St. Ronan's Well

But, although the young soldier went off at double quick time, his pertinacious attendant kept close by his side, displaying an activity which seemed inconsistent with his make and his years, and talking away the whole time, so as to show that his lungs were not in the least degree incommoded by the unusual rapidity of motion.

“Nay, young gentleman, if you are for a good smart walk, I am for you, and the gout may be d – d. You are a lucky fellow to have youth on your side; but yet, so far as between the Aultoun and the Well, I think I could walk you for your sum, barring running – all heel and toe – equal weight, and I would match Barclay himself for a mile.”

“Upon my word, you are a gay old gentleman!” said Jekyl, relaxing his pace; “and if we must be fellow-travellers, though I can see no great occasion for it, I must even shorten sail for you.”

So saying, and as if another means of deliverance had occurred to him, he slackened his pace, took out a morocco case of cigars, and, lighting one with his briquet, said, while he walked on, and bestowed as much of its fragrance as he could upon the face of his intrusive companion, “Vergeben sie, mein herr – ich bin erzogen in kaiserlicher dienst – muss rauchen ein kleine wenig.”37

“Rauchen sie immer fort,” said Touchwood, producing a huge meerschaum, which, suspended by a chain from his neck, lurked in the bosom of his coat, “habe auch mein pfeichen – Sehen sie den lieben topf!”38 and he began to return the smoke, if not the fire, of his companion, in full volumes, and with interest.

“The devil take the twaddle,” said Jekyl to himself, “he is too old and too fat to be treated after the manner of Professor Jackson; and, on my life, I cannot tell what to make of him. – He is a residenter too – I must tip him the cold shoulder, or he will be pestering me eternally.”

Accordingly, he walked on, sucking his cigar, and apparently in as abstracted a mood as Mr. Cargill himself, without paying the least attention to Touchwood, who, nevertheless, continued talking, as if he had been addressing the most attentive listener in Scotland, whether it were the favourite nephew of a cross, old, rich bachelor, or the aid-de-camp of some old rusty firelock of a general, who tells stories of the American war.

“And so, sir, I can put up with any companion at a pinch, for I have travelled in all sorts of ways, from a caravan down to a carrier's cart; but the best society is the best every where; and I am happy I have fallen in with a gentleman who suits me so well as you. – That grave, steady attention of yours reminds me of Elfi Bey – you might talk to him in English, or any thing he understood least of – you might have read Aristotle to Elfi, and not a muscle would he stir – give him his pipe, and he would sit on his cushion with a listening air as if he took in every word of what you said.”

Captain Jekyl threw away the remnant of his cigar, with a little movement of pettishness, and began to whistle an opera air.

“There again, now! – That is just so like the Marquis of Roccombole, another dear friend of mine, that whistles all the time you talk to him – He says he learned it in the Reign of Terror, when a man was glad to whistle to show his throat was whole. And, talking of great folk, what do you think of this affair between Lord Etherington and his brother, or cousin, as some folk call him?”

Jekyl absolutely started at the question; a degree of emotion, which, had it been witnessed by any of his fashionable friends, would for ever have ruined his pretensions to rank in the first order.

“What affair?” he asked, so soon as he could command a certain degree of composure.

“Why, you know the news surely? Francis Tyrrel, whom all the company voted a coward the other day, turns out as brave a fellow as any of us; for, instead of having run away to avoid having his own throat cut by Sir Bingo Binks, he was at the very moment engaged in a gallant attempt to murder his elder brother, or his more lawful brother, or his cousin, or some such near relation.”

“I believe you are misinformed, sir,” said Jekyl dryly, and then resumed, as deftly as he could, his proper character of a pococurante.

“I am told,” continued Touchwood, “one Jekyl acted as a second to them both on the occasion – a proper fellow, sir – one of those fine gentlemen whom we pay for polishing the pavement in Bond Street, and looking at a thick shoe and a pair of worsted stockings, as if the wearer were none of their paymasters. However, I believe the Commander-in-Chief is like to discard him when he hears what has happened.”

“Sir!” said Jekyl, fiercely – then, recollecting the folly of being angry with an original of his companion's description, he proceeded more coolly, “You are misinformed – Captain Jekyl knew nothing of any such matter as you refer to – you talk of a person you know nothing of – Captain Jekyl is – (Here he stopped a little, scandalized, perhaps, at the very idea of vindicating himself to such a personage from such a charge.)

“Ay, ay,” said the traveller, filling up the chasm in his own way, “he is not worth our talking of, certainly – but I believe he knew as much of the matter as either you or I do, for all that.”

“Sir, this is either a very great mistake, or wilful impertinence,” answered the officer. “However absurd or intrusive you may be, I cannot allow you, either in ignorance or incivility, to use the name of Captain Jekyl with disrespect. – I am Captain Jekyl, sir.”

“Very like, very like,” said Touchwood, with the most provoking indifference; “I guessed as much before.”

“Then, sir, you may guess what is likely to follow, when a gentleman hears himself unwarrantably and unjustly slandered,” replied Captain Jekyl, surprised and provoked that his annunciation of name and rank seemed to be treated so lightly. “I advise you, sir, not to proceed too far upon the immunities of your age and insignificance.”

“I never presume farther than I have good reason to think necessary, Captain Jekyl,” answered Touchwood, with great composure. “I am too old, as you say, for any such idiotical business as a duel, which no nation I know of practises but our silly fools of Europe – and then, as for your switch, which you are grasping with so much dignity, that is totally out of the question. Look you, young gentleman; four-fifths of my life have been spent among men who do not set a man's life at the value of a button on his collar – every person learns, in such cases, to protect himself as he can; and whoever strikes me must stand to the consequences. I have always a brace of bull-dogs about me, which put age and youth on a level. So suppose me horsewhipped, and pray, at the same time, suppose yourself shot through the body. The same exertion of imagination will serve for both purposes.”

So saying, he exhibited a very handsome, highly finished, and richly-mounted pair of pistols.

“Catch me without my tools,” said he, significantly buttoning his coat over the arms, which were concealed in a side-pocket, ingeniously contrived for that purpose. “I see you do not know what to make of me,” he continued, in a familiar and confidential tone; “but, to tell you the truth, everybody that has meddled in this St. Ronan's business is a little off the hooks – something of a tête exaltée, in plain words, a little crazy, or so; and I do not affect to be much wiser than other people.”

“Sir,” said Jekyl, “your manners and discourse are so unprecedented, that I must ask your meaning plainly and decidedly – Do you mean to insult me or no?”

“No insult at all, young gentleman – all fair meaning, and above board – I only wished to let you know what the world may say, that is all.”

“Sir,” said Jekyl, hastily, “the world may tell what lies it pleases; but I was not present at the rencontre between Etherington and Mr. Tyrrel – I was some hundred miles off.”

“There now,” said Touchwood, “there was a rencontre between them – the very thing I wanted to know.”

“Sir,” said Jekyl, aware too late that, in his haste to vindicate himself, he had committed his friend, “I desire you will found nothing on an expression hastily used to vindicate myself from a false aspersion – I only meant to say, if there was an affair such as you talk of, I knew nothing of it.”

“Never mind – never mind – I shall make no bad use of what I have learned,” said Touchwood. “Were you to eat your words with the best fish-sauce, (and that is Burgess's,) I have got all the information from them I wanted.”

“You are strangely pertinacious, sir,” replied Jekyl.

“O, a rock, a piece of flint for that – What I have learned, I have learned, but I will make no bad use of it. – Hark ye, Captain, I have no malice against your friend – perhaps the contrary – but he is in a bad course, sir – has kept a false reckoning, for as deep as he thinks himself; and I tell you so, because I hold you (your finery out of the question) to be, as Hamlet says, indifferent honest; but, if you were not, why necessity is necessity; and a man will take a Bedouin for his guide in the desert, whom he would not trust with an aspar in the cultivated field; so I think of reposing some confidence in you – have not made up my mind yet, though.”

“On my word, sir, I am greatly flattered both by your intentions and your hesitation,” said Captain Jekyl. “You were pleased to say just now, that every one concerned with these matters was something particular.”

“Ay, ay – something crazy – a little mad, or so. That was what I said, and I can prove it.”

“I should be glad to hear the proof,” said Jekyl – “I hope you do not except yourself?”

“Oh! by no means,” answered Touchwood; “I am one of the maddest old boys ever slept out of straw, or went loose. But you can put fishing questions in your turn, Captain, I see that – you would fain know how much, or how little, I am in all these secrets. Well, that is as hereafter may be. In the meantime, here are my proofs. – Old Scrogie Mowbray was mad, to like the sound of Mowbray better than that of Scrogie; young Scrogie was mad, not to like it as well. The old Earl of Etherington was not sane when he married a French wife in secret, and devilish mad indeed when he married an English one in public. Then for the good folk here, Mowbray of St. Ronan's is cracked, when he wishes to give his sister to he knows not precisely whom: She is a fool not to take him, because she does know who he is, and what has been between them; and your friend is maddest of all, who seeks her under so heavy a penalty: – and you and I, Captain, go mad gratis, for company's sake, when we mix ourselves with such a mess of folly and frenzy.”

“Really, sir, all that you have said is an absolute riddle to me,” replied the embarrassed Jekyl.

“Riddles may be read,” said Touchwood, nodding; “if you have any desire to read mine, pray, take notice, that this being our first interview, I have exerted myself faire les frais du conversation, as Jack Frenchman says; if you want another, you may come to Mrs. Dods's at the Cleikum Inn, any day before Saturday, at four precisely, when you will find none of your half-starved, long-limbed bundles of bones, which you call poultry at the table-d'hôte, but a right Chitty-gong fowl! – I got Mrs. Dods the breed from old Ben Vandewash, the Dutch broker – stewed to a minute, with rice and mushrooms. – If you can eat without a silver fork, and your appetite serves you, you shall be welcome – that's all. – So, good morning to you, good master lieutenant, for a captain of the Guards is but a lieutenant after all.”

So saying, and ere Jekyl could make any answer, the old gentleman turned short off into a path which led to the healing fountain, branching away from that which conducted to the Hotel.

Uncertain with whom he had been holding a conversation so strange, Jekyl remained looking after him, until his attention was roused by a little boy, who crept out from an adjoining thicket, with a switch in his hand, which he had been just cutting, – probably against regulations to the contrary effect made and provided, for he held himself ready to take cover in the copse again, in case any one were in sight who might be interested in chastising his delinquency. Captain Jekyl easily recognised in him one of that hopeful class of imps, who pick up a precarious livelihood about places of public resort, by going errands, brushing shoes, doing the groom's and coachman's work in the stables, driving donkeys, opening gates, and so forth, for about one-tenth part of their time, spending the rest in gambling, sleeping in the sun, and otherwise qualifying themselves to exercise the profession of thieves and pickpockets, either separately, or in conjunction with those of waiters, grooms, and postilions. The little outcast had an indifferent pair of pantaloons, and about half a jacket, for, like Pentapolin with the naked arm, he went on action with his right shoulder bare; a third part of what had once been a hat covered his hair, bleached white with the sun, and his face, as brown as a berry, was illuminated by a pair of eyes, which, for spying out either peril or profit, might have rivalled those of the hawk. – In a word, it was the original Puck of the Shaws dramaticals.

“Come hither, ye unhanged whelp,” said Jekyl, “and tell me if you know the old gentleman that passed down the walk just now – yonder he is, still in sight.”

“It is the Naboab,” said the boy; “I could swear to his back among all the backs at the Waal, your honour.”

“What do you call a Nabob, you varlet?”

“A Naboab – a Naboab?” answered the scout; “odd, I believe it is ane comes frae foreign parts, with mair siller than his pouches can haud, and spills it a' through the country – they are as yellow as orangers, and maun hae a' thing their ain gate.”

“And what is this Naboab's name, as you call him?” demanded Jekyl.

“His name is Touchwood,” said his informer; “ye may see him at the Waal every morning.”

“I have not seen him at the ordinary.”

“Na, na,” answered the boy; “he is a queer auld cull, he disna frequent wi' other folk, but lives upby at the Cleikum. – He gave me half-a-crown yince, and forbade me to play it awa' at pitch and toss.”

“And you disobeyed him, of course?”

“Na, I didna dis-obeyed him – I played it awa' at neevie-neevie-nick-nack.”

“Well, there is sixpence for thee; lose it to the devil in any way thou think'st proper.”

So saying he gave the little galopin his donative, and a slight rap on the pate at the same time, which sent him scouring from his presence. He himself hastened to Lord Etherington's apartments, and, as luck would have it, found the Earl alone.

CHAPTER XII.

DISCUSSION

I will converse with iron-witted foolsAnd unrespective boys – none are for meThat look into me with suspicious eyes.Richard III.

“How now, Jekyl!” said Lord Etherington, eagerly; “what news from the enemy? – Have you seen him?”

“I have,” replied Jekyl.

“And in what humour did you find him? – in none that was very favourable, I dare say, for you have a baffled and perplexed look, that confesses a losing game – I have often warned you how your hang-dog look betrays you at brag – And then, when you would fain brush up your courage, and put a good face on a bad game, your bold looks always remind me of a standard hoisted only half-mast high, and betraying melancholy and dejection, instead of triumph and defiance.”

“I am only holding the cards for your lordship at present,” answered Jekyl; “and I wish to Heaven there may be no one looking over the hand.”

“How do you mean by that?”

“Why, I was beset, on returning through the wood, by an old bore, a Nabob, as they call him, and Touchwood by name.”

“I have seen such a quiz about,” said Lord Etherington – “What of him?”

“Nothing,” answered Jekyl, “except that he seemed to know much more of your affairs than you would wish or are aware of. He smoked the truth of the rencontre betwixt Tyrrel and you, and what is worse – I must needs confess the truth – he contrived to wring out of me a sort of confirmation of his suspicions.”

“'Slife! wert thou mad?” said Lord Etherington, turning pale; “His is the very tongue to send the story through the whole country – Hal, you have undone me.”

“I hope not,” said Jekyl; “I trust in Heaven I have not! – His knowledge is quite general – only that there was some scuffle between you – Do not look so dismayed about it, or I will e'en go back and cut his throat, to secure his secrecy.”

“Cursed indiscretion!” answered the Earl – “how could you let him fix on you at all?”

“I cannot tell,” said Jekyl – “he has powers of boring beyond ten of the dullest of all possible doctors – stuck like a limpet to a rock – a perfect double of the Old Man of the Sea, who I take to have been the greatest bore on record.”

“Could you not have turned him on his back like a turtle, and left him there?” said Lord Etherington.

“And had an ounce of lead in my body for my pains? No – no – we have already had footpad work enough – I promise you the old buck was armed, as if he meant to bing folks on the low toby.”39

“Well – well – But Martigny, or Tyrrel, as you call him – what says he?”

“Why, Tyrrel, or Martigny, as your lordship calls him,” answered Jekyl, “will by no means listen to your lordship's proposition. He will not consent that Miss Mowbray's happiness shall be placed in your lordship's keeping; nay, it did not meet his approbation a bit the more, when I hinted at the acknowledgment of the marriage, or the repetition of the ceremony, attended by an immediate separation, which I thought I might venture to propose.”

“And on what grounds does he refuse so reasonable an accommodation?” said Lord Etherington – “Does he still seek to marry the girl himself?”

“I believe he thinks the circumstances of the case render that impossible,” replied his confidant.

“What? then he would play the dog in the manger – neither eat nor let eat? – He shall find himself mistaken. She has used me like a dog, Jekyl, since I saw you; and, by Jove! I will have her, that I may break her pride, and cut him to the liver with the agony of seeing it.”

“Nay, but hold – hold!” said Jekyl; “perhaps I have something to say on his part, that may be a better compromise than all you could have by teasing him. He is willing to purchase what he calls Miss Mowbray's tranquillity, at the expense of his resignation of his claims to your father's honours and estate; and he surprised me very much, my lord, by showing me this list of documents, which, I am afraid, makes his success more than probable, if there really are such proofs in existence.” Lord Etherington took the paper, and seemed to read with much attention, while Jekyl proceeded, – “He has written to procure these evidences from the person with whom they are deposited.”

“We shall see what like they are when they arrive,” said Lord Etherington. – “They come by post, I suppose?”

“Yes; and may be immediately expected,” answered Jekyl.

“Well – he is my brother on one side of the house, at least,” said Lord Etherington; “and I should not much like to have him lagged for forgery, which I suppose will be the end of his bolstering up an unsubstantial plea by fabricated documents – I should like to see these same papers he talks of.”

“But, my lord,” replied Jekyl, “Tyrrel's allegation is, that you have seen them; and that copies, at least, were made out for you, and are in your possession – such is his averment.”

“He lies,” answered Lord Etherington, “so far as he pretends I know of such papers. I consider the whole story as froth – foam – fudge, or whatever is most unsubstantial. It will prove such when the papers appear, if indeed they ever will appear. The whole is a bully from beginning to end; and I wonder at thee, Jekyl, for being so thirsty after syllabub, that you can swallow such whipt cream as that stuff amounts to. No, no – I know my advantage, and shall use it so as to make all their hearts bleed. As for these papers, I recollect now that my agent talked of copies of some manuscripts having been sent him, but the originals were not then forthcoming; and I'll bet the long odds that they never are – mere fabrications – if I thought otherwise, would I not tell you?”

“Certainly, I hope you would, my lord,” said Jekyl; “for I see no chance of my being useful to you, unless I have the honour to enjoy your confidence.”

“You do – you do, my friend,” said Etherington, shaking him by the hand; “and since I must consider your present negotiation as failed, I must devise some other mode of settling with this mad and troublesome fellow.”

“No violence, my lord,” said Jekyl, once more, and with much emphasis.

“None – none – none, by Heaven! – Why, thou suspicious wretch, must I swear, to quell your scruples? – On the contrary, it shall not be my fault, if we are not on decent terms.”

“It would be infinitely to the advantage of both your characters if you could bring that to pass,” answered Jekyl; “and if you are serious in wishing it, I will endeavour to prepare Tyrrel. He comes to the Well or to the ordinary to-day, and it would be highly ridiculous to make a scene.”

“True, true; find him out, my dear Jekyl, and persuade him how foolish it will be to bring our family quarrels out before strangers, and for their amusement. They shall see the two bears can meet without biting. – Go – go – I will follow you instantly – go, and remember you have my full and exclusive confidence. – Go, half-bred, startling fool!” he continued, the instant Jekyl had left the room, “with just spirits enough to ensure your own ruin, by hurrying you into what you are not up to. – But he has character in the world – is brave – and one of those whose countenance gives a fair face to a doubtful business. He is my creature, too – I have bought and paid for him, and it would be idle extravagance not to make use of him – But as to confidence – no confidence, honest Hal, beyond that which cannot be avoided. If I wanted a confidant, here comes a better than thou by half – Solmes has no scruples – he will always give me money's worth of zeal and secrecy for money.”

His lordship's valet at this moment entered the apartment, a grave, civil-looking man, past the middle age, with a sallow complexion, a dark thoughtful eye, slow, and sparing of speech, and sedulously attentive to all the duties of his situation.

“Solmes,” – said Lord Etherington, and then stopped short.

“My lord” – There was a pause; and when Lord Etherington had again said, “Solmes!” and his valet had answered, “Your lordship,” there was a second pause; until the Earl, as if recollecting himself, “Oh! I remember what I wished to say – it was about the course of post here. It is not very regular, I believe?”

“Regular enough, my lord, so far as concerns this place – the people in the Aultoun do not get their letters in course.”

“And why not, Solmes?” said his lordship.

“The old woman who keeps the little inn there, my lord, is on bad terms with the post-mistress – the one will not send for the letters, and the other will not dispatch them to the village; so, betwixt them, they are sometimes lost or mislaid, or returned to the General Post-office.”

“I wish that may not be the case of a packet which I expect in a few days – it should have been here already, or, perhaps, it may arrive in the beginning of the week – it is from that formal ass, Trueman the Quaker, who addresses me by my Christian and family name, Francis Tyrrel. He is like enough to mistake the inn, too, and I should be sorry it fell into Monsieur Martigny's hands – I suppose you know he is in that neighbourhood? – Look after its safety, Solmes – quietly, you understand; because people might put odd constructions, as if I were wanting a letter which was not my own.”

“I understand perfectly, my lord,” said Solmes, without exhibiting the slightest change in his sallow countenance, though entirely comprehending the nature of the service required.

“And here is a note will pay for postage,” said the Earl, putting into his valet's hand a bank-bill of considerable value; “and you may keep the balance for occasional expenses.”

This was also fully understood; and Solmes, too politic and cautious even to look intelligence, or acknowledge gratitude, made only a bow of acquiescence, put the note into his pocketbook, and assured his lordship that his commands should be punctually attended to.

“There goes the agent for my money, and for my purpose,” said Lord Etherington, exultingly; “no extorting of confidence, no demanding of explanations, no tearing off the veil with which a delicate manœuvre is gazé– all excuses are received as argent comptant, provided only, that the best excuse of all, the argent comptant itself, come to recommend them. – Yet I will trust no one – I will out, like a skilful general, and reconnoitre in person.”