“Yes, was it not famous to hear her giving him such a set-down? She is a most spirited girl! But it cannot be very comfortable for her, I dare say! Pray hold Pug’s leash, dear sir!”
Mr Tarleton, on whom the events of the evening were beginning to leave their mark, accepted the leash meekly, and, with some misgiving, watched his companion open the door and walk into the coffee-room.
Miss Milborne, who was standing by the fireplace, holding one foot, in a mired half boot of orange-jean, to the glow, turned her head and uttered an exclamation of astonishment. “Hero!”
“Yes, it’s me,” said Hero, with a fine disregard for grammar and the sunniest of smiles. “Poor Isabella, how muddied you are, and how odious for you to be in such a fix! Do, pray, come into the parlour! There is not the least need for you to hire the landlord’s gig, for I will escort you back to Bath in my chaise!”
“But how is this?” stammered Miss Milborne, in the greatest bewilderment. “How in the world do you come to be here, and at such an hour? Oh, Hero, what fresh scrape have you fallen into?”
“Well, I must say, Isabella, I think it is the outside of enough for you to be accusing me of being in a scrape, when you are in a much worse one yourself!” said Hero. “I cannot conceive how you come to be driving about the country with Sir Montagu Revesby, for I am sure it is not at all the thing!”
“Sir Montagu and I,” said Miss Milborne, colouring, “have been on an expedition to Wells, in company with some friends of mine!”
“Well, where are they?” asked Hero reasonably. “You must know, Isabella, that I overheard all that has just passed between you and Sir Montagu, and although I quite see that it was not your fault that there was an accident to his carriage, there is no denying that you are in an awkward situation. And you may say what you please, but I am persuaded there is one person whom you would not wish to hear of this! For you are not so heartless as to give him such pain: I know you are not!”
Miss Milborne, who was tired, and cold, and more shaken than she had allowed to appear, felt sudden tears sting her eyelids, and covered her face with her hands, saying in a trembling tone: “Oh, Hero, do not! Pray say no more!”
Hero ran to her at once. “Oh, I am sorry! Do not cry, dearest Isabella! I did not mean to hurt you, indeed, I did not!”
Sir Montagu spoke, in his silkiest voice. “Very affecting, Lady Sheringham! And, pray, where is your husband? Not here, I fancy! In fact, he has not been overmuch in your company of late, I apprehend! You have been a most determined enemy of mine, have you not? I wonder if you will live to regret it? Do you know, I believe that you may? Is it too much to hope that we may be permitted a glimpse of the gentleman who is no doubt concealed in that private parlour?”
“No!” said Mr Tarleton from the doorway. “It is not too much, sir!” And with these words, he landed a useful right on Sir Montagu’s jaw, and sent him crashing to the floor. “Get up, and I will serve you a little more home-brewed!” he promised, standing over Sir Montagu with his fists clenched.
Sir Montagu had had a trying day. He had failed both by fair means and foul to win an heiress’s hand in marriage; he had had a businesslike scarf-pin thrust into the fleshy part of his arm; he had been obliged to tramp three miles down miry lanes beside a lady who maintained a stony silence throughout the trudge, and the yokel whom she had bribed to guide them to the nearest posting-inn; he had been confronted then by the very person to whom he attributed the greater part of his misfortunes; and finally he had been knocked down painfully and ignominiously by a complete stranger who seemed to be only too ready to repeat the performance. Between rage and the natural fright of a man to whom physical violence was at all times horrible, he lost his head. His walking-stick had clattered to the floor, with the chair across which he had laid it, and which he had wildly clutched in his fall. He reached out his hand for it, dragged himself up, fumbling with the carved ivory handle, and, as Mr Tarleton squared up to him purposefully, tore the concealed blade from its innocent-seeming sheath and thrust it at his assailant. Mr Tarleton was just too late to avoid being touched. He saw the thrust coming, and dodged it, so that instead of entering his chest, it tore through the sleeve of his coat and gashed his upper arm. The next instant he had closed with Sir Montagu, twisted the sword-stick from his grasp and floored him again. After that, he stood panting, and instinctively trying to grip his own arm to stop the blood which was flowing copiously, staining his sleeve a horrid colour and dripping on to the floor.
The two ladies, who had been transfixed with dismay by these proceedings, started forward.
“Shame!” cried Isabella, her eyes flashing magnificently. “To draw steel upon an unarmed man! Dastard!”
“Oh, poor Mr Tarleton!” said Hero. “And you did it all for my sake! I am excessively obliged to you, but I do trust you are not dreadfully hurt! Pray, let me help you to take off your coat immediately! Oh, landlord, is that you? Be so good as to bring me some water in a bowl as quickly as you can, and some brandy! And, waiter, pray help this gentleman to take off his coat, and the rest of you go away, if you please!”
“Good God!” said Mr Tarleton faintly, becoming aware of the landlord, the waiter, an ostler, two postboys, and a chambermaid. “What have I done! My curst folly! But when I heard him address you in such terms I could not help myself!”
“No, no, of course you could not!” said Hero, tenderly rolling up his shirtsleeve and laying bare an ugly gash. “Oh, we must have a surgeon to this! Landlord — Oh, he has gone! One of you, if you please, run for the nearest surgeon, and tell him there is a gentleman hurt in an accident!”
“For heaven’s sake, no!” begged Mr Tarleton from the chair into which he had been lowered. “The merest scratch! If you would but hand me one of those napkins, and assist me to twist it tightly about my arm!”
Isabella, who have been hunting in her reticule, produced a pair of scissors and began, with the aid of these, to tear a napkin into strips. Sir Montagu, appalled as much by his late madness as by the frightful consequences he saw clearly might result from it, had picked himself up and staggered to the far end of the room, holding a fast-swelling jaw and trying to think in what way he could avert retribution. The landlord came back with a bowl of water, and sharply ordered his hirelings to be off about their business. The waiter put a glass of brandy to Mr Tarleton’s lips; and Mr Tarleton, who was feeling rather faint from so much loss of blood, swallowed the tot and leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed.
The landlord, thoroughly incensed by such irregular conduct in his house, dealt expeditiously with the wound, but stated his intention of summoning the village constable to take up both combatants. He was just adding a rider to the effect that the magistrates would know how to deal with so-called gentlemen who tried to cheat honest postboys out of their fees, when the clatter of hooves sounded in the yard, the grating of wheels on cobble-stones, and an impatient voice called out: “Hi, there! Ostler! Ostler, I say!”
“Sherry!” shrieked Hero, and flew up from beside Mr Tarleton’s chair and sped forth into the corridor which led to the yard. “Sherry, Sherry!”
His lordship had just sprung down from his curricle. He saw his wife in the shaft of lamplight cast through the open door, and strode towards her. “Oh, Kitten, thank God I have found you!” he exclaimed, holding out his arms. “You mustn’t do this, my little love! I can’t let you!”
Hero ran straight into his arms, and flung her own round his neck. “No, no, Sherry! I never meant to do it!” she sobbed. “I thought it was you, not Mr Tarleton!”
“Oh, Kitten, if that isn’t just like you!” he said unsteadily. “It ought to have been me! And if I hadn’t been such a gudgeon — Kitten, you little wretch, what a dance you have led me! Kiss me!”