REDE HALL.
As Tregenna went quickly along the shore, he was not too well pleased
to find that one of his own men had been a witness, at a little
distance, of his discomfiture at the lad’s hands.
The man indeed had a grin on his face when the lieutenant first caught
sight of him, which changed to a look of supreme gravity when he caught
his captain’s eye. He pulled his forelock, and said the boat was ready.
“I suppose you don’t know who that fellow is that’s got away over the
cliff?” said he, sharply.
“Oh, ay, sir, I know who he be well enough,” answered the man,
promptly. “He be Jem Bax, by what I’ve heard tell, I’m pretty sure.”
“Jem Bax! That bit of a lad!”
“Ay, sir. And, by what I’ve heard tell, he be about the worst of the
whole lot of ’em, old or young!”.
This certainly tallied with the experience Tregenna had had of the
young ruffian, so he swallowed his annoyance as well as he could, and,
turning again to the man, said shortly—
“And it’s the old story, of course? Nobody knows anything about him, or
where he lives, or anything that could help to put us on his track?”
The man appeared to glance about him cautiously, as if afraid that his
reply might be overheard by some unseen person. Then he answered, in a
low voice—
“Well, sir, they do say he’s to be heard of somewheres about Rede Hall.”
“Rede Hall?” echoed the lieutenant with interest.
For this was, he knew, the home of the artful Ann Price, of whose wiles
he retained so vivid a remembrance.
“Ay, sir.”
And then it crossed Tregenna’s mind that this rascally lad must be some
relation of Ann’s, a younger brother, perhaps; for, looking back to
his impression of the boy’s pale, set face, he seemed now to be able to
trace a resemblance between his features and those of Ann, different as
was the expression of the calm, homely woman from that of the fierce
lad.
It was clear, then, that Rede Hall must now be visited, and that in the
first place a warrant must be obtained for the apprehension of such of
the smugglers as he could identify; for Jem Bax, Ben the Blast, Robin,
nicknamed “Cursemother,” Bill, nicknamed “Plunder,” and for one other,
whom he could only describe as “Jack,” as there was, even among the
cutter’s crew, a certain strange reluctance to give him any further
name.
When Tregenna called at Hurst Court to obtain the warrants, in company
with the brigadier, on the following morning, he found himself in the
midst of a very lively scene. The squire had given a breakfast to the
members of the hunt, and the guests were trooping out of the house, and
mounting their horses on the lawn in front.
The scarlet coats of the men gave a pretty touch of bright color to the
scene; and the presence of ladies, in their silken skirts and velvet
hoods, added brilliancy to the gathering. Behind the scattered groups
on the grass, the white house and the red-brown trees on either side of
it formed a picturesque background, throwing up the gay colors of the
costumes in vivid relief.
One figure, and one only, attracted Tregenna’s attention the moment he
entered the gates. This was Joan Langney, who, in her plain Sunday gown
of russet tabby, with a full black hood, looked, he thought, a very
queen of beauty among the more smartly dressed wives and daughters of
the country squires.
He let the brigadier pass on alone up to the place where Squire Waldron
was standing, and, dismounting from his horse, lingered a moment to pay
his respects to Mistress Joan. He had always the excuse to himself that
she might be able to afford him some useful information.
“Your servant, Miss Joan. ’Tis not necessary to ask if you are well
this morning.”
“Your servant, Mr. Tregenna. I am quite well, I thank you,” replied
Joan, with a curtsey.
It seemed to him there was in her brown eyes, as she looked quickly up
and down again, a malicious suggestion that she had heard all about
his unlucky encounter with the smugglers the day before.
“You will bear me no good will to-day, Miss Joan, since I come to
obtain a warrant against your friends the free-traders,” said he,
perceiving that her glance wandered at once in the direction of the
brigadier.
“I guessed as much, sir. Indeed, the doings yesterday put the village
in an uproar. They say you had a brush with some of the boldest spirits
about here?”
“I’ faith, ’tis true, madam. I made acquaintance with Jem Bax, in
particular, and I do e’en propose that, in return, he shall make
acquaintance with the inside of a jail.”
At his mention of the name, Joan suddenly smiled, as if with an
irresistible impulse to great amusement. She pursed up her lips again
in a moment, but Tregenna, much nettled, said dryly—
“Doubtless, Miss Joan, you have some kindness for that young knave
also, though he played me the scurviest trick I have ever known.”
And with that he proceeded to give her an account of his own
compassion upon the lad, and of Jem’s ungrateful return.
There was some satisfaction, however, in seeing how Joan took this
recital. Her face clouded as she listened; and when he ended, there
were tears in her eyes.
“’Twas infamous, sir, shameful, to treat you so, after what you had
done,” cried she, with a heightened color in her cheeks and the sparkle
of indignation in her eyes. “And if they treat you like that again,
I’ll be a turncoat myself, and do my best to help you against—Jem.”
“You speak,” said Tregenna, with curiosity, “as if that bit of a lad
were the ringleader of the gang.”
Again Joan shot at him a glance in which there was some amusement. But
she answered demurely—
“He is old for his years, sir, I believe.”
“Well, Miss Joan, I shall think my experience of yesterday worth the
risk if it but bring you to our side, the side of law and of justice.”
By this time he saw that the brigadier had got the ear of the squire,
and that he had turned to see why his companion had deserted him.
Tregenna, therefore, with a low bow to Joan, re-mounted and rode across
the grass to join him.
Squire Waldron, though by no means in the best of humors at this
interruption to the serious business of fox-hunting, made out the
warrants as desired by Tregenna and General Hambledon; but he took care
to twit them with their ill success against the smugglers, and with
their failure to catch “Gardener Tom.”
Tregenna took these reproaches modestly, but the brigadier blustered,
and said that he was ready to be shot if he did not bring one or more
of the ringleaders among the smugglers back to Rye with him that
afternoon.
“And, gads my life, sir,” he went on with emphasis which made him
purple in the face; “but I’ll warrant me I’ll have it out with Mistress
Ann, and make her give up this Jem Bax, if she’s harboring him.”
The squire smiled a little, just as Joan had done at the mention of
Jem’s name. And Tregenna was confirmed in his belief that the young
ruffian was a relation of Ann’s, and that she would put every possible
obstacle in the way of his being given up.
When General Hambledon and Tregenna came out of the house, where they
had been shut up with the squire during the formal making out of the
warrants, the lieutenant looked about in vain for Joan. Not only had
she herself disappeared; but Parson Langney, who had been prominent,
with his jolly face and jolly voice, among the red-coated groups on the
lawn, trotting about on his nag, and as eager for the sport as anybody
there, had taken his departure also.
Tregenna pondered on this fact, which was the more strange, since not
one other of the assembled guests was missing. But it was not until
he and the general, and the score of mounted troopers who accompanied
them, had traversed the village, forded the river, ridden the two miles
to Rede Hall, and come in sight of that ancient dwelling, that the
mystery was solved.
From the gates of the farmhouse, just as the soldiers came into view,
there issued Parson Langney on his nag, with his daughter Joan mounted
on a pillion behind him.
The brigadier saw no significance in this; the parson was doing his
rounds, that was all. But to Tregenna the incident bore a very
different meaning. He jumped to the conclusion that Joan had set off
with her father to warn the inhabitants of Rede Hall of the visit which
was in store for them; and, on the instant, he decided that he and the
brigadier would be as unsuccessful on this occasion as they had been
hitherto.
In the mean time, General Hambledon had caught sight of a lonely inn a
little way off the road, and directed his way thither, with the very
proper excuse that in these places one could hear all the gossip and
pick up valuable information.
Tregenna ventured to make two suggestions—the one was that the sooner
they got to the farmhouse the more likely they were to effect a
capture; the other, that nobody about was likely to give information to
them, since their uniform betrayed the sort of errand on which they had
come.
Of course he was overruled by the general; and, a few minutes later,
they found themselves at the bar of the rickety little timber erection,
with its battered sign creaking from a tree on the opposite side of the
road.
“’Tis a vastly pretty view you have from hence,” remarked the
brigadier, in the course of making himself agreeable to the knot of
drovers, laborers, and nondescript wanderers who stood within the inn
doors, watching the soldiers.
The landlord was the only person bold enough to answer the smart
soldier—
“Ay, sir; ’tis, as you say, a pretty view.”
“What call you that building yonder? Is’t a gentleman’s seat, or what?”
“Nay, sir, ’tis no gentleman’s seat now; though methinks I’ve heard
’twas a considerable place once on a time. ’Tis but a farmhouse that
they call Rede Hall.”
“Rede Hall—eh? And what sort of folk are they that live there now?”
“’Tis kept by an old farmer, sir, that lives there with his wife,
his son, and his daughter. They be quiet folks, sir, and I know nowt
else about ’em,” said the landlord, who knew perfectly well on what
business the brigadier had come, as he remembered hearing of a similar
expedition which had come that way not many days before.
“Quiet! Ay, but they be main queer folks,” piped out an old man, who
was enjoying his tankard of ale at the bar. “The place has had a
mighty odd name these long years past; and they do say, sir, ’tis
haunted. There was a wicked lord lived there in the orld toime, so they
say, and he killed his wife by flaying her to death in what was once
the chapel, and that now they call the Gray Barn.”
“Hey, man, them’s but idle tales,” said the landlord quickly.
“Ah doan’t knaw that, Ah doan’t knaw that,” chimed in another man,
taking up the running now that the first awe of the grand soldier had
worn off. “Ah’ve heeard the tale, too, and how they say he can’t rest
in’s grave, but works with his flail in the Gray Barn o’ nights e’en
now. And for sure Ah’ve heeard myself most fearsome noises, and seen
a blue light a-burning like to none other I ever see afore, as Ah’ve
crossed the bridge below there yonder o’ nights, when Ah’ve been late
home wi’ my wagon.”
“Ay, and Farmer Price, hisself, he’ve seen—summat. He’s told as much
hisself,” said another man. “’Tis a place I’d not care to sleep in
while there was a hedge to lie under.”
“Tales; naught but old wives’ tales!” said the landlord,
imperturbably. “The old lady would never ha’ lived all these years in
the place if so be there was aught to be afeared on under yon honest
roof.”
The general opinion, however, seemed to be rather with the old man who
had first spoken than with the landlord on this matter. And Tregenna
felt more than ever convinced, as they came away from the inn and
crossed the stream by the little bridge that led to the farmhouse, that
this was the wasps’ nest to be smoked out.
It was an ancient and picturesque pile of building, this Rede Hall,
standing on the slope of a hill, and presenting to the view of the
visitors a long south side of red brick, in the Tudor style, in a state
of indifferent repair, with a somewhat unkempt growth of ivy and other
creepers hanging about it and almost choking a small door, of later
date than the building, which was now the state entrance to the house.
The grass-grown state of the narrow garden-path which led to this door
betrayed the fact that visits of state to the occupants of Rede Hall
were a great rarity.
Beyond the main building, on the west side, was the Gray Barn, easily
to be distinguished both by its color and by the ecclesiastical
character of the blocked-up windows, in some of which the tracery was
still almost perfect. The roof, however, was now of thatch, well-grown
with moss and grass, lichen and tufts of wallflower; and the swallows
built their nests under the eaves.
On this side of the house was the farmyard, surrounded by a high
sandstone wall; and the space between the big barn and the dwelling was
filled up by outbuildings, most of which were in a ruinous condition.
It was when they rode up to the common entrance of the farmhouse, which
was on the east side of the house, that the visitors came to the most
interesting and ancient part of the building. All this portion was
built of sandstone, mellow with age and weather. And a huge, massive
porch, with a small lodge on one side and a room above, formed a
fitting entrance to what was now the farmhouse kitchen, but which had
been, in old times, the hall of the mansion.
The door was open; and when the brigadier and his young companion had
dismounted from their horses and stood inside the porch, they had full
opportunity to note the details of one of the most picturesque scenes
it was possible to find, while the great bell clanged, and an old woman
came slowly forward to receive them.
Anything more peaceful, more homely, more utterly irreconcilable with
the notion of lawlessness and nefarious deeds than the room and its
occupants presented it was impossible to imagine.
At one end of the vast apartment, which was some forty feet long, and
broad and lofty in proportion, a fire was built up on the iron dogs in
the great open fireplace; and an iron pot hanging from a crane in the
chimney, gave forth a savory smell.
Close by the fire, crouching in the warmest corner of the oak settle,
with her back to the light, sat a woman who never turned at the
visitors’ approach. On the opposite side of the hearth, but well in the
corner of the room, another woman, large-boned and gaunt, with gray
hair half-hidden by a large mob-cap, sat busy with her spinning-wheel.
On his knees before the fire, with a mongrel dog on each side of him,
was a withered and bent old man.
These, and the old woman who came to the door to speak with the
strangers, were all the occupants of the huge apartment.
Some other details Tregenna took in, such as the extreme cleanliness of
the uneven red-tiled floor, of the long deal table at the north end of
the room, of the yellow-washed, rough walls. He noted the brown-and-red
earthenware vessels on the tall oak dresser, the hams and bunches of
herbs dangling from dark beams above.
The next moment he was saluting the old dame, in answer to her
respectful curtsey.
A little, clean, bright-eyed woman she was, spotless as to cap and
apron, and as active as if the stick she carried were for ornament
rather than use. Recognizing the brigadier with a smile, she dropped a
curtsey to him, and asked his pleasure.
“Faith, dame, ’tis no pleasure brings us here, but rather the reverse;
since I have reason to think you played me false t’other day, and that
you know more about those rascals the smugglers than you and Mistress
Ann would have me suppose!”
“Smugglers! Nay, sir, I know naught of them! My good man and I have
always kept ourselves from such folks, and brought up our childer in
the same way. And if you please, sir, you can search where you like, if
that be your purpose, but you shall find no such villains here.”
In spite of all he had heard, of all he knew, Tregenna was almost
inclined to believe her; for what could be more open, more honest, than
this manner of receiving them, with the door flung wide and this frank
invitation to enter where they would? The brigadier’s manner, however,
was rather short with her.
“Let us hope it may prove as you say,” said he, as he beckoned his
troopers to enter. “We have a warrant for certain of these fellows,
ma’am, and we intend to search the place. But first I would speak with
your daughter, Mistress Ann.”
“Ah, sir, you’ll be sorry to see her so bad as she is; for she’s been
nigh out of her wits with the toothache these two days and nights. But
she’ll speak with you, sir, I doubt not.” And the old woman led the
way the whole length of the room, and pausing in front of the settle,
cried, in a loud voice, “Ann, dost hear? ’Tis the soldier-gentleman
that was so polite when he came hither last Friday se’nnight! Dost
mind? Him that was so civil to thee, for all he came to look for
Gardener Tom, and could not find him.” The old woman turned again to
the brigadier, who was close behind, and added, with some irritation:
“I know not, sir, why ’tis always to us you come in your search for
these evil-doers!”
“We come, dame, where we’re most like to find them!” retorted the
brigadier dryly, as he came clanking up the tiled floor, and planted
himself before the suffering Ann. “And now, mistress, I’d be glad to
have an explanation why you failed to come to Rye to see me, as you
gave me your word, to put me on the trail of the smugglers.”
Ann, whose face was bound up in a handkerchief, with a huge flannel bag
against the right cheek, turned to him impatiently.
“Sir, I have been in no fit state for visiting, as you may judge by the
size my face is swollen. I caught cold last market-day, and I have not
left the house since. Pray, sir, make your search of the place, if that
is your good pleasure, and leave me alone.”
“As you please, Mistress Ann. And I shall know what to do next if we
fail to find the men,” replied the brigadier angrily, as he turned on
his spurred heel, and clanked down the great room again.
Ann turned to Tregenna, who had followed modestly in the brigadier’s
steps. “And pray, sir, what may you want here? Have you a warrant too?”
“Nay, Mistress Ann, I would fain have put some questions to you had you
been in better health to answer them. As it is, I cannot trouble you
now; I will come hither again at some more convenient season.”
“Nay, sir, there’s no time like the present,” retorted Ann in a tone of
considerable irritation; “ask what questions you please.”
“Well, then, I have heard talk that you have a barn that’s haunted, and
I would be glad to know whether ’tis by spirits or by men.”
“Sure, the best way to answer that would be to see for yourself, sir,”
retorted Ann sharply.
“Nay, there’s a time for such apparitions, and that’s not noonday,”
said Tregenna.
“Come at what time you please, sir, and satisfy yourself by ear and
eye.”
“You mean that?”
“Faith, sir, I do.”
And she turned her back upon him again, and crouched once more over the
fire, swaying backwards and forwards, with her hand to her swollen face.
Tregenna saw that she was in pain, and made allowance for her
irritation. He retreated to the other end of the long apartment, and
awaited the return of the soldiers, who were now engaged in making an
exhaustive search of the premises.
Not much to his surprise, they presently returned to the front of the
porch, while the brigadier re-entered the room, hot, flushed, and in a
very bad temper.
They had hunted in every corner of the house, of the outbuildings, of
the barns, but not a man was to be found.
They took a very cold leave of the old farmer’s wife, and of the
farmer himself, who came respectfully to the door to see them off. He
was about seventy years of age, and almost childish, and he obeyed
mechanically his wife’s instructions to salute the visitors.
When the party had ridden off, before the eyes of the old couple, and
the last of the troopers’ horses had crossed the bridge over the stream
at the bottom of the hill, Ann looked across, with a laugh, to the
woman at the spinning-wheel.
“’Twas lucky they were but men, Jack,” said she, “or they’d have found
out long since that, while thy wheel went round, there was nothing
spun!”
And the woman at the spinning-wheel rose to a full height of some six
feet, took off the cap and the gray woman’s wig, and disclosed to
view the sallow, thin face and mouse-colored hair of “Long Jack,” the
smuggler.