Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  He turned on me so swiftly at that word, that my anger quailed before his. “Silence!” he cried, fiercely. “How dare you, such as you, mention —— . But there, fellow — be silent!”

  I caught the ring of pain as well as anger in his tone, and obeyed him; though I could not discern what I had said to touch him so sorely. He on his side glowered at me a moment; and so we stood, while hope died within me, and I grew afraid of him again, and a shadow fell on the room as it had already fallen on his face. I waited for nothing now but the word that should send me from his presence, and thought nothing so certain as that I had flung away what slender chance remained to me. It was with a start that when he broke the silence I was aware of a new sound in his voice.

  “Listen, my lad,” he said in a constrained tone — and he did not look at me. “You are right in one thing. If I meant to do nothing for you, I had no right to your confidence. I do not know what it was in your face induced me to see you. I wish I had not. But since I have I must do what I can to save you: and there is only one way. Mind you,” he continued in a sudden burst of anger, “I do not like it! And I do it out of regard for myself, not for you, my lad! Mind you that!”

  “Oh, my lord!” I cried, ready to fall down and worship him.

  “Be silent,” he answered, coldly, “and when my back is turned go through that window. Do you understand? It is all I can do for you. The alley on the left leads to the stables. Pass through them boldly; if you are not stopped you will in a minute be on the high road. The turn, to the left at the cross-roads, leads to Tottenham and London. That on the right will take you to Little Parndon and Epping. That is all I have to say; while I look for a piece of paper to sign your commitment, you would do well to go. Only remember, my man, if you are retaken — do not look to me.”

  He suited the action to the words by turning his back on me, and beginning to search in a bureau that stood beside him. But so sudden and so unexpected was the proposal he had made, that though he had said distinctly “Go!” I doubt if, apart from the open window, I should have understood his purpose. As it was I came to it slowly — so slowly that he lost patience, and with his head still buried among the pigeon-holes, swore at me.

  WHEN MY BACK IS TURNED GO THROUGH THAT WINDOW

  “Are you going?” he said. “Or do you think that it is nothing I am doing for you? Do you think it is nothing that I am going to tell a lie for such as you? Either go or hang, my lad!”

  I heard no more. A moment earlier nothing had been farther from my thoughts than to attempt an escape, but the impulse of his will steadied my wavering resolution, and with set teeth and a beating heart, I stepped through the window. Outside I turned to the left along a shady green alley fenced by hedges of yew, and espying the stable-yard before me, walked boldly across it. By good luck the grooms and helpers were at supper and I saw only one man standing at a door. He stared at me, mouthing a straw, but said nothing, and in a twinkling I had passed him, left the curtilage behind me, and had the park fence and gate in sight.

  Until I reached this, not knowing whose eyes were on me, I had the presence of mind to walk; though cold shivers ran down my back, and my hair crept, and every second I fancied — for I was too nervous to look back — that I felt Dyson’s hand on my collar. Arriving safely at the gate, however, and the road stretching before me with no one in sight, I took to my heels, and ran a quarter of a mile along it; then leaping the fence that bounded it on the right, I started recklessly across country, my aim being to strike the Little Parndon highway, to which my lord had referred, at a point beyond the cross-roads, and so to avoid passing the latter.

  I am aware that this mode of escape, this walking through a window and running off unmolested, sounds bald and commonplace; and that if I could import into my story some touch of romance or womanish disguise, such as — to compare great things with small — marked my Lord Nithsdale’s escape from the Tower three years ago, I should cut a better figure. Whereas in the flight across the fields on a quiet afternoon, with the sun casting long shadows on the meadows, and for my most instant alarms, the sudden whirring up before me of partridge or plover, few will find anything heroic. But let them place themselves for a moment in my skin, and remember that as I sweated and panted and stumbled and rose again, as I splashed in reckless haste through sloughs and ditches, and tore my way through great blackthorns, I had death always at my heels! Let them remember that in the long shadows that crossed my path I saw the gallows, and again the gallows, and once more the gallows; and fled more quickly; and that it needed but the distant bark of a dog, or the shout of a boy scaring birds, to persuade me that the hue and cry was coming, and to fill me with the last extremity of fear.

  I believe that the adventurer, and the knight of the road, when it falls to their lot to be so hunted — as must often happen, though more commonly such an one is taken securus et ebrius in the arms of his mistress — find some mitigation of their pains in the anticipation of conflict, and in the stern joy which the resolve to sell life dearly imparts to the man of action. But I was unarmed, and worn out with my exertions; no soldier, and with no heart to fight. My flight therefore across the quiet fields was pure terror, the torture of unmitigated fear. Fear spurred me and whipped me; and yet, had I known it, I might have spared my terror. For darkness found me, weak and exhausted, but still free, in the neighbourhood of Epping in Essex, where I passed the night in the Forest; and before noon next day, believing that they would watch for me on the Tottenham Road, I had found courage to slink in to London by way of Chingford, and in the heart of that great city, whose magnitude exceeded all my expectations, had safely and effectually lost myself.

  CHAPTER X

  At this point, it becomes me to pause. I set out, the reader will remember, to furnish such a narrative of the events attending my first meeting with my honoured patron, as taken with a brief account of myself might enable all to pursue with insight as well as advantage the details of my later connection with him. And this being done, and bearing in mind that Sir John Fenwick did not suffer for his conspiracy until 1696, and that consequently a period of thirteen years divided the former events, which I have related, from those which follow — and which have to do, as I intimated at the outset, with my lord’s alleged cognisance of that conspiracy — some may, and with impatience, look to me to proceed at once to the gist of the matter. Which I propose to do; but first to crave the reader’s indulgence, while in a very hasty and perfunctory manner I trace my humble fortunes in the interval; whereby time will in the end be saved.

  That arriving in London, as I have related, a fugitive, penniless and homeless, in fear of the law, I contrived to keep out of the beadle’s hands, and was neither whipped for a vagrant at Bridewell, nor starved outright in the streets, I attribute to most singular good fortune; which not only rescued me (statim) from a great and instant danger that all but engulfed me, but within a few hours found for me honest and constant employment, and that of an uncommon kind.

  It so happened that, perplexed by the clamour of the great city, wherein all faces were new to me and ways alike, I came to a stand about noon in the neighbourhood of Newgate Market; where, confident that in the immense and never-ceasing tide of life that ebbs and flows in that quarter, I was safe from recognition, I ventured to sell an undergarment in a small shop in an alley, and buying a loaf with the price, satisfied my hunger. But the return of strength was accompanied by no return of hope; rather, my prime necessity supplied, I felt the forlornness of my position more acutely. In which condition, having no resource but to wander aimlessly from one street to another while the daylight lasted — and after that no prospect at all except to pass the night in the same manner — I came presently into Little Britain, and stopped, as luck would have it, before one of the bookshops that crowd that part. A number of persons were poring over the books, and I joined them; but I had not stood a moment, idly scanning the backs of the volumes, before one of my neighbours touched my elbow, and when I turned and
met his eyes, nodded to me. “A scholar?” he said, smiling pleasantly through a pair of glasses. “Ah, how ill does the muse requite her worshippers. From the country, my friend?”

  I answered that I was; and seeing him to be a man well on in years, clad in good broadcloth, and of a sober, substantial aspect, I saluted him abjectly.

  “To be sure,” he said, again nodding cheerfully. “And a stranger to the town I expect?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And a reader? A reader? Ah, how ill does the muse —— But you can read?” he ejaculated, breaking off somewhat suddenly.

  I said I could, and to convince him read off the names of several of the volumes before me. I remembered afterwards that instead of looking at them to see if I read aright, he kept his eyes on my face.

  “Good!” he said, stopping me when I had deciphered half-a-dozen. “You do your schoolmaster credit, my lad. Such a man should not want, and yet you look —— frankly, my friend, are you in need of employment?”

  He asked the question with so much benevolence, and looked at me with so good-natured a twinkle in his eyes, that my tears nearly overflowed, and I had much ado to answer him. “Yes,” I said. “And without friends, sir.”

  “Indeed, indeed,” quoth he. “Well, I must do what I can. And first, you may do me a service, which in any case shall not go unrequited. Come this way.”

  Without waiting for an answer he led me into the mouth of a court hard by, where we were less open to observation; there, pointing to a shop at a little distance from that at which he had found me, he explained that he wished to purchase a copy of Selden’s Baronage that stood at the front of the stall, but that the tradesman knew him and would overcharge him. “So do you go and buy it for me, my friend,” he continued, chuckling over his innocent subterfuge, with a simplicity that took with me immensely. “It should be half-a-guinea. There is a guinea” — and he lugged one out. “Buy the book and bring the change to me, and it shall be something in your pocket. Alas, that the muse should so ill —— But there, go, go, my lad,” he continued, “and remember Selden’s Baronage, half-a-guinea. And not a penny more!”

  Delighted with the luck which had found me such a patron, and anxious to acquit myself to the best advantage I hurried to do his bidding; first making sure that I knew where to find him. The shop he had pointed out, which was surmounted by the sign of a gun, and appeared to enjoy no small share of public favour, was full of persons reading and talking; but almost the first book on which my eyes alighted was Selden’s Baronage, and the tradesman when I applied to him made no difficulty about the price, saying at once that it was half-a-guinea. I handed him my money, and without breaking off his talk with a customer, he was counting the change, when something in my aspect struck him, and he looked at the guinea. On which he muttered an oath and thrust it back into my hand.

  “It will not do,” he said angrily. “Begone!”

  I was quite taken aback: the more as several persons looked up from their books, and his immediate companion, a meagre dry-looking man in a snuff-coloured suit, fell to staring at me. “What do you mean?” I stammered.

  “You know very well,” the tradesman answered me roughly. “And had better be gone! And more, I tell you, if you want a hemp collar, my man, you are in the way to get one!”

  “Clipped?” quoth the dry-looking man.

  “New clipped and bright at the edges!” the bookseller answered. “Now go, my man, and be thankful I don’t send for a constable.”

  At that I shrank away, two or three of the customers coming to the door to see me out, and watching which way I turned. This, I suppose — though I was then, and for a little time longer in doubt about him — was the reason why I could see nothing of my charitable friend, when I returned to the place where I had left him. I looked this way and that, but he was gone; and though, not knowing what else to do, and having still the guinea in my possession, I lingered about the mouth of the court for an hour or more, looking for him, he did not return.

  At the end of that time the meagre dry man whom I had seen in the shop passed with a book under his arm; and seeing me, after a moment’s hesitation stood and spoke to me. “Well, my friend?” said he, looking hard at me. “Are you waiting for the halter?”

  I told him civilly, no; but that the gentleman who had given me the guinea to change had bidden me return to him there.

  “And he is not here?” he said with a sneer.

  “No,” I said.

  He stared at me, wondering at the simplicity of my answer; and then, “Well, you are either the biggest fool or the biggest knave within the bills!” he exclaimed. “Are you straight from Gotham?”

  “No,” I told him. “From the north.” And that I wanted employment.

  “You are like to get it — at the Plantations!” he answered savagely, taking snuff. I remarked that neither his hands nor his linen were of the cleanest, and that the former were stained with ink. “What are you?” he continued, presently, in the same snappish, churlish tone.

  I told him a schoolmaster.

  “Exempli gratiâ,” he answered quickly, and turning to the nearest stall, he indicated the title-page of a book. “Read me that, Master Schoolmaster.”

  I did so. He grunted; and then, “You write? Show me your hand.”

  I said I had no paper or ink there, but that if he would take me ——

  “Pooh, man, are you a fool?” he cried, impatiently. “Show me your right hand, middle finger, and I will find you scribit or non scribit. So! And you want work?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Hard work and little pay?”

  I said I wanted to make my living.

  “Ay, and maybe the first time you come to me, you will cut my throat, and rob my desk,” he answered gruffly. “Hm! That touches you home, does it? However, ask for me to-morrow, at seven in the forenoon — Mr. Timothy Brome, at the sign of the Black Boy in Fleet Street.”

  Now I was overjoyed, indeed. With such a prospect of employment, it seemed to me a small thing that I must pass the night in the streets; but even that I escaped. For when he was about to part from me, he asked me what money I had. None, I told him, “except the clipped guinea.”

  “And I suppose you expect me to give you a shilling earnest?” he answered, irascibly. “But no, no, Timothy Brome is no fool. See here,” he continued, slapping his pocket and looking shrewdly at me, “that guinea is not worth a groat to you; except to hang you.”

  “No,” I said, ruefully.

  “Well, I will give you five shillings for it, as gold, mind you; as gold, and not to pass. Are you content?”

  “It is not mine,” I said doubtfully.

  “Take it or leave it!” he said, screwing up his eyes, and so plainly pleased with the bargain he was driving that I had no inkling of the kind heart that underlay that crabbed manner. “Take it or leave it, my man.”

  Thus pressed, and my mind retaining no real doubt of the knavery of the man who had entrusted the guinea to me, I handed it to my new friend, and received in return a crown. And this being my last disposition of money not my own, I think it a fit season to record that from that day to this I have been enabled by God’s help and man’s kindness to keep the eighth commandment; and earning honestly what I have spent have been poor, but never a beggar.

  In gratitude for which, and both those good men being now dead, I here conjoin the names of Mr. Timothy Brome, of Fleet Street, newsmonger and author, whose sharp tongue and morose manners cloaked a hundred benefactions; and of Charles, Duke of Shrewsbury, my honoured patron, who never gave but his smile doubled the gift which his humanity dictated.

  The reader will believe that punctually on the morrow I went with joy and thankfulness to my new master, whom I found up three pairs of stairs in a room barely furnished, but heaped in every part with piles of manuscripts and dogs-eared books, and all so covered with dust that type and script were alike illegible. He wore a dingy morning-gown and had laid aside his wig; but the
air of importance with which he nodded to me and a sort of dignity that clothed him as he walked to and fro on the ink-stained floor mightily impressed me, and drove me to wonder what sort of trade was carried on here. He continued, for some minutes after I entered, to declaim one fine sentence after another, rolling the long words over his tongue with a great appearance of enjoyment: a process which he only interrupted to point me to a stool and desk, and cry with averted eyes — lest he should cut the thread of his thoughts— “Write!”

  “HE WORE A DINGY MORNING-GOWN AND HAD LAID ASIDE HIS WIG”

  On my hesitating, “Write!” he repeated, in the tone of one commanding a thousand troopers. And then he spoke thus — and as he spoke I wrote: —

  “This day His Gracious Majesty, whose health appears to be completely restored, went, accompanied by the French Ambassador and a brilliant company, to take the air in the Mall. Despatches from Holland say that the Duke of Monmouth has arrived at the Hague and has been well received. Letters from the West say that the city of Bristol having a well-founded confidence in the Royal Clemency has hastened to lay its Charter at His Majesty’s feet. The 30th of the month began the Sessions at the Old Bailey, and held the first and second of this; where seventeen persons received sentence of death, nine to be burned in the hand, seven to be transported, and eleven ordered to be whipped. Yesterday, or this day, a commission was sealed appointing the Lord Chief Justice Jeffreys — —”