A GUEST ARRIVES AT THE ROYAL OAK.
It was getting on towards the middle of the month of August, 1859. The
harvest all along the Millbrook and Spotswood road was in full
progress. And a bounteous harvest it was, even for that favored region.
Squire Harrington confidently counted upon a yield of fifty bushels of
wheat to the acre. True, he was a model farmer, and knew how to make
the most of a good season, but his neighbors were not far behind him,
and were looking forward to full granaries when threshing should be
over. For once there was little or no grumbling at the dispensations of
Providence. The weather had been as propitious as though the local
tillers of the soil had themselves had a voice in the making of it, and
even gruff Mark Stolliver was constrained to admit that there were
fewer grounds for remonstrating with the Great Disposer of events than
usual at this season of the year. Every wheat field in the township
presented an active spectacle throughout the day. The cradles were
busily plied from early morn till nightfall, and the swaths of golden
grain furnished heavy work for the rakers and binders. The commercial
crisis of 1857 had made itself felt in the district, as well as in all
other parts of Upper Canada. Many of the farmers had fallen
considerably behindhand, and had for once in a way felt the grip of
hard times. But the prolific crops which were now being gathered in
bade fair to extricate them from such obligations as they had been
compelled to incur, and the prevailing tone was one of subdued though
heartfelt satisfaction.
On the evening of Saturday, the 13th of the month, sundry of the yeomen
who lived thereabouts assembled at Lapierre's, after a hard week's
work, to congratulate one another on the prospects of the harvest, and
to discuss a few tankards of the reaming ale for which the Royal Oak
was famous throughout the township. The landlord himself was on hand as
usual, to dispense the hospitalities of his bar and larder. The five
years which had rolled over his head since that memorable night of
Savareen's disappearance had left but slight traces of their passage
upon his jovial countenance. He had never been able to fathom the
impenetrable secret of that strange July night, but he had all along
been wont to remark that the mystery would be cleared up some day, and
that he confidently expected to hear some tidings of the missing man
before he died. As for his guests, though most of them had resided in
the neighborhood at the time of his disappearance, they had long ceased
to give themselves any particular concern about the matter. So long as
there had seemed to be any prospect of getting at the bottom of the
affair they had taken a vigorous part in the search, and had exerted
themselves to bring the mystery to light; but when month succeeded
month without supplying any clue to the puzzle, they had gradually
resigned themselves to the situation, and, except when the topic came
up for discussion at their Saturday night meetings, they seldom
indulged in anything more than a passing allusion to it.
Ten o'clock had struck, and it seemed improbable that any further
company would arrive. The assembled guests, to the number of seven or
eight, sat in their accustomed places around a goodly-sized table in
the room behind the bar. Lapierre occupied an easy chair, placed near
the door communicating with the bar, so as to be handy in case of his
being needed there. Farmer Donaldson had just regaled the circle with
his favorite ditty, The Roast Beef of Old England, which he flattered
himself he could render with fine effect. Having concluded his
performance, he sat modestly back in his elbow-chair, and bowed to the
vociferous plaudits accorded to him. The tankards were then charged
afresh, and each man devoted himself to the allaying of his thirst for
the next minute or two. Mine host had promised to give Faintly as Tolls
the Evening Chime in the course of the evening, and was now called upon
to redeem his pledge.
"Ah," he remarked, "that vas alvays a faforite song of mine. And ton't
you remember how font of it our frient Safareen used to pe? He used to
call for it regular efery Saturday night, schoost pefore supper in the
old times. Ah, put that wass a strange peesiness. I haf never peen aple
to think of it without perspiring." And so saying, he dived into the
pocket of his white linen jacket, and produced therefrom a red silk
handkerchief, with which he mopped his beaming countenance until it
shone again.
"Ay," responded Farmer Donaldson, "that was the strangest thing as ever
happened in these parts. I wonder if it will ever be cleared up."
"You know my opinion apout that," resumed the host, "I alvays said he
vould turn up. But it is--let me see--yes, it is more that fife years
ago. It wass on the night of the sefenteenth of Chooly, 1854; and here
it is, the mittle of Aucust, 1859. Vell, vell, how the years go py!
Safareen was a coot sort. I thought much of him, and woot like to see
him once acain."
"I don't say but what he was a good fellow," remarked one of the
company; "but I can tell you he had a devil of a temper of his own when
his blood was up. I remember one night in this very room when he had
some words with Sam Dolsen about that black mare o' his'n. He fired up
like a tiger, and that scar on his cheek glowed like a carbuncle. It
seemed as if it was going to crack open. I made sure he was going to
drop into Sam, and he would 'a done, too, if our landlord hadn't
interfered and calmed him down."
"Yes, yes," interrupted Farmer Donaldson; "Savareen had his tempers, no
doubt, when he had been drinking more free than common; but he was a
jolly feller, all the same. I wish he was with us at this moment."
This sentiment was pretty generally re-echoed all round the festive
board. Just then a rather heavy footstep was heard to enter the
adjoining bar-room from outside. The landlord rose and passed out
through the doorway, to see if his services were required. The door of
communication was left open behind him, so that the company in the
inner room had no difficulty in seeing and hearing everything that took
place.
In the middle of the bar room stood a short heavy-set man, whose dress
and bearing pronounced him to be a stranger in those parts. He was
apparently middle-aged--say somewhere between thirty-five and forty.
His clothing was of expensive material, but cut after a style more
_prononce_ than was then seen in Canada, or has ever since been
much in vogue here. His hat was a broad-brimmed Panama, which cost
twenty dollars if it cost a penny. His coat, so far as could be seen
under his thin summer duster--was of fine bluish cloth, short of waist,
long of skirt, and--the duster notwithstanding--plentifully besprinkled
and travel-stained with dust. The waistcoat, which seemed to be of the
same material as the coat, was very open-breasted, and displayed a
considerable array of shirt front. Across the left side was hung a
heavy gold watch-chain, from which depended two great bulbous-looking
seals. On his feet he wore a pair of gaiters of patent leather, white
from the dust of the road. In one hand he carried a light, jaunty
Malacca cane, while the other grasped a Russian-leather portmanteau,
called by him and by persons of his kind a valise. He wore no gloves--a
fact which enabled you to see on the middle finger of his left hand a
huge cluster diamond ring, worth any price from a thousand dollars
upwards. His face was closely shaven, except for a prominent moustache.
He had crisp, curling black hair, worn tolerably short. His eyes were
rather dull and vacant, not because he was either slow or stupid, but
because he felt or affected to feel, a sublime indifference to all
things sublunary. You would have taken him for a man who had run the
gauntlet of all human experiences--a man to whom nothing presented
itself in the light of a novelty, and who disdained to appear much
interested in anything you might say or do. Taken altogether he had
that foreign or rather cosmopolitan look characteristic of the citizen
of the United States who has led an unsettled, wandering life. His
aspect was fully borne out by his accent, when he began to speak.
"Air you the landlord?" he asked, as the host stepped forward to greet
him.
He received a reply in the affirmative.
"This, then, is the Royal Oak tavern, and your name is Lapierre?"
Two nods signified the host's further assent to these undeniable
propositions.
"Have you got a spare bedroom, and can you put me up from now till
Monday morning?"
The landlord again signified his assent, whereupon the stranger put
down his cane and portmanteau on a bench and proceeded to divest
himself of his wrapper.
"You haf had supper?" asked Lapierre.
"Well, I had a light tea down to Millbrook, but I know your Saturday
night customs at the Royal Oak, and if you hain't got any objections
I'd like to take a hand in your eleven o'clock supper. To tell the
truth, I'm sharp-set, and I know you always have a bite of something
appetizing about that time."
Upon being informed that supper would be ready at the usual hour, and
that he would be welcome to a seat at the board, he signified a desire
to be shown to his room, so that he could wash and make himself
presentable. In response to an enquiry about his horse, he intimated
that that animal for the present consisted of Shank's mare; that he had
ridden up from town with Squire Harrington, and dismounted at that
gentleman's gate. "The Squire offered to drive me on as far as here,"
he added; "but as it was only a short walk I reckoned I'd come on
afoot."
Without further parley the guest was shown to his chamber, whence he
emerged a few minutes later, and presented himself before the company
assembled in the room behind the bar.
"Hope I ain't intruding, gentlemen," he remarked, as he took a vacant
seat at the lower end of the table; "I've often heard of the good times
you have here on Saturday nights. Heard of 'em when I was a good many
hundred miles from here, and when I didn't expect ever to have the
pleasure of joining your mess. Guess I'd better introduce myself. My
name's Thomas Jefferson Haskins. I live at Nashville, Tennessee, where
I keep a hotel and do a little in horseflesh now an' agin. Now, I shall
take it as a favor if you'll allow the landlord to re-fill your glasses
at my expense, and then drink good-luck to my expedition." All this
with much volubility, and without a trace of bashfulness.
The company all round the table signified their hearty acquiescence,
and while the landlord was replenishing the tankards, the stranger
proceeded to further enlighten them respecting his personal affairs. He
informed them that a man had cleared out from Nashville about six
months ago, leaving him, the speaker, in the lurch to the tune of
twenty-seven hundred dollars. A few days since he had learned that the
fugitive had taken up his quarters at Spotswood, in Upper Canada, and
he had accordingly set out for that place with intent to obtain a
settlement. He had reached Millbrook by the seven o'clock express this
evening, only to find that he was still fifteen miles from his
destination. Upon inquiry, he learned that the stage from Millbrook for
Spotswood ran only once a day, leaving Millbrook at seven o'clock in
the morning. There would not be another stage until Monday morning. He
was on the point of hiring a special conveyance, and of driving through
that night, when all of a sudden he had remembered that Lapierre's
tavern was on the Millbrook and Spotswood road, and only three miles
away. He had long ago heard such accounts of the Royal Oak and its
landlord, and particularly of the Saturday night suppers, that he had
resolved to repair thither and remain over for Monday's stage. "I was
going to hire a livery to bring me out here," he added, "but a
gentleman named Squire Harrington, who heard me give the order for the
buggy, told me he lived close by the Royal Oak, and that I was welcome
to ride out with him, as he was just going to start for home. That
saved me a couple of dollars. And so, here I be."
Lapierre could not feel otherwise than highly flattered by the way the
stranger referred to his establishment, but he was wholly at a loss to
understand how the fame of the Royal Oak, and more especially of the
Saturday night suppers, had extended to so great a distance as
Nashville. In response to his inquiries on these points, however, Mr.
Thomas Jefferson Haskins gave a clear and lucid explanation, which will
be found in the next chapter.