Sir George Repington filled up his glass (he was drinking Port wine),
motioned Phyllida to a seat on the right, sat himself down opposite,
and, to the accompaniment of thunder and lightning and wind and rain,
proceeded to entertain her with some vastly interesting details of his
domestick history.
"I have already shown you the portrait of my sister Joan, and you will
remember that I remarked upon the resemblance between you and her--I did
not think at the time that such a coincidence would fulfil itself even
more completely.
"We were left orphans soon after I reached my twenty-fifth birthday, and
I will admit that I experienced a keen sensation of pride in the
responsibleness of a great financial house and a very attractive young
woman. Pray, remember I was still young. We lived when we were in London
at a pleasant house in Soho Square, on the side nearest to the Oxford
Road, but spent much of our leisure at Repington Hall, a fine old family
mansion in the county of Surrey, near enough to the town to make our
visits there very frequent."
Sir George sighed at the pleasant memories as he sipped his glass of
Port wine.
"We spent many golden days at Repington Hall and our friends, carefully
selected, as all young people's friends are, found the long June
evenings on the great sloping lawn not less pleasant than we did. Egad!
I can see them all now and hear over the long silences that invariably
punctuate such intimate conversation the lowing of the cows in the home
farm and the deer crunching the sweet long grass beneath the broad
oak-trees. And in Spring what a choir of nightingales sang in the
gnarled whitethorn trees by the sunk fence, and in late summer what
myriads of grasshoppers chirruped in the twilight. Yes, yes, I can see
them all--young Harbottle Ramsey--he's my Lord Sodor and Man
now--succeeded his uncle who was executed after the rising in
'45--well--well, Harbottle was always a staunch Whig, and by gad, so
were all of us in those evenings at Repington. Then there was Burnet,
Cinderton's eldest son--he is Cinderton now--Burnet was always monstrous
careful about his cloaths and always carried a small Persian rug to sit
upon. I remember we used to call it the hearthrug--Harthe-Brusshe is the
family name--and now they tell me he's a positive martyr to the lumbago.
Yes, yes, Ramsey and Burnet and Belladine, I wonder what's become of
Belladine--he was a famous fop--poor Belladine, poor Belladine--he never
recovered from the blow. And then there was Roger Quain.
"He was my best friend, and the happiest day of my life was that on
which he was betrothed to my sister Joan. I tell you no such rousing
toast was given at Repington since the news of the Boyne victory was
brought in to my father. She and Roger were betrothed in July and should
have been wed in April."
The old man--for, with the progress of his tale, such the elderly
gentleman seemed to become--took a longer sip at his glass of Port as if
to brace himself for the climax of the narrative.
"They should have been wed in April. But that winter was a busy one in
Throgmorton Street, and my sister Joan, having caught a chill, was
ordered to remain in the country--her only companion, a foolish cousin
of my mother's. I was not at home more than twice all the winter. I
never knew of that blackguard's visits till March. He used to come every
day--every day until I forbade him the house--a white cockade papist
crammed with disloyalty--always bragging of some outlandish petty
rebellion on the top of some d----d Scottish mountain or other. He
filled her head with his Jacobite twaddle--a fool who, earning his
livelihood by dice and cards, was willing enough to upset all law and
order for the sake of the plunder which he and his fellows might very
well have acquired at the expense of better and honester and more loyal
men.
"He wound himself round her heart with his false French oaths and cursed
lovemaking.
"I sent for Roger; he came down with Belladine--I shall always believe
that Belladine loved her too--and I told Roger he must keep an eye on
his treasure, or 'twould be stolen from him. The wedding was fixed; the
guests were invited; and one fine morning I went down to the orchard to
see how the apples were setting (there had been a shrewd Easterly wind
for some days)--and--and--I found him dead--Roger Quain--my dearest,
oldest friend--Roger Quain dead. Gadslife! young Madam, if you had seen,
as I saw, the fallen apple-blossoms reddened by his blood, I do not
think you would be making a runaway match; and she, my beloved sister,
eloped with his murderer--with Valentine Lovely, Esq., Jacobite, Papist,
rake, spendthrift, drunkard, gamester, and prodigal!"
Sir George Repington rose from his seat and in the passion of
remembrance broke with his grip the thin stem of his wineglass, so that
the spilt liquid as it trickled over the hearth stones and stained the
ashes conjured up the old scene all too vividly and horribly for poor
Phyllida.
"But why did Belladine let her go with that blackguard--that is what I
never knew--that is what I would like to ask Belladine--what can have
happened to Belladine?" the old man muttered to himself, "and why do I
tell you this?" he went on, "why--because----"
But unfortunately the moral of this story was never properly related,
though 'tis easy enough to guess the import, for at that moment in came
the long-awaited Mr. Francis Vernon, splashed from head to foot in mud
and wearing a deep cut over his left temple. After all, Major
Constantine Tarry did succeed in delaying the elopement if only for an
hour or two because Mr. Vernon's mare had shied at the dead body and
flung her rider over the hedge in her unwillingness to pass so damp and
gloomy an obstacle. If the veteran's ghost was able to spare a moment
from his enthralling conversations with Alexander the Great and other
notable captains in Elysium, I make no doubt at the sight he gave vent
to an attenuated cackle of pleasure.
Nothing sets a woman off to such disadvantage as the need to introduce a
pair of men whom instinctively she knows to be hostile to each other.
They never make the slightest attempt to help her out of the awkward
position, and, indeed, add to it by such haughty behaviour, such
ruffling of crests and bristling of limbs that under the circumstances
the most polished gentlemen become uncouth savages or dogs eager to
squabble over a debated bone.
In this instance Mr. Vernon stared Sir George Repington up and down,
while the latter, who was not accustomed to such freedom of regard, took
snuff very aggressively and looked as if he would like to give the
intruder a moment's notice, as indeed he would. Phyllida tried to stem
the tide of embarrassment by remarking in a hushed voice that Sir George
had been kindly entertaining her in the absence of Mr. Amor.
"Has he?" was the latter's frigid response.
"And oh, Amor," she went on, "those odious postillions pushed their way
to the room and wanted money and Sir George kindly came to the rescue
and bade them begone."
"Did he?" was all that Vernon would vouchsafe in thanks to this timely
assistance.
Phyllida, abashed by her lover's bad manners, seemed inclined to
apologize for them with tears. And now Sir George did what most
Englishmen would have done under the circumstances--he walked out of the
room in a very stately way. No doubt the banker thought the strength of
feeling which had led him to reveal his life's tragedy would kindle an
equal emotion in the heart of Miss Courteen and that when he returned he
would find the raffish intruder gone.
This was in fact the precise result of his withdrawal. When he returned,
Mr. Vernon was gone. But neither was Miss Phyllida Courteen anywhere in
sight.
_Chapter the Thirty-second_