I "GIVE WARNING"
By ten o'clock in the morning I had written a letter which had caused
me a good deal of trouble and anxiety. It was to Sir Francis
Devereux:--
"THE COTTAGE, DEVEREUX,
"Wednesday morning.
"DEAR SIR FRANCIS DEVEREUX,--You will, I am sure, agree with me that
the revelation of last evening renders it imperative on my part to
leave Devereux at once, or as soon as possible. I must ask you,
therefore, to accept this note as an intimation of my desire to do so
as soon as is convenient to yourself.
"No one could regret more than I do the necessity which has arisen, and
I am deeply sensible of all your kindness to myself and to my sister.
But, under the circumstances, it would be, of course, quite impossible
for me to remain here as your agent, nor I am sure would you wish it.
As to the other offer which you were generous enough to make, the
answer which I gave you at the time is absolutely irrevocable.
"With regard to the attempted burglary here last night and assault upon
Miss Devereux, I shall be prepared to give evidence when the man is
charged. There are several matters connected with the estate with
which I will not now trouble you, but which I shall be glad to lay
before you or Mr. Benson before I go. My books I am prepared to hand
over to my successor or to Mr. Benson at any moment.
"Thanking you again for the uniform and, I fear, undeserved kindness
which I have always received from you,
"I remain, yours obediently,
"HUGH ARBUTHNOT.
"To Colonel Sir Francis Devereux, Bart."
Having despatched this, I ordered Black Prince, and rode away to a
distant part of the estate to superintend the felling of some timber.
As usual, when going any distance, I took some lunch in my pocket, and
ate it on a stile whilst the men knocked off for dinner. Just as I had
lit my pipe and was preparing to start work again--for I was not afraid
of using my hands, and used to take a pleasure in getting through as
much as any of the men--I heard the sound of horses' hoofs on the
smooth, wide, velvet sward, and glancing up quickly saw that the whole
party from the Court were close upon me, all except Maud and the elders.
I drew back indifferently to let them pass, and bowed to Lady Olive,
who was riding by the side of Francis Devereux. She started when she
saw me, and, detaching herself from the rest of the party, rode over to
me.
"Fancy coming upon you, Mr. Arbuthnot, and hard at work too! What are
you doing?"
"Cutting down trees, Lady Olive."
"Well, you look in a nice mess," she declared, frankly. "What do you
want to work yourself for? It's a shame that you should."
I laughed at her indignation, thinking only that her flushed cheeks
made her look uncommonly pretty.
"I like working," I answered. "What would you have me do? Shack about
with my hands in my pockets all day?"
"I don't know," she said, hotly. "But when I think of that idle, lazy
young Francis dawdling his life away, doing nothing except ape a man
about town, and then think of you working hard every day, and remember
who you are, it makes me feel angry. Do you know, I longed just now to
push him out of his saddle. It wouldn't take much, I don't think."
I laughed outright, but Lady Olive remained serious enough.
"Well, perhaps you'll be pleased to hear that I am going to give up
working--here, at any rate," I said. "Of course I can't stop now."
She looked steadily between her horse's ears, growing a shade paler,
and I leaned against the stump of an oak-tree wondering how a
riding-habit could have been made to fit so well, and admiring her
dainty little figure.
"When are you going?" she asked, suddenly.
I shrugged my shoulders.
"As soon as Sir Francis will let me. I have 'given warning.'"
She looked down at me, and spoke a little hurriedly, but with a frank,
sincere look in her flushed face.
"Mr. Arbuthnot--I suppose I must call you Mr. Arbuthnot--I think yours
is the saddest story I have ever heard. I want you to let me tell you
that I feel for you, as much as any one possibly could do, and I think
you are behaving splendidly, just as I would have my own brother behave
if he were in the same position."
I felt more moved even than I should have cared to own, for I was just
in that mood when kind words are sweet, and I had always liked Lady
Olive.
"You are very good," I said, warmly. "Believe me, it is a great
pleasure to me to hear you say this."
"Have you any idea yet where you are going?" she asked, "or what you
are going to do?"
I shook my head.
"To London, first, and then I shall try and discover my father, and get
him to let me throw in my lot with his. Somehow I think that I shall
end by being a soldier. It's in the blood, I suppose."
"Mr. Arbuthnot," she said, frankly, stretching out her hand, "may we
not be friends? I have never asked so much of a man before,
but--but----"
I took her little hand, and did not at once release it.
"I shall be always glad to think of you as such," I said, warmly; "but
I'm afraid it isn't very likely that we shall meet again after I leave
here. My life and yours will lie very far apart."
"I'm not so sure of that," she answered, with an attempt at gaiety.
"I'm going to travel about a good deal next year; and--and, Mr.
Arbuthnot," she added, colouring a little deeper, "I know you'll
forgive me for saying it, but my father--he's ambassador at Rome now,
you know--has a good deal of influence in London, and especially at the
Foreign Office, and if there was anything we could do for you--oh, you
know what I want to say," she broke off, suddenly, and looking away
that I might not see the tears in her eyes. "You may want to try and
get some appointment abroad or something, or even if you decided to go
into the army, he might be useful to you, and he would do anything I
asked him. He is very kind, and--and it would make me very happy to
feel that we were helping you a little."
Was it so great a sin that for a moment I longed to draw that tearful
little face down to mine and kiss it? I had never been in the least
danger of falling in love with Lady Olive, bright and fascinating
though she was, but at that moment it occurred to me that the man who
won her would be a very fortunate man indeed.
"Lady Olive," I said, earnestly, "I scarcely know how to thank you. I
cannot tell you how much I feel your kindness. I shall take you at
your word, and write you if ever I need any help, and if I do not I
shall always like to think of your offer."
She smiled down at me beamingly.
"I am so glad you're not offended. Of course I shall see you again
before you go, and I will bring you down a card with my address in
London. Good-bye. No, _au revoir_."
She touched her horse with the whip and galloped away after the others,
and the bright winter's day seemed to me less bright when she had gone.
I watched her out of sight, and at the bend of the grassy road she
turned round in her saddle and waved her whip. I returned her farewell
with my hat, then, when she disappeared, I went back to my place
amongst the men, and worked till the perspiration streamed down my
face, and I was obliged to take off my coat and hang it on a branch of
a fallen tree. But I felt all the better for it, for it has always
seemed to me, as it did then, that hard physical labour is the most
magnificent relaxation for an over-wrought mind. When the sun set and
our day's work was over, I was stiff and my arms were sore, but my
heart was lighter than it had been since this crisis had come. I stood
filling my pipe and chatting to the foreman whilst one of the labourers
had gone for my horse, until he, too, followed the others, and I was
left alone.
At least I thought so, but I was mistaken. A voice, croaking and weak,
almost at my shoulder, suddenly startled me, and I turned round to find
an old woman, bent double, leaning on her stick, with her bead-like
eyes fixed upon me.
"Who be'st you?" she said. "Be you him as they call the agent?"
I acknowledged that it was so, and that my name was Arbuthnot.
"It's a loi," she answered, deliberately. "Dost think that Sarah
Milsham knaw'st not a Devereux when she seest one? Be'st thou Muster
Herbert's son? God bless him."
I looked around anxiously, but there was not a soul in sight.
"Thou be'st a son o' my Mr. Herbert," she muttered. "I knaw'st thou
be'st so like him that I thought thee was a ghost, boy. What be'st
thou a doing here? Wheres't thy father?"
"Abroad, mother, since you know me. Who are you?"
"Who be I?" she laughed, a mirthless, unpleasant laugh. "Why, thee
hasna heard of Sarah Milsham? I nursed your father when he were a
baby. What be'st a doing here, boy? Hast come to kill Rupert
Devereux?"
"He deserves it," I cried, hotly.
"So afore God he does," cried the old hag tremulously, "and die he
will, for I ha' seen the mark o' death upon his forehead. But it'll be
no by your hand, no by your hand, boy. What be'st a doing here? Go to
thy father, boy! Why hast left him alone?"
"I am going," I answered. "Please God I shall be with him before many
months."
"Ay, go, boy, go," she quivered out, "and tell him this from me. Tell
him that sure as Devereux Court is built upon a rock, I, Sarah Milsham,
shall live to see him here again. Sure as that limb of hell, Rupert
Devereux, bears the seal of death upon his forehead, so sure the day
will come when the whole country shall welcome him home again, and old
Sir Francis shall be proud t' own him for his son. Tell him Sarah
Milsham said so."
She hobbled away into the wood and commenced picking up sticks. I
would have followed her, but she held out her hand to prevent me, and
would not answer me when I spoke. So I mounted Black Prince and
galloped away homewards.
When I entered Marian's room I saw that she had a visitor. Sir Francis
Devereux was leaning back in my easy chair, laughing at one of my
sister's quaint speeches, and she was handing him a cup of tea.