Sir John Dering: A romantic comedy

by Jeffery Farnol

V

Sir John, giving hat and cloak to the placid Betty, glanced round the small room.

“Pray tell your lady that Sir John Dering awaits her pleasure,” said he, whereupon Betty curtsied, dimpled and withdrew, leaving him to shoot his ruffles, adjust his laced jabot and glance into the mirror a little anxiously, for now that the moment was at hand he was conscious of a vague unease, a growing apprehension that plagued and puzzled him: “How would she receive him?” Here was the question to which he found no answer. Thus, for once unsure of himself, he shot ruffles, adjusted cravat and glanced into the mirror all over again.

Then the door opened and she stood before him, a radiant vision, magnificently gowned, a glorious creature deep-eyed, red-lipped, vivid with youth and strength, a woman nobly shaped, assured and confident in her beauty. Proudly she swept towards him, closing the door behind her while he stared motionless and tongue-tied, overwhelmed by the majesty of her.

“Madam!” he murmured at last. “Herminia!” and he bowed.

“Sir!” said she, and sank down in billowing, gracious curtsy; but, alas! as she arose her voluminous draperies caught up a three-legged stool; in freeing herself of this, her panniers swept a china ornament crashing to the floor; in turning to scowl at the fragments, over went the little table, and, startled by its fall, she caught high heel in embroidered skirt and would have fallen but for Sir John’s ready aid.

“Faith, my lady,” he laughed, “we creatures of art be sadly out o’ place among these homely things! Better my gentle Rose in her simple tire, thy rustical John in his homespun——”

“Loose me!” she cried passionately, and he was amazed to see he clasped a raging fury. “Let me go!” she repeated. Mutely he obeyed, and she fronted him, pale with anger and mortified pride.

“Nay, Herminia,” he pleaded, “be it satin or merest rags, thou and only thou art she I love!” And he would have taken her hands, but she retreated with superb gesture and, catching the folds of her gown on the arm of a chair, ripped it irretrievably. At this final catastrophe she halted between laughter and tears, but, meeting his look, chose the third alternative.

“Sir, you ... laugh at me, I think?”

“With thee, rather, my lady,” he answered; “for, O Herminia, an ordinary cottage cramps and cannot hold us ’twould seem, nay, the whole wide world were scarce great enough for such love as ours.”

“I pray you speak for yourself, Sir John.”

“Then hear me, Herminia, though verily my love transcends all speech and thought, for ’tis of Infinity itself. With thee beside me life should become more worthy for thy sake ... without thee ’twere an emptiness, and death a lovely thing. Marry me, Herminia; see here upon my knees I supplicate.”

For a long moment Herminia was speechless because of her heart’s tumultuous beating, her cheeks aglow, her eyes very tender beneath their drooping lashes; but from Sir John, thus kneeling in his new humility, her glance wandered to the shattered china ornament, the overturned chair, the jagged rent in her gown, and from her parted lips trilled sudden laughter, and, or ever she might check it, Sir John was upon his feet, viewing her beneath wrinkling brows, coldly curious.

“Ah, my Lady Barrasdaile,” said he softly, “in this sorry world are to be found miserable wretches who, to vent their puny spite, will foully desecrate the holiest of holies.... My love was a holy thing, and you, for your foolish pride’s sake, would make a mock of it. Here, madam, I read the grand culmination o’ your empty vengeance. Well, so be it. But I tell you that ‘the Wicked Dering’ at his worst could never sink to such depths as yours——” At this she turned and would have left him, but his out-thrust arm stayed her. “One moment longer, madam!” he commanded. “Your vengeance is complete, but ... my bitterest scorn goeth with you now and——”

“Your scorn!” she cried in choking voice; and, seizing his arm that still barred her escape, she wrenched and twisted it in furious hands until he winced with the pain of it. “Your scorn!” she panted. “You whose hands are red with blood!”

“God’s love, madam!” quoth he between pallid lips. “And was it you indeed who with her own body would ha’ shielded me from an assassin’s stroke?”

“And is it you would remember a moment of hysteria?” she retorted passionately.

Sir John recoiled.

“Hysteria?” he stammered. “Hysteria? And was it so, indeed? Nay—nay, madam, what mean ye?”

“That the irresistible Sir John Dering hath met one woman at the least who doth not succumb to his wiles and blandishments.”

“Unworthy!” he exclaimed. “Oh, base and most unworthy!”

But now, the door open at last, she fled from him and up the narrow stair.... And after some while Sir John took hat and cloak and stumbled forth into the golden afternoon, but for him it might have been blackest midnight.

Her Grace of Connington, returning at last by way of the wicket gate, stole into the little house, her bright eyes a little brighter even than usual; but in the act of laying off her sun-bonnet, paused, arrested by a sound from the chamber overhead, and, running up the stair with surprising agility, discovered my Lady Herminia face down upon the floor among the ruin of her crumpled finery.

“Why, Herminia ... dear child!” she cried. “O my love ... my precious soul—what is it?”

“Aunt,” sobbed my lady without lifting her woeful head, “O aunt ... I’ve trampled him ... triumphantly ... at last!”

CHAPTER XLI
TELLETH OF THE DUEL ON DERING TYE

Reaching the old cross, Sir John paused instinctively and leaned there, oblivious to all but this most bitter of truths. She had acted ... from the very first! The gentle Rose with her sweet simplicity was no more than a figment of his own imagining. The cold, vindictive Herminia had lured him on for this.... Here, indeed, was the culmination of her heartless scheming. Her vengeance was accomplished.... And Rose had never existed!

Here, lifting clenched hand, he saw a slow trickle of blood that crept beneath lace ruffle.... She had said his hand was bloody ... and to be sure she had gripped and wrenched his injured arm.

Now as he leaned thus against the cross, watching these slow-creeping drops, he became aware of hoofs approaching at a wild gallop, and, glancing up, espied a horseman who rode very furiously, and it was with a faint surprise that he recognised Mr. Hartop; on came the parson, spurring his plump steed mercilessly, until, perceiving Sir John, he abated his speed somewhat.

“Sir—sir,” he cried, his voice thin and high, “they are killing the witch ... old Penelope Haryott! The mob is out ... my Lord Sayle will do nothing. They’ve wrecked her cottage.... I’m for Sir Hector MacLean and any who are men ... pray God we be in time! You, sir—quick, I beseech ... High Dering.”

“Sayle?” repeated Sir John. “Is he there?”

“Sir, ’twas by his orders they ransacked her cottage seeking the man Potter.... God help the poor soul! Haste, sir, if ye would be o’ service!”

Next moment Sir John was before the ‘Market Cross Inn’ shouting for horse, ostlers and the Corporal.

“Sir?” questioned the imperturbable Robert, hurrying downstairs.

“To horse, Bob, at once! Nay, first my sword with the rapier blade!” And, unhooking the gold-hilted weapon at his side, Sir John tossed it upon the table.

“The one you bid me sharpen, sir?”

“Yes, yes—and hurry, man, ’tis life and death!” And away hasted Sir John to see the horses saddled, to mount and fume at the ostlers until the Corporal came running, the sword beneath his arm.

“Is’t sharp, Bob, is’t sharp?” questioned Sir John, as he buckled the weapon on.

“As a razor, your honour, both edges, from the p’int six inches up——”

“Then up with ye and—spur, Bob!” The Corporal sprang to saddle, found his stirrups, and, wheeling the high-mettled animals, they dashed into the street and away at full gallop: and spur how he would, the Corporal had much ado to keep Sir John in sight.

Now presently, as they raced thus, they heard a distant sound that might have been wind in trees, a vague murmur that grew upon them with every stride, waxing ever louder and more terrible, a sound than which there is surely none more dreadful, the ferocious, inarticulate roar of an angry mob.

With this awful clamour in his ears, Sir John spurred his horse to yet faster pace; but across country he might save half a mile or so; therefore steadying the mare he set her at a gate, cleared it gallantly, and away pounded the sorrel at stretching gallop, taking dykes and brooks in her stride: across and over and through ditch and fence and hedge, swerving for nothing, staying for nothing, until, clearing hedge and ditch at mighty bound, her fast-galloping hoofs thundered upon dusty road again.

And presently Sir John saw the thatched roofs of High Dering, and then he was racing down its winding street; a moment more and he was upon the Tye or village green where swayed a tumultuous, roaring crowd; and in the midst, her white head horribly bedabbled, a mark for every gibing tongue and merciless hand, reeled old Penelope Haryott.

And now a demon awoke in Sir John; his modish serenity was utterly gone, his eyes glared, his teeth gleamed between snarling lips and, spurring his rearing horse, he drove in upon the mob, striking savagely with heavy whip at the faces of such as chanced nearest: whereupon the full-throated roar changed to shouts of anger and dismay, to screams of pain and fear, to a whine. But, spurring upon the shrinking people, he lashed at them as they had been curs, until the heavy whip broke in his grasp, and like curs they ran before him, howling. Then chancing to espy Mr. Oxham, who stood beside Sturton before ‘The Dering Arms,’ he wheeled and galloped up to them.

“Rogues!” he panted. “Where’s your master?—where is Lord Sayle?... Tell him ... Sir John Dering ... awaits him.”

“Sir John—Dering?” exclaimed Oxham, staring, while Mr. Sturton, uttering a gasping moan, sank down upon adjacent bench and bowed his head between clasping hands. And then Mr. Oxham was pushed aside and my Lord Sayle stepped from the inn.

Sir John lightly dismounted.

“Ah, my lord,” quoth he, “so I find ye trespassing and murdering on my land.”

“I am here, sir,” retorted his lordship, scowling, “in the exercise of my duty. If your tenants be minded to duck a notorious witch, ’tis no affair o’ mine. And I warn ye, sir, that in yon old hag’s cottage we have found indisputable evidence that——”

“Tush!” exclaimed Sir John, “do not weary me with the details o’ your man-hunting trade, sir. Your arm is strong enough to flourish a whip, I perceive, and mine, you’ll observe, is less sound than it might be. Come, then, my lord—the grass is smooth and level on Dering Tye—let us forthwith earnestly endeavour to make an end o’ one another—for, by heaven, I’ll wait no longer!”

“Orme,” cried his lordship, “ha’ the goodness to bring my sword.”

The Major hastened to obey and, taking the weapon, my lord stepped from under the porch to where Sir John awaited him; side by side they walked together, and together reached the smooth green, watched by the silent crowd, which slowly closed about them until they stood within a wide ring of hushed and awestruck spectators. Then Sir John tossed aside laced hat, drew his sword, tossed the scabbard after the hat, and, point to earth, watched his lordship do the same; but scarce was his blade free than Lord Sayle sprang with glittering point out-thrust, but Sir John, ever watchful, leapt nimbly aside, avoided the stroke, laughed, and steel met steel. And, standing thus, poised, alert, eyes glaring into eyes, blade pressing blade, Sir John spoke in his high, clear voice:

“A murderous trick, my lord, and worthy of ye. Now, look around you, note the beauty of this fair afternoon—’tis your last, my lord, for so sure as you hold sword, I mean to kill ye!”

The stamp of sudden foot, a flurry of twirling blades in thrust and parry, and they were motionless again.

“Kill and end ye, my lord!” repeated Sir John. “But first, for the behoof of our so numerous spectators, we will show ’em a few gasconading flourishes. Your coat, my lord, they shall see it flutter in merest rags about you ere we finish—thus! So ho, my lord, one—two!” A sudden whirl of close-playing steel, the flash of darting point, and now, as they thrust and parried, all eyes might see my Lord Sayle’s brown velvet disfigured by two gaping rents from waist to hem, and from the watching throng rose a hoarse murmur of amazement. But my lord, nothing dismayed, fought but the more warily, while Sir John, it seemed, grew ever the more reckless; ensued long periods of fierce action, thrust, parry and counter-thrust, followed by sudden pauses, tense moments of utter stillness wherein blade felt blade and eye glared to eye.

Foremost among the spectators loomed the gigantic figure of Sir Hector, his face suffused and damp, who babbled prayers as the murderous steel flashed and darted, while beside him stood Corporal Robert, deadly pale, who muttered fitful curses.

“Damme, sir, his arm’s begun a-bleeding!” groaned the Corporal.

“Guid love us a’—so ’tis!” exclaimed Sir Hector, seizing the Corporal by the collar; “an’ O Rabbie—man, see how wild he is.... Sayle will hae him yet!” Here Sir Hector nearly swung the Corporal from his legs in his emotion.

For, indeed, Lord Sayle’s point time and again flashed perilously near; once it flickered through the ringlets of Sir John’s peruke, and once it tore the laces at his throat, but after every desperate rally it was to be noticed that my lord’s brown velvet coat showed ever more woefully tattered.

Suddenly, albeit a little breathlessly, Sir John spoke, plain for all to hear:

“So much for your coat, my lord! And now for yourself—let us make an end ... you shall receive your quietus on the count of three.... One! Two!” A sudden clashing of desperate steel, then my lord leapt out of distance and, uttering a hoarse cry of bitter despair, hurled his useless sword from him and stood dreadfully pale, bathed in sweat, and, striving to voice his passionate hate, gasped mouthing incoherencies.

“Take up your sword, sir—take up ... your sword and ... let us finish!” panted Sir John. But Lord Sayle folded his arms, staring upon his antagonist with eyes of murder.

Then Sir John laughed.

“What, have ye enough, sir?” he questioned scornfully. “Are ye done so soon and never a drop o’ blood, nor so much as a scratch?” Receiving no answer, he laughed again and turned his back. “Robert,” he cried—“Robert, see the pitiful fellow off my land.”

Stung to madness, Lord Sayle reached swiftly for his fallen sword, but the Corporal was before him and, snapping the weapon across his knee, tossed the pieces aside.

“My lord,” said he, “your horse is yonder, I think.”

Lord Sayle raised haggard face from earth to sky, stared round him upon the gaping throng with expression bordering on despair, and strode whither the Corporal’s finger pointed. And, as he went, the skirts of his brown velvet coat fluttered grotesquely about him, yet of all who watched, no one spoke, much less laughed. Reaching his horse, he mounted and, without one backward glance, gathered up the reins and, spurring savagely, galloped away, leaving his friends and servants to follow as they would.

“And now, Hector,” said Sir John, catching up his hat, “what of old Penelope? How is she?”

“Guid forgi’e me, Johnnie, I clean forgot the puir soul.”

Reaching the little cottage, they found its new-planted garden a trampled wilderness, its windows shattered, its newly painted door battered from its hinges, and within, a scene of cruel wreckage.

“Ah, well,” laughed Sir John fiercely, “my Lord Sayle yet lives!” And then was a light foot upon the dark stair and my Lady Herminia faced them, very pale.

“Guid be thankit ye’re here, my bonny Rose!” exclaimed Sir Hector fervently. “Hoo is yon puir Penelope?”

“Alive, sir! You were in time, I thank God. I have put her to bed and shall remain with her. I pray you bid my aunt to me hither and the maid Betty.”

“Ah, Rose,” cried Sir Hector, catching my lady’s hands and kissing them, “thou bonny, muckle-hearted lass! O Johnnie, was there e’er sic a maid as our Rose?”

“Never, Hector—there never was! For Gad’s my life, Rose is not, was not, nor ever will be——”

“Eh—eh, Johnnie?”

“The lady before us, Hector, is merely that blooming ‘toast,’ the bewitching Barrasdaile.”

“Losh, man John, wha’s a’ this?”

“This, Hector, is the Lady Herminia Barrasdaile, niece to her Grace the Duchess of Connington, whom we know here as ‘Mrs. Saunders.’ But as for our loved Rose, alas, she was no more than a passing whim!”

“Why—why.... O John!” stammered Sir Hector, loosing my lady’s nerveless hands and falling back a step in sheer amazement. “O Rose, my bonny Rose, wha’s a’ this?” he questioned.

“The truth, sir,” she answered gently. “I am indeed Herminia Barrasdaile. And now, by your leaves, I will go back to old Penelope.”

And so, with a gracious curtsy, my lady turned and went softly up the dark and narrow stair.

CHAPTER XLII
MR. DUMBRELL MEDIATES

The news of my Lord Sayle’s shameful discomfiture on Dering Tye ran and spread like wildfire; in town, village and hamlet near and far it was the one topic of conversation, in busy market-place, at cross-roads and sequestered lane, it was discussed; and ever the story grew.

Dering of Dering was back home again and had forced Lord Sayle to fight, and cut Lord Sayle’s clothes from him piecemeal and left him stark naked as he was born! So ran the story to the accompaniment of thumping pewter and gusty laughter, and proud was the man who could boast of having witnessed, with his own two eyes, the never-to-be-forgotten scene.

It is to be supposed that my Lord Sayle caught some faint echo of the tale, for by day he held himself sullenly aloof, shunned alike by dismayed friends and trembling servants; but at night, unseen, unheard, who shall tell the agonies he endured, who describe the passionate despair, the mortified pride, the futile rage and burning hate that rent and tore him? All hell raged within his soul, a hell peopled by demons that tortured him until came the arch-devil of Vengeance luring him to his own destruction, urging him to that black gulf whence there is no return. So made he Vengeance his comforter.

Yes, Dering of Dering was home again and, mindful of the treatment it had accorded John Derwent, High Dering was aghast; its women lamented to all and sundry, its men shook gloomy heads, but none more despondent than Thomas Nixon, landlord of ‘The Dering Arms.’

“To think,” sighed he, “to think as I stood ’ere an’ watched Sir John turned out o’ his very own inn off his very own land! Mak’s me goo arl ’ot and shiversome it du, neighbours!”

“But then ’ow was ’ee to know ’twas ’im, Tom?” quoth one of his hearers. “’Ow was any on us to know?”

“Bah!” snarled the ancient Dumbrell, rapping the table with his knobbed stick and getting upon quavering legs. “Everybody ’old their tongues an’ ’ark to oi!”

“Aye, but ’ow was anybody to know. Gaffer? ’Ow?”

The Aged Soul snorted disdainfully.

“’Ow was you t’ know?” he repeated. “Whoy by instink fur sure, same as oi did! What if ’e called hisself Derwent an’ wore a little wig an’ no goold braid onto ’is ’at? Oi knowed ’e wur quality moment oi seed ’im, oi did, fur a gen’leman be arlways a gen’leman!”

“Why that be true enough, Gaffer, but——”

“Hesh!” snarled the Aged Soul. “Don’t goo fur to arg’ wi’ oi! As fur you, Tom Nixon, ‘whatsoever a man sows that shall ’e rip!’ You let ’em turn Sir John Dering out o’ ‘The Dering Arms’ an’ it be only nat’ral as Sir John Dering’ll turn you out likewise.”

“Doan’t ’ee say so, Gaffer!” pleaded the mournful landlord.

“But oi du say so, Tom ... turned out ye’ll be sure-lye, sarten-sure-indeed, my pore lad, ah—an’ mebbe hung or trans-ported ... unless oi can say a word fur ’ee to Sir John hisself next toime ’e hap along to see me.”

“Lemme fill your pot again, Gaffer—do now!” urged the doleful Mr. Nixon.

“No, no, Tom!” answered the Aged Soul sternly. “I dunno as I ought to drink wi’ ye at arl—considerin’, that oi doan’t!”

Here Mr. Nixon groaned, and at this juncture the Corporal was seen approaching, at sight of whom the landlord’s depression increased and he looked appealingly at the little old man, whereupon that Aged Soul waxed suddenly magnanimous.

“Arl roight, Tom, arl roight!” quoth he encouragingly. “Sir John be a friend o’ moine, an’ so’s Corporal Bob. I dunno as oi wun’t put in a word fur ’ee—leave it arl to oi!”

Thus the Corporal, walking with head bowed as one in profound reverie, heard himself hailed in piping, imperious tones, in answer to which he approached slowly and somewhat unwillingly.

“Mus’ Robert,” quoth the old man, “’ere be Tom Nixon as stood by whiles Sir John Dering an’ you was turned out o’ this here inn o’ Sir John Dering’s an’ consequently ought to be turned out loikewise immejit, an’ ’ung an’ jibbeted or transported! But oi moind Tom bein’ barn, an’ a bit of a fule ’e’s been ever since, an’ consequent I be axin’ you to ax Sir John to forget an’ forgive pore Tom an’ suffer ’im to boide on ’ere arl-along-on-account-of pore Tom bein’ naun but a bit fule, d’ye see?”

“Why as to that, Gaffer,” answered the Corporal, his glance roving afar, “I ray-ther think Sir John’s forgot the incident; anyway, he don’t bear malice.”

“Meanin’ as ’e wun’t turn pore Tom out?”

“I’m pretty sure he won’t,” answered the Corporal, his gaze still abstracted.

“An’ theer ye be, Tom lad!” quoth the Aged Soul triumphantly. “See what oi’ve done fur ’ee an’ be dooly grateful.”

“I be, Gaffer!” answered Mr. Nixon, his gloom lifted from him. “Lemme fill your pot again. An’ you, Mus’ Doubleday, what’ll ye tak’, sir?”

“Nothing, thank ye, Nixon,” returned the Corporal, and his roving glance perceiving the flutter of a petticoat farther down the lane, he saluted the company and turned away.

“Robert,” cried the Aged Soul, admonishing finger uplifted, “if so be ye hap’ to meet my Nan, doan’t ’ee nowise say nothin’ about this ’ere liddle drop o’ ale, moind!”

“Not a word, Gaffer!” answered the Corporal, and strode away.

He found her demurely seated upon rustic bench in the little garden, busied with her needle and rather more shyly surprised to see him than usual.

“Why, Mus’ Doubleday,” she exclaimed as he opened the gate, “you be two hours afore your usual toime to-day!”

“Two hours four an’ one-half minutes, Mrs. Nan,” he answered, consulting the ponderous watch he carried.

“Well, wun’t ’ee come an’ sit down, sir?”

“Thank’ee, Mrs. Ann, I will ... but where, mam?”

“Here for sure!” she answered, drawing her neat gown aside and tapping the rustic seat with one finger. So the Corporal laid by his hat and, seating himself beside her, remained for a space apparently lost in contemplation of his riding-boots.

“You be very silent, Mus’ Robert.”

“Aye ... I’m thinking, mam.”

“What about?” she inquired softly, stealing a sly glance at his down-bent face.

“I was a-thinking, mam, as this be a world o’ change. Aye, life has changed and is a-changing for me con-siderable!”

“What do ’ee mean, sir?”

“I mean, Mrs. Ann, that I have lost my place as Sir John’s valet——”

“Lost it!” she exclaimed aghast. “Lost it—O Mus’ Doubleday!” Her sewing fell to the ground, and he would have picked it up but her hand on his arm checked him. “Lost it?” she questioned again, whereupon he turned away lest she might read his truthful eyes.

“Aye, Mrs. Ann,” he mumbled, “Sir John hath dis-charged me; he ... he don’t want me for his valet any longer, d’ye see....” The Corporal heard a soft, inarticulate cry, and then her arms were about his neck.

“Mus’ Doubleday ... O Robert!” she whispered. “There, there, never grieve, then—doan’t ’ee! There’s me left ... arlways me ... an’ I shan’t never change.”

For a moment he sat motionless, then, forgetting his imperturbability altogether, Corporal Robert clasped and drew her to his kisses; and between the two of them they mightily ruffled his neat wig, whereupon he snatched it off altogether.

“Wait a bit, lass—wait!” he exclaimed, with a catch in his voice. “Look, Ann, see how grey my hair is! I’m too old for ye, my sweet maid.... O Ann, I’m forty-five and——”

“Why, Bob,” she cried, between laughing and crying, “as if age mattered—doan’t ’ee be fullish! An’ if your ’air be a bit grey-like,’tis so I do love it best!” And, drawing his head down, she kissed him upon each temple where the hair was greyest. “And so, dear Robert, if you’ve lost your place wi’ Sir John Dering you’ve—found me!”

“O Ann—my sweet,” said the Corporal, his voice more unsteady than ever, “listen a bit more! ’Tis true Sir John hath discharged me ... I mean as his valet, but—O Ann ... he’s made me his bailiff instead!”

“Bailiff?” she gasped. “D’ye mean the same as Mus’ Sturton was? Wi’ horses to ride ... an’ a fine house——”

“And you in it, Ann—you in it to make it home. Though you’re much too young for a wife ... or I’m much too old——”

“O Bob!”

CHAPTER XLIII
IN WHICH SIR JOHN DEVOTES HIMSELF TO THE MUSE

Dering of Dering being home again and his fame on every lip, it befell, to Sir John’s dismay, that the ‘Market Cross Inn’ was generally a-throng with visitors: sporting farmers who trotted up on their “bits o’ blood,” country gentry, bucks of the quality, and not a few ladies of fashion, all hither come to pay homage in their several ways to “the Wicked Dering.”

To avoid whom, Sir John promptly shut himself above stairs attended by the Corporal, admitting none but Mr. Bunkle, adventuring abroad only after dark. His injured arm still irked him, but this he accounted nothing compared with the hurt he had suffered at my lady’s hands.

In this situation he devoted the daylight hours to the Muse, and penned many and divers satyric pieces concerning men and manners in general and Woman in particular, with a view to publication in The Satyric Spy, or Polite Monitor; while his lampoon on the Sex entitled, “The Jade Equine and Feminine; or, The Horse the Nobler Animal,” progressed apace.

It was then upon a sunny afternoon that he laid down his pen to stare at floor and ceiling and walls, and finally at Corporal Robert busied with books of accounts at a small table in adjacent corner.

“Bob,” said he, with a yearning glance towards the open casement, “a guinea—five guineas for a suitable rhyme to Herminia!” Hereupon the Corporal glanced up, scratched his wig, rolled his eyes, and presently hazarded:

“‘Within ye,’ your honour?”

“’Tisn’t grammar, Bob.”

“What o’ ‘Lavinia,’ sir?”

“Rhymes truly but won’t suit.”

“I can’t think of any other, sir.”

“Neither can I, Bob ... ’tis the devil of a name!”

“Then why not choose another, sir?”

“Hum!” quoth Sir John. Here silence again, then: “What are ye doing there, Bob?”

“Going through estimates for repairs o’ cottages at High Dering and Selmeston, your honour.”

“Then take ’em for a walk.... She will help ye, Bob.”

“Aye, sir, she can write as plain as I can, and a wondrous ’ead for figures—so mar-vellous quick, sir, and——” Here, meeting Sir John’s quizzical glance, the Corporal checked and actually flushed.

“And a pretty head it is, Bob! When are ye going to get married?”

“We thought two months from now, your honour.” Here Sir John sighed and glanced out of the window.

“I hope you’ll be happy, Bob.”

“Thank’ee, sir. I’m pretty sure o’ that.”

Here Sir John sighed more deeply than before, then frowned as upon the door was a rapping of peremptory knuckles.

“I’ll see nobody!” quoth he. “No one, you understand!” Here a louder knocking than ever. “Dammem, see who dares thus intrude, Bob.” Obediently the Corporal unlocked, unbolted and opened the door, when he was immediately caught up, lifted aside and Sir Hector strode in.

“Losh, Johnnie man,” quoth he, “here’s four days by an’ never a glimpse o’ ye! An’ wherefore?”

“Because I detest being a raree show to be stared at by the curious idle, for one thing. And because I desire solitude for another, Hector.”

“Solitude, is it? Umph-humph! An’ what o’ a’ your loving frien’s?”

“Meaning yourself, Hector?”

“Ou aye, there’s ever mysel’, John; forbye, there’s ithers, ye ken——”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” said the Corporal, taking his hat, “I’ll step along, then, if I may, your honour?” And at a nod from Sir John he departed, closing the door carefully behind him, which Sir John promptly locked and bolted.

“I say, there’s ithers, John!” repeated Sir Hector, seating himself by the open casement.

“Why, there is Corporal Robert; other friends have I none, Hector.”

“Dinna be a muckle fule, John! Ye ken vera weel there’s Mrs. Saund—— I mean the.... Her, for one, and—abune a’, lad, there’s that sweet, gentle maid——”

“Whom can you mean, Hector?”

“I mean Rose, an’ weel ye ken it.”

“Rose doth not exist.”

“Well, Herminia, then. She loves ye, Johnnie.”

“Hector, you rave!”

“I tell ye she loves an’ is grieving for ye——”

“A fiddlestick, Hector!”

“The de’il awa’ wi’ ye! I say she’s breakin’ her heart for ye, John!”

“Impossible! She hath no heart. She is naught but selfish pride, a creature hard and cold, soulless and fickle ... in fine, a very woman! And talking o’ The Sex, I have here a small effort in verse that I venture to think is somewhat felicitous. Hark’ee and judge!” And, selecting one of the many sheets of manuscript before him, Sir John read as follows:

“Old Satan womankind did plan

To be the bane and plague of man,

And woman since the world began

Hath been so.

For, be she, more than common, fair

She is but Satan’s chiefest snare.

Wherefore, then, of her wiles beware:

They bring woe.”

“Hoot awa’!” ejaculated Sir Hector indignantly. “’Tis rankest blasphemy!”

“’Tis very truth! And faith, it reads better than I thought. Mark this line, Hector, ‘She is but Satan’s chiefest snare.’ ’Tis apt, Hector; ’tis well expressed and should commend itself to all philosophers! Now, hear the rest—nay, you must and shall! ’Tis brief, yet pithy.” And Sir John read forthwith:

“Therefore, who’d lead a quiet life,

Unmarred by turmoil, care and strife,

Avoid that dreadful thing called ‘wife’;

She’ll plague you!

Thus, is she as Aurora fair;

Or eke like night her raven hair,

’Stead of her I would choose, I swear,

The ague.

“How think you of it, Hector?”

“That it should burn!”

“Nay, rather in due season shall it lighten the page of The Satyric Spy, or Polite Monitor. Indeed and verily, Hector, you were right and I was wrong, for women, as you once truly said, are the devil!”

Sir Hector’s keen gaze wavered for once, and he stirred uneasily in his chair.

“John,” quoth he, precise in his English, “if ever I voiced such damnable heresy, which I gravely doubt, I ha’ forgot it, long since, as a man and a MacLean should.”

“Forgot it, Hector? Amazing! You that have ever held Woman in such disdainful abhorrence!”

“And suppose I did, sir?” retorted Sir Hector, flushing. “A MacLean may change his mind and be the better of it.... And how may I help but revere and admire The Sex with such an example as Rose, her sweet and gentle ways——”

“But Rose never was!” sighed Sir John.

“Herminia, then!” snapped Sir Hector.

“Not to mention her aunt!” murmured Sir John.

At this, Sir Hector glared and made to rise, but, meeting Sir John’s whimsical look, feeling his hand upon the sleeve of the second-best coat, Sir Hector flushed, his gaze sought the green of the chestnut tree beyond the open window, and his grim lips curved to a smile.

“And ... O man, tae think she’s—a duchess! ’Tis awfu’, Johnnie, awfu’!”

“Alas, Hector, to think she is a woman, and this is worse. A woman, Hector, and therefore to be avoided. For, how saith your bard?

‘She is but Satan’s chiefest snare.’”

“Umph-humph!” exclaimed Sir Hector, and rose. “Aweel, lad,” he sighed, “I dinna ken wha’ bee’s in y’r bonnet regardin’ yon sweet Rose, but——”

“Lady Herminia!” Sir John corrected.

“But look’ee, lad, had it not been for Herminia’s loving, tender care, Penelope Haryott would ha’ died.... And, talking o’ good women, John, if ever there was one, it is Penelope.”

“She knew my father, it seems.”

“She did, John.”

“She once showed me two miniatures....”

“Aye, I mind your father having ’em done. Her likeness he kept always ... it was upon his breast the day he died! ’Twas that which turned the bayonet into his heart!... He gave his earliest and, I think, his best love to Penelope, and she but a cottager’s daughter born on his estate and twelve years his senior. But she was beautiful beyond the ordinary, and good as she was clever, and he wooed vainly ... even when he would ha’ married her she would not ... because he was Dering of Dering and she only her pure, humble self.... So, in time he wed your mother ... and died in my arms ... murmuring—‘Penelope!’ Ah, John lad, if by reason of some misunderstanding your heart be sore, never decry Woman ... for here, truly, was one of the purest and most selfless, noblest of creatures!”

Being alone, Sir John sat thoughtful awhile; at last he reached for his manuscript, tore it slowly across and across, and threw it into the fireplace; then, evening being at hand, he took hat and stick, and, descending by a back stair, sallied forth into the fragrant dusk.

CHAPTER XLIV
IN WHICH THE GHOST FLITS TO GOOD PURPOSE

It was dark as he reached the old stile hard by the little footbridge, and, perceiving a shrouded form thereby, halted suddenly; but as he peered, uncertain, a soft voice spoke:

“John!” He drew back hastily; the figure moved towards him. “Sir John Dering?” Off came Sir John’s hat in a moment, and he bowed profoundly.

“Gad’s my life!” he exclaimed. “Do I indeed behold your ladyship? Bide you still i’ the country, madam? A fair good-night to you!” And he turned away, only to find her beside him.

“Why—why will you hazard your life thus wantonly?” she questioned. “Nay, sir, do not prevaricate; I know ’tis your custom to walk thus solitary of a night.”

“Your ladyship’s interest flatters me!” he murmured.

“Surely, sir,” said she, in the same calm and gentle tones, “life is not to be thus lightly jeopardised.”

“Tush, madam,” he laughed, “you grow hysterical again, ’twould seem, and ’tis a weakness of your charming sex that I have ever found extreme embarrassing, not to say wearisome. I suggest a pill ... a bolus and sleep, madam. Aye, sleep is the thing ... you shall find your megrims gone i’ the morning. So sleep you soundly, madam, and farewell!” Having said which, he bowed and departed, leaving her to watch him through slow-gathering tears. And suddenly, finding herself thus deserted, she bowed her stately head upon the old stile, wetting its ancient timbers with her tears and weeping so unfeignedly that she actually sniffed, though to be sure there was none to hear.

Meanwhile Sir John, striding his solitary way, looked up at the stars and smiled happily.

“She cares!” quoth he within himself. “By all the saints in heaven, she cares!” And, halting suddenly, he glanced back, minded to return. “Either she loves me, or here was marvellous good play-acting ... which, now?” Here he went on again, though very slowly, and coming to a gate, leaned there to debate the point.

My lady, reaching the cottage, paused awhile, also with gaze uplifted, but saw the starry firmament blurred by smarting tears.

“Alas,” sighed she, “he never loved me or he would have known! He is but the heartless Sir John Dering after all!”

“The question being,” said Sir John within himself, his gaze yet uplifted to the firmament, “is she truly——”

The stars seemed to shoot wildly from their courses, the earth to sway giddily beneath his feet, then to plunge horribly down and down into a roaring blackness.

He awoke to a sense of pain, jolting and strangulation; slowly he became aware that he lay bound hand and foot across the withers of a horse, and with his mouth crammed almost to suffocation with a thing he took to be a neckerchief.

And after some while he was conscious of two voices wrangling together—voices these that sounded vaguely familiar; and the first was hoarse and sullen, the second sharp and querulous.

The First Voice: An’ whoy not, I sez?

The Second Voice: Because I won’t have it.

The First Voice: An’ ’oo be you t’ say no? I be good a man as you, aye an’ better! Ain’t I follered an’ follered ’im, waitin’ my chance? Wasn’t it me as got ’im at last? Well then, I sez we ought to finish an’ mak’ sure.

The Second Voice: And I say no!

The First Voice: My lord bid us mak’ sure, didn’t ’e?

The Second Voice: He’ll be sure enough once aboard ship.

The First Voice: An’ I tell ye ’e be better dead.

The Second Voice: And I say, I’ll ha’ no more bloodshed.

All about him was the tramp of feet muffled upon grass; and sometimes it seemed they laboured uphill and sometimes down, but always these two voices disputed, now waxing so loud and clear that he seemed on the point of recognising them, now blurred and indistinct, sinking to a murmur, a whisper, until they were not, and it seemed he was asleep and plagued by nightmare. It was after one of these many lapses that he was conscious the painful jolting had ceased, felt himself dragged roughly from the horse’s back, and had a dim vision of many legs that hemmed him in as he lay upon the grass.

“Ain’t dead, is ’e?” inquired a hearty voice, faintly interested.

“Dead—no, dang ’im!” answered the Sullen Voice, and a foot spurned him savagely. “Dead—not ’im! Though ’e ought to be, aye an’ would be, if I ’ad my way.”

“Easy, mate, easy!” admonished the Hearty Voice.

“Hold y’r tongue, you do!” cried the Querulous Voice. “Hold your tongue for a bloody-minded rogue or——”

“Avast, shipmates!” quoth the Hearty Voice. “Throat-slittin’ be a ticklish business.”

“Yah—dead men doan’t talk!”

“Mebbe not, mate, but live-un’s do! An’ then there be ghosts, shipmate, ghosts, d’ye see.”

“When can ye take him aboard?” demanded the Querulous Voice.

“Why, the tide wun’t sarve for ’arf an hour yet. Plenty time to finish my pipe.... An’ talkin’ o’ ghosts, there was my mate Jerry Banks as was knifed aboard the Belle Fortun’ ... pore Jerry’s ghost used to come an’ sit o’ nights perched aloft on our main-yard an’ mew like a cat! Aye, mew ’e would, an’ carry on that mournful ’twas ’orrible, mates——”

“Hold your tongue!” cried the Querulous Voice.

“Aye, we doan’t want none o’ your ghosts, do us, lads?” quoth the Sullen Voice; whereupon was a mutter of hearty assent.

“Why, very well,” answered he of the hearty voice, spitting, “only if you’d a-heered the ghost o’ pore Jerry ... used to mew like any cat, it did, only more dismal-like.... I never ’eered nothing in all my days so shiversome and——” The Hearty Voice ended in a hiss of breath suddenly in-drawn and thereafter was utter silence, a strange, unnatural stillness wherein it seemed that none moved or breathed; and then rose a hoarse, stammering whisper:

“Lord ... O Lord a’ mercy! What’s yon?”

Turning heavy head, Sir John saw about him a huddle of crouching men who all peered in the one direction, heard an incoherent, passionate muttering that changed to a groan, a gasping cry, and a man rose to his knees with rigid arms out-thrust, staggered to his feet and leapt down the grassy steep; hereupon the others awoke to sudden action; ensued a desperate scrambling, a wild babblement, a thudding of desperate feet, and Sir John lay staring on the empty dark alone save for the horse that cropped the grass near by. And then he too saw a vague and awful shape outlined in pale fire that flitted unheard upon the gloom and vanished, only to reappear as suddenly, gliding back up the slope to where he lay. And watching the thing approach, Sir John felt his flesh creep and he shivered with a growing dread that mocked at sanity and reason until he strove desperately against his bonds, but, finding this vain, lay still again, watching. On it came, looming more gigantic and frightful with every yard, nearer still, until he could distinguish the monstrous head surmounted by widespreading, fiery horns, nearer, until from this awful shape a whispering voice reached him.

“Be that Sir John Dering? Be ye there, sir?” Then the dreadful thing swayed, stooped upon itself, thudded to earth, and in its place was a tall, broad-shouldered man who, running forward, knelt and began to cut and loose off Sir John’s galling bonds. “Gagged ye too, ’ave they!” quoth the voice, and next moment Sir John, relieved of the gag, reached out fumbling hand and spoke:

“Mr. Potter—O George Potter, though you come like a demon o’ darkness, a very devil, yet no angel could be more welcome!”

“Why, sir, Potter frit’ they rogues praper, I rackon. They cut off amazin’ quick, an’ they ain’t like to come back—an’ yet they may. So up wi’ ye, sir, an’ quick’s the word!” Sir John arose but, clapping hand to head, reeled weakly. “Be your ’ead ’urted bad, sir?”

“Nothing to mention, thanks to my hat and wig.”

“Can ye ride, sir?”

“Easier than walk.”

“Well, up it is, then!” And, half lifting Sir John to the saddle, Mr. Potter laid a shapeless bundle across the withers and they set off together.

“How came you so fortunately to my relief, George?”

“Well, sir, I happed to be a-waitin’ for Mus’ Sturton an’ ... t’other ’un, meanin’ to frutten Sturton away an’ get t’other ’un alone if so might be, when ’long comes ’alf a dozen chaps wi’ this ’ere ’orse an’ you acrost it, though I didn’t know ’twas you then, sir. But suddent-like, t’other ’un says, ‘Why not finish ’im and ha’ done?’ ’e says. ‘Because I wun’t ’ave it!’ says Sturton, very determinated.”

“’T’other ’un’ being the man Jonas Skag, I think?” inquired Sir John.

“Why, sir, I wun’t deny it. Well, sir, they stops purty nigh wheer I wur a-hidin’ to arg’ the matter, an’ I soon found ’twas you they was a-quarrellin’ over. An’ presently on they goes an’ me creepin’ arter ’em bidin’ a chance to do what I might.”

“By means of your horns and bullock’s hide, George?”

“Aye, this ’ere!” answered Mr. Potter, laying his hand upon the shapeless bundle. “A good friend it’s been to pore Potter, sir. Ghosts be useful things hereabouts.”

“So I have observed!” smiled Sir John. “And, indeed, you were a terribly convincing ghost.”

“Naun so bad, sir,” admitted Mr. Potter modestly. “I done my best off an’ on. Though I don’t like hauntin’ in the open—gimme a wall! Ye see, some folks be apt to shoot ... there be four or five bullet-’oles in this ’ere ghost arlready!”

Talking thus, they at last reached the highroad, and Sir John saw the lights of Alfriston twinkling before them. Here the discreet Mr. Potter stopped and, lifting finger to eyebrow, bade Sir John good-night.

“You’ll be arl right now, I rackon, sir,” said he.

But Sir John reached down to grasp his hand.

“You know who I am, I think?” he questioned.

“Aye, Sir John, you be Dering o’ Dering.”

“And a magistrate besides, George Potter, a justice o’ the Peace and Quorum.”

“And I be Potter the smuggler, sir.”

“And a man, George! And ’tis as such that I shall always know you, so—give me your hand, friend George!”

So, in the gloom, hand met and grasped hand.

“Lord, sir,” quoth Mr. Potter, “I dunno as I bean’t a bit ... glad-loike, you callin’ Potter your friend an’ arl——”

“Why then, George, pray tell me why do you seek Jonas Skag so earnestly?”

“Well, from what I be hearin’ ... an’ likewise addin’ two an’ two, I rackon Jonas knows more’n a bit about that theer false signallin’ ... an’ if so be I find ’e do ... why then, sir—why then——”

“Well?”

“No matter, sir—mum for that. But I rackon ’e wun’t nowise betray no lads to theer deaths never no more!”

“What do you mean, George?”

“Nothin’ ’t arl, sir.... Only, talkin’ o’ ghosts, rackon I made a pretty tidy ’un, but the fire were old Pen’s idee, though she calls it phross-phross.” So saying, Mr. Potter shouldered his bundle and trundled off in the gloom of the hedge, leaving Sir John to ride thoughtfully into Alfriston.

CHAPTER XLV
WHICH, AS THE READER OBSERVES, BEGINS AND ENDS WITH MY LORD SAYLE

My Lord Sayle tugged at the bell-rope and thereafter stared out into the sunny garden again as he had done for so long; and presently, the door opening softly, a man-servant entered who, beholding thus suddenly my lord’s intent face, checked, shrank back, and stood, the door in his hand, gazing with eyes of fearful wonder. At last, becoming aware of the servant’s presence, my lord spoke, but preserving always his rapt expression:

“Is Major Orme in the house?”

“No, my lord ... the Major left ... early this morning, my lord.”

“Well, Sir Roland Lingley?”

“My lord, he ... went with the Major.”

My Lord Sayle’s black brows twitched slightly, but he never moved, staring always out upon the sunny garden like one who saw that which no other eyes might behold.

“They left no message?”

“None, my lord,” answered the man-servant, drawing a soft pace backward as he watched that rigid face.

“Send Sturton to me.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And hark’ee! If I should ring again, see that Tom and Roger answer—themselves only!”

“Yes, my lord!” murmured the servant, shrinking again as with a last stealthy glance he went softly forth, closing the door gently behind him.

So Orme and Lingley had gone! Even they had deserted him at last! Well, so much the better ... considering. But the smile that distorted my lord’s mouth was evil to see.

And after some while the door opened and Mr. Sturton appeared, who, at sign from my lord, entered and closed the door.

“So—o—o!” said his lordship, dwelling upon the word while he stared into the haggard face before him. “You have failed—again, Sturton?”

“’Twas no fault o’ mine, my lord; in another ten minutes we should ha’ had him safe aboard ship——”

“Ship?” The word was almost a whisper, and yet James Sturton recoiled and his face seemed even more livid as he met the speaker’s glance. “Fool!” continued my lord in the same dreadful, hushed voice. “Fool, in the corner yonder you will find a sheet o’ crumpled paper ... open and read it ... read it—aloud!”

Looking whither my lord pointed, Mr. Sturton took up and smoothed the crumpled sheet, glanced at it and hesitated.

“Aloud, my lord?”

“Aloud, fool!”

Then, mumbling somewhat, Mr. Sturton read as follows:

“Sir John Dering begs to say that unless my Lord Sayle is out of the country within forty-eight hours, Sir John proposes calling upon my Lord Sayle with the stoutest horse-whip to be found.”

“And you said ‘ship,’ I think?” inquired my lord in the same strangled voice.

“My lord, once aboard that ship he would trouble your lordship never again.”

“‘Trouble me never again!’” murmured Lord Sayle. “He never will ... he never shall ... but a ship? No, no!... A ship? Pshaw! We know a better way and a surer—eh, Sturton?”

“Your—your lordship means?”

“Exactly what you are thinking, Sturton!” As he spoke, my lord crossed to a cabinet and, opening a drawer, came back with a brace of pistols in his hands. Now, glancing from these murderous things to the face above, James Sturton flung out wild hands and started back.

“No, no!” he cried. “Not this way, my lord; I cannot!”

“You will!” nodded my lord gently. “You know very well he walks or rides frequently to High Dering of an evening—alone! It will be simple.”

“My lord, I ... I cannot!”

“Meaning you will not?”

James Sturton stared desperately about him at floor and ceiling and walls, but never once at the speaker’s face; finally he spoke:

“I ... I cannot, my lord.”

“Ah!” said his lordship, and stood regarding Sturton with an expression of mild curiosity. “So you—refuse?”

“I do, my lord!” mumbled the wretched man.

“Knowing that I can hang you for the murderer you already are? Still, you—refuse?”

“My lord, I do.... I must.... I—I cannot do it!”

His lordship slowly and deliberately returned the weapons to the drawer, locked it, and stood awhile staring at the key in his hand.

“Why, then,” said he at last, still intent upon the key, “perhaps you will be good enough to pull the bell.” Mr. Sturton obeyed, but, chancing to catch a glimpse of my lord’s face in the mirror, he glanced apprehensively towards the door with the wild glare of one who suddenly finds himself in a trap; but even as he stared at it, the door opened and two men entered. For a moment was silence; then, without troubling to turn, my lord spoke:

“You will take this white-livered cur ... strip him and—drive him out! Strip him—you understand!” Ensued riot and confusion; but, despite his cries and desperate struggles, James Sturton was seized and dragged away at last; then my Lord Sayle, chin on breast, stared out into the sunny garden again.

Slowly the glory faded and the shadows deepened as evening approached, but surely never was there shadow so dark, so ominous, so evil to behold as that upon the face of my Lord Sayle. Now if, by some coincidence, he had chanced to be regarding the noble constellation of Orion, as was Corporal Robert Doubleday, surely no two pairs of eyes ever gazed upon Orion’s glittering belt with expression so vastly different! For this evening the Corporal’s eyes held a light all their own, his lean, brown face wore an expression of extraordinary gentleness, and as he strode blithely across fragrant meadow he even essayed to sing; to be sure, his voice was somewhat husky, and creaked a little uncertainly as by lack of use, but he sang perseveringly, none the less, an old marching song he had sung often in Flanders years ago, set to the tune of “Lilliburlero.”

But, all at once, in the very middle of a note, he checked voice and foot together as forth from a hedge before him protruded a head and a pair of stalwart shoulders clad in an old frieze coat.

“Ha! Is that you, George Potter?”

“My own self, Mus’ Robert. Might you ha’ chanced to see a man ... or, say, two ... hereabouts, as you come along?”

“Not a soul!”

“Ah! An’ wheer might Sir John Dering be now, Mus’ Robert, d’ye s’pose?”

“I left him at ‘The Cross,’ but he usually walks abroad of an evening.”

“Aye, so ’e do, Mus’ Robert ... but ... doan’t ’ee let ’im goo out o’ your sight this night.”

“Why not? What d’ye mean, George?”

“Well, rackon it bean’t no-wise ’ealthy-like for Sir John to goo a-walkin’ to-night alone, ah—an’ p’r’aps not then.”

“And why? Ah ... d’ye think——”

“Aye, I do think!” nodded Mr. Potter. “I think as mebbe Murder’ll be a-walkin’ to-night.”

“Murder?” repeated the Corporal, falling back a step. “Murder? What d’ye mean, man? Speak plain.”

“Why, then, I means plain murder.”

“Who d’ye mean, George?”

“Well, there be them as wishes others dead, d’ye see—but mum! Only I should keep ’im safe indoors to-night if I was you.”

“By God, d’ye say so, George?” cried the Corporal; and staying for no more, he set off at a run; and now, as he hasted thus, his feet seemed to beat out the awful word: mur-der, mur-der, and his thoughts were full of it.

Murder, indeed! But who shall plumb all the sullen deeps of a murderer’s soul? Who comprehend the motives that speed him on? What ears but his may catch those demon voices that have eternally wooed and urged, argued and threatened, ceaselessly day and night, until he sees nothing, hears nothing, is conscious of nothing but the one purpose so gradually decided upon and, at last, so passionately desired. What normal intelligence may comprehend the mind of a murderer?

Watch him as he creeps forth upon his awful business, a dreadful, furtive creature seeking his unsuspecting victim.... Behold now the generous cock of his hat, his neat wig, his full-skirted coat of sober hue! Looked at from behind, he might be mistaken for an itinerant preacher of Quakerish persuasion, but seen from in front he can be nothing under heaven but the murderer he is in his soul.

Thus goes he, his every faculty so intent upon his ghastly work that he sees nothing, hears nothing of the Nemesis that dogs him in the shadows, pausing when he pauses, looking where he looks, going on again with him step for step, silent, purposeful and so dreadfully patient.

So come they at last, the Murderer and his Nemesis, to a leafy grove that all day long has rung with the joyous carolling of birds, but now, hushed and silent, is a place of gloom meet for dark and stealthy deeds. Within this place of shadow Murder creeps, seeking a place where, unseen, he may destroy, but always unconscious of the lurking shape of the Nemesis that flits ever behind him; suddenly he starts and crouches, to peer along the glimmering road, for upon the silence is the sound of a man’s light tread coming at slow, unhurried pace—the footsteps of a man who dreams.... Stay! What other feet are those that come at such wild speed, nearer and nearer, until they slacken somewhat and a panting voice speaks:

“Your honour ... I was a-coming ... to meet ye.”

“And in mighty haste, Bob!”

“Why ... as to that, sir—’tis growing dark——”

“Since when were you afraid o’ the dark, Bob?”

“Why—it looks like rain, sir.”

“On the contrary, ’tis a very fine night.”

“Why, then—let us walk, your honour.”

“Nay, I’m minded to be alone.”

“But, sir, I——”

“So go you in, Bob, and order supper.”

“But, your honour, I——”

“Pray leave me, Robert.”

“Why, sir—George Potter ... he warned me that——”

“That what?”

“That ’twasn’t, as you might say, healthy for you hereabouts to-night, sir, and——”

“The thought charms me, Robert. And now—pray be gone.”

“But, sir, if you’ll only——”

“Damme! Will ye go?”

A distressful sigh; the sound of heavy feet unwillingly retreating, feet that hesitate more than once ere they finally die away. And presently the light tread comes on again, slow and unhurried as before. Then Murder, peering from the shadows, crouches low, raises and steadies right hand....

A ringing shot from the denser gloom, a cry of amazement lost in strangling groan.... A second shot, louder, nearer ... a dreadful gasping ... a horrid thrashing among the underbrush ... silence. Then Sir John, staring upon that place of horror, began to creep thither ... was aware that men were running towards him, shouting to one another, and, without looking, knew these for Robert and George Potter, which last bore a small, covered lanthorn.

So, together, they entered the little grove, and presently came upon a stilly shape crouched face down among the underbrush; and beholding the three-cornered hat of generous cock, the neat wig, the wide-skirted coat, Mr. Potter whistled softly.

“Rackon Sturton’s got it at last!” quoth he.

“Aye, but—there’s another over here!” cried the Corporal from the denser shadows. “Aye—another o’ them ... and it looks—it looks like ... bring the light!”

Coming where stood the Corporal, Mr. Potter bent down, lanthorn in hand, only to start to his feet again very suddenly.

“Lord!” he exclaimed in awestruck voice. “Why, lord, sirs, this ’un be Sturton, sure enough ... aye, an’ sure enough dead.... Rackon ’e won’t never want no more.... But who—who lays over yonder?”

They came back to the first still form and, while Sir John held the lanthorn, Potter and the Corporal turned it over and, recoiling, stood mute a while and motionless; for there, scowling up at them in death as he had so often done in life, was the dead face of my Lord Sayle.

CHAPTER XLVI
TELLS HOW SIR JOHN DERING FLED THE DOWN-COUNTRY

The ancient cross was casting its shadow far athwart the silent street, for it was very early and the sun but new-risen, therefore the birds were jubilant, raising a chorus of welcome to the new day; but Sir John, leaning out from his bedchamber window, gazed down at the battered old cross very wistfully and sighed deep and often. To him presently entered Corporal Robert, bearing a valise.

“You ordered the chaise for half after four, Bob?”

“I did, sir.”

“And you ha’ told no one of my proposed departure ... Sir Hector, for instance?”

“No, sir.”

“Excellent!” murmured Sir John, and sighed immediately.

“I mentioned the matter to nobody, sir—except ... Her, your honour.”

“Her?” exclaimed Sir John, starting. “’S death, man, she is the very last person—hum! Whom d’ye mean, Bob? What ‘her’?”

“The—one and only, sir ... Ann, your honour.”

“Ha! And d’you tell her—everything?”

“Well—very near, sir.”

“And she still loves ye, Bob ... art sure?”

“I venter so to believe, sir. She—she tells me so, your honour.”

“A good woman’s abiding love,” sighed Sir John, “is a very precious thing to a man o’ sentiment.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And extreme rare, Bob.” Here Sir John scowled at the old cross and became bitter all at once. “Aye, indeed, true love in a woman is as hard to find as flies in winter or ice in summer, by heaven!”

“Indeed, sir?” answered Robert the Imperturbable. “Will you have your blue and silver in the valise or——”

“Damn my blue and silver!”

“Yes, sir.... Or shall I pack it in the trunk along o’——”

“Curse the trunk! Curse everything! I’m talking o’ love!”

“Very good, your honour.”

“And I say that women’s love is a devilish shy thing, very apt to take wing and fly away. ’Tis found but to be lost. ’Tis a slight thing and very transient. Pluck it and it withers, grasp it and it crumbles to sorry dust, taste it and ’tis ashes in the mouth. ’Tis a bitter-sweet, an emptiness, a merest bagatelle, an apple o’ Sodom!”

“Indeed, sir? And will you wear your light walking-sword with the silver——”

“Burn ye, Bob, are ye attending? I said an apple o’ Sodom!”

“Why, your honour, it don’t sound a very tasty fruit.”

Sir John’s gloomy features were lightened by a passing smile.

“Ah, well,” he sighed, “Venus be kind to thee, Bob!... And to-day you begin your new duties. You will look to the comfort and welfare of the tenantry?”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“Aye, I’m sure you will.”

“Though your honour will be sorely missed.... And the old House o’ Dering ... all done up like noo, such paintin’ and gildin’ ... and now to go empty still! Aye, High Dering will surely miss your honour.”

“Never i’ the world, Bob!”

“And Sir Hector will likewise miss ye, sir.”

“Aye, he may.”

“And I shall miss your honour.”

“For a little while, mayhap.”

“Always and ever, sir!”

“You will have a young and pretty wife soon, Bob.”

“Aye ... and she will miss ye too, sir—we shall both miss ye.... And there’s—others, sir——”

“Who, pray?”

“Your lady, sir.”

“I ha’ no lady.”

“I mean Mrs. Rose——”

“There is no such creature!”

“Well, sir, my Lady Barrasdaile, your honour, she will be——”

“Enough!” said Sir John in his haughtiest tone, and regarding the Corporal with his iciest air of fine-gentlemanly aloofness. “You may leave me, Robert!”

“But I’ve your honour’s valise to pack, sir, and——”

“Then you may pack it elsewhere ... pray, leave me!”

The Corporal glanced furtively askance, and, noting the droop of Sir John’s eyelids, the tilt of his chin, gathered up clothes and valise and, shaking gloomy head, departed forthwith.

Left alone, Sir John leaned pensively from the open casement again, to survey the deserted, winding street with its narrow pavements, its tiled roofs, its neat rows of houses, and the battered shaft of its age-worn cross rising stark against the sun’s level beams, for it was in his mind that he might never behold this scene again, and he sighed more deeply than ever; then leaned suddenly to peer down the street, for upon the air was a sound of approaching feet that woke the echoes—heavy feet that strode masterfully; and thus he presently espied Sir Hector, his wig askew, his weatherbeaten hat cocked at combative angle, purpose in every line of his gigantic figure.

Sir John frowned, pished and psha-ed, and, turning from the window, summoned Corporal Robert.

“You tell me that Sir Hector is unaware of my early departure?” he demanded.

“So far as I know, sir.”

“Then what doth he abroad at so unseasonable an hour, pray?”

“Abroad, your honour? Where, sir?”

“Coming up the street—demme! There he is!” exclaimed Sir John pettishly, as a loud whistle shrilled beneath the window.

“Aye, that will be Sir Hector, your honour.”

“Well, I’ll not see him! Confound everything, I say, I’ll not be pestered, Bob!”

“Oho, John ... Johnnie ... ocheigh!”

Sir John promptly closed the window, whereupon Sir Hector’s voice rose but the louder:

“Oho, John ... wull ye no loot me ben?”

“Damme, but he’ll rouse the village!” cried Sir John.

“Shall I go down and let him in, your honour?”

“Yes, yes, in the devil’s name! And hurry, he’ll be roaring in a moment.”

Downstairs hasted Corporal Robert and opened the door, thus checking Sir Hector in the very commencement of an eldritch Highland war-cry, who nodded grimly and mounted the stair forthwith.

“Weel, Johnnie,” quoth he, “sae ye’re gangin’, lad, awa’ frae your friends——”

“In about twenty minutes, Hector.”

“Aye! An’ whyfor maun ye steal awa’ wi’ no sae muckle as a grup o’ the hand?”

“I intended to write to you, Hector.”

“Aye! An’ what o’ the leddies ... especially one?”

“I trust they are blooming in all health.”

“Aye! An’ whyfor maun ye rin awa’? Why maun we twine?”

“Because, since my Lord Sayle hath ceased to be, I languish for an object, Hector. The country wearies me.”

“Aye! An’ whaur are ye intendin’ for?”

“London or Paris, perchance both.”

“Ou aye! An’ whiles ye’re gallivantin’ yonder, what o’ the puir, sweet lass wha’s breakin’ her heart for ye? What o’ Rose—no, the Leddy Herminia?”

“I venture to think her heart, if she hath one, is as sound as ever——”

“Ha! O man, I whiles wonder at ye!”

“Faith, Hector, the heart o’ your finished coquette is a tough morsel——”

“And—ye loved her once, John!”

“I admit the folly, Hector. But my lady, happily for me, very deliberately and effectively killed that very preposterously foolish passion.”

“She slaughtered it unco’ quick, John, I’m thinkin’!”

“Yet none the less effectually, Hector.”

“Ah, John lad, but true love taketh a deal o’ killing, and moreover——”

“Gad’s life!” laughed Sir John. “What know you o’ love?”

Sir Hector quailed somewhat, dropped his hat and grew uncommonly red in the face, picking it up.

“Why, since you ask,” he answered, “I—I’ve read some such in a book.... But, talkin’ o’ Rose—Herminia——”

“Is so much waste o’ time and breath, Hector.”

“John ... O Johnnie, dae ye mean that?”

“Extremely!”

“You hae no desire to see her, or hear——”

“Positively no!”

“Then ye’re a heartless gomeril!”

“Venus be thanked!”

“Man, are ye gone gyte? John, this is no’ like ye. ’Tis unworthy! This smacks o’ pride an’ fulish pique!” Sir John flushed angrily and opened the lattice.

“Enough, Hector!” said he, glancing out into the street. “Let us converse of other things—my chaise should be here soon.”

“John,” continued Sir Hector in his most precise English, “thou’rt throwing away a great love, such a love as cometh to bless but few poor mortals, and then but once, for true love, John, being lightly scorned, cometh not again ... forbye, I read this in a book also!... But, O lad, ’tis in my mind you shall come to rue this bitterly—aye, to your last hour.”

“Why, then, pray heaven I live not overlong!”

Sir Hector stared into the coldly smiling face before him much as it had been the face of a stranger.

“Why, then, I’m by with ye, John!” sighed he. “Only this, either you are utterly heartless and selfish or....”

“Or, Hector?”

“Or agonising for her in your heart!”

“And yonder,” said Sir John, glancing from the window—“yonder is the chaise at last, I think.”

The vehicle in question having drawn up before the inn, Sir John put on hat and cloak and they descended the stair, all three, and with never a word between them.

“The valises, Robert?”

“Here, your honour!”

“The trunk, Robert?”

“Aye, sir!” And, beckoning to the post-boy, Robert hurried back upstairs, leaving Sir John to glance at the chaise, the horses, the blue sky and the deserted street, while Sir Hector stared gloomily at his own shabby hat, turning it over and over as if it had been some rare and very curious object.

“’Tis to Parus ye’ll be gangin’, John?”

“Very like, Hector.”

“An’ the de’il! Aye, ’tis the muckle de’il ye’re bound for, lad!”

“Not necessarily, Hector.”

“Troth, an’ indeed Auld Hornie’ll hae ye in his cloofs for guid and a’ this time. Oh, ’tis waefu’ an’ a’ by reason o’ your stubborn, wilfu’ pride!... An’ here was Auld Hector dreamin’ o’ ye settlin’ doon at last wi’ a bonny wife ... aye, an’ bairns, mebbe!... I was thinkin’ if ... your first chanced to be a boy ... mebbe you’d name him after me. Hector’s no sic a bad name, Johnnie ... but now....”

“Now, Hector, seeing I have not the remotest thought of marrying, why not get wed yourself ... Mrs. Saunders, say ... and call your first son ‘John’ after me?”

“Whisht, lad, dinna lichtlie the matter! Do not mock, sir!”

“I speak in all seriousness, Hector.”

“Do not make me a jest, sir! Do not sneer at an old man’s dreams.... They were very dear, very sacred to me. And now they lie shattered by your detestable selfishness ... and I am an old man indeed!”

“Though you never looked stronger, Hector!”

“And what o’ your tenantry, your people that should be your responsibility?”

“I leave them in good and, I think, capable hands.”

“And Dering Manor, John ... the old house you’ve just had made habitable, will you leave it to emptiness and decay?”

Sir John turned to stare down the empty street.

“Go you and live there, Hector,” said he at last. “Why not? Mayhap I shall come back one day, but ... just now I—I could not bear the place.... And, thank heaven, here they come with the trunk!” So saying, Sir John stepped rather hastily into the chaise as Robert and the post-boy appeared, bearing the leathern trunk between them.

“All aboard, Bob?”

“Aye, your honour.”

“You will write every week regarding the estates?”

“Every week, sir.”

“Then good-bye, Bob!”

“Good-bye, your honour!” And, having shaken the hand Sir John extended, the Corporal took three steps to the rear and stood at attention.

“Good-bye, Hector!”

“Fare ye weel, John! An’ ... ye’ve nae worrd for her ... no message? Juist ane worrd, John?”

“Not one, Hector!”

“Aweel, guid-bye, lad! An’ when ye’re weary an’ waeful an’ heartsick, come back tae Alfriston, to the Downs, tae auld Hector as lo’es ye vera weel—guid-bye!” Then Sir Hector nodded, the post-boy cracked his whip and the chaise rolled away.

CHAPTER XLVII
TELLETH HOW MY LADY HERMINIA BARRASDAILE WENT A-WOOING

It was a golden morning; beyond dew-spangled hedgerows stretched green meadows where brooks sparkled and the river gleamed, while afar, to right and left, rose the majestic shapes of Windover and Firle Beacon.

Never had the country looked so fair, never had it filled him with such yearning; never had the birds carolled so joyously. And very soon, instead of this widespread smiling countryside he loved so much, the reverent hush and stillness of these everlasting hills, the rugged, simple folk he had learned to honour and respect, in place of all this would be the narrow, roaring streets of London, the glitter of Mayfair, the whirl of Paris.... Emptiness and Desolation! Sir John sighed again and closed his eyes wearily.

Presently from an inner pocket he took a wallet, whence he extracted a small, folded paper and, opening this, beheld a thick curl of glossy black hair; for a long moment he gazed down at this; then, taking it from the paper, made to toss it from the chaise window. But, as he did so, the pretty thing twined itself softly about his finger and clung there, whereupon he sighed, raised it suddenly to his lips, kissed it passionately and cast it forth, shaking it violently from his hand much as if it had stung him.

And now from the wallet he drew a folded parchment, and frowned at the words that stared at him therefrom in fair black and white:

A special Licence of Marriage, between....

Beholding which words, he laughed bitterly and made to tear the thing, then paused, folded and replaced it in the wallet, and thrusting this back into his pocket, sat in frowning reverie.

Thus drove Sir John through the golden morning, looking neither to right nor left, scowling at the cushions before him, at his buckled shoes, his silk stockings, at anything and anywhere rather than the countryside he was leaving.

Nevertheless he was about to order the post-boy to drive faster, when the chaise slowed up suddenly and jolted to a standstill.

Out of the window went Sir John’s indignant head on the instant.

“What the devil are ye stopping for?” he demanded. “What’s the matter?”

“I dunno, sir,” answered the post-boy, pointing with his whip, “but ’twas all along o’ ’er ... in the middle o’ the road, sir!”

Forth from the chaise leapt Sir John in a fury.

“Damme, are ye drunk?” he demanded.

“Nary a drop, your honour, since nine o’clock las’ night, on my David, sir! But theer she was, your honour, in the middle o’ the fair-way, d’ye see, a-wavin’ of ’er arms wild-like ... wouldn’t move, an’ us nigh a-top of ’er, so pull up I ’ad to, sir.”

“Ah!” quoth Sir John. “And now, my good Addlepate, will you pray inform me what the devil you are stopping for?”

“Why, lord, sir, ain’t I a-tellin’ your honour as she came out o’ the ’edge yonder all suddent-like, an’ waved ’er arms wild-like an’——”

“Aye, my good numbskull, but who?”

“A ’ooman, sir, a precious big ’un in a——”

“Then where is she, my good clod, where is she?”

“Here!” answered a voice.

Sir John spun round upon his heel and very nearly gaped.

She was sitting in the chaise, her eyes very bright, her cheeks a little flushed beneath the hood of the long grey cloak that enfolded her.

For a long moment they gazed at one another speechlessly, while the post-boy sucked at the knob of his whip and stared with eyes round and bright as his buttons, for whose behoof Sir John presently spoke.

“Madame,” said he, bowing with extreme ceremony, “I trust we ha’n’t kept your ladyship long a-waiting!... You may drive on, my addle-brained wiseacre, and pocket this guinea for possessing the wit not to run over a lady in broad daylight.” So saying, Sir John bestowed the coin, got into the chaise and closed the door, whereupon the jubilant post-boy cracked his whip ecstatically, chirruped gaily to his horses, and they drove on again.

“And now, madame,” inquired Sir John coldly, eyelids a-droop, chin uptilted, and seated as far from her as the narrow vehicle allowed, “pray, what folly is this?”

“Folly, indeed, John, to run away ... and so very early in the morning, too!”

“How came you hither, madame?”

“In George Potter’s cart.... And do not be so extreme distant, John ... for thee I left my warm bed at sunrise!”

“Your ladyship amazes me!”

“Merely because, sir, with all your knowledge of womankind, you don’t in the very least apprehend this woman.... O John, didst think I would suffer thee to steal thyself from me, so?”

“And why are you here, madame?”

“To woo thee,” she answered softly, “to seek thy love.”

Sir John started and turned to glance out of the window.

“How—how did you learn that I was leaving?” he questioned hastily.

“Old Penelope told me ... and, John dear, she gave me a charm; a very potent spell should prevail with thee, an’ my poor pleading may not.”

Now, hearing the soft yearning in her voice, conscious of all the new, sweet gentleness of her as, tremulous, wistful, she leaned towards him appealingly, he looked resolutely out of the window.

“Spells and charms the most potent, my lady, shall prove of none avail, for my love is surely dead!”

“Nay, thou foolish John, perchance it may swoon a little, but ’tis not dead, for love that is of the true sort may never die. And thy love, methinks, is a true love indeed.”

“It was,” he corrected; “and you made of it a mock——”

“Nay, I did but laugh, John, but not at thy dear love-making.... Oh, indeed, thou’rt the merest man to be so blind! My laughter was by reason o’ the broken ornament, the tumbled chair, my torn gown.... I must ha’ seemed so clumsy ... but the room was so strait and I always feel myself so hugely vast! My laughter, John, was merest hysteria, which was strange in me, for I was never so before.”

“Ha—never?” he questioned suddenly.

“Never with thee, John.”

“The night Death crawled upon me in the hedge?”

“And I shielded thy dear body with mine, John ... because I feared for thee, loved thee, and would ha’ died for thee.... And ’twas because of the last five years, the evil I had spoken of thee, the harms I had wickedly tried to work thee ... this was why I would have died for thee, John, this, but never hysteria.... Aye, I know, indeed, I so named it, but this was only because I could think of naught else to retort upon thee with....”

“Couldst indeed be so cruel?” he questioned more gently, but with his gaze still averted.

“Yet am I kinder than thou,” she answered, “for if thou wilt break my poor heart and ruin my life, I will not suffer thee to break thine own.... So am I here beseeching thee to come back to love and me and the dear Down-country.”

“Nay, this cannot be.”

“Because I do love thee truly, John.”

“This I cannot believe.”

“Why, then, John, I am here to follow thee where thou wilt, to beseech thy forgiveness, to supplicate thee to love me a little ... and because I am thine own, now and always, thou dear, brave, kind, cruel, unbelieving, wise and most foolish John! Wilt not look at me even now? Then needs must I use old Penelope’s charm!”

Speaking thus, she thrust something into his fingers, and he saw this for the miniature of his long-dead father.

“Ah!” he exclaimed. “What o’ this?”

“You must open it, John. Penelope bid me tell you to open the back and read what your father wrote there so many years agone.”

Mutely he obeyed, and, inscribed in small, clear characters, saw this:

Beloved,
though death
must needs come
to us soon or late,
yet do I know we can
never die since Love
is immortal. So by
thy love shall I live
on beyond death
with thee for
ever. Thy
John Dering.

For a while he sat staring at this message from the “living” dead; at last, and suddenly, he turned and looked at her.

“John,” she whispered, “take me, beloved, and so let us make each other immortal.”

Then Sir John reached out his arms and, drawing her to him, gazed deep into her eyes.

“Herminia,” said he, “O Rose o’ love ... my Rose in very truth, at last!”

“For thy wearing, John,” she sighed, “or needs must I fade soon and wither utterly away.”

CHAPTER XLVIII
WHICH IS, HAPPILY, THE LAST

Old Mr. Dumbrell, perched in George Potter’s cart behind the likely horse, blinked at the setting sun and shook his head; quoth he:

“The longer oi live, Jarge, the more sartin-sure be oi that there be no sich thing as gratitood nowheres, no!”

“What be troublin’ of ’ee now, Gaffer?”

“Thinkin’ o’ Sir John Dering, oi be. Oh, ’e’s mebbe this an’ that an’ t’other, but oi calls ’im naun but a ongrateful young barrynet!”

“Lord, old ’un,” remonstrated Mr. Potter, “ain’t ’e given ye your cottage, rent free?”

“Wot o’ that?” snarled the Aged Soul. “Ain’t ’e got ’unnerds an’ thousands o’ cottages? Wot’s a cottage?”

“Well, but ain’t ’e likewise give ye that little medder be’ind your cottage?”

“Oi never said ’e ’adn’t, did oi?”

“Aye, but ain’t ’e give ye a cow along o’ the medder an’ a couple o’ fat ’ogs?”

“Wot of ’em?” screeched the Aged One indignantly. “Oi bean’t complainin’ o’ they, be oi? No, my trouble be ’im a-goin’ away an’ never s’ much as a word to oi ... an’ me sech a very old, aged Soul as can’t live much longer, an’ ’im a-leavin’ pore old oi wi’ never no good-bye ... an’ never sendin’ me that theer arm-cheer as ’e promised faithful!”

“Arm-cheer?” repeated Mr. Potter inquiringly.

“Ah! ’Osea,’ says ’e, aye, an’ called me ’is friend, ’e did, ’Osea,’ says ’e, ‘you shall set in comfort arl your days,’ ’e sez—them were ’is very words! An’ I’ve been ’opin’ an’ a-waitin’ an’ expectin’ that theer cheer ever since.... An’ look wot I done for ’e!”

“Wot?” demanded Mr. Potter.

“Why, didn’t oi comfort ’e an’ talk to ’e when arl the world was agin’ him? Didn’t oi speak up for ’e on arl ’casions, ah—an’ mak’ love for ’e to ’is sweet-’eart, tu? Wasn’t oi loike a feäther an’ mother arl rolled into one? An’ now ’ere be oi, an’ ’im gone—an’ no cheer!”

It was at this moment that, turning into the main road, they beheld a dusty chaise approaching at a smart trot, whereupon, the way being somewhat narrow, Mr. Potter pulled aside to make room; but scarcely had he done so than a cheery voice hailed him, the chaise pulled up, and out from the window came a bewigged head.

“Why, Potter—George Potter,” cried a merry voice. “God bless ye, George; ’tis very well met! And my friend Hosea too! How art thou, my Aged Soul? I vow thou’rt looking younger than ever!”

“Lord, Sir John!” exclaimed Mr. Potter heartily, “I be main glad to see ye back, sir.”

“And I’m back for good, George ... aye, for good of every kind and sort, I hope——”

“Why, then, that theer cheer, Sir John!” piped the Aged One. “Wot about my arm-cheer?”

“’E means the cheer your honour promised ’im, sir,” explained Mr. Potter.

“Chair?” repeated Sir John in laughing puzzlement. “I fear I don’t recall ... but we will talk of this later. For the present, George, I want you to drive over to old Penelope and warn her that she hath visitors on the way to drink tea with her——”

“Say two visitors, Mr. Potter,” laughed a second voice, and over Sir John’s shoulder peeped my lady’s lovely face; whereupon Mr. Potter flourished his whip exultantly and, wheeling the likely horse, drove off at such a pace that he was necessitated to hug the small, protesting Aged Soul for safety’s sake.

“’Twill give our revered witch due time to don the silken gown, mayhap, my Rose o’ love.”

“Aye, though—I think ’tis donned already, sir.”

“She expects us, then?”

“She doth, John!... And Aunt Lucinda will be there, and Sir Hector ... unless we have outworn their patience.”

“But what shall bring them there? How know you this, child?”

“’Faith, sir, ’tis because I invited ’em to meet us at Penelope’s cottage——”

“Ha, wert so sure we should come back together, my Herminia?”

“Why, of course, John dear. Though I little thought we should ha’ kept them so long a-waiting—see, the sun is set already and—nay, sir ... oh, for mercy’s sake, John ... you’ll ha’ my hair all down——”

“You’ll look but the lovelier——”

“Nay, prithee ... oh, hark, John! Dost hear, dost hear how they welcome thee home at last, beloved?”

Upon the air rose a sudden, glad riot of bells lustily rung, a faint, silvery pealing that grew momentarily louder, until the joyous clamour thrilled in the air all about them.

“Hark, my John, where they welcome Dering of Dering home at last!”

“And his most dear lady!” he answered, drawing her close. “For, O my Herminia, my Rose-child, thou shalt teach him to live to better purpose ... by thee ‘The Wicked Dering’ shall——”

“Ah, hush!” she murmured. “He was but a dream ... but thou, my dear, brave, noble, most honourable ... oh, wilt stifle me, John? Nay, they will see us——”

So in due season they drove into the winding street of High Dering where stood folk to cheer, to flourish hats and flutter scarves a little shyly, but to fall suddenly silent and stare wide-eyed as Sir John, my lady beside him, paused bare-headed to salute that solitary old creature whom all had scorned so long and persecuted as a witch; silent she stood leaning upon her staff, but in all the glory of rustling silk and belaced mutch, her indomitable old head aloft, her bright, old eyes keen as ever, yet surely strangely gentle for a witch. And now Sir John was speaking, his clear voice very plain to be heard:

“Good friend Penelope, the years have been very cruel and hard for thee. But indeed thy sufferings have not been wholly in vain, as I think, and henceforth, John Dering shall be the first to do thee honour.” So saying, he took that worn and shrivelled hand, drawing it within his arm, and so brought her to the cottage gate where stood the Duchess, glad-eyed, with Sir Hector towering gigantic behind her.

But now Mr. Potter’s voice was heard in placid exhortation:

“Come, friends and neighbours, cheer now, a cheer for Dering o’ Dering and his lady!” Hereupon, led by Mr. Potter’s stentorian voice and the Aged Soul’s shrill pipe, they cheered full-throated and with a will. “An’ now, neighbours, one more for old Pen, as be true Sussex through an’ through, barn an’ bred——”

“Aye, cheer, ye fules!” shrilled the Aged Soul, flourishing his hat. “Beller for ol’ Pen, an’ dannel ’im as doan’t, says oi!”

“Hoot-toot, Johnnie-man,” quoth Sir Hector as they crossed the little garden, “ye kept us waitin’ a’ the day whiles ye made up your mind, it seems-an’ me in ma vera best clo’es, y’ ken—but ’twas worth it, lad, and—why, what now?” For old Penelope had paused suddenly to take my lady’s hand to gaze on it through gathering tears and kiss it with strange fervour.

“What, John—a ring?” exclaimed Sir Hector—“an’ a weddin’-ring, forbye—already? Why, man, doth it mean——”

“Ah, Sir Hector,” cried old Penelope, “it do mean as the dead, as liveth for ever, hath spoke from beyond his grave ... it meaneth, God be praised, that true love is immortal indeed!” So, hand in hand, the old woman and the young entered the cottage.

“But, Johnnie, wull ye be for tellin’ me that it means——?”

“That they are married, sir,” answered the little Duchess—“wooed and won and wedded, sir! Which is great joy to me, for our Herminia hath found a man shall rule her rigorously at last; in a word, master her megrims, control, curb and constrain her contrariness as only a masterful man might.”

“Wooed and won ... rule rigorously,” murmured Sir Hector, “curb and constrain——”

“Well, sir, well, why must you mop and mow and mutter like a mere male? Wouldst not do the same, sir?”

Then, looking down into the little Duchess’s strangely youthful eyes, Sir Hector emitted that sound to which no one but a true-born Scot may give utterance, and which, so far as poor words go, may be roughly translated thus:

“Umph-humph!” quoth Sir Hector Lauchlan MacLean.

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HOBBIES FOR BOYS

by JACQUES REINDORP

Demy 8vo, cloth. 5/- net.

An ideal present for any boy, especially the mechanically-minded youngster. A few boys from “The Toolhouse Club” build their clubroom, and proceed to do some really interesting things: light the clubhouse with electricity, make a wireless set, phantascope, a telephone, do some wood-carving; but, best of all, they build a full-size boat from beginning to end, and finally go on voyages of exploration up their river.

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GODS OF MODERN GRUB STREET

by

A. ST. JOHN ADCOCK

Thirty-two Portraits by E. O. HOPPÉ

Crown 8vo, cloth. 7/6 net.

Everyone is curious to know how the heights of Mount Olympus have been gained, and especially is this interest aroused in the case of our contemporary novelists, poets and dramatists. Often they are but a name, a nebulous entity emerging out of our enjoyment of their works. Such healthy curiosity is satisfied by this book, which makes a double appeal, the photographs accompanying the essays creating an atmosphere of very real intimacy. The name of the well-known author and critic, Mr. A. St. John Adcock, on the title page is ample warrant that the essays are thoroughly critical and informing, but their chief aim is to complement each portrait with a sketch of the sitter’s personality, to tell the story of his career and indicate to what extent the facts of his life have influenced his outlook and his work:

Mr. E. O. Hoppé is admittedly the most finished artist among present-day photographers. To sit for him is a distinction in itself, and we find that in the camera portraits included in the volume he has given us a series of 32 studies of great charm and distinction. The selection is of wide range, and perhaps its distinguishing characteristic is the capacity shown by both author and artist to get under the skin of each subject.

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PALESTINE PICTURED; or, WHERE HE DWELT

by

ALFRED T. SCHOFIELD, M.D., M.R.C.S.E.

Crown 8vo, cloth. 6/- net.

A graphic and yet simple description of the Holy Land. Short of spending a long period there and traversing it again and again in leisurely fashion, it is doubtful if one could gain in any other way so thorough an understanding of the places, manners and customs as by a study of this book. The Biblical allusions are so well brought out and illustrated that one begins to think of the various places mentioned with the same familiarity that we have with places in our own country. The marked map, following the footsteps of our Lord, and the forty-three photographic views, add greatly to the feeling of familiarity.

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THE STORY OF ST. PAUL’S LIFE AND LETTERS

by

J. PATERSON SMYTH, B.D., Litt.D., LL.D., D.C.L.

Crown 8vo, cloth. 3/6 net.

This life is by far the most interesting life of St. Paul yet written. “Put yourself in his place,” is the note struck, and this human note is sustained throughout. It brings out the personal interest in the life of St. Paul, from his boyhood, playing on the wharves of Tarsus, to the day when, a lonely old saint of God, he laid down his tired life at the headsman’s block in Rome and entered on his wonderful new adventure in the Hereafter. A special feature is the attempt made to place the epistles in their proper place in St. Paul’s life, in which the author has been so successful that they seem to form one harmonious whole.

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BOOKS BY JEFFERY FARNOL
NEW CHEAP EDITION AT 4s. NET

THE BROAD HIGHWAY
(A romance of Kent)

THE AMATEUR GENTLEMAN
(A romance of the Regency)

THE MONEY MOON
(A romance of to-day)

CHRONICLES OF THE IMP (MY LADY CAPRICE)

BELTANE THE SMITH
(A mediæval romance)

THE HONOURABLE MR. TAWNISH
(The rollicking days of the eighteenth century)

THE DEFINITE OBJECT
(A romance of New York)

OUR ADMIRABLE BETTY
(An early Georgian story)

BLACK BARTLEMY’S TREASURE
(A stirring pirate story)

MARTIN CONISBY’S VENGEANCE
(Continues Black Bartlemy’s adventures)

PEREGRINE’S PROGRESS
(In the author’s original vein)

and Mr. Farnol’s latest success:

SIR JOHN DERING
(A Romantic Comedy. 7s. 6d. net.)

BOUND IN CLOTH, CROWN 8VO, PICTURE WRAPPER IN COLOUR BY C. E. BROCK

OBTAINABLE FROM ANY BOOKSELLER

SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & Co., Ltd., PUBLISHERS
100 SOUTHWARK STREET, LONDON, S.E. 1.