THE ALLURE OF SIMPLICITY: MOONLIGHT AND AN ELOPEMENT
“Betty lass,” exclaimed my Lady Herminia, surveying her handsome
features in the travelling-mirror, “Old Drury hath lost a notable and
vastly clever actress in me! I ha’ played the innocent country wench to
such infinite perfection of admiration that the poor fool languishes
already ... ogles my charms and talks—of my soul! Oh, a dangerous man,
Bet, a wicked wretch—one o’ your soft-spoke, smooth-tongued, dove-eyed,
silky, seducing monsters—a very serpent of iniquity, child! But I’m no
poor, meek, bread-and-butter miss to be lured to shame or whispered to
destruction by any such perfidious and patent villain, not I, Bet!”
“Oh no, my lady!” nodded placid Betty. “No, indeed, mam, heaven knows
you’m a sight too clever an’ knowin’——”
“Knowing, woman! Ha, what d’ye mean by ‘knowing,’ pray?”
“La, I don’t know, my lady ... I only know as you know yourself a match
for any fine gentleman, villain or no, ever and always, mam——”
“’S bud, but I should hope so, Bet, especially this poor creature!”
“Aye, to be sure, but ... O my lady, if he be truly dangerous——”
“Tush! I know the breed, and forewarned is forearmed. And he mistaketh me
for a country simpleton dazzled by his fine airs! So I intend to make it
my duty to teach him a shrewd lesson, Betty.”
“Yes, mem, but how?”
“I intend to lower his pride, girl—to shame him cruelly.”
“Why, then, ’tis as good as done, mam. But——”
“I’ll drag his insufferable self-esteem in the dust ... through the mud
... trample it ’neath my feet ... make him a mock—a jest and byword.”
“I’m sure you will, my lady, but how?”
“How, Bet? Why, by running away with him to begin with, for sure.”
“O mem!” ejaculated Betty, lifting imploring hands. “O my dear lady——”
“Woman, don’t wail—’tis useless! I regard this as a sacred duty, girl!”
“But ... O lud, my lady ... think o’ your ladyship’s good name ... the
scandal——”
“One must be prepared to suffer in the high cause of duty, Betty child
... and, besides, my name will be Rose Ashton!”
“But, O my lady, if you run away—what o’ me?”
“You will proceed towards Paris in the coach as I ha’ told you, child!
You will be quite safe with Giles and the footmen. And this minds me,
the coach should be ready, and the sooner you start the better. Go down
and bid Giles prepare for the road immediately. Stay, you cannot in all
that finery! We’ll send Rose instead!” And away sped my lady accordingly,
quite deaf to Betty’s reproachful wailings.
Thus Sir John, toying gloomily with knife and fork, was presently aware
of stir and bustle within the house and of stamping hoofs and rumbling
wheels without: wherefore he arose and crossed to the window in time
to see Rose’s mistress, muffled to the eyes, clamber into the great
four-horsed travelling-chariot, followed by Rose herself similarly
attired; he watched the footmen close the door, put up the steps and
swing themselves into the rumble, heard the hoarse command of the driver,
a sudden clatter of straining hoofs, and away rolled the cumbrous
vehicle towards Paris.
“And despite her chin!” sighed Sir John within himself. “Poor, silly,
innocent child! Ah well, perchance her prayers and little cross may
avail. Heaven send it so——”
Here he was roused by a huge hand on his shoulder and Sir Hector’s voice
in his ear:
“Och-heigh! Are ye wearyin’ for Parus—sae sune, John?”
“Paris? Ha—’tis a sink of iniquity!” he retorted so fiercely that Sir
Hector peered.
“Oo aye,” he nodded. “’Tis a’ that, laddie, and yet ye contrived tae pit
up wi’t for five lang year.” At this Sir John frowned and was silent.
“Aweel, aweel,” quoth Sir Hector, “there’s England waitin’ ye, aye, and
happiness, I trust——”
“Happiness!” repeated Sir John scornfully.
“Why not, lad? ’Tis time ye married and settled doon——”
“Horrific thought!” growled Sir John.
“Why, then, John,” quoth Sir Hector, his English suddenly very precise,
“you might begin to take an interest in your own affairs, particularly
your estates; they are damnably mismanaged, I hear, more especially at
High Dering ... where you were born and your mother died ... sweet soul!”
“High Dering!” repeated Sir John. “I’ faith it seems a far cry to the old
house—the green slopes of Firle and our good South Downs! ’Tis long since
we saw ’em together, Hector?”
“Yes, John, it is seven years and more since you left High Dering for
London and the modish world. And to-day, lad, instead of being a plain
country gentleman content in the prosperity of your tenants, here you
stand a man of fashion, a town gallant full of polite airs and tricks and
graces, but curst unhappy by your looks—while High Dering is going to the
devil!”
“’Tis mismanaged, you say, Hector? And yet Sturton, my bailiff, seems to
do very well——”
“Oh, excellent well, John, for you—and himself! But ’tis vastly otherwise
with your tenantry, I hear.”
“You contrive to hear a great deal, Hector, one way or another!”
“No, just in the one way, lad, with my ears. Ye see, Nature gi’e me eyes
an’ lugs an’ I use ’em——”
“And you tell me Sturton is a rogue?”
“I say go and see for yourself, John. Get ye to High Dering and look,
John, listen—and act!”
“I will, Hector. The peace and quiet of the place will be grateful,
besides.”
“Ye’ll no’ find it sae peaceful, lad, nor yet sae quiet whateffer!”
“Why, pray?” demanded Sir John, with sudden interest.
“Well, John, ye’ll ken the name o’ Lord Sayle, I’m thinkin’?”
“Aye, I do!” nodded Sir John, his interest deepening. “I’ve heard he has
‘been out’ rather frequently——”
“Losh, man, he has that! A wild, desp’rit, duelling body wi’ reputation
as unsavoury as—as y’r ain, John, but wi’ this difference—he fights
tae kill an’ generally pinks his man. He’s ane o’ y’r gentlemanly
rapscallions wha’ll insult ye vera politely, y’ ken, an’ kill ye vera
genteelly into the bargain if ye dare tae tak’ offence.”
“So I’ve heard; and what then, Hector?”
“John, the man’s leeving within half an hour’s ride o’ y’r ain park
gates. After killing the young Marquis of Torwood last year, London grew
too hot, so my lord marched bag and baggage to his Sussex estate, and
there he’s lived ever since—aye, and a place of unholy riot he keeps
there, as I hear. An’ what’s more, John, what wi’ his desp’rit proneness
tae bluidshed, there’s few tae gainsay him, y’ ken—his will is law in the
South Country these days.”
“’S bud!” murmured Sir John. “’S life, but begin to yearn for the country
more than ever!”
“Hoot, laddie, hoot-toot, ye’ll no’ be sic a fule tae pick a quarrel
juist for y’r ain vanity an’ vainglory, Johnnie? The man’s good a sworder
as ye’sel’——”
Sir John laughed and, reaching up, straightened Sir Hector’s periwig that
had worked itself rather more askew than usual.
“Tush, man!” said he. “Sure you know that your true duellists take most
particular pains to avoid each other. Shall dog eat dog? And I detest
bloodshed, Hector. I prefer pen to sword—and that reminds me we have not
as yet determined on an apt rhyme to ‘soul!’” And out came Sir John’s
unfinished script. “The work is in ode form, and, so far as it goes, is
well enough. Pray sit down, Hector; the night is young—listen and judge
for yourself.”
“Na, na, John!” answered Sir Hector, retreating to the door. “I hae no
ear for po’try, ye ken—so I’ll awa’ tae bed and leave ye to’t, lad. But
dinna sit too long—for we maun be up betimes. Guid-night.”
Left alone, Sir John tossed the unfinished ode into the fire and, having
watched it flare to ash and vanish up the wide chimney, sat awhile in
thought. Gradually the place above and around him grew hushed, voices
died away, busy feet grew still; the inn sank to rest. But Sir John sat
on staring into the dying fire, deep-plunged in brooding thought. So lost
was he that he heard no sound of opening door, of light footstep, until
roused by a soft touch; he started and glanced up, to behold her of whom
he was thinking.
Meekly she stood before him, clad for the road in a long, hooded cloak,
with a bundle in her hand, a very small bundle tied up in a neckerchief.
“Rose!” he murmured.
“Here I be, sir,” she answered timidly. “An’ now what will your honour
please to do wi’ me?”
Instinctively Sir John arose, but stood mumchance, for once in his life
speechlessly perplexed; perceiving which, she continued demurely:
“If your honour is ready to go, I am.”
“To go?” he repeated. “Aye, but whither, child?”
“I ... I thought you would know best, sir,” she answered. “But wherever
it be, the sooner we start the better.”
“What’s your hurry, Rose?”
“’Tis my mistress, sir—the moment she misses me, she’ll come a-galloping
back to find me, y’ see; she do rely on me for her curls an’ complexion,
your honour.”
“Ah,” murmured Sir John, “two highly necessary things to any woman o’
fashion! She will doubtless fly back in quest of ’em.”
“Then pray let us go, sir.”
“Aye, but how? Here is no sort of conveyance unless it be a posting nag.
Can you ride, girl?”
“No, sir.”
“A-pillion?”
“I should tumble off, sir.... But we’ve got legs, your honour——”
“Limbs, child!”
“An’ I be a good walker an’ main strong, sir——”
“Aye, as a goddess o’ the groves and fountains, Rose.”
“An’ ’tis a mortal fine night, your honour! And look at the moon—so
splendid an’ all!”
“Splendid indeed, Rose!” And, opening the lattice, Sir John leaned
out into a radiant night very calm and still—breathed an air soft and
fragrant, saw the gleaming highway barred and fretted by the black
shadows of the sombre trees—a magically alluring road, a way mysterious
to woo the adventurous.
Sir John sighed and drew in his head.
“Y’ are very right, child; the sooner we start the better! In the corner
yonder you will find my cloak and pistols; pray bring ’em whiles I
scribble a line to my friend.” And sitting down forthwith he took pen and
paper and indited the following epistle:
“MY DEAR HECTOR,—I have departed for England, but will meet you
in High Dering at the earliest moment, where you shall inquire
for one, John Derwent. Meanwhile I am, as ever, thy wholly
devoted, loving
“JOHN DERWENT.
“P.S.—I have taken the girl Rose with me.”
Having duly sealed and directed which missive, he arose, took up his
pistols, examined flint, charge and priming and thrust them into the
capacious pockets of his riding-coat; then he enveloped himself in the
cloak, softly unbarred and opened the door and, hat in hand, bowed his
companion out of the silent inn.
“Come, child,” said he, “let us, confident in Fate and each other, seek
the unknown together, nothing doubting.”