That my purse was now empty occasioned me no great concern, since my cousin, Lord Elmscott, lived at London, in a fine house in Monmouth Square, and I doubted not but what I could instantly procure from him the means to enable me to continue my journey. I was, in truth, infinitely more distressed by the tardiness of our voyage, for towards sunrise the wind utterly died away, and during the next two days we lay becalmed, rocking lazily upon the swell. On the afternoon of the third, being the seventeenth day of the mouth, a breeze filled our sheets, and we made some progress, although our vessel, which was a ketch and heavily loaded, was a slow sailer at the best. But during the night the breeze quickened into a storm, and, blowing for twelve hours without intermission or abatement, drove us clean from our course, so that on the morning of the eighteenth we were scurrying northwards before it along the coast of Essex.
The last misadventure cast me into the very bottom of despair. I knew that if I were to prove of timely help in Juhan’s deliverance, I must needs reach Bristol before his trial commenced, the which seemed now plainly impossible; and, atop of this piece of knowledge, my ignorance of the nature of his calamity, and of the service he desired of me, worked in my blood like a fever.
For Julian and myself were linked together in a very sweet and intimate love. I could not, an I tried, point to its beginning. It seemed to have been native within us from our births. We took it from our fathers before us, and when they died we counted it no small part of our inheritance. Our estates, you should know, lay in contiguous valleys of the remote county of Cumberland, and thus we lived out our boyhood in a secluded comradeship. Seldom a day passed but we found a way to meet. Mostly Julian would come swinging across the fells, his otter-dogs yapping at his heels, and all the fresh morning in his voice. Together we would ramble over the slopes, bathe in the tarns and kelds, hunt, climb, argue, ay, and fight too, when we were gravelled for lack of arguments; so that even now, each time that I turn my feet homewards after a period of absence, and catch the first glimpse of these brown hill-sides, they become bright and populous with the rich pageantry of our boyish fancies.
But my clearest recollections of those days centre about Scafell, and a certain rock upon the Pillar Mountain in Ennerdale. A common share of peril is surely the stoutest bond of comradeship. You may find exemplars in the story of wellnigh every battle. But to hang half-way up a sheer cliff in the chill eerie silence, where a slip of the heel, a falter of the numbed fingers, would hurl both your companion and yourself upon the stones a hundred yards below—ah, that turns the friend into something closer than even a frère d’armes. At least, so it was with Julian and me.
I think, too, that the very difference between us helped to fortify our love. Each felt the other the complement of his nature. And in later times, when Julian would come down from the Court to Oxford, tricked out in some new French fashion, and with all sorts of fantastical conceits upon his tongue, my rooms seemed to glow as with a sudden shaft of sunlight; and after that he had gone I was ever in two minds whether to send for a tailor, and follow him to Whitehall.
But to return to my journey. On the nineteenth we changed our course, and tacked back to the mouth of the Thames. But it was not until the evening of the twentieth that we cast anchor by London Bridge. From the ship I hurried straight to the house of my cousin, Lord Elmscott, who resided in Monmouth Square, to the north of the town, being minded to borrow a horse of him and some money, and ride forthwith to Bristol. The windows, however, were dark, not a light glimmered anywhere; and knock with what noise I might, for a while I could get no answer to my summons.
At last, just as I was turning away in no little distress of mind—for the town was all strange to me, and I knew no one else to whom I could apply at that late hour—a feeble shuffling step sounded in the passage. I knocked again, and as loudly as I could; the steps drew nearer the bolts were slowly drawn from their sockets, and the door opened. I was faced by an old man in a faded livery, who held a lighted candle in his hand. Behind him the hall showed black and solitary.
“I am Mr Morrice Buckler,” said I, “and I would have a word with my cousin, Lord Elmscott.”
The old man shook his head dolefully.
“Nay, sir,” he replied in a thin, quavering voice, “you do ill to seek him here. At White’s perchance you may light on him, or at Wood’s, in Pall Mall—I know not. But never in his own house while there is a pack of cards abroad.”
I waited not to hear the rest of his complaint, but dashed down the steps and set off westwards at a run. I crossed a lonely and noisome plain which I have since heard is named the pest-field, for that many of the sufferers in the late plague are buried there, and came out at the top of St James’ Street. There a stranger pointed out to me White’s coffee-house.
“Is Lord Elmscott within?” I asked of an attendant as I entered.
For reply he looked me over coolly from head to fool.
“And what may be your business with Lord Elmscott?” he asked, with a sneer.
In truth I must have cut but a sorry figure in his eyes, for I was all dusty and begrimed with my five days’ travel. But I thought not of that at the time.
“Tell him,” said I, “that his cousin, Morrice Buckler, is here, and must needs speak with him,” Whereupon the man’s look changed to one of pure astonishment. “Be quick, fellow,” I cried, stamping my foot; and with a humble “crave your pardon,” he hurried off upon the message. A door stood at the far end of the room, and through this he entered, leaving it ajar. In a moment I heard my cousin’s voice, loud and boisterous,—“Show him in! ’Od’s wounds, he may change my luck.”
With that I followed him. ’Twas a strange sight to me. The room was small, and the floor so thickly littered with cards that it needed the feel of your foot to assure you it was carpeted. A number of gallants in a great disorder of dress stood about a little table whereat were seated a youth barely, I should guess, out of his teens, his face pale, but very indifferent and composed, and over against him my cousin. Elmscott’s black peruke was all awry, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes bloodshot and staring.
“Morrice,” he cried, “what brings you here in this plight? I believe the fellow took you for a bailiff, and, on my life,” he added, surveying me, “I have not the impudence to blame him.” Thereupon he addressed himself to the company. “This, gentlemen,” says he, “is my cousin, Mr Morrice Buckler, a very worthy—bookworm.”
They all laughed as though there was some wit in the ill-mannered sally; but I had no time to spare for taking heed of their foolishness.
“You can do me a service,” I said eagerly.
“You give me news,” Elmscott laughed. ’Tis a strange service that I can render. Well, what may it be?”
“I need money for one thing, and—” A roar of laughter broke in upon my words.
“Money!” cried Elmscott. “Lord, that any one should come to me for money!” and he leaned back in his chair laughing as heartily as the best of them. “Why, Morrice, it’s all gone—all gone into the devil’s whirlpool. Howbeit,” he went on, growing suddenly serious, “I will make a bargain with you. Stand by my side here, I have it in my mind that you will bring me luck. Stand by my side, and in return, if I win, I will lend you what help I may.”
“Nay, cousin,” said I, “my business will not wait.”
“Nor mine,” he replied, “nor mine. Stand by me! I shall not be long. My last stake’s on the table.”
He seized hold of my arm as he spoke with something of prayer in his eyes, and reluctantly I consented. In truth, I knew not what else to do. ’Twas plain he was in no mood to hearken to my request, even if he had the means to grant it.
“That’s right, lad!” he bawled, and then to the servant: “Brandy! Brandy, d’ye hear! And a great deal of it! Now, gentlemen, you will see. Mr Buckler is a student of Leyden. ’Tis full time that some good luck should come to us from Holland.”
And he turned him again to the table. His pleasantry was received with an uproarious merriment, which methought it hardly merited. But I have noted since that round a gaming-table, so tense is the spirit which it engenders, the poorest jest takes the currency of wit.
I was at first perplexed by the difference of the stakes. Before my cousin lay a pair of diamond buckles, but no gold, not so much as a single guinea-piece. All that there was of that metal lay in scattered heaps beside his opponent.
Lord Elmscott dealt the hands—the game was écarté—and the other nodded his request for cards. Looking over my cousin’s shoulder I could see that he held but one trump, the ten, and a tierce to the king in another suit. For a little he remained without answering, glancing indecisively from his cards to the face of his player. At last, with a touch of defiance in his voice,—“No!” he said. ’Tis no hand to play on, but I’ll trust to chance.”
“As you will,” nodded the other, and he led directly into Elmscott’s suit. Every one leaned eagerly forward, but each trick fell to my cousin, and he obtained the vole.
“There! I told you,” he cried.
His opponent said never a word, but carelessly paid a tinkling pile of coins across the table. And so the play went on; at the finish of each game a stream of gold drifted over to Lord Elmscott. It seemed that he could not lose. If he played the eight, his companion would follow with the seven.
“He hath the devil at his back now,” said one of the bystanders.
“Pardon me!” replied my cousin very politely. “You insult Mr Buckler. I am merely fortified with the learning of Leyden;” and he straightway marked the king. After a time the room fell to utter silence, even Elmscott stopped his outbursts. A strange fascination caught and enmeshed us all; we strained forward, holding our breaths as we watched the hands, though each man, I think, was certain what the end would be. For myself, I honestly struggled against this devilish enchantment, but to little purpose. The flutter of the cards made my heart leap. I sought to picture to myself the long dark road I had to traverse, and Julian in his prison at the end of it. I saw nothing but the faces of the players, Elmscott’s flushed and purple, his opponent’s growing paler and paler, while his eyes seemed to retreat into his head and the pupils of them to burn like points of fire. I loaded myself with reproaches and abuse, but the words ran through my heads in a meaningless sequence, and were tuned to a clink of gold.
And then an odd fancy came over me. In the midst of the yellow heap, ever increasing, on our side of the table, lay the pair of diamond buckles. I could see rays of an infinite variety of colours spirting out like little jets of flame, as the light caught the stones, and I felt a queer conviction that Elmscott’s luck was in some way bound up with them. So strongly did the whim possess me that I lifted them from the table to test my thought. For so long as took the players to play two games, I held the buckles in my hands; and both games my cousin lost. I replaced them on the table, and he began to win once more with the old regularity, the heaps dwindling there and growing here, until at length all the money lay silted at my cousin’s hand. You might have believed that a spell had been suddenly lifted from the company. Faces relaxed and softened, eyes lost their keen light, feet shuffled in a new freedom, and the heavy silence was torn by a Babel of voices. Strangely enough, all joined with Elmscott in attributing his change of fortune to my presence. Snuff-boxes were opened and their contents pressed upon me, and I think that I might have dined at no cost of myself for a full twelve months had I accepted the invitations I received. But the cessation of the play had waked me to my own necessities, and I turned to my cousin.
“Now,” said I, but I got no further, for he exclaimed,—“Not yet, Morrice! There’s my house in Monmouth Square.”
“Your house?” I repeated.
“There’s the manor of Silverdale.”
“You have not lost that?” I cried.
“Every brick of it,” says he.
“Then,” says I in a quick passion, “you must win them back as best you may. I’ll bide no longer.”
“Nay, lad!” he entreated, laying hold of my sleeve. “You cannot mean that. See, when you came in, I had but these poor buckles left. They were all my fortune. Stay but for a little. For if you go you take all my luck with you. I am deadly sure of it.”
“I have stayed too long as it is,” I replied, and wrenched myself free from his grasp.
“Well, take what money you need! But you are no more than a stone,” he whimpered.
“The philosopher’s stone, then,” said I, and I caught up a couple of handfuls of gold and turned on my heel. But with a sudden cry I stopped. For as I turned, I glanced across the table to his opponent, and I saw his face change all in a moment to a strangely gray and livid colour. And to make the sight yet more ghastly, he still sat bolt upright in his chair, without a gesture, without a motion, a figure of marble, save that his eyes still burned steadily beneath his brows.
“Great God!” I cried. “He is dying.”
“It is the morning.” he said in a quiet voice, which had yet a very thrilling resonance, and it flashed across me with a singular uneasiness that this was the first time that he had spoken during all those hours.
I turned towards the window, which was behind my cousin’s chair. Through a chink of the curtains a pale beam of twilight streamed full on to the youth’s face. So long as I had stood by Elmscott’s side, my back had intercepted it; but as I moved away I had uncovered the window, arid it was the gray light streaming from it which had given to him a complexion of so deathly and ashen a colour. I flung the curtains apart, and the chill morning flooded the room. One shiver ran through the company like a breeze through a group of aspens, and it seemed to me that on the instant every one had grown old. The heavy gildings, the yellow glare of the candles, the gaudy hangings about the walls, seen in that pitiless light, appeared inexpressibly pretentious and vulgar; and the gentlemen with their leaden cheeks, their disordered perukes, and the soiled finery of their laces and ruffles, no more, than the room’s fitting complement. A sickening qualm of disgust shot through me; the very air seemed to have grown acrid and stale; and yet, in spite of all I stayed—to my shame be it said, I stayed. However, I paid for the fault—nay, ten times over, in the years that were to come. For as I halted at the door to make my bow—my fingers were on the very handle—I perceived Lord Elmscott with one foot upon his chair, and the buckles in his hand. My presentiment came back to me with the conviction of a creed. I knew—I knew that if he failed to add those jewels to his stake, he would leave the coffee-house as empty a beggar as when I entered it. I strode back across the room, took them from his hand, and laid them on the table. For a moment Elmscott stared at me in astonishment. Then I must think he read my superstition in my looks, for he said, clapping me on the back,—“You will make a gambler yet, Morrice,” and he sat him down on his chair. I took my former stand beside him.
“You will stay, Mr Buckler?” asked his opponent.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Then,” he continued, in the same even voice, “I have a plan in my head which I fancy will best suit the purposes of the three of us. Lord Elmscott is naturally anxious to follow his luck; you, Mr Buckler, have overstayed your time; and as for me—well, it is now Wednesday morning, and a damned dirty morning too, if I may judge from the countenances of my friends. We have sat playing here since six by the clock on Monday night, and I am weary. My bed calls for me. I propose then that we settle the bout with two casts of the dice. On the first throw I will stake your house in Monmouth Square against the money you have before you. If I win there’s an end. If you win, I will set the manor of Silverdale against your London house and your previous stake.”
A complete silence followed upon his words. Even Lord Elmscott was taken aback by the magnitude of the stakes. The youth’s proposal gained, moreover, on the mind by contrast with his tone of tired indifference. He seemed the least occupied of all that company.
“I trust you will accept,” he continued, speaking to my cousin with courteous gentleness. “As I have said, I am very tired. Luck is on your side, and, if I may be permitted to add, the advantage of the stakes.”
Elmscott glanced at me, paused for a second, and then, with a forced laugh,—“Very well; so be it,” he said. The dice were brought; he rattled them vigorously, and flung them down.
“Four!” cried one of the gentlemen.
“Damn!” said my cousin, and he mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. His antagonist picked up the dice with inimitable nonchalance, barely shook them in the cup, and let them roll idly out on to the table.
“Three!”
Elmscott heaved a sigh of relief. The other stretched his arms above his head and yawned.
“‘Tis a noble house, your house in Monmouth Square.” he remarked.
At the second throw, Elmscott discovered a most nervous anxiety. He held the cup so long in his hand that I feared he would lose the courage to complete the game. I felt, in truth, a personal shame at his indecision, and I gazed around with the full expectation of seeing a like feeling expressed upon the features of those who watched. But they wore one common look of strained expectancy. At last Elmscott threw.
“Nine!” cried one, and a low murmur of voices buzzed for an instant and suddenly ceased as the other took up the dice.
“Two!”
Both players rose as with one motion. Elmscott tossed down his throat the brandy in his tumbler—it had stood by his side untasted since the early part of the night—and then turned to me with an almost hysterical outburst.
“One moment.”
It was the youth who spoke, and his voice rang loud and strong. His weariness had slipped from him like a mask. He bent across the table and stretched out his arm, with his forefinger pointing at my cousin.
“I will play you one more bout, Lord Elmscott. Against all that you have won back from me to money, your house, your estate—I will pit my docks in the city of Bristol. But I claim one condition,” and he glanced at me and paused.
“If it affects my cousin’s presence—” Elmscott began.
“It does not,” the other interrupted. “’Tis a trivial condition—a whim of mine, a mere whim.”
“What is it, then?” I asked, for in some unaccountable way I was much disquieted by his change of manner and dreaded the event of his proposal.
“That while your cousin throws you hold his buckles in your hands.”
It were impossible to describe the effect which this extraordinary request produced. At any other time it would have seemed no more than laughable. But after these long hours of play we were all tinder to a spark of superstition. Nothing seemed too whimsical for belief. Luck had proved so tricksy a sprite that the most trivial object might well take its fancy and overset the balance of its favours. The fierce vehemence of the speaker, besides, breaking thus unexpectedly through a crust of equanimity, carried conviction past the porches of the ears. So each man hung upon Elmscott’s answer as upon the arbitrament of his own fortune.
For myself, I took a quick step towards my cousin; but the youth shot a glance of such imperious menace at me that I stopped shamefaced like a faulty schoolboy. However, Elmscott caught my movement and, I think, the look which arrested me.
“Not to-day,” he said, “if you will pardon me. I am over-tired myself, and would fain keep to our bargain.” Thereupon he came over to me. “Now, Morrice,” he exclaimed, “it is your turn. You have the money. What else d’ye lack? What else d’ye lack?”
“I need the swiftest horse in your stables,” I replied.
Elmscott burst into a laugh.
“You shall have it—the swiftest horse in my stables. You shall e’en take it as a gift. Only I fear ’twill leave your desires unsatisfied.” And he chuckled again.
“Then,” I replied, with some severity, for in troth his merriment struck me as ill-conditioned, “then I shall take the liberty of leaving it behind at the first post on the Bristol Road.”
“The Bristol Road?” interposed the youth, “You journey to Bristol?”
I merely bowed assent, for I was in no mood to disclose my purpose to that company, and caught up my hat; but he gently took my arm and drew me into hr window.
“Mr Buckler,” he said, gazing at me the while with quiet eyes, “Fortune has brought us into an odd conjunction this night. I have so much of the gambler within me as to believe that she will repeat the trick, and I hope for my revenge.”
He held out his hand courteously. I could not but take it. For a moment we stood with clasped hands, and I felt mine tremble within his.
“Ah,” he said, smiling curiously, “you believe so, too.” And he made me a bow and turned back into the room.
I remained where he left me, gazing blindly out of the window; for the shadow of a great trouble had fallen across my spirit. His words and the concise certainty of his tone had been the perfect voicing of my own forebodings. I did indeed believe that Fortune would some day pit us in a fresh antagonism; that somewhere in the future she had already set up the lists, and that clasp of the hands I felt to be our bond and surety that we would keep faith with her and answer to our names.
“Morrice,” said Elmscott at my elbow, and I started like one waked from his sleep, “we’ll go saddle your horse.”
And he laughed to himself again as though savouring a jest. He slipped an arm through mine and walked to the door.
“Good-morning, gentlemen,” he said. “Marston, au revoir!” And with a twirl of his hat, he stepped into the outer room. His servant was sleeping upon a bench, and he woke him up and bade him fetch the money and follow home.
The morning was cold, and we set oft at a brisk pace towards Monmouth Square, Elmscott chatting loudly the while, with ever and again, I thought, a covert laugh at me.
I only pressed on the harder. It was not merely that I was vexed by his quizzing demeanour; but the moment I was free from that tawdry hell, and began to breathe fresh air in place of the heavy reek of perfumes and wine, the fullness of my disloyalty rolled in upon my conscience, so that Elmscott’s idle talk made me sicken with repulsion—for he babbled ever about cards and dice and the feminine caprice of luck.
“What ails you, Morrice?” at length he inquired, seeing that I had no stomach for his mirth. “You look as spiritless as a Quaker.”
“I was thinking,” I replied, in some irritation, for he clapped me on the back as he spoke, “that it must he sorely humiliating for a man of your age either to win money or lose it when you have a mere stripling to oppose you.”
“A man of my age, indeed!” he exc]ajmed. “And what age do you take to be mine, Mr Buckler?”
He turned his face angrily towards me, and I scanned it with great deliberation.
“It would not be fair,” I answered, with a shake of the head. “It would not be fair for me to hazard a guess. Two nights at play may well stamp middle age upon youth, and decrepitude upon middle-age.”
At this he knew not whether to be mollified or yet more indignant, and so did the very thing I had been aiming at—he held his tongue. Thus we proceeded in a moody silence until we were hard by Soho. Then he asked suddenly,—“What drags you in such a scurry to Bristol?”
“I would give much to know myself,” I answered. “I journey thither at the instance of a friend who lies in dire peril. But that is the whole sum of my knowledge. I have not so much as a hint of the purport of my service.”
“A friend! What friend?” he inquired with something of a start, and looked at me earnestly.
“Sir Julian Harnwood,” said I, and he stopped abruptly in his walk.
“Ah!” he said; then he looked on the ground, and swore a little to himself.
“You know what threatens him?” said I; but he made me no answer and resumed his walk, quickening his pace.
“Tell me!” I entreated. “His servant came to me at Leyden six days ago, but was seized by a fit or ever he could out with his message. So I leant no more than this—that Julian lies in Bristol jail, and hath need of me.”
“But the assizes begin to-day,” he interrupted, with an air of triumph. “You are over-late to help him.”
“Ah, no!” I pleaded. “I may yet reach there in time. Julian may haply be amongst the last to come to trial?”
“’Twere most unlikely,” returned he, with a snap of his teeth. “My Lord Jeffries wastes no time in weighing evidence. Why, at Taunton, but a fortnight ago, one hundred and forty-five prisoners were disposed of within three days. The man does not try; he executes. There’s but one outlook for your friend, and that’s through the noose of a rope. Jeffries holds a strict mandate from the King, I tell you, for the King’s heart is full of anger against the rebels.”
“But Julian was no rebel,” I exclaimed.
“Tut, tut, lad!” he replied. “If he was no rebel himself, he harboured rebels. If he didn’t flesh his sword at Sedgemoor, he gave shelter to those that did. And ’tis all one crime, I tell you. Hair-splitting is held in little favour at the Western Assizes.”
“But are you sure of this?” I asked. “Or is it pure town gossip?”
“Nay,” said he, “I have the news hot from Marston. He should know, eh?”
“Marston?” said I.
“Yes! The”—and he paused for a second, and smiled at me—“the man who played with me. ’Tis his sister that’s betrothed to Harnwood.”
His sister! The blood chilled in my veins. I had been aware, of course, that Julian was affianced to a certain Miss Marston of the county of Gloucestershire. But I had never set eyes upon her person and knew little of her history, beyond that she had been one of the ladies in attendance upon the Queen prior to her accession to the throne; I mean when she was still the Duchess of York. Miss Marston was, in fact, a mere name to me; and since consequently she held no place in my thoughts, it had not occurred to me to connect her in any way with this chance acquaintance of the gaming-table. Now, how ever, the relationship struck me with a peculiar and even menacing significance. It recalled to me the few words Marston had spoken in the window; and, lo! not half an hour after their utterance, here was, as it were, a guarantee of their fulfilment. Between Marston and myself there already existed, then, a certain faint accidental connection. I felt that I had caught a glimpse of the cord which was to draw us together.
Elmscott’s voice broke in upon my imaginings. “So, Morrice, I have sure knowledge to back my words. No good can come of your journey, though harm may, and it will fall on you. ’Twere best to stay quietly in London. You may think your hair gray, but you will never save Julian Harnwood from the gallows.”
My cheeks burned as I heard him, for my thoughts had been humming busily about my own affairs, and not at all about Julian’s; and with a bitter shame, “God,” I cried, “that I should fail him so! Surely never was a man so misused as my poor friend! He is the very sport arid shuttlecock of disaster. First his messenger must needs fall sick; then my boat must take five days to cross to England. And to cap it all, I must waste yet another night in a tavern or ever I can borrow a horse to help me on my way.”
By this time we had got to Elmscott’s house. He drew a key from his pocket and mounted the steps thoughtfully, and I after him. On the last step, however, he turned, and laying a hand upon my shoulder, as I stood below him, said, with a very solemn gravity: “There is Gods hand in all this. He doth not intend you should go. In His great wisdom He doth not intend it. He would punish the guilty, and He would spare you who are innocent.”
“But what harm can come to me?” I cried, with a laugh; though, indeed, the laugh was hollow as the echo of an empty house.
“That lies in the dark,” said he. “But ’tis no common aid Julian Harnwood asks from you. He has friends enough in England. Why should he send to Holland when his time’s so short?” And then he added with more insistent earnestness: “Don’t go, lad! If any one could avail, ’twould be Marston. He has power in Bristol. And, you see, he bides quietly in London.”
“But methinks he was never well-disposed to Julian,” said I, remembering certain half-forgotten phrases of my friend. “He looked but sourly on the marriage.”
“Very well,” said he, with a shrug of the shoulders. “Must make your own bed;” and he opened the door, and led me through the hall and into a garden at the back. At the far end of this the stables were built, and we crossed to them. “The rascals are still asleep,” he remarked, and proceeded to waken them with much clanging of the bell and shouts of abuse. In a while we heard a heavy step stumbling down the stair.
“I had meant to have a fine laugh at you over this,” said he with a rueful smile. “But I have no heart for it now that I know your errand.”
An ostler, still blinking and drowsy, opened the door. He rubbed his eyes at the sight of his master.
“Don’t stand gaping, you fish!” cried my cousin. “Whom else did you expect to see? Show us to the stables!”
The fellow led us silently into the stables. A long row of boxes stood against the wall, all neatly littered with straw, but to my astonishment and dismay, so far as I could see, not one of them held a horse.
“She’s at the end, sir,” said the groom; and we walked down the length of the boxes, and halted before the last.
“Get up, lass!” and after a few pokes the animal rose stiffly from its bed. For a moment I wellnigh cried from sheer mortification. Never in all my comings and goings since have I seen such a parody of Nature, not even in the booths of a country fair. ’Twas of a piebald colour, and stood very high, with long thin legs. Its knees were, moreover, broken. It had a neck of extra ordinary length, and a huge, absurd head which swung pendulous at the end of it, and seemed by its weight to have dragged the beast out of shape, for the line of its back slanted downwards from its buttocks to its shoulders.
“This is no fair treatment,” I exclaimed hotly. “Elmscott, I deserve better at your hands. ’Tis an untimely jest, and you might well have spared yourself the pleasure of it.”
“And the name of her’s Phoebe.” he replied musingly. “’Tis her one good point.”
He spoke with so droll a melancholy that I had some ado to refrain from laughing, in spite of my vexation.
“But,” said I, “surely this is not all your equipage?”
“Nay,” returned he proudly, “I have its caddie and bridle. But for the rest of my horses, I lost them all playing basset with Lord Culverton. He took them away only yesterday morning, but left me the mare, saying that he had no cart for her conveyance.”
“Well,” said I, “I must e’en make shift with her. She may carry me one stage.”
And I walked out of the stables and back into the hall. Elmscott bade his groom saddle the mare and followed me, but I was too angry to speak with him, and seated myself sullenly at a table. However, he fetched a pie from the pantry and a bottle of wine, and set them before me. I had eaten nothing since I had disembarked the night before, and knowing, besides, that I had a weary day in store, I fell to with a good appetite. Elmscott opened the door. The sun had just risen, and a warm flood of light poured into the hall and brightened the dark panels of the walls. With that entered the sound of birds singing, the rustle of trees, and all the pleasant garden-smells of a fresh September morning. And at once a great hope sprang up in my heart that I might yet be in time to prove the minister of Julian’s need. I heard the sound of hoofs on the road outside.
“Lend me a whip!” I cried.
“You are still set on going?”
“Lend me a whip!”
He offered me an oak cudgel.
“Phoebe has passed her climacteric, and her perceptions are dull,” he said, and then with a sudden change of manner he laid his hand on my shoulder. “’Twere best not to go,” he declared earnestly. “Those who bring luck to others seldom find great store of it themselves.”
But in the sweet clearness of the morning such thoughts seemed to me no more than night vapours, and I sprang down the steps with a laugh. The mare shivered as I mounted, and swung her head around as though she would ask me what in the devil’s name I was doing on her back. But I thwacked her flanks with the cudgel, and she ambled heavily through the square. I turned to look behind me. Elmscott was still standing on the steps.
“Morrice,” he called out, “be kind to her! She is an heirloom.”