The Adventures of Harry Rochester: A Tale of the Days of Marlborough and Eugene
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Title: The Adventures of Harry Rochester: A Tale of the Days of Marlborough and Eugene
Creator: Herbert Strang
Illustrator: W. Rainey
Release date: December 5, 2013 [eBook #44362]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/44362
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ADVENTURES OF HARRY ROCHESTER: A TALE OF THE DAYS OF MARLBOROUGH AND EUGENE ***
Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Illustration: The Fight in the Castle Yard]
The Adventures of
Harry Rochester
A Tale of the
Days of Marlborough and Eugene
BY
HERBERT STRANG
AUTHOR OF "TOM BURNABY" "BOYS OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE"
"KOBO: A STORY OF THE RUSSO-JAPANESE WAR"
Illustrated by William Rainey, R.I.
NEW YORK
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
27 AND 29 WEST 230 STREET
1905
"Honour hath three things in it: the vantage-ground to do good; the
approach to kings and principal persons; and the raising of a man's own
fortunes."
--_Bacon_.
_My dear Tom,_
_You received my former books so kindly that I feel assured you will not
object to have this volume inscribed with your name. I am not the less
convinced of this because you know well the country in which my opening
scenes are laid, and I had the pleasure last year of playing cricket
with you within a few miles of the village here disguised as Winton St.
Mary._
_I hope you will bear with me for one minute while I explain that in
writing this book I had three aims. First, to tell a good story: that
of course. Secondly, to give some account of the operations that
resulted in one of the most brilliant victories ever gained by our
British arms. Thirdly, to throw some light--fitful, it may be, but as
clear as the circumstances of my story admitted--on life and manners two
hundred years ago. History, as you have no doubt already learnt, is not
merely campaigning; and I shall be well pleased if these pages enlarge
your knowledge, in ever so slight a degree, of an interesting period in
our country's annals. And if you, or any other Christ's Hospital boy,
should convict me of borrowing a week from the life of a great
personage, or of antedating by a little a development in our national
pastime--well, I shall feel complimented by such evidence of careful
reading, and not be in the least abashed._
_I take the opportunity of this open letter to acknowledge my
indebtedness to the monumental "Memoires militaires relatifs a la
succession d'Espagne" issued by the French General Staff; to Mr. Austin
Dobson for a detail which only his perfect knowledge of the 18th century
could so readily have supplied; and to Lord Wolseley's brilliant life of
Marlborough, which every student of military history must hope so
competent a hand will continue and complete._
_Yours very sincerely,_
_HERBERT STRANG._
_Michaelmas Day, 1905._
*Contents*
_Chapter_ I
The Queen's Purse-Bearer
_Chapter_ II
Sherebiah Shouts
_Chapter_ III
Master and Man
_Chapter_ IV
Mynheer Jan Grootz and Another
_Chapter_ V
A Message from the Squire
_Chapter_ VI
My Lord Marlborough makes a Note
_Chapter_ VII
Snared
_Chapter_ VIII
Flotsam
_Chapter_ IX
Monsieur de Polignac Presses his Suit
_Chapter_ X
Bluff
_Chapter_ XI
The Battle of Lindendaal
_Chapter_ XII
Harry is Discharged
_Chapter_ XIII
Concerning Sherebiah
_Chapter_ XIV
Harry Rides for a Life
_Chapter_ XV
The Water of Affliction
_Chapter_ XVI
Knaves All Three
_Chapter_ XVII
In the Dusk
_Chapter_ XVIII
A Little Plot
_Chapter_ XXI
Marlborough's March to the Danube
_Chapter_ XX
The Castle of Rauhstein
_Chapter_ XXI
Across the Fosse
_Chapter_ XXII
The Fight in the Keep
_Chapter_ XXIII
Blenheim
_Chapter_ XXIV
The Wages of Sin
_Chapter_ XXV
A Bundle of Letters
_Chapter_ XXVI
The New Squire
_Chapter_ XXVII
Visitors at Winton Hall
*List of Illustrations*
_Plate_ I
The Fight in the Castle Yard . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
_Plate_ II
Harry makes a Diversion
_Plate_ III
My Lord Marlborough
_Plate_ IV
At the Last Gasp
_Plate_ V
"Mon Colonel, we are surrounded!"
_Plate_ VI
The Stroke of Eight
_Plate_ VII
"Fire and Fury!" shouted Aglionby
_Plate_ VIII
Mein Wirth is Surprised
*Map And Plan*
Map of the Low Countries in 1703
Plan of the Battle of Blenheim
*CHAPTER I*
*The Queen's Purse-Bearer*
Winton St. Mary--Cricket: Old Style--Last Man In--Bowled--The Gaffer
Explains--More Explanations--Parson Rochester--"The Boy"--Cambridge in
the Field--Village Batsmen--Old Everlasting makes One--The Squire--An
Invitation--Lord Godolphin is Interested--An Uphill Game--Young
Pa'son--The Winning Hit
"Stap me, Frank, if ever I rattle my old bones over these roads again!
Every joint in me aches; every wrinkle--and I've too many--is filled
with dust; and my wig--plague on it, Frank, my wig's a doormat. Look at
it--whew!"
My lord Godolphin took off his cocked hat, removed his full periwig, and
shook it over the side of the calash, wrying his lips as the horse of
one of his escort started at the sudden cloud. My lord had good excuse
for his petulance. It was a brilliant June day, in a summer of glorious
weather, and the Wiltshire roads, no better nor worse than other English
highways in the year 1702, were thick with white dust, which the autumn
rains would by and by transform into the stickiest of clinging mud. The
Lord High Treasurer, as he lay back wearily on his cushions, looked,
with his lean, lined, swarthy face and close-cropt grizzled poll, every
day of his fifty-eight years. He was returning with his son Francis, now
nearly twenty-three, from a visit to his estates in Cornwall. Had he
been a younger man he would no doubt have ridden his own horse; had he
been of lower rank he might have travelled by the public coach; but
being near sixty, a baron, and lord of the Treasury to boot, he drove in
his private four-horsed calash, with two red-coated postilions, and four
sturdy liveried henchmen on horseback, all well armed against the perils
of footpads and highwaymen.
It was nearing noon on this bright, hot morning, and my lord had begun
to acknowledge to himself that he would barely complete his journey to
London that day.
"Where are we now, Dickory?" he asked languidly of the nearest rider on
the off-side.
"Nigh Winton St. Mary, my lord," replied the man. "Down the avenue
yonder, my lord; then the common, and the church on the right, and the
village here and there bearing to the left, as you might say, my lord."
"Look 'ee, Frank, we'll draw up at Winton St. Mary and wet our whistles.
My lady Marlborough expects us in town to-night, to be sure; but she
must e'en be content to wait. Time was----eh, my boy?--but now, egad,
I'll not kill myself for her or any woman."
"'Twould be a calamity--for the nation, sir," said Frank Godolphin with
a grin.
"So it would, i' faith. Never fear, Frank, I'll not make way for you
for ten years to come. But what's afoot yonder? A fair, eh?"
The carriage had threaded a fine avenue of elms, and come within sight
of the village common, which stretched away beyond and behind the
church, an expanse of rough turf now somewhat parched and browned,
broken here by a patch of shrub, there by a dwindling pond, and bounded
in the distance by the thick coverts of the manor-house. My lord's
exclamation had been called forth by the bright spectacle that met his
eyes. At the side of the road, and encroaching also on the grass, were
ranged a number of vehicles of various sizes and descriptions, from the
humble donkey-cart of a sherbet seller to the lofty coach of some county
magnate. Between the carriages the travellers caught glimpses of a
crowd; and indeed, as they drew nearer to the scene, their ears were
assailed by sundry shoutings and clappings that seemed to betoken
incidents of sport or pastime. My lord Godolphin, for all his coldness
and reserve in his official dealings, was in his moments a keen
sportsman; from a horse-race to a main of cock-fighting or a
sword-match, nothing that had in it the element of sport came amiss to
him; and as he replaced his wig and settled his hat upon it his eyes lit
up with an anticipation vastly different from his air of weary
discontent.
"Split me, Frank," he cried in a more animated tone than was usual with
him; "whatever it is, 'twill cheer us up. John," he added to the
postilion, "drive on to the grass, and stop at the first opening you
find in the ring. Odsbodikins, 'tis a game at cricket; we'll make an
afternoon of it, Frank, and brave your mother-in-law's anger, come what
may."
The postilions whipped up their horses, wheeled to the right, and drove
with many a jolt on to the common, passing behind the row of vehicles
until they came to an interval between one of the larger sort and a dray
heaped with barrels of cider. There they pulled up sideways to the
crowd, over whose heads the occupants of the calash looked curiously
towards the scene of the game. It was clearly an exciting moment, for
beyond a casual turning of the head the nearest spectators gave no heed
to the new-comers. A space was roped in at some distance in front of
the church, and within the ring the wickets were pitched--very primitive
compared with the well-turned polished apparatus of to-day. The stumps
were two short sticks forked at the top, stuck at a backward slant into
the turf about a foot apart, with one long bail across them. Nothing had
been done to prepare the pitch; the grass was short and dry and stubby,
with a tuft here and there likely to trip an unwary fielder headlong.
There was no crease, but a hole in the ground. Nor was there any
uniformity of attire among the players: all had the stockings and
pantaloons of daily wear, and if there was any difference in their
shirts, it was due merely to their difference in rank and wealth.
"Over" had just been called as Lord Godolphin and his son drove up, and
something in the attitude of the crowd seemed to show that the game was
at a crisis. The umpires, armed with rough curved bats somewhat like
long spoons, had just taken their new places, and the batsman who was to
receive the first ball of the new over was taking his block. A tall,
loose-limbed young fellow, he held his bat with an air of easy
confidence.
"Egad, sir, 'tis Gilbert Young," said Frank Godolphin to his father. "I
knew him at Cambridge: a sticker. Who's the bowler? I don't know him."
The bowler was a youth, a mere stripling of some sixteen or seventeen
years, who stood at his end of the wicket, ball in hand, awaiting the
word to "play". His loose shirt was open at the neck; his black hair,
not yet cropt for a wig, fell in a strong thick mass over his brow; and
as he waited for the batsman to complete his somewhat fastidious
preparations, he once or twice pushed up the heavy cluster with his left
hand.
"Gibs was ever a tantalising beast," said Frank aside. "Hi, you fellow!"
he shouted to a broad-shouldered yokel who stood just in front of him by
the rope, "how stands the score?"
The man addressed looked over his shoulder, and seeing that the speaker
was one of the "quality" he doffed his cap and replied:
"'Tis ninety-four notches, your honour, and last man in. Has a'ready
twenty-vive to hisself, and the Winton boys can't get un out."
"Play!" cried the umpire. The batsman stood to his block, and looked
round the field with a smile of confidence. The bowler gave a quick
glance around, took a light run of some three yards, and delivered the
ball--underhand, for round-arm bowling was not yet invented. The ball
travelled swiftly, no more than two or three feet above the ground,
pitched in front of the block-hole, and was driven hard to the off
towards a thick-set, grimy-looking individual--the village smith. He,
bending to field the ball, missed it, swung round to run after it, and
fell sprawling over a tussock of grass, amid yells of mingled derision
and disappointment.
"Pick theeself up, Lumpy!" roared the man to whom Frank Godolphin had
spoken. But the ball had already been fielded by Long Robin the tanner,
running round from long-on. Sir Gilbert meanwhile had got back to his
end of the wicket, and the scorer, seated near the umpire, had cut two
notches in the scoring stick.
Again the ball was bowled, with an even lower delivery than before. The
batsman stepped a yard out of his ground and caught the ball on the
rise; it flew high over the head of the remotest fieldsman, over the
rope, over the crowd, and dropped within a foot of the lych-gate of the
church. Loud cheers from a party of gentlemen mounted on coaches in
front of a tent greeted this stroke; four notches were cut to the credit
of the side, bringing the score to a hundred. There was dead silence
among the crowd now; it was plain that their sympathies lay with the out
side, and this ominous opening of the new bowler's over was a check upon
their enjoyment.
Sir Gilbert once more stood to his block. For his third ball the bowler
took his run on the other side of the wicket. His delivery this time
was a little higher: the ball pitched awkwardly, and the batsman seemed
to be in two minds what to do with it. His hesitation was fatal. With a
perplexing twist the ball slid along the ground past his bat, hit the
off stump, and just dislodged the bail, which fell perpendicularly and
lay across between the sticks. Sir Gilbert looked at it for a moment
with rueful countenance, then marched towards the tent, while the crowd
cheered and, the innings being over, made for the stalls and carts, at
which ale and cider and gingerbread were to be had.
"Egad, 'twas well bowled," ejaculated Lord Godolphin; "a cunning ball, a
most teasing twist; capital, capital!"
"I'll go and speak to Gibs," said Frank. "Will you come, sir?"
"Not I, i' faith. 'Tis too hot. Bring him to me. I'll drink a glass
of cider here and wait your return."
There was a cider cart near at hand, and his man Dickory brought my lord
a brimming bumper drawn from the wood. He winced as the tart liquor
touched his palate, unaccustomed to such homely drink; but it was at
least cool and refreshing, and he finished the bumper. As he gave it
back he noticed an old man slowly approaching, leaning with one hand
upon a stout knobby stick of oak, and holding in the other a rough
three-legged stool, which he placed between my lord's calash and the
rope. He was a fine-looking old man, dressed in plain country homespun;
his cheeks were seamed and weather-beaten, but there was still a
brightness in his eyes and an erectness in his figure that bespoke
health and the joy of life. He sat down on the stool, took off his hat
and wiped his brow, then, resting both hands on his stick, looked
placidly around him. There was no one near to him; the space was clear,
for players and spectators had all flocked their several ways to get
refreshment, and for some minutes the old man sat alone. Then Lord
Godolphin, to ease his limbs and kill time, stepped out of his carriage
and went towards the veteran.
"Well, gaffer," he said, "have ye come out to get a sunning?"
The old man looked up.
"Ay sure, your honour," he said, "and to zee the match. You med think
me too old; true, I be gone eighty; come Martinmas I shall be
eighty-one, and I ha'n't a wamblen tooth in my head--not one, old as I
be. A man's as old as he feels, says my boy--one o' the wise sayens he
has: I ha'n't felt no older this twenty year, nay, nor twenty-vive year
neither."
"By George! I wish I could say the same. What's the match, gaffer?"
"Well, they do say 'tis for a wager; 'tis all 'I'll lay ye this' and
'I'll lay ye that' in these days. I don't know the rights on't, but
'tis said it all come about at a supper up at Squire's.--Do 'ee know
Squire? Eh well, there be the house, yonder among the trees. Squire's
son be hot wi' his tongue, and at this same supper--I tell 'ee as I
yeard it--he wagered young Master Godfrey of the Grange he'd bring
eleven young gen'lmen from Cambridge college as would beat our village
players at the cricket. A hunnerd guineas was the wager, so 'tis said.
Master Godfrey he ups and says 'Done wi' 'ee', and so 'tis come about.
The Cambridge younkers be all high gentry, every man on 'em; our folks,
as your honour med see, be just or'nary folks in the main: there's Long
Robin the tanner and Lumpy the smith--he that turned topsy-turvy
a-hunten the ball by there; and Honest John the miller: Old Everlasten
they calls un, 'cause he never gets cotched out nor bowled neither: ay,
a good stick is Old Everlasten, wi' a tough skin of his own. And there
be Soapy Dick the barber, and Tom cobbler, and more of the village folk;
and the only gentry among 'em is Master Godfrey hisself and pa'son's
son, and he don't count for gentry wi' some. Do 'ee know pa'son? a good
man, saven your honour, ay, a right good man is Pa'son Rochester, and
stands up to old Squire like a game-cock, so he do--a right good man is
pa'son, ay sure. And his son Harry--well, to tell 'ee the truth, I'm
main fond of the lad; main fond; 'tis a well-favoured lad, well spoken
too, and he thinks a deal o' me, he do, and I thinks a deal o' he. Why,
'twas he bowled that artful ball as put out t' last man from Cambridge
college.--There, my old tongue runs on; I don't offend your honour?"
"Not a whit," said my lord. "The young bowler is the parson's son, eh?
Bred for a parson too, I suppose?"
"He's over young yet, your honour, but a month gone seventeen. He said
to me only yesterday: 'Gaffer,' says he, 'what'll 'ee do 'ithout me when
I go up to Oxford?' He be gwine come October, a' believe. 'Twas at
Oxford college they made his feyther a pa'son, so belike the lad'll put
on the petticoats too, though sure he's fit for summat better. But
he'll make a good pa'son if he takes arter his feyther. Bless 'ee,
Pa'son Rochester be the only man in the parish as a'n't afeard o'
Squire. I be afeard o' Squire, I be, though 'ee med not think it. Ah!
he's a hard man, is Squire. A' fell out with pa'son first 'cause he
wouldn't be his chaplain--goo up t' hall an' say grace and eat the
mutton and turmuts, an' come away wi'out pudden. Wi'out pudden!--I
wouldn't goo wi'out pudden for no man; that's why I first took a fancy
for pa'son. Then Squire, he wanted to fence in a big slice of this
common land, as ha' belonged to the folks of Winton Simmary time wi'out
mind; and pa'son stood up to 'n, and told 'n flat to his face 'twas agen
the law, an' he had the law on 'm, he did; an' the wise judges up in
Lun'on town said as how Squire were wrong. But Lor' bless 'ee, Squire
be as obstinate as a pig; he don't care nowt for judges; he ups and
'peals to King Willum hisself. Then King Willum dies, poor feller, an'
Queen Anne sits proud on the gold throne, an' there 'tis; 'twill take a
time for her poor woman's mind to understand the rights o' the matter;
her don't know pa'son so well as we."
"Or she might make him a bishop, eh? Perhaps I can put in a word for
him," said my lord jestingly.
The old man stared.
"And who med 'ee be, your honour, if I mebbe so bold to axe?" he said
slowly.
"I? Oh--well, I have care of the Queen's purse."
"There now, and I've been talken to 'ee just as if 'ee were a knight or
squire, when I med ha' known 'ee by your cut for one of the mighty o'
the earth. But 'ee'll forgive a old man--ay, gone eighty year. I was
born three year afore Scotch Jamie died; no sart of a king was Jamie, a
wamblen loon, so I've yeard tell. And Charles One, he was well-favoured
before the Lord, true, but not a man of his word. Nay, Noll Crum'ell
was the right sart o' king; I mind un well. I was a trooper in his
regiment, and we was as fine a set o' men as ever trod neat's leather,
true, we was. I rode wi' un to Marston Moor in '44, nigh zixty year
back. Ay, a right king was old Noll. And I fought in Flanders when
Noll was friends with the French king; but I left that line o' life when
Charles Two come back with his French madams; and now we be a-fighten
the French, so 'tis said; 'twas what us Englishmen was born for, to be
sure; ay, that 'tis."
Here my lord's attention was attracted towards a group of villagers
approaching. They were led by a short well-set-up fellow with a
humorous cast of face; his thumbs were stuck into his arm-pits, and as
he walked he was singing to the accompaniment of a flute played by the
man at his side. The old man looked towards him and smiled
affectionately.
"'Tis my boy a-comen," he said. "Was born in '59, your honour, the year
afore Charles Two coom back; and I chrisomed un Sherebiah
Stand-up-and-bless out of Nehemiah nine; a good boy, though wilful."
The boy of forty-three was singing lustily:
"'Twas on a jolly summer's morn, the twenty-first of May,
Giles Scroggins took his turmut-hoe, and with it trudged away.
For some delights in hay-makin', and some they fancies mowin',
But of all the trades as I likes best, give I the turmut hoein'.
For the fly, the fly, the fly is on the turmut;
And 'tis all my eye for we to try, to keep fly off the
turmut."
"Mum, boy, mum!" said his father. "The boy has a sweet breast, your
honour," he added, turning to Godolphin, "and 'tis my belief 'twill lead
un into bad company in the days o' his youth. He _will_ sing 'Sir Simon
the King' and 'Bobbing Joan', and other sinful ditties. Ah! I had a
good breast in my time; and you should ha' yeard Noll's men sing as we
marched into Preston fight; I could sing counter to any man.--Boy, doff
your hat to the Queen's purse-bearer.--Ay, 'twas psa'ms an' hymns an'
speritual songs in my time, as the Book says."
"Sarvant, yer honour," said the new-comer, bobbing to Godolphin.
"Feyther been taken away my good name? 'Tis a wise feyther knows his
own child; feyther o' mine forgot that when he named me Sherebiah
Stand-up-and-bless. Beant the fault o' my name I ha'n't took to bad
courses. But there, he's a old ancient man, nigh ready for
churchyard--bean't 'ee, dad?"
"Not till I make a man on 'ee, boy."
"May I present my friend Sir Gilbert Young, sir?" said Frank Godolphin,
coming up at this moment through the gathering crowd.
My lord bowed and swept off his hat in the courtly fashion of the day,
in response to a still lower salutation from the young Cambridge man.
"I am honoured, my lord," said Sir Gilbert.
"My lard, i' fecks!" ejaculated Sherebiah's father, with a startled
look. "My lard,--an' I ha'n't even pulled my forelock! Boy, doff your
cap to my lard! And the Book says, 'They shall stand afore princes',
and I'm a-sitten!"
The old fellow began to struggle to his feet with the aid of his staff,
but Godolphin laid his hand on his arm, and pressed him down.
"Sit fast, gaffer," he said. "See, the players are coming out again. I
am pleased to have met one of Noll's veterans so hale and hearty, and I
hope your son will turn out as great a comfort to you as mine."
He put his arm fondly through Frank's, and returned to his carriage.
The crowd was collecting about the rope, and the Cambridge men were
already taking their places in the field. Their score of a hundred was
higher than the average in those days, and the villagers were eagerly
discussing the chances of their team excelling it. They had seen nothing
of the other side's bowling powers, but as they compared notes on the
various merits as batsmen of Honest John, and Long Robin, and Lumpy, and
the rest, many of them shook their heads and looked rather down in the
mouth.
The first pair of batsmen came to the wickets. They were Old
Everlasting and Soapy Dick. The former took the first over, bowled by
Gilbert Young, the captain of the team, and calmly blocked every ball of
the four, giving a wink to his friends in the crowd when over was
called. Soapy Dick, at the other wicket, was a little man with very red
hair brushed up into a sort of top-knot in front. He handled his bat in
a nervous manner, and was made still more nervous by the cries of the
crowd.
"Hit un, Soapy!" cried one yokel. "Doan't be afeard, man."
"Gi't lather, Soapy!" shouted another, whose cheeks cried out for the
barber's attentions.
Dick grinned mirthlessly, and fixed his eyes on the bowler at the other
end. The ball came towards him--a slow, tempting lob that was too easy
to let pass. Dick lifted his bat and smote; the ball returned gently to
the bowler's hands, and a roar of derision sped the shame-faced little
barber back to the tent. One wicket down, and no notches!--a bad
beginning for Winton St. Mary.
Lumpy was the next to appear. He waddled across the grass turning up
his sleeves--a fat little fellow with bandy legs, and arms as thick as
most men's thighs. As he stood to take his block, he seemed to handle
the bat with contemptuous surprise, as though wondering what use that
was to a man accustomed to wield the sledgehammer at the anvil.
Satisfied with his position, he planted his feet firmly, drew his left
hand across his mouth, and glared fiercely at the bowler. He was not to
be so easily tempted as poor Soapy Dick had been. He waited for the
ball, and as it rose brought his bat down upon it with a perpendicular
blow that appeared to drive it into the turf, where it lay dead. The
Cambridge men roared with laughter, the crowd applauded vigorously, and
Lumpy once more wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. The third ball
of the over came, pitching slightly to leg. Lumpy jumped completely
round as the ball reached him, and with a tremendous swipe sent it high
over long-stop's head into a patch of gorse, whence it was not recovered
until he had had three notches cut to his credit. The last ball of the
over thus came to Old Everlasting, who solemnly blocked it, and beamed
upon the spectators with his usual smug smile.
Lumpy had but a short life, after all. There was no cunning about him;
if he hit a ball it was bound to travel far, but he struck out every
time with the same violence, and when he missed could hardly recover his
balance. In twenty minutes he had scored eleven notches, Old
Everlasting having consistently done nothing but block the balls that
fell to him; then, in hitting out, Lumpy, never too steady on his bow
leg's, overbalanced himself and fell flat, and the long bail was
promptly knocked off by the wicket-keeper. Two wickets down for eleven.
After this, disaster followed disaster in such rapid succession that the
villagers looked blue. Long Robin the tanner was caught second ball,
and was afterwards heard complaining bitterly of the bad leather the
ball was made of. Tom the cobbler came to the wicket with a bat of his
own--one that he kept hanging behind his kitchen door, and took down
every week for a thorough greasing. He scored six notches, then hit a
ball into his wicket, and in the tent afterwards explained to his
cronies that another week's greasing would have prevented the accident.
Four wickets were now down for seventeen, and Godfrey Fanshawe himself
came in, amid a great outburst of cheers from the crowd, with whom he
was very popular, and who looked to him, as the originator of the match
and the captain of the team, to retrieve the fortunes of the day. He
snicked his first ball for one; then Old Everlasting evoked intense
enthusiasm by poking a ball between slip and point, and scoring his
first notch. The score rose slowly to thirty-one, Fanshawe making all
the runs, and then he ran himself out in trying to snatch an extra from
an overthrow. The fifth wicket was down. Fanshawe was reputed the best
batsman in the team, and Winton St. Mary was still sixty-nine behind.
There was much shaking of the head among the villagers, and they waited
in glum silence for the next man to appear.
"Look 'ee!" exclaimed the old trooper suddenly, "beant that old Squire
a-comen down-along by covert fence?"
"True, Gaffer Minshull," said a by-stander; "what eyes 'ee've got, for a
old ancient soul! 'Tis old Squire sure enough, and young Squire and the
Cap'n wi' un."
Old Minshull leant forward on his stick, and with pursed lips peered at
the three figures approaching. One was a burly man in the prime of
life, dressed in semi-military garb--a feathered hat, long red coat
marked with many stains and wanting some buttons, leather breeches, and
spurred boots. His features were coarse and red, his eyes prominent and
blood-shot; he walked with a swagger, his left hand on his sword-hilt.
The second was a youth of some twenty years, dressed in the extremity of
foppishness. A black hat, looped up and cocked over one eye, crowned a
full auburn wig fastidiously curled. The coat was blue, the waistcoat
purple, open to display a fine holland shirt. A laced steinkirk was
tucked in at the breast. The breeches matched the vest, the stockings
were of red silk, the shoes had high red heels and large silver buckles.
In Mr. Piers Berkeley's mouth was a toothpick; from one of the buttons
of his coat dangled an amber-headed cane.
The third figure was a striking contrast to the others. He was tall and
thin and bent, with pale wrinkled cheeks and bushy white eyebrows that
ill matched his dark wig. He scarcely lifted his eyes from the ground as
he moved slowly along, leaning heavily upon a silver-knobbed stick. His
dress was fusty and of a bygone mode; to a Londoner the old man must
have resembled a figure out of a picture of Charles the Second's time.
"Who's this queer old put ambling along, Frank?" asked my lord. "The
rascals there avoid him as he had the plague."
"On my life I don't know, sir," replied Mr. Godolphin. "The fellow with
him might stand for Bobadil himself."
"Or for Captain Bluffe in Mr. Congreve's play."
"And the young sprig wants a kicking."
"Sarvant, my lord," put in Sherebiah, who was standing by; "'tis old
Squire, and young Squire, and---- No, I won't say 't; a wise head keeps
a still tongue; I won't say 't, leastways when a fowl o' the air med
carry it where 'twould do me and feyther o' mine no manner o' good."
The crowd parted with a kind of sullen unwilling respect to make way for
the new-comers. Suddenly the squire paused, as the elder of his two
companions addressed him; flashing an angry glance at him, he said a few
vehement words in a low tone that no one else could hear. Captain Ralph
Aglionby laughed aloud, shrugged carelessly, and sauntered across the
common towards the tent. The squire followed him with a dark glance for
a moment, then resumed his slow progress with his son, and came to
within a few feet of Lord Godolphin's carriage.
"Your lordship's servant," he said with a profound bow, copied with
elaborate elegance by his son. His voice was thin and hard, a voice
that set the teeth on edge. "I heard your lordship was on the ground,
and made bold to come and pay my duty to your lordship."
"I am vastly beholden to you, Mr.----"
"Berkeley, my lord, Nicolas Berkeley of Winton Hall; and would your
lordship but favour me, I should be proud, when the match is over, to
offer your lordship a cover at my table--poor country fare, I fear, but
such as it is, freely at your lordship's disposal."
"'Tis handsome of you, Mr. Berkeley, but I fear our business will not
permit us to accept of your hospitality.--Ah! I perceive the next
batsman is coming to the wicket. I hope you're as keen a sportsman as I
am myself, and will forgive me if I fix my attention on the game."
Mr. Berkeley bowed again with expressionless face, and after a moment's
irresolution moved away. Gaffer Minshull might have been observed to
lick his old lips with appreciation at this the very courtliest of cold
shoulders. Piers Berkeley, the young squire, stayed for a minute or two,
gazing with silly face at my lord; then, finding that he remained
unnoticed, he stuck the head of his cane into his mouth and walked away
sucking it.
The game was resumed. For an hour it was tedious watching. The new
batsman snatched a run now and then, while Old Everlasting blocked every
ball that came to him with the same want of enterprise and the same
boundless self-satisfaction. At length his partner was caught in the
long field; the sixth wicket had fallen, and the score was no more than
forty-five.
"Give you three to one against the rustics, Frank," said Lord Godolphin.
"I'll take you, sir, though 'tis a risk. Who's our next man?"
"'Tis our bowler friend, the young sprig of a parson, unless I mistake,"
said my lord. "What's the lad's name, gaffer?"
"'Tis Henry Winterborne Rochester, my lard, by the water o' baptism; too
rich a name for poor folks like we. Young pa'son we calls un mostly."
"A limber youth. I like his looks, eh, Frank? Does he bat as well as
he bowls?"
"Middlen, my lord, middlen," said Sherebiah. "Has a good eye, but a
deal o' growen to do afore he can smite the ball as it should. But
there, my lord, he as can't do what he would must do what he can, as you
med say."
"Nothen truer, boy," said his father approvingly. "Ay, 'tis a pretty
lad. Gi' un a cheer, souls."
"Mum, feyther," expostulated Sherebiah. "Old Squire's comen back-along
this way; little sticks kindle fires, as you med say."
"True. I be a timbersome man, afeard o' Squire, though you med n't
think it. Well!"
But though Gaffer Minshull forbore to cheer, the rest of the crowd had
no scruples, and the warmth of their greeting brought a flush to the new
batsman's honest face. He stood at the wicket with quiet ease and
watched Old Everlasting block the last ball of the over; then he glanced
around, stooped to his bat, and fixed his gray eyes steadily on the
bowler.
The rest of the afternoon provided an unfailing subject for gossip in
the village for six months afterwards. Playing at first with patient
wariness, Harry never let a ball pass his bat, but treated all with a
respectful consideration that was as noticeable as his graceful style.
He played two overs without getting a notch; then, after another
excellent blocking performance by his partner, came a change. The first
ball of the next over was rather loose; Lord Godolphin, who, perhaps
alone of the spectators, kept his gaze fixed on the batsman's face, saw
his lips come together with a slight pressure and his eyes suddenly
gleam--and there was the ball, flying straight over the bowler's head,
passing between two coaches into the road. Gaffer Minshull was on the
point of raising his stick to wave it, but was stopped by his son with a
"Mind old Squire, feyther o' mine."
"Varty-vive and vour makes varty-nine," muttered the old man. "I could
do a bit o' cipheren in my time. Ay, varty-nine."
Nothing came of the next ball, but the third rose most happily to
Harry's bat, and with a neat little cut he sent it under the rope among
the crowd, who nimbly parted to let it roll. Three notches were cut to
his credit. Old Everlasting complacently blocked the next ball, and
Harry treated the bowler at the other end with great respect till the
fourth ball, which he snicked away for a single. Getting back thus to
the wicket at which he had started, he delighted the spectators by
driving every ball of the over, at the close of which the score had
risen to sixty-three.
"'Tis the eye doos it," said the old man delightedly; "Master Harry
has'n clear an' steady. Ay sure, a' would ha' made a good captain for
Noll Crum'ell; if so be he's a pa'son, all the use he can make o' his
eye, 'twill be to tarrify poor sinners like you an' me, my lard."
But misfortune was in store for the Winton St. Mary men. Old
Everlasting had the first ball of the next over, delivered by a new
bowler, a lanky fellow with a tremendous pace, for whom two long-stops
were placed. The batsman was taken by surprise; he missed the ball, the
stumps went flying, and Old Everlasting walked away scratching his poll,
rejoicing in the magnificent score of one. Harry accompanied him to the
tent, and held a short conversation with the next man. The fruit of
this was seen as soon as they reached the wickets. The first ball
missed bat, stumps, wicket-keeper, and both long-stops; Harry called his
partner for a bye, and though there was plenty of time for a second run
he was contented with a single, thus securing the next ball. This he
hit round to leg, a stroke that ought to have made two, but his partner
was somewhat bulky, and suffered for his misfortune by being promptly
run out after one run had been scored.
Eight wickets were now down, and the score was sixty-five--thirty-five
behind that of the Cambridge eleven. A restlessness was observable in
the crowd; it seemed impossible that the home team could win; and there
was general despondency when it was noticed that the incoming batsman
was a spindle-legged fellow known as Soft Jemmy, who did odd jobs about
the village. Only Sherebiah still appeared full of confidence.
"A fight bean't lost till it be won," he said. "Keep up your sperits,
souls."
Soft Jemmy never got a chance to miss the ball. Such scheming was never
seen on a cricket-field before. Harry had privately instructed Jemmy to
do just as he was told, and the half-witted youth at least knew how to
obey. When Harry called him he ran; when told to stand in his ground he
remained fixed like a post; and so, snatching byes, blocking, hitting
when it was safe, Harry defied all the bowling, and the score rose by
ones and twos and threes. A change came over the attitude of the
spectators. From dejection they passed to almost delirious joy. Every
hit was cheered to the echo; every little manoeuvre of "young pa'son"
added to their delight. The effect on the out side was equal and
opposite. They became irritated at the altered aspect of the game.
Bowlers bowled wildly; fieldsmen fielded loosely, and got in one
another's way; and the more agitated they became, the more coolly and
confidently did Harry ply his bat. At last, stepping out to a full
pitch, he made a magnificent drive over the bowler's head, and brought
the total to a hundred and two.
The cheer that rose from the crowd might have been heard a mile away.
Some of the men made a rush for Harry, and bore him shoulder-high to the
tent. Others flew to secure their winnings, and celebrate the famous
victory in cider or home-brewed ale. Gaffer Minshull was with
difficulty dissuaded from whirling his hat round on the top of his
stick, and nothing could check his gleeful exclamation:
"A flick to young Squire; a terrible douse, ay sure!"
"By George, a notable match!" said Godolphin. "Your young parson is a
lad of mettle, gaffer; he'll be a sportsman an he lives long enough.
Here, man, drink his health, and tell him from me that the Lord
Treasurer loves pretty play. Come, Frank, we'll drive on."
He flung a coin to the old man, remounted his carriage, and drove off.
Gaffer looked at the money, then after the calash.
"Ah, 'tis a mighty fine thing to hold the Queen's purse, my lads, mighty
fine! There be a power o' these same shinen bright ones in the Queen's
purse; eh, lads?"
A shout came from the distance, and the eyes of the small group around
old Minshull were turned towards the road. Lord Godolphin's carriage
had broken down. The axle had snapped in two; the horses were plunging,
and my lord and his son were clinging to the sides of the vehicle. A
score of sturdy fellows rushed to lend a hand, and Gaffer Minshull was
left to himself.
*CHAPTER II*
*Sherebiah Shouts*
An Angling Story--Old Izaak--Landed--Breakfast--Marlborough's Smile--The
Story of a Potticary--Dosed--On the Horizon--Highwaymen--A Man of
Peace--Behind the Scenes--Nos Duo--Promises--Black John
Simmons--Sherebiah is Troubled
"'Tis here or hereabouts, baten years ha'n't tooken my memory. True,
feyther o' mine calls me boy, and so I be to a old aged man like him;
but when a man's comen on forty-four, and ha' seen summat o' the
world--well,
"'Man's life is but vain, for 'tis subject to pain
An' sorrow, an' short as a bubble;
'Tis a hodge-podge o' business, an' money, an' care,
An' care, an' money, an' trouble.'
Ay, 'tis so, 'tis so!"
Sherebiah sighed, but the sigh ill became his round, jolly face; it was
merely to chime with the words of the song. He was walking, about six
o'clock on the morning after the cricket-match, along the bank of a
little hill-stream, rod in hand, yet not expecting to halt for a while,
for he took no pains to moderate his voice. He was not alone. His
companion was the youth who had won the match for Winton St. Mary on the
previous day--Harry Rochester, the parson's son. Each carried a
rod--the huge clumsy rod of those days, nearly seventeen feet in length;
each was laden with wallet, landing-net, and other apparatus; and in
fact they had already had an hour's sport with ground-bait, having risen
from their beds soon after three on this ideal angler's morning. A haze
lay over the ground, and a light rain was falling.
Sherebiah was several yards ahead, scanning the banks. His voice sank a
little as he repeated the lines:
"'Tis a hodge-podge o' business, an' money, an' care,
An' care, an' money, an' trouble."
"Cheer up!" said Harry, behind him. "I like the second verse best,
Sherry:
"'But we'll take no care when the weather proves fair,
Nor will we vex now though it rain--
He was interrupted by the sudden halt of Sherebiah. The man had swung
round; his lips were shot out in the motion of shooing, a warning finger
was held up. Harry's voice died away, and he hastened to his
companion's side.
"Yonder's the spot," said Sherebiah in a whisper, pointing to a large
pool, shaded with willows, some thirty yards ahead. "Mum's the word!
They be sharp-eared, they trouts. 'Tis there I took ten lusty nibblers,
ten year agoo come Michaelmas. Faith, 'twas all I could do to carry
'em; ay, and I shouldn' ha' got 'em home but for Tom Dorrell, t' carrier
from Salisbury, who came trundlen along in his wagon. He be dead an'
gone, poor soul, as must we all."
"And what did you do with them?" asked Harry with a smile.
Sherebiah was famous for his angling stories, and they had perhaps as
much foundation as most. No one in the country-side knew the ways of
the trout as he did; but he was equally at home in trolling for jack or
pike, roving for perch, and sniggling for eels. None could match his
knowledge of the flies in their several seasons: the hour of the day at
which each is most killing; the merits of the silver twist hackle and
the lady-fly, whether for dapping or whipping; when to use the black
gnat, when the blue; under what conditions of the evening sky the shyest
trout will rise to a red spinner. And who could tie a fly like
Sherebiah Minshull? Many a time Harry had examined his rich store of
materials--as varied as the contents of a witch's cauldron: feathers of
every bird that flies, manifold silks and wires and hooks, wax and
needles, hog's down and squirrel's fur. Many a time had he watched him
dress a fly and thread a bait, and admired his dexterous whipping of the
streams.
"What did I do wi' 'em?" Sherebiah had sat down with legs far apart,
and was carefully selecting a fly from his case. He spoke always in a
whisper. "Well, 'tis ten year since, and my memory bean't what it was;
but now I mind on't, I gi' one to Tom carrier for his lift, and a couple
to miller up by Odbury, and one to Susan Poorgrass at Sir Godfrey's--I
was a-courten then; her wouldn't ha' me, thank the Lord!--and a couple
to Ned Greenhay, Sir Godfrey's keeper as was, for a brace o' leverets;
and to please feyther o' mine I took three up to the Hall. Zooks! and
small thanks I got, for old Squire hisself come to the door, and gi' me
a douse, he did; said if I didn't find summat better to do than go
traipsen the country-side, poachen or wuss, he'd commit me for a rogue
and vagabond. An' th' old curmudgeon kept the fish; ay, he did so!--Ah!
ha' got it; 'tis a fly that cost me more time in the maken than a dozen
others; a beauty, to be sure; eh, Master Harry?"
He proceeded to put it on his hook. It was an artificial oak-fly, blue,
green, brown, and orange so cunningly mingled that no trout could fail
to be deceived.
"We'll now see some sport," continued Sherebiah, still in a whisper, as
he prepared to cast. "I can't abide bait-fishen; sport, i' faith! 'tis
mere bludgeon-play. True, it fills the pot, but there's no pleasure in
't. 'Tis no pastime for a true bob."
"Why, Sherry, 'twas only yestere'en I was reading in a most excellent
book of angling by Master Izaak Walton, and he, it seems, held little to
the fly. His discourse is in the main of bait."
"Why, there 'tis. I met Master Walton once, a-fishen in the Itchen
above Winchester--a quaint man, with a good breast for a song, for all
he was ripe for the grave. Myself I was but twenty or so, he a man of
fourscore and upward; ay, a fine hale old man, wi' a store o' memories.
We fell into talk; a' told me how a' once rid to Lunnon wi' a rich jewel
o' King Charles's in his doublet; ay, he was a royal man, wi' a jolly
red face, but no harm in un, not a whit; and learned, too--but no
angler. No, faith, no angler, for a' talked o' fishen down stream, a'
did, when ne'er a child but knows fish lie wi' their heads up stream. Ye
cotch fish as 'ee do Frenchmen, from behind! Now, hook's ready. Mum,
Master Harry, while I cast."
He dropped his fly deftly into the still pool, watching it with keen
eyes and pursed lips. Meanwhile Harry had chosen an orle fly, and made
his cast a little lower down. The anglers were silent for some minutes.
"What's that?" asked Harry suddenly, looking up as a distant sound of
wood-chopping reached his ears.
"Mum, boy!" whispered Sherebiah in reply. "There, I beg pardon, Master
Harry, but you've scared away a samlet just as he opened his jaws.
That? 'Tis Simon forester, belike, fellen Sir Godfrey's timber. Now, a
still tongue----"
He broke off, rose, and followed his line stealthily for a yard or two.
The surface of the water was disturbed, and Harry caught a glimpse of a
gleaming side. There was a splash; the rod bent; then Sherebiah
hastened his steps as the fish went away with a rush.
"He's a-showen fight," whispered Sherry. "Whoa! he's sounded, Master
Harry; a big un. Pray the tackle may hold! Ah! he's clear, and off
again! Whoa! whoa! Nay, my pretty, 'ee may fight, but I'll land 'ee."
For ten minutes the contest continued; then the angler got in his line
slowly, and beckoned to Harry to assist him. The fish was carefully
drawn in; Harry stooped with his net at the critical moment, and with a
sudden heave landed a fine four-pounder, which he slipped into
Sherebiah's creel.
"That's the way on't, Master Harry," said Sherebiah contentedly. "Had
no luck yourself, eh? What be 'ee a-fishen wi'?"
"An orle."
"Ah, 'tis an hour or two too early in the day for that, mebbe. Still,
these waters of Sir Godfrey bean't often fished since young Master
Godfrey went to Cambridge college, and the trout mayn't be over
squeamish. Stick to 't!"
An hour passed, and both anglers were well satisfied. Sherebiah's fly
proved irresistible, either from its cunning make or the wary skill with
which he whipped the stream. Four fat trout had joined the first in his
basket; two had rewarded Harry's persistence; then he laid down his rod
and watched with admiration the delicate casts of his companion.
Sherebiah landed his sixth. The haze having now disappeared, and the
sun growing hot, he wound up his line and said:
"Rain afore seven, fine afore 'leven. I be mortal peckish, Master
Harry; what may 'ee have in your basket, now?"
"Powdered beef, I think, Sherry; and Polly put in a cate or two and some
radishes, and a bottle of cider; plain fare, you see."
"Well, hunger's the best saace, I b'lieve. We poor folks don't need to
perk up our appetites. I warrant, now, that mighty lord we saw
yesterday would turn up his nose at powdered beef. Fine kickshawses a'
had at Sir Godfrey's, no doubt. To think o' such a mighty lord, the
Queen's purse-bearer an' all, bein' kept in a little small village by
rust or dry-rot, just like a ordinary man! Old Squire would ha' liked
to gi' him a bed, I reckon; but Sir Godfrey were aforehand, an' there he
lies till this mornen: axle was to be mended by six, if Lumpy had to
work all night to finish the job. Med I axe 'ee a question, Master
Harry? Do 'ee think that shinen piece a' flung to feyther were his own,
or out o' Queen's purse?"
Harry laughed.
"Lord Godolphin doesn't go about the country with the Queen's purse
slung at his waist, Sherry. What he meant was that he was Lord
Treasurer, the Queen's chief minister, the man who rules the country,
you know."
"Well, now, if I didn't think it'd be folly to carry the Queen's purse
loose about the country! Then 'tis Lord Godolphin says we're to fight
the French?"
"Yes, he and my lord Marlborough between them."
"Ah! there 'tis. My lord Marlborough bean't free with his money like
t'other lord. _He_ wouldn't ha' given old feyther o' mine nothen. Why,
I was at Salisbury in '88 when my lord--Lord Churchill he was then, to
be sure--was there to meet King Willum, and I held his horse for 'n, and
he gi' me--what do 'ee think he gi' me, Master Harry?"
"Well?"
"Nowt but a smile! What med 'ee think o' that for a lord? 'Thank 'ee,
my man,' says he, and puts his foot in the stirrup and shows his teeth
at me, and rides off! Lord! Now t'other one, the Lord Godolphin, he is
a lord, to be sure, a fine free-handed gentleman, though he ha'n't got
such fine teeth. I like a lord to be a lord, I do."
"My lord Marlborough is indeed rather close-fisted, they say."
"Ay, but I ha' knowed a wuss. Did ever I tell 'ee of Jacob Spinney the
potticary? I was a growen lad, and feyther o' mine wanted to put me to
a trade. So he bound me prentice to Jacob Spinney, that kept a
potticary's shop by Bargate at S'thampton. Zooks! Jacob was a
deceiver, like his namesake in the Book. A' promised feyther he'd gi'
me good vittles and plenty on 'em, bein' a growen lad; but sakes, I
never got no meat save at third boilen; 'twas like eatin' leather. A'
said I was growen too fast, a' did, and he'd keep me down. Pudden--I
never put my lips to pudden for two year, not once. I took down
shutters at zix i' the mornen, and put 'em up at eight o' nights;
betwixt and between I was pounden away at drugs, and carryen parcels,
and scrubben floors and nussen mistress' babby: ay, what med 'ee think
o' that? If so happened I broke a bottle, or overslept five
minutes--oons! there was master a-strappen me to a hook in the wall he
kept o' purpose, and layen a birch over my shoulders and keepen me on
bread and water or turmuts not fit for a ox. I dwindled crossways to a
shadder, Master Harry, I did so, and every week th' old villain made me
write a letter to feyther, sayen as how I was fat and flourishen like a
green bay tree. Do what a' would, however, I growed and growed, at
fourteen a long slip of a feller all arms and legs. Two mortal year I
put up wi' un; then I got tired. One day, mistress was out, and I was
rollen pills in the little back shop, when master come in. He was in a
terrible passion, goodness alone knows what about. He pitched into me
for wasten his drugs and eatin' up all his profits, and hit me with his
cane, and sent me spinnen agen the table, and knocked off his best
chiney mortar, and there 'twas on the floor, smashed to atomies. Bein'
his own doen, it made his temper wuss, it did, and he caught me by the
hair and said he'd skin me. I' fecks, I were always a man o' peace,
even as a boy, but I'd had long sufferen enough, and now my peaceful
blood was up. I wriggled myself free--and there he was, flat on the
floor, and me a-sitten on him. He hollered and cussed, for all he was a
Puritan; and, haven respect unto my neighbours, I stuffed a handkercher
into his mouth. There I sits, a-thinken what to do wi' un. 'Twas in
for a penny in for a pound wi' me then; I'd have to run, 'dentures or no
'dentures, and it seemed fair to have my pen'orth afore I went. There
was that hook I knowed so well, and that strap hangen still and loose:
'I'll gi' un a taste o' the birch he be so uncommon fond on,' thinks I.
So I hoists un up, and soon has un strapped ready; but looken at un I
thinks to myself: 'You be a poor wamblen mortal arter all, skinny for
all the pudden you eat. I'll ha' mercy on your poor weak flesh.'
Besides, I had another notion. So I casts un loose and sits un on a
chair and straps un to chair-back, hands to sides.
"You med have heard of Jacob Spinney's famous mixture for pimples?
Well, 'twas knowed all over Hants and Wilts. 'Twas a rare sight o'
market days to see the farmers' wives a-troopen into the shop for
bottles o' the mixture. But th' odd thing was, Spinney hisself was
owner of a fair pimpled face, yet never did I know un take a dose o' his
own firm cure. 'I pity 'ee,' says I to un, as he sat strapped to the
chair; 'poor feller, wi' all those pimples. Shall have a dose, poor
soul.' Many's the bottle I'd made up: 'twas brimstone and powder o'
crab and gentian root in syrup. Well, I mixed a dose all fresh afore
his eyes, and got a long wooden spoon, and slipped the handkercher out
o' his mouth and the dose in. The ungrateful feller spets it out and
begins to holler again; so in goes the handkercher, and says I: 'Ye
don't know what's for your own good. Bean't it tasty enough? Ah,
Master Spinney, often and often 'ee've physicked me; what's good for me
without pudden will be better for 'ee with; you shall have a dose.' So
I made un a dose o' senna and jalap and ipecacuan, but I was slow with
the handkercher, and afore I could get the spoon in he had his teeth
clinched tight. But I hadn't nussed the babby for nothen. I ups with
finger and thumb and pinches his nose; he opens his mouth for breath,
and in goes spoon, and sputter as he med he had to swaller, he did.
"Ah, I was wild and headstrong in they young coltish days. I bean't so
fond o' pudden now. Not but what they mixtures did Jacob Spinney a
world o' good, for his next prentice had a easier time nor me, steppen
into his master's business when he was laid in churchyard. _I_ got no
good on 'em, to be sure, for I had to run away and try another line o'
life, and ha' been a rollen-stone ever since. Ay well, 'tis all one to a
man o' peace."
During his narrative the breakfast had been finished.
"Well, Sherry, when I'm out of sorts I'll come to you," said Harry,
rising. "Now, while you pack up, I'll go a stroll up the hillside;
there'll be a good view now the day is clearing, and maybe I'll get a
glimpse of Salisbury spire."
He left the river-bank and strolled leisurely up a gentle ascent, which
gradually became steeper until it terminated somewhat suddenly in a
stretch of level ground. Fifty yards from the edge rose a long grassy
mound, a well-known landmark in the neighbourhood. It was, in fact, a
barrow, dating centuries back into the dim ages--the burial place,
perhaps, of British warriors who had fought and fallen in defence of
their country against the Roman invader. Harry had always felt a
romantic interest in these memorials of the past, and more than once had
stood by such a barrow, alone in the moonlight of a summer night, while
his imagination called up visions of far-off forgotten things.
He sat down now with his back to the mound, and allowed his eyes to rove
over the prospect. Tradition said that three counties were visible from
this elevated spot, and on a clear morning like this it seemed likely
enough that report said true. Far to the left, peeping over the bare
contour of Harnham Hill, rose the graceful spire of Salisbury Cathedral,
at least fifteen miles away as the crow flies. His eye followed the
winding course of the little stream below him, losing it here and there
behind some copse or knoll, tracing it again to its junction with a
larger stream, till this in its turn was lost to view amid the distant
elm-bordered meadows. Nearer at hand he saw the old Roman road,
grass-grown and silent now, bounding the park of Sir Godfrey Fanshawe,
crossing the stream by an ancient bridge, and running into the London
road at some invisible point to the right. It was a very pleasing
prospect, brilliant beneath the cloudless sky, and freshened by the
early morning showers.
As he looked along the forsaken highway, once trodden perhaps by the
legions of Constantine the Great, his glance was momentarily arrested by
a small moving speck in the distance. "Some wagon from one of Sir
Godfrey's home farms," he thought. It was approaching him, for it
passed out of sight into a clump of trees, then reappeared, and was
again hidden by an intercepting ridge. The road was downhill; in
fifteen or twenty minutes, perhaps, the wagon would pass beneath him, at
a point nearly three-quarters of a mile away, where the highway skirted
a belt of trees perched on the side of a steep declivity. Between him
and the road lay a ditch which, as he knew, was apt in winter-time to
overflow on to the meadows and the lower parts of the track, making a
sticky swamp of the chalky soil. But it was dry now, and the floodings
were only indicated by the more vivid green of the grass and the tall
reeds that filled the hollow on this side. On the other side a strong
stone wall edged the road, marking the boundary of Sir Godfrey's park;
it was overhung with elms, from which at this moment Harry saw a
congregation of rooks soar away.
Thus idly scanning the roadway, all at once his eye lit upon the figure
of a horseman half concealed by the belt of reeds in the hollow. He was
motionless; his back was towards Harry, his horse's head pointing
towards the road, from which he was completely screened by the reeds and
the willows.
"What is he doing there?" thought Harry. He rose, and walked towards
the edge of the descent. Narrowly scanning the brake, he now descried
two other horsemen within a few yards of the first, but so well
concealed that but for his quickened curiosity he would probably never
have discovered them. For all he knew, there might be others. "What is
their game?" His suspicion was aroused; the vehicle he had seen
approaching was perhaps not a wagon; it might be a chaise belonging to
Sir Godfrey; it might be---- "Why, 'tis without a doubt Lord Godolphin
himself on his way to London, and coming by the shortest cut." There
was no need for further speculation; in those days the inference was
sure: a carriage in the distance, a party of horsemen lurking in a copse
by the roadside---- "'Tis highway robbery--ah! the Queen's purse!"
Harry unconsciously smiled at the thought. His first impulse was to
warn the approaching travellers. But the carriage was at present out of
sight; he could not make signals, and before he could reach the stretch
of road between the ambuscade and their prey, the travellers would
certainly be past, while he himself might be seen by the waiting
horsemen, and headed off as he crossed a tract of open country. Moving
downwards all the time, he in a flash saw all that it was possible to
do. The stream passed under the roadway some twenty yards beyond the
spot where the horsemen were lying in wait; the banks were reedy, and
might screen an approach to the copse beyond the wall. There was a bare
chance, and Harry took it.
He raced downhill towards Sherebiah, who was sitting on the bank still,
placidly smoking his pipe; landscape had no charm for him.
"Sherry," said Harry in jerks, "Lord Godolphin or someone is driving
down the road; highwaymen hiding in the reeds; in five or six
minutes--come, come, we have no time to lose."
"Then we'll go home along," said Sherry, putting his pipe in his pocket
as he rose.
"Nonsense! we can't slink away and leave them to be robbed." Harry took
Sherry by the arm to drag him along.
"What be the good? Fishen-rods bean't no match for pistols, and bein' a
man o' peace----"
"Come, I can't wait. I'll go alone, then."
He released the man's arm and stepped into the stream. Sherebiah
hesitated for a moment; then, seeing that Harry was in earnest, he
dropped his tackle and strode forward, saying:
"Zooks, not if I knows it! I'm a man o' peace, sure enough, but
fairplay's a jewel. Have at the villains!"
He followed Harry into the water. Side by side they raced on, dodging
the weeds, scrambling over occasional rocks, slipping on the chalky
bottom, making at top speed for the bridge. As they approached this
they went more slowly, to avoid being heard. Fortunately, at the point
where the road crossed the stream there was a line of rocks, over which
the water plunged with a rustle and clatter, drowning the sound of their
footsteps. They had to stoop low to avoid the moss-grown masonry of the
arch; as they emerged on the farther side they heard a muffled
exclamation from one of the horsemen, and climbing the steep face of the
tree-covered slope towards the wall they heard a shot, then another,
mingled with shouts and the dull thuds of horses' hoofs on the
turf-covered road.
On the way Harry had explained his plan in panting whispers. Running
along now under cover of the wall, they came opposite to the scene of
the ambush.
"Now, Sherry, do your best," said Harry, as he prepared to mount the
wall.
Instantly a new clamour was added to the uproar in the road.
"This way!"
"Shoot 'em!"
"Lash the noddy peaks!"
"Pinch their thropples!"
"Quoit 'em down!"
"Haick! haick!"
By this time Harry was on the wall, by favour of Sherebiah's strong arm.
A slug whizzed past his head and sank with a thud into the trunk of a
tree just behind; next moment the horse-pistol from which it had been
discharged followed the shot, the butt grazing Harry's brow. There was
no time to take in the details of the scene. Harry made a spring for
the masked horseman who had fired at him, two yards from the wall; but
the fellow, alarmed by the various shouts and the sudden appearance of
Sherebiah at Harry's side, dug the spurs into his steed's flanks and
galloped off down the road, over the bridge, and out of sight. One of
his companions lay motionless on the road; the others had ridden away at
the first alarm from the wall.
Harry mopped his brow and looked about him. Lord Godolphin stood
upright in the carriage, his lips grimly set, a smoking pistol in his
hand. His son was on foot with drawn sword; a postilion was crawling
out of the ditch all bemired, pale and trembling.
"Odzooks!" cried my lord, "a welcome diversion!"
[Illustration: Harry makes a Diversion]
He was perfectly cool and collected, though his hat was off and his wig
awry. "A thousand thanks, my men. Whew! 'twas in the nick of time.
Where are the rest of you?"
"There are no more, my lord," said Harry, lifting his cap.
"No more! But the shouts, then?--I heard a dozen shouting, at least.
Are the rest on the other side of the wall?"
"All on this side, my lord," said Harry with a smile. "Here is the mob."
He indicated Sherebiah, who touched his cap and bobbed to his lordship.
Godolphin stared, then chuckled and guffawed.
"Egad! 'tis a rare flam. Frank, this fellow here did it all, shouted
for a dozen; by George, 'twas a mighty neat trick! And, by George, I
know your face; I saw you yesterday, I believe! What's your name, man?"
"Sherebiah Stand-up-and-bless Minshull, my lord," said Sherry, "by the
water o' baptism, your honour, for I was born while old Rowley were in
furren parts. If a'd been born two year arter, my lord, I med ha' been
chrisomed wi' less piety."
"I remember you, and the old gaffer your father--a fine old fellow.
Well, my man, your name suits me better; 'tis for us to stand up and
bless, eh, Frank? And here's a guinea for you."
Sherebiah put his hands behind him and looked down at the coin in my
lord's hand.
"Nay, nay, my lord," he said slowly. "True, I did the shouten, or most
on't, but 'twas Master Harry his notion. Pa'son's son, you see, my lord;
know'd all the holy story o' Gideon; says to me, 'Sherry,' says he,
'shout high and low, bass and tribble, give it tongue,' says he; and I
gi'd it tongue, so I did."
Both gentlemen laughed heartily.
"I recognize you now," said my lord, turning to Harry, who looked
somewhat embarrassed. "Surely you are the hero of yesterday's cricket
match? You swing a straight bat, my lad, and, stap me! you've a quick
wit if you devised this late surprise. How came you on the scene?"
"We'd been fishing yonder, my lord, and I chanced to spy your carriage
and the villains waiting here, almost at the same time. It was clear
what they were about, and as there was no time to warn you we came along
the stream, and--Sherry shouted."
His smile as he said the last words met an answering smile on Lord
Godolphin's face.
"A mighty clever trick indeed--eh, Frank? We're beholden to you. 'Twas
a mere chance that I sent my mounted escort on ahead by the highway to
arrange a change of horses, never thinking to be waylaid at this time o'
day."
"Ay, 'twas the Queen's purse, my lord," struck in Sherebiah. "To know
Queen's purse-bearer were a-comen along old road like a common mortal,
'twere too much for poor weak flesh and blood."
"The ignorant bumpkins mistook your meaning," said Frank.
"So it appears. But come, you're the parson's son, I believe. I forget
your name?"
"Harry Rochester, my lord."
"Going to be a parson yourself, eh?"
"I am going up to Oxford in October, my lord; my father wishes me to
take orders."
"Ah! And your own wish, eh?"
Harry hesitated.
"Come, out with it, my lad."
"I had thought, my lord, I should like to carry the Queen's colours; but
'tis a vain thought; my father's living is small, and----"
"And commissions in the Queen's army sell high. 'Tis so, indeed. Well,
I heard something of your father last night at Sir Godfrey's; you can't
do better than follow his example. And hark 'ee, if ever you want a
friend, when you've taken your degrees, you know, come and see me; I owe
you a good turn, my lad; and maybe I'll have a country vicarage at my
disposal."
"Thank you, my lord!"
"And now we must get on. Dickory, you coward, help these two friends of
ours to remove that tree. The villains laid their ambush well; you see
they felled this larch at an awkward part of the road."
"And I thowt 'twas Simon forester a-choppen," said Sherebiah, as he
walked towards the tree.
"What shall we do with this ruffian on the road?" said Frank Godolphin.
"He appears to be stone dead. 'Twas a good shot, sir."
"Leave the villain. You'll lay an information before Sir Godfrey or
another of your magistrates, young master parson. Did you recognize any
of the gang?"
"No, my lord. I only saw the masked man. Perhaps Sherry was more
fortunate."
"Not me neither," said Sherebiah hastily. He had gone to the fallen
man, looked in his face, and turned him over. "'Twas all too quick and
sudden, and my eyes was nigh dazed wi' shouten."
"Well, well, Sir Godfrey's is near at hand; go and inform him, and he
will scour the country. We must push on."
The tree was removed; the bedraggled and crestfallen postilions resumed
their saddles, and with a parting salutation my lord drove off. Harry
stood looking thoughtfully after the departing carriage.
"Master Harry," said Sherebiah, coming up to him, "this be a bad
business. The man bean't dead."
"He's saved for the hangman, then."
"Ay, and who med 'ee think he be?"
"You do know him, then! What does this mean, Sherry?"
"Well, I be a man o' peace, and there's mischief to come o' this day's
piece o' work, sure as I'm Sherebiah Stand-up-and-bless. 'Tis black
John Simmons, Cap'n Aglionby's man."
"A scoundrel his master may well be rid of."
"Ay, if the man were dead! But he be alive; the lord didn't shoot'n at
all; 'a fell off his horse and bashed his nob; an' he's got a tongue,
Master Harry."
"Well, what then? If he rounds on his fellows, so much the better.
What are you afraid of, Sherry?"
"I bean't afeard, not I; but the Cap'n----"
He paused, and Harry looked at him enquiringly. Sherebiah turned away.
"Ah! little sticks kindle fires, little sticks kindle fires, they do."
*CHAPTER III*
*Master and Man*
A Midnight Summons--A Warm Reception--Righteous Indignation--Aglionby
Retorts--The Berkeley Arms--A Village Sensation--The Constable's
Story--Aspersions--Unimpeachable References--Waylaid--Squaring
Accounts--The Captain Rides Away
The clock of St. Mary's church had just chimed the first quarter after
midnight, and the deep note of the lowest bell was dying away over the
tree-tops, when the sound was intercepted by the distant clink and
clatter of iron-shod hoofs on the hard road, approaching from the
direction of Salisbury. The horse's pace was slow, and there was
something in the fall of the hoofs that betokened a jaded steed. It was
a clear calm night; the air carried every sound distinctly; and nothing
broke the stillness save the footfalls of the horse, an occasional
murmur from the birds in the trees, and the whirr of wings as a solitary
owl, disturbed by the nocturnal rider, left its search for food and
rustled back to its nook in the tower.
The horseman came presently to the church, wheeled round to the right,
and urged his flagging beast along the road leading to the manor house.
Arriving at the park, he flung himself from the saddle, hitched the
bridle over his left arm, and turned the handle of the massive iron
gate. But there was no yielding to his push: the gate was locked. The
man shook and rattled the handle impatiently, to assure himself that he
was not mistaken, then turned aside with an inarticulate rumble of
anger, and went to the lodge, a low ivy-grown cottage abutting on the
road. He tapped on the small latticed window with the butt of his
riding-whip; there was no reply. The horse by his side hung its head
and breathed heavily; it was jaded to the point of exhaustion. Again he
rapped on the glass, growling between his teeth; and when his summons
still met with no response he dealt so smart a blow that one of the
thick square panes fell in with a crash. A moment later a voice was
heard from within.
"Away wi' 'ee! Who be you, a-breaken an honest man's rest at this
fearsome time o' night?"
A night-capped head appeared at the hole, just visible in the faint
illumination of the clear summer sky.
"Open the gate, Dick," said the rider impatiently. "Ods my life, will
you keep me waiting here, will you?"
"Be it you, Cap'n?"
"Zounds, man, must I tell you my name? Ha' ye never seen me before!
Stir your old stumps, or by the lord Harry----"
"Squire give orders t' gate were to be locked and kep' locked; not a man
to come in, not a soul. They's my orders, ay sure, Cap'n."
"Orders! orders!" cried the other in a burst of passion. "Adslidikins,
if you're not at the gate with the key inside of two minutes I'll put a
slug through your jolt head, you mumper, you miching rogue you!"
And indeed Captain Aglionby displayed a monstrous blunderbuss, and
pointed it full in the face of the scared lodge-keeper. For an instant
the man hesitated; then, muttering to himself, he disappeared from the
window, and soon afterwards emerged from the side door within the
palings, his night-gown showing beneath a heavy driving coat. He came
towards the gate with the key--a bent old man, tottering and mumbling.
"I shall lose my place; Squire give orders, a' did, not a soul to come
in; to drag a aged man from his nat'ral sleep an' lose him his place an'
all; well, I was forced; no man can zay as I warn't forced; mumper as I
be, I vallies my little bit o' life, and----"
"Hold your tongue, you old flap-eared dotard, and make haste, or I'll
pink your soul. Don't you see the jade's dead-beat; 'tis time I stabled
her."
The man turned the key and slowly opened the gate. With a grunt the
captain led his horse through, and, without so much as a glance at the
lodge-keeper, proceeded up the quarter-mile drive leading to the house.
"Old Nick's not abed," he said to himself as he cast his eye over the
house front. A light shone from a window in the turret over the porch.
"The old nightbird! Lock me out! Oons!"
He threw the bridle over an iron post at the side of the entrance, and
walked round a projecting wing of the building till he came to a small
door in the wall. He turned the iron ring, pushed, rattled; the door
was fast shut. Cursing under his breath, he was proceeding towards the
servants' quarters when he heard the creak of a key turning, and,
wheeling round, came to the postern just as it was opened by Squire
Berkeley himself, his tall, lean, bent figure enwrapped from neck to
heel in a black cassock-like garment, a skull-cap of black velvet
covering his head. He held a lighted candle; his piercing eyes flashed
in the darkness.
"Hey, Squire!" cried the captain in a tone of forced good-humour, "I had
much ado to rouse old Dick. 'Tis late to be sure; but if you'll give me
the key of the stables I'll settle Jenny for the night and get to bed."
He made as if to enter, but Mr. Berkeley spread himself across the
narrow doorway.
"Who are you, sirrah," he said, "to break into my park against my
express orders?"
There was contempt in his cold incisive tones, and anger with difficulty
curbed.
"Why now----" Aglionby began.
"Who are you, I say? And what am I, that my orders are defied, and my
house made a common inn, a toping house for you and your toss-pot
ruffians? Go--go, I say!"
The captain was for a moment staggered; the old man's manner left no
room for doubt that he was in earnest. But Aglionby was too old a
campaigner to cry off so easily. In a tone half-conciliatory,
half-aggrieved he said--
"Fair and softly, Squire! this is but scurvy treatment of a tired man.
Look you, I've been in the saddle this livelong day; the mare's
well-nigh foundered; and for myself--gads so, I could eat an ox and
drink a hogshead. To-morrow, in a few hours, I'll bid ye good-bye--for a
time, if ye want a change; but to-night--no, Squire, 'tis not hospitable
of you, 'tis not indeed."
"You dally with me!" cried the squire, the hand that held the candle
shaking with passion. "You set no foot within this door--now, nor ever
again. Begone, while there is time."
"While there is time! Look ye, Master Berkeley, I will not brook
insults from you. Yesterday you must put an affront on me in the
presence of my lord Godolphin, shoving me out of the way as I were a
leper, and at the very moment, stap me! when I might ha' paid court to
his lordship, and got the chance o' my life. Adsbud, I was not good
enough to approach my lord, to accost him, have speech with him----"
"An omission you have since repaired," interjected the old man with a
meaning look. The captain started, and there was a perceptible interval
before he resumed, in a tone still more blusterous--
"Ods my life, what mean you now? You took care I should not meet my
lord in your company; and, i' faith, he showed he wanted none of that
neither."
"Hold your peace and begone!" cried the squire in a fury. "You think I
know nothing of your villainies? How many times have I harboured
you--ay, saved you perchance from the gallows! How many times have you
eat my food, rid my horses, browbeat my servants, roistered it in my
house, till I could bear with you no longer, and then betaken yourself
to your evil practices abroad, consorted with villains, run your neck
well-nigh into the hangman's noose, and then come back with contrite
face and vows of amendment, to fawn and bluster and bully again? Out
upon you! Your rapscallion of a servant is even now laid by the heels,
and to-morrow will have to answer to the charge of waylaying the Lord
Treasurer. He's a white-livered oaf, and his tongue will wag, and
you'll companion him before Fanshawe, and you'll swing on the same
gibbet."
At the mention of his man's plight the captain's face had fallen; but
when Mr. Berkeley's tirade was ended he broke into a laugh.
"Ha! ha! Squire, now I come to understand you. 'Tis your own skin you
have a care for! Ha! ha! I might have known it. I am to be haled
before Sir Godfrey, am I? and to hold my tongue, am I? and to be mum
about certain little affairs in the life of Master Nicolas
Berkeley--that paragon of virtue, that pampered, patched old interloper,
am I? By the lord Harry, if I stand in manacles before Sir Godfrey, you
shall bear me company, you painted pasteboard of a saint!"
Berkeley's pale face blanched with fury. For a moment he was incapable
of speech. Then he stepped forward a pace; the hand holding the candle
shook so, that the grease sputtered upon his gown. His voice came in
vehement passionate whispers:
"You threaten me! Do your worst--I defy you!--Back to your wallow,
bully!--begone!"
He suddenly withdrew within the doorway, slammed the door, and bolted
it.
"Whew!" whistled the captain, left standing outside. "'Tis the worst
passion ever I saw him in. Defies me! Well, Master Nicolas, would I
could afford to take you at your word! A plague on Simmons! I thought
he was dead. He'll split, sure enough, and there's an end of Ralph
Aglionby. Jenny, my dear, you're a sorry jade, but you'll have to bear
my carcase till we're out of harm's way. We have five or six hours
before the world's astir. Do your best, my girl, and we'll cheat 'em
yet."
Captain Aglionby led his tired steed down the drive to the gate, roused
Dick the lodge-keeper with scant ceremony, and in a few minutes was
riding slowly towards the village. As he came into the principal
street, he was surprised to notice that the only inn was lit up, a most
unusual circumstance at that time of night. The door stood open, and
there were lights in several of the rooms on the ground floor. A
feeling of apprehension seized upon him; he could not but connect these
lively signs with the events of the morning, and especially with the
capture of his man. Could the fellow have blabbed already? He was just
making up his mind to spur the mare past the inn, over the bridge, on to
the London road, when two persons came to the door and caught sight of
him. One was Mistress Joplady, the buxom hostess; the other William
Nokes, the village constable. It was too late to evade them: indeed he
heard the hostess exclaim, "Well, I never! 'tis the Cap'n hisself,
sure." Resolving like a wise man to make the best of it, he rode up to
the door, dismounted, and, swaggering, with his usual air of assurance
said:
"Egad, mistress, I'm glad to find you afoot. My mare's dead-beat, has
carried me nigh forty miles this day; send Tom ostler to stable her,
like a good soul; and give me a bite and a bed. I didn't care about
disturbing the squire at this time o' night."
The captain was no favourite with good Mistress Joplady, but she
received him now with something more than her usual urbanity.
"Come away in, Cap'n Aglionby," she said. "Sure your name was in our
very mouths. Strange things be doing--ay, strange things in Winton
Simmary; bean't it so, William Nokes? Take the cap'n into the parlour,
William; a few souls be there, Cap'n, not fit company for the likes o'
you, to be sure, but they'll tell 'ee summat as'll stir your blood, they
will so. Tom'll see to Jenny, so be easy."
Captain Aglionby followed the constable into the parlour, where a group
of the village worthies were assembled. They were neither smoking nor
drinking, a sure sign that they had something momentous to talk about.
A silence fell upon the company as the captain clanked into the room,
and one or two of the more active-minded of them threw a quick glance at
each other, which the new-comer did not fail to note.
"A fine night, men," said the captain jovially.
"Ay, 'tis so."
"And a late hour to find the Berkeley Arms open."
"Ay, 'tis latish, sure enough."
"Any news from the army in Flanders? A post from London, eh?"
"Nay, not 'zackly that."
"Odzooks! speak up, men," cried the captain impatiently. "Why are they
all mumble-chopped to-night, mistress?" he asked, turning to the
hostess, who had followed him with bread and cheese and beer.
"Ah, they be pondering strange things," returned Mrs. Joplady. "Tell
the cap'n all the long story, William Nokes."
The constable, fingering the hat in his hand, looked for sympathy into
the stolid faces of his fellows, cleared his throat, and began:
"Cap'n, your sarvant. Eight o'clock this mornin', or mebbe nine--'twixt
eight and nine, if the truth was told--comes Long Tom from the Grange,
Sir Godfrey's man, as ye med know, Cap'n. Says he to me, 'Constable,'
says he, 'Sir Godfrey commands 'ee as a justice o' the peace to bring
your staff and irons and other engines,' says he, 'up along to Grange,
wi'out remorse or delay, and arrest a prisoner in the Queen's name.'
You may think what a turn it gi' me, souls, so early in the mornin'.
'Be he voilent?' says I. 'Can I arrest the villain all alone by
myself?' 'Ay sure,' says he; 'there's no knowin' what a tough job
'twould be an he were sound and hearty, but he's dazed, so he be, wi' a
crack in the nob, and won't give no trouble to no mortal constable, not
a bit,' says he. 'A crack in the nob,' says he; didn't he, souls?"
A murmur of assent came from the group.
"So I ups and goos wi' Long Tom hotfoot to the Grange, and Tom he tells
me by the way the longs and shorts on't. Seems 'twas Sherry Minshull as
cracked his nob, leastways he picked un up, he and young master pa'son
betwixt 'em, an' hoisted him on a cart o' Farmer Leake's, an' so carried
un to Grange and laid un afore Sir Godfrey. 'Twas highway robbery,
Cap'n, a-took in the very act, a-stoppen the carriage o' the high lard
as come this way yesterday, or day afore, as 'ee med say, seein' 'tis
mornin' now by the rights on't. And Sir Godfrey commits un, he do,
dazed as he were wi' the crack in the nob, and hands un over to the law,
and says, 'Constable,' says he, 'keep the knave fast in the lock-up, an'
hold un till I gets word from my Lard Godolphin in Lun'on.' They be his
words, Cap'n."
"Well, well, cut your story short, man. Adsheart, ye've more words than
matter."
"Ay, but wait to th' end, wait to th' end," put in a voice.
"The end of a rope 'twill be, and not for one neither," added another.
The constable looked a little uncomfortable.
"So I had un fast in the lock-up, Cap'n," he went on, "and 'twas the
talk o' the village all day long. Squire himself heard on't, and down
he come, so he do, and bein' hisself a justice o' the peace he goos into
the lock-up and zees the man, and axes un questions, not for my ears, me
bein' a constable; nay, I stood guard at the door; and when Squire coom
out he says to me, 'Constable,' says he, 'keep a good guard on un; he
deserves hangen, ay, and his mates too.' Never seed I Squire so
mad-like; 'twas 'cos it was a lard, maybe, and on his own ground, as 'ee
med say."
"Ay, and nearer nor that," said a voice.
The captain put down the tankard from which he was quaffing, and glared
round the faces. They were blank as the wall behind them.
"And now what'll he say?" pursued the constable. "He were mad afore, ay
sure; now he'll ramp and roar worse nor the lion beast at Salisbury
Fair. Ye med not believe it, Cap'n, but 'tis true for all that; the
godless villain ha' dared Squire an' Sir Godfrey an' me an' all; ha'
broke his bonds an' stole away, like a thief i' the night, as the Book
says."
"What!" cried the captain, leaning forward and thumping the table.
"Escaped, has he?"
"A' has so, like a eel off the hook."
"Ha! ha! Stap me! eels are slippery things. But 'tis a rub for you,
master constable. You'll lose your place, i' faith, you will."
"Why now, it be no sin o' mine. I left un snug in lock-up, I did, door
double-locked and bar up, an' went to take my forty winks like a honest
poor man; an' no sooner my back turned than out skips the pris'ner, like
Simon Peter in the story. There be witchcraft in't, an' that 'ee ought
to know, Cap'n, seein' as the villain be your own sarvant."
"Eh, fellow?"
"Sakes alive, I thowt as 'ee knowed that all the time! Sure 'twas John
Simmons, your honour's own body-slave, so to speak. An' I was main glad
to see 'ee, Cap'n, 'cause now 'ee know un for what he is, 'ee'll help me
to cotch un, in the Queen's name."
"Knows where he be, I'll be bound," said one of the group in a low tone.
The captain sprang from his chair, ran round the table, and, before the
speaker could defend himself, he caught him by the throat and hurled him
to the floor.
"Zounds, loon!" he cried in a passion, "what do you mean? Will you
affront me, eh? will you mouth your cursed insults to my very face?
Odzooks, I'll slit your weazand, hound, and any man of you that dares a
hint o' the sort, so 'ware all!"
The men looked abashed and uncomfortable; the hostess was pale with
apprehension, and the constable edged away from the irate captain. His
burst of passion over, he turned to Mrs. Joplady and spoke in quieter
tones.
"I brook no insolence, mistress. I don't answer for my servant's deeds
behind my back. I've been away all day, as poor Jenny will bear me
witness; was I to know my fool of a servant would play highwayman in my
absence? 'Tis a useful fellow, civil, too, beyond most; I picked him up
in London; he was in truth commended to me by no less than his grace the
Duke of Ormond, who tapped me on the shoulder in the Piazza at Covent
Garden, and said, 'Aglionby, my bawcock, you want a servant; I know the
very man for you!' Could I suspect a man after that? How he got mixed
up in this business beats me. And as for helping master constable to
repair his carelessness--adsbud, 'tis not likely. The man in truth is
no longer servant of mine. I am on my way to serve the Queen in
Flanders, and this very day arranged with my friend Sir Rupert Verney to
take the fellow off my hands. You may hang him, for me!"
"There now, Sam," said the hostess, turning to the man who had been
felled, and was now at the door glowering; "your tongue runs away wi'
'ee. Beg the cap'n's pardon, and don't go for to make a ninny o'
yourself."
"Never mind, my good woman," said Aglionby loftily. "The yokel knows no
better. Now, I'm tired out; give me a bed, good soul, for I must away
at sunrise--and egad, 'tis past one o'clock! Good-night to 'ee, men;
and I hope Sir Godfrey will forgive you, constable."
He went from the room, and soon afterwards the hostess bade the
villagers get to their beds, and closed the inn for the short remnant of
the night.
Before seven o'clock next morning the captain was on horseback. The
ground was wet; it had been drizzling for several hours, but a misty sun
was now struggling up the sky, and Tom ostler foretold a fine day. The
captain rode off, answering with a bold stare the suspicious and
lowering glances of the few villagers who were on the spot. He was in
high spirits; the anxieties of the past night were gone; and as he rode
he hummed a careless tune. He had ridden but little more than a mile
when, from an intersecting lane, a man stepped out and gripped the
horse's reins.
"Get off that there horse!" he said bluntly.
"Gads so, Sherry, you gave me quite a turn," said the captain with
unusual mildness. "Don't hinder me, man; I'm off to Flanders, and, i'
faith, that's where you ought to be yourself, if all was known. Come,
what's the meaning o't?"
"Get off that there horse!" repeated Sherebiah. "I'm a man o' peace, I
be, and I settles all scores prompt."
There was a look of determination in his eyes, and in his right hand he
grasped a knobby cudgel.
"Right! but we've no accounts to settle.--What!" he cried, as he saw
Sherebiah's cudgel raised, "you play the bully, eh? Gadzooks, I'll ferk
ye if----"
He was drawing his sword, but the cudgel fell with a resounding whack
upon his knuckles, and with a cry of pain he scrambled to the ground and
stood, a picture of sullen rage, before his intercepter.
"I'll thank 'ee for your pistols," said Sherebiah, removing them from
the holsters as he spoke. "Nay, don't finger your sword; I be a man o'
peace, and you know my play with the quarterstaff. Jenny, old girl,
crop your fill by the roadside while I have a reckonen wi' Cap'n
Aglionby." He laid a curious stress upon the title. "Now, Ralph, you
be comen wi' me into wood yonder. 'Tis there we'll settle our score."
Seizing the captain with his left hand, he led him down the lane,
through a gap in the hedge, into a thin copse of larches, until he came
to a narrow glade. Aglionby assumed an air of jocular resignation; but
that he was ill at ease was proved by the restless glances he gave
Sherebiah out of the corner of his eye.
"Off wi' your coat!" said Sherebiah, having reached the centre of the
glade. "Off wi't! I be gwine to pound 'ee; you can defend yourself,
but you'm gwine to be pounded whether or no."
"Confound you, man, what have I done to you? Why the----"
"Off wi't, off wi't! Least said soonest mended. Great barkers be no
biters, so it do seem; doff your coat, Cap'n Aglionby!"
"Well, if you will!" cried the captain, with a burst of passion. "I'll
comb your noddle, I'll trounce you, for an insolent canting runagate
booby!"
He flung his coat on the wet grass; Sherebiah laid down the cudgel and
followed his example.
"Come on, Cap'n Aglionby!" he said. "'Tis not, as 'ee med say, a job to
my liken, trouncen a big grown man like you; but 't ha' got to be done,
for your good and my own peace o' mind. So the sooner 'tis over the
better."
To a casual onlooker the two would have seemed very unequally matched.
The captain stood at least a head taller than his opponent, and was
broad in proportion. But he was puffy and bloated; Sherebiah, on the
other hand, though thick-set, was hard and agile.
As if anxious to finish an uncongenial task with the least delay, he
forced matters from the start. The captain had no lack of bull-dog
courage, and he still possessed the remnant of great physical strength.
To an ordinary opponent he would have proved even yet no mean
antagonist; and when, after a few sharp exchanges, Sherebiah's punishing
strokes roused him to fury, he rained upon the smaller man a storm of
blows any one of which, had it got home, might have felled an ox. But
Sherebiah parried with easy skill, and continued to use his fists with
mathematical precision. Once or twice he allowed the captain, now
panting and puffing, to regain his wind, and when the burly warrior
showed a disposition to lengthen the interval he brought him back to the
business in hand with a cheery summons.
"Now, Cap'n Aglionby," he would say, "let's to 't again. Come, man,
'twill soon be over!"
At last, beside himself with rage, the captain attempted to close with
and throw his opponent. He could scarcely have made a more unfortunate
move. For a few moments the two men swung and swayed; then Aglionby
described a semicircle over Sherebiah's shoulder, and fell with a
resounding thud to the ground. Neither combatant was aware that for
some time a spectator had been silently watching them. Harry Rochester,
coming whistling through the trees, had halted in surprise, at the edge
of the glade, as his eyes took in the scene.
"There now, 'tis over and done," said Sherebiah, stooping to pick up his
coat. "That score's wiped off. Stand on your feet, man! And I'll
trouble 'ee for your sword."
The captain staggered to his feet. He was in no condition to refuse the
victor's demand.
Sherebiah took the weapon and broke it across his knee. From his own
pocket he then took the captain's pistols. He carefully drew their
charges, and handed them back.
"Now, hie 'ee to Flanders," he said. "You've done more fighten this
mornin' than you'll ever do there. You'll find Jenny on the road."
The captain glared at him, and seemed about to reply. But he thought
better of it, and with a vindictive glare walked slowly away.
"What's it all about, Sherry?" said Harry, stepping forward when
Aglionby had disappeared.
"Ah, that be 'ee, sir? 'Twas only a little small matter o' difference
'twixt Cap'n Aglionby and me. We're quits now."
"You'll have to get Mistress Joplady to give you a raw steak for your
eye."
"Ay sure, Cap'n did get in a hit or two," replied Sherebiah placidly.
"I didn't know you were such a fighter."
Sherebiah gave him a quick look out of his uninjured eye.
"Nay, I bean't a fighter, not me," he said. "I'm a man o' peace; I be
so."
*CHAPTER IV*
*Mynheer Jan Grootz and Another*
The Gaffer Chops Logic--In Print--The London Coach--Simple Annals--A
Village Hampden--Bereft--An Offer of Service--A Hearty Send-off--Outside
Passengers--Introductions--Contractor to the Forces--Followed--The Man
on the Road--Sherebiah Muses
It was a dull, damp day towards the end of November, a little more than
four months after Captain Aglionby's unhappy departure from Winton St.
Mary. There was again great bustle at the Berkeley Arms; Mistress
Joplady's ample face was red with exertion, and her voice, when she gave
directions to her servants, was raised to an acrimonious pitch far from
usual with her. The whole village appeared to be gathered either within
or without the inn. Gaffer Minshull was there, seated with his back to
the wall and leaning on his inseparable staff. Lumpy, Soapy Dick, Long
Robin the tanner, Old Everlasting the miller, stood in a group about the
door, talking to the ostler, who stood guard, with arms akimbo, over
four brimming pails of water ranged along the wall.
Soft Jemmy was standing a yard or two away, watching with open mouth a
man who, straddling across a step-ladder, was smearing the ancient
sign-board with daubs of black paint, obliterating every trace of the
crude heraldic design that had marked the inn's connection with the lord
of the manor. When the board was one unbroken black, the painter
descended the ladder with his brush and can, winked at Jemmy, and went
into the inn to "mix the flavours", as he said in passing. The
half-witted youth contemplated his handiwork for some minutes in mild
surprise; then he walked towards old Minshull and addressed him
timorously:
"Gaffer, I'm afeard my poor yead won't stand the wonder on't, but it med
do me good to know why John painter ha' covered that noble pictur wi'
the colour o' sut."
"Why, boy, black's for sorrow, as 'ee med know wi'out tellen an 'ee
weren't so simple, and 'tis a black day for Winton Simmary, so 'tis."
"Why be it more black to-day than 'tis a-Sunday?" asked the youth.
"'Tis Tuesday, gaffer, bean't it? and new pa'son didn't holler it in
church for a holy day."
"Boy, your poor yead won't stand high things, 'tis true, but 'ee know
young pa'son be off to Lun'on town to-day, an' that's why all the souls
be here, to see the last on un."
Jemmy looked up again at the defaced sign-board, puzzling his poor
brains to find some connection between it and the departure of "young
pa'son".
"'Tis a shame, gaffer," said Honest John, "to deceive the poor lad, when
you know the sign bean't painted out for no such thing."
"Why, there now," returned old Minshull, "bean't it all one? I axe 'ee
that, souls. Young pa'son be a-gwine to Lun'on 'cause his poor
feyther's dead an' gone; Pa'son Rochester be dead an' gone 'cause o' the
fight; an I weren't afeard on un, I'd say the fight were all along o'
Squire; and Mis'ess Joplady ha' changed the ancient sign of th' inn
'cause her can't abear to think on't. Bean't that gospel truth, souls
all?"
The group looked impressed with the old man's logic. Mistress Joplady,
coming for a moment to the door, had overheard his concluding sentences.
"'Tis true," she said, wiping away a tear. "I never liked Squire;
nobody never did as I ever heerd on; but when pa'son died I couldn't
abear him. One thing I'm thankful for from the bottom o' my heart, and
that is, that my house is college property, like the church, and I can
snap my vingers at Squire, and I do." She suited the action to the
word. "Has been the Berkeley Arms for a hunnerd years, but 'twill be so
no longer. When paint's dry, up goos the yead o' Queen Annie, bless
her! a poor soul as ha' lost all her childer, like myself, and the
Queen's Head it'll be for ever more."
"Ay, things be main different in village now, sure," said Lumpy. "To
think what mighty changes come in a little time! Zeems only a few days
sin' young pa'son won that noble match--you mind, souls, the day the
lord's carriage broke under the weight of the Queen's purse--ay, the day
afore he were stopped in old road. I never understood the rights o'
that bit o' work. Gaffer, hav 'ee got that printed paper ye read, where
the Lun'on talk be given like the words of a book?"
Old Minshull slowly drew from his pocket a folded sheet, rather dirty,
worn at the edges, and falling apart at the folds. He opened it out
with great care, and spread it on his knees.
"That's he," said Lumpy. "Gaffer, you be a scholard; read it out loud
to us again."
"Ay, an' don't need spectacles neither," said Minshull proudly; "well,
listen, souls."
Very slowly, and with as much deliberation as though he were reading it
for the first instead of the hundredth time, and moving his forefinger
along the line, the old man began to read the account of the attempted
robbery of Lord Godolphin which the _Daily Courant_ presented to the
London public a week after the event. The names of the principal
persons concerned appeared with a dash between the initial and final
letters, and Godolphin's was read by Minshull as "Lard G line n". After
briefly relating the incident, the writer of the paragraph added:
"'Tis said the Prisoner that broke jail was a Servant of a Captain
A----y, a Guest at that time of Esq. N----s B----y. The gallant
Captain's Commission (as it is credibly reported) is not under the seal
of her Gracious Majestie, or King William lately Deceas'd of Noble
Memorie, but of the Czar of Muscovy. 'Tis vouch'd by some 'twas none
other than the Great Cham."
"Ay, that's print," said Soapy Dick at the conclusion of the reading.
"The 'Cap'n A line y' was Cap'n Aglionby sure enough, an' some did zay
as how 'twas he let the pris'ner out o' lock-up, and so brought shame to
Will'm Nokes."
"Ay, an' some did say as how the Cap'n hisself made one o' the cut-purse
rogues as waylaid the lard," said Honest John.
"Old wives' tales," said Minshull. "My boy Sherry be wise for his
years, an' he says Cap'n couldn't ha' let prisoner out, 'cause a' were
miles away at the time. And as for Cap'n bein' on the road--why, when
Sir Godfrey coom in all the might o' the law to 'stablish the truth,
Squire up and said as how Cap'n was abed and asleep on that early mornen
when the deed was done."
"Ay true, Squire said so; but did a' take his dyin' oath like a common
man? Tell me that, souls."
At this moment the conversation was interrupted, and the villagers were
thrilled into excitement by the distant tootle of a horn.
"Here be coach at last," cried the ostler. "Ten minutes behind time,
and no sign of young Master Rochester. Giles coachman won't wait, not
he."
But as the coach came in sight at a bend of the road, two figures were
seen hastening along from the direction of the rectory. One was a tall
youthful form clad in black from his low felt hat to his buckle shoes.
His steinkirk was black, and its fringed ends were tucked into a black
waistcoat. Black were his plain drugget coat and breeches, black also
his woollen stockings. Nothing redeemed the sable hue of his garments
save his cambric shirt, the white front of which was much exposed, in
the fashion of the time. Harry Rochester's face was pale, its
expression sad.
His companion, a head shorter than himself, was Sherebiah Minshull, clad
in the sober brown of ordinary country wear, and trudging along steadily
under the weight of a fair-sized valise. Winter or summer, his
appearance never varied: his firm round cheeks were always ruddy, his
blue eyes always bright; and his expression, now as always, was that of
placid self-content, well becoming "a man of peace".
The two drew nearer to the inn, where the group had by this time been
enlarged by the accession of the greater part of the village population,
women and children, workers and loafers, mingled in one interested
throng. As Giles Appleyard was at that moment explaining to the
passenger at his side, he had never seen such a crowd at Winton St. Mary
before, though he had driven the coach, good weather and bad, for
fifteen years come Christmas. It reminded him of the crowd at Salisbury
Fair.
"And seein' as how I've been laid up wi' a bad leg for two months," he
added, "I'm behind the times, I be; news travels slow to them as don't
drive coaches, and, i' feck, I know no more than the dead what this
mortal big crowd do mean, i' feck I don't."
But many voices were ready to tell him when, having pulled up his four
steaming horses at the inn door, he descended with grave deliberation
from his perch, saluted Mistress Joplady with the gallantry of the road,
and entered her house "to warm his nattlens", as he said, with a tankard
of her home-brewed. Young pa'son was a-gwine to Lun'on town! It seemed
a slight cause for such an unwonted scene; in reality it was a momentous
event in the life of Harry Rochester and in the history of his village.
Small things bulk large in the imagination of rustic folk; a journey to
London came within the experience of few of them; and the departure of
young pa'son, following so closely upon two such notable events as the
cricket match and the attack on the Lord High Treasurer, had already
furnished unfailing material for gossip, and would be the theme of
comment and speculation for a year to come.
It was all along of old Squire, they said; and the coachman, for the
first and only time in his career, delayed his departure for some
minutes after the horses had been watered, in order to listen to the
story. A few days after Lord Godolphin's flying visit, Squire Berkeley
had fenced in a piece of land which time out of mind had been regarded
as part of the village common. Old Gaffer Minshull, whose memory went
back fifty years, was called up to tell how in the year '53, just before
Christmas, the then parson had held a prayer-meeting on that very spot
to celebrate the making of Noll Crum'ell Lord Protector; he remembered
it well, for it lasted five hours, and old Jenny Bates fainted on the
ground and took to her bed from that day.
"Ay, 'twas a holy spot, an' Squire med ha' feared to touch un, as the
old ancient folk feared to lay hands on the Lord's holy ark; but, bless
'ee, Squire bean't afeard o' nothen, nay, not o' the still small voice
pa'son do zay be inside on us all."
When the ground was fenced in the good parson was disposed to carry the
matter to law. But though he had already won one case (a matter of
right of way) in the courts, the only result was that the squire had
carried it to appeal, trusting in the power of the purse. The angry
villagers therefore determined to take the law into their own hands.
Without consulting the rector, they assembled one evening towards the
end of October, and hastening in a body to the disputed space, began to
make short work of the new fencing. But the squire had got wind of
their intention, by some witchcraft of his own, they believed: he soon
appeared on the scene at the head of a gang of his own men. There was a
fight; heads were broken, and the squire's party were getting badly
mauled when the rector suddenly arrived and rushed between the
combatants.
"Ay, poor pa'son, I zee un now, I do," said Gaffer Minshull feelingly,
"goen headlong into the rout wi' all his petticoats flyen! A fine
upstanden man was pa'son, as ought to ha' been a man o' war. A' stood
in the eye of Squire, an' Squire opened on un, gave tongue to a deal o'
hot an' scorchen words, a' did. But pa'son took no heed to'n, not he:
he spoke up fair an' softly to Squire's men, and wi' that way o' his a'
made 'em feel all fashly like; a' had a won'erful way wi' 'n, had
pa'son; an' they made off wi' their broken heads, they did; an' Squire
was left a-frothen an' cussen as he were a heathen Frenchman or Turk.
Ah, poor pa'son! Such a fine sperit as he had, his frame were not built
for 't; wi' my own aged eyes I seed un go blue at the lips, and a' put
his hand on his bosom, a' did, an' seemed as if all the breath was
blowed out of his mortal body; and a' went home-along a stricken soul,
and two days arter his weak heart busted, an' young pa'son had no
feyther--ay, poor soul, no feyther, an' my boy Sherebiah be nigh
varty-vour, and here I be. 'Tis strange ways Them above has wi' poor
weak mortals--strange ways, ay sure!"
Mr. Berkeley took advantage of the rector's death to pay off old scores.
The legal actions which Mr. Rochester had taken, on behalf of his flock,
collapsed for want of further funds; he had already seriously
impoverished himself by his open-hearted generosity; and when the squire
came down on the dead man's estate for the law costs, Harry found that,
after all debts were paid, he was possessed of some twenty guineas in
all wherewith to start life.
His project of going to Oxford was necessarily abandoned. He was at a
loss to find a career. Educated by his father with a view to entering
the Church, he was fairly well grounded in classics and mathematics, and
had in addition a good acquaintance with French, and a great stock of
English poetry; but his knowledge was not marketable. He was too young
for a tutor's place, and had no influence to back him; friendless and
homeless, he was at his wits' end.
Then one day he bethought him of Lord Godolphin's promise. It had been
frank and apparently sincere. My lord, it was true, had spoken of a
country benefice when Harry's Oxford days were over; but Harry reflected
that the slight service he had rendered was not likely to appear greater
with the lapse of time, while his need was actual and urgent. Why not
take the Lord Treasurer at his word, journey to London, and put his case
before the man who, in all the kingdom, was the most able to help him if
he would?
He mentioned the matter to Gaffer Minshull, rather expecting that the
sturdy veteran would pour cold water on his idea. To his surprise the
old man urged him to carry it out, and overbore the objections which
every high-spirited lad, even in those days of patronage, must have had
to soliciting favours from the great. His eagerness was partially
explained to Harry when the old fellow added a suggestion of his own.
He was seriously concerned about his boy Sherebiah. In spite of strict
injunctions to have nothing to do with the expedition against the
squire's fencing, Sherebiah, man of peace as he was, had been attracted
to the scene as a moth to a candle. At first he had watched events from
a distance, among other interested spectators; but when he saw the fight
at its beginning go against the villagers, owing to the superior
training of the squire's men, many of whom were old soldiers, he could
contain himself no longer. At the head of the waverers he dashed into
the affray, and set such an example of valour that it would have gone
hardly with the enemy but for the opportune arrival of the rector.
From that moment Sherebiah was a marked man. Whatever reasons the father
had for fearing Mr. Berkeley were strengthened when it became evident
that the squire had marked and would resent the son's action. Sherebiah
had been doing no good in the village since he suddenly returned to it,
from no one knew where, a few years before. His father was anxious that
he should go away for a time, at least until the squire's anger had
cooled. He welcomed the opportunity afforded by the approaching
departure of Harry.
"Let un goo wi' 'ee," he said. "'Tis a knowen boy, handy, with a head
full o' wise things he's larned in the world. He'd be proud to sarve
'ee, ay, that he would."
"But, gaffer, I can't afford a servant. Twenty guineas are all I have,
and I know not what may happen. If Lord Godolphin fails me, my money
will soon be gone, and then there'll be two poor fellows instead of
one."
"Never fear. I bean't afeard for 'ee. And what does the Book say?
Why, 'twas the holy King David as said it hisself: 'Once I were young,'
says he, 'and now I be old; but never ha' I knowed the righteous
forsaken, nor his seed a-beggen bread neither.' That's what he said,
and he knowed a thing or two, so he did."
"Perhaps he didn't know everything, gaffer. Well, you're set on it, I
see. Sherry would certainly be better out of the squire's way; so he
can come with me, and as soon as I find something to do he had better
look for employment, and London ought to be a good place for that."
Thus it happened that, on this November morning, the two passengers who
had booked places in the Salisbury coach for London were Harry Rochester
and Sherebiah Minshull.
The story took a long time in the telling in the parlour of the inn, and
Giles Appleyard was somewhat perturbed when he saw by the big clock in
the corner that his departure was overdue. He drained his tankard,
wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and went out, calling loudly
to the passengers to take their places. Harry shook hands all round;
every man had something to say to him that was intended to be pleasant
and encouraging, but was in many cases the reverse. His heart was full
as he thought of leaving the good folk among whom he had lived and whose
kindly feeling for him was so evident. When, last of all, Mistress
Joplady flung her arms round his neck and hugged him to her ample bosom,
and then wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, he felt a lump in
his throat, and was glad to escape and mount to his place on the roof of
the coach.
"All right, Bill?" shouted the coachman over his shoulder.
"Ay."
"Let goo, ostler."
And gathering up the reins he cracked his whip, and with a clatter and
rumble the heavy vehicle, amid a volley of cheers, lurched forward on
the way to London.
The journey of nearly seventy miles was not likely to be pleasant. The
stage-coaches of those days were large and clumsy structures, with hard
springs. The inside passengers were jolted and jostled; the outside
passengers had no proper seats, but found what sitting room they could
among the packages and bundles. On this morning, there was only one
other passenger on the roof of the coach, a stout broad-faced man
dressed in brown clothes much like Sherebiah's. He had retained his
seat during the scene of farewell, and sat solemnly munching a thick
sausage, scanning the crowd out of shrewd little twinkling eyes that
seemed a size too small for the other features. When his sausage was
finished, he filled a huge pipe and sat puffing in stolid silence.
For some time after the coach started, no word was spoken by the three
passengers. Harry was wrapt in his thoughts, brooding over the past,
dreaming about the future. Sherebiah had lit his pipe as soon as he was
settled, and smoked on contentedly, stealing a glance every now and then
at the broad figure separated from him by a large travelling trunk. He
seemed to find some amusement in these occasional peeps at his
neighbour, who by and by returned his glance.
"Mizzly mornen," said Sherebiah, with a nod.
"Zo," grunted the other. His eyes were resting on Sherebiah's pipe.
"Tobacco be a great comfort," said the latter, noting the look. "Master
Harry there, he bean't come to 't yet; true, 'tis not for babes an'
sucklens; but I took to 'bacca when Susan wouldn't take me, and 'tis
better nor any wife."
"Where you get dat pipe?" asked the stranger, in a slow pleasant voice
with a foreign accent.
"This pipe! Why, over in Amesbury; see, 'tis marked wi' the gauntlet,
sure token of a Amesbury pipe, an' there's no better in the land. Why
med 'ee axe such a feelen question, now?"
"Once I zaw a pipe like it, wid de mark on it--de gauntlet, you zay."
"Oh! I say, master, what part o' the land med 'ee hail from? Your
tongue makes me think 'ee med be a Dutchman, though I wouldn't say so to
your face."
The man looked at his interrogator without replying. He stuffed the
tobacco down into his pipe with a fat forefinger which exactly fitted
the bowl.
"You know Amsterdam, my vrient?" he said.
"Ha' been there, mynheer; so 'tis Amsterdam you hail from! Well, I ha'
been in wuss places. Ay, ha' seed summat o' the world, I have, and I
knowed 'ee by your cut for a Dutchman."
There was silence again for a space. Both the men sat smoking, heedless
of all things around them. They finished their pipes at the same
moment, and, moved by a mutual impulse, each handed his pouch to the
other.
"Virginia," said Sherebiah laconically.
"Ah! Barbados," returned the other. "My name, Jan Grootz."
"And it becomes 'ee," said Sherebiah. "Now mine bean't so good a match;
'tis over long for one o' my inches, and over proud for a man so meek:
Sherebiah Stand-up-and-bless Minshull in the church book, but plain
Sherry to them as I takes to, like young pa'son there."
Harry was roused from his reverie at hearing himself mentioned. He
looked for the first time at his fellow-passenger, who at that moment
lifted his podgy right hand and pointed to a windmill in full sail a
little distance from the road.
"Ay sure, minds 'ee of home; your country's full of mills, to be sure.
Mebbe you be a miller, now?"
The Dutchman waited to blow a great cloud from his mouth before he
answered.
"A sailor," he said; "but I have mills."
"A skipper," rejoined Sherry, looking over his costume. "'Tis not for me
to say, but to mortal eye you be more like a varmer.--'Tis a skipper
from Holland," he added, including Harry in the conversation, "that has
a mill or two to his name and smokes 'bacca out o' Barbados."
"Jan Grootz," said the Dutchman.
Harry acknowledged the introduction, and remarked on the slowness of
their progress over the rough road. On this Mynheer Grootz volunteered
the remark that, having come all the way from Bristol, he would be glad
when the journey was ended. By degrees he became still more
communicative; and when the coach pulled up at Basingstoke for the
mid-day meal, Harry had learnt that the Dutchman had been to Bristol to
inspect a vessel of which he was part-owner, and which had come most
fortunately to port after being first knocked about by a French
privateer, then badly damaged by a storm. It was to the storm that she
owed her escape from the Frenchman, and to her captain's seamanship her
escape from the storm. Grootz was particularly gratified at her safe
arrival, for she represented a large amount not only to him personally,
but to others who could ill afford to lose on a venture upon which he
had persuaded them to embark.
When the journey was resumed, the conversation became still more
friendly. Harry liked the look of the Dutchman. His broad face with
its wide nose and little eyes was not handsome, but its expression
inspired confidence; and the careful slowness of his speech, and his
habit of pointing with his forefinger when he wished to be emphatic,
were a little amusing. He asked no questions, but Harry by and by found
himself explaining his own position and relating the events that had led
to it, and told him of his projected visit to Lord Godolphin. At this
up came the forefinger.
"Ah, my young vrient, you are de son of a minister: ver' well: you know
de good Book: ver' well: 'Put not your drust in princes;' de words are
drue. I tell you dis; besides my mills and my ships, I do oder dings; I
supply food for de men and horses of de English and Dutch armies; and I
have met princes; yes--I, Jan Grootz. I tell you dis; wid a good honest
merchant of London or of Amsterdam, I care not, man knows where he
stand; his foot is on de solid rock; but wid dukes and grand-dukes and
oder princes--ah! man tread a quicksand. Dey promise, but do dey pay?
You are good boy, I dink; mind you, I do not say I know, for outside do
not always speak drue; de apple may be red, and all de time a maggot at
core. I tell you dis; seven year ago I make contract over hay wid young
captain of Bavarian Elector; it was in Namur campaign; he look good, he
speak good, I am well content; but donder! my hay I lose, and 3242
thalers 3 groschen beside. Dis den I tell you; avoid arms and de law,
drive some honest trade: zo you respect yourself, and oder people dey
respect you. You owe noding; nobody owe you; you are a man."
Ever since the departure from Basingstoke, Sherebiah, sitting just
behind Harry, had taken no part in the conversation, but appeared to
find something curiously interesting in the road behind, for after once
or twice looking over his shoulder he at last faced round altogether,
and sat with his back to the horses. Just as the Dutchman finished his
speech--the longest to which he had yet given utterance, and one that
his slow delivery lengthened beyond its natural extent--Sherebiah turned
round, tapped Harry on the shoulder, and in a low tone said:
"Summat's i' the wind."
"What do you mean, Sherry?"
"Wind yourself about and look down the road behind."
"Well, I see nothing--stay, there's a horseman just topping the hill, a
good mile behind us: what of that?"
"Why, 'tis like this. He always is a mile behind: that's where 'tis. I
seed him afore we come to Basingstoke; but he didn't come to the inn to
eat his vittles, not he. I seed him again when we was a mile this side
o' Basingstoke; what had he been doen, then, while we eat and drank? We
stop, he falls behind; when we trot, he trots; 'tis as if he were a bob
at th' end of a line, never nearer never vurther."
"You think we are being followed?"
"That's what I do think, sure enough."
"A highwayman?"
"Mebbe, mebbe not; most like not, for 'tis not dark enough, and he's
always in sight."
"Perhaps he thinks he can't be seen."
"Not reckonen on the height of the coach roof? But I seed him, I did,
two hours an' more agoo."
"Why should he follow the coach, I wonder? He may belong to someone
inside."
"Mebbe, mebbe not; 'tis curious anyways."
"Well, the fellow is clearly dogging the coach; if your curiosity
troubles you, suppose you slip off a mile before we reach the next
post-house and try to get a nearer look at him as he passes? You can
catch up the coach while they change horses."
"Ay, I will, sure. We be nigh the river now; over the bridge and we
come to Hounslow heath, a fearsome place for highwaymen. We change at
the Bull and Gate, then run straight into Lun'on: oh, I know the road."
It was late in the afternoon by the time the coach reached the inn where
the last change of the journey was made. Ten minutes before, Sherebiah
nimbly slipped down, crept through a gap in the hedge, and waited for
the pursuer to appear. Presently he heard the clatter of hoofs; the
sound grew louder, but all at once began to diminish. Scrambling back
into the road, he was just in time to see the horseman strike off at
full speed along a by-road to his left, which led, as Sherebiah knew, to
London by a course only a mile or two longer than the main highway. The
man must evidently have changed his horse somewhere on the road, and
could only have taken the detour in a desire to arrive in London ahead
of the coach.
Sherebiah stared long and earnestly at the retreating figure. He
frowned and looked puzzled as he set off to overtake the coach. The
driver was mounting the box as he came up.
"Well, what do you make of it?" asked Harry.
"He be gone off by a side road," replied Sherebiah.
"So your curiosity is not to be satisfied after all?"
"Well, he rid away hard to the left, wi' his back towards me, an' 'tis
growen duskish, an' nowt but a owl could see clear."
But when Sherebiah clambered to his place he wore a sober look which did
not escape the clear little eyes of Jan Grootz, who silently extended
his pouch to him. Sherebiah refilled and puffed away, every now and then
removing the pipe from his mouth and staring contemplatively at the
bowl.
*CHAPTER V*
*A Message from the Squire*
The Old White Hart--A Letter for the Captain--Visions--Aglionby gives
Instructions--The Watch--Half-Truths--Ways and Means--Hard Thinking
Sherebiah sat very silent for the rest of the journey. The coach jolted
on rapidly towards the great city: passed the market-gardens of
Hammersmith, the open fields of Kensington, along Piccadilly, where the
first street-lamps shed a dim oily light, through Holborn, at last
pulling up at the Angel and Crown in Threadneedle Street. It was past
nine o'clock, dull and murky, and few people were about. But a small
crowd was gathered at the door of the inn to meet the coach, and
Sherebiah, as he shouldered the luggage and moved towards the door, shot
a keen but unobtrusive glance at the faces of the men. His movements
were somewhat too slow for Harry, who, eager to ease his limbs after a
whole day's stiffness and discomfort, entered the hostelry first. All
at once Sherebiah quickened his step, hastened into the lobby, set the
luggage down at the foot of the stairs, and then, making a mumbled
excuse to Harry, slipped out behind one of the inn servants, and looked
narrowly at the diminishing crowd. He was just in time to see a man,
whom he had already noticed on the outskirts of the group, saunter away
in the direction of London Bridge. Appearances are deceptive, and
Sherebiah was not sure that he was right, but he thought the man bore a
resemblance to the rider whom he had seen following the coach, and of
whom he had caught one nearer glimpse as he turned into the by-road. He
followed the man, stepping as quietly as his heavy shoes allowed,
accommodating his pace to that of the man in front, and taking advantage
of the shadow afforded by the penthouse fronts of the closed shops. The
man quickened his steps as he approached the bridge. Sherebiah pursued
him at a discreet distance over the narrow roadway, beneath the rickety
four-story houses that towered above the bridge over almost its entire
length, through Traitor's Gate, and on into Southwark. The man went
along one narrow street, and at last passed under a low archway.
Walking even more stealthily, Sherebiah still followed, and found
himself in the spacious yard of the Old White Hart Inn. This famous
three-storied hostelry was built about three sides of a square. Along
two sides of the upper story ran a balustraded gallery, with wooden
pillars supporting the sloping roof. All was quiet. Sherebiah, keeping
in the shadow of the arch, peeped round and saw the man he followed
standing at the door waiting for an answer to his summons at the bell,
which hung on the outer wall under a gabled cover. After a little time
the door opened and the porter appeared.
"Be Cap'n Aglionby within?" said the man.
"Ay, and abed and asleep. What do you want wi' him?"
"I want to see un."
"A pretty time o' night! House was shut up an hour ago--no business
doin' these hard times. Why didn't you come sooner?"
"A good reason, 'cause I be only just come to Lun'on. I has a message
for Cap'n Aglionby."
"Well, needs must, I s'pose," grumbled the servant. "I'll go up and wake
the captain, and be cursed horrible for my pains. Who shall I say wants
him?"
"Tell un a friend from the country."
The porter went into the inn, and soon reappeared in the gallery at the
top of the house, where he tapped at the door of one of the bedrooms
opening from it. He tapped once, twice, thrice, and received no answer;
then to his fourth knock came a response the tone of which, though not
the words, could be heard in the yard below. A colloquy ensued, of
which only the share of the inn servant was distinctly audible to
Sherebiah.
"A man from the country, Cap'n, to see you."
Mumble from within.
"So I told him, but here he bides."
More mumbling.
"Didn't tell me his name; a man from the country was all he said, and I
knows no more."
The answering mumble was of higher and impatient mood. Then the man
came slowly downstairs, grumbling under his breath all the way.
"You're to go up," he said to the stranger. "'Tis number thirty-two.
And fine tantrums he be in, waked out of sleep; as if I ain't waked out
of sleep or kept from it day and night, and all year long."
The man entered the inn after the servant, and began to ascend.
Sherebiah meanwhile, looking around, had espied another stairway at the
opposite angle of the courtyard. Darting across on tiptoe, he mounted
quickly, quietly, and reached the gallery above in time to see the
messenger disappear into the captain's room. He hurried along, and,
relying on the porter's complaint of the paucity of business, he opened
the door of the adjacent room and slipped in, leaving the door ajar.
Through the thin partition he heard the murmur of voices in the next
room, but could not catch a word distinctly. In a few moments, however,
there was a crash as of a chair being overthrown, followed by a torrent
of execrations from the captain. Then the door of the next room opened,
and Aglionby came out on to the gallery accompanied by his visitor.
"Hang you and the squire too!" said the angry warrior. "The tinder's
wet, and I can't light my candle. Give me the letter and I'll read it
by the light of the lantern yonder, and catch my death o' cold withal."
Shrinking back into the darkness of his room, Sherebiah caught sight of
Captain Aglionby as he passed the half-open door on his way to the
single lantern that feebly lit up the gallery. He had pulled on his
breeches and stockings, but for the rest was in night attire. The
lantern swung from a hook at the corner of the gallery, three rooms
beyond that into which Sherebiah had ventured. Standing beneath it, the
captain broke the seal of the letter given him by the visitor, and read
rapidly under his breath. The reading finished, he stuffed the paper
into his pocket and chuckled.
"Stap me, he begs and prays me now!" he exclaimed. "See, Jock, tell me
what ye know of this. Ye ha'n't read the letter, ha' ye? By the Lord
Harry, I'll slit--"
"Nay, nay, Cap'n," interrupted the man; "I know nought o' the letter.
I'll tell 'ee how it all come about. I was openen the gate for Squire,
when--"
"Speak lower, man; your brazen throat'll wake the house."
"I was openen the gate for Squire," resumed the fellow in a lower tone,
which was, however, still audible to Sherebiah's straining ears, "when
who should come by but young master popinjay dressed all in his black.
He never bobbed to Squire, not he; never so much as cast eyes on un; but
when Squire saw the young swaggerer he stopped still as a stone, and
looked after un dazed like. Then he put his arm on the gate, a' did,
and leant heavy on it, thinken mortal hard; 'twas a matter o' five
minutes afore he lifted his head again, and never seed I a stranger look
on any man's face than I seed then on Squire's. A' jumped when his eyes
fell on me; 'What be staren at, fool?' says he, in one of his rages.
'Shall I run for doctor?' says I; 'you do look mortal bad.' 'Nay,' says
he, ''tis nothen; a little faintness; 'twill pass.' I touched my cap,
as becomes me, and Squire went into park and shut gate behind un. But a'
hadn't walked more nor three steps when a' stops, swings about, and
'Jock!' says he, 'order post-horses for Hungerford road to-morrer. And
come up to hall inside of an hour; I shall ha' a job for 'ee.'
"Well, I went up to hall after I'd ordered horses, and Squire give me
this letter. 'You'll ride to Lun'on to-morrer, and take this letter to
Cap'n Aglionby at White Hart, South'ark. And you'll tell the cap'n
where young Master Rochester be stayen.' 'How'll I know that, Squire?'
says I. 'Pon that he burst into one of his terr'ble rages again. 'How,
fool!' says he; 'why, keep the coach in sight, and see that 'ee make no
mistake.' So here I be, Cap'n, and young Master Rochester he's at Angel
and Crown in Threadneedle Street."
"Thank 'ee, Jock; I know the house. And is the young springald alone?"
"Not he; has Sherry Minshull with un, a-carryen his belongens."
"Zounds and thunder! did Sherry see you?"
"No, i' feck; I kept too far from coach to be seen for sarten, and at
Angel and Crown Sherry was too heavy laden to spy me."
"Well for you, well for you! Jock, you'll come and take up your
quarters here; there's plenty of room. I'll tell 'em to gi' ye a bed."
"What about the horse, Cap'n? I left un at Angel and Crown."
"Let him bide till morning; then you can bring him here too."
"But Squire, Cap'n,--won't he expect us back, me and horse?"
"Not he; 'tis here written; I'm to keep you if there's any work for you,
and odzooks! I'll ha' some work for you, never fear. Jock, if your
story has made you as dry as it has made me you're main thirsty; go down
and bring up beer for two, and a lighted candle. I'll ring and wake
that rascal by the time you get to the foot of the stairs."
The man went down by the way he had come, and the captain returned to
his room. As soon as the coast was clear, Sherebiah slipped out into
the gallery, carrying his shoes to avoid noise, ran down the outer
staircase, stood for a few moments at the foot to make sure that all was
safe, then darted across the yard and out at the gate. The street was
quite deserted, and Sherebiah, secure from molestation, walked slowly
along towards London Bridge, deep in thought. His friend Harry had been
followed to London at the orders of the squire; what was the meaning of
that? Surely Mr. Berkeley did not intend to wreak vengeance on the son
for the baffled opposition of the father? What had Captain Aglionby to
do with the matter? Rumour the omniscient had informed the village that
the captain's departure had been occasioned by a violent quarrel with
the squire; yet it was plain that the squire knew the captain's
whereabouts and was enlisting his aid in some project. Sherebiah wished
that he could get a sight of Mr. Berkeley's letter; he was puzzled to
account for the old man's shock as Harry passed the gate; but try as he
might to piece these strange circumstances together, all his cogitation
suggested no clue.
So absorbed was he, so mechanical his movements, that he started
convulsively when, just as he had passed through Traitor's Gate, a man
stepped suddenly before him from a narrow entry and bade him stop in the
Queen's name. Looking up, he saw that his way was barred by a corpulent
constable in cocked hat and laced coat, with a staff two feet longer
than himself, and half a dozen ancient and decrepit watchmen with
lanterns and staves.
"Stand!" cried the constable. "Give an account of yourself."
Sherebiah took his measure.
"Not so, neither, master constable. Out o' my way; 'tis a late hour,
and I ought to be abed."
He made to move on, but the constable stood full in his path, and the
watchmen grouped themselves behind their superior.
"You may be a villain for aught I know," said the constable, "or even a
vagrom or thief. Why abroad at this hour o' night?"
"I'm as sober as a judge," replied Sherebiah, "and neither thief nor
vagrom. Stand aside, master constable."
"Well, 'tis dry and thirsty work watching o' nights, and there be seven
of us, and a shilling don't go far in these war times; we'll take a
shilling to let ye pass; eh, men?"
The watchmen mumbled assent. Sherebiah laughed.
"A shilling? 'Tis a free country, master constable, and a sober
countryman don't carry shillings to buy what's his. And seems to me, so
it does, as ye've had drink enough a'ready; out o' my way, I say!"
"Arrest him, men!" cried the constable, angry at being disappointed of
his expected tip.
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when with sudden energy
Sherebiah threw himself against him, at the same time placing a leg
behind his knee. As the constable fell, Sherebiah dashed at the
watchmen, toppled two of them over, their fall being accompanied by the
crash of their lanterns, scattered the rest, and ran rapidly across the
bridge. This unexpected onset from one whom they had taken for a simple
and timid country bumpkin was too much for the watch. They made no
attempt to pursue the fugitive, but returned surly and crestfallen to
their lair.
"Where on earth have you been, Sherry?" asked Harry, as his man
re-entered the inn.
"Payen a visit to a cousin o' mine, Master Harry. And I was nigh put in
lock-up, I was. Was stopped by the watch, but I toppled un over, I did.
I'm a man o' peace."
"If you are let alone," said Harry, laughing. "I feared some harm had
happened to you. Our Dutch friend tells me London is an ill place at
night for a stranger."
"Ay, and by day too, Master Harry," rejoined Sherebiah earnestly. "If I
med make so bold, I'd say, get 'ee to-morrow a good cane,--none of your
little small amber-tipt fancies as fine gentlemen swing in their dainty
fingers, but a stout length of oak or birch, fit to crack a pate."
"I have a sword, Sherry, and can use it, thanks to you."
"Ay, but 'tis not always easy to draw a sword in time in a street brawl,
and there be light-fingered gentry as can coax a sword from the scabbard
and the wearer none the wiser till it be too late. Be it your poor
feyther's sword you ha' brought, sir?"
"Yes, the silver-hilted one; I showed it you once, Sherry."
"Well, 'tis right for a gentleman to wear a sword, though I marvel, I
do, at a holy man o' peace like pa'son haven such a deadly piece o'
furniture."
"Ay, and I've often wondered how a man of peace like yourself is able to
handle a sword so well. You made a swordsman of me, Sherry; how did you
become one yourself?"
"Ah, sir, 'tis a many things a man o' peace has to know in the way o'
dressens. I believe in peace with a cudgel in your hand. Them as wants
peace be most like to get it an they be ready for war."
"You remind me of what Master Butler says:
'There's but the twinkling of a star
Betwixt the man of peace and war'.
But the hour is late, Sherry, and I must be up betimes in the morning,
for my visit to Lord Godolphin."
"You bean't gwine to see the high lard to-morrer, sir? Better larn to
find your way about this tangle o' busy streets first. 'Tis as easy as
sucken eggs to lose your way."
"I have made up my mind to go to-morrow. You see, I must lose no time.
I have only twenty guineas, as you know, and by to-morrow two of those
will be gone. And I sha'n't rest till I have tried my luck.
Good-night, Sherry! Wake me at seven."
Left to himself, Sherebiah ordered a pint of small beer, and sat for an
hour longer, ruminating, with knit brows and compressed lips. More than
once he got up and walked round the deal table, stopping to take a pull
at the tankard, heaving a sigh, then going on again. He was disquieted.
The sudden discovery that the squire's animosity was pursuing Harry no
less perplexed than disturbed him. Harry and Mr. Berkeley had never met
at close quarters; there had been no intercourse between hall and
parsonage. A personal cause of offence was, as it seemed to Sherebiah,
out of the question; yet it was strange that the squire's hatred of the
father should extend to the son. At length, muttering "No one can tell
what's what with the likes o' old Squire," Sherebiah brought his big
fist down on to the table with a bang that made the pewter jump and
rattle, and fetched the drawer from his place in the bar.
"What d'ye lack?" said the man.
"Nothen, sonny, nothen. 'Tis a way o' mine to hit out when I be
a-thinken, a bold way for a man o' peace, true. Bacon at half arter
seven, drawer,--and we be country eaters, mind 'ee. Good-night!"
*CHAPTER VI*
*My Lord Marlborough makes a Note*
London Streets--A Chair!--A Great Man's Portals--An Effort of
Memory--Patronage--Marlborough--A Step in the Peerage--A Memorandum--A
Friend in London--A Dinner at Locket's--Mr. Colley Cibber--Great
Expectations--A Thick Stick--Prevarication
Harry was awake long before Sherebiah tapped at his door next morning.
His projected visit to Lord Godolphin gave him some concern. He had no
tremors of shyness at the thought of meeting the Lord Treasurer; but,
ignorant as he was of London ways, he knew not how to time his visit,
and could hope for no counsel on that point from Sherebiah. He was too
much excited to do justice to the crisp rashers which were placed before
him at the breakfast-table, and felt little disposed to converse with
Jan Grootz the Dutchman opposite. Sherebiah had taken upon himself to
wait at table, but, as a privileged servitor, did not think it
unbecoming to throw in a word here and there. He gave Grootz his views
on the price of oats and the policy of King Louis of France with equal
assurance.
"Know ye where de lord live?" asked the Dutchman suddenly.
Harry had forgotten that he had mentioned his errand to his
fellow-passenger, and for the moment repented his confidence. Before he
could reply, Grootz went on:
"He live over against the Queen's Wood Yard, by Thames-side, leading to
Scotland Yard. My vrient John Evelyn built de house. I have been
dere."
"Oh!" exclaimed Harry. "Then can you tell me the best time to visit
him?"
"Ja! De best time, it is ten o'clock, before he go to de palace. He
rise late; he has many visitors; I zee him myself in his dressing-gown
before his zervant have curled his wig, and I wait my turn two hours.
And when you zee him, you zall lose no time; he like man to speak out,
mark you."
The Dutchman spoke very slowly, not interrupting his meal, and wagging
his fat finger as he concluded.
"And how shall I go? Shall I walk?"
"I' feck, no," said Sherebiah from behind. "The night have been rainy,
and the streets be mushed wi' mud; you'd be spattered from head to heel,
Master Harry. Nay; you med walk as far as the Exchange and buy 'ee a
pair o' gloves there for seemliness, and then get your shoes brushed by
one o' the blackguards at the corner. Then you can take a chair; 'tis a
shilling a mile, and easier goen nor the hackneys, for the chairmen walk
on the pavement, and you won't get jolted nor splashed so bad."
"Ja, and I tell you dis," added the Dutchman. "Short poles, and short
men; zo, dey take not zo much room, and if dey upzet you, why, you do
not fall zo much."
"Ay, and don't let 'em chouse 'ee out o' more than their due," said
Sherebiah. "I know they men. If they think a man be up from country,
they look at un and then at the shilling, up and down, and miscall un
wi' such brazen tongues that he'll pay anything to save his ears. A
shilling a mile, Master Harry, no more."
"Zo! De counsel is good. But I give you a better: go not at all.
Lords! I tell you dis before: an honest merchant is worth two, dree, no
man zay how many lords; and de Book zay, 'Put not your drust in
princes'. Still, I wish you good luck, my young vrient, Jan Grootz; zo!"
He squeezed Harry's hand in his own great fist, and then, having
demolished his mountain of food, filled his pipe and set forth for the
Custom House on Thames bank. Two hours later, Harry left the inn under
Sherebiah's guidance, and for the first time in his life trod the
streets of London. Filled though his mind was with the approaching
interview, which might mean so much to him, he was yet able to take an
interest in the strange scenes that opened before his inexperienced
eyes: the brilliant shops, each with its sign of painted copper, pewter,
or wood hanging from iron branches; the taverns and coffee-houses,
already crowded with people eager to hear and discuss the news, and
perhaps to get a peep at the morning's _Courant_; the court and
porticoes of the Royal Exchange, to which merchants were flocking; the
crowds of money-dealers in Change Alley, looking for clients. He went
up to the gallery on the first floor of the Exchange, and bought a pair
of gloves from a neat and pretty girl at one of the booths; then
strolled along, admiring the rich and dazzling display of silks and
jewellery which a few hours later would attract all the fine ladies in
town.
Descending to the street again, he passed up Cheapside and through St.
Paul's Churchyard, down Ludgate Hill and through Ludgate, where he
beheld impaled on stakes a row of hideous heads of traitors, one of
which, Sherebiah told him with indignation, was that of Noll Crum'ell.
Then skirting the Fleet Ditch, once navigable, but now a noisome slimy
sewer, he came into Fleet Street, through Temple Bar to the Strand, and
at length arrived at Charing Cross, where he was nearly overturned by a
hasty chair-man, whose "By your leave!" was not yet familiar to his
ears. At Charing Cross stood a number of boys with boxes before them on
the pavement, and cries of "Clean your shoes!" "London fucus!" "Best
Spanish blacking!" came in eager competing tones. Sherebiah selected
one whose stand was in front of a barber's shop.
"Here's the blackguard for 'ee, Master Harry," he said. "He'll shine
your shoes while barber shaves my stubble. A penny; no more."
When the shoes were polished and the stubble mown, Sherebiah called up a
couple of chairmen who were sitting on their poles near by.
"Do 'ee know my Lord Godolphin's noble house?" he asked.
"Ay; servant, sir."
"Well then, carry my young master to that very house, and see 'ee don't
jolt 'n, or drop 'n, or let 'n get splashed. 'Tis under a mile, Master
Harry," he whispered at parting.
Harry would rather have walked. The men took what care they could, but
the press of people was so great that they had to dodge at every few
steps, and their fare gripped the seat to prevent himself from being
knocked against first one side, then the other, of the conveyance. At
the corner of Whitehall, as they turned into Scotland Yard, a passing
dray splashed up a shower of liquid mud, and Harry felt a moist dab upon
his nose. Fortunately the spot was soon removed with his handkerchief;
and when, after crossing by the Charcoal House and through the Wood
Yard, the chairmen at length set him down at the door of Godolphin's
house, he would have felt no anxiety about his personal appearance, if
he had been sufficiently self-conscious to think about it. He had put
on his best coat, silk stockings, and buckle shoes; at his side he wore
the sword about which he had spoken to Sherebiah. He sprang alertly up
the steps, and looked about him with a keen quick gaze that bespoke a
definite purpose.
The great entrance-hall was thronged. Servants, officers, government
officials, men about town, stood in groups or moved here and there in
pursuit of their several objects of business or pleasure. No one
appeared to remark the presence of the new-comer, who walked quietly
through the throng towards the broad staircase. At the foot a
gorgeously-dressed flunkey was standing, to whom one or two gentlemen
had already applied for information. As Harry was about to address him,
his attention was attracted by a woolly-pated wide-grinning black boy,
who at that moment ran down the stairs. He carried a silver tray, on
which a cup and jug of fine porcelain jingled as he ran.
"Done, Sambo?" asked the tall flunkey at the stair-foot.
"Yussir!" replied the boy with a white grin. "My lord jolly dis mornin;
oh yes; drink him chocolate without one cuss. Gwine to begin work now;
oh yes."
"Can I see the Lord Godolphin?" asked Harry, stepping up to the servant
as Sambo disappeared.
The man gave Harry a stare, but answered respectfully: "My lord's levee
is over, sir. The nigger brings down the tray when the last visitor has
gone."
"I have come specially to see my lord, and----"
"Have you an appointment, sir?"
"I think if you will take my name to my lord he will see me."
Harry spoke quietly; he was determined not to be turned from his purpose
by mere formality or red tape. The man eyeing him saw nothing but
self-possession and confidence in his air.
"My lord is now engaged with his correspondence," he said. "He does not
brook interruption."
"My name is Harry Rochester; I will answer for it that you will do no
wrong in acquainting his lordship."
After a moment's hesitation the man beckoned to a fellow-servant, and
gave him Harry's message. He went upstairs, and returning in a few
minutes said:
"What is your business with my lord, sir? His lordship does not
remember your name."
There was the suggestion of a sneer in the man's voice. With hardly a
perceptible pause Harry replied:
"Tell his lordship I am from Winton St. Mary, at his invitation."
A faint smile curled the lips of the two flunkeys. The second again
mounted the stairs. When he descended, his face wore its usual
expression of deference and respect.
"Be so good as to wait upon his lordship," he said, and led the way.
In a few minutes Harry found himself, hat in hand, making his bow to
Lord Godolphin in a large wainscoted apartment. Four large candles
burnt upon the mantel-piece, daylight being kept out by the heavy
curtains on either side of the narrow window. A huge log fire filled
the chimney-place; beyond it stood a broad table littered with papers,
which at that moment a young man was sorting by the light of a shaded
candle. Lord Godolphin was in dressing-gown and slippers.
"Well, sir?" he said.
"My name is Rochester, my lord."
"I am aware of that. I do not recall it. Well?"
My lord's tone was cold and uninviting.
"Your lordship will permit me to mention a little incident on the Roman
road by Sir Godfrey Fanshawe's park, when----"
"Stay, I remember now. You are the lad they called the young parson,
eh? I have a poor head for names. When my man spoke of Winton St. Mary
I supposed you might be a messenger from the gentleman who entertained
us there."
Now that Harry was actually face to face with the Lord Treasurer, he
felt some diffidence in opening the subject of his visit. My lord, in
spite of his deshabille, seemed far less approachable than he had been
on the old Roman road. Then he was the country sportsman; now he was
the chief minister of the Queen.
"Your shouting friend with the scriptural name--how is he?" he asked in
a somewhat more cordial tone.
"He is well, my lord; he is with me in London."
"And your father: has he won his case against the squire? I heard
something of him at Sir Godfrey Fanshawe's, I think."
"My father is dead, my lord."
"Indeed! Pray accept my condolences. And now, tell me what brings you
here."
"Your lordship may remember, after the scene with the highwaymen----"
"Yes, yes; you did me a service, you and your man; what then?"
"It was but a slight service, my lord; I do not presume on it; but you
were so good as to say that if, at some future time, I should find
myself in need of assistance, I was to come to your lordship."
"Why, I did speak of a country parsonage, I believe. But you,"--he
smiled--"why, I really may not venture to set you up in a cure of souls.
You have to take your degrees yet."
"That is impossible, my lord. My father impoverished himself in his
feuds with Mr. Berkeley; when his affairs were settled I found myself
possessed of but a poor twenty guineas. I have given up all thought of
going to Oxford; I must seek a livelihood."
"H'm!"
Lord Godolphin looked him up and down, as though estimating his chances
of making his way in the world.
"You wear a sword," he said. "Rochester--you are no connection of the
earl's?--no, of course not, he is a Wilmot. Where do you spring from?"
"My grandfather was a soldier, my lord; I have heard that he died young,
but my father seldom spoke of these matters; we have no relatives."
"H'm! I bethink me now, you yourself have an itch for martial life.
All boys have, I suppose. Young Lord Churchill was cut to the heart a
few months ago because my lady Marlborough would not permit him to
follow his father to Flanders. Well, to be frank with you, I see no way
of helping you. With twenty guineas you can no more buy a commission
than you can enter yourself at a college. To enlist as a common soldier
would be a last resource to one of your breeding. There are too many
young scions of good stocks for the lesser places at court to go round
among them. Yet I would fain do something for you."
He began to saunter up and down the room, his hands clasped behind him,
stopping for a moment to listen as the sound of cheers came from the
street. Suddenly the door was opened, and the voice of the servant was
heard announcing a visitor.
"My lord Marlborough."
Harry looked with eager curiosity as the great soldier entered the room.
He saw a tall, singularly handsome man, with short curved upper lip,
firm chin, long almond-shaped eyes, and a calm benignity of expression.
John Churchill, Earl of Marlborough, was at this time fifty-two years of
age. As captain-general of the English forces, in the summer of this
year, 1702, he had opened in concert with the Dutch a campaign in
Flanders against Louis the Fourteenth of France,--a new campaign in the
great war of the Spanish Succession which the policy of William the
Third had bequeathed to his sister-in-law. Venloo and other towns had
been captured by the confederate armies, Liege had been reduced, and the
forces having gone into winter quarters, Marlborough had returned to
England to support the Occasional Conformity Bill. He was a close
personal friend of Godolphin, and allied to him by the marriage of
Francis Godolphin to his daughter Henrietta.
"Welcome, my dear lord!" said Godolphin, starting forward to meet the
earl. "I did not know you had arrived."
"I am but just come from waiting on the Queen," said Marlborough. "I
arrived late last night."
"You are welcome indeed. All men's mouths are full of your praises."
"Ay," returned Marlborough with a smile; "your Londoners have lusty
throats. And I have a piece of news for you." He dropped his voice:
the secretary had vanished through a further door: Harry stood in a
quandary, the noblemen both seeming to ignore his presence. "The Queen
has been pleased to express her wish to make me a duke."
Godolphin laid his hand on his friend's arm, and said cordially: "I
congratulate you, Jack, with all my heart. Why, this very morning I have
a letter from Churchill at Cambridge; there are shrewd wits there; he
says 'tis whispered you are to be raised in the peerage, and the boy,
young dog, begs me to tell him what his own title will be then."
"Ah! 'tis over soon to talk of it. I must acquaint my lady first, and
methinks she will object."
"Stap me, Jack! 'tis few women would hesitate to exchange countess for
duchess.--God bless me, I'd forgotten the boy! My lord, this is the
hero of the little adventure at Winton St. Mary I writ you of. 'Twas he
that inspired the stout fellow to shout, and scared the highwaymen out
of their five wits."
[Illustration: My Lord Marlborough]
Marlborough looked towards Harry, who flushed and bowed. An idea seemed
to strike Godolphin. Linking his arm with the earl's, he led him slowly
to the other end of the room, and stood there talking earnestly to him
in tones too low for Harry to catch a word. Once or twice both glanced
at the tall youthful figure standing in some natural embarrassment near
the door. Once Marlborough shook his head and frowned, upon which
Godolphin took him by a button of his laced coat and spoke more
earnestly than before. At length Marlborough smiled, laid a hand on
Godolphin's shoulder, and spoke a few words in his ear. Then he turned
about, and coming slowly towards Harry, said, in his clear bell-like
tones:
"My lord Godolphin tells me you have lost your father and are all but
penniless. 'Tis an unfortunate situation for a lad of your years. You
would serve the Queen?"
"Ay, my lord."
"You have a quick wit, my lord says. I may make some use of you. Write
your name on a piece of paper, and the name of your lodging."
Godolphin motioned him to the table, where he found paper and a pencil.
He wrote his name and the name of his inn, and handed the paper to
Marlborough, who said, as he folded it and placed it in his pocket:
"I will send for you, Master Rochester, if I can serve you."
"My lord, I am much beholden to you--" began Harry.
Marlborough interrupted him.
"'Tis my lord Godolphin you should thank for his good word."
"'Faith, my lord," said Godolphin, "'tis due to Master Rochester that
the Queen is served by her present Lord Treasurer. I am glad, my lad,
that my friend Lord Marlborough chanced to come upon us here, and I hope
you will have reason to be glad also. Now, you will excuse us; we have
matters of state to speak of; I wish you well."
Harry murmured his thanks and bowed himself out. His nerves were
a-tingle with his unexpected good fortune. To have seen and spoken with
the greatest man in the kingdom was itself an unforeseen privilege; and
the prospect of assistance from such a powerful and august personage
filled him with elation. The earl had shown no great cordiality, it was
true; but Harry was inclined to draw good augury from the few words he
had uttered. They were probably more sincere than a warm volubility
would have been. He left the house with a sparkling eye and a springy
gait, and looked eagerly around to see if Sherebiah were near at hand to
hear his news. But Sherebiah was nowhere to be seen. Having no
particular business, now that his great errand was accomplished, Harry
walked through Whitehall into St. James's Park, in the hope that he
might catch a glimpse of Queen Anne herself. The guard had just been
changed at St. James's Palace, and a stream of people met him as he
strolled along the Mall. He was interested in watching them--the fine
ladies with their hoops and patches, the beaux with their many-coloured
coats, canes dangling at their buttons, toothpicks between their teeth,
and snuff-boxes in frequent use. So absorbed was he that he was
startled when all at once a hand struck him a hearty blow on the
shoulder, and a voice exclaimed:
"Hey, Harry, what make you, ogling the ladies?"
He turned and saw his friend Godfrey Fanshawe, the captain of the
cricket team to whose victory he had so much contributed. The two young
fellows shook hands heartily.
"What brings you to London?" continued Fanshawe.
"I've come in search of fortune, like Dick Whittington. You heard of my
father's death?"
"Ay, but nothing since. They seldom write letters at home."
Harry then explained the course of events which had brought him to
London, concluding with his recent interview with Marlborough and
Godolphin.
"Egad, man!" exclaimed Fanshawe, "you're in luck's way indeed. Would
that I stood so well with the two greatest men in England. My lord
Marlborough will gazette you an ensign of foot or a cornet of horse; and
my cornetcy, I may tell you, cost my father a pretty penny. What luck,
Harry, if we make the next campaign together! The earl will surely go
back to Flanders when the winter is over."
"I should like nothing better."
"Where are you staying?"
"At the Angel and Crown, in Threadneedle Street."
"You must leave that and come westward. Are you alone?"
"Sherry Minshull is with me at present; but he'll get work for himself
as soon as I am settled."
"Sherry's a handy fellow; egad, I know no better! He'll tie a fly with
any man, and is as good with sword or quarterstaff as he is with his
fists. Well now, 'tis drawing towards dinner-time; come and dine with
me; the people of fashion here dine at four, but I stick to country
habits. We'll go to Locket's at Charing Cross; you're my guest to-day.
And we'll go to the play this evening; the first time, I warrant you,
you've seen a play. Come! I stand well with the people at Locket's, and
the sharp air this morning has given me an appetite."
It was but five minutes' walk to Locket's tavern. Entering, Fanshawe
bowed with elaborate courtesy to the fair dame in charge, and called for
the card.
"There's boiled beef and carrots, I see, and a goose, and look, a calf's
head. I adore calf's head. What say you? Yes? Boy, bring calf's head
for two, and quickly."
With calf's head and cabbage and a wedge of Cheshire cheese, the two
young fellows appeased their unjaded appetites. Fanshawe sat for some
time finishing his bottle of wine, Harry contenting himself with small
beer. Then, as there still remained a few hours to while away before
theatre time, Fanshawe proposed a row on the river. Harry eagerly
assented; they sallied forth, took boat at Westminster stairs and rowed
up to Chelsea, returning to Westminster in time for the performance of
Mr. Colley Cibber's new play, "She would and she would not", by Her
Majesty's Servants at Drury Lane. Harry was delighted with his first
visit to the theatre. He was tickled at the unabashed impertinence of
Trappanti the discarded servant, played by Mr. Penkethman, one of the
best comedians in London, as Fanshawe informed him; and fell in love
with Hypolita the heroine, a part which suited Mrs. Mountford to
perfection. But he was perhaps most interested in Mr. Colley Cibber
himself, who played the part of Don Manuel the irascible father. His
pleasure was complete when, after the performance, Fanshawe took him to
the Bull's Head tavern, and showed him Mr. Cibber with his paint washed
off, surrounded by a circle of actors, soldiers, lords, and even
clergymen. He had never seen an author before. Mr. Cibber had no
presence to boast of, with his thick legs, lean face, and sandy hair;
but the liveliness of his conversation gave him a sort of pre-eminence
among his coterie, and made a considerable impression on a youth ready
to admire and wonder at anything.
Fanshawe appeared quite at home among the company. He was indeed a
frequent visitor at the Bull's Head after the play, where all were
welcome on condition of providing their quota towards the general
hilarity. Fanshawe was the lucky possessor of a fine baritone voice,
and his spirited singing of west-country songs had won him instant
popularity. On this night, in response to the usual call, he began--
"Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce, lend me thy grey mare,
All along, down along, out along lee;
For I want for to go to Widdicombe Fair,
Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy,
Dan Whiddon, Harry Hawk,
Old uncle Tom Cobleigh, and all";
and by the time he reached the end of the third of the eight stanzas,
the whole company were ready to join him in trolling the chorus,
"Old uncle Tom Cobleigh and all".
It was late when Harry reached the Angel and Crown. Sherebiah was
marching up and down before the tavern, blowing great clouds from his
pipe.
"Hey now, Master Harry," he said, with an expression of mingled wrath
and relief; "'tis a mighty scurvy trick you have played me, i' feck 'tis
so. Here we are, your second day in London, and you must go off along
by your lone self on who knows what errand o' foolery. Ay, 'tis strong
words for me, and a man o' peace and all, but not too strong, seee'n as
I knows the wicked ways o' the town and you be unfledged. Zooks, sir,
I've been in a terrible way, thinken all manner of awsome an' gashly
things, as how you med ha' been trepanned, or slit by the Scourers, or
trampled by some high lard's horses, or rifled and beat by footpads, or
'ticed into a dicing den by sweetners always on the look-out for a
country gudgeon, or----"
"Hold, Sherry, you forget yourself," said Harry, who was, however, not
displeased to find the honest fellow so solicitous about him. "In
truth, I forgot all about you. I can take care of myself, I think. I
dined with Mr. Godfrey Fanshawe, whom I chanced to meet, and we went to
the play afterwards, and I never laughed so much in my life. Mrs.
Mountford's a beauty, Sherry, and Mr. Cibber--when he doesn't
squeak--has the pleasantest voice ever I heard--nay, not that, after
all; 'tis not so pleasant as my lord Marlborough's. What d'ye think,
Sherry? I met the earl himself at Lord Godolphin's, and he has my name
on a scrap of paper, and to-morrow or next day I shall hold the queen's
commission, and then off with the troops to Flanders, and I shall make
my fortune, man, and then----"
"Huh!" put in a voice from the doorway. "Haastige spoed is zelden
goed."
Harry's excitement was dashed by the slow drawl of Mynheer Grootz, whose
little eyes were twinkling as he puffed at his big pipe.
"Ay, a true word," said Sherebiah. "'More haste, less speed,' as the
Dutch words mean put into rightful language. 'Counten chickens afore
they be hatched,' as ye med say."
Though he was a little nettled, Harry had too much good sense not to see
that his elation had carried him too far. He could laugh at himself--an
excellent virtue in man or boy.
"I am an ass, Mr. Grootz," he said; "but really I did not expect such
good luck. My lord Godolphin was very kind, and so was the earl, and as
he used but few words I do think he meant what he said. I am sorry my
absence made you uneasy, Sherry; but I don't understand why you should
imagine all manner of harm."
"An ye knew----" began Sherebiah; but he paused, hemmed, and changed his
sentence. "All's well as ends well, Master Harry; I axe your pardon for
my free words; and here be a fine stout piece of ash I bought in Fleet
Street for your hand. Feel un; 'twill crack a pate as quick as speaken,
and I'll be more easy in mind knowen you have such a good staff in
company."
"Thanks, Sherry!" said Harry with a laugh, weighing in his hand the
stick with which the man presented him. "But I'm a man of peace, you
know, eh?--at present. Now let's to bed."
As they went from the room Harry remarked, "By the way, Sherry, how is
it that you know Dutch?"
"Me know Dutch? Why, sir, what makes ye think I know that outlandish
tongue?"
"Why, didn't you tell me just now the meaning of what Mynheer Grootz
said to me?"
"Ay, so I did, now. It must ha' been as a dog knows his master's
speech, or just as I knowed the meanen o' the holy things your good
feyther was used to speak in the high pulpit, for egad, word by word I
knowed no more than the dead what a' said, not I."
The explanation struck Harry as rather lame, but he merely said, with a
laugh:
"Well, you'll make a very faithful watch-dog, Sherry. Good-night! I
shall sleep well;--if I don't dream too much of battle and glory."
*CHAPTER VII*
*Snared*
Hope Deferred--Motes in the Sunbeam--Mynheer makes an Offer--Sherebiah
on Guard--New Quarters--Tumblers--Solvitur Ambulando--Doubling--Sick at
Heart--Too Late--A Debit Balance--Gloom--Cold Streets--Three
Sailors--Muffled
Several days passed--days of unfailing happiness for Harry. Though he
spent hours in roaming the town, there was always something fresh to
see, something novel to capture his interest. He saw the state entrance
of the new Venetian ambassador. He visited the Tower, the Abbey, and
St. Paul's, saw Winstanley's water-works in Piccadilly near Hyde Park,
and witnessed a football match at Covent Garden. He accompanied
Fanshawe several times to the theatre, and somewhat offended that
sparkish young gentleman by constantly refusing to join him in
card-parties and night escapades in the streets. He saw a back-sword
match at the Bear Garden in Hockley in the Hole, and a billiard match at
the Greyhound Coffee-house near Monmouth Street. Apart from these public
sights, he found endless diversion in the ordinary street scenes: the
markets, the itinerant vendors, the acrobats, or posture-masters as they
were then called, who performed their dancing and tumbling in squares
remote from the traffic. It amused Harry that Sherebiah never tired of
these mountebank tricks, but would stand and watch them with unflagging
interest by the hour, applauding every neatly executed feat, and
criticising with unsparing severity every instance of clumsiness or
bungling. Soldiers, on the other hand, apparently did not interest
Sherebiah. Harry liked to watch them drilling on the Horse Guards'
parade or in Hyde Park; but on these occasions Sherebiah always strolled
away, waiting with impatience until his young master had satisfied his
curiosity.
"They won't kill you, Sherry," said Harry once, laughing as the man
sheered off. "Their muskets are not loaded."
"True. But 'tis no pleasure to me to see such men o' war. Feyther o'
mine were a trooper; he be always talken on it; I be a man o' peace, I
be."
Every day when he came down to breakfast, and when he returned in the
evening, Harry eagerly looked for a message from Lord Marlborough. But
the days passed; a week flew by; and still no message came. After the
second day he made no reference to the matter; Sherebiah and Grootz
considerately forbore to allude to it. But they watched him with shrewd
eyes, and saw, through all the curiosity and pleasure he took in his new
life, a growing sense of disappointment and anxiety. He had built high
hopes upon the interview at Godolphin's; as boys will, he had allowed
his fancy to outstrip his judgment, and had added a good deal of
embroidery to the simple facts. Already in imagination he saw himself
carrying the Queen's colours, performing heroic deeds in the field,
winning golden opinions from the general, coming home laden with honour
and substantial rewards, perhaps to gain, as the acme of bliss, an
approving smile from the Queen herself. And he would wake from these
day-dreams to the sober reality---that the desired message from
Marlborough had not come, and meanwhile time was fleeting by, and every
day saw his little stock of money diminished.
He had resisted Fanshawe's recommendation to change his lodging.
Charges were higher, Sherebiah informed him, in the more fashionable
parts, and he knew that he could not afford to run risks. At first he
had not been parsimonious; he was not extravagant by nature, but he had
not hesitated to buy a trifle that pleased him, to give largesse to the
ballad-singers and street musicians, to pay his eighteenpence for a seat
in the pit at Drury Lane or Lincoln's Inn Fields. But he gave all this
up, and thought twice about spending a penny. He bought only the
strictest necessaries, and for his amusement depended on the sights of
the streets, the parks, and the river, and such entertainment as could
be had at the coffee-houses, where for a penny he could obtain a dish of
coffee, read the _Daily Courant_ with its manuscript supplement, or
Dawks's _News Letter_, and hear all the news of the day discussed with
more heat than information by arm-chair politicians.
One day the _Courant_ announced that the Queen had been pleased to
confer the dignity of a dukedom upon the Earl of Marlborough, and that
the House of Commons would be asked to grant him an annual pension to
match his new rank. Harry remembered what he had heard pass between
Marlborough and Godolphin, and when the coffee-house gossips
supplemented the official intimation with the rumour that the Countess
Sarah had been violently opposed to her husband's elevation in the
peerage, he understood the meaning of the peculiar tone in which
Marlborough had spoken of acquainting her ladyship. The new duchess was
the theme of much conversation and many jests in these free-spoken
assemblies. Marlborough was a very great general; everybody was agreed
on that; but it was doubted whether he was master in his own house; some
said he was henpecked; one plain blunt fellow declared in Harry's
hearing that the duke was as much afraid of his missis as any Thames
bargee. Harry was not interested in Marlborough's domestic affairs, but
his heart sank when he reflected on his own insignificance beside the
great man whom the Queen was delighting to honour. After all, how could
he expect a man of such eminence, immersed in state affairs, with all
the responsibility for conducting a great campaign, to remember a
country youth whom he had seen once, and who had made, perhaps, as deep
an impression on him as a fly might make on a lion.
That night Harry was eating his supper, somewhat moodily, when Mynheer
Grootz, sitting opposite, made him a sudden proposition.
"I tell you dis," he said. "I go back to my country zoon. I have
business wid de armies; I sell hay for de horses, meal for de men. You
are quick, I see dat; you speak French, enough for my purpose; I give
you good wages if you come and help me in my business."
Harry flushed. The Dutchman dipped a hunk of bread into his soup and
filled his mouth with it, looking down at the bare deal board the while.
"I thank you, Mynheer," said Harry with some constraint. "I have
another purpose, as you know."
Up came the fat forefinger, moist with gravy.
"I speak plain to you. You have pride; I alzo. But I have mills, and
ships, and vields; dey are mine; I am rich--ja, rich; I, Jan Grootz. My
fader, he was a poor weaver in Dort; he work hard and die poor; I work
hard, and grow rich. I have what for to be proud. You are a gentleman;
dat is zo; it is good to be a gentleman; it is not good to be poor. And
more, it is not good to zee money go every day, every day, and wait for
some prince to fill de empty purse. You have pride; for what? For
white hands, and by and by an empty stomach. My hands, dey are not
white, naturlik; but my stomach is full, and I stand up before any
prince; Jan Grootz; zo!"
He spread his broad hands before Harry, as though he were proud even of
their horny skin. The action brought a smile to the lad's gloomy face
and dulled the edge of his irritation.
"I won't debate the matter with you," he said. "I'm not afraid of work,
I hope, and maybe my white hands may be red enough before long. I won't
despair of my lord Marlborough yet; and I know your intention is
friendly, Mynheer."
The Dutchman grunted, and applied himself again to his meal.
Great as were Harry's anxieties, Sherebiah's were perhaps even greater.
He also was disappointed by the forgetfulness or neglect of Marlborough,
and concerned at the constant drain upon his young master's purse; but
he had further causes of trouble of which Harry was unaware. Ever since
their arrival in London Sherebiah had been possessed by a dread of
impending ill. He had always in mind the interview between Captain
Aglionby and the squire's man at the White Hart tavern, and day by day
expected it to bear fruit to Harry's harm; but for reasons of his own he
hesitated to tell him the plain truth. He stuck like a leech to Harry
when he went walking, and many times when the lad would rather have been
alone with his dismal thoughts he found Sherebiah at his heel, like the
watch-dog to which he had compared him. He did not know that even when
he succeeded in eluding his too solicitous henchman, it was only in
appearance; for Sherebiah, armed with a stout ash cudgel, was seldom
many yards behind. Many a night after Harry had gone disconsolate to
his bed, the man wended his way to Southwark in the hope of making a
further discovery; but he never saw the captain or anyone whom he knew
to be connected with him, and when at last he found an opportunity of
making a discreet enquiry at the hostelry, he was more alarmed than
pleased to find that Captain Aglionby had departed some time before, and
that nothing had since been heard of him.
One morning, when they had been for about a month in London, when
Parliament had been prorogued, and a new year had opened, Sherebiah
surprised Harry by suggesting that they should remove to an inn near
Leicester fields.
"Why, you were against it when Mr. Fanshawe proposed it. How is it that
you have changed your mind, Sherry?"
"Well, sir, 'tis this way, if I med be so bold. Your money be gwine
fast, and 'twould never do to begin a more humble way o' liven here.
Nay, what I say is, if you must pare and scrape, go where you bean't so
well known, and then nobody'll think the worse on 'ee for't."
"Hang me, who talked of paring and scraping, Sherry?" cried Harry
impatiently.
"I axe your pardon, sir," said Sherebiah earnestly, "but I were not born
yesterday. Here are we, four weeks in Lun'on, and you know yourself how
many golden guineas you brought wi' 'ee, and how many be left. Sure I
bean't a great eater myself, but even my little small morsel ha' got to
be paid for. Master Harry, 'twill be best for 'ee to do as I say. Ay,
an' if I knowed 'ee wouldn't up and rate me, I'd say another thing, I
would so."
"Well--what's that?"
"Why, I'd say, hand over your purse to me. Nay, sir, don't be angry;
ye're not wasteful, no; but if we go to another house, I can save 'ee
many a penny here and penny there in ways you wouldn't so much as dream
on. I know Lun'on folk, you see; ay, I know 'em well."
In the upshot, Sherebiah had his way on both points. The reason for his
change of front was that on the previous afternoon he had seen the
squire's man Jock hanging about the inn, and had found out subsequently
that Captain Aglionby had returned to his old quarters at the White
Hart. It was just as well, he thought, to take one step further from
danger by changing their lodging. When this was done, and Sherebiah
kept the purse, Harry was amazed to find how much further his money
went. It would not have surprised him if the weekly bill had been
reduced by a small amount; but when he discovered that, though he fared
quite as well, the expenses were not half what they had been, he began
to think that Sherebiah possessed some talisman against the cupidity of
London innkeepers. He found, too, that he was left much more to
himself, and wondered why, with the change of lodging, Sherebiah's
watchfulness appeared to have diminished.
He was walking with Godfrey Fanshawe one cold January afternoon by Pye
Corner, when he was attracted by a crowd of people gazing at a street
show that, to judge by their laughter and applause, was exceedingly
entertaining. Elbowing their way through the stragglers on the
outskirts, the two young fellows arrived at a position whence they could
see what was going on. A group of posture-masters were performing, and
at the moment of Harry's arrival, a short thickset man, dressed in
fantastic costume, and with painted face, was dancing on his knees with
his toes in his hands, keeping time to the music of a flute and a
violin. The tune was a merry one, and the movements of the acrobat
irresistibly funny, so that every member of the crowd roared with
laughter.
"Adzooks!" exclaimed Fanshawe, "the fellow's face is the funniest part
of the performance. Look'ee, Harry, 'tis as sober as a judge's on
assize; one would think 'twere a hanging matter."
Harry had been so tickled by this odd mode of dancing that he had not
noticed the performer's features. He glanced at them now, started with
a sudden gasp, and cried:
"By the Lord Harry, 'tis----"
"'Tis what?" said Fanshawe, looking at him in surprise.
"Oh, nothing!"
"Come, I scent a mystery. Unravel, sir!"
"'Tis nothing. See, Fanshawe, the dance is over. Let us go on."
Without waiting for his companion, he pushed his way back through the
crowd.
"Faith, I don't understand you of late, Rochester," said Fanshawe in a
half-vexed tone, when he overtook him. "You're moody, full of whimsies,
all starts and surprises. Would to Heaven that the duke would bethink
him of that paper you gave him! You need settling in life. Why don't
you go to him, or to Lord Godolphin again? 'Tis few suitors but would
show more perseverance."
"Not I. 'Twas against the grain to beg even one favour. I'd rather
earn my bread by scraping a fiddle, or dancing on my knees like--like
the poor fellow there."
"Well, let me tell you, you'll rue your independence. Adsbud, who would
get on in this world if he didn't pay court to the great! Your
starveling poet writes a flattering dedication to a lord--for pay! Your
snivelling parson toadies to the lord of the manor--for a meal! I
except your father, Harry; he was a rare one. 'Tis the way o' the
world; we must all do it, or pay the penalty."
"Be the penalty what it will, I'll pay it rather than play lick-spittle
to any man."
Fanshawe shrugged. "By the way," he said, "Mr. Berkeley is in town--to
pay his court to someone, I swear. 'Tis said he is buying a commission
for that cub his son; pray Heaven it be not in my regiment! That's the
way o' the world again. Here's Piers Berkeley, the young popinjay, all
grins and frippery, like to carry the Queen's colours in a fine regiment
because his father has a long purse, and you, a deal more fit for it,
kicking your heels for want of a rich father or a richer patron. I fear
'tis all up with your chances now; but I wish you luck. I go to
Flanders in a week; home to-morrow to say good-bye; who knows when we
may meet again!"
The two friends bade each other a cordial farewell; then Harry returned
sadly to his lodging. Some two hours later Sherebiah came back.
"What do 'ee think, Master Harry?" he said. "I ha' seed old Squire."
"I knew he was in town," replied Harry. "And what do you think I've
seen, Sherry?"
Detecting a something strange in his tone, Sherebiah gave him a hard
look.
"I never was no good at guessen," he said. "Mebbe the German giant at
Hercules' Pillars, or the liven fairy in Bridges Street."
"No, 'twas no giant and no fairy, but a short man--about your height,
Sherry--with a round face--just as round as yours--and a solemn
look--like yours at whiles; and what think you he was doing? He was
dancing on his knees, with a crowd of numskulls round him grinning at
his capers, and----"
"There now, 'twas sure to be found out, I knowed it. 'Twas me--I don't
deny it, 'cos bean't no good."
"Now I know why you wanted to keep the purse, you old dissembler. You
eke out my little store with the pence your antics fetch. Sherry, I
love thee; I do indeed. But how did you learn those fantastic tricks
with your knees?"
"Oh, I ha' done a bit o' tumblen in my time; ay sure."
"You seem to have done a bit of everything. But when? and why? You
must tell me all about it."
"Some day mebbe. Ha' led a motley life for a man o' peace; so 'tis.
'Twould make old feyther o' mine drop all his old bones in a heap if so
be as he knowed all my lines o' life. The time'll come to tell 'ee,
sir, but 'tis not yet, no."
That was the end of Sherebiah's acrobatic performances. From that day he
stuck to Harry more closely than ever; and the weekly bills increased.
They had been in town now for nearly two months, and by dint of the
greatest economy Sherebiah thought that the money might last for a
fortnight longer. Then the wolf would be at the door. Harry had not
told his man of Jan Grootz's offer, though he surmised, from a word
Sherebiah let fall, that he knew of it. Hoping against hope, he waited
and longed for some sign from the duke. Every day Sherebiah went to the
Angel and Crown to see if a letter had come, and every day he came back
disappointed. He had not given the host his new address, for reasons of
his own; and when on one of his visits he learnt that a man had enquired
for the present whereabouts of Mr. Harry Rochester, he hugged himself on
his prudence. He would not have been so well pleased if he had known
that on the very next day, when he returned from the Angel and Crown by
a roundabout way to his inn in Leicester Fields, he was shadowed by a
man who had waited for several hours for the opportunity. And he would
undoubtedly have counselled a second change of abode if he had known
that the spy, after assuring himself that Harry Rochester was a guest of
the inn, had gone hotfoot to Captain Aglionby.
Another week went by. On Saturday night Sherebiah counted up the
contents of his purse, and found that by the end of the next week he
would have spent the uttermost farthing.
"I give it back to 'ee, sir," he said. "Come Monday morn, I go to find
work."
"Not so fast, Sherry. We share alike; when you go to find work, I go
too. The duke may send for me even at the eleventh hour."
"A plague on the duke! I wish I may never hear of dukes again to th'
end o' my mortal days. A duke's a bubble, and that's the truth on't.
Better be an honest man, as Mynheer Grootz says."
"'Tis mere forgetfulness, I am sure, Sherry. He has mislaid the paper,
I suspect, and his mind being filled with weightier matters, has
forgotten that even so insignificant a person as myself exists."
"'Tis my belief he never did a kindness to man, woman, or child in all
his born days. Why, all the chairmen and hackney coachmen know un; ay,
and madam his duchess too. My lady will haggle with an oyster-wench
over a ha'penny, and the only thing my lord gives away for nowt is his
smile. Hang dukes and duchesses, say I!"
"Well, Sherry, I can't gainsay you, because I don't know. We'll give
him three days' grace, and then----"
He sighed. The world looked black to him. He knew no trade, had
practised no art, had no means to enter a profession. He turned over in
his mind the possible openings. He could not apprentice himself to a
merchant or handicraftsman, for that needed money. He might perhaps get
a clerkship in a goldsmith's or a warehouse; Sir Godfrey Fanshawe, no
doubt, would vouch for his respectability! He almost envied the footmen
of gentlemen of quality, who wore a livery, earned six pounds a year,
and a crown a week extra for gloves and powder. He writhed on his
sleepless bed that night as he contrasted his present circumstances with
his former prospects and his recent imaginings. A clergyman,--an
officer of the Queen's, forsooth! he was a pauper, a beggar, with
nothing but his health and his wits. Then he rated himself for his
despondency. "Fancy snivelling," he said to himself, "because a duke
hasn't the grace or the time to remember a promise! What would my
father think of me? Here have I wasted precious time waiting on a duke's
pleasure when I might have been turning the weeks to some profit. And I
was too proud to accept the Dutchman's friendly offer. Egad, I'll go to
him on Monday and beg him to give me employment; sink my pride for good
and all."
So possessed was he by his determination that Sunday passed all too
slowly. On Monday morning he walked early to the Angel and Crown and
asked for Mynheer Grootz. The landlord replied that Mynheer Grootz had
left the inn on Friday, removing all his baggage. He was about to sail
for Holland, and, as the wind favoured, it was probable that his ship
had already left the Thames. This news was a terrible damper. Harry
had built confidently on the anticipated interview. Mingled with his
gratitude for the coming favour, he even felt a pleasant glow at his
condescension in accepting service so much beneath him. And now this new
house of cards was toppled down! He turned gloomily away, and wandered
aimlessly through the streets, disposed, under the first sting of the
disappointment, to believe that fate had indeed a spite against him. He
was glad he had said nothing to Sherebiah of his intention, being in no
mood to endure condolences, in word or look. "What a useless loon I
am!" he said to himself bitterly. "Sherry can earn his living by
tumbling in the streets, and maybe in dozens of other ways; I can do
nothing. Even Piers Berkeley has a commission in the army--that puppy!"
But Harry was never long in the dumps. He was only a boy, and the
misfortunes that had befallen him so suddenly were sufficient excuse for
his passing fits of moodiness; but his was naturally a sanguine temper,
and by the time he reached the inn his brow had cleared and he was able
to eat his dinner with good appetite.
"The last but one, Sherry," he said with a smile. "After to-morrow the
purse will be all but dry, and then I shall have to earn my bread. What
do you say? Will you teach me to stand on my head, to begin with?"
"Zooks, sir, dont'ee put it so terrible low. Look'ee, now, I ha' some
score o' guineas behind my belt; ye're welcome to the loan on 'em till
your ship do come home."
"You're a good fellow, Sherry, but I couldn't think of it. Do you want
to make me still more ashamed of myself?"
"Well then, sir, why not go to my lord Marlborough's noble house and
walk up and down outside till the duke comes out, and stand full in his
path and catch his eye--or mebbe his missis'; her med be taken wi' 'ee
and command her good man to remember 'ee, for by all accounts she----"
"Hold your tongue, sirrah!" cried Harry with a touch of anger. "Hang
about a great man's door, like Lazarus waiting for the offal! No
indeed. Nay. To-morrow we shall be adrift; pray God a fair breeze will
carry us into port. Sherry, you had better go and tell the landlord we
shall leave him to-morrow. Ask for the reckoning; we will pay the score
and begin the morning at least free men."
In half an hour Sherebiah returned with the bill. Harry pulled a long
face as he glanced at it. He untied the purse-strings and laid his
money out on the table.
"'Tis worse than I thought," he said ruefully. "In some unconscionable
fashion the bill mounts higher this week; I am ten shillings short
without vails to the servants."
"Ah, I know Lun'on folk, I do. But don't let that trouble 'ee, sir; ten
shillens won't make a great hole in my store."
"But I won't have your money. Nay, Sherry, call it a whim of mine; 'tis
our last day; the charges are mine; to-morrow we must start afresh. I
have some trinkets in my box; their worth I know not; but you can take
one or two to a goldsmith's and place them with him until the luck
turns. You will do that better than I."
He left the room and came back with a miniature set in gold and a brooch
of antique make. Sherebiah looked at them with a deliberative air.
"Baubles like these sell for next to nowt," he said. "'Tis not all gold
that glitters. But I'll take 'em, sir, and cheapen 'em as best I may.
Be I to pledge 'em in my name or yours?"
"It doesn't matter--whichever you like. I'll sit by the fire and read
while you are gone."
"Ay, 'tis a raw and nippen afternoon, and there be true comfort in a log
fire."
He flung his cloak over his shoulders and was gone. Harry went to his
room and brought down a volume of his father's containing Mr. John
Milton's poem of "Samson Agonistes". In the dark afternoon he read for
some time by the light of the fire, finding a certain melancholy
pleasure in fitting Samson's woeful laments to his own case.
"So much I feel my genial spirits droop,
My hopes all flat",
he murmured, and then closed the book over his finger and gazed into the
ruddy cavern of the fire till his eyes ached. Sherebiah seemed a long
time gone; a feeling of restlessness stole upon Harry. He let the book
fall from his hand, rose, and paced about the room, stopping once or
twice at the narrow window to look out into the street. The air was
misty, the pavement sticky with mud; every passing horse stepped under a
blanket of vapour; the wayfarers were muffled about their necks and
walked as though bent under a load. Harry fidgeted, wondering why
Sherebiah was so long. His reading had not cheered him; his musing did
but increase his gloom. At last, unable to endure inaction longer, he
put on his cloak and hat, took up the cudgel without which, in deference
to Sherebiah's advice, he seldom went abroad, and sallied forth into the
street, to walk off his fit of the dumps, if that might be.
By the flickering light above the door he saw three sailors lurching up
the street. He passed them, giving them but a casual glance, turned
into the Strand, and spent some time looking listlessly into the lighted
shops. At the door of a coffee-house he noticed a group gathered about a
newspaper pasted on the wall. A manuscript supplement had just been
affixed to it. When he could get near enough to see the writing, he
felt a momentary interest in the announcement he read.
"The Duke of Marlborough has rid post to Cambridge, call'd thither by
the desperate state of the Marquis of Blandford. It is now 'stablish'd
beyond doubt that the young Lord is suffering from the Small-Pox."
Even the great duke had his troubles. Lord Blandford was, as Harry
knew, Marlborough's only son; he was the Lord Churchill who had written
to Godolphin with boyish curiosity to know what his title would be when
his father became a duke. Harry passed on, more than ever convinced
that the great man, beset by cares public and domestic, could have no
time to think of the small concerns of a country parson's son.
He turned into the Savoy and came by and by to the Temple Gardens,
forlorn and desolate in the chill February evening. Not far behind him
three sailors were sauntering in the same direction, on their way
perhaps to rejoin their vessel in the Thames. The damp cold air struck
Harry to the bone; he shivered and drew his cloak closer around him, and
was on the point of turning to retrace his steps when there suddenly
stood before him a woman, thin-clad, bare-headed, with a whining child
in her arms.
"Spare a penny, kind sir, to buy bread. My lips have not touched food
the livelong day, and my little boy is fair starved. Oh, sir, have pity
on a poor lone woman; spare a penny, kind sir."
Harry stopped and looked at the thin haggard cheeks, the dark-rimmed
eyes, the hair hanging in loose damp wisps over the brow. The child's
feeble moans stabbed him like a knife; its poor pinched wizened face was
a speaking tale of woe. Loosening his cloak, the woman all the while
continuing her monotonous complaint, he untied his purse. It contained
a guinea and one crown piece. At that moment the three sailors passed
him, talking loudly, and laughing coarsely as they jostled the woman in
their path.
"The poor creature's need is greater than mine," he thought. "Sherry
will bring back some money. Here you are," he said, handing her the
guinea. "And for God's sake take your little one out of the damp and
cold! Good-night!"
Harry moved on, impressed by the spectacle of a misery deeper than his
own, and pursued by the voluble thanks of the poor woman. He had
forgotten his purpose to turn back; and was only recalled to it by the
sight of the three sailors rolling on ahead. They were walking arm in
arm, and from their gait Harry concluded that the middle one of the
three was intoxicated, and needed the support of his comrades. One of
them glanced back over his shoulder just as Harry was turning. The next
moment there was a heavy thud; the drunken sailor was on the ground, the
others bending over him. A hoarse cry for help caused Harry to hasten
to the group.
"What is amiss?" he asked.
"Be you a surgeon, mate?" replied the man, a thickset and powerful salt.
"Bill be taken wi' a fit, sure enough. A's foaming at the mouth."
"No, I'm not a surgeon. I thought he was drunk."
"Not him. Belay there; let the gentleman see."
Harry went to the man's head and leant over, peering into his face.
Instantly the fallen sailor flung his arms round Harry's legs and pulled
them violently towards him. Unable to recover himself Harry fell
backward, and before he could cry out a cloak was flung over his head
and a brawny hand had him by the throat. Through the folds of cloth he
heard the men with many oaths congratulate themselves on the ease with
which they had accomplished their job. For a few moments he struggled
violently, until he felt that resistance was hopeless. Then the cloak
was tied about his neck, and he felt himself carried by two of the
three, one having him by the head, the other by the heels. They walked
swiftly along, and, not troubling to keep step, jolted him unpleasantly.
There was a singing in his ears; he gasped for breath; and soon his
physical discomfort and his fears were alike annihilated. He had lost
consciousness.
*CHAPTER VIII*
*Flotsam*
Under the Leads--A Thames-side Attic--A Man of Law--A Matter of Form--A
Question of Identity--A Fine Mesh--A Dash for Freedom--Help in Need--For
the Plantations--Visitors on Board--Ned Bates--In the Foc'sle--Sailor's
Knots--An Old Coat--Odds and Ends--A Soft Answer--Overboard--A Dead
Heat--A Sea Lawyer--Grootz Protests--A Stern Chase--Sherry's Story--To
the Low Countries
When Harry recovered his senses he found himself tied hand and foot, and
with a cloth gag between his teeth. It was pitch dark; he could hear
nothing save a faint scratching near at hand; mice were evidently at
their nocturnal work. He lay still perforce; he found it impossible
even to wriggle over on to his side. Here was indeed a culmination of
his misfortunes.
He tried to think, but the sudden attack and his subsequent
unconsciousness had left his brain in a whirl. Gradually the sequence of
events came back to him: his walk through the streets towards
Blackfriars, the beggar woman, the three sailors, the pretended fit.
What was the meaning of it? Had he been marked by the press-gang, and
trepanned to serve Her Majesty on the high seas? Had he been kidnapped,
to be robbed or held to ransom? Hardly the former, for a knock on the
head would have served the kidnappers' ends. Hardly the latter, for no
one could have taken the pains to waylay for such a purpose a penniless
youth with no friends.
Suddenly he remembered the vague uneasiness shown at times by Sherebiah;
his earnest warnings; the cudgel which after all had proved useless.
Sherebiah, it seemed, had had more definite reasons for alarm than he
had avowed; why then had the silly fellow not spoken his mind freely?
Who was the enemy? What motive could any person in the wide world have
for kidnapping one who was even yet a boy and had, so far as he knew,
done no harm to a living soul? The more he thought, the more he was
puzzled.
He was in pain. The cords cut into his flesh; his throat was parched;
he could not swallow. How long was this torture to continue? Where was
he? Where were his capturers? He longed for a light, so that he might
at least see the prison in which he was confined, and so diminish even
by one his terrible uncertainties. But no light came, no voice or
footfall sounded gratefully upon his ear; and presently a lethargy stole
upon his mind and all things were again in oblivion.
He was roused by a light flashed in his eyes. Dazed and still only half
conscious, he saw an unknown face bending towards him, and a hand
holding a candle. The man grunted as though with relief to find the
captive still alive; then, setting the candle upon the floor, he removed
the gag. Harry tried to speak, but no word issued from his lips. The
man went from the room, leaving the candle still burning. By its light
Harry saw that he was in a narrow attic, with rough beams supporting a
slanting roof, and whitewashed walls. There was a sky-light above him;
he could hear the first patters of a shower of hail.
Presently the man returned bearing a can and a hunk of bread. Lifting
Harry, he held the can to his lips. The prisoner drank the beer
greedily.
"Where am I?" he asked, recovering his voice.
"Hold your jaw!" was the surly answer. "You are where you are."
"Why am I brought here? What is to be done with me?"
"Hold your jaw, I say! Ye'll get nothing out of me. Keep a still
tongue; for if ye raise your voice someone I know will find means to
quiet ye."
"But I insist on knowing," cried Harry in indignation. "Why was I dogged
and attacked in the streets, and brought captive to----"
"Stow it! Least said soonest mended. Behave wi' sense and ye'll be
treated according; otherways--well, I won't answer for't."
"Loose my arms then."
"Well, I'll do that for 'ee, and legs too; don't think ye can run away,
'cos ye can't. Here's your supper; dry, but 'tis drier where there's
none. I'll leave ye to't."
Untying the cords, the man gave the bread into Harry's hand, took up the
candle, and went out, locking the door behind him. Harry could not eat;
his limbs were cramped with his long immobility; when he stood his knees
hardly supported him. But it was pleasant to be able to use arms and
legs once more, and after a time his aching pains abated. He groped
round the room, shook the door, and found it fast. He could just touch
the sky-light with his outstretched hand, and he felt that the glass was
loose; but he could not remove it unless he stood higher, and groping
failed to find any chair or stool. Escape was impossible; he could but
wait for the morning.
He lay awake the greater part of the night, but was sound asleep when
the same man re-entered with his meagre breakfast. The morning brought
no comfort. A gray dawn struggled through the grimy sky-light,
revealing the nakedness of the room. Cobwebs festooned the beams; the
boards of the floor were dirty and mouldered; the walls in places were
green with damp. Harry took silently the food offered him; he was not
encouraged by the previous night's experience to question his taciturn
jailer. The morning passed slowly, irksomely; when the man returned
with another meal at noon, Harry ventured to address him.
"How long am I to remain caged here?"
"I can't tell 'ee, 'cos I don't know."
"You're not one of the sailors who trapped me?"
"Lord, no. I wouldn't be a dirty swab for nothing 'cept to 'scape the
gallows."
"Who employs you in this turnkey business?"
"That's my business."
"Don't be surly. I've done nothing to you."
"Well, that's true. You ha'n't done nothing to me. That's true enough."
"Will you do something for me, then? You're a good fellow, I'm sure."
"Nay, nay, you don't come over me, young master. Soft speeches ain't no
good for a tough un like me. When I goes out I locks ye in, and if ye
holler till ye bust, 'tis no good, not at all."
"I didn't mean that. 'Tis dull as death lying on these rotten boards
with nothing to do; bring me the morning's paper and I'll thank you."
"Well, that's harmless enough, to be sure. Gi' me twopence and I'll buy
ye a _Courant_."
"'Tis only a penny."
"True; t'other penny's for me."
Harry smiled and felt for his purse. It was gone.
"Plucked clean, eh?" chuckled the man. "Trust your Wapping swab for
that. All the same you shall have the paper."
He returned with the morning's _Courant_, already well thumbed. Harry
ran his eye over the meagre half-sheet; there was nothing that
interested him except the announcement of Lord Blandford's death
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