“The man’s name?” Lord Cornbury asked sharply.
“Sir John Norreys of Weston.”
The name told nothing to two of the company, but it had a surprising effect on Sir Christopher Lacy. He sprang to his feet, and began to stride up and down the room, his chin on his breast.
“I knew his father,” said Lord Cornbury, “but the young man I have rarely seen. ’Tis a runaway match doubtless; but such marriages are not always tragical. Miss Grevel is too highly placed and well dowered for misadventure. Let us hope for the best, sir. She will return presently a sober bride.”
“I am of your lordship’s opinion,” Mr. Kyd observed with a jolly laugh. “Let a romantic maid indulge her fancy and choose her own way of wedlock, for if she get not romance at the start she will not find it in the dreich business of matrimony. But you and me, my lord, are bachelors and speak only from hearsay.”
The tutor from Chastlecote seemed to be astounded at the reception of his news.
“You do not know the man,” he cried. “It is no case of a youthful escapade. I have made inquiries, and learned that he is no better than a knave. If he is a Jacobite it is for gain, if he weds Miss Grevel it is for her estate.”
“Now what the devil should a dominie like you know about the character of a gentleman of family?”
The words were harsh, but, as delivered by Mr. Kyd with a merry voice and a twinkle of the eye, they might have passed as a robust pleasantry. But the tutor was not in the mood for them. Anger flushed his face, and he blew out his breath like a bull about to charge. Before he could reply, however, he found an ally in Sir Christopher. The baronet flung himself again into his chair and stuck both elbows on the table.
“The fellow is right all the same,” he said. “Jack Norreys is a low hound, and I’ll take my oath on it. No scamp is Jack, for his head is always cool and he has a heart like a codfish. He has a mighty good gift for liquor—I say that for him—but the damnable fellow profits by the generous frailties of his betters. He is mad for play, but he loves the cards like an attorney, not like a gentleman, and he makes a fat thing out of them. No, damme! Jack’s no true man. If he wants the girl ’tis for her fortune, and if he sings Jacobite, ’tis because he sees some scoundrelly profit for himself. I hate the long nose and the mean eyes of him.”
“You hear?” cried the tutor who had half risen from his seat in his excitement. “You hear the verdict of an honest man!”
“You seem to know him well, Kit,” said Lord Cornbury, smiling.
“Know him! Gad, I have had some chances. We were birched together at Eton, and dwelt in the same stairway at Christ Church. I once rode a match with him on the Port Meadow and bled him for a hundred guineas, but he has avenged himself a thousandfold since then at the Bibury meetings. He may be Lord High Chancellor when I am in the Fleet, but the Devil will get him safe enough at the end.”
Lord Cornbury looked grave, Mr. Kyd wagged a moralising head.
“The thing has gone too far to stop,” said the former. Then to the tutor: “What would you have me do?”
The visitor’s uncouth hands were twisting themselves in a frenzy of appeal.
“My mistress at Chastlecote is old and bedridden, my charge is but a boy, and Miss Grevel has no relatives nearer than Dorset. I come to you as the leading gentleman in this shire and an upright and public-spirited nobleman, and I implore you to save that poor pretty child from her folly. They have gone north, so let us follow. It may not be too late to prevent the marriage.”
“Ah, but it will be,” said Mr. Kyd. “They can find a hedge-parson any hour of the day to do the job for a guinea and a pot of ale.”
“There is a chance, a hope, and, oh sir, I beseech you to pursue it.”
“Would you have me mount and ride on the track of the fugitives?” Lord Cornbury asked.
“Yes, my lord, and without delay. Grant me a chair to sleep an hour in, and I am ready for any labour. We can take the road before daybreak. It would facilitate our task if your lordship would lend me a horse better fitted for my weight.”
The naiveness of the request made a momentary silence. Then in spite of himself Alastair laughed. This importunate usher was on the same mission as himself, that mission which an hour earlier had conclusively failed. To force their host into activity was the aim of both, but one whom a summons from a Prince had not moved was not likely to yield to an invitation to pursue a brace of green lovers. Yet he respected the man’s ardour, though he had set him down from his looks as a boor and an oddity; and regretted his laugh, when a distraught face was turned towards him, solemn and reproachful like a persecuted dog’s.
Lord Cornbury’s eyes were troubled and his hands fidgeted with a dish of filberts. He seemed divided between irritation at a preposterous demand and his natural kindliness.
“You are a faithful if importunate friend, sir. By the way, I have not your name.”
“Johnson, my lord—Samuel Johnson. But my name matters nothing.”
“I have heard it before. … Nay, I remember. … Was it Mr. Murray who spoke of it? Tell me, sir, have you not published certain writings?”
“Sir, I
