Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  The Duke’s face was a picture. “You villain!” he said again. “What do you want?”

  “For my silence?”

  “For your silence? No. What is your aim? What is your object? You betray one and the other. The son of your King to prison and death. Me, if you can, to ruin and shame. And why? Why, man? What do you?”

  “What do I gain? What shall I gain, you mean,” Ferguson answered, smiling cunningly. “Only your Grace’s signature to a scrap of paper — give me that, and I am mum, and neither Berwick nor you will be a penny the worse.”

  “What, money?” cried my lord, surprised, I think.

  “Oh, no, not money,” said the plotter coolly. “And yet — it may be money’s worth to me over there.”

  CHAPTER XXII

  “It is this way, my lord,” he continued after a pause. “Lord Middleton said some things over there in your Grace’s name — that would be four years back; but you never acted on them, though it was whispered you paid dearly for them here. In the interval it has been the aim of a good many to get something more definite from your Grace; the rather as you stand almost alone, the main part of the Court, and more than you know, having made their peace. But the efforts of those persons failed with your Grace because they went about it in the wrong way. Now, I, Robert Ferguson,” the plotter continued, patting himself on the chest, and bowing with grotesque conceit, “have gone about it in the right way; and I shall not fail. The position is this. You must either arrest the Duke of Berwick, or you must let him go. That is clear. If you do the former, you offend beyond pardon, and your head will fall at the Restoration, whoever goes clear. On the other hand, if you let the Duke escape and it comes to the Prince of Orange’s ears that you knew of his presence, you will be ruined with your present party. The only course left to you, therefore, is to let him go, but to purchase my silence — that it may not reach the Prince’s ears — by signing a few words on a paper, which shall be sealed here, and opened only by His Majesty in his closet. Now, my lord, what do you say to that?”

  “That you are a fool as well as a knave!” was the Duke’s unexpected reply. He had recovered his equanimity, and took a pinch of snuff as he spoke.

  The plotter’s eyes sparkled. “Why?” he cried with an oath. “And is that language for a gentleman?”

  “A gentleman? Faugh!” cried my lord. “And why? Because you suppose your word to be of value. Whereas you should know that were you to go to Kensington and tell the King that you had informed me of this or that or the other, and were I to deny it, you would to Newgate for certain, and to the pillory perhaps — but I should be not a penny the worse. Your word forsooth! Why, man, you are crazed!”

  “Ay, but if I had you followed here?” the other answered savagely. “If I can produce three witnesses to prove that you were with me to-day, and by stealth! And by stealth, my lord? What then?”

  “Why, then this!” the Duke answered with composure. “And it is my answer. I shall go hence to the King and tell him all; and on your information, Mr. Ferguson, the Duke of Berwick will be arrested. Whatever my fate or his after that, I shall have done my duty and kept my oath as a privy-councillor, and the rest I leave to God! But for you,” he continued, slowly and with solemnity, “who to gain a hold on me have betrayed the son of your King, your fate be on your own head!”

  The plotter, who, I think, had expected any answer but this, and, it may be, had never considered his own position, should the Duke stand firm, roared out a furious “You lie!” And then again in a frenzy, as the consequences rose more clearly before him, “You lie!” he cried, striking his hand on the table. “You will not do it! You will not dare to do it!”

  “Mr. Ferguson,” the Duke answered haughtily, “I do not suffer persons of your condition to tell me what I dare, or do not dare; or persons of any condition to give me the lie. Be good enough to open the door!”

  “Sign the paper!” the conspirator hissed. His face, at no time sightly, was now distorted by fear and the rage of defeat; while the chair on the back of which he leaned his left hand, jerked this way and that as if the palsy had him. “Sign the paper, will you? Or your blood be on your own head!”

  The Duke’s only answer was to point to the door with his cane. “Open it!” he said, his breath coming a little quickly, but his manner otherwise unmoved. “Do you hear me?”

  But either Ferguson’s rage had so much the mastery of him that he could no longer control himself, or he was desperate, seeing into what an abyss the other’s firmness was pushing him; or from the first he had determined on this course in the last resort. At any rate at that word, and instead of complying, he fell back a step and with a dark face drew a pistol from the pocket of his long coat. “Sign!” he cried, his voice whistling in his throat, as he levelled the arm at my lord’s head. “Sign, you Roman spawn, or I’ll spill your brains! Sign, or you don’t go out of this room alive! Has the Lord’s foot been put on the neck of his enemies that such as you should divide the spoil!”

  There was nothing to sign, for he had not produced the paper. But in the delirium of fear and excitement into which he had fallen, he was unconscious of this, and of all except that he was in danger of falling into the pit he had digged for another. His hand shook so violently that every moment I expected the pistol to explode, with his will or without it; his fears no less than his despair putting my lord in danger. What he, who stood thus exposed to naked death thought in his heart while his existence hung on a shaking finger, I can not say, nor if he prayed; for no man talked less of religion, to be, as I trust he was, a believer; while the pride which supported him in that crisis was as powerful to close his lips after the event. “Put that down!” was all he said; and met the other’s eyes without blenching, though I think that he was a trifle paler than he had been.

  “Sign!” answered the madman with an oath.

  “Put it down!” repeated the Duke; and doubtless his courage by imposing a restraint on the other’s headiness postponed, though it could not avert, the catastrophe.

  For, every second they stood thus fronting one another, Ferguson grinning and gibbering to him to sign, I looked to see the pistol explode, and my lord fall lifeless. My knees shook under me; horrified at this murder to be committed under my eyes, scarce conscious what I did or would do, I fumbled for the handle of the door — which luckily was beside me; and found it precisely as the Duke, with a twirl of his cane, as swift as it was unexpected, knocked the pistol aside and sprang bodily on the villain, striving to bear him down. He had no time to draw his sword.

  He was the younger man by twenty years and the more active, if not the more powerful; so that for an instant it seemed to me that the danger was over. But I counted without Ferguson; who leaping back before the other could grapple with him, with a nimbleness beyond his years put the table between them, and levelling the pistol afresh with a snarl of rage, pulled the trigger. The flint snapped harmlessly!

  More than that I could not bear, and, by heaven’s mercy, the movement had brought the wretch close to the door at which I stood, and which I had that moment opened. As he aimed the pistol a second time, and with a fresh execration, I flung my arms round him from behind, and with my right hand jerked up the pistol; which exploded, bringing down a rush of plaster, and filling the room with smoke and brimstone.

  I FLUNG MY ARMS ROUND HIM FROM BEHIND, AND WITH MY RIGHT HAND JERKED UP THE PISTOL

  An interposition so sudden and timely must have been no less a surprise to the Duke than to Ferguson. Nevertheless, the former, without the loss of a moment, flung himself on his antagonist; and seizing the pistol, while I clung to him behind, in a twinkling he had him disarmed. Yet, even when this was done, so furious were the man’s struggles, and so inhuman the strength he displayed (even to biting and foaming in a fury that could only be called maniacal) that it was as much as we could both do to conquer him; though we were two to one, and younger. Nor would he be quiet or resign himself to defeat until we had him down on his back,
with my lord’s sword-point at his throat.

  Then it was that while we stood over him, panting and trembling with the exertions we had made, my lord turned his eyes on me. “My friend,” he said, “who are you?”

  I could not speak for emotion; and though he was calmer, I could see that he was deeply stirred, both by the risk he had run, and the narrowness of his escape. “My lord,” I cried, at last, “take me away.”

  “From here?” he said.

  “Yes,” I said, “for God’s sake, for God’s sake, take me away,” and I burst into an uncontrollable fit of sobbing; so overcome was I by what had happened, and what had almost happened.

  He looked at me, his lip twitching a little, and his breast heaving. “Be easy, man,” he said. “Were you set to watch me?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And you heard all?”

  “All.”

  “Who are you?” he said again.

  “Two months ago I was an honest man,” I answered bitterly, “and then I got into his clutches. And he has ridden me. Ah, how he has ridden me!”

  “I see,” he said, nodding gravely. “Well, his riding days are over. Hark you, Mr. Ferguson,” he continued, turning to the prostrate man, who, grovelling before us — I had taken the precaution of tying his hands with my garters — acknowledged his attention by a hollow groan, “I am no thief-taker, and I shall not soil my hands with you. But within an hour the messengers will be here; and if they find you, look to yourself; for I think that in that case you will indubitably hang. In the meantime I will take your pistol.” Then to me, “Come, my man,” he said, “if you wish to go with me.”

  “I do,” I cried.

  “Well, I owe you more than that,” he answered kindly. “And I need you, besides. Mr. Ferguson, I bid you farewell. You have proved yourself a more foolish man than I thought you. A worse you could not. The best I can wish you is that you may never see my face again.”

  CHAPTER XXIII

  My lord, I found, had a coach, without arms or insignia, waiting for him at the Great Turnstile in Holborn; where, if persons recognised him as he alighted, he would be taken to have business with the lawyers in Lincoln’s Inn, or at my Lord Somers’s in the Fields. Following him to the coach on foot, I never saw a man walk in more deep or anxious thought. He took no heed of me, after bidding me by a gesture to attend him; but twice he stood in doubt, and once he made as if he would return whence he had come, and once as if he would cross the Fields — I think to Powis House. In the end he went on, and arriving at the coach, the door of which was opened for him by a footman in a plain livery, he bade me by a sign to follow him into it. This I was not for doing, thinking it too great an honour; but on his crying impatiently, “Man, how do you think I am to talk to you if you ride outside?” I hastened to enter, in equal confusion and humility.

  Nevertheless, some time elapsed, and we had travelled the length of Holborn before he spoke. Then rousing himself on a sudden from his preoccupation, he looked at me. “Do you know a man called Barclay?” said he.

  “No, your Grace,” I answered.

  “Sir George Barclay?”

  “No, your Grace.”

  “Or Porter? Or Charnock? Or King?”

  “No, your Grace.”

  “Umph!” said he, seeming to be disappointed; and for a time he looked out of the window. Presently, however, he glanced at me again, and so sharply that I dropped my eyes, out of respect. “I have seen you before,” he said, at last.

  Surprised beyond measure that he remembered me, so many years having elapsed, I confessed with emotion that he had.

  “Where?” he asked plainly. “I see many people. And I have not old Rowley’s memory.”

  I told him. “Your Grace may not remember it,” I said, greatly moved, “but many years ago at Abbot’s Stanstead, at Sir Baldwin Winston’s — —”

  “What?” he exclaimed, cutting me short, with a flicker of laughter in his grave eyes. And he looked me over. “Did I flesh my maiden justice-sword on you? Were you the lad who ran away?”

  “Yes, my lord — the lad whose life you saved,” I answered.

  “Well, then we are quits,” he had the kindness to answer; and asked me how I had lived since those days.

  I told him, naming Mr. Timothy Brome, and saying that he would give me a character. The mention of the news-writer, however, had a different effect from that I expected; his Grace conceiving a hasty idea that he also was concerned with Ferguson, and muttering under this impression that if such men were turning, it was vain to fight against the stream. I hastened to disabuse him of the notion by explaining how I came to fall into Ferguson’s hands. On which he asked me what I had done for the plotter, and how he had employed me.

  “He would send me on errands,” I answered, “and to fetch papers from the printers, and to carry his messages.”

  “To coffee-houses?”

  “Often, your Grace.”

  “Did he ever send you to Covent Garden?” he asked, looking fixedly at me.

  “Yes, your Grace, to a gentleman with a white handkerchief hanging from his pocket.”

  “Ha!” said he; and with an eager light in his face he bade me tell him all I knew of that man. This giving me the cue, I detailed what I had seen and heard at the Seven Stars the previous evening, the toast of the Squeezing of the Rotten Orange, the hints which had escaped the drunken conspirator, not forgetting his references to the Hunting Party, and the date, Saturday or Saturday week. I added also what I had learned from the girl, but mentioned for this no authority. To all my lord listened attentively, nodding from moment to moment, and at last, “Then Porter is not lying this time,” he said, drawing a deep breath. “I feared — but here we are. Follow me, my friend, and keep close to me.”

  Engrossed in my story, and the attention that was due to his rank, I had paid no heed either to the way we had come, or to our gradual passage from the smoke and babble of London to country air and stillness. A vague notion that we were still travelling the Oxford Road was all I retained: and this was rudely shaken when, recalled to the present by his words, I looked out, and discovered that the coach was bowling along an avenue of lofty trees, with park-like pastures stretched on either hand. I had no more than time to note so much and that the horses were slackening their pace, before we rumbled under an archway, and drew up in a spacious courtyard shut in on four sides by warm-looking red-brick buildings, whereof the wing under which we had driven was surmounted by a quaintly-shaded bell-turret.

  Ignorant where my lord lived, and little acquainted with the villages which lie around London, I supposed that he had brought me to his house. The sight of a couple of sentries, who walked with arms ported before a wide, low flight of steps leading to the principal door, should have enlightened me; but a flock of pigeons, that, disturbed by our entrance, were now settling down, and beginning to strut the gravel with the most absurd air of possession, caught my attention, and diverted me from this mark of State. Nor did a knot of servants, lounging silently under a portico, or two or three sedans which I espied waiting a little apart, go far to detract from the general air of peace and quietude which prevailed in the place. Other observations I had no time to make; for my lord, mounting the steps, bade me follow him.

  I did so, across a spacious hall floored with shining wood laid in strange patterns. Here were three or four servants, who stood at attention, but did not approach; and passing them without notice, we had reached the foot of a wide and handsome staircase before a person dressed plainly in black and carrying a tall slender wand came forward, and with a low bow interposed himself.

  “Your Grace’s pardon,” he said, “the Council has broken up.”

  “How long?”

  “About half an hour.”

  “Ah! And Lord Somers? Did he go back to town?”

  “Yes, your Grace, immediately.”

  The Duke at that asked a question which I, standing back a little out of respect, and being awed besides by the grande
ur of the place and the silence, did not catch. The answer, however, “Only Lord Portland and Mr. Sewell,” I heard; and likewise the Duke’s rejoinder, “I am going up.”

  “You will permit me to announce your Grace,” the other answered quickly. He seemed to be something between a gentleman and a servant.

  “No,” my lord said. “I am in haste, and I have that will be my warranty. This person goes with me.”

  “I hope your Grace — will answer for it then,” the man in black replied respectfully, but with a little hesitation in his tone.

  “I will answer for it that you are not blamed, Nash,” the Duke rejoined, with good nature. “Yes, yes. And now let us up.”

  On that the man with the wand stood aside — still a little doubtfully I thought — and let us pass: and my patron preceding me, we went up a wide staircase and along a silent corridor, and through one or two swing doors, the Duke seeming to be conversant with the house. It was impossible not to admire the sombre richness of the carved furniture, which stood here and there in the corridor; or the grotesque designs and eastern colouring of the China ware and Mogul idols that peered from the corners, or rose boldly on brackets. Such a mode of furnishing was new to me, but neither its novelty nor the evidences of wealth and taste which abundantly met the eye, impressed me so deeply as the stillness which everywhere prevailed; and which seemed so much a part of the place, that when his Grace opened the second swing door, and the shrill piping voice of a child, crowing and laughing in an ecstasy of infantile pleasure, came forth and met us, I started as if a gun had exploded.