DESCRIBETH THE DUPLICITY OF INNOCENCE
Mr. Thomas Levitt, the landlord, received them beaming hearty welcome,
and with many nods and winks anent “true-believers” one and all; and
himself conducted them upstairs where, after sundry ablutions, they sat
down to viands that amply justified Sir Hector’s prophecy. And a very
excellent, though somewhat silent, meal they made of it; even when hunger
was appeased they spoke little—Sir Hector because he was comfortably
drowsy, my lady because she was far too busy scheming out her next
course of procedure, and Sir John because he was content to study her
half-averted face as she sat, staring out of the open lattice. Thus he
noted how her gaze turned suddenly from the sunny landscape without to
her cloak, where it hung across an adjacent chair-back, and thence once
more to the window, almost furtively, while her foot began to tap with
restless impatience.
At last, Sir Hector chancing to snore gently, my lady started, glanced
swiftly from the sleeper to Sir John and, meeting his whimsical glance,
flushed suddenly and grew immediately angry in consequence.
“Well, sir,” she demanded, frowning.
“I rejoice to know it, my Rose, for I——”
“I am not ‘your’ Rose!” she retorted petulantly, whereat he smiled
gently. Quoth he:
“Nay, Rose, who knows what the future may disclose? Shy Rose, sly Rose,
though thou seek’st to fly, Rose——”
“To fly?” she repeated, with startled look. “What—what do you mean?”
“—Know, Rose, O Rose, love doth with thee go, Rose.”
“Love, Sir John?” she questioned mockingly. “Indeed, and whose? And
whither doth it go, pray?”
“Here and there, everywhere, this I vow to thee and swear—‘For though
thou flee, Rose, learn of me, Rose—what is to be will surely be, Rose——’”
“Oh, ha’ done with your silly rhymes!” she cried in angry impatience.
“O Petulance!” he sighed reproachfully. “Why must you interrupt the
prophetic muse?”
“Prophetic?” she exclaimed scornfully. “Is this another o’ your
marvellous guesses?”
“Even so, Rose. And here’s yet another! Regarding Sir Hector, his offer,
‘to be or not to be’—your mind is made up. Here, then, steal I away
leaving you to wake and tell him aye or no.” Saying which, Sir John
arose, tiptoed from the chamber with elaborate care and closed the door
softly behind him before she could find a suitable retort.
It was perhaps some half-hour later that Sir Hector found him busied
inditing a letter; and Sir Hector’s wig was very much askew and his eyes
heavy with sleep.
“Whaur is she, John?” he inquired, staring about the room. “Whaur’s the
lassie Rose?”
“’Faith,” answered Sir John, glancing up from his writing, “she should be
safe enough. I left her with you.”
“An’ me asleep! I waked but the noo an’ ne’er a sign o’ her. Whaur is
she, John?”
“I don’t know.”
“Man, I’ve sought all o’er the inn, aye, an’ the stables too, an’ never a
glimpse o’ her——”
“Strange!” mused Sir John, brushing chin with the feather of his pen.
“Odd ... and yet quite comprehensible——”
“Ha, d’ye think so? Well, I ask ye whaur’s the lass?”
“And I answer that I do not know.”
“John, is it the truth ye’re tellin’ me?” Sir John laid down his pen and
stared. “Well, can ye no’ speak? Whaur is she? What hae ye done wi’ her?”
“Hector,” answered Sir John softly, “I am not in the habit of lying, nor
of permitting my word to be doubted by any man——”
“Aye, but I’m no’ juist ‘ony man’—I’m Hector Lauchlan MacLean o’ Duart!
Aye, an’ I mind o’er weel y’r damnable reputation!”
“My reputation again—aye, to be sure!” murmured Sir John. “My reputation
discredits me still, it seems—even with you!”
“An’ why for no’? I’ve seen much o’ life—plenty evil an’ little good!
I’ve kenned men honourably born like ye’sel’ as hae lied—aye, tae their
best frien’, an’ a’ tae come at a wumman!”
“And you believe that I am lying?”
“Aye, I dae that!” cried Sir Hector in sudden fury, clapping hand to
sword.
Sir John rose.
“So you—you give me the lie?” he demanded, grim-lipped.
“In y’r teeth, sir—in y’r teeth!” cried Sir Hector. “I believe that ye’ve
stolen the puir innocent lass awa’ for y’r ain base purposes!” And now,
despite wounded arm, out flashed his ponderous blade, and with point
advanced he stepped forward fierce and threatening; and so steel met
steel. Then Sir John let fall his sword.
“My father’s friend and comrade ... God forbid!” quoth he. “Sir Hector,
if you judge me rogue so vile—strike, man, and have done!” For a long
moment Sir Hector stood irresolute, his great sword quivering in
fierce-griping hand.
“Ye winna fecht?” he questioned hoarsely at last.
“Never with you, Hector.”
“An’ ye tell me ye’ve no’ hidden the lassie?”
“I have not!”
“An’ that you’ve no’ driven her awa’ wi’ y’r shameful offers?”
“Most certainly not!”
“An’ ye’ve had naething whateffer tae dae wi’ her disappearance?”
“Nothing!”
“Then—the guid God forgi’e ye—read that, an’ ken ye’sel’ for the false
leear y’ are!” So saying, Sir Hector slapped down an open letter on the
table, which, after a momentary hesitation, Sir John took up; and read as
follows:
“_To the nobel and generous Sir Hector._
“HONORED SUR,—The memry of your extream and unselfish kindnes
will remane ever sweet to pore me that must leve you awhile,
perchance to return. If not arsk Sir John Dering the reason
he may gess being so clever and perchance explane all things
wherefore and why, Sir, I am your honor’s grateful
“ROSE.
“Are all wicked men so clever as wicked Sir John Dering I
wonder.”
“An’ now will ye fecht?” cried Sir Hector.
“No!” answered Sir John, flicking the letter to the floor. “Never with
you, Hector!”
“Why, then—I’m done wi’ ye!” roared Sir Hector, and, turning his back,
stamped from the room, closing the door after him with a reverberating
bang.
Left alone, Sir John reached for his sword, sheathed it, and, picking
up the letter, read it through a second time; and conning it over thus
he frowned a little, and his chin seemed a trifle more prominent than
usual. He was standing lost in thought when, hearing a clatter of hoofs
in the yard, he glanced through the window to behold Sir Hector mount
and ride away, his weatherbeaten hat cocked at a ferocious angle. Slowly
and carefully Sir John folded up the letter and thrust it into a leathern
wallet to keep company with a curl of black and glossy hair. Then he rang
and ordered a horse in his turn.
“Pray, Mr. Levitt,” he inquired, “how many posting-inns are there in this
town?”
“Only two, sir; there be the ‘Lion’ an’ there be the ‘Wheatsheaf,’ both
i’ the High Street, your honour.”
So in due season, the saddle-horse being at the door, Sir John mounted,
bade Mr. Levitt a cheery “good-bye” and rode along the High Street.
Inquiring at the ‘Lion,’ he learned of an ostler the information he
sought, to wit: “That a young ’ooman—or lady—had ordered their fastest
chaise an’ druv’ away for Lon’on ’bout a hour ago!” Sir John thanked
his informant, bestowed on him a crown and rode upon his way, smiling a
little grimly.