VENGEANCE IS SWEET.
During the passage of those eight months from the time when Bufton had
fallen into the snare set for him by Anne Pottle and Lewis Granger
(who had recognised the former as the singing girl of half the gardens
round London the instant he set eyes on her at Tunbridge Wells, they
having met before), the latter had more than once encountered his old
enemy; that enemy with whom--in a manner which would quite have suited
with the ethics of more modern, of present, days--he had lived on an
apparent footing of friendship while planning a scheme of vengeance
for a cruel wrong done to him earlier. He had visited Bufton in the
southern suburb of the town, where the man once known as "Beau Bufton"
now lived a miserable kind of life upon money sent to him by his
mother from Devonshire, and also upon anything which he could pick up
at cock-fights, racecourses, and similar places, he being always
careful to avoid the West End. For, like many others who imagine that
they are masters of the art of ridicule, he dreaded, winced under
ridicule himself, especially when that ridicule had a very substantial
base from which to operate, as any that might be hurled against him
must have had at this present moment.
Bufton had also himself paid a visit to Stepney more than once to see
his quondam confederate--a visit which, although made under the garb
of friendship, had really for its object the desire of finding out
what Lewis Granger was doing, how he was living, and (which was the
principal thing), whether there was any likelihood of his being able
to obtain a share in such prosperity as might have fallen in Granger's
way.
Now, it happened--as so often it will happen in real life, in spite of
the jeers of imbeciles who regard, or profess to regard, coincidences
as things which occur only in the more or less hard-bound brains of
dramatists and romancists--that on the evening previous to the
rencounter between Sir Geoffrey Barry and Granger, Bufton had written
to the latter that he intended to be in Stepney on that night. And he
informed him that, from an unexpected source, he had gotten some
little money together, and, if Lewis pleased, he might possibly be
able to join him in his "affairs."
Wherefore, at eight o'clock on this boisterous March night, the two
men who had once been friends were again seated together; this time in
Granger's house in the East End instead of in Bufton's fashionable
lodgings of the days of his prosperity.
"And so," said the host--as he passed over to his guest some spirits
and water, he having stated, without apology and with a fine sneer on
his lip, that tokay and champagne, such as had once flowed freely (on
credit) in the old apartments of the Haymarket, were beyond his
means--"and so you have found some money, eh? How have you done it?
_Trickeries des Grecs_--'packing,' 'marking,' 'substitution,' or what
not? Or has Madame la mère been kind? Has she consented to a little
more blood-letting? Eh!"
"Nay, nay," Bufton replied. He looked more like his old self now than
when Granger had seen him last, since, doubtless owing to the welcome
advent of a little ready money, he was adorned in a manner better
corresponding with the old style than he had been lately.
To wit, he wore now a neat brown frock, a brown silk waistcoat,
and black velvet breeches, while upon the table by his side lay a
brand-new three-cornered hat, neatly fringed.
"Nay, but sometimes fortune befriends us. I have been a-racing at
Drayton, and--and--well, I have won a few score guineas!"
"Wherefore, I presume," said Lewis Granger, "you have come here to pay
me some of them. I should be rich--that is, rich for me--if I had all
you owe me. All," he added emphatically, "that I hold your
acknowledgment for."
"Oh! I protest, my friend----" exclaimed the other.
"Protest nothing. But, instead, remember. Recall two years ago. There
is a sum of two thousand pounds for Glastonbury's bill; two thousand
pounds, and my ruined life; for which latter I do not hold any
acknowledgment, though, also, I do not forget."
And he regarded Bufton with so strange a glance that the visitor
looked uneasy.
"Lewis," he said, "I have repented of that. You--you--know I have. And
at my mother's death it will be paid. I can do no more," and he rubbed
his chin as he spoke, which action, for some reason that Granger could
not have explained, irritated him as much as ever. Perhaps it did so
because it recalled other instances when he had sat and watched him
doing the same thing.
"Then," continued Granger, he repeating with emphasis, "there is the
bond for five thousand guineas--the marriage bond--the marriage bond.
I worked hard in that matter----"
"Curse the marriage bond!" cried Bufton. "Curse it, and the marriage,
and all concerned with it. That has sunk me, ruined me for ever. Oh!
Lewis," he went on, "do you know what I live for now? Now! now!"
"Annulling it; breaking it, I imagine."
"No!" the other almost shrieked, "no! it cannot be broken; they say I
am bound, tied for ever! No! it is not that, but vengeance on the cat
who snared me, and--and--vengeance on the man who has married the true
heiress. He insulted me in her park, he defeated me; me--I who knew
every trick of fence; and he drove me forth. And I do believe he was
aware of that scheme while, if he did not aid in it, he at least did
not prevent it."
"You ruined Anne's sister, drove her to her death. You have much to
answer for," Granger said, his voice hard and stern; so hard and stern
that almost it would seem as if he were egging the man on to frenzy
for a purpose.
"Bah!" cried Bufton, "I would have provided well for the girl--have
done all except marry her. That was impossible. I needed an heiress,
and I got that other. That thing; that dancing, singing thing; fit
only to be the wife of her mistress's coachman, or some porter."
"Wherefore you desire vengeance?"
"Vengeance! Oh, my God! if I could but have that on her and him--this
insolent, supercilious sailor. If I could. If I could."
"Yet you were always an admirer of superciliousness yourself."
"Bah!" he cried again, "amongst wits and men of fashion, yes! There
it is suitable. But this fellow, this broken-down, impoverished man of
birth, who can do no better than go a-sailing. And to be supercilious
to me!"
"Vengeance, eh?" said Lewis Granger, meditating--pretending to
meditate. "Vengeance."
"Ay, vengeance on both; but I know not how to obtain it."
"Do you know," said Granger quietly--softly, indeed--"that both are in
this neighbourhood? Not two miles away from where we now sit."
"What!" cried Bufton, full of astonishment. "What! Both here; two
miles away! It is impossible."
"Nevertheless it is true. Sir Geoffrey is in command of a French prize
called the _Mignonne_, which lies off Bugsby's Hole. Anne--Bufton,"
with his eyes full on the man before him, "is in attendance on her
mistress, Lady Barry."
"Oh! And Anne--Bufton. Damn you! Why call her that? Why----"
"You say your wedding is unbreakable. Therefore she is--Anne Bufton."
"How do you know all this? Do not play with me. Answer me truthfully,
in God's name!"
"I know it well. Barry has been with me, trying to get men for the
fleets. But," and now the clear tones in which he always spoke became,
if possible, more distinct than ordinary, more--if the term may be
used--metallic, "I have a better market than supplying the fleets with
men. There is a Dutch schooner--the _Nederland_--lying further down
the river, whose skipper pays me higher. She is in truth a--well! a
kidnapper. Those who get on board of her, men and--and--yes!--and
women--she takes women too!--think that they are going out to become
planters, farmers, people to whom land is granted. That is, the men
think so, while the women--oh! it is in truth cruel----"
"The women. Yes, the women! What of them?"
"They think they will find husbands. But they, too, are sold. All are
sold to the plantations, or as good as sold; they are indented for a
term of years. They are, in solemn fact, slaves--slaves herding with
those whose death-warrants have been commuted, with the scum and offal
of the old world. The women die fast, the labour is terrible. Their
hearts are broken."
"But how do you, how does the Dutch skipper get such?" Bufton asked,
his eyes glistening. Already there was a hideous idea dawning in his
mind, accompanied by a horrible vision of "women dying fast, their
hearts broken," in the slavery of the colonies.
"It is not hard to do," Granger said, still speaking slowly and very
calmly. "Some are enticed with flowery promises, some are made drunk,
while some--poor rustics these--going along lonely ways near the
river, have been set upon and carried, gagged, to a boat, and sent off
to the _Nederland_. You scorn me," he said, with an appearance of
frankness as well as of self-depreciation, "for being concerned in
such a trade as this! Yet, remember, I am a ruined, degraded man.
Remember also by whom, and so forgive and pity me."
"I do! I do!" Bufton exclaimed with heartiness, thinking, even as he
did thus exclaim, what a fool this old tool and creature of his was to
so expose his method of business. Yet he had something else to think
about now besides Granger's simplicity--something of far more vital
importance than that to meditate upon.
"How," he asked, "did you tell me it was done? How? With, let us say,
the women. Will the master of this ship receive any taken to him?
And--and--is he not in danger of being overhauled? How can he slip
away to sea past the guns of Woolwich and Tilbury?"
"They let him come up the river," said Granger, "why not, therefore,
let him go down and out to sea? For his papers are examined when he
_comes_, when he is empty of such stuff as he departs with. And till
he is at sea, they--his cattle--are under hatches."
"Under hatches," Bufton muttered, his long chin stuck out before him,
"under hatches. So that screams--the screams of women--oh! yes--they
could not be heard. Of women wrenched away from----"
"Loving husbands, eh?" said Granger while controlling his features,
which he feared would betray him.
"Bah! Loving husbands. No! Who cares for loving husbands? None! none,
you fool!" and now there came upon the man's face that hateful sneer
which always made Granger's blood boil, and, as of old, a desire to
strike him on those curling lips arose. "No, dolt! I am thinking of
the screams of women wrenched from those whom they have snared into a
noose, those whom they have tricked and hoodwinked. My friend, you are
but a simpleton."
"Oh!" exclaimed Granger coldly, with a well-assumed air of
indifference, "oh! that's it, is it? It is only Anne--Bufton--you seek
vengeance on?"
"Only Anne! Only Anne Bufton, as you elect to term her. Who else, in
God's name, should I seek to vent vengeance on--in such a way?"
"I know not," Granger said, with an inimitable shrug of his shoulders,
while at the same time he turned up the backs of his fingers and
appeared to be regarding his nails with interest, "if you do not know
yourself."
"What do you mean? Speak. There is something in your mind. What is
it?"
"I thought," Granger replied, "that you sought revenge on Barry, too."
"On Barry! What can I do with him? Damme! The Dutchman would not take
him, the captain of a King's ship, would he? Even if we could get him
there."
"Perhaps he would, if he did not know who he was: if he were disguised
and did not appear as a naval officer. Such things have been. Yet it
was not of him I thought."
"In Heaven's name, who then?"
"I fear 'tis you, Algernon, who are the dolt, the idiot, not I; or
perhaps your own marriage made you forget that he too has lately
entered into the holy bonds. He, too, has a wife, on board the
_Mignonne_."
"My God!" Bufton exclaimed. "My God! You have thought of that!
You--you whom but a moment ago I derided. Ay! ay! you are right, 'tis
I who am the fool. Oh! what a vengeance. Oh! oh! On him, this haughty
bully, this blustering sailor. But--oh no! no! no!" he cried, "it is
impossible; it could never be. Get her out of an armed vessel and sell
her into slavery in the colonies. It is impossible! Impossible!"
"Doubtless it is impossible," Granger agreed. "'Tis true. It is not to
be thought on. I am a fool. Yet," he continued, again speaking very
slowly and incisively, "she will get herself out of it, out of
the _Mignonne_, ere long. He sails in a day or so, and then she,
Ariadne--the heiress whom you by rights should have had--comes ashore
with Anne and her mother, the woman Pottle. They cannot go in his
craft."
"How do you know this?"
"Partly from what Barry said to-day, after he had got men from me;
partly from encountering his wife by Stepney Church a day or so ago.
She speaks kindly of you now, Bufton; protests she thinks often of
you--and--would pass her life by your side if you would have her."
One must not write down the horrible exclamations that issued from
Bufton's lips as he heard these words--the execrations on the woman
who had entrapped and ruined him. Yet even when he was calmer, he
continued wildly--
"'Thinks kindly of me!' 'Would pass her life by my side!' Ay! she
shall think kindly of me--in the colonies. In the fields, where she
shall toil till her heart bursts, till she drops dead. Lewis! Lewis!
Can it be done? Can it? Can it? And you have power here; have men at
your call. I will pay. I have two hundred guineas. Help me, and we
will ensnare them both. Oh! what a vengeance on that wanton and on
Barry! Help me, Lewis!"
"I will help you," the other said; "vengeance _is_ sweet."