Wilfrid Cumbermede by George MacDonald (free ebook reader for iphone .TXT) 📖

I had just rung for a light. I presume you are Mr Cumbermede?'

'Yes,' I answered. 'I returned to fetch a book I forgot to take with me. I suppose you have heard what we've been about in the library here?'

'I have been partially informed of it,' he answered, stiffly. 'But I have heard also that you contemplate a raid upon the armoury. I beg you will let the weapons alone.'

I had said something of the sort to Clara that very morning.

'I have a special regard for them,' he went on; 'and I don't want them meddled with. It's not every one knows how to handle them. Some amongst them I would not have injured for their weight in diamonds. One in particular I should like to give you the history of-just to show you that I am right in being careful over them.-Here comes the light.'

I presume it had been hurriedly arranged between them as Clara left him that she should send one of the maids, who in consequence now made her appearance with a candle. Brotherton took it from her and approached the wall.

'Why! What the devil! Some one has been meddling already, I find! The very sword I speak of is gone! There's the sheath hanging empty! What
can it mean? Do you know anything of this, Mr Cumbermede?'

'I do, Mr Brotherton. The sword to which that sheath belongs is mine . I have it.'

' Yours! ' he shouted; then restraining himself, added in a tone of utter contempt-'This is rather too much. Pray, sir, on what grounds do you lay claim to the smallest atom of property within these walls? My father ought to have known what he was about when he let you have the run of the house! And the old books, too! By heaven, it's too much! I always thought-'

'It matters little to me what you think, Mr Brotherton-so little that I do not care to take any notice of your insolence-'

'Insolence!' he roared, striding towards me, as if he would have knocked me down.

I was not his match in strength, for he was at least two inches taller than I, and of a coarse-built, powerful frame. I caught a light rapier from the wall, and stood on my defence.

'Coward!' he cried.

'There are more where this came from,' I answered, pointing to the wall.

He made no move towards arming himself, but stood glaring at me in a white rage.

'I am prepared to prove,' I answered as calmly as I could, 'that the sword to which you allude is mine. But I will give you no explanation. If you will oblige me by asking your father to join us, I will tell him the whole story.'

'I will have a warrant out against you.'

'As you please. I am obliged to you for mentioning it. I shall be ready. I have the sword, and intend to keep it. And by the way, I had better secure the scabbard as well,' I added, as with a sudden spring I caught it also from the wall, and again stood prepared.

He ground his teeth with rage. He was one of those who, trusting to their superior strength, are not much afraid of a row, but cannot face cold steel: soldier as he had been, it made him nervous.

'Insulted in my own house!' he snarled from between his teeth.

'Your father's house,' I corrected. 'Call him, and I will give explanations.'

'Damn your explanations! Get out of the house, you puppy; or I'll have the servants up, and have you ducked in the horse-pond.'

'Bah!' I said. 'There's not one of them would lay hands on me at your bidding. Call your father, I say, or I will go and find him myself.'

He broke out in a succession of oaths, using language I had heard in the streets of London, but nowhere else. I stood perfectly still, and watchful. All at once he turned and went into the gallery, over the balustrade of which he shouted,

'Martin! Go and tell my father to come here-to the armoury-at once. Tell him there's a fellow here out of his mind.'

I remained quiet, with my scabbard in one hand, and the rapier in the other-a dangerous weapon enough, for it was, though slight, as sharp as a needle, and I knew it for a bit of excellent temper. Brotherton stood outside waiting for his father. In a few moments I heard the voice of the old man.

'Boys! boys!' he cried; 'what is all this to do?'

'Why, sir,' answered Geoffrey, trying to be calm, 'here's that fellow Cumbermede confesses to have stolen the most valuable of the swords out of the armoury-one that's been in the family for two hundred years, and says he means to keep it.'

I just caught the word liar ere it escaped my lips: I would spare the son in his father's presence.

'Tut! tut!' said Sir Giles. 'What does it all mean? You're at your old quarrelsome tricks, my boy! Really you ought to be wiser by this time!'

As he spoke, he entered panting, and with the rubicund glow beginning to return upon a face from which the message had evidently banished it.

'Tut! tut!' he said again, half starting back as he caught sight of me with the weapon in my hand-'What is it all about, Mr Cumbermede? I thought you had more sense!'

'Sir Giles,' I said, 'I have not confessed to having stolen the sword-only to having taken it.'

'A very different thing,' he returned, trying to laugh. 'But come now; tell me all about it. We can't have quarrelling like this, you know. We can't have pot-house work here.'

'That is just why I sent for you, Sir Giles,' I answered, replacing the rapier on the wall. 'I want to tell you the whole story.'

'Let's have it, then.'

'Mind, I don't believe a word of it,' said Geoffrey.

'Hold your tongue, sir,' said his father, sharply.

'Mr Brotherton,' I said, 'I offered to tell the story to Sir Giles-not to you.'

'You offered!' he sneered. 'You may be compelled-under different circumstances by-and-by, if you don't mind what you're about.'

'Come now-no more of this!' said Sir Giles.

Thereupon I began at the beginning, and told him the story of the sword, as I have already given it to my reader. He fidgeted a little, but Geoffrey kept himself stock-still during the whole of the narrative. As soon as I had ended Sir Giles said,

'And you think poor old Close actually carried off your sword!-Well, he was an odd creature, and had a passion for everything that could kill. The poor little atomy used to carry a poniard in the breast-pocket of his black coat-as if anybody would ever have thought of attacking his small carcass! Ha! ha! ha! He was simply a monomaniac in regard of swords and daggers. There, Geoffrey! The sword is plainly his. He is the wronged party in the matter, and we owe him an apology.'

'I believe the whole to be a pure invention,' said Geoffrey, who now appeared perfectly calm.

'Mr Brotherton!' I began, but Sir Giles interposed.

'Hush! hush!' he said, and turned to his son. 'My boy, you insult your father's guest.'

'I will at once prove to you, sir, how unworthy he is of any forbearance, not to say protection from you. Excuse me for one moment.'

He took up the candle, and opening the little door at the foot of the winding stair, disappeared. Sir Giles and I sat in silence and darkness until he returned, carrying in his hand an old vellum-bound book.

'I dare say you don't know this manuscript, sir,' he said, turning to his father.

'I know nothing about it,' answered Sir Giles. 'What is it? Or what has it to do with the matter in hand?'

'Mr Close found it in some corner or other, and used to read it to me when I was a little fellow. It is a description, and in most cases a history as well, of every weapon in the armoury. They had been much neglected, and a great many of the labels were gone, but those which were left referred to numbers in the book-heading descriptions which corresponded exactly to the weapons on which they were found. With a little trouble he had succeeded in supplying the numbers where they were missing, for the descriptions are very minute.'

He spoke in a tone of perfect self-possession.

'Well, Geoffrey, I ask again, what has all this to do with it?' said his father.

'If Mr Cumbermede will allow you to look at the label attached to the sheath in his hand-for fortunately it was a rule with Mr Close to put a label on both sword and sheath-and if you will read me the number, I will read you the description in the book.'

I handed the sheath to Sir Giles, who began to decipher the number on the ivory ticket.

'The label is quite a new one,' I said.

'I have already accounted for that,' said Brotherton. 'I will leave it to yourself to decide whether the description corresponds.'

Sir Giles read out the number figure by figure, adding-

'But how are we to test the description? I don't know the thing, and it's not here.'

'It is at the Moat,' I replied; 'but its future place is at Sir Giles's decision.'

'Part of the description belongs to the scabbard you have in your hand, sir,' said Brotherton. 'The description of the sword itself I submit to Mr Cumbermede.'

'Till the other day I never saw the blade,' I said.

'Likely enough,' he retorted dryly, and proceeding, read the description of the half-basket hilt, inlaid with gold, and the broad blade, channeled near the hilt, and inlaid with ornaments and initials in gold.

'There is nothing in all that about the scabbard,' said his father.

'Stop till we come to the history,' he replied, and read on, as nearly as I can recall, to the following effect. I have never had an opportunity of copying the words themselves.

'"This sword seems to have been expressly forged for Sir [--] [--],"' (He read it Sir So and So .) '"whose initials are to be found on the blade. According to tradition, it was worn by him, for the first and only time, at the battle of Naseby, where he fought in the cavalry led by Sir Marmaduke Langdale. From some accident or other, Sir [--] [--] found, just as the order to charge was given, that he could not draw his sword, and had to charge with only a pistol in his hand. In the flight which followed he pulled up, and unbuckled his sword, but while attempting to ease it, a rush of the enemy startled him, and, looking about, he saw a Roundhead riding straight at Sir Marmaduke, who that moment passed in the rear of his retiring troops-giving some directions to an officer by his side, and unaware of the nearness of danger. Sir [--] [--] put spurs to his charger, rode at the trooper, and dealt him a downright blow on the pot-helmet with his sheathed weapon. The fellow tumbled from his horse, and Sir [--] [--] found his scabbard split halfway up, but the edge of his weapon unturned. It is said he vowed it should remain