CONCERNS ITSELF WITH ONE OF THE MANY MYSTERIES OF THE ‘MARKET CROSS INN’
In these sleepy summer days, while Alfriston drowsed about its
business, High Dering opened doors and lattices far wider than usual to
behold a troop of workmen who, with planks, poles, ladders and other
paraphernalia, descended upon Dame Haryott’s little cottage.
These workmen, though Londoners and therefore “foreigners” in Sussex,
to be watched suspiciously and askance, were nevertheless cheery souls
who whistled and sang and cracked jokes with old Penelope what time they
thatched and glazed and painted. In the midst of which business down came
Mr. Sturton bristling with outraged authority, who loudly demanded to
know by what right and by whose permission they dared thus violate the
dignity of rotting thatch and sanctity of decaying wall; whereupon he was
shown a paper signed by a certain name that caused him to open his eyes
very wide and close his mouth very tight and walk away vastly thoughtful.
My Lord Sayle also, though never stirring abroad, was by no means
inactive, nay, rather his zeal for the suppression of smugglers in
general and capture of one in particular, waxed to a fervour which
was presently manifest to all and sundry, more especially the highly
virtuous inhabitants of Alfriston, the quiet of whose sleepy High
Street was frequently scandalised by the tramp of soldiery, hoarse
commands and the clatter of accoutrements; at which times, and with
passionless regularity, Mr. George Potter’s cottage would be searched
from cellar to attic and its walls and floors sounded without avail.
Thereafter Mr. Bunkle, awaiting patiently expectant, would conduct the
unsuccessful search-party over the ‘Market Cross Inn’; would himself
show them all manner of possible hiding-places as: dark corners, deep
cupboards, hidden recesses all more or less dusty and cobwebby; he was,
indeed, never too busy to assist officer, sergeant or private in their
floor and wall-tapping operations, and would suggest for their further
consideration an infinity of likely and unlikely places as his barns,
stables, lofts and outhouses, his corn-bins, even his hen-roost and
dog-kennel; until officer, sergeant and private, very dusty, very hot
and ever and always thirstily unsuccessful, would end their labours in
parlour and tap-room and, having nobly refreshed themselves, would fall
in and march away, conscious of having performed their duty like men.
At which times the weatherbeaten old Cross, wise with years, might have
winked knowing eye had it possessed one, as did Mr. Bunkle upon a certain
evening in the chaste seclusion of the five-doored room.
“Are they gone, Peter man?” inquired Sir Hector.
“Certain sure, indeed, sir, an’ arl on ’em quite as ’appy as usual.”
“This being their second visit within the week?” inquired Sir John,
busied with pencil and memorandum.
“It be, sir!” nodded Mr. Bunkle, slicing a lemon. “They sojers be
’ard-workin’ lads, sure-lye! This be the fourth time they’ve turned that
’ay for me as I’ve got a-laying in the old barn—which be good for the ’ay
an’ doan’t do them no ’arm. An’ seekin’ an’ searchin’ for some one as be
never found seems a tur’ble thirsty business—which be likewise good for
me!”
Here ensued a silence wherein Sir John made notes in his memorandum and
Mr. Bunkle proceeded to concoct that mystery known as “gumboo,” while
Sir Hector, puffing his pipe, watched with appreciative expectation.
From adjacent tap-room issued the drowsy murmur of neighbourly talk,
the clank of pewter, an occasional laugh; but all at once this pleasant
clamour was hushed, and Mr. Bunkle, in the act of filling the glasses,
paused and stood glancing obliquely towards the open lattice, for upon
this unnatural stillness grew an ominous sound, faint at first but
swelling ever louder, wilder, more threatening.
Sir Hector rose, Sir John closed his memorandum, Mr. Bunkle leant from
the window, for now above this ominous sound rose another, the clatter of
running feet in desperate flight from the oncoming terror of the “hue and
cry.”
And then the small chamber seemed full of men who muttered uneasily to
each other.
“The sojers, Peter!” quoth Mr. Muddle. “’Tis the sojers a-comin’ back
again!”
“’Tis Jarge!” added Mr. Pursglove dolefully. “’Tis pore Jarge Potter ...
runnin’ fur ’is loife.... An’ us caan’t do nowt fur ’ee——” Even as he
spoke was the sound of a distant shot.
“Not ’ere, ye caan’t!” answered Mr. Bunkle, shaking his head. “So off wi’
ye, lads!”
Hereupon the five doors opened, closed, and the three were alone again.
“Peter Bunkle,” cried Sir Hector, “Peter—man, though a’ the warld kens
I’m no smuggler the noo, yet if Geordie Potter’s taken they shall tak’ me
too!”
“Nay, Sir Hector, what’ll be the good o’ that?” demurred Mr. Bunkle,
following him out into the tap-room.
“Whisht, man—hark’ee!”
The running feet were much closer now; on they came in wild career,
though every now and then they seemed to falter oddly.
“B’ the Powers—’e’ll never do it!” cried Mr. Bunkle. “’Ark ’ow ’e
runs—he’m wounded!”
“Why, then,” exclaimed Sir Hector, and swung open the door, and leapt
aside as a man blundered past him, a woeful figure, torn, mired and
bloody, who gasped painfully and reeled in his stride.
Forthwith Sir Hector clapped to the door, and would have barred it, but
Mr. Bunkle stayed him.
“No, no, sir!” he cried. “It looks more innocenter open an’, besides,
Jarge only wants a minute ... watch ’im!”
Upon the wide hearth a fire smouldered, and into and over this fire Mr.
Potter staggered; they heard the rattle of a chain within the chimney, a
breathless, “Arl roight, Peter!” and Mr. Potter vanished amid sparks and
smoke.
A moment later the first of his pursuers, lifting musket-butt to batter
the stout door, found it ajar and entered, panting, to behold two
gentlemen seated in amicable converse upon the wide settle, and Mr.
Bunkle deferentially awaiting their orders; whereupon the panting soldier
gasped and, gaping, was thrust aside by a panting officer, a ferocious
gentleman, plump, peevish and blown, who, perceiving this picture of
placid ease, immediately gaped also.
“Why ... why, what the devil!” he gasped, staring about the orderly
tap-room in round-eyed amazement, while his breathless subordinates
peered over his shoulders; and, finding no better expression to fit the
occasion, he repeated it, louder than before, “What the devil!”
“Extraordinary!” exclaimed Sir John, viewing the breathless gentleman in
mild wonder. “Mr. Bunkle, you may bring us some o’ your famous gumboo.”
“Well ... damme!” panted the officer.
“Aye, but why, sir?” inquired Sir John, whereat the officer grew a trifle
redder in the face and, scowling upon Sir John, fell back upon his
original remark:
“What the devil!”
“My dear sir,” quoth Sir John, “not being an army man myself, I am
consequently a little at a loss, and should be glad to know precisely
what evolution, manœuvre or exercise you and your comrades are engaged
upon?”
The officer blinked, stared about him dazedly, and scowled upon Sir John
blacker than ever.
“Sir,” said he, having somewhat recovered his breath, “I am Panter o’
the Third! Captain Panter, sir, and am here in pursuit o’ the notorious
smuggler, George Potter, who entered this doorway not two minutes ago.”
“Amazing!” murmured Sir John, shaking his head. “Hector, you hear what
Captain Panter says?”
“Aye, I hear,” answered Sir Hector, staring at the Captain and shaking
his head also. “’Tis fair astonishin’, John!”
“Why, what d’ye mean, sir?” demanded the Captain angrily. “What the devil
d’ye mean? I’ve got eyes, and I saw our man run through this doorway,
damme!”
“Mebbe ’tis the sun, Johnnie?” Sir Hector suggested. “An’ sunstroke’s
an awfu’ thing, y’ ken, ’tis bad as strong drink tae mak’ a man see
visions——”
“Visions, sir!” cried Captain Panter, “to the devil with your visions,
sir! You, Ensign Page, did we see our man run in here or no?”
“Most certainly we did, sir!”
“And you, Sergeant, did we or did we not?”
“Why, sir,” answered the Sergeant, saluting, “we did; leastways you did,
but I didn’t—that is, not pre-zackly as I could swear to ... me not being
capable o’ seein’ nothin’ but the stock o’ Private Adamses musket as,
owin’ to Private Adamses windictiveness, ’ad caught me in the ab-domen,
sir, doublin’ of me up like a jack-knife and renderin’ me——”
“Damme!” roared the Captain, stamping with fury, “will ye hold your
infernal tongue! Page, take ten men and search this cursed inn all over
again ... the fireplace yonder first!”
The embers were scattered immediately and two zealous soldiers, ducking
under the arch of the mantel, stood in the wide chimney to peer, to prod
with bayonets, to pound with musket-butts until they sneezed, choked and
reappeared coughing and black with fallen soot, to the suppressed delight
of their comrades and the furious chagrin of their Captain, who promptly
cursed them forth to their instant ablutions.
“Sergeant,” he cried, “surround this damned tavern and let nobody out or
in, d’ye hear?”
“Aye, I do, sir,” answered the Sergeant, saluting; “any person so
attempting to be——”
“Be off!” roared the Captain.
“Aye, sir. And if fugitive discovers hisself, we to shoot at same with
intent to——”
“Aye—shoot and be damned!”
“Yes, sir!” answered the Sergeant, and with another salute he wheeled
smartly, strode into the street, bellowed incoherencies at his perspiring
men and marched them away to their stations.
“You, landlord,” quoth Captain Panter, seating himself and stretching
dusty legs, “bring me a bottle o’ burgundy—now, at once! And as for the
rest o’ ye, I’ll let you know I’m Panter o’ the Third and not to be
gammoned by a tale o’ cock and bull!”
The wine being brought, Captain Panter filled and drank thirstily while
the place rang and reverberated with the tread of heavy feet and thuds of
musket-butts that marked the searchers’ activity.
“O John,” said Sir Hector, after some while, “wull ye harken tae yon
noble heroes! Is it no a graund thing tae be a sojer?”
At this, the Captain set down his glass with a bang. Quoth he:
“I’ll thank ye to leave my profession alone!”
“I will that!” answered Sir Hector. “I’ve no’ juist hankered tae be a
catchpoll, y’ ken.”
“Catch——” the Captain choked.
“Poll!” added Sir Hector. “Catchpoll, laddie——”
“By all the devils!” exclaimed the Captain, rising, but at this moment
Ensign Page re-entered, dusty and dishevelled.
“Sir,” said he, casting looks of yearning upon the Captain’s bottle, “I
beg to report that we have searched everywhere to no effect.”
“But, burn me,” exclaimed the Captain, “the rascal must be here! You saw
him enter that door, we all saw him, and he’s had no time to win clear
... besides, the place is surrounded.”
“Nevertheless, sir,” answered Ensign Page, still eyeing the bottle
thirstily, “there’s never a sign of him high nor low.”
“And I say he’s here somewhere, hid. Where ha’ you looked?”
“In all the usual places, sir.”
“Then go search the unusual places!”
“Sir?”
“I say,” fumed the Captain, “that the rogue must be here somewhere, and
if he’s here, here he shall be found.... Go, find him, sir!”
The young Ensign saluted the bottle and departed. So was a new series of
thumps and bangs and tramplings alow and aloft, what time the autocratic
Captain Panter sipped his wine and glared at the occupants of the settle
who seemed so very much at their ease; and, as the wine grew low, his
choler rose correspondingly. He viewed Sir Hector’s shabby garments, Sir
John’s plain attire, and setting them down as persons of no condition,
treated them as such.
“Sunstroke!” he snarled. “Sunstroke, begad! ’Tis very evident ye’re
aiding and abetting this rascally smuggler—both o’ ye! Could I but be
assured o’ this, I’d march ye to prison, aye, I would, by Jove! B’gad,
but you may be arrant smugglers yourselves—you’ve the cursed, sly look of
’t.”
“Laddie,” answered Sir Hector mildly, “what wi’ sunstroke an’ the
bottle, ye’re no juist reesponsible for the clatter o’ your feckless
tongue——”
“Tongue, sir, tongue? D’ye dare suggest I’m not perfectly sober?”
“Aye, I dare that!” nodded Sir Hector; “I dare suggest that what wi’ sun
an’ the bottle ye’ll be seein’ smugglers crawlin’ up y’r arrms an’ legs
gin ye drink ony mair.... Man, ye’re growin’ purple i’ the face, y’r eyne
be rollin’ in y’r heid, an’ ye look sae uncanny an’ talk sae——”
“Talk, is it—talk!” roared the Captain, shaking his fist. “At the least I
talk English and you, like the bog-trotting Irishman y’are, and be——”
Uttering an inarticulate roar, Sir Hector leapt from his chair, bounded
across the room, and Captain Panter of the Third found himself whirled
aloft in mighty hands that held him pinned fast between two of the
ceiling-beams, breathless, shaken and utterly confounded.
“O man,” quoth Sir Hector in bitter apostrophe, “can ye no’ ken a Scot
when ye see him? Ye muckle fule, can ye no’ see the differ’ betwixt a
Scot an’ the lave o’ puir humanity? D’ye no’ ken that the Scots be the
salt o’ the airth? An’, O man, I’m a Scot o’ the Scots, being Hector
Lauchlan MacLean o’ Duart. Ma puir wee mannie, I’ve ate things the like
o’ yesel’ in a sallet afore to-day an’ ne’er kenned it!”
Having thus delivered himself, Sir Hector set the dazed and breathless
Captain gently upon his feet, a very astonished officer, who gulped,
stared and was fumbling in a numb sort of fashion for the hilt of his
sword, when the young Ensign reappeared once more, more dusty and heated
than ever.
“Sir,” said he, “we’ve seen neither hide nor hair of our man though we’ve
turned the place upside down.”
Captain Panter stared vaguely at the speaker, and from him to a certain
spot between the beams above his head.
“Upside ... down!” he murmured. “Oh! Ah! Fall in your men!” Having said
which, the Captain walked slowly out of the inn, looking neither right
nor left.
And presently the Sergeant’s voice was heard uplifted in divers
inarticulate roarings; followed a ring and clatter of muskets and, with
martial swing and measured tramp, Captain Panter and his dusty company
marched away through the mellowing afternoon sunshine.
And, after some while, appeared Mr. Muddle’s head at the open lattice.
“Arl clear, Peter!” he announced, whereupon Mr. Bunkle nodded and emitted
a cheery whistle, which was immediately answered by those ghostly
rappings, such as Sir John remembered to have heard once before.
“Aweel, that’s over, God be thankit!” quoth Sir Hector fervently.
“Aye, sir!” nodded Mr. Bunkle. “’Twere a bit orkard-like for Jarge, but
then every summer ’as its rainy day!”
The rattle of a chain, a scuffling sound in the chimney, and Mr. Potter
stepped forth in more woeful plight than ever by reason of soot.
“Havers, Geordie man, an’ how are ye the noo?” inquired Sir Hector. “Are
ye wounded?”
“A bit, sir—’ere an’ theer,” admitted Mr. Potter, “by reason of a
quick-set as happed in my road. But gimme a glass o’ grog, chilled,
Peter, an’ soap an’ water, an’ I’ll be never naun the worse, I rackon.”
And, making a leg, he limped away on Mr. Bunkle’s ready arm.
“A memorable afternoon, Hector!” quoth Sir John. “In Sussex one truly
lives these days! Paris? London? What be these to Alfriston? And now,
come your ways.”
“Whaur awa’, John?”
“To visit Rose’s aunt.”
“Na, na, John. D’ye no’ ken she’s a widow? Forbye, she’s a wee person,
an’ none sae ill-lookin’——”
“You have seen her, then?”
“Glimpsed her, lad, from ayont the party wall. She’s my neighbour, y’
ken.”
“Why, then, come and meet her.”
“An’ her a widow-body, an’ me new shaved!”
“Shaved, Hector?”
“Aye! When fresh shaved I’m no’ sae ill-lookin’ mysel’, d’ye see, John.
An’ I was ever a cautious body, as ye ken weel. So I’ll juist bide here
an’ smoke a pipe wi’ Geordie Potter.... But, John”—and here Sir Hector’s
English became precise—“there is a matter hath troubled me this week and
more. John, she is a sweet, good maid, though mayhap a little overbearing
now and then, and much above her condition.”
“Meaning Rose?”
“Herself, John ... you—you see her very often of late.... And, minding
her station in life and yours, I would ask ye, John, as one who loves you
and respects yon maid, are you ... making love to her?”
“As often as possible, Hector!”
“As John Derwent?”
“Yes, Hector.”
“O John ... O Johnnie lad! Can ye no leave purity and innocence alone?”
“Not when I want ’em in a wife.”
“Wife,” ejaculated Sir Hector, falling back a step in sheer
amazement—“wife, is it? You—you with a wife, John?”
“In time, I hope.”
“Losh, Johnnie man! And here was I thinking——”
“Evil of me, Hector. My reputation dogs me even yet!”
“Forgi’e me, lad, forgi’e me! And ... O John, you would actually marry
a—a serving-wench—you?”
“I!”
“And by heaven, I honour ye for’t! Doth she love ye?”
“Well, Hector, there are times when I am gravely doubtful ... yesterday,
for instance, she called me ‘John’ for the first time!”
“An’ blushed when she said it, lad?”
“Like a rose, Hector!”
“’Twas a good sign, sure?”
“Aye—in any maid but Rose. Thus when Rose, blushing rosily as Rose
should, calleth me ‘John,’ my assurance shakes and I grow doubtful.”
“But can ye no’ find out, John?”
“Aye—her aunt might tell me!” So saying, he turned and went his
thoughtful way, leaving Sir Hector staring after him in deepest
perplexity.
Her Grace the Duchess of Connington was seated in her little garden
busily shelling peas.
“Ah, and is it you—at last, sir?” quoth she, acknowledging Sir John’s
profound obeisance with a smiling nod. “Pray, why ha’ you been so long
a-calling?”
“I awaited vainly your niece’s invitation, madam, and am here to-day
unbidden.”
“Then you may sit here beside me, sir.... I ha’ been hither dragged into
these solitudes by my headstrong Herminia and, on the whole, should like
it vastly well were it not for the giant.”
“Giant, madam?”
“Aye, Blunderbore himself, sir! A fierce, fearsome, great creature in
shabbiest clothes and matted wig! An odious, huge person who persistently
peers and prys upon me—over the wall yonder. So slinking and sly! A
contemptible creeper! And puffs tobacco from a pipe!”
“Nay, madam, can you possibly mean my very dear friend, Sir Hector
MacLean, a most honourable, worthy gentleman?”
“Then why should the person persistently pry and peer on our privacy,
pray?”
“’Tis, I am sure, with no will to offend. Believe me, he is of nature the
most gentle——”
“With the looks of an ogre, sir!”
“But, indeed, Duchess——”
“Hush, Sir John! In Alfriston pray remember I am Mrs. Saunders!”
“And I, madam, am John Derwent.”
“And pray, John Derwent, what is the part you play here ’mid the rustic
wild?”
“Madam, I am principal lover to Mrs. Saunders’ niece Rose.”
“A difficult rôle, sir!” answered the little Duchess, with her youthful
laugh.
“Indeed, ’twould seem so,” he answered a little ruefully. “And ’tis thus
I am here, humbly seeking your advice, dear Mrs. Saunders.”
“Nay, fie, sir! Is not Sir John Dering accounted wholly irresistible, a
wild and winning wooer, terribly tempestuous?”
“Only by idle gossip, madam. And John Derwent is the reverse of all
this—a very patient lover he, full o’ reverent humility.”
“Ha!” exclaimed the Duchess, and shelled three peas with rapid dexterity,
which done, she glanced at Sir John with her shrewd, pretty eyes, and
shook her small head decidedly. “Alas, my poor John, your reverent
humility shall never win Herminia!”
Now, at this moment, Chance, Instinct or some even finer sense, caused
Sir John to glance up at the adjacent wall in time to see the gleam of
a white hand among the ivy that surmounted the coping; thus, when he
answered, his voice was a thought louder than before:
“But, dear Mrs. Saunders, ’tis Rose and Rose only that I do so love for——”
“Stay, sir! Pray remember that Rose being Rose is yet always and ever
Herminia!”
“And yet, madam, how utterly dissimilar, how vastly different! Betwixt
the sweet simplicity of my gentle Rose and the cold worldliness of the
arrogant Herminia, a great gulf is fixed that none may bridge saving
only—Herminia. And so it is I fear.”
“For yourself?”
“For us both. I fear lest Herminia’s selfish pride bring lasting misery
to poor Rose and John.”
“Ha!” exclaimed the little Duchess again, and sat turning a pea-pod idly
in her small fingers. “And yet, Herminia hath a noble heart, a warmly
generous nature ... though the sweet soul can be a fierce, passionate
wretch.... But, alack, John, she never knew a mother’s fostering care ...
she was spoiled, petted and pampered and became the idol of her wild and
reckless father.... Aye me!... John Derwent, look at me and show me John
Dering’s heart. Do you indeed so love—Rose?”
“Beyond all expression!” he answered, looking into the eyes that
questioned his so keenly.
“Why, then, John,” said she at last, “were I in thy place, I should
forget John Derwent’s so great humility awhile—just ... for a moment!”
“A moment?”
“Well, say two moments, John ... or even three!... O Sir John Dering, art
grown so strangely dense?”
Then Sir John rose.
“A moment,” he repeated, “two moments, or even three!” Taking her Grace’s
two small hands, he kissed them rapturously. “Thou dear, kind friend,”
quoth he, “thy trust, thy faith in ‘the poor dog with a bad name’ shall,
methinks, resolve all my difficulties.... It shall be three! At the stile
beyond the little footbridge.”