CHAPTER IV
Viscount Harry, Captain of the Guards
On nearing home, I noticed the "Flying Dandy," Harry's favourite horse, standing at the front entrance in charge of a groom.
"Hello, Wally," I shouted in response to the groom's salute and broad grin. "Is Captain Harry home?"
"Yes, sir! Three hours agone, sir. 'E's just agoing for a canter, sir, for the good of 'is 'ealth."
I went inside.
"Hi! William," I cried to the retreating figure of our portly and aristocratic butler. "Where's Harry?"
"Captain Harry, sir, is in the armoury. Any message, sir?"
"No! it is all right, William. I shall go along in and see him."
I went down the corridor, to the most ancient part of Hazelmere House; the old armoury, with its iron-studded oaken doors and its suggestion of spooks and goblins. I pushed in to that sombre-looking place, which held so many grim secrets of feudal times. How many drinking orgies and all-night card parties had been held within its portals, I dared not endeavour to surmise. As to how many plots had been hatched behind its studded doors, how many affairs of honour had been settled for all time under its high-panelled roof,—there was only a meagre record; but those we knew of had been bloody and not a few.
Figures, in suits of armour, stood in every corner; two-edged swords, shields of brass and cowhide, blunderbusses and breech-loading pistols hung from the walls, while the more modern rifles and fowling pieces were ranged in orderly fashion along the far side.
The light was none too good in there, and I failed, at first, to discover the object of my quest.
"How do, farmer Giles?" came that slow, drawling, sarcastic voice which I knew so well.
I turned suddenly, and,—there he was, seated on a brass-studded oak chest almost behind the heavy door, swinging one leg and toying with a seventeenth century rapier. Through his narrow-slitted eyes, he was examining me from top to toe in apparent disgust: tall, thin, perfectly groomed, handsome, cynical, devil-may-care.
I tried to speak calmly, but my anger was greater than I could properly control. Poor little Peggy Darrol was uppermost in my thoughts.
"'Gad, George,—you look like a tramp. Why don't you spruce up a bit? Hobnailed boots, home-spun breeches; ugh! it's enough to make your noble ancestors turn in their coffins and groan.
"Don't you know the Brammerton motto is, 'Clean,—within and without.'"
He bent the blade of his rapier until it formed a half hoop, then he let it fly back with a twang.
"And some of us have degenerated so," I answered, "that we apply the motto only in so far as it affects the outside."
"While some of us, of course, are so busy scrubbing and polishing at our inwards," he put in, "that we have no time to devote to the parts that are seen. But that seems to me deuced like cant; and a cheap variety of it at that.
"So you have taken to preaching, as well as farming. Fine combination, little brother! However, George,—dear boy,—we shall let it go at that. There is something you are anxious to unload. Get it out of your system, man."
"I have just been hearing that you are going to marry Lady Rosemary Granton soon."
"Why, yes! of course. You may congratulate me, for I have that distinguished honour," he drawled.
"And you do consider it an honour?" I asked, pushing my hands deep into my pockets and spreading my legs.
He leaned back and surveyed me tolerantly.
"'Gad!—that's a beastly impertinent question, George. Why shouldn't it be an honour, when every gentleman in London will be biting his finger-tips with envy?"
I nodded and went on.
"You consider also that she will be honoured in marrying a Brammerton?"
"Look here," he answered, a little irritated, "what's all this damned catechising for?"
"I am simply asking questions, Harry; taking liberties seeing I am a Brammerton and your little brother," I retorted calmly.
"And nasty questions they are, too;—but, by Jove! since you ask, and, as I am a Brammerton, and it is I she is going to marry,—why! I consider she is honoured. The honour will be,—ah! on both sides, George. Now,—dear fellow,—don't worry about my feelings. If you have anything more to ask, why! shoot it over, now that I am in the mood for answering," he continued dryly. "I have a hide like a rhino'."
I looked him over coldly.
"Yes, Harry,—Lady Rosemary will come to you as a Granton, fulfilling the pledge made by her father. She will come to you with her honour bright and unsullied."
He bent forward and frowned at me.
"Do you doubt it?" he shot across.
I shook my head. "No!"
He resumed his old position.
"Glad to hear you say so. Now,—what else? Blest if this doesn't make me feel quite a devil, to be lectured and questioned by my young brother,—my own, dear, little, preaching, farmer, kid of a brother."
"You will go to her a Brammerton, fulfilling the vow made by a Brammerton, with a Brammerton's honour, unstained, unblemished,—'Clean,—within and without'?"
He rose slowly from the chest and faced me squarely.
There was nothing of the coward in Harry.
His eye glistened with a cruel light. "Have a care, little brother," he said between his regular, white teeth. "Have a care."
"Why, Harry," I remonstrated in feigned surprise, "what's the matter? What have I said amiss?"
He had always played the big, patronising, bossing brother with me and I had suffered it from him, although, from a physical standpoint, the suffering of late had been one of good-natured tolerance. To-day, there was something in my manner that told him he had reached the end of it.
"Tell me what you mean?" he snarled.
"If you do not know what I mean, brother mine, sit down and I will tell you."
"No!" he answered.
"Oh, well!—I'll tell you anyway."
I went up close to him. "What are you going to do about Peggy Darrol?" I demanded.
The shot hit hard; but he was almost equal to it. He sat down on the chest again and toyed once more with the point of the rapier. Then, without looking up, he answered:
"Peggy Darrol,—eh, George! Peggy Darrol, did you say? Who the devil is she? Oh,—ah,—eh,—oh, yes! the blacksmith's sister,—um,—nice little wench, Peggy:—attractive, fresh, clinging, strawberries and cream and all that sort of thing. Bit of a dreamer, though!"
"Who set her dreaming?" I asked, pushing my anger back.
"Hanged if I know; born in her I suppose. It is part of every woman's make-up. Pretty little thing, though; by Gad! she is."
"Yes! she is pretty; and she was good as she is pretty until she got tangled up with you."
Harry sprang up and menaced me.
"What do you mean, you,—you?—— What are you driving at? What's your game?"
"Oh! give over this rotten hypocrisy," I shouted, pushing him back. "Hit you on the raw, did it?"
He drew himself up.
"No! it didn't. But I have had more than enough of your impertinences. I would box your ears for the unlicked pup you are, if I could do it without soiling my palms."
I smiled.
"Those days are gone, Harry,—and you know it, too. Let us cut this evasion and tom-foolery. You have got that poor girl into a scrape. What are you going to do about getting her out of it?"
"I have got her into trouble? How do you know I have? Her word for it, I suppose? A fine state of affairs it has come to, when any girl who gets into trouble with her clod-hopper sweetheart, has simply to accuse some one in a higher station than she, to have all her troubles ended."
He flicked some dust from his coat-sleeve. "'Gad,—we fellows would never be out of the soup."
"No! not her word," I retorted. "Little Peggy Darrol is not that sort of girl and well you know it. I have your own word for it,—in writing."
His face underwent a change in expression; his cheeks paled slightly.
I drew his letter from my pocket.
"Damn her for a little fool," he growled. He held out his hand for it.
"Oh, no! Harry,—I am keeping this meantime." And I replaced it. "Tell me now,—what are you going to do about Peggy?" I asked relentlessly.
"Oh!" he replied easily, "don't worry. I shall have her properly looked after. She needn't fear. Probably I shall make a settlement on her; although the little idiot hardly deserves that much after giving the show away as she has done."
"Of course, you will tell Lady Rosemary of this before any announcement is made of your marriage, Harry? A Brammerton must, in all things, be honourable, 'Clean,—within and without.'"
He looked at me incredulously, and smiled almost in pity for me and my strange ideas.
"Certainly not! What do you take me for? What do you think Lady Rosemary is that I should trouble her with these petty matters?"
"Petty matters," I cried. "You call this petty? God forgive you, Harry. Petty! and that poor girl crying her heart out; her whole innocent life blasted; her future a disgrace! Petty!—my God!;—and you a Brammerton!
"But I tell you," I blazed, "you shall let Lady Rosemary know."
"And I tell you,—I shall not," he replied.
"Then, by God!—I'll do it myself," I retorted. "I give you two hours to decide which of us it is to be."
I made toward the door. But Harry sprang for his rapier, picked it up and stood with his back against my exit, the point of his weapon to my breast.
There was a wicked gleam in his narrow eyes.
"Damn you! George Brammerton, for a sneaking, prying, tale-bearing lout;—you dare not do it!"
He took a step forward.
"Now, sir,—I will trouble you for that letter."
I looked at him in astonishment. There was a strange something in his eyes I had never seen there before; a mad, irresponsible something that cared not for consequences; a something that makes heroes of some men and murderers of others. I stood motionless.
Slowly he pushed the point of his rapier through my coat-sleeve. It pricked into my arm and I felt a few drops of warm blood trickle. I did not wince.
"Stop this infernal fooling," I cried angrily.
He bent forward, in the attitude of fence with which he was so familiar.
"Fooling, did you say? 'Gad! then, is this fooling?"
He turned the rapier against my breast, ripping my shirt and lancing my flesh to the bone. I staggered back with a gasp.
It was the act of a madman; and I knew in that moment that I was face to face with death by violence for the second time in a few hours. I slowly backed from him, but he followed me, step for step,
As I came up against and sought the wall behind me for support, my hand came in contact with something hard. I closed my fingers over it. It was the handle of an old highland broadsword and the feel of it was not unpleasant. It lent a fresh flow to my blood. I tore the sword from its fastenings, and, in a second, I was standing facing my brother on a more equal, on a more satisfactory footing, determined to defend myself, blow for blow, against his inhuman, insane conduct.
"Ho! ho!" he yelled. "A duel in the twentieth century. 'Gad! wouldn't this set London by the ears? The Corsican Brothers over again!
"Come on, with your battle-axe, farmer Giles, Let's see what stuff you're made of—blood or sawdust."
Twice he thrust at me and twice I barely avoided his dextrous onslaughts. I parried as he thrust, not daring to venture a return. Our strange weapons rang out and re-echoed, time and again, in the dread stillness of the isolated armoury.
My left arm was smarting from the first wound I had received, and a few drops of blood trickled down over the back of my hand, splashing on the floor.
"You bleed!—just like a human being, George. Who would have thought it?" gloated Harry with a taunt.
He came at me again.
My broadsword was heavy and, to me, unwieldy, while Harry's rapier was light and pliable. I could tell that there could be only one ending, if the unequal contest were prolonged,—I would be wounded badly, or killed outright. At that moment, I had no very special desire for either happening.
Harry turned and twisted his weapon with the clever wrist movement for which he was famous in every fencing club in Britain; and every time I wielded my heavy weapon to meet his light one I thought I should never be in time to meet his counter-stroke, his recovery was so very much quicker than mine.
He played with me thus for a time which seemed an eternity. My breath began to come in great gasps. Suddenly he lunged at me with all his strength, throwing the full weight of his body recklessly behind his stroke, so sure was he, evidently, that it would find its mark. I sprang aside just in time, bringing my broadsword down on his rapier and sending six inches of the point of it clattering to the floor.
"Damn the thing!" he blustered, taking a firmer grip of what steel remained in his hand.
"Aren't you satisfied? Won't you stop this madness?" I panted, my voice sounding loud and hollow in the stillness around us.
For answer he grazed my cheek with his jagged steel, letting a little more blood and hurting sufficiently to cause me to wince.
"Got you again, you see," he chuckled, pushing up his sleeves and pulling his tie straight. "George, dear boy, I'll have you in mincemeat before I get at any of your well-covered vitals."
A blind fury seized me. I drove in on him. He turned me aside with a grin and thrust heavily at me in return. I darted to the left, making no endeavour to push aside his weapon with my own but relying only on the agility of my body. With an oath, he floundered forward, and before he could recover I brought the flat of my heavy broadsword crashing down on the top of his head. His arm went up with a nervous jerk and his rapier flew from his hand, shattering against a high window and sending the broken glass rattling on to the cement walk below.
Harry sagged to the floor like a sack of flour and lay motionless on his face, his arms and legs spread out like a spider's.
I was bending down to turn him over, when I heard my father's voice on the other side of the door.
"Stand back! I'll see to this," he cried, evidently addressing the frightened servants.
I turned round. The door swung on its immense hinges and my father stood there, with staring eyes and pallid face, taking in the situation deliberately, looking from me to Harry's inert body beside which I knelt. Slowly he came into the centre of the room.
Full of anxiety, I looked at him. But there was no opening in that stern, old face for any explanations. He did not assail me with a torrent of words nor did he burst into a paroxysm of grief and anger. His every action was calculated, methodical, remorseless.
He turned to the open door.
"Go!" he commanded sternly. "Leave us,—leave Brammerton. I never wish to see you again. You are no son of mine."
His words seared into me. I held out my hands.
"Go!" he repeated quietly, but, if anything, more firmly.
"Good God! father,—won't you hear what I have to say in explanation?" I cried in vexatious desperation.
He did not answer me except with his eyes—those eyes which could say so much.
My anger was still hot within me. My inborn sense of fairness deeply resented this conviction on less than even circumstantial evidence; and, at the back of all that, I,—as well as he, as well as Harry,—was a Brammerton, with a Brammerton's temperament.
"Do you mean this, father?" I asked.
"Go!" he reiterated. "I have nothing more to say to such an unnatural son, such an unnatural brother as you are."
I bowed, pulled my jacket together with a shrug and buttoned it up. After all,—what mattered it? I was in the right and I knew it.
"All right, father! Some day, I know you will be sorry."
I turned on my heel and left the armoury.
The servants were clustering at the end of the corridor, with frightened eyes and pale faces. They opened up and shuffled uneasily as I passed through.
"William," I said to the butler, "you had better go in there. You may be needed."
"Yes, sir! yes, sir!" he answered, and hurried to obey.
Upstairs, in my own room, my knapsack was lying in a corner, ready for my proposed week-end tour. Beside it, stood my golf clubs. These will do, I found myself thinking: a knapsack with a change of linen and a bag of golf clubs,—not a bad outfit to start life with.
I opened my purse:—fifty pounds and a few shillings. Not much, but enough! In fact, nothing would have been plenty.
Suddenly I remembered that, before I went, I had a duty to perform. From my inside pocket, I took the letter which Harry had written to little, forlorn Peggy Darrol. I went to my writing desk and addressed an envelope to Lady Rosemary Granton. I inserted Harry's letter and sealed the envelope. As to the bearer of my message, that was easy. I pushed the button at my bedside and, in a second, sweet little Maisie Brant came to the door.
Maisie always had been my special favourite, and, on account of my having pulled her out of the river when she was only seven years old, I was hers. She had never forgotten. I cried to her in an easy, bantering way in order to reassure her.
"Neat little Maisie, sweet little Maisie;
Only fifteen and as fresh as a Daisy."
She smiled, but behind her smile was a look of concern.
"I am going away, Maisie," I said.
"Going away, sir?" she repeated anxiously, as she came bashfully forward.
"I won't be back again, Maisie. I am going for good."
She looked up at me in dumb disquiet.
"Maisie, Lady Rosemary Granton will be here this week-end."
"Yes, sir!" she answered. "I am to have the honour of looking after her rooms."
I laid my hand gently on her shoulder.
"I want you to do something for me, Maisie. I want you to give her this letter,—see that she gets it when she is alone. It is more important to her than you can ever dream of. She must have it within a few hours of her arrival. No one else must set eyes on it between now and then. Do you understand, Maisie?"
"Oh, yes, sir! You can trust me for that."
"I know I can, Maisie. You are a good girl."
I gave her the letter and she placed it in the safest, the most secret, place she knew,—her bosom. Then her eyes scanned me over.
"Oh! sir," she cried, in sudden alarm, "you are hurt. You are bleeding."
I put my hand to my cheek, but then I remembered I had already wiped away the few drops of blood from there with my handkerchief.
"Your arm, sir," she pointed.
"Oh!—just a scratch, Maisie."
"Won't you let me bind it for you, sir, before you go?" she pleaded.
"It isn't worth the trouble, Maisie."
Tears came to those pretty eyes of hers; so, to please her, I consented.
"All right," I cried, "but hurry, for I have no more business in here now than a thief would have."
She did not understand my meaning, but she left me and was back in a moment with a basin of hot water, a sponge, balsam and bandages.
I slipped off my coat and rolled up my sleeve, then, as Maisie's gentle fingers sponged away the congealed blood and soothed the throb, I began to discover, from the intense relief, how painful had been the hurt, mere superficial thing as it was.
She poured on some balsam and bound up the cut; all gentleness, all tenderness, like a mother over her babe.
"There is a little jag here, Maisie, that aches outrageously now that the other has been lulled to sleep." I pointed to my breast.
She undid my shirt, and, as she surveyed the damage, she cried out in anxiety.
It was a raw, jagged, angry-looking wound, but nothing to occasion concern.
She dealt with it as she had done the other, then she drew the edges of the cut together, binding them in place with strips of sticking plaster. When it was all over, I slipped into my jacket, swung my knapsack across my shoulders, took my golf-bag under my left arm,—and I was ready.
Maisie wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron.
"Never mind, little woman," I sympathised.
"Must you really go away, sir?" she sobbed.
"Yes!—I must. Good-bye, little girl."
I kissed her on the trembling curve of her red, pouting lips, then I went down the stairs, leaving her weeping quietly on the landing.
As I turned at the front door for one last look at the inside of the old home, which I might never see again, I saw the servants carrying Harry from the armoury. I could hear his voice swearing and complaining in almost healthy vigour, so I was pleasantly confirmed in what I already had surmised,—his hurt was as temporary as the flat of a good, trusty, highland broad-sword could make it.