The Castle Inn by Stanley John Weyman

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As he entered the Mitre, sick with chagrin, and telling himself he might
have known that something of this kind would come of stooping to vulgar
company, he bethought him--for the first time in an hour--of the girl.
'Lord!' he said, thinking of her request, her passion, and her splendid
eyes; and he stood. For the _age des philosophes_, destiny seemed to be
taking too large a part in the play. This must be the very man with whom
she had striven to embroil him!

His servant's voice broke in on his thoughts. 'At what hour will your
honour please to be called?' he asked, as he carried off the laced
coat and wig.

Soane stifled a groan. 'Called?' he said. 'At half-past six. Don't
stare, booby! Half-past six, I said. And do you go now, I'll shift for
myself. But first put out my despatch-case, and see there is pen and
ink. It's done? Then be off, and when you come in the morning bring the
landlord and another with you.'

The man lingered. 'Will your honour want horses?' he said.

'I don't know. Yes! No! Well, not until noon. And where is my sword?'

'I was taking it down to clean it, sir.'

'Then don't take it; I will look to it myself. And mind you, call me at
the time I said.'

CHAPTER IV

PEEPING TOM OF WALLINGFORD

To be an attorney-at-law, avid of practice and getting none; to be
called Peeping Tom of Wallingford, in the place where you would fain
trot about busy and respected; to be the sole support of an old mother,
and to be come almost to the toe of the stocking--these circumstances
might seem to indicate an existence and prospects bare, not to say arid.
Eventually they presented themselves in that light to the person most
nearly concerned--by name Mr. Peter Fishwick; and moving him to grasp at
the forlorn hope presented by a vacant stewardship at one of the
colleges, brought him by coach to Oxford. There he spent three days and
his penultimate guineas in canvassing, begging, bowing, and smirking;
and on the fourth, which happened to be the very day of Sir George's
arrival in the city, was duly and handsomely defeated without the honour
of a vote.

Mr. Fishwick had expected no other result; and so far all was well. But
he had a mother, and that mother entertained a fond belief that local
jealousy and nothing else kept down her son in the place of his birth.
She had built high hopes on this expedition; she had thought that the
Oxford gentlemen would be prompt to recognise his merit; and for her
sake the sharp-featured lawyer went back to the Mitre a rueful man. He
had taken a lodging there with intent to dazzle the town, and not
because his means were equal to it; and already the bill weighed upon
him. By nature as cheerful a gossip as ever wore a scratch wig and lived
to be inquisitive, he sat mum through the evening, and barely listened
while the landlord talked big of his guest upstairs, his curricle and
fashion, the sums he lost at White's, and the plate in his
dressing-case.

Nevertheless the lawyer would not have been Peter Fishwick if he had not
presently felt the stirrings of curiosity, or, thus incited, failed to
be on the move between the stairs and the landing when Sir George came
in and passed up. The attorney's ears were as sharp as a ferret's nose,
and he was notably long in lighting his humble dip at a candle which by
chance stood outside Sir George's door. Hence it happened that
Soane--who after dismissing his servant had gone for a moment into the
adjacent chamber--heard a slight noise in the room he had left; and,
returning quickly to learn what it was, found no one, but observed the
outer door shake as if some one tried it. His suspicions aroused, he was
still staring at the door when it moved again, opened a very little way,
and before his astonished eyes admitted a small man in a faded black
suit, who, as soon as he had squeezed himself in, stood bowing with a
kind of desperate audacity.

'Hallo!' said Sir George, staring anew. 'What do you want, my man?'

The intruder advanced a pace or two, and nervously crumpled his hat in
his hands. 'If your honour pleases,' he said, a smile feebly
propitiative appearing in his face, 'I shall be glad to be of service
to you.'

'Of service?' said Sir George, staring in perplexity. 'To me?'

'In the way of my profession,' the little man answered, fixing Sir
George with two eyes as bright as birds'; which eyes somewhat redeemed
his small keen features. 'Your honour was about to make your will.' 'My
will?' Sir George cried, amazed; 'I was about to--' and then in an
outburst of rage, 'and if I was--what the devil business is it of
yours?' he cried. 'And who are you, sir?'

The little man spread out his hands in deprecation. 'I?' he said. 'I am
an attorney, sir, and everybody's business is my business.'

Sir George gasped. 'You are an attorney!' he cried. 'And--and
everybody's business is your business! By God, this is too much!' And
seizing the bell-rope he was about to overwhelm the man of law with a
torrent of abuse, before he had him put out, when the absurdity of the
appeal and perhaps a happy touch in Peter's last answer struck him; he
held his hand, and hesitated. Then, 'What is your name, sir?' he
said sternly.

'Peter Fishwick,' the attorney answered humbly.

'And how the devil did you know--that I wanted to make a will?'

'I was going upstairs,' the lawyer explained. 'And the door was ajar.'

'And you listened?'

'I wanted to hear,' said Peter with simplicity.

'But what did you hear, sir?' Soane retorted, scarcely able to repress a
smile.

'I heard your honour tell your servant to lay out pen and paper, and to
bring the landlord and another upstairs when he called you in the
morning. And I heard you bid him leave your sword. And putting two and
two together, respected sir, 'Peter continued manfully,' and knowing
that it is only of a will you need three witnesses, I said to myself,
being an attorney--'

'And everybody's business being your business,' Sir George muttered
irritably.

'To be sure, sir--it is a will, I said, he is for making. And with your
honour's leave,' Peter concluded with spirit, I'll make it.'

'Confound your impudence,' Sir George answered, and stared at him,
marvelling at the little man's shrewdness.

Peter smiled in a sickly fashion. 'If your honour would but allow me?'
he said. He saw a great chance slipping from him, and his voice was
plaintive.

It moved Sir George to compassion. 'Where is your practice?' he asked
ungraciously.

The attorney felt a surprising inclination to candour. 'At Wallingford,'
he said, 'it should be. But--' and there he stopped, shrugging his
shoulders, and leaving the rest unsaid.

'_Can_ you make a will?' Sir George retorted.

'No man better,' said Peter with confidence; and on the instant he drew
a chair to the table, seized the pen, and bent the nib on his thumbnail;
then he said briskly, 'I wait your commands, sir.'

Sir George stared in some embarrassment--he had not expected to be taken
so literally; but, after a moment's hesitation, reflecting that to write
down his wishes with his own hand would give him more trouble, and that
he might as well trust this stranger as that, he accepted the situation.
'Take down what I wish, then,' he said. 'Put it into form afterwards,
and bring it to me when I rise. Can you be secret?'

'Try me,' Peter answered with enthusiasm. 'For a good client I would
bite off my tongue.'

'Very well, then, listen!' Sir George said. And presently, after some
humming and thinking, 'I wish to leave all my real property to the
eldest son of my uncle, Anthony Soane,' he continued.

'Right, sir. Child already in existence, I presume? Not that it is
absolutely necessary,' the attorney continued glibly. 'But--'

'I do not know,' said Sir George.

'Ah!' said the lawyer, raising his pen and knitting his brows while he
looked very learnedly into vacancy. 'The child is expected, but you have
not yet heard, sir, that--'

'I know nothing about the child, nor whether there is a child,' Sir
George answered testily. 'My uncle may be dead, unmarried, or alive and
married--what difference does it make?'

'Certainty is very necessary in these things,' Peter replied severely.
The pen in his hand, he became a different man. 'Your uncle, Mr. Anthony
Soane, as I understand, is alive?'

'He disappeared in the Scotch troubles in '45,' Sir George reluctantly
explained, 'was disinherited in favour of my father, sir, and has not
since been heard from.'

The attorney grew rigid with alertness; he was like nothing so much as a
dog, expectant at a rat-hole. 'Attainted?' he said.

'No!' said Sir George.

'Outlawed?'

'No.'

The attorney collapsed: no rat in the hole. 'Dear me, dear me, what a
sad story!' he said; and then remembering that his client had profited,
'but out of evil--ahem! As I understand, sir, you wish all your real
property, including the capital mansion house and demesne, to go to the
eldest son of your uncle Mr. Anthony Soane in tail, remainder to the
second son in tail, and, failing sons, to daughters--the usual
settlement, in a word, sir.'

'Yes.'

'No exceptions, sir.'

'None.'

'Very good,' the attorney answered with the air of a man satisfied so
far. 'And failing issue of your uncle? To whom then, Sir George?'

'To the Earl of Chatham.'

Mr. Fishwick jumped in his seat; then bowed profoundly.

'Indeed! Indeed! How very interesting!' he murmured under his breath.
'Very remarkable! Very remarkable, and flattering.'

Sir George stooped to explain. 'I have no near relations,' he said
shortly. 'Lord Chatham--he was then Mr. Pitt--was the executor of my
grandfather's will, is connected with me by marriage, and at one time
acted as my guardian.'

Mr. Fishwick licked his lips as if he tasted something very good. This
was business indeed! These were names with a vengeance! His face shone
with satisfaction; he acquired a sudden stiffness of the spine. 'Very
good, sir,' he said. 'Ve--ry good,' he said. 'In fee simple, I
understand?'

'Yes.'

'Precisely. Precisely; no uses or trusts? No. Unnecessary of course.
Then as to personalty, Sir George?'

'A legacy of five hundred guineas to George Augustus Selwyn, Esquire, of
Matson, Gloucestershire. One of the same amount to Sir Charles Bunbury,
Baronet. Five hundred guineas to each of my executors; and to each of
these four a mourning ring.'

'Certainly, sir. All very noble gifts!' And Mr. Fishwick smacked his
lips.

For a moment Sir George looked his offence; then seeing that the
attorney's ecstasy was real and unaffected, he smiled. 'To my
land-steward two hundred guineas,' he said; 'to my house-steward one
hundred guineas, to the housekeeper at Estcombe an annuity of twenty
guineas. Ten guineas and a suit of mourning to each of my upper
servants not already mentioned, and the rest of my personalty--'

'After payment of debts and funeral and testamentary expenses,' the
lawyer murmured, writing busily.

Sir George started at the words, and stared thoughtfully before him: he
was silent so long that the lawyer recalled his attention by gently
repeating, 'And the residue, honoured sir?'

'To the Thatched House Society for the relief of small debtors,' Sir
George answered, between a sigh and a smile. And added, 'They will not
gain much by it, poor devils!'

Mr. Fishwick with a rather downcast air noted the bequest. 'And that is
all, sir, I think?' he said with his head on one side. 'Except the
appointment of executors.'

'No,' Sir George answered curtly. 'It is not all. Take this down and be
careful. As to the trust fund of fifty thousand pounds'--the attorney
gasped, and his eyes shone as he seized the pen anew. 'Take this down
carefully, man, I say,' Sir George continued. 'As to the trust fund left
by my grandfather's will to my uncle Anthony Soane or his heirs
conditionally on his or their returning to their allegiance and claiming
it within the space of twenty-one years from the date of his will, the
interest in the meantime to be paid to me for my benefit, and the
principal sum, failing such return, to become mine as fully as if it had
vested in me from the beginning--'

'Ah!' said the attorney, scribbling fast, and with distended cheeks.

'I leave the said fund to go with the land.'

'To go with the land,' the lawyer repeated as he wrote the words. 'Fifty
thousand pounds! Prodigious! Prodigious! Might I ask, sir, the date of
your respected grandfather's will?'

'December, 1746,' Sir George answered.

'The term has then nine months to run?'

'Yes.'

'With submission, then it comes to this,' the lawyer answered
thoughtfully, marking off the points with his pen in the air. 'In the
event of--of this will operating--all, or nearly all of your property,
Sir George, goes to your uncle's heirs in tail--if to be found--and
failing issue of his body to my Lord Chatham?'

'Those are my intentions.'

'Precisely, sir,' the lawyer answered, glancing at the clock. 'And they
shall be carried out. But--ahem! Do I understand, sir, that in the event
of a claimant making good his claim before the expiration of the nine
months, you stand to lose this stupendous, this magnificent sum--even in
your lifetime?'

'I do,' Sir George answered grimly. 'But there will be enough left to
pay your bill.'

Peter stretched out his hands in protest, then, feeling that this was
unprofessional, he seized the pen. 'Will you please to honour me with
the names of the executors, sir?' he said.

'Dr. Addington, of Harley Street.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And Mr. Dagge, of Lincoln's Inn Fields, attorney-at-law.'

'It is an honour to be in any way associated with him,' the lawyer
muttered, as he wrote the name with a flourish. 'His lordship's man of
business, I believe. And now you may have your mind at ease, sir,' he
continued. 'I will put this into form before I sleep, and will wait on
you for your signature--shall I say at--'

'At a quarter before eight,' said Soane. 'You will be private?'

'Of course, sir. It is my business to be private. I wish you a very good
night.'

The attorney longed to refer to the coming meeting, and to his sincere
hope that his new patron would leave the ground unscathed. But a duel
was so alien from the lawyer's walk in life, that he knew nothing of the
punctilios, and he felt a delicacy. Tamely to wish a man a safe issue
seemed to be a common compliment incommensurate with the occasion; and a
bathos. So, after a moment of hesitation, he gathered up his papers, and
tip-toed out of the room with an absurd exaggeration of respect, and a
heart bounding jubilant under his flapped waistcoat.

Left to himself, Sir George heaved a sigh, and, resting his head on his
hand, stared long and gloomily at the candles. 'Well, better be run
through by this clown,' he muttered after a while, 'than live to put a
pistol to my own head like Mountford and Bland. Or Scarborough, or poor
Bolton. It is not likely, and I wish that little pettifogger had not put
it into my head; but if a cousin were to appear now, or before the time
is up, I should be in Queer Street. Estcombe is dipped: and of the money
I raised, there is no more at the agent's than I have lost in a night at
Quinze! D----n White's and that is all about it. And d----n it, I shall,
and finely, if old Anthony's lad turn up and sweep off the three
thousand a year that is left. Umph, if I am to have a steady hand
to-morrow I must get to bed. What unholy chance brought me into
this scrape?'

CHAPTER V

THE MEETING

Sir George awoke next morning, and, after a few lazy moments of
semi-consciousness, remembered what was before him, it is not to be
denied that he felt a chill. He lay awhile, thinking of the past and the
future--or the no future--in a way he seldom thought, and with a
seriousness for which the life he had hitherto led had left him little
time and less inclination.

But he was young; he had a digestion as yet unimpaired, and nerves still
strong; and when he emerged an hour later and, more soberly dressed than
was his wont, proceeded down the High Street towards the Cherwell
Bridge, his spirits were at their normal level. The spring sunshine
which gilded the pinnacles of Magdalen tower, and shone cool and
pleasant on a score of hoary fronts, wrought gaily on him also. The
milksellers and such early folk were abroad, and filled the street with
their cries; he sniffed the fresh air, and smiled at the good humour and
morning faces that everywhere greeted him; and d----d White's anew, and
vowed to live cleanly henceforth, and forswear Pam. In a word, the man
was of such a courage that in his good resolutions he forgot his errand,
and whence they arose; and it was with a start that, as he approached
the gate leading to the college meadows, he marked a chair in waiting,
and beside it Mr. Peter Fishwick, from whom he had parted at the Mitre
ten minutes before.

Soane did not know whether the attorney had preceded him or followed
him: the intrusion was the same, and flushed with annoyance, he strode
to him to mark his sense of it. But Peter, being addressed, wore his
sharpest business air, and was entirely unconscious of offence. 'I have
merely purveyed a surgeon,' he said, indicating a young man who stood
beside him. 'I could not learn that you had provided one, sir.'

'Oh!' Sir George answered, somewhat taken aback, 'this is the
gentleman.'

'Yes, sir.'

Soane was in the act of saluting the stranger, when a party of two or
three persons came up behind, and had much ado not to jostle them in the
gateway. It consisted of Mr. Dunborough, Lord Almeric, and two other
gentlemen; one of these, an elderly man, who wore black and hair-powder,
and carried a gold-topped cane, had a smug and well-pleased expression,
that indicated his stake in the meeting to be purely altruistic. The two
companies exchanged salutes.

On this followed a little struggle to give precedence at the gate, but
eventually all went through. 'If we turn to the right,' some one
observed, 'there is a convenient place. No, this way, my lord.'

'Oh Lord, I have such a head this morning!' his lordship answered; and
he looked by no means happy. 'I am all of a twitter! It is so confounded
early, too. See here: cannot this be--?'

The gentleman who had spoken before drowned his voice. 'Will this do,
sir?' he said, raising his hat, and addressing Sir George. The party had
reached a smooth glade or lawn encompassed by thick shrubs, and to all
appearance a hundred miles from a street. A fairy-ring of verdure,
glittering with sunlight and dewdrops, and tuneful with the songs of
birds, it seemed a morsel of paradise dropped from the cool blue of
heaven. Sir George felt a momentary tightening of the throat as he
surveyed its pure brilliance, and then a sudden growing anger against
the fool who had brought him thither.

'You have no second?' said the stranger.

'No,' he answered curtly; 'I think we have witnesses enough.'

'Still--if the matter can be accommodated?'

'It can,' Soane answered, standing stiffly before them. 'But only by an
unreserved apology on Mr. Dunborough's part. He struck me. I have no
more to say.'

'I do not offer the apology,' Mr. Dunborough rejoined, with a
horse-laugh. 'So we may as well go on, Jerry. I did not come here
to talk.'

'I have brought pistols,' his second said, disregarding the sneer. 'But
my principal, though the challenged party, is willing to waive the
choice of weapons.'

'Pistols will do for me,' Sir George answered.

'One shot, at a word. If ineffective, you will take to your swords,' the
second continued; and he pushed back his wig and wiped his forehead, as
if his employment were not altogether to his taste. A duel was a fine
thing--at a distance. He wished, however, that he had some one with whom
to share the responsibility, now it was come to the point; and he cast a
peevish look at Lord Almeric. But his lordship was, as he had candidly
said, 'all of a twitter,' and offered no help.

'I suppose that I am to load,' the unlucky second continued. 'That being
so, you, Sir George, must have the choice of pistols.'

Sir George bowed assent, and, going a little aside, removed his hat,
wig, and cravat; and was about to button his coat to his throat, when he
observed that Mr. Dunborough was stripping to his shirt. Too proud not
to follow the example, though prudence suggested that the white linen
made him a fair mark, he stripped also, and in a trice the two, kicking
off their shoes, moved to the positions assigned to them; and in their
breeches and laced lawn shirts, their throats bare, confronted
one another.

'Sir George, have you no one to represent you?' cried the second again,
grown querulous under the burden. His name, it seemed, was Morris. He
was a major in the Oxfordshire Militia.

Soane answered with impatience. 'I have no second,' he said, 'but my
surgeon will be a competent witness.'

'Ah! to be sure!' Major Morris answered, with a sigh of relief. 'That is
so. Then, gentlemen, I shall give the signal by saying One, two, three!
Be good enough to fire together at the word Three! Do you understand?'

'Yes,' said Mr. Dunborough. And 'Yes,' Sir George said more slowly.

'Then, now, be ready! Prepare to fire! One! two! th--'

'Stay!' flashed Mr. Dunborough, while the word still hung in the air.
'You have not given us our pistols,' he continued, with an oath.

'What?' cried the second, staring.

'Man, you have not given us our pistols.'

The major was covered with confusion. 'God bless my soul! I have not!'
he cried; while Lord Almeric giggled hysterically. 'Dear me! dear me! it
is very trying to be alone!' He threw his hat and wig on the grass, and
again wiped his brow, and took up the pistols. 'Sir George? Thank you.
Mr. Dunborough, here is yours.' Then: 'Now, are you ready? Thank you.'

He retreated to his place again. 'Are you ready, gentlemen? Are you
quite ready?' he repeated anxiously, amid a breathless silence. 'One!
two! _three_!'

Sir George's pistol exploded at the word; the hammer of the other
clicked futile in the pan. The spectators, staring, and expecting to see
one fall, saw Mr. Dunborough start and make a half turn. Before they had
time to draw any conclusion he flung his pistol a dozen paces away, and
cursed his second. 'D----n you, Morris!' he cried shrilly; 'you put no
powder in the pan, you hound! But come on, sir,' he continued,
addressing Sir George, 'I have this left.' And rapidly changing his
sword from his left hand, in which he had hitherto held it, to his
right, he rushed upon his opponent with the utmost fury, as if he would
bear him down by main force.

'Stay!' Sir George cried; and, instead of meeting him, avoided his first
rush by stepping aside two paces. 'Stay, sir,' he repeated; 'I owe you a
shot! Prime afresh. Reload, sir, and--'

But Dunborough, blind and deaf with passion, broke in on him unheeding,
and as if he carried no weapon; and crying furiously, 'Guard yourself!'
plunged his half-shortened sword at the lower part of Sir George's body.
The spectators held their breath and winced; the assault was so sudden,
so determined, that it seemed that nothing could save Sir George from a
thrust thus delivered. He did escape, however, by a bound, quick as a
cat's; but the point of Dunborough's weapon ripped up his breeches on
the hip, the hilt rapped against the bone, and the two men came together
bodily. For a moment they wrestled, and seemed to be going to fight
like beasts.

Then Sir George, his left forearm under the other's chin, flung him
three paces away; and shifting his sword into his right hand--hitherto
he had been unable to change it--he stopped Dunborough's savage rush
with the point, and beat him off and kept him off--parrying his lunges,
and doing his utmost the while to avoid dealing him a fatal wound. Soane
was so much the better swordsman--as was immediately apparent to all
the onlookers--that he no longer feared for himself; all his fears were
for his opponent, the fire and fury of whose attacks he could not
explain to himself, until he found them flagging; and flagging so fast
that he sought a reason. Then Dunborough's point beginning to waver, and
his feet to slip, Sir George's eyes were opened; he discerned a crimson
patch spread and spread on the other's side--where unnoticed Dunborough
had kept his hand--and with a cry for help he sprang forward in time to
catch the falling man in his arms.

As the others ran in, the surgeons quickly and silently, Lord Almeric
more slowly, and with exclamations, Sir George lowered his burden gently
to the ground. The instant it was done, Morris touched his arm and
signed to him to stand back. 'You can do no good, Sir George,' he urged.
'He is in skilful hands. He would have it; it was his own fault. I can
bear witness that you did your best not to touch him.'

'I did not touch him,' Soane muttered.

The second looked his astonishment. 'How?' he said. 'You don't mean to
say that he is not wounded? See there!' And he pointed to the blood
which dyed the shirt. They were cutting the linen away.

'It was the pistol,' Sir George answered.

Major Morris's face fell, and he groaned. 'Good G--d!' he said, staring
before him. 'What a position I am in! I suppose--I suppose, sir, his
pistol was not primed?'

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