WHICH TELLS OF ANOTHER DAWN
By a kindly dispensation of Nature all great and sudden shocks are apt
to deaden agony awhile. Thus, as the Major stared along the deserted
road he was conscious only of a great and ever-growing wonder; his mind
groped vainly and he stood, utterly still, long after the throb of
horse-hoofs had died away.
At last he turned and fixed his gaze upon the weatherbeaten stile again.
It was here he had held her to his heart, had felt her kisses on his
lips, had listened to her murmurs of love. It was here she had
promised to meet him and resolve his doubts and fears once and for all.
And now? She was away with Dalroyd of all men in the world--Dalroyd!
The Major stirred, sighed, and reaching out set his hand upon the
warped timber of the old stile, a hand that twitched convulsively.
She was gone. She was off and away with Dalroyd of all men!
Dalroyd--of course! Dalroyd had been the chosen man all along and he
himself a blind, self-deluding fool.
The Major bowed his head, loathing his fatuous blindness and burning
with self-contempt. Slowly those twitching fingers became a quivering
fist as wonder and shame gave place to anger that blazed to a fury of
passion, casting out gentle Reason and blinding calm judgment. Truly
his doubts and fears were resolved for him at last--she was off and
away with Dalroyd! So she had tricked--fooled--deceived from the very
first!
The big fist smote down upon the stile and, spattering blood from
broken knuckles, the Major leapt over and hasted wildly from the
accursed place; and as he strode there burned within him an anger such
as he had never known--fierce, unreasoning, merciless, all-consuming.
Headlong he went, heedless of direction until at last, finding himself
blundering among underbrush and trees, he stopped to glance about him.
And now, moved by sudden impulse, he plunged fierce hand into bosom and
plucked forth her letter, that close-written sheet he had cherished so
reverently, and, holding it in griping fingers, smiled grimly to see it
all blood-smeared from his torn knuckles; then he ripped it almost as
though it had been a sentient thing, tore it across and across, and
scattering the fragments broadcast, tramped on again. Thus in his
going he came to the rustic bridge above the sleepy pool and paused
there awhile to stare down into the stilly waters upon whose placid
surface the moon seemed to float in glory.
And she had once stood beside him here and plied him with her woman's
arts, tender sighs and pretty coquetry--and anon proud scorn as when he
had vowed her unmaidenly and he, poor fool, had loved and worshipped
her the while. And now? Now she was away with--Dalroyd of all men in
the world, Dalroyd who, wiser in woman, loved many but worshipped never
a one.
Borne to his ears on the quiet night air came the faint sound of the
church clock chiming ten. The Major shivered forlornly and turning,
tramped wearily homeward.
Sergeant Zebedee, opening to his knock, glanced at him keen-eyed, quick
to notice lack-lustre eye, furrowed brow and down-trending mouth.
"Sir," he enquired anxiously, "your honour, is aught amiss?"
"Nought, Zeb," answered the Major heavily, "nought i' the world. Why?"
"Why sir, you do look uncommon--woeful."
"'Tis like enough, Zeb, like enough, for to-night I have--beheld
myself. And I find, Zeb, yes, I find myself a pitiful failure as a--a
county squire and man o' leisure. This _otium cum dignitate_ is not
for me so I'm done with it, Zeb, I'm done with it."
"Meaning how, sir, which and what, your honour?"
"Meaning that Nature made me a man of limitations, Zeb. I am a fair
enough soldier but--in--in certain--other ways as 'twere I am woefully
lacking. I'm a soldier now and always, Zeb, so a soldier I must live
and a soldier, pray God, I'll die. Last night you were in a mind to
follow me to the wars--doth the desire still hold?"
"Aye sir. Dooty is dooty. Where you go--I go."
"So be it, Zeb. We will ride to-morrow for Dover at five o' the clock."
"Very good, sir."
"Are the servants all abed?"
"Aye, sir, and so's the Colonel."
"Then lock up and go you likewise, I have certain writings to make.
And mark this, Zebedee, 'tis better to die a man of limitations than to
live on smug and assured the sport of coquette Fortune as--as 'twere
and so forth. D'ye get me, Zeb?"
"No sir, I don't."
"Egad, 'tis none surprising Zeb," said the Major ruefully, "I express
myself very ill, but I know what I mean. Good-night, Zeb--get ye to
bed."
Reaching the library the Major crossed to the hearth and sinking down
in a chair beside the fire, sat awhile staring into the fire, lost in
wistful thought. At length he arose and taking one of the candles
opened the door of that small, bare chamber he called his study; opened
the door and stood there wide-eyed and with the heavy silver
candlestick shaking in his grasp.
She sat crouched down in his great elbow-chair, fast asleep. And she
was really asleep, there was no coquettish shamming about it since
coquetry does not admit of snoring and my lady snored distinctly; true,
it was a very small and quite inoffensive snore, induced by her
somewhat unwonted posture, but a snore it was beyond all doubt.
The Major rid himself of the candle and closing the door softly behind
him leaned there watching her.
She half sat, half lay, lovely head adroop upon her shoulder, one
slender foot just kissing the floor, the other hidden beneath her
petticoats; and as she lay thus in the soft abandonment of sleep he
could not help but be struck anew by the compelling beauty of her: the
proud swell of her bosom that rose and fell with her gentle breathing,
the curves of hip and rounded limbs, the soft, white column of her
throat. All this he saw and, because she lay so defenceless in her
slumber, averted his gaze for perhaps thirty seconds then, yielding
himself to this delight of the eyes, studied all her loveliness from
dark, drooping lashes and rosy, parted lips down to that slender,
dainty foot. And as he gazed his eyes grew tender, his fierce hands
unclenched themselves and then my lady snored again unmistakably,
stirred, sighed and opened her eyes.
"John!" she whispered, then, sitting up, uttered a shy gasp and ordered
her draperies with quick, furtive hands, while the Major, eyes
instantly averted, became his most stately self.
"O John are you come at last and I asleep? And I fear I snored John,
did I? Did I indeed, John?"
The Major, gaze bent on the polished floor, bowed.
"I don't as a rule--I vow I don't! 'tis hateful to snore and I don't
snore--ask Aunt Belinda. And O pray John don't be so grim and stately."
"So," said he gently but his voice a little hoarse, "so you have--have
thought better of your bargain, it seems."
"Bargain, dear John?"
"Your--cavalier, madam. Mr. Dalroyd rides alone after all, 'twould
appear."
"Mr. Dalroyd!" she repeated, busied with a lock of glossy hair that had
escaped its bonds.
The Major bowed with his gravest and grandest air.
"Nay prithee John," she sighed, "beseech thee, don't be dignified. And
the hour so late and I all alone here."
"And pray madam, why are you here?" he questioned. Now at this,
meeting his cold, grey eye, she flushed and quailed slightly.
"Doth it--displease you, Major John?"
"Here is no place for you, madam, nor--nor ever can be, nor any woman
henceforth."
At this she caught her breath, the rosy flush ebbed and left her pale.
"Must I go, sir?" she asked humbly, but with eyes very bright.
"When you are ready I will attend you as far as your own house."
"If I go, John," said she a little breathlessly, "if I go you will come
to me to-morrow and plead forgiveness on your knees, and I am minded to
let you."
"I think not, my lady--there is a limit I find even to such love as
mine."
"Then is my love the greater, John, for now, rather than let you humble
yourself to beg forgiveness for your evil thought of me, I will stoop
to explain away your base suspicions. To-night you went to the stile
before the time appointed and saw that hateful Dalroyd eloping with my
brother Charles in my clothes as you saw him once before--upon the
wall."
"Your brother!" cried the Major. "Dear God in heaven!"
"Is it so wonderful?" she sighed. "Had you been a woman you would have
guessed ere now, I think. But a woman is so much quicker than a blind,
blundering man. And you are very blind, John--and a prodigious
blunderer."
The Major stood silent and with bowed head.
"So this was my scheme to save my dear Charles and avenge myself upon
Mr. Dalroyd--and see how near you brought it to ruin, John, and your
own life in jeopardy with your fighting. But men are so clumsy, alas!
And you are vastly clumsy--aren't you, John?"
The Major did not answer: and now, seeing him so humbled, his grand
manner quite forgotten, her look softened and her voice grew a little
kinder.
"But you did save Charles from the soldiers, John. And after, did save
me from Mr. Dalroyd's evil passion--wherefore, though I loved thee ere
this, my love for thee grew mightily--O mightily, John. But now, alas!
how should a poor maid wed and give herself into the power of a
man--like thee, John? A man so passionate, so prone to cruel doubt, to
jealousy, to evil and vain imaginings, to cruel fits of--of dignity--O
John!"
The Major raised his head and saw her leaning towards him in the great
chair, her hands outstretched to him, her eyes full of a yearning
tenderness.
"Betty!" He was down before her on his knees, those gentle hands
pressed to his brow, his cheek, his eager lips.
"I have been blind, blind--a blind fool!"
"But you were brave and generous also, dear John, though over-prone to
cruel doubt of me from the first, John, the very first."
"Yes, my lady," he confessed, humbly.
"Though mayhap I did give thee some--some little cause, John, so now do
I forgive thee!"
"This night," said he sighing, "I destroyed thy dear letter."
"Did you, John?"
"And thought to destroy my love for thee with it!"
"And--did you, John?"
"Nay, 'tis beyond my strength. O Betty--canst love me as I do
thee--beyond all thought and reason?"
At this she looked down at him with smile ineffably tender and drew his
head to her bosom and clasping it there stooped soft lips to cheek and
brow and wistful eyes.
"Listen, dear foolish, doubting John, my love for thee is of this sort;
if thou wert sick and feeble instead of strong, my strength should
cherish thee; wert thou despised and outcast, these arms should shelter
thee, hadst thou indeed ridden hence, then would I humbly have followed
thee. And now, John--unless thou take and wed me--then solitary and
loveless will I go all my days, dear John--since thou art indeed the
only man----"
The soft voice faltered, died away, and sinking into his embrace she
gave her lips to his.
"Betty!" he murmured. "Ah God--how I do worship thee!"
The hours sped by and rang their knell unheeded, for them time was not,
until at last she stirred within his arms.
"O love," she sighed, "look, it is the dawn again--our dawn, John. But
alas, I must away--let us go." And she shivered.
"Art cold, my Betty, and the air will chill thee----"
"Thy old coat, John, the dear old coat I stole away from thee." So he
brought the Ramillie coat and girded it about her loveliness and she
rubbed soft cheek against threadbare cuff. "Dear shabby old thing!"
she sighed, "it brought to me thy letters--so shall I love it alway,
John."
"But thy shoes!" said he. "Thy little shoes! And the dew so heavy!"
My lady laughed and reached up to kiss his anxious brow.
"Nay," she murmured as he opened the door----
"'Tis dabbling in the dew that makes the milkmaids fair."
Hand in hand, and creeping stealthily as truant children, they came out
upon the terrace.
"John," she whispered, "'tis a something grey dawn and yet methinks
this bringeth us even more joy than the last."
"And Betty," said he a little unsteadily, "there will be--other
dawns--an God be kind--soon, beloved--soon!"
"Yes, John," she answered, face hidden against his velvet coat, "God
will be kind."
"And the dew, my Betty----"
"What of it, John?" she questioned, not moving.
"Is heavier than I thought. And thou'rt no milkmaid, and beyond all
milkmaids fair."
"Dost think so, John dear?"
"Aye, I do!" he answered. "So, sweet woman of my dreams--come!"
Saying which he caught her in compelling arms and lifting her high
against his heart, stood awhile to kiss hair and eyes and vivid mouth,
then bore her away through the dawn.
And thus it was that Sergeant Zebedee Tring, gloomy of brow, in faded,
buff-lined service coat, in cross-belts and spatterdashes, paused on
his way stablewards and catching his breath, incontinent took cover
behind a convenient bush; but finding himself wholly unobserved, stole
forth to watch them out of sight. Now though the dawn was grey, yet
upon those two faces, so near together, he had seen a radiance far
brighter than the day--wherefore his own gloom vanished and he turned
to look up at Mrs. Agatha's open lattice-window. Then he stooped and
very thoughtfully raked up a handful of small gravel and strode
resolutely up the terrace steps.
Being there he paused to glance glad-eyed where, afar off, the Major
bore my lady through the dawn, and, as the Sergeant watched, paused to
stoop again and kiss her.
"Glory be!" exclaimed the Sergeant and instantly averted his head: "All
I says is--Joy!"
Then, with unerring aim, he launched the gravel at Mrs. Agatha's window.
THE WHITEFRIARS PRESS, LTD., LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.