The Castle Inn by Stanley John Weyman

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His rage was great, therefore, when three days after the duel, he awoke,
missed her, and found in her place the senior bedmaker of Magdalen--a
worthy woman, learned in simples and with hands of horn, but far from
beautiful. This good person he saluted with a vigour which proved him
already far on the road to recovery; and when he was tired of swearing,
he wept and threw his nightcap at her. Finally, between one and the
other, and neither availing to bring back his Briseis, he fell into a
fever; which, as he was kept happed up in a box-bed, in a close room,
with every window shut and every draught kept off by stuffy
curtains--such was the fate of sick men then--bade fair to postpone his
recovery to a very distant date.

In this plight he sent one day for Mr. Thomasson, who had the nominal
care of the young gentleman; and the tutor being brought from the club
tavern in the Corn Market which he occasionally condescended to
frequent, the invalid broke to him his resolution.

'See here, Tommy,' he said in a voice weak but vicious. 'You have got to
get her back. I will not be poisoned by this musty old witch
any longer.'

'But if she will not come?' said Mr. Thomasson sadly.

'The little fool threw up the sponge when she came before,' the patient
answered, tossing restlessly. 'And she will come again, with a little
pressure. Lord, I know the women! So should you.'

'She came before because--well, I do not quite know why she came,' Mr.
Thomasson confessed.

'Any way, you have got to get her back.'

The tutor remonstrated, 'My dear good man,' he said unctuously, 'you
don't think of my position. I am a man of the world, I know--'

'All of it, my Macaroni!'

'But I cannot be--be mixed up in such a matter as this, my dear sir.'

'All the same, you have got to get her,' was the stubborn answer. 'Or I
write to my lady and tell her you kept mum about my wound. And you will
not like that, my tulip.'

On that point he was right; for if there was a person in the world of
whom Mr. Thomasson stood in especial awe, it was of Lady Dunborough. My
lord, the author of 'Pomaria Britannica' and 'The Elegant Art of
Pomiculture as applied to Landscape Gardening,' was a quantity he could
safely neglect. Beyond his yew-walks and his orchards his lordship was a
cipher. He had proved too respectable even for the peerage; and of late
had cheerfully resigned all his affairs into the hands of his wife,
formerly the Lady Michal M'Intosh, a penniless beauty, with the pride of
a Scotchwoman and the temper of a Hervey. Her enemies said that my lady
had tripped in the merry days of George the Second, and now made up for
past easiness by present hardness. Her friends--but it must be confessed
her ladyship had no friends.

Be that as it might, Mr. Thomasson had refrained from summoning her to
her son's bedside; partly because the surgeons had quickly pronounced
the wound a trifle, much more because the little he had seen of her
ladyship had left him no taste to see more. He knew, however, that the
omission would weigh heavily against him were it known; and as he had
hopes from my lady's aristocratic connections, and need in certain
difficulties of all the aid he could muster, he found the threat not one
to be sneezed at. His laugh betrayed this.

However, he tried to put the best face on the matter. 'You won't do
that,' he said. 'She would spoil sport, my friend. Her ladyship is no
fool, and would not suffer your little amusements.'

'She is no fool,' Mr. Dunborough replied with emphasis. 'As you will
find, Tommy, if she comes to Oxford, and learns certain things. It will
be farewell to your chance of having that milksop of a Marquis for
a pupil!'

Now, it was one of Mr. Thomasson's highest ambitions at this time to
have the young Marquis of Carmarthen entrusted to him; and Lady
Dunborough was connected with the family, and, it was said, had interest
there. He was silent.

'You see,' Mr. Dunborough continued, marking with a chuckle the effect
his words had produced, 'you have got to get her.'

Mr. Thomasson did not admit that that was so, but he writhed in his
chair; and presently he took his leave and went away, his plump pale
face gloomy and the crow's feet showing plain at the corners of his
eyes. He had given no promise; but that evening a messenger from the
college requested Mrs. Masterson to attend at his rooms on the
following morning.

She did not go. At the appointed hour, however, there came a knock on
the tutor's door, and that gentleman, who had sent his servant out of
the way, found Mr. Fishwick on the landing. 'Tut-tut!' said the don with
some brusqueness, his hand still on the door; 'do you want me?' He had
seen the attorney after the duel, and in the confusion attendant on the
injured man's removal; and knew him by sight, but no farther.

'I--hem--I think you wished to see Mrs. Masterson?' was Mr. Fishwick's
answer, and the lawyer, but with all humility, made as if he
would enter.

The tutor, however, barred the way. 'I wished to see Mrs. Masterson,' he
said drily, and with his coldest air of authority. 'But who are you?'

'I am here on her behalf,' Mr. Fishwick answered, meekly pressing his
hat in his hands.

'On her behalf?' said Mr. Thomasson stiffly. 'Is she ill?'

'No, sir, I do not know that she is ill.'

'Then I do not understand,' Mr. Thomasson answered in his most dignified
tone. 'Are you aware that the woman is in the position of a college
servant, inhabiting a cottage the property of the college? And liable to
be turned out at the college will?'

'It may be so,' said the attorney.

'Then, if you please, what is the meaning of her absence when requested
by one of the Fellows of the college to attend?'

'I am here to represent her,' said Mr. Fishwick.

'Represent her! Represent a college laundress! Pooh! I never heard of
such a thing.'

'But, sir, I am her legal adviser, and--'

'Legal adviser!' Mr. Thomasson retorted, turning purple--he was really
puzzled. 'A bedmaker with a legal adviser! It's the height of impudence!
Begone, sir, and take it from me, that the best advice you can give her
is to attend me within the hour.'

Mr. Fishwick looked rather blue. 'If it has nothing to do with her
property,' he said reluctantly, and as if he had gone too far.

'Property!' said Mr. Thomasson, gasping.

'Or her affairs.'

'Affairs!' the tutor cried. 'I never heard of a bedmaker having
affairs.'

'Well,' said the lawyer doggedly, and with the air of a man goaded into
telling what he wished to conceal, 'she is leaving Oxford. That is
the fact.'

'Oh!' said Mr. Thomasson, falling on a sudden into the minor key. 'And
her daughter?'

'And her daughter.'

'That is unfortunate,' the tutor answered, thoughtfully rubbing his
hands. 'The truth is--the girl proved so good a nurse in the case of my
noble friend who was injured the other day--my lord Viscount
Dunborough's son, a most valuable life--that since she absented herself,
he has not made the same progress. And as I am responsible for him--'

'She should never have attended him!' the attorney answered with
unexpected sharpness.

'Indeed! And why not, may I ask?' the tutor inquired.

Mr. Fishwick did not answer the question. Instead, 'She would not have
gone to him in the first instance,' he said, 'but that she was under a
misapprehension.'

'A misapprehension?'

'She thought that the duel lay at her door,' the attorney answered; 'and
in that belief was impelled to do what she could to undo the
consequences. Romantic, but a most improper step!'

'Improper!' said the tutor, much ruffled. 'And why, sir?'

'Most improper,' the attorney repeated in a dry, business-like tone. 'I
am instructed that the gentleman had for weeks past paid her attentions
which, his station considered, could scarcely be honourable, and of
which she had more than once expressed her dislike. Under those
circumstances, to expose her to his suit--but no more need be said,' the
attorney added, breaking off and taking a pinch of snuff with great
enjoyment, 'as she is leaving the city.'

Mr. Thomasson had much ado to mask his chagrin under a show of
contemptuous incredulity. 'The wench has too fine a conceit of herself!'
he blurted out. 'Hark you, sir--this is a fable! I wonder you dare to
put it about. A gentleman of the station of my lord Dunborough's son
does not condescend to the gutter!'

'I will convey the remark to my client,' said the attorney, bristling
all over.

'Client!' Mr. Thomasson retorted, trembling with rage--for he saw the
advantage he had given the enemy. 'Since when had laundry maids lawyers?
Client! Pho! Begone, sir! You are abusive. I'll have you looked up on
the rolls. I'll have your name taken!'

'I would not talk of names if I were you,' cried Mr. Fishwick, reddening
in his turn with rage. 'Men give a name to what you are doing this
morning, and it is not a pleasant one. It is to be hoped, sir, that Mr.
Dunborough pays you well for your services!'

'You--insolent rascal!' the tutor stammered, losing in a moment all his
dignity and becoming a pale flabby man, with the spite and the terror of
crime in his face. 'You--begone! Begone, sir.'

'Willingly,' said the attorney, swelling with defiance. 'You may tell
your principal that when he means marriage, he may come to us. Not
before. I take my leave, sir. Good morning.' And with that he strutted
out and marched slowly and majestically down the stairs.

He bore off the honours of war. Mr. Thomasson, left among his Titian
copies, his gleaming Venuses, and velvet curtains, was a sorry thing.
The man who preserves a cloak of outward decency has always this
vulnerable spot; strip him, and he sees himself as others see or may see
him, and views his ugliness with griping qualms. Mr. Thomasson bore the
exposure awhile, sitting white and shaking in a chair, seeing himself
and seeing the end, and, like the devils, believing and trembling. Then
he rose and staggered to a little cupboard, the door of which was
adorned with a pretty Greek motto, and a hovering Cupid painted in a
blue sky; whence he filled himself a glass of cordial. A second glass
followed; this restored the colour to his cheeks and the brightness to
his eyes. He shivered; then smacked his lips and began to reflect what
face he should put upon it when he went to report to his pupil.

In deciding that point he made a mistake. Unluckily for himself and
others, in the version which he chose he was careful to include all
matters likely to arouse Dunborough's resentment; in particular he laid
malicious stress upon the attorney's scornful words about a marriage.
This, however--and perhaps the care he took to repeat it--had an
unlooked-for result. Mr. Dunborough began by cursing the rogue's
impudence, and did it with all the heat his best friend could desire.
But, being confined to his room, haunted by the vision of his flame, yet
debarred from any attempt to see her, his mood presently changed; his
heart became as water, and he fell into a maudlin state about her.
Dwelling constantly on memories of his Briseis--whose name, by the way,
was Julia--having her shape and complexion, her gentle touch and her
smile, always in his mind, while he was unable in the body to see so
much as the hem of her gown, Achilles grew weaker in will as he grew
stronger in body. Headstrong and reckless by nature, unaccustomed to
thwart a desire or deny himself a gratification, Mr. Dunborough began to
contemplate paying even the last price for her; and one day, about three
weeks after the duel, dropped a word which frightened Mr. Thomasson.

He was well enough by this time to be up, and was looking through one
window while the tutor lounged in the seat of another. On a sudden
'Lord!' said he, with a laugh that broke off short in the middle. 'What
was the queer catch that fellow sang last night? About a bailiff's
daughter. Well, why not a porter's daughter?'

'Because you are neither young enough, nor old enough, nor mad enough!'
said Mr. Thomasson cynically, supposing the other meant nothing.

'It is she that would be mad,' the young gentleman answered, with a grim
chuckle. 'I should take it out of her sooner or later. And, after all,
she is as good as Lady Macclesfield or Lady Falmouth! As good? She is
better, the saucy baggage! By the Lord, I have a good mind to do it!'

Mr. Thomasson sat dumbfounded. At length, 'You are jesting! You cannot
mean it,' he said.

'If it is marriage or nothing--and, hang her, she is as cold as a church
pillar--I do mean it,' the gentleman answered viciously; 'and so would
you if you were not an old insensible sinner! Think of her ankle, man!
Think of her waist! I never saw a waist to compare with it! Even in the
Havanna! She is a pearl! She is a jewel! She is incomparable!'

'And a porter's daughter!'

'Faugh, I don't believe it.' And he took his oath on the point.

'You make me sick!' Mr. Thomasson said; and meant it. Then, 'My dear
friend, I see how it is,' he continued. 'You have the fever on you
still, or you would not dream of such things.'

'But I do dream of her--every night, confound her!' Mr. Dunborough said;
and he groaned like a love-sick boy. 'Oh, hang it, Tommy,' he continued
plaintively, 'she has a kind of look in her eyes when she is
pleased--that makes you think of dewy mornings when you were a boy and
went fishing.'

'It _is_ the fever!' Mr. Thomasson said, with conviction. 'It is heavy
on him still.' Then, more seriously, 'My very dear sir,' he continued,
'do you know that if you had your will you would be miserable within the
week. Remember--

''Tis tumult, disorder, 'tis loathing and hate;
Caprice gives it birth, and contempt is its fate!'

'Gad, Tommy!' said Mr. Dunborough, aghast with admiration at the aptness
of the lines. 'That is uncommon clever of you! But I shall do it all the
same,' he continued, in a tone of melancholy foresight. 'I know I shall.
I am a fool, a particular fool. But I shall do it. Marry in haste and
repent at leisure!'

'A porter's daughter become Lady Dunborough!' cried Mr. Thomasson with
scathing sarcasm.

'Oh yes, my tulip,' Mr. Dunborough answered with gloomy meaning. 'But
there have been worse. I know what I know. See Collins's Peerage, volume
4, page 242: "Married firstly Sarah, widow of Colonel John Clark, of
Exeter, in the county of Devon"--all a hum, Tommy! If they had said
spinster, of Bridewell, in the county of Middlesex, 'twould have been
as true! I know what I know.'

After that Mr. Thomasson went out of Magdalen, feeling that the world
was turning round with him. If Dunborough were capable of such a step as
this--Dunborough, who had seen life and service, and of whose past he
knew a good deal--where was he to place dependence? How was he to trust
even the worst of his acquaintances? The matter shook the pillars of the
tutor's house, and filled him with honest disgust.

Moreover, it frightened him. In certain circumstances he might have
found his advantage in fostering such a _mesalliance_. But here, not
only had he reason to think himself distasteful to the young lady whose
elevation was in prospect, but he retained too vivid a recollection of
Lady Dunborough to hope that that lady would forget or forgive him!
Moreover, at the present moment he was much straitened for money;
difficulties of long standing were coming to a climax. Venuses and
Titian copies have to be paid for. The tutor, scared by the prospect, to
which he had lately opened his eyes, saw in early preferment or a
wealthy pupil his only way of escape. And in Lady Dunborough lay his
main hope, which a catastrophe of this nature would inevitably shatter.
That evening he sent his servant to learn what he could of the
Mastersons' movements.

The man brought word that they had left the town that morning; that the
cottage was closed, and the key had been deposited at the college gates.

'Did you learn their destination?' the tutor asked, trimming his
fingernails with an appearance of indifference.

The servant said he had not; and after adding the common gossip of the
court, that Masterson had left money, and the widow had gone to her own
people, concluded, 'But they were very close after Masterson's death,
and the neighbours saw little of them. There was a lawyer in and out, a
stranger; and it is thought he was to marry the girl, and that that had
set them a bit above their position, sir.'

'That will do,' said the tutor. 'I want to hear no gossip,' And, hiding
his joy, he went off hot-foot to communicate the news to his pupil.

But Mr. Dunborough laughed in his face. 'Pooh!' he said. 'I know where
they are.'

'You know? Then where are they?' Thomasson asked.

'Ah, my good Tommy, that is telling.'

'Well,' Mr. Thomasson answered, with an assumption of dignity. 'At any
rate they are gone. And you must allow me to say that I am glad of
it--for your sake!'

'That is as may be,' Mr. Dunborough answered. And he took his first
airing in a sedan next day. After that he grew so reticent about his
affairs, and so truculent when the tutor tried to sound him, that Mr.
Thomasson was at his wits' end to discern what was afoot. For some time,
however, he got no clue. Then, going to Dunborough's rooms one day, he
found them empty, and, bribing the servant, learned that his master had
gone to Wallingford. And the man told him his suspicions. Mr. Thomasson
was aghast; and by that day's post--after much searching of heart and
long pondering into which scale he should throw his weight--he
despatched the following letter to Lady Dunborough:

'HONOURED MADAM,--The peculiar care I have of that distinguished and
excellent gentleman, your son, no less than the profound duty I owe to
my lord and your ladyship, induces me to a step which I cannot regard
without misgiving; since, once known, it must deprive me of the
influence with Mr. Dunborough which I have now the felicity to enjoy,
and which, heightened by the affection he is so good as to bestow on me,
renders his society the most agreeable in the world. Nevertheless, and
though considerations of this sort cannot but have weight with me, I am
not able to be silent, nor allow your honoured repose among the storied
oaks of Papworth to be roughly shattered by a blow that may still be
averted by skill and conduct.

'For particulars, Madam, the young gentleman--I say it with regret--has
of late been drawn into a connection with a girl of low origin and
suitable behaviour, Not that your ladyship is to think me so wanting in
_savoir-faire_ as to trouble your ears with this, were it all; but the
person concerned--who (I need scarcely tell one so familiar with Mr.
Dunborough's amiable disposition) is solely to blame--has the wit to
affect virtue, and by means of this pretence, often resorted to by
creatures of that class, has led my generous but misguided pupil to the
point of matrimony. Your ladyship shudders? Alas! it is so. I have
learned within the hour that he has followed her to Wallingford, whither
she has withdrawn herself, doubtless to augment his passion; I am forced
to conclude that nothing short of your ladyship's presence and advice
can now stay his purpose. In that belief, and with the most profound
regret, I pen these lines; and respectfully awaiting the favour of your
ladyship's commands, which shall ever evoke my instant compliance,

'I have the honour to be while I live, Madam,

Your ladyship's most humble obedient servant,

'FREDERICK THOMASSON.

'_Nota bene_.--I do not commend the advantage of silence in regard to
this communication, this being patent to your ladyship's sagacity.'

CHAPTER VIII

THE OLD BATH ROAD

In the year 1757--to go back ten years from the spring with which we are
dealing--the ordinary Englishman was a Balbus despairing of the State.
No phrase was then more common on English lips, or in English ears, than
the statement that the days of England's greatness were numbered, and
were fast running out. Unwitting the wider sphere about to open before
them, men dwelt fondly on the glories of the past. The old babbled of
Marlborough's wars, of the entrance of Prince Eugene into London, of
choirs draped in flags, and steeples reeling giddily for Ramillies and
Blenheim. The young listened, and sighed to think that the day had been,
and was not, when England gave the law to Europe, and John Churchill's
warder set troops moving from Hamburg to the Alps.

On the top of such triumphs, and the famous reign of good Queen Anne,
had ensued forty years of peace, broken only by one inglorious war. The
peace did its work: it settled the dynasty, and filled the purse; but
men, considering it, whispered of effeminacy and degeneracy, and the
like, as men will to the end of time. And when the clouds, long sighted
on the political horizon, began to roll up, they looked fearfully abroad
and doubted and trembled; and doubted and trembled the more because in
home affairs all patriotism, all party-spirit, all thought of things
higher than ribbon or place or pension, seemed to be dead among public
men. The Tories, long deprived of power, and discredited by the taint or
suspicion of Jacobitism, counted for nothing. The Whigs, agreed on all
points of principle, and split into sections, the Ins and Outs, solely
by the fact that all could not enjoy places and pensions at once, the
supply being unequal to the demand--had come to regard politics as
purely a game; a kind of licensed hazard played for titles, orders, and
emoluments, by certain families who had the _entree_ to the public table
by virtue of the part they had played in settling the succession.

Into the midst of this state of things, this world of despondency,
mediocrity, selfishness, and chicanery, and at the precise crisis when
the disasters which attended the opening campaigns of the Seven Years'
War--and particularly the loss of Minorca--seemed to confirm the
gloomiest prognostications of the most hopeless pessimists, came William
Pitt; and in eighteen months changed the face of the world, not for his
generation only, but for ours. Indifferent as an administrator, mediocre
as a financier, passionate, haughty, headstrong, with many of the worst
faults of an orator, he was still a man with ideals--a patriot among
placemen, pure where all were corrupt. And the effect of his touch was
magical. By infusing his own spirit, his own patriotism, his own belief
in his country, and his own belief in himself, into those who worked
with him--ay, and into the better half of England--he wrought a
seeming miracle.

See, for instance, what Mr. Walpole wrote to Sir Horace Mann in
September, 1757. 'For how many years,' he says, 'have I been telling you
that your country was mad, that your country was undone! It does not
grow wiser, it does not grow more prosperous! ... How do you behave on
these lamentable occasions? Oh, believe me, it is comfortable to have an
island to hide one's head in! ...' Again he writes in the same month,'
'It is time for England to slip her own cables, and float away into some
unknown ocean.'

With these compare a letter dated November, 1759. 'Indeed,' he says to
the same correspondent, 'one is forced to ask every morning what victory
there is, for fear of missing one.' And he wrote with reason. India,
Canada, Belleisle, the Mississippi, the Philippines, the Havanna,
Martinique, Guadaloupe--there was no end to our conquests. Wolfe fell in
the arms of victory, Clive came home the satrap of sovereigns; but day
by day ships sailed in and couriers spurred abroad with the news that a
new world and a nascent empire were ours. Until men's heads reeled and
maps failed them, as they asked each morning 'What new land, to-day?'
Until those who had despaired of England awoke and rubbed their
eyes--awoke to find three nations at her feet, and the dawn of a new and
wider day breaking in the sky.

And what of the minister? They called him the Great Commoner, the
heaven-born statesman; they showered gold boxes upon him; they bore him
through the city, the centre of frantic thousands, to the effacement
even of the sovereign. Where he went all heads were bared; while he
walked the rooms at Bath and drank the water, all stood; his very sedan,
built with a boot to accommodate his gouty foot, was a show followed and
watched wherever it moved. A man he had never seen left him a house and
three thousand pounds a year; this one, that one, the other one,
legacies. In a word, for a year or two he was the idol of the
nation--the first great People's Minister.

Then, the crisis over, the old system lifted its head again; the
mediocrities returned; and, thwarted by envious rivals and a jealous
king, Pitt placed the crown alike on his services and his popularity by
resigning power when he could no longer dictate the policy which he
knew to be right. Nor were events slow to prove his wisdom. The war with
Spain which he would have declared, Spain declared. The treasure fleet
which he would have seized, escaped us. Finally, the peace when it came
redounded to his credit, for in the main it secured his conquests--to
the disgrace of his enemies, since more might have been obtained.

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