Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  ‘I’ll marry whom I like!’ he said.

  ‘Then you’ll buy her dear,’ cried my lady, ashake with rage.

  ‘Dear or cheap, I’ll have her!’ he answered, inflamed by opposition and the discovery that the tutor had betrayed him. ‘I shall go to her now! She is here.’

  ‘That is a lie!’ cried Lady Dunborough. ‘Lie number one.’

  ‘She is in the house at this moment!’ he cried obstinately. ‘And I shall go to her.’

  ‘She is at Bath,’ said my lady, unmoved. ‘Ask Thomasson, if you do not believe me.’

  ‘She is not here,’ said the tutor with an effort.

  ‘Dunborough, you’ll outface the devil when you meet him!’ my lady added — for a closing shot. She knew how to carry the war into the enemy’s country.

  He glared at her, uncertain what to believe. ‘I’ll see for myself,’ he said at last; but sullenly, and as if he foresaw a check.

  He was in the act of turning to carry out his intention, when Lady Dunborough, with great presence of mind, called to a servant who was passing the foot of the stairs. The man came. ‘Go and fetch this gentleman the book,’ she said imperiously, ‘with the people’s names. Bring it here. I want to see it.’

  The man went, and in a moment returned with it. She signed to him to give it to Mr. Dunborough. ‘See for yourself,’ she said contemptuously.

  She calculated, and very shrewdly, that as the lawyer and his companions had given the name of Soane and taken possession of Sir George’s rooms, only the name of Soane would appear in the book. And so it turned out. Mr. Dunborough sought in vain for the name of Masterson or for a party of three, resembling the one he pursued; he found only the name of Sir George Soane entered when the rooms were ordered.

  ‘Oh!’ he said with an execration. ‘He is here, is he? Wish you joy of him, my lady! Very well, I go on. Good night, madam!’ The viscountess knew that opposition would stiffen him. ‘Stop!’ she cried.

  But he was already in the hall, ordering fresh saddle-horses for himself and his man. My lady heard the order, and stood listening. Mr. Thomasson heard it, and stood quaking. At any moment the door of the room in which the girl was supping might open — it was adjacent to the hall — and she come out, and the two would meet. Nor did the suspense last a moment or two only. Fresh horses could not be ready in a minute, even in those times, when day and night post-horses stood harnessed in the stalls. Even Mr. Dunborough could not be served in a moment. So he roared for a pint of claret and a crust, sent one servant flying this way, and another that, hectored up and down the entrance, to the admiration of the peeping chambermaids; and for a while added much to the bustle. Once in those minutes the fateful door did open, but it emitted only a waiter. And in the end, Mr. Dunborough’s horses being announced, he strode out, his spurs ringing on the steps, and the viscountess heard him clatter away into the night, and drew a deep breath of relief. For a day or two, at any rate, she was saved. For the time, the machinations of the creature below stairs were baffled.

  CHAPTER XI

  DR. ADDINGTON

  It did not occur to Lady Dunborough to ask herself seriously how a girl in the Mastersons’ position came to be in such quarters as the Castle Inn, and to have a middle-aged and apparently respectable attorney for a travelling companion. Or, if her ladyship did ask herself those questions, she was content with the solution, which the tutor out of his knowledge of human nature had suggested; namely, that the girl, wily as she was beautiful, knew that a retreat in good order, flanked after the fashion of her betters by duenna and man of business, doubled her virtue; and by so much improved her value, and her chance of catching Mr. Dunborough and a coronet.

  There was one in the house, however, who did set himself these riddles, and was at a loss for an answer. Sir George Soane, supping with Dr. Addington, the earl’s physician, found his attention wander from the conversation, and more than once came near to stating the problem which troubled him. The cosy room, in which the two sat, lay at the bottom of a snug passage leading off the principal corridor of the west wing; and was as remote from the stir and bustle of the more public part of the house as the silent movements of Sir George’s servant were from the clumsy haste of the helpers whom the pressure of the moment had compelled the landlord to call in.

  The physician had taken his supper earlier, but was gourmet enough to follow, now with an approving word, and now with a sigh, the different stages of Sir George’s meal. In public, a starched, dry man, the ideal of a fashionable London doctor of the severer type, he was in private a benevolent and easy friend; a judge of port, and one who commended it to others; and a man of some weight in the political world. In his early days he had been a mad doctor; and at Batson’s he could still disconcert the impertinent by a shrewd glance, learned and practised among those unfortunates.

  With such qualifications, Dr. Addington was not slow to perceive Sir George’s absence of mind; and presuming on old friendship — he had attended the younger man from boyhood — he began to probe for the cause. Raising his half-filled glass to the light, and rolling the last mouthful on his tongue, ‘I am afraid,’ he said, ‘that what I heard in town was true?’

  ‘What was it?’ Soane asked, rousing himself.

  ‘I heard, Sir George, that my Lady Hazard had proved an inconstant mistress of late?’

  ‘Yes. Hang the jade! And yet — we could not live without her!’

  ‘They are saying that you lost three thousand to my Lord March, the night before you left town?’

  ‘Halve it.’

  ‘Indeed? Still — an expensive mistress?’

  ‘Can you direct me to a cheap one?’ Sir George said rather crustily.

  ‘No. But doesn’t it occur to you a wife with money — might be cheaper?’ the doctor asked with a twinkle in his eye.

  Sir George shrugged his shoulders for answer, and turning from the table — the servant had withdrawn — brushed the crumbs from his breeches, and sat staring at the lire, his glass in his hand. ‘I suppose — it will come to that presently,’ he said, sipping his wine.

  ‘Very soon,’ the doctor answered, drily, ‘unless I am in error.’

  Sir George looked at him. ‘Come, doctor!’ he said. ‘You know something! What is it?’

  ‘I know that it is town talk that you lost seven thousand last season; and God knows how many thousands in the three seasons before it!’

  ‘Well, one must live,’ Sir George answered lightly.

  ‘But not at that rate.’

  ‘In that state of life, doctor, into which God has been pleased — you know the rest.’

  ‘In that state of life into which the devil!’ retorted the doctor with heat.’ If I thought that my boy would ever grow up to do nothing better than — than — but there, forgive me. I grow warm when I think of the old trees, and the old pictures, and the old Halls that you fine gentlemen at White’s squander in a night! Why, I know of a little place in Oxfordshire, which, were it mine by inheritance — as it is my brother’s — I would not stake against a Canons or a Petworth!’

  ‘And Stavordale would stake it against a bootjack — rather than not play at all!’ Sir George answered complacently.

  ‘The more fool he!’ snapped the doctor.

  ‘So I think.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘So I think,’ Sir George answered coolly. ‘But one must be in the fashion, doctor.’

  ‘One must be in the Fleet!’ the doctor retorted. ‘To be in the fashion you’ll ruin yourself! If you have not done it already,’ he continued with something like a groan. ‘There, pass the bottle. I have not patience with you. One of these fine days you will awake to find yourself in the Rules.’

  ‘Doctor,’ Soane answered, returning to his point, ‘you know something.’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘You know why my lord sent for me.’

  ‘And what if I do?’ Dr. Addington answered, looking thoughtfully through his wine. ‘To tell the truth, I do, Sir Ge
orge, I do, and I wish I did not; for the news I have is not of the best. There is a claimant to that money come forward. I do not know his name or anything about him; but his lordship thinks seriously of the matter. I am not sure,’ the doctor continued, with his professional air, and as if his patient in the other room were alone in his mind, ‘that the vexation attending it has not precipitated this attack. I’m not — at all — sure of it. And Lady Chatham certainly thinks so.’

  Sir George was some time silent. Then, with a fair show of indifference, ‘And who is the claimant?’ he asked.

  ‘That I don’t know,’ Dr. Addington answered. ‘He purports, I suppose, to be your uncle’s heir. But I do know that his attorney has forwarded copies of documents to his lordship, and that Lord Chatham thinks the matter of serious import.’

  ‘The worse for me,’ said Sir George, forcing a yawn. ‘As you say, doctor, your news is not of the best.’

  ‘Nor, I hope, of the worst,’ the physician answered with feeling. ‘The estate is entailed?’

  Sir George shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It is mortgaged. But that is not the same thing.’

  The doctor’s face showed genuine distress. ‘Ah, my friend, you should not have done that,’ he said reproachfully. ‘A property that has been in the family — why, since—’

  ‘My great-grandfather the stay-maker’s time,’ Sir George answered flippantly, as he emptied his glass. ‘You know Selwyn’s last upon that? It came by bones, and it is going by bones.’

  ‘God forbid!’ said the physician, rubbing his gold-rimmed glasses with an air of kindly vexation, not unmixed with perplexity. ‘If I thought that my boy would ever come to — to—’

  ‘Buzz the gold-headed cane?’ Sir George said gravely. ‘Yes, doctor, what would you do?’

  But the physician, instead of answering, looked fixedly at him, nodded, and turned away. ‘You would deceive some, Sir George,’ he said quietly, ‘but you do not deceive me. When a man who is not jocular by nature makes two jokes in as many minutes, he is hard hit.’

  ‘Insight?’ drawled Sir George lazily. ‘Or instinct.’

  ‘Experience among madmen — some would call it,’ the doctor retorted with warmth. ‘But it is not. It is what you fine gentlemen at White’s have no part in! Good feeling.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Soane; and then a different look came into his face. He stooped and poked the fire. ‘Pardon me, doctor,’ he said soberly. ‘You are a good fellow. It is — well, of course, it’s a blow. If your news be true, I stand to lose fifty thousand; and shall be worth about as much as a Nabob spends yearly on his liveries.’

  Dr. Addington, in evident distress, thrust back his wig. ‘Is it as bad as that?’ he said. ‘Dear, dear, I did not dream of this.’

  ‘Nor I,’ Sir George said drily. ‘Or I should not have betted with March.’

  ‘And the old house!’ the doctor continued, more and more moved. ‘I don’t know one more comfortable.’

  ‘You must buy it,’ said Soane. ‘I have spared the timber, and there is a little of the old wine left.’

  ‘Dear, dear!’ the doctor answered; and his sigh said more than the words. Apparently it was also more effectual in moving Sir George. He rose and began to pace the room, choosing a part where his face evaded the light of the candles that stood in heavy silver sconces on the dark mahogany. Presently he laughed, but the laugh was mirthless.

  ‘It is quite the Rake’s Progress,’ he said, pausing before one of Hogarth’s prints which hung on the wall. ‘Perhaps I have been a little less of a fool and a little more of a rogue than my prototype; but the end is the same. D —— n me, I am sorry for the servants, doctor — though I dare swear that they have robbed me right and left. It is a pity that clumsy fool, Dunborough, did not get home when he had the chance the other day.’

  The doctor took snuff, put up his box, filled his glass and emptied it before he spoke. Then, ‘No, no, Sir George, it has not come to that yet,’ he said heartily. ‘There is only one thing for it now. They must do something for you.’ And he also rose to his feet, and stood with his back to the fire, looking at his companion.

  ‘Who?’ Soane asked, though he knew very well what the other meant.

  ‘The Government,’ said the doctor. ‘The mission to Turin is likely to be vacant by-and-by. Or, if that be too much to ask, a consulship, say at Genoa or Leghorn, might be found, and serve for a stepping-stone to Florence. Sir Horace has done well there, and you—’

  ‘Might toady a Grand-duke and bear-lead sucking peers — as well as another!’ Soane answered with a gesture of disgust. ‘Ugh, one might as well be Thomasson and ruin boys. No, doctor, that will not do. I had sooner hang myself at once, as poor Fanny Braddock did at Bath, or put a pistol to my head like Bland!’

  ‘God forbid!’ said the doctor solemnly.

  Sir George shrugged his shoulders, but little by little his face lost its hardness. ‘Yes, God forbid,’ he said gently. ‘But it is odd. There is poor Tavistock with a pretty wife and two children, and another coming; and Woburn and thirty thousand a year to inherit, broke his neck last week with the hounds; and I, who have nothing to inherit, why nothing hurts me!’

  Dr. Addington disregarded his words.

  ‘They must do something for you at home then,’ he said, firmly set on his benevolent designs. ‘In the Mint or the Customs. There should not be the least difficulty about it. You must speak to his lordship, and it is not to be supposed that he will refuse.’

  Sir George grunted, and might have expressed his doubts, but at that moment the sound of voices raised in altercation penetrated the room from the passage. A second later, while the two stood listening, arrested by the noise, the door was thrown open with such violence that the candles flickered in the draught. Two persons appeared on the threshold, the one striving to make his way in, the other to resist the invasion.

  The former was our friend Mr. Fishwick, who having succeeded in pushing past his antagonist, stared round the room with a mixture of astonishment and chagrin. ‘But — this is not his lordship’s room!’ he cried. ‘I tell you, I will see his lordship!’ he continued. ‘I have business with him, and—’ here his gaze alighted on Sir George, and he stood confounded.

  Dr. Addington took advantage of the pause. ‘Watkins,’ he said in an awful voice, ‘what is the meaning of this unmannerly intrusion? And who is this person?’

  ‘He persisted that he must see his lordship,’ the servant, a sleek, respectable man in black, answered. ‘And rather than have words about it at his lordship’s door — which I would not for twice the likes of him!’ he added with a malevolent glance at the attorney— ‘I brought him here. I believe he is mad. I told him it was out of the question, if he was the king of England or my lord duke. But he would have it that he had an appointment.’

  ‘So I have!’ cried Mr. Fishwick with heat and an excited gesture. ‘I have an appointment with Lord Chatham. I should have been with his lordship at nine o’clock.’

  ‘An appointment? At this time of night?’ Dr. Addington returned with a freezing mien. ‘With Lord Chatham? And who may you please to be, sir, who claim this privilege?’

  ‘My name is Fishwick, sir, and I am an attorney,’ our friend replied.

  ‘A mad attorney?’ Dr. Addington answered, affecting to hear him amiss.

  ‘No more mad, sir, than you are!’ Mr. Fishwick retorted, kindling at the insinuation. ‘Do you comprehend me, sir? I come by appointment. My lord has been so good as to send for me, and I defy any one to close his door on me!’

  ‘Are you aware, sir,’ said the doctor, frowning under his wig with the port of an indignant Jupiter, ‘what hour it is? It is ten o’clock.’

  ‘It may be ten o’clock or it may be eleven o’clock,’ the attorney answered doggedly. ‘But his lordship has honoured me with a summons, and see him I must. I insist on seeing him.’

  ‘You may insist or not as you please,’ said Dr. Addington contemptuously. ‘You will not see him. Watki
ns,’ he continued, ‘what is this cock-and-bull story of a summons? Has his lordship sent for any one?’

  ‘About nine o’clock he said that he would see Sir George Soane if he was in the house,’ Watkins answered. ‘I did not know that Sir George was here, and I sent the message to his apartments by one of the men.’

  ‘Well,’ said Dr. Addington in his coldest manner, ‘what has that to do with this gentleman?’

  ‘I think I can tell you,’ Sir George said, intervening with a smile. ‘His party have the rooms that were reserved for me. And doubtless by an error the message which was intended for me was delivered to him.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Dr. Addington gruffly. ‘I understand.’

  Alas! poor Mr. Fishwick understood too; and his face, as the truth dawned on him, was one of the most comical sights ever seen. A nervous, sanguine man, the attorney had been immensely elated by the honour paid to him; he had thought his cause won and his fortune made. The downfall was proportionate: in a second his pomp and importance were gone, and he stood before them timidly rubbing one hand on another. Yet even in the ridiculous position in which the mistake placed him — in the wrong and with all his heroics wasted — he retained a sort of manliness. ‘Dear me, dear me,’ he said, his jaw fallen, ‘I — Your most humble servant, sir! I offer a thousand apologies for the intrusion! But having business with his lordship, and receiving the message,’ he continued in a tone of pathetic regret, ‘it was natural I should think it was intended for me. I can say no more than that I humbly crave pardon for intruding on you, honourable gentlemen, over your wine.’

  Dr. Addington bowed stiffly; he was not the man to forgive a liberty. But Sir George had a kindly impulse. In spite of himself, he could not refrain from liking the little man who so strangely haunted his steps. There was a spare glass on the table. He pushed it and the bottle towards Mr. Fishwick.

  ‘There is no harm done,’ he said kindly. ‘A glass of wine with you, sir.’

  Mr. Fishwick in his surprise and nervousness, dropped his hat, picked it up, and dropped it again; finally he let it lie while he filled his glass. His hand shook; he was unaccountably agitated. But he managed to acquit himself fairly, and with a ‘Greatly honoured, Sir George. Good-night, gentlemen,’ he disappeared.