by H. C. Bailey
CHAPTER XX
RETURN OF CAPTAIN McBEAN
Harry was not gone far. In Long Acre stood a tavern calling itself 'TheHand of Pork.' This had always tempted Harry, whose tastes were of thepeople. While still a domesticated husband, he had tried its ale withsatisfaction. When he left Alison it was to 'The Hand of Pork' that hebrought his small, battered box.
He had a few guineas in his pocket, and made a wry face over them."Ill-gotten gains," says he, for some were the scraped savings ofGeoffrey Waverton's tutor and some the pocket money of Alison's husband.But he was in no case to be delicate. Beef and bread had to be paid for,and, in fact, his scruples were little more than a joke. It is not to beconcealed that in minor things Harry Boyce was not nicely honest. If youcan imagine him seriously arguing over that money--a thing impossible--hewould have said that the guineas were of consequence to him and none toGeoffrey and Alison, that whether he had dealt honestly by them or not,it would not better his case to pay them back a few shillings. You haveseen that he had qualms of conscience over the rights of Geoffrey'sservice and Alison's arms. But the ugly, awkward details gave him notrouble. He may, if you please, have swallowed a camel or so, but henever strained at a gnat.
Now that he was done with Geoffrey and Alison, both, his first feelingwas comfort. It was a huge relief to be his own man again. He toldhimself indeed that he was mighty grateful to Geoffrey for bringing onthe final explosion. For one thing, it wiped off all Geoffrey's score. IfMaster Geoffrey had been treated shabbily, Master Geoffrey had played ashabby trick. They could call quits--a pleasant sensation. It would havebeen awkward if Geoffrey had chosen to be magnanimous nobility. But hewas never intelligent, the poor Geoffrey.
He had done his best to be damaging, bless him, and in all ways had beena benefactor. For, in fact, it was a great relief to be done with Alison.What with her fretful discontent, her rages, her industrious hate, shehad made herself intolerable. I do not suppose that he forgot, even inthe heat of the divorce, the exquisite pleasure which for a while she hadgiven him. I think he was always ready to acknowledge that to himself,for it is certain that he bore her no malice, and if he blamed her fortheir catastrophe, blamed himself as much. He might make the most or moreof all the taunts, of her zeal to find occasions for despising him. Heforgot nothing and forgave her nothing; he wrote her down a cruel enemy.But he did not pay her back with equal hate; he dismissed all the warfareand the wounds with a shrug of sagacious cynicism.
She hated him? She had the right, she was his wife. And perhaps she wasin the right too. He must fairly be reckoned a very poor match for herbeauty and her wealth and her not insignificant brains. After all, he wasessentially a nobody--a nobody in every department, body, mind, and soul.She might even claim that she had been cheated, for if she ought to haveknown that she was marrying a nobody, she could not guess that he had abar-sinister or a disreputable father. Certainly Madame Alison couldplead something of a case.
You are not to suppose Harry in an ecstasy of meek devotion. He was quitesure that she had behaved to him very badly. He admitted no excuse forher eagerness to hurt him as soon as she was tired of him. She might hatehim; but after all there were obligations of courtesy, of decency, ofwomanhood, and her venomous temper had broken them all. He was well ridof her. In fine, she and he could call quits as well as he and Geoffrey.There was no occasion to rage against her. She had treated him badly,but, first, he had brought her into an awkward mess. Faith, she ought notto have hurried into a marriage for passion if passion was so soon tosate her. But then, what man would blame a woman for marrying forpassion? Not the man she married, who might rather humble himself becausehe had not been able to keep her passion alive. Well, it was over, andsince it was over, nothing for it but to part. God be with her! She hadgiven him his hour. And he--why, at least she had lived with him momentsshe would not forget. A glorious woman. It is probable that in thesefirst hours of their parting he began to love her.
So much for his emotions. But you will not suppose that Harry Boyce waswholly occupied with emotions. He could not indeed afford it. He had tomake some provision for keeping alive. Perhaps you will be surprised tohear that he had a friend or two. There was an usher at Westminster, anda hack writer of Lintot's in Little Britain. He did not propose to liveon them, who had hardly enough to feed themselves. But he looked for themto put him in the way of some pittance, and they did. The usher had newsthat, after Ascension-Day, Westminster would be wanting a writing master,for the man in possession hoped by then to marry the dean's cook and setup an ale-house. The author procured a commission to write two lampoonsand a pamphlet against French wines. In the intervals of this occupation,Harry looked for his father.
It would be hard to guess--Harry himself could not have told--what hehoped to gain by that. He wanted, of course, to find out the truth of themission to France. Whether his father was likely to tell it, he could notmake up his mind. What he would do with the truth if ever he learnt it,he did not know in the least. Suppose the best event: suppose his fathercould declare excellent intentions and Geoffrey a liar. Harry imaginedhimself going to Alison with the news and demanding to be taken on again.A nightmare joke.
Yet to come at the truth seemed the most important task in life. Thefirst step, though you think it impossibly difficult, did not dismayhim. He had no doubt of discovering his father. That Colonel Boyce shouldhave been killed or even caught was incredible. He was not the man so tooblige his enemies. It was incredible, too, that he would go long intohiding. Away from the importance of bustle and intrigue he could notexist. Therefore he would certainly come back to London: therefore sooneror later he would be found at one of the coffee-houses favoured by thebrisk fellows in the underworld of politics--at Tom's, or the British, orDiggory's by the Seven Dials. He might be heard of among the fire-eatingJacobites of Sam's. There were not so many likely places, but Harry laiddown more pennies than he could spare at the bars, and all in vain.
He sat in Sam's on an afternoon chopping Greek tags with a jolly,fanatical old parson. The days were fast lengthening, and for one reasonor another--the company at Sam's were not too fond of light--only acandle here and there was burning. A little man came in with a party veryobsequious to him. As he walked up to the bar Harry had a glimpse of alean, brown face. He remembered it and yet no more than faintly, andcould not tell where he had seen it. It did not much engage him, and hewent on with his Greek and his parson. The little man made some noisewith the pretty girl behind the bar, claiming the privileges of an oldfriend and a good deal of liquor, and it was a little while before he wasestablished at a table with his party. Harry chose to mouth out somethingHomeric and sounding. The little man stopped in the middle of lightinghis pipe. "I know that roll, _pardieu_!" he muttered, and in a floridfashion declaimed, "Fol de rol de row," and laughed alcoholically. "Who'stalking Hebrew here?"
One of his party pointed out Harry and the parson. The little man blinkedthrough the smoky twilight. He stood up, took his candle and lurchedacross the room to Harry. Down under Harry's nose he put the candle witha bang. Harry jerked back and glared at him, and he, rocking a little andblinking, said thickly, "It's a filthy likeness, after all, it is."
"No, sir, there's only one of me," said Harry. "If you see two, give Godthe glory and go to bed."
"I'm saying, bully, I'm saying," the little man's accent became moreCaledonian and he clutched at Harry's shoulder. "I'm saying, myladdie--"
"Damme, that's what I complain of."
"I'm saying I do not like your complexion. It's yellow, my jo, it's awee rotten orange, it is so." His company, a faithful tail, shookwith laughter.
"Sleep it off, sir," says Harry, with a shrug.
"What's your will? Clip it off, do ye say so? Losh, you would have a faceor two to spare. Eh, but I'm doubting you know too much o' clipping.There's clippit ears, and maybe you have a pair." He twitched Harry's bobwig awry; and with singular luck reeled out of the reach of Harry'sanswering blow. "Ay, and there's clippit shillings and
maybe ye make yourfilthy living by their parings and shavings. Well a well, and there'sclippit wings; and I'll clip yours, my bonny goose, the night." Heclutched at the wig again and tossed it into the fire.
Harry sprang up and struck at him. He flung himself backwards into thearms of his friends and with a surprising adroitness plucked out hissword. "Have at ye, my man;" he giggled and made a pass.
"Easy, Captain," says one of his company. "The boy hath no sword."
"Oh ay, 'tis the Lord that's a man of war. The devil was aye for peace.Well, what ails ye not to lend the imp a bodkin?"
The fat old keeper of the coffee-house waddled into the midst. "Sure,Captain, you don't mean it. I would need to set my lads upon you. 'Tisdisorderly homicide, indeed. Ye can't mean it. Not downstairs. I'll notdeny there's the elegant parlour on the first floor."
"Ye're a canting old devil, Sam," says the little man. "But I'll obligeyou. Come up, my bully, and I'll show you a thing."
"Here's for you, cully." One of the company thrust upon Harry a sword.
"Oh, by your leave,"--Harry waved it oft--"I don't fight a drunken man."
"Drunk!" the little man screamed. "Ods blades, there's a naughty way tomock a gentleman. I'll school you, bully; fou or fasting, I'll schoolyou. What, you'll not lug out, like a bonny lad should? I jaloused it.I'm thinking you would take a beating like a lamb, laddie. Well a well.I'll be blithe to rub you down with an oaken towel. Here, Patrick, giveus your staff."
"Oh, I see you must be let blood." Harry shrugged. "Well, sir, do Ifight the whole platoon?"
"You're peevish, do you know, you're peevish. Here, Fraser, give him yourhanger. Do you second the bairn, Donald? Come, Patrick, I'll have you.There's one for you and one for me, my man, and damn all favours."
It seemed to Harry that the little man's company were something surprisedat this turn, but they took it in a disciplined silence. So the party offour marched up the stairs. You will believe that Harry liked thebusiness ill enough. He shot glances at the two chosen for seconds. Therewas nothing sottish about them. They were very soberly alert, they hadthe tan and the vigour of open-air life. They looked anything but the fitcomrades for a swashbuckling tavern hero. They were as stiff as pokers,they said not a word, they showed not a sign of interest in theaffair--rather like two soldiers on guard than ready seconds in a drunkenbrawl. Once in the upper room they made their arrangements with solemncare, locking the door, clearing a sufficient space, and setting thecandles so that the light fell fairly. Harry was taken aside, helped outof his coat, asked if he needed anything, gravely advised to risk nothingand play close.
"We are at your service, Mr. O'Connor," says Donald.
"At your pleasure, Mr. Mackenzie," says the other.
Harry was set against the little man and the swords crossed. It thenoccurred to him that the little man was very suddenly recovered from hisliquor. The blustering chatter had been cut off as soon as they startedup the stairs. Since then the little man had spoken not one word. Of theunsteadiness, the blinking, the rocking to and fro, nothing remained. Hehad marched to his place with a formal precision. There was the samemanner, a correctness exact and staccato, about this sword play.
The knave can never have been drunk, Harry said to himself as hesweated and was the more embarrassed by bewilderment. But he dared notlet himself think. The little man was urgently dangerous, and Harryknew enough to know it. Harry had no pretensions to science. All hecould use was the rudiments. He had kept his head at singlestick, heldhis own with the foil against other lads, and never before faced apoint. The little man had the speed and certainty of a _maitred'armes_. So Harry fought, breathing hard, every muscle aching, mindnumb and dazed under the strain, expecting--hoping--every moment thethrust that would make an end.
It did not come. The ache and fever of the fight went on and on. Stillthe little man was masterful and precise. Still he demanded all Harry'svigour and more than all, kept him struggling desperately, beset by fearon the edge of death. Harry felt himself weakening, faltering, and stillthe opposing blade searched his defence sharply, still the little man wasan exemplar of easy precision. And yet Harry's maladroitness alwayssufficed to save his skin. He was puzzled, and blundered and fumbled themore. The play grew slower and slower, and he was the more tortured,enduring many times the shame and the pain of defeat.
At last he had hit upon the truth. He was wondering in a dazed fashionwhy that other sword seemed always to wait on him when he made a grossmistake. Visibly, palpably, the little man's blade halted to give himtime for a parry. Harry dropped his point and gasped out, "Damme, sir,you are playing with me."
"What's your will? I fight my own way. At your convenience, sir."
"The Captain's within his right, sir," says Harry's solemn second.
"Damn you, for a pack of mountebanks!" Harry cried.
"On guard, sir," says the little man.
Harry gave him an oath and dashed at him. There was a moment's wildfighting and then the little man forced it back to order. They were atthe old game again, precise scientific thrust, pause, and blunderingparry, when to Harry's amazement the little man's sword wavered and flewfrom his hand.
Through a long minute Harry stood staring at him, and he waiting unarmedfor Harry's thrust. Again Harry lowered his sword. At once the littleman stooped and picked up his. "Do you demand to continue, Captain?"says his second.
"You're a fool, Patrick," quoth the little man.
The impenetrable second saluted and turned to his fellow. "Another bout,if you please, Mr. Mackenzie."
"Would you grant it, sir?" says Harry's solemn Scot.
"Egad, we are all mad here," Harry wiped his brow. "Oh, play itout to hell."
The little man saluted formally and again they engaged. And now Harry wasenveloped in another kind of fighting. Scientific it might be, butscience far beyond his understanding. The little man's point waseverywhere upon him and he thrusting blindly at the air. He might havebeen pinked a score times over, he was for all he knew. And then on asudden his own point touched something. Next moment it was struck up tothe ceiling. Some one called out "A hit." He saw the two seconds standingbetween the swords and a red scratch on the little man's cheek.
"_Touche_," says he with a bow. "My compliments, if you please. It's somewhile since a man marked me. I am glad to know you, sir. Pray, what'syour name?"
"Harry Boyce, sir."
"Egad, it's wonderful!" says the little man, with a laugh which appealedto Harry. "Hector McBean, at your service." Harry stared. "Aye, aye, I'mthinking we'll explain ourselves. Will you walk, sir?"
"If you please."
Captain McBean took his arm, said over his shoulder to the two seconds"To-morrow," and marched off with him. Once they were out in thestreet, "So you are Colonel Noll Boyce's son," says Captain McBean withan odd look.
"He has often told me so."
"If you had not such a look of him I wouldn't believe it. Oh, pardon,monsieur, _mille pardons_, _ma foi._ I have been insolent to you in allthis affair. You'll please to observe that the whole of it, and theissue, is to your honour. Will I have to say more?"
"Oh Lud, no. Pray, let's talk sense."
"I take to you marvellously, _mon enfant_. Well now, have youheard of me?"
"Enough to want much more."
"What, has father been talking?"
"D'ye know where he is, Captain McBean?"
"I wish I did."
"So do I. It was Mr. Waverton who told the tale. Now you know why I ameager to hear what you can say of my father or my father of you."
"Are you a good son, Mr. Boyce?"
"I pay my debts."
"There's a crooked answer. Are you in the Colonel's secrets?"
"I have no reason to think so."
"I guess he did not trust you. I guess he was right. Do you rememberwhere you met me first?"
"I remember that I can't remember."
"And me that thought I was a beauty! Well, but you were busy. You weremaking mud pies w
ith Ben."
"I have it. You were his captain on the horse. Pray, sir, what was myBenjamin's mystery?"
"I am going to trust you, Mr. Boyce. I shall not require you to trust meunless you choose. I tell you frankly I hope for it. And so--come inwith you."
They turned out of the Strand into Bow Street. Captain McBean lethimself into a house, and took Harry up to a room very neat and cosy."D'ye drink usquebaugh? A pity. It's the cleanest liquor. Well, draw up."He pushed a tobacco-box across the table. "That's right Spanish. Now,_mon cher_, are you Jacobite or Hanoverian?"
"I never could tell."
"Oh, look you, I ask no confidences. And I make no doubt of your honour.If you had a mind to play tricks you would have tried one on me to-night.Well, I have proved you. Your pardon again. But when I saw Noll Boyce'sson lurking in Sam's, how could I know he was without guile? Now there issomething I must say to you. But how much I say is a question. I have nodesire to embarrass you with awkward knowledge. So which is your king,_mon enfant_, James or George?"
"I care not a puff of smoke for either."
"So. I suppose there is something you care for. Well--you asked aboutBen's mystery. It's a good beginning. The rascal should have stopped theDuke of Marlborough's coach and held it till I came up with my fellows.Instead of which he went about some private thieving. I am your debtorfor giving the knave his gruel. What's Marlborough to me? It's not hisdirty guineas I was after, but his papers. He was then pretending tonegotiate with St. Germain. There were those of us who doubted the oldvillain had some black design in his head again, and it was thought thatif we could turn over his private papers, we should know where to havehim. It was certified that he had with him something from his agentsabroad. Well, we missed him, and how deep he is dipped in this business,I know no more than you.
"Now I come to your father, _mon enfant_, and I promise you I will be asdelicate as I may. Do you know, _par exemple_, how Colonel Boyce is inthe mouths of gentlemen?"
"Oh, sir, that's another of the matters for which I care nothing."
"_Tenez donc_. You were born old, I think. Well, Colonel Boyce has beenin some few plots, devices, and manoeuvres. No man ever denied him wit,nor will I, _mordieu_. But it's his virtue that neither his friends norhis enemies were ever sure of him. I believe, Mr. Boyce, that if he heardme he would thank me for a compliment. _Bien_--I come back to my tale.
"It was known to us poor Jacobites in England that Colonel Boyce wasmaking salutes to St. Germain. Which much intrigued us, for we would not,by your leave, have him of our side. They don't know him there as we do,and King James, God save him! is young and honourable and sanguine."
"Poor lad," says Harry with a shrug.
"You may keep your pity, Mr. Boyce," McBean said stiffly. "I would havehim so, by your leave. Now we heard that letters went to St. Germain fromColonel Boyce full of windy promises--_verbosa et grandis epistola_. D'yekeep up your humanities?--in the name of my Lord Sunderland and my LordStair. Black names both. But they were vastly intrigued at St. Germain.If Sunderland and Stair were ready to turn honest, then _pardieu_, therewas hope of the devil himself. Oh, I don't blame the King nor evenCharles Middleton, though he is old enough to be slow. The times arechanging, and maybe Stair and Sunderland they see it as well as we, andmean to find salvation. I can't tell. But the thing looked ill. Stair andSunderland--there is no treachery too foul for those names. And if theymeant honestly, why--saving your presence, _mon enfant_--why did theychoose Colonel Boyce for their agent? It was no good warranty. So weadventured a counter. We have friends enough now in the Government, _moncher_, and it was arranged that the Colonel should be arrested as aJacobite. A good stroke, I think. It was mine. Only the old gentlemandodged it."
"Pray, what did you know of Mr. Waverton?"
"That sheep's-head!" McBean laughed. "Why, a letter came to hand in whichthe Colonel talked of taking the pretty gentleman to France. So he wasjoined in the warrant. _D'ailleurs_--it made a good appearance. However,we missed him; but we found something in his papers which made me queasy.So I e'en was off to France after him.
"The Colonel stayed at Pontoise and sent your Waverton off to St. Germainwith a mighty plausible letter about secret proposals from the chiefs ofthe Whigs, which brought the King out to hear them secretly. _Ma foi_! Ithink Charles Middleton should have smelt a rat. But it was a clevertrick, and to choose your Waverton to play it was masterly. For who couldthink that peacock would be in anything crafty? At Pontoise I tumbled inupon them, and your father, _mon cher_, he ran off on sight of me.Observe, I press nothing against him. I allow that the best evidence Ihave against him is just that--he ran away when he saw me. Secondly, hehad with him some three-four rascals whose faces would hang them. Andthirdly and lastly, beloved brethren, these fellows, when put to it andcharged with a plot to murder King James, were frightened for their livesand babbled wildly, of which the sum was that they had been brought butto kidnap him. I grant ye, they may have lied, and I would not hang a dog(who was not a Whig) upon their word. But confess, _mon cher_, the thingis black enough. What did the Colonel want with King James alone? Why didhe need his bullies? Why did he run away? I leave it with you."
Harry knocked out his pipe. "I am obliged for the story, sir. Why didyou tell it?"
"You have a cold blood in you, _mon enfant_" says Captain MacBean."Observe, I look for nothing wonderful from you. I allow your position isvery difficult to a man of honour. And with all my heart--"
"Oh Lud, sir, let's have nothing pathetic."
"Aye, aye," McBean bowed. "Mr. Boyce! I do profess I feel the delicacy ofthe affair, and I detest it, _pardieu_. But I dare not absolve ye fromyour duty."
"Oh, sir, you are very sublime."
"Hear me out, Mr. Boyce. I have shown you cause to fear that yourfather has it in mind to compass a vile treachery, perhaps a murder.Would you deny it?"
"Damme, sir, I am not the day of judgment."
"_Bien_. I believe that is an answer. I declare to you there is yet achance that he may succeed, aye, here in London."
Harry swore. "If your friends must go walking into traps what isit to me?"
"Well, sir, though you will own no loyalty to king or queen or country,I'll not be deceived. I call on you for your aid. It's believed yourfather is in London. It is likely he will seek you out, as he did before.Maybe at this hour you know where he is."
"If I did, should I betray him to you, sir?"
"I ask no treachery. But I do call on you, discover his purpose if youcan, and if he intends violence to the King, prevent it. Lord, sir, it'sto save your father from infamy, and your own name."
"The King? The Pretender is in London?" Harry cried.
"I told you that I should trust you far, Mr. Boyce."
Harry stared at him, and after a moment stood up. "I can do nothing," hesaid. "It is of all things most unlikely that I should do anything. Forwhat I know, my father is dead. He has been nothing else to me all mylife. But I believe I should thank you."
"Well!" quoth McBean. "God help you. I ha' drawn a bow at a venture. Ithink I have hit something, Mr. Boyce."