“Poetry, I think. Was there not a piece on the morals of Town—in the manner of Juvenal?”
“Bawdy, I’ll be bound,” put in Mr. Kyd. He seemed suddenly to have grown rather drunk and spoke with a hiccup.
The tutor looked so uncouth a figure for a poet that Alastair laughed again. But the poor man’s mind was far from humour, for his earnestness increased with his hearers’ cynicism.
“Oh, my lord,” he cried, “what does it matter what I am or what wretched books I have fathered? I urge you to a most instant duty—to save a noble young lady from a degrading marriage. I press for your decision, for the need is desperate.”
“But what can I do, Mr. Johnson? She is of age, and they have broken no law. I cannot issue a warrant and hale them back to Oxfordshire. If they are not yet wed I have no authority to dissuade, for I am not a kinsman, not even a friend. I cannot forbid the banns, for I have no certain knowledge of any misdeeds of this Sir John. I have no locus, as the lawyers say, for my meddling. But in any case the errand must be futile, for if you are right and she has fled with him, they will be married long ere we can overtake them. What you ask from me is folly.”
The tutor’s face changed from lumpish eagerness to a lumpish gloom.
“There is a chance,” he muttered. “And in the matter of saving souls a chance is enough for a Christian.”
“Then my Christianity falls short of yours, sir,” replied Lord Cornbury sharply.
The tutor let his dismal eyes dwell on the others. They soon left Mr. Kyd’s face, stayed longer on Alastair’s and came to rest on Sir Christopher’s, which was little less gloomy than his own.
“You, sir,” he said, “you know the would-be bridegroom. Will you assist me to rescue the bride?”
The baronet for a moment did not reply and hope flickered in the other’s eyes. Then it died, for the young man brought down his fist on the table with an oath.
“No, by God. If my lord thinks the business not for him, ’tis a million times too delicate for me. You’re an honest man, Mr. usher, and shall hear my reason. I loved Miss Grevel, and for two years I dared to hope. Last April she dismissed me and I had the wit to see that ’twas final. What kind of figure would I cut galloping the shires after a scornful mistress who has chosen another? I’d ride a hundred miles to see Jack Norreys’ neck wrung, but you will not catch me fluttering near the honeypot of his lady.”
“You think only of your pride, sir, and not of the poor girl.”
The tutor, realising the futility of his mission, rose to his feet, upsetting a decanter with an awkward elbow. The misadventure, which at an earlier stage would have acutely embarrassed him, now passed unnoticed. He seemed absorbed in his own reflections, and had suddenly won a kind of rude dignity. As he stood among them Alastair was amazed alike at his shabbiness and his self-possession.
“You will stay the night here, sir? The hour is late and a bed is at your disposal.”
“I thank you, my lord, but my duties do not permit of sleep. I return to Chastlecote, and if I can get no helpers I must e’en seek for the lady alone. I am debtor to your lordship for a hospitality upon which I will not further encroach. May I beg the favour of a light to the stable?”
Alastair picked up a branched candlestick and preceded the tutor into the windless night. The latter stumbled often, for he seemed purblind, but the other had no impulse to laugh, for toward this grotesque he had conceived a curious respect. The man, like himself, was struggling against fatted ease, striving to break a fence of prudence on behalf of an honourable hazard.
Kyd’s servant brought the horse, refreshed by a supper of oats, and it was Alastair’s arm which helped the unwieldy horseman to the saddle.
“God prosper you!” Alastair said, as he fitted a clumsy foot into a stirrup.
The man woke to the consciousness of the other’s presence.
“You wish me well, sir? Will you come with me? I desire a colleague, for I am a sedentary man with no skill in travel.”
“I only rest here for a night. I am a soldier on a mission which does not permit of delay.”
“Then God speed us both!” The strange fellow pulled off his hat like a parson pronouncing benediction, before he lumbered into the dark of the avenue.
Alastair turned to find Kyd behind him. He was exchanging jocularities with his servant.
“Saw ye ever such a physiog, Edom?” he cried. “Dominies are getting crouse, for the body was wanting my lord to up and ride with him like a postboy after some quean that’s ta’en the jee. He’s about as blate as a Cameronian preacher. My lord was uncommon patient with him. D’you not think so, Captain Maclean?”
“The man may be uncouth, but he has a stout heart and a very noble spirit. I take off my hat to his fidelity.”
The reply changed Mr. Kyd’s mood from scorn to a melting sentiment.
“Ay, but you’re right. I hadn’t thought of that. It’s a noble-hearted creature, and we would all be better if we were liker him. Courage, did you say? The man with that habit of body, that jogs all day on a horse for the sake of a woman that has done nothing but clout his lugs, is a hero. I wish I had drunk his health.”
IV
Mr. Kyd of Greyhouses
Next morning Alastair rode west, and for the better part of a fortnight was beyond Severn. He met Sir Watkin at Wynnstay and Mr. Savage in Lanthony vale, and then penetrated to the Pembroke coast where he conferred with fisherfolk and shy cloaked men who gave
