CHAPTER III 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.