CHAPTER IISherebiah ShoutsAn 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 painAn' 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.Hewouldn'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.Igot 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!"[image]Harry makes a DiversionHe 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 IIIMaster and ManA 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 AwayThe 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 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 painAn' sorrow, an' short as a bubble;'Tis a hodge-podge o' business, an' money, an' care,An' care, an' money, an' trouble.'
"'Man's life is but vain, for 'tis subject to painAn' sorrow, an' short as a bubble;'Tis a hodge-podge o' business, an' money, an' care,An' care, an' money, an' trouble.'
"'Man's life is but vain, for 'tis subject to pain
An' sorrow, an' short as a bubble;
An' sorrow, an' short as a bubble;
'Tis a hodge-podge o' business, an' money, an' care,
An' care, an' money, an' trouble.'
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."
"'Tis a hodge-podge o' business, an' money, an' care,An' care, an' money, an' trouble."
"'Tis a hodge-podge o' business, an' money, an' care,
An' care, an' money, an' trouble."
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—
"'But we'll take no care when the weather proves fair,Nor will we vex now though it rain—
"'But we'll take no care when the weather proves fair,
Nor will we vex now though it rain—
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.Hewouldn'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.Igot 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!"
[image]Harry makes a Diversion
[image]
[image]
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."