Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  He held out his hand and she laid hers in it. She looked him frankly in the face. “Thank you,” she said. “I little thought when I descended this evening that I should meet a kinsman.”

  “And a friend,” he answered, holding her hand a little longer than was needful.

  “And a friend,” she repeated. “But there — I must go now. I should have disappeared ten minutes ago. This is my way.” She inclined her head, and turning from him she pushed open a small door masked by a picture. She passed at once into a dark corridor, and threading its windings gained the great staircase.

  As she flitted upwards from floor to floor, skirting a long procession of shadowy forms, and now ogled by a Leda whose only veil was the dusk, now threatened by the tusks of the great boar at bay, she was not conscious of thought or surprise. It was not until she had lighted her taper outside the dormitory door, and, passing between the rows of sleeping children, had gained her screened corner, that she found it possible to think. Then she set the light in her tiny washing-basin — such was the rule — and seated herself on her bed. For some minutes she stared before her, motionless and unwinking, her hands clasped about her knees, her mind at work.

  Was it true, or a dream? Had this really happened to her since she had viewed herself in the blurred mirror, had set a curl right and, satisfied, had turned to go down? The danger and the delivery from it, the fear and the friend in need? Or was it a Cinderella’s treat, which no fairy godmother would recall to her, with which no lost slipper would connect her? She could almost believe this. For no Cinderella, in the ashes of the hearth, could have seemed more remote from the gay ball-room than she crouching on her thin mattress, with the breathing of the children in her ears, from the luxury of the famous salon.

  Or, if it was true, if it had happened, would anything come of it? Would Lord Audley remember her? Or would he think no more of her, ignoring to-morrow the poor relation whom it had been the whim of the moment to own? That would be cruel! That would be base! But if Mary had fallen in with some good people since her father’s death, she had also met many callous, and a few cruel people. He might be one. And then, how strange it was that her father had never named this great kinsman, never referred to him, never even, when dying, disclosed his name!

  The light wavered in the draught that stole through the bald, undraped window. A child whimpered in its sleep, awoke, began to sob. It was the youngest of the daughters of Poland. The girl rose, and going on tip-toe to the child, bent over it, kissed it, warmed it in her bosom, soothed it. Presently the little waif slept again, and Mary Audley began to make ready for bed.

  But so much turned for her on what had happened, so much hung in the balance, that it was not unnatural that as she let down her hair and plaited it in two long tails for the night, she should see her new kinsman’s face in the mirror. Nor strange that as she lay sleepless and thought-ridden in her bed the same face should present itself anew relieved against the background of darkness.

  CHAPTER III

  THE LAWYER ABROAD

  Half an hour later Lord Audley paused in the hall at Meurice’s, and having given his cloak and hat to a servant went thoughtfully up the wide staircase. He opened the door of a room on the first floor. A stout man with a bald head, who had been for some time yawning over the dying fire, rose to his feet and remained standing.

  Audley nodded. “Hallo, Stubbs!” he said carelessly, “not in bed yet?”

  “No, my lord,” the other answered. “I waited to learn if your lordship had any orders for England.”

  “Well, sit down now. I’ve something to tell you.” My lord stooped as he spoke and warmed his hands at the embers; then rising, he stood with his back to the hearth. The stout man sat forward on his chair with an air of deference. His double chin rested on the ample folds of a soft white stock secured by a gold pin in the shape of a wheat-sheaf. He wore black knee-breeches and stockings, and his dress, though plain, bore the stamp of neatness and prosperity.

  For a minute or two Audley continued to look thoughtfully before him. At length, “May I take it that this claim is really at an end now?” he said. “Is the decision final, I mean?”

  “Unless new evidence crops up,” Stubbs answered — he was a lawyer— “the decision is certainly final. With your lordship’s signature to the papers I brought over — —”

  “But the claimant might try again?”

  “Mr. John Audley might do anything,” Stubbs returned. “I believe him to be mad upon the point, and therefore capable of much. But he could only move on new evidence of the most cogent nature. I do not believe that such evidence exists.”

  His employer weighed this for some time. At length, “Then if you were in my place,” he said, “you would not be tempted to hedge?”

  “To hedge?” the lawyer exclaimed, as if he had never heard the word before. “I am afraid I don’t understand.”

  “I will explain. But first, tell me this. If anything happens to me before I have a child, John Audley succeeds to the peerage? That is clear?”

  “Certainly! Mr. John Audley, the claimant, is also your heir-at-law.”

  “To title and estates — such as they are?”

  “To both, my lord.”

  “Then follow me another step, Stubbs. Failing John Audley, who is the next heir?”

  “Mr. Peter Audley,” Stubbs replied, “his only brother, would succeed, if he were alive. But it is common ground that he is dead. I knew Mr. Peter, and, if I may say it of an Audley, my lord, a more shiftless, weak, improvident gentleman never lived. And obstinate as the devil! He married into trade, and Mr. John never forgave it — never forgave it, my lord. Never spoke of his brother or to his brother from that time. It was before the Reform Bill,” the lawyer continued with a sigh. “There were no railways then and things were different. Dear, dear, how the world changes! Mr. Peter must have gone abroad ten years ago, but until he was mentioned in the suit I don’t think that I had heard his name ten times in as many years. And he an Audley!”

  “He had a child?”

  “Only one, a daughter.”

  “Would she come in after Mr. John?”

  “Yes, my lord, she would — if living.”

  “I’ve been talking to her this evening.”

  “Ah!” The lawyer was not so simple as he seemed, and for a minute or two he had foreseen the dénouement. “Ah!” he repeated, thoughtfully rubbing his plump calf. “I see, my lord. Mr. Peter Audley’s daughter? Really! And if I may venture to ask, what is she like?”

  Audley paused before he answered. Then, “If you have painted the father aright, Stubbs, I should say that she was his opposite in all but his obstinacy. A calm and self-reliant young woman, if I am any judge.”

  “And handsome?”

  “Yes, with a look of breeding. At the same time she is penniless and dependent, teaching English in a kind of charity school, cheek by jowl with a princess!”

  “God bless my soul!” cried the lawyer, astonished at last. “A princess!”

  “Who is a good creature as women go, but as likely as not to send her adrift to-morrow.”

  “Tut-tut-tut!” muttered the other.

  “However, I’ll tell you the story,” Audley concluded. And he did so.

  When he had done, “Well,” Stubbs exclaimed, “for a coincidence — —”

  “Ah, there,” the young man broke in, “I fancy, all’s not said. I take it the Princess noted the name, but was too polite to question me. Anyway, the girl is there. She is dependent, friendless; attractive, and well-bred. For a moment it did occur to me — she is John Audley’s heiress — that I might make all safe by — —” His voice dropped. His last words were inaudible.

  “The chance is so very remote,” said the lawyer, aware that he was on delicate ground, and that the other was rather following out his own thoughts than consulting him.

  “It is. The idea crossed my mind only for a moment — of course it’s absurd for a man as poor as I am. There is har
dly a poorer peer out of Ireland — you know that. Fourteenth baron without a roof to my house or a pane of glass in my windows! And a rent-roll when all is told of — —”

  “A little short of three thousand,” the lawyer muttered.

  “Two thousand five hundred, by God, and not a penny more! If any man ought to marry money, I am that man, Stubbs!”

  Mr. Stubbs, staring at the fire with a hand on each knee, assented respectfully. “I’ve always hoped that you would, my lord,” he said, “though I’ve not ventured to say it.”

  “Yes! Well — putting that aside,” the other resumed, “what is to be done about her? I’ve been thinking it over, and I fancy that I’ve hit on the right line. John Audley’s given me trouble enough. I’ll give him some. I’ll make him provide for her, d — n him, or I don’t know my man!”

  “I’d like to know, my lord,” Stubbs ventured thoughtfully, “why he didn’t answer her letters. He hated her father, but it is not like Mr. John to let the young lady drift. He’s crazy about the family, and she is his next heir. He’s a lonely man, too, and there is room at the Gatehouse.”

  Audley paused, half-way across the room. “I wish we had never leased the Gatehouse to him!”

  “It’s not everybody’s house, my lord. It’s lonely and — —”

  “It’s too near Beaudelays!”

  “If your lordship were living at the Great House, quite so,” the lawyer agreed. “But, as it is, the rent is useful, and the lease was made before our time, so that we have no choice.”

  “I shall always believe that he had a reason for going there!”

  “He had an idea that it strengthened his claim,” the lawyer said indulgently. “Nothing beyond that, my lord.”

  “Well, I’ve made up my mind to increase his family by a niece!” the other replied. “He shall have the girl whether he likes it or not. Take a pen, man, and sit down. He’s spoiled my breakfast many a time with his confounded Writs of Error, or whatever you call them, and for once I’ll be even with him. Say — yes, Stubbs, say this:

  “‘I am directed by Lord Audley to inform you that a young lady, believed to be a daughter of the late Mr. Peter Audley, and recently living in poverty in an obscure’ — yes, Stubbs, say obscure— ‘part of Paris, has been rescued by the benevolence of a Polish lady. For the present she is in the lady’s house in a menial capacity, and is dependent on her charity. Lord Audley is informed that the young lady made application to you without result, but this report his lordship discredits. Still, he feels himself concerned; and if those to whom she naturally looks decline to aid her, it is his lordship’s intention to make such provision as may enable her to live respectably. I am to inform you that Miss Audley’s address is the Hôtel Lambert, He St. Louis, Paris. Letters should be addressed “Care of the Housekeeper.”’“

  “He won’t like the last touch!” the young man continued, with a quiet chuckle. “If that does not touch him on the raw, I’ll yield up the title to-morrow. And now, Stubbs, good-night.”

  But Stubbs did not take the hint. “I want to say one word, my lord, about the borough — about Riddsley,” he said. “We put in Mr. Mottisfont at the last election, your lordship’s interest just tipping the scale. We think, therefore, that a word from you may set right what is going wrong.”

  “What is it?”

  “There’s a strong feeling,” the lawyer answered, his face serious, “that the party is not being led aright. And that Mr. Mottisfont, who is old — —”

  “Is willing to go with the party, eh, Stubbs?”

  “No, my lord, with the party leaders. Which is a different thing. Sir Robert Peel — the land put him in, but, d — n me, my lord” — the lawyer’s manner lost much of its deference and he spoke bluntly and strongly— “it looks as if he were going to put the land out! An income-tax in peace time, we’ve taken that. And less protection for the farmer, very good — if it must be. But all this taking off of duties, this letting in of Canadian corn — I tell you, my lord, there’s an ugly feeling abroad! There are a good many in Riddsley say that he is going to repeal the Corn Laws altogether; that he’s sold us to the League, and won’t be long before he delivers us!”

  The big man sitting back in his chair smiled. “It seems to me,” he said, “that you are travelling rather fast and rather far, Stubbs!”

  “That’s just what we fear Sir Robert is doing!” the lawyer retorted smartly, the other’s rank forgotten. “And you may take it from me the borough won’t stand it, my lord, and the sooner Mr. Mottisfont has a hint the better. If he follows Peel too far, the bottom will fall out of his seat. There’s no Corn Law leaguer will ever sit for Riddsley!”

  “With your help, anyway, Stubbs,” my lord said with a smile. The lawyer’s excitement amused him.

  “No, my lord! Never with my help! I believe that on the landed interest rests the stability of the country! It was the landed interest that supported Pitt and beat Bony, and brought us through the long war. It was the landed interest that kept us from revolution in the dark days after the war. And now because the men that turn cotton and iron and clay into money by the help of the devil’s breath — because they want to pay lower wages — —”

  “The ark of the covenant is to be overthrown, eh?” the young man laughed. “Why, to listen to you, Stubbs, one would think that you were the largest landowner in the county!”

  “No, my lord,” the lawyer answered. “But it’s the landowners have made me what I am. And it’s the landowners and the farmers that Riddsley lives by and is going to stand by! And the sooner Mr. Mottisfont knows that the better. He was elected as a Tory, and a Tory he must stop, whether Sir Robert turns his coat or not!”

  “You want me to speak to Mottisfont?”

  “We do, my lord. Just a word. I was at the Ordinary last fair day, and there was nothing else talked of. Free Canadian corn was too like free French corn and free Belgian corn for Stafford wits to see much difference. And Peel is too like repeal, my lord. We are beginning to see that.”

  Audley shrugged his shoulders. “The party is satisfied,” he said. “And Mottisfont? I can’t drive the man.”

  “No, but a word from you — —”

  “Well, I’ll think about it. But I fancy you’re overrunning the scent.”

  “Then the line is not straight!” the lawyer retorted shrewdly. “However, if I have been too warm, I beg pardon, my lord.”

  “I’ll bear it in mind,” Audley answered. “Very good. And now, good-night, Stubbs. Don’t forget to send the letter to John Audley as soon as you reach London.”

  Stubbs replied that he would, and took his leave. He had said his say on the borough question, lord or no lord; which to a Briton — and he was a typical Briton — was a satisfaction.

  But half an hour later, when he had drawn his nightcap down to his ears and stood, the extinguisher in his hand, he paused. “He’s a sober hand for a young man,” he thought, “a very sober hand. I warrant he will never run his ship on the rocks for lack of a good look-out!”

  CHAPTER IV

  HOMEWARD BOUND

  In the corner of the light diligence, seating six inside, which had brought her from Montreuil, Mary Audley leant forward, looking out through the dingy panes for the windmills of Calais. Joséphine slept in the corner facing her, as she had slept for two hours past. Their companions, a French shopkeeper and her child, and an English bagman, sighed and fidgeted, as travellers had cause to sigh and fidget in days when he was lucky who covered the distance from Paris to Calais in twenty-five hours. The coach rumbled on. The sun had set, a small rain was falling. The fading light tinged the plain of the Pas de Calais with a melancholy which little by little dyed the girl’s thoughts.

  She was on her way to her own country, to those on whom she might be dependent without shame. And common sense, of which she had a large share, told her that she had cause, great cause to be thankful. But the flush of relief, to which the opening prospect had given rise, was ebbing. The life be
fore her was new, those amongst whom she must lead that life were strange; nor did the cold phrases of her uncle’s invitation, which ignored both her father and the letters that she had written, promise an over-warm welcome.

  Still, “Courage!” Mary murmured to herself, “Courage!” And she recalled a saying which she had learned from the maid, “At the worst, ten fingers!” Then, seeing that at last they were entering the streets of the town and that the weary journey was over — she had left Paris the day before — she touched Joséphine. “We are there,” she said.

  The maid awoke with her eyes on the bagman, who was stout. “Ah!” she muttered. “In England they are like that! No wonder that they travel seeing that their bones are so padded! But, for me I am one ache.”

  They jolted over the uneven pavement, crossed a bridge, lumbered through streets scarcely wider than the swaying diligence, at last with a great cracking of whips they swerved to the left and drew up amid the babel of the quay. In a twinkling they were part of it. Porters dragged down, fought for, snatched up their baggage. English-speaking touts shook dirty cards in their faces. Tide-waiters bawled questions in their ears. The postilion, the conductor, all the world stretched greedy palms under their noses. Other travellers ran into them, and they ran into other travellers. All this, in the dusk, in the rain, while the bell on the deck overhead clanged above the roar of the escaping steam, and a man shouted without ceasing, “Tower steamer! Tower steamer! Any more for England?”

  Joséphine, after one bitter exchange of words with a lad who had seized her handbag, thrust her fingers into her ears and resigned herself. Even Mary for a moment was aghast. She was dragged this way and that, she lost one article and recovered it, lost another and recovered that, she lost her ticket and rescued it from a man’s hand. At last, her baggage on board, she found herself breathless at the foot of the ladder, with three passengers imploring her to ascend, and six touts clinging to her skirts and crying for drink-money. She had barely time to make her little gift to the kind-hearted maid — who was returning to Paris by the night coach — and no time to thank her, before they were parted. Mary was pushed up the ladder. In a moment she was looking down from the deck on the wet, squalid quay, the pale up-turned faces, the bustling crowd.