OF A POST-CHAISE, INIQUITY AND A GRANDMOTHER
From blazing noon to twilight, from twilight to dusky eve, the lumbering
coach had lurched and jolted its slow, laborious way, the ponderous
wheels now rumbling over some bridge or culvert, now rattling upon loose,
stony ways, now ploughing, well-nigh silent, through muffling dust. And
my Lady Herminia Barrasdaile, pushing back the hood of her grey cloak,
yawned frequently and unashamedly, for she was weary of it all and more
especially of her slumberous and annoyingly silent companion; the whole
adventure was become disappointingly ordinary, and she heartily wished
herself done with it.
At last, from his shadowy corner, Sir John spoke, and his voice sounded
surprisingly wide awake:
“Art still asleep, child?”
“Is your honour pleased to be awake at last?” she retorted in bitter
irony.
“Nay, Rose, whilst you slept I have sat here musing upon the mutability
o’ human affairs. We are straws i’ the wind, child, leaves a-whirl upon
the stream of life, borne hither and yon at Fate’s irrevocable decree.
What is to be, will be, let us strive and struggle how we will. And
’twill soon be dark, so ha’ your pistol ready——”
“I—I do not fear the dark!” she answered, quite forgetting to yawn.
“Nay, ’tis not of the dark I warn you but of myself, child!” he sighed.
“Great pity is it you should ha’ found me out so soon, for as John
Derwent I was in every sense a gentle, worthy and reverent soul, but—as
Sir John Dering, ’tis a vastly different matter, for the censorious
world expects me to live up to, or down to, my reputation, so ha’ your
pistol ready, girl!”
“I do not—fear you either!” she retorted.
“Aha, Rose? You think this bad dog’s bark is worse than his bite? You
mayhap think of me as——”
“Of you, sir?” she exclaimed. “Nay, indeed, I think of—of my grandmother!”
“Her grandmother!” murmured Sir John. “Stupendous! In a dark coach, on
a solitary road and with Iniquity threatening to pounce, she thinks
of her grandmother! Oh, admirable Rose! And a grandmother, moreover,
who will perchance clout the poor child! And yet the poor child should
benefit thereby, for a clout in time saves nine. And yet—her grandmother!
Iniquity, hide thy diminished head! Wickedness, abase thyself! John
Dering, thou merciless profligate, forget thy so innocent, trembling
victim and go to sleep; thy base designs are foiled by Innocence and a
grandmother! So droop Depravity, despair Debauchery—sleep, John, sleep!”
And Sir John yawned, stretched his legs, drew his cloak and, settling
himself to his comfort, forthwith composed himself to slumber.
But it seemed my lady had no mind to permit this, for she tapped the
floor with insistent foot, fidgeted with the blind, let down the window
and closed it again noisily. But Sir John, having closed his eyes, kept
them fast shut; whereupon my lady turned her back upon him pettishly,
and frowned at the rising moon. But presently she stole a glance at her
companion, and judging him truly asleep, slipped back her hood, shook
her curls and slowly, gently, suffered herself to sway over towards him
until her head was pillowed beside his. And after some while Sir John,
vaguely conscious of a persistent tickling, opened drowsy eyes to find
this occasioned by a lock of hair that stirred upon his cheek. Slowly
and with infinite caution he drew a small leather case from his pocket,
whence he abstracted a pair of scissors and therewith deftly snipped off
this errant curl and, tucking it safely out of sight, returned the case
to his pocket and closed his eyes again.
Was she asleep? Her breathing was deep and soft and regular, but—was she
truly asleep? To ascertain which fact he needs must edge himself round,
though with elaborate care not to disturb her. And surely no slumber ever
looked more unconsciously natural!... Yet she lay in the one and only
posture where the rising moon might show him the classic beauty of her
profile, the low brow, the delicate nose, vivid lips tenderly apart, the
softly rounded chin.
Sir John scrutinised her, feature by feature, with such keen intensity
that it seemed to trouble her dreams, for she sighed plaintively at last,
stirred gracefully and finally, opening her eyes, sat up to smooth and
pat her rebellious hair.
“Have I been asleep, sir?”
“’Tis what I’m wondering, Rose,” he answered, seating himself opposite
to her. “Howbeit you did it charmingly well. And now, since we are both
awake, let us converse of your grandmother——”
“Pray when shall we reach Dieppe?” she demanded.
“Some time ’twixt now and dawn, if all goes well. But tell me of your
grandmother.”
Instead of answering, she turned to stare out of the window, and became
so intensely unconscious of him that Sir John yawned again, and subsided
into lethargic silence. So they rumbled and jolted on their weary
way until the grind of wheels and creak of the leathern springs grew
unbearable.
“Are ye asleep again?” she demanded at last.
“Nay, m’ sweet creature,” he answered drowsily. “I ruminate upon thyself
and myself and will make thee a prophecy, as thus: Within the week,
Paris, aye, and London belike, will ring wi’ news of this my latest
infamy; the modish world will have its ears tickled by scandalous tale of
how the ‘Wicked Dering’ carried off to shameful purpose a poor, pretty,
sweet and innocent serving-wench.”
“But how—how should any one know?” she questioned a little breathlessly.
“Alas, my Rose,” he sighed, “do I but sneeze the world hears on’t. I am
dogged by a most unrelenting and scandal-mongering fate.”
“What do you mean by fate?”
“A woman, Rose, a lady o’ high degree who hath constituted herself my
determined though somewhat hysterical Nemesis. She dedicated me to
her vengeance five weary years ago, and ever since, when moved to by
splenetic humours, for she is a vaporish lady, she hath wrought to such
purpose that here am I fleeing back home to marry her——”
“To ... oh ... to ... marry her?”
“Precisely! Why d’ye gasp, child?”
“But if she hath been ... is ... your enemy——”
“I will make her wife to the ‘Wicked Dering’!”
“Are you so—so sure you can?”
“As sure as life, Rose!”
“Life is a thing most uncertain, I’ve heard, Sir John!”
“Aye, but not till we’re dead, Rose.”
“But how if she refuse you?”
“I ha’n’t troubled to think o’ that.”
“Do you know her well?”
“So little that I have small doubts.”
“Indeed? And how if she utterly scorn and contemn you? How if she make a
mock o’ you? How if she bid her servants drive you from her presence?”
“Don’t gnash your pretty teeth, child! And if she so despitefully use me
then should I come a-seeking thee, my Rose——”
“Me?” she stammered. “You—you’d come—to me?”
“’Tis most certain!” he answered. “But not as the notorious Sir John;
’twould be as the meek, the gentle and reverent John Derwent I should woo
until I won thee at last, sweet Rose o’ love. Do but think on me as John
Derwent and I will begin e’en now, humbly, tenderly, as only John Derwent
might woo thee, thou fragrant Innocency.”
“And what of—her—your enemy?”
“We would leave her to her vengeance, child, whiles thou and I——” Sir
John paused suddenly to listen. “Rose,” said he, “d’ye hear aught?”
And presently, sure enough, above the never-ceasing rumble of wheels,
creaking of springs and jingle of harness, they distinguished the
rhythmic throb of oncoming, galloping hoofs.
“Horsemen!” she exclaimed.
“One!” he corrected. “And do not be alarmed, it may be a friend—and yet
it may not!”
Saying which, Sir John reached down one of his pistols from the slings
and, lowering the window, leaned out.
The moon was sinking, but by her diminished light he descried a solitary
horseman who galloped hard in the dust of their wheels, and, dim-seen
though he was in consequence, it needed but one glance at his height and
width to reassure Sir John, who immediately called to his driver to stop;
and very soon the horseman was alongside.
“What—Hector!” exclaimed Sir John joyously. “So you’ve caught us, have
ye? A thousand welcomes!”
“Welcomes, is it?” quoth Sir Hector, reining nearer and shaking dust
from every fold of his riding-cloak. “Welcomes whateffer—an’ me nigh
choked wi’ your dust, and ye’sel’ up tae a’ manner o’ deevilish ploys and
riots—an’ wounded gentlemen cursin’ theirsel’s intae fevers all along the
road, and a’ on your account, Master John Derwent!”
“Nay, merely one gentleman—of sorts, Hector! I had the fortune to meet
with my Lord Sayle, who was somewhat ill-mannered——”
“Aye, but didna ye tak’ the man’s post-horses?”
“I perceive you ha’ heard something of the matter, Hector.”
“I hae that ... and o’ the lass, forbye! O John, John, is she wi’ ye yet?”
“Indeed, Hector, safe and sound!”
“O man, are ye rin clean daft?”
“Never saner, Hector.”
“A common, country serving-wench, puir lass.... O man John!”
“Nay, Hector, the most uncommon serving-wench that ever served since
serving was or wenches were!”
“Hoot-toot—dinna palter wi’ worrds, John! Think o’ y’r reputation!”
“Nay, faith,” sighed Sir John; “’tis so devilish blown upon, so warped
and weatherbeaten, that I had fain forget it. And as for my Rose——”
“Oh, shame, John, for shame!” exclaimed Sir Hector, falling into his
precise English. “I had hoped you had left such wickedness behind in
Paris with your scandalous marquises and such.”
“Why, there it is, Hector; my Rose is such vast and welcome change
to your fine ladies, for instead o’ languishing, sinking or swooning
with mock-modesty as your great lady should, she talks to me of—her
grandmother! She is immaculate, Hector, Innocence incarnate—and I find
her vastly edifying. And, egad, I’ve kissed her but once, and that upon
the brow—in all these miles! Come—how d’ye say to that?”
“Umph-humph!” exclaimed Sir Hector.
“Pray,” questioned Sir John, “pray what might you mean exactly, Hector?”
“That I’m no minded tae sit here choked wi’ dust hearkenin’ tae sermons
on ye’ ain virtues.... An’ high tide at twa o’clock! Push on, man, push
on, and ye s’all be in Sussex to-morrow’s morn.”
“In heaven’s name, how?”
“Whisht, lad! I happen to know of a boat—juist a wee bit fishin’-boat, y’
ken—as sails the nicht.”
“’Tis marvellous what you ‘happen’ to know. Hector!”
“Tush, man! Are ye for Sussex an’ Cuckmere Haven to-morrow morn?”
“With all my heart.”
“Then ‘hurry’s’ the word, John.”