Shrewsbury: A Romance

by Stanley John Weyman

  CHAPTER IX

  I know now that there never was a man in whom the natural propensityto side with the weaker party was by custom and exercise more highlydeveloped than in my late lord, in whose presence I then stood; who,indeed, carried that virtue to such an extent that if any fault couldbe found with his public carriage--which I am very far from admitting,but only that such a colour might be given to some parts of it by hisenemies--the flaw was attributable to this excess of generosity. Yethe has since told me that on this occasion of our first meeting, itwas neither my youth nor my misery--in the main at any rate--thatinduced him to take so extraordinary a step as that of seeing mealone; but a strange and puzzling reminiscence, which my featuresaroused in him, and whereto his first words, when we were lefttogether, bore witness. "Where, my lad," said he, staring at me, "haveI seen you before?"

  As well as I could, for the dread of him in which I stood, I essayedto clear my brain and think; and in me also, as I looked at him, theattempt awoke a recollection, as if I had somewhere met him. But Icould conceive one place only where it was possible I might have seena man of his rank; and so stammered that perhaps at the Rose Inn, atWare, in the gaming-room I might have met him.

  His lip curled, "No," he said coldly, "I have honoured theGroom-Porter at Whitehall once and again by leaving my guineas withhim. But at the Rose Inn, at Ware--never! And heavens, man," hecontinued in a tone of contemptuous wonder, "what brought such as youin that place?"

  In shame, and aware, now that it was too late, that I had said theworst thing in the world to commend myself to him, I stammered that Ihad gone thither--that I had gone thither with a friend.

  "A woman?" he said quickly.

  I allowed that it was so.

  "The same that led you into this?" he continued sharply.

  But to that I made no answer: whereon, with kindly sternness he bademe remember where I stood, and that in a few minutes it would be toolate to speak.

  "You can trust me, I suppose?" he continued with a fine scorn, "that Ishall not give evidence against you. By being candid, therefore, youmay make things better, but can hardly make them worse."

  Whereon I have every reason to be thankful, nay, it has been matterfor a life's rejoicing that I was not proof against his kindness; butwithout more ado, sobbing over some parts of my tale, and whisperingothers, I told him my whole story from the first meeting with mytemptress--so I may truly call her--to the final moment when, themoney gone, and the ladder removed, I was rudely awakened, to findmyself a prisoner. I told it, I have reason to believe, with feeling,and in words that carried conviction; the more as, though skilled inliterary composition, and in writing _secundum artem_, I have littleimagination. At any rate, when I had done, and quavered offreluctantly into a half coherent and wholly piteous appeal for mercy,I found my young judge gazing at me with a heat of indignation incheek and eye, that strangely altered him.

  "Good G----!" he cried, "what a Jezebel!" And in words which I willnot here repeat, he said what he thought of her.

  True as the words were (and I knew that, after what I had told him,nothing else was true of her), they forced a groan from me.

  "Poor devil," he said at that. And then again, "Poor devil, it is ashame! It is a black shame, my lad," he continued warmly, "and I wouldlike to see Madam at the cart-tail; and that is where I shall see herbefore all is done! I never heard of such a vixen! But for you," andon the word he paused and looked at me, "you did it, my friend, and Ido not see your way out of it."

  "Then must I hang?" I cried desperately.

  He did not answer.

  "My lord! My lord!" I urged, for I began to see whither he wastending, and I could have shrieked in terror, "you can do anything."

  "I?" he said.

  "You! If you would speak to the judge, my lord."

  He laughed, without mirth. "He would whip you instead of hanging you,"he said contemptuously.

  "To the King, then."

  "You would thank me for nothing," he answered; and then with a kind ofcontemptuous suavity, "My friend, in your Ware Academy--wherenevertheless you seem to have had your diversions--you do not knowthese things. But you may take it from me, that I am more thansuspected of belonging to the party whose existence Sir Baldwindenies--I mean to the Whigs; and the suspicion alone is enough to damnany request of mine."

  On that, after staring at him a moment, I did a thing that surprisedhim; and had he known me better a thing that would have surprised himmore. For the courage to do it, and to show myself in colours unlikemy own, I had to thank neither despair nor fear, though both werepresent; but a kind of rage that seized me, on hearing him speak in atone above me, and as if, having heard my story, he was satisfied withthe curiosity of it, and would dismiss the subject, and I might go tothe gallows. I know now that in so speaking he had not that intent,but that brought up short by the certainty of my guilt, and theimpasse as to helping me, in which he stood, he chose that mode ofrepressing the emotion he felt. I did not understand this however: andwith a bitterness born of the misconception, and in a voice thatsounded harsh, and anyone's rather than mine, I burst into a furioustorrent of reproaches, asking him if it was only for this he had seenme alone, and to make a tale. "To make a tale," I cried, "and a jest?One that with the same face with which you send me out to be strangledand to rot, and with the same smile, you'll tell, my lord, aftersupper to Sir Baldwin and your like. Oh, for shame, my lord, forshame!" I cried, passionately, and losing all fear of him in myindignation. "As you may some day be in trouble yourself--for greatheads fall as well as low ones in these days, and as little pitied--ifyou have bowels of compassion, my lord, and a mother to love you----"

  He turned on me so swiftly at that word, that my anger quailed beforehis. "Silence!" he cried, fiercely. "How dare you, such as you,mention----. But there, fellow--be silent!"

  I caught the ring of pain as well as anger in his tone, and obeyedhim; though I could not discern what I had said to touch him sosorely. He on his side glowered at me a moment; and so we stood, whilehope died within me, and I grew afraid of him again, and a shadow fellon the room as it had already fallen on his face. I waited for nothingnow but the word that should send me from his presence, and thoughtnothing so certain as that I had flung away what slender chanceremained to me. It was with a start that when he broke the silence Iwas aware of a new sound in his voice.

  "Listen, my lad," he said in a constrained tone--and he did not lookat me. "You are right in one thing. If I meant to do nothing for you,I had no right to your confidence. I do not know what it was in yourface induced me to see you. I wish I had not. But since I have I mustdo what I can to save you: and there is only one way. Mind you," hecontinued in a sudden burst of anger, "I do not like it! And I do itout of regard for myself, not for you, my lad! Mind you that!"

  "Oh, my lord!" I cried, ready to fall down and worship him.

  "Be silent," he answered, coldly, "and when my back is turned gothrough that window. Do you understand? It is all I can do for you.The alley on the left leads to the stables. Pass through them boldly;if you are not stopped you will in a minute be on the high road. Theturn, to the left at the cross-roads, leads to Tottenham and London.That on the right will take you to Little Parndon and Epping. That isall I have to say; while I look for a piece of paper to sign yourcommitment, you would do well to go. Only remember, my man, if you areretaken--do not look to me."

  He suited the action to the words by turning his back on me, andbeginning to search in a bureau that stood beside him. But so suddenand so unexpected was the proposal he had made, that though he hadsaid distinctly "Go!" I doubt if, apart from the open window, I shouldhave understood his purpose. As it was I came to it slowly--so slowlythat he lost patience, and with his head still buried among thepigeon-holes, swore at me.

  WHEN MY BACK IS TURNED GO THROUGH THAT WINDOW]

  "Are you going?" he said. "Or do you think that it is nothing I amdoing for you? Do you think it is nothing that I am
going to tell alie for such as you? Either go or hang, my lad!"

  I heard no more. A moment earlier nothing had been farther from mythoughts than to attempt an escape, but the impulse of his willsteadied my wavering resolution, and with set teeth and a beatingheart, I stepped through the window. Outside I turned to the leftalong a shady green alley fenced by hedges of yew, and espying thestable-yard before me, walked boldly across it. By good luck thegrooms and helpers were at supper and I saw only one man standing at adoor. He stared at me, mouthing a straw, but said nothing, and in atwinkling I had passed him, left the curtilage behind me, and had thepark fence and gate in sight.

  Until I reached this, not knowing whose eyes were on me, I had thepresence of mind to walk; though cold shivers ran down my back, and myhair crept, and every second I fancied--for I was too nervous to lookback--that I felt Dyson's hand on my collar. Arriving safely at thegate, however, and the road stretching before me with no one in sight,I took to my heels, and ran a quarter of a mile along it; then leapingthe fence that bounded it on the right, I started recklessly acrosscountry, my aim being to strike the Little Parndon highway, to whichmy lord had referred, at a point beyond the cross-roads, and so toavoid passing the latter.

  I am aware that this mode of escape, this walking through a window andrunning off unmolested, sounds bald and commonplace; and that if Icould import into my story some touch of romance or womanish disguise,such as--to compare great things with small--marked my LordNithsdale's escape from the Tower three years ago, I should cut abetter figure. Whereas in the flight across the fields on a quietafternoon, with the sun casting long shadows on the meadows, and formy most instant alarms, the sudden whirring up before me of partridgeor plover, few will find anything heroic. But let them placethemselves for a moment in my skin, and remember that as I sweated andpanted and stumbled and rose again, as I splashed in reckless hastethrough sloughs and ditches, and tore my way through greatblackthorns, I had death always at my heels! Let them remember that inthe long shadows that crossed my path I saw the gallows, and again thegallows, and once more the gallows; and fled more quickly; and that itneeded but the distant bark of a dog, or the shout of a boy scaringbirds, to persuade me that the hue and cry was coming, and to fill mewith the last extremity of fear.

  I believe that the adventurer, and the knight of the road, when itfalls to their lot to be so hunted--as must often happen, though morecommonly such an one is taken _securus et ebrius_ in the arms of hismistress--find some mitigation of their pains in the anticipation ofconflict, and in the stern joy which the resolve to sell life dearlyimparts to the man of action. But I was unarmed, and worn out with myexertions; no soldier, and with no heart to fight. My flight thereforeacross the quiet fields was pure terror, the torture of unmitigatedfear. Fear spurred me and whipped me; and yet, had I known it, I mighthave spared my terror. For darkness found me, weak and exhausted, butstill free, in the neighbourhood of Epping in Essex, where I passedthe night in the Forest; and before noon next day, believing that theywould watch for me on the Tottenham Road, I had found courage to slinkin to London by way of Chingford, and in the heart of that great city,whose magnitude exceeded all my expectations, had safely andeffectually lost myself.