THE VILLAGE ALE-HOUSE.
Railroads were unknown in the times in which our story occurred, and the
village ale-house was still the rendezvous of the villagers of an
evening; the parson still occasionally looked in and smoked his pipe
with the lawyer, the exciseman, the sexton, and the parish-clerk; while
the sturdy farmers, the smith, the butcher, and baker formed another
circle; while the laborers and ploughmen, the butcher-boy and the
tailor's apprentice lounged in to drink with greedy ears the news; to
listen to the wise saws of the village politicians, and become in due
time convinced that by some strange freak of fortune the only persons
incompetent to rule the country were those in power at the time. Mrs.
Alice Goodfellow, the landlady and proprietress of this village elysium,
fair, fat, and forty, was a buxom widow, shrewd, good-humored and fond
of pleasure, but careful withal and fond of admiration. She never,
however, allowed any one of her admirers, to suppose himself more
favored than the rest; neither did she suffer any of them to languish in
despair. If she allowed the smith to hand her to her pew in church on
Sunday, she, nevertheless, smiled sweetly on the baker; and if she took
a drive in Farmer Dobson's pony-chaise for her health, yet, Farmer
Thomas would sit for hours inside her bar; the truth was, the good widow
was perfectly well aware that her snug little free-hold and thriving
little trade were quite as great objects of attraction as her delectable
self, and acting on the same principle as that old humbug 'Elizabeth,'
insanely called 'the good Queen Bess,' viz: the balancing opposite
interests, she drew custom to her house and grist to her mill, without
troubling herself as to selection from her numerous admirers, which,
besides displeasing the others, would place another in authority over
that bar, which, for the last ten years, she had ruled monarch of all
she surveyed. She had no relative, save one nephew, a wild, shy boy,
strange and moody in his habits, passing whole days no one knew
where--holding little or no communication with any of those who visited
the tavern--none at all with the boys of the village, poring over some
book of wild adventure when at home, ranging the woods with an old duck
gun on his shoulders, or laying down beneath some shady tree poring over
the same wild legends when abroad. His aunt could make nothing of him,
and nobody else took the trouble. The curate, indeed, tried to teach him
once or twice, but he disconcerted the old man so by discharging his
musket at an old wig, hanging by the wall in the midst of a lecture on
the propriety of going to school, that he gave him up as hopeless.
The tap-room presented its usual evening appearance when the agent
entered. The curate and lawyer were deep in a discussion on the beauties
of the new poor-law; the farmers grumbling at the weather; the landlady
quietly seated behind the bar, while the bar-maid, a smart, coquettish
girl of nineteen, carried the ale and brandy around to the thirsty
customers, and all the usual concomitants of a scene then common, but,
what we must now call of the olden time, though half a century has
scarce passed away since it occurred. The agent was a great man there,
few liked him--in fact, all hated him, for though generally a just man,
he was entirely a man of business; punctuality was his deity--there was
no excuse with him for not meeting rent or bills when due; he did not
overcharge or wrong anyone, but he must have his bond, like Shylock,
without his ferocity. If money was due it must be paid; sickness, bad
crops, death itself was nothing to him; if not, he proceeded _legally_;
oh, what a world of anguish! what a number of crimes, crying aloud to
Heaven for justice and retribution, are committed under the cloak of
Man's legality. The type was forged in Hell that stamped the letter of
the law.
The agent, after exchanging courtesies, lip-deep, with the principal
farmers, the curate, etc., walked up to the bar and entered into
conversation with Mrs. Ally, as she was usually called.
'His lordship has desired me, Mrs. Ally, to put this notice up in a
conspicuous place in your tavern, perhaps you will oblige me by placing
it in a proper position.' So saying, he handed her the paper containing
the reward, etc., offered for the apprehension of Hunter.
'You may stick it up yourself on the parish pump, Mr. Lambert, if you
like, but my bar is no station-house or cage; give it to the town
crier,' said the dame bristling, for she hated the agent, and feared him
not.
'Dang my buttons!' said a burly farmer, 'Mrs. Ally ha the agent
dumbfoundered--what be the matter?'
'It is simply this, good friends,' said the agent: 'his lordship has
offered a reward of £500;--£500,' said the agent, slowly repeating the
sum, 'for the apprehension of the notorious poacher, Horace Hunter, who
has threatened his life, and will visit with his gravest displeasure any
one who harbors him, or in any way countenances him; if a tenant he
shall be discharged; and Mrs. Ally here, refuses to let me place the
notice in her bar, thereby showing great disregard for my lord's wishes,
to say the least.'
The farmers mostly shrunk back on this speech; the name of a lord, and
that lord their landlord, appalled them. They knew the bitter wrong he
had heaped upon Hunter's devoted head; they well could sympathize with
him; they had known him a gay and thriving farmer, their lord's especial
favorite--fatal favor--the companionship of the tiger and the deer. The
beauty of Hunter's sister had struck the libidinous eye of the
aristocratic villain--need I say more? ruin and desolation followed--no
one knew what had become of her. The brother had been kidnapped by a
press-gang, but of course the Earl knew nothing of that; he was now,
however, supposed to be lurking in the neighborhood. The Earl had
received a letter in which the brother's heart had been poured out in
bitterness; he had injured, therefore he could not forgive. Not so,
however, Mrs. Alice; she did not fear the lord one jot, and folks did
say, she knew more about him than he would like told; be that as it may,
she loudly protested against its being placed there at all; and was
still indignantly haranguing; now crying shame upon his lordship; now
bewailing poor Ellen, who had been a great favorite of hers, when her
eccentric nephew entered; he looked dusty and fatigued, but there was a
strange smile upon his lips as he looked at the agent. Without saying a
word he walked straight up to the agent, and taking the paper from his
hand procured a hammer and some tacks and nailed it up in the most
conspicuous place in the bar, displacing some of his aunt's ornaments in
so doing; then drinking a mug of ale, he threw himself along a bench and
was or seemed to be sound asleep.
'Dash ma wig,' said the farmer, who had before spoken, 'that dangs all,
the boy be daft and Mrs. Ally doant say nuthen--he be queer for
sartain.'
Mrs. Ally said not a word, but gazed on her nephew with mute
astonishment; she did not, however, attempt to remove the obnoxious
paper. The agent having in this unexpected manner gained his point,
called for wine and sat down with the curate, lawyer, etc. He had yet
another object--to find Curly Tom, no easy matter, that worthy being by
no means a welcome guest there; that he did come there sometimes,
however, Lambert knew, for as long as no warrant was out against him,
however bad his character, he could not be turned away from the inn when
he paid his shot; he did not like openly to ask for such a character,
but sat down trusting that when the ale made the farmers loquacious he
should gain some clue to his whereabouts. Fortune seemed destined to be
his friend in more than one way that evening. The sound of a pistol shot
was heard in the road leading towards the seaport, which was some ten
miles distant; and a few moments after, a burly seafaring man entered
the tap-room, dragging after him, in his powerful grasp, a ruffianly
ill-looking countryman; no other indeed than the man of all others
Lambert wished most to see, viz: Curly Tom.
'Cast your anchor there,' said the seaman, 'and if you attempt to slip
moorings, afore you've been over-hauled by the skipper, split my
topsails but I'll bring you up all standing with this barking iron,'
pressing the muzzle of a pistol to the fellow's forehead.
'Put up your pistol,' said the fellow sullenly. 'I beant going to run;
you've broke my head and dinged all the wind oot of ma body.'
'What is the matter, my good man?' said Mr. Lambert, coming forward. 'I
am a magistrate, and can take your deposition.'
'Matter!' said the sailor, 'piracy is the matter. I was making for this
ere port, charged with despatches from my commanding officer, when this
ere shark ranges alongside and pops his barking iron into my face, and
wants me to break cargo and hand over to him, but I brought my harpoon
handle to bear on his figure head and he capsized, and his barker got
foul of his rigging, then I roused him up and brought him along to this
port.'
'Highway robbery and attempt at murder,' said the agent. 'Simpkins, you
are constable, take this man in charge, while I make out his committal.
Stay!' he added, 'the cage is very insecure, and this is no trifling
case. You had better take him up to the castle, my lord will examine him
in the morning, and there is a strong room there; meantime, Mrs. Ally
will perhaps see to his wound, it looks an ugly one.'
The kind hearted landlady readily undertook this latter office, even for
so repulsive a being; his head had indeed received a terrific blow, a
fur cap had somewhat deadened the force or he must have been killed on
the spot; she bound his head up, and in charge of the constable and two
stout laborers he was marched up to the castle. The agent after warning
the mariner to attend in the morning at his examination, going with
them, well pleased, not only to have found the man he sought, but also
to have him in such a situation that he could only choose between doing
his bidding or the gallows. The boy, had never stirred from his sleep
during this scene. The company at the ale house also broke up, and each
wended his way home, where, no doubt, each in his own way, regaled his
family with the marvels of the evening, and the seaman alone remained,
eating his supper as coolly as though nothing had happened, a combat of
life and death seeming to him a thing too common to excite any emotion
in his breast. Had it been daylight it is not likely he would have been
attacked by one man; few that gazed upon his square muscular form, his
brawny chest and strong hard hands, would have liked to cope with him in
personal conflict, though his iron grey beard told that more than fifty
years of storm had rolled over his head. His face had been handsome,
scarred with storm and conflict, it still bore the impress of manly
beauty, and there was a look of settled determination, upon it, that
told was indeed,
'In close fight a warrior grim,'
and traces of fierce passion also showed him to be one whom no one would
like for an enemy. His dress was finer than an ordinary seaman's, and
though perfectly nautical, was free from any stain of tar or pitch,
generally considered absolutely necessary in a sailor's attire. The boy
gazed intently on him as he took his meal, closing his eyes however
whenever the sailor looked at him, and preserving the appearance of
slumber.
Mrs. Ally waited with becoming patience while her guest ate his fill and
then approaching him with a brimming tumbler of punch said, 'Drink to
the memory of old times, Walter.'
'You know me then!' said he, 'strange that but one eye alone of those
who knew me in my boyhood should recognize me, but sea and storm do much
to alter a man, human passion does more.' (He spoke now without any of
the sea jargon that had made his account of the encounter with Curly Tom
almost unintelligible to the farmers); 'but,' he added, 'you had better
send this lad to bed.'
'You need not,' said the boy, rising as he spoke, 'I remembered you
instantly. I will not betray you if you wish to remain unknown.'
'You may safely trust him,' said his aunt, 'he never breaks his word.'
'A good sign that,' said the seaman, 'and a bold boy I warrant, he is
well grown too for his years, and like--'
'Like who?' asked aunt and nephew in one breath.
'Like one I never wish to speak of,' was the answer, 'let be, let be, I
have much to ask you; first of my father, does he live?'
'He does, bowed down by age and now by sorrow, Walter. When you and I
were younger--years ago--when my sister, who is now an angel in heaven,
I hope, married you, I never thought the day would come when my lips
should be the ones to tell you of the desolation of your child.'
Walter recoiled, and rising from his seat grasped the back of the chair
he had been seated on with such a nervous gripe that the strong oak rail
broke in two with the pressure, and his heaving chest and quivering lip
told the fierce emotions that were struggling for utterance.--The
landlady understood his look.
'Do not fear, Walter--your child is as pure as an angel. It is the
desolation of her heart I speak of--not the pollution. It is the blight
that has fallen upon her young love--upon a woman's first and holiest
impressions--a virtuous love for a deserving object. Are you calm enough
to hear the tale?'
'I am--proceed.'
'My tale will not be a long one, but sad--sad for more than one victim
has and will fall yet to the fell passions of him, who rules this
neighborhood with a rod of iron. You remember Geoffry Hunter, of the
Toll gate farm?'
'Well; he and I were schoolmates.'
'He died some few years after you went on that voyage from which no one
ever expected to see you return--I for one. Though remembering your
daring courage and hardihood, I did not credit the tale that was brought
here that you had perished in the woods attempting to escape. I felt
confident you would one day return--as you did ten years ago, and
brought this boy with you. Geoffry Hunter left two children. You knew
them--Horace and Ellen. Poor Ellen! victim of a titled villain!' and the
good woman paused, and tears filled her eyes. It was some moments ere
she could proceed. 'Horace grew up a fine young-man. As a boy he was a
playmate of our proud master; and when Ellen returned from Canterbury,
where she had been educated by an aunt, she was the pride of the
village, the joy of her widowed mother's heart, and the apple of her
brother's eye. It was a beautiful thing to see, Walter, the strong love
of those two--the exultant pride of the brother in his sister's
loveliness--in her accomplishments, for she knew many things our country
folks were unacquainted with. The deep affection of the sister--oh, it
was a happy and a handsome picture, that mother, sister and brother. She
took more pleasure in the society of your daughter than in any other of
the village girls, and they were much together. Ellen taught her what
she had learned, and thus it came about that her brother first noticed
and finally loved her. And she loved him in return. A handsomer or more
fitting pair never trod the sod together. You would have approved the
match. Your father gave his consent--he had long mourned you as
dead--and they were to have been married when she became 20 years of
age. It yet wanted two years of this time when our lord returned from
abroad. He soon visited the house of his old playfellow, and was struck
with the beauty of Ellen Hunter--but he too well knew the character of
Horace Hunter to openly show it. The first step he took was to dismiss
your father from the stewardship, under pretence of his being too old,
and settling a pension on him. He did not wish the good old man near
him--it was a living reproach on his bad deeds.'
'On the infamous practices of his race,' said the seaman sternly; 'bad
father and bad son--but proceed.'
'He installed this man Lambert in your father's place--a cold, unfeeling
man--a money-worshiper, and suspected of being only too willing an
instrument in furthering his master's infamous designs. Lambert
sedulously cultivated an intimacy with the Hunters--condoled with the
mother, ingratiated himself with the young man, and affected unbounded
friendship. Ellen, however, with the true instinct of a pure and
innocent girl, shrank from his companionship; innocence will ever shrink
with innate consciousness from baseness. He persuaded Hunter to rent a
farm in addition to his own, and lent him money to speculate largely in
breeding fancy sheep. The speculation failed--the agent pressed for
payment. His master came forward and paid the amount. Thus he appeared
as a benefactor, and Ellen's gratitude soon ripened into love; but her
brother was in the way. He went to Erith to make some purchases for his
mother and sister, and was kidnapped by a press-gang. Lambert had been
there a few days before.'
'Ah, I understand,' said the seaman--'too plain. Fire them--what right
have they to seize a free man as if he were a negro slave?'
'It's a shame,' said Mrs. Ally, 'but good King George--'
'Imbecile old ass,' said the mariner--'go on with your story.'
'The mother grieved for her son's absence--he wrote from the tender ship
asking for his clothes, and to buy off his discharge. She applied to the
Earl. He deceived her--gave her hope--promised to write to the
Admiralty--was sorry, but the necessities of the war were such,
substitutes were not allowed, and a discharge could not be granted.
Within a year the mother died, and Ellen was left alone. Beautiful,
helpless, with no one to protect her, was it a wonder she fell a victim
to the vile plot laid for her? Her seducer wearied of her after two
years, and offered to settle a pension upon her and wed her to his base
instrument Lambert. She spurned the offer, and left the cottage where he
had established her in splendid infamy. None knew whither she went, and
no tidings have since been heard of her.'
The seaman was pacing the floor in stern and gloomy silence. He paused.
'And him?--what became of him?'
'He came back three years after,' said the landlady, 'in sailor's garb,
but without a seaman's manner. He had learned dissipation, and was
gloomy and fierce. He had heard of his sister's shame, and he swore a
terrible revenge. The Earl was in London at the time, but had he been
here, Horace would have attempted nothing then. "I will not strike him
now," said he--"no! that were a poor revenge. I will tame his pride
first--then destroy him. Mine shall be no vulgar vengeance."--He however
wrote a passionate letter to the Earl demanding his acknowledgment of
his sister as his lawful wife, and threatening terrible vengeance. This
was idle, but I suppose it merely done to cover deeper designs. He
returned to sea--was absent two more years, but re-appeared here some
three months ago, since when he has been frequently seen about the
neighborhood, and is supposed to subsist by poaching. Curly Tom, the
ruffian you captured last night, has been much with him. He has again
written to the Earl something which has made him furious--so your father
told me, who had been there, the good old man, trying to make him forego
his pursuit of poor Horace. There will be something terrible, I am sure.
God help us, and avert it.'
'Say rather, let his righteous judgments fall upon that base man and his
infamous house,' said the mariner sternly. 'You need tell me no more. I
can picture my sweet child, pining, grieving over the lost character of
him she loved--two families of victims. But shall not vengeance take its
course? It shall--terrible and full. But a short space of time shall
elapse ere he shall be stripped of rank and title, and then--'
'Walter, you rave.'
'I speak in earnest. I never threaten in vain. But I must act now. I
must find Hunter. How to do that--'
'I will take you to him,' said the boy, 'to-morrow evening.'
'Good. I must have some talk with you, but now I must rest. To-morrow
night I shall have none.'
So saying, the burly seaman, preceded by the landlady, retired to his
chamber. The house was soon in quiet, but the boy sat long by the
decaying embers of the fire, musing over the words "he shall be stripped
of his rank and titles"--then took from his vest a small gold locket. It
contained a lock of hair--two persons' hair entwined together, dark and
fair--but it bore the impress of a coronet, and the proud motto, "Nulli
Secundi."