Complete Works of a E W Mason
Page 191
“Dear, dear!” he gibed. “Tis strange that so much heart should tarry so long. Let me see! It must be full eight days since Swasfield came to you at Leyden.” And he struck my hat once more out of my grasp.
“Mr. Vincott,” said I — and my voice trembled as I spoke— “if you have a mind to quarrel with me, I will endeavour to gratify you at a more seasonable time. But I cannot wrangle over the body of my friend. I came hither with all the speed that God vouchsafed me.” And I informed him of my journey, and the hindrances which had beset my path.
“Well, well,” he said, when I had done, “I perceive that my thoughts have done you some injustice. And, after all, I am not sure but what your late coming is for the best. It has caused your friend no small anxiety, I admit. But against that we may set a gain of greater secrecy.”
He picked up my hat from the floor, and placed it on the table.
“So,” he continued, “you will pardon my roughness, but I have formed some affection for Sir Julian. ’Tis an unbusinesslike quality, and I trust to be well ashamed of it in a week’s time. At the present, however, it angered me against you.” He held out his hand with a genuine cordiality, and we made our peace.
“Now,” said he, “the gist of the matter is this. It is all-essential that you be not observed and marked as a visitor to Sir Julian. Therefore ‘twere best to wait until it is quite dark; and meanwhile we must think of some disguise.”
“A disguise?” I exclaimed.
“Yes,” said he. “You must have noticed from that window that there are others awake beside ourselves.”
I stood silent for a moment, reluctantly considering a plan which had just flashed into my head. Vincott drew a flint and steel from his pocket, and lighted the candles — for the dusk was filling the room — and drew the curtains close. All at once the dizzy faintness which had come over me in the side-street near the Guildhall returned, and set the room spinning about me. I clutched at a chair to save myself from falling. Vincott snatched up a candle, and looked shrewdly into my face.
“When did you dine?” he asked.
“At breakfast-time,” said I.
He opened the door, and rang a bell which stood on a side-table. “Lucy!” he bawled over the bannisters.
A great buxom wench with a cheery face answered the summons, and he bade her cook what meats they had with all celerity.
“Meantime,” said he, “we will while away the interval over a posset of Bristol milk. You have never tasted that, Mr. Buckler? I would that I could say the same. I envy you the pleasure of your first acquaintance with its merit.”
The “milk,” as he termed it, was a strong brewage of Spanish wine, singularly luxurious and palatable. Mr. Vincott held up his glass to the light, and the liquid sparkled like a clear ruby.
“’Tis a generous drink,” he said. “It gives nimbleness to the body, wealth to the blood, and lightness to the heart. The true Promethean fire!” And he drained the glass, and smacked his lips.
“That is a fine strapping wench,” said I. “She must be of my height, or thereabouts.”
The lawyer cocked his head at me. “Ah!” said he drily, “a wonderful thing is Bristol milk.”
But I was thinking of something totally different.
The girl fetched in a stew of beef, steaming hot, and we sat down to it, though indeed I had little inclination for the meal.
“Now, Mr. Vincott,” said I, “I will pray you, while we are eating, to help me to the history of Julian’s calamities.” I think that my voice broke somewhat on the word, for he laid his hand gently upon my arm. “I know nothing of it myself beyond what you have told me, and a rumour that came to me in London.”
The lawyer sat silent for a time, drumming with his fingers on the table.
“Your story,” I urged, “will save much valuable time when I visit Julian.”
“I was thinking,” he replied, “how much I should tell you. You see, merely the facts are known to me. Of what lies underneath them — I mean the motives and passions which have ordered their sequence — I may have surmised something” (here his eyes twinkled cunningly), “but I have no certitude. That part of the business concerns you, not me. ‘Twere best, then, that I show you no more than the plain face of the matter.”
He pushed away his plate, leaned both arms upon the table, and, with a certain wariness in his manner, told me the following tale:
“In the spring of the year, Miss Enid Marston fell sick at Court. The air of St. James’s is hardly the best tonic for invalids, and she came with her uncle and guardian to the family house at Bristol to recruit. Sir Julian Harnwood must, of course, follow her; and, in order that he may enjoy her company without encroaching upon her hospitality, he hires him a house in the suburbs, upon Brandon Hill. One night, during the second week of August, came two fugitives from Sedgemoor to his door. Sir Julian had some knowledge of the men, and the story of their sufferings so worked upon his pity that he promised to shelter them until such time as he could discover means of conveying them out of the country. To that end he hid them in one of his cellars, brought their food with his own hands, and generally used such precautions as he thought must avert suspicion. But on the morning of the 10th September he was arrested, his house searched, and the rebels discovered. The rest you know. Sir Julian was tried this afternoon with the two fugitives, and pays the penalty to-morrow. ’Tis the only result that could have been looked for. His best friends despaired from the outset — even Miss Marston.”
“I had not thought of her,” I broke in. “Poor girl!”
“Poor girl!” he repeated, gazing intently at the ceiling. “She was indeed so put back in her health, that her physician advised her instant removal to a less afflicting neighbourhood.”
As he ended, he glanced sideways at me from under half-closed lids; but I chanced to be watching him, and our eyes crossed. It seemed to me that he coloured slightly, and sent his gaze travelling idly about the room, anywhere, in short, but in my direction, the while he hummed the refrain of a song.
“You mean she has deserted Julian?” I exclaimed.
“I have no recollection that I suggested that, or indeed anything whatsoever,” he returned blandly. “As I mentioned to you before, I merely relate the facts.”
“There is one fact,” said I, after a moment’s thought, “on which you have not touched.”
“There are two,” he replied; “but specify if you please. I will satisfy you to the limit of my powers.”
“The part which I shall play in this business.”
He wagged his head sorrowfully at me.
“I perceive,” says he, “with great regret that they teach you no logic at the University of Leyden. You are speaking, not of a fact, but of an hypothesis. The part which you will play, indeed! You ask me to read the future, and I am not qualified for the task.”
It became plain to me that I should win no profit out of my questioning; there could be but one result to a quibbling match with an attorney; so I bade him roughly tell me what he would.
“There are two facts,” he resumed, “which are perhaps of interest. But I would premise that they are in no way connected. I would have you bear that in mind, Mr. Buckler. The first is this: it has never been disclosed whence the information came which led to the discovery of the fugitives. Sir Julian, as I told you, used great precautions. His loyalty, moreover, had never been suspected up till then.”
“From his servants, most like,” I interposed.
“Most like!” he sneered. “The remark does scanty credit to your perspicacity, and hardly flatters me. I examined them with some care, and satisfied myself on the score of their devotion to their master. ’Tis doubtful even whether they were aware of Sir Julian’s folly. ’Tis most certain that they never betrayed him. Besides, my lord Jeffries rated them all most unmercifully this afternoon. He would not have done that had they helped the prosecution. No, the secret must have leaked out if the information had come from them.”
&nb
sp; “And you could gather no clue?”
“Say, rather, that I did gather no clue. For my client forbad me to pursue my inquiries. ’Tis strange that, eh? ’Tis passing strange. It points, I think, beyond the servants.”
“Then Julian himself must know,” I cried.
“Tis a simple thought,” said he. “If you will pardon the hint, you discover what is obvious with a singular freshness.”
I understood that I had brought the rejoinder upon myself by my interruption, and so digested it in silence.
“The second point,” he continued, “is interesting as a — —” he made the slightest possible pause— “a coincidence. Sir Julian Harnwood was arrested at six o’clock in the morning, not in his house, but something like a mile away, on the King’s down. ’Tis a quaint fancy for a gentleman to take it into his head to stroll about the King’s down in the rain at six o’clock of the morning; almost as quaint as for an officer to go thither at that hour to search for him.”
An idea sprang through my mind, and was up to the tip of my tongue. But I remembered the fate of my previous suggestions, and checked it on the verge of utterance.
“You were about to proffer a remark,” said Mr. Vincott very politely.
“No!” said I, in a tone of indifference, and he smiled.
Then his manner changed, and he began to speak quickly, rapping with his fist upon the table as though to drive home his words.
“The truth of the matter is, Mr. Buckler, Sir Julian went out that morning to fight a duel, and his antagonist was Count Lukstein, who came over to England six months ago in the train of the Emperor Leopold’s ambassador. Ah! you know him!”
“No!” I replied. “I know of him from Julian.”
“They were friends, it appears.”
“Julian made the Count’s acquaintance some while ago in Paris, and has, I believe, visited his home in the Tyrol.”
“However that may be, they quarrelled in Bristol. Count Lukstein came down from London to take the waters at the Hotwell, by St. Vincent’s rock, and has resided there for the last three months. ’Twas a trumpery dispute, but nought would content Sir Julian but that they must settle it with swords. He was on the way to the trysting-place when he was taken.”
And with a final rap on the table, Mr. Vincott leaned back in his chair, and froze again to a cold deliberation.
“That,” said he, “is the second fact I have to bring to your notice.”
“And the first,” I cried, pressing the point on him, “the first is that no one knows who gave the information!”
“I observed, I believe,” he replied, returning my gaze with a mild rebuke, “that between those two facts there is no connection.”
At the time it seemed to me that he was bent on fobbing me off. But I have since thought that he was answering after his fashion the innuendo which my words wrapped up. He took out his snuff-box as he spoke, and inhaled a great pinch. The action suddenly recalled to me the manœuvres which I had watched from the window.
“It was a foreigner,” I said, starting up in my excitement, “it was a foreigner who dogged your steps this afternoon.”
“I like the ornaments of the ceiling,” says he (for thither had his eyes returned); and, as though he were continuing the sentence: “I may tell you, Mr. Buckler, that Count Lukstein left Bristol eleven days ago.”
“Did he take his servants with him?” I asked; and then, a new thought striking me: “Eleven days ago! That is, Mr. Vincott, the day after Julian’s arrest.”
“Mr. Buckler,” says he, “you appear to me to lack discretion.”
“I only re-state your facts,” I answered, with some heat.
“The facts themselves are perhaps a trifle indiscreet,” he admitted. “I shall certainly have that ceiling copied in my own house.” And with that he rose from his chair. “’Tis close on eight by the clock, and we must hit upon some disguise. But, Lord! how it is to be contrived with that canary poll of yours I know not, unless you shave your head and wear my peruke.”
“I have a better device than that,” said I.
“Well, man, out with it!”
For I spoke with hesitation, fearing his irony.
“You can trust the people of the inn?”
He nodded his head.
“Else I should not have sent you hither. They are bound to me in gratitude. I saved them last year from some pother with the Excise.”
“And Lucy — what of her?”
“She is the landlord’s daughter.”
Thus assured, I delivered to him my plan — that I would mask my person beneath one of Lucy’s gowns.
Vincott leapt at the notion, “‘Od rabbit me!” he cried, “I misliked your face at first, but I begin to love it dearly now. For I see ’twas given you for some purpose.”
Once more he summoned Lucy, invented some story of a jest to be played, and bound her to the straitest secrecy. She gained no inkling from him, you may be sure, of the business which we had in hand. I stripped off my coat, and with much lacing and compressing, much exercise of vigour on Vincott’s part, much panting on mine, and more roguish giggling upon Lucy’s, I was at last squeezed into the girl’s Sunday frock. It had a yellow bodice bedecked with red ribbons, and a red canvas skirt.
“But, la!” she exclaimed, “your feet! Sure you must have a long cloak to hide them.” And she whipped out of the room and fetched one. My feet did indeed but poorly match the dress, which descended no lower than my ankles.
By good fortune the cloak had a hood attached, which could be drawn well forward, and blurred my features in its shadow.
“So!” said I. “I am ready.” And I strode quickly to the door. For Lucy’s glee and my masquerading weighed with equal heaviness upon me. I was full-charged with sorrow for the coming interview. The old days in Cumberland lived and beat within my heart; the old dreams of a linked future voiced themselves again with a very bitter irony. ’Twas the last time my eyes were to be gladdened with the sight of my loved friend and playmate. I looked upon this visit as the sacred visit to a death-bed; nay, as something yet more sad than that, for Julian lay a-dying in the very bloom of health and youth, and the grotesque guise in which I went forth to him seemed to mock and flout the solemnity of the occasion.
“Stop, lad!” said Vincott. “You must never walk like that. Your first step would betray you. Watch me!”
With a peacock air, which at another time would have appeared to me inimitably ludicrous, the little attorney minced across the room on the tips of his toes. Lucy leaned against the wall holding her sides, and fairly screamed with delight.
“What ails you, lass?” said he very sternly.
“La, Mr. Vincott,” she gulped out between bubbles of laughter, “I think you have but few honest women among your clients.”
Mr. Vincott rebuked her at some length for her sauciness, and would have prolonged his lecture yet further, but that my impatience mastered me and I haled him from the room. The girl let us out by a small door which gave on to an alley at the back of the house. The night was pitch-dark, and the streets deserted; not even a lamp swung from a porch.
“Stay here for a moment,” whispered Vincott. “I will move ahead and reconnoitre.”
His feet echoed on the cobbles with a strange lonely sound. In a minute or so a low whistle reached my ears, and I followed him.
“All’s clear,” he said. “I little thought the time would ever come when I should bless his late Majesty King Charles for forbidding the citizens of Bristol to light their streets.”
We stepped quickly forward, threading the quiet roads as noiselessly as we could, until Vincott stopped before a large building. Lights streamed from the windows, piercing the mirk of the night with brownish rays, and a dull muffled clamour rang through the gateway.
“The Bridewell,” whispered Vincott. “Keep your face well shrouded, and for God’s sake hide your feet!”
He drew a long breath. I did the same, and we crossed the road and passed ben
eath the arch.
CHAPTER IV.
SIR JULIAN HARNWOOD.
MR. VINCOTT KNOCKED at the great door within the arch, and we were presently admitted and handed over to the guidance of a gaoler.
The fellow led us across a courtyard and into a long room clouded and heavy with the smoke of tobacco.
“Keep the hood close!” whispered my companion a second time.
I muffled my face and bent my head towards the ground. For a noisy clamour of drunken songs and coarse merriment, and, mingled with that, a ceaseless rattle of drinking-cans, rose about me on all sides. It seemed that the Bridewell kept open house that night.
We traversed the room, picking out a path among the captives, for even the floor was littered with men in all imaginable attitudes, some playing cards, some asleep, and most of them drunk. My presence served to redouble the uproar, and each moment I feared that my disguise would be detected. I felt that every eye in the room was centred upon my hood. One fellow, indeed, that sat talking to himself upon a bench, got unsteadily to his feet and reeled towards us. But or ever he came near, the gaoler cut him across the shoulders with his stick and sent him back howling and cursing.
“Back to your kennel!” he shouted. “’Tis an uncommon wench that would visit the lousy likes o’ you.”
At the far end of the room he unlocked a door which opened on to a narrow flight of stairs. On the landing above he halted before a second door of a more solid make, the panels being strengthened by cross-beams, and secured with iron bars and a massive lock. The gaoler unfastened it and threw it open.
“You have half an hour, mistress,” he said, civilly enough. A startled cry of pain broke from the inside, I heard a sharp clink of fetters, and Julian confronted me through the doorway, his eyes ablaze with passion, and every limb strained and quivering.
“What more? What more, madam?” he asked, in a hoarse, trembling voice. “Are you not satisfied?”
He stopped suddenly with a gasping intake of the breath, and let his head roll forward on his breast like a fainting man. Vincott pushed me gently within the room, and I heard the door clang behind me. For a moment I could not speak. The tears rose in my throat and drowned the words. Julian was the first to recover his composure.