WHICH DESCRIBES A FORTUITOUS BUT FATEFUL MEETING
The Fates, those mysterious, unearthly sisters who are for ever busied
upon the destinies of poor, finite humanity—the Fates, it seems, decreed
that my Lady Herminia Barrasdaile, travelling full speed for Paris,
should be suddenly precipitated upon the soft, resilient form of her
devoted maid, Mrs. Betty, to that buxom creature’s gasping dismay and her
own vast indignation; wherefore, the huge vehicle coming to an abrupt
standstill, down fell the window and out went my lady’s angry, albeit
lovely, countenance to demand instant explanation from coachmen, footmen
and the world in general.
“Why, ye see, my lady,” answered red-faced Giles, the coachman, his
Sussex calm entirely unruffled, “it do so ’appen as our off-side rear
spring’s gone, mam.”
“Gone, man, gone? Who’s stolen it? What a plague d’you mean, Giles?”
demanded her ladyship.
“I means broke, my lady, snapped, mam, parted-loike. We’m down on our
back-axle—an’ theer y’are, mam!”
“Why then, mend it, Giles; mend it at once and let us get on—I must reach
Paris to-night if possible.”
“Aye, we’ll mend it, my lady, sure to goodness—in toime——”
“How long?”
“Why, it du all depend, my lady—maybe an hour, maybe tu——”
Wide swung the heavy coach-door and forth sprang her ladyship, a slim
and graceful fury who, perceiving the damage and necessary delay, swore
as only a very fine lady might, with a tripping comprehensiveness and
passionate directness that reduced Giles and the two footmen to awed
silence.
“Hush, mam!” pleaded Mrs. Betty, as her lady paused for breath. “Don’t
’ee now, there’s a duck——”
“But, zounds, wench,” cried her mistress, “you know ’tis a case o’ life
and death ... to be delayed thus....”
“Aye, I know, mem—but do ’ee take a sniff at your vinaigrette, my lady——”
“Tush!” exclaimed her ladyship. “Hold your silly tongue, do!”
“Yes, my lady ... but there’s a light yonder among the trees—an inn, I
think, mam——”
“Ha—an inn? Thomas, go, see—and bring help instantly—and order another
coach if there be one! Run, oaf, run!” Away sped Thomas, a long-barrelled
pistol protruding from either side-pocket, while my lady paced to and
fro, fuming with impatience, until back he scurried with two chattering
French ostlers at his heels, to say it was an inn, sure enough, but that
no manner of conveyance was to be had.
“We’ll see about that!” exclaimed my lady. “Come, Betty!” And off she
hasted forthwith, the meek and obedient Betty attendant. It was a small,
drowsy inn, but at my lady’s advent it awoke to sudden life and bustle,
its every chamber seemed full of stir, tripping feet and chattering
voices; and all for the English Miladi’s comfort and welfare.
Insomuch that, embarrassed by attentions so pervading and multifarious,
my Lady Barrasdaile caught up Betty’s cloak of homespun, a hooded garment
for country wear, and, muffled in its ample folds, went a-walking.
The road, bordered by shady trees, led up a hill, and, lured by the
sunset glory, and joying, moreover, to stretch her limbs, cramped by
the long journey, my lady ascended the hill and, reaching the top,
had paused to admire the view, when she became aware of two horsemen
approaching from the opposite direction, and instantly apprehending them
to be highwaymen, she slipped aside into an adjacent thicket, waiting for
them to pass.
Now as she stood thus, seeing but unseen, the mysterious Fates decreed
that Sir John Dering, reaching the hilltop in turn, should rein in his
horse within a yard of her, to glance round about him upon the peaceful
countryside, little dreaming of the bright eyes that watched him so
keenly, or the ears that hearkened so inquisitively.
“A sweet prospect, Hector!” he exclaimed; “fair and chaste and yet a
little sad. ’Tis like looking deep into the eyes of a good woman—if there
be such! It fills the soul with a sense of unworthiness and sorrow for
the folly o’ the wasted years.”
“Aye, John! An’ fower pistols in oor holsters an’ twa in my pockets gi’e
us six shot in case o’ eeventualities.”
“The wasted years!” murmured Sir John, musing gaze upon the distant
horizon. “’Tis a night to grieve in, Hector, to yearn for better things.”
“Aye! And though six shot is fair I’m wishin’ ye carried a rale sword
like my Andrew here,’stead o’ yon bodkin!”
“How then,” smiled Sir John, rousing; “are you expecting battle, murder
and sudden death, Hector?”
“A dinna say no or aye t’ that, Johnnie man, forbye these French roads be
aye ill-travellin’, an’ I was ever a cautious body, y’ ken. ’Tis peety ye
left Corporal Rob behind; he’s a fair hand wi’ pistol or whinger, I mind.
However, let us push on ere it be dark.”
“Nay, there’s the moon rising yonder, Hector.”
“The moon—and what o’t, John? I’m for having my legs under a table and
something savoury on’t, lad.”
“Then do you ride forward, Hector, and order supper—there is an inn down
yonder, I remember; I’ll wait for the moon to rise——”
“Mune-rise? I’fegs, lad, she’ll do’t very weel wi’ oot ye, I’m thinkin’!”
“Aye, but I’m minded to dream awhile, Hector; the moon ever stirs my
imagination——”
“Hoot-toot! De’il awa’ wi’ y’r dreamin’ an’ imaginationin’! ’Tis mysel’
wad tak’ ye for a puir, moonstruck daftie if I didna ken ye for John
Dering and son o’ your father!”
“If,” sighed Sir John, “if, Hector, you could suggest an apt rhyme for
‘soul,’ now, I should take it kindly ... though, to be sure, ‘dole’ might
do at a pinch.”
“Umph-humph!” snorted General Sir Hector MacLean, and urged his horse on
down the hill.
Being alone, Sir John dismounted, and tethering his animal, seated
himself on grassy bank and gave himself up to introspective reverie.
The awesome, brooding stillness, the splendour of the rising moon, the
mystery of the surrounding landscape, and all the magic of this early
midsummer night wrought in him a pensive melancholy, a growing discontent
of himself and the latter years, and he luxuriated in a consciousness of
his infinite unworthiness.
Thus, with wistful gaze upon the full-orbed moon, Sir John had already
mentally forsworn the world, the flesh and the devil, when he was roused
suddenly by a rustling of leaves near by and the sharp crack of a dried
twig; next moment he was beside his horse and had whipped forth, cocked
and levelled one of his travelling pistols.
“Qui va la?” he demanded, and then in English: “Come out! Show yourself,
or I fire!”
“Don’t!” cried a voice. “Don’t!” The leaves parted suddenly, and Sir
John beheld a woman within a yard of him; majestically tall she was, and
muffled in the long folds of a coarse cloak, beneath whose shadowy hood
he glimpsed the pale oval of a face and a single strand of curling hair
darkly innocent of powder.
Sir John lowered the pistol and, removing his hat, bowed.
“Welcome, Phyllida!” said he.
“That ain’t my name,” she answered.
“Then it should be, for ’tis a charming name and suits you.”
“You—you’m English, sir?” she questioned.
“I thank God!” he answered gravely.
“Then—oh, I am safe!” she sighed, and sinking upon the grassy bank, hid
her face in her hands.
“Safe?” he repeated, touching her bowed head very gently. “Never doubt
it, child—all heaven be my witness. ’Tis easy to guess you English also,
and of the sweet south country, I think?”
At this she raised her head and he saw a handsome face framed in dark,
rebellious curls, eyes wide and innocent, and a vivid, full-lipped mouth.
“O sir, ye du be a mortal clever guesser—I were born in Sussex!” she
answered.
“Sussex?” murmured Sir John. “Seely Sussex! I was born there too, ’twixt
the sheltering arms of Firle and Windover.... The gentle South Downs ...
I loved every velvet slope of them! I mind the sweet, warm scent of the
wild thyme, and the dance of the scabious flowers in the wind ... ’tis
years since I saw them last.”
“But the wild thyme is still sweet i’ the sun, sir, an’ the scabious
flowers do be a-noddin’ an’ beckonin’ as we sit here.”
“Beckoning, child? ’Tis a sweet thought! Beckoning me back to England ...
to the reverent stillness of the immemorial hills ... my loved Downs!
Beckoning me back to the old house that has stood empty so long! Paris
behind me, London before me ... but deep in my heart a memory of the
silent Downs ... and of a better living.”
“’Ee du talk tur’ble strange, sir!” she exclaimed, her wide gaze
searching his wistful features.
“’Tis the moon, child—blame the moon! Though her Lunatic Majesty
doth usually afflict me with a poetic fervour that erupts in somewhat
indifferent verse. But what o’ yourself, child? Whence are you—what do
you so far from home?”
“Nay, sir,” she retorted, shaking her head, “you’m so clever you must
guess if ye can.”
“Agreed!” smiled Sir John. “Suffer me to sit beside you—thus, and whiles
we gaze up at stately Luna, Chaste Dian, Isis the mysterious, I, her most
humble votary, will strive to rede thee thy past, present and future. And
first—thy name? It should be sweet and simple like thyself and breathe of
England. And if it is not Phyllida, it should be Rosamond or Lettice or
Anthea or——”
“Nay, sir,” she sighed, “’tis only Rose!”
“Aye, and what better!” quoth he. “’Tis a sweet English name and easy to
rhyme with. Let us try.” And with his gaze uplift to the moon, Sir John
extemporised thus:
“O flower of Love, thou fragrant Rose
Thy love methinks should be
A balm to soothe all earthly woes
A sweetness that unfading blows
Through all eternity——
“Hum! ’Tis not so bad, though ’faith it might be better. That last line
is something trite perhaps! Aye, I may better it with a little thought!”
“Nay—nay,’tis well as ’tis!” she exclaimed. “’Tis excellent, I ... ’deed,
sir, I do think you’m a tur’ble clever gentleman!”
“Though no poet, Rose, I fear! So much for thy name! Now as to thyself.
Thou’rt a woman and young, and hast therefore dreamed o’ love——”
“La, sir, how should’ee know that? ’Ee du make me blush!”
“And have you loved often, child?”
“Oh, fie and no, sir! I’m no fine lady——”
“Heaven be praised!” exclaimed Sir John fervently, and lowered his gaze
to the face so near his own, which was immediately averted.
“Pray won’t your honour please tell me some more about myself?” she
pleaded.
“As what, child?”
“What I am, what I do for a livin’—an’ all about me?”
“Why, then,” pursued Sir John, “you are maid to serve some prideful,
painted creature——”
“Oh,’tis wonderful!” she murmured.
“Some haughty, ineffective she who perchance rails at thee, pinches and
slaps thee, pulls thy pretty hair, envying thy sweet, fresh beauty.”
“Oh, ’tis like witchcraft!” she murmured in awestruck tones.
“And thou’rt in France, child, because she is here and travels belike to
Paris.” Sir John turned to find her regarding him in speechless wonder.
“Well, child?” he questioned.
“O sir!” she whispered. “’Tis all—so—marvellous true. Now tell me, oh,
please your honour—tell me o’ the future. Shall I ever be a fine, grand
lady—shall I?”
“God forbid!” he answered. “Nature formed thee a better thing! Thou’rt
artless as the flowers that bloom, and the birds that sing because they
must, for pure joy of it. Thou’rt sweet and fresh as the breath of
Spring—heaven keep thee so, if ’tis indeed to Paris you journey, child.”
“Indeed, sir, and so ’tis.”
“Ha—Paris!” quoth he and scowled. “Alas, child, you shall find there
no fragrance of wild thyme, no dancing scabious flowers.... And your
mistress drags you to Paris, because she is a fine lady, an exotic,
blooming best in an atmosphere that for thee ... ah, child ... alas,
sweet Rose! Heaven send a clean wind to cherish thee lest thy sweetness
languish ... fade and wither.... Ha, the devil! Why must she drag you to
Paris?”
“O, your worship, ’tis on a matter o’ life an’ death. We should be
a-galloping at this moment but that the coach broke down, and my lady in
a mighty pet—such tantrums! So after I’d put her to bed—and such a bed! I
crept out o’ the inn—and such an inn! And lost my way ... and a man ...
ran after me and so I ... I found you, sir. An’ now I must be a-goin’
back an’t please you, sir, for I must be on my road to Paris, along o’ my
lady an’ all to stop two gentlemen fightin’ each other!”
“Ha, a duel, child? Do you chance to know these gentlemen’s names?”
“For sure, sir, my lady talks o’ naught beside! One’s Viscount
Templemore, an’ t’other’s Sir John Dering—‘the Wicked Dering,’ as they
call him at home.”
“Humph!” said Sir John, staring up at the moon again. “Ha!” And in a
little, turning to regard his companion, he found her watching him
bright-eyed from the shadow of her hood. “So they call him ‘the Wicked
Dering’ at home, do they, Rose?”
“Oh yes, sir, ever an’ always.”
“Ah, well!” sighed Sir John. “Howbeit, child, you can assure your lady
that her journey to Paris is wholly unnecessary.”
“How, sir.... Oh, d’ye mean she is ... too late? Have they fought
already?”
“I mean they cannot fight, because Sir John Dering hath run away.”
“Run away ... Sir John Dering? Without fighting?” she questioned
breathlessly. “Oh, ’tis impossible!”
“’Tis very truth—upon my honour.”
“You ... you are sure, sir?”
“Absolutely, child! I happen to know Sir John Dering and something of his
concerns.”
“Oh ... you are ... his friend, sir?”
“Nay, hardly that, Rose,” sighed Sir John; “indeed, some might call me
his most inveterate enemy.... But for Sir John Dering I might have been
a ... happier man.”
“And so ... you hate him?”
“Let us rather say—I grieve for him.”
“But they say he is very wicked—a devil!”
“Nay, child, he is merely a very human man and something melancholy.”
After this they sat side by side in silence for a while, Sir John gazing
up at the moon and she at him.
“However,” said he suddenly, “your lady need no longer drag you to Paris,
seeing her journey is unnecessary. So soon as we reach the inn, I myself
will make this sufficiently manifest to her.”
“You—you will see my lady, sir?”
“Aye, I will, child.”
“Then an’t please your honour—’tis time I found the inn.”
“Found it, child?”
“Alack, yes, sir, for I’ve lost it! But if your honour will only help me
find it ... your honour is so marvellous clever!”
“Nay, Rose, our wiser course were to sit here and let it find us—or
rather, my friend will come a-searching me so soon as supper be ready and
... indeed, yonder he comes, I fear! Yes,” sighed Sir John, as the huge
form of Sir Hector loomed nearer, “I grieve to say he is here already!”
Perceiving Sir John’s companion, MacLean halted suddenly.
“Losh, man Jack!” he exclaimed.
“’Tis I, Hector. Have you ordered supper?”
“I hae that!”
“Then pray mount my horse and lead the way. Rose and I follow.”
“Umph-humph!” quoth Sir Hector, and, mounting forthwith, he trotted down
the hill, but profound reprobation was in the cock of his weatherbeaten
hat and the set of his broad shoulders as he went.