HOW MAJOR D'ARCY RECOVERED HIS YOUTH
So the Major kissed my lady's hand, kissed it not "on one extreme
finger-tip," but holding it in masterful clasp, kissed it on rosy palm
and dimpled knuckles, kissed it again and again with all the ardour of
a boy of twenty; and my lady sighed and--let him kiss his fill.
She wore her rustic attire but her simple gown was enriched here and
there, with the daintiest of lace as was her snowy mob-cap; and surely
never did rustic beauty blush more rosily or look with eyes more shy
than she when at last he raised his head:
"Good morrow to your worship!" said she softly, "I trust your honour
slept well?"
"No!" he answered, speaking with a strange, new vehemence, "I scarce
did close my eyes all night for thought of you----"
"Of me?"
"And of my--my folly! I looked for you this morning--I wished to tell
you ... I ... I----" Seeing him thus at a loss, my lady smiled a
little maliciously, then hasted to his relief:
"This morning?" said she gently, "I was making more butter for my poor
folk--with the aid of my lord of Alvaston, Captain West, and Sir
Jasper. But they proved so awkward with the churn that Sir Benjamin
must needs show 'em how 'twas done. And after he made much of my
rhubarb wine and would have them all taste it and insisted on the
Captain drinking three glasses--poor man!"
"Wherefore 'poor'?"
"Why, sir, 'tis truly excellent wine--to look at, but I fear 'tis
perhaps a trifle--sourish!" Here she laughed merrily, grew solemn and
sighed, glancing shyly at the Major who stood, head bowed, fumbling
with one of the gold buttons of the plum-coloured coat.
"I--trust your ladyship is well after your--your fright of yesterday,"
said he at last.
"My ladyship is very well, sir," she sighed, "though vapourish!"
"Which means?"
"Perhaps I--mourn my lost divinity."
Her tone was light, but he saw that her lips quivered as she averted
her head.
"Betty," he cried impulsively, "I was a fool! All night long I've
burned with anger at my folly, for I do know you could never be aught
but pure and maidenly no matter what you--you chanced to wear. So do I
come craving your forgiveness."
"O Major--Major Jack," she sighed, leaning towards him, all glowing
tenderness, "first hear me say you spoke me truth, it--it was
indeed--unworthy--a hoyden trick! But I have trod a different world to
you--a world of careless gaiety and idle chatter, where nought is
serious, reverence unknown and love itself a pastime. So I have loved
no man--save my brother Charles for we've been lonely all our
days--nay, Major John!" for he had caught her hand to his lips again.
"And I dared think you unmaidenly!" he murmured, in bitter
self-reproach.
"So would the mother I never knew had she seen me as--as poor Aunt
Belinda saw me--and yet--I vow 'twas monstrous laughable!" and my lady
hovered between laughter and tears.
"Am I forgiven?" he pleaded.
"Aye, most fully!"
"Why then--to prove it--will you ... would you----"
"Well, your honour?" she questioned humbly.
"Would you permit me to show you the rose-garden?"
"But I have seen it!"
"Aye to be sure, so you have!" he answered, a little dashed. "Though
the roses were scarce in bloom then."
"Truly I do love roses, Major Jack----"
"And they are in the full splendour of their beauty----"
"But--this wall?" she demurred. "And ... no ladder!"
He reached up eager arms. "O Major John!" she exclaimed and drew back,
blushing as rosily as the shyest maid that ever tripped in dairy.
"'Twould be so--so extreme unmaidenly--wouldn't it?" The Major flushed
and his arms dropped. "Though indeed I--do love roses!" she sighed.
The Major glanced up eagerly. "But 'tis so awkward and someone might
see----"
"Not a soul!" he assured her.
"Then ... if you'll turn your head a moment ... and are sure none can
spy ... and will be vastly careful ... and are quite, quite sure you
can manage----"
It was managed almost as she spoke, he with an assured adroitness, she
with such gracious ease that, in the same moment they were walking side
by side over the smooth turf, as calm and unruffled as any two people
ever were or will be. "'Tis a dear orchard, this!" she sighed,
stopping to pat the rough bark of a huge, gnarled apple-tree.
"'Twas here I first saw you," said he.
"Stealing your fruit!" she nodded.
"It seems long ago."
"And yet 'tis but a few short weeks."
Slowly they went on together, past lily-pool asleep in marble basin,
through green boskages amid whose leafy shade marble dryads shyly
peeped and fauns and satyrs sported; beneath the vast spread of mighty
trees across smooth, grassy levels, by shady walks and so at last to
the blazing glory of the rose-garden. Here my lady paused with an
exclamation of delight.
"Indeed, indeed, 'tis lovely--lovelier than I had dreamed! Are you not
proud of it?"
"Yes," he answered, "more especially since I never owned a foot of land
till of late--or a roof to shelter me, for that matter."
"You were a soldier!"
"And a very poor one!" he added.
"And they called you 'Fighting d'Arcy!'" said she, looking into the
grey eyes she had been wont to think almost too gentle.
"That sounds strange--on your lips," said he with his grave smile, "I
perceive the Sergeant has been talking."
"He has been boasting to me of all your wounds, sir!" The Major
laughed. "He is greatly proud of you, sir."
"He saved my life more than once."
"You must have been a very desperate soldier to have been wounded so
very often, Major John!"
"Why you see, at that time," he answered, handing her down the steps
into the garden, "I wished to die."
"To die?" she repeated. "O, prithee why?"
"This was twenty years ago, I was a boy then," he sighed. "To-day I
am----"
"A man, and therefore wiser," said she as they went on together among
the roses. "And pray why did you seek death?" she questioned softly.
"Because I had lost the woman I loved."
"So then you--have--loved?"
"As a boy of twenty may," he answered. "She--I was an ensign without
influence and prospects and--they forced her to wed a wealthier than I."
"O! And she did?" Lady Betty stopped to stamp an angry foot.
"Indeed they--compelled her----"
"Major John sir, no woman that is a woman can be compelled in her
affections!"
"She was very young."
"Pooh, sir! I am not yet a withered and wrinkled crone, yet no one
shall or should compel me!" And here, with a prodigious flutter of her
print gown, my lady seated herself on rustic bench beside the sundial.
"No indeed," said he, "you are--are different." At this she flashed
him a swift up-glance and, meeting his gaze, dimpled, drew aside her
garments' ample folds and graciously, motioned him beside her. The
Major sat down.
"And was she happy?"
"No!"
"Which doth but serve her to her deserts!" The Major winced,
perceiving which, my lady faced him. "How, do you love her yet?" she
questioned.
"My lady, she is dead," he answered. Lady Betty turned and leaning to
a rose that bloomed near by, touched it with gentle fingers.
"And--do you--love her yet, Major John?" she asked softly.
"I held her in my memory as the sweetest of all women until a few weeks
ago," he answered simply. My lady's caressing fingers faltered
suddenly.
"She was the third woman in your life?"
"Yes," he answered, "because of her memory I have lived a hard life and
let love go by nor thought of it."
"Not once?"
"Not once, until of late." My lady was silent, and, leaning nearer, he
continued: "Twenty years ago I gave my love and, being hopeless, sought
for death and never found it. So, hating war, I made of war my life.
I became a soldier of fortune and wheresoever battle was, there was I;
when one campaign ended I went in quest of others. So I have learned
much of men, of foreign countries, and war in every shape, but of women
and love--nothing whatever. Indeed I should be fighting yet but for
this unexpected legacy. And now----" He sighed.
"And now?" she repeated softly.
"Now I find that youth has fled and left but emptiness behind!"
"Poor, O poor, decrepit, ancient man!" she sighed, "with your back so
bent and your arms so feeble! So wrinkled, so toothless, and so
blind!" And rising she turned away and leaned round elbows on the
sundial. Now presently he came and stood beside her, looking into her
lovely, down-bent face then pointed to the legend graven on the stone.
"Read," said he, "read and tell me--is't not wisdom?" And, very
obediently, she read aloud:
"Youth is joyous; Age is melancholy:
Age and Youth together is but folly."
"Indeed," she nodded, "'tis a very wise proverb and, like most other
proverbs, sayeth very plainly that black is black and white is white.
And truly I do think you a great coward, Major 'Fighting d'Arcy'!"
"Betty?" said he, a little breathlessly.
"You may be very brave in battle but in--in other things you are a very
coward!"
"My lady--O Betty! Do you mean ... is it possible that such miracle
could be... You in the bloom of your youth and beauty, I----"
"So bent with years!" said she in tender mockery, "so feeble and
so--very--blind!"
The Major's philosophic calm was shattered, his placid serenity gone
all in a moment; he reached out sudden, passionate arms but without
attempting to touch her.
"Betty," he cried, "God knows if I'm presumptuous fool or blessed
beyond my hopes, but hear me say--I love you, for all your dainty
loveliness, your coquette airs and graces, but, most of all, for the
sweet, white, womanly soul of you. And 'tis no flame of youthful
passion this, soon to fade, 'tis a man's enduring love desiring all,
asking nothing.... I mean, Betty, whether you wed me or no, needs must
I love you to the end of time!"
"E'en though I should love and wed another?" she questioned softly.
"Aye, truly!"
"Indeed, you are nobler than I--because"--here she paused to trace out
the time-worn lettering on the dial with pink finger-tip--"because if
you should love, or wed another, then I--should die of rage and
jealousy and grief and----"
The Major's long arms were close about her and, stooping, he kissed her
again and again, her fragrant hair, her eyes, her tender mouth.
"O Betty," he sighed, "my beautiful Betty, the wonder of it!"
"O John," she sighed tremulously, "O Jack, indeed 'tis a very furious
lover you are! You make love as you fight--as if you loved it--nay,
show mercy!" He released her instantly and stood back staring down at
her with dazzled eyes.
"Am I rough?" he asked anxiously. "Dear, forgive me! But 'tis all so
strange, so unexpected, so marvellous beyond belief! There be so many
to love you that I----"
"Shall teach you what love truly is," she murmured, "And I--don't
mind--a little roughness, Jack dear!"
"God, 'tis marvellous!" said he at last, holding her away to feast his
eyes on her glowing loveliness. "'Tis passing wonderful that of all
your throng of lovers you should choose such as I--so much older, so
much----" his breath caught, the strong hands that clasped her so
tenderly quivered suddenly. "Betty," said he hoarsely, "'tis no
coquettish whim, this--no youthful fancy? You do love me indeed?" Now
seeing the haggard pleading of his eyes, the quiver of his lips and all
his shy humility, she uttered a soft cry and drawing him close,
pillowed his troubled brow against her soft cheek.
"Ah dearest," she whispered, "why must you doubt? Love for you hath
been in my heart from the first I think, though I never guessed 'twas
love until to-day. And for your age--O foolish! I would not have thee
younger by an hour and--for my love, 'tis here deep within my heart and
will but grow with length of days for to know thee more is to love thee
more. You think me over-young, I know, light-thoughted, belike and
careless, but in her heart a woman is ever older than a man, and,
despite my seeming heedlessness your Betty is methinks much the woman
you would have her be."
"Aye, truly," he answered, "the sweetest, the loveliest, noblest woman,
I do think, in all this big world!" But when he would have caught her
to him again she, blushing, laughing, stayed him to straighten lacy
mob-cap and pat rebellious curls with hands a little tremulous, then,
sitting down, crossed slim feet demurely and motioned him beside her.
"'Deed, sir," she sighed, "you do make love to perfection! And
yet--your love is so--so wonderful that I grow a little fearful lest I
prove unworthy----"
"Ah, never!" he cried, drawing her hands to his lips.
"Such love doth make me very humble, Jack dear, 'tis all so different,
so reverent and yet also 'tis a little--fierce!" she whispered,
yielding to his compelling arms.
"Nay, am I so?" he asked, anxiously, his hold relaxing.
"Ele-mentally!" she murmured, pillowing cheek on plum-coloured velvet
regardless of lace cap. "Yet methinks I do--love such ferocity!"
"O Betty, when will you wed me?"
"O John, here is a question to ponder. First, when would you have me?"
"To-day! To-morrow! Soon!"
"O impatient youth!" she murmured. "Second, shall your wife enjoy all
liberty?"
"So much as she desire," he answered tenderly.
"Third, shall she live in town i' the season, attend balls, theatres,
routs, card-parties, masquerades, drums and the like?"
"If she so wish," said he, a little sadly; perceiving which, she
nestled closer to him.
"Fourth, will you swear to be a husband _à la mode_?"
"What may that be?" he enquired.
"Will you be very polite to your wife and seldom intrude upon her
privacy as is the modish custom, will you keep separate establishments,
will you----"
"By heaven--no!" exclaimed the Major; whereat, and very suddenly, she
kissed him.
"Indeed I do think you will make almost as good a husband as lover!"
she sighed. "And--Major Jack, dear--if you would wed me soon----"
"Nay sweet," he broke in, "here was a selfish thought! You are so
young----
"A ripe woman of twenty-two, sir!"
"But youth loveth freedom, my Betty, so shall you enjoy it while you
will and come to me--when you will!"
"Nay, dear, foolish John, you do speak as you were a prison! What is
maiden freedom compared to--wifehood?" she breathed.
"Wife!" he repeated reverently, "'tis a sweet word, Betty!"
"So is--husband, John."
"My Betty--dear--when?"
"Is three months hence too long?"
"Aye, 'tis very long--but----"
"Six weeks, Jack?"
O never-to-be-forgotten hour! Hour long dreamed and yet expected
never, so swift to haste away but whose memory was to blossom, sweet
and all unfading.
"Dear," said she at last, "since you are not for marriage '_à la mode_'
I shall plague you mightily----"
"God!" he exclaimed softly, "what a life 'twill be!"
But all at once she started from him as, afar off, a faint wailing
arose:
"Betty, my love! O Bet--my Betty love!"
My lady frowned and rising, laid rosy finger to lip.
"Not a word yet, my John! Let our secret be ours awhile. Come, let us
meet her."'
Slowly they went amid the roses and sighed for the hour that was gone
and wondered to see the sun so low; and thus they presently beheld Lady
Belinda twittering towards them escorted by the Sergeant and the tall,
well-fed menial.
"O naughty Bet!" she cried, "O wicked puss and truant! I've sought
thee this hour and more, I've called thee until my poor voice grew
languishing and weak! Ah, dear Major, scold her for me, prithee scold!"
"Nay, madam," he answered, bowing, "I fear the blame is mine, I was for
showing my lady the roses as 'twere, and--er----"
"La, dear aunt," said my lady, "how warm you look, so red--so flushed
and fulsome!"
"'Tis the sun--the sun!" cried Lady Belinda, "I vow I cannot abide the
sun, it nauseates me!"
"Then let us into the shade, mam," said the Major, offering his arm.
"'Twill be cool on the terrace, a--er--a dish of tea----"
"Nay, nay, sir, alack and no, we have neighbours expected. Sir Oliver
and Lady Rington, Mrs. Wadhurst, and Lady Lydia Flyte--and that minds
me, naughty Bet, you were to have gone a-riding to-day with Mr. Dalroyd
and Sir Jasper--they called expectant and you were not! Then came poor
young Mr. Marchdale, in a great taking, to know if you'd object to his
rhyming 'Bet' with 'sweat!' The Captain called, too, with dear Sir
Benjamin Tripp--so modish--so elegant! But solemn as two owls, though
why owls should be solemn I don't know never having seen one near
enough! So you see, dear Major, we positively must away!"
The Major, having escorted them to his park gates, stood to watch that
slender, shapely form out of sight, then, sighing, limped slowly
housewards lost in happy dreams. As he went he remembered with an odd
relief that the Viscount was in London and would remain there several
days. Presently he came upon the Sergeant who bore a rake "at the
trail" much as if it had been a pike: and the Sergeant's face was
beaming and his bright eye almost roguish:
"Ha, Zeb," said the Major, halting to view him over, and his own eyes
were shining also, "why Zeb, how deuced smart you look!"
"My best clothes, sir, new ones being on order as commanded, sir."
"Aye, but 'tis not your clothes exactly, you seem--younger, somehow."
"Why, sir," said the Sergeant, a little diffidently, "I took the
liberty o' powdering my wig,--no objections I hope, your honour?"
"None at all Zeb, no, no! Egad, 'tis like old times!" So saying, the
Major smiled and passed on to the house, whistling softly as he went.