Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “You are taking the offices, father?”

  The man did not reply.

  “To one who is near his end, I suspect?”

  The priest — for such he was — glanced at the weapon Colonel John wore. “You can do what you will,” he said sullenly. “I am on my duty.”

  “And a fine thing, that!” Colonel John answered heartily. He drew rein, and, before the other knew what he would be at, he was off his horse. “Mount, father,” he said, “and ride, and God be with you!”

  For a moment the priest stared dumbfounded. “Sir,” he said, “you wear a sword! And no son of the Church goes armed in these parts.”

  “If I am not one of your Church I am a Christian,” Colonel John answered. “Mount, father, and ride in God’s name, and when you are there send the lad back with the beast.”

  “The Mother of God reward you!” the priest cried fervently, “and turn your heart in the right way!” He scrambled to the saddle. “The blessing of all — —”

  The rest was lost in the thud of hoofs as the horse started briskly, leaving Colonel John standing alone upon the road beside Bale’s stirrup. The servant looked after the retreating pair, but said nothing.

  “It’s something if a man serves where he’s listed,” Colonel John remarked.

  Bale smiled. “And don’t betray his own side,” he said. He slipped from his saddle.

  “You think it’s the devil’s work we’ve done?” Colonel John asked.

  But Bale declined to say more, and the two walked on, one on either side of the horse, master or man punching it when it showed a desire to sample the herbage. A stranger, seeing them, might have thought that they were wont to walk thus, so unmoved were their faces.

  They had trudged the better part of two miles when they came upon the horse tethered by the reins to one of two gate-pillars, which stood gateless beside the road. Colonel John got to his saddle, and they trotted on. Notwithstanding which it was late in the afternoon when they approached the town of Tralee.

  In those days it was a town much ruined. The grim castle of the Desmonds, scene of the midnight murder which had brought so many woes on Ireland, still elbowed the grey Templars Cloister, and looked down, as it frowned across the bay, on the crumbling aisles and squalid graves of the Abbey. To Bale, as he scanned the dark pile, it was but a keep — a mere nothing beside Marienburg or Stettin — rising above the hovels of an Irish town. But to the Irishman it stood for many a bitter memory and many a crime, besides that murder of a guest which will never be forgotten. The Colonel sighed as he gazed.

  Presently his eyes dropped to the mean houses which flanked the entrance to the town; and he recognised that if all the saints had not vouchsafed their company, the delay caused by the meeting with the priest had done somewhat. For at that precise moment a man was riding into the town before them, and the horse under the man was Flavia McMurrough’s lost mare.

  Colonel John’s eye lightened as he recognised its points. With a sign to Bale he fell in behind the man and followed him through two or three ill-paved and squalid streets. Presently the rider passed through a loop-holed gateway, before which a soldier was doing sentry-go. The two followed. Thence the quarry crossed an open space surrounded by dreary buildings which no military eye could take for aught but a barrack yard. The two still followed — the sentry staring after them. On the far side of the yard the mare and its rider vanished through a second archway, which appeared to lead to an inner court. The Colonel, nothing intimidated, went after them. Fortune, he thought, had favoured him.

  But as he emerged from the tunnel-like passage he raised his head in astonishment. A din of voices, an outbreak of laughter and revelry, burst in a flood of sound upon his ears. He turned his face in the direction whence the sounds came, and saw three open windows, and at each window three or four flushed countenances. His sudden emergence from the tunnel, perhaps his look of surprise, wrought an instant’s silence, which was followed by a ruder outburst.

  “Cock! cock! cock!” shrieked a tipsy voice, and an orange, hurled at random, missed the Colonel’s astonished face by a yard. The mare which had led him so far had disappeared, and instinctively he drew bridle. He stared at the window.

  “Mark one!” cried a second roisterer, and a cork, better aimed than the orange, struck the Colonel sharply on the chin. A shout of laughter greeted the hit.

  He raised his hat. “Gentlemen,” he remonstrated, “gentlemen — —”

  He could proceed no further. A flight of corks, a renewed cry of “Cock! cock! cock!” a chorus of “Fetch him, Ponto! Dead, good dog! Find him, Ponto!” drowned his remonstrances. Perhaps in the scowling face at his elbow — for William Bale had followed him and was looking very fierce indeed — the wits of the — th found more amusement than in the master’s mild astonishment.

  “Who the devil is he?” cried one of the seniors, raising his voice above the uproar. “English or Irish?”

  “Irish for a dozen!” a voice answered. “Here, Paddy, where’s your papers?”

  “Ay, be jabers!” in an exaggerated brogue; “it’s the broth of a boy he is, and never a face as long as his in ould Ireland!”

  “Gentlemen,” the Colonel said, getting in a word at last. “Gentlemen, I have been in many companies before this, and — —”

  “And by G — d, you shall be in ours!” one of the revellers retorted. And “Have him in! Fetch him in!” roared a dozen voices, amid much laughter. In a twinkling half as many young fellows had leapt from the windows, and surrounded him. “Who-whoop!” cried one, “Who-whoop!”

  “Steady, gentlemen, steady!” the Colonel said, a note of sternness in his voice. “I’ve no objection to joining you, or to a little timely frolic, but — —”

  “Join us you will, whether or no!” replied one, more drunken or more turbulent than the rest. He made as if he would lay hands on the Colonel, and, to avoid violence, the latter suffered himself to be helped from his saddle. In a twinkling he was urged through the doorway, leaving his reins in Bale’s hand, whose face, for sheer wrath and vindictiveness, was a picture.

  Boisterous cries of “Hallo, sobersides!” and “Cock, cock, cock!” greeted the Colonel, as, partly of his own accord and partly urged by unceremonious hands, he crossed the threshold, and shot forward into the room.

  The scene presented by the apartment matched the flushed faces and the wandering eyes which the windows had framed. The long table was strewn with flasks and glasses and half-peeled fruit, the floor with empty bottles. A corner of the table had been cleared for a main at hazard; but to make up for this the sideboard was a wilderness of broken meats and piled-up dishes, and an overturned card-table beside one of the windows had strewn the floor with cards. Here, there, everywhere on chairs, on hooks, were cast sword-belts, neckcloths, neglected wigs.

  A peaceful citizen of that day had as soon found himself in a bear-pit; and even the Colonel’s face grew a trifle longer as hands, not too gentle, conducted him towards the end of the table. “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he began, “I have been in many companies, as I said before, and — —”

  “A speech! Old Gravity’s speech!” roared a middle-aged, bold-eyed man, who had suggested the sally from the windows, and from the first had set the younger spirits an example of recklessness. “Hear to him!” He filled a glass of wine and waved it perilously near the Colonel’s nose. “Old Gravity’s speech! Give it tongue!” he cried. “The flure’s your own, and we’re listening.”

  Colonel John eyed him with a slight contraction of the features. But the announcement, if ill-meant, availed to procure silence. The more sober had resumed their seats. He raised his head and spoke.

  “Gentlemen,” he said — and it was strange to note the effect of his look as his eyes fell first on one and then on another, fraught with a dignity which insensibly wrought on them. “Gentlemen, I have been in many companies, and I have found it true, all the world over, that what a man brings he finds. I have the honour to speak to you as a s
oldier to soldiers — —”

  “English or Irish?” asked a tall sallow man — sharply, but in a new tone.

  “Irish!”

  “Oh, be jabers!” from the man with the wineglass.

  But the Colonel’s eye and manner had had their effect, and “Let him speak!” the sallow man said. “And you, Payton, have done with your fooling, will you?”

  “Well, hear to him!”

  “I have been in many camps and many companies, gentlemen,” the Colonel resumed, “and those of many nations. But wherever I have been I have found that if a man brought courtesy with him, he met with courtesy at the hands of others. And if he brought no offence, he received none. I am a stranger here, for I have been out of my own country for a score of years. On my return you welcome me,” he smiled, “a little boisterously perhaps, but I am sure, gentlemen, with a good intent. And as I have fared elsewhere I am sure I shall fare at your hands.”

  “Well, sure,” from the background, “and haven’t we made you welcome?”

  “Almost too freely,” the Colonel replied, smiling good-humouredly. “A peaceable man who had not lived as long as I have might have found himself at a loss in face of so strenuous a welcome. Corks, perhaps, are more in place in bottles — —”

  “And a dale more in place out of them!” from the background.

  “But if you will permit me to explain my errand, I will say no more of that. My name, gentlemen, is Sullivan, Colonel John Sullivan of Skull, formerly of the Swedish service, and much at your service. I shall be still more obliged if any of you will be kind enough to inform me who is the purchaser — —”

  Payton interrupted him rudely. “Oh, d — n! We have had enough of this!” he cried. “Sink all purchasers, I say!” And with a drunken crow he thrust his neighbour against the speaker, causing both to reel. How it happened no one saw — whether Payton himself staggered in the act, or flung the wine wantonly; but somehow the contents of his glass flew over the Colonel’s face and neckcloth.

  Half a dozen men rose from their seats. “Shame!” an indignant voice cried.

  Among those who had risen was the sallow man. “Payton,” he said sharply, “what did you do that for?”

  “Because I chose, if you like!” the stout man answered. “What is it to you? I am ready to give him satisfaction when he likes, and where he likes, and no heel-taps! And what more can he want? Do you hear, sir?” he continued in a bullying tone. “Sword or pistols, before breakfast or after dinner, drunk or sober, Jack Payton’s your man. D — n me, it shall never be said in my time that the — th suffered a crop-eared Irishman to preach to them in their own mess-room! You can send your friend to me when you please. He’ll find me!”

  The Colonel was wiping the wine from his chin and neckcloth. He had turned strangely pale at the moment of the insult. More than one of those who watched him curiously — and of such were all in the room, Payton excepted — and who noted the slow preciseness of his movements and the care with which he cleansed himself, albeit his hand shook, expected some extraordinary action.

  But no one looked for anything so abnormal or so astonishing as the course he took when he spoke. Nothing in his bearing had prepared them for it; nor anything in his conduct which, so far, had been that of a man of the world not too much at a loss even in the unfavourable circumstances in which he was placed — circumstances which would have unnerved many a one.

  “I do not fight,” he said. “Your challenge is cheap, sir, as your insult.”

  Payton stared. He had never been more astonished in his life. “Good L — d!” he cried. “You do not fight? Heaven and earth! and you a soldier!”

  “I do not fight.”

  “After that, man! Not — after — —” He did not finish the sentence, but laughed with uplifted chin, as at some great joke.

  “No,” Colonel John said between his teeth.

  And then no one spoke. A something in Colonel John’s tone and manner, a something in the repression of his voice, sobered the spectators, and turned that which might have seemed an ignominy, a surrender, into a tragedy. And a tragedy in which they all had their share. For the insult had been so wanton, so gross, so brutal, that there was not one of the witnesses who had not felt shame, not one whose sympathy had not been for a moment with the victim, and who did not experience a pang on his account as he stood, mild and passive, before them.

  Payton alone was moved only by contempt. “Lord above us, man!” he cried, finding his voice again. Are you a Quaker? If so, why the devil do you call yourself a soldier?”

  “I am no Quaker,” Colonel John answered, “but I do not fight duels.”

  “Why?”

  “If I killed you,” the Colonel replied, eyeing him steadily, “would it dry my neckcloth or clean my face?”

  “No!” Payton retorted with a sneer, “but it would clean your honour!” He had felt the reprehension in the air, he had been conscious for a few seconds that he had not the room with him; but the perception made him only the more arrogant now that he felt his feet again. “It would prove, man, that, unlike the beasts that perish, you valued something more than your life!”

  “I do.”

  “What?” Payton asked with careless disdain.

  “Among other things, my duty.” Payton laughed brutally. “Why, by the powers, you are a preacher!” he retorted. “Hang your duty, sir, and you for a craven! Give me acts, not words! It’s a man’s duty to defend his honour, and you talk of your neckcloth! There’s for a new neckcloth!” He pulled out a half-crown and flung it, with an insulting gesture, upon the table. “Show us your back, and for the future give gentlemen of honour — a wide berth! You are no mate for them!”

  The act and the words were too strong for the stomachs of the more generous among his hearers. A murmur, an undoubted murmur rose — for if Payton was feared he was not loved; and the sallow-faced man, whose name was Marsh, spoke out. “Easy, Payton,” he said. “The gentleman — —”

  “The gentleman, eh?”

  “Did not come here of his own accord, and you’ve said enough, and done enough! For my part — —”

  “I didn’t ask for your interference!” the other cried insolently.

  “Well, anyway — —”

  “And I don’t want it! And I won’t have it; do you hear, Marsh?” Payton repeated menacingly. “You know me, and I know you.”

  “I know that you are a better fencer and a better shot than I am,” Marsh replied, shrugging his shoulders, “and I daresay than any of us. We are apt to believe it, anyway. But — —”

  “I would advise you to let that be enough,” Payton sneered.

  It was then that the Colonel, who had stood silent during the altercation of which he was the subject, spoke — and in a tone somewhat altered. “I am much obliged to you, sir,” he said, addressing the sallow-faced man, “but I will cause no further trouble. I crave leave to say one word only, which may come home to some among you. We are all, at times, at the mercy of mean persons. Yes, sir, of mean persons,” the Colonel repeated, raising his voice and speaking in a tone so determined — he seemed another man — that Payton, in the act of seizing a decanter to hurl at him, hesitated. “For any but a mean person,” Colonel John continued, drawing himself up to his full height, “finding that he had insulted one who could not meet him on even terms — one who could not resent the insult in the manner intended — would have deemed it all one as if he had insulted a one-armed man, or a blind man, and would have set himself right by an apology.”

  At that word Payton found his voice. “Hang your apology!” he cried furiously.

  “By an apology,” the Colonel repeated, fixing him with eyes of unmeasured contempt, “which would have lowered him no more than an apology to a woman or a child. Not doing so, his act dishonours himself only, and those who sit with him. And one day, unless I mistake not, his own blood, and the blood of others, will rest upon his head.”

  With that word the speaker turned slowly, walked with
an even pace to the door, and opened it, none gainsaying him. On the threshold he paused and looked back. Something, possibly some chord of superstition in his breast which his adversary’s last words had touched, held Payton silent: and silent the Colonel’s raised finger found him.

  “I believe,” Colonel John said, gazing solemnly at him, “that we shall meet again.” And he went out.

  Payton turned to the table, and, with an unsteady hand, filled a glass. He read disapprobation in the eyes about him, but he had shaken the momentary chill from his own spirits, and he stared them down. “Sink the old Square-Toes!” he cried. “He got what he deserved! Who’ll throw a main with me?”

  “Thirty guineas against your new mare, if you like?”

  “No, confound you,” Payton retorted angrily. “Didn’t I say she wasn’t for sale?”

  CHAPTER VI

  THE MAÎTRE D’ARMES

  Beyond doubt Colonel John had got himself off the scene with a certain amount of dignity. But with all that he had done and suffered in the lands beyond the Baltic and the Vistula, he had not yet become so perfect a philosopher as to be indifferent to the opinion held of him by others. He was, indeed, as he retired, as unhappy as a more ordinary man might have been in the same case. He knew that he was no craven, that he had given his proofs a score of times. But old deeds and a foreign reputation availed nothing here. And it was with a deep sense of vexation and shame that he rode out of the barrack-yard. Why, oh why! had he been so unlucky as to enter it? He was a man, after all, and the laughter of the mess-room, the taunts of the bully, burned his ears.

  Nor were his spirits low on his account only. The cruelty of man to man, the abuse of strength by those who had it, and the pains of those who had it not, the crookedness of the world in which the weak go to the wall — thoughts of these things weighed him down. But more, and more to the purpose, he saw that after what had happened, his chances of success in the enterprise which had brought him to town, and which was itself but a means to an end, were lessened. It might not be possible to pursue that enterprise any farther. This was a mortifying thought, and accounted for the melancholy face with which he sought the inn, and supped; now wishing that he had not done this or that, now pondering how he might turn the flank of a misfortune which threatened to shatter all his plans.