CHAPTER II
A MISADVENTURE
To be brought up short in an amorous quest by such a sight as that was ashock alike to Soane's better nature and his worse dignity. The formermoved him to stand silent and abashed, the latter to ask with anindignant curse why he had been brought to that place. And the latterlower instinct prevailed. But when he raised his head to put thequestion with the necessary spirt of temper, he found that the girl hadleft his side and passed to the other hand of the dead; where, the hoodthrown back from her face, she stood looking at him with such a gloomyfire in her eyes as it needed but a word, a touch, a glance to kindleinto a blaze.
At the moment, however, he thought less of this than of the beauty ofthe face which he saw for the first time. It was a southern face, finelymoulded, dark and passionate, full-lipped, yet wide of brow, with agenerous breadth between the eyes. Seldom had he seen a woman morebeautiful; and he stood silent, the words he had been about to speakdying stillborn on his lips.
Yet she seemed to understand them; she answered them. 'Why have Ibrought you here?' she cried, her voice trembling; and she pointed tothe bed. 'Because he is--he was my father. And he lies there. Andbecause the man who killed him goes free. And I would--I would kill_him_! Do you hear me? I would kill him!'
Sir George tried to free his mind from the influence of her passion andher eyes, from the nightmare of the room and the body, and to see thingsin a sane light. 'But--my good girl,' he said, slowly and not unkindly,'I know nothing about it. Nothing. I am a stranger here.'
'For that reason I brought you here,' she retorted.
'But--I cannot interfere,' he answered, shaking his head. 'There is thelaw. You must apply to it. The law will punish the man if he hasdone wrong.'
'But the law will _not_ punish him!' she cried with scorn. 'The law? Thelaw is your law, the law of the rich. And he'--she pointed to thebed--'was poor and a servant. And the man who killed him was his master.So he goes free--of the law!'
'But if he killed him?' Sir George muttered lamely.
'He did!' she cried between her teeth. 'And I would have you kill him!'
He shook his head. 'My good girl,' he said kindly, 'you are distraught.You are not yourself. Or you would know a gentleman does not dothese things.'
'A gentleman!' she retorted, her smouldering rage flaming up at last.'No; but I will tell you what he does. He kills a man to save his purse!Or his honour! Or for a mis-word at cards! Or the lie given in drink! Hewill run a man through in a dark room, with no one to see fair play! Butfor drawing his sword to help a woman, or avenge a wrong, a gentleman--agentleman does not do these things. It is true! And may--'
'Oh, have done, have done, my dear!' cried a wailing, tearful voice; andSir George, almost cowed by the girl's fierce words and the fiercerexecration that was on her lips, hailed the intervention with relief.The woman whom he had seen on her knees had risen and now approached thegirl, showing a face wrinkled, worn, and plain, but not ignoble; and forthe time lifted above the commonplace by the tears that rained down it.'Oh, my lovey, have done,' she cried. 'And let the gentleman go. To killanother will not help him that is dead. Nor us that are left alone!'
'It will not help him!' the girl answered, shrilly and wildly; and hereyes, leaving Soane, strayed round the room as if she were that momentawakened and missed some one. 'No! But is he to be murdered, and no onesuffer? Is he to die and no one pay? He who had a smile for us, go in orout, and never a harsh word or thought; who never did any man wrong orwished any man ill? Yet he lies there! Oh, mother, mother,' shecontinued, her voice broken on a sudden by a tremor of pain, 'we arealone! We are alone! We shall never see him come in at that door again!'
The old woman sobbed helplessly and made no answer; on which the girl,with a gesture as simple as it was beautiful, drew the grey head to hershoulder. Then she looked at Sir George. 'Go,' she said; but he saw thatthe tears were welling up in her eyes, and that her frame was beginningto tremble. 'Go! I was not myself--a while ago--when I fetched you. Go,sir, and leave us.'
Moved by the abrupt change, as well as by her beauty, Sir Georgelingered; muttering that perhaps he could help her in another way. Butshe shook her head, once and again; and, instinctively respecting thegrief which had found at length its proper vent, he turned and, softlylifting the latch, went out into the court.
The night air cooled his brow, and recalled him to sober earnest and theeighteenth century. In the room which he had left, he had marked nothingout of the common except the girl. The mother, the furniture, the verybed on which the dead man lay, all were appropriate, and such as hewould expect to find in the house of his under-steward. But the girl?The girl was gloriously handsome; and as eccentric as she wasbeautiful. Sir George's head turned and his eyes glowed as he thought ofher. He considered what a story he could make of it at White's; and heput up his spying-glass, and looked through it to see if the towers ofthe cathedral still overhung the court. 'Gad, sir!' he said aloud,rehearsing the story, as much to get rid of an unfashionable sensationhe had in his throat as in pure whimsy, 'I was surprised to find that itwas Oxford. It should have been Granada, or Bagdad, or Florence! I giveyou my word, the houris that the Montagu saw in the Hammam at Stamboulwere nothing to her!'
The persons through whom he had passed on his way to the door were stillstanding before the house. Glancing back when he had reached the mouthof the court, he saw that they were watching him; and, obeying a suddenimpulse of curiosity, he turned on his heel and signed to the nearest tocome to him. 'Here, my man,' he said, 'a word with you.'
The fellow moved towards him reluctantly, and with suspicion. 'Who is itlies dead there?' Sir George asked.
'Your honour knows,' the man answered cautiously.
'No, I don't.'
'Then you will be the only one in Oxford that does not,' the fellowreplied, eyeing him oddly.
'Maybe,' Soane answered with impatience. 'Take it so, and answer thequestion,'
'It is Masterson, that was the porter at Pembroke.'
'Ah! And how did he die?'
'That is asking,' the man answered, looking shiftily about. 'And it isan ill business, and I want no trouble. Oh, well'--he continued, as SirGeorge put something in his hand--'thank your honour, I'll drink yourhealth. Yes, it is Masterson, poor man, sure enough; and two days agohe was as well as you or I--saving your presence. He was on the gatethat evening, and there was a supper on one of the staircases: all thebloods of the College, your honour will understand. About an hour beforemidnight the Master sent him to tell the gentlemen he could not sleepfor the noise. After that it is not known just what happened, but theparty had him in and gave him wine; and whether he went then andreturned again when the company were gone is a question. Any way, he wasfound in the morning, cold and dead at the foot of the stairs, and hisneck broken. It is said by some a trap was laid for him on thestaircase. And if it was,' the man continued, after a pause, his truefeeling finding sudden vent, 'it is a black shame that the law does notpunish it! But the coroner brought it in an accident.'
Sir George shrugged his shoulders. Then, moved by curiosity and a desireto learn something about the girl, 'His daughter takes it hardly,'he said.
The man grunted. 'Ah,' he said, 'maybe she has need to. Your honour doesnot come from him?'
'From Whom? I come from no one.'
'To be sure, sir, I was forgetting. But, seeing you with her--but there,you are a stranger.'
Soane would have liked to ask him his meaning, but felt that he hadcondescended enough. He bade the man a curt good-night, therefore, andturning away passed quickly into St. Aldate's Street. Thence it was buta step to the Mitre, where he found his baggage and servantawaiting him.
In those days distinctions of dress were still clear and unmistakable.Between the peruke--often forty guineas' worth--the tie-wig, thescratch, and the man who went content with a little powder, theintervals were measurable. Ruffles cost five pounds a pair; and velvetsand silks, cut probably in Paris, were morning wear. Mor
eover, thedress of the man who lost or won his thousand in a night at Almack's,and was equally well known at Madame du Deffand's in Paris and atHolland House, differed as much from the dress of the ordinarywell-to-do gentleman as that again differed from the lawyer's or thedoctor's. The Mitre, therefore, saw in Sir George a very fine gentlemanindeed, set him down to an excellent supper in its best room, andpromised a post-chaise-and-four for the following morning--all with muchbowing and scraping, and much mention of my lord to whose house he wouldpost. For in those days, if a fine gentleman was a very fine gentleman,a peer was also a peer. Quite recently they had ventured to hang one;but with apologies, a landau-and-six, and a silken halter.
Sir George would not have had the least pretension to be the glass offashion and the mould of form, which St. James's Street considered him,if he had failed to give a large share of his thoughts while he suppedto the beautiful woman he had quitted. He knew very well what steps LordMarch or Tom Hervey would take, were either in his place; and though hehad no greater taste for an irregular life than became a man in hisstation who was neither a Methodist nor Lord Dartmouth, he allowed histhoughts to dwell, perhaps longer than was prudent, on the girl'sperfections, and on what might have been were his heart a little harder,or the not over-rigid rule which he observed a trifle less stringent.The father was dead. The girl was poor: probably her ideal of a gallantwas a College beau, in second-hand lace and stained linen, drunk on alein the forenoon. Was it likely that the fortress would hold out long, orthat the maiden's heart would prove to be more obdurate than Danaee's?
Soane, considering these things and his self-denial, grew irritable overhis Chambertin. He pictured Lord March's friend, the Rena, and foundthis girl immeasurably before her. He painted the sensation she wouldmake and the fashion he could give her, and vowed that she was a Gunningwith sense and wit added; to sum up all, he blamed himself for a saintand a Scipio. Then, late as it was, he sent for the landlord, and to getrid of his thoughts, or in pursuance of them, inquired of that worthy ifMr. Thomasson was in residence at Pembroke.
'Yes, Sir George, he is,' the landlord answered; and asked if he shouldsend for his reverence.
'No,' Soane commanded. 'If there is a chair to be had, I will go tohim.'
'There is one below, at your honour's service. And the men are waiting.'
So Sir George, with the landlord, lighting him and his man attendingwith his cloak, descended the stairs in state, entered the sedan, andwas carried off to Pembroke.
The Castle Inn Page 2