CHAPTER VII
WHICH INTRODUCES MY LORD SAYLE AND THE CLASH OF STEEL
Sir John rubbed the sleep from his eyes to behold his companion approaching, evidently fresh from her morning ablutions; moreover, her sprigged petticoat, if a little rumpled, looked surprisingly trim, her square-toed, flat-heeled shoes were innocent of dust and she had even contrived to comb and dress her hair—black, glossy hair, he noticed, that fell in wanton curls on either white temple. And, seeing her so neat and trig from top to toe, he immediately became supremely conscious of his own rumpled garments, his unshaven chin and the haystalks entwined in the tangled ringlets of his peruke. None the less, he rose and bowed with his usual grace, giving her a cheery “Good morning.”
“’S heart, child!” he exclaimed, “you walk proud as Dian’s self or lady o’ high degree, God save your ladyship!” And he bowed again with an exaggerated flourish, at which she frowned and answered sullenly:
“You’m asleep and dreaming, I think!”
“Aye, belike I am, wench,” he answered gaily. “I dream you sweet, gentle and great o’ soul—and dreams ever go by contrary, for thy looks are sour, thy speech ungracious and thy soul—ha, thy soul, child!”
“What of’t?”
“’Tis the unknown quantity! How, dost frown yet, my Rose? Is it for anger or hunger?
“O Rose of love, O fragrant rose
Thy visage sheweth me
The source of all thy present woes
Is that thy stomach empty goes,
So filled it soon shall be.
—bethink thee, Rose, the joys in store—ham, beef, beer ... base material things to appal the soul and yet—how comfortable, how irresistible to your human maid and man! So ha’ patience, sweet wench, ha’ patience till I have laved me, combed me and found us an inn. Meantime sit ye and list to the birds, commune you with Nature whiles I go wash in the brook yonder.”
And away he strode, blithe and debonair despite the straws in his wig, leaving her to bite red underlip and frown after him until a clump of willows hid him from view. Then, coming to the niche in the haystack, she began to seek in angry haste, wholly unconscious that Sir John was watching her from his screen of leaves, keen-eyed, and with the enigmatical smile curling his grim mouth. Thereafter he proceeded with his toilet at a leisured ease.
So long was he indeed that she came thither impatiently at last, to find him seated upon grassy bank, his great periwig upon one fist, doing his best to smooth its rebellious disorder with an ivory pocket-comb of pitifully inadequate proportions.
“Are ye going to be all day?” she demanded.
“I hope not,” he sighed, tugging at a refractory tangle.
“You’ll never do it that way, fool!” she exclaimed.
“Your pardon, madam,” he answered gravely, “but I shall, if I sit here till the trump o’ doom——”
“You’re a nice gentleman’s servant!” quoth she scornfully. “You don’t even know how to use a comb——”
“I have my own method!” he retorted.
Her answer was to snatch the wig, pluck from him the comb and show him with contemptuous elaboration how it should be done, while Sir John, leaning back against a convenient tree, watched her with respectful interest.
“If I had only thought to bring a razor!” he murmured, feeling his stubbly chin.
“You look mighty ordinary without your wig!” said she, viewing him with coldly disparaging glance. “Very ordinary ... and insignificant!”
Sir John sighed and shook his head.
“No man is a hero to his valet!” he answered, whereat she tossed wig and comb at his feet and turned her back on him.
Sir John put on his peruke, settled it with nicest care, stroked the long, glossy curls, and rose.
“Many thanks!” quoth he. “But for my chin I should feel well-nigh respectable. And now permit me to return this trifle, which ’tis likely you have been diligently a-seeking.”
Glancing round, she saw that he was tendering the silver-mounted pistol. “I found myself lying upon it as I slept,” he explained. “’Tis a pretty toy, yet deadly enough—at close quarters. ’Twas vastly wise in you to arm you before trusting yourself to—my honour. I commend your extreme discretion. It must be a comfort to you to know you can blow my head off whenever you think necessary, or feel so disposed! Come, take your pistol, child—take it!” But, seeing she merely frowned, he thrust the weapon into the pocket of her cloak whether she would or no.
“So there you stand, Rose,” he smiled, “thrice, nay, four times armed—by your prayers, your little cross, a pistol and ... your innocence! ’Faith, child, you should be safe enough o’ conscience! Come, then, let us go seek breakfast.”
And now as they trudged along he talked of birds and the wayside flowers, of which it seemed he knew much; but finding she only frowned or yawned as the whim took her, he quickened his pace.
“Why will ye hurry a body so—I be all breathless!” she protested at last.
“I would haste to feed you, sweet Rose; ’twill render you less thorny, mayhap—and a little better company.” At this she stopped to frown and clench her fists, whereupon he promptly seized the nearest and patted it kindly.
“A pretty hand, Rose,” said he, “a slim, white, soft, shapely little hand, and yet useful for all its idle looks.”
“I hate you!” she exclaimed bitterly.
“God bless you, child, I believe you do!” he answered. “But the birds sing, the sun shines, and I shall enjoy my breakfast none the less, which, if I remember this road aright, is none so far to seek!”
Sure enough, rounding a bend, they presently espied a large posting-inn astir with bustle and excitement; horses stamped, chains rattled, ostlers ran to and fro, voices shouted; from all of which it was to be surmised that important company had lately arrived or was about to depart.
Threading his way through all this confusion, Sir John beckoned to a large and somewhat pompous person.
“Landlord,” quoth he, “three-quarters of an hour hence you will have a coach and post-horses at the door. Meanwhile—breakfast!”
Sir John was his usual gentle, imperious self—but his chin was unshaven, his boots and clothes dusty; wherefore mine host’s bow was perfunctory and his manner somewhat off-hand when he “regretted he was unable to oblige Monsieur, as the only fresh team of horses was already commanded for a great English milord—it was distressing, mais que voulez-vous! As for breakfast, it was to be had within—Monsieur must pray excuse him, he was busy!” Sir John, completely forgetful of clothes and chin, was staring amazed and a little shocked by the landlord’s extraordinary lack of respectful and instant obedience, when his companion twitched him by embroidered cuff and, turning, he wondered to surprise a look on her face that might have been exultation, and there was suppressed excitement in her voice and gesture as she pointed to a coat-of-arms emblazoned upon the panels of an elegant travelling-chariot that stood near by.
“Look yonder!” said she. “Oh, ’tis small use you expecting horses if this English lord wants ’em. Ye see, I know who he is—look there!”
“A vulgar display of paint!” nodded Sir John, glancing at the coat-of-arms. “Pray what of it?”
“That coach belongs to my Lord Sayle!”
“And pray, what then?”
“When he wants anything he generally gets it,” she answered.
“And why is he so cursed, child?”
“Because nobody dare gainsay him!”
Now hearing the taunt in her voice, reading it in her look, Sir John’s blue eyes grew suddenly very keen and bright, then he laughed a little bitterly.
“You think ’tis time one dared the fellow, perhaps. Ah, Rose, had we Sir John Dering with us, were my master here——”
“’Twould be a new experience for him to meet—a dangerous man!” she retorted.
“Indeed, child, you grow a little bloodthirsty, I think!” he sighed. “Rest you here a moment. I must speak a word with master landlord.”
Left alone, she stood to stare after Sir John’s slender, light-treading figure, then, turning about, entered the inn.
The place was full of stir and bustle, so, pulling her hood about her face, she mounted the stair, but paused at sound of riotous merriment from a room near by; she was standing thus hesitant, when a vigorous arm was clasped suddenly about her and, all in a moment, she was half-carried, half-dragged to a certain door which, swinging wide, discovered three gentlemen at their wine, chief among them one who sat at the head of the table, resplendent in sky-blue coat and flaxen periwig that framed a handsome, arrogant face, bold of eye, full-lipped and square of chin; a gentleman who bore himself with a masterful air and who now, setting down his glass, leant suddenly forward to stare at her who stood shrinking beneath the fixity of his gaze.
“By Venus and all the Loves!” he exclaimed. “Whom ha’ you there, Huntley?”
“A bird o’ price, Sayle! Ha’n’t I caught a pretty bird, then?”
“Smite me!” exclaimed his lordship, viewing the captive in growing amaze. “Burn me if I ever saw such a resemblance! She might be the proud Barrasdaile herself were she a little less vulgarly robust—less redundant in her curves, d’ye see. Bring her hither, Huntley man!”
“Damme, no, Sayle—she’s mine!”
“Damme, yes, sir, she belongs to all! In her we greet her bewitching prototype, in her rustical image we’ll adore and pay homage to her of whom she is the very spit, the breathing likeness—‘the Barrasdaile’ herself. Since the haughty beauty is beyond our reach, this countrified semblance of her shall serve our turn ... she’s a dainty creature, I vow, with ruddy lips ... a waist ... a shape! Bring her hither, man! Nay—up on the table with her! Aye so, throned on the table she shall receive our worship!”
Despite struggles, supplications and bitter reproaches, she was hoisted to the table amid a hubbub of cheers and laughter and, standing thus, faced them—a wild creature, trembling with shame, rage and a growing fear.
And it was now that Sir John chose to open the door, pausing on the threshold, snuff-box in hand, to survey the scene with an expression of cold and passionless disgust until the company, a little taken aback by his sudden appearance, ceased their clamorous merriment to frown with one accord upon the intruder, and fiercest of all, my Lord Sayle.
“What the devil?” he demanded. “This is a private room, sir—get out and be damned!”
Sir John smiled, closed the door and leaned his back against it, whereat were murmurs and mutterings of angry surprise, and my Lord Sayle rose to his feet.
“Damme, is the fellow drunk or mad!... What d’ye want?” he demanded.
“Horses!” answered Sir John and, smiling affably at the angry company, helped himself to a pinch of snuff. And now the trembling captive, finding herself thus momentarily forgotten, sprang from the table and was at Sir John’s elbow all in a moment; but he never so much as glanced at her, all his interest centred apparently in the flaxen curls of my Lord Sayle’s wig. “I am here, sir,” he went on, closing and fobbing his snuff-box, “to inform you that, learning you had engaged the only horses available, and deeming my own need of ’em the more urgent, I have taken the liberty of countermanding the animals to my own use.”
At this was a moment’s amazed stillness, then my lord laughed fiercely and leaned across the table to glare, his nostrils unpleasantly dilated.
“You are assuredly an ignorant fool, sir,” quoth he, “for ’tis certain you do not—cannot know me!”
“Nor desire to, sir!” murmured Sir John.
“I am Sayle—Lord Sayle! You’ll have heard the name, I fancy?”
“And mine, my lord, is Derwent, and you will never have heard it, I am sure. But what has all this to do with horses, pray?”
“This, my poor imbecile—and hark’ee, Mr. Derwent, I permit no man, or woman either for that matter, to thwart my whims, much less an unshaven young jackanapes like yourself! Therefore—and mark me! Unless you apologise instantly for your unbelievable impertinence and undertake to personally see that the horses are put to my chariot within the next ten minutes, I shall give myself the pleasure of horse-whipping you, here and now, before your trollop’s pretty face. Come, Mr. Derwent, what d’ye say?”
Sir John’s answer was characteristically gentle: “I say, my lord, that your manners are as gross as your person, and your person is infinitely offensive from any and every point o’ view!”
Here ensued a moment of stupefied silence, a stillness wherein none moved for a space; suddenly my lord’s chair went over with a crash, his clenched fists smote the air. “Lock the door, Amberley, lock the door,” he commanded in choking voice, “and give me a whip, somebody!”
“A whip?” repeated Sir John, faintly surprised. “Nay, sir, you have a sword, sure? And rumour says you can use it. Come, pray let us try what you can do, though first we will ask the child here to be good enough to leave us awhile——”
“Ha, leave us, is it?” snarled my lord. “Damme, no; I say the handsome baggage shall stay to see you squirm! The table, gentlemen ... give me room!”
Very soon, sufficient space having been cleared to satisfy his lordship, he tugged off the sky-blue coat, tossed it aside, kicked off his shoes and, laughing in arrogant assurance, drew his sword and stood waiting. Sir John made his dispositions with a leisured ease that set my lord swearing in vicious impatience, while his friends snuffed, nodded and watched the victim prepare himself for the inevitable outcome with more or less sympathy; in especial one, a long-legged, sleepy gentleman who, unheeding Lord Sayle’s angry glare, approached Sir John and bowed.
“Sir,” said he, “m’ name’s Amberley. It seems y’ave no friend t’act for ye in case of—ah—of——”
“My sudden demise?” smiled Sir John.
“Precisely, sir. If you should wish any message d’livered t’any one—any commission o’ the kind, shall be happy t’offer myself—name of Amberley, sir.”
“Mr. Amberley, pray receive my thanks, but I have no message for any one——”
“Damnation!” cried my lord. “Is he ready, Amberley?”
“Quite!” murmured Sir John, and drawing his sword he tossed the scabbard upon the table, and approaching Lord Sayle, saluted and fell to his guard.
Slimmer than usual he looked as he stood thus gracefully poised, and of no great stature, yet, in that moment, observing his eyes and mouth, no one would have called him “insignificant”—especially one who leaned against the door, hands clenched, eyes wide, waiting for what was to be.
The narrow blades crossed, and immediately rose a thud of quick-moving, purposeful feet and clink of murderous steel. Lord Sayle’s onset was impetuous as usual, his attacks viciously direct and powerful; but time and again his darting point was met, his lightning thrusts parried, though only just in time, and as if more by accident than skill; noting which, he laughed scornfully and pressed his attack more fiercely; twice he forced Sir John to break ground until, espying an opening in his antagonist’s defence after a wide parade, he lounged swiftly, gasped and, dropping his weapon, staggered with Sir John’s blade transfixing his sword-arm from wrist to elbow.
And now was confusion: a wild ringing of bells, calling for water and sponges, running for lint and bandages, while Sir John did on his shoes, and eased himself into his tight-fitting riding-coat.
My Lord Sayle, a-sprawl in arm-chair while his friends washed and stanched his wounds, alternately cursed and groaned, heaping his late antagonist with passionate revilings and bitter invective until, what with anger and pain, his voice failed him at last.
Then Sir John spoke in chilling scorn:
“Thou contemptible thing! Thou man of straw! Egad, and can it be you set all London by the ears? ’S life, my lord, your fencing is like your manners, exceeding indifferent. I might ha’ killed you any time I wished!”
My Lord Sayle struggled to his feet, raving like a madman and calling for his sword, until, constrained by his friends, he sank back in the chair and suffered their ministrations, but raving still.
“You shall suffer for this.... Aye, burn me, but you shall! This is but the beginning ... we meet again ... aye, by all the fiends in hell I’ll ha’ your life for this ... you shall fight me again so soon as I am able!”
“With joy, my lord!” answered Sir John, wiping his blade on his lordship’s sky-blue coat that chanced to lie handy. “’Twas purely for this reason that I suffered you to live. Indeed, my lord, I hope to repeat the pleasure of this little rencontre on every possible occasion until I run you out of England. And you should soon be well, for your wound, though painful, is nothing dangerous. One word more, my lord: as regards your sword-play, I should advise a few lessons at your weapon against our next meeting. Au revoir! Gentlemen, your servant!” Then, having bowed to the silent company, Sir John reached out his hand to her who stood leaning against the door. “Come, child!” said he, and led her out of the room, closing the door behind them; then she stopped to face him, her eyes bright, her ruddy lips a-quiver.
“Why ... why did you fight—that beast?” she questioned breathlessly.
“’Faith, Rose, you heard! ’Twas in the matter of post-horses.”
“Horses!” she repeated. “And naught else?”
“Naught i’ the world, child.”
“Horses!” she panted, in sudden vehement scorn. “And you saw how he would have shamed me! You saw! But then, to be sure, I am but a country wench of none account.... I am merely a poor, friendless girl ... but horses you can fight for, peril your life for, because——”
“Because horses are—horses, child, and the horse, you’ll remember, is a noble animal, man’s faithful friend and servant——”
“Oh!” she cried, between clenched teeth. “Oh, I hate—despise you—Sir John Dering!”
“Ah, Rose child!” sighed he. “Hast found me out so soon? ‘What’s in a name?’ quoth the bard. Alack, a vasty deal! say I. For, ‘Give a dog a bad name and hang him!’ runs the proverb, and methinks ’tis true. So alack for poor Sir John Dering, whose name and reputation are beyond repair and might hang a thousand dogs. But thou’rt hungry, child, and so is poor Sir John. Come, then, haste we to breakfast!”
But she never stirred, only she turned her back suddenly.
“What, Rose?” he exclaimed. “Why, child, you’re never going to weep?”
“No!” she answered. “No!” and sobbed immediately.
Then Sir John turned her to face him, took her bowed head between his two hands, lifted it and kissed her upon the brow with a very reverent gentleness.
“Rose, child ... sweet innocence,” he sighed. “Never forget you ha’ been kissed by the ‘Wicked Dering.’ And now, come your ways to breakfast!”