“Oh! thank you, Bedford!—please, leave him, Bedford! that’s enough. There, don’t hurt him any more!” says Bessy, laughing—laughing, upon my word.
“Ah! will you?” says Bedford. “Lie still, you little beggar, or I’ll knock your head off. Look here, Miss Prior!—Elizabeth—dear—dear Elizabeth! I love you with all my heart, and soul, and strength—I do.”
“O Bedford! Bedford!” warbles Elizabeth.
“I do! I can’t help it. I must say it! Ever since Rome, I do. Lie still, you drunken little beast! It’s no use. But I adore you, O Elizabeth! Elizabeth!” And there was Dick, who was always following Miss P. about, and poking his head into keyholes to spy her, actually making love to her over the prostrate body of the captain.
Now, what was I to do? Wasn’t I in a most confoundedly awkward situation? A lady had been attacked—a lady?—the lady, and I hadn’t rescued her. Her insolent enemy was overthrown, and I hadn’t done it. A champion, three inches shorter than myself, had come in, and dealt the blow. I was in such a rage of mortification, that I should have liked to thrash the captain and Bedford too. The first I know I could have matched: the second was a tough little hero. And it was he who rescued the damsel, whilst I stood by! In a strait so odious, sudden, and humiliating, what should I, what could I, what did I do?
Behind the lion and snake there is a brick wall and marble balustrade, built for no particular reason, but flanking three steps and a grassy terrace, which then rises up on a level to the house-windows. Beyond the balustrade is a shrubbery of more lilacs and so forth, by which you can walk round into another path, which also leads up to the house. So as I had not charged—ah! woe is me!—as the battle was over, I—I just went round that shrubbery into the other path, and so entered the house, arriving like Fortinbras in Hamlet, when everybody is dead and sprawling, you know, and the whole business is done.
And was there to be no end to my shame, or to Bedford’s laurels? In that brief interval, whilst I was walking round the bypath (just to give myself a pretext for entering coolly into the premises), this fortunate fellow had absolutely engaged another and larger champion. This was no other than Bulkeley, my Lady B.’s first-class attendant. When the captain fell amidst his screams and curses, he called for Bulkeley: and that individual made his appearance, with a little Scotch cap perched on his powdered head.
“Hullo! what’s the row year?” says Goliah, entering.
“Kill that blackguard! Hang him, kill him!” screams Captain Blacksheep, rising with bleeding nose.
“I say, what’s the row year,” asks the grenadier.