KNAVES
SQUIRE THORNBY, in the next room, had finished his dinner before the
Foxwell party had well begun theirs. In the state of his temper he had
attacked the roast lamb with a fierceness that made his usual voracity
seem delicate in comparison. But, indeed, a good appetite had something
to do with his gastronomic energy, for he had ridden that morning from
his own house through this town to an estate some miles eastward, to
look at some hounds that were to be offered for sale, and it was on his
return that he had stopped at the inn. During his meal he sometimes gave
his feelings vent in speech to the sympathizing Bartholomew, who
remained for part of the time in attendance.
“If I ever catch that there gamekeeper of his alone without a gun,” said
Bartholomew, “you shall have your revenge on that score, sir,—if I may
be so bold as to say as much.”
“Oh, rat his gamekeeper!” cried Thornby, petulantly. “You harp and harp
on the gamekeeper!—the rascal cut you out with a girl, didn’t he? When
it comes to that, what the devil do I mind as to the poaching business
and such like? Neighbourly quarrels will arise, upon trespass and
boundaries and so forth. No, ’tis none o’ that, for all the trouble he’s
put me to. I’ll tell the truth, Bartholomew, ’tis the smooth way he has
of taking me down whenever we meet,—waving me back to second place,
like,—coming over me with his damned fine airs and glib speeches. That’s
what rubs me the wrong way. _I_ was the fine gentleman in our
neighbourhood till he came; and now—well, ecod, we shall see, we shall
see!”
This, indeed, was the true secret of the squire’s animosity, as it is of
many a bitter hatred. It is easier for some men to forget a material
injury to their rights or interests than a sentimental hurt to their
vanity, and when they have to expect a repetition of the latter in some
new form at every future encounter, they must be greater philosophers
than Squire Thornby if they do not rage. Indeed, had Foxwell’s offence
not been partly wilful, his superiority in mind and manner would alone
have drawn the Squire’s hate. Thornby’s envy was not of the admiring
sort that would emulate the merits of its object: it was of that
churlish kind which, with no desire to possess those merits for their
own sake, fiercely resents the superiority they imply.
His dinner disposed of, he went down-stairs, treading heavily as he
passed his enemy’s door, which was now closed. Bartholomew had told him
of the company that had arrived, and he could hear their laughter as he
went by. He peered into the kitchen to see what their servants looked
like; and the magnificence of attire of their coachman, valet, and
waiting-woman did not put him into any better humour. He then stepped
into the yard and viewed their coach, and finally took notice of their
horses feeding in the stalls. Seeing nothing he could disparage, he
contented himself with a sniff of scorn at such extravagant fopperies,
and betook himself to the public dining-room to wait while Bartholomew
attended to his own appetite in the kitchen. The Squire had heard the
arrival of the stage-coach some time before, and he now supposed there
might be a congenial passenger or two with whom to exchange news.
He found a single passenger—a slim, discreet-looking man of less than
medium height, with a smallish brown face beginning to wrinkle, a sharp
nose and chin, a curious appearance of huddling himself together so as
not to fill much space, and lead-coloured eyes that lifted their gaze
without haste from their owner’s plate and rested intently for a moment
upon Thornby. The eyes were then deferentially lowered. The man was
decently dressed in brown and gray, and wore a wig of the latter colour.
The Squire set him down as a tradesman in comfortable circumstances, or
perhaps an attorney or attorney’s clerk, and a civil sort of fellow who
knew how to drop his glance in the presence of his betters.
“Good day, friend,” began the Squire. “You arrived by the stage-coach
from the North, I take it.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the other, briefly, but civilly.
“Travelled far?” pursued Thornby.
“From Edinburgh, though not all the way by that coach. And previous
thereto, from Inverness-shire.”
“You’re not a Scotchman, though?”
“Oh, no, sir; not me, sir. Not so bad as that. I was with the Duke’s
army in Scotland.”
“Oh, then, you helped to put down the rebellion?” said the Squire.
“In my humble capacity, sir. I was waiting-gentleman to an officer,
sir.”
(“A mighty worthy fellow,” thought the Squire, while the stranger paused
in his talk to dispose of a large mouthful of meat. “He might pass for a
shopkeeper or a quill-driver, yet he owns at once to being a
servant—though for my part, I don’t see why a gentleman’s valet
shouldn’t rank above a rascal clerk or tradesman any day—he certainly
sees better society.”)
“I did my small share of fighting,” continued the worthy fellow; “was
wounded, sir, which is the reason I’m now going home to London.”
He put back one side of his wig, and disclosed an ear minus a good
portion of its rim. Though he gave no further information on the point,
and showed no sign of deafness, it was to be assumed that some internal
injury had been caused, for it was difficult to see how the mere
mutilation of the ear, damaging as it was to the man’s appearance, could
be held sufficient reason for his retirement from service.
“Your health, sir,” said the man, raising a pot of ale to his lips.
“Thankye,—thankye, my good man,” said the Squire, approvingly.
“You live in these parts, sir, may I be so bold to ask?” said the good
man, with a deferential mildness, having swallowed a great part of the
contents of the pot.
“Yes, certainly. Why d’ye ask?”
“Because in that case you might be able, and so condescending, to direct
me to a person I’m wishing to pay my respects to,—a gentleman of the
name of Foxwell.”
“Foxwell! What do you want of him?”
The abruptness of the Squire’s speech, and the sudden clouding of his
brow, would have attracted anybody’s notice, and were not lost on the
man whose request had caused them.
“Robert Foxwell, Esquire,” added the man, quietly, “who came into this
county from London about two years back, is the particular gentleman I
mean.”
“Ay, there’s only one,” replied the Squire, gloomily, “only one Foxwell
in this county now. He’s the last of the name.”
“Pardon me, sir,” said the other, delicately, “but if I dared take the
liberty, I should judge from your manner that you’re not a friend of
his.”
“By the lord, you’re a good judge!” said Thornby, without hesitation.
“Thank you very humbly, sir. If I might take the further liberty of
asking whether he’s a man of—ah—any considerable wealth to speak of,
nowadays—”
“He’s as poor as a church mouse, and I’m not sorry to say it.”
“I’m rather sorry to hear it,” said the man, looking gravely into his
pot of ale. “Oh, not on his account, sir: on my own. I’m purely selfish
in my sorrow, sir. The truth is, I had something to sell him.”
“Well, friend,” said the Squire, taking a seat near the table’s end
where the traveller was, “if it’s something of any value that you have
to sell, my advice is to look for another customer.”
“The trouble is,” replied the man, musingly, “this that I have to sell
wouldn’t be of any value to anybody but Mr. Foxwell—unless to his
enemies.”
The last words were spoken very softly, as if they represented a
meditative afterthought of no practical utility. The man continued to
keep his eyes lowered from meeting the Squire’s, and a thoughtful pause
ensued.
“Enemies? What the devil—?” said the Squire in his mind. But presently
he broke forth in his blunt manner, “Lookye, my man, you may speak
freely to me if you be so minded. I’m all for plain-dealing, I am. My
name is Thornby,—anybody can tell you how Thomas Thornby, of Thornby
Hall, Justice of the Peace, stands in this county. Anybody can tell you
whether he’s to be trusted or not. What’s all this here about Mr.
Foxwell and his enemies? It concerns me, by the lord, for I’m at least
no friend of his, I can tell you that much and not betray any secrets,
neither.”
“Why, then, sir,” said the other, his face lighting up as though a happy
idea had that instant occurred to him, “you might be a better customer
for what I have to sell than Mr. Foxwell himself.”
“By the lord, I’m able to pay a better price,” said the Squire, with
frank self-gratulation.
“Do you know anything of Mr. Foxwell’s history, sir?” asked the
stranger.
“I know that he was born at Foxwell Court, the old seat of the family in
this country; that he was sent away to school when young, and then to
Oxford, and after that travelled in foreign parts. Fine way to bring up
an Englishman! When he did come back to his own country, he thought best
to live in London, and he never darkened his father’s door in those
days: there wasn’t any love lost between him and his people here in
their lifetime, I’ve heard. Howe’er that be, he wasn’t seen hereabouts,
so I never set eyes on him till he came back to the Foxwell estate to
live, about two years since, after squandering a fortune his uncle left
him—so the story goes. That’s all the history I know of him.”
“I can vouch for the truth of one part, sir,—as to squandering his money
in town. I had hoped perhaps his affairs had improved since he retired
from fashionable life.”
“But what of his history? I’ve told you all I know. What do _you_ know?”
The Squire leaned forward toward the traveller with an almost painful
expression of eagerness on his face.
“Why, sir,” said the other, as if with some reluctance, “as you are good
enough to take an interest, I see no reason why I shouldn’t tell you a
little story. I dare say you remember the affair of Lord Hilby,—him that
was murdered by footpads one night in Covent Garden.”
“I heard of it at the time,” said the Squire, “’twas two or three years
ago.”
“Yes, sir. His lordship had been playing till a late hour in a
gaming-house, you may remember, and had won very heavily. He was walking
away from the house, his pockets full of gold. He was attended by a
servant and a linkboy. It was a very dark night. No doubt, sir, you know
the place,—what they call the piazza in Covent Garden, where the
gaming-houses are.”
“I was there—once,” replied the Squire, with a glum look: no doubt he
had reason to repent the experience.
“Ay, sir, once is enough for many a country gentleman,” said the other,
sympathetically, “though the tables don’t always have the best of it.
There’s been fortunes retrieved there, as well as fortunes lost. And
certainly Lord Hilby had been in wonderful luck that night. Some think
that word of his large winnings had been passed out to a person in the
street, in the short time between his rising from the table and his
leaving the house. Of course everybody in the room knew how great his
winnings were, and saw where he put them. In any case, there was no
chair to be had when he came out, and he started to walk to Pall Mall.
But he hadn’t gone far when suddenly three ruffians sprang up from the
foot of one of the pillars of the colonnade, where they had been
crouching all in a heap. One of them knocked the link out of the boy’s
hand, one attacked the servant with a bludgeon, and the third caught my
lord by the throat and called for his money.”
“’Tis a wicked, dangerous place, London!” observed the Squire, in a low
voice, shaking his head.
“The linkboy ran away, leaving his torch still burning on the ground.
The fellow who had knocked it now joined him that was grappling with his
lordship. All this the servant saw, and then he was felled to the earth,
where he lay stunned for a little while. During that time, it must have
been, the footpads struck my lord dead with a bludgeon.”
Thornby gave a shiver of discomfort.
“When the servant came to,” the narrator continued, “he found that the
footpads had gone; and two gentlemen, who had left the same gaming-house
soon after his master, were now examining him to see if he was alive, by
the light of the torch, which one of them had picked up. They had seen
the scuffle as they were coming from the gaming-house, and had run up
with their swords drawn, making such a noise that maybe the footpads had
imagined them to be a large party. In any case, the footpads had taken
to their heels. The two gentlemen informed the servant they believed his
master to be dead. He joined them in a further examination, and found
that his lordship’s money was gone.”
“Ay, to be sure,” said Thornby. “The rascals got the money before they
ran away.”
“A very natural supposition, sir,—in fact, the only probable one. The
servant came to that at once, and the world accepted it afterwards,—that
the footpads had succeeded in getting the money before the two gentlemen
arrived. But, sir, do you know that in this world ’tis just as often
that the probable supposition isn’t the true one?”
“What d’ye mean?”
“Why, sir, the truth is, as I’m a living man,—and this is entirely
between us for the present, sir,—’tis a secret I’ve kept for a long
time, and if I didn’t feel I could rely on you as a gentleman with a
particular interest in Mr. Foxwell—”
“Certainly you can rely on me,—no fears on that score. But what the
deuce has this to do with Foxwell? Come, out with it, man! I can keep a
secret as well as the best.”
“Well, sir, thanking you kindly for your assurance, the truth is, the
footpads _hadn’t_ got the money before they ran away. At least they
hadn’t got all of it, or so much but that a considerable amount was
left.”
“How, then, if the servant found it was all gone?”
“Simply that those two gentlemen, having suffered heavy losses that
night, being in all likelihood at their wits’ end for a further supply
of the needful, and finding his lordship’s pockets lined with the same,
had succumbed to the temptation of an instant, and transferred the
shiners from his pockets to their own while the servant still lay
senseless on the ground.”
“The devil you say?” exclaimed the Squire.
“A shocking thing, sir, no doubt,—robbery of the dead. It has a
singularly bad sound when put that way, for some reason or other, has it
not? So _ungentlemanly_ a crime, if I may presume to offer an opinion,
sir.”
“A devilish risky one, too, I should say.”
“Why, no, sir, I should think a particularly safe one on this occasion.
The servant and the linkboy could both testify to the attack by the
footpads, and it would be taken as certain—just as everybody did take
it—that the footpads had succeeded in their purpose before they fled.”
“Ay, but the footpads themselves knew they hadn’t. They had only to come
forward and say as much.”
“But by coming forward to say it, sir, they must needs have incriminated
themselves of the murder. No, there was little reason to fear that, I
should consider: as a matter of fact, they never did come forward. Nor I
never heard of their even threatening to do so—in a way of extorting
money, you understand. No, sir, a very safe crime on the part of the two
gentlemen, if I may say so again. And, lookye, sir, how circumstances
alter the appearance of things. Suppose my lord had lost the money in
the gaming-house that night, and these two gentlemen had won it, as
might very easily have happened. There would then have been no crime in
their possessing it, no dishonour, no ungentlemanliness; they would have
had no reason for concealment. But as matters were, if the truth ever
got out, are there any bounds to the horror and ignominy with which the
names of those gentlemen would be held by the great world they moved
in?”
“But if it never got out, then how the devil do you know it? Answer me
that, man?”
“In a moment, sir. I should have thought you would be curious as to who
these gentlemen were?”
“Well, who were they? In course I’m curious.”
“One of them was a certain baronet, since deceased; the other, Robert
Foxwell, Esquire.”
“Eh!”
“Robert Foxwell, Esquire,” repeated the stranger.
Mr. Thornby’s surprise, as depicted on his countenance, was as jubilant
as if he had received sudden news of an unexpected bequest. He rose and
snapped his fingers in the air, and seemed with difficulty to restrain a
shout. But after a moment he sat down again, and eagerly demanded:
“But how do you know it?—how do you know it, man? How are you sure of
it?”
“You shall see in a minute, sir. The baronet had excellent luck with the
money he took, and was able to make as good a figure as ever. But the
adage, sir, in regard to ill-gotten gains, though it failed in his case,
was fulfilled in Mr. Foxwell’s. There _does_ seem to be a partiality
shown in the workings of Providence sometimes. Mr. Foxwell had the worst
of luck, and soon the bailiffs were after him. He was taken to a
sponging-house, and, after trying friend after friend in vain, he saw
imprisonment for debt staring him in the face. I suppose his interest in
the family estate hereabouts was tied up in some way.”
“Ay, he could touch nothing but his share of the income,” said the
Squire.
“And on that, no doubt, he had already raised what he could. A mere drop
in the bucket, I dare say. However it be, he was certainly in a
desperate condition. I don’t know whether you’ve ever seen the inside of
a debtors’ prison, sir,—”
“Ecod, man, not me!”
“Only as a matter of curiosity, sir, I meant. But you’ll take my word
for it, I hope, that ’tis really no place for a gentleman. The fear of
it would drive a man of Mr. Foxwell’s habits, I can well believe, to
desperate measures. Well, sir, what did he do, when he saw everything
failing him, but write a letter to the baronet—he had written three
before, and got no answer—a letter to the baronet, from the
sponging-house, in which he said that if the baronet didn’t come to his
assistance immediately, he’d be damned if he wouldn’t confess all and
let the world know who really got Lord Hilby’s money that night. Yes,
sir, in black and white he wrote those words, which distinctly appear in
the letter,—‘_Confess_ all and let the world know who got Lord Hilby’s
money that night.’ So the baronet obligingly went to his assistance.”
“And how did all this come to _your_ ears?” queried the Squire.
“The baronet threw the letter, as he thought, into the fire. But he had
a faithful servant, who hooked it out, as a matter of habit, read it in
private, and filed it away for future reference. He didn’t see any
occasion to refer to it, the faithful servant didn’t, for a long time.
Meanwhile, Mr. Foxwell, after various ups and downs, finally left
London; and the baronet died. The faithful servant became
waiting-gentleman to a king’s officer, and went through the campaign in
Scotland. Being wounded, and losing his place, he set out to return to
London. He had heard what county Mr. Foxwell had sought retirement in,
and, having to pass through that county on his way South, he thought it
might be worth while to look the gentleman up and see whether he
attached any value to an interesting specimen of his earlier
handwriting.”
“So you are the baronet’s faithful servant?”
“Yes, your honour,—Jeremiah Filson, at your service. And here is the
letter.”
He produced a pocket-book from the breast of his coat, and brought the
document out of a double wrapper of soft paper. Holding it tightly with
both hands, he placed it within reading distance of the Squire, having
first drawn it back with a polite “Your pardon, sir,” when the latter
made an involuntary reach for it.
“His hand, sure enough,” said the Squire, who had sufficient reason in
the correspondence preceding their litigation to know his neighbour’s
penmanship. He first examined the signature, “R. Foxwell,” and then
carefully read the note—dashed off with a scratchy pen and complete
disregard for appearance—from beginning to end. The sheet was slightly
burnt at one side, and had in all respects the evidence of genuineness.
“Lookye, Jeremiah Filson,” said the Squire at last, as he eyed the
letter covetously, “Foxwell can’t for his life give you twenty pounds
ready money for that piece of paper. In any case you may be sure I can
outbid him. Don’t you approach him at all, that’s my advice. ’Twould be
time lost, if you expect to get anything worth while; and, besides that,
he’s a shrewd fellow, is Mr. Foxwell, and he might bubble you out of the
letter before ever you knew what you were at. You’d best deal with me,
you had. Understand, I wouldn’t make any harmful use of it, though I do
dislike the man. But I have the fancy to crow over him a little, d’ye
see,—that’s all,—nothing harmful. Now what—”
At this critical moment the pair were interrupted by Bartholomew looking
in and announcing that the horses were ready. Thornby bade him shut the
door, wait outside, and be damned. The first and second of these items
being complied with, the Squire entered into negotiations with Mr.
Filson for the possession of the letter. That gentleman, having
carefully put away the document in its former resting-place, seemed in
no hurry to come to terms. He listened to the Squire with sedate
civility, but was adamant upon the point of a good round sum in ready
money. The end of their talk was that Filson agreed to call at Thornby
Hall the next day, and not to dispose of the letter in the meantime. The
Squire did not tell the man that Mr. Foxwell was even then under the
same roof with them. If Filson found this out before Foxwell’s
departure, a meeting might occur, though it was scarce likely that
Foxwell would give opportunity for it at the inn. In any case, the
Squire would have a chance to outbid his enemy. Having elicited the
further promise that Filson would not at any time tell Foxwell that he,
the Squire, was dealing for the letter, or knew of its existence, he
took his leave.
Mr. Filson heard the Squire’s horses clatter out of the passage, and
break into a trot in the High Street. As the sound died away, he drank
the last of his ale, and indulged in a comfortable smile.
“A mighty fortunate meeting,” he mused. “This booby will buy the letter
at my own price. He would give his brains, if he had any, for the means
of getting the upper hand of his enemy. And a perfectly safe man to deal
with, too. As for Foxwell, I could never be sure but he would cut my
throat if I went to him with the letter. Now that difficulty is
removed,—’tis certainly the hand of Providence.”
He yawned profoundly, and then resumed:
“I may find this Justice of the Peace a convenient friend if I have
occasion to tarry in this neighbourhood. But I’ll get his money for the
letter first: otherwise he might make his friendship a part of the
price. A fool would have gone farther at this first interview,—but
you’re no fool, Jeremiah; no, sir, a fool is what you certainly are
not.”
He rang the bell and asked to be shown to a bedroom, saying he had not
slept the previous night. Being informed by the landlady that a room
would be ready in ten minutes, he strolled out to the yard to pass the
intervening time there. He had taken a turn or two, when out from the
kitchen came a young woman who seemed to be in a huff. She was very red
in the face, and talked ostensibly to herself, but really for the
benefit of all who might hear.
“The conversation of that London maid is truly scangelous!” quoth she.
“Eh, my dear,” said Mr. Filson, stopping in front of her, “has anybody
been scandalizing those pretty ears of yours?”
Prudence—for it was Miss Foxwell’s maid—took note of the stranger with
much artless affectation of surprise, exclaiming:
“Upon my word, sir—!” But before she got any further, she saw reason for
real wonder. “Eh! speaking of ears, what has happened to yours?”
“Honourably sacrificed in war, miss,” replied Filson, readily; “slashed
by a Jacobite officer at the battle of Culloden, four or five months
ago.”
“Oh, how barbarious!” cried Prudence. “How could he ever have the heart
to do such a thing?”
“Oh, I gave him as good as I got. If you happen to see a handsome young
gentleman with his beauty improved by a mark like a heart on a
playing-card, under his right eye, you may know that he owes that
decoration to me. I did it with a bayonet, miss, and a very pretty job I
made of it.”
“Lor, I’m not like ever to see any Jacobite officer.”
“Don’t be too sure. My gentleman is probably somewhere in this
neighbourhood. So keep your pretty eyes open, my dear. His name is
Everell—Charles Everell—so I was told by a prisoner we took, who had
seen our little exchange of compliments: though ’tis scarce like he’ll
be travelling under his real name just at present.”
“Ay, for I hear they’re going to hang all the Jacobites they catch.”
“So they are, except the great ones, and them they behead. They’ve
already begun the good work in London, both ways. Whether this gentleman
is high enough to be honoured with the axe, or whether his case will be
served by a halter, I know not. He was in the Pretender’s body-guard, at
any rate.”
“But how do you know he’s in this neighbourhood?”
“Because, sweetheart, I saw him yesterday on the road the first time
since Culloden fight. Before I had a chance to lay information against
him, he had given me the slip. I spent the whole night in trying to get
on his track, at inns and other houses. I think he may still be in these
parts, and if I can manage it he shall meet his just deserts.”
“How monstrous bitter you are against him, to be sure!”
“No. I’m not bitter, my dear. ’Tis only patriotism—loyalty;—’tis our
duty, you know, to bring any of these rebels to justice when Providence
puts it in our way. And then I’m a persistent man, too; when I once get
on the scent of a thing, I can’t stop till I’ve run it down. And so,
pretty miss,” he added, playfully, “if you happen to see such a
gentleman, within the next day or two,—young and good-looking, and most
likely travelling with a friend of about the same age, who’s also a
handsome young man but summat heavier built,—why, if you see such a
gentleman, with the ace of hearts on his cheek, hold your tongue, and
send word to me in care of this inn—Jeremiah Filson—and I’ll see you get
your share of the reward.”
Mr. Filson smiled tenderly; and then yawned. A moment later the landlady
called from the entry that his room was ready.
“Remember, my dear, the ace of hearts, and Jeremiah Filson,” he said,
with a parting grin and wink, and then followed the chambermaid, whom
the landlady had ordered to show him his room. Prudence, at the entry
door, watched him ascend the stairs till he disappeared at the turn, and
heard him bestow a gallant “my dear” upon the chambermaid as he
continued on his way, whereupon she tossed her head and became suddenly
scornful.
“Poh! Quite a chivalarious gentleman!” said she. “Nasty scrub! He may
whistle for his Jacobite with the ace of hearts on his face, for all the
help he gets from me!” With that, Miss Prudence returned to the kitchen,
but sat aloof from the other servants, who were making merry over their
bread and cheese and beer. The worsting she had got in a passage of
ironical compliments with Lady Strange’s maid, which had driven her from
the company to the yard, was still sore in her mind, so that she sat in
contemptuous silence, torn between the desire to tell the others of the
Jacobite-hunting guest and the satisfaction of keeping them deprived of
subject-matter so interesting. She flattered herself that she was the
only person in the house whom Mr. Filson had taken into his confidence;
and this was true, though on his arrival he had looked into all the
public parts of the inn and questioned the landlord as to the guests
up-stairs. His disclosure to her had followed naturally upon her notice
of his ear.
Filson, being ushered into one of the back chambers, bade the maid have
his portmanteau brought up from the public room. He then took off his
shoes and threw himself on the bed. The boy who carried up the
portmanteau, two minutes later, found him snoring.
Mr. Filson had not been asleep five minutes, when three horsemen—the
three that have been mentioned more than once hitherto in the course of
this history—turned in from the street, and came to a stop at the door
to the public room. Two of the riders slid from their saddles, and the
third,—the postboy in charge,—after dropping two cloak-bags beside the
door, proceeded with the horses to the yard. The two gentlemen—for
gentlemen they were, as was plain from every appearance, though their
clothes had seen considerable service—stood for a moment glancing
around. They were young and well favoured; both of average height; one
stoutly made, the other of a slighter build. The slender fellow had a
small red scar, which indeed was rather like a heart in shape, on his
right cheek; but it did not apparently spoil the beauty of his face.
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