At dinner the tutor’s fears were temporarily lulled. Mr. Pomeroy put in a sulky appearance, but his gloom, it was presently manifest, was due to the burden of an apology; which, being lamely offered and readily accepted, he relapsed into his ordinary brusque and reckless mood, swearing that they would have the lady down and drink her, or if that were not pleasing, ‘Damme, we’ll drink her any way!’ he continued. ‘I was a toad this morning. No offence meant, my lord. Lover’s license, you know. You can afford to be generous, having won the pool.’
‘And the maid,’ my lord said with a simper. ‘Burn me! you are a good fellow, Pom. Give me your hand. You shall see her after dinner. She said to-morrow; but, hang me! I’ll to her this evening.’
Mr. Pomeroy expressed himself properly gratified, adding demurely that he would play no tricks.
‘No, hang me! no tricks!’ my lord cried somewhat alarmed. ‘Not that—’
‘Not that I am likely to displace your lordship, her affections once gained,’ said Mr. Pomeroy.
He lowered his face to hide a smile of bitter derision, but he might have spared his pains; for Lord Almeric, never very wise, was blinded by vanity. ‘No, I should think not,’ he said, with a conceit which came near to deserving the other’s contempt. ‘I should think not, Tommy. Give me twenty minutes of a start, as Jack Wilkes says, and you may follow as you please. I rather fancy I brought down the bird at the first shot?’
‘Certainly, my lord.’
‘I did, didn’t I?’
‘Most certainly, your lordship did,’ repeated the obsequious tutor; who, basking in the smiles of his host’s good-humour, began to think that things would run smoothly after all. So the lady was toasted, and toasted again. Nay, so great was Mr. Pomeroy’s complaisance and so easy his mood, he must needs have up three or four bottles of Brooks and Hellier that had lain in the cellar half a century — the last of a batch — and give her a third time in bumpers and no heel-taps.
But that opened Mr. Thomasson’s eyes. He saw that Pomeroy had reverted to his idea of the night before, and was bent on making the young fop drunk, and exposing him in that state to his mistress; perhaps had the notion of pushing him on some rudeness that, unless she proved very compliant indeed, must ruin him for ever with her. Three was their dinner hour; it was not yet four, yet already the young lord was flushed and a little flustered, talked fast, swore at Jarvey, and bragged of the girl lightly and without reserve. By six o’clock, if something were not done, he would be unmanageable.
The tutor stood in no little awe of his host. He had tremors down his back when he thought of his violence; nor was this dogged persistence in a design, as cruel as it was cunning, calculated to lessen the feeling. But he had five thousand pounds at stake, a fortune on which he had been pluming himself since noon; it was no time for hesitation. They were dining in the hall at the table at which they had played cards the night before, Jarvey and Lord Almeric’s servant attending them. Between the table and the staircase was a screen. The next time Lord Almeric’s glass was filled, the tutor, in reaching something, upset the glass and its contents over his own breeches, and amid the laughter of the other two retired behind the screen to be wiped. There he slipped a crown into the servant’s hand, and whispered him to keep his master sober and he should have another.
Mr. Pomeroy saw nothing and heard nothing, and for a time suspected nothing. The servant was a crafty fellow, a London rascal, deft at whipping away full bottles. He was an age finding a clean glass, and slow in drawing the next cork. He filled the host’s bumper, and Mr. Thomasson’s, and had but half a glass for his master. The next bottle he impudently pronounced corked, and when Pomeroy cursed him for a liar, brought him some in an unwashed glass that had been used for Bordeaux. The wine was condemned, and went out; and though Pomeroy, with unflagging spirits, roared to Jarvey to open the other bottles, the butler had got the office, and was slow to bring them. The cheese came and went, and left Lord Almeric cooler than it found him. The tutor was overjoyed at the success of his tactics.
But when the board was cleared, and the bottles were set on, and the men withdrawn, Bully Pomeroy began to push what remained of the Brooks and Hellier after a fashion that boded an early defeat to the tutor’s precautions. It was in vain Thomasson clung to the bottle and sometimes returned it Hertfordshire fashion. The only result was that Mr. Pomeroy smelt a rat, gave Lord Almeric a back-hander, and sent the bottle on again, with a grin that told the tutor he was understood.
After that Mr. Thomasson had the choice between sitting still and taking his own part. It was neck or nothing. Lord Almeric was already hiccoughing and would soon be talking thickly. The next time the bottle came round, the tutor retained it, and when Lord Almeric reached, for it, ‘No, my lord,’ he said, laughing; ‘Venus first and Bacchus afterwards. Your lordship has to wait on the lady. When you come down, with Mr. Pomeroy’s leave, we’ll crack another bottle.’
My lord withdrew his hand more readily than the other had hoped. ‘Right, Tommy,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait till I come down. What’s that song, “Rich the treasure, sweet the pleasure, sweet is pleasure after pain”? Oh, no, damme! I don’t mean that,’ he continued. ‘No. How does it go?’
Mr. Pomeroy thrust the bottle into his hands, looking daggers the while at the tutor. ‘Take another glass,’ he cried boisterously. ‘‘Swounds, the girl will like you the better for it.’
‘D’ye think so, Pom? Honest?’
‘Sure of it. ‘Twill give you spirit, my lord.’
‘So it will.’
‘At her and kiss her! Are you going to be governed all your life by that whey-faced old Methodist? Or be your own man? Tell me that.’
‘My lord, there’s fifty thousand pounds upon it,’ Thomasson said, his face red. And he pushed back the bottle. The setting sun, peeping a moment through the rain clouds and the low-browed lattice windows, flung an angry yellow light on the board and the three flushed faces round it. ‘Fifty thousand pounds,’ repeated Mr. Thomasson firmly.
‘Damme! so there is!’ my lord answered, settling his chin in his cravat and dusting the crumbs from his breeches. ‘I’ll take no more. So there!’
‘I thought your lordship was a good-humoured man and no flincher,’ Mr. Pomeroy retorted with a sneer.
‘Oh, I vow and protest — if you put it that way,’ the weakling answered, once more extending his hand, the fingers of which closed lovingly round the bottle, ‘I cannot refuse. Positively I cannot.’
‘Fifty thousand pounds!’ the tutor said, shrugging his shoulders.
Lord Almeric drew back his hand.
‘Why, she’ll like you the better!’ Pomeroy cried fiercely, as he thrust the bottle to him again. ‘D’you think a woman doesn’t love an easy husband? And wouldn’t rather have a good fellow than a thread-paper?’
‘Mr. Pomeroy! Mr. Pomeroy!’ the tutor said. Such words used of a lord shocked him.
‘A milksop! A thing of curds and whey!’
‘After marriage, yes,’ the tutor muttered, pitching his voice cleverly in Lord Almeric’s ear, and winking as he leant towards him. ‘But your lordship has a great stake in’t; and to abstain one night — why, sure, my lord, it’s a small thing to do for a fine woman and a fortune.’
‘Hang me! so it is!’ Lord Almeric answered. ‘You are a good friend to me, Tommy.’ And he flung his glass crashing into the fireplace. ‘No, Pom; you’d bubble me. You want the pretty charmer yourself. But I’ll be hanged if you shall have her. I’ll walk, my boy, I’ll walk, and at six I’ll go to her, and take you too. And mind you, no tricks, Pom. Lord! I know women as well as I know my own head in the glass. You don’t bite me.’
Pomeroy, with a face like thunder, did not answer; and Lord Almeric, walking a little unsteadily, went to the door, and a moment later became visible through one of the windows. He stood awhile, his back towards them, now sniffing the evening air, and now, with due regard to his mixed silk coat, taking a pinch of snuff.
Mr. Thomasso
n, his heart beating, wished he had had the courage to go with him. But this would have been to break with his host beyond mending; and it was now too late. He was still seeking a propitiatory phrase with which to break the oppressive silence, when Pomeroy anticipated him.
‘You think yourself vastly clever, Mr. Tutor,’ he growled, his voice hoarse with anger. ‘You think a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, I see.’
‘Ten in the bush,’ Mr. Thomasson answered, affecting an easiness he did not feel. ‘Ten fives are fifty.’
‘Two in the bush I said, and two in the bush I mean,’ the other retorted, his voice still low. ‘Take it or leave it,’ he continued, with a muttered oath and a swift side glance at the windows, through which Lord Almeric was still visible, walking slowly to and fro, and often standing. ‘If you want it firm, I’ll put it in black and white. Ten thousand, or security, the day after we come from church.’
The tutor was silent a moment. Then, ‘It is too far in the bush,’ he answered in a low voice. ‘I am willing enough to serve you, Mr. Pomeroy. I assure you, my dear sir, I desire nothing better. But if — if his lordship were dismissed, you’d be as far off as ever. And I should lose my bird in hand.’
‘She took him. Why should she not take me?’
‘He has — no offence — a title, Mr. Pomeroy.’
‘And is a fool.’
Mr. Thomasson raised his hands in deprecation. Such a saying, spoken of a lord, really offended him. But his words went to another point. ‘Besides, it’s a marriage-brocage contract, and void,’ he muttered. ‘Void in law.’
‘You don’t trust me?’
‘’Twould be of no use, Mr. Pomeroy,’ the tutor answered, gently shaking his head, and avoiding the issue presented to him. ‘You could not persuade her. She was in such a humour to-day, my lord had special advantages. Break it off between them, and she’ll come to herself. And she is wilful — Lord! you don’t know her! Petruchio could not tame her.’
‘I know nothing about Petruchio,’ Mr. Pomeroy answered grimly. ‘Nor who the gentleman was. But I’ve ways of my own. You can leave that to me.’
But Mr. Thomasson, who had only parleyed out of compliance, took fright at that, and rose from the table, shaking his head.
‘You won’t do it?’ Mr. Pomeroy said.
The tutor shook his head again, with a sickly smile. ‘’Tis too far in the bush,’ he said.
‘Ten thousand,’ Mr. Pomeroy persisted, his eyes on the other’s face. ‘Man,’ he continued forcibly, ‘Do you think you will ever have such a chance again? Ten thousand! Why, ’tis eight hundred a year. ’Tis a gentleman’s fortune.’
For a moment Mr. Thomasson did waver. Then he put the temptation from him, and shook his head. ‘You must pardon me, Mr. Pomeroy,’ he said. ‘I cannot do it.’
‘Will not!’ Pomeroy cried harshly. ‘Will not!’ And would have said more, but at that moment Jarvey entered behind him.
‘Please, your honour,’ the man said, ‘the lady would see my lord.’
‘Oh!’ Pomeroy answered coarsely, ‘she is impatient, is she? Devil take her for me! And him too!’ And he sat sulkily in his place.
But the interruption suited Mr. Thomasson perfectly. He went to the outer door, and, opening it, called Lord Almeric, who, hearing what was afoot, hurried in.
‘Sent for me!’ he cried, pressing his hat to his breast. ‘Dear creature!’ and he kissed his fingers to the gallery. ‘Positively she is the daintiest, sweetest morsel ever wore a petticoat! I vow and protest I am in love with her! It were brutal not to be, and she so fond! I’ll to her at once! Tell her I fly! I stay for a dash of bergamot, and I am with her!’
‘I thought that you were going to take us with you,’ said Mr. Pomeroy, watching him sourly.
‘I will! ‘Pon honour, I will!’ replied the delighted beau. ‘But she will soon find a way to dismiss you, the cunning baggage! and then, “Sweet is pleasure after pain.” Ha! Ha! I have it aright this time. Sweet is Plea — oh! the doting rascal! But let us to her! I vow, if she is not civil to you, I’ll — I’ll be cold to her!’
CHAPTER XXVII
MR. FISHWICK’S DISCOVERY
We left Sir George Soane and his companions stranded in the little alehouse at Bathford, waiting through the small hours of the night for a conveyance to carry them forward to Bristol. Soap and water, a good meal, and a brief dog’s sleep, in which Soane had no share — he spent the night walking up and down — and from which Mr. Fishwick was continually starting with cries and moanings, did something to put them in better plight, if in no better temper. When the dawn came, and with it the chaise-and-four for which they had sent to Bath, they issued forth haggard and unshaven, but resolute; and long before the shops in Bristol had begun to look for custom, the three, with Sir George’s servant, descended before the old Bush Inn, near the Docks.
The attorney held strongly the opinion that they should not waste a second before seeking the persons whom Mr. Dunborough had employed; the least delay, he urged, and the men might be gone into hiding. But on this a wrangle took place, in the empty street before the half-roused inn; with a milk-girl and a couple of drunken sailors for witnesses. Mr. Dunborough, who was of the party will-he, nill-he, and asked nothing better than to take out in churlishness the pressure put upon him, stood firmly to it, he would take no more than one person to the men. He would take Sir George, if he pleased, but he would take no one else.
‘I’ll have no lawyer to make evidence!’ he cried boastfully. ‘And I’ll take no one but on terms. I’ll have no Jemmy Twitcher with me. That’s flat.’
Mr. Fishwick in a great rage was for insisting; but Sir George stopped him. ‘On what terms?’ he asked the other.
‘If the girl be unharmed, we go unharmed. One and all!’ Mr. Dunborough answered. ‘Damme!’ he continued with a great show of bravado, ‘do you think I am going to peach on ‘em? Not I. There’s the offer, take it or leave it.’
Sir George might have broken down his opposition by the same arguments addressed to his safety which had brought him so far. But time was everything, and Soane was on fire to know the best or worst. ‘Agreed!’ he cried. ‘Lead the way, sir! And do you, Mr. Fishwick, await me here.’
‘We must have time,’ Mr. Dunborough grumbled, hesitating, and looking askance at the attorney — he hated him. ‘I can’t answer for an hour or two. I know a place, and I know another place, and there is another place. And they may be at one or another, or the other. D’you see?’
‘I see that it is your business,’ Sir George answered with a glance, before which the other’s eyes fell. ‘Wait until noon, Mr. Fishwick. If we have not returned at that hour, be good enough to swear an information against this gentleman, and set the constables to work.’
Mr. Dunborough muttered that it lay on Sir George’s head if ill came of it; but that said, swung sulkily on his heel. Mr. Fishwick, when the two were some way down the street, ran after Soane, and asked in a whisper if his pistols were primed; when he returned satisfied on that point, the servant, whom he had left at the door of the inn, had vanished. The lawyer made a shrewd guess that he would have an eye to his master’s safety, and retired into the house with less misgiving.
He got his breakfast early, and afterwards dozed awhile, resting his aching bones in a corner of the coffee-room. It was nine and after, and the tide of life was roaring through the channels of the city when he roused himself, and to divert his suspense and fend off his growing stiffness went out to look about him. All was new to him, but he soon wearied of the main streets, where huge drays laden with puncheons of rum and bales of tobacco threatened to crush him, and tarry seamen, their whiskers hanging in ringlets, jostled him at every crossing. Turning aside into a quiet court he stood to stare at a humble wedding which was leaving a church. He watched the party out of sight, and then, the church-door standing open, he took the fancy to stroll into the building. He looked about him at the maze of dusty green-cushioned pews with little alleys winding hi
ther and thither among them; at the great three-decker with its huge sounding-board; at the royal escutcheon, and the faded tables of the law, and was about to leave as aimlessly as he had entered, when he espied the open vestry door. Popping in his head, his eye fell on a folio bound in sheepskin, that lay open on a chest, a pen and ink beside it.
The attorney was in that state of fatigue of body and languor of mind in which the least trifle amuses. He tip-toed in, his hat in his hand, and licking his lips as he thought of the law-cases that lay enshrined between those covers, he perused a couple of entries with a kind of professional enthusiasm. He was beginning a third, which, being by a different hand, was a little hard to decipher, when a black gown that hung on a hook over against him swung noiselessly outward from the wall, and a little old man emerged from the doorway which it masked.
The lawyer, who was stooping over the register, raised himself guiltily. ‘Hallo!’ he said, to cover his confusion.
‘Hallo!’ the old man answered with a wintry smile. ‘A shilling, if you please.’ And he held out his hand.
‘Oh!’ said Mr. Fishwick, much chap-fallen, ‘I was only just — looking out of curiosity.’
‘It is a shilling to look,’ the newcomer retorted with a chuckle. ‘Only one year, I think? Just so, anno domini seventeen hundred and sixty-seven. A shilling, if you please.’
Mr. Fishwick hesitated, but in the end professional pride swayed him, he drew out the coin, and grudgingly handed it over. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it is a shilling for nothing. But, I suppose, as you have caught me, I must pay.’
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 317