CHAPTER XXXIII
DESCRIBING SOMETHING OF COQUETRY AND A DAWN
It was a glorious summer night, the moon riding high in a cloudless heaven, a night full of a tranquil quietude and filled with the thousand scents of dewy earth. Before him stretched the wide road, a silver causeway fretted with shadows, a silent road where nothing moved save himself.
Thus, joying in the beauty of the night, Major d'Arcy walked slowly and took a roundabout course, and a distant clock chimed the hour of one as he found himself traversing a small copse that abutted on his own property.
In this place of light and shadow a nightingale poured forth his liquid notes rilling the leafy mysteries with ecstatic song; here the Major paused and setting his back to a tree, stood awhile to hearken, lost in a profound reverie.
And into this little wood came two who walked very close together and spoke in rapt murmurs; near they came and nearer until the Major started and looking up beheld a woman who wore a blue cloak and whose face, hidden beneath her hood, was turned up to the eager face of him who went beside her. The Major, scowling and disgusted thus to have stumbled upon a vulgar amour and fearing to be seen, waited impatiently for them to be gone. But they stopped within a few yards of him, half screened from view behind a tangle of bushes. Hot with his disgust, the Major turned to steal away, heard a cry of passionate protest, and glancing back, saw the woman caught in sudden fierce arms, viciously purposeful, and drawn swiftly out of sight.
"Mr. Dalroyd," said my lady gently, lying passive in his embrace, "pray turn your head." Wondering, he obeyed and stared into the muzzle of a small pocket pistol. "Dear Mr. Dalroyd—must I kill you?" she smiled; and he, beholding the indomitable purpose in that lovely, smiling face, gnashed white teeth and loosing her, stood back as the Major appeared.
For a tense moment no one moved, then with an inarticulate sound Mr. Dalroyd took a swift backward step, his hand grasping the hilt of his small-sword; but the Major had drawn as quick as he and the air seemed full of the blue flash and glitter of eager steel. Then, even as the swift blades rang together, my lady had slipped off her cloak and next moment the murderous points were entangled, caught, and held in the heavy folds.
"Shame sirs, O shame!" she cried. "Will you do murder in my very sight? Loose—loose your hold, both of you—loose, I say!" Here my lady, shaking the entangled blades in passionate hands, stamped her foot in fury. The Major, relinquishing his weapon, stepped back and bowed like the grand gentleman he was; then Mr. Dalroyd did the same and so they stood facing each other, my lady between them, the bundled cloak and weapons clasped to her swelling bosom; and it was to be remarked that while Mr. Dalroyd kept his ardent gaze bent upon her proud loveliness, the Major, tall and stately, never so much as glanced at her.
"Sir," said he, "our quarrel will keep awhile, I think?"
"Keep—aye sir!" nodded the other carelessly, "you'll remark the farmers in these parts beget goddesses for daughters, sir."
"Major d'Arcy," said my lady, "take your sword, sir."
The Major, keeping his eyes averted, sheathed the weapon and forthwith turned his back; and as he limped heavily away was aware of Dalroyd's amused laughter. He walked slowly and more than once blundered into a tree or tripped over manifest obstacles like one whose eyesight is denied him, and ever as he went Mr. Dalroyd's triumphant laughter seemed to ring in his ears.
Thus at last he came out of the shadow of the little wood, but now was aware of the tread of quick, light feet behind him, felt a hand upon his arm and found my lady at his side. Then he stopped and drawing from her contact glanced back and saw Mr. Dalroyd watching them from the edge of the coppice, his arms folded and the smile still curling his lips; my lady saw him also and with a passionate gesture bade him begone, whereupon he flourished off his hat, laughed again, and bowing profoundly, vanished amid the trees. Then they went on side by side, my lady quick-breathing, the Major grim and stately—a very grand gentleman indeed.
At last they reached a lane whose high banks sheltered them from all chance of observation; here my lady paused.
"O John," she murmured, "I'm so—so weary, prithee don't hurry me so!" The Major, mute and grim, stared straight before him. "John?" said she tenderly. At this he turned and looked at her and before that look my lady cried out and cowered away. "John!" she cried in frightened wonderment.
"Madam," said he, "why are you here, I sought you not? If you are for dallying, go back—back to your——" He clenched his teeth on the word and turned away. "If mam, if you are—for home to-night I'll see you so far. Pray let us go." And he strode impatiently forward, but presently, seeing her stand where he had left her, pale and forlorn, frowned and stood hesitating.
Here my lady, feeling the situation called for tears, sank down upon the grassy bank beside the way and forthwith wept distractingly; though had any been there to notice, it might have been remarked that her eyes did not swell and her delicate nose did not turn red—yet she wept with whole-hearted perseverance.
The Major grew restless, he looked up the lane and he looked down the lane, he turned scowling eyes aloft to radiant moon and down to shadowy earth; finally he took one long pace back towards her.
"Madam!" said he.
My lady sobbed and bowed her lovely head. The Major approached another step.
"My lady!" he remonstrated.
My lady gasped and crouched lower. The Major approached nearer yet.
"Mam!"
My lady choked and sank full length upon the mossy turf. The Major stooped above her.
"Betty!" said he anxiously. "You—you're never swooning?"
"O John!" she said in strangled voice.
"Great heavens!" he exclaimed. "Art ill—sick——?"
"At—at heart, John!" she murmured, stealing a look at his anxious face. The Major stood suddenly erect, frowning a little.
"Madam!" said he. A deep sigh. "My lady—mam——"
"Do not—call me so!"
"You'll take a rheum—a cold, lying there—'tis a heavy dew!"
"Why then I will—let me, John."
"Pray get up, mam—my lady."
"Never, John!"
"Why then——" said he and paused to look up the lane once more.
"What, John?"
"You force me to——" He paused and glanced down the lane.
"To—what, John!"
"To carry you!"
"Never, John! For shame! Besides you couldn't. I'm a vast weight and——"
The Major picked her up, then and there, and began to carry her down the lane. And after they had gone some distance she sighed and with a little wriggle disposed herself more comfortably; and after they had gone further still he found two smooth, round arms about his neck and thereafter a soft breath at his ear.
"Pray don't be angry with your Betty, John dear." The Major stopped and stared down at her in the brilliant moonlight. Her eyes were closed, her rosy lips just apart, curving to a smile; he drew a sudden deep breath, and stooping his head, kissed her. For a long moment he held her thus, lip to lip, then all at once he set her down on her feet.
"Gad!" he cried, "what kind of woman are you to lure and mad me with your kisses——"
"Your woman, John."
"And yet—for aught I know——" the Major clenched his fists and pressed them on his eyes as if to shut out some hateful vision—"ah God, for aught I can be sure——"
"What, John?"
"He—he hath kissed you too, this night——"
"But he hath not, John—nor ever shall."
"Yet I saw you in his arms——" My lady sighed and bowed her head.
"The beast is always and ever the beast!" she said.
"How came you with him in a wood—after midnight?"
"For sufficient reasons, John."
"There never was reason sufficient—nay, not even your brother——"
"Nay dear John, I think different——"
"To peril that sweet body——" The Major choked.
"Nay, I'm very strong—and—and I have this!"
The Major scowled at the small, silver-mounted weapon and turned away.
"There is your maiden reputation——"
"That is indeed mine own, and in good keeping. Grieve not your woeful head on that score."
"Ah Betty, why will you run such hazard——"
"Because 'tis so my will, sir." The Major bowed.
"'Tis long past midnight, madam."
"Aye, 'tis a sweet hour—so still and solitary."
"Shall we proceed, madam?"
"At your pleasure, sir." So they went on side by side silently awhile, the Major a little grim and very stately.
"I do think John thou'rt very mannish at times."
"Mannish, madam?"
"Blind, overbearing and apt to be a little muddled."
The Major bowed. "For instance, John, methinks you do muddle a woman of will with a wilful woman." The Major bowed. "Now if, John, if in cause so just I should risk—not my body but my name—my fame, who shall stay me seeing I'm unwed and slave to no man yet—God be thanked." The Major bowed lower than ever and went beside her with his grandest air. "'Deed John," she sighed, "if you do grow any more dignified I fear you'll expire and perish o' pride and high-breeding."
The distant clock struck two as, turning down a certain bye-lane, the Major paused at a rustic door that gave into my lady's herb-garden. But when he would have opened it she stayed him.
"'Tis so late, John——"
"Indeed 'tis very late, madam!"
"Too late to sleep this night. And such a night, John—the moon, O the moon!"
"What o' the moon, madam?"
"John d'Arcy I do protest if you bow or say 'madam' again I—I'll bite you! And the moon is—is—the moon and looks vastly romantic and infinite appealing. So will I walk and gaze upon her pale loveliness and sigh and sigh and—sigh again, sir."
"But indeed you cannot walk abroad—at this hour——"
"Having the wherewithal I can sir, and I will, sir."
"But 'tis after two——"
"Then sir, in but a little while it will be three, heigho, so wags the world—your arm pray, your arm."
"But my lady pray consider—your health—your——"
"Fie sir and fiddlededee!"
"But the—the dew, 'tis very——"
"Excellent for the complexion!" and she trilled the line of a song:
'O 'tis dabbling in the dew that makes the milkmaids fair.'
"But 'tis so—unseasonable! So altogether—er—irregular, as 'twere——"
"Egad sir and you're i' the right on't!" she mocked. "'Tis unseasonable, unreasonable, unwomanly, unvirginal and altogether unthinkable as 'twere and so forth d'ye see! Major d'Arcy is probably pining for his downy bed. Major d'Arcy must continue to pine unless he will leave a poor maid to wander alone among bats and owls and newts and toads and worms and goblins and other noxious things——"
"But Betty, indeed——"
"Aye, John—indeed! To-night you did look on me as I had committed—as I had been—O 'twas a hateful look! And for that look I'll be avenged, and my vengeance is this, to wit—you shall sleep no wink this night! Your arm sir, come!"
Almost unwillingly he gave her his arm and they went on slowly down the lane; but before they had gone very far that long arm was close about her and had swept her into his embrace.
"Betty," he murmured, "to be alone with you thus in a sleeping world 'tis surely a foretaste of heaven." He would have drawn her yet nearer but she stayed him with arms outstretched.
"John," said she, "you ha' not forgot how you looked at me to-night, as I were—impure—unworthy? O John!" The Major was silent. "It angered me, John but—ah, it hurt me more! O Jack, how could you?" But now, seeing him stand abashed and silent, her repelling arms relaxed and she came a little nearer. "Indeed John, I'll allow you had some small—some preposterously pitiful small excuse. And you might answer that one cannot come nigh pitch without being defiled. But had you said anything so foolish I—I should ha' sent you home to bed—at once!" Here the Major drew her a little nearer. "But John," she sighed, "you did doubt me for awhile—I saw it in your eyes. Look at me again, John—here a little closer—here where the light falls clear—look, and tell me—am I different? Do I seem any less worthy your love than I was yesterday?"
"No," he answered, gazing into her deep eyes. "O my Betty, God help me if ever I lost faith in you, for 'twould be the end of hope and faith for me."
"But you did lose faith to-night, John—for a little while! And so you shall sue pardon on your knees, here at my feet—nay, 'tis damp, mayhap. I'll sit yonder on the bank and you shall kneel upon a fold of my cloak. Come!"
So the Major knelt to her very reverently and taking her two hands kissed them.
"Dear maid that I love," said he, "forgive the heart that doubted thee. But O love, because I am a very ordinary man, prithee don't—don't put my faith too oft upon the rack for I am over prone to doubts and jealous fears and they—O they are torment hard to bear." Now here she leaned forward and, taking him by two curls of his long periwig, drew him near until she could look into his eyes:
"Jack dear," she said, very tenderly, "I needs must meet this man again—and yet again——"
"Why?" he questioned, "Why?"
"Because 'tis only thus my plan shall succeed. Will you doubt me therefore?"
"No!" he cried hoarsely, "not you—never you, sweet maid! Tis him I doubt, he is a man, strong, determined and utterly ruthless and you are a woman——"
"And more than his match, John! O do but trust me! Do but wait until my plan is ripe——"
"Betty, a God's name what is this wild plan?"
"Nay, that I may not tell thee——"
"Could I not aid?"
"Truly—by doubting me no more, John. By trusting me—to the uttermost."
The Major groaned and bowed his head:
"Ah Betty!" he sighed, "yet must I think of thee as I saw thee to-night—alone with that—that satyr and nought to protect thee but thy woman's wit. God!" he cried, his powerful form shaking, "God, 'tis unthinkable! It must not be—it shall not be!" here he lifted face to radiant heaven, "I'll kill him first—I swear!"
Now seeing the awful purpose in that wild, transfigured face, she cried out and clasping him in tender arms, drew him near to kiss that scowling brow, those fierce, glaring eyes, that grim-set, ferocious mouth, pillowing his head upon her bosom as his mother might have done.
"O my John," she cried, "be comforted! Never let thy dear, gentle face wear look so evil, I—I cannot bear it."
"I'll kill him!" said the Major, the words muffled in her embrace.
"No, John! Ah no—you shall not! I do swear thee no harm shall come to me. I will promise thee to keep ever within this lane when—when we do meet o' nights——" Here the Major groaned again, wherefore she stooped swiftly to kiss him and spoke on, her soft lips against his cheek; "Meet him I needs must, dear—once or twice more if my purpose is to succeed—but I do vow and swear to thee never to quit this lane, John. I do swear all this if thou too wilt swear not to pursue this quarrel."
"He will insist on a meeting, Betty—and I pray God soon!"
"And if he doth not, John—if he doth not, thou wilt swear to let the quarrel pass?"
"Art so fearful for me, Betty?"
"O my John!" she whispered, her embrace tightening, "how might I live without thee? And he is so cold, so—deadly!"
"Yet art not afraid for thyself, Betty!"
"Nor ever shall be. So promise me, John—O promise me! Swear me, dear love!" And with each entreaty she kissed him, and so at last he gave her his promise, kneeling thus his head pillowed between soft neck and shoulder; and being in this fragrant nest his lips came upon her smooth throat and he kissed it, clasping her in sudden, passionate arms.
"John!" she whispered breathlessly. "O John!"
Instantly he loosed his hold and rising, stood looking down at her remorsefully.
"Dear—have I—angered you?" he questioned in stammering humility.
"Angry—and with thee?" and she laughed, though a little tremulously.
"Betty, I do worship thee—revere thee as a goddess—and yet——"
"You tickle me, John! You are by turns so reverent and humble and so—so opposite. I do love your respect and reverent homage, 'tis this doth make me yearn to be more worthy—but alack! I am a very woman, John, especially with thine arms about me and—and the moon at the full. But heigho, the moon is on the wane, see, she sinketh apace."
"Dawn will be soon, Betty."
"Hast seen a many dawns, John?"
"Very many!"
"But never one the like of this?"
"Never a one."
"O 'tis a fair, sweet world!" she sighed, "'tis a world of faerie, a dream world wherein are none but thou and I. Here is neither doubt nor sorrow, but love and faith abiding. Come let us walk awhile in this our faerie kingdom."
Slowly they went beneath the fading moon, speaking but seldom, for theirs was a rapture beyond the reach of words. So at last they came to a stile and paused there to kiss and sigh and kiss again like any rustic youth and maid. Something of this was in my lady's mind, for she laughed soft and happily and nestled closer to him.
"My Master Grave-airs," she murmured, "O Master Grave-airs where is now thy stately dignity, where now my fine-lady languor and indifference? To stand at a stile and kiss like village maid and lad—and—love it, John! How many rustic lovers have stood here before us, how many will come after us, and yet I doubt if any may know a joy so deep. Think you paradise may compare with this? Art happy, John?"
"Beloved," he answered, "I who once sought death boldly as a friend now do fear it like a very craven——"
"Ah no!" she cried, "speak not of death at such an hour, my Jack."
"Betty," said he, "O Betty, thou art my happiness, my hope, my very life. I had thought to go wifeless, childless and solitary all my days in my blindness and was content. But heaven sent thee to teach me the very joy and wonder of life, to—to——"
"To go beside thee henceforth, John, my hand in thine, learning each day to love thee a little more, to cherish and care for thee, men are such children and thou in some things a very babe. And belike to quarrel with thee, John—a little——" At this he laughed happily and they were silent awhile.
"See John, the moon is gone at last! How dark it grows, 'tis the dawn hour methinks and some do call it the death hour. But with these dear arms about me I—shouldn't fear so—very much."
Slowly, slowly upon the dark was a gleam that grew and grew, an ever waxing brightness filling the world about them.
"Look!" she whispered, "look! O John, 'tis the dawn at last, 'tis the dayspring and hath found me here upon thy breast!"
Thus, standing by that weatherbeaten stile that had known so many lovers before them, they watched day's majestic advent; a flush that deepened to rose, to scarlet, amber and flaming gold. And presently upon the brooding stillness was the drowsy call of a blackbird uncertain as yet and hoarse with sleep, a note that died away only to come again, sweeter, louder, until the feathered tribe, aroused by this early herald, awoke in turn and filled the golden dawn with an ecstasy of rejoicing.
Then my lady sighed and stirred:
"O John," said she, "'tis a good, sweet world! And this hath been a night shall be for us a fragrant memory, methinks. But now must I leave thee—take me home, my John."
So he brought her to the rustic gate that opened upon the lane and setting it wide, stooped to kiss her lips, her eyes, her fragrant hair and watched her flit away among the sleeping roses.
When she had gone he closed the door and trod a path gay with dewy gems; and hearkening to the joyous carolling of the birds it seemed their glad singing was echoed in his heart.