Читать книгу Sword Play - Charles Billings Stilson - Страница 8

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Echo flung back the clamor of pursuit along the reaches of the hill road. Harry March knelt in the grass under the swaying oaks and took Marsden’s head on his arm.

Reasons three had held Lord Harry back from the chase of the fleeing swordsman. There was a chance, a slender chance, that the blade which had passed through Roger’s body had not severed the thread of life. Secondly, there was in the young Englishman an abiding sense of fairness. He deemed that the quarrel had been most unjustly thrust upon the victor; and though it perhaps had cost the life of his friend, he had no desire to see vengeance done.

Third of the reasons was that the girl from the coach had called out to stay the pursuit, and Harry had heard and understood her. Though gossip linked the names of Lady Jean Henrietta Murrie and Lord Roger Marsden to the tune of wedding bells, there was in the heart of March a white inner shrine where her image stood, and where he worshiped hopelessly but faithfully. In all honorable things he would obey her to the death.

So faithful was he in friendship, so unselfish in love, that his mind had not for one instant harbored the thought that the passing of Roger would leave his own path cleared. It was no rival who bent over Marsden and felt for his wound with eager, hastening fingers, but his boyhood’s friend, sincere in the hope that he would not die. And when the groping fingers hovered over the seat of life and felt a regular throbbing there, March’s joy in the discovery was unreserved.

While he looked after the condition of Marsden, Bess Peake had made shift to drag Hatshaw from where he lay face downward across the stone. She stretched the gaffer’s wasted limbs upon the sward, opened his frayed cloak and ragged shirt, and with a bright kerchief attempted to stanch the flow of blood from the gash which Roger’s rapier had made in his chest.

Informed by one of the grooms as to the cause of the brawl, the footman who had been sent by Lady Jean from the coach had borne the news to his mistress, whereupon she had alighted from the vehicle and come down the road on foot. Her intent had been to intervene; for she was wont to carry things to her liking with a high hand, and she had no fear of Roger in his blackest moods.

Very decidedly she had marched in her small, square-toed boots, her hands clenched and her mouth set with the intensity of her purpose. Then she had glimpsed the vicomte’s face—she saw it first at the moment when his constraint left him and he smiled as he fought—and she had paused.

Something in the splendid youth and courage of him called to her own high spirit like a well-beloved voice. While her soul listened and made answer to that summons, her mind forgot its purpose.

Unseen by the fighting men and those who watched the combat, she stood fascinated in the roadway, her eyes shining, one hand fluttering at her throat, and the scarlet petals of her lips forming unconscious whisperings. Forgetful, too, that he was the foe of her lover—Marsden was not yet her fiancé, despite the gossips’ tongues—her whole being plighted allegiance to the stranger and wished him victory. When he slipped and faltered, and the wings of death seemed to be folding around him, she screamed with horror and knew not that she did so.

All in a moment the duel was done, black Marsden lay in the grass, and the other, in whom her heart already took a proud proprietorship, was in the saddle and away. God speed him, wherever he might go! was her prayer, and she called fiercely to arrest the vengeance of lead and steel which swept after him. When her commands were unheeded, she stood with clasped hands and breathlessly traced the course of his flight through the streets below. She saw him gallop reckless of danger, on the stone pathway of the mole, and her heart stood still when he set his horse to its mighty leap.

It was not until she saw him safely on board the receding ship that she returned to control of herself. Crossing the sward, she stood beside Lord March.

There was little pity in the gaze she bent on Roger’s still face, but rather the awakening and the relief of one who for the first time sees clearly and is glad for the vision.

“Archie!” she called.

A number of her men had come from the coach and stood staring. From among them a bare-legged, black-bearded Highlander of great stature stepped out at the summons of his mistress.

“You have skill in the care of wounds and the like, Archie MacGregor. Look to these men,” she commanded. “Nay—the old man first,” she interposed sharply as the Scot started to kneel at Marsden’s side.

With grave courtesy the giant waved Bess Peake aside. His big, hairy hands, gentle as those of a woman, for all their size and power, explored Hatshaw’s injury.

“This yin is fair dune for, ma leddy,” he said in a deep bass growl, looking up after a brief examination. “Puir body, the bit steel has made a hool i’ his bellows whaur I could pit ma two thoombs. He’ll be winnin’ awa’ sune.” And feeling himself in the near presence of death the MacGregor removed his flat tam-o’-shanter from his black locks and laid it on the turf.

Jean crossed herself; she was a good Catholic, and her father, the Earl of Raasay, was a friend of the Duke of York. “You may attend my Lord Marsden now, Archie,” she consented to her henchman’s look of inquiry. MacGregor left the dying beggar to the continued ministrations of Bess, and turned his attention to Roger. He inspected the sword-gash in Marsden’s breast and then felt at his back, where the point had pierced through.

“The deil has stood by his ain,” he said with Scottish frankness when he had done—for he had scant liking for Roger. “The laddie’s blade has passed atween heart an’ bowels. Gin he has gude care he’ll be a’ fit to handle steel again i’ the fortnicht.” Having passed judgment, Archie stood up and wiped his hands with a wisp of grass.

Almost immediately Roger proved the correctness of the diagnosis by sighing and opening his eyes. The only face within his range of vision was that of the Highlander.

“I came by an ugly tumble, Archie, man,” he said weakly.

“So ye did, ma lord; ye hae fa’en frae the pathway o’ honor—an’ that’s a lang, unco’ wicked fa’,” observed the Scot dryly, and he turned his broad back. Chief of a clan in his own wild hills, the MacGregor was a man who spoke his opinions freely and without fear; likewise his eyes and understanding were passing keen. He had noted the change in his mistress.

Marsden’s brows wrinkled uncomprehendingly. He stirred in March’s arms, groaned and clutched at his breast. His hand came away wet. When he looked at it, memory came back with a rush, and anger along with it.

“How—how sorely be I stricken, Harry?” he asked of his friend.

“ ’Twas a clean thrust, and marred no vitals,” replied March. “You’ll be sound as a tree again before the June roses blow.”

“I’ll live, then, to see that rake-helly brat hanged! Have they taken him—the French harlequin? Have him fetched hither.”

Before Harry could answer, the bass tones of MacGregor were heard from the background.

“Oh, ye’ll leeve, ma lord; but I’m thinkin’ ye’ll no see the neck o’ yon laddie streechit, sune or at a’. He’s gangin’ the noo for a lang voyage ower the bonny blue sea. An’ he’s nane the warse for it a’—your sword an’ bullets, an’ the ootlandish titles ye hae——”

“Hold your tongue, Archie!” Jean broke in.

“Aye, I’ll haud ma clackin’ maistress—gin ye tull me, but not for that yin. Natheless, an’ for a’ that, yon’s a boony bit laddie as ye varra weel ken yersel’, an’ I canna thole to hear him misca’ed by——”

“Be quiet, or I’ll lay my whip about your bare shanks!” threatened Jean with a stamp of her boot.

“Aye, I’m quietin’,” returned her displeased follower. Still grumbling into his beard, he moved off in the direction of the coach. In the roadway he met Humphrey, come groaning up the hill with his shattered arm. The Scot, lapsing into grim silence, bound up the injured member, and was none too gentle in his surgery.

Ordinarily the irascible young earl would have raved at such criticism as MacGregor had made free with; but in the grip of the larger anger provoked by Raymond he let the insolence of the big clansman go unchallenged.

“ ’Tis true—what the Scottish loon saith?” he questioned of March. “The whelp got away, clean and scatheless?”

Lord Harry nodded. Despite the pain of his wound, which was like red-hot iron, Roger struggled into a sitting position. Again he burst out, fury lending strength to his voice.

“Accursed wasp! And right finely did he sting me with his sword-juggling! But he’s not the match for Roger Marsden in fair fence, Harry! ’Twas a craven stroke that grassed me!”

When she heard that astounding declaration Lady Jean gasped and her eyes flamed through her mask; and even Lord Harry raised his eyebrows and twisted his mouth as though it held something distasteful.

“I’ll even that score, though it take me half my days—by God, I will!” stormed Marsden. “I’ll——” He broke his words suddenly; for Jean had stepped forward where he could see her. “Ah, my dear lady,” he went on rather shamefacedly, “you see me laid by the heels. ’Twas a mishap of slight moment. I’ll be lacking in attendance for a few days—not many. I will pass them thinking of pretty speeches for your ear—when we do meet again.”

“I’ll have none of your speeches, my Lord of Templeton,” retorted the girl, her voice so choked with passion that it was scarcely recognizable. “And I shall take good care, sir, that your attendance on me shall be lacking through all your days! Not only have I heard you this day heap unmannerly abuse upon the head of a man whose only mistake was to treat you like a gentleman until you showed him his error; but you have the brass to speak of a craven stroke, when my own eyes saw you strike two of the foulest which ever dishonored a sword! By all the saints, sir, were I a man, and were you not already chastised, I would call you to account, and speedily! Now you speak of revenge! You had much better get down on your knees and give thanks to the good God who spared you today—and why He did so He alone knoweth!”

“Jean! Why, Jean!” exclaimed Roger, overwhelmed and bewildered by the torrent of words which she had let loose upon his head. But she had only paused to take breath.

“Dinna ye Jean me mair!” she caught him up, in her excitement falling into a burr as broad almost as that of Archie himself. “I hae dune wi’ ye henceforth an’ for aye! Frae the noo ye’ll be gangin’ your ain ways, my lord, and I’ll be gangin’ mine. Mayhap I could hae put oop wi’ your black ways and your deil’s tempers, for God kens that I fear you not—but Jean Murrie o’ Raasay will hae nocht to do wi’ a coward!”

Her voice had risen high. Out in the road MacGregor, on his way to the coach, heard it and paused to listen. He chuckled delightedly.

“Aye, Archie, she bade ye haud your tongue,” he murmured; “but isna she juist goin’ it gran’ly hersel’! Oh, mon!”

Marsden groaned.

“For the sake of an unknown devil’s brat is every one to turn against me?” he said bitterly.

“Gin he waur what you misca’ him, he wad be ain brither to you,” retorted Jean with spirit, “but he’s a braw an’ gallant laddie wha I hae hopes to see again.”

“I will take it upon me to engage that you shall—at the swinging end of a rope,” grated Roger. “Praise God, I still have the ear of the king, and he in turn hath that of Louis of France, whither the mountebank doubtless hath fled.”

“An’ for ilka leein’ ward you whisper i’ the ear o’ King Charlie, my faither, the Earl o’ Raasay, will speak him twa truthfu’ anes—to which, an it needs, I’ll add a third my ainsel’,” was Jean’s parting thrust. She turned away, glad that she wore a mask; for tears of vexation were wetting her cheeks, and she would not for much have had Marsden see that he had so moved her. As she went she tossed a gold piece to Bess.

“To gie the auld mon a proper burial,” she explained.

“I have not done with you yet, you jilting jade!” Roger flung after her. “You double-tongued Highland cat! You——”

What further term of insult he might have uttered was stifled into inarticulate babble by the hand of Lord Harry March, which closed over his mouth and remained there until the girl was out of earshot.

Ashamed that she had stooped to bandy words, she hastened on, passed the grinning MacGregor, and clambered into her coach, where two maids and a small, dark, frightened-looking kinswoman from Raasay were waiting.

From Tunbridge Wells Jean had set out on the preceding day to pay a visit to her friend, Lady Anne Smedford, at Portsmouth. Marsden and his companions had forsaken the gaming tables at the Wells to ride as her escort. It had been a two-day riding, broken by a night at Brighton, where the party had been the guests of George Cavendish, the young baron of Windon, who had entertained his guests nobly and then ridden on with them.

Now, when she was so near to the end of her journey, Jean felt a sudden distaste for the projected visit. She bethought her that Lady Anne was but a tiresome baggage, after all, with her soft ways and bubbling tongue. Besides, the friends of Roger in all likelihood would bear him to the home of Sir John Smedford, there to lie until he was whole of his wound. Jean had seen all that she could endure of Roger for many a long day. She decided that she would not go on. So she ordered her driver to turn his horses. He was obeying when the men who had pursed the two fugitives came straggling up the hillside.

Cavendish, unaware of the turn affairs had taken in his absence, and somewhat puzzled, rode up and looked into the coach window.

“The fox slipped us,” he laughed. “We did not run him to earth; but, nevertheless, we lifted his brush.”

Before Jean’s eyes he dangled a long tress of red hair, dusty from its fall in the road.

“Ah; give it me!” And Jean reached from the window and snatched the trophy. She gave the order to drive on, and rode away without another word to Cavendish, who sat looking perplexedly from his empty fingers to the back of the receding coach.

“Ods fish!” he exclaimed, shaking his head. “Now what may that portend?” A moment afterward he spurred alongside the coach again.

“I know where the fox hath his lair when he’s at home,” he called.

Jean gave instant heed.

“Where?” she asked.

“A league or thereabouts to the south of Godalming in Surrey,” was the reply. “His father calleth himself the Comte de Mortemart, and hath, ’tis told, the friendship of the great King Louis of France, although for some hidden reason he doth abide in exile from his native land.”

“Countless thanks for your courtesy, my lord George!”

Cavendish turned his horse back, marveling at the sweetness of the smile which her lips had given him, though he could have sworn that not many moments before her eyes had been weeping.

Back under the oaks Lord March took his hand from his friend’s mouth when Jean was gone.

“By the blood of God! You shall answer to me for that, Harry March!” sputtered Roger furiously when his lips were freed.

Sunny-tempered and forbearing as March was, his forbearance had been worn thin.

“When and where it shall please you, my lord,” he answered coldly. He laid Marsden on the turf and went to direct the grooms to fetch up a horse-litter from the town. Roger glared after him.

“When I be down they all flout me,” he muttered. Born of his weakness and peevishness, two tears rolled slowly down his cheeks.

The day had yet another irritating buffet in store for Roger.

After MacGregor had turned away from Hatshaw, the girl Bess had resumed her station, hanging over the beggar’s body keeping up a continual whimpering and sniveling. This was partly pretense to draw attention to herself, but partly real; for she was both affrighted and angered, and somewhat touched besides by the sudden taking-off of her ancient crony. Albeit, she had missed nothing of the transactions around her.

Hatshaw had lain very still. But though he was drifting rapidly into the shadows, the gaffer loosed his hold on the thread of life stubbornly. The marvelous vitality which had sustained him through nearly a hundred years flamed up with a renewed strength at the end.

To the terror of the girl, he suddenly wiggled upright and pushed her from him with astonishing vigor. His one eye shone with its old-time fire. Hawking and wheezing, he cleared his throat and mouth, spat out a great gout of blood, and spoke.

“Quit thy mewling, wull ’e, lass,” he said testily. “Tha wull not let a man die in peace, plague on ’e! Ah’s me, I be a-dyin’! I want not to die, lass,” he lamented with senile tears. “It be so fine to sit in th’ good God’s sunlight an’ hear th’ bees an’ th’ birds, an’ th’ clink o’ good money-pieces a-fallin’ in th’ hat.”

His tone changed, and he straightened proudly, though the effort wrung from him a groan of agony.

“Whoy, lass, I’ll not complain no more. I be dyin’ by th’ sword—like as a man should die! I never thought to face bared bilbo again.” He lowered his voice confidently.

“There’s a store of silver-pieces, Bess. Seek unner the girt hearthstone where I bide, an’ find it. ’Twill buy me a place to lie in the churchyard mold down yonder—an’ a good bit left beside. See to it, Bess, woan’t ’e? See that I be buried well, wi’ a girt green mound atop me—bigger than t’ one atop Jemmy Chalkstone as they planted last St. Thomas’s Eve. An’ put a bit o’ wooden cross at th’ head on’t, lass—an’ mayhap at whiles a posy, when they be in season. Promise, Bess.”

Bess promised tearfully.

“Whoy now, tha’rt a goodly lass, when all’s said. Mayst keep th’ rest o’ th’ brass, Bess, for thine own.”

Another interest crossed the gaffer’s mind.

“Where be the lad—the Frenchman?” he queried.

“He be safe gone in th’ ship from furrin’ parts—joomped his horse aboard her like a flyin’ angel,” Bess told him. Hatshaw nodded his approval. His roving eye for the first time discerned Marsden lying near him. Their glances crossed. Hatshaw pointed to him with one of his aged, crippled hands.

“Did he serve yon as yon served me?” he asked eagerly.

“Aye,” replied the girl; “but they do say as how his ludship wull not die, though he be thrust fair through his midriff, like to ’e.”

Hatshaw bent forward and considered his fallen slayer. The eye of the ancient was glazing fast. He began to sway. But he still had something to say, and he would say it. Summoning his failing powers for a last effort, he extended his thumbless hands toward Marsden.

“Curse ’e!” he shrilled. “Th’ black blight lie on thy rotten soul in thy down-settings an’ thy up-gettings, waking and sleeping, through all thy nights an’ days! Curse ’e, I says!”

His voice weakened.

“Thy time—be a-comin’, I be—a-goin’. I—wull—not see. But th’—lad—mark—what—I tulls ’e, He’ll—send ’e—to hell—when—thy—time—coomst!”

The last words were pronounced with prophetic emphasis. Though Marsden sneered and tried to laugh, his face blanched; for all his effrontry was not proof against the solemn curse of a dying man.

It was the last flare of Hatshaw’s stubborn will. Bess stooped over him as he fell back.

“Whoy—th’ sky—be—settlin’!” he whispered wonderingly. A shiver ran through his frame, and his chin fell.