trim cottages and
well-cared-for gardens glad-eyed and was yet gladder for the smiling
faces that peeped from lattices and doorways with such shy but very
evident welcome as he passed.  His folk, these and many more, to be
watched over and thought for; his the land from the blue line of downs
to the sea, a great heritage and grave responsibility and all to be
young Richard's ... someday.  Richard ... his son ... the coming
Vibart.  Sir Peter sighed, knit his brows in anxious thought, then
spurring his horse to faster gait, galloped upon his way.

He was still grimly thoughtful when, some while later he rode between a
pair of tall, massive iron gates and was frowning at the great
many-windowed house that seemed to scowl back at him, when he was
arrested by a bellowing "view hallo" and turning about, saw in the
shade of a tree, a large, cushioned chair on wheels and in this a no
less great personage than my lord the Earl of Abbeymere himself.

"What, Vibart, is it you?" he cried.  "I mistook ya for an old friend,
but y'are welcome none the less, m' dear fellow, the more the
merrier,--how do?"  Sir Peter rode forward, returning this somewhat
boisterous greeting with more than his usual stately dignity, and for a
long moment while the Earl smiled up at him, Sir Peter, grave and
sombre, looked down on the Earl.  A tall gentleman of commanding
presence this, large in gesture, form and feature, though the eyes that
twinkled in the large ruddiness of his comely face, these small,
narrow-set eyes, so much at odds with the full-lipped, smiling mouth,
the hearty, chuckling voice, seemed to belie the very largeness of the
whole man, as it were; and it was into these eyes that Sir Peter was
looking, and thought to read malevolence there even while the smiling
mouth chuckled jovial welcome.

"Light down, Vibart, we'll crack a bottle presently and--ha you,
Clipsby--are ya there?"

"At your service, my lord," answered a voice and something pallid, neat
and gentleman-like bowed itself into view.

"Well, find Sir Peter a seat and then bid Travers bring wine."

"Thank you, no," said Sir Peter, "my business will be soon despatched,
Abbeymere, and besides my horse won't stand."

"Business,--tush!" exclaimed the Earl, largely jovial.  "Down with ya,
m'dear fellow, I insist.  Clipsby take Sir Peter's horse and tell
Travers two bottles."

So Sir Peter dismounted watched by the Earl, who sighed gustily:

"Damme, Vibart, but y' wear well!  Nimble as a boy and devil the
vestige of a paunch or grey hair!  Are ya never cursed wi' gout?"

"Never, thank God!"

"Then it's a damned injustice," groaned the Earl, glancing down at his
own swathed foot.  "A very vile injustice, for it's to be supposed you
had ancestors!  There's Carnaby, too, sound as a bell, damme!  Y'know
Sir Mortimer, I think, friend o' yours, hey?"

"On the contrary I've never met him."

"But I've heard him speak o' ya ... or your cousin, Maurice, was it?"

"Very probably.  But I'm here, Abbeymere, in reference to your----"

"Hold hard now!" cried the Earl, large hand up-thrown, "m'dear fellow I
can guess,--you come on behalf o' that young rascal Tom Lethbridge,
hey?"

"Well, this among other matters," nodded Sir Peter.  "I understand you
have caused him to be apprehended again and----"

"I have, m'dear Vibart, I most certainly have, and must also inform ya
that m'duty to the county, m' neighbours and myself requires I press
the matter rigorously, indeed, I hope to get the rogue transported this
time."

"For poaching a rabbit, my lord?"

"And to strike terror into like hardened reprobates.  You, my dear
Vibart, being a man o' sentiment may deem this a little, well--hard,
shall we say."

"I think it entirely damnable!  To doom any young man to such hellish
suffering for crime so paltry, if indeed crime it be--

"But, m'dear Vibart, our ancestors, yours and mine, would ha' used him
infernally harder."

"To be sure," nodded Sir Peter, "blinded him, cut off his hands or feet
or mercifully hanged him.  To-day merely chains, the hell of a convict
ship, soul-destroying labour and the whip.  By God, Abbeymere, the
barbarian dies hard in us, it seems!  However, I shall interest myself
on your victim's behalf and should he be condemned, shall carry the
matter to a higher court.  But enough of this, sir, my errand here is
to demand the reason of this letter I had from you this morning and,
having heard your explanation, to tear it up."

"Good God, Vibart, surely the meaning's plain enough."

"Not to Richard Vibart's father, sir.  And as to your suggestion of
Fallowdean Copse, pray understand I am not accustomed to spy upon my
son.  Under these circumstances I beg you will expound the matter
fully."

"Love!" quoth the Earl, and chuckled throatily.  "Love, my dear
neighbour, the Grande Passion universal, and most charming and vital of
'em all.  Calf-love if ya will, but to the poor calf a very serious
business, a soul-shaking agony, a sweet madness may culminate in such
fierce desperation to plunge him to damnation.  I speak feelingly,
Vibart, for not only is your son Richard thus afflicted but my son
Iford also.  The game's afoot, m'dear sir, one lovely she ... your son
and mine ... dogs on the scent, snarling on each other wi' snapping
fangs."

"Do I gather, my lord, that you are suggesting that my son is involved
in some vulgar amour?"

"An amour most certainly, Vibart, but not necessarily vulgar.  No,
no--two hot-blooded young fellows in love with the same bewitching
object.  And, damme, after all--why not?  It's nature, man, and 'nature
her custom holds' hey?  And then again, how goes the old merry song?
'We all love a pretty girl under the rose.'  I did, ay by heaven and do
yet!  You did!  We all do and always shall so long as men be men and
women the dear, shy, sweet-provoking witches they are."

"To which, my lord, I beg to take exception, at least so far as my son
and myself are concerned.  However, permit that I express my thanks for
warning me of this folly.  At the same time I must ask that you won't
trouble yourself to notice my son in any further communication you may
address to me."  Lord Abbeymere laughed so heartily that his eyes
seemed to vanish altogether.

"Oh, Vibart!  My dear fellow, why blind yourself?  Why blink the fact?
Your son Dick's a fine fellow, no better and no worse than other fine
fellows, a skittish young colt feeling his oats, no more.  Be human, my
dear Vibart, be human,--wink and laugh at it as I do, for my lad's the
same.  Ay, begad, my Iford's as bad or worse than your Dick, hot on the
scent and in full cry.  And by heavens, Vibart, no wonder!  For I do
protest the she in question is altogether the most captivating, demd
alluring armful o' warm loveliness, ah--damme if she isn't Beauty's
very perfection----"

"And, according to your letter, a domestic."

"Eh?  A domestic?  Did I so describe her?  Amazing!  She is governess
to my sister Bedingham's imps and urchins, Vibart.  And there's the
devil of it, for my sister will stay here for some time, and with her
this walking tantalization, and the more Iford sees of her the madder
he grows, and small wonder, for as I say she is----"

"My lord," said Sir Peter, rising, "I beg to----"

"Wait, man, wait!" cried the Earl.  "Hear the vital reason of my
letter, sit down, my dear Vibart and let me tell ya----"

"I can hear as well standing, my lord."

"Well then, Vibart, I wrote to prevent possible bloodshed, an
excellent, sufficing reason, hey?"

"Pray be explicit, Abbeymere."

"Well then, to prevent your son and mine from maiming or killing each
other.  And your Dick's a dead shot, I hear."

Sir Peter sat down again.

"You mean that Lord Iford and Richard have quarrelled?"

"Ay, damme, but I do!  They never quite hit it off at Oxford, as you
may know, but now--eged, matters are desperate, Vibart.  Y'see, Iford
feels that your son's conduct is not,--well, altogether sportsmanlike."

"Pray how so, my lord?" enquired Sir Peter, suddenly grim.

"Well, Iford, having flushed the lovely prey, feels that your Dick is
poaching on his preserves, as it were."

Here once again Sir Peter rose.

"My lord," said he, with gesture of stately finality, "you need say no
more.  Lord Iford shall be relieved of all or any imagined rivalry
henceforth.  And permit me to remark----"

"Wait, Vibart!  Yonder comes the butler at last with--ha damme and
there's m' sister Bedingham in full sail ... ay, she's seen us!"  As he
spoke, towards them paced a sleek and portly butler bearing, and with
most tender care, two wicker cradles wherein reposed as many dusty
bottles, while after him strode a smart footman carrying tray and
glasses; but behind these stately menials, with them but not of them,
fluttered a lady befrilled and beflounced, herself a shape of
dominating femininity, slightly ponderous, extremely sparkling and
vivacious, yet a little overripe.

"Lavinia, my dear," quoth the Earl, with large gesture, "I think you
must remember our neighbour, Sir Peter Vibart,--my dear fellow, you've
met m' sister, Lady Bedingham!"

"Why, of course, Valentine," said her ladyship curtseying graciously to
Sir Peter's stately bow.  "I met Sir Peter on my last visit, for
indeed.  Sir Peter, I am frequently here, I so adore the sweet country,
its peace and bowery seclusion, oh, these are wine of life to me."

"Especially at the end o' the season when London's a dooced wilderness,
eh, Lavvy?" chuckled the Earl.

"Indeed, Val, but you know I always doated on the country even as a
tiny child."

"Which reminds me, Lavinia, where are they--your small imps?  I should
like Vibarrt to see 'em.  Send and let their governess bring 'em--do."

"Impossible, Val, the darlings are gone for a drive and Ford is out
taking the air."

"Ford's the luscious governess, Vibart."

"Valentine!  I beg your pardon, but--that adjective!"

"Eh?  Luscious?" enquired my lord, mouthing the word.  "Well then we'll
substitute the word 'perilous',--ay, Miss Beauty Perilous,--this man's
delight, temptation and destruction incarnate, like Troy's golden
Helen, like Cleopatra, Phryne, Roxana----"

"My dear Valentine,--really!"

"Damme, Lavinia, but she's Beauty's perfection and ya know it!"

"Well, but gracious goodness, don't swear at me!  Indeed, Sir Peter,
look at his eyes,--so baleful!  And truly, Sir Peter, as I say, I adore
beautiful things in art or nature, pictures, flowers, music, the
darling birds, a sunbeam, a twinkling star, moonshine--my soul feeds on
them, expands, soars!  I love to surround myself with things beautiful,
my garden, my house, my furniture,--and my Ford harmonizes with them
all ... and such a highly superior young person, so accomplished!  My
sweet mites doat on her----"

"And our wine waits!" cried the Earl, boisterously.  "Fill, Travers,
fill man,--bumpers to Beauty, eh, Vibart?"

"I fear you must pardon me, Abbeymere," answered Sir Peter, drawing on
his gloves.  "I never take wine in the afternoon."

"Eh?  You don't?  Good God!  Man's a puritan!  Any time's the time for
such wine as this.  Dooce take me, but y'miss a lot, Vibart."

"Possibly," sighed Sir Peter, "but amongst them--gout!  Lady Bedingham,
I bid you good afternoon!  Adieu, Abbeymere----"

"But y' horse, Vibart."

"I'll go get it, my lord."

And, having made his bows, Sir Peter went forthwith.

"Fellow's a fish!" snorted the Earl, ogling his wine.

"But how elegant!" sighed my lady Bedingham.  "How strangely handsome!
What eyes!"




CHAPTER IV

WHICH INTRODUCES THE "CAUSE"

Meanwhile young Richard, astride his favourite hunter, "Saladin," was
riding by leafy ways; but although the spirited animal bore him
gallantly, though the heavens were bright above him and the glad earth
green below, his youthful brow (so very like his father's) was dark
with anxious thought, his long-lashed eyes (so wonderfully like his
lovely mother's) were troubled, and his firm-lipped mouth showed grim.

He went by lanes and grassy tracks, a devious course that he followed
unerringly until it brought him at last to a small wood, its grassy
depths pierced, here and there, by shafts of sunny radiance; a remote
place and very silent except for the soft rustle of leafage and the
sleepy call of some bird.

At the edge of this wood Richard drew rein to glance about and listen
eagerly; then he consulted his watch, sighed impatiently and, drooping
in the saddle, became lost again in thought.  And yet his ears were
quick to catch the sound of her step, light though it was, for lifting
his head suddenly, he turned and seeing her, forgot all else.

Tall was she, yet not too tall, and moulded on splendid lines from
shapely feet to the braids of bronze-red hair that crowned her glowing
beauty; a loveliness that glowed indeed with a quick, generous
vitality, for her deep, soft eyes, widely-spaced, shone beneath their
low-arching brows, her cheeks were flushed, her tender-curving lips
vividly red; these, with the kindly old sun to glorify all the warm,
voluptuous beauty of her, she seemed to young Richard a radiant goddess
rather than mere human creature very much in love.  And no wonder!

Mutely they gazed upon each other in an ecstasy beyond words, look
answering look so eloquently that joy grew to a pain at last and,
trembling, he murmured her name:

"Rosemary!"

Then he was out of the saddle, had caught her hands and feeling they
were trembling also, kissed them.

"Oh, Richard!" she whispered.  "Oh my dear ... can you ... ah, do you
love me so?"

"More than my life, Rosemary!  So now ... may I kiss you?"

"And this is why I could ... worship you," she sighed, touching his
dark hair very tenderly, "to plead for what you might take!  But first
... dear love ... have you told them?  Does Sir Peter know that we ...
that you are going to marry me?"

Now at this, Richard's arms fell from her, and stepping back, he looked
at her with eyes more troubled than ever.

"No," he answered, bowing head almost guiltily.  "No, not yet.  Ah,
believe me," he cried, seeing her stricken look, "I meant to, dear
heart, I tried to speak of it this morning but couldn't ... somehow."

"Oh, Richard--are you afraid to speak?" she questioned distressfully.
"My dear, are you ... ashamed of me?"

"No, no!  Ah, never that!" he cried passionately.  "How can you think
me so vile, so contemptible?  You know I love you ... adore you ... And
God knows I cannot live without you, Rosemary, and won't!  I would have
told my father all this, indeed I began to, but he ... oh he's so
difficult, so damnably stately and remote that he seems of another
world and age.  But I shall have it out with him to-night, I swear
it,--and then ... marry you whatever he says."

"And my dear lady, your mother?"

"Ah, God bless her!  Rosemary, I told her and the sweet angel blessed
our love....  Oh Rosemary ... kiss me!"

"Not yet, oh not yet or I shall forget everything, and I have so much
to say.  Come and sit down under our old tree."

But when they were seated beneath this aged tree whose spreading boughs
had sheltered them so often of late, they could but look and sigh for
pure happiness by reason of their very nearness while the horse
Saladin, cropping the grass hard by, often lifted his noble crest to
roll an eye at them and snort, for these two young, strange humans,
though seated so very close together, still neither kissed nor spoke
nor so much as touched hands ... what wonder Saladin snorted in equine
contempt?

Thus then they sat, Rosemary staring down at the bonnet-strings her
strong, shapely fingers were twisting, and Richard gazing at her
beautiful, down-bent face whose loveliness was made even more alluring
by its sudden, bewildering changes, or so thought Richard: This nose,
for instance, though perfect in itself, yet because of its delicate, so
sensitive nostrils, became positively adorable; this rose-red mouth,
with its sweet, subtle curve of mobile lips, broke his heart when it
drooped....  And, by heaven, it was drooping now!  He seized her hands
to kiss and kiss them, he lifted her head that he might look down into
her eyes, and gazing into these tender deeps, he questioned her in
voice anxious and a little uncertain:

"Rosemary ... oh my dearest ... what is it?"

"You!" she whispered.  "Me!  Your father and mother!  They are such
great people ... so proud of you!  And you, their one son, and I am ...
only just me!  Oh, Dick, when ... if ever I am your wife, are you sure
you won't ... regret or be ... ashamed of poor me?"

"Ashamed?" he cried fiercely.  "Don't say it!  Never think it!  See,
I'll kneel to you, Rosemary, here now on my knees I thank you for
loving me, because ... oh, my dear, I should be lost without you!  I
loved you years ago as a child, as a man I adore you, need you, want
you,--must and will have you ... so, Rosemary, be merciful and marry
me."

Then she was on her knees before him and thus kneeling even as he, set
her hands upon his shoulders and gazed at him, head thrown back, but in
her eyes such look as he had vaguely dreamed yet never seen there until
now; a look that fired yet awed him by the very wonder of its sweetly
fearless revelation.

"Richard," she murmured, "I am yours, now and always, with every breath
of my heart ... but, oh, my dear, because I do love you so, how ... how
can I ever be your wife, except your father consent."

"Easily, my Rosemary, for marry me you must, you shall!"

"Why, then, if I must ... I will," she sighed, her radiant eyes
upraised to the cloudless heaven, her shapely arms out-flung.  "For, oh
how may we help it when love is so wonderful?"

"Rosemary!" he breathed, and would have kissed her, but she stayed him,
though very tenderly.

"Oh wait, my dear!" she pleaded.  "For we must not be wed in secret as
if our love were shameful; first you must tell Sir Peter and your
mother."

"Of course, dear Heart."

"But suppose he forbids us, as I fear ... as I know he will, Richard?"

"Why, then we'll be married at once!"

"But ... oh Dick, I'd forgotten,--you're not of age!"

Now at this young Richard clenched his fists and scowled on the
universe.

"I shall be ... very soon!" said he, at last.

"Not for a whole year and three days, Dick."

"Then I'll swear I am, and we'll elope, to be sure.  Yes, by Heaven,
we'll elope!"  Rosemary shook her head.

"No," she sighed, "we must wait."  Now though her voice sounded gentle
as ever, there was in the resolute set of her changeful mouth an
expression of such purposeful determination that, known of old, now
filled him with dismay.

"But ... oh Rosemary----" he began, then, suddenly dumb, glanced up and
beheld a young gentleman in scarlet hunting coat who smiled at them
from the edge of the wood.

"Not praying, surely?" he enquired, bowing to Rosemary, hat in hand.
"That you should grovel to Beauty, Dick old fellow, is but natural and
exactly proper,--but that Beauty should abase herself to----"  Up
sprang Richard with look of such passionate menace that the speaker
recoiled and instinctively lifted the heavy hunting crop he carried;
even so Richard would have been at him but that Rosemary, quick as he,
had leapt between them.

"Damn you, Iford!" quoth Richard, fuming.

"The same to you, Dick,--with apologies to Rosemary.  And my appearance
here is an intrusion quite premeditated and with no apologies to you,
Dick."  And Lord Iford, lounging against a convenient tree, smiled.
Unlike his large sire, Lord Iford was slim and delicately made, his
face, pinkly smooth beneath curling, golden hair, might have suggested
cherubs and innocence but that his large, blue eyes were anything but
innocent and held a lack-lustre, almost haggard weariness--except when
they dwelt on Rosemary's loveliness, then they glowed; and jealous
Richard, quick to look for and perceive this, clenched his fists and
spoke on the instant:

"Rosemary, pray stand aside."

"Rosemary," said my lord, "pray stand where you are and avert very
probable ruffianism."  Slowly she turned and fronting the speaker,
changed from sighing, tremulous girl to resolute woman serenely
confident; the eyes that had so lately viewed Richard with such melting
tenderness were now bright and steadfast, the gentle mouth had a
strangely indomitable expression and her voice when she spoke though
soft by nature, was resonant and wholly assured:

"My lord, if you have any respect for me, I beg you will go."

"Confound me, Rosemary," sighed his lordship, ruefully, "but what a
glorious witch you are!  Since you put it so I can but obey you.  But
don't--oh pray, don't bend those lovely knees to our Dick any more."

"Iford," cried Richard furiously, "do you go or shall we----?"

"Please hush, Richard!  Lord Iford will go because I ask."

"At once, my goddess, to please you.  Though our Richard is a little
overbearing, you see he is a man of his hands, Rosemary, a boxer and
esteemed a crack pistol shot at Oxford ... and devilish perilous to
quarrel with, eh, Dick?  Well, we won't quarrel, old fellow, at least
not here and now.  Some day perhaps I may feel more inclined and
then,--well, I may surprise you, Dick, and make it--once for all.
Until which joyful day, God bless you!"  And with smiling reverence to
Rosemary Lord Iford strolled away, while she looked upon him with eyes
a little troubled.

"Dick, what did he mean about 'quarrelling once for all'?"

"Anything or nothing.  Let's forget the fellow and sit down again."

"Are you so dangerous, Richard?"

"Reasonably.  But come, dear Heart----"

"I could almost like him sometimes, Dick."

"Who,--Iford?"

"Yes.  And I think ... I think he might be dangerous too,
Richard,--deadly perhaps."

"Absolutely poisonous!" quoth Richard, hot with swift jealousy.  "And
yet no, I beg his pardon!  Iford's not such a bad fellow."

"Though indeed, Richard, I've seen him--very drunk."

"Well, but ... but, dear Heart," stammered Richard, "I'm afraid I've
been the same ... once or twice at Oxford."

"Oh, but not now, Richard dear."

"Why no, but--only because I don't like it.  Oh, I'm a very ordinary
fellow, not half good enough for you, I know.  But I ... well, I do try
to be worthy of your love, Rosemary.  You are so good, so pure and
wonderful that I ought to kiss your dear, beautiful feet ... and so I
will ... someday."

"Oh, Dick," she murmured, flushing cheek against his, "I'm terribly
human really ... not half so good as I try to seem.  Sometimes I feel a
dreadful hypocrite and despise myself.  And now, Richard, I have to
tell you that I'm going away from Abbeymere--soon!  At once!"

"Well, I'm glad you are leaving these people, but when, and why so
soon?"

"Because," she answered with quick gesture of passionate loathing, "if
I were timid and easily frightened as I suppose a girl ought to
be,--well, I should be terrified now."

"Terrified?  You, Rosemary!" exclaimed Richard, in smiling disbelief.
"I can hardly believe it--unless----" He broke off scowling suddenly.
"Ah, you can't mean because of Iford?"

"No, Dick,---because of his ... father."

"What?  The Earl?  Abbeymere?  Has the damned old rake dared----"

"Nothing, Richard, nothing actually.  He has never done anything, never
said anything and yet ... and this is what makes it terrible,--I know
he is vile!  It is in his eyes, his chuckling laugh, the very air about
him,--a hateful, gloating evil, a creeping, stealthy menace.  And
so--I'm going, Dick."

"To-night!" nodded Richard, his eyes bright and eager.  "We'll go this
very night."

"We?" she repeated, and meeting his look, uttered a little gasp of
ecstasy.

"We!  To-night!  You shall go with me, my Rosemary."

"Oh!  But ... where?"

"Wherever you will.  We'll elope!  London, Paris, I've plenty of money
and can borrow more."

"No, Dick, ah--no!"

"Yes!" he cried, and clasped her in his arms; for a moment she yielded,
clung to him, trembling to the fire of his kisses, then she held him
away, breathless, trembling, but strong almost as he.

"Don't!" she pleaded.  "Oh, my dear, if you love me be merciful; let me
think ... your mother and father----"

"They have each other."

"They would hate me!"

"And should learn to love you."

"And you are ... so young, my darling."

"It's the time for love.  We'll be married to-morrow and----"

But with supple twist she broke from him crying, "No!" and "No!"

"Then you don't love me enough!" he reproached her.

"I love you too much."

"You won't trust me!"

"Oh, Richard, I'd trust you with myself, my life, all that I am ... but
I love your mother and I can't ... I won't steal her son away ... like
a thief!"

"Steal?" he repeated fiercely.  "You treat me like a child."

"When I was a child, Richard, she treated me like an angel of heaven
and I must be able to meet her unashamed."

"Where's the shame in marrying me?"

"In doing it so deceitfully, without her knowledge."

"So you refuse to let me take you away, trusting to my honour?"

"I must refuse, I must!" she cried, wringing her hands.  "Oh, don't you
see?"

"Very well!" quoth Richard, extremely grim and stately (almost) as his
father.  "So be it!  Then I shall go with you to the house and
horse-whip the Earl, damn him!  And Iford and anyone else that offers!"
and turning sharp about, he began searching for his horse-whip.  So she
called softly:

"Richard!"  But he unheeding, she reached out yearning arms, murmuring:
"Dick!  My darling!"  He never so much as turned his head; therefore,
with pantherine leap she was upon him, shaking him with passionate
strength.

"Ah, do you think," she panted, her eyes blazing into his, "dare you
think it so easy for me to refuse ... shutting myself out of paradise
... to wait and wait a long long year?  Do you think yourself the only
sufferer--do you?"

"Will you go away with me, trust me, marry me?" he demanded.

"Yes, I must if you force me, because I am yours and always was."

"To-night?"

"No!  To-night you must explain to your father and mother, must tell
them you are going to marry me.  And then I want you to give this
letter to your mother."

"Oh?  Yes, very well," said he, taking the letter she tendered and
thrusting it into his pocket.  "But, if not to-night, then it must
be--to-morrow?"

"No, Richard!  You forget--in three days will be your twentieth
birthday."

"Well?"

"Your dear mother!  She will want you with her on that day, you know
she will."

"Yes, but----"

"There shall be no 'but'!" said Rosemary sighing, but with her resolute
look.  "I will not grieve your mother more than I must.  You shall keep
your birthday with her.  To-day is Monday, come to me here at this hour
on Thursday and take me ... wherever you will."

"Rosemary!" he cried, casting himself on his knees before her.  "How I
worship you!  I shall begin to live--on Thursday.  With you always
beside me I may do something worth while at last....  But always I
shall love you ... with my last breath...."  He choked, and in the
reverent, young eyes upraised to hers, she saw the glitter of tears
and, stooping to kiss them away, wept also....  And thus, lost in each
other and the wonder of their love, how should they be aware of the
eyes that watched them so furtively amid the leaves, or of the ears
that hearkened so avidly?

"And yet four days is a long time!" sighed Richard.

"Yet ... only four days!" she answered, sighing also.

"Anything may happen--in four days!" quoth Richard, gloomily.

"Four days will soon pass, dear," said she smiling wistfully.

"I would to God they had."

"And you'll tell your father to-night, Richard dear?"

"The moment I see him."

"And now ... I must go."

"Then I'll see you as far as the wicket gate."

"No, please.  I'd rather part here by our old tree."

"And you'll be quite safe?  I mean Abbeymere, damn him!  I mean you
don't think ... anything could happen?"

"No, no!  Never worry, Richard darling ... your love is all about me.
Good-bye my own love."

"Until Thursday!" he murmured.  "Oh glorious, heavenly Thursday!"  So
they kissed each other sighfully because of this dreary infinitude of
four days; then, standing bare-headed, he watched her go from him, nor
moved until all sight and sound of her had vanished and died away.

Then he was seized of a strange, wild impulse to run after her and bear
her away to the peace and safety of his father's house, but checked the
impulse and calling to Saladin, swung heavily to saddle and rode away
... quite forgetting his whip.




CHAPTER V

OF THOMAS LETHBRIDGE, POACHER

Saladin snorted suddenly, reared violently almost unseating his rider,
after which high-spirited protest the intelligent creature suffered his
ruffled feelings to be soothed and stood, albeit a little fretful
still, while Richard looked about for his hat which had tumbled off and
in this same moment a husky whisper reached him:

"Oh, Must' Richard!  Master Dick!"  And from the denser boskage hard by
a face peered up at him, a very ill-used face for it showed divers
bumps and bruises and one eye puffed and blackened.

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Richard.  "Is that you, Tom?"

"Sure-ly, your honour.  Saladin do be mighty skittish for sure," and
out from the leaves came a stalwart, dark-avised young fellow, his
rough clothes mired and torn, his shaggy head bare and a stout cudgel
in powerful fist.  "Ay, it be pore Tom, sir, and here be your honour's
dicer!"  And reaching under a bush, Tom retrieved the fallen hat,
dusted it carefully on ragged sleeve and handed it up to its owner.

"But what in the world have you been up to, Tom--your face, man?"

"Why, y'see, Must' Dick, I got away from they danged keepers, dannel
'em!  And they was three, consequently do ee see, I took a wallop or
so."

"Evidently!" nodded Richard.  "But surely they weren't our keepers?  I
know my father let you off and offered you a job on the Home Farm."

"Ay, so 'e did, and God bless S'Peter for a right, proper genelman.
And so I would ha' took that job only Lord Abbeymere's men took me
afore I could take anything, do ee see, sir,--Will Judkins, Tom Peevy
and Long Bob, they was,--dragged me afore th' Earl, they did, an' 'e
sent 'em off wi' me t' Lewes.  Hows'ever I got me away, clouted 'em
proper, I did, Must' Dick, laid out Will wi' that right-'and
cross-counter t' the jaw as you an' me used t' try so often when you
was a larning o' boxin' at Oxford,--knocked Bill out o' time I did,
right sweet to be'old, and t'other two was easy."

"Bravo, Tom!  But what was the new trouble, more poaching?"

"Well, they danged liars swore as they ketched me wi' a brace o'
pheasants."

"Hum!" quoth Richard.  "And had they, Tom?  No, never mind.  The
question is,--what are you going to do?"

"Lay low till I gets a chance, Must' Dick."

"What chance?"

"To clout th' Earl!"

"What?  Abbeymere?  Don't be a fool, Tom!  That would be attempted
murder."

"Well, don't 'e desarve it?  Aren't 'e allus been agin me an' me old
mother, ah--and worse, dang an' dannel 'im!"

"Well, that's all over now, you are one of my father's people and he'll
look after you--so long as you go straight."

"Why, so I will if they'll lemme alone, sir.  Only I do wish wi' arl me
'eart as you'd ha' knocked Lord Iford down an' belted 'im bloody wi'
your whip."

"What, did you see us, Tom?"

"Ay, I did, sir."

"How long have you been lying hereabouts?"

"Hours, Must' Dick."

"The deuce you have!  Then you saw her--the lady?"

"Ar!  And a rare booty she be!"

"Did you happen to ... hear us, Tom?"

"Sure-ly, sir--noo and then, arl as I could.  But I shut me eyes every
time as I see you was agoin' to kiss, out o' respect to you, Mus'
Dick."  Now at this, Richard flushed hotly and being aware of it,
scowled.

"Damn you, Thomas!"

"I know, sir!  But I didn't nowise dassent move, and besides your
honour can trust me as growed up along o' you, pretty nigh, and is
consequent your man ay, an' Sir Peter's world without end, amen!"

"And also taught me the joys of poaching, eh, Tom?"

"No, no, Mus' Dick, say--to lay a snare, toss a fly an' level a gun."

"The question is,--what to do with you now?  Mustn't let Abbeymere's
fellows take you again.  You'd best make for our place and see my
father."

"Thankee, sir, but can't nowise be, for it do so 'appen as they lying
keepers took me wi' only one pheasant, ye see I managed to get me rid
o' t'other uns."

"Ah, Tom, I suspected as much!  And after all your promises----"

"Well, that be it, Must' Dick, that be why and wherefore I aren't a
goin' to trouble S'Peter no more, not me,--'twouldn't be Johnny Bull.
No, I be agoin' to shift for meself."

"Why, then you'll need money, hold out your hand."

Tom extended a broad palm into which Richard emptied his purse.

"Wot ... love me eyes ... fi' pound odd, Must' Dick!  It be too much,
sir."

"Nonsense, man, you'll need it.  And now, Tom, my advice is--cut stick
and clear out of Sussex."

"Thankee kindly, your honour, but not me.  Sussex I be an' Sussex I'll
bide."

"Don't be a fool, Tom.  What can you do hereabouts?"

"What had ought to ha' been done years ago, I be agoin' to trounce th'
Earl."

"Good God, Tom!  But why?"

"Becos 'e aren't fit t' live....  Theer aren't a purty woman as be safe
from 'e ... I know!  Ay, I know!"

Now at this, Richard swung round in his saddle to gaze back towards
Abbeymere Tower in sudden apprehension; and once again was minded to
gallop thither.

"There was my sister, Anne, she were a purty lass....  I were a little
lad then, but I mind the day as she went--and wheer?"

"Why, Tom, you know she ran off with a tramping gipsy fellow."

"Ay, I knows that's wot they says, Mus' Dick, but me old mother tells
different and ... I know!  So I be agoin' to watch ... an' creep ...
an' wait me chance, an' then----"  Tom twirled his heavy cudgel, patted
it, kissed it, and nodded.  "Then, Mus' Dick, I be agoin' to mark 'e
for the gurt beast as 'e be."

"And hang or be transported, Tom."

"Well, let 'em ketch me first....  Ride on, sir, an' I'll go with 'e a
piece so fur as Bob Medder's cottage."

"So you know Bob Meadows, eh, Tom?"

"Ay for sure, sir, us do be main friendly ever since 'e grassed me."

"What, knocked you down, Tom, and why?"

"Flat as a flounder, sir--and 'im such a littlish chap!  Ye see, Bob
spies me a-kissing 'is little maid and, me bein' strange, 'e thinks I
mean 'arm--me, as all childer is friends wi',--'ows'ever Bob floors me.
But when the child wep and tells 'im I'm her friend, Bob picks me up
and axes me pardon and me 'eart fair warmed to 'e, for, love me eyes,
Bob's got a turble wallop!"

"He certainly has!" nodded Richard, with fervour.

"And Bob's a man, Mus' Dick!  Bob says as he'd ha' finished 'im proper
in Paris."

"Finished whom?"

"Why, th' Earl, for sure.  An' talkin' of 'e,--wot about that theer
bootiful young mam o' yourn wi' the red 'air?"

"It isn't red, y' fool!"

"Looks reddish-like to me when the sun ketches it."

"Auburn then,--well?"

"Ar, but is it well, sir?"

"Dammit, Tom, what d'ye mean?"

"Why, I means, your honour, is it well--for her, over theer at the gurt
'ouse an' 'im t' look at 'er an' stare, an' t'other un t' peep an' pry."

"Tom, what the devil are you suggesting?"

"You've spoke it, sir--the devil!  Him----"  Richard checked his horse
to glance back once again, and spoke on hot impulse.

"Tom,--for God's sake, d'you think there can be any danger?"

"Well, theer was my sister Anne, your honour."

"No!" cried Richard, a little wildly.  "No!  Damnation, it's
unthinkable!"  Yet, even as he spoke, he shivered violently and sat
staring on vacancy with eyes wide to such sickening horror that Tom
ventured to lay comforting hand on his knee.

"Never look so, Mus' Dick, there beant no call to worrit--not yet!  An'
then besides here be me to keep a eye----"

"Tom, you're crazed, yes--a crazy fool!  And, by heaven, you'll make me
as bad if I let you!  Stand away!  Good luck and Good-bye!"  And
spurring his willing Saladin quite unnecessarily, Richard galloped away
like a whirlwind.




CHAPTER VI

TELLETH MERELY OF RICHARD'S FATHER AND RICHARD

And it thus befell that at the place where by-lane met high-road,
headlong Richard very nearly rode down his stately father.  However,
both managed their rearing horses very featly and with instant address,
whereafter Richard, murmuring breathless apologies, took off his hat
and bowed to Sir Peter who, bare-headed also, bowed graciously to him
ere they rode on together.  And when they had progressed some fifty
yards:

"Father----" said Richard.

"My dear Richard----" said Sir Peter, both in the same moment; and
instantly both were dumb, then:

"I fear I interrupted you, sir," said Richard.

"You were about to say--what, Richard?" enquired Sir Peter.

"Referring to our conversation this morning in regard to Rosamond, sir
... Rosamond Beverley, though I esteem her very highly yet, father, I
... I must tell you that I cannot ever think of her as a ... possible
wife."

"No, Richard?"

"No, sir.  Because I ... it so happens I am in love ... engaged to ...
going to marry a ... a ... another lady...."

"Richard, you amaze me!"

"Yes, sir, I ... I was afraid I should."

And after they had ridden a while in a somewhat ominous silence, Sir
Peter eased his horse to a walk and turned to find his son eyeing him a
little apprehensively.

"My dear Dick," said he, keen eyes suddenly gentle, "I shall be first
to wish you joy if the lady you have chosen to bear our name be worthy
to bear your children and----"

"Thanks, Father, oh thanks!" cried Richard, glad-voiced.  "Then pray
congratulate me, for she is indeed the sweetest, loveliest, most
beautiful ... if you could only see her ... so good, so pure that I ...
oh I know myself quite, quite unworthy."

"A very right sentiment, Dick."

"Oh, Father, could you have but heard her dear, soft voice ... seen her
as she stood at the edge of the coppice to bid me Good-bye----"

"What coppice, Richard?"

"At Fallowdean, sir.  She looked so adorable, so absolutely bewitching
... yet such an angel, and her dear eyes----"

"Fallowdean?" exclaimed Sir Peter, stiffening.  "Can it be possible the
preposterous suggestion is fact?  My son! ... A governess?" ...
Richard's ecstatic smile vanished, his brow darkened, his eyes grew
keen and stern as Sir Peter's own.

"Sir," said he, chin aloft, "this lady, who would so honour me, does
happen to be a governess.  And pray--what then?"

Instead of deigning answer Sir Peter urged his horse to faster gait,
Richard perforce did the same, and they rode a while, knee to knee, in
silence tense and a little grim.  At last quoth Sir Peter, level gaze
straight before him:

"Favour me with the name of this young person."

Richard's cheek glowed hotly, he sat very erect,--then he smiled
suddenly and thereafter began to laugh, and so heartily that Sir Peter
eyed him in growing astonishment.

"Perhaps," said he, at last, "you will have the courtesy to give reason
for your very strange mirth, sir?"

"Why really, Father, it seems such a silly travesty, so preposterous
and utterly ridiculous to misname any creature blessed with such
gracious stateliness and glorious beauty a ... young person."

And now Sir Peter frowned in turn, viewed this son of his with a new
interest and bowed.

"I accept the rebuke, Richard.  Favour me with the name of this lady."

"Why, Father, you and mother know her, knew her very well once--she is
Rosemary,--Rosemary Ford, Black George's daughter."

Sir Peter reined up so suddenly that his animal reared.

"God bless my soul!" he exclaimed, "I ... never dreamed of this!"

"I did, Father, years ago, even as a boy, I think.  And when I saw her,
quite by accident, just after we returned from abroad, I ... ever since
then, sir, I have only lived to make this glorious dream come true."

"Then ... she has agreed to marry you?"

"Yes, Father, thank Heaven!  But only after refusing me over and over
again, until she grew tired of saying 'no,' I suppose.  Anyhow, she has
promised at last to ... be my wife, but even so, not until I had told
you and my mother."

"And does she ... Rosemary, imagine this marriage will be pleasing to
your mother ... and me?"

"No, Father, and that's the wonder of it.  She has a strange,
well--almost dread that such marriage will grieve you ... so
ridiculous!  And yet she grieves, too."

"Richard, you surely know that I ... and your mother, of course, hoped
that you would choose one in your own class----"

"Wait, sir--wait until you see my Rosemary, how sweet, how perfectly
wonderful she is, then you will understand how greatly fortunate I am
and how unworthy, of course."

"She owes a very great deal to your mother, Richard."

"She knows this, sir, and is deeply--oh, deeply grateful."

"It was your mother chose her name."

"And of course it suits her perfectly because it is the most beautiful
name in all the world."

"When her own mother died, Richard, it was your mother had her educated
as if she had been her own daughter."

"My mother is an angel, sir!"

"Not yet, Dick, thank God!  Now, bearing all this in mind, how if your
angel-like mother should ask you to forego this ... youthful passion?"

"I ... oh, Father, I have reason to think she won't!..."

"Or to wait a short year or so?"

"Impossible, sir, I am pledged, sworn, betrothed----"

"You wish to marry Rosemary Ford soon, then?"

"No, sir, I am going to marry her on Thursday next."

"Good God!" exclaimed Sir Peter.  "You are mad!"

"Sir, I am in love."

"You are a mere boy----"

"Yet old enough for this, sir."

"You are not twenty----"

"On Wednesday, sir.  And even to-day am hours older than when you
suggested I should speak to Rosamond."

"But, Great Heavens, boy, with no idea of your rushing into instant
wedlock!  Preposterous!  Thursday!  Three days hence!  Most absurd!
Does she ... Rosemary agree then to this wild, boyish folly?"

"After three months of my very earnest pleading, suing and
supplicating, sir, and on condition that I warned you."

"Warned me, indeed!  I am shocked, Richard, profoundly shocked!  I
fondly imagined my son possessed of a more seasoned judgement!  To
marry at your age!  And ... this girl!  Confound it, boy, this very
unseemly haste is----"

"Pardon me, sir, I repeat, for three weary months I have prayed and
implored, pleaded and supplicated----"

"To undertake such responsibilities!  And not twenty!  How shall you
contrive?  What are your plans?  How will you live and where?"

"We have not yet decided, sir."

"Have you given these vital matters a thought?"

"Well, to be frank, sir,--hardly."

"Of all the crass, confounded folly!" exclaimed Sir Peter.  "How in the
name of Reason--ah, thank the Lord we're home ... and your mother there
on the terrace awaiting us!"




CHAPTER VII

IN WHICH THIS NARRATIVE LUMBERS SOMEWHAT HEAVILY

"So ... she is to be Rosemary Ford!" said Charmian, glancing from
eager-eyed son to grave-faced spouse and back again.  Sir Peter very
nearly snorted.

"Rosemary!" he repeated.  "Such name positively suggests romantical
nonsense!  Why not Martha or Polly or Maria, something more suited to
the child's station?  Why on earth must you name her--Rosemary?"

"Well, Peterdear, as you may remember, poor Prudence wished to call her
child after me,--but one Charmian Sophia was enough, so we named her
Rosemary instead.  And I think Rosemary is a charming name, so quaintly
pretty."

"So do I, Mother!" quoth eager Richard.  "It is the sweetest, dearest
name, the only name for her."

"And do you really and truly love her, my Dick?"

"Mother, I adore her, I worship----"

"My dear Richard!" exclaimed his father, in sighful remonstrance, "such
perfervid extravagance proclaims your extreme youth----"

"But, Peterdear, we were extremely young once!"

"Yet never so fulsome, I hope."

"Well,--there are certain passages in our _Broad Highway_ that seem
written by a man--extremely young, and----"

"Now, my dear soul, do pray be relevant.  The question now under
discussion is,--can a youth, an irresponsible youth, indeed a mere boy,
be possessed of that cool and seasoned judgement so absolutely
necessary to the wise choice of a life-partner?  Emphatically--no!"

"And yet perhaps--emphatically--yes!  For surely this depends on the
youth himself, Peter, his character, his education, ancestry and
inherited instincts."

"Possibly, my dear, but----"

"No,--certainly, Peterdear, beyond all possibility of doubt!"

"Now, Charmian!  My dear!  Can any inexperienced, infatuate youth be
capable of a lasting, an indomitable and a long-suffering affection?"

"Yes, our Richard, of course."

"Heavens above!" murmured Sir Peter, with gesture of hopeless
resignation.  "Pray what possible logical reason can you advance in
support of such wild assertion?"

"Heredity, Peter!  For, thank God, your love for me has proved so
wonderfully lasting and extremely indomitable,--as mine for you so
steadfast and wonderfully long-suffering that I quite marvel at
it--sometimes,--now, for instance!"  Here, while her husband pondered
this, eyeing her somewhat askance, she, smiling a little roguishly,
turned to her son, to view him with eyes very gentle and wise with
Motherhood.

"My Richard," said she, reaching him her hand, "your father of course
is perfectly right!  Few young men of twenty can be expected to know
the true greatness of Love, how very reverent and wonderful it is, and
so high above anything base that it can make us poor humans almost
divine.  But, Dick, dear, because our love, your father's and mine, is
of this sort, I dare to think that you the son of our love may be
sufficiently wise in spite of your youth, to be sure of yourself and
her,--to know if this love is indeed real and true."

"Mother, I am sure, oh indeed I am, positively and absolutely ... she
is so patient, so strong and gentle ... I think, with her to help me, I
may do something really worth while ... some day."

"And are you as sure that Rosemary loves you?"

"Well ... I hope so," answered Richard, fervently; "it seems very
wonderful but I think she does.  You see, Mother, I ... I feel so
unworthy that sometimes I hardly believe it and ... oh by George,--her
letter!  I was forgetting her letter!  Where on earth--ah, here it is!"
and from the breast of his coat he drew Rosemary's letter, very
tenderly, like the precious thing it was, and gave it to his mother;
now as she took it he bowed his dark head and kissed her hand so
ardently that she smiled and murmured:

"Dear boy!"  Then she opened the letter and having read it, glanced at
Sir Peter, the smile still curving her lips.

"My stately soul," said she, "pray incline your august ear, listen to
this, Peter!"  And in her softest, sweetest voice she read these words:


"'DEAR LADY VIBART, it truly seems as though God had only made me to
love your Richard, just to serve and help and guard him as only a
loving woman may.  Always in my heart I have known myself his yet
feared to let him know my heart for your sake, and his, and
mine--because I am only Rosemary Ford and no more than God and you have
made me and in worldly estate no fit wife for your son.  Yet even so, I
pray that love shall make me worthy, and that if in obeying Richard's
will, I grieve you to-day, perhaps you may grow to love me a little
someday, for Richard's sake and the sake of one that is now and always
your grateful, humble, most loving--

ROSEMARY.'"


"Well, Peter?"

"Indeed, my dear, she expresses herself so admirably well that she is,
I judge, either a very clever woman or a simple, warm-hearted girl.
She is either ingenious or ingenuous----"

"Heavens!" exclaimed my lady.  "Can there be any doubt as to which?
And she Black George's daughter!  Dare you sit there and cast a doubt
on the sincerity of such a letter?"

"Not for the world, my dear!  I merely ventured----"

"She writes straight from her heart, Peter.  You haven't seen her very
recently, have you?"

"Why no, to be sure."

"Well, I have.  I visited her at Miss Courcy-Blythe's Academy in
Brighton last Spring.  I found her grown to a lovely, an amazingly
beautiful creature and yet very gentle, entirely unaffected and with
the charmingest manners, such poise and grace, such dignity, Peter!"

"Oh ... indeed, my dear!" said Sir Peter, while young Richard looked at
his mother with glistening eyes, such look of adoring, speechless
gratitude indeed as if he would have knelt, then and there, to kiss the
slim, shapely foot of her.

"In a word, Peter, a lady."

"Oh ... indeed!" murmured Sir Peter again.  "She has then evidently
profited by her very careful education."

"She has," nodded my lady, "and so beyond even my expectation, Peter,
that I think we are very fortunate."  Sir Peter stared:

"Fortunate?  We?  How, pray?"

"That our son should have chosen so very wisely."  Sir Peter arose,
almost hastily.

"Charmian, you astonish me.  I thought we had agreed----"

"So we did, Peter, so we shall, we always agree--in the end.  The only
person who may not agree is George, Black George himself.  Does he know
anything of the matter, Richard?"

"Well, no, Mother, not as yet, but----"

"A great pity to have kept him in ignorance; a very foolish mistake,
Richard, and I fear will complicate matters."

"Then, Mother, you think he will object to me?"

"Not to you, perhaps, as to this marriage.  Indeed, my poor Richard,
I'm afraid he may object to it even more than your father seemed
inclined to----"

"Object?" repeated Sir Peter, amazed and a little shocked.  "Object?
To our son?  Black George?  Now, my dear,--why in the world should he?"

"Because, Peterdear, Black George is every bit as proud as Sir Peter
Vibart, as Peter Vibart ought to remember."

"Why then," cried Richard, starting eagerly afoot, "I'll go to him ...
I'll ride at once!  By heaven, I'll see him this very night----"

"No!" said Sir Peter, with his air of calm finality, "I shall go
myself.  It is a long while since I saw Cranbrook or Sissinghurst.  I
shall ride over there to-morrow....  Though considering Richard's
breathless haste----"

"What haste, Peter?"

"Well, his so very imminent marriage----"

"Imminent!" cried Charmian, horrified.  "What an idea!  Such marriage
cannot be hurried, it must be an event, a ceremony.  And, I think, in
Town.  Yes, and in the Autumn.  We shall be back then in St. James's
Square as usual.  Why, Peter, our son's wedding is important as our
own--almost.  An occasion to dwell upon, to anticipate and remember."

"One would think so, my dear, but--ask Richard."

"Gracious me!  What has he to do with it?  We shall settle everything
of course, Rosemary and I.  To scheme out her own and the bridesmaids'
dresses will be a matter requiring the utmost care and deliberation."

"Undoubtedly, my dear.  But--what says Richard?"

"Rosemary should make an exquisitely beautiful bride!  She shall wear
my own wedding-veil and the pearls, or perhaps the emeralds would go
better with her hair.  As to her gown ... mm----"

"But ... Mother," ventured Richard, at this juncture.

"Well, dear? ... I think a poplin ... or brocaded damask ... and yet
she's such a stately creature ... plain white satin."

"You see, Mother," said Richard a little louder, "I don't ... I mean to
say we ... Rosemary and I ... don't want any fuss of any kind whatever
and----"

"Fuss?" exclaimed my lady, starting.  "Fuss----"

"Well, what I mean is ... not a grand marriage ... guests and speeches
and such frightful things ... besides there's no time----"

"Pray don't be foolish, Richard!  No time?  Absurd!  A true marriage is
always an event, and my son's marriage must be a very great event, at
least to Rosemary and me.  Men never seem to understand."

"But, Mother dear, we are getting it over and done with in our own way,
very quietly and almost at once, in fact--on Thursday--Thursday.  So
you see----"

He said no more, for Charmian had risen and was looking down on him in
that particular manner that always renewed within him the memory of
past, boyish delinquencies; so Richard sat mute, flushing guiltily,
whereat Sir Peter's lips twitched, and turning to the window recess he
leaned there smiling and expectant.  And, after a moment of somewhat
strained silence, Charmian spoke:

"On Thursday?"

"Yes, Mother.  I----"

"No, Richard!"

"But, Mother, you see----"

"I do not!"

"Mother, indeed I am determined----"

"But so is your mother!"

"Will you please let me explain."

"Not a word till I have spoken."

"But, Mother, truly I----"

"Richard, pray hush.  You have told me that you love Rosemary."

"I do, I do--with all my heart and soul."

"Oh, Richard!  And yet can respect her so little that you would make
her name a bye-word."

"A bye-word?  Mother, I'd die first!"

"Pray do not interrupt me!  A bye-word, Richard, a hateful bye-word ...
throughout the County and in London too ... odious people like the Earl
of Abbeymere!"

"In Heaven's name--how?"

"By wedding her in such mad haste and apparent stealth, of course.
Think, think what people would imagine and say!  Thoughtless boy!  Do
you dare imagine your father or I will permit you to take such cruel
advantage of Rosemary's devotion and wed her in such sly haste--as if
you were ashamed?  Never!"

"Mother, I can only tell you that we want to marry so soon just because
we love each other so much that nothing else matters.  I'll admit it
never occurred to me that people might talk a little at first.  Well,
let them, confound them,--we shan't care, you see Rosemary is like me
and----"

"Nonsense, Richard, she is a girl!  And a girl always cares, especially
a girl like Rosemary.  And then, poor child, not a stitch of
trousseaux!  Monstrous!"

"Well, I can buy her whatever she needs."

"Ridiculous!  Such garments are never bought, they only--happen!"  Now
at this Richard was dumb, while Sir Peter, still gazing out of the
window, very nearly chuckled.

"Then lastly, Richard, such detestable, stealthy marriage would lead
her proud father, and the censorious world, to imagine you had eloped
in defiance to your parents' will and wishes, and consequently that we
were opposed to such union.  And then, quite finally, I, and your
father of course, absolutely and utterly forbid any such wicked
folly....  And now you may speak, to tell me you will be guided by your
mother's sanity and gentle pleading 'suasion and your dear father's
kindly judgement."

"Why then, mother, when would you have us marry,--when?"

"In the Autumn.  October is a charming month.  Rosemary and I will
settle the exact day."

"October?" gasped Richard.  "Oh, but that is ages to wait----"

"Do I plead successfully, Richard dear, or must I see Rosemary and tell
the poor child that such marriage will break my heart?"

"Oh, I agree!" moaned Richard.

"Then come into my boudoir, Dick dear, and help me write my future
daughter a letter."  So saying she arose and meeting her husband's
eloquent glance, smiled a little roguishly ere she went away upon her
tall son's arm.

Then, stepping out upon the sunny terrace, Sir Peter began to laugh.




CHAPTER VIII

TELLS OF ANOTHER SIRE AND SON, AND HOW THE EARL'S LIFE WAS THREATENED
FOR THE SECOND TIME

My lord Iford was, as usual at this hour, slightly drunk and showed it;
my lord the Earl, his sire, was exceeding drunk yet showed it never a
whit, except in his eyes, of course; and they sat alone, facing each
other across the wine.

"No?" enquired son, eyeing sire with expression anything but filial.
"No, is it, sir?"

"Emphatically!" nodded the Earl, ogling the wine in his glass.  "Not a
shilling, my dear boy, not a penny!  No!  For money, alas, like all
other delightful things, is but very transient, ephemeral, like the
glory of a rainbow--seen but to vanish!"

"And you ... you ha' seen a great deal vanish, eh, sir?"

"True, Iford ... I had the kingly art of spending with a magnificence,
or--shall we say, was cursed with the virtue of a noble prodigality, a
stupendous generosity, a quite boundless hospitality.  B'gad, I rained
benefits like a Jove, wherever I went, on friend and foe alike I
showered my fortune."

"And, sir--my mother's also!"

"Ah, ya sainted mother!" sighed the Earl, though his heavy mouth curled
and in his narrow eyes leered an imp of such malignancy that his son,
watching expectant for this, grew pale while the hand, hidden beneath
the table, became a quivering fist.  "Ya poor, dear mother----"

"By your leave we ... we'll not discuss her."

"Then, my boy, why remind me of her loss?  She died so long ago."

"And in a damnable loneliness, sir!"

"The poor soul!  To be sure, I was abroad----"

"Yes, sir, you generally were.  But I was with her ... a little lad ...
she looked very small in her great bed, but smaller in her coffin.  You
were not home to see her buried."

"Alas, no."

"No!" said Lord Iford, and reaching the decanter from beside his sire's
elbow, refilled his glass.  "She was not beautiful----"

"Oh, my boy!  My dear boy do remember she was ya mother."

"I do, sir.  I remember also that, although such a great heiress, she
was very meek and gentle."

"My dear Iford she was ... well, herself,--a truly admirable creature
in very many respects, but----"

"Too humble, sir."

"Humility in a woman, or at least in a wife, is altogether excellent,
my boy ... lauded in Holy Writ, I believe ... it says there, I think,
that such wife is more precious than rubies.  Ya mother, I'm happy to
affirm was, in this respect, more precious than diamonds or even
pearls.  A saintly soul, Iford!"

"And, while alive, very much out of place, sir,--quite, quite lost,
poor saint!" murmured Lord Iford fiddling with his wine glass yet very
conscious of the eyes that watched him.  "'Oh death, where is thy
sting?'  This is also in Holy Writ, I believe, sir."

"Ah, yes, dear boy," sighed the Earl at last.  "Death may have its
compensation for had your mother been spared to this year o' Grace
would she ha' seen in you, her petted offspring, the realization of her
ideals, would she ha' been proud of ya?  Perhaps.  And yet I almost
doubt it, my poor boy, I do indeed.  And why?  Because she, being small
and meek, admired men that were men, tall men, strong and masterful,
and you are neither one nor the other, my dear Iford, b'gad you don't
resemble me in the slightest, now do ya?"

"No," answered my lord, smiling down at his half-empty wine glass.
"No, not in the faintest, very remotest degree, sir."

"Which becomes more painfully obvious every day, my boy."

"Indeed, sir?"

"You have never succeeded in anything as yet and----"

"Probably because I have never troubled to, well--to try, sir."

"Oh, but yes, my boy, yes.  You have been trying this month and more
ay, and trying devilish hard."

"Really, sir?"

"Ay, really, Iford!  To win your two arms full o' this warm, tender
loveliness, this shy-sweet Innocency shaped like a passionate Venus,
and ... failed, ha?"

"If by such fulsome description you mean Miss Ford----"

"Who else, lad?  Here's you been ogling, sighing and dying for her all
these weeks and won of her not so much as a kiss, I'll wager."  Here
Lord Iford raised his golden head to survey the speaker with his
mild-seeming, blue eyes; but once again that hidden hand clenched
itself.

"And yet, sir," said my lord gently, "despite your somewhat torrid
adjectives I find her somewhat cold."

The Earl chuckled and laughed until his eyes vanished.

"Cold?" he exclaimed.  "With that voluptuous shape, those deep,
tell-tale eyes,--cold?  Ya poor simpleton, she's Joy incarnate!  Had
she lived in my day, we'd ha' made her renowned ... famous."

"Sir, I think you must mean infamous.  Also you appear to quite
misapprehend the matter, for I am wooing this lady----"

"Wooing, d'ya say?  Good God!  D'ya call it wooing to sit as ya did at
table to-night, dumb as a confounded oyster,--hey?  D'ya call it wooing
to permit her to remain so hoity-toitly aloof--hey?  D'ya call----"
The Earl paused in no little surprise to perceive that his son was
laughing at him, laughter very gentle but so bitterly contemptuous that
the Earl shot forward his large chin and squared his great shoulders in
that threatening manner that had carried such dire terrors, once upon a
time, into two frightened hearts; once upon a time, for now Lord Iford
merely laughed, and so eloquently that the Earl, sitting back in his
large chair, blinked, chuckled and laughed also.

"What then," he enquired; "do I guess wrong then--hey?  D'ya mean the
sweet, sly minx plays mock-modest in public to be kind in
private,--hey, lad, hey?  Has she found ya bold enough at last?"

"Not exactly, sir.  You see,--to-night, just before we sat to table I'd
been imploring her to marry me."

"Eh--marriage?"  The Earl actually gasped, slopping wine in his stark
amazement.  "Marriage!" he repeated, and now to amazement scorn was
added.

"'Imploring' says you!  And a governess!  Are ya mad?  Ha, confound and
curse me but we managed our women better in my day."

"Probably!" smiled his son.  "But then, of course, sir, your women
would be, well--different."

"Hold ya drunken tongue, sir!" cried the Earl, stung to show of fury at
last.  "Ha, you're a damnable reminder of ya mother!"

"My lord, noble sire, you honour me!"

"Bait ya hook wi' marriage, hey?  You would!  But I tell ya woman is
always woman and always to be won--by a proper man!  And we managed 'em
better in my day because we were men, sir--men, d'ya hear?"

"I know, sir," sneered his son, "hard-riding, hard-drinking, hard
fighting--and all the rest of it.  Thank my stars I live to-day!"

"Live?" cried the Earl, and laughed.  "Live, hey?  Why damme, ya hardly
exist."

"However, sir, my existence will soon be shared by--a wife."

"Ha, she accepted ya then, the sly jade jumped at ya title, of course."

"You err again, sir.  She refused me."

"Did she so?  Then begad, it is young Vibart, aha!  Oh, I happen to
know she'll marry Vibart's son."

"No, sir, she merely--thinks she will."

"Iford, what the devil do ya mean?"

"Simply that I have determined, and arranged, to make her Lady Iford."
The Earl took up the heavy, cut-glass decanter much as if he would have
launched it at his son's curly, golden head, but he proceeded to fill
his glass, though the eyes in the large comeliness of his face seemed
more malevolent than ever.

"And what then," he demanded, "what o' ya engagement to Cynthia
Bellenden?  Need I remind ya that a wealthy marriage becomes more
imperative?"

"Then, sir, I fear you must think out some other scheme.  Yourself, for
instance, being so tall and very male, might woo another----"

"Iford, are ya mad, a fool, or merely drunk?"

"Either or all, sir, for I shall certainly marry for love and to please
only myself."  At this, the Earl being viciously enraged, chuckled
throatily and fell back upon that retort which, as he well knew, could
stir this coldly contemptuous son of his as nothing else might.

"My poor Iford," sighed he, "you become more and ever more like your
puling, futile, peak-faced mother!"

But this time it seemed the taunt would prove ineffectual, for Lord
Iford sat mute, staring down at the wine glass he was turning and
turning in slender fingers; at last, slowly, and with eyes still
abased, he arose and lolling against the table, spoke in voice almost
whispering:

"My mother!  My poor, small, ill-used mother who died so much before
her time!  Sir, you have mentioned her to-night with a strange
frequency,--but not one look of kindness, not one word of remorse for
the misery you caused her.  Well now, as this dead mother's son sat
here listening to your coarse, brutish sneers he could very joyfully
have struck you dead.  And, before God, he may yet!  Who knows?  For,
sir, remembering that little, heartbroken mother of mine, I should be
quite charmed to see your noble lordship very completely a corpse."

And now, leaning across the table, he stared down at his sire and
though his voice had been quite pleasantly modulated, though his pale
lips smiled, his wide, blue eyes, mild no longer, glared such look that
the Earl shrank appalled, his wine glass fell and shattered on the
floor all unheeded, and when at last he found voice it was neither
full-throated nor hearty:

"Iford ... you ... you ... by God ... you're--drunk!"

"Right, sir, I am....  And yet sober enough to hope that great carcass
of yours may soon grow ... corrupt as your soul.  In which fervent
hope, right noble lord and father,--I will to bed."  And turning upon
his heels, Lord Iford, very deliberately though with an occasional
stagger, crossed the wide floor to the door and was gone.




CHAPTER IX

INTRODUCES ONE CLIPSBY, A NONENTITY (ALMOST)

For some time after his son had departed, the Earl sat staring blankly
down at the remains of his shattered wine glass; indeed these
glittering fragments seemed to fascinate him, for with his gaze still
fixed there, he groped for the silver table-bell and rang it; nor did
he so much as glance up when the door opened but merely bade the bowing
footman:

"Send Clipsby to me."

And presently the door opened again, closed softly, soft footsteps
crossed the floor and a voice murmured:

"Yes, my lord?"  Then the Earl raised large head with a jerk, sat back
in his chair and surveyed that which stood before him; a lank shape
neither tall nor short, nor dark nor fair and with form and features so
altogether nondescript and unremarkable, a creature so superlatively
negative from head to foot as to be almost a nonentity garbed in sober
black.

"You may sit down, Clipsby."  Pale eyes flickered and a chair became
occupied.

"Wine, Clipsby,--help yourself."  The decanter tilted wine into a
glass, and the glass was lifted to a pale, thin-lipped mouth.

"Now in regard to this girl, Clipsby.  Tell me again.  You saw her with
young Vibart, you heard her agree to elope with him--hey?"

"On Thursday next, my lord."

"Well, Thursday shan't serve, Thursday's not soon enough.  Iford, the
crass fool, means to cut in before-hand and marry her himself, and if
he does, young Vibart will probably shoot him.  Well, such a marriage
won't serve me, Clipsby, and--damn him,--I don't want him shot for the
same reason.  So this fool marriage must not and shall not be, d'ya
hear?"

"If your lordship so says then it probably won't be."

"Ha, damme, it shan't be!  We must take a hand in this precious game,
Clipsby.  I must play Providence and rearrange these your lives....
Two puppies snarling over luscious tit-bit,--along comes the old dog
... snap!  And away with the dainty morsel,--ha!"

"Your lordship's metaphor is apt."

"Well now, see here, Clipsby--draw closer!  This same tempting piece o'
womanhood, this coy Prudery must be tamed, her prideful virtue humbled,
ah, so humbled that she must hide herself from eyes censorious, more
especially the doating sheep's-eyes of her two adoring swains young
Vibart and Iford, damn him!  She, thus disposed of, these two fool lads
having duly mourned their fallen and vanished divinity, shall presently
become amenable to their several fathers' wills, especially my damned
fool Iford, hey, Clipsby?"

"Having regard to Miss Bellenden's very considerable fortune, my lord?"

"Precisely.  And the scheme promises, we must act at once, you and I.
You will therefore----"

"I, my lord?  You ... mean...?"

"Exactly!  We must use the Abbey again for a night or so."

A gasping murmur:

"Not that, my lord ... no--no!"  And now a babble of sibilant,
horrified whispering: "Ah, not again!  Never again!  Your lordship
promised me!  No no, I cannot!  I will not!"

"Silence, ya fool!  This is business!  And, what's more----"

"No, no--I will not ... I cannot!"

"Ah, but ya will!  And with the same secrecy and whole-hearted devotion
as before, eh Clipsby?"

"You promised, Abbeymere.  You swore an oath ... and ... I ... cannot."

"Well, ya know the alternative?  I see ya do.  Death is always
unpleasant, Clipsby, but more especially when--it is made a public
function, ha?"  Two thin tremulous hands clasped and wrung each other,
a whispering voice spoke:

"Years and years of agonized remorse ... years and years of faithful
service ... acts committed that are shame to recall!  These should earn
respite ... even for me."

"They shall, Clipsby, they shall!  This once more and, though I shall
grieve ya loss, you shall go, ay and with a noble competence."

"The same answer ... always ... always the same!"

"That little chamber in the Abbey ruins beside the mere, egad, we
haven't used it for years!  How long since that last happy occasion?"
The whispering voice gasped:

"Six!"

"So long, hey!  Well, to-morrow early, or, better, to-night, make it
habitable as possible."

"Oh, my lord Abbeymere, show mercy!  She is ... so different."

"Tush, ye fool!  She shall come to no real harm.  But to-morrow she
must disappear, vanish,--until she elect to fly away on the wings o'
shame--yet harmed only in her mock-modest self-esteem and proud virtue.
Well now, another glass o' wine?  No?  Then help me to bed."




CHAPTER X

WHICH TRANSPORTS THE PATIENT READER TO SCENES FAMILIAR BUT FORGOT AWHILE

It was high noon when Sir Peter drew rein to gaze up at a certain
inn-sign whereon was painted the lively representation of a bull,--a
truly heroic animal, for though time had dimmed him, though stress of
weather had somewhat blurred and faded him, yet there he was--as
glaring of eye, as astonishingly curly of horn and stiff of tail as
ever.

Sir Peter drooped in his saddle a little wearily, for the way had been
long and dusty; but as he gazed up at this truly indomitable animal, he
forgot weariness and squared his shoulders, for Time rolled backward
and there rushed upon him the wistful memory of other days....  The
tap-tapping of the Ancient's stick, the light footsteps of sweet-eyed
Prudence; of Charmian vivid with youth, standing amid the leaves in a
glamour of moonlight; of storm and strife; of lurking peril and joyous
adventure,--days of such passionate living...  Sir Peter sighed.

And then, borne to him on the warm, drowsy air, came the thud and ring
of hammer and anvil.  Sir Peter started, his austere mouth grew young
with quick smile, his sombre eyes brightened as they glanced round
about him upon this well-remembered, too seldom visited scene....  This
broad highway, white and dusty, that stretched away between gardens
abloom with flowers and backed by thatched cottages shaded by tall and
aged trees beyond which peeped the gable of barn or pointed roof of
oast-house.

Sir Peter walked his horse along this white road to the smithy and
stooping, peered in at the low-arched doorway.

And there all alone at his anvil stood Black George, a very son of Anak
in his bare-armed might, plying his ponderous hand-hammer lightly as of
old, but he sang no more and amid the crisp curls of his Saxon-yellow
hair, Peter espied broad streaks of silver, also his comely face,
somewhat sooty from the fire, showed marks set there by more than the
hand of Old Father Time.

Thus Sir Peter, dusty with travel yet slim and elegant astride his tall
horse, gazed upon sooty George--this man he had fought with, loved and
honoured, heeding those marks of care and sorrow, silvered hair and
furrowed brow with eyes very wistful and kindly....  And then Black
George looked up, in the very middle of a stroke, and stood, heavy
hammer poised, while their eyes, the dark and the blue, gazed deep each
into each.

And they spoke no word, these two, only the hammer thudded to earth
from George's loosened grasp and Sir Peter, swinging lightly from
saddle, strode into the smoky dimness of the smithy and then hands met
and wrung each other across that bright, much used anvil....  And it
was Black George first found voice:

"A bit grimy I be, Sir Peter!"

"Clean, honest grime, George.  And don't call me 'sir'!  The old place
... looks just the same."

"Ar ... pretty much, Peter.  Though I fitted a noo 'andle to the sledge
... 'bout three weeks ago.  And--see up theer, agin the beam,--your own
old hammer, Peter.  Hung it theer, I did, arter you went away and
nobody's took it down since.  Dusty and rusty it be, but there it be
agoin' to 'ang until,--well till I be done wi' smithing for good.  And
now let's stable your hoss, Peter, a rare fine un 'e be!  And then set
down yonder in the sun and talk."

And presently, the good horse having been duly cared for, down they sat
together in the old porch before the inn door, to gaze upon each other
with beaming eyes, to pledge each other silently in tankards of foaming
ale, and drink together in voiceless communion like the old friends
they were.

"Simon do ha' druv over to Cranbrook, the miller's, but he'll be back
again purty soon."

"How is he, George?"

"Hearty, Peter, stout an' hearty.  Though 'e be gettin' on, seventy-two
last birthday 'e were.  Eh, but 'tis goodish time since you was
Sissin'hurst way, Peter."

"Too long, George, yes, it has been much too long.  But the old village
seems just the same."

"Why theer aren't much to change 'ereabouts, Peter.  Nobody aren't died
since my sweet Prue were took 'leven year ago."

"I remember, George."

"Ay, been a-layin' theer in Cranbrook churchyard 'leven mortal year,
she 'ave, Peter....  The longest, weariest 'leven years in all my
life."  Here George, pint pot on knee, stared away down the broad,
white road and shaking his comely head, spoke in strange, hushed voice:
"'Here lays Prudence, beloved wife of George Ford of Sissin'hurst ...
until the morning breaks'....  Peter, it were black night for me when
she died ... and the morning aren't broke yet."  After this they sat
silent somewhile, the afternoon's drowsy stillness brooding over them;
but presently upon this solemn hush broke the rhythmic tap-tapping of a
stick, so sudden and unexpected that Peter sat up and, looking
thitherward, beheld a bowed, old figure, smock-frocked and top-hatted,
hobbling afar down the road.

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed, softly.

"What now, Peter?"

"See yonder!  I thought ... George, I fancied for a moment it was the
Ancient, God bless him, come back through the vanished years to greet
me."

"Yon be old James Button.  You'll mind 'e, Peter?"

"Very well!  He once accused me of bewitching his pigs, I remember."

"Ay, I mind," nodded George.  "Folks used to think as you 'ad the evil
eye, Peter.  And, to be sure your eyes was oncommon sharp, ah an' so
they be now....  The years ha' been kind to 'e, Peter, you look hearty
and straight as a gun-barrel.  And your lady be well,--eh, Peter?"

"She is, thank God!"

"And your son,--he be likewise well,--eh Peter?"

"Yes, and thank God again!"

"Ay, the Lord hath dealt kindly by ee, Peter ... kinder than wi' ...
others."

"You remember my son, Richard, of course?"

"Ay for sure!  Don't I mind him being born, Peter, just six months
arter Prue give me my Rosemary.  Didn't I watch him grow to a lad ...
whiles you lived hereabouts in Kent."

"Have you seen him lately, George?"

"Ar!  Leastways 'bout a year ago.  Comes a-riding over, 'e did ... and
a fine, comely young gen'leman 'e be ... summat like you, Peter, but
mighty like his mother."

"I'm glad you think so, George, because ... well ... d'you see ... he
wants to marry your daughter Rosemary."

George's tankard fell with a clatter, spilling what remained of its
contents, and he stared down at it beneath slow-knitting brows, while
Peter viewed him somewhat askance.

"Marry ... my daughter?" quoth George, and stooping suddenly picked up
his tankard, turning it over and over in his great fist and staring at
it very blankly.  "Marry ... my Rosemary ... your son?" he repeated
slowly.

"Yes, George old fellow.  It seems they love each other very dearly,
very truly, and have done so for a great while."

"Oh have they, Peter?"

"So Richard affirms.  Under which circumstances his mother and I can
urge no objection.  I may tell you that in a year's time Richard will
inherit a very large fortune, until when, of course, I shall see the
young people properly established."

"Properly ... established!" nodded George, still frowning at the
tankard he was turning this way and that.

"So, George, I am here to ask your blessing on this marriage."

Very deliberately George set his tankard in a corner of the settle and
turning upon his companion, spoke in his slow, thoughtful manner:

"No, Peter!  I don't nowise give my consent, not yet my blessing.  What
I says is--no!"

Sir Peter started and seemed for a moment positively dumb-struck, his
black brows drew together in a haughty frown, up went his stately head
and he stared into the calm, blue eyes that stared as directly back at
him.

"George," said he, at last, "you amaze me!"

"Peter," said George, "you amaze me more, ah--a sight more!"  And now
for a moment they fronted each other in silence again, stately
arrogance against sturdy pride.

"Then ... you refuse?"

"Ay, I do."

"May I ask why?"

"Ay, for sure, Peter.  And for sure I'll try to tell ee, though you'd
ought to know wi'out, hows'ever it be this: You are my friend, Peter.
And I'm George.  But you'm likewise a gen'leman baronet.  And I'm a
blacksmith.  And there y'are.  And enough too!"

"But, George man, I was also a blacksmith once."

"Ah--once, Peter!  But then though once a blacksmith you was ever and
allus a gen'leman.  And me a smith, ever and allus a smith."

"But, confound it, man,--Rosemary is a lady and----"

"No, Peter!  She be, ever and allus, a blacksmith's lass!"

"She has been splendidly educated."

"Ah, so she has, Peter, a sight too well.  Eddication be good so long
as it aren't over done, nor go too fur."

"But, my dear George----"

"Lookee, Peter!  I be a smith, like my feyther afore me, and theer
aren't no smith can ekal me when I be at my best, so I be proud o'
being a good smith, proud as any gen'leman can be of his lands or
titles, ah--prouder I think, because what I eats I wins by my labour,
Peter, and what I'll be remembered by, p'raps, when I'm dead and gone,
is the work o' these two hands,--like th' owd church-screen as you
helped me to finish, years ago, Peter."

"Well, George, this is a good, manly pride and altogether admirable,
but it should not come between your daughter and my son, the happiness
of our children."

"Ay but, Peter, I be proud o' my Rosemary, prouder o' her than ought i'
this world ... her sweet looks and ways....  She be wonderful like her
sweet mother sometimes, Peter, though a bit bigger made,--and, well I
be too mortal proud of her to let her be married by any gen'leman,
no--not even your son.  So, Peter, let's say no more about it."

"But, great heavens, George--you cannot dismiss such an affair so
lightly, or in such confoundedly high-handed fashion."

"Oh?  Why not, Peter?"

"Because it is altogether too serious."

"Well, but--I be mortal serious, ah--serious as death!"

"But why on earth are you opposed to such a match?"

"Because my Rosemary be too much my daughter to wed out of her class."

"You are unreasonable, George, utterly unreasonable, and I think very
unwise."

"I be what the Lord and my troubles ha' made me, Peter.  And I do the
best I can."

"But, George, old fellow, the Wheel of Life must turn, do what we will
to check it.  Better then to turn with it, trusting to the Beneficent
Power that first set it agoing."

"Peter, I don't 'ardly get the sense o' that theer."

"Well, George, when we beget children we liberate forces beyond our
conception,--we may school them, educate them, set rules and impose
laws, but our careful love can guide them only a very little part of
the way,--beyond that they must and will, choose their own path."

"You mean up, or down,--to heaven or hell, Peter?"

"No, I mean to heaven, George, for I believe all paths, though they
lead through blackest hell, must climb back to God and salvation ... at
last."

"Well now," said George, thoughtfully, "this be a comforting thought,
old friend, ay a turble comforting thought it be ... myself being,
well--no better than I be and my sweet Prue now one o' God's angels and
consequently so fur away from me....  And to think as I shall reach her
again ... someday ... even through hell.  Lord love ee, Peter, 'tis
turble heartsome thought if ever I should get took again wi' tearin's
an' rages, as I be sometimes still, and more shame to me!  So, Peter, I
be mighty grateful to ee for this thought.  But now ... what's all
o'this to do wi' my Rosemary?"

"She's young, George, like my son, and they love each other with a
passion that I believe is very deep and pure because it is true.  But,
George, such love denied, being one of the greatest forces of our
nature, may work incalculable evil, and instead of blessing, prove a
blasting curse."

"Peter, are ye so turble anxious as your gen'leman son shall wed my
blacksmith's lass to save 'em from makin' fools o' themselves--or
worse?"

Sir Peter leaned back, staring down at his dusty boots and pinching his
somewhat prominent chin as was his wont when at all perplexed; at last:

"George," says he, facing round upon his friend, "George, my dear
fellow, I have a confession to make....  When Dick first told me of
this matter I must admit that I, well--I was as much opposed to this
marriage as you are.  But when I listened to his wise mother's words
and realised this was no boyish infatuation but a man's reverent love,
strong and steadfast, why then I knew his choice must be mine also....
And now, George, when I see you so much the man you were, though
better, of course, and gentled by the years,--here am I, and perhaps a
little to my own wonder, very humbly pleading the cause of our children
to you and with all my heart ... for their sakes, and yours, and ...
mine."

"How and why for ... yourn, Peter?"

"Because to call Black George's child my daughter will be my joy and my
honour."

Once more Black George picked up his empty tankard, looked at it and
put it down again.

"'Honour?' says you.  'Honour!  My daughter' ... your daughter!  Oh,
Peter ... you've said it!  For ... d'ye see, in honouring my Rosemary
you honour the blessed woman as bore her, ah ... you honour my sweet
Prue ... 'until the morning breaks'....  And ... I can't say no more,
Peter ... except ...  yes!"  Black George choked, but scorning to hide
such emotion from Friendship's eyes, he lifted great head and looking
on Peter through his tears, reached forth his two hands.

"And now, Peter," said he, after some while, "come along in, you shall
sit in my Prue's own chair and presently we'll drink tea, though I
don't much care for the stuff,--but she were powerful fond o' tea ...
deck-ho she used to call it."




CHAPTER XI

CONCERNS ITSELF AMONG OTHER THINGS WITH KERSEYMERE BREECHES

Richard, athrill with vigorous life and the joy of it, galloped his
proud Saladin along roads oft-travelled of late for he was riding
to--HER.  In the breast-pocket of his coat was the letter written by
his beloved Mother to this same adored HER, a letter with message of
such wise sympathy and loving welcome that as his powerful animal
whirled him through the sunny air young Richard could have shouted for
very happiness.  And small wonder.

Reaching the confines of Abbeymere, and almost before he knew it, he
checked his exuberance and approaching the tall, iron gates, was
surprised to see them shut; so he rang the bell, in response to which
summons there now issued from the lodge a comely fellow in neat livery
whom he had known these many years and therefore hailed familiarly:

"Good day, Rudge, old fellow!  How are you, John?"

"Arternoon, Mr. Vibart, sir!" answered John, unbolting.

"Why must you lock the gates so early, John?"

"Dunno sir.  'Tis his lordship's orders, no strangers to be admitted
this way.  But you bean't no stranger, sir,--leastways I s'pose I can
let ee in and yet--I dunno.  But, Master Richard sir, I does know one
thing!"

"And what's that, John?"

"There be summat up, 'ereabouts."

"Eh?  What do you mean?"

"Well, sir, I means as th'owd place be 'aunted.  Ah, an' small
wonder,--wot wi' all them old ruins, an' the mere so black an' gashly
as it be!  No, I ain't nowise surprised if goblings and ghosts flit in
sich a place; 'tis only to be expected-like.  But it do come crool-'ard
on me, considering my kerseymere breeches, and them good as noo."

"Why, what's all this of breeches and goblins, John?  Just what are you
trying to tell me?"

"Well, sir, 'bout three nights agone I seen it first."

"Saw what, John?"

"This here gobling, sir.  Went a-flittering acrost the park, it did,
and vanished as I watched.  Then t'other evening I seen it a-glaring at
me from they bushes over agin the wicket-gate as leads into Fallowdean
Copse!  And last night sir, ay--last night 'twere me breeches!  Dog
bite me if it didn't make away wi' me kerseymere breeches and them good
as noo!"

"But how could any goblin steal a man's breeches?" laughed Richard.
"It can't be done, John."

"Why, sir, they kerseymere breeches was not on me, d'ye see,--leastways
I wasn't in 'em, Mr. Richard, seeing as they was 'anging out on the
line in me bit o' gardin yonder....  And now--gone sir!  Flowed away!
And 'ow should they?"

"Stolen by gipsies or some tramp, of course, John."

"Ain't noways possible, sir!  Never no gipsy nor no tramp don't no'ow
never find their thieving ways in here, sir--no!  So it couldn't nowise
be the likes o' they!"

"Hum!" quoth Richard, struck by sudden thought.  "Then perhaps it was
some sort of goblin."

"Mr. Richard, there ain't not never nowise no manner o' doubt o' that.
Howandever my kerseymere breeches be took and vanished ... and good as
noo! ...  Was you wishful to see Lord Iford, sir, because, if so, 'e
ain't in and----"

"No, no, I am here to deliver a letter to ... to Miss Ford."

"Ford?" repeated John, scratching his ear thoughtfully.  "She be the
young governess lady as be along o' my lady Bedingham and children.
Well, sir, she ain't in neither."

"Oh, confound it!  Are you sure, John?"

"Sarten, sir!  She be out a-driving wi' her leddyship and children."

"Why then I'll wait.  Will she be long, d'you suppose?"

"Mebbe a hour.  Mebbe two.  Mebbe arf an hour.  Anyways she'll be back
if you waits long enough, sir.  Now will ee wait up at th'ouse, my lord
th' Earl be up and about again though 'obbling, or will ee set wi' me a
piece in me lodge?"

"Thank you, neither.  I'll ride round and wait in Fallowdean Copse.
Will you tell her she'll find me there?"

"Ay, I'll tell her, Mr. Richard."

"Thanks, John.  Let her know the instant she returns, will you?"  So
saying, Richard thrust divers coins into John's ready palm, and turned
his impatient Saladin.

"Why not ride acrost the park, Mr. Richard, it be a sight nearer."

"But I've plenty of time, deuce take it!  And I prefer the open road
and lanes, John.  My respects to Mrs. Rudge."

Richard nodded, gave Saladin his head and away they went with thud of
flying hoof and creak of leather, and both of them enjoying it like the
high-spirited, vigorous young animals they were, though to be sure
Richard's joyous exuberance was somewhat damped.  Reaching the coppice,
and all too soon, he dismounted, left Saladin to crop the grass,
stepped into the leafy shade and looked round about upon this secluded
spot hallowed by memories of the beloved she destined to his love and
care ... someday.  Moved by such very lover-like thoughts he came
beneath "her tree" and drew off his gauntlet to touch its rugged bole
with bare hand for her dear sake and was deliberating just where he
should kiss it, when his senses were startled and outraged by a hissing
whisper almost in his ear:

"Mus' Richard!  Oh, Master Dick!"

"Deuce take you, Tom!  Confound it all!" he exclaimed peering angrily
about.  "Where the devil are you now?"

"Why, here, sir, for sure!" And from fissure in this same great tree a
bright eye peeped forth at him.  "This be one o' my earths, Mus'
Richard, 'tis here as I roosts frequent....  But your young leddy, sir."

"Yes, yes--what of her, Tom lad--what?"

"Well, I aren't sure, but there be summat up.  I seen 'er a-piping of
'er pretty eye 's morning!  And th' Earl be afoot and about again,
dannel 'im!"

"Crying, was she?  Good God!  Why?  What for?"

"And that theer Clipsby allus a-creepin' an' a-crawlin'----"

"Clipsby?  The Earl's valet fellow?"

"Ar,--'im!  Sir, 'e were a-watching of you an' 'er last time as you met
here, a-'arkin' an' a-listenin' 'e were."

"Was he, damn him!"

"Ar, 'e were so, sure--ly.  I meant to tell an' warn ee only you
galloped off so sudden-like."

"But, Tom ... oh curse it!  Why should she weep, eh man, eh?"

"Well, your honour, women critters all do, it be so their natur'."

"Yes, but not hers, no--not hers.  Weeping?  Oh, damnation!  Where was
she, Tom?"

"Well, sir, she were a-sittin'--listen, sir!  Hark ... yonder!  Some
one comes a-creepin'!  Lay low!"

Sure enough, Richard heard a vague stir of movement, a stealthy rustle
of leaves subsiding now and then as if the unseen prowler had halted,
the better to use eyes and ears.  Instinctively Richard became stealthy
also, and stepping behind the great tree, crouched there, gazing in the
direction of these approaching sounds.

And after some while, out from the denser boskage stepped that negative
personality called Clipsby.  For a moment he stood utterly still,
glancing hither and thither with a furtive expectancy, then two
powerful hands whirled him about and his pale eyes were blinking at
Richard's scowling, young face.

"Damned rat!  You'll spy, will you?" demanded Richard shaking him
fiercely.  "Peep and pry, will you?  Get out before I harm you!"  Then
Richard hurled him aside so violently that he tripped and fell, lying a
moment as if dazed, then he arose, smoothed and reordered garments with
care, which done, he stood a moment utterly still and with bowed head,
gazing at Richard from the corners of his eyes then, speechless still,
he turned and crept away.  And when all sound of his retreat had died
away, Richard was again startled and this time to find Tom Lethbridge
at his elbow.

"Dammit, Tom!" he exclaimed, "you move like a ghost--aha, and talking
of ghosts, I see you've got 'em on.  John Rudge's kerseymere breeches,
eh?"

"Well, mine was a bit tore-like, Mus' Richard, an' these was fair
pleadin' to be took,--and no 'oles in 'em nowhere."

"Ay, John said they were good as new."

"They be naun s' bad, sir.  But 'e be a strange chap yon Clipsby an'
dang me if I like the way 'e looked at ee, sir,--and what was 'e arter
this time, I wonder?"

"Yourself perhaps, Tom.  He probably knows you are lurking hereabouts."

"Not 'im, sir--no!  'Tis me as be a-watching of 'e, an'----"

"Listen, Tom!  By George, I believe he's coming back again and in a
hurry too--hide man, hide!"  Even as he spoke Tom had vanished swift
and silently as he had appeared, for again was a rustling loud and
louder....  Richard leapt forward with joyful exclamation for the
vision that suddenly blessed his yearning eyes was Rosemary.

For a moment they gazed upon each other, mute and scarce breathing,
then Richard, forgetting all in the world save Rosemary, had her in his
arms....  But presently, flushed and tremulous from his kisses, she
held him away to look deep into his joyful eyes.

"Richard ... oh, my dear," she whispered, "you ... told them?"

"Yes, my own love, I told them everything, and they agree ... that
blessedly dear mother of mine won over my father, she said ... oh but
she wrote you a letter, a wonderful, beautiful letter--like herself!
Here it is ... read and see,--no, let us sit and read it together."

So down they sat, then and there, and leaning within his arm Rosemary
opened the letter, read it once eagerly and looking on Richard, sighed
in a rapture; then she read it again slowly and folding the letter with
loving care, she kissed it, looking at Richard through a sparkle of
happy tears.

"Oh, Dick," she murmured, "your dear, wonderful mother writes me she is
... glad!  Calls me ... her daughter,--me!  She is coming herself to
fetch me on Thursday morning, driving over in state, for me!  She
herself ... to take me ... oh, Richard, how I do love her!  And she
calls me ... daughter!"

"I know!" said Richard, kissing those sweet, tearful eyes, "I know!
Oh, Rosemary, isn't life glorious!"

"She says we are to have a ... real marriage ... oh Dick!  A great
affair ... and in London!"

"Yes!  That's the frightful part of it, of course!"

"Frightful?" exclaimed Rosemary falling into another rapture.  "Oh it's
just ... wonderful!"

"Wonderful?" he repeated.  "To be compelled to wait until October?"

"And she wants me with her, Dick, to arrange things ... oh imagine it!"

"Yes, to scheme out dresses and what not, giggling bridesmaids and a
crowd of fools to stare at us!  I say again it's simply perfectly dam
frightful!"

"It's just ... heavenly, Richard!"

"Why do you ... good Lord, Rosemary,--do you actually mean to say that
you really want all this fearful fuss and confounded botheration ...
you?"

"Want it, Dick?" she sighed, clasping hands in a very transport.  "Oh,
my darling, I tremble with joy at the mere thought!  It seems too
wonderful it could ever happen to poor me!  Oh your lovely mother, how
I do adore her!"

"Well," quoth Richard, shaking youthful head, "upon my soul, Rosemary,
I thought you were above such things!"

"Your dear mother might have told you that all women----"

"She did, oh she did, but I thought--well, that you were different."

"Oh, but I'm not, Dick, I'm simply just a very female she creature and
so--why, whatever are you scowling at so terribly?"

"This!" he answered, and from where it had lain concealed in the grass,
picked up a pistol, a small, beautifully wrought weapon mounted with
silver, very handsome and very deadly.

"Yes," nodded Rosemary, "I dropped it."

"You?  But it belongs to Abbeymere, the Earl, here is his crest and
monogram."

"Well, it's a hateful thing,--put it down!"

"And ... by God, it's loaded!  Rosemary, how did you come by this
damnable thing?"

"It was this morning, Dick.  I was sitting alone in the arbour
arranging the children's lessons for the day when Mr. Clipsby came to
me--

"That fellow!"

"Yes, Dick.  And he seems such a very solitary, unhappy man that I feel
sorry for him.  He appeared greatly distressed this morning, but then
he always is, and he began by talking about flowers and how cruel to
pick them----"

"Flowers!" snorted Richard.

"He knows a great deal about botany, Dick; indeed he is very clever and
a wonderful musician."

"The fellow's a sneaking spy!  Did he give you the weapon?"

"Richard, I'll tell you all about it--if you'll allow me.  Well then,
Mr. Clipsby went on to tell me that Rudge, the lodgekeeper, had warned
him there were rough characters lurking about, burglars perhaps.  And
then, Dick, he showed me this pistol and told me to keep it by me and
fire it off if anything should happen to frighten me, and so went
hurrying away, and left the hateful thing before I could prevent.  So I
brought it along hoping to meet him and return it."

"Hum!" quoth Richard, frowning down at the pistol.  "Do you know how to
fire it?"

"Why, of course!  I often shot off Grandfather Simon's old
horse-pistol; you remember it used to hang by the fire-place in the
'Bull.' ... Oh what a terrible tom-boy child I was!  I shot a rabbit
once, poor thing!  Oh, a nasty, wild creature I was in those days!"

"But always beautiful ... and with your glorious hair ... and afraid of
nothing, I used to think."

"And then your dear mother sent me to be tamed at the Academy----"

"And now you are going to marry me."

"In--October, Richard."

"Ha, well!  Meanwhile, I'll take care of this," said Richard thrusting
the pistol into his coat pocket.

And presently they rose and wandered through the little wood talking
together murmurously, pausing frequently to look at each other, to kiss
suddenly and wander on again until, turning aside haphazard into a
glade, they came upon Abbeymere's Earl looming very large though seated
lowly upon a fallen tree.  At sight of them he flourished his hat in
wide-armed gesture of greeting and hailed them in his throatiest,
heartiest tones:

"Corydon and Phyllis, I salute ye!  Happy Daphnis and sly, witching
Chloe, be welcome!"  Richard returned this salutation a little stiffly,
Rosemary clung tighter to his arm and averting her eyes, breathed
distressfully.

"Oho Youth!" bellowed the Earl jovially.  "Aha Love!  Of what avail
bolts and bars 'gainst such combination?  My gates are locked yet Love
comes stealing in!  And, b'gad, why not?  My bold Daphnis, sweet-sly
Chloe, creep ye away again where ye may kiss and fondle unseen and may
roguish Cupidon bless ye,--away and leave myself to sit and envious
sigh----"

"My lord!" exclaimed Richard, then flushed hotly, grew awkward and
strangely abashed before this so experienced libertine's meaning looks
and throaty chucklings.  Then clapping on his hat, "My lord," said he
again, heedless of the pleading hand upon his arm, "here is neither
slyness nor secrecy."

"My dear Richard, I do not reproach," chuckled the Earl.  "No, no, lad,
far from it,--I envy.  Love is a sweet sweet, slyly sly and should be!
The drooping lash, the conscious blush, the breathless denial, the
tender, imploring----"

"Sir," cried Richard, diffidence and awkwardness swept away by quick,
fierce anger, "I came to Abbeymere with a letter from my mother----"

"The bewitching Lady Vibart,--oho, for me?"

"No, sir, for Miss Ford who ... who will shortly do me the honour ...
who is going to marry me."

"What ... another of you?" chuckled the Earl.  "B'gad, quite a
remarkable coincidence, odd--deuced odd and queer!"

"How so, my lord?"

"Well, d'ya see, my son Iford assured me, and very recently, that this
same so alluring tantalization, Miss Rosemary, is going to marry him."

"Then, sir, he was probably drunk."

"Oh, he was, Richard, he was of course.  But then, my dear boy, Iford
drunk develops certain latent powers, a cool intrepidity and surprising
assurance and determination that make me know him for my son.  And,
like his sire, he has a true eye for beauty, a choice palate for
succulencies feminine."

"Richard!  Pray, Richard, come away!" whispered Rosemary.  But still
heedless of that pleading voice and urgent hand, Richard tronted the
Earl with sparkling eyes and chin out-thrust.

"Then, my lord, allow me to tell you----"

"With all my heart, Richard, and anything you will,--but ladies first!
Pray silence a moment and let this entrancing vision find voice and
speak, suffer this coy, shrinking loveliness to explain how one may wed
two?  Miss Rosemary, how say ya?"

"Sir," began Richard passionately, but Rosemary's smooth, clear voice
silenced him:

"Oh, surely, my lord, such idle question needs no answer.  Pray,
Richard, will you come away now or must I go alone?"

So saying she turned and moved off, and Richard perforce went too, and
with the Earl's throaty merriment ringing in his ears.

"A beastly old villain!" fumed Richard when they had gone some
distance.  "He is, as you said, all evil.  Yes, I know exactly what you
meant now.  By heaven, he's even viler than I imagined!  Damn him, he
makes me feel unclean, somehow....  My Rosemary, you shan't stay near
him another hour, you shall come back home with me."

"Oh, but I can't, Dick, I've so much to do first ... then there's Lady
Bedingham and the children ... besides your dear mother is coming for
me on Thursday."

"Yes, but ... that beast!  Rosemary, he's the sort of thing I could
shoot joyfully!  Somebody ought to murder him----"

"Oh, hush, Dick, hush!  My dear love ... don't, ah don't say such
fearful things."

"Well then, come back with me, Rosemary,--now, this moment!  Come home
... to my mother."

"Ah no, Dick!  Dear, it would just spoil everything.  Oh can't you see?
Your mother is coming for me on Thursday--for me!  Only a few hours
really, dear boy.  Ah now don't frown on me!  I shall be all right.  I
don't fear anyone or anything any more,--not now!  No, not even--him!
And I'm not alone, there is Lady Bedingham and Mr. Clipsby and----"

"Clipsby!" snorted Richard.  "I tell you, Rosemary, the fellow's a
sneaking spy ... a rat----"

"And yet he seems the gentlest, saddest creature and so much to be
pitied ... except when he plays Beethoven--then he's--oh, wonderful!
... And there's Saladin waiting for you under our old tree.  Will you
let me ride him sometimes?"

"Of course, dear heart, I'll give him to you if you like, or you shall
have the pick of the stables, there's a little black mare I've thought
will just suit you....  Ah but, Rosemary, I don't want to leave you ...
here!"

"Oh but you must!" she answered with her gentle though indomitable
look.  "But only for a few hours, Richard dear.  I am just only living
for Thursday, and you!  Please give my love to your mother and say I
can never thank her in words....  Good-bye for a little while, my own
Richard!  Oh, I am the proudest, happiest creature in the whole world!"




CHAPTER XII

WHICH GIVES PARTICULARS OF A FATEFUL NIGHT

Richard's mother having thus made up his father's mind to the match and
arranged Richard's affairs thus happily, it followed as a matter of
course that Richard, being young and therefore impatient, a lover and
therefore very human, immediately plagued himself with new anxieties.

First there was this, to wit: The dreadful possibility that by some
frightful cataclysm, some terrific convulsion of nature, Thursday night
might never dawn.  Secondly, when somewhat reassured by the fact that
the old Earth, having rolled on for so many eons of time, might in all
probability continue so to roll,--there rose within him a
slow-writhing, sickening fear that lifted envenomed head, like loathly
serpent, to hiss the nameless evils that might beset HER, this peerless
maid of his reverent worship, at the vile hands of Abbeymere's Earl....
This cold-eyed, middle-aged rake anent whom were whispered tales so
shameless that Richard, lying wakeful, must start up in his bed,
sweating in shivering horror....  Tales he had heard and laughed at ere
now.  And remembering how he had laughed and why, Richard clenched
fierce hands, wishing with all his powers that certain wild escapades
of his own might be wiped from his soul and forgotten....  He was
unworthy,--therefore if indeed Thursday should never dawn it would be
but justice....

It was upon this fateful night that, driven wellnigh frantic by such
thoughts, Richard leapt from his bed of torment and dressed, impelled
by wild and desperate purpose.

It was upon this night also that Sir Peter, on his way to bed, peering
by chance from certain window to behold the night's pale beauty, for
the moon was wonderfully bright, stood suddenly rigid with surprise,
made to call out, checked the impulse, closed the window instead: and
presently, booted and spurred, yet light of foot, went hurrying
stable-wards.

It was also upon this thrice fateful night that my lord the Earl of
Abbeymere, having dismissed that pallid negation named Clipsby, took a
lighted lantern and limping by devious ways, came at last to a small,
ancient door set deep within a frowning arch of time-worn masonry and
unlocking this door, stood, lantern aloft, gazing upon a shape of
loveliness that, leaping from narrow bed, retreated to the far wall and
leaned there, blinking painfully in the sudden light....  And meeting
the Earl's look, the gloating menace of these narrow eyes, fear and
shame were swept away by a dreadful valour and desperate resolutiqin
that found words in awful whisper hissed between set white teeth:

"Go back!  I have a pistol here....  Go back or by the dear God, I'll
be your death!"

The Earl, unfearing now as ever, chuckled throatily and went to her....

Meanwhile Sir Peter, greatly wondering and a little anxious, rode
through the uncertain light with due care for his horse's knees, and
thus at his leisure arrived at a pair of tall, wrought-iron gates and
finding them shut for the night, groped instinctively for the
bell-pull, hesitated, fell to a muse and finally turning his animal,
rode along by the high park-wall, peering here and there among the
denser shadows until he espied a horse tethered at a place where the
wall was low and easier to climb; and riding near, he saw as he had
expected, that this horse was Saladin.  So Sir Peter sat a while, chin
in hand, staring at this riderless horse.  At last he dismounted,
fastened his own animal, glanced about, almost furtively and frowning
as with distaste, swung himself very nimbly astride this wall and,
after a momentary hesitation, dropped lightly on the further side.
Then he set off, walking rapidly until stark against the sinking moon
rose the wide, scowling frontage of Abbeymere, gable and chimney,
battlement and turret....  Sir Peter halted to listen and stare at this
great house that, to his fancy, had always seemed to menace him with
threat of hidden evil, but never so direly as in this present hushed
and solemn hour.

It was a still, windless night and luminous with the pallid radiance of
a dying moon that lit small, fitful fires in the sedgy waters of the
dark Mere, that showed, beyond motionless trees, ghostly peep of the
ruined abbey, with the jagged outline of the great house itself looming
vague and monstrous with no spark of light in all its many windows, an
ominous, sprawling shape that yet drew him on and on across wide lawns
and up dim steps until, turning a sharp angle, he beheld a window
whence streamed a warm glow; now this window gaped wide open.

So thither went he and peering within this lighted room, caught his
breath and stood appalled,--for the dreadful menace of this house was
fulfilled at last and so terribly that Sir Peter saw his world, with
all his hopes and lofty ambitions, crash to irretrievable ruin.

Then, somehow, he was in the room, staring with awful eyes into eyes as
awful that stared back at him; speechless he gazed from his son's
pallid face, down at the contorted, blood-smeared thing that lay
between them this dead man that, sprawled thus, bulked larger in death
than ever he had done in life.  And with his gaze on this, Sir Peter
spoke in groaning whisper:

"Great God! ... Oh, Richard ... Richard ... how was this?"

"Father! ... Sir, I ... hardly know.  He ... oh but he deserved death
... worse ... and,--well he is dead ... dead you see, but ... ah--so
ghastly...!"  The pistol he still clutched in shaking hands Sir Peter
took gently, saw it blackened by recent discharge and laid it gently on
the table.  Then, clasped in his father's protecting arm, Richard
looked up and, seeing revealed at last all the passion of love in this
twitching, haggard face, uttered a great, gasping sob and bowed his
head on his father's breast while, for a moment, his young arms clasped
and clung yearningly; then he stepped back, saw his father's hand
gesture toward that sprawling horror, heard his faint whisper:

"Richard?"  The word was a question.

"Yes, sir--yes!" he answered and, with agony in his own eyes, watched
the despair this answer wrought.

"You did not ... mean to do it?"

"No!  No!  God knows I didn't, sir."

"His own pistol, Richard!"

"Yes, sir.  Yes, I ... we ... he made to shoot and I ... we struggled
and ... sir, what must I do?  Will you ... shall I ring the bell ...
alarm the house?"  And Richard turned, reaching towards the silver
table bell.

"No!  No!" gasped Sir Peter, checking him with a wild, vehement
movement.  "Come home!  And ... you may still call me 'father,'
Richard.  I am more your father than ever ... now.  Let us go!"  Mutely
obedient Richard crossed towards the window.

"But ... these candles, Father?"

"Leave them ... alight ... And you are forgetting your hat, Richard."
Fumbling it clumsily, Richard took up his hat and came to the window.

"Richard, you have dropped your gauntlet!"

Richard took up the fallen glove and stood aside that his father might
precede him through the window.

"You first, dear lad!"  So Richard stepped forth into the cool night
but drew something very stealthily from his pocket and, turning to
close the window after his father contrived to drop that something into
the room.

"Never mind the window, Richard,--come!"

And so, swift, silent and mute, more like flitting shades than living
men, they went together--away through the deepening shadows....

But in the great, silent house behind them, after some while, was sound
of somewhat unsteady footsteps and a voice, a little uncertain,
crooning a song; and the words these:

  "_Oh--the best of all ways
  For to lengthen our days
  Is to steal a few hours from the night, boys._"


Then the door of that death chamber swung open and Lord Iford stood on
the threshold, slim, elegant and slightly drunk as usual.

"Aha--lights!" quoth he.  "You're not yet in bed then, worthy sire?
Good!  For 'the best of all ways to lengthen our days is----'" the
crooning voice was suddenly dumb, the lounging, swaying figure
steadied, grew tense and utterly still.  Then, very deliberately, Lord
Iford stepped into the room, slowly he approached and standing above
that awful, sprawling shape, looked down into the large,
blood-spattered visage with strangely impersonal curiosity.  Now as he
stood lost in this cold and passionless contemplation he seemed, in
some indefinable manner, to take on size and stature.  And presently,
his golden head still down bent, his blue eyes still fixed in this same
terrible, wholly untroubled scrutiny, he addressed this ghastly thing,
speaking in gentle monotone:

"So, my lord, there you are at last!  The death you have invited so
frequently and merited so long, has you at last!  A violent, ugly death
and yet--very swift ... in a moment of time!  Yet my little mother, the
gentle creature you killed,--died slowly ... inch by inch ... through
long, weary years ... and you--in an instant!  So mercifully!  Is this
justice?  I wonder!"  He shivered suddenly and the guttering candles
flickered in sudden breath of night-wind through the open window and
glancing thither, he beheld that which lay there, and crossing the
floor with soundless, unhurried steps, he picked up a handkerchief and
saw in one corner, deftly embroidered the initials R.V.

With this in his hand Lord Iford came back to stare down again into the
marred face and at the contorted form with keen, questioning eyes as if
the dead might yet tell him something.  Then he sank upon his knee and
in the same emotionless, deliberate way, grasped the stiffening arm,
jerked it, pulled it until from beneath that inert bulk he had drawn
the clenched right hand; then with soft yet fierce imprecation he
glanced up and round about this silent death chamber with eyes that,
questing to and fro, held a wild and fearful horror at last, as,
muttering savagely, he drew from these dead, clutching fingers
something that he stared at with the same fearful horror, something
that he folded as it had been some holy relic and thrust into his bosom.

Then uttering whispered yet frightful imprecation, he leapt up and for
a moment seemed as he would stamp and trample the dead beneath
vengeful, merciless feet; instead, he crossed to the door, softly
closed it, locked it and removing his tight-fitting coat, became very
dreadfully busy.

And when this work was accomplished to his entire satisfaction, Lord
Iford donned his coat, adjusted hair and cravat delicately before a
mirror and unlocking and opening the door, tugged at that bell which,
as he knew, rang in Jasper Clipsby's bedroom.  After no great lapse of
time, his quick ears caught the faint shuffle of approaching feet,
fingers tapped softly on the half-open door, then Lord Iford spoke:

"Come in, Clipsby, my father is dead!  See here, man, see here!"

A strangled, wailing cry, and the shape that had entered the room so
quietly, shrank back and back to the panelled wall and crouched there
dumb and with starting eyes fixed and glaring.

"Shocks you does it, Clipsby?  And no wonder!  Pretty ghastly!  Slumped
in the chair so--and still at his wine!  And the pistol--see where it
dropped from his dying fingers,--here beneath his dangling hand....
Look, and the rug beneath his chair--soaked!  Must have done it an hour
ago at least, eh, Clipsby?  Last man in the world to have killed
himself, eh Clipsby?  Suicide!  Amazing!  Wake the servants!  Rouse the
house!  Suicide--eh, Clipsby?  Astonishing!  Stir, man, stir!"




CHAPTER XIII

CONCERNS ITSELF WITH A HUSBAND--AND A WIFE

They had reached home, the father and son; they stood fronting each
other in the dim light of the single candle Richard had lit at the
dying fire, and surely never did candle show two more haggard, careworn
faces.

"Oh, Father," whispered Richard at last, "it is awful to think ... of
it lying there ... waiting to be found."

"Richard ... Richard," gasped Sir Peter, covering his face, "it is more
awful to think of the consequences to ... my dear son!  Though an
accident yet the world will call it ... murder.  And all my hopes for
you ...  my dreams ... Oh God help....  God teach me how to save him
... my boy ... my son!"  The stately form was bowed, shaken by wild
passion of grief, through those clutching fingers tears fell sparkling;
and in this dreadful moment Richard saw this austere father of his with
a new vision, and feeling the deep sanctity of the kinship that knit
them, clasped this father that had so awed him hitherto, hugged him in
quick, yearning arms and, agonized with filial love and pity, strove
desperately to soothe and comfort.

"Father ... dear Father, I never dreamed you could love me so ... never
dared think it----"

"Seemed I so remote then, boy?  It is sometimes a pain to show my
feelings ... yet you might have guessed!  I would give my life for you,
Richard."

"I know it now, Father, oh I know it.  I've grown a man to-night....
And in that ghastly moment you bade me ... call you 'Father'!  This
memory will keep me strong....  And, Father, for your comfort, believe
me no vile ... intentional murderer.  Think the best of me.  Oh,
believe that I ... I am to do what you would do ... trying, before God,
to be worthy of you and my dear ... mother."

"Ah--your Mother!" gasped Sir Peter.  "How shall I tell her?  What
shall I tell her?"

"Everything, Father.  Or shall I?  Shall we go up to her--now?"

"No, let her sleep.  We will tell her to-morrow ... in the morning.
Get to your bed now, Richard, to bed and try to sleep--go!"

"Yes, but you, Father?"

"I shall sit here awhile.  Go to bed, dear lad, I want to be alone."

Long after Richard had stolen obediently away, Sir Peter sat miserably
crouched in his great elbow-chair, his haggard eyes staring down at the
dying fire, seeing in its fading embers grievous pictures of unimagined
evils: the bitterness of shattered hopes and broken dreams ... the son,
of whom he had been so proud and expected so much, an outcast fugitive
creeping furtive through the hopeless years ... his bright prospects
all blighted, the future a blank....  There could be no Sir Richard
Vibart to carry on the name, living to fuller, greater purpose than
ever had Sir Peter ... no, Richard must creep away, be smuggled out of
the country....  His boy an outcast!  His only son a wretched fugitive
from the iron hand of Justice!  To such agony as this death were a joy!

A clock ticked loud in the stillness; a small night-wind sighed
mournfully; the solitary candle made of the wide chamber a cold and
shadowy desolation, but still the forlorn shape huddled in the great
elbow-chair, moved not, the haggard eyes gazed steadfastly at the grey
ashes of the dead fire while, for this grieving father, Hope, that
thrice blessed Spirit, very nearly died too.

  But

in this moment of black despair came sweet and merciful respite.  A
door opened softly, small slippers brushed the carpet, trailing
draperies whispered--and so came Charmian.  Her face in its small,
coquettishly-belaced night-cap, was rosy with sleep, her deep eyes
slumberous as, pausing beside his chair, she yawned behind a finger,
then:

"Goodness--me!" she exclaimed.  "So cold, Peter!  So lonely!  And the
dratted fire out, of course!  I woke up and was lonely, so I came to
find you and now----" she yawned again and as she did so, Sir Peter
slowly lifted heavy head and looked at her....  My lady's teeth snapped
the yawn in two (as it were) and she was down before him on her knees,
had gathered him to the comfort and shelter of her arms.

"My love ... dear husband!" she murmured.  "What is it?  To sit here
and agonize all alone!  How dare you?  What grieves you so, my
Peter,--there, there now,--tell me!"

And with face hidden against her fragrant loveliness, he told her.

And when the dreadful tale was ended, they clung together for a while,
neither speaking.

"Dead!" she whispered at last.  "The Earl dead ... and so dreadfully!"

"By accident, Charmian!  It was an accident ... but ... by Richard's
hand ... our Richard!" groaned Sir Peter, lifting his head wearily and
sinking back in the chair.

"By ... Richard's hand!" she repeated, folding her arms on Sir Peter's
knees and looking up into his face with eyes troubled as his own.  "Our
Richard!  Are you sure ... quite sure?"

"He told me so himself!"

"Where is he?"

"I sent him to bed."

"Poor boy, he is better there!  Peter, did you hear the shot?"

"No."

"And yet, oh, my dear, you look as if that shot might kill you too, you
look so wounded, dear heart ... hurt."

"I am, my Charmian.  He was my son, my hope...."

"And is still, Peter."

"My son, yes.  God help him!"

"Peter, I want you to tell me all over again.  I want you to describe
exactly what you saw when you entered that awful room."

"No, no, it was too ... horrible!"

"Please!  You must, Peter, you shall!  I insist!  Every single thing
... everything, no matter how trivial it may seem.  Now--tell me!"

Sir Peter raised hand to furrowed brow and seeing how pitifully this
strong hand trembled, she could have wept but would not.

"Peter, tell me!  You must!"

And so, presently, Sir Peter obeyed her, of course.

"The Earl was lying on his back ... in a strangely contorted
attitude----"

"Contorted how, Peter?"

"Very unnaturally ... with one arm twisted under him....  I don't quite
understand how he could have fallen so."

"Where was Richard?"

"Crouching over him ... staring down at him ... and the pistol in his
hand."

"Did he tell you he had shot the Earl, did he say he had shot him, and
how?"

"Yes ... no...."

"What do you mean, Peter?"

"That he ... suggested it."

"But didn't say so, positively?"

"No, not ... not positively."

"Can you remember his actual words?"

"No, I'm afraid not, I was too distressed."

"Then so far as you recollect he said the Earl threatened him, they
struggled for the pistol and it went off."

"Yes, Charmian."

"You didn't stay there long, of course?"

"No, I hurried our boy away."

"You heard no sound,--footsteps or voices?"

"Nothing."

"Were there any ... bloodstains on ... on Richard?"

"None that I could see."

"And then, as you told me at first, Peter, you left by the window.  Did
Richard seem greatly troubled?"

"Terribly!  Terribly!  He seemed sick, physically ill.  His looks were
wild, very desperate ... he even suggested ringing the bell to alarm
the house."

"Did he, Peter--oh, I wonder why!  That was madness unless, I wonder?"
Here, crouched against her husband's knees, she bowed her head and
seemed lost in deep and troublous perplexity.  And at the windows was a
pale glimmer that was dawn.

"So," she murmured, "he would have ... roused the house?  That means he
was willing to ... give himself up!  Oh, Peter!  Peter!  I've an idea!
If only my guess proves true--how we will thank God!"

"Why, Charmian ... my dearest, what----?"

"Hush, Peter!  Tell me, did our boy do anything else that seemed odd
... or strange?  Did he?"

"Why no.  To be sure he would have forgotten his hat, but considering
his state of mind----"

"His--hat, Peter?"

"Yes, dear.  I was hurrying him away----"

"And ... oh Peter ... he tried to leave his hat----"

"He was forgetting it, and no wonder, considering----"

"Yes, dear, yes!  What else did this son of ours leave?"

"Nothing.  Though I remember he dropped his glove.----"

"Then his glove!  Which you picked up?"

"No, I made him.  But----" Sir Peter gasped, and stared amazed for,
with gesture of joyous exultation, Charmian threw wide her shapely
arms, smiling up into her husband's sorrowful, careworn face with a
very glory in her eyes.

"Oh, my Richard, my darling!" she murmured.  "Smile, Peter, laugh,
rejoice, ah--thank God for our son!  No, no--I am not mad, only sure
that I'm right!  Yes, I know I'm right!  Kiss me, beloved husband,
stoop and let me kiss you for giving me such a son ... as brave and
self-sacrificing as his own father!  And look, look!  To prove I'm
right,--there's the dawn, a new day, Peter!  'Though sorrow endure for
a night yet joy cometh in the morning'--so kiss me, my blind, dear love
that must break his heart when he should rejoice,--kiss me, my poor,
sorrowful child, then let us go and wake our son and tell him we've
found him out."

"But ... but," stammered Sir Peter, "Oh, Charmian ... my dear, who ...
what----"

Then seating herself on her husband's knees, Charmian kissed his tired
eyes, smoothed and patted his thick, dark hair and, tenderly murmurous,
patiently explained:

"My own Peterman, in that awful day when your cousin Maurice lay
murdered in the Hollow and I nearly dead with fear, you took the pistol
from my hand and went out all alone to face shame and death for the
woman you loved.  But Heaven's mercy gave you back to me, and in time
God gave us a child that has grown into a man so like his dear father
that to-day he would do the same ... shielding the woman he loves with
his life, fronting disgrace and death because he loves as his noble
father loved before him.  So, husband, let us kneel and thank God for
our Richard."

"Then ... you mean ... he is innocent ... our Richard?"

"Why of course he is."

"He suggested ringing the bell to alarm the house.  He tried to leave
his hat and then his glove.  And why do you suppose--why?  Are these
the acts of terrified guilt?  No, Peter.  No.  Oh can't you see this
was to divert suspicion to himself ... to shield one dearer to him than
life!  I tell you our Richard is guiltless as yourself Peter.  I feel
it!  I know it!"

"Then, oh my Charmian, truly do I thank God with all my heart for him
and ... for you!  Oh, Charmian, how I adore you ... worship you."

"Ah, my dear," she retorted, laughing and crying together, "how sweetly
fulsome you are and oh--how I love it!"

"But," said Sir Peter, after a lapse, "if Dick is wilfully running such
terrible risk, why ... then----?"

"Ah yes," sighed my lady, "what ... oh what of our poor Rosemary?  For
she is ours now, Peterdear, ours to cherish....  Richard has made her
so."

"Yes!" sighed Sir Peter.  "So then I must go to her, now--at once,
Charmian."

"We will both go to her--after breakfast, dear heart, and bring her
back with us no matter what has----"

Charmian stopped suddenly, and both turned at sound of a rapping on the
window-pane; and thus they saw it was day, the sun's level beams making
a glory all about them.  They saw also a white head at the window, a
wrinkled face peering in at them.

"Why, it's Adam!  Whatever can he want, Peter?"

Together they arose and opened the window whereupon Adam, this ancient
man, Sir Peter's head-groom, and privileged by long years of service,
knuckled an eyebrow and looked from one to other, his old eyes very
wistful and anxious.

"Sir an' m' leddy," quoth he, holding out a letter, "I were to give ye
this my own self, an' I do 'ope as the dear lad, axing pardon, Master
Richard, aren't in no manner o' trouble like."  So he gave Sir Peter
the letter, watching with the same wistful anxiety while the parents
read together these hastily scrawled words:


"MY EVER LOVED MOTHER AND FATHER,

"He deserved worse death, but in this law-ridden country I think it
best, all things considered, to vanish, running away like any shameful
coward, and yet only to prove myself more worthily your son and in my
shame prouder than ever of my noble father and beloved mother.  And so,
my dears, believing that in your hearts you will have faith in me,
despite everything, to know that what is done, being done, what I do is
for the best, I am

"Now and always,
  "Your grateful, loving son
    "RICHARD."


"And here is proof beyond all doubting!" said Charmian, kissing this
hastily scribbled letter.

"Then ... Master Richard has gone, Adam?" enquired Sir Peter.

"Yes, sir.  Throwed a pebble up at me windy 'e did an' wuk me up."

"How long ago?"

"'Bout two ... three hour ago, afore peep o' day sir."

"Did he ride Saladin?"

"Ah no, sir,--went afoot 'e did.  Ay, an' wi' a stick and knapsack jest
the same as you done, sir, twenty-odd year ago.  You'll mind that
mornin', Sir Peter, peep o' day 'twere then, I mind, and you comes to
bid good-bye to your 'oss 'Wings' an' me.  Give ye a pipe I did, sir, a
nigger's-'ead pipe and sweet as a nut....  Didn't give nothing to
Master Dick, I didn't.  But, Lord, 'e give me no time for nowt.
'Adam,' says 'e, playful an' yet sad-like, 'Old Adam,' says 'e, 'give
this letter to my father and mother with your own 'and,' says
'e,--chucks it up to me through the windy an' then, 'Good-bye, Old
Adam,' says 'e, 'my love to everybody,' an' away 'e goes sir, an' the
world all dark, nary glimp o' dawn....  I do 'ope, sir an' ma'm,
as----"  Old Adam paused and glanced over bowed shoulder as borne to
them on the fresh sunny air came a rhythmic throb of approaching hoofs.
And presently up the stately avenue rode a horseman at sight of whom
Charmian shrank back, uttering a little cry while Sir Peter stepped
forth upon the terrace somewhat hastily, for this early visitor was
Lord Iford, himself as trim and debonair as the glossy steed he
bestrode; no sign upon his lordship of this so very fateful night.

"Good morning, Sir Peter!" said he, reining up and taking off his hat;
Sir Peter bowed.  "I came over thus early, sir, seeing you are our
nearest neighbour, to tell you that the Earl my father is dead.
Between the hours, as we judge, of eleven and twelve last night sir, he
committed suicide."

"Suicide!" murmured Sir Peter, his pale face shewing little of the
chaotic feelings that surged within him.  "My dear Iford ... you
surprise me."

"I am surprised myself, sir," answered his lordship, shaking his sleek,
blonde head, "many others will, I think, be surprised also, for my
father, sir, as I fancy you'll agree, was or seemed the very last
person in the world to murder--himself.  However the fact remains.  I
am on my way to acquaint Squire Golightly and Sir Percy Merrick----"

"Will you step in a while, Iford?"

"No, I thank you, sir, I'll be going....  Oh, by the way, sir, is
Richard about?"

"No."

"Then it doesn't matter, sir.  I merely wish to return something that I
fancy must be his property," and from his pocket Lord Iford drew a
handkerchief stained, here and there, with dreadful splotches.  "It is
marked R.V., Sir Peter, Richard's initials, of course.  Rather
gruesome, I fear," said he, placing the handkerchief on the broad
balustrade of the terrace.  "Yes, rather horrid!" he nodded; "I found
it beside my honoured sire's corpse.  Good morning, Sir Peter, pray my
humble regards to Lady Vibart!"  Then with graceful gesture of hat,
Lord Iford rode away, leaving Sir Peter staring down at that betraying
handkerchief with eyes of horror and face more haggard than ever.




CHAPTER XIV

TELLETH HOW RICHARD BEGAN HIS PILGRIMAGE

Huddled disconsolate upon a stile, Richard watched the sun rise upon a
creation new and strange, a world indeed that was for him a bleak
desolation, a place of so much dust and ashes.  Thus, although kindly
old Sol shot down beneficent rays to warm and comfort him in his bitter
solitude, he shivered unheeding; though the birds piped all about him,
gleeful as ever, their happy chorus served but to accentuate his
blasting grief....  Lost!  Lost--all lost!  A dreadful present and a
hopeless future, life itself an aimless weariness, a very curse ...
to-morrow and to-morrow, an endless, grey perspective
leading--nowhere....  Then why live?  Why stagger on, to no purpose,
with this hateful burden of life?  There were many ways and means....

But in this black hour of hopelessness and despair he remembered his
mother's teaching and so, being thus desperate, Richard bowed his
sorrowful young head and prayed.

Now though the Comfort of Prayer be diminished and somewhat out of
fashion in these bustling, brainy days yet, once upon a time, great and
mighty souls were wont to pray naturally as they breathed: A Man of
Sorrows by dusty highways, on lonely mountain-top and above a sleeping
city.  Cranmer amid the agony of searing flame.  Stern-souled,
single-hearted Cromwell, indomitable Oliver in the fore-front of the
battle, or kneeling amid the hush of a troubled, very reverent Commons,
these prayed with all their strong fervent souls and (of course) were
strengthened to endure and achieve, and, as History tells, very
mightily.

And so in this day-spring, this so troublous dawn, prayed young Richard
more earnestly than in all his brief and happy life,--imploring that he
be made strong and resolute to endure all things valiantly to the
bitter end, and that life might not prove a vain thing and empty....
And as such prayers (let doubt who will) can never go unanswered, as
witness: The Enduring Miracle of Calvary; the stark, almost incredible
heroism of the martyrs; the wonder of Dunbar fight and pre-eminence of
Oliver's statesmanship that made England the arbiter of Europe,--so
when Richard lifted his head the world seemed brighter, the kindly sun
warmer and his loneliness not so grievous, for when presently climbing
the stile, he plodded on again, there went beside him now the unseen
Angel of Hope.

It was as he paused on a tree-clad slope to look hence upon the little
hamlet sheltering snugly beneath the Down that from the woodlands
behind him stole a whistle very soft yet clear as note of blackbird, a
summons long familiar; therefore he turned and peering into the wood's
pleasant twilight called softly:

"Tom!  Oh, Tom lad, are you there?"

"Me own self, Mus' Dick!"  And from a thicket remote from where Richard
was looking, appeared the stalwart form of Tom Lethbridge.

"What are you doing hereabouts, Tom?"

"Well, sir, arter wot 'appened last night, I----"

"Ah,--you know of it, then?"

"Ay, summat, sir.  So I slips over to the Manor to find ee, an' when
Adam tells me as you'm off an' away, I guesses as mebbe you'll mek for
Lon'on an' by country ways, so I follered and, well--'ere I be."

"And what now, Tom?"

"Why now, sir, I be tekkin' sarvice wi' you, Mus' Dick."

"No no,--impossible!"

"Why then--you for Lon'on, me for Lon'on,--jest for comp'ny's sake,
sir."

"But I don't know that I shall go to London."

"Well, anywheres as you say'll soot me, sir.  Hows'ever, seein' as
things be as they be, I aren't a-goin' to let ee go alone, sir."

"Nonsense, man."

"Lookee now, Mus' Dick, you be lonesome and I be mortal lonesome
so--why not be lonesome together?  Come now, Mr. Richard sir, don't ee
go for to be 'arsh an' me sich a pore, friendless sort o' chap, don't
ee!"

"Well, first," signed Richard, sinking dejectedly upon the springy
turf, "sit down, Tom,--here beside me.  Now tell me what you know about
... last night ... anything ... all ... everything you chanced to ...
hear or see."

Tom, being seated, plucked a nodding scabious flower, chewed the stem,
stared at the sky, the wood behind them, the wide valley below,
anywhere but at anxious Richard who, growing impatient, questioned him
again:

"Confound it!  Can't you answer, Tom?  Speak, man, speak!  Did you hear
... see ... anything at Abbeymere last night, did you?"

"Ay ... I did, sir."

"Well, speak out, man!  Tell me--what was it you heard?"

"A shot, sir."

"The ... shot, Tom?"

"Ar!  The shot, your honour."

"Where were you, Tom?"

"Pretty nigh th' abbey ruins, sir."

"You could hardly have heard it from there."

"Ay, but I did, Mus' Richard, very plain,--it seemed to come from they
gashly ruins, it did."

"Impossible, Tom!  The Earl was ... was killed in the house ... the
library."

"Sir, it sounded to me like 'twere in they ruins."

"Well, I suppose sound travels far on such a still night."

"Mebbe, sir."

"And ... what did you ... see?"  Once again Tom stared at earth and sky
and chewed silently at the scabious stem so long that Richard, eyeing
his troubled face apprehensively put the question more directly:

"Did you see ... me, Tom?"

"Ar!  I did, your honour."

"What ... was I doing?"

"Sir, you was a-pulling sommat out o' th' earl's dead fingers."

"What was it, Tom?"

"Looked like a leddy's scarf, sir, a lacey fallal ... and very bloody
it were."

"Yes," murmured Richard, his wide gaze on the blue distance, "yes ...
it was ... horribly!  And so now, Tom, you are of course quite sure,
perfectly certain, that I killed the Earl!  You are absolutely certain
of this, eh Tom, eh?"

Tom drew the scabious from his mouth, looked at it and put it back
again; quoth he:

"Why, sir, if your honour says so, I be as sarten sure as ever you
could expect--

"Tom, what else did you see?"

"Nowt, sir."

"Sure?"

"Ar, Mus' Dick."

"Tom, look at me,--right in the eye, yes--so!  Now, why are you lying
to me?"  Tom shuffled uneasily, took put the scabious, shook his comely
head at it, growled inarticulately and threw it away.

"So then you saw ... her!  You saw Miss Ford also, Tom?"

"Which, sir, since you ax me so p'inted-like, I did."

"Where, man--where?"

"Mus' Dick, she come a-running out o' they ruins----"

"The old Abbey?  At such an hour?  Are you sure?"

"And sartin, sir."

"How was she, Tom?  How did she look?  How did she seem?"

"Fair desprit, sir.  She were a wringing 'er pretty 'ands ar,---an'
a-sobbin' fit to break a man's 'eart, sir!"

"Merciful God!" groaned Richard.  "My beloved Rosemary!  And you there,
Tom ... great heavens!  Didn't you try to help ... to comfort her?"

"Sir, she don't know me, an' I were mortal afeard to----"

"Afraid, y' fool?  Good God!  Why afraid and she ... so desolate."

"Mus' Dick, I were afeard she might jump into that theer gashly water
at sight o' me and drownd her purty self...."

Up leapt Richard to tramp back and forth in very transport of wild
anxiety and baffled love.

"My Rosemary..." he gasped, "oh, my poor, sweet girl ... my dear love!
Oh, God help her----"

"Amen, sir!" quoth Tom, rising also.  "And lookee, them was her very
words,--'God help me!' says she, 'Oh, God help me!' an' then sir, she
cried your name."

"My name?  Oh, my name!  Did she, Tom, did she?"

"Ar!  'Richard,' says she, 'Oh, Richard!' an' away she goes--running."

"Where, Tom, where?  Which way?"

"'Crost the park, sir, but I didn't see wheer."

"How was she dressed?  Had she a cloak?"

"Ar!  And a liddle bonnet.  Likewise a bundle."

"Was this before you saw me or after?"

"Arter, sir."

"And how long after the shot?"

"A matter o' ten minutes, I rackon."

"And what did you think of it all?"

"A precious lot, sir."

"But what, man, what?"

"Well, Mus' Dick, I thought as mebbe th' Earl 'ad been up to 'is dirty
tricks again, only this time 'e got more than 'e bargained for, at
last....  Ay, I thought as your young leddy----" here, meeting
Richard's wild, bright eye, Tom coughed and stood in silent
contemplation of the universe again.

"Well?" Richard demanded, "you thought and are thinking ... exactly
what, Tom?  And tell me truly--speak, man!"

"Why, Mus' Richard, I only be thinkin' that if you 'adn't told me as
'twas you shot--us knows oo, I'd ha' guessed as 'twas ... her, your
young ledd--Gorra-mitey!  ... Sir ... wot----" gasped Tom, reeling, for
Richard's powerful hands were twisted in his neckcloth.

"Fool ... fool ... damned rascal!" panted Richard, shaking him like a
madman.  "Never say it,--never dare to ... think it, or I'll be the ...
death o' you!  She's innocent ... d'ye hear?  I killed the beast, I ...
I ... d'ye understand?"

"Yes, yes ... sir, for God's sake----"  Richard loosed his strangling
hold and stepped back, clasped hands to temples, staring on gasping Tom
as if bewildered by his own ferocity.

"Did I ... hurt you, Tom?" he enquired, breathlessly.

"Purty nigh, sir.  An' me not never nowise meanin' no manner o' harm to
no one, your honour, lord love ee no!"

"But you said she was guilty of his ... vile blood ... my Rosemary, and
she is an angel, Tom, sacred and holy ... like my mother....  And
besides, I did it, y'fool, I killed him ... by accident, d'ye
understand?"

"Ay, I do, Mus' Richard, I sartin-sure-ly do!  Though, sir, I'm bold to
say as if this leddy, ay or ever your own mother 'ad done the deed it
were only wot a right, proper woman should ought to do ...
con-sidering!"

"Yes, Tom--yes, by God, that's true!  Certainly!  Killing may be
justifiable ... necessary ... laudable.  Even the Law itself admits as
much, I think.  And yet ... it might be reckoned murder, the law's so
damned involved and contradictory....  So, all things considered, it's
best that I killed him--remember this, Tom!  If I let you go with me
never forget that you are travelling with the Earl's ... accidental
killer.  You'll never forget this?"

"Not likely, sir!" quoth Tom, cherishing his throat.  "Lorramitey, I
aren't been treated so rough-like since----"

"Why then, Tom, if Providence be truly merciful and just, as I dare to
believe, we can only hope and trust, eh?"

"Ar, sir, that's the sperrit!  An' now--wot about a bite t' eat?"

"I'd forgotten all about food, Tom.  Anyhow, down in the village yonder
should be an inn."

"There be, sir,--the 'Seven Bells'."

"What village is that?"

"Jevin'ton, sir."

"Why, then, we'll eat there ... but the great question is where in the
world shall we make for to-day?"

"Well, Mus' Richard, I've heered a precious lot about Lon'on, d'ye see,
so why not Lon'on?"

"To be sure, Tom.  All suspected rogues and rascals run to hide in
London, and the longer I can evade capture the better ... yes, I think
London is the place for us.  Fifty odd miles, Tom ... say three days'
journey, or four, or five, or a week, it doesn't matter when we get
there.  By the way, how much money have you?"

"All on it, sir, bar ninepence."

"All of what?"

"All as you give me, sir, 'ere be four pound, nineteen shillin' and
fourpence.  And arl at your sarvice, sir."

"No, no, I have plenty--that is, I ought to have.  Let's see.  Here we
have ... thirteen pounds and a few shillings--good!  We're rich, Tom,
as tramping rogues go."

"Why then, sir, wot about a bit o' breakfus?"

"As you will, Tom.  I suppose I may as well eat," sighed Richard.  So
down the steep they trudged together.




CHAPTER XV

TELLETH OF DIVERS ADVENTURES BY THE WAY

Now in this little village of Jevington at the tavern of "Seven Bells"
they were so fortunate as to find a motherly landlady, herself bright
and buxom as the morning, who smiled such kindly greeting that woeful
Richard must needs contrive to smile also.

And after some while, lo--this cheery little inn was pervaded by a
fragrance most delectable, indeed an aggravation so deliciously
suggestive that Richard, though deep sunk in wistful-yearning
meditation, presently lifted his head and, being so altogether human,
sniffed.

"'Am, sir!" nodded Tom.  "'Am, as ever was!"

"And, Tom ... by heavens ... coffee!"

And sure enough, after some while, in they came borne by the smiling
hostess--a generous pot of fragrant coffee, savoury gammon rashers
couched amid a glory of golden-yolked eggs, with a cottage loaf
(crusty) and yellow butter (adequate).

Then seated beside a sunny lattice that opened on a garden where
flowers bloomed, they ate and they drank with hearty appetite.

And when at last they rose to depart, because money alone is poor
recompense for such meal and such kindly service, Richard stood
bareheaded to thank his buxom hostess so fervently that she flushed,
her motherly face took on a new tenderness and she paused in the
doorway to bid them God speed and watch a little wistfully as they
strode away out of her life and down the tree-shaded road, shoulder to
shoulder, master and man, like the old comrades and vigorous, young
athletes they were.

"And now for Lon'on, eh, sir?" questioned Tom.

"Well, I'm not so sure," sighed Richard.  "London is so exactly the
place where I shall be expected to make for ... and yet if not to
London where the devil shall we go?"  This question was still in debate
when it was settled in the following unexpected manner.

They were following a narrow and very tortuous lane when from somewhere
before them rose a desolate wailing with breathless, agonized
supplications lost in a sudden, fierce clamour of harsh voices; and
thitherward Richard began to run with Tom close on his heels.

Thus, presently rounding a sharp bend in the lane, they behold an old
woman crouched against a stile, her thin hands outstretched
beseechingly towards two rough-looking men, powerful fellows,
especially one, who, scowling truculently on Richard, advanced a slow
pace, twirling a formidable bludgeon in very blood-thirsty fashion.

"'Op it, young cock!" quoth he, grimly.  "'Op out o' this afore I
ruffles your fine feathers!  Get on, now!"

But, leaning on his stick, Richard fronted the speaker's menacing look
with look equally threatening then, glancing at the trembling old dame,
took off his hat with something of that stately dignity he had
inherited from his father.

"Pray, madam," he enquired, "how have these nasty ruffians troubled
you?"  The old creature forgot terror sufficiently to drop him a
hurried curtsey as she answered:

"Oh, sir, they've took my bundle,--there it lays!  They've took my
purse wi' twenty-nine shillins and eightpence three fardens,--he's got
it!"  And she pointed valiantly at the taller and more threatening of
her assailants, who instantly roared ferociously:

"You'm an old liar!  You shut your trap or----"

"Hold your vile tongue!" cried Richard as fiercely.  "Now, do you
return her money or shall we make you?"

"She's flamming, d'ye hear?" growled the man sullenly.  "An' wot's
more, it's no consarn o' yourn, so 'op it afore ye get summat as ye
can't eat nor yet drink."

"Which, Mus' Dick, I reckon that'll be about enough, eh?" enquired Tom
with a comforting eagerness.

"Oh, quite!" murmured Richard, settling his hat more firmly, "watch
your man for an opening, Tom, and remember your left."  Then, even as
he spoke, Richard leapt to instant action and in this little, pleasant
lane was fury of sudden, vicious combat.

And--lo and behold!  Richard's eyes shone bright and joyous, for
Sorrow's dismal phantom, this grisly spectre of corroding anxiety and
dark despair, was banished by the strong spirit of Selfless Purpose
and, thus, adventuring himself in another's cause, his own grievous
heartache was eased in blessed forgetfulness a while.

Richard's opponent proved ferocious as he looked, and came to battle
like one accustomed to victory and therefore supremely confident.  Thus
for some time was shift and trample of quick feet with thud of hearty
blows and, now and then, rattle of wood on wood, Richard's ash stick
and Tom's heavy cudgel against murderous, knotted bludgeons.  But then
besides stick, Richard possessed a fist that had already won him some
fame, therefore he trusted more to this, Nature's weapon, and presently
espying an opening for it as his man rushed, he parried vicious
bludgeon-stroke with his stick and drove in a flush counter to the
fellow's bristly chin with such fine accuracy and power that the man
checked, reeled and sat down with such extreme violence that the
bludgeon shot from his grasp and he remained seated, face in hands,
whimpering curses.  Then Richard stepped back and saw that Tom, astride
his fallen antagonist, had him fast by the ears and was bouncing his
shock head upon the sward.  Quoth Richard, a little breathlessly:

"Don't ... kill the brute, Tom."

"Why then, sir," answered Tom, also breathing hard, "what shall I ...
do wi' un?"

"Let him up ... to begin with."  Forthwith Tom arose and kicked his
vanquished foe a-foot, who, leaping into the hedge, regardless of
scratches, burst through and made off at speed, howling obscenities.
His fellow, thus deserted, groaned and nursing battered chin in one
hand, with the other drew forth the stolen purse and tendered it to the
pale-faced old woman.

"Is your money all there, ma'm?" enquired Richard.

"Yes, sir, oh yes ... and thank you kindly."

"Even those three farthings?"

"Yes, sir, here they be."

"And are you going far?"

"All the way to London, sir.  I be a-going to ketch the Mail at the
cross-roads."

"Why, then, we'll see you safely on board."

Then Richard took her arm and Tom her bundle and on they went together,
the old dame trudging sturdily between them, but suddenly she turned to
glance back where Richard's late antagonist still sat to cherish his
stubbly chin.

"Lor' sir," she whispered, "I do 'ope as you 'aven't hurt him too much."

"No no, only shaken him a trifle."

"And him so very big an' all!  You must be mighty strong, young sir....
Oh dearie me!  Sech dreadful doin's I never see."

"Then forget all about it, ma'm, and talk of nice things."

"Well, sir, I wants to thank you an' your friend from the bottom o' my
poor, old 'eart and I be Marthy West, sir, and lives at Cranbrook."

"Cranbrook!" repeated Richard.  "Of course----"

"Though most folks do call me 'granny' sir.  And I be a-goin' to see my
darter Betty in London, ye see Betty be expectin' sir."

"Indeed?  Pray what----"

"Yes, sir, Betty do 'ope as 'twill be a gell, but I've set my old 'eart
on a boy.  I allus wanted a little son, but the good Lord ever see fit
to make 'em gells, two on 'em as lived and one as died ... teethin',
sir ... convulsions!  Oh, my!  'Tis crool 'ard wot babbies is called
upon to suffer all along o' teeth, rashes, fevers, convulsions--ah,
I've knowed 'em go blue in the face an' stiff as a board, poor mites!
And what do ee say to that, sir."

"Well, it seems a pity they can't be born with teeth and----"

"Lordy no, sir!  Oh no, that wouldn't never do!  Jest think o' their
poor mothers when----"

"Yes, yes," said Richard, rather hastily, "of course.  I was
forgetting----"

"'Tis easy to see as you aren't never been a father--yet, young sir.
No, but you beant a married gen'leman, I think."

"No!" answered Richard.  "No, ma'm ... and never shall be ... now!"
Here he sighed so very woefully that the kindly old creature reached
him a comforting hand to pat and stroke his coat-sleeve.

"There, there," she murmured, smiling up into his sad young face,
"things can't never go contrary all the time, it aren't nat'ral.
There's black night, but there's sunny morn, sir, there's rain and
shine for all on us, so don't ee grieve now, don't ee!  There's my
darter, Bet, she loved an' thought she'd lost all along of a gulley
knife.  Ye see, she give 'er 'eart to a Bow Street Constable as got
'isself stabbed in London,--they thought as 'e'd die, but not 'im,
sir,--got well an' married 'er, 'e did an' the finest pair o' whiskers
you ever see an' now she's expectin', as I told ee.  Ye see, if there
be clouds to-day there'll be sunshine to-morrer or the day arter!  Mrs.
Natty Sling she be now, my darter Betty, lives in Gray's Inn Lane an' a
fine, hairy hattic to spare, so if you ever goes to London, sir, you
couldn't do no better than by my darter Bet--ten shillings a week an'
all found, sir."

"And sounds extremely reasonable, Mrs. West."

"Well, sir, there be cheaper places, but you looks sech a nice, kind
young gen'leman ... an' my Bet be a rare good cook ... Sigsby's Court,
Gray's Inn Lane, sir."

"Thank you, I'll remember----"

"'Adn't you better write it down, sir?"

"Mrs. West, I haven't the wherewithal----"

"Well, I got a old Testament with it wrote down in my bundle, sir ...
ye see good lodgers be 'ard to come by, and you looks sech a fine,
proper young gen'leman."

"And yonder comes the mail, ma'm!" said Tom, pointing to a rolling
dust-cloud afar that swept rapidly nearer until they could descry the
four galloping horses, the gleam and glitter of the smart, oncoming
vehicle and to them stole the cheery notes of the horn.

Swiftly it approached, hoofs clattering, harness jingling, wheels
rumbling until, obedient to the summons of Richard's flourished stick,
the rosy-faced coachman eased his animals to a trot, an amble, and
stopped.  Then down sprang the guard to let fall the steps and whisk
open the door.

"How much to London?" enquired Richard.

"Honly fifteen bob--to you, my lord!" grinned the guard, whereupon and
disregarding old Mrs. West's timid remonstrances, Richard paid while
Tom aided her into the coach and passed up her bundle, whereupon she
thanked them breathlessly, seemed to wrestle violently with her bundle
and leaning from the window, thrust a small book into Richard's hand.

"Lodgin's ... me darter Bet!" she cried.  "An' I'll be there, young
sir, so if you gets to London an' feels lonesome or down-'earted Granny
West 'll make ye welcome."

"All right behind!" shouted the guard; the coachman's long whip
cracked, the four eager horses stamped, tossed their heads and--away
went the London Mail, horn tooting and Mrs. West's rosy old face
smiling back at them from the open window.

"Sir," quoth Tom, gazing after the speeding vehicle very wistfully,
"I'm a wondering why us didn't go along wi' it?"

"Because we are for Sissinghurst, Tom ... yes--to Sissinghurst this
very day."

"Very good, sir," answered Tom, and lengthening his stride to Richard's
began to whistle softly between his teeth.  So on they went again at
great pace until Richard halted suddenly and with such wild, despairing
look and gesture that Tom fell back a step, wondering and anxious.

"Lordy sir,--wot now?" he enquired.

"Tom ... oh Tom, where is she?  This damnable suspense is driving me
frantic!  How is she?  Is she safe, d'ye think?  Is she well?  Oh God,
if only I knew just where she is ... now ... at this moment!"

"Why, sir, if she aren't at Abbeymere, which I don't think, then I
reckon she'll be safe wi' her own folk."

"I pray to Heaven she is!" groaned Richard.  "And I will know this,
to-day....  But if she's not at Sissinghurst then by God I'll find her,
Tom, I'll find her if it takes the rest of my life....  Come on!  And
step out, man!"

And now they went at greater speed than ever, seldom exchanging a word,
Richard's face so grim and careworn that Tom ventured word of comfort.

"Lookee now, Must' Dick, worritin' killed a cat and never done no man
no manner o' good nowhen.  And, sir, yonder be a snuggish tavern so wot
about a pint of old?  There be a mort o' comfort in ale ... brewed
strong!"

"Damme no!  I can't drink, man.  How the devil can I sit guzzling ale
and she--lost ... grieving....  Good God, she may be sick, Tom!  She
may be dead----"

"Not she, sir--not she, no!" quoth Tom, sturdily.  "She aren't got the
looks of a die-er nor no sech thing nohow.  She be a lady o' Johnny
Bull sperrit, never-say-die and very determinated.  Grievin' she may
be, same as your honour, but not sick, nor yet dead, an' you can lay to
that, sir, likewise I'll tak' me oath!"

"God bless you, Tom lad!  Yes, she is brave and fine and strong,--I'm a
fool to doubt it....  And if you say ale--have with you, Tom."

So they turned aside towards a little tavern that, as Tom had said, was
snug, being couched behind spreading trees that afforded pleasant shade
whence its small, latticed windows winked, seductively jovial, on the
hot and thirsty wayfarer; moreover close beside the wide portal stood a
roomy settle, hard yet inviting and hereupon sank woeful Richard to
stare before him with lacklustre eyes until came Tom bearing a
foam-topped flagon in either hand.  Then having silently pledged each
other, they drank deep of the noble home-brew; but thereafter Richard
still gazed wide-eyed at nothing in particular with the same dull stare
and Tom on him, and more apprehensively than ever, when there issued
from the open window of the tap-room immediately behind them, three
voices in sudden altercation; and one voice was loud and harsh, one
pipingly shrill and the third hoarsely placatory; and the talk went
something on this wise:


_Harsh Voice_: Wrong, hey?  And who'll tell me as it's wrong, I'd like
to know?

_Placatory Voice_: Nobuddy, Mr. Sturgis, sir, nary a living soul----

_Piping Voice_: (Fiercely shrill.) Only me!  An' I says as it be sinful
shame, I do!

_Harsh Voice_: Who's him, landlord Titus, who?

_Placatory Voice_: Nobuddy, Mr. Sturgis, sir, only ol' Jarge Pollard, a
very hold, naun-account chap--

_Piping Voice_: Ay, I be old, Titus lad, but only ten year agone I
could ha' took an' shook an' throwed ee over my 'ead, or anyone else as
so needed!

_Harsh Voice_: And I repeat--if tenant o' mine don't pay his rent, out
that tenant goes baggage and bag, crop and neck,--'tis law, 'tis
justice----

_Piping Voice_: An' sinful, black shame!  To throw ol' John Purvis out
o' his cottage, ol' John as fit wi' Nelson at Trafalgy Bay!  I say 'tis
shame--

_Harsh Voice_: Hold your curst tongue!

_Piping Voice_: I wunt!  Not me, no not for ee nor no one--

_Harsh Voice_: If Purvis won't pay----

_Piping Voice_: But 'e will pay so soon as 'is b'y Willyam gits back
from sea.

_Harsh Voice_: Tush!

_Piping Voice_: An' tush to y'self an' likewise blast your eyes!

_Placatory Voice_: Now, now--manners, old un, manners!

_Harsh Voice_: Turn him out, landlord, turn the old rapscallion out--or
I will.


It was at this juncture that Richard slowly lifted his head, then his
eye began to kindle, and glancing into the tap, he saw this last
speaker for a portly, blue-jowled personage who, large fist upraised,
scowled on a very small, puny, old man in a smock-frock, and spoke in
voice harsher than ever:

"See here, old Pollard, if ye don't and can't respect your betters, I'm
a-going to give ye one with this and then boot your shrivelled carcass
out into the road."

"No, no," sighed Richard, getting lightly afoot and leaning in at the
casement, "surely not, Mr. Sturgis?"

The portly man started violently, gaped at Richard, frowned, puffed out
his blue jowls, but before he could speak up piped puny though valiant
age:

"Not 'im, young maister!  Let 'im lay 'and on old Pollard an' I'll bend
my tankard agin his snout, I will!"

"And I venture to think, quite properly, Mr. Pollard," nodded Richard.
"But what did we hear about turning an old Trafalgar man out homeless?"

"This, sir, is none o' your business!" interposed Mr. Sturgis, angrily.

"It might be," retorted Richard.  "Please tell me who is turning one of
Nelson's old tars out of doors?"

"Me, since you ask!" bellowed Mr. Sturgis.  "I am!  And by law.  The
old villain owes me nigh a year's rent and----"

"How much is that, pray?"

"Three pund, fifteen shillings!  And what d'ye say now?"

"That is not a great sum, Mr. Sturgis."

"Oh?  No?  Ha!  Then--p'raps you'll pay it--hey?  And what d'ye say
now?"

"Yes!" sighed Richard, taking out his purse, whereat Mr. Sturgis gaped
again and with him now the aged George Pollard and round-faced landlord.

"Dannel--me!" piped the little old fellow with feeble flourish of
crutch-stick.  "But 'ere be one o' the quality, a true-blue gen'leman
an' noble as 'e do look!"

Meanwhile Richard counted out the sum in question at sight of which Mr.
Sturgis recoiled, threw out both large hands in disdainful repulsion
and shook his head violently.

"I can't take your money!" he bellowed.  "And I won't!  Not by any
manner o' means."

"Pray why not?"

"Because the matter is out o' my hands,--that's why."

"Oh!  But I suppose someone will take the money?"

"Ar!  I suppose they will."

"Then suppose also that you tell me who and where?"

"No!  Not me!  Find out!"

"Thank you, Mr. Sturgis!  I feel much inclined, but for the waste, to
throw my ale over you."

"Try it!" roared Mr. Sturgis in sudden ferocity.

"Go on--only just try it and see what----"  Here, Richard instantly
discharged what remained of his ale full into the speaker's passionate
face; ensued a moment of stunned silence, then gasping imprecations
lost in screech of piping laughter and up rose little old George
Pollard.

"Oh glory ... glory be!" he shrilled and began a strange stiff-legged
yet very impish dance while Mr. Sturgis, shocked and amazed beyond
speech, sat bowed in his chair watching the ale drip from himself very
much as though it had all happened to somebody else....

Then, with cheery good morning, Richard tossed the empty tankard to the
landlord who caught it very dexterously, and strode blithely upon his
way.

For behold!  Richard's eyes were bright, his step buoyant, his head
aloft, perceiving which Tom the watchful chuckled happily.

"Love me eyes!" quoth he.  "That there done me a power o' good, Must'
Dick."

"And me, Tom.  Indeed life might be rather wonderful ... highly
agreeable if ... if it weren't such positive curse and damnable
desolation.  Ha, better be dead!"

"Wot--again, sir?"

"Why, of course, y' fool!  How can life be anyway endurable without ...
Her?"

"But, sir, I seen you smile a moment ago when your ale ketched that
chap so sweet an' true in the----"

"Well, there can be brief lapses it seems, Tom,--even in such misery as
mine, thank God!"

"Amen, sir!" sighed faithful Tom, for though they walked briskly,
Richard's head was bowed again, his broad shoulders drooped in the old
dejection and he sighed so deep and oft that Tom once more essayed word
of comfort:

"But you beant nowise nothin' like dead yet, sir, an' if you'd only
drank a drop more o' that good ale----"

"Ale?" cried Richard, bitterly contemptuous.  "It's life that is my
trouble,---by God I'd end it but for my sweet mother and the shame it
would cause that father o' mine.  So I can't die, Tom, d'ye see, and
that's the peculiarly accursed part of it!"

"An' your Miss Rosemary, eh, sir?  Ye couldn't nohow leave 'er to face
things arl alone, I rackon."

"No,--no of course not, Tom, God bless her!  As I say, I must live on
somehow, anyhow ... a damned, dreary business!"  Here Richard's
mournful gaze, roving in woeful transport, lighted upon an aged man
crouched beside the way, a figure so utterly desolate that Richard,
instead of hurrying on blinded by his own deep sorrows, paused to
behold the grief of this solitary old wretch, who, snivelling, bowed
silvery head to hide the shame of his tears.  Said Richard, gently:

"You are, I think, perhaps John Purvis and one of Nelson's men."

Answered the old fellow without glancing up but making his voice hearty
as possible:

"Ay, ay, sir!  Bully-sawyer, seventy-four.  Cap'n o' the maintop,
that's me ... years and years ago."

"Then, friend John, will you please shake hands?"

Slowly, and still without looking up, the old Jack-tar reached forth a
gnarled and bony hand--to have it clasped in such warm, such friendly
and vital grip that, clean forgetting shame, he lifted battle-scarred,
tear-wet face and beholding the ageless Spirit of Comradeship in the
bright, young eyes above him, choked back his grief and contrived to
smile and touch hoary eyebrow.

"Cheer up, old Heart of Oak!" quoth Richard, a little hoarsely.  "Never
say die!"

"Shiver and sink me, sir," said the old Mariner, sniffing, "ah, scuttle
me if ye don't make me feel younger!  Though here's me all took aback
by the wind o' misfortun' and a-piping me eye like any babby!  Ye see,
sir, I be all adrift, which be pretty bad, but it ain't that as goes to
my very 'eart.  I be dismasted ... a sheer hulk a-rollin' to the seas
an' no safe anchorage left me, but it ain't that neither as is
a-breakin' up my old timbers so fast, no--it ain't that."

"Then what is it, John?  Pray tell me your troubles," said Richard
sitting down on one side of him, whereat Tom instantly sat down on the
other.  "Now, friend John, let us hear."

"Why then, sir," sighed the old Tar, shaking his battered head very
mournfully, "it be my old bottle-ship, that's what."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"'Tis a liddle line-o-battle-ship, sir, in a rum-bottle as was made for
me by my oldest son, Wat, as was lost at sea years an' years ago.  And
they be a-going to sell it along o' my other bits o' furnitur' ... in a
hower."

"An hour," nodded Richard, "then we've plenty of time.  And what do you
say about all this, Tom?"

"Why, your honour, I says, first of arl--a pint of old."

"Excellent!" quoth Richard, tucking the old sailor's arm within his
own.  "How about a pint of ale, John?"

"With all my 'eart, sir, and thankee.  And Ben Travis do sell mighty
good stuff at the 'Bell' sir, just abaft the church.  Ye see Ben was a
sailor-man once, sir."

"Then to Ben we will go."

So up they rose forthwith and soon had reached a pleasant village green
shady with trees and set about by thatched cottages, with a grey church
at one end and almost in the shadow of its hoary tower, a neat, very
inviting inn.

And here, seated together in the comforting sunshine they drank the
nappy ale in company with Ben himself, a hoarse-voiced, cheery soul who
hitched at belt and rolled in his gait like the veritable old sea-dog
he was.

"Ye see, sir," Ben whispered, shaking grizzled head, "old Johnny were
R'yal Navy and werry smart too,--all for glory an' precious little pay,
and I were only Merchant Sarvice wi' little o' glory but a sight better
pay and so now,--well 'ere's me in snug berth and pore old Johnny on a
lee shore,--a sheer hulk sir, and like to go to pieces and be a total
loss....  They be a-sellin' 'is bits o' stuff yonder,--for rent."

"So I see!" nodded Richard.  "But has he no friends willing to help?"

"Ay that 'e 'ave, sir, but no one dassent help old Johnny--not wi'
money, and 'tis money 'e wants--bad!"

"So he prefers to be sold up, does he, Ben?"

"Ay, sir.  But nobody won't buy, 'cept mebbe strangers but none o' the
village folk, I'll lay."

"Well, I am a stranger," said Richard, smiling, then he rose
unobtrusively and crossed the green to where, before a very little
cottage indeed, divers articles of furniture were being set forth, to
the sullen gaze of a small, dumb crowd by a round, perspiring man in
shirt-sleeves.

And when he had watched this man labour thus a while, Richard spoke:

"I don't see it."

"See what, sir?" enquired the man, quick to heed Richard's air and the
excellent style and cut of his garments.  "What is your honour
a-looking for?"

"The bottle-ship."'

"Bottle-ship?" repeated the man, scratching his ear.  "Aha, you mean a
little, old ship in a rum-bottle,--a model,--it's a-waiting on the
mantel-shelf now.  I'll fetch it if you've a mind to bid?"

"I have," said Richard.

"Though the sale ain't timed to begin for a bit----"

"Well, an' why not?" demanded a bony man in leather gaiters, divers
other garments--and a pair of large, extremely wiry whiskers.  "I'm
a-goin' to buy that theer hoak cheer wi' the harms an' anything else I
fancies.  So let's get at it an' be done."

At this, the little crowd of villagers eyed the speaker very much
askance; voices muttered: 'A stranger, dannel 'im!  A danged furriner.'
And a sad-faced man in a smock frock demanded plaintively of the world
in general:

"Oo's His Whiskers?"  But the person in shirt-sleeves, who proved to be
the auctioneer, rubbed his hands and beamed: "Why, very well, good
folks," cried he, "us might begin early as late."

"And first the bottle-ship," said Richard.

"No!" quoth His Whiskers.  "That theer harm-cheer.  I got a long way to
go----"

"But I spoke first," said Richard, "so first--the bottle-ship."

"And that's right, sir, and fair is fair," quoth the auctioneer and
bolting into the cottage, instantly reappeared bearing aloft an
ordinary rum-bottle wherein, and very wondrous to behold, was the
perfect model of a three-decker, which gallant vessel ploughed a
somewhat lumpy sea, but with every stitch of canvas set, and drawing,
alow and aloft and, all things considered, making very good weather of
it.

"And here we are!" chanted the auctioneer.  "A curio of the
curiousest--look at it, ladies and gentlemen!  A ship!  In a bottle!
Wi' three masts, sails set and all complete and--in a bottle!  Look at
them masts!  Behold that foaming main!  Hold it to your ear and them
waves'll roar at you in fashion life-like!  How much for this rarity?
Shall we say ten shillings?  Shall we say five?  Shall we----"

"Tuppence!" growled His Whiskers.

"Thrippence!" piped a shock-headed urchin.

"Sixpence!" murmured a woman from the folds of a shawl.

"Sevenpence, then!" quoth His Whiskers.

"A shillun!" moaned the sad-faced man.

"Oh--eighteen pence!" growled His Whiskers.

"That's better!" sang the auctioneer.  "Eighteen pence I'm offered for
this curious rarity, eighteen pence!  And you, sir, you as asked for it
put up first, what d'ye say?"

"Three pounds fifteen shillings," said Richard, taking out his purse.
At this was a moment of breathless silence ... then a woman's soft
murmur.

"Oh, God bless 'ee, sir, 'tis the very sum...."  Then cried the
auctioneer:

"Eh, sir?  What, sir?  Three pun, fifteen for this rare and
curious--done, sir, done!  And that ends the sale, ladies and
gentlemen--I thank ye!"

The sad-faced man lifted a pitch-fork he happened to be holding and
sighed "Hu-roor!"  The crowd instantly took up the cry and cheered,
while Richard, somewhat red in the face, hastened into the cottage
after the auctioneer.

"Hey--wot about that theer hoak cheer?" demanded His Whiskers, scowling
in on them, his whiskers stiffer than ever.

"Sale's over!  Good morning!" snapped the auctioneer busied with pen
and ink.

And presently Richard (his own woes clean out of mind) recrossed the
green, bottle-ship beneath his arm.  Beckoning landlord Ben aside he
thrust upon him this bottled rarity together with receipt.

"Eh?  Wot?  Well, drownd me!" exclaimed Ben, staring.  "Choke and
drownd me if I ever see the likes o'----"

"Good-bye!" said Richard, shaking the amazed landlord's hand.  "Please
tell my man to follow."  And off he went at good round pace.

But presently behind him was the quick tapping of a stick, the sound of
hurrying feet and a quavering hail:

"Oho, young master, belay!  Avast sir, haul y'r wind and lemme come
alongside."  So perforce Richard stopped, turned, and saw old John
labouring after him aided by Tom's lusty arm.  Being come up, the old
Jack-tar stood to get his breath, mopped at his scarred, old visage and
finally spoke.

"God love your honour!  All as I can say is as you should ought to be
cap'n of a seventy-four.  Sir, I can't thankee proper ... theer ain't
no words for it.  So will ee kindly tak' this 'ere--please!" and from
bosom of faded, old coat he drew the bottle-ship.  "Sir, 'tis the best
I can do ... all as I 'as to offer, so--will ee tak' it, please!"

"No, no," said Richard, patting him gently on bowed shoulder, "I should
only lose it, or break it.  Besides, I'm travelling light ... going
far.  So do you pray keep it for me..."

"Why then, sir," said the old sailor, standing upright as possible,
"axing your pardon but ... I can't tak' charity even from your honour,
me bein' one o' Lord Nelson's men an' cap'n o' the fore-top.  So will
ee please to gimme your name so I can pay ee back when my son comes
'ome again?  Will ee, please, sir?"

Then, because he recognised in this battered old tar a pride lofty as
his own, Richard gave him his card as he might to any other gentleman
... and presently went his way leaving old John, the Trafalgar man,
looking after him, the precious bottle-ship (that rarity) hugged to his
breast and his old, white head shining in the sun.




TO THE OBSERVANT (YET KINDLY) READER

Here pauseth your Narrator to view with no little apprehension the
prodigious length of this chapter Fifteen, the more so as it seriously
halts the action of this our narrative.  For it is generally agreed
that whoso hath story to tell should forthwith tell that story with all
the forceful directness possible.  Now (alas!) this Fifteenth Chapter
is neither direct nor forceful and (which is worse) has nothing
whatever to do with the plot, more especially this hateful business of
Lord Abbeymere's murder nor the resolving of its mystery (if mystery it
yet remain, of the which your Narrator hath his doubts).

But TRUE READERS (such as poor writers pray for) these that yield
themselves generously, heart and mind, to the glamour of written words,
such be of divers sorts; to some of these the characters shall prove
more interesting than the tale itself and their mental reactions
engrossing as any close-knit plot.  Therefore your so laborious
Narrator dares hope that this prolix account of forlorn, despondent
young Richard's wayside adventures may prove of some interest unto some
and perchance a little help to other distressed ones of us (more
especially in these troublous days) how by the proper adaption of that
right noble word SERVICE, the which is surely the losing of self in
zealous effort to ease the burdens of others, we may thereby find some
comfort and solace for our own.

In the which fervent hope your Narrator bendeth once more to his task.




CHAPTER XVI

REPEATETH, AND BOLDLY, SOME OF THE FAULTS OF CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It was mid-afternoon, very hot, with no breath of wind, and Richard,
seated beside the way, scowled from dusty road to dusty Tom and swore:

"Dammit, Tom!  Why don't you leave me?"

"Sir, it ain't and can't nowise be thought on."

"Then you're a poor fool, and--yes, by Jove, I'm another!"

"Agreed, sir!" sighed Tom, mournfully.  "For 'ere be us can't spit a
sixpence betwixt us and down th' 'ill yonder as neat an' pretty a
tavern as eye----"

"Tavern!" snarled Richard.  "Han't you any better thought than ale?"

"Not at this yere moment I ain't sir, being dry as a perishing bone and
purty sure as your honour be ditter."

"So I am!" groaned Richard.  "I'm devilish thirsty.  But what's it
matter?  She may be thirsty too ... hungry ... more weary than I ...
breaking her dear heart.  So if I'm thirsty and suffering--so much the
better."

"But, sir, I ax you--wot o' me?"

Richard, sighing, swore again.

"Ale, Mus' Dick!  Think on it!  In a tankard!  Wi' foam a-top----"

"Silence!" snarled Richard, fiercer than ever.  "Oh get off, leave
me,--go and guzzle!"  Tom sighed, shook his head, whistled a dismal
stave or so and strode away down the hill.

Now as, thus alone, Richard drooped, weary and dejected, there stole
upon his consciousness a small, pretty sound irresistibly alluring to
the ears of thirsty man, the soft, cool gurgle of running water, so
gently insistent and altogether provoking that up he started, and
following this murmurous enticement, found himself amid trees and
underbrush where flowed the little rill bubbling between ferny banks.
Down knelt he to assuage his thirst, but in that moment heard a clank
and jangle, and glancing up espied a woman, young and darkly handsome,
who grasped a heavy bucket and stared down at him from the other side
of the brook, and he noticed that one of her eyes was painfully swollen
and discoloured.

"Young man," said she, knitting fierce, black brows at him, "you stares
at this peeper o' mine, eh?"

"Yes, I fear I was," he answered lifting hat to her.

"'Fear' be the right word, young man.  I be's mortal afeard and so be
my Jacob?"

"Why are you afraid?"

"Along o' Smiling Smith, that's why.  'Twas Smiler as give me this eye
s'morning."

"But what was your Jacob doing?"

"Weaving a basket, young man.  And along comes Smiler and orders us
off, says as we're on his patch--though we ain't, for the road's free
for all as I up and tells 'im, and so 'e ups and gives me this black
eye 'e do!"

"Yes, but where on earth was Jacob?"

"Settin' 'pon the stool weaving a basket."

"Why wasn't he blacking the Smiler's eye or trying to?"

"Becos my Jacob he's nat'rally peaceful and no fightin' man."

"Rather a pity, considering your eye.  Who is Jacob?"

"My 'usband, sir, and too good for the likes o' me."

"Surely not!" quoth Richard.

"Oh but yes, young man, for I were born on the roads o' the Poor Folk,
but my Jacob comes o' the Quality ... very near.  Ye see his feyther
druv his own gig, so my Jacob, bein' quality and nat'rally gentle, 'tis
me as gen'rally does the fightin' when needful.  That's why I be
filling my biggest kittle ... ye see Smiler threatened to come back and
burn our tent, 's arternoon, so I'm agoing to try b'iling water, no
fighting man can stand b'iling water, eh, young man?"

"Hardly!" smiled Richard.  "And pray where is your Jacob?"

"Yonder, weavin' of a basket.  My Jacob can do anything wi' rush, osier
or peeled willer, mats, baskets, chairs--wonderful!  Will I show 'im to
you, young man?"

"Pray do,--first though, give me your bucket."

"Eh?  My bucket?"

"Yes.  I'll fill it for you."  So saying, Richard leapt the brook and
having filled the heavy bucket, motioned her to lead the way.

"But ... my bucket?"

"I'll carry it for you."

"Lord ... you ... carry it ... for me!  Lord, young man!"

Then she went on before but often glancing over buxom shoulder, now at
the bucket in Richard's powerful hand, now at his comely face in
ever-growing wonder.

"It don't seem nat'ral," she murmured, "no, it don't ... as you or any
man should carry ought for the likes o' me...."

In a pleasant glade where a small, lumpy horse grazed hard by a trim
caravan and little tent sat a man upon a three-legged cricket, weaving
a basket with quick, skilled fingers; he was a tallish, plumpish
fellow, rosily meek and diffident as his hay-like whiskers that
drooped, as it were, in abject humility as, beholding Richard, he rose
to pull off weather-beaten hat, blinking mild, blue eyes almost
apprehensively beneath Richard's stern gaze an bowing in instant
deference, he enquired in tone meek as his whiskers:

"What may I do for you, sir, if you please?"

"Not for me," answered Richard, setting down the bucket so suddenly
that it slopped, "not for me but your wife."

"Certainly, sir, if you'll allow me to ask--what?"

"Fight for her."

"Eh?  Fight, sir?  Lord ... you don't mean ... with you, sir?"

"No no!" said Richard, flushing, "I mean with this Smiling Smith or any
other blackguard that molests her.  Look at her eye!"

"Yes, sir, yes I'm a-looking.  Black it is, to be sure, and going
blacker."

"Well, aren't you ashamed?"

"No, thank you, sir, I'm only humbly grateful."

"Grateful?  What the devil for?"

"That it ain't any worse, sir."  Here from the caravan issued a lusty
wailing, whereat the woman incontinent vanished.

"Ha!  Then you have a child?" demanded Richard.

"Which I can't deny, sir, axing your pardon ... a gell, sir, if you
please, and pretty as a picture, golden curls and her mother's black
eyes,--I mean----"

"Black eyes?" snorted Richard.  "Why let any rogue black your wife's
eyes?  Don't you love her?"

"Oh, from the bottom o' my beating heart, sir."

"Then why not fight to protect her--and your child?"

"Because, sir, I ain't that kind o' man, being drove by a hard fate out
o' my proper spear, sir, you behold in me an anemone----"

"A what?"

"Sir ... I ain't this nor that nor yet what I seem.  I was born and
bred gentle, if you please, and should be with gentle folks, 'stead o'
mingling it with rough on the road.  So being born so very gentle I
can't fight, it ain't in me,--when things goes perverse, sir, I
swallers the pill, I bolts the leek, eats humble pie and kisses the rod
perpetual."

"And suppose this Smiler comes back and orders you off?"

"I shall pack up and go sir--prompt."

"And how if he should strike your wife again?"

"Then, sir, I expect as she'll strike him back."

"By heaven!  You're a poor sort of animal, I think."

"Yes, sir!" sighed the man Jacob, whiskers more meekly despondent than
ever.  "But then we're all animals, ain't we, sir?"

"Not such cowardly, contemptible animals to shield our own flesh behind
a woman's devotion."

"Cowardly?" repeated Jacob, raising his large, mild eyes to Richard's
scowling face, "humbly asking your pardon but--I ain't a coward
exactly, I ain't afraid o' being hurt, sir, it's only that I nat'rally
sings small and eats humble pie by instinct.  Besides, my Becky's
always done the battling, sir,--she's fierce enough for the two on us,
and me being a gentle creature----"

"Most creatures will fight to defend their mates and young, and a man
that won't is just a ... a thing!" said Richard with a look of such
bitter scorn that his hearer's mild eyes opened very wide and his
good-natured mouth gaped between whiskers that drooped now in very
uttermost dejection.

"A ... thing!" he murmured.  "Me?"

"A damned thing to permit your wife and child to be misused!  Won't you
fight for your helpless baby?"

At this question the man Jacob glanced towards the caravan and slowly
his round eyes closed to gleaming slits, then his mouth shut with a
snap so violent that his hay-like whiskers quivered and thereafter
almost bristled....  And then, before he might answer, was a sound of
wheels upon the unseen road, with mutter of voices lost in sudden,
bull-like roar:

"Oho, Mus' Richard!  Wheer be ee away to, Mus' Dick?"

"Who's yonder now?" sighed Jacob, rising from his stool.

"Only a friend of mine," answered Richard, then called in answer:
"Here, Tom!  This way!"

Plodding hoof-strokes, creak of wheels and into this peaceful seclusion
strode Tom bearing a quart bottle and closely followed by a squat,
hairy, fierce-eyed man in fur cap and velveteen smalls, a tall,
hook-nosed woman and a buck-toothed hobbledehoy leading a horse and
cart.

"Ale, sir!" quoth Tom, proffering the large bottle.  "And drink
hearty--"

"What, Jacob," cried the hairy fellow, his bearded visage split by an
ugly grin, "ain't you away yet?  Pack off now--you an' y'r mort an'
brat afore I kicks ye off,--get a'goin'----"

"She ain't a brat, Smiler, I mean, Mr. Smith----"

"Don't gimme no back-talk, you Jacob!" roared the Smiler.  "Clear out
afore I sets your tent afire!"

"Lord!" exclaimed Tom, clutching the ale to his bosom, "Wot's all this
'ere, Mus' Dick?"

"Be quiet and let's see," answered Richard, seating himself on the
stool while Tom very carefully set the ale behind an adjacent tree out
of harm's way.

"Are ye a-going?" bellowed the Smiler.

"Well, no we ain't," answered Jacob, meekly.  "And please don't go
calling my wedded wife a mort----"

"Oh, set about 'im, Smiler!" cried the hook-nosed woman.

"Ar, knock 'is heye out, Governor!" growled the toothy hobbledehoy; and
then forth of the caravan stepped the wife and mother, her
golden-haired baby clasped to her bosom.

"Take the child, Jacob!" said she, frowning valiantly on their
aggressors.

"No!" he answered, softly.  "No, my dear.  Keep away."

"But ... Jacob...?"

"So, you ain't a-goin' ... hey?" demanded the Smiler, slowly advancing.

"Well ... no!" answered Jacob, blinking his mild eyes.  "No, we ain't."

"Oh?" quoth the Smiler, somewhat non-plussed by this unexpected reply.
"Oho, and why not?"

"Well," answered Jacob, fumbling meek whisker, "I ... p'raps yonder
gentleman will explain?"

"Not I!" answered Richard, folding his arms.  "Fight your own battles."
Scarcely had he spoken than the Smiler leapt, smote poor Jacob
headlong, kicked out pegs and guy-ropes and down fell the little tent
in a forlorn heap.

For a moment or so Jacob lay where he had fallen, wiping blood from his
face and looking at it with a strange, impersonal curiosity; then, and
with an effortless ease, he was afoot and stood a breathing-space,
glancing from his wife and child to the grinning Smiler, and lo--his
whiskers, no longer meek, bristled with a new ferocity, his blue eyes
glared and like Saxon berserker he leapt at his assailant who, gurgling
amazement, gave back, took a flush blow on his smiling mouth, another
in the eye and went down all of a heap while Jacob, fierce now as any
tiger rushed upon the toothy fellow, was staggered by a vicious
upper-cut, gasped, steadied himself, shook his head and bored in once
more with powerful drives and swings.  But now the Smiler was afoot
again and snatching heavy faggot from the fire, made to smite this
astounding Jacob to earth; but thither sprang Richard, arm up-flung to
ward this coward's blow and was smitten bleeding to his knees, whereat
Jacob's wife screamed, the baby wailed and Tom came, roaring.

"Away, Tom!" cried Richard, rising nimbly, "keep out of it ... he's
mine!" and, evading the heavy swing of that murderous faggot, Richard
drove left fist to the Smiler's middle and as the shaggy head jerked
forward, whirled up powerful right to hairy chin whereat down went the
Smiler again and lay, his eyes staring glassily and taunting grin quite
gone.  Then turning Richard beheld this berserk Jacob, bloody but
triumphant, scowling down at his second prostrate antagonist through a
very malignity of ferocious-bristling whisker.

"Get up and go!" cried he, spurning the toothy fellow with his
boot-toe.  "Up and take Smiler with you or I'll ... I'll trounce the
inwards out o' you.  Get off!"

Slowly and painfully the toothy hobbledehoy arose and, with the
hook-nosed woman's assistance, hoisted the dazed Smiler to his legs and
into the rickety cart and so turned to betake themselves other where.

"And lookee," cried the new Jacob, "don't ever come troubling us any
more or next time I may be the death o' ye....  Blood!  Wounds!  Fire
and fury--that's me!"

Then, seeing where his comely wife stood, babe at breast, watching him
in a wide-eyed amazement akin to adoration, Jacob ran and clasped her
in his long arms, baby and all.

"Never again, Becky!" cried he.  "No man shall ever hurt thee again.
And ... I've got a black eye too, lass!"

"Oh, Jacob ... Jacob dearie, you was so wonnerful!  But the pore young
man ... see, his face so bloody ... take the baby, Jacob."

So Jacob took the baby while his wife, filling a bowl with water
proceeded therewith and despite Richard's protests, to bathe the cut
above his brow, while Tom, finding a mug from somewhere, filled it with
ale.

"Ladies first, Tom lad."

"Ah, but no, sir, I couldn't--not till you've drunk--you as 'ave worked
such a merricle wi' my Jacob."

So Richard quenched his thirst, drinking joyously as thereafter did
they all.

"Lookee, good friends and Becky, my dear," cried Jacob cheerily, "I've
got a black eye too and likewise a cut lip and glad I am of it for your
sake, my girl.  I'm the one to fight from now on, Beck."

"Oh, Jacob," cried his wife, touching his battle scars very tenderly,
"but didn't you wallop 'em!  Oh it were wonnerful, my dearie."

"Yes!" nodded Jacob.  "Ass-tonishing!  Indeed nobody's more surprised
at Jacob than Jacob...."

And after some while, the ale being finished, Richard did on his
knapsack, took up his ash stick and rose.

"Jacob," said he, reaching out his hand, "I congratulate you.  Only
fight as gamely next time your wife is threatened and she'll be safe.
I'm pretty sure.  And so good luck and Good-bye, Friend!"

"'Friend,' sir?" repeated Jacob, clasping Richard's hand in both his
own.  "Lord, sir, I protest you honour me--no end.  Won't ye please to
stay and eat a bit o' summat with us, my Becky's a prime cook,---won't
ye now?"

"No thanks, Jacob, we've far to go."

"Well then I ain't got anything to offer a gentleman like you ... only
... well ... would you like to kiss our baby?"

"I should," smiled Richard, and kissed the rosy atom, forthwith.  Then
away he strode, sturdy Tom beside him, the smiling parents waving
Good-bye.

"Mus' Dick, I rackon yon chap should mak' a purty good fighter ... wi'
a bit o' practice."

"He will, Tom."

"Ye see, a man as can be knocked down and go in again all the more
determined is a true-blue fighting man, I rackon."

"Precisely, Tom....  And yonder, I think, is Pevensey--there in the
distance."

Tramping through the village, they paused (as surely all must) to gaze
upon the noble ruin of Pevensey Castle, that once mighty bulwark of the
South Country against invasion from the sea, its massive walls and
frowning bastions still firm-rooted in the bosom of Mother England,
still lifting hoary battlements against the blue, despite fury of
long-forgotten sieges, stress of weather, and the relentless march of
time.

Having stayed a while to gaze upon this thing of wonder, they trudged
on again, on through the hot, drowsy afternoon, by rolling down, by
shady wood and dene until the sun grew low and Richard, halting, sighed:

"Strikes me, Tom, we shall never reach Sissinghurst to-night."

"Sir, it struck me ditter hours ago--and no wonder!  For, wot wi'
pausing here an' stopping theer, wot wi' old dames, bottle-ships,
Trafalgy men, gipsies, and I dunno wot, 'tis wonnerful as we've got
anywheres at all, Mus' Dick."

"Well, what matter, Tom?  Time is nothing to me any more ... or
anything else.  I'm a hopeless wretch, Tom, she's lost."

"Nay but, sir, beant us a seekin' of her now?"

"And in the wrong direction, Tom.  She won't be at Sissinghurst ... I
was a fool to think so."

"Why then--wheer, sir?"

"God knows!"

"Then why go to Sissinghurst, sir?"

"As well there as anywhere.  Besides, I must see her father ... he is
the village blacksmith, Tom."

"Eh--black ... smith, sir?" gasped Tom.  "Lord!  A smith as ... shoes
horses, sir?"

"Yes.  But he makes other things as well ... the finest smith in all
the South Country, Tom, and a grand fellow!  Wait till you see him,
you'll be--hallo!  What now?" he exclaimed for the drowsy stillness was
riven by sudden hoarse and fearful shouting,--a piercing scream,--the
clatter of wild hoofs.

"Good God!" cried Richard and away went hat and stick, off came
hampering knapsack as down upon them thundered two powerful,
high-mettled horses harnessed to a light phaeton wherein crouched a
woman.

"Out o'the road ... jump, sir!" cried Tom.  "Jump--here's death!"

"Good!" snarled Richard and, as the runaways drew near, he began to
run, watching their rapid approach over his shoulder; on they came,
hoofs thundering, light vehicle rocking and swaying ... nearer until
Richard could see the terrified animals' blood-red nostrils, the wild
glare of their rolling eyes ... nearer yet till behind their tossing
manes he glimpsed a death-pale yet lovely face framed in flying black
hair ... the maddened animals were close upon him, their snorting
breaths seemed to scorch his cheek,--then as they drew level, he
sprang, clutched the nearest bridle close to the bit, was wrenched
painfully, swung, whirled aloft, but his powerful grip never relaxed,
then his feet were dragging in the dust; no time now for futile
grieving, forgotten now was Self and all else in the world save the one
fierce purpose,--to stop these demons of death and destruction somehow,
anyhow.  Pain ... a growing faintness ... despair, yet, driven by
indomitable will, Richard hung on.

Then dazed, choking and half-blind with dust he was aware of horses
that hung foam-spattered heads,--of a powerful arm about him, and of
Tom's jubilant voice loud in his ear.

"You done it, Mus' Dick, by goles--you done it!  You've beat these mad
brutes ... leave go o' the bridle sir, they'll stand now, they're beat!
Come now, sit ee down, no--lay down!"

Richard closed his eyes.

"Is he badly hurt?  Oh, it was heroic ... wonderful!  Are you hurt?
Speak, speak to me!"  A slim, cool hand upon his brow, upon his curly
hair.

Richard opened his eyes.

She was bending over him, gazing down on him very tenderly with the
loveliest eyes in the world except that they were brown instead of the
one and only colour.

Richard sat up and, glancing about rather hazily, spoke cheerily as
possible.

"Madam, pray don't distress yourself, I am very well."

And to prove his words, up he got nimbly enough and looked down at this
lovely person with reassuring smile.  "I was only shaken, madam."

"Oh, but you are brave!" cried she impulsively, rising to her pretty,
sandalled feet and gazing up into his handsome face with eyes kinder
than ever.  "I owe you my life ... oh it was splendidly done!"

"I am happy to have served you," said Richard and bowed.

"You saved my life!" she repeated, and gave him her hands, both of
them.  "I am Cynthia Bellenden, pray who are you?"

"Richard," he answered.

"Richard--what?"

"Just Richard," he smiled.

"Why then, Richard, how ... how can I ever thank you?"

"Please don't try," he answered, stooping to kiss those two very pretty
hands.  At the which precise juncture (of course) another person chose
to make his appearance, and this a tall, too, too elegant person
despite dust and a somewhat battered hat.

"Good God, Cynthia," quoth he, "what, I say what the dooce and--so
forth?"

"You see I am alive, Nicholas."

"And thank God for it, of course,--but----"

"This gentleman saved my life, Nicholas, after you had saved your own."

"No no, Cynthia, be just, b'Jarge be fair,--I fell!"

"You jumped!"

"Cynthia, dooce take me but----"

"Richard, this is Sir Nicholas Frayne who, when the reins broke and my
horses ran away, jumped to safety and left me--for you to save."

"I should therefore be grateful to Sir Nicholas," murmured Richard,
favouring the gentleman with a stately bow.

Sir Nicholas drew nearer and smiling with his mouth but glaring with
his eyes, nodded to Richard and endeavoured to take the lady's hand.

"Be fair, Cynthia," he repeated, "be fair, for God's sake.  You know I
was thrown out at the bend!  Come, I see the fellow there has mended
the rein."

"Ay, sir," quoth Tom, testing his handiwork, "and I'll lay 'twill hold
'em good as ever."

"Come, Cynthia, let me help you into----"

"Never!" she cried, recoiling.  "Besides, I haven't yet thanked my
preserver sufficiently."  Now here Sir Nicholas glared at Richard again
this time with no pretence of smiling.  "Nicholas, this brave gentleman
risked his life to preserve me from a horrid death!"

"Noble feller!" quoth Sir Nicholas and, diving hand into pocket, he
tendered Richard half a guinea.  "Permit me ... small remuneration and
so forth," said he.

Richard looked the speaker over from head to foot and from heels to
head and now he in turn smiled with his lips and glared with his eyes.
The lady, quick to perceive this mutual animosity, placed a small but
compelling hand on Richard's arm.

"Pray help me into my phaeton, sir," said she, like one used to
obedience, and Richard, bowing, obeyed.

"Are you travelling far, sir?" she enquired, seating herself with a
demure graciousness.

"To Sissinghurst, or at least----"

"Admirable!" she nodded.  "I live at Fairholm, which lies upon your
way.  You shall drive me, sir, for I am quite unable--see I am
trembling still."

"No no, Cynthia!" cried Sir Nicholas, stepping forward.  "Ye know, I
say--what the dooce!  I'm here, m'dear soul, absolutely at your service
and so forth."

"Keep back, Nicholas!" said she, her eyes flashing contempt.  "You
jumped into the road and there you shall stay."

"Good God!" exclaimed Sir Nicholas, frowning.  "Eh what ... what?  You
joke ... you never mean to leave me."

"I certainly do!"

"Nonsense!  Preposterous!  Leave me afoot and suffer this feller to
drive you, a stranger, a----"

"This gentleman will drive me."

"Ridiculous!  Cynthia, you're mad!  The feller may be a thief after
your purse, a rogue and dangerous--no, b' God I'll drive you."

"Don't attempt to enter my carriage, Nicholas, or I shall ask this
gentleman to--throw you out again!"

At this, Sir Nicholas, losing all restraint, swore passionately and
made to enter the phaeton perforce, whereupon Richard, as forcefully,
elbowed him away.

"Damn you, don't dare touch me again, feller!"

"Not unless you make it necessary, sir."

And so for a moment they stood glaring on each other speechlessly while
the Bewitching Cause sat glancing from one to other with demure but
very lively interest.  Sir Nicholas shot out his jaw, clenched his
fists, took a pace forward but, warned by something formidable in
Richard's alert poise and steady gaze, paused:

"Bah!" he exclaimed, contemptuously, "I don't stoop to pummel with
fists like a demd chawbacon, my weapons are more deadly.  Now, were you
a gentleman instead of a--Lord knows what, I might--ha!  As it is you
may--go to the devil!"

"Meantime," smiled Richard, stepping lightly into the phaeton and
taking up the reins, "I drive with an angel.  Tom, have you my stick
and knapsack?"

"Here, sir."

"Then into the rumble with you."  Then, touching the horses with the
whip, off they went, leaving Sir Nicholas Frayne scowling in their dust.

"So you think I'm an angel, sir?"

"Well," answered Richard, glancing into the lovely roguish face beside
him, "very nearly."

"Thank heaven!" she laughed.  "For angels must be so dreadfully, well,
remote.  But I must apologize for that detestable Frayne creature, Mr.
Richards."

"No no, indeed I owe him a deal of gratitude.  And, pardon me, but my
name is in the singular."

"You mean Richard not Richards.  A Christian name?"

"Precisely."

"Then, please, what is your surname?  Pray, why so very mysterious?"

"There is no mystery really.  I am Richard Vibart."

"Goodness me!  I've heard Iford speak of you."

"Iford?" repeated Richard, frowning.  "We were at school and college
together? ... So you know Lord Iford?"

"Well, we are acquainted, Mr. Vibart.  You see his father wishes him to
marry me."

"Fortunate Iford!"

"Oh dear no!" answered Miss Bellenden, shaking her black curls very
decidedly.  "I think his father too utterly detestable, and Iford
is--well, Iford.  And besides he is so frightfully blond and I prefer
dark men--generally."

"Pardon me, Miss Bellenden, but----"

"Call me Cynthia."

"Then, Miss Cynthia, may I ask a very personal question--and not from
any idle curiosity,--may I?"

"Gracious!  Of course you may."

"Then has Lord Iford actually ... asked you to marry him?  Has he asked
you--lately?"

"To be sure he has--and I've refused him as often."

"Yet he ... still persists?"

"Of course.  Dear me, sir, is it so wonderful?"

"No no ... certainly not, you are very beautiful."

"Do you think so, Richard?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Then why do you look so ... so positively murderous?"

"I ... I was thinking of ... other things."

"Of Iford, sir?"  Richard was silent, staring on the distance as if he
saw there Lord Iford's hated face.

"Mr. Vibart ... Richard, don't you like poor Iford?"

"We are not the dearest of friends, Miss Cynthia."

"Now I wonder why?  For although he is so blond I should think, indeed
I know he is very attractive to ... some women."

"Yet you refused him, Miss Cynthia."

"Oh repeatedly.  But then I may accept him next time--if he asks
properly and I'm in compliant mood....  Oh dear!  There is Fairholm!
And so soon!  You will drive me to the house, tea should be ready."

"No,--no thank you!" said Richard, pulling up before a pair of handsome
park-gates.  "I have lost much time already."  So saying he stepped
from the phaeton and stood bare-headed to take his leave.

"Then good-bye, Mr. Vibart!  You saved my life, Richard and for this
... though not quite an angel, I shall ... pray for you sometimes."
Then she gave him her hand, snatched reins and whip, lashed at her
spirited horses and wheeling them very deftly through the gateway, was
whirled rapidly out of sight.

"And a reg'lar booty too!" quoth Tom, glancing back as they strode off.
"Turble fine creeter, eh, Mus' Dick?"

"Yes ... I suppose so ... in spite of her eyes and hair."

"Meanin' sir, as they should ought to be red and----"

"Auburn, y' fool!"

"Well, anyway she be a sight too good for that theer Iford, eh, Mus'
Dick?"

"Yes ... damn him!"

"Ay, sir!  And 'im a'makin' up to your Miss Rosemary too."

"The vile scoundrel!" cried Richard, gnashing his teeth.  "Let me have
half a chance and I'll end his cursed philandering for good."

"Meaning kill him, sir?  A dool, Mus' Dick?"

"Yes."

"Lord, no, sir--no!  Fistes be the thing!  Fistes be English, sir.  I
don't 'old wi' pistols an' dools."

"Neither do I, Tom, but others do.  Ay especially damned rakes and
libertines like Iford."

"Still you wouldn't go for to kill even 'im, sir--no!  You be too
English for a cold-'earted killer."

"But I am y' fool, I am!  Didn't I ... kill the Earl?"

"Did ye, sir?"

"Confound you, Tom, of course I did.  To be sure it was an accident, as
I told you, but--I killed him, I!  And don't you forget it."

"You mean, sir, as ... she ... us knows oo ... didn't."

"I mean that I did, chucklehead!  And don't----"

"Flames and furies!  Here's a go, Maria!" exclaimed a strangely deep
voice, surprisingly close at hand, that was answered forthwith by a
plaintive wail:

"Mercy on us!  What now, what more, Daniel?"

"Enough and to spare, Maria, 'tis a crowning misfortune--Punch hath
lost his nose, broke short, his beak has vanished quite!  Roar ye
fiends, we are undone!"

Hastening forward, Richard came on an unexpected deeply-rutted lane
where drooped a small dejected pony in the twisted shafts of a little
cart that lay over on its side, one wheel off and in the ditch, and its
late contents a tumbled confusion above which a stoutish personable
woman wrung plump hands distressfully.  Now beside the hedge was a hat
with a man under it.  A white hat this, shaggy of nap, large and
resplendent of buckle and prodigiously curled of brim, it was a noble
hat and so remarkably arresting that the charmed gaze, pausing hereon,
took in its wearer rather as an aftermath.  Yet he too was remarkable,
being a large man whose face, shaded by flowing, grizzled locks, bore a
pair of eloquent eyebrows jet-black and tremendous; a bottle green coat
with vasty brass buttons, tight-fitting smalls and blunt-toed shoes
completed the rest of him though Richard saw little except the hat and
the eyebrows each of which seemed in a high state of agitation as their
owner fondled a gaudy doll and this an effigy of the famous Punch
himself whose familiar, roguish visage lacked that most conspicuous
feature the which hath been ever his abiding glory, to wit--his nose.

"Gone, see'st thou, Maria," quoth the man in his rolling bass.  "Ha,
cruel fate!  Oh fortune dire ... but softly!  We are observed!"  Saying
which, he saluted Richard with stately flourish of the hat.  "Noble
stranger you behold us sore discomfited--Daniel Doubleday and spouse,
sir, no less.  The wheel of our portage, sir, long enfeebled, now in
yon ditch deject doth lie, and this sir, bold Puncianello, our chiefest
actor, hath, by buffet o' malignant circumstance, become for the nonce
noseless."

"P'raps the young gentleman might help us wi' the cart, Daniel?" wailed
the plump Mrs. Doubleday.

"He might, Maria, he hath a noble air.  And to the noble mind, sir, he
that is distressed is accounted friend.  Will you be so kind?"

"With pleasure," answered Richard.  "Give a hand here, Tom."

"And drink a cup o' real Chaney tea with us afterwards, young
gentleman,--if I can find the kettle and my teapot ain't broken."

So in this sheltered by-way was bustle and todo for while Richard and
Tom laboured at wheel and axle and Mr. Doubleday busied himself to
re-nose Mr. Punch, his spouse bustled so effectively that very soon a
fire of dry sticks was crackling cheerily, a large kettle singing
merrily and, after due interval, she herself called heartily:

"Tea's ready, folks!"

And--there it was!  A white cloth, out-spread upon the grass, whereon
reposed a fresh-cut ham, persuadingly pink, a pile of bread and butter,
with cups and saucers in homely array, and here seated, teapot in hand
like the presiding genuis, Mrs. Doubleday, buxom and smiling.

Then while they sat to eat and drink, they talked,--that is to say, Mr.
Doubleday held forth; thus:


_Mr. Doubleday_: Sir, as you may perceive I am still, though now but an
humble, child of Thespis for to-day 'stead o' tragic buskin I wear the
sock, to-day and every day performing the ageless, deathless drama of
Puncianello.

_Mrs. Doubleday_: And truly, sirs, Daniel's the best Punch and Judy
showman that ever was.  And I'm the orchestra.

_Mr. Doubleday_: (_Mighty eyebrows agitated_.) Maria!  I beg!
Gentlemen, this my most devoted spouse, faithful despite my fallen
fortunes--and what a fall was there!--performs to admiration on the
Panspipe.  But, sirs, upon a time this form in posture heroic, this
face in divers similitudes was the cynosure of all eyes.  I trode the
stage triumphant, the rolling thunder of this voice the throng
held--mute and spellbound--

_Mrs. Doubleday_: Though we never made so much money then as now,
and----

_Mr. Doubleday_: (_Eyebrows terrifically reproachful_.) I plead!  Let
silence ensue!

_Mrs. Doubleday_: Very well, Daniel.  Shall I fill your cup for you,
dear?

_Mr. Doubleday_: (_Passing cup much as it had been a blood-stained
dagger_.) To-day, sirs, cursed by a cruel Fate, this form unseen must
go in screening canvas pent, the rich thunder o' this voice schooled to
falsetto pipe, nay tortured to the penetrant squeak of wife-beating,
constable-slaying Punch, alas!

_Mrs. Doubleday_: (_In Richard's ear_.) And oh my dear, he squeaks like
an angel!  And oh the children!  It does me a power o' good to hear
them laugh.  Ah, it's a fine life and I love the country ... the fairs
and market-towns.

_Mr. Doubleday_: Though in the winter, sirs, the vasty metropolis we do
perambulate.

_Mrs. Doubleday_: We play in the poorest parts mostly, sir,
back-streets, courts and alleys, such dreadful places!  But we do it
for the poor little children.  Lordy!  I'd rather see their pinched,
little, thin faces smile and hear 'em laugh than take good money any
day, that I would....  Such pale, sad little faces.

_Mr. Doubleday_: My spouse is all heart, sirs, all heart!

_Mrs. Doubleday_: So are you, Daniel my dear.  You always squeak your
best and make Punch beat the beadle hardest for those poor mites.

_Mr. Doubleday_: I find them a worthy audience, Maria, and their
infantile acclaim provokes the artist to his best.  Moreover--but hold!
An envoy approaches--Lady Farran's man Thomas, I think.


So saying Mr. Doubleday arose as into the lane plodded a horseman in
neat livery and sleek as the plump animal he bestrode.

"So there y' are?" quoth he, cheerily.  "My lady thought you was lost,
tea be ready and the children do be that impatient."

"Anon, good Thomas, anon.  Tell her Ladyship we were delayed.  Bear the
compliments of spouse and self and say we will to the Manor forthright."

The man smiled, nodded, turned his leisurely steed and plodded away.

"Good my friends," quoth Mr. Doubleday, taking off the hat with
magnificent gesture, "the ham stands, the tea-pot is not yet
void,--eat, drink and spare not, 'tis Gratitude commands.  What,--no
more?  Then Maria away with 'em incontinent!  For alas, friends, we
must speed hence ... a private engagement.  For your assistance and so
kindly aid, much thanks!  Our abode, when resident in London, is
Clerkenwell, over against St. John's Gate, number twelve.  Stay--our
card!"  And from the bosom of bottle-green coat he drew a large
pasteboard whereon was this inscription:


  THE ONLY DOUBLEDAY
  (& Partner)

  WITH THE DEATHLESS COMEDY OF PUNCIANELLO
  (Punch and Judy)

  Private Performances at Charges Reasonable.
  12 St. John's Gate, Clerkenwell ... London.


"Look us up, good friends.  Drop in upon us and you shall find hearty
greeting and kind welcome from spouse and self.  Are we ready, Maria?"

"Yes, Daniel," she answered.  "Good-bye, my dearies, and don't forget
us if ye should come to London.  Good-bye!"

Mr. Doubleday took off his hat again, surveyed them beneath eyebrows
eloquent of a chaste sadness, waved the hat, put it on and, taking his
spouse's ready arm, off they trudged together beside their little,
creaking cart through the lengthening shadows.

Quoth Tom, after he had tramped some distance beside his silent, young
master:

"It aren't sich a bad old world arter all, Mus' Dick!"

"Oh?  Why?" Richard demanded gloomily.

"Well, folks is all so sa-prising friendly-like.  I never guessed there
was so much good-natur' nowheres."

"Because you never troubled to look for it.  But I think it a damned
dismal world, a very dog-hole....  And now here's night upon us and we
haven't even reached Tenterden yet."

"And that be another five mile, sir," said Tom, pointing to adjacent
mile-stone.

"Well, what about bed and an inn, Tom?"

"Which, sir, I don't see ary one or t'other heerabouts."

"We can find one, ass."

"Oh?  Wheer, sir?"

"If we look far enough."

"Ay, but how fur, sir?"

"How should I know, y' fool?  We must search."

"Why trouble, sir, when over yonder be beds and pillers cosy as any man
could wish on fine night like this be."

"Do you mean that hay-field?  Splendid, Tom!  It will be a new
experience.  Come on!"  Climbing a stile they reached a meadow shut in
by thick hedges and tall trees, and with great, fragrant piles of hay
new-mown, a right pleasant field lit by the pale magic of a huge moon
that was rising in splendour.  So here they made them a bed, soft and
warm, wherein Richard having laid by cumbrous knapsack, burrowed
forthwith to lie and stretch in an ecstasy of reposing weariness.  But
presently irked by some object very hard and obtrusive, he felt in his
pocket and took thence old Mrs. Westly's shabby little testament.  Idly
enough he opened it at the fly-leaf and holding it to the moon's
radiance, made out these words written in careful, childish characters:


To MRS. WESTLY
  on her fifty-second birthday
    from her little friend
      ROSEMARY FORD.


Up sat Richard so suddenly that Tom, in the act of burying himself in
adjacent hay-pile, stared in quick apprehension.

"Lord, sir!" he exclaimed.  "Wot now?"

"This book, Tom--this book!  Mrs. Westly knows her ... may know where
she will be ... I must follow her to London ... question her ... ha,
damme--to think I let her go!  Tom, we must start for London instantly."

"Why, so us will, sir, but--not to-night, eh?  Come, let's sleep just a
hour or so."

Richard frowned at him, scowled on the moon, threw himself back amid
the hay and, thus hidden, kissed the little, shabby book where, years
ago, a child's hand had touched it, and whispering this child's name,
closed his eyes.

"Just a hour or so o' sleep, Mus' Richard and I'm your man, game to
follow ee anywheres.  Eh, Mus' Dick?"

Richard neither answered nor stirred, wherefore Tom crept nearer and
thus saw that he was already fast asleep, the little testament against
his cheek.

For young Richard having tramped on doggedly in the open air all day,
moreover having wearied himself in the service of others, having shed
his blood and spent his money on their behalf, it naturally followed
that, despite his own sorrow, kindly Nature in recompense bestowed thus
upon him the dreamless blessedness of slumber.




TO MY KIND AND PATIENT READER

Now though these chapters may prove tedious, rambling as they do, and
much of them (as hath been confessed) unnecessary to the inner plot,
yet, Oh, dear Reader, I cry you patience! for such of you as may
trouble to read on shall find that one or two of the characters here
introduced shall become familiar and more vital to our narrative later
on.

For this, as the perspicacious of you perceiveth, is scarcely a novel
of the Modern Order depending upon cleverness, wit, intricate plot and
other things to lure, grip or shock the startled fancy, but a narrative
romantic telling itself (more or less) and here set down for your kind
and sympathetic perusal by a very wistful, somewhat apprehensive
Narrator.




CHAPTER XVII

TELLETH OF RICHARD AND BLACK GEORGE, AND HOW THEY CLASPED HANDS

The day was young when they reached the village of Sissinghurst but
despite this so early hour from the smithy came the musical ring of
hammer and anvil.  Therefore, leaving Tom seated in the porch of "The
Bull" Richard went to face Black George; but his step was slow and his
head dropped....

This George, this once loved, familiar friend of his childhood ... the
hero of his boyish adoration who was wont so often to whirl him aloft
in mighty arms and perch him high on broad shoulder or golden head and,
thus exalted, bear him to the cottage and smiling Prudence to be washed
and combed and brushed ere Old Adam came in the gig to take him
home....  And sometimes George's other shoulder would throne Rosemary,
and their childish hands would meet as they clutched at laughing
George's golden curls,--this gentle, happy giant of long ago whose
laugh had been so ready and infectious, whose look so kindly for old as
well as young--until his so loved wife had died....  And now, this
George of to-day, how changed!  A gloomy man, very silent and remote,
apt to fits of sudden anger that made him terrible ... a creature whose
mighty strength had never as yet been fully proved ... a very dangerous
man 'twas said and therefore avoided.

Richard paused in frowning thought, and turning from the wide road,
went by a well-remembered path, a way little used nowadays it seemed,
for it was littered with odds and ends, broken waggon-wheels, rusty
tyres, cone-shaped mandrills and such-like.  Picking his way among this
flotsam and jetsam beside the smithy wall, Richard came to a little
window therein, narrow and cobwebbed, through which he peeped almost
furtively.

Yes, there was George, and all alone as usual, hammer in one hand, in
the other a pair of long pincers whereby he gripped a piece of hammered
scroll-work all lovely curves that sprouted leaves (and always in the
exactly proper place) a thing of wonder and beauty such as surely might
have won praise of those medieval master-craftsmen whose artful hammers
beat out such miracles of enduring beauty when iron was iron indeed.
But Black George was scowling at this very blackly as, thrusting it
back into the fire, he began to blow; and now the soft roar of the
bellows thrilled Richard as it had done so often in those far-off,
happier days.

Then, setting his (very own-father-like) chin, Richard strode round to
the open doorway, took off his hat and spoke: "Good morning, George!"

The bellows groaned to a silence wherein the sweet clear notes of a
blackbird rippled melodiously from some nearby tree, while George's
blue, deliberate eyes surveyed young Richard, his thick, lustrous hair
tousled for lack of the comb he had forgotten, his garments that,
despite native elegance and Tom's care, showed travel-stained and with
a hay-stalk here and there, his dusty boots.

"You work very early," said Richard, extremely conscious of George's
fixed and wondering stare, "the ... the sun hasn't been up half an
hour."

"Ay.  But I don't sleep proper no more.  But--you?"

"That's a beautiful thing you are making, George."

"'Tis only a part on't, Maister Richard.  'Tis a canopy-like for my
Prue's grave ... sacred to her memory 'till the morning breaks.'  I
been a-workin' at it, off and on, ever since she--died.  I be doubting
lately if I'll ever finish it....  But 'tis wonnerful to see you ... so
early an' so onexpected-like, and I be wondering why and likewise bids
ee right hearty welcome."

And wiping hand on breeches, George stepped forward to give that hand
which young Richard made no move to take.

"Wait..., George!" said he, a little breathlessly.  "First, I must tell
you that I ... last night, though it seems ages ago now,--I ... killed
a man."

George's outstretched hand fell and once again his blue eyes surveyed
Richard with this slow, pensive gaze.

"Lord!" he murmured, staring deep into the young eyes that stared back
unwavering, "you ... Maister Richard ... killed ... a man, eh?"

"Yes, George.  I killed him ... by accident, but ... I killed him--I!"

"Well but," quoth George, shaking his head in slow, troubled manner,
"I've come very nigh killing ... two or three men ... afore now!  Ay,
'twas only the mercy o' God as prevented,--only God.  Well now, why
didn't He prevent you?  Eh?  Was it ... p'raps--because this man
desarved to die?"

"Yes, he deserved death, George!  A far worse death----"

"Why then--here be my hand."

"George, the man ... I killed ... was the Earl of Abbeymere."

"Eh?  Abbey-mere?  Why, Lord love us!  That be where my Rosemary be
staying ... wrote me a letter, she did."

"Yes, George, and I love Rosemary ... more than life!"

"Rosemary?  D'ye mean...?"  George's breath seemed to catch, his right
hand became a mighty, knotted fist, and when he spoke again it was in
hoarse and dreadful whisper: "was it for ... her sake as you ...
killed...?"

"Yes!" answered Richard, whispering also.  Then a giant's arms were
round him, but arms these that cherished, that held him close, then
held him away.

"Gi'e me thy hand, Diccon lad!  New sit ee here beside me and tell the
how and why on't."

"We were to have been married, George, after you gave your
consent,--married in the Autumn----"

"Yes, my Rosemary writ me about this,--well?"

"Well, George, she confessed to me that this man ... the evil of him
... frightened her.  And after this, one day in the wood we met him and
he ... Oh, George, he ... looked at her as if she were ... naked!  I
could have killed him then, he was so vilely suggestive.  After this I
began to worry--especially at night.  George, I grew sick with dread
until one night, nearly mad, I dressed and crept out to the stables,
saddled my horse and galloped over to Abbeymere....  The place was all
dark except one window and this was ajar ... so I opened it and crept
into the room ... and then ... then he ... I----"

"Go on, lad."

"He caught me ... threatened me with a pistol, we ... we struggled for
it desperately and it went off ... exploded in his face, George,
and--he fell dead at ... my feet."

"And what of our dear lass, our Rosemary?"

"Ah, George, I would to God I knew!  I came hoping to find her safe
here with you.  So now I must search London ... all England until I
find her or till I'm taken or give myself up in despair."

"Despair?" repeated George, fiercely.  "No--never!  Despair aren't no
word for a man, and therefore not for thee, Mr. Richard."

"Ah, don't mister me, George,--not you!  Call me Dick, or Diccon as you
used to do years ago,--till you can call me 'son.'  For truly, George,
I worship Rosemary so much that I needs must love you too....  Yes,
love you, George, and more wisely than I ever did as a little lad,
which is only natural and right because...  Oh, if there is any justice
in life, my Rosemary shall make me your son, one day."

"My ... son!" repeated George, slowly, and resting both hands on
Richard's stalwart shoulders, "My Prue ... allus yearned for a son, the
sweet soul, and so did I."

"Well, here he stands, George, your son in spirit already."  George's
great hands tightened almost painfully, then he turned away and coming
to his anvil, took up the hammer and beat a small, soft tattoo.

"Diccon boy," said he at last, "then here's what we must do, as I see
it, either give yourself up to the law, tell your tale and trust to
judge and jury--which I don't nohow advise, or--strip off your fine
clothes, change yourself into a country-seeming chap and go a-hiding
along o' me.  Choose, lad."

"With you of course!  With you, George.  But where?"

"The country-side, Diccon.  London!  Everywhere till, God willing, us
finds our Rosemary."

"No no--impossible, George!  For d'you see, I shall be hunted as a
murderer and you as my accomplice.  No!"

"Yes!" nodded George, his blue eyes sparkling.  "This be why and
wherefore I'm coming along wi' thee Dick ... to the end ... no matter
wheer or what."

"But, George, suppose we are arrested ... imprisoned?"

"Better so than me thumping away at my old anvil here and no heart in
't.  Ever since my Prue went ... all these years, boy, I've been ...
that lonely!  Ay--black lonely, Richard!  Ah well!  And now ... there
be some oldish things o' Simon's as should fit ee well enough till us
can come by better.  Let's over to t' 'Bull,' he should be astir by
now, ay--lookee, chimney be smoking."

"First then, George, I've a friend with me, the staunchest, most
faithful fellow."  And forthwith Richard described Tom Lethbridge, and
how and why he was sharing his own desperate fortunes.

Then forth they went together into the early sunlight to the patient
Tom who, beholding mighty, gold and silver-headed George, rose up to
his feet, opened his eyes very wide and murmured:

"Dannel me!"

But when George reached his hand out in hearty greeting, Tom flushed,
smiled and grasped it as heartily.

"Tom Lethbridge," said George, his lined visage unwontedly kindly, "Mr.
Richard names ee friend and therefore so must I.  What do ee say, Tom
man?"

"Master," answered Tom, "I says, Lord love you--with all me 'eart!"

"Why then, friend Tom, come you in wi' us to breakfast."




TO THE READER--THIS APOLOGY

Look now, kind sir and gentle, gracious lady, lo and behold ye some of
the many difficulties, the tricks and sleights that go to the making of
a novel--such as this!  For whereas your Narrator detesteth complete
and sudden change of scene with eruption and interruption of a new set
of characters, thereby plunging the Reader, as it were, into a new
world (as was the manner aforetime) yet it seems (alack!) this very
headstrong narrative would have it so.  For our Rosemary, being so
important to this story, becomes ever more gently importunate and
plaintively insistent (and indeed no wonder, considering the dire
plight in which we have left her so long).  Moreover she is of the
Gentle Sex and, I dare to think, rather lovable.  Haste we then to her
instant relief--as thus:--




CHAPTER XVIII

TELLETH HOW ROSEMARY, THOUGH OF SEX GENTLE, MET CRUEL FORTUNE WITH THE
FORTITUDE OF ANY MAN OR (AND WHAT IS MORE) OF ANY WOMAN

When Trouble, like dreadful cloud, blots out the stars of Hope, and the
black tide of Adversity roars down upon us like a flood, the poor,
stricken soul either casts up despairing arms and sinks to deeps of
starker misery or, calling upon the Godhead within, battles against
Circumstance, bold to endure, until he wins to light and security at
last, strengthened by the very ordeal to a nobler living.

For there can be no trouble bravely endured, no catastrophe valiantly
out-faced but to strength is added greater strength and therewith a new
kindliness, a wise gentleness and broad charity bred of past suffering.

Thus Rosemary, in her terrified desolation, having wept awhile, having
called upon her God and her Richard,--instead of companying with that
dark and fallen angel whose name is Despair, dried her tears, checked
her wild and headlong flight, turned aside into a little copse and so
came stealing to the shelter of that same great tree that, for her
sake, Richard would have kissed once upon a time and which she loved
and whereto she now fled for Richard's sake.  Here sinking down beneath
its mighty boughs and leaning woeful, desolate head against its rugged
bole, she waited for the day; and hearkening to the soft whisper of its
myriad leaves it seemed to her stricken heart as if the dear, great
thing were striving to comfort her, wherefore she kissed it out of very
gratitude.

Oho, thou Tree of trees to have felt the soft pressure of those tender,
lovely lips!

And being young and healthy and confiding in God His omnipresence, she
closed her weary eyes and thus awhile forgot all troublous fears in
such blessed slumber that she neither dreamed nor stirred until old Sol
shot down a roguish beam to kiss her into wakefulness.

Then up she started and away through the rosy dawn, by misty woodland
and dew-spangled down, flitting like some young dryad on tireless feet
until she espied a cottage bowered amid the green, a cosy place yet
very solitary and throned in a garden amid a very glory of flowers.

Now in this garden a shortish, broad-shouldered, extremely clean-shaven
man wrought, cherishing these flowers like the loved and lovely things
they were; so busy was this man that he remained wholly unaware of
Rosemary until, leaning across the little wicket gate she called softly:

"Oh, Mr. Meadows!"

At this shy summons Bob Meadows lifted his head disclosing a face shorn
clean of its Frenchified adornments of whisker and moustachio, a
square, somewhat grim visage lit by fierce, keen eyes that softened
wonderfully at sight of the speaker as, pulling off his old hat, he
saluted her with a little bowing flourish, quaint as unexpected and
very French indeed.

"Why, Miss Rosemary, ma'm, good morning!" said he, hurrying forward to
open the gate for her.  "You'm early abroad, Mamselle, th'owd church
clock's only jest chimed four and ... _Mordieu_, how pale you look!
And ... _sapristi, tes jolis pieds!_ your little, purty feet, my dear!
So wet!  And ye look fair wore out!  Come in, Miss Rosemary, come in
and set ee down.  I've lit the fire and kettle's a singin' on th' 'ob
merry as a cricket--so come in and rest whiles I brews a cup o' tea.'

"Oh, Mr. Meadows," sighed Rosemary, "how dear and kind you are!"

"No no, _ventrebleu_--no!  'Tis only human I be.  And oho Lor lummy
won't my little Nan be j'yful to see you,--come in!"  Folding her hand
tenderly within his arm he brought her into the cottage where
everything, from the mats on raddled floor to the raftered ceiling was
bright and shining as a new pin, as sweet and wholesome as the roses
that peeped in at the open lattice.

"Now off wi' they little shoes," quoth he, "and lemme dry 'em in the
hearth ... not too near the fire--so!  Now a cup o' tea wi' a _soupcon_
o' brandy shall do ee a power o' good and won't do me no manner o'
harm."  And Bob straightway busied himself with that neat and silent
precision that characterized him, chatting meanwhile in kindly fashion:
"Nothin' like a cup o' tea,--they dunno how to brew it in France!  And
Lordy-lord so pale as you be, my dear, ah and trembling like any aspen."

"Yes I ... I ... oh, Mr. Meadows, I'm ... running away."

"Oh?  From Abbeymere?  Well, I ain't surprised.  How about a rasher o'
bacon or say, two?  And eggs of course----"

"But, Mr. Meadows, I----"

"Running off, eh?  And no wonder!  And buttered toast--eh?  Toast it
is!  I don't like the looks o' they Abbeymere folk, lord nor earl,
_nomme d'un chien_--no!  Sit ye still and rest, my dear, I'm used to
house-work, though my little Nan's comin' on wonderful, sweeps, dusts,
helps me wash up, bless her _beaux yeux_, and larning to cook too, ay
and begins to read better than I can, thanks to you, Miss Rosemary.
Now the toast."

While thus he talked and bacon hissed tenderly in pan, Bob took from
above the mantel a very glittering and murderous looking cutlass
whereon he deftly spitted a slice of bread which he proceeded to toast
while dexterously turning bacon rashers in the pan.

"Yes, Miss Rosemary, ma'm, my dear, since you come to stay in these
here parts you've taught my Nan a oncommon lot, wot wi' addition,
substraction and I dunno wot.  So, my dear young lady--ma'm, wot I'm a
trying to tell you is ... if you should ever 'appen to be in any sort
of difficulty or say trouble, why then, Miss Rosemary, please to know
as Bob Medders is your man, my dear.  If you should ever lack--say a
roof, here it be!  A bed,--upstairs!  Friends,--here's my Nannie and
me----"

"Mr. Meadows, I've said you are a dear, and now ... now I don't know
what to say, or how to thank you," said Rosemary stretching out her
hands to him in quick gratitude, "you make my sorrow ... easier to
bear, the world seems less cruel and I shall be less lonely just
because of you...."  Her soft voice trembled, her deep eyes were misted
in sudden tears, but at his look of consternation she winked them away,
and laughed though a little unsteadily, whereupon he laid aside cutlass
and toast to rise and kiss her two pretty hands as gallantly as any
fine gentleman in the land.

"Miss Rosemary," said he, whisking the frying-pan from fire to hob and
looking down at her with his keen, honest eyes, "I'm old enough to be
your father so why not let's believe I am?  You'd be snug and safe here
along o' my little Nan and me.  And you could make a proper scholard of
her and learn me to speak more genteel, I'm a trying to heavens 'ard
for Nan's sake."

"No no ... but God bless you for asking me ... indeed I love you for
it," said Rosemary in choking voice.  "But I must go on ... I must go
far away from here.  I came to ask you if you would drive me to Lewes
in time for the early Mail?"

"Why for sure," he answered, pouring the tea with a dexterous flourish.
"There's hoceans o' time for the Mail so let's ha' breakfast my
dear....  Now eat hearty!  These be my own eggs,--look at 'em!  I
mean--laid by my own chickens...."

Thus while they ate, he, quick to anticipate her wants and instant to
serve, continued to talk, rolling out great French oaths most
unexpectedly ever and anon; and Rosemary being strong of soul and very
sane, pushed the horrors of last night to the background of her mind
and answering smile with smile, ate and drank with hearty young
appetite.

"Lessee now," quoth Bob, refilling his tea-cup, "'twill be all of eight
weeks since I found you sitting wi' my little Nan in the lane yonder,
eh?"

"Nine!" answered Rosemary, "I was telling her the tale of Cinderella."

"She took to you amazing, my dear!  On the spot and--no wonder!"

"She looked so wistful all alone in the lane and so pretty ... I just
had to kiss her and then, of course, we were friends.  And she's so
quick and clever----"

"And healthy, eh, Miss Rosemary?  Healthy--eh?"

"As a wild flower."

"No signs o' death about her,--eh?"

"Gracious goodness--no!"

"Then," said Bob, rising tea-cup in hand, "God bless Lady Vibart!" and
down he sat again.

"Oh, you know her, Mr. Meadows?  You know Lady Vibart?"

"Ay I do!  _Sacr nomme d'un nomme_, I do so!  If 'twarn't for her you
wouldn't ha' been able to teach my Nannie so much as you
have,--_mordieu_, no!  Because she would ha' been in Paris ... in her
grave!  _Voil_, Miss Rosemary!  Lookee, my dear!  My little Nan was
a-perishing, dying before my eyes ... in Paris,--_sang Dieu_!  Then
along come my Lady Vibart ... and ... well, here we are!  My dear, I
ain't a prayerful man, being by natur' a reg'lar _mauvais sujet_,--but
I never look at my little Nanette and her growing so strong, s'plump
and rosy, but I don't pray--God bless Lady Vibart!"

"Yes, I love her too!" murmured Rosemary, sad-eyed.

But now upon the stair was hurry of light feet, and Nanette appeared,
somewhat grown since her Paris days though still a little frail and
wistful as ever; she stopped to clasp her hands and utter a soft,
rapturous cry at sight of Rosemary and having dropped her the demurest
of curtseys, ran to kiss and be kissed.

And now, because the laughing child was so happy, the sun so radiant
and Bob Meadows so smilingly content, Rosemary tried to seem happy also.

Breakfast over, Bob took out a large silver watch to compare it with
the slow-ticking grandfather clock in adjacent corner.

"Miss Rosemary, m'dear," quoth he nodding, "lessay half an hour, say
three-quarters.  No no, don't ye trouble now, I'll wash up."

"Oh, but Mr. Meadows----"

"Nary a thing!  I'm used to it.  Out into the sunshine--both o' ye."

"But--goodness me!  Look at my poor gown!" sighed Rosemary.

"Ay, a bit draggled-like!" nodded Bob.

"Oh, and these!" she wailed, staring dismayed where lay her
travel-stained cloak and bonnet.  "And I must be presentable, I hope to
get another situation to-day.  Whatever shall I do?"

"Do, my dear--hum!  _Alors_!  P'r'aps you'll want to take 'em off ... a
hot iron!  Hows'ever my Nan'll help ye.  I'll go tend my hoss and gig."
And away he went forthwith; whereupon Rosemary got busy and with her
own quick, skilful fingers and little Nan's deft and able assistance,
contrived such feminine magic that when, ready for the journey, they
went hand in hand to find Bob hissing over his sleek cob, Rosemary
showed so daintily trim and bewitching from small, deep-brimmed bonnet
to shapely foot that Bob, wonder-struck, set down curry-comb to grope
for his vanished moustachio (a habit with him in all mental stress)
murmuring:

"_Mordieu_!  _Ventrebleu_!  _Sacrebleu_!  If it don't beat everything!"

And presently seated all three in the roomy vehicle, away they went
through the early morning with birds calling to them from, every tree
and hedgerow, and they themselves silent for the most part since little
Nan was sad to say Good-bye, Mr. Meadows seemed grimly thoughtful, and
Rosemary was dreaming mournfully of that which now might never be and
that which yet was to be....

They reached Lewes with plenty of time for the Mail, and pulling up
before the "White Hart Inn" Bob clambered down, waited grimly for
Rosemary to kiss his little adopted daughter then lifting Rosemary to
earth in powerful arms, drew her a little apart, looked at her more
grimly than ever and spoke:

"Miss Rosemary, ma'm, I dunno your trouble nor where you be a-going and
I don't ax.  But ... _mademoiselle_ I do ax you to take this here to
help you on your road.  _Alors_!  _Non_--not a word!"  And into her
unwilling hand he forced a comfortably heavy purse.

"But, Mr. Meadows!" she gasped.  "Dear Mr. Bob, I ... I couldn't----"

"_Pardieu_!  _Nomme d'un nomme_, I insist!" he muttered ferociously.
"And God guard ye, my dear--Good-bye!" saying which, he patted her
hand, kissed it, bowed and flourished his hat all in a moment and was
in the act of climbing into his high gig when a lounging person in
jaunty hat, whiskers and a monocle was so ill-advised as to emit a
horse-laugh and the words:

"Aha, a Froggie!"  In which moment Mr. Meadows, ever yearning for
conflict, had pinned the speaker by coat-collar:

"_Lche sclrat_?  _Sale espce de cochon_!" he exclaimed fiercely,
shaking the person until hat and monocle were dislodged.  "I'm English
to me backbone, I am!  _Alors_!  Well, now--wot?"

"N--nothing!" stammered the person, quailing in the powerful grip of
this English fist.  "N--no offence----"

"Well then don't come none o' your 'froggies' wi' me or _je vous couper
le gorge ... pour un sale bete damn_?"

So saying, Mr. Meadows released the person, mounted nimbly into his
gig, scowled truculently round about and drove away, leaving Rosemary,
purse in hand, gazing after him through a blur of tears.




CHAPTER XIX

WAFTS OUR ROSEMARY TO A NEW WORLD AND EXPERIENCES MORE OR LESS STRANGE

No need is there to fully describe Rosemary's journey or the troubled
hurry of her thoughts; or the bold-eyed gentleman in the corner whose
looks became so very bold that she averted her lovely head thus hiding
her beauty in that tantalization--her bonnet; nor in fact to mention
anything until, the coach pulling up suddenly at an unexpected
cross-roads, she almost screamed ... for Richard's own beloved voice
was speaking within a yard of her!  Yes, indeed, she very nearly cried
out to him in joyful ecstasy of reunion ... almost!  But, being
herself, she cowered back into her corner, dumb yet in delicious
trepidation lest he see her as the door opened and in bundled a little
old dame almost upon her lap....  Then the door slammed, horn blew,
whip cracked, hoofs clattered ... and Rosemary venturing to peep back
as the coach rolled away she saw him standing bare-headed, so comely,
so strong and altogether dear,--but Oh Heaven! his adored face so pale,
so sad and careworn that, risking life and limb, she would have leapt
forth to comfort him for her own sake, yet remained crouching miserably
where she was--for his dear sake.

And now the old dame being settled she and her baggage, to the
bold-eyed young gentleman's evident discomfort, she began to speak,
pouring forth her breathless story to all and sundry; and thus Rosemary
instantly recognized her old acquaintance Mrs. Westly and, knowing her
talkative disposition, was more thankful for her deep-brimmed bonnet
than ever.

"Footpads, folks--I'm tellin' ye!" quoth Mrs. Westly with unction.
"Highwaymen!  Two on 'em!  As would ha' robbed me money and had me life
but for the fine young gen'leman as brought me safe!  Fit wi' 'em 'e
did, folks, and Oh my--what a battle!  Bleedin' they was most awful
and'specially the robbers, glory be!" ...

And ah be sure that Rosemary held her breath for fear and pride and
love, of course, while swelled her rounded bosom and paled her cheek.

"Beat 'em proper 'e did like a reg'lar fighting heerio and knocked 'em
down and saved me life and money and took off his 'at to me so polite
as if I'd been a haristocrat or reel lady!  And so 'andsome and sad and
all along o' love--lost 'is sweet-heart or summat, poor dear!  I be
'oping--ah and to-night, folks, I be a-going to pray the Almighty on me
bended knees as he finds and marries her and as she gives him plenty o'
babbies, sweet mites...."

And ah be sure now that Rosemary's deep eyes smarted with brimming
tears that never fell, while her heart ached with a yearning grief that
yet found no expression!

"There be nothing like babbies to mek a man proud and 'appy-like,--a
man as be a man!  And my young gen'leman be a proper man...."

Thus Mrs. Westly held forth in the innocence of her heart and more and
more to the bold-eyed young gentleman's disgust, until their
coach-wheels were rattling and rumbling on the cobbled streets of
London.

So pass we through the Mighty City to a certain genteel though dingy
house in the dingy corner of a genteel square, at the somewhat
forbidding front door of which house Rosemary knocked timidly just as
old Sol sinking in glory Westwards yet contrived to shoot a fugitive
beam, like the kindly friend he was, to cherish and comfort her as the
door opened to discover a superior, very prim servant maid who, looking
the visitor up and down, sniffed delicately and enquired in very
superior accents:

"Your pleasure, miss, if you please?"

"I wish to see Mrs. Humby.  Will you kindly say ... Miss Gray?  I have
a letter for her," answered Rosemary, smiling in such gentle, friendly
manner that in the act of emitting another superior sniff the maid
smiled instead.

"If you'll please step this way, Miss," said she and ushered Rosemary
into a stately though forbidding room, for the chairs stood all very
upright as if forbidding the idle lounger, the curtains were thick and
heavy, forbidding excess of garish light, a portrait on the wall framed
heavily a forbidding face.

After some while the door opened to admit a tall lady rather like the
room, for she was stately and in a heavy fashion, handsome; her head
was piled heavily with braids of hair, her eyebrows were heavy and chin
prominent like her nose, a handsome feature with mobile nostrils that
drew together now and then as if pinched by invisible fingers; also
when she spoke her speech was austere and a little ponderous:

"Miss Gray?  To what have I the pleasure----"

"Mrs. Humby, your brother, Mr. Clipsby, was good enough to write you
this letter in the hope you might be able to employ me in your school."

"A letter?  Indeed?  And from my poor brother?  Favour me!"  Rosemary
gave the letter, which Mrs. Humby opened and read at the
heavily-curtained window.

"My poor brother Eustace speaks of you very highly, Miss Gray.  He
eulogises your attainments extremely."

"He is very kind, madam."

"We are a small establishment--but extremely, chastely select.  Our
scholars, all daughters of gentlefolk, are boarders.  But we are small,
Miss Gray, as I have mentioned, and we have hitherto contrived
admirably with but one non-resident mistress and a pupil-teacher,
Bertha Woolverton.  However, I am willing to essay your services since
poor Eustace pleads your cause so eloquently.  Are you willing to
commence at once--now?"

"Thank you, yes, madam."

"And your luggage, box, impedimenta?"

"They will come on so soon as I write."

"Ah ... to be sure I can offer but moderate stipend."

"However, I shall do my best to earn it, madam."

"Very good, Miss Gray!  Then if ... seven shillings per week will
suffice consider yourself engaged.  To be sure you will live in and
partake at table with myself and husband, and this of course is a great
consideration."

"Yes, madam."

"Then for the present I shall encharge you with my juniors--five.  Pray
attend me."

Up a broad flight of stairs heavily carpeted and with ponderous, carved
balustrade; up a second flight, narrower and steeped, where lush carpet
gave place to a harsh matting and so into a large, airy, comfortless
room where a sullen-faced girl was drawing letters on a blackboard for
the behoof of five very small persons perched bleakly, legs a-dangle,
on a very hard-looking form and all of them with very prim mouths, very
round eyes and uncomfortably stiff in the backs.

"Ladies!" quoth Mrs. Humby sonorously.

Instantly the five slithered from the form and being safely afoot,
dropped five very demure little curtseys.

"You will notice, Miss Gray, that despite their tender years I address
them as 'ladies', thus inculcating personal dignity....  Ladies, I
present Miss Gray, your new mistress!  Miss Gray, these young ladies
beginning at the left are: Edith, aged eight.  Susan, aged six.
Margaret, aged seven.  Clara, aged six--and little Jane, aged five."
Here five more demure little curtseys, this time one after the other.

"Ladies, you may resume your seats.  Obey your new instructress.  Pray
remember you are ladies and--behave!  Miss Woolverton, be good enough
to attend me."  The sullen-faced girl glared at Rosemary, Mrs. Humby
performed an elaborate curtsey and swept heavily from the room,
followed by Miss Woolverton scowling darkly.

Then Rosemary turned to meet the uncompromising stare of ten very
bright, extremely critical eyes.

"But, my dears," she enquired, "whatever makes you all look so very
uncomfortable?"  Five little voices piped as one: "Backboards, if you
please, ma'm."

"You poor little souls!  Don't they hurt you?"

"Only now and then, ma'm."

"Not much, ma'm."

"We're used to them, please, ma'm."

"We has to be, ma'm."

"But they's 'bominable!" quoth little Jane.

"Then my dears let me take them off for you."

"Oh, we dassen't, ma'm."

"Mrs. Humby would punish us, ma'm.  Mrs. Humby she says all ladies must
wear backboards when they's little----"

"And I's the littlest of all!" sighed little Jane.

"But--if they hurt you, my dears----"  Rosemary paused, aware of a
mysterious sound that had piqued her curiosity once or twice
already,--a thin, twittering that seemed to hover in the air
intermittently, a quavering ineffectual wail rather like the plaint of
a debilitated fairy.

"Goodness--me!" exclaimed Rosemary, glancing up and around.  "Pray what
is that strange sound, children?"

"Captain Humby, ma'm."

"Dear me!  Is the poor gentleman ill?"


"No, ma'm, it's Mrs. Humby's nerves."

"So Captain Humby plays his flute----"

"To soothe her, ma'm."

"Mrs. Humby needs music, ma'm.  She says she 'dores it."

"I don't!" quoth little Jane.  "I likes humbugs!"

"Jane means those peppermints with teeny stripes, ma'm, but I like
brandy-balls the best."

"That's why I loves Captain Humby," nodded little Jane, "he gives me
humbugs ... on the sly!"

"Well, my dears, come now gather round me and let me see how much we
know.  We will begin by spelling 'cat'--you, Edith!"  This small lady
squirmed, turned up her eyes, twisted her fingers and faintly suggested:

"K--?"  Rosemary shook her head gently, whereat up shot four little
arms and their small owners receiving permission, bleated in unison:

"R!"

"No, my dears!" sighed Rosemary.  "And what do you say, Jane?"  This
very diminutive lady raised her too-pale little face and declaimed
instantly and with the utmost finality:

"D ... O ... G."  Rosemary shook her head again, smiled and stooping
impulsively, kissed the little face so tenderly that the pale cheeks
flushed and round her neck crept two thin little arms.

"Ooh!" sighed Jane.  "Nobody hasn't kissed me like that since they
buried my mama wiv a lot o' black fevvers."

"Jane's an orphant, ma'm," explained Edith.

"And never goes home for holidays, ma'm," chorused the three.

"And you're a bee-oo-tifullest lady!" declared Jane, with solemn nod.
Rosemary gasped and drew the small lady upon her knee.

"Dear little Jane!" she murmured.  "I wish you had more roses in your
cheeks."

"Oh no, ma'm.  Mrs. Humby says I'm a ailing child not long for this
vale----"  Here was a loud double knock and the door swung open:

"Lollipops, my hearties--stand by!" cried a chirruping voice and in
upon them shot a stoutish gentleman extremely neat as to person and
untidy as to hair and cravat.  "She's out, children!  Slipped her
moorings, messmates, so let all be revelry and--hum!" he exclaimed,
halting suddenly at sight of Rosemary.  "Sink me!  Most unexpected!  My
dear young lady pray excuse ... had no idea...."

"Oh, Captain Humby," cried little Jane, "ahoy!  Humbugs!"

Captain Humby winked and smiled jovially at the children, then surveyed
Rosemary with a kind of wistful dismay.

"Excuse me!" he murmured.  "If I intrude--will vanish ... hoist every
stitch and scud."

"No no, Captain Humby, please stay.  See how glad the children are to
see you.  Oh, it's wonderful!  I am ... Mary Gray, the new governess."

"No, really?  Begad--howdedo?  Then--if you don't mind ... the
children--eh?"

"They seem to like you, sir."

"Oh we do, ma'm!" said Edith.

"All of us!" chimed the three.

"Specially me!" quoth little Jane.  "So, Captain--humbugs!"  Now at
this, the Captain looked at Rosemary very like a guilty schoolboy and
ran nervous fingers through his hair until it showed wilder than ever;
quoth he:

"I ... my dear young lady, I ... strictly between ourselves ... when my
... Mrs. Humby is absent, I ... ha ... smuggle the little souls a
humbug or so ... bull's-eyes and what not, with an occasional lollipop.
Children love sweetmeats and ... if you don't mind ... I happen to have
one or two stowed about me ... so--if you'll allow...?"

"Why, Captain Humby, of course.  I think it very kind of you."

"Do you, begad?  Then--messmates ahoy!  Belay my hearties, avast and
stand by!"  So saying, he turned to the five children wide-armed, and
they quite forgetting prim demureness, ran to clasp and cling about him
with jubilant acclaim while from deep coat-pockets he fished five paper
cornucopias of sweets.

"Aha, messmates, and there's jam and cake and jelly for tea, ay and
Coxon Ben to serve us!" chirruped the Captain, perched now on the form
and embracing all five of them.  "Tea, my hearties, jam and plum-cake
... ah, pardon ... if your new mistress will permit?"  Here he
contrived a little bow to Rosemary.

"Gladly!" she answered, smiling.  Hereupon, seeing his small messmates
rapt in joyous comparison of those paper cornucopias, the Captain
approached and spoke murmuring:

"Think perhaps ... this intrusion....  Had better explain."  The which
he did in the following staccato fashion:

"Mrs. Humby.  An admirable woman.  But--with a curse.  Nerves!  They
affect her.  Frightfully!  At which times she's apt to be ...
difficult!  But 'music hath charms to soothe the' ... ahem!  Hence my
flute."

"Yes, I heard you playing, sir."

"Playing?  No no,--I tootle!  I hate to but--I tootle....  And here I
think is Ben with the tea."  As he spoke, a single dull thud resounded
on the door which Edith flew to open for the passage of a vast,
well-laden tray borne by a long man whose lean, woebegone visage was
rendered more so by a black patch in place of his left eye.

"Miss Gray," said Captain Humby as the tray was set down, "this is my
coxon, Ben Piper, an old shipmate o' mine,--Ben, a leg to the lady."
Instantly the Coxon performed an intricate evolution with his legs
suggestive of a hornpipe, at the same moment bobbing bullet head and
touching bristly eyebrow.

"Now, my hearties," cried the Captain cheerily, "bring up alongside and
fall to!  Coxon stand by with the cake and I'll man the tea-pot....
Milk and sugar, Miss Gray?"

And now, waited on by the one-eyed but deft-handed Coxon who seemed a
prime favourite with the five (now hilarious) small ladies, a merry
meal they made of it.  And if the tea was thin and the bread and butter
thick what matter when partaken in such right glad company?  For the
Captain proved so whimsical and the Coxon's one eye so eloquently
jovial that presently Rosemary was laughing merrily (almost) as the
children.

Tea was over and the Captain and Coxon were together spinning a
yarn,--to a rapt auditory,--concerning the capture of a very man-eating
shark when the door swung wide and Mrs. Humby stared in upon them and
seemed, for a moment, Gorgon-like to turn everyone and thing to stone,
for beneath her gaze was instant silence and a tense, still rigidity.

"Captain Humby!" she exclaimed, the invisible fingers busied with her
handsome nose, "Reginald John, I am astounded!  I am shocked and deeply
mortified!  Aurelia, remove these pernicious edibles!  This will demand
jallap all round!  Jam!  Jellies and cakes!  Oh, poison!  Away with
them, Aurelia!"  Instant to obey appeared the superior servant maid
who, meeting the Coxon's undaunted, brightly-eloquent eye, was suddenly
beautified by a girlish blush.

"You--Benjamin Piper, begone!" quoth Mrs. Humby, terrifically
dignified.  "Begone at once, Benjamin, and never dare----"

"Ay ay, marm!" answered that worthy, ducking head, touching eyebrow and
waggling leg all at once, whereat Mrs. Humby shuddered violently and
turned on her mute spouse:

"As for you, Reginald----" but even as she spoke the Captain's
fluttering coat-tails vanished through the door in his Coxon's wake.

The Navy thus routed, Mrs. Humby bent her heavy brows against the five
small ladies who instantly curtseyed as demurely and stood as prim and
innocently round of eye but with five cornucopias (somewhat depleted)
hidden about their small persons.

"Ladies!" moaned Mrs. Humby, "you have upset and displeased me!  The
hour verges towards seven o'clock and instead of your half hour recess
you will instantly to bed!  Miss Gray, you have permitted Captain Humby
to engorge your charges with noxious compounds and indigestible
dietary, thus contravening my established rule.  But you were
unwitting, so I say no more.  Pray attend the young ladies to their
dormitory and should feverish or other symptoms develop--inform me."

Then Mrs. Humby sighed, moaned and rustled grandly away.  So presently
Rosemary marshalled her charges to bed and having listened to their
prayers (and the Captain's flute wailing dismally afar) she tucked them
up, kissed them good-night (to their joyful wonder) and seated nearby
in her own small bed-chamber, poured out her heart in a letter; thus:--




CHAPTER XX

CONCERNS ITSELF (AND BRIEFLY) WITH A LETTER


MY DEAR LADY VIBART,

Because of this terrible happening I know the dreadful consequences
must follow me all my life.  So I have fled away where none must ever
find me, especially Richard that I love so much more than life.  And so
for his dear sake and yours, I pray God to make me brave to endure and
strong to hear all that I must.  The wicked earl is dead and Richard
knows I killed him and will perhaps tell you how justly.  So, my dear
Lady Vibart, you that I have so yearned to call 'mother' and do love as
a daughter,--please be kind to me in my bitter loneliness and try to
love me just a little.  For indeed life seems to have ended for me
almost before it has begun.  And truly I could not do as I have done if
I did not worship Richard and love you so deeply,--how deeply it is my
prayer you may learn someday, with the truth of it all.  And so,
knowing myself for what I really am, I dare to call you 'Mother' for
the first and last time.  There, I have written the dear word and
kissed it, and so--Good-bye from this sorrowful creature that so
yearned to be

Your humble, loving daughter
  ROSEMARY.


Charmian's soft voice faltered upon the name, and she glanced from Sir
Peter to Miss Janet through gathering tears.

"Well, what do you think of it, Peterdear?"

"That it is--quite touchingly sincere."

"Of course!  And what do you say, Janet?"

"Umph--humph!" quoth Miss Janet.

"Quite so, my dear!" nodded my lady, bending over the letter again.
"But don't you, either of you, notice something very remarkable in what
the sweet soul writes here?  Now listen to this line:--'Truly I could
not do as I have done if I did not worship Richard and love you so
deeply.'  And then here again:--'And so, knowing myself for what I
really am, I dare to call you--'mother'.  Don't you see it is strangely
like our Richard's letter?  You remember what he wrote, Peter?"

"Certainly, my dear, though--not his exact words or precise phrasing."

"Oh!" cried Charmian indignantly.  "How detestably masculine!  How like
solemn sire and pompous paternity--a mere forgetful father!  You
remember, Janet,--we haven't forgotten, my dear?"

"Worrud for worrud!" quoth Miss Janet, her large silver chatelaine
clashing reprobation and all masculine forgetfulness, "Our dear fule
wrote, amangither matters:--'Believing that in your hearts you will
have faith to know that what is done, being done, what I do is for the
best of all those I love.'"

"Dear soul, exactly right!" cried Charmian, kissing her, "Being merely
women, Janet, we don't forget such trivial things, you and I.  And now
what says our Peter, my dear Lord of Creation?  Ah, don't you see all
the wonder of it?  How this ends our doubts for ever?"

"Why, to be sure," he answered thoughtfully, "there is perhaps a
certain similarity, though as for my doubts, this cannot entirely----"

"Oh, Peter!"

"My dear!  Pray why so sudden and emphatic?  I repeat that my doubts
concerning Richard----"

"Oh, but my poor, male wretch----"

"Charmian, now what in the world----?"

"Everything in the world!" she retorted.  "Yes, I would stake
everything, Peter--the hand that wrote this letter never, never killed
Lord Abbeymere!"

"An' that's whateffer!" nodded Miss Janet.

Sir Peter, glancing from one rapt face to the other, smiled a little
mournfully and shook his head.

"My dear," he sighed, "I greatly fear your wish fathered your thought.
The poor child's confession is so direct, so uncompromising and
explicit----"

"Peter, am I a fool?"

"Anything but, my----"

"Well, neither am I a man, thank God!"

"Amen!" smiled Sir Peter.  "But why such passionate gratitude?"

"Because men are so dense, so--logically blind!  Only a woman could
possibly know, be sure and certain beyond all doubt!"

"Of what, Charmian, of what?"

"That as Richard pretended guilt to shield Rosemary, this sweet, brave
girl is shielding our Richard.  We know this now, Janet and I, we are
both perfectly sure of it--aren't we, Janet?"

"We are that!" cried Miss Janet, clashing to her feet.  "Oh, heart o'
me, 'tis wonderful,--fair marvellous!  Here's love for love!  Charmian,
we must find 'em and marry 'em!"

"We will, Janet!  And what do you say now, Peter?"

"That the idea of such mutual self-sacrifice is a lovely, a sublime
conception, but--Charmian, ah my dear, what proof can you advance in
support----"

"Oh--proof!" she exclaimed impatiently, "Oh, Janet, hark to the mere
man of it!  Peter--I just know!  I feel it in my very bones--so does
Janet!  I'm as sure now of Rosemary's perfect innocence as I am of
Richard's--aren't we, Janet?"

"We are so!  Ay!  Indeedy!"

"And now what, Peter?"

"Now, Charmian, remains this grim and brutal fact,--the Earl lies
dead,--by violence...."

"Thank goodness!"

"My dear soul!" exclaimed Sir Peter in shocked accents.

"Tush, tush, Peter!  The world is better without him.  And mark my
words,--this was not suicide!"

"Then what hand ... who?"

"Why not that odious young Iford?"

"Iford?  His own son?" gasped Sir Peter.  "Good heavens, Charmian, you
cannot, must not hurl abroad such monstrous accusations and no shred of
evidence!"

"But I do, Peter, I do----"

"Iford?" exclaimed Sir Peter again.  "His own son!"

"Well, Peter, let us rather say the son of his poor, meek, ill-used
little wife.  Iford always hated his father, I knew this years ago.  So
you see the whole matter becomes very plain."

"Too plain!" said Sir Peter, up-starting from his chair and beginning
to pace up and down.  "And too extremely horrible, and certainly not to
be even hinted at without indisputable proof."

"Yes, Peter, this is why I am going to do more than hint, I shall ask
Iford myself----"

"Ask him?  Iford?  Good heavens no--you cannot!"

"And pray why not?"

"Because to even think he ... murdered his own father is incredible ...
almost."

"Almost!" she murmured, "Yes! ... And I see it is almost three o'clock."

"Yes, my dear.  And what then?"

"At three o'clock I am expecting Lord Iford."

"Here?  Amazing!  But he has consistently avoided me of late, confound
him!"

"Yes, this is why I wrote to him, Peter."

"But why demean yourself to write?"

"For sufficient reason, my dear ... Janet, when he comes I'll see him
in my boudoir----"

"But what reason,--what?" fumed Sir Peter.  "Surely not to demand ...
not to ask him if he is the murderer of his own father."

"But in my own way, Peter dear....  Janet, I think he shall find me
busy, my embroidery."

"You seem very certain of him," quoth Sir Peter, frowning.

"Oh, my dear, I am.  You see, acting on--hints I have gathered, my
letter informed him I had news of Rosemary."

"Now 'pon my soul!  D'you mean ... Rosemary ... this young reprobate?
D'you tell me that he ... this fellow----"

"Perfectly!  I believe she is become his obsession, Peterdear.  And
there are his horse's hoofs, Janet, I think."

"Umph--humph!" quoth Miss Janet and clashed, with martial sound, out of
the room.

"But, Charmian----" began Sir Peter.

"My dear one," she murmured, kissing his troubled face, "since you know
your Humble Person is no fool,--trust her and--keep far away from her
boudoir ... for the present, dear my lord and master."




CHAPTER XXI

WHICH BEING SUCH SPEECHFUL CHAPTER, SPEAKS FOR ITSELF

Lord Iford, or rather the new Earl of Abbeymere, showed surprisingly
youthful as he bowed golden head above my lady's hand, though to be
sure he bore himself with very complete assurance and his eyes with
their cynical weariness seemed anything but young, therefore it was at
these tell-tale eyes (be sure) that Lady Vibart bent her serene regard
as she motioned him to be seated.

"Well madam," said he, meeting her calm gaze with a smile politely
cynical as his look, "I am here!"

"And how very, very good of you!" she murmured, with such strange and
unexpected humility that his assurance wilted slightly.

"No no," he answered.  "Lady Vibart, pray believe me, I am honoured."

"It was kind of you to heed a mother's appeal and grant me this
interview."

"Oh but, madam, I----"

"You have made poor Sir Peter and myself so terribly, so very
dreadfully aware that you hold our dear son's honour, perhaps his very
life, at your mercy."

The young Earl's discomfort became manifest; his blue gaze wavered:

"My dear Lady Vibart you ... you mistake me----"

"Ah, would to heaven I did!" she sighed.  "But there can be no mistake
about your unfortunate father's terrible murder."

The Earl appeared shaken; he blenched before my lady's sad yet
unwavering gaze; he muttered vague protestations, and became dumb at
her gentle though imperious gesture.

"You know as well as I, my lord, and as certainly as Richard, that this
was no suicide, but--you have endeavoured to make Sir Peter and me
suspect our own son ... why?"

"Madam, I ... I certainly returned to your safe keeping the ... damning
evidence of his handkerchief."

"But you have also declared it a case of suicide....  Why?"

Lord Iford became so exceedingly uncomfortable that he started up from
his chair and crossing to the window, stared out across the park until
remembering himself, he murmured an apology and came back to front my
lady's gentle though persistent scrutiny.

"Well?" she demanded softly.  "Well, Iford,--or should it not be Lord
Abbeymere?"

"Neither, madam, neither I beg!" he answered almost humbly.  "In other
times when Richard and I were friends at school and college, you called
me Valentine.  Lady Vibart I would be 'Valentine' to you always, if I
may?"

"Why, this depends," she murmured, shaking her stately head.

"Pray--on what?"

"On how much these last few years have changed you."

"Alas, madam," he sighed, sitting down again.  "This is a world of
change!"

"But generally for the better, Iford, or we should revert to savagery."

"Madam, I begin to tremble!"

"I rejoice to know it!  And please don't be cynical, Iford.  You see I
remember your little, gentle mother ... in those days you were so like
her that I loved you too."

"And ... now, madam?"

"Now you are ... the Earl of Abbeymere!"

"And what beside, madam?"

"A very, very--too, too old young man!"

"Then let us hope I shall grow younger with age, madam."

"And yet," sighed she, "can you hope to even faintly resemble the
Valentine that was your mother's joy and comfort?  I wonder!"

Now at this, his cold flippancy vanished, his jaded eyes grew bright
and wistful:

"Am I so ... greatly changed?" he murmured.

"Beyond all expectation!" she nodded.

"And, of course ... for the worse, you'll tell me?"

"No, I tell you to ... ask yourself."

The young earl sighed, frowned, smiled and leaning back crossed slim
legs, quite at his ease again.

"Referring to your kind note," said he, "you mentioned a lady's
name...."

"Yes, Iford, Rosemary Ford."

"You promised to tell me news of her."

"Oh, I will.  You imagine yourself in love with her, of course."

"Lady Vibart ... really madam I ... permit me to say this concerns only
myself and----"

"Oh dear no!  This concerns Rosemary much more, and it also concerns me
a great deal.  You see I am her godmother and I also love her--very
dearly."

"Her ... godmother?" exclaimed the Earl, quite forgetting his studied
pose.

"Yes, I have known and loved her ever since she was born."

"Why then, Lady Vibart, I ... well, suppose I admit the ... ah ... soft
impeachment?"

"I shall instantly doubt the sincerity of your sentiments, Iford."

The young Earl gasped, glared, started indignantly afoot and sat down
again, very stiff in the back, all patrician haughtiness from golden
pate to varnished boots.

"Then, madam," he retorted, loftily, "I take leave to denounce your
ladyship's harsh and too hasty judgement as quite unwarranted and
utterly unjust."

"Let us at least hope so, my lord," sighed she, a little wearily.  "But
really your affected man of the world airs, your too-aged cynicism
would seem to discourage such hope."

Once more the Earl rose:

"Madam," said he, bowing, "I believe I will bid you good day
and--farewell.  I am closing Abbeymere for good.  I hope it may
rot--every hateful stick and stone of it ... So, let us call
it--Farewell!"

"As you will, my lord," she sighed, gazing up serenely into the fierce
young eyes above her, "but pray believe also that you are causing much
unnecessary pain by shielding your father's murderer."

The young Earl fell back a pace, staring down into this calm, beautiful
face, his eyes widening with more than apprehension.

"What ... madam, what do you ... suggest?"

"I mean that you have given out this murder as suicide, but--not to
save my son."  Here she paused for the Earl's question that came in a
breathless stammer:

"Then who ... why ... why else, madam?"

"To shield one you believe is really guilty."

The young Earl was stricken at last, apprehension waxed to ever-growing
horror; he strove for speech, loosened his cravat as if it choked him
and finally, sinking back into his chair, put the second question for
which she had waited:

"Who ... ah, whom do you mean?"

"Rosemary Ford!" answered my lady.  "And being so utterly certain of
her guilt, my lord, you are as sure of my son's innocence."

"So then ... you know?" he gasped.  "How?  God--what do you know?"

"That she is as guiltless as Richard."

For a moment his lordship sat dumb with stark amazement that changed to
relief, to a radiant joy:

"Thank God!" he exclaimed impulsively.  "Heaven bless you, Lady Vibart!
Now what proof have you?  Show me ... pray tell me,--what?"

"None!" she answered gently.  "Only I know ... I am perfectly certain
Rosemary is innocent."

"Then perhaps you will tell me ... you can name the guilty one...?"

"On the contrary ... can you not tell me, my lord?"

Thus directly questioned, he at first shook his golden head, then
meeting her intent gaze, seemed puzzled, then started forward in his
chair to peer at his serene accuser between suddenly narrowed lids; and
so for a breathless moment they gazed on each other, eye to eye.
Slowly the Earl's tense form relaxed and leaning back he was shaken by
a fit of silent though rather terrible laughter.

"So then, madam," said he at length, "you must even saddle me
with--patricide?  It seems you can fit me to any evil ... even to such
murder as this!  And yet--why not?  Indeed, you read me so very truly
that I'll confess but for the element of time, I should most certainly
have killed the Earl----"

"Hush--oh hush!" she whispered, both protesting hands outstretched
against him.

"No no, madam!  You have invited me to speak--now, hear me!  Knowing
what I know, madam, I grieve I was denied the killing of him, I----"

"Hush, boy!  There--there!  Don't say it ... oh remember he was your
... father!"

"But then I am my mother's son!  I know what merciless beast he
was,--so when I found him dead and learned why--then, my lady Vibart, I
spurned and trampled him where he lay, for clutched in his dead hand I
found--this!  Look, madam--look!"  From his breast the Earl drew a
wallet and took thence a strip of flowered muslin.

"This, madam," he explained, drawing the fragment through his fingers
caressingly, "this was wrenched from the gown Rosemary wore last
night....  He had savaged her ... well, and so she killed him, very
rightly, and thus spared me the joy and horror of it.  And now, well
... I live only to find her."

"And ... then?"

"I shall marry her if ... if she will so honour me and my accursed
name."  Softly Charmian arose and coming to the speaker, touched his
golden head caressingly as she had so often done when he was a small,
timid child.

"So then," she murmured sighfully, "you too!  Yes, you really love her,
Valentine."  He was silent a moment then with quick gesture somehow
rather pitiful in its eagerness, he caught that gentle, caressing hand
to kiss it almost wildly and looked up at her with eyes softened and
beautified by unwonted moisture.

"Am I ... indeed Valentine ... again, madam?" he enquired brokenly.


"Yes," she murmured, "you are looking at me now with Valentine's eyes!
But oh, my dear boy," she sighed, sinking beside him on the settee,
"what a tangled skein it all is!  You would thus shield Rosemary.
Rosemary actually confesses the crime to shield Richard.  Richard vows
he is guilty to shield Rosemary....  However shall we unravel it unless
we find the actual slayer?"

"Then, Lady Vibart, you ... you know Richard is ... or imagines himself
... in love with her?"

"Valentine--they are engaged."

"En--gaged?" repeated the Earl, slowly recoiling.  "Then you ... you
and Sir Peter have ... actually consented?"

"Yes, Valentine, they will be married in London just so soon as this
terrible matter is cleared up."

Languidly and like one very tired the young Earl rose and stood dumbly
before Charmian, staring down on her from a dead-white face; and slowly
the ardent, almost plaintive youth of a moment since, changed to a
desperate man, colder, grimmer and far more terrible than the old lord,
his father; and when he spoke it was in voice soft yet dreadfully
changed as his look:

"Lady Vibart, if I be permitted to advise, I should urge you most
strongly to do all in your power, by any or every means, to stop this
projected union or--I must ... and shall!"

"Are you threatening me, Iford?"

"No, no, I am warning you for the sake of ... other days.  Dear Lady
Vibart, I am telling you that my love is of this sort--if she I love
should die I would follow her in death gladly.  So then rather than
lose her to any mere man ... hear me, madam ... hear me vow to God I
will destroy that man though he be Richard your son ... and this the
last act of my life."

Then, unheeding her word and gesture, he turned and sped from the room,
almost running.

And presently, standing by the open window, Charmian heard the sudden
clatter of his horse's wildly galloping hoofs.




CHAPTER XXII

WHICH RECOUNTS AN INCIDENT BY THE WAY

"Now if," quoth Black George surveying Richard's countrified
transformation somewhat dubiously, "if your hair was a bit shorter----"

"It shall be ... at the first opportunity."

"But my old jacket do fit un sa-prising, eh, Jarge?" chuckled old
Simon.  "Lordy!  To think as Sir Peter's own son should be a-wearin' o'
my old coat!"

"Ay!" nodded George.  "Though it do show a bit shortish i' the back,
Simon, an' tightish 'ere an' there,--an' so much the better!  But,
Richard, if ee could make them gartered legs go a bit 'eavier-like an'
not cock your chin so lofty....  And then--his 'ands, Simon,--wot do ee
think o' they?"

"Should ought to look rougher-like, Jarge."

"We'll manage that somehow," nodded Richard turning as Simon's horse
and gig was led round from the stable-yard.  So, presently, having
shaken Simon's hand, up they mounted, all three, and away they trundled
through this lovely land of Kent; and Simon's powerful horse maintained
such pace up hill and down that by noon they had reached Tonbridge
town.  Here Richard proposed they should dine, and what better place
than "The Chequers," this famous inn?

Now George had scarcely pulled up in the spacious stable-yard and
Richard sprung down to stretch his cramped legs, than an ostler
appeared leading a splendid pair of bays harnessed to a dainty phaeton,
which horses and vehicle he instantly recognized and glancing
instinctively round about, saw, amid the stir and bustle, an elegant
veiled lady whom he also thought to recognize, for in this same moment
she paused to regard him so earnestly that he bared his curly head and
bowed, quite forgetting his country guise.

"Richard!" she exclaimed and came towards him, small gauntletted hands
outstretched.  "More mysteries then, Mr. Vibart?" she enquired, her
eyes very bright through her veil, "you are strangely transfigured!"

"By George, I'd forgotten!" he confessed a little ruefully.  "Would you
have known me?"

"I did!" she nodded.  "Almost instantly, of course.  You must change
your eyes and hair and walk, the carriage of your head as well as your
clothes.  But how strange we should meet again so very unexpectedly ...
and to-day of all days!  You, my preserver, my knight-errant and I, the
ever-distressed damsel wronged as usual."

"Distressed?" he repeated in smiling disbelief.  "What, again, Miss
Bellenden?  Please how may I serve you?"

"Come and I will show you," she murmured and led him into the spicy
dimness of an empty stable.

"Look!" she whispered and with quick, half-shamed, half-passionate
gesture, threw back her veil.

Richard choked back an oath and recoiled, for the tender beauty of one
cheek was marred by an ugly weal.

"A whip, sir!" she nodded, dropping her veil.  "A whip used thus by my
gallant cousin, Sir Nicholas Frayne!  This was his remonstrance for
leaving him on the road and refusing----"

"Where is he?" Richard demanded, hoarse-voiced and glancing about
rather wildly.

"In London, Mr. Vibart.  This happened yesterday."

"The devil!" gasped Richard.  "The dastardly, damned scoundrel!"

"Thank you, Richard!" she murmured, red lips smiling beneath her veil.
"That has done me a great deal of good.  And I showed you because I am
a poor creature quite destitute of men folk, brothers, father or even
cousins, except Nicholas of course, and I am so helplessly, hatefully
revengeful that ... oh, Richard, I should like ... I yearn that his
face should bear such cruel, shameful stigmas as mine."

"Never doubt it!" said Richard, catching her hand to his lips.  "When I
meet ... if only I can find him, his whole detestable carcass shall
bear worse marks, I promise you."

"Ah---now see what I have done!" cried she, with sudden, wild gesture.
"Oh, what selfish wretch am I ... to drag you into my quarrel ...
thrust trouble and danger upon you----"

"Pray believe that you honour me, Miss Bellenden."

"No, no, I endanger your life! ... and my name is Cynthia! ... So pray
do not worry."

A rumble of wheels in the yard, hoofs that clattering stamped such
devil's tattoo as could be caused only by the most thorough of
thoroughbreds,--wherefore Miss Bellenden troubled to glance thitherward
and, uttering an exclamation, stepped out from the stable.

"Valentine!" she called as forth of dusty carriage stepped the young
Earl of Abbeymere.

"Cynthia!" said he, flourishing hat from yellow head.

"Here's an unexpected pleasure----"  But, in the act of bowing above
her outstretched hand, he stiffened, stared, glared and frowned: "Now
what in heaven's name----!" he murmured.

"To be sure!" smiled Cynthia.  "This is ... my Richard ... Mr. Vibart.
He is, I fancy, engaged in some theatricals ... charades, perhaps, but
he is also my preserver ... he saved my life, Valentine!"

"Oh, indeed?"

"Yes, indeed, sir!  Well, is this so slight a matter?"

"God forbid!  Mr. Vibart is fortunate--as usual."

"But don't you know each other?"

"Perfectly!" sighed the Earl, bowing at Richard with exaggerated
courtesy.  "We know each other--too well."

"And therefore," retorted Richard, returning the bow with scowling
contempt, "quite well enough."

"A-ha!" murmured his lordship, surveying Richard's country attire with
cold-eyed derision, "A charade?  The effect is diverting, Vibart."
Richard clenched his fists and frowned into the speaker's sneering face
so fiercely that Cynthia stepped lightly between them.

"Goodness-me!" she exclaimed.  "Such ferocity--such hatred!  Then you
are not friends?"

"Ask Vibart," smiled the Earl.

Richard merely scowled.

"But why ever not?" she demanded, "You, Valentine, tell me why?"

"Oh, for some reason or other, Cynthia, but so perfectly sufficing that
whensoever your Richard and preserver desires to quarrel, your
Valentine is eager to oblige."

Once again Richard's aspect became so threatening that she spoke on
impulse:

"I could show you better cause, Valentine."

"Dear Cynthia, I beg leave to doubt it."

"Then look!" said she, softly.  "Valentine--look at this!"  And for the
second time she lifted her veil.  The Earl gazed at the cruel mark,
glanced at Richard, at the busy yard and, his gaze thus averted,
uttered one word:

"Who?"

"My cousin, Nicholas Frayne.  He is a crony of yours, I think?"

"He was!  And yet ... hardly a crony.  Also, I am on my way to London."

"Oh,--you mean?"

"Everything, Cynthia."

"Valentine, I demand to know exactly what you do mean?"

"To shoot him, of course."

"No!" said Richard.  "You are quite too late, Iford.  Miss Cynthia has
honoured me----"

"Vibart," drawled the Earl, as provokingly as possible, "to hear Frayne
had shot you dead would quite charm me--naturally.  But my friendship
for this lady is far older than yours, so have the goodness to mind
your own business.  And permit me to remind you that I am ...
Abbeymere, as of course you know very well----"

"You--Abbeymere?" cried Cynthia, interposing.  "You the Earl ...
oh--why, Valentine, how is this?"

"Because," murmured his lordship, "the old Earl is deceased, very
suddenly and rather lately."

"Gracious--goodness!" gasped Cynthia, "your father?"

"Let us say--the late earl, my dear Cynthia.  His lordship is lying
coffined at this moment.  Two days hence he will be interred with all
due ceremonial and myself the chief--let us say--mourner ... yes, even
to gloves and hat-band, I shall seem perfectly _de regle_."

"Valentine!" she exclaimed.  "Sometimes I think you have no soul ... no
heart!"

"I wonder?" he sighed.

"But ... your father!  And so sudden, Valentine!  Pray how did it
happen ... when?"

"As to the 'how' of it, Cynthia, and also the 'when'--ask Vibart, he
can tell you all about it as well, or rather better than I."

"But, Valentine----"

"Cynthia, my dear, I like stables as I do horses, but just now I
propose to dine, will you be pleased to honour me?  Vibart, too, if he
chooses."

"Why then in a private room.  Valentine,--my poor face!"

"Ah yes, of course.  We will dine _ deux_--unless Vibart will join
us----"

"Thank you--no!"

"Then pray, child, bid your noble preserver _adieu_ and give me your
arm."

"Good-bye, Richard--my knight-errant!" said Cynthia, catching his
clenched hand in both her own, "Iford ... I mean Abbeymere--no,
Valentine, can be a most hateful beast but pray forgive him--for my
sake!"

And presently Richard came where George and Tom patiently awaited him,
and bringing them into a secluded corner of the tap-room, dined with
them very heartily on bread and cheese and nappy ale.

"So yon was the young noo Earl of Abbeymere, Tom do tell me?"

"Yes, George.  How do you like him?"

"I don't!" growled Black George.

"And yet," quoth Richard, shaking his head in frowning perplexity,
"confound me but I can't help liking the fellow ... somehow ... in
spite of myself, George."




CHAPTER XXIII

WHICH IS, AT LEAST A CHAPTER OF ACTION

Filled with such heroic spirit of adventure as fired the valiant souls
of old-time mariners and explorers to sail uncharted seas and dare the
joyous terrors of the Unknown,--little Jane opened the door ... Her
wide grey eyes, that always seemed too large for the small, elfin face,
cast one glance behind, then the door closed and she sped out and away
on that errant course that was to affect so many lives.

She stood hesitant in a narrow, somewhat depressing thoroughfare that
led between high, blank walls, but to little Jane, this small
adventurer, it was a place marvellous.  The first wonder that charmed
and lured her was a knife-grinding machine with stone set in a high
frame on wheels whereat was perched a primy person shooting sparks from
a large knife blade very glorious to behold.

Reaching this so engaging personage, little Jane dropped him the
stateliest of little curtseys whereupon the sparks vanished, the
rasping stone became still and the personage himself turned to stare
down at her through a pair of large, silver-rimmed spectacles.

"Well," quoth he, "dog bite me if I ever did!"

"What, please?" enquired Jane.

"See sich a werry small lady and all by herself too!  Oo are ye, ma'm?"

"I'm Jane."

"Oh?" nodded the knife-grinder.  "And a werry good name too!  Mine's
Bill."

"Oh?" said Jane thoughtfully in her turn.  "Do you like humbugs, Bill?"

"Eh?" quoth he, rubbing whiskery chin, "I dunno as I ever----"

"This!" said Jane, and from beneath her cloak produced a very crumpled
and sadly depleted paper cornucopia whence she daintily extracted and
held up a sweetmeat in question.  The knife-grinder took it, popped it
into his wide mouth and nodded:

"Prime!" said he.

"Then please,--more sparks, Bill!"

"At your sarvice, Miss Jane, ma'm!"  So once again the grindstone
whirred, spinning faster and faster, until from shrieking steel flew
sparks in a very cataract.  But, even as she watched in an ecstasy,
suddenly above the grind of whirring stone and the vague rumble of
distant street, clear and high and resistless to childish ears as the
Pied Piper's flageolet, rose the shrill, alluring squeak of Mr. Punch.

"Ooh!" exclaimed Jane and, forgetting all dignity, clapped her little
hands, turned on dancing feet and sped lightly away.  Knifegrinder Bill
craned from his perch to stare after her then, shaking his head, bent
again to his labour, munching the humbug.  The which sweetmeat had long
vanished and Mr. Punch's shrill summons died away when Bill, in the act
of testing knife-edge on thumb, saw Beauty standing before him so
entirely, bewilderingly beautiful yet so pitifully distressed that he
gaped--and small wonder!

"Oh please ... please----" said Rosemary, with gesture of entreaty
wholly artless and therefore utterly winning, "a little girl ... have
you seen her?  A very little girl in ... blue bonnet and pelisse----"

"Yes, lady, that I 'ave," answered Bill, eager to aid such woeful
loveliness, "abaht ten minutes it 'ud be.  She comes an' gives me a
sucker, though she called it a humbug."

"Yes, yes--oh, that would be she ... little Jane."

"Ay, ma'm, it were, lady.  She told me so ... and that per-lite, miss,
bless 'er little 'eart."

"Where ... which way did she go?"

"Ma'm, she up and run off arter a Punch 'n Judy Show--like a little
arrer, ah--quick as a tiddler in a pond, lady.  So if you should 'ear
Punch a-squeakin' you foller 'im, miss, an' I'll lay as theer you'll
find little ma'm Jane.  So don't ye worry your pretty----"

"Oh, thank you!" cried Rosemary and fled ... out and away into the
flurry and turmoil of the busy street.  And many were they, amid the
bustling throng, who burned for another glance at her vividly,
arresting beauty and grace of form--more especially one, a tall,
dark-avised man driving a high-wheeled stanhope, a boldly handsome
person this, who was so smitten that he uttered an oath of startled,
rapturous wonder and checked his spirited horse so violently as to
quite discompose the elegant youth lolling sleepily beside him into
drawling though peevish expostulation:

"Da--amme, Frayne ... wha--at the deyvil----"

"There, Jimmy--look!  B'gad--Aphrodite herself!  Ha--the shape of her!"

"Eh?  What?  Where?"

"There, man, there!  The golden Venus!  See her action!"

The languid Jimmy exerted himself to fix his eye-glass and following
the direction of his companion's pointing whip, sat up, cocked his hat
more rakishly and exclaimed, like knifegrinder Bill though with very
different intonation:

"Prime!"

"She's Perfection!" snarled Sir Nicholas Frayne, with a certain
ferocity of admiration.  "Ha, Jimmy, 'pon my soul she might win me back
that monkey I lost to Arthur Cleeve last night,--b'gad, she shall!"

"Eh?  How ... how d'ye mean, Nick?"

"Very simply.  Cleeve is due at my rooms in half an hour or so and with
Syd Buckley.  Well--now lookee, Jimmy,--we lead the talk to 'Lovely
Woman,' our love-sick Arthur will of course sing the praises of his
latest conquest----"

"What, his little dancer--Rosine?"

"Yes, yes.  Then I demur.  The debate grows hot.  I bet him a monkey I
can show him a rarer, lovelier creature.  I produce yonder young
goddess.  Then you and Syd and I plump solidly for our Venus and--the
money's mine."

"Sounds likely enough, Nick, m'boy.  But how bring if off?  Da-amme, ye
can't kidnap the charming creetur in broad daylight--at least, not on a
main thoroughfare----"

"Who says so?" demanded Sir Nicholas, his eager gaze ever upon that
lovely hurrying form, "I'll find a way ... I must!"

"But--on a crowded street, Nick?  No no,--quite impossible, m' tulip!
Why, what now,--where's she off to in such dooce of a hurry?"

"She shan't escape me!" smiled Sir Nicholas grimly and touched up his
horse; for their beautiful quarry had commenced to run; indeed Rosemary
had caught at last the sound she had been praying to hear,--the high,
piping squeak of Mr. Punch.  Guided by this right welcome sound she
sped on, heedless of all else, turning corners haphazard until in a
quiet back street remote from roaring traffic she beheld a motley
throng--women, children (and men of course) grouped about a very
superior Punch and Judy Show brave with striped canvas, paint and
gilding with a sign displayed aloft where was emblazoned this legend
nobly lettered:

          THE ONLY DOUBLEDAY
                  WITH
            PUNCH AND JUDY
  PRIVATE PERFORMANCES--TOWN OR COUNTRY

Mr. Punch was in the act of trouncing the Beadle as Rosemary gently
though firmly edged through the rapt audience until she beheld the
object of her frantic search standing entranced close beside a very
comfortable, motherly woman who smiled down at the small, eager face
what time she answered Mr. Punch, tootled on the Panspipe affixed
conveniently beneath her dimpled chin or thumped the drum--all at the
exact and proper moments.

"Jane ... oh Jane!" cried Rosemary.  Then the small truant was being
kissed, reproached, embraced and kissed again while Mrs. Doubleday,
smiling more kindly than ever, nodded her comely, large-bonneted head.

"Glory be!" quoth she heartily.  "Ah, miss, I thought as somebody would
come alooking for her pretty soon,--such a precious little duck!  And
such old-fashioned ways and all.  Followed us quite a piece a-holding
my hand, when not my Dan'l's and a-talking to us that pretty!"  Here
Mrs. Doubleday turned to speak through the canvas to her invisible
spouse:

"'S all right, Dan'l--the little angel's found."  At this Mr. Punch,
knocking the Beadle completely out of time, emitted a piercing, joyous
squeal that echoed far and wide, so very sudden and loud indeed that a
certain high-spirited horse snorted in protest with great clatter of
hoofs whereat rose an angry murmur from the crowd that opened
unwillingly to the passage of a high-wheeled stanhope driven by a tall,
arrogant personage who, either by accident or design, caused his
nervous animal to rear and plunge so violently that the crowd swayed in
quick, wild panic and, caught in this surging press, little Jane was
swept from Rosemary's hold and fell almost beneath the frightened
horse's trampling hoofs.  Women shrieked in horror, men shouted
fiercely, but, uttering no sound, Rosemary leapt, snatched up that
little helpless form, felt a violent shock, reeled blindly, was caught
and,--dazed, breathless and trembling, found herself in Mrs.
Doubleday's sturdy embrace, but with little Jane safe in her arms....
Then a tall, graceful person was before her, bowing profoundly.

"Magnificent!" exclaimed Sir Nicholas Frayne, hat on heart, his tone
(and eyes) schooled to a now reverent admiration.  "By heavens it was
positively heroical!  But--your little charge ... the poor child--ha,
by God she is hurt--bleeding!  Suffer me!"

Hands, gentle though very masterful, lifted the child from Rosemary's
trembling clasp, passing her up to the monocled gentleman in the
high-wheeled curricle.

"Hold her, Jimmy--gently man ... then into the rumble with you!  Now,
madam,--wonderful, heroic girl--permit me!"

Somehow, and almost before she knew it, Rosemary was seated in the
vehicle with Jane nestling in her arms--a pitiful little creature whose
small face showed paler than ever now and stained with blood, at sight
of which Rosemary forgot all else:

"Oh, quickly sir!" she cried, removing Jane's dusty little bonnet.  "To
Mrs. Humby's School ... to Golden Square----"

"Certainly, certainly!" murmured Sir Nicholas, seating himself nimbly
beside her; and away they went.

"Oh, Miss Marydear," sighed Jane, "now must I die and be buried like my
mama?"

"No ... no!" gasped Rosemary kissing that pale, wistful little face and
dabbing away the dust and the bloodflow very tenderly with her
handkerchief, "It's only a tiny cut, my darling."

"But you didn't let ... the great big horse jump on me...."

"No, of course not, dear."

"But I lost ... all my humbugs!"

"I'll buy you more, oh lots more,--so smile, darling!"

Thus Rosemary found no time to so much as glance at the tall, rather
sinister figure beside her or the streets through which he drove, until
they stopped suddenly; then she looked up to see Sir Nicholas smiling
down at her.

"But... this is not Golden Square!" said she, glancing round about at
the unfamiliar neighbourhood.

"It is on our way," he answered easily, tossing the reins to the
smiling Jimmy and descending to the pavement rather hastily.  "But,
madam, I feel myself the unhappy cause of our dear little maid's mishap
and your own natural distress and you must let me make such small
reparation as I may.  'Pon my soul you're pale as a ghost ... a glass
of wine to restore your colour ... a doctor for the dear child----"

"No, thank you, sir.  Jane's hurt is not serious, thank God!  Pray
drive us on to Golden Square."

"Not yet--I beg!" smiled Sir Nicholas, reaching both hands to aid her
down.  "At least do pray take time to compose yourself ... and the
sweet child should be washed and brushed ... so dusty!  Her poor little
face bathed ... see the blood on it!"

So Rosemary, still shaken by her experience, thinking only of little
Jane and fearing no evil, presently suffered herself to be ushered into
a sumptuous though somewhat untidy chamber where a grim-mouthed,
fish-eyed manservant supplied her with water, sponge and towels.

Then, deftly, tenderly and gently murmurous, Rosemary bathed and
cherished the little wounded head until this desolate child, all unused
to such motherlike care, turned to look up at her in great-eyed
wonderment and uttering a soft, rapturous cry, dodged the sponge to lay
her small wet face to Rosemary's cheek, murmuring:

"Oh, Miss Marydear, I do ... love you so!"

And how should Rosemary think, just then, of anything else in the world
but the clinging arms of this lonely child and the yearning love thus
offered to her lonely self?  There are women (thank God!) who are
Mothers born, and thus Rosemary kissed this small, dripping face and,
having dried it, kissed it again and again, whispering:

"Jane ... oh little Jane my dear ... I love you too!"

"Charming!  Charming--positively!" said Sir Nicholas, closing the door
behind him.  "And how do we find ourselves now?"

"Better sir, thank you," answered Rosemary, "and quite ready to go."

"A quaint child, such a demure little person!" smiled Sir Nicholas.
"Positively I must kiss her!"

But as he advanced, Jane shrank within Rosemary's ready arm.

"Eh?  Won't you kiss me, little lady?"

"Oh no, thank you, sir," answered Jane curtseying politely but drawing
a fold of Rosemary's cloak about herself.  Sir Nicholas laughed and
crossing to a buffet where stood a number of bottles and decanters, he
filled a glass and proffered it to Rosemary.

"A sip of sherry and a biscuit, Miss Mary?"

"No, thank you.  But how did you know my----"

"Your charming name?  The child, Miss Mary.  And it is a delightful
name, yes positively and beautiful as your lovely self.  But do pray
sit down ... come now ... this glass of wine----"

"No, thank you."

"Tush!  It will do you good.  Miss Mary, I insist."

"So do I!" answered Rosemary, turning towards the door.

"Dear me!" he laughed.  "Such determined Beauty?  Then a cup of tea?  A
glass of milk for the child?"

"Thank you, sir--no!  We have been away too long already.  Mrs. Humby
will be anxious."

"And pray who is Mrs. Humby?"

"Sir, this is not your business and----"

"Not in the least, m'dear soul.  However, we will allow Mrs. Humby to
be anxious--for a little while.  I will explain everything to her later
on.  B'gad I'll ... I'll so belaud your heroism!  I'll teach her to
know and appreciate you for the treasure you are, Miss Mary.  So
there's really no cause for such haste.  Pray sit down again for a
moment or two.  And try this wine ... come now, you must."

Rosemary's slim, dark brows met in a sudden frown, her blue eyes
surveyed the speaker very deliberately from head to foot and feature by
feature, also when she spoke it was in tone apparently untroubled as
her look:

"If you will kindly step from the door, sir, Jane and I will go."

"Presently, m'dear soul.  First I must send round to the mews for my
curricle and----"

"Do not trouble,--we will walk, sir."

"No no," said he, smiling, "this I cannot permit....  You so agitated,
deliciously so!  And the dear child ... injured and so forth,--to allow
you to walk would be positively inhuman."

Rosemary's slender though very capable hands clenched, her eyes
sparkled angrily yet her rich, soft voice seemed smoothly serene as she
answered:

"You make it very evident how blindly foolish I was to venture
here,--but you see, sir, in my agitation I mistook you for a gentleman."

Sir Nicholas bowed; his lean dark face grew suddenly red and as
suddenly pale, then he laughed, a little stridently and crossing
deliberately to the door, leaned there.

And now, despite her brave showing, something in the devouring
intensity of his regard chilled her with swift dread and a creeping
self-consciousness that shamed her.  But in the clasp of Jane's little
fingers was mighty comfort, and looking down into the small, elfin face
upraised to her own she read such mute, adoration that the child's very
weakness made her strong again and she fronted the sinister, lounging
figure at the door calmly undismayed as ever.

"Why are you keeping us here?" she questioned, gently.

"For reasons sufficing," he answered as gently, "one of which you may
see by looking in the mirror yonder."

"Will you ... please ... stand from that door?"

"Not yet, Miss Mary.  And despite your taunt, pray believe you have
absolutely nothing to fear."  And yet even while he spoke, his hot eyes
so belied his words that, once again, she felt that creeping chill of
dread....  And then, high and clear, spake little Jane:

"Miss Marydear, do you s'pose he'll 'blige us and open the door if we
kiss him to?"

Sir Nicholas chuckled.

"Aha!" he exclaimed.  "There speaketh wisdom!  Out of the mouths of
babes,--and so forth.  E'gad, Mary--'pon m' soul I'll make it a
bargain----"

He paused suddenly, listening to a sound of voices below.

"Alas!" sighed he, "I fear we shall soon be driving to your Mrs.
Humby----"

Feet upon the stair without; an imperative knock.  Sir Nicholas
frowned, sighed, opened the door and into the room stepped Valentine,
Earl of Abbeymere.  Beholding Rosemary he backed suddenly, his weary
eyes grew radiant beneath lifting brows and drawing a deep breath he
glanced from her to Sir Nicholas and back again; and Rosemary noticed
he kept his right hand hidden behind him.

"Rosemary!" he murmured, "You?  And--here of all places on earth."

"Oh, my lord," she exclaimed, "take me away ... this man----"

"Ah?" murmured his lordship.  "Exactly!"

Sir Nicholas laughed, reaching out his hand in greeting.

"What, Valentine?" said he, "d'you know this lady?"

"I have that honour!" answered the Earl turning to face him, and so was
a moment's silence; but something in their attitude warned Rosemary
for, beholding the terrible look on his lordship's youthful face, she
stooped instinctively, and clasping the child to her bosom, held her
there with face hidden.

"Of course," said Sir Nicholas at last, "if ... er ... Miss Mary
happens to be a particular ... er ... friend of yours----"

"She is, Frayne, she is!" sighed the Earl, cutting him short.  "You see
I live in hopes she will be my Countess....  But to-day I am here to
remind you of Cynthia Bellenden and--this!"  With the word, his right
hand appeared and in it a riding-crop that, whizzing viciously, smote
Sir Nicholas across and across the face--cruel blows that cut ... that
staggered and drew from the stricken man's lips a cry of anguish....
Then in upon them ran Mr. Jimmy, his modish languor quite forgotten,
and after him, two other young exquisites, all three of whom hastened
to support and comfort their stricken companion, and for a minute or
two was clamour of excited questioning, stilled all at once by the
Earl's cold, imperious tones:

"Gentlemen, I will explain.  Your friend, Sir Nicholas Frayne, used his
whip on a woman.  I've used mine on him.  You will therefore understand
that just so soon as you or he can arrange a meeting, it is my very
earnest hope and desire to shoot him as dead as possible, Sirs, I bid
you good afternoon!"

Then, reaching hand to Rosemary, he led her from that silent room and
out into the street where, behind two foam-spattered horses, stood a
dusty carriage.

"Rosemary, where will you go?" he enquired, lifting Jane into the
vehicle.

"To Golden Square, please, my lord."

"So near?" he sighed.  "Then we must drive slowly for I have much to
... to talk about."




CHAPTER XXIV

TELLETH HOW THE EARL FOUND HIM A LITTLE FAIRY GODMOTHER

"First," said Rosemary, sighing with relief as the carriage bore them
away, "first I will explain how we came in ... that man's house."

"Please--no!" said the Earl, turning to smile with a quite unexpected
gentleness at little Jane.  "First honour me with an introduction to
her small ladyship here.  And secondly," he continued, when this
ceremony has been performed to Jane's demure satisfaction, "the burning
question is, now and always, when will you marry me, Rosemary?"

"Ah, never," she answered, gently.  "I have told you so, often.  You
know it is impossible."

"On the contrary," he answered as gently, "I know it is not only
possible but actually imperative ... for the sake of ... well, let us
say--another."

Now at this she turned to regard him with look of swift and dreadful
apprehension.

"Who ... what do you mean?" she whispered.

"Yes, you have guessed rightly!" he nodded.  "For, Rosemary, my dear,
we are both of us quite aware that the late Earl did not commit
suicide.  In fact, we know for certain exactly how ... and by whose
hand he died.  You agree?"

"No!" she whispered, shuddering violently.  "No----"

"And yet, my poor dear, in your secret heart you are dreadfully sure
... terribly certain he died by the act of--Another!  I can read it in
your sweet eyes."

"Well, my lord, even were this truly so," answered Rosemary with her
resolute expression, "I should still love him more than life!"

"And so it is," sighed the Earl, "yes, my dear--this is precisely why
you must ... and will ... marry ... me."

"My lord, is this a threat?  Are you suggesting you will betray him?"

"Dear Rosemary, a man who loves as I ... might do anything----"

"Then such love is debasing and hateful!" she flamed.

"Be generous and say--merely human," he retorted with his cynical
smile.  "And alas!  I'm nothing of an angel and very far from a saint.
Consequently I am wholly unworthy, and yet ... perhaps for this very
reason, love you very reverently, Rosemary."

"Listen, my lord!  Hear me once and for all."

"Not unless you call me Valentine."

"Then, Valentine," said she, quick-breathing and leaning impulsively
towards him, "look at me ... into my eyes!  Now--suppose I tell you,
confess to you that it was I ... the guilt ... that my hand----"

"Hush!" cried he, with quick, compelling gesture; and thus was silence
between them while eyes looked deep into eyes ... and it was his own
eager, questioning gaze that wavered and fell, and he silent still.


"Well?" she questioned at last.

"I ... don't ... know!" he answered, passing hand across brow like one
amazed and deeply perplexed.  "But Rosemary, were this indeed so, or
... could I ever come to believe it of you, I should only love you all
the more, were this possible,--yes, love and bless you for ridding the
world of such evil----"

"Oh!" gasped Rosemary, recoiling.  "Oh, but he was your----"

"Don't say 'father'!  I am the son of my little gentle mother.  But, my
dear, why will you pretend to such an act?  Ah, of course,---you know
too certainly that he died by the hand of--Another, yes, yes!  And this
brings us back to my first argument,--that for his sake you must wed
me."

Rosemary sighed wearily and leaning back in her corner, turned to stare
out of the window while my lord, leaning back in his, stared at her,
and little Jane seated very upright between them, small sandalled feet
demurely crossed, stared from one to other and, having surveyed his
lordship most particularly--his graceful slenderness, youthful face and
golden hair, having thus viewed him with the dispassionate,
deep-sighted scrutiny of Childhood, thought fit to pronounce judgement
on this wise:

"I like this gentleman, Miss Marydear, so I think you'd better marry
him if I was you."

Now at this, the Earl laughed down at the dignified little speaker,
quite boyishly, then drawing her close, kissed her tenderly and very
solemnly.

"Jane," he murmured, putting back her bonnet to caress her smooth, dark
hair, "oh, little Jane, teach her how to love me.  Be my little fairy
godmother and bewitch her into wedding me."

"Oh, hush!" said Rosemary.

"Weave spells, little fairy godmother, enchant me into a fairy prince
for her, and this poor world into a garden of delight--will you?"

"Well," answered Jane, thoughtfully, "I'll ask God 'bout it.  I'll say
you into my prayers.  I'll say--'please God make them nice an' married
an' live happy ever after, amen' ... An' oh, I do wish I'd got nice
bright hair, like you!"

The Earl was silent and smiling down at the child, made as if to kiss
her, but chancing to meet Rosemary's look of shocked consternation, he
checked the impulse and laughed instead:

"Well, Rosemary, you hear?" he nodded.  "Do what you will your fate is
settled and mine also,--to be married and live happy ever after!  My
little Fairy Godmother will carry the matter to the Supreme
Tribunal----"

"For shame!" cried Rosemary angrily.  "To make a mockery of such sweet
innocence,--you that have faith in nothing!  You that ... beat men with
whips and threaten their lives,--be ashamed!"

"Oh, I am!" he sighed, "that you should find cause to so misjudge me,
for I have my beliefs, Rosemary, faiths I would die for--perhaps!  But
as regards threatening men's lives, well--yes I have uttered such
threats, once or twice, and will again--now, to you my dear, and pray
heed! ... Guilty or no, you must never wed Richard Vibart ... for his
lady mother's sake."

"His ... mother...?"

"Lady Vibart!" he nodded.  "You see, when I was a child I loved her
quite devotedly, now that I am a man I esteem her very deeply, and it
would pain me extremely to become the cause of her everlasting grief."

"How?" she gasped.  "Ah--what are you suggesting?"

"Death!" he murmured, twining a tress of little Jane's glossy hair
about his finger.  "The sudden death of her only son.  So, my dear, you
must never marry our Richard or--though he kill me in the act, as I
think he would, I shall most certainly end him also.  Now why look at
me with such horror,--does this love of mine----"

"Love?" she exclaimed fiercely.  "Such love is only vile selfishness, a
hateful affliction--a dark and dreadful menace."

"Yet it is myself," he sighed, "and all that I am."

"Then I pray the merciful God preserve me from it."

"And here's another prayer!" he murmured.  "How shall this avail
against an innocent child's, the kind petition of my little Fairy
Godmother?  I wonder!"

"You grow hateful!" Rosemary whispered passionately.  "I begin to
despise you more and more, my lord."

"Do you, Rosemary?  And yet you don't know the half, listen, dear
soul!"  Here, muffling Jane's sharp little ears against himself with
gentle hand, he leaned across to Rosemary and spoke beneath his breath:
"I have lately made myself a perjured liar!  I have contrived that the
late Earl's murder shall seem _felo de se_.  I have sworn upon Holy
Writ so falsely and effectively that, being esteemed by my deluded
fellow men a gentleman and person of honour, my false testimony at the
late inquest has branded my own flesh and blood a suicide--as you may
read in to-day's _Gazette_.  So here sit I a shameless perjurer no whit
ashamed, my dear, because I am so,--merely for your sake.  Thus you,
Rosemary, need hide no longer and our Richard is free to go wherever he
will--except your arms.  Also I--ah, confound it!  I fear this must be
Golden Square to relieve you of me, and much too soon! ... And so,
little Jane, it must be good-bye for the present.  Ah, my sweet, small
Fairy Godmother ... you'll say me into your prayers...?"

"Yes, sir ... oh yes, every night!"

"And ... would you," said he, rather wistfully, "will you kiss me,
little Jane?"  For answer up came two thin little arms to clasp and
cling.  And so they kissed.  Then a smart, though very dusty, footman
opened the door and bowed as my lord with Jane in his arms, stepped
from the carriage and, reaching hand to aid Rosemary, murmured:

"I may call to see you here?"

"No, no, my lord, I beg you will not," she answered, murmuring also,
and avoiding alike his helping hand and pleading eyes.

"However, I have found you," said he going on beside her, "as I shall
always find you--wherever you hide.  To-night I go back to Abbeymere,
the funeral is to-morrow,--but soon ... yes soon as may be I shall at
least see you again, here or somewhere.  For love such as mine cannot
be denied."

Speechlessly and with head averted, Rosemary turned down that narrow,
somewhat depressing thoroughfare, quite deserted now, for the
knifegrinder Bill had trundled away long ago; reaching a certain door
in the blank wall, Rosemary halted and turned suddenly:

"My lord," sighed she wearily, "is it any use asking--begging you to
end this ... this persecution and see me no more?"

"Not in the least!" he answered lightly, "I----"

"Well then," she retorted fiercely, "that man,--that hateful man you
mean to fight ... he may--kill you!"

"Who--Frayne?"  The Earl smiled confidently and shook his head.  "Not
he, Rosemary! ... Even though it should prove such welcome relief to
you, alas!  But do not flatter yourself with such false hopes, my dear,
for I shall end Frayne most certainly ... unless he take his own way
... some irregular means ... it would be like him..." said the Earl,
smiling now a little bitterly.  "So there is a chance, sweet soul,
cheer up--he may contrive my death ... who knows!"

Then Rosemary opened the door and my lord set Jane upon her feet:

"Ah no!" said the child, looking up large-eyed and shaking her head at
him gravely reproving.  "Nobody can make you go dead 'n' buried any
more 'cause of my prayers an' God taking care of you and making you
good for His sake f'rever 'n' ever, you know."

Then with demure little curtsey she passed into the garden, followed by
Rosemary, while the Earl stood dumb and bareheaded to watch, nor did he
stir until that unlovely, weatherbeaten door had shut them from his
sight.  Then, sighing, he turned and paced back, head bent like one
profoundly thoughtful.  Reaching the carriage he sank back wearily upon
the cushions and as the smart footman shut him in:

"Abbeymere, Ben!" said he.  "And tell Andrew to drive like the devil!"




CHAPTER XXV

TELLETH HOW SIR PETER WENT INVESTIGATING

So the old Earl, being dead, was buried with all due circumstance; and
the great house of Abbeymere, empty, silent and desolate, seemed dead
as he.

And yet, upon this sunny afternoon, as Sir Peter surveyed its many
windows he fancied they still contrived to leer or scowl at him
malignantly like eyes in the face of a newly-slain foe.

Therefore as his musing gaze roved to and fro along the wide frontage,
Sir Peter frowned also and was silent so long that John Rudge, the
lodgekeeper, ventured speech at last:

"Empty as any drum, S' Peter, an' silent as the tomb, sir!  Nary soul
left--only me an' me mistus.  Sarvants all gone, his ludship likewise
clean gone an' nowise never like to come back again no more neether,
sir."

"But how do you know this, Rudge?" enquired Sir Peter, his gaze still
upon the house.

"Why, sir, his ludship told me so his own self.  For 'ardly is th' old
Earl buried in th' old ruinated chapel yonder, along o' the rest on em,
and the grand folkses gone, sir, than Lord Iford ... I mean the noo
Earl, orders the pair-oss chariot, packs off the servants, locks up the
house and tosses the keys ... these here, to me.  'There y'are, John!'
says he, 'A pound a week an' your cottage,' says he, 'some fools may
want to look over the cursed place or even buy it.  But as for me,' 'e
says, shakin' 'is fist at it mighty passionated, 'may it rot an' be
damned!' says 'e,--axing your honour's pardon.  Then 'e jumps into his
carriage and away at a gallop, sir.

"To London, Rudge?"

"Ay, to London, sir."

"How many servants were there--in the house, John?"

"Well, sir, years ago I can mind they was aplenty,--thirty-odd they'd
be then, ah--mebbe more, but these last years they wasn't only nine or
ten, counting of Mr. Clipsby, though 'e weren't not 'ardly wot you
might call a sarvant, sir."

"A superior person, John, as I remember him."

"A gen'leman, sir, to my thinkin'--talked like one, dressed like one,
walked like one, an' played organ or pi-anner fair bootiful!"

"Yes," murmured Sir Peter, thoughtfully.  "I remember now---more
companion than servant ... and I heard him play once, years ago,
remarkably ... hum!"

"But never no more, sir!" sighed John.

"You saw the Earl that night ... the night he--died, eh Rudge?"

"Ay, I did, sir.  Along about two o'clock i' the morning it would be,
or a bit earlier, when Mr. Clipsby comes a knockin' at my cottage door
yonder.  'Me lord wants ye up to the 'ouse, Rudge,' says 'e,
breathless-like.  'The Earl's shot hisself----'"

"So ... he told you that, did he?" enquired Sir Peter.  "Did he say
anything else?"

"Why yes, sir, he says to me says he: 'Did ee see anybody run across
the park, John?' says 'e."

"Strange!" murmured Sir Peter.

"Well--no, sir, ye see there was me breeches!  I'd told Mr. Clipsby
about 'em a-vanishing away so very mysterious....  Hows'ever up I gets
sir an' goes a running to th' 'ouse ... and theer's th' Earl sure-ly
very on-common dead a-settin' in his arm-cheer--"

"Sitting in his arm-chair, was he, John?"

"Ay, sir,--all doubled up like an' his face black wi' powder an'
smeared wi' blood--fair 'orrorsome for to be'old."

"Who else was there?"

"Nary a soul, sir, only Lord Iford an' Mr. Clipsby an' me.  'Lookee
at--that, John!' says m'lud, p'inting to his feyther's corpse, 'If ye
never see death afore you sees it now, John!' says 'e.  'Pah! cover it
up, Clipsby!' 'e says.  But Lord, sir, Mr. Clipsby backs away as if 'e
dassent go anigh it, so I takes up a rug and covers the gashly thing.
But, 'No, no!' says me lord, 'damme it looks worse that way!' and 'e
whips the rug away so quick an' fierce-like that the corpse pretty nigh
comes a-toppling out o' the cheer--so I puts out me 'and to keep it
from falling.  But--'let be, John!' says m'lud, fiercer than afore,
'don't ee touch it, a tumble or so won't 'urt it,' 'e says.  'Off wi'
you,' says he, 'rouse the grooms, bid one on 'em gallop for Doctor
Burgess, and keep the lodge-gates closed, John,--like your mouth.  Wait
for the inkwest,' says 'e, 'an' then tell 'em all you know.' ... Well,
Sir Peter, you was at the inkwest, sir, and heered me testify ... on
oath----"

"Yes, I heard!" murmured Sir Peter, staring away at the house again,
perceiving which, John sighed and nodded gloomily:

"Ah, theer be the great, old place sir, empty at last as any drum and
silent as a grave!  Theer be the carpets an' furnitur' an' I dunno wot
all,--ah and the family portraits all a-staring wi' their painted eyes
at nobody--all except one, Sir Peter, the late dee-seized Earl--his
portrait aren't theer becos 'tis burnt--ashes it be, sir!"

"Burnt?  How so, John?"

"Sir, 'twere in the Abbey ruins the very morning as they buried him.
I--well, I chanced to be thereabouts and, sir ... in that theer
lonesome place I hears a voice, ay ... I hears a voice most on-expected
an' a-talkin' quick an' fierce-like.  So I creeps a piece nearer and
... Lord love me, Sir Peter ... theer be Lord Iford,--I mean the noo
Earl,--a-burning th' old un, ay his very own feyther, sir, leastways
his picter-portrait, on a little bonfire as ever was.  Ay, sir, 'tis
Gospel-true!  Theer stands m'lud, arms folded, a-watching his feyther's
portrait burn and a-cursing of it right fearsome!"

"Ah,--then ... but doubtless the poor young gentleman was drunk, John."

"Well not so as I could notice, sir, stood steady 'e did and spoke very
plain, your honour."

"Spoke, John?"

"Sir, 'e did!  'Burn!' says 'e, twixt his teeth like, 'Burn, damn ye!'
says 'e,--saving your presence, Sir Peter!  'Burn!' says 'e,' and I
hopes as you'm a-burning in hell-fire now--an' forever!' says 'e,--ah,
sir, an wi' sich oathes as fair curdled me blood! ... Hows'ever Sir
Peter, if you be still minded for to see over the 'ouse, here be the
keys.  I'll take care o' your hoss, sir."

And now as Sir Peter approached the great desolate house, before his
mind's eye was a vision conjured up by the lodge-keeper's words, a
dreadful vision of such unnatural hate and maniacal fury that he halted
suddenly, arrested by this appalling conclusion:

The hand that could burn a father's picture might assuredly strike that
father from life!...

Up marble steps, across broad terrace to the massive door that
presently swung wide upon a lofty pillared hall.  Closing this door
behind him Sir Peter glanced round about, and thus became vaguely aware
of something unfamiliar and very much out of place amid such stately
surroundings and saw this for a shabby travelling-trunk whereon was
pasted a neat label whereon was boldly inscribed:

Mr. E. Clipsby,
  In care of Mrs. Humby,
    No. 12, Golden Square, London.


Through this hall went Sir Peter, his footsteps echoing dismally, along
the picture gallery with its rows of staring portraits, across the
great ballroom to a long corridor with an arched door at one end.

After a momentary hesitation he opened this door and stepped into a
spacious chamber, this same room that had seen and held the dark secret
of such grim and violent death.  The stained carpets had been removed
and save for this, all things showed as he remembered them on that most
fateful night....  Motionless he stood there, head bowed as if
hearkening for some expected sound to break the awesome, brooding
stillness of this desolate mansion, or as though this room might of
itself tell him something, while his musing gaze surveyed that part of
the floor where once had sprawled a dreadful, bloodsmeared, contorted
shape....  At last Sir Peter stirred, sighed, turned abruptly and heard
his spurs ring strangely loud as he crossed to a certain shadowy corner
where hung a curtain of arras; drawing this aside, he beheld another
door, an ancient, stealthy-seeming door for it was small, narrow and
flush with the panelling, moreover it was armed, top and bottom, with
formidable bolts.  Having pondered this discovery he opened the door
and saw, beyond two worn stone steps, a passage floored and roofed with
stone, a vista of groined arches lit by narrow lancets high overhead,
and guessed this some part of the ancient and once famous Abbey By the
Mere.

Slowly, Sir Peter descended these steps and began to traverse this
passage, his eyes quick to heed the many evidences of past beauty and
grandeur in carven capital and lofty, fluted column.  But suddenly the
echo of his slow footsteps died away as he paused to stare down at a
particular flagstone, beneath wrinkling brows; for some while he stood
thus, silent and very still, his frowning gaze scanning the age-worn
pavement, now here now there, until he raised his head suddenly, aware
of a sound at last, the vague stir of soft and stealthy movement that
came and was gone, wherefore his glance quested dark corners for the
furtive shapes of flitting rats.  Then he went on again, but treading
more lightly now, with a strange unwillingness to trouble the pervading
stillness with tramp of foot or jingle of spur.

He had progressed thus but a very little way when he checked again,
arrested this time by something that twinkled up at him from between
two of the flag-stones and stooping, he picked up a handsome, cut-steel
coat button.  He was gazing very pensively at this, when once more his
sharp ears caught that vague sound ... something was moving nearby.

Sir Peter stepped forward, alert ... peering, and, set deep within a
wondrously sculptured arch, came on another door and this ajar; slowly,
cautiously, he pushed it wider and saw this:

A dim, vaulted, medieval chamber; in one corner a chair, a small table
and richly carved bedstead, in the opposite corner, a tall,
old-fashioned press and, staring wide-eyed above this, the pallidly
nondescript face of that hitherto negligible person, Eustace Clipsby.




CHAPTER XXVI

WHICH IS A CHAPTER OF QUESTION AND ANSWER AND OF A TRANSFORMATION

Sir Peter halted upon the threshold, surprised and a little
challenging: Eustace Clipsby advanced a pace and, bowing ceremoniously,
spoke in his pleasant, cultured accents:

"Pray, Sir Peter, may I enquire your pleasure?"  And in this moment it
seemed to Sir Peter that this person whom he had seen so often in the
past yet never heeded, he now beheld for the first time.

"Mr. Clipsby," said he, advancing into the chamber, "I understood that
Abbeymere was quite empty, wholly deserted."

"It was, sir, it is and will be," answered Clipsby serenely.  "I am
here by my lord's permission to arrange and collect certain articles
left behind," and he gestured towards the great bed where, among divers
oddments, lay a suit of clothes.

"Then, since you are here, Mr. Clipsby, perhaps you will favour me by
answering a few questions?"

"To the best of my ability, sir ... I fear I cannot offer you a chair."

"Thank you, this shall serve," answered Sir Peter and crossing the
stone floor seated himself upon the bed, his dark eyes down bent to the
worn pavement that had been laid by the reverent hands of sturdy friars
long since forgotten dust.  "Mr. Clipsby, you had known the late Earl a
good many years, I believe?"

"Yes, sir," answered Mr. Clipsby.  "But now have I your permission to
continue my work?" and he motioned to the sheaves of papers he had been
docketing.

"Pray do.  I would not waste your time."

And so for a while was silence, broken only by the rustle of papers
flicked open by dexterous fingers to be scanned quickly, refolded and
set aside.

"I remember," continued Sir Peter at last, his gaze still roving, "yes,
I recollect Abbeymere once told me that you and he were at Oxford
together."

The pale eyes that had been perusing an open document darted askance,
to flash a glance at the speaker's musing face, then Mr. Clipsby
answered in his pleasing voice:

"We were, sir, at Cambridge."

"Cambridge, to be sure!" nodded Sir Peter.  "Then having lived with the
family so long and intimately you should know the present Earl very
well."

"Yes, Sir Peter."

"It was he who found his unfortunate father on that very fateful night,
Mr. Clipsby."

"It was, sir."

"And yourself, Mr. Clipsby, found them together.  Will you favour me
with any particulars that struck you as seeming in anyway remarkable on
that dreadful occasion?"

Mr. Clipsby glanced at the document he held, refolded it, laid it
aside, took up another and answered:

"Sir Peter, you were at the inquest, you heard my evidence.  I can only
repeat, sir, what I said then."

"That you saw, in fact, the Earl dead ... huddled in his armchair, Mr.
Clipsby?"

"Such was my evidence, sir, and I have nothing more to add."  Here was
silence again while Mr. Clipsby's long fingers opened and folded papers
and Sir Peter's musing gaze wandering up from the floor was focussed
upon those articles so near him upon the bed.

"Still ... one wonders!" he murmured at last.

"At what, sir?"

"Well, for instance, it might puzzle anyone, Mr. Clipsby, how a dead
man should rise upon dead feet and get himself into a chair!"  And now
his dark gaze met those quick, pale eyes to find them wholly untroubled
and steadfast as his own.

"You propound a riddle, Sir Peter."

"Well, yes, it would seem I do."

"And alas, sir, I have no head for riddles!"

"A pity!" sighed Sir Peter, "for there are others."

"Indeed?"

"Oh yes.  One might wonder why certain of the flag-stones hereabout
have been recently washed?"

"Really, Sir Peter?"

"Beyond all doubt, Mr. Clipsby.  Both in the passage outside yonder and
in this very ... interesting room.  Surely you can see this for
yourself--there!  And there again!"  Mr. Clipsby leaned to peer at the
flag-stones thus indicated, glanced at Sir Peter and--bowed.

"Now that you point them out it would almost appear so," he nodded.
"But who would do such strange thing?"

"Who indeed?" murmured Sir Peter.  "And--why?"

Mr. Clipsby merely shook his head dubiously and turned back to the
documents before him.

"You will admit," said Sir Peter gently, "that such evidences in such
strange, desolate place are at least--suggestive?"  Once again Mr.
Clipsby turned to front his questioner face to face, and Sir Peter,
thus meeting the intensity of his pale, indomitable eyes, felt vaguely
disquieted by a sense of some very extraordinary change, a flashing
vision of unexpected force, a serenely confident power that transformed
these pallid, oft-seen features out of all knowledge.

"Pray, Sir Peter, what do they suggest to you?"

"Allow me to counter your question with another.  Are you so perfectly
assured in your own mind that the late Earl died by his own act?"

Mr. Clipsby sighed a little wearily.

"Sir, you heard my evidence at the inquest.  I can say no more."

"And you, Mr. Clipsby, heard me suggest the Earl did not die in his
chair, yet you evinced no surprise nor so much as questioned the
statement.  Pray why?"

"Sir Peter, I accept Lord Iford's statement and the evidence of my own
eyes."  So saying, Mr. Clipsby turned back to his papers and documents.

"Why then," quoth Sir Peter, watching these inscrutable features,
"concerning Miss Ford----"

The parchment that Mr. Clipsby happened to be looking at crackled, but
his face was as expressionless and eyes blankly direct as ever while he
stood waiting for his questioner to proceed.

"You are, of course, acquainted with this young lady?"

"Acquainted, yes, Sir Peter."

"And you are also doubtless aware that on the night, the very hour of
Abbeymere's death, she disappeared, and her friends are naturally
gravely anxious----"

"Are you so much her friend, sir?"

"More, Clipsby, more!  She may be my son's wife one day."

"Then, Sir Peter, it is to be expected she will communicate with you in
her own good time."

"Meanwhile, our anxiety on her account grows, Clipsby.  Therefore if
you know anything ... anything, no matter what, that may comfort us,
Lady Vibart and myself, I beg you will speak."

"And alas, sir, I have nothing to say."

Sir Peter eyed the speaker's impassive face with a gathering frown:

"This, sir, becomes increasingly manifest!" he retorted.  "But her
sudden inexplicable flight argues a black mystery!  Miss Ford saw or
heard something so terrible that she fled in panic.  The question
is,--what?"

"And alas, sir, echo alone answers."

"Echo?" said Sir Peter musingly.  "Well, yes--I believe Echo
answered--here--to the shot that killed the Earl,--here between these
age-old walls!  I believe the Earl sank and lay dead upon this age-old
pavement ... those three worn flag-stones yonder that show evidences of
washing.  I believe, Mr. Clipsby, could Echo speak of past events it
might discover strange things ... a rustle and scrape with sound of
feet in painful very desperate effort, sounds that go from this chamber
out and along the passage to the library with intervals of restful
silence, for Abbeymere was a large man and would be a ponderous burden.
It is thus, I think, that Echo might answer."

"Indeed," said Mr. Clipsby, smiling, "it would seem that Echo may
become quite eloquent."

"And ... these clothes," said Sir Peter gesturing towards the huddle of
garments on the bed, "if they were worn by the Earl that night they
should prove eloquent also?"

"As how, sir?"

"Well, the coat I see bears unmistakable stains, also these handsome
buttons are quite remarkable and one should be missing...."  Here Sir
Peter turned the garment with his riding crop while Mr. Clipsby,
folding his hands upon the papers before him, watched beneath level
brows.

"Yes, as I thought," murmured Sir Peter, "here, as you may see, one
button has been ... wrenched off."

"From which it is to be inferred, sir, that you found it."

Sir Peter arose and crossing the chamber, laid the button in question
upon the desk.

"I found this," he explained, looking into the eyes that looked back
into his so steadfastly, "I found this in the passage out yonder, it
had fallen between two of the flag-stones, and both of them have been
recently washed."

Mr. Clipsby took up the button, turning it this way and that in the
failing light.

"Ah, Sir Peter," he murmured, "now had this but the gift of speech!  As
it is--here is no more than a mere coat-button....  What, are you
going?  Then, Sir Peter, allow me to bid you farewell!  Adieu, sir, we
are not like to meet again,--at least not here at Abbeymere."  So
saying, he bowed and Sir Peter returning the salute, crossed to the
door and, glancing back from the threshold, saw Mr. Clipsby still
turning the button this way and that, gazing down at it with a strange,
faint smile.




CHAPTER XXVII

IN WHICH THE READER LIKE THE WRITER MAY FIND MATTER FOR SURPRISE

Behind Mrs. Humby's School for Ladies, or rather Academy for the
Offspring of the Gentry, was a fair-sized garden with a lawn (somewhat
pinched and haggard) and a vegetable plot (large and opulent) wherein
Benjamin Piper, A.B., erstwhile cockswain to Captain Reginald Humby,
R.N., was wont to busy himself, somewhat ferociously and in all
weathers, to the vigorous nurture of such right succulent edibles as
peas, beans, parsnips, onions, carrots, potatoes and what he termed
"sallet-raffle."

The cockswain gardened, fair or foul, spade, fork, rake and hoe, like a
true seaman A.B., that is to say--with a will and cheerily O! and in
despite of the piratical depredations of such slimy and stealthy foes
as slugs, snails, wire-worms, grubs and the like foes against whom he
waged desperate and unceasing warfare with soot, with salt and any or
every lethal weapons as came readiest to hand, more especially a
certain stick armed with a long, sharp spike that he dubbed his
"belaying pin."

Such earnest, nay such passionate gardener was the cockswain that on
moonless nights, when all save trouble and wickedness slept, he was
wont to steal forth armed with dark lantern and the belaying-pin and
thus cut out, capture or destroy these creeping foes at their fiendly
work by what he described as "the Element of Surprise."

But even this afternoon a slug more reckless than his fellows and
venturing abroad scornful of danger, was espied by the ever-watchful
cockswain who instantly bore down to bring this audacious foe to close
action; in other words Benjamin Piper, A.B., was stalking this
destroyer with elaborate caution, his feet were soundless, his one eye
gleamed, the spade gripped in knotted hands was lifted slowly for
exterminating stroke when--his ears were saluted by a sudden loud and
imperious knocking on that weather-beaten door which had opened for
little Jane's truant feet not so very many days ago.

The cockswain, at the top of his swing, started, faltered, whispered a
hearty curse, set himself anew, smote the slug into nothingness, set by
the spade and loosing the bolts lately affixed by Mrs. Humby's stern
mandate, swung the portal wide, then stared, gasped, retreated a step
and saluted, finger to eye-brow.

"Sink me, Mr. Eustiss, sir," he exclaimed, "sink and scuttle me, Mr.
Clipsby, your honour, I didn't 'ardly know ye, take my Davy if I did,
sir!"

"I'm not surprised, Coxon," answered Mr. Clipsby with pleasant trill of
laughter, "not in the least surprised, for I am changed, thank God, the
whole world is changed and for the better, Ben, for the better!"  So
saying, Mr. Clipsby stepped into the sunny garden, but a Clipsby very
strangely and most wonderfully transfigured.

From glossy hat to glossy shoes he was all that a modish, dignified,
middle-aged gentleman possibly could be; but this marvellous alteration
went far beyond and much deeper than mere excellence of raiment, it was
in the man himself; a joyous vitality beamed in his pale eyes, it
seemed manifest in the curl of his colourless hair, his pallid features
showed lines of such virile resolution as transformed it into the face
of a new and very potent entity indeed.

"And what," he enquired, leaning gracefully on the jaunty tasselled
cane he carried, "what are you doing here, Coxon?"

"Was engaged at close quarters with a inseck, a varminous slug."

"Ha, vermin,--a slug?"

"And a mighty big un, sir."

"And you ... killed him?"

"Flat as a flounder and dead as a kippered herring, Mr. Eustiss."

"Admirable fellow!" beamed Mr. Clipsby.  "There is an untellable
satisfaction in killing ... vermin!  It is, I protest and declare, a
laudable, a noble, nay--a holy act ... to kill a slug ... of any and
every kind."  Here Mr. Clipsby laughed softly, yet with a peculiar
joyousness, and clapped the cockswain's broad shoulder.  "Thou
vermin-slayer, here is a half-crown for thee, comrade!"

"My gratitood, sir!" quoth the cockswain, pocketing the coin.  "But as
for these here pestiferous insex, ecod, I never see the like o' this
yer gardin,--and so owdacious bold!  Three o' my best lettuce as lays
to larboard o' the gangway yonder, took by the pest'lent pirates, ate
and done for last night--ah and in spite o' me salt and soot!  Salt?
Dang me eyes--they wallers in it!"

"And how are the folks, Ben,--the Captain and my sister?"

"Sir," answered the cockswain shaking his head, "when I tells you as
the Cap'n's been a tooting his flute fair heart-breaking all the
morning, well--you'll understand."

"Her nerves again, Coxon?"

"Ar!  Them narves of hers, Mr. Eustiss, sir, has been actin' reg'lar
scandalious o' late."

"And the young lady I sent here, Miss Gray, how is she?"

"Tight, sir,--all trim alow and aloft, ay she's all ataunto,--but, 'tis
her and bless her pretty eyes,--as is the cause for narves as
aforesaid, Mr. Eustiss."

"Then my sister Charlotte must be reasoned with, the matter adjusted at
once."

"Ay ay, sir, but--Mrs. Humby being a craft o' the First Rate, three
tier and all heavy metal, wot I asks is--oo's a going to do same?  Ar,
oo's agoing to engage her yardarm and yardarm, broadside and
broadside,--oo?  The Cap'n dassent, I can't, and you, Mr.
Eustiss,--well, last time you was alongside she very nigh blowed you
out of the water."

"True enough, Coxon, but things are changed since then ... and there is
Captain Reginald John crossing the lawn yonder."

"Ay, sir, and did ye ever see sich doleful creetur?  And him once such
a prime sailorman, sich a hell-roaring fighter, such a cheery officer
and now--all down by the head, rolling to every sea and----"

"Call him, Ben."  Forthwith the cockswain curved hand about, shaven
lips and hissed in hoarse yet penetrant whisper:

"Cap'n ahoy!"

The Captain halted in his quick, short, quarterdeck stride, lifted chin
from breast and came hastening to them, his flute protruding from the
bosom of his neat, blue coat rather like some half-concealed weapon of
offence.  Beholding Mr. Clipsby he came to an abrupt halt, and, like
the cockswain, stared at his visitor from head to foot in speechless
amazement.

"Well!  Damme!" he exclaimed at last.  "I say damme, can this be ...
you ... yourself, Eustace?"

"Precisely Reginald John!  Myself--at last!" smiled Mr. Clipsby.
"_Courage, mon vieux, le diable est mort!_" and stepping lightly
forward he grasped the Captain's hand, shaking it in grip so
unexpectedly strong and hearty that Captain Humby actually gasped.

"B ... but ... who ... how ... what?" he stammered.

"Freedom!" laughed Mr. Clipsby.  "Freedom, my dear fellow!  I'm free as
air, as bird on bough!  And talking of birds, Reginald--listen!"  And
tucking the handsome cane beneath his arm Eustace Clipsby whipped the
flute from his astounded brother-in-law's breast, set it to lip and
began to play a joyous lilting measure as only a master might,--rapid
trills of merry liquid notes sweet and clear as piping thrush, softly
melodious as rippling brook,--a song of all free glad things ... then
he laughed lightly, tossed the flute into the air, caught it
dexterously and thrust it back into the Captain's coat, all in as many
moments.

"To-day, Reginald John I'm fifty-three and my youth is renewed unto me
like the eagle's, yea I could leap and skip as young rams, for
to-day--I'm free!"

"Free," repeated the Captain rather dismally, seating himself heavily
in the cockswain's wheelbarrow, "Free, but why to-day?  You're always
free, Eustace, you ... never married!"

"Not yet," laughed Mr. Clipsby, "but I'm only a boy of fifty-three.
So,--who knows?"

"Belay now, brother, belay!" cried the Captain, lifting hand in
eloquent warning.  "Talking of matrimony, well--how say you, Coxon Hal,
what's the word, Coxon?"

"Avast!" quoth the cockswain hoarsely.

"Avast it is!" nodded the Captain, gloomily.  "Lookee Eustace, Marriage
may be only a lottery to some poor fools but to this fool it's the
bilboas, a lee-shore, breakers, shipwreck and--absolute confummeration!"

"Which means that you are suffering from nerves,--Charlotte's, eh,
Reginald John?"

"Ay ay, damme!  And the children bless 'em!  All a-mope and piping
their eyes.  Ye see she's given Miss Gray notice and----"

"Has she?  Aha, and for what reason?"

"The dickens only knows!  Something or other about a child breaking
bounds."

"'Twas little Miss Jane, love her little 'eart!" explained the
cockswain.

"Why, then," said Mr. Clipsby, settling his lustrous hat more firmly,
"for this reason we must go reason with Charlotte forthwith.  Come,
Reginald."

"Who?  Me?" exclaimed the Captain, startled beyond mere grammar.  "To
... Charlotte?  No no ... a Gad's name, what for?"

"To settle our Charlotte's nerves once and for all."

"Impossible, Eustace!"

"Possibly, Reginald.  But for the time being at least, we'll out-nerve
or un-nerve her.  Come on, man."

"Eh?  Me?  No--damme!"

"Then come you and watch.  Where is she?"

"In the morning-room on the sofa ... figurehead lapped in a clout ...
smelling-salts and Martha.  But what the devil will ye do, Eustace?"

"Come and see!"  Side by side they approached the house, the Captain
with an ever-growing reluctance, so that by the time they had reached a
certain flagged path that ran beneath the windows he was yards in the
rear but with his faithful cockswain in the offing, who, seeing his
Captain so plainly distressed, bore down to whisper hoarsely:

"I'm a-standing by, Cap'n, backing and filling to windard, sir,
stripped for action and, your honour, seeing engagement likely, begs to
remind you to keep the weather-gauge and board, sir."

"Ay ay, Ben," muttered the Captain, unhappily, "stand by, Coxon, and
we'll let brother Eustace run in under her guns, draw her fire and ...
oh damme, look at him!  Through the window, b'George!"

"Why, sink me if he ain't!" quoth the cockswain joyfully.  "Lord,
there's sperrit for ye ... Dundonald and the Tapaguese ... oho, a
reg'lar cutting-out expedition!  Stand in, Cap'n, stand in where us may
keep a weather eye on 'em."

For indeed Mr. Clipsby, having reached a certain window had rattled it
wide open, whereat Mrs. Humby,--outspread grandly upon cushioned
settee, her handsome, stately head tied up in bandage
aromatic,--emitted a faint scream plaintive and very ladylike, then in
tone subdued by suffering yet imperious withal, demanded:

"Who dares?  Who is it?  What?"

"Nemesis!" answered her brother, clambering through the window.
"Woman, your accursed nerves have found you out at last, the fiend
Hysteria would hurl you to an abyss of woe where the fang of Remorse
should tear you--but for me."

Mrs. Humby emitted another scream, still ladylike though louder this
time and more sustained.

"Eustace!" she gasped, staring on him with wild half-swooning eyes.
"But... oh is this you?  So changed!  Can it possibly be you?  Ah
heaven--it is!"  Here, forgetting faintness in contemptuous
indignation, she roused herself, pointed imperiously to the door and
spake in that terrible voice at sound of which all had been wont to
quail:

"Eustace be gone!  Leave me this moment!  I command!
Hence--instantly!"  Mr. Clipsby chuckled and seating himself beside
her, patted the lustrous tresses that crowned her shapely head.

"Charlotte," said he, "don't be a little fool!"

Mrs. Humby gasped; she flushed great eyes at him; she rose majestically
and was instantly pulled down again.

"Sit still or be slapped!" said he, in voice more terrible than her own.

"Oh, my gracious heaven!" she ejaculated, quailing slightly.  "This is
not my poor brother ... it cannot be!  And yet ... ha, Eustace, how
dare you?  Such savagery!  What means this outrageous----"

"Lottie," he began; Mrs. Humby, like stricken animal, uttered a broken
cry, shuddered violently, swayed moaning as if about to swoon and was
jerked erect again.  "Lottie," he repeated, "cease playing the fool and
listen to me ... first--off with this rag!"  The aromatic bandage was
whipped from her temples and cast into distant corner.

"Eus-tace!" she whimpered, and recoiled with hands upthrown, staring
into his grimly smiling face with fearful eyes.  "Oh, merciful Grace!
This is not ... my poor brother."

"No!" cried he, clapping both hands upon her shoulders to peer close
into her fright-widened eyes.  "This is your elder brother,--you see
Eustace himself, the real Eustace."

"Oh ... oh then ... you must be mad."

"Rather am I sane--at last!"

"Then you ... you are ... drunk!"

"Not yet, Charlotte."

"Then you are both ... a drunken maniac!  Oh, horrors!  Release me
or--I'll scream!"

"Do, and I'll ram your silly, handsome head into this cushion!"

"Oh merciful Powers above!  You ... you terrify me!"

"Why then, listen to me."

"But Eu--Eustace ... why so t-terribly changed?"

Mrs. Humby was actually sobbing.  "So cruel!  So harsh!  So brutally
male!  And I that never weep...!  These tears--oh!"

"Are you listening?"

"Yes ... oh yes, yes!"

"Then,--now heed me, Lottie!  Henceforth you won't have a nerve in your
whole body to bully folks or plague poor Reginald John any more, their
tyranny is ended,--are you listening?"

"Yes, but ah pray remember I am but a feeble woman, Eust----"

"A fiddlestick!"

"A d--delicate creature and----"

"Strong as a horse!  And moreover I,--are you listening?"

"Yes, dear Eustace, oh I am--I am!"

"Very well,--no more nerves!  Now regarding Miss Gray,--she is a young
lady of the highest character and I have placed her in your care,--I
say 'care,' Charlotte,--for a very good reason.  You will therefore
instantly revoke her dismissal and----"

"But, Eustace, she----"

"Will therefore remain in your charge until----"

"But dear Eusta----"

"Until her future plans are determined.  You will care for her, try to
love her, watch over her or--by my soul, Lottie, you will regret it to
your dying day.  So here she must and shall remain, for the time being."

"Very well, Eustace.  Only do please tell me----"

"No more at present.  I'm going to play for the children, they must
have an hour's recess, my dear."

So saying he rose and crossed to the door and there Mrs. Humby would
have stayed him but, seeing the unwonted fire in his pale, deep-set
eyes, the grim set of his lean jaw, she moaned instead, bowing her
proud crest in unaccustomed submission and viewing him with look of
awed amazement, sighed in murmurous humility:

"I'll summon Miss Woolverton with the young ladies and Miss Gray, of
course."

Her so strangely altered brother nodded gaily, blew her a kiss and
opening the door, betook himself to that stately, though forbidding
chamber.  Here, when he had drawn back the heavy curtains and opened
the windows, he swept a heterogeneous collection of ornamental oddments
from the tall pianoforte and seating himself before the instrument, ran
his white hands across the keyboard filling the room, the very house
itself, with such glorious tumult of rich chords that presently in at
the open doorway peeped adventurous Jane's little elfin face woeful
with tears now forgotten, and behind her other small ladies less
venturesome but all apeep in joyous wonderment; and beholding them
Eustace Clipsby smiled, calling to them above the luring music:

"Come in, children!  Come and dry your tears, for hear now what the
music says: 'There is no more sorrow or tears!'  Hark what the music
tells you,--there now!  It says 'Laugh children, laugh and be glad!'
You, Miss Rosemary, yes pray bring them in--every one.  So!  Now, my
dears, listen to the sweet, grand Spirit of Music ... hear what it
sings: 'Fear and trouble, shame and sorrow shall be all done away....
Only Joy shall be, in the end of things,--peace and joy abounding for
ever and ever'--listen!"

And so with Rosemary and Miss Woolverton (her sullen face for once
seeming almost happy), these children, big and little, sat entranced by
the very magic of these hands so sure and masterful upon the keys, that
filled the air with melodies grave and gay, tunes familiar, nursery
song glorified into peans of rapture, blythe yet stately measures that
set little feet tapping and small heads swaying until suddenly these
magic fingers were stilled and he was smiling round upon them one and
all, while Rosemary, hands clasped, gazed upon this so transfigured
Clipsby dumb with an awed amazement.

"There, my dears," said he, rising, "so much for to-day!  Now off with
you,--out into the sunshine and play, shout, my dears, sing, laugh,
dance and--ah, be happy!"

So away they sped, each and every, not at all like Mrs. Humby's demure
young ladies, but like the eager young creatures and happy children
they were.




CHAPTER XXVIII

IN WHICH MR. CLIPSBY CONTINUETH TO SURPRISE

"Even yet," said Rosemary, glancing a little askance at her companion,
his free, gallant bearing, "I can scarcely believe you are really
yourself, Mr. Clipsby."

"My dear," he answered, suddenly grave, "I am like a man freed from a
long imprisonment, passionate for life, eager to make up for the weary,
wasted years of my vanished youth.  For any and every harm I may have
committed I would achieve some good act.  I would be servant to all
distressed, comforting their sorrows, making songs of happiness in sad
hearts.  Such time as I have left, such money or gifts that I
possess--I would spend them all to benefit whom I may.  Thus I have
much to do and my time, I think, will be short, so I must be busy--oh
busy!"  Here, with movement almost violent, he started afoot and
striding to the open window, stood there a moment, quick breathing;
then he was back again, looking down on her with a wistful anxiety that
she thought almost pathetic.

"And now," said he gently, "first of all--you, Miss Rosemary.  I that
have no friends would be friend to all and most of all ... to you, for
you are sad I know.  You are thinner, paler than you were, your eyes
large with sorrow, your smile a ghost of itself--why, why?  Oh, Miss
Rosemary, will you suffer me to help you how I may?  Child, will you
trust me, confide in me, allow me to share the burden of your
troubles,--will you?"  Thus speaking he reached out both hands to her
with gesture of such humble yet passionate supplication that
instinctively she took those tremulous fingers in her own warm, vital
clasp, murmuring:

"But you were always kind, always my good, gentle friend."

"I have striven to be," he answered, murmuring also, "more than you can
ever imagine, yes--ah yes, even when I permitted you to run off that
night alone and half distracted,--oh believe this!"

"I do!" she answered, pressing these nervous hands ere she released
them.  "What should I have done without you?  That night of horror ...
that awful, awful night!"

"When the Earl... died!" he nodded "--ah, but why tremble, my dear?
For consider,--an evil creature ceased from evil,--is this a matter to
shudder at?  Ah, surely not, for Death may have purged him ... a
little!  Purified him ... perhaps.  Here then, my child, is no cause
for horror but of rejoicing rather!  So forget, forget ... ah, cannot
you smile again?"

"Ah--no, no!" she whispered.  "I shall never forget, how can I, how may
I?  He haunts me still ... I saw him ... lying dead ... murdered."

"But, Miss Rosemary, surely, surely you know by this time how there was
never any suspicion of murder?"

"Never any ... suspicion!"  Rosemary gasped and was dumb, but looking
at him with such wild eyes that instinctively he reached out his arms
as if to comfort her then, checking the impulse, sighed and let them
fall.

"My dear ... oh my dear," said he in shaken voice, "surely you saw it
... read the account in the newspapers?"

"No, no--I dared not look at them."

"Miss Rosemary, dear child, the inquest proved conclusively that the
Earl killed himself."

"Killed ... himself?" she whispered.  "Ah, but I saw!  I ... I
thought--oh, dear heaven ... what have I done?"  Then he was on his
knees beside her, had caught her hands, speaking in strange, breathless
manner:

"Do not grieve ... have no fear ... whatever you have done it is
nothing that shall harm you, nothing that shall not be amended.  Only
confide ... trust in me and I will help you even though it cost all
that I have of life remaining, all that I am.  What was it you saw,
child?  What was it you did?"

"I wrote to Lady Vibart ... accusing myself of ... murdering the Earl."

Mr. Clipsby rose to his feet slowly like one that was old or very weary
and stood a long moment looking down on her very oddly.

"You ... accused yourself!" he repeated.  "And ... to Lady Vibart?  Why
then you must have feared ... my poor child ... you must have felt
utterly convinced that your Richard had fulfilled his wild threat
against the Earl's life.  Yes, of course this only could explain such
reckless, such very lovely action....  To accuse yourself.  Ah, young
Richard is fortunate in such a love!  But pray tell me, if you will,
what so convinced you of his guilt?  Will you tell me all that you
remember of that night?"

"Yes, yes," she answered breathlessly, "yes I will ... come nearer, sit
here beside me and I'll tell you all I can remember, to speak of it may
perhaps help me to forget."  And thus leaning towards him, her gaze on
his pale, gentle face, she spoke below her breath:

"It seems like a horrible nightmare," she whispered, shuddering, "vague
and all confused yet--frightful!  It all begins with a dreadful sick
drowsiness some time after tea and Lady Bedingham telling me to go and
lie down.  I remember stumbling upstairs to my room and falling upon my
bed--and dreams....  I remember waking the first time in a strange
place, a dim stone chamber with an arching roof ... a great bed..., I
thought I was still dreaming until I found the pistol, the same one you
had given me once before or one like it.  Then I grew terribly afraid
and screamed....  The door wouldn't open so I screamed until the sick
faintness took me again ... I remember waking a second time ... and no
light....  I crouched there in the darkness praying to God but with the
pistol clasped to my heart....  I heard footsteps at last, then the
door opened and I saw ... the Earl ... he was carrying a lantern....
But I had the pistol and meant to use it; I showed it and told him I
would ... oh but I was sick and giddy and when ... the dreadful moment
came I grew weak....  I dropped the pistol and instead of shooting I
fainted...."

"My poor child!  Sweet innocent!"

Turning toward this tenderly compassionate murmur Rosemary stared
amazed and caught her breath to see the speaker's face so dreadfully at
odds with his tone, the slitted eyes aglare, teeth agleam between lips
back-drawn in bestial ferocity, then this awesome face was hidden by a
twitching hand ... the tender voice spoke again:

"But a just and merciful God heard your prayer, child, and smote this
would-be destroyer from life!"  The veiling hand fell and Eustace
Clipsby was smiling at her, his lean pale face gentle as ever.  "So you
do not remember seeing ... anything more ... hearing any sound, my
dear?"

"No, no!  When I opened my eyes the lantern was standing on the old
press, the door was wide open and I ran from that hateful place and
along a passage ... a little door was ajar and peeping through I saw
the library and the Earl lying dead and ... Richard ... oh Richard was
standing over him ... with that same pistol in his hand."

"Richard?  Richard Vibart?"  As if spurred by some resistless force Mr.
Clipsby arose--then stood dumb and utterly still while Rosemary
continued:

"I would have gone to him but his father came."

"You mean ... Sir Peter?"

"Yes, he climbed in through the window.  Then ... I heard Richard
confess he had shot the Earl ... I saw his father's despair and I crept
away.  Then, thank God, I met you."

"And Sir Peter believed him guilty ... his own son?"

"Ah, but then ... I believed so, too, and Richard is my very life!"

"Your life?" he repeated.  "Your life?"  Then he was before her on his
knees, looking at her radiant eyes.  "So now, dear child," said he,
"ah, you sweet, strong-souled woman, hear me tell you, kneeling thus in
the sight of the God before whom I must appear soon I think--hear me
declare that your Richard is innocent as your sweet self----"

Then Rosemary was kneeling also, head bowed between trembling hands, in
a very ecstasy of joy and gratitude.

"Thank God!" she whispered, and now lifting face and hands to the man
who watched her so reverently, "And oh, thank you, too, dear
friend,--indeed, indeed you have helped one poor soul to-day, you have
lifted me from hopelessness to ... oh, to heaven!"  And catching his
hand she kissed it or ever he might prevent.

"My dear ... oh my dear!" he stammered, raising her, "Why, Miss
Rosemary I ... I ... no one in all my wretched life ever----"

"Don't!" she exclaimed.  "Don't or I shall cry....  And if you look at
me so ... so humbly I shall kiss ... both your hands ... such wonderful
hands!  And do--do please call me Rosemary....  And oh you have made me
so ... wonderfully ... happy."

"Then, Rosemary, I am happy too," he answered, smiling.  "And now
please tell me when you sent that letter of confession."

"Two days ago."

"Then I must go to Holm Dene and see Lady Vibart at once.  The sooner I
do the sooner you will see your Richard."

"My ... Richard!" she murmured fondly.  "To see him again.  Ah, but
now!" she cried starting to her feet.  "I cannot see him, I must not,
dare not!  Viscount Iford ... the Earl has threatened his life and ...
oh, Mr. Clipsby, I'm afraid ... he is so quick, so ... smiling and
deadly."

"Now God forbid!" exclaimed Clipsby in quick dismay.  "Did he utter
this threat recently?  Has he found you here?  Have you seen Valentine
lately?"

"Yes ... oh yes."

"And he threatened---murder?"

"No--and yet almost as dreadful,--he vows Richard shall fight him ... a
duel!"

"A duel!" repeated Mr. Clipsby, passing nervous hand across his deeply
furrowed brow.  "Licensed murder!  No--no!  Yet how prevent...?  Oh, my
child, it was to avert such possibility and--yes, to save you from his
persecution that I hid you here ... and now, now that he has found
you....  Ha, there is such vile blood in him ... such wild and reckless
evil that if I must ... ay, by God, I will----"

"What--ah, what do you mean?" she whispered, shrinking again before the
speaker's dreadful transformation, that sudden and awful ferocity of
look and gesture; and he, as if aware of this, crossed to the window
and stood there a moment, his face hidden from her.

Greatly wondering and a little fearful, she went to him and taking his
hand that had become a quivering fist, spoke very tenderly sweet:

"Dear Mr. Clipsby, I would not grieve you with my troubles, you have
known so much unhappiness that I would comfort you instead ... but I
must go away for Richard's sake, because he is so fierce and reckless
too and ... if they killed each other, as they might, I shall die as
well.  So I must hide again....  Oh, indeed, I am no child afraid of
life ... only I ask you to promise not to make my troubles yours, but
just to remember me as your grateful, loving friend----"

"Rosemary!"  The fist she held became a clinging hand, the haggard face
he turned on her was gentle now and quivering with emotion, the pale
eyes were softened and misted by painful tears.

"Oh ... child," he pleaded brokenly, "do not turn from me or... spurn
my aid.  I have been so desperately lonely and now I have ... dedicated
myself to your service, your welfare is my happiness, so trust me,
Rosemary, only trust me ... or I----"  Here, sinking upon the
window-seat he covered his face; then, moved by divine sympathy and
quick compassion Rosemary stooped to touch his bowed shoulder, his
greying hair.

"Dear lonely man," she sighed, "I do and will trust you."

"Then tell me, pray tell me, how he ... how Valentine found you
here--in such secure place as this, how?"

So Rosemary recounted the episode of little Jane's truancy and all it
had led to, while Mr. Clipsby listened with a strange, painful,
attention.

"Frayne?" he exclaimed when the story was ended, "Aha, Sir Nicholas
Frayne!  And now Valentine's threat, can you tell me his exact words?"

"Yes, they were these--or nearly: First he said how much it would
grieve him to cause Lady Vibart everlasting grief by shooting her son
... then--oh, that he would certainly kill Richard even though Richard
should kill him in the act."

Eustace Clipsby rose suddenly and stood chin in hand frowning at the
sunny garden in troublous perplexity.

"Oh, Abbeymere!" he murmured, "An evil, evil house!  And yet----!  My
dear, I have known Valentine all his life, and, though the son of his
father, he is yet so like his gentle, lovely mother that I have
sometimes thought and hoped he might make Abbeymere an honoured name
one day if only for her sake....  Ah well, well, however this may be I
can give you this perfect assurance--these two youths shall never shed
each other's blood,--never!"

"Ah, but how--oh how can you be so sure?"

"My dear, God or Nature has set about all created things certain
immutable laws and one of these--this, that Violence destroys itself,
it has in the past and ... it shall in the future.  So trust me, child,
have faith in the future and be comforted."




CHAPTER XXIX

WHICH BEING OF NO GREAT INTEREST IS COMMENDABLY BRIEF

Reaching London in the afternoon Richard, having secured quarters for
his companions and himself at the "George," paused not for bite or sup
but obsessed by sudden bitter thought, instantly chartered a hackney
coach and had himself driven speedily to a more familiar part of the
great city; for the thought that harassed him was this:--that Valentine
the Earl probably knew Rosemary's whereabouts and was on his way to see
her,--might indeed be with her at this very moment.

Thus Richard, determined at any cost to be sure of this, was driving
apace to the Earl of Abbeymere's town residence.

Before this stately though somewhat gloomy house the hackney coach drew
up and, bidding the driver wait, Richard strode up the steps and,
attired like a country yeoman, thundered on knocker and tugged at bell
exactly like his own hasty, somewhat imperious self.  In response to
which resounding summons the door was presently opened by a red-faced,
pompous person who breathed short and who at sight of Richard, or
rather his clothes, immediately frowned and shook his head violently:

"Downstairs, me feller, the back door for you!" he wheezed and made to
shut the door, but Richard's foot had interposed, Richard's hand had
seized his collar and Richard's look and tone were so unexpectedly
compelling that the man gaped.

"Fool, is your master in?  Is the Earl here?"

"No ... no, oh no, sir!"

"Are you expecting him?"

"No, sir, oh no.  His lordship's at Abbeymere for the funeral.  There's
nobody here, sir, nor like to be, y'see this mansion's for sale,
ah--and everything in it too."

Richard sighed, frowned, and loosing the speaker's collar, took forth
certain coins and dropped them into the man's ready palm.

"Now," he demanded, "are you sure, quite sure Lord Abbeymere will not
come here to-night?"

"That I am, sir, and certain,--Bible oath!"

"Thank you!" groaned Richard and descending the steps, stood for a
moment staring vaguely about him very much like the lost and bewildered
young country-man he seemed.  Finally, he paid and dismissed his
coachman and set out to walk the long miles back to the Borough, his
eager eyes scanning every woman's face, his feet pausing now and then
or turning aside to follow some form that it seemed might be Hers....

Thus the tireless search for his lost Rosemary had begun, a search that
was to go on and on until he found her if it took him all his life.




CHAPTER XXX

TELLETH HOW RICHARD HEARD MR. PUNCH SQUEAK TO GOOD PURPOSE

Weary, weary days for Richard, tramping the mighty city over, street
and square, circus, court and alley; sometimes with his two companions
but, of late, oftener alone.

To set forth every morning with hope renewed.  The eager quest amid the
myriad faces that passed him by, faces but glimpsed to vanish for ever;
the unending, tireless search for the one face he never saw and yet
visioned in his dreams so constantly that, struck by some chance
resemblance, he would plunge recklessly through the roaring traffic of
these cobbled thoroughfares--hasting, hasting, blood athrob with
yearning, tremulous hope only to halt at last and stand in hopeless
dejection jostled to and fro by the busy, heedless throng; and so, as
night fell, trudging heavily back to his lodging.

It was upon a certain afternoon that chancing upon an _-la-mode beef_
shop he entered and, seated in the nearest box, ordered and consumed a
scarcely tasted meal.

The place at this hour was empty and upon the stained table-cloth
within his reach lay three or four crumpled newspapers.  Instinctively
he took up the nearest and glancing over the close-printed sheet, saw
this:


"THE LATE EARL OF ABBEYMERE.

"On the tenth inst., as reported in our issue of yesterday's date, the
Earl of Abbeymere was found dead in his chair, his features blackened
by the discharge of a pistol that lay beside him.  The Inquest, a
report of which is given at length on another page, proved the unhappy
nobleman was deeply involved financially and almost at the end of his
resources.  This dark prospect, it is alleged, preyed on his lordship's
mind with the shocking result that he was driven to the perpetration of
this rash and fatal act.  His lordship will be interred within the
private chapel at Abbeymere where lie so many of his illustrious and
noble ancestors."


The newspaper fell from Richard's nerveless fingers and he sat utterly
motionless, staring before him with radiant eyes, his whirling thoughts
centred upon the one blessed fact:

"Suicide!  Then his beloved Rosemary was innocent!  Her dear hands were
spotless!  The dark deed that had so shocked and yet for which he had
honoured her she had not committed!  His Rosemary was guiltless as
himself!  Why, then, he might shed these rustic clothes ... take his
proper place ... with power and money enough to set, instead of three,
a score, a hundred men scouring London until she was found, and safe in
his arms ... upon his heart!"  Up came his head, back went his
shoulders and he was afoot, glad-eyed and eager ... he turned to be
gone and stood stricken motionless by such sudden dreadful doubt as
sickened him.

"Suicide?  But was this so?  Could it possibly be?"  And deep within
his consciousness this unuttered question found voiceless answer:

"No,--never, never!  Such men as Abbeymere do not slay themselves."

Richard sat down again, conned the obituary notice through once more,
then turning to the verbatim report of the Inquest, read it every
word....

"So Valentine had deliberately perjured himself!  And why--why?
Valentine had been the chief witness and had testified falsely
throughout the enquiry!  And--why?  Valentine had suppressed all
mention of that betraying handkerchief with its monogram R.V., but for
no love of Richard Vibart!  Then in heaven's name--why?  Unless to
shield one he loved far beyond such petty things as truth and honour
... and who should this one be but--Rosemary.  And Rosemary had been
armed!  Rosemary knew how to fire a pistol!  A shred of Rosemary's lace
had been clutched in those dead fingers...!"  Richard bowed his head
between griping hands and groaned within himself:

"Rosemary!  Beloved!  Oh, my dear!  Pray God I find you ... soon!"  And
thus he remained oblivious to all but his troublous thoughts until
aroused by sound between disparaging sniff and apologetic cough, he
glanced up to behold a lone and dismal waiter drooping mournfully hard
by.

"Hanything more, sir--if you please?"

"My bill," said Richard; which document being instantly proffered he
paid it and with tip of such unexpected liberality that the waiter, his
low spirits tempered by amazement, bowed him to the door.

And so to the streets again ... roaring traffic, clatter of hoofs and
grinding of wheels, tramp and shuffle of countless feet and ... faces!
Everywhere faces to be hastily scanned, as they flitted by,--to right,
to left and across the busy street,--peered at with eager, straining
eyes that darted glances here and there lest any of these innumerable,
vanishing faces should pass unseen and, so passing, be--the Only One.

Evening was at hand when he found himself in a maze of back streets, a
quiet neighbourhood, and reaching a place where three ways met, he
hesitated although careless whither he roved since any street, square
or alley might show him the beloved shape he sought.

Now as he stood thus, gazing about with weary, lacklustre eyes, from
somewhere near by rose the sudden, shrill, cheery piping voice of Mr.
Punch and thither, instinctively, Richard turned.

And presently borne to him came the glad sound of childish laughter
with the deeper tones of their seniors, that grew louder until,
rounding a sudden corner, Richard saw this merry crowd grouped about a
Punch and Judy Show brave with striped canvas, paint and gilding and a
notable signboard that in large characters proclaimed to all and sundry:


  THE ONLY DOUBLEDAY
         with
    PUNCH AND JUDY

  Private Performances Given.  Town or Country.


The performance was almost ended as Richard approached for the joyous
crowd was dispersing and thus he saw Mrs. Doubleday who with a final
tootle on the Panspipe and bang of sonorous drum, now rid herself of
these encumbrances the better to aid her spouse, as Mr. Doubleday,
suddenly appearing and having donned THE HAT, proceeded to dismantle
his theatre with great expedition and despatch while Mrs. Doubleday
removed the plump pony's nosebag, stowed it in the little cart, turned
to address her husband and came face to face with Richard.  For a
moment she eyed him somewhat askance then, peering closer, her comely
face was brightened by smile of friendly recognition and welcome.

"Why bless us!" she exclaimed grasping his hand, "is this you, young
gen'leman, and so changed and all!  Dan'l, come you, here's the young
man as helped us days ago on the road, step up, Dan'l!"

Mr. Doubleday stepped forthwith; he lifted THE HAT on high, he waved it
once, he put it on again and taking Richard's other hand, shook it so
heartily that cheered by the sincerity of their greeting, Richard
answered smile with smile.

"My dear young sir," quoth Mr. Doubleday, "the Drama of Puncianello
being a strain on the vocal organ and this, moreover, being an
occasion, the flowing bowl is indicated.  There stands hard by a house
of call, a haven for conviviality yclept The Bell.  Sir, you must
honour us, thither will we repair so soon as our portage be freighted."

"Gladly," answered Richard, "if I may help you to pack up."

Thus very soon the theatre was folded and stowed snugly into the cart
and grasping the somnolent pony's bridle, Mr. Doubleday led on down a
street and across a street, round a sudden corner into a quiet court
and to the cosiest of little taverns; then, the pony's nosebag duly
readjusted, down three steps into the neatest of taprooms and through a
doorway into the snuggest of snuggeries where a stout, hoarse-voiced
man bade them heartily welcome and, having supplied their several
needs, left them cosily together like the good host that he was; here
seated between Doubleday and spouse, Richard felt himself mightily
comforted by their simple-hearted goodfellowship.

"We've finished for the day," said Mrs. Doubleday beaming over her
glass, "and a rare good day it's been,--three pound, eighteen shillings
and thrippence three fardens, Dan'l!"

"'Twill serve!" quoth her spouse, nodding.  "'Tis not comparable to the
wealth of golden Midas, but,--'twill serve.  And this reminds us----"
here he removed the hat, smoothed its shaggy nap with cherishing elbow,
nodded at it, put it on again and turned the eyebrows upon Richard.

"Young my friend," quoth he, "'tis evident to us (spouse and self, sir)
'tis patent, 'tis manifest from your outer seeming and semblance, that
you have perchance fallen upon adversity ... the jade Fortune with hand
unkindly hath methinks dealt thee scurvy buffet and therefore, my
friend, speaking for spouse and self, ourselves being one and
indivisible, we do now proffer thee in Friendship's sacred name such
aid, comfort and solace as we may, even ... to the tune of a pound,
sir, a guinea or say--five!  Agreed, Maria?"

"With all my heart, Dan'l."

"Now upon my soul," said Richard, viewing them in turn with kindling
eyes, "this is very good of you, and so kind, so trustful that I ... I
have no words to thank you."

"Then don't, dearie, don't try,--there's no need, is there, Dan'l?"

"None, Maria, none!"

"I can only say--thank you!  And thank you!" quoth Richard, shaking
their hands vigorously in turn, "and tell you that your friendly looks
and words have comforted me when I needed such comfort--very greatly.
But I have no lack of money.  These ridiculous clothes are ... a silly
whim.  But now--to meet you so unexpectedly in this wilderness of
London with its countless faces ... faces everywhere that flit and
vanish and always strange and unknown ... to see you so suddenly and
find you so warm-hearted has turned a long, weary hateful day into a
very good day."

"Eh, my dearie, a hateful day?  Why now it's been a lovely day, I think
so bright and sunny!  Ah and very eventful too for us, what with a
pickpocket a-picking pockets in the middle o' the performance, and a
chimbly afire Battle Bridge way, and sweet little lambs being nigh
trampled to death under my very nose by black-whiskered villains in
gigs."

"And rescued, Maria, by goddesses new come from Arcadia!"

"Right, Dan'l!  A golden goddess as snatched that sweet innocent from
right under that great horse's trampling hooves, she did ... and then I
catches her in my arms on my buzzum and kiss her I did and had to, her
lovely pale cheek, her shining golden hair----"

"Auburn,--auburn tresses, Maria!"

"Auburn?" repeated Richard, starting.

"Red-gold, my friend!" sighed Mr. Doubleday into his half-empty
tankard, "such tresses glorious as lured young Paris, happy lad, to his
lovely doom----"

"Red-gold?" murmured Richard tenderly; then, snatching at a straw, he
leaned nearer to question breathlessly:

"Was she tall... was she blue-eyed ... a deep--oh a wonderful blue?"

"As Ocean's unfathomable deeps, young my friend!  Ah, as starry
firmament at dewy eve."

"And tall ... graceful ... was she tall?"

"As very daughter of the gods!  A maid Olympian!  A creature divine
being Perfection's self!  These orbs ne'er saw her peer nor ever shall
again, for----"

"Then it is she!" cried Richard starting to his feet.  "It is Rosemary
... it must be!  Did you learn her name?"

"Nay, sir, she but like a vision dawned and vanished from my dazzled
sight----"

"In a gig!" added Mrs. Doubleday excitedly, and forthwith gave a very
full and particular account of the incident, aided by the occasional
rolling periods of her spouse.

"Did you ... oh, did you learn where she was living?" stammered Richard.

"Well, now, I heard her tell Blackwhiskers to drive to ... let me see
... a Square it was ... not Portman--no!  Nor Saint James'!  Nor ...
wait a minute,--it was Golden, eh, Dan'l?  It was Number Twelve, Golden
Square, eh, Dan'l?"

"It was, Maria!  Exact and true as usual your memory waketh mine.
Golden Square it was, young sir, Number--  Why God bless us!"
Richard's quivering hands were upon an ample shoulder of each and he
was looking down at them from a face radiantly transfigured.

"God bless you indeed!" he exclaimed fervently.  "For I think ... I
hope ... yes I believe you have given back to me more than my life.  So
God bless you always!  And if this wonderful thing be really true, you
shall see ... you shall know some day how much you have done for this
poor miserable wretch that was me!"  So saying, he kissed Mrs.
Doubleday, suddenly and very heartily, seized the hand of her (for
once) speechless spouse, shook it, snatched up his hat and stick and
sped blithely away.




CHAPTER XXXI

GIVETH SOME ACCOUNT OF AN AFFRAY AND MR. JASPER SHRIG

Tremulous with that eagerness which only Youth is blessed to know,
Richard sped upon his way alternately upborne by Hope and harassed by
despairful uncertainty.  Now being in such frantic haste to reach
Number Twelve, Golden Square, and be done with this harrowing suspense
one way or the other, it naturally befell that he lost himself.
Instead of reaching some main thoroughfare where he might charter a
speedy hackney-coach, he was plunging ever deeper into an unlovely
neighbourhood of back-streets, alleys and narrow courts; but on he
sped, cursing in a very fury of impatience until turning a sudden
corner he entered a somewhat gloomy alley at the further end of which
stood four men.  Eager to learn his direction Richard began to advance
towards these fellows then halted suddenly, warned by something furtive
and threatening in the aspect, for all four were armed with sticks or
bludgeons and one man had stooped to peer cautiously round a corner
while his companions crouched nearby, and all this with such very
evident and sinister purpose that Richard tightened his grip upon the
stout ash he carried and instinctively crouched also....  Followed a
moment of breathless expectancy and then around that corner into the
alley stepped a slim, elegant young personage and was instantly
surrounded and set upon by the four.  But this young gentleman dodged
very nimbly, and getting his back to the wall, endeavoured to fight off
his assailants with the light cane he bore ... then his modish hat went
flying ... he was stricken to his knees....  Richard glimpsed a pale
face upturned to the sunny sky and instantly recognized the detested
features of Valentine, Earl of Abbeymere, yet in that instant leapt,
shouting:

"Hold 'em, Valentine, I'm with you!"  And in he went with flailing
stick and thudding fist,--in to a close, desperate battle....  Stamping
feet, hoarse gasps, reeling shock of blows, and suddenly, high and
clear above it all the Earl's breathless though jubilant cry:

"That you ... Richard?  Good old Dick ... just in time!  Have at 'em."
And now, his assailants staggering before Richard's furious onset, he
struggled to his feet, fighting viciously.

So bludgeons rose and fell, slim cane whizzed, stout ash-stick thwacked
until it broke and in its stead two powerful fists smote....  And while
they fought thus side by side, the two against the four, they cheered
and panted encouragement at each other as they had done when boys,
somewhat on this wise:

_The Earl_: (_Reeling back to the wall but lashing away with his
cane._) Bravo, Dick--well hit, sir!

_Richard_: (_Nimbly ducking a murderous bludgeon-swing._) There's for
his--nob, Val!

_The Earl_: (_Parrying and striking home._) One of ... my devils ...
had enough.  Aha, well hit, old man ... that's two of them....

_Richard_: (_Staggering, arm above smitten head._) Curse!  Got me ...
that time!  In at 'em, Valentine ... charge 'em ... old fellow!

_The Earl_: All serene, Dick....  What, are y' ... hurt?

_Richard_: (_Dashing blood from his eyes._) Nothing to matter....  Come
on Valentine ... shoulder to--

A flame shot across Richard's sight, he reeled blindly and went down
headlong to be kicked and trampled a while ... then to struggle up
unwillingly from a mumbling, restful blackness, and strive desperately
to answer the voice that cried on him so insistently:

"Speak, Dick!  Wake ... wake up!  Dick, man--speak!"  So Richard opened
swimming eyes, clasped an agony that was his head and spoke:

"Oh ... curse!"

"And dammem!" cried the Earl, rather wildly.  "How are you now, Dick?"

"Eh?  Oh ... pretty well, thanks.  They didn't ... crack your nob too,
then?"

"Thanks to you--no Dick.  My dear fellow can you stand?"

"I'll try! ... No good!  Must wait a bit.  Head's deuced queer!  Pins
infernally wobbly!  Who ... what hit me, Valentine?"

"A cudgel meant for me, Dick,--as, in fact, I believe they all were.
However, you ran in and took it and oh, damme, I believe you saved my
life!  Which makes things devilish awkward ... considering!  So
confoundedly contradictory ... oh the devil, to owe my life to you!"
fumed the Earl, frowning down at the pale, bloodstained face pillowed
on his shoulder while he dabbed at it very gently with his handkerchief.

"Are the rascals ... gone, Val?"

"Yes, and this is the devilish queer part of it--why should they run?
You were stunned, I was on top of you and pretty well done up, and then
instead of finishing me--off they went; took to their confounded heels."

"Very ... odd!" sighed Richard, stifling a groan.

"Vich, young sir, I wenters to deny!" wheezed a jovial voice above
them, "I takes the liberty to say as it were only to be expected."

Peering upward Richard made out the speaker for a shortish, plump, aged
person neatly clad in wide-brimmed hat, brass-buttoned blue coat with
beneath this, the shorts and top-boots of an earlier generation, a very
quaint and altogether arresting figure.

"Oh?" enquired the Earl haughtily.  "And pray why was it to be
expected?"

"Vich, young sir," answered the Person, nodding a smoothly round,
good-natured face lit by two very quick bright eyes, "since you ax so
p'inted I'll tell ye as them windictives, being Paddy Mears, Chuffy
McGuire, Snifty and Toby Niggle,--twigged--me."

"Indeed?" quoth my lord with growing arrogance.  "And who might you be?
One of them?"

The aged yet rubicund Person crossed gnarled hands upon the knotted
stick he bore and shaking his head gently, beamed down on his arrogant
young questioner more good-naturedly than ever.

"Young gen'leman," quoth he, placidly, "scorning that 'ere
insinivation, I stretches out my daddle, or as you might say, famble to
your young gen'leman pal and so soon as us can get him on his stampers,
inwites him, and you if so minded, to step along o' me to the old 'Gun'
and taste a drop o' the Vun and Only as my partner brews like nobody
else can't.  If----"

"The Gun?" exclaimed my lord, troubling himself to glance up at the
speaker again, "I was on my way ... looking for the 'Gun' Tavern."

"And was likewise expected, sir."

"Indeed?"

"Ar--indeed."

"I want word with a Mr. Shrigrow Sharp, a police fellow.  I was told he
was to be seen at the 'Gun'."

"And so 'e is sir, ven not elsevere."

"You grow impertinent, I think."

"Well now, p'raps I do."

"Who the dickens are you?"

"Shrig's my monicker, sir, baptismal Jarsper.  Now ... for yourself,
let's see," murmured Mr. Shrig, his bright, roving gaze fixing itself
on the young Earl's jewelled cravat, "you--yes, you are a sprig----"

"A what?  Confound you!"

"A sprig, sir, a shoot or, let's say, a bud o' nobility as has lately
bloomed.  From observation dooly recorded and de-ductions therefrom
drawed I'm pretty sure and sarten as you are the young noo Earl of
Abbeymere."

"How do you know this?"

"Simple addition, m'lud, two and two being four.  And remembering your
ludships late misfort'nate pa, wot I says is--love a duck!  And now,
m'lud, if your young gen'leman pal feels ekal to it, the sooner ve
sluices him outside and in--the better he'll look and feel."

"Did you know my----  The late Earl?"

"Vell no, m'lud, not 'ardly wot you might call 'know.'  But your young
pal----"

"Can you stand now, Dick old fellow?"

"Of course ... yes," mumbled Dick, aching head between his hands.
Hereupon with Mr. Shrig's able assistance he contrived to get upon his
legs; but the pavement heaved and spun giddily beneath him, a mist
seemed all about him, a sickly haze that deepened upon him to a choking
darkness....

"Dog bite me!" exclaimed Mr. Shrig.

It was after some interval that Richard became aware of water very cold
and sweetly refreshing that stirred the vigorous life within him to
slow wakefulness; of a dripping sponge and of the Earl in shirtsleeves
plying this sponge with such great assiduity that Richard gasped
through the torrent:

"Hold ... hard ... Valentine!"

"Ha, damme, old fellow, but that's prime!" exclaimed his lordship
dropping sponge to snatch up a towel.  "Can you speak then?  Yes, of
course!  'Richard is himself again.'  That's famous!"

"But you ... you've pretty well--drowned me!" gasped Richard.

"And no wonder!  You were out, Dick, knocked clean out of time.  That
cursed bludgeon took you a perfectly damnable crack!  Worse than I
thought.  We got you up once but down you went again, and ... damme but
you looked ... I thought you'd hopped the vital twig, old fellow ...
and all to help me!  That's the most accursed part of it ...
considering!"

"Well but," enquired Richard, feeling his sorely battered head very
tenderly, "how did I get here, and ... where is it?"

"This is a tavern called 'The Gun,' old man.  And I got you here with
the aid of an aged, rum old buffer in top boots and a spencer.  But
now, Dick, the question I'm pondering is,---why was I attacked so
murderously?"

"Thieves!" groaned Richard.

"Perhaps!  And yet I doubt it.  I've been half expecting something of
the sort.  You see there is someone, I fancy, who would sleep better if
he knew I was dead or thoroughly crippled."

"Who, man, who?"

"That fellow Nicholas Frayne.  I used a whip on him, both cheeks old
fellow, and he must fight----"

"Ah ... Miss Cynthia."

"Exactly!  But Frayne happens to know I am pretty deadly with the
hair-triggers,--rather more so than even you are, Dick,--and Frayne
doesn't like the idea of risking his precious carcass, as I happen to
have learned, so it would be like him to choose this ... the safer way."

"You mean ... he would murder you?"

"Why not, my dear fellow?  He hates me very perfectly, and what is more
he is afraid of me.  Anyhow, I am having the fellow watched ... which
is the reason for my visit here....  But my present care is to see you
safe and snug in bed.  Where are you staying, old fellow?"

"Bed?" scoffed Richard, albeit faintly.  "No such thing ... I shall be
well enough.  But, speaking of Miss Cynthia Bellenden, pray are you not
... engaged to her?"

"No, Dick, oh no!"

"But ... you have ... proposed to her?"

"Frequently, my dear fellow, a year ago and solely at the late Noble
Earl's mandate; you see she is an heiress and he had an eye to her
moneybags....  But now, what of yourself, Dick; where can I take you?"

"Ah, to be sure," sighed Richard, hands to throbbing head, "where?  I
was in a tremendous hurry ... yes.  I was going to find ... good
heavens--Rosemary!"  Uttering the name, he started up from his chair,
swayed dizzily and sank down again, while the Earl watched him with
eyes agleam beneath faintly wrinkling brows.

"Still a trifle weak, eh, Vibart?" said he.

"It will pass," retorted Richard, grim-lipped.  "Meanwhile perhaps you
will answer me a question?"

"Perhaps!" nodded my lord, beginning to rearrange his somewhat rumbled
cravat before the small looking glass beside the mantle.

"Do you know," demanded Richard leaning back heavily in his chair, "do
you know where she is ... Rosemary?"

The Earl having loosed his cravat, retied it with exasperating
deliberation and viewing its effect in the glass, answered gently:

"My dear Vibart, you may be sure I do."

"Then ... will you tell me ... her address?"

"My dear Vibart, be perfectly assured that I will--not!"  Once again
Richard started up and swaying upon his feet, clenched passionate fists:

"Now damn you, Abbeymere----" he began.

"Gently!  Gently!" admonished the Earl, easing himself into his
tight-fitting coat.  "What a wild, passionate fellow ... and with a
headache too!"

"Cold ... sneering ... devil!" gasped Richard, hands clasped to his
throbbing temples.

"And yet," sighed the Earl, taking up his battered hat and surveying it
very ruefully, "I am very truly grateful for your help, and sincerely
deplore you should have been so hurt in my cause.  But I will not, must
not divulge Rosemary's whereabouts because she fled to hide herself
from you."

"Liar!" groaned Richard, sinking so feebly into the chair again that
the Earl eyed him with a sudden wistfulness and spoke in tone altered
as his look:

"Does your head pain you so much, Dick?  Shall I bathe it again?"

"I called you a liar, Valentine."

"Yes, I heard....  And you see Rosemary fully believes you did the
killing----"

"Ah!" sighed Richard.  "But why ... and how do you know this?"

"Because she told me as much."

"Then ... you have seen her ... recently?"

"I have enjoyed that felicity.  In time to come I expect to see a great
deal more of her,--I am living ... hoping to make her my Countess."

"Never!" cried Richard fiercely.  "I'll see you dead first!"

"Oh no, no!" murmured the Earl, smoothing his ruffled hat, "you would
not see me dead because you would be as dead as I--if it is a duel you
are threatening?"

"Of course ... yes," groaned Richard, closing his eyes to the pain of
his throbbing head.

"I'm glad to be assured of this," nodded his lordship, turning back to
the looking-glass, "for, as I suggested in regard to Frayne, I have no
fancy to die like the late Earl ... killed like a mad dog, Vibart,--not
that way if you please."

"Ah ... what the devil do you suggest?"

"The answer, my dear fellow, is a handkerchief with the initials R.V.
Pray what have you to say of it?"

"That ... at any rate ... it proves you a perjured liar, Abbeymere."
The Earl, putting on his hat before the mirror, smiled at his
reflection quite happily.

"It will be a strange fate, Richard, if you and I that were children
together and playfellows should have grown up merely to slaughter each
other."

"This rests with yourself, Valentine.  Confine ... your attentions to
Miss Cynthia Bellenden and----"

"For, if we fight," went on the Earl serenely, "we shall most certainly
exterminate one another, but with,--ha, confound it, I've lost my
cane,--with this singular difference, that I, being the last of my
damned race, shall pass with no one to mourn me, except possibly old
Clipsby,--but you, Vibart, how vastly otherwise!  Consider your
gracious mother's tears! your honoured father's grief!  Ponder this,
Richard, and if only for their sakes forego this idle dream of
Rosemary, this very selfish passion----"

"Insufferable ... presumptuous fool!" exclaimed Richard, heaving
himself out of his chair with such violence that he staggered, tripped
and fell heavily.

"Dick!" cried the Earl in quick concern, and stooped to lift him; but
with passionate gesture Richard spurned this proffered help and
contrived to get himself back into the chair unaided.

"Now, now!" quoth the Earl, reprovingly.  "Be calm, I beg.  Sit still
awhile, for you are in no fit state to pummel me at present, so do
restrain yourself ... or perhaps I had better remove this invitation
that is me....  I'll be off."

"Valentine," said Richard, leaning shakily across the table, "keep away
from Rosemary, cease your devilish persecution or----"

"Richard," said the Earl, turning lightly towards the street-door, "you
should know me well enough to be very certain no threats can ever deter
me, so--why waste your breath?  Ah well,--Good-bye for the present!  I
hope you will soon be again your very hale and hearty self.  I thank
you very truly and most sincerely for having very probably saved my
life ... what a devilish preposterous, contradictory business it all
is!...  And I've lost my cane and one feels so undressed, in Town
without one's cane!  Pray tell our top-booted old hero I will call
another time....  Adieu, my Richard."  And with lips upcurling in
faintly mocking smile, but with eyes aglow with something very much
better, the Earl waved his gloved hand, opened the door and went his
way, while pain-racked Richard viewed that door despairfully eager to
be gone also.

"Twelve!" he muttered, striving to rally his failing senses, "Twelve
... Golden ... Square."  His throbbing head sank heavily between his
arms outstretched across the table, and, vaguely wondering at this sick
weakness, he sank to a troubled drowsiness....  From this stupor he was
aroused somewhat by a hand very large yet gentle ... big fingers that
crept softly among his thick, wet hair ... voices near at hand yet
strangely indistinct:

"Vot d'ye say of it, Corporal?"

"A pretty ... tidy ... wallop, Jarsper!"

"Ar!  And vot then, pal?"

"He should ought to take a nap, Jarsper, forty-winks ... bed."

"No!" mumbled Richard, lifting heavy head with an effort.  "I'm in ...
hurry ... must go.  Shall be all right ... a sip of brandy."

"Water would be better."

"But a glass o' the Vun and Only, best of all!" quoth a hearty voice.
"Tak' a sniff o' this, young sir!"

Beneath Richard's nose came a steaming glass whence stole an aroma so
subtly delectable that he sipped instinctively, drank avidly and
looking up into the rubicund visage of Mr. Shrig, smiled.

"Bravo!" exclaimed another voice, and glancing round about, Richard saw
the speaker for a comely giant whose face, lit by the gentlest of blue
eyes, showed the handsomer for the snowy hair that crowned it and the
neatly trimmed white whiskers that framed it.

"Sir," said Mr. Shrig, up-ending the glass that Richard had just
emptied, "this here is my pal an' partner Corporal Richard Roe, late o'
the Grenadiers----"

"Twenty-odd year ago, Jarsper!"

"And lost his daddle at Vaterloo----"

"But only my left, sir!" added the Corporal showing the gleaming steel
hook that replaced his lost member.

"I ... feel honoured!" said Richard, reaching out a somewhat unsteady
hand.  "My name is Richard too, Richard Vibart."

"Eh?  Wibart?" exclaimed Mr. Shrig with a sort of pounce.  "Any
relation to Sir Maurice ... Buck Wibart as got hisself murdered ... in
a vood?"

"He was my father's cousin."

"Think o' that now!  Vell, blow me tight!" exclaimed Mr. Shrig in a
kind of ecstasy, shaking Richard's hand with the utmost heartiness and
beaming more jovially than ever.  "In a vood, too!  Mr. Wibart, vot I
say is, if a cove is born to be murdered--pick a vood, sir, birds
a-carolling so gay, leaves a-vispering so peaceful, brooks
a-babbling--much better than, say, the slime o' the river, or street,
back-alley, garret or cellar,--no, gimme a vood of a dooy morning or
sunset.  For though born in the city I hankers for the country, and if
ever Windictiveness ketches me in the shape o' bludgeon, bullet or
steel let my corp lay among lilies o' the walley or----"  Mr. Shrig
paused suddenly and cocked his head as from the little bar-room or tap
without, the street door slammed and a bell tinkled.

"A customer, Corporal Dick?  I don't think so.  Vait a bit!  It aren't
the time for reg'lars and--Lord, but 'e's a unpatient party ooever 'e
is,--'arkee!"  And indeed the invisible customer was rapping very
insistently; and then a voice called:

"Hallo--hallo!  Is there anyone about?"

"Somebody's werry full o' noos or--fright!" quoth Mr. Shrig in placid
surmise.  "And 'the Gimblet' not here!  Go see, pal Dick, and leave the
door ajar."  Away strode the gigantic Corporal forthwith into the
tap-room and was there instantly accosted by that same agitated voice,
and one that now struck drowsy Richard as being vaguely familiar:

"This cane!" said the voice.  "I recognise it ... I know it well.  I
found it in the kennel ... the gutter close by ... and blood near it
... splashes of blood!  Tell me, is the owner here?"

"Why, sir," answered the Corporal, "he may be and then again--not ...
ye see there was two on 'em.  If you'll wait 'arf a moment I'll----"

"Hex-cuse me, Mr. Wibart!" quoth Mr. Shrig, and rising from his chair
with surprising nimbleness hurried out of this cosy kitchen, closing
the door behind him.

Aware of a soothing rumble of voices, Richard stared dreamily at the
dim fire and, the pain of his head easing, nodded slumberously, closed
his eyes and opened them with a start to Mr. Shrig's voice:

"Mr. Wibart, sir, there's gen'leman outside says you're precious veil
acquainted and begs a vord.  How about it, sir?"

"Certainly!" answered Richard, sitting up.

"Thank you!" said a pleasant voice, and now Richard beheld the speaker,
graceful, middle-aged, perfectly attired, who stood looking down on him
with such serene dignity of bearing that instinctively Richard made to
rise, but out came a neatly gloved hand to arrest him gently.

"Ah no, do not trouble....  You do not recognize me, Mr. Richard?"

"I ... I fear not," Richard stammered, "and yet ... why yes ... are you
... by George, can it be--Eustace Clipsby?"

"Yes," sighed Mr. Clipsby, coming a step nearer, "and must you frown?
Won't you pray believe me your friend?"

"Friend?" repeated Richard, his scowl growing blacker.

"To be sure," murmured Mr. Clipsby, "you treated me rather roughly last
time we met, you also denounced me as a 'creeping spy'--as I suppose I
was, but for the well-being of one very dear ... to you."

"Do you mean Rosemary ... Miss Ford?" cried Richard in sudden
eagerness.  "Do you ... oh, can you tell me where she is?"

"Mr. Richard I will take you to her so soon as you are able."

"Now!" cried Richard, lunging to his feet.  "At once ... this instant!
Only bring me to her and I'll swear you are the best friend I ever had.
Come, oh, pray let us go."

"Certainly, dear Mr. Richard, though I would counsel waiting until you
are more yourself, to see you thus, might shock her and----"  Mr.
Clipsby paused suddenly, his keen, watchful gaze on the door, for,
though the latch had lifted soundlessly, this door was opening
furtively inch by inch; and now into the room came a shock of rusty red
hair and a pair of eyes, remarkably blue, round and bright, that seemed
to take in the spacious kitchen and its occupants at a single
comprehensive glance.

"'Lo!" said a husky voice.  "How's the cows, Old Un?"

"Aha!" chuckled Mr. Shrig, clapping hand to thigh.  "So there y'are!
Come in, Gimblet, my lad.  Here's luck for ye, luck as has dropped in
twice all along o' Windictiveness in the shape o' bludgeons, four on
'em and the gold-'eaded cane o' your Sprig o' Nobility, my b'y."

"Oh?  Has he been here then, Old Un?"

"Ar.  His lordship come a looking for you, my Gimblet, and would now be
laying a stiff in the dead-'ouse, ay a perishing corp but for this here
young nob,--so come your ways, my lad.  Mr. Wibart and friend," quoth
Mr. Shrig, gesturing towards the rusty hair and bright blue eyes still
just a-peep beyond the door, "lo and be'old you my b'y, Shrigrow Sharp,
as I named in memory o' my ownself and my pal Corporal Richard Roe, o'
the Grenadiers, but vot they calls Gimblet at the office because he's
so precious sharp and goes through the criminal mind like a gimblet
through so much vood.  Step forrard, Gimblet."

Thus adjured, the hair and eyes were followed by a longish, tip-tilted
nose, a wide, humorous mouth and so by degrees until there stood
revealed a smallish, bony man, very quick and light of movement, a man
who might have been anything from a very horsey horse-coper to a
lightweight pugilist, for about his scrawny throat was a neckerchief
showing white double rings on a blue ground (known among the true
milling-coves as the blue bird's-eye), his slim, spry legs were encased
in cords and gaiters and his wide, humorous mouth was quirked upon a
straw.

"There he be, Mr. Wibart and sir!" quoth Mr. Shrig, with a prideful
possessiveness.  "My werry own lad as being the kid o' nobody knows oo,
me and the Corporal took in 'and, bred up and trained till to-day,
sirs, he stands afore ye the boldest thief-taker and the werry sharpest
cove as ever tracked willainy to the nubbing-cheat or vore a red
veskit."

"Excepting one, Old Un!" said Mr. Sharp, wagging his red head, "there's
only one Jarsper Shrig, and won't never be another to compare.  But
what's been forrard here, Old Un?  What's the lay?"  Hereupon Mr. Shrig
very succinctly described the murderous attack on the Earl, naming the
four assailants; to all of the which Mr. Sharp listened in silence and
very round of eye, at certain times chewing avidly at the straw that
yet seemed never to decrease.

"The question being," added Mr. Shrig in conclusion, "oo set this here
windictiveness afoot?"

"Ar!" nodded Mr. Sharp.  "But wot now, Old Un?"

"Now, Gimblet, here's two gen'lemen, Mr. Richard Wibart and friend Mr.
Clipsby--baptismal Eustiss, aren't it, sir?"

"It is," nodded Mr. Clipsby with his gentle smile.  "And now may I
enquire why Lord Abbeymere should be hereabouts?"

"That you may, sir, and prompt and to the p'int I'll answer
you,--because said young Nob, or as you might say, Heavy Toddler, seems
to think as 'e may be took off werry sudden and onexpected like his
late unfort'nate pa."

"You mean--by suicide?  But why should----"

"Mr. Clipsby, sir--no!  Not sooicide!  I never said no sich vord.  The
Inkwest may call it fellerdesee but I think different, sir, and there's
some as ... knows different!"

Here Mr. Clipsby, in the act of putting on his very modish hat, looked
at it instead with a strange intensity and put it down again.

"Dear me!" he murmured in his pleasantly modulated voice, "But my dear
Mr. Shrig, why in the world should you, or anyone else, doubt the
finding of the Inquest?"

"Sir," answered Mr. Shrig, shaking his head, "me 'aving see so much o'
Huming Natur',--its tricks, sir, its wanities and rum dodges, I've
growed by nature werry suspicious o' Natur', d'ye see."

"Then doubtless you can give me some logical reason for such very
strange suspicions in regard to the late Earl's death?"

"Oh, I dunno, sir!" sighed Mr. Shrig plaintively.  "Natur's often at
odds wi' Reason,--but the reason for this here sooicide don't nohow
sound reasonable enough according to the reports as I've dooly read...."

"Now, Mr. Clipsby, if you're ready I am!" said Richard impatiently.

"But, Mr. Wibart, sir your neckercher aren't dry yet," Mr. Shrig
demurred.

"No matter, it will do."

"And wot's more, sir," added the Gimblet, "you're still a bit groggy on
your pins."

"I shall be well enough, thanks....  Mr. Clipsby, pray let us go."

"But--your 'air, sir!" admonished Mr. Shrig.  "Your 'air so vet and
vild-like!  Loan the young gen'leman your comb, pal Dick, and a towel
for to dry his napper."

"Right you are, Jarsper!"  And the Corporal's long legs vanished
incontinent up the precipitous stairs in adjacent corner while Richard
chafed to be gone.

"May I enquire," pursued Mr. Clipsby seating himself beside Mr. Shrig
on the high-backed settle, "what exactly you find so ... unreasonable
in the late Lord Abbeymere's suicide?"

"Sir," answered Mr. Shrig, reaching a cherished clay pipe from the rack
on the wall at his elbow, "lookee now,--ven any man commits sich a
onnat'ral act as Self-Murder, it's only nat'ral as he should commit
said act in the manner as comes most nat'ral to hisself.  F'instance!
The gent in question shoots hisself stone dead--through the left
temple.  Vich is Fact Number Vun, I think?  You being on the spot sir,
see for yourself--through the left temple, eh, sir?"

"Ye-e-es," murmured Mr. Clipsby, dwelling on the word, "I ... believe
it was."

"Not sure, sir?  The left temple!  Couldn't you swear to same?"

"Upon my word, Mr. Shrig, I hardly noticed, but I believe it was the
left."

"Mr. Clipsby, sir, I know as it was left, 'tis in the ewidence,
sir,--but the discharge of a pistol ball through the--left temple."
Here Mr. Shrig began to fill his pipe with nimble fingers while his
bright eyes roved other where, his gaze now on the rug beneath Mr.
Clipsby's feet, now on Mr. Clipsby's varnished boots, his flowered
waistcoat, his greying hair.

"Well?" murmured Mr. Clipsby at last.

"Vell, sir," sighed Mr. Shrig, "from all as I'm able to larn, or as you
might say, diskiver,--I find as said unfort'nate gent vas--right
handed.  Vich is Fact Number Two, I think?  But you can tell me werry
certainly, sir, seeing as you knowed deceased, none better, it being
dooly in ewidence as you lived with his lordship constant, years and
years, and could swear on your oath as his lordship vas nat'rally
right-handed,--eh, sir?"

"I can.  Certainly!" answered Mr. Clipsby gently.  "But how shall this
signify?  A right-handed person may be sufficiently ambidextrous, a man
at such desperate moment might use either hand quite naturally."

"Vell," sighed Mr. Shrig, his gaze roving as high as Mr. Clipsby's
elegant shirt frill and pausing there, "a man might and then again he
might--not!  But that there word--'amby'---might I trouble you for same
again, sir?"

"Ambidextrous," repeated Mr. Clipsby, staring abstractedly at the
smouldering fire wherefrom his companion now lifted a small ember with
the tongs and proceeded to light his pipe.

"Ambi-dexteerious!" repeated Mr. Shrig between fragrant puffs, rolling
out the syllables.  "Am ... be ... dex ... teerious!  Now that's a vord
as is a vord, that is,--eh, Gimblet, my b'y?"

"Ar!" quoth the Gimlet, who had sat nearby listening, looking, and
chewing ceaselessly on the straw that seemed magically never to
diminish in the very least....

"But that is not my neckerchief," quoth Richard, busily (and very
tenderly) combing his hair by aid of the small, bright looking glass
above Corporal Roe's neat desk.

"No, Mr. Vibart, it's mine, sir, my best," answered the old soldier.
"Seeing as your own aren't yet fit for active sarvice at present, I beg
you'll accept the loan of it, sir."

"Very kind of you!" said Richard, taking up the ornate article in
question.  "Silk, by George!  Thanks, Corporal Roe!  I'll return it
soon as possible."

"Suit yourself, sir.  Whenever you happen to be passing----"

"Ar!" exclaimed Mr. Shrig, rising, "Venever so be, Mr. Wibart, us'll
always give ee a velcome at the old 'Gun'--all three on us, with a drop
o' the Vun and Only, than vich there never vas any drink to ekal it
nohow....  And you too, Mr. Clipsby, sir, any time as you feels so
inclined--drop in, sir.  And now, Mr. Wibart, seeing as you'm so
anxious to be a-toddling, and remembering that there rap on your
napper, or as you might say, mazzard--the Gimlet shall go get you a
nackney-coach ... and sharp's the vord, Gimblet, my b'y."

"Sharp it is, Old Un!" answered the Gimlet, and instantly vanished.

But now as Richard became more himself his impatience grew to such a
pitch that he could remain inactive no longer and, leaving Shrig and
Mr. Clipsby still hobnobbing in the chimney corner, hastened from "The
Gun" and along the alley to Gray's Inn Lane, and stood there so eagerly
watchful for the expected conveyance that he was oblivious to all but
the passing traffic until roused by the gently diffident voice of the
gigantic Corporal.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but that there friend o' yourn, Mr. Clipsby
... might he be a ... very great friend, sir?"

"Clipsby?  No--yes," said Richard his gaze on the ceaseless traffic.
"I'm hardly sure.  Why do you ask?"

"Well," answered the Corporal, eyeing Richard's averted face with a
peculiar intentness, "only because my comrade Jarsper seems to have
took to him so very strong."

"Good!" Richard nodded.  "Clipsby has always seemed a shy, lonely old
fellow and--ha, there comes the hackney-coach at last!  Will you be
good enough to hurry back and tell him----"

But at this moment forth of the "Gun" stepped Mr. Clipsby closely
attended by Jasper Shrig.

Forthwith Richard sprang into the vehicle, bidding Mr. Clipsby hurry
and calling on the coachman to drive fast.

So Mr. Shrig wished them a cheery farewell and, with slight yet
significant gesture, winked up at the driver who nodded, chirruped to
his horses and away rumbled the coach.

They rode for the most part in silence for Richard was dreaming of Her,
picturing just how she would look, what she would say to him, what he
should say to her; while Mr. Clipsby seemed lost in a profound
abstraction.

When at last they spoke it was together:

"These confounded clothes!" exclaimed Richard.

"That Jasper Shrig interests me!" said Mr. Clipsby.

"To appear before Her ... like a loutish clod!"

"He was a Bow Street Officer years ago, I understand."

"And my head all bruised, Clip, and lumpy as a curst potato!  Am I much
marked, Clip?"

"Enough to show interesting, Richard....  It seems like old times to
hear you call me Clip."

"Yes, that was years ago ... you used to call me 'Dicky.'  But things
are greatly changed since then....  I ought to treat you with more
deference."

"No no, pray call me Clip.  And know that whatever change there may be,
in circumstances or the world or ourselves, is and must be--for the
better....  And here we are, I think--yes, this is Golden Square----"

"Aha, then she does live here!"

"Then you knew this?"

"No, I only hoped ... and by George--there is Number Twelve!"  Uttering
the words Richard flung open the door and leapt from the moving vehicle
so precipitately that he reeled and only saved himself from a fall by
clutching the rails of a front-garden.  Then Mr. Clipsby was beside him
and they were ascending a flight of stone steps; a door was opened by a
prim yet pretty maid; ensued a carpeted passage, a small pleasant room
with window open to the glowing west and as if borne upon the radiant
glory came a blithe chorus of happy childish voices.  Looking from this
window Richard saw a grass-plot where children romped and amid these
dancing, elfin shapes tall and gracious as some young and gentle
goddess--Rosemary.

Richard caught his breath and, as he gazed, this so fiercely-sought, so
yearned-for, beloved form blurred suddenly upon his swimming vision.

"Wait, I'll send her to you," said Mr. Clipsby's gentle voice.

Richard crossed to the mantel and leaned there, head bowed upon his
arms, trembling with wild and joyful expectancy; then turned to the
sudden opening of the door and seeing her so near--stood speechless.
But with sobbing murmur, a cry inarticulate yet more eloquent than any
words, she fled to him and was on his breast, his yearning arms fast
about her.




CHAPTER XXXII

SHOWETH HOW RICHARD SWORE AN OATH

The sun had set an hour ago but the sky was still glorious with his
passing where the moon stood like a pale wraith peeping over a certain
ivy-clad wall; and surely never in all her length of days had she spied
two more ridiculously happy creatures than these that sat together on a
bench the cockswain's deft hands had contrived beneath this same wall
in a remote corner of the vegetable garden (this famous battle-ground.)

And of what should they talk but themselves and their own concerns, of
their past tribulations and dear hopes of the future?  But at last
Richard must come back to that dark memory that cast its cold shadow
upon even this glad hour of joyous reunion:

"So then," said Richard, glancing from the lovely face beside him to
the cockswain's scarlet runners that made this corner a green bower,
"he must have been shot while you lay still insensible?"

"Yes," murmured Rosemary.

Saith Richard, his gaze still averted:

"Dear, you never believed he killed himself!"

_Rosemary_: (_Glancing at Richard a little apprehensively._) Do you,
Richard?

_Richard_: No.

_Rosemary_: But why not when all agree he did?

_Richard_: Because I knew him too well, and he was never the man to
harm himself.

_Rosemary_: Why then, dear, why trouble yourself since the dreadful
matter is all settled?

_Richard_: Ah, but is it settled, Rosemary, is it?  I wonder!  And you
actually saw me with the pistol in my hand!  Ah, my dear love, had you
but come to me then--what misery we should have been saved!  If you had
only called to me----

_Rosemary_: I was going to, but then your father appeared so suddenly.

_Richard_: My father!  Yes, he believed me guilty, too and no wonder!

_Rosemary_: Oh, Richard, my dear, why---why ever did you confess
yourself guilty?  Tell me--tell me.

_Richard_: (_Stooping to kiss the slim fingers he held._) Because I
deemed it best.  And my father, God bless him, believing me guilty, was
... kinder than I ever remember him or thought possible.

_Rosemary_: And afterwards ... Dick, look at me ... afterwards why must
you run away like a frightened, guilty wretch?  No no, don't try to put
me off any more, don't evade the question,--why did you fly to London
and disguise yourself?

_Richard_: (_Opening the hand he holds to press a kiss into its soft,
pink palm._) Well, under the circumstances it seemed the only ...
proper course.

_Rosemary_: So you won't tell me.  Then I'll tell you.  It was because
in your heart you were quite sure and dreadfully certain that I was a
murderess.

_Richard_: (_Eagerly, though stammering._) Ah ... never ... never....

_Rosemary_: (_Nodding serenely._) Yes!  My poor, dear boy you believe
it even now.

_Richard_: Ah, Rosemary, my own dear I----

_Rosemary_: Wait!  Look into my eyes.  (_She takes his chin in
compelling hand, forcing him to obey._)  Oh, Richard, you are so
terribly certain of my guilt that, deep down in your heart, you are
miserable even with me in your arms.  You are so horribly, certain that
you tried to sacrifice yourself for me, and oh, my dear--can't you see
how glad, how happy this makes me,--can't you?"

"No!" he murmured.  "No."

"Because," she explained, smiling into his troubled eyes, "knowing you
believe me guilty proves to me that you are innocent beyond all doubt,
and in spite of your silly confession and running away."

"Why ... then," said Richard, with a sort of joyous gasp of sudden
realization, "if you ... really thought me guilty ... it proves ... oh,
Rosemary, my darling!  Then I needn't dread the future any more,
nothing can harm you, the Law cannot touch you----"

"But, dear," she questioned, "why were you so dreadfully sure I had ...
killed him?"

"A strip of the scarf I had given you!  It was caught and twisted about
his sleeve buttons.  It must have happened when----"

"Yes, I remember!" said Rosemary, shivering.  "He struggled with me ...
hatefully."  And now Richard was shivering also, the clasp of his arms
was joyous pain.

"The foul beast!" he exclaimed.  "Had I been there I certainly should
have killed him."

"Hush!" she cried, closing his lips with gentle fingers, "Hush, Dick!
Somebody did kill him!  Thank God it was not you!"

"No," growled Richard, "I got there too late!  But who ... who could
have saved you and shot the----"

"Dear love, what matter?"

"Sometimes I have wondered if Valentine----"

"Don't--don't think of it any more.  Oh, Richard, let us forget, and
talk of ourselves and the future!  First, does your dear head still
pain you?"

"Nothing to matter," he answered, kissing her anxious eyes.  "Nothing
can ever really matter now that I have you again."

"Mr. Clipsby, the dear, tells me you saved Valentine's life; this was
brave and noble of you, my Richard."

"No no, he would have done the same for me of course.  Valentine is a
sportsman, thoroughbred, and was my friend once."

"And why not again, Dick?"

"Impossible--quite!  I'm done with the fellow and he with me."

"Richard, won't you try to make him your friend again--for my sake?"

"Anything for you, Rosemary, anything in the world ... and 'pon my soul
there are times when I truly like him.  And yet I'm pretty sure
Valentine has too much of his father's damnable nature to wish for
anyone's friendship, least of all--mine."

"Has he ever threatened your life, Richard,--a duel?"

"My dearest, if you know this, why bid me try to make him my friend?"

"Because there is so very much good in him, and he so needs a friend.
Mr. Clipsby says the good influence of his sweet mother and the evil of
his father are so evenly blent in him that he may be each in turn----"

"Oh, he is!" nodded Richard.  "And generally his father."

"Yet Mr. Clipsby is sure the good must eventually triumph if he be
given the chance....  Anyhow, Richard, you are going to promise, you
shall swear to me by our dear love that you will never--ah never under
any circumstances suffer him to force a duel upon you.  Swear me this,
Richard, swear it on your love for me."

"But ... but, my dear girl," stammered Richard, "suppose he insult me
publicly ... or, by George, even strike me!  How then?"

"Endure it for the sake of our love," she answered meeting his look
steady-eyed; now though her voice was so gentle yet beholding the
resolute set of her pretty chin, Richard frowned and set his own grimly.

"But how if I am scorned for cowardice?" he demanded.  "Everyone would
despise me!"

"Endure this also, for my sake, and I shall know you even braver than
the bravest."

"But, Rosemary!  Oh, good Lord, this is perfectly impossible----"

"Then so am I!" she retorted, and putting aside his restraining arm,
she rose with the high dignity (almost) of his own mother.

"Great heavens, girl!  Rosemary, what do you mean?"

"That if you place everyone's opinion before mine you may
have--everyone, but none of me."

"But oh, my dear ... darling, don't you see that a man must protect his
own honour or be shamed----"

"Yet leave his woman to break her poor heart if he be killed!  No,
Richard, dear, I will never be wife to a man who will lightly peril his
life for such an idle, selfish idea, no--oh never!"

"Now this," cried Richard, leaping to his feet and striding to and fro
a little wildly, "this is a perfectly frightful go!  It's preposterous!
It's ridiculous!  And not to be endured!"

Rosemary simply looked at him.

"It's outrageous!  Yes, by George, it is!"

Rosemary turned her back upon him.

"Such a vow would turn a man into a ... a ... transform a man into a
vile cur to be kicked, a ... a ... oh confound it,--he'd be a
mere--thing!"

Rosemary sighed plaintively and her shapely back was eloquent.

"But I ... if I ever did take such vow ... I should despise myself!"

"Yet be my dear-loved and honoured ...husband!" murmured Rosemary
and--glanced at him over her shoulder, but with such eyes and such
infinite promise of look as may have made and ruined mighty empires ere
now....  And Richard, being merely Richard, young and a man (almost)
leapt to her and seizing her hands, kissed and kissed them, murmuring:

"Why then ... marry me, Rosemary; marry me, for I'll swear and vow as
you will to have you mine for ever."

Then Rosemary's soft arms were about him, her gentle voice in his ear:

"Hold me close, my Richard, close!  Your dear heart to mine.  Now,
standing so, heart to heart before God, swear me you will never peril
your life, that is mine too, in any duel, under any circumstances with
any man.  Swear me this, Richard, here upon my heart and in God's holy
sight."

So Richard swore this oath and kissed her, then, coming back to the
bench beneath the ivied wall, they sat down again.

"Yes," said Rosemary thoughtfully, "Mr. Clipsby seems sure the good in
Lord Abbeymere will triumph in the end because all good, he says, must
conquer evil, or Time and the World turn backward,--back to savagery
and nothingness....  He is a wise, strange, wonderful person, Dick."

"Who,--not Valentine!"

"No, Eustace Clipsby."

"Clipsby?  Now there's a strange fellow, by George!  I don't know what
to make of him, confound me if I do!"

"You mean this sudden wonderful change in him?"

"Yes, dear, it's a perfectly astounding metamorphosis!  I've known old
Clip all my life, of course, as one knows a tree or a piece of
furniture ... always a silent shadow of a man.  As schoolboys Valentine
and I used to mock and make game of him--we were rather devilish
urchins,--jeer at his pale face and meek looks and he used to smile and
fade away without a word."

"Oh, Richard,--the poor, solitary creature!  To mock him!"

"Most boys are small savages."

"And he is lonely still, Richard, and yet so patient and strong ...
such a wonderful musician ... and he was my good, kind friend."

"Ah, but--is he, dear Heart?  What is he?  So confoundedly mysterious!
But enough of him.  Tell me you love me ... kiss me!"  Rosemary did
both.

And, thus lost in the growing wonder of their happiness they were blind
to everything else, and quite deaf to the stir of leaves that had
rustled so stealthily above them more than once.

"Ah, when will you marry me, my Rosemary,--when?  After all we have
suffered my mother can't, won't, shall not keep us waiting, so,--when
dearest, when?"

"Whenever you will, Richard."

"Then soon--soon!" he murmured.  "To-morrow I will take you to her,--to
my mother!  To-morrow I will take you--home!"

"Home!" repeated Rosemary tenderly.  "Home ... to our mother."

"To-morrow!" quoth Richard.  "We will start early and----"

"Demanding pardon--twice!" laughed a mocking voice.  "But no, I think
not."

The leaves rustled louder than ever, and down from the wall leapt the
young Earl of Abbeymere so suddenly that he staggered and all but fell,
then recovering he took off his hat and bowed.

"Apologising twice," said he, smiling, "once for this intrusion and
once again for eavesdropping.  Yet I intrude, as I eavesdropped, very
happily to forbid, to warn and to----"  Then Richard was upon him,
Richard's long arm whirled him back to the wall and his powerful fist
clenched to smite that pale, sneering face that neither flinched nor
lost its mocking smile; but in this moment Rosemary had interposed.

"Richard--don't!" she cried, seizing that threatening fist.  The Earl
laughed grimly.

"You see, Rosemary," said he, "you see why I must kill him, my own
dear----"

"Now, curse you, Iford," cried Richard in passion-choked voice.  "You
address my ... future wife!"

"Let us rather say--our future lovely mourner," the Earl retorted.
"Oh, Rosemary," he cried.  "Oh, dear my sweet, we being about to die,
salute thee!"

"Ha, by heavens," cried Richard contemptuously, "the poor sot's drunk
as usual!  But this shan't excuse him.  Loose me, Rosemary ... will you
shield the fellow?"

"Richard," she pleaded, "you promised me!  Oh, my lord, go--please go!"

"Go?" repeated his lordship, his glowing eyes scanning Rosemary's
troubled loveliness.  "Call me Valentine and I'll ... consider it."

"Valentine, I beseech you----"

"No!" cried Richard, fiercely, "you shall not plead with the impudent
fool.  Abbeymere, get out, or by God I'll drag you off and thrash you,
d'ye hear me?"

"Too often!" sneered the Earl.  "And always snarling empty threats ...
all cursed bark and devil a bite."  Out shot Richard's arm again and
Rosemary, leaping to restrain him, was swept aside so violently that
she would have fallen--but the Earl caught her, folded her to his
breast and kissed her full on the lips; uttering a passionate cry she
broke from him and ... saw him go down headlong beneath Richard's fist,
to lie motionless and half stunned.

"Richard!" she gasped in horrified whisper.  "Oh Richard--what have you
done?"

"Done?" quoth Richard, scowling down on his prostrate enemy, "This is
only the beginning----"

"Right--exactly right!" said the Earl, propping himself on an elbow and
speaking between bloody lips that smiled still.  "This is but the
beginning of what I have expected and intended, the end will be smoke
and--silence!"  So saying, he arose, retrieved his hat, put it on and
drawing out a dainty handkerchief dabbed his bleeding mouth with tender
solicitude.

"Pray, Vibart," he enquired, stooping to pick up his fallen
riding-crop, "when will suit you to stage our second act--this
'consummation so devoutly wished'?"

"Any time and place," growled Richard.  "And now my noble, sottish lord
have the courtesy to take yourself off or----"  But here, Rosemary
stepped forward, her lovely face a little pale, yet calm and very
purposeful; also Richard saw her round chin was set in that manner he
recognised and knew so well of old.

"Richard, my dear," said she, speaking in her ordinary smoothly soft
tone and turning her back upon the Earl, "when I exacted that promise
from you, made you swear me that sacred oath, that I think his
listening lordship may have overheard,--swearing by our love that you
would never suffer any man to force a duel upon you, I thought Lord
Abbeymere a better man than he proves.  But because you are my Richard
your promise still holds, the oath is still binding----"

"Oh, but Rosemary ... my dear ... but you ... you see," stammered
Richard, viewing her with troubled eyes, "I ... I struck him!  And a
... a blow must be answered one way or other and consequently----"

"Consequently, Richard, you are always my honourable man, thank God,
and faithful to your word!"

Richard glanced at Rosemary's sweetly resolute face and bowing his
head, uttered a sound between sigh and groan.

"You heard her, Abbeymere?" said he.  "Very well then--do what you
will, speak as you may, I'll esteem it no more than the senseless act
and futile babbling of a drunken fool.  But ... for the blow I struck
you, come and take a thump at me."  So saying, Richard fronted the
Earl, folded his arms and stood waiting.  Lord Abbeymere stood mute and
very still, his pale cheek flushing painfully, his cynical self-control
so strangely shaken that when at last he spoke it was in an unwonted
agitation:

"So you think ... you'll dare ... not to fight me?"

"No, I am positively certain."

"Not even if ... if I have you proclaimed ... branded ... a coward in
all the clubs?"

"No!" cried Richard fiercely.  "No!  I won't foul myself with your vile
blood, Abbeymere!"

"Then--try this!" gasped the Earl and leapt suddenly with riding-crop
upraised; but the blow was parried, the whip wrenched away and tossed
over the wall; then, pinning him by the collar Richard held his pale,
quivering fury at bay.

"Valentine," said he between gnashing teeth, "yearning to be your death
I promise Rosemary that from this moment you shall be to me as if you
were truly dead, and buried and ... rotting!  Is this enough?  Now come
on, take your blow at me and be off!"  Once again Richard crossed his
arms and gazing steadfastly into the Earl's distorted features, waited
to be struck.

But the Earl stood motionless and, quite unheeding Richard, kept his
haggard gaze on Rosemary.

"Come!" said Richard, impatiently.  "Hit away and be done with it!"
Still the Earl never so much as glanced towards him; and now, almost as
if compelled by this persistent gaze, Rosemary turned and meeting his
intense regard with the blue serenity of her Saxon eyes, shook her head
at him reprovingly as a sad and tender mother might have done.

"My lord," said she, gently, "there is a devil in your eyes, a demon of
hate and destruction, yet once or twice I have thought to see an angel
there, the kindly good spirit that is the heritage of----"

The Earl laughed stridently.

"My dear soul," said he, "if I didn't love you so much, yes--with such
abiding folly, I should find you quite too sweetly detestable."

"I wonder," sighed Rosemary her gaze still holding his, "are you angel
or devil?"

"Who knows?" he laughed.  "However, I had rather flourish a red-hot
brimstone trident than flutter the downy pinions of an angel.  And now
pray go leave us,--unless you wish to see me pound and pummel your
Richard until I tire or he forgets the oath you imposed,--such
ridiculous, unmanly and impossible promise and----"

"Valentine!"

With a half-weary, half-petulant gesture the Earl turned:

"What, you again, Clip!" he exclaimed.  "Always on my heels!  Always
interposing when least expected or desired----"

"Always, Valentine, according to the promise I made your sweet mother."

"Enough of that!" cried the Earl imperiously.  "Here is no time or
place for sentiment.  Give Miss Rosemary your arm and walk her into the
house or wherever----"  He started and swung about, as uttering a high
pitched, joyous squeal, out from the tall green mysteries of the
cockswain's scarlet-runners sped the small elfin shape of little Jane.

"Mary!" she cried.  "Oh, Marydear, I----"  Here, catching sight of
tall, scowling Richard, she stood dumb, turned to fly and thus beheld
the Earl.

"Ooh!" she exclaimed.  "It's you!" and ran to clasp his slim, booted
leg.  "Oh, I'm glad, glad, glad you've comed back to me at last.  And
I've made lots an' lots of magic ... spells you know.  So now you can
take me 'hind the beans if you want to an' kiss me.  Come away with
Jane ... go with her ... magician spells you know ... 'steerious!"

The Earl, looking down at his small, suppliant, whispered an oath to
himself; then off came his hat to her and he bowed with a flourish.

"Spells--of course!" said he a little hoarsely.  "Fair greetings to
thee, dear Fairy Godmother,---greetings and----" his voice broke and he
sank upon one knee to clasp this small sedate lady in cherishing arms.
"Darling little Jane!" he murmured and bowing his head to her small
shoulder, whispered awhile; and the child, listening to these whispered
words, smiled and touched that bowed head with a very small, very
motherly hand, answering in her clear treble:

"An' I love you, too!  Lots, I love you!  Oh, more 'n' all the humbugs
in all the shops, I do!  So I said you into my prayers every night, and
I made you some spells, come an' let me show you how,--'cause you see
there must be grass an' flowers for my very bestest magic-an-spells an'
they're very awful 'steerious.  So will you go with her, please?"

"Yes, show me," said he with a strange eagerness, "show me!"  And,
lifting her to his shoulder, away he went with his little Fairy
Godmother throned triumphant.

"Now, upon my soul," said Richard, shaking his head like one very much
perplexed, "he is a queer, mad fellow and yet that child actually ...
by George, she kissed him!"

"Yes," said Mr. Clipsby, his deepset eyes very bright and shining, "and
a child, by her very innocence, is dowered with a strange, instinctive
sense of good and evil ... and she kissed him!  Listen to her now!" he
exclaimed as from the garden rose another squeal and bubble of childish
laughter.  "Now who dare think the devil is paramount yonder?  A child
is very near God and therefore potent for good....  But I come from my
sister, bidding you sup with us, if you will."

"With all my heart," cried Richard gladly.  "And yet--no!  There is a
friend waits for me, by Gad, I must go!  Please tell Mrs. Humby and the
Captain I am coming to thank them and say _adieux_....  Rosemary," he
continued, as Mr. Clipsby vanished behind the scarlet-runners, "my
dear, I clean forgot to tell you, your father is in town, at the
Tabard."

"My father?" she repeated.  "In London?  But this is wonderful!"

"Dear Heart he came to help me find you."

"And this," sighed she, "is even more wonderful.  Yes Dick ... he never
seems to want me near him.  I think when mother died all his love died
with her.  I have tried to make him care for me, but he never seems to
notice or want me near him.  I have written every week, but he never
answers.  And yet ... he is so lonely but doesn't seem to know it.  I
think his poor heart is broken ... dead."

"Anyhow you shall see him to-morrow, sweetheart.  And to-morrow I am
taking you home ... to my mother.  To-morrow!  Early!"




CHAPTER XXXIII

TELLETH HOW BLACK GEORGE LEFT LONDON TOWN

Evening had fallen when Richard set forth along dim-lit streets that
were still loud with rattle of iron-shod wheels on cobbled ways and the
countless foot-falls of other wayfarers that yet were to Richard no
more than silent wraiths, so lost was he in joyous thought while his
hurrying feet seemed to beat out for him that magic Word:

"To-morrow!"

Thus on he strode at such pace that his wounded head began to throb
again; therefore he abated his speed and chancing upon a hackney-coach
stand he hired a vehicle and had himself driven to his father's town
house in St. James' Square.  Here, bidding the coachman wait, he rang
and knocked until the door was opened by a sedate, white-haired person
who backed away to stare in dignified amaze:

"Can it be ... pardon me ... Mr. Richard?"

"None other, Jenkins.  How are you?  Are there any servants about?"

"There's Mrs. Jenkins and myself and young William, sir."

"Then send him to me in my dressing-room to help me out of these
confounded things and hurry, Jenk, hurry!"  Upstairs forthwith sped
Richard and there with young William's wondering yet deft assistance
soon wrought such alteration in his appearance that the round-eyed
coachman, beholding him suddenly thus changed, very nearly dropped his
whip.

"Where now, my lord?" he enquired hoarsely.

"The 'Tabard'!" answered this elegant young gentleman.  "And drive
fast."

So away they rumbled Citywards, and after some miles of harsh clatter,
jolted into the wide yard of this bustling, ancient hostelry.

At this hour the great tap-room was athrong and loudly clamorous with
the hoarse babblement of voices, its heavy air thick with the blue mist
of tobacco smoke; and here, seated in remote corner, with Tom beside
him and a pint tankard before him, sat Black George, glaring on all and
sundry beneath drawn brows, a surly very black George indeed who,
catching sight of Richard and beholding his transformation, scowled the
blacker and gesturing towards the noisy crowd with scornful motion of
great golden head, spoke growling:

"If this here be Lon'on gi'e me the clean country!  If yon be men,
gimme cattle!"

"Why, George, what's the trouble?  Cheer up, man!" said Richard,
clapping hand upon his mighty shoulder.  George merely glared and
muttered fierce incoherencies into his tankard, whereupon Tom hastened
to explain:

"It be these yere Lon'on chaps, Mus' Richard, been makin' game o' we,
they 'ave,--named us yokels, sir, an' bumpkins, an' I dunno wot all!
And Mus' Jarge wouldn't suffer me try a punch at ary one!  Yon's three
on em over theer!"

"And toughish looking customers too!" nodded Richard, frowning in his
turn.  "But what matter?  Come away upstairs, let's get out of this!
George, old fellow, I've news for you."

"Mus' Richard them three chaps is acomin' again an' if they do----!"
Tom rose, buttoning his coat, eager for conflict.

"That'll do, Tom!  Sit down, none o' that!" said Richard interposing.
"We want no fighting here."

"Ay, but I do!" growled George.  "Ar, with all my heart, I do!  But if
I hit any on 'em to-night I shall go on 'til I kill some on 'em, like
enough."

"So--ho!" cried a loud, bibulous voice, "there y'are m' cloddipolls!"
Glancing hastily round Richard saw the speaker was a tall, pallid young
fellow very flashily dressed who leaned upon the arm of a thin,
hatchet-faced person, while behind these stood a squatly-powerful man
large of jaw, small of eye, broken of nose and very formidable of
aspect.

"C'm on now!" cried the first, imperiously.  "You ... the big un!
Y'look strong enough, show's what y' can do for a pint.  C'm on!  Or
lemme take a wallop at y'r chiv for fi' bob ... or better still fight a

round wi' the Battler here, for a quid--eh, Bat?"

"Vy 'e's a big un, guvnor," grinned Broken Nose.  "But I'm game.  Vot I
say is, the bigger they are the 'eavier they falls."

"C'm on, now!" cried the pallid young fellow louder than ever.  "The
big yokel fights my Battler for a quid ... b'gad I'll make it two."

Now seeing how eagerly the riotous company began to press about them,
Richard fronted the speaker fiercely scornful:

"Sir," said he with threatening feature, "you are most vile drunk.  Be
advised and leave us before some of you are hurt, get out sir or----"

"Set ee down, Diccon," growled a voice, and slowly, almost unwillingly
up rose Black George, spurning the table aside, "out o' my way whiles I
chuck five or six on 'em into the yard."  But even as he spoke, the
Battler lunged in, drove a powerful fist thudding into George's ribs
and danced lightly away, and all with such lightning speed, nice
judgement and dexterity that Richard, wise in fistic-science, glanced
from this grim and eager Battler, this evidently skilled pugilist, to
George's mighty form in quick apprehension.

But lo--Black George's gloom had vanished, upon his comely face was a
wild and terrible joy, his blue eyes sparkled, his close golden beard
seemed to curl outward, above it was a gleam of teeth bared in slow and
dreadful smile as, stepping out from bench and table, he tossed wide
his mighty arms, powerful hands open and spoke in tone unexpectedly
gentle:

"Ay but, lad, if I was to hit ee wi' my fist 'twould likely be your
death, so off with ee now or--come on and do your best, though I'll
never clench fist to ee."

"Yah!" jeered the veteran Battler and leapt to smite again; but in that
moment George (this ponderous-seeming giant), moved too, in lightning
shift,--back went left leg, forward swung mighty right shoulder, down
flashed long arm and the stalwart Battler was whirled lightly aloft,
heels kicking high in air and borne through the awed and silent crowd
that shrank hastily to right and left; thus with his helpless
antagonist struggling and smiting vainly overhead, George came to the
open doorway and tossed the writhing, gasping Battler forth into the
dim-lit yard.

"Come back, my chap," cried George, staring after him, "only come back
and out you'll go again through the casement."  And now, striding to
the fireplace, George took up the heavy poker and with this poised
lightly in his great fist glared round arrogantly upon the goggling,
speechless company.

"Lookee now," quoth he, "I be only a country chap but I be a man o'
Kent and never in all my days met any man as was man enough to put me
on my back, save one--and he was my good friend and thy feyther, Dick.
But seeing as I be so big some o' yon Lon'on chaps plagued of me for to
show a trick o' strength.  Well now,--here's one!  Watch all on ye but
let no man speak a word or out he goes arter yon Battler."  So saying,
George strode up to the pallid young gentleman, the first cause of all
this, who stood gazing up at George's fierce visage, quite speechless
now and cowering a little.

"You," quoth George in tone of ineffable contempt, "though a poor,
peakish sort o' chap, should ought to knowed better than setting men,
better than yourself, a-fighting.  But you was drunk, well, seeing as
you'm eddicated, you should ought to know better than be so fool-drunk.
Hows'ever to show ee what I can do--bide still lest I harm ee,--watch
this!"  Almost as he spoke and with another flashing movement, George
whipped the heavy poker, in both hands, over and behind the trembling
fellow's head and with swift, seemingly effortless motion, bent the
stout iron round about his neck.

"Now off with ee!" quoth George, stepping back.  "Get home and find
some 'un to file it off for ee--go!"

And thus, without word or glance for any man, but with the poker
twisted fast about his throat, the pale young gentleman (paler than
ever) turned and hasted away.

"And now, Diccon, come thy ways," said George waving back the
enthusiastic crowd, "come into the yard, Dick, into the clean air and
tell us your tidings."

"By God, George," exclaimed Richard in awed yet jubilant admiration as
they stepped into the comparative quiet of the great yard, "you are
even stronger than I thought and yet so amazingly quick."

"Ay, I'm strong, too strong, I reckon!  But what's the word?"

"I've found her, George,--our Rosemary!"

"Oh!" murmured George.  "Is she safe?  Is she well?"

"She is, thank God!"

"Why then--I'll be gettin' back home."

"But ... good Lord man!  Don't you want to see her first?"

"Ar.  But--if she wants to see me she can allus find me at my
forge,--that be my proper place.  So theer I'm a-going."

"But not to-night--surely?"

"Oh?  Why not, lad?"

"Well ... I thought ... I hoped," stammered Richard, his youthful
imperiousness quailing a little before George's grim serenity of look
and tone, "you would wish to see her as soon as possible ... we might
travel together to-morrow morning, at least some of the way.  You see I
am taking her home with me in the morning, home to my mother,--early
to-morrow morning, George."

"Hows'ever I be a-going to-night, Diccon.  And I'm a-going--now!"

"Don't you love her, George?"

"I'd like," growled George, "ay, I'd like to see the man as says
contrairy-wise."

"Then damme!" cried Richard hotly, "why can't you show more fatherly
... seem kinder to her?  Why don't you show her your love?"

"Because," answered George, staring up at the stars that shone very
bright, "there be ... well ... reasons betwixt us."

"You will please explain!" said Richard squaring his shoulders
aggressively.

"Well," answered George, viewing his young questioner's belligerent
attitude with approving nod, "my little lass has growed up into a
proper lady--ar she's eddicated up and beyond me, and--that's betwixt
us!  She's gotten fine friends to pamper her and mak' a todo over her,
and--that's betwixt us!  She's big, like me, and don't fear nobody nor
nothing, no more than I do, and--that's betwixt us!  And being growed
like me, big and golden, she aren't nowise like to the mother as bore
her ... my sweet Prue, as was all soft an' gentle an' dark--like the
night, and--that's betwixt us most of all!  So now as you've found her
safe an' well, I'll get me back to my forge, there'll be plenty work
awaiting and--nobody aren't a-going to let or stay me.  And I be
a-going--now!"

"Why, then, Mus' Jarge, I'll goo along with ee if so be you'm willin'?"
cried Tom, eagerly.  "For I've took to ee right amazin', I 'ave."

"Well but," quoth George, tugging thoughtfully at his golden,
silver-streaked beard, "s'pose I get took now an' then wi' tearings and
rages, how then, Tom?"

"I'll resk it j'yful, Targe.  For lookee, now as Mus' Richard do ha'
found his lady I ... well.  I don't like this yer Lon'on no better nor
you....  So, if you'm willin'--eh, Jarge?"

"I be!" nodded George, "Come an' gie me a hand wi' the hoss an' gig,
Tom lad."

So while they together harnessed the plump steed, Richard watched them
very wistfully.

Lightly, for all his massive size, George swung up to the high
driving-seat and Tom clambered after him.

"Aren't you going to wish me Good-bye, Tom?" enquired Richard, his tone
wistful as his look.

"Ay, with all my 'eart, sir!" cried Tom, and down he leapt, both hands
outstretched impulsively, "I were only waitin' till Mus' Jarge spoke
first."

"Well," demanded Richard, rather stiffly, "haven't you a word for me,
George?"

"Ar, I have so, Dick, but----"

"Aren't you glad to know that I shall be your ... son, pretty soon?"

"Ar, I am so," answered George with a slow nod, "only--it don't 'ardly
seem right, somehow ... you a fine gentleman and she--a blacksmith's
lass----"

"The loveliest, bravest, noblest, most adorable in all God's world!"
said Richard fervently.

"Lord!" murmured George, fumbling with the reins, "that's someway like
... I ... loved ... her mother.  So now all as I can say is ... well
... God bless the two o' you."

"And you won't wait to see her ... to-morrow, George?"

"No!  Hold on, Tom!"  And away rattled the gig and vanished in the
gathering darkness.

"Ah well," sighed Richard, glancing up at the palpitant glory above
him, "thank God there is ... To-morrow!"




CHAPTER XXXIV

CHIEFLY CONCERNING MR. MORDAUNT'S EYE, AN EPISTLE EXTRAORDINARY AND HOW
CHARMIAN PREPARED FOR BATTLE

Of young Mr. Mordaunt's two ox-like eyes one showed unmistakable signs
of recent hardship and ill-usage, for it was swollen, it was
discoloured and it mortified him; therefore he wore his hat a-tilt and
kept this shameful and shamed feature as much in the shade as possible
as he rode homewards this bright and sunny morning.  Reaching the Holm
Dene stables he dismounted, rather shakily, and leaving the horse with
Bob, one of the under-grooms, hurried across the wide, superlatively
neat yard towards where Old Adam was sunning himself throned on an
upturned bucket, like the aged but extremely competent presiding genius
of this spicily-fragrant, well-ordered domain.

"Good morning, Mr. Mordaunt sir," said the ancient man, rising to touch
hoary eye-brow and glancing keenly and askance at this young
gentleman's pale, too-sensitive face (and damaged eye of course).  "Ay
'tis a love-elly morning, sir, though Farmer Grove do tell me us needs
rain, but they farmers is never satisfied."

"Old Adam please ... please sit down again," said Mr. Mordaunt in his
quick, nervous manner.  "Now pray look at me eye and tell me ... is it
very noticeable?"

"Well, sir," answered Old Adam surveying the organ from divers angles,
"it are."

"Very annoying!" sighed Mr. Mordaunt, setting his hat more a-tilt than
ever.  "Highly distressing!"

"Lord love ee, sir, 'tis only a black eye!" quoth Experienced Age
consolingly.  "How mout you ha' took it,--if I may ax?"

"From a brutal, foul-tongued fellow at Lewes."

"Aha!" exclaimed Old Adam, frowning in sudden ferocity.  "Then 'twas
for sayin' summat again' The Fambly, I'll lay."

"It was, yes, Adam, but how did you guess?"

"Sir, there be a lot o' scandalious talk goin' on about Our Fambly o'
late.  F'instance at th' old 'Duck i' the Pond,' last evening as ever
was, I powered nigh a pint o' good ale over a chap,--namin' no
names,--as spoke agin The Fambly, which chap young Bob theer knocked
down for me, immediately arterwards,--me bein' a bit old-like for
fisty-work.  Ay, there's a lot o' no-account talk going on, sir."

"There is," sighed Mr. Mordaunt, frowning also, "there is indeed.  I
hope and pray it never comes to her ears!"

"'OO's years, sir?"

"Oh, I ... I was thinking of ... of Lady Vibart ... it would distress
her....  But now ... my eye?  Is it so dreadfully remarkable?  Will it
become very black?"

"Sir, that theer black eye o' yourn, though pretty black, aren't
nothin' in partic'lar as black eyes go, I've 'ad worse in my time.
Bathe it sir, cold water's good, but a bit o' raw steak's better.  Step
up to The House, sir, ax Mrs. Mayhew for a gobbet o' raw beef, slap it
on, keep it on and nobody never won't be none the wiser nor know nowt
about it--to-morrer....  And, Mr. Mordaunt, sir, seein' as you took
said black eye for the good o' The Fambly--lo and behold you, sir, my
'at is off to ee!" and rising from the bucket Old Adam bared his white
locks, saluting the eye with such respect that its owner flushed
self-consciously.

"Thanks," said he, returning the aged man's salutation, "thank you, Old
Adam.  Cold water and beef!  I'll do it!"  So away he hurried,
approaching the house furtively, by indirect paths and roundabout ways,
yet was he fated to meet whom he was most anxious to avoid, for,
dodging round a tall, clipped hedge, he came face to face with my Lady
Vibart, she walking pensive and alone.  Off came his hat instinctively
but, with rare presence of mind, he bowed sidling and askew thus
presenting his undamaged optic to her regard; but few things might
escape those beautiful, quick eyes, for:

"Gracious!" exclaimed my lady, and then: "Goodness me!" and then:
"Heavens!  Mordaunt, you've never been fighting--you?"

"Alas, Madam," he answered, guiltily abashed, "I ... I fear I ... must
confess so...."

"Very reprehensible!" she murmured.  "But--how interesting!  Let us sit
down--here in this shady corner.  Now!  Tell me all about it."  And
Charmian was smiling on him so very kindly that he flushed and grew
abashed for quite another reason, since remembering that which no eye
must ever read, to wit "The Epic Amoroso or the Truth Unutterable," his
conscious gaze abased itself and for a moment speech was beyond him.

"I'm quite sure you fought in a good cause," she prompted gently.

"I ... I venture to think so, my lady," he stammered.  "I had ridden
over to Lewes on business for Sir Peter and while there I ... I had a
... a little unpleasantness."

"You mean someone gave you a black eye, Charles.  Who pray?"

"A Mr. Thomas Vince, madam."

"I know of him, a quite detestable young man.  I sincerely hope Mr.
Vince's eyes or nose are ... not quite unscathed, Charles?"

"They are not, my lady.  I contrived to ... to mark him ... here and
there."

"Then, my dear Charles, your swollen eye is vindicated.  And why did
you come to blows with this person?"

Now here, meeting his lovely questioner's compelling gaze he grew
embarrassed for yet another reason.

"Ah," she murmured, laying white hand on his bowed shoulder.  "I
apprehend ... it was to do with us here at Holm Dene, was it not?"

"Yes, madam."

"Did it concern Sir Peter?"

"No, madam ... not exactly."

"Myself?"

"No no, my lady, ah no indeed."

"Then it concerned Richard of course.  Pray what had this Vince
creature to say of my son?"

"Mr. Vince uttered a disparaging remark touching Richard and ... a Miss
Rosemary Ford, a remark I could not allow to pass unnoticed."

"So you hit him.  Hard, Charles?"

"As hard as possible, madam."

"Then--bless you, dear Charles!" she murmured.  "Your blackening eye is
a badge of honour to be cherished--and kissed.  Lean nearer."  So for a
blissful moment Mr. Mordaunt thrilled to the ecstasy of two soft lips
upon the eye; but--sensing how he trembled, seeing how his
too-sensitive features grew alternate deadly pale and vivid red,
Charmian viewed him wise-eyed and a little askance then, smiling
tenderly, patted his bowed head with caressing hand, saying lightly:

"You are a valiant, true-hearted boy, dear Charles.  Now come indoors
and I will tend your hurt.  Oh indeed I have bathed other black eyes
before now!"

So Mr. Mordaunt was led to the house like a very self-conscious, very
bashful hero and yet--nearer voicing "The Unutterable" than ever in all
his romantic young life, indeed for one breathless moment words of
hopeless adoration and vows of humble service trembled upon his
lips,--but then came watery sponge, gentle hands to bathe and
anoint,--a voice soft and caressing yet so very, very motherly that
this romantical young gentleman felt himself younger than his age,--nay
so disastrously youthful that he knew "The Unutterable" was and must
ever remain so.

"There!" said my lady, her ministrations ended, "I could not do more or
feel prouder of you, Charles, if you were my own dear son, as indeed
you might well be....  Please, as you go, ask Miss Janet to see me in
my boudoir."

"Her Son!"  Mr. Mordaunt groaned within the stricken soul of him,
sighed deeply, bowed and departed.

Then Charmian hastened to her own chamber and, seated before a somewhat
littered writing-table, began to search through the papers and oddments
that littered it until (her dimpled chin showing almost grim) she
pounced upon a certain letter heavily sealed, daintily perfumed and
directed in a fine Italianate handwriting; she flicked open this dainty
epistle with disdainful finger, read it, frowned at it, crumpled it up,
smoothed it carefully out, perused it again and exclaimed between white
teeth the monosyllabic word:

"Cat!"

She was still frowning at this letter when with martial clash of silver
reticule Miss Janet strode in, closing the door behind.

"Well, m'dear?" she demanded.

"No,--very, very ill, my dear!" answered Charmian, giving the letter a
passionate shake.  "Something slimy and evil is afoot, Janet!
Viciousness is abroad!  Odious Scandal has begun to rear its venomous
head and bares its poisonous fangs!"

"Oh?" murmured Miss Janet.

"Yes--oh!" repeated Charmian.  "Oh, Janet, and indeed!  And for
Gracious Goodness' sake don't be so Scottish and unemotional, so
pestilently passionless!  I tell you there's something evil, something
black and hateful abroad!  And do sit down!"

"Evil?" quoth Miss Janet, seating herself obediently.  "Evil, ay.  But
'tis no tae be wondered at in this sinfu' worrald, wae's me!  But
whaur's it the noo, m'dear?"

"Anything or nothing or--everything, Janet.  But something vile,
exactly what I dare hardly conjecture.  But I can feel it, Janet, sense
it in the very air whenever and wherever I go."

"Umph--humph!" exclaimed Miss Janet, pensively.  "Can it possibly have
anything to do with that ghastly Abbeymere affair, my dear ... the ...
death?"

"Probably!" murmured Charmian gazing at her faithful companion with
troubled eyes.  "This ... or Richard's sudden disappearance and poor
Rosemary's flight--bless her!  Yes, viper-tongues may be busy on this
... hateful gossip."

"Mebbe!" nodded Miss Janet.  "'Tis but to be expectit in this unco'
censorious worrald."

"Janet, I'm almost sure of it!  And more,--I do believe these ugly
rumours mostly proceed from that odious feline thing called Bertha
Golightly!"

"It'll no surprise me," sighed Miss Janet.  "I mind Bertha, she was
your junior at school and----"

"A nasty little frilly thing that tattled tales of everyone," cried
Charmian.

"But why are ye sure 'tis Bertha?"

"I'm not sure--yet!  I can only suspect.  But why did the creature
write twice, and with such sugary persistence, pleading with me to take
my Peter to her garden party to-day?"

"Did she so?"

"She wrote first a week ago, my dear, and I promptly wrote back
declining and excusing ourselves.  The other day she wrote
again--here's the letter and more stickily sweet than ever ... and I've
scarcely spoken to the creature for years!  Listen to it!"  And
snatching up the perfumed letter, Charmian read it aloud and with her
own interpolations as follows:


"'My dear, dear Lady Vibart, or may I not for the sake of past
association name you my ever sweet, sweet Charmian----'


"No, ma'm, you may not!  Oh, you fulsome, sugar-and-cream idiot!


"I am scribbling these brief lines with my Algernon's hearty
endorsement to once again implore you to grace my _fte-champtre_--'


"Nothing so vulgar as a garden-party, oh no, ma'm!"


"'All the County will be here and yet incomplete lacking your charming
self and dear handsome Sir Peter.  And then besides----'


"Ah--listen, Janet!  Here Madam Tabby begins to spit and arch her back!


"'And then besides, my dearest Charmian, as your loving friend I crave
your presence for your own so precious sake.  There are little naughty
rumours stealing about concerning your dear son Richard, the charming,
gallant, darling wretch,--and a certain too beautiful, too too
captivating young g----'


"There, Janet!  Our sleek and spiteful Tabby-cat shows her pink tongue
and polished claws--and spits verjuice!  But there's more and worse yet!


"'Then again, Charmian mine, I, as your early companion and loving
friend, feel it my heart's duty to beseech your and Sir Peter's
presence to smooth away certain doubts and still these soft whispered
rumours concerning the poor, dear Earl of Abbeymere's so very strange,
tragical, dreadfully mysterious end.  Of course the merest word from
Sir Peter can explode, blow away and utterly disperse such airy
innuendoes as idle curiosity may have bred.'


"And there, I think, the slimy serpent stands confessed, Janet,
writhing in her frills and flounces, rearing venomous head, darting her
poisoned tongue or----"

Charmian crumpled the dainty script once more and immediately smoothed
it out again.

"Ay," nodded Miss Janet, "or--what m'dear?"

"Or be--trodden upon!" hissed Charmian between snapping white teeth.
"And ... oh, my Janet," sighed she, thrusting out one slim,
daintily-shod foot, "I'm going to tread and trample--heavily, or know
the reason why!"

"Is there ony mair o' yon letter?"

"Merely jam and wind, my dear.  Madam Tabby ends thus:


"'And so, my sweet, sweet Charmian----'


"Janet,--never, oh never dare to call me 'sweet'!"

"Never!" quoth Miss Janet, clashing ferociously.  "Why would I?  What's
after 'sweet Charmian'?"

"This!" answered Charmian, uttering disdainful sound very like a snort:


"'I am offering two petitions to Omnipotent Providence, I pray for fine
weather and my own dear Charmian whose tender image nestles ever in the
heart of

    'her most devoted
    'truly affectionate
    'ever admiring

    'BERTHA GOLIGHTLY.

'P.S.  My Algernon sends humble greeting dying to kiss your hand and is
warmly expectant of dear Sir Peter.  Oh do not fail thy Bertha.'


"And there," said Charmian, tearing this fragrant missive across and
across, "there it is, Janet!  This is why I must gird me for
battle,--be up and doing."

"Oh!  What?" demanded Miss Janet.

"Blunt her claws!  Draw her teeth!  Twist out her serpent's fangs!"

"Oh!  How?"

"As painfully and soon as possible of course," answered Charmian,
rising with her most resolute air.  "So the sooner we start, the
better."

"Start where?"

"For Itchingfield ... the Manor."

"And who's 'we'?"

"Peter and I."

"Eh?  Peter?  At a garden-party?  And--the Golightlys'.  He'll never
go--never!"

"I'm determined he shall, Janet."

"Oh!  Then mebbe he will.  Though 'twill mean unco' argumentation,
criminations and recriminations, for he canna thole yon Golightly man,
ye ken m'dear."

"Anyhow--he's going, Janet!" said my lady, setting her dimpled chin.
"The real difficulty is--what shall I wear?  Something simple-ish yet
dominating!  Yes, something severe to show me as tall as possible.  I
must seem graciously imperious, stately and aloof ... thank Heaven
Bertha is short and plump!  But the question is,--what shall I wear?
Advise me, Janet."

"Why so I will, m'dearie, though ye twa maids and one o' them
French----"

"Nonsense, Janet!  You have more true taste and shrewd judgement than a
host of maids French or English.  There, now I've paid you the
compliment you fished for, come upstairs and help me choose."

So away they went together forthwith to my lady's dressing-room; and
here, counselled by Miss Janet and her own judgement, and assisted by
Rose and Franine, her maids, Charmian armed her for whatsoever was to
be.

Thus it befell (after some little while) that Sir Peter, busied with
his bailiff John Berry over certain abstruse calculations, was roused
therefrom by the opening door and glanced up, frowning a little, to
behold such radiant vision that he blinked, and forgetting to frown,
caught his breath, while Mr. Berry rose to bow profoundly with stamp
and jingle of spurred boots.

"Why, Charmian ... my dear...?" murmured Sir Peter, rising also,
"Whatever----?"

"Oh, John Berry," smiled my lady, curtseying grandly to this
square-faced, round-eyed gentleman, "pray tell me, am I well?"

"Madam," he answered fervently, "you are more and far beyond a mere
'well'!"

"Dear Mr. Berry," said she, with giggle of girlish laughter, "you are
becoming the absolute courtier.  Pray, sir, will you permit Sir Peter's
submissive wife to steal him away from you?"

"My lady," answered John Berry, bowing more profoundly than before,
"who may resist your ladyship?  Surely not I."

"Nor I!" laughed Sir Peter.  "_Experientia docet_.  Time hath made me
something wise.  We will finish our business to-morrow, Berry."

"Very good, sir.  Madam, your servant.  Good afternoon."  And with
cheery salutation to husband and wife, John Berry clumped and jingled
away.

"And now, dear soul, why all this stately magnificence?" enquired Sir
Peter, leaning back in his chair the better to behold her.  "For upon
my life I never saw you more lovely and----"

"Lovely?" she repeated with despairing, pettish gesture.

"And exquisitely bewitching!" he added.

"Then--drat it!" cried Charmian.

"My ... dear!" he exclaimed, opening amazed eyes at her.

"Yes, drat and malediction, Peter!  For here I stand girt for
battle--to blast Gossip, clad in panoply of war--to shrivel Slander and
inspire awe and my poor, blind wretch babbles--'bewitching'----"

"Charmian, now what on earth----"

"Poisonous gossip, Peter!  Odious tittle-tattle!  A double-tongued
female basilisk!  A fluffy Gorgon in flounces----"

"God bless me!" gasped Sir Peter, ruffling his thick hair rather
wildly.  "Who ... what----?"

"Bertha Golightly and other felines, Peter!  And it is thus I shall
front and outface the creatures,--watch now!"  Gliding across the wide
chamber my lady turned to stand in the radiance of the open
window,--handsome crest back-thrown, eyes bright beneath lashes
drooping in languorous disdain, dark brows slightly wrinkled, arms
graciously poised, slim hands folded upon her jewelled fan, then with
whisper of voluminous draperies, she swept slowly down upon him and
smiling with an aloof and chilling austerity, sank in slow and very
stately curtsey.

"There!" said she, rising nimbly and bestowing a dexterous, re-settling
shake and kick to her dainty petticoats.  "Am I sufficiently blasting?
Venture to so much as whisper 'lovely' and I'll throw my fan at you.
Come, how was I?"

"Devastating!" quoth Sir Peter.

"You are serious?" she demanded.

"As any owl or judge, my dear.  So might have trod the destroying
Sisera or vengeful Clytemnestra!"

"Then, Sir Peter, I'll risk a crumple,--you may kiss me."  So he
laughed very happily and kissed her with such eager, youthful ardour
that she laughed, too, and protested he made her blush all over,
whereupon (of course) he would have kissed her again, but she eluded
him; and then Old Adam came knocking to enquire:

"Will ee have the open or closed carriage, m' lady?"

"Oh, the closed, Adam.  And the dapple-grays."

"But, my Dear Heart," enquired Sir Peter as the old man hobbled away,
"where are you off to in such lofty estate?"

"To the Golightly affair, of course," she answered, frowning at herself
in the looking-glass.

"Great Lord!" exploded Sir Peter, "you never intend to visit those
people?"

"No, Peterdear, I didn't say visit, we are merely looking in at their
garden-party, you and I."

"I?" he exclaimed in a tone of indignant amazement.  "Never in this
world!  You know what I think of the fellow!  Golightly was Abbeymere's
creature, and we of course never agreed as magistrates--or anything
else, for that matter.  And of late I find him rather more irritating
and bumptious than ever!  No, Charmian, no!  Certainly not!  I am sorry
to disappoint you but visit this man I ... will ... not.  Absolutely
no, Charmian!"

"I think I will have you in your newest coat," she murmured, musing
over him as it were, "the blue with silver buttons, Peter.  I love you
in dark clothes."

"But, Charmian, I am telling you I'll not call on the man!  It is
quite, quite impossible!  Golightly has contrived to be even more
obnoxious of late----"

"Why of course he has, my Peter.  But haven't you noticed a growing
change in other of our neighbours lately ... since Lord Abbeymere's
death?"

"Eh?  A change?"

"Yes.  A strangeness ... an indefinable something ... an aloofness.
Haven't you remarked this, Peter?"

"Well ... no my dear, no."

"Ah no, you wouldn't, because of your cattle and cottages and things.
You are too tremendously engaged about things that scarcely matter to
know anything about things that do ... and it is high time you learned.
And you shall be taught this afternoon!  But, my dear, boots and
buckskins, of course, will never do!  I suggest your strapped
pantaloons and pumps, or----"

"Charmian, I ... am ... not--going!  I detest the fellow heartily."

"This is exactly why you must go--and shall, dear love!  And--not the
pantaloons!  I prefer you in kerseymeres--they are tight-fitting and
you have such exceedingly nice legs, Peter.  Come, let us hurry, the
carriage will be at the door, and you must change into a frilled
shirt--most essential!"

"But ... great Heavens above!  Don't I tell you----"

"Frequently, Peterdear.  But we must not let the grays stand, they are
so fidgety.  So come along, dear man, I'll tie your cravat for you
myself ... for go with your poor, meek, supplicating humble person you
must and shall!  Come ... sweetheart!"

Sir Peter frowned, sighed, laughed, kissed her and--went (of course).




CHAPTER XXXV

GIVETH SOME DESCRIPTION OF AN AFFRAY FEMININE

Mrs. Algernon Golightly sighed ecstatic; for here, upon her trim and
spacious lawn, seated at many little rococo tables busily engaged in
the consumption of her tea and other dainty comestibles was THE COUNTY
(or rather, some part thereof).  As:

Stout old gentlemen bald of head and bulbous of waistcoat; slim young
gentlemen in whiskers that aspired ferociously or drooped in silky
languor; youthful ladies were here whose rosy lips smiled provokingly
and whose bright eyes shot arch glances at whiskers fierce and meek
while their elders, dames middleaged and dowagers haughty and deaf,
supped their tea, murmuring together with much play of eyes cast up or
down, what time the dowagers plied ear-trumpets, stared haughtily on
all and sundry or barked sudden queries at bald head or bulbous
waistcoat.

Thus Mrs. Golightly, throned at dainty tea-equipage beneath shady tree
with the three chosen friends of her bosom, was at her gayest and
showed more sprightly, more girlishly vivacious than usual as with play
of sparkling eyes she glanced from one to other of her chosen three; to
wit: At the Honourable Miss Amelia Poynte, slightly sere and yellow,
with aristocratic nose so very high bred that when under any stress it
twitched and quivered as if tweaked by invisible fingers; at Lady
Priscilla Lylton, tall and commanding in a kind of osseous fashion; at
Mrs. Julia Burchard, the little widow, plump, prattling yet romantic.

"Well, my dears," she cooed, dimpling upon all three.  "All are here!
All!  Everyone that counts in the county----"

"Except--the one!" sighed Mrs. Burchard.

"Oh but," gasped Miss Amelia, "one might be sure she would not venture!
To run the gauntlet of so many eyes!"

"She refused your invitation, Bertha?" questioned Lady Priscilla.

"She did, darling!  Of course!  But I wrote again ... the sweetest
letter ... irresistible I hope and think."

"Then, dear Bertha, you opine she may adventure?"

"My dearest soul, she is a creature may do--anything!  Such audacity!"
Mrs. Golightly's blue orbs turned themselves heavenwards.  "At school,
my dears, she was so wild!  So ungoverned!  An imperious minx utterly
spoiled by too much money.  She was expelled at last for violently
assaulting Miss Finch the Principal ... tore her cap off, my dears ...
pulled her hair and all on account of a young pupil-teacher--such an
ugly, awkward thing and Scotch....  And expelled, my dears!  With
ignominy!"

"Oh, one can well believe it!" gasped Miss Amelia, the invisible
fingers busy with her thin-nostrilled nose again, "The airs she gives
herself in The County!  One wonders how she dare when one remembers
what one is hearing--everywhere!"

"Ah!" sighed little Mrs. Burchard, romantically.  "You mean of course
her son's elopement with ... that governess-creature!  Poor Richard,
such a handsome, naughty fellow!  They do say the creature he's fled
off with is ... a beauty."

"Oh but ... such audacious boldness!" moaned Miss Amelia.  "One blushes
even to think----"

"Quite shocking!" exclaimed Lady Priscilla, pausing, teacup at lip, to
shudder violently through all her bony structure.  "To fly together
that same dreadful night, in the fatal, very hour!  Flaunting their
shame in our very faces!"

"One would like," sighed Miss Amelia, delicate nose atwitch, "one is
curious to hear what his doating mama would find to say in excuse for
his blatant, his very ... well, bare-faced conduct.  And it is but
right she should explain ... if she can,--she owes it to The County!"

"And Sir Peter, too!" quoth Lady Priscilla.  "So remote!  So lofty!
This might shake even his superlative arrogance."

"Ah, my darling Pris, do but wait!" cried Mrs. Golightly, laughing with
roguish vivacity.  "Pride before a fall, you know!  My Algernon has
lately discovered ... oh, my own dears!  My Algernon means to question
him and--demand an answer!  And such a question!  Indeed one that----"
But at this moment appeared an ornate young footman who, bowing
stiffly, announced to his mistress in hoarse whisper:

"They'm arrove, madam.  Sir Peter and Lady Vibart."

Mrs. Golightly set down the half-emptied cup with a clatter, she
glanced at the faces, suddenly tense, of The Three, caught her breath,
patted her ringlets and arose: "Actually!" she murmured.  "Oh, my
precious dears, of all the imaginable--!  Lead on, Thomas!"  Then,
clasping her hands, she raised her eyes towards heaven, gasped and
fluttered away....  And after some while (obedient to whispered
mandate) the young footman stepping forward announced in voice
stentorian:

"Sir Peter ... and ... Lady Vibart!"

The clatter of cups and saucers was magically stilled, the chatter of
voices hushed and for a moment was strange and almost painful silence
while all eyes stared in the one direction.  Then, gliding serenely
forward, Charmian, Lady Vibart, favoured The County and her hostess
with a slow and graceful curtsey, while Sir Peter, bowing, glanced
about him, puzzled and a little indignant.

But now, tossing back her ringlets with girlish abandon, Mrs. Golightly
tripped to them cooing rapturous welcome:

"Oh, Sir Peter ... what pleasure!  Dearest Lady Vibart,--nay,--my own
precious Charmian how positively sweet of you to honour poor us!  All
the world is here ... our world ... the dear County!  You know everyone
of course!  My naughty Algernon should be here to greet you but--oh
there he is, in solemn conclave with the dear Bishop and General Saxby!
Ah, he sees you--he comes!"

Teacups were clattering again and the sunny air humming with politely
murmurous talk and modulated laughter as Squire Golightly advanced upon
these late visitors.

A pink, a plump yet classical gentleman was the Squire with a Roman
nose of terrific, of portentous possibilities quite unsupported by a
small, pouting, rosy mouth and fade-away chin; but his gestures were
Roman as his nose and he bore himself like the Greek Ajax ready and
eager to defy the lightning, had there been any.

"Sir Peter," quoth he, posturing classic welcome, "my Lady Vibart, this
is--shall I say a glad surprise?  Shall I remark--an unexpected
pleasure?  Be supremely welcome to--The Manor!  A neighbourly gathering
here, Sir Peter, an assemblage of friends and neighbours.  My Lady
Vibart, I leave you to the tender care of my dear wife.  Sir Peter,
will you walk?"

"Yes, yes!" cried Mrs. Golightly, clapping her hands with youthful
exuberance of joy.  "Go, Sir Peter, begone you men creatures, I'll care
for your darling Charmian, she shall be my Charmian for a little, happy
hour."

"Eh, Vibart," quoth the Squire, "our ladies to their tea, we of the
sterner sex to ... eh ... to something stronger.  This way."

Murmurs and curious glances a many; smiles and hearty greetings a few,
that Sir Peter returned a little stiffly but that his lady answered
with a gracious, very sweet urbanity.

Scraps of murmurous conversation:

"Their son ... young Richard...."

"Elopement, you know ... ran off ... a servant maid...."

"No no, a governess, my dear...."

"But ... on the fatal night...."

This and more Charmian's quick ears caught as she moved, slow and
stately, beside her vivacious, chattering hostess; and thus presently
beholding The Three waiting in the leafy shade, couched and entrenched,
as it were, behind their tea-cups agog and quivering for action,
Charmian's ruddy lips parted in slow, languorous smile (that yet showed
pearly teeth), up went her stately head, her curling lashes drooped
upon eyes that glittered, and she bore down upon The Three like a
line-o'-battle ship, as stately, as graceful and very nearly as deadly.
Three ladylike cries of ecstatic welcome, six hands outstretched in
eager greeting, lips apout to peck the chill kiss of feminine
salutation upon unwilling cheek; then:

"Dear Charmian," quoth Lady Priscilla, bony elbows aquiver, "how
surprisingly well you show."

"Truly wonderful!  Perfectly amazing, my love!" prattled little Mrs.
Burchard; while the invisible finger and thumb seemed to tweak Miss
Amelia's thinly sharp nose more spitefully than ever as she gasped in
nervous, high-bred manner:

"One is, well ... naturally surprised, dear ... under the
circumstances, love ... indeed, all things considered, one wonders how
you do it?"

"A kind heaven," sighed Charmian, sinking upon the rustic seat beside
her hostess and arranging her silks coquettishly, "has blessed me with
an easy conscience, my dears, a contented mind and a most excellent
digestion.  Yes, whatever my outside may be, my inside is very well."

"Oh ... my dear!" gasped Mrs. Golightly, eyes wide in youthful
innocence, "Oh ... you mean----?"

"Stomach, my angel!" answered Charmian, full-throated.  "My stomach!"

Lady Priscilla recoiled; Miss Amelia emitted a small, ladylike screech;
Mrs. Burchard shivered and Mrs. Golightly hid her face.

"Charmian ... oh, my sweet!" she whispered, peeping through her
fingers.  "Was that not a trifle ... just teenily-weenily inclined to
be ... coarse?"

"However," said Charmian, cup at lip, "we all possess stomachs and many
of us find them such infliction that they become an affliction to
others.  But why should my rude health be cause for such surprise?"

"Well," answered Miss Amelia, with a pounce, "under the circumstances
one wonders----"

"Dearest Amelia, what circumstances?"

"Amelia alludes," said Lady Priscilla, pouncing in her turn, "to your
poor Richard of course, my dear, his sad entanglement, his reckless
elopement with this artful young person----"

"So romantical," sighed Mrs. Burchard, "but alas so indiscreet!  To
flee with one so much beneath him socially!"

"Let us hope, my Charmian," wailed Mrs. Golightly, "let us pray for
your own sweet sake that the poor, dear boy will not be so blind, so
cruel, so madly infatuate, so heartlessly reckless as to ... oh ... to
marry the creature!"

Charmian set down her cup, glanced from one eager, watchful face to the
other and laughed joyously:

"Now, my dear things," cried she, "whatever, oh what phantasy, what
fairy-tale is this?"

"Neither!" snapped Lady Priscilla, bony finger upraised accusingly.
"Your Richard has gone, run off, fled with a pretty governess or----"

"Eloped!" sighed Mrs. Burchard.

"And ... oh my precious Charmian," cried Mrs. Golightly, "not only has
he run off with this too beautiful, too too seductive governess
creature, but ... they ... eloped ... fled ... on the very night,
perhaps even the fatal hour of the poor, dear Earl of Abbeymere's
strange and dreadful death!  We know it!  Everyone tells of it!  The
news is everywhere!"

Chairman's long lashes flickered and drooped, then her bright eyes
surveyed The Three with look unwavering and serene as usual.

"Pray," she enquired gently, "does Gossip tell the name of this
Governess?"

"Certainly!" retorted Lady Priscilla, craggy chin outthrust.  "She is
named Ford, Rosemary Ford!"  Charmian smiled, she tittered, she
laughed, and so unfeignedly that her hearers eyed her, and themselves,
askance.

"My poor, precious pets," said she, at last, "now see how wildly, how
foolishly Gossip has led you astray!  This dear child, Rosemary Ford,
is my own loved god-daughter----"

"Ah no--no!" cried Lady Priscilla indignantly, "this young person is,

or was, governess to Lavinia Bedingham's children----"

"She was, Priscilla, but she is--my dear god-child, Rosemary Ford, of
the Sussex Fords, an extremely ancient family settled in the County
long before the Conqueror stole it,--and she is engaged to marry my son
Richard in a few months' time, I'm happy to say."

"Marry?" echoed Lady Priscilla.

"Your son!" gasped Miss Amelia.

"Richard!" nodded Charmian.

A moment of amazed silence, then Mrs. Golightly spoke in her most
dulcet tones:

"Oh, but, my own dear, what ... what of these strange tales that she
has vanished, that Richard has vanished?"

"Quite true, my dear Bertha.  Rosemary is in town to choose her
trousseaux and bridesmaids' gowns.  I shall join her shortly."

"But then, my precious, what of Richard?" said Mrs. Golightly somewhat
between her teeth.  "What should take him to ... Abbeymere and on that
fatal night?  Oh, he was seen, yes, my love,--and Sir Peter also!"

Charmian's heart missed a beat, the hand upon her fan slowly clenched
itself as if in sharp agony; then she laughed, sweetly musical as ever.

"Bertha!" she murmured with an arch smile.  "My dear!  Is it so strange
for young impetuous lover to steal away 'neath the moon to sigh and
gaze upon his beloved's window?  Or for stern sire, alas, grown beyond
such sweet folly, to speed after and drag the unhappy swain back to
home and bed?  Oh, my dear, think of your own long-vanished youth and
sigh!"

Mrs. Golightly, perhaps because of this hyphened adjective, glared and
sighed rather hissingly....

Meanwhile Sir Peter hearkened to the Church-cum-Army-cum-Landed
Interest laying down the law for those (the more benighted) of the
community, that vast, indefinable body that so often needed (it would
seem) being "kept down" and "in its proper place"--wherever this may
be,--until they had strolled and talked themselves into the house, to a
chamber where other gentlemen were seated about bottles and glasses
that twinkled very seductively....

... Sir Peter, glass in hand, was bowing his acknowledgements to the
little fiery-eyed General when Squire Golightly got upon his legs, his
nose more portentously Roman, his attitude more Ajaxian than usual as,
raising plump and dimpled hand, he addressed the company:

"My lords and gentlemen----"

"Eh--what now?" bellowed the General, "what the devil's this,--a
speech?"

"A few brief,--shall I say very brief, words my dear General."

"Brief, eh?  Good!  No oratory, Golightly!  I don't trust oratory.
Plain speech is my rule, so--no confounded oratory!"

"I beg a few words, gentlemen, on a matter which in some measure
touches us all as neighbours and persons of condition in the County, a
matter of the utmost, I may say, of the very gravest moment----"

"Sounds demd clemmy and churchyardy!" quoth the Honourable Bob
Westover, ramming in his monocle.

"Gentlemen and neighbours, I will admit I have convened you here with
an ulterior and, I venture to think, a laudable motive----"

"Then out with it!" barked the General.  "Get to it!  Fire away, man!"

"Sirs, it behoves us one and all, nay becomes our bounden duty to
enquire more particularly into the very sudden ... shall I say death?
Shall I say ... mysterious taking-off of our esteemed neighbour the
late Earl of Abbeymere----"

"But--good God, Golightly," cried the General, "that sorry business is
all over, ended---done with!  Why dig it up again?"

"My ... dear ... General," retorted the Squire, looking round about as
if in hopeful expectation of jagged lightning-flash or shattering
thunder-bolt, "we, as persons of account, should all of us instantly
seize metaphorical spades and dig amain for the good of this our County
and humanity at large, for I----"

"Meta--what's--a--name spades?" snorted the General, "Ha--the devil!
This is oratory!"

"Eh?" quoth the Honourable Bob, blinking.  "Dig?  Oh dem!"

"Gen-tlemen!" quoth the Squire, plump hand aloft in classic pose.
"Know that I have lately discovered ... a new witness!  A witness who
is ready to swear on oath that upon that fatal night of the Earl's
demise he saw two persons stealing into Abbeymere Great House!  A
witness who observed these two persons very plainly and beyond all
possibility of mistake!"  Here once again the Squire, as Ajax, glanced
round about him, cleared his throat and continued more impressibly than
ever:

"Now if there be any here amongst us who have, or who desire to offer
any explanation, I crave silence for them ... speak, I beg!"

"Eh ...eh what! oh demme what?" barked the little General, rolling his
eyes terrifically.  "Any here?  Any of--us?  Ha--what, Golightly, what
the devil d' ye mean?"

"Does no one offer to explain?" questioned the Squire in sombre tone,
his eyes staring hard at the ceiling.  "What ... nobody?  Then alas I,
being slave to duty, needs must and--will.  Gentlemen I have then, as I
say, a witness ready and willing to take oath, at proper time and
place, that, upon that dreadful night, in the very hour of the noble
lord's ghastly death, he saw two persons, one following some while
after the other, mount the terrace of Abbeymere.  Gentlemen, he was
able to recognize these persons and will swear they were no other than
Mr. Richard Vibart and his father--Sir Peter!"

Ensued a moment of stunned silence, a strange and rather dreadful
silence; then:

"Good God!" exclaimed the General.  "Preposterous!  What ... eh ...
what d'ye say to this confounded rigmarole, Vibart?"

Sir Peter, being utterly dumbfounded, became rather more stately than
usual, glancing with keen deliberation from one amazed face to the
other of this silent and very uncomfortable assembly.

"Yes but," demurred the Honourable Bob, fumbling for his tumbled
monocle, "first of all--who's your witness G'lightly--who?"

"A ... very worthy person, sir."

"Yes but--who, Squire,--I ask ... who?"

"A person named ... Timothy Perkins."

"B'Jove, I remember him, he was Abbeymere's head gamekeeper and
discharged for drunkenness and so on----"

"Eh?  Good God!" exploded the General.  "A ... ha, demme, a gamekeeper!
A drunken rascal!  Shame, Golightly, shame sir."

"Gentlemen, all this is beside the point," cried the Squire with a
sudden almost ferocious triumph.  "The real question is--what says Sir
Peter Vibart himself--what?"

Very deliberately Sir Peter set down his wine glass and arose; then,
turning his back upon the Squire, viewed the expectant company, face
after face, with the same level, dispassionate regard and with shapely
lips upcurving to slow smile, spoke with that air of gentle yet
positive assurance that was his at most times:

"It would seem that, when not drunk, the man Timothy Perkins is a
somewhat observant person.  Gentlemen, I bid you--Good afternoon."

"But ... oh but,--" quavered the Squire, forgetting to be classic...
"you surely will not leave us without some word of----"

Sir Peter bowed and went.

Thus Charmian presently espied his tall figure moving towards her amid
the throng, pausing now and then for word with some friend or
acquaintance and yet, despite the smiling, leisured ease of him,
something in the set of his shoulders and jut of chin caused her a
quick pang of anxiety; therefore it was with her gayest air that she
smiled at and beckoned to him with her fan.

"Oh, Peterdear," she sighed plaintively as he made his obeisance to
them, "have you come to say we must go?  So soon!  How quickly such
hours fly, for--ah, dear Bertha, you have been so entertaining--indeed
all of you!  Adieu, my dear things and do pray contrive something as
amusing against our next meeting."

Curtseys, smiles (more or less toothy) kisses ... and away sailed my
lady upon her husband's arm; but from between vivid, smiling lips stole
a whisper for his ear alone:

"The odious cats!  I do wish a large dog would bite them!"  And thus
beside her very silent husband my lady floated serenely away.  But----




CHAPTER XXXVI

TELLS HOW ROSEMARY CAME HOME

Scarcely had the carriage door shut them in than, sinking back on the
cushions, Charmian sighed wearily and fanned herself violently.

"Oh, Peter," she murmured.  "Oh, my dear, another ten minutes and I
should either have swooned or scratched some of them! ... Well, are you
quite instructed now, have you seen and heard enough?"

"So much," he answered, frowning at the passing landscape, "that I am
in deep perplexity."

"Then now you know that you were seen ... you and Richard ... at
Abbeymere that dreadful night?"

"Yes, my dear, Golightly had the effrontery to announce the fact."

"Yesss!" hissed Charmian fiercely.  "Madam Tabby did the same for me
and with rapture!  Well?  What did you say, Peter?"

"Dear Heart!" he answered shaking his head with a strange despondency,
"what could I say?"

"Very much or very little, Peterdear."

"Well, I said very little indeed!"

"Oh!  What?  Peter tell me your exact words."

"My dear, what matter?  It was some ineptitude or other."

"Of course, my poor dear, but precisely what ineptitude did it happen
to be?"

"As far as I remember," he answered, beginning to rub at his
smooth-shaven chin, "it was to the effect that whoever chanced to
recognize us was a very observant person."

"Mmm--no!" she sighed, shaking her head at him in grave reprobation.
"This was not very clever of you, Peter, considering you are--my Peter
and--the Vibart, it was--idiotic!"

"Yes," nodded Sir Peter with unwonted humility, "but it was the best I
could manage, dear."

"And who was this 'very observant person'?"

"Who?" he repeated contemptuously, "who but Perkins, Abbeymere's head
game-keeper, a drunken, good-for-nothing fellow."

"The man you sent to prison, Peter?"

"Yes.  He beat his dog to death."

"Oh, Peter, but this is dreadful!"

"It was,--for the dog!"

"And for you, for you!  This man hates you!  Oh, my dear, this is quite
terribly frightful.  That he, of all others, should have seen you that
night.  Peter, it's awful!"

"Yes.  I suppose it is ... unfortunate," he murmured.

"Suppose?  You know it is, Peter--it's a perfectly fearful
complication, it's----"

"Now, my dear, don't begin to worry."

"Begin?  I began days ... weeks ago!  Oh, Peter, whatever are you going
to do about it?"

"Nothing, Dear Heart."

"Absurd!  Preposterously ridiculous!  Do you actually mean to say----"

"Not a thing, my dear!  I shall simply permit the sordid matter to ...
blow over ... pass away."

"Never!" she cried.  "Do you imagine for a single moment that the
Golightlys will suffer it to pass or be forgotten?  No--certainly not!
And, just as certainly you must act ... do something in justice to
yourself and to relieve my anxiety.  If the finger of Suspicion point
at you long enough--next will be the blind, groping clutch of the Law."

"Now, my dear soul," said he, smiling reproof as he slipped comforting
arm about her, "why work yourself up about the silly business?
Innocence such as mine fears nothing and is high above----"

"Above a fiddlestick!" she cried.  "Ah, but you won't look so superbly
dignified and Vibartish with ... oh with fetters and gyves and things
on your poor arms and legs and things ... and sitting in the condemned
hold!  Oh, Peter ... my dear, can't you see that your Vibartism cannot
save you from odious calumny and hateful suspicions?  And innocent men
have been hanged before now and ... you ... even though you are Peter
Vibart ... you ... the blind Law might condemn ... drag you away to
death."

"Charmian!  My dearest----"

"Peter, Peter--it is only a little breeze now, but it may grow to a
tempest to destroy you ... and me!  So, my Peter--act!  Strive!  Defend
yourself before the storm roars down to sweep us both away!"

"My own dear," he murmured, holding her within the strong comfort of
his arms, "don't distress yourself so wildly for so little.  Your hot
imagination runs riot, Sweetheart, and you are crossing bridges before
they are well in sight!  This afternoon has warned me and I shall be
prepared.  But I will not stoop to defend myself by any public word or
act, it might argue fear, and only the guilty are fearful."

"Then what shall you do?"

"Nothing,--except it become manifestly needful."

"Then," said Charmian, drawing away the better to scowl and set her
chin at him, "I shall!"

"Eh, my dear?" he enquired, eyeing her a little uneasily, "pray what do
you propose?"

"Merely to save you all over again."

"Again?" he repeated, dark brows upraised.

"Again--yes!" she nodded.  "As I am doing so constantly!  As I did in
Paris!"  Now at this he sat dumb, viewing her askance and rubbing his
chin very hard indeed.

"Charmian," said he at last, frowning at the passing landscape again,
"a man who is thus dependent on ... on his women folk is a pitiful
wretch, a mere nothing!"

"Yes, my own dear," she answered gently, "he is indeed, but--only when
he becomes aware how absolutely dependent he is upon---his one woman
folk, and she such a lowly, very humble person!"

Sir Peter's scowl deepened; then he laughed; then, turning suddenly he
caught her to his breast, and, when he spoke it was in a voice very
solemn and reverent:

"Indeed yes, my Charmian!  Only God knows how utterly, how miserably
dependent I am on--this one woman who is and always has been my joy, my
solace and ... most inveterate tyrant!"

"And yet," she murmured, "ever your docile, meek, dutiful
humbly-adoring person!"

"As meek and humble as Lucifer, Star of the Morning!" said Sir Peter,
blinking suspiciously and laughing rather unsteadily.

"Oh, Peterdear!  And Lucifer was cast down from Heaven for prideful
arrogance!  Oh, Peter!"

"And yet he was the Morning Star, Charmian!  And ... after the
troublous fever of a sleepless night, what sweeter vision than the Star
of Morning bright against the dawn?  And now, my most prideful
Humility, pray how, supposing he should need it, how shall you save
again your so helpless spouse?"

"This shall be my affair, Peter!"

"And mine too, I venture to think."

"However ... and therefore, Peter, I prefer to keep my own counsel."

"But, Charmian----"

"So, let us talk of other things, Peterdear: Tell me about your cows
and sheep and things, or something very thrilling about cats----"

"My dear," quoth Sir Peter, becoming a little ponderous, "I asked you a
question touching myself very nearly."

"Which, my dear, I refuse to answer!"

Sir Peter's black brows knit in a quick frown, he sighed peevishly,
folded his arms resignedly, and leaning back in his corner of the
smooth-running carriage, closed his eyes.

"Upon my soul," he exclaimed, "you become so perfectly exasperating
that I ... oh well, suppose we sit and merely think a while?"

"Then of course we shall be dumb as two oysters, Peter."

"Better so than losing our tempers!"

"Your temper, Peter dearest."

"Shall we endeavour to be dumb a while?" he pleaded sighfully.

"With pleasure!" she answered cheerfully; and leaning back in her
corner was intensely silent for very nearly half a minute; then:

"Peter," she demanded suddenly, "has it ever occurred to you that,

after all, the hateful man may actually have shot himself?"

Sir Peter, eyes closed, merely shook his head.

"Well then, has it ever occurred to you to really suspect anyone?"

Sir Peter, eyes still closed, answered drowsily:

"Yes, dear."

"Oh my gracious heavens above!" exclaimed Charmian sitting upright very
suddenly and leaning to seize and shake his arm.  "Who?  My goodness,
and you have never so much as given me the least hint!  Who,
Peter--who?"

Murmured Sir Peter, eyes pertinaciously shut:

"My dear, the personal pronoun, being in the Objective Case, should be
'whom'!"

"Oh drat your pedantical grammar!  Who is it you suspect as
the--murderer?"

"My dear soul," he sighed, "it being only the merest suspicion
destitute of all shadow of proof, I cannot possibly say.  Instead, if
you will have me converse, let me tell you about my Alderneys and----"

"Oh--go to sleep!" she exclaimed pettishly.

"Thank you," he murmured.  "I find the motion very soothing ...
excellent springs ... also we are traversing part of my new road."

After this, Charmian sat thoughtful and dumb for perhaps two minutes;
then:

"Of course, Peter, the common-sense plan is to find the real murderer
as soon as possible."

"Of course!" mumbled Sir Peter.

"Then why not begin?"

"I have been engaged upon this problem for some little time," he
murmured, "and still am----"

"Goodness me!" she exclaimed, amazed and reproachful, "You, Peter?
Where?  When?  How?"

"Here and there!" he answered sleepily.  "Frequently!  By using my
divers senses as sight, hearing----"

"And you have actually discovered something!  Oh what?  Peter, open
your eyes and look at me,--now, tell me this moment!"  Obediently Sir
Peter looked at her, stifled a yawn politely and shook his head:

"Impossible!" said he.  "Instead let me tell you,--yesterday I
purchased the Duke of Medwyn's prize bull and a truly magnificent
creature he----"

"Oh--shush!" cried Charmian; then perceiving the twitch of her
husband's shapely mouth she seized her fan, looked at him as if she had
a mind to belabour him with it, flicked it open instead and sinking
back, fanned herself very furiously indeed; noting all of which, Sir
Peter closed his eyes again, his lips widening to a slow yet gleeful
smile,--whereat his lady became once again passionately eloquent as
he'd expected:

"Oh, Peter Vibart," she exclaimed between shut teeth, "you are such a
hatefully complacent, dogmatically dogged, odiously secretive wretch
that I wonder any poor, deluded woman could be fool enough to ever
marry you!  Not a word, sir!  Be silent and think about that!  Or if
you can sleep--sleep and have a hideous nightmare!"

Sir Peter laughed and reached out his arms for her, but she held him
off and shutting her fan, used it as a weapon of offence.

"I will ... not ... be kissed," she cried furiously.  "Don't touch me
with those ... nasty great ... arms."

Gone now was my lady's serene stateliness, vanished was Sir Peter's
dignity,--his hat was off, his hair dishevelled, his usually rather
saturnine features transformed with an almost impish glee; and as they
battled thus, the carriage turned in at their own lodge-gates, rolled
smoothly beneath the shady avenue towards the old house that winked its
many lattices in the level beams of sunset, like friendly eyes in
jovial welcome.

... And then, before the carriage might pull up, the door was plucked
open and in upon them toppled a something that seemed all shoulders,
arms and eager hands that drew and held them both.

"Mother dear!  Father!" cried a joyous voice.  "Here I am and ... here
we are again!  I couldn't wait."  Charmian uttered a little scream of
beatitude.

"Richard!" she cried and, dropping her fan, clasped an arm about each
of her men folk, kissing them alternately.  And thus, with their son
between them, they reached the wide doorway of the old house, where
stood Miss Janet and beside her, one who trembled and curtseyed and
blushed--and showed therefore only the lovelier.

"Yes, there she is, Father!  ... I've brought her home to you, Mother
... waiting to kiss you both!  Oh, by George, but it's glorious to be
home and with you again!  Mother, your hand--so!  Father, come and kiss
our Rosemary!"

My lady's bonnet was askew, but her eyes were bright with welcome; Sir
Peter's hair was on end, but his smile was more eloquent than words.
And Rosemary, kissing and kissed, forgot her shyness and yet trembled
at Charmian's touch and Sir Peter's firm-clasping hands, for she knew
she had indeed reached "home" at last.




CHAPTER XXXVII

TELLETH HOW TWO VIBARTS RODE FORTH TOGETHER, AND WHY

It was morning and very early, with a sun whose level beams waked a
myriad sparkles in dewy grass and leafage yet none brighter than in the
eyes of two heads stealthily out-thrust from the wide lattice of my
lady Vibart's bed-chamber ... four beautiful eyes, shaded by the dainty
lace of be-ribboned nightcaps, peeped furtively down where in spurred
boots and buckskins Sir Peter paced slowly to and fro, pausing now and
then to glance expectantly stable-wards while he pulled on his worn
riding-gloves.

Said my lady, faint whispering:

"Will he?"

Answered Rosemary as softly:

"He promised me!"

"Ah, Rosemary, but he is so ridiculously shy of his father!  So
foolishly constrained and diffident!  To be sure, my Peter, being so
Vibartly, is rather a ponderous parent, a somewhat stupendous sire but
... hush!"  A light, quick tread of spurred feet below and out into
this fragrant morning Richard came hurrying, at sound of whom Sir Peter
turned to survey him in very evident surprise.  Richard bowed and
wished his father "good morning!"  Sir Peter returned the salutation.

"But why abroad so very, so surprisingly early?" he enquired.

"Sir, I was afraid I should be late!"

"For what?"

"To ride with you, Father, if ... if I may?"

"But, my dear boy," said Sir Peter, shaking his head a little grimly,
"mine will be no frolic, no idle morning gallop into the wind, I ride
on business as usual."

"This is why I... I should like to ride with you, sir."

"God ... bless ... my soul!" murmured Sir Peter, finger and thumb at
his newly-shaven chin, "Richard, I protest you surprise me!"

"Not unpleasantly I hope, sir?"

"On the contrary!  But ... well, hitherto you have manifested no
faintest interest in the management of this estate that must one day be
your own."

"I know it, Father!  I have been a careless, idle sort of fellow
hitherto ... constantly meriting your censure, but----"  Sir Peter
laughed oddly, though the hand he laid on his son's shoulder was so
wonderfully eloquent that Richard's cheek glowed and, striving for
speech he was dumb.

"Such humility, Dick!  God bless you!  Amazing!"

"Sir," said Richard, laying his own upon that very fatherly hand, "I
... I want to be more your ... companion henceforward if ... if you
will so honour me.  I want to ride with you ... be taken into your
counsels ... help you as much as I may.  Sir, I want you for friend as
well as father...."

"Dick ... my dear boy, this is ... what I have hoped ... lived for."
Sir Peter was suddenly dumb, but slipping hand within his son's arm,
they began to pace slowly up and down before the old house, both silent
yet very close together; while, above their heads and quite unseen, two
night-capped faces kissed each other.

"Why then, Richard ... old fellow," said Sir Peter at last, keeping his
face averted but speaking in tone Richard had never heard from his lips
before, "to-day we shall be very busy....  We go to see our labourers
on the new road that has taken so long, and certain other buildings.
We must look over a drove of new cattle.  We must talk soils, crops and
prices with certain farmers and hear their grievances--which are
never-ending!  We must pore over figures and estimates with Berry, and
hob-nob with certain of our Downland shepherds anent sheep and the hope
of lambs.  This and much beside if time serves.  Small matters in
themselves, perhaps, trivialities, eh, Dick?"

"And yet together, sir, of vital importance, you'll tell me?"

"Vital indeed, Dick.  So long as landlords take personal interest in
their tenantry so long will the yeoman be the splendid fellow he is and
has been.  Yes, you shall ride with me.  You shall advise me whether or
no to cut our road around Fallowdene Marsh or bridge the stream there
and run it direct....  Ha, there is six o'clock striking.  Robert will
be here with my horse, you had better order your own."

"Sir, I did so--last night."

"Hum!" quoth Sir Peter, viewing him glad-eyed.  "Such fore-thought,
Richard!  This then is no mere fanciful whim, old fellow?"

"No, sir, indeed.  To-day Father, I begin to make your interests mine
also....  And here comes Bob with the horses!"

And up they came, sleek heads tossing, polished hoofs adance,
themselves snorting and shivering like the high-bred creatures they
knew themselves.

Presently being mounted, father looked at son and son at sire with, as
it were, a new vision; then away they rode together through this
fragrant morning, knee to knee, in a new and wondrous amity--and quite
unconscious of the four loving eyes that watched them from my lady's
window.

For a long moment after horses and riders had vanished, Charmian gazed
very wistfully on the distance then, turning to the quick-breathing
loveliness beside her:

"Dear Child," sighed she, "so this was your doing!  Ah, sweet witch,
you have achieved more in the little while you have been here than I
... in all the years!  I am his mother, but you.----  There, there my
sweet, don't think I repine,--no,--no!  I am only too happy and
thankful to find you can make love so potent.  Rule him, my dear, rule
him before marriage but especially after!  Men are all children, and
the stronger and more manly they are the more they need a woman to
guide, pamper them and comfort, but--ah, most of all to guide,--slyly,
my dear, stealthily but--firmly!  So kiss me, my Rosemary,--now run
away and dress!"




CHAPTER XXXVIII

IN WHICH MR. SHRIG SETS FORTH AND SUMMARISES THE CASE

They were seated in the morning-room, my lady busied with that
embroidery the which (like Penelope's web) never seemed any nearer
completion,--Rosemary was inditing a long letter to her father, when
the door opened and in upon this peaceful scene clashed Miss Janet, her
air even more militant than usual.

"And yon's the thirrud!" quoth she, clanking to and fro like a heavy
dragoon.  "Three in twa days!  Peeping and prying I'm tellin' ye,
Charmian!"

"Prying on us, Janet?  Again!  Are you sure?"

"My certie, I am that!  Three o' them in twa days!  Watching the
hoose!"  Rosemary's busy quill was suddenly arrested and she glanced
from the speaker to her godmother in sudden apprehension.

"And what," enquired Charmian serenely, "what was he like, this third
man, Janet dear?"

"A country yokel looking creature, no' vera big and chewed a straw."

"Did you accost him?"

"I did that!  'Look now, ma man,' I said, 'ye're trespassing and if
ye're no' oot the noo and awa' I'll ca' the gardeners and grooms tae
wheep ye,' said I."

"Well, did he make any answer?"

"Ay, chewed his straw at me, touchit his hat an' said he didna twig
and--would I speak English.  So I telled him vera plainly if he didn't
remove and instantly, I'd have him beaten by sticks and bitten by dogs."

"What then, Janet?"

"He pulled off his hat, m'dear, and oot of his hat took this folded
paper the whilk I read,--ay, and 'tis either an unco gallimanfry o'
nonsense or--aweel see what ye make o't."  So Charmian took this paper
and read aloud therefrom these words, very carefully written but
without punctuation of any sort.


Dear Mam or Lady or Sir axing the favour of a word at yr convenience or
sooner on acc of Sir P V being lately suspicionated of The Capital Act
in re Ld A lately deceast yrs to command J Shrig The sooner the better
agents of a certain party being precious active


"Goodness--me!" exclaimed Charmian, staring at this document in
troubled perplexity.  "What an odd letter ... and a little
disquieting!"  And she read forth again:

"'Sir P V being lately suspicionated.'

"Heavens, Janet!  And this:

"'Agents of a certain party being very active.'

"Who is J. Shrig--to know so much of this odious business?  Janet,
exactly what was he like--the man who gave you this?  I must find
him--at once!"

"Dear Godmother," said Rosemary breathlessly, "there is a man out there
now, a strange man staring up at the house...."

Glancing hastily through the open window Charmian beheld the man in
question, a squat, stoutish person in blue spencer and top-boots whose
hands were crossed upon an extremely nobbly stick while he surveyed the
house in very leisurely fashion with a pair of very bright eyes set in
a smooth, round face.

"Janet, is that the man?"

"No, m'dear, he'll juist be anither o' them,--four in twa days!  I'll
oot an'----" she stopped as, with sound of hasty footsteps, Mr.
Mordaunt appeared and now, a little breathless but very determined,
confronted the intruder.

"Who are you?  What do you want?" he demanded.

The stranger, turning with placid deliberation, raised nobbly stick to
the wide brim of his shaggy hat and beaming pleasantly on his indignant
young questioner, answered in husky though resonant voice:

"Shrig's me monnicker, sir,--to see Sir Peter Wibart or Lady."

"Sir Peter is out and----"

"Then lady, sir, or p'raps his son, Mr. Richard----"

"Charles," called my lady, leaning out from the window, "ask Mr. Shrig
to approach."

Mr. Shrig advanced forthwith and taking off his hat, made Charmian an
odd little bow that somehow matched his quaint, old world attire.

"Are you the J. Shrig who wrote this letter?" she enquired, viewing him
with her level, all-seeing regard.

"That werry i-dentical, ma'm!" he answered, meeting her scrutiny with
gaze steadfast as her own.  "Jarsper Shrig, Lady, vunce o' Bow Street
now o' 'The Gun,' Gray's Inn Lane, and though retired and pensionated
still vith a leery ogle, or as you might say peeper, ma'm, for
Windictiveness verever found, be it 'igh or low, town or country, any
time, anywheres, ma'm."

Charmian surveyed the speaker with wise feminine eyes that took in
every feature of this face so beaming and rosy (despite grim-lipped
mouth) and eyes twinkling with such wistful goodfellowship that her
frown vanished and her ruddy lips curved to answering smile.

"Then be welcome," she said, "for I think you are the very man I need."

"Ma'm I am!" he answered.  "This is axackly why you be'old me."

"Then come in, Mr. Shrig, and tell me what kind wind wafted you here.
Charles, please show him the way."

So into this dainty chamber clumped Mr. Shrig in his old-fashioned
top-boots and at my lady's behest, took a seat, placed beneath it his
hat and stick and looking round upon the three ladies, beamed more
rosily than ever.

"Rosemary, if your letter is finished, dear, Mr. Mordaunt will see it
franked and posted.  And while you are in the village, Charles, please
ask Mr. Mason for another skein of crewel silk, like this!  And should
you chance to see Sir Peter or Richard tell them I want them home at
once....  And now," said my lady as the door closed upon Mr. Mordaunt's
slim elegance, "now, Mr. Shrig, please explain this letter of yours,
and how you are here at Holm Dene so very opportunely?"

"Ma'm," he answered, his bright glance roving, "a few days ago a young
Bow Street pal o' mine come into these here parts on business and--I
come too.  I put up at the 'White Hart' in Lewes.  I sat me in the tap.
I listened and axed questions.  I used me legs, likewise me eyes an'
y-ears and the consequence is--I wrote that theer reader."

"This letter," nodded Charmian, "but before you tell me what it means,
I want to assure you that if you can help me in ... a certain matter,
you will find me not only very grateful but willing to pay you well.
So now let us talk on a business understanding."

"Well, ma'm, business is business and money comes in werry useful.
But, lady, I'm axing you to believe as 'tweren't neither vun nor
t'other as drawed me here, but jest a nat'ral love for The Game and
being werry 'ard set agin all manner o' Windictiveness.  I'm old, ma'm,
and not so spry as I vas, and p'raps not vorth nobody's money by me
looks.  But then--I'm a old dog o' the Law, me lady, vith nose as keen
on the scent as ever it vas and--werry much at your sarvice, if so be
acceptable."

"Thank you, Mr. Shrig.  Then first of all,--I have been annoyed lately
and very much mystified by strange men haunting the place,--they have
been noticed lurking in the park, and yesterday one of them even
ventured into the garden yonder.  Two men, I am told, who creep, and
vanish,--peeping and prying.  And why?  Whom are they watching?  What
do they want?  Let your first duty be to find this out for me as soon
as possible, Mr. Shrig."

"Ma'm," he answered, his roving glance on the gilded cornice, "I knowed
all o' this, days ago.  These here men--there's two as you've mebbe
seen and two as you ain't, vich makes four on 'em,--eight peepers,
ma'm--these men is spying constant on Sir Peter Wibart and your young
gen'leman son, Richard, and all on 'em set thereto by Windictiveness in
the shape of a--naming no names,--plumpish, 'igh-'anded gent."

"The odious wretch!"

"Ma'm?"

"This will be Squire Golightly, of course!"

"Me lady," quoth Mr. Shrig with gentle, deprecatory wag of head, "I
wentur' to suggest, seeing as how,--the vord Windictiveness, naming no
names, eh, ma'm?"

"As you will, Mr. Shrig."

"Now then, ma'm, the case o' Windictiveness agin' said Sir P. V. is
pretty strong and--agrowing stronger!"

"Oh?  How, pray?"

"Me lady, so fur as me eyes and y-ears has served me the case stands
thus."  Here Mr. Shrig drew forth a somewhat battered and very bulbous
note-book and opening it at a certain page, continued:

"P'int Number Vun: Sir P.V. and Lord A., though neighbours, has never
been friends.  Agreed, ma'm?"

"Yes, Mr. Shrig--heartily!  Lord Abbeymere was--but pray continue."

"P'int Number Two: Sir P.V. is rich and spends a mort o' money on his
estates,--Lord A. ain't and lets his estates go to rack an' ruin an'
tenants ditter.  Agreed, ma'm?"

"Quite true, Mr. Shrig."

"P'int Number Three: For years Sir P.V. and Lord A. have disagreed
about a right o' vay.  They've also disagreed in politics, religion, on
the magistrates' bench and off, in short, they ain't never agreed in
nothing votsoever.  Yes or no, ma'm?"

"Indeed ... yes, although----"

"P'int Number Four: Sir P.V. and the Earl of A. has been heered to come
to words pretty frequent--partic'larly re. a noo road as Sir P. vas a
cutting of.  Agreed, ma'm?"

"Ye-e-s.  I think there was some little friction, but no real quarrel,
Mr. Shrig."

"P'int Number Four: It is also in evidence that Mr. Richard Wibart
threatened said Lord A. vith personal wiolence, and has been heered to
declare as said Lord A. deserved and ought to be--shot!  Agreed, ma'm?"

"No!  No--certainly not!  Richard did not!  I never heard he had made
such dreadful threat....  And if ever he did, it was in the righteous
heat of the moment and meant nothing!  Richard is quite, quite
incapable of such wickedness as you will agree when you meet him."

"Werry likely, ma'm, but then I ain't Justice, and Justice, being so
outrageous blind, might not.  And a threat agin life, spoke hot or
cold, ain't easy forgot, and don't never do the threatener no manner o'
good!  P'int Number Five: On the fatal night as the Fact was committed,
Mr. R. Wee is seen approaching Abbeymere, but--not like a ordinary
wisitor--by the front door, but furtive and sly--from the rear."

"Richard is never furtive or sly!"

"Agreed, ma'm!  But Justice, not knowing said young gent, might take
t'other view--and vould!  P'int Number Six: On same fatal night and
soon after Mr. R. is seen, Sir P.V. comes afollering him and--not by
the front door neether but, like Mr. R., in werry suspicious manner,
furtive and sly, creeping cautious arter his son."

"Mr. Shrig, never in this world!  Sir Peter couldn't possibly
creep--under any circumstances."

"P'raps not, me lady.  Having took a good peep at said gen'leman in
Lewes market, I think not, but--I ain't Justice, nor yet the judge and
jury as may have the trying of him!"

Now at this, Rosemary uttered an inarticulate cry of horror, Miss Janet
started so violently that she clashed, while Charmian sat, rigid and
mute, gazing large-eyed into Mr. Shrig's face that now seemed very
stern and grim indeed.

"You don't ... you can't think," she faltered, "it can ever come to ...
a trial--Sir Peter!  Charged with ... murder!  My dear son!  No!  No!
It is impossible!"

"My lady," said Mr. Shrig, his voice a little huskier, "it is so werry
possible that I'm here to do what I can to prewent.  For lookee, ma'm!
Your husband and son vas at Abbeymere that night--vich is bad enough!
But they vas seen--vich is a sight vorse.  Can they deny the fact--on
oath?  No!  Vell then, can they explain the fact?"

"Yes--oh yes!  Richard will tell you he went there ... because he could
not sleep ... he was wildly anxious about Rosemary ... Miss Ford here,
so he rode over----"

"Eh--Miss Ford?" exclaimed Mr. Shrig, his keen gaze now upon Rosemary's
pale, anxious loveliness.  "So you vas at Abbeymere that night, too?"

"Yes, sir," she answered, meeting his fiercely keen gaze with
unfaltering regard.  "I was staying there as governess to Lady
Bedingham's children, the Earl of Abbeymere's sister."

"Ford ... Rose--mary..." murmured Mr. Shrig, carefully inscribing the
names in his "little book."

"Ah!" quoth he, and sat a moment, lips pursed in soundless whistle, and
staring at nothing in particular; then turning suddenly upon my lady,
"So then, ma'm, Mr. R., being anxious about Miss Ford,--vich I'll ax
reason for same, later on,--Mr. R. rides to Abbeymere and how then?"

"He ... he wished just to be near her, Mr. Shrig....  But his father
happening to see him gallop off so wildly at such hour, rode after him
to ... to bring him back....  So you see, Mr. Shrig, it is all quite
reasonable when explained.  You see this, don't you?  Oh ... don't
you?"  Once again Mr. Shrig pursed his shaven lips as if about to
whistle, but instead of so doing, shook his head slowly from side to
side.

"All I ax, me lady, is--can they prove it?  Have they ever a vitness as
can svear for 'em?"

"No," answered Charmian, shrinking before the expression of her
questioner's face.

"Then, ma'm," said he, gently but remorselessly, "do you, can any o'
you think as any strangers,--any judge or jury could believe sich a
tale?  No, I see as you don't!  And--no more do I!"

"Oh, but ... the Inquest?" gasped Charmian, wringing tremulous hands.
"The Inquest proved it was suicide...."

"That Inquest, ma'm, meant nothing and proved less!  A crowner as asks
no more than 'e did,--according to the reports,--a jury o' country lads
as vas content to ax nothin' at all!  But vun fact did come out in
ewidence, a fact as first set me a thinking--ma'm, the deceased Lord A.
was shot into the left temple and yet was knowed to be, ever and
allus,--right-'anded!"

"Then, what ... what do you suggest?"

"Me lady, 'tis pretty sure and certain as deceased vas shot by some
other party."

For a long moment Charmian gazed speechlessly at this stoutish person
whose round and placid face seemed but a mask for the astute and
penetrating sagacity of the real man, and rising impulsively she came
and reached out her hand to him, saying:

"Mr. Shrig, you have shown and warned me of quite unimagined perils and
for this I thank you,--now show me how to escape them and my gratitude
will be beyond expression."

Mr. Shrig rose, took that soft hand, shook it, dropped it and nodded:

"Lady Wibart," said he, "I took up this here case first of all agin
Windictiveness, now I'm agoing to do all as I can for your sake, ma'm.
But I must be told all the facts as is known if I'm to anyways help
your folk,--for proof's the vord, ma'm,--Proof!  Prove 'em innocent
or--some other party guilty."

"Yes, but ... oh, Mr. Shrig,--how?"

"Ma'm, since you ax so p'inted, I'll answer you full and free, m'lady,
I dunno--yet!"  Here, sitting down again rather suddenly, he turned and
beamed on Rosemary.

"Young ma'm," quoth he, "the question is--how much can you tell us?
Since you vas at Abbeymere that 'ere night you may p'raps have seen or
heered summat,--the fatal shot f'rinstance, eh--come now?"

"I will tell you all I can," she answered, facing him resolutely now,
"but I heard no shot."

"Then p'raps you might chanced to ha' seen the body, or, as you might
say, ca-daver, eh, Miss Ford?"

Rosemary shivered and glanced, mutely questioning, at Charmian.

"Yes, dear child," sighed my lady, seating herself beside Rosemary on
the settee, "tell Mr. Shrig all you saw, all you heard,--every hateful
detail."

So, clearly and briefly as possible, Rosemary described the incidents
of that too eventful night while her listeners sat dumb, all three,
until the story was told.

"So!" exclaimed Mr. Shrig, shaking his round, bald head, "So--here's
the reason Mr. Richard worrited!  And no vonder!  And then, Miss Ford,
arter you'd peeped at him an' Sir P. stooping over body o'
deceased,--vot next?"

"I ran down the passage and out through the Abbey ruins....  I ran
blindly until I found myself beside the Mere."

"Vy there?"

"I was all distraught and hardly knew what I did...."

"And then, miss?"

"Something frightened me ... I heard the sedge rustling and I ...
fancied someone was hiding there ... eyes watching me----"

"Eyes, miss?  Oo's?"

"I couldn't see, but I felt sure someone was crouching there.  I was
terrified and ran back to the house.  Just as I reached the terrace I
saw Sir Peter and Richard going away, and I wanted to run after them, I
felt so lonely and terrified ... but instead I went on to the North
wing, and, hardly knowing what I did, I threw a handful of gravel up at
Mr. Clipsby's window."

"Mr. Hustace Clipsby?  Oh!  Ar!" nodded Mr. Shrig, beaming quite
jovially.  "And vy Mr. C's vinder?"

"He had always seemed so good, so kind and gentle ... and I was quite
distracted with grief and horror."

"Werry nat'ral, too!" nodded Mr. Shrig.  "And did Mr. C. open said
vinder?"

"Yes ... in a little while."

"And ... dressed complete, vas he?"

"I didn't notice."

"But not in his night-cap?  Not--eh, Miss Rosemary?"

"No."

"And looking sleepy--eh?  Just woke up, like?"

"I don't remember...."

"Did 'e seem werry sa-prised to see you?"

"I can't tell I ... I only remember imploring him to come down to
me....  I told him something dreadful had happened and that I must get
away ... at once."

"Did that sa-prise him?"

"Yes ... I think so."

"Ha!" quoth Mr. Shrig, rubbing his knees and staring very hard at the
rich carpet beneath his dusty boots.  "And vy must you be for running
off in sich desprit hurry, Miss Rosemary, ma'm--I ax you?"

"Because----"  Rosemary paused and glanced appealingly at her godmother
who instantly kissed her, saying:

"Tell him, my own dear, tell him everything."

"Then, Mr. Shrig, it was because I was mad enough to think Richard had
... killed the Earl for my sake and so I meant to run away and divert
suspicion to myself--for his sake."

"Noble-ish, Miss Ford, ma'm, but werry oncommonly wrong, miss, wrong.
Hows'ever!  Did Mr. C. keep you long a-vaiting?"

"No, not long."

"Meaning as he vas werry quick?"

"Yes."

"And all dressed proper,--cravat and neckercher?"

"I didn't notice."

"Did 'e go and take a peep at the ca-daver?"

"No--oh, no!"

"Oh!  Then vot did he do?"

"Helped me to collect and pack the few things I needed ... gave me all
the money he had ... carried my bundle for me across the park ...
comforted and helped me like the dear, kind friend he is."

"Oh?  Friend o' yours, eh, Miss Rosemary?"

"Yes, yes, indeed!"

"And vot then?"

"I hid in a little wood till day came, then caught the early coach for
London.  Mr. Clipsby had given me a letter to his sister there who
keeps a ladies' school....  And that is all I have to tell you, Mr.
Shrig."

"Ho!" quoth he, beaming up at the cornice again.  "And them eyes by the
Mere ... cat's, dog's or man's do you think?"

"I ... can't be sure."

"Might ha' been either, eh?"

"Yes."

"Didn't notice no shape about it?"

"No, only the eyes."

"A pity!  Nothing more to tell me, Miss Rosemary?"

"No, I've told you all--everything."

"And you, m' lady?"

"There is one thing," answered Charmian thoughtfully, "something that
has surprised me.  Sir Peter lately informed me that he suspected
someone."

"Oh?" murmured Mr. Shrig.  "Ar?  Didn't say oo, ma'm, did 'e?"

"Mr. Shrig, he positively refuses to so much as breathe a hint until he
can prove----Oh, thank goodness, here they are!" she exclaimed joyfully
as borne on the sunny air came a clatter of hoofs, jingle of bits,
cheery voices, a clink of spurs and in through the wide lattice vaulted
Richard.

"Mother!" he cried.  "Rosemary!  Janet ... bravo and hurrah!  Father
says we may be married--in a month!  Subject to your agreement, Mother.
So, Dearest--be agreeable and ... why who's here ... is it--yes, Mr.
Shrig, isn't it?  How are you, Jasper Shrig, man, and whatever brings
you so far from London Town?"

"You, sir!" answered Mr. Shrig, rising to clasp the hand Richard
extended.  "Yourself, sir, your father and Windictiveness!"  Then the
door opened and upon the threshold stood Sir Peter.




CHAPTER XXXIX

CONCERNING SIR PETER, HIS CONSCIENCE

"So," quoth Mr. Shrig, shaking his head gloomily, "you refuse, eh, Sir
Peter?  You refuses to name the party as you suspects, eh, sir?"

"Absolutely!" answered Sir Peter, with his air of serene finality.
"Definitely!"

"Vy then," said Mr. Shrig, as serenely persistent, "you might p'raps
breathe, or shall us say, visper the shade or shadder of a nint, sir."

Sir Peter's lips quivered to the ghost of a smile as, taking up a quill
from the writing-table before him, he leaned back in his chair and
shook his head.

"No, Mr. Shrig," said he, sternly, "to denounce or throw suspicion on
anyone without positive and actual proof is infamous,--the act of a
mere scoundrel----"

"Meaning, sir, this here Squire Go-lightly."  Sir Peter actually
started.

"Eh?  Now what do you know of this ... gentleman, pray?" he demanded.

"More than 'e thinks, sir, and not so much as I could vish.  So you
can't even drop me a nint ... careless like?"

"No."

"Oh!" murmured Mr. Shrig, rubbing the knees of his cords and shaking
his head reproachfully at the blunt toes of his top-boots.  "Not even
if I varns you--werry partic'lar, as things can be made to show
oncommon black and precious orkard agin you, Sir Peter?"

"No, Shrig!  Not even if the authorities should even proceed so far as
to apprehend me.  Being innocent I have nothing to fear and----"

"Axing your parding, but stop a bit!  Sir, jest think o' the many pore
innocent folk, men ay and vomen too, as have kicked their innocent
lives out on the gallers tree afore now.  Lookee, Sir Peter, you and
Mr. Richard are nobs, reg'lar 'eavy toddlers and gen'lemen both, and
may be innercent as sucking doves and lambs noo-born--but, the Law is
the Law, and if the Law can anyways prove ye guilty--it'll be noose an'
jibbet for both on ye!  And sir, wot'll your pore lady do then--I ax
you?"

Sir Peter's look was still serene, but he fidgeted with the pen in his
fingers till, becoming aware of this, he laid it down, rose from his
chair and crossing to the window, stood there, gazing out at the sunny
landscape; and now Mr. Shrig, seeing him thus shaken, questioned him
again:

"It wouldn't be this here young sprig, sir, eh--this noo young Lord
Abbeymere as you suspicions?"

"No," answered Sir Peter, gently but without turning.  "Oh no!"

"And you still refuse to name the party as you do suspect, sir?"

"I do, Shrig!  For the last time, please understand that under no
circumstances will I voice my suspicions without proof positive."

Here, once again, Mr. Shrig pursed his lips, but this time emitted a
low and dolorous whistling, while Sir Peter, chaffing at such unwonted
and dismal sound, continued to gaze out of the window until at last Mr.
Shrig broke off in the middle of a doleful note and spoke, almost as
mournfully:

"Sir Peter Wibart," quoth he, in sighful reproach, "the Gospels says,
sir, someveres, as even the Lord needs them as he'd help to likewise
help him by helping theirselves, and sir,--I'm only a werry ordinary
huming being as vould help you--if 'e might."  Now at this, Sir Peter
turned and beholding Mr. Shrig's rueful visage, his own dark, stern
features were brightened and suddenly transfigured by his youthful
smile:

"God bless you, Shrig man," said he impulsively.  "I believe you would,
indeed I begin to think you will.  But how more can I help you to help

me and mine?  You have heard my son's story and my own explanation of
our presence at Abbeymere that night--such as it is!  I have even told
you how these young people, thinking to shield each other, would have
taken the guilt upon themselves.  What more can I do?"

"Sir," answered Mr. Shrig, his bright gaze roving up from Sir Peter's
gleaming boots to his flowered waistcoat, snowy cravat and the resolute
chin and shapely mouth above, "if you won't tell me the party as you
suspects, you can tell me the reasons for your suspicioning said party."

"Hum!" quoth Sir Peter and, glancing towards the window again, began to
rub his chin.

"You can gimme," said Mr. Shrig, his gaze now upon Sir Peter's profile,
the rather arrogant jut of nose and jaw, "your reasons for suspectin'
and cause for same, sir."

"Well... yes," nodded Sir Peter, as if to his own very active
conscience, "I think I can do this ... certainly....  Then, Mr. Shrig,
if your eyes are as sharp as they appear to be, you will find my
reasons at and in Abbeymere itself, the house."

"Werry good, sir!" said Mr. Shrig, diving for hat and stick.  "The
sooner, the better."

"Do you mean you'll go at once?"

"This werry moment, sir."

"Such zeal is highly commendable, Shrig.  I will give you a note to the
man in charge which shall afford you admittance to the house and also
the ruins of the ancient Abbey by the Mere," said Sir Peter, busy with
rapid pen.  "Be particular in your inspection of the ruins, Shrig.
There are various means of entrance into them, but I suggest you go by
the small arras-hung door that leads from the room where the Earl was
... found dead.  Give this note to John Rudge at the gatehouse, you
will find him worth while questioning, I fancy."

"Sir Peter," answered Mr. Shrig, stowing the note very carefully within
his hat, "everything is vorth questioning in this here vorld,--them as
is blessed or cursed with tongues and things as, not having ever a
tongue, can't therefore lie."

"Why then," answered Sir Peter with another of his rare smiles, "when
you have done at Abbeymere, come back and remain with us a while at
Holm Dene, if you will."

"Thankee, sir, that's werry handsome and I feels dooly honoured.  So
back again I'll toddle--to-morrer, if conwenient to you then, sir.  And
now by your leave I'll be off."

"Then go to the stables and ask old Adam, my head groom for a
conveyance."

"Thankee again, sir, but my gig's avaiting in your stable yard.  Good
arternoon, Sir Peter!"

"Good-bye for the present, Shrig.  I shall be curious to learn how much
Abbeymere tells you and what answers the ruins make."




CHAPTER XL

TELLETH HOW MR. SHRIG READ A LETTER AND ASKED QUESTIONS

Now being in the open air and beyond the range of Sir Peter's keen
eyes, Mr. Shrig's booted legs abated all hurry and bore him at leisured
gait and by roundabout ways where roses bloomed and trim paths radiated
from an ancient sundial surrounded by an ageworn stone seat whereon
drooped young Mr. Mordaunt and so lost in the perusal of an open letter
in his hand as to be wholly unaware of anything else, for Mr. Shrig's
topboots trod with such a careful silence that they enabled their
wearer to approach near enough to glimpse the letter over Mr.
Mordaunt's bowed shoulder; and having thus contrived to read certain
lines of this letter, Mr. Shrig spoke:

"Ax parding, sir, but--your thumb----"

Mr. Mordaunt started violently, turned and beholding the speaker, leapt
to his feet.

"What ... what do you mean?" he stammered.

"Only your thumb, sir.  I couldn't exackly make out that 'ere last vord
by reason o' your thumb.  So if----"

"Do you mean you were prying?  Did you dare to read----"

"All accept that 'ere last vord, sir."

"Then con ... confound such impertinence!" quoth Mr. Mordaunt, very red
and stammering with indignation.

"Now now, Mr. Mordaunt, sir, you knows me ... I'm Shrig, Jarsper, guest
o' Sir Peter and here at Holm Dene to sarve the fam'ly and look into
matters vith the ogle of axperience ... consequently, young sir, I
vants that there letter."

"Do you tell me you are a ... guest ... here?"

"Ar!  And by Sir Peter's own inwitation!  And now, young sir,
I'll--take this here scripter," and with the word, Mr. Shrig leaned
suddenly forward, twitched the letter deftly from Mr. Mordaunt's
fingers and was smiling into that young gentleman's astonished face,
all in a moment.  Quoth he:

"Now, sir, as mootooal friends o' the fam'ly let you an' me set down
and con this here over together," and sitting down forthwith, he
beckoned Mr. Mordaunt beside him.

"But what ... how can I be sure you are a friend?"

"Mr. Mordaunt sir, you 'ave me vord, and here under me dicer is me
phiz, chivy or signboard--werry good!  Now let you an' me go over this
here and see vot us makes on it.  Hearkee!"

And Mr. Shrig read forth as follows:


"'Let Sir Peter Wibart take and instantly heed this warning.  Powers
are in motion vile he sleeps.  Messengers ride post to London.  An
indictment is to be sworne and Sir Peter arrested at any moment.  Oh
the shame of it!  Sir Peter Wibart arrested for MURDER (you'll notice,
Mr. Mordaunt, as the Capital Act is wrote in capitals, sir).  Consider
the o-dium, the stig-ma, the undying scandal.  Therefore let him at
once (you'll notice as 'at vonce' is underlined Mr. Mordaunt, sir) save
himself if he can, by any or every means.  This the adwice and varning
of a

"FRIEND."


"And vot," enquired Mr. Shrig, staring down at this mysterious screed
with round-eyed intentness, "vot d'ye make o' that, sir?"

"I don't know....  It seems impossible!  Incredible ... too awful to
contemplate!  Sir Peter ... arrested for--murder!  Oh, my God, it will
kill her."

"Oo?" enquired Mr. Shrig, still intent on the written words.  "Kill oo,
Mr. Mordaunt, sir?"

"Lady Vibart ... God help her!"

"A-men!" sighed Mr. Shrig.  "But ... do you 'appen to reckernise this
writing, sir--eh?"

"No ... no I don't!"

"Vich aren't surprising considering as 'tis wrote disguised."

"Disguised?  But how--how do you know?"

"Axperience, young sir.  This here was wrote by a voman--leastways a
fe-male, I reckon.  The question is--oo?  Also--vy?  Here's
Windictiveness and a voman, a werry orkard combination!  A voman and
Windictiveness ... and they both begins with a Wee!"

"Oh, but how does it matter who wrote it----"

"A precious lot, young sir."

"Then Sir Peter must be warned--at once.  I'll go to him this instant
... give me the letter, he must see it immediately ... come, let us
find him."

"Easy now, easy!" murmured Mr. Shrig, holding up his nobbly stick
reprovingly.  "Veer's your eyes, sir?  Think a bit, ar--let's ponder or
as you might say, roominate.  Can't you see as this yer a-nonymouse
letter vas wrote to that werry i-dentical purpose, eh, sir?"

"No.  What purpose?"

"To make Sir Peter act sudden--an' act wrong!  To make him move--and
move into danger!  To make him commit hisself an' give suspicion summat
as may be twisted to act agin him and look more like--proof.  For

Proof's the article, young sir,--vithout Proof, and vith a capital P,
nobody nor nothing can't do no manner o' real harm.  So set ye down,
Mr. Mordaunt, and be good enough to answer a few questions--for the
good o' the famly."

"Anything you will!" answered Mr. Mordaunt, seating himself, only to
leap up again and pace nervously to and fro.  "Anything in the
world--to help ... the Family."

"Werry good, sir.  You are Mordaunt, Charles, private secretary to Sir
P. Wibart.  Long so?"

"Since I left college, three years ago."

"Are you devoted to said Sir P.?"

"Yes, yes--most truly!"

"To his Lady?"

"I would die for ... for the Family."

"Werry good again.  Ever been to Abbeymere?"

"Once or twice."

"Then you knowed the late Earl, p'raps--by sight?"

"Very well.  And I can assure you that he was an over-bearing tyrant, a
black-hearted villain, with something in his expression ... almost
obscene at times ... oh a hateful man!"

"Har!" exclaimed Mr. Shrig.  "You didn't axackly cotton to said noble
lord, eh?  Did you ever hear Mr. Richard Wibart threaten his life?"
Mr. Mordaunt took four steps away and four back, then answered, chin
aloft:

"Sir, I leave Mr. Richard to answer for himself."

"Werry good indeed!" nodded Mr. Shrig and setting hand to fob, began to
work at himself until, after no little exertion, he had extracted a
large silver watch; having duly consulted this somewhat unwieldy
time-piece he proceeded to work it out of sight again.

"Fi' minutes past five.  Might your time be the same, sir?"

"Yes, just about."

"Vich makes him fi' minutes late!"

"Are you expecting someone?"

"Ar.  He'll be along by an' by.  In the meantime, do you 'appen to know
a gentleman name o' Clipsby,--Mr. Eustace Clipsby?"

"A gentleman?  Well, no ... at least, if you mean Lord Abbeymere's ...
I hardly know how to rate him, he seemed hardly a servant ... no,
certainly not a servant ... and yet, such a poor, meek, silent person."

"Oh?" murmured Mr. Shrig, smiling quite benevolently, "'poor, meek, and
silent,' says you.  Vould you say as he was afeard o' deceased Earl of
A."

"Well--no.  Oh no, not afraid, but abjectly humble and submissive."

"Did you see said Mr. Clipsby werry often?"

"Very seldom."

"And always a meek, mild, werry silent person--eh?"

"Always.  But what can he have to do with Sir Peter's very distressing
situation?"  Beaming upon his anxious young questioner, Mr. Shrig
pursed his shaven lips and whistled a pleasing bird-like trill whereat,
and almost instantly, from around an adjacent clipped yew hedge
appeared a broad-eaved countryman's hat shading a face chiefly
remarkable for bright eyes, a pointed, tip-tilted nose and a wide,
humorous mouth quirked upon a straw.

"'Lo, Jarsper!" quoth the head.

"Gimblet, how's the cows?" enquired Mr. Shrig, beckoning.

"Flourishing, Old Un, being back in their native pastures."

"Then, me b'y, us'll be a looking into the milk an' butter business.
But firstly--Mr. Mordaunt sir, this here is Shrigrow Sharp o' the
Office, and sharper than any gimblet,--and, sir, like me, he is at
present a-doing and a-thinking for The Fambly.  So if you should happen
to see him anywheres at any time, don't take no manner o' notice."

"Very well, Mr. Shrig.  But now--in regard to that anonymous letter, I
should like to hand it to Sir Peter at once and----"

"Sir, I'll take charge o'this for the present, and ... Mr. Mordaunt
sir, don't say or so much as visper a vord about it to Sir Peter, leave
that to me likevise.  Sir, if your pit-a-pat, or as you might say
'eart, sir, is half as faithful to The Fambly as I reckon it is--not
... a single ... vord!  Is it a go?"  Mr. Mordaunt looked into the
speaker's face and read there so much to reassure him that his own
anxious features brightened and he reached out his hand, saying:

"Mr. Shrig, I promise."

"Werry good, sir.  And if you should 'appen to spy Lady Wibart anyways
troubled, visper you in her lovely y-ear and say: 'Jarsper Shrig's got
his ogle on Windictiveness--werry vide open indeed'.  Good arternoon,
sir!  And now, Gimblet, let's take a peep at them cows, and sharp's the
word."

"Sharp it is, Old Un!"  Then Mr. Shrig touched his hat and strode off
beside the Gimlet at a pace so speedy and with look so assured and
purposeful that Mr. Mordaunt, watching in large-eyed concern, felt more
comforted than ever.




CHAPTER XLI

DESCRIBING WHAT BEFELL AT ABBEYMERE

Mounted in his high-wheeled gig, Mr. Shrig saluted Old Adam with his
whip, up leapt the Gimblet and away they went.  Reaching the open road,
Mr. Shrig drove at such a pace that conversation became something of an
effort, therefore they rode in silence.  Very soon they had reached the
great iron gates of Abbeymere but Mr. Shrig drove on at the same speed
until they came to a narrow lane, or rather track, that turned abruptly
from the highroad, a little used thoroughfare by the look of it, shut
in on the one side by tall trees and wild underbrush and on the other
by a high wall mossgrown and ruinous here and there.

"Whoa-up, Old Un!" quoth the Gimblet.

Whereupon Mr. Shrig pulled up opposite a part of this neglected wall
whence the coping had fallen, thus making it easy for an active person
to climb.

"You should ought to manage that, eh, Jarsper?"

"Ar!" nodded Mr. Shrig, viewing the wall with expert eye.  "I'll
con-trive, lad, vith you to gimme an eave ven and wheer needed.  We've
plenty o' time for it, eh?"

"Better than an hour, Jarsper."

"Werry good!" quoth Mr. Shrig, drawing a short clay pipe and tinder-box
from waistcoat pocket.  "You've been over the 'ouse and grounds,
Gimblet?"

"Every inch, pretty nigh, Jarsper."

"Any bloodstains?"

"Plenty!  Lord A. must ha' bled tee-rific,--which, though bad for him,
was good for us."

"Ar!" mumbled Mr. Shrig, lighting his pipe.  "Blood ... observed right
... can be a werry good ... vitness.  Now then, viles I take a puff at
me steamer, let's hear your report, the deductions as you've drawed and
reasons for same."

"Well, Old Un, I argufies as Lord A. was shot to death in the Abbey
ruins, in a rum old chamber as needs looking for,--reasons: bloodstain
on stone floor, washed away but not quite, as I'll show ye.  Body was
then conveyed along flagged passage,--proof: four paving stones has
been washed there likewise, but on base of wall, two splashes and a
smudge as can only be blood, proving very plain as corpus was dragged
that way.  Three stone steps, leading up from said passage into
panelled room of the house, has also been washed, but in corner of
lowest step--one round blood-spot.  In panelled chamber,--where
according to evidence at inquest, body of deceased was found,--a large
stain on oak floor beside smallish table."

"Har!" murmured Mr. Shrig, watching the smoke from his pipe, dreamily.
"I'll take a peep in a bit.  Now vot o' t'other matter?"

"The young Earl left London this morning, Old Un."

"Call him Number Vun, lad."

"And, Jarsper, what's more, he rode horseback and--alone!"

"Oh?  Any shadders?"

"Two.  According to your orders, word was sent to the man Clipsby----"

"Call him Number Two, me b'y."

"Well, Jarsper, Number Two not being at home, a message was left."

"Not at 'ome, eh?  Now dash me vig!  If Number Two don't turn
up--humph!  Did you say as Number Vun arrived in Lewes--and safe?"

"Ay, safe and sound, which is rum, Jarsper, and very dusty, which
ain't.  For d'ye see, Old Un, after him come them two murderous----"

"Call 'em shadders, Gimblet."

"Well, Number One has a wash and a bottle and then--and here's another
rum thing, Jarsper, he leans out o' winder very conspicuous, and them
two shadders a-watching him from the stables,--and sings out to the
ostler--'have a horse saddled for me at sunset, I'm riding to
Abbeymere,' says he.  Think of it, Old Un,--he rides from London alone,
although warned, and then, not being murdered on the road, tells anyone
as chances to be listening that he's riding to Abbeymere--at sunset.
And I reckon this is the rummest go of all!  Looks almost as if he was
askin' for trouble, don't it?"

"Not trouble, no--death, Gimblet, death!" said Mr. Shrig knocking out
his pipe very tenderly.  "And death ends every trouble, leastways folks
thinks so.  And now hitch my mare secure then gimme a leg up atop yon
wall.  Lordy, but I'm growing too old for sich tricks!"

However, with the Gimlet's ready and powerful assistance Mr. Shrig was
very soon perched upon the wall, his booted legs a-dangle, surveying
the scene before him with a profound and lively pleasure; a wilderness
of mazy thickets and mighty trees beyond which dense boskages rose the
distant, smokeless chimneys of the great house with the age-old ruins
of the Abbey beyond,--broken arch, pillar and crumbling wall, pallid
against the dark, still waters of that sedge-girt, gloomy Mere.

"Bee-ootiful!" he murmured in a sort of ecstasy.  "In all me born days
I never see a place more perfect nor fitter for--The Capital Act!"

"Specially--at sunset, Jarsper!"

"And them shadders, me b'y, they was ahearkening an' vatching Number
Vun at Lewes, eh?"

"They was, Old Un."

"And veer are they now, lad?"

"Still there, Jarsper, tied up very tight and gagged very secure and
hid under a pile o' hay in a old loft where nobody ain't likely to find
'em.  Me and Bob caught 'em--onexpected like."

"Werry good, Gimblet!  Now help me old bones down off 'n this here
vall."

The descent safely accomplished, Mr. Shrig adjusted his hat, resettled
his garments and slipping his hand within the Gimlet's muscular arm,
followed whither he was led until they reached a place where,
themselves screened from all observation, they could survey the great,
old house, courtyard and terrace, and look down the sombre avenue of
tall, aged trees.

Very patiently they waited seldom speaking, their eyes alert and ears
straining to catch expected sounds--that came at last ... the slow,
plodding hoof-strokes of a horse.

"Number Vun!" said Mr. Shrig in whisper.

And presently they beheld the young Earl of Abbeymere riding towards
them, a slimly elegant, youthful shape and yet the very figure of gloom
and bitter despondency; for he rode drooping in the saddle, chin on
breast, lacklustre eyes bent earthwards; a very old young man ineffably
weary.

Reaching the courtyard he reined in his slow-pacing horse and lifting
heavy head, turned slowly to glance behind and round about him and,
while his wide eyes quested thus, he too seemed listening expectantly
as he lifted his head to scowl up at this his house that seemed to
scowl back at him.  Awhile he sat thus as if waiting for that which
should be; at last with sudden, impatient gesture he dismounted and,
leaving his horse to wander where and how it would, mounted the terrace
and vanished round the house in the direction of the Abbey ruins.

"What now, Old Un?"

"Fi' minutes!" whispered Mr. Shrig, taking out his large watch; but
scarcely had he uttered the words than upon the air throbbed another
sound--horsehoofs again and coming at wild and furious gallop.

"Number Two!" whispered Mr. Shrig.  The rhythmic hoofbeats rang louder,
nearer ... and speeding up the avenue came Eustace Clipsby who, almost
before his foam-spattered horse might check its wild career, had leapt
from the saddle and was up the terrace steps, running like a madman.

"Now," quoth Mr. Shrig, "bide here, Gimblet--vatch, listen and--silent
as death!"  Then Mr. Shrig's stout, booted legs were bearing him
stealthily yet with surprising nimbleness, up the terrace steps and
on--into those stark and grimly ruins, along the stone-flagged passage,
through the small door and into that panelled chamber where the dead
earl had left his ghastly mark; with scarce a glance Mr. Shrig
traversed this chamber, for beyond was resounding echo of running feet,
and then a voice that called desperately:

"Valentine!  Valentine--wait!"  This answered by another voice
high-pitched and passionate:

"Clipsby ... ha damn you Clip ... why must you follow me?"

"According to my oath, Valentine, the promise I made to your mother ...
here in your mother's room."

"My mother's room, yes....  Come in, oh, come in, man--if you must! ...
Here I was born, as you know, Clip ... here she died ... and here is
the only place for me ... the best and only place for what is to be."

"What do you mean, boy?"  Hasty footsteps and Clipsby was facing the
Earl and neither dreaming, in such hour and grim desolation of this
great, empty house, that keen eyes were watching and sharp ears
listening beyond the unclosed door.

The Earl had tossed off his hat and standing thus bare-headed, his
golden hair, bright in the sun's last beams, shone strangely like a
nimbus, but the face beneath showed wild and haggard, the long-lashed
eyes stared wide on vacancy and when he spoke, quick and passionate,
there was a strident note in his voice very like terror:

"Oh Clip ... Clip, I begin to think I am going ... mad!  Mad, I tell
you!  I rarely sleep and when I do ... such cursed dreams!  Well,
better death than that ... better die sane, eh, Clip?  A flash, a puff
of smoke and ... rest!  And Rosemary ... she hates and despises me, I
saw it in her eyes!  So does Richard, damn him!  But--why not?  God
knows I scorn and hate myself--oh, bitterly!  I drink to forget and
never can forget I am the son of the man I hate dead as I hated him
living!  His vile blood is in my veins, so ... why not let it out?  Why
not end it all?  I rather hoped Frayne's rascals would do it for me--on
the London road.  I expected a shot on my way here.  But well, perhaps
this is best ... and what place better suited than my mother's room,
here, where I was born ... where she died ... in this very chair and my
little childish arms fast about her--you remember, Clip?"

"Yes, yes, I remember, Valentine, but----"

"So here it shall be then," cried the Earl with a strange and awful
gaiety, "my last look for her loved face yonder," and he turned where,
above the mantel, hung a painting, the portrait of a woman, young and
small and slim, whose pale, wistful face looked down on them, great
eyed and sorrowful.

"Such a gentle, patient dear!" he murmured.  "You loved her, too, of
course, Clip.  I always knew this!"

"Yes ... I loved her, Valentine, reverently and with all my young soul
long before she was a wife.  But she was so very young ... her father
so rich and cruelly ambitious and ... Abbeymere was the Earl!  So they
were married and in that hour ... part of me died...."

"You hated and feared ... him, too,--eh, Clip?"

"God help me,--yes!  Fear of him had become a habit ... for ...
Valentine, I fought with ... and killed a boy at school, accidentally
as I hope for salvation!  But instead of confessing, I was but a lad, I
let it seem no more than an accident ... but Abbeymere, my senior and a
prefect, had seen!  Through the long years I became his slave, his
thing ... a creature void of all manhood, a poor, spiritless wretch
obedient to his nod----"

"Well, he's dead, Clip, he's dead, old fellow, and howling in eternal
torment, let us hope----"

"Ah--no, Valentine."

"Tush!  Why not, man, why not?  Look on that dear, painted face and
think!  How often have we seen that gentle head bowed in shame and
grief!  Those tender eyes dimmed with bitter tears that gathered yet
seldom fell ... while her poor heart broke ... dying from hour to hour
through all those years ... killed by--him and so slowly ... slowly,
damn him!  But he died in a moment, knew but one pang--ha, the cursed
injustice of it."

"But think, boy, he was snatched to judgement with such dreadful
suddenness."

"And may he be damned everlastingly."

"No!" cried Clipsby, like one in sudden anguish.  "There can be no such
thing, God is too mercifully just!  No soul is ever lost, for being of
God, back to God it goes, purified by suffering, wise by experience,
perfected at last."

"A kindly philosophy, Clip, yet what are all such philosophies but a
blind and fearful groping in the dark,--the wish fathering the thought?
... Words and wind!  Now as for me----"  The Earl thrust slim hands
into the pockets of his riding-coat and turned to gaze up again at his
mother's portrait.

"Well," demanded Clipsby, his eyes suddenly intent, "what for you,
Valentine?"

"Rest!" answered the Earl, softly, and from right-hand pocket, drew a
pistol.

"Ah--fool boy!" cried Clipsby in terrible voice.  "There can be no rest
in death!  Death is but fuller life and vaster effort."

"I wonder?" said the Earl, balancing the weapon in practised hand.
"However, being the accursed son of my cursed father and knowing myself
such failure in this existence, I intend to put your theory of death to
the proof, Clip--though in fervent hope that at least I shall not be
pitchforked anywhere in the neighbourhood of my late departed sire."

"Valentine!"

"Well, Clip?  Were you not better advised to bid me au revoir and---go?
Your presence here at such a time is a little intrusive and very
ill-judged."

"Valentine, have you ... have you ever wondered ... how the Earl died?"

"Often, Clip, often!  At first with dread, such dread that I contrived
it should seem suicide, but now ... well, there were very many who had
just cause for killing him and ... whoever accomplished it, saved me
the noxious trouble of it and, being consequently grateful, I am
content ... to ask no questions."

"Valentine," said Clipsby and stopped, but with such strange compelling
look that the Earl instinctively leaned nearer and in that moment the
pistol was snatched from his loosened grasp and hurled crashing through
the window; then Clipsby was upon him, but, having made sure the Earl
bore no other weapon concealed, stepped back, breathless and trembling.

"Valentine!" he gasped.  "Dear boy that I love and for whom I'd die ...
this was no way for you to go back to her ... your hands stained with
your own blood ... Valentine...."

The young Earl stared through narrowed lids at this pleading yet so
dominating face then turning away, crossed to the shattered window and,
throwing the lattice wide, leaned there.

"Ifs," said he, gazing toward the fading western glory, "if, as you
think,---my mother yet lives beyond the grave, he would know and ...
were I fouler thing, or more sinful and unworthy than I am ... she
would welcome me because she understands....  But you ... you would
make me a failure still ... even in this!"

"I would have you live, for her sake, Valentine."

"And for her sake, I would die ... while I am no worse than I am....
As a child I often looked down from this window and used to think how
very terrible it would be to fall....  But now----"

"Valentine----"  The agonized cry was cut short by a sudden sharp
report from somewhere below; the young Earl's slim body seemed to
stiffen; then he swung round upon his heels with both hands upraised as
if pointing to the red horror that splotched his face and, uttering a
sound that beginning as a laugh ended in sighing groan, he pitched
headlong.

And now as Clipsby knelt to lift this blasted head, into the room came
Mr. Shrig at a shambling run and leaning from the window, thrust
fingers into mouth and emitted an ear-splitting whistle.

Ensued a long moment or so of deadly stillness, then from that mazy
wilderness below came a second pistol shot followed by another and yet
another in rapid succession.  Mr. Shrig nodded a little grimly, sighed
very dismally, and turning back from the window, stooped to peer into
the pale young face that Mr. Clipsby was wiping and wiping with
inadequate handkerchief.

"Dead, Mr. Clipsby, sir?" he enquired.

"God forbid!  We must get him away ... bed ... a doctor!  We must get
him out of this accursed house...."

"Prompt, sir!" said Mr. Shrig, and trotted heavily from the room in
quest of the Gimlet who met him at foot of the great stairway.

"Eh, Jarsper," he enquired, a little rounder of eye than usual.
"Number One--dead is he?"

"Ar, or pretty nigh, lad ... and Number Three,--not dead too--don't say
it!"

"As any red herring, Old Un!  A pity, I know, but it was him or me, and
there y' are."

"Dog bite it!" sighed Mr. Shrig, mournfully.  "Number Three should ha'
danced the Noogate Jig.  How'sever, for Number Vun, my gig--go fetch
it, and run, Gimblet, run!  Sharp's the vord."

"Sharp it is, Jarsper!" answered the Gimlet and set off at his best
speed.

And thus it befell that in Mr. Shrig's high-wheeled gig, through the
dusk of this fragrant summer evening, they brought young Valentine,
Earl of Abbeymere, to the care of Charmian and Peter at Holm Dene.




CHAPTER XLII

OF A GATHERING SHADOW

Through long weary days and anxious nights the stricken bandaged head
upon the pillow had scarcely moved, only sometimes the haggard eyes
were open in vague stare, though more often closed as if in troubled
slumber or that dreadful unconsciousness from which there is no
awaking.  And upon this sunny afternoon, down in the garden below a man
paced restlessly, staring up at radiant heaven and on the bright world
round about him yet, wheresoever he looked, seeing always that same
bandaged head, that death-pale face and slim, motionless form.  But as
he walked thus, pausing often to gaze up yearningly toward a certain
casement, to him amid her flowers came Charmian, soft-treading, gentle
of voice, serenely comforting:

"Dear Mr. Clipsby," said she, slipping her hand beneath his arm with
loving familiarity, "don't be so terribly lonely in your grief, let us
walk together.  Speak to me, it will ease your suspense, for in talking
with a friend our griefs are sometimes easier to bear."

"Thank you!" he murmured, and yet with something strangely wild and
dreadful in his aspect.  "I thank you with all my heart for your sweet
sympathy, but ... if he should die----"

"Ah, remember," she pleaded, "remember he is in the hands of God."

"In God's hands, yes ... yes.  But ... if he die, then all ... all is
vain!  God's hand will be upon me heavily ... heavily, for it will have
been ... all vain!"

Eustace Clipsby stopped suddenly to stare with awful eyes as one who
gazes upon unnameable horror.  "In God's hands!" he repeated.  "And God
is just....  God is not mocked...!  Have mercy on him, oh God,
and--upon me ... on wretched me in my blindness...."

Gently she compelled him forward; and so they walked together and, in
her wisdom, Charmian talked now of other things, of herself and her
Peter, of their hopes for the future; of Eustace Clipsby himself, his
music and the wonder of his playing.

"And you haven't touched the keyboard for days!" she sighed, gently
reproachful.

"No," he answered in wistful apology, "no.  There are times when I
cannot ... dare not play, for music is a noble thing ... holy ... a
wonder of God.  And now there is a shadow upon me, an ever thickening
darkness...."

"And you play like a master," said she, viewing his drawn features
askance and with growing anxiety.  "And how very strange," she
continued, a little hurriedly lest his attention wander, "how strange
that we should have been neighbours all these years, should have seen
each other so frequently and yet only learned to know each other within
these last few days."

"Yes," he answered, faint-smiling.  "And yet--no!  In those dark and
evil, ah--those most unhappy days I was no more than a creeping shade,
the very shadow of a man."

"Ah no!" she broke in.  "You were, ever and always, the gentle soul and
great musician we know you for--now!  But even in those far-off days
you would sometimes play for Valentine and Richard and they loved it,
rogue boys though they were!  Richard used to tell me how when they
quarrelled you would play them into good fellowship again."

"Ah, it was my only joy!" he answered, fervently.  "For indeed, they
both loved music, bless them, even then."

"And do now!" she nodded.  "Especially Valentine.  The only time he
regained consciousness he spoke your name, remember, and asked that you
should play.  So let us go back to the house and play again--do, it
will comfort you and me, yes and perhaps reach Valentine in his dreams
and soothe him."

"If you think it would, dear Lady Vibart, oh, if you really think it
might, I will play as I have never----" he paused suddenly, his
kindling eyes staring at a certain tall hedge, and glancing thither
also, Charmian beheld a furtive, lurking shape, round eyes that peered,
a wide mouth that chewed upon a straw,--a face that vanished as she
looked.

"Someone was watching us, I think," said Mr. Clipsby, turning
thitherward.

"Not us," she answered, frowning, "oh not us.  These are spies set to
watch my Peter and Richard."

"Spies?" he echoed in wondering amazement.  "But ... may I ask why?"

"Windictiveness, sir!" answered a voice unexpectedly near, and Mr.
Shrig stood beaming at them from the rosy portal of a little
summerhouse.  "Windictiveness, Mr. Clipsby, sir," he continued, "is
a-trying werry 'ard to prove as how Sir Peter, or Mr. Richard, or both,
killed--or as you might say--committed The Fact upon the person o' the
late Lord A.  And vot do ye say to that, sir?"

"That Vindictiveness is purblind and crassly ignorant, as it usually
is, Shrig.  The mere idea is preposterous, of course, and out of all
reason."

"Vell, I dunno, sir.  Windictiveness 'appens to ha' got plenty o'
reason for suspecting either or both o' said gen'lemen since both on
'em vas at Abbeymere on the werry night and in the werry hour as the
Fatal Act was commit, Mr. Clipsby, sir."

"To be sure they were," nodded Mr. Clipsby, "I know all this, Shrig.
But what of it, man----?"

"Might I make so bold to ax 'ow you know, sir?"

"I learned of it from Mr. Richard himself and Miss Rosemary, of course.
But pray what or whom do you mean by 'Vindictiveness'?"

"Afore I answers you, sir, I'd like to ax you just vun o' two
questions.  F'rinstance sir, veer might you ha' been at the time o' the
shooting?"

"Oh but, Mr. Shrig," said my lady, a little impatiently, "why trouble
him now?  Mr. Clipsby is very greatly distressed, as I'm sure you will
understand.  And besides, I have asked him to play for us."

"Ma'm," quoth Mr. Shrig, squaring his broad shoulders, "you likewise
axed me to help you by lookin' into things and I'm a-looking, m' lady."

"Certainly, certainly!" said Mr. Clipsby, almost gaily.  "Anything I
can say or do to help you and Sir Peter, shall be my happiness, dear
Lady Vibart.  So pray suffer Mr. Shrig to question me ... indeed we
have had some talk on this grim subject before and in another place."

"Why then I'll go and tell Peter you have consented to play again at
last.  So, Mr. Shrig, please don't keep him too long, but come and hear
him too, if you will."

"Vith j'y, me lady, thankee!  I'm werry partial to music, used to
tootle a tin vistle, ar and scrape a fiddle too ven a carefree lad,
ma'm....  And now, sir, vereabouts," he enquired in the same breath, as
Charmian moved away, "vereabouts might you ha' been the night the Earl
got shot?"

"In my bedroom."

"Then you heard said shot, sir?"

"Quite distinctly."

"And then vot?"

"I got dressed again."

"And then, sir?"

"Something struck my window and I saw Miss Ford down on the terrace
below."

"So down you vent to her, and vot did she say?"

"Her exact words I don't recall, the poor child was terribly
distraught, but I remember she told me something dreadful had happened
to his lordship ... that she thought he was dead."

"So you hurried off to take a peep at him, eh, sir?"

"Oh dear no!  You see Miss Rosemary needed all my care just then--she
was alive and if the Earl was dead, well--he was dead."

"Sir, you didn't exackly love the old Earl, eh?"

"Shrig, your surmise is perfectly correct, I did not!"

"In fact, Mr. Clipsby sir, you come pretty near disliking him, eh?"

"Shrig, I detested him from my soul.  I hated him with all my heart ...
God forgive me--and him!"

"That sounds werry frank like and open 'earted, sir."

"It is also Gospel true, Shrig."

"So then you helped Miss R. Ford to run off ... and vy, sir?"

"Because she was determined to leave at once; indeed she seemed quite
wild to go."

"And then, arter she'd gone, did you go and take a look at Lord A?"

"I did.  As I deposed at the inquest."

"And found the old earl dead and the young earl drunk, eh, sir?"

"Not drunk, oh no!"

"Vait a bit, sir!" said Mr. Shrig, whipping out his notebook, from the
pages of which he drew a newspaper clipping.  "This is a report o' the
inquest, sir, and it says here: The Coroner axes the question: 'Upon
seeing your unfortunate father dead, vot did you do?'  Answer: 'I
scarcely remember, I was drunk as usual.'  Sensation in Court.  And vot
do you say to that, Mr. Clipsby, sir?"

"That the Earl takes a perverse delight in making the very worst of
himself sometimes, poor boy."

"Do you think as Lord A. shot himself, sir?"

"No, Shrig, I do not."

"Verefore and vy, sir?"

"He was never the person to wilfully harm himself under any
circumstances."

"Oh!" murmured Mr. Shrig, turning to watch the airy gambols of a
hovering butterfly.  "And do you think or suppose as he died in that
cheer ... or even in that room, sir?"

"No."

"But, sir--your evidence at the inquest----"

"Since then, Shrig, certain highly suggestive facts have been pointed
out to me by Sir Peter Vibart which might cause anyone to think
otherwise."

"Har!" murmured Mr. Shrig, his gaze now upon his companion's elegant
boots.  "Sir Peter, eh, sir?  Her Ladyship tells me as how Sir Peter
suspects someone."

"Indeed?  Well, I'm not surprised."

"The question is--oo?  For, though suspecting, Sir Peter von't mention
no name, not to her ladyship nor yet to me, not 'aving sufficient
proof."

"Why, there's the difficulty!" sighed Mr. Clipsby.  "It is one thing to
suspect but quite another to prove those suspicions true.  And Sir
Peter, being the soul of honour, would naturally be silent."

"And silent he is, sir--as any tumb!  Dog bite me but he says to me as
he'll never speak vithout proof positive,--not even if they arrests him
and his son--and there y' are, sir.  And vot d'ye say to that?"

"Admirable, Shrig.  But Sir Peter, being Sir Peter, could do no other.
And, between you and me, Shrig, I verily believe the person he suspects
is--myself."

Mr. Shrig actually jumped, his keen gaze flashed to the impassive
speaker's face and his eyes grew rounder than ever to see that Mr.
Clipsby was smiling at him quite happily; but this smile was banished
suddenly by look of quick anxiety.

"Why, there is Richard," said he, "I wonder if----"

But, even as he spoke, Richard espied them and began to run, calling as
he came:

"Clip ... Clip old fellow, he's conscious!  Valentine is conscious and
whispered your name----"

Clipsby was off, and running towards the house with Richard beside him,
while Mr. Shrig, staring after them with mouth agape, took off his hat,
blinked at it, put it on again and, staring round upon creation in
general, exclaimed hoarsely:

"Vell ... blow my dickey!"

But up in that silent, darkened chamber the head upon the pillow had
stirred at last, the tired eyes were gazing up into Eustace Clipsby's
anxious, gentle face, while from those death-pale lips stole a broken
whisper: "... dmother ... God.  Clip..."

"Valentine, oh dear boy ... what is it?"

"That be all as 'e'll say sir," sighed the nurse, "calls on his mother
and God, he do, pore dear."

"Hush, pray hush! ... Valentine, tell me again."

The eyes closed wearily, the dark, slim brows knit themselves, the
whisper came fainter:

"Rose ... mary.  She'll ... know."

So Rosemary was summoned and, swiftly, silently she came to kneel with
head bent so low that her bright hair touched the young Earl's pale
cheek, whereat he opened his eyes and looking at her, smiled:

"Frayne ... solved the ... riddle ... for us!" he whispered brokenly.
"And now ... I want ..." breath seemed to fail him, his eyes closed
again, but Rosemary's gentle fingers touched and smoothed the frown
from his brow.

"Yes," she murmured, "yes, dear Valentine, tell me what you want, only
tell me."  Once again that pitiful broken whisper and then Rosemary was
on her feet.

"His Fairy Godmother!" said she gently, her eyes dimmed by sudden
tears.  "He wants little Jane ... you need our little Jane, don't you,
Valentine?"

The pallid lips contrived to smile.

"Then she must be brought to him, of course," murmured Charmian.

"I'll go for her at once," said Clipsby, turning toward the door.

"I, too, if I may," sighed Rosemary.

"And I," said Richard.




CHAPTER XLIII

TELLETH HOW VALENTINE SMILED AND WENT A-JOURNEYING

"Three doctors!" snorted Miss Janet, albeit very softly as Charmian
closed the bedroom door gently behind them.  "Three!  Why not three
dozen or three hundred?"

"Well, you heard them, Janet,--what do you think of him this morning?"

"I'm thinkin' o' yon nurse," quoth Miss Janet, scowling back at the
closed door.

"Martha Betts?  But, my dear, she is such a gentle, kindly soul as you
know quite well, Janet."

"Ay, she mebbe a' that but I'm tellin' ye the wumman's a gowk.  Suppose
Valentine has an interval o' consciousness, d'ye think she'll ha'e the
nous to act at once and send for us in time to ask him the dreadfu'
question we must?"

"Oh, Janet ... the poor boy lies on the very threshold of death ... how
can we ask such question?"

"Charmian Sofia, we must!  If you won't, I will--for the sake o' Peter
and Richard.  We know, you and I, how fiercely Valentine threatened his
father's life, there was death in his look, his voice and very gesture,
he was mere rampant Murder!"

"And now I ... fear he is dying, Janet.  Yes, my dear, in spite of all
the doctors can say or do."

"The more reason to ken the truth frae him then....  Valentine good as
told us he would kill his father, it was long ago, but I could speak ye
the vera worruds he used."

"Then don't--don't!"

"But, guid heavens, Charmian, in your heart you must be vera sure 'twas
son killed wicked father as he vowed."

"But I'm not sure, Janet, I'm not,--no no, I wish I were.  I have gone
over it all in my mind, oh many times ... recalled his looks and
dreadful words and, God forgive me,--even tried to believe his indeed
the guilty hand, yet ... when I remember the dear, shy, gentle boy he
was, and as you must remember also, Janet,--so very like his little,
tender, helpless mother ... when I look upon his poor, stricken face as
it is now all sweet boyish gentleness again I cannot, no I cannot
possibly believe it of him."

"Well I can--and do!" said Miss Janet, grimly.

They had by now reached the sunny garden and were pacing slowly among
the fragrant roses; and here Miss Janet paused to stamp her determined
belief so violently that she clashed.

"Charmian, I believe he killed yon sinfu' Earl, as he vowed he would.
And, mind ye, here was no' juist an ordinar' brutal murder, this was an
act o' justice, ay--but I would like fine tae hear him confess till it
... afore witnesses, y'ken, for our menkind's sake.  And besides,
m'dear, if yon puir laddie is tae die indeed, it were better he made
due confession and----  My gracious me--will ye look at Peter!" she
exclaimed, in such sudden amazement that Charmian turned and opened her
beautiful eyes very wide at the unwonted, nay the astounding spectacle
of her dignified husband abroad thus and striding towards them in his
shirt-sleeves, cravat untied and fluttering, hair ruffled, face smudged
with dust and grime but his eyes bright and eager.

"Peter--Peter what on earth!"

"My dear," said he.  "My dear, a most remarkable discovery!  You know
how often I have considered the removal of that corner bookcase in the
library, the one so awkwardly placed and such an odd shape?  We
accomplished it this morning, Mordaunt and I ... my dear, that bookcase
was definitely so built and shaped to hide a small, secret cupboard and
in it I found ... aha!"

"What, Peter?  For goodness' sake don't tantalize!"

"Money, is't, Peter?  Jewels?" enquired Miss Janet.

"Better than either!  Come and see."

Giving an arm to each, Sir Peter brought them triumphantly into his
library where Mr. Mordaunt, amid piles of books and ruins of the
dismembered bookcase, bowed them welcome.

"There!" said Sir Peter, with dramatic gesture.

"That?" cried my lady in instant dispraisal.  "Oh, goodness me,
Peter--merely that old, rusty sword?"

"My certie!" snorted Miss Janet.  "Is this all?"

Sir Peter sighed deep and plaintively, shook his ruffled head at them
in weary rebuke and taking up the grim-looking weapon almost
reverently, spoke:

"A silver hilted broadsword of the Parliamentary Wars, the blade marked
'Andrea Ferrara----'"

"But such a very frowsy old thing, Peter, and all rust, and I was
hoping you had found something really wonderful."

"I have reason to believe," he continued patiently, "this wonderful
sword was presented to my great-grandfather by Oliver Cromwell after
the battle of Edgehill and used by him somewhat frequently afterwards,
you will observe how notched the blade is."

"Still, Peterdear, it is not a thing of beauty or any value is it?"

"I am endeavouring," sighed Sir Peter, "I am patiently attempting to
inform you that this sword once, in all probability, was borne by
Oliver Cromwell himself."

"But then, Peter, at school I never liked Oliver Cromwell.  I used to
think he was a bloodthirsty old wretch."

Dumbly Sir Peter laid the old sword gently upon the table and lifting
grimy hand to ruffled hair with an almost hopeless gesture, proceeded
to set his hair more on end than ever.

"However," sighed he at last, "despite such unreasoned strictures,
Oliver Cromwell was, is and I dare to think, will ever remain one of
our England's greatest."

"Did you find anything else, Peter?"

"I did," he nodded.  "I found--these!" and he indicated four stout
leather-bound volumes.

"More books!" sighed Charmian.

"These, my dear soul," he explained, sighing like one utterly hopeless,
"are a record kept and very painfully set forth by my
great-grandfather, John Vibart----"

"Well now this really is rather wonderful, Peter!  Let us look."

"It is--very wonderful!" he answered, dark eyes kindling.  "See now
this beautiful penmanship!  And from brief snatches I have read, it
tells much intimate detail of Oliver, his looks, habit, and manner, his
fierce hatred of injustice and his deep and obvious sincerity ... by
heavens, the man himself seems to stand before you alive and vigorous!
Then here, too, is an eyewitness's account of the Battles of Edgehill
and Naseby, with skirmishes and sieges....  If you care to sit down and
listen you shall hear how this wonderful record begins."

So down they sat forthwith; then Sir Peter, opening a certain volume
with that tender care which ever bespeaks the true lover of books,
began to read on this wise:


"'The Narrative of John Vibart heretofore Fifth Baronet of Barcomb in
the County of Sussex and sometime Colonel of Horse in the late wars.
Begun this fifth of April in the year of God 1665.

"'In these sad, degenerate days when faith in Mankind, yea and in God
Himself seemeth dead, when prayer is jeered and piety become a mock and
scorn; in this grievous day when great Oliver's dishonoured bones do,
even now, lie rotting with the dust of unnumbered malefactors at
shameful Tyburn, I John Vibart, bereft of all but life here in this
humble cottage that looketh on Bering Tye here forgot yet therewithal
content, even I John Vibart that know this English Oliver as few men
might, do take up my pen meaning, in these days of his so bitter
dispraisal and wanton misjudgement, to set down the very truth of him
in so far as by God's help I may so do, that when I am safe marched
through and beyond Death's valley, men yet unborn shall, reading these
my true and faithful words, learn therefrom and know at the least in
some part, what manner of man this Oliver Cromwell truly was.'"


Sir Peter had paused here and glanced up to ask their opinion when
borne to them came a sound of hoofs and wheels.

"They are here!" cried Charmian, rising.

"Ay, and--with the child!" quoth Miss Janet, peering from the window
and away they sped together leaving Sir Peter gazing after them, the
open book in his hand.

"It is a strange thing, Mordaunt," sighed he more plaintively than
ever, "that women, yes even the very best of them, are singularly
devoid, indeed, entirely lacking in reverence for the abstractions of
life....  What are you staring at, pray?"

"Miss Rosemary, sir, Mr. Clipsby, Mr. Richard and a little girl."

"You will see them better if you go out to them, Charles, and when you
have greeted them, have the goodness to ride and engage Hurley, the
carpenter, to reconstruct this bookcase."  So saying Sir Peter leaned
back in his chair and became lost in the narrative of his long dead
ancestor John Vibart.  Time passed, clocks chimed, the light began to
fade yet he read on and on like one enthralled, until he became aware
the door had opened and frowned, glanced up impatiently and glimpsing
Charmian, smiled.

"My dear," said he enthusiastically, "this is a very wonderful history,
it is a tale the world must read.  It shall be published!  We will edit
it together, you and I.  There are one or two pages gone, I regret to
say ... well, we must bridge those to carry on the story.  You and I,
Charmian, it will be a labour of love, my dear, and with your
assistance, doubly so....  Eh?  Why ... what now?  Oh, my dear!"  Down
went the volume and up leapt Sir Peter, for Charmian was weeping,
silently but very bitterly, the great tears, falling all unheeded as
she stood; then Peter's comforting arms were about her folding her
close.

"Is it ... young Valentine?" he murmured.

"Yes ... he is ... dying, Peter.  It has come at last....  But so young
... so young!  He asked for you ... come with me."

And yet when they reached his bedside the Earl, it seemed, had no
thought for Sir Peter or anyone except little Jane, who sat beside him
on the great four-post bed, weaving a daisy chain very deftly with
small, quick fingers.

"Light!" gasped the Earl.  "Draw the curtains ... give us ... light!
Now little Jane, dear ... small Fairy Godmother ... cast me a spell
before you go ... a triffic spell and ... turn me into ... a Fairy
Prince for ever ... and ever...."

Very solemnly little Jane, screening herself in the bed-curtains, waved
the flowery chain above and about him, whispering the while her
childish incantations, then caught her breath in quick alarm:

"Oh, Fairy Prince, do something hurt you?"

"No!" he gasped.  "Ah, no sweetheart, it ... is just the spell ... the
charm is ... working.  So now ... kiss me, little Godmother and ... go.
Rosemary, take her, God bless her always, take ... her away."  So the
awed and wondering child was led from the room and he lay silent
awhile; then suddenly:

"Dick," said he, in a voice strangely loud and clear, "all's well
between us at last, eh, old fellow ... all's well?"

"Why, of course, always and ever, Valentine."

"Then, Dick ... so ... am I!" said the Earl and closed his eyes, but
upon his boyish lips was smile so bright, so strangely glad and
ineffably joyous that Richard smiled too.

"That's the spirit, dear old fellow!" said he, gently.  "See, Clip,
he's better, much better."

"Yes," answered Clipsby, bowing his head between quivering fists.
"Yes, he is very well ... he is with his blessed mother...  Valentine
is dead."




CHAPTER XLIV

OF JASPER SHRIG, HIS SCHEME, AND VERY BRIEFLY

Time sped; a clock chimed and chimed again in the silent house below,
but Eustace Clipsby stood there motionless, a bowed and stricken
creature, staring with wide and awful eyes upon that pale young face so
glad in death.

The door opened stealthily but the watcher never so much as moved; a
hand touched him gently yet still he nothing heeded; then a hoarse
voice spoke close beside him:

"Mr. Clipsby sir, there aren't ... never no vords ... for this here,
but----"

"None!" muttered Clipsby.  "None!  Valentine is dead!  The youth I ...
wrought for ... hoped to see become the great and noble man he might
have been ... is gone ... above and beyond all help of mine.  God has
adjudged me!  It is thus God has answered my prayers ... crowned my
very desperate efforts!  This young life, so much more precious than my
own, has been taken from me ... far beyond my reach....  Ah but ... so
young, so young!"

"He'll be therefore spared a deal o' pain, ditto sorrer and vorry, sir,
ar--a lot o' pain and grief too,--him being dead.  But, sir, Mr.
Clipsby, how about--the living?  Sir--I ax you!  Jest come and take a
peep o' the vinder, a moment, pray do now, sir, do."

Obedient to the gentle suasion of Mr. Shrig's hand, Clipsby turned and,
looking down from this eminence, beheld three furtive-seeming men, who,
themselves hidden, kept stealthy watch upon the house.

"You sees 'em, sir?"

"To be sure.  What are they doing?"

"Mr. Clipsby sir, I shouldn't be saprised a bit if to-morrer about this
werry hour,--the death hour, sir, Sir Peter and Mr. Richard Wibart
should be took ... arrested, sir, and dragged off to gaol, Mr. Clipsby!"

"You think so, Shrig?"

"Sir, I'm pretty sarten sure on it."

"Then reassure yourself, neither Sir Peter nor Richard can ever
possibly suffer such indignity."

"Eh?  Sir,--you mean----?"

"Exactly what I say.  Now please leave me with his lordship yonder, we
... we are to be parted a while very soon ... though only ... for
awhile I pray God."  So saying, Mr. Clipsby turned back to the bed and
stood there motionless again, staring down at that young, smiling face.

Noiselessly Jasper Shrig crept from the room and as silently stole
downstairs and out into the sunset-glow; reaching a certain very remote
corner of the garden well hidden from the house, he whistled softly,
whereat the Gimlet appeared from behind the summerhouse.

"Done, Jarsper, your scheme?"

"Ar!  You can send them lads back to town."

"Will it work, Jarsper?"

Mr. Shrig appeared to ponder this question, his usually placid face
strangely troubled:

"Ar--I reckon so," he nodded at last, "but--I'm vondering jest ven
it'll vork and--how, Gimblet, how?"

"What be you a-thinking now, Old Un?"

"Gimblet me b'y," answered Mr. Shrig, shaking his round head, "I'm
a-thinking as Death aren't finished hereabouts yet."

"Jarsper, I don't twig."

"No more don't I!" sighed Mr. Shrig.  "Hows'ever, you can get back to
London ... the job's finished--or pretty nigh."

"Then you'll be coming back soon, Jarsper?"

"Ar.  Though tell Corporal Dick to expec' me ven he sees me.  Good-bye
for the present, Gimblet, 'member me to your vife."

Slowly and heavily Mr. Shrig walked back to the house and being there,
paused some while to stare with troubled eyes up at the curtained
window of that dim and silent chamber where Eustace Clipsby still kept
his watch beside the dead.




CHAPTER XLV

TELLS HOW EUSTACE CLIPSBY SAW THE DAWN

Old Sol, rising in majesty like the beneficent god he is and has ever
been, was making a glory of the world, or rather this small part of
it,--this South Country of lush meads, shady coppices and bowery lanes
backed by the green soft swell of the gentle Downlands with a
far-glimpsed splendour beyond that was ocean.  Yes, up came the sun in
glory and at his joyous advent, dewy turf, hedgerow and tree decked
themselves in flaming gems while from these spangled thickets
rose--first a vague stir, then a drowsy twittering ... a blackbird
tuned his pipe and thereafter from a myriad small throats rose that
glamorous chorus to acclaim the new day and give sweet welcome to the
new hope it ever brings.

In this so magic hour it was that little Jane (this child of Destiny)
peeped forth of the open lattice and, seeing all things so wonderful,
dressed herself with small, nimble fingers, and leaving Rosemary still
fast asleep, stole away down the great staircase and out into the
fragrant morning.

And in this same fateful hour Eustace Clipsby, seated in the shrouded
chamber of death by the beam of guttering candles, was inditing a
letter with rapid quill.  His task accomplished, the letter folded and
sealed, he crouched awhile staring dull-eyed on vacancy.  At last, as
if roused by the blithe morning carol of the birds, he rose, drew back
the heavy curtains and leaning out into the early sunshine, breathed
deep of the fragrant air; and as he looked from sweet green earth to
radiant heaven, his sombre eyes brightened, from pale, lean face the
lines of pain and grief and care were all smoothed away and upon his
features grew a light not of the sun.  With eyes thus uplift he raised
one hand to his breast to feel and make sure of that which lay hidden
there and gazing thus heavenward, spoke in hushed voice: "_In manas
tuas, Domine_."

Turning back into the chamber he extinguished the candles and kneeling
beside the bed where the sun's level beams made a glory, he touched
that young, still face,--the cold cheek, the closed, long-lashed eyes,
the tender-smiling mouth; he smoothed the curling golden hair very
gently as a mother might have done and with this last, mute farewell,
rose and went silently from the chamber closing the door softly behind
him.

For a long moment he stood hearkening to the deep, slumberous stillness
of the great, old house, then downstairs went he into Sir Peter's
library.

And presently, hat in hand, he (like little Jane) went out into the
sunshine.

He walked at leisured pace, stopping now and then to inhale the
fragrance of some rose heavy with dew, or to watch the soaring flight
of songful lark mounting as it were in a very ecstasy.

Walking thus and careless of direction he presently espied the Home
Farm, the trim old house, the thatched and roomy barns grouped about
wide rick-yard where rose the great stacks fragrant and orderly.
Suddenly, out from one of these well-cared-for barns stepped Sir Peter
with a sturdy, rosy-faced man who scratched his head and shook it like
one in some perplexity.  Thus stood they in earnest talk until Sir
Peter chancing to espy Mr. Clipsby, waved hand in greeting and
dismissed the rosy-faced man with friendly nod.

"You are early abroad, Sir Peter."

"I often am," he answered, glancing back at trim barns and goodly ricks
with a certain complacency, "a farmer who really farms must be up early
and late.  This morning Giles, my cowman yonder, is having trouble with
a young, prize heifer, we are rather worried about her...."  Thus Sir
Peter, and was pensively silent until, glancing at his companion and
struck by something very wistful and desolate in the whole man, he
forgot his heifer and laying comforting hand on Mr. Clipsby's drooping
shoulder, took his slim, cold fingers into his own warm and vital
clasp.  So they stood awhile gazing mutely upon each other, eye to eye,
while in the sunny air above and around them larks carolled faint and
sweet.

"Sir Peter, I thank you with all my heart," said Clipsby at last, "such
true sympathy affects me, comforts me, and ... besides, I ... feel you
do me honour in taking my hand considering, well ... let us say--the
past."

Sir Peter's bronzed cheek flushed beneath the speaker's serene yet very
eloquent regard and, instead of answering at once, he tightened his
clasp upon this thin yet shapely hand ere he let it go.

"Mr. Clipsby," said he, then, "the past ... is past.  I pray that in
the future you may find a mede of happiness greater, sir, far deeper
than you have ever known."

"Sir Peter, I think--yes, I dare believe I shall!" said Clipsby gently,
as they paced on slowly side by side.  "For, sir, The Destiny that
rules Mankind is often kindly and always just ... in the end.  And
to-day I feel a promise of Life ... see how glorious the world is!  On
such a morning the haven of our cherished hope and dream shows very
near.  The very air breathes of Fulfilment ... the promise of a greater
living.  In that riotous bird-song ... voices long-hushed may speak
again,--calling, calling?  Yonder where the shadows play the loved and
vanished hand may beckon."

"Yes," answered Sir Peter, glancing at the speaker's rapt features a
little anxiously, "it is well to be alive on such a morning."

"Though better to dream or die, Sir Peter, for in death only is
realization."

"You are still thinking of Valentine,--poor, tragic boy?"

"Valentine!  Of course!" murmured Clipsby, lifting hand again
instinctively to the bosom of his modish coat.  "Valentine is truly
alive at last....  For what is this we name Life but a poor, visionary
thing where nothing is or can be ever perfect, a waking dream to
prepare us in some sort for the reality of True Life to which the thing
we call Death--wakes us?"

"Hum!" murmured Sir Peter, beginning to rub at his chin, "I am, to be
sure, convinced the abstraction we name 'soul' cannot die since it is,
as I believe, of the Infinite, that is to say,--of God, but----"

It was at this moment that Mr. Shrig suffered himself to become visible
as, stepping out from shady hedge, he saluted them hat in hand.

"A werry good day t'ye, sirs," quoth he, beaming from one to other.
"As fine a morning as ever I see ... and Sir Peter I'll ax you to read
this here werry a-nonnymous letter as I chanced to come by--no, by your
leaves I'll read it to ye!"  And forthwith, staying not for yes or no,
he drew forth, unfolded and began to read, thus:


"'Let Sir Peter Wibart take and instantly heed this friendly varning.
Powers are in motion while he sleeps.  Messengers ride post for London.
An indictment is to be svorne and himself arrested at any moment.  Oh
the shame of it!  Sir Peter Wibart arrested for murder----'


"The Capital Act is wrote in werry large Capitals, sir!


"'Con-sider the oh-deeum, the stigma the undying scandile.  Therefore
let him act at vonce to save hisself if he can by any or every means.
This the advice and varning of--a Friend.'


"And vot d'you think o' that, Sir Peter?"

"That you may tear it up, Shrig."

"Ho!" murmured Mr. Shrig, shaking his head.  "And vot do you say to it,
Mr. Clipsby sir?"

"I agree with Sir Peter that it is not worth while troubling about."

"Har!" murmured Mr. Shrig, folding the letter very carefully.  "But,
Sir Peter, lookee now, sir, if powers are in motion vile you
sleep,--though they'll have to be up precious early,--but if men are
riding to London----"

"They may ride, Shrig, they may ride."

"And you still refuse to say, to tell, to visper or to 'int oo it is as
you suspects, Sir Peter?"

"I do!  Shrig man, I tell you finally and once for all that I am
determined now that never under any circumstances will I----"

"Sir Peter ... oh sir...!" panted a fearful voice and to them ran
Giles, the cowman, his usually rubicund visage pale, his eyes wild.

"What is it, Giles?  Good heavens, man----"

"The bull, sir ... the noo, gurt, black ... bull be escaped!  Bruk 'is
chain, sir and 'e's away."

"Rouse all the men," quoth Sir Peter, buttoning his coat.  "Get poles
and ropes ... let your son give the alarm.  Come on man and hurry ...
hurry!"

"Me too, sir," nodded Mr. Shrig.

"Why what's become of Mr. Clipsby?"

"I vonder!" quoth Mr. Shrig as they hurried along "Is that theer bull
fierce, sir?"

"Turble fierce!" groaned Giles.  "Bruk 'is chain 'e did like so much
cotting and----"

"Let us run!" said Sir Peter.

Meanwhile Eustace Clipsby, though in no haste, walked like one with
some definite purpose, now and then pausing to glance about him and
choosing always such paths as seemed more remote and solitary.  So came
he to a small stream whose soft ripple and pleasant, murmurous chatter
seemed to lure him, for he followed this companionable rill until it
brought him into a wood, a shady place, its green glooms shot athwart
by Old Sol's radiant arrows and all athrill with the piping song of
birds; through this wood he sauntered until beyond green boskages he
beheld a wide and sunny meadow.  Reaching the edge of this wood he
paused and from the bosom of his coat drew the small pistol which had
lain hidden there, examined the priming, cocked it and, with death thus
ready, glanced slowly round about upon pleasant, sunny countryside and
up at the cloudless sky; from this serene contemplation he was startled
by a sudden, furious bellowing followed by a child's shrill, breathless
scream, and glancing thitherwards he beheld little Jane fleeing towards
the shelter of this wood with a trampling, snorting, fiery-eyed
destruction close behind.  Little Jane tripped and fell ... the great
bull thundered nearer, but Eustace Clipsby had leapt to action.

And now ensued a wild race between man and beast, two legs against
four--and two legs won, though by scarce a yard.  The child was
snatched up, set upon her feet, and:

"Run!" gasped a voice.  "The wood ... run!"

Then heroic man turned to front raging monster,--leapt to grasp those
murderous, terrible horns with desperate hands and so checked and, for
a moment, held the maddened beast ... he was jarred and shaken by that
mighty head, yet still for a brief while he clung ... but he was
whirled aloft ... trampled ... saw the huge, merciless head lowering
above him and, as death transfixed him, from dying lips sped a last cry
... faint ... inarticulate, yet a cry this that might have
been--gratitude.




CHAPTER XLVI

WHICH, THOUGH IT SHOULD END THIS NARRATIVE, DOES NOT

Gasping voices ... shouts ... quick, stern commands ... a wild and
furious trampling to and fro and the great animal, conquered at last,
is dragged away.

"Dam--midged ... S'Peter?" gasped Mr. Shrig.  "Your coat's nigh--tore
off ye, sir."

"No, Shrig, no ... but Clipsby ... oh my God--see yonder!"

"Sir, I've see!"

"Poor ... poor fellow.  It was heroic, Shrig."

"Ar!" nodded Mr. Shrig, stooping above that dreadful, trampled thing.

"Cover him up, man!  Oh, for kind mercy's sake--cover him!  Here, take
my coat!"

"Werrygood, Sir Peter, but--first..."  Mr. Shrig's deft and nimble
fingers became exceeding busy a while, then, sitting back on his heels,
he stared up at Sir Peter in a rather horrible bewilderment.

"What is it, Shrig--what now, man?" demanded Sir Peter easing his
bruised body out of his close-fitting coat.

"The letter, sir!  There should ha' been a letter ... a letter as I
worked for, schemed for ... there should ha' been a letter and--there
ain't!"

Unheeding, scarcely hearing, seeing only the awful thing that soaked
the trampled grass, Sir Peter knelt and very reverently covered this
broken, battered thing with his torn coat and, still upon his knees,
summoned divers of his men who came forthwith, bearing a hurdle whereon
they laid all that remained of Eustace Clipsby.

"Take him ... to the Home Farm," said Sir Peter hoarsely, "and bear him
gently, good fellows."  Then he arose and turning where little Jane
crouched, mute and shivering beneath a tree, he lifted the small,
trembling body and bearing her thus cradled in his arms set out for the
house with Jasper Shrig ambling beside him.  They had trudged thus some
while in silence when suddenly from beneath Sir Peter's chin, a clear,
childish voice spoke suddenly:

"Oh, please ... will you tell me----" here a stifled sob.

"What, Sweetheart?" he enquired, gently.

"Is he ... gone all dead ... too?"

"My dear," answered Sir Peter, bowing his head above the weeping child,
"he has gone up ... to be with your Fairy Prince ... he has risen above
us."

"Gone aloft!" added Mr. Shrig murmurously.  "Ar,--and by goles, letter
or no letter, he done it like a gen'leman ... troo-bloo ... noble!
And--vich is more,--like a proper man!"

Early though the hour, Charmian met them in the garden where she was
snipping roses with busy scissors and on her arm a basket abrim with
fragrant blossoms; but, catching sight of them, down went basket and
scissors and she came hurrying in quick alarm.

"Peter,--the child, is she hurt?"

"No ... no ... poor Eustace Clipsby....  The child is well enough, he
saved her from the bull ... but----"

"You mean ... oh, not ... dead?"

"Yes, dear.  Oh but, Charmian ... by God, it was noble!  He fronted
those murderous horns almost serenely ... he seemed almost ... too
calm.  Let us go indoors, the poor little maid has had a shock, see how
she trembles."

"The poor darling!  Give her to me, I'll take her to her beloved
Rosemary."

Now scarcely had they reached the house than Jasper Shrig met them and
he was beaming almost bright as the morning, for in his hand was a
letter.

"Sir Peter," quoth he jubilantly, "this here, as I reckon, is the
letter as I've expected and vorrited over.  Sir, I took the liberty o'
peeping into your libree and there I found it ... on your desk vere
nobody couldn't miss it.  And, sir, and ma'm, it is superscribed to
'Sir Peter and Lady Wibart, to be read together'."

"But whose, what letter is it, Mr. Shrig?" enquired Charmian, stooping
to kiss the small elfin face now pillowed on her bosom.

"Ma'm, it vas wrote by the late Mr. Eustace Clipsby.  So if you'll get
somebody to take charge o' that theer little innocent, p'raps Sir
Peter'll oblige by reading same and suffer me to 'ark."

"I won't be a minute," said Charmian, and hurried away with little Jane.

"So then you expected this letter, Shrig?" enquired Sir Peter, turning
it over in his hand.

"I did, sir.  Since you ax me s' p'inted, I'll tell you as I schemed to
get it wrote or the fac' spoke by vord o' mouth."

"You are extremely mysterious, Shrig."

"Though only now and then, sir."  As he spoke, back came Charmian and
closing the door:

"Now," said she, "the letter, Peter."

Slowly, and almost as though unwilling, Sir Peter broke the seal,
unfolded the letter and read this:


"'I, Eustace Clipsby, being about to front my Maker, the God of life
and most just yet merciful Judge of poor humanity, do, in this my last
hour of life, most solemnly avow that Charles, Earl of Abbeymere died
by my hand.  I killed him with good cause.  I shot him down as I would
have slain any other merciless, ravening animal.  Whether or no my act
was justified I leave to the Omniscient Judge before whose awful
tribunal my soul shall so soon appear to answer for this and every act
I have committed in the body.

"'Living, I suffered and endured much yet wrought, as I ever hoped, for
the best, and would yet have lived to serve a little longer; but dying
to such good purpose, I die very gladly.  I shall commit execution upon
this my corruptible body, leaving my soul, that I believe eternal, to
the judgement and abounding mercy of my God.  And to this true
statement and voluntary confession I for the last time subscribe my
name in the hope of pardon and a life of loving service hereafter.

"'EUSTACE CLIPSBY.'"


For a long moment after the reading was done they were silent and
utterly still, all three; then Charmian spoke in hushed question:

"But ... he didn't...?"

"No, ma'm, he didn't kill hisself," said Mr. Shrig as softly; "he meant
to do it, he valked out to do it ... here's the vepping as vas to ha'
been the means.  I found it primed and loaded, ar--'twas laying vere 'e
dropped it as he ran in to save that theer little innocent from the
bull.

"Ah yes ... yes..." murmured Sir Peter, folding up the letter
reverently, "now I understand!"




A LAST WORD TO THE READER

And now to such as have been so kindly patient to endure with your
narrator thus long, it is to be very plainly seen (and therefore by him
confessed) that here, according to all the rules and regulations laid
down by certain Knowing Ones, Literary Lights and Wiseacres, this book
should truly end.  For here the mystery, such as it is (and which has
been growing ever less mysterious) is explained; faithful love is
crowned with a happiness which, let us hope, shall endure, and all
suspense is over.  Yet because this is a simple tale without any
particular hero or heroine (or perchance with several) your narrator
feels another chapter may be expected.  A final chapter wherein we may
bid farewell to Charmian and Peter in their lusty middle age as they
stand on the down slope of Life's hill, their eyes on the far horizon,
resolute to front whatsoever sorrows and changes Time must inevitably
bring,--still bold to endure by reason of their love and faith in each
other.

Let us then take of them a parting glimpse, for should we ever meet
them again we must of necessity find them stricken in years, their
bright eyes dimmed, themselves perhaps a little feeble and yet, beyond
all doubting,--lovers still.

So come thou worn and weary pen, be thou recharged and let us to it
again, writing thus:




CHAPTER THE LAST

In which your narrator takes particular good care you shall hear, and
in right hearty fashion, marriage bells ring out in clamorous joy--hark
to 'em!




CHAPTER XLVII

THE LAST

Beyond all doubt it has been an extremely trying day for certain
slumberous owls and bats inhabiting the ancient church tower for the
bells (these clamorous monsters) have been hard at it for hours; and
though through the ages they have rung joyful benediction on many and
many a wedded pair, surely never in all their vasty length of days have
they clashed more merrily or rung a blessing with heartier good will
than to-day for the wedding 'o' Squoir Vibart's Mus' Richard.'

Yes, undoubtedly it has been a peculiarly disturbing day for these
particular bats and owls.

It has been a great day in the village, as witness the floral arches,
the fluttering ribbons, the flags and--the painted tea-tray set off
tastefully by garlands in little, old Mrs. Lethbridge's cottage window.

It has been a greater day at Holm Dene where Sir Peter's many
tenants,--farmer, yeoman and hind, have turned up to a man (and woman),
sisters, sweethearts and wives, to drink health and happiness to bride
and groom with three times three.

And here too was The County (most of it) surprisingly and almost
ostentatiously hearty, in especial Squire Golightly and his sprightly,
youthful lady.

Squire Golightly has risen (superbly Ajaxian) glass flourished aloft
(rather as it had been a javelin) to "toast the happy pair" and
thereafter (nose extremely Roman) to "hurl defiance in the Eye of
Slander and dare the Tongue of Calumny to ever alienate from their
esteemed and highly honoured host the heart, the soul, should he
say--the clinging tendrils of true Neighbourliness and enduring
Friendship.  Sir Peter, as one of themselves, as indeed a shining light
in The County, stood to-day higher in public esteem and deeper in the
... um ... ah ... hearts of his peers and neighbours than ever
before..." _et cetera_.

Mrs. Golightly, backed by the grim and faithful three, has kissed and
clung about "her ever adored Charmian," has cooed ecstatic over the
young bride's glowing beauty and "perfectly ex-quis-eet toilette."

The Bishop has beamed; the little General, jingling imaginary spurs,
has kissed the bride; the Hon. Bob emboldened by "strong waters"
(having exceedingly honoured every toast) has proposed "The ladies" in
terms and with metaphors (slightly mixed) somewhat reminiscent of the
Fancy and the hunting field; old gentlemen have hob-nobbed in corners
remote from ear-trumpeted dowagers,--in fine The County has almost
enjoyed itself and now departing, sadly cuts up Sir Peter's neat,
smooth drive with stamping hoofs and grinding wheels....

And after some while Miss Janet appears to tell them the carriage is at
the door and waiting.

"Oh," says young Richard, glancing a little shyly at his young wife,
"then I suppose ... perhaps ... we'd better ... go?"

"Why, of course, my dears!" says his mother, laughing rather shakily.

So Richard and his father shake hands, look very hard at, and away
from, each other, shake hands again and say--nothing.  Rosemary kisses
Miss Janet, kisses Charmian, goes out to the carriage on Sir Peter's
arm, comes running back for a last, whispered word with Charmian and
leaving a tear on her cheek, flies back to hide herself in the
carriage; in jumps Richard, waves his hat ... and they are off and away
upon that road which shall lead them--whither?

Thus all are gone leaving the old house to bask drowsily in the
afternoon sunlight ... and Charmian pacing slowly amid her roses,
leaning on Peter's arm.  And both are very silent until catching each
other sighing, they look and smile upon each other, though very
wistfully.

"Alone again, Peter!" she murmured.  "Just you and I, my dear....  Our
boy is gone."

"To his happiness, Dear Heart."

"But ... to make another home, Peter!"

"Though not ten miles away, Charmian....  And a fine estate--properly
managed, of course."

"She will, Peter.  Thank goodness, Rosemary has the art of management."

"Eh?  Rosemary?  My dear, I'm thinking of Richard."

"Yes, well she will manage Richard--well!"

"Manage him?  Now, my dear soul, you know and are perfectly aware that
our Richard is an extremely determined fellow, very resolute, perhaps a
little too much so, even indeed a little headstrong."

"Like his sire, Sir Peter, Peter--exactly!  A dogged, dogmatic man
creature and consequently needing the utmost ruling, the sternest
management,--and, my dear, Rosemary will!"

"Will--what, pray?"

"Manage him, rule him, guide him, mother him and bully him frequently,
I hope.  In fact, my man, Rosemary will manage son as I manage
father,--not quite so deftly perhaps, but---"

"Well, God bless my soul!" exclaimed Sir Peter, "do I understand that
you can actually believe such highly extravagant fallacy even for a
moment?  Good heaven!  Am I not master in my own house?"

"Certainly not!" she answered serenely.  "Of course not, never for a
single hour, my poor deluded wretch, I merely contrive that you
shall--think so...."

"Amazing!" gasped Sir Peter.  "Charmian, do you mean to tell me that
I----"

"Would have been quite lost, ruined, destroyed, dismal and dead--but
for me, oh frequently!"

"Preposterous!" he exclaimed, his indignation mounting.  "Absolutely
ridiculous!  Then perhaps you will even tell me that all these
years----"

"Yes!" she snapped.  "All these years I have ruled you, managed you, do
manage and shall manage you so long as you are my poor, purblind,
stately, blundering, frightfully dignified Peter and I ... remain your
most submissive, very devoted Humble Person."

Sir Peter smiled a little wryly, then he laughed, then, halting
suddenly, he caught her in his arms and kissed her--her smooth brow,
long-lashed eyes and ruddy, sensitive mouth.

"Thank God for it ... and you!" he murmured.  "And may it be long ...
long ... long!"  Then they went on again more slowly and with his arm
about her now.

"Ah, you dear Peter," she sighed, "you are still such a boy you make me
feel ... older than I am."

"And when you tremble and flush," he retorted pressing her closer, "you
seem such a girl that upon my soul, I feel like a boy again."

"Dear child!" she giggled; yet very presently sighed tremulously.

"What now?" he enquired.

"The little summer-house!" she answered, tearfully.

"I see it, my dear, but what on earth----"

"I used to sit there ... and teach ... our Richard ... his
alphabet...."  Here she must stop to reach Sir Peter's handkerchief and
dab her brimming eyes therewith.  "Peterdear, it seems only yesterday
that he was my tiny, clinging baby needing me every moment....  I was
his very life!  And then my wonderful child ... toddling ... tumbling
about all over the place and running to be kissed well again ... I was
his consolation!  And now----"

"Now, Sweetheart, you have ... only me again.  But, Charmian, upon my
life and soul ... you are as much life to me as ever you were to
Richard.  Yes, my dear, without you I should be lost in the dark and
perish indeed!  And then, God bless you, I know you are my comfort and
consolation ... always, Charmian, always!"

"Oh, my dear," she murmured, rubbing her cheek against his sleeve, "how
you comfort me--now!  You can be ... very wonderful ... now and then."

"Well, now," said he with sudden very youthful laugh, "suppose you get
into your riding habit and boots, while I----"

"Peter ... you mean...?"

"That we ride for Sissinghurst, my dear, I ordered Old Adam hours ago
to see our horses saddled."

Round his neck came her loving arms drawing him to her lips, and
kissing him, she murmured:

"Now, my Peter, you are wonderful, because hours ago I sent to old Mrs.
Westly to have the cottage ready for us to-night...."

And thus it was that, as evening deepened to glimmering dusk they rode
into little, sleepy Sissinghurst together and drawing rein before the
old inn, Sir Peter gestured towards the weatherbeaten sign with his
whip; quoth he:

"There he is, dearest, our old bull, as fiery-eyed and high-spirited as
ever."

"Though fading!" she sighed.

"Then I'll have him painted for you brighter than ever.

"Ah no.  Peter, let him fade untouched for old times' sake."

Suddenly the inn door opened to sound of rustic voices and out to them
hurried Old Simon.

"Be that you, Sir Peter?" he piped.  "And you, too, m'dear leddy!
Well, well, this do be prime!  Mrs. Westly told as you was on the road,
she be over tu the cottage now, she be.  Will ee come in and set a
spell?"  Now as the old man spoke there rose upon the drowsy, fragrant
air the sudden clang of hammer and anvil.

"George works late, Simon, surely?"

"Ay, Sir Peter, 'e du so.  Jarge doan't du nowt else, these days.
Jarge be a gloomsome soul, 'is 'eart be buried along of our Prue, I du
believe."

"Poor George!  Let us go to him," sighed Charmian.  "Is he there all
alone, Simon?"

"No, m'leddy.  Jarge aren't never alone since Tom come back wi' un from
Lonnon, him and Tom's gurt friends, puts up wi' his black looks an'
ways wonnerful, Tom du.  Will my lad take an' stable your 'osses, Sir
Peter?"

"Please, Simon.  Come, my dear, we'll have a word with George."  So
they crossed the wide road and standing in the gathering shadows,
looked in at the smithy where Black George laboured with ponderous,
clanging hammer, while Tom Lethbridge, a very black and grimy yet
withal cheery Tom, leaned to the bellows shaft, whistling softly; and
when the ringing hammer was still, Peter spoke:

"George," said he, "since you wouldn't visit us we've come to you."

"Eh, be that you, Sir Peter?"

"It is both of us," answered Charmian, softly.

Down went George's hammer, off came Tom's dingy hat, and for a moment
was silence; then stepping into the smithy Peter held out his hand, but
George shook his shaggy, golden head:

"I be too black, Sir Peter," said he, while Tom Lethbridge, erstwhile
poacher, shy of Sir Peter and over-awed by his lady, stole furtive away.

"Nonsense, man!  And call me 'Peter'; we're related now."

"So ... they'm man an' wife, then?"

"Of course they are.  Why didn't you come to the wedding as I wrote and
asked?"

"Here be my reason," answered George, twirling his heavy hammer.  "And
you now, you've come to stay a bit at th'owd cottage, they tell me, eh?"

"Yes, George."

"Being ... lonesome p'raps ... having lost your son."

"Good heavens--no!  We haven't lost him," said Sir Peter, sharply, "on
the contrary we've gained a daughter.  And then, beside," said he,
feeling for and clasping Charmian's hand, "having each other we can
never be lonely."

"Ay--having each other!" repeated Black George, very bitterly.  "Each
other ... ay, there it be!  Well, I've got my hammer ... ay, and Tom
yonder, so I be just ... waitin' ... I've lived my life, worked an'
slaved and don't owe a penny to no man and ... what's it brought me?"

"Achievement and Friendship," said Sir Peter, "your best work is
masterly ... like that church screen ... and will endure and ... well
we have always been friends, George.  What do you say, Charmian?"

"That life has brought him Love," she answered.  "A great, wonderful
love and ... Memory."

"Ah!" growled George like some fierce, wounded animal.  "Ah--memory!
... Ay, there be allus memory and 'tis such pain that I be ... just
waiting ... till the morning breaks."  Now, and even as he spoke,
Charmian leaned near and before he might prevent, caught his mighty
blackened hand, cherishing it between her two soft white ones.

"George, my dear," said she, looking up into his grim, yet sensitive
features, "I knew and loved your Prudence also, and I am very sure such
bitter grief would grieve her too.  Cannot her sweet memory comfort you
... even a little, George?"

"No!" he answered, averting his head.

"Have you never felt her gentle presence near you sometimes in your
dreadful loneliness?"

"Ay!" he muttered.  "Though 'twere only fancy.  Lord!  I've seen her
sweet face ... smile up at me from my forge fire many a time ... but I
know 'tis only a vision as comes and goes and leaves ... only ashes."

"Ah no, George, no!  These are more than idle fancies, for I believe
there is a ... a way beyond our earthly sight where those we have truly
loved so long and lost ... for just a little while ... may come when
least we know to touch and wake us to better life and hope for the
future ... to comfort us, guide and shield us ... oh George, can you
believe this?"

"I can ... try," he answered, with a new gentleness.  "Yes, I will try
for my Prue's sake and ... yours, for Prue loved ee mighty well and ...
ecod ... no wonder!"

"Now for that ... oh, George stoop--stoop!"

Wondering, he obeyed and so she kissed him.

"Lord!" he whispered, and into his fierce blue eyes came such
tenderness as few had ever seen, a gentle light dimmed by sudden tears.

"Lord!" he gasped again.  "And so--turble grimy ... as I be!"

"Because you are our own Black George," she murmured, "and will come
and sup with us--to-morrow."

"Nay, now I aren't used----"

"To-morrow at eight!"

"Nay but I can't nowise----"

"I'll cook a rabbit!"

"I'll come!" said George and, smiling suddenly, reached out a hand to
each.  "Such friendship----" said he, and choked.  "Friendship be a
rare, good thing, Peter....  Friendship be a very ... mighty good
thing!"

"Yes," said Peter.  "Friendship is ... mighty!"

"Up there," said George, hoarsely, "aloft on the beam yonder is your
old hammer, Peter, I ... hung it there when you went away, nobody
aren't touched it since.

"Eh---my hammer?" quoth Sir Peter, his dark eyes kindling.  "By George,
George, old fellow, we'll have it down, to-morrow I'll come and strike
for you, and we'll chant the old anvil song--you remember:

  'Strike! ding, ding!
  Strike! ding, ding!
  The iron glows
  And loveth good blows
  As fire doth bellows
  Strike!  Ding, ding!'"


"Peter ... oh Peter, Lord love ee I aren't heard or sung that through
all these weary years!"

"Then--to-morrow, George!"

"Ay, to-morrow ... old friend!"

Night had fallen and they walked slowly, these two, and very close
together,--this husband and wife, this father and mother,--walking as
only true lovers may, in a perfect mutual content.

"In a leather apron again and black from the fire--my stately Sir
Peter!" said Charmian, and laughed very happily.

"And, by heavens, I shall thoroughly enjoy it!" he answered, clasping
vigorous arm about her.  "Thank Venus you don't wear those whalebone
things and busked abortions!" he exclaimed.

"Goodness--me!" she murmured.  "You would never have stooped to dare to
say such thing when you were my very demure, extremely pedantical Mr.
Peter--Smith!"

"Perhaps not....  I was a bit of a stick,--but I knew it, oh yes I was
quite aware of it none the less."

"Why, Peter, how in the world----"

"Never mind."

"But I do mind....  I was so careful and quite excessively modest,--so
how on earth could you----"

"However!" he chuckled, and they went a while in a very pregnant
silence.

"I wonder?" said she, suddenly.  "Peter, do you suppose our children
are as happy as we?"

"No, of course not!" answered Sir Peter with his tone of sweeping
finality.  "But they think they are, so God bless them! ... Aha, and
there's our old cottage all aglow and winking at us through the green
like the sly old rogue it is, for of course--it knows, Charmian."

"Oh what, Peter--now what?"

"Just how beautiful you were ... and are, and how exactly the one and
only woman ... and why."

"The dear, sly, knowing old thing!" she laughed, a little shakily.  "Do
you wonder I love its every brick and beam?  See, how cosy it looks!
Mrs. Westly will be there--and supper, Peter!"

"But there," said he, pausing to draw and hold her close, "there will
be ... my Charmian!"

Then Peter kissed her.




THE END.




[End of The Way Beyond, by Jeffery Farnol]
