Quick as lightning I made a feint at his head; as quickly he gave ground, and at the same time I saw a pistol glitter in his hand.
‘No more of that, Mr. French-Prisoner!’ he said. ‘It will do me no good to have your death at my door.’
‘Faith, nor me either!’ said I; and I lowered my stick and considered the man, not without a twinkle of admiration. ‘You see,’ I said, ‘there is one consideration that you appear to overlook: there are a great many chances that your pistol may miss fire.’
‘I have a pair,’ he returned. ‘Never travel without a brace of barkers.’
‘I make you my compliment,’ said I. ‘You are able to take care of yourself, and that is a good trait. But, my good man! let us look at this matter dispassionately. You are not a coward, and no more am I; we are both men of excellent sense; I have good reason, whatever it may be, to keep my concerns to myself and to walk alone. Now I put it to you pointedly, am I likely to stand it? Am I likely to put up with your continued and — excuse me — highly impudent ingérence into my private affairs?’
‘Another French word,’ says he composedly.
‘Oh! damn your French words!’ cried I. ‘You seem to be a Frenchman yourself!’
‘I have had many opportunities by which I have profited,’ he explained. ‘Few men are better acquainted with the similarities and differences, whether of idiom or accent, of the two languages.’
‘You are a pompous fellow, too!’ said I.
‘Oh, I can make distinctions, sir,’ says he. ‘I can talk with Bedfordshire peasants; and I can express myself becomingly, I hope, in the company of a gentleman of education like yourself.’
‘If you set up to be a gentleman—’ I began.
‘Pardon me,’ he interrupted: ‘I make no such claim. I only see the nobility and gentry in the way of business. I am quite a plain person.’
‘For the Lord’s sake,’ I exclaimed, ‘set my mind at rest upon one point. In the name of mystery, who and what are you?’
‘I have no cause to be ashamed of my name, sir,’ said he, ‘nor yet my trade. I am Thomas Dudgeon, at your service, clerk to Mr. Daniel Romaine, solicitor of London; High Holborn is our address, sir.’
It was only by the ecstasy of the relief that I knew how horribly I had been frightened. I flung my stick on the road.
‘Romaine?’ I cried. ‘Daniel Romaine? An old hunks with a red face and a big head, and got up like a Quaker? My dear friend, to my arms!’
‘Keep back, I say!’ said Dudgeon weakly.
I would not listen to him. With the end of my own alarm, I felt as if I must infallibly be at the end of all dangers likewise; as if the pistol that he held in one hand were no more to be feared than the valise that he carried with the other, and now put up like a barrier against my advance.
‘Keep back, or I declare I will fire,’ he was crying. ‘Have a care, for God’s sake! My pistol—’
He might scream as be pleased. Willy nilly, I folded him to my breast, I pressed him there, I kissed his ugly mug as it had never been kissed before and would never be kissed again; and in the doing so knocked his wig awry and his hat off. He bleated in my embrace; so bleats the sheep in the arms of the butcher. The whole thing, on looking back, appears incomparably reckless and absurd; I no better than a madman for offering to advance on Dudgeon, and he no better than a fool for not shooting me while I was about it. But all’s well that ends well; or, as the people in these days kept singing and whistling on the streets: —
‘There’s a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft
And looks out for the life of poor Jack.’
‘There!’ said I, releasing him a little, but still keeping my hands on his shoulders, ‘je vous ai bel et bien embrassé — and, as you would say, there is another French word.’ With his wig over one eye, he looked incredibly rueful and put out. ‘Cheer up, Dudgeon; the ordeal is over, you shall be embraced no more. But do, first of all, for God’s-sake, put away your pistol; you handle it as if you were a cockatrice; some time or other, depend upon it, it will certainly go off. Here is your hat. No, let me put it on square, and the wig before it. Never suffer any stress of circumstances to come between you and the duty you owe to yourself. If you have nobody else to dress for, dress for God!
‘Put your wig straight
On your bald pate,
Keep your chin scraped,
And your figure draped.
Can you match me that? The whole duty of man in a quatrain! And remark, I do not set up to be a professional bard; these are the outpourings of a dilettante.’
‘But, my dear sir!’ he exclaimed.
‘But, my dear sir!’ I echoed, ‘I will allow no man to interrupt the flow of my ideas. Give me your opinion on my quatrain, or I vow we shall have a quarrel of it.’
‘Certainly you are quite an original,’ he said.
‘Quite,’ said I; ‘and I believe I have my counterpart before me.’
‘Well, for a choice,’ says he, smiling, ‘and whether for sense or poetry, give me
‘“Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow:
The rest is all but leather and prunello.”’
‘Oh, but that’s not fair — that’s Pope! It’s not original, Dudgeon. Understand me,’ said I, wringing his breast-button, ‘the first duty of all poetry is to be mine, sir — mine. Inspiration now swells in my bosom, because — to tell you the plain truth, and descend a little in style — I am devilish relieved at the turn things have taken. So, I dare say, are you yourself, Dudgeon, if you would only allow it. And à propos, let me ask you a home question. Between friends, have you ever fired that pistol?’
‘Why, yes, sir,’ he replied. ‘Twice — at hedgesparrows.’
‘And you would have fired at me, you bloody-minded man?’ I cried.
‘If you go to that, you seemed mighty reckless with your stick,’ said Dudgeon.
‘Did I indeed? Well, well, ’tis all past history; ancient as King Pharamond — which is another French word, if you cared to accumulate more evidence,’ says I. ‘But happily we are now the best of friends, and have all our interests in common.’
‘You go a little too fast, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. — : I do not know your name, that I am aware,’ said Dudgeon.
‘No, to be sure!’ said I. ‘Never heard of it!’
‘A word of explanation—’ he began.
‘No, Dudgeon!’ I interrupted. ‘Be practical; I know what you want, and the name of it is supper. Rien ne creuse comme l’emotion. I am hungry myself, and yet I am more accustomed to warlike palpitations than you, who are but a hunter of hedgesparrows. Let me look at your face critically: your bill of fare is three slices of cold rare roast beef, a Welsh rabbit, a pot of stout, and a glass or two of sound tawny port, old in bottle — the right milk of Englishmen.’ Methought there seemed a brightening in his eye and a melting about his mouth at this enumeration.
‘The night is young,’ I continued; ‘not much past eleven, for a wager. Where can we find a good inn? And remark that I say good, for the port must be up to the occasion — not a headache in a pipe of it.’
‘Really, sir,’ he said, smiling a little, ‘you have a way of carrying things—’
‘Will nothing make you stick to the subject?’ I cried; ‘you have the most irrelevant mind! How do you expect to rise in your profession? The inn?’
‘Well, I will say you are a facetious gentleman!’ said he. ‘You must have your way, I see. We are not three miles from Bedford by this very road.’
‘Done!’ cried I. ‘Bedford be it!’
I tucked his arm under mine, possessed myself of the valise, and walked him off unresisting. Presently we came to an open piece of country lying a thought downhill. The road was smooth and free of ice, the moonshine thin and bright over the meadows and the leafless trees. I was now honestly done with the purgatory of the covered cart; I was close to my great-uncle’s; I had no more fear of Mr. Dudgeon; which were all grounds enough for jollity.
And I was aware, besides, of us two as of a pair of tiny and solitary dolls under the vast frosty cupola of the midnight; the rooms decked, the moon burnished, the least of the stars lighted, the floor swept and waxed, and nothing wanting but for the band to strike up and the dancing to begin. In the exhilaration of my heart I took the music on myself —
‘Merrily danced the Quaker’s wife,
And merrily danced the Quaker.’
I broke into that animated and appropriate air, clapped my arm about Dudgeon’s waist, and away down the hill at a dancing step! He hung back a little at the start, but the impulse of the tune, the night, and my example, were not to be resisted. A man made of putty must have danced, and even Dudgeon showed himself to be a human being. Higher and higher were the capers that we cut; the moon repeated in shadow our antic footsteps and gestures; and it came over my mind of a sudden — really like balm — what appearance of man I was dancing with, what a long bilious countenance he had shown under his shaven pate, and what a world of trouble the rascal had given me in the immediate past.
Presently we began to see the lights of Bedford. My Puritanic companion stopped and disengaged himself.
‘This is a trifle infra dig., sir, is it not?’ said he. ‘A party might suppose we had been drinking.’
‘And so you shall be, Dudgeon,’ said I. ‘You shall not only be drinking, you old hypocrite, but you shall be drunk — dead drunk, sir — and the boots shall put you to bed! We’ll warn him when we go in. Never neglect a precaution; never put off till to-morrow what you can do to-day!’
But he had no more frivolity to complain of. We finished our stage and came to the inn-door with decorum, to find the house still alight and in a bustle with many late arrivals; to give our orders with a prompt severity which ensured obedience, and to be served soon after at a side-table, close to the fire and in a blaze of candle-light, with such a meal as I had been dreaming of for days past. For days, you are to remember, I had been skulking in the covered cart, a prey to cold, hunger, and an accumulation of discomforts that might have daunted the most brave; and the white table napery, the bright crystal, the reverberation of the fire, the red curtains, the Turkey carpet, the portraits on the coffee-room wall, the placid faces of the two or three late guests who were silently prolonging the pleasures of digestion, and (last, but not by any means least) a glass of an excellent light dry port, put me in a humour only to be described as heavenly. The thought of the Colonel, of how he would have enjoyed this snug room and roaring fire, and of his cold grave in the wood by Market Bosworth, lingered on my palate, amari aliquid, like an after-taste, but was not able — I say it with shame — entirely to dispel my self-complacency. After all, in this world every dog hangs by its own tail. I was a free adventurer, who had just brought to a successful end — or, at least, within view of it — an adventure very difficult and alarming; and I looked across at Mr. Dudgeon, as the port rose to his cheeks, and a smile, that was semi-confidential and a trifle foolish, began to play upon his leathery features, not only with composure, but with a suspicion of kindness. The rascal had been brave, a quality for which I would value the devil; and if he had been pertinacious in the beginning, he had more than made up for it before the end.
‘And now, Dudgeon, to explain,’ I began. ‘I know your master, he knows me, and he knows and approves of my errand. So much I may tell you, that I am on my way to Amersham Place.’
‘Oho!’ quoth Dudgeon, ‘I begin to see.’
‘I am heartily glad of it,’ said I, passing the bottle, ‘because that is about all I can tell you. You must take my word for the remainder. Either believe me or don’t. If you don’t, let’s take a chaise; you can carry me to-morrow to High Holborn, and confront me with Mr. Romaine; the result of which will be to set your mind at rest — and to make the holiest disorder in your master’s plans. If I judge you aright (for I find you a shrewd fellow), this will not be at all to your mind. You know what a subordinate gets by officiousness; if I can trust my memory, old Romaine has not at all the face that I should care to see in anger; and I venture to predict surprising results upon your weekly salary — if you are paid by the week, that is. In short, let me go free, and ’tis an end of the matter; take me to London, and ’tis only a beginning — and, by my opinion, a beginning of troubles. You can take your choice.’
‘And that is soon taken,’ said he. ‘Go to Amersham tomorrow, or go to the devil if you prefer — I wash my hands of you and the whole transaction. No, you don’t find me putting my head in between Romaine and a client! A good man of business, sir, but hard as millstone grit. I might get the sack, and I shouldn’t wonder! But, it’s a pity, too,’ he added, and sighed, shook his head, and took his glass off sadly.
‘That reminds me,’ said I. ‘I have a great curiosity, and you can satisfy it. Why were you so forward to meddle with poor Mr. Dubois? Why did you transfer your attentions to me? And generally, what induced you to make yourself such a nuisance?’
He blushed deeply.
‘Why, sir,’ says he, ‘there is such a thing as patriotism, I hope.’
CHAPTER XVI — THE HOME-COMING OF MR. ROWLEY’S VISCOUNT
By eight the next morning Dudgeon and I had made our parting. By that time we had grown to be extremely familiar; and I would very willingly have kept him by me, and even carried him to Amersham Place. But it appeared he was due at the public-house where we had met, on some affairs of my great-uncle the Count, who had an outlying estate in that part of the shire. If Dudgeon had had his way the night before, I should have been arrested on my uncle’s land and by my uncle’s agent, a culmination of ill-luck.
A little after noon I started, in a hired chaise, by way of Dunstable. The mere mention of the name Amersham Place made every one supple and smiling. It was plainly a great house, and my uncle lived there in style. The fame of it rose as we approached, like a chain of mountains; at Bedford they touched their caps, but in Dunstable they crawled upon their bellies. I thought the landlady would have kissed me; such a flutter of cordiality, such smiles, such affectionate attentions were called forth, and the good lady bustled on my service in such a pother of ringlets and with such a jingling of keys. ‘You’re probably expected, sir, at the Place? I do trust you may ‘ave better accounts of his lordship’s ‘elth, sir. We understood that his lordship, Mosha de Carwell, was main bad. Ha, sir, we shall all feel his loss, poor, dear, noble gentleman; and I’m sure nobody more polite! They do say, sir, his wealth is enormous, and before the Revolution, quite a prince in his own country! But I beg your pardon, sir; ‘ow I do run on, to be sure; and doubtless all beknown to you already! For you do resemble the family, sir. I should have known you anywheres by the likeness to the dear viscount. Ha, poor gentleman, he must ‘ave a ‘eavy ‘eart these days.’
In the same place I saw out of the inn-windows a man-servant passing in the livery of my house, which you are to think I had never before seen worn, or not that I could remember. I had often enough, indeed, pictured myself advanced to be a Marshal, a Duke of the Empire, a Grand Cross of the Legion of Honour, and some other kickshaws of the kind, with a perfect rout of flunkeys correctly dressed in my own colours. But it is one thing to imagine, and another to see; it would be one thing to have these liveries in a house of my own in Paris — it was quite another to find them flaunting in the heart of hostile England; and I fear I should have made a fool of myself, if the man had not been on the other side of the street, and I at a one-pane window. There was something illusory in this transplantation of the wealth and honours of a family, a thing by its nature so deeply rooted in the soil; something ghostly in this sense of home-coming so far from home.
From Dunstable I rolled away into a crescendo of similar impressions. There are certainly few things to be compared with these castles, or rather country seats, of the English nobility and gentry; nor anything at all to equal the servility of the population that dwells in their neighbourhood. Though I was but driving in a hired chaise, word of my destination seemed
to have gone abroad, and the women curtseyed and the men louted to me by the wayside. As I came near, I began to appreciate the roots of this widespread respect. The look of my uncle’s park wall, even from the outside, had something of a princely character; and when I came in view of the house itself, a sort of madness of vicarious vain-glory struck me dumb and kept me staring. It was about the size of the Tuileries. It faced due north; and the last rays of the sun, that was setting like a red-hot shot amidst a tumultuous gathering of snow clouds, were reflected on the endless rows of windows. A portico of Doric columns adorned the front, and would have done honour to a temple. The servant who received me at the door was civil to a fault — I had almost said, to offence; and the hall to which he admitted me through a pair of glass doors was warmed and already partly lighted by a liberal chimney heaped with the roots of beeches.
‘Vicomte Anne de St. Yves,’ said I, in answer to the man’s question; whereupon he bowed before me lower still, and stepping upon one side introduced me to the truly awful presence of the major-domo. I have seen many dignitaries in my time, but none who quite equalled this eminent being; who was good enough to answer to the unassuming name of Dawson. From him I learned that my uncle was extremely low, a doctor in close attendance, Mr. Romaine expected at any moment, and that my cousin, the Vicomte de St. Yves, had been sent for the same morning.
‘It was a sudden seizure, then?’ I asked.
Well, he would scarcely go as far as that. It was a decline, a fading away, sir; but he was certainly took bad the day before, had sent for Mr. Romaine, and the major-domo had taken it on himself a little later to send word to the Viscount. ‘It seemed to me, my lord,’ said he, ‘as if this was a time when all the fambly should be called together.’
I approved him with my lips, but not in my heart. Dawson was plainly in the interests of my cousin.
‘And when can I expect to see my great-uncle, the Count?’ said I.
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