"A COUNTRY CLOD."
It was now almost dark--yet not quite so, it being the period when the
days are longest--and for some little time the Beau stood gazing after
the retreating figure of his captured heiress. Then he turned slowly
and began to retrace his steps to the Hautbois, where he intended to
snatch a few hours' rest ere the up coach, which left the "Globe" at
Portsmouth at five o'clock in the morning, should pass.
Perhaps never had Algernon Bufton been in a more agreeable frame of
mind than he was at this present time. Everything was, he told
himself, very well with him. A ruined spendthrift; a man who, seven
years ago, had inherited a substantial fortune and, in the passage of
those seven years, had managed to squander it; the chance had come to
him of winning this girl, whom, in his mind, he considered to be
little better than a fool.
He had thought so at first when he made her acquaintance at a public
ball at Tunbridge, he having gone there heiress hunting and with a
list in his pocket of all the young ladies who were known to be either
the possessors of large fortunes or the future inheritors thereof; and
he still thought her a fool after this evening's interview. That she
should have fallen violently in love with him did not of course stamp
her as one, since, in spite of his unfortunate chin, he deemed himself
not only attractive, but irresistible. Yet a fool she undoubtedly was
to throw herself away on a man about whom she had made no inquiries
(as he knew she could not have made), and to be willing to marry him
in the surreptitious, or, as he termed it, "hole in the corner,"
manner that she was about to do.
"If I were a scoundrel," he mused to himself with extreme complacency,
"who was pursuing the girl with some other object than that of
obtaining possession of her fortune, how I might hoodwink her!
Granger, if kept sober till midday, could play the parson sufficiently
well to throw dust in her eyes. But not in such a case as this should
it be done. No. No! my beauteous Ariadne. Not in such a case as this.
You shall be tied up devilish tight, so tight that never shall you
escape your bonds with Algernon Bufton; so fast that my demise alone
shall cancel them. You are not one of the pretty helpless fools whom
villains deceive.
"A fine property, too," he mused, casting a dark eye around,
"a fine property. The trees alone would sell for much if cut
down. Yet--yet--we must not come to that. An avenue gives ever an
imposing---- Hist! What is this? Some country clown, by the way he
sings to himself. Perhaps a rival."
Whereon, true to himself, Beau Bufton assumed a haughty, indifferent
air as he strode along, and drew down his lips into the well-known
Bufton sneer, as he considered it.
The person of whom he spoke, and who was quite visible in the evening
gloaming, was now drawing near, and Bufton decided that he had guessed
aright when he imagined him to be a country clown. A country squire
perhaps; but no more.
This person's face, he could observe, was an extremely good-looking
one, though marvellously brown and sunburnt--probably, the Beau
thought, from common country pursuits--a handsome English face indeed,
from which looked forth two bright blue eyes. Also he was tall and
well-set, though perhaps his figure was not exhibited to its best
advantage owing to a rolling gait. In his apparel he showed that he
was a gentleman, his coat of blue cloth being of the best, while his
lace, although not costly, was that which a person of position might
wear. By his side he carried a sword which evoked the deepest disdain
from Bufton, since it was but a common whinyard in a black leather
case, and boasted only a brass handle and hilt. For the rest, he was a
young man of the Beau's own age.
As they drew close to each other in the twilight, this young man fixed
those blue eyes on Bufton's face with an extremely keen glance; a
glance so penetrating that the other whose nose was in the air, and
whose chin was stuck out in front of him, knew well enough that he was
being scanned from head to foot. Then, before he could progress more
than another step or so, he was startled by hearing the new-comer
address him.
"My friend," that person said, "have you not lost your way? Or are you
not aware that this is private ground, the property of Miss Thorne?"
For a moment the Beau could scarcely believe his ears. To be addressed
as "his friend" by a person of this description! A country clod, and
in a plain blue coat!
"My good fellow," he said, with now his choicest sneer, "is it not
possible that the lady you mention may occasionally receive visitors
other than the rural inhabitants of this neighbourhood?"
"Extremely possible," the new-corner replied, "since she deigns to
receive me, who am not of this neighbourhood. But, since I happen to
have a very strong and tender interest in Miss Thorne, may I make so
bold as to ask if you have been received as a visitor by her
to-night?"
It was, perhaps, as it happened at this juncture, a little unfortunate
that Bufton had never accepted his friend Granger's estimate of him as
a more just one than that which he had long since formed of himself.
For the latter, in "coarse and ruffianly language," as the Beau termed
it, always took great delight in telling him that he didn't know
himself. "You are not as clever as you think, my friend," he would say
again and again; "you are not astute, and, indeed, without my
assistance you would be but a sorry knave. Also, your absurd belief in
your powers of ridicule, the use of which is always the mark of either
an envious person or a fool, will some day get you into trouble. I
wish you could be more intelligent." Which advice was, however,
entirely thrown away on Bufton, who was a man strong in his own
conceit. And, perhaps, after all, he had a right to be so, since he
had undoubtedly perpetrated many knavish tricks very successfully
during his career.
But now his folly and his idea of his own importance ran away with
him; while, at the same time, the reticence on which he prided
himself--and truly so in unimportant matters, though he could blab
freely on matters that should be kept secret--was shown to be the
useless thing it was.
"Young man," he said, "you forget yourself, allow yourself an
unpardonable license when you state that you have a strong and tender
interest in Miss Thorne. Such a thing is impossible in one of your
condition--indeed, in any one--now!"
"Why, you scurvy dog!" the other answered, approaching him--and now
his blue eyes blazed indignantly, while his brown face seemed to
assume a deeper hue--"you dare to speak thus to me--you jackanapes.
Begone from off this place at once, ere I kick you down the avenue.
Who are you, you bedizened mountebank, who dares put his foot here?
Begone, I say, at once!"
That calmness is a mark of the truly great had long been an axiom of
Beau Bufton; while he was also aware that those who possess such
terrible powers of ridicule and contempt as were his, must never stoop
to bandy words with others--since, thereby, even a clown might find a
loophole for retaliation. Nor did he forget those axioms now, even
though his blood boiled at being addressed as he had just been. But,
on the other hand, none could be allowed to make such remarks to
him--especially not he who had the monstrous temerity to state that he
had a strong and tender interest in Miss Thorne. In Miss Thorne--the
girl who, not a quarter of an hour ago, had promised to be his wife
within a fortnight--the girl who had a hundred thousand guineas for
portion!
"My good man," he said, "you carry a sort of weapon at your side."
"Ay, I do. A good one, too."
"Draw it, then. I must teach you a lesson. I presume you are of some
standing; that I may cross swords with you. You perhaps may be
considered a gentleman----"
"At least I have the gentleman's trick of knowing how to use a small
sword. Come, let us make an attempt. Lug out. Come."
Not being wanting in personal courage, while feeling very sure, too,
that Renoud had taught him all that there was to be learnt at the
fence school in Marylebone, the Beau drew forth from its scabbard the
bright new blade which, for the first time, he had hung by his side
to-night, and put himself upon his guard. Yet he could have wished
that his calm and dignified manner had more favourably impressed
his antagonist, and that he had not drawn his own common-looking
blade with such an easy air. It was, he thought, an air far too
self-confident for a yokel to assume. However, there was a lesson to
be taught, and he must teach it.
"You have ventured to state," he said, "that you have a tender
interest in Miss Thorne. If you will withdraw those words----"
"Curse you!" the other said furiously. "You dare to mention her name
again. Have at you!" and in a moment their swords were crossed.
Then Beau Bufton knew that he could not possibly be dealing with a
gentleman. For his opponent seemed utterly oblivious of every form and
method of recognised attack and defence, and, what was more, parried
every one of his choicest thrusts--even Renoud's low quarte, which was
thought so well of; while he also had the gross vulgarity to parry a
sweet flanconnade with his left hand. And the fellow had made him
positively warm! Nevertheless, he seemed to know more than was
desirable, since he had an accursed acquaintance with the old
_contretemps_, or _coup fourré_, which was a dangerous knowledge for
one's antagonist to possess.
In truth, Bufton began to think (although scarcely could it be
possible that Heaven would ever permit such an outrage) that this
provincial was very likely to stretch him ere long upon the soft grass
beneath his feet. A thing that, if ever known, must load his memory
with eternal disgrace. He a beau, a _maître des escrimeurs_, to be
laid low by such a one. It must not be. He must try the _botte
coupée_. He did try it--and it failed! While to make matters worse,
his bucolic adversary laughed at him.
"Come," that adversary said, "this will not do. You are not a coward,
it seems, therefore I will spare you. Only, henceforth, venture no
more in this place." Whereon, as he spoke, he disarmed Beau Bufton
with a heavy parry, and, a moment later held that gentleman's sword in
his left hand.
"Now," he said, while on his face there came a good-humoured
expression which made him look surprisingly handsome, though,
indeed, there was little enough light left for the other to observe it
by--"now be off. And, here, take your sword; it is a pretty weapon.
Only, for the future, wear it for ornament--not use. Away with you."
"Curse you!" said the Beau, snarling at him. "I'll be at evens with
you yet. If what I think is true, we shall meet again."
"Very likely," replied the other, "but it must not be here. I suspect
you of having been courting one of the maids; next time go round to
the offices--there you will not be interrupted," and in a moment he
had walked swiftly away up the avenue.
Humiliated as the Beau was by his defeat at the hands of such a
fellow! doubly humiliated, too, by that insulting suggestion that he,
a gentleman, should have been lurking about after one of Ariadne's
maid-servants, he had the good sense to hold his tongue and to let the
victor--for such, in truth the other was--depart without further
words. Yet, even after his defeat at that other's hands, he could
still find some reflections to comfort him.
"Since," he said to himself, as now he went down the avenue on his
road back to the inn, "the fellow is evidently on his way to visit
her, he must be some local rustic who imagines that she favours him.
Favours him! Oh, ye gods. Him! And not a quarter of an hour ere he
came along she was promising to be mine--to be my wife--her head upon
my shoulder--kissing me. Nay, I think she did not kiss me; in the
hurry of our parting that sweet ceremony was forgotten. Ha! very well.
When next he observes me, in this avenue, perhaps--it may be so!--he
will see me riding up it as the owner, and the owner also of my
Ariadne's guineas. Ah! my rural friend," he murmured, "I can forgive
your insolence very easily."
Whereon, comforted by these reflections, he strode forward to the
Hautbois, intent on obtaining some rest ere the coach should pass in
the early morning.
His host and hostess were sitting outside the porch of the inn as he
drew near it, the summer evening being so warm and balmy, while the
old thatched house, over which the honeysuckle and woodbine twined,
was close and stuffy inside; and as he now drew near both rose with
the antique ceremony of such persons, and bowed and curtsied.
"Your worship has paid a visit to Mistress Thorne?" the man asked
inquiringly, supposing that for no other purpose could a gentleman
have come down from London by the coach, only to return by it the next
morning.
"Yes, to Mistress Thorne," the Beau answered. "Yet, my friends," he
said, "it is a visit which I wish not discussed. It was on business--a
matter of business of some import. I pray you to keep silence on the
matter."
"For," he continued to himself, "I would not have that country calf
know that he has a rival in the field. Thus, when he learns that
Ariadne is mine, his despair will be greater. Thus, too, I shall have
my revenge."
"I will say nothing, your worship," the man promised, while his wife
echoed his words. "Nothing. Doubtless Miss Thorne has much business to
transact."
"Always--always," replied the Beau.
"And did your worship see Sir Geoffrey going up to the house? He must
have passed that way almost as you returned."
"Sir Geoffrey!" Bufton exclaimed. "Sir Geoffrey! What Sir Geoffrey,
pray?" while as he spoke he felt, he knew not why, that he was turning
somewhat white. Fortunately, however, the darkness which was now all
around prevented that whiteness from being seen.
"Sir Geoffrey Barry," the man replied. "I thought your worship would
have known him. He is of the county, and one of His Majesty's sea
captains. And he awaits only the command of a ship-of-war to--to----"
"To what?"
"To espouse Mistress Thorne!"
Later that night, if the worthy landlord could have but seen into the
small, low-ceilinged room in which Beau Bufton was installed, he would
perhaps have thought that his guest was a madman, or, had at least,
partaken too freely of the contents of a silver flask by his side. For
he laughed and chuckled to himself again and again; while also, he
snapped his fingers more than once in a manner which seemed to testify
exuberant delight.
"To espouse Mistress Thorne," he repeated continually, as now he
proceeded to divest himself of his clothes, knowing that it was
necessary he should obtain some few hours' rest. "To espouse Mistress
Thorne. Oh, gad! It is too much!" Yet, it would seem as though there
was a sinister side to his humour as well, since occasionally, amidst
all his hilarity, he would exclaim--
"Curse him! Curse him! He _is_ a gentleman, it would seem, and he
outraged me not only by his jeers and derisions, but also by having
got the better of me in the encounter. So be it! A fortnight hence, my
friend, and I shall have had my full retaliation. Ah, Sir Geoffrey
Barry, you do not know yet with whom you have to deal! 'One of the
maids,' indeed!"