"Put out my riding-dress. Pack all that you can, that I shall need in the country. We have to ride at noon." She shut the door again, and turned on us--or rather, upon Mr. Chiffinch.
"Sir," she said, "you have done your errand. Perhaps you will now relieve me of your company. I shall be awaiting my cousin, Mr. Roger Mallock, as the King requires, at noon."
"Dolly--" said I.
She continued, looking through me, as through gla.s.s.
"At noon: and I trust he will not keep me waiting."
There was no more to be done. We turned and went out.
"Lord! what a termagant is your pretty cousin, Mr. Mallock!" said my companion when we were out of doors again. "You could have trusted her well enough, I think."
I was not in the mood to discuss her with him; I had other things to think of.
"Mr. Chiffinch," I said, "I am very much obliged to you; but I must be off for my own packing." And I bade him good-day.
When I rode into the court, five minutes before noon, a very piteous little group awaited me by the inner gate. Dolly, very white and angry, stood by the mounting-block, striving to preserve her dignity. Her maid was behind her, arguing how the bags should be disposed on the pack-horse, with the fellow who was to lead it. Dolly"s own horse was not yet come; but as I rode up to salute her, he came out of an archway led by a groom.
I leapt off, and stood by the mounting-block to help her. Again it was as if I were not there. She jerked her head to the man.
"Help me," she said.
He was in a quandary, for he could not leave the horse"s head.
"I am very sorry, Dolly," said I, "but you will have to put up for me for once. Come."
She gave a look of despair round about; but there was no help.
"It is on the stroke of noon," I said.
She submitted; but it was with the worst grace I have ever seen. She accepted my ministrations; but it was as if I were a machine: not one word did she speak, good or bad.
By the time that she was mounted, her maid was up too, and the bags disposed.
"Come," I said again; and mounted my own horse.
As we rode out through the great gate, the Clock Tower beat the hour of noon.
I am weary of saying that my journeys were strange; but, certainly, this was another of them.
Through the narrow streets I made no attempt to ride beside her. In the van went three of my men; then rode I; then, about ten yards behind, came Dolly and her maid. Then came two pack-horses, led by a fellow who controlled them both; and my fourth man closed the dismal cavalcade. So we went through the streets--all the way down the Strand and into the City, wheeled to the left, and so out by Bishopsgate. It was a clear kind of day, without rain: but the clouds hung low, and I thought it would rain before nightfall. I intended to do the whole journey in a day; so as to be at Hare Street before midnight at least. A night on the way, and Dolly"s company at supper, all alone with me, or even with her maid, appeared to me too formidable to face.
When we were out in the country, I reined my horse in. I saw a change pa.s.s over Dolly"s face; then it became like stone.
"We have a long ride, for one day," said I.
She made no answer. My anger rose a little.
"My Cousin," I said, "I had the honour to speak to you."
"I do not wish to have the dishonour of answering you," said Dolly.
It was a weakness on her part to answer at all; but I suppose she could not resist the repartee.
"A very neat hit," I said. "Must all our conversation run upon these lines?"
She made no answer at all.
"Anne," I said, "rein your horse back ten yards."
"Anne," said Dolly, "ride precisely where you are."
"Very good," said I. "I have no objection to your maid hearing what I have to say. I thought it would be you that would object."
"Anne," said Dolly, "did you pack the sarcenet?"
"Yes, mistress."
"Then tell me again the tale that you were--"
I broke in with such fury that even Dolly ceased.
"My Cousin," I said, "I have a louder voice than either of you; and I shall use it, if you do not listen, so that the whole countryside shall hear. I have to say this--that some time or another to-day I have to have a private conversation with you. It is for you to choose the time and place. If you give me no opportunity now, I shall make it myself, later. Will you hear what I have to say now?"
There was a very short silence.
"Anne," said Dolly, "now that we can hear ourselves speak, will you tell me again the tale that you began last night?"
She said it, not at all lightly, but with a coldness and a distilled kind of anger that gave me no choice. I lifted my hat a little; shook my reins; and once more took up my position ten yards ahead. There was a low murmur of voices behind; and then silence. It appeared that the tale was not to be told after all.
We dined, very late, at a little inn, called the _Cross-Keys_, between Edmonton and Ware. I remember nothing at all, either of the inn or the host or the food--nothing but the name of the inn, for the name struck me, with a dreary kind of wit, as reflective of the cross-purposes which we were at. We three dined together, in profound silence, except when Dolly addressed a word or two to her maid. As for me, she took the food which I carved, all as if I were a servant, without even such a thank-you as a man gives to a servant.
We took the road again, about three o"clock; and even then the day was beginning to draw in a little, very bleak and dismal; and that, too, I took as a symbol of my heart within, and of my circ.u.mstances and prospects. Certainly I had gained my desire in one way; I had got Dolly away from Court; yet that was the single point I had to congratulate myself upon. All else, it appeared, was ruined. I had lost all the advantage, or very nearly all, that I had ever won from the King--(for I knew, that although he had been merry at the end of the time, he would not forget how I had worsted him)--and as for Dolly, I supposed she would never speak to me again. It had been bad enough when I had left Hare Street nearly a twelvemonth ago: my return to it now was a hundred times worse.
Although Dolly, however, would not speak to me, I was entirely determined to speak to Dolly. I proposed to rehea.r.s.e to her what I had done, and why; and when that was over, I would leave it in her hands whether I remained at Hare Street a day or two, or left again next morning. More than a day or two, I did not even hope for. I had insulted her--it seemed--beyond forgiveness. Yet, besides my miserableness, there was something very like pleasure as well, though of a grim sort. I had spoken my mind to her, pretty well, and would do so more explicitly; and I was to speak my mind very well indeed to her father. There was a real satisfaction to me in that prospect. Then, once more, I would shut the door for ever on Hare Street, and go back again to town, and begin all over again at the beginning, and try to retrieve a little of what I had lost. Such then were my thoughts.
We supped, at Ware--at the _Saracen"s Head_, and the same wretched performance was gone through as at the _Cross-Keys_. Night was fallen completely; and we had candles that guttered not a little. Dolly was silent, however, this time, even to her maid. She did not give me one look, all through supper.
When I came out afterwards to the horses, the yard was all in a mist: I could see no more than a spot of light where the lamp should be by the stable-door. The host came with me.