"What did you hear?"

"Your words of love--last night--in the arbour--your kisses."

At this, she started but her glance never wavered.

"What did you see?"

"I saw--him--d.a.m.n him--leap back over the wall--Dalroyd!"

"Dalroyd!" she gasped, "Dalroyd--are you sure?"

"I had him in my grip! I looked into his evil face----"

"Dalroyd!" she whispered, and with the word her proud head drooped and he saw her hands were shaking.

"Betty," said he hoa.r.s.ely, "O Betty, 'tis not that my dream of possessing you is done, but--dear heaven--that it should be--such a man! For if I do guess aright he is one so vile, so----"

"John!" she cried, "O think you 'twas to meet--him, I was there?"

"Aye, I saw him--fresh from your embraces--the d.a.m.nable rogue boasted of it and I was minded to strangle him--but--for your sake----"

"My sake?"

My lady rose and stood very pale and still, looking down at the Major's agony.

"And you think," she questioned softly, "you believe I was there to meet--him, at such an hour?"

"Betty--Betty--G.o.d help me--what am I to think?"

"What you will!" she answered. "Therein shall be your punishment!"

And turning she would have left him, but he caught at her habit.

"My lady," he pleaded, "for G.o.d's sweet sake be merciful and deny it.

Tell me I dreamed--say that my eyes saw falsely, tell me so in mercy and I'll believe."

"No!" she said dully, "No! Were I to swear this on my knees yet deep within your heart this evil doubt would still rear its head----"

"Nay, nay--I vow--I swear!"

"You have been so swift to spy out evil in me from the first," she went on in the same pa.s.sionless voice, "first you thought me a wild hoyden, then unvirginal, now--now, a sly wanton! So will I make your evil thoughts so many whips to scourge you for all your cruel doubt of me!"

Saying which, she broke from him and crossing the orchard on flying feet reached the ladder set for her there by the Sergeant's willing hands, she mounted, then paused to glance back over her shoulder but seeing how the Major remained meekly where she had left him, his head bowed humbly between clasping hands, she frowned, bit her lip, then gathering up the voluminous folds of her riding-habit climbed back very dexterously over the wall, frowned at him again, shook her head at him and vanished.

But then--ah then, being hid from all chance of observation she leaned smooth cheek against the unfeeling bricks and mortar of that old weather-beaten wall and fell to a silent pa.s.sion of grief.

"O John!" she whispered, "O foolish, blundering, cruel John dear--I wonder if you'll ever know--how much I yearned--to kiss your dear, sad, tired eyes!"

Then, drying her tears, she lifted proud head and walked with much dignified composure into the house.

CHAPTER XXII

WHICH RELATES HOW SERGEANT ZEBEDEE TRING QUELLED SCANDAL WITH A PEWTER-POT

The tap-room of the ancient "George and Dragon" Inn is a long, low, irregular chamber full of odd and unexpected corners in one of which, towards the hour of three, sat Sergeant Zebedee Tring as was his wont so to do. A large tankard of foaming Kentish ale stood before him from which he regaled himself ever and anon the while he perused a somewhat crumpled and ragged news-sheet. But to-day, as the Sergeant alternately sipped and read he paused very often to frown across the length of the room towards a noisy group at the farther end; a boisterous company, whose fine clothes and smart liveries proclaimed their gilded servitude and who lounged, yawned, snuffed, sipped their wine or spirits and lisped polite oaths and fashionable scandal all with as fine, as correct and supercilious an air as either of their several masters could have done or any other fine gallants in St.

James's. Moreover it was to be noticed, that each of them had modelled himself, in more or less degree, upon the gentleman who happened to rejoice in his service; hence man was faintly reminiscent of master.

"Josh, my nib," said an extremely languid individual, sticking out a leg and looking at it with as much lazy approval as my Lord Alvaston might have regarded his own shapely limb, "Josh, my sunbeam, there's something up--stap my vital organ!"

"Up, sir, up?" enquired a stoutish, pompous person, inhaling a pinch of snuff with all the graceful hauteur of Sir Benjamin himself, "Up, William--up what, up where? Od, sir--p.r.o.nounce, discover."

"Josh, my bird, here's my guv'nor--here's Alvaston been a-sweating and swearing, writin' o' verses--poetical verses all the morning--which same is dooced queer, Josh, queer, fishy and highly disturbing--burn my neck if t'ain't."

"Od!" exclaimed the dignified Josh, "Od, sir, I protest 'tis a amazing co-in-seedence, here's mine been doing the actool same--I found Sir Benjamin up to the same caper, sir--ink all over 'imself--his ruffles--'oly heaven. And poitry too, William, s'elp me!"

"Egad! My eye!" exclaimed a pale youth remarkable for a long nose and shrill voice, "O strike me pale blue, 'tis a plague o' po'try and they've all been and took it. Here's Marchdale rings me up at three o'clock in the morning and when I tumbled up, here's him in his nightcap and a bottle o' port as I thought I'd put safe out of his reach, a-staring doleful at a sheet o' paper. 'Horace,' says he, fierce-like, 'Give me a rhyme for "Bet,"' says he. 'Sir, I hasn't got e'er a one about me,' I says. 'Then find one this instant,' says he.

'Why then sir, 'ow about "debt?"' I says and he--ups and throws the bottle at me!"

"'Twas a poetical frenzy, Horace," explained a horsey-looking wight, winking knowingly, "most poits gets took that way when they're at it--Alton does, only 'twas his boot which me ducking--went clean through the winder."

"Pink my perishing soul!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the languid William in sleepy horror, "so they're all at it!"

"'Od refuse me, gentlemen," said Josh, smiting plump fist on table, "we must look into this before it goes too far----"

"I'm with you, Josh," piped the shrill Horace, "a bottle at your head ain't to be took smiling--nor yet to be sneezed at, strike me pink!

Besides I ain't drawed to po'try--it ain't gentleman-like, I call it d.a.m.ned low, gentlemen, eh?"

"Low?" repeated the solemn Josh musingly, "why no, it's hardly that, sir, there's verse, ye see, and there's poetry and t'other's very different from which--O very."

"And what's the diff, my flower?"

"Why, there's poetry, William, and there's verse, now verse is low I grant you, 'od sir, verse is as low as low, but poetry is one o' the harts, O poetry's very sooperior, a gentleman may be permitted to write poetry when so moody and I shan't quarrel with him, but--writing it for--money! Then 'tis mere verse, sir, and won't do not by no means.

Verse is all right in its place, Grub Street or a attic, say, but in the gilded halls of n.o.bility--forbid it, heaven--it won't do, sir, it ain't the thing, sir--away with it!"

"Ah, but we ain't in the gilded halls, we're in the country, sir, and the country's enough to drive a man to anything--even poetry, Josh, my tulip! Nothing to see but gra.s.s and dung hills, hedges and haystacks--O damme!"

"And a occasional dairymaid!" added Horace, laying a finger to his long nose, "Don't forget the dear, simple, rural creeters!" At this ensued much loud laughter and stamping of feet with shouts of: "A health, Horace is right! A toast to the rural beauties!"

Hereupon the Sergeant lowered the crumpled news-sheet and his scowl grew blacker than ever.

"Dairymaids?" exclaimed the languid William, turning the winegla.s.s on his stubby finger, "Dairymaids--faugh, gentlemen! Joe and me and Charles does fly at higher game, we do, I vow. We've discovered a rustic Va.n.u.s! Rabbit me--a peach! A blooming plum--round and ripe--aha! A parfect G.o.ddess! Let me parish if London could boast a finer! Such a shape! Such a neck! Such dem'd, see-doocing, roguish eyes, egad!"

"Name--name!" they roared in chorus, "Spit out her name, William!"

"Her name, sirs, begins with a A and ends with another on 'em." Here the Sergeant sat up suddenly and laid aside: the crumpled news-sheet.

"Begins with a A, sirs," repeated William, still busy with his winegla.s.s, "and ends with a A and it ain't Anna. And--aha, such a waist, such pretty wicked little feet, such----"