At supper that night Burton came from his room to find Colonel Bellamy
bringing his wife in his arms to the table, while the old bent-backed
and gray-headed man servant followed to place her chair. The mistress
of Fairford was entirely lame and helpless, but she sat at the head of
her table like a queen. There was a bunch of damask-roses at her
plate. The Colonel himself was in evening dress, antique in cut, and
sadly worn, and Tom heartily thanked his patron saint that the boy had
brought his portmanteau in good season. There was a glorious light in
the room from the fire, and the table was served with exquisite care,
and even more luxurious delay, the excellent fish which the Colonel
himself must have caught in his unexplained absence, and Tom's own
partridge, which was carved as if it had been the first wild turkey of
the season, were followed by a few peaches touched with splendid color
as they lay on a handful of leaves in a bent and dented pewter plate.
There seemed to be no use for the stray glasses, until old Milton
produced a single small bottle of beer, and uncorked and poured it for
his master and his master's guest with a grand air. The Colonel lifted
his eyebrows slightly, but accepted its appearance at the proper
moment.
They sat long at table. It was impossible to let one's thought dwell
upon any of the meagre furnishings of the feast. The host and hostess
talked of the days when they went often to France and England, and of
Tom's grandfather when he was young. At last Madam Bellamy left the
table, and Tom stood waiting while she was carried to her own room. He
had kissed her hand like a courtier as he said good-night. On the
Colonel's return the old butler ostentatiously placed the solitary
bottle between them and went away. The Colonel offered some excellent
tobacco, and Tom begged leave to fetch his pipe. When he returned he
brought with it the chamois-skin bag that held the silver cup, and
laid it before him on the table. It was like the dread of going into
battle, but the moment had arrived. He laid his hand on the cup for a
moment as if to hide it, then he waited until his pipe was fairly
going.
"This is something which I have come to restore to you, sir," said Tom
presently, taking the piece of silver from its wrappings. "I believe
that it is your property."
The old Colonel's face wore a strange, alarmed look; his thin cheeks
grew crimson. He reached eagerly for the cup, and held it before his
eyes. At last he bent his head and kissed it. Tom Burton saw that his
tears began to fall, that he half rose, turning toward the door of the
next room, where his wife was; then he sank back again, and looked at
his guest appealingly.
"I ask no questions," he faltered; "it was the fortune of war. This
cup was my grandfather's, my father's, and mine; all my own children
drank from it in turn; they are all gone before me. We always called
it our lucky cup. I fear that it has come back too late"--The old
man's voice broke, but he still held the shining piece of silver
before him, and turned it about in the candle-light.
_"Je vous en prie Bel-ami."_
he whispered under his breath, and put the cup before him on the
scarred mahogany.