But the Major had wheeled about and was already half-way back up the hill.

"Sir," cried the Sergeant as they reached the brow of the hill, "what about that there Mr. Jennings as is a-waiting----"

"He must wait awhile---we'll come back later, Zeb."

"No manner o' use, sir, my lady'll stop a couple of hours and by that time he'll be drunk, d'ye see. Best get home, sir----"

"Why?"

"Well first there's your great History o' Fortification in ten vollums a-waiting to be wrote, and secondly you can come here another day----"

"So I can, Zeb, so I can!" agreed the Major and straightway fell into a profound meditation while Sergeant Zebedee began to turn over in his mind various ways and means of achieving the second part of my lady Betty's so urgent request, pondering the problem chin in hand, his fierce black brows close-knit in painful thought. Suddenly he smiled and slapped hand to thigh.

"What now?" enquired the Major, starting.

"Why sir, there do be some evolutions as a man ain't so nat'rally adapted for as a fe-male so, thinks I sir, I'll ask Mrs. Agatha----"

CHAPTER XXI

OF CRIMINATIONS

"Zebedee," said the Major, staring down at his empty desk, "what's become of my ma.n.u.script and papers?"

"I' the orchard, sir."

"The orchard--why there?"

"Why sir, seeing the day s'fine, the sun s'warm and the air s'balmy I took 'em out into the arbour, your honour."

"And who the plague told you to?"

"Mrs. Agatha, sir, and seeing 'tis quiet there wi' none to disturb, d'ye see, I took same, hoping what wi' the sun so warm and the air so balmy and your History o' Fortification in ten vollums you might--capture a wink or so o' sleep, p'r'aps, you not having closed a optic all last night, your honour."

"Ha!" growled the Major and, limping to the open cas.e.m.e.nt, scowled out upon the sunny garden.

"And you was ever fond o' the orchard, sir."

"d.a.m.n the orchard!"

"Heartily, sir, heartily if so commanded, though 'tis for sure a pleasant place and if you, a-sitting there so snug and secluded, could nod off to sleep for an hour or so, what with the sun so warm and the air so balmy, 'twould do you a power o' good, sir, you being a bit--strange-like to-day, d'ye see."

"Strange? How?"

"Your temper's a leetle shortish and oncertain-like, sir."

"Aye," nodded the Major grimly, "belike it is, Zeb." He turned and limped slowly to the door but paused there, staring down at the polished floor. "Zebedee," said he suddenly, without lifting his frowning gaze, "what a plague gave you to think there was--there could be aught 'twixt my lady and me?"

"Observation, sir." The Major's scowl grew blacker:

"And--Mrs. Agatha?" he enquired, "does she know?"

"Being a woman, sir, she do--from the very first."

"Ha!" exclaimed the Major bitterly, "and the maids--I suppose they know, and the footmen, and the grooms, and the gardeners and every peeping, prying----"

"Sir," said the Sergeant fervently, "I'll lay my life there's no one knows but Mrs. Agatha and me--her by nat'ral intooitions and me by observation aforesaid."

"Do I----show it so----plainly, Zeb?"

"No, sir, but Mrs. Agatha's a remarkable woman--and I've learned to know you in all these years, to know your looks and ways better than you know 'em yourself, sir, wherefore I did ventur' to put two and two together and made 'em five, it seems. For (I argufies to myself) it ain't nowise good for man to live alone seeing as man be born to wedlock as the sparks do up'ard fly and what's bred i' the bone is bound to be. Moreover man cleaveth to woman and vicey-versey, your honour. Furthermore (argues I) wedlock is a comfortable inst.i.tootion--now and then, sir, and very nat'ral 'twixt man and maid whereby come heirs o' the body male and female, your honour. And furthermore (I argues) you're a man and she's a maid and both on you apt and fit for same, therefore, if so--why not? Moreover again (thinks I) if two folk do love each other and there ain't any kind o'

just cause nor yet impedimenta--why then (says I) wherefore not obey Natur's call and----your honour----d'ye see----there y'are, sir!" Here the Sergeant stopped and stood at attention, breathing rather hard, while the Major, who had averted his head, was silent awhile; when at last he spoke his voice sounded anything but harsh.

"You're a good soul, Sergeant Zeb, a good soul. But that which is----impossible can--er--can never be.

'Youth is joyous; Age is melancholy: Age and Youth together is but folly.'

"'Tis a true saying, Zeb," he sighed, "a true saying and not to be controverted."

"Certainly not, sir," answered the Sergeant, "and you'll find your History o' Fortification a-laying on the table in the arbour, sir, also pens and ink, also pipe and tobacco, also tinder-box, also----"

"Why then, Zeb, since as you say the sun is so warm and the air so balmy I'll go out and sit awhile and dream I'm young again, for to youth all things are possible--or seem so." And, sighing, he limped forth into the sunshine. But now, as he went slowly towards the orchard, he smiled more than once, and once he murmured:

"G.o.d bless his honest heart!"

Thus, slow and listless of step, he came at last into the pleasant seclusion of the orchard and, with head bowed and shoulders drooping like one that is very weary, entered the cool shadow of the hutch-like sentry-box and started back, trembling all at once and with breath in check.

She sat looking up at him, great-eyed and very still, yet all vigorous young life from the glossy love-lock above white brow to her dainty riding-boot.

"Why John," said she softly, "do I fright you? Will you run from me again you great, big, 'Fighting d'Arcy'?" And now, because of his look, over snowy neck and cheek and brow crept a rosy flush, her lips quivered to a shy smile, never had she seemed so maidenly or so alluring; the Major clenched his fists and bowed his head. "John," she commanded tenderly, "come you hither to me!" and she patted the seat beside her with white hand invitingly. Major d'Arcy never stirred, so she reached out and catching him by the skirt of his coat, drew him near and nearer until he was seated beside her.

"And now," she questioned, "why do you tramp to and fro sleepless all night? Why do you gallop away at sight of me? Why are your poor cheeks so pale and your eyes so heavy with pain? Why do you sit and stare mumchance? Why? Why? Why?"

Now looking down into these bright eyes that met his so unflinchingly, hearkening to her soft and tender voice, his own eyes blenched and putting up his hands he covered his face that he might not see all the beauty of her and when he spoke his voice was hoa.r.s.e and broken.

"My lady--why are you here--after last night? Dear G.o.d!"

"Because you need me, John, to comfort you, 'twould seem. If indeed you are bewitched by cruel fancies I am here to drive them away."

"Would to G.o.d you might," he groaned, "or that I had died before last night!"

"John," said she gently, "John---look at me! Do I seem changed, less worthy your love?"

"No, no, and yet--G.o.d help me--I saw, I heard!"