Chapter XVI Knaves All Three
Labour Lost—Elegant Extracts—Hard Hit—A New Departure—Fishing—County Families—Sack
Captain Aglionby sanded the paper he had just written upon, and leant back in his chair with a sigh of satisfaction. He heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs.
“Here, Mynheer,” said the voice of his landlord.
With an instinctive movement he covered the letter, and turned on his chair, in time to see the door open and a visitor enter. He stared for a moment in speechless amazement; then, attempting clumsily to shove the letter entirely out of sight beneath a plate containing the crumbs of a fish pâté, he got up and said:
“Why, Mr. Berkeley; adzooks! ’tis the last man I could have expected to see, the last man—though a pleasant surprise, an uncommonly pleasant surprise.”
“Humph!” grunted the old man, with a glance round the mean room. “I feared you would resent my too abrupt entry. After what I had learnt in your letters about your magnificent, expensive, modish apartment, I could not suppose I was walking straight into your parlour—h’m! study; h’m! bedroom and—pantry, h’m!”
“No apologies, my friend, I beg. You take me at a disadvantage, having but just consumed my modest repast——”
“Fish! My nose informs me. ’Tis the fortieth smell that has offended my senses within a quarter of an hour. ’Twas somewhat difficult to discover your—mansion. You are not, it appears, so well known at the Hague as you give out; and when I named you at my inn, with your address, I was advised to bring an escort. I came alone——”
“Ah! Nicolas Berkeley knows how to take care of himself—eh, Squire?”
“But had I known to what an ordeal, to what a series of ordeals, my nostrils would be exposed, I doubt I could not have plucked up the courage.”
“’Twas ill done to come upon me so suddenly. The smells—hang me, Squire, I have smelt worse when I was the guest of the Czar of Muscovy. But had you given me a week’s, a day’s notice, I would have made ready an entertainment worthy of you, my old friend.”
“No doubt, no doubt——”
“And indeed I was on the point of writing you when you entered.”
“Ay, on the point of; you write to me twice a day, do you? for unless I mistake, you have already writ once to-day. Under the plate, Captain Aglionby—surely I see writ on the paper there some semblance of my name.”
“’Tis so; what eyes you have for your age, Squire! I was just trying a new pen, and so full were my thoughts of my generous friend and patron that the pen ran of its own accord, mark you, into the familiar curves. And as I know how you abhor a letter, I will e’en tear up the paper and——”
“Stay!” cried the old man, taking a sudden step forward; “knowing the pains you take in writing, ’tis pity they should be wasted. I set out designing to conduct my son to the army: I find I am embarked on a voyage of discovery; give me the paper.”
The command was uttered in a tone that broke down Aglionby’s bravado. He drew the letter from below the plate, and handed it in sullen silence to the squire. The old man pressed his lips grimly together as he unfolded the yet unsealed paper. Aglionby stuck out his legs wide apart, thrust his hands into his breeches pockets, and hung his head in moody dudgeon.
“’Tis excellent pen-work; your hand grows fluent. ‘I thank you for the hundred guineas received’”—Mr. Berkeley read aloud with deliberation and a dry emphasis that made Aglionby wince—“‘and trust the two hundred for which I beseeched you in my last will not tarry.’ To pay your landlord, I take it, for this—magnificent apartment.”
“A man must live,” said the captain sullenly.
“Ay, eat and drink, and sponge upon his betters for his cakes and ale.”
“Oons! Squire, ’tis rum.”
“A foul-smelling liquor.—What is this?—‘do violence to natural affection in the service of a munificent patron—inform on a cousin—Sherebiah Minshull condemned to be shot—my lord Marlborough—young Mr. Rochester—rid up in the nick of time.’”—Mr. Berkeley’s brow darkened as he read.—“Let me come to the end of it. ‘A visit to the Comtesse de Vaudrey in the interest of my patron—violent assault—in the mellay stumbled into a canal—costume totally ruined and cannot be replaced under ten guineas’—I observe ’tis shrunk at the sleeve; I thought maybe you had grown, to match your magnificent apartment! Now, sirrah, how much of this precious epistle do you expect me to believe? A fine story, in truth, of the ills you suffer in your constant zeal for your ’munificent patron’: is it all of a piece with your ’magnificent apartment’? What have you done with, and for, my hundred guineas?—what, sirrah, your answer!”
Aglionby felt that he was being wronged; he had, in fact, done all in his power; it was not his fault that failure had dogged him. Undoubtedly appearances were against him, and the biting emphasis of the old man’s delivery, the cold sneer that lurked in every repetition of his pet phrases, robbed him of speech. He writhed under the lash. Standing over him, the squire gave rein to his temper.
“You take me for a fool, do you, with your cock-and-bull stories!—you flam me off, rat me! with your ‘magnificent apartment’, your ‘munificent patron’, your ‘constant zeal’, which I—I, you swashbuckling villain—am to pay for! Where are the two hundred guineas paid to the captain of the Merry Maid?—the fifty guineas to your footpad friends in Wapping?—the hundred sent you but a few weeks past? How has your zeal furthered my interest? Zeal, forsooth! there’s a many of your cut-throat gossips would sink you as a disgrace to the craft, for at least they hold to their bargains and are not swindlers as well as——”
“Fire and fury!” shouted Aglionby, springing to his feet and drawing his sword. “’Tis not to be borne! Clap a bridle on your canting tongue or I’ll run your bloodless carcass through!—as I’ve done with many a better man. D’ye hear, you old Pharisee! Your white hairs under your wig sha’n’t preserve you if Rafe Aglionby is roused. And where would you be, rot you—Squire Berkeley of Winton Hall—you and your guineas—if I told what I know?”
Mr. Berkeley had drawn at the same moment, and the two stood glaring at each other over the chair. The old man, his face livid with passion, was in nowise daunted by the other’s threats; Aglionby’s cheeks were purple, and the veins on his brow stood up like whipcord. For some moments both stood tense, each leaning towards the other; then the squire dropped his sword back into the sheath, gulped, and said:
“Well, well, maybe I was hasty. But you have a great deal to explain, Aglionby—a very great deal to explain.”
“As I could have done, had you but given me time instead of treating me as you would a common pickpocket. By George! Mr. Berkeley, Rafe Aglionby is not the man to stand that mode of dealing, as you well know, for all the luck has been against me these late years. Who could have supposed that young Rochester, sink him! would escape from the Merry Maid? Was that my fault, pray? By what I can make out he jumped overboard off Gravesend and got aboard a Dutch brig, and the rascally Hollander—one Grootz, a smug corn-dealer—refused to give him up. Could I help that? Then, when I had my snivelling cousin Sherebiah fast in the net, could I prevent my lord Marlborough from signing his discharge and undoing all my work? Could I? I’ve had the worst of luck all through; and foul words won’t mend matters. And, beshrew me, you were not over successful yourself with the cockerel’s father, for all your guineas. The youngster’s a chip of the old block, and a precious hard chip too, rot him! But I’ve vowed to carry the thing through; besides your affair, I’ve now one or two private accounts to square with him; and if you have patience and a trifle more courtesy—by George! you’ll have no cause to complain of Rafe Aglionby.”
The words came from him in a torrent. He felt that he had a real grievance, and, as often with rogues, the possession of a grievance lent him words if not eloquence. But the squire still looking doubtful, Aglionby picked up a stained copy of the Amsterdam Courier that lay on a chair, and pointed to a paragraph giving in French an account, somewhat distorted but substantially accurate, of Harry’s exploit on behalf of Sherebiah. As the old man read it he pressed his thin lips together in vindictive rage.
“There for you!” pursued the captain. “’Tis the talk of the town. The youngster is making friends on all sides; he owns a commission in the Dutch army——”
“What!”
“’Tis true; a booby general got him the commission, and the lubber Grootz pays. ’Tis becoming more and more difficult to get at him; but I have a scheme—a pretty scheme, egad!—that can scarcely fail this time. All I need is a small sum to go on with—rat me, Squire, will you still sneer? On my soul, I——”
“Tut, Captain, your skin is surely thinner than it was.”
“And yours would be thin had ye not your guineas to line it with. Hang me, Berkeley, a word from me——”
“Come, come,” said the squire quickly, “’tis not for old friends to fall out. You were talking of your scheme.”
“I was saying that all I need is a small sum in advance—the rest may wait till the thing is done.”
“And what is your scheme? You do not expect me—no offence, Aglionby—to buy a pig in a poke this time.”
“’Twere better, maybe——” Aglionby was beginning, but just then a footstep was heard on the stairs. He evidently recognized it. Hesitating for a second he lowered his voice and continued hurriedly: “’Tis one of the men engaged in the job. I will call on you later at your inn. ’Twould be amiss were he to know you had any concern in it.”
Berkeley looked suspiciously at the captain, but, unable to fathom his embarrassment, he picked up his hat and slowly moved towards the door. It opened in his face, and Polignac appeared. He stepped back courteously to allow the older man to pass. They bowed to each other, with a mutual glance of keen scrutiny. The squire bade Aglionby good-day, refusing his attendance; and as he passed down the stairs Polignac entered the room.
“Who is your visitor, captain?” he asked. “An English milord, by his appearance.”
“Yes; a friend from England—an old friend of my family: a neighbour: in fact, our estates join—or all but, for ’tis but a narrow trout-stream divides ’em.”
Aglionby’s manner was still a little flurried. His mind was not very quick, and took time to adjust itself. Polignac threw his hat upon the table, sat astride of a chair, and went on with admirable gravity:
“And the fishing—it is often, without doubt, what we Frenchmen call an apple of discord. I have known so many disputes.”
“The fishing! oh!—yes!—well, that arranges itself. It is quite simple: we take one day, he takes the next.”
“Tour à tour. Admirable! You English are the people for transactions! I must make the acquaintance of your so accommodating friend and neighbour. Is he—how shall I say it?—one of us?”
“No. He takes no part in affairs. He cultivates his estate. His call now is merely in way of friendship.”
“Ah! that is indeed amiable. Parbleu, he has the look! And what is he doing in this country?”
Aglionby was growing restive under the cross-examination. He had the air of a witness who fears that he may be enticed into an admission against his will. But he had not the wit to fence with his visitor.
“Nothing,” he replied curtly. “He comes with his son, that is in the army, and now joins his regiment.”
“He has a son in the army? My dear friend, certainly you shall present me. I desire of all things to extend my acquaintance among your countrymen—in furtherance, it is understood, of my cause—of our cause, pardon me.”
“I fear you will find little encouragement with him. He hates your countrymen as one hates a toad.”
“The amiable man!”
Aglionby’s constrained manner had betrayed him to his astute visitor, whose curiosity was now effectually aroused.
“Then, my good captain,” he continued, “it shall be my pleasing task to convert him. Indeed, you must present me. He shall be a recruit—a little aged, perhaps, but what matters that? In truth, it is an advantage, if his estates are as large as you say.”
“I did not say his estates were large.”
“But they march with your family’s—is it not so? And unless I deceive myself, the D’Aglionbys are—how do you say it?—milords of the manor of half the comté of Viltshire. You remark, my dear captain, what a memory I have, even for your barbarous English geography.”
The captain, more and more restive, fidgeted on his chair.
“Parbleu, monsieur,” he said doggedly, “you must allow me to be the judge who among my friends is likely to be of use to us. This one, I say, is not; you must be content with that.”
Polignac, seeing that nothing was to be gained by pressing the matter in the captain’s present mood, adroitly changed the conversation.
“Eh bien! As you will, my good captain. You know my zeal in the cause, and Tout fait nombre, as we say in France. Now, my friend, how goes our affair—yours and mine, I mean?”
Aglionby’s face cleared. He was now on surer ground.
“Admirably, admirably, monsieur. Look you, I have arranged with some six stout fellows—every one to be depended on. Nothing remains but to choose the hour and the place. And besides, I have set Simmons on the watch: he comes here to report at five o’clock.”
“And it is now half-past two. If it pleases you, mon brave,—there is time—we will have in a bottle of sack and drink success to our enterprise.”
“If it pleases me! Parbleu, Polignac, I’ve drunk nothing but rum since Berk——since the last remittance from my agent was spent. A bottle of sack! Many I’ve emptied with the Czar of Muscovy, whose head, mark you, is not as strong as mine. Certainly, a bottle of sack—the money, my friend?”
Some two hours later, Aglionby left the inn at which Mr. Berkeley was putting up. His mood and mien were jovial; his rubicund cheeks even more ruddy than usual. He was too old and tough a campaigner, and too well seasoned by his experiences in Russia, to allow himself to be overtaken in liquor; but he was certainly in an unusually buoyant humour, and trod the street with a confident swing. As he passed along, he jingled the money in his pocket, and appeared to take an uncommon pleasure in the sound. His brow was clear, his eye bright, and he held half-audible communion with his thoughts.
“’Tis a hard world, Rafe my boy; odso, ’tis a hard world. ’Tis not often a man gets paid for doing what he would gladly do for nothing. Ay, and ’tis less often he gets paid twice, begad! Rafe, my bully boy, you’re in luck. Stap me, we’ll break another bottle of sack and drink to your success. Nay, nay; hold a little: business before pleasure. A draft from our Hebrew friend—egad, they’re the one good thing I know in Amsterdam; that is easily got; then a letter to the Elector’s chamberlain; oons! ’tis more difficult, but to be faced; I’m no scholard, hang it, but I can pay some poor scrivener that is, whether ’tis to be Latin or French; and to be Captain Rafe once more’s worth a dollar or two for pen-work. Then for a bottle at the Goudenhoof’d. And to-morrow, my friend Rochester and my excellent coz with the scripture name—to-morrow, by the lord Harry, our final reckoning!”