Many a round of wine had been served to the young revelers, and, under
its influence, each one was revealing a little more of his real self.
They had all laid aside their muddy riding boots and heavy riding
coats, and were lounging in picturesque undress. Lord Farquhart, who
was easily the leader of the four, had thrown aside the cynical veneer
that had for some time marred the dark, Oriental beauty of his face,
and was humming a love song. Lindley's comely Irish face was slightly
flushed, and he was keeping time on the white table with the tip of
his sword to the ditty that floated from Lord Farquhart's lips.
Treadway, London's dapperest beau, was smirking at his own reflection
in a small hand mirror he carried, while Ashley, who had drunk more
heavily than any of the others, permitted a definite scowl to contract
his brows and droop his lips.
"I'm trying--I'm trying," murmured Lord Farquhart, "to change that
last song I wrote for Sylvia into a song for Barbara! The rhyme and
the rhythm go the same, I think." He stood up and sang the words out
loud, repeating the verses several times, inserting sometimes Sylvia's
name and sometimes Barbara's.
Lips that vie with the poppy's hue,
Eyes that shame the violet's blue,
Hearts that beat with love so true,
Sylvia, sweet, I come to you!
Barb'ra, sweet, I come to you!
His eyes questioned Treadway.
"Is it not quite the same? Does it not go to one name as well as to
the other? To me it seems I've no need to write a new verse for my new
love."
"How will the fair Sylvia take her _conge_ in a fortnight's time?"
demanded Ashley, in an undertone, of Lindley.
And it was in the same tone that Lindley answered: "Let's wonder,
rather, if the fair Sylvia'll be given her _conge_ in a fortnight's
time!" But the sneer in Lindley's voice was for Ashley, who had asked
the impertinent question, not for Farquhart, whose honor he,
apparently, doubted. "Lord Farquhart's not to blame, as you know well
enough. The mess is of Lord Gordon's making, for Lord Gordon holds in
trust even the barren lands that came to Percy with his title."
Ashley's resentment of Lindley's tone was apparent on his face, and
his fingers were again on his sword. He was under no promise to his
lady not to fight with Lindley, and his blood cried out for a fight
with some one. But at that instant there was a loud clamor in the
courtyard. A horse's hoofs on the flags, a fretted whinny, the oaths
of stable boys, all combined into an uproar.
"Can it be the Lady Barbara?" cried Percy Farquhart, sobered suddenly,
and reaching for his plumed hat.
"Nay, my lord, 'tis but one horse," answered Marmaduke, hurrying to
the door. "'Tis a riderless horse," he added, in a second.
"A riderless horse!" echoed all of the young men in chorus, springing
to their feet.
"Ay, a riderless horse," called Marmaduke, from the darkness without;
"'tis a woman's horse, too; a woman's cushioned seat."
The guests were crowding about the door, all save the lad who had been
slumbering so deeply. He, roused by the sudden clamor, and apparently
frightened by the sudden realization that he had unwittingly
trespassed upon Lord Farquhart's privacy, slipped softly up the
stairs.
"A woman's horse!" cried Lindley. "Is it possible that some woman has
fallen victim to the Black Devil? Here, almost within earshot of our
revelings? To the rescue!"
"Nay, we must think first of the Lady Barbara's safety," interrupted
Ashley, holding back and barring the doorway with a peremptory arm.
"We must not risk the Lady Barbara for the sake of some chance damsel.
Rather let us mount and ride to meet the Gordon coach."
"There is no sign whatsoever of foul play," reported Marmaduke, coming
in from the yard. "The lines are knotted loosely, and a tethering
strap is broken. The beast has doubtless but strayed from some
neighboring house."
"If 'tis from some neighboring house, good Marmaduke, would you not
know the horse and trappings?" queried Treadway. "Is there nothing to
show the lady's name or rank?"
"There's no mark of any kind," answered Marmaduke. "'Tis a white horse
with a black star between the eyes, and the trappings are of scarlet.
That is all I can tell you, your honor. In all likelihood some stable
boy'll be along shortly to claim the creature."
The young men were again sitting about the table, and Ashley called
for another round of wine.
"I, for one, have had wine enough and to spare," declared Treadway.
"The Lady Barbara must be here soon, and, to my thinking, ten minutes
of sleep would not be amiss. You, too, my lord, could you not meet the
lady with a better grace after at least forty winks?" He linked his
arm in Lord Farquhart's and led him toward a door at the side of the
room. "Come to my room and we'll pretend to imitate the lad with the
good conscience and the good wine atop of it. Why, the lad's gone!
Slipped away like a frightened shadow, doubtless, when he found the
company he'd waked into. Unless the Lady Barbara comes, give us
fifteen minutes, Marmaduke. Not a second more, on your life. Fifteen
minutes will unfuddle a brain that's--that's not as clear as it might
be, but more than that will make it dull."
Together the two men entered Treadway's room, caroling aloud the love
song that had been writ to Sylvia and changed to Barbara.
Ashley and Lindley, left alone over the table, sat for a moment in
silence. Then the latter, forgetting his resentment toward Ashley as
easily as it had been roused, spoke in a laughing, rallying voice.
"Cheer up, Hal! A fortnight's a goodly time in which a slip may come
between unwilling lips and a lagging cup. It seems to me that for a
lover's heart, yours is a faint heart. The Lady Barbara is unwon
yet--by Percy, I mean." The last words were added with a laugh at
Ashley's gloomy countenance.
"Yes, the lips are unwilling enough," Ashley agreed, in a grudging
voice, "and the cup lags, undoubtedly, but there'll be no slip; old
Gordon will force the lips, and old Gordon holds the handle of the
cup. Mistress Barbara is but wax in her father's hands, and as for
Farquhart--well, unless he marries the Lady Barbara, Lord Gordon will
ruin him. The old man has sworn that he will have his way, and have it
he will, or I'm much mistaken."
"But," remonstrated Lindley, "wax can be molded by any hand that holds
it. If the lady is wax in her father's hands through fear, 'twould
seem to me that--why, that love is hotter than fear, that love might
mold as well, if not better, than fear."
"Ay, if love had a chance to mold," answered Ashley, with more
animation, but the mask of reserve fell quickly over his features.
"Enough of me and my affairs, though. How is it with you? Have you won
the lady of your own heart's desire? When last I saw you, you were
lamenting, the obduracy of some fair one, if I remember right."
"Alas and alack, no, I've not won her," mourned Lindley, his Irish
eyes and his Irish lips losing their laughter. "I'm in a fair way
never to win her, I think. In my case, though, it's the father that's
wax in the daughter's hands. 'Tis a long time since he gave his
consent to my wooing the maid, but the maid will not be wooed. She
knows how to have her own way, and has always known it and always had
it, too. She tyrannized over me when she was a lass of six and I was a
lad of ten. Now she will not even meet me. When I visit at her house,
she locks herself in her own chamber, and even I lose heart when it
comes to wooing a maid through a wooden door. Ay, I tried it once, and
only once. To my last letter, a hot, impassioned love letter, her only
reply was to ask whether I still would turn white at a cock fight. The
minx remembers well enough that I did turn white at a fight between
two gamecocks, which she, mind you, had arranged in her father's
barnyard at that same time, when she was six and I was ten."
"Well, I wish you luck," answered Ashley, who had given little heed to
Lindley's words. "But to my mind such a maid would not be worth the
wooing. 'Tis to be hoped that Treadway has cleared Farquhart's addled
wits as well as he has cleared his voice," he added, after a moment's
silence.
Floating down from Lord Farquhart's room came the last words of the
song to Sylvia.
Hearts that beat with love so true!
Sylvia, sweet, I come to you!
Yet at that very instant, in young Treadway's room, Lord Farquhart was
snoring in unison with young Treadway. Lord Farquhart's head was
pillowed next to the head of young Treadway. And, stranger yet, at
that very instant, too, there sprang from Lord Farquhart's window a
figure strangely resembling Lord Farquhart himself, decked out in Lord
Farquhart's riding clothes, that had been cast aside after the miry
ride from London town, and tucked away in one corner of Lord
Farquhart's room were the dark riding coat and breeches of the youth
who had slumbered before the hearth of The Jolly Grig.
About the figure, as it sped along the road, was a long black cloak,
over its head was drawn a wide French cap, and over the face was a
black mask, but on the lips, under the mask, were the words of Lord
Farquhart's song to Sylvia, the song wherein the name of Sylvia had so
lately given place to Barbara.
Hearts that beat with love so true!
Barb'ra, sweet, I come to you!