CHAPTER XXXII
TELLETH HOW SIR JOHN DERING WENT A-WOOING
Upon the Down a soft wind met them, a gentle breath sweet with wild thyme and fresh with ocean, a wind that touched them like a caress; insomuch that my lady removed hat and cap the better to feel it, and, sinking upon the smooth, turfy bank beside the path, sat to behold the beauties of teeming earth and radiant heaven, yet very conscious of him who stood beside her, wherefore she presently bade him be seated. Thus, side by side, they remained awhile, and never a word between them.
“Rose,” said he at last, “most sweet and fragrant maid, thou canst be so nobly kind, so tender, so brave and womanly that there be times love doth so enthral me, I would thou hadst never known Herminia.”
“Indeed, sir! And is Herminia so bitter, so hard, so cowardly, so altogether evil?”
“She is—Herminia!”
“And you,” cried she, ablaze with sudden anger, “what are you, despite your foolish play-acting, but that same ‘Wicked Dering’ whose name is a byword—even here!”
“So it is, child, that I would be the good John Derwent a little longer, for thy sake and my sake. For as John Derwent I do so love thee, my Rose, I would John Dering had never been. In John Derwent is all John Dering’s better self ... to reverence thee with such a love that, yearning to possess thee, scarce dare touch thy hand.” As he spoke, his voice took on a deeper note, his pale cheek flushed, and in his eyes shone a light she had never seen there before; and, beholding him thus moved, her breath quickened and she glanced away lest he should read the triumph in her face.
“Can such love truly be?” she asked softly.
“So long as thou art Rose,” he answered.
“And what o’ poor Herminia?”
“Do but love me, Rose, and I will strive to love her for thy dear sake.”
“Will this be so hard a matter? Must you strive so extremely?” she questioned, and glanced at him over her shoulder, languorous-eyed, vivid lips up-curving, conscious of and assured in her beauty; and, reading this look, he laughed a little bitterly.
“O Coquetry!” he exclaimed, “that turn o’ the neck and shoulder, that languishing droop o’ the eyes become you vastly.... Egad, I protest you are monstrous bewitching so, my Lady Herminia!”
At this she flushed angrily and knit black brows at him.
“Faith, sir,” she retorted, “by your vast knowledge o’ feminine arts I perceive you to be merely Sir John Dering!”
“Who is extreme hungry!” he added. “And there doth await him a Sir Loin o’ beef—hot! So, shall we go on, my lady?”
On they went accordingly, my lady with head proudly averted, and yet he knew her eyes were tearful, but, noting how passionately her white hand clenched itself, knew these for tears of anger only.
“Alas,” sighed he at last, “to-day poor John Derwent’s wooing doth not prosper, it seems. Love hath fled awhile on soaring pinions.”
“I never hated you more!” said she in low, steady voice.
“Wouldst break thy John’s heart, girl?”
To this she deigned no answer; but when he had repeated the question three or four times with as many different modulations, she broke out angrily:
“Aye, I would—I would, if ever I find it!”
“Couldst be so cruel, child?” he questioned lightly; and then, more seriously, “Could you stoop to such baseness? I wonder!”
“Nay,” she retorted bitterly, “’twere impossible! You have no heart ... never did have ... never will!”
“And yet it beats for thee, Rose. Reach me thy hand and feel.”
“Then ’tis the heart of a stock-fish!” she cried. “Cold, cold—infinitely cold and sluggish!”
“Stock-fish!” he repeated mournfully—“O ye gods—a stock-fish! Alas, sweet soul, what strange mistake is here? A stock-fish. I that am by nature so ardent yet so humble, of impulses so kindly, of passions so fiery, of sentiments so very infinite tender! I that am thy predestined mate, thy man——”
“Aye, thou,” she cried fiercely—“thou that art no more than a fine-gentlemanly thing as humble as Lucifer, as kindly as an east wind, as fiery as a lump of lead, as tender as that savage monster who nigh broke my wrists for me!”
“Gad’s my life, child,” said he, noting her flashing eyes and glowing cheek, “thy so splendid theme endows thee with new splendour, thou handsome wench! Though thou dost sadly embarrass thy modest John——”
“Would I might, indeed!”
“But ’tis very well thou shouldst justly appreciate me as well before as after marriage! And now, for thy poor, pretty wrists——”
“Why are you here, Sir John, wasting yourself in the country?” she demanded mockingly. “Your true place is that same heartless, selfish world o’ modish idleness whence you came! What do you here among these kindly Sussex folk who, at the least, live to some purpose? Why are you here, you who live for no purpose but yourself?”
“Mayhap,” he answered, “’tis because you once minded me o’ the scabious flowers, child. See where they bloom all around us, sweet things! Do not tread too hastily, Herminia, lest you crush and end their blooming. Haste not so, for here is a stile for you to climb, and yonder, bosomed i’ the green, is Alfriston spire.”
“Aye, I thank heaven!” cried she.
“And wherefore thy so fervent gratitude, child?”
“To be rid of thy hated presence!”
“Ah, Rose,” he sighed. “Alas, Herminia, how heavy thy foot is! See this poor flower you trample—’tis my heart!” And speaking, he stooped, put by her foot very gently, and plucked one of the scabious flowers she had trodden; fingering it tenderly, he placed it in her hand. “Take it, child!” he sighed; “cherish it for its own sweet sake. And for me and my so hated presence, I will deliver you, here and now.... But first, thy poor, pretty wrists? Show ’em to me!”
“No!” she answered; “never to you, Sir John!”
“Indeed, child, ’tis thy Derwent pleadeth, thy John o’ Gentleness.... Suffer me to see!” And, taking her hands, he lifted them whether she would or no.
“I see no wounds,” quoth he, “nor mark or bruise; and yet who am I to judge the pretty things? And if they endured hurt, let this witness my sorrow.” So saying, he stooped and kissed them tenderly. “Thus, sweet Rose, thy Derwent leaveth thee. Now, had I been the ‘Wicked Dering’ and thou the proud Lady Barrasdaile, it had been ... thy hands, thine arms, thy lips ... thy very self! And now, farewell awhile, my Rose o’ love.”
Saying which, Sir John bared his head, gave her his hand across the stile, and seating himself thereon watched her wistfully as she hurried away.
But, being hidden from his view, my lady paused to glance at her wrists, flushing as though she felt his lips there yet; and finding she still held his scabious flower, tossed it angrily away, but, marking where it fell, took it up again, and having throned it amid the laces of her bodice, went her way, slow of foot and with eyes a-dream.