WHICH, AMONG OTHER SMALL MATTERS, TELLETH OF A SNUFF-BOX
And now ensued days wherein Sir John seemingly idled, the Corporal took
mysterious journeys both a-horse and afoot, and my Lady Herminia busied
herself upon Sir Hector’s comfort; for, having visited his cottage and
being horrified by his ideas of “homeliness,” she prepared for immediate
action—that is to say, with lovely head tied up in a kerchief (laced cap,
ringlets and all) against such accidentals as spiders, cobwebs and dust,
she armed herself with a mop and Mr. William Thompson with soap, water
and scrubbing-brush, and forthwith set about cleansing the Augean Stables.
Accoutred thus, she was directing the floor-washing operations of Mr.
Thompson in the small, tiled kitchen when Sir Hector ventured to open
the door, whereupon Mr. Thompson, hitherto awed to dumb submission by my
lady’s imperious presence, cast down his scrubbing-brush and lifted his
voice in wailing protest:
“Sir ’Ector—O Sir ’Ector, will ’ee look at oi! She’s ’ad me ’ere on me
knees, a-scrubbin’ an’ a-sloshin’, this hower an’ more, she ’ave! On me
marrer-bones, sir! Crool it be! Sir ’Ector, if you ’ave an ’eart, say a
word for oi!”
“William Thompson,” quoth my lady, “William Thompson—scrub.”
“Sir ’Ector—say a word!”
“Losh, Wully man, whaur’ll be the use? Ye ken vera weel ’tis no fau’t o’
mine. Ye ken vera weel I lo’e tae be hamely——”
“Sir Hector—silence!” commanded my lady.
“Eh, but, Rose, puir Wully an’ me are no used tae sic awfu’——”
“Enough, sir!”
“But, O lassie, ye’re fair washin’ me oot o’ hoose an’ hame——”
“Then begone, sir, and leave us to finish.”
“But Guid save us a’, d’ye no——”
“Sir Hector,” cried my lady, with a flourish of her mop, “go!”
Sir Hector went. Being in his small parlour, he glanced yearningly
upon the unwashed crockery littering the table, from this to the dusty
riding-boots upon the mantel-shelf and, sweeping a heterogeneous
collection of small oddments from the elbow-chair to the floor, sat down
with his feet among the long-dead ashes that cumbered the hearth, sighing
for that spirit of homely comfort that was, even then, being washed and
swept out of his ken.
And thus Sir John found him, a desolate soul, huddled disconsolately over
a cheerless hearth, his peruke over one mournful eye, the very picture of
woe.
“Hark till her, John!” quoth he dolefully. “O man, ’tis fair
heartrendin’! Hark till yon brushin’ an’ scrubbin’!”
“Ah, so you have a woman to clean the place for you at last, Hector!”
“A wumman, d’ye say? Man, she’s no’ an ordinary wumman.... Wull ye hark
till her!”
“William Thompson,” cried a sweet, albeit stern voice, “this corner is
not even wetted ... scrub it!”
“Rose!” exclaimed Sir John.
“Hersel’!” sighed Sir Hector. “Can ye no reason wi’ her, John, if ’tis
only for the sake o’ puir Wully Tamson?”
“Not for worlds, Hector!”
“Then what’ll I dae, Johnnie?”
“Come a-walking.”
“Na, na; I’ve no’ the sperrit, John.”
“But you’ve the legs, Hector.” So saying, Sir John straightened his old
friend’s wig, reached him his hat and, taking his arm, led him out into
the sunshine.
“Whaur awa’, Johnnie?”
“Well, I promised to visit Mr. Pym, the painter.”
“Aye, I ken him fine; wi’ rod or gun there’s nane to equal him.”
They found Mr. Pym busied in his garden, who, perceiving his visitors,
laid by his spade and hastened to make them welcome; the better to
perform which, he brought them into the house and vanished to find the
wherewithal to refresh them, only to return empty-handed and disconsolate:
“Sirs,” quoth he, “the devil is in it for my brandy is out!” And, being
at a loss, he sought the aid of his daughter. “Elsie!” he called. “Elsie!”
A jingle of keys, a light step and Mistress Pym appeared, her dainty,
print gown girt about slender middle by a cincture whence hung reticule
and housewifely keys, her face framed in snowy mob-cap and remarkable for
a pair of handsome eyes.
“Girl,” exclaimed the painter, “my brandy’s out!”
Mistress Pym faced the so grave situation entirely undismayed:
“I told you ’twas so, days agone, sir,” she answered serenely. “We’ve
naught left in the house save my ginger wine.”
“Then that must serve,” quoth her sire. “Bring it, a heaven’s name!”
Lightly she went and lightly she was back and, steady of hand, filled the
three glasses. Sir John eyed the liquor a little askance but tasted it
bravely, and glanced at his young hostess.
“Your own making, Mistress Pym?” he inquired.
“Yes, sir,” she nodded. “’Twould be better were it older, but father
never lets it keep long enough.”
“And small wonder!” answered Sir John, bowing. “Mistress Pym, I drink to
your eyes, for sure there be few to match ’em in the South Country.” So
saying, he drank and wished his glass had been larger. Thereupon Mistress
Pym curtsied to them and jingled away about her multifarious duties.
“Yon’s a braw wife for some lucky man, I’m thinkin’!” quoth Sir Hector.
“There’s looks till her, an’, O man, but she’s a bonny cook whateffer!
’Tis a graund thing when a lass can appeal tae a man’s heid, an’ heart,
an’ stomach, y’ ken.”
“Mr. Pym,” said Sir John as, the ginger wine having made a duly
deliberate end, they rose to depart, “you mentioned, I mind, the first
time we met, the murder of a man on Windover.”
“I did, sir; the cruel assassination of Roger Hobden—a black business
that was never cleared up and never will be.”
“Had you any suspicions at the time?”
“Suspicions, sir? Remembering Lord Sayle and the unholy doings in that
solitary house of his, I suspected every one beneath its roof, from Lord
Sayle down.”
“Losh, man!” exclaimed Sir Hector, “ye’ve a graund gift o’ suspeecioning.”
“And suppose I have, sir?” demanded the painter argumentatively. “There
is little of good in ’Friston Manor, and evil begetteth evil. And Sayle
is a law unto himself, with bullies at hand to work his wicked purposes.”
“Whisht, man!” exclaimed Sir Hector. “Ye’ll no be suggestin’——”
“And why not, sir? Doth the man’s rank place him above suspicion?”
“Never heed father, Sir Hector,” said Mistress Pym at this moment,
leaning in at the open door; “he doth but seek an argument——”
“Mistress,” quoth the painter, “mind your business!” Whereat Mistress Pym
laughed and jingled away again.
“Pym—man,” said Sir Hector, “his lordship is no’ juist an archangel nor
yet a seraphim, but ye’ll no’ be suspectin’ a man o’ his quality wad
stoop tae murder a country lad o’ no condition.”
“On the contrary, Sir Hector, I say he would stoop to anything.”
“There was never any incriminating evidence found, I believe, sir?”
inquired Sir John. “No clue of any kind discovered?”
“None of importance. Though I did find a thing on the footpath that
runs above the ‘Long Man,’ near where the crime was committed—a thing I
felt it my duty to show to the law officers and was laughed at for my
pains.... I have it here somewhere.” And the painter turned to a small,
carved press in a corner where stood two or three fishing-rods in company
with a musket and a birding-piece.
“What kind o’ thing, Pym?” inquired Sir Hector.
“A snuff-box,” answered the painter, opening a drawer and turning over a
collection of small fossils, flint arrow-heads, and the like.
“A gowd snuff-box, Pym?”
“Nay, ’twas of horn—a poor thing! Ah, here ’tis!” And he held out a
clumsy horn snuff-box of battered and villainous appearance. Sir John
took it, turned it this way and that, opened and sniffed delicately
at its empty interior, and finally carrying it to the light, fell to
studying it anew.
“Now, Pym man,” said Sir Hector, “if yon had been gold or enamel, or even
siller, it might perchance justify your suspeecions; but whaur’s the man
o’ quality would carry a thing the like o’ that?”
“There, sir,” answered the painter dogmatically, “there I take issue with
ye. If that box be evidence, which I deny, mark ye—’tis precisely the
kind o’ thing your man o’ quality would purposefully leave that its very
poverty might set inquiring minds on a false scent. I further maintain,
sir, that——”
“Nay, Sir Hector,” laughed Mistress Pym, leaning in at the open lattice
at this moment, her hands full of fresh-gathered flowers, “do but take
father’s side o’ the question and he will immediately take yours to keep
the argument a-going.”
“Child,” quoth the painter, sternly grim, “I smell your bread a-burning!”
“Sir,” she answered, throwing a flower at him, “thou’rt mighty
sharp-nosed this morning, for ’tis not yet in the oven!”
“An’ there’s for ye, man!” chuckled Sir Hector as she jingled away once
more.
“Mr. Pym, would you pray lend me this box for a few days?” inquired Sir
John.
“Nay, take it, sir,” answered the painter, “if the sorry thing hath any
interest for you, take it and welcome.”
Murmuring his thanks, Sir John slipped it into his pocket; and shortly
after, bidding Mr. Pym adieu, they left him to his gardening.
“Yon Pym-lassie,” quoth Sir Hector as they walked, “is like a bagpipes——”
“Never in the world, Hector!”
“Aye, John; she’s sweet as a bagpipes, whilk, as a’ the warld kens, is
the sweetest and maist soothin’ of a’ instruments! ’Tis a muckle woefu’
wight Pym’ll be if ever she marries, I’m thinkin’! But, Johnnie, why for
did ye want yon snuff-box?”
“Because I think I can find the man who lost it.”
“Losh, man! An’ suppose ye can, what then?”
“Why then, Hector, I think my Lord Sayle will cease from hunting
smugglers.”
“Eh? Sayle? Man, what d’ye mean?”
“Time will show——”
“Aye, but meanwhile, John, d’ye mean to say ye think——”
“That a mug of Mr. Bunkle’s gumboo will go very happily with Mistress
Pym’s excellent wine, so——”
“Umph-humph!” exclaimed Sir Hector; and together they entered the
hospitable portal of the ‘Market Cross Inn,’ where they were met by
the cheery Mr. Bunkle, who ushered them as honoured guests into his
five-doored holy of holies.
“Do you gin’men ’appen to ha’ seed the bill as they’ve printed an’ posted
arl-on-account-o’ pore Jarge Potter? What—no, sirs? Then bide a minute
an’ I’ll show ye one o’ they bills.” Saying which, Mr. Bunkle put aside
snowy apron and from vasty pocket drew forth such incongruous articles
as: a whip lash, a fragment of tobacco, a nutmeg, a small pistol, and
finally, after laborious groping, a folded paper which, having carefully
smoothed out, he held up against the wall and they read as follows:
ONE HUNDRED POUNDS REWARD.
Dead or Alive.
WHEREAS George Potter a NOTORIOUS SMUGGLER did upon the 10th
inst. of June fire upon certain of His Majesty’s soldiers and
coastguard officers in the execution of their duty, thereby
MALICIOUSLY WOUNDING divers of them: the above sum, to wit ONE
HUNDRED POUNDS, will be paid to any or such persons as shall
give information leading to capture of the aforesaid
NOTORIOUS MALEFACTOR.
Dead or Alive.
LONG LIVE THE KING.
“Save’s a’!” exclaimed Sir Hector, “the man Sayle is unco’ serious an’
damnably determined.... A hundred pounds! Losh, man, ’twill be an awfu’
temptation tae the avereecious. How think ye, Peter?”
“Why, I think, sir, as that theer hundred pound will go a-beggin’——”
“But ... a hundred pounds, man——!”
“Aye,” nodded Mr. Bunkle as he refolded the bill, “’tis a sight o’ money,
I rackon; Jarge ought to be a proud man this day! ’Twill be the gumboo as
usual, sirs?”
Now when their glasses were empty and Sir Hector had fared unwillingly
homewards, Sir John, being alone, took out the battered snuff-box to view
it once again in keen-eyed scrutiny, more especially the lid; for there,
scratched faintly on the horn, were these two initials:
J. S.