MR. DUMBRELL MEDIATES
The news of my Lord Sayle’s shameful discomfiture on Dering Tye ran and
spread like wildfire; in town, village and hamlet near and far it was
the one topic of conversation, in busy market-place, at cross-roads and
sequestered lane, it was discussed; and ever the story grew.
Dering of Dering was back home again and had forced Lord Sayle to fight,
and cut Lord Sayle’s clothes from him piecemeal and left him stark naked
as he was born! So ran the story to the accompaniment of thumping pewter
and gusty laughter, and proud was the man who could boast of having
witnessed, with his own two eyes, the never-to-be-forgotten scene.
It is to be supposed that my Lord Sayle caught some faint echo of the
tale, for by day he held himself sullenly aloof, shunned alike by
dismayed friends and trembling servants; but at night, unseen, unheard,
who shall tell the agonies he endured, who describe the passionate
despair, the mortified pride, the futile rage and burning hate that rent
and tore him? All hell raged within his soul, a hell peopled by demons
that tortured him until came the arch-devil of Vengeance luring him to
his own destruction, urging him to that black gulf whence there is no
return. So made he Vengeance his comforter.
Yes, Dering of Dering was home again and, mindful of the treatment it had
accorded John Derwent, High Dering was aghast; its women lamented to all
and sundry, its men shook gloomy heads, but none more despondent than
Thomas Nixon, landlord of ‘The Dering Arms.’
“To think,” sighed he, “to think as I stood ’ere an’ watched Sir John
turned out o’ his very own inn off his very own land! Mak’s me goo arl
’ot and shiversome it du, neighbours!”
“But then ’ow was ’ee to know ’twas ’im, Tom?” quoth one of his hearers.
“’Ow was any on us to know?”
“Bah!” snarled the ancient Dumbrell, rapping the table with his knobbed
stick and getting upon quavering legs. “Everybody ’old their tongues an’
’ark to oi!”
“Aye, but ’ow was anybody to know. Gaffer? ’Ow?”
The Aged Soul snorted disdainfully.
“’Ow was you t’ know?” he repeated. “Whoy by instink fur sure, same as oi
did! What if ’e called hisself Derwent an’ wore a little wig an’ no goold
braid onto ’is ’at? Oi knowed ’e wur quality moment oi seed ’im, oi did,
fur a gen’leman be arlways a gen’leman!”
“Why that be true enough, Gaffer, but——”
“Hesh!” snarled the Aged Soul. “Don’t goo fur to arg’ wi’ oi! As fur you,
Tom Nixon, ‘whatsoever a man sows that shall ’e rip!’ You let ’em turn
Sir John Dering out o’ ‘The Dering Arms’ an’ it be only nat’ral as Sir
John Dering’ll turn you out likewise.”
“Doan’t ’ee say so, Gaffer!” pleaded the mournful landlord.
“But oi du say so, Tom ... turned out ye’ll be sure-lye,
sarten-sure-indeed, my pore lad, ah—an’ mebbe hung or trans-ported ...
unless oi can say a word fur ’ee to Sir John hisself next toime ’e hap
along to see me.”
“Lemme fill your pot again, Gaffer—do now!” urged the doleful Mr. Nixon.
“No, no, Tom!” answered the Aged Soul sternly. “I dunno as I ought to
drink wi’ ye at arl—considerin’, that oi doan’t!”
Here Mr. Nixon groaned, and at this juncture the Corporal was seen
approaching, at sight of whom the landlord’s depression increased and he
looked appealingly at the little old man, whereupon that Aged Soul waxed
suddenly magnanimous.
“Arl roight, Tom, arl roight!” quoth he encouragingly. “Sir John be a
friend o’ moine, an’ so’s Corporal Bob. I dunno as oi wun’t put in a word
fur ’ee—leave it arl to oi!”
Thus the Corporal, walking with head bowed as one in profound reverie,
heard himself hailed in piping, imperious tones, in answer to which he
approached slowly and somewhat unwillingly.
“Mus’ Robert,” quoth the old man, “’ere be Tom Nixon as stood by whiles
Sir John Dering an’ you was turned out o’ this here inn o’ Sir John
Dering’s an’ consequently ought to be turned out loikewise immejit, an’
’ung an’ jibbeted or transported! But oi moind Tom bein’ barn, an’ a
bit of a fule ’e’s been ever since, an’ consequent I be axin’ you to ax
Sir John to forget an’ forgive pore Tom an’ suffer ’im to boide on ’ere
arl-along-on-account-of pore Tom bein’ naun but a bit fule, d’ye see?”
“Why as to that, Gaffer,” answered the Corporal, his glance roving afar,
“I ray-ther think Sir John’s forgot the incident; anyway, he don’t bear
malice.”
“Meanin’ as ’e wun’t turn pore Tom out?”
“I’m pretty sure he won’t,” answered the Corporal, his gaze still
abstracted.
“An’ theer ye be, Tom lad!” quoth the Aged Soul triumphantly. “See what
oi’ve done fur ’ee an’ be dooly grateful.”
“I be, Gaffer!” answered Mr. Nixon, his gloom lifted from him. “Lemme
fill your pot again. An’ you, Mus’ Doubleday, what’ll ye tak’, sir?”
“Nothing, thank ye, Nixon,” returned the Corporal, and his roving glance
perceiving the flutter of a petticoat farther down the lane, he saluted
the company and turned away.
“Robert,” cried the Aged Soul, admonishing finger uplifted, “if so be ye
hap’ to meet my Nan, doan’t ’ee nowise say nothin’ about this ’ere liddle
drop o’ ale, moind!”
“Not a word, Gaffer!” answered the Corporal, and strode away.
He found her demurely seated upon rustic bench in the little garden,
busied with her needle and rather more shyly surprised to see him than
usual.
“Why, Mus’ Doubleday,” she exclaimed as he opened the gate, “you be two
hours afore your usual toime to-day!”
“Two hours four an’ one-half minutes, Mrs. Nan,” he answered, consulting
the ponderous watch he carried.
“Well, wun’t ’ee come an’ sit down, sir?”
“Thank’ee, Mrs. Ann, I will ... but where, mam?”
“Here for sure!” she answered, drawing her neat gown aside and tapping
the rustic seat with one finger. So the Corporal laid by his hat and,
seating himself beside her, remained for a space apparently lost in
contemplation of his riding-boots.
“You be very silent, Mus’ Robert.”
“Aye ... I’m thinking, mam.”
“What about?” she inquired softly, stealing a sly glance at his down-bent
face.
“I was a-thinking, mam, as this be a world o’ change. Aye, life has
changed and is a-changing for me con-siderable!”
“What do ’ee mean, sir?”
“I mean, Mrs. Ann, that I have lost my place as Sir John’s valet——”
“Lost it!” she exclaimed aghast. “Lost it—O Mus’ Doubleday!” Her sewing
fell to the ground, and he would have picked it up but her hand on his
arm checked him. “Lost it?” she questioned again, whereupon he turned
away lest she might read his truthful eyes.
“Aye, Mrs. Ann,” he mumbled, “Sir John hath dis-charged me; he ... he
don’t want me for his valet any longer, d’ye see....” The Corporal heard
a soft, inarticulate cry, and then her arms were about his neck.
“Mus’ Doubleday ... O Robert!” she whispered. “There, there, never
grieve, then—doan’t ’ee! There’s me left ... arlways me ... an’ I shan’t
never change.”
For a moment he sat motionless, then, forgetting his imperturbability
altogether, Corporal Robert clasped and drew her to his kisses; and
between the two of them they mightily ruffled his neat wig, whereupon he
snatched it off altogether.
“Wait a bit, lass—wait!” he exclaimed, with a catch in his voice. “Look,
Ann, see how grey my hair is! I’m too old for ye, my sweet maid.... O
Ann, I’m forty-five and——”
“Why, Bob,” she cried, between laughing and crying, “as if age
mattered—doan’t ’ee be fullish! An’ if your ’air be a bit grey-like,’tis
so I do love it best!” And, drawing his head down, she kissed him upon
each temple where the hair was greyest. “And so, dear Robert, if you’ve
lost your place wi’ Sir John Dering you’ve—found me!”
“O Ann—my sweet,” said the Corporal, his voice more unsteady than ever,
“listen a bit more! ’Tis true Sir John hath discharged me ... I mean as
his valet, but—O Ann ... he’s made me his bailiff instead!”
“Bailiff?” she gasped. “D’ye mean the same as Mus’ Sturton was? Wi’
horses to ride ... an’ a fine house——”
“And you in it, Ann—you in it to make it home. Though you’re much too
young for a wife ... or I’m much too old——”
“O Bob!”