The meeting took place at eight o’clock next morning in Leicester Fields, and it presented some unusual features. In the first place, Ned Kynaston did not come to the ground with his friends, as is prescribed by all sound authorities on the formalities of the duello. And when Faversham and Etheredge, who had consented to act for him, made their joint appearance at five minutes to eight, their principal was not yet come.
Sedley, stripped to shirt and breeches, was already there with Buckhurst and Ogle. Also there was such a throng of spectators that every rank of life was represented. This was a matter that increased Sedley’s fury. If he must disgrace himself and soil his sword in the blood of an actor, he would, at least, have desired to have been private. However, being thrust into so unworthy a position, he must perforce bear himself as best he could. He turned to Faversham with a sneering laugh.
‘Odds death, Sir Lionel!’ quoth he. ‘Is your friend like to keep us waiting longer? I’ve gotten an appetite from this early rising, and I’m in haste to get to breakfast.’
That taunt was followed by others that became more and more barbed as time passed and still there was no sign of Kynaston. Faversham tells us that, mortified, he was on the point of offering to take his principal’s place when at last a chair was espied advancing from St Martin’s Lane.
It must be Kynaston at last! But when the bearers had set it down and raised the roof, out stepped, not Kynaston, but Lady Chesterham, to the dumbfoundering of every man present. Instantly she ran to Sedley.
‘Sir Charles!’ she cried, a note of appeal in her voice, and tears in her lovely eyes. ‘Forgive me for what I have done. There will be no fighting this morning.’
Sir Charles looked down at her. He was very white, and his lips were twitching.
‘Madam,’ he muttered at last, ‘let me beg you to take some thought for your name, and withdraw.’
‘My name!’ she cried. ‘What care I for my name? I can take thought for nothing but his life, Sir Charles.’ (A spasm rippled over Sedley’s face.) ‘’Tis my fault. ’Twas I bade him bear that message to you. I’ll not have him murdered for what was of my doing.’
‘Did he send you hither?’ snapped Sedley.
‘Send me? Not he, poor lad. He’s safe enough, and no harm can come to him. But you shall not fight him.’
‘By Heaven, madam, shall I take a blow? And from such a dog as that?’ quoth he. ‘The quarrel was of his seeking.’
‘Nay, ’twas of yours; ’twas you gave him the lie. What could he do, poor boy?’ She looked up at him in distress and appeal; but he remained unmoved before it, mindful only of his wrongs.
‘Madam, let me entreat you to withdraw.’
‘Not until I have your promise that you will spare him. Why are you so set on killing him? What is his life to you?’
‘What is it to you, madam?’ countered Sedley fiercely, himself forgetful now of spectators.
But if he was lost to shame she was a thousand times more so.
‘He is everything to me,’ she answered; ‘and I care not who hears me! If he dies, I shall die. If you wish to kill me, kill him. Ah, bethink you, he is so young, so gentle, and so lovely — —’
Perhaps that plea was ill-considered. Sir Charles stepped back, his face set and scowling.
‘This is idle, madam. Worse than idle. You humiliate yourself in vain.’ And he waved a hand to the assembled throng, all greedily watching this extraordinary scene.
‘You are resolved to fight, in spite of all that I have said?’ she demanded tragically.
‘Madam, I am!’
‘Be it so, then!’ she answered, in a sudden fury. ‘In that case you shall fight me!’ And before Faversham knew what she was about she had snatched the sword from his side. Flourishing it, she advanced upon Sedley. ‘On guard, sir!’ she challenged him.
‘Madam, you are mad,’ he answered; and he believed it. ‘I implore you to be more circumspect. There are those who hear you — —’
‘I desire them to hear me,’ she answered, and her voice seemed to take on a deeper note. ‘And they shall see me, too,’ she added.
And then the amazing thing took place. She tore off her plumed hat, and with it tore away her lofty mass of lustrous black hair, leaving in its place a ripple of golden locks about her neck. She flung off the long black cloak in which she had been wrapped; her furbelow fell away about her feet; and forth from that burst chrysalis, under the eye of the gaping company, stepped Ned Kynaston himself.
Kynaston indeed it was, and yet even now the face was hardly his own: it was still in part transformed by the darkened eyebrows, the olive-tinted cheeks, the patches under lip and eye, and other cunning touches which the theatre had taught that masterly player of feminine roles, and which had gone to make him in real life what so often he had been upon the stage — the loveliest lady that ever Mr Pepys saw in all his life.
Like a ripple over water ran the truth through the assembled crowd, and after its first gasp under the shock of that revelation a great peal of laughter broke upon the morning air.
Sedley looked on, white to the lips, cut and wounded to the very soul of him. He had no delusions on the score of the laughter. It was himself was the object of it; he it was who had been fooled to the very top of his bent; he who must die under the ridicule that would convulse the town. Had he not made love to Caroline Chesterham? Had he not written verses in her honour? Had he not languished and sighed and fondled her hand by the hour? Had he not come to fight this very duel out of jealousy aroused by her?
With a snarling cry he hurled himself upon the actor. But meanwhile Kynaston had kicked aside the discarded furbelow and cloak, and stood free to receive this onslaught — graceful, alert, and poised like a fencing-master.
Faversham would have interposed. But the actor waved him away.
‘In Heaven’s name,’ he laughed, ‘let him have what he came for.’
The blades met and jarred, then Sedley’s was deflected; there was a twinkling disengage, and Kynaston’s point flew straight and unhampered at the region of his opponent’s heart. Within an inch of the body it paused, and Kynaston drew back his arm. As all saw, he had spared his enemy. Sedley came on again, and for the second time the actor got within his opponent’s guard, yet again he checked his point at the very moment of touching the other’s body. If aught had been wanting to complete Sedley’s humiliation it was afforded in that fine display of fence, and the almost contemptuous mercy with which it was accompanied.
The end came soon. Kynaston, supremely the master, made a fresh opening, went in for the third and last time, and transfixed his adversary’s sword-arm.
Perforce that was the end, and Kynaston went off to breakfast with his seconds; whilst the crowd dispersed to put this amazing story about the town.
‘I shall look to you, Sir Lionel,’ said the actor, when they had got to table, ‘to make my peace with my Lord Chesterham should this affair ever come to his ears. You’ll have guessed by this that ’twas I, myself, who wrote the letters of introduction which I brought to you and to Lady Denham. No doubt ’twas a gross libel on his lordship, who, belike, has no thought whatever of marrying again.’ Then he sighed and laughed in one. ‘Odds life! That house in Pall Mall and the rest of it will cost me a year’s earnings. But Sedley’s is the heavier reckoning. I promised you it should be heavy.’
Heavy it was, indeed. Sedley left town immediately, unable to face the ridicule in store for him, and for a year thereafter he abode quietly in the country, no man knowing where. Nor does it transpire that he ever attempted to pit himself against Ned Kynaston again.
JACK O’LANTERN
Jack o’Lantern was the name bestowed upon him by the Bow Street runners whom his elusiveness was exasperating. His real identity was as unknown to them as his countenance, which he covered with a black visor, whenever operating. The speed of his movements was such that he seemed to multiply himself. No sooner was the hue-and-cry raised in Kent for the robbery of a nobleman on Gad’s
Hill at noon, than they heard of him holding up the Oxford coach beyond Watford in the evening. They identified him by a general description: his genteel methods; his good shape and his military exterior; a laced hat cocked over the right eye, an elegant, full-skirted coat, a steinkirk and so on. He rode a bay mare, presenting, however, no peculiar characteristics.
On that afternoon in May when just beyond Kentish Town he relieved Squire Kendrick of a purse of fifty guineas, a gold snuffbox, a diamond ring of price and a handsome small-sword that took his fancy, he was led by his ill-starred meeting with Mr Richard Lessingham to depart from his usual practice of setting out at once to put a score of miles between himself and the scene of the outrage.
He could not have chosen a worse moment for the encounter. At the best of times Mr Richard Lessingham would have proved an awkward customer, for, like most men endowed with a strong dash of rascality, he was a considerable fellow of his hands. Today he happened to ride in a furious temper, feeling that life had declared war upon him, and all but looking for an opportunity to deliver battle.
He was the nephew and heir presumptive of that wealthy nawab Sir John Lessingham, who, following a fashion and a taste for the district, common in his day with so many of his kind, had built himself out of the plunder of the Indies a handsome house in a handsome park on the north side of Highgate Hill. For any inheritance beyond the baronetcy and the little estate that went to adorn it, Richard Lessingham must depend upon the relations between his uncle and himself. Sir John had been more than generous with him. He desired that his nephew and heir presumptive could cut a prominent figure in the world of fashion wherein, himself, he had failed. For English Society looked askance on these nawabs and their suspiciously acquired wealth. To this end he made the lad a princely allowance. But it had not proved liberal enough to meet the extravagances of a vain, ostentatious, and fundamentally worthless nature. Horses and cards and other extravagances had run Mr Richard heavily into debt.
On the first occasion the nawab had relieved the obligations with a laugh. The name of Lessingham would gather lustre from being well gilded. Later he had relieved obligations again, but he had not laughed. Later still he had stormed whilst paying, and warned his nephew that he would pay no more excesses of the allowance. The warning, however, was powerless to curb extravagances that by this time had become settled habits. All that had resulted was that when next Richard found his debts submerging him, instead of seeking his uncle, he had sought — on the advice of a fellow-member of White’s to whom he had lost a deal of money at ombre — a certain Mr Nicholas Magdalen, who in a back office in Essex Street was amassing an incalculable fortune by the benevolent assistance of young gentlemen of quality in financial distress.
Mr Magdalen, an elderly little man with a moist, red face and greasy black hair that straggled untidily about a skull-cap, had displayed a solicitude of the friendliest. He could not have been more distressed over his new client’s plight if Richard had been his own child. He invited him to dismiss all concern. There was neither sense nor right in that a fine young gentleman of his quality and a future baronet should be plagued over a matter of a mere couple of thousand pounds. His little short-sighted eyes beamed through his horn-rimmed spectacles as he thanked his gods that it was in his power to play the fairy godfather. The money should be paid to Mr Lessingham’s bankers without fail in the morning. He would, of course, make a charge for the accommodation. One had to live. But — again thanking his gods — Mr Magdalen was no usurer, like some that he could name. Thirty per centum was the uttermost interest he would consent to take, considering how good must be the security that Mr Lessingham would supply.
It became necessary to explain to the ignorant but immensely relieved Mr Lessingham the exact meaning of the term ‘security’. His relief was diminished by the explanation. Dismay finally replaced it.
‘But I have no property. No property whatsoever.’
Mr Magdalen’s smile was reassured. ‘Not /in esse/, as we say. No. But /in posse/, my dear sir, there is Lessingham Park, which your uncle has entailed to go with the title.’
‘But that’s not mine yet.’
The benign smile of Mr Magdalen became broader. ‘The prospect is enough, my dear sir. It would not be enough for everybody. Nor would I do this for everybody; for, of course, the risk is considerable. If you should predecease your uncle, the post-obit will be so much waste paper. But we can provide for that risk in the rate of interest. I am afraid I must make it sixty per centum. But, then, you’ll not account that unreasonable, considering . . .’
‘What is a post . . . What d’ye call it?’
Mr Magdalen gently explained the nature and effect of the post-obit.
‘Ecod!’ said Mr Lessingham to this wealth of instruction into mysterious and unsuspected ways of finance.
He departed with the assurance that the cash would be at his disposal on the morrow, and he came back again in six months’ time not only gloomily to confess that he could not find a matter of twelve hundred pounds due for interest, but that he had pressing debts for another thousand and didn’t know where the devil to seek it.
Mr Magdalen’s undiminished benignity at once dispelled his apprehensions.
‘No cause to distress yourself, my dear young friend. We add the interest to the principal, and that’s the end of the matter. Forget it. Amuse yourself. As for your present debts, I will provide the thousand pounds at once.’
Six months later, Mr Lessingham found himself owing something over two thousand pounds for interest, whilst one or two creditors were pressing him for debts which in all amounted to about eight hundred pounds. It began to be borne in upon the dull wits of the nawab’s nephew that a morass awaited him at the bottom of the easy slope to which he had set his feet. The benignity of Mr Magdalen on this occasion did not suffice to allay his very real anxieties, especially when he discovered that whilst Mr Magdalen would again be content to add interest to principal, he was by no means prepared to advance the further moneys so immediately necessary. The little estate, he pointed out, was not worth above twenty thousand pounds, and the risks attached to post-obit made it impossible to increase the capital liability already incurred.
Mr Lessingham was appalled. He made a mental calculation and presented the results to Mr Magdalen. That he was capable of it shows the extent to which his education in financial matters had lately improved.
‘Ecod, sir! At this rate in a couple of years’ time Lessingham Park will be your property, and all that I’ll have had will have been a matter of three thousand pounds. Blister me!’
‘Sir John may die before then,’ said Mr Magdalen hopefully.
‘Damme! Sir John won’t die in the next ten years. God knows he’s hale enough for another twenty.’ Mr Lessingham sucked his breath in sudden terror. ‘What’ll be owing you in twenty years at this thieving rate?’
With pursed lips Mr Magdalen opined that it might be rather more than the whole fortune of the nawab. But he begged Mr Lessingham to dismiss such gloomy conjectures. Mr Lessingham, however, could not dismiss them.
‘Sold myself for a mess of pottage, ecod!’ said he, and black, vicious despair looked out of his livid face at the benevolent little usurer. A snarl crept into his voice. ‘I’ve a mind to . . .’
‘Now wait a moment. Wait a moment,’ Mr Magdalen begged him. ‘Between friends there are always ways of arranging matters, and I hope, Mr Lessingham, sir, that you will consider me your friend. There’s a proposal I might make to you that I give you my word I wouldn’t make to another man living. ‘Pon honour I wouldn’t. Have you . . . hem . . . have you ever thought of marriage, Mr Lessingham, sir.’
‘Marriage!’ sneered the young gentleman. He became cynical. ‘I’ve never met a lady well enough dowered.’
‘That’, said Mr Magdalen, ‘is where I might help you.’
‘Faith, ye’re a marriage-broker, then, as well as a moneylender? If your rate of interest is as unconscionable . . .’
&nb
sp; ‘There’s no rate of interest at all. The lady is perhaps the wealthiest heiress in England, and her dowry will be . . . ah . . . princely.’
Mr Lessingham’s handsome face was darkened in a scowl.
‘Let me know more of this. Be plain with me.’
Mr Magdalen was plain. And forth came a proposal which had already been made to a half-dozen other young gentlemen of title, actual or prospective, in straitened circumstances. Mr Magdalen possessed a daughter who would one day inherit the ill-gotten millions in which his only joy had been that of accumulating them. It would, however, he felt, be vain to leave her the wealthiest woman in England unless at the same time he could assure for her a place in those exalted social circles where wealth enabled life to be lived at its fullest and most brilliant.
It had become an obsession with the little usurer. The fact that in the past five years the proposal had been declined by the needy noblemen to whom it had been made, had merely served to sharpen Mr Magdalen’s desire to a desperate keenness.
On the understanding that he made the offer subject to the lady’s own consent — a consent which he opined, with an appreciative eye for Mr Lessingham’s attractive exterior, was not likely to be refused — he invited Mr Lessingham to consider how happy an issue from all his troubles lay for him in marriage with so well-dowered a lady. He did so with confidence, gloating secretly over the fact that Mr Lessingham was in a vice far tighter than that in which he had held any of the gentlemen who had declined him. Nevertheless Mr Lessingham was prompt, outraged and virulent in damning the moneylender for his impudence. As foul-mouthed as a drayman, he practised no decency in his comments upon Mr Magdalen’s probable ancestry. But when he came to express assumptions concerned with Mr Magdalen’s only descendant, the moneylender checked him suddenly.
‘Say nothing that will make it impossible for you to change your mind,’ he warned him, in a thin, hard voice from which all benignity had departed. And at once he turned the screw of the vice in which he held his debtor. ‘There’s a matter of two thousand five hundred pounds for interest that was due from you yesterday. I don’t wish to be hard, Mr Lessingham, sir, but unless I have the money by four o’clock this afternoon, I shall wait upon Sir John with the post-obit in the morning, and ask him if he would wish to redeem it.’
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 531
