GIVETH SOME DESCRIPTIONS OF A TEA-DRINKING
“’Tis most excellent tea!” quoth my lady. “I vow I have never drank
better!”
“Arl the way from Chaney, mam.”
“And these beautiful dishes!”
“Chaney, too!” nodded old Penelope proudly. “An’ look at my teapot! I
means to tak’ it along wi’ me when they do turn me out, though ’twill be
a bit ’ard to carry, I rackon. But ye see, mam, I——”
“Nay, godmother, call me Rose.”
“No, mam, it doan’t come easy to my tongue.”
“I may call you Penelope, mayn’t I?”
“For sure!”
“And fairy godmother?”
“Aye, though I be more witch than fairy, I rackon.”
“Then, godmother Penelope, pray call me Rose.”
“Rose, then!” she snapped.
“I think,” said Sir John in his pleasant voice, “you have some message
for me, Mrs. Penelope?”
“Gimme time, young man, gimme time! I bean’t kissed an’ called a fairy
every day, so gimme——” She paused suddenly and seemed to listen intently,
“I rackon you’d best be goin’—both on ye!”
“But why, pray?” demanded my lady.
“Happen I’ll ha’ trouble here presently.”
“Then, of course, I shall stay with you!” quoth my lady in her most
determined manner, but glanced round sharply, as upon the back door of
the cottage sounded three soft raps repeated three several times.
“That will be Mr. Potter, I think,” said Sir John. “Shall I let him in?”
“Since ye seem to know arl about it, young man, ye may.”
Scarcely had Sir John loosed the bolts than, sure enough, Mr. Potter slid
into the room and proceeded to lock and bolt and chain the door, further
securing it with a stout iron bar that he reached from adjacent corner;
thus busied, he spoke, albeit gasping a little with his late exertions.
“They nigh ’ad me once, Pen ... but I slipped ’em ... t’other side the
... ’anging wood. But I’ve gotten an ’are for ye ... a praper big ’un as
I took ... in Dering Park and ... by the Pize!” he exclaimed as, turning,
he espied my lady.
Mr. Potter was hardly himself, for his hat was gone, his clothes were
torn and stained with the mud and green slime of damp hiding-places,
while his unkempt hair clung in elf-locks about an unshaven face, grimed
with dust and streaked with sweat; moreover, beneath one arm he carried a
short, though very formidable bludgeon.
“Who is this horrid person?” demanded my lady, and took up the boiling
kettle in her defence.
“By Goles!” ejaculated Mr. Potter, and, eyeing her heroic proportions and
determined air, retreated to the door.
“Rose,” said Sir John, intervening, “it is my joy to present my friend,
Mr. George Potter. Mr. Potter—Mrs. Rose!”
“Friend?” she repeated. “Your friend? Is he a murderer or merely a thief?”
“Neither, child. He is simply a friend o’ mine temporarily embarrassed
by—circumstances.”
Mr. Potter made a leg and touched an eyebrow in polite salutation, and
diving into the inner mysteries of the frieze coat, brought thence a
large hare, which he laid upon the little dresser. Quoth he, “Theer ’e
be, Pen! ’E should keep ’ee goin’ for a day or so, I rackon.”
“Aye, Jarge, an’ thank’ee!”
“An’ now I’ll better be goin’.”
“What be your ’urry, lad? There be rum i’ the cupboard an’ kittle’s
a-biling.”
“Aye, I see it be!” answered Mr. Potter, retreating to the door again.
“Then sit ’ee down, do!”
“Why, y’see, Pen, Oxham an’ ’is men be a-seekin’ ’ereabouts, an’ I won’t
’ave ’em mak’ trouble for you arl along on account o’ pore Potter——”
“Bah!” exclaimed old Penelope fiercely. “What do I care for ’em! They
can’t frutten me. So sit ye down, Jarge.”
“Why, I bean’t ’ardly fit for comp’ny, Pen, and——” Mr. Potter suddenly
held his peace, and they heard a distant shout, a clamour of voices, a
growing hubbub. “They’ve winded me, I rackon!” said he.
“Aye,” nodded Penelope composedly, “they’ll be breakin’ the door in
prensly! So get ye below, Jarge; get ye down under stone.”
“No, no, Pen, they’ll come here sure an’ pull the old place t’ bits, an’
if they should find me ’twould be bad for us both! No, I’ll cut stick
whiles I can, Pen!” And, crossing to the front door, Mr. Potter reached
to draw the bolts then hesitated and stood listening, while old Penelope
peered through the lattice.
“Ye be too late, Jarge,” said she calmly, “there be three or four of ’em
waitin’ for ye in the road.”
“An’ pore Potter thought as he’d tricked ’em in Dering Wood!” sighed Mr.
Potter gloomily. “An’ if they tak’ me in your cottage, Pen, they’ll take
you ’long as my accomplish——”
“Let ’em!” said she serenely. “But as for you, get ’ee down under stone
quick!”
Mr. Potter still hesitated, hearkening to the shouts and hallooing, the
awful sound of the hue and cry that grew louder every moment.
“What is it?” questioned my lady, clasping her hands, for the terror
seemed all about the cottage. “Oh, what does it mean?”
“Hold y’r tongue, lass!” answered Penelope. “You’ll know soon enough, I
rackon!”
“The witch’s cottage!” boomed a voice. “The old hag’ll know where t’ find
him, sure!” Here a clamour of assent. “If she doan’t open the door, burst
it in!” boomed Mr. Oxham again.
“I be main grieved for this, Pen!” sighed Mr. Potter, crossing to the
hearth in his leisured fashion, “but what is to be—must be!” So saying,
he thrust an arm up the wide chimney and pulled lustily at some hidden
object, whereupon was a creaking sound and my lady shrank back, uttering
a gasp of surprise to see the broad hearthstone sink from sight and in
its place a yawning cavity.
“Quick, Jarge!” warned Penelope, still peering from the lattice.
“If they dogs start ill-usin’ of ’ee, Pen, I be a-comin’ up!” quoth Mr.
Potter, seating himself upon the floor, his legs a-dangle in the void
below. “You, Mus’ Derwent,” he continued appealingly, “you took ’er part
once afore——”
“And will again,” answered Sir John cheerily, “so down with ye, man;
trust me, old Penelope shall suffer no harm.”
“God bless ’ee, sir!” growled Mr. Potter, and immediately vanished,
whereupon the hearthstone rose demurely into place and became as
innocent-seeming as any in all Sussex; then, setting the elbow-chair upon
it, Penelope sat down and spread her thin, work-worn hands to the comfort
of the fire.
“An’ now, my dear,” said she, “if there be any tay left, I’d like another
cup.” So, while clamour raged without, my lady manipulated the priceless
teapot, and Sir John, noting her firm wrist and untroubled demeanour,
smiled happily.
And then was a tramp of feet, violent blows upon the door, and Mr.
Sturton’s voice more authoritative than usual:
“Penelope Haryott, open the door! ’Tis me, James Sturton! Open the door,
d’ye hear me?”
“Aye, I ’ears ye,” cried the old woman, “an’ I spits!”
“Damned hag!—will ye open?”
“Galler’s-bird, no!”
“Then we’ll break it down!”
“Why, then, break away, an’ a bloody end t’ye, James Sturton!” answered
old Penelope, sipping her tea with relish.
A stick shivered one of the few remaining panes of glass in the lattice,
and Mr. Oxham’s voice boomed:
“You shall suffer for it, Pen Haryott, when us do come in!”
“Bah!” she laughed in fierce derision. “I be used to suffering!” Here the
stout door shook to a fierce blow that seemed the signal for others, for
there began a furious battering.
“Sit still, young man,” cried old Penelope above the din, for Sir John
had risen—“sit ye still! ’Tis a strong door an’ should hold ’em till we
ha’ finished our tea-drinking, I rackon.”
“But,” answered he, as the hammering momentarily subsided, “it seems
shameful to permit them to destroy your property——”
“My property!” cried she. “Mine? Lord, you must be a gurt fool of a young
man!”
“Howbeit,” he answered, “we will endeavour to quiet ’em; their noise
offends me.” So saying, Sir John drew the bolts and, turning the massive
key, flung the door wide and thus came face to face with Mr. Oxham
supported by some half-score sturdy fellows who crowded the little front
garden and kept back the throng of excited villagers.
“Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Oxham, recoiling a step, “so ’tis you again, is it?”
Sir John affably admitted the fact.
“We want George Potter!”
“You usually do, it seems.”
“And we be a-comin’ into this cottage to find him!”
“I think not!”
Here Mr. Sturton pushed his way to the fore.
“Look’ee here, you!” quoth he, wagging bodeful finger, “if you bean’t
out o’ this in two minutes we’ll apprehend you as the accomplice o’ this
curst smuggler, this rogue Potter as dared to fire on the King’s uniform
last night. We means to get him if we ha’ to pull this cottage down. Are
ye goin’ to let us in?”
“Where is your search-warrant?” demanded Sir John.
“Search-warrant be damned!” roared Mr. Oxham. “We are here to tak’ George
Potter, aye—and the old witch along wi’ him——”
“And I,” answered Sir John, slim hands disappearing into coat-pockets,
“am here to prevent you.”
The man Oxham swung up his stick, Sir John stepped lightly back, and
his hands flashed to view, each grasping a small, silver-mounted
pocket-pistol, very arresting for all their lack of size. “Look’ee,
fellow,” quoth he, “I ha’ no particular desire for your blood, but come
one step nearer, you or any o’ your men, and I break that man’s leg!”
“Don’t believe him, lads!” cried Sturton. “He’d never dare; the law’s
behind us; he’d never dare shoot; ’twould mean hanging or transportation.”
“Very well,” answered Sir John; “pray step forward, Mr. Sturton, and see
for yourself.”
“Aye,” quoth Mr. Oxham, “you lead the way, Sturton, an’ we’ll foller!”
Mr. Sturton scowled at the threatening pistol-muzzles, at the serenely
determined face behind them, and hesitated, as well he might.
And then, all in a moment, Sir John found matters taken entirely out
of his hands; he saw an out-thrust, shapely arm, felt himself pushed
aside with surprising ease, and my lady was between him and his would-be
assailants. For a moment she faced the astonished crowd proudly
contemptuous, and when she addressed them her disdain was such that
despite hot anger she never thought to swear.
“Animals,” said she, “get out of my sight!”
For a moment was amazed silence, then rose a murmur, an angry growl.
“Who be the likes o’ her to miscall the likes o’ we?” cried a voice. “She
be nobody—look at ’er gownd!”
Then Mr. Oxham spoke:
“You be a fine piece, I’ll allow, mistress, aye—fit for a lord or a
dook ye be, but your handsome looks won’t——” Here, suddenly espying the
nature of the weapon she held, he shrank and cowered away. “’Ware of
her, Sturton!” he cried, but all too late, for with a graceful sweep of
her long arm she swung the large pitcher she had hitherto kept hidden,
discharging its boiling contents over the huddled crowd in a streaming
deluge, whereupon arose screams, curses, groans, a very pandemonium,
as these men, who had fronted Sir John’s pistols, retreated in wild
confusion. Reaching the road, they halted to stamp and swear, while Mr.
Oxham roared threats and cherished scalded face, and Sturton, cursing all
and sundry, cried shame on them to “be beat by a damned slip o’ shrewish
womanhood!” to such effect that they were presently back again more
viciously threatening than ever, though keeping well away from the tall
young Amazon who stood with pitcher recharged and the light of battle in
her eyes, strung for action, yet supremely disdainful of them, one and
all.
So was a momentary respite, for the men, uncertain and a little
shamefaced, hung back, despite Sturton’s lashing tongue and Oxham’s
bellowing. And then arose warning shouts from their fellows who guarded
the roadway, a clatter of horse-hoofs and sounds of sudden strife,
whereupon Oxham’s men hastened to join the fray. Thus the turmoil grew,
while up rose a swirling cloud of dust wherein men strove hand to hand,
a fierce hurly-burly whence ever and anon was heard a wild, eldritch
screech of exultation. Suddenly, high above the reeling press, two legs
appeared, very helpless legs that writhed and contorted themselves in
desperate but futile kickings ere they vanished. Then the close-locked
fray was split asunder, and through the seething dust a gigantic form
appeared, with a man clutched helpless beneath each mighty arm, and who
paused to glare round about and note the havoc he had wrought upon his
bruised and dismayed assailants, and to vent another fierce screech of
triumph ere he became articulate.
“Ye fules!” he roared. “Dinna anger me—dinna rouse the auld Adam in me or
mebbe I’ll be hurtin’ some o’ ye!”
Thus stood Sir Hector Lauchlan MacLean, the very incarnation of strife,
hatless and wigless, his clothes rent and torn, his wretched captives
struggling vainly in the grasp of his arms, his lean face flushed with
the ecstasy of the moment.
“Wha’ stays a MacLean meets the de’il!” quoth he. “An’ here’s MacLean the
noo, an’ whaur’s the man tae gainsay him? You, Oxham-laddie, an’ you,
Sturton, is it battle and bluidshed ye’re wantin’? If aye, speak the
worrd. If no’, get ye oot o’ Dame Haryott’s but-an’-ben, an’ quick aboot
it, for I’m fair yearnin’ for a wee mair tulzie-mulzie, y’ ken!”
“We’ve no quarrel wi’ you, Sir Hector,” answered Mr. Oxham sullenly.
“Mair’s the peety, lad, mair’s the peety!” sighed Sir Hector. “But we’ll
no’ let a bit quarrel stand betwixt us, man; I can fecht wi’oot any
quarrel at a’ when needfu’.”
“We are here, sir,” explained Mr. Sturton, “to arrest the notorious rogue
and smuggler, George——”
“Ou aye, I ken that fine!” nodded Sir Hector. “An’, O man, but this
smugglin’ ’s an awf’ business, I’ll no’ deny. But Penelope Haryott bides
here, y’ ken, an’ she’s an auld body, stricken wi’ years, an’ auld folk
lo’e peace an’ quiet! So I’m juist suggestin’ tae ye, Oxham, ma mannie,
that ye gang awa’ an’ arrest your smuggler somewhaier else. Is it aye or
no?”
“Aye, Sir Hector!” answered Mr. Oxham more sullenly than ever. “And us’ll
tell Lord Sayle o’ this here business!”
“Good!” nodded Sir Hector, beginning in his most pedantic English: “Pray
carry him my compliments and inform him, on my behalf, that should he
experience the burning need of a little gentlemanly satisfaction, Sir
Hector MacLean will be happy to meet him at any time, anywhere, with
broadsword or rapier, pistol, dirk, or half-pike, right hand or left, to
suit his own convenience, and ... aye, an’ damn him intae the bargain for
a scoondrel, whateffer! An’ noo, tak’ ye’sels hence—awa’ wi’ ye or I’ll
be crackin’ y’r twa thick heids taegither.”
Thus stood Sir Hector, indeed a very Hector, Achilles and Ajax rolled
into one, his two captives still in durance, his brow a little sad as
he watched the enemy’s retreat. Then, becoming aware of his helpless
prisoners, he loosed them and patted each dazed fellow upon tousled crown.
“Losh,” quoth he, “I fair disremembered ye! Rin awa’, laddies, rin awa’
an’ dinna forget Hector Lauchlan MacLean.”
And now it was that he felt a touch upon his arm and, turning, came face
to face with my lady.
“Save ’s a’,” he exclaimed, “’tis Rose!”
“Herself, dear Sir Hector!” she answered and, smiling, reached him both
her hands. But instead of clasping them, he clapped his own to his
wigless head and stood utterly discomfited and abashed.
“Hoot-toot,” quoth he, “I’m no’ a fit sicht for a lassie’s een—look awa’,
Rose, look awa’! Rab!” he roared, “O Rabbie-man, bring me ma wig. Rin,
laddie, rin!”
“Here, sir!” answered Robert, stepping from the shadow of the hedge with
the object in question, which Sir Hector snatched and donned hastily;
then, facing about, he bowed ceremoniously.
“Rose,” said he, “I rejoice to see thee safe back.”
“O Sir Hector,” cried she, reaching him her hands again, “thou’rt indeed
a man ’tis joy to see, a man of action, of deeds not words—and marvellous
strong. You fight as if you loved it!”
Sir Hector’s cheek flushed and his eye glistened.
“Yet ilka joy hath its sorrow, child!” he sighed. “Wull ye look at ma
coat?”
“I vow it becomes you vastly, torn so!”
“Aye, but ’tis my third best!” he answered gloomily. “An’ though mebbe
’tis somewhat worn an’ weary wi’ hard service an’ length o’ days, ’tis an
auld friend, y’ ken!”
“Then do but bring thine old friend within doors and I’ll cobble him for
thee,” said my lady; and side by side they crossed the trampled garden
to the cottage, while ex-Corporal Robert stared after them, rubbing his
square chin thoughtfully. Then, being left thus to his own devices, he
went back to her who stood awaiting him shyly in the shadow of the tall
hedge.