Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “I’ll never cross your doorstep again!” Tyson roared.

  He neither cared nor saw who it was whom he had jostled

  And stumbling to his feet he cast off one or two who in their well meaning would have stayed him. He made for the door. But he was not to escape without further collision. On the threshold he ran plump against a person who was entering, cursed the newcomer heartily, and without a look pushed violently by him and was gone.

  He neither cared nor saw who it was whom he had jostled. But the company saw, and some rose to their feet in consternation, while others, carried their hands to their heads. There was an involuntary movement of respect which the new comer acknowledged by touching his hat. He had the air of one who knew how to behave to his inferiors; but the air, also, of one who never forgot that they were his inferiors.

  “Your friend seems in a hurry,” he said. His face was not a face that easily betrayed emotion, but he looked tired.

  “Beg your honour’s pardon, I am sure,” Gilson answered. “Something’s put him out, and he did not see you, sir.”

  Mrs. Gilson muttered that a pig could have seen. But her words were lost in the respectful murmur which made the company sharers in the landlord’s apology.

  Not that for the most part they knew the strange gentleman. But there is a habit of authority which once gained becomes a part of the man. And Anthony Clyne had this. He retained wherever he went some shadow of the quarter-deck manner. He had served under Nelson, and under Exmouth; but he had resisted, as a glance at his neat, trim figure proved, that coarsening influence which spoiled for Pall Mall too many of the sea-dogs of the great war. Like his famous leader, he had left an arm in the cockpit; and the empty sleeve which he wore pinned to the lappel of his coat added, if possible, to the dignity of the upright carriage and the lean, shaven face. The death of his elder brother had given him the family place, a seat in the House, a chair at White’s, and an income handsome for his day. And he looked all this and more; so that such a company as now eyed him with respect judged him a very perfect gentleman, if a little distant.

  But from Clyne Old Hall, where he lived, he could see on the horizon the smoke of toiling cities; and in those cities there were hundreds who hated his cold proud face, and thousands who cursed his name. Not that he was a bad man or a tyrant, or himself ground the faces of the poor. But discipline was his watchword, and reform his bugbear. To palter with reform, to listen to a word about the rights of the masses, was to his mind to parley with anarchy. That governors and governed could be the same appeared to his mind as absurd as that His Majesty’s ships could be commanded from the forecastle. All for the people and nothing by the people was his political maxim, and one amply meeting, as he believed, all eventualities. Lately he had had it carved on a mantel-piece, and the prattle of his only child, as the club-footed boy spelled it out syllable by syllable, was music to his ears.

  Whoever wavered, therefore, whoever gave to the violence of those times, he stood firm. And he made others stand. It was his honest belief that a little timely severity — in other words, a whiff of grape-shot — would have nipped the French Revolution in the bud; and while he owned that the lower orders were suffering and times were bad, that bread was dear and work wanting, he was for quelling the least disorder with the utmost rigour of the law.

  Such was the man who accepted with a curt nod Tom Gilson’s apology. Then “Have you a room ready?” he asked.

  “The fire is still burning in Mr. Rogers’s room,” Mrs. Gilson answered, smoothing at once her apron and her brow. “And it’ll not be used again to-night. But I thought that you had gone on, sir, to Whitehaven.”

  “I shall go on to-morrow,” he answered, frowning slightly.

  “I’ll show your honour the way,” Tom Gilson said.

  “Very good,” he answered. “And dinner, ma’am, as soon as possible.”

  “To be sure, sir.” And “This way, your honour.” And taking two candles Gilson went out before Captain Clyne, and with greater ceremony than would be used in these days, lighted him along the passage and up the stairs to Mr. Rogers’s room in the south wing.

  The fire had sunk somewhat low, but the room which had witnessed so many emotions in the last twenty-four hours made no sign. The table had been cleared. The glass fronts of the cupboards shone dully; only a chair or two stood here or there out of place. That was all. But had Henrietta, when she descended to breakfast that morning, foreseen who would fill her chair before night, who would dine at her table and brood with stern unseeing eyes on the black-framed prints, for whom the pale-faced clock would tick off depressing seconds, what — what would she have thought? And how would she have faced her future?

  CHAPTER VIII

  STARVECROW FARM

  The company at Mrs. Gilson’s, impressed by the appearance of a gentleman of Captain Clyne’s position, scarce gave a second thought to the doctor’s retreat. But to Tyson, striding homewards through the mud and darkness, the insult he had suffered and the feeble part he had played filled the world. For him the inn-parlour still cackled at his expense. He saw himself the butt of the evening, the butt of many evenings. He was a vain, ill-conditioned man, who among choice spirits would have boasted of his philandering. But not the less he hated to be brought to book before those whom he deemed his inferiors. He could not deny that the landlady had trounced him, and black bile whelmed all his better feelings as he climbed the steep track behind the inn. “D —— d shrew!” he growled, “D —— d shrew!” and breathing hard, as much in rage as with exertion, he stood an instant to look back and shake his fist before he plunged into the darkness of the wooded dell through which the path ascended.

  Two or three faint lights marked the position of the inn a couple of fields below him. Beyond it the pale surface of the lake reflected a dim radiance, bestowed on it through some rift in the clouds invisible from where he stood. A far-away dog barked, a curlew screamed on the hill above him, the steady fall of a pair of oars in the rowlocks rose from the lake. The immensity of the night closed all in; and on the thoughtful might have laid a burden of melancholy.

  But Tyson thought of his wrongs, not of the night, and with a curse he turned and plunged into the wood, following a path impossible for a stranger. As it was he stumbled over roots, the saplings whipped him smartly, a low bough struck off his hat, and when he came to the stream which whirled through the bottom of the dingle he had much ado to find the plank bridge. But at length he emerged from the wood, gained the road, and mounted the steep shoulder that divided the Low Wood hamlet from the vale of Troutbeck.

  Where his road topped the ridge the gaunt outline of a tall, narrow building rose in the gloom. It resembled a sentry-box commanding either valley. It was set back some twenty paces from the road with half a dozen ragged fir trees intervening; and on its lower side — but the night hid them — some mean farm-buildings clung to the steep. With the wind soughing among the firs and rustling through the scanty grass, the place on that bleak shoulder seemed lonely even at night. But in the day its ugliness and barrenness were a proverb. They called it “Starvecrow Farm.”

  Nevertheless, Tyson paused at the gate, and with an irresolute oath looked over it.

  “Cursed shrew!” he said, for the third time. “What business is it of hers if I choose to amuse myself?”

  And with his heart hardened, he flung the gate wide, and entered. He had not gone two paces before he leapt back, startled by the fierce snarl of a dog, that, unseen, flung itself to the end of its chain. Disappointed in its spring, it began to bay.

  The doctor’s fright was only momentary.

  “What, Turk!” he cried. “What are you doing here? What the blazes are you doing here? Down, you brute, down!”

  The dog knew his voice, ceased to bark, and began to whimper. Tyson entered, and assured that the watchdog knew him, kicked it brutally from his path. Then he groped his way between the trees, stumbled down three broken steps at the corner of the house, and passing r
ound the building reached the door which was on the further side from the road. He tried it, but it was fastened. He knocked on it.

  A slip-shod foot dragged across a stone floor. A high cracked voice asked, “Who’s there?”

  “I! Tyson!” the doctor answered impatiently. “Who should it be at this hour?”

  “Is’t you, doctor?”

  “Yes, yes!”

  “Who’s wi’ ye?”

  “No one, you old fool! Who should there be?”

  A key creaked in the lock, and the great bar was withdrawn; but slowly, as it seemed to the apothecary, and reluctantly. He entered and the door was barred behind him.

  “Where’s Bess?” he asked.

  The bent creeping figure that had admitted him replied that she was “somewheres about, somewheres about.” After which, strangely clad in a kind of bedgown and nightcap, it trailed back to the settle beside the turf and wood fire, which furnished both light and warmth. The fire, indeed, was the one generous thing the room contained. All else was sordid and pinched and mean. The once-whitened walls were stained, the rafters were smoked in a dozen places, the long dresser — for the room was large, though low — was cracked and ill-furnished, a brick supported one leg of the table. Even in the deep hearth-place, where was such comfort as the place could boast, a couple of logs served for stools and a frowsy blanket gave a squalid look to the settle.

  Tyson stood on the hearth with his back to the fire, and eyed the room with a scowl of disgust. The old man, bent double over a stick which he was notching, breathed loudly and laboriously.

  “What folly is this about the dog?” Tyson asked contemptuously.

  The old man looked up, cunning in his eyes.

  “Ask her,” he said.

  “Eh?”

  The miser bending over his task seemed to be taken with a fit of silent laughter.

  “It’s the still sow sups the brose,” he said. “And I’m still! I’m still.”

  “What are you doing?” Tyson growled.

  “Nothing much! Nothing much! You’ve not,” looking up with greed in his eyes, “an old letter-back to spare?”

  Tyson seldom came to the house unfurnished with one. He had long known that Hinkson belonged to the class of misers who, if they can get a thing for nothing, are as well pleased with a scrap of paper, a length of string, or a mouldy crust, as with a crown-piece. The poor land about the house, which with difficulty supported three or four cows, on the produce of which the Hinksons lived, might have been made profitable at the cost of some labour and a little money. But labour and money were withheld. And Tyson often doubted if the miser’s store were as large as rumour had it, or even if there were a store at all.

  “Not that,” he would add, “large or small, some one won’t cut his throat for it one day!”

  He produced the old letter, and after showing it, held it behind him.

  “What of the dog now?” he said.

  “Na, na, I’ll not speak for that!”

  “Then you won’t have it!”

  But the old fellow only cackled superior.

  “What’s — what’s — a pound-note a week? Is’t four pound a month?”

  “Ay!” the doctor answered. “It is. That’s money, my lad!”

  “Ay!”

  The old man hugged himself, and rocked to and fro in an ecstasy.

  “That’s money! And four pound a month,” he consulted the stick he was notching, “is forty-eight pound a year?”

  “And four to it,” Tyson answered. “Who’s paying you that?”

  “Na, na!”

  “And what’s it to do with the dog?”

  Hinkson looked knavish but frightened.

  “Hist!” he said. “Here’s Bess. I’d use to wallop her, but now — —”

  “She wallops you,” the visitor muttered. “That’s the ticket, I expect.”

  The girl entered by the mean staircase door and nodded to him coolly.

  “I supposed it was you,” she said slightingly.

  And for the hundredth or two-hundredth time he felt with rage that he was in the presence of a stronger nature than his own. He could treat the old man, whose greed had survived his other passions, and almost his faculties, pretty much as he pleased. But though he had sauntered through the gate a score of times with the intention of treating Bess as he had treated more than one village girl who pleased him, he had never re-crossed the threshold without a sense not only of defeat, but of inferiority. He came to strut, he remained to kneel.

  He fought against that feeling now, calling his temper to his aid.

  “What folly is this about the dog?” he asked.

  “Father thinks,” she replied demurely, “that if thieves come it can be heard better at the gate.”

  “Heard? I should think it could be heard in Bowness!”

  “Just so.”

  “But your father — —”

  “Father!” sharply, “go to bed!” And then to the visitor, “Give him a ha’penny,” she muttered. “He won’t go without!”

  “But I don’t care — —”

  “I don’t care either — which of you goes!” she retorted. “But one of you goes.”

  Sullenly he produced a copper and put it in the old man’s quivering hand — not for the first time by several. Hinkson gripped it, and closing his hand upon it as if he feared it would be taken from him, he hobbled away, and disappeared behind the dingy hangings of the box-bed.

  “And now what’s the mystery?” Tyson asked, seating himself on one of the stools.

  “There is none,” she answered, standing before him where the firelight fell on her dark face and gipsy beauty. “Call it a whim if you like. Perhaps I don’t want my lads to come in till I’ve raddled my cheeks! Or perhaps” — flippantly— “Oh, any ‘perhaps’ you like!”

  “I know no lad you have but me,” he said.

  “I don’t know one,” she answered, seating herself on the settle, and bending forward with her elbows on her knees and her face between her hands. It was a common pose with her. “When I’ve a lad I want a man!” she continued— “a man!”

  “Don’t you call me a man?” he answered, his eyes taking their fill of her face.

  “Of a sort.” she rejoined disdainfully. “Of a sort. Good enough for here. But I shan’t live all my life here! D’you ever think what a God-forsaken corner this is, Tyson? Why, man, we are like mice in a dark cupboard, and know as much of the world!”

  “What’s the world to us?” he asked. Her words and her ways were often a little beyond him.

  “That’s it!” she answered, in a tone of contemptuous raillery. “What’s the world to us? We are here and not there. We must curtsey to parson and bob to curate, and mind our manners with the overseers! We must be proud if Madam inquires after our conduct, but we must not fancy that we are the same flesh and blood as she is! Ah, when I meet her,” with sudden passion, “and she looks at me to see if I am clean, I — do you know what I think of? Do you know what I dream of? Do you know what I hope” — she snapped her strong white teeth together— “ay, hope to see?”

  “What?”

  “What they saw twenty years ago in France — her white neck under the knife! That was what happened to her and her like there, I am told, and I wish it could happen here! And I’d knit, as girls knitted there, and counted the heads that fell into the baskets! When that time comes Madam won’t look to see if I am clean!”

  He looked at her uncomfortably. He did not understand her.

  “How the devil do you come to know these things?” he exclaimed. It was not the first time she had opened to him in this strain — not the first by several. And the sharp edge was gone from his astonishment. But she was not the less a riddle to him and a perplexity — a Sphinx, at once alluring and terrifying. “Who told you of them? What makes you think of them?” he repeated.

  “Do you never think of them?” she retorted, leaning forward and fixing her eyes on his. “Do you never wonder why
all the good things are for a few, and for the rest — a crust? Why the rector dines at the squire’s table and you dine in the steward’s room? Why the parson gives you a finger and thinks he stoops, and his ladies treat you as if you were dirt — only the apothecary? Why you are in one class and they in another till the end of time?”

  “D —— n them!” he muttered, his face a dull red. She knew how to touch him on the raw.

  “Do you never think of those things?” she asked.

  “Well,” he said, taking her up sullenly, “if I do?”

  She rocked herself back on the settle and looked across at him out of half-closed eyes.

  “Then — if you do think,” she answered slowly, “it is to be seen if you are a man.”

  “A man?”

  “Ay, a man! A man! For if you think of these things, if you stand face to face with them, and do nothing, you are no man! And no lad for me!” lightly. “You are well matched as it is then. Just a match and no more for your white-faced, helpless dumpling of a wife!”

  “It is all very well,” he muttered, “to talk!”

  “Ay, but presently we shall do as well as talk! Out in the world they are doing now! They are beginning to do. But here — what do you know in this cupboard? No more than the mice.”

  “Fine talk!” he retorted, stung by her contempt. “But you talk without knowing. There have been parsons and squires from the beginning, and there will be parsons and squires to the end. You may talk until you are black in the face, Bess, but you won’t alter that!”

  “Ay, talk!” she retorted drily. “You may talk. But if you do — as they did in France twenty years gone. Where are their squires and parsons now? The end came quick enough there, when it came.”

  “I don’t know much about that,” he growled.

  “Ay, but I do.”

  “But how the devil do you?” he answered, in some irritation, but more wonder. “How do you?” And he looked round the bare, sordid kitchen. The fire, shooting warm tongues up the black cavernous chimney, made the one spot of comfort that was visible.