Doctor Syn A Smuggler Tale of the Romney Marsh (25 page)

“Ah, sir,” sighed the valet, “you will become a great orator, a very great orator.”

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“I might, my dear fellow, I really might, although I am positive that I shan’t, because, you see, I know that I shall go most damnably to sleep. I shan’t be able to help myself.”

“You must really make an effort, sir, to keep awake, for the sake of your country, you really must, sir, for you will make as great a statesman as you have a soldier. You cannot help it, sir. Talent such as your, genius such as yours, is like murder, sir—it will out.”

“No, I am a lazy good-for-nought, upon my soul I am, and a statesman I shall never become, for even if I do get pushed into a seat, what shall I lay on my sleeping in it all the time? A pack o’ dogs, sixteen fighting cocks, and a blasted nag? Will you take me?”

“Against what, sir?”

“Against nothing, you damned, disrespectful dog! Upon my honour, against nothing but my sleeping. What are you flashing that deuced silver tray about

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for? It catches the light in a most exasperating manner and causes the most acute suffering to my wretched eyesight. Have you no feeling at all, my good Transome, or have you lost it as well as your respect? Have you never suffered the spasms of the damned? I declare that my poor wretched head is executing positive manoeuvres this morning. Musket drill and cavalry charges are going on inside it the whole time. Oh, dear, oh, dear! How I wish you would open that note, instead of flourishing it about again. You surely don’t expect me to open it, do you?”

Accordingly, the valet opened the letter and announced to his master that it was a lady’s handwriting.

“Then you had better give it to me,” drawled the captain with a resigned air, “for if you pry into the contents of the poor thing’s soul, it will be all over the town in an hour or so, and another woman’s reputation will have disappeared. Why, Lord love us,” he added as he glanced at the note in question, “if it isn’t

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from that she-dragon herself, that most terrible and alarming Missus What’shername, Missus—Missus—oh, what the devil is her name, eh?”

The valet suggested humbly that the lady in question would most probably have signed her name at the end of the letter.

“Oh, yes, of course, what a downright sane fellow you are, to be sure. Now with all my brain power I should never have thought of that. Perfectly ridiculous of me, I know, but I really shouldn’t have, you know. Ah! I remember who the woman is now, without looking. She’s the wife of that perfectly idiotic lawyer fellow who always fastens up his fat stomach in a white waistcoat a cut or two too small, but I’m blamed if I can remember even his name, so you see we are not much nearer to it, are we now?”

Again the valet repeated the brilliant suggestion of looking to the end of the letter, and the master, having graciously accepted his suggestion, announced to

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the valet that the mystery was solved at last and that the name was nothing

more nor less than Whyllie.

“And I wonder what the devil she can want with me, Transome?”

The valet again made a brilliant suggestion that if he would take the pains to read the letter he would in all likelihood discover. So with a very bored air the perfumed soldier read the note right through, and threw it down upon the dressing-table with a great smile of self-complacency.

“She desires me to wait upon her this afternoon, my good fellow. She wishes positively to let bygones be bygones, and desires that I will bury all past differences by partaking of an hour’s hospitality from their house. She also states that she has a wealthy niece but just returned from India, and she desires that this same niece may have the privilege of meeting the cream of the Rye bachelors. My dear fellow, what a truly terrible age we do live in! I have never heard of such daring and unblushing matchmaking. Well, I suppose it is a thing

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that we must expect in a Godforsaken little hole of a place like this, where the available bachelors are few indeed and possess not the smallest knowledge of how to decently deport themselves, much less their clothes.”

“Besides, sir,” the valet ventured to remark, “the red cloth of the military has a great attraction for matchmakers. It is always so very respectable, and it carries a most remarkable tone with it, to be sure, sir.”

“Well, I think I will go, at all events,” went on the insufferable, “and throw my eye over the niece, though I really cannot expect much in the beauty line, for she will probably be forty if she’s a day, judging by the ancient aunt. However, it will not be such a bad sport leading her on a bit. Have you ever practised the amusing art of exciting elderly spinsters? If not, do, my dear fellow, for it has its humour, and, really now, humour is about all that is left to us nowadays, isn’t it? Hurry up, my good fellow! No, you dolt, I am not on duty. What do I want my sword for? Swords get most damnably between your legs at

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the wrong moment. They really are positively useless lumber. I cannot think why they are not abolished. Damned clanky things, always in the wrong place, and tripping one up when least on one’s guard. I’ll take my cane. No, no, you positive Judas, the one with the scarlet tassle of course. And my perfume box— no, no, that’s a snuffbox. I hate snuff. You know that I always endeavour to leave it behind whenever possible, for it has a most damnable habit of getting up my nose and bringing on the most acute attacks of sneezing. Now my hat and—no, perhaps not the cloak. A cloak, my good fellow, has a most annoying habit of hiding the curve of the waist. And I really do think that even my most bitter detractors must own that my waist curve is entirely and absolutely right. Now how are we, eh? Has the most criticising valet in the world got anything to remedy, anything to suggest? I think we can do little else with the cravat?”

“It would be passed by Mister Brummel himself.”

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“Then we are ready, are we? Au revoir, therefore, my estimable friend! Keep your spirits up, and don’t forge my name to a check in my absence!” With which piece of jocular raillery Captain Tuffton, the military lady-killer, swaggered out of the room, swinging the red-tasselled cane, and humming in well-modulated tenor a Spanish love song in very bad Spanish; but that didn’t matter, as nobody was any the wiser, and literally tripping into Watchbell Street, he approached the little white front door behind which were waiting three good people, preparing a most superb ambuscade for the insufferable captain to walk into, an ambuscade that was going to very effectually put an end to the military swagger of this scent-breathing officer. He rang the bell languidly, little thinking it a tocsin of battle and of sudden death.

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Captain Tuffton could certainly not complain of his reception, for the lawyer was positively nervous in his endeavours to please, while Mrs. Whyllie, in her anxiety to let bygones be bygones, positively basked in the sunshine of his glory, and as to Imogene—well, she at least had the speedy satisfaction of knowing that her appearance had caused havoc in the heart of the lady-killer. “And so you are back from India?” he said to the beautiful niece. “So it appears, sir,” answered Imogene, with a roguish smile.

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“Ah, yes. Of course it is only too obvious,” answered the military one, “for here you are, aren’t you now? It’s a beastly place out there, I suppose, now isn’t it? I never could abide elephants or snakes!”

“La, sir, then you must not venture there, for they abound most vastly,” answered Imogene. Mrs. Whyllie by this time was tittering behind her fan, and old Whyllie looked greatly troubled at the whole proceedings.

“A devilish climate, too, for the complexion, isn’t it?” stroking his smooth, weak chin.

“La, sir, indeed if you say that, I must take it as a poor compliment to myself.”

“Do not mistake me, I beg,” urged the officer, “for in your case the Indian sun has been most gentle. He has kissed you with a light hand—er—a light mouth, indeed. Lucky sun, lucky sun!”

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“You are being vastly gentle with my complexion, sir, but I perceive you to be a most accomplished courtier and a turner of beautiful compliments.”

“Madam, I speak from my heart, I assure you.”

“Whoever heard of Captain Tuffton possessing one?” tittered Mrs. Whyllie.

“You wrong me, Madam, I assure you,” declared the glorious one with conviction. “My poor heart is too large for my scarlet tunic, I assure you. It was an empty shell this morning, I confess, but the beauty of your accomplished niece, which it has been drinking in with rapture, has filled that poor receptacle and made it swell and stretch with the very throes of deep emotion.”

“La, sir, how prettily you turn the English tongue! How the Indians would adore you, sir!”

“Poohpooh, indeed,” said Mrs. Whyllie with a great show of decorum, “you must not take for gospel what the captain says. He is a very prince of dandies;

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indeed, he is second only to the Regent and Mister Brummel in all manners of

deportment. I never trust dandies myself entirely.”

“Oh, Madam, pray, pray, make me the exception.”

“No, Captain, for you are not only a dandy, but a soldier, and soldiers are another class I distrust.”

“Ah, Madam,” lisped the officer, “you are cruelty itself.”

“I cannot help it, my dear sir. Soldiers are not to be trusted, and well you know it. They walk about with gay apparel, appearing the most gentle of creatures, but we know how dangerous they are, aye, dangerous both morally and physically, with their minds full of most terrible conquests planned against poor women, and their pockets stuffed to the bursting point with explosives and weapons.”

“La, Madam, you are mistaken, upon my soul. Take my case now as an example: I came here, I confess it, with thoughts of conquest in my mind, but I

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am conquered, I am vanquished, I am beaten most damnably myself. The eyes

of your niece have sown my very foundations with salt.”

“Indeed, sir, that’s bitter!” exclaimed Imogene, blushing.

“And as to the belief that soldiers—officers, that is—are loaded with explosives and weapons, why, pish! Madam, it is a fallacy, I assure you. We leave explosives to the sergeants and our weapons to our orderlies. It is not only most damnably dangerous to carry firearms on our person, but it is most damnably damaging to the set of one’s clothes. Indeed, I declare that the cream of the army would retire if carrying weapons was insisted upon.”

“And you mean to say, sir, that you, a captain, walk abroad in your uniform unarmed?”

“And with the place infested with French spies?” added Imogene, shuddering.

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“Why, yes, Madam, I assure you it is so. When I walk abroad I rely entirely for my personal safety upon my tasselled cane, and I venture to suggest that I could put up a very pretty fight with it.”

“But it would not be of much service against pistols, would it, Captain?” asked Mrs. Whyllie.

“Perhaps not, Madam, but who would want to put a pistol to my head?”

“You must have many enemies surely, Captain,” suggested the old lady, “for are you not in command of the press gang?”

“Yes, and a poor job it is for an army officer,” said the soldier. “I take no interest in the sea at all, and the authorities are endeavouring to transfer me to the marine service.”

“The press gang does most cruel work, too, I hear,” went on the old lady.

“Well, you see, that really cannot be helped, Madam. War with France is a certain thing, and if our navy is not able to smash Napoleon on the sea—well,

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we shall not be able to sing ‘Rule Britannia’ any more, now shall we? And if young men won’t joint the navy—well, we have to make ’em, don’t you know? If you cannot get a thing done for love, you know, you must get it done by force. Do you follow me?”

“Perfectly, my dear Captain,” said Mrs. Whyllie. “That little maxim of yours is most admirable, I declare, and we shall put it to most instant practice.” Thereupon the old lady got up from her chair and pointed a pistol at the captain’s head. “And it’s most fortunate, I vow, that your tasselled cane is reposing safely in the hall.”

“What does this mean, Madam?” spluttered the captain. “Are you joking?”

“My dear niece,” said the old lady, “this admirable captain really asks us if we are joking.”

The captain turned his terrified eyes to Imogene only to discover that she also held a pistol at his head.

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“What is the cause of this terrible behaviour?” he stammered.

“You are going to pay your debts, my dear Captain,” said the old lady. “To pay your debts in full. You have owed me apologies for a long time which you have taken no pains to tender to me. You made me a laughing-stock in public— well, I am now going to return the compliment, and heaven shield you from the scorn of your brother officers, the anger of your superiors, and the scathing and greedy wits of the neighbourhood. I say, heaven shield, for I shan’t. Antony, my dear, get the paper out of the drawer in the desk there.”

Old Mr. Whyllie moved behind the captain and went to the desk. The captain moved toward Mrs. Whyllie.

“Stay where you are!” she ordered. “If you move again I shall fire.”

“A likely tale!” he spluttered. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“I can easily contradict you on that score,” quickly remarked the old lady, and she pulled the trigger. The captain fell back upon the sofa, his pale face

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blackened with powder, his eyes blinded with smoke, and a sharp, pricking

sensation in his left shoulder.

“My God!” he cried. “You’ve hit me.”

“And shall do so again if you give me any more trouble,” said the old lady, “and,” she added, “next time I may aim to kill,” and she took up another pistol from the mantelpiece. “You see, we were quite prepared for you.”