Sir John Dering: A Romantic Comedy by Jeffery Farnol - HTML preview

CHAPTER XLVIII
 WHICH IS, HAPPILY, THE LAST

Old Mr. Dumbrell, perched in George Potter’s cart behind the likely horse, blinked at the setting sun and shook his head; quoth he:

“The longer oi live, Jarge, the more sartin-sure be oi that there be no sich thing as gratitood nowheres, no!”

“What be troublin’ of ’ee now, Gaffer?”

“Thinkin’ o’ Sir John Dering, oi be. Oh, ’e’s mebbe this an’ that an’ t’other, but oi calls ’im naun but a ongrateful young barrynet!”

“Lord, old ’un,” remonstrated Mr. Potter, “ain’t ’e given ye your cottage, rent free?”

“Wot o’ that?” snarled the Aged Soul. “Ain’t ’e got ’unnerds an’ thousands o’ cottages? Wot’s a cottage?”

“Well, but ain’t ’e likewise give ye that little medder be’ind your cottage?”

“Oi never said ’e ’adn’t, did oi?”

“Aye, but ain’t ’e give ye a cow along o’ the medder an’ a couple o’ fat ’ogs?”

“Wot of ’em?” screeched the Aged One indignantly. “Oi bean’t complainin’ o’ they, be oi? No, my trouble be ’im a-goin’ away an’ never s’ much as a word to oi ... an’ me sech a very old, aged Soul as can’t live much longer, an’ ’im a-leavin’ pore old oi wi’ never no good-bye ... an’ never sendin’ me that theer arm-cheer as ’e promised faithful!”

“Arm-cheer?” repeated Mr. Potter inquiringly.

“Ah! ’Osea,’ says ’e, aye, an’ called me ’is friend, ’e did, ’Osea,’ says ’e, ‘you shall set in comfort arl your days,’ ’e sez—them were ’is very words! An’ I’ve been ’opin’ an’ a-waitin’ an’ expectin’ that theer cheer ever since.... An’ look wot I done for ’e!”

“Wot?” demanded Mr. Potter.

“Why, didn’t oi comfort ’e an’ talk to ’e when arl the world was agin’ him? Didn’t oi speak up for ’e on arl ’casions, ah—an’ mak’ love for ’e to ’is sweet-’eart, tu? Wasn’t oi loike a feäther an’ mother arl rolled into one? An’ now ’ere be oi, an’ ’im gone—an’ no cheer!”

It was at this moment that, turning into the main road, they beheld a dusty chaise approaching at a smart trot, whereupon, the way being somewhat narrow, Mr. Potter pulled aside to make room; but scarcely had he done so than a cheery voice hailed him, the chaise pulled up, and out from the window came a bewigged head.

“Why, Potter—George Potter,” cried a merry voice. “God bless ye, George; ’tis very well met! And my friend Hosea too! How art thou, my Aged Soul? I vow thou’rt looking younger than ever!”

“Lord, Sir John!” exclaimed Mr. Potter heartily, “I be main glad to see ye back, sir.”

“And I’m back for good, George ... aye, for good of every kind and sort, I hope——”

“Why, then, that theer cheer, Sir John!” piped the Aged One. “Wot about my arm-cheer?”

“’E means the cheer your honour promised ’im, sir,” explained Mr. Potter.

“Chair?” repeated Sir John in laughing puzzlement. “I fear I don’t recall ... but we will talk of this later. For the present, George, I want you to drive over to old Penelope and warn her that she hath visitors on the way to drink tea with her——”

“Say two visitors, Mr. Potter,” laughed a second voice, and over Sir John’s shoulder peeped my lady’s lovely face; whereupon Mr. Potter flourished his whip exultantly and, wheeling the likely horse, drove off at such a pace that he was necessitated to hug the small, protesting Aged Soul for safety’s sake.

“’Twill give our revered witch due time to don the silken gown, mayhap, my Rose o’ love.”

“Aye, though—I think ’tis donned already, sir.”

“She expects us, then?”

“She doth, John!... And Aunt Lucinda will be there, and Sir Hector ... unless we have outworn their patience.”

“But what shall bring them there? How know you this, child?”

“’Faith, sir, ’tis because I invited ’em to meet us at Penelope’s cottage——”

“Ha, wert so sure we should come back together, my Herminia?”

“Why, of course, John dear. Though I little thought we should ha’ kept them so long a-waiting—see, the sun is set already and—nay, sir ... oh, for mercy’s sake, John ... you’ll ha’ my hair all down——”

“You’ll look but the lovelier——”

“Nay, prithee ... oh, hark, John! Dost hear, dost hear how they welcome thee home at last, beloved?”

Upon the air rose a sudden, glad riot of bells lustily rung, a faint, silvery pealing that grew momentarily louder, until the joyous clamour thrilled in the air all about them.

“Hark, my John, where they welcome Dering of Dering home at last!”

“And his most dear lady!” he answered, drawing her close. “For, O my Herminia, my Rose-child, thou shalt teach him to live to better purpose ... by thee ‘The Wicked Dering’ shall——”

“Ah, hush!” she murmured. “He was but a dream ... but thou, my dear, brave, noble, most honourable ... oh, wilt stifle me, John? Nay, they will see us——”

So in due season they drove into the winding street of High Dering where stood folk to cheer, to flourish hats and flutter scarves a little shyly, but to fall suddenly silent and stare wide-eyed as Sir John, my lady beside him, paused bare-headed to salute that solitary old creature whom all had scorned so long and persecuted as a witch; silent she stood leaning upon her staff, but in all the glory of rustling silk and belaced mutch, her indomitable old head aloft, her bright, old eyes keen as ever, yet surely strangely gentle for a witch. And now Sir John was speaking, his clear voice very plain to be heard:

“Good friend Penelope, the years have been very cruel and hard for thee. But indeed thy sufferings have not been wholly in vain, as I think, and henceforth, John Dering shall be the first to do thee honour.” So saying, he took that worn and shrivelled hand, drawing it within his arm, and so brought her to the cottage gate where stood the Duchess, glad-eyed, with Sir Hector towering gigantic behind her.

But now Mr. Potter’s voice was heard in placid exhortation:

“Come, friends and neighbours, cheer now, a cheer for Dering o’ Dering and his lady!” Hereupon, led by Mr. Potter’s stentorian voice and the Aged Soul’s shrill pipe, they cheered full-throated and with a will. “An’ now, neighbours, one more for old Pen, as be true Sussex through an’ through, barn an’ bred——”

“Aye, cheer, ye fules!” shrilled the Aged Soul, flourishing his hat. “Beller for ol’ Pen, an’ dannel ’im as doan’t, says oi!”

“Hoot-toot, Johnnie-man,” quoth Sir Hector as they crossed the little garden, “ye kept us waitin’ a’ the day whiles ye made up your mind, it seems-an’ me in ma vera best clo’es, y’ ken—but ’twas worth it, lad, and—why, what now?” For old Penelope had paused suddenly to take my lady’s hand to gaze on it through gathering tears and kiss it with strange fervour.

“What, John—a ring?” exclaimed Sir Hector—“an’ a weddin’-ring, forbye—already? Why, man, doth it mean——”

“Ah, Sir Hector,” cried old Penelope, “it do mean as the dead, as liveth for ever, hath spoke from beyond his grave ... it meaneth, God be praised, that true love is immortal indeed!” So, hand in hand, the old woman and the young entered the cottage.

“But, Johnnie, wull ye be for tellin’ me that it means——?”

“That they are married, sir,” answered the little Duchess—“wooed and won and wedded, sir! Which is great joy to me, for our Herminia hath found a man shall rule her rigorously at last; in a word, master her megrims, control, curb and constrain her contrariness as only a masterful man might.”

“Wooed and won ... rule rigorously,” murmured Sir Hector, “curb and constrain——”

“Well, sir, well, why must you mop and mow and mutter like a mere male? Wouldst not do the same, sir?”

Then, looking down into the little Duchess’s strangely youthful eyes, Sir Hector emitted that sound to which no one but a true-born Scot may give utterance, and which, so far as poor words go, may be roughly translated thus:

“Umph-humph!” quoth Sir Hector Lauchlan MacLean.

END