CHAPTER XV
WHEREIN IS MUCH TALK BUT LITTLE ACTION
Mr. Marchdale threw down his cards pettishly and swore, Lord Alvaston, sprawling in his chair, surveyed his slender legs with drowsy approval, the Marquis of Alton yawned and Mr. Dalroyd shuffled for a new deal; hard by the Captain and Sir Jasper diced sleepily and in the ingle Sir Benjamin snored outright.
"Sink me!" murmured Lord Alvaston, "sink me if I've touched an ace all the evening!"
"Aye, Dalroyd and Alton have all the luck!" exclaimed Mr. Marchdale with youthful petulance.
"Dem'd queer thing, but I feel dooced sleepy!" yawned the Marquis.
"'S'ffect o' country air," murmured Lord Alvaston, "look at Ben."
"Aye begad, will some one be good enough to stir him up, his dem'd snoring makes me worse——"
"Who's snoring?" demanded Sir Benjamin, sitting bolt upright, broad awake in a moment, and straightening his wig. "Od's body, I do protest I did but close my eyes for a moment——"
"And snored, Ben, damnably—'ffect o' country air——"
"And churning, Ben—eh, Benjamin?" suggested Mr. Dalroyd. "You've taken up dairy-work, I understand."
Sir Benjamin reached for and filled his wine-glass and grew a little more rubicund than usual.
"Od so, sir," said he, "'When in Rome'—od's body! 'do as Rome does.' And we are in the country and—ah—being here 'mid rural things simple and sweet I—hem! I say I——"
"Snore, Ben!" murmured Lord Alvaston, "and very natural too!"
"And churn, Ben!" nodded Mr. Dalroyd, his delicate nostrils quivering in his sleepy smile, "You churn till you sweat, churn till you blow like any grampus, I understand."
Sir Benjamin took a gulp of wine, choked, coughed, and grew purple.
"Eh? What? Ho!" exclaimed the Captain. "A churn? Ben? Split me! Some pretty dairy-wench? Aha! Ben—confess!"
Pompous, dignified, Sir Benjamin rose and took a pinch of snuff with great deliberation and apparent satisfaction.
"Od, gentlemen," said he, lace handkerchief a-flutter, "since you'd have it, I'll freely—hem! freely confess it. But 'twas no rustic charmer, no village beauty, no dainty wench o' the dairy bewitched me—no, no! Od's my life, sirs, I've been beforehand wi' most of ye—body o' me—yes! For 'twas my joy and felicity to—ah—hem! to labour at the delightful art of—ah—buttermaking 'neath the bright and witching eyes of—our Admirable Betty!"
"O sly, Ben!" murmured Lord Alvaston, "O Ben—curst sly, sink me!"
"But—a churn!" said the Captain. "Begad! So fatiguing!"
"I churned, firstly, gentlemen, because 'twas so my lady's will and such is, and ever will be, my law, as the mighty Hercules span for the tender Omphale so did I churn for my lady. I churned, secondly, because the churn is a—hem! a romantic engine—I appeal to Alton!"
"So 'tis," mumbled his lordship, "demme if 'tisn't!"
"And I churned thirdly, because the labour entailed is admirable for the—hem! for tuning up the liver—I refer you to Marchdale."
"Nothing like it!" assented that youthful man of the world, "for liver, megrims or the pip give me a churn—and Betty along with it o' course."
"Ha," said Mr. Dalroyd, his smile growing a little malicious, "and then, having put your liver in tune with the churn you proceeded to put it out again by swallowing deep potations of—rhubarb wine of my lady's own decoction."
Sir Benjamin sat down, his plump features took on a careworn expression and he shuddered slightly.
"Rhubarb!" whispered Lord Alvaston, staring.
"Rhubarb!" muttered the Captain. "O Gad! Poor Ben!"
"Heroic Ben!" said Sir Jasper, his fine eyes more soulful than ever.
"Three glasses!" sighed Sir Benjamin. "Aye—three—she insisted! But, body o' me, sirs, what would you? Beauty is the—hem! the fount, the source, the mainspring of valour, is't not? As in olden days our ancestors were ready and eager to adventure life and limb for the bright eyes of their fair ladies, surely we, in like manner, should be equally willing to risk our—hem! our—I say to risk our——"
"Stomachs!" suggested Alvaston, "my own 'pinion precisely! Stomach's only stomach but th' heart's a noble organ—seat o' the 'flections and all that sort o' thing. Which reminds me, not a single ace have I held this game."
"But—split me! Why rhubarb?" demanded the Captain, "Why endeavour t' poison poor Ben? O burn me!"
"'Twas a woman's notion," explained Sir Jasper, "a whim, a fancy. The whole sex, dear creatures, be full of 'em, 'tis what makes 'em so infinite captivating——"
"Not," enquired the Captain, "not rhubarb——"
"No, no—'tis the mystery of 'em—the wonder of their changing moods that makes women so alluring and Bet the most bewitching of 'em all. By Venus, she's elusive as a sunbeam, mysterious as fate, changeable as——"
"Begad," exclaimed the Marquis, "and that's the dem'd truth—that's Betty to a T and that's how I'm coming continual croppers—if she were only a little more like a horse or a dog I should know what to expect and how to treat her——"
"I suggest—precisely the same," smiled Mr. Dalroyd, "and horses one spurs and dogs one whips and my lady would be better for a little of both. Women should be managed, they expect it and they love the strong hand!"
Sir Benjamin gaped, the Captain stared, Sir Jasper rolled his eyes and Mr. Marchdale, furrowing youthful brow, spoke:
"As a man of the world I vow there's wisdom in't. The lovely creatures look for strength in a man—mastery, d'ye see, though a whip——"
"Od sir," ejaculated Sir Benjamin, "'tis rank heresy!"
"Pure savagery!" gasped Sir Jasper.
"Precisely my own 'pinion!" murmured Lord Alvaston. "For if a dog's a dog he's only a dam dog—'sequently whip him when needful. Same with a horse. But a woman being a woman ain't a dog nor a horse, therefore since she is a woman 'stead of whipping, worship——"
"Talking o' whips," said the Marquis, "I should devoutly and vastly desire to see some masterful ass attempt to horsewhip Bet, 'twould be a sight for the gods—she has all her brother's fire and spirit with a cleverer head."
"None the less, Alton," retorted Mr. Dalroyd, "the man who wins her will be the man who masters her."
"No, no, Dalroyd," exclaimed Sir Jasper soulfully, "who shall master a goddess? Who but the humblest of her admirers shall hope to win the queen of women?"
"I'm with you there, Denholm!" said Lord Alvaston heartily, "and talking o' queens, not an ace have I touched this game—I'm done!"
"Same here!" growled Mr. Marchdale. "You've all the luck, Dalroyd. I owe you another fifty, I think?"
"Seventy-five!" murmured Mr. Dalroyd.
"Well, I'm for bed!" yawned his lordship.
"So'm I!" nodded Mr. Marchdale.
"Eh—bed?" cried the Marquis reproachfully. "Bed—and not gone twelve yet—shameful, O dem!"
"'Tis the country air," explained Marchdale, "in London I'm at my best and brightest at three o'clock in the morning as you very well know, Alton, but here I'm different, 'tis the curst country air, I think."
"And the churn!" said the Marquis, "Betty kept you at it, you and Ben, not to mention the rhubarb wine, I escaped that—eh, Ben?"
"You were nearer the window!" sighed Sir Benjamin, rising.
"What, are you for bed too? Nay, stop at least for a nightcap or so—let's have up another half-dozen o' burgundy!"
"Nay, bed for me," yawned his lordship of Alvaston, "we may be set a-digging or a-ploughing or some such, to-morrow—one never can tell——"
"Ha!" exclaimed the Captain, "would lose a hundred—joyfully, to see Alvaston perform on the hoe, begad!"
So amid much laughter and banter the company arose and in twos and threes sauntered up to their various rooms, all save Mr. Dalroyd who, left alone, sat awhile playing idly with the cards that littered the table. At last he slipped a white hand into the bosom of his coat and taking thence a scrap of soiled and crumpled paper, smoothed it out and perused it thoughtfully, and, as he read, his lips curved and his nostrils quivered; then, re-folding this strange missive he put it away and, ringing the bell, demanded his valet.
In due time came a discreet knock and thereafter a discreet person entered, tall, quick-eyed, low-voiced, soft-stepping, he was a very model of a fashionable gentleman's gentleman though his eyes were perhaps a little too close together and their glance a trifle furtive.
"Joseph," said Mr. Dalroyd, surveying his 'gentleman' with a languid interest yet with eyes that seemed to observe his entire person at one and the same time. "Joseph, this afternoon I gave you leave to ramble abroad, well knowing your passion for country roads and cross-roads." Joseph bowed supple back and smiled deferentially, though his eyes appeared somehow to come a little closer together. "Consequently, Joseph, you rambled, I take it?"
"I did, sir!"
"And in your rambles you may have chanced by the old mill, Joseph?"
"Indeed, sir, a charming ruin, very picturesque, the haunt of bats and owls, sir."
"Anything else?"
"No, sir."
"Nothing? Are you sure, Animal?"
"Positively, sir!"
"Were there no signs, Thing?"
"None, sir."
"Did you use your eyes well, Object?"
"Everywhere, sir."
"Have you heard any talk in the village of this ghost lately?"
"Frequently, sir. Three people swear they've seen it."
"How do they describe it?"
"They all agree to horns, sir, and a shapeless head."
"Do you believe in ghosts, Joseph?"
"That depends, sir."
"On what, fool?"
"On who sees them sir."
"You were almost famous for the possession of what is called 'nerves of iron' in your predatory days, if I remember rightly, Joseph?"
The obsequious Joseph started slightly and his bow was servile.
"Consequently you don't fear ghosts?"
"No, sir."
"Neither do I, Joseph, and 'tis nigh upon the witching hour, bring me my hat and cane." And Mr. Dalroyd rose languidly.
"Sir," said Joseph as he handed his master the articles in question, "might I suggest one of your travelling-pistols——"
"No, Joseph, no, 'twould drag my pocket out o' shape, and ghosts are impervious to pistols or shall we say 'barkers' 'tis the more professional term for 'em, I believe?"
Once again the obsequious Joseph started slightly, observing which, Mr. Dalroyd flashed white teeth in languid amusement. "I may be gone an hour or more, Joseph, remain awake to undress me."
"Very good, sir! And if I might suggest, sir, 'tis said the ghost walks the churchyard o' nights latterly."
"That sounds sufficiently ghostly!" nodded Mr. Dalroyd. "And by the way, let your tongue remain discreetly inactive—for your own sake, Joseph!"
"Very good, sir—certainly!—and may you burn in everlasting fire!" added the obsequious Joseph under his breath as he watched his master's languid figure out of sight—his eyes seeming closer together than ever.