“Nay, Rose, whilst you slept I have sat here musing upon the mutability o’ human affairs. We are straws i’ the wind, child, leaves a-whirl upon the stream of life, borne hither and yon at Fate’s irrevocable decree. What is to be, will be, let us strive and struggle how we will. And ’twill soon be dark, so ha’ your pistol ready——”
“I—I do not fear the dark!” she answered, quite forgetting to yawn.
“Nay, ’tis not of the dark I warn you but of myself, child!” he sighed. “Great pity is it you should ha’ found me out so soon, for as John Derwent I was in every sense a gentle, worthy and reverent soul, but—as Sir John Dering, ’tis a vastly different matter, for the censorious world expects me to live up to, or down to, my reputation, so ha’ your pistol ready, girl!”
“I do not—fear you either!” she retorted.
“Aha, Rose? You think this bad dog’s bark is worse than his bite? You mayhap think of me as——”
“Of you, sir?” she exclaimed. “Nay, indeed, I think of—of my grandmother!”
“Her grandmother!” murmured Sir John. “Stupendous! In a dark coach, on a solitary road and with Iniquity threatening to pounce, she thinks of her grandmother! Oh, admirable Rose! And a grandmother, moreover, who will perchance clout the poor child! And yet the poor child should benefit thereby, for a clout in time saves nine. And yet—her grandmother! Iniquity, hide thy diminished head! Wickedness, abase thyself! John Dering, thou merciless profligate, forget thy so innocent, trembling victim and go to sleep; thy base designs are foiled by Innocence and a grandmother! So droop Depravity, despair Debauchery—sleep, John, sleep!” And Sir John yawned, stretched his legs, drew his cloak and, settling himself to his comfort, forthwith composed himself to slumber.
But it seemed my lady had no mind to permit this, for she tapped the floor with insistent foot, fidgeted with the blind, let down the window and closed it again noisily. But Sir John, having closed his eyes, kept them fast shut; whereupon my lady turned her back upon him pettishly, and frowned at the rising moon. But presently she stole a glance at her companion, and judging him truly asleep, slipped back her hood, shook her curls and slowly, gently, suffered herself to sway over towards him until her head was pillowed beside his. And after some while Sir John, vaguely conscious of a persistent tickling, opened drowsy eyes to find this occasioned by a lock of hair that stirred upon his cheek. Slowly and with infinite caution he drew a small leather case from his pocket, whence he abstracted a pair of scissors and therewith deftly snipped off this errant curl and, tucking it safely out of sight, returned the case to his pocket and closed his eyes again.
Was she asleep? Her breathing was deep and soft and regular, but—was she truly asleep? To ascertain which fact he needs must edge himself round, though with elaborate care not to disturb her. And surely no slumber ever looked more unconsciously natural!... Yet she lay in the one and only posture where the rising moon might show him the classic beauty of her profile, the low brow, the delicate nose, vivid lips tenderly apart, the softly rounded chin.
Sir John scrutinised her, feature by feature, with such keen intensity that it seemed to trouble her dreams, for she sighed plaintively at last, stirred gracefully and finally, opening her eyes, sat up to smooth and pat her rebellious hair.