Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  The tutor stared in wonder. ‘She’ll get away,’ he said.

  ‘Half a mile,’ Mr. Pomeroy answered drily, as he filled his glass.’ Then I shall stop the chaise — with a pistol if you like, jump in — a merry surprise for the nymph; and before twelve we shall be at Tamplin’s. And you’ll be free of it.’

  Mr. Thomasson pondered, his face flushed, his eyes moist. ‘I think you are the devil!’ he said at last.

  ‘Is it a bargain? And see here. His lordship has gone silly on the girl. You can tell him before he leaves what you are going to do. He’ll leave easy, and you’ll have an evidence — of your good intentions!’ Mr. Pomeroy added with a chuckle. ‘Is it a bargain?’

  ‘I’ll not do it!’ Mr. Thomasson cried faintly. ‘I’ll not do it!’

  But he sat down again, their heads came together across the table; they talked long in low voices. Presently Mr. Pomeroy fetched pen and paper from a table in one of the windows; where they lay along with one or two odd volumes of Crebillon, a tattered Hoyle on whist, and Foote’s jest book. A note was written and handed over, and the two rose.

  Mr. Thomasson would have liked to say a word before they parted as to no violence being contemplated or used; something smug and fair-seeming that would go to show that his right hand did not understand what his left was doing. But even his impudence was unequal to the task, and with a shamefaced good-night he secured the memorandum in his pocket-book and sneaked up to bed.

  He had every opportunity of carrying out Pomeroy’s suggestion to make Lord Almeric his confidant. For when he entered the chamber which they shared, he found his lordship awake, tossing and turning in the shade of the green moreen curtains; in a pitiable state between chagrin and rage. But the tutor’s nerve failed him. He had few scruples — it was not that; but he was weary and sick at heart, and for that night he felt that he had done enough. So to all my lord’s inquiries he answered as sleepily as consisted with respect, until the effect which he did not wish to produce was produced. The young roué’s suspicions were aroused, and on a sudden he sat up in bed, his nightcap quivering on his head.

  ‘Tommy!’ he cried feverishly. ‘What is afoot downstairs? Now, do you tell me the truth.’

  ‘Nothing,’ Mr. Thomasson answered soothingly.

  ‘Because — well, she’s played it uncommon low on me, uncommon low she’s played it,’ my lord complained pathetically; ‘but fair is fair, and willing’s willing! And I’ll not see her hurt. Pom’s none too nice, I know, but he’s got to understand that. I’m none of your Methodists, Tommy, as you are aware, no one more so! But, s’help me! no one shall lay a hand on her against her will!’

  ‘My dear lord, no one is going to!’ the tutor answered, quaking in his bed.

  ‘That is understood, is it? Because it had better be!’ the little lord continued with unusual vigour. ‘I vow I have no cause to stand up for her. She’s a d — d saucy baggage, and has treated me with — with d — d disrespect. But, oh Lord! Tommy, I’d have been a good husband to her. I would indeed. And been kind to her. And now — she’s made a fool of me! She’s made a fool of me!’

  And my lord took off his nightcap, and wiped his eyes with it.

  CHAPTER XXX

  A GREEK GIFT

  Julia, left alone, and locked in the room, passed such a night as a girl instructed in the world’s ways might have been expected to pass in her position, and after the rough treatment of the afternoon. The room grew dark, the dismal garden and weedy pool that closed the prospect faded from sight; and still as she crouched by the barred window, or listened breathless at the door, all that part of the house lay silent. Not a sound of life came to the ear.

  By turns she resented and welcomed this. At one time, pacing the floor in a fit of rage and indignation, she was ready to dash herself against the door, or scream and scream and scream until some one came to her. At another the recollection of Pomeroy’s sneering smile, of his insolent grasp, revived to chill and terrify her; and she hid in the darkest corner, hugged the solitude, and, scarcely daring to breathe, prayed that the silence might endure for ever.

  But the hours in the dark room were long and cold; and at times the fever of rage and fear left her in the chill. Of this came another phase through which she passed, as the night wore on and nothing happened. Her thoughts reverted to him who should have been her protector, but had become her betrayer — and by his treachery had plunged her into this misery; and on a sudden a doubt of his guilt flashed into her mind and blinded her by its brilliance. Had she done him an injustice? Had the abduction been, after all, concerted not by him but by Mr. Thomasson and his confederates? The setting down near Pomeroy’s gate, the reception at his house, the rough, hasty suit paid to her — were these all parts of a drama cunningly arranged to mystify her? And was he innocent? Was he still her lover, true, faithful, almost her husband?

  If she could think so! She rose, and softly walked the floor in the darkness, tears raining down her face. Oh, if she could be sure of it! At the thought, the thought only, she glowed from head to foot with happy shame. And fear? If this were so, if his love were still hers, and hers the only fault — of doubting him, she feared nothing! Nothing! She felt her way to a tray in the corner where her last meal remained untasted, and ate and drank humbly, and for him. She might need her strength.

  She had finished, and was groping her return to the window-seat, when a faint rustle as of some one moving on the other side of the door caught her ear. She had fancied herself brave enough an instant before, but in the darkness a great horror of fear came on her. She stood rooted to the spot; and heard the noise again. It was followed by the sound of a hand passed stealthily over the panels; a hand seeking, as she thought, for the key; and she could have shrieked in her helplessness. But while she stood, her face turned to stone, came instant relief, A voice, subdued in fear, whispered, ‘Hist, ma’am, hist! Are you asleep?’

  She could have fallen on her knees in her thankfulness. ‘No! no!’ she cried eagerly. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It is me — Olney!’ was the answer. ‘Keep a heart, ma’am! They are gone to bed. You are quite safe.’

  ‘Can you let me out?’ Julia cried. ‘Oh, let me out!’

  ‘Let you out?’

  ‘Yes, yes! Let me out? Please let me out.’

  ‘God forbid, ma’am!’ was the horrified answer. ‘He’d kill me. And he has the key. But—’

  ‘Yes? yes?’

  ‘Keep your heart up, ma’am, for Jarvey’ll not see you hurt; nor will I. You may sleep easy. And good-night!’

  She stole away before Julia could answer; but she left comfort. In a glow of thankfulness the girl pushed a chair against the door, and, wrapping herself for warmth in the folds of the shabby curtains, lay down on the window seat. She was willing to sleep now, but the agitation of her thoughts, the whirl of fear and hope that prevailed in them, as she went again and again over the old ground, kept her long awake. The moon had risen and run its course, decking the old garden with a solemn beauty as of death, and was beginning to retreat before the dawn, when Julia slept at last.

  When she awoke it was broad daylight. A moment she gazed upwards, wondering where she was; the next a harsh grating sound, and the echo of a mocking laugh brought her to her feet in a panic of remembrance.

  The key was still turning in the lock — she saw it move, saw it withdrawn; but the room was empty. And while she stood staring and listening heavy footsteps retired along the passage. The chair which she had set against the door had been pushed back, and milk and bread stood on the floor beside it.

  She drew a deep breath; he had been there. But her worst terrors had passed with the night. The sun was shining, filling her with scorn of her gaoler. She panted to be face to face with him, that she might cover him with ridicule, overwhelm him with the shafts of her woman’s wit, and show him how little she feared and how greatly she despised him.

  But he did not appear; the hours passed slowly, and with the afternoon came a c
louded sky, and weariness and reaction of spirits; fatigue of body, and something like illness; and on that a great terror. If they drugged her in her food? The thought was like a knife in the girl’s heart, and while she still writhed on it, her ear caught the creak of a board in the passage, and a furtive tread that came, and softly went again, and once more returned. She stood, her heart beating; and fancied she heard the sound of breathing on the other side of the door. Then her eye alighted on a something white at the foot of the door, that had not been there a minute earlier. It was a tiny note. While she gazed at it the footsteps stole away again.

  She pounced on the note and opened it, thinking it might be from Mrs. Olney. But the opening lines smacked of other modes of speech than hers; and though Julia had no experience of Mr. Thomasson’s epistolary style, she felt no surprise when she found the initials F.T. appended to the message.

  ‘Madam,’ it ran. ‘You are in danger here, and I in no less of being held to account for acts which my heart abhors. Openly to oppose myself to Mr. P. — the course my soul dictates — were dangerous for us both, and another must be found. If he drink deep to-night, I will, heaven assisting, purloin the key, and release you at ten, or as soon after as may be. Jarvey, who is honest, and fears the turn things are taking, will have a carriage waiting in the road. Be ready, hide this, and when you are free, though I seek no return for services attended by much risk, yet if you desire to find one, an easy way may appear of requiting,

  ‘Madam, your devoted, obedient servant, F.T.’

  Julia’s face glowed. ‘He cannot do even a kind act as it should be done,’ she thought. ‘But once away it will be easy to reward him. At worst he shall tell me how I came to be set down here.’

  She spent the rest of the day divided between anxiety on that point — for Mr. Thomasson’s intervention went some way to weaken the theory she had built up with so much joy — and impatience for night to come and put an end to her suspense. She was now as much concerned to escape the ordeal of Mr. Pomeroy’s visit as she had been earlier in the day to see him. And she had her wish. He did not come; she fancied he might be willing to let the dullness and loneliness, the monotony and silence of her prison, work their effect on her mind.

  Night, as welcome to-day as it had been yesterday unwelcome, fell at last, and hid the dingy familiar room, the worn furniture, the dusky outlook. She counted the minutes, and before it was nine by the clock was the prey of impatience, thinking the time past and gone and the tutor a poor deceiver. Ten was midnight to her; she hoped against hope, walking her narrow bounds in the darkness. Eleven found her lying on her face on the floor, heaving dry sobs of despair, her hair dishevelled. And then, on a sudden she sprang up; the key was grating in the lock! While she stared, half demented, scarcely believing her happiness, Mr. Thomasson appeared on the threshold, his head — he wore no wig — muffled in a woman’s shawl, a shaded lanthorn in his hand.

  ‘Come!’ he said. ‘There is not a moment to be lost.’

  ‘Oh!’ she cried hysterically, yet kept her shaking voice low; ‘I thought you were not coming. I thought it was all over.’

  ‘I am late,’ he answered nervously; his face was pale, his shifty eyes avoided hers.’ It is eleven o’clock, but I could not get the key before. Follow me closely and silently, child; and in a few minutes you will be safe.’

  ‘Heaven bless you!’ she cried, weeping. And would have taken his hand.

  But at that he turned from her so abruptly that she marvelled, for she had not judged him a man averse from thanks. But setting his manner down to the danger and the need of haste, she took the hint and controlling her feelings, prepared to follow him in silence. Holding the lanthorn so that its light fell on the floor he listened an instant, then led the way on tip-toe down the dim corridor. The house was hushed round them; if a board creaked under their feet, it seemed to her scared ears a pistol shot. At the entrance to the gallery which was partly illumined by lights still burning in the hall below, the tutor paused anew an instant to listen, then turned quickly from it, and by a narrow passage on the right gained a back staircase. Descending the steep stairs he guided her by devious turnings through dingy offices and servants’ quarters until they stood in safety before an outer door. To withdraw the bar that secured it, while she held the lanthorn, was for the tutor the work of an instant. They passed through, and he closed the door softly behind them.

  After the confinement of her prison, the night air that blew on her temples was rapture to Julia; for it breathed of freedom. She turned her face up to the dark boughs that met and interlaced above her head, and whispered her thankfulness. Then, obedient to Mr. Thomasson’s impatient gesture, she hastened to follow him along a dank narrow path that skirted the wall of the house for a few yards, then turned off among the trees.

  They had left the wall no more than a dozen paces behind them, when Mr. Thomasson paused, as in doubt, and raised his light. They were in a little beech-coppice that grew close up to the walls of the servants’ offices. The light showed the dark shining trunks, running in solemn rows this way and that; and more than one path trodden smooth across the roots. The lanthorn disclosed no more, but apparently this was enough for Mr. Thomasson. He pursued the path he had chosen, and less than a minute’s walking brought them to the avenue.

  Julia drew a breath of relief and looked behind and before. ‘Where is the carriage?’ she whispered, shivering with excitement.

  The tutor before he answered raised his lanthorn thrice to the level of his head, as if to make sure of his position. Then, ‘In the road,’ he answered. ‘And the sooner you are in it the better, child, for I must return and replace the key before he sobers. Or ‘twill, be worse for me,’ he added snappishly, ‘than for you.’

  ‘You are not coming with me? ‘she exclaimed in surprise.

  ‘No, I — I can’t quarrel with him,’ he answered hurriedly. ‘I — I am under obligations to him. And once in the carriage you’ll be safe.’

  ‘Then please to tell me this,’ Julia rejoined, her breath a little short. ‘Mr. Thomasson, did you know anything of my being carried off before it took place?’

  ‘I?’ he cried effusively. ‘Did I know?’

  ‘I mean — were you employed — to bring me to Mr. Pomeroy’s?’

  ‘I employed? To bring you to Mr. Pomeroy’s? Good heavens! ma’am, what do you take me for?’ the tutor cried in righteous indignation. ‘No, ma’am, certainly not! I am not that kind of man!’ And then blurting out the truth in his surprise, ‘Why, ’twas Mr. Dunborough!’ he said. ‘And like him too! Heaven keep us from him!’

  ‘Mr. Dunborough?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, in a helpless, foolish kind of way. ‘It was Mr. Dunborough, was it?’ And she begged his pardon. And did it too so humbly, in a voice so broken by feeling and gratitude, that, bad man as he was, his soul revolted from the work he was upon; and for an instant, he stood still, the lanthorn swinging in his hand.

  She misinterpreted the movement. ‘Are we right?’ she said, anxiously. ‘You don’t think that we are out of the road?’ Though the night was dark, and it was difficult to discern, anything beyond the circle of light thrown by the lanthorn, it struck her that the avenue they were traversing was not the one by which she had approached the house two nights before. The trees seemed to stand farther from one another and to be smaller. Or was it her fancy?

  But it was not that had moved him to stand; for in a moment, with a curious sound between a groan and a curse he led the way on, without answering her. Fifty paces brought them to the gate and the road. Thomasson held up his lanthorn and looked over the gate.

  ‘Where is the carriage?’ she whispered, startled by the darkness and silence.

  ‘It should be here,’ he answered, his voice betraying his perplexity. ‘It should be here at this gate. But I — I don’t see it.’

  ‘Would it have lights?’ she asked anxiously. He had opened the gate by this time, and as s
he spoke they passed through, and stood together looking up and down the road. The moon was obscured, and the lanthorn’s rays were of little use to find a carriage which was not there.

  ‘It should be here, and it should have lights,’ he said in evident dismay. ‘I don’t know what to think of it. I — ha! What is that? It is coming, I think. Yes, I hear it. The coachman must have drawn off a little for some reason, and now he has seen the lanthorn.’

  He had only the sound of wheels to go upon, but he proved to be right; she uttered a sigh of relief as the twin lights of a carriage apparently approaching round a bend of the road broke upon them. The lights drew near and nearer, and the tutor waved his lamp. For a second the driver appeared to be going to pass them; then, as Mr. Thomasson again waved his lanthorn and shouted, he drew up.

  ‘Halloa!’ he said.

  Mr. Thomasson did not answer, but with a trembling hand opened the door and thrust the girl in. ‘God bless you!’ she murmured; ‘and—’ He slammed the door, cutting short the sentence.

  ‘Well?’ the driver said, looking down at him, his face in shadow; ‘I am—’

  ‘Go on!’ Mr. Thomasson cried peremptorily, and waving his lanthorn again, startled the horses; which plunged away wildly, the man tugging vainly at the reins. The tutor fancied that, as it started, he caught a faint scream from the inside of the chaise, but he set it down to fright caused by the sudden jerk; and, after he had stood long enough to assure himself that the carriage was keeping the road, he turned to retrace his steps to the house.

  He was feeling for the latch of the gate — his thoughts no pleasant ones, for the devil pays scant measure — when his ear was surprised by a new sound of wheels approaching from the direction whence the chaise had come. He stood to listen, thinking he heard an echo; but in a second or two he saw lights approaching through the night precisely as the other lights had approached. Once seen they came on swiftly, and he was still standing gaping in wonder when a carriage and pair, a postboy riding and a servant sitting outside, swept by, dazzling him a moment; the next it was gone, whirled away into the darkness.