At that instant I struck the barrel of his gun with mine. It was too late for him to stop the quickening action of his hands, and both barrels roared almost simultaneously. The charges struck the ground fully thirty feet distant. The man turned yellow-white and almost dropped the piece. He did not speak nor did I, but Lord Tarlton spoke. Without looking over his shoulder, he talked in a tone of chill reproof.
"You blasted my ears, Blackburn, and I wish you'd warn me, hereafter, before you shoot."
No doubt he prided himself on that speech, brilliantly conceived and perfectly delivered. He had pictured himself repeating it to a coroner in what would appear as a commendably forthright account of a fatal accident at a cut-and-dried inquest. Dick would be sitting among the unimportant witnesses, looking very grave; at this point he and Harvey would exchange solemn glances.
"I didn't shoot, my lord."
Now the little lord turned and looked. His eyes were round, as he had never intended to let anyone see them; his pretty mouth was drawn; his delicately tinted cheeks had paled. One of the barrels of his piece remained cocked and primed, so I held mine handy in my arms for him to see. He did not know that by some law I did not understand, but must obey, my gun was unloaded.
"What the devil happened?" he burst out, but though he spoke with vehemence, there was no wintry rattle in his voice.
"Pike fired both barrels by accident."
"He did, did he? Did the charge come near you?"
"Not at all."
"You stupid dog," he cried, turning on Pike. "You careless swine! Take that!"
Lord Tarlton struck him in the jaw, then kicked him in the knee.
"I didn't go for to do it," Pike yelled.
"Nobody said you did, you clumsy fool."
There fell a slight pause. Lord Tarlton kept from looking at me, but he waited for me to speak.
"No, Pike, nobody said you did," I said.
"But I've told him a thousand times—" Snatching up his cane that was always close at hand—today it was a light rattan—he cut the fellow thrice across the shoulders.
"What's the brabble?" Dick cried, running up.
"Pike was careless with my gun and has been punished for it."
Dick made no display, and I was reasonably certain that the event had taken him by surprise. That need not surprise me; the pretty nobleman found pleasure and also played as safe as possible in plotting alone, acting with trusted tools. He loved a fait accompli. Pike rubbed his jaw, his knee, and his shoulder in turn, his doglike gaze fixed on his master's face. I doubted if I had impressed him with my ready and swift guard—exactly what had happened had fogged over in his mind—but from now on he would take more pains not to bitch his master's business. Didn't en larrup him rightl Wa'n't en a daizy!
"While you're getting on with the sport, I'll send for a round of brandies," I suggested. And when Pike looked at me, grinned, and wiped his mouth, "There'll be one for you, too."
For it would be too grim a joke to soothe the little lord's upset nerves and neglect his bully boy's. But I did not go at once to the refreshment wagon. Instead I made for the line of beaters about to enter a second strip of cover and spoke privately to the keeper. Thereby my guests would have dull sport the rest of the drive.
I did that, and then had nothing to do of any profit or comfort. While I had run no great risk in my sudden craving for direct and violent action, the course had been ill-charted, and its outcome empty. My hopes had taken a great fall. I was in no mood to believe that my future strokes would be any more telling. To play cat-and-mouse with my great enemy was wildly exciting; but often the game itself made me forget the goal; and the devil laughed. If he struck again, again the blow would be indirect, stealthy, unpunishable. He was too cunning, too secure, to be frightened into desperate attack. Unless I could find his Achilles heel...
My thoughts were interrupted by a movement in the brushwood down a little road. Then into the clearing rode one of my grooms with a young lady in a stylish riding habit. I perceived at once that he was taking her to the shooting butts; but what her errand might be, important enough to bring her here in person, I could not imagine.
She had not yet seen me, for I stood in shadow, while the pale winter sunlight showed her plain. My first impression was of bright color. Her horse was a bright bay, her skirt buff, and her jacket green, and the hair unhidden by her low-crowned hat was glimmering gold. Then I was astounded to realize I had seen her once before. That occasion was so utterly dissociated with this one that I could scarcely believe my eyes. It was at the fete I had given at Tavistock nine months before. She had ranged the grounds and enjoyed the entertainments in the company of an English lord and his family. I remembered her coloring, high as a golden pheasant's. Alan had named the people she was with, but did not know her.
She caught a first glimpse of me and spoke in low tones to Perkins, the groom. "Aye, en's the master," I heard him answer. Then as she looked straight at me, intending to speak to me, I saw the same expression of dismay come into her bright face that I had seen when she returned my glance before.
She got rid of it and rode up to me. I touched my hat.
"I recognize you now," she said. "You're Mr. Holgar Blackburn. I saw you the great day at Tavistock."
"I saw you, too," I answered.
"Well, I've done a cheeky thing, but I couldn't help it. Didn't you invite me to come down here with the others? Sophia—Mrs. Alford—told me you did."
"I invited Lord Tarlton and his family."
"Papa said I could come, and then they slipped off when I was at dancing school."
"You must be Lord Tarlton's daughter Eliza."
"Of course I am. I thought you recognized me, too. I'm Eliza Tarlton. I went with some other people to Tunbridge Wells and then rode over alone. But if it's inconvenient—"
"It's not inconvenient, and your coming has given me great pleasure."
"It won't give Papa any, or Dick, but I want you to tell them what you just told me."
Still another memory came, dim and pale, one which at first I could not quite seize. But that was because it had come so far in time and space; and in a second or two it glazed like the morning star on the deserts of Baeed. Far away on those deserts, long ago when I was yet a slave, a beautiful young girl who looked to be carved with a sword liked to ride with old Timor and me. When we slipped off from her for what we thought was a good reason, it was not long before we saw her following us. She would ride into the wind, kick up dust to blow in our faces, then join us with a toss of head and a wide smile.
Eliza Tarlton reminded me of Isabel Gazelle.
"I'm sure you're mistaken about your father and half brother being displeased."
"Dick's jealous of how Papa loves me. There's no harm in telling you—you'd see it yourself in five minutes—everyone knows it. But Papa wants to keep me a little girl. He's penned me up at Celtburrow and hardly ever lets me come to London. I dare say he's old and eccentric—though he seems young to me—and desperately afraid something will happen to me. Did you ever hear of anything so absurd?"
She seemed anxious to ingratiate herself with me. Talking rapidly in a gay tone, she had been looking about her, taking in the scene with sparkling eyes, patting her horse, listening to the desultory shooting. But as she asked the question, she gazed again into my face.
Her eager expression swiftly faded. Her gray eyes widened.
Beautiful beyond denial, with the generosity that beauty gives—like to that which bravery gives—she looked for beauty's reflection everywhere and wanted to find it in everyone. Since my appearance distressed and dismayed her, she made a special effort to be sociable, her eyes skipping me the while. As she talked with great girlish animation, I had a chance to drink her in.