CHAPTER XII
DESCRIBETH THE DUPLICITY OF INNOCENCE
Mr. Thomas Levitt, the landlord, received them beaming hearty welcome, and with many nods and winks anent “true-believers” one and all; and himself conducted them upstairs where, after sundry ablutions, they sat down to viands that amply justified Sir Hector’s prophecy. And a very excellent, though somewhat silent, meal they made of it; even when hunger was appeased they spoke little—Sir Hector because he was comfortably drowsy, my lady because she was far too busy scheming out her next course of procedure, and Sir John because he was content to study her half-averted face as she sat, staring out of the open lattice. Thus he noted how her gaze turned suddenly from the sunny landscape without to her cloak, where it hung across an adjacent chair-back, and thence once more to the window, almost furtively, while her foot began to tap with restless impatience.
At last, Sir Hector chancing to snore gently, my lady started, glanced swiftly from the sleeper to Sir John and, meeting his whimsical glance, flushed suddenly and grew immediately angry in consequence.
“Well, sir,” she demanded, frowning.
“I rejoice to know it, my Rose, for I——”
“I am not ‘your’ Rose!” she retorted petulantly, whereat he smiled gently. Quoth he:
“Nay, Rose, who knows what the future may disclose? Shy Rose, sly Rose, though thou seek’st to fly, Rose——”
“To fly?” she repeated, with startled look. “What—what do you mean?”
“—Know, Rose, O Rose, love doth with thee go, Rose.”
“Love, Sir John?” she questioned mockingly. “Indeed, and whose? And whither doth it go, pray?”
“Here and there, everywhere, this I vow to thee and swear—‘For though thou flee, Rose, learn of me, Rose—what is to be will surely be, Rose——’”
“Oh, ha’ done with your silly rhymes!” she cried in angry impatience.
“O Petulance!” he sighed reproachfully. “Why must you interrupt the prophetic muse?”
“Prophetic?” she exclaimed scornfully. “Is this another o’ your marvellous guesses?”
“Even so, Rose. And here’s yet another! Regarding Sir Hector, his offer, ‘to be or not to be’—your mind is made up. Here, then, steal I away leaving you to wake and tell him aye or no.” Saying which, Sir John arose, tiptoed from the chamber with elaborate care and closed the door softly behind him before she could find a suitable retort.
It was perhaps some half-hour later that Sir Hector found him busied inditing a letter; and Sir Hector’s wig was very much askew and his eyes heavy with sleep.
“Whaur is she, John?” he inquired, staring about the room. “Whaur’s the lassie Rose?”
“’Faith,” answered Sir John, glancing up from his writing, “she should be safe enough. I left her with you.”
“An’ me asleep! I waked but the noo an’ ne’er a sign o’ her. Whaur is she, John?”
“I don’t know.”
“Man, I’ve sought all o’er the inn, aye, an’ the stables too, an’ never a glimpse o’ her——”
“Strange!” mused Sir John, brushing chin with the feather of his pen. “Odd ... and yet quite comprehensible——”
“Ha, d’ye think so? Well, I ask ye whaur’s the lass?”
“And I answer that I do not know.”
“John, is it the truth ye’re tellin’ me?” Sir John laid down his pen and stared. “Well, can ye no’ speak? Whaur is she? What hae ye done wi’ her?”
“Hector,” answered Sir John softly, “I am not in the habit of lying, nor of permitting my word to be doubted by any man——”
“Aye, but I’m no’ juist ‘ony man’—I’m Hector Lauchlan MacLean o’ Duart! Aye, an’ I mind o’er weel y’r damnable reputation!”
“My reputation again—aye, to be sure!” murmured Sir John. “My reputation discredits me still, it seems—even with you!”
“An’ why for no’? I’ve seen much o’ life—plenty evil an’ little good! I’ve kenned men honourably born like ye’sel’ as hae lied—aye, tae their best frien’, an’ a’ tae come at a wumman!”
“And you believe that I am lying?”
“Aye, I dae that!” cried Sir Hector in sudden fury, clapping hand to sword.
Sir John rose.
“So you—you give me the lie?” he demanded, grim-lipped.
“In y’r teeth, sir—in y’r teeth!” cried Sir Hector. “I believe that ye’ve stolen the puir innocent lass awa’ for y’r ain base purposes!” And now, despite wounded arm, out flashed his ponderous blade, and with point advanced he stepped forward fierce and threatening; and so steel met steel. Then Sir John let fall his sword.
“My father’s friend and comrade ... God forbid!” quoth he. “Sir Hector, if you judge me rogue so vile—strike, man, and have done!” For a long moment Sir Hector stood irresolute, his great sword quivering in fierce-griping hand.
“Ye winna fecht?” he questioned hoarsely at last.
“Never with you, Hector.”
“An’ ye tell me ye’ve no’ hidden the lassie?”
“I have not!”
“An’ that you’ve no’ driven her awa’ wi’ y’r shameful offers?”
“Most certainly not!”
“An’ ye’ve had naething whateffer tae dae wi’ her disappearance?”
“Nothing!”
“Then—the guid God forgi’e ye—read that, an’ ken ye’sel’ for the false leear y’ are!” So saying, Sir Hector slapped down an open letter on the table, which, after a momentary hesitation, Sir John took up; and read as follows:
“To the nobel and generous Sir Hector.
“HONORED SUR,—The memry of your extream and unselfish kindnes will remane ever sweet to pore me that must leve you awhile, perchance to return. If not arsk Sir John Dering the reason he may gess being so clever and perchance explane all things wherefore and why, Sir, I am your honor’s grateful
“ROSE.
“Are all wicked men so clever as wicked Sir John Dering I wonder.”
“An’ now will ye fecht?” cried Sir Hector.
“No!” answered Sir John, flicking the letter to the floor. “Never with you, Hector!”
“Why, then—I’m done wi’ ye!” roared Sir Hector, and, turning his back, stamped from the room, closing the door after him with a reverberating bang.
Left alone, Sir John reached for his sword, sheathed it, and, picking up the letter, read it through a second time; and conning it over thus he frowned a little, and his chin seemed a trifle more prominent than usual. He was standing lost in thought when, hearing a clatter of hoofs in the yard, he glanced through the window to behold Sir Hector mount and ride away, his weatherbeaten hat cocked at a ferocious angle. Slowly and carefully Sir John folded up the letter and thrust it into a leathern wallet to keep company with a curl of black and glossy hair. Then he rang and ordered a horse in his turn.
“Pray, Mr. Levitt,” he inquired, “how many posting-inns are there in this town?”
“Only two, sir; there be the ‘Lion’ an’ there be the ‘Wheatsheaf,’ both i’ the High Street, your honour.”
So in due season, the saddle-horse being at the door, Sir John mounted, bade Mr. Levitt a cheery “good-bye” and rode along the High Street. Inquiring at the ‘Lion,’ he learned of an ostler the information he sought, to wit: “That a young ’ooman—or lady—had ordered their fastest chaise an’ druv’ away for Lon’on ’bout a hour ago!” Sir John thanked his informant, bestowed on him a crown and rode upon his way, smiling a little grimly.