Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  In the meantime we moved on; and at first my companion seemed to be unconscious of my sluggish pace and my perturbation. But presently I felt rather than saw that from minute to minute he glanced at me askance, and that after each of these inspections he laughed silently. The knowledge that I lay under this observation immeasurably increased my embarrassment. I could no longer put a fair face on the matter, but every time he looked at me looked away guiltily, unable to support his eyes. This presently grew so insupportable that to escape from my embarrassment I coughed and affected to choke.

  “You have a cold, I am afraid,” he said, scarcely concealing the sneer in his tone. “And yet you look warm. You must have walked fast, my friend?”

  I muttered that I had.

  “To overtake me, perhaps! It was good of you,” he said in the same tone of secret badinage. “But we are here. What part of the Fields do you want? Whitecross Street?”

  “No,” I muttered.

  “Then it must be Baxter’s Rents.”

  “No.”

  “Bunhill Row?”

  “No.”

  “No? Well, there is not much else here,” he said; and he shrugged his shoulders, “except the Fields and the burial-ground. Your business does not lie with the latter, I suppose?”

  “No,” I said faintly. And we stood.

  At another time I must have shuddered at the dreary expanse on this uttermost fringe of the town that stretched before us under a waning light; an expanse of waste land broken only by the wall of the burial-ground, or the chimney of a brick-kiln, and bordered, where its limits were visible, by half-built houses, and squatter huts, and vast piles of refuse. Ugly as the prospect was, however, and far from reassuring to the timorous, I asked nothing better than to look at it. and look at it, and continue to look at it. But Mr. Smith, who did not understand this mood, turned with an impatient laugh.

  “I suppose that you did not come here to look at that,” said he.

  Like a fool I jumped at the absurd, the flimsy pretext.

  “Yes,” I said. “I — I merely came to take the air.”

  The moment the words were spoken I trembled at my audacity. But he took it better than I expected, for he merely paused to stare at me, and then chuckled grimly.

  “Well,” he said, “then, now that you have taken the air let us go back. Have you anything to object to that, Mr. Taylor?”

  I could find nothing.

  “I will come with you,” he continued. “I want to see Ferguson, and we can settle my business there.”

  But this only presented to me a dreadful vision of Ferguson, released from his bonds, and mad with rage and the desire to avenge himself; and I stopped short.

  “I am not going there,” I said.

  “No? Then where, may I ask, are you going?” he answered, watching me with a placid amusement, which made it as clear as the daylight, that he saw through my evasions. “Where is it my lord’s pleasure to go?”

  “To Brome’s, in Fleet Street,” I said hoarsely. And if he had had his back to me at that instant, and I a knife in my hand, I could have run him through! For as I said it, and he with mocking suavity assented, and we stepped out together to return the way we had come through Long Lane — over which the sky hung low in a dull yellow haze, the last of the western light — I had a swift and stinging recollection of the King and my lord, and the letter, and the passage of time; and could have sprung from his side, and poured out curses on him in the impotence of my rage and impatience. For the hour of grace which the King had granted was gone, and a second was passing, and still the letter that should warn the Duke of Berwick lay in my pocket, and I saw no chance of delivering it.

  That Smith discerned the chagrin which this enforced companionship caused me — though not the ground of it — was as plain as that the fact gave him pleasure of no common kind. I had no longer such a command of my features that I could trust myself to look at him; but I was conscious, using some other sense, that he frequently looked at me, and always after these inspections, smiled like a man who finds something to his taste. And I hated him.

  How long with these feelings I could have borne to go with him, or what I should have done in the last resort had he continued the same tactics, remains unproved; for at the same corner half-way down Long Lane, where I had first espied him, he paused. “I want to go in here,” he said coolly. “I need only detain you a moment, Mr. Taylor.”

  “I will wait for you,” I muttered, tingling all over with sudden hope. While he was inside I could run for it.

  “Very well,” he said. “This way.”

  I fancied that he suspected nothing, and that perhaps I had been wrong throughout; and overjoyed I went with him to the door of the house from which I had seen him emerge; my intention being to begone hotfoot the instant his back was turned. The house was three-storied high, narrow and commonplace, one of a row not long built, and but partially inhabited. Apparently he was at home there, for taking a key from his pocket, he opened the door; and stood aside for me to enter.

  “I will wait,” I muttered.

  “Very well. Yon can wait inside,” he answered.

  If I had been wise I should have turned there and then, in the open street, and taking to my heels have run for my life and stayed for nothing. But, partly fool and partly craven, clinging to a hope which was scarcely a belief, that when he went upstairs or into another room, I might stealthily unlatch the door and begone, I let myself be persuaded; and I entered. The moment I had done so, he whipped out the key and thrusting the door to with his shoulder, locked it on the inside.

  Then the man threw off all disguise. He turned with a laugh of triumph to where I stood trembling in the half-dark passage. “Now,” he said, “we will have that letter, if you please, Mr. Taylor. I have a fancy to see what is in it.”

  “The letter!” I faltered.

  “Yes, the letter!”

  “I have no letter,” I said.

  “Tut-tut, letter or no letter, out with it! Do you think I could not see you touching your breast every half minute, to make sure that you had it safe — and not know what was in the wind! You are a poor plotter, Mr. Taylor, and I doubt if you will ever be of any use to me. But come, out with it! Unless you want me to be rough with you. Out with whatever it is you have there, and no tricks!”

  He had a way with him when he spoke in that tone, not loudly but between his teeth, his eyes at the same time growing towards one another, that was worse than Ferguson’s pistol; and I was alone with him in an empty house. Some, who would have done what I did, may blame me; but in the main the world is sensible, and I shall forfeit no prudent man’s esteem when I confess that, after one attempt at evasion which he met by wrenching my coat open, and thrusting me against the wail so violently that my head spun again, I gave up the letter.

  “I warn you! I warn you!” I cried, in a paroxysm of rage and grief. “It is for the Duke of Berwick, and if you open it — —”

  “For the Duke of Berwick?” he answered, pausing and gazing at me with his finger on the seal. “Why, you fool, why did you not tell me that before? From whom? From that scum, Ferguson?”

  “From the Duke of Shrewsbury,” I cried, rendered reckless by my rage.

  “What?” he cried, in a voice of extraordinary surprise.

  “NOW WE WILL HAVE THAT LETTER, IF YOU PLEASE”

  “From the Duke of Shrewsbury,” I repeated; thinking that he had not understood me.

  “My God!” he said, with a deep breath. “And have I caught the fox at last!”

  “You are more likely to be caught yourself!” I answered, furiously.

  Nevertheless, his words were a puzzle to me; but his tone of slow growing, almost incredulous triumph told something. Taking very little heed of me, and merely signing to me to follow him, he sprang up the stairs, and opening a door led the way into a back-room bare and miserable, but lighted by the last yellow glow of the western sky. It was possible to read here, and without a moment’s hesi
tation he broke the seal of the letter, and tearing the packet open, read the contents.

  That the perusal gave him immense satisfaction his face, which in the level light, cast by the window, seemed to gleam with unholy joy, was witness, no less than his movements. Flourishing the letter in uncontrollable excitement he twice strode the floor, muttering unformed sentences. Then he looked at the paper again and his jaw fell. “But it is not his hand!” he cried, staring at it in very plain dismay. And then recovering himself afresh, “No matter,” he said. “It is his name, and the veriest fool would have used another hand. Is it yours? Did you write it, blockhead?”

  “No,” I said.

  “No! But now I think of it — thousand devils, how came you by it? By this — eh?” he rapped out. “This letter? What d —— d hocus pocus is here? What have you to do with the Duke of Shrewsbury, that he makes you his messenger?”

  He bent his brows on me, and I knew that I had never been in greater danger in my life. Yet something of evil came to me in this extremity. Comprehending that if I said I came from Kensington I might expect the worst, I lied to him; yet used the truth where it suited me. “The Duke came to Ferguson’s,” I said.

  “To Ferguson’s?” he answered, staring at me.

  “Yes, and bade him get that to the Duke, for his lodging was known and warrants would be out.”

  Smith clapped his hands together softly. “What!” he cried. “Is he in it as deep as that? Oh, the cunning! Oh, the cunning of him! And I to be going to all this trouble, and close on despair at that! And — Ferguson gave you the letter?”

  “They both did.”

  “That old fox, too! And I was beginning to think him a bygone! Yet he beats us all! he beats us all! Or he would have beaten us if he had not trusted this silly. But I am forgetting. The Duke must be warned — if he has not started. When was this given to you, Mr. Trusty Taylor?”

  “Two hours ago,” I said, sullenly.

  I was pleased to see that that alarmed him. “You fool!” he said, “why did you not tell me at once what you had got, and whither you were going? If the Duke is taken it will lie at your door. And if he is saved, it will be to my credit.”

  “I will come with you,” I said, plucking up a spirit as I saw him about to leave.

  “No, you will not,” he answered, drily. “I am much obliged to you, but I prefer to gain the credit and tell the tale my own way. You will stay here, Mr. Taylor, and when the Duke is away I’ll come and release you. In the meantime I would advise you to keep quiet. Hoity-toity, what is this?” he continued, as in my despair I tried to push by him, “Go back, you fool, or it will be the worse for you. You are not going out.”

  And, resisting all my appeals and remonstrances, he thrust me forcibly from the door; and whipping outside it, locked it on me. In vain I hammered on it with my fist and called after him, and threatened him. He clattered unheeding down the stair, and I heard the house-door slammed and locked. I listened a moment, but all remained quiet; and then, wild with rage, I turned to the window, thinking that by that way I might still escape. Alas, it looked only into a walled yard, and was strongly barred to boot.

  God knows I thought myself then the most unlucky of men; a man ruined when on the point of a great and seemingly assured success. I flung myself down in my despair, and could have dashed my head against the boards. But presently, in the midst of my bewailing myself, and when the first convulsive fit of rage was abating, a new thought brought me to my feet in a panic. What if Smith, before he returned, fell in with Ferguson? The meeting was the more probable, inasmuch as, if Ferguson succeeded in freeing himself, he was as likely to hasten to the Duke of Berwick to warn him as to do anything else. At any rate I was not inclined to sit weighing the chances nicely, but hastening frantically to the door, I tried it with knee and shoulder. To my joy it yielded somewhat; on which, throwing caution aside, I drew back and flung myself against it with all my weight. The lock gave way, and the door flying open, I came near to falling headlong down the stairs.

  Still, I had succeeded. But I soon found that I was little nearer freedom than before. The passage was now dark, and the house-door, when I found my way to it, resisted all my efforts. This drove me to seek another egress, which it was far from easy to find. At length, and by dint of groping about, I hit on a door which led into a downstairs room; it was unlocked and I entered, feeling before me with my hands. The darkness, the silence of the empty house, and my hurry, formed a situation to appal the boldest; but I was desperate, and extending my arms I trod cautiously across the room to where the window should be, and sought for and found the shutters. I tried the bar, and to my joy felt it swing. I let it down softly and dragged the shutters open, and sweating at every pore, saw through the leaded panes the dark dull lane outside, with a faint light from a neighbouring window falling on the wall opposite.

  I SAW A MAN HAD COME TO A STAND BEFORE THE DOOR

  I was seeking for a part of the window that opened, and wondering whether, failing that, I should have the courage to burst the casement and run for it, when a step approaching along the lane set my heart beating. The step came nearer and paused, and peering out, my face nearer the glass, I saw a man had come to a stand before the door. I looked, and then, to say that my knees quivered under me but faintly expresses the terror I felt! For as the man moved he brought himself within the circle of light I have mentioned, and at the same time he raised his face, doubtless after searching in his pocket for the key; and through the glass my eyes met those of Ferguson.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  If, a few minutes before, I had thought myself the most unlucky of men and placed by that which had already happened beyond fear or misfortune, I knew better when I saw that sight from the window; and fell back into the darkness, as if even from the road and through the panes Ferguson’s eyes must discover me. Ignorant whether the room in which I stood contained anything to shelter me, or barewalled must of necessity discover me to the first person who entered with a light, my natural impulse, when the moment of panic passed, was to escape from it.

  But it was not easy to do this in haste. By the time that, trembling in every limb, I had groped my way into the passage, the key was turning in the lock of the outer door, and I saw myself within an arm’s length of capture. This so terrified me that I sprang desperately for the staircase, but stumbled over the lowest step, and fell on my knees with a crash that seemed to shake the walls. For a moment the pain was so sharp that I could only lie where I fell; nor when, spurred by the imminence of the danger, I had got to my feet, could I do more than crawl up the stairs and crouch down on the landing, a little to one side, and out of eye-shot from below.

  Willingly now, in return for present safety, would I have forgiven Fortune all her past buffets; for if Ferguson came up, as I thought him sure to come up, I was lost; since I could neither retreat without noise, nor if I could, knew where to hide. In this extremity, my heart beating so thickly that I could scarcely listen, and thought I must choke, I was relieved to hear Ferguson — after spending what seemed to me to be an age, striking flint and steel in the passage — go grumbling into the lower room, whence a glimmer falling on the wall of the passage told me that he had at last succeeded in procuring a light.

  It was no surprise to me as I sweated and cringed in my hiding-place, to learn that he was in the worst of tempers. I heard him swear — as I supposed — at the open shutter; then, almost before I had thanked Providence for present safety, he was out again in the passage. I made no doubt that he was going to ascend now, and I gave myself up for lost. But instead, he stood and called “Mary! Mary! Do ye hear, you hussy? If ye are hiding above there, it will be the worse for you, ye d —— d baggage! Come down, d’ye hear me?”

  Surely now, I thought, getting no answer, he would come up, and my heart stood. But it seemed he called only to make sure, and not because he thought that she was above; for he went back into the lower room, and I heard him moving to and fro, and going about to lig
ht a fire, the crackling of which gave an odd note of cheerfulness in the house. I was beginning to weigh the possibility of slipping by the half-open door, on the chance of finding the outer door unfastened; and with this in view, had risen to my feet, when a key again grated in the lock, and supposing it to be Smith, I returned to my former position.

  Had it been Smith, it would have been some comfort to me; for I thought him more prudent if no less dangerous than the plotter, and I fancied that I had more to fear from one than from two. But the step that entered was lighter than a man’s, while Ferguson’s greeting told the rest and made the situation clear.

  “Ha, you are here at last, are you!” he cried with an angry oath. “Did you want me to break every bone in your body, lass, that you stayed out till now, and I to have the fire to light? You should have a pretty good tale to tell or have kept clear of this! D’ye hear me? Speak, you viper, and don’t stand there glowering like a wood-cat!”

  “I am here now,” was the answer. My heart leapt, for the voice was Mary’s; the tone, sullen and weary, I could understand.

  “Here now!” he retorted. “And that is to be all, is it? Perhaps, my girl, I will presently show you two minds about that. Where is the baggage?”

  “It is not here.”

  “Not here?” he cried.

  “No,” she answered.

  “And why not, you Jezebel?”

  “You need not misname me,” she answered coolly. “I was followed and could not come here; and I could not carry it about with me all day. And I could not send it, for there was no one here to take it in. It is at the Spread Eagle in Gracechurch Street, to go by tomorrow’s waggon to Colchester. That is what I told them, but it can be fetched away to-morrow.”