Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  With all its charms, however, the traveller, as we have said, stayed there but a night or so. Those in the house, therefore, would move on, and so room could be made. And so room was made; and two days later, a little after sunset, amid a spasm of final preparation, and with a great parade of arrival, the earl’s procession, curricle, chariot, coaches, chaises, and footmen, rolled in from the west. In a trice lights flashed everywhere, in the road, at the windows, on the mound, among the trees; the crowd thickened — every place seemed peopled with the Pitt liveries. Women, vowing that they were cramped to death, called languidly for chaise-doors to be opened; and men who had already descended, and were stretching their limbs in the road, ran to open them. This was in the rear of the procession; in front, where the throng of townsfolk closed most thickly round the earl’s travelling chariot, was a sudden baring of heads, as the door of the coach was opened. The landlord, bowing lower than he had ever bowed to the proud Duke of Somerset, offered his shoulder. And then men waited and bent nearer; and nothing happening, looked at one another in surprise. Still no one issued; instead, something which the nearest could not catch was said, and a tall lady, closely hooded, stepped stiffly out and pointed to the house. On which the landlord and two or three servants hurried in; and all was expectation.

  The men were out again in a moment, bearing a great chair, which they set with nicety at the door of the carriage. This done, the gapers saw what they had come to see. For an instant, the face that all England knew and all Europe feared — but blanched, strained, and drawn with pain — showed in the opening. For a second the crowd was gratified with a glimpse of a gaunt form, a star and ribbon; then, with a groan heard far through the awestruck silence, the invalid sank heavily into the chair, and was borne swiftly and silently into the house.

  Men looked at one another; but the fact was better than their fears. My lord, after leaving Bath, had had a fresh attack of the gout; and when he would be able to proceed on his journey only Dr. Addington, his physician, whose gold-headed cane, great wig, and starched aspect did not foster curiosity, could pretend to say. Perhaps Mr. Smith, the landlord, was as much concerned as any; when he learned the state of the case, he fell to mental arithmetic with the assistance of his fingers, and at times looked blank. Counting up the earl and his gentleman, and his gentleman’s gentleman, and his secretary, and his private secretary, and his physician, and his three friends and their gentlemen, and my lady and her woman, and the children and nurses, and a crowd of others, he could not see where to-morrow’s travellers were to lie, supposing the minister remained. However, in the end, he set that aside as a question for to-morrow; and having seen Mr. Rigby’s favourite bin opened (for Dr. Addington was a connoisseur), and reviewed the cooks dishing up the belated dinner — which an endless chain of servants carried to the different apartments — he followed to the principal dining-room, where the minister’s company were assembled; and between the intervals of carving and seeing that his guests ate to their liking, enjoyed the conversation, and, when invited, joined in it with tact and self-respect. As became a host of the old school.

  By this time lights blazed in every window of the great mansion; the open doors emitted a fragrant glow of warmth and welcome; the rattle of plates and hum of voices could be heard in the road a hundred paces away. But outside and about the stables the hubbub had somewhat subsided, the road had grown quiet, and the last townsfolk had withdrawn, when a little after seven the lamps of a carriage appeared in the High Street, approaching from the town. It swept round the church, turned the flank of the house, and in a twinkling drew up before the pillars.

  ‘Hilloa! House!’ cried the postillion. ‘House!’ And, cracking his whip on his boot, he looked up at the rows of lighted windows.

  A man and a maid who travelled outside climbed down. As the man opened the carriage door, a servant bustled out of the house. ‘Do you want fresh horses?’ said he, in a kind of aside to the footman.

  ‘No — rooms!’ the man answered bluntly.

  Before the other could reply, ‘What is this?’ cried a shrewish voice from the interior of the carriage. ‘Hoity toity! This is a nice way of receiving company! You, fellow, go to your master and say that I am here.’

  ‘Say that the Lady Dunborough is here,’ an unctuous voice repeated, ‘and requires rooms, dinners, fire, and the best he has. And do you be quick, fellow!’

  The speaker was Mr. Thomasson, or rather Mr. Thomasson plus the importance which comes of travelling with a viscountess. This, and perhaps the cramped state of his limbs, made him a little long in descending. ‘Will your ladyship wait? or will you allow me to have the honour of assisting you to descend?’ he continued, shivering slightly from the cold. To tell the truth, he was not enjoying his honour on cheap terms. Save the last hour, her ladyship’s tongue had gone without ceasing, and Mr. Thomasson was sorely in need of refreshment.

  ‘Descend? No!’ was the tart answer. ‘Let the man come! Sho! Times are changed since I was here last. I had not to wait then, or break my shins in the dark! Has the impudent fellow gone in?’

  He had, but at this came out again, bearing lights before his master. The host, with the civility which marked landlords in those days — the halcyon days of inns — hurried down the steps to the carriage. ‘Dear me! Dear me! I am most unhappy!’ he exclaimed. ‘Had I known your ladyship was travelling, some arrangement should have been made. I declare, my lady, I would not have had this happen for twenty pounds! But—’

  ‘But what, man! What is the man mouthing about?’ she cried impatiently.

  ‘I am full,’ he said, extending his palms to express his despair.’ The Earl of Chatham and his lordship’s company travelling from Bath occupy all the west wing and the greater part of the house; and I have positively no rooms fit for your ladyship’s use. I am grieved, desolated, to have to say this to a person in your ladyship’s position,’ he continued glibly, ‘and an esteemed customer, but—’ and again he extended his hands.

  ‘A fig for your desolation!’ her ladyship cried rudely. ‘It don’t help me, Smith.’

  ‘But your ladyship sees how it is.’

  ‘I am hanged if I do!’ she retorted, and used an expression too coarse for modern print. ‘But I suppose that there is another house, man.’

  ‘Certainly, my lady — several,’ the landlord answered, with a gesture of deprecation. ‘But all full. And the accommodation not of a kind to suit your ladyship’s tastes.’

  ‘Then — what are we to do?’ she asked with angry shrillness.

  ‘We have fresh horses,’ he ventured to suggest. ‘The road is good, and in four hours, or four and a half at the most, your ladyship might be in Bath, where there is an abundance of good lodgings.’

  ‘Bless the man!’ cried the angry peeress. ‘Does he think I have a skin of leather to stand this jolting and shaking? Four hours more! I’ll lie in my carriage first!’

  A small rain was beginning to fall, and the night promised to be wet as well as cold. Mr. Thomasson, who had spent the last hour, while his companion slept, in visions of the sumptuous dinner, neat wines, and good beds that awaited him at the Castle Inn, cast a despairing glance at the doorway, whence issued a fragrance that made his mouth water. ‘Oh, positively,’ he cried, addressing the landlord, ‘something must be done, my good man. For myself, I can sleep in a chair if her ladyship can anyway be accommodated.’

  ‘Well,’ said the landlord dubiously, ‘if her ladyship could allow her woman to lie with her?’

  ‘Bless the man! Why did you not say that at once?’ cried my lady. ‘Oh, she may come!’ This last in a voice that promised little comfort for the maid.

  ‘And if the reverend gentleman — would put up with a couch below stairs?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr. Thomasson; but faintly, now it came to the point.

  ‘Then I think I can manage — if your ladyship will not object to sup with some guests who have just arrived, and are now sitting down? Friends of Sir George Soane,’ t
he landlord hastened to add, ‘whom your ladyship probably knows.’

  ‘Drat the man! — too well!’ Lady Dunborough answered, making a wry face. For by this time she had heard all about the duel. ‘He has nearly cost me dear! But, there — if we must, we must. Let me get my tooth in the dinner, and I won’t stand on my company.’ And she proceeded to descend, and, the landlord going before her, entered the house.

  In those days people were not so punctilious in certain directions as they now are. My lady put off her French hood and travelling cloak in the lobby of the east wing, gave her piled-up hair a twitch this way and that, unfastened her fan from her waist, and sailed in to supper, her maid carrying her gloves and scent-bottle behind her. The tutor, who wore no gloves, was a little longer. But having washed his hands at a pump in the scullery, and dried them on a roller-towel — with no sense that the apparatus was deficient — he tucked his hat under his arm and, handling his snuff-box, tripped after her as hastily as vanity and an elegant demeanour permitted.

  He found her in the act of joining, with an air of vast condescension, a party of three; two of whom her stately salute had already frozen in their places. These two, a slight perky man of middle age, and a frightened rustic-looking woman in homely black — who, by the way, sat with her mouth, open and her knife and fork resting points upward on the table — could do nothing but stare. The third, a handsome girl, very simply dressed, returned her ladyship’s gaze with mingled interest and timidity.

  My lady noticed this, and the girl’s elegant air and shape, and set down the other two for her duenna and her guardian’s man of business. Aware that Sir George Soane had no sister, she scented scandal, and lost not a moment in opening the trenches.

  ‘And how far have you come to-day, child?’ she asked with condescension, as soon as she had taken her seat.

  ‘From Reading, madam,’ the girl answered in a voice low and restrained. Her manner was somewhat awkward, and she had a shy air, as if her surroundings were new to her, But Lady Dunborough was more and more impressed with her beauty, and a natural air of refinement that was not to be mistaken.

  ‘The roads are insufferably crowded,’ said the peeress. ‘They are intolerable!’

  ‘I am afraid you suffered some inconvenience,’ the girl answered timidly.

  At that moment Mr. Thomasson entered. He treated the strangers to a distant bow, and, without looking at them, took his seat with a nonchalant ease, becoming a man who travelled with viscountesses, and was at home in the best company. The table had his first hungry glance. He espied roast and cold, a pair of smoking ducklings just set on, a dish of trout, a round of beef, a pigeon-pie, and hot rolls. Relieved, he heaved a sigh of satisfaction.

  ‘‘Pon honour this is not so bad!’ he said. ‘It is not what your ladyship is accustomed to, but at a pinch it will do. It will do!’

  He was not unwilling that the strangers should know his companion’s rank, and he stole a glance at them, as he spoke, to see what impression it made. Alas! the deeper impression was made on himself. For a moment he stared; the next he sprang to his feet with an oath plain and strong.

  ‘Drat the man!’ cried my lady in wrath. He had come near to oversetting her plate. ‘What flea has bitten you now?’

  ‘Do you know — who these people are?’ Mr. Thomasson stammered, trembling with rage; and, resting both hands on the back of his chair, he glared now at them and now at Lady Dunborough. He could be truculent where he had nothing to fear; and he was truculent now.

  ‘These people?’ my lady drawled in surprise; and she inspected them through her quizzing-glass as coolly as if they were specimens of a rare order submitted to her notice. ‘Not in the least, my good man. Who are they? Should I know them?’

  ‘They are—’

  But the little man, whose seat happened to be opposite the tutor’s, had risen to his feet by this time; and at that word cut him short. ‘Sir!’ he cried in a flutter of agitation. ‘Have a care! Have a care what you say! I am a lawyer, and I warn you that anything defamatory will — will be—’

  ‘Pooh!’ said Mr. Thomasson. ‘Don’t try to browbeat me, sir. These persons are impostors, Lady Dunborough! Impostors!’ he continued. ‘In this house, at any rate. They have no right to be here!’

  ‘You shall pay for this!’ shrieked Mr. Fishwick. For he it was.

  ‘I will ring the bell,’ the tutor continued in a high tone, ‘and have them removed. They have no more to do with Sir George Soane, whose name they appear to have taken, than your ladyship has.’

  ‘Have a care! Have a care, sir,’ cried the lawyer, trembling.

  ‘Or than I have!’ persisted Mr. Thomasson hardily, and with his head in the air; ‘and no right or title to be anywhere but in the servants’ room. That is their proper place. Lady Dunborough,’ he continued, his eyes darting severity at the three culprits, ‘are you aware that this young person whom you have been so kind as to notice is — is—’

  ‘Oh, Gadzooks, man, come to the point!’ cried her ladyship, with one eye on the victuals.

  ‘No, I will not shame her publicly,’ said Mr. Thomasson, swelling with virtuous self-restraint. ‘But if your ladyship would honour me with two words apart?’

  Lady Dunborough rose, muttering impatiently; and Mr. Thomasson, with the air of a just man in a parable, led her a little aside; but so that the three who remained at the table might still feel that his eye and his reprehension rested on them. He spoke a few words to her ladyship; whereon she uttered a faint cry, and stiffened. A moment and she turned and came back to the table, her face crimson, her headdress nodding. She looked at the girl, who had just risen to her feet.

  ‘You baggage!’ she hissed, ‘begone! Out of this house! How dare you sit in my presence?’ And she pointed to the door.

  CHAPTER IX

  ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON

  The scene presented by the room at this moment was sufficiently singular. The waiters, drawn to the spot by the fury of my lady’s tone, peered in at the half-opened door, and asking one another what the fracas was about, thought so; and softly called to others to witness it. On one side of the table rose Lady Dunborough, grim and venomous; on the other the girl stood virtually alone — for the elder woman had fallen to weeping helplessly, and the attorney seemed to be unequal to this new combatant. Even so, and though her face betrayed trouble and some irresolution, she did not blench, but faced her accuser with a slowly rising passion that overcame her shyness.

  ‘Madam,’ she said, ‘I did not clearly catch your name. Am I right in supposing that you are Lady Dunborough?’

  The peeress swallowed her rage with difficulty. ‘Go!’ she cried, and pointed afresh to the door. ‘How dare you bandy words with me? Do you hear me? Go!’

  ‘I am not going at your bidding,’ the girl answered slowly. ‘Why do you speak to me like that?’ And then, ‘You have no right to speak to me in that way!’ she continued, in a flush of indignation.

  ‘You impudent creature!’ Lady Dunborough cried. ‘You shameless, abandoned baggage! Who brought you in out of the streets? You, a kitchen-wench, to be sitting at this table smiling at your betters! I’ll — Ring the bell! Ring the bell, fool!’ she continued impetuously, and scathed Mr. Thomasson with a look. ‘Fetch the landlord, and let me see this impudent hussy thrown out! Ay, madam, I suppose you are here waiting for my son; but you have caught me instead, and I’ll be bound. I’ll—’

  ‘You’ll disgrace yourself,’ the girl retorted with quiet pride. But she was very white. ‘I know nothing of your son.’

  ‘A fig for the lie, mistress!’ cried the old harridan; and added, as was too much the fashion in those days, a word we cannot print. The Duchess of Northumberland had the greater name for coarseness; but Lady Dunborough’s tongue was known in town. ‘Ay, that smartens you, does it? ‘she continued with cruel delight; for the girl had winced as from a blow. ‘But here comes the landlord, and now out you go. Ay, into the streets, mistress! Hoity-toity, that dirt like you sho
uld sit at tables! Go wash the dishes, slut!’

  There was not a waiter who saw the younger woman’s shame who did not long to choke the viscountess. As for the attorney, though he had vague fears of privilege before his eyes, and was clogged by the sex of the assailant, he could remain silent no longer.

  ‘My lady,’ he cried, in a tone of trembling desperation, ‘you will — you will repent this! You don’t know what you are doing. I tell you that to-morrow—’

  ‘What is this?’ said a quiet voice. It was the landlord’s; he spoke as he pushed his way through the group at the door. ‘Has your ladyship some complaint to make?’ he continued civilly, his eye taking in the scene — even to the elder woman, who through her tears kept muttering, ‘Deary, we ought not to have come here! I told him we ought not to come here!’ And then, before her ladyship could reply, ‘Is this the party — that have Sir George Soane’s rooms?’ he continued, turning to the nearest servant.

  Lady Dunborough answered for the man. ‘Ay!’ she said, pitiless in her triumph. ‘They are! And know no more of Soane than the hair of my head! They are a party of fly-by-nights; and for this fine madam, she is a kitchen dish-washer at Oxford! And the commonest, lowest slut that—’

  ‘Your ladyship has said enough,’ the landlord interposed, moved by pity or the girl’s beauty. ‘I know already that there has been some mistake here, and that these persons have no right to the rooms they occupy. Sir George Soane has alighted within the last few minutes—’

  ‘And knows nothing of them!’ my lady cried, clapping her hands in triumph.

  ‘That is so,’ the landlord answered ominously. Then, turning to the bewildered attorney, ‘For you, sir,’ he continued, ‘if you have anything to say, be good enough to speak. On the face of it, this is a dirty trick you have played me.’

  ‘Trick?’ cried the attorney.

  ‘Ay, trick, man. But before I send for the constable—’

  ‘The constable?’ shrieked Mr. Fishwick. Truth to tell, it had been his own idea to storm the splendours of the Castle Inn; and for certain reasons he had carried it in the teeth of his companions’ remonstrances. Now between the suddenness of the onslaught made on them, the strangeness of the surroundings, Sir George’s inopportune arrival, and the scornful grins of the servants who thronged the doorway, he was cowed. For a moment his wonted sharpness deserted him; he faltered and changed colour. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said. ‘I gave — I gave the name of Soane; and you — you assigned me the rooms. I thought it particularly civil, sir, and was even troubled about the expense—’