CONCERNING THE ADVENT OF JOHN DERWENT
Sir John, who, it would seem, never did things by halves, had within
the week transformed that exquisite work of art, known at Paris and
Versailles as Sir John Dering, into a very ordinary-looking Mr. Derwent.
In place of flowing peruke, embroidered coat and perfumed silks and
laces, Mr. Derwent wore a small, unpowdered scratch-wig and a sober,
snuff-coloured suit extremely unpretentious, and instead of gold-hilted
small-sword, carried a serviceable holly-stick. Indeed, Mr. Derwent’s
whole appearance was so eminently unnoticeable and his bearing so
ordinary that he might have been termed “insignificant,” except perhaps
for a certain tilt of his chin and the brilliance of his long-lashed eyes.
It was a hot, languorous afternoon, birds chirped drowsily, butterflies
hovered, and Sir John, or rather Mr. Derwent, seated upon the lofty
summit of Firle Beacon, breathed an air fresh from the sea yet fragrant
of the wild thyme of the Downs, and hearkened to the larks that soared
high above and all around him, filling that same air with their joyous,
trilling music: insomuch that he grew joyous also, since this was England
and home. Beneath him the majestic Beacon swept down to the wide vale
below in great, billowing, green curves of sweet, springy turf where
a myriad flowers bloomed; away to the south rose the mighty shape of
Windover, and between, a far-stretching vale where homestead and hamlet
nestled amid trees that bosomed time-worn tower and ancient spire, backed
by shady copse, denser wood and the dark, far-flung forest of Battle; a
fair and wide prospect where brooks sparkled, a winding river gleamed
and white roads ran between shady hedgerows and flowery banks; a vast
expanse where the unwearied gaze might rove from distant Lewes away to
Pevensey Level and a haze that was the sea.
So lost was Sir John in the ever-changing wonder of the scene that he
started suddenly, beholding one who had approached unheard upon the
velvet ling, a man who also surveyed the widespread landscape with eyes
of awed delight. A man, this, of no great size yet of powerful build,
a man in weather-stained coat, open-kneed breeches and rough shoes and
stockings, yet who wore these garments with an unconscious ease, while
the face beneath shapeless hat was well-featured and arresting; indeed,
there was about his whole person an air of breeding and refinement
that Sir John was quick to heed: in one hand he bore a long-barrelled
musket, in the other a newly slain rabbit and upon his broad back a small
colour-box.
“A glorious prospect, sir!” quoth Sir John.
“Indeed!” nodded the stranger, his gaze still upon the distance. “’Tis a
sight to fill a man with wonder, a country to leave that a man may come
back to it, to paint because it is so unpaintable ... so simple that it
awes a man with its mystery ... a country to live in and die in ... ’tis
the Down-country, sir!”
“You know it well, I perceive, sir.”
“Aye,” answered the stranger, seating himself upon the grass. “I know
every ring, barrow and tumulus far as you can see—and farther. I have
fished every bend o’ yon river and have painted it all so often that I
begin to know that I never shall paint it ... no hand ever will! Though,
to be sure, I have come nigh doing so once or twice! But what brush can
suggest all the sublime majesty of these everlasting hills, yon sweep of
valley? So when I’m tempted to try again, I generally bring Brown Bess
here that my day be not wholly in vain.” And he patted the long weapon
across his knees.
“Do you always shoot conies with a musket, sir?”
“Always!” nodded the painter, with sudden smile. “’Tis a little
irregular, mayhap, but ’tis more sport to myself and fairer to the cony.
If I miss, which is seldom, my cony is unharmed; when I hit, which I
generally do, my cony is swiftly and very completely dead.... You are a
stranger hereabouts, I think, sir?”
“Extremely!” answered Sir John.
“Aye, to be sure,” nodded the painter, smiling grimly. “Folk in these
parts don’t take kindly to new faces——”
“Being all staunch believers in—free trade.... ‘True-believers’?”
suggested Sir John.
“Aha, you’ve heard o’ that elusive craft, then?” inquired the painter,
with a keen glance.
“And sailed aboard her a week ago!” nodded Sir John.
“What—the trip they crippled the _Seahorse_? Were this known ’twould make
you at home wi’ all the Down folk hereabouts. For, egad, sir, we’re all
smugglers, more or less, and are, on the whole, a very orderly, peaceable
community—with the exception of that damned scoundrel, my Lord Sayle,
whose life is a scandal in every way.”
“I’ve heard of him, sir; he is said to be a dangerous fellow—an
inveterate duellist?” said Sir John.
“Aye, as notorious as Dering of Dering, whose empty house stands in
the valley yonder. ’Twould be a blessing to the world in general if
these two fine gentlemen could meet and exterminate each other; they
have cumbered the earth too long—especially my Lord Sayle, one o’ your
merciless rake-hells ... a very masterful libertine of whom I’ve heard
such shameful tales—faugh!” and the painter spat in sheer disgust.
“And is my lord a smuggler also?”
“Why, at first he winked at ‘the trade’ and took many a bale and cask as
a bribe, but later he demanded a percentage on every cargo, and, being
refused, promptly ratted and set the law in motion, with the result that
there’s been wild doings hereabouts o’ late and may be wilder yet. The
excise officers will find theirs a hard task, for, as I say, we’re all
‘in it’ more or less. I’ve drank many a glass of right Nantzy, and even
Parson Hartop, godly soul, has smoked tobacco that hath paid no more duty
than the laces on my daughter’s petticoat. Are ye travelling far, sir?”
“To High Dering.”
“Ah, ’tis a village over yonder!” said the painter, with a jerk of his
head. “’Tis a village, sir, that labours under a blight, a disease, a
very effective curse.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Sir John, a little startled.
“Yes, sir. The name of this particular disease is Dering—Sir John Dering.”
“Ah,” sighed Sir John, “I have heard of him also——”
“And little to his good, I’ll warrant!” quoth the painter. “Dering of
Dering is the biggest landlord in these parts—and the worst.”
“How so, sir?”
“Owning so much land, he consequently owes a duty to the county and to
his tenants—a debt he hath never paid and never will, being a poor fool,
sir, a miserable wretch who takes and gives nothing, who passes his life
in riot and debauchery shut up in Paris salons when he might be walking
these hills a free man, honoured by his tenantry.... Are you staying long
hereabouts?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Sir John. “And my name is Derwent.”
“Then, Mr. Derwent, should you find yourself Alfriston way, come and
see us. My daughter shall brew you a dish of such tea as you seldom
drank before and that never passed the excise ... and I’ve some French
brandy——We will smoke a friendly pipe and talk, sir, for to talk is to be
alive!” So saying, the painter got lightly to his feet and stood a moment
to survey the widespread prospect.
“Look around you!” quoth he. “In the brooding silence of these
immemorial hills the long-forgotten dead may find voices to speak of
vanished peoples whiles here we stand, you and I, alive for a little
space, yet soon to pass and vanish, as they. How glorious, then, whiles
we have life, to worship the Infinite God within and around us, here amid
these fragrant solitudes ... and to poach an occasional rabbit!” saying
which, the painter laughed, shouldered his musket and strode off, leaving
Sir John to pursue his solitary and pensive way, filled with a strange
new sense of responsibility, until, having descended the Beacon, he
reached a stile and, seated thereon, fell to profound meditation.
Across undulating park, shaded by ancient trees, rose the stately pile of
Dering Manor, his home; in the valley hard by, sheltered beneath lofty
Firle, nestled Dering village; all around him, far as eye could see, the
land was his: thus, as he surveyed this goodly heritage, his sense of
responsibility grew, a feeling unknown until now.
From these reflections he was suddenly aroused by feeling a sharp prod in
the back, and, glancing sharply around, beheld an old man who peered up
at him from under a well-brushed, wide-eaved hat and poked at him with a
knotted stick; a small, wrinkled, rosy-cheeked, exquisitely neat old man
in spotless frock and highly polished boots, and who now addressed him in
querulous tones, though his bright eyes held a lurking twinkle.
“Lord, young master, lordy-lord!” he quavered; “there ’ee du set s’ quiet
an’ still as Peter Bunkle’s ’og as was killed day afore yesterday ’s ever
was, that ’ee du!”
“I was thinking,” answered Sir John, almost apologetically.
“Well, I be thinkin’ tu ... I be thinkin’ ’tis toime ’ee comed off’n
stile an’ mak’ way fur a old, ancient man as wur a-buryin’ folk older’n
’ee afore ’ee was born, I reckon.”
Down got Sir John forthwith and, seeing the old man so feeble, reached
out a hand in aid, whereupon the ancient man swore at him, though a
little breathlessly by reason of his exertions as he climbed.
“Dang’ee—lemme be!” he gasped. “Du ’ee think as oi caan’t cloimb a little
bit of a stoile as I’ve clumb, man an’ bye, for seventy year? Lemme
be—an’ dang’ee twoice!” Gasping these words and with infinite exertions
the old man mounted the stile, seated himself on the top bar in Sir
John’s place and, mopping wrinkled brow with the end of a newly washed
and ironed neckerchief of vivid hue, nodded at Sir John in very fierce
and determined fashion. “Look’ee naow,” he panted. “I’ve set ’ere on
this yer stoile fur six-and-sixty year—ah, p’r’aps longer—every sunny
arternoon, off an’ on, and ’ere I be a-goin’ to set ’cording to custom,
so oi be—an’ dang you an’ arl! An’ what do ’ee say naow?”
“That you are very welcome,” smiled Sir John. “I hope you live to sit
there for many a long day; you look hale and hearty——”
“Wot—me?” croaked the old man fiercely. “Me ’ale an’ ’earty! Lordy-lord,
young man, ’ee must be a gert fule not t’see as oi du be waastin’ away
an’ perishin’ wi’ a disease no doctor nor ’poth’cary can cure. There be
’poth’cary Mayfield, over tu Lewes, sez tu me: ‘’Osea Dumbrell,’ ’e sez,
‘if I wuz tu give ’ee arl th’ drugs in my shop they wouldn’t do ’ee no
manner o’ good!’ ’e sez. An’ no wonder, for my disease bean’t no ordinary
disease—no! My disease, young man, be a musket-ball in my in’ards as
won’t come out no-’ow!”
“A musket-ball!” exclaimed Sir John, staring.
“Ah—in me in’ards!” nodded the old man triumphantly; “as won’t come out!
An’ ’twixt you an’ me, a preventive bullet it were. Ketched me ’ere
’twixt wind an’ watter, it did! Six-an’-fifty years ago come Martinmas,
an’ brings up agin me backbone wi’ a crack as nigh deafened me; ah, it be
gert wonder as it didn’t kill oi stone-dead!”
“Indeed, yes!” murmured Sir John.
“An’ theer it du bide ever since, young man. I can feel it! Whens’ever
oi walks tu fast or coughs a spell, that theer old musket-ball goes
a-rollin’ an’ a-rattlin’ about in me pore old in’ards summat crool,
lordy-lord! Las’ toime I seed Doctor Blake, t’ surgeon, about ’un, ’e
shook ’is ’ead solemn-loike: ‘You’m a-goin’ t’ die, ’Osea Dumbrell,’ ’e
sez. ‘Aye,’ I sez, ‘so be you, doctor, but as fur oi—when?’ ‘When ye du,’
’e sez, ‘’twill be mortal sudden!’ ’e sez. That wur years an’ years ago,
an’ ’ere be I alive an’ kickin’.... Doan’t seem right some’ow, fur doctor
be mortal knowin’. But I doan’t look much loike dyin’, du I?
“No, indeed!” answered Sir John. “And you are surely the neatest,
smartest——”
“That’ll du—that’ll du!” croaked the ancient man angrily. “’Tidn’t my
fault! Don’t ’ee go a-blamin’ of oi—blame me granddarter Ann! Her du
be for ever a-washin’ an’ a-breshin’ an’ a-cleanin’ o’ me, till it be
gert wonder ’er don’t scrub me into me grave! Combed all th’ ’air off’n
me ’ead, she ’ave, an’ now combin’ out arl me whiskers—what be left of
’em! ’Tidn’t respectful—no! ’Ef ’ee du get dirty,’ ’er sez tu me, ‘no
baccy!’ ’er sez—a crool ’ard creeter be me granddarter Ann! Look at me
boots, so bright an’ shinin’—I dassent go a-nigh a bit o’ mud! An’ I
loike mud—leastways a bit o’ mud don’t nowise ’arm nobody, an’ when it be
forbid I could waller in it, j’yful—ah, an’ I will one o’ these days an’
dang arl! A crool, flinty-’earted, brimstone witch be my granddart——”
“Granfer!” called a soft voice at no great distance. “Granfer!”
“By goles!” ejaculated the ancient; and skipping down from the stile
with surprising agility, he was in the act of brushing imaginary dust
from his immaculate smock-frock when round a bend in the lane there
appeared a shapely young woman who, coming thus unexpectedly upon Sir
John, blushed very prettily and dropped him a curtsy, then turned to
glance at one standing immediately behind her, a tall, square-shouldered,
powerful-looking fellow who, meeting Sir John’s quick, bright glance,
flushed also, from square chin to the curls of very neat wig that showed
beneath neat hat, and, flushing, bowed, though remarkably stiff in the
back about it.
“Come, Granfer,” said the girl, “it be toime ye took your egg-an’-milk!”
“Cruel and flinty-hearted?” murmured Sir John reproachfully. “O Mr.
Dumbrell!”
“Hesh-hesh!” whispered the ancient fiercely.
“Are ye catchin’ cold, Granfer deary?”
“Brimstone witch? O Mr. Dumbrell!”
“Who be the man ahint ye, Nan?” demanded the old man, pointing with his
stick.
“Only the gentleman as took my part’s marnin’ agin Mr. Sturton, Granfer.”
“Sturton!” snarled the ancient, flourishing stick in tremulous hand.
“Sturton—dang ’im! Ef I ketch ’im tryin’ t’ kiss ’ee, lass, I’ll break
’is ’ead for ’im so old as I be—aye, I will, an’ ’e can turn us out o’
th’ ow’d cottage arter if ’e loikes—dang ’im! Doan’t ’ee forget pore Mary
Beal as drownded ’erself las’ year arl along o’ Sturton——”
“There, there, Granfer, you be gettin’ arl of a shake! That’ll du now,
that’ll du or—no puddin’ fur your supper, mind that.”
“Arl right, lass, arl right! Only when I du think o’ that Sturton——”
“Then don’t ’ee, Granfer, or not a scrinch o’ sugar or nutmeg in y’r
egg-an’-milk an’ nary a spot o’ rum. So be a good lad an’ come ’long o’
me!”
“Well, Robert,” quoth Sir John, seating himself on the stile again so
soon as they were alone, “my letter reached you in time, then?”
“And I’m here in conse-quence, sir!”
“What is all this about Sturton?”
Ex-Corporal Robert shifted his right foot slightly, and raising stiff
arm, coughed deprecatingly behind a discreet hand.
“Sir,” he answered, “I regret to be obleeged to inform your honour that
I opened hostilities this morning without your honour’s orders, feeling
myself obligated thereto by reason of a young fe-male——”
“I suggest ‘maid,’ Robert.”
“Maid, your honour, which young female crying out——”
“Damsel, Robert.”
“Damsel, your honour ... crying out, sir, I observed said young fe——”
“Nymph, Robert.”
“Yes, sir. I ob-served same a-struggling with Mr. Sturton. Whereupon,
your honour, judging the ser-cumstances called for indi-vidual action, I
opened hos-tilities forthwith.”
“Did Mr. Sturton receive any—injuries, Robert?”
“Only super-facially, sir. His right ogle, your honour; otherwise he
retreated in fairly good order, sir.”
“Whiles you comforted the distressed damsel, Bob?”
“I did my endeavour, sir,” answered the ex-corporal, imperturbable as
ever.
“Extreme commendable in you, Robert, for hitherto you have not been
precisely a ‘squire o’ dames.’”
“Heretofore, sir, I have preferred horses.”
“And egad,” sighed Sir John wistfully, “’twould almost seem you were
the wiser, Bob! For though horses may balk they cannot talk, they may
break your neck but they cannot break your heart.... ’S life, Bob, ’tis
subject suggestive for a lampoon on the Sex!... ‘The Jade Equine and
Feminine,’ or ‘The Horse the Nobler Animal.’ ... It promiseth, Robert, it
promiseth!... Hum! Though horses may balk, women will talk; break your
necks, falsest sex. Though horses unseat ye they cannot ill-treat ye.
What though they be glandered no fame ha’ they slandered. Though horses
go lame they never defame. Yes, it promiseth exceeding well!” and out
came Sir John’s memorandum. And after he had been thus busied for some
minutes, Robert the Imperturbable spoke:
“Pray what are your honour’s orders?”
“Orders?” repeated Sir John, glancing up a little vacantly. “Though they
be spavined ... spavined? ’Twon’t do—’tis a devilish awkward word—eh,
Bob?”
“Yes, sir ... and your orders?”
“Aye, to be sure,” sighed Sir John, “you will pursue every inquiry and
research in regard to Mr. James Sturton ... and inquire for me at the
‘Dering Arms’ about six o’clock this evening.”
“As Mr. Derwent, your honour?”
“As Mr. Derwent. And, by the way, Bob ... concerning the granddaughter of
our ancient Mr. Dumbrell—her name is Ann, I think?”
“So I am give to understand, sir.”
“She is a fine, handsome creature, Robert?”
“Yes, your honour.”
“With a neat foot and a low, sweet voice.”
“Yes, your honour.”
“Some sage philosopher hath it, Bob, that ‘a pretty foot is the one
element of beauty that defieth Time,’ but I, who pretend to some little
discernment in such matters, incline to the belief that a low, soft-sweet
voice may endure even longer.”
“Indeed, your honour?”
“Remembering which ... and Mr. Sturton’s apparently unwelcome attentions,
I think ’twere as well you should keep an eye on old Mr. Dumbrell’s
granddaughter, Robert.”
“Very good, sir!” answered the ex-corporal, and with a movement that was
something between bow and salute, he wheeled and strode away, leaving Sir
John, perched upon the stile, hard at work upon his lampoon.