Volume II Part 26 (1/2)
”Hadn't I better come with you, miss?” Bates asked, as he lifted her into her saddle.
”No, Bates. You are dismissed, you know. It wouldn't do for you to take one of Captain Winstanley's horses. He might have you sent to prison for horse-stealing.”
”Lord, miss, so he might!” said Bates, grinning. ”I reckon he's capable of it. But I cheeked him pretty strong, Miss Voylet. The thought o'
that'll always be a comfort to me. You wouldn't ha' knowed me for your feyther's old sarvant if you'd heard me. I felt as if Satan had got hold o' my tongue, and was wagging it for me. The words came so pat. It seemed as if I'd got all the dictionary at the tip of my poor old tongue.”
”Open the gate,” said Vixen. ”I am going out by the wilderness.”
Bates opened the gate under the old brick archway, and Vixen rode slowly away, by unfrequented thickets of rhododendron and arbutus, holly and laurel, with a tall mountain-ash, or a stately deodora, rising up among them, here and there, dark against the opal evening sky.
It was a lovely evening. The crescent moon rode high above the tree-tops; the sunset was still red in the west. The secret depths of the wood gave forth their subtle perfume in the cool, calm air. The birds were singing in suppressed and secret tones among the low branches. Now and then a bat skimmed across the open glade, and melted into the woodland darkness, or a rabbit flitted past, gray and ghostlike. It was an hour when the woods a.s.sumed an awful beauty. Not to meet ghosts seemed stranger than to meet them. The shadows of the dead would have been in harmony with the mystic loveliness of this green solitude--a world remote from the track of men.
Even to-night, though her heart was swelling with indignant pain, Violet felt all the beauty of these familiar scenes. They were a part of her life, and so long as she lived she must love and rejoice in them. To-night as she rode quietly along, careful not to hurry Arion after his long day's work, she looked around her with eyes full of deep love and melancholy yearning. It seemed to her to-night that out of all that had been sweet and lovely in her life only these forest scenes remained. Humanity had not been kind to her. The dear father had been s.n.a.t.c.hed away: just when she had grown to the height of his stout heart, and had fullest comprehension of his love, and greatest need of his protection. Her mother was a gentle, smiling puppet, to whom it were vain to appeal in her necessities. Her mother's husband was an implacable enemy. Rorie, the friend of her childhood--who might have been so much--had given himself to another. She was quite alone.
”The charcoal-burner in Mark Ash is not so solitary as I am,” thought Vixen bitterly. ”Charcoal-burning is only part of his life. He has his wife and children in his cottage at home.”
By-and-by she came out of the winding forest ways into the straight high-road that led to Briarwood, and now she put her horse at a smart trot, for it was growing dark already, and she calculated that it must be nearly eleven o'clock before she could accomplish what she had to do and get back to the Abbey House. And at eleven doors were locked for the night, and Captain Winstanley made a circuit of inspection, as severely as the keeper of a prison. What would be said if she should not get home till after the gates were locked, and the keys delivered over to that stern janitor?
At last Briarwood came in sight above the dark clumps of beach and oak, a white portico, s.h.i.+ning lamplit windows. The lodge-gate stood hospitably open, and Violet rode in without question, and up to the pillared porch.
Roderick Vawdrey was standing in the porch smoking. He threw away his cigar as Vixen rode up, and ran down the steps to receive her.
”Why, Violet, what has happened?” he asked, with an alarmed look.
It seemed to him, that only sudden death or dire calamity could bring her to him thus, in the late gloaming, pale, and deeply moved. Her lips trembled faintly as she looked at him, and for the moment she could find no words to tell her trouble.
”What is it, Violet?” he asked again, holding her gloved hand in his, and looking up at her, full of sympathy and concern.
”Not very much, perhaps, in your idea of things: but it seems a great deal to me. And it has put me into a tremendous pa.s.sion. I have come to ask you to do me a favour.”
”A thousand favours if you like; and when they are all granted, the obligation shall be still on my side. But come into the drawing-room and rest--and let me get you some tea--lemonade--wine--something to refresh you after your long ride.”
”Nothing, thanks. I am not going to get off my horse. I must not lose a moment. Why it must be long after nine already, and Captain Winstanley locks up the house at eleven.”
Rorie did not care to tell her that it was on the stroke of ten. He called in a stentorian voice for a servant, and told the man to get Blue Peter saddled that instant.
”Where's your groom, Violet?” he asked, wondering to see her unattended.
”I have no groom. That's just what I came to tell you. Captain Winstanley has dismissed Bates, at a minute's warning, without a character.”
”Dismissed old Bates, your father's faithful servant! But in Heaven's name what for?”
”I would rather not tell you that. The alleged reason is an insult to me. I can tell you that it is not for dishonesty, or lying, or drunkenness, or insolence, or any act that a good servant need be ashamed of. The poor old man is cast off for a fault of mine; or for an act of mine, which Captain Winstanley pleases to condemn. He is thrust out of doors, homeless, without a character, after forty years of faithful service. He was with my grandfather, you know. Now, Rorie, I want you to take Bates into your service. He is not so ornamental as a young man, perhaps; but he is ever so much more useful. He is faithful and industrious, honest and true. He is a capital nurse for sick horses; and I have heard my dear father say that he knows more than the common run of veterinary surgeons. I don't think you would find him an inc.u.mbrance. Now, dear Rorie,” she concluded coaxingly, with innocent childish entreaty, almost as if they had still been children and playfellows, ”I want you to do this for me--I want you to take Bates.”
”Why, you dear simple-minded baby, I would take a regiment of Bateses for your sake. Why this is not a favour----”
”''Tis as I should entreat you wear your gloves,'” cried Vixen, quoting Desdemona's speech to her general.
Rorie's ready promise had revived her spirit. She felt that, after all, there was such a thing as friends.h.i.+p in the world. Life was not altogether blank and dreary. She forgot that her old friend had given himself away to another woman. She had a knack of forgetting that little fact when she and Rorie were together. It was only in her hours of solitude that the circ.u.mstance presented itself distinctly to her mind.
”I am so grateful to you for this, Rorie,” she cried. ”I cannot tell you what a load you have taken off my mind. I felt sure you would do me this favour. And yet, if you had said No----! It would have been too dreadful to think of. Poor old Bates loafing about Beechdale, living upon his savings! I shall be able to pension him by-and-by, when I am of age; but now I have only a few pounds in the world, the remains of a quarter's pocket-money, according to the view and allowance of the forester,” added Vixen, quoting the Forest law, with a little mocking laugh. ”And now good-night; I must go home as fast as I can.”