Читать книгу My Lord of Wrybourne - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 6

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Japhet Scrope, Earl of Wrybourne Feveril, known to his particular friends as Sam, sat alone in his spacious library scowling down at a newspaper outspread upon the great desk before him, and the longer he read the blacker he frowned until at last, uttering a sound only describable as a contemptuous snort, he crumpled up the news-sheet, threw himself back in his chair, and scowled up at the carved and gilded ceiling instead. And thus he remained until, roused by the door opening, he glanced thither and beheld his countess; gone was my lord's scowl in that instant, and as instantly he rose to greet her.

Andromeda closed the door, made three of four graceful paces, then, pausing, stood to survey this square-jowled, nearly handsome spouse of hers who, though now bearing himself like the nobleman he was, still had about him, and despite modish attire, a vague suggestion of ships and the sea; my lord, gazing upon his stately wife, was quick to heed, and despite the shade of her coquettish, plumed bonnet, that her cheeks were flushed and eyes very bright beneath their low-arching brows, these golden eyes in such vivid contrast to the glossy, night-black hair framing the oval beauty of her face.... Thus stood they at gaze, then in the same instant they moved—and she was in his arms.

"Andromeda!" said Sam, putting back her bonnet the better to come at her lips. "Oh, my Andromeda!" he murmured, and they kissed. Then, holding her away, "Madam," said my lord, "the sun has flushed you or your ladyship is angry, I perceive. So come and sit on your Sam and let's hear." Saying this, he led her to a cushioned settle nearby and, here seated, with her throned upon his knee, he watched her remove and lay aside her bonnet and draw off her long, silk mittens; which done:

"Well now?" he questioned.

"Yes—now, my lord——" she retorted, slender finger upraised to admonish, but, meeting his gaze, she faltered and, nestling to him, said murmurously:

"Hold me close, my Sam, for Japhet the Earl can still make me ridiculously self-conscious and absurdly—shy!"

"And rightly so, madam," the Earl replied. "Such delicious shyness mightily becomes my countess and enhances her beauty, these peerless charms, these——"

"Ah, no!" she whispered. "Be done with your lordly affectations and be my Sam, my dear, true-hearted, over-bearing gruff and grim man of the sea."

"Why then," said Sam, drawing her close, "kiss him, lass, this poor, proud, humble fellow who loves you more as his wife and mother than he did as a maid."

"Oh, Sam," she murmured, clinging to him, "I am so very, so—dreadfully happy that ... sometimes I become afraid, yes ... terrified!"

"Terrified?" he repeated. "Lord love you—why?"

"Because such perfect, such—unearthly happiness seems too wonderful to last. We are quite—too happy, my dearest."

"Well, now," growled Sam, yet gazing down very tenderly at this spendid woman of his, "whoever heard the like o' this! Are you going to make our happiness your misery, sweetheart?"

"No, silly man, of course not! Only it seems as though——" She caught her breath and he was amazed to feel her clinging loveliness shiver violently.

"Why, Andromeda," he exclaimed, "Oh, my dear, what is it?"

"I don't—know," she answered, staring at him wide-eyed, "only I feel, perhaps because I love you so terribly, that you are ... threatened by ... something vile and deadly ... and through you, myself, and through me—our baby, our little Sam."

"Nonsense!" he laughed, giving her a loving shake and squeeze. "And as to our baby, you mean, of course, our little Edward for old Ned and Samuel for me——?"

"I mean our little blessed child, our Sam first and Edward after."

"But, my dearest, I promised Ned, my old messmate, d'ye see, and——"

"I know you did, but, d'ye see," she mocked, "'twas I bore him——"

"Ay, b'gad!" he exclaimed, clasping her tighter, "shall I ever forget it? That frightful waiting ... the damnable suspense ... not knowing if you were to live or die——"

"Dear love," she murmured, kissing his furrowed brow, "I had no thought of dying, silly man; I was too proud and happy to bear your child ... praying for a son ... to be your heir! So you see things happened very well; you need not have worried so terribly and, besides, you had our Grannyanne to comfort you."

"Ay, thank God!" said he, fervently. "Lord only knows what I should ha' done without her!"

"What a great comfort she is, Sam, and how wonderfully she manages this great house!"

"And brings me up with a round turn if I dare call it a rabbit-warren, which it certainly is."

"Yet a glory, Sam, and our dear home."

"Home, ay!" he nodded. "But only because you make it so."

"And you tell me," said she, smoothing his thick eyebrows with caressing finger, "you love your Andromeda more as a wife than you ever did when——"

"Ay, when she was the loveliest, saddest, gipsy-like 'fairy aunt' that hardly knew how to smile, and with her pretty feet and lovely legs in clumsy boots and worsted stockings,—so very different from these bewitchments——"

"Ah, no; wait, my lord, and listen to me, because I am going to ask Sam a very serious question."

"Pray speak, madam; your Sam is all attention."

"Well, then, you noticed when I came in that I was rather flushed and not because of the sun, but wifely indignation."

"Oho," exclaimed my lord, "then I presume the cause was, or is, your very awkward, clumsy Sam fellow."

"Is he, I wonder?" said she with a tone and look become suddenly grave. "The day before yesterday there were several ladies, all neighbours, here for tea as usual, but—things were not as usual, I sensed an odd awkwardness. Today I drove out to pay duty calls, and at once, wherever I went, there was the same vague uneasiness, queer looks; I knew then that something was wrong, but it was not until I was leaving the Fancourts and about to enter the carriage that Lady Lavinia, twitching her nostrils at me and speaking loud enough for all to hear,—we had been having tea on the lawn,—said 'my dear soul',—meaning me, Sam,—'we are all hoping you can prevail upon the Earl',—meaning you, Sam,—'not to be led astray by his new republican friends and associates.' So then, of course, not having the least idea what on earth she meant, I laughed gaily and said I would and that you should not, and drove home wondering—as I am at this moment, and therefore, sir, demand to know if you can inform me what it is all about and what in the world Lady Lavinia meant?" For answer Sam took up the newspaper, smoothed it out and, pointing to certain close-printed columns, said:

"There!"

So Andromeda took the paper, but had not read very far before she, in her turn, began to frown, and presently, letting fall the paper, looked at her husband with troubled eyes, saying:

"Oh, Sam, my dear, surely you never said such dreadful things?"

"Ay, but I did!" he nodded. "I said more, whole sentences that have been carefully left out, omissions which make what you read there very different to my actual speech. And that's the devilry of it, d'ye see; by omitting words and sentences here and there, the whole sense is altered and distorted to give an absolutely false meaning."

"Even so," sighed she, her look still troubled, "it is quite evident you were speaking to defend that—that dreadful Mr. Cobbett, such violent person, so rough——"

"Ay, he's rough, sweetheart, but he's right."

"Oh, surely not, Sam? And anyhow, this explains our neighbours' odd behaviour. Yes, I'm afraid this speech is going to make you very unpopular, my dear."

"Well," growled Sam, "who cares!"

"I do!" she retorted. "I care very much indeed! I desire my husband to be esteemed for the truly noble man he is."

"So long as you can believe me so, Andromeda, that's all I care about."

"But you should care, you must for my sake, and most especially for our child's sake.... Now I understand what that horrid old Mrs. Dene meant, though I hardly troubled to listen at the time because she is such a hateful rattle and gossip, and of course I don't and won't believe it now!"

"What did she say, sweetheart?"

"Well,—that she had heard you described as a Jacobin revolutionary and a traitor to your order."

"Ay, faith," growled Sam grimly, "so I shall and must be so long as my order, we the ruling class, persist in the infliction of such cruel, such iniquitous laws——"

"Oh, but, Sam, surely our laws, the laws of our England, are the grandest and most just in all the world!"

"Ay, true enough—for those of our order, we the landed gentry that ha' never lacked for bodily ease and comfort or known what hunger is! But, dear soul, d'ye know I can send a man to transportation for poaching a rabbit."

"But you never would, Sam."

"Not likely! But d'ye know that by our law a man may be hanged for picking a pocket, firing a rick, or cutting down an apple tree?"

"Ah, surely not, Sam?"

"Andromeda, it is most surely so! Yes, our laws are reducing the poorer people to slavery while we gentlefolk are buying and selling seats in Parliament and Government offices. While some folk are too miserable poor, others are too absurdly rich. Take me, for instance,—beside Wrybourne Feveril and the mansion in town, I have five or six other great houses here and there in England, houses I've never troubled to look at and probably never shall, while some poor fellows haven't a roof to shelter them. There's something wrong somewhere."

"And do you propose to set it right, Sam?"

"Oh no, this can be done only by the people themselves.... But as regards our neighbours here in Sussex, d'ye know these gentry compel men to labour for sevenpence a day?"

"But not our Wrybourne folk, Sam, not your tenantry!"

"Of course not. I incline so much t'other way that already some of our country folk have begun to murmur against me, and now this misrepresented, devilish misquoted speech o' mine, as you see, will—but enough o' this! Instead, let me tell you that I am going to rebuild half the cottages at Wrexford, buy the old mill, do away with that murderous pool and lay it out as a fair-ground for thatching, ploughing and scything matches, with such sports as tug-o'-war, village against village, quoits, sparring, wrestling and single-sticks. And what d'you say to that, madam mine?"

"That it is splendidly Sam-like, my lord, and will mean health, happiness and——" At this juncture a sweet-toned clock chimed the hour, whereat, up sprang my lady to order her frills and furbelows, smooth and pat her raven hair, saying as she did so:

"I go now to feed and sustain your lordship's flourishing heir!"

"What—again, madam? It's becoming a habit, morning, noon and night! He would seem to be a remarkably hungry brat."

"Oh, he is—thank heaven! So loose me, Sam, I mustn't keep his bratship waiting."

"Which makes me wonder again, sweetheart. Why not a wet nurse and what not?"

"Certainly—not, Sam! No nurses and what nots,—whatever they may be,—for our baby."

"But other wives do, it seems, and——"

"Other wives may, but not your wife, Sam. Our little man shall be most completely ours! Yes, all that he is and will be,—must and shall be by us alone. Oh, Sam, my dear, silly man, don't you know what rapture it is for me that this baby who is of us both now draws his life and strength from me that love has made part of you, you of me and so all of us one—if you understand what I mean—which of course you cannot, because I hardly do myself and mustn't stop to explain because our lovely brat will be howling for me, bless him!"

"Then I hope he'll prove worthy such mother!"

"Of course he will if anything like his sire—and there is a very Sam-y look about his sweet little nose and mouth—occasionally! Now I must fly!" And away sped this glad young wife and mother; leaving her spouse to gaze after her precisely as a (young) husband should. Presently he rose and, having traversed divers lofty rooms, echoing hall with its array of aged banners, burnished weapons and effigies in gleaming armour, followed a deep-carpeted corridor and tapped upon a certain door which he opened, saying cheerily:

"It's only Sam, Grannyanne."

Mistress Anne Leet, a somewhat aged, very formidable-seeming person clad austerely in laced cap and voluminous bombazine skirts that rustled with her every stately movement, this my lord's Lady Housekeeper who ruled his many servants with firm suasion, rose from her high-backed chair, rustling of course, but with such smile as quite transfigured her; the great, shaggy dog at her feet, rose also to wag stumpy tail in greeting quite as affectionate, while the small person, busied with slate and pencil, dropping both, leapt at Sam with squeal of delight.

"Jane!" quoth her great-grandmother with commanding gesture. "Manners, child!"

"Yes, Granny, I know," sighed Jane, "only my Uncle Sam doesn't mind any manners, do you, Uncle Sam dear?"

"Hoity-toity!" exclaimed Mrs. Leet. "Make your reverence to his lordship the Earl—this moment, miss."

"Very well, Granny,—only besides being an earl you're Uncle Sam too, aren't you, Uncle Sam?"

"Yes, my Jane," he answered, heartily, "always and ever, just as surely as I'm your Granny's adopted grandson."

"Then, when you've shook Esau's paw what he's offering you so p'litely, please watch while I do you my curtsey—now, like this!" And Sam watched as, with small finger gracefully crooked beneath pointed elfin chin, Jane sank before him in demure, though rather wobbly curtsey, and gravely my lord bowed in acknowledgment; then Sam laughed, reaching out his long arms, and with another squeal she leapt—to be caught up, kissed and throned upon his broad shoulder.

"Well, I'm sure!" exclaimed Grannyanne, reseating herself with prodigious rustle. "Pray what now, Sam?"

"Now, Granny, with your kind permission, I'll order Jane's pony and my horse and we'll ride over to visit Ned and Kate."

"Ooh—Granny!" gasped Jane, ecstatic. "Do please let us—pleeeeze!"

"Eh, miss, but you haven't finished that sum I set you—and what you have done is quite wrong, I see."

"Yes, I was 'fraid so," Jane admitted ruefully, "but after you've 'llowed me to ride with my Uncle Sam I'll be able to do it much—oh, much better, so may we go?"

"Very well,—run and put on your habit."

"Oh, you lovely Granny!" cried Jane, and away she scampered, while Mrs. Leet, busied again, in stately manner, with the knitting that never seemed to end, nodded at my lord now perched upon corner of the table, swinging spurred foot, and said with lips beautified by their rare smile: "How that child adores you! And 'tis good to win the love of a child, and especially such as our Jane."

"Ay, I know," he replied, "and, b'George, I'm proud of it."

"Because, my lord, you are still—just Sam.... And this is the first real talk we've had since you returned from London."

"Ay, it is. That's why I'm here, to know what you think of—that speech o' mine. You read it, I suppose?"

"Of course, every word, Sam."

"Not in the lying Gazette, I hope."

"No, in The Times."

"Good! That report was pretty accurate. Well?"

"Well, Sam, I heartily endorse the matter of your speech, but you could and should have put your case for poor Mr. Cobbett—well—more diplomatically."

"Too true!" he nodded. "For Andromeda thinks badly of it, and Standish is on his beam-ends; ay, it took poor Harry all aback; he's afraid it may damn me socially, which nowise disturbs me, but he remained in town to bear up for Vanity Fair, ply off and on, the clubs and what not—to learn how it's been received. However, if I've stirred things up somewhat, so much the better! For, d'ye see, Grannyanne, I meant every word, and stand by my speech. I'm no quibbler, no juggler o' words; I say what I mean, blunt and to the point. So if my lords and fine folk generally take it amiss and sheer off—let 'em and welcome. I'll steer a straight course, blow high or low, Grannyanne!"

"Yes, I know that," said she, clashing her knitting pins rather louder than usual, "but—they stigmatize Mr. Cobbett as a revolutionary, yes—and rebel, Sam."

"They do indeed, Anne; they even threaten to jail him because he dare speak the truth—that's why I stood up for him."

"And that's why, Sam, they may use you the same!"

"True enough, Grannyanne!"

"And you—a Scrope! My gracious!"

"What of it, my dear,—why the ladylike oath?"

"Because no Scrope before you ever stood up for anything or anyone but themselves,—except the Admiral of course! He fought the then Government in his days, when Charles was King, for his poor, brave, hard-used, ill-paid sailors, God bless his soul,—and made himself so very unpopular with certain fine gentlemen that he had to fight three duels, Sam!"

"Well, Grannyanne, I've fought only one—as yet, but, if compelled, I shall be quite happy to—" He fell silent as came a rapping of discreet knuckles upon the door.

"En-ter!" Mrs. Leet commanded, whereat the door opened to disclose the portly form of Mr. Henry James Perkins, the butler,—but such butler indeed as never was or ever could be other described than as a personage; he bowed profoundly to my lord, a degree less so to Mrs. Leet, and presented a very small, rather dingy folded paper upon a large, embossed silver tray, much as if this poor little missive had been a kingly diadem upon embroidered cushion, saying as he did so:

"Learning, my lord, that your lordship was closeted with Mrs. Leet, I none the less venture to trouble your lordship, having due regard to your lordship's own expressed command."

"Thanks, Henry," said my lord, and, taking up this paper, unfolded it and saw these words:

"Dear lord humbly praying fayvour of a word sir."

These lines seemed very painfully written in both senses, for, though each pencilled letter was carefully formed, they showed blotched and smeared here and there as if by fast-dropping tears.

"Grannyanne," said my lord, rising, "I'll send for Jane when I'm ready—and pray let Andromeda know we have ridden across to Willowmead for an hour or so," and, with smiling nod, he followed his majestical butler from the room, saying, as he closed the door:

"Henry, who gave you this?"

"A young person, my lord, of gender feminine, comely of seeming, poor of habit and at present much disguised in tears, my lord. And minding your lordship's expressed commands regarding all cases of distress, I——"

"Did quite rightly, Henry. Where is she?"

"She awaits your lordship on the lower terrace."

"Then lay me our course, show me where."

Their course brought them (in time) to the great front door with its noble flights of marble steps leading down to wide terrace whence yet other steps descended (in more time) to a broad tree-shaded drive with park-land beyond, sweeping away to distant woods; and here they (at last) beheld the slender, very forlorn and desolate figure of this "feminine disguised in tears." Indeed she wept so bitterly, and was so utterly lost in grief, that she started violently and cowered as Mr. Perkins addressed her, speaking of course as only a personage possibly could:

"Woman, you behold my lord the Earl!"

"My lass," said the Earl, speaking as only Sam might, "what's your trouble?"

"Oh, gentleman ... sir ... lord," she gasped, by reason of her sobs, "I be come for ... to plead mercy on my poor Si ... my Simon, sir ... we was married quite lawful just afore the press-gang dragged him from me and took him ... to sea for to fight they French and got hurted...."

Now here my lord said "Ah?", no more, and yet his timid suppliant opened her tear-swollen eyes wider and seemed to find more courage and something of hope, for, stifling her sobs, she continued:

"When he come back t'me with his prize-money we thought we was rich—oh, but ... on our road we was set upon and robbed and Si got hurted again.... We've been sleeping out ... woods and barns ... hayricks ... hedges ... any shelter we could find ... but no money, no food, so Si did snare rabbits for to keep us alive ... but today we gets took b'your keepers and a ... a gentleman as do say my dear husband must be ... must be ... persecuted!"

"She means 'pros' my lord, prosecuted!"

"She does, Henry, though it's much the same."

"And ... oh, sir ... m'lord, the gentleman do say as Si must be sent overseas ... a convict ... transplanted."

"'Ported,' woman! 'Trans-ported!'"

"Easy, Henry; bring to; you overawe her. My lass, tell me your name."

"I be Mrs. Gray, sir—Ruth Gray."

"God love you, child," said my lord. "'Ruth' was my—Where is your Simon?"

"They've got him in stable-yard, sir, along of the gentleman—ah—no, here he do come now!" she gasped, cowering again as, towards them up the long drive, cantered a plumpish, rubicund gentleman astride a plumply glossy steed, a gentleman obstrusively jovial from jaunty hat worn at rakish angle to the toes of his gleaming boots,—in voice, face, teeth, whiskers and buttons all was beaming, twinkling joviality, except for his eyes, which, being suspiciously watchful and keen, gave the lie to all,—or so thought Sam.

He saluted with hat jovially a-flourish as he cried in accents quite as jovial:

"Aha, Wrybourne, how de do? Been travelling, wife and I, year and more; should ha' dropped in on ya before this otherwise. Hope ya've not forgotten me, ah? Aha, those wild nights in Town when we were carefree bachelors, eh? Oho, those were the days—and nights! The Town, the 'Ton!' Dogs, sad dogs all of us, free to rove and flit before matrimony clipped our pinions. Aha, ya've not forgotten Jonas Fanshawe, I hope?" My lord's bow was ceremonious as he replied:

"I remember you very well, Sir Jonas."

"Capital!" laughed Sir Jonas. "And after a year and more! Aha,—and today, my dear neighbour, I've been happily able to render ya neighbourly service in the matter of a rascally poacher. I chanced to see this rogue caught in the act b'your keepers, but—damme, Wrybourne, I almost believe they'd ha' let the fellow off with a warning but for me! Something wrong there, neighbour, devilish amiss! However, I insisted, and they've got him now fast enough in your stable-yard."

"That, Sir Jonas," said my lord with another stately bow, "is why I am on my way there."

"Good!" nodded Sir Jonas, reining his horse about. "Then I'll with ya."

"By all means!" said my lord, and set off with that long, rolling stride which soon brought him to an imposing range of buildings which might have stabled a squadron of cavalry and where everything from lofty clock-tower to smooth flagstones showed the very perfection of order. And here, besides staring grooms, stood four stalwart, rather sheepish-looking gamekeepers with their solitary captive,—a rough-clad, powerfully-built young fellow, his arms roped behind him, just at present drooping feebly and in such utter dejection that he seemed the veriest figure of shame and hopelessness; but, hearing my lord's approach and all about him suddenly hushed, he straightened up and squared his shoulders, thus showing a comely young face though woefully haggard and pale.

"So!" exclaimed my lord, halting with a ring of spurred heels. At this word, so harshly uttered, the prisoner set himself the more resolutely to endure what he must; his girl-wife clasped her hands in mute appeal and, striving to speak, was dumb. Sir Jonas nodded and beamed more jovially than ever, only the four gamekeepers, gazing on their lord, stirred uneasily as in growing apprehension.

"So," repeated the Earl, "you have been a sailorman, Simon Gray, and fought the mounseers!"

"Yes, sir."

"You have shed your blood for this Old England of ours, have you, Simon?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then," said my lord in hushed though quite terrible voice as he turned upon his four dismayed gamekeepers, "what the devil d'ye mean by it? Why is an English sailorman used like a villain, seized up in a rope—and on my land—well? Daniel Ward, you are head keeper, answer me!"

"Why ... my lord," replied Daniel unhappily, "none of we knowed as 'ow 'e were a seaman, though we did know 'e were a poacher, seein' as us ketches him in the hact—likewise this yer gentleman, Sir Jonas Fanshawe, your lordship's nighest neighbour, says as 'ow he must be took and made a hexample of and be brought to y'lordship,—and so we done, m'lord."

"True enough, Wrybourne!" said Sir Jonas, genial as ever. "I certainly did. And permit me to say, since he is proven guilty, this rascal should be——"

"No, Sir Jonas, this seaman shall!"

"Eh, shall, Wrybourne? Shall—what?"

"Show as every British sailorman should!" As he spoke, my lord took out his penknife, opened it, and therewith cut loose the prisoner, who, freed this unexpectedly of his bonds, stood like one dazed and bereft of speech; even Sir Jonas was dumb, and his joviality seemed to suffer momentary eclipse, then he contrived to laugh, saying genially:

"Aha,—to be sure there is a rumour, probably false, that you were once a seaman of—eh—somewhat humble rank, though——"

"A.B.," said my lord, slipping knife back into pocket. "Rumour for once is perfectly true; I was a 'fore-mast tarry Jack, much the same as Simon Gray here."

"Oh...? Oh—ah? Indeed!" stammered Sir Jonas, joviality once more on the wane. "Ha—well, as regards this same rasc—hum—poaching mariner. You'll prosecute him, of course, and——"

"No, Sir Jonas."

"Eh—not? D'ya mean you'll loose him to prey upon ya neighbours' preserves,—most probably mine, eh?"

"No, sir."

"Then what shall ya do with the—him?"

"Feed him."

"Fee——" Sir Jonas rocked in his saddle, then, recovering poise but not joviality, demanded: "D'ya mean ... actually ... feed him?"

"Actually that, Sir Jonas. A good, hearty meal for him and his valiant little wife."

"Ho! Ha!" exclaimed Sir Jonas, explosively. "Well, now damn me if ever——"

"Oh, never, sir Jonas, without just cause!" said my lord, shaking his head but with flash of white teeth so that Sir Jonas, in the act of frowning, chuckled instead and enquired:

"And after you've stuffed 'em, how then?"

"I shall offer them work on the estate."

"Work, hey? A thieving, poaching——"

"Sailorman, Sir Jonas."

"Well, well, here's devilish odd business! But then to be sure, begad, you're the most deucedly odd and original fellow. Wrybourne, as f'rinstance—that duel you fought with Chalmers! Ha, that was so devilish odd that he's been odd-handed ever since—eh? And, by the way, I won a cool thousand over that same odd business,—I was one o' the knowing ones that time, aha! As to your—eh—poaching seaman—well, time will show. Meanwhile, I'll bid ya a very good day, Wrybourne, with my humble duty to ya lady, the Countess."

And when Sir Jonas's plump steed had cantered away with him:

"Henry," said my lord, "you will take charge of Gray and his wife,—a good, square meal, you understand."

"Oh, perfectly, my lord!" bowed the personage. "And how thereafter, my lord, do I suffer their departure?"

"You do not, Henry, until I have talked with them.... And inform Miss Jane that I am awaiting her. You may go."

"At once, my lord!" quoth the personage, bowing deeply; then, turning to husband and wife who now stood side by side, he beckoned them with stately gesture, saying in commanding tones:

"Foll-ow me!" Mutely they obeyed,—then back sped this girl-wife to their deliverer; she stooped swiftly and for a moment upon that right hand of his he felt the shy pressure of her lips, then she was away, leaving this hand wet with the tears of an unspeakable gratitude.