CHAPTER XVIII
HOW MAJOR D'ARCY RECOVERED HIS YOUTH
So the Major kissed my lady's hand, kissed it not "on one extreme finger-tip," but holding it in masterful clasp, kissed it on rosy palm and dimpled knuckles, kissed it again and again with all the ardour of a boy of twenty; and my lady sighed and—let him kiss his fill.
She wore her rustic attire but her simple gown was enriched here and there, with the daintiest of lace as was her snowy mob-cap; and surely never did rustic beauty blush more rosily or look with eyes more shy than she when at last he raised his head:
"Good morrow to your worship!" said she softly, "I trust your honour slept well?"
"No!" he answered, speaking with a strange, new vehemence, "I scarce did close my eyes all night for thought of you——"
"Of me?"
"And of my—my folly! I looked for you this morning—I wished to tell you ... I ... I——" Seeing him thus at a loss, my lady smiled a little maliciously, then hasted to his relief:
"This morning?" said she gently, "I was making more butter for my poor folk—with the aid of my lord of Alvaston, Captain West, and Sir Jasper. But they proved so awkward with the churn that Sir Benjamin must needs show 'em how 'twas done. And after he made much of my rhubarb wine and would have them all taste it and insisted on the Captain drinking three glasses—poor man!"
"Wherefore 'poor'?"
"Why, sir, 'tis truly excellent wine—to look at, but I fear 'tis perhaps a trifle—sourish!" Here she laughed merrily, grew solemn and sighed, glancing shyly at the Major who stood, head bowed, fumbling with one of the gold buttons of the plum-coloured coat.
"I—trust your ladyship is well after your—your fright of yesterday," said he at last.
"My ladyship is very well, sir," she sighed, "though vapourish!"
"Which means?"
"Perhaps I—mourn my lost divinity."
Her tone was light, but he saw that her lips quivered as she averted her head.
"Betty," he cried impulsively, "I was a fool! All night long I've burned with anger at my folly, for I do know you could never be aught but pure and maidenly no matter what you—you chanced to wear. So do I come craving your forgiveness."
"O Major—Major Jack," she sighed, leaning towards him, all glowing tenderness, "first hear me say you spoke me truth, it—it was indeed—unworthy—a hoyden trick! But I have trod a different world to you—a world of careless gaiety and idle chatter, where nought is serious, reverence unknown and love itself a pastime. So I have loved no man—save my brother Charles for we've been lonely all our days—nay, Major John!" for he had caught her hand to his lips again.
"And I dared think you unmaidenly!" he murmured, in bitter self-reproach.
"So would the mother I never knew had she seen me as—as poor Aunt Belinda saw me—and yet—I vow 'twas monstrous laughable!" and my lady hovered between laughter and tears.
"Am I forgiven?" he pleaded.
"Aye, most fully!"
"Why then—to prove it—will you ... would you——"
"Well, your honour?" she questioned humbly.
"Would you permit me to show you the rose-garden?"
"But I have seen it!"
"Aye to be sure, so you have!" he answered, a little dashed. "Though the roses were scarce in bloom then."
"Truly I do love roses, Major Jack——"
"And they are in the full splendour of their beauty——"
"But—this wall?" she demurred. "And ... no ladder!"
He reached up eager arms. "O Major John!" she exclaimed and drew back, blushing as rosily as the shyest maid that ever tripped in dairy. "'Twould be so—so extreme unmaidenly—wouldn't it?" The Major flushed and his arms dropped. "Though indeed I—do love roses!" she sighed. The Major glanced up eagerly. "But 'tis so awkward and someone might see——"
"Not a soul!" he assured her.
"Then ... if you'll turn your head a moment ... and are sure none can spy ... and will be vastly careful ... and are quite, quite sure you can manage——"
It was managed almost as she spoke, he with an assured adroitness, she with such gracious ease that, in the same moment they were walking side by side over the smooth turf, as calm and unruffled as any two people ever were or will be. "'Tis a dear orchard, this!" she sighed, stopping to pat the rough bark of a huge, gnarled apple-tree.
"'Twas here I first saw you," said he.
"Stealing your fruit!" she nodded.
"It seems long ago."
"And yet 'tis but a few short weeks."
Slowly they went on together, past lily-pool asleep in marble basin, through green boskages amid whose leafy shade marble dryads shyly peeped and fauns and satyrs sported; beneath the vast spread of mighty trees across smooth, grassy levels, by shady walks and so at last to the blazing glory of the rose-garden. Here my lady paused with an exclamation of delight.
"Indeed, indeed, 'tis lovely—lovelier than I had dreamed! Are you not proud of it?"
"Yes," he answered, "more especially since I never owned a foot of land till of late—or a roof to shelter me, for that matter."
"You were a soldier!"
"And a very poor one!" he added.
"And they called you 'Fighting d'Arcy!'" said she, looking into the grey eyes she had been wont to think almost too gentle.
"That sounds strange—on your lips," said he with his grave smile, "I perceive the Sergeant has been talking."
"He has been boasting to me of all your wounds, sir!" The Major laughed. "He is greatly proud of you, sir."
"He saved my life more than once."
"You must have been a very desperate soldier to have been wounded so very often, Major John!"
"Why you see, at that time," he answered, handing her down the steps into the garden, "I wished to die."
"To die?" she repeated. "O, prithee why?"
"This was twenty years ago, I was a boy then," he sighed. "To-day I am——"
"A man, and therefore wiser," said she as they went on together among the roses. "And pray why did you seek death?" she questioned softly.
"Because I had lost the woman I loved."
"So then you—have—loved?"
"As a boy of twenty may," he answered. "She—I was an ensign without influence and prospects and—they forced her to wed a wealthier than I."
"O! And she did?" Lady Betty stopped to stamp an angry foot.
"Indeed they—compelled her——"
"Major John sir, no woman that is a woman can be compelled in her affections!"
"She was very young."
"Pooh, sir! I am not yet a withered and wrinkled crone, yet no one shall or should compel me!" And here, with a prodigious flutter of her print gown, my lady seated herself on rustic bench beside the sundial.
"No indeed," said he, "you are—are different." At this she flashed him a swift up-glance and, meeting his gaze, dimpled, drew aside her garments' ample folds and graciously, motioned him beside her. The Major sat down.
"And was she happy?"
"No!"
"Which doth but serve her to her deserts!" The Major winced, perceiving which, my lady faced him. "How, do you love her yet?" she questioned.
"My lady, she is dead," he answered. Lady Betty turned and leaning to a rose that bloomed near by, touched it with gentle fingers.
"And—do you—love her yet, Major John?" she asked softly.
"I held her in my memory as the sweetest of all women until a few weeks ago," he answered simply. My lady's caressing fingers faltered suddenly.
"She was the third woman in your life?"
"Yes," he answered, "because of her memory I have lived a hard life and let love go by nor thought of it."
"Not once?"
"Not once, until of late." My lady was silent, and, leaning nearer, he continued: "Twenty years ago I gave my love and, being hopeless, sought for death and never found it. So, hating war, I made of war my life. I became a soldier of fortune and wheresoever battle was, there was I; when one campaign ended I went in quest of others. So I have learned much of men, of foreign countries, and war in every shape, but of women and love—nothing whatever. Indeed I should be fighting yet but for this unexpected legacy. And now——" He sighed.
"And now?" she repeated softly.
"Now I find that youth has fled and left but emptiness behind!"
"Poor, O poor, decrepit, ancient man!" she sighed, "with your back so bent and your arms so feeble! So wrinkled, so toothless, and so blind!" And rising she turned away and leaned round elbows on the sundial. Now presently he came and stood beside her, looking into her lovely, down-bent face then pointed to the legend graven on the stone.
"Read," said he, "read and tell me—is't not wisdom?" And, very obediently, she read aloud:
"Youth is joyous; Age is melancholy:
Age and Youth together is but folly."
"Indeed," she nodded, "'tis a very wise proverb and, like most other proverbs, sayeth very plainly that black is black and white is white. And truly I do think you a great coward, Major 'Fighting d'Arcy'!"
"Betty?" said he, a little breathlessly.
"You may be very brave in battle but in—in other things you are a very coward!"
"My lady—O Betty! Do you mean ... is it possible that such miracle could be... You in the bloom of your youth and beauty, I——"
"So bent with years!" said she in tender mockery, "so feeble and so—very—blind!"
The Major's philosophic calm was shattered, his placid serenity gone all in a moment; he reached out sudden, passionate arms but without attempting to touch her.
"Betty," he cried, "God knows if I'm presumptuous fool or blessed beyond my hopes, but hear me say—I love you, for all your dainty loveliness, your coquette airs and graces, but, most of all, for the sweet, white, womanly soul of you. And 'tis no flame of youthful passion this, soon to fade, 'tis a man's enduring love desiring all, asking nothing.... I mean, Betty, whether you wed me or no, needs must I love you to the end of time!"
"E'en though I should love and wed another?" she questioned softly.
"Aye, truly!"
"Indeed, you are nobler than I—because"—here she paused to trace out the time-worn lettering on the dial with pink finger-tip—"because if you should love, or wed another, then I—should die of rage and jealousy and grief and——"
The Major's long arms were close about her and, stooping, he kissed her again and again, her fragrant hair, her eyes, her tender mouth.
"O Betty," he sighed, "my beautiful Betty, the wonder of it!"
"O John," she sighed tremulously, "O Jack, indeed 'tis a very furious lover you are! You make love as you fight—as if you loved it—nay, show mercy!" He released her instantly and stood back staring down at her with dazzled eyes.
"Am I rough?" he asked anxiously. "Dear, forgive me! But 'tis all so strange, so unexpected, so marvellous beyond belief! There be so many to love you that I——"
"Shall teach you what love truly is," she murmured, "And I—don't mind—a little roughness, Jack dear!"
"God, 'tis marvellous!" said he at last, holding her away to feast his eyes on her glowing loveliness. "'Tis passing wonderful that of all your throng of lovers you should choose such as I—so much older, so much——" his breath caught, the strong hands that clasped her so tenderly quivered suddenly. "Betty," said he hoarsely, "'tis no coquettish whim, this—no youthful fancy? You do love me indeed?" Now seeing the haggard pleading of his eyes, the quiver of his lips and all his shy humility, she uttered a soft cry and drawing him close, pillowed his troubled brow against her soft cheek.
"Ah dearest," she whispered, "why must you doubt? Love for you hath been in my heart from the first I think, though I never guessed 'twas love until to-day. And for your age—O foolish! I would not have thee younger by an hour and—for my love, 'tis here deep within my heart and will but grow with length of days for to know thee more is to love thee more. You think me over-young, I know, light-thoughted, belike and careless, but in her heart a woman is ever older than a man, and, despite my seeming heedlessness your Betty is methinks much the woman you would have her be."
"Aye, truly," he answered, "the sweetest, the loveliest, noblest woman, I do think, in all this big world!" But when he would have caught her to him again she, blushing, laughing, stayed him to straighten lacy mob-cap and pat rebellious curls with hands a little tremulous, then, sitting down, crossed slim feet demurely and motioned him beside her.
"'Deed, sir," she sighed, "you do make love to perfection! And yet—your love is so—so wonderful that I grow a little fearful lest I prove unworthy——"
"Ah, never!" he cried, drawing her hands to his lips.
"Such love doth make me very humble, Jack dear, 'tis all so different, so reverent and yet also 'tis a little—fierce!" she whispered, yielding to his compelling arms.
"Nay, am I so?" he asked, anxiously, his hold relaxing.
"Ele-mentally!" she murmured, pillowing cheek on plum-coloured velvet regardless of lace cap. "Yet methinks I do—love such ferocity!"
"O Betty, when will you wed me?"
"O John, here is a question to ponder. First, when would you have me?"
"To-day! To-morrow! Soon!"
"O impatient youth!" she murmured. "Second, shall your wife enjoy all liberty?"
"So much as she desire," he answered tenderly.
"Third, shall she live in town i' the season, attend balls, theatres, routs, card-parties, masquerades, drums and the like?"
"If she so wish," said he, a little sadly; perceiving which, she nestled closer to him.
"Fourth, will you swear to be a husband à la mode?"
"What may that be?" he enquired.
"Will you be very polite to your wife and seldom intrude upon her privacy as is the modish custom, will you keep separate establishments, will you——"
"By heaven—no!" exclaimed the Major; whereat, and very suddenly, she kissed him.
"Indeed I do think you will make almost as good a husband as lover!" she sighed. "And—Major Jack, dear—if you would wed me soon——"
"Nay sweet," he broke in, "here was a selfish thought! You are so young——
"A ripe woman of twenty-two, sir!"
"But youth loveth freedom, my Betty, so shall you enjoy it while you will and come to me—when you will!"
"Nay, dear, foolish John, you do speak as you were a prison! What is maiden freedom compared to—wifehood?" she breathed.
"Wife!" he repeated reverently, "'tis a sweet word, Betty!"
"So is—husband, John."
"My Betty—dear—when?"
"Is three months hence too long?"
"Aye, 'tis very long—but——"
"Six weeks, Jack?"
O never-to-be-forgotten hour! Hour long dreamed and yet expected never, so swift to haste away but whose memory was to blossom, sweet and all unfading.
"Dear," said she at last, "since you are not for marriage 'à la mode' I shall plague you mightily——"
"God!" he exclaimed softly, "what a life 'twill be!"
But all at once she started from him as, afar off, a faint wailing arose:
"Betty, my love! O Bet—my Betty love!"
My lady frowned and rising, laid rosy finger to lip.
"Not a word yet, my John! Let our secret be ours awhile. Come, let us meet her."'
Slowly they went amid the roses and sighed for the hour that was gone and wondered to see the sun so low; and thus they presently beheld Lady Belinda twittering towards them escorted by the Sergeant and the tall, well-fed menial.
"O naughty Bet!" she cried, "O wicked puss and truant! I've sought thee this hour and more, I've called thee until my poor voice grew languishing and weak! Ah, dear Major, scold her for me, prithee scold!"
"Nay, madam," he answered, bowing, "I fear the blame is mine, I was for showing my lady the roses as 'twere, and—er——"
"La, dear aunt," said my lady, "how warm you look, so red—so flushed and fulsome!"
"'Tis the sun—the sun!" cried Lady Belinda, "I vow I cannot abide the sun, it nauseates me!"
"Then let us into the shade, mam," said the Major, offering his arm. "'Twill be cool on the terrace, a—er—a dish of tea——"
"Nay, nay, sir, alack and no, we have neighbours expected. Sir Oliver and Lady Rington, Mrs. Wadhurst, and Lady Lydia Flyte—and that minds me, naughty Bet, you were to have gone a-riding to-day with Mr. Dalroyd and Sir Jasper—they called expectant and you were not! Then came poor young Mr. Marchdale, in a great taking, to know if you'd object to his rhyming 'Bet' with 'sweat!' The Captain called, too, with dear Sir Benjamin Tripp—so modish—so elegant! But solemn as two owls, though why owls should be solemn I don't know never having seen one near enough! So you see, dear Major, we positively must away!"
The Major, having escorted them to his park gates, stood to watch that slender, shapely form out of sight, then, sighing, limped slowly housewards lost in happy dreams. As he went he remembered with an odd relief that the Viscount was in London and would remain there several days. Presently he came upon the Sergeant who bore a rake "at the trail" much as if it had been a pike: and the Sergeant's face was beaming and his bright eye almost roguish:
"Ha, Zeb," said the Major, halting to view him over, and his own eyes were shining also, "why Zeb, how deuced smart you look!"
"My best clothes, sir, new ones being on order as commanded, sir."
"Aye, but 'tis not your clothes exactly, you seem—younger, somehow."
"Why, sir," said the Sergeant, a little diffidently, "I took the liberty o' powdering my wig,—no objections I hope, your honour?"
"None at all Zeb, no, no! Egad, 'tis like old times!" So saying, the Major smiled and passed on to the house, whistling softly as he went.