Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “Hang them all! And Kitty and Fred? You shall see what they say.” He took out the letter which, foolish, clumsy man, he should have shown her at the first.

  As she read it her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, they are kind!” she cried. “They are kind!” She kissed the letter. “And yet I shall be afraid to see them!”

  “Little silly!” he said. “Do you not know me yet? Do you think I am not master on my own quarter-deck?”

  She looked at him daringly. “Then what am I?” she asked.

  His eyes twinkled. He told her.

  He stayed until late in the evening and, sailor-like, made himself at home. Rachel thought his manner to her mother delightful and loved him anew for it. And Mrs. South endeavoured to meet him in the same spirit. But the poor woman was weighed down by misgivings. She had been dazzled for an hour by the prospect opened before her daughter; she had hoped and even prayed that the girl might accept this grand, this incredible offer — the impulse was natural. But the man, now that she considered him at close quarters, was strange to her and formidable. He loomed large in the little room; he was plain and blunt, authority spoke loud in him, and doubtless her knowledge of his position doubled her sense of this. And awed by him, and deceived by Rachel’s manner — for the girl was too happy and perhaps too shy to talk much — the mother trembled and repented.

  And Ruth, had she been canvassed, would have agreed with her mother. From her corner she watched the two with the fascinated eyes of a girl emerging from childhood, and engrossed in what she saw, she marvelled. She thought the Captain grim and very awful, but far from a hero of romance. She wondered at her sister’s courage in taking him, and above all she was curious. She coloured when Rachel laid a hand on his shoulder as she passed behind him. She thrilled when she saw the same daring spirit take his egg from his grasp and cut off the top. She looked away when she detected him stretching out a hand to caress her sister’s skirt. Above all, she burned with a devouring curiosity — had he kissed her? It seemed a thing inconceivable, incredible, impossible — that stranger! And when he did actually kiss her on taking leave, coolly, audaciously, and before their eyes, and Rachel, though she blushed deeply, made no demur, Ruth gasped. She felt that she had no more to learn. She was a woman, equipped for the world, experienced, without illusions.

  The mother crushed down her fears until on their way up to bed she got her darling to herself. Then searching the girl’s face with wistful eyes, as she held her tenderly to her, she put her misgivings into words. “For, oh, my dear, I am frightened,” she said. “I was wrong to press you. If you don’t feel sure, if you are not certain, draw back now, draw back, my dear, before it is too late. If you fear him, I will explain. I will see him myself—”

  “Fear him?” Rachel raised her brimming eyes to her mother’s face, and what the mother read in them dispelled once and for all her doubts. “Oh, mother, I love him, I love him dearly! He is the best, the kindest, the noblest of men! He is mine, my man! If I lost him now I think I should die!”

  He took her back to the Folly a week later, and on the way they had tea at the White Hart at Salisbury, and Rachel sat again in the chair in the dark corner to which she had once fled to avoid him; she looked again through the red-curtained window that opened on the yard. And if he had not pulled the bell-rope with violence and called the tea “cat-lap,” and boomed at John, and if the landlord had not come in respectfully to condole with him on the loss of his arm, the thing would not have been perfect. And after tea, while the fresh team was being harnessed, they strolled in the quiet spacious Close, and she hung on his arm, and teased him. And in the chaise he hummed a new ditty:

  “Oh, First of Seamen, mist or shine,

  Thou shalt for ever break the line,

  And England keep,

  Dear England keep.

  “Thy Elephant shall trumpet high,

  Thy Agamemnon proud reply,

  And laurels reap,

  Thy laurels reap.

  “Thy Vanguard and thy Captain too

  Shall flaunt thy ghostly pennant blue,

  And sacred keep,

  Thy name shall keep,

  “When all the hearts of Oak that swim

  Shall tideless rest, their memory dim

  In Ocean’s deep,

  In Ocean’s sleep.”

  And her heart swelled, and she loved him for it. His voice, once so harsh, was sweet in her ears, and that which had been doggerel was by the magic of love’s alembic turned to poetry. But as they climbed the ascent beyond Ringwood, and the prospect of the Folly began to rise before her, she put her hand into his and she fell silent.

  “Ay,” said Bowles, an hour later, “and I tell you, ma’am, it was as pretty a sight as you’d wish to see. The Captain, he stayed by the chaise seeing Charles and his man and the others take out the portmantles, and she come up the steps alone and frightened-like, hanging her head — she never was one for making the most of herself, as you know, Mrs. J., nor the figure to do it as some I could name. And first that little devil of a Lady Ann fell upon her and nearly knocked her down. Then half-way up his lordship meets her, and what he said I couldn’t hear. But she answered flurried-like, ‘I hope Lady Ellingham is well.’ And he laughed — there’s no one can laugh more jolly than his lordship, I will say that — and says he, ‘Your sister is waiting for you in the hall,’ says he. And her ladyship met her at the top of the steps and took her and kissed her.”

  “There’s not much in kisses,” said Mrs. Jemmett grudgingly.

  “Well, ma’am, that’s not my opinion, Mrs. J. And I always have thought, and well you know it — that if you and me were to put our heads together — I could make you think different.”

  “Bowles!” Mrs. Jemmett’s tone was awful. “You trench, man, you trench!”

  “Well, ma’am,” audaciously. “What if we were to try? You don’t think—”

  “I don’t think of no such things,” Mrs. Jemmett retorted. But a smile trembled on her lips.

  THE END

  THE LIVELY PEGGY

  Weyman’s last completed novel was completed shortly before the author’s death and published in 1928. It is an historical adventure novel, set during the Napoleonic wars.

  A naval battle during the Napoleonic wars

  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 XXVI

  CHAPTER XXVII

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  CHAPTER XXIX

  CHAPTER XXX

  CHAPTER XXXI

  CHAPTER XXXII

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  CHAPTER XXXV

  CHAPTER XXXVI

  Weyman towards the end of his life

  CHAPTER I

  THE news came in by the weekly boat from Plymouth that, weather permitting, served Yealmpton and Kingsbridge and Beremouth of a Wednesday, returning on Thursday. It was but whispered aboard, and that furtively; for the Blighs came back on the boat, a sombre, repellent couple, to whom a fine seafaring delicacy gave a wide berth. The men and the tidings, therefore, came ashore at Beremouth together. But news travels on a fair wind, and no man knows how, and before the Captain’s wooden leg, steering a course between the tubs and brown nets, had stumped across the stony wharf scaly with fishes’ heads, or his son’s face, dark and grim, had been more than espied
at his elbow, the whisper was already fleeting before them up the cobbled street. Already in the parlour of the Privateersman — the dim picture outside is taken by the eye of faith for a portrait of Ozias Copestake himself — and in the snug of the Keppel Head, men were settling down to a breezy, leisurely discussion of the verdict, its justice and its consequences.

  Down by the water’s edge, among the fishing-nets and tubs, and in Budgen’s Cove on the farther side of the headland — for within five minutes and by a seeming miracle the news was known even there — the feeling ran all one way. In spite of his regular recurrent bouts, and though there were a dozen men in Beremouth who had at one time or another retrieved his grey head from the gutter, or guided him staggering across the churchyard to his cottage, the old Captain was taken by the simple for a gentleman. His patient face, his mild dignity, and a life which, between times, was all that a half-pay officer’s should be, had won the respect and his failing the indulgence of men ready to own that they would have tripped more often had they had the means. Tales of an unobtrusive helpfulness, that shed a pleasant light on his threadbare, frogged coat, were current, and faith was large and generous. In a word, if the Captain, as was notorious, carried his liquor ill, the fact was held to be his misfortune rather than his fault.

  That his son, the Lieutenant, shared the misfortune had come, however, as a surprise to Beremouth, and was, it was owned, a matter that called for deeper reflection, and another pot at least. And drunk on duty? Certainly a man might do better than that, for there was a time for everything — so much was grudgingly admitted even in the snug of the Keppel Head. And had the Lieutenant stood alone, “Serve him right!” might even by the water-side have confirmed the verdict that dismissed him, a lieutenant of six years’ standing and one day’s ignominy, from the Service. For the son was less well known than his father and less liked. He was something of a mystery. A soured, disappointed young fellow — even before this final disaster — with none of the old man’s mild courtesy, he kept himself to himself and held his head high, his dour gloom making, with all his good looks, but few friends; while his now declared weakness had not been patent enough to claim the indulgence of fellow-feeling.

  Still in rough, rig-and-furrow-clad breasts liking for the father pleaded for the son; and after all a young man who had lost his arm in a cutting-out affair in the Bay, and had been shabbily treated — so report said — when the honours were dealt out, seemed to deserve some respect if he failed of sympathy. So “Poor devil!” and “Hard luck!” summed up in the main the water-side verdict, and more than one could have found it in his heart to tackle the old Captain as he plodded humbly up the street, and to say a word in the way of good feeling. But a glance at the son’s black brow drove the kindly thought back to its home again and though many eyes were upon them the two could not have had a clearer path up the street if a fire had gone before them.

  “He takes it hard,” said one. “Ay, ay,” another agreed, “it’s gone home to him.” And with a dim sense that they were looking on a tragedy the speakers watched the couple out of sight.

  To hide their heads, to escape from curious glances and the pity that was worse, was the aim of both, and all that was left to them. But to gain the cottage that clung to the farther slope and looked down on Budgen’s Cove they had to cross the neck of the headland, and every weary yard they climbed, the Captain hanging on his son’s arm, was a purgatory. They bore it, each after his fashion; the father limping patiently on, his shamed face bent on the roadway — with him life, even before this last and fatal blow, had gone hardly, and age had no longer spirit to rebel; the son with head erect, his seared heart glaring from his eyes in hard, bitter defiance of the world. As they crossed the churchyard on the summit — solitary and quiet enough this — and passed by the western end of the church, the Lieutenant did for one moment turn his gaze aside. He looked down the lane that led to the Rectory, and his lip quivered. But he set it firm again. There was an end of that! An end of that!

  “We will have some tea,” the Captain muttered. He found comfort in the prospect, though he sighed.

  “Yes, father, we will have some tea,” the son agreed, and his voice in its gentleness belied his stormy eyes. They left the churchyard behind them, and began the descent, the old man’s scanty coat-skirts fluttering, blown aside by the breeze.

  But the water-side and the poorer quarters were not the whole of Beremouth; and in proportion as the tidings travelled abroad, and broad-cloth, less pervious to feeling, took the place of woollen guernseys, sympathy with the culprit waned, and gave place to condemnation. Yet there were exceptions. Sir Albery Wyke, the Squire of Upper Bere, whose curricle was often to be seen in these days waiting in the Rectory Lane, and who, as it chanced, brought the news to the Portnals at the Rectory, took a kindly view of the case. “I am sorry,” he said, when he had told the tale. “Upon my honour, I’m sorry — for the father, at any rate. It’s a sad blow for him.”

  But Augusta, the elder Portnal girl, was firm. “I think your sorrow is thrown away,” she said, letting her work fall on her lap. “ The old man has disgraced himself so often that a little more can be no matter. But you always had a weakness for him, Sir Albery. For my part, I don’t see what else you could expect!”

  “After all the man is a gentleman.”

  “Is he?” Augusta smiled. “I confess he never seemed to be one to me.”

  “He wears a shabby coat,” her sister said, bending so low over her book that her ringlets hid her face.

  “Well, if you ask me, his conduct matches it,” Augusta rejoined. “In a man of his age it is disgraceful.”

  “He’s only a half-pay captain.” There was a faint note of scorn in Peggy’s tone.

  “He came to us once or twice,” Augusta explained languidly, “when he first appeared, you know. You asked us to invite him, if you remember, Sir Albery. But I could never see anything in him but a shabby old man dreadfully given to drink, and without a word to say for himself.”

  “He is poor,” Peggy said. She bent still lower over her page. “That is what Augusta would see. But he was always sober when he came to us.”

  “My dear, I am saying exactly what—”

  “Oh, I am sure you are just, Augusta. You always are. But not generous.”

  Augusta shrugged her handsome shoulders — her figure was as perfect as her smile was gracious. “My dear,” she said indulgently, “you are silly about him. She is perfectly silly about him, Sir Albery. What two opinions can there be about a man who disgraces his white hairs by lying drunk in the street — every quarter day, I am told, as regularly as the day comes round?”

  “He might do it more often,” Peggy objected. “No doubt it would be more respectable if he fell under the table once a week, as I hear some friends of ours do.”

  “I hope you do not mean that for me,” Wyke said with a smile. He had listened, glancing now at one and now at the other, as each spoke.

  “If the cap fits,” Peggy rejoined rather pertly.

  “Peggy! For shame!” Augusta remonstrated. “How can you be so rude?”

  “Fortunately the cap does not fit,” Sir Albery rejoined. “Or I’m sure, Miss Portnal, that your sister would not have offered it.”

  “It appears to fit the son,” Augusta remarked neatly. “It is clear that he is as bad as, or worse than, his father. And now, disgraced beyond redemption. Even Peggy cannot deny that.”

  “Well, I’m devilish sorry for him, all the same,” Wyke said, summing up in haste, for the discussion was growing warm. But whether the sympathy that he expressed was real, or was due to a desire to please Miss Peggy, who seemed to have taken a side in the matter, was uncertain. “The old man with all his faults is a good officer, and the Fencibles were never better drilled. So far as I am concerned, I don’t know that it matters if he takes a roll now and then — as long as he comes sober on parade.”

  “But,” Augusta said, smiling, “the son does not come sober on parade.”<
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  “No, I allow it, and that’s the devil’s own luck!”

  “I should rather say,” she retorted, “the gentleman’s own fault, Sir Albery. If you can call him a gentleman. To my mind father and son are much of a muchness, and impossible, both of them. The young man has been here once or twice, but as he appeared to be at odds with every one — and I confess he seemed to me to be a person of very considerable conceit — it is as well this has happened to close the chapter and the acquaintance.”

  Peggy’s face sank lower over her book. The ringlets hid it entirely now. But whatever the younger Portnal girl lacked, she did not lack spirit, and “It’s plain,” she said sweetly, “that he did not pay court to Augusta, Sir Albery? Her smile appears to have failed of its effect for once.”

  “My dear, do not be impertinent!”

  Sir Albery looked the discomfort that he felt. “I hardly know the son, though I have met him,” he said. “He kept very much to himself when he was here, I understand. The loss of his arm, poor chap, — well, it is hard on a man of his age. I should feel it myself, I know. And there is a tale gone about — wasn’t he due for promotion and not sent up, or something of that kind? I think I have heard that.”

  “Such tales are easily told,” Augusta decided. “And the less their weight the farther they carry, I fancy.”

  But at that Peggy’s patience, worn thin before, failed her. She looked up, and her heightened colour and sparkling eyes — for Peggy, though she was not handsome after Augusta’s fashion, was very pretty when she lost her temper — declared open unmistakable war. “Would you like to hear the story, Sir Albery?” she asked, her voice quivering with feeling. “If so, I will tell it, for it was in the papers, and I happen to know it. Mr. Bligh was first on the Naiad, attending the Galatea off Arcachon, when the Galatea drove the French Andromaque on shore — you may remember the affair? The Naiad was sent in to burn the Andromaque and bring off the crew. The Naiad’s captain was hurt and put out of action; the command fell to Mr. Bligh, and though his arm was crushed by the recoil of a gun, he kept the deck and burned the French vessel, and he should by rule have got his step. But Sir Borlase Warren, who commanded the squadron, gave all the credit to the Galatea and did not mention the Naiad, and Mr. Bligh got nothing but, being disabled, a poor place in the Dockyard at Devonport.”