Lindley, standing in the moonlight on his cousin’s steps, watched the young play actor as he walked somewhat unsteadily away between the two horses. He wished that he had seen the lad’s face, and, curiously enough, it was this wish, and the young play actor himself, who filled the last thoughts in Cecil Lindley’s brain before he fell asleep, in his cousin’s house – the play actor who was to be the go-between in his wooing of Mistress Judith Ogilvie.
IX
The following morning Judith Ogilvie awoke later than was her usual custom. She yawned as though she were not fully refreshed by her night’s sleep. She rubbed her eyes, then stretched her arms high above her head. Then she drew one hand back and looked long and somewhat lovingly at a round piece of gold that the hand held. Then she kissed the gold and blushed rosy red in the empty solitude of her own room. At last, nestling down again among the bed covers, she laughed – and a gurgling, rippling melody it was.
“So he’ll win me in spite of my hatred,” she murmured. “And yet – and yet, methinks if any man could win me, without much wooing either, ’twould be no other than my cousin, Master Cecil Lindley. Heigh-ho! He’s a taking way with him, and who knows? – perhaps – yes, perhaps, he’ll take even me, after I’ve had out my play acting with him.”
Doubtless, then, she drowsed again, for she was awakened once more by a voice and a vehement pair of knuckles on her door.
“Master Ogilvie desires that you should descend at once to speak with your cousin, Mr. Lindley,” said the voice, when Judith had sleepily ordered the knuckles to be silent.
“My cousin, Mr. Lindley?” questioned Judith. Even to the maid she feigned surprise. “How and when came my cousin, Mr. Lindley?”
“In the night, some time, I believe,” the voice answered. “He must return to London in an hour’s time, and he desires to see you and speak with you.”
“Say to Mr. Lindley that both he and Master Ogilvie, my father, know well enough that Mistress Judith Ogilvie will hold no communication whatsoever with Mr. Lindley. Furthermore say that – can you remember all this, Marget? – say that if Mr. Lindley is unable to read the letter lately written him by Mistress Judith Ogilvie, doubtless he will find some clerk in London more versed in scholarly arts than he, who will read it to him.” The footsteps retreated slowly from the door. “And, Marget, Marget,” Judith called again, “when Mr. Lindley has departed you may waken me again.”
On that selfsame morning, the Lady Barbara Gordon also awoke late in the house of her aunt, the wife of Timothy Ogilvie. She also seemed little refreshed by her night’s sleep. She also yawned and rubbed her eyes and stretched her arms above her head. She also laughed, but there was no rippling melody in the sound. Then she, too, held out one hand and looked at it curiously, looked curiously at all the ringless fingers, looked at the one finger that held Lord Farquhart’s betrothal ring.
The Lady Barbara had been seriously considering the new aspect of the situation. Indeed, the situation looked serious, and yet Lady Barbara doubted if it could in reality be as serious as it seemed. Was it possible, she asked herself, that Lord Farquhart had been only jesting the night before, when he had declared himself to be the highwayman of whom all London stood in dread? But jesting had hitherto held no place in her intercourse with Lord Farquhart. If he were indeed this highwayman, why had he jeopardized his life and honor by revealing the secret to her? It was absurd for him to say that he desired to test her loyalty before he gave her his name and title. Did he suppose for a moment that she would betray him? And yet by betraying him she could escape this hateful marriage! But – was he trying to frighten her so that she would refuse to marry him – so that she alone would incur old Gordon’s wrath – so that he would still be free to love and have his Sylvia?
Here she clinched her small fists and declared that, highwayman or not, she’d marry him! She would show him that he could not disdain her for any Sylvia. And then a tiny imp with immature horns and a budding tail whispered something in her ear, and she laughed again, and again there was no melody in the sound.
“Ay, I’ll show him,” she said aloud. “It will not be so hard to marry him now. I fancy he will find it difficult to make objections to my comings and goings.”
All this, perhaps, will prove that the Lady Barbara knew more of London life than its gossip. Also it might prove that there were other ingredients in the Lady Barbara’s character than dutiful submission to her father’s commands. Undoubtedly, it shows that the devil’s children are as subtle as the devil himself.
And yet, when the Lady Barbara called for her maid and while she waited for her, she looked at the hand the highwayman had kissed so often the night before. She blushed faintly and smiled slightly. But that only shows that every lover has a chance to win, that Lord Farquhart, offering love, might have wooed successfully. But to the maid, the lady said only:
“When Mr. Ashley comes, I will see him. To anyone else say that I desire to be left to myself.”
Lord Farquhart’s awakening on that same morning was the most curious, the most unpleasant, of them all. It occurred even later in the day than the others, and there was no laughter of any kind on his lips. Rather were they framing curses. Another day and night of freedom were gone. His marriage to the Lady Barbara Gordon was a day nearer. How could he laugh? Why should he not curse?
Suddenly his eyes fell on a tabouret that stood near his bed. On it lay a withered rose and half a dozen jeweled rings. The rose he had never seen before. The rings he was almost sure he had seen on Lady Barbara’s hands.
Hurriedly summoning a servant, he demanded an explanation of how the articles had come there.
The man, also unrefreshed by his night’s sleep, admitted that he had found the flower and the jewels in Lord Farquhart’s coat, that he had placed them on the tabouret himself.
“In my coat? In what coat?” demanded Lord Farquhart.
“In your lordship’s riding coat,” stammered the servant. “In the coat that you wore yesterday when we rode to The Jolly Grig. It seemed safer to me to place the jewels near your lordship’s bed than to leave them in the coat.”
And now it was Lord Farquhart’s turn to rub his eyes. He wondered if he was indeed awake. And then the curses that had shaped his lips passed the threshold and poured forth in volumes upon the head of the luckless servant, who was in no wise to blame, and finally upon the Lady Barbara herself. For to Lord Farquhart’s mind came no other solution of the mystery than that the Lady Barbara had met with no highwayman at all, that the whole story of the hold up had been but a silly country girl’s joke gotten up by herself and her servants. Doubtless it was a joke on him that she had planned, and he had been too dull to see its point. The upshot of his thoughts and the end of his ravings were a command to the servant to return the articles forthwith to the Lady Barbara Gordon, to the lady herself, in person, and to say to her that Lord Farquhart would wait upon her late that afternoon.
X
The Lady Barbara, in the midst of her interview with Mr. Ashley, was disturbed by Lord Farquhart’s servant bearing her rings and the rose that had been stolen the night before. Her confusion expressed itself in deep damask roses on the cheeks that had, indeed, been lily white before.
“Lord Farquhart returns these to me?” she cried in her amazement.
“Yes, my lady, he said that they were to pass into no other hands than yours, that you would understand.”
“That I would understand?” she questioned, and the damask roses had already flown.
“How came they into Lord Farquhart’s hands?” asked Ashley, but he was vouchsafed no answer.
“That you would understand, my lady, and that he would be with you himself this afternoon.”
The servant was looking at the lady respectfully enough, but behind the respect lurked curiosity, for even a servant may question the drolleries and vagaries of his masters. And here, indeed, was a most droll mass of