Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  CHAPTER I

  A KNIGHT-ERRANT

  About a hundred and thirty years ago, when the third George, whom our grandfathers knew in his blind dotage, was a young and sturdy bridegroom; when old Q., whom 1810 found peering from his balcony in Piccadilly, deaf, toothless, and a skeleton, was that gay and lively spark, the Earl of March; when bore and boreish were words of haut ton, unknown to the vulgar, and the price of a borough was 5,000l.; when gibbets still served for sign-posts, and railways were not and highwaymen were — to be more exact, in the early spring of the year 1767, a travelling chariot-and-four drew up about five in the evening before the inn at Wheatley Bridge, a short stage from Oxford on the Oxford road. A gig and a couple of post-chaises, attended by the customary group of stablemen, topers, and gossips already stood before the house, but these were quickly deserted in favour of the more important equipage. The drawers in their aprons trooped out, but the landlord, foreseeing a rich harvest, was first at the door of the carriage, and opened it with a bow such as is rarely seen in these days.

  ‘Will your lordship please to alight?’ he said.

  ‘No, rascal!’ cried one of those within. ‘Shut the door!’

  ‘You wish fresh horses, my lord?’ the obsequious host replied. ‘Of course. They shall be—’

  ‘We wish nothing,’ was the brisk answer. ‘D’ye hear? Shut the door, and go to the devil!’

  Puzzled, but obedient, the landlord fell back on the servants, who had descended from their seat in front and were beating their hands one on another, for the March evening was chill. ‘What is up, gentlemen?’ he said.

  ‘Nothing. But we will put something down, by your leave,’ they answered.

  ‘Won’t they do the same?’ He cocked his thumb in the direction of the carriage.

  ‘No. You have such an infernal bad road, the dice roll,’ was the answer. ‘They will finish their game in quiet. That is all. Lord, how your folks stare! Have they never seen a lord before?’

  ‘Who is it?’ the landlord asked eagerly. ‘I thought I knew his Grace’s face.’

  Before the servant could answer or satisfy his inquisitiveness, the door of the carriage was opened in haste, and the landlord sprang to offer his shoulder. A tall young man whose shaped riding-coat failed to hide that which his jewelled hands and small French hat would alone have betrayed — that he was dressed in the height of fashion — stepped down. A room and a bottle of your best claret,’ he said. ‘And bring me ink and a pen.’

  ‘Immediately, my lord. This way, my lord. Your lordship will perhaps honour me by dining here?’

  ‘Lord, no! Do you think I want to be poisoned?’ was the frank answer. And looking about him with languid curiosity, the young peer, followed by a companion, lounged into the house.

  The third traveller — for three there were — by a gesture directed the servant to close the carriage door, and, keeping his seat, gazed sleepily through the window. The loitering crowd, standing at a respectful distance, returned his glances with interest, until an empty post-chaise, approaching from the direction of Oxford, rattled up noisily and split the group asunder. As the steaming horses stopped within a few paces of the chariot, the gentleman seated in the latter saw one of the ostlers go up to the post-chaise and heard him say, ‘Soon back, Jimmie?’

  ‘Ay, and I ha’ been stopped too,’ the postboy answered as he dropped his reins.

  ‘No!’ in a tone of surprise. ‘Was it Black Jack?’

  ‘Not he. ’Twas a woman!’

  A murmur of astonishment greeted the answer. The postboy grinned, and sitting easily in his pad prepared to enjoy the situation. ‘Ay, a woman!’ he said. ‘And a rare pair of eyes to that. What do you think she wanted, lads?’

  ‘The stuff, of course.’

  ‘Not she. Wanted one of them I took’ — and he jerked his elbow contemptuously in the direction whence he had come— ‘to fight a duel for her. One of they! Said, was he Mr. Berkeley, and would he risk his life for a woman.’

  The head ostler stared. ‘Lord! and who was it he was to fight?’ he asked at last.

  ‘She did not say. Her spark maybe, that has jilted her.’

  ‘And would they, Jimmie?’

  ‘They? Shoo! They were Methodists,’ the postboy answered contemptuously, ‘Scratch wigs and snuff-colour. If she had not been next door to a Bess of Bedlam and in a main tantrum, she would have seen that. But “Are you Mr. Berkeley?” she says, all on fire like. And “Will you fight for a woman?” And when they shrieked out, banged the door on them. But I tell you she was a pretty piece as you’d wish to see. If she had asked me, I would not have said no to her.’ And he grinned.

  The gentleman in the chariot opened a window. ‘Where did she stop you, my man?’ he asked idly.

  ‘Half a mile this side of Oxford, your worship,’ the postboy answered, knuckling his forehead. ‘Seemed to me, sir, she was a play actress. She had that sort of way with her.’

  The gentleman nodded and closed the window. The night had so far set in that they had brought out lights; as he sat back, one of these, hung in the carriage, shone on his features and betrayed that he was smiling. In this mood his face lost the air of affected refinement — which was then the mode, and went perfectly with a wig and ruffles — and appeared in its true cast, plain and strong, yet not uncomely. His features lacked the insipid regularity which, where all shaved, passed for masculine beauty; the nose ended largely, the cheek-bones were high, and the chin projected. But from the risk and even the edge of ugliness it was saved by a pair of grey eyes, keen, humorous, and kindly, and a smile that showed the eyes at their best. Of late those eyes had been known to express weariness and satiety; the man was tiring of the round of costly follies and aimless amusements in which he passed his life. But at twenty-six pepper is still hot in the mouth, and Sir George Soane continued to drink, game, and fribble, though the first pungent flavour of those delights had vanished, and the things themselves began to pall upon him.

  When he had sat thus ten minutes, smiling at intervals, a stir about the door announced that his companions were returning. The landlord preceded them, and was rewarded for his pains with half a guinea; the crowd with a shower of small silver. The postillions cracked their whips, the horses started forward, and amid a shrill hurrah my lord’s carriage rolled away from the door.

  ‘Now, who casts?’ the peer cried briskly, arranging himself in his seat. ‘George, I’ll set you. The old stakes?’

  ‘No, I am done for to-night,’ Sir George answered yawning without disguise.

  ‘What! crabbed, dear lad?’

  ‘Ay, set Berkeley, my lord. He’s a better match for you.’

  ‘And be robbed by the first highwayman we meet? No, no! I told you, if I was to go down to this damp hole of mine — fancy living a hundred miles from White’s! I should die if I could not game every day — you were to play with me, and Berkeley was to ensure my purse.’

  ‘He would as soon take it,’ Sir George answered languidly, gazing through the glass.

  ‘Sooner, by — !’ cried the third traveller, a saturnine, dark-faced man of thirty-four or more, who sat with his back to the horses, and toyed with a pistol that lay on the seat beside him. ‘I’m content if your lordship is.’

  ‘Then have at you! Call the main, Colonel. You may be the devil among the highwaymen — that was Selwyn’s joke, was it not? — but I’ll see the colour of your money.’

  ‘Beware of him. He doved March,’ Sir George said indifferently.

  ‘He won’t strip me,’ cried the young lord. ‘Five is the main. Five to four he throws crabs! Will you take, George?’

  Soane did not answer, and the two, absorbed in the rattle of the dice and the turns of their beloved hazard, presently forgot him; his lordship being the deepest player in London and as fit a successor to the luckless Lord Mountford as one drop of water to another. Thus left to himself, and as effectually screened from remark as if he sat alone, Sir George devoted himself to an eager sc
rutiny of the night, looking first through one window and then through the other; in which he persevered though darkness had fallen so completely that only the hedges showed in the lamplight, gliding giddily by in endless walls of white. On a sudden he dropped the glass with an exclamation, and thrust out his head.

  ‘Pull up!’ he cried. ‘I want to descend.’

  The young lord uttered a peevish exclamation. ‘What is to do?’ he continued, glancing round; then, instantly returning to the dice, ‘if it is my purse they want, say Berkeley is here. That will scare them. What are you doing, George?’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ was the answer; and in a twinkling Soane was out, and was ordering the servant, who had climbed down, to close the door. This effected, he strode back along the road to a spot where a figure, cloaked, and hooded, was just visible, lurking on the fringe of the lamplight. As he approached it, he raised his hat with an exaggeration of politeness.

  ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘you asked for me, I believe?’

  The woman — for a woman it was, though he could see no more of her than a pale face, staring set and Gorgon-like from under the hood — did not answer at once. Then, ‘Who are you?’ she said.

  ‘Colonel Berkeley,’ he answered with assurance, and again saluted her.

  ‘Who killed the highwayman at Hounslow last Christmas?’ she cried.

  ‘The same, madam.’

  ‘And shot Farnham Joe at Roehampton?’

  ‘Yes, madam. And much at your service.’

  ‘We shall see,’ she answered, her voice savagely dubious. ‘At least you are a gentleman and can use a pistol? But are you willing to risk something for justice’ sake?’

  ‘And the sake of your beaux yeux, madam?’ he answered, a laugh in his voice. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You mean it?’

  ‘Prove me,’ he answered.

  His tone was light; but the woman, who seemed to labour under strong emotion, either failed to notice this or was content to put up with it. ‘Then send on your carriage,’ she said.

  His jaw fell at that, and had there been light by which to see him he would have looked foolish. At last, ‘Are we to walk?’ he said.

  ‘Those are the lights of Oxford,’ she answered. ‘We shall be there in ten minutes.’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ he said, ‘A moment, if you please.’

  She waited while he went to the carriage and told the astonished servants to leave his baggage at the Mitre; this understood, he put in his head and announced to his host that he would come on next day. ‘Your lordship must excuse me to-night,’ he said.

  ‘What is up?’ my lord asked, without raising his eyes or turning his head. He had taken the box and thrown nicks three times running, at five guineas the cast; and was in the seventh heaven. ‘Ha! five is the main. Now you are in it, Colonel. What did you say, George? Not coming! What is it?’

  ‘An adventure.’

  ‘What! a petticoat?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sir George answered, smirking.

  ‘Well, you find ’em in odd places. Take care of yourself. But shut the door, that is a good fellow. There is a d —— d draught.’

  Sir George complied, and, nodding to the servants, walked back to the woman. As he reached her the carriage with its lights whirled away, and left them in darkness.

  Soane wondered if he were not a fool for his pains, and advanced a step nearer to conviction when the woman with an impatient ‘Come!’ started along the road; moving at a smart pace in the direction which the chariot had taken, and betraying so little shyness or timidity as to seem unconscious of his company. The neighbourhood of Oxford is low and flat, and except where a few lights marked the outskirts of the city a wall of darkness shut them in, permitting nothing to be seen that lay more than a few paces away. A grey drift of clouds, luminous in comparison with the gloom about them, moved slowly overhead, and out of the night the raving of a farm-dog or the creaking of a dry bough came to the ear with melancholy effect.

  The fine gentleman of that day had no taste for the wild, the rugged, or the lonely. He lived too near the times when those words spelled danger. He found at Almack’s his most romantic scene, at Ranelagh his terra incognita, in the gardens of Versailles his ideal of the charming and picturesque. Sir George, no exception to the rule, shivered as he looked round. He began to experience a revulsion of spirits; and to consider that, for a gentleman who owned Lord Chatham for a patron, and was even now on his roundabout way to join that minister — for a gentleman whose fortune, though crippled and impaired, was still tolerable, and who, where it had suffered, might look with confidence to see it made good at the public expense — or to what end patrons or ministers? — he began to reflect, I say, that for such an one to exchange a peer’s coach and good company for a night trudge at a woman’s heels was a folly, better befitting a boy at school than a man of his years. Not that he had ever been so wild as to contemplate anything serious; or from the first had entertained the most remote intention of brawling in an unknown cause. That was an extravagance beyond him; and he doubted if the girl really had it in her mind. The only adventure he had proposed, when he left the carriage, was one of gallantry; it was the only adventure then in vogue. And for that, now the time was come, and the incognita and he were as much alone as the most ardent lover could wish, he felt singularly disinclined.

  True, the outline of her cloak, and the indications of a slender, well-formed shape which it permitted to escape, satisfied him that the postboy had not deceived him; but that his companion was both young and handsome. And with this and his bargain it was to be supposed he would be content. But the pure matter-of-factness of the girl’s manner, her silence, and her uncompromising attitude, as she walked by his side, cooled whatever ardour her beauty and the reflection that he had jockeyed Berkeley were calculated to arouse; and it was with an effort that he presently lessened the distance between them.

  ‘Et vera incessu patuit dea!’ he said, speaking in the tone between jest and earnest which he had used before. ‘“And all the goddess in her step appears.” Which means that you have the prettiest walk in the world, my dear — but whither are you taking me?’

  She went steadily on, not deigning an answer.

  ‘But — my charmer, let us parley,’ he remonstrated, striving to maintain a light tone. ‘In a minute we shall be in the town and—’

  ‘I thought that we understood one another,’ she answered curtly, still continuing to walk, and to look straight before her; in which position her hood, hid her face. ‘I am taking you where I want you.’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. But under his breath he muttered, ‘By heaven, I believe that the pretty fool really thinks — that I am going to fight for her!’

  To a man who had supped at White’s the night before, and knew his age to be the âge des philosophes, it seemed the wildest fancy in the world. And his distaste grew. But to break off and leave her — at any rate until he had put it beyond question that she had no underthought — to break off and leave her after placing himself in a situation so humiliating, was too much for the pride of a Macaroni. The lines of her head and figure too, half guessed and half revealed, and wholly light and graceful, had caught his fancy and created a desire to subjugate her. Reluctantly, therefore, he continued to walk beside her, over Magdalen Bridge, and thence by a path which, skirting the city, ran across the low wooded meadows at the back of Merton.

  A little to the right the squat tower of the college loomed against the lighter rack of clouds, and rising amid the dark lines of trees that beautify that part of the outskirts, formed a coup d’oeil sufficiently impressive. Here and there, in such of the chamber windows as looked over the meadows, lights twinkled cheerfully; emboldened by which, yet avoiding their scope, pairs of lovers of the commoner class sneaked to and fro under the trees. Whether the presence of these recalled early memories which Sir George’s fastidiousness found unpalatable, or he felt his fashion, smirched by the vulgarity of this Venus-walk, his im
patience grew; and was not far from bursting forth when his guide turned sharply into an alley behind the cathedral, and, after threading a lane of mean houses, entered a small court.

  The place, though poor and narrow, was not squalid. Sir George could see so much by the light which shone from a window and fell on a group of five or six persons, who stood about the nearest door and talked in low, excited voices. He had a good view of one man’s face, and read in it gloom and anger. Then the group made way for the girl, eyeing her, as he thought, with pity and a sort of deference; and cursing the folly that had brought him into such a place and situation, wondering what on earth it all meant or in what it would end, he followed her into the house.

  She opened a door on the right-hand side of the narrow passage, and led the way into a long, low room. For a moment he saw no more than two lights on a distant table, and kneeling at a chair beside them a woman with grey dishevelled hair, who seemed to be praying, her face hidden. Then his gaze, sinking instinctively, fell on a low bed between him and the woman; and there rested on a white sheet, and on the solemn outlines — so certain in their rigidity, so unmistakable by human eyes — of a body laid out for burial.

  CHAPTER II

  A MISADVENTURE

  To be brought up short in an amorous quest by such a sight as that was a shock alike to Soane’s better nature and his worse dignity. The former moved him to stand silent and abashed, the latter to ask with an indignant curse why he had been brought to that place. And the latter lower instinct prevailed. But when he raised his head to put the question with the necessary spirt of temper, he found that the girl had left his side and passed to the other hand of the dead; where, the hood thrown back from her face, she stood looking at him with such a gloomy fire in her eyes as it needed but a word, a touch, a glance to kindle into a blaze.

  At the moment, however, he thought less of this than of the beauty of the face which he saw for the first time. It was a southern face, finely moulded, dark and passionate, full-lipped, yet wide of brow, with a generous breadth between the eyes. Seldom had he seen a woman more beautiful; and he stood silent, the words he had been about to speak dying stillborn on his lips.