Wilfrid Cumbermede

‘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 sheathed for ever.”—The person who has now unsheathed it has done a great wrong to the memory of a loyal cavalier.’

‘The sheath halfway split was as familiar to my eyes as the face of my uncle,’ I said, turning to Sir Giles. ‘And in the only reference I ever heard my great-grandmother make to it, she mentioned the name of Sir Marmaduke. I recollect that much perfectly.’

‘But how could the sword be there and here at one and the same time?’ said Sir Giles.

‘That I do not pretend to explain,’ I said.

‘Here at least is written testimony to our possession of it,’ said Brotherton in a conclusive tone.

‘How, then, are we to explain Mr Cumbermede’s story?’ said Sir Giles, evidently in good faith.

‘With that I cannot consent to allow myself concerned.—Mr Cumbermede is, I am told, a writer of fiction.’

‘Geoffrey,’ said Sir Giles, ‘behave yourself like a gentleman.’

‘I endeavour to do so,’ he returned with a sneer.

I kept silence.

‘How can you suppose,’ the old man went on, ‘that Mr Cumbermede would invent such a story? What object could he have?’

‘He may have a mania for weapons, like old Close—as well as for old books,’ he replied.

I thought of my precious folio. But I did not yet know how much additional force his insinuation with regard to the motive of my labours in the library would gain if it should be discovered that such a volume was in my possession.

‘You may have remarked, sir,’ he went on, ‘that I did not read the name of the owner of the sword in any place where it occurred in the manuscript.’

‘I did. And I beg to know why you kept it back,’ answered Sir Giles.

‘What do you think the name might be, sir?’

‘How should I know? I am not an antiquarian.’

‘Sir Wilfrid Cumbermede. You will find the initials on the blade.—Does that throw any light on the matter, do you think, sir?’

‘Why, that is your very own name!’ cried Sir Giles, turning to me.

I bowed.

‘It is a pity the sword shouldn’t be yours.’

‘It is mine, Sir Giles—though, as I said, I am prepared to abide by your decision.’

‘And now I remember;—the old man resumed, after a moment’s thought—‘the other evening Mr Alderforge—a man of great learning, Mr Cumbermede—told us that the name of Cumbermede had at one time belonged to our family. It is all very strange. I confess I am utterly bewildered.’

‘At least you can understand, sir, how a man of imagination, like Mr Cumbermede here, might desire to possess himself of a weapon which bears his initials, and belonged two hundred years ago to a baronet of the same name as himself—a circumstance which, notwithstanding it is by no means a common name, is not quite so strange as at first sight appears—that is, if all reports are true.’

I did not in the least understand his drift; neither did I care to inquire into it now.

‘Were you aware of this, Mr Cumbermede?’ asked his father.

‘No, Sir Giles,’ I answered.

‘Mr Cumbermede has had the run of the place for weeks. I am sorry I was not at home. This book was lying all the time on the table in the room above, where poor old Close’s work-bench and polishing-wheel are still standing.’

‘Mr Brotherton, this gets beyond bearing,’ I cried. ‘Nothing but the presence of your father, to whom I am indebted for much kindness, protects you.’

‘Tut! tut!’ said Sir Giles.

‘Protects me, indeed!’ exclaimed Brotherton. ‘Do you dream I should be by any code bound to accept a challenge from you?—Not, at least, I presume to think, before a jury had decided on the merits of the case.’

My blood was boiling, but what could I do or say? Sir Giles rose, and was about to leave the room, remarking only—

‘I don’t know what to make of it.’