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?"
The faint flush deepened a little, as he grew indignant at his enemy
coming to triumph over him in his helplessness; and then he thought of
how he had triumphed when it was his day, and how he had humbled his old
companion to the dust.
"And what a mean, contemptible triumph it was, and how it stung me far
more than it did him! But he shan't humble me. I can be as defiant as
he is, and I'll die before I'll show him that he has gained the day."
But as Fred defiantly returned Scarlett's calm, stern look, a thick mist
seemed to gather slowly between them, making the face of the young
Cavalier grow faint and distant, a singing noise came in his ears, and
slowly and painfully everything seemed to pass away till all was dark
once more.
Meanwhile, Nat Dee had crept close to his brother's head, and, kneeling
in the straw, allowed a grin to overspread his rustic countenance.
"You've got it, then, this time?" he whispered.
Samson had "got it this time," indeed, for his bandages wanted changing,
and his wounds were hot and painful; but, in spite of his anguish, he
echoed, so to speak--visibly echoed his brother's broad grin, and
acknowledged the fact, fully resolved that, as Nat had come to triumph
over him, he should be disappointed.
"Yes," he said in a cheerful whisper; "I've got it this time, Natty."
"Don't you feel ashamed of yourself?"
"Not a bit."
"Then you ought to. Suppose your poor mother saw you now, what do you
think she would say?"
"Say? Say, `Get your ugly great carcase out of the way, and let poor
Samson have room to breathe.'"
"Nay, she would not; she'd say, `Here's my wicked young black sheep as
leaped out of the fold to go among the wolves, properly punished, and
I'm very glad of it.'"
"Well, then, I'm very glad she isn't here to listen to her ugly son Nat
telling such a pack of lies."
"Nay, it's the truth."
"Not it," said Samson, cheerily. "My poor old mother couldn't say such
words as that. She'd more likely say, `If I didn't know you two boys
was my twins, I should say that Nat belonged to some one else, and was
picked up by accident.'"
"Nay, she wouldn't; she'd be ashamed of you."
"Never was yet, Nat; and if I wasn't lying here too weak and worn-out to
move, I'd get up and punch your ugly head, Nat, till you could see
better, and make you feel sorry for saying such wicked things about my
poor old mother."
"She's my mother as much as she is yours."
"Yes, poor old soul; and sick and sorry she is to have such a son as
you."
"Nay, it's sick and sorry she is to have a son as deserts his king, and
goes robbing and murdering all over the country with a pack of ruffians
scraped from everywhere."
"No, I didn't; I never desarted no king. I wasn't the king's servant,
lad."
"Yes, you was."
"Not I, Natty. I was master's servant, and he says, `Will you come and
fight for me, Samson,' he says, `against oppression?' `'Course I will,
master,' I says. `And handle a sword instead of a spade,' he says.
`You give me hold of one, master,' I says, `and I'll show you.' That's
how it was, Natty."
"Your master's a bad man, and him and you will be hung or chopped as
sure as you're alive."
"You always was a muddlehead, Natty. It's your master as is the bad
man; Colonel Forrester's a thorough gentleman, and we always had better
fruit and garden stuff at the Manor than you had at the Hall, and that's
what makes you so wild against me."
"Yah! Why, you never grew anything but weeds at the Manor. Your garden
was just as if pigs had got into it."
"Did you think so, Natty?" said Samson, good-temperedly.
"Yes."
"That shows what I say 's right. You always was such a muddlehead that
you couldn't tell good from bad, and you don't know any better now.
Poor old Nat, I don't bear you any malice or hatred in my heart. I'm
sorry for you."
Nat ground his teeth gently, for his brother's easy-going way angered
him.
"Sorry for me?" he said. "Why, you're a miserable rebel, that's what
you are."
"Not I, Natty; not a bit miserable. If you was not here, I should lie
back and sing."
"Shall you sing when they take you out and hang you?"
"Not going to hang me, Natty; not ugly enough. Now, if it had been
you--I say, Nat, I should like to have you hung up in the Manor garden
to keep away the birds."
"What?"
"To scare 'em. You do look such an old Guy Fawkes. I say, who cut your
hair?"
Nat's hand went involuntarily to his freshly shorn head, and a dull red
glow came into his cheeks.
"You wait till I get better, and I'll crop it for you neatly. Why, you
don't look one thing nor the other now. Cavaliers wouldn't own you, and
I should be ashamed to set aside you in our ranks."
"Go on," said Nat, grinning viciously. "That's your nastiness; but it
don't tease me. I'm sorry for you, Samson. What a pass for a
respectable Dee to come to, only you never was respectable. But there's
an end to all things. Made your will?"
"Nay, Natty, not yet."
"Thought you might like to leave any clothes you've got to your
brother."
"Well, I did think about it, Natty; but, you see, my brother's grown to
be such a high and mighty sort of chap as wouldn't care for anything
that wasn't scarlet and gold. I say, Natty, I have got something though
as you may as well have--hidden away in the roof of my tool-shed."
"Eh? What is it?" said Nat, who was betrayed into eagerness by the idea
that perhaps his brother had a pot of money hidden away in the thatch.
"Perhaps I'd better not let you have it. You're proud enough as it is."
"You can do as you like with it, of course," said Nat, with assumed
indifference.
"Ah, well, it will be useful to you, if what you say's true about me.
It would be a pity for any one else to get it, wouldn't it?"
"Well, I am your brother, after all," said Nat, quietly.
"Yes, so you are, Natty; and you're just the chap to be proud of it, and
wear it stuck in your steel pot. Look here, you go into the tool-shed
at the Manor, first time you're that way, and as soon as you're inside
the door, reach up your hand, and in the dark corner you'll find a
bundle of our old peacock's moultings when he dropped his tail. You
shall have 'em, Nat, and I hope I shall live to see you with 'em in your
iron cap. My! you will look fine!"
"If you wasn't such a miserable scrunched-up garden-worm of a man, I'd
baste you with my sword-belt, Samson," whispered Nat, angrily.
"Thank ye, Nat, lad. Thank ye. It's very kind of you to say so. Save
it up, lad, till I'm better. It will be pleasanter then for us both."
"Nat," said Scarlett just then.
"Yes, sir."
"Come here."