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[Illustration: Very slowly Sir Harry obeyed, swearing frightfully.
_Frontispiece._ _See page 104._]
THE HONOURABLE
MR. TAWNISH
BY
JEFFERY FARNOL
AUTHOR OF "THE BROAD HIGHWAY," AND
"THE AMATEUR GENTLEMAN"
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
CHARLES E. BROCK
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1913
_Copyright_, 1913,
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
----------
_All rights reserved_
Published, October, 1913
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
TO
DOROTHY
THE BEST AND GENTLEST OF SISTERS
THE TRUEST AND BRAVEST OF COMRADES
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK
JEFFREY FARNOL
LONDON, August 28, 1913
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I Introducing Mr. Tawnish, and what
befell at "The Chequers" 1
II Of the further astonishing conduct of
the said Mr. Tawnish 39
III Of a Flight of Steps, a Stirrup, and a
Stone 70
IV Of how We fell in with a Highwayman
at the Cross Roads 87
V Concerning the true Identity of our
Highwayman 113
VI Of the Dawning of Christmas Day 123
VII Which deals, among other Matters,
with the Ring of Steel 132
VIII Wherein the Truth of the old Adage
is made manifest--to wit: All's
well that ends well 152
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Very slowly, Sir Harry obeyed, swearing
frightfully _Frontispiece_
"I believe I have the felicity of addressing
Sir John Chester?" PAGE 12
"Oh! Ha! Hum!" says Bentley, "Did
Jack tell you all that, Pen?" 80
"Father," says she, "this is my husband--and
I am proud to tell you so 159
THE HONOURABLE
MR. TAWNISH
CHAPTER ONE
_Introducing Mr. Tawnish, and what befell
at "The Chequers"_
Myself and Bentley, who, though a good fellow in many ways, is yet a
fool in more (hence the prominence of the personal pronoun, for, as
every one knows, a fool should give place to his betters)--myself and
Bentley, then, were riding home from Hadlow, whither we had been to
witness a dog-fight (and I may say a better fight I never saw, the dog I
had backed disabling his opponent very effectively in something less
than three-quarters of an hour--whereby Bentley owes me a hundred
guineas)--we were riding home as I say, and were within a half-mile or
so of Tonbridge, when young Harry Raikes came up behind us at his usual
wild gallop, and passing with a curt nod, disappeared down the hill in a
cloud of dust.
"Were I but ten years younger," says I, looking after him, "Tonbridge
Town would be too small to hold yonder fellow and myself--he is becoming
a positive pest."
"True," says Bentley, "he's forever embroiling some one or other."
"Only last week," says I, "while you were away in London, he ran young
Richards through the lungs over some triviality, and they say he lies
a-dying."
"Poor lad! poor lad!" says Bentley. "I mind, too, there was Tom
Adams--shot dead in the Miller's Field not above a month ago; and before
that, young Oatlands, and many others besides--"
"Egad," says I, "but I've a great mind to call 'out' the bully myself."
"Pooh!" says Bentley, "the fellow's a past master at either weapon."
"If you will remember, there was a time when I was accounted no mean
performer either, Bentley."
"Pooh!" says Bentley, "leave it to a younger man--myself, for instance."
"Why, there is but a month or two betwixt us," says I.
"Six months and four days," says he in his dogged fashion; "besides," he
went on, argumentatively, "should it come to small-swords, you are a
good six inches shorter in the reach than Raikes; now as for me--"
"You!" says I, "Should it come to pistols you could not help but stop a
bullet with your vast bulk."
Hereupon Bentley must needs set himself to prove that a big man offered
no better target than a more diminutive one, all of which was of course
but the purest folly, as I very plainly showed him, whereat he fell
a-whistling of the song "Lillibuleero" (as is his custom ever, when at
all hipped or put out in any way). And so we presently came to the
cross-roads. Now it has been our custom for the past twelve years to
finish the day with a game of picquet with our old friend Jack Chester,
so that it had become quite an institution, so to speak. What was our
surprise then to see Jack himself upon his black mare, waiting for us
beneath the finger-post. That he was in one of his passions was evident
from the acute angle of his hat and wig, and as we approached we could
hear him swearing to himself.
"Bet you fifty it's his daughter," says Bentley.
"Done!" says I, promptly.
"How now, Jack?" says Bentley, as we shook hands.
"May the Devil anoint me!" growled Jack.
"Belike he will," says Bentley.
"Here's an infernal state of affairs!" says Jack, frowning up the road,
his hat and wig very much over one eye.
"Why, what's to do?" says I.
"Do?" says he, rapping out three oaths in quick succession--"do?--the
devil and all's to do!"
"Make it a hundred?" says Bentley aside.
"Done!" says I.
"To think," groans Jack, blowing out his cheeks and striking himself a
violent blow in the chest, "to think of a pale-faced, pranked-out,
spindle-shanked, mealy-mouthed popinjay like him!"
"Him?" says I, questioningly.
"Aye--him!" snaps Jack, with another oath.
"Make it a hundred and fifty, Bentley?" says I softly.
"Agreed!" says Bentley.
"To think," says Jack again, "of a prancing puppy-dog, a walking
clothes-pole like him--and she loves him, sir!"
"She?" repeated Bentley, and chuckled.
"Aye, she, sir," roared Jack; "to think after the way we have brought
her up, after all our care of her, that she should go and fall in love
with a dancing, dandified nincompoop, all powder and patches. Why damme!
the wench is run stark, staring mad. Egad! a nice situation for a loving
and affectionate father to be placed in!"
"Father?" says I.
"Aye, father, sir," roars Jack again, "though I would to heaven Penelope
had some one else to father her--the jade!"
"What!" says I, unheeding Bentley's leering triumph (Bentley never wins
but he must needs show it) "what, is Penelope--fallen in love with
somebody?"
"Why don't I tell you?" cries Jack, "don't I tell you that I found a set
of verses--actually poetry, that the jackanapes had written her?"
"Did you tax her with the discovery?" says I.
"To be sure I did, and the minx owned her love for him--vowed she'd
never wed another, and positively told me she liked the poetry stuff.
After that, as you may suppose, I came away; had I stayed I won't answer
for it but that I might have boxed the jade's ears. Oh, egad, a pretty
business!"
"And I thought we had settled she was to marry Bentley's nephew Horace
some day," says I, as we turned into the High Street.
"It seems she has determined otherwise--the vixen; and a likely lad,
too, as I remember him," says Jack, shaking his head.
"Where is he now, Bentley?" says I.
"Humph!" says Bentley, thoughtfully. "His last letter was writ from
Venice."
"Aye, that's it," says Jack, "while he's gadding abroad, this mincing,
languid ass, this--"
"What did you say was the fellow's name?" says I.
"Tawnish!" says Jack, making a wry face over it, "the Honourable Horatio
Tawnish. Come, Dick and Bentley, what shall we do in the matter?"
"Speaking for myself," I returned, "it's devilish hard to determine."
"And speaking for us all," says Bentley, "suppose we thrash out the
question over a bottle of wine?" and swinging into the yard of "The
Chequers" hard by, he dismounted and led the way to the sanded parlour.
We found it empty (as it usually is at this hour) save for a solitary
individual who lounged upon one of the settles, staring into the fire.
He was a gentleman of middling height and very slenderly built, with a
pair of dreamy blue eyes set in the oval of a face whose pallor was
rendered more effective by a patch at the corner of his mouth. His coat,
of a fine blue satin laced with silver, sat upon him with scarce a
wrinkle (the which especially recommended itself to me); white satin
small-clothes and silk stockings of the same hue, with silver-buckled,
red-heeled shoes, completed a costume of an elegance seldom seen out of
London. I noticed also that his wig, carefully powdered and ironed, was
of the very latest French mode (vastly different to the rough scratch
wigs usually affected by the gentry hereabouts), while the
three-cornered hat upon the table at his elbow was edged with the very
finest point. Altogether, there was about him a certain delicate air
that reminded me of my own vanished youth, and I sighed. As I took my
seat, yet wondering who this fine gentleman might be, Jack seized me
suddenly by the arm.
"Look!" says he in my ear, "damme, there sits the fellow!"
Turning my head, I saw that the gentleman had risen, and he now tripped
towards us, his toes carefully pointed, while a small, gold-mounted
walking cane dangled from his wrist by a riband.
"I believe," says he, speaking in a soft, affected voice, "I believe I
have the felicity of addressing Sir John Chester?"
"The same, sir," said Jack, rising, "and, sir, I wish a word with you."
Here, however, remembering myself and Bentley, he introduced us--though
in a very perfunctory fashion, to be sure.
"Sir John," says Mr. Tawnish, "your very obedient humble;
gentlemen--yours," and he bowed deeply to each of us in turn, with a
prodigious flourish of the laced hat.
[Illustration: "I believe I have the felicity of addressing Sir John
Chester?" _Page 12._]
"I repeat, sir," says Jack, returning his bow, very stiff in the back,
"I repeat, I would have a word with you."
"On my soul, I protest you do me too much honour!" he murmured--"shall
we sit?" Jack nodded, and Mr. Tawnish sank into a chair between myself
and Bentley.
"Delightful weather we are having," says he, breaking in upon a somewhat
awkward pause, "though they do tell me the country needs rain most
damnably!"
"Mr. Tawnish," says Jack, giving himself a sudden thump in the chest, "I
have no mind to talk to you of the weather."
"No?" says Mr. Tawnish, with a tinge of surprise in his gentle voice,
"why then, I'm not particular myself, Sir John--there are a host of
other matters--horses and dogs, for instance."
"The devil take your horses and dogs, sir!" cries Jack.
"Willingly," says Mr. Tawnish, "to speak the truth I grow something
tired of them myself; there seems very little else talked of
hereabouts."
"Mr. Tawnish," says Jack, beginning to lose his temper despite my
admonitory frown, "the matter on which I would speak to you is my
daughter, sir, the Lady Penelope."
"What--here, Sir John?" cries Mr. Tawnish, in a horrified tone, "in the
tap of an inn, with a--pink my immortal soul!--a sanded floor, and the
very air nauseous with the reek of filthy tobacco? No, no, Sir John,
indeed, keep to horses and dogs, I beg of you; 'tis a subject more in
harmony with such surroundings."
"Now look you, sir," says Jack, blowing out his cheeks, "'tis a good
enough place for what I have to say to you, sanded floor or no, and I
promise it shall not detain you long."
Hereupon Jack rose with a snort of anger, and began pacing to and fro,
striking himself most severely several times, while Mr. Tawnish, drawing
out a very delicate, enamelled snuff-box, helped himself to a leisurely
pinch, and regarded him with a mild astonishment.
"Sir," says Jack, turning suddenly with a click of spurred heels, "you
are in the habit of writing poetry?"
The patch at the corner of the Honourable Horatio's mouth quivered for
a moment. "Really, my dear Sir John--" he began.
"You sent a set of verses to my daughter, sir," Jack broke in, "well,
damme, sir, I don't like poetry!"
"I do not doubt it for a moment, sir," says Mr. Tawnish, "but these were
written, if you remember, to--the lady."
"Exactly," cries Jack, "and you will understand, sir, that I forbid
poetry, once and for all--curse me, sir, I'll not permit it!"
"This new French sauce that London is gone mad over is a thought too
strong of garlic, to my thinking," says Mr. Tawnish, flicking a stray
grain of snuff from his cravat. "You will, I think, agree with me, Sir
John, that to a delicate palate--"
"The devil anoint your French sauce, sir," cries Jack, in a fury, "who's
talking of French sauces?"
"My very dear Sir John," says Mr. Tawnish, with an engaging smile, "when
one topic becomes at all--strained, shall we say?--I esteem it the wiser
course to change the subject, having frequently proved it to have
certain soothing and calming effects--hence my sauce."
Here Bentley sneezed and coughed both together and came nigh choking
outright (a highly dangerous thing in one of his weight), which
necessitated my loosening his steenkirk and thumping him betwixt the
shoulder-blades, while Jack strode up and down, swearing under his
breath, and Mr. Tawnish took another pinch of snuff.
"French sauce, by heaven!" cries Jack suddenly, "did any man ever hear
the like of it?--French sauce!" and herewith he snatched off his wig and
trampled upon it, and Bentley choked himself purple again. I will admit
that Jack's round bullet head, with its close-cropped, grizzled hair
standing on end, would have been a whimsical, not to say laughable sight
in any other (Bentley for instance)--but Jack in a rage is no laughable
matter.
"By the Lord, sir," cries he, turning upon Mr. Tawnish, who sat
cross-legged, regarding everything with the same mild wonderment--"by
the Lord! I'd call you out for that French sauce if I thought you were a
fighting man."
"Heaven forfend!" exclaimed Mr. Tawnish, with a gesture of horror,
"violence of all kinds is abhorrent to my nature, and I have always
regarded the duello as a particularly clumsy and illogical method of
settling a dispute."
Hereupon Jack looked about him in a helpless sort of fashion, as indeed
well he might, and catching sight of his wig lying in the middle of the
floor, promptly kicked it into a corner, which seemed to relieve him
somewhat, for he went to it and, picking it up again, knocked out the
dust upon his knee, and setting it on very much over one eye, sat
himself down again, flushed and panting, but calm.
"Mr. Tawnish," says he, "as regards my daughter, I must ask--nay
demand--that you cease your persecution of her once and for all."
"Sir John," says Mr. Tawnish, bowing across the table, "allow me to
suggest in the most humble and submissive manner, that the word
'persecution' is perhaps a trifle--I say just a trifle--unwarranted."
"Be that as it may, sir, I repeat it, nevertheless," says Jack, "and
furthermore I must insist that you communicate no more with the Lady
Penelope either by poetry or--or any other means."
"Alas!" sighs Mr. Tawnish, "cheat myself as I may, the possibility will
obtrude itself that you do not look upon my suit with quite the degree
of warmth I had hoped. Sir, I am not perfect, few of us are, but even
you will grant that I am not altogether a savage?" As he ended, he
helped himself to another pinch of snuff with a pretty, delicate air
such as a lady would use in taking a comfit; indeed his hand, small and
elegantly shaped, whose whiteness was accentuated by the emerald and
ruby ring upon his finger, needed no very strong effort of fancy to be
taken for a woman's outright. I saw Jack's lip curl and his nostrils
dilate at its very prettiness.
"There be worse things than savages, sir," says he, pointedly.
"Indeed, Sir John, you are very right--do but hearken to the brutes,"
says Mr. Tawnish, with lifted finger, as from the floor above came a
roar of voices singing a merry drinking-catch, with the ring of glasses
and the stamping of spurred heels. "Hark to 'em," he repeated, with a
gesture of infinite disgust; "these are creatures the which, having all
the outward form and semblance of man, yet, being utterly devoid of all
man's finer qualities, live but to quarrel and fight--to eat and drink
and beget their kind--in which they be vastly prolific, for the world is
full of such. To-night it would seem they are in a high good humour,
wherefore they are a trifle more boisterous than usual, indulging
themselves in these howlings and shoutings, and shall presently drink
themselves out of what little wit Dame Nature hath bestowed upon 'em,
and be carted home to bed by their lackeys--pah!"
"How--what?" gasps Jack, while I sat staring (very nearly open-mouthed)
at the cool audacity of the fellow.
"Are you aware, sir," cries Jack, when at last he had regained his
breath, "that the persons you have been decrying are friends of mine,
gallant gentlemen all--aye, sir, damme, and men to boot!--hard-fighting,
hard-riding, hard-drinking, six-bottle gentlemen, sir?"
"I fear me my ignorance of country ways hath led me into a grave error,"
says Mr. Tawnish, with a scarce perceptible shrug of the shoulders;
"upon second thoughts I grant there is about a man who can put down one
throat what should suffice for six, something great."
"Or roomy!" adds Bentley, in a strangling voice.
"We are at side issues," says Jack, very red in the face, "the point
being, that I forbid you my daughter once and for all."
"Might I enquire your very excellent reasons?"
"Plainly, then," returns Jack, hitting himself in the chest again, "the
Lady Penelope Chester must and shall marry a man, sir."
"Yes," nodded Mr. Tawnish, "a man is generally essential in such cases,
I believe."
"I say a man, sir," roared Jack, "and, damme, I mean a man, and not a
clothes-horse or a dancing master, or--or a French sauce, sir. One who
will not faint if a dog bark too loudly, nor shiver at sight of a
pistol, nor pick his way ever by smooth roads. He must be a man, I say,
able to use a small-sword creditably, who knows one end of a horse from
another, who can win well but lose better, who can follow the hounds
over the roughest country and not fall sick for a trifle of mud, nor
fret a week over a splashed coat--in a word, he must be a man, sir."
"Alas, what a divine creature is man, after all!" sighs Mr. Tawnish,
with a shake of the head, "small matter of wonder if I cannot attain
unto so high an estate; for I beg you to observe that though I am
tolerably efficient in the use of my weapon" (here he laid his hand
lightly upon the silver hilt of his small-sword), "though I can tell a
spavined horse from a sound one, and can lose a trifle without positive
tears, yet--and I say it with a sense of my extreme unworthiness--I have
an excessive and abiding horror of mud, or dirt in any shape or form.
But is there no other way, Sir John? In remote times it was the custom
in such cases to set the lover some arduous task--some enterprise to try
his worth. Come now, in justice do the same by me, I beg, and no matter
how difficult the undertaking, I promise you shall at least find me
zealous."
"Come, Jack," cries Bentley, suddenly, "smite me, but that's very fair
and sportsmanlike! How think you, Dick?"
"Why, for once I agree with you, Bentley," says I, "'tis an offer not
devoid of spirit, and should be accepted as such."
Jack sat down, took two gulps of wine, and rose again.
"Mr. Tawnish," says he, "since these gentlemen are in unison upon the
matter, and further, knowing they have the good of the Lady Penelope at
heart as much as I, I will accept your proposition, and we will, each of
us, set you a task. But, sir, I warn you, do not delude yourself with
false hopes; you shall not find them over-easy, I'll warrant."
Mr. Tawnish bowed, with the very slightest shrug of his shoulders.
"Firstly, then," Jack began, "you must--er--must--" Here he paused to
rub his chin and stare at his boots. "Firstly," he began again, "if you
shall succeed in doing--" Here his eyes wandered slowly up to the
rafters, and down again to me. "Curse it, Dick!" he broke off, "what the
devil must he do?"
"Firstly," I put in, "you must accomplish some feat the which each one
of us three shall avow to be beyond him."
"Good!" cries Jack, rubbing his hands, "excellent--so much for the
first. Secondly--I say secondly--er--ha, yes--you must make a public
laughing stock of that quarrelsome puppy, Sir Harry Raikes. Raikes is a
dangerous fellow and generally pinks his man, sir."
"So they tell me," nodded Mr. Tawnish, jotting down a few lines in his
memorandum.
"Thirdly," ended Bentley, "you must succeed in placing all three of
us--namely, Sir Richard Eden, Sir John Chester, and myself--together and
at the same time, at a disadvantage."
"Now, sir," says Jack, complacently, "prove your manhood equal to these
three tasks, and you shall be free to woo and wed the Lady Penelope
whenever you will. How say you, Dick and Bentley?"
"Agreed," we replied.
"Indeed, gentlemen," says Mr. Tawnish, glancing at his memoranda with a
slight frown, "I think the labours of Hercules were scarce to be
compared to these, yet I do not altogether despair, and to prove to you
my readiness in the matter, I will, with your permission, go and set
about the doing of them." With these words he rose, took up his hat, and
with a most profound obeisance turned to the door.
At this moment, however, there came a trampling of feet upon the stairs,
another door was thrown open, and in walked Sir Harry Raikes himself,
followed by D'Arcy and Hammersley, with three or four others whose faces
were familiar. They were all in boisterous spirits, Sir Harry's florid
face being flushed more than ordinary with drinking, and there was an
ugly light in his prominent blue eyes.
Now, it so happened that to reach the street, Mr. Tawnish must pass
close beside him, and noting this, Sir Harry very evidently placed
himself full in the way, so that Mr. Tawnish was obliged to step aside
to avoid a collision; yet even then, Raikes thrust out an elbow in such
a fashion as to jostle him very unceremoniously. Never have I seen an
insult more wanton and altogether unprovoked, and we all of us, I
think, ceased to breathe, waiting for the inevitable to follow.
Mr. Tawnish stopped and turned. I saw his delicate brows twitch suddenly
together, and for a moment his chin seemed more than usually
prominent--then all at once he smiled--positively smiled, and shrugged
his shoulders with his languid air.
"Sir," says he, with a flash of his white teeth, "it seems they make
these rooms uncommon small and narrow, for the likes of you and me--your
pardon." And so, with a tap, tap, of his high, red-heeled shoes, he
crossed to the door, descended the steps, turned up the street, and was
gone.
"He--he begged the fellow's pardon!" spluttered Jack, purple in the
face.
"A more disgraceful exhibition was never seen," says I, "the fellow's a
rank coward!" As for Bentley, he only fumbled with his wine-glass and
grunted.
The departure of Mr. Tawnish had been the signal for a great burst of
laughter from the others, in the middle of which Sir Harry strolled up
to our table, nodding in the insolent manner peculiar to him.
"They tell me," said he, leering round upon us, "they tell me your
pretty Penelope takes something more than a common interest in yonder
fop; have a care, Sir John, she's a plaguey skittish filly by the looks
of her, have a care, or like as not--"
But here his voice was drowned by the noise of our three chairs, as we
rose.
"Sir Harry Raikes," says I, being the first afoot, "be you drunk or no,
I must ask you to be a little less personal in your remarks--d'ye take
me?"
"What?" cries Raikes, stepping up to me, "do you take it upon yourself
to teach me a lesson in manners?"
"Aye," says Bentley, edging his vast bulk between us, "a hard task, Sir
Harry, but you be in sad need of one."
"By God!" cries Raikes, clapping his hand to his small-sword, "is it a
quarrel you are after? I say again that the wench--"
The table went over with a crash, and Raikes leaped aside only just in
time, so that Jack's fist shot harmlessly past his temple. Yet so fierce
had been the blow, that Jack, carried by its very impetus, tripped,
staggered, and fell heavily to the floor. In an instant myself and
Bentley were bending over him, and presently got him to his feet, but
every effort to stand served only to make him wince with pain; yet
balancing himself upon one leg, supported by our shoulders, he turned
upon Raikes with a snarl.
"Ha!" says he, "I've long known you for a drunken rascal--fitter for the
stocks than the society of honest gentlemen, now I know you for a liar
besides; could I but stand, you should answer to me this very moment."
"Sir John, if you would indulge me with the pleasure," says I, putting
back the skirt of my coat from my sword-hilt, "you should find me no
unworthy substitute, I promise."
"No, no," says Bentley, "being the younger man, I claim this privilege
myself."
"I thank you both," says Jack, stifling a groan, "but in this affair
none other can take my place."
Raikes laughed noisily, and crossing the room, fell to picking his teeth
and talking with his friend, Captain Hammersley, while the others stood
apart, plainly much perturbed, to judge from their gestures and solemn
faces. Presently Hammersley rose, and came over to where Jack sat
betwixt us, swearing and groaning under his breath.
"My dear Sir John," says the Captain, bowing, "in this
much-to-be-regretted, devilish unpleasant situation, you spoke certain
words in the heat of the moment which were a trifle--hasty, shall we
say? Sir Harry is naturally a little incensed, still, if upon calmer
consideration you can see your way to retract, I hope--"
"Retract!" roars Jack, "retract--not a word, not a syllable; I repeat,
Sir Harry Raikes is a scoundrel and a liar--"
"Very good, my dear Sir John," says the Captain, with another bow; "it
will be small-swords, I presume?"
"They will serve," says Jack.
"And the time and place?"
"Just so soon as I can use this leg of mine," says Jack, "and I know of
no better place than this room. Any further communication you may have
to make, you will address to my friend here, Sir Richard Eden, who will,
I think, act for me?"
"Act for you?" I repeated, in great distress, "yes, yes--assuredly."
"Then we will leave it thus for the present, Sir John," says the
Captain, bowing and turning away, "and I trust your foot will speedily
be well again."
"Which is as much as wishing me speedily dead!" says Jack, with a rueful
shake of the head. "Raikes is a devil of a fellow and generally pinks
his man--eh, Dick and Bentley?"
"Oh, my poor Jack!" sighed Bentley, turning his broad back upon Sir
Harry, who, having bowed to us very formally, swaggered off with the
others at his heels.
"Man, Jack," says I, "you'll never fight--you cannot--you shall not!"
"Aye, but I shall!" says Jack, grimly.
"'Twill be plain murder!" says Bentley.
"And--think of Pen!" says I.
"Aye, Pen!" sighed Jack. "My pretty Pen! She'll be lonely awhile,
methinks, but--thank God, she'll have you and Bentley still!"
And so, having presently summoned a coach (for Jack's foot was become
too swollen for the stirrup), we all three of us got in and were driven
to the Manor. And I must say, a gloomier trio never passed out of
Tonbridge Town, for it was well known to us that there was no man in all
the South Country who could stand up to Sir Harry Raikes; and moreover,
that unless some miracle chanced to stop the meeting, our old friend was
as surely a dead man as if he already lay in his coffin.
CHAPTER TWO
_Of the further astonishing conduct of the
said Mr. Tawnish_
Myself and Bentley were engaged upon our usual morning game of chess,
when there came a knocking at the door, and my man, Peter, entered.
"Checkmate!" says I.
"No!" says Bentley, castelling.
"Begging your pardon, Sir Richard," says Peter, "but here's a man with a
message."
"Oh, devil take your man with a message, Peter!--the game is mine in six
moves," says I, bringing up my queen's knight.
"No," says Bentley, "steady up the bishop."
"From Sir John Chester," says Peter, holding the note under my nose.
"Oh! Sir John Chester--check!"
"What in the world can Jack want?" says Bentley, reaching for his wig.
"Check!" says I.
"Why, what can have put him out again?" says Bentley, pointing to the
letter--"look at the blots."
Jack is a bad enough hand with the pen at all times, but when in a
passion, his writing is always more or less illegible by reason of the
numerous blots and smudges; on the present occasion it was very evident
that he was more put out than usual.
"Some new villainy of the fellow Raikes, you may depend," says I,
breaking the seal.
"No," says Bentley, "I'll lay you twenty, it refers to young Tawnish."
"Done!" I nodded, and spreading out the paper I read (with no little
difficulty) as follows:
DEAR DICK AND BENTLEY,
Come round and see me at once, for the devil anoint me if I ever
heard tell the like on't, and more especially after the exhibition
of a week ago. To my mind, 'tis but a cloak to mask his cowardice,
as you will both doubtless agree when you shall have read this note.
Yours,
JACK.
"Well, but where's his meaning? 'Tis ever Jack's way to forget the very
kernel of news," grumbled Bentley.
"Pooh! 'tis plain enough," says I, "he means Raikes; any but a fool
would know that."
"Lay you fifty it's Tawnish," says Bentley, in his stubborn way.
"Done!" says I.
"Stay a moment, Dick," says Bentley, as I rose, "what of our Pen,--she
hasn't asked you yet how Jack hurt his foot, has she?"
"Not a word."
"Ha!" says Bentley, with a ponderous nod, "which goes to prove she doth
but think the more, and we must keep the truth from her at all hazards,
Dick--she'll know soon enough, poor, dear lass. Now, should she ask
us--as ask us she will, 'twere best to have something to tell her--let's
say, he slipped somewhere!"
"Aye," I nodded, "we'll tell her he twisted his ankle coming down the
step at 'The Chequers'--would to God he had!" So saying, we clapped on
our hats and sallied out together arm in arm. Jack and I are near
neighbours, so that a walk of some fifteen minutes brought us to the
Manor, and proceeding at once to the library, we found him with his leg
upon a cushion and a bottle of Oporto at his elbow--a-cursing most
lustily.
"Well, Jack," says Bentley, as he paused for breath, "and how is the
leg?"
"Leg!" roars Jack, "leg, sir--look at it--useless as a log--as a cursed
log of wood, sir--snapped a tendon--so Purdy says, but Purdy's a damned
pessimistic fellow--the devil anoint all doctors, say I!"
"And pray, what might be the meaning of this note of yours?" and I held
it out towards him.
"Meaning," cries Jack, "can't you read--don't I tell you? The
insufferable insolence of the fellow."
"Faith!" says I, "if it's Raikes you mean, anything is believable of
him--"
"Raikes!" roars Jack, louder than ever, "fiddle-de-dee, sir! who
mentioned that rascal--you got my note?"
"In which you carefully made mention of no one."
"Well, I meant to, and that's all the difference."
"To be sure," added Bentley,--"it's young Tawnish; anybody but a fool
would know that."
"To be sure," nodded Jack. "Dick," says he, turning upon me suddenly,
"Dick, could you have passed over such an insult as we saw Raikes put
upon him the other day?"
"No!" I answered, very short, "and you know it."
Jack turned to Bentley with a groan.
"And you, Bentley, come now," says he, "you could, eh!--come now?"
"Not unless I was asleep or stone blind, or deaf," says Bentley.
"Damme! and why not?" cries Jack, and then groaned again. "I was afraid
so," says he, "I was afraid so."
"Jack, what the devil do you mean?" I exclaimed.
For answer he tossed a crumpled piece of paper across to me. "Read
that," says he, "I got it not an hour since--read it aloud." Hereupon,
smoothing out the creases, I read the following:
TONBRIDGE, OCTR. 30th, 1740.
MY DEAR SIR JOHN,
Fortune, that charming though much vilified dame, hath for once
proved kind, for the first, and believe me by far the most
formidable of my three tasks, namely, to perform that which each one
of you shall avow to be beyond him, is already accomplished, and I
make bold to say, successfully.
To be particular, you could not but notice the very objectionable
conduct, I might say, the wanton insolence of Sir Harry Raikes upon
the occasion of our last interview. Now, Sir John, you, together
with Sir Richard Eden and Mr. Bentley, will bear witness to the fact
that I not only passed over the affront, but even went so far as to
apologise to him myself, wherein I think I can lay claim to having
achieved that which each one of you will admit to have been beyond
his powers.
Having thus fulfilled the first undertaking assigned me, there
remain but two, namely, to make a laughing stock of Sir Harry Raikes
(which I purpose to do at the very first opportunity) and to place
you three gentlemen at a disadvantage.
So, my dear Sir John, in hopes of soon gaining your esteem and
blessing (above all), I rest your most devoted, humble, obedient,
HORATIO TAWNISH.
"This passes all bounds," says I, tossing the letter upon the table, "such
audacity--such presumption is beyond all belief; the question is, whether
the fellow is right in his head."
"No, Dick," says Bentley, helping himself to the Oporto, "the question
is rather--whether he is wrong in his assertion."
"Why, as to that--" I began, and paused, for look at it as I might
'twas plain enough that Mr. Tawnish had certainly scored his first
point.
"We all agree," continued Bentley, "that we none of us could do the
like; it therefore follows that this Tawnish fellow wins the first
hand."
"Sheer trickery!" cries Jack, hurling his wig into the corner--"sheer
trickery--damme!"
"Fore gad! Jack," says I, "this fellow's no fool, if he 'quits himself
of his other two tasks as featly as this, sink me! but I must needs
begin to love him, for look you, fair is fair all the world over and I
agree with Bentley, for once, that Mr. Tawnish wins the first hand."
"Ha!" cries Jack, "and because the rogue has tricked us once, would you
have us sit by and let Pen throw herself away upon a worthless,
fortune-hunting fop--"
"Why, as to that, Jack," says Bentley, "a bargain's a bargain--"
"Pish!" roared Jack, fumbling in his pocket, "why only this very morning
I came upon more of his poetry-stuff! Here," he continued, tossing a
folded paper on the table in front of Bentley, "it seems the young
rascal's been meeting her--over the orchard wall. Read it, Bentley--read
it, and see for yourself." Obediently Bentley took up the paper and read
as here followeth:
"'Dear Heart--'"
"Bah!" snorted Jack.
"'Dear Heart!'" read Bentley again and with a certain unction:
"'DEAR HEART,
I send you these few lines, poor though they be, for since they were
inspired by my great love for thee, that of itself, methinks, should
make them more worthy,
Thine, as ever,
HORATIO.'"
"You mark that?" cries Jack, excitedly, "'hers as ever,' and 'Horatio!'
Horatio--faugh! I could ha' taken it kinder had he called himself Tom, or
Will, or George, but 'Horatio'--oh, damme! And now comes the poetry-stuff."
Hereupon Bentley hummed and ha'd, and clearing his throat, read this:
"'When drowsy night with sombre wings
O'er this world his shadow flings
And thou, dear love, doth sleep,
Then do I send my soul to thee
Thy guardian till the dawn to be
And thy sweet slumbers keep.'"
"'Slumbers keep,'" snorted Jack, "the insolence of the fellow! Now look
on t'other side."
"'I shall be in the orchard to-morrow at the usual hour, in the hope of
a word or a look from you.'"
Bentley read, and laid down the paper.
"At the usual hour--d'ye mark that!" cries Jack, thumping himself in the
chest--"'tis become a habit with 'em, it seems--and there's for ye, and
a nice kettle o' fish it is!"
"Ah, Bentley," says I, "if only your nephew, the young Viscount, were
here--"
"To the deuce with Bentley's nephew!" roars Jack. "I say he shouldn't
marry her now, no--not if he were ten thousand times Bentley's nephew,
sir--deuce take him!"
"So then," says I, "all our plans are gone astray, and she will have her
way and wed this adventurer Tawnish, I suppose?"
"No, no, Dick!" cries Jack; "curse me, am I not her father?"
"And is she not--herself?" says I.
"True!" Jack nodded, "and as stubborn as--as--"
"Her father!" added Bentley. "Why, Jack--Dick--I tell you she's ruled us
all with a rod of iron ever since she used to climb up our knees to pull
at our wigs with her little, mischievous fingers!"
"Such very small, pink fingers!" says I, sighing. "Indeed we've spoiled
her wofully betwixt us."
"Ha!" snorted Jack, "and who's responsible for all this, I say; who's
petted and pampered, and coddled and condoned her every fault? Why--you,
Dick and Bentley. When I had occasion to scold or correct her, who was
it used to sneak behind my back with their pockets bulging with cakes
and sticky messes? Why, you, Dick and Bentley!"
"You scold her, Jack?" says Bentley, "yes, egad! in a voice as mild as a
sucking dove! And when she wept, you'd frown tremendously to hide thine
own tears, man, and end by smothering her with your kisses. And thus it
has ever been--for her dead mother's sake!"
"But now," says I after a while, "the time is come to be resolute, for
her sake--and her mother's."
"Aye," cries Jack, "we must be firm with her, we must be resolute!
Penelope's my daughter and shall obey us for once, if we have to lock
her up for a week. I'll teach her that our will is law, for once!"
"You're in the right on 't, Jack," says I, "we must show her that she
can't ride rough-shod over us any longer. We must be stern to be kind."
"We must be adamant!" says Bentley, his eyes twinkling.
"We must be harsh," says I, "if need be and--"
But here, perceiving Bentley's face to be screwed up warningly,
observing his ponderous wink and eloquent thumb, I glanced up and beheld
Penelope herself regarding us from the doorway. And indeed, despite the
pucker at her pretty brow, she looked as sweet and fresh and fair as an
English summer morning. But Jack, all innocent of her presence, had
caught the word from me.
"Harsh!" cries he, thumping the table at his elbow, "I'll warrant me
I'll be harsh enough--if 'twas only on account of the fellow's
poetry-stuff--the jade! We'll lock her up--aye, if need be, we'll starve
her on bread and water, we'll--"
But he got no further, for Penelope had stolen up behind him and,
throwing her arms round his neck, kissed him into staring silence.
"Uncle Bentley!" says she, giving him one white hand to kiss, "and you,
dear uncle Dick!" and she gave me the other.
"What, my pretty lass!" cries Bentley, rising, and would have kissed
the red curve of her smiling lips, but she stayed him with an
authoritative finger.
"Nay, sir," says she, mighty demure, "you know my new rule,--from Monday
to Wednesday my hand; from Wednesday to Saturday, my cheek; and on
Sunday, my lips--and to-day is Tuesday, sir!"
"Drat my memory, so it is!" says Bentley, and kissed her slender fingers
obediently, as I did likewise. Hereupon she turns, very high and
haughty, to eye Jack slowly from head to foot, and to shake her head at
him in dignified rebuke.
"As for you, sir," says she, "you stole away my letter,--was that
gentle, was it loving, was it kind? Uncle Bentley--say 'No'!"
"Why--er--no," stammered Bentley, "but you see, Pen--"
"Then, Sir John," she continued, with her calm, reproving gaze still
fixed upon her father's face the while he fidgetted in his chair, "then
yesterday, Sir John, when I found you'd taken it, and came to demand it
back again, you heard me coming and slipped out--through the window, and
hid yourself--in the stables, and rode away without even stopping to put
on your riding-boots, and--in that terrible old hat! Was that behaving
like a dignified, middle-aged gentleman and Justice of the Peace, sir?
Uncle Richard, say 'Certainly not!'"
"Well, I--I suppose 'twas not," says I, "but under the circumstances--"
"And now I find you all with your heads very close together, hatching
diabolical plots and conspiracies against poor little me--heigho!"
"Nay, Penelope," says Jack, beginning to bluster, "we--I say we are
determined--"
"Oh, Sir John," she sighed, "oh, Sir John Chester, 'tis a shameful thing
and most ungallant in a father to run off with his daughter's
love-letter. Prithee, where is her love-letter? Give her her
love-letter--this moment!"
Hereupon Jack must needs produce the letter from his pocket (where he
had hidden it) and she (naughty baggage) very ostentatiously set it
'neath the tucker at her bosom. Which done, she nods at each one of us
in turn, frowning a little the while.
"I vow," says she, tapping the floor with the toe of her satin shoe, "I
could find it in my heart to be very angry with you--all of you, if I
didn't--love you quite so well. So, needs must I forgive you. Sir John
dear, stoop down and let me straighten your wig--there! Now you may kiss
me, sir--an' you wish."
Hereupon Jack kissed her, of course, and thereafter catching sight of
us, frowned terrifically.
"Now, look'ee here, Pen--Penelope," says he, "I say, look'ee here!"
"Yes, Sir John dear."
"I--that is to say--we," began Jack, "for Dick and Bentley are one with
me, I say that--that--er, I say that--what the devil do I mean to say,
Dick?"
"Why, Pen," I explained, "'tis this stranger--this--er--"
"Tawnish!" says Bentley.
"Aye, Tawnish!" nodded Jack. "Now heark'ee, Pen, I repeat--I say, I
repeat--"
"Very frequently, dear," she sighed. "Well?"
"I say," continued Jack, "that I--we--utterly forbid you to see or hear
from the fellow again."
"And pray, sir, what have you against him?" says she softly,--only her
slender foot tapped a little faster.
"Everything!" says Jack.
"Which is as much as to say--nothing!" she retorted.
"I say," cried Jack, "the man you come to marry shall be a _man_ and not
a mincing exquisite with no ideas beyond the cut of his coat."
"And," says I, "a man of position, and no led-captain with an eye to
your money, or needy adventurer hunting a dowry, Pen."
"Oh!" she sighed, "how cruelly you misjudge him! And you, Uncle Bentley,
what have you to say?"
"That whoso he be, we would have him in all things worthy of thee, Pen."
"Aye!" nodded Jack, "so my lass, forego this whim--no more o' this
Tawnish fellow--forget him."
"Forget!" says she, "how lightly you say it! Oh, prithee don't you see
that I am a child no longer--don't you understand?"
"Pooh!" cries Jack. "Fiddle-de-dee! What-a-plague! This fellow is no
fit mate for our Pen, a stranger whom nobody knows! a languid fop! a
pranked-out, patched and powdered puppy-dog! So Penelope, let there be
an end on't!"
Pen's little foot had ceased its tattoo, but her eyes were bright and
her cheeks glowed when she spoke again.
"Oh!" says she, scornfully. "Oh, most noble, most fair-minded
gentlemen--all three of you, to condemn thus, out of hand, one of whom
you know nothing, and without allowing him one word in his own behalf!
Aye, hang your heads! Oh, 'tis most unworthy of you--you whom I have
ever held to be in all things most just and honourable!"
And here she turned her back fairly upon us and crossed to the window,
while we looked at one another but with never a word betwixt us;
wherefore she presently went on again.
"And yet," says she, and now her voice was grown wonderfully tender,
"you all loved the mother I never knew--loved her passing well, and, for
her sake, have borne with my foolish whims all these years, and given me
a place deep within your hearts. And because of this," says she, turning
and coming back to us, "yes, because of this I love thee, Uncle Dick!"
Here she stooped and kissed me (God bless her). "And you too, Uncle
Bentley!" Here she kissed Bentley. "And you, dear, tender father!" Here
she kissed Jack. "Indeed," she sighed, "methinks I love you all far more
than either of you, being only men, can ever understand. But because I
am a woman, needs must I do as my heart bids me in this matter, or
despise myself utterly. As for the worth of this gentleman, oh! think
you I am so little credit to your upbringing as not to know the real
from the base? Ah! trust me! And indeed I know this for a very noble
gentleman, and what's more, I will never--never--wed any other than this
gentleman!" So saying, she sobbed once, and turning about, sped from the
room, banging the door behind her.
Hereupon Jack sighed and ruffled up his wig, while Bentley, lying back
in his chair, nodded up at the ceiling, and as for myself I stared down
at the floor, lost in sombre thought.
"Well," exclaimed Jack at last, "what the devil are you shaking your
heads over? Had you aided me just now instead of sitting there mumchance
like two graven images--say like two accursed graven images--"
"Why," retorted Bentley, "didn't I say--"
"Say," cries Jack, "no sooner did you clap eyes on her than it's 'My
sweet lass!' 'My pretty maid!' and such toys! And after all your talk of
being 'harsh to be kind!' Oh, a cursed nice mess you've made on't
betwixt you. Lord knows I tried to do my best--"
"To be sure," nodded Bentley, "'Come let me straighten your wig' says
she, and there you sat like--egad, like a furious lamb!"
"Jack and Bentley," says I, "'tis time we realized that our Pen's a
woman grown and we--old men, though it seems but yesterday we were boys
together at Charterhouse. But the years have slipped away, as years
will, and everything is changed but our friendship. As we, in those
early days lived, and fought, and worked together, so we loved together,
and she--chose Jack. And because of our love, her choice was ours also.
And in a little while she died, but left us Pen--to comfort Jack if such
might be, and to be our little maid. Each day she hath grown more like
to what her sweet mother was, and so we have loved her--very dearly
until--to-day we have waked to find our little maid a woman grown--to
think, and act, and choose for herself, and we--old men."
And so I sighed, and rising crossed to the window and stood there
awhile.
"Lord!" says Bentley at last, "how the years do gallop upon a man!"
"Aye!" sighed Jack, "I never felt my age till now."
"Nor I!" added Bentley.
"And now," says Jack, "what of Raikes; have you seen aught of him
lately?"
"No, Jack."
"But I met Hammersley this morning," says Bentley, "and he was anxious
to know when the--the--"
"Meeting was likely to take place?" put in Jack, as he paused; "Purdy
tells me I shan't be able to use this foot of mine for a month or
more."
"That will put it near Christmas," added Bentley.
"Yes," nodded Jack, "I think we could do no better than Christmas Day."
"A devilish strange time for a duel," says Bentley, "peace on earth, and
all that sort of thing, you know."
"Why, it's Pen," says Jack, staring hard into the fire, "she will be at
her Aunt Sophia's then, which is fortunate on the whole. I shouldn't
care for her to see me--when they bring me home."
For a long time it seemed to me none of us spoke. I fumbled through all
my pockets for my snuff-box without finding it (which was strange), and
looking up presently, I saw that Bentley had upset his wine, which was
trickling down his satin waistcoat all unnoticed.
"Jack," says I at last, "a Gad's name, lend me your snuff-box!"
"And now," says he, "suppose we have a hand at picquet."
CHAPTER THREE
_Of a Flight of Steps, a Stirrup, and a Stone_
Autumn, with its dying flowers and falling leaves, is, to my thinking, a
mournful season, and hath ever about it a haunting melancholy, a gentle
sadness that sorts very ill with this confounded tune of "Lillibuleero,"
more especially when whistled in gusts and somewhat out of key.
Therefore, as we walked along towards the Manor on this November
afternoon, I drew my arm from Bentley's and turned upon him with a
frown:
"Why in heaven's name must you whistle?" I demanded.
"Did I so, Dick? I was thinking."
"Of what, pray?"
"Of many things, man Dick, but more particularly of my nephew."
"Ah!" says I scornfully, "our gallant young Viscount! our bridegroom
elect who--ran away!"
"But none the less," added Bentley, stoutly, "a pretty fellow with a
good leg, a quick hand and a true eye, Dick--one who can tell 'a hawk
from a hern-shaw' as the saying is."
"Which I take leave to doubt," says I, sourly, "or he would have fallen
in with our wishes and married Pen a year ago, instead of running away
like a craven fool!"
"But bethink you, Dick," says Bentley flushing, "he had never so much
as seen her and, when he heard we were all so set on having him
married, he writ me saying he 'preferred a wife of his own choosing' and
then--well, he bolted!"
"Like a fool!"
"'Twas very natural," snorted Bentley, redder in the face than ever.
"And what's more, he's a fine lad, a lovable lad, and a very fine
gentleman into the bargain, as you will be the first to admit when--"
but here Bentley broke off to turn and look at me mighty solemn all at
once: "Dick," says he, "do you think young Raikes is so great a
swordsman as they say?"
"Yes," I answered bitterly, "and that's why I grieve for our poor Jack."