IN WHICH SIR JOHN DEVOTES HIMSELF TO THE MUSE
Dering of Dering being home again and his fame on every lip, it befell,
to Sir John’s dismay, that the ‘Market Cross Inn’ was generally a-throng
with visitors: sporting farmers who trotted up on their “bits o’ blood,”
country gentry, bucks of the quality, and not a few ladies of fashion,
all hither come to pay homage in their several ways to “the Wicked
Dering.”
To avoid whom, Sir John promptly shut himself above stairs attended by
the Corporal, admitting none but Mr. Bunkle, adventuring abroad only
after dark. His injured arm still irked him, but this he accounted
nothing compared with the hurt he had suffered at my lady’s hands.
In this situation he devoted the daylight hours to the Muse, and penned
many and divers satyric pieces concerning men and manners in general and
Woman in particular, with a view to publication in _The Satyric Spy, or
Polite Monitor_; while his lampoon on the Sex entitled, “The Jade Equine
and Feminine; or, The Horse the Nobler Animal,” progressed apace.
It was then upon a sunny afternoon that he laid down his pen to stare at
floor and ceiling and walls, and finally at Corporal Robert busied with
books of accounts at a small table in adjacent corner.
“Bob,” said he, with a yearning glance towards the open casement, “a
guinea—five guineas for a suitable rhyme to Herminia!” Hereupon the
Corporal glanced up, scratched his wig, rolled his eyes, and presently
hazarded:
“‘Within ye,’ your honour?”
“’Tisn’t grammar, Bob.”
“What o’ ‘Lavinia,’ sir?”
“Rhymes truly but won’t suit.”
“I can’t think of any other, sir.”
“Neither can I, Bob ... ’tis the devil of a name!”
“Then why not choose another, sir?”
“Hum!” quoth Sir John. Here silence again, then: “What are ye doing
there, Bob?”
“Going through estimates for repairs o’ cottages at High Dering and
Selmeston, your honour.”
“Then take ’em for a walk.... She will help ye, Bob.”
“Aye, sir, she can write as plain as I can, and a wondrous ’ead for
figures—so mar-vellous quick, sir, and——” Here, meeting Sir John’s
quizzical glance, the Corporal checked and actually flushed.
“And a pretty head it is, Bob! When are ye going to get married?”
“We thought two months from now, your honour.” Here Sir John sighed and
glanced out of the window.
“I hope you’ll be happy, Bob.”
“Thank’ee, sir. I’m pretty sure o’ that.”
Here Sir John sighed more deeply than before, then frowned as upon the
door was a rapping of peremptory knuckles.
“I’ll see nobody!” quoth he. “No one, you understand!” Here a louder
knocking than ever. “Dammem, see who dares thus intrude, Bob.” Obediently
the Corporal unlocked, unbolted and opened the door, when he was
immediately caught up, lifted aside and Sir Hector strode in.
“Losh, Johnnie man,” quoth he, “here’s four days by an’ never a glimpse
o’ ye! An’ wherefore?”
“Because I detest being a raree show to be stared at by the curious idle,
for one thing. And because I desire solitude for another, Hector.”
“Solitude, is it? Umph-humph! An’ what o’ a’ your loving frien’s?”
“Meaning yourself, Hector?”
“Ou aye, there’s ever mysel’, John; forbye, there’s ithers, ye ken——”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” said the Corporal, taking his hat, “I’ll
step along, then, if I may, your honour?” And at a nod from Sir John he
departed, closing the door carefully behind him, which Sir John promptly
locked and bolted.
“I say, there’s ithers, John!” repeated Sir Hector, seating himself by
the open casement.
“Why, there is Corporal Robert; other friends have I none, Hector.”
“Dinna be a muckle fule, John! Ye ken vera weel there’s Mrs. Saund—— I
mean the.... Her, for one, and—abune a’, lad, there’s that sweet, gentle
maid——”
“Whom can you mean, Hector?”
“I mean Rose, an’ weel ye ken it.”
“Rose doth not exist.”
“Well, Herminia, then. She loves ye, Johnnie.”
“Hector, you rave!”
“I tell ye she loves an’ is grieving for ye——”
“A fiddlestick, Hector!”
“The de’il awa’ wi’ ye! I say she’s breakin’ her heart for ye, John!”
“Impossible! She hath no heart. She is naught but selfish pride, a
creature hard and cold, soulless and fickle ... in fine, a very woman!
And talking o’ The Sex, I have here a small effort in verse that I
venture to think is somewhat felicitous. Hark’ee and judge!” And,
selecting one of the many sheets of manuscript before him, Sir John read
as follows:
“Old Satan womankind did plan
To be the bane and plague of man,
And woman since the world began
Hath been so.
For, be she, more than common, fair
She is but Satan’s chiefest snare.
Wherefore, then, of her wiles beware:
They bring woe.”
“Hoot awa’!” ejaculated Sir Hector indignantly. “’Tis rankest blasphemy!”
“’Tis very truth! And faith, it reads better than I thought. Mark this
line, Hector, ‘She is but Satan’s chiefest snare.’ ’Tis apt, Hector; ’tis
well expressed and should commend itself to all philosophers! Now, hear
the rest—nay, you must and shall! ’Tis brief, yet pithy.” And Sir John
read forthwith:
“Therefore, who’d lead a quiet life,
Unmarred by turmoil, care and strife,
Avoid that dreadful thing called ‘wife’;
She’ll plague you!
Thus, is she as Aurora fair;
Or eke like night her raven hair,
’Stead of her I would choose, I swear,
The ague.
“How think you of it, Hector?”
“That it should burn!”
“Nay, rather in due season shall it lighten the page of _The Satyric Spy,
or Polite Monitor_. Indeed and verily, Hector, you were right and I was
wrong, for women, as you once truly said, are the devil!”
Sir Hector’s keen gaze wavered for once, and he stirred uneasily in his
chair.
“John,” quoth he, precise in his English, “if ever I voiced such damnable
heresy, which I gravely doubt, I ha’ forgot it, long since, as a man and
a MacLean should.”
“Forgot it, Hector? Amazing! You that have ever held Woman in such
disdainful abhorrence!”
“And suppose I did, sir?” retorted Sir Hector, flushing. “A MacLean may
change his mind and be the better of it.... And how may I help but revere
and admire The Sex with such an example as Rose, her sweet and gentle
ways——”
“But Rose never was!” sighed Sir John.
“Herminia, then!” snapped Sir Hector.
“Not to mention her aunt!” murmured Sir John.
At this, Sir Hector glared and made to rise, but, meeting Sir John’s
whimsical look, feeling his hand upon the sleeve of the second-best coat,
Sir Hector flushed, his gaze sought the green of the chestnut tree beyond
the open window, and his grim lips curved to a smile.
“And ... O man, tae think she’s—a duchess! ’Tis awfu’, Johnnie, awfu’!”
“Alas, Hector, to think she is a woman, and this is worse. A woman,
Hector, and therefore to be avoided. For, how saith your bard?
‘She is but Satan’s chiefest snare.’”
“Umph-humph!” exclaimed Sir Hector, and rose. “Aweel, lad,” he sighed, “I
dinna ken wha’ bee’s in y’r bonnet regardin’ yon sweet Rose, but——”
“Lady Herminia!” Sir John corrected.
“But look’ee, lad, had it not been for Herminia’s loving, tender care,
Penelope Haryott would ha’ died.... And, talking o’ good women, John, if
ever there was one, it is Penelope.”
“She knew my father, it seems.”
“She did, John.”
“She once showed me two miniatures....”
“Aye, I mind your father having ’em done. Her likeness he kept always
... it was upon his breast the day he died! ’Twas that which turned the
bayonet into his heart!... He gave his earliest and, I think, his best
love to Penelope, and she but a cottager’s daughter born on his estate
and twelve years his senior. But she was beautiful beyond the ordinary,
and good as she was clever, and he wooed vainly ... even when he would
ha’ married her she would not ... because he was Dering of Dering and she
only her pure, humble self.... So, in time he wed your mother ... and
died in my arms ... murmuring—‘Penelope!’ Ah, John lad, if by reason of
some misunderstanding your heart be sore, never decry Woman ... for here,
truly, was one of the purest and most selfless, noblest of creatures!”
Being alone, Sir John sat thoughtful awhile; at last he reached for his
manuscript, tore it slowly across and across, and threw it into the
fireplace; then, evening being at hand, he took hat and stick, and,
descending by a back stair, sallied forth into the fragrant dusk.