Off she bustled again, and we again settled down to
our talk. I was anxious to see if she could throw
any light on Brocton’s dealing with her father.
His conduct was to me wholly inexplicable. Then,
too, there was his obvious understanding with Major
Tixall in the matter of the latter’s attack
on Master Freake. Who was this stranger and why
had he incurred Brocton’s enmity? Here
was a whole string of puzzles awaiting solution.
But before I could start the conversation we were again
interrupted. The latch clicked, the door opened,
and in walked my Lord Brocton.
MY LORD BROCTON
I was as new to a life of action as an hour-old duckling
is to water, and this ironical upset of all my plans
left me helpless. The very last man whom I wanted
to see Mistress Waynflete was here, his plumed hat
sweeping to the floor, triumph on his handsome face
and in his easy, languid tones. Indeed, more
astonishing than his being here, was his manner and
bearing. At Master Dobson’s, a natural
remark of mine had beaten all his wits out of him.
Here his assurance was such that it puzzled me out
of action.
“My sergeant, madam,” he began, “no
mean judge, since he has seen the reigning beauties
of half the capitals of Europe, told me to expect a
prize, but it is the prize. Master Wheatman, you
are not, I am told, as good a judge of cattle as Turnip
Townshend, but you are, let me tell you, a better
one of women. I understand you know. Both
acres and solatium shall be mine in any event.
And, dear Margaret, though I do not understand what
your haughtiness is doing here alone with my farmer
friend, I need hardly say that your devoted servant
greets you with all humility.”
Again his hat curved in mockery through the air.
He replaced it on his head, drew his rapier, with
quick turns of his wrist swished the supple blade
through the air till it sang, then flashed it out at
me like the tongue of an adder, and said, “Sit
you still, Farmer Wheatman, sit you still. Move
but your hand and I spit you like a lark on a skewer.
So, little man, so!”
The contempt in his words stirred the gall in my liver,
but I neither spoke nor shifted, and he continued,
addressing her, but with cold, amused eyes fixed on
me, “You see, sweet Margaret, how yokel blood
means yokel mood. Your turnip-knight freezes
at the sight of steel.”
In part at least he spoke truth. I had rarely
seen a naked sword, other than our time-worn and useless
relic of the doughty Smite-and-spare-not, and had
never sat thus at the point of one drawn in earnest
on myself. It is easy to blame me, and at the
back of my own mind I was blaming and cursing myself,
as I sat helpless there. I was keen as the blade
he bore to help her, for here was her hour of uttermost
need, but I did not see that I should be capable of
much service with a hole in my heart, and he had me
at his mercy beyond a doubt, so long as he had me in
his eye. No, galling as it was, there was nothing
to do but to wait the turn of events. Something
might divert his attention. One second was all
I wanted, and I sat there praying for it and ready
for it. Meanwhile the scene, the talk, and she
were full of interest.
