THE MAJOR'S VISIT TO THE "NAG'S-HEAD."
Major Buckley and his wife stood together in the verandah of their
cottage, watching the storm. All the afternoon they had seen it
creeping higher and higher, blacker and more threatening up the eastern
heavens, until it grew painful to wait any longer for its approach. But
now that it had burst on them, and night had come on dark as pitch,
they felt the pleasant change in the atmosphere, and, in spite of the
continuous gleam of the lightning, and the eternal roll and crackle of
the thunder, they had come out to see the beauty and majesty of the
tempest.
They stood with their arms entwined for some time, in silence; but
after a crash louder than any of those which had preceded it, Major
Buckley said:--
"My dearest Agnes, you are very courageous in a thunderstorm."
"Why not, James?" she said; "you cannot avoid the lightning, and the
thunder won't harm you. Most women fear the sound of the thunder more
than anything, but I suspect that Ciudad Rodrigo made more noise than
this, husband?"
"It did indeed, my dear. More noise than I ever heard in any storm yet.
It is coming nearer."
"I am afraid it will shake the poor Vicar very much," said Mrs.
Buckley. "Ah, there is Sam, crying."
They both went into the sitting-room; little Sam had petitioned to go
to bed on the sofa till the storm was over, and now, awakened by the
thunder, was sitting up in his bed, crying out for his mother.
The Major went in and lay down by the child on the sofa, to quiet him.
"What!" said he, "Sammy, you're not afraid of thunder, are you?"
"Yes! I am," said the child; "very much indeed. I am glad you are come,
father."
"Lightning never strikes good boys, Sam," said the Major.
"Are you sure of that, father?" said the little one.
That was a poser; so the Major thought it best to counterfeit sleep;
but he overdid it, and snored so loud, that the boy began to laugh, and
his father had to practise his deception with less noise. And by
degrees, the little hand that held his moustache dropped feebly on the
bedclothes, and the Major, ascertaining by the child's regular
breathing that his son was asleep, gently raised his vast length, and
proposed to his wife to come into the verandah again.
"The storm is breaking, my love," said he; "and the air is deliciously
cool out there. Put your shawl on and come out."
They went out again; the lightning was still vivid, but the thunder
less loud. Straight down the garden from them stretched a broad gravel
walk, which now, cut up by the rain into a hundred water channels,
showed at each flash like rivers of glittering silver. Looking down
this path toward the black wood during one of the longest continued
illuminations of the lightning, they saw for an instant a dark, tall
figure, apparently advancing towards them. Then all the prospect was
wrapped again in tenfold gloom.
Mrs. Buckley uttered an exclamation, and held tighter to her husband's
arm. Every time the garden was lit up, they saw the figure, nearer and
nearer, till they knew that it was standing before them in the
darkness; the Major was about to speak, when a hoarse voice, heard
indistinctly above the rushing of the rain, demanded:
"Is that Major Buckley?"
At the same minute the storm-light blazed up once more, and fell upon
an object so fearful and startling that they both fell back amazed. A
woman was standing before them, tall, upright, and bareheaded; her long
black hair falling over a face as white and ghastly as a three days'
corpse; her wild countenance rendered more terrible by the blue glare
of the lightning shining on the rain that streamed from every lock of
her hair and every shred of her garments. She looked like some wild
daughter of the storm, who had lost her way, and came wandering to them
for shelter.
"I am Major Buckley," was the answer. "What do you want? But in God's
name come in out of the rain."
"Come in and get your things dried, my good woman," said Mrs. Buckley.
"What do you want with my husband such a night as this?"
"Before I dry my things, or come in, I will state my business," said
the woman, coming under the verandah. "After that I will accept your
hospitality. This is a night when polecats and rabbits would shelter
together in peace; and yet such a night as this, a man turns out of his
house the woman who has lain beside him twenty years."
"Who are you, my good soul?" said the Major.
"They call me Madge the Witch," she said; "I lived with old Hawker, at
the Woodlands, till to-night, and he has turned me out. I want to put
you in possession of some intelligence that may save much misery to
some that you love."
"I can readily believe that you can do it," said the Major, "but pray
don't stand there; come in with my wife, and get your things dried."
"Wait till you hear what I have to say: George Hawker, my son--"
"Your son--good God!"
"I thought you would have known that. The Vicar does. Well, this son of
mine has run off with the Vicar's daughter."
"Well?"
"Well, he has committed forgery. It'll be known all over the country
to-morrow, and even now I fear the runners are after him. If he is
taken before he marries that girl, things will be only worse than they
are. But never mind whether he does or not, perhaps you differ with me;
perhaps you think that, if you could find the girl now, you could stop
her and bring her home; but you don't know where she is. I do, and if
you will give me your solemn word of honour as a gentleman to give him
warning that his forgery for five hundred pounds is discovered, I will
give you his direction."
The Major hesitated for a moment, thinking.
"If you reflect a moment, you must see how straightforward my story is.
What possible cause can I have to mislead you? I know which way you
will decide, so I wait patiently."
"I think I ought to say yes, my love," said the Major to his wife; "if
it turned out afterwards that I neglected any opportunity of saving
this poor girl (particularly if this tale of the forgery be true), I
should never forgive myself."
"I agree with you, my dear," said Mrs. Buckley. "Give your promise, and
go to seek her."
"Well, then," said the Major; "I give you my word of honour that I will
give Hawker due warning of his forgery being discovered, if you will
give me his direction. I anticipate that they are in London, and I
shall start to-night, to be in time for the morning coach. Now, will
you give me the address?"
"Yes!" said Madge. "They are at the Nag's Head, Buckingham Street,
Strand, London; can you remember that?"
"I know where the street is," said the Major; "now will you go into the
kitchen, and make yourself comfortable? My dear, you will see my valise
packed? Ellen, get this person's clothes dried, and get her some hot
wine. By-the-bye," said he, following her into the kitchen, "you must
have had a terrible quarrel with Hawker, for him to send you out such a
night as this?"
"It was about this matter," she said: "the boy forged on his father,
and I knew it, and tried to screen him. My own son, you know."
"It was natural enough," said the Major. "You are not deceiving me, are
you? I don't see why you should, though."
"Before God, I am not. I only want the boy to get warning."
"You must sleep here to-night," said the Major; "and to-morrow you can
go on your way, though, if you cannot conveniently get away in the
morning, don't hurry, you know. My house is never shut against
unfortunate people. I have heard a great deal of you, but I never saw
you before; you must be aware, however, that the character you have
held in the place is not such as warrants me in asking you to stay here
for any time."
The Major left the kitchen, and crossed the yard. In a bedroom above
the stable slept his groom, a man who had been through his campaigns
with him from first to last. It was to waken him that the Major took
his way up the narrow stairs towards the loft.
"Jim," he said, "I want my horse in an hour."
The man was out of bed in a moment, and while he was dressing, the
Major continued:--
"You know Buckingham Street, Strand, Jim, don't you? When you were
recruiting you used to hang out at a public-house there, unless I am
mistaken."
"Exactly so, sir! We did; and a many good chaps we picked up there,
gents and all sorts. Why, it was in that werry place, Major, as we
'listed Lundon; him as was afterwards made sergeant for being the first
man into Sebastian, and arterwards married Skettles; her as fell out of
eighteen stories at Brussels looking after the Duke, and she swore at
them as came to pick her up, she did; and walked in at the front door
as bold as brass."
"There, my good lad," said the Major; "what's the good of telling such
stories as that? Nobody believes them, you know. Do you know the Nag's
Head there? It's a terribly low place, is it not?"
"It's a much changed if it ain't, sir," said Jim, putting on his
breeches. "I was in there not eighteen months since. It's a
fighting-house; and there used to be a dog show there, and a reunion of
vocal talent, and all sorts of villanies."
"Well, see to the horse, Jim, and I'll sing out when I'm ready," said
the Major, and went back into the house.
He came back through the kitchen, and saw that Madge was being treated
by the maids with that respect that a reputed witch never fails to
command; then, having sat for some time talking to his wife, and
finding that the storm was cleared off, he kissed his sleeping child
and its mother, and, mounting his horse in the stable-yard, rode off
towards Exeter.
In the morning, when Mrs. Buckley came down stairs, she inquired for
Madge. They told her she had been up some time, and, having got some
breakfast, was walking up and down in front of the house. Going there,
Mrs. Buckley found her. Her dress was rearranged with picturesque
neatness, and a red handkerchief pinned over her rich dark hair, that
last night had streamed wild and wet in the tempest. Altogether, she
looked an utterly different being from the strange, storm-beaten
creature who had craved their hospitality the night before. Mrs.
Buckley admired the bold, upright, handsome figure before her, and gave
her a cheery "good morning."
"I only stayed," said Madge, "to wish you goodbye, and thank you for
your kindness. When they who should have had some pity on me turned me
out, you took me in!"
"You are heartily welcome," said Mrs. Buckley. "Cannot I do more for
you? Do you want money? I fear you must!"
"None, I thank you kindly," she replied; "that would break the spell.
Good-bye!"
"Good-bye!" said Mrs. Buckley.
Madge stood in front of the door and raised her hand.
"The blessing of God," she said, "shall be upon the house of the
Buckleys, and more especially upon you and your husband, and the boy
that is sleeping inside. He shall be a brave and a good man, and his
wife shall be the fairest and best in the country side. Your kine shall
cover the plains until no man can number them, and your sheep shall be
like the sands of the sea. When misfortune and death and murder fall
upon your neighbours, you shall stand between the dead and the living,
and the troubles that pass over your heads shall be like the shadow of
the light clouds that fly across the moor on a sunny day. And when in
your ripe and honoured old age you shall sit with your husband, in a
garden of your own planting, in the lands far away, and see your
grandchildren playing around you, you shall think of the words of the
wild, lost gipsy woman, who gave you her best blessing before she went
away and was seen no more."
Mrs. Buckley tried to say "Amen," but found herself crying. Something
there was in that poor creature, homeless, penniless, friendless, that
made her heart like wax. She watched her as she strode down the path,
and afterwards looked for her re-appearing on a high exposed part of
the road, a quarter of a mile off, thinking she would take that way.
But she waited long, and never again saw that stern, tall figure, save
in her dreams.
She turned at last, and one of the maids stood beside her.
"Oh, missis," she said, "you're a lucky woman today. There's some in
this parish would have paid a hundred pounds for such a fortune as that
from her. It'll come true,--you will see!"
"I hope it may, you silly girl," said Mrs. Buckley; and then she went
in and knelt beside her sleeping boy, and prayed that the blessing of
the gipsy woman might be fulfilled.
* * * * *
It was quite late on the evening of his second day's journey that the
Major, occupying the box-seat of the "Exterminator," dashed with
comet-like speed through so much of the pomps and vanities of this
wicked world as showed itself in Piccadilly at half-past seven on a
spring afternoon.
"Hah!" he soliloquized, passing Hyde-park Corner, "these should be the
folks going out to dinner. They dine later and later every year. At
this rate they'll dine at half-past one in twenty years' time. That's
the Duke's new house; eh, coachman? By George, there's his Grace
himself, on his brown cob; God bless him! There are a pair of
good-stepping horses, and old Lady E---- behind 'em, by Jove!--in her
war-paint and feathers--pinker than ever. She hasn't got tired of it
yet. She'd dance at her own funeral if she could. And there's Charley
Bridgenorth in the club balcony--I wonder what he finds to do in peace
time?--and old B---- talking to him. What does Charley mean by letting
himself be seen in the same balcony with that disreputable old fellow?
I hope he won't get his morals corrupted! Ah! So here we are! eh?"
He dismounted at the White Horse Cellar, and took a hasty dinner. His
great object was speed; and so he hardly allowed himself ten minutes to
finish his pint of port before he started into the street, to pursue
the errand on which he had come.
It was nearly nine o'clock, and he thought he would be able to reach
his destination in ten minutes. But it was otherwise ordered. His evil
genius took him down St. James Street. He tried to persuade himself
that it was the shortest way, though he knew all the time that it
wasn't. And so he was punished in this way: he had got no further than
Crockford's, when, in the glare of light opposite the door of that
establishment, he saw three men standing, one of whom was talking and
laughing in a tone perhaps a little louder than it is customary to use
in the streets nowadays. Buckley knew that voice well (better, perhaps,
among the crackle of musketry than in the streets of London), and, as
the broad-shouldered owner of it turned his jolly, handsome face
towards him, he could not suppress a low laugh of satisfaction. At the
same moment the before-mentioned man recognised him, and shouted out
his name.
"Busaco Buckley, by the Lord," he said, "revisiting once more the
glimpses of the gas-lamps! My dear old fellow, how are you, and where
do you come from?"
The Major found himself quickly placed under a lamp for inspection, and
surrounded by three old and well-beloved fellow-campaigners. What could
a man do under the circumstances? Nothing, if human and fallible, I
should say, but what the Major did--stay there, laughing and joking,
and talking of old times, and freshen up his honest heart, and shake
his honest sides with many an old half-forgotten tale of fun and
mischief.
"Now," he said at last, "you must let me go. You Barton (to the first
man he had recognised), you are a married man; what are you doing at
Crockford's?"
"The same as you are," said the other,--"standing outside the door. The
pavement's free, I suppose. I haven't been in such a place these five
years. Where are you staying, old boy?"
The Major told them, and they agreed to meet at breakfast next morning.
Then, after many farewells, and callings back, he pursued his way
towards the Strand, finding to his disgust that it was nearly ten
o'clock.
He, nevertheless, held on his way undiscouraged, and turning by degrees
into narrower and narrower streets, came at last on one quieter than
the others, which ended abruptly at the river.
It was a quiet street, save at one point, and that was where a blaze of
gas (then recently introduced, and a great object of curiosity to the
Major) was thrown across the street, from the broad ornamented windows
of a flash public-house. Here there was noise enough. Two men fighting,
and three or four more encouraging, while a half-drunken woman tried to
separate them. From the inside, too, came a noise of singing,
quarrelling, and swearing, such as made the Major cross the road, and
take his way on the darker side of the street.
But when he got opposite the aforesaid public-house, he saw that it was
called the "Nag's Head," and that it was kept by one J. Trotter. "What
an awful place to take that girl to!" said the Major. "But there may be
some private entrance, and a quiet part of the house set by for a
hotel." Nevertheless, having looked well about him, he could see
nothing of the sort, and perceived that he must storm the bar.
But he stood irresolute for a moment. It looked such a very low place,
clean and handsome enough, but still the company about the door looked
so very disreputable. "J. Trotter!" he reflected. "Why, that must be
Trotter the fighting-man. I hope it may be; he will remember me."
So he crossed. When he came within the sphere of the gas lamps, those
who were assisting at the fight grew silent, and gazed upon him with
open eyes. As he reached the door one of them remarked, with a little
flourish of oaths as a margin or garland round his remark, that "of all
the swells he'd ever seen, that 'un was the biggest, at all events."
Similarly, when they in the bar saw that giant form, the blue coat and
brass buttons, and, above all, the moustache (sure sign of a military
man in those days), conversation ceased, and the Major then and there
became the event of the evening. He looked round as he came in, and,
through a door leading inwards, he saw George Hawker himself, standing
talking to a man with a dog under each arm.
The Major was not deceived as to the identity of J. Trotter. J.
Trotter, the hero of a hundred fights, stood himself behind his own
bar, a spectacle for the gods. A chest like a bull, a red neck,
straight up and down with the back of his head, and a fist like a
seal's flipper, proclaimed him the prize-fighter; and his bright grey
eye, and ugly laughing face, proclaimed him the merry, good-humoured
varlet that he was.
What a wild state of amazement he was in when he realized the fact that
Major Buckley of the --th was actually towering aloft under the
chandelier, and looking round for some one to address! With what
elephantine politeness and respect did he show the Major into a private
parlour, sweeping off at one round nearly a dozen pint-pots that
covered the table, and then, shutting the door, stand bowing and
smiling before his old pupil!
"And so you are gone into business, John, are you?" said the Major.
"I'm glad to see it. I hope you are doing as well as you deserve."
"Much better than that," said the prize-fighter. "Much better than
THAT, sir, I assure you."
"Well, I'm going to get you to do something for me," said the Major.
"Do you know, John, that you are terribly fat?"
"The business allus does make flesh, sir. More especially to coves as
has trained much."
"Yes, yes, John, I am going from the point. There is a young man of the
name of Hawker here?"
The prize-fighter remained silent, but a grin gathered on his face. "I
never contradicts a gentleman," he said. "And if you say he's here,
why, in course, he is here. But I don't say he's here; you mind that,
sir."
"My good fellow, I saw him as I came in," said the Major.
"Oh, indeed," said the other; "then that absolves me from any
responsibility. He told me to deny him to anybody but one, and you
ain't she. He spends a deal of money with me, sir; so, in course, I
don't want to offend him. By-the-bye, sir, excuse me a moment."
The Major saw that he had got hold of the right man, and waited
willingly. The fighting-man went to the door, and called out, "My
dear." A tall, goodlooking woman came to the bar, who made a low
curtsey on being presented to the Major. "My dear," repeated Trotter,
"the south side." "The particular, I suppose," she said. "In course,"
said he. So she soon appeared with a bottle of Madeira, which was of
such quality that the Major, having tasted it, winked at the
prize-fighter, and the latter laughed, and rubbed his hands.
"Now," said the Major, "do you mind telling me whether this Hawker is
here alone?"
"He don't live here. He only comes here of a day, and sometimes stays
till late. This evening a pretty young lady--yes, a LADY--come and
inquired for him in my bar, and I was struck all of a heap to see such
a creature in such a place, all frightened out of her wits. So I showed
her through in a minute, and up stairs to where my wife sits, and she
waited there till he come in. And she hadn't been gone ten minutes when
you come."
The Major swore aloud, without equivocation or disguise. "Ah," he said,
"if I had not met Barton! Pray, Trotter, have you any idea where Hawker
lives?"
"Not the least in the world, further than it's somewhere Hampstead way.
That's a thing he evidently don't want known."
"Do you think it likely that he and that young lady live in the same
house? I need not disguise from you that I am come after her, to
endeavour to get her back to her family."
"I know they don't live in the same house," said Trotter, "because I
heard her say, to-night, before she went away, 'Do look round, George,'
she says, 'at my house, for ten minutes, before you go home.'"
"You have done me a great kindness," said the Major, "in what you have
told me. I don't know how to thank you."
"It's only one," said the prize-fighter, "in return for a many you done
me; and you are welcome to it, sir. Now, I expect you'd like to see
this young gent; so follow me, if you please."
Through many passages, past many doors, he followed him, until they
left the noise of the revelry behind, and at last, at the end of a long
dark passage, the prizefighter suddenly threw open a door, and
announced--"Major Buckley!"
There were four men playing at cards, and the one opposite to him was
George Hawker. The Major saw at a glance, almost before anyone had time
to speak, that George was losing money, and that the other three were
confederates.
The prize-fighter went up to the table and seized the cards; then,
after a momentary examination, threw both packs in the fire.
"When gents play cards in my house, I expect them to use the cards I
provides at the bar, and not private packs, whether marked or not. Mr.
Hawker, I warned you before about this; you'll lose every sixpence
you're worth, and then you will say it was done at my house, quite
forgetting to mention that I warned you of it repeatedly."
But George took no notice of him. "Really, Major Buckley," he began,
"this is rather--"
"Rather an intrusion, you would say--eh, Mr. Hawker?" said the Major;
"so it is, but the urgency of my business must be my apology. Can you
give me a few words alone?"
George rose and came out with them. The prizefighter showed them into
another room, and the Major asked him to stand in the passage, and see
that no one was listening; "you see, John," he added, "we are very
anxious not to be overheard."
"I am not at all particular myself," said George Hawker. "I have
nothing to conceal."
"You will alter your mind before I have done, sir," said the Major.
George didn't like the look of affairs.--How came it that the Major and
the prize-fighter knew one another so well? What did the former mean by
all this secrecy? He determined to put a bold face on the matter.
"Miss Thornton is living with you, sir, I believe?" began the Major.
"Not at all, sir; Miss Thornton is in lodgings of her own. I have the
privilege of seeing her for a few hours every day. In fact, I may go as
far as to say that I am engaged to be married to her, and that that
auspicious event is to come off on Thursday week."
"May I ask you to favour me with her direction?" said the Major.
"I am sorry to disoblige you, Major Buckley, but I must really
decline;" answered George. "I am not unaware how disinclined her family
are to the connexion; and, as I cannot but believe that you come on
their behalf, I cannot think that an interview would be anything but
prejudicial to my interest. I must remind you, too, that Miss Thornton
is of age, and her own mistress in every way."
While George had been speaking, it passed through the Major's mind:
"What a checkmate it would be, if I were to withhold the information I
have, and set the runners on him, here! I might save the girl, and
further the ends of justice; but my hands are tied by the promise I
gave that woman,--how unfortunate!"
"Then, Mr. Hawker," he said aloud, "I am to understand that you refuse
me this address?"
"I am necessitated to refuse it most positively, sir."
"I am sorry for it. I leave it to your conscience. Now, I have got a
piece of intelligence to give you, which I fear will be somewhat
unpalatable--I got your address at this place from a woman of the name
of Madge--"
"You did!" exclaimed George.
"Who was turned out of doors by your father, the night before last, in
consequence, I understood, of some misdeeds of hers having come to
light. She came immediately to my house, and offered to give me your
direction, on condition of my passing my word of honour to deliver you
this message: 'that the forgery (500 pounds was the sum mentioned, I
think) was discovered, and that the Bank was going to prosecute.' I of
course form no judgment as to the truth or falsehood of this: I leave
you to take your own measures about it--only I once again ask you
whether you will give me an interview with Miss Thornton?"
George had courage enough left to say hoarsely and firmly, "No!"
"Then," replied the Major, "I must call you to witness that I have
performed my errand to you faithfully. I beg, also, that you will carry
all our kindest remembrances to Miss Thornton, and tell her that her
poor father was struck with paralysis when he missed her, and that he
is not expected to live many weeks. And I wish you good night."
He passed out, and down the stairs; as he passed the public
parlour-door, he heard a man bawling out a song, two or three lines of
which he heard, and which made him blush to the tips of his ears, old
soldier as he was.
As he walked up the street, he soliloquised: "A pretty mess I've made
of it--done him all the service I could, and not helped her a bit--I
see there is no chance of seeing her, though I shall try. I will go
round Hampstead to-morrow, though that is a poor chance. In Paris, now,
or Vienna, one could find her directly. What a pity we have no police!"