SIR HUMPHREY'S FAMILIAR
Mistress Pottage, sad-eyed, melancholy, and for ever sighing, had been
patiently waiting to receive Sir Humphrey Challoner's orders. She had
understood from his man that his Honour meant to spend the night, and
she stood anxiously in the passage, wondering if he would consider her
best bedroom good enough, or condescend to eat the meals she would have
to cook for him.
It was really quite fortunate that Lady Patience had gone, leaving the
smaller parlour, which was Mistress Pottage's own private sanctum, ready
for the use of his Honour.
Sir Humphrey's mind, however, was far too busy with thoughts and plans
to dwell on the melancholy landlady and her meagre fare, but he was glad
of the private room, and was gracious enough to express himself quite
satisfied with the prospect of the best bedroom.
Some ten minutes after his brief interview with Lady Patience he was
closeted in the same little dingy room where she had been spending such
weary hours. With the healthy appetite of a burly English squire, he
was consuming large slabs of meat and innumerable tankards of small ale,
whilst opposite to him, poised on the extreme edge of a very hard oak
chair, his watery, colourless eyes fixed upon his employer, sat Master
Mittachip, attorney-at-law and man of business to sundry of the quality
who owned property on or about the Moor.
Master Mittachip's voice was thin, he was thin, his coat looked thin:
there was in fact a general air of attenuation about the man's whole
personality.
Just now he was fixing a pair of very pale, but very shrewd eyes upon
the heavy, somewhat coarse person of his distinguished patron.
"Her ladyship passed me quite close," he explained, speaking in a low,
somewhat apologetic voice. "I was standing in the door of--er--the
parlour, and she graciously nodded to me as she passed."
"Yes! yes! get on, man," quoth Sir Humphrey, impatiently.
"The door was open, your Honour," continued Master Mittachip in a weak
voice, "there was a draught; her ladyship's cloak flew open."
He paused a moment, noting with evident satisfaction the increasing
interest in Sir Humphrey's face.
"Beneath her cloak," he continued, speaking very slowly, like an actor
measuring his effects, "beneath her cloak her ladyship was holding a
bundle of letters, tightly clutched in her hand."
"Letters, eh?" commented Sir Humphrey, eagerly.
"A bundle of them, your Honour. One of them had a large seal attached
to it. I might almost have seen the device: it was that of..."
"Charles Edward Stuart, the Pretender?"
"Well! I could not say for certain, your Honour," murmured Master
Mittachip, humbly.
There was silence for a few moments. Sir Humphrey Challoner had
produced a silver tooth-pick, and was using it as an adjunct to deep
meditation. Master Mittachip was contemplating the floor with rapt
attention.
"Harkee, Master Mittachip," said Sir Humphrey at last. "Lady Patience
is taking those letters to London."
"That was the impression created in my mind, your Honour."
"And why does she take those letters to London?" said Sir Humphrey,
bringing his heavy fist crashing down upon the table, and causing
glasses and dishes to rattle, whilst Master Mittachip almost lost his
balance. "Why does she take them to London, I say? Because they are
the proofs of her brother's innocence. It is easy to guess their
contents. Requests, admonitions, upbraidings on the part of the
disappointed rebels, obvious proofs that Philip had held aloof."
He pushed his chair noisily away from the table, and began pacing the
narrow room with great, impatient strides.
But while he spoke Master Mittachip began to lose his placid air of
apologetic deference, and a look of alarm suddenly lighted his meek,
colourless eyes.
"Good lack," he murmured, "then my Lord Stretton is no rebel?"
"Rebel?--not he!" asserted Sir Humphrey. "His sympathies were thought to
be with the Stuarts, but he went south during the rebellion--'twas I who
advised him--that he might avoid being drawn within its net."
But at this Master Mittachip's terror became more tangible.
"But your Honour," he stammered, whilst his thin cheeks assumed a leaden
hue, and his eyes sought appealingly those of his employer, "your Honour
laid sworn information against Lord Stretton ... and ... and ... I drew
up the papers ... and signed them with my name as your Honour
commanded..."
"Well! I paid you well for it, didn't I?" said Sir Humphrey, roughly.
"But if the accusation was false, Sir Humphrey ... I shall be disgraced
... struck off the rolls ... perhaps hanged..."
Sir Humphrey laughed; one of those loud, jovial, laughs which those in
his employ soon learnt to dread.
"Adsbud!" he said, "an one of us is to hang, old scarecrow, I prefer it
shall be you."
And he gave Master Mittachip a vigorous slap on the shoulder, which
nearly precipitated the lean-shanked attorney on the floor.
"Good Sir Humphrey..." he murmured piteously, "b ... b ... b ... but
what was the reason of the information against Lord Stretton, since the
letters can so easily prove it to be false?"
"Silence, you fool!" said his Honour, impatiently, "I did not know of
the letters then. I wished to place Lord Stretton in a perilous
position, then hoped to succeed in establishing his innocence in certain
ways I had in my mind. I wished to be the one to save him," he added,
muttering a curse of angry disappointment, "and gain _her_ gratitude
thereby. I was journeying to London for the purpose, and now..."
His language became such that it wholly disconcerted Master Mittachip,
accustomed though he was to the somewhat uncertain tempers of the great
folk he had to deal with. Moreover, the worthy attorney was fully
conscious of his own precarious position in this matter.
"And now you've gained nothing," he moaned; "whilst I ... oh! oh! I..."
His condition was pitiable. His Honour viewed him with no small measure
of contempt. Then suddenly Sir Humphrey's face lighted up with
animation. The scowl disappeared, and a shrewd, almost triumphant smile
parted the jovial, somewhat sensuous lips.
"Easy! easy! you old coward," he said pleasantly, "things are not so bad
as that.... Adsbud! you're not hanged yet, are you? and," he added
significantly, "Lord Stretton is still attainted and in peril of his
life."
"B ... b ... b ... but..."
"Can't you see, you fool," said Sir Humphrey with sudden earnestness,
drawing a chair opposite the attorney, and sitting astride upon it, he
viewed the meagre little creature before him steadfastly and seriously;
"can't you see that if I can only get hold of those letters now, I could
_force_ Lady Patience into accepting my suit?"
"Eh?"
"With them in my possession I can go to her and say, 'An you marry me,
those proofs of your brother's innocence shall be laid before the King:
an you refuse they shall be destroyed.'"
"Oh!" was Master Mittachip's involuntary comment: a mere gasp of
amazement, of terror at the enormity of the proposal.
He ventured to raise his timid eyes to the strong florid face before
him, and in it saw such a firm will, such unbendable determination, that
he thought it prudent for the moment to refrain from adverse comment.
"Truly," he murmured vaguely, as his Honour seemed to be waiting for him
to speak, "truly those letters mean the lady's fortune to your Honour."
"And on the day of my marriage with her, two hundred guineas for you,
Master Mittachip," said Challoner, very slowly and significantly,
looking his man of business squarely in the face.
Master Mittachip literally lost his head. Two hundred guineas! 'twas
more than he earned in four years, and that at the cost of hard work,
many kicks and constant abuse. A receiver of rents has from time
immemorial never been a popular figure. Master Mittachip found life
hard, and in those days two hundred guineas was quite a comfortable
little fortune. The attorney passed his moist tongue over his thin,
parched lips.
The visions which these imaginary two hundred guineas had conjured up in
his mind almost made his attenuated senses reel. There was that bit of
freehold property at Wirksworth which he had long coveted, aye, or
perhaps that partnership with Master Lutworth at Derby, or...
"'Twere worth your while, Master Mittachip, to get those letters for me,
eh?"
His Honour's pleasant words brought the poor man back from the land of
dreams.
"I? I, Sir Humphrey?" he murmured dejectedly, "how can I, a poor
attorney-at-law...?"
"Zounds! but that's your affair," said his Honour with a careless shrug
of his broad shoulders, "Methought you'd gladly earn two hundred
guineas, and I offer you a way to do it."
"But how, Sir Humphrey, how?"
"That's for you to think on, my man. Two hundred guineas is a tidy sum.
What? I have it," he said, slapping his own broad thigh and laughing
heartily. "You shall play the daring highwayman! put on a mask and stop
her ladyship's coach, shout lustily: 'Stand and deliver!' take the
letters from her and 'tis done in a trice!"
The idea of that meagre little creature playing the highwayman greatly
tickled Sir Humphrey's fancy, for the moment he even forgot the grave
issues he himself had at stake, and his boisterous laugh went echoing
through the old silent building.
But as his Honour spoke this pleasant conceit, Master Mittachip's thin,
bloodless face assumed an air of deep thought, immediately followed by
one of eager excitement.
"The idea of the highwayman is not a bad one, Sir Humphrey," he said
with a quiet chuckle, as soon as his patron's hilarity had somewhat
subsided, "but I am not happy astride a horse, and I know nought of
pistols, but there's no reason why we should not get a footpad to steal
those letters for you. 'Tis their trade after all."
"What do you mean? I was but jesting."
"But I was not, Sir Humphrey. I was thinking of Beau Brocade."
"The highwayman?"
"Why not? He lives by robbery and hates all the quality, whom he
plunders whene'er he has a chance. Your Honour has had experience, only
last night ... eh?"
"Well? What of it? Curse you, man, for a dotard! Why don't you
explain?"
"'Tis simple enough, your Honour. You give him the news that her
ladyship's coach will cross the Heath to-night, tell him of her money
and her jewels, offer him a hundred guineas more for the packet of
letters.... He! he! he! He'll do the rest, never fear!"
Master Mittachip rubbed his bony hands together, his colourless eyes
were twinkling, his thin lips quivering with excitement, dreams of that
freehold bit of property became tangible once more.
Sir Humphrey looked at him quietly for a moment or two: the little man's
excitement was contagious and his Honour had a great deal at stake: a
beautiful woman whom he loved and her large fortune to boot. But reason
and common-sense--not chivalry--were still fighting their battle against
his daring spirit of adventure.
"Tush, man!" he said after awhile, with the calmness of intense
excitement, "you talk arrant nonsense when you say I'm to give a
highwayman news of her ladyship's coach and offer him money for the
letters. Where am I to find him? How speak with him?"
Mittachip chuckled inwardly. His Honour then was not averse to the
plan. Already he was prepared to discuss the means of carrying it out.
"'Tis a lawyer's business to ferret out what goes on around him, Sir
Humphrey. You can send any news you please to Beau Brocade within an
hour from now."
"How?"
"John Stich, the blacksmith over at the crossroads, is his ally and his
friend. Most folk think 'tis he always gives news to the rogue whene'er
a coach happen to cross the Moor. But that's as it may be. If your
Honour will call at the forge just before sunset, you'll mayhap see a
chestnut horse tethered there and there'll be a stranger talking to John
Stich; a stranger young and well-looking. He's oft to be seen at the
forge. The folk about here never ask who the stranger is, for all have
heard of the chivalrous highwayman who robs the rich and gives to the
poor. He! he! he! Do you call at the forge, Sir Humphrey, you can
arrange this little matter there.... Your news and offer of money will
get to Beau Brocade, never fear."
Sir Humphrey was silent. All the boisterous jollity had gone out of his
face, leaving only a dark scowl behind, which made the ruddy face look
almost evil in its ugliness. Mittachip viewed him with ill-concealed
satisfaction. The plan had indeed found favour with his Honour; it was
quick, daring, sure: the fortune of a lifetime upon one throw. Sir
Humphrey, even before the attorney had finished speaking, had resolved
to take the risk. He himself was safe in any case, nothing could connect
his name with that of the notorious highwayman who had cut his purse but
the night before.
"I'd not have her hurt," was the first comment he made after a few
minutes' silent cogitation.
"Hurt?" rejoined Mittachip. "Why should she be hurt? Beau Brocade
would not hurt a pretty woman. He'll get the letters from her, I'll
stake my oath on that."
"Aye! and blackmail me after that to the end of my days. My good name
would be at the mercy of so damned a rascal."
"What matter, Sir Humphrey, once Lady Patience is your wife and her
fortune in your pocket? Everything is fair in love, so I've been told."
Sir Humphrey ceased to argue. Chivalry and honour had long been on the
losing side.
"Moreover, Sir Humphrey," added the crafty attorney, slily, "once you
have the letters, you can denounce the rogue yourself, and get him
hanged safely out of your way."
"He'd denounce me."
"And who'd believe the rascal's word against your Honour's flat denial?
Not Squire West, for sure, before whom he'd be tried, and your Honour
can have him kept in prison until after your marriage with Lady
Patience."
It seemed as if even reason would range herself on the side of this
daring plan. There seemed practically no risk as far as Sir Humphrey
himself was concerned, and every chance of success, an that rascal Beau
Brocade would but consent.
"He would," asserted Mittachip, "an your Honour told him that the coach,
the money, and the letters belonged to Lady Rounce, and the young lady
travelling in the coach but a niece of her ladyship. Lady Rounce is a
hard woman who takes no excuse from a debtor. He! he! he! she has the
worst reputation in the two counties, save your Honour!"
The lawyer chuckled at this little joke, but Sir Humphrey was too
absorbed to note the impertinence. He was pacing up and down the narrow
room in a last agony of indecision.
Mittachip evidently was satisfied with his day's work. The two hundred
guineas he looked upon as a certainty already. After a while, noting
the look of stern determination upon his Honour's face, he turned the
conversation to matters of business. He had been collecting some rents
for Sir Humphrey and also for Squire West and Lady Rounce, and would
have to return to Wirksworth to bank the money.
Since Sir Humphrey Challoner was occupying the only available bedroom at
the Moorhen, there would be no room for Master Mittachip and Master
Duffy, his clerk. He hoped to reach Brassington by the bridle path
before the footpads were astir, thence at dawn on to Wirksworth.
He had shot his poisonous arrow and did not stop to ascertain how far it
had gone home. He bade farewell to his employer, with all the deference
which many years of intercourse with the quality had taught him, and
never mentioned Beau Brocade, Lady Patience or John Stich's forge again.
But when he had bowed and scraped himself out of his Honour's presence,
and was sitting once more beside Master Duffy in the bar-parlour, there
was a world of satisfaction in his pale, watery eyes.