His fair complexion reddened with anger. Never had love wrought such a transformation in a man since the time of Cymon.
'I saw you take Miss Mabel's hand just now, when I came in,' he declared stoutly. 'I consider that to be a liberty.'
Sir John's satirical composure was not disturbed even by this . 'May I inquire, merely as a matter of curiosity, whether you claim a right of property in this young lady's hand?'
'Yes, I do! I have reason to hope that this young lady will do me the honour of marrying me.'
'So have I!'
'I have a prior claim on her, Sir John.'
'Nothing of the sort. I asked Miss Mabel to marry me last week.'
Cyril turned indignantly to Mabel. 'Is that true?'
Sir John cautioned her. 'You're not bound to answer,' he said.
'She is bound!'
'No, Cyril -- no.'
'Do you hear him, Mabel?'
Sir John pointed to Cyril's flaming cheeks. 'Do you see him, Mabel?'
She burst out laughing. This disconcerted both the men: there was an awful pause. 'Must I decide between you,' she asked, 'without any time to think first?' Neither the one nor the other offered her time to think first. Mabel's eyes suddenly brightened: a new idea had occurred to her. She turned to Sir John.
'I see a way out of the difficulty,' she said. 'Do you remember my uncle's poem -- the Contest of the Minstrels? Suppose you and Mr Corydon each address me in a little poem of your own composing -- and suppose I imitate the fair lady of the ballad, and choose the minstrel whose verse I like best?'
Cyril was reduced to silence. Even Sir John could only say: 'You're joking.'
She was joking. But the consternation visible in the faces of the two men roused the spirit of mischief in her. 'I'm quite in earnest,' she answered. 'If you wish me to decide between you, you have heard the only terms on which I consent. The day is before you: do your best.'
As she opened the door to leave them, Mrs Corydon came in. The amiable old lady said she was at Sir John's service when he wished to see the house.
VII Major Evergreen proved to be useless, on this occasion, as a means for making an excuse; he had gone out for a walk. All the rooms to Oakapple Hall were open to Sir John. He heard how the two Kings had slept in the house, how Oliver Cromwell had battered the house, how one part of it was built in one century, and another part in another. He was not even spared the interesting spectacle of Major Evergreen's study. 'So characteristic of a poet,' Mrs Corydon said; 'look at the manuscripts all scattered about!' Sir John looked at the manuscripts. Mrs Corydon left him, and led the way to the window. 'And now look at the view!' Sir John looked at the view.
Released at last, he had leisure to consider whether he should humour Mabel's absurd caprice, or decline to make himself ridiculous, and leave her to recover her senses. He was a man greedy for money, as well as a man in love. Remembering that she had a handsome fortune, and that a rival younger than himself was also courting her, he made his way to the library.
At one of the writing-tables, Cyril was sitting forlorn, surrounded by morsels of torn paper. 'What have you done?' the elder minstrel asked of the younger. The melancholy answer was, 'Nothing!' Cyril's voice sounded as if he was a child again, and was ready to cry.
Sir John sat down at a second table, in a distant part of the room, and began to write. The quiet in the library was only disturbed, now and then, by the heavy sighs of Cyril, and the sound of paper being torn up.
VIII There was a knock at the door. A fresh young voice asked gaily: 'May I come in?'
'Don't let me disturb you,' said Mabel. 'The fair ladies of past times were remarkable for their patience -- especially with minstrels. I can wait.'
She looked at Cyril, who was seated nearest to her. Too cruelly mortified to speak, he took her hand, and put it on his hot forehead: he pointed to the mass of torn paper all round him. The tears rose in his eyes -- he opened the door and went out.
Mabel's face lost its expression of malicious enjoyment. She looked ashamed of herself; and she said softly: 'Poor fellow!'
Sir John crossed the room, with a smile of conscious superiority. He was not a man who did anything by halves. Having decided on humouring the young lady, he presented his poetic offering with chivalrous humility, dropping on one knee.
Mabel read his verses. They had one great merit -- there were very few of them.
They say she's dark; yes, like the night Whose beauty shines from starry skies: Oh, my sweet saint, how darkly bright The mellow radiance of those eyes! I love in you the tender light -- The light the gaudy day denies.
'Very pretty,' Mabel said -- 'and reminds me of Byron. Did you ever read his Hebrew Melodies?'
'Never!' Sir John declared fervently. 'Allow me, my angel, to kiss your hand, and claim your promise.'
At that critical moment, Major Evergreen returned from his walk, and entered the library in search of a book. He stood petrified at the sight of the enemy whom he abhorred.