Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  Unfortunately Wyke was not thinking of her, and the exhibition was wasted. “What do you know?” he asked without preface and with a bluntness that, prepared as she was, took her aback. “Tell me, please.” He sat with averted eyes and a face of stone while she told her tale.

  “Had you no suspicion?”

  “Of this, none! None, of course, Sir Albery. Can you ask me? But of the man — that she had some feeling for him — I fear I had. But I thought it was nothing — how could I think otherwise, knowing him?

  I thought that it was a foolish fancy that would pass. Young girls have them,” she added naively.

  He passed over that as if she had not said it. “What has your father done?” he demanded. His sternness and his brevity, not to say the chill in his tone, depressed her.

  She told him reluctantly. “He takes it very hardly,” she added. “If I were in his place—”

  She sighed and broke off. “He thinks otherwise, however. He feels it to be so terrible a disgrace to us all that she should leave us for a man so hopeless, so degraded, so low! And in such a way, Sir Albery, without a word, without warning! He cannot forgive her. I fear,” Augusta continued in a despondent tone, her head drooping over the work that she had mechanically taken up, “I fear that he will do nothing. And without him — I cannot set myself against him — I am helpless.”

  “He will not follow her?”

  “He thinks it too late. He thinks it useless. What we do know I had to learn myself. He would not — he is cut to the heart by her ingratitude, and — and deceit. Last evening — it was very dreadful — he took the large Bible and struck out her name. His anger was terrible. But perhaps you may persuade him. Let me tell him you are here?”

  “No!” Wyke spoke curtly. “I’d rather not see him.” He rose to his feet.

  “But you are not going?” Augusta exclaimed in distress as well as surprise. She had anticipated a leisurely, melancholy talk, an exchange of sympathy, the event deplored, the stricken comforted. “Oh, surely you will not desert us in our trouble,” she continued. “I have not told you, I could not find words to tell you, how grieved we are for you. How deeply we feel for you. But I am sure, I am sure that you—”

  He appeared to have lost his manners as well as his mistress, for he cut her short. “Thank you,” he said. “Not now — I think I have learned all that is to be learned. You know no more than you have told me?”

  “No more, I fear.”

  “Then I think I will be going,” he said. Yet when he had said it he paused. But his eyes did not meet Augusta’s sorrowful look. They travelled round the room, the room in which he had last seen her, the room in which he had fallen under her spell, the room in which he had tasted a happiness dashed for ever from his life. His face twitched. Then, with little more of leave-taking than he had spent on Charlotte half an hour before, he took himself off.

  “Oh, dear, dear!” Augusta murmured, looking plaintively after him. For this, too, was a thing imagination had not pictured.

  He did not have his hair cut — it is needless to say that. Nor did he buy the cast-nets that his gardener needed. He rode out of Beremouth, and many were the curious eyes that followed him as his horse slipped and scrambled and snorted on the cobbles of the steep narrow street with its unchanging smell of seaweed and fish. He rode deep in thought, and reaching his own gate drew rein and sat so long motionless in the saddle that the woman in the lodge peeping at him through the window thought her master demented.

  At last he struck the horse and, with a grim face, rode on along the road at a steady trot. He kept this up for three or four miles, then he slackened his speed. Seven miles on, at Ivy Bridge, he struck into the Plymouth and Exeter road. He turned to the right and by South Brent and Buckfastleigh pushed steadily on to Ashburton.

  There he baited his horse, but ate nothing himself, spending the hour of waiting in pacing to and fro under the yews of the churchyard. The leafy combes and green hill-sides about Ashburton are notable: Devon holds no fairer scenery. But he was blind to their beauties. The task that he had set himself was a horror to him, but anything was better than inaction, anything more tolerable than thought, and he was glad when he could mount again. He rode through Chudleigh, easing his horse up the long toilsome ascent of Haldon Hill. From the Race Course he dropped rapidly down through Shillingford, and as the Exeter clock struck six he crossed Exe Bridge and rode wearily up Fore Street.

  He stabbed his horse at the London, bade the ostler have a care of it, and went into the house. There his first demand was for the Plymouth paper of the day before. He stood in the Coffee-room conning it carefully and within five minutes had alighted on the item for which he was searching. “On the seventh -this was the ninth—” from the Hamoaze for Bristol, the sloop of war Antiope, Captain Hindwell.”

  “Bristol?” he muttered. “I was right.” He rang for the waiter and ordered dinner. Is there a night coach for Bristol?” he inquired.

  “Yes, sir, from the Devonshire Coach office, the man told him. “At nine.”

  “Then send and book me an outside seat — at once.

  For to-night.”

  The man sent the boots to book the seat. “And make no mistake, mind,” he added. It’s Sir Albery Wyke, and he’s in the devil of a temper. He’s got a face on him — if aught goes wrong, my lad, I’d rather you than me!”

  CHAPTER X

  THE wind was southerly, the sun shone, and the Captain’s gig, manned by eight of a crew, danced over the rippling flood-tide that ran a little turbid off the Pill. The middy, seated between the two women in the stern-sheets and proud of his convoy, handled the whitened rudder-lines with dignity, while the elder of the passengers, whose Irish eyes were as bright as the wavelets that plashed against the boat, flattered the boy and quizzed him by turns.

  Not that she was lacking in feeling, or unconscious of the anxiety that wrung Peggy’s heart and drove the blood from her cheeks, as in dumb suspense she strained her eyes towards the distant jetty. Mrs. Eagan was a kindly as well as a handsome woman. But things were as they were, the girl had taken her own course and must dree it, and though the Captain of the Antiope’s sister did not blame her — she had too much Irish blood in her veins for that — she did not see that she could do more at the moment than divert the middy’s attention from the girl’s distress.

  For neither the fairness of the morning, nor the sparkle on the water, nor the green shore that, beyond it, rose gently up to Durdham Downs could comfort Peggy’s heart in this crisis. If he should not be there? If he should not be there to meet her, the girl thought; and the measured rhythm of the oars drummed the doubt again and again into her ears. If anything had happened — and she pictured a hundred accidents — to stay or delay him! So far the plan that he had made for her had worked to a marvel; it had made all tolerable and almost easy. True, the start in the cold morning hours and the lonely journey to Plymouth had tested even her courage, and though she had hidden herself as well as she could among the crowd bound for the fair, she had not been able to hide from her thoughts, or to escape from the knowledge that she had taken her fate into her own hands and broken beyond mending every tie that bound her to her past life. But from the moment that she had stepped ashore at the Hoe, her trouble had been lightened. She had been welcomed, sheltered, cheered, and every hour had felt and owned, absent from her as he was, her lover’s care for her. For he still had friends in the Service, as generous as they were ready for any frolic; and they had striven to convince the girl that there was nothing odd in her position, or unbecoming in what she was going to do. They, at any rate, believed in him, no matter what the world said; and if they saw a serious side to the scrape, they were careful to let no inkling of their knowledge appear.

  But now — now that the hour was come when she must part from them and place herself in his hands now when she must put his love to the final test, and when, even if he were there, the irrevocable step, the thought of which set her cheeks burning, must be t
aken — now when she must trust his honour for all, Peggy’s courage sank low. If he met her coldly? If she read doubt and misgivings in his face? Or if he showed her less respect than formerly, or had not made all the arrangements that he had sworn to make, but had only some lame tale of hindrance or delay to tell her? What then?

  Better were it, then, far better if the boat never reached the jetty that was beginning to take clear shape! Better one short painful struggle in the flood that swirled past the low gunwale!

  With a blanched face and closed eyes Peggy prayed.

  From home, friends, reputation, from all that was familiar to her save him alone — and in this new relation he loomed strange and formidable — she had severed herself by her own act, her thoughtless, wilful act, as she saw it now. If anything had happened to him — and her panic painted a hundred calamities — or if he were changed, if he were what those whom she had abandoned had held him to be — what then?

  But no! So to think, so to fear, was to do him dishonour! And yet so much hung upon the moment, so much on his reception of her that she quailed, she actually felt sick. Things that earlier had seemed clear and certain appeared in this moment of trial to wear another face. Her eyes were opened to her wilfulness, her selfishness, her determination to go her way; ay, and to her inexperience and ignorance. She saw too late that they, the others, might have been right and she wrong. If so, if they were — in an agony of suspense she squeezed hand in hand.

  And then again, if he were not there? What was she to do? What would become of her?

  A few seconds and that fear at any rate was dissipated. She saw him, his slender figure, his empty sleeve, his waving arm, conspicuous among the foremost of the little crowd that fringed the jetty. And as Peggy sighed in a very passion of relief, “There’s your man!” Mrs. Fagan cried. “Do you see him, dear?”

  “There he is!” the middy echoed. “There’s your man, Miss Portnal!”

  Her man? Ay, she saw him — she had seen him before they had. But she was beyond speech. The gig sheered off, the middy cried “In board! Rowed of all!” they slipped deftly and smoothly alongside the landing. She was the nearest to the jetty, and as Bligh stooped and clasped her hand and with a quivering lip Peggy raised her brimming eyes to his, all her anxieties fell from her as a cloak that is put off and her faith in him stood unalterable. He was not changed, he was not cold, his eyes met hers in worship. Her man? Ay, her man, her own! And she was his woman, ready to trust him, ready to suffer with him, ready to believe him against all the world, ready to place all that she had, herself, her name, her hopes in his hands.

  He said but one thing as he lifted her ashore. “My brave girl!” he murmured in her ear, and the words were dear to her. “May I never forget this!”

  A little bustle and some confusion followed. There was a mail to be landed, Bligh had to greet the middy, and to assist Mrs. Fagan to step ashore. He wrung the good lady’s hand. “A thousand thanks,” he said, and his heart was in his words, “for your kindness to this dear girl. The Antiope is in the Road, I suppose.”

  “She is, my lad, worse luck,” Mrs. Fagan replied briskly. “For she goes out with the tide, and I must return at once. I have but five minutes, or Tommy will be mast-headed — just five minutes to wish you joy, Bligh!”

  His face fell. “Oh, but that is bad!” he said, taken aback. “I counted on you to come with us and see her — that you would not leave her until—”

  “Until you were spliced? Just so, Bligh. But—”

  “By your leave, sir!” A hand fell on Bligh’s shoulder, a harsh voice broke in upon and interrupted their talk. Irritated as much by the action as by the words, Bligh wheeled about, while Peggy uttered a cry of dismay. Her face turned scarlet, and as quickly white. But her recoil was only instinctive, the next moment the girl grasped her lover’s arm and hung upon him, heedless of the curious eyes that watched them.

  It was Wyke. “By your leave, sir,” he repeated sternly. “Be good enough to step aside, if you please.”

  To those who looked on, it seemed that Bligh hesitated. He was disconcerted, and an onlooker might have formed a poor opinion of his firmness. But Peggy did not hesitate. “No!” she said. “No! He does not.” The colour had left her face, but she did not take her hand from her lover’s arm. She clung to him only the more closely, and the more openly.

  Sir Albery, waiting, cold and stem, his hat in his hand, averted his eyes. “My business is not with the lady,” he said. “My business is with you, sir. Be good enough to step aside with me.” A crowd, scenting mischief, had gathered behind him, hemming in the little group that stood beside the boat.

  But Peggy recked nothing of the crowd. She thought only of her man, and she clung to him, while across him, her eyes that a moment before had dropped shamed by Wyke’s appearance, sparkled like an offended cat’s. “He shall not, sir,” she repeated. “Say what you have to say before us both.”

  Sir Albery did not look at her, but he persisted. “I can only say what I have to say to him,” he said.

  Bligh still wore the air of a man driven into a corner, and forced to an unwelcome decision, but he found his voice at last. “Steady, my dear,” he said, “Steady. It is nothing. I can satisfy him in two minutes. Do you stop with Mrs. Eagan — while I —— —”

  “No!” Peggy said, her eyes wide with fear. “You shall not go!”

  On that the middy thought it was time to interfere, and he put himself forward, as if he had been six feet high instead of four feet nine. “What is all this?” he asked roughly. “What is it all about?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Eagan said, supporting him with spirit. “What does it mean, sir? Faith and indeed I never put foot in this little island, but there’s some unpleasantness! For shame, sir!” she continued, a heightened colour in her face. “If you must quarrel, there is a time for everything, and sure, a man’s wedding-day is not the day a gentleman chooses to fix a quarrel on him.”

  Bligh laughed, but there was little mirth in the sound. “It’s no quarrel, Mrs. Fagan,” he said. “It is only an old friend of Peggy’s, and I can satisfy him with a word. I must go, my dear,” he continued, laying a reassuring hand on the girl’s shoulder and patting it. “There’s nothing else for it. I must indeed. But we shall not be out of your sight; no harm can happen to me. Trust me, dear, it is nothing!”

  She tried to keep him, but he put her from him with gentle force, and joined Wyke. The two pushed their way through the knot of onlookers until they stood clear of the crowd. “I suppose it is the usual thing,” Bligh said, confronting the other, his eyes bright with anger. “You have followed us and found us. But you are neither her father nor her brother, and I’m d — d if I see what right you have to interfere.

  However,” he shrugged his shoulders, “if you want satisfaction, you must have it, I suppose. But I warn you, it’s ill work cornering a man on his wedding-day, and until I’m wedded I’ll not meet you!”

  Sir Albery measured him with cold eyes, but he kept his voice low. “For shame, sir,” he said. “For shame! Satisfaction? Do you forget, Mr. Bligh, that you have forfeited the right to give it? That from the time when that young lady put her honour in your hands your life was no longer yours to risk? For shame, sir!”

  Bligh’s face betrayed his relief. But a man does not like to be proved in the wrong, or to be shown to be less thoughtful for his own than another, and he covered his discomfiture under a show of rudeness. “Then what do you want?” he asked roughly. “If you don’t want to fight, what the devil do you want?”

  “Do you marry her to-day?”

  “And if I do?”

  “At what hour? If you are a gentleman, you will tell me. And where? But no matter!” Wyke broke off, as if something in the other’s manner or his slowness in replying had altered his mind. “You need not tell me, for I warn you that wherever you go and wherever you take that lady, I shall not leave you for one moment until she is your wife. I shall not stir from your side, sir, until you hav
e made your promise good. You may be honest or you may be a knave, Mr. Bligh, but she shall not be left with you. She thinks no evil, she has no fears, and no suspicions. And, by heaven” — his voice rose with the first show of heat that he had betrayed—” there shall be no talk of her, and no ground for it! There shall not be a tongue to wag against her, as God sees me!” Bligh’s colour rose. He looked at the other with something of shamed surprise. “So that is what you want?” he muttered. He passed his hand across his lips, which were not quite steady. “You have followed us for that. Well,” with a forced laugh that failed to disguise his feeling, “then the least I can say is that you are welcome. I may have wronged her in taking her from her home — perhaps I have, the event will prove. But I am no villain, or I should be the blackest of villains. We are to be married at eleven at All Saints’ in Com Street. I have the licence here, and you can see it if you please. Come with us by all means. And, at any rate, do me justice in this, Sir Albery. The friend who is with her now has been with her day and night since she reached Plymouth, and would have seen her married to-day — but for an accident.”

  “I will take her place,” Wyke replied coldly. “With your permission I will speak to that lady.” He led the way back to the place where the little party stood in anxious expectation beside the boat.

  He passed Peggy without a look, though her blanched face and frightened eyes must have softened him had he glanced at her. With a formal bow he addressed himself to Mrs. Fagan. “I represent Miss Portnal’s friends,” he said gravely. “You may safely leave her in my care, Madam. I shall not quit her until the marriage has been performed.”