Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  For if he was anxious to recover the mare, his anxiety did not rest there. Her recovery was but a step to other things; to that influence at Morristown which would make him potent for good; to that consideration which would enable him to expel foolish councils, and silence that simmering talk of treason which might at any moment boil up into action and ruin a countryside. But he knew that he could only get the mare from those who held her by imposing himself upon them; and to do this after what had happened seemed impossible. The story would be told, must be told: it would be carried far and wide. Such things were never hid; and he had come off so ill, as the world viewed things, he had cut so poor a figure, that after this he could hope for nothing from his personal influence here or at Morristown. Nothing, unless he could see himself right at Tralee.

  He brooded long over the matter, and at length — but not until after his meal — he hit on a plan, promising, though distasteful. He called Bale, and made inquiries through that taciturn man; and next morning he sat late at his breakfast. He had learned that the garrison used the inn much, many of the officers calling there for their “morning”; and the information proved correct. About ten he heard heavy steps in the stone-paved passage, spurs rang out an arrogant challenge, voices called for Patsy and Molly, and demanded this or that. By-and-by two officers, almost lads, sauntered into the room in which he sat, and, finding him there, moved with a wink and a grin to the window. They leant out, and he heard them laugh; he knew that they were discussing him before they turned to the daily fare — the neat ankles of a passing “colleen,” the glancing eyes of the French milliner over the way, or the dog-fight at the corner. The two remained thus, half eclipsed as far as the Colonel was concerned, until presently the sallow-faced man sauntered idly into the room.

  He did not see the Colonel at once, but the latter rose and bowed, and Marsh, a little added colour in his face, returned the salute — with an indifferent grace. It was clear that, though he had behaved better than his fellows on the previous day, he had no desire to push the acquaintance farther.

  Colonel John, however, gave him no chance. Still standing, and with a grave, courteous face, “May I, as a stranger,” he said, “trouble you with a question, sir?”

  The two lady-killers at the window heard the words and nudged one another, with a stifled chuckle at their comrade’s predicament. Captain Marsh, with one eye on them, assented stiffly.

  “Is there any one,” the Colonel asked, “in Tralee — I fear the chance is small — who gives fencing lessons? — or who is qualified to do so?”

  The Captain’s look of surprise yielded to one of pitying comprehension. He smiled — he could not help it; while the young men drew in their heads to hear the better.

  “Yes,” he answered, “there is.”

  “In the regiment, I presume?”

  “He is attached to it temporarily. If you will inquire at the Armoury for Lemoine, the Maître d’Armes, he will oblige you, I have no doubt. But — —”

  “If you please?” the Colonel said politely, seeing that Marsh hesitated.

  “If you are not a skilled swordsman, I fear that it is not one lesson, or two, or a dozen, will enable you to meet Captain Payton, if you have such a thing in your mind, sir. He is but little weaker than Lemoine, and Lemoine is a fair match with a small-sword for any man out of London. Brady in Dublin, possibly, and perhaps half a dozen in England are his betters, but — —” he stopped abruptly, his ear catching a snigger at the window. “I need not trouble you with that,” he concluded lamely.

  “Still,” the Colonel answered simply, “a long reach goes for much, I have heard, and I am tall.”

  Captain Marsh looked at him in pity, and he might have put his compassion into words, but for the young bloods at the window, who, he knew, would repeat the conversation. He contented himself, therefore, with saying rather curtly, “I believe it goes some way.” And he turned stiffly to go out.

  But the Colonel had a last question to put to him. “At what hour,” he asked, “should I be most likely to find this — Lemoine, at leisure?”

  “Lemoine?”

  “If you please.”

  Marsh opened his mouth to answer, but found himself anticipated by one of the youngsters. “Three in the afternoon is the best time,” the lad said bluntly, speaking over his shoulder. He popped out his head again, that his face, swollen by his perception of the jest, might not betray it.

  But the Colonel seemed to see nothing. “I thank you,” he said, bowing courteously.

  And re-seating himself, as Marsh went out, he finished his breakfast. The two at the window, after exploding once or twice in an attempt to stifle their laughter, drew in their heads, and, still red in the face, marched solemnly past the Colonel, and out of the room. His seat, now the window was clear, commanded a view of the street, and presently he saw the two young bloods go by in the company of four or five of their like. They were gesticulating, nor was there much doubt, from the laughter with which their tale was received, that they were retailing a joke of signal humour.

  That did not surprise the Colonel. But when the door opened a moment later, and Marsh came hastily into the room, and with averted face began to peer about for something, he was surprised.

  “Where the devil’s that snuff-box!” the sallow-faced man exclaimed. “Left it somewhere!” Then, looking about him to make sure that the door was closed. “See, here sir,” he said awkwardly, “it’s no business of mine, but for a man who has served as you say you have, you’re a d —— d simple fellow. Take my advice and don’t go to Lemoine’s at three, if you go at all.”

  “No?” the Colonel echoed.

  “Can’t you see they’ll all be there to guy you?” Marsh retorted impatiently. He could not help liking the man, and yet the man seemed a fool! The next moment, with a hasty nod, he was gone. He had found the box in his pocket.

  Colonel Sullivan smiled, and, after carefully brushing the crumbs from his breeches, rose from the table. “A good man,” he muttered. “Pity he has not more courage.” The next moment he came to attention, for slowly past the window moved Captain Payton himself, riding Flavia’s mare, and talking with one of the young bloods who walked at his stirrup.

  The man and the horse! The Colonel began to understand that something more than wantonness had inspired Payton’s conduct the previous night. Either he had been privy from the first to the plot to waylay the horse; or he had bought it cheaply knowing how it had been acquired; or — a third alternative — it had been placed in his hands, to the end that his reputation as a fire-eater might protect it. In any event, he had had an interest in nipping inquiry in the bud; and, learning who the Colonel was, had acted on the instant, and with considerable presence of mind.

  The Colonel looked thoughtful; and though the day was fine for Ireland — that is, no more than a small rain was falling — he remained within doors until five minutes before three o’clock. Bale had employed the interval in brushing the stains of travel from his master’s clothes, and combing his horseman’s wig with particular care; so that it was a neat and spruce gentleman who at five minutes before three walked through Tralee, and, attending to the directions he had received, approached a particular door, a little within the barrack gate.

  Had he glanced up at the windows he would have seen faces at them; moreover, a suspicious ear might have caught, as he paused on the threshold, a scurrying of feet, mingled with stifled laughter. But he did not look up. He did not seem to expect to see more than he found, when he entered — a great bare room with its floor strewn with sawdust and its walls adorned here and there by a gaunt trophy of arms. In the middle of the floor, engaged apparently in weighing one foil against another, was a stout, dark-complexioned man, whose light and nimble step, as he advanced to meet his visitor, gave the lie to his weight.

  Certainly there came from a half-opened door at the end of the room a stealthy sound as of rats taking cover. But Colonel John did not look that way. His whole attention was bent
upon the Maître d’Armes, who bowed low to him. Clicking his heels together, and extending his palms in the French fashion, “Good-morning, sare,” he said, his southern accent unmistakable. “I make you welcome.”

  The Colonel returned his salute less elaborately. “The Maître d’Armes Lemoine?” he said.

  “Yes, sare, that is me. At your service!”

  “I am a stranger in Tralee, and I have been recommended to apply to you. You are, I am told, accustomed to give lessons.”

  “With the small-sword?” the Frenchman answered, with the same gesture of the open hands. “It is my profession.”

  “I am desirous of brushing up my knowledge — such as it is.”

  “A vare good notion,” the fencing-master replied, his black beady eyes twinkling. “Vare good for me. Vare good also for you. Always ready, is the gentleman’s motto; and to make himself ready, his high recreation. But, doubtless, sare,” with a faint smile, “you are proficient, and I teach you nothing. You come but to sweat a little.” An observant person would have noticed that as he said this he raised his voice above his usual tone.

  “At one time,” Colonel John replied with simplicity, “I was fairly proficient. Then — this happened!” He held out his right hand. “You see?”

  “Ah!” the Frenchman said in a low tone, and he raised his hands. “That is ogly! That is vare ogly! Can you hold with that?” he added, inspecting the hand with interest. He was a different man.

  “So, so,” the Colonel answered cheerfully.

  “Not strongly, eh? It is not possible.”

  “Not very strongly,” the Colonel assented. His hand, like Bale’s, lacked two fingers.

  Lemoine muttered something under his breath, and looked at the Colonel with a wrinkled brow. “Tut — tut!” he said, “and how long are you like that, sare?”

  “Seven years.”

  “Pity! pity!” Lemoine exclaimed. Again he looked at his visitor with perplexed eyes. After which, “Dam!” he said suddenly.

  The Colonel stared.

  “It is not right!” the Frenchman continued, frowning. “I — no! Pardon me, sare, I do not fence with les estropiés. That is downright! That is certain, sare. I do not do it.”

  If the Colonel had been listening he might have caught the sound of a warning cough, with a stir, and a subdued murmur of voices — all proceeding from the direction of the inner room. But he had his back to the half-opened door and he seemed to be taken up with the fencing-master’s change of tone. “But if,” he objected, “I am willing to pay for an hour’s practice?”

  “Another day, sare. Another day, if you will.”

  “But I shall not be here another day. I have but to-day. By-and-by,” he continued with a smile as kindly as it was humorous, “I shall begin to think that you are afraid to pit yourself against a manchot!”

  “Oh, la! la!” The Frenchman dismissed the idea with a contemptuous gesture.

  “Do me the favour, then,” Colonel John retorted. “If you please?”

  Against one of the walls were three chairs arranged in a row. Before each stood a boot-jack, and beside it a pair of boot-hooks; over it, fixed in the wall, were two or three pegs for the occupant’s wig, cravat, and cane. The Colonel, without waiting for a further answer, took his seat on one of the chairs, removed his boots, and then his coat, vest, and wig, which he hung on the pegs above him.

  “And now,” he said gaily, as he stood up, “the mask!”

  He did not see the change — for he seemed to have no suspicion — but as he rose, the door of the room behind him became fringed with grinning faces. Payton, the two youths who had leant from the window of the inn and who had carried his words, a couple of older officers, half a dozen subalterns, all were there — and one or two civilians. The more grave could hardly keep the more hilarious in order. The curtain was ready to go up on what they promised themselves would be the most absurd scene. The stranger who fought no duels, yet thought that a lesson or two would make him a match for a dead-hand like Payton — was ever such a promising joke conceived? The good feeling, even the respect which the Colonel had succeeded in awakening for a short time the evening before, were forgotten in the prospect of such a jest.

  The Frenchman made no further demur. He had said what he could, and it was not his business to quarrel with his best clients. He took his mask, and proffered a choice of foils to his antagonist, whose figure, freed from the heavy coat and vest of the day, and the overshadowing wig, seemed younger and more supple than the Frenchman had expected. “A pity, a pity!” the latter said to himself. “To have lost, if he ever was professor, the joy of life!”

  “Are you ready?” Colonel John asked.

  “At your service, sare,” the Maître d’Armes replied — but not with much heartiness. The two advanced each a foot, they touched swords, then saluted with that graceful and courteous engagement which to an ignorant observer is one of the charms of the foil. As they did so, and steel grated on steel, the eavesdroppers in the inner room ventured softly from ambush — like rats issuing forth; soon they were all standing behind the Colonel, the sawdust, and the fencers’ stamping feet as they lunged or gave back, covering the sound of their movements.

  They were on the broad grin when they came out. But it took them less than a minute to discover that the entertainment was not likely to be so extravagantly funny as they had hoped. The Colonel was not, strictly speaking, a tyro; moreover, he had, as he said, a long reach. He was no match indeed for Lemoine, who touched him twice in the first bout and might have touched him thrice had he put forth his strength. But he did nothing absurd. When he dropped his point, therefore, at the end of the rally, and, turning to take breath came face to face with the gallery of onlookers, the best-natured of these felt rather foolish. But Colonel John seemed to find nothing surprising in their presence. He saluted them courteously with his weapon. “I am afraid I cannot show you much sport, gentlemen,” he said.

  One or two muttered something — a good day, or the like. The rest grinned unmeaningly. Payton said nothing, but, folding his arms with a superior air, leant, frowning haughtily, against the wall.

  “Parbleu,” said Lemoine, as they rested. “It is a pity. The wrist is excellent, sare. But the pointing finger is not — is not!”

  “I do my best,” the Colonel answered, with cheerful resignation. “Shall we engage again?”

  “At your pleasure.”

  The Frenchman’s eye no longer twinkled; his gallantry was on its mettle. He was grave and severe, fixing his gaze on the Colonel’s attack, and remaining blind to the nods and shrugs and smiles of amusement of his patrons in the background. Again he touched the Colonel, and, alas! again; with an ease which, good-natured as he was, he could not mask.

  Colonel John, a little breathed, and perhaps a little chagrined also, dropped his point. Some one coughed, and another tittered.

  “I think he will need another lesson or two,” Payton remarked, speaking ostensibly to one of his companions, but loudly enough for all to hear.

  The man whom he addressed made an inaudible answer. The Colonel turned towards them.

  “And — a new hand,” Payton added in the same tone.

  Even for his henchman the remark was almost too much. But the Colonel, strange to say — perhaps he really was very simple — seemed to find nothing offensive in it. On the contrary, he replied to it.

  “That was precisely,” he said, “what I thought when this” — he indicated his maimed hand— “happened to me. And I did my best to procure one.”

  “Did you succeed?” Payton retorted in an insolent tone.

  “To some extent,” the Colonel replied, in the most matter-of-fact manner. And he transferred the foil to his left hand.

  “Give you four to one,” Payton rejoined, “Lemoine hits you twice before you hit him once.”

  Colonel John had anticipated some of the things that had happened. But he had not foreseen this. He was quick to see the use to which he might put it
, and it was only for an instant that he hesitated. Then “Four to one?” he repeated.

  “Five, if you like!” Payton sneered.

  “If you will wager,” the Colonel said slowly, “if you will wager the grey mare you were riding this morning, sir — —”

  Payton uttered an angry oath. “What do you mean?” he said.

  “Against ten guineas,” Colonel John continued carelessly, bending the foil against the floor and letting it spring to its length again, “I will make that wager.”

  Payton scowled at him. He was aware of the other’s interest in the mare, and suspected, at least, that he had come to town to recover her. And caution would have had him refuse the snare. But his toadies were about him, he had long ruled the roast, to retreat went against the grain; while to suppose that the man had the least chance against Lemoine was absurd. Yet he hesitated. “What do you know about the mare?” he said coarsely.

  “I have seen her. But of course, if you are afraid to wager her, sir — —”

  Payton answered to the spur. “Bah! Afraid?” he cried contemptuously. “Done, with you!”

  “That is settled,” the Colonel replied. “I am at your service,” he continued, turning to the Maître d’Armes. “I trust,” indicating that he was going to fence with his left hand, “that this will not embarrass you?”

  “No! But it is interesting, by G — d, it is vare interesting,” the Frenchman replied. “I have encountered les gauchers before, and — —”

  He did not finish the sentence, but saluting, he assumed an attitude a little more wary than usual. He bent his knees a trifle lower, and held his left shoulder somewhat more advanced, as compared with his right. The foils felt one another, and “Oh, va, va!” he muttered. “I understand, the droll!”