The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 21. Robert Louis Stevenson

flailed and flailed at the pony, and once tried to whistle, but his courage was going down; huge clouds of despair gathered together in his soul, and from time to time their darkness was divided by a piercing flash of longing and regret. He had lost his love – he had lost his love for good.

      The pony was tired, and the hills very long and steep, and the air sultrier than ever, for now the breeze began to fail entirely. It seemed as if this miserable drive would never be done, as if poor Dick would never be able to go away and be comfortably wretched by himself; for all his desire was to escape from her presence and the reproach of her averted looks. He had lost his love, he thought – he had lost his love for good.

      They were already not far from the cottage, when his heart again faltered and he appealed to her once more, speaking low and eagerly in broken phrases.

      “I cannot live without your love,” he concluded.

      “I do not understand what you mean,” she replied, and I believe with perfect truth.

      “Then,” said he, wounded to the quick, “your aunt might come and fetch you herself. Of course you can command me as you please. But I think it would be better so.”

      “Oh yes,” she said wearily, “better so.”

      This was the only exchange of words between them till about four o’clock; the phaeton, mounting the lane, “opened out” the cottage between the leafy banks. Thin smoke went straight up from the chimney; the flowers in the garden, the hawthorn in the lane, hung down their heads in the heat; the stillness was broken only by the sound of hoofs. For right before the gate a livery servant rode slowly up and down, leading a saddle horse. And in this last Dick shuddered to identify his father’s chestnut.

      Alas! poor Richard, what should this portend?

      The servant, as in duty bound, dismounted and took the phaeton into his keeping; yet Dick thought he touched his hat to him with something of a grin. Esther, passive as ever, was helped out and crossed the garden with a slow and mechanical gait; and Dick, following close behind her, heard from within the cottage his father’s voice upraised in an anathema, and the shriller tones of the Admiral responding in the key of war.

      CHAPTER VIII

      BATTLE ROYAL

      Squire Naseby, on sitting down to lunch, had inquired for Dick, whom he had not seen since the day before at dinner; and the servant answering awkwardly that Master Richard had come back, but had gone out again with the pony-phaeton, his suspicions became aroused, and he cross-questioned the man until the whole was out. It appeared from this report that Dick had been going about for nearly a month with a girl in the Vale – a Miss Van Tromp; that she lived near Lord Trevanion’s upper wood; that recently Miss Van Tromp’s papa had returned home from foreign parts after a prolonged absence; that this papa was an old gentleman, very chatty and free with his money in the public-house – whereupon Mr. Naseby’s face became encrimsoned; that the papa, furthermore, was said to be an admiral – whereupon Mr. Naseby spat out a whistle brief and fierce as an oath; that Master Dick seemed very friendly with the papa – “God help him!” said Mr. Naseby; that last night Master Dick had not come in, and to-day he had driven away in the phaeton with the young lady.

      “Young woman,” corrected Mr. Naseby.

      “Yes, sir,” said the man, who had been unwilling enough to gossip from the first, and was now cowed by the effect of his communications on the master. “Young woman, sir!”

      “Had they luggage?” demanded the Squire.

      “Yes, sir.”

      Mr. Naseby was silent for a moment, struggling to keep down his emotion, and he mastered it so far as to mount into the sarcastic vein, when he was in the nearest danger of melting into the sorrowful.

      “And was this – this Van Dunk with them?” he asked, dwelling scornfully on the name.

      The servant believed not, and being eager to shift the responsibility to other shoulders, suggested that perhaps the master had better inquire further from George the stableman in person.

      “Tell him to saddle the chestnut and come with me. And then you can take away this trash,” added Mr. Naseby, pointing to the luncheon; and he arose, lordly in his anger, and marched forth upon the terrace to await his horse.

      There Dick’s old nurse shrunk up to him, for the news went like wildfire over Naseby House, and timidly expressed a hope that there was nothing much amiss with the young master.

      “I’ll pull him through,” the Squire said grimly, as though he meant to pull him through a threshing-mill; “I’ll save him from this gang; God help him with the next! He has a taste for low company, and no natural affections to steady him. His father was no society for him; he must go fuddling with a Dutchman, Nance, and now he’s caught. Let us pray he’ll take the lesson,” he added, more gravely, “but youth is here to make troubles, and age to pull them out again.”

      Nance whimpered and recalled several episodes of Dick’s childhood, which moved Mr. Naseby to blow his nose and shake her hard by the hand; and then, the horse having arrived opportunely, to get himself without delay into the saddle and canter off.

      He rode straight, hot spur, to Thymebury, where, as was to be expected, he could glean no tidings of the runaways. They had not been seen at the George; they had not been seen at the station. The shadow darkened on Mr. Naseby’s face; the junction did not occur to him; his last hope was for Van Tromp’s cottage; thither he bade George guide him, and thither he followed, nursing grief, anxiety, and indignation in his heart.

      “Here it is, sir,” said George, stopping.

      “What! on my own land!” he cried. “How’s this? I let this place to somebody – M’Whirter or M’Glashan.”

      “Miss M’Glashan was the young lady’s aunt, sir, I believe,” returned George.

      “Ay – dummies,” said the Squire. “I shall whistle for my rent too. Here, take my horse.”

      The Admiral, this hot afternoon, was sitting by the window with a long glass. He already knew the Squire by sight, and now, seeing him dismount before the cottage and come striding through the garden, concluded without doubt he was there to ask for Esther’s hand.

      “This is why the girl is not yet home,” he thought; “a very suitable delicacy on young Naseby’s part.”

      And he composed himself with some pomp, answered the loud rattle of the riding-whip upon the door with a dulcet invitation to enter, and coming forward with a bow and a smile, “Mr. Naseby, I believe,” said he.

      The Squire came armed for battle; took in his man from top to toe in one rapid and scornful glance, and decided on a course at once. He must let the fellow see that he understood him.

      “You are Mr. Van Tromp?” he returned roughly, and without taking any notice of the proffered hand.

      “The same, sir,” replied the Admiral. “Pray be seated.”

      “No, sir,” said the Squire, point-blank, “I will not be seated. I am told that you are an admiral,” he added.

      “No, sir, I am not an admiral,” returned Van Tromp, who now began to grow nettled and enter into the spirit of the interview.

      “Then why do you call yourself one, sir?”

      “I have to ask your pardon, I do not,” says Van Tromp, as grand as the Pope.

      But nothing was of avail against the Squire.

      “You sail under false colours from beginning to end,” he said. “Your very house was taken under a sham name.”

      “It is not my house. I am my daughter’s guest,” replied the Admiral. “If it were my house – ”

      “Well?” said the Squire, “what then? hey?”

      The Admiral looked at him nobly, but was silent.

      “Look here,” said Mr. Naseby, “this intimidation is a waste of time; it is thrown away on me, sir; it will not succeed with me. I