CHAPTER XXVII
TELLETH HOW MR. DERWENT BEGAN HIS WOOING
Away strode Sir John across sunny fields, light of foot, treading a springy turf, breathing a fragrant air, swinging his holly-stick and vaulting stiles for the pure joy of it all. Birds piped and chirped from hedge and thicket, larks carolled in the blue, rills bubbled and laughed, and scabious flowers danced and swayed in the gentle wind in tune with the universal gladness.
And so in good time came Sir John to High Dering. For there, perched upon his accustomed stile in well-brushed hat and snowy smock-frock, sat the Ancient Person in animated converse with one who leaned gracefully against the gnarled post of the old stile, listening to the Aged One’s talk, but watching Sir John from the shadow of her hat, with eyes quick to heed all the careless, easy grace of him as he came light-treading across the sun-dappled ling.
“Rose!” said he, and bared his head; now, beholding her startled, upward glance, how should he know of the eyes that had taken such note of his altered appearance, his plain attire? “Rose,” said he, “thou rose of love!” And stood bare-headed, glad-eyed, to await her greeting.
“La, Mr. Derwent,” said she, “you wear strange, small hat, sir, yet methinks it do become you better than your night-cap!”
“And yet ’tis a very excellent night-cap!” he retorted.
“Eh—eh?” piped the Aged One. “Be ye man an’ woife, then?”
“Not yet, Mr. Dumbrell, but——”
“Then wot’s she know about your noight-cap, young man, eh—eh? Tell oi that!”
“I—I saw it this morning,” explained my lady, rather hastily—“this morning as he leaned out of his chamber window——”
“Then, young man, ’ow dare ’ee stick y’r noight-cap out o’ winder in a purty maid’s face? Shamed at ’ee, oi be!”
“But I drew it in again, Mr. Dumbrell!”
“No matter, young man, oi be shamed at ’ee! Wi’ y’r noight-cap an’ arl!”
“It shall not happen again, Mr. Dumbrell.”
“Oi be a ol’, ancient man, aye—a aged soul, oi be, an’ oi knaws wot oi knaws an’ oi knaws as us doan’t want ’ee, young man, wi’ your noight-cap, an’ arl!” Here the Aged One glared at the intruder with truculent eye, but Sir John was looking at my lady, of course.
“So I have found thee at last, my Rose!” said he softly.
“Ha’ you looked for me, sir?”
“These very many weary days, child.”
“Your honour expected me, then?”
“Hourly.”
“And now that you behold me?”
“Now, Rose, the sun shines, the birds sing, the scabious flowers are a-dance in their myriad hosts, and here standeth John Derwent to woo thee——”
“Well, go ’way!” snarled the Aged One fiercely. “Go ’way; us doan’t want ’ee no’ow, young man! Us be a-’arking to each other an’ doan’t want nobody—du us, my pretty? Lord, ’e du ha’ put me out! Wot was oi a-tellin’ ye, my dainty dear?”
“Of the day you and Sir Hector saved old Penelope the witch from being drowned ... but the sun is very hot, pray put your hat on again, Mr. Dumbrell! Nay, suffer me!” So saying, my lady took the well-brushed hat and set it upon the old, white head so gently and with such pretty grace that the Aged One leered at Sir John in chuckling triumph.
“Us doan’t want ’ee, young man, du us, my flower?”
“Indeed,” she laughed, “but you find wondrous pretty names for me——”
“Because ’tis purty you be ... no, ’andsome’s the word—a foine ’andsome wench.”
“But over-large for a flower, I fear,” she sighed.
“Sizeable!” nodded the Aged One. “But oi loikes ’em big—allus did. So doan’t ’ee worrit naun ’count o’ y’r size. An’ as fur ol’ Penelope, ’er desarved arl ’er got, bein’ a witch.... An’ when it come to savin’ of ’er, I dunno as Sir ’Ector done so tur’ble much! Oi be an ol’ ancient man, but oi bean’t nowise doddlish, an’ can save a witch as well as some young ’uns an’ better’n most—ah, that oi can!”
“I’m sure of it! And is she still alive?”
“That she be. Witches bean’t easy to kill an’ doan’t aften doi—not in Sussex, they doan’t. Oi been buryin’ folk arl my days an’ oi only buried one witch, an’ ’er only doied because she ’appened to drown, not being able to swim wi’ a stone round ’er neck, d’ye see——”
“A—a stone?” exclaimed my lady in tones of horror.
“Aye, a stone fur sure, my pretty. Toied ’un round ’er neck, they did, an’ ’ove ’er into the river, they did, an’ so ’er doied. But this were years an’ ages ago, when oi were younger. And ol’ Penelope be a tur’ble powerful witch—give me a spell agin the axey as done me arl manner o’ good.”
“Did she cure you by magic?”
“Lord bless y’r pretty eyes—no! There bean’t nobody nor nothink can cure oi, what wi’ that theer ol’ musket-ball o’ mine. But oi were moighty bad, an’ ’long come a man one day in a p’inted ’at an’ a gownd wi’ silver stars on to it an’ sold me a charm wrote on a three-carnered piece o’ paper wi’ these words as oi were to say three toimes over, marnin’, noon an’ noight:
Axey, axey oi defoi thee,
Three days shiver, three days shake,
Mak’ me well fur Marcy’s sake.
Well, oi sez ’em over an’ over ’till oi were black i’ the faace, but it didn’t seem tu du me no good at arl, ’till one day ’long comes ol’ Penelope, tears up my charm an’ gi’es me some stuff in a liddle bottle as oi must rub arl over myself ... which oi done. An’ Lord—arter a bit oi got that skittish—used t’ kick up my ’ind legs loike any colt ... an’ me a married man an’ arl. Oi dunno as if oi——”
“Grandfeäther!”
“Dannle it! That be my rum-an’-milk!” exclaimed the Aged One, scowling.
“Grandfeäther, be ye comin’?”
“Arl roight, lass, arl roight!” piped the old man pettishly, getting from his perch with surprising nimbleness. “Oi’ll ’ave to go, my pretty bird, oi’ll ’ave to leave ’ee or ’twill be milk an’ no rum! Ann be that ’ard-’earted an’ ... Arl roight, Nan, ’ere oi be!” This as his granddaughter appeared, who, beholding Sir John, blushed and curtsied. Quoth she:
“’Tis tur’ble kind o’ you to bide an’ keep ’im comp’ny, Rose—mam, for ’e du be that mischievious——”
“Never tak’ no ’eed o’ my Nan, ’er’s a babe!” retorted the Aged One. “An’ oi du ’ope as you’ll come an’ talk tu oi again, my Beauty Broight, fur oi doan’t tak’ naun account o’ little ’uns, an’ you be a foine up-standin’, down-sittin’ wench, sure-ly! An’ the young ’un ’ere thinks the same, doan’t ’ee, young man?”
“I do!” answered Sir John fervently. “Indeed, I have never seen a more up-standing, down-sitting wench in all my life!”
“Well, then, whoy doan’t ’ee up an’ tell ’er so, wi’out me a-doin’ it fur ’ee. You be sweet on ’er, oi s’pose?”
“Monstrous so!”
“Well, then, whoy caan’t ’ee tell ’er summat about it? Ye caan’t expect oi tu du it fur ’ee arl the toime. ’Ere you’ve stood a-lookin’ an’ a-starin’ an’ so silent as a turmut! That bean’t no waay tu win a wench—no! Lord, oi were different in my young days; oi knawed the waay tu go a-wooin’! An’ oi ain’t forgot yet, though I be such a ol’, aged soul!”
“Then perhaps you will help me, now and then?” Sir John suggested.
“Whoy, sence you ax me so sensible an’ modest-loike, oi dunno as oi wun’t. For, if you bean’t much to look at, you be batter’n some, an’ she moight du worse.”
“It is possible!” sighed Sir John.
“So oi dunno as oi wun’t put in a word for ’ee noo an’ then wi’ the lass. But moind ye if oi win ’er for ’ee an’ she doan’t turn out arl as you expect, an’ woives never do no’ow, doan’t ’ee go fur to blame oi!”
“Grandfer, your rum-an’——”
“Hesh a minute, Nan, hesh an’ lemme finish, will ’ee? Marriage, young man, be arl roight whiles ye be single, but when you be married ’tis generally-mostly-arlways arl wrong—oi’ve troid it twoice, an’ oi knaw! So jest so soon as she begins to feel weddin’ish, oi leaves the matter to you. An’ now, Nan, gimme y’r arm!”
“Boide a minute, Grandfeäther——”
“Whaffor, Nan? Ain’t ye kep’ me a-waiting long enough?”
“I’ve a message for the gen’elman——”
“Gen’elman, lass? ’Oo? Wheer? D’ye mean—’im?” And the Aged One pointed at Sir John with wavering stick. “’E bean’t no gen’elman—look at ’is ’at! Gen’elman’s ’ats ’as goold lace onto ’em loike Sir ’Ector’s of a Sunday an’ Lord Sayle’s of a week-day. Look at ’is coat—so plain! An’ ’e aren’t got no sword neether! Gen’elman—’im? ’E be jest a respectable young man——”
“You hear that, Rose?” cried Sir John, ecstatic. “You hear? There speaketh hoary Wisdom!”
“’Oo’s ’oary—me?” demanded the Aged Soul, scowling.
“Yourself, Mr. Dumbrell, and are therefore to be revered. Your hand, Sir Reverence, your hand, I beg!”
“Whoy, oi dunno as oi loike the sound o’ that ’ere word——”
“Mr. Dumbrell, you in your nescience saw ’neath the hollow shams and know me for what I truly am, a respectable young man. O most excellent Aged Soul, I thank thee for that word! Mr. Dumbrell, your hand, pray.”
So, after some little hesitation, the sharp-tongued, little old man reached tremulous hand to Sir John’s warm clasp, and, looking up into Sir John’s smiling eyes, the Aged Soul smiled also; quoth he:
“Young man, oi dunno as you bean’t better-lookin’ than what oi thought—leastways your eyes is worth any lass a-lookin’ at, oi rackon, an’—whoy, what be this ’ere?” And the old man stared down at his open palm. “By the pize—a guinea! Dannel it, young man, what be this fur? What do ’ee mean by it?”
“Do not be angry, Mr. Dumbrell; pray accept it as a small mark of esteem and gratitude from one respectable man to another.”
“Whoy, since you puts it that ways, young man, we woan’t arg’ about it, an’ oi dunno as oi bean’t almoighty glad of’t.... A guinea, Nan, a goolden guinea! ’Ere be baccy for oi an’ that ’ere cherry ribband for you, an’ sugar for oi, an’ a noo ’at for oi.... Young man, oi thank ’ee, an’ so du Nan.... Thank ’un, Nan; mak’ y’r reverence an’ show y’r manners, lass!”
“Not forgetting your message, Ann,” prompted Sir John.
“Yes, sir,” she answered, curtsying repeatedly, “though ’twere only Gammer Haryott as bid me say if I see you, sir, as she would like a word wi’ you, sir.”
“What about my rum-an’-milk?” demanded the Aged Soul pettishly. “’Ere be oi a-vadin’ an’ famishin’ an’ perishin’ awaay, an’ you a-maggin’ an’ me a-waitin’ an’ nobody to ’tend to oi no’ow, nowhen nor nothin’! Come an’ gimme my rum-an’-milk or no ribbands, moind that! G’marnin’, young man, an’ doan’t ’ee go a-throwin’ your money away so woild-loike an’ rackless! Marnin’, my purty dear! You’ll foind oi settin’ a-top o’ stoile every marnin’ when it be sunny.” So saying, the Aged Soul bared his white head gallantly, nodded, and suffered his dutiful granddaughter to lead him away.
My lady was silent awhile, watching them as they went, the girl so young and strong and motherly, the old man so bowed and feeble; and Sir John, regarding his companion keen-eyed, saw in her look an unwonted tenderness and, when at last she spoke, heard her voice strangely tender also.
“O Sussex!” she murmured. And then: “They are worth caring for, these unspoiled folk o’ the Down Country.”
“They are, Herminia!” he answered. At this she turned and looked at him, frowning a little.
“Have you done so, Sir John?” she questioned. “Have you cared for their comfort and welfare?”
“Alas, no!” he answered. “I, like you, my lady, have preferred the town hitherto, and, heaven help me, was therewith fairly content! Which is matter for some wonder, for here were the Downs and here the Dumbrell——”
“That Aged Soul!” she added, smiling suddenly. “As gallant as any town beau, more dignified, and infinitely more sincere.”
“Rose child, I perceive thou hast also found eyes to see withal!”
“Is this so amazing, your honour?”
“Not so much as to behold a fine lady who honours Rusticity and finds joy in simple, homely things.”
“Indeed, sir, I do love the country, especially Sussex, for, as your honour may ha’ forgot, I was born here.”
“Then, if you will, I can show you other wonders. First, there is Dame Penelope Haryott, whom fools call a witch and rogues have sought to murder, ere now.”
“Murder!” exclaimed my lady, wrinkling her brow. “Oh! And yet surely witches be horrid creatures! Ha’n’t you read of ’em?... Leagued with all manner of evil spirits for the working of evil.... Ha’n’t you read what learned philosophers ha’ writ concerning’ em, sir?”
“Aye, I have.”
“Well, if this woman be truly a witch——”
“But was there truly ever a witch, child?”
“Your honour may have heard of the Witch of Endor?”
“Hum!” quoth Sir John. “Can it be that you believe in witchcraft, black magic and the like fooleries?”
“Don’t you, sir?”
“No more than I do in ghosts, child.”
“The girl Ann tells me that ghosts often walk in these parts.”
“Aye, so they do,” laughed Sir John, “and to some purpose.”
“Then, despite the Bible and philosophers, your superior wisdom doth not believe in witches?”
“No, indeed.”
“Nor ghosts?”
“No, child.”
“Because you chance never to ha’ seen one, sir!”
“Because I have, rather. Indeed, Rose, a most effective ghost——”
“You have positively seen a ghost? When? Where?” she demanded. But, turning a bend in the road they came upon a horseman, a cadaverous person in threadbare clerical garb, who bestrode a very plump steed.
“A fair prospect to the eye!” he exclaimed, nodding gloomily towards Dering village, where it nestled under the sheltering Down. “Aye, a fair prospect, and yet, in very truth, a ‘whited sepulchre’ ... not a thatch that doesn’t leak, scarce a cottage that is truly habitable——”
“Shameful!” exclaimed my lady.
“And wicked!” added the parson in his gentle voice, his haggard face very woeful. “For how shall folk take heed to their soul’s welfare until their bodies be comfortable? Alas, you behold yonder the evils of a bad landlord. Sir John Dering hath much to answer for. Better he were dead and the land in better keeping.”
“Dead, sir!” exclaimed my lady, aghast.
“And wherefore not?” continued the parson in his gentle accents, while his eyes smouldered. “A merciless, grinding bailiff and a profligate landlord make for a suffering tenantry.”
“You are the Reverend Mr. Hartop, I think, sir?” questioned Sir John, bowing.
“The same, sir,” answered the parson, returning the salute. “And I, who know and love these rustic folk, say again that for the general good, an evil landlord is better dead.... And consider Sir John Dering’s reputation, his scandalous life!”
“True!” sighed Sir John; “his reputation doth show him a very monster of iniquity.”
“God forgive him!” sighed the parson. “Duellist and man of blood, desperate gambler and of wild, unholy life.... A few poor hundreds of the guineas he throws away at the gaming-table or wastes on nameless evil would mean all the difference ’twixt misery and happiness, sickness and health to the folk of High Dering. Heaven forgive the Wicked Dering the evil he hath wrought.”
“Amen!” added Sir John. “How potent and far-reaching is a man’s reputation, Rose!”
“How different the son from his honoured sire!” sighed Mr. Hartop.
“Alas, yes, sir!” answered Sir John. “And yet, sir, I have it on excellent authority that this most iniquitous gentleman hath lately become a ‘respectable young man.’”
“Sir,” exclaimed the parson, opening his mild eyes a little wider than usual, “sir, you amaze me! Heaven send it be indeed so, for his own sake and the future welfare of his neglected people.” Saying which, Mr. Hartop lifted shabby hat and rode gloomily away.
“‘For the general good,’” repeated Sir John wistfully, “‘for the general good an evil landlord were better dead.’ Here is an arresting thought, child ... and how bitterly true!”
“But you are alive!” said she, staring towards the quiet village beneath wrinkled brows. “Live, then, to better purpose.”
“Ah, Rose,” he sighed, “thy pretty moralities fall so trippingly from thy rosy, innocent lip; thou art in thy simple wisdom such an angel of inspiration that I would we had met ... five weary years ago!”
“Five years ago?” she repeated, turning upon him. “Have you forgot——?” Here, beholding his grim-smiling mouth, the mockery of his eyes, she caught her breath and was silent.
“Five long years ago, child, I killed a man—by accident. Ah, sweet Rose, gentle maid, if only thou hadst come to me then ... to soothe my bitter grief! Dear, lovely Rose, that little ‘if’ held, then as now, a world of possibilities even for such an abandoned wretch as ‘the Wicked Dering.’ But we are still alive, and to live is to hope.... And Dame Haryott desires speech with me. And thou would’st behold a witch, so come thy ways with thy loving, gentle John.”
“Gentle?” cried she angrily. “Aye, with the eyes of a mocking fiend!”
“But the heart of a respectable young man, Rose!”
“Your crime brought its own consequences, sir.”
“It did!” he sighed. “And not the least of ’em, thyself! When wilt marry me?”
“Never!”
“Then the matter being settled—for the present let us to the witch, hand in hand like good friends.”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“Leave me, sir!”
“Give me thy hand.”
“Oh—I hate you!” she cried passionately.
“Good!” he nodded placidly. “’Tis better than indifference. Thy hand, Rose.”
For answer she turned away, silently contemptuous, and began to retrace her steps; but he caught her wrist and checked her suddenly, whereupon she struck viciously at him, knocking off his hat, then her other hand was ’prisoned also in so tense a grip that, knowing it vain to struggle, she disdained further effort and faced him, coldly defiant.
“Coward, you hurt me!”
“Madam, you behave like a peevish hoyden! Such tricks may pass with your hysterical fine ladies but, while in Sussex, I suggest you ape the dignified calm o’ Rusticity.”
“Will you loose me?”
“Are you done with your fishwifely tantrums?”
My lady held herself pridefully, glared furiously, then suddenly bit her lip, bowed her head, and something bright and sparkling fell upon his hand; at this he loosed her suddenly and she as suddenly turned her back upon him.
Sir John picked up his hat, knocked the dust from it, put it on, and stood regarding her pensively.
“Rose,” said he at last, “dear child, suffer me to take thy hand.” Then he reached and clasped her unresisting fingers; and thus, hand in hand, they went on down the lane together.