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.
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.