The Gentleman: A Romance of the Sea Part 77

"And they call him the Gentleman!" came the Parson's voice at last-- "the _Gentleman_!"

The other had resumed his pacing.

"He sneaks himself into the confidence of a lady," continued the Parson quietly. "He conceals his ident.i.ty--"

Again the other flashed his eyes up.

"I did not!" he shouted, hammering with his hand. "The first words I ever spoke to her in the drawing-room at Merton were to tell her who I was. That night she told Pitt over his port. And Pitt told her--but there!--I needn't go into that.... And when she asked me what brought me to Merton, I answered truthfully--'Love of adventure and the fairest face in Europe.'"

The Parson leaned out.

"I understand you now. You take advantage of that face of yours; you worm yourself into the confidence of a woman, a n.o.ble woman; and you--"

The Gentleman blazed appalling eyes up at him.

"And _you_ have not seen my Ireland suffer!"

The Parson quailed before the white blast of the other's anger. It was as though a hail of lightnings had struck him.

"_His_ Ireland! a.s.s!" was the only retort he could think of.

"Nelson then let us put aside," continued the other, cold again.

"There remain--you and the despatches. I want the despatches. You want yourselves. Shall we exchange?"

"No, we shan't," snapped the Parson.

"I know your straits," continued the other. "You're short of provisions--"

"Short of provisions!" guffawed the Parson. "Why, step this way, and I'll show you a boy with the bellyache."

"And short of men," the other continued, quite himself again. "What does your garrison consist of?--one holy padre, one half an old sailor, Monsieur Mooncalf, and Little Chap."

"And what's your own lot?" bellowed the Parson--"one dozen of sweepings of France, one dozen of the picked sc.u.m of our country, and one conceited young whipper-snapper, who swaggers about in breeches and boots all day _and was never on a horse in his life to my certain knowledge!_"

The Gentleman waved his hand.

"Take the consequences then," he said. "A rivederci."

"Take the consequences yourself!" roared the Parson--"you and your river dirties. I'll see your friends hung high as Haman yet."

The other shook his head.

"You won't live to see that, dear man," he said quietly, and turned away.

CHAPTER LVIII

THE PLANK CAPONIER

Kit was in the cellar stripping his belt and cartridge-pouch from Blob's Grenadier.

As he rose from his knees Piper hailed him.

"Mr. Joy callin you, sir."

The boy ran up the ramp. The old man, handling his musket, was peering through the Northward loop-hole.

"What is it?"

"Summat up yonder, sir."

The boy raced up the ladder.

The Parson was at the dormer looking towards the Downs, shimmering now in the fair evening.

"What's the meaning of this?" he said, pointing.

A great Suss.e.x wain, top-heavy with hay, was drawing out of a farmyard among trees, a quarter of a mile away. A white horse was in the shafts, and a black in the lead. Two Grenadiers were at the head of the black leader, who was giving trouble. Others in shirt-sleeves were mounting to the top of the load.

"Old Gander's wain," said the Parson. "That's old mare Jenny in the shafts, and her three-year-old daughter in the lead. Ha, Miss Blossom!--That's your sort!--Knock em sprawling!--Teach the Mossoos to handle an English lady!"

A tall man ran out of the farmyard, a snow-storm of white-frocked children pursuing him; and even at that distance Parson and boy could hear them screaming laughter. The tall man s.n.a.t.c.hed up one and kissed her. Then he took off his hat with an enormous sweep to the others, and turned.

"Humph! posing rather prettily this time!" muttered the Parson, watching kind-eyed.

On the top of the wain, clear against the sky, a tall figure now rose, and gathered the rope-reins in his hand.

The men at the leader's head jumped aside.

Up she went, sky-high.

The coachman handled her as a mother handles a wilful child. The wind was towards them, and they could hear him singing to her.

"Hum! he can handle the ribands a bit," muttered the Parson, watching intently. "Miss Blossom's never tasted a bit before."

The filly dropped, and flung forward with the shock of a breaking wave.

The slope was with them. The old mare, with snarling head and backward ears, broke into a lumbering trot, s.n.a.t.c.hing at her daughter's tail.

The wain began to gather weigh, creaking, jolting, jerking along.

The filly was tearing into her collar; the old mare, swept along by the pursuing wain, broke into a heavy gallop. The Gentleman, holding them hard, was singing to them as they came.

"Mean mischief, sir," called Piper from below.

"Jove, they do!" muttered the Parson, chin forward, and eyes flaming as he watched. "Like a Horse Artillery battery coming into action."