Book: The Highwayman

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Thus Mr. Waverton's virtue was left to seek its own reward.




CHAPTER XXVIII

IN THE TAP


When Harry came back to his tavern, he was, you'll believe, not anxious
to be seen. He made one step from the coach to the door, scurried through
the tap and upstairs. But the coming of a coach, and a coach of some
splendour, to the humble "Hand of Pork" had brought folks to the windows,
and at the staircase window Harry bumped into his landlady, who gasped at
him and began a "Save your lordship--" which ended in "God help us, it's
Mr. Boyce."

"Cook me a steak, Meg," Harry said, and went up the stairs three
at a time.

She screamed after him "Ha' you seen your letter? There's a letter for
you in the tap."

When Harry came down in his natural clothes, his best and one remaining
suit, and shouted for his supper she was quarrelling with the potman and
searching the shelves: "Meg, you villain--Meg, where's my steak?"

"Lord love you, it's to the fire. I be looking for your letter. Ain't you
had it now? Days it's been here, I swear, and I saw it again only this
morning. By the black jar of usquebaugh it was, George, Od rot you."

"Burn the letter," says Harry. "Go, bring me that steak, you slut."

"Oh, God save you," Mrs. Meg cried in a pet, and so for Alison's letter
there was no more search. But indeed they would not have found it.

Harry, if he ever thought about it, supposed it one of the grumbling
screeds of the bookseller for whom he scribbled and was glad to be rid of
it so easily. But he was in no case to think usefully of anything. The
amazement of his deliverance left him in a queer state of excited
lassitude. His nerves were all tremulous, he must needs do everything
vehemently, and felt the while as if he were being whirled along,
passive, in the grip of some force outside himself One moment he was
dreaming himself capable of miracles, the next he was limp with weariness
and utterly impotent. And naturally, as soon as he had food inside him,
weariness won and he was overwhelmed with great waves of languor. He
hardly dragged himself up to his attic before he was asleep.

When he woke, the world was grey. He could survey himself cynically and
wonder why he had been such a fool as to be in a fluster overnight.
Faith, it was a grand exploit to dabble in conspiracies and come out with
your head still (for a while) on your shoulders. And that only by a turn
of the luck, not any wit of his. Well! Neither winners nor losers would
want more of the blundering offices of Mr. Harry Boyce. He was back again
after his conversation with royalty--and royal breeches--a hack writer
in his garret. And Alison as far away as ever. The wonderful Alison! The
beauty of her flashed into his squalor. He felt her passionate life. Be
hanged to Alison! Let the hack writer get to his writing.

All that day he strove with the fluency of Ovid, and to this hour his
labours, much flaccid verse, survive in a decent obscurity. It was late
in the afternoon before he yielded to his growing disgust with the
whinings of the Tristia and sought relief in the open air.

There was not much movement in the air of Long Acre. The day had been
warm and languorous, with heavy showers steaming up again in the sun.
Clouds were darkening across the twilight for more rain. Harry turned off
to stretch his legs and find some freer air across the fields by the
Oxford road. But he was soon tired of them. The moist heat oppressed him
still and lowering darkness across the sky threatened a storm. He had no
desire for a wetting and an evening spent in the Pretender's clothes. He
made for his tavern again by St. Martin's Lane and there came full upon
his father.

Colonel Boyce touched his hat. Harry touched his, gave him the wall
and was going by. Then the Colonel laughed and caught his son's arm.
"Well met, Harry. I was coming to seek you." (It's not known whether
that was true.)

"And I, sir--I had no notion of seeking you."

"Fie, don't be haughty. I bear no malice."

"Egad, sir, that's kind in you," Harry sneered and pushed on.

Colonel Boyce linked arms with him. "Why, what's the matter? You
went off with the honours. Od's heart, you left us like a pair of
whipped dogs."

"You've to thank yourself for that, sir. Not me."

"No, zounds, you did very well. I profess I was proud of you, Harry."

"Then I have to envy you."

Colonel Boyce laughed. "You play that game well, you know. But sure, you
need not play it all the time. No, but I never knew you could put on such
an air, Harry. You carried it off _a merveille_. My lord was a
whipper-snapper to you. I allow you were a thought too free of your wit.
It's a young man's fault. But in the main you were admirable."

"You make me uneasy," Harry said. "I hoped that I had quarrelled
with you."

"Oh Lud, Harry, why be so bitter? You have won, and sure you can afford
to be civil. You have beat me and broken as pretty a plot as ever I knew.
Why the devil should you snarl at me?"

They were now turning into Long Acre and the coming storm had already
brought darkness. Harry stopped and freed himself from his father's arm.
"If you please, we'll have no more of this. I've no will to make an enemy
of you. But if you seek to be friends, enemies we must be."

"Why then? Harry, you are not so mad as to declare Jacobite now? It's a
lost cause, boy. There's not a thing in it but noble hole-and-corner work
and not a guinea for your pains. You--"

"Aye, now we have it!" Harry laughed. "You want to be in my
secrets. Sir, I'm obliged to you, and by your leave I'll
discontinue your company."

"I swear I wish you nothing but well," his father cried.

"Dear sir, it's your good wishes that I dread. Pray cut me off without a
blessing." He waved his hand to his father and strode off.

For a moment Colonel Boyce looked after him--shrugged--went his way.

So Harry walked alone upon his danger. He was near the tavern, he was
passing the end of a court. From the blackness there men rushed upon him.
They managed it well. He was almost borne down by the first onset, but
hearing something in time, seeing a glimmer of steel, he swung aside and
staggered back into the kennel slashing at them with his stick. They were
borne past him by their vehemence, but he carried no sword and their
swords were all about him. There was no hope. Two blades seared through
his body and he fell.

Colonel Boyce heard the clatter of ash and steel and turned at his
leisure to look. It was a moment before he made out Harry in the midst
of the melee. Then he shouted of help and threats and ran on with
ready sword.

He came too late. Harry was down and the dripping blades again at his
body. Colonel Boyce had one fellow pinked before they were aware. The
others bore upon him furiously and he was hard beset. He made a good
fight--it's the best thing in his life--he understood the sword, and they
were but hackers and hewers, they were in a mad hurry to finish him and
he had a perfect calm. But he was hampered and overborne. He would not
give ground for fear of more thrusts into the body at his feet, and they
closed upon him and he could not break them.

But now doors were opening and heads out of windows. From Harry's tavern
a man came at a run. As Colonel Boyce reeled back with a point caught in
his shoulder, gripping at the blade and thrusting at empty air, another
sword shot into the fight. One man went down upon Harry's body. The other
three broke off and bolted down the court by which they had come.

"_Canaille_," says the deliverer mildly, and plucked at the cloak of the
man he had overthrown to wipe his sword. "Is that a friend of yours
underneath, sir?"

"Egad, they have tickled me," quoth Colonel Boyce, feeling at his
shoulder. "Pray, lend me your hand, sir."

The deliverer looked him over without much sympathy: "And, egad, it's the
ancient Boyce," he said. "Oh, you'll survive, _mon vieux_. Who is this in
the mud?" He rolled his own victim, who groaned effusively, off Harry's
body. "It's the boy, _mordieu_!" he cried.

"In effect, Captain McBean, it's the boy," says Colonel Boyce, who was
trying to fix a pad of handkerchief on his own wound.

McBean was down on his knees beside Harry, handling him gently. "Twice
through the body, by God," says he. "What does this mean, Boyce? Damme,
did you set your fellows on him?"

"I am not an imbecile," Colonel Boyce said fiercely, stared at McBean
and laughed his contempt. Then with another manner, he turned to the
little crowd which was mustered: "Bring me a shutter, good lads. We've a
gentleman here much hurt. And some of you call the watch."

McBean rose with bloody hands. "He has it I believe," he muttered.
"Hark in your ear, Boyce. If this is your work, I'll see you dead, by
God, I will."

"Oh, damn your folly," says Colonel Boyce. "I struck in to help him. I
know nothing who the knaves were. Your own tail, maybe."

"Aye, aye," McBean looked at him queerly. "You would say that. Well,
maybe this rogue can speak. He groans loud enough." Down he dropped again
by his victim to cry out "Ben! You filthy rogue! Ben! Who a plague set
you to this business?"

"Oh, you've found a friend, then?" Colonel Boyce sneered.

The man who groaned was Harry's old friend, Ben the fat highwayman of the
North Road. He rolled his eyes and made hoarse, grievous noises.
"Captain! Lord love you, captain, I didn't know you was in it. Oh, gad,
and you ha' been the death o' me,'

"I shall be if you lie," quoth McBean. "You rogue, who set you on
Mr. Boyce?"

"How would I know he was a friend of yours? 'Twas a squire out of
Hornsey. Squire Waverton of Tetherdown. Paying handsome to have him
downed. Oh, gad, captain, don't be hard. I ha' had no luck since you
turned me off."

Now the constables came running up and Colonel Boyce turned to them:
"Secure that fellow. He and some others which have escaped stabbed my
son who lies there. I am Colonel Boyce at the Blue House in St.
Martin's Lane."

The wretched Ben was haled off, groaning.

Harry, lifeless still and bleeding, for all McBean's work, they lifted
and carried away to his father's lodging.

"What's your Waverton in this, sir?" says McBean.

"The silly gentleman wanted Harry's wife. Egad, I never thought he had so
much gall in him."

"I believe I'll be letting some of it out," says McBean.

"You'll be pleased to leave that to me," quoth Colonel Boyce.

McBean looked up at him oddly. "_Ventrebleu_, I wonder if I'll make you
my apologies. Have you bowels after all, sir?"

"You're impertinent."

"If you like." McBean cocked a wicked eye at him.

"You concern yourself with the affairs of my family. I resent it,
Captain McBean."

"I believe you, _mon vieux_."

"You have done me a notable service to-night and I am ready to forget
the older injuries, your ill offices with my son. Let us call quits and
part, sir."

"It won't do," said McBean with a grin.

"What now, sir?"

"I must know how Harry does and make sure that he has the best there is
for him. Surgery and friends--he will need both, sound and sure."

"Be satisfied. I shall well provide him."

Captain McBean shook his head.

"Damn your infernal impudence." Colonel Boyce's temper gave way. "Od's
life, sir, this is infamous. You put upon me that I would mishandle my
own son as he lies wounded and near death! I shall murder him, I
suppose. You had that against me before. Shall I rob him too, or
torture him maybe? This is raving. Carry it where you will, I'll none
of it. You may go."

"Fie, what a heat!" says McBean placidly.

They were now come to Colonel Boyce's lodging and he bade the bearers
take Harry up to his own room.

"I sent a brisk lad for Rolfe," says McBean. "I could but stop the blood.
He'll be here soon enough. It's but a step to Chancery Lane. He knows
more of wounds than any man in the town."

Colonel Boyce was for a moment speechless. "I shall send for Dr.
Radcliffe and Sir Samuel Garth," says he majestically. "I wish you good
night, sir."

"I believe they have sense enough to do no harm," said McBean. "And now,
Boyce, a word with you. Not in the street."

"I don't desire it, sir," which McBean answered by passing in front of
him into the house. Colonel Boyce came after, fuming. "Egad, sir, you
presume upon my wound," he cried. "You--"

"Not I. Patch yourself up and I'll meet you at your convenience. There's
more urgent matter. When the boy comes to himself--if ever he comes to
himself--I must have speech of him."

Colonel Boyce, who now completely commanded himself, had grown very pale.
"You have gone too far, Captain McBean. I desired to forget that I have
you in my power. You force me to use it. If you thrust yourself upon me I
shall have you arrested as a traitor."

McBean flushed. "Odso, then there is some villainy of yours in the
affair! Devil take you, I have a mind to finish you now, a wounded man as
you are." He had his hand on his sword.

"Will you go, sir?"

"Not I. If you ha' murdered him, you"--he slapped his sword home
again--"no, _mordieu_, I can't touch you so. And you may meddle with me
if you dare."

"Oh, you have a great devotion to the boy," Colonel Boyce sneered with
pallid lips. "You would have him deeper dipped in your mad treasons? I
think you have done him harm enough." He struck his bell.

"Harm?" McBean cried. "Is it harm? You that begat him for the heir to
your damned infamy? You that soured him with your husk of a soul and your
cold cunning? You that made a dirt-heap of his life to suit your muddling
need? You--"

But Colonel Boyce swayed in his seat and fell sideways fainting.

A moment McBean surveyed him as if he thought this too a trick. Then,
"_Ventrebleu_" says he, "here's Providence takes a hand," and he
whistled, and it is not to be denied that he looked covetously at the
cabinet which held Colonel Boyce's papers. "The poor old devil," he said
with a shrug. "He grows old, in fact. I suppose there's more blood in his
shirt now than his damned body," and he knelt down and began to feel
about the wound.

He was at that when a woman announced the surgeon. "Mr. Rolfe? Never more
welcome. Here's old Colonel Boyce with a hole in his shoulder, and young
Mr. Boyce with two holes through and through. A street brawl. Pray go up,
sir, the lad's in bad case."

"Faith, it's Captain McBean," says Rolfe, a brisk, big man, as they shook
hands. "What have you to do with Noll Boyce?"

"A friend of the family," says McBean. "Away with you to the lad;" and he
knelt again and ministered to the unconscious Colonel. "A friend of the
family, old gentleman," says he with a grin.




CHAPTER XXIX

ALISON KNEELS


So all this while Alison lacked an answer to her letter. She fretted at
the delay, she grew angry soon, but it does not appear that she allowed
herself any new pique against Harry. She was angry with circumstance,
with herself, and something much more than angry with Mr. Waverton. It
was detestable of Geoffrey to dare spy and plot against Harry,
intolerable in him to suppose that she would favour the villainy. But she
had been a fool and worse to give him any chance of insulting her so. And
yet she might have hoped that her letter--sure, she had been humble
enough in it--that her letter would bring Harry back in a hurry. It was
maddening that some trick of circumstance should have kept it from him or
him from her. For she had no notion that he would read the letter and
toss it aside or delay to come. There was nothing petty about Mr. Harry,
no spite. Nothing of the woman in him, thank God.

What had happened that he gave her no answer? For certain the letter had
gone safely to the tavern. She could be sure of her servant. Harry was
living at the tavern. The people there gave assurance of that. It was
strange that he made no sign. The servant, indeed, had waited for an
answer late into the night and seen nothing of him. Perhaps he had
discovered Geoffrey's spies and gone into hiding. It would be like
Geoffrey to devise some mighty cunning villainy and so manage it that it
was futile. Perhaps Harry really was at some secret politics, captured
again by his father and sent off to France, or too deep in some matter of
danger to show himself. Perhaps--perhaps a thousand things, so that she
made no doubt of Harry. He would not deny her when she came seeking him.

She had no fear either. Her nature could not imagine perils or disasters.
There was too proud a force in her life for her to admit a dread of being
defeated. Her man must live and be safe, because she needed him. Harry
could not fail her. But she was desperately impatient. She wanted him
every instant, and even more she wanted to stand before him and accuse
herself, confess herself. For the truth is that Geoffrey Waverton had
profoundly affected her. When she found Geoffrey daubing her with
patronizing congratulations, when he dared to claim her as ally in mean
tricks against her husband, she discovered that she must be miserably in
the wrong. Approved by Geoffrey, annexed, used by Geoffrey--faith, she
must have sunk very low before he could dare venture so with her. She
received illumination. She saw herself in the wrong first and last, the
sole sufficient cause of their catastrophe, a petty mean creature,
snarling and spiteful and passionate for trivialities--just like
Geoffrey, just such a creature as she hated most. Pride and honour
instantly demanded that she must seek Harry, indict herself and read her
recantation. She needed that, longed for it, and to satisfy herself, not
him. It is possible that she then began to love.

So monsieur must be found instantly, instantly. When she thought of all
her tale of sins, she must needs think also of Mrs. Weston. Poor Weston
had enough against her too--Weston--his mother. It still seemed almost
incredible that poor, grey, puritan Weston should be mother to Harry. But
if she was indeed, she might know something of him. At least, it would be
good to make peace with her again; it was necessary. And so on the day
that Harry fell, Mrs. Alison marched off to the little cottage behind the
High Street.

It was a room that opened straight from the path, and it seemed very
full. Susan was sitting there, who was now Susan Hadley. Her fair
placidity admitted no surprise. She smiled and said, "Alison!"

Mrs. Weston stood up in a queer frozen fluster. "What do you need,
ma'am?" says she.

"Oh, Weston, dear, don't take me so," Alison cried, and she edged her way
between the little table and the stiff chairs, holding out her hands.

Mrs. Weston flushed. "Your servant, ma'am," says she with a curtsy, but
she ignored the hands.

Then Susan stood up. "I must go, I believe," she smiled, and bent to
offer one fair cheek to Mrs. Weston. The other was then given to Alison.
She smiled upon them both benignly and made for the door.

"Susan! You'll dine with me to-morrow," Alison put in.

"Oh. Mr. Hadley will be at home."

"But of course you bring him."

"Thank you then." The door shut behind her, and the room was larger.

"I can't tell why you have come," says Mrs. Weston tremulously.

"To say I was wrong and I'm sorry. Oh, Weston, dear, to say I have been a
peevish wicked fool."

Mrs. Weston sat down again. "Where is Harry?" she said.

"I have writ to him to beg him come back to me."

"I am asking you to come back to us."

"You--"

"Where is he?"

"Ah, you don't know then?"

"I have not seen him since he left your house."

"He has been living at a tavern in the Long Acre. I have made sure of
that, and I wrote to him there. But he has not answered me. He does not
answer me. I can't tell if he has gone away."

"Where is his father?" Mrs. Weston asked quickly.

"His father? Colonel Boyce? Oh, Weston! Colonel Boyce is his
father, then?"

"Did you come to pry?" Mrs. Weston flushed.

"I do not deserve that," Alison said, and then very gently, "Oh, my dear,
but I have been cruel enough to you."

"It's very well," Mrs. Weston said faintly. "Where is Colonel Boyce?"

"I know nothing. Does it matter, Weston, dear? He cannot help us
to Harry."

"I am afraid of him. Oh, it's all wrong maybe. I am so weak and stupid.
But I am afraid what he may do with Harry."

"Indeed, I think Mr. Harry can keep his head even against Colonel Boyce,"
Alison smiled.

"His head?" Mrs. Weston looked puzzled. "I don't mean that, I believe. I
am afraid he may win Harry to be like himself. He is so clever and
dazzling, and he is full of wickedness. He cares for nothing but his own
will and to have power. When I saw him so friendly with Harry I thought I
should have died."

"My poor Weston," Alison said gently. "But I am not afraid of that. Mr.
Harry won't be dazzled."

"You dazzled him."

"Oh, and am I full of wickedness too?" Alison laughed. "Dear,
forgive me."

"No, but you are strong and hard as his father was."

Alison drew in her breath. "I shall teach you not to call me that,
Weston," she said. "And Harry--well, Harry shall find me for him."

There was silence for a while, and Alison watched with new emotions the
tired, wistful face. "Weston, dear, I want you to come back to me. I want
Mr. Harry to find you with me when he comes home."

Mrs. Weston cried out, "He does not know who I am!" in anxious fear, and
clutched at Alison's hand.

"No, indeed. But he loves you already, I think."

"But I do not want him to know," Mrs. Weston cried. "I--I was not married
to Colonel Boyce."

"Weston, dear," Alison pressed the hand.

"I lived at Kingston. My father reared us strictly. He was harsh. I think
that was because my mother died so young. Mr. Boyce--he was a gentleman
in the Blues then, and very fine, much gayer than Harry and more
handsome. He used to ride out to Hampton Court to an old cousin of his,
who had a charge at the Palace. He met me one day by the river. I don't
know why he set himself upon me. I was never much to his taste, I think.
But I thought him the most wonderful man in the world. I let him do what
he would with me. I don't blame him for that. He never promised me
anything. In a while he grew tired. Then Harry came. My father could not
forgive me. Afterwards they said that I had killed him. Harry was born. I
lay very ill and they believed that I should die. I never knew whether it
was my father or my brother sent for Mr. Boyce. My brother boasted
afterwards that it was he made him relieve them of the baby. And I--I did
not die, you know. When I began to be well again my baby was gone. My
father lay dying then. He would not see me. My brother was the head of
the family, and he--I could not stay there. I tried to find Mr. Boyce,
but he had left the regiment. He had gone to Holland, they said, after
the Duke of Monmouth. I could do nothing. And my brother had told me that
Mr. Boyce would soon find a way to be rid of my baby. I--I believed that
he had. I never saw Harry again till--you know. I never saw his father
till that day at Lady Waverton's. He told me afterwards that they had
said to him I was dying, and he supposed me dead. I believe that is
true. He would not have troubled himself with the child else."

"Oh, Weston, dear," Alison murmured, and caressed her.

Mrs. Weston pushed back the hair from her wrinkled brow. "Mr. Boyce
promised me that Harry need know nothing of me now. I do not know if he
has kept his word about that."

"There's nothing about Harry that is not safe with me," Alison said. "Oh,
my dear, now I know where Harry has his strength from and his
gentleness."

Mrs. Weston looked at her in a puzzled fashion. "I wonder what he is
doing now?" she said wearily. "I think I have told you everything,
Alison. Oh! Your father. Your father was very kind to me. When I did not
know what to do--I had no money left--they gave me five pounds--I went to
him. He used to come to my father's house, you know, when he had business
in Kingston. He used to go all over the country about his trading. My
father said he was a godless man, but he was always kind to me. I told
him everything. He took me into his house, and indeed I did not know
where to go for food. I was your mother's servant while she lived, but I
think she doubted me. Your father never told her anything, and she--but
she let me be."

"Oh, Weston, Weston," Alison said. "And you have spent all your life
caring for me."

"There was nothing else to do. But I was glad to do that." She looked
at the girl with strange, puzzled, wistful eyes and saw Alison's eyes
full of tears. She put out her hand shyly, awkwardly, and touched
Alison's cheek.

Alison smiled, laughed with a sob in her voice. "It is a long while since
I cried," she said, and put her arms round Mrs. West on and laid her head
on Mrs. Weston's bosom and cried indeed.

Mrs. Weston held her close. "Alison! But this isn't like you."

"Indeed it is," Alison sobbed.




CHAPTER XXX

EMOTIONS BY MR. WAVERTON


You behold Mr. Waverton exhibiting a high impatience. He was alone in the
best room of the "Peacock" at Islington, a well-looking place after its
severe old oak fashion. Disordered food upon the table showed that Mr.
Waverton had been trying to eat with little success. Mr. Waverton's hat
upon one chair, his whip upon another, and his cloak tumbled inelegantly
over a third proved that he was not himself. For he was born to treat his
clothes with respect. Mr. Waverton would be jumping up to look out of the
window, flounce down again in his chair to drink wine and stare with
profound meaning at the table, start up and stride to the hearth and
glower down at its emptiness--and repeat the motions in a different
order. He must be theatrical even without an audience.

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