by H. C. Bailey
CHAPTER XXIII
THE HOUSE IN KENSINGTON
Late in that evening one of Alison's servants rode up to the "Hand ofPork" and inquired for Mr. Boyce. After some parley, he was told that Mr.Boyce had not been in the tavern that day. So he left a letter in the tapand rode back to Highgate.
That letter, which was not heard of till long afterwards, ran thus:
"Mr. Boyce,--I desire that you would come to me at Highgate. I haveto-day heard from Geoffrey Waverton what you must instantly know. And thetruth is, I cannot be content till I speak with you. But I would not haveyou come for this my asking. Pray believe it is urgent for us both thatwe meet, and I do require it of you, not desiring of you what you mayhave no mind to, but to be honest with you, and lest that should befallwhich I hope you would not have me bear.--A."
An ungainly, confused composition, as you see, but it set forth veryclearly the state of Alison's unhappy mind. She was revolted, of course,by Geoffrey's scheme of spying and trapping, loathed him forpropounding it to her, and was eager to warn Harry against it and clearherself of any part in the vile business. But she would not have Harrysuppose that she was praying him to come back to her. This time, atleast, there should be no wooing on her side. If she wanted himhungrily, shamefully, he should not know till he chose to take her. Buthe must come to her and be told all the tale, and hold her free of anypart in Geoffrey's baseness.
So she fought with herself and wrote of her strife, and, as thingswent, it mattered nothing to Harry, for he never knew of it till muchelse had happened.
When he woke on the morning after his affairs with Captain McBean and theMohocks and his father--woke with a sore head and a very stiff shoulder,he was a prey to puzzled excitement. There is no doubt that McBean hadengaged his affections. He was not, indeed, very grateful for thefantastic duel. Of all men, Harry Boyce was the least likely to bepleased by oddity or an extravagance of chivalry. He always thought, Ibelieve, that Captain McBean was a little mad, and liked him none thebetter for it. But he confessed that with the madness there was allied amost persuasive mind, a very reasonable reason. The combination may notbe so surprising to you as to Harry Boyce. He thought that McBean'sexposition of the affair of his father, and his consequent duty, wasexactly and delicately true--which means, of course, that it agreed withhis own temper. He had no more doubt than McBean that his father hadplanned, was planning, treachery which, win or lose, would disgrace him.He admitted that it was his own wretched duty to do what he might to makean end of these plans.
You smile, perhaps, at Harry Boyce claiming for himself the commands ofduty. He was eminently not a saint. He was not delicate. And yet, thrustupon an awkward choice, it is certain that he chose what must bedifficult, hazardous, and distressing, rather than stand aloof and lethis father's villainy go its way.
I make no pretence of exalting him into a tragic fellow. He had noaffection for his father, no respect. Merely to work against his father'swill, to smash his father's schemes, would certainly not have cost himone twinge. He had no hate for his father either, not the least ambitionto ruin him or make him suffer. But he would heartily have liked to bringthese murderous plots to nothing and yet save his father from vengeance.Harry had his share of the common human instinct to keep one's family outof mischief--or at least out of the newspapers.
And it is not to be denied that there was also active in him a simplehuman animosity. He bore his father a grudge for being publicly a knave:a man who had received nothing from his parents but the gift of birthmight fairly demand that they should not bother him with their rogueries.He did not extenuate his father's share in the catastrophe of themarriage. Perhaps it was in itself fated to miscarry, but if ColonelBoyce had not mixed up his affairs with it, the end need not have beenignominious. Harry vigorously condemned the old gentleman's meddling. Itwas an impertinence at the best to manipulate other folks, and a fatherwho did it so stupidly as Colonel Boyce was a pestilent nuisance. But allthis, I believe, rankled less than the behaviour of Colonel Boyce on thenight before. If the old gentleman had acknowledged his offences, if hehad even been content to talk of them frankly, man to man, he might havebeen forgiven. But his affectation of profound wisdom, his patronage, andabove all, his parade of mystery infuriated Harry's lucid mind.
It sought further causes of offence and had no difficulty in findingthem. Everything about that conversation was suspicious. For how did itbegin? With a broken head, with every button of his clothes torn open asthough he had just been searched to the skin, he woke up in his father'spresence. The father might pose as a good Samaritan who had come upon asufferer by the wayside, but he should not have shown so nervous ananxiety to know what the sufferer had been about. The father talked ofMohocks; but what Mohocks were these who knocked a man down before makingsport of him and, not content with taking his money, went through all hisclothes? Why was a Mohock's club lying there beneath the father's swords?Harry made a ready guess at the riddle. His father must have fellowswatching McBean's house. They had knocked him down to search him forpapers. Then the father must have known that he had been with McBean, andthose anxious questions were to discover how much he was McBean's friend.Colonel Boyce must have a lively interest in the affairs of McBean--andyet he professed that he had now nothing in hand. What if he knew of thesecret of the Pretender's coming to London? What if he was still seekinga chance to accomplish his plot of murder?
Well, Captain McBean expected no less of him. Captain McBean was in theright of it. It became a good son's duty to confound his father'spolitics. There's no denying that Harry went into the business with zest.
While he ate his breakfast in the taproom, he caught sight of a fellowlurking about outside. Whose spy this was is, in fact, not certain.Afterwards Colonel Boyce vehemently denied that he had commissioned anyman against Harry. Though you may not believe him, it is possible thatthe fellow was one of those in Waverton's pay. Harry made no doubt thathis father was the offender.
He went upstairs again and put a book in his pocket. (He had beencommissioned for a translation of Ovid, which, let us be thankful, nevercame into print.) Thus characteristically provided, he went out tobaffle the spy and the father. In the courts between Drury Lane and BowStreet he did some ingenious marching and counter-marching whereby--hewas always confident and we cannot be quite sure--the spy was shakenoff. He then came into St. Martin's Lane by the north end, and dodgingin and out of it more than once, made for a tavern close to his father'slodging. He planted himself inside by a window, called for a tankard anda pipe, and divided his attention between the Tristia and his father'sdoor across the lane.
It soon appeared that Colonel Boyce was to have a busy morning. By onesand twos a dozen men went into his house. They were not, even to Harry'shostile eye, brazenly ruffians. Something of the bully they might haveabout them, for they ran to brawn and swagger, but they were trim enoughand brisk, and had no smack of debauch--a company of old soldiers, by thelook of them, and still not past their prime. They were with ColonelBoyce a long time, and Harry grew very sick of the Tristia, and had todrink more beer over it than was his habit of a morning.
They came out at last singly, and yet with very short intervals betweenthem. They all turned the same way--across Leicester Fields. There seemedto Harry something so uncommon in this that he was moved to follow. Hemade his way out by the back door and the tavern yard. As he came intoLeicester Fields, he saw that the units had already amalgamated intothree companies. They were all steadily marching westward. Keeping behinda cart he followed them, and after a while bought for twopence a lift inan empty hay wagon. I record all this because he seems to have been veryproud of it, which is characteristic of his simple nature. The hay wagonrumbled him past two companies of them halted and coalescing at an inn.The first still headed him at a good round pace all the way toKensington.
The wagon was going through Kensington village when he saw that thisvanguard too had found an inn. A little farther on he abandoned hiswagon and, buying bread and che
ese at a farm, made his dinner underthe hedge. It was a long while before he saw anything more of thegentlemen of the inn, and lying among primroses and cowslips he nearlyforgot all about them and his excitement and his wonderful tactics. Hewas, in fact, becoming sentimental, and had made three neathendecasyllabics to the cowslips when the gentlemen came out again.They split into pairs and marched on briskly. Harry went through thehedge, and from behind it he watched them pass. Then, as now, the roadran straight, and it was not safe to come out and follow them till theywere far ahead. While he waited he heard more tramping, and in a littlewhile the rest of the company went by. He peeped out after them and sawan odd thing: though the road ran straight for a mile or more, thefirst party had vanished already.
Harry climbed a tree. It was some little time before he discovered thelost party. They had scattered, they had taken to the fields and, underhedges, they were making southward. The rest of the company did likewise.Soon he saw what they were after. There was a lane running from the highroad towards Fulham. A little way back from it, in a good garden, stood ahouse of modest comfort, doubtless the place to which some gentlemanabout town came for his pleasures or a breath of fresh air. About itsgrounds the company went into hiding.
Harry came down from his tree in a hurry and, like an honest man, took tothe high road. It was, you know, his one uncommon capacity to go easilyat a round pace. He did his best along the road and down the lane and,though he caught a glimpse of a coat here and there, unchallenged he cameup the drive and across the garden to the door of the house. He hadhardly knocked before he was being inspected through a peep-hole. Thedoor was opened and instantly shut behind him. He was in darkness dimlylit by one candle. The windows had their shutters closed and barred.
"What's your will, sir?" says the man who let him in.
"The master of the house, if you please," Two other men loungedinto the hall.
"And your name, sir?"
"You may say that I came from Captain McBean."
The man appeared to think it over. "That's true enough, faith," saysanother, advancing out of the shadow. Harry recognised one of the solemnseconds of the duel, Patrick O'Connor. "Will I serve your turn, sir?"
"If you're master here."
"I am not. Come on now." He led the way to a room where a cadaverous man,richly dressed, sat huddled over a fire. "'Tis a gentleman from thecaptain, my lord. Mr. Boyce, my Lord Sale."
Harry bowed. My lord yawned. "You've a devil of a name, Mr.Boyce," says he.
"I deplore it, and hope to disgrace it."
"Is it possible?" said my lord, and yawned again.
"I had the honour to tell you, my lord, that I answer for the gentleman,"says Mr. O'Connor.
"You may endorse the devil, if you please," my lord sneered.
Harry struck in, "I came to tell you, my lord, that your house iswatched, and by now surrounded."
"Damn them, they have found it out, have they?" says my lord, and spreadout his lean hands to the fire.
"How many, if you please?" says O'Connor.
"A dozen or so. They marched out this morning, scattered, and met againin the village and came here across country. They are well-armed, Ibelieve, and look men who would fight."
"Ods fish, that nets this hole," says my lord. "Pray, Mr. Boyce, whenwill they put the ferret in?" Harry shrugged. "Oh, there's a limit toyour kindness, is there? Do you choose to tell us who sent them?"
Harry was silent a moment and then blurted out: "They came from ColonelBoyce's lodging."
My lord laughed.
"Sure, 'tis an honour to know you, sir," says O'Connor, and bowed toHarry.
"Damned filial, indeed," my lord chuckled.
O'Connor turned upon him. "They have you beat easily, my lord," he saidfiercely. "Damned courageous indeed." But my lord only nodded at him."What, we be six--to count Mr. Boyce. Sure, we could hold the houseagainst the devil's christening."
There came in briskly a tall fellow crying: "Come, Sale, it's full time,I believe."
My Lord Sale got on his feet, "Stap me, sir, I believe not," he drawled."We must stay at home. They have smoked us. Here's a gracious youth cometo tell us that his Whiggish friends beset the house."
The Pretender frowned and seemed slow to understand. Harry looked himover. He was certainly a fine figure of a man, and bore himself gallantlyenough. His face was darkly handsome in a melancholy fashion, not unlikethe youth of his uncle, Charles II. He turned upon Harry. "What is allthis, sir?"
"Oh, sir, it's that old rogue Noll Boyce," my lord put in. "And here'shis son betraying the father."
"Faith, my lord, I'll remind you of that," O'Connor said. "Sir, thegentleman is an honest gentleman."
"Colonel Boyce--he is your father, sir?" the Pretender bent his blackbrows over Harry.
"He begot me, he says." Harry shrugged. "I desire to defend you from him.He has surrounded your house here with a dozen sturdy knaves who intendyou, I believe, the worst."
"I am obliged by your service, sir," says the Pretender coldly. "Pray, mylord, is the coach ready?"
My lord shook his head. "I don't advise it, sir. The good Mr. Boycecannot be lying. Or allow the knaves mean but to frighten you. I dare notrisk your person."
"Dare? You dare too much, my lord, who command neither my person nor myhonour. I do not thank you for your advice. You will have the coachbrought instantly."
"I ask your pardon, sir, and beg you to consider. What will the worldsay of me if I let you run into a gang of murderers? We can maintainthe house against them till our friends come seeking us. In the openwe are outnumbered desperately. Nay, sir, be advised; what is to loseby waiting? If you go, you grasp at a shadow and may throw away yourlife for it."
"I say, my lord, I do not thank you for your care of me, which iscareless of my honour and your own. I am promised to our friends. Do youdesire me to go afoot, my lord?"
"I have done, sir." My lord bowed and went out.
"Sir, I believe they will not spare you," says Harry.
"I have heard you," the Pretender said haughtily, and waved him away.
"I'll not be put off so." The Pretender turned upon him. "Sir, I havedone what I could to save your life from a base plot. If it succeeds, theshame of it must fall upon me and my name, for it's my cursed father thatplanned it. And you choose to run upon the danger. I entreat you, do meright. Your blood should not be upon my head."
"You have done your duty, Mr. Boyce," the Pretender bowed. "I thank you.But I must do mine."
"Why, faith, sir, 'tis the right principle of war to wait the rogueshere," says O'Connor. "You will not?"
"Go to, man, I say it again and again."
For the first time in their acquaintance, Harry saw Mr. O'Connor smile."I have the honour to take your orders, sir. But sure, we are not at theend of our tactics. I'll presume to advise you. Let the coach come to thedoor, and me and the other gentlemen will make some display of mountingher and guarding her; she moves off slowly; it's any odds the rogues willbelieve we have you with us and deliver their main attack, while you'llbe mounting quietly in the yard with my lord and ride off with him toKensington."
"The plan is well enough. Have it so," said the Pretender carelessly.
O'Connor went out in a hurry and Harry followed him. "I'll join you, ifyou please, Mr. O'Connor."
O'Connor laughed. "Oh, your servant, your servant. No offence, Mr.Boyce. I profess I have an admiration for you. But, faith, you are not aman of war. Do you go round to the stable-yard, now, and watch there tosee they prepare nothing against us from the back." He bustled off,calling up his fellows.
So Harry, with a long face, I suppose, drifted away to the back of thehouse. The coach was already moving out of the yard, and he saw no signof his father's legion. In a moment the groom, with one of O'Connor'smen to help him, was busy again in the stable. Still the legion did notreveal themselves. O'Connor's man ran back into the house, leaving twohorses saddled in the stable. Then the Pretender and my lord hurriedout, and the h
orses were brought to meet them. As they mounted, Harryheard the clatter of the coach and then pistols and shouts, and theclash of fighting.
The Pretender spurred off, my lord taking the lead of him through thegate. As they passed, a shot was fired out of the hedge. My lord swayed,fumbling at his holsters, and crying out: "Ride on, sir, ride," fell fromthe saddle. His foot was caught in the stirrup, and the frightened horsedragged him along the ground.
Harry ran up and snatched the bridle. "How is it with you, my lord?"
"I have enough, I believe," my lord gasped. "Damme, sir, don't fumble atme. Mount and after him."
So Harry went bumping in the saddle after the Pretender.