Lady Hester Rawdon´s house stood not far from the Cathedral, something larger and uglier than its neighbours, with a stone staircase running along the outside, and the lower windows heavily grated with iron bars. Gervase and his companion were shown into a long, low-ceiled room on the ground floor, wainscoted in black oak and looking out on a small garden.
In a corner of the room stood a harpsichord; a piece of fine embroidery lay on the table. On a chair by the window lay an open book with the pages turned downwards. Some spring flowers in a vase gave out a perfume which, somehow, Gervase came to associate with Dorothy, and brought her vividly before him.
Presently she came in herself, clad in a simple black gown without any touch of colour. To Gervase she gave her hand without a word, but with a quiet smile of welcome on her lips, and then she turned to Macpherson, who stood drawn up to his full height, with his hat under his left arm and his hand resting on his sword hilt. “I am very glad to see you,” she said. “We talked much of you, Mr. Orme and myself, and I never doubted that we should meet again. But,” and she looked at him with inquiring sympathy, “you have been wounded?”
“A mere scratch,” he answered hastily. “And before I go further, you will let a rough old soldier say a word, Miss Carew?--though he cannot speak fairly, and in set terms such as please a woman. When we first met I spoke harshly and in anger, for which speech I am sorry now. In my rough journeys I have had knocks that somewhat hardened me, but I ask your pardon if I have in anywise offended you. I can do no more.”
“I would not have you speak of that,” she answered; “I only remember your service.”
“The which I did not render you.” Then he went on in evident perturbation: “You see before you one who played the coward and betrayed the trust he compelled you to place in his hands. Had I to go through with it again, it may be I should have done otherwise, but I acted for the best and followed the light I had. I know you will listen to me patiently.”
“Surely I will listen to you, but I am certain you have broken no trust of mine.”
Gervase retired to the window, while Macpherson went through his narrative without interruption and with an air of self-deprecation that he seldom showed. When he had done, he drew a piece of parchment from his breast and laid it on the table. On one side was written the message that Colonel Lundy had commissioned him to deliver at Enniskillen, on the other a number of lines and points were traced apparently in red ink.
“Now,” he said, “that is the whole story, and here is the plan on which is marked, with what skill I could command, the bearings by which the spot may be found. I could indeed walk blindfold thither, but I shall not be here when the time comes. Perhaps Mr. Orme will follow me as I point out to you the meaning of this scratch.”
Gervase came up to the table, and Dorothy and he together looked down on the red lines on which the old soldier had placed his forefinger. Then she looked up hastily: “With what have you done this?” she cried.
“Even with the first ink that came to my hand; ´tis none the less plain for that. Now,” he continued, “here is the way from the city, and here are the cross-roads which you cannot miss. Fifty paces further from that point bring you to a sycamore. Ten steps due west is the hedge, traced thus. And there at the foot of the wild apple-tree you will find the hole I digged. ´Tis covered with a flat stone and concealed by bracken, but by those who know the sign cannot be missed.”
“And I hope,” said Dorothy calmly, looking up in Macpherson´s face, “that it will never be found. Let it lie buried there for ever. Never let me look on it again. I would give the world that I had never seen it.”
Macpherson looked at her in wonder.
“You do not understand me I know, but Mr. Orme does, and I know my secret is safe with him. Truly,” she added bitterly, and with a certain wildness, “your chart was well written with blood.”
“´Twas the best I could do: I am sorry that it does not please you.”
“You mistake Miss Carew´s meaning,” said Gervase. “She finds no fault with what you have done, and I think you have acted discreetly. But others are concerned in this, and she must not act without consideration.”
“However I may act,” said Dorothy, “you will promise to say nothing of this till you have my permission; neither to my aunt nor to my brother. They must know nothing of it now. And, Mr. Orme, I know the favour that I ask is great, but I cannot bear the sight of this now; will you keep it till I ask it from you?”
Gervase consented with some misgiving, but had she ordered him at that moment to go in search of the treasure single handed, ´tis likely that he would have done her bidding cheerfully, and gone without a word.
Having no clue to Dorothy´s meaning, Macpherson looked upon it as a piece of the whimsical extravagance one always found in a woman, and was content that he had delivered his message, however abruptly, and rid himself of his responsibility. For himself, he had no desire to meddle with family secrets, and a young fellow like Gervase Orme was a far fitter companion to share the confidence of a girl, than a rugged and plain-spoken soldier like himself. It might be there was more than her grandfather´s death in the matter, but whatever it was, he would avoid other people´s business for the future, and keep the beaten road, where he saw plain ground for his feet.
“Of my own motion,” he said, “I will not speak of this thing, and though ´tis a pity to have the bonny stones and brave pieces lying in a ditch side, I would not for their worth have carried them a day longer. I even felt like Judas with the forty pieces--the price of the blood, hanging about his neck.”
Dorothy shuddered, and hid her face in her hands.
“All is done now,” said Gervase, seeing her distress, “and words will not mend it. Captain Macpherson and myself must even make for the walls presently, where he will find work in plenty to his taste. The guns have been speaking loudly for an hour.”
“Nay,” said Dorothy rising, “you will not go till you have seen my aunt; she hath been most anxious to thank you for the service you did me. She is seldom able to see strangers, but she is something better to-day, and bade me call her before you left.”
Macpherson demurred stoutly and insisted on making his immediate departure, for he felt by no means at home as it was, and foresaw with a feeling akin to dismay, an interchange of meaningless civilities with a silly old woman of rank. But Dorothy would take no refusal; Lady Hester would not forgive her if she permitted them to leave without seeing her, and she was gone before Macpherson had finished his protest.
“This is what comes of dealing with a woman, Gervase, my son,” he said, in a mournful tone, apparently still meditating retreat. “I had rather face a clump of pikes than come under the artillery of a woman´s tattle. One is bound up hand and foot, and feels his manhood oozing out through the pores of his skin, while he beats his brains for a civil speech and looks in vain for a way of escape. They can talk of nothing I have knowledge of, and I am too old for quips and gallant speeches. But she is a brave lass, and I think I wronged her, so that I must suffer for it now with patience. But for this Lady Hester, a rough old war-horse like myself hath other business in the world than to stand like a page in a lady´s chamber and hearken to her gossip. For young fellows like yourself it may answer, but were I out of this----”
His resolution, whatever it may have been, remained unspoken, for at this moment Lady Hester Rawdon came in, leaning on her nephew´s arm--a frail old lady much broken with illness, who received Gervase with a show of homely kindness, and strongly expressed her sense of the good-will he had shown toward her niece. Motioning to him to sit down beside her on the couch, she drew from him the story of his recent adventure, and Gervase seeing the interest and pleasure she took in the narrative, entered at some length into the particulars of his journey. Regarding the Vicomte de Laprade she made many inquiries--the Vicomte´s mother being her half sister--and regretted the unhappy state of the country that prevented her seeing a lad she was very fond of in his youth. No doubt he was a Catholic, which was to be deplored, but religion should not weaken the ties of kinship. He was of the same age with her nephew Jasper, and a fine lad when she saw him last. That was at Meudon, a great many years ago. There were many changes since then, and she supposed that she would not know him now. These were dreadful times and the roaring of the guns frightened her beyond measure, but there would soon be peace.
So the poor lady rambled on. All the while her nephew stood near without taking any part in the conversation. He was considerably older than Dorothy and very like her in appearance, but without the expression and vivacity which was the great charm of his sister. Gervase thought there was a look of unfriendliness in his eyes, and resented with some inward heat, the supercilious air with which he treated him. Macpherson had stood for some time preserving an awkward silence, until Dorothy withdrew him to the window, and by slow degrees broke down his silence, till he suddenly found himself talking with great ease and friendliness.
It was many years since he had looked so nearly in the face of youth and beauty and listened to the tones of a girlish voice, and who can tell what secret springs of memory had suddenly been unlocked? Certain it is that when Gervase and he made their way to the walls half an hour afterwards, there was an undertone in his voice and a softened look in his eyes that Orme had never heard or seen before.
“There are hard times,” he said, “before yon sweet lass, harder than she dreams of, but you and I must help to make them easier if we can. That rambling old woman and that gay spark of a brother will be a poor help to her in the day of her trial. I like not yon lad; his eyes shift too much, and they are ever counting the buttons on your coat while you are trying to find what is the thought in his mind. I´m thinking he would be glad to be out of this, could he carry the old woman´s fortune with him. But the lass herself hath a great heart, and if God sees good will make a fit mother to a noble race of bairns.”
But Gervase paid very little attention to his speech. The presence of Dorothy and the look she had given him at parting, so rapid but at the same time so complete in perfect confidence, had filled him with happiness, and given him food for contemplation. The old stories that he had read of wandering knights and heroic paladins had come to be fulfilled for him; he had found a cause in which to use his sword, and a lady who was worthy of his devotion; and so a golden vista of great deeds opened out before him, and he saw glory and love at the end of it. We will not quarrel with the young fellow´s idle fancies, but leave him with the girl´s last words----"You have proved yourself my friend," keeping him awake that night and mingling with the substance of his dreams.