Part 18 (1/2)
Words ran out of him like ale out of a stunned barrel. He clacked on incessantly on the way upstairs, and clacked as boldly as ever as he ushered us into the room, where the Colonel was awaiting us alone.
”'Ere 'e is, y'r lords.h.i.+p,” he said gustily. ”'Ere's the n.o.bby gentleman as didna steal yer 'oss. But yow'd best keep yer eye on 'im, on my say so.
He'll pinch sommat o' yow'n yet afore 'e's done.”
The Colonel, who was toasting his toes at a roaring fire, rose as I followed Margaret towards him. He made me a precise and formal bow, which I imitated farmer fas.h.i.+on. ”This is Master Oliver Wheatman of the Hanyards, father,” said Margaret, in so low a tone that the host, lingering, hand on door-k.n.o.b, nearly a dozen paces behind us, could not have heard her.
”Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,” he said, repeating his bow.
”The honour is mine, sir,” I replied, repeating mine, and wondering the while if I ever should learn to bend like a willow instead of a jointed doll.
”Nay, I protest, sir.” This suavely to me; then, stepping sharply towards the host, he stormed, ”d.a.m.n ye, man, get on the landlord's side of the door, or I'll rout it down around your lazy ears. Slids! I've shot an innkepeer for less in the Rhineland.”
”Them 'ere furriners--” began the host, but the Colonel swamped him with something of which I could make out nothing except that it was a fairly successful attempt to talk and sneeze at the same time. It finished off the host, who retired, beaten with his own weapon. The victor, waiting till the door was closed, tiptoed up to it and listened carefully.
”A rather interesting feature about dad,” whispered Margaret with mischief in her eyes, ”is that when he's angry he curses in French, and when he's mad he execrates in German.”
”Neatly rounding off his daughter's accomplishments,” said I.
”And how, sir?”
”Who gibes in English and loves in Italian.”
She stabbed me with her eyes, and said, ”Your services give you no privileges, sir.”
”I know that, madam, but my yokels.h.i.+p does.”
I spoke lightly, keeping the bitterness of my heart out of my voice, though it had surged up into my speech. I may have been mistaken, misled by the flickering fire-light, but the anger seemed to melt out of her eyes.
The return of the Colonel ended our cut-and-thrust.
”Soldiering,” he said, ”is nine-tenths caution and one-tenth devilment.
Yon glavering idiot has long ears to match his long tongue. And now, sir, let me greet you as I should.”
He seized my hand, shook it warmly, and continued, ”A father's thanks, Master Wheatman, for your kindness to my Margaret. Anon she shall tell me the whole story, but I know already that you are a gallant gentleman whom I shall have the honour of turning into a fine soldier, and neither angel, man, nor devil could make you fairer requital.”
Praise and promise were far beyond any desert or hope of mine, but I said boldly, ”I am no gentleman, but just a plain, few-acred yeoman, who has tried to serve your daughter--”
”Tried?” he snorted. ”Tried, indeed! I've been soldiering man and boy these forty odd years, and, slids, I've never known better work.” He ran me up and down with his eyes and, turning to Margaret, continued, ”By the beard of the prophet, Madge, Master Oliver Wheatman of the Hanyards is a vast improvement on the Baron.”
Margaret blushed daintily and hastily covered his mouth with her fingers.
”You dare, dad, and I won't kiss you good night.”
”Damme,” he said, freeing himself and grinning at me with delight.
”This is rank mutiny. Prithee note, Master Wheatman, the prepare-to-receive-cavalry look in her eye! The last time I lost her was at Hanover, and she rejoined me, if you please, at Dresden.”
”Magdeburg, you libellous old father,” said Margaret, pouting.
”So it was,” he said heartily, conceding the point. ”Escorted by, or escorting, I was never clear which, a fat German baron nearly five feet high, who begged me to horsewhip her into marrying him.”