Lieutenant Gerald Hawkins surveyed his pink and newly shaven face above
his white tie and glistening shirt-front with a smile of commendation.
His moustache was looking its best, and showing most conspicuously.
There was, at least, that advantage in a complexion that burned red, he
thought to himself, that it made a fair moustache tell. In his
button-hole was a yellow rose, given him by Mrs. Gascogne on condition,
as she said (metaphorically it is to be presumed), that he “rubbed it
well into Lady Dysart” that she had no blossom to equal it in shape and
beauty. A gorgeous red silk sachet with his initials embroidered in gold
upon it lay on the table, and as he took a handkerchief out of it his
eye fell on an open letter that had lain partially hidden beneath one
side of the sachet. His face fell perceptibly; taking it up he looked
through it quickly, a petulant wrinkle appearing between his light
eyebrows.
“Hang it! She ought to know I can’t get any leave now before the
Twelfth, and then I’m booked to Glencairn. It’s all rot going on like
this--” He took the letter in both hands as if to tear it up, but
changing his mind, stuffed it in among the pocket handkerchiefs, and
hurried downstairs in response to a shout from below. His polo-cart was
at the door, and in it sat Captain Cursiter, wearing an expression of
dismal patience that scarcely warranted Mr. Hawkins’ first remark.
“Well, you seem to be in a good deal of a hurry, old chap. Is it your
dinner or is it Hope-Drummond?”
“When I’m asked to dinner at eight, I like to get there before
half-past,” replied Cursiter sourly; “and when you’re old enough to have
sense you will too.”
Mr. Hawkins drove at full pace out of the barrack gates before he
replied, “It’s all very fine for you to talk as if you were a thousand,
Snipey, but, by George! we’re all getting on a bit.” His ingenuous brow
clouded under the peak of his cap, and his thoughts reverted to the
letter that he had thrust into the sachet. “I’ve been pretty young at
times, I admit, but that’s the sort of thing that makes you a lot older
afterwards.”
“Good thing, too,” put in Cursiter unsympathetically.
“Yes, by Jove!” continued Mr. Hawkins; “I’ve often said I’d take a pull,
and somehow it never came off, but I’m dashed if I’m not going to do it
this time.”
Captain Cursiter held his peace, and waited for the confidence that
experience had told him would inevitably follow. It did not come quite
in the shape in which he had expected it.
“I suppose there isn’t the remotest chance of my getting any leave now,
is there?”
“No, not the faintest; especially as you want to go away for the
Twelfth.”
“Yes, I’m bound to go then,” acknowledged Mr. Hawkins with a sigh not
unmixed with relief; “I suppose I’ve just got to stay here.”
Cursiter turned round and looked up at his young friend. “What are you
up to now?”
“Don’t be such an owl, Cursiter,” responded Mr. Hawkins testily; “why
should there be anything up because I want all the leave I can get? It’s
a very common complaint.”
“Yes, it’s a very common complaint,” replied Cursiter, with a certain
acidity in his voice that was not lost upon Hawkins; “but what gave it
to you this time?”
“Oh, hang it all, Cursiter! I know what you’re driving at well enough;
but you’re wrong. You always think you’re the only man in the world who
has any sense about women.”
“I didn’t think I had said anything about women,” returned the
imperturbable Cursiter, secretly much amused at the sensitiveness of Mr.
Hawkins’ conscience.
“Perhaps you didn’t; but you’re always thinking about them and imagining
other people are doing the same,” retorted Hawkins; “and may I ask what
my wanting leave has to say to the question?”
“You’re in a funk,” said Cursiter; “though mind you,” he added, “I don’t
blame you for that.”
Mr. Hawkins debated with himself for an instant, and a confession as to
the perturbed condition of that overworked organ, his heart, trembled on
his lips. He even turned round to speak, but found something so
discouraging to confidence in the spare, brown face, with its
uncompromisingly bitten moustache and observant eyes, that the impulse
was checked.
“Since you seem to know so much about me and the reasons why I want
leave, and all the rest of it, I need say no more.”
Captain Cursiter laughed. “Oh! don’t on my account.”
Hawkins subsided into a dignified silence, which Cursiter, as was his
wont, did not attempt to break. He fell into meditation on the drift of
what had been said to him, and thought that he would write to Greer
(Greer was the adjutant), and see about getting Hawkins away from
Lismoyle; and he was doing so well here, he grumbled mentally, and
getting so handy in the launch. If only this infernal Fitzpatrick girl
would have stayed with her cads in Dublin everything would have been as
right as rain. There was no other woman here that signified except Miss
Dysart, and it didn’t seem likely she’d look at him, though you never
could tell what a woman would or would not do.
Captain Cursiter was “getting on,” as captains go, and he was the less
disposed to regard his junior’s love affairs with an indulgent eye, in
that he had himself served a long and difficult apprenticeship in such
matters, and did not feel that he had profited much by his experiences.
It had happened to him at an early age to enter ecstatically into the
house of bondage, and in it he had remained with eyes gradually opening
to its drawbacks, until, a few years before, the death of the only
apparent obstacle to his happiness had brought him face to face with its
realisation. Strange to say, when this supreme moment arrived, Captain
Cursiter was disposed for further delay; but it shows the contrariety of
human nature, that when he found himself superseded by his own
subaltern, an habitually inebriated viscount, instead of feeling
grateful to his preserver, he committed the imbecility of horse-whipping
him; and finding it subsequently advisable to leave his regiment, he
exchanged into the infantry with a settled conviction that all women
were liars.
The coach-house at Bruff, though not apparently adapted for theatrical
purposes, had been for many years compelled to that use by Garry Dysart,
and when, at half-past nine o’clock that night, Lady Dysart and her
guests proceeded thither, they found that it had been arranged to the
best possible advantage. The seats were few, and the carriages, ranging
from an ancestral yellow chariot to Pamela’s pony-trap, were drawn up
for the use of the rest of the audience. A dozen or so of the workmen
and farm labourers lined the walls in respectful silence; and the
servants of the household were divided between the outside car and the
chariot. In front of a door leading to the harness-room, two
clothes-horses, draped with tablecloths, a long ottoman, once part of
the furniture of a pre-historic yacht of Sir Benjamin’s, two chairs, and
a ladder, indicated the stage, and four stable-lanterns on the floor
served as footlights. Lady Dysart, the Archdeacon, and Mrs. Gascogne sat
in three chairs of honour; the landau was occupied by the rest of the
party, with the exception of Francie and Hawkins, who had followed the
others from the drawing-room at a little distance. When they appeared,
the coach-box of the landau seemed their obvious destination; but at the
same instant the wrangling voices of the actors in the harness-room
ceased, the play began, and when Pamela next looked round neither
Francie nor Mr. Hawkins was visible, and from the open window of an
invalided brougham that had been pushed into the background, came sounds
of laughter that sufficiently indicated their whereabouts.
The most able and accustomed of dramatic critics would falter in the
attempt to master the leading idea of one of Garry’s entertainments; so
far as this performance made itself intelligible, it consisted of
nightmare snatches of “Kenilworth,” subordinated to the exigencies of
stage properties, chiefest among these being Sir Benjamin’s
deputy-lieutenant’s uniform. The sword and cocked hat found their
obvious wearer in the Earl of Leicester, and the white plume had been
yielded to Kitty Gascogne, whose small crimson face grinned consciously
beneath the limp feathers. Lady Dysart’s white bernouse was felt to
confer an air of simplicity appropriate to the part of Amy Robsart, and
its owner could not repress a groan as she realised that the heroine
would inevitably be consigned to the grimy depths of the yacht ottoman,
a receptacle long consecrated to the office of stage tomb. At present,
however, it was employed as a sofa, on which sat Leicester and Amy,
engaged in an exhausting conversation on State matters, the onus of
which fell entirely upon the former, his companion’s part in it
consisting mainly of a sustained giggle. It presently became evident
that even Garry was flagging, and glances towards the door of the
harness-room told that expected relief delayed its coming.
“He’s getting a bit blown,” remarked Mr. Hawkins from the window of the
brougham. “Go it, Leicester!”
Garry’s only reply was to rise and stalk towards the door with a dignity
somewhat impaired by the bagginess of the silver-laced trousers. The
deserted countess remained facing the audience in an agony of
embarrassment that might have softened the heart of anyone except her
lord, whose direction, “Talk about Queen Elizabeth, you ass!” was
audible to everyone in the coach-house. Fortunately for Kitty Gascogne,
her powers of soliloquy were not long tested. The door burst open, Garry
hurried back to the ottoman, and had only time to seize Amy Robsart’s
hand and kneel at her feet when a tall figure took the stage with a
mincing amble. James Canavan had from time immemorial been the leading
lady in Garry’s theatricals, and his appearance as Queen Elizabeth was
such as to satisfy his oldest admirers. He wore a skirt which was
instantly recognised by the household as belonging to Mrs. Brady the
cook, a crown made of gold paper inadequately restrained his iron-grey
locks, a ham-frill ruff concealed his whiskers, and the
deputy-lieutenant’s red coat, with the old-fashioned long tails and
silver epaulettes, completed his equipment.
His entrance brought down the house; even Lady Dysart forgot her anxiety
to find out where Mr. Hawkins’ voice had come from, and collapsed into a
state afterwards described by the under-housemaid as “her ladyship in
splits.”
“Oh fie, fie, fie!” said Queen Elizabeth in a piping falsetto, paying no
heed to the demonstrations in her favour; “Amy Robsart and Leicester!
Oh, dear, dear, this will never do!”
Leicester still stooped over Amy’s hand, but even the occupants of the
brougham heard the whisper in which he said, “You’re not half angry
enough! Go on again!”
Thus charged, Queen Elizabeth swept to the back of the stage, and,
turning there, advanced again upon the lovers, stamping her feet and
gesticulating with clenched fists. “What! Amy Robsart and Leicester!
Shocking! disgraceful!” she vociferated; then with a final burst, “D--n
it! I can’t stand this!”
A roar of delight broke from the house; the delight always provoked in
rural audiences by the expletive that age has been powerless to wither
or custom to stale. Hawkins’ amusement found vent in such a stentorian
“Bravo!” that Lady Dysart turned quickly at the sound, and saw his head
and Francie’s at the window of the brougham. Even in the indifferent
light of the lamps, Francie discerned disapproval in her look. She sat
back precipitately.
“Oh, Mr. Hawkins!” she exclaimed, rashly admitting that she felt the
position to be equivocal; “I think I’d better get out.”
Now, if ever, was the time for Mr. Hawkins to take that pull of which he
had spoken so stoutly to Captain Cursiter, but in addition to other
extenuating circumstances, it must be admitted that Sir Benjamin’s
burgundy had to some slight extent made summer in his veins, and caused
him to forget most things except the fact that the prettiest girl he had
ever seen was sitting beside him.
“No, you sha’n’t,” he replied, leaning back out of the light, and taking
her hand as if to prevent her from moving; “you won’t go, will you?”
He suddenly felt that he was very much in love, and threw such entreaty
into the foregoing unremarkable words that Francie’s heart beat
foolishly, and her efforts to take away her hand were very feeble.
“You don’t want to go away, do you? You like sitting here with me?”
The powers of repartee that Tommy Whitty had often found so baffling
failed Francie unaccountably on this occasion. She murmured something
that Hawkins chose to take for assent, and in a moment he had passed his
arm round her waist, and possessed himself of the other hand.
“Now, you see, you can’t get away,” he whispered, taking a wary look out
of the window of the brougham. All the attention of the audience was
engrossed upon the stage, where, at this moment, Queen Elizabeth having
chased Amy and Leicester round the ottoman, was now doing her best not
to catch them as they together scaled the clothes-horse. The brougham
was behind everyone; no one was even thinking of them, and Hawkins
leaned towards Francie till his lips almost touched her cheek. She drew
back from him, but the kiss came and went in a moment, and was followed
by more, that she did not try to escape. The loud clapping of the
audience on the exit of Queen Elizabeth brought Hawkins back to his
senses; he heard the quick drawing of Francie’s breath and felt her
tremble as he pressed her to him, and he realised that so far from
“taking a pull,” he had let himself get out of hand without a struggle.
For this rash, enchanting evening, at all events, it was too late to try
to recover lost ground. What could he do now but hold her hand more
tightly than before, and ask her unrepentingly whether she forgave him.
The reply met with an unlooked-for interruption.
The drama on the stage had proceeded to its climax. Amy Robsart was
understood to have suffered a violent death in the harness-room, and her
entombment in the ottoman had followed as a matter of course. The
process had been difficult; in fact, but for surreptitious aid from the
corpse, the burial could scarcely have been accomplished; but the lid
was at length closed, and the bereaved earl flung himself on his knees
by the grave in an abandonment of grief. Suddenly from the harness-room
came sounds of discordant triumph, and Queen Elizabeth bounded upon the
stage, singing a war-song, of which the refrain,
“With me long sword, saddle, bridle,
Whack, fol de rol!”
was alone intelligible. Amy Robsart’s white plume was stuck in the
queen’s crown in token of victory, and its feathers rose on end as, with
a flourish of the drawing-room poker which she carried as her sceptre,
she leaped upon the grave, and continued her dance and song there.
Clouds of dust and feathers rose from the cushions, and encouraged by
the shouts of her audience, the queen’s dance waxed more furious. There
was a stagger, a crash, and a shrill scream rose from the corpse, as the
lid gave way, and Queen Elizabeth stood knee-deep in Amy Robsart’s tomb.
An answering scream came from Mrs. Gascogne and Lady Dysart, both of
whom rushed from their places on to the stage, and dragged forth the
unhappy Kitty, smothered in dust, redder in the face than ever, but
unhurt, and still giggling.
Francie and Hawkins emerged from the brougham, and mingled quietly with
the crowd in the general break-up that followed. The point at issue
between them had not been settled, but arrangements had been made for
the following day that ensured a renewal of the argument.