OF MR. BUNKLE AND THE ROOM WITH FIVE DOORS
Ten o’clock was striking, and the old Cross, deserted and solitary,
looked down upon a silent village; and Sir John Dering, leaning out from
his open lattice, looked down upon the old Cross. Alfriston slept, and
had done so for an hour or more apparently, like the highly decorous
community it was; not a footfall disturbed its chaste silence, not a
light glimmered anywhere.
A mournful wind moaned in fitful gusts, the signboard of ‘The Star,’
farther down the street, creaked dismally, but, save for this, all was
brooding peace and reposeful silence.
But presently Sir John’s quick ear distinguished a sound not of the
wind, though like the wind fitful—a faint throb of galloping hoofs, now
lost, now heard again, growing ever louder; on they came, nearer and
nearer, until the dark street rang and echoed, but never a door opened,
never a light blinked, not even when they slowed to a trot, to an amble,
to a walk, and finally stopped outside the inn of the ‘Market Cross’;
Alfriston slept on serenely persistent.
The moon, though obscured by a flying scud, yet gave sufficient light to
disclose the shape of horse and rider looming gigantic in the dimness.
Ensued the creak of saddle and stamp of heavy foot as the horseman
alighted, and thereafter a knocking soft but imperative.
“Bunkle!” quoth a voice—“Peter Bunkle! Are ye there, Peter man?” From
somewhere adjacent Mr. Bunkle answered, his voice sounding remarkably
wide awake:
“Be that y’rself, sir?”
“Aye. Are the lads by, yet?”
“Not yet, sir. But I doan’t expect ’em for another ’arf-hour. Be aught
wrong, sir?”
“Soldiers.”
“Wheer away?”
“Lyin’ ambushed over by Exeat, an’ there’s more of ’em ’twixt here and
Frogfirle. I tell ye the country’s thick with ’em.... I was stopped
twice.... There’ll be bloody murder ere dawn, Peter man!”
“Why, sir, Jarge Potter knows, an’ Jarge aren’t nowise to be caught
nappin’ nohow. ’E’ll send the lads cross-country wi’ the stuff, I rackon,
an’ lead they so’jers a foine dance.... Bide a moment an’ I’ll let ye
in.” Here, after brief delay, the sound of opening door, a heavy tread, a
squeak of bolts and silence again, except for moaning wind and the snort
of the horse below.
Then Sir John closed his lattice, and, taking up the candle, stood
awhile lost in thought; finally he stepped from his chamber, closing the
door behind him, and descended the stair, to find himself in a crooked
passage full of dim nooks, odd corners and unexpected levels. Presently,
guided by a murmur of voices, he espied a small door coyly hidden in most
unlikely corner, and, lifting the latch, beheld a small, strangely shaped
apartment further remarkable in that it possessed two windows and five
doors; and here, in an elbow-chair before a smouldering fire, lolled the
gigantic form of Sir Hector Lauchlan MacLean. His riding-coat was dusty
like his long, booted legs outstretched upon the hearth, his unkempt
periwig excessively askew; in one hand he held his cherished clay pipe,
in the other a steaming glass that gave forth a delectable fragrance,
while Mr. Bunkle busied himself at the table with a bowl and ladle.
At the sudden opening of the door, both men glanced up, and Sir Hector
rose hastily.
“John!” he exclaimed.
Sir John bowed in his stateliest fashion, and so they confronted each
other, Sir Hector flushed of cheek and frowning a little as one at a
loss; Mr. Bunkle, suspending his operations, looked from one to the other
and, with instinctive delicacy, opened the nearest of the five doors and
incontinently vanished. Sir Hector set down his glass and drew himself to
his extremest height, so that the curls of his peruke brushed the carven
beam above.
“Sir John Dering!”
Sir John’s bow was entirely formal, whereupon Sir Hector puffed furiously
at his pipe, but, finding it was out, laid it very carefully beside his
glass and scowled blacker than ever.
“Sir John,” quoth he in his most precise English, “on the last occasion
we had speech I felt constrained to tell you that you—lied!”
“Alas, yes!” sighed Sir John.
“And I named you liar because circumstances and your very evil reputation
seemed more than to warrant it.”
“Perchance they did, sir,” murmured Sir John.
“Under the which circumstances, I was bound to draw upon you,” continued
Sir Hector ponderously, “and you, sir, refused to fight, and stomached
the insult. Well, sir, are you suffering from an indigestion? Have you
thought better of your refusal?”
“I have!” answered Sir John. “Better and better.”
“Why, then, sir,” answered Sir Hector, reaching for his long Andrea
Ferrara from adjacent corner, “there will be plenty of space for us in
the tap-room——”
“But your arm, sir?” demurred Sir John.
“Tush—’tis well! Besides,’twas my left. But where is your sword?”
“Upstairs, sir, where it will surely remain,” answered Sir John, and
smiled. And, meeting this smile, Sir Hector loosed his great weapon very
suddenly, much as if it had burned his fingers.
“Johnnie—Sir John,” he stammered, “what d’ye mean? Why are you here?”
“Surely, Hector, oh, surely you can guess—you that were my father’s
comrade and my best friend?”
Sir Hector turned to stare down into the fire, and when next he spoke,
voice and manner were wholly changed.
“Sir John ... John ... O Johnnie lad ... is it forget an’ forgi’e ye mean
... for auld lang syne? Can ye forgi’e so deadly an insult? Na—na, lad,
bide a wee!... Mebbe I was o’er hasty wi’ ye ... mebbe I was no’ juist
mysel’ ... mebbe—oh, my certie, I was a muckle fule.... So, John—Johnnie
man, if——”
“Why, Hector,” exclaimed Sir John, setting down the candle rather
hastily, “’tis all forgotten long since, and ... and ... i’ faith,
Hector, but your wig is most damnably askew! Stand still and let me
straighten it for thee!”
And so Sir John reached up and resettled Sir Hector’s peruke as he had
been wont to do as a boy coaxing forgiveness for some fault, or as a
youth soothing the anger of a none too stern guardian; and somehow Sir
Hector’s great arm, as it had ever done on such occasions, crept about
Sir John’s shoulders and rested there.
“John,” quoth he, “I’m gettin’ auld ... and age, lad, is aye solitary....
We maun quarrel nae mair, Johnnie!”
“Never again, Hector.”
“Forbye, there’s nae wumman worth it—no, not one in a’ this warld, lad
... much less yon besom! An’ I gave ye the lie, John—you as ne’er leed
tae me in a’ y’r days.... I tak’ it back—I withdraw it, John, every
word, here and now. I did ye wrang, Johnnie, I did ye muckle wrang, an’
a’ by reason o’ yon feckless wench! I’m glad she ran awa’ ... though
I’ll no deny I’ve been a wee lonesome o’ late! Ah well, come, lad, we’ll
tak’ a glass an’ forget it—a wee drappie o’ Bunkle’s gumboo whilk is a
concoction ye’ll no’ find in ony place but in Sussex, an’ worthy sic a
sweet country. Ye’ll drink wi’ me, John?”
“With all my heart, Hector! But pray remember that my name is still
Derwent.”
Sir Hector nodded and rapped gently on the panelling, at which summons
one of the five doors opened and Mr. Bunkle reappeared, though from a
totally opposite point of the compass; but scarcely had he, smiling and
deft, fulfilled Sir Hector’s order and Sir John raised the fragrant
beverage to his lips, than yet another door was softly unlatched and
Robert the Imperturbable halted upon the threshold.
“Sirs,” said he, favouring them with that movement that was neither
salute nor bow and yet something of both, “think it proper to report
sounds of distant musketry.”
“Musketry, Robbie?” exclaimed Sir Hector. “Musketry, d’ye say?”
“The same, sir!”
“Did I no’ tell ye, Peter man, did I no’ tell ye? There’s murder afoot!
And a’ by reason o’ that de’il Sayle, damn him!”
Silently Mr. Bunkle led the way into his unlighted tap-room and, opening
the wide lattice, they stood there in the dark, hearkening with straining
ears; and presently, borne upon the wind from afar, came the faint report
of firearms, four or five shots in rapid succession.
“That’ll be ’twixt here an’ Exeat, I rackon,” quoth Mr. Bunkle.
“O man!” cried Sir Hector bitterly, “is it no’ a fearfu’ thocht that
Sussex lads—aye, neighbours belike, may be murderin’ each ither?”
“Why, sir,” answered Mr. Bunkle, “it be only the sojers, d’ye see——”
“The soldiers!” exclaimed Sir Hector, “and ’tis Sayle hath brought ’em!
Look’ee, John, hitherto all men, coastguard, preventive and trader, being
Sussex men, have lived together like brothers—which, according to ‘The
Word,’ is a vera desirable an’ blessed thing, y’ ken, John—not that I
haud wi’ the nee-farious traffic, mind ye, but ... but ... aweel, damn
Sayle, onyway!”
“’Eartily, sir! But never worrit,” admonished Mr. Bunkle philosophically.
“Arter arl, it be only sojers a-shootin’ in the dark ... an’ even roses
’as thorns, sir, and——” Here Mr. Bunkle paused as more shots rang out.
“Tae the de’il wi’ y’r thorrns, man!” cried Sir Hector, “yon was much
nearer.”
“Why, so it were, sir,” Mr. Bunkle admitted; “but they be only shootin’
at Jarge Potter, I do ’ope——”
“Hope, man, hope?” questioned Sir Hector fiercely.
“Aye, sir; ye see, whiles they sojers was a-laying in wait for Jarge,
Jarge were a-layin’ in wait for they wi’ ponies an’ tubs arl complete an’
’arf a dozen stout lads. Well, sirs, s’ soon as they sojers spy Jarge,
away Jarge goes, though not too fast, an’ they sojers arter ’im. Jarge do
know every yard o’ the country ’ereabouts, ah, blindfold ’e do—an’ leads
they sojers up an’ down an’ ’ere an’ there by the ’ardest ways ’till,
being a-top of an ’ill, Jarge gi’es the word, the lads unloose a tub an’
away goes that theer tub a-rollin’ an’ a-boundin’ down a-top o’ they
sojers, d’ye see, an’ away goes Jarge again in the dark ’till ’e feels
like lettin’ they sojers ’ave another ’un an’ another ’till arl ’is tubs
be gone ... an’ then gallop it is an’ away goes Jarge leavin’ they sojers
wi’ naun to show for their ’ard labour ’cept mud an’ gubber an’ bruises,
d’ye see!”
“Ah—but the tubs, Peter man, they hae the tubs!”
“Oh ah, sir, they ’ave the tubs—plenty on ’em, sir, full o’ ditch-watter!
And the rest o’ the lads safe away wi’ the stuff—ah, it should be arl
stowed safe an’ sound by now, I rackon! So doan’t ye worry your ’ead nor
yet grizzle, Sir ’Ector. They sojers woan’t never ketch Jarge, not by no
means, an’ in a bit they’ll be a-marchin’ back a-carryin’ o’ they tubs
o’ watter mighty careful an’ that ’appy-’earted, sir—like birds they’ll
be—’till they finds out, d’ye see. So——”
Here Mr. Bunkle’s eloquence was again disturbed by shooting, a scattered
volley so much nearer and louder that Sir John instinctively peered
from the casement expecting to see the village start from its slumbers
in clamorous dismay. But Alfriston slumbered on; it seemed as serenely
unperturbed by such trivial happenings as the old Cross itself, which
has doubtless known overmuch of the like episodes in its weary length of
days; not a door opened, not a light glimmered, not a sound broke the
chaste quiet of its street save blustering wind and creaking sign.
“Aweel, aweel, I’m awa’!” quoth Sir Hector, taking hat and cloak. “Say
what ye will, Bunkle man, musket-balls be ill things day or nicht, ye
ken, an’ amang the lads oot yonder be braw friends o’ mine, so I’m awa’——”
“What to do, Hector?” inquired Sir John.
“Wha kens, lad, wha kens! But yon men ha’ drunk wi’ me an’ grupped
ma hand in friendship, an’ I’ll dae wha’ I may for ’em, be they
smugglin’-bodies or no.”
“Why, then, I’ll come with ye, Hector——”
“Na, na, John! Hoot-toot, dinna be sic a muckle fule—”
“If you go, Hector, so do I.”
“But think, John, gin ye’re taken by Sayle’s soldiers, damn him!”
“Your risk shall be mine, Hector!”
“Well spoke, sir!” nodded Mr. Bunkle. “Sir ’Ector must not be mixed up in
to-night’s business, not no’ow, sir, so if you be his friend——”
“Bunkle man, hand that clapper o’ yours!” cried Sir Hector.
“Your hat and cloak, sir!” said the imperturbable Robert.
“Lead on, Hector, we follow!”
“John, ye’re an unco’ obstinate, self-willed——”
“I am,” laughed Sir John, folding long cloak about him—“especially
to-night!”
“Umph-humph!” exclaimed Sir Hector, and strode forth of the inn.