A white bed and sleep; food and drink in judicious allowance; salve
for his hands and love for his heart; not least, the conviction that
he might rest secure of the right conduct of his little garrison--and
the returned sufferer, committing himself to the processes of a
radiant constitution, found his trust justified in such a rapid
convalescence as he had hardly ventured to expect.
He slept off a dozen hours of the clock like one, and woke when it was
nearing noon, already more than half restored to himself.
At the first sound of his moving, Sir David came to his bedside, and
looked down upon him with a comical air of chagrin.
“Good and satisfactory,” said the baronet; “and now, sir, we need your
counsels to rid some innocent people of a very blackguard incubus.”
“Heaven bless them! But one word first--Darda?”
“Trust the jade! She was brought in by her brother not ten minutes
after you arrived.”
“Thank God for that! How----?”
“Why, it seems she made a hole in the floor of the attic where she was
held, dropped down into the very room you had quitted, and took
advantage of the window you had left open. That other’s a rare wench
of yours, Tuke.”
“Aye, aye.”
“You turn their heads, sir; and damme if your virtues compare with
mine. Why, the mad girl, it appears, gave herself to the rogues on the
chance of helping you, and was right savage when she found she had
been forestalled. Burn me if I can see so much in you! She would ha’
been on your tracks sooner, but that she must stop to collect a
bag-full of her mummies and things; and there she was makin’ for the
tunnel as cool as a gipsy, when Whimple sighted her.”
“Well, what is toward this morning?”
“Not a sign. The rascals are well served, believe me, and cuttin’ one
another’s throats by now.”
“Two are accounted for already--one by their own devilry, and one by
Dennis’s knife.”
“Would you believe it, Tuke--the man’s as haunted as if stickin’ a
mongrel were murder.”
“It is to him. He hath saddled himself with a life-long ghost for my
sake.”
“Folly, sir, folly. He hath not the right trick of sport. Will you
rise and come to counsel? If only I could make to ‘Chatters’ for
reinforcements, and take the enemy in the rear?”
“Ah, if we only could! Must I dress by candle-light?”
“Why, ’twould be rash to open the shutters and invite a bullet.”
Half-an-hour later, refreshed and re-invigorated, though still
conscious of a swimming weakness, the master of “Delsrop” descended to
his dining-hall. On his way he passed a little group of his maids--a
bevy of frighted and tear-stained faces that appealed to him
humorously and pathetically. He stopped a moment.
“Take heart, my girls,” said he. “We’ll soon be quit of trouble now
I’m come to my own again.”
“God bless you, sir! We never thought to see sich doings when we took
service here.”
“Why, no more did I. And I swear my service is harder than yours.”
“That red-faced villain, sir. Jane have seen smoke come out of his
mouth.”
“Tut! What an unconscionable scoundrel! We must put a snuffer on him.”
He smiled and nodded and went on his way. He suffered some small
trepidation thereby over the thought of what he was about to face.
Miss Royston rose with a little stiff laugh as he entered the room.
She was trim and dainty for all her poverty of circumstance. He went
straight up to her and bowed low.
“What can I offer you,” he said, “but my deep regrets?”
“Indeed, sir,” she answered loftily, “’tis our friend’s trouble that
hath worked your misfortune. You are recovered, I hope?”
“I am almost well.”
The Viscount Dunlone, who had been seated over the hearth, and who was
in truth the only other present, rose here with a glowering face. His
left arm was swathed in linen bandages.
“That being so,” he said, “I will ask you, is it not intolerable I
should be brought by your invitation to this monstrous pass?”
“Sure, sir, I deplore the accident, but I must insist ’twas Sir David
bid you here.”
“I have been wounded nigh to death, sir----”
“Oh, my lord!” put in Angela sharply, “the flesh was but cut.”
“Madam, permit me my own form of words. I have suffered a cursed
mauling, sir, under your roof and in an affair that no whit concerns
me.”
“And I am sorry, Lord Dunlone. What more can I say, but that the
affair concerns _me_ no more than that it affects my friend’s friend,
and that I wish us all well out of it.”
“That isn’t enough for me, curse it! I’m to be flouted and shot at and
treated with no more respect than a cursed commoner, and then be given
an account of regrets! You’ve returned to your own, sir; and now I’ll
look to you to put an end to this cursed business, and to procure me a
safe pass out of your accursed wilderness.”
“Lord Dunlone, listen to me. When this business is settled you can
call me to what account you please. In the meantime, as I am master
here, you will dispose yourself according to my direction and as I
think most profitable to our security and welfare.”
He turned from the peer and walked to the fire-place.
“You belittle my lord and his grievance,” said Miss Angela primly;
“but no doubt you are within your right, Sir Robert.”
The indignant “drizzler” walked to the door, puffed with fury. On the
threshold he twisted about.
“Oh! very well,” he said in a high voice. “You take your course, and I
mine when this matter is ended.”
He flung himself out and banged-to the oak behind him. Mr. Tuke looked
gravely at his companion.
“So, he hath told you?” he said.
“He revealed it when he was very wild with his wound. You have not
treated me well, Sir Robert.”
“I have no claim to the title. My repudiation of it was a condition of
this inheritance.”
“And so your chickens came home to roost. Fie, Sir Robert! With what
character would you pay your court to an innocent lady?”
“How hath he maligned it? I will vindicate it against a dozen puppies
of his kidney.”
“And to the glory of what Dulcinea?”
She looked at him searchingly; with what intention who shall say.
“Am I to read confirmation of the story in this hunting of a gallant
by his kitchen wenches?”
“Why not? Slander is the hall-mark on virtue. ’Twas one of these
‘kitchen wenches,’ as I have the tale, was your salvation at the
first.”
“Oh! I grant she knows a rogue by his scent. She served the tap to
such, I believe; and ’twas right noble of you to bring her to draw the
ale to your honour.”
“Madam, is it not shameful to speak thus of one who preserved you all
by her wit?”
“Mercy on us! I meant no offence. I love her solicitude in sitting up
for the wanderers all night, and closing the shutters on her friends
the thieves when she saw them breaking out of the drive. But what was
that to her taking the burden of _your_ release on her shoulders? and
I trust she hath not found herself conducting a forlorn hope.”
“Her conduct is and has been what any with nobility must applaud.”
“I thank you for including me amongst the elect.”
“My name, madam, should I choose to recover it--as I may--will rank
with the oldest and stateliest. I regard it as the meanest bribe to
the consideration of one that simple self-respect adorns beyond the
favours of kings.”
“Ah, me! We poor worldlings! It is well, I see, to go to school to
misfortune, and better to pull mugs of ale to country louts. I can
congratulate Lady Linne, at least, upon a very knowing taste in
liquors.”
Mr. Tuke stared in amazement. Here, he could have thought, spoke the
bitterness and scorn of jealousy. What if, at his last meeting with
her, she had thought fit to stultify her previous insolence by a show
of condescension to him that for the moment conveyed its calculated
charm? He had looked upon this, on reflection, as a mere move in her
game of coquetry--a bait to the sulky lord who “drizzled.” He had
hardly dreamed that anything personal to himself could weigh in her
balance against broad acres and a title; and nothing she had then said
had weaned him from his newly-indulged lust of liberty. Now, all at
once it came to him that Mr. Tuke transmogrified might boast
attractions to a semi-romantic nature that no titled idiotcy could
rival; and at the thought a very rigour of fright seized all his
limbs, and he spoke out in quite a tremor of hurry:
“I am my lord’s tailor, as you know, madam, and though Mrs. Pollack
may not show the best of taste in condescending to me, she hath still
done me that honour.”
The advantages, where vanity is to receive a blow, are all on the side
of breeding. An irrepressible start and glance of astonishment--and
Miss Royston found herself in a moment.
“Indeed?” she said. “And now I protest my wit is at least equal to
hers in foresight. But I applaud your determination to settle down in
life at whatever price.”
She rippled out a spirited little bravura as she turned to some
needlework that lay on the table. The necessity of, at the present
crisis, conducting all the comedies of life by candle-light threw a
curiously theatrical glamour over the scene.
“I hope for Lady Linne’s sake,” said Miss Royston, as she patted her
work approvingly, “that a quick end may be put to this very unpleasant
predicament. You will be married, of course, the moment you are a free
agent again. Perhaps they have a recreant parson amongst our friends
at the lodge. They will take to thieving sometimes, I am told. Is not
this a pretty stitch? Can Mrs. Pollack thread a needle? She will have
had a sampler, I warrant, in the parlour, with a full pot foaming
white wool for _remarque_. And I vow, sir, you have never yet asked
how it was my lord Dunlone came by his hurt.”
“I have not,” said the bewildered baronet. “You said it was but a
flesh one, and I confess I attached little importance to it.”
“It was received in your service, sir; or, at least, under your roof.
You must not think a fine independence releases you from the bonds of
courtesy to those who stoop to favour you. ’Twas a ruffian fired at
one of your grooms as the man went to close a shutter, and the ball
wounded my lord as he stood behind. Perhaps it was not much; but blue
blood is a vintage we hold a little higher than small beer.”
She turned round with quite a radiant smile.
“Would you mind doing something?” she said. “We are really a trifle
bored, you know, with this tame inactivity.”