‘Every word of it.’
‘Why don’t you go and speak to my cousin; she has opened the window and gone out upon the terrace, and I trust you understand that she expects you to follow her.’ There was a studied calm in the way she spoke that showed she was exerting considerable self-control.
‘No, no, Nina, it is with you I desire to speak; to see you that I have come here.’
‘And so you do remember that you made me a declaration? It made me laugh afterwards as I thought it over.’
‘Made you laugh!’
‘Yes, I laughed to myself at the ingenious way in which you conveyed to me what an imprudence it was in you to fall in love with a girl who had no fortune, and the shock it would give your friends when they should hear she was a Greek.’
‘How can you say such painful things, Nina? how can you be so pitiless as this?’
‘It was you who had no pity, sir; I felt a deal of pity; I will not deny it was for myself. I don’t pretend to say that I could give a correct version of the way in which you conveyed to me the pain it gave you that I was not a princess, a Borromeo, or a Colonna, or an Altieri. That Greek adventurer, yes—you cannot deny it, I overheard these words myself. You were talking to an English girl, a tall, rather handsome person she was—I shall remember her name in a moment if you cannot help me to it sooner—a Lady Bickerstaffe—’
‘Yes, there was a Lady Maude Bickerstaffe; she merely passed through Rome for Naples.’
‘You called her a cousin, I remember.’
‘There is some cousinship between us; I forget exactly in what degree.’
‘Do try and remember a little more; remember that you forgot you had engaged me for the cotillon, and drove away with that blonde beauty—and she was a beauty, or had been a few years before—at all events, you lost all memory of the daughter of the adventurer.’
‘You will drive me distracted, Nina, if you say such things.’
‘I know it is wrong and it is cruel, and it is worse than wrong and cruel, it is what you English call underbred, to be so individually disagreeable, but this grievance of mine has been weighing very heavily on my heart, and I have been longing to tell you so.’
‘Why are you not singing, Nina?’ cried Kate from the terrace. ‘You told me of a duet, and I think you are bent on having it without music.’
‘Yes, we are quarrelling fiercely,’ said Nina. ‘This gentleman has been rash enough to remind me of an unsettled score between us, and as he is the defaulter—’
‘I dispute the debt.’
‘Shall I be the judge between you?’ asked Kate.
‘On no account; my claim once disputed, I surrender it,’ said Nina.
‘I must say you are very charming company. You won’t sing, and you’ll only talk to say disagreeable things. Shall I make tea, and see if it will render you more amiable?’
‘Do so, dearest, and then show Mr. Walpole the house; he has forgotten what brought him here, I really believe.’
‘You know that I have not,’ muttered he, in a tone of deep meaning.
‘There’s no light now to show him the house; Mr. Walpole must come to-morrow, when papa will be at home and delighted to see him.’
‘May I really do this?’
‘Perhaps, besides, your friend will have found the little inn so insupportable, that he too will join us. Listen to that sigh of poor Nina’s and you’ll understand what it is to be dreary!’
‘No; I want my tea.’
‘And it shall have it,’ said Kate, kissing her with a petting affectation as she left the room.
‘Now one word, only one,’ said Walpole, as he drew his chair close to her: ‘If I swear to you—’
‘What’s that? who is Kate angry with?’ cried Nina, rising and rushing towards the door. ‘What has happened?’
‘I’ll tell you what has happened,’ said Kate, as with flashing eyes and heightened colour she entered the room. ‘The large gate of the outer yard, that is every night locked and strongly barred at sunset, has been left open, and they tell me that three men have come in, Sally says five, and are hiding in some of the outhouses.’
‘What for? Is it to rob, think you?’ asked Walpole.
‘It is certainly for nothing good. They all know that papa is away, and the house so far unprotected,’ continued Kate calmly. ‘We must find out to-morrow who has left the gate unbolted. This was no accident, and now that they are setting fire to the ricks all round us, it is no time for carelessness.’
‘Shall we search the offices and the outbuildings?’ asked Walpole.
‘Of course not; we must stand by the house and take care that they do not enter it. It’s a strong old place, and even if they forced an entrance below, they couldn’t set fire to it.’
‘Could they force their way up?’ asked Walpole.
‘Not if the people above have any courage. Just come and look at the stair; it was made in times when people thought of defending themselves.’ They issued forth now together to the top of the landing, where a narrow, steep flight of stone steps descended between two walls to the basement-storey. A little more than half-way down was a low iron gate or grille of considerable strength; though, not being above four feet in height, it could have been no great defence, which seemed, after all, to have been its intention. ‘When this is closed,’ said Kate, shutting it with a heavy bang, ‘it’s not such easy work to pass up against two or three resolute people at the top; and see here,’ added she, showing a deep niche or alcove in the wall, ‘this was evidently meant for the sentry who watched the wicket: he could stand here out of the reach of all fire.’
‘Would you not say she was longing for a conflict?’ said Nina, gazing at her.
‘No, but if it comes I’ll not decline it.’
‘You mean you’ll defend the stair?’ asked Walpole.
She nodded assent.
‘What arms have you?’
‘Plenty; come and look at them. Here,’ said she, entering the dining-room, and pointing to a large oak sideboard covered with weapons, ‘Here is probably what has led these people here. They are going through the country latterly on every side, in search of arms. I believe this is almost the only house where they have not called.’
‘And do they go away quietly when their demands are complied with?’
‘Yes, when they chance upon people of poor courage, they leave them with life enough to tell the story.—What is it, Mathew?’ asked she of the old serving-man who entered the room.
‘It’s the “boys,” miss, and they want to talk to you, if you’ll step out on the terrace. They don’t mean any harm at all.’
‘What do they want, then?’
‘Just a spare gun or two, miss, or an ould pistol, or a thing of the kind that was no use.’
‘Was it not brave of them to come here, when my father was from home? Aren’t they fine courageous creatures to come and frighten two lone girls—eh, Mat?’
‘Don’t anger them, miss, for the love of Joseph! don’t say anything hard; let me hand them that ould carbine there, and the fowling-piece; and if you’d give them a pair of horse-pistols, I’m sure they’d go away quiet.’
A loud noise of knocking, as though with a stone, at the outer door, broke in upon the colloquy, and Kate