II
The Gentleman was sauntering across the grass towards the cottage, his hands behind him.
The Parson brushed aside the mattress, and thrust out, snarling.
"Keep your distance, sir, or take the consequences."
The Gentleman strolled forward.
"Ah, there you are, Padre. I came to have a little chat."
"Stand fast then, and state your business!—This is war, not play- acting. I hate your silly swagger."
"Well, in the first place I thought you might care to know that your man's through."
"Thank you for nothing. Knew that already."
"But you know—there's always a little but in this world—hateful word, isn't it?—but, but, but—he's too late."
"What ye mean?"
"I mean that Nelson reached Dover last night, and sails this afternoon. The Medusa'll be off here at dawn if this breeze holds."
Dover!
The Parson had forgotten Dover. Chatham, the Admiralty, Merton! in his note he had urged Beauchamp to send messengers post-haste to all three; but Dover!
"That's all right," he called calmly. "I've a galloping express half- way there by now, thank ye."
The other shook his head with a grave smile.
"It's sixty miles in a bee-line from Lewes to Dover, and plenty of public-houses on the road. No Englishman could do it under eight hours on a hot day. If your romance-man gets there by midnight, he'll do well—and still be hours too late."
The Parson remained unmoved.
"It makes no odds," he called loftily. "If you want to know, Nelson's not in England."
"Is he not? where is he then?"
"Why, where he ought to be—hammering the Combined Squadron somewhere
St. Vincent way."
"How d'you know?"
"He's my cousin on my father's side. I heard from his mother only— only—"
"By last night's mail!" suggested the Gentleman. "May I ask then why you trouble to send a galloping express to Dover to stop him?"
The Parson's face darkened. He thrust forward.
"And may I ask how you know Nelson got to Dover last night?"
The other shrugged.
"I have agents."
The Parson nodded grimly.
"Yes; I've a list of em."
"Your countrymen, my friends"—with a malicious little bow—"the Friends of Freedom."
The Parson leaned out, black as night.
"Friends of Freedom be d——-d!" he thundered—"bloody traitors!"
The other raised a shocked hand.
"Holy Padre! Reverend Father! Virginibus puerisque, if you please."
The Parson turned to find Kit at his elbow.
"I'm only a deacon," he grumbled. And it's only what you French gentry call a fashion de polly."
"I am not French—or only on my mother's side," replied the other gently.
"Well, Frenchified then—it's all the same, ain't it?—all that bowin and scrapin and humbuggin business—you know what I mean."
"Yes, yes, I know, my polished friend…. And as to these same couleur-de-rose gentry I understand your feelings entirely, and for the very good reason that I share them. And I don't mind telling you in confidence that as to the bulk of them your description is not too highly-coloured."
"And if they're that, what are you, I'd like to know?" shouted the Parson.
"I am an Irishman. I serve my country—I do not sell her."
"And are all Irishmen traitors?"
A gleam came into the other's eyes. He smiled frostily.
"All who are worthy of the name," he said….
"But to return to our sheep. They have served me, these sanguinary gentlemen, so I can't stand by and see them hanged, when I can save em. And to put it shortly—I want that despatch-bag, please!"
He came forward like a child, hand outstretched, and smiling charmingly.
The Parson flung out a finger and volleyed laughter.
"And he thinks he's going to get it! Ask pretty; don't forget to say please; and he shall have everything he wants, he shall, he shall. There's a lambkin! there's a little lovey!" He leaned out again. "And what you going to give us for it?"
"Why, a free pass-out, with all the honours of war."
"Thank you for nothing. Seems to me I can have a free pass-out whenever I like. I've just free-passed out a man. And I'm only a minute or two back myself from a little stroll with a lady."