“It is a repugnance undiscernible in your own case, Edward,” said his lady, with a gleam almost of malice in her pale eyes.
“My dear — my love!” His mellow, sonorous voice quivered with emphatic protest at such an implication. “Here in the — ah — sacrosanct intimacy of my own domestic hearth, it may be permitted me to — ah — denude myself.”
“It will nevertheless be more becoming in you to retain your gown,” she snapped, in reproof of his too florid rhetoric, and Sir Richard could not repress a smile.
“I do not speak of the body, madam, but of the soul — the mind,” her husband boomed. “Surely, I say, at his own table, to his own wife and to the head of his own family, in the presence of his Lares and Penates, a man may speak with complete freedom, and without the — ah — encumbrance of excessive modesty. Modesty is a garment that every decent man must wear in public. But the public, knowing naught of decency, account him truly great who goes without it.”
Thus he swung back to the subject from which his wife’s interruption had all but diverted him. “Now here is my Lord Carteret, and here, Tollemache, am I. To Lord Carteret the rich emoluments, the fawning sycophancy, the smile of majesty, the great honours of his office as Secretary of State: to me — in comparative obscurity — the labour that preserves him a fame which he himself does naught to merit — naught to merit.” And angrily he fell to stirring his chocolate.
“But your own turn will come, Ned,” said the amiable Sir Richard. Mr Templeton paused in the stirring that he might level a denunciatory spoon at his cousin. “And who will warrant me that?” quoth he. He laughed almost angrily. “You do not apprehend, I see, with what buttresses my lord props up his greatness. Let me explain, Tollemache, let me explain.
“In affairs of State my Lord Carteret stands in the same relation to me as the — ah — figure at the prow of a ship stands to the — ah — navigator. No, no!” he reproved himself. “My metaphor is too broad. Were it so, indeed, all would be well — all would be well. But I have drawn you a false image.”
“You would be more intelligible,” said his wife, “if you dispensed with images. What you mean is that it is you who steer the ship of State, whilst my Lord Carteret takes the credit.”
He nodded thoughtfully. He was impervious to the veiled sneer in her words.
“You put it — ah — crudely, but truthfully — truthfully. But it should be made clear to Tollemache that his lordship takes the credit when there is credit to take. One of these fine days — mark me! — one of these fine days, as a result of his unceasing interferences with the — ah — navigator, the ship of State will run aground. Do you think his lordship will take the blame of that as he takes the credit of all smooth sailing? Do you think so?”
His eye roamed from Tollemache to his wife, and told them plainly the opinion he should hold of their wit if they did think so.
“No!” he boomed, having reached his climax.
“You are spilling your chocolate,” said his wife.
“No!” he repeated, ignoring the frivolous interruption. “On that day, at last, my lord will point out that he has a helmsman to steer for him; he will protest that the shoal upon which we founder was one of whose presence his helmsman should have been aware. Will any blame him? Will majesty cease to smile upon him or sycophants to fawn? No! The obloquy will fall where never fell the credit — where never fell the credit. In short, upon myself” He sat back in his chair, and stroked his massive chin. “That, Tollemache, is the way reputations are made and reputations blasted.”
He was almost in a towering passion.
“But,” said Sir Richard soothingly, “so long as you are at the helm, you can guard against any such disaster.”
“Ah! There’s the rub, Tollemache — there’s the rub. I could, were I left — ah — untrammelled; were I left to follow my own judgment; did his lordship not perpetually interfere with me, and suggest courses that are undesirable and sometimes perilous. Now take this Jacobite business. You are a man of the world, Tollemache — head of a great family, a soldier and a scholar.” (Sir Richard dropped his eyes before Mrs Templeton’s stony stare.) “I ask you, Tollemache, were you Secretary of State, would you, could you commit a blunder so — ah — ineffable?”
“I think,” said Sir Richard, not without some hesitation, “that I can perceive the drift of Lord Carteret’s policy.”
Mr Templeton frowned; then his features relaxed into a smile. “Drift!” he cried, and again, “drift! My dear Tollemache, I thank you for teaching me that word. It is most excellent, most apposite. It precisely describes his lordship’s policy. It suggests that — ah — driving before the gale of circumstance that is so characteristic of his statesmanship. ‘Drift’ expresses it completely — completely.”
“Fiddlesticks!” said his wife. “Y’are a clever man, no doubt, Edward, but you fall into the grave error of considering all other men fools.”
The statesman spread his hands. He apologised for her to his cousin.
“Woman’s logic, Tollemache!” quoth he, and cast an upward glance at the ceiling. Then, to his wife: “My dear,” he said, “do you not perceive that the two propositions may not be reconciled. If I am a clever man such an error is not possible to me.”
“Then perhaps you are not a clever man,” said she.
“That, my dear, represents a retraction inadmissible in intelligent argument. You — ah — you merely interrupt, my love.” He was unusually bold.
“But is it not possible,” suggested Sir Richard, his frank young eyes upon his cousin, “that in stifling these Jacobite smoulderings, in stamping them out before they can show a flame, his lordship is discharging an easier task than that of quenching a later possible conflagration?”
“You think so?” Mr Templeton was as sardonic as he dare be with so august a person as the head of his family.
“I merely ask,” said the baronet. “I am not a statesman.”
“A loss to England, my dear Tollemache — a loss to England. But you ask, and you shall be answered.” He cleared his throat that he might deliver himself without physical hindrance. “The contention you make is his lordship’s own. It is — ah — specious, but delusive. If — if what you suggest were possible, the course would be an excellent one; but it is not possible. The thing has no legal sanction — it is almost illegal, for it is premature. And this is shown by the consequences. We arrest these men, but do we put them upon their trial? Aha! We dare not. We have not the means. The — ah — accusation emanates generally from a single informer. We keep our captives in prison for a week or so, and then his lordship has them severally brought before him, reads them a homily upon the heinousness of disloyalty, the folly of Jacobitism, dwells upon the narrowness of their escape, which he attributes to his Majesty’s clemency instead of to his own lack of elements for preparing an impeachment. Is that a dignified course for a government to pursue? I ask you, Tollemache.”
“Perhaps not,” ventured Tollemache. “But it serves its purpose. It instils fear into these plotters, and turns them from their plotting. Thus, as I perceive it, the peace of the realm is preserved.”
Mr Templeton sipped his chocolate, swallowing with it some of his rising indignation and chagrin at the obtuseness of the head of the family.
“You are not a statesman, my dear Tollemache, and there are, therefore, excuses for your short-sightedness which cannot possibly be urged for my Lord Carteret,” he said presently. “So long as fortune favours these — ah — operations; so long as — to use your own most excellent image — we drift before a favourable breeze of chance, all goes well. But one of these fine days, my lord will put his hand upon an innocent man, and there will then be a blazing scandal, indemnities will be claimed, heaven alone knows what may follow; but I know that, whatever it is, ‘twill be upon my own head. Now, take this case of your friend Captain Gaynor—”
“That, of course, was a most foolish misapprehension,” Tollemache admitted.
�
�You see — you see!” cried the Second Secretary, rubbing his long hands. “Yet had it not been for me — had I not bethought me of your own introduction, of your knowledge of this man’s life; had I not seen the — ah — preposterousness of such a charge; had I not been in possession of his unimpeachable credentials and had I not exercised the prudence of seeking their confirmation at two of the embassies (ab uno disce omnes) Captain Gaynor had been under arrest by now as a Jacobite agent.”
“Preposterous!” said Sir Richard. “The man is a soldier of fortune, first and last. I have it on his own word that he had thought of taking service with the Pretender, but that the service could not yield him enough to live upon, whilst as for future guerdon he had no faith in the ultimate success of the Pretender’s cause.”
“And yet,” cried Templeton, “in spite of all that I could say, his lordship persists in his assurance that the information he has received is not to be doubted, and that Captain Gaynor and the agent Captain Jenkyn are one and the same man. It is only as a consequence of my insistence and as a result of the information obtained from the Austrian and Turkish embassies that his lordship consents that the warrant shall be made out for Captain Jenkyn only, confident that he would be taken last night at ‘The Worlds End’ with the other plotters, and that when taken he would be discovered to be Captain Gaynor.”
A footman entered and came to proffer Mr Templeton a letter bearing an official seal. He took it abstractedly.
“An extraordinary error,” said Sir Richard, smiling. “I would we knew the source of it. I vow that Harry Gaynor will be vastly diverted when I tell him — yes, and grateful to you, Ned, for a judgment and perspicacity which have saved him this annoyance.”
“Oh, but for obstinacy, commend me to his lordship — commend me to him!” cried Mr Templeton. “When he learns that no Captain Gaynor — no Captain Jenkyn in any form — was taken with the plotters — if, indeed, they are plotters, which is yet to prove, does he admit, think you, that there has been an error? Not he. ‘The Captain must have escaped,’ he says. ‘These rogues have done their work badly.’ There is no arguing with such a man.”
He had broken the seal of the letter whilst speaking. He scanned now its contents, and as he did so his face was seen to empurple. He struck the table with his clenched hand.
“Now sink me into — ahem! There is no answer, Jones. Say that I will answer it myself, in person, later.” The servant vanished.
“What is it, Edward?” asked Mrs Templeton, who had observed the alteration in her husband’s countenance.
“What is it?” he echoed. “It is — But listen for yourselves? Egad! If I had required a proof of what I was saying this could not have come more opportunely to my hands. Listen.” And he began to read:
DEAR MR TEMPLETON, — Acting upon the opinions which you know me to entertain, I despatched last night a messenger to Sir John Kynaston’s place in Surrey to ascertain whether Captain Gaynor continued there. This messenger has just brought me the information that Captain Gaynor left Chertsey in the afternoon of yesterday and has not yet returned. I shall be obliged if you will take such measures as may be necessary to ascertain not only Captain Gaynor’s present whereabouts, but also the particular business which brought him yesterday from Chertsey. It is greatly my fear that as a result of my having lent an ear to your assurance that this person is not the Jacobite agent I am informed, he may slip through our hands and escape the country. I shall be surprised, indeed, if he is not on his way to the coast or even at sea by this time. Believe me to be your obedient servant,
CARTERET
He flung the missive down with an oath. “Blister me!” he bellowed, and he was by no means a man addicted to such expletives. “He blames me already, you see. I have enabled a Jacobite agent to win clear, and this is coldly stated with no more proof that Captain Gaynor is a Jacobite spy than that I am. The man may not leave Chertsey but it is a proof to his lordship that he’s a Jacobite and on his way to the coast if not at sea already. Here, my dear Tollemache, you may observe for yourself the mind of one of the world’s great men — ah — dissected, as it were, for your inspection. What do you think of it?”
Sir Richard was frowning. “I am certainly of opinion that my lord Carteret is a man of very rash and hasty conclusions.”
“How long, I ask you, Tollemache, how long do you suppose that such men could keep their positions were it not for such as I who do their work like moles underground where none perceives them? Pah!” He flung himself back in profoundest disgust.
“Is it impossible that his lordship should be right for once?” quoth Mrs Templeton.
The question was as a cold douche to her husband. He cringed under it.
“Right?” he gurgled. He tossed his arms to heaven. “Is he ever right?”
“He is certainly wrong in this case, I’ll stake my life on’t,” said Sir Richard, carrying conviction to Mrs Templeton and extinguishing her nascent doubts.
“Ay, and in every other case,” pronounced the fuming Second Secretary. “You may stake your life on that too — with confidence. I told him yesterday that if he was entirely — ah — positive, he might issue the warrant himself and take the consequences. Did he? Bah! He answered me that that was my function. My function — to run all risks and stand between ridicule and this man who takes all the glory that is shed.”
Sir Richard rose from the table. “The situation may be awkward for my friend Gaynor,” he said.
“You have to find him,” Mrs Templeton reminded them.
The door opened, and again the footman appeared. Again he was the bearer of a letter, and Mr Templeton frowned prodigiously upon perceiving it.
“What now?” quoth he.
“A messenger, sir, from the Gatehouse, Westminster. He stays for a reply.”
“From the Gatehouse? What a plague have I to do with the Gatehouse? Am I at the beck of every magistrate’s clerk?” He snatched up the letter peevishly, and cut the thread that bound it. It bore no seal.
He spread the sheet, read, frowned, then dropped it from hands that were suddenly limp. He bore those hands to his sides. He seemed to breathe stertorously for a moment, then he exploded; and never in the experience of living man had the solemn, decorous Second Secretary been heard to laugh as he laughed then. Peal upon peal of it reverberated to the ceiling. Gradually, at last, it weakened to a splutter. Mrs Templeton, Sir Richard and the very footman regarded him with eyes of increasing alarm. At last the power of speech was restored to him.
“He — he’s found!” he cackled weakly “Oh — oh! He’s found! He’s not at sea — not even on his way to the coast. He’s — he’s — Oh, sink me! Where do you think he is? Where do you think he has been all night?”
“Where?” quoth Sir Richard, staring; but having no doubt concerning the person to whom Mr Templeton was referring.
“Listen!” The statesman took up the letter. “It is from the magistrate, Sir Henry Tresh.” And once more he read to them:
HONOURED SIR, — There is brought before me this morning a gentleman who has spent the night in the Gatehouse, having been found early last evening by the watch dead-drunk in the neighbourhood of Whitehall Steps. He gives the name of Captain Harry Gaynor, claims the honour of your acquaintance, and presumes to say that you will speak for him. I venture to send you a note which he himself has penned to you, to inform you of his circumstances, and I shall be honoured by a word to guide me in dealing with him.
He paused to wipe his eyes, still faintly tittering at the thought of Lord Carteret’s discomfiture. Sir Richard, too, was smiling, as was even Mrs Templeton.
“But listen further to what the rascal writes, himself. The rare impudence of this rogue to desire a Secretary of State to go bail for him! Listen:
“DEAR MR TEMPLETON, — Such muddled memories as I retain of what befell me yester evening at ‘The Cock’ in Fleet Street are at your disposal when I have the honour of meeting you, for I judge that you may require to know more of
how I am come to such a pass as this. What concerns me chiefly at present is the circumstance that whilst I was in an unconscious condition some rogues cleaned out my pockets of such monies as I had, my watch and seals, the silver lace on my coat, and everything else of value. But for this I should make shift not to disturb you upon so trifling a matter. I shall be vastly your debtor if you will send a line to Sir Henry Tresh, as warranty that I shall pay the fine imposed so soon as my liberty is restored me. Your most obedient —
“And that,” cried the jubilant Second Secretary, “is the Jacobite plotter, the agent who yester evening was conspiring in a tavern, the desperate Captain Jenkyn!” His laughter swelled again, and it was joined now by his cousin’s.
“That should answer my Lord Carteret, egad!” cried Richard.
“It should. It shall — ecod! it shall. I’ll send him these letters forthwith, and then straight to the Gatehouse to release this rogue of a plotter.”
He pushed back his chair, and rose. He turned to the waiting servant.
“Say to the messenger that I shall follow him in person to wait upon Sir Henry so soon as I am dressed.”
“By your leave, I’ll go with you, Ned,” said Sir Richard.
“So you shall.” He strode briskly to the door in the wake of the departing lackey. “Oh, ‘slife!” he cried over his shoulder. He was most flippantly profane that morning. “I’ld give a deal to see his lordship’s countenance when he receives this testimony of an alibi — and such an alibi!”
He went out laughing, overjoyed at the discomfiture in store for his superior, and loving Harry Gaynor as a son for having provided him with so very apt and crushing an answer to that haughtily couched imputation.
Chapter 11. PAUNCEFORT’S MOVE
Captain Gaynor, duly enlarged from durance by the good offices of Mr Templeton, and looking somewhat jaded and hollow-eyed as a result of his unpleasant night in the Gatehouse — an appearance which lent colour to the debauch of which he claimed to be victim — was an object of mirth and the butt of a deal of spurious wit on the part of the very jubilant Second Secretary.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 260
