Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  The girl had never complained; it seemed as if that which he had done for her had silenced her, as if, she, too, had taken it for payment. But one day she was not at table, and Miss Peacock cut up his meat. She did not do it to his mind — no hand but Jos’s could do it to his mind — and he was querulous and dissatisfied.

  “I’m sure it’s small enough, sir,” Miss Peacock answered, feebly defending herself. “You said you liked it small, Mr. Griffin.”

  “I never said I liked mince-meat! Where is the girl? What ails her?”

  “It’s nothing, sir. She’s been looking a little peaky the last week or two. That’s all. And to-day — —”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It’s only a headache, sir. She’ll be well enough when the spring comes. Josina was always nesh — like her mother.”

  The Squire huddled his spoon and fork together, and pushed his plate away, muttering something about d — d sausage meat. Her mother? How old had her mother been when she — he could not remember, but certainly a mere child beside him. Twenty-five or so, he thought. And she was nesh, was she? He sat, shaving his chin with unsteady fingers, eating nothing; and when Calamy, hovering over his plate, hinted that he had not finished, he blew the butler out of the room with a blast of language that made Miss Peacock, hardened as she was, hold up her hands. And though Jos was at breakfast next morning, and answered his grumpy questions as if nothing were amiss, a little seed of fear had been sown in the Squire’s mind that grew as fast as Jonah’s gourd, and before noon threatened to shut out the sun.

  A silk purse could not be made out of a sow’s ear. But a good leather purse, that might pass in time — the lad was stout and honest. And his father, mud, certainly, and mud of the pretentious kind that the Squire hated: mud that affected by the aid of gilding to pass for fine clay. But honest? Well, in his own way, perhaps: it remained to be seen. And times were changing, changing for the worse; but he could not deny that they were changing. So gradually, slowly, unwelcome at the best, there grew up in the old man’s mind the idea of surrender. If the money were paid back, say in three months, say in six months — well, he would think of it. He would begin to think of it. He would begin to think of it as a thing possible some day, at some very distant date — if there were more peakiness. The girl did not whine, did not torment him, did not complain; and he thought the more of her for that. But if she ailed, then, failing her, there was no one to come after him at Garth, no one of his blood to follow him — except that Bourdillon whelp, and by G — d he should not have an acre or a rood of it, or a pound of it. Never! Never!

  Failing her? The Squire felt the air turn cold, and he hung, shivering, over the fire. What if, while he sought to preserve the purity of the old blood, the old traditions, he cut the thread, and the name of Griffin passed out of remembrance, as in his long life he had known so many, many old names pass away — pass into limbo?

  Ay, into limbo. He saw his own funeral procession crawl — a long black snake — down the winding drive, here half-hidden by the sunken banks, there creeping forth again into the light. He saw the bleak sunshine fall on the pall that draped the farm-wagon, and heard the slow heavy note of the Garthmyle bell, and the scuffling of innumerable feet that alone broke the solemn silence. If she were not there at window or door to see it go, or in the old curtained pew to await its coming — if the church vault closed on him, the last of his race and blood!

  He sat long, thinking of this.

  And one day, nearly two months after his visit to the bank — in the meantime he had been twice into town at the Bench — he was riding on the land with Fewtrell at his stirrup, when the bailiff told him that there was a stranger in the field.

  “Which field?” he asked.

  “Where they ha’ just lifted the turnips,” the man said. “Oh!” said the Squire. “Who is it? What’s he doing there?”

  “Well, I’m thinking,” said Fewtrell, “as it’s the young gent I’ve seen here more ‘n once. Same as asked me one day why we didn’t drill ‘em in wider.”

  “The devil, he did!” the Squire exclaimed, kicking up the old mare, who was leaning over sleepily.

  “Called ‘em Radicals,” said Fewtrell, grinning. “Them there Radical Swedes,” says he. “Dunno what he meant. ‘If you plant Radicals, best plant ‘em Radical fashion,’ says he.”

  “Devil he did!” repeated the Squire. “Said that, did he?”

  “Ay, to be sure. He used to come across with a gun field-way from Acherley; oh, as much as once a week I’d see him. And he’d know every crop as we put in, a’most same as I did. Very spry he was about it, I’ll say that.”

  “Is it the banker’s son?” asked the Squire on a sudden suspicion.

  “Well, I think he be,” Fewtrell answered, shading his eyes. “He be going up to the house now.”

  “Well, you can take me in,” to the groom. “I’ll go by the gap.”

  The groom demurred timidly; the grey might leap at the gap. But the Squire was obstinate, and the old mare, who knew he was blind as well as any man upon the place, and knew, too, when she could indulge in a frolic and when not, bore, him out delicately, stepping over the thorn-stubs as if she walked on eggs.

  He was at the door in the act of dismounting when Clement appeared. “D’you want me?” the old man asked bluntly.’

  “If you please, sir,” Clement answered. He had walked all the way from Aldersbury, having much to think of and one question which lay heavy on his mind. That was — how would it be with him when he walked back?

  “Then come in.” And feeling for the door-post with his hand, the Squire entered the house and turned with the certainty of long practice into the dining-room. He walked to the table as firmly as if he could see, and touching it with one hand he drew up with the other his chair. He sat down. “You’d best sit,” he said grudgingly. “I can’t see, but you can. Find a chair.”

  “My father has sent me with the money,” Clement explained. “I have a cheque here and the necessary papers. He would have come himself, sir, to renew his thanks for aid as timely as it was generous and — and necessary. But” — Clement boggled a little over the considered phrase, he was nervous and his voice betrayed it— “he thought — I was to say — —”

  “It’s all there?”

  “Yes, sir, principal and interest.”

  “Have you drawn a receipt?”

  “Yes, sir, I’ve brought one with me. But if you would prefer that it should be paid to Mr. Welsh — my father thought that that might be so?”

  “Umph! All there, is it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The old man did not speak for awhile. He seemed to be at a loss, and Clement, who had other and more serious business on his mind, and had his own reasons for feeling ill at ease, waited anxiously. He was desperately afraid of making a false step.

  Suddenly, “Who was your grandfather?” the Squire asked.

  Clement started and colored. “He had the same name as my father,” he said. “He was a clothier in Aldersbury.”

  “Ay, I mind him. I mind him now. And his father, young man?”

  “His name was Clement,” and foreseeing the next question, “he was a yeoman at Easthope.”

  “And his father?”

  Clement reddened painfully. He saw only too well to what these questions were tending. “I don’t know, sir,” he said.

  “And you set up — you set up,” said the Squire, leaning forward and speaking very slowly, “to marry my heiress?”

  “No, sir, your daughter!” Clement said, his face burning. “If she’d not a penny — —”

  “Pho! Don’t tell me!” the old man growled, and to Clement’s surprise — whose ears were tingling — he relapsed into silence again. It was a silence very ominous. It seemed to Clement that no silence had ever been so oppressive, that no clock had ever ticked so loudly as the tall clock that stood between the windows behind him. “You know,” said the old man at last, “you’re a d —
d impudent fellow. You’ve no birth, you’re nobody, and I don’t know that you’ve much money. You’ve gone behind my back and you’ve stole my girl. You’ve stole her! My father’d ha’ shot you, and good reason, before he’d ha’ let it come to this. But it’s part my fault,” with a sigh. “She’ve seen naught of the world and don’t know the difference between silk and homespun or what’s fitting for her. You’re nobody, and you’ve naught to offer — I’m plain, young gentleman, and it’s better — but I believe you’re a man, and I believe you’re honest.”

  “And I love her!” Clement said softly, his eyes shining.

  “Ay,” drily, “and maybe it would be better for her if her father didn’t! But there it is. There it is. That’s all that’s to be said for you.” He sat silent, looking straight before him with his sightless eyes, his hands on the knob of his stick. “And I dunno as I make much of that— ’tis easy for a man to love a maid — but the misfortune is that she thinks she loves you. Well, I’m burying things as have been much to me all my life, things I never thought to lose or part from while I lived. I’m burying them deep, and God knows I may regret it sorely. But you may go to her. She’s somewhere about the place. But” — arresting Clement’s exclamation as he rose to his feet— “you’ll ha’ to wait. You’ll ha’ to wait till I say the word, and maybe ’tis all moonshine, and she’ll see it is. Maybe ’tis all a girl’s whimsy, and when she knows more of you she’ll find it out.”

  “God bless you, sir!” Clement cried. “I’ll wait. I’m not afraid. I’ve no fear of that. And if I can make myself worthy of her — —”

  “You’ll never do that,” said the old man sternly, as he bent lower over his stick. He heard the door close and he knew that Clement had gone — gone on wings, gone on feet lighter than thistle-down, gone, young and strong, his pulses leaping, to his love.

  The Squire was too old for tears, but his lip trembled. It was not alone the sacrifice that he had made that moved him — the sacrifice of his pride, his prejudices, his traditions. It was not only the immolation of his own will, his hopes and plans — his cherished plans for her. But he was giving her up. He was resigning that of which he had only just learned the worth, that on which in his blindness he depended every hour, that which made up all of youth and brightness and cheerfulness that was left to him between this and the end. He had sent the man to her, and they would think no more of him. And in doing this he had belied every belief in which he had been brought up and the faith which he had inherited from an earlier day — and maybe he had been a fool!

  But by and by it appeared that they had not forgotten him, or one, at any rate, had not. He had not been alone five minutes before the door opened behind him, and closed again, and he felt Josina’s arms round his neck, her head on his breast. “Oh, father, I know, I know,” she cried. “I know what you have done for me! And I shall never forget it — never! And he is good. Oh, father, indeed, indeed, he is good!”

  “There, there,” he said, stroking her head. “Go back to him. But, mind you,” hurriedly, “I don’t promise anything yet. In a year, maybe, I’ll talk about it.”

  THE END

  THE TRAVELLER IN THE FUR CLOAK

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  CHAPTER XXIII

  CHAPTER XXIV

  CHAPTER XXV

  CHAPTER I

  INTO THE SHADOW

  I OWN that I was to blame, that I was hasty, cross-grained and aggressive; and I shall never cease to regret it. But I had some reason, at the time it seemed to me that I had good reason, to be short-tempered. And if Perceval Ellis had recognized this and made allowances for my position — however, it is too late now to consider what might have happened in other circumstances and had we been different men.

  It was at Wittenberg on the Elbe, where we arrived on a close, thunderous afternoon, the sky low and black above us, that the trouble came to a head. We had left Iglau on the 18th of July, our departure hastened by the Armistice which laid Austria, the last independent power in Germany, at the feet of Napoleon. The hopes which Aspern had raised had been crushed on the heights of Wagram; and for us Metternich had become inaccessible. Stadion, the Minister, whose star had clearly set, had received us only by stealth, Gentz had tearfully pressed on us our passports. An English Mission at a Court now dependent on our enemies was plainly out of place, and though we had been admitted to take leave, and had received assurances — and something more, which it behoved us to convey as quickly as possible to London — the affrighted faces about us had warned us to withdraw while we might. It was manifest that the Ball Platz doubted its power to protect us, and feared a repetition of the tragedy of Rastadt for which it might be held responsible.

  A secret and special Mission is seldom more than a post of observation, and when it is accredited to a Court nominally hostile — as Austria was in the year’9 — has always something of the equivocal. But a Mission of this kind, which it may become necessary to repudiate, is the one plum which the Office reluctantly resigns to youth; and what young diplomatist ever hesitated to accept the gift, or did not feel his heart beat high as he set his foot on the ladder which was to raise him in a surprisingly short time to Paris or to Petersburg? What young diplomatist ever set forth on such a Mission without rejoicing in his independence, or ever doubted his power to deal with the very nicest emergency that could arise?

  Certainly not I, when eight months earlier I had left London on H.M. sloop-of-war Bustard, and hastened by way of the Mediterranean — for Europe was closed to us — to Vienna. And at first all had smiled on the Envoy Extraordinary. I had been received in the highest quarters, sous cape indeed, but graciously, the overtures I had been empowered to make had been welcomed, assurances had been given me. It was acknowledged that Austria, hemmed in by foes, could look only to the sea for a diversion, and even the question of subsidies fell — chose étrange! — into the second place. Let England strike, and Austria would know how to prove her gratitude. But time — time was everything. The blow must be struck in Hanover, and the sooner the better.

  I did what I could. Thrice Klatz the messenger, running, I am bound to own, great risk, but aided by his connections in the country, carried my despatches to Hamburg. Thence they were forwarded by smugglers’ post to Heligoland and so to London. Then on his third return the blow fell.

  I might have foreseen it, for the Office did but follow precedent. I had been too successful for my own interests. A Mission which, it now seemed probable, would be crowned with success, was too rich a prize for a youngster with little interest. Klatz brought back a letter, in the Chief’s own hand, commending me in handsome terms — and superseding me. Perceval Ellis would come out to take charge. He had already started and would reach the Austrian Court by the end of May. Enclosed was my appointment as Secretary to the Mission.

  It was a bitter pill, but in the pépiniére in which I was trained the service first was the primary rule, and I say it with feeling, that if Ellis had met me as I was prepared to meet him, he would have had no ground to complain of my loyalty. But Perceval came out, jealous of his authority, he held himself boutonné from the first, and though I was the only person who could put him in possession of the situation, or indicate the safe men, he kept me at arm’s length. Then — and this was no aid to a good understanding between us — from the moment of his arrival things took a turn for the worse. The Austrians failed to follow up the
ir successes. The Archduke Charles stood by, while Napoleon made good his losses. By the first week of July Wagram had shattered our hopes and left us no option but to retire from a Court at which we had no longer a footing.

  Immediately there had arisen the question which was to mean so much to us — and was to divide us. We had, as I have hinted, despatches of the most confidential nature in our hands, the more valuable seeing that they were the sole fruit of our Mission. They embraced some promises, more assurances, a few words signed by an illustrious hand — and, alas, at odds with more public words signed by the same hand. In a word, they were the seeds from which a new Coalition might one day arise. But over and above these we had proofs, as private as they had been costly to obtain, of Napoleon’s plan for a new marriage — whispers, and something more than whispers, of the divorce and wedding which six months later were to shock Europe. Naturally it was of importance that no French eye should alight on these documents, while on the other hand it was probable that, if it became known that they were in our possession, an attempt would be made to obtain them at any cost.

  To allow these papers to pass out of our hands, even into Klatz’s, was out of the question. We must convey them ourselves, and the point which my chief had to decide was — by which route should we withdraw? We might go by Constantinople and the long road of the Mediterranean, and this route, though not free from risk, was in my opinion the safer. But we might be many weeks at sea, and we should certainly lag behind events.