“He may be a scamp,” said Cardross, “but there’s no sham in him—nothing of the dry-boots! It would give me great pleasure to go sharply to work with him—but he’s pluck to the backbone, and I own I like that.”
Mr. Hethersett had a great respect for his cousin’s judgment, and, remembering these words, he made up his mind to have at least a touch at Dysart. Since the task was not one he looked forward to with relish, he thought that the sooner it was accomplished the better it would be, and decided that unless Dysart arose from the table a loser he would broach the matter that very day. From the flush in the Viscount’s cheeks, and the over-brightness of his eyes, he had at first glance supposed him to be a trifle foxed; but he soon realized that for once he had wronged him. The Viscount, whose exuberance could lead him to become top-heavy at almost any hour of the day, was by far too keen a gamester to join a gaming-table when in his altitudes. There was certainly a glass at his elbow, but the brandy it held sank hardly at all during the time Mr. Hethersett stood watching the play, and from time to time making his bet on the odds monotonously declared by the groom-porter.
The table broke up at a comparatively early hour, even the Viscount agreeing, after a series of throw-outs, that the game had become languid and boring. He did not rise a loser, but his winnings were not large. However, when one of the company joked him about his uncertain luck, saying that he would be obliged to go back to faro after all, he replied cheerfully that only a muttonhead could have been blind to the signs of reviving fortune that night. “Not a vowel of mine on the table!” he said.
“And upwards of forty guineas in your purse!” added Mr. Fancot encouragingly. “To my mind, that clinches it, Dy: stick to the bones!”
“Yes, I think I shall,” agreed Dysart. “Dashed if I won’t try my luck at this new house Jack was talking to me about! I remember my father’s telling me once that he often found it answered to shift one’s ground.”
Lord Pevensey’s notorious unsuccess as a gamester notwithstanding, everyone, except Mr. Hethersett, thought that the Viscount could hardly do better than follow his advice, only one slightly muddled gentleman demurring that no one should play at a hell who was not up to the sharps. But as he became hopelessly incoherent in his subsequent attempt to illustrate this remark by recounting the sad history of a flat who went from a nibble at a club to a dead hit at a hell, no one paid any heed to him.
The morning light was faintly illumining the scene when the party dispersed on the steps of the club. Mr. Hethersett, who knew that it might be days before he again found the opportunity to approach Dysart, considerably surprised him by suggesting that they should bear one another company on the way to their respective lodgings. “Duke Street, isn’t it?” he said. “Take a look in at my place, and play off your dust! All on our way, and the night’s young yet.”
Dysart looked at him, suspecting him of being slightly mellow. He showed no sign of it, but Dysart, perfectly well aware of his disapprobation, could think of no other reason to account for his sudden friendliness. Before he had had time to answer him, Mr. Fancot, who lived in St. James’s Square, and had sent the porter out to procure a hackney, generously offered to take both him and Mr. Hethersett up, and to set them down again at their lodgings.
“Very much obliged to you,” responded Mr. Hethersett, a shade of annoyance in his face. “Think I’ll walk, however. Devilish stuffy in the club tonight: need a breath of air!” He met the Viscount’s alert, speculative gaze, and said curtly: “Got something to tell you!”
“Have you though?” said Dysart, considerably intrigued. “Ill go along with you, then!”
They left the club together, but were overtaken almost immediately by a gregarious gentleman, who fell into step with them, saying chattily that since his destination was in King Street he would walk with them. His company was accepted cheerfully by Dysart, and by Mr. Hethersett, who foresaw that he would be difficult to shake off, with resignation. It would be a hard task to avoid the necessity of including him in his invitation to Dysart, but he was determined to do it, however much it went against the grain with him to appear inhospitable.
He managed to perform this feat at the cost of standing patiently at the corner of Ryder Street and St. James’s, while the Viscount and Mr. Wittering maintained for twenty minutes an argument which had been started before the party had crossed over to the south side of Piccadilly. It was pursued with considerable animation, and it afforded Mr. Hethersett, mildly contributing his mite whenever he was granted the opportunity, with a novel view of the Viscount. The victory of Bonaparte at Lützen over General Wittgenstein, commanding the combined forces of Russia and Prussia, had not long been known in London, and was still being much discussed. Shaking his head over the disaster, Mr. Wittering expressed the opinion that there was no doing anything against Boney, and never would be. Since this pessimism was shared by many, such remarks having been heard for years past at any social gathering, Mr. Hethersett did not think it worth while to reply. It was otherwise with the Viscount. He was ready to agree that none of the foreign generals could have the smallest hope of defeating Boney, but he recommended Mr. Wittering to wait and see how quickly Wellington would knock him into flinders. Mr. Wittering said disparagingly that a victory or two in Spain made no odds; the Viscount instantly offered to bet a monkey that the English army would be over the Pyrenees before the year was out; and the argument rapidly became heated. Mr. Wittering, no supporter of the Wellesleys, was unwise enough to say that Wellington’s victories had been exaggerated; and within a very few minutes was not only being dragged relentlessly through the previous year’s campaigns, but was being given a lesson in strategy into the bargain. To Mr. Hethersett’s surprise, the Viscount, whom he had always supposed to be perfectly feather-headed, not only appeared to be passionately interested in the subject, but had very obviously studied it with some thoroughness. Mr. Wittering, on the retreat, acknowledged that Wellington was a good defensive general, but added that he was too cautious, and had no brilliance in attack.
“No brilliance in attack?” demanded the Viscount. “After Salamanca?”
“Well, I don’t know about Salamanca,” said Mr. Wittering unguardedly. “All I say is—”
But the Viscount cut him short. Mr. Hethersett, standing in patient boredom while armies maneuvered about him, and the Viscount drew invisible lines on the flagway with the point of his cane, reflected that it would henceforward be impossible for Mr. Wittering to say (if there was any truth in him) that he didn’t know about Salamanca. When Dysart, passing from the general to the particular, spoke of Le Marchant’s charge, he did so with so much enthusiasm that Mr. Hethersett was moved to say that he seemed to know as much about it as if he had taken part in it.
“By Jove, don’t I wish I had!” Dysart said impulsively.
“Well,” said Mr. Wittering, preparing to take his leave, “what you ought to do, Dy, is to join! I shouldn’t wonder at it if you got to be a general. You go and tell old Hook-nose what you want him to do! There’s no saying but what it might make him break up from cantonments before the summer’s over!”
With this Parthian shot, he went off down the street, leaving the Viscount to explain to Mr. Hethersett that the lack of news from Wellington’s headquarters undoubtedly presaged some brilliant move, probably in an unexpected direction. “Everyone thinks he means to march on Madrid again, but you mark my words if he don’t strike north! He’s kept his plans mighty dark this time, but I’ve been talking to a cousin of mine. You know my cousin Lionel?” Mr. Hethersett believed he had not that pleasure. “Been serving on one of our frigates,” said the Viscount. “Sent home a month ago, on sick-furlough. Plain as a pikestaff all those fellows have been warned to keep their mummers dubbed, but one thing he did let slip: we’ve been landing stores along the northern coast. You can say they’re for that guerilla-fellow, Longa, if you choose, but it don’t look like it to me. No need to keep the thing so dark if that’s all it is.”
&nbs
p; Mr. Hethersett did not avail himself of this permission, but said instead, glancing curiously up at his tall companion’s profile: “Why don’t you join?”
“Oh, I don’t know!” replied Dysart, with a return to his customary insouciance. “I rather thought I should like to at one time, but I daresay I shouldn’t. Anyway, my father won’t hear of it.”
Mr. Hethersett did not pursue the matter. He could only be thankful that his question seemed to have cast a damper over the Viscount’s desire to fight past battles again. They had by this time reached his lodging. He ushered his guest into the comfortable parlour he rented on the entrance floor of the house, begged him to take a chair, and produced from a large sideboard a bottle of smuggled French cognac. “Eyewater?” he enquired. “Mix you a Fuller’s Earth, if you like it better; or I’ve got a pretty tolerable madeira here.”
The Viscount said he would take a drop of eye-water. He watched Mr. Hethersett pour some of the cognac into two heavy glasses, and remarked with engaging frankness that he was damned if he knew what Mr. Hethersett wanted with him. “Thought at first you must be a bit on the go, but you don’t seem to be,” he said.
Mr. Hethersett handed him one of the glasses. “Got something to tell you,” he replied briefly.
“You haven’t had a tip for the Chester races, have you?” asked Dysart hopefully.
“No: nothing like that.” Mr. Hethersett took a fortifying sip of brandy. “Awkward sort of business. Been teasing me all day.”
“It sounds to me like a dashed havey-cavey business!” said Dysart, eyeing him in astonishment.
“No, it ain’t exactly that, though I don’t mind telling you I’d as lief not break it to you,” said Mr. Hethersett, who was finding his self-imposed task even more difficult to accomplish than he had foreseen.
“Good God, you ain’t going to tell me you’ve been set on to tell me my father’s slipped his wind?” exclaimed Dysart, sitting up with a jerk.
“No, of course I haven’t!” said Mr. Hethersett, irritated. “Is it likely that I’d be the man to break that sort of news to you?”
“No, but if it comes to that you ain’t the man to invite me at half-past four in the morning either!” retorted Dysart. “It’s no use bamming me you’ve got a sudden fancy for my company, for I know dashed well you haven’t.”
“Never said anything of the sort. No objection to your company, mind, but it wasn’t that I wanted. The thing is, it’s a deuced delicate matter!”
“Well, I can’t guess what the devil it can be, but there’s no need to skirt around it!” said Dysart encouragingly. “In fact, I’d lief you cut line: I can stand a knock or two!”
Mr. Hethersett tossed off the rest of the brandy in his glass. “Concerns your sister,” he said.
The Viscount stared at him. “Concerns my sister?” he repeated. “What the devil—?”
“Didn’t think you’d like it,” said Mr. Hethersett, with a gloomy satisfaction in the accuracy of his prognostication. “Don’t like it myself. You know George Burnley?”
“What?” thundered the Viscount, setting his own glass down with such violence that he nearly broke it.
Mr. Hethersett winced, and protested. “No need to bellow at me!”
“No need to—What has that ginger-hackled court-card to do with my sister?” demanded the Viscount, a very dangerous light in his eyes.
“Hasn’t anything to do with her,” replied Mr. Hethersett, faintly surprised. “What’s more, though I don’t say he ain’t ginger-hackled, he ain’t a court-card. Friend of mine. Dashed if I know why you should get into a miff just because you’re asked if you’re acquainted with him!”
“You said it concerned my sister Cardross!”
“Didn’t say anything of the kind. At least, not about poor George. And if you weren’t the biggest gudgeon on the town you’d know I wouldn’t have said a word about it, if he had been concerned with her!” he added severely.
“Well, what has Burnley to do with it?” asked the Viscount mollified, but impatient.
“Gave him a look-in this morning. He lives in Clarges Street.”
“Yes, I know he does, and if that’s all you wanted to tell me—”
“Got a house opposite Jew King’s,” said Mr. Hethersett, contemplating his elegant snuff-box with rapt attention.
There was a momentary silence. “Go on!” said Dysart grimly.
Mr. Hethersett glanced up at him. “Well, that’s it,” he said apologetically. “Saw Lady Cardross. Recognized her bonnet. Heavily veiled—no need to fear George knew her!”
“Are you saying she went into Jew King’s place?”
“No. Meant to, but I stopped her.”
“I’m much obliged to you, then! Bird-witted little fool!” said Dysart savagely.
“Don’t have to be obliged to me: got a great regard for her! Besides, related to Cardross, you know! Dashed well had to stop her. Seemed to be all in a pucker. Very anxious I shouldn’t blab to Cardross. Well, stands to reason I shouldn’t!”
“No, my God! What did she tell you?”
“Just said she wanted a temporary loan. Something she was devilish anxious Cardross shouldn’t discover. Told her I wouldn’t say a word to Giles if she promised to give up the notion of borrowing from a cent-per-cent. So she did, but I ain’t easy. Made up my mind the best thing to do was to tell you, Dysart.”
The Viscount nodded, and got up. “Much obliged to you!” he said again. “I’ll give her pepper for this. I told her that was no way to raise the recruits—damme, I forbade her to, now I come to think of it! Promised her I’d see all tidy. I might have done it, too, if she hadn’t taken a distempered freak into her head. And why she should be cast into high fidgets only because she’s a trifle scorched I’m damned if I know. Anyone would think Cardross was going to discover it tomorrow! Unless I miss my tip, there’s no reason why he should ever know a thing about it, but it’s no use expecting me to raise the wind in the twinkling of an eye. But that’s women all over!”
He turned to pick up his great-coat. Mr. Hethersett watched him shrug himself into it. He was strongly tempted to let him go, but although he was not very hopeful of being able to prevail upon him to approach Cardross, he felt that it behoved him to make the attempt.
“Been thinking about it all day,” he said. “Seems to me Cardross ought to know of it.”
“Well, he ain’t going to,” replied Dysart shortly.
“Wouldn’t do if he were to get wind of it,” insisted Mr. Hethersett. “Wouldn’t like it, if he found her ladyship had been hoaxing him.”
“Now, don’t you start fretting and fuming!” begged Dysart. “I told my sister I’d settle it, and so I will!”
“No business of mine, of course, but how?” asked Mr. Hethersett.
“By hedge or by stile,” replied Dysart flippantly.
“It won’t fadge. All to pieces yourself. Daresay you’re thinking of a run of luck, but it ain’t when one’s run off one’s legs that one gets the luck: more likely to be physicked! Ever noticed that it’s pretty near always the best-breeched coves who win? Seems to me there’s only one way you can help Lady Cardross.”
Dysart looked at him with a slight frown creasing his brow. “Well, what is it?”
Mr. Hethersett took snuff with deliberation. “Best way out of the fix is for her to tell Cardross the whole. Tried to get her to do it, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Seemed to be in the deuce of a quake. No use telling her not the slightest need. Got the notion fixed in her head. I can’t tell him. The thing is for you to do it.”
“I tell Cardross my sister’s swallowed a spider, and is trying to break shins with Jew King?” gasped the Viscount. “Well, I thought you must be a trifle disguised when you asked me to come home with you, but I can see now that you’re either ape-drunk, or touched in your upper works!”
“No, I ain’t,” replied Mr. Hethersett stolidly. “I know it’s a dashed difficult thing to do: in fact, it needs a devilish good bottom,
but they say you’ve got that.”
“Bottom! A damned whiddling disposition is all I’d need, and I’ll have you know that’s something I’ve not got!” Dysart shot at him. “Cry rope on my own sister? By God, if I hadn’t been drinking your brandy, damned if I wouldn’t tip you a settler, Hethersett!”
Mr. Hethersett was thrown into disorder. It was not that he particularly feared the Viscount’s fists, both of which were suggestively clenched; but that, in face of that fiery young man’s quick, wrath, the horrid suspicion assailed him that he had been doing him an injustice. This was a breach of ton the very thought of which made him turn pale. He hastened to make amends. “Beg you won’t give the brandy a thought!” he said. “Not that I wish to sport a painted peeper, but shouldn’t like you to feel yourself at a disadvantage. Boot might be on the other leg, too. What I mean is, not a thing I’m partial to, but I can mill my way out of a row.”
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