“It’s true all I said,” she laughed; “and that’s why it stings.”
“And did ye never hear that true jests breed bad blood?” he laughed. “But no matter, I’m not a bit riled, and I won’t. I like ye better for speaking out; I hate that mealymouthed talk that fine-spoken folk goes on wi’. I likes a bit of a rub now and then; if ye were too civil I couldn’t speak my own mind neither, and that would never do.”
“Get along with ye. Have you any more to say?”
“Shall I say it out, plain and short, and will ye hear it through?” he asked.
“Ay.”
“Well, here it is; if ye don’t sign that, I think ye’ll be hanged.”
“No, you don’t,” she said, more quietly.
“I do, by ⸻,” he swore.
“No, you don’t,” she repeated, in the same tone, “who is to do it? Charlie’s gone, and vilely as he used me, he never would have done that; and Alice won’t, she told you so. I’m better informed, I believe, than you fancied. So don’t you suppose I am at all anxious.”
“I wanted to take you off in a coach, and you won’t let me,” said he.
“Thanks, simple Harry,” she sneered.
“And I’m coming this day week, and then it will be within ten days o’ the ’sizes.”
“And I’ll be discharged; and I’ll bring separate actions against every soul that had a hand in putting me here. Ask my attorney,” said the lady, with a pale angry simper.
“And Judge Risk is coming down, and you’d better ask your attorney, as you talk of him, whether he’s a hangin’ judge or no.”
“Cunning beast! all won’t do,” she said, sarcastically.
“Well, Bertha, this day week I’ll be here, and this day week will be your last chance, for things will begin that day, and no one can stop them.”
“Lord have mercy upon us!” she whined, with an ugly mockery and an upturning of her sightless eyes.
“You may be saying something like that in the press-room yet, if you won’t take the trouble to think in earnest before it’s too late. Now, listen, once for all, for it’s the last words I’ll say. That’s all true you say: Charlie’s gone, and if he was here, instead of in kingdom come, ’twould ’a been all one, for he wouldn’t never ’a moved a hand in the matter, nor ’a suffered it; and as for Alice, she won’t neither. But if you don’t sign that paper by this day week, and make no bones about it”—here he swore a hard oath—“blind as you be, I’ll open your eyes—and I’ll prosecute the indictment myself. Goodbye, ma’am, and think between this and then.”
Harry Fairfield strode from the room, and was still full of the grim emotion which had animated the close of his interview, when he reached the little inn at which but a few weeks before his brother Charles had stabled his horse, when making his last visit to Hatherton.
LI
Sergeant-Major Archdale
Harry Fairfield was a captain in his county militia. It was right that the House of Fairfield should be represented in that corps. Charlie, who was of an easy compliant temper, would have taken the commission and the light duties, if that dignity had been put upon him. But Harry chose it. It extended his acquaintance, added to his opportunities of selling his horses, and opened some houses, small and great, to him, in a neighbourly fashion, when making his circuits to fair and market. He knew something of games, too, and was shrewd at whist and draughts, and held a sure cue at billiards. On the whole, his commission turned him in something in the course of a year.
It was upon some regimental business that Sergeant-Major Archdale was awaiting his return at Wyvern.
Harry Fairfield, as it happened, was thinking of the Sergeant as he rode into the yard in gloomy rumination.
“Well, Archdale, what’s the news?” said he, as he dismounted.
The news was not a great deal. After he had heard it Harry paused for a time, and said he—
“Quite well, Archdale, I hope?”
“Well, sir, I thank you.”
Again Harry paused.
“How did you come, Archdale?”
“Walked, sir.”
“Walked, oh! very well.”
Here was another pause.
“Archdale, you must go in. Here, Clinton, get some luncheon for Sergeant-Major Archdale. A drink of beer and a mouthful won’t do you no harm; and, Archdale, before you go let me know; I may have a word, and I’ll say it walking down the avenue. Get Mr. Archdale some luncheon, Clinton, and some sherry.”
“I thank you, sir,” said the Sergeant-Major. “ ’Tis more like a supper for me; I’ve had my dinner, sir, some time.”
And with a stiff military step the Sergeant followed Clinton into the house.
The Sergeant-Major was above the middle size, and stout of body, which made him look shorter. His hair was closely cut, and of a pale blue iron gray. His face was rather pale, and smooth as marble; full and long, with a blue chin, and a sort of light upon his fixed lineaments, not exactly a smile, but a light that was treacherous and cruel. For the rest his military coat, which was of the old-fashioned cut, and his shako, with all the brasses belonging to them, and his Wellington boots, were natty and brilliant, and altogether unexceptionable, and a more perfectly respectable-looking man you could not have found in his rank of life in the country.
Without a word, with a creak in his boots, he marched slowly in, with inflexible countenance, after Clinton.
The Squire met Harry in the hall.
“Hollo! it’s a week a most since I set eyes on ye—ye’ll look out some other place for that mad filly ye bought of Jim Hardress: she’s broke a boy’s arm this morning in the stable; I’ll not look after him, I promise ye; ’tis your affair, mind,
