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The Highwayman

by H. C. Bailey · English · Gutenberg #9749 · 443,273 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Highwayman

Author: H. C. Bailey


        
Release date: January 1, 2006 [eBook #9749]
                Most recently updated: January 2, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/9749

Credits: Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan and PG Distributed Proofreaders


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HIGHWAYMAN ***




Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan and PG
Distributed Proofreaders










                             THE HIGHWAYMAN

                                   BY

                              H. C. BAILEY




CONTENTS


      I. THE COMPLETE HERO

     II. THE HOUSE OF WAVERTON

    III. A MAN OF MANY WORLDS

     IV. A GENTLEMAN'S PURSE

      V. THE WORLD'S A MIRACLE

     VI. HARRY IS NOT GRATEFUL

    VII. GENEROSITY OF A FATHER

   VIII. MISS LAMBOURNE LOOKS SIDEWAYS

     IX. ANGER OF AN UNCLE

      X. YOUNG BLOOD

     XI. ABSENCE OF MR. WAVERTON

    XII. IN HASTE

   XIII. DISTRESS OF A MOTHER

    XIV. SPECTATORS OF PARADISE

     XV. MRS. BOYCE

    XVI. THE AFFAIR OF SIR GEORGE

   XVII. RETURN OF MR. WAVERTON

  XVIII. HARRY IS DISMISSED

    XIX. ALISON FINDS FRIENDS

     XX. RETURN OF CAPTAIN McBEAN

    XXI. CONSOLATIONS BY A FATHER

   XXII. TWO'S COMPANY

  XXIII. THE HOUSE IN KENSINGTON

   XXIV. QUEEN ANNE IS DEAD

    XXV. SAUVE QUI PEUT

   XXVI. REVELATIONS

  XXVII. VIRTUE IS ITS OWN REWARD

 XXVIII. IN THE TAP

   XXIX. ALISON KNEELS

    XXX. EMOTIONS BY MR. WAVERTON

   XXXI. CAPTAIN McBEAN TAKES HORSE

  XXXII. PERPLEXITIES OF CAPTAIN McBEAN

 XXXIII. REMORSE OF COLONEL BOYCE

  XXXIV. HARRY WAKES UP




CHAPTER I

THE COMPLETE HERO


Harry Boyce addressed Queen Anne in glittering verse. She was not
present. She had, however, no cause to regret that, for he was tramping
the Great North Road at four miles by the hour--a pace far beyond the
capacity of Her Majesty's legs; and his verses were Latin--a language not
within the capacity of Her Majesty's mind. Her absence gave him no grief.
In all his twenty-four years he could not remember being grieved by
anyone's absence. His general content was never diminished at finding
himself alone. He chose the Queen as the subject of his verses merely
because he did not admire her. She appeared to him then, as to later
generations, a woman ineffectual and without interest; a dull woman
physically, mentally, and perhaps morally; just the woman upon whom it
would be hardest to make an encomium of any splendour. So he was heartily
ingenious over his alcaics, and relished them.

From this you may divine much that you have to know about the soul of
Harry Boyce. It was more given to mockery than enthusiasms, apter to
criticisms than devotion, not very gentle nor very kind, and so quite
satisfied with itself and by itself. To be sure, it was yet only
twenty-four.

You discover also other things less fundamental. He was something of a
scholar, as scholarship was reckoned in those placid days. He had even
some Greek--more than Mr. Pope and quite as much as Mr. Addison. His
Latin verses would have brought him a fellowship at Merton if he had
been willing to take Holy Orders, "I may take them indeed; but how
believe they have been given me?" quoth he to the Warden with a tilt of
one eyebrow. Whereat the Warden, aghast, wrote him off as a youth
unreasonable, impracticable, and impish. Many others had the same
opinion of Harry Boyce before the world was done with him. Few of them
saw in his antics the uncertain spasms of too tender a conscience. But
you must judge.

Of course he was poor. He could only boast a bob wig, a base thing,
which, for all the show it made, might have been a man's own hair. He
wore no sword. His hat lacked feather and lace. His coat and breeches
were but black drugget, shiny at each corner of him and rusty everywhere.
His stockings were worsted, and darned even on his excellent calves. His
shoes had strings where buckles should have been, and mere black
heels--and low heels at that. As you know, he could walk at a round pace
with them--a preposterous, vulgar thing. There was nothing in him to give
this poverty a romantical air. To be sure, he had admirable legs, but the
rest was neither good nor bad. He was of the middle size and a wholesome
complexion. You would look at him long and see nothing rare enough to be
worth looking at. If you looked longer yet you might begin to be
surprised: his so ordinary face was extraordinary in its lack of
expression.

The man who owned it must be either very dull of heart and mind, or
self-contained and of self-control beyond the common. But whatever the
heart might be, no one ever took the eyes for the eyes of a fool. They
were keen, alert, perpetually on guard. There is a letter extant--it was
indeed a dear friend who wrote it--which mocks at Harry for his "curst
stand-and-deliver stare." But it is a queer thing that most men had to
know Harry Boyce a long time before they remarked that his eyes were not
quite of the same colour. The common English grey-green-blue was in both
of them, but one had a bluer glint than the other. The oddity, when it
was discovered, seemed to make the challenge of the eyes more defiant and
more baffling, as though they gleamed from the shadow of a mask.

Not that anyone cared yet whether he wore a mask or his soul in that
placid, ordinary face. Who should care a pinch of snuff for "a scholar
just from his college broke loose" with a penny farthing in his pocket,
who had to pioneer young gentlemen through their Horace and their Tully
for his bed and board? When you meet him, Harry Boyce was happy in having
caught for his pupil a young fellow who had not merely money but brains,
and so sublime a condescension that Harry was not sent away from table
with the parson when the puddings came. Mr. Geoffrey Waverton was pleased
to have a value for him, and defended him from his natural duty of being
gentleman usher to Lady Waverton. So, Mr. Waverton having taken horse,
Harry was free to go walking.

It was late in a wet autumn, and all the clay of Middlesex slippery as
butter and, withal, affectionate as warm glue. Harry kept to the highway.
Though its miles of mud and water were, on the surface, even worse than
the too green meadows or the gleaming brown furrows of plough land, a
careful man could count upon its letting him go no further than knee
deep. When he came to Whetstone, Harry's feet were brown, shapeless,
weighty masses, but he had not lost either shoe, and he was still in
hopes of reaching Barnet and a pint of small beer before it was time to
struggle back. At the worst a dry throat and wet legs were a cheap price
for escaping the voice of Lady Waverton, who, in the afternoons, read the
romances of Mlle. de Scudéry aloud.

He could see the tufts of smoke above Barnet and its church on the
hill-top. He was winding down to the bottom of the valley from which that
hill rises, when eloquence arrested him. He may at other times have heard
profanity as copious, but never profanity so vehement or at such speed.
The orator was a woman.

Harry stood to listen with critical admiration. Madame mixed the ugly and
the pleasant rarely; she made a charming grotesque. Her mind was very far
from nice and provided her with amazing images; but she had a pretty,
womanly voice, and hard though she drove it, it would not break to one
ugly note. Disgusting epithets, mean threats, poured out in mellow
music. Harry splashed on round the corner. He was eager to see her.

In the morass at the cross-lanes by the green, a coach was stuck--a coach
of splendour. It was a huge thing as big as a room, half glass, half gold
and garter blue, and it swayed luxuriously on its great springs. Six
horses heaved at it in vain with great splashing and squelching, and a
whole company of servants, some mounted, some afoot, struggled with them.

The profane woman had half her body and two gesticulating arms out of the
coach window. She was plainly neither a drab nor in liquor. Harry halted
out of range of the splashes to examine and enjoy her. She had been
comely, and still could hold a man's eye with her curves of neck and
bosom. The piquant features must have been adorable before they sharpened
and her cheeks faded and the lines came. Her abundant hair must once have
been gold, and was not yet altogether grey.

"You filthy slug," said she. "Samuel! Stand to it, I say. Damme, I'll
have a whip about that loose belly of yours! Now pull, you swine, pull.
Odso, flog the black horse. You, devil broil your bones, lay on to him.
What now? Od rot you, Antony, you'll see no money this month, you--" She
became unprintable. As she took breath again, she saw Harry Boyce calmly
contemplative. "You dog, who bade you stand and gape? Go, give a hand
there, I say."

Harry touched his hat. "By your leave, ma'am, I am too busy admiring
you."

"William, put that rogue into the ditch," said she.

All this while a man in the coach had been writing, calmly intent upon
his tablets as though there was not a sound or a rage within a mile. He
now stood up, and, while his lady was still execrating through one door
of the coach, he opened the other and came out. Two of the servants,
obedient to the lady's oaths, were approaching Harry, who waited them
with calm and a swinging stick. The man waved his hand at them and they
turned tail. But he had no further interest in Harry. He stood to watch
the struggles of his horses and his men. He was of some height, and,
though past middle age, bore himself with singular grace and vigour. He
had still a rarely handsome face--too handsome, by far, for Harry's
taste. The features were of an impossible, absurd perfection. There was
something superhuman or fatuous, at least something vastly irritating, in
his assured calm, his air of blandly confident supremacy.

He walked on to the leaders and, with a gesture and a word, set the whole
team pulling at an angle. Meanwhile the lady had earnestly continued her
abusive orders, but none of the servants now professed to heed her.
Dragging the horses on, or labouring hand and shoulder at the wheels,
they were now effective, and they watched the man's eye as though it were
an inspiration. Wondering why he did, Harry, too, put his weight on a
wheel. The horses found a footing in the mire, the coach was dragged on
to the higher, firmer ground beyond.

My lady subsided. The man came back to the coach and touched his hat to
Harry. "I'm obliged for your help, sir," he said, and climbed in. They
drove away towards London.

As the servants swung to their saddles, "Who's your obscene lady?"
said Harry.

"What, don't you know him, bumpkin?"

"She will never be him. Her shape is all provocative she."

This humble wit was not remarked. His ignorance occupied them, "Oh Lud,
not to know the Old Corporal!"

One of Harry's eyebrows went up. "That the Old Corporal? Faith, I am
sorry for him."

He received a handful of mud in his face. With a cry of "Rot your
impudence," they splashed off.

While he wiped the mud out of his eyes, Harry felt a very comfortable
self-satisfaction. It was agreeable to pity His Grace of Marlborough. For
the Duke of Marlborough was still the greatest man in Europe, the
greatest man in the world--credibly the greatest man that ever lived. A
pleasant fool, to marry such a wife and to keep her.

Harry Boyce at no time in his life had much admiration for human
eminence. In this, his hungry youth, he was set upon despising rank and
power, great fame and pure virtue, as no more than the luck of fools. He
would always atone by finding sympathy and excuses for any rogue's
roguery. Highly fortified in this faith by the exhibition of
Marlborough's matrimonial happiness, he trudged back.

The delay over the coach had left him no time for small ale at Barnet.
Mr. Waverton, though amiably pleased to deliver Harry from attendance on
his mother, required constant attendance on himself. He would be, in his
superb way, disagreeable if Harry were not in waiting when he was wanted
to take a hand at ombre. Harry liked Mr. Waverton well enough, as well as
he liked anybody, but found him in the part of offended majesty
intolerable. So there was some hard walking back to Whetstone. On the way
his temper was not sweetened by two horsemen at the gallop who gave him a
shower-bath of mud.

As he came through the village, behold another coach labouring up to the
high road from Totteridge lane. This had but four horses, no array of
outriders, no gilt splendours. It was a sober, old-fashioned thing, and
it rumbled on at a sober gait. "Some city ma'am," Harry sneered at it,
"much the same shape as her horses."

But half an hour after he saw it again. Where the road was dark through a
thicket it had come to a stand. "Oh Lud," said Harry, "here's more fair
madames in the mud. They may sit on it till they hatch it for me." But he
wondered a little. It was indeed nothing very strange in such an autumn
to find a coach stuck upon the highway. But two for one afternoon, two so
near was a generous provision. And hereabouts, where the road ran level
and high, was a strange place for a coach to choose to stick. "Madame
seems to be a gross girl," quoth Harry.

And then he saw what made him step out. There were two men on horseback
by the halted coach--two men with black upon their faces which must be
masks, and that in their hands which must be pistols.

"Egad, the road's joyful to-night," said Harry. "And two and one make
three," and he began to run, and arrived.

Of the two highwaymen one was dismounted. The other, holding his friend's
horse, held also a pistol at the coachman's head, muttering lurid threats
of what he would do if the coachman drove on. The dismounted man was half
inside the coach where two women shrank from him, and thence his
blusterous voice proceeded, "Now, my blowens, hand over, or I'll rummage
you. A skinny purse? Come, now, you've more than that. What's under your
legs, fatty? Stand up, I say. Ay, hand out the jewel-box. Now, my tackle,
what ha' you got aboard? What's under that pretty tucker?" He threw the
jewel-case out into the mud and, leaning across one woman, reached with a
fat, foul hand to the younger bosom beyond.

He was prevented by a whistle and a cry, "Behind you, Ben." His companion
announced the arrival of Harry.

Ben came out of the coach with an oath and thrust his pistol into Harry's
face. "Good e'en to you, bully. Now cut and run or I'll drill you. Via,
my poppet."

Harry looked along the pistol and stood fast. The highwayman was no
bigger than he, and bloated. "I am studying arithmetic, Benjamin," said
he.

"Burn your eyes, be off with you; run while you may."

Harry laughed and swung his stick at the mud. "But, I wonder, is it
addition or subtraction? Is it two and one makes three, or--"

"Kick the bumpkin into the ditch, Ben," the man on horseback advised.

"Off with you," Benjamin thrust him back, and in the act the pistol
wavered. Harry slashed with his stick at the pistol hand. A yell, an
oath, and the shot came together--a shot which went into the mud and sent
it spattering about them. Harry sprang away from Benjamin's rush and
brought his stick down on the hindquarters of the horses. They plunged
forward, and the man in the saddle, wrestling with them, let off another
aimless shot. Harry dodged round them and lashed them again, and they
bolted down the road. He returned to fling himself upon Benjamin, who was
ramming another charge into his pistol. "It seems to be subtraction,
Benjamin," said he, embracing the man fervently. "One from two leaves
one," and they swayed together, and he found Benjamin's body soft.

Benjamin, panting, cursed him. "Od rot you, why must you meddle, bully?
What's your will, burn you? Ha' done now, and--" Benjamin went down on
his back in the mud with Harry on top of him. "Ugh! What's the game,
bully?"

"I think you call it the high toby," said Harry delicately and began to
sing to the tune of a catch:

"Oh, three merry men, three merry men, three highwaymen were we.
You in a quag and he on a nag and I on top of the three."

"Lord love you, are you on the road?" Benjamin cried. "Why, rot you,
did you want a share then? You should ha' said so, bully. Come on now, my
dear, let's up. We do be gentlemen and share fair enough."

"I warrant you I am having my share," Harry laughed; "and I like it very
well. But oh, Benjamin, there would have been nought to share if I had
not come up. No fun at all, Benjamin." He wrenched the pistol away. "'Tis
I have made the business joyous. You are a dull fellow by yourself."

"Rot you," said Benjamin frankly. "When Ned comes back he'll shoot you
like vermin."

On which they both heard horses, and both, according to their
abilities--Benjamin in the mud, and Harry keeping a sure hold of
him--wriggled to look for them.

Harry laughed. It was certainly not a returning Ned. These horses came
from the other way, and there were four of them and each had a rider. "I
fear your Ned will come too late, Benjamin--if, by the grace of God, he
comes at all." So said Harry, chuckling, and to his amazement Benjamin
also laughed. Why should Benjamin find consolation in the coming of this
_posse_? It was not credible that they could be allies of his. Highwaymen
did not work in gangs of half a dozen.

The four horsemen, urged by the shots or by what they saw, came at a
gallop and reined up almost on top of Harry and Benjamin. One of them, a
little man with a lean, brown face, called out, "By your leave, sir!
What's this?"

"It's a rude fellow, sir," Harry said. "I fear a lewd fellow. By trade a
highwayman. The highway, indeed, is his life's love, his adored mistress.
Observe how he cleaves to it." He compressed Benjamin, who squelched,
into the mud, and rose, standing on Benjamin's chest and stomach.

Benjamin groaned, and the eyes behind his mask rolled towards the little
man.

"Filthy dog," that little man said with sincere disgust. "Can I serve
you, sir?" he touched his hat to the women in the coach.

"Why, Benjamin has a friend, one Ned. Ned hath a pistol or so and two
horses which have bolted with him. But he may yet persuade them to bring
back his pistols and him. Now, if you would be so good, it would be
convenient in you to ride on and destroy Ned."

"It's a pleasure, sir," the little man showed his teeth. "And the fat
rogue there, can I help you with him? Shall we take him on to the
constables?"

"Oh, I thank you, but my Benjamin is docile. I'll e'en tie him up with
his garters, and all will be well."

The little man scowled at Benjamin. "I shall hope to be at his hanging,"
he said incisively. "Sir, your most obedient! Ladies!" he bobbed at them
and rode off, his three companions close about him in eager talk.

As they went, Benjamin let out a cry of anguish: "Captain!"

The little man and his company used their spurs.

Harry looked at their hurry and then down at Benjamin.

"Now why did you call him that, my Benjamin?" said he. "Indeed, why did
you call on him at all?"

From behind the mask Benjamin's prominent eyes stared sullenly. He
said nothing.

Harry shook his head. "I feel that I do not know you, Benjamin. I must
see more of you," With which he fell upon the man again and twitched
off the mask. The wig came with it. Benjamin was revealed the owner of
a big, bald, shiny head with a face which was puffed and purple. "You
were right, Benjamin," said Harry sadly, "You were kind. To wear a mask
was charity, nay, decency--what breeches are to other men. That obese
and flaccid nose--pah, let us talk of something else." He lay upon
Benjamin and tugged at his sword-belt. Benjamin writhed and groaned.
His sword was caught underneath him, the hilt deep in the small of his
back. Harry hauled the sword-belt off at last and gripped at Benjamin's
wrists. He began to struggle again. "Do not be troublesome or I'll tap
the beer on your brain. So." He hauled the belt taut about the fighting
arms and made all fast. Then he sat himself on Benjamin's legs, which
thus ceased to be turbulent, and, taking off the garters, therewith
tied the ankles together.

Sighing satisfaction, Harry picked up the pistol and sword, spoils of
victory, and rose at his leisure. He contemplated the hapless highwayman
with benign interest for a moment, and turned to the coach. "You are
still there, ladies? Benjamin is flattered and so am I. But the play is
over. He will not be amusing for some time, and at any moment he may be
profane. I see him bursting with it. Pray drive on and remove your chaste
ears." He restored to them the jewel-case.

"Put him up on the box, sir," the younger woman cried.

"I beg your pardon, madame?"

"We will take him to the constables at Finchley."

"But why? He is beautiful there, my Benjamin, and I doubt he was never
beautiful before. And I have planted him so firmly. I think if we leave
him there he may grow and blossom. Do not dig him up again yet. Imagine
Benjamin in flower! A thing to dream of."

"You are pleased to be witty, sir. Come, we have lost time enough. Put
the rogue up, and do you mount with us."

Harry became aware that this young woman had a brow of pride. It was
ample and broad and, after the Greek manner, it rose almost in a line
with her admirable nose. A noble head, to be sure, but alarming to a mere
human man. So Harry thought, and he touched his hat and said: "Madame,
your most humble. Pray what do you want with my Benjamin? Your gentle
heart would never have him hanged."

Her eyes made Harry feel that he was impudent, which, unhappily, amused
him. "I desire the fellow should be given up to the law, sir," she said
coldly. "Have you anything against it?"

"Oh, ma'am, a thousand things, with which I'll not weary you. For I see
that you would not understand. You are very young (as I hope). Perhaps
you may soon grow older (which I pray for you). Let this suffice then.
My Benjamin may deserve a hanging. Who knows? We are not God, ma'am,
neither you nor I. Therefore I have no mind to be a hangman. And
you--why, you are young enough to wait another occasion. And so I give
you good-night. Home, coachman, home."

The young woman stared at him as though he were grovelling stupidity, and
then lay back on her cushions with a "You will drive on, Samuel."

Harry made his bow, and then, as the coach began to move, there was a
cry: "Alison! Alison! It is not right!" The older woman leaned forward,
and for the first time he remarked a gentle, motherly face, much lined
and worn. "Sure, sir, you will ride with us," she said, and he liked the
voice. "We may carry you home."

Harry smiled at her. "Nay, ma'am. I am too dirty for such fine company."

"Drive on," said Mistress Alison. And the coach rolled away.

Harry looked down at the wretched Benjamin, whose eyes answered with
apprehension and anxiety. "What's the game?" said Benjamin hoarsely. "I
say, master--what d'ye want with me?"

Harry did not answer. He was finding that motherly face, that pleasant
voice, curiously vivid still. This annoyed him, and he forced himself
back with a jerk to the oddity of events. "A queer business, my
Benjamin," he said. "Who was your captain, I wonder?"

Benjamin scowled. "I know nought o' no captain."

"Ah, I thought you did. But I fear you have annoyed the captain,
Benjamin. Now what had you done--or what had you not done?"

"It's not fair, master," Benjamin whined. "You do be making game of me,
and me beat."

"I am rebuked, Benjamin. Good-night."

"Oons, ye won't leave me so?" Benjamin howled. "I ha' done you no harm,
master. Come now, play fair. What d'ye want of me?"

"Nothing, Benjamin, nothing. I like you very well. You are a beautiful
mystery. Pleasant dreams."

The hapless Benjamin howled after him long and loud. Thereby Harry, who
had a musical ear, was spurred to his best pace. "It's a vile voice," he
reflected; "like Lady Waverton's. The marmoreal Alison was right. He
would be better hanged. But so also would Lady Waverton. She will
acridly want to know why I am late. Well! It will be a melancholy
satisfaction not to tell her. That will also annoy Geoffrey, who'll
magnificently indicate that I owe him an apology. The poor Geoffrey! He
is so fond of himself!"

His evening was as pleasant as he had anticipated. He won two shillings
from Lady Waverton at ombre, which made her angry; and lost them to
Geoffrey, which made him melancholy. For Mr. Waverton loved (in small
things) to be a martyr.




CHAPTER II

THE HOUSE OF WAVERTON


Mr. Waverton had an idea in his head. That was not the least unusual. It
was, unhappily, a wrong one. That was not unusual either. We must have a
trifle of Latin. Mr. Waverton, studying Horace, desired to translate,
_Civium ardor prava jubentium_ "the wicked ardour of the overbearing
citizens." In vain Harry urged that he was outraging grammar. Mr.
Waverton did not believe him, did not want to believe him--the same
thing. Mr. Waverton was convinced that he had an insight into the soul of
Horace which Harry's pedantic eyes could not share. He explained, as one
explains to a dull child, the rare poetic beauty of the sentiment which
he had produced. The hero whom Horace was celebrating, you know, was the
man superior to the common herd. Now common men (as even Harry might be
aware) are all overbearing. It is this quality in the vulgar which most
distresses fine souls (like Mr. Waverton) who desire nothing but their
just rights.

"I dare say it is," Harry yawned. "If Horace had wanted to mean that, he
would have said so."

"I often think, Harry, you dry scholars have no sense for the thought of
a poet," said Mr. Waverton elegantly, and lay back in his chair and
surveyed Harry.

He was a handsome lad and knew how to set it off. He had height and
bulk--almost too much of that indeed, and so made light of it by a
careless, lounging ease. At this time he was only twenty-two, but of a
precocious maturity. He had the self-possession--as well as the
full-bottomed wig--of experience and worldly wisdom, and would have liked
to hear you say so. In its dark aquiline style his face was finely
moulded and imposing, and already it had a massive gravity. "A mighty
grand fellow indeed," said Lady Dorchester once, "if only his mouth had
grown since he was a baby." It has to be admitted that Mr. Waverton's
mouth, a small, pretty feature, was oddly assorted with the haughty
manner in which the rest of him was constructed. The ladies who lamented
that were, for the most part, consoled by his eyes--large, dark eyes of a
liquid melancholy. But my Lord Wharton complained that they looked at him
like a hound's.

Mr. Waverton was an only son, and fatherless. He had also great
possessions. From his house of Tetherdown all the fields that he could
see stretching away to the Essex border were of his inheritance. His
mother was no wiser than she should have been. She consisted spiritually
of admiration for herself, for the family into which she had married, and
the son whom she had borne. "After all," said Harry Boyce in moments of
geniality, "it's wonderful the boy has come out of it so well."

Mr. Waverton, thanks to vacillation of himself and his mother, doubt as
to what career, what manner of education, what university, could be
worthy his talents, went up to Oxford at last and (for those days) very
late. After doing nothing for another year or two, he decided (which was
also unusual for a gentleman of means in those days) that he had a genius
in pure literature. Therefore Harry was hired to decorate him with all
the elegances of Greek and Latin.

The appointment was considered a great prize for a lad so awkward as
Harry Boyce. It might well end in a luxurious competence--a stewardship,
for example, and marriage with my lady's maid. "That is, if you play your
cards well, sirrah," the Sub-Warden felt it his duty to warn Harry's
difficult temper.

"Oh, sir, I could never play cards," said Harry, for the Sub-Warden was a
master at picquet. "I am too honest."

Yet he had not fallen out with Mr. Waverton. It is probable that he was
careful to keep on good terms with his bread and butter. But he had
always, I believe, a kindness for Geoffrey Waverton, and bore no ill will
for his parade of supremacy. Tyranny in small things, indeed, Mr.
Waverton did not affect. He had a desire to be magnificent. Those who did
not cross him, those who were content to be his inferiors, found him
amiable enough and, on occasion, generous....

"Shall we try another line, Mr. Waverton?" said Harry wearily.

"I have a mind to make an epigram," Mr. Waverton announced. "The
arrogance of the vulgar, the--the uninstructed--perhaps I lack the _mot
juste_, but _quand même_--the mansuetude of the loftier mind. A fine
antithesis that, I think." He stood up, walked to the window, and looked
out. Away down the hill the fields lay in a mellow mist, the kindly
autumn sun made the copses glow golden; it was a benign scene, apt to
encourage wit. Mr. Waverton lisped in numbers, but the numbers did not
come. He turned to seek stimulus from Harry. "You relish the thought?"

"It is a perfect subject for your style," said Harry.

Mr. Waverton smiled, and turned again to the window for productive
meditation.

A third man came lounging in, unheard by Mr. Waverton's rapt mind. He
opened his eyes at the back which Mr. Waverton turned upon Harry and the
space between them. "Why, Geoffrey, have you been very stupid this
morning? And has schoolmaster stood you in the corner? Well done, Mr.
Boyce. I always told you, spare the rod and spoil the child. Shall I go
cut a birch for you?"

"I wonder you are not tired of that old jest, Charles," said Waverton
with a dignity which did not permit him to turn round.

"Never while it annoys you, child."

"Mr. Waverton is in labour with a poem," Harry explained.

"And it's indecent in me to be present at the ceremony? Well, Geoffrey,
postpone the birth." He sat himself down at his ease in Geoffrey's chair.
He was a compact man with only one arm. He looked ten years older than
Geoffrey and was, in fact, five. The campaign in Flanders which had
destroyed his right arm had set and hardened a frame and face by nature
solid enough. That face was long and angular, with a heavy chin and an
expression of sardonic complacency oddly increased by the jauntiness of
its shabby brown wig.

Waverton turned round wearily upon the unwelcome guest. "Well, Charles,
what is it?"

"It is nothing. My dear Geoffrey, if I had anything to do or anything to
say why should I come to you?"

"_Merci_, monsieur," Waverton smiled gracious indulgence.

Mr. Hadley chuckled, and in French replied: "Yes, let's talk French; it
embellishes our simple wit and elevates our souls above the vulgar."

There is reason to believe that Waverton liked his French better in
fragments than continuously. He still smiled condescension, but risked no
other answer.

"Come, Geoffrey, what's the news?" Mr. Hadley reverted to English.
"Could you say your lessons this morning? And did you wear a new coat
last night?"

"You may go if you will, Harry. Mr. Hadley will be talking for some
time," Waverton said. "Indeed, he may, perhaps, have something to say."

Harry was used to being turned out for any reason or none. He well
understood that Waverton was not fond of an audience when he was being
laughed at. "If you please," he said, and made his bow to Mr. Hadley.

"Why, what's the matter? I don't bite. You are too meek for this life,
Mr. Boyce." He looked at Harry with some contempt in his grey eyes.
"Oons, you're a man and a brother, ain't you? Sit down and be hearty.
Lud, Geoffrey, why do you never have a pipe in the room?"

"It's death to a clean taste, your tobacco smoking, and I value my wine."

"Value it, quotha! Ay, by the spoonful. You ha' never known how to drink
since they weaned you. And you, Mr. Boyce, d'ye never smoke a pipe over
your Latin?"

"I hope I know my place, Mr. Hadley," Harry said solemnly.

Charles Hadley stared at him. "Hear the Scripture, Mr. Boyce: 'What shall
it profit a man though he gain a pretty patron and lose his own soul?'"

"You are very polite, sir," said Harry.

"Upon my honour, Charles, this is too much," Mr. Waverton cried in noble
indignation. "Mr. Boyce is my friend, and you'll be good enough to take
him as yours if you come to my house."

Charles Hadley was not out of countenance. He eyed them both, and his
sardonic expression was more marked. "You make a pretty pair," said he.
"When two men ride a horse, one must ride behind. Eh, Mr. Boyce? I
wonder. Well, Geoffrey, it's a wicked world. Had you heard of that?"

"The world is what you make it, I think," said Mr. Waverton with
dignity.

"Oons, I could sometimes believe you did make it. A simple, pompous
place, Geoffrey, that is kind to you if you'll not laugh at it. And full
of petty, pompous mysteries. Maybe you make the mysteries too, Geoffrey.
Damme, it is so. It's perfectly in your manner," he chuckled abundantly.
"Come, child, what were you doing on the highway yesterday?"

Harry stared at him. "When you have finished laughing at your joke,
perhaps you will make it," said Waverton. "Pray let us have it over
before dinner."

"My dear child, why be so touchy? Were you bitten? Well, you know, this
morning one of my fellows brings in a miserable wretch he had found on
the road by Black Horse Spinney. The thing was half-dead with wet and
cold. He had been lying there all night--so he said, and it's the one
thing I believe of him. He was found trussed as tight as a chicken in his
own sword-belt and his own garters. Damme, it was a fellow of some humour
had the handling of him. He had not been robbed, for there was a bag of
money at his middle. He professed that he could tell nothing of who had
trussed him or why he was set upon. He would have nought of law or hue
and cry. Egad, empty and shivering as he was, he wanted nothing but to be
let go. A perfect Christian, as you remark, Geoffrey. Now, you or I, if
we had been tied up in the mud through one of these damned raw nights,
would take some pains to catch the fellow who did the trussing. But my
wretch was as meek as the Gospels. So here is a silly, teasing mystery.
Who is the footpad that is at the pains of tying up a fellow and never
looks for his purse? Odds fish, I did not know we had a gentleman of such
humour in these parts. I suspect you, Geoffrey, I protest. There's a
misty fatuousness about it which--"

"By your leave, sir," a servant appeared, "my lady waits dinner."

"Then I fear we shall pay for it," said Hadley, and stood up.

"You dine with us, Charles?" Mr. Waverton was not hearty about it.

"I'll give you that pleasure, child. Well, Mr. Boyce, what do you make of
my mystery?"

Harry had to say something. "Perhaps your friend was carrying more than
guineas," he said.

"What then? Papers and plots and the high political? I don't think it. If
you saw him--a mere tub of beer--and a leaky tub this morning, for he had
a vile cold in the head and dribbled damnably."

"I give it up then. Have you let him go?" They were moving out in the
corridor and Hadley did not answer. "Is he gone?" Harry said again.

Hadley turned round upon him. "Why, yes. Does it signify?"

"I wonder who he was," said Harry.

Upon that they entered the drawing-room of Lady Waverton. It was
congested and dim. The two oriel windows were so draped with curtains of
pink and yellow that only a faint light as of the last of a sunset
filtered through. The wide spaces were beset with screens in lacquer,
odd chairs, Dutch tables, and very many cabinets,--cabinets inlaid with
flowers and birds of many colours; cabinets full of shells, agates,
corals, and any gaudy stone; cabinets and yet again more cabinets full of
Eastern china. In the midst Lady Waverton reclined.

She had been handsome in a large, bold style, and might still have been
but for excessive decoration. Her dress was voluminous white satin
embroidered in a big pattern of gold and set off with black. It was low
at her opulent bosom, to the curves of which the eye was directed by
black patches craftily fixed. There were many more patches on her face
which, still only a little too full and too loose, had its colours laid
on in sharp and vivid contrasts. Her black hair was erected in
symmetrical waves high above her brow, and one ringlet was brought by
glossy, frozen curls to caress her bosom. She held out the whitest of
hands drooping from a large but still fine arm for Mr. Hadley to kiss.

"You are a bad fellow, Charles Hadley," she pouted. "You make me
feel old."

"There's a common childish fancy, ma'am."

"You never come to see me now. And when you do come, 'tis not to see me."

"A thousand pardons. Mr. Boyce delayed me awhile with the beauties of his
conversation."

"Mr. Boyce?" she looked at Harry as if wondering that he dared exist. "Go
and see why they do not bring in dinner."

Having thus diminished Harry, she proceeded, without waiting for him to
be gone, to criticize him. "You know, I would never have a chaplain in
the house. This tutor fellow is of the same breed, Charles. They tease
me, these men which are neither gentlemen nor servants. Faith, life's
hard for the poor wretches. They are torn 'twixt their conceit and their
poverty. They know not from minute to minute whether they will fawn or be
insolent. So they do both indifferent ill."

Harry, who chose not to hear, was opening the door. There came in upon
him a woman--the young woman of the coach. Even as he recoiled, bowing,
even as he collected his startled wits, he was aware of the singular
beauty of her complexion. Its delicacy, its life, were nonpareil. The
first clear process of his mind was to wonder how he had contrived not to
remark that complexion when first he saw her.

Lady Waverton lifted up her voice. "Alison! Dear child! And are you home
at last? It's delicious in you. You seek us out first, do you not? My
sweet girl!" Alison was engulfed. Conceive apple blossom in the embraces
of a peony.

The apple blossom emerged with a calm, "Dear Lady Waverton."

"You are a sad bad thing. I writ you five letters, I think, and not one
from you."

"You are so much cleverer than I am. I had nothing to say." Alison's
voice was sweet and low, but too sublimely calm for perfect comfort in
her hearers. "So here I am to say it and make my excuses," she dropped
a small curtsey, "my lady. Why, Geoffrey, I thought you had been back
at Oxford!"

Mr. Waverton came forward, smiling magnificence. "I am delighted to
disappoint you, Alison."

"Nay, never believe her, Geoffrey," Lady Waverton lifted up her voice
and was arch. "I vow she counted on finding you here. Why else had she
come? I know when I was a toast I wasted none of my time going to see old
women," she languished affectionately at the girl.

"Dear Lady Waverton,"--if it was possible, Alison's voice became calmer
than ever--"how well you know me. And how cruel to expose me. If Geoffrey
had his mother's wit, faith, I should never dare come here at all."

"It is not my wit which you need ever fear, Alison," Geoffrey's eyes were
ardent upon her.

"Why, you are merciful. Or is it modest?"

"I can be neither, Alison. I am a man."

"My dear Geoffrey, I am sorry for all your misfortunes." She turned from
him to Mr. Hadley, who was content in a corner. "Have we quarrelled?"

"We never loved each other well enough."

"Is that why I am always very glad to see Mr. Hadley?"

"It is why he can tell Miss Lambourne that she looks divinely beautiful."

"That means inhuman, sir."

"Which is not my fault, ma'am."

Geoffrey was visibly restive at his exclusion, "Charles never could pay a
compliment without a sting in it."

"That is why they are agreeable, sir," said she.

"That is why they are true," said Hadley in the same breath, and they
laughed together.

Lady Waverton interfered imperiously. "Alison, dear, come sit by me and
tell me all about yourself."

"Faith, not with the gentlemen to listen," said she, and was saved by
Harry and the butler, who came in together announcing dinner.

Lady Waverton rose elaborately. "Give me your arm, Charles. My
dear Alison--"

"But who is this?" Alison said, and she stared with placid, candid
interest at Harry. With equal composure Harry stared back. But there was
no candour in his expressionless face. For he had become keenly aware of
her beauty. It was waking in him desire and already something deeper and
stronger, and he vehemently resented the disturbance. He had no wish to
be troubled by any woman, and for this woman, judging her on her
behaviour, he felt even a little more contempt than the store which he
had for all her sex. It was cursedly impertinent in her to be such a joy
to the blood. She stood there, her eyes level with his eyes, and dared to
look as strong as he--slighter to be sure, but not too slight for a
woman, and delectably deep bosomed. There was life and laughter in that
calm Greek face, and the vivid, delicate colour of it maddened him. The
great crown of black hair was just what her brow needed for its royalty.
He could find no fault in the irksome wench. Even her dress, dark grey as
her eyes, perfectly became her, perfectly pleased in its generous
modesty. And she knew of her power too. There was a mocking confidence in
every line of her.

"But who is this, Lady Waverton?" she was saying again.

Lady Waverton tried to draw her on. "'Tis but Geoffrey's new factotum."

"My good friend, Harry Boyce, Alison," said Geoffrey with a patronly hand
on Harry's shoulder.

Harry made his bow.

"Faith, sir, we have met before," she smiled.

"No, ma'am," Harry bowed again. "I have never had an honour, which, sure,
I could not forget."

Her brow wrinkled. Lady Waverton swept her on, and Harry in the rear had
the pleasure of hearing Lady Waverton say: "A poor, vulgar wretch, my
dear. An out-at-elbows scholar which Geoffrey met at Oxford and keeps out
of charity. He is too soft of heart, dear boy, and such creatures stick
to him like burrs."

The dinner-table was a blaze of silver, but otherwise not bountifully
provided. Lady Waverton looked down it with pride. "I am of Mr. Addison's
mind, my dear," she announced. "Do you remember? 'Two plain dishes with
two good-natured, cheerful, ingenious friends make me more pleased and
vain than all your luxury.'"

"Why, then, you must now be sore out of countenance," Alison protested.
"For I am not good-natured and I vow Mr. Hadley is not cheerful." Mr.
Hadley's face, set in contemplation of the food, shed gloom and
apprehension. "But perhaps Mr. Boyce is ingenious."

"I hope so," said Hadley.

It was Harry's task to carve, which dispensed him from answering the
girl or even looking at her. One not abundant fowl and a calf's head
smoked before him. Under a heavy fire of directions from Lady Waverton
he did his duty.

Miss Lambourne may have suddenly grown weary of Lady Waverton's eloquence
upon the daintiest bits of these unexciting foods. She may have been
waiting for the moment when Harry would have no occupation to prevent him
listening to her. While my lady was still explaining the superiority of
her calf, as bred and born in the house of Waverton, to all other calves,
just when Harry had finished his work, Miss Lambourne broke out: "Faith,
I was almost forgetting my splendid story. I wonder, now, have any of you
met any ventures on the North Road?"

Harry began to eat. Charles Hadley ceased an anxious examination of his
plate and looked at her. Lady Waverton cried out: "Dear Alison! Don't
tell me you have been stopped. Too terrible! I vow I could never bear it.
I should die of shame. They tell me these rogues are vilely impudent to a
fine woman."

Geoffrey exhibited a tender agitation. "Why, Alison, what is it? Zounds,
I cannot have you go travelling alone! You must give me news when you
make a journey, and I'll ride with you."

"Thank you for your agonies. But the virgin in distress found her
knight-errant duly provided. He rose out of the mud romantically apropos.
To be sure, I think he was mad. But that is all in the part. The complete
hero. Geoffrey, could you be a little mad?"

"More than a little," said he with proper ardour. "Pray don't torture us,
Alison. Let us hear."

"It's on my mind that I am going to hear news of my funny friend," said
Hadley solemnly. "Don't you think so, Mr. Boyce?"

Harry, who had been eating with the humble zeal appropriate to a poor
scholar, looked up for a moment: "Why, sir, I can't tell at all. If you
say so, indeed--" and he went on eating.

"Come, are you in it too, Mr. Hadley?" Alison cried.

"In it, odds life, I am bewilderingly out of it," quoth Hadley, and again
told his tale of the mysterious man found tied up in the mud who knew
nothing of his assailants and wanted no vengeance on them.

"That's our Benjamin," Alison laughed. "Oh, but you did not let him go?"

"Not let him go, quotha! For what I know, he was a poor, suffering
martyr, though to look at his nose, I doubt it. And yet he was fool
enough. Nay, how could I stay him?"

"Why, send him to gaol for a rogue and a vagabond. Should he not?" she
invited the suffrages of the table.

"Dear Alison, to be sure, yes," Lady Waverton murmured. "These fellows
must be put down."

"You owed it to yourself to look deeper into the matter, Charles," said
Geoffrey gravely.

"Come, Mr. Boyce, your sentence too," Alison cried, wicked eyes
intent upon him.

He met them with bland meekness. "Indeed, ma'am, I can't tell. It's Mr.
Hadley's affair."

"From a virtuous woman, good Lord deliver us," Hadley groaned. "You would
make a rare hanging judge, Alison. Now, i' God's name, let's have your
tale. What's the rogue to you?"

"Oh, sir, a great joy. Why, he gave me the only knight-errant ever I had.
A vile muddy one, to be sure, but poor maids must not be choosers. We
were driving home, Mrs. Weston and I, and by Black Horse Spinney we were
stopped by two highwaymen. They had just begun to be rude, when out of
the mud comes my knight-errant, bold as Don Quixote and as shabby withal,
and with a pretty wit too--which is not much in the way of
knight-errants, I think. He scared the highwaymen's horses and set them
bolting with the one fellow which held them, then he knocked the other
down, took his pistol, and tied the rogue up in his own garters. Oh, the
neatest knight-errant ever you saw. Then we bade him put the fellow on
the box and drive on with us. But monsieur was haughty, if you please. He
wanted none of our company. Off he packed us, for me to cry my eyes out
for love of him. Which I do heartily, I warrant you."

"Alison!" Geoffrey cried, and laid his hand on hers.

"Faith, yes, give me sympathy. I have loved and lost--in the mud. To be
sure, I can ne'er be my own woman again till I find him and give him--a
brush, I think, and maybe a pair of breeches too, for his own can never
recover their youth. Dear Geoffrey, help me to find him."

Geoffrey had taken his hand away in a hurry. He contemplated her with
cold reproof. It did not trouble her. She was giving all her attention to
Harry; gay, malicious eyes challenged him to declare himself, mocked him
for his modesty, vaunted what she had to give.

"Damme, this is madder and madder yet," Hadley broke in. "Who is your
Orlando Furioso that's a champion of dames and too haughty to ride in
their carriage; that ties up highwaymen and forgets to tell the constable
where he left 'em? Odso, I thought I knew most of the fools in these
parts, but there's one bigger than I know."

"Dear Alison--I could never have survived it--but you are so strong--and
what a person! My dear, I could not bear to think of him. A rude, low
fellow, to be sure," Thus Lady Waverton coherently.

Alison laughed. "I doubt I'm not so delicate," Then she leaned towards
Harry. "Well, and you? Come, Mr. Boyce, why leave yourself out?"

"I beg pardon, ma'am?"

She made an impatient sound. "And what do you think of my hero?"

"I wonder who the gentleman was, ma'am," Harry said.

Her eyes fought a moment more with his bland, meaningless face. "Faith, I
think he's a fool for his pains," said she.

"Grateful woman," Hadley grunted. "Humph. _Spretae injuria formae_, ain't
it, Mr. Boyce? Give miss a construe."

Harry gave a deprecating cough instead.

"Oh, be brave, sir," she jeered.

"I am afraid it means 'the insult of slighting your beauty,' ma'am," said
Harry meekly.

Lady Waverton straightened her back and looked ice at him. But the
butler was at her elbow, whispering. "Colonel Boyce?" she repeated. "What
Colonel Boyce? Who is Colonel Boyce?

"It might be my father," Harry suggested.

"Why, Harry, I never knew you had a father," Waverton sneered amiably.

"Is your father a colonel?" Lady Waverton was torn between incredulity of
such presumption and rage at it.

"Not that I know of, my lady. But he has always surprised me."

"Shall we have him in, Geoffrey?" said Lady Waverton.

"My dear mother!" Geoffrey waved his hand to the butler. "Ask the
gentleman to be so good as to join us."

Mr. Hadley turned in his chair, and over the remnants of the fowl and the
calf's head directed a grim smile at Harry. "Thank you for a very
pleasant dinner," said he.




CHAPTER III

A MAN OF MANY WORLDS


There came in a man of many colours. Dazzled eyes, recovering from their
first dismay, might admit that his splendours were harmonious. A red coat
with gold buttons, a waistcoat of gold satin embroidered in blue,
breeches of blue velvet with golden garters were topped by a face burnt
brown and a great jet-black periwig. He carried off all this with airy
ease. "My lady, your most humble and devoted," he bowed to Lady Waverton.
"Harry, dear lad," he held out his hands, and Harry, rising, found
himself embraced and kissed on both cheeks.

"Colonel Boyce is it?" said Lady Waverton with some emphasis on
the title.

"In the service of your ladyship," he laughed, and bowed to her again,
and turned upon the company. "Pray present me, dear lady." She made
some stumbling about it, but Colonel Boyce appeared to enjoy himself
with an "I account myself fortunate, ma'am," for Miss Lambourne; with a
"My boy's friends are mine, sir--and his debts too," for Geoffrey; and
to Mr. Hadley, "You have served, sir?" with a look of respect at the
empty sleeve.

Hadley nodded. "Ay, ay. The red field of honour. Well, there's no
life like it."

"That's why I left it," Hadley grunted.

"Come, sir, draw up a chair and join us," Geoffrey said. "Be sure you are
very welcome."

"Ten thousand thanks." Without enthusiasm Colonel Boyce looked at the
calf's head. "But--egad, I am sorry for it now--but I have dined."

"At least you'll drink a glass of wine with us?"

"Oh, I can't deny myself the pleasure, sir." He drew up a chair, Geoffrey
reached at a decanter, and so Lady Waverton rose and Alison after her.

Colonel Boyce started up. "But no--not at that price. Damme, that would
poison the Prince's own Tokay. Nay, you are too cruel, my lady. I come,
and you desolate the table to receive me. Gad's life, ma'am, our friends
here will be calling me out for my daring to exist."

Lady Waverton was very well pleased. "Sir, you will let me give you a
dish of tea. I warrant the men were already sighing to be rid of us."

"Then I vow they be blind," quoth Colonel Boyce, and opened the door,
from which he came back with a laugh to his glass of port. Over drinking
it he went through all the tricks of the connoisseur and ended with a
cultured ecstasy.

"I see you are a man of the world, Colonel," Hadley sneered.

"A man of many worlds, sir," the Colonel laughed easily.

"I wonder which this is?"

"Why, this is the world of good company and good fellowship--" he smiled
and bowed to Geoffrey--"of sound wine and sound learning."

"Sir, you are very good. But I hope my wine is better than my
scholarship. This is our man of learning," he slapped Harry on the
shoulder. "And Harry counts me a mere trifler, a literary exquisite, an
amateur of elegances."

"If your scholarship has the elegance of your wine, Mr. Waverton, you do
very well. I doubt my Harry is no judge of the graces. He has always been
something of a plodder."

"Have I?" Harry found his tongue. "How did you know?"

The Colonel laughed. "He has me there, the rogue. The truth is,
gentlemen, I have not seen him in these six years. Damme, Harry, you are
grown no fatter."

"Servitors don't make flesh," said Harry.

"And soldiers don't make money. Still; there's enough for two now, boy."

"I am glad you have been fortunate," the tone suggested that though
the father had quite enough for two; there would be none to spare
for the son.

"Why, sir," Waverton was grandly genial, "I hope you don't mean to rob me
of Harry. He's the most useful fellow, and, I promise you; I value him."

"Thank you very much," said Harry.

"I'll take you into my confidence, Mr. Waverton," the Colonel leaned
across the table.

"Then I'll take my leave," said Hadley.

"No need, sir. At this time, we all know, there are higher claims on a
man than a friend's or a father's."

"I feel like a pawn," Harry complained.

"Egad, sir, a pawn may save a queen or check a king."

"But do you suppose it enjoys it?"

"Are you away to the war, sir?" Geoffrey smiled. "I doubt our Harry has
no turn for soldiering."

"You are always right, Mr. Waverton," Harry nodded at him.

"It is not only soldiers who fight our battles, Mr. Waverton," said the
Colonel with dignity. "There's danger enough for a quick wit and a cool
judgment far behind the lines. And you need not go to Flanders to find
the war. It's flaming all over England, all over--France," he dropped the
last word in a lower tone, as if his heat had carried him away and it was
a blunder. He flung himself back and emptied his glass, and looked
gloomily at the empty decanter. "Why, Mr. Waverton, you have made me into
a babbler. It's time you delivered me to the ladies."

"Aye, aye," Hadley yawned. "Let's try another of the worlds."

They marched out, but the Colonel and Waverton, waiting on each other,
were some distance behind the other pair.

"You must know I have often had some desire for the life of action," said
Mr. Waverton.

To which the Colonel earnestly, "I have never known a man more fit for
it," and upon that they entered my lady's drawing-room.

Miss Lambourne was singing Carey's song of the nightingale:

"While in a Bow'r with beauty blest
  The lov'd Amintor lies,
While sinking on Lucinda's breast
  He fondly kiss'd her Eyes.
A wakeful nightingale who long
  Had mourn'd within, the Shade
Sweetly renewed her plaintive song
  And warbled through the Glade."

On the coming of the men the wakeful nightingale broke off her plaintive
song abruptly.

Lady Waverton, who was again at full length on her couch, then opened
her eyes. "Delicious, delicately delicious," she sighed. "Why did you
stop, dear?" she controlled a yawn. "Oh, the men! Odious creatures!" she
rose on her elbow and looked at them, and looked down at her dress and
patted it.

Colonel Boyce accepted the challenge briskly, and marched upon her.
"Egad, my lady, your name is cruelty."

"Who--I, sir? I vow I never had the heart to see any creature suffer."

"Nay, your very nature is cruelty. You exist but to torture us."

"Good lack, sir," says my lady, well pleased, "and must I die to serve
your pleasure?"

"Why, there it is. We can neither bear to be with you nor to be without
you. I protest, ma'am, your sex was made for our torture. 'Tis why you
parade it and delight in it."

"Lud, sir, you are mighty rude," my lady simpered. "I parade my sex?
Alack, my modesty!"

"Modesty--that's but another weapon to madden us. Fie, ma'am, why do you
clothe yourself in such beauty but to flaunt upon our senses that sex of
yours?" My lady was duly shocked and hid behind her fan. "Aye, there it
is! We catch a whiff of paradise and straightway it is denied us. Our
nightingale there is silent when we draw near. Our Venus here hides
herself when our eyes would enjoy her. As His Grace said to me, you women
are like heaven to a damned soul."

"You are a wicked fellow," said Lady Waverton with relish.

Geoffrey at his elbow put in, "'His Grace,' Colonel?"

"The Old Corporal, Mr. Waverton. The Duke of Marlborough."

"You have served with him, sir?"

Colonel Boyce gave a laugh of genial condescension. "Why, yes, Mr.
Waverton, I stand as close to His Grace as most men."

After a moment of impressive silence, the Wavertons vigorously directed
the conversation to the Duke of Marlborough. Colonel Boyce made no
objection. In the most obliging manner he admitted them to a piquant
intimacy with His Grace's manners and customs. He mingled things personal
and high politics with a fascinating air of letting out secrets at every
word; and, throughout, he maintained a tantalizing discretion about his
own position. My lady and Mr. Waverton were more and more fascinated.

So that Miss Lambourne had good opportunity to try her maiden steel upon
Harry. As soon as he came in, he withdrew himself to a cabinet of medals
in a remote corner. Mr. Hadley approached the harpsichord and reached it
just before it fell silent. Miss Lambourne looked up into his face.

"Yes, shall we lay our heads together?" said he.

"But I doubt mine would turn yours."

"If you'll risk it, ma'am, I will."

"La, sir, is this an offer? I protest I am all one blush."

"Then your imagination is bolder than mine, ma'am. I mean--"

"Oh, fie for shame! To disgrace a poor maid so! To betray her weakness!
It is unmanly, Mr. Hadley. Sure, my father (in the general resurrection)
will have your blood. I leave you to your conscience, sir," which she
did, making for Harry.

Mr. Hadley, remaining by the harpsichord, contemplated them, and with his
one hand caressed his chin. "It's a fascinating family, the family of
Boyce," said he to himself.

Miss Lambourne sat herself down beside Harry before he chose to be aware
of her coming. He started up and obsequiously drew away.

"You are very coy, Mr. Boyce," said the lady.

Harry replied, with the servile laughter of a dependent, "Oh, ma'am, you
are mocking me."

"Tit for tat"--Alison's eyes had some fire in them.

"Tat, ma'am?"

"Lud, now, don't be tedious. Sir, the house of Waverton is entranced by
your splendid father: and Charles Hadley (as usual) is entranced by
himself. You have no audience Mr. Boyce. Stop acting, and tell me--what
is wrong with me?"

Harry considered her with calm criticism. "It's not for me to tell Miss
Lambourne that she is too beautiful."

"Indeed, I thought you had more sense."

"Too beautiful," Harry persisted deliberately; "too beautiful to be
good company."

"That will not serve, sir. You are not so inflammable. Being more in the
nature of a tortoise."

"If you had a flaw or so: if your nose had a twist; if your cheeks had
felt the weather; if--I fear, ma'am, I grow intimate. In fine, if you
were less fine, you would be a comfort to a man. But as it is--permit the
tortoise to keep in his shell."

"I advise you, Mr. Boyce--I resent this."

Harry bowed. "I dare to remind you, ma'am--I did not demand the
conversation."

"The conversation!" Her eyes flashed. "What do I care if a lad's
impudent? Perhaps I like it well enough, Mr. Boyce. There is more than
that between you and me. You have done me something of a service, and
you'll not let me avow it nor pay you. Well?"

"Well, ma'am, you're telling the truth," said Harry placidly.

The lady made an exclamation. "I shall bear you a grudge for this, sir."

"I am vastly obliged, ma'am."

The lady drew back a little and looked at him full, which he bore
calmly. "I suppose I am beneath Mr. Boyce's concernment."

"Not beneath, ma'am. Above. Above. Do you admire the Italian medals?
They are of a delicate restraint," He turned to the cabinet and began
to lecture.

Miss Lambourne was not repulsed. He maintained a steady flow of
instruction. She waited, watching him.

By this time Colonel Boyce was growing tired of his Duke of Marlborough
and his State secrets, and seeking diversion. "Odds fish, it's a hard
road that leads to fortune. You are happy, Mr. Waverton. You were born
with yours."

"I conceive, sir, that every man of high spirit must needs take the
road to fame."

"A dream of a shadow, Mr. Waverton," said the Colonel, with melancholy
grandeur. "'Take the goods the gods provide you,'" he waved his hand at
the crowded opulence of the room and then, smiling paternally, at Miss
Lambourne.

Lady Waverton simpered at her son. He chose to ignore the hint.
"Why, Colonel, if a man is happily placed above vulgar needs, the
more reason--"

"Vulgar needs! Oh, fie, Mr. Waverton. A divine creature." Colonel
Boyce looked wicked, and his easy hand designed in the air Miss
Lambourne's shape.

Lady Waverton tittered. Geoffrey blushed, and "You do me too much honour
sir, indeed," he stammered.

Colonel Boyce turned smiling upon Lady Waverton. "I vow, ma'am, a man
hath twice the modesty of a maid."

"You are a bad fellow," said Lady Waverton, very well pleased.

"You go too fast, sir;" with so much mirth about him Geoffrey feared for
his dignity. "There is nothing between me and Miss Lambourne."

The Colonel shook his head. "I confess I thought better of you, sir.
What, is miss her own mistress?"

"Miss Lambourne has no father or mother, sir."

"And her face is her fortune? Egad, 'tis the prettiest romance!"

Geoffrey and his mother laughed together. "Not quite all her fortune,
sir. She is the only child of Sir Thomas Lambourne."

"What! old Tom Lambourne of the India House?" Colonel Boyce whistled. He
looked with a new interest at her as she stood by Harry, absorbing the
lecture on medals, and as he looked his face put on a queer air of
mockery. This he presented to Geoffrey. "Something of a plum, sirrah.
Well, well, some folks have but to open their mouths."

Mr. Waverton, not quite certain whether the Colonel ought to be so
familiar, concluded to be pleased, and laughed fatuously. During which
music the butler announced "Mrs. Weston."

Lady Waverton and Geoffrey exchanged a glance of disgust. Lady Waverton
murmured, "What a person!" It escaped their notice that Colonel Boyce had
stiffened at the name. His full face lost all its geniality, all
expression. He was for the first time singularly like his son.

Mrs. Weston was Alison's companion of the coach, a woman of middle age,
inclining to be stout; but her face was thin and lined, belying her
comfortable aspect,--a wistful face which had known much sorrow, and had
still much tenderness to give.

Lady Waverton put out a languid and supercilious hand. "I hope you
are better."

"Thank you. I have not been ill."

"Oh, I always forget."

"Your servant, ma'am." Geoffrey bowed.

"Oh,"--Lady Waverton turned on her elbow. "Colonel Boyce--Mrs. Weston,
Alison's companion. Faith, duenna, I think."

"Your most obedient, ma'am." Colonel Boyce bowed low.

Mrs. Weston stared at him, seemed to try to speak, said nothing, and
hurried across the room.

"Alison, dear, are you ready?" her voice sounded hoarse.

"Am I ever ready?" Alison laughed. "Weston, dear, we are finding friends
here;" she pointed to Harry.

Colonel Boyce had followed. He laid his hand on Harry's shoulder: "My
son, ma'am," said he.

Mrs. Weston's eyes grew wide, and her face was white and drawn, and she
swayed. As Harry bowed to her, a lacquered box was swept off the table
with a great clatter, and Colonel Boyce cried, "Odds life, Harry, you are
a clumsy fellow. Here, man, here," and made a great commotion over
picking it up.

Alison had her arm about Mrs. Weston: "Why, Weston, dear, what is it? Are
you seeing a ghost?" She laughed. "Pray, Mr. Boyce, come to life."

"I ask pardon, ma'am." Harry rose with the box.

"'Bid me to live and I will live,'" said the Colonel, with a grand air.

"Come away, dear, come," Mrs. Weston gasped, in much agitation.

"Why, Weston, he is not our highwayman, you know," Alison was still
laughing, and then seeing her distress real, took it in earnest. "You are
shaken, poor thing. Come!" She mothered the woman away and, turning,
called over her shoulder--

"_Revanche_, Mr. Boyce." There was an explanation to Lady Waverton: poor
Weston had been so alarmed by the highwaymen that she was not fit to be
out of her bed, and anything alarmed her; even Mr. Boyce; so dear Lady
Waverton must forgive them. And Geoffrey took them to their carriage.

"What a person!" said Lady Waverton.

Mr. Hadley came out of his corner and looked Harry up and down with
dislike. "Let me know when you play the next act, Mr. Boyce," he
said, and turned to Lady Waverton. "My lady, I beg leave to go with
my friends."




CHAPTER IV

A GENTLEMAN'S PURSE


In a small, bare room Colonel Boyce sat himself down on a pallet bed and
made a wry face at his son. "My poor, dear boy," he said, and shifted
uneasily, and looked round at the stained walls and shivered. "It's damp,
I vow it's damp," he complained.

"Oh yes. It's damp after rain, and it's hot after sun, and it's icy after
frost. It's a very sympathetic room," said Harry.

"They are barbarians, these Wavertons. I vow they give their horses
better lodging."

"Oh yes. I am not worth so much as a horse," said Harry.

"Lud, Harry, don't whine,"--his father was irritated. "Have some spirit.
I hate to hear a lad meek."

"I thought you did," said Harry.

The Colonel laughed. "Oh, I am bit, am I? _Tant mieux_. But why the devil
do you stay here?"

"Now why the devil do you want to know?" said Harry.

"No, that is not kind, boy."

"Oh, Oh, are we kind?"

"My dear Harry, I have not seen you for six years, and I have not come
now to quarrel."

"Then why have you come?" said the affectionate son.

"You are a gracious cub." Colonel Boyce would not be ruffled. "When I saw
you last, Harry--"

"You borrowed a shilling of me. I remember I was glad that I had
not another."

"You can have it back with interest now. There is plenty in the purse,
Harry, and half of all mine is yours."

"You have changed," Harry said. "Odds life, Harry, bear no grudges. I
dare say I was hard in what you remember of me. Well, things were hard
upon me and I lived hard. You shall find me mellow enough now."

"Hard? I don't know that you were hard. I thought you were as cold as
ice. I believe, sir, I am still frozen."

"Egad, Harry, you must have had a curst childhood."

"Oh, must we be sympathetic?" said Harry.

"You're right, boy. The past is past. 'Tis your future which is the
matter. So again--why do you stay here?"

Harry laughed. "They give me bed and board, and a shilling or two by
the month."

"Bed?" His father shifted upon it. "A bag of stones, I think. And for the
board--bread of affliction and water of affliction by what I saw of the
remains. Egad, Harry, they are savages, these Wavertons."

"I did not hear you say so to madame. And Geoffrey is not a bad fellow
as far as he has understanding."

"A dolt, eh? He might take a woman's eye, though. These big dreamy
fellows, the women hanker after them queerly. Take care, Harry." He
looked knowing. "Bed and board--bah, you can do better than that. Now
what do you think I have been doing?"

"Something profitable, to judge by your genial splendours. Have you
turned highwayman?"

"You all talk about highwaymen in this house," said the Colonel with a
frown and a keen glance.

"Damme, no."

"Why, are you really a colonel?"

"Faith, you may come see my commission,"--Colonel Boyce was not
annoyed,--"and, egad, share my pay." He pulled out a fat purse and thrust
some guineas upon Harry. "Don't deny me now, boy," he said, with some
tenderness.

"I never meant to," said Harry, and counted them. "But how long have you
been a soldier? I never knew you were anything."

"I have been with his Grace of Marlborough in every campaign since
Blenheim. Do you think it's a good service, Harry?" he smiled at his
own opulence.

"For a versatile man," said Harry, and looked at his father curiously.

"Why, I can take the field as well as another. Egad, when Vendome fell
back from Oudenarde I was commanding a battalion. But it is not in the
field that my best work is done."

"Faith, I had guessed that," Harry said.

"You have a sharp tongue, Harry. It's a dangerous weakness. Be careful
to grow out of it. Then I think you may do well enough."

"In your profession, sir? To be sure, you flatter me."

"In my profession--" His father looked at him keenly. "I am not sure.
Maybe you can do better, which will be well enough. Now, what can you do?
You can use a sword, I suppose, though you wear none?"

Harry shrugged. "I know the rigmarole, the salutes; I could begin a duel,
_par exemple_. It's the other man who would end it."

"Duels--bah, only dolts are troubled with them. You must learn to hold
your own in a flurry. You can ride, I suppose?"

"If the beast has a mane."

"Humph. You speak French?"

"As we speak it in England."

"Yes." His father nodded. "When a man is no fool, he finds his profit in
not doing things too well. Well, Harry, are you Whig or Tory--Jacobite or
Hanoverian?"

"Whichever you like, sir."

"By the Lord, you take after me mightily. Now look 'e, thus it is. The
Queen grows old. She eats too well and drinks too well, and she has the
gout. It's common among all who know her ways that she cannot last long.
The poor soul will not be wise at dinner. But even if she should last, we
are in an odd case. For Anne hath a conscience as well as a stomach, and
it seems they grow together. As the old lady gets fatter, she feels
remorse. When she's tearful after dinner now she asks her women what
right she has to be queen and keep a good cellar while her poor
half-brother Prince James lives in exile on _vin ordinaire_."

Harry shrugged his shoulders. "'Poor, dear lad,' says she, 'and to
be sure I am a sad, bad woman. But I think I'll die a queen.' What
then, sir?"

"I don't say you are wrong, Harry. She's more like to drown the lad in
tears than right him. And meanwhile our rightful king, James the
Pretender, is left to his _vin ordinaire_. Faith, it's a proper liquor,
for rightful heirs which can't right themselves. And yet there is a
chance. The Queen has always been religious, and when a woman hath
religion she may play the devil with your reason any minute. But here is
what's more likely. You know when an old fellow hath played the knave
with some wardship or some matter of trust, often he holds fast to it all
his life and then seeks to commend himself to the day of judgment by
bequeathing his spoils to those from whom he stole them. Well, it's
whispered among them that know her that Madame Anne will do her possible
to make Prince James King when she is gone."

"A dead Queen is but a corpse," said Harry. "When she is gone 'twill not
be for her to say who shall reign."

"That's half a truth. You know the law is so that Prince George of
Hanover should be the King. About him no man knows anything save that he
hath a vile taste in women. I do suspect Marlborough is in the right--he
has a nose for men--when he saith there is nought to know. Well, we
tried a Dutchman once for our King and liked him ill enough. Who is to
say that we shall like a German better? Now Prince James--he is half an
Englishman at least, though they say he has his father's weakness for
priests. I'll not hide from you, Harry, that I am in the confidence of
some great men. It's laid upon me to go to France with an errand to
Prince James."

"I suppose that is high treason, sir."

Colonel Boyce smiled queerly. "You see how I trust you, Harry. Bah, you
are not frightened of words. Who is the worse for it, if I find out
what's Monsieur's temper and how he would bear himself if he were King?"

"And what he would pay any kind gentlemen who chose to turn
Jacobites apropos."

"If you like." Colonel Boyce laughed. I promise you, Harry, there are
great men in this. Now I need a trusty fellow to my right hand: a fellow
who can talk and say nothing: a fellow who is in no service but mine: and
all the better if he hath some learning to play the secretary. So I
thought of you. And since it may carry you to something of note, I chose
you with right good will."

"Do you wonder that you surprise me?"

"I profess you're not generous, Harry. It's true enough, I have done
little for you yet. But the truth is I could do nothing. As soon as I
have it in my power, I come to you--"

"And offer me--a game at hazard."

"Why, Harry, you're not a coward?"

"Faith, I can't tell. Perhaps I will go with you. But I have no
expectation in it."

"I suppose you have some here," his father sneered. "What do they call
you? You seem to be something better than Master Geoffrey's valet and a
good deal worse than my lady's footman."

"Why, I believe you have lost your temper." Harry laughed. "Oh, admirable
sight! Pray let me enjoy it! The father rages at his son's ingratitude!"

But Colonel Boyce had quickly recovered his equanimity. "They used to
tell me that I was a cold fellow. But I vow you are a very fish. So you
have half a mind to stay here, have you? Well, I bear no malice."

"It is only half a mind," Harry said. "Are you in a hurry?"

"Oh, you may sleep on it. Damme, I suppose there is little to do here but
sleep. What does Master Geoffrey want with you? He is old to keep a tame
schoolmaster."

"I listen to his poetry."

"Oh Lud!" said Colonel Boyce, with sincere sympathy. "I suppose they are
wealthy folk, your Wavertons. Do they keep much company?" Harry shrugged.
"Who is this Mrs. Weston?"

"I never saw her before." Harry paused, and then with a laugh
added--"before yesterday."

"That's a fine woman, her mistress. Do you do anything in that
quarter, sirrah?"

"Why should you think so?"

"She was willing enough that you should try."

"She is meat for my betters," said Harry meekly.

"For Master Geoffrey?" The Colonel looked knowing. "Do you know, Harry, I
think Master Geoffrey is a pigeon made to be plucked. Well. What was the
pretty lady's talk about highwaymen?"

Harry looked at his father for some time. "The truth is, I don't
understand Benjamin," he said at last. "I wonder if you will. Faith, sir,
here is a pretty piece of family life. The good son confides in his
father alone of all the world."

"Go on, sir," Colonel Boyce chuckled. "I play fair."

So Harry told his tale of Benjamin and Benjamin's companion and their
disaster. It was that appearance in the crisis of the fight of other
gentlemen on horseback which most interested Colonel Boyce. "So they went
in pursuit of the fellow who had fled and they never came back again." He
looked quizzically at his son. "These be very honest gentlemen."

"Why, sir, I thought nothing of that. They were plainly travelling at
speed. I suppose they missed him, and had no time to waste in searching."

"Then why o' God's name did he not come back to help his fellow? He was
mounted, he was armed, and only you and your cudgel against him. Bah,
Harry, do not be an innocent. Consider: these fellows went after him at
speed. He cannot have been far away. It is any odds that he had his
bolting horses in hand before he had gone two furlongs. Then--allow him
some sense--then he must have turned and come back for his friend. And
then these other honest gentlemen swept down on him. Well. Why have you
heard no more of them or him?"

"Faith, sir, you are right," Harry conceived for the first time some
admiration for his father. "I had missed that: and, egad, it is the chief
question of the puzzle. But--"

"Puzzle! Oh Lud, there's no puzzle. They were all one gang, these
fellows."

Harry laughed. "Then there was not much honour among the thieves. They
abandoned their Benjamin to me with delight."

"Ah, bah, you do not suppose they were out for such small game as your
pretty miss. They would not work in a gang to stop a simple, common
coach, be it never so rich. Come, Harry, use your wits. Did you hear of
any great folks on the road yesterday?"

Harry made an exclamation. "Odds life, sir, you would make a great
thief-catcher. You have hit it. There was your friend, the Duke of
Marl-borough, stuck in the mud below Barnet Hill." And he told that part
of the story.

"Humph. So they came too late," his father said. "You see how it is. This
gang was charged to stop his Grace, and was something slow about it. The
two first, your Benjamin and his friend, I suppose they should have held
the Duke's fellows in play till the others came up. They missed him, or
they shirked it, and instead, tried to stay their stomachs with some
common game. The rest of the gang would be well enough pleased that you
should baste Benjamin while they hurried on after the Duke. Did you mark
any of them, what like they were?"

"Not I. I was too busy with Benjamin."

"And your pretty miss, eh? A pity. But it's well enough for your
first affair."

"First? Why, am I to spend my life tumbling with gentlemen of the road?"

"And a profitable, pleasant life too, if you use your wits."

Harry opened his eyes. "Do you know it well, sir? Now, what I don't
understand is why a gang of highwaymen should appoint to set upon the
Duke of Marlborough. It's dangerous, to be sure--"

"You will understand why, if you come to France," said Colonel Boyce,
with a queer smile. "There be many would pay high for a sight of his
Grace's private papers," and he laughed to himself over some joke. "Nay,
but you have done very well, Harry," he condescended. "I like this
business of leaving Benjamin tied up on the road. 'Tis damned nonsense,
to be sure, but it has an air, a distinction. Your pretty miss will like
that. And I judge you have not told the Wavertons you were the hero, nor
let miss tell them. 'Tis your little secret for yourselves. A good touch,
Harry. Odds life, I begin to be proud of you. I suppose you will soon go
pay your respects--to Mrs. Weston." He laughed heartily.

Harry was not amused. "Do you know, I think I like you much less than you
like me," he said.

Colonel Boyce seemed very well content.




CHAPTER V

THE WORLD'S A MIRACLE


Colonel Boyce was established in the house, a guest of high honour.

Harry, dazed at the mere fact, could not be very sure how it had happened
or why. The Wavertons, mother and son, had assaulted the Colonel with
hospitality--for a night--for another--for longer and longer--and he,
appearing at first honestly dubious, remained with a benign
condescension.

There is no doubt that, in an honourable way, Lady Waverton was
fascinated by Colonel Boyce. She saw nothing coarse in his
highly-coloured manners, suspected no guile in his flattery or his parade
of importance. Harry, who had never supposed her a wise woman, was
surprised by her complete surrender. He had credited her with too much
pride to succumb to flattery, which was to his taste impudently gross.
But he was not yet old enough to allow that other folks might have tastes
wholly unlike his own, and he had himself--it is perhaps the only trait
of much delicacy in him--a shrinking discomfort under praise.

Colonel Boyce took his victory with a complacency which Harry thought
oddly fatuous in a man so acute.

"Egad, the old lady would go to church with me to-morrow if I asked her;"
he laughed, and seemed to think that in that at least my lady showed
sense.

"You had better take her, sir," said Harry, with a sneer. "I know she has
a good dower. And a fool and her money are soon parted."

"Damme, Harry, you are venomous!" For the first time in their
acquaintance Colonel Boyce showed some signs of smarting. "What harm have
I done you? No, sir, you have a nasty tongue. I intend the old lady no
harm, neither. What if she has a tenderness for me? I suppose that does
not make me a fool."

"To be sure, sir, I did not know your affection was serious." Harry
laughed disagreeably.

"I believe you would not miss a chance to say a bitter thing though it
ruined you, Lud, Harry, if you can't be grateful, don't be a fool too.
What a pox are your Wavertons to me? I don't value them a pinch of snuff.
What I am doing, I am doing for you. You know what you were when I found
you--no better than a footman out of livery. Now, they treat you like a
gentleman."

"And all for the _beaux yeux_ of my father. Well, it's true, sir. But I
don't know that I like any of us much the better for it."

To his great surprise his father looked at him with affectionate
admiration. "Egad, you take that tone very well," said he. "It's a good
card. Maybe it's the best with the women."

Harry had to laugh. "I think you have the easiest temper in the
world, sir."

"Aye, aye. It has been the ruin of me."

And so they parted the best of friends. Indeed Harry had never liked his
father so well or felt so much his superior. Thus from age to age is
filial affection confirmed.

But he had to allow some adroitness in his father. Not only Lady
Waverton, but Geoffrey too, succumbed to the paternal charms. That was
the more surprising. Geoffrey, behind his vanity and his affectation, was
no fool. He had also a temper apt to dislike any man who made a show of
position or achievement beyond his own. Yet he hung upon the lips of
Colonel Boyce. What they gave him was indeed a pleasing mixture--secrets
about great affairs flavoured with deference to his ingenious criticisms.
There was something solid about it, too. The Colonel, displaying himself
as a man of much importance, perpetually hinted that only the occasion
was needed for Mr. Waverton to surpass him by far, and to that occasion
he could point the way. It appeared to Harry that his father had in mind
to enlist Geoffrey for the proposed mission to France, or some other
scheme unrevealed. And being unable to see any reason for wanting
Geoffrey as a man, he suspected that his father wanted money.

He saw clearly that nobody wanted him, and was therewith very well
content. At this time in his life he asked nothing better than to be left
alone with his whims and the open air. He covered many a mile of sticky
clay in these autumn days, placidly vacant of mind, and afterwards
accounted them the most comfortable of his life.

Mr. Waverton's house was set upon a hill, at one end of a line of hills
which now look over the wilderness of London, falling steeply thereto,
and upon the other side, to northward and the open country, more gently.
In the epoch of Harry Boyce those hills were all woodland--pleasant
patches still remain,--and if the need of great walking was not upon him
he was often pleased to loiter through their thickets. It was on a wild
south-westerly day when the naked trees were at a loud chorus that Alison
came to him.

The dainty colours of her face laughed from a russet hood, russet cloak
and green skirt wind-borne against her gave him the delight of her shape.

"'Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about you,'" she cried.

"You're poetical, ma'am."

"I vow not I. I say what I mean. There's an unmaidenly trick. And, faith,
I am here to rifle you, Mr. Boyce."

"Wish you joy, ma'am. What of?"

"Of your conceit, to be sure. Have you anything else?"

"I have nothing which could be of any use to Miss Lambourne. So God knows
why she runs after me."

"Oh, brave!" Miss Lambourne was not out of countenance. "'Tis a shameless
maid indeed which runs after a man"--she made him a curtsy. "But what is
the man who runs away from a maid?"

Harry Boyce cursed her in his heart. She was by far too desirable. The
rain-fraught wind had made the dawn tints of her clearer, lucent and yet
more delicate. Her grey eyes danced like the sunlight ripples of deep
water. Her lips were purely, brilliantly red. She fronted him and the
wind, flaunting the richness of her bosom, poised and strong. She seemed
the very body of life. For the first time he felt unsure of himself. "Did
you come to call names, ma'am?" he growled.

"I allow you the privileges of a gentleman, Mr. Boyce."

"Gentleman? Oh Lud, no, ma'am. I am an upper servant. Rather better than
the butler. Not so good as the steward."

"It won't serve you, sir. You have insulted me, and I demand
satisfaction." She drew off her gauntleted glove and flicked him in the
face with it. "Now will you fight?"

"Oh, must we slap and scratch then?" Harry flushed darker than the mark
of the glove. "I thought we had been fighting."

Miss Lambourne laughed. "You can lose your temper then? It's something,
in fact. Yes, we have been fighting, sir, and you don't fight fair."

"Who does with a woman?" Harry sneered. "I cry you mercy, ma'am. You are
vastly too strong for me. Let me alone and I ask no more of you."

To which Miss Lambourne said, very innocently, "Why?" Harry looked up and
saw her beautiful face meek and appealing, with something of a demure
smile in the eyes. "Come, sir, what have I asked of you? You have done
me something of a great service. There was a man handling me--do you know
what that means? "--she made a wry face and gave herself a shaking
shudder--"You rid me of him, and with some risk to your precious skin.
Well, sir, I am grateful, and I want to show it. Odds life, I should be a
beast did I not. I want to thank you and to sing your praises--to
yourself also perhaps. And you are pleased to be a churl and a boor."

"In effect," said Harry coolly. "Egad, ma'am, let me have the luxury of
hating you. For I am the Wavertons' gentleman usher and you are the
nonpareil Miss Lambourne, vastly rich and--" he ended with a shrug and
a rueful grin.

"And--?" Miss Lambourne softly insisted.

"And damnably lovely. Lord, you know that."

"I thank God," said Miss Lambourne devoutly.

"Is it true, Mr. Boyce--do the meek inherit the earth?" She held out her
hands to him, one bare, one gloved, she swayed a little towards him, and
her face was gentle and wistful. "Nay, sir, I ask your pardon. Call
friends if you please and will please me."

Harry lost hold of himself at last. The blood surged in him, and he
caught at her and kissed her fiercely.

It was he who was embarrassed. As he stood away from her, eyeing her with
a queer defiant shame, she smiled through a small matter of a blush, and
breathing quickly said: "What does it feel like, sir?"

"The world's a miracle," Harry said unsteadily and would have caught
her again.

She turned, she was away light of foot, and in a moment through the wind
he heard her singing to a tune of her own the child's rhyme:

"Fly away, Jack,
  Fly away, Jill,
Come again, Jack,
  Come again, Jill."




CHAPTER VI

HARRY IS NOT GRATEFUL


Where the lane from Fortis Green crosses the high road there stood an
ale-house. On the wettest days, and some others, the place was Harry's
resort. Not that he had a liking for ale-house company--or indeed any
company. But within the precincts of the Wavertons' house tobacco was
forbidden and--all the more for that--tobacco he loved with a solid
devotion. The alehouse of the cross roads offered a clean floor, a clean
fire, air not too foul, a tolerable chair, a landlord who did not talk,
and until evening, sufficient solitude. There Harry smoked many pipes in
tranquillity until the day when on his entry he found Mr. Hadley's
sardonic face waiting for him. He liked Charles Hadley less than many men
whom he more despised. Nobody in a position just better than menial can
be expected to like the condescending mockery which was Mr. Hadley's
_metier_. But Harry--it is one of his most noble qualities--bore being
laughed at well enough. What most annoyed him was Mr. Hadley's parade of
a surly, austere virtue. He did not doubt that it was sincere. He could
more easily have forgiven it if it had been hypocritical. A man had no
business to be so mighty honest.

Mr. Hadley nodded at Harry, who said it was a dirty day, and called for
his pot of small ale and his pennyworth of Spanish tobacco. Mr. Hadley
was civil enough to pass him a pipe from the box. Both gentlemen smoked
in grave silence.

"So you are still with us," said Mr. Hadley.

"By your good leave, sir."

"I had an apprehension the Colonel was going to ravish you away."

"I hope I am still of some use to Mr. Waverton."

"Damme, you might be the old family retainer. 'Faithful service of the
antique world,' egad. I suppose you will end your days with Geoffrey, and
be buried at his feet like a trusty hound."

"If you please, sir."

They looked at each other. "Well, Mr. Boyce, I beg your pardon," Hadley
said. "But you'll allow you are irritating to a plain man."

"I do not desire it, sir."

"I may hold my tongue and mind my own business, eh? Why not take me
friendly?"

"I intend you no harm, Mr. Hadley."

"That's devilish good of you, Mr. Boyce. To be plain with you, what do
you want here?"

"Here? Oh Lord, sir, I come to smoke my pipe!"

"And what if I come to smoke you? Odds life, I know you are no fool. Do
me the honour to take me for none. And tell me, if you please, why do you
choose to be Master Geoffrey's gentleman in waiting? You are good for
better than that, Mr. Boyce."

"No doubt, sir. But it brings me bread and butter."

"You could earn that fighting in Flanders."

Harry shrugged. "I am not very brave, Mr. Hadley."

"You count upon staying here, do you?"

"If I can satisfy Mr. Waverton," said Harry meekly.

Hadley's face grew harder. "I vow I do my best to wish you well,
Mr. Boyce. I should be glad to hear that you'll give up walking in
the woods."

There was a moment of silence. "I did not know that I had asked for your
advice, sir." Harry said. "I am not grateful for it."

"Damme, that's the first honest answer you have made," Hadley cried.
"Look 'e, Mr. Boyce, I am as much your friend as I may be. I have an
uncle which was the lady's guardian. If I said a word to him he would
carry it to Lady Waverton in a gouty rage. There would be a swift end of
Mr. Boyce the tutor. Well, I would not desire that. For all your airs,
I'll believe you a man of honour. And I ask you what's to become of Mr.
Boyce the tutor seeking private meetings with the Lambourne heiress?
Egad, sir, you were made for better things than such a mean business."

"Honour!" Harry sneered. "Were you talking of men of honour? I suppose
there is good cover in the woods, Mr. Hadley."

Hadley stared at him. "It was not good enough, you see, sir." He knocked
out his pipe and stood up. "Bah, this is childish. You don't think me a
knave, nor I you. I have said my say, and I mean you well."

"I believe that, Mr. Hadley"--Harry met him with level eyes--"and I am
not grateful."

"You know who she is meant for."

"I know that the lady might call us both impudent."

"Would that break your bones? Come, sir, the lady hath been destined for
Master Geoffrey since she had hair and never has rebelled."

"Lord, Mr. Hadley, are you destiny?"

Mr. Hadley let that by with an impatient shrug. "So if you be fool enough
to have ambitions after her, you would wear a better face in eating no
more of Master Geoffrey's bread."

"It's a good day for walking, Mr. Hadley. Which way do you go? For I go
the other."

"I hope so," Mr. Hadley agreed, and on that the two gentlemen parted,
both something warm.

We should flatter him in supposing Harry Boyce of a chivalrous delicacy.
Whether the lady's fair fame might be the worse for him was a question of
which he never thought. It is certain that he did not blame himself for
using his place as Geoffrey's paid servant to damage Geoffrey in his
affections. And indeed you will agree that he was innocent of any
designed attack upon the lady. Yet Mr. Hadley succeeded in making him
very uncomfortable.

What most troubled him, I conceive, was the fear of being ridiculous. The
position of a poor tutor aspiring to the favours of the heiress destined
for his master invites the unkind gibe. And Harry could not be sure that
Alison herself was free from the desire to make him a figure of scorn.
Such a suspicion might disconcert the most ardent of lovers. Harry
Boyce, whatever his abilities in the profession, was not that yet. But
the very fact that he had come to feel an ache of longing for Alison made
him for once dread laughter. If he had been manoeuvring for what he could
get by her, or if he had been merely taken by her good looks, he might
have met jeering with a brazen face. But she had engaged his most private
emotions, and to have them made ludicrous would be of all possible
punishments most intolerable. The precise truth of what he felt for her
then was, I suppose, that he wanted to make her his own--wanted to have
all of her in his power; and a gentleman whom the world--and the
lady--are laughing at for an aspiring menial cannot comfortably think
about his right to possess her.

There was something else. He was not meticulously delicate, but he had a
complete practical sanity. He saw very well that even if Alison, by the
chance of circumstance, had some infatuation for him, she might soon
repent: he saw that even if the affair went with romantic success--a
thing hardly possible--his position and hers might be awkward enough.
Her friends would be long in forgiving either of them, and find ways
enough to hurt them both. Mr. Hadley, confound him, spoke the common
sense of mankind.

There was one solution--that estimable father. By the time he came back
to the house on Tether-down, Harry was resolved to enlist under the
ambiguous banner of Colonel Boyce.




CHAPTER VII

GENEROSITY OF A FATHER


With grim irony Harry congratulated himself on his decision. When first
he came into the house he heard Alison singing. There was indeed (as he
told himself clearly) nothing wonderful about her voice--it resembled
the divine only in being still and small. Yet he could not (he called
himself still more clearly a fool) keep away from it, and so he slunk
into Lady Waverton's drawing-room. Only duty and stated hours were wont
to drag him there. Lady Waverton showed her appreciation of his unusual
attendance by staring at him across the massed trifles of the room with
sleepy and insolent amazement. But it was not the glassy eyes of Lady
Waverton which convinced Harry that flight was the true wisdom. Over
Alison at the harpsichord, Geoffrey hung tenderly: their shoulders
touched, eyes answered eyes, and miss was radiant. She sang at him with a
naughty archness that song of Mr. Congreve's:

"Thus to a ripe consenting maid,
Poor old repenting Delia said,
Would you long preserve your lover?
  Would you still his goddess reign?
Never let him all discover,
  Never let him much obtain.

Men will admire, adore and die
While wishing at your feet they lie;
But admitting their embraces
  Wakes 'em from the golden dream:
Nothing's new besides our faces,
  Every woman is the same."

She contorted her own face into smug folly by way of illustration. Then
she and Geoffrey laughed together. "I vow you're the most deliciously
wicked creature that ever was born a maid."

"D'ye regret it, sir? Faith, I could not well be born a wife."

"No, ma'am, that's an honour to be won by care and pains."

"Pains! Lud, yes, I believe that. But, dear sir, I reckon it the
punishment for folly. Why,"--she chose to see Harry--"why, here is our
knight of the rueful countenance!"

Mr. Waverton laughed. "It is related of the Egyptians--"

"God help us," Alison murmured.

He went on, giggling. "It is related of the Ancient Egyptians that they
ever had a corpse among the guests at their feasts."

"Were their cooks so bad?" said Alison.

"To remind them that all men are mortal. Now you see why we keep Harry."

"I wonder if he looked as happy when he was alive," said Alison,
surveying his wooden face.

"_De mortuis nil nisi bonum_," Geoffrey laughed. "No jests about the
dead, Alison. But to tell you a secret, he never was alive. He doesn't
like it known."

Colonel Boyce, who had listened to the song and the first
coruscations of wit with the condescending smile of a connoisseur,
now exhibited some impatience. "Egad, Harry, why will you dress like
a parson out at elbows?"

"His customary suit of solemn black," said Geoffrey.

"He is in mourning for himself, of course," Alison laughed.

"I have two suits of clothes, ma'am," said Harry meekly. "This is
the better."

"Poor Harry!" Geoffrey granted him a look of protective affection. "I vow
we are too hard on him, Alison." And then in a lower voice for her
private ear. "A dear, worthy fellow, but--well, what would you have?--of
no spirit." Alison bit her lip.

"Oh, Mr. Waverton," Harry protested, "indeed, I am proud to be the cause
of such wit."

Colonel Boyce stared at his son with an enigmatic frown. Alison's eyes
brightened. But Geoffrey suspected no guile. "Not witty thyself, dear
lad, but the cause of wit in others, eh? Odds life, Harry, you are
invaluable."

"'Tis your kindness for me makes you think so, Mr. Waverton. And, to be
sure, I could ask no more than to amuse your lady."

Alison said tartly, "Oh, it takes little to amuse me, sir."

"I am sure, ma'am," Harry agreed meekly.

"It's a happy nature." and he bowed to Geoffrey, humbly congratulating
him on a lady of such simple tastes.

Geoffrey, who had now had enough of his good tutor, eliminated him by a
compliment or so on Alison's voice and the demand that she should sing
again. He found her in an awkward temper. She would not sing this, she
would not sing that, she found faults in every song known to Mr.
Waverton. Yet in a fashion she was encouraging. For this new method of
keeping him off was governed by a queer adulation of him: no song in the
world could be worth his distinguished attention; her little voice must
be to his accomplished ear vain and ludicrous; the kind things he was so
good as to say were vastly gratifying, to be sure, but they were merely
his kind condescension. And, oh Lud, it was time she was gone, or poor,
dear Weston would be imagining her slaughtered on the highway.

Geoffrey could not make much of this, but was pleased to take it as
flattering feminine homage to his magnificence. By way of reward, he
announced an intention of riding home with her carriage. "Faith, you are
too good"--her eyes were modestly hidden--"but then you are too good to
everybody. Is he not, Mr. Boyce?"

"Oh, ma'am, we all practise on his kindness," Harry said.

"A good night to your mourning," she said sharply, "dear Lady Waverton."
They kissed. "Colonel Boyce, I hold you to your promise."

"With all my heart, ma'am. Your devoted."

She was gone, and Harry, with a look of significance at his father, went
off too....

In that shabby upper chamber of his, Harry again offered the Colonel a
choice between the bed and the one chair. Colonel Boyce made a gesture
and an exclamation of impatience, and remained standing. "Now, what the
devil do you want with me?" he complained.

"I want to be very grateful. I want to enlist with you. When shall
we start?"

His father frowned, and in a little while made a crooked answer, "Do you
know, Harry, you are too mighty subtle. I was so at your years. It's very
pretty sport, but--well, it won't butter your parsnips. The women can't
tell what to make of it. Having, in general, no humour, pretty
creatures."

"I am obliged for the sermon, sir. Shall we leave to-morrow?"

"Egad, you are in a fluster," his father smiled. "Well, to be sure, he is
a teasing fellow, the beautiful Geoffrey."

Harry made an exclamation. "You'll forgive me, sir, if I say you are
talking nonsense."

"Oh Lud, yes," his father chuckled.

"Whether I am agreeable to women, whether Mr. Waverton is agreeable to
me--odds life, sir, I don't trouble my head about such things. Pray,
why should you? As well sit down and cry because my eyes are not the
same colour."

"No. No. There is something taking about that, Harry," his father
remonstrated placidly.

"When you please to be in earnest, sir," Harry cried, "if this affair of
yours is in earnest--" "Oh, you may count on that." Colonel Boyce was
still enjoying himself.

"Then I am ready for it. And the sooner the better."

"Hurry is a bad horse. The truth is, something more hangs on this affair
than Mr. Harry's whims. Oh, damme, I don't blame you, though. He is
tiresome, our Geoffrey."

"Why, sir, if we have to waste time, we might waste it more comfortably
than with the Waverton family. Shall we say to-morrow?"

Colonel Boyce tapped his still excellent teeth. "Patience, patience," he
said, and considered his son gravely. "As for to-morrow, I have friends
to see, and so have you. Your pretty miss engaged me to ride over with
you to her house. And behind the brave Geoffrey's back, if you please.
She is a sly puss, Harry." He expected so obviously an angry answer that
Harry chose to disappoint him.

"I shall be happy to take leave of Miss Lambourne. And shall I ride
pillion with you, sir? For I have no horse of my own."

"Bah, dear Geoffrey will lend me the best in the stable."

"I give you joy of the progress in his affections."

Colonel Boyce laughed. "You are pledged for the forenoon then," he
paused. "And as to that little affair of mine--you shall know your part
soon enough."

"It cannot be too soon, sir."

"No." Colonel Boyce nodded. "I think it's full time."

He took leave of his son with what the son thought superfluous
affection.

Half an hour afterwards he was in Mr. Waverton's room--a place very
precious. Everything in it--and there were many things--had an air of
being strange. Mr. Waverton slept behind curtains of black and silver.
His floor was covered with some stuff like scarlet velvet. There was a
skull in the place of honour on the walls, flanked by two Venetian
pictures of the Virgin, and faced by a blowsy Bacchus and Ariadne from
Flanders. The chairs were of the newest Italian mode, designed rather to
carry as much gilding as possible than to comfort the human form. Colonel
Boyce, regarding them with some apprehension, stood himself before the
fire and waved off Geoffrey's effusive courtesy.

"I hope you have good news for me, Mr. Waverton?" So he opened the
attack.

"Why, sir, I have considered my engagements," Geoffrey said
magnificently. "I believe I could hold myself free for some months--if
the enterprise were of weight."

"You relieve me vastly. I'll not disguise from you, Mr. Waverton, that I
am something anxious to secure you. I could not find a gentleman so well
equipped for this delicate business. You'll observe, 'tis of the first
importance that we should have presence, an air, the _je ne sais quoi_ of
dignity and family."

"Sir, you are very obliging." Geoffrey swallowed it whole.

"When I came here I confess I was at my wit's end. Indeed, I had a mind
to go alone. The gentlemen of my acquaintance--either they could not be
trusted with an affair of such value, or they had too much of our English
coarseness to be at ease with it. Faith, when I came to see my poor, dear
Harry, little I thought that in his neighbourhood I should find the very
man for my embassy." The two gentlemen laughed together over the
incompatibility of Harry with gentlemanly diplomacy.

"Not but what Harry is a faithful, trusty fellow," said Mr. Waverton,
with magnificent condescension.

"You are very good to say so. A dolt, sir, a dolt; so much the worse for
me. Now, Mr. Waverton, to you I have no need of a word more on the
secrecy of the affair. Though, to be sure, this very morning I had
another note from Cadogan--Marlborough's _âme damnée_ you know--pressing
it on me that nothing should get abroad. So when we go, we'll be off
without a good-bye, and if you must leave a word behind for the anxieties
of my lady, let her know that you are off with me to see the army in
Flanders."

"I profess, Colonel, you are mighty cautious."

"Dear sir, we cannot be too cautious in this affair. There's many a
handsome scheme gone awry for the sake of some affectionate farewell.
Mothers, wives, lady-loves--sweet luxuries, Mr. Waverton, but damned
dangerous. Now here's my plan. We'll go riding on an afternoon and not
come back again. Trust my servant to get away quietly with your baggage
and mine. We must travel light, to be sure. We'll go round London. I have
too many friends there, and I want none of them asking where old Noll
Boyce is off to now. Newhaven is the port for us. There is a trusty
fellow there has his orders already. I look to land at Le Havre. Now, the
Prince, by our latest news, is back at St. Germain. As you can guess, Mr.
Waverton, to be seen in Paris would suit my health even less than to be
seen in London. Too many honest Frenchmen have met me in the wars, and,
what's worse, too many of them know me deep in Marlborough's business. I
could not show my face without all King Louis's court talking of some
great matter afoot. What I have in mind is to halt on the road--at
Pontoise maybe--while you ride on with letters to Prince James. I warrant
you they are such, and with such names to them, as will assure you a
noble welcome. It's intended that he should quit St. Germain privately
with you to conduct him to me. Then I warrant you we shall know how to
deal with the lad." He paused and stared at Geoffrey intently, and
gradually a grim humour stole into his eyes. He began to laugh. "Egad, I
envy you, Mr. Waverton. To be in such an affair at your years--bah, I
should have been crazy with pride."

"You need not doubt that I value the occasion, sir," Geoffrey said
grandly. "Pray, believe that I shall do honour to your confidence."

"To be sure you will. Odds life, to chaffer with a king's son about
kingdoms, to offer a realm to a prince in exile (if only he will be a
good boy)--it's a fine, stately affair, sir, and you are the very man to
take it in the right vein."

"Sir, you are most obliging. I profess I vaunt myself very happy in your
kindness. Be sure that I shall know how to justify you."

"Egad, you do already," Colonel Boyce smiled, still with some touch of
cruelty in his eyes.

"Pray, sir, when must we start?"

"When I know, maybe I shall need to start in an hour."

"I shall not fail you. I shall want, I suppose, some funds in hand?"

Colonel Boyce shrugged. "Oh Lud, yes, we'll want some money. A matter of
five hundred pounds should serve."

"I will arrange for it in the morning," said Mr. Waverton, too
magnificent to be startled. "Pray, what clothes shall we be able
to carry?"

"Damme, that's a grave matter," said Colonel Boyce, and with becoming
gravity discussed it.




CHAPTER VIII

MISS LAMBOURNE LOOKS SIDEWAYS


Thus Colonel Boyce blandly arranged the lives of his young friends. It is
believed that he had a peculiar pleasure in manoeuvring his
fellow-creatures from behind a veil of secrecy. For in this he sought not
merely his private profit (though it was never out of his calculations);
he enjoyed his operations for their own sake; he liked his trickery as
trickery; to push and pull people to the place in which he wanted them
without their knowing how or why or to what end they were impelled was to
him a pleasure second to none in life. And on a survey of his whole
career he is to be accounted successful. Though I cannot find that he
ever achieved anything of signal importance even for himself, at one time
or another he brought a great number of people, some of them powerful,
and some of them honourable, under his direction, he had his complete
will of many of them, and was rewarded by the bitter hostility of the
majority. He contrived, in fact, to live just such a life as he liked
best. What more can any man have?

So he told Harry nothing of his engagement of Mr. Waverton, and Harry,
you have seen, was not likely to guess that anyone would enlist his
Geoffrey for a serious enterprise. On the next morning, indeed, Harry did
remark that Geoffrey was more portentous than usual, but thought nothing
of it. He was embarrassed by thinking about himself.

There was, as Colonel Boyce predicted, no difficulty about a horse for
Harry. When the Colonel suggested it, Geoffrey showed some satirical
surprise at Harry's daring, but (advising one of the older carriage
horses) bade him take what he would. Colonel Boyce spoke only of riding
with his son. He said nothing of where they were going. Harry wondered
whether Geoffrey would have been so gracious if he had known that Alison
was their destination, and, a new experience for him, felt some qualms of
conscience. It was uncomfortable to use a favour from Geoffrey, even a
trifling favour granted with a sneer, for meeting his lady; still more
uncomfortable to go seek the lady out secretly. But if he announced what
he was doing, there would be instantly something ridiculous about it, and
he would have to swallow much of Geoffrey's humour. Geoffrey might even
come with them, and Alison and he be humorous together--a fate
intolerable. There was indeed an easy way of escape. He had but to stay
away from the lady. But, though he despised himself for it, he desired
infinitely to see her again. She compelled him, as he had never believed
anything outside his own will could compel. After all, it was no such
matter, for he would soon be gone with his father to France. He might
well hope never to see her again.

So on that ride through the steep wooded lanes to Highgate, his father
found him morose, and complained of it. "Damme, for a young fellow that's
off to his lady-love you are a mighty poor thing, Harry."

"My lady-love! I have no taste for rich food. I thought it was your lady
we were going to see."

"What the devil do you mean by that?" Colonel Boyce stared.

"Oh, fie, sir! Why be ashamed of her?"

"God knows what you are talking about." Colonel Boyce was extraordinarily
irritated. "Ashamed of whom?"

"Of the peerless Miss Lambourne, to be sure. Oh, sir, why be so innocent?
How could she resist your charms? And indeed--"

"Miss Lambourne! What damned nonsense you talk, Harry."

"I followed your lead, sir," said Harry meekly. "But if we are to talk
sense--when shall we start for France?"

"You shall know when I know."

And on that they came to the top of the hill and the gates of the Hall.
The wet weather had yielded to St. Martin's summer. It was a day of
gentle silver-gold sunlight and benign air. With her companion, Mrs.
Weston, Miss Lambourne was walking in the garden. She met the gentlemen
at a turn of the drive by rampant sweetbriers. "Here's our knight of the
rueful countenance, and faith, on Rosinante, poor jade," she patted
Harry's aged carriage horse. "Oh, and he has brought with him Solomon in
all his glory," she made a wonderful curtsy to the splendours of Colonel
Boyce. "Now, who would have dreamt Don Quixote's father was Solomon?"

"I suppose I take after my mother, ma'am," Harry said meekly. "It's a
hope which often consoles me."

"Why, they say Solomon had something of a variety in wives, and
among them--"

Colonel Boyce dismounted with so much noise that the jest was hardly
heard and the end of it altogether lost.

"You did not tell me"--Mrs. Weston was speaking and seemed to find it
difficult--"Alison, you did not tell me the gentlemen were coming." It
occurred to Harry that she looked very pale and ill.

"Why, Weston; dear, I could not tell if they would keep troth." She
began to hum:

"Men were deceivers ever,
  One foot on sea, and one on shore,
To one thing constant never."

"Nay, ma'am, sigh no more for here are we," Colonel Boyce said brusquely.

"Oh Lud, he overwhelms us with the honour." She laughed. "How can we
entertain him worthily? Sir, will you walk? My poor house and I await
your pleasure."

"I am vastly honoured, ma'am. I have never had a lady-in-waiting."

"Oh, celibate virtue!" quoth Miss Lambourne. And so to the house Colonel
Boyce led her and his horse, and a little way behind Harry followed with
his and Mrs. Weston.

She had nothing to say for herself. She looked so wan, she walked so
slowly, and with such an air of pain that Harry had to say something
about fearing she was not well. Then he felt a fool for his pains; as she
turned in answer and shook her head he saw such a sad, wistful dignity in
her eyes that the small coin of courtesy seemed an absurd offering. A
fancy, to be sure, in itself absurd. Yet he could not make the woman out.
There was something odd and baffling in the way she looked at him.

She led off with an odd question, "Pray, have you lived much with
Colonel Boyce?"

"Not I, ma'am." Harry laughed. "If I were not a very wise child I should
hardly know my own father. Lived with him? Not much more than with my
mother, whom I never saw."

"Oh, did you not?" Her eyes dwelt upon him. After a little while, "Who
brought you up then?"

"Schools. Half a dozen schools between Taunton and London, and
Westminster at last."

"Were you happy?"

"When I had sixpence."

"But Colonel Boyce is rich!" she cried.

"I have no evidence of it, ma'am."

"I cannot understand. You hardly know him. But he comes to you at Lady
Waverton's; he stays with you; he brings you here. I believe you are
closer with him than you say."

"Why, ma'am, it's mighty kind in you to concern yourself so with my
affairs. And if you can't understand them, faith, no more can I."

She showed no shame at this rebuke of impertinence. In a minute Harry was
sorry he had amused himself by giving it. There was something strangely
affecting in the woman. Middle-aged, stout, faded, bound in manner and
speech by a shy clumsiness, she refused to be insignificant, she made an
appeal to him which he puzzled over in vain. Her simplicity was with
power, as of a nature which had cared only for the greater things. He
felt himself meeting one who had more than he of human quality, richer in
suffering, richer in all emotion, and (what was vastly surprising) under
her dullness, her feebleness, of fuller and deeper life.

From vague, intriguing, bewildering fancies, her voice brought him back
with a start. "He brought you here?" she was asking.

To be sure, she was wonderfully maladroit. This buzzing, futile curiosity
irritated him again into a sneer. "He is no doubt captivated by the
beautiful eyes of Miss Lambourne."

"He! Mr. Boyce?"--she corrected herself with a stammer and a
blush--"Colonel Boyce? Oh no. Indeed, he is old enough to be her father."

"I think we ought to tell him so." Harry chuckled. "It would do
him good."

"I think this is not very delicate, sir." Mrs. Weston was still blushing.

"Egad, ma'am, if you ask questions, you must expect answers," Harry
snapped at her.

"Why do you sneer at her? Why should you speak coarsely of her? I suppose
you come to the house of your own choice? Or does he make you come?"

Harry saw no occasion for such excitement. "Why, you take away my breath
with your pronouns. He and she--she and he--pray, let's leave him and
her out of the question. Here's a very pretty garden."

"Indeed, we need not quarrel, I think." She laughed nervously, and gave
him an odd, shy look. "Pray, do you stay with the Wavertons?"

"Alas, ma'am, I make your acquaintance and bid you farewell all in one
day."

"Make my acquaintance!" Again came a nervous laugh, and it was a moment
before she went on. "We have met before to-day."

"Oh Lud, ma'am, I would desire you forget it."

"I am to forget it!" she echoed. "Oh ... Oh, you are very proud."

"Not I, indeed. The truth is, ma'am, that silly affair with our
highwayman, it embarrasses me mightily. I want to live it down. Pray,
help me, and think no more about it."

"I suppose that is what you say to Alison?" For the first time there was
a touch of fun in her eyes.

"Word for word, ma'am."

"Why do you come here then?"

"As I have the honour to tell you--to say good-bye."

She checked and stared at him. She was very pale. But now they were at
the steps of the house, and Colonel Boyce, who had resigned his horse to
a groom, turned with Alison to meet them.

"I am hot with the Colonel's compliments, Weston, dear," she announced.
"I must take a turn with Mr. Boyce to cool me. 'Tis his role. A
convenient family, faith. One makes you uncomfortably hot and t'other
freezes you. You go get warm, my Weston. Though I vow 'tis dangerous to
trust you to the Colonel. He has made very shameless love to me, and you
have a tender heart."

It occurred to Harry that Mrs. Weston and his father, thus forced to look
at each other, wore each an air of defiance. They amused him.

"I am not afraid," Mrs. Weston said.

"I profess I am abashed," said Colonel Boyce. "Pray, ma'am, be gentle to
my disgrace," and he offered his arm. She bowed and moved away, and he
followed her.

Harry and Alison, face to face, and sufficiently close, eyed each other
with some amusement.

"Oh, Mr. Boyce," said she, and shook her head.

"Oh, Miss Lambourne," Harry exhorted in his turn.

"You have fallen. You have walked into my parlour."

"I am the best of sons, ma'am. I endure all things at my father's
orders--even spiders."

She still eyed him steadily, searching him, and was still amused. She
moved a little so that the admirable flowing lines of her shape were more
marked. Then she said, "Why are you afraid of me?"

Harry shook his head, smiling. "Vainly is the net spread in the sight of
the bird, ma'am. But, faith, it was a pretty question, and I make you my
compliments."

"So. Will you walk, sir?" She turned into a narrow path in the shadow of
arches, clothed by a great Austrian brier, on which here and there a
yellow flame still glowed. "Mr. Boyce--when I meet you in company you
shrink and cower detestably; when I meet you alone, you fence with me
impudently enough and shrewdly; and always you avoid me while you can. I
suppose there's in all this something more than the freaks of a fool.
Then it's fear. Prithee, sir, why in God's name are you afraid of me?"

"Miss Lambourne got out of bed very earnest this morning," Harry grinned.
"But oh, let's be grave and honest with all my heart. Why, then, ma'am,
I've to say that a penniless fellow has the right to be afraid of Miss
Lambourne's money bags."

"Fie, you are no such fool. If one is good company to t'other, which is
rich and which is poor is no more matter than which fair and which dark."

"In a better world, ma'am, I would believe you."

"And here you believe kind folks would sneer at Harry Boyce for scenting
an heiress. So you tuck your tail between your legs and go to ground. I
suppose that is called honour, sir."

"Oh no, ma'am. Taste."

"La, I offend monsieur's fine taste, do I?"

"Not often, ma'am. But by all means let us be earnest. I believe I mind
being sneered at no more than my betters. _Par exemple_, ma'am, when you
laugh at me for being shabby, I am not much disturbed."

She blushed furiously. "I never did."

"Oh, I must have read your thoughts then," Harry laughed. "Well, what
matters to me is not that folks laugh at me but why they laugh. That they
mock me for being out at elbows I swallow well enough. That they should
sneer at me for making love to a woman's purse would give me a nausea."

Miss Lambourne was pleased to look modest. "Indeed, sir, I did not know
that you had made love to me."

"I am obliged by your honesty, ma'am."

Miss Lambourne looked up and spoke with some vehemence. "It comes
to this, then, you would be beaten by what folks may say about you.
Oh, brave!"

"Lud, we are all beaten by what folks might say. Would you ride into
London in your shift?"

"I don't want to ride in my shift," she cried fiercely.

"Perhaps not, ma'am. But perhaps I don't want to make love to your
purse."

"Od burn it, sir, am I nothing but a purse?"

"I leave it to your husband to find out, ma'am, and beg leave to take my
leave. My kind father offers me occupation at a distance, and I embrace
it ardently. Who knows? It may provide me with a coat."

"You are going away?"

"I have had the honour to say so."

"And why, if you please?"

Harry shrugged. "Because, ma'am, without my assistance, Mr. Waverton can
very well translate Horace into his own sublime verse and Miss Lambourne
into his own proud wife."

He intended her to rage. What she did was to say softly: "You do not want
to see me that?"

"I have no ambition to amuse you, ma'am." Miss Lambourne looked
sideways. "What if I don't want you to go away?"

"Egad, ma'am, I know you don't." Harry laughed. "You amuse yourself
vastly (God knows why) with baiting me."

"Why, it amuses me." Alison still looked at him sideways. "Don't you
know why?"

He did not choose to answer.

"Indeed, then, if I am nought to you why do you care what folks say of
you and me?"

Harry made a step towards her. "You mean to have it again, do you?"
he muttered.

"Pray, sir, what?" and still she looked sideways.

"What you dragged out of me in the wood."

"Dragged out of--oh!" She blushed, she drew back, and so had occasion to
do something with her cloak which let a glimpse of white neck and bosom
come into the light. "You flatter us both indeed."

"I'll tell you the truth of us both"--he, too, was flushed: "you are a
curst coquette and I am a curst fool."

Now she met his eyes fairly, and in hers there was no more laughter,
but she smiled with her lips: "I think you know yourself better than
you know me."

Harry gripped her hands. "You go about to make me mad with desire for
you, you--"

"I want you so," she breathed, and leaned back, away from him, her eyes
half veiled.

He had his arms about her body, held her close. The red lips curved in a
riddle of a smile. He saw dark depths in the shadowed eyes.

"_Malbrouck s'en va t'en guerre_" she murmured.

Harry exclaimed something, felt her against him, was aware of all her
form--and heard footsteps.

Alison was out of his grasp, her back to him, plucking a rose. "You will
see me again--you shall see me again. I ride in the wood to-morrow
morning," she muttered.

"You'll pay for it," Harry growled.

His father arrived, Mrs. Weston, a servant at their heels.

Alison came round with a swirl of skirts. "Dear sir, I doubt you have
burnt up dinner by your long passages with my Weston. Come in, come in,"
and she led the way.

For once Colonel Boyce was without an answer. Harry, who was dreading
witticisms, looked at him in surprise, and with more surprise saw that he
looked angry. Mrs. Weston hurried on before them all. Her eyes were red.




CHAPTER IX

ANGER OF AN UNCLE


It seems certain that on this day Alison wore a dress of a blue like
peacock's feathers. That colour--as you may see, she wears it in both the
Kneller and the Thornhill portraits--was much a favourite of hers, and
indeed it set off well the rare beauty of her own hues. The clarity, the
delicacy, of her cheeks were such as you may see on one of those roses
which, white in full flower, have a rosy flush on the outer petals of the
bud, and the same rose open may serve for the likeness of a neck and
bosom which she guarded no more prudishly than her day's fashion
demanded. For all the daintiness, her lips, a proud pair, were richly red
(stained of raspberries, in Charles Hadley's sneer), and with the black
masses of her hair and grey eyes almost as dark, gave her an aspect of,
what neither man nor woman ever denied her, eager and passionate life.
All this was flowering out of her peacock blue velvet, and Harry, I
infer, went mad.

She never expanded into the larger extravagances of the hoop, preferring
to trust to her own shape. Her waist made no pretence of fine-ladyship,
but the bodice was close laced _à la mode_ to parade the riches of her
bosom. Strong and gloriously alive, and abundantly a woman--so she smiled
at the world.

It was a delirious hour for Harry, that dinner. He knew that Alison was
pleased to be in the gayest spirits, and his father, in his father's own
flamboyant style, seconded her heartily. He joined in, too, and seemed to
himself loud and vapid, yet had no power of restraint. It was as though
his usual placid, critical mind were detached and watched himself in the
happy exuberance of drunkenness--which was a state unknown to him, for
excess of liquor could only move him with drowsy gloom. And in the midst
of the noise Mrs. Weston sat, pale and silent, a ghost at the feast.

He was glad when his father spoke of going, though he found himself
talking some folly against it, on Alison's side, who jovially mocked the
Colonel for shyness. But Colonel Boyce, it appeared, had made up his
mind, and Harry was surprised at the masterful ease with which, keeping
the empty fun still loud, he extricated himself and his unwilling son.

They were all at the door, a noisy, laughing company, and the
horses waited.

"It's no use, ma'am," Harry cried, "he knows how to get his way,
_monsieur mon père_."

"Pray heaven he hath not taught his son the art!"

"Oh Lud, no, I am the very humble servant of any petticoat."

"Fie, that's far worse, sir. I see you would still be forgetting which
covered your wife."

"Never believe him, Madame Alison." quoth the Colonel. "It's a strong
rogue and a masterless man,"

"Why, that's better again. And yet it's not so well if he'll be
mistressless too."

"Fight it out, child," the Colonel cried. "'Lay on, Macduff, and curst be
she that first cries hold, enough!' Come, Harry, to horse."

"See, Weston, he deserts me, and merrily!"

There came upon the scene two other horsemen--Mr. Hadley's gaunt,
one-armed frame and a big, lumbering elder with a rosy face.

Harry bowed over Alison's hand. It was she who put it to his lips, and
nodding a roguish smile at the other gentlemen, "So you run away,
sir?" she said.

Harry looked at her and "Give me back my head," he said in a low voice.
"I have lost it somewhere here."

"Oh, your head!" She laughed. "Well, maybe it's the best part of you."

He mounted, and Colonel Boyce, already in the saddle, kissed his hand to
her. They rode off, compelled to single file by the plump old gentleman
who held the middle of the road and glowered at them. Mr. Hadley made an
elaborate bow.

The old gentleman watched them out of sight round the curve of the drive,
then sent his horse on with an oath and, dismounting heavily at Alison's
toes, roared out: "What the devil's this folly, miss?" He made angry
puffing noises. "I vow I heard you laughing at Finchley. Might have heard
him kissing too."

"Kissing? Oh la, sir, my hand, and so may you." She held it out and made
an impudent little curtsy. "I protest the gentleman is all maidenly. That
is why he and I make so good a match."

The old gentleman spluttered and was still redder. "Match, miss? What,
the devil!"

"Oh no, sir. Pray come in, sir. I see you are in a heat, and I fear for a
chill on your gout."

"You are mighty civil, miss. You are too civil by half," the old
gentleman puffed, and stalked past her.

Alison stood in the way of Charles Hadley as he made to follow. There was
some pugnacity on her fair face. "It's mighty kind of Mr. Hadley to
concern himself with me."

"Egad, ma'am, if I come untimely it's pure happy chance."

She whirled round on that and they went in. "Will you please to drink a
dish of tea, Sir John?"

"You know I won't, miss." The old gentleman let himself down with a grunt
into the largest chair in her drawing-room. "Now who the plague is this
kissing fellow?"

"Sure, sir, it's the gentleman Mr. Hadley told you of," said Alison
meekly. She hit both her birds. Mr. Hadley and his uncle looked at each
other. Sir John snorted. Mr. Hadley shrugged and gave an acid laugh.

"What, what, that fellow of Waverton's? Od burn it, miss, he's a
starveling usher."

"Oh, sir, don't be hasty. I dare say he'll be fat when he's old."

"Don't be pert, miss. D'ye know all the county's talking of you and
this fellow?"

Alison paled a little. She spoke in a still small voice. "I did not know
how much I was in Mr. Hadley's debt. I advise you, Sir John, don't be one
of those who talk."

"You advise me, miss! Damme, ain't I your guardian?"

"I am trying to remember that you once were, sir. But you make it
very hard."

"What the devil do you mean?"

"I mean--"

"I vow neither of you knows what you mean," Mr. Hadley drowned her in a
drawl. "I never saw such fire-eaters. Look 'e, Alison, we come riding
over in a civil way and--"

"Tell me you have been planning a scandal about me. Oh, I vow I am
obliged to you."

Mr. Hadley laughed. "Lud, child, you ha' known me long enough. Do I deal
in tattle? And if we have seen what we should not ha' seen, if you're hot
at being caught, prithee, whose fault is it? Egad, you know well enough
there's things beneath Miss Lambourne's dignity."

"Yes, indeed, and I see Mr. Hadley is one of them."

"You're a fool for your pains, Charles," John shouted. "What's sense to a
wench? Now, miss, I'll have an end of this. You're old Tom Lambourne's
daughter for all your folly, and I'll not have his flesh and blood the
sport of any greedy rogue from the kennel."

There was a moment of silence. Then Alison, whose colour was grown high,
said quietly, "Pray, Sir John, will you go or shall I? I do not desire to
see you again in my house."

"Go?" The old gentleman struggled to his feet. "Damme, Charles, the
girl's mad. Yes, miss, I'll go--and go straight to my Lady Waverton. Od
burn it, we'll have your fellow out of the county in an hour. Egad, miss,
you're besotted. Why, what is he?--a trickster, a knight of the road.
'Stand and deliver,' that's my gentleman's trade. He's for your father's
money, you fool."

"Good-bye, Sir John," Alison said, and turned away.

With unwonted agility, Mr. Hadley came between her and the door. "You are
not fair to us, Alison," he said. "Prithee, be fair to yourself." She
passed him without a word. Mr. Hadley turned and showed Sir John a rueful
face. "We have made a bad business of it, sir."

Sir John swore. "Brazen impudence, damme, brazen, I say."

"Oh Lord! Don't make bad worse."

Sir John swore again. Upon his rage came Alison's voice singing:

"When daffodils begin to peer
  With heigh! the doxy, over the dale,
Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year,
  For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale."

Sir John spluttered, and went out roaring for his horse.




CHAPTER X

YOUNG BLOOD


There is reason to believe that from the first Mr. Hadley suspected he
was making a fool of himself. This sensation, the common accompaniment of
an attempt to do your duty, was just of the right strength to ensure that
all his actions should be disastrous. It was, as you see, not strong
enough to restrain him from exciting the dull and choleric mind of Sir
John Burford; it did not avail to direct the ensuing storm. And then,
having first failed to be sufficient check, it developed into a very
paralysis.

Startled by the furies he had roused in Alison, Mr. Hadley found that
suspicion of his own folly develop into a gruesome conviction. It
compelled him to labour with Sir John vehemently until that blundering
knight consented to wait before exploding his alarms upon Lady Waverton.
Even as the first blundering remonstrances had irritated Alison's wanton
will into passionate resolution, so this ensuing vacillation and delay
gave it opportunity.

If the tale had been told to Lady Waverton, no doubt but Harry would have
been banished from Tetherdown that night. It is likely, indeed, that the
ultimate fates of Alison and Harry would have been the same. But many
antecedent adventures must have been different or superfluous.

Mr. Hadley was now full of common sense. Mr. Hadley sagely argued with
his uncle that they would do more harm than good by carrying their tale
to Lady Waverton. The woman was a fool in grain, and whatever she did
would surely do it in the silliest way. Tell her a word, and she would
swiftly give birth to a scandal which the world would not willingly let
die, in which Mr. Harry Boyce, if he were indeed the knave of their
hypothesis, might easily find a means to strengthen his grip of Alison.
It was better to wait and (so Mr. Hadley with a sour smile) "see which
way the cat jumped."

Perhaps Madame Alison, who was no kitten, might not be altogether
infatuated. The shock of the afternoon, for all her heroics, might have
waked in her some doubt of the charms of Mr. Boyce. The girl was shrewd
enough. She had dealt with fortune-hunters before--remember the Scottish
lord's son--and shown a humorous appreciation of the tribe. She was not a
chit with the green sickness; she was neither so young nor so old that
she must needs fall into the arms of any man who made eyes at her. After
all, likely enough she was but amusing herself with Mr. Boyce. Not a very
delicate business, but they were full-blooded folk, the Lambournes.
Remember old Tom, her father: there was a jolly bluff rogue. Well, if
miss was but having her fling, it would do no good to tease her.

Thus Mr. Hadley, cautiously recoiling, doubting or hoping he was making
the best of things, brought Sir John, in spite of some boilings over,
safe back to his home and his jovial daughter.

When Harry and his father rode away from Alison, for once in a while
Harry found his father's mood in tune with his own. Colonel Boyce
suddenly relapsed from hilarity into a perfect silence. He soon reined
his horse to a walk, and his wonted alert, soldierly bearing suffered
eclipse. He gave at the back, he was thoughtful, he was melancholy--a
very comfortable companion.

"Pray, sir, when do we start for France?" said Harry at length.

"What's that? Egad, you're in a hurry, ain't you? Not to-night nor yet
to-morrow. Time enough, time enough. Make the best of it, Harry." It
occurred to Harry that his father was preoccupied.

But with that he did not concern himself. He was in too much tumult. It
appeared that he would be able to meet Alison in the morning. He did
not know whether he was glad. He had been telling himself that he would
have snatched at the excuse to fail her, and yet was not sure that if
his father had announced instant departure he would not have bidden his
father to the devil. But still in a fashion he was angry, in a degree
he was frightened. He knew that he would go meet the girl now; he could
not help himself--an exasperating state. And when he was with her--her
presence now set all his nature rioting--with other folk by, it was
hard enough to be sane; when he was alone with her in the wood, what
would the wild wench be to him before they parted? There was no love in
him. He had no tenderness for her, he did not want to cherish her,
serve her, glorify her. Only she made him mad with passion. But,
according to his private lights, he was honest, and wished to be, and
was therefore commanded to try to save the girl from his wicked will
and hers. He despised himself for the gleam of cautious duty. What in
the world was worth so much as the rose petals of her face, the round
swell of her breast?

"Damme, Harry, a man's a fool to be ambitious," so his father broke in
upon this tumult. "Why do we fret and trick after a place, or a purse, or
a trifle of power?"

Harry stared at him. "Lord, sir, why are you so moral?"

And then Colonel Boyce began to laugh. "I grow old, I think. Oh, the
devil, I never had regrets worse than the morning's headache for last
night's wine. I suppose if you live long enough, life's a procession of
morning headaches. Well, I vow I've not lived long enough yet, Harry."

"I dare say you are the best judge," Harry admitted.

"There's a higher court, eh? Who knows? Maybe we are all the toys of
chance." He shrugged. "Why then, damme, I have never been afraid to take
what I chose and wait for the bill. Dodge it, or pay it. Odso, there is
no other way for a hungry man."

"Lord, sir, now you are philosophical! What's the matter?"

"Humph, I suppose my stomach is weakening," said Colonel Boyce. "I don't
digest things as I did."

In this pensive temper they came back to Tetherdown. The Colonel's
servant was waiting for him with letters, and he was seen no more that
night. Harry did not know till afterwards that Mr. Waverton, as well as
letters, was taken to the Colonel's room.

Madame Alison was left by the exhortations of her anxious friends feeling
defiant of all the world. It is a comfortable condition, but, for a
passionate girl of twenty-two, fruitful of delusions.

Alison was so far happier than Harry in that she knew what she wanted.
You may wonder if you will how Harry Boyce, with nothing handsome about
him but his legs, could rouse in the girl just such a wild longing as her
beauty set ablaze in him. These problems, comforting to the conceit of
man, are numerous. And, as usual, madame had dreamed her gentleman into a
wonderful fellow. The overthrow of the highwayman became from the first a
splendid achievement. Sure, Mr. Boyce must be of rare courage and
strength, even as he was deliciously adroit, and that insolent air with
which he did his devoir gave one a sweet thrill.

Afterwards, he progressed in her imagination from victory to victory.
What served him best was his capacity for puzzling her. That its hero
should want to keep such a gallant affair secret proved him of amazing
modesty or amazing pride--perhaps both--a titillating combination. It
surprised her more that he should dare rebuff the advances of Miss
Lambourne. Madame knew very well the power of her beauty over men. If she
gave one half an inch she expected that he should be instantly mad to get
an ell of her. But here was Mr. Boyce, though she gave him a good many
inches, as supercilious about her as if he were a woman. It was
incredible that the creature had no warm blood in him. Indeed, she had
proof--she could still make herself feel the ache of his grasp in the
wood--that he was on occasion as fierce as any woman need want a man.
Why, then, monsieur must be defying her out of wanton pride. A marvellous
fellow, who dared think himself too good for her.

She made no account of all his wise, honest talk about being poor while
she was rich. To her temper it was impossible that a man who wanted her
in his arms should stop to weigh his purse and hers, or to consider what
the world would say of him for wooing her. All that must be mere fencing,
mere mockery.

To be sure, he fenced mighty cleverly. The smug meekness which he put on
when she attacked him before others was bewildering. If she had never
seen him in action she must have been deceived. And, faith, it seemed
certain that he wanted to deceive her, to put her off, to put her aside.
The haughty gentleman dared believe that he could be very comfortable
without Miss Lambourne. It must not be allowed. He was by far too fine a
fellow to be let go his way. Faith, it was mighty noble, this
self-sufficient power of his, capable of anything, caring for nothing,
hiding itself behind an impenetrable mask, and living a secret life of
its own. She was on fire to enter into him and take possession, and use
him for herself.

So she was driven by a double need, knew it, and was not the least
ashamed. She longed to have Harry Boyce in her arms and his grip cruel
upon her. But also she wanted to conquer him and hold his mind at her
order. She imagined him under her direction winning all manner of fame.
And she believed herself mightily in love....

There is a moss on the birch trunks which makes a colour of singular
charm, a soft, delicate, grey green. A hood of that colour embraced
Alison's black hair and the glow of the dark eyes and her raspberry lips.
The cloak of the same colour she drew close about her with one gauntleted
hand, so that it confessed her shape.

The birches could still show a few golden leaves, though each moment
another went whirling away as the crests bowed and tossed before the
wind. In the brown bracken beneath Harry Boyce stood waiting. His graces
were set off with his customary rusty black. His hat was well down upon
his bobwig, and he hunched his shoulders against the wind, making a
picture of melancholy discomfort. He rocked to and fro a little,
according to a habit of his when he was excited.

Alison was very close to him before she stopped.

"What have you come for?" he growled.

She drew a breath, and then, very quietly, "For you," she said.

"You have had enough fun with me, ma'am."

Her breast was touching him, and he did not draw back.

"Then why did you come?" She laughed.

"Because I'm a fool."

"A fool to want me?"

"By God, yes. You know that, you slut."

"No. You would be a fool if you didn't, you--man."

"Be careful." Harry flushed.

"Oh Lud, was I made to be careful?"

He gripped her hand, and, after a moment, "Take off your hood," he
muttered.

"Is that all?" She laughed, and let it fall from hair and neck, and
looked as though sunlight had flashed out at her. "Honest gentleman, you
are lightly satisfied."

"So are not you, I vow."

She was pleased to answer that with a scrap of a song:

"Jog on, jog on the footpath way,
  And merrily hent the stile-a!
A merry heart goes all the way,
 A sad one tires in a mile-a."

"Faith, yours is a mighty sad one, Harry. Pray, what are you the better
for stripping me of this?" She flirted the hood.

"I can see those wicked colours of yours. Lord, what a fool is a man to
go mad for a show of pink and white!"

"And is that all I am?"

Harry shrugged. "Item--a pair of eyes that look sideways; item--a woman's
body with arms and sufficient legs."

"Lud, it's an inventory! I'm for sale, then. Well, what's your bid?"

"I've a shilling in my pocket ma'am and want it to buy tobacco."

"Oh, silly, what does a man pay for a woman?"

Harry laughed. "Why, nothing, if she's worth buying."

Then Alison said softly, "Going--going--gone," and clapped her hands
and laughed.

"You go beyond me at least," Harry said in a moment.

She put her hands behind her and leaned forward till her bosom pressed
upon him lightly, and then, with her head tilted back so that he saw the
white curve from under her chin, and the line of the blue vein in it,
"You want me, Harry," she said.

"You know that too well, by God."

"Too well for what, sir?"

"Too well for my peace, ma'am." He flushed.

"His peace!" She laughed. "Oh Lud, the dear man wants peace!"

He flung himself upon her, holding her to him as she staggered back, and
kissed her till she was gasping for breath, gripped her head to hold it
against his kisses, buried his face in the fragrance of her neck. She
gave herself, her arms still behind her, offering the swell of her
breasts to him, her eyes gay....

"You are mine, now. You're mine, do you hear?" he said unsteadily.

"I want you," she smiled, and was crushed again.

When he let her go, it was to step back and look at her, wondering and
intent. She stood something less than her full height, her bosom beating
fast. She was all flushed and smiling, but now her eyes were dim and they
met his shyly.

"Egad, you're exalting," he said with a wry smile.

"I feel all power when you grasp at me so--power--just power."

"No, faith, you are not. When I hold you to me, when you yield for me, I
am all the power there is. Damme, the very life of the world."

"So then," she looked at him through her eyelashes, "and have it so. For
it's I who give you all."

"In effect," Harry said: and then, "go to, you make us both mad."

"I am content."

"Yes, and for how long?"

She made an exclamation. "Have I worn out the poor gentleman already?"

"Would you keep yourself for me? Will you wait?"

"Why, what have we to wait for now?"

"Till I am something more than this shabby usher."

"I despise you when you talk so." Her face flamed. "Fie, what's a word
and a coat? You have lived with me in your arms. You are what I make of
you then. Is it enough, Harry, is it not enough?"

"I'll come to your arms something better before I come again. I am off
to France."

"Ah!" Then she studied him for a little while. "You meant to run away,
then. Oh, brave Harry! Oh, wise! Pray, are you not ashamed?"

"Yes, shame's the only wear."

"I'll not spare you, I vow."

"Egad, ma'am, mercy never was a virtue of yours."

"Is it mercy you want in a woman?"

"I'll take what I want, not ask for it."

"Why, now you brag! And if there is not in me what monsieur wants?"

"So much the worse for us both. But you should have thought of
that before."

"Faith, Harry, you take it sombrely." She made a wry mouth at him. "Pluck
up heart. I vow I'll satisfy you."

"You'll not deny me anything you have."

She paused a moment. "Amen, so be it. And must we never smile again?"

"I wonder"--he took her hands; "I wonder, will you be smiling to-morrow
when I am away to France."

"Oh, are you still set on that fancy?" She gave a contemptuous laugh.
"Prithee, Harry, shall I like you the better for waiting till you have
French lace at your neck and a frenchified air?"

"You'll please to wait till I bring Miss Lambourne a fellow who has done
something more than snuffle over a servitor's books. I want to prove
myself, Alison."

"You have proved yourself on me, sir. What, am I a lean wench in despair
to hunger for a snuffling servitor? If you were that, I were not for you.
But I know you better, God help me, my Lord Lucifer. Why then, take the
goods the gods provide you and say grace over me." Harry shook his head,
smiling. "Lord, it's a mule! Pray what do you look to do in France?"

"I am pledged to my father and his policies--to go poking behind the
curtains of the war and deal with the go-betweens of princes."

"So. You talk big. Well, I like to hear it. What is the business?"

"My father, if you believe him, has Marlborough's secrets in his pocket
and is sent to chaffer for him. You may guess where and why. Queen Anne
hath a brother."

Her eyes sparkled. "You like the adventure, Harry?"

"Egad, I begin to think so."

"I love you for that!" she cried, and it was the first time she spoke the
word. "Why then, first go with me to church and call me wife!"

He drew in his breath. "By God, do you mean that?"

"Why, don't you mean me honourably?" She gave an unsteady laugh, her eyes
mistily kind.

He sprang at her.




CHAPTER XI

ABSENCE OF MR. WAVERTON


It was always in after life alleged by Mr. Hadley that his steady
interest in the family of his uncle was nothing but a desire to keep the
old gentleman out of mischief. Sir John Burford was indeed of a temper
too irascible to be safe with his bucolically English mind: a man who in
throwing tankards at his servants and challenges at his friends was a
source of continuous anxiety to his reasonable kinsfolk. But he had also
a daughter.

She received the benevolent Mr. Hadley when on the morning after the
explosions in Alison's house he came to see whether Sir John was still
dangerous or his daughter any thinner. It was the latter purpose which he
professed to Susan Burford. She was not annoyed. In her cradle she had
been instructed that she was a jolly, fat girl, and through life she
accepted the status, like every other which was given her, with great
good humour. She was, in fact, no fatter than serves to give a tall woman
an air of genial well-being. It was conjectured by her friends that her
father, needing all his irascibility for himself, had allowed her to
inherit only his physical qualities. She had indeed the largeness of Sir
John and his open countenance. Her supreme equanimity perhaps came from
her mother. She was by a dozen years at least younger than Mr. Hadley,
and always thought him a very clever boy.

"Sir John is gone out to the pigs, Mr. Hadley. Perhaps you'll go too,"
she said, and looked innocent.

"Well, they are peaceful company, Susan. And you're so surly."

"I thought you would find some joke in that," said Susan, with kindly
satisfaction.

"Damme, don't be so maternal. It's cloying to the male. Be discreet,
Susan. You will talk as though you had weaned me but a year or two, and
still wanted me at the breast."

Susan was not disconcerted. "Will you drink a tankard?" said she. "Or Sir
John has some Spanish wine which he makes much of."

"Susan, you despise men. It is a vile infidel habit." He paused, and
Susan dutifully smiled. "Why now, what are you laughing at? You! You
don't know what I mean."

"To be sure, no," said Susan. "Does it matter?"

"Oh Lud, your repartees! Bludgeons and broadswords! I mean, ma'am, you
think men are nought but casks--things to fill with drink and victuals.
Is it not true?" Susan considered this, her head a little on one side and
smiling. She wore a dress of dark blue velvet cut low about the neck, and
so, nature having made her sumptuous, was very well suited. "Egad, now I
know what you're like," Mr. Hadley cried. "You're one of Rubens' women,
Susan; just one of those plump, spacious dames as healthy as milk and
peaches, and blandly jolly about it."

Susan looked down at herself with her usual amiable satisfaction and
patted the heavy coils of her yellow hair and said: "Sir John often
talks of having me painted. But that's after dinner. Will you stay
dinner, Mr. Hadley?"

"Damme, Susan, what should I say after dinner, if I say so much now?"

Susan smiled upon him with perfect calm. "Why, I never can tell what you
will say. Can you?"

"You're a hypocrite, Susan. You look as simple as a baby, and the truth
is you're deep, devilish deep. Here!" He fumbled in his pocket. "Here's a
guinea for your thoughts if you tell them true. Now what are you
thinking, ma'am?"

"Why, I am thinking that you came to see my father, and yet you stay here
talking to me;" she gurgled pleasant laughter and held out her hand for
the guinea.

Mr. Hadley still retained it. "That pleases you, does it?"

"Yes, indeed. You're so comical."

Mr. Hadley surrendered the guinea, looked at his empty left sleeve and
made a wry face. "Lord, yes, I am comical enough. A lop-sided grotesque."

"That's not fair!" He had at last made her blush. "You know well I did
not mean that. I think it makes you look--noble."

"It makes me feel a fool," said Mr. Hadley. "Lord, Susan, one arm's not
enough to go round you."

"So we'll kill the Elstree hog for Christmas;" that apposite
interruption came in her father's robust voice. Sir John strode rolling
in. "What, Charles! In very good time, egad. You can come with me."

"What, sir, back to the swine? I profess Susan makes as pretty company."

Sir John was pleased to laugh. "Ay, the wench pays for her victuals, too.
Damme, Sue, you look good enough to eat." He chucked her chin paternally.
"Well, my lad, I ha' thought over that business and I'm taking horse to
ride over to Tetherdown."

"Oh Lord," said Mr. Hadley. "And what then, sir?"

"I'll talk to Master Geoffrey."

"Oh Lord," said Mr. Hadley again. "Do it delicately."

"Delicate be damned," said Sir John.

"I had better ride with you," said Mr. Hadley.

"Good boy. Here, Roger--Mr. Hadley's horse."

Susan stood up. "Lud, sir, you will not be here to dinner then?"

Sir John shook his head. Mr. Hadley scratched his chin. "I am not so sure
that Geoffrey will give us a dinner," said he.

"Why, sir," Susan was interested, "what's your business with Mr.
Waverton?"

"To tell him he's a fool, wench," quoth Sir John.

"Oh. And will Mr. Waverton like that?"

"Like it! Odso, he'll like it well enough if he has sense."

Mr. Hadley grinned. "That's logic, faith. Well, sir, have with you."

So off they rode. On the way Sir John was pleased to expound to Mr.
Hadley the profound sagacity of his new plan. He would rally Geoffrey on
his flaccidity; accuse him of being an oaf; and, describing all the while
in an inflammatory manner the charms of Alison, hint that Geoffrey's
tutor had ambitions after them. "And if that don't wake up my gentleman,
he may go to the devil for me and deserve it."

It crossed Mr. Hadley's lucid mind that a gentleman who required so much
waking up did not deserve Miss Lambourne. But she was quite capable of
discovering that for herself, if indeed she had not already. And
certainly it would do Geoffrey no harm to be made uncomfortable. So Mr.
Hadley rode on with right good will.

But when they came to Tetherdown it was announced that Mr. Waverton had
gone riding. "Why, then we'll wait for him." Sir John strode in. The
butler looked dubious. Mr. Waverton had said nothing of when he would
come back.

"Why the devil should he?" Sir John stretched his legs before the fire.
"He'll dine, won't he?"

The butler bowed.

"Prithee, William," says Mr. Hadley, "is Mr. Boyce in the house?"

"Mr. Boyce, sir, is gone walking."

Mr. Hadley shrugged. "Odso, away with you," Sir John waved the man off.
"Let my lady know we are here."

The butler coughed. "My lady is in bed, Sir John."

"What, still?" quoth Sir John, for it was close upon noon.

"Hath been afoot, Sir John. But took to her bed half an hour since."

"What, what? Is she ailing?"

The butler could not say, but looked a volume of secrets, so that Sir
John swore him out of the room.

"Vaporous old wench, Charles," Sir John snorted. And a second time Mr.
Hadley shrugged.

In a little while the butler came back even more puffed up. Her ladyship
hoped to receive the gentlemen in half an hour.




CHAPTER XII

IN HASTE


Oh, Harry, Harry, I give in. I am the weaker vessel. At least, I have the
shorter legs."

"What, you're asking me to spare you already? Lord, how will you bear me
as a husband?"

They were under the great beeches in Hampstead Lane, breasting the rise
to the heath, on their march for that kindly chapel, where, if you dined
in the tavern annexed, the incumbent would marry you for nothing, charge
but the five shillings, cost price of the Queen's licence, and ask no
questions.

Harry shortened his stride, and looked down with grim amusement at
Alison's breathless bosom.

"I believe you mean to make an end of me before you have begun with me,"
she panted. "Lord, sir, what a figure you'll cut if you bring me to
church too faint to say, 'I will.'"

"Why, the Levite would but take it for maiden modesty. Not knowing you."

"You are trying to play the brute. It won't save you, Harry. I shan't be
frightened."

"You! No, faith, it's I. I am beside myself with terror."

"I do believe that's true!" She laughed at him. "But, oh, dear
sir, why?"

"Lest I should not fulfil the heroical expectations of Miss Lambourne.
Confess it, ma'am; you count on me to exalt you into heavens of ecstasy,
to bewilder the world with my glories, and be shaved by breakfast-time."

"To be sure, I'll always expect the impossible of you."

"There it is. I suppose you expect me to begin by creating a
wedding-ring."

"Why, you have created me."

"Oh, no, no, no. You're a splendid iniquity, but not mine, I vow."

"This woman of yours never lived till you made her. I profess Miss
Lambourne was ever known for a dull cold thing born 'to suckle fools and
chronicle small beer.'"

"So she wrote me down her property. Egad, ma'am, it was very natural."

"You know what you have made of me," Alison said.

"God knows what you'll make of me. And now in the matter of the ring--"

"Oh Lud, what a trivial thing is a man!" She drew off her glove and held
out a hand with two rings on it. "Marry me with which you will." One was
a plain piece of gold, paler than the common, carved into an odd device
of a snake biting its tail.

"With thine own ring I thee wed," Harry said, and took it off. "I
take you to witness, Mrs. Alison, the snake was in your paradise
before I came."

They were across the heath now and going down the steep, narrow lane
beyond. The chapel of the Hampstead marriages stood raw red beside a
garden with lawns and arbours shaggy in winter's untidiness. Even the
tavern at the gate, a spreading one-story place of timber, looked dead
and desolate.

Harry forced open the sticking door and strode in, Madame Alison
loitering behind. He was met by a dirty lad whose gaping clothes were
half hidden by a leather apron, and whose shoes protruded straw--a lad
who smelt of the stable and small beer.

"Where's the priest?" said Harry.

"In the tap," said the boy, and shuffled off.

There came out into the passage, wheezing and wiping his chops, a little
bloated man in a cassock, with his bands under his right ear. He leered
at Harry and tried to look round him at Alison.

"You're out of season, my lord," said he. "These chill rains, they play
the mischief with lusty blood. Go to, you'll not be denied, won't you? Do
you dine here?"

"We have no time for it."

"What, you're hasty, ain't you?" He gave a hoarse laugh. "There's my fee
to pay then."

"Here's a guinea to pay for all," said Harry.

The dirty fist took it, the little red eyes peered at it closely, the
dirty mouth bit it and was satisfied. "Go you round to the chapel door
and wait. Lord, but man and wench never had to wait for me." He
waddled off.

Harry turned upon Alison. "So with all my worldly goods I thee endow," he
said, with a crooked smile. "God give you joy of them. I vow I was never
so frightened of spending a guinea."

"Why, d'ye doubt if I'm worth it? Nay, sir, I'm honest stuff and
challenge any trial."

Harry looked down at her and was met by eyes as bold as his own.

The chapel door opened, and the little priest beckoned them in. A pair of
witnesses were already posted by the altar, the dirty lad of the tavern
and a shock-headed wench.

"Licence first, licence first." The parson bustled off to a table in a
corner. "I warrant you we do things decently in Sion. Aye, and tightly,
my pretty. Never a lawyer can undo my knots, never fear."

He scratched laboriously over their names, while the dank smell of the
place sank into them.

They were marched to the altar. A hoarse muttering poured from the
priest. He made no pretence of solemnity or even of meaning. He was
concerned only to make an end and have done with them. Of all the service
they heard nothing clearly but what they said themselves, and while they
were deliberate over that the little priest grunted and puffed at them.

He ended with a leer and drove them before him back to the table. There
was more scratching in his register. The two uncouth witnesses scrawled
something for their names and shambled off.

"Let's breathe some free air," said Harry, and laid hold of his wife.

The parson chuckled. "Free? You'll never be free again, my lord. I can
see that in madame's eye. What, you ha' sold your birthright for a mess
of pottage, ain't you? And mighty savoury pottage, too, says you." He
rolled his eyes and smacked his lips. "Softly now, softly, madame wants
her certificate. Madame wants to warrant herself a lawful married wife,
if you don't ... There, my lady. And happy to marry you again any day at
the same price."

They were away from him at last and in clean air stretching their legs up
the hill again.

"Poor Harry!" Alison laughed. "Before you looked like a man fighting
for his life. Now you look like a man going to be hanged. Dear lad!
Pray how much would you give to escape me now?" She put her arm into
his. He let her shorten his stride a little, but made no other
confession of her existence. "Fie, Harry, it's over early to repent. In
all reason you should first be sure of your sin. Who knows? I may not
be deadly after all. 'Alack,' says he, 'I will not be comforted. Egad,
the world's a cheat. A fool and his folly are soon parted they told me,
and here am I tied to her till death us do part. So, a halter, gratis,
for God's sake.'"

"You're full of other folks' nonsense, Mrs. Boyce," said Harry with a
grim look at her.

"Oh, noble name!" She bobbed a curtsy. "Full? I am full of nothing but
fasting, aye," she sighed, and turned up her eyes--"fasting from all but
our sacrament."

They were upon the ridge of the heath and Harry checked her, and stood
looking away over the wide prospect of mist-veiled meadow and dim blue
woods. She was beginning her mocking chatter again when he broke in
with, "Ods life, ha' done!" and turned to look deep into her eyes.
"There's mystery in this, and I think you see nothing of it."

"Why, yes, faith. If you were no mystery, should I want you? If you had
discovered all of me, would you want me?"

"Bah, what do we know of living, you and I, or--or of love?"

She laughed, with a scrap of twisted song:

"Most living is feigning.
Most loving mere folly,
Then heigho the holly,
This life is most jolly."

He shrugged and marched her on again.

"Pray, sir, will you dine at home?" she said demurely.

Harry flushed. "I must go tell my father and all," he growled. "I'll be
with you soon enough, madame wife."

"Oh brave! Dear sir, have with you. I must see Geoffrey's face."

"Egad, let's be decent!" Harry cried.

"Decent! For shame, sir! What's more decent than man and wife?"

"Man and wife!" Harry echoed it with a sour laugh. "Do you feel a wife? I
never felt less of a man."

"You shall be satisfied," she said, and looked at him gravely. "And I--I
am not afraid, Harry."




CHAPTER XIII

DISTRESS OF A MOTHER


Mr. Hadley and Sir John Burford in the hall at Tetherdown looked at each
other across the fire. "Would you call for a pipe now, Charles?" says Sir
John, fidgeting.

"There'll be none in the house, sir. Geoffrey has no stomach for
tobacco."

"Damme, if I know what he hath a stomach for," Sir John grumbled, and
kicked at the burning logs. "He don't eat no more than an old woman, nor
drink so much as a young miss. Ain't the half-hour gone, Charles?"

"That's a poetic phrase, sir. It means a year or so--while she's tiring
her hair."

"What and painting her face, too? Same as Jezebel."

My lady's waiting-woman, Arabella, came in. She minced in the manner of
her mistress, but, being a foot shorter, with different effect. She stood
before Sir John, who had the largest chair, and stared at him, with
languid insolence. "Ods my life, don't ogle me, woman," says he.

"At your leisure, sir, if you please." She tossed her head.

"Leisure! Oh Lord, I'm at leisure, thank 'e."

Arabella sniffed.

"I think you are in madame's chair, sir," Mr. Hadley explained.

"What, then? She ain't here, nor I don't carry the plague."

"The lady-in-waiting wants to compose it for madame."

"Compose!" Sir John exploded an oath, and jumped up. "I ha'n't
decomposed it."

Arabella dusted the chair, wheeled it a little this way and that, put two
footstools before it, and three cushions into it, contemplated them for
some time, and then shifted them a little. After which she minced out
with a great sigh.

"Good God!" says Sir John.

"I wonder," says Mr. Hadley--"I wonder if we've come to take the breeks
off a Highlander?"

"What's your will?" Sir John gasped.

"I wonder if my lady knows all we can tell her. It might have made her
hypochondriac."

"Hip who? Odso, I am hipped myself."

My lady came. She had so much flowing drapery about her that she seemed
all robes. She moved very slowly, she was bowed, and she leaned upon the
shoulder of Arabella. With care she deposited herself in the big chair.
Arabella arranged her draperies, arranged the cushion, and stood aside.
My lady lay back, put back the lace about her head, and showed them her
large pale face and sighed. "You are welcome, gentlemen," said she. "You
are vastly kind."

"Odso, ma'am, what's the matter?" Sir John cried.

"Why, have you not heard? Arabella, he has not heard!" My lady was
convulsed, and clutched at the maid, who comforted her with a
scent-bottle. "He has gone!" she sighed. "He has gone."

"What the devil! Who the devil?"

My lady recovered herself. From somewhere in her voluminous folds she
produced a letter. "If it would please you, be patient with me. My
unhappy eyes." She dabbed at them with a handful of lace, and read:

"My lady, my mother,--I have but time for these few unkempt lines,
wherein to bid you for a while farewell. My good friend, Colonel Boyce,
has favoured me with an occasion to go see something of the warring world
beyond the sea. And I, since the inglorious leisure of the hearth irks my
blood, heartily company with him. It needs not that you indulge in tears,
save such as must fall for my absence. I seek honour. So, with a son's
kiss, I leave you, my mother. G.W."

On which his mother's voice broke, and she wept.

"Lord, what a fop!" said Sir John. My lady swelled in her draperies. "So
he's gone to the war, has he? Odso, I didn't think he had it in him."

"Sir, if you jeer at my bereavement!" my lady sobbed.

"And where's Harry Boyce?" says Mr. Hadley.

Sir John stared at him. "Why, seeking honour too, ain't he? What's in
your head, Charles?"

"This is rude," my lady sobbed; "this is brutal. The tutor! Oh, heaven,
what is the tutor to me? I would to God I had never seen him--him nor his
wicked father."

Sir John tugged at Mr. Hadley's empty sleeve and drew him aside. "What
are you pointing at, Charles? D'ye mean the two rogues have took Geoffrey
off to make away with him between 'em?"

"Lord, sir, you've a villainous imagination." Mr. Hadley grinned. "I mean
no such matter. Nay, I'll lay a guinea, Harry Boyce is not gone at all."

"Sir John"--my lady raised herself and was shrill--"what are you
whispering there?"

"What, what? You mean the old fellow took Geoffrey off to leave the young
fellow a clear field with Ally Lambourne? Odso, that's devilish deep,
ain't it? But we can set the young fellow packing, my lad. We--"

"Sir John!" my lady's voice rose higher yet.

"Coming, ma'am, coming. Od burn my heart and soul!" That last invocation
was not directed at her but an invading tumult.

The butler entered backwards, protesting, between two men who did not
take off their hats. They were in riding-boots and cloaks, and splashed
from the road. They had pistol butts ostentatious in their side pockets,
and one carried some papers in his hand.

"Stand back, my bully, stand back, or you'll smell Newgate," says he to
the butler.

"Burn your impudence," Sir John roared, and strode forward.

"In the Queen's name. Messengers of the Secretary of State, with his
warrant." The man waved his papers under Sir John's nose. "Master of the
house, are you?"

"I am Sir John Burford of Finchley, and be hanged to you."

"There is the mistress of the house, sirrah," says Mr. Hadley

"Thank'e. In the Queen's name, ma'am. Warrants to take Oliver Boyce,
Colonel, and Geoffrey Waverton, Esquire."

My lady shrieked, fell back, and was understood to be fainting.

"You come too late, sirrah," says Mr. Hadley. "Your foxes be gone away."

The man tapped his nose and grinned. "That won't do, sir. Set about it,
Joe," and he nudged his fellow.

"What's the charge against them?" says Mr. Hadley.

The man laughed. "Come, sir, you know better than that. I ain't here to
answer questions." Mr. Hadley put his hand in his pocket. The man grinned
and shook his head, and went out pushing his comrade in front of him. Mr.
Hadley followed them. As soon as they were out in the corridor and the
door was shut behind them, the man turned and held out his hand to Mr.
Hadley, who dropped into it a couple of guineas. "Lord, now, what did you
think it was?" says the messenger genially. "Treasonable
correspondence--Pretender--Lewis le Grand and so forth. Quite
gentleman-like, d'ye smoke me?"

"Prithee, who set you on?" says Mr. Hadley.

"Now you go too far, ecod, you do. I don't mind obliging a gentleman,
but you want to lose me my place. We'll be searching the house, by
your leave."

Off they went, and Mr. Hadley went back to my lady. She had been revived,
and the air was heavy with scent. She fluttered her hands at the
ministering Arabella and said faintly, "What is it, Charles?"

"It seems there's some talk of their having dealings with the Pretender."

"Lord bless my soul," Sir John puffed.

"The Pretender?" Lady Waverton smiled through her powder. "La, now,
Geoffrey's father always had a kindness for the young Prince."

"I vow, ma'am, you take it with a fine spirit," says Mr. Hadley in
some surprise.

"You'll find, Mr. Hadley, that such families as ours, the older families,
know how to bear themselves in this cause."

Sir John stared at her and puffed the louder, and muttered very audibly,
"Here's a turnabout!"

"Oh, ma'am, to be sure it's a well-born party," Mr. Hadley shrugged.
"D'ye give us leave to remain and see that these fellows show no
impudence?"

"Oh, sir, you are very obliging," says my lady superciliously.

Mr. Hadley bowed, and withdrew to the recess of a window with Sir John
following. "Here's a queer thing, Charles. Did ever you know Master
Geoffrey was a Jacobite?" Mr. Hadley shook his head. "Nor this Colonel
Boyce neither?"

"I never saw a Jacobite in so good a coat, and I never thought Geoffrey
would risk his coat for any king. And thirdly and lastly, I never knew
Whitehall put itself out in these days whether a man was Jacobite or no.
Why, damme, they be all half Jacobites themselves, from the Queen down."

"Aye, aye," says Sir John sagely. "A devilish queer thing indeed."

And on that came Alison and Harry--Alison rosy and smiling, Harry a
pale and deliberate appendage. "Dear Lady Waverton, let me present
my husband."

Lady Waverton sat up straight. Lady Waverton embraced the pair of them
with a bewildered glare.

"I married him this morning," Alison laughed.

"Alison, this is unmaidenly jesting," said my lady feebly.

"Why, if it were, so it might be. But the truth is, it's unmaidenly
truth. For I am Mrs. Harry Boyce. Give me joy."

"Joy!" my lady gasped. "It's unworthy! It's cruel! Oh, Geoffrey,
Geoffrey! How dare you?" She was again understood to faint.

Through the rustle of Arabella and the odours of scent came the
explosions of Sir John, swearing.

Mr. Hadley moved forward, and, ignoring Alison, addressed himself to
Harry. "Pray, sir, did you know that Mr. Waverton this morning left
Tetherdown in your father's company, your father taking him, as he says
in a letter, to the wars?"

"Knew?" Lady Waverton chose to speak out of her swoon. "To be sure they
knew. They would not have dared else. Dear Geoffrey! A villain! And you,
miss--you whom he trusted! Oh!" She again took scent.

"La, ma'am, he trusted me no more than I him. You are not well, I think."

"You give me news, Mr. Hadley," Harry said. "I knew that my father meant
to go abroad, and understood that I was to go with him."

"Perhaps you'll go after him." Mr. Hadley shrugged and turned away.

"Why, what's all this, Harry?" Alison laughed. "Your wise father hath
chosen to take Geoffrey instead of you?"

"In spite of my modesty, I'm surprised, ma'am," says Harry.

"Burn your impudent face," quoth Sir John from the background.

"Well, sir, if you were in your father's plans, maybe you'll pay your
father's debts," quoth Mr. Hadley.

"What do I owe you, Mr. Hadley?" says Harry, bristling.

The two messengers came back again. "Right enough, sir, gone away." The
spokesman nodded at Mr. Hadley. "We'll be riding. Trust no offence?" He
looked hopeful.

"Here's Colonel Boyce's son, wishing to answer for his father."

The man looked Harry up and down and chuckled.

"Lord, and mighty like. Servant, sir," he winked at Harry. "Tell the
Colonel, sorry we missed him," He winked again and laughed.

"What's this comedy of yours, Mr. Hadley?" says Harry.

"Your friends have warrants to arrest your father and Mr. Waverton for
treasonable correspondence with the Pretender. But none for you, I fear,
Mr. Boyce."

"Devil a one," the man laughed. "Come, Ned, we'll be jogging," Out
they swung.

A bewildered company, full of suspicions, stared at one another.

"Come, Harry, let us go home," Alison said.

"Home!" Lady Waverton gasped with an hysterical laugh. "Hear her!"

"My lady"--Alison made her a curtsy--"gentlemen--all the friends of Mr.
Boyce will be very welcome to me."

Sir John swore. "You for a fool and he for a knave, damme, you're
well matched."

"When you were younger, sir, I suppose you were less of a boor," says
Harry. "Mr. Hadley--my lady--" he made two stiff bows and gave his arm
to Alison.

"Humph, they go off with the honours." Mr. Hadley shrugged, and held out
his arm in front of Sir John, who was plunging after them.

"Be hanged to you. What did the rogue mean, telling me I was old?"

"Why, he meant that a man who is too old to fight should be civil."

"Too old?" Sir John fumed. "Burn him for a coward."

"I think not," says Mr. Hadley. "But for the rest--God be with you. My
lady--sincerely your servant."

My lady was now weeping. "You never loved him," she complained. "You were
never his friend," and she became speechless.

The two men looked at each other. "Well, Charles, we'll to horse," Sir
John concluded. "Servant, ma'am." They left her in the scented embraces
of Arabella.

To Harry as he went out came the butler, who, with something of a furtive
manner, produced and gave him a letter. Harry looked at the writing and
thrust it into his coat. Alison saw and took no notice.

They walked on for some way before silence was broken. Then Harry said:
"Well, madame wife, so you feel you've been bit."

"Who--I? What do you know of what I feel?"

"Oh, I can tell hot from cold. I know when you are thinking you ought to
have thought twice. Egad, I agree with you. You've been badly bit. Here
you were told that I was just off out of the country; that you must catch
me at once if you wanted to catch me; that if you took me you would soon
have me off your hands. And now we're tied up, you find I'm not going at
all. I vow it's disheartening. But if you'll believe me, I did honestly
believe my old rogue of a father. I did think he meant to take me."

"And now you can't be comforted because you have to stay with me. Oh,
Harry, you're a gloomy fellow to own a new wife. But why did the good man
take Geoffrey when he might have had you? I should have thought he knew a
goose when he saw one."

"I can't tell. I never saw much meaning in the old gentleman."

"You might as well look at his letter."

Harry stared. "How did you know that was his?"

"You like doing things mysteriously, the family of Boyce."

The letter said this:

"MR. HARRY,--I flatter myself that you will be offended. But 'tis all for
your good. When I came after you I did not know that you were so clever a
fellow. No more did I expect that I should have to like you. But since I
do, I prefer that I should do without you. And since you have some of my
wits, you may very well do without me. But I believe you will do the
better without friend Geoffrey. Therefore I take him, who will indeed do
my business much more sincerely than your worthy self. With the dear
fellow safe out of the way, I count upon you to push on bravely with Mrs.
Alison. You'll not find two such chances in one life. If you were master
of her you could promise yourself anything in decent reason you please to
want. For all your wits you are not the man to make his own way out of
nothing. So don't be haughty. Why should you? It's a mighty pretty thing,
Harry, and (trust an old fellow who hath made some use of the sex in his
day) as tender as you may hope for in an heiress. She has looked your way
already, and in her pique at the good Geoffrey deserting her, you'll find
her warmer for you. If you don't make her warm enough for wiving, you're
an oaf, which is not in my blood--nor your mother's, to be honest. Nor if
I was young again and played your hand, I wouldn't let her grow cold when
I had her safe.... So be a man, and I give you my blessing.

"O. BOYCE"

Harry held it out to Alison. "We're a noble family--the family of
Boyce," said he.

But Alison read it without a blush or a sneer, and when she gave it back
she was laughing. "Oh, he's more cunning than any beast of the field! Oh,
he knows the world! Poor, dear fellow."

"Oh Lud, yes, he's a fool for his wisdom. But he's my father."

"Well, sir?" Harry scowled at the ground. "Oh, what does he matter?
Harry, what does anything matter to-day--or to-morrow, or to-morrow's
to-morrow?"

"I had no guess of all this." Harry crushed the paper. "You
believe that?"

"Oh, silly, silly."

"You're still content?"

"Not yet," Alison said.




CHAPTER XIV

SPECTATORS OF PARADISE


In the old house on the hill Mrs. Weston sat alone. She was looking out
of the oriel window at a garden of wintry emptiness and wind swept. The
westerly gale roared and moaned, the heavy earth was sodden and beaten
into hollows and pools through which broke tiny pale points of snowdrops.
Away beyond the first terrace of lawn the roses bowed and tossed wild
arms. A silvery gleam of sunlight fell on the turf, glistened, and was
gone. Mrs. Weston sat with her hands in her lap and her needle at rest in
a half-worked piece of linen. A veil of languor had fallen upon the
wistfulness of her face. Her bosom hardly stirred. The sound of the
opening door broke her dream, and she picked up her work and began to sew
eagerly. It was Susan Burford who came in, royally neat in her
riding-habit, for all the storm. She walked in her leisurely, spacious
fashion to Mrs. Weston, who started and stood up, laughing nervously.
"Indeed Alison will be pleased. You are kind. I know she has been longing
to see you."

Susan laughed and, a large young goddess of health, stooped to kiss the
worn face. "You always talk about somebody else. Are you pleased?"

"My dear!" Mrs. Weston protested. "You know I am."

"We match very well. You never want to talk, and I never have anything to
say." Susan sat down, and for some time the only sound was from Mrs.
Weston's needle. At last, "You are still here, then," Susan said.

"My dear! Why not, indeed?"

"Oh. But you would always stay by Alison if she needed you."

"Why, she never has needed me. And now less than ever."

"Oh." Susan considered that. "And is he kind to you?"

Mrs. Weston flushed. "Indeed he has been very good to me."

"That is all I wanted to ask you," said Susan, and again there was
silence.

After a little while Mrs. Weston dropped her sewing and looked anxiously
at Susan. "Have you ever seen him?"

"Only his back. He used to keep in the corners at Tetherdown."

"I suppose people--talk about him."

"I don't listen," said Susan, "People are always in such a hurry. I
can't keep up."

"I suppose you think Alison was in a great hurry."

"Only Alison knows about that."

"Yes." Mrs. Weston looked at her with affectionate admiration, as though
she had been endowed with rare understanding of the human heart. "Do you
know you are the only one of the people Alison liked who has come
here--since?"

"Oh." (Susan's favourite eloquent reply.) "I don't mind about people."

"He doesn't mind at all. She doesn't mind yet."

"What is that you are working?" said Susan.

"But indeed they are most perfectly happy," said Mrs. Weston, in a hurry.

"Is it for a tucker?" said Susan.

In a greater hurry, Mrs. Weston began to explain. She was still at it
when Alison and Harry came back.

They too had been riding. The storm had granted Alison none of Susan's
majestic neatness. She looked a wild creature of the hills, her wet habit
clinging about her, black ringlets broken loose curling about her, brown
eyes fierce with life, and all the dainty colours of her face very clear
and bright. She saw Susan and cried out, "Oh, my child, I love you."

Susan rose leisurely to her majestic height and smiled down upon her. "I
think you are the loveliest thing that ever was made," said she. Alison
laughed, and they kissed.

"I am quite of your mind, ma'am," said Harry. "Or I was," he made Susan a
bow, "till this moment."

"I was going to ask her if she was happy, sir," Susan said. "I shan't ask
her." She held out her hand.

"But I want you to ask me a thousand things." Alison put an arm round
her, "Come away, come. At least I am going to tell you"--she shot a
wicked glance at Harry--"everything." Off they went.

"What's this mean, ma'am?" Harry stood over Mrs. Weston. "Is our wise
Sir John sending to spy out the land?"

"I wish you would not talk so." Mrs. Weston shivered. "It is like your
father. Oh, sure, you have no need to be suspicious of every one."

"Suspicious? Faith, I don't trouble myself." Harry laughed. "All the
world may go hang for me. But you'll not expect me to believe in it."

"I think you need fear no one's ill will. You are fortunate enough now."

"Miraculously beyond my deserts, ma'am. As you say. But there's the
wisdom of twenty years' shabbiness in me. And I wonder if the good Sir
John wants to be meddling."

"You need not be shabby now."

"Lord, I bear him no malice. For he can do nought. Only I would not have
him plague Alison."

At last Mrs. Weston smiled upon him. "Aye, you are very careful of her."

"I vow I would not so insult her." Harry laughed.

"But you need not be afraid. Susan is here for herself. She is like that.
She is the most independent woman ever I knew. She has come because she
loves Alison."

"Why, then, I love her. And egad it will be easy. She's a splendid
piece."

Mrs. Weston gave him an anxious glance. "She is very loyal," said she,
with some emphasis.

"It's a virtue. To be sure it's a virtue of the stupid." Harry cocked a
teasing eye at her. "And I--well, ma'am, you wouldn't call me stupid."

"I don't think it clever to jeer at what's good--and true--and noble."

"Egad, ma'am, you are very parental!" Harry grinned. "You will be talking
to me like a mother--and a stern mother, I protest."

"Am I stern?" Mrs. Weston looked at him with eyes penitent and tender.

"Only to yourself, I think. Lud, ma'am, why take me to heart?"

"What now, Harry?" Alison and Susan close linked came back again. "Whose
heart are you taking?"

"Why, madame's," said Harry, with a flourish. "You see, ma'am," he turned
to Susan, "I've a gift for making folks cry."

"Oh. Like an onion," says she, in her slow, grave fashion.

"Susan dear! How perfect," Alison laughed. "Now I know why I am growing
tired of him. A little, you know, was piquant. But a whole onion to
myself--God help us!"

"Yet your onion goes well with a goose," Harry said.

"Alack, Harry, but there's nothing sage about you and me."

"Oh, fie! See there she sits, our domestic sage"--he waved at Mrs.
Weston.

"To be sure we couldn't do without her." Alison caressed the grey hair.

"I must be riding, Alison," Susan said.

Alison began to protest affectionate hospitality. Harry shook his head.
"I have warned you of this, Alison. We are too conjugal. It embarasses
the polite."

"I am not embarassed," said Susan, with her placid gravity. "I want to
come again."

"By the fifth or sixth time, ma'am, I may feel that I am forgiven."

"I have nothing to forgive you, Mr. Boyce."

"Then you can do it the more heartily." Harry smiled and held out his
hand.

"Oh." There was a faint shadow of a blush. "I did not think I should like
you." She turned. "I beg your pardon, Alison."

"I beg, ma'am, you'll come teach my wife to be kind. She also is frank.
But for kindness--well, we are all sinners."

"There it is, Mr. Boyce," said Susan, holding out her hand.

And when she was gone. "Now, why did I not marry her first?" said Harry
pensively.

"Because she would never have married you, child. Being of those who like
the man to ask."

As Susan rode down the north slope of the hill, she was met by Mr.
Hadley, gaunt upon a white horse, like death in the Revelation. The
comparison did not occur to Susan, who had a fresh mind, but she did
think white unbecoming to Mr. Hadley, and said, gurgling, "Where did you
find that horse? Or why did you find it?"

"He was a bad debt. But he has a great soul. And don't prevaricate,
Susan. Where have you been?" Mr. Hadley bent his sardonic brows.

"To gossip with Alison."

"Odso, I guessed you would turn traitor."

"No. I haven't turned at all, Mr. Hadley."

"She has declared war on us. Your dear father fizzes and fumes like a
grenade all day. And you go gossip with her. It's flat treason, miss.
Come, did you tell Sir John you were going?"

"No. But he would guess. He is so clever about me. Like you."

"Humph. If he guesses you're a woman, it's all he does. And, damme, I
suppose it's enough. So your curious sex bade you go and pry. Well, and
what did you see in Mr. Harry Boyce?"

"I suppose you are scolding me," said Susan placidly.

"With all my heart."

"Oh. Why do you ride that horse?"

"Damme, miss, don't wriggle. You had no business at Highgate!"

"He looks as if he had the gout."

Mr. Hadley grinned. "But as you went, let's hear what you saw."

"I always loved Alison."

"Your business is to love your father, Susan--till some other man
asks you."

"I love her better now. She is so happy."

"Damn her impudence," said Mr. Hadley.

"Why did you lose your temper with her?"

"I never lose my temper with any one but you."

"Well. You made my father lose his."

"Ods life, Susan, don't you know it's a man's right to tell women how
they ought to live? Dear Alison wouldn't listen."

Susan laughed. "She has made you look very foolish."

"If she has I'll forgive her."

"Oh. You do then," said Susan.

"On your honour, miss, what did you think of Mr. Harry Boyce?"

"I wondered Alison should love him."

"Ods life, yes. But what's this you're saying?"

"He is so quiet and simple."

"Simple! Damme, the fellow's an incarnate mask."

"Oh. I think I know all about him. I never thought I knew all about
Alison. She wants so much."

"And she hasn't got all she wants, eh?"

"Yes, I believe," said Susan, after a moment.

"Pray God you're right."

"Oh. I like to hear you say that. You have been so"--for once her placid
words stumbled--"so sordid about this."

"Damme, Susan, don't be a saint." Mr. Hadley grinned. "They die virgins."




CHAPTER XV

MRS. BOYCE


It was a time of wild plots. The long war of Marlborough had left England
impregnably triumphant, and France ambitious of nothing but peace. No
fear remained that foreign arms would carry James, the Pretender by right
divine, to his sister's throne. Who should reign when Anne's growing
weakness ended in death was for England alone to decide, and English law
gave the succession to Prince George of Hanover. But there was a party,
or at least the leaders of a party, who saw more profit to themselves in
importing the Pretender.

Harley and Bolingbroke, they had thrust out of the Queen's confidence and
the government the friends of Hanover. They had undermined the authority
of Marlborough at home and abroad, and were now ready, honourably or
dishonourably, to put an end to the war which made him necessary. If he
were dispatched into ignominy or exile, there could be no one strong
enough, they believed, to prevent them driving England the way they
chose. What that way would be no one clearly knew, themselves, perhaps,
least of all. But together and singly they set going many strange secret
schemes which were to make a new king, a new England, and new
magnificence for themselves, singly or together. All which the mass of
England watched with shrewd, incurious eyes. It could not long be a
secret that plots were afoot. To shoulder out of power all who were
committed friends of the lawful order was a confession of designs against
it. As if that were not enough, Bolingbroke and Harley so managed their
business that everything they did was wrapped in a mist of trickery and
intrigue. And yet, though they were vastly mysterious over what could
have borne the light without much shame, they contrived to let the agents
of their deeper treachery blunder into notice and fill the air with
rumours of untimely truth. Still England gave no sign.

"Under which King"--Hanoverian or Pretender--perhaps there were few in
England who cared. If the Pretender was bred French and a Papist, Prince
George was a German born. Some of those who had joined heartily in
driving out his father began to put it about that the son would be a
better king for that lesson. George of Hanover had the right of law, but
the Parliament of to-morrow might undo what the Parliament of yesterday
had done. Who could be ardent for the right of an unknown foreigner over
England? And few were ardent, but there were many who, caring nothing for
Pretender or Hanoverian, had a solid resolution that England should not
be torn in the cause of either. Whatever was done, must be done quietly
and in good order. Since it seemed that the Hanoverian had no need to
change anything in law or State or Church, best that he should be king.
As for the devious politics, the tricks, and the mystery of Harley and
Bolingbroke, they were of no account to plain men.

There was yet another party not content to watch and wait till the
plotters lost themselves in their own mysteries. The men whom Harley and
Bolingbroke had driven from power had no mind to submit to impotence.
They well knew what they wanted: the Hanoverian, the lawful, limited king
upon the throne and themselves as his ministers. They were not delicate
about the means they used. Since there were treason and plots, they too
turned their hands to plotting and with a vigour and ruthless resolution
of which the other camp was innocent.

So the wise and eminent were busy while Harry Boyce and his Alison made
trial of their marriage. Harry lived in a dream of bewildered happiness.
He had counted on nothing but the need of his passion, hoped for nothing
but its ecstasy in her beauty, and at its wildest the strain of gloom in
him had bade him dread what lay beyond. She gave him a miracle of mad
delight. A new force of life was born in him while he enjoyed her joy. It
was a discovery of intoxicating power that he could wake that rare,
consummate creature to such eager exultation as his own. In those
wonderful hours it seemed that they passed out of themselves into a world
where every part of their being was one and in the happiness of unbounded
strength. So passion and she kept faith with him and something more. But
the miracle of passion in her arms had less enchantment than the joy of
the quiet hours. It was with this that she bewildered him. Before she
yielded to him, he would have jeered at the hope that she might bring the
gift of peace in her bosom. As the first days of marriage passed he
learnt that all his placid loneliness had been the mere endurance of
hunger. He had stayed himself with the husk of life. She satisfied him
with the fruit. For she too could be calm, delighting in the little daily
things, utterly happy with nonsense. To share all that with her was to
find in it a strange, lulling enchantment of content.

His fortune seemed too good to be real. For he possessed all that ever
fancy had pretended was worth coveting: his life was a perfect happiness.
No doubts from within, no troubles from without, had power to assail him.
All the old, reasonable, practical fears were become ludicrous cowardice,
only remembered for Alison to tease with. As for other people, and what
they said and thought and did, some folks were kind and were welcome, no
folks were of account. He and she deliciously sufficed themselves. And
there was no dread of change, save in age and death, infinitely distant
and insignificant--no matter but to glorify the power of life. Sometimes
he was aware that the wonder of passion must grow faint and fail, but he
saw nothing which could take from him the quiet, exquisite, daily joys.
Was it real, or a charmed dream, this perfect fortune of content? Indeed,
nothing was real in those days but the delight in being with her.

Alison had her share. He did not deceive himself. She had her ecstasies
and her exultations, she thought herself even madder than he was. And in
these days, perhaps, her passion was deeper and stronger than his. She
was satisfied, she felt herself accomplished, and gloried in her new
power with a more profound, a more secret delight than his. She had given
him eagerly all that she had, and in the giving found herself more than
ever her own. For all the union, the deepest, truest self in her stood
aloof in a mystery. It was not of her will, for she desired to deny him
nothing. She did not reckon him weak in failing to take all of her. This
must needs be the way of life. No man's passion could be stronger than
his. Doubtless he too had his secret soul apart. And indeed it was
glorious not to lose self in love, to stay always, through the ecstasies,
aloof, to give always anew of will and choice--never to merge helpless in
some unknown double being and become only half a body, half a soul,
capitulating always to the rest, to the other.

This self-glorious pride of hers gave her for a while that zest in all
the trivial common things which made her a companion so delightful to
Harry's temper. But she enjoyed them in a spirit different from his. All
the bread-and-butter business of living was to him delightful in itself
and for itself. He was born to want no better bread than is made of
wheat. She played with it, made a dainty mock of it, amused herself with
it, and at the back of her mind despised it.

So they lived, and you imagine Mrs. Weston's dim, wistful eyes watching
them with a great tenderness. For she understood them no better than
they themselves.

It was Alison who first grew tired. Not of love or passion, but of the
trivialities and the quiet life at Highgate. She had ambitions, or
thought she had. It had been just rediscovered that women could be
leaders in the world--at least in politics and the tricks of statecraft.
Women were the fiercest partisans and their voices powerful in the
warring parties. It was a woman, his termagant duchess, who had given
Marlborough his ascendancy in England, made him dominate all Europe. It
was a clever woman who had contrived Marlborough's downfall and given his
enemies the government of England. It was a woman--another duchess--who
beat Swift. You need not suspect Alison, who had some humour, of
imagining Harry Boyce a Marlborough. But he did believe him able to make
a noise in the world, and coveted much the sensation of owning him while
the world listened. She did not see herself controlling queens and kings
and parties, but she was well aware of her beauty and its power, and had
a mind to use it widely. She was hungry for excitement.

So Mrs. Alison determined to set her man upon a larger, busier stage. The
decree went forth that old Tom Lambourne's house in the Lincoln's Inn
Fields was again to be inhabited. Harry was asked for his advice
afterwards. Perhaps he would have been wiser if he had begun their first
quarrel then. But he was enjoying her too much to deny her her ways or
her whims, and he only laughed at her. He was not pleased, to be sure. He
had a taste, which cannot have come from his father, for copse and
field. He never found anything in the town which was worth the living in
other folk's smoke. He disliked crowds and in particular crowds of fine
ladies and gentlemen. So with some horror he saw before him a vista of
polite splendours, and said so.

"Oh Lud, sir," says she, "if I had wanted to sleep my life away I should
not have married you. And if you wanted to sleep out yours you should not
have married me."

"I was born for innocence and green fields. You'll make me a bull in a
china shop."

"I'll love you the better, child. Faith, Harry, I would be very glad to
have you break something."

"Madame's heart, _par exemple_?"

"That would be an adventure."

So you find them arrived in the Lincoln's Inn Fields as the first step
to the conquest of the world. The world was not as excited as Alison
thought fit. Her father, old Tom Lambourne, had commanded reverence in
the City and some respect even as far west as St. James's by sheer
weight of wealth. A rare capacity for living hard had won him an army of
diverse friends. But neither his business nor his pleasures provided him
with many who could be bequeathed to his daughter. Her mother, born a
baker's daughter in Shoe Lane, having died in giving Alison birth, had
left her nothing besides her admirable body but some grumbling objects
of charity. It remained for Alison to make her own way in the world of
fine ladies and gentlemen. Since she was by certain fame an heiress of
great possessions, her way might have been easy if she had not found
herself a husband. The taint of the city, if she had borne herself
humbly, need not have made her quite intolerable to people of birth. But
since her money was already married she could only be reckoned as a city
goodwife; pretty enough, indeed, to be game for fine gentlemen, but to
fine ladies a nobody.

Folks were slow in coming to the grand house in Lincoln's Inn Fields;
slower still, if they had houses of elegance, to ask Mrs. Alison back. It
suited Harry very well. He would, as his wife complained, go mooning
across the fields to Islington almost as happily as through the woods at
Highgate. His books had almost as good a savour in town as in the
country. When she dragged him to hear Nicolini or Wilks or the
Bracegirdle, he could console himself by gentle jeering over the fact
that in a playhouse where everybody knew everybody not a creature had a
bow for him or her. Of course she smarted. Day by day he chose to affect
astonishment over her failures, believing with infatuated content that he
was slowly driving her back to the country and sanity, though he was but
driving her away from him. And she, choosing to feel humiliated, blamed
him for the shame of it.

"Why, child," says he in his supercilious way, "'tis not failing to be in
the _beau monde_ that's ridiculous, but wanting to be."

To such monitions she began not to answer back--a symptom very dangerous.

She set up a basset table. That, if anything could, must proclaim her a
woman of fashion--a woman, indeed, who had a fancy to be a trifle
daring. There's no doubt that Alison about this time and afterwards did
want to dabble in danger. She was not her father's daughter for nothing.
She encouraged high play. For herself, she enjoyed the excitement of it,
having no need to care if she lost. She wanted to have about her people
who affected heavy stakes, believing in the innocence of her heart that
they were exhilarating company. So she made for herself a queer society,
which Harry to her angry disgust defined as a mixture of sheep and
wolves. There were good wives and lads from the city anxious to make a
jingling show with the funds of the family counting-house, there were
hungry beaux and madames from the other end of the town seeking their
fortune impudently wherever it might be found.

To one of these happy parties there was introduced a Mrs. Boyce. She
was a faded, handsome creature much jewelled about lean shoulders.
Alison, who hardly heard her name in the rout, took no account of it
and little of her. But on the next day this Mrs. Boyce came early and
caught Alison alone.

She began with such a fuss about apologizing for her earliness that
Alison set her down for an ill-bred, tiresome creature. She had a high
voice which, like the rest of her, was a trifle faded. "I protest, ma'am,
I have long desired to know you better." Alison languidly muttered
something civil. "Let me make myself known first, I beg. I am the niece
of Sir Gilbert Heathcote."

Alison, of course, had heard of Sir Gilly--one of the chiefs of high
finance--but cared nothing about him. "I am vastly honoured, ma'am. I was
only born Thomas Lambourne's daughter."

"There is no need; ma'am." A long, lean hand was waved. "I wonder if we
are in some fashion connected. We are both called Mrs. Boyce. The Boyces
of Oxfordshire, ma'am?"

Alison's laugh had something of a sneer in it, "Of nowhere that I know,
ma'am. My husband is Mr. Harry Boyce, son of Colonel Oliver Boyce."

The lady fluttered her fan, settled herself afresh in her chair,
rearranged her close-fitting lips. Alison was reminded of a hen preening
itself. "I had heard so, ma'am. And my husband is Colonel Oliver Boyce."

"La, ma'am, do you mean the same?" Alison cried.

Mrs. Oliver Boyce gave a lifeless smile. "That is why I did myself the
honour of giving you my confidence, ma'am. I think there are not two
Colonel Oliver Boyces. The younger son of one of the Oxfordshire family."

"Oh Lud, how should I know? I never looked into the grandfathers."

"No, ma'am?" The tone was patronizing contempt. "You might have been the
wiser of it. Colonel Oliver Boyce--he has taken the title lately--when I
knew him he was something in the service of the Duke of M

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