Lord Farquhart's imprisonment, his trial, his escape, had suffered the
fate of all nine day wonders. There were some busybodies in London who
occasionally commented on the fact that the Black Devil no longer
frequented the highways, but they were answered by others who declared
that, doubtless, the gentleman was otherwise amused. And those who
commented and those who answered might and might not have had double
meanings in their words.
As it happened, Lord Farquhart was otherwise engaged. His marriage to
the Lady Barbara had been solemnized quite simply down at Gordon's
Court, and Lord and Lady Farquhart were enjoying a honeymoon on the
continent. Harry Ashley was balked not only of his lady but also of
his revenge, and his own black looks seemed to encounter naught save
black looks in others, so he had taken himself out of the way. No one
knew or cared whither.
Otherwise, the life and gossip of the town had returned to its wonted
serenity. Everyone was moving on quietly and calmly in dead level ruts
save Cecil Lindley. He found serenity in nothing. He could do nothing
quietly or calmly. Twice he had communicated directly with his cousin,
Mistress Judith, and twice she had returned his communications unread.
In a personal interview with his uncle, Master James Ogilvie, he fared
no better. Judith's father shook his head over Judith's obstinacy, but
declared he could not shake her will.
There seemed nothing in all the world for Lindley to do save to wander
back and forth on the roads that lay between Ogilvie's woods and
London, hoping to meet thereon some chance that would lead him to his
lady's feet or something that would open his lady's heart to him. And
then, quite suddenly, when he had almost given up hope of ever winning
word with her or look from her, he received a note written in her
round, clerkly hand, saying that she would meet him at two o'clock of
the afternoon of Thursday, the twentieth day of November, at the
tavern known as The Jolly Grig, the tavern hosted by Marmaduke Bass.
As it happened, by chance or by Mistress Judith's own will, the lady
was first at the inn. The room was quite empty and deserted. The hour
named for the tryst savored little of conviviality. The rotund
innkeeper slumbered peacefully in front of his great hearth, and small
patches of November sunshine lay on the floor, while merry November
motes danced in the yellow beams.
Johan, the player's boy, had said that Mistress Judith was no beauty;
but no one in all England would have agreed with that verdict had they
seen her lightly poised on the threshold of the old inn, the gray
plumes of her high crowned riding hat nodding somewhat familiarly to
the motes in the sunshine. Her gray velvet riding skirt was lifted
high enough to reveal her dainty riding boots; her hair, bright and
burnished as a fox's coat, fell in curls about her shoulders, and
mischief gleamed from her tawny eyes, even as mischief parted her red
lips over teeth as white as pearl. It almost seemed as though she were
about to cross the room on tiptoe, and yet she stopped full in the
doorway, sniffing the air with dainty nostrils, before she turned back
to meet her father, who followed close on her footsteps.
"Faugh!" she cried, shrugging her shoulders, holding a kerchief to her
nose. "Why, the place reeks of wine and musty ale. A pretty place, I
must say, for a lover's tryst."
"But, Judith, my love," remonstrated her father, "the place is of your
own choosing. You stated that 'twas here you'd meet your cousin
Lindley, and nowhere else. Surely you're not going to blame him if a
tavern reeks of a tavern's holdings."
"In truth, I fancy I'll blame my cousin Lindley for whatsoever I
choose to blame him," answered the girl, her small mouth seeming but a
scarlet line over her dainty chin, under her tilting nose. She was
still standing in the black frame of the doorway, her merry eyes
noting each detail of the room within, still excluding her father from
the place.
"I hope, Judith, my dear, as I've said a hundred times, that you've
not induced your cousin to meet you here merely that you may flout
him." The words evidently cost Master Ogilvie great effort. "For my
sake----"
"Flout him!" laughed the girl. "Flout my cousin Lindley!" Then her
voice grew suddenly serious. Turning, she put both hands caressingly
on her father's shoulders. "Let us pray Heaven, rather, that there be
no flouting on either side!" She bent her head slightly and kissed him
on either cheek. Then her serious mood fled as quickly as it had come.
"Though I'm in no way bound to give my reason for choosing a wayside
inn for this meeting with my cousin--you'll admit, sir, that I'm not
bound so to do? Well, I've no objection to telling you that I meet him
here so that, if I like him not, I can leave him on the instant. If I
had him come to my own house, if I met him anywhere save on the common
ground of a public place, and liked him not, or saw that he liked me
not at all--why, there would be certain courtesies due from a lady to
a gentleman, and I choose not to be held by those. And--and I may have
had another reason for choosing The Jolly Grig, and then--I may not.
But I think, sir, that the innkeeper solicits your attention."
Marmaduke Bass had, for several moments, been hovering officiously in
the wake of Master James Ogilvie.
"It's many a day since I've seen your honor at The Jolly Grig,"
murmured Marmaduke, with a certain obsequious familiarity that he
reserved for old and well-known patrons.
"Ay, I've had little time for jollity this many a year," agreed Master
Ogilvie, with a ponderous wink behind his daughter's back. "My hands
and my head have been full."
Judith's small nose was still sniffing the air while she moved lightly
about the long, dark room.
"I--I like not the smell of your place, Master--Master----"
"'Tis Marmaduke Bass, my love," interrupted her father.
"Ah, yes," she assented. "I'd forgotten for the moment. This hearth
has an air of comfort, though, and as for this chair----" She had
seated herself in the chair that fronted Marmaduke's settle. "Ah,
Master Bass, I should say that your chair would induce sleep." She
yawned luxuriously, and her feet, in their dainty riding boots, were
stretched over far in front of her for a well-brought-up damsel. But
it must not be forgotten that Mistress Judith Ogilvie had been brought
up quite apart from other girls, quite without a woman's care. "If I
were only a man, now," she continued, "I'd call for a glass of--what
would I ask for, Master Bass? Would it be Geldino's sherris or Canary
Malmsey, or would I have to content myself with a royal port lately
brought from France?" She sprang to her feet, laughing gayly, while
old Marmaduke scratched his head, wondering of what her words reminded
him. She touched his shoulder lightly and added: "If my father calls
for wine, later--later, mind you, we'll have the sherris, Geldino's
own."
Her words and Marmaduke's efforts to collect his thoughts were
interrupted here by the clatter of horse's hoofs in the court. The
next instant Lindley was entering the room.
"I'm not late?" he cried. "Surely, I'm not late?"
"No, my boy, 'tis not yet two," Master Ogilvie answered, hurriedly,
but Judith answered nothing. She still stood in front of the deep
hearth. "Come, come, Judith, girl," cried her father, "surely you need
no introduction to Cecil Lindley?"
"No, surely I know my cousin well." The girl's voice fell soft and
full of singing notes as a meadow lark's. "But I think he questions if
he knows me."
Her brown eyes were on a level with his, and he was remembering at
that instant that Johan had said Mistress Judith's lips would be level
with his. Ay, they were level with his, and they were near his, too,
for she had come straight to him and given him both her hands.
"Judith!"
That was all he said, and it seemed to the girl that he drew back,
away from her. And possibly he did, for he knew that he must not draw
her close, not yet, oh, not yet, anyway.
And after he had spoken that one word, after he had said her name, he
seemed to find no words to offer her, and she looked for none. He
still held her hands, however, and she still looked straight and deep
into his eyes.
Once the red line of her mouth widened into a smile, once it twisted
into a mutinous knot. But she would not speak, nor would she help him
to find words.
Master Ogilvie and Marmaduke Bass had passed into the room behind the
hearth. The girl and the man were alone.
"You are as familiar to me as my own self, Judith," he said at last.
"It seems to me that I have known you always, that we have never been
apart."
"And even to me, we seem not quite strangers," answered the soft,
singing voice that held the meadow lark's notes.
"You wrote me that love lay all in the chance of meeting, Judith!" The
man's voice was tremulous with desire.
"Ay, so I believe it does," she answered, her eyes falling for an
instant before his.
"You said that you might meet me and find me the man of your heart's
desire, Judith."
"Well, if love lies in chance, why might I not chance to love you?"
Her words were brave, her eyes were again steady, were again deep in
his, but the red line of her mouth was tremulous.
"When will you know, when will you tell me that I am the man of your
heart's desire, Judith? I--I love you, Judith."
"Must I tell you unasked? Might you not ask me now and see?"
Her white lids drooped over her tawny eyes, and just for an instant
the red lips that were level with his met his.
But suddenly the girl drew back, withdrew her hands from his. She had
not meant to yield so easily. She had not meant to give so much. She
had not meant to yield at all until Cecil knew--until he knew--why,
certain things that he must know before he could take what she so
longed to give.
"I--I must speak, my cousin, there is something I must tell you," she
faltered, and no one would have known the trembling voice for that of
Mistress Judith Ogilvie.
"Ah, sweetheart, speak, speak all you will," cried Lindley. "Your
voice is music in my ears. Say that you love me, say it over and over,
for whatever else you say, whatever else you tell me, that is all I'll
hear."
"Nay, but, Master Lindley----"
Cecil's brain sprang to the sound, and all at once he seemed to
recognize a perfume familiar, yet all unfamiliar.
But then there fell upon their ears a clash of swords in the court.
Lindley and the girl, standing near the window, were thrust aside by
Master Ogilvie and the innkeeper.
"Mr. Ashley and his servant are quartered here," sputtered the latter,
"and like as not 'tis one of them. The man's as quarrelsome as his
master."
"_Aie!_" cried Judith, suddenly, "'tis Johan, the player's boy, and
Johan cannot fight. He will be killed! Stop it, good Marmaduke. Have a
care, boy! Protect yourself! Hit under! Ay, now, to the left! 'Fend
yourself, Johan!"
"But if 'tis Johan, the player's boy," cried Lindley, "he needs no
instructions. He's master of the art of fighting."
But Judith was heedless of the meaning in his words.
"He knows not one end of the sword from t'other," she cried,
impetuously, the hot blood in her cheeks. Leaning far from the window,
it seemed almost as though she fought with Johan's sword, so fast her
instructions followed one the other, so exactly her motions portrayed
what he should do.
The fight in the yard was summarily stopped by the intervention of
Marmaduke and Master Ogilvie. Then Judith, drawing back into the room,
met Lindley's eyes for just a second.
"Ah, what have I done?" she cried.
"Oh, Judith, Judith!" he exclaimed. "Johan, Johan, and I never for an
instant knew it!"
"Ay, Johan, the player's boy," she answered. The words were almost a
sob, and yet Lindley heard the same tremulous laugh that had rung
through the woods the night when Johan had killed the highwayman.
"Johan, the player's boy, and Judith, the play actor!"
"But----"
"No, there is no but," she answered, quickly. "'Twas that, too, that I
was trying to tell you. But I've been Johan to you for all this time,
though I've had to play so many parts. And love did lie in the chance
of meeting, too. I loved you when first I laid eyes on you, when I lay
feigning sleep in that chair by the hearth, when Lord Farquhart
entertained his guests, when you took my part and begged that I might
be let to sleep, when you vouched for my conscience. And I think my
conscience should have wakened then, but it did not. And I loved you
even more that same night when we rode through the moonlit roads
together, when you vowed to win Judith's love in spite of Judith's
hate. See, I've the golden crown you threw to Johan to bind your
bargain with him." She drew from her bosom the golden piece of money
strung on a slender chain.
Her words had poured forth so tumultuously that Lindley had found no
chance to interrupt. Now he said, almost mechanically, the first words
that had occurred to him.
"You were the lad asleep in the chair that night?" He was holding her
close, as though she might escape him.
"Ye-es," she answered, faintly, "and--and, oh, Cecil, shall I tell you
all? I was Johan all the time, you know. You only saw the real Johan
twice; once that night at the edge of our woods, when he told you that
I had gone to London, and--and once on the day of the trial, when you
saw him asleep at the end of the lane. And--and--of course you know
that I disguised myself as the Lady Barbara that night in hopes of
gaining a word with Lord Farquhart. I did that well, did I not,
Cecil?" There was a touch of bravado in the voice for a second, but it
quickly grew tremulous once more. "'Tis harder to be a woman than a
man, I think, harder to play a woman's part than a man's. And--well, I
was the woman in the court who stopped Lord Grimsby's sentence. 'Twas
Lady Barbara's gown that she had ready for her wedding journey with
Lord Farquhart. It was a beautiful gown, did you not think so?" Again
the bravado quivered in and out of her voice. "I ruined it outright,
for Johan and I shoved it, gown and hat and all, under Star's saddle
cloth, and I rode on it all the way from London to Ogilvie's woods,
with a king's guard mounted behind for part of the way. I've played
all those parts, Cecil, and it's been a wearying, worrisome thing,
part of the time, with quick work and rapid changes, but it's all over
now. I've learned my lesson and I've done with mumming forever."
"And those are all the parts you've played?" Lindley's question was
almost careless, for he was tasting again the girl's sweet lips.
"No," she answered, slowly, with long hesitations between the words.
"There was one other. But--but must you know all, every one?" For an
instant the eyes and lips were mutinous.
"All, every one, sweetheart," he answered.
"Well," she said, slowly again and with still longer hesitations,
"there was one other, but--but 'twas--well, the blackest kind of a
black devil that tempted me, that led me on, that showed me the
excitement of it all, that taught me the ease of escape and flight!"
"A--a--black devil!" Cecil was echoing her words, and yet Judith was
well aware that not yet did he know the truth.
"Ay, a black devil," she answered. "The Black Devil himself. I was the
Black Devil. I was that black highwayman. But 'twas only a joke of a
highwayman, Cecil, only a joke when I held up all those stupid,
cowardly lords. Only a joke when I frightened the poor old bishop.
Only a joke when I made Grimsby come to poor Jack's rescue. Only a
joke to frighten Barbara. It was all a joke, until I knew what a
scrape I'd got Lord Farquhart into. And then I knew I had to rescue
Farquhart. And rescue him I did. So I've never hurt anyone. I've never
injured anyone. I robbed no one really, you know, and, oh, Cecil,
Cecil, can't you see that 'twas only done for fun, all of it? And it's
all gone from me now, gone from me forever, every bit of it. And,
Cecil, it's love, love for you, that's exorcised it. Even the devil
himself can be exorcised by love. Even the Black Devil himself can be
exorcised by the kind of love I have for you."
It was not only her words that pleaded. Love itself pleaded in the
tawny eyes, on the tender lips, with the clinging hands, and in very
truth it is doubtful if the devil himself could have found place
between her lips that clung to his, within his arms that clasped her
close.
And in Geldino's sherris, opened by Marmaduke Bass, Lindley only
repeated a former toast, offered in the same place; for, with laughing
eyes on Judith's, he said:
"Shall we drink once more, and for the last time, to the Gentleman of
the Highways?"