XI
THE TIGER'S PUNISHMENT
That single kiss was to Ernestine the climax and zenith of horror. It seemed to sear and blister her very soul with an anguish of repulsion that would scar her memory for all time. She retained her consciousness, but she never knew by what lightning stroke she was set free. She was too dazed, too blinded, by her horror to realise. But suddenly the cruel grip that had her helpless was gone. A vague confusion swam before her eyes. Her knees doubled under her. She sank down in a huddled heap, and lay quivering.
There came to her the sound of struggling, the sound of cursing, the sound of blows. But, sick and spent, she heeded none of these things, till a certain monotony of sound began to drum itself into her senses. She came to full understanding to see Dinghra, in the grip of an Englishman, being hideously thrashed with his own horsewhip. He was quite powerless in that grip, but he would fight to the end, and it seemed that the end was not far off. The punishment must have been going on for many seconds. For his face was quite livid and streaked with blood, his hands groped blindly, beating the air, he staggered at each blow.
The whip fell flail-like, with absolute precision and regularity. It spared no part of him. His coat was nearly torn off. In one place, on the shoulder, the white shirt was exposed, and this also was streaked with blood.
Ernestine crouched under the tree and watched. But very soon a new fear sprang up within her, a fear that made her collect all her strength for action. It was something in that awful, livid face that prompted her.
She struggled stiffly to her feet, later she wondered how, and drew near to the two men. The whirling whip continued to descend, but she had no fear of that. She came quite close till she was almost under the upraised arm. She laid trembling hands upon a grey tweed coat.
"Let him go!" she said very urgently. "Let him go—while he can!"
Rivington looked down into her white face. He was white himself—white to the lips.
"I haven't done with him yet," he said, and he spoke between his teeth.
"I know," she said. "I know. But he has had enough. You mustn't kill him."
She was strangely calm, and her calmness took effect. Later, she wondered at that also.
Rivington jerked the exhausted man upright.
"Go back!" he said to Ernestine. "Go back! I won't kill him!"
She took him at his word, and went back. She heard Rivington speak briefly and sternly, and Dinghra mumbled something in reply. She heard the shuffling of feet, and knew that Rivington was helping him to walk.
For a little while she watched the two figures, the one supporting the other, as they moved slowly away. Dinghra's head was sunk upon his breast. He slunk along like a beaten dog. Then the trunk of a tree hid them from her sight.
When that happened, Ernestine suffered herself to collapse upon the moss, with her head upon her arms.
Lying thus, she presently heard once more the tread of a horse's feet, and counted each footfall mechanically. They grew fainter and fainter, till at last the forest silence swallowed them, and a great solitude seemed to wrap her round.
Minutes passed. She did not stir. Her strength had gone utterly from her. Finally there came the sound of a quiet footfall.
Close to her it came, and stopped.
"Why, Chirpy!" a quiet voice said.
She tried to move, but could not. She was as one paralysed. She could not so much as utter a word.
He knelt down beside her and raised her to a sitting posture, so that she leaned against him. Holding her so, he gently rubbed her cheek.
"Poor little Chirpy!" he said. "It's all right!"
At sound of the pity and the tenderness of his voice, something seemed to break within her, the awful constriction passed. She hid her face upon his arm, and burst into a wild agony of weeping.
He laid his hand upon her head, and kept it there for a while; then as her sobbing grew more and more violent, he bent over her.
"Don't cry so, child, for Heaven's sake!" he said earnestly. "It's all right, dear; all right. You are perfectly safe!"
"I shall never—feel safe—again!" she gasped, between her sobs.
"Yes, yes, you will," he assured her. "You will have me to take care of you. I shall not leave you again."
"But the nights!" she cried wildly. "The nights!"
"Hush!" he said. "Hush! There is nothing to cry about. I will take care of you at night, too."
She began to grow a little calmer. The assurance of his manner soothed her. But for a long time she crouched there shivering, with her face hidden, while he knelt beside her and stroked her hair.
At last he moved as though to rise, but on the instant she clutched at him with both hands.
"Don't go! Don't leave me! You said you wouldn't!"
"I am not going to, Chirpy," he said. "Don't be afraid!"
But she was afraid, and continued to cling to him very tightly, though she would not raise her face.
"Come!" he said gently, at length. "You're better. Wouldn't you like to bathe your feet?"
"You will stay with me?" she whispered.
"I am going to help you down to the stream," he said.
"Don't—don't carry me!" she faltered.
"Of course not! You can walk on this moss if I hold you up."
But she was very reluctant to move.
"I—I don't want you to look at me," she said, at last, with a great sob. "I feel such a fright."
"Don't be a goose, Chirpy!" he said.
That braced her a little. She dried her tears. She even suffered him to raise her to her feet, but she kept her head bent, avoiding his eyes.
"Look where you are going," said Rivington practically. "Here is my arm. You mustn't mind me, you know. Lean hard!"
She accepted his assistance in silence. She was crying still, though she strove to conceal the fact. But as she sank down once more on the brink of the stream, the sobs broke out afresh, and would not be suppressed.
"I was so happy!" she whispered. "I didn't want him here—to spoil my paradise."
Rivington said nothing. She did not even know if he heard; and if he were aware of her tears he gave no sign. He was gently bathing her torn feet with his hands.
XII
THE KNIGHT ERRANT PLAYS THE GAME
She began to command herself at last, and to be inexpressibly ashamed of her weakness. She sat in silence, accepting his ministrations, till Rivington proceeded to tear his handkerchief into strips for bandaging purposes; then she put out a protesting hand.
"You—you shouldn't!" she said rather tremulously.
He looked at her with his kindly smile.
"It's all right, Chirpy. I've got another."
She tried to laugh. It was a valiant effort.
"I know I'm a horrid nuisance to you. It's nice of you to pretend you don't mind."
"I never pretend," said Rivington, with a touch of grimness. "Do you think you will be able to get your stocking over that?"
"I think so."
"Try!" he said.
She tried and succeeded.
"That's better," said Rivington. "Now for the shoes. I can put them on."
"I don't like you to," she murmured.
"Knights errant always do that," he assured her. "It's part of the game. Come! That's splendid! How does it feel?"
"I think I can bear it," she said, under her breath.
He drew it instantly off again.
"No, you can't. Or, at least, you are not going to. Look here, Chirpy, my dear, I think you must let me carry you, anyhow to the caravan. It isn't far, and I can fetch you some slippers from the mill from there. What? You don't mind, do you? An old friend like me, and a poor relation into the bargain?" The blue eyes smiled at her quizzically, and very persuasively.
But her white face crimsoned, and she turned it aside.
"I don't want you to," she said piteously.
"No, but you'll put up with it!" he urged. "It's too small a thing to argue about, and you have too much sense to refuse."
He rose with the words. She looked up at him with quivering lips.
"You wouldn't do it—if I refused?" she faltered.
The smile went out of his eyes.
"I shall never do anything against your will," he said. "But I don't know how you will get back if I don't."
She pondered this for a moment, then, impulsively as a child, stretched up her arms to him.
"All right, Knight Errant. You may," she said.
And he bent and lifted her without further words.
They scarcely spoke during that journey. Only once, towards the end of it, Ernestine asked him if he were tired, and he scouted the idea with a laugh.
When they reached the caravan, and he set her down upon the step, she thanked him meekly.
"We will have tea," said Rivington, and proceeded to forage for the necessaries for this meal in a locker inside the caravan.
He brought out a spirit-lamp and boiled some water. The actual making of the tea he relegated to Ernestine.
"A woman does it better than a man," he said.
And while she was thus occupied, he produced cups and saucers, and a tin of biscuits, and laid the cloth. Finally, he seated himself on the grass below her, and began with evident enjoyment to partake with her of the meal thus provided.
When it was over, he washed up, she drying the cups and saucers, and striving with somewhat doubtful success to appear normal and unconstrained.
"Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked, at the end of this.
"Of course not," she answered, and he brought out the briar pipe forthwith.
She watched him fill and light it, her chin upon her hand. She was still very pale, and the fear had not gone wholly from her eyes.
"Now I'm going to talk to you," Rivington announced.
"Yes?" she said rather faintly.
He lay back with his arms under his head, and stared up through the beech boughs to the cloudless evening sky.
"I want you first of all to remember," he said, "that what I said a little while ago I meant—and shall mean for all time. I will never do anything, Chirpy, against your will."
He spoke deliberately. He was puffing the smoke upward in long spirals.
"That is quite understood, is it?" he asked, as she did not speak.
"I think so," said Ernestine slowly.
"I want you to be quite sure," he said. "Otherwise, what I am going to say may startle you."
"Don't frighten me!" she begged, in a whisper.
"My dear child, I sha'n't frighten you," he rejoined. "You may frighten yourself. That is what I am trying to guard against."
Her laugh had a piteous quiver in it.
"You think me very young and foolish, don't you?" she said.
He sat up and looked at her.
"I think," he said, "that you stand in very serious need of someone to look after you."
She made a slight, impatient movement.
"Why go over old ground? If you really have any definite suggestion to make, why not make it?"
Rivington clasped his hands about his knees. He continued to look at her speculatively, his pipe between his teeth.
"Look here, Chirpy," he said, after a moment, "I can't help thinking that you would be better off and a good deal happier if you married."
"If I—married!" Her eyes flashed startled interrogation at him. "If I—married!" she repeated almost fiercely. "I would rather die!"
"I didn't suggest that you should marry Dinghra," he pointed out mildly. "He is not the only man in the world."
The hot colour rushed up over her face.
"He is the only one that ever wanted me," she said, in a muffled tone.
"Quite sure of that?" said Rivington.
She did not answer him. She was playing nervously with a straw that she had pulled from the floor of the caravan. Her eyes were downcast.
"What about me?" said Rivington. "Think you could put up with me as a husband?"
She shook her head in silence.
"Why not?" he said gently.
Again she shook her head.
He knelt up suddenly beside her, discarding his pipe, and laid his hand on hers.
"Tell me why not," he said.
A little tremor went through her at his touch. She did not raise her eyes.
"It wouldn't do," she said, her voice very low.
"You don't like me?" he questioned.
"Yes; I like you. It isn't that."
"Then—what is it, Chirpy? I believe you are afraid of me," he said half quizzically.
"I'm not!" she declared, with vehemence. "I'm not such a donkey! No, Knight Errant, I'm only afraid for you."
"I don't quite grasp your meaning," he said.
With an effort she explained.
"You see, you don't know me very well—not nearly so well as I know you."
"I know you well enough to be fond of you, Chirpy," he said.
"That is just because you don't know me," she said, her voice quivering a little. "You wouldn't like me for long, Knight Errant. Men never do."
"More fools they," said the knight errant, with somewhat unusual emphasis. "It's their loss, anyway."
She laughed a little.
"It's very nice of you to say so, but it doesn't alter the fact. Besides—" She paused.
"Besides—" said Rivington.
She looked at him suddenly.
"What about that nice little woman who may turn up some day?"
The humorous corner of Rivington's mouth went up.
"I think she has, Chirpy," he said. "To tell you the honest truth, I've been thinking so for some time."
"You really want to marry me?" Ernestine looked him straight in the eyes. "It isn't—only—a chivalrous impulse?"
He met her look quite steadily.
"No," he said quietly; "it isn't—only—that."
Her eyes fell away from his.
"I haven't any money, you know," she said.
"Never mind about the money," he answered cheerily. "I have a little, enough to keep us from starvation. I can make more. It will do me good to work. It's settled, then? You'll have me?"
"If—if you are sure—" she faltered. Then impulsively, "Oh, it's hateful to feel that I've thrown myself at your head!"
His hand closed upon hers with a restraining pressure.
"You mustn't say those things to me, Chirpy," he said quietly; "they hurt me. Now let me tell you my plans. Do you know what I did when I got back to town the other day? I went and bought a special marriage licence. You see, I wanted to marry you even then, and I hoped that before very long I should persuade you to have me. As soon as I got your telegram, I went off and purchased a wedding-ring. I hope it will fit. But, anyhow, it will serve our present purpose. Will you drive with me into Rington to-morrow and marry me there?"
She was listening to him in wide-eyed amazement.
"So soon?" she said.
"I thought it would save any further trouble," he answered. "But it is for you to decide."
"And—and what should we do afterwards?" she asked, stooping to pick up her straw that had fallen to the ground.
"That, again, would be for you to decide," he answered. "I would take you straight back to your mother if you wished."
She gave a muffled laugh.
"Of course I shouldn't want you to do that."
"Or," proceeded Rivington, "I would hire an animal to draw the caravan, and we would go for a holiday in the forest. Would it bore you?"
"I don't think so," she said, without looking at him. "I—I could sketch, you know, and you could paint."
"To be sure," he said. "Shall we do that, then?"
She began to split the straw with minute care.
"You think there is no danger of—Dinghra?" she said, after a moment.
Rivington smiled grimly, and got to his feet. "Not the smallest," he said.
"He might come back," she persisted. "What if—what if he tried to murder you?"
Rivington was coaxing his pipe back to life. He accomplished his object before he replied. Then:
"You need not have the faintest fear of that," he said. "Dinghra has had the advantage of a public-school education. He has doubtless been thrashed before."
"He is vindictive," she objected.
"He may be, but he is shrewd enough to know when the game is up. Frankly, Chirpy, I don't think the prospect of pestering you, or even of punishing me, will induce him to take the field again after we are married. No"—he smiled down at her—"I think I have cooled his ardour too effectually for that."
She shuddered.
"I shall never forget it."
He patted her shoulder reassuringly.
"I think you will, Chirpy. Or at least you will place it in the same category as the bull incident. You will forget the fright, and remember only with kindness the Knight Errant who had the good fortune to pull you through."
She reached up and squeezed his hand, still without looking at him.
"I shall always do that," she said softly.
"Then that's settled," said Rivington in a tone of quiet satisfaction.
XIII
THE KNIGHT ERRANT VICTORIOUS
"On the 21st of June, quite privately, at the Parish Church, Rington, Hampshire, by the Vicar of the Parish, Cecil Mordaunt Rivington to Ernestine, fourth daughter of Lady Florence Cardwell."
Cecil Mordaunt Rivington, with his pipe occupying one corner of his mouth, and the other cocked at a distinctly humorous angle, sat on the step of the caravan on the evening of the day succeeding that of his marriage, and read the announcement thereof in the paper which he had just fetched from the post-office.
There was considerable complacence in his attitude. A cheerful fire of sticks burned near, over which a tripod supported a black pot.
The sunset light filtered golden through the forest. It was growing late.
Suddenly he turned and called over his shoulder. "I say, Chirpy!"
Ernestine's voice answered from the further end of the caravan that was shut off from the rest by curtains.
"I'm just coming. What is it? Is the pot all right?"
"Splendid. Be quick! I've something to show you."
The curtains parted, and Ernestine came daintily forth.
Rivington barely glanced at her. He was too intent upon the paper in his hand. She stopped behind him, and bent to read the paragraph he pointed out.
After a pause, he turned to view its effect, and on the instant his eyebrows went up in amazement.
"Hullo!" he said.
She was dressed like a gipsy in every detail, even to the scarlet kerchief on her head. She drew back a little, colouring under his scrutiny.
"I hope you approve," she said.
"By Jove, you look ripping!" said Rivington. "How in the world did you do it?"
"I made Mrs. Perkiss help me. We managed it between us. It was just a fancy of mine to fill the idle hours. I didn't think I should ever have the courage to wear it."
He reached up his hand to her as he sat.
"My dear, you make a charming gipsy," he said. "You will have to sit for me."
She laughed, touched his hand with a hint of shyness, and stepped down beside him.
"How is the supper getting on? Have you looked at it?"
He laid aside his paper to prepare for the meal. To her evident relief he made no further comment at the moment upon her appearance. But when supper was over and he was smoking his evening pipe, his eyes dwelt upon her continually as she flitted to and fro, having declined his assistance, and set everything in order after the meal.
The sun had disappeared, and a deep dusk was falling upon the forest. Ernestine moved, elf-like, in the light of the sinking fire. She took no notice of the man who watched her, being plainly too busy to heed his attention.
But her duties were over at last, and she turned from the ruddy firelight and moved, half reluctantly it seemed, towards him. She reached him, and stood before him.
"I've done now," she said. "You can rake out the fire. Good-night!"
He took the little hand in his.
"Are you tired, Chirpy?"
"No, I don't think so." She sounded slightly doubtful.
"Won't you stay with me for a little?" he said. She stood silent. "I was horribly lonely after you went to bed last night," he urged gently.
She uttered a funny little sigh.
"I'm sure you must have been horribly uncomfortable too," she said. "Did you lie awake?"
"No, I wasn't uncomfortable. I've slept in the open heaps of times before. I was just—lonely."
She laid her hand lightly on his shoulder as she stood beside him.
"It was rather awesome," she admitted.
"I believe you were lonely too," he said.
She laughed a little, and said nothing.
He took his pipe from his mouth and laid it tenderly upon the ground.
"Shall I tell you something, Chirpy?"
Her hand began to rub up and down uneasily on his shoulder.
"Well?" she said under her breath.
He looked up at her in the falling darkness.
"I feel exactly as you felt over that squirrel," he said. "Do you remember? You wanted to kiss it, but the little fool didn't understand."
A slight quiver went through Ernestine. Again rather breathlessly, she laughed.
"Some little fools don't," she said.
He moved and very gently slipped his arm about her. "I didn't mean to put it quite like that," he said. "You will pardon my clumsiness, won't you?"
She did not resist his arm, but neither did she yield to it. Her hand still fidgeted upon his shoulder.
"I wish you wouldn't be so horribly nice to me," she said suddenly.
"My dear Chirpy!"
"Yes," she said with vehemence. "Why don't you take what you want? I—I should respect you then."
"But I want you to love me," he answered quietly.
She drew a quick breath, and became suddenly quite rigid, intensely still.
His arm grew a little closer about her.
"Don't you know I am in love with you, Chirpy?" he asked her very softly. "Am I such a dunderhead that I haven't made that plain?"
"Are you?" she said, a sharp catch in her voice. "Are you?" Abruptly she stooped to him. "Knight Errant," she said, and the words fell swift and passionate, "would you have really wanted to marry me—anyway?"
His face was upturned to hers. He could feel her breathing, sharp and short, upon his lips.
"My dear," he said, "I have wanted to marry you ever since that afternoon you met me in St. Paul's."
He would have risen with the words, but she made a quick movement downwards to prevent him, and suddenly she was on her knees before him with her arms about his neck.
"Oh, I'm so glad you told me," she whispered tremulously. "I'm so glad."
He gathered her closely to him. His lips were against her forehead.
"It makes all the difference, dear, does it?"
"Yes," she whispered back, clinging faster. "Just all the difference in the world, because—because it was that afternoon—I began—to want—you too."
And there in the darkness, with the dim forest all about them, she turned her lips to meet her husband's first kiss.