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 gibe6 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 duel7. 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 crave8 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 spoke10; and when she made no sign he gave the word to recommit me.
"Take him away, Lieutenant11 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 maiden12 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 throng14 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 scoff15 or sneer16 or point a gibe.
At her going, Tybee drew his sword and cut the cord that bound me.
"These youngling cubs18 are over-cautious, Captain Ireton. We shall not make it harder for each other than we must," he said, with bluff19 good nature. And then: "Will you lead the way to your room, sir?"—this to give the youngling cub17 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 kindly21 done. At my own door he gave me precedence again, saying, with a touch of the grateful Old World courtesy, "After you, sir," and standing22 aside to let me enter first. When we were both within he touched upon the colonel's mandate23.
"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 ebb24 tide of exhaustion25 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 hideous26 labyrinth27 of deception28; how this lie that I had told to bridge a momentary29 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 supplanter30, 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 confided31 in him; that he was still entangled32 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 shrilly33, coming to the point at once, as any miser34 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 miserable36, spying runag"—he choked and coughed behind his hand and then began again without the epithets37. "'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 shaft38 of truth and let it find the joint39 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 fumbling40 behind him for the door-latch41,'twould not have made him shrink or dodge42 the more.
"Wha—what's that ye say?" he piped in shrillest cadence43. "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 smote44 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 cannily45 between us. And as he shuffled46 back and forth47 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, mumbling48 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 fumed49. "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 random50 thrustings of the shifty eyes.
"Who is your next of kin20, 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 dispelled51 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,
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