Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  Yet she seemed to understand them; she answered them. ‘Why have I brought you here?’ she cried, her voice trembling; and she pointed to the bed. ‘Because he is — he was my father. And he lies there. And because 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 and her eyes, from the nightmare of the room and the body, and to see things in 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 the law. You must apply to it. The law will punish the man if he has done wrong.’

  ‘But the law will not punish him!’ she cried with scorn. ‘The law? The law is your law, the law of the rich. And he’ — she pointed to the bed— ‘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 do these 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! He will run a man through in a dark room, with no one to see fair play! But for drawing his sword to help a woman, or avenge a wrong, a gentleman — a gentleman does not do these things. It is true! And may—’

  ‘Oh, have done, have done, my dear!’ cried a wailing, tearful voice; and Sir George, almost cowed by the girl’s fierce words and the fiercer execration that was on her lips, hailed the intervention with relief. The woman whom he had seen on her knees had risen and now approached the girl, showing a face wrinkled, worn, and plain, but not ignoble; and for the 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 kill another 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 her eyes, leaving Soane, strayed round the room as if she were that moment awakened and missed some one. ‘No! But is he to be murdered, and no one suffer? Is he to die and no one pay? He who had a smile for us, go in or out, and never a harsh word or thought; who never did any man wrong or wished any man ill? Yet he lies there! Oh, mother, mother,’ she continued, her voice broken on a sudden by a tremor of pain, ‘we are alone! 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 her shoulder. Then she looked at Sir George. ‘Go,’ she said; but he saw that the tears were welling up in her eyes, and that her frame was beginning to 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 George lingered; muttering that perhaps he could help her in another way. But she shook her head, once and again; and, instinctively respecting the grief which had found at length its proper vent, he turned and, softly lifting the latch, went out into the court.

  The night air cooled his brow, and recalled him to sober earnest and the eighteenth century. In the room which he had left, he had marked nothing out of the common except the girl. The mother, the furniture, the very bed on which the dead man lay, all were appropriate, and such as he would expect to find in the house of his under-steward. But the girl? The girl was gloriously handsome; and as eccentric as she was beautiful. Sir George’s head turned and his eyes glowed as he thought of her. He considered what a story he could make of it at White’s; and he put up his spying-glass, and looked through it to see if the towers of the cathedral still overhung the court. ‘Gad, sir!’ he said aloud, rehearsing the story, as much to get rid of an unfashionable sensation he had in his throat as in pure whimsy, ‘I was surprised to find that it was Oxford. It should have been Granada, or Bagdad, or Florence! I give you my word, the houris that the Montagu saw in the Hammam at Stamboul were nothing to her!’

  The persons through whom he had passed on his way to the door were still standing before the house. Glancing back when he had reached the mouth of the court, he saw that they were watching him; and, obeying a sudden impulse of curiosity, he turned on his heel and signed to the nearest to come to him. ‘Here, my man,’ he said, ‘a word with you.’

  The fellow moved towards him reluctantly, and with suspicion. ‘Who is it lies 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 fellow replied, eyeing him oddly.

  ‘Maybe,’ Soane answered with impatience. ‘Take it so, and answer the question,’

  ‘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 is an ill business, and I want no trouble. Oh, well’ — he continued, as Sir George put something in his hand— ‘thank your honour, I’ll drink your health. Yes, it is Masterson, poor man, sure enough; and two days ago he was as well as you or I — saving your presence. He was on the gate that evening, and there was a supper on one of the staircases: all the bloods of the College, your honour will understand. About an hour before midnight the Master sent him to tell the gentlemen he could not sleep for the noise. After that it is not known just what happened, but the party had him in and gave him wine; and whether he went then and returned again when the company were gone is a question. Any way, he was found in the morning, cold and dead at the foot of the stairs, and his neck broken. It is said by some a trap was laid for him on the staircase. And if it was,’ the man continued, after a pause, his true feeling finding sudden vent, ‘it is a black shame that the law does not punish it! But the coroner brought it in an accident.’

  Sir George shrugged his shoulders. Then, moved by curiosity and a desire to 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 does not 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 had condescended enough. He bade the man a curt good-night, therefore, and turning away passed quickly into St. Aldate’s Street. Thence it was but a step to the Mitre, where he found his baggage and servant awaiting him.

  In those days distinctions of dress were still clear and unmistakable. Between the peruke — often forty guineas’ worth — the tie-wig, the scratch, and the man who went content with a little powder, the intervals were measurable. Ruffles cost five pounds a pair; and velvets and silks, cut probably in Paris, were morning wear. Moreover, the dress 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 at Holland House, differed as much from the dress of the ordinary well-to-do gentleman as that again differed from the lawyer’s or the doctor’s. The Mitre, therefore, saw in Sir George a very fine gentleman indeed, set him down to an excellent supper in its best room, and promised a post-chaise-and-four for the following morning — all with much bowing and scraping, and much mention of my lord to whose house he would post. 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.r />
  Sir George would not have had the least pretension to be the glass of fashion 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 supped to the beautiful woman he had quitted. He knew very well what steps Lord March or Tom Hervey would take, were either in his place; and though he had no greater taste for an irregular life than became a man in his station who was neither a Methodist nor Lord Dartmouth, he allowed his thoughts to dwell, perhaps longer than was prudent, on the girl’s perfections, 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 gallant was a College beau, in second-hand lace and stained linen, drunk on ale in the forenoon. Was it likely that the fortress would hold out long, or that the maiden’s heart would prove to be more obdurate than Danäe’s?

  Soane, considering these things and his self-denial, grew irritable over his Chambertin. He pictured Lord March’s friend, the Rena, and found this girl immeasurably before her. He painted the sensation she would make and the fashion he could give her, and vowed that she was a Gunning with sense and wit added; to sum up all, he blamed himself for a saint and a Scipio. Then, late as it was, he sent for the landlord, and to get rid of his thoughts, or in pursuance of them, inquired of that worthy if Mr. Thomasson was in residence at Pembroke.

  ‘Yes, Sir George, he is,’ the landlord answered; and asked if he should send for his reverence.

  ‘No,’ Soane commanded. ‘If there is a chair to be had, I will go to him.’

  ‘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 attending with his cloak, descended the stairs in state, entered the sedan, and was carried off to Pembroke.

  CHAPTER III

  TUTOR AND PUPILS — OLD STYLE

  Doctor Samuel Johnson, of Johnson’s Court, Fleet Street, had at this time some name in the world; but not to the pitch that persons entering Pembroke College hastened to pay reverence to the second floor over the gateway, which he had vacated thirty years earlier — as persons do now. Their gaze, as a rule, rose no higher than the first-floor oriel, where the shapely white shoulder of a Parian statue, enhanced by a background of dark-blue silken hanging, caught the wandering eye. What this lacked of luxury and mystery was made up — almost to the Medmenham point in the eyes of the city — by the gleam of girandoles, and the glow, rather felt than seen, of Titian-copies in Florence frames. Sir George, borne along in his chair, peered up at this well-known window — well-known, since in the Oxford of 1767 a man’s rooms were furnished if he had tables and chairs, store of beef and October, an apple-pie and Common Room port — and seeing the casement brilliantly lighted, smiled a trifle contemptuously.

  ‘The Reverend Frederick is not much changed,’ he muttered. ‘Lord, what a beast it was! And how we hazed him! Ah! At home, is he?’ — this to the servant, as the man lifted the head of the chair. ‘Yes, I will go up.’

  To tell the truth, the Reverend Frederick Thomasson had so keen a scent for Gold Tufts or aught akin to them, that it would have been strange if the instinct had not kept him at home; as a magnet, though unseen, attracts the needle. The same prepossession brought him, as soon as he heard of his visitor’s approach, hurrying to the head of the stairs; where, if he had had his way, he would have clasped the baronet in his arms, slobbered over him, after the mode of Paris — for that was a trick of his — and perhaps even wept on his shoulder. But Soane, who knew his ways, coolly defeated the manoeuvre by fending him off with his cane; and the Reverend Frederick was reduced to raising his eyes and hands to heaven in token of the joy which filled him at the sight of his old pupil.

  ‘Lord! Sir George, I am inexpressibly happy!’ he cried. ‘My dear sir, my very dear sir, welcome to my poor rooms! This is joy indeed! Gaudeamus! Gaudeamus! To see you once more, fresh from the groves of Arthur’s and the scenes of your triumphs! Pardon me, my dear sir, I must and will shake you by the hand again!’ And succeeding at last in seizing Sir George’s hand, he fondled and patted it in both of his — which were fat and white — the while with every mark of emotion he led him into the room.

  ‘Gad!’ said Sir George, standing and looking round. ‘And where is she, Tommy?’

  ‘That old name! What a pleasure it is to hear it!’ cried the tutor, affecting to touch his eyes with the corner of a dainty handkerchief; as if the gratification he mentioned were too much for his feelings.

  ‘But, seriously, Tommy, where is she?’ Soane persisted, still looking round with a grin.

  ‘My dear Sir George! My honoured friend! But you would always have your joke.’

  ‘And, plainly, Tommy, is all this frippery yours?’

  ‘Tut, tut!’ Mr. Thomasson remonstrated. ‘And no man with a finer taste. I have heard Mr. Walpole say that with a little training no man would excel Sir George Soane as a connoisseur. An exquisite eye! A nice discrimination! A—’

  ‘Now, Tommy, to how many people have you said that?’ Sir George retorted, dropping into a chair, and coolly staring about him. ‘But, there, have done, and tell me about yourself. Who is the last sprig of nobility you have been training in the way it should grow?’

  ‘The last pupil who honoured me,’ the Reverend Frederick answered, ‘as you are so kind as to ask after my poor concerns, Sir George, was my Lord E — — ‘s son. We went to Paris, Marseilles, Genoa, Florence; visited the mighty monuments of Rome, and came home by way of Venice, Milan, and Turin. I treasure the copy of Tintoretto which you see there, and these bronzes, as memorials of my lord’s munificence. I brought them back with me.’

  ‘And what did my lord’s son bring back?’ Sir George asked, cruelly. ‘A Midianitish woman?’

  ‘My honoured friend!’ Mr. Thomasson remonstrated. ‘But your wit was always mordant — mordant! Too keen for us poor folk!’

  ‘D’ye remember the inn at Cologne, Tommy?’ Sir George continued, mischievously reminiscent. ‘And Lord Tony arriving with his charmer? And you giving up your room to her? And the trick we played you at Calais, where we passed the little French dancer on you for Madame la Marquise de Personne?’

  Mr. Thomasson winced, and a tinge of colour rose in his fat pale face. ‘Boys, boys!’ he said, with an airy gesture. ‘You had an uncommon fancy even then, Sir George, though you were but a year from school! Ah, those were charming days! Great days!’

  ‘And nights!’ said Sir George, lying back in his chair and looking at the other with eyes half shut, and insolence half veiled. ‘Do you remember the faro bank at Florence, Tommy, and the three hundred livres you lost to that old harridan, Lady Harrington? Pearls cast before swine you styled them, I remember.’

  ‘Lord, Sir George!’ Mr. Thomasson cried, vastly horrified. ‘How can you say such a thing? Your excellent memory plays you false.’

  ‘It does,’ Soane answered, smiling sardonically. ‘I remember. It was seed sown for the harvest, you called it — in your liquor. And that touches me. Do you mind the night Fitzhugh made you so prodigiously drunk at Bonn, Tommy? And we put you in the kneading-trough, and the servants found you and shifted you to the horse-trough? Gad! you would have died of laughter if you could have seen yourself when we rescued you, lank and dripping, with your wig like a sponge!’

  ‘It must have been — uncommonly diverting!’ the Reverend Frederick stammered; and he smiled widely, but with a lack of heart. This time there could be no doubt of the pinkness that overspread his face.

  ‘Diverting? I tell you it would have made old Dartmouth laugh!’ Sir George said, bluntly.

  ‘Ha, ha! Perhaps it would. Perhaps it would. Not that I have the honour of his lordship’s acquaintance.’

  ‘No? Well, he would not suit you, Tommy. I would not seek it.’

  The Reverend Frederick looked doubtful, as weighing the possibility of anything that bore the name of lord bei
ng alien from him. From this reflection, however, he was roused by a new sally on Soane’s part. ‘But, crib me! you are very fine to-night, Mr. Thomasson,’ he said, staring about him afresh. ‘Ten o’clock, and you are lighted as for a drum! What is afoot?’

  The tutor smirked and rubbed his hands. ‘Well, I — I was expecting a visitor, Sir George.’

  ‘Ah, you dog! She is not here, but you are expecting her.’

  Mr. Thomasson grinned; the jest flattered him. Nevertheless he hastened to exonerate himself. ‘It is not Venus I am expecting, but Mars,’ he said with a simper. ‘The Honourable Mr. Dunborough, son to my Lord Dunborough, and the same whose meritorious services at the Havanna you, my dear friend, doubtless remember. He is now cultivating in peace the gifts which in war—’

  ‘Sufficed to keep him out of danger!’ Sir George said bluntly. ‘So he is your last sprig, is he? He should be well seasoned.’

  ‘He is four-and-twenty,’ Mr. Thomasson answered, pluming himself and speaking in his softest tones. ‘And the most charming, I assure you, the most debonair of men. But do I hear a noise?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sir George, listening. ‘I hear something.’

  Mr. Thomasson rose. ‘What — what is it, I wonder?’ he said, a trifle nervously. A dull sound, as of a hive of bees stirred to anger, was becoming audible.

  ‘Devil if I know!’ Sir George answered. ‘Open the window.’

  But the Reverend Frederick, after approaching the window with the intention of doing so, seemed disinclined to go nearer, and hovered about it. ‘Really,’ he said, no longer hiding his discomposure. ‘I fear that it is something — something in the nature of a riot. I fear that that which I anticipated has happened. If my honourable friend had only taken my advice and remained here!’ And he wrung his hands without disguise.