Crown and Sceptre Part 52

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

SAMSON AND HIS BROTHER.

In spite of the cropped appearance of his head, a cropping that was still closer now in consequence of his having had Fred Forrester's clumsy shearing regulated, Scarlett Markham had pretty well regained his old das.h.i.+ng cavalier aspect. He had somehow obtained a fresh hat and feathers, and, as he stood at the foot of Fred's straw bed, with one hand resting upon the hilt of his long sword, the other carelessly beating a pair of leather gauntlet gloves against his leg, he looked, in his smart scarlet and gold uniform, the beau ideal of a young officer.

Following the action of his leader, Nat pa.s.sed on, and stopped at the spot where his brother lay, to stand gazing down at the wounded man.

Fred was too weak to do more than move his head slightly, so as to gaze back at his enemy; but he met Scarlett's stern look defiantly, and waited for him to speak.

And as he lay there the rough loft and its straw seemed to pa.s.s away, for the background of his mental picture to become the park and grounds about the old Hall, on one of the old sunny days when he and Scarlett had had a quarrel about some trivial matter, and were gazing threateningly at each other after uttering dire words, and were declaring that everything between them was quite at an end, and that they were never going to speak to each other again.

Then the present came back, and there stood Scarlett, looking stern and frowning, as he involuntarily pa.s.sed his great gloves into his left hand, and began to let his finger and thumb play about his lips, where he tried to find--and failed--an imaginary moustache, which, all the same, he twisted up into airy points to add to his fierce aspect. A little bit of conceit which he had picked up during his soldier life.

"What a miserable peac.o.c.k he has grown!" thought Fred. "And I am in the power now of such a court fop, whose only idea is dress and show. Well, I'm glad I belong to the haul, quiet Parliamentarians. Better than being like that."

But somehow, all the while, Fred could not help thinking of his own plain buff-leather uniform, with its heavy, clumsy, steel breast and back plates, which, like his hard, head-aching helmet, were more often rusty than bright, and, though he would not have owned it, he could not help admiring the figure before him, and looking at it with something like envy.

"Why don't he speak?" thought Fred, with a faint flush coming into his cheeks. "Does he think he is going to stare me down?"

The faint flush deepened a little, as he grew indignant at his enemy coming to triumph over him in his helplessness; and then he thought of how he had triumphed when it was his day, and how he had humbled his old companion to the dust.

"And what a mean, contemptible triumph it was, and how it stung me far more than it did him! But he shan't humble me. I can be as defiant as he is, and I'll die before I'll show him that he has gained the day."

But as Fred defiantly returned Scarlett's calm, stern look, a thick mist seemed to gather slowly between them, making the face of the young Cavalier grow faint and distant, a singing noise came in his ears, and slowly and painfully everything seemed to pa.s.s away till all was dark once more.

Meanwhile, Nat Dee had crept close to his brother's head, and, kneeling in the straw, allowed a grin to overspread his rustic countenance.

"You've got it, then, this time?" he whispered.

Samson had "got it this time," indeed, for his bandages wanted changing, and his wounds were hot and painful; but, in spite of his anguish, he echoed, so to speak--visibly echoed his brother's broad grin, and acknowledged the fact, fully resolved that, as Nat had come to triumph over him, he should be disappointed.

"Yes," he said in a cheerful whisper; "I've got it this time, Natty."

"Don't you feel ashamed of yourself?"

"Not a bit."

"Then you ought to. Suppose your poor mother saw you now, what do you think she would say?"

"Say? Say, 'Get your ugly great carcase out of the way, and let poor Samson have room to breathe.'"

"Nay, she would not; she'd say, 'Here's my wicked young black sheep as leaped out of the fold to go among the wolves, properly punished, and I'm very glad of it.'"

"Well, then, I'm very glad she isn't here to listen to her ugly son Nat telling such a pack of lies."

"Nay, it's the truth."

"Not it," said Samson, cheerily. "My poor old mother couldn't say such words as that. She'd more likely say, 'If I didn't know you two boys was my twins, I should say that Nat belonged to some one else, and was picked up by accident.'"

"Nay, she wouldn't; she'd be ashamed of you."

"Never was yet, Nat; and if I wasn't lying here too weak and worn-out to move, I'd get up and punch your ugly head, Nat, till you could see better, and make you feel sorry for saying such wicked things about my poor old mother."

"She's my mother as much as she is yours."

"Yes, poor old soul; and sick and sorry she is to have such a son as you."

"Nay, it's sick and sorry she is to have a son as deserts his king, and goes robbing and murdering all over the country with a pack of ruffians sc.r.a.ped from everywhere."

"No, I didn't; I never desarted no king. I wasn't the king's servant, lad."

"Yes, you was."

"Not I, Natty. I was master's servant, and he says, 'Will you come and fight for me, Samson,' he says, 'against oppression?' ''Course I will, master,' I says. 'And handle a sword instead of a spade,' he says.

'You give me hold of one, master,' I says, 'and I'll show you.' That's how it was, Natty."

"Your master's a bad man, and him and you will be hung or chopped as sure as you're alive."

"You always was a muddlehead, Natty. It's your master as is the bad man; Colonel Forrester's a thorough gentleman, and we always had better fruit and garden stuff at the Manor than you had at the Hall, and that's what makes you so wild against me."

"Yah! Why, you never grew anything but weeds at the Manor. Your garden was just as if pigs had got into it."

"Did you think so, Natty?" said Samson, good-temperedly.

"Yes."

"That shows what I say 's right. You always was such a muddlehead that you couldn't tell good from bad, and you don't know any better now.

Poor old Nat, I don't bear you any malice or hatred in my heart. I'm sorry for you."

Nat ground his teeth gently, for his brother's easy-going way angered him.

"Sorry for me?" he said. "Why, you're a miserable rebel, that's what you are."

"Not I, Natty; not a bit miserable. If you was not here, I should lie back and sing."

"Shall you sing when they take you out and hang you?"

"Not going to hang me, Natty; not ugly enough. Now, if it had been you--I say, Nat, I should like to have you hung up in the Manor garden to keep away the birds."

"What?"

"To scare 'em. You do look such an old Guy Fawkes. I say, who cut your hair?"

Nat's hand went involuntarily to his freshly shorn head, and a dull red glow came into his cheeks.

"You wait till I get better, and I'll crop it for you neatly. Why, you don't look one thing nor the other now. Cavaliers wouldn't own you, and I should be ashamed to set aside you in our ranks."

"Go on," said Nat, grinning viciously. "That's your nastiness; but it don't tease me. I'm sorry for you, Samson. What a pa.s.s for a respectable Dee to come to, only you never was respectable. But there's an end to all things. Made your will?"