Containing as much of a History
of the young Lord Oliphant as will Acquaint the reader with his Person
and his Society (although being not long for this World) and the
Beginning of our tale
***
Endymion Oliphant, viscount, seven-and-twenty, was the son of unhappy
young parents who did not either of them survive the advent of their
progeny by more than a year-and-a-half. The mother, a girl of rank and
fortune in her own right---and, it was said, the peerless beauty of her
day---but having the wan and fragile constitution of such a one (as so
often will grace the pages of stories such as these), did sadly perish
on the occasion of presenting her Lord with a second child, a daughter,
the which event was much regretted and reviled and talked of in hushed
tones by dowagers in lace caps, with their teacups and their diamonds,
with their dead husbands and their well-married children and with all
their numerous and deservedly earned chins. For he had killed her, as
surely with a blade of flesh as one of steel. Selfishly he, like so
many of Them, would apply his gross passions without regard for her
helplessness nor her health, so soon and so unthankfully after the
birth of his heir! And that, too, had been no easy thing, for had not
she carried and born him not one, but two little boys on that desperate
night, only to lose the one, and to fall, almost without consolation
even in the rude good health and great promise of the child that lived,
into a decline and despair that anyone with eyes and sympathy might
have seen would, without the intervention of much time and solicitous
patience and care, inevitably lead to just such an end as hers? All
that could be said of him that was her husband, in the end, was that at
least he had had the decency to die of grief thereafter. When
everything was considered, and even with the utmost respect due to his
father, the viscount, who had raised him with every attention and the
strictest adherence to every principle of familial duty and noble
conduct, he had been a most unpromising youth, after all.
And so it was that Endymion and his sister were brought up by their
widowed grandfather, Lord Oliphant, and with much the same
punctiliousness
and correct attention as he had shown his son, although it had to be
observed that when it came to his granddaughter, the old man, while
still strict and immutable in his discipline, was yet rather more soft
and fond than anyone had ever known him to be, and that this was
certainly in marked contrast to his treatment of her brother, although,
once again, it must never be said that he was ever anything less than
fair, nor anything more than exacting and just in his tutelage,
desiring only as was fitting and right, to instruct the youth in his
future duty as Oliphant of Great Nether, in the ways of their natural
society, and of his Place in the World. Still it would seem, by
comparison, that he doted on the girl, and somewhat less on the boy,
his
successor, and why this might be it could only be surmised, but it was
frequently observed that Endymion did resemble in the extreme his own
late father, the dead and disappointing heir, in both face and in
nature.
And Nature, it seemed, in the case of Endymion Oliphant, would out, in
spite of all instruction, influence, or intent, and in fact, his nature
rebelled and revolted against it all, almost from the first, and he
grew up a reckless and feckless young rake, indulging and indolent,
dissipated and dissolute. And the stricter the censure, the more
persistent the threats of disinheritance and exile, the more
ungovernable did Endymion become. His grandfather despaired of him, and
of the future of his House, which had been, apart from the devotion of
his dear little granddaughter, the light of his existence, and the very
meaning of it, and finally, having made what provisions he could to
insure its safety, by his Will and by entreaty to the girl, and to some
others of the boy’s friends whom he trusted (for there were those who
loved Endymion, with all of his faults) he died, incomplete and
unsatisfied, and Great Nether passed, as it must, to the young
Oliphant, who had only that year come of age.
And now, having come to the part of our narration, which might, we will
see, be called just as well the ending of one story as the beginning of
another, it will appear that all of Old Oliphant’s worst fears have
come to pass; the work of his life being for naught, and that his
line---having continued unbroken, from father to son, for more than
three hundred years, from the knight who was made the First Baron of
Nether (by King Henry himself on the ruination and triumph of Bosworth
Field), to the present---will be finally doomed. For here, “as the
curtain rises”, so to speak, on the opening scenes of this tale, lies
his grandson and heir, on the seat of an open carriage, held fast in
the arms of his oldest friend, Doctor Stephen Studley and driven
(inexpertly, but with utmost care) by his man (and his father’s before
him), a handsome and steady old retainer by the name of Nettles. They
make their way, through an ominous and almost impenetrable fog, from
London’s Battersea Fields, where Lord Oliphant, seven-and-twenty, with
no wife and no child, has just paid a debt of Honour, and received upon
account a mortal wound…
***
“I don’t believe I can be dying, Stephen,” said Lord Oliphant. “I feel
no pain, no pain at all. I’m only a little sleepy, you know…”
“Don’t go to sleep, Endymion, damn you, don’t!” cried Dr. Studley,
slapping his lordship’s cheeks in some desperation, those handsome,
ruddy cheeks which still carried such a bloom of vigor and health, in
spite of the loss of blood, and the eyes, too, wide and blue, still
sparked with life and even a familiar gleam of mischief as they opened
once more, and Endymion looked up at his friend and smiled.
‘Oh, very well! You needn’t strike me! I’m awake, and really, I don’t
think I shall die today. It would never do, and Benedick getting the
better of me? Not until I get an apology!”
“An apology?” exclaimed Stephen, incredulous.
“Or better, a formal letter of his regret.”
“Regret---? You rogered his wife, Endymion!”
Endymion sighed and looked at Stephen remorsefully. “Yes. And that I do
most sincerely regret. Worst fuck I ever had. God, she just lay there,
like a…a great blancmange! It’s women like that, Stephen, I tell you,
who put the ‘dull’ in ‘adultery’, and whose fault is that, other than
the husband’s? Of course he owes me an apology! Ow! Do be careful!”
“I must keep pressure on the wound, although I very much fear it may be
for naught, for I believe you must certainly be bleeding internally as
well, Endymion. Surgery is my only hope, if we can but get to a place
where it can be managed and even then---“ Endymion coughed slightly,
and Stephen did his best not to let the panic overwhelm him as a flood
of fresh, bright blood welled up through his fingers. He tried to
remain calm as he reached up with one hand to untie Endymion’s
neckcloth, destroying the perfection of its precise, mathematical
folds, and Endymion, his head turned to one side, breathing quietly,
did not protest as he removed it and pressed it, thrice folded, to the
wound in place of his own that was hopelessly sodden and ruined.
The perfectly tied stock; the beautifully dressed and shining golden
curls; the ridiculous, foppish affectation of the single diamond that
winked in his ear---Endymion! Such a reckless, foolish, vain and savage
boy. And yet he was Stephen’s greatest ally and his oldest, dearest
friend in all the world.
“For God’s sake, Nettles!” Stephen whispered harshly. “Where is this
place? Can you not get us there any faster?”
That fine old fellow turned his head for only a moment to fix Stephen
with a dignified and worldly eye. And then, turning back to his
business, said in a quiet, steady voice, “I am a gentleman’s gentleman,
doctor. I am not a coachman, nor any kind of a whip, and if I were to
give his lordship’s pair their heads in this soup of a fog, I’d soon
enough have us in the ditch, with all of our necks broke, and a great
deal of good would that do. The Inn is at the crossroads; it cannot be
far, I am certain of it,” he said, and then again, more softly, so that
Stephen almost did not hear, “I am certain of it.”
Poor old Nettles, Stephen thought. He loves him, too.
“Damn you, Endymion!” he cried then, his grief and fear giving rise to
anger at all that must be lost, at all that he held so dear slipping
through his fingers like the precious blood of his friend. “Damn me!
Why did I let you do it? I should have stopped it if I had to shoot you
myself!”
“Had to…” Endymion said softly, with a little shrug. “My second. Matter
of…honour.” His eyelids fluttered.
“Honour!” Stephen found himself almost laughing in his incredulity.
“What have you ever cared for honour? When have you ever, Endymion, had
a thought for anything, or anyone but yourself? Dear God, had you any
thought at all for those whose lives you must destroy by destroying
your own? What of Pandora? Had you no thought at all to spare for her,
your own betrothed?”
“Oh…Pansy!” Endymion exclaimed with a long sigh. “Oh, my friend now you
do give me pain. Yes, that shall be yet another of my regrets, if I am
to die. That I shall not, after all, be the one to pluck that sweet,
fair flower! But it would be for the best, wouldn’t it, Steve, in the
event? I should be bored of her in a month, you know I should.” He
sighed again. “Pretty little Pansy. The
most beautiful tits, I do
vow…”
“And Calpurnia?” Stephen asked, shaking his friend, for his eyes were
beginning to close again. “What will become of your sister, Endymion?
Endymion!”
A weak smile, and a slight wave of a bloodied hand. “Marry her,
Stephen, as you wish. You love her. She loves you. You have my
permission, my…blessing. You have always…known it.”
Stephen shook his head. “Have you forgotten the provisions of your
grandfather’s will? You know that it was always your grandfather’s
ambition, and Lord Purebread’s, to link the two estates, and the two
branches of the family. If you d--- if you do not marry Pandora,
Calpurnia will consider herself duty bound to marry Peregrine
Purebread, Endymion! You know it as well as I! God knows she loved the
old bastard, and took to heart every word he ever said to her! All that
nonsense about dynasty and duty! I do love her, and I will tell you,
Purebread may be the heir apparent, and perhaps a more sober and
accountable custodian of your birthright that you might ever be, but
the very thought of her married to that pompous, carrot-nosed---!”
“Take her…” Endymion whispered. “Make…her…”
“ Do you suggest that I abduct her?” Stephen choked on a desperate
laugh, his throat aching with the promise of tears. “This is Calpurnia
we are speaking of! But I would never do it, my friend, even if I
thought I could! You also forget that part of the will that states that
if she elopes, her portion is forfeit. I have little more than what I
may earn, Endymion, as you well know, and yet you must know, too, that
I neither want nor need her money! But neither could I take it from
her! God! If I had any pride, if only I could ever have helped loving
her…!”
“Sorry! Old…friend…” The grip on Stephen’s hand was yet strong. Like a
little Welsh bull, Endymion had always been. Strong, bursting with good
health and restless energy. He rode like a bat out of hell, and boxed
with all the grace and heedless joy of a drunken rough in a tavern
mill, and when they were boys, he would climb the sheerest, straightest
tree trunk like tripping up a garden path, and without so much as a
downward glance. Wild, excitable, unthinking…
“Mess I’ve made…” The fingers were slippery. “Make it…right, Steve. You
always…seem to know…how. Funny how it doesn’t hurt. But I am just…so
tired!”
“Nettles!” Stephen shouted. “God damn it!” But he needn’t have done.
Already he’d heard the crack of the whip and the carriage lurched
forward, and they were flying blind along the empty stretch of
fog-shrouded road. The pounding of the horses’ hooves, the clattering
of gravel, the rushing of the air in his ears was almost enough to shut
out the howling of grief in his brain. He gathered his friend’s body
even closer in his arms, as if to protect him from the jolting motion,
as if he might will the very blood back into him, and the life. But it
was too late, and he knew it, and he must tell Nettles to rein them in,
or it was true, they should all be killed.
No sooner had he had this thought, when the carriage seemed to swerve
suddenly and violently to one side, and then to stop short, throwing
them both forward, and Stephen felt the vehicle tip, as if onto two
wheels, and then to settle back with a bit of a rough bounce. The
horses were snorting and jumping about and Nettles, if it was possible
Stephen could believe his ears, was swearing.
Endymion was gone. There was nothing he could have done, after all, and
he had known it, but to do nothing, simply to accept, just to let a
thing go---it had always been against his very nature. It was why he
had wanted to become a doctor, to help the things that were wrong, to
have the power to make things right.
“Doctor Studley!” Nettles was down off the box and now he came to the
side of the carriage. He saw immediately, and the look that passed
across his ageless, handsome face was one that might have broken
Stephen’s heart, were it not already in pieces.
“You are unhurt, sir?” Nettles asked, and when Stephen nodded, the old
man said quietly, “Lord. Lord, what a black day! You’d better come and
have a look here, sir. We’ve run a man down, I’m afraid.”
***
“He’s not dead, thank the Lord,” said Nettles. “But he is insensible.
And his arm…there’s something not right there, sir.”
“Yes, the shoulder’s dislocated, unless I miss my guess,” Stephen said,
looking down at the crumpled form that lay face down in the muddy
gravel.
“Help me to turn him over, Nettles, if you please, being very mindful
of the shoulder…yes…I need to see if he’s bleeding from his head.
Gently, gently, there---“
Oh, now, this was most strange. It was as if his heart stopped for a
moment, and then his pulse to race. His head was light as he stood and
stepped back and away. Most strange, and what could it mean? Had he
died as well, and did the dead dream? For in all his experience, that
was all that would compare, the perfect, eerie logic of a dream!
“My God,” Nettles was still kneeling, and he held the young man’s face
between his hands. “Can it even be?” He looked up at Stephen. “Doctor?”
“The wound is not serious,” Stephen said calmly. “He’ll soon come
round. And probably faint all over again when I replace that shoulder.
We’ll get him into the carriage, shall we? And take him to the Inn.”
“A seaman, is what he is,” Nettles said wonderingly. “His clothes…see
his hands, how black they are! But…I don’t think I know what to make of
it, sir, do you…do you see?”
“I do see,” Stephen came and knelt once more, putting out a hand to
gently brush the muddied and bloodied blond curls away from the
forehead, and then slid his fingers down to feel the pulse in the
throat. No, the wound wasn’t anything. He’d had a good knock, that was
for certain, but his breathing was regular, his heartbeat strong.
Strong, like a little Welsh bull.
“I see,” he said again. “And I have always been a man of reason. But I
make this the work of Providence, Nettles. Nothing less than
Providence!”
***
“It’s sumfing, innit, that cove givin’ an ‘ole guinea, jes’ ta bury a
poor jack? ‘Name yer price,’ ‘e says. ‘A guinea!’ says I, and ‘e ‘ands
it right over, wiv’out so much as blinkin’ an eye!” The gravedigger
leaned back in his chair and raised his leg to rest an earth-caked boot
on the edge of the table for a moment, until he caught the landlady’s
scolding glance, and dropped it quickly back down to the floor.
“Ow, bring us another round, Jenny, an’ don’t ye be givin’ me yer sour
looks er I can as well take me coin elsewhere! Drink up, ‘arry, it’s
all on old Dick, t’night!” Wiping his mouth on a dirty sleeve, he
hunched forward again, lowering his voice.
“An’ ‘e wants me to put ‘im in a box, ‘e says, an’ ‘e don’t care what
it costs. Puttin’ up at The Maidenhead, they is, this cove, an’ ‘is
friend, wot’s some kind of a lord. Poorly, is ‘is lordship, ‘e says,
an’ they run down that poor jack on ‘is account, racin’ that fancy pair
in the fog to get ‘im to safety. The least ‘e could do, this doctor
cove says, is to give the poor sod a decent burial. Well, guilty is wot
‘e is, a-course, but still---a buryin’, a box---an’ a marker, too!
There ain’t no unnerstandin’ the Quality, is there, ‘arry? A guinea!
“An’ the jacks, they carries the gold in their ears, just so’s they can
be sure of a good burial, don’t they? Well, seein’ as this ‘un ‘ad no
need of it, I di’n’t think ‘ed mind me ‘elpin’ m’self, for my trouble.
T’aint gold, but a pretty trinket anyhow.” He reached into his jacket
pocket and then, putting his hand out over the table, turned it up and
opened his palm. In the lamplight, the single diamond winked, a little
spark of fire in the dingy gloom of the tavern.
“Just a pretty little bit o’ glass, is all,” Dick said, dropping it
back into his pocket. “Mebbe I’ll give to you, eh, Jenny, girl?” he
said, grinning up at her as his mug was refilled. “Would ye be nice to
ol’ Dick for such a pretty?” He laughed and winked. “She likes me all
right, she does.”
He raised the mug in a toast, “’Ere’s to the jack, may ‘e rest in
peace! Poor sod, they’ll think ‘im a deserter. Makin’ ‘is way back to
‘is ship, ‘e must’ve been. ‘Ad ‘is liberty ticket on ‘im an’ all,
signed by ‘is cap’n, all proper an’ legal. Ah, well. ‘Ere’s to ye,
Alfred Oldroyd!” Go
to Part Two