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LAID UP IN LAVENDER
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
* * *
THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF
THE NEW RECTOR
THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE
A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE
THE MAN IN BLACK
UNDER THE RED ROBE
MY LADY ROTHA
THE RED COCKADE
A MINISTER OF FRANCE
SHREWSBURY
THE CASTLE INN
SOPHIA
COUNT HANNIBAL
IN KINGS' BYWAYS
THE LONG NIGHT
THE ABBESS OF VLAYE
STARVECROW FARM
CHIPPINGE
LAID UP IN LAVENDER
BY
STANLEY J. WEYMAN
AUTHOR OF
"A GENTLEMAN OP FRANCE," "THE CASTLE INN," "UNDER THE RED ROBE," ETC.
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
91 and 98 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
1907
Copyright, 1907, By
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
* * *
_All rights reserved_
NOTE
The Author desires to record his gratitude to the late Mr. James Payn
and to Mr. Comyns Carr, under whose fostering care these stories came
into existence; and to Messrs. Macmillan and Co., and to Messrs.
Smith, Elder and Co., whose enterprise found for them a first opening
in life.
_July_, 1907.
CONTENTS
LADY BETTY'S INDISCRETION.
THE SURGEON'S GUEST.
THE COLONEL'S BOY.
A GOOD MAN'S DILEMMA.
BAB.
GERALD.
JOANNA'S BRACELET.
THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT.
THE VICAR'S SECRET.
THE OTHER ENGLISHMAN.
KING PEPIN AND SWEET CLIVE.
FAMILY PORTRAITS.
LAID UP IN LAVENDER
LADY BETTY'S INDISCRETION
"Horry! I am sick to death of it!"
There was a servant in the room collecting the tea-cups; but Lady
Betty Stafford, having been reared in the purple, was not to be
deterred from speaking her mind by a servant. Her cousin was either
more prudent or less vivacious. He did not answer on the instant, but
stood gazing through one of the windows at the leafless trees and
slow-dropping rain in the Mall. He only turned when Lady Betty
pettishly repeated her statement.
"Had a bad time?" he vouchsafed, dropping into a chair near her, and
looking first at her, in a good-natured way, and then at his boots,
which he seemed to approve.
"Horrid!" she replied.
"Many people here?"
"Hordes of them! Whole tribes!" she exclaimed. She was a little woman,
plump and pretty, with a pale, clear complexion, and bright eyes. "I
am bored beyond belief. And--and I have not seen Stafford since
morning," she added.
"Cabinet council?"
"Yes!" she answered viciously. "A cabinet council, and a privy
council, and a board of trade, and a board of green cloth, and all the
other boards! Horry, I am sick to death of it! What is the use of it
all?"
"Don't do it," he said oracularly, still admiring his boots. "Country
go to the dogs!"
"Let it!" she retorted, not relenting a whit. "I wish it would. I wish
the dogs joy of it!"
He made an extraordinary effort at diffuseness. "I thought," he said,
"that you were becoming political, Betty. Going to write something,
and all that."
"Rubbish! But here is Mr. Atlay. Mr. Atlay, will you have a cup of
tea?" she continued, addressing the new-comer. "There will be some
here presently. Where is Mr. Stafford?"
"Mr. Stafford will take a cup of tea in the library, Lady Betty," the
secretary replied. "He asked, me to bring it to him. He is copying an
important paper."
Sir Horace forsook his boots, and in a fit of momentary interest
asked, "They have come to terms?"
The secretary nodded. Lady Betty said "Pshaw!" A man brought in the
fresh teapot. The next moment Mr. Stafford himself came into the room,
an open telegram in his hand.
He nodded pleasantly to his wife and her cousin. But his thin, dark
face wore--it generally did--a preoccupied look. Country people to
whom he was pointed out in the street called him, according to their
political leanings, either insignificant, or a prig, or a "dry sort";
or sometimes said, "How young he is!" But those whose fate it was to
face the Minister in the House knew that there was something in him
more to be feared even than his imperturbability, his honesty, or his
precision--and that was a sudden fiery heat, which was apt to carry
away the House at unexpected times. On one of these occasions, it was
rumored, Lady Betty Champion had seen him, and fallen in love with
him. Why he had thrown the handkerchief to her--that was another
matter; and whether the apparently incongruous match would
answer--that, too, remained to be seen.
"More telegrams?" she cried. "It rains telegrams! how I hate them!"
"Why?" he said. "Why should you?" He really wondered.
She made a face at him. "Here is your tea," she said abruptly.
"Thank you; you are very good," he replied. He took the cup and set it
down absently. "Atlay," he said, speaking to the secretary, "you have
not corrected the report of my speech at the Club, have you? No, I
know you have had no time. Will you run your eye over it, and see if
it is all right, and send it to the _Times_--I do not think I need to
see it--by eleven o'clock at latest? The editor," he continued,
tapping the pink paper in his hand, "seems to doubt us. I have to go
to Fitzgerald's now; so you must also copy Lord Pilgrimstone's terms,
if you please. I proposed to do it myself, but I shall be with you
before you have finished."
"What are the terms?" Lady Betty asked. "Lord Pilgrimstone has not
agreed to----"
"To permit me to communicate them?" he replied, with a grave smile.
"No. So you must pardon me, my dear. I have passed my word for
absolute secrecy. Indeed, it is as important to me as to Pilgrimstone
that they should not be divulged."
"They are sure to leak out," she retorted. "They always do."
"Well, it will not be through me, I hope."
She stamped her foot on the carpet. "I should like to get them, and
send them to the _Times!_" she cried, her eyes flashing--he was so
provoking! "And let all the world know them! I vow I should!"
He looked his astonishment, while the other two laughed, partly to
avoid embarrassment, perhaps. She often said these things, and no one
took them seriously.
"You had better play the secretary for once, Lady Betty," said Atlay,
who was related to his chief. "You will then be able to satisfy your
curiosity. Shall I resign _pro tem.?_"
She looked eagerly at her husband for the third part of a second--for
assent, perhaps. But she read no playfulness in his face, and her own
fell. He was thinking about other things. "No," she said, almost
sullenly, dropping her eyes to the carpet. "I should not spell well
enough."
Soon after that they dispersed; this being Wednesday, Mr. Stafford's
day for dining out. At that time Ministers dined only twice a week in
session--on Wednesday and Sunday; and Sunday was often sacred to the
children where there were any, lest they should grow up and not know
their father by sight. At a quarter to eight Lady Betty came into the
library, and found her husband still at his desk, a pile of papers
before him awaiting his signature. As a fact, he had only just sat
down, displacing his secretary, who had gone upstairs to dress.
"Stafford!" she said.
She did not seem quite at her ease; but his mind was troubled, and he
failed to notice this. "Yes, my dear," he answered politely, shuffling
the papers before him into a heap. He knew that he was late, and he
could see that she was dressed. "Yes, I am going upstairs this minute.
I have not forgotten."
"It is not that," she said, leaning with one hand on the table, "I
want to ask you----"
"My dear, you really must tell it me in the carriage." He was on his
feet now, making some hasty preparations. "Where are we to dine? At
the Duke's? Then we shall have a mile to drive. Will not that do for
you?" He was working hard while he spoke. There was an oak post-box
within reach, and another box for letters which were to be delivered
by hand, and he was thrusting a handful of notes into each of these.
Other packets he swept into different drawers of the table. Still
standing, he stooped and signed his name to half a dozen letters,
which he left open on the blotting-pad. "Atlay will see to these when
he is dressed," he murmured. "Would you oblige me by locking the
drawers, my dear--it will save me a minute--and giving me the keys
when I come down?"
He went off then, two or three papers in his hand, and almost ran
upstairs. Lady Betty stood a while on the spot on which he had left
her, looking in an odd way--just as if it were new to her--round the
grave, spacious room, with its sombre Spanish-leather-covered
furniture, its ponderous writing-tables and shelves of books, its
three lofty curtained windows. When her eyes at last came back to the
lamp, and dwelt on it, they were very bright, and her face was
flushed. Her foot could be heard tapping on the carpet. Presently she
remembered herself and fell to work, vehemently slamming such drawers
as were open, and locking them.
The private secretary found her doing this when he came in. She
muttered something--stooping with her face over the drawers--and
almost immediately went out. He looked after her, partly because there
was something odd in her manner--she kept her face averted; and partly
because she was wearing a new and striking gown, and he admired her.
He noticed, as she passed through the doorway, that she had some
papers held down by her side. But, of course, he thought nothing of
this.
He was hopelessly late for his own dinner-party, and only stayed a
moment to slip the letters last signed into envelopes prepared for
them. Then he made for the door, opened it, and came into collision
with Sir Horace, who was strolling in.
"Beg pardon!" said that gentleman, with irritating placidity. "Late
for dinner?"
"Rather!" the secretary cried, trying to get round him.
"Well," drawled the other, "which is the hand-box, old fellow?"
"It has been cleared. Here, give it me. The messenger is in the hall
now."
Atlay snatched the letter from his companion, the two going into the
hall together. Marcus, the butler, a couple of tall footmen, and the
messenger were sorting letters at the table. "Here, Marcus," said the
secretary, pitching his letter on the slab, "let that go with the
others. And is my hansom here?"
In another minute he was speeding one way, and the Staffords in their
brougham another; while Sir Horace walked at his leisure down to his
club. The Minister and his wife drove in silence; he forgot to ask her
what she wanted. And, strange to say, Lady Betty forgot to tell him.
At the party she made quite a sensation; never had she seemed more
gay, more piquant, more audaciously witty, than she showed herself
this evening. There were illustrious personages present, but they
paled beside her. The Duke, with whom she was a favorite, laughed at
her sallies until he could laugh no more; and even her husband, her
very husband, forgot for a time the country and the crisis, and
listened, half-proud and half-afraid. But she was not aware of this;
she could not see his face where she sat. To all seeming she never
looked that way. She was quite a model society wife.
Mr. Stafford himself was an early riser. It was his habit to be up by
six; to make his own coffee over a spirit lamp, and then not only to
get through much work in his dressing-room, but to take his daily ride
before breakfast. On the morning after the Duke's party, however, he
lay later than usual; and as there was much business to be done--owing
to the crisis--the canter in the park had to be omitted. He was still
among his papers--though expecting the breakfast-gong with every
minute, when a hansom cab driven at full speed stopped at the door. He
glanced up wearily as he heard the doors of the cab flung open with a
crash. There had been a time when the stir and bustle of such arrivals
had been sweet to him--not so sweet as to some, for he had never been
deeply in love with the parade of office; but sweeter than to-day,
when they were no more to him than the creaking of the mill to the
camel that turns it blindfold and in darkness.
Naturally he was thinking of Lord Pilgrimstone this morning, and
guessed, before he opened the note which the servant brought him, who
was its writer. But its contents had, nonetheless, an electrical
effect upon him. His brow reddened. With a most unusual display of
emotion he sprang to his feet, crushing the fragment of paper in his
fingers. "Who brought that?" he cried sharply. "Who brought it?" he
repeated in a louder tone, before the servant could explain.
The man had never seen him so moved. "Mr. Scratchley, sir," he
answered.
"Ha! Then, show him into the library," was the quick reply. And while
the servant went to do his bidding, the Minister hastily changed his
dressing-gown for a coat, and ran down a private staircase, reaching
the room he had mentioned by one door as Mr. Scratchley, Lord
Pilgrimstone's secretary, entered it through another.
By that time he had regained his composure, and looked much as usual.
Still, when he held up the crumpled note, there was a brusqueness in
the gesture which would have surprised his ordinary acquaintances, and
did remind Mr. Scratchley of certain "warm nights" in the House.
"You know the contents of this?" he said without prelude, and in a
tone which matched his gesture.
The visitor bowed. He was a grave middle-aged man, who seemed
oppressed and burdened by the load of cares and responsibilities which
his smiling chief carried jauntily. People said that he was the proper
complement of Lord Pilgrimstone, as the more volatile Atlay was of his
leader.
"And you are aware," continued Mr. Stafford, almost harshly, "that
Lord Pilgrimstone gives yesterday's agreement to the winds?"
"I have never seen his lordship so deeply moved," replied the discreet
one.
"He says: 'Our former negotiation was ruined by premature talk. But
this disclosure can only be referred to treachery or the grossest
carelessness.' What does it mean? I know of no disclosure, Mr.
Scratchley. I must have an explanation. And you, I presume, are here
to give me one."
For a moment the other seemed taken aback. "You have not seen the
_Times_, sir?" he murmured.
"This morning's? No. But it is here."
He took it, as he spoke, from a table at his elbow, and unfolded it.
The secretary approached and pointed to the head of a column--the most
conspicuous, the column most readily to be found in the paper. "They
are crying it at the street corners I passed," he added with
deference. "There is nothing to be heard in St. James's Street and
Pall Mall but 'Detailed Programme of the Coalition.' The other dailies
are striking off second editions to include it!"
Mr. Stafford's eyes were riveted to the paper. There was a long pause,
a pause on his part of dismay and consternation. He could scarcely--to
repeat a common phrase--believe his eyes. "It seems," he muttered at
length,--"it seems accurate--a tolerably precise account, at least."
"It is a verbatim copy," the secretary said dryly. "The question
is, who furnished it. Lord Pilgrimstone, I am authorised to say,
has not permitted his note of the agreement to pass out of his
possession--even to the present moment."
"And so he concludes"--the Minister said thoughtfully--"it is a fair
inference enough, perhaps--that the _Times_ must have procured its
information from my note?"
With deference the secretary objected. "It is not a matter of
inference, Mr. Stafford. I am directed to say that. I have inquired,
early as it is, at the _Times_ office, and learned that the copy came
directly from the hands of your messenger."
"Of my messenger!" Mr. Stafford cried, thunderstruck. "You are sure of
that?"
"I am sure that the sub-editor says so."
Again there was silence. "This must be looked into," said Mr. Stafford
at length, controlling himself by an effort. "For the present I agree
with Lord Pilgrimstone, that it alters the position--and perhaps
finally."
"Lord Pilgrimstone will be damaged in the eyes of a large section of
his supporters--seriously damaged," Mr. Scratchley said, shaking his
head and frowning.
"Possibly. From every point of view the thing is to be deplored. But I
will call on Lord Pilgrimstone," the Minister continued slowly, "after
lunch. Will you tell him so?"
A curious embarrassment showed itself in the secretary's manner. He
twisted his hat in his hands, and looked suddenly sad--as if he were
about to join in the groan at a prayer-meeting.
"Lord Pilgrimstone," he said in a voice he vainly strove to render
commonplace, "is going to the Sandown Spring Meeting to-day."
The tone was really so lugubrious--to say nothing of a shake of the
head with which he could not help accompanying the statement--that a
faint smile played on Mr. Stafford's lips.
"Then I must take the next possible opportunity," he said. "I will see
him to-morrow."
Mr. Scratchley assented to this, and bowed himself out, after another
word or two, looking more gloomy and careworn than usual. The
interview had not been altogether to his mind. He wished that he had
spoken more roundly to Mr. Stafford; even asked for a categorical
denial of the charge. But the Minister's manner had overawed him. He
had found it impossible to put the question. And then the pitiful
confession which he had had to make for Lord Pilgrimstone! That had
put the copingstone to his dissatisfaction.
"Oh!" the secretary sighed, as he stepped into his cab. "Oh, that men
so great should stoop to things so little!"
It did not occur to him that there is a condition of things even more
sad: when little men meddle with great things.
Meanwhile, Mr. Stafford stood at the window deep in unpleasant
thoughts, from which the entrance of the butler, who came to summon
him to breakfast, first aroused him. "Stay a moment, Marcus!" he said,
turning, as the man prepared to leave the room after doing his errand.
"I want to ask you a question. Did you make up the messenger's bag
last evening?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you notice a letter addressed to the _Times_ office?"
The servant prepared himself to cogitate. But he found it unnecessary.
"Yes, sir," he replied. "Two."
"Two?" Mr. Stafford repeated, dismay in his tone; though this was just
what he had reason to expect.
"Yes, sir. There was one I took from the hand-box, and one Mr. Atlay
gave me in the hall at the last moment," the butler explained.
"That will do. Thank you. Ask Mr. Atlay if he will come to me. No
doubt he will be able to tell me what I want to know."
The words were commonplace, but the speaker's anxiety was so plain
that Marcus when he delivered the message--which he did with
haste--added a word or two of warning.
"It is about a letter to the _Times_, sir, I think. Mr. Stafford seems
a good deal put out," he said, confidentially.
"Indeed?" Atlay replied. "I will go down." And he started. But before
he reached the library he met some one. Lady Betty looked out of the
breakfast-room, and saw him descending the stairs with the butler
behind him.
"Where is Mr. Stafford, Marcus?" she asked impatiently, as she stood
with her hand on the door. "Good morning, Mr. Atlay," she added, her
eyes descending to him. "Where is my husband? The coffee is getting
cold."
"He has requested me to go to him," Atlay answered. "Marcus tells me
there is something in the _Times_ which has annoyed him, Lady Betty. I
will send him up as quickly as I can."
But Lady Betty had not stayed to receive his assurance. She had drawn
back and shut the door quickly; yet not so quickly but that the
private secretary had seen her change colour. "Hallo!" he ejaculated
to himself--the lady was not much given to blushing--"I wonder what is
wrong with _her_ this morning. She is not generally rude--to me."
It was not long before he got light on the matter. "Come here, Atlay,"
his employer said, the moment he entered the library. "Look at this!"
The secretary took the _Times_, and read the important matter.
Meanwhile the Minister read the secretary. He saw surprise and
consternation on his face, but no trace of guilt. Then he told him
what Marcus had said about the two letters which had gone the previous
evening from the house addressed to the _Times_ office. "One," he
said, "contained the notes of my speech. The other----"
"The other----" the secretary replied, thinking while he spoke, "was
given to me at the last moment by Sir Horace. I threw it to Marcus in
the hall."
"Ah!" his chief said, trying very hard to express nothing by the
exclamation, but not quite succeeding. "Did you see that that letter
was addressed to the editor of the _Times?_"
The secretary reddened, and betrayed unexpected confusion. "I did,"
he said. "I saw so much of the address as I threw the letter on the
slab--though I thought nothing of it at the time."
Mr. Stafford looked at him fixedly. "Come," he said, "this is a grave
matter, Atlay. You noticed, I can see, the handwriting. Was it Sir
Horace's?"
"No," the secretary replied.
"Whose was it?"
"I think--I think, Mr. Stafford--that it was Lady Betty's. But I
should be sorry, having seen it only for a moment--to say that it was
hers."
"Lady Betty's?"
Mr. Stafford repeated the exclamation three times, in surprise, in
anger, a third time in trembling. In this last stage he walked away to
the window, and turning his back on his companion looked out. He
recalled his wife's petulant exclamation of yesterday, the foolish
desire expressed, as he had supposed in jest. Had she been in earnest?
And had she carried out her threat? Had she--his wife--done this thing
so compromising to his honour, so mischievous to the country, so mad,
reckless, wicked? Impossible. It was impossible. And yet--and yet
Atlay was a man to be trusted, a gentleman, his own kinsman! And
Atlay's eye was not likely to be deceived in a matter of handwriting.
That Atlay had made up his mind he could see.
The statesman turned from the window, and walked to and fro, his
agitation betrayed by his step. The third time he passed in front of
his secretary--who had riveted his eyes to the _Times_ and appeared to
be reading the money article--he stopped. "If this be true--mind I say
if, Atlay--" he cried jerkily, "what was Lady Betty's motive? I am in
the dark! blindfold! Help me! Tell me what has been passing round me
that I have not seen. You would not have my wife--a spy?"
"No! no! no!" the other cried, as he dropped the paper, his vehemence
showing that he felt the pathos of the appeal. "It is not that. Lady
Betty is jealous, if I dare venture to judge, of your devotion to the
country--and to politics. She sees little of you. You are wrapped up
in public affairs and matters of state. She feels herself neglected
and--set aside. And--may I say it?--she has been married no more than
a year."
"But she has her society," the Minister objected, compelling himself
to speak calmly, "and her cousin, and--many other things."
"For which she does not care." returned the secretary.
It was a simple answer, but something in it touched a tender place.
Mr. Stafford winced and cast an odd startled look at the speaker.
Before he could reply, however--if he intended to reply--a knock came
at the door, and Marcus put in his head. "My lady is waiting
breakfast, sir," he suggested timidly. What could a poor butler do
between an impatient mistress and an obdurate master?
"I will come," Mr. Stafford said hastily. "I will come at once.
For this matter, Atlay," he continued when the door was closed again,
"let it rest for the present where it is. I know I can depend upon
your"--he paused, seeking a word--"your discretion. One thing is
certain, however. There is an end of the arrangement made yesterday.
Probably the Queen will send for Templetown. I shall see Lord
Pilgrimstone to-morrow, and--that will be the end of it."
Atlay retired, marvelling at his coolness; trying to retrace the short
steps of their conversation, and to discern how far the Minister had
gone with him, and where he had turned off upon a resolution of his
own. He failed to find the clue, however, and marvelled still more as
the day went on and others succeeded it; days of political crisis. Out
of doors the world, or that small piece of it which has its centre at
Westminster, was in confusion. The newspapers, morning or evening,
found ready sale, and had no need to rely on murder-panics or prurient
discussions. The Coalition scandal, the resignation of Ministers, the
sending for Lord This and Mr. That, the certainty of a dissolution,
provided matter enough. In all this Atlay found nothing at which to
wonder. He had seen it all before. That which did cause him surprise
was the calm--the unnatural calm, as it seemed to him--which prevailed
in the house in Carlton Terrace. For a day or two, indeed, there
was much running to and fro, much closeting and button-holing; for
rather longer the secretary read anxiety and apprehension in one
countenance--Lady Betty's. Then things settled down. The knocker began
to find peace, such comparative peace as falls to knockers in Carlton
Terrace. Lady Betty's brow grew clear as her eye found no reflection
of its anxiety in Mr. Stafford's face. In a word the secretary looked
long but could discern no faintest sign of domestic trouble.
The late Minister indeed was taking things with wonderful coolness.
Lord Pilgrimstone had failed to taunt him, and the triumph of old foes
had failed to goad him into a last effort. Apparently he was of
opinion that the country might for a time exist without him. He was
standing aside with a shade on his face, and there were rumours that
he would take a long holiday.
A week saw all these things happen. And then, one day as Atlay sat
writing in the library--Mr. Stafford being out--Lady Betty came into
the room for something. Rising to supply her with the article she
wanted, he held the door open for her to pass out. She paused.
"Shut the door, Mr. Atlay," she said, pointing to it. "I want to ask
you a question."
"Pray do, Lady Betty," he answered. "It is this," she said, meeting
his eyes boldly--and a brighter, a more dainty creature than she
looked had seldom tempted man. "Mr. Stafford's resignation--had
it anything, Mr. Atlay, to do with"--her face coloured a very
little--"something that was in the _Times_ this day week?"
His own cheek coloured violently enough. "If ever," he was saying to
himself, "I meddle or mar between husband and wife again, may I----"
But aloud he answered quietly, "Something perhaps." The question was
sudden. Her eyes were on his face. He found it impossible to
prevaricate. "Something perhaps," he said.
"My husband has never spoken to me about it," she replied, breathing
quickly.
He bowed, having no words adapted to the situation. But he repeated
his resolution (as above) more furiously.
"He has never appeared aware of it," she persisted. "Are you sure that
he saw it?"
He wondered at her innocence, or her audacity. That such a baby should
do so much mischief. The thought irritated him. "It was impossible
that he should not see it, Lady Betty," he said, with a touch of
asperity. "Quite impossible!"
"Ah," she replied, with a faint sigh. "Well, he has never spoken to me
about it. And you think it had really something to do with his
resignation, Mr. Atlay?"
"Most certainly," he said. He was no longer inclined to spare her.
She nodded thoughtfully, and then with a quiet "Thank you" she went
out.
"Well," muttered the secretary to himself when the door was
fairly shut behind her, "she is--upon my word, she is a fool! And
he"--appealing to the inkstand--"he has never said a word to her about
it. He is a new Don Quixote! a modern Job! a second Sir Isaac Newton!
I do not know what to call him!"
It was Sir Horace, however, who precipitated the catastrophe. He
happened to come in about teatime that afternoon, before, in fact, my
lady had had an opportunity of seeing her husband. He found her alone
and in a brown study, a thing most unusual with her and portending
something. He watched her for a time in silence: seemed to draw
courage from a still longer inspection of his boots, and then said,
"So the cart is clean over, Betty?"
She nodded.
"Driver much hurt?"
"Do you mean, does Stafford mind?" she replied impatiently.
He nodded.
"Well, I do not know. It is hard to say."
"Think so?" he persisted.
"Good gracious, Horry!" my lady retorted, losing patience, "I say I do
not know, and you say, 'Think so!' If you want to learn so
particularly, ask him yourself. Here he is!"
Mr. Stafford had just entered the room. Perhaps she really wished to
satisfy herself as to the state of his feelings. Perhaps she only
desired in her irritation to put her cousin in a corner. At any rate
she turned to her husband and said, "Here is Horace wishing to know if
you mind being turned out?"
Mr. Stafford's face flushed a little at the home-thrust which no
one else would have dared to deal. But he showed no displeasure.
"Well, not so much as I should have thought," he answered, pausing to
weigh a lump of sugar, and, as it seemed, his feelings. "There are
compensations, you know."
"Pity all the same--those terms came out," Sir Horace grunted.
"It was."
"Stafford!" Lady Betty asked on a sudden, speaking fast and eagerly,
"is it true, I want to ask you, is it true that that led you to
resign?"
Naturally he was startled, and he showed that he was. She was the last
person who should have put that question to him, but his long training
in self-control stood him in good stead.
"Well, yes," he said quietly.
It was better, he thought, indeed it was only right, that she should
know what she had done. But he did not look at her.
"Was it only that?" she asked again.
This time he weighed his answer. He thought her persistency odd. But
again he assented.
"Yes," he said gravely. "Only that, I think. But for that I should
have remained in--with Lord Pilgrimstone of course. Perhaps things are
better as they are, my dear."
Lady Betty sprang from her seat with all her old vivacity. "Well!" she
cried, "well, I am sure! Then why, I should like to know, did Mr.
Atlay tell me that my letter to the _Times_ had something to do with
it!"
"Did not say so," quoth Sir Horace. "Absurd!"
"Yes, he did," cried Lady Betty, so fiercely that the rash speaker,
who had returned to his boots, fairly shook in them. "You were not
there! How do you know?"
"Don't know," Sir Horace admitted, meekly.
"But stay, stay a moment!" Mr. Stafford said, getting in a word with
difficulty. It was strange if his wife could talk so calmly of her
misdeeds, and before a third party too. "What letter to the _Times_
did Atlay mean?"
"My letter about the Women's League," she explained earnestly. "You
did not see it? No, I thought not. But Mr. Atlay would have it that
you did, and that it had something to do with your going out. Horace
told me at the time that I ought not to send it without consulting
you. But I did, because you said you could not be bothered with it--I
mean you said you were busy, Stafford. And so I thought I would ask if
it had done any harm, and Mr. Atlay---- What is the matter?" she
cried, breaking off sharply at sight of the change in her husband's
face. "Did it do harm?"
"No, no," he answered. "Only I never heard of this letter before. What
made you write it?"
Lady Betty coloured violently, and became on a sudden very shy--like
most young authors. "Well," she said, "I wanted to be in the--in the
swim with you, don't you know."
Mr. Stafford murmured, "Oh!"
Thanks to his talk with Atlay he read the secret of that sudden
shyness. And confusion poured over him more and more. It caused him to
give way to impulse in a manner which a moment's reflection would have
led him to avoid.
"Then it was not you," he exclaimed unwarily, "who sent Pilgrimstone's
terms to the _Times?_"
"I?" she exclaimed in an indescribable tone, and with eyes like
saucers. "I?" she repeated.
"Gad!" cried Sir Horace; and he looked about for a way of escape.
"I?" she continued, struggling between wrath and wonder. "I betray you
to the _Times!_ And you thought so, Stafford?"
There was silence in the room for a long moment during which the cool
statesman, the hard man of the world, did not know where to turn his
eyes. "There were circumstances--several circumstances," Mr. Stafford
muttered at last, "which made--which forced me to think so."
"And Mr. Atlay thought so?" she asked. He nodded. "Oh, that tame cat!"
she cried, her eyes flashing.
Then she seemed to meditate, while her husband gazed at her, a prey to
conflicting emotions, and Sir Horace made himself as small as
possible. "I see," she continued in a different tone. "Only--only if
you thought that, why did you never say anything? Why did you not
scold me, beat me, Stafford? I do not--I do not understand."
"I thought," he explained in despair--he had so mismanaged
matters--"that perhaps I had left you--out of the swim, as you call
it, Betty. That I had not treated you very well, and after all it
might be my own fault."
"And you said nothing! You intended to say nothing?" He nodded.
"Gad!" cried Sir Horace very softly.
But Lady Betty said nothing. She turned after a long look at her
husband, and went out of the room, her eyes wet with tears. The two
men heard her pause a moment on the landing, and then go upstairs and
shut her door. But her foot, even to their gross ears, seemed to touch
the stairs as if it loved them, and there was a happy lingering in the
slamming of the door.
They looked, when she had left them, anywhere but at one another. Sir
Horace sought inspiration in his boots, and presently found it.
"Wonder who did it, then?" he burst out at last.
"Ah! I wonder," replied the ex-minister, descending at a bound from
the cloudland to which his thoughts had borne him. "I never pushed the
inquiry; you know why now. But they should be able to enlighten us at
the _Times_ office. We could learn in whose handwriting the copy was,
at any rate. It is not well to have spies about us."
"I can tell you in whose handwriting they say it was," Sir Horace said
bluntly.
"In whose?"
"In Atlay's."
Mr. Stafford did not look surprised. Instead of answering he thought.
As a result of which he presently left the room in silence. When he
came back he had a copy of the _Times_ in his hand, and his face wore
a look of perplexity. "I have read the riddle," he said, "and yet it
is a riddle to me still. I never found time to read the report of my
speech at the Club. It occurred to me to look at it now. It is full of
errors; so full that it is clear the printer had not the corrected
proof Atlay prepared. Therefore I conclude that Atlay's copy of the
terms went to the _Times_ instead of the speech. But how was the
mistake made?"
"That is the question."
It happened that the private secretary came into the room at this
juncture. "Atlay," Mr. Stafford said at once, "I want you. Carry your
mind back a week--to this day week. Are you sure that you sent the
report of my speech at the Club to the _Times?_"
"Am I sure?" the other replied confidently, nothing daunted by
being so abruptly challenged. "I am quite sure I did, sir. I remember
the circumstances. I found the report--it was type-written you
remember--lying on the blotting-pad when I came down before dinner. I
slipped it into an envelope, and put it in the box. I can see myself
doing it now."
"But how do you know that it was the report you put in the envelope?"
"You had indorsed it 'Corrected speech.--W. Stafford,'" Atlay replied
triumphantly.
"Ah!" Mr. Stafford said, dropping his hands and eyes and sitting down
suddenly, "I remember! My wife came in, and--yes, my wife came in."
THE SURGEON'S GUEST
THE SURGEON'S GUEST
CHAPTER I.
"To be content," said the carrier, "that is half the battle. If I have
said it to one, I have said it to a hundred. You be content," says I,
"and you will be all right."
For the first time, though they had plodded on a mile together, the
tall gentleman turned his eyes from the sombre moorland which
stretched away on either side of the road, and looked at his
companion. There had been something strange in the preoccupation of
his thoughts hitherto; though the carrier, lapped in his own
loquacity, had not felt it. And, to tell the truth, there had been
something still more strange in the tall gentleman's behaviour before
their meeting. Now he had raced along the road and now he had
loitered; sometimes he had stood still, letting his eyes stray over
the dark groups of heather, which lay islanded in a sea of brown
grass; and again he had sauntered onwards, his hat in his hand and his
face turned up to the sky, which hung low over the waste, and had yet
the breadth of a fen cloudscape. Whatever the eccentricity of his
lonely movements, his tall hat and fluttering frock-coat had
exaggerated it.
At length on the summit of one of the ridges over which the road ran
he had made a longer halt, and had begun to look about him to right
and left, seeking, it seemed, for a track across the moss. Then he had
caught sight of the carrier plodding up the next ridge at the tail of
his cart, and he had started after him. But having almost overtaken
him, he had reduced his pace and loitered as if his desire for human
company had faded away. He had even paused as though to return. But a
glance at the desolate waste had determined him. He had walked on
again, and had overtaken and fallen to talking with the carrier. The
latter on his part had been glad to have a companion, and had readily
set down what was odd in the stranger's bearing to the cause which
accounted for his costume. The tall gentleman was a Londoner.
"'You be content,' says I," quoth the old fellow again, his
companion's tardy attention encouraging him to repeat his statement,
"'and you will be all right.' I have told that to hundreds in my
time."
"And you practise it yourself?" The tall gentleman's voice was husky.
His eyes, now that they had found their way to the other's face,
continued to dwell on it with a gleam in their depths which matched
the pallor of his features. His forehead was high, his face long and
thin, and lengthened by a dark brown beard which hid the working of
his lips. A nervous man meeting his gaze might have had strange
thoughts. But the carrier's were country nerves, and proof against
anything short of electricity.
"Oh yes, I am pretty well content," Nickson answered sturdily. "I have
twenty acres of land from the duke, and I turn a penny with the
carrying, going into Sheffield twice a week, rain and shine. Then I
have as good a wife as ever kissed her man, and neither chick nor
child, and no more than three barren ewes this lambing."
"My God!" said the stranger.
The words seemed wrung from him by a twinge of mental pain, but
whether the feeling was envy of the man's innocent joys, or disgust at
his simplicity, did not appear. Whatever the impulse, the tall
gentleman showed an immediate consciousness that he had excited his
companion's astonishment. He began to talk rapidly, even gesticulating
a little. "But is there no drawback?" he said--"no bitter in your
life, man? This long journey--ten--eleven miles?--and the same journey
home again? Do you never find it cold, hot, dreary, intolerable?"
"It is cold enough some days, and hot enough some days," the carrier
replied heartily. "But dreary?--never! And cold and heat are but skin
deep, you know."
The tall gentleman let his head fall on his breast, and for some
distance walked on in silence. The carrier whistled to his horse, the
cry of a peewit came shrilling across the moor, one wheel of the cart
squeaked loudly for grease. The evening was grey and still, and rain
impended.
"It is all downhill after this," Nickson said presently, pointing to
the sky-line, now less than a hundred yards ahead. "You see that stone
there, sir?" he continued, and pointing with his whip to a stone lying
a little off the road. "There was a man died in the snow there. Three
years back it would be. I went by him myself for a month and more, and
took him for a dead sheep. At last a keeper passing that way turned
him over with his foot, and--well, he was a sad sight, poor chap, by
that time."
The carrier should have been pleased with the effect his story
produced; for the stranger shuddered. His face even seemed a shade
paler, but this might be the effect of the evening light. He did not
make any comment, however, and the two stepped out until they gained
the summit of the ridge. Here the moor fell away on every side--a dark
sweep of waste bounded by uncouth round-backed hills, which rose
shapeless and grey, with never a graceful outline or soaring peak to
break the horizon.
"You will take a lift down the hill, sir?" the carrier asked,
gathering up his reins and preparing to mount. "I am light to-day."
"No, I think not--I thank you," the stranger answered jerkily.
"You are welcome, if you will," persisted the carrier.
"No, I think not. I think I will walk," the tall gentleman answered.
But he still stood, and watched the other's preparations with strange
intentness. Even when Nickson, having wished him good day, drove
briskly off, he continued to gaze after the cart until a dip in the
descent--not far below--swallowed it up. Then he heaved a sigh, and
looked round at the grey sky and darkening heath. He took off his hat.
"Hold up! what is the matter with the mare?" the carrier cried, coming
to a stop as soon, as it chanced, as the dip in the road hid him from
the other's eyes. "She has picked up a stone, drat it!"
He got down stiffly, and taking his knife from his pocket went to the
mare's head. Having removed the stone he dropped the hoof, and stood a
second while he closed the knife. In this momentary pause there came
to his ear a sharp report like that of a gun, but brisker and less
loud. It was difficult to suppose it the sound of a snapping stick; or
of one stone struck against another. It puzzled Master Nickson, who
climbed hastily to his seat again and drove on until he was clear of
the dip. Then, swearing at himself for an old fool, he looked
anxiously back at the top of the ridge, which had come into view
again. He was looking for the tall gentleman. But the latter was not
to be seen, either standing against the sky-line or moving on the
intervening road. "Lord's sakes!" the carrier muttered uneasily, "what
has become of him? He cannot have gone back!"
He continued to stare for some moments at the place where the stranger
should have been. At last giving way to a sudden conviction, he got
down from his cart, and, leaving it standing, hurried back through the
dip, and so to the top of the ridge. The ascent was steep, and he was
breathing heavily when he reached the summit and cast his eyes round
him. No, the tall gentleman was not to be seen. The brown grass and
heather stretched away on this side and that, broken by no human
figure. Not even a rabbit was visible on the long white strip of road
that in the far distance grew hazy with the fall of night.
"The devil!" the carrier said, shuddering, and feeling more lonely
than he had ever felt in his life. "Then he has gone, and----"
He stopped. His eyes were on a dark bundle of clothes that lay a
little aside from the road between two clumps of heather. Just a
bundle of clothes it seemed, but Master Nickson drew in his breath at
sight of it. The peewits and curlews had gone to rest. There was not a
sound to be heard on the wide moor, save the beating of his heart.
He would have given pounds to drive on with a clear conscience, yet he
forced himself to go up to the huddled form, and to turn it over until
the face was exposed. There was a pistol near the right hand, and
behind the ear there was a small, a very small hole, from which the
blood welled sluggishly. Round this the skin was singed and blackened.
The eyes were closed, and the pale face, thoughtful and placid, was
scarcely disfigured.
Suddenly Master Nickson fell on his knees. "Dang me, if I don't think
he is alive!" he whispered. "For sure, he breathes!"
Convinced of it, the carrier sprang to his feet a different man. He
lost not a moment in bringing his cart to the spot and lifting the
insensible form into it. Then he led the horse to the road, and
started gingerly down the hill. "It is a mercy it happened right at
the doctor's door," he muttered, as he turned off the road into a
track which seemed to lead through the heather to nowhere in
particular. "If he lives five minutes longer he will be in good
hands."
A stranger would have wondered where the doctor lived; for there was
no signs of a house to be seen. But when the wheels had rolled
noiselessly over the sward a hundred yards a faint curl of smoke
became visible, rising from the ground in front. A few more paces
brought the tops of trees to view, and nestling among them the gables
of an old stone house, standing below the level of the moor in a gully
or ravine, that here began to run down from the watershed towards
Bradfield and the Loxley. The track Nickson was following led to a
white gate, which formed the entrance to this lonely demesne.
The carrier found assistance sooner than he had expected. Leaning
against the inner side of the gate, with her back to him, was a tall
girl. She was bending over a fiddle, drawing from it wailing sounds
that went well with the waste behind her and the fading light. Her
head swayed in time, her elbow moved slowly. She did not hear the
wheels, and he had to call, "Whisht! Miss Pleasance, whisht!" before
she heard and turned.
He could see little of her face, for in the hollow the light was
almost gone, but her voice as she cried, "Is that you, Nickson? Have
you something for us?" rang out so cheerily that it strung his nerves
anew.
"Yes, miss," he answered. "But it is your father I want. I have got a
man here who has been hurt----"
"What? In the cart?" she cried. She stepped forward and would have
looked in. But he was before her.
"No, miss, you fetch your father!" he said sharply. "It is just a
matter of minutes, maybe. You fetch him here, please."
She understood now, and turned and sped through the shrubbery, and
across the little rivulet and the lawn. In five minutes the grey
house, which had stood gaunt and lifeless in the glooming, was
aroused. Lights flitted from window to window, and servants called to
one another. The surgeon, a tall, florid, elderly man, with drooping
white moustaches, came out, after snatching up one or two necessary
things. The groom hastened behind him with a candle. Only Pleasance,
the messenger of ill, whom her father had bidden stay in the house,
had nothing to do in the confusion. She laid down her violin and bow,
and stood in the darkness of the outer room--it was half hall, half
parlour--listening and wondering.
The sound of heavy footsteps crunching the gravel presently warned her
that the man was to be brought into the house. She heard her father
direct the other bearers to make for his room, which was on the left
of the hall, and her face grew a shade paler as the men stumbled with
their burden through the doorway. There is something monstrous to the
unaccustomed in limbs which fall lifeless, or stick out stiff and
stark in ghastly prominence. She averted her face as the group passed
her, and yet managed to touch the groom's sleeve. "What is it,
Daniel?" she whispered.
"He has been shot, miss," the servant answered. He was enjoying
himself hugely, if the truth be told.
She had no time to ask more. The door was shut upon her, and she was
left alone with her curiosity. She wondered how it had happened, for
this was not the shooting season, and Nickson had spoken of the man as
a stranger. She pondered over the problem until the maids, who were
too much upset to stay in their own quarters, came into the room with
lights. Then she stepped outside, and stood on the gravel listening to
the murmur of the brook, and looking at the old sundial which gleamed
white on the lawn.
She had been there no more than a minute when the doctor--as every one
in those parts called him--came out with Nickson. Carefully closing
the door behind him--an extraordinary precaution with one who was
usually the most easy-going of men--he laid his hand on his
companion's shoulder. "Why did he do it, Nickson?" he asked in a low
voice, which was not free from tremor. "Can you tell me? Have you any
idea? He is dressed as a gentleman, and he has a gold watch and money
in his pockets."
Their eyes were new to the darkness, and they did not see her, though
she was within earshot, and was listening with growing comprehension.
"It beats me to say, sir," was Nickson's answer--"that it does. If you
will believe me, sir, he was talking to me, just before he did it, as
reasonably as ever man in my life."
"Then what the devil was it?"
"That is what I think, sir," the carrier answered, nodding.
"What?"
"It was just the devil, sir."
"Pshaw!" the doctor returned pettishly. "You are sure that he did it
himself?"
"As sure as I can be of anything!" the carrier answered. "There was
not a human creature barring myself within half a mile of him when the
pistol went off--no, nor could have been."
"Well," the doctor said, after a pause, and in a tone of vexation, "it
is no good bringing in the police unless he dies, and I don't think he
will. He has had a wonderful escape. I suppose you will not go
blabbing it about, Nickson?"
"Heaven forbid!" the carrier replied. And after a few more words took
his leave.
They went without discovering the listener, and she slipped into the
lighted hall and stood there shivering. The darkness outside
frightened her. It seemed to hold some secret of despair. Even in the
familiar room, in which every faded rug and dusty folio and framed
sampler had its word of everyday life for her, she looked fearfully at
the closed door which led to her father's room. She shrank from
turning her back upon it. She kept glancing askance at it. When her
father came to supper, she could not meet his eye; and he must have
noticed her strangeness had he not been absorbed in the riddle
presented to him, in thoughts of his patient's case, and perhaps in
some painful train of meditation induced by it. Such questions as his
daughter put he answered absently, and he ate in the same manner,
breaking off once to visit his charge. It was only when the
preparations for the night were complete, when the maids had retired,
and Pleasance was waiting, candlestick in hand, to say good night,
that he spoke out.
"When is Woolley coming back?" he asked with a sigh.
"The twenty-eighth, father," she answered. She betrayed no surprise at
the question, though it was one he could have answered for himself.
Woolley was his assistant, and was absent on a holiday tour.
He was silent a moment. His tone was querulous, his eye wandered when
he spoke next. "I thought--I did think that we should have this little
bit to ourselves, Pleasance," he complained. And he seemed shrunken.
His fierce moustaches and his florid colour no longer hid his weakness
of moral fibre. He looked years older than when he had bent with
professional alertness over his patient. Something in that patient's
strange case had come home to him and unmanned him. "This little bit,"
he continued, looking at her wistfully, "though it be the last, girl."
"It will not be the last, father," she answered, meeting his look
without flinching. "We shall stay together whatever happens."
"Ay, but where, child?" he cried with passion, throwing out his hands
as though he appealed to the dumb things around him--"where? Do you
think to transplant me? I am too old. I have lived here too long--I
and my fathers before me for six generations, though I am but a broken
country apothecary--for me to take root elsewhere! Why, girl"--his
voice rose higher--"there is not a stone of this old place, not a
tree, that I do not know, that I do not love, that I would not rather
own than a mile of streets!"
To her surprise he broke down and turned away to hide the tears in his
eyes--tears which it pained her deeply to see. She knew how weak he
was, and what cause she had to blame him in this matter. But his tears
disarmed her, and she laid her hand on his and stroked it tenderly.
"How much do you owe Mr. Woolley, father?" she asked, when he had
recovered himself.
"Three thousand pounds," he answered, almost sullenly.
He had never told her before, and she was appalled. "It is a large
sum," she said, looking at the faded cushions on the window-seats, the
fly-blown prints, the well-worn furniture, which made the room
picturesque indeed, but shabby. "What can have become of it?"
He made a reckless movement with his hand--he still had his back
towards her--as though he flung something from him.
She sighed. She had not intended to reproach him, for economy was not
one of her own strong points; and she remembered bills owing as well
as bills paid, and many a good intention falsified. No, she could not
reproach him; and she chose to look at the matter from another side.
"It is a great deal of money," she repeated. "Would he really let all
that go if--just to marry me?"
"To be sure!" her father said briskly. "That is," he continued, his
conscience pricking him, "it would be the same thing then. The place
would come to him anyway."
"I see," she answered dryly. She was always pale--though hers was a
warm paleness--but now there were dark shadows under her eyes. They
were grey eyes, frank and resolute, now sad and scornful also. As she
sat upright in a high-backed chair, with the forgotten candle in her
hand and her gaze fixed on vacancy, she seemed to be gazing at the
Skeleton of the House. It was a skeleton which she and her father kept
for the most part locked up. Possibly it had never been brought so
completely to view before.
"You will think of it?" the doctor presently ventured, stealing a
glance at her.
"I may think till Doomsday," she answered wearily. "I shall never do
it."
"Why not?" he persisted. "What have you against him?"
"Only one thing."
"What is it?" A gleam of hope sparkled in his eyes as he put the
question. A definite accusation he might combat and refute; even a
prejudice he might overcome. He prepared himself for the effort. "What
is it?" he repeated.
"I do not love him, father," she said. "I think I hate him."
"So do I!" the doctor sighed, sinking suddenly into himself again.
Alas for his preparations!