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[Illustration: "HE WAS ALONE WITH HIS TRIUMPH."]
THE
KING'S STRATAGEM
_AND OTHER STORIES_
BY
STANLEY J. WEYMAN
_Author of "A Gentleman of France," "Under the Red Robe,"
"My Lady Rotha," etc., etc_.
* * *
NEW YORK
A. E. CLUETT & COMPANY
70 Fifth Avenue
Copyright, 1891,
BY
A. E. CLUETT & COMPANY.
CONTENTS.
The King's Stratagem,
The Body-birds Of Court,
In Cupid's Toils,
The Drift Of Fate,
A Blore Manor Episode,
The Fatal Letter,
THE KING'S STRATAGEM.
In the days when Henry IV. of France was King of Navarre only, and in
that little kingdom of hills and woods which occupies the southwest
corner of the larger country, was with difficulty supporting the
Huguenot cause against the French court and the Catholic League--in
the days when every isolated castle, from the Garonne to the Pyrenees,
was a bone of contention between the young king and the crafty
queen-mother, Catherine de Medicis, a conference between these notable
personages took place in the picturesque town of La Reole.
La Reole still rises gray, time-worn, and half-ruined on a lofty cliff
above the broad green waters of the Garonne, forty odd miles from
Bordeaux. But it is a small place now. In the days of which we are
speaking, however, it was important, strongly fortified, and guarded
by a castle which looked down on a thousand red-tiled roofs, rising in
terraces from the river. As the meeting-place of the two sovereigns it
was for the time as gay as Paris itself, Catherine having brought with
her a bevy of fair maids of honor, in the effect of whose charms she
perhaps put as much trust as in her own diplomacy. But the peaceful
appearance of the town was delusive, for even while every other house
in it rang with music and silvery laughter, each party was ready to
fly to arms without warning, if it saw that any advantage was to be
gained thereby.
On an evening shortly before the end of the conference two men sat at
play in a room, the deep-embrasured window of which looked down from a
considerable height upon the river. The hour was late, and the town
silent. Outside, the moonlight fell bright and pure on sleeping fields
and long, straight lines of poplars. Within the room a silver lamp
suspended from the ceiling threw light upon the table, leaving the
farther parts of the room in shadow. The walls were hung with faded
tapestry. On the low bedstead in one corner lay a handsome cloak, a
sword, and one of the clumsy pistols of the period. Across a chair lay
another cloak and sword, and on the window seat, beside a pair of
saddlebags, were strewn half a dozen such trifles as soldiers carried
from camp to camp--a silver comfit-box, a jeweled dagger, a mask, and
velvet cap.
The faces of the players, as they bent over the dice, were in shadow.
One--a slight, dark man of middle height, with a weak chin, and a
mouth as weak, but shaded by a dark mustache--seemed, from the
occasional oaths which he let drop, to be losing heavily. Yet his
opponent, a stouter and darker man, with a sword-cut across his left
temple, and that swaggering air which has at all times marked the
professional soldier, showed no signs of triumph or elation. On the
contrary, though he kept silence, or spoke only a formal word or two,
there was a gleam of anxiety and suppressed excitement in his eyes,
and more than once he looked keenly at his companion, as if to judge
of his feelings or learn whether the time had come for some experiment
which he meditated. But for this, an observer looking in through the
window would have taken the two for only one more instance of the hawk
and pigeon.
At last the younger player threw down the caster, with a groan.
"You have the luck of the Evil One," he said bitterly. "How much is
that?"
"Two thousand crowns," replied the other without emotion. "You will
play no more?"
"No! I wish to Heaven I had never played at all!" was the answer. As
he spoke the loser rose, and going to the window stood looking moodily
out.
For a few moments the elder man remained seated, gazing at him
furtively, but at length he too rose, and, stepping softly to his
companion, touched him on the shoulder. "Your pardon a moment, M. le
Vicomte," he said. "Am I right in concluding that the loss of this sum
will inconvenience you?"
"A thousand fiends!" exclaimed the young vicomte, turning on him
wrathfully. "Is there any man whom the loss of two thousand crowns
would not inconvenience? As for me----"
"For you," continued the other, smoothly filling up the pause, "shall
I be wrong in saying that it means something like ruin?"
"Well, sir, and if it does?" the young man retorted, drawing himself
up haughtily, his cheek a shade paler with passion. "Depend upon it
you shall be paid. Do not be afraid of that!"
"Gently, gently, my friend," the winner answered, his patience in
strong contrast with the other's violence. "I had no intention of
insulting you, believe me. Those who play with the Vicomte de
Lanthenon are not wont to doubt his honor. I spoke only in your own
interest. It has occurred to me, vicomte, that the matter might be
arranged at less cost to yourself."
"How?" was the curt question.
"May I speak freely?" The vicomte shrugged his shoulders, and the
other, taking silence for consent, proceeded: "You, vicomte, are
Governor of Lusigny for the King of Navarre; I, of Creance, for the
King of France. Our towns lie only three leagues apart. Could I, by
any chance, say on one of these fine nights, become master of Lusigny,
it would be worth more than two thousand crowns to me. Do you
understand?"
"No," the young man answered slowly, "I do not."
"Think over what I have said, then," was the brief answer.
For a full minute there was silence in the room. The vicomte gazed out
of the window with knitted brows and compressed lips, while his
companion, sitting down, leaned back in his chair, with an air of
affected carelessness. Outside, the rattle of arms and hum of voices
told that the watch were passing through the street. The church bell
struck one. Suddenly the vicomte burst into a hoarse laugh, and,
turning, snatched up his cloak and sword. "The trap was very well
laid, M. le Capitaine," he said almost jovially; "but I am still sober
enough to take care of myself--and of Lusigny. I wish you good-night.
You shall have your money, never fear."
"Still, I am afraid it will cost you dearly," the captain answered, as
he rose and moved toward the door to open it for his guest. His hand
was already on the latch when he paused. "Look here," he said, "what
do you say to this, then? I will stake the two thousand crowns you
have lost to me, and another thousand besides against your town. Fool!
no one can hear us. If you win, you go off a free man with my
thousand. If you lose, you put me in possession one of these fine
nights. What do you say to that? A single throw to decide."
The young man's pale face reddened. He turned, and his eyes sought the
table and the dice irresolutely. The temptation indeed came at an
unfortunate moment, when the excitement of play had given way to
depression, and he saw nothing before him outside the door, on which
his hand was laid, but the cold reality of ruin. The temptation to
return, and by a single throw set himself right with the world was too
much for him. Slowly he came back to the table. "Confound you!" he
said irritably. "I think you are the devil himself, captain."
"Don't talk child's talk!" said the other coldly, drawing back as his
victim advanced. "If you do not like the offer you need not take it."
But the young man's fingers had already closed on the dice. Picking
them up he dropped them once, twice, thrice on the table, his eyes
gleaming with the play-fever. "If I win?" he said doubtfully.
"You carry away a thousand crowns," answered the captain quietly. "If
you lose you contrive to leave one of the gates of Lusigny open for me
before next full moon. That is all."
"And what if I lose, and not pay the forfeit?" asked the vicomte,
laughing weakly.
"I trust to your honor," said the captain. And, strange as it may
seem, he knew his man. The young noble of the day might betray his
cause and his trust, but the debt of honor incurred at play was
binding on him.
"Well," said the vicomte, "I agree. Who is to throw first?"
"As you will," replied the captain, masking under an appearance of
indifference a real excitement which darkened his cheek, and caused
the pulse in the old wound on his face to beat furiously.
"Then do you go first," said the vicomte.
"With your permission," assented the captain. And taking the dice up
in the caster he shook them with a practiced hand, and dropped them on
the board. The throw was seven.
The vicomte took up the caster and, as he tossed the dice into it,
glanced at the window. The moonlight shining athwart it fell in
silvery sheen on a few feet of the floor. With the light something of
the silence and coolness of the night entered also, and appealed to
him. For a few seconds he hesitated. He even made as if he would have
replaced the box on the table. But the good instinct failed. It was
too late, and with a muttered word, which his dry lips refused to
articulate, he threw the dice. Seven!
Neither of the men spoke, but the captain rattled the cubes, and again
flung them on the table, this time with a slight air of bravado. They
rolled one over the other and lay still. Seven again.
The young vicomte's brow was damp, and his face pale and drawn. He
forced a quavering laugh, and with an unsteady hand took his turn. The
dice fell far apart, and lay where they fell. Six!
The winner nodded gravely. "The luck is still with me," he said,
keeping his eyes on the table that the light of triumph which had
suddenly leapt into them might not be seen. "When do you go back to
your command, vicomte?"
The unhappy man stood like one stunned, gazing at the two little cubes
which had cost him so dearly. "The day after to-morrow," he muttered
hoarsely, striving to collect himself.
"Then we shall say the following evening?" asked the captain.
"Very well."
"We quite understand one another," continued the winner, eyeing his
man watchfully, and speaking with more urgency. "I may depend on you,
M. le Vicomte, I presume?"
"The Lanthenons have never been wanting to their word," the young
nobleman answered, stung into sudden haughtiness. "If I live I will
put Lusigny into your hands, M. le Captaine. Afterward I will do my
best to recover it--in another way."
"I shall be entirely at your disposal," replied the captain, bowing
lightly. And in a moment he was alone--alone with his triumph, his
ambition, his hopes for the future--alone with the greatness to which
his capture of Lusigny was to be the first step, and which he should
enjoy not a whit the less because as yet fortune had dealt out to him
more blows than caresses, and he was still at forty, after a score of
years of roughest service, the governor of a paltry country town.
Meanwhile, in the darkness of the narrow streets the vicomte was
making his way to his lodgings in a state of despair and unhappiness
most difficult to describe. Chilled, sobered, and affrighted he looked
back and saw how he had thrown for all and lost all, how he had saved
the dregs of his fortune at the expense of his loyalty, how he had
seen a way of escape and lost it forever! No wonder that as he trudged
alone through the mud and darkness of the sleeping town his breath
came quickly and his chest heaved, and he looked from side to side as
a hunted animal might, uttering great sighs. Ah, if he could only have
retraced the last three hours!
Worn out and exhausted, he entered his lodging, and, securing the door
behind him, stumbled up the stone stairs and entered his room. The
impulse to confide his misfortunes to someone was so strong upon him
that he was glad to see a dark form half sitting, half lying in a
chair before the dying embers of a wood fire. In those days a
man's natural confidant was his valet, the follower, half-friend,
half-servant, who had been born on his estate, who lay on a pallet at
the foot of his bed, who carried his _billets-doux_ and held his cloak
at the duello, who rode near his stirrup in fight and nursed him in
illness, who not seldom advised him in the choice of a wife, and lied
in support of his suit.
The young vicomte flung his cloak over a chair. "Get up, you rascal!"
he cried impatiently. "You pig, you dog!" he continued, with
increasing anger. "Sleeping there as though your master were not
ruined by that scoundrel of a Breton! Bah!" he added, gazing bitterly
at his follower, "you are of the _canaille_, and have neither honor to
lose nor a town to betray!"
The sleeping man moved In his chair and half turned. The vicomte, his
patience exhausted, snatched the bonnet from his head, and threw it on
the ground. "Will you listen?" he said. "Or go, if you choose look for
another master. I am ruined! Do you hear? Ruined, Gil! I have lost
all--money, land, Lusigny itself, at the dice!"
The man, aroused at last, stooped with a lazy movement, and picking up
his hat dusted it with his hand, and rose with a yawn to his feet.
"I am afraid, vicomte," he said, his tones, quiet as they were,
sounding like thunder in the vicomte's astonished and bewildered ears,
"I am afraid that if you have lost Lusigny, you have lost something
which was not yours to lose!"
As he spoke he struck the embers with his foot, and the fire, blazing
up, shone on his face. The vicomte saw, with unutterable confusion and
dismay, that the man before him was not Gil at all, but the last
person in the world to whom he should have betrayed himself. The
astute smiling eyes, the aquiline nose, the high forehead, and
projecting chin, which the short beard and mustache scarcely
concealed, were only too well known to him. He stepped back with a cry
of horror. "Sire!" he said, and then his tongue failed him. He stood
silent, pale, convicted, his chin on his breast. The man to whom he
had confessed his treachery was the master whom he had conspired to
betray.
"I had suspected something of this," Henry of Navarre continued, after
a pause, a tinge of irony in his tone. "Rosny told me that that old
fox, the Captain of Creance, was affecting your company a good deal,
M. le Vicomte, and I find that, as usual, his suspicions were well
founded. What with a gentleman who shall be nameless, who has bartered
a ford and a castle for the favor of Mlle. de Luynes, and yourself, I
am blest with some faithful followers! For shame!" he continued,
seating himself with dignity, "have you nothing to say for yourself?"
The young noble stood with his head bowed, his face white. This was
ruin, indeed, absolutely irremediable. "Sire," he said at last, "your
Majesty has a right to my life, not to my honor."
"Your honor!" quoth Henry, biting contempt in his tone.
The young man started, and for a second his cheek flamed under the
well-deserved reproach; but he recovered himself. "My debt to your
Majesty," he said, "I am willing to pay."
"Since pay you must," Henry muttered softly.
"But I claim to pay also my debt to the Captain of Creance."
"Oh," the king answered. "So you would have me take your worthless
life, and give up Lusigny?"
"I am in your hands, sire."
"Pish, sir!" Henry replied in angry astonishment. "You talk like a
child. Such an offer, M. de Lanthenon, is folly, and you know it. Now
listen to me. It was lucky for you that I came in to-night, intending
to question you. Your madness is known to me only, and I am willing to
overlook it. Do you hear? Cheer up, therefore, and be a man. You are
young; I forgive you. This shall be between you and me only," the
young prince continued, his eyes softening as the other's head
drooped, "and you need think no more of it until the day when I shall
say to you, 'Now, M. de Lanthenon, for France and for Henry, strike!'"
He rose as the last word passed his lips, and held out his hand. The
vicomte fell on one knee, and kissed it reverently, then sprang to his
feet again. "Sire," he said, standing erect, his eyes shining, "you
have punished me heavily, more heavily than was needful. There is only
one way in which I can show my gratitude, and that is by ridding you
of a servant who can never again look your enemies in the face."
"What new folly is this?" said Henry sternly. "Do you not understand
that I have forgiven you?"
"Therefore I cannot give up Lusigny, and I must acquit myself of my
debt to the Captain of Creance in the only way which remains," replied
the young man, firmly. "Death is not so hard that I would not meet it
twice over rather than again betray my trust."
"This is midsummer madness!" said the king hotly.
"Possibly," replied the vicomte, without emotion; "yet of a kind to
which your Majesty is not altogether a stranger."
The words appealed strongly to that love of the chivalrous which
formed part of the king's nature, and was one cause alike of his
weakness and his strength, which in its more extravagant flights gave
opportunity after opportunity to his enemies, in its nobler and saner
expressions won victories which all his astuteness and diplomacy could
not have compassed. He stood looking with half-hidden admiration at
the man whom two minutes before he had despised.
"I think you are in jest," he said presently.
"No, sire," the young man answered gravely. "In my country they have a
proverb about us. 'The Lanthenons,' say they, 'have ever been bad
players, but good payers.' I will not be the first to be worse than my
name!"
He spoke with so quiet a determination that the king was staggered,
and for a minute or two paced the room in silence, inwardly reviling
the generous obstinacy of his weak-kneed supporter, yet unable to
withhold his admiration from it. At length he stopped, with a low,
abrupt exclamation.
"Wait!" he cried. "I have it! _Ventre Saint Gris_, man, I have it!"
His eyes sparkled, and, with a gentle laugh, he hit the table a
sounding blow. "Ha! ha! I have it!" he repeated joyously.
The young noble gazed at him in surprise, half sullen, half
incredulous. But when Henry, in low, rapid tones, had expounded his
plan, the vicomte's face underwent a change. Hope and life sprang into
it. The blood flew to his cheeks. His whole aspect softened. In a
moment he was on his knee, mumbling the king's hand, his eyes full of
joy and gratitude. After that the two talked long, the murmur of their
voices broken more than once by the ripple of low laughter. When they
at length separated, and Henry, his face hidden by the folds of his
cloak, had stolen away to his lodgings, where, no doubt, more than one
watcher was awaiting him with a mind full of anxious fears, the
vicomte threw open his window and looked out on the night. The moon
had set, but the stars still shone peacefully in the dark canopy
above. He remembered on a sudden, his throat choking with silent
repressed emotion, that he was looking toward his home--the stiff gray
pile among the beech woods of Navarre which had been in his family
since the days of St. Louis, and which he had so lightly risked. And
he registered a vow in his heart that of all Henry's servants he would
henceforth be the most faithful.
Meanwhile the Captain of Creance was enjoying the sweets of coming
triumph. He did not look out into the night, it is true, but pacing up
and down the room he planned and calculated, considering how he might
make the most of his success. He was still comparatively young. He had
years of strength before him. He would rise. He would not easily be
satisfied. The times were troubled, opportunities many, fools many;
bold men with brains and hands few.
At the same time he knew that he could be sure of nothing until
Lusigny was actually his, and he spent the next few days in
considerable suspense. But no hitch occurred. The vicomte made the
necessary communications to him; and men in his own pay informed him
of dispositions ordered by the governor of Lusigny which left him in
no doubt that the loser intended to pay his debt.
It was, therefore, with a heart already gay with anticipation that the
Captain rode out of Creance two hours before midnight on an evening
eight days later. The night was dark, but he knew the road well. He
had with him a powerful force, composed in part of thirty of his own
garrison, bold, hardy fellows, and in part of six score horsemen, lent
him by the governor of Montauban. As the vicomte had undertaken to
withdraw, under some pretense or other, one-half of his command, and
to have one of the gates opened by a trusty hand, the captain trotted
along in excellent spirits, and stopped to scan with approval the dark
line of his troopers as they plodded past him, the jingle of their
swords and corselets ringing sweet music in his ears. He looked for an
easy victory; but it was not any slight misadventure that would rob
him of his prey. As his company wound on by the riverside, their
accouterments reflected in the stream, or passed into the black shadow
of the olive grove which stands a mile to the east of Lusigny, he felt
little doubt of the success of his enterprise.
Treachery apart, that is; and of treachery there was no sign. The
troopers had scarcely halted under the last clump of trees before a
figure detached itself from one of the largest trunks, and advanced to
their leader's rein. The captain saw with surprise that it was the
vicomte himself. For a second he thought something had gone wrong, but
the young noble's first words reassured him. "It is all right," M. de
Lanthenon whispered, as the captain bent down to him. "I have kept my
word, and I think that there will be no resistance. The planks for
crossing the moat lie opposite the gate. Knock thrice at the latter,
and it will be opened. There are not fifty armed men in the place."
"Good!" the captain answered, in the same cautious tone. "But you----"
"I am believed, to be elsewhere, and must be gone. I have far to ride
tonight. Farewell."
"Till we meet again," the captain answered; and with that his ally
glided away and was lost in the darkness. A cautious word set the
troop again in motion, and a very few minutes saw them standing on
the edge of the moat, the outline of the gateway tower looming above
them, a shade darker than the wrack of clouds which overhead raced
silently across the sky. A moment of suspense, while one and another
shivered--for there is that in a night attack which touches the nerves
of the stoutest--and the planks were found, and as quietly as possible
laid across the moat. This was so successfully done that it evoked no
challenge, and the captain crossing quickly with some picked men stood
almost in the twinkling of an eye under the shadow of the gateway.
Still no sound was heard save the hurried breathing of those at his
elbow or the stealthy tread of others crossing. Cautiously he knocked
three times and waited. The third rap had scarcely sounded, however,
before the gate rolled silently open, and he sprang in, followed by
his men.
So far so good. A glance at the empty street and the porter's pale
face told him at once that the vicomte had kept his word. But he was
too old a soldier to take anything for granted, and forming up his men
as quickly as they entered, he allowed no one to advance until all
were inside, and then, his trumpet sounding a wild note of defiance,
his force sprang forward in two compact bodies and in a moment the
town awoke to find itself in the hands of the enemy.
As the vicomte had promised, there was no resistance. In the small
keep a score of men did indeed run to arms, but only to lay them down
without striking a blow when they became aware of the force opposed to
them. Their leader, sullenly acquiescing, gave up his sword and the
keys of the town to the victorious captain, who, as he sat his horse
in the middle of the market-place, giving his orders and sending off
riders with the news, already saw himself in fancy governor of a
province and Knight of the Holy Ghost.
As the red light of the torches fell on steel caps and polished
hauberks, on the serried ranks of pikemen, and the circle of
white-faced townsmen, the picturesque old square looked doubly
picturesque. Every five minutes, with a clatter of iron on the rough
pavement and a shower of sparks, a horseman sprang away to tell the
news at Montauban or Cahors; and every time that this occurred, the
captain, astride on his charger, felt a new sense of power and
triumph.
Suddenly the low murmur of voices was broken by a new sound, the
hurried clang of hoofs, not departing but arriving. There was
something in the noise which made the captain prick his ears, and
secured for the messenger a speedy passage through the crowd. Even at
the last the man did not spare his horse, but spurring to the
captain's side, then and then only sprang to the ground. His face was
pale, his eyes were bloodshot. His right arm was bound up in
bloodstained cloths. With an oath of amazement, the captain recognized
the officer whom he had left in charge of Creance and thundered out,
"What is it?"
[Illustration: "THEY HAVE GOT CREANCE!"]
"They have got Creance!" the man gasped, reeling as he spoke. "They
have got Creance!"
"Who?" the captain shrieked, his face purple with rage.
"The little man of Bearn! He assaulted it five hundred strong an hour
after you left, and had the gate down before we could fire a dozen
shots. We did what we could, but we were but one to seven. I swear,
captain, we did all we could. Look at this!"
Almost black in the face, the captain swore another frightful oath.
It was not only that he saw governorship and honors vanish like
will-o'-the-wisps, but that he saw even more quickly that he had made
himself the laughing-stock of a kingdom! And he had. To this day among
the stories which the southern French love to tell of the prowess and
astuteness of the great Henry, there is none more frequently told, or
more frequently laughed over, than that of the famous exchange of
Creance for Lusigny.
THE BODY-BIRDS OF
COURT.
"Eighty-eight when he died! That is a great age," I said.
"Yes indeed. But he was a very clever man, was Robert Evans, Court,
and brewed good beer," my companion answered. "His home-brewed was
known, I am certain, for more than ten miles. You will have heard of
his body-birds, sir?"
"His body-birds?" I exclaimed.
"Yes, to be sure. Robert Evans Court's body-birds!" And he looked at
me, quick to suspect that his English was deficient. He had learned it
in part from books; and hence the curious mixture I presently noted of
Welsh idioms and formal English phrases. It was his light trap in
which I was being helped on my journey, and his genial chat which was
lightening that journey; which lay through a part of Carnarvonshire
usually traversed only by wool merchants and cattle dealers--a country
of upland farms swept by the sea breezes, where English is not spoken
even now by one person in a hundred, and even at inns and post-offices
you get only "_Dim Sassenach_," for your answer. "Do you not say," he
went on, "body-birds in English? Oh, but to be sure, it is in the
Bible!" with a sudden recovery of his self-esteem.
"To be sure!" I replied hurriedly. "Of course it is! But as to Mr.
Robert Evans, cannot you tell me the story?"
"I'll be bound there is no man in North or South Wales, or
Carnarvonshire, that could tell it better, for Gwen Madoc, of whom you
shall hear presently, was aunt to me. You see Robert Evans"--and my
friend settled himself in his seat and prepared to go slowly up the
long, steep hill of Rhiw which rose before us--"Robert Evans lived in
an old house called Court, near the sea, very windy and lonesome. He
was a warm man. He had Court from his father, and he had mortgages,
and as many as four lawsuits. But he was unlucky in his family. He had
years back three sons who helped on the farm, or at times fished; for
there is a cove at Court, and good boats. Of these sons only one was
married--to a Scotchwoman from Bristol, I have heard, who had had a
husband before, a merchant captain, and she brought with her to Court
a daughter, Peggy, ready-made as we say. Well, of those three fine
men, there was not one left in a year. They were out fishing in a boat
together, and Evan--that was the married one--was steering as they
came into the cove on a spring tide running very high with a south
wind. He steered a little to one side--not more than six inches, upon
my honor--and pah! in an hour their bodies were thrown up on Robert
Evans' land just like bits of seaweed. But that was not all. Evan's
wife was on the beach at the time, so near she could have thrown a
stone into the boat. They do say that before she was pining away at
Court--it was bleak and lonesome and cold, in the winters, and she had
been used to live in the towns. But, however, she never held up her
head after Evan was drowned. She took to her bed, and died in the
short month. And then of all at Court there were left only Robert
Evans and the child Peggy."
"How old was she then?" I asked. He had paused, and was looking
thoughtfully before, as striving, it would seem, to make the situation
quite clear to himself.
"She was twelve, and the old man eighty and more. She was in no way
related to him, you will remember, but he had her stop, and let her
want for nothing that did not cost money. He was very careful of
money, as was right. It was that made him the man he was. But there
were some who would have given money to be rid of her. Year in and
year out they never let the old man rest but that he should send her
to service at least--though her father had been the captain of a big
ship; and if Robert Evans had not been a stiff man of his years, they
would have had their will."
"But who----"
By a gesture he stopped the words on my lips as there rose
mysteriously out of the silence about us a sound of wings, a chorus
of shrill cries. A hundred white forms swept overhead, and fell a
white cluster about something in a distant field. They were sea gulls.
"Just those same!" he said proudly, jerking his whip in their
direction--"body-birds. When the news that Robert Evans' sons were
drowned got about, there was a pretty uprising in Carnarvonshire.
There seemed to be Evanses where there had never been Evanses before.
As many as twenty walked in the funeral, and you may be sure that
afterward they did not leave the old man to himself. The Llewellyn
Evanses were foremost. They had had a lawsuit with Court, but made it
up now. Besides there were Mr. and Mrs. Evan Bevan, and the three
Evanses of Nant, and Owen Evans, and the Evanses of Sarn, and many
more, who were all forward to visit Court and be friendly with old
Gwen Madoc, Robert's housekeeper. I am told they could look black at
one another, but in this they were all in one tale, that the foreign
child should be sent away; and at times one and another would give her
a rough word."
"She must have had a bad time," I observed.
"You may say that. But she stayed, and it was wonderful how strong and
handsome she grew up, where her mother had just pined away. The
sailors said it was her love of the sea; and I have heard that people
who live inland about here come to think of nothing but the land--it
is certain that they are good at a bargain--while the fishermen who
live with a great space before them are finer men, I have heard, in
their minds as well as their bodies; and Peggy _bach_ grew up like
them, free and open and upstanding, though she lived inland. When she
was in trouble she would run down to the sea, where the salt spray
washed away her tears and the wind blew her hair, that was of the
color of seaweed, into a tangle. She was never so happy as when she
was climbing the rocks among the sea gulls, or else sitting with her
books at the cove where the farm people would not go for fear of
hearing the church bells that bring bad luck. Books? Oh, yes, indeed!
next to the sea she was fond of books. There were many volumes, I have
been told, that were her mother's; then Robert Evans, though he was a
Wesleyan, went to church because there was no Wesleyan chapel, the
Calvinistic Methodists being in strength about here; and the minister
lent her many English books and befriended her. And I have heard that
once, when the Llewellyn Evanses had been about the girl, he spoke to
them so that they were afraid to drive down Rhiw hill that night, but
led the horse; and I think it may be true, for they were Calvinists.
Still, he was a good man, and I know that many Calvinists walked in
his funeral."
"_Requiescat in pace_," said I.
"Eh! Well, I don't know how that may be," he replied, "but you must
understand that all this time the Llewellyn Evanses, and the Evanses
of Nant, and the others would be over at Court once or twice a week,
so that all the neighborhood called them Robert Evans' body-birds; and
when they were there Peggy McNeill would be having an ill time, since
even the old man would be hard to her; and more so as he grew older.
But, however, there was a better time coming, or so it seemed at
first, the beginning of which was through Peter Rees' lobster pots. He
was a great friend of hers. She would go out with him to take up his
pots--oh! it might be two or three times a week. So it happened one
day, when they had pushed off from the beach, and Peggy was steering,
that old Rees stopped rowing on a sudden.
"'Why don't you go on, Peter?' said Peggy.
"'Bide a bit,' said old Rees.
"'What have you forgotten?' said she, looking about in the bottom of
the boat. For she knew what he used very well.
"'Nought,' said he. But all the same he began to put the boat about in
a stupid fashion, afraid of offending her, and yet loath to lose a
shilling. And so, when Peggy looked up, what should she see but a
gentleman--whom Rees had perceived, you will understand--stepping into
the boat, and Peter Rees not daring to look her in the face because he
knew well that she would never go out with strangers.
"Of course the young gentleman thought no harm, but said gayly, 'Thank
you! I am just in time.' And what should he do, but go aft and sit
down on the seat by her, and begin to talk to Rees about the weather
and the pots. And presently he said to her, 'I suppose you are used to
steering, my girl?'
"'Yes,' said Peggy, but very grave and quiet-like, so that if he had
not determined that she was old Rees' daughter he would have taken
notice of it. But she was wearing a short frock that she used for the
fishing, and was wet with getting into the boat, moreover.
"'Will you please to hold my hat a minute,' he said, and with that he
put it in her lap while he looked for a piece of string with which to
fasten it to his button. Well, she said nothing, but her cheeks were
scarlet, and by and by, when he had called her 'my girl' two or three
times more--not roughly, but just off-hand, taking her for a
fisher-girl--Peter Rees could stand it no longer, shilling or no
shilling.
"'You mustn't speak that fashion to her, master,' he said gruffly.
"'What?' said the gentleman, looking up. He was surprised, and no
wonder, at the tone of the man.
"'You mustn't speak like that to Miss McNeill, Court,' repeated old
Rees more roughly than before. 'You are to understand she is not a
common girl, but like yourself.'
"The young gentleman turned and looked at her just once, short and
sharp, and I am told that his face was as red as hers when their eyes
met. 'I beg Miss McNeill's pardon--humbly,' he said, taking off his
hat grandly, yet as if he meant it too; 'I was under a great
misapprehension.'
"After that you may believe they did not enjoy the row much. There was
scarcely a word said by anyone until they came ashore again. The
visitor, to the great joy of Peter, who was looking for a sixpence,
gave him half a crown; and then walked away with the young lady, side
by side with her, but very stiff and silent. However, just as they
were parting, Peter could see that he said something, having his hat
in his hand the while, and that Miss Peggy, after standing and
listening, bowed as grand as might be. Upon which they separated for
that time.
"But two things came of this; first, that everyone began to call her
Miss McNeill, Court, which was not at all to the pleasure of the
Llewellyn Evanses. And then that, whenever the gentleman, who was a
painter lodging at Mrs. Campbell's of the shop, would meet her, he
would stop and say a few words, and more as the time went on.
Presently there came some wet weather; and Mrs. Campbell borrowed for
his use books from her, which had her name within; and later he sent
for a box of books from London, and then the lending was on the other
side. So it was not long before people began to see how things were,
and to smile when the gentleman treated old Robert Evans at the Newydd
Inn. The fishermen, when he was out with them, would tack so that he
might see the smoke of Court over the cliffs; and there was no more
Peggy _bach_ to be met, either rowing with Peter Rees or running wild
among the rocks, but a very sedate young lady who yet did not seem to
be unhappy.
"The old man was ailing in his limbs at this time, but his mind was as
clear as ever, and his grip of the land as tight. He could not bear,
now that his sons were dead, that anyone should come after him. I am
thinking that he would be taking everyone for a body-bird. Still the
family were forward with presents and such like, and helped him
perhaps about the farm; so that though there was talk in the village,
no one could say what will he would make.
[Illustration: "YOU HAVE BEEN COURTING."]
"However, one day toward winter Miss Peggy came in late from a walk,
and found the old man very cross. 'Where have you been?' he cried
angrily. Then without any warning, 'You have been courting,' he said,
'with that fine gentleman from the shop?'
"'Well,' my lady replied, putting a brave face upon it, as was her
way, 'and what then, grandfather? I am not ashamed of it.'
"'You ought to be!' he cried, banging his stick upon the floor. 'Do
you think that he will marry you?'
"'Yes, I do,' she replied stoutly. 'He has told you so to-day, I
know.'
"Robert Evans laughed, but his laugh was not a pleasant one. 'You are
right,' he said. 'He has told me. He was very forward to tell me. He
thought I was going to leave you my money. But I am not! Mind you
that, my girl.'
"'Very well,' she answered, white and red by turns.
"'You will remember that you are no relation of mine!' he went on
viciously, for he had grown very crabbed of late. 'And I am not
going to leave you money. He is after my money. He is nothing but a
fortune-catcher!'
"'He is not!' she exclaimed, as hot as fire, and began to put on her
hat again.
"'Very well! We shall see!' answered Robert Evans. 'Do you tell
him what I say, and see if he will marry you. Go! Go now, girl, and
you need not come back! You will get nothing by staying here!' he
cried, for what with his jealousy and the mention of money he was
furious--'not a penny! You had better be off at once!'
"She did not answer for a minute or so, but she seemed to change
her mind about going, for she laid down her hat, and went about the
house place getting tea ready--and no doubt her fingers trembled a
little--until the old man cried, 'Well, why don't you go? You will get
nothing by staying.'
"'I shall stay to take care of you all the same,' she answered
quietly. 'You need not leave me anything, and then--and then I shall
know whether you are right.'
"'Do you mean it?' asked he sharply, after looking at her in silence
for a moment.
"'Yes,' said she.
"'Then it's a bargain!' cried Robert Evans--'it's a bargain!' And he
said not a word more about it, but took his tea from her and talked of
the Llewellyn Evanses, who had been to pay him a visit that day. It
seemed, however, as if the matter had upset him, for he had to be
helped to bed, and complained a good deal, neither of which things
were usual with him.
"Well, it is not unlikely that the young lady promised herself to tell
her lover all about it next day, and looked to hear many times over
from his own lips that it was not her money he wanted. But this was
not to be, for early the next morning Gwen Madoc was at her door.
"'You are to get up, miss,' she said. 'The master wants you to go to
London by the first train.'
"'To London!' cried Peggy, very much astonished. 'Is he ill? Is
anything the matter, Gwen?'
"'No,' answered the old woman very short. 'It is just that.'
"And when the girl, having dressed hastily, came down to Robert Evans'
room, she found that this was pretty nearly all she was to learn. 'You
will go to Mrs. Richard Evans, who lives at Islington,' he said, as if
he had been thinking about it all night. 'She is my second cousin, and
will find house room for you, and make no charge. A telegram shall be
sent to her this morning. To-morrow you will take this packet to the
address upon it, and the next day a packet will be returned to you,
which you will bring back to me. I am not well to-day, and I want to
have the matter settled and off my mind, Peggy.'
"'But could not someone else go, if you are not well?' she objected,
'and I will stop and take care of you.'
"He grew very angry at that. 'Do as you are bidden, girl,' he said. 'I
shall see the doctor to-day, and for the rest, Gwen can do for me. I
am well enough. Do you look to the papers. Richard Evans owes me
money, and will make no charge for your living.'
"So Miss Peggy had her breakfast, and in a wonderfully short time, as
it seemed to her, was on the way to London, with plenty of leisure on
her hands for thinking--very likely for doubting and fearing as well.
She had not seen her sweetheart, that was one thing. She had been
dispatched in a hurry, that was another. And then, to be sure, the big
town was strange to her.
"However, nothing happened there, I may tell you. But on the third
morning she received a short note from Gwen Madoc, and suddenly rose
from breakfast with Mrs. Richard, her face very white. There was news
in the letter--news of which all the neighborhood for miles round
Court was by that time full. Robert Evans, if you will believe it, was
dead. After ailing for a few hours he had died, with only Gwen Madoc
to smooth his pillow.
"It was late when she reached the nearest station to Court on her way
back, and found a pony trap waiting for her. She was stepping into it
when Mr. Griffith Hughes, the lawyer, saw her, and came up to speak.
"'I am sorry to have bad news for you, Miss McNeill,' he said in a low
voice, for he was a kind man, and what with the shock and the long
journey she was looking very pale.
"'Oh, yes!' she answered, with a sort of weary surprise; 'I know it
already. That is why I am come home--to Court, I mean.'
"He saw that she was thinking only of Robert Evans' death, which was
not what was in his mind. 'It is about the will,' he said in a
whisper, though he need not have been so careful, for everyone in the
neighborhood had learned all about it from Gwen Madoc. 'It is a cruel
will. I would not have made it for him, my dear. He has left Court to
the Llewellyn Evanses, and the money between the Evanses of Nant and
the Evan Bevans.'
"'It is quite right,' she answered, so calmly that he stared. 'My
grandfather explained it to me. I fully understood that I was not to
be in the will.'
"Mr. Hughes looked more and more puzzled. 'Oh, but,' he replied, 'it
is not so bad as that. Your name is in the will. He has laid it upon
those who get the land and money to provide for you--to settle a
proper income upon you. And you may depend upon me for doing my best
to have his wishes carried out, my dear.'
"The young lady turned very red, and raised her eyes sharply.
"'Who are to provide for me?' she asked.
"'The three families who divide the estate,' he said.
"'And are they obliged to do so?'
"'Well--no,' said he unwillingly. 'I am not sure that they are exactly
obliged. But no doubt----'
"'I doubt very much,' she answered, taking him up with a smile. And
then she shook hands with him and drove away, leaving him wondering at
her courage.
"Well, you may suppose it was a dreary house to which she came home.
Mr. Griffith Hughes, who was executor, had been before the Llewellyn
Evanses in taking possession, so that, besides a lad or two in the
kitchen, there were only Gwen Madoc and the servant there, and they
seemed to have very little to tell her about the death. When she had
heard what they had to say, and they were all on their way to bed,
'Gwen,' she said softly, 'I think I should like to see him.'
"'So you shall, to-morrow, honey,' answered the old woman. 'But do you
know, _bach_, that he has left you nothing?' and she held up her
candle suddenly, so as to throw the light on the girl's tired face.
"'Oh!' she answered, with a shudder, 'how can you talk about that
now?' But presently she had another question ready. 'Have you seen Mr.
Venmore since--since my grandfather's death, Gwen?' she asked timidly.
"'Yes, indeed, _bach_,' answered the housekeeper. 'I met him at the
door of the shop this morning. I told him where you were, and that you
would be back tonight. And about the will, moreover.'
"The girl stopped at her own door and snuffed her candle. Gwen Madoc
went slowly up the next flight, groaning over the steepness of the
stairs. Then she turned to say good-night. The girl was at her side
again, her eyes shining in the light of the two candles.
"'Oh, Gwen,' she whispered breathlessly, 'didn't he say anything?'
"'Not a word, _bach_,' answered the old woman, stroking her hair
tenderly. 'He just went into the house in a hurry.'
"Miss Peggy went into her room much in the same way. No doubt she
would be telling herself a great many times over before she slept that
he would come and see her in the morning; and in the morning she would
be saying, 'He will come in the afternoon;' and in the afternoon, 'He
will come in the evening.' But evening came, and darkness, and still
he did not appear. Then she could endure it no longer. She let herself
out of the front door, which there was no one now to use but herself,
and with a shawl over her head ran all the way down to the shop. There
was no light in his window upstairs: but at the back door stood Mrs.
Campbell, looking after someone who had just left her.
"The girl came, strangely shrinking at the last moment, into the ring
of light about the door. 'Why, Miss McNeill!' cried the other,
starting visibly at sight of her. 'Is it you, honey? And are you
alone?'
"'Yes; and I cannot stop. But oh, Mrs. Campbell, where is Mr.
Venmore?'
"'I know no more than yourself, my dear,' said the good woman
reluctantly. 'He went from here yesterday on a sudden--to take the
train, I understood.'
"'Yesterday? When? At what time, please?' asked the young lady. There
was a fear, which she had been putting from her all day. It was
getting a footing now.
"'Well, it would be about midday. I know it was just after Gwen Madoc
called in about the----'
"But the girl was gone. It was not to Mrs. Campbell she could make a
moan. It was only the night wind that caught the 'Oh, cruel! cruel!'
which broke from her as she went up the hill. Whether she slept that
night at all I am not able to say. Only that when it was dawn she was
out upon the cliffs, her face very white and sad-looking. The
fishermen who were up early, going out with the ebb, saw her at times
walking fast and then standing still and looking seaward. But I do not
know what she was thinking, only I should fancy that the gulls had a
different cry for her now, and it is certain that when she had
returned and came down into the parlor at Court for the funeral, there
were none of the Evanses could look her in the face with comfort.
"They were all there, of course. Mr. Llewellyn Evans--he was an
elderly man, with a gray beard like a bird's nest, and very thick
lips--was sitting with his wife on the horsehair sofa. The Evanses of
Nant, who were young men with lank faces and black hair combed upward,
were by the door. The Evan Bevans were at the table; and there were
others, besides Mr. Griffith Hughes, who was undoing some papers when
she entered.
"He rose and shook hands with her, marking pitifully the dark hollows
under her eyes, and inwardly confirming his resolution to get her a
substantial settlement. Then he hesitated, looking doubtfully at the
others. 'We are going to read the will before the funeral instead of
afterward,' he said.
"'Oh!' she answered, taken aback--for in truth she had forgotten all
about the will. 'I did not know. I will go, and come back later.'
"'No, indeed!' cried Mrs. Llewellyn Evans, 'you had better stop and
hear the will--though no relation, to be sure.'
"But at that moment Gwen Madoc came in, and peered round with a grim
air of importance. 'Maybe someone,' she said in a low voice, 'would
like to take a last look at the poor master?'