The Castle Inn | Page 2

of your best claret,' he said. 'And bring me ink and a
pen.'
'Immediately, my lord. This way, my lord. Your lordship will perhaps
honour me by dining here?'
'Lord, no! Do you think I want to be poisoned?' was the frank answer.
And looking about him with languid curiosity, the young peer,
followed by a companion, lounged into the house.
The third traveller--for three there were--by a gesture directed the
servant to close the carriage door, and, keeping his seat, gazed sleepily
through the window. The loitering crowd, standing at a respectful
distance, returned his glances with interest, until an empty post-chaise,
approaching from the direction of Oxford, rattled up noisily and split
the group asunder. As the steaming horses stopped within a few paces
of the chariot, the gentleman seated in the latter saw one of the ostlers
go up to the post-chaise and heard him say, 'Soon back, Jimmie?'
'Ay, and I ha' been stopped too,' the postboy answered as he dropped
his reins.
'No!' in a tone of surprise. 'Was it Black Jack?'
'Not he. 'Twas a woman!'
A murmur of astonishment greeted the answer. The postboy grinned,
and sitting easily in his pad prepared to enjoy the situation. 'Ay, a
woman!' he said. 'And a rare pair of eyes to that. What do you think she
wanted, lads?'
'The stuff, of course.'

'Not she. Wanted one of them I took'--and he jerked his elbow
contemptuously in the direction whence he had come--'to fight a duel
for her. One of they! Said, was he Mr. Berkeley, and would he risk his
life for a woman.'
The head ostler stared. 'Lord! and who was it he was to fight?' he asked
at last.
'She did not say. Her spark maybe, that has jilted her.'
'And would they, Jimmie?'
'They? Shoo! They were Methodists,' the postboy answered
contemptuously, 'Scratch wigs and snuff-colour. If she had not been
next door to a Bess of Bedlam and in a main tantrum, she would have
seen that. But "Are you Mr. Berkeley?" she says, all on fire like. And
"Will you fight for a woman?" And when they shrieked out, banged the
door on them. But I tell you she was a pretty piece as you'd wish to see.
If she had asked me, I would not have said no to her.' And he grinned.
The gentleman in the chariot opened a window. 'Where did she stop
you, my man?' he asked idly.
'Half a mile this side of Oxford, your worship,' the postboy answered,
knuckling his forehead. 'Seemed to me, sir, she was a play actress. She
had that sort of way with her.'
The gentleman nodded and closed the window. The night had so far set
in that they had brought out lights; as he sat back, one of these, hung in
the carriage, shone on his features and betrayed that he was smiling. In
this mood his face lost the air of affected refinement--which was then
the mode, and went perfectly with a wig and ruffles--and appeared in
its true cast, plain and strong, yet not uncomely. His features lacked the
insipid regularity which, where all shaved, passed for masculine beauty;
the nose ended largely, the cheek-bones were high, and the chin
projected. But from the risk and even the edge of ugliness it was saved
by a pair of grey eyes, keen, humorous, and kindly, and a smile that
showed the eyes at their best. Of late those eyes had been known to

express weariness and satiety; the man was tiring of the round of costly
follies and aimless amusements in which he passed his life. But at
twenty-six pepper is still hot in the mouth, and Sir George Soane
continued to drink, game, and fribble, though the first pungent flavour
of those delights had vanished, and the things themselves began to pall
upon him.
When he had sat thus ten minutes, smiling at intervals, a stir about the
door announced that his companions were returning. The landlord
preceded them, and was rewarded for his pains with half a guinea; the
crowd with a shower of small silver. The postillions cracked their
whips, the horses started forward, and amid a shrill hurrah my lord's
carriage rolled away from the door.
'Now, who casts?' the peer cried briskly, arranging himself in his seat.
'George, I'll set you. The old stakes?'
'No, I am done for to-night,' Sir George answered yawning without
disguise.
'What! crabbed, dear lad?'
'Ay, set Berkeley, my lord. He's a better match for you.'
'And be robbed by the first highwayman we meet? No, no! I told you, if
I was to go down to this damp hole of mine--fancy living a hundred
miles from White's! I should die if I could not game every day--you
were