CHAPTER XXI
OF CRIMINATIONS
"Zebedee," said the Major, staring down at his empty desk, "what's become of my manuscript and papers?"
"I' the orchard, sir."
"The orchard—why there?"
"Why sir, seeing the day s'fine, the sun s'warm and the air s'balmy I took 'em out into the arbour, your honour."
"And who the plague told you to?"
"Mrs. Agatha, sir, and seeing 'tis quiet there wi' none to disturb, d'ye see, I took same, hoping what wi' the sun so warm and the air so balmy and your History o' Fortification in ten vollums you might—capture a wink or so o' sleep, p'r'aps, you not having closed a optic all last night, your honour."
"Ha!" growled the Major and, limping to the open casement, scowled out upon the sunny garden.
"And you was ever fond o' the orchard, sir."
"Damn the orchard!"
"Heartily, sir, heartily if so commanded, though 'tis for sure a pleasant place and if you, a-sitting there so snug and secluded, could nod off to sleep for an hour or so, what with the sun so warm and the air so balmy, 'twould do you a power o' good, sir, you being a bit—strange-like to-day, d'ye see."
"Strange? How?"
"Your temper's a leetle shortish and oncertain-like, sir."
"Aye," nodded the Major grimly, "belike it is, Zeb." He turned and limped slowly to the door but paused there, staring down at the polished floor. "Zebedee," said he suddenly, without lifting his frowning gaze, "what a plague gave you to think there was—there could be aught 'twixt my lady and me?"
"Observation, sir." The Major's scowl grew blacker:
"And—Mrs. Agatha?" he enquired, "does she know?"
"Being a woman, sir, she do—from the very first."
"Ha!" exclaimed the Major bitterly, "and the maids—I suppose they know, and the footmen, and the grooms, and the gardeners and every peeping, prying——"
"Sir," said the Sergeant fervently, "I'll lay my life there's no one knows but Mrs. Agatha and me—her by nat'ral intooitions and me by observation aforesaid."
"Do I——show it so——plainly, Zeb?"
"No, sir, but Mrs. Agatha's a remarkable woman—and I've learned to know you in all these years, to know your looks and ways better than you know 'em yourself, sir, wherefore I did ventur' to put two and two together and made 'em five, it seems. For (I argufies to myself) it ain't nowise good for man to live alone seeing as man be born to wedlock as the sparks do up'ard fly and what's bred i' the bone is bound to be. Moreover man cleaveth to woman and vicey-versey, your honour. Furthermore (argues I) wedlock is a comfortable institootion—now and then, sir, and very nat'ral 'twixt man and maid whereby come heirs o' the body male and female, your honour. And furthermore (I argues) you're a man and she's a maid and both on you apt and fit for same, therefore, if so—why not? Moreover again (thinks I) if two folk do love each other and there ain't any kind o' just cause nor yet impedimenta—why then (says I) wherefore not obey Natur's call and——your honour——d'ye see——there y'are, sir!" Here the Sergeant stopped and stood at attention, breathing rather hard, while the Major, who had averted his head, was silent awhile; when at last he spoke his voice sounded anything but harsh.
"You're a good soul, Sergeant Zeb, a good soul. But that which is——impossible can—er—can never be.
'Youth is joyous; Age is melancholy:
Age and Youth together is but folly.'
"'Tis a true saying, Zeb," he sighed, "a true saying and not to be controverted."
"Certainly not, sir," answered the Sergeant, "and you'll find your History o' Fortification a-laying on the table in the arbour, sir, also pens and ink, also pipe and tobacco, also tinder-box, also——"
"Why then, Zeb, since as you say the sun is so warm and the air so balmy I'll go out and sit awhile and dream I'm young again, for to youth all things are possible—or seem so." And, sighing, he limped forth into the sunshine. But now, as he went slowly towards the orchard, he smiled more than once, and once he murmured:
"God bless his honest heart!"
Thus, slow and listless of step, he came at last into the pleasant seclusion of the orchard and, with head bowed and shoulders drooping like one that is very weary, entered the cool shadow of the hutch-like sentry-box and started back, trembling all at once and with breath in check.
She sat looking up at him, great-eyed and very still, yet all vigorous young life from the glossy love-lock above white brow to her dainty riding-boot.
"Why John," said she softly, "do I fright you? Will you run from me again you great, big, 'Fighting d'Arcy'?" And now, because of his look, over snowy neck and cheek and brow crept a rosy flush, her lips quivered to a shy smile, never had she seemed so maidenly or so alluring; the Major clenched his fists and bowed his head. "John," she commanded tenderly, "come you hither to me!" and she patted the seat beside her with white hand invitingly. Major d'Arcy never stirred, so she reached out and catching him by the skirt of his coat, drew him near and nearer until he was seated beside her.
"And now," she questioned, "why do you tramp to and fro sleepless all night? Why do you gallop away at sight of me? Why are your poor cheeks so pale and your eyes so heavy with pain? Why do you sit and stare mumchance? Why? Why? Why?"
Now looking down into these bright eyes that met his so unflinchingly, hearkening to her soft and tender voice, his own eyes blenched and putting up his hands he covered his face that he might not see all the beauty of her and when he spoke his voice was hoarse and broken.
"My lady—why are you here—after last night? Dear God!"
"Because you need me, John, to comfort you, 'twould seem. If indeed you are bewitched by cruel fancies I am here to drive them away."
"Would to God you might," he groaned, "or that I had died before last night!"
"John," said she gently, "John—look at me! Do I seem changed, less worthy your love?"
"No, no, and yet—God help me—I saw, I heard!"
"What did you hear?"
"Your words of love—last night—in the arbour—your kisses."
At this, she started but her glance never wavered.
"What did you see?"
"I saw—him—damn him—leap back over the wall—Dalroyd!"
"Dalroyd!" she gasped, "Dalroyd—are you sure?"
"I had him in my grip! I looked into his evil face——"
"Dalroyd!" she whispered, and with the word her proud head drooped and he saw her hands were shaking.
"Betty," said he hoarsely, "O Betty, 'tis not that my dream of possessing you is done, but—dear heaven—that it should be—such a man! For if I do guess aright he is one so vile, so——"
"John!" she cried, "O think you 'twas to meet—him, I was there?"
"Aye, I saw him—fresh from your embraces—the damnable rogue boasted of it and I was minded to strangle him—but—for your sake——"
"My sake?"
My lady rose and stood very pale and still, looking down at the Major's agony.
"And you think," she questioned softly, "you believe I was there to meet—him, at such an hour?"
"Betty—Betty—God help me—what am I to think?"
"What you will!" she answered. "Therein shall be your punishment!" And turning she would have left him, but he caught at her habit.
"My lady," he pleaded, "for God's sweet sake be merciful and deny it. Tell me I dreamed—say that my eyes saw falsely, tell me so in mercy and I'll believe."
"No!" she said dully, "No! Were I to swear this on my knees yet deep within your heart this evil doubt would still rear its head——"
"Nay, nay—I vow—I swear!"
"You have been so swift to spy out evil in me from the first," she went on in the same passionless voice, "first you thought me a wild hoyden, then unvirginal, now—now, a sly wanton! So will I make your evil thoughts so many whips to scourge you for all your cruel doubt of me!"
Saying which, she broke from him and crossing the orchard on flying feet reached the ladder set for her there by the Sergeant's willing hands, she mounted, then paused to glance back over her shoulder but seeing how the Major remained meekly where she had left him, his head bowed humbly between clasping hands, she frowned, bit her lip, then gathering up the voluminous folds of her riding-habit climbed back very dexterously over the wall, frowned at him again, shook her head at him and vanished.
But then—ah then, being hid from all chance of observation she leaned smooth cheek against the unfeeling bricks and mortar of that old weather-beaten wall and fell to a silent passion of grief.
"O John!" she whispered, "O foolish, blundering, cruel John dear—I wonder if you'll ever know—how much I yearned—to kiss your dear, sad, tired eyes!"
Then, drying her tears, she lifted proud head and walked with much dignified composure into the house.