Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  Neither the smile, however, nor her words deceived the other. She saw what a raw edge suspense had put on Peggy’s nerves and what fears underlay her self-control. “Then I’ll share yours, my dear,” Charlotte retorted. “Or — we’ll do better. We’ll put the Captain out, and I’ll have his room. I thought of that, and I’ve made all the arrangements.”

  Peggy opened her eyes. “But where is he to go?”

  “To go? Why, to the Manor. Sir Albery has arranged it, and will be delighted to have him. It’s settled, my dear.”

  “You good people!” Peggy cried, and she coloured up to her hair. “You good, good people! But it’s absurd, it’s dreadfully absurd, Charlotte. Why should Sir Albery be put out?”

  “Put out?” Charlotte replied hardily. “I see no reason why he should be put out at all. When a man has a big house as empty and as useless as that, I don’t see what he can do better than entertain the father of the hero. It’s human nature, my dear. I never offered to come, and he never felt the want of company until — you see, don’t you? We are all worshippers of the rising sun. Pigs!”

  “But, oh, such dear pigs!” Peggy cried, smiling despite herself. “How I wish—” she broke off.

  She studied Charlotte’s face, her own a little shy.

  “What?”

  “No, I don’t think I’ll tell you,” Peggy said. “I might do mischief. But you two will always be my dearest friends. And if he had the sense—”

  “I don’t think he is wanting in sense at all!” Charlotte said. But for some reason she blushed.

  So the thing was settled. But not in the end quite as the conspirators had proposed. The Captain showed so much terror at the thought of being quartered on the Manor, and his company thrust on the Squire, that a room was taken for him in a neighbouring cottage. The alteration seemed to be trifling; in their main object, that Charlotte should take possession as soon as possible, the conspirators had succeeded. All the precautions that they could take, had been taken, or so it seemed. But there is nothing more uncertain than human life; from the clearest sky thunderbolts fall, nor can any man say when he lays down his pen or his cigar-holder that his whole existence may not be changed before he takes it up again. The alteration, a mere nothing in itself, was to have its consequences.

  For the news when it came at last to the little port lying in a mood of chastened suspense between pride and apprehension and swept now by one and now by the other — even as by the sunshine or the sleety showers that prevailed at that season — the news stole in after all unperceived. It was there and no man noted it. The common belief was that the Hector’s messengers would bring it, and by day eager eyes watched the landward road, by night at the sound of a hoof rattling down the stony street waking ears were lifted from pillows, lights stirred, windows were opened, questions flung forth. Nor was the side of the sea neglected; the advent of a trawler from the westward, much more the appearance of a chance quay-punt from Falmouth drew a crowd to the jetty. Yet with all this the news was in the town for some hours before it was known by anyone.

  The only journal taken in the place was the Rector’s, and it is certain that on this day as on the others he lost not a minute in opening it, in casting his eyes over it, and in assuring himself that it had nothing to tell. It was Wignall who, taking it up in an idle moment, saw the little paragraph, that thrust into a corner at the last moment, meant so much and carried so fatal a significance. Headed Paris, and quoting from the Moniteur, it stated baldly, and in four lines that the La Bayonaise, twenty-gun corvette, St. Domingo to L’Orient, had encountered at sea, forty leagues due west of the Lizard the corvette Intriguante in company with a privateer, both flying English colours, and had brought in the former, and three survivors from the privateer sunk in action.

  The paper rustled in the butler’s hands. “My God!” he cried, “he can’t have seen it!”

  An hour later, so late in the afternoon that Sir Albery had sat down to his solitary dinner, a messenger arrived at the Manor. He brought not the news but an urgent request that Wyke would go to the Rectory. At once Wyke feared the worst. He left his meal half-swallowed, mounted a horse and galloped into Beremouth, only slackening his speed when he reached the first houses, and riding down the street at his usual pace. At the Rectory he was admitted at once.

  “Yes, sir, bad!” the butler murmured in reply to his unspoken question—” Bad, sir, I fear as bad as can be! He’s in here, sir!”

  The Rector was seated at his table. The lamp had been lighted, and as he raised his head he showed a countenance so pale and so disordered that Wyke was shocked. He gave his visitor no greeting, but thrust the paper which had been lying before him into his hands. He pointed to the paragraph. “You’ll see it there,” he muttered.

  Wyke read and mechanically he repeated the butler’s cry. “My God!” he exclaimed. “That’s very bad! But — but we had ground to fear it, Rector. It was on the cards, you know. And after all he may have survived.”

  The Rector shook his head. “There’s small chance of that,” he said. “He’d be the last to leave.” He added something that Wyke did not quite catch — about a judgment.

  “But still there’s a hope!” Wyke protested.

  “We must keep it from her,” was all that the Rector found to say.

  “Certainly. Certainly we must. Is it known?”

  “Not yet. But it must be — very soon.”

  “Have you told anyone?”

  “The old man. No one else. He was passing and Wignall called him in and told him before I knew myself. Wignall feared that he might hear it unprepared. He said he would go to his lodging and — and not see her. He would have broken down, for certain.” On that the Rector himself broke down.

  “Oh, Lord why hast Thou—” he cried, and then he stopped, trembling violently. With more composure, “We must keep it from her,” he said. “That is all that can be done now. We must keep it from her.”

  “Most certainly.”

  “I’ve thought — what is best. If I go I must see her, and — and I cannot command myself, God forgive me! But Miss Bicester must be warned. She must not leave her for a moment!” he continued with a gesture of despair. “Will you see her? You go there and — and Peggy will not suspect you.”

  Wyke hesitated. “I see great difficulties,” he said. “There is but the one room, and—”

  The Rector moved impatiently. “You must call her out,” he said. “You must get her alone for a minute. She must be warned. She must be warned.”

  “But that will of itself alarm Mrs. Bligh.”

  You must make some excuse — any excuse! You can — you can think of something.” The Rector was plainly at the end of his strength. “Only we must lose no time. We must lose no time.”

  Wyke nodded. “Very well,” he said reluctantly, I will go.” But he said it with a heavy heart. It was a terrible responsibility that he was taking, and he did not see his way.

  CHAPTER XXXI

  THE Rector’s study looked upon the walled lawn and was lighted by a heavily mullioned window. Day faded early in it, and Wyke, passing from the lamp-lit room into the open spaces of the churchyard, was surprised to find the twilight still lingering, and the sky, cleared by the north wind, shining blue above the church tower — a blue that faded to green where it met the sea. He owned the pensive influence of the evening hour, but the uppermost feeling in his mind was not so much depression as anxiety. He dreaded the ordeal before him. He felt the weight of his responsibility, he measured with alarm the cost of failure. He foresaw that he must meet the young wife, and that if by slip or any mishap he betrayed his knowledge it was impossible to say what the issue might be. The Rector’s despair, surprising in a man so cold and self-contained, had infected him; and as he crossed the churchyard he shivered, picturing Peggy’s stricken face should his bearing or a chance word betray the truth.

  But it had to be done! More than once he told himself that as he left the churchyard behind him. At all costs
the thing must be kept from Peggy until her child was born; with that end in view no means seemed to him unwarranted, no precaution excessive. And while he trembled with one half of his mind at the prospect before him, with the other half he sought for a plausible pretext on which he might get Charlotte Bicester alone.

  With the Cottage in sight he hit on one and it was with a little more confidence that he opened the wicket. He saw that an upstairs window was lighted, and he rapped softly, hoping that Charlotte might be alone and below. He heard an exclamation, he caught the sound of a chair as it was moved back, the door opened. It was Charlotte — to his great relief — who appeared.

  “Sir Albery!” she exclaimed. Then over her shoulder, “It’s Sir Albery, dear,” she said.

  That put an end to his hope, but not to his plan.

  Is Mrs. Bligh here?” he asked, his tone as careless as he could make it.

  She wouldn’t be anywhere else at this hour!” Charlotte said. The question surprised her.

  “Can you leave her for a minute?” He spoke loud enough to be heard within. “I’m afraid that you are in trouble. I’m sorry, but your mother is here.”

  “My mother? Oh dear!”

  “Yes, and I fear on the war-path. She is in the carriage in the churchyard. It is a question of some dinner-party, and to tell you the truth, I am afraid that she’s in a tantrum, Miss Bicester, and won’t go till she sees you.”

  “Well, I can’t come,” Charlotte replied. She was completely deceived. “And you must tell her so,” she added roundly.

  His eyes strove to convey a warning. He could see that the tea-table was set, but the open door concealed Peggy from him. “I am afraid you must come,” he said with a laugh.

  “Of course you must, Charlotte,” Peggy cried. He heard her rise and he trembled. She came to the door, and stood behind Charlotte. “Of course she’ll come, Sir Albery. Does she think that I can’t be left for a minute?”

  “I came for her very unwillingly,” he explained.

  “There s no news, I suppose?” Peggy’s eyes were wistful.

  “No,” he said cheerfully — and the more cheerfully as he was shocked by the change that suspense had wrought in her within the last few days. Her face was drawn and haggard, and fatigue had set black prints under her eyes. “I don’t expect it, Mrs. Bligh, as long as the wind stays where it is. A change, and in forty-eight horn’s I shall hope to hear that they are in.”

  She looked at him pitifully. “I must be patient,” she said, but her words came from the depths of an overcharged heart. “I so much hoped that he would be at home before—”

  “And so he will, my dear,” Charlotte said lightly. “And uncommonly he will be in the way too — as my lady mother is now.”

  “‘Pon honour you must not keep her waiting,” Wyke urged playing his part. “She is not in the best of tempers, Miss Bicester, to tell you the truth. I fear you must come. You can be back in ten minutes, if she is not too much for you.”

  The undutiful daughter turned away. “I am not afraid of that,” she said. “Wait till I get my hat.”

  “Put on something, dear,” Peggy murmured.

  “I shall not stay long enough to want it, Peggy.”

  “But if she really needs you?”

  “She won’t get me!” Charlotte retorted. “Mothers must not cry for the moon! And my mother is just as likely to get me as the moon!”

  “But, Charlotte—”

  “Do you sit down in your chair, my dear! And this moment if you please or I don’t go at all. I don’t go a yard until I see you in your chair again!” She was putting on her hat while she talked. “Now, Sir Albery,” she said, “I’m ready to face the dragon! I expect it is Augusta who has put her up to it. Now don’t stir a foot until I come back, Peggy, or I’ll scold you worse than my mother scolds me!”

  She nodded gaily and joined Sir Albery outside.

  He closed the door and they passed through the gate, and up the path, the sea, pale under the fading light, lying below them on their right. She turned her eyes on him. “Is my mother really there?”

  “No, but we must go a little farther before we speak. No, she is not there, but there is bad news — very bad! — and I had to have a word with you. The Hector thought that you should hear it that you may be more on your guard.”

  Charlotte clapped her hands. “Bad news?” she cried. “Oh dear, dear! Oh dear, dear!” she wailed.

  It will kill Peggy! It will kill her if she hears it!”

  ‘She must not hear it,” Wyke replied, and he told her in a few words what was known. Charlotte listened, and did not interrupt him, but Wyke saw that her face was very grave. “Oh dear!” she said when he had finished. “I would give a hand that this had not happened! It is cruel! Cruel! It will kill her, Sir Albery! She will never get through her trouble with this — with this!” There were tears in her eyes.

  She must not know it,” Wyke said, as they emerged from the path and turned towards the walk that looked down on the sea. “She must not know it,” he repeated firmly. You must be on the watch night and day to keep it from her. The Rector will see the doctor and nurse, and prepare them. And no one will be in a hurry to tell her. The danger, the only danger, I think, is that someone, who takes it for granted that she knows, may have speech with her. And surely you can guard against that?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t know!” Charlotte cried.

  “And how long — how long can we keep it from her?”

  “Long enough, I hope,” he said. “After all it is not a certainty that Bligh is lost. He may have shifted to the prize; or he may be one of the three who have been saved.”

  “Three!” Charlotte exclaimed. “No, I’ve no hope. I know from her what he is and he would not spare himself. If she knows what we know she will have no hope.”

  “Still there is a chance. And the child once born she will cling to it and live.”

  Charlotte broke down altogether. “Poor Peggy!” she sobbed. “Poor, poor Peggy! She gave up everything for him! Oh, it is too hard! It is too hard! And — I am afraid! How shall I face her?”

  “It’s a dreadful thing to put on you!” he said, and his tone said more than his words. The ordeal that had seemed to him so formidable this girl must endure hour after hour, and it might be for days. “I cannot think how you will bear it,” he continued. “I would give the world to help you, but I cannot.” She dabbed her eyes. “I must bear it,” she said. “I should be a poor creature to call myself her friend and — and fail her now.”

  Sir Albery took a step forward. “A poor creature!” he exclaimed. “My dear, I think you are—” and then the clock in the old tower above them tolled the first solemn stroke of six, and Charlotte took fright and cut him short. “Heavens!” she cried; “I must get back! We’ve been out twenty minutes. Don’t speak, don’t speak another word! I must think what I will say to her.”

  He saw the need of haste, and he turned with her. They hurried back down the steep steps and along the path. Her mind was full of the trial before her, and he respected her silence. Neither spoke until they reached the wicket. There he wrung the girl’s hand. “God bless you,” he said earnestly. “I would do it for you, if I could.”

  “But you can’t!” Charlotte retorted. She dried her eyes with care. “There, never mind, I am a good liar and I must do my best!”

  He saw her enter, he knew that he could do no more, and, anxious as he was, he thought of his uneaten dinner, and he retraced his steps. Near the foot of the church tower he came upon the sexton who was locking up the church. The man touched his hat — it was light enough for them to recognize one another — and after a momentary hesitation he joined Wyke. “Be this news true, your honour?” he asked in a low voice. “It be woeful tidings if it be.”

  Sir Albery was startled; he was more than startled, he was dismayed. How had the news got about? He had taken for granted that the Rector would keep it to himself as long as he could — till the morrow at earliest, an
d he was surprised that he had not. “What news?” he asked warily. “What news do you mean Trewithen?”

  “Well, ’twas the Captain that told me!” the man replied, turning his hat in his hands. “Leastways he let a word or two fall, your honour, and ’twas easy to guess the rest. But he wasn’t just what you’d call himself. He had had a drop, saving your presence, but, Lord’s sakes, not as much as I’ve often—”

  “Do you mean Captain Bligh?”

  To be sure, sir, the old gentleman. He went by me not ten minutes ago, or it might be a quarter at most.”

  “He had been drinking?” Wyke stopped — the two had walked a score of paces together. “Are you sure, man?”

  Challenged, Trewithen, it was clear, felt himself in something of a hobble and he hastened to clear himself.

  “I’d be loth to say it, if it wasn’t so, sir,” he said.

  “‘Deed I would! He’s a kep off so long it’s been an admiration! But a bit o’ bad news — and bad it be and no mistaking, it be true — well, there’s nothing like it for sending a man to his comforts.”

  Wyke stared at him. “What did he tell you?” he asked.

  “As the Frenchies had took and sunk ‘em to the last man a’most! Terrible bad it was, he said, and his son killed on the quarter-deck! And him a wretched childless old man! And the sooner he was—”

  A certain fear gripped Wyke. He seized the sexton by the shoulder and turned him about. “Which way did he go?” he cried. “Which way, man?”

  “Way?” Trewithen, surprised, pointed in the direction from which Wyke had come. “Down to Israel Bean’s he was going, your honour, to be sure. He bides there in the Cove till the young lady’s trouble be over. Dear life, ‘twill be sad news for her, if it be true!”

  Wyke heaved a sigh of relief. He had had a moment of great fear. “Well, I’ve heard something of it, Trewithen,” he said, collecting himself. “Whether it’s true, I can’t say, and we’ll hope it is not. It is sure to be exaggerated. But, true or false, don’t put it about, man, till we hear more. D’you hear? And keep a still tongue about the Captain. It’s a sad time for him and I’m not surprised.”