Читать книгу The House of Spies (Historical Novel) - Warwick Deeping - Страница 10

Table of Contents

Anthony Durrell had brought the candle from the parlour. That stately person De Rothan lowered his dignity to the cautious level of drawing off his boots before following Durrell up the stairs.

Nance's room was at the western end of the long upper gallery. De Rothan and the scholar had to pass the door of the girl's room, for the stairhead lay close to it. They were within three steps of the landing when Durrell heard the lifting of a latch.

Instantly he blew out the candle, and, reaching back in the darkness, thrust De Rothan gently backward.

"Is that you, father?"

Nance had opened her door an inch or two, but no light showed.

"Yes, child. Some one must have left the window open at the end of the gallery. The draught has blown out my candle."

"I thought I heard voices, and the sound of some one moving."

"Rubbish! You ought to be asleep. I was reciting Virgil to myself. Go to bed, child."

"Shall I get you a light?"

"No, no—go to bed. I know the house as well in the dark as I do in the daylight. I can go downstairs if necessary, and get a light at the fire."

"Good night, father."

"Good night, child."

Nance's door closed, and the two men passed along the gallery, Durrell holding De Rothan by the arm. The scholar's study was at the eastern end of the house. There were three rooms between it and Nance's, all of them empty and unfurnished, the keys rusting in the locks.

Durrell opened the door of his study, and led De Rothan in.

"What possessed the girl——?"

"Lucky you blew out the light. It would have been uncommonly awkward. Explanations—to women—always are awkward."

They spoke in whispers, and Durrell closed the door.

"I have a tinder-box on my table."

"Good."

There was the sound of some one moving cautiously about the room, and the thud of books falling to the floor. The flint and steel rang against each other, and sparks dropped on to the scorched linen in the tinder-box. A minute passed before Durrell got one of the sulphur matches alight. He shaded it with his hand, and carried the flame to the candle.

"That's better, Durrell. What a howling, wind-swept hell this house of yours is! I suppose Miss Nance will play us no tricks? She suspects nothing?"

"Nothing."

"Wakefulness! Shall we put it down to Mr. Benham?"

Anthony Durrell's room was crowded with books. A truckle-bed stood in one corner, looking meagre, thin, and austere. A mahogany washstand and a Dutch high-boy were squeezed in between the bookcases. The brown volumes possessed the place. They were laid like stepping-stones upon the carpetless floor, massed like buttresses against the walls, even stacked beneath the bed and table. Black curtains were drawn across the window, and hung by two straps from the narrow sill was a seaman's telescope.

The Chevalier caught his toe against a huge brown rock of a book.

"Pardon, fat fellow!—Have you read them all, Durrell? Books, books, books! Heaven help us! What did a man ever get out of a book? Has any book ever helped me to swagger, handle a sword, spend money, live gallantly, love a woman? Books, sir, are for the poltroons. They are the broken meats thrown to the wretches who stand outside the gate of life and beg."

Durrell gave one of his grim looks.

"It is strange that such a chatterbox should be trusted with such secrets."

"Good—good for you.—What's the time?"

He pulled out a watch and scanned it by the light of the candle.

"Psst, Durrell; we are due to show our first flash in five minutes. Where's the lamp? Hurry, hurry!"

Durrell went to a cupboard in the wall, and brought out a brass lamp fitted with an Argand burner. He set it on the table, lit it, and turned the wick up cautiously.

"Will they be out to-night? It's rough."

"So much the better. Jerome is no fair-weather smuggler. You had better put two or three of your precious books under the lamp. I will work the curtain."

Durrell busied himself with the lamp, and De Rothan walked to the window. He kept his watch in one hand, and held the bottom of one of the black curtains with the other.

There was a short silence. Then De Rothan glanced sharply at the scholar.

"Ready?"

"Yes."

De Rothan drew the curtain aside, and left the window uncovered for about twenty seconds.

"Jerome will have been on the lookout for that. We must wait half an hour for the next. No one is likely to pick up our signals when a window happens to be lighted for twenty seconds at intervals of half an hour."

"A mere casual flash of light. I have let people know that I work late into the night."

De Rothan looked round for a chair, and found a rush-bottomed stool by one of the bookcases.

"So Master Benham has been here? Dissolute young dog."

Anthony Durrell lifted a scornful head.

"Dissolute?"

"One of the most profligate young rogues in the county. I hear all the gossip. There's hardly a pretty wench—well, you know, Durrell. Engaged to marry his cousin, too!"

"Poor young woman."

"She is no fool. Has a thousand a year of her own, and a mouth like a man-trap. She will lead Mr. Benham a godly, straight-up-and-down life. Meanwhile the youngster must not be allowed to hang round here."

Durrell picked up a book, glanced at it, and then threw it back upon the table. His austere face had a kind of hard pride.

"A scholar need not be an owl, De Rothan."

"My good sir, did I suggest it? But sweet Nance has a lonely life here. Not much youth comes her way. And these young rakes, Durrell, have an honest, stage-hero way with them."

"I shall see to Mr. Benham."

"You may need me, sir. Faith, it seems strange that I should be here in this house once a week, and Miss Nance know nothing of it. Look you, Durrell, I'm an old friend of yours; I might pay a few open and friendly calls. I have a fatherly way with young women."

Durrell looked at him ironically. De Rothan met his eyes, and laughed.

"You think I might be as bad as young Benham? Tssh! Nance is a girl for a man to marry, and to think himself a lucky dog. I tell you, Durrell, I will pay a state call next week. Come now; we must keep an eye on the time. Jerome should have news for us. I have a packet of cipher to give him."

Anthony Durrell appeared restless and preoccupied. He began sorting and arranging some of the books that were piled against the wall. De Rothan watched him with just the faintest glimmer of contempt. This fanatic, filled with visions of a regenerated world state, was something of an enigma to the Frenchman. Durrell was a man of Miltonic dreams, austere, fervid, morose. In Bonaparte he saw a foredestined Angel of Wrath who should smite the crowns from the heads of tyrants. His work done, the man Napoleon would disappear. Liberty would stand among the peoples, holding her fiery sword aloft, her mouth full of prophetic and noble words. The world would become a new world. Kings and princelings would cease to strut and bully. The golden age of brotherhood and equality was at hand. Anthony Durrell believed all this, and yearned so fervently for its consummation that he was ready to whisper with spies in a corner. For himself he desired nothing but the right to live, and speak and write as he pleased. This disinterestedness of his made De Rothan despise him a little. The Chevalier saw visions, but they were the visions of a man who valued such material things as titles, and orders, palaces, estates, the pride and pomp of power. Durrell's fanaticism was useful to him. As for these broad English lands, he might find himself choosing which he should own and enjoy. The earth for the people—indeed! De Rothan knew better. He had no intention of sitting down on the same bench with half a score born fools.

De Rothan glanced at his watch, and returned to the window.

"It is time for the second signal."

The black curtain did its work once more.

"Cover up the lamp—now, Durrell. I will see if I can catch Jerome's answer."

Durrell carried the lamp to the cupboard, turned the wick low, and shut the door. De Rothan had opened the lattice, and was looking out into the night, the wind blowing in and tossing the black curtains behind him.

He spoke in a whisper.

"He's yonder."

"At sea?"

"I caught the two flashes. Jerome will land when we show him a third light. This smuggling game is accursedly useful."

"A means to an end."

"It makes half the county our dupes. Think of it, sir, all these greedy, spirit-swindling fools helping us to bring in the French bayonets."

Both men stood at the window and stared out into the windy darkness. Intent upon watching the black horizon they had not heard the soft, gliding tread of bare feet along the gallery. Nance had been standing for some minutes outside her father's door, a dim, white figure that faltered on the edge of a discovery.

Once she had raised her hand to knock, but the sound of that other voice had paralysed her. Who was the man who talked to her father? Why was he there? How had he come into the house? The voice seemed vaguely familiar. She had heard it before, but she could not remember where.

Perplexed, and a little afraid, she crept back to her room, closed the door gently, and, slipping back into bed, drew the clothes up over her knees. For a while she sat there in the darkness, listening. The wind blustered in the chimneys, and to Nance the grey house had become eerie and cold. Questions that she could not answer importuned her in the darkness. Her father was concealing something from her, and the thought hurt her and filled her with vague unrest.

Presently she lay down, and drew the clothes over, for she was beginning to shiver with cold. As for sleep, it eluded her. She lay there in the darkness, listening, till the old house became full of a hundred imaginary sounds.

At Rush Heath Mr. Christopher Benham snored in his great Dutch chair before the fire. Parson Goffin had talked the squire to sleep, and was still cocking his long clay pipe alertly and holding forth to Jasper Benham. His nose seemed to glow more angrily when he was in the heat of an argument, or venting a grievance. He would sit forward with his feet tucked under his chair, and emphasise each point with prodding movements of the stem of his pipe.

"I tell you, sir, the hangman is not kept busy enough in England. Freethinkers, atheists,—what! I'd string up the whole lot! They should have begun with Tom Paine, sir, and all scoundrels of that colour."

Jasper was stifling yawns, and glancing at the clock.

"Liberty indeed! Faugh, license, that's what liberty means. Right of Man! Bosh, sir,—bosh. The right of the pig to be swinish! There are men within ten miles of us who need hanging. Traitors, blasphemous scoundrels. Take that man Durrell, now, of Stonehanger."

Jasper straightened in his chair.

"Durrell——?"

"A Jacobin, sir, or I'm no parson. Tainted with all the sins of the Revolution. The justices ought to order the house to be surprised and searched. I warrant they would find seditious stuff enough at Stonehanger."

"What makes you think that, Parson?"

Goffin looked shrewdly along the stem of his pipe.

"Have I nose for a fox, sir! Not a few seditious pamphlets have come out of Stonehanger House. I'd have that man in gaol, and his daughter too."

"Nonsense, Goffin. Why, what harm can a girl do?"

"Harm, sir, harm! Have you read your Bible,—or your history?"

"You mean to say that Durrell may be a spy in the French service?"

"I do, sir, I do. And the girl is as bad as her father."

"It's a lie, Goffin, a damned lie."

"Sir, you are the son of your father."

The parson chuckled.

"A hard head, and a soft heart. No offence, Master Jasper. But facts are facts."

The clock struck eleven, and Jasper proceeded to send Mr. Goffin home with his lantern, and to get his father to bed. Squire Kit had to be carried by the servants to his room on the ground floor. He would groan and curse all the while Jack Bumpstead was undressing him, for Jack acted as valet as well as groom. He would blow all the time while his master was swearing, much to Squire Christopher's indignation.

"Jack, you mud-faced, cockle-headed calf, do ye think you're rubbing down a horse? Don't blow, I say! You make enough draught to give a man a chill."

These matters attended to, Jasper went to his own room, a frown on his face and anger within him.

"Nance Durrell a spy's daughter!"

He refused to believe such a thing. Parson Goffin had been in his cups.