CHAPTER V
THE ALLURE OF SIMPLICITY: MOONLIGHT AND AN ELOPEMENT
“Betty lass,” exclaimed my Lady Herminia, surveying her handsome features in the travelling-mirror, “Old Drury hath lost a notable and vastly clever actress in me! I ha’ played the innocent country wench to such infinite perfection of admiration that the poor fool languishes already ... ogles my charms and talks—of my soul! Oh, a dangerous man, Bet, a wicked wretch—one o’ your soft-spoke, smooth-tongued, dove-eyed, silky, seducing monsters—a very serpent of iniquity, child! But I’m no poor, meek, bread-and-butter miss to be lured to shame or whispered to destruction by any such perfidious and patent villain, not I, Bet!”
“Oh no, my lady!” nodded placid Betty. “No, indeed, mam, heaven knows you’m a sight too clever an’ knowin’——”
“Knowing, woman! Ha, what d’ye mean by ‘knowing,’ pray?”
“La, I don’t know, my lady ... I only know as you know yourself a match for any fine gentleman, villain or no, ever and always, mam——”
“’S bud, but I should hope so, Bet, especially this poor creature!”
“Aye, to be sure, but ... O my lady, if he be truly dangerous——”
“Tush! I know the breed, and forewarned is forearmed. And he mistaketh me for a country simpleton dazzled by his fine airs! So I intend to make it my duty to teach him a shrewd lesson, Betty.”
“Yes, mem, but how?”
“I intend to lower his pride, girl—to shame him cruelly.”
“Why, then, ’tis as good as done, mam. But——”
“I’ll drag his insufferable self-esteem in the dust ... through the mud ... trample it ’neath my feet ... make him a mock—a jest and byword.”
“I’m sure you will, my lady, but how?”
“How, Bet? Why, by running away with him to begin with, for sure.”
“O mem!” ejaculated Betty, lifting imploring hands. “O my dear lady——”
“Woman, don’t wail—’tis useless! I regard this as a sacred duty, girl!”
“But ... O lud, my lady ... think o’ your ladyship’s good name ... the scandal——”
“One must be prepared to suffer in the high cause of duty, Betty child ... and, besides, my name will be Rose Ashton!”
“But, O my lady, if you run away—what o’ me?”
“You will proceed towards Paris in the coach as I ha’ told you, child! You will be quite safe with Giles and the footmen. And this minds me, the coach should be ready, and the sooner you start the better. Go down and bid Giles prepare for the road immediately. Stay, you cannot in all that finery! We’ll send Rose instead!” And away sped my lady accordingly, quite deaf to Betty’s reproachful wailings.
Thus Sir John, toying gloomily with knife and fork, was presently aware of stir and bustle within the house and of stamping hoofs and rumbling wheels without: wherefore he arose and crossed to the window in time to see Rose’s mistress, muffled to the eyes, clamber into the great four-horsed travelling-chariot, followed by Rose herself similarly attired; he watched the footmen close the door, put up the steps and swing themselves into the rumble, heard the hoarse command of the driver, a sudden clatter of straining hoofs, and away rolled the cumbrous vehicle towards Paris.
“And despite her chin!” sighed Sir John within himself. “Poor, silly, innocent child! Ah well, perchance her prayers and little cross may avail. Heaven send it so——”
Here he was roused by a huge hand on his shoulder and Sir Hector’s voice in his ear:
“Och-heigh! Are ye wearyin’ for Parus—sae sune, John?”
“Paris? Ha—’tis a sink of iniquity!” he retorted so fiercely that Sir Hector peered.
“Oo aye,” he nodded. “’Tis a’ that, laddie, and yet ye contrived tae pit up wi’t for five lang year.” At this Sir John frowned and was silent. “Aweel, aweel,” quoth Sir Hector, “there’s England waitin’ ye, aye, and happiness, I trust——”
“Happiness!” repeated Sir John scornfully.
“Why not, lad? ’Tis time ye married and settled doon——”
“Horrific thought!” growled Sir John.
“Why, then, John,” quoth Sir Hector, his English suddenly very precise, “you might begin to take an interest in your own affairs, particularly your estates; they are damnably mismanaged, I hear, more especially at High Dering ... where you were born and your mother died ... sweet soul!”
“High Dering!” repeated Sir John. “I’ faith it seems a far cry to the old house—the green slopes of Firle and our good South Downs! ’Tis long since we saw ’em together, Hector?”
“Yes, John, it is seven years and more since you left High Dering for London and the modish world. And to-day, lad, instead of being a plain country gentleman content in the prosperity of your tenants, here you stand a man of fashion, a town gallant full of polite airs and tricks and graces, but curst unhappy by your looks—while High Dering is going to the devil!”
“’Tis mismanaged, you say, Hector? And yet Sturton, my bailiff, seems to do very well——”
“Oh, excellent well, John, for you—and himself! But ’tis vastly otherwise with your tenantry, I hear.”
“You contrive to hear a great deal, Hector, one way or another!”
“No, just in the one way, lad, with my ears. Ye see, Nature gi’e me eyes an’ lugs an’ I use ’em——”
“And you tell me Sturton is a rogue?”
“I say go and see for yourself, John. Get ye to High Dering and look, John, listen—and act!”
“I will, Hector. The peace and quiet of the place will be grateful, besides.”
“Ye’ll no’ find it sae peaceful, lad, nor yet sae quiet whateffer!”
“Why, pray?” demanded Sir John, with sudden interest.
“Well, John, ye’ll ken the name o’ Lord Sayle, I’m thinkin’?”
“Aye, I do!” nodded Sir John, his interest deepening. “I’ve heard he has ‘been out’ rather frequently——”
“Losh, man, he has that! A wild, desp’rit, duelling body wi’ reputation as unsavoury as—as y’r ain, John, but wi’ this difference—he fights tae kill an’ generally pinks his man. He’s ane o’ y’r gentlemanly rapscallions wha’ll insult ye vera politely, y’ ken, an’ kill ye vera genteelly into the bargain if ye dare tae tak’ offence.”
“So I’ve heard; and what then, Hector?”
“John, the man’s leeving within half an hour’s ride o’ y’r ain park gates. After killing the young Marquis of Torwood last year, London grew too hot, so my lord marched bag and baggage to his Sussex estate, and there he’s lived ever since—aye, and a place of unholy riot he keeps there, as I hear. An’ what’s more, John, what wi’ his desp’rit proneness tae bluidshed, there’s few tae gainsay him, y’ ken—his will is law in the South Country these days.”
“’S bud!” murmured Sir John. “’S life, but begin to yearn for the country more than ever!”
“Hoot, laddie, hoot-toot, ye’ll no’ be sic a fule tae pick a quarrel juist for y’r ain vanity an’ vainglory, Johnnie? The man’s good a sworder as ye’sel’——”
Sir John laughed and, reaching up, straightened Sir Hector’s periwig that had worked itself rather more askew than usual.
“Tush, man!” said he. “Sure you know that your true duellists take most particular pains to avoid each other. Shall dog eat dog? And I detest bloodshed, Hector. I prefer pen to sword—and that reminds me we have not as yet determined on an apt rhyme to ‘soul!’” And out came Sir John’s unfinished script. “The work is in ode form, and, so far as it goes, is well enough. Pray sit down, Hector; the night is young—listen and judge for yourself.”
“Na, na, John!” answered Sir Hector, retreating to the door. “I hae no ear for po’try, ye ken—so I’ll awa’ tae bed and leave ye to’t, lad. But dinna sit too long—for we maun be up betimes. Guid-night.”
Left alone, Sir John tossed the unfinished ode into the fire and, having watched it flare to ash and vanish up the wide chimney, sat awhile in thought. Gradually the place above and around him grew hushed, voices died away, busy feet grew still; the inn sank to rest. But Sir John sat on staring into the dying fire, deep-plunged in brooding thought. So lost was he that he heard no sound of opening door, of light footstep, until roused by a soft touch; he started and glanced up, to behold her of whom he was thinking.
Meekly she stood before him, clad for the road in a long, hooded cloak, with a bundle in her hand, a very small bundle tied up in a neckerchief.
“Rose!” he murmured.
“Here I be, sir,” she answered timidly. “An’ now what will your honour please to do wi’ me?”
Instinctively Sir John arose, but stood mumchance, for once in his life speechlessly perplexed; perceiving which, she continued demurely:
“If your honour is ready to go, I am.”
“To go?” he repeated. “Aye, but whither, child?”
“I ... I thought you would know best, sir,” she answered. “But wherever it be, the sooner we start the better.”
“What’s your hurry, Rose?”
“’Tis my mistress, sir—the moment she misses me, she’ll come a-galloping back to find me, y’ see; she do rely on me for her curls an’ complexion, your honour.”
“Ah,” murmured Sir John, “two highly necessary things to any woman o’ fashion! She will doubtless fly back in quest of ’em.”
“Then pray let us go, sir.”
“Aye, but how? Here is no sort of conveyance unless it be a posting nag. Can you ride, girl?”
“No, sir.”
“A-pillion?”
“I should tumble off, sir.... But we’ve got legs, your honour——”
“Limbs, child!”
“An’ I be a good walker an’ main strong, sir——”
“Aye, as a goddess o’ the groves and fountains, Rose.”
“An’ ’tis a mortal fine night, your honour! And look at the moon—so splendid an’ all!”
“Splendid indeed, Rose!” And, opening the lattice, Sir John leaned out into a radiant night very calm and still—breathed an air soft and fragrant, saw the gleaming highway barred and fretted by the black shadows of the sombre trees—a magically alluring road, a way mysterious to woo the adventurous.
Sir John sighed and drew in his head.
“Y’ are very right, child; the sooner we start the better! In the corner yonder you will find my cloak and pistols; pray bring ’em whiles I scribble a line to my friend.” And sitting down forthwith he took pen and paper and indited the following epistle:
“MY DEAR HECTOR,—I have departed for England, but will meet you in High Dering at the earliest moment, where you shall inquire for one, John Derwent. Meanwhile I am, as ever, thy wholly devoted, loving
“JOHN DERWENT.
“P.S.—I have taken the girl Rose with me.”
Having duly sealed and directed which missive, he arose, took up his pistols, examined flint, charge and priming and thrust them into the capacious pockets of his riding-coat; then he enveloped himself in the cloak, softly unbarred and opened the door and, hat in hand, bowed his companion out of the silent inn.
“Come, child,” said he, “let us, confident in Fate and each other, seek the unknown together, nothing doubting.”