Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “I cannot give them to you,” I replied, point-blank.

  “You cannot give them to me now?” he repeated.

  “No. Moreover, the packet is sealed. I do not see, on second thoughts, what harm I can do you — now that it is out of your father’s hands — by keeping it until to-morrow, when I will return it to your brother, from whom it came.”

  “He will not be in London,” he answered doggedly. He stepped between me and the door with looks which I did not like. At the same time I felt that some allowance must be made for a man treated in this way.

  “I am sorry,” I said, “but I cannot do what you ask. I will do this, however. If you think the delay of importance, and will give me your brother’s address in Liverpool, I will undertake to post the letters to him at once.”

  He considered the offer, eying me the while with the same disfavor which he had exhibited in the drawing room. At last he said slowly, “If you will do that?”

  “I will,” I repeated. “I will do it immediately.”

  He gave me the direction— “George Ritherdon, at the London and Northwestern Hotel, Liverpool” — and in return I gave him my own name and address. Then I parted from him, with a civil good-night on either side — and little liking, I fancy — the clocks striking midnight, and the servants coming in as I passed out into the cool darkness of the square.

  Late as it was I went straight to my club, determined that, as I had assumed the responsibility, there should be no laches on my part. There I placed the packet, together with a short note explaining how it came into my possession, in an outer envelope, and dropped the whole, duly directed and stamped, into the nearest pillar box. I could not register it at that hour, and rather than wait until next morning, I omitted the precaution; merely requesting Mr. Ritherdon to acknowledge its receipt.

  Well, some days passed; during which it may be imagined that I thought no little about my odd experience. It was the story of the Lady and the Tiger over again. I had the choice of two alternatives at least. I might either believe the young fellow’s story, which certainly had the merit of explaining in a fairly probable manner an occurrence of so odd a character as not to lend itself freely to explanation. Or I might disbelieve his story, plausible in its very strangeness as it was, in favor of my own vague suspicions. Which was I to do?

  Well, I set out by preferring the former alternative. This, notwithstanding that I had to some extent committed myself against it by withholding the papers. But with each day that passed without bringing me an answer from Liverpool, I leaned more and more to the other side. I began to pin my faith to the Tiger, adding each morning a point to the odds in the animal’s favor. So it went on until ten days had passed.

  Then a little out of curiosity, but more, I gravely declare, because I thought it the right thing to do, I resolved to seek out George Ritherdon. I had no difficulty in learning where he might be found. I turned up the firm of Ritherdon Brothers (George and Gerald), cotton-spinners and India merchants, in the first directory I consulted. And about noon the next day I called at their place of business, and sent in my card to the senior partner. I waited five minutes — curiously scanned by the porter, who no doubt saw a likeness between me and his employer — and then I was admitted to the latter’s room.

  He was a tall man with a fair beard, not one whit like Gerald, and yet tolerably good looking; if I say more I shall seem to be describing myself. I fancied him to be balder about the temples, however, and grayer and more careworn than the man I am in the habit of seeing in my shaving glass. His eyes, too, had a hard look, and he seemed in ill health. All these things I took in later. At the time I only noticed his clothes. “So the old gentleman is dead,” I thought, “and the young one’s tale is true, after all?” George Ritherdon was in deep mourning.

  “I wrote to you,” I began, taking the seat to which he pointed, “about a fortnight ago.”

  He looked at my card, which he held in his hand. “I think not,” he said slowly.

  “Yes,” I repeated. “You were then at the London and Northwestern Hotel, at Liverpool.”

  He was stepping to his writing table, but he stopped abruptly. “I was in Liverpool,” he answered, in a different tone, “but I was not at that hotel. You are thinking of my brother, are you not?”

  “No,” I said. “It was your brother who told me you were there.”

  “Perhaps you had better explain what was the subject of your letter,” he suggested, speaking in the weary tone of one returning to a painful matter. “I have been through a great trouble lately, and this may well have been overlooked.”

  I said I would, and as briefly as possible I told the main facts of my strange visit in Fitzhardinge Square. He was much moved, walking up and down the room as he listened, and giving vent to exclamations from time to time, until I came to the arrangement I had finally made with his brother. Then he raised his hand as one might do in pain.

  “Enough!” he said abruptly. “Barnes told me a rambling tale of some stranger. I understand it all now.”

  “So do I, I think!” I replied dryly. “Your brother went to Liverpool, and received the papers in your name?”

  He murmured what I took for “Yes.” But he did not utter a single word of acknowledgment to me, or of reprobation of his brother’s deceit. I thought some such word should have been spoken; and I let my feelings carry me away. “Let me tell you,” I said warmly, “that your brother is a — —”

  “Hush!” he said, holding up his hand again. “He is dead.”

  “Dead!” I repeated, shocked and amazed.

  “Have you not read of it in the papers? It is in all the papers,” he said wearily. “He committed suicide — God forgive me for it! — at Liverpool, at the hotel you have mentioned, and the day after you saw him.”

  And so it was. He had committed some serious forgery — he had always been wild, though his father, slow to see it, had only lately closed his purse to him — and the forged signatures had come into his brother’s power. He had cheated his brother before. There had long been bad blood between them; the one being as cold, businesslike, and masterful as the other was idle and jealous.

  “I told him,” the elder said to me, shading his eyes with his hand, “that I should let him be prosecuted — that I would not protect or shelter him. The threat nearly drove him mad; and while it was hanging over him, I wrote to disclose the matter to Sir Charles. Gerald thought his last chance lay in recovering this letter unread. The proofs against him destroyed, he might laugh at me. His first attempts failed; and then he planned, with Barnes’ cognizance, to get possession of the packet by drugging my father’s whisky. Barnes’ courage deserted him; he called you in, and — and you know the rest.”

  “But,” I said softly, “your brother did get the letter — at Liverpool.”

  George Ritherdon groaned. “Yes,” he said, “he did. But the proofs were not inclosed. After writing the outside letter I changed my mind, and withheld them, explaining my reasons within. He found his plot laid in vain; and it was under the shock of this disappointment — the packet lay before him, resealed and directed to me — that he — that he did it. Poor Gerald!”

  “Poor Gerald!” I said. What else remained to be said?

  It may be a survival of superstition, yet, when I dine in Baker Street now, I take some care to go home by any other route than that through Fitzhardinge Square.

  THE END

  THE SNOWBALL

  FLUNG A SNOWBALL AT ME. Page 11.

  THE SNOWBALL.

  The slight indisposition from which the Queen suffered in the spring of 1602, and which was occasioned by a cold caught during her lying-in, by diverting the King’s attention from matters of State, had the effect of doubling the burden cast on my shoulders. Though the main threads of M. de Biron’s conspiracy were in our hands as early as the month of November of the preceding year, and steps had been immediately taken to sound the chief associates by summoning them to court, an interval necessarily fol
lowed during which we had everything to fear; and this not only from the despair of the guilty, but from the timidity of the innocent who, in a court filled with cabals and rumors of intrigues, might see no way to clear themselves. Even the shows and interludes which followed the Dauphin’s birth, and made that Christmas remarkable, served only to amuse the idle; they could not disperse the cloud which hung over the Louvre, nor divert those who, on the one side or the other, had aught to fear.

  In connection with this period of suspense I recall an episode, both characteristic in itself, and worthy, I think, by reason of its oddity, to be set down here; where it may serve for a preface to those more serious events, attending the trial and execution of M. de Biron, which I shall have presently to relate.

  I had occasion, about the end of the month of January, to see M. du Hallot. The weather was cold, and partly for that reason, partly from a desire to keep my visit, which had to do with La Fin’s disclosures, from the general eye, I chose to go on foot. For the same reason I took with me only two armed servants, and a confidential page, the son of my friend Arnaud. M. du Hallot, who lived at this time in a house in the Faubourg St. Germain, not far from the College of France, detained me long, and when I rose to leave insisted that I should take his coach, as snow had begun to fall and already lay an inch deep in the streets. At first I was unwilling to do this, but reflecting that such small services are highly appreciated by those who render them, and attach men more surely and subtly than the greatest bribes, I finally consented, and, taking my place with some becoming expressions, bade young Arnaud find his way home on foot.

  The coach had nearly reached the south end of the Pont au Change, when a number of youths ran by me, pelting one another with snowballs, and shouting so lustily that I was at a loss which to admire more — the silence of their feet or the loudness of their voices. Aware that lads of that age are small respecters of persons, I was not surprised to see two or three of them rush on to the bridge before us, and even continue their Parthian warfare under the very feet of the horses. The result was, however, that the latter presently took fright at that part of the bridge where the houses encroach most boldly on the roadway; and, but for the care of the running footman, who hastened to their heads, might have done some harm either to the coach or the passersby.

  As it was, we were brought to a stop while one of the wheels was extricated from the kennel, into which it had become wedged. Smiling to think what the King — for he, strangely warned by Providence, was all his life long timid in a coach — would have said to this, I went to open the curtains, and had just effected this to a certain extent, when one of a crowd of idlers who stood on the raised pavement beside us deliberately lifted up his arm and flung a snowball at me.

  The missile flew wide of its mark by an inch or two only. That I was amazed at such audacity goes without saying, but in my doubt of what it might be the prelude — for the breakdown of the coach in that narrow place, the haunt of the rufflers and vagrants of every kind, might be a part of a concerted plan — I fell back into my place. The coach, as it happened, moved on with a jerk at the same moment; and before I had well digested the matter, or had time to mark the demeanor of the crowd, we were clear of the bridge and rolling past the Chatelet.

  A smaller man might have stopped to revenge, and to cook a sprat have passed all Paris through the net. But remembering my own youthful days, when I attended the College of Burgundy, I set down the freak to the insolence of some young student, and, shrugging my shoulders, dismissed it from my thoughts. An instant later, however, observing that the fragments of the snowball were melting on the seat by my side and wetting the cushion, I raised my hand to brush them away. In the act I saw, to my surprise, a piece of paper lying among the debris.

  “Ho, ho!” said I to myself. “This is a strange snowball! I have heard that the apprentices put stones in theirs. But paper! Let me see what this means.”

  The morsel, though moistened by contact with the snow, remained intact. Unfolding it with the greatest care — for already I began to discern that here was something out of the common — I found written on the inner side, in a clear, clerkly hand, the words, “Beware of Nicholas!”

  It will be remembered that Simon Nicholas was at this time secretary to the King, and so high in his favor as to be admitted to the knowledge of all but his most private affairs. Gay, and of a very jovial wit, he was able to commend himself to Henry by amusing him; while his years, for he was over sixty, seemed some warranty for his discretion, and at the same time gave younger sinners a feeling of superior worth, since they might repent and he had not. Often in contact with him, I had always found him equal to his duties, and though too fond of the table and of all the good things of this life, neither given to babbling nor boasting. In a word, one for whom I had more liking than respect.

  A man in his position, however, possesses such stupendous opportunities for evil that, as I read the warning so cunningly conveyed to me, I sat aghast. His office gave him at all times that ready access to the King’s person which is the aim of conspirators against the lives of sovereigns; and, short of this supreme treachery, he was master of secrets which Biron’s associates would give all to gain. When I add that I knew Nicholas to be a man of extravagant habits and careless life, and one, moreover, who, if rumor did not wrong him, had lost much in that rearrangement of the finances which I had lately effected without even the King’s privity, it will be seen that those words, “Beware of Nicholas,” were calculated to occasion me the most profound thought.

  Of the person who had conveyed the missive to me I had unfortunately seen nothing; though I believed him to be a man, and young. But the circumstances, which seemed to indicate the extreme need of secrecy, gave me a hint as to my own conduct. Accordingly, I smoothed my brow, and on the coach stopping at the Arsenal descended with my usual face of preoccupation.

  At the foot of the staircase my maître-d’-hôtel met me.

  “M. Nicholas, the King’s secretary, is here,” he said. “He has been waiting your return an hour and more, Monseigneur.”

  “Lay another cover,” I answered, repressing the surprise I could not but feel on hearing of this visit, so strangely à propos. “Doubtless he has come to dine with me.”

  Barely staying to take off my cloak, I went upstairs with an air as gay as possible, and, making my visitor a hundred apologies for the inconvenience I had caused him, insisted he should sit down with me. This he was nothing loth to do; though, as presently appeared, his errand was only to submit to me some papers connected with the new tax of a penny in the shilling, which it was his duty to lay before me.

  I scolded him gayly for the long period which had elapsed since his last visit, and succeeded so well in setting him at his ease that he presently began to rally me on my slackness; for I could touch nothing but a little game and a glass of water. Excusing myself as well as I could, I encouraged him to continue the attack; and certainly, if a good conscience waits on appetite, I had soon abundant evidence on his behalf. He grew merry and talkative, and, telling me some free tales, bore himself altogether so naturally that I had begun to deem my suspicions baseless, when a chance word gave me new grounds for entertaining them.

  I was on the subject of my morning’s employment. Knowing how easily confidence begets confidence, and that in his position the matter could not be long kept from him, I told him as a secret where I had been.

  “I do not wish all the world to know, my friend,” I said; “but you are a discreet man, and it will go no farther. I am just from Du Hallot’s.”

  HE DROPPED HIS NAPKIN. Page 20.

  He dropped his napkin and stooped to pick it up again with a gesture so hasty that it caught my attention and led me to watch him. Moreover, although my words seemed to call for an answer, he did not speak until he had taken a deep draught of wine; and then he said only, “Indeed!” in a tone of such indifference as might at another time have deceived me, but now was perfectly patent.

  “Yes,
” I replied, affecting to be engaged with my own plate (we were eating nuts). “Doubtless you will be able to guess on what subject.”

  “I?” he said, as quick to answer as he had before been slow. “No, I think not.”

  “La Fin,” I said; “and his statements respecting M. de Biron’s friends.”

  “Ah!” he replied, shrugging his shoulders. He had contrived to regain his composure, but I noticed that his hand shook, and I saw him put a nut into his mouth with so much salt upon it that he had no choice but to make a grimace. “They tell me he accuses everybody,” he grumbled, his eyes on his plate. “Even the King is scarcely safe from him. But I have heard no particulars.”

  “They will be known by and by,” I answered prudently. And after that I did not think it wise to speak farther, lest I should give more than I got; but as soon as he had finished, and we had washed our hands, I led him to the closet looking on the river, where I was in the habit of working with my secretaries. I sent them away and sat down with him to his accounts; but in the position in which I found myself, between suspicion and perplexity, I could so little command my attention that I gathered nothing from their items; and had I found another doing the King’s service as negligently I had certainly sent him about his business. Nevertheless I made some show of auditing them, and had reached the last roll when something in the fairly written summary, which closed the account, caught my eye. I bent more closely over it, and presently making an occasion to carry the parchment into the next room, compared it with the handwriting on the scrap of paper I had found in the snowball. A brief scrutiny showed me that they were the work of the same person!

  “YOUR SCRIBE MIGHT DO FOR ME.” Page 23.

  I went back to M. Nicholas, and after attesting the accounts, and making one or two notes, remarked in a careless way on the clearness of the hand. “I am badly in need of a fourth secretary,” I added. “Your scribe might do for me.”