Chapter Twenty Two.
Samson and his Brother.
In spite of the cropped appearance of his head, a cropping that was still closer now in consequence of his having had Fred Forrester’s clumsy shearing regulated, Scarlett Markham had pretty well regained his old dashing cavalier aspect. He had somehow obtained a fresh hat and feathers, and, as he stood at the foot of Fred’s straw bed, with one hand resting upon the hilt of his long sword, the other carelessly beating a pair of leather gauntlet gloves against his leg, he looked, in his smart scarlet and gold uniform, the beau ideal of a young officer.
Following the action of his leader, Nat passed on, and stopped at the spot where his brother lay, to stand gazing down at the wounded man.
Fred was too weak to do more than move his head slightly, so as to gaze back at his enemy; but he met Scarlett’s stern look defiantly, and waited for him to speak.
And as he lay there the rough loft and its straw seemed to pass away, for the background of his mental picture to become the park and grounds about the old Hall, on one of the old sunny days when he and Scarlett had had a quarrel about some trivial matter, and were gazing threateningly at each other after uttering dire words, and were declaring that everything between them was quite at an end, and that they were never going to speak to each other again.
Then the present came back, and there stood Scarlett, looking stern and frowning, as he involuntarily passed his great gloves into his left hand, and began to let his finger and thumb play about his lips, where he tried to find—and failed—an imaginary moustache, which, all the same, he twisted up into airy points to add to his fierce aspect. A little bit of conceit which he had picked up during his soldier life.
“What a miserable peacock he has grown!” thought Fred. “And I am in the power now of such a court fop, whose only idea is dress and show. Well, I’m glad I belong to the haul, quiet Parliamentarians. Better than being like that.”
But somehow, all the while, Fred could not help thinking of his own plain buff-leather uniform, with its heavy, clumsy, steel breast and back plates, which, like his hard, head-aching helmet, were more often rusty than bright, and, though he would not have owned it, he could not help admiring the figure before him, and looking at it with something like envy.
“Why don’t he speak?” thought Fred, with a faint flush coming into his cheeks. “Does he think he is going to stare me down?”