CHAPTER IV
SHEWETH THE WICKED DERING IN A NEW RÔLE
Sir John, deep-plunged in gloomy abstraction, was suddenly aroused by the noisy entrance of two travellers, very elegant gentlemen who, cramped from their chaise, stamped and yawned and stretched, and damned the dust, the road, the inn, the landlord and all creation save themselves. Loudest of the twain was a tall, youngish man who wore a stupendous periwig, a gentleman very small as to eyes and large as to teeth that gleamed between the lips of a heavy mouth.
To them presently came the landlord, who, with many profound obeisances and servile excuses, begged them to follow him to a chamber more suited to their nobilities.
Left alone, Sir John sat legs outstretched, chin on breast, staring at the toes of his dusty riding-boots, lost once more in gloomy retrospection of the last five years, his dejection ever deepening, until he was aroused for the second time, as from the other side of the partition behind his chair rose a man’s chuckling laugh, the sound of desperate struggling, a woman’s scream.
Sir John arose and, stepping out into the passage, threw open the door of an adjoining chamber and saw this: Upon a roomy settle the gentleman in the large toupet and upon his knees, struggling wildly in the merciless clasp of his arms, the girl Rose. Sir John’s serenity vanished, his habitual languor changed to vehement action: ensued the quick, light stamp of a foot, a glitter of darting steel and the gentleman’s lofty periwig, transfixed upon Sir John’s unerring sword-point, was whisked into a distant corner. Then Sir John spoke:
“Monsieur,” said he softly, “favour me by releasing your so charming captive.” Next moment she was free, and, shrinking to the wall, saw Sir John’s face quite transfigured, the mobile lips grimly set, the delicate nostrils a-quiver, eyes fierce and threatening as his sword. “Sir,” he continued in the same gentle tone, “permit me to tell you that I do not like your face—it irritates me! Pray have the kindness to remove it, therefore—take it hence or——”
“What the devil!” exclaimed the wigless gentleman, getting upon his legs.
“Rose,” said Sir John, “child, pray leave us!” For a moment she hesitated then, uttering an inarticulate cry, fled from the room, and Sir John closed the door. “Now, sir,” quoth he, saluting the gentleman with an airy flourish of his weapon, “if your friend yonder will be so obliging as to help push this table into the corner we can settle our little affair quite comfortably, I think.”
“Damnation!” exclaimed the wigless gallant, and, clapping hand to sword, half drew it, then checked and stood at gaze. When next he spoke his tone was altogether different: “You ... I think I have the honour to address Sir John Dering?”
“The same, sir.”
The gentleman sheathed his sword and bowed.
“My name is Scarsdale, sir,” said he. “I had the pleasure of meeting you in Paris lately—at the Marquise de Sauvray’s rout, if you remember?”
“I do not, sir.”
Mr. Scarsdale took out his snuff-box, stared at it, tapped it, fumbled with it and bowed.
“My dear Sir John,” said he, “if I had the curst misfortune to ... ah ... to cross you in the matter of ... an ... Yon rustic Venus ... poach on your preserves, ’twas done all unwitting and I apologise.... A delicious creature; I felicitate you.”
“Mr. Scarsdale,” answered Sir John, “I accept your explanation. At the same time, I take leave to point you to the fact that this inn is small and I detest being crowded. May I then venture to suggest that you and your friend seek accommodation—elsewhere?”
“How, sir—how, Sir John?” stammered Mr. Scarsdale, running nervous hand over wigless, close-cropped head. “You ... you ask us to—to——”
“Favour me with your absence, sir.”
For a moment Mr. Scarsdale stood mute; his face grew suddenly red and as swiftly pale, his eyes glared, his large teeth gleamed evilly, but noting Sir John’s resolute air, his piercing gaze, the serene assurance of his pose, Mr. Scarsdale commanded himself sufficiently to bow with a flourish.
“Tom,” quoth he to his silent companion, “ha’ the goodness to pick up my wig.” Receiving which indispensable article, he clapped it on somewhat at random and, hurrying from the room with the silent Tom at his heels, was presently heard calling for horses and chaise and damning all and sundry louder than ever until, with a stamp of hoofs and rattle of wheels, he was borne damning on his way.
Sir John was in the act of sheathing his sword, when he turned at sound of a light footstep.
“Ah, Rose,” sighed he, gazing into her troubled eyes, “yonder go two of your ‘grand gentlemen’—Paris teems with such! Better surely an honest English lover in homespun than be hunted by Brutality in lace and velvet. Did they fright thee, child ... and despite thy prayers and little cross?” Here she hid her face in her hands. “Nay, Rose, if they reverence not thy virgin purity how should they revere aught else! And Paris reeks of such as they ... to hunt thy fresh young beauty! And thou ... in thy pretty innocence—alas! Wilt thou to Paris, child?”
“Your honour knows my lady is determined on’t”
“Then be you determined also. You have a chin—let me look at it.”
Unwillingly she raised her head, eyes abased yet very conscious of his scrutiny.
“Pray what o’ my chin, sir?” she questioned.
“Firmly round and with a dimple in’t!” he answered. “’Tis a chin speaks thee resolute to choose and act for thyself. So—if your lady will to Paris let her go without you, child.”
“Without me?” she repeated, innocent eyes upraised to his. “O sir, do you mean me to bide here—with your honour?”
At this direct question Sir John was silent a moment, and, meeting the intensity of her gaze, felt his cheeks burn unwontedly.
“Could you trust yourself to—my honour, child?”
For a long moment she made no reply, and Sir John marvelled to find himself awaiting her answer with a feeling akin to anxiety. “Well, child?” he demanded at length.
“I ... think so, sir.”
“You are not sure, then?”
“Ah, sir,” she sighed, “I be only a poor maid and you’m a grand gentleman like—like them as you druv’ away.”
“Ha, d’ye think so, girl!” he exclaimed pettishly. “Confound me, but you are not flattering! Can you indeed think me of such base, material clay, Rose? Are you so addle-witted, so dense, so dull to suppose ’tis your pink-and-white prettiness lures me?”
“La, no, your honour—indeed, no!” she answered humbly, her voice a little uncertain and her face hid beneath the laces of her mob-cap. “Though—though your honour do think I be—pretty?” she added questioningly.
“Pretty?” he repeated scornfully. “Tush, child! What hath your prettiness to do with it? ’Tis your natural goodness draweth me, your fresh simplicity your purity and unstained innocence! I needs must reverence the white soul of you——”
Here, Sir John chancing to look down and she to look up, their glances met and he was abruptly silent; wherefore she curtsied demurely an murmured:
“Yes, your honour!” But Sir John was silent so long that she began to tap with fidgeting foot and to pleat a fold in her apron.
“Rose,” said he at last, “look at me!” Her eyes were raised in instant obedience, eyes deep and dark and heavy-lashed, that met his keen scrutiny unwavering and wholly unabashed.
“You laughed, I think?” he challenged.
“Who—me, sir?” she cried, eyes wider than ever.
“Do any women possess souls, I wonder!” said he bitterly.
“Parson do think so, your honour.”
“Then perchance you may find yours some day, for, until you do, child, you must remain and never know or appreciate the great, good things of life——”
“Tripe an’ pig’s-trotters, John!” exclaimed Sir Hector, bursting in upon them, brandishing a long-handled fork. “Par-boiled, ye ken, an’ crisped in a brisk oven——”
A rush of flying feet; the bang of closing door; a sound of stifled, hysterical laughter.
“Losh, man Jack,” exclaimed Sir Hector, staring into his companion’s scowling visage, “was yon that Rose creature?”
“Yon was!” answered Sir John grimly. “And what then, Hector?”
“Umph-humph!” snorted General Sir Hector Lauchlan MacLean.
“Pray, Hector, what might you mean?”
“Supper, John! Tripe an’ pig’s-trotters—aye, an’ cooked by my ain hand, whateffer—the smell o’ yon wad mak’ Lucullus watter i’ the mou’! Sae dinna froon, lad, but come an’ eat!”