Through Andrews’s sleep came first a hum of talk, then a distant burst of cheering. He opened his eyes. Through a window he could see that it was dark. Groups of talking people passed him and paid him no attention. The door of the Court stood open. He sat up and cleared sleep from his eyes with the back of a hand. Sir Henry Merriman and Mr. Farne came from the Court. Mr. Farne was talking with gentle insistence, his hand on the older man’s arm. “We shall never put down smuggling in the Courts,” Mr. Farne said. “There is only one way—to remove the duty from spirits.”
Sir Henry Merriman stared at the ground. “No,” he said, “I am growing old. I must retire and give room for younger men. You, Farne.”
“That is nonsense,” Mr. Farne said. “No man could have made that jury convict.”
Andrews slowly rose to his feet. “Do you mean to say,” he said, “that those men are acquitted?”
Mr. Farne turned. “Yes,” he said shortly. “Listen. The whole town’s cheering them.”
“Don’t go,” Andrews implored. “Tell me what am I to do. Have they been released?” Mr. Farne nodded.
“You’ve cheated me,” Andrews cried. “You got me to give evidence and now—don’t you understand that you’ve let them loose on me?”
Sir Henry raised eyes that seemed blurred with weariness. “I have already promised you,” he said, “that you shall be protected as long as you stay in this town. I should advise you to leave for London, however, as soon as you can. I admit that certain threats were made against you. Give Sussex a wide berth and you will be safe.”
“How can I get to London? I have no money.”
“Come to me tomorrow,” Sir Henry said. “You shall be given money.” He turned his back on Andrews. “Farne,” he said, “I am tired. I shall go to bed now. Listen. Isn’t it rather bitter, that cheering? If we had won there would have been less enthusiasm. You remember the Duke of Northumberland, who declared for Jane Grey—‘the people press to see us, but not one saith God speed’?”
“I won’t let you go like this,” Andrews cried. “That cheering only means defeat to you. It will be death to me if I’m seen. How can I get away from here?”
“I have given orders to the runners,” Sir Henry said. “They will see you back to the hotel. Two men will be stationed there to accompany you at any time through the town. If I were you I should catch the first coach to London in the morning.” Mr. Farne pushed Andrews on one side and the two men moved away.
Andrews turned to the officer. “You see,” he said, “that’s their gratitude. I did my best for them, didn’t I, and I’ve risked my life, but what do they care?”
“And why should they care for an informer like you? I’m sure I don’t,” he beamed at Andrews genially. “I’d let your friends get you, but orders is orders. Come this way.”
Escorted by way of a back door and a succession of dirty lanes Andrews reached the White Hart through the stables.
IX
Andrews stood in the room where the previous night he had held Sir Henry’s mistress in his arms and watched with tired curiosity one star. He held in his hand a note which a winking waiter had given him. It was from Lucy and read “Henry has gone to bed. You can come to me. You know my room.” He had done what Elizabeth desired him to do, and in spite of the note he held, he told himself that it was for Elizabeth’s sake that he had done it. Didn’t I, he thought, renounce this morning with perfect sincerity this very reward? I did what I did then for Elizabeth and why should I not take any small benefits which come after? I had no thought for this when I stood in the witness box. It was an interesting moral point.
Carlyon now could come and go where he liked. Nothing, Andrews thought with apprehension, could prevent him strolling that very evening into the White Hart. It was so exactly the kind of thing for Carlyon to do that Andrews looked with a sudden start behind him. The door was shut. He longed to bolt it. As for this letter it could not be denied that he would be safer that night in Lucy’s bed than in his own. That was a reason which no one could deny. It would be to save myself, he told the star to which he instinctively addressed words meant for Elizabeth, for no other reason. I do not love her. Never will I love anyone but you. I swear to that. If a man loves one, he cannot help still lusting after others. But it was love not lust, I promise, that strengthened me this morning.
After all, he said to the star, I shall never see you again, and must I therefore never know another woman? I cannot come to you, for they will be watching for me there, and you do not love me. I should be a fool … and he stopped speaking to himself, struck by the astonishing knowledge of how deeply his heart longed to be a fool. Reason, reason, reason. I must cling to that, he thought. Reason and his body seemed to act together in a somewhat evil partnership. In fear of his own heart he began to play on fear for his own safety, and that fear seemed strangely less strong than was its wont. And then he turned to the thought of Lucy and the feel of her body pressed to him and her close promises the night before. He imagined her naked and in disgusting attitudes, and tried to whip his body
