CHAPTER XIICHAPTER XIIThe Mariner
CHAPTER XII
JOSEPH once away on his errand, the landlord felt easier. He had no longer to fear his own irresolution. Things must take their course. Therefore, he sat down and waited through the weary hours, with a conviction steadily arising in his mind that after all he was playing a fine, a manly, not to say a noble, part. It callsfor no little courage to sell one’s king for a few pieces of money. Gamaliel, now he came to look back upon this transaction, or at least the inception of it, felt something perilously like pleasure glow within him. He did not glory in his deed as yet; but the fact that it had cost him so many pains to achieve, invested himself in his own mind with some attributes of the heroic.
Therefore he sat down to wait through the weary hours, very well content with himself. With other things he was hardly so. He was mortally afraid that the rare prize upstairs might quit his roof ere the soldiers came. Or his friends might intervene; or a thousand and one things, at present unforeseen, might happen. In any case the landlord was wholly a man of peace. Nothing did he desire less than there should be a scene of bloodshed on his kitchen floor. God forbid! The thought turned him cold. He had a constitutional aversion to blood. Not only did it make such a mess, but it also had a habit of lingering in the mind for many days to come. Besides, likemany men of brains, endowed with a great activity of imagination and intelligence, he clearly felt himself to be at a disadvantage in the presence of violence. He had no skill in the use of arms; he preferred to work with subtler weapons; and when he saw them flying about, he was apt to anticipate their consequences more keenly than another. He was not a coward; his great action of that evening, which would change the course of history, was a sufficient refutation of any charge of that sort; but in the matter of actual violence, that ignoble argument of inferior wits, he was not seen at his best.
He hoped to God that to-night there would be no blood spilt at his inn. His poor nerves still ticked in his head as loudly as the spider running up the wall. He was, indeed, very overwrought. He felt that it would be more than his body and soul could endure, should there be a scene of violence this evening in his house. He revolted from the thought. He did hope the young King would have the good sense to acquiesce passively in his fate when itconfronted him. He knew that there were two cases of pistols upstairs at least, not to speak of daggers. Probably the presence of a lady would restrain him.
Still, after all, kings were not in the habit of fighting, except on the field of battle. They were much too high up in the world for that. If the King’s numerous friends, who certainly were not a farther distance from the royal person than his safety rendered desirable, would only keep off till to-morrow, all would be well. If they turned up when the soldiers came, the distracted landlord was sure he should run out of the house and hide himself, even if he lost the King’s price thereby. To-night he felt very old and weak and overborne.
The time seemed interminable. It was as though the hands of the ruthlessly slow old clock in the corner would never go round. Five struck, and then six, without engendering much excitement in the landlord’s heart. The tardy passing of the minutes between six and seven, however, occasioned the first flutter inhis spirit. It was tentative mainly; the time for the furious beatings of his blood and the palsy of his limbs was not yet at hand.
At about twenty minutes to seven the first incident of that strange night occurred. The kitchen door was suddenly flung open, with never a “With your leave” or a “By your leave,” and a tall man entered. He was attired in a great hat, whose wide flapping brims were tied down over his ears and under his chin, doubtless that it might not fall a prey to the rude sea-wind; whilst a heavy cloak of a sanguine colour covered him from his neck to the calves of his legs, and left but a pair of extremely muddy riding-boots to be seen below. His voice was loud and high, and singularly penetrating. He addressed the landlord without the preface of any ceremony.
“Landlord,” he said, “you have lately taken a new servant-man into your service, I believe, who goes by the name of Jackson. I wish to see him.”
The landlord was full of tremors, but rum-and-water made him bold. This was doubtlessa friend of the King, come to take his Majesty away into a safer seclusion.
“The man Jackson is no longer in my service, sir,” said the landlord, shortly. Even as he uttered this, he thought it rather happy, it had the merit of being perfectly true.
“When did he quit it?” asked the tall man, striving to conceal his excitement.
“This morning,” said the landlord.
“Did he go alone?”
“To the best of my belief, yes,” said the landlord, firmly.
“How odd!” said the other. “Did he give a reason for his departure, and did he say whither he was going?”
“He was dismissed my service, sir,” said the landlord, with the inspiration of his rum-and-water. “His ways were not my ways, d’ye see, and he had to go. Not only was he the worst serving-man I have ever had, but I had occasion to doubt his truthfulness, not to say his honesty.”
“Ah! yes, yes, to be sure!” said the visitor, with a remarkable admixture of laughter andamazement. “How very odd, how very odd; ’od’s fish, how very odd! But, after all, you were his master.”
“I was, the more is the pity,” said the landlord.
All this time he was fervently hoping that his unwelcome visitor would go, lest anything should happen to detain him. Whoever he was, he was determined that the King should not see him if he could help it. Charles was at present perfectly settled and quiet upstairs, and he seemed likely to remain so for some time to come if nothing occurred to disturb him. If possible, he must see nobody ere he saw Captain Culpeper and his men.
The strange visitor, still repeating “How odd; ’od’s fish, how very odd!” in various inflections of tone, was preparing to take his departure, when the particular thing occurred that the landlord so desired to avert. The stairs began to creak, and the King’s long legs were observed to be coming down them.
“My dear Colonel,” said the King, heartily, “I thought I could not be mistaken in yourvoice. It penetrated upstairs to my chamber, and I judged by the sound of it that our landlord was putting you off. I was half expecting you to-night.”
The visitor greeted the King in the curious manner that the singular circumstances demanded. While he contrived to throw a vast amount of respect into his demeanour, he shot a number of questioning glances from the King’s face to that of the landlord. Plainly he was wishing to be advised of how much Gamaliel actually knew concerning the King’s identity.
“The murder is out,” said the King, laughing. “There are no longer any secrets between Boniface and ourselves.”
“Then, Sire,” said the Colonel, “permit me to say that I think mine host to be a very honest fellow. Landlord, you did well to conceal the whereabouts of the King from one who was a total stranger to you. You exercised a rare discretion, landlord, and I am sure his Majesty will not be in the least likely to forget it.”
“By my faith! yes,” said the King, heartily;and then added frankly: “After all, I believe I have done less than justice to our Boniface.”
The landlord bowed low. His ears tingled to hear his praises sung. He felt it to be a somewhat ironical world, however. The sweat burst out of the roots of his hair; he knew what Judas Iscariot felt like, of old, when he sat at the Last Supper.
“Sire,” said the visitor, “all the arrangements are made and the coast is clear. I am assured that there are no Roundheads nearer than Woolden Magna, a hamlet some fifteen miles along the coast. To-night, therefore, under the cover of the darkness, you will be able to push on to Titcomb Place, the house of Mr. John Pocock. You will there be able to lie in a better security. You will be able to wash your face, Sire, and adopt a raiment less out of keeping with your condition.”
“My present one is by no means out of keeping with my condition, Colonel,” said the King, with a sudden bitterness. “The condition of a dog is that of a gentleman by comparison.”
The Colonel sighed; his grizzled face was full of distress.
“A little patience, Sire,” he said gently. “In a few short days you will no longer have need to fear your enemies. I would recommend, Sire, that you come with me now to Titcomb Place. It is but three miles along the rocks, and we must go on foot. I have brought no horses, as the way is devious. Mr. Pocock hath everything in readiness for your reception, and I am sure, Sire, you will lie in perfect comfort and security for one night at least.”
The landlord hung upon the King’s reply. After all, was he to be balked by the King’s going ere the soldiers could reach him?
“My dear Colonel,” said the King, with his customary diffidence, “not to-night, I think. I am in no mood to leave my quarters here. I am perfectly snug and content; and as you say, our Boniface hath already given an earnest of his honesty. Besides, we have had more than enough of the night air of late. This evening we propose to give ourselves a holiday. Despite our attire and the walnut juice that discoloursour countenance, we have a warm and snug chamber at our disposal upstairs, and the society is most amiable. My poor young Lord Farnham lies there of a bullet wound, a memorial of the melancholy Third, and his adorable Countess is there to nurse him.”
“Ah, Sire!” said the Colonel, wagging a playful finger at the King. “Further argument of mine is superfluous, I fear. Mr. Pocock cannot hope to compete with my Lady Farnham. And, after all, Sire, I do not think it matters greatly where you lie this evening. The enemy do not seem to be very active in this neighbourhood. Landlord, you have no reason to fear their appearance to-night, I trow?”
“I do not think, sir, that they are at all likely to inconvenience his Majesty to-night,” said the landlord.
His voice was prompt, hard and dry. He hoped God would forgive him. But, after all, he was a poor man; he was not a personal friend of the King’s; and he had never pretended to a particular interest in the species.
“Very well, Sire, we will leave it at that,”said the Colonel. “I will return here early to-morrow morning, and, if all is well, I will then conduct you to Titcomb Place.”
“Excellent, my good Colonel,” said the King, accompanying the most faithful friend of his wanderings, Colonel Francis Wyndham, to the kitchen door. He waved a frank adieu to him as he departed into the night. The King then returned upstairs.
The landlord breathed again. Having seen the end of that matter, he looked at the clock. It was now five minutes past seven. Say one hour more, if all went well. One short hour, and the agony of his suspense would be at an end. Nay, not that; rather it would be coming to its heat and violence. The full force of it would be when the men he had sent for were face to face with the persons upstairs.
He could hardly endure that thought. The nearer the time approached, the more certain the landlord became that it was going to be a terrible business. On his life he was not a coward, but another evening of this kind and he felt he must inevitably become one. BeforeGod, he was not a coward, but the manner in which his wild heart beat up into his throat was enough to choke him.
He could not sit still. He rose from his chair and went hobbling up and down the kitchen as before. All his physical infirmities had gone out of him. They had been replaced by those of his mind. He said again he was no coward; but he was certain that in his present shaken state anything might happen to him. If those soldiers began to whirl their pikes or discharge their pieces, or the woman began to scream, or particularly if he saw so much as a drop of blood, he must run forth out of the house, and hide his eyes and his ears until all was over. It was a pity that soldiers were concerned in the business at all. They were so ruthless; their wicked profession left them absolutely destitute of a sense of delicacy. He had always had a rooted aversion to soldiers.
It was now twenty minutes past seven. The wretched clock in the corner seemed to stand still. His heart ticked out the minutes, but the clock in the corner seemed to refuse to recordthem. Its inaction mocked him. Still, after all, he was not sure he was not relieved to find the hour was not later. He was not fit to grapple with the worst. A respite was not unwelcome.
At this moment there came a knock on the kitchen door. The landlord inwardly cursed his visitor, whoever he might be. This was not a night for visitors. There had been one already; a pretty undesirable one, too. True, he had proved more than a match for him; with this one he must prove the same. Still, it was a little unreasonable for anyone short of Captain Culpeper, who, to be sure, would not have stayed to knock, to obtrude himself at such a crisis in his life—nay, at such a crisis in the destiny of nations.
Filled with the unction of his previous success, the landlord hobbled boldly to the door and opened it. The apparition waiting upon the threshold seemed to have stepped bodily out of one of Gamaliel’s wildest nightmares. It was the elderly mariner in the dogskin cap. There he stood, with the earrings in his ears;the same malignant, humorous leer in his face. The scar across it shone white in the brightness of the kitchen fire; the naked knife at his waist was shining too. And, above all, his two great brown paws looked more knotted and gnarled than ever.
“A pleasant evenin’ to you, mate,” said Diggory Fargus.
“Same to you,” said the landlord, awkwardly.
With no better invitation, the sailor lurched into the kitchen, assumed a seat by the fire, as on the previous occasion of his coming, and asked for a go of rum. The landlord ordered the serving-maid to bring it to him. The sailor tasted it deliberately when it was given to him, warmed his hands, and then cocked his one ugly eye across at the landlord. In spite of himself Gamaliel shivered. His awe of this rude mariner was in the last degree absurd; but there it was. His native delicacy was doubtless too great for him to be entirely at his ease in the society of these rude characters.
“I am here, mate, about that young man I mentioned to ye the other evenin’,” said the mariner. “Have ye seen him yet?”
In an instant the landlord, afraid as he was of this fellow, arrived at the conclusion that his presence in that house was not at all required. The sooner he was quit of him the better. The young man he sought might very possibly be upstairs; he might prove to be either my Lord Farnham or the King; but things were very well as they were. This Diggory Fargus could not improve them; he might very possibly undo them though.
“I have seen no young man,” said Gamaliel shortly. “And I don’t much want to see one. This is a peaceable and honest inn.”
“I never said it weren’t,” said the mariner. “But have you had any comp’ny, mate, these three days?”
“None to speak of,” said the landlord.
“Have you got any now?” asked the mariner.
“I have not,” said the landlord.
“Then, mate,” said the mariner, spittingfreely amongst the logs on the hearth, “you’re a liar.”
That was so trite a fact to Gamaliel, that he did not attempt to contradict it. He was not a little disconcerted by it, however.
“Now I’ll tell ye, mate, how I know ye’re a liar,” said the sailor, with a slow anger that made him far more formidable than an outburst would have done. “The candles are comin’ through the chinks in the shutters of that front chamber over the sign. Perhaps ye’ll tell me that that don’t mean comp’ny; but in any case Diggory Fargus is a-going up to look with his own blessed deadlight, and ye can lay to that, mate.”
Without condescending to parley further with the landlord, who had plainly none of his confidence, Diggory Fargus got up from the fire and lurched to the stairs.
“What are you about, man?” said the landlord excitedly. “It is no place for you, up there! There are lords and ladies up there.”
“I knew you were a liar,” said the grimly satisfied mariner. “Lords and ladies, is they?Well, like as not, that’s just who I’ve come to see. What moight be their names, mate?”
The landlord, seeing that it was hopeless to throw more dust in the shrewd sailor’s eye, submitted with the best grace he could summon.
“Well, there’s my Lord Farnham for one,” he said.
“My Lord Farnham, is there?” said the sailor. “Well, mate, I calls that sing’lar, seein’ as how my Lord Farnham is the very young man I’m wantin’.”
“I will conduct you to him, then,” said the landlord.
He had lost the game; but he spoke as cheerfully and obligingly as he could, for he was keenly desirous to propitiate this ugly devil of a mariner. Besides, one sailor more or less did not matter much at this stage. The time was growing very short. The hoofs of the soldiers’ horses would soon be heard on the road. Diggory Fargus or ten Diggory Farguses would then be of no avail.
The landlord put his best leg foremost, and led the sailor up the rickety stairs to thechamber where the King sat in the society of the Earl of Farnham and his Countess. He knocked a little timidly upon the door.
“Enter,” said the frank voice of the King.
“If it please your Majesty and your lordship and your ladyship,” said the landlord, putting his nose on his belly again, deeming that etiquette demanded it of him, “there is here a sailor-man to see my lord.”
“Let us have a look at him,” said the King, scenting some little diversion.
“Which be my Lord Farnham, mate?” said the mariner, addressing the King bluffly. He was a plain man himself, and the landlord’s elaborate flummeries rather increased the directness of his manners.
“The pale gentleman lying in his bed,” said the King.
“Are you the master of the little vessel that Colonel Phelips promised to engage for my lord?” asked Lady Farnham.
“Ay, ay, ma’am,” said the mariner. “She’ve been lying three days past in Pyler’s Cove, a short sea-mile up the beach. When I was herea day or so agone, ye hadn’t touched this port. I should ha’ come last night again, but we couldn’t ha’ put to sea in sich a gale as that.”
“I was expecting you anxiously,” said Lady Farnham. “Indeed, so anxious did I become, that in the middle of the night I went forth to seek you, but saw you not.”
“I daresay I was under hatches then,” said the sailor. “But to-night at ten o’clock the wind and tide should be fair enough. We can get off then.”
A great hope suddenly beaconed in the woman’s face.
“Oh! if you can, good sailor,” she exclaimed, impulsively, “I shall never be able to requite you.”
Even as she spoke, however, there came a thought that dashed it to the earth. There was her husband. He was too weak to move.
“My lord is stricken,” she said. “He cannot walk a step. What is to be done, good sailor?”
The mariner scratched his head.
“Don’t ye fret about that, ma’am,” he said. “Diggory Fargus hath run too many cargoes in precarious plazen to be beat by a thing like that. I’ll bring three o’ my mates along wi’ a litter, at half-past nine o’ the clock. We should be able to bear the gentleman easy if we takes our time.”
“It is well thought on,” said the King.
“At half-past nine of the clock then, good sailor,” said the lady, fervently. “And may God requite you for your services. We will be in readiness.”
Diggory Fargus pulled his forelock and went downstairs in the company of the nervous landlord.
“Oh, Sire,” said the poor lady—the tears were come into her eyes,—“it is indeed a providence that the sailor is here at such a time. Wilt thou not come with us, too? Something clearly told me that if you spent this night, Sire, under this roof, you would be ta’en.”
“Madam, you are more than kind,” said the King, complaisantly. “We will consider it.Although we think we must not disappoint our other friends. They, too, have a boat chartered for us somewhere. But we shall see. On the one hand is our duty; on the other, our inclination.”
There was no misreading the lustre in the King’s face.