for some small instant i dared not loose my eye-grip on the colonel, to glance aside at falconnet, or gilbert stair, or at the woman close beside me. if i had flinched or wavered, or let an eyelid droop but by the thickness of a hair, this keen-eyed colonel would have been upon me to cut the ground beneath my feet and leave me dangling by the lie.
but as it was, i faced him down; and winning him, won all. there was a muttered oath from falconnet, a tremulous cry of rage from where her father stood; and then i sought my lady's eyes to read my sentence in them.
she gave me but a glance, and though i tried as i had never tried before to read her meaning it was hid from me. but this i marked; that she did draw aside from me, and that her face was cold and still, and that her lips were pressed together as if not all nor any should ever make her speak again.
at this sharp crisis, when a look or word would cost me more than death and my dear lady her honor, it was the colonel who, all unwittingly, stood my friend. a breath of doubt upon my lie and we were lost; and once i thought he would have breathed it. but he did not. instead, he broke out in a laugh, with a gibe flung first at gilbert stair and then at falconnet.
"god save us! i give you joy, mr. stair, and you, sir francis. these two have duped you bravely. by heavens! sir frank; 'twas you who should have had the sword thrust in the duel. in that event you might have stood in captain ireton's shoes, and so had the priest fetched for your benefit." then he turned to margery with a bow that had no touch of mockery in it. "i crave your pardon, madam; i knew not you were pleading for your husband's life an hour ago. it grieves me that i may not spare him to you longer than the night, but war is cruel at its best."
she stood like any statue done in cold carrara while he spoke; and when she made no sign he gave the word to recommit me.
"take him away, lieutenant tybee, and see he has a bribe-proof man this time to keep him company. madam ireton, i'll put you on your honor: you may have access to him, but there must be no messages carried in or out. to your quarters, gentlemen. we must ride far and hard to-morrow."
when his final word had set her free, my frozen maiden came to life and ran to throw herself in helpless sobbings, not upon her father, as you would think, but upon the good priest. and it was father matthieu who led her, still crying softly, out of the throng and up the low stair; and now i marked that all the rough soldiery stood aside and made way for her with never a man among them to scoff or sneer or point a gibe.
at her going, tybee drew his sword and cut the cord that bound me.
"these youngling cubs are over-cautious, captain ireton. we shall not make it harder for each other than we must," he said, with bluff good nature. and then: "will you lead the way to your room, sir?"—this to give the youngling cub another lesson, i suppose.
i walked beside him to the stair, and when i stumbled, being weak and spent, he took my arm and steadied me, and i did think it kindly done. at my own door he gave me precedence again, saying, with a touch of the grateful old world courtesy, "after you, sir," and standing aside to let me enter first. when we were both within he touched upon the colonel's mandate.
"i must obey my orders, captain ireton, but by your good leave i shall not lock you up with any trooper; i'll stay with you myself."
i thought this still more kindly than aught he had done before, and so i told him. but he put it off lightly.
"'tis little enough any one can do for you, my friend, but i will do that little as i can. you are like to have a visitor, i take it; if you have, i'm sure 'twill be a comfort if your body-guard can be stone blind and deaf."
so saying, he dragged the big wicker chair into the window-bay, planted himself deep within it with his back to all the room, and so left me to my own devices.
being spent enough to sleep beneath the shadow of a gibbet, i threw myself full-length upon the bed and was, i think, adrift upon the ebb tide of exhaustion and forgetfulness when once again the shifting of the wooden door-bar roused me. i rose up quickly, but tybee was before me. there was some low-voiced conference at the door; then tybee came to me.
"'tis mr. gilbert stair," he said. "he has permission from the colonel and insists that he must see you solus. i'll take your word and leave you, if you like."
at first i hung reluctant, wanting little of the host who came so late to see his guest. then, as if a sudden flash of lightning had revealed it, i realized, as i had not before, how i had set the feet of my dear lady in a most hideous labyrinth of deception; how this lie that i had told to bridge a momentary gap must leave her neither maid nor widow in the morning.
"yes, yes; for god's sake let him in, mr. tybee!" i burst out. "i am fair crazed with weariness, and had forgot. 'tis most important, i do assure you."
the thing was done at once, and before i knew it i was alone with the old man who, though he was my supplanter, was also margery's father. he entered cautiously, shielding his bedroom candle with his hand and peering over it to make me out, as if his venturing in were not unperilous. and i marked that when he put the candle down upon the table, he edged away and felt behind him for the door as if to make sure of his retreat in case of need.
"sit down, captain ireton; sit down, i beg of you," he said, in his thin, rasping treble. and when i had obeyed: "i think you must know what i've come for, captain ireton?"
i said i could guess; and he began again, volubly now, as if to have it over in the shortest space.
"'twas not a gentlemanly thing for you to do, captain ireton—this marrying of a foolish girl out of hand while you were here a guest; and as for the priest that did it, i—i'll have him hanged before the army leaves, i promise you. but now 'tis done, i hope ye're prepared to make the best of it?"
i saw at once that his daughter had not yet confided in him; that he was still entangled in my lie. so i thought it well to probe him deeper while i might.
"what would you call 'the best' if i may ask?" said i, growing the cooler with some better seeing of the way ahead.
"the marriage settlements!" he cried shrilly, coming to the point at once, as any miser would. "'tis the merest matter of form, as ye may say, for your title to appleby hundred is well burnt out, i promise you. but for the decent look of it you might make over your quitclaim to your wife."
"aye, truly; so i might."
"and so you should, sir; that you should, ye miserable, spying runag"—he choked and coughed behind his hand and then began again without the epithets. "'tis the very least ye can do for her now, when you have the rope fair around your curs—ahem—your—your rebel neck. only for the form's sake, to be sure, ye understand, for she'd inherit after you in any case."
i saw his drift at last, and, not caring to spare him, sped the shaft of truth and let it find the joint in his harness.
"'tis as you say, mr. stair. but as it chances, mistress margery is not my wife."
if i had flung the candle at him where he stood fumbling behind him for the door-latch,'twould not have made him shrink or dodge the more.
"wha—what's that ye say?" he piped in shrillest cadence. "not married? then you—you—"
"i lied to save her honor—that was all. a wife might do the thing she did and go scot free of any scandal; but not a maid, as you could see and hear."
for some brief time it smote him speechless, and in the depth of his astoundment he forgot his foolish fear of me and fell to pacing up and down, though always with the table cannily between us. and as he shuffled back and forth the thin lips muttered foolish nothings, with here and there a tremulous oath. when all was done he dropped into a chair and stared across at me with leaden eyes; and truly he had the look of one struck with a mortal sickness.
"i think—i think you owe me something now beyond your keeping, captain ireton," he quavered, at length, mumbling the words as do the palsied.
"since you are margery's father, i owe you anything a dying man can pay," said i.
"words; empty words," he fumed. "if it were a thing to do, now—"
"you need but name the thing and i will do it willingly."
instead of naming it he shot a question at me, driving it home with certain random thrustings of the shifty eyes.
"who is your next of kin, captain ireton?"
"septimus, of the same name, master of iretondene, on the james river, and a major in the virginia line," i answered, wondering how my cousin once removed should figure in the present coil. but gilbert stair's next question dispelled the mystery.
"if you should die intestate, this septimus would be your heir?"
"as next of kin, i should suppose he would. but i have nothing to devise."
"true; and yet"—he paused again as if the wording of it were not easy.
"be free to speak your mind, mr. stair," said i.
"'tis this," he cried, gathering himself as with an effort. "you've claimed my daughter as your wife before them all, and when you die to-morrow morning you'll leave her neither wife nor maid. i think—i think you'd best make that lie of yours the truth."
if one of his thin hands that clutched the chair arms had pressed a secret spring and loosed a trap to send me gasping down an oubliette, i should have been the less astounded. indeed, for some short space i thought him mad; yet, on second thought, i saw the method in his madness. could margery be brought to view it calmly, this was a sword to cut the knot of all entanglements.
as matters stood, the world would call her widow at my death; and since a woman is first of all the keeper of her own good name, she would never dare aver the truth. so in common justice she should own the name the world would call her by. again, as matters stood, no wrong could come of it to her, or richard jennifer, or any. dick would love her none the less because a dying man had given her his name for some few hours. and if, at any future time, the ireton title should revive and this poor double-dealing miser should be forced to quit his hold on appleby hundred, my father's acres would be hers in her own right. one breach in all this sudden-builded wall i saw, but could not mend it. with the ireton acres hers by double right, the baronet would press his suit with greater vigor than before. but as to this, no further act of mine could help or hinder; and if i died her husband she would in decency delay a while.
so summing up in far less time than it has cost to write it out for you, i gave my host his answer.
"i told you you might name the deed, and i would do it, mr. stair. if you can make your daughter understand—"
"the jade will do as she is bid," he cut in wrathfully. "if she will drag my good name in the mire, i'm damned if she sha'n't pay the scot. and now about the settlements, captain ireton; you'll be making her legatee residuary?"
at this i saw his drift again, most clearly; that he would never stickle for his daughter's honor, but for the quieting of his title to my father's lands—a title that my cousin septimus might dispute. it was enough to set me obstinate against him; but i constrained myself to think of margery and richard jennifer, and not at all of this poor petty miser.
"i'll sign a quitclaim in her favor, if that is what you mean," i said. "but 'tis a mere pen-scratch for the lawyers to haggle over. as you said a while ago, the wife will be the husband's heir-at-law, in any event."
"true; but we'd best be at it in due and proper form." he rose and hobbled to the door and was so set upon haste that his shaking hand played a rattling tattoo on the latch. "i—i'll go and have the papers drawn, and you will sign them, captain ireton; i have your passed word that you will sign them?"
"aye; they shall be signed."
he went away at that, and tybee entered. much to my comfort, the lieutenant asked no questions; so far from it, he crossed the room without a word, flung himself into the great chair and left me to my own communings.
these were not altogether of assurance. though i had promised readily enough to make my lie a truth, i saw that all was yet contingent upon my lady's viewing of the proposal. that i could win her over i had some hope, if only they would leave the task for me. but there was room to fear that this poor miser father would make it all a thing of property and so provoke her to resistance. and, notwithstanding what he said—that she would do as she was bid—i thought i knew her temper well enough to prophesy a hitch. for i made sure of one thing, that if she put her will against the world, the world would never move her.
'twas past midnight, with tybee dozing in his chair, when next i heard some stirrings in the corridor. as before, it was the lifting of the wooden bar that roused my friendly guard, and when he went to parley at the door i stood apart and turned my back.
when i looked again my company was come. at the table, busied with a parchment that might have been a ducal title deed for size, stood gilbert stair and the factor-lawyer, owen pengarvin. a little back of them the good old father matthieu had margery on his arm. and in the corner tybee stood to keep the door.
i grouped them all in one swift eye-sweep, and having listed them, strove to read some lessoning of my part in my dear lady's face. she gave me nothing of encouragement, nor yet a cue of any kind to lead to what it was that she would have me say or do. as i had seen it last, under the light of the flaring torches in the room below, her face was cold and still; and she was standing motionless beside the priest, looking straight at me, it seemed, with eyes that saw nothing.
it was the factor-lawyer who broke the silence, saying, with his predetermined smirk, that the parchment was ready for my signature. thinking it well beneath me to measure words with this knavish pettifogger, i looked beyond him and spoke to his master.
"i would have a word or two in private with your daughter before this matter ripens further, mr. stair," i said.
my lady dropped the priest's arm and came to stand beside me in the window-bay. i offered her a chair but she refused to sit. there was so little time to spare that i must needs begin without preliminary.
"what has your father told you, margery?" i asked.
"he tells me nothing that i care to know."
"but he has told you what you must do?"
"yes." she looked with eyes that saw me not.
"and you are here to do it of your own free will?"
"no."
"yet it must be done."
"so he says, and so you say. but i had rather die."
"'tis not a pleasing thing, i grant you, margery; notwithstanding, of our two evils it is by far the less. bethink you a moment: 'tis but the saying of a few words by the priest, and the bearing of my name for some short while till you can change it for a better."
her deep-welled eyes met mine, and in them was a flash of anger.
"is that what marriage means to you, captain ireton?"
"no, truly. but we have no choice. 'tis this, or i must leave you in the morning to worse things than the bearing of my name. i would it had not thus been thrust upon us, but i could see no other way."
"see what comes of tampering with the truth," she said, and i could see her short lip curl with scorn. "why should you lie and lie again, when any one could see that it must come to this—or worse?"
"i saw it not," i said. "but had i stopped to look beyond the moment's need and seen the end from the beginning, i fear i should have lied yet other times. your honor was at stake, dear lady."
"my honor!"—this in bitterest irony. "what is a woman's honor, sir, when you or any man has patched and sewed and sought to make it whole again? i will not say the word you'd have me say!"
"but you must say it, margery. 'tis but the merest form; you forget that you will be a wife only in name. i shall not live to make you rue it."
"you make me rue it now, beforehand. mon dieu! is a woman but a thing, to stand before the priest and plight her troth for 'merest form'? you'll make me hate you while i live—and after!"
"you'd hate me worse, margery dear, if i should leave you drowning in this ditch. and i can bear your hatred for some few hours, knowing that if i sinned and robbed you, i did make restitution as i could."
she heard me through with eyelids down and some fierce storm of passion shaking her. and when she answered her voice was low and soft; yet it cut me like a knife.
"you drive me to it—listen, sir, you drive me to it! and i have said that i shall hate you for it. come; 'tis but a mockery, as you say; and they are waiting."
i sought to take her hand and lead her forth, but this she would not suffer. she walked beside me, proud and cold and scornful; stood beside me while i sat and read the parchment over. it was no marriage settlement; it was a will, drawn out in legal form. and in it i bequeathed to margery ireton as her true jointure, not any claim of mine to appleby hundred, but the estate itself.
i read it through as i have said, and, looking across to these two plotters, the miser-master and his henchman, smiled as i had never thought to smile again.
"so," said i; "the truth is out at last. i wondered if the confiscation act had left you wholly scatheless, mr. stair. well, i am content. i shall die the easier for knowing that i have lain a guest in my own house. give me the pen."
'twas given quickly, and i signed the will, with tybee and the lawyer for the witnesses; margery standing by the while and looking on; though not, i made sure, with any realizing of the business matter.
when all was done the priest found his book, and we stood before him; the woman who had sworn to hate, and the man who, loving her to full forgetfulness of death itself, must yet be cold and formal, masking his love for her dear sake, and for the sake of loyalty to his friend. and here again 'twas tybee and the lawyer who were the witnesses; the one well hated, and the other loved if but for this; that when the time came for the giving of the ring, he drew a gold band from his little finger and made me take and use it.
and so that deed was done in some such sorry fashion as the time and place constrained; and had you stood within the four walls of that upper room you would have thought the chill of death had touched us, and that the low-voiced priest was shriving us the while we knelt to take his benediction. all through this farce—which was in truth the grimmest of all tragedies—my lady played her part as one who walks in sleep; and at the end she let her father lead her out with not a word or look or sign to me.
you'd guess that i would take it hard—her leaving of me thus, as i made sure, for all eternity; and i did take it hard. for when the strain was off, and there was no one by to see or hear save my good-hearted death-watch, i must needs go down upon my knees beside the bed in childish weakness, and sob and choke and let the hot tears come as i had not since at this same bedside i had knelt a little lad to take my mother's dying love.
