Ay, 'tis so, 'tis so!"

Sherebiah sighed, but the sigh ill became his round, jolly face; it was

merely to chime with the words of the song. He was walking, about six

o'clock on the morning after the cricket-match, along the bank of a

little hill-stream, rod in hand, yet not expecting to halt for a while,

for he took no pains to moderate his voice. He was not alone. His

companion was the youth who had won the match for Winton St. Mary on the

previous day--Harry Rochester, the parson's son. Each carried a

rod--the huge clumsy rod of those days, nearly seventeen feet in length;

each was laden with wallet, landing-net, and other apparatus; and in

fact they had already had an hour's sport with ground-bait, having risen

from their beds soon after three on this ideal angler's morning. A haze

lay over the ground, and a light rain was falling.

Sherebiah was several yards ahead, scanning the banks. His voice sank a

little as he repeated the lines:

"'Tis a hodge-podge o' business, an' money, an' care,

An' care, an' money, an' trouble."

"Cheer up!" said Harry, behind him. "I like the second verse best,

Sherry:

"'But we'll take no care when the weather proves fair,

Nor will we vex now though it rain--

He was interrupted by the sudden halt of Sherebiah. The man had swung

round; his lips were shot out in the motion of shooing, a warning finger

was held up. Harry's voice died away, and he hastened to his

companion's side.

"Yonder's the spot," said Sherebiah in a whisper, pointing to a large

pool, shaded with willows, some thirty yards ahead. "Mum's the word!

They be sharp-eared, they trouts. 'Tis there I took ten lusty nibblers,

ten year agoo come Michaelmas. Faith, 'twas all I could do to carry

'em; ay, and I shouldn' ha' got 'em home but for Tom Dorrell, t' carrier

from Salisbury, who came trundlen along in his wagon. He be dead an'

gone, poor soul, as must we all."

"And what did you do with them?" asked Harry with a smile.

Sherebiah was famous for his angling stories, and they had perhaps as

much foundation as most. No one in the country-side knew the ways of

the trout as he did; but he was equally at home in trolling for jack or

pike, roving for perch, and sniggling for eels. None could match his

knowledge of the flies in their several seasons: the hour of the day at

which each is most killing; the merits of the silver twist hackle and

the lady-fly, whether for dapping or whipping; when to use the black

gnat, when the blue; under what conditions of the evening sky the shyest

trout will rise to a red spinner. And who could tie a fly like

Sherebiah Minshull? Many a time Harry had examined his rich store of

materials--as varied as the contents of a witch's cauldron: feathers of

every bird that flies, manifold silks and wires and hooks, wax and

needles, hog's down and squirrel's fur. Many a time had he watched him

dress a fly and thread a bait, and admired his dexterous whipping of the

streams.

"What did I do wi' 'em?" Sherebiah had sat down with legs far apart,

and was carefully selecting a fly from his case. He spoke always in a

whisper. "Well, 'tis ten year since, and my memory bean't what it was;

but now I mind on't, I gi' one to Tom carrier for his lift, and a couple

to miller up by Odbury, and one to Susan Poorgrass at Sir Godfrey's--I

was a-courten then; her wouldn't ha' me, thank the Lord!--and a couple

to Ned Greenhay, Sir Godfrey's keeper as was, for a brace o' leverets;

and to please feyther o' mine I took three up to the Hall. Zooks! and

small thanks I got, for old Squire hisself come to the door, and gi' me

a douse, he did; said if I didn't find summat better to do than go

traipsen the country-side, poachen or wuss, he'd commit me for a rogue

and vagabond. An' th' old curmudgeon kept the fish; ay, he did so!--Ah!

ha' got it; 'tis a fly that cost me more time in the maken than a dozen

others; a beauty, to be sure; eh, Master Harry?"

He proceeded to put it on his hook. It was an artificial oak-fly, blue,

green, brown, and orange so cunningly mingled that no trout could fail

to be deceived.

"We'll now see some sport," continued Sherebiah, still in a whisper, as

he prepared to cast. "I can't abide bait-fishen; sport, i' faith! 'tis

mere bludgeon-play. True, it fills the pot, but there's no pleasure in

't. 'Tis no pastime for a true bob."

"Why, Sherry, 'twas only yestere'en I was reading in a most excellent

book of angling by Master Izaak Walton, and he, it seems, held little to

the fly. His discourse is in the main of bait."

"Why, there 'tis. I met Master Walton once, a-fishen in the Itchen

above Winchester--a quaint man, with a good breast for a song, for all

he was ripe for the grave. Myself I was but twenty or so, he a man of

fourscore and upward; ay, a fine hale old man, wi' a store o' memories.

We fell into talk; a' told me how a' once rid to Lunnon wi' a rich jewel

o' King Charles's in his doublet; ay, he was a royal man, wi' a jolly

red face, but no harm in un, not a whit; and learned, too--but no

angler. No, faith, no angler, for a' talked o' fishen down stream, a'

did, when ne'er a child but knows fish lie wi' their heads up stream. Ye

cotch fish as 'ee do Frenchmen, from behind! Now, hook's ready. Mum,

Master Harry, while I cast."

He dropped his fly deftly into the still pool, watching it with keen

eyes and pursed lips. Meanwhile Harry had chosen an orle fly, and made

his cast a little lower down. The anglers were silent for some minutes.

"What's that?" asked Harry suddenly, looking up as a distant sound of

wood-chopping reached his ears.

"Mum, boy!" whispered Sherebiah in reply. "There, I beg pardon, Master

Harry, but you've scared away a samlet just as he opened his jaws.

That? 'Tis Simon forester, belike, fellen Sir Godfrey's timber. Now, a

still tongue----"

He broke off, rose, and followed his line stealthily for a yard or two.

The surface of the water was disturbed, and Harry caught a glimpse of a

gleaming side. There was a splash; the rod bent; then Sherebiah

hastened his steps as the fish went away with a rush.

"He's a-showen fight," whispered Sherry. "Whoa! he's sounded, Master

Harry; a big un. Pray the tackle may hold! Ah! he's clear, and off

again! Whoa! whoa! Nay, my pretty, 'ee may fight, but I'll land 'ee."

For ten minutes the contest continued; then the angler got in his line

slowly, and beckoned to Harry to assist him. The fish was carefully

drawn in; Harry stooped with his net at the critical moment, and with a

sudden heave landed a fine four-pounder, which he slipped into

Sherebiah's creel.

"That's the way on't, Master Harry," said Sherebiah contentedly. "Had

no luck yourself, eh? What be 'ee a-fishen wi'?"

"An orle."

"Ah, 'tis an hour or two too early in the day for that, mebbe. Still,

these waters of Sir Godfrey bean't often fished since young Master

Godfrey went to Cambridge college, and the trout mayn't be over

squeamish. Stick to 't!"

An hour passed, and both anglers were well satisfied. Sherebiah's fly

proved irresistible, either from its cunning make or the wary skill with

which he whipped the stream. Four fat trout had joined the first in his

basket; two had rewarded Harry's persistence; then he laid down his rod

and watched with admiration the delicate casts of his companion.

Sherebiah landed his sixth. The haze having now disappeared, and the

sun growing hot, he wound up his line and said:

"Rain afore seven, fine afore 'leven. I be mortal peckish, Master

Harry; what may 'ee have in your basket, now?"

"Powdered beef, I think, Sherry; and Polly put in a cate or two and some

radishes, and a bottle of cider; plain fare, you see."

"Well, hunger's the best saace, I b'lieve. We poor folks don't need to

perk up our appetites. I warrant, now, that mighty lord we saw

yesterday would turn up his nose at powdered beef. Fine kickshawses a'

had at Sir Godfrey's, no doubt. To think o' such a mighty lord, the

Queen's purse-bearer an' all, bein' kept in a little small village by

rust or dry-rot, just like a ordinary man! Old Squire would ha' liked

to gi' him a bed, I reckon; but Sir Godfrey were aforehand, an' there he

lies till this mornen: axle was to be mended by six, if Lumpy had to

work all night to finish the job. Med I axe 'ee a question, Master

Harry? Do 'ee think that shinen piece a' flung to feyther were his own,

or out o' Queen's purse?"

Harry laughed.

"Lord Godolphin doesn't go about the country with the Queen's purse

slung at his waist, Sherry. What he meant was that he was Lord

Treasurer, the Queen's chief minister, the man who rules the country,

you know."

"Well, now, if I didn't think it'd be folly to carry the Queen's purse

loose about the country! Then 'tis Lord Godolphin says we're to fight

the French?"

"Yes, he and my lord Marlborough between them."

"Ah! there 'tis. My lord Marlborough bean't free with his money like

t'other lord. _He_ wouldn't ha' given old feyther o' mine nothen. Why,

I was at Salisbury in '88 when my lord--Lord Churchill he was then, to

be sure--was there to meet King Willum, and I held his horse for 'n, and

he gi' me--what do 'ee think he gi' me, Master Harry?"

"Well?"

"Nowt but a smile! What med 'ee think o' that for a lord? 'Thank 'ee,

my man,' says he, and puts his foot in the stirrup and shows his teeth

at me, and rides off! Lord! Now t'other one, the Lord Godolphin, he is

a lord, to be sure, a fine free-handed gentleman, though he ha'n't got

such fine teeth. I like a lord to be a lord, I do."

"My lord Marlborough is indeed rather close-fisted, they say."

"Ay, but I ha' knowed a wuss. Did ever I tell 'ee of Jacob Spinney the

potticary? I was a growen lad, and feyther o' mine wanted to put me to

a trade. So he bound me prentice to Jacob Spinney, that kept a

potticary's shop by Bargate at S'thampton. Zooks! Jacob was a

deceiver, like his namesake in the Book. A' promised feyther he'd gi'

me good vittles and plenty on 'em, bein' a growen lad; but sakes, I

never got no meat save at third boilen; 'twas like eatin' leather. A'

said I was growen too fast, a' did, and he'd keep me down. Pudden--I

never put my lips to pudden for two year, not once. I took down

shutters at zix i' the mornen, and put 'em up at eight o' nights;

betwixt and between I was pounden away at drugs, and carryen parcels,

and scrubben floors and nussen mistress' babby: ay, what med 'ee think

o' that? If so happened I broke a bottle, or overslept five

minutes--oons! there was master a-strappen me to a hook in the wall he

kept o' purpose, and layen a birch over my shoulders and keepen me on

bread and water or turmuts not fit for a ox. I dwindled crossways to a

shadder, Master Harry, I did so, and every week th' old villain made me

write a letter to feyther, sayen as how I was fat and flourishen like a

green bay tree. Do what a' would, however, I growed and growed, at

fourteen a long slip of a feller all arms and legs. Two mortal year I

put up wi' un; then I got tired. One day, mistress was out, and I was

rollen pills in the little back shop, when master come in. He was in a

terrible passion, goodness alone knows what about. He pitched into me

for wasten his drugs and eatin' up all his profits, and hit me with his

cane, and sent me spinnen agen the table, and knocked off his best

chiney mortar, and there 'twas on the floor, smashed to atomies. Bein'

his own doen, it made his temper wuss, it did, and he caught me by the

hair and said he'd skin me. I' fecks, I were always a man o' peace,

even as a boy, but I'd had long sufferen enough, and now my peaceful

blood was up. I wriggled myself free--and there he was, flat on the

floor, and me a-sitten on him. He hollered and cussed, for all he was a

Puritan; and, haven respect unto my neighbours, I stuffed a handkercher

into his mouth. There I sits, a-thinken what to do wi' un. 'Twas in

for a penny in for a pound wi' me then; I'd have to run, 'dentures or no

'dentures, and it seemed fair to have my pen'orth afore I went. There

was that hook I knowed so well, and that strap hangen still and loose:

'I'll gi' un a taste o' the birch he be so uncommon fond on,' thinks I.

So I hoists un up, and soon has un strapped ready; but looken at un I

thinks to myself: 'You be a poor wamblen mortal arter all, skinny for

all the pudden you eat. I'll ha' mercy on your poor weak flesh.'

Besides, I had another notion. So I casts un loose and sits un on a

chair and straps un to chair-back, hands to sides.

"You med have heard of Jacob Spinney's famous mixture for pimples?

Well, 'twas knowed all over Hants and Wilts. 'Twas a rare sight o'

market days to see the farmers' wives a-troopen into the shop for

bottles o' the mixture. But th' odd thing was, Spinney hisself was

owner of a fair pimpled face, yet never did I know un take a dose o' his

own firm cure. 'I pity 'ee,' says I to un, as he sat strapped to the

chair; 'poor feller, wi' all those pimples. Shall have a dose, poor

soul.' Many's the bottle I'd made up: 'twas brimstone and powder o'

crab and gentian root in syrup. Well, I mixed a dose all fresh afore

his eyes, and got a long wooden spoon, and slipped the handkercher out

o' his mouth and the dose in. The ungrateful feller spets it out and

begins to holler again; so in goes the handkercher, and says I: 'Ye

don't know what's for your own good. Bean't it tasty enough? Ah,

Master Spinney, often and often 'ee've physicked me; what's good for me

without pudden will be better for 'ee with; you shall have a dose.' So

I made un a dose o' senna and jalap and ipecacuan, but I was slow with

the handkercher, and afore I could get the spoon in he had his teeth

clinched tight. But I hadn't nussed the babby for nothen. I ups with

finger and thumb and pinches his nose; he opens his mouth for breath,

and in goes spoon, and sputter as he med he had to swaller, he did.

"Ah, I was wild and headstrong in they young coltish days. I bean't so

fond o' pudden now. Not but what they mixtures did Jacob Spinney a

world o' good, for his next prentice had a easier time nor me, steppen

into his master's business when he was laid in churchyard. _I_ got no

good on 'em, to be sure, for I had to run away and try another line o'

life, and ha' been a rollen-stone ever since. Ay well, 'tis all one to a

man o' peace."

During his narrative the breakfast had been finished.

"Well, Sherry, when I'm out of sorts I'll come to you," said Harry,

rising. "Now, while you pack up, I'll go a stroll up the hillside;

there'll be a good view now the day is clearing, and maybe I'll get a

glimpse of Salisbury spire."

He left the river-bank and strolled leisurely up a gentle ascent, which

gradually became steeper until it terminated somewhat suddenly in a

stretch of level ground. Fifty yards from the edge rose a long grassy

mound, a well-known landmark in the neighbourhood. It was, in fact, a

barrow, dating centuries back into the dim ages--the burial place,

perhaps, of British warriors who had fought and fallen in defence of

their country against the Roman invader. Harry had always felt a

romantic interest in these memorials of the past, and more than once had

stood by such a barrow, alone in the moonlight of a summer night, while

his imagination called up visions of far-off forgotten things.

He sat down now with his back to the mound, and allowed his eyes to rove

over the prospect. Tradition said that three counties were visible from

this elevated spot, and on a clear morning like this it seemed likely

enough that report said true. Far to the left, peeping over the bare

contour of Harnham Hill, rose the graceful spire of Salisbury Cathedral,

at least fifteen miles away as the crow flies. His eye followed the

winding course of the little stream below him, losing it here and there

behind some copse or knoll, tracing it again to its junction with a

larger stream, till this in its turn was lost to view amid the distant

elm-bordered meadows. Nearer at hand he saw the old Roman road,

grass-grown and silent now, bounding the park of Sir Godfrey Fanshawe,

crossing the stream by an ancient bridge, and running into the London

road at some invisible point to the right. It was a very pleasing

prospect, brilliant beneath the cloudless sky, and freshened by the

early morning showers.

As he looked along the forsaken highway, once trodden perhaps by the

legions of Constantine the Great, his glance was momentarily arrested by

a small moving speck in the distance. "Some wagon from one of Sir

Godfrey's home farms," he thought. It was approaching him, for it

passed out of sight into a clump of trees, then reappeared, and was

again hidden by an intercepting ridge. The road was downhill; in

fifteen or twenty minutes, perhaps, the wagon would pass beneath him, at

a point nearly three-quarters of a mile away, where the highway skirted

a belt of trees perched on the side of a steep declivity. Between him

and the road lay a ditch which, as he knew, was apt in winter-time to

overflow on to the meadows and the lower parts of the track, making a

sticky swamp of the chalky soil. But it was dry now, and the floodings

were only indicated by the more vivid green of the grass and the tall

reeds that filled the hollow on this side. On the other side a strong

stone wall edged the road, marking the boundary of Sir Godfrey's park;

it was overhung with elms, from which at this moment Harry saw a

congregation of rooks soar away.

Thus idly scanning the roadway, all at once his eye lit upon the figure

of a horseman half concealed by the belt of reeds in the hollow. He was

motionless; his back was towards Harry, his horse's head pointing

towards the road, from which he was completely screened by the reeds and

the willows.

"What is he doing there?" thought Harry. He rose, and walked towards

the edge of the descent. Narrowly scanning the brake, he now descried

two other horsemen within a few yards of the first, but so well

concealed that but for his quickened curiosity he would probably never

have discovered them. For all he knew, there might be others. "What is

their game?" His suspicion was aroused; the vehicle he had seen

approaching was perhaps not a wagon; it might be a chaise belonging to

Sir Godfrey; it might be---- "Why, 'tis without a doubt Lord Godolphin

himself on his way to London, and coming by the shortest cut." There

was no need for further speculation; in those days the inference was

sure: a carriage in the distance, a party of horsemen lurking in a copse

by the roadside---- "'Tis highway robbery--ah! the Queen's purse!"

Harry unconsciously smiled at the thought. His first impulse was to

warn the approaching travellers. But the carriage was at present out of

sight; he could not make signals, and before he could reach the stretch

of road between the ambuscade and their prey, the travellers would

certainly be past, while he himself might be seen by the waiting

horsemen, and headed off as he crossed a tract of open country. Moving

downwards all the time, he in a flash saw all that it was possible to

do. The stream passed under the roadway some twenty yards beyond the

spot where the horsemen were lying in wait; the banks were reedy, and

might screen an approach to the copse beyond the wall. There was a bare

chance, and Harry took it.

He raced downhill towards Sherebiah, who was sitting on the bank still,

placidly smoking his pipe; landscape had no charm for him.

"Sherry," said Harry in jerks, "Lord Godolphin or someone is driving

down the road; highwaymen hiding in the reeds; in five or six

minutes--come, come, we have no time to lose."

"Then we'll go home along," said Sherry, putting his pipe in his pocket

as he rose.

"Nonsense! we can't slink away and leave them to be robbed." Harry took

Sherry by the arm to drag him along.

"What be the good? Fishen-rods bean't no match for pistols, and bein' a

man o' peace----"

"Come, I can't wait. I'll go alone, then."

He released the man's arm and stepped into the stream. Sherebiah

hesitated for a moment; then, seeing that Harry was in earnest, he

dropped his tackle and strode forward, saying:

"Zooks, not if I knows it! I'm a man o' peace, sure enough, but

fairplay's a jewel. Have at the villains!"

He followed Harry into the water. Side by side they raced on, dodging

the weeds, scrambling over occasional rocks, slipping on the chalky

bottom, making at top speed for the bridge. As they approached this

they went more slowly, to avoid being heard. Fortunately, at the point

where the road crossed the stream there was a line of rocks, over which

the water plunged with a rustle and clatter, drowning the sound of their

footsteps. They had to stoop low to avoid the moss-grown masonry of the

arch; as they emerged on the farther side they heard a muffled

exclamation from one of the horsemen, and climbing the steep face of the

tree-covered slope towards the wall they heard a shot, then another,

mingled with shouts and the dull thuds of horses' hoofs on the

turf-covered road.

On the way Harry had explained his plan in panting whispers. Running

along now under cover of the wall, they came opposite to the scene of

the ambush.

"Now, Sherry, do your best," said Harry, as he prepared to mount the

wall.

Instantly a new clamour was added to the uproar in the road.

"This way!"

"Shoot 'em!"

"Lash the noddy peaks!"

"Pinch their thropples!"

"Quoit 'em down!"

"Haick! haick!"

By this time Harry was on the wall, by favour of Sherebiah's strong arm.

A slug whizzed past his head and sank with a thud into the trunk of a

tree just behind; next moment the horse-pistol from which it had been

discharged followed the shot, the butt grazing Harry's brow. There was

no time to take in the details of the scene. Harry made a spring for

the masked horseman who had fired at him, two yards from the wall; but

the fellow, alarmed by the various shouts and the sudden appearance of

Sherebiah at Harry's side, dug the spurs into his steed's flanks and

galloped off down the road, over the bridge, and out of sight. One of

his companions lay motionless on the road; the others had ridden away at

the first alarm from the wall.

Harry mopped his brow and looked about him. Lord Godolphin stood

upright in the carriage, his lips grimly set, a smoking pistol in his

hand. His son was on foot with drawn sword; a postilion was crawling

out of the ditch all bemired, pale and trembling.

"Odzooks!" cried my lord, "a welcome diversion!"

[Illustration: Harry makes a Diversion]

He was perfectly cool and collected, though his hat was off and his wig

awry. "A thousand thanks, my men. Whew! 'twas in the nick of time.

Where are the rest of you?"

"There are no more, my lord," said Harry, lifting his cap.

"No more! But the shouts, then?--I heard a dozen shouting, at least.

Are the rest on the other side of the wall?"

"All on this side, my lord," said Harry with a smile. "Here is the mob."

He indicated Sherebiah, who touched his cap and bobbed to his lordship.

Godolphin stared, then chuckled and guffawed.

"Egad! 'tis a rare flam. Frank, this fellow here did it all, shouted

for a dozen; by George, 'twas a mighty neat trick! And, by George, I

know your face; I saw you yesterday, I believe! What's your name, man?"

"Sherebiah Stand-up-and-bless Minshull, my lord," said Sherry, "by the

water o' baptism, your honour, for I was born while old Rowley were in

furren parts. If a'd been born two year arter, my lord, I med ha' been

chrisomed wi' less piety."

"I remember you, and the old gaffer your father--a fine old fellow.

Well, my man, your name suits me better; 'tis for us to stand up and

bless, eh, Frank? And here's a guinea for you."

Sherebiah put his hands behind him and looked down at the coin in my

lord's hand.

"Nay, nay, my lord," he said slowly. "True, I did the shouten, or most

on't, but 'twas Master Harry his notion. Pa'son's son, you see, my lord;

know'd all the holy story o' Gideon; says to me, 'Sherry,' says he,

'shout high and low, bass and tribble, give it tongue,' says he; and I

gi'd it tongue, so I did."

Both gentlemen laughed heartily.

"I recognize you now," said my lord, turning to Harry, who looked

somewhat embarrassed. "Surely you are the hero of yesterday's cricket

match? You swing a straight bat, my lad, and, stap me! you've a quick

wit if you devised this late surprise. How came you on the scene?"

"We'd been fishing yonder, my lord, and I chanced to spy your carriage

and the villains waiting here, almost at the same time. It was clear

what they were about, and as there was no time to warn you we came along

the stream, and--Sherry shouted."

His smile as he said the last words met an answering smile on Lord

Godolphin's face.

"A mighty clever trick indeed--eh, Frank? We're beholden to you. 'Twas

a mere chance that I sent my mounted escort on ahead by the highway to

arrange a change of horses, never thinking to be waylaid at this time o'

day."

"Ay, 'twas the Queen's purse, my lord," struck in Sherebiah. "To know

Queen's purse-bearer were a-comen along old road like a common mortal,

'twere too much for poor weak flesh and blood."

"The ignorant bumpkins mistook your meaning," said Frank.

"So it appears. But come, you're the parson's son, I believe. I forget

your name?"

"Harry Rochester, my lord."

"Going to be a parson yourself, eh?"

"I am going up to Oxford in October, my lord; my father wishes me to

take orders."

"Ah! And your own wish, eh?"

Harry hesitated.

"Come, out with it, my lad."

"I had thought, my lord, I should like to carry the Queen's colours; but

'tis a vain thought; my father's living is small, and----"

"And commissions in the Queen's army sell high. 'Tis so, indeed. Well,

I heard something of your father last night at Sir Godfrey's; you can't

do better than follow his example. And hark 'ee, if ever you want a

friend, when you've taken your degrees, you know, come and see me; I owe

you a good turn, my lad; and maybe I'll have a country vicarage at my

disposal."

"Thank you, my lord!"

"And now we must get on. Dickory, you coward, help these two friends of

ours to remove that tree. The villains laid their ambush well; you see

they felled this larch at an awkward part of the road."

"And I thowt 'twas Simon forester a-choppen," said Sherebiah, as he

walked towards the tree.

"What shall we do with this ruffian on the road?" said Frank Godolphin.

"He appears to be stone dead. 'Twas a good shot, sir."

"Leave the villain. You'll lay an information before Sir Godfrey or

another of your magistrates, young master parson. Did you recognize any

of the gang?"

"No, my lord. I only saw the masked man. Perhaps Sherry was more

fortunate."

"Not me neither," said Sherebiah hastily. He had gone to the fallen

man, looked in his face, and turned him over. "'Twas all too quick and

sudden, and my eyes was nigh dazed wi' shouten."

"Well, well, Sir Godfrey's is near at hand; go and inform him, and he

will scour the country. We must push on."

The tree was removed; the bedraggled and crestfallen postilions resumed

their saddles, and with a parting salutation my lord drove off. Harry

stood looking thoughtfully after the departing carriage.

"Master Harry," said Sherebiah, coming up to him, "this be a bad

business. The man bean't dead."

"He's saved for the hangman, then."

"Ay, and who med 'ee think he be?"

"You do know him, then! What does this mean, Sherry?"

"Well, I be a man o' peace, and there's mischief to come o' this day's

piece o' work, sure as I'm Sherebiah Stand-up-and-bless. 'Tis black

John Simmons, Cap'n Aglionby's man."

"A scoundrel his master may well be rid of."

"Ay, if the man were dead! But he be alive; the lord didn't shoot'n at

all; 'a fell off his horse and bashed his nob; an' he's got a tongue,

Master Harry."

"Well, what then? If he rounds on his fellows, so much the better.

What are you afraid of, Sherry?"

"I bean't afeard, not I; but the Cap'n----"

He paused, and Harry looked at him enquiringly. Sherebiah turned away.

"Ah! little sticks kindle fires, little sticks kindle fires, they do."

*CHAPTER III*

*Master and Man*

A Midnight Summons--A Warm Reception--Righteous Indignation--Aglionby

Retorts--The Berkeley Arms--A Village Sensation--The Constable's

Story--Aspersions--Unimpeachable References--Waylaid--Squaring

Accounts--The Captain Rides Away

The clock of St. Mary's church had just chimed the first quarter after

midnight, and the deep note of the lowest bell was dying away over the

tree-tops, when the sound was intercepted by the distant clink and

clatter of iron-shod hoofs on the hard road, approaching from the

direction of Salisbury. The horse's pace was slow, and there was

something in the fall of the hoofs that betokened a jaded steed. It was

a clear calm night; the air carried every sound distinctly; and nothing

broke the stillness save the footfalls of the horse, an occasional

murmur from the birds in the trees, and the whirr of wings as a solitary

owl, disturbed by the nocturnal rider, left its search for food and

rustled back to its nook in the tower.

The horseman came presently to the church, wheeled round to the right,

and urged his flagging beast along the road leading to the manor house.

Arriving at the park, he flung himself from the saddle, hitched the

bridle over his left arm, and turned the handle of the massive iron

gate. But there was no yielding to his push: the gate was locked. The

man shook and rattled the handle impatiently, to assure himself that he

was not mistaken, then turned aside with an inarticulate rumble of

anger, and went to the lodge, a low ivy-grown cottage abutting on the

road. He tapped on the small latticed window with the butt of his

riding-whip; there was no reply. The horse by his side hung its head

and breathed heavily; it was jaded to the point of exhaustion. Again he

rapped on the glass, growling between his teeth; and when his summons

still met with no response he dealt so smart a blow that one of the

thick square panes fell in with a crash. A moment later a voice was

heard from within.

"Away wi' 'ee! Who be you, a-breaken an honest man's rest at this

fearsome time o' night?"

A night-capped head appeared at the hole, just visible in the faint

illumination of the clear summer sky.

"Open the gate, Dick," said the rider impatiently. "Ods my life, will

you keep me waiting here, will you?"

"Be it you, Cap'n?"

"Zounds, man, must I tell you my name? Ha' ye never seen me before!

Stir your old stumps, or by the lord Harry----"

"Squire give orders t' gate were to be locked and kep' locked; not a man

to come in, not a soul. They's my orders, ay sure, Cap'n."

"Orders! orders!" cried the other in a burst of passion. "Adslidikins,

if you're not at the gate with the key inside of two minutes I'll put a

slug through your jolt head, you mumper, you miching rogue you!"

And indeed Captain Aglionby displayed a monstrous blunderbuss, and

pointed it full in the face of the scared lodge-keeper. For an instant

the man hesitated; then, muttering to himself, he disappeared from the

window, and soon afterwards emerged from the side door within the

palings, his night-gown showing beneath a heavy driving coat. He came

towards the gate with the key--a bent old man, tottering and mumbling.

"I shall lose my place; Squire give orders, a' did, not a soul to come

in; to drag a aged man from his nat'ral sleep an' lose him his place an'

all; well, I was forced; no man can zay as I warn't forced; mumper as I

be, I vallies my little bit o' life, and----"

"Hold your tongue, you old flap-eared dotard, and make haste, or I'll

pink your soul. Don't you see the jade's dead-beat; 'tis time I stabled

her."

The man turned the key and slowly opened the gate. With a grunt the

captain led his horse through, and, without so much as a glance at the

lodge-keeper, proceeded up the quarter-mile drive leading to the house.

"Old Nick's not abed," he said to himself as he cast his eye over the

house front. A light shone from a window in the turret over the porch.

"The old nightbird! Lock me out! Oons!"

He threw the bridle over an iron post at the side of the entrance, and

walked round a projecting wing of the building till he came to a small

door in the wall. He turned the iron ring, pushed, rattled; the door

was fast shut. Cursing under his breath, he was proceeding towards the

servants' quarters when he heard the creak of a key turning, and,

wheeling round, came to the postern just as it was opened by Squire

Berkeley himself, his tall, lean, bent figure enwrapped from neck to

heel in a black cassock-like garment, a skull-cap of black velvet

covering his head. He held a lighted candle; his piercing eyes flashed

in the darkness.

"Hey, Squire!" cried the captain in a tone of forced good-humour, "I had

much ado to rouse old Dick. 'Tis late to be sure; but if you'll give me

the key of the stables I'll settle Jenny for the night and get to bed."

He made as if to enter, but Mr. Berkeley spread himself across the

narrow doorway.

"Who are you, sirrah," he said, "to break into my park against my

express orders?"

There was contempt in his cold incisive tones, and anger with difficulty

curbed.

"Why now----" Aglionby began.

"Who are you, I say? And what am I, that my orders are defied, and my

house made a common inn, a toping house for you and your toss-pot

ruffians? Go--go, I say!"

The captain was for a moment staggered; the old man's manner left no

room for doubt that he was in earnest. But Aglionby was too old a

campaigner to cry off so easily. In a tone half-conciliatory,

half-aggrieved he said--

"Fair and softly, Squire! this is but scurvy treatment of a tired man.

Look you, I've been in the saddle this livelong day; the mare's

well-nigh foundered; and for myself--gads so, I could eat an ox and

drink a hogshead. To-morrow, in a few hours, I'll bid ye good-bye--for a

time, if ye want a change; but to-night--no, Squire, 'tis not hospitable

of you, 'tis not indeed."

"You dally with me!" cried the squire, the hand that held the candle

shaking with passion. "You set no foot within this door--now, nor ever

again. Begone, while there is time."

"While there is time! Look ye, Master Berkeley, I will not brook

insults from you. Yesterday you must put an affront on me in the

presence of my lord Godolphin, shoving me out of the way as I were a

leper, and at the very moment, stap me! when I might ha' paid court to

his lordship, and got the chance o' my life. Adsbud, I was not good

enough to approach my lord, to accost him, have speech with him----"

"An omission you have since repaired," interjected the old man with a

meaning look. The captain started, and there was a perceptible interval

before he resumed, in a tone still more blusterous--

"Ods my life, what mean you now? You took care I should not meet my

lord in your company; and, i' faith, he showed he wanted none of that

neither."

"Hold your peace and begone!" cried the squire in a fury. "You think I

know nothing of your villainies? How many times have I harboured

you--ay, saved you perchance from the gallows! How many times have you

eat my food, rid my horses, browbeat my servants, roistered it in my

house, till I could bear with you no longer, and then betaken yourself

to your evil practices abroad, consorted with villains, run your neck

well-nigh into the hangman's noose, and then come back with contrite

face and vows of amendment, to fawn and bluster and bully again? Out

upon you! Your rapscallion of a servant is even now laid by the heels,

and to-morrow will have to answer to the charge of waylaying the Lord

Treasurer. He's a white-livered oaf, and his tongue will wag, and

you'll companion him before Fanshawe, and you'll swing on the same

gibbet."

At the mention of his man's plight the captain's face had fallen; but

when Mr. Berkeley's tirade was ended he broke into a laugh.

"Ha! ha! Squire, now I come to understand you. 'Tis your own skin you

have a care for! Ha! ha! I might have known it. I am to be haled

before Sir Godfrey, am I? and to hold my tongue, am I? and to be mum

about certain little affairs in the life of Master Nicolas

Berkeley--that paragon of virtue, that pampered, patched old interloper,

am I? By the lord Harry, if I stand in manacles before Sir Godfrey, you

shall bear me company, you painted pasteboard of a saint!"

Berkeley's pale face blanched with fury. For a moment he was incapable

of speech. Then he stepped forward a pace; the hand holding the candle

shook so, that the grease sputtered upon his gown. His voice came in

vehement passionate whispers:

"You threaten me! Do your worst--I defy you!--Back to your wallow,

bully!--begone!"

He suddenly withdrew within the doorway, slammed the door, and bolted

it.

"Whew!" whistled the captain, left standing outside. "'Tis the worst

passion ever I saw him in. Defies me! Well, Master Nicolas, would I

could afford to take you at your word! A plague on Simmons! I thought

he was dead. He'll split, sure enough, and there's an end of Ralph

Aglionby. Jenny, my dear, you're a sorry jade, but you'll have to bear

my carcase till we're out of harm's way. We have five or six hours

before the world's astir. Do your best, my girl, and we'll cheat 'em

yet."

Captain Aglionby led his tired steed down the drive to the gate, roused

Dick the lodge-keeper with scant ceremony, and in a few minutes was

riding slowly towards the village. As he came into the principal

street, he was surprised to notice that the only inn was lit up, a most

unusual circumstance at that time of night. The door stood open, and

there were lights in several of the rooms on the ground floor. A

feeling of apprehension seized upon him; he could not but connect these

lively signs with the events of the morning, and especially with the

capture of his man. Could the fellow have blabbed already? He was just

making up his mind to spur the mare past the inn, over the bridge, on to

the London road, when two persons came to the door and caught sight of

him. One was Mistress Joplady, the buxom hostess; the other William

Nokes, the village constable. It was too late to evade them: indeed he

heard the hostess exclaim, "Well, I never! 'tis the Cap'n hisself,

sure." Resolving like a wise man to make the best of it, he rode up to

the door, dismounted, and, swaggering, with his usual air of assurance

said:

"Egad, mistress, I'm glad to find you afoot. My mare's dead-beat, has

carried me nigh forty miles this day; send Tom ostler to stable her,

like a good soul; and give me a bite and a bed. I didn't care about

disturbing the squire at this time o' night."

The captain was no favourite with good Mistress Joplady, but she

received him now with something more than her usual urbanity.

"Come away in, Cap'n Aglionby," she said. "Sure your name was in our

very mouths. Strange things be doing--ay, strange things in Winton

Simmary; bean't it so, William Nokes? Take the cap'n into the parlour,

William; a few souls be there, Cap'n, not fit company for the likes o'

you, to be sure, but they'll tell 'ee summat as'll stir your blood, they

will so. Tom'll see to Jenny, so be easy."

Captain Aglionby followed the constable into the parlour, where a group

of the village worthies were assembled. They were neither smoking nor

drinking, a sure sign that they had something momentous to talk about.

A silence fell upon the company as the captain clanked into the room,

and one or two of the more active-minded of them threw a quick glance at

each other, which the new-comer did not fail to note.

"A fine night, men," said the captain jovially.

"Ay, 'tis so."

"And a late hour to find the Berkeley Arms open."

"Ay, 'tis latish, sure enough."

"Any news from the army in Flanders? A post from London, eh?"

"Nay, not 'zackly that."

"Odzooks! speak up, men," cried the captain impatiently. "Why are they

all mumble-chopped to-night, mistress?" he asked, turning to the

hostess, who had followed him with bread and cheese and beer.

"Ah, they be pondering strange things," returned Mrs. Joplady. "Tell

the cap'n all the long story, William Nokes."

The constable, fingering the hat in his hand, looked for sympathy into

the stolid faces of his fellows, cleared his throat, and began:

"Cap'n, your sarvant. Eight o'clock this mornin', or mebbe nine--'twixt

eight and nine, if the truth was told--comes Long Tom from the Grange,

Sir Godfrey's man, as ye med know, Cap'n. Says he to me, 'Constable,'

says he, 'Sir Godfrey commands 'ee as a justice o' the peace to bring

your staff and irons and other engines,' says he, 'up along to Grange,

wi'out remorse or delay, and arrest a prisoner in the Queen's name.'

You may think what a turn it gi' me, souls, so early in the mornin'.

'Be he voilent?' says I. 'Can I arrest the villain all alone by

myself?' 'Ay sure,' says he; 'there's no knowin' what a tough job

'twould be an he were sound and hearty, but he's dazed, so he be, wi' a

crack in the nob, and won't give no trouble to no mortal constable, not

a bit,' says he. 'A crack in the nob,' says he; didn't he, souls?"

A murmur of assent came from the group.

"So I ups and goos wi' Long Tom hotfoot to the Grange, and Tom he tells

me by the way the longs and shorts on't. Seems 'twas Sherry Minshull as

cracked his nob, leastways he picked un up, he and young master pa'son

betwixt 'em, an' hoisted him on a cart o' Farmer Leake's, an' so carried

un to Grange and laid un afore Sir Godfrey. 'Twas highway robbery,

Cap'n, a-took in the very act, a-stoppen the carriage o' the high lard

as come this way yesterday, or day afore, as 'ee med say, seein' 'tis

mornin' now by the rights on't. And Sir Godfrey commits un, he do,

dazed as he were wi' the crack in the nob, and hands un over to the law,

and says, 'Constable,' says he, 'keep the knave fast in the lock-up, an'

hold un till I gets word from my Lard Godolphin in Lun'on.' They be his

words, Cap'n."

"Well, well, cut your story short, man. Adsheart, ye've more words than

matter."

"Ay, but wait to th' end, wait to th' end," put in a voice.

"The end of a rope 'twill be, and not for one neither," added another.

The constable looked a little uncomfortable.

"So I had un fast in the lock-up, Cap'n," he went on, "and 'twas the

talk o' the village all day long. Squire himself heard on't, and down

he come, so he do, and bein' hisself a justice o' the peace he goos into

the lock-up and zees the man, and axes un questions, not for my ears, me

bein' a constable; nay, I stood guard at the door; and when Squire coom

out he says to me, 'Constable,' says he, 'keep a good guard on un; he

deserves hangen, ay, and his mates too.' Never seed I Squire so

mad-like; 'twas 'cos it was a lard, maybe, and on his own ground, as 'ee

med say."

"Ay, and nearer nor that," said a voice.

The captain put down the tankard from which he was quaffing, and glared

round the faces. They were blank as the wall behind them.

"And now what'll he say?" pursued the constable. "He were mad afore, ay

sure; now he'll ramp and roar worse nor the lion beast at Salisbury

Fair. Ye med not believe it, Cap'n, but 'tis true for all that; the

godless villain ha' dared Squire an' Sir Godfrey an' me an' all; ha'

broke his bonds an' stole away, like a thief i' the night, as the Book

says."

"What!" cried the captain, leaning forward and thumping the table.

"Escaped, has he?"

"A' has so, like a eel off the hook."

"Ha! ha! Stap me! eels are slippery things. But 'tis a rub for you,

master constable. You'll lose your place, i' faith, you will."

"Why now, it be no sin o' mine. I left un snug in lock-up, I did, door

double-locked and bar up, an' went to take my forty winks like a honest

poor man; an' no sooner my back turned than out skips the pris'ner, like

Simon Peter in the story. There be witchcraft in't, an' that 'ee ought

to know, Cap'n, seein' as the villain be your own sarvant."

"Eh, fellow?"

"Sakes alive, I thowt as 'ee knowed that all the time! Sure 'twas John

Simmons, your honour's own body-slave, so to speak. An' I was main glad

to see 'ee, Cap'n, 'cause now 'ee know un for what he is, 'ee'll help me

to cotch un, in the Queen's name."

"Knows where he be, I'll be bound," said one of the group in a low tone.

The captain sprang from his chair, ran round the table, and, before the

speaker could defend himself, he caught him by the throat and hurled him

to the floor.

"Zounds, loon!" he cried in a passion, "what do you mean? Will you

affront me, eh? will you mouth your cursed insults to my very face?

Odzooks, I'll slit your weazand, hound, and any man of you that dares a

hint o' the sort, so 'ware all!"

The men looked abashed and uncomfortable; the hostess was pale with

apprehension, and the constable edged away from the irate captain. His

burst of passion over, he turned to Mrs. Joplady and spoke in quieter

tones.

"I brook no insolence, mistress. I don't answer for my servant's deeds

behind my back. I've been away all day, as poor Jenny will bear me

witness; was I to know my fool of a servant would play highwayman in my

absence? 'Tis a useful fellow, civil, too, beyond most; I picked him up

in London; he was in truth commended to me by no less than his grace the

Duke of Ormond, who tapped me on the shoulder in the Piazza at Covent

Garden, and said, 'Aglionby, my bawcock, you want a servant; I know the

very man for you!' Could I suspect a man after that? How he got mixed

up in this business beats me. And as for helping master constable to

repair his carelessness--adsbud, 'tis not likely. The man in truth is

no longer servant of mine. I am on my way to serve the Queen in

Flanders, and this very day arranged with my friend Sir Rupert Verney to

take the fellow off my hands. You may hang him, for me!"

"There now, Sam," said the hostess, turning to the man who had been

felled, and was now at the door glowering; "your tongue runs away wi'

'ee. Beg the cap'n's pardon, and don't go for to make a ninny o'

yourself."

"Never mind, my good woman," said Aglionby loftily. "The yokel knows no

better. Now, I'm tired out; give me a bed, good soul, for I must away

at sunrise--and egad, 'tis past one o'clock! Good-night to 'ee, men;

and I hope Sir Godfrey will forgive you, constable."

He went from the room, and soon afterwards the hostess bade the

villagers get to their beds, and closed the inn for the short remnant of

the night.

Before seven o'clock next morning the captain was on horseback. The

ground was wet; it had been drizzling for several hours, but a misty sun

was now struggling up the sky, and Tom ostler foretold a fine day. The

captain rode off, answering with a bold stare the suspicious and

lowering glances of the few villagers who were on the spot. He was in

high spirits; the anxieties of the past night were gone; and as he rode

he hummed a careless tune. He had ridden but little more than a mile

when, from an intersecting lane, a man stepped out and gripped the

horse's reins.

"Get off that there horse!" he said bluntly.

"Gads so, Sherry, you gave me quite a turn," said the captain with

unusual mildness. "Don't hinder me, man; I'm off to Flanders, and, i'

faith, that's where you ought to be yourself, if all was known. Come,

what's the meaning o't?"

"Get off that there horse!" repeated Sherebiah. "I'm a man o' peace, I

be, and I settles all scores prompt."

There was a look of determination in his eyes, and in his right hand he

grasped a knobby cudgel.

"Right! but we've no accounts to settle.--What!" he cried, as he saw

Sherebiah's cudgel raised, "you play the bully, eh? Gadzooks, I'll ferk

ye if----"

He was drawing his sword, but the cudgel fell with a resounding whack

upon his knuckles, and with a cry of pain he scrambled to the ground and

stood, a picture of sullen rage, before his intercepter.

"I'll thank 'ee for your pistols," said Sherebiah, removing them from

the holsters as he spoke. "Nay, don't finger your sword; I be a man o'

peace, and you know my play with the quarterstaff. Jenny, old girl,

crop your fill by the roadside while I have a reckonen wi' Cap'n

Aglionby." He laid a curious stress upon the title. "Now, Ralph, you

be comen wi' me into wood yonder. 'Tis there we'll settle our score."

Seizing the captain with his left hand, he led him down the lane,

through a gap in the hedge, into a thin copse of larches, until he came

to a narrow glade. Aglionby assumed an air of jocular resignation; but

that he was ill at ease was proved by the restless glances he gave

Sherebiah out of the corner of his eye.

"Off wi' your coat!" said Sherebiah, having reached the centre of the

glade. "Off wi't! I be gwine to pound 'ee; you can defend yourself,

but you'm gwine to be pounded whether or no."

"Confound you, man, what have I done to you? Why the----"

"Off wi't, off wi't! Least said soonest mended. Great barkers be no

biters, so it do seem; doff your coat, Cap'n Aglionby!"

"Well, if you will!" cried the captain, with a burst of passion. "I'll

comb your noddle, I'll trounce you, for an insolent canting runagate

booby!"

He flung his coat on the wet grass; Sherebiah laid down the cudgel and

followed his example.

"Come on, Cap'n Aglionby!" he said. "'Tis not, as 'ee med say, a job to

my liken, trouncen a big grown man like you; but 't ha' got to be done,

for your good and my own peace o' mind. So the sooner 'tis over the

better."

To a casual onlooker the two would have seemed very unequally matched.

The captain stood at least a head taller than his opponent, and was

broad in proportion. But he was puffy and bloated; Sherebiah, on the

other hand, though thick-set, was hard and agile.

As if anxious to finish an uncongenial task with the least delay, he

forced matters from the start. The captain had no lack of bull-dog

courage, and he still possessed the remnant of great physical strength.

To an ordinary opponent he would have proved even yet no mean

antagonist; and when, after a few sharp exchanges, Sherebiah's punishing

strokes roused him to fury, he rained upon the smaller man a storm of

blows any one of which, had it got home, might have felled an ox. But

Sherebiah parried with easy skill, and continued to use his fists with

mathematical precision. Once or twice he allowed the captain, now

panting and puffing, to regain his wind, and when the burly warrior

showed a disposition to lengthen the interval he brought him back to the

business in hand with a cheery summons.

"Now, Cap'n Aglionby," he would say, "let's to 't again. Come, man,

'twill soon be over!"

At last, beside himself with rage, the captain attempted to close with

and throw his opponent. He could scarcely have made a more unfortunate

move. For a few moments the two men swung and swayed; then Aglionby

described a semicircle over Sherebiah's shoulder, and fell with a

resounding thud to the ground. Neither combatant was aware that for

some time a spectator had been silently watching them. Harry Rochester,

coming whistling through the trees, had halted in surprise, at the edge

of the glade, as his eyes took in the scene.

"There now, 'tis over and done," said Sherebiah, stooping to pick up his

coat. "That score's wiped off. Stand on your feet, man! And I'll

trouble 'ee for your sword."

The captain staggered to his feet. He was in no condition to refuse the

victor's demand.

Sherebiah took the weapon and broke it across his knee. From his own

pocket he then took the captain's pistols. He carefully drew their

charges, and handed them back.

"Now, hie 'ee to Flanders," he said. "You've done more fighten this

mornin' than you'll ever do there. You'll find Jenny on the road."

The captain glared at him, and seemed about to reply. But he thought

better of it, and with a vindictive glare walked slowly away.

"What's it all about, Sherry?" said Harry, stepping forward when

Aglionby had disappeared.

"Ah, that be 'ee, sir? 'Twas only a little small matter o' difference

'twixt Cap'n Aglionby and me. We're quits now."

"You'll have to get Mistress Joplady to give you a raw steak for your

eye."

"Ay sure, Cap'n did get in a hit or two," replied Sherebiah placidly.

"I didn't know you were such a fighter."

Sherebiah gave him a quick look out of his uninjured eye.

"Nay, I bean't a fighter, not me," he said. "I'm a man o' peace; I be

so."

*CHAPTER IV*

*Mynheer Jan Grootz and Another*

The Gaffer Chops Logic--In Print--The London Coach--Simple Annals--A

Village Hampden--Bereft--An Offer of Service--A Hearty Send-off--Outside

Passengers--Introductions--Contractor to the Forces--Followed--The Man

on the Road--Sherebiah Muses

It was a dull, damp day towards the end of November, a little more than

four months after Captain Aglionby's unhappy departure from Winton St.

Mary. There was again great bustle at the Berkeley Arms; Mistress

Joplady's ample face was red with exertion, and her voice, when she gave

directions to her servants, was raised to an acrimonious pitch far from

usual with her. The whole village appeared to be gathered either within

or without the inn. Gaffer Minshull was there, seated with his back to

the wall and leaning on his inseparable staff. Lumpy, Soapy Dick, Long

Robin the tanner, Old Everlasting the miller, stood in a group about the

door, talking to the ostler, who stood guard, with arms akimbo, over

four brimming pails of water ranged along the wall.

Soft Jemmy was standing a yard or two away, watching with open mouth a

man who, straddling across a step-ladder, was smearing the ancient

sign-board with daubs of black paint, obliterating every trace of the

crude heraldic design that had marked the inn's connection with the lord

of the manor. When the board was one unbroken black, the painter

descended the ladder with his brush and can, winked at Jemmy, and went

into the inn to "mix the flavours", as he said in passing. The

half-witted youth contemplated his handiwork for some minutes in mild

surprise; then he walked towards old Minshull and addressed him

timorously:

"Gaffer, I'm afeard my poor yead won't stand the wonder on't, but it med

do me good to know why John painter ha' covered that noble pictur wi'

the colour o' sut."

"Why, boy, black's for sorrow, as 'ee med know wi'out tellen an 'ee

weren't so simple, and 'tis a black day for Winton Simmary, so 'tis."

"Why be it more black to-day than 'tis a-Sunday?" asked the youth.

"'Tis Tuesday, gaffer, bean't it? and new pa'son didn't holler it in

church for a holy day."

"Boy, your poor yead won't stand high things, 'tis true, but 'ee know

young pa'son be off to Lun'on town to-day, an' that's why all the souls

be here, to see the last on un."

Jemmy looked up again at the defaced sign-board, puzzling his poor

brains to find some connection between it and the departure of "young

pa'son".

"'Tis a shame, gaffer," said Honest John, "to deceive the poor lad, when

you know the sign bean't painted out for no such thing."

"Why, there now," returned old Minshull, "bean't it all one? I axe 'ee

that, souls. Young pa'son be a-gwine to Lun'on 'cause his poor

feyther's dead an' gone; Pa'son Rochester be dead an' gone 'cause o' the

fight; an I weren't afeard on un, I'd say the fight were all along o'

Squire; and Mis'ess Joplady ha' changed the ancient sign of th' inn

'cause her can't abear to think on't. Bean't that gospel truth, souls

all?"

The group looked impressed with the old man's logic. Mistress Joplady,

coming for a moment to the door, had overheard his concluding sentences.

"'Tis true," she said, wiping away a tear. "I never liked Squire;

nobody never did as I ever heerd on; but when pa'son died I couldn't

abear him. One thing I'm thankful for from the bottom o' my heart, and

that is, that my house is college property, like the church, and I can

snap my vingers at Squire, and I do." She suited the action to the

word. "Has been the Berkeley Arms for a hunnerd years, but 'twill be so

no longer. When paint's dry, up goos the yead o' Queen Annie, bless

her! a poor soul as ha' lost all her childer, like myself, and the

Queen's Head it'll be for ever more."

"Ay, things be main different in village now, sure," said Lumpy. "To

think what mighty changes come in a little time! Zeems only a few days

sin' young pa'son won that noble match--you mind, souls, the day the

lord's carriage broke under the weight of the Queen's purse--ay, the day

afore he were stopped in old road. I never understood the rights o'

that bit o' work. Gaffer, hav 'ee got that printed paper ye read, where

the Lun'on talk be given like the words of a book?"

Old Minshull slowly drew from his pocket a folded sheet, rather dirty,

worn at the edges, and falling apart at the folds. He opened it out

with great care, and spread it on his knees.

"That's he," said Lumpy. "Gaffer, you be a scholard; read it out loud

to us again."

"Ay, an' don't need spectacles neither," said Minshull proudly; "well,

listen, souls."

Very slowly, and with as much deliberation as though he were reading it

for the first instead of the hundredth time, and moving his forefinger

along the line, the old man began to read the account of the attempted

robbery of Lord Godolphin which the _Daily Courant_ presented to the

London public a week after the event. The names of the principal

persons concerned appeared with a dash between the initial and final

letters, and Godolphin's was read by Minshull as "Lard G line n". After

briefly relating the incident, the writer of the paragraph added:

"'Tis said the Prisoner that broke jail was a Servant of a Captain

A----y, a Guest at that time of Esq. N----s B----y. The gallant

Captain's Commission (as it is credibly reported) is not under the seal

of her Gracious Majestie, or King William lately Deceas'd of Noble

Memorie, but of the Czar of Muscovy. 'Tis vouch'd by some 'twas none

other than the Great Cham."

"Ay, that's print," said Soapy Dick at the conclusion of the reading.

"The 'Cap'n A line y' was Cap'n Aglionby sure enough, an' some did zay

as how 'twas he let the pris'ner out o' lock-up, and so brought shame to

Will'm Nokes."

"Ay, an' some did say as how the Cap'n hisself made one o' the cut-purse

rogues as waylaid the lard," said Honest John.

"Old wives' tales," said Minshull. "My boy Sherry be wise for his

years, an' he says Cap'n couldn't ha' let prisoner out, 'cause a' were

miles away at the time. And as for Cap'n bein' on the road--why, when

Sir Godfrey coom in all the might o' the law to 'stablish the truth,

Squire up and said as how Cap'n was abed and asleep on that early mornen

when the deed was done."

"Ay true, Squire said so; but did a' take his dyin' oath like a common

man? Tell me that, souls."

At this moment the conversation was interrupted, and the villagers were

thrilled into excitement by the distant tootle of a horn.

"Here be coach at last," cried the ostler. "Ten minutes behind time,

and no sign of young Master Rochester. Giles coachman won't wait, not

he."

But as the coach came in sight at a bend of the road, two figures were

seen hastening along from the direction of the rectory. One was a tall

youthful form clad in black from his low felt hat to his buckle shoes.

His steinkirk was black, and its fringed ends were tucked into a black

waistcoat. Black were his plain drugget coat and breeches, black also

his woollen stockings. Nothing redeemed the sable hue of his garments

save his cambric shirt, the white front of which was much exposed, in

the fashion of the time. Harry Rochester's face was pale, its

expression sad.

His companion, a head shorter than himself, was Sherebiah Minshull, clad

in the sober brown of ordinary country wear, and trudging along steadily

under the weight of a fair-sized valise. Winter or summer, his

appearance never varied: his firm round cheeks were always ruddy, his

blue eyes always bright; and his expression, now as always, was that of

placid self-content, well becoming "a man of peace".

The two drew nearer to the inn, where the group had by this time been

enlarged by the accession of the greater part of the village population,

women and children, workers and loafers, mingled in one interested

throng. As Giles Appleyard was at that moment explaining to the

passenger at his side, he had never seen such a crowd at Winton St. Mary

before, though he had driven the coach, good weather and bad, for

fifteen years come Christmas. It reminded him of the crowd at Salisbury

Fair.

"And seein' as how I've been laid up wi' a bad leg for two months," he

added, "I'm behind the times, I be; news travels slow to them as don't

drive coaches, and, i' feck, I know no more than the dead what this

mortal big crowd do mean, i' feck I don't."

But many voices were ready to tell him when, having pulled up his four

steaming horses at the inn door, he descended with grave deliberation

from his perch, saluted Mistress Joplady with the gallantry of the road,

and entered her house "to warm his nattlens", as he said, with a tankard

of her home-brewed. Young pa'son was a-gwine to Lun'on town! It seemed

a slight cause for such an unwonted scene; in reality it was a momentous

event in the life of Harry Rochester and in the history of his village.

Small things bulk large in the imagination of rustic folk; a journey to

London came within the experience of few of them; and the departure of

young pa'son, following so closely upon two such notable events as the

cricket match and the attack on the Lord High Treasurer, had already

furnished unfailing material for gossip, and would be the theme of

comment and speculation for a year to come.

It was all along of old Squire, they said; and the coachman, for the

first and only time in his career, delayed his departure for some

minutes after the horses had been watered, in order to listen to the

story. A few days after Lord Godolphin's flying visit, Squire Berkeley

had fenced in a piece of land which time out of mind had been regarded

as part of the village common. Old Gaffer Minshull, whose memory went

back fifty years, was called up to tell how in the year '53, just before

Christmas, the then parson had held a prayer-meeting on that very spot

to celebrate the making of Noll Crum'ell Lord Protector; he remembered

it well, for it lasted five hours, and old Jenny Bates fainted on the

ground and took to her bed from that day.

"Ay, 'twas a holy spot, an' Squire med ha' feared to touch un, as the

old ancient folk feared to lay hands on the Lord's holy ark; but, bless

'ee, Squire bean't afeard o' nothen, nay, not o' the still small voice

pa'son do zay be inside on us all."

When the ground was fenced in the good parson was disposed to carry the

matter to law. But though he had already won one case (a matter of

right of way) in the courts, the only result was that the squire had

carried it to appeal, trusting in the power of the purse. The angry

villagers therefore determined to take the law into their own hands.

Without consulting the rector, they assembled one evening towards the

end of October, and hastening in a body to the disputed space, began to

make short work of the new fencing. But the squire had got wind of

their intention, by some witchcraft of his own, they believed: he soon

appeared on the scene at the head of a gang of his own men. There was a

fight; heads were broken, and the squire's party were getting badly

mauled when the rector suddenly arrived and rushed between the

combatants.

"Ay, poor pa'son, I zee un now, I do," said Gaffer Minshull feelingly,

"goen headlong into the rout wi' all his petticoats flyen! A fine

upstanden man was pa'son, as ought to ha' been a man o' war. A' stood

in the eye of Squire, an' Squire opened on un, gave tongue to a deal o'

hot an' scorchen words, a' did. But pa'son took no heed to'n, not he:

he spoke up fair an' softly to Squire's men, and wi' that way o' his a'

made 'em feel all fashly like; a' had a won'erful way wi' 'n, had

pa'son; an' they made off wi' their broken heads, they did; an' Squire

was left a-frothen an' cussen as he were a heathen Frenchman or Turk.

Ah, poor pa'son! Such a fine sperit as he had, his frame were not built

for 't; wi' my own aged eyes I seed un go blue at the lips, and a' put

his hand on his bosom, a' did, an' seemed as if all the breath was

blowed out of his mortal body; and a' went home-along a stricken soul,

and two days arter his weak heart busted, an' young pa'son had no

feyther--ay, poor soul, no feyther, an' my boy Sherebiah be nigh

varty-vour, and here I be. 'Tis strange ways Them above has wi' poor

weak mortals--strange ways, ay sure!"

Mr. Berkeley took advantage of the rector's death to pay off old scores.

The legal actions which Mr. Rochester had taken, on behalf of his flock,

collapsed for want of further funds; he had already seriously

impoverished himself by his open-hearted generosity; and when the squire

came down on the dead man's estate for the law costs, Harry found that,

after all debts were paid, he was possessed of some twenty guineas in

all wherewith to start life.

His project of going to Oxford was necessarily abandoned. He was at a

loss to find a career. Educated by his father with a view to entering

the Church, he was fairly well grounded in classics and mathematics, and

had in addition a good acquaintance with French, and a great stock of

English poetry; but his knowledge was not marketable. He was too young

for a tutor's place, and had no influence to back him; friendless and

homeless, he was at his wits' end.

Then one day he bethought him of Lord Godolphin's promise. It had been

frank and apparently sincere. My lord, it was true, had spoken of a

country benefice when Harry's Oxford days were over; but Harry reflected

that the slight service he had rendered was not likely to appear greater

with the lapse of time, while his need was actual and urgent. Why not

take the Lord Treasurer at his word, journey to London, and put his case

before the man who, in all the kingdom, was the most able to help him if

he would?

He mentioned the matter to Gaffer Minshull, rather expecting that the

sturdy veteran would pour cold water on his idea. To his surprise the

old man urged him to carry it out, and overbore the objections which

every high-spirited lad, even in those days of patronage, must have had

to soliciting favours from the great. His eagerness was partially

explained to Harry when the old fellow added a suggestion of his own.

He was seriously concerned about his boy Sherebiah. In spite of strict

injunctions to have nothing to do with the expedition against the

squire's fencing, Sherebiah, man of peace as he was, had been attracted

to the scene as a moth to a candle. At first he had watched events from

a distance, among other interested spectators; but when he saw the fight

at its beginning go against the villagers, owing to the superior

training of the squire's men, many of whom were old soldiers, he could

contain himself no longer. At the head of the waverers he dashed into

the affray, and set such an example of valour that it would have gone

hardly with the enemy but for the opportune arrival of the rector.

From that moment Sherebiah was a marked man. Whatever reasons the father

had for fearing Mr. Berkeley were strengthened when it became evident

that the squire had marked and would resent the son's action. Sherebiah

had been doing no good in the village since he suddenly returned to it,

from no one knew where, a few years before. His father was anxious that

he should go away for a time, at least until the squire's anger had

cooled. He welcomed the opportunity afforded by the approaching

departure of Harry.

"Let un goo wi' 'ee," he said. "'Tis a knowen boy, handy, with a head

full o' wise things he's larned in the world. He'd be proud to sarve

'ee, ay, that he would."

"But, gaffer, I can't afford a servant. Twenty guineas are all I have,

and I know not what may happen. If Lord Godolphin fails me, my money

will soon be gone, and then there'll be two poor fellows instead of

one."

"Never fear. I bean't afeard for 'ee. And what does the Book say?

Why, 'twas the holy King David as said it hisself: 'Once I were young,'

says he, 'and now I be old; but never ha' I knowed the righteous

forsaken, nor his seed a-beggen bread neither.' That's what he said,

and he knowed a thing or two, so he did."

"Perhaps he didn't know everything, gaffer. Well, you're set on it, I

see. Sherry would certainly be better out of the squire's way; so he

can come with me, and as soon as I find something to do he had better

look for employment, and London ought to be a good place for that."

Thus it happened that, on this November morning, the two passengers who

had booked places in the Salisbury coach for London were Harry Rochester

and Sherebiah Minshull.

The story took a long time in the telling in the parlour of the inn, and

Giles Appleyard was somewhat perturbed when he saw by the big clock in

the corner that his departure was overdue. He drained his tankard,

wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and went out, calling loudly

to the passengers to take their places. Harry shook hands all round;

every man had something to say to him that was intended to be pleasant

and encouraging, but was in many cases the reverse. His heart was full

as he thought of leaving the good folk among whom he had lived and whose

kindly feeling for him was so evident. When, last of all, Mistress

Joplady flung her arms round his neck and hugged him to her ample bosom,

and then wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, he felt a lump in

his throat, and was glad to escape and mount to his place on the roof of

the coach.

"All right, Bill?" shouted the coachman over his shoulder.

"Ay."

"Let goo, ostler."

And gathering up the reins he cracked his whip, and with a clatter and

rumble the heavy vehicle, amid a volley of cheers, lurched forward on

the way to London.

The journey of nearly seventy miles was not likely to be pleasant. The

stage-coaches of those days were large and clumsy structures, with hard

springs. The inside passengers were jolted and jostled; the outside

passengers had no proper seats, but found what sitting room they could

among the packages and bundles. On this morning, there was only one

other passenger on the roof of the coach, a stout broad-faced man

dressed in brown clothes much like Sherebiah's. He had retained his

seat during the scene of farewell, and sat solemnly munching a thick

sausage, scanning the crowd out of shrewd little twinkling eyes that

seemed a size too small for the other features. When his sausage was

finished, he filled a huge pipe and sat puffing in stolid silence.

For some time after the coach started, no word was spoken by the three

passengers. Harry was wrapt in his thoughts, brooding over the past,

dreaming about the future. Sherebiah had lit his pipe as soon as he was

settled, and smoked on contentedly, stealing a glance every now and then

at the broad figure separated from him by a large travelling trunk. He

seemed to find some amusement in these occasional peeps at his

neighbour, who by and by returned his glance.

"Mizzly mornen," said Sherebiah, with a nod.

"Zo," grunted the other. His eyes were resting on Sherebiah's pipe.

"Tobacco be a great comfort," said the latter, noting the look. "Master

Harry there, he bean't come to 't yet; true, 'tis not for babes an'

sucklens; but I took to 'bacca when Susan wouldn't take me, and 'tis

better nor any wife."

"Where you get dat pipe?" asked the stranger, in a slow pleasant voice

with a foreign accent.

"This pipe! Why, over in Amesbury; see, 'tis marked wi' the gauntlet,

sure token of a Amesbury pipe, an' there's no better in the land. Why

med 'ee axe such a feelen question, now?"

"Once I zaw a pipe like it, wid de mark on it--de gauntlet, you zay."

"Oh! I say, master, what part o' the land med 'ee hail from? Your

tongue makes me think 'ee med be a Dutchman, though I wouldn't say so to

your face."

The man looked at his interrogator without replying. He stuffed the

tobacco down into his pipe with a fat forefinger which exactly fitted

the bowl.

"You know Amsterdam, my vrient?" he said.

"Ha' been there, mynheer; so 'tis Amsterdam you hail from! Well, I ha'

been in wuss places. Ay, ha' seed summat o' the world, I have, and I

knowed 'ee by your cut for a Dutchman."

There was silence again for a space. Both the men sat smoking, heedless

of all things around them. They finished their pipes at the same

moment, and, moved by a mutual impulse, each handed his pouch to the

other.

"Virginia," said Sherebiah laconically.

"Ah! Barbados," returned the other. "My name, Jan Grootz."

"And it becomes 'ee," said Sherebiah. "Now mine bean't so good a match;

'tis over long for one o' my inches, and over proud for a man so meek:

Sherebiah Stand-up-and-bless Minshull in the church book, but plain

Sherry to them as I takes to, like young pa'son there."

Harry was roused from his reverie at hearing himself mentioned. He

looked for the first time at his fellow-passenger, who at that moment

lifted his podgy right hand and pointed to a windmill in full sail a

little distance from the road.

"Ay sure, minds 'ee of home; your country's full of mills, to be sure.

Mebbe you be a miller, now?"

The Dutchman waited to blow a great cloud from his mouth before he

answered.

"A sailor," he said; "but I have mills."

"A skipper," rejoined Sherry, looking over his costume. "'Tis not for me

to say, but to mortal eye you be more like a varmer.--'Tis a skipper

from Holland," he added, including Harry in the conversation, "that has

a mill or two to his name and smokes 'bacca out o' Barbados."

"Jan Grootz," said the Dutchman.

Harry acknowledged the introduction, and remarked on the slowness of

their progress over the rough road. On this Mynheer Grootz volunteered

the remark that, having come all the way from Bristol, he would be glad

when the journey was ended. By degrees he became still more

communicative; and when the coach pulled up at Basingstoke for the

mid-day meal, Harry had learnt that the Dutchman had been to Bristol to

inspect a vessel of which he was part-owner, and which had come most

fortunately to port after being first knocked about by a French

privateer, then badly damaged by a storm. It was to the storm that she

owed her escape from the Frenchman, and to her captain's seamanship her

escape from the storm. Grootz was particularly gratified at her safe

arrival, for she represented a large amount not only to him personally,

but to others who could ill afford to lose on a venture upon which he

had persuaded them to embark.

When the journey was resumed, the conversation became still more

friendly. Harry liked the look of the Dutchman. His broad face with

its wide nose and little eyes was not handsome, but its expression

inspired confidence; and the careful slowness of his speech, and his

habit of pointing with his forefinger when he wished to be emphatic,

were a little amusing. He asked no questions, but Harry by and by found

himself explaining his own position and relating the events that had led

to it, and told him of his projected visit to Lord Godolphin. At this

up came the forefinger.

"Ah, my young vrient, you are de son of a minister: ver' well: you know

de good Book: ver' well: 'Put not your drust in princes;' de words are

drue. I tell you dis; besides my mills and my ships, I do oder dings; I

supply food for de men and horses of de English and Dutch armies; and I

have met princes; yes--I, Jan Grootz. I tell you dis; wid a good honest

merchant of London or of Amsterdam, I care not, man knows where he

stand; his foot is on de solid rock; but wid dukes and grand-dukes and

oder princes--ah! man tread a quicksand. Dey promise, but do dey pay?

You are good boy, I dink; mind you, I do not say I know, for outside do

not always speak drue; de apple may be red, and all de time a maggot at

core. I tell you dis; seven year ago I make contract over hay wid young

captain of Bavarian Elector; it was in Namur campaign; he look good, he

speak good, I am well content; but donder! my hay I lose, and 3242

thalers 3 groschen beside. Dis den I tell you; avoid arms and de law,

drive some honest trade: zo you respect yourself, and oder people dey

respect you. You owe noding; nobody owe you; you are a man."

Ever since the departure from Basingstoke, Sherebiah, sitting just

behind Harry, had taken no part in the conversation, but appeared to

find something curiously interesting in the road behind, for after once

or twice looking over his shoulder he at last faced round altogether,

and sat with his back to the horses. Just as the Dutchman finished his

speech--the longest to which he had yet given utterance, and one that

his slow delivery lengthened beyond its natural extent--Sherebiah turned

round, tapped Harry on the shoulder, and in a low tone said:

"Summat's i' the wind."

"What do you mean, Sherry?"

"Wind yourself about and look down the road behind."

"Well, I see nothing--stay, there's a horseman just topping the hill, a

good mile behind us: what of that?"

"Why, 'tis like this. He always is a mile behind: that's where 'tis. I

seed him afore we come to Basingstoke; but he didn't come to the inn to

eat his vittles, not he. I seed him again when we was a mile this side

o' Basingstoke; what had he been doen, then, while we eat and drank? We

stop, he falls behind; when we trot, he trots; 'tis as if he were a bob

at th' end of a line, never nearer never vurther."

"You think we are being followed?"

"That's what I do think, sure enough."

"A highwayman?"

"Mebbe, mebbe not; most like not, for 'tis not dark enough, and he's

always in sight."

"Perhaps he thinks he can't be seen."

"Not reckonen on the height of the coach roof? But I seed him, I did,

two hours an' more agoo."

"Why should he follow the coach, I wonder? He may belong to someone

inside."

"Mebbe, mebbe not; 'tis curious anyways."

"Well, the fellow is clearly dogging the coach; if your curiosity

troubles you, suppose you slip off a mile before we reach the next

post-house and try to get a nearer look at him as he passes? You can

catch up the coach while they change horses."

"Ay, I will, sure. We be nigh the river now; over the bridge and we

come to Hounslow heath, a fearsome place for highwaymen. We change at

the Bull and Gate, then run straight into Lun'on: oh, I know the road."

It was late in the afternoon by the time the coach reached the inn where

the last change of the journey was made. Ten minutes before, Sherebiah

nimbly slipped down, crept through a gap in the hedge, and waited for

the pursuer to appear. Presently he heard the clatter of hoofs; the

sound grew louder, but all at once began to diminish. Scrambling back

into the road, he was just in time to see the horseman strike off at

full speed along a by-road to his left, which led, as Sherebiah knew, to

London by a course only a mile or two longer than the main highway. The

man must evidently have changed his horse somewhere on the road, and

could only have taken the detour in a desire to arrive in London ahead

of the coach.

Sherebiah stared long and earnestly at the retreating figure. He

frowned and looked puzzled as he set off to overtake the coach. The

driver was mounting the box as he came up.

"Well, what do you make of it?" asked Harry.

"He be gone off by a side road," replied Sherebiah.

"So your curiosity is not to be satisfied after all?"

"Well, he rid away hard to the left, wi' his back towards me, an' 'tis

growen duskish, an' nowt but a owl could see clear."

But when Sherebiah clambered to his place he wore a sober look which did

not escape the clear little eyes of Jan Grootz, who silently extended

his pouch to him. Sherebiah refilled and puffed away, every now and then

removing the pipe from his mouth and staring contemplatively at the

bowl.

*CHAPTER V*

*A Message from the Squire*

The Old White Hart--A Letter for the Captain--Visions--Aglionby gives

Instructions--The Watch--Half-Truths--Ways and Means--Hard Thinking

Sherebiah sat very silent for the rest of the journey. The coach jolted

on rapidly towards the great city: passed the market-gardens of

Hammersmith, the open fields of Kensington, along Piccadilly, where the

first street-lamps shed a dim oily light, through Holborn, at last

pulling up at the Angel and Crown in Threadneedle Street. It was past

nine o'clock, dull and murky, and few people were about. But a small

crowd was gathered at the door of the inn to meet the coach, and

Sherebiah, as he shouldered the luggage and moved towards the door, shot

a keen but unobtrusive glance at the faces of the men. His movements

were somewhat too slow for Harry, who, eager to ease his limbs after a

whole day's stiffness and discomfort, entered the hostelry first. All

at once Sherebiah quickened his step, hastened into the lobby, set the

luggage down at the foot of the stairs, and then, making a mumbled

excuse to Harry, slipped out behind one of the inn servants, and looked

narrowly at the diminishing crowd. He was just in time to see a man,

whom he had already noticed on the outskirts of the group, saunter away

in the direction of London Bridge. Appearances are deceptive, and

Sherebiah was not sure that he was right, but he thought the man bore a

resemblance to the rider whom he had seen following the coach, and of

whom he had caught one nearer glimpse as he turned into the by-road. He

followed the man, stepping as quietly as his heavy shoes allowed,

accommodating his pace to that of the man in front, and taking advantage

of the shadow afforded by the penthouse fronts of the closed shops. The

man quickened his steps as he approached the bridge. Sherebiah pursued

him at a discreet distance over the narrow roadway, beneath the rickety

four-story houses that towered above the bridge over almost its entire

length, through Traitor's Gate, and on into Southwark. The man went

along one narrow street, and at last passed under a low archway.

Walking even more stealthily, Sherebiah still followed, and found

himself in the spacious yard of the Old White Hart Inn. This famous

three-storied hostelry was built about three sides of a square. Along

two sides of the upper story ran a balustraded gallery, with wooden

pillars supporting the sloping roof. All was quiet. Sherebiah, keeping

in the shadow of the arch, peeped round and saw the man he followed

standing at the door waiting for an answer to his summons at the bell,

which hung on the outer wall under a gabled cover. After a little time

the door opened and the porter appeared.

"Be Cap'n Aglionby within?" said the man.

"Ay, and abed and asleep. What do you want wi' him?"

"I want to see un."

"A pretty time o' night! House was shut up an hour ago--no business

doin' these hard times. Why didn't you come sooner?"

"A good reason, 'cause I be only just come to Lun'on. I has a message

for Cap'n Aglionby."

"Well, needs must, I s'pose," grumbled the servant. "I'll go up and wake

the captain, and be cursed horrible for my pains. Who shall I say wants

him?"

"Tell un a friend from the country."

The porter went into the inn, and soon reappeared in the gallery at the

top of the house, where he tapped at the door of one of the bedrooms

opening from it. He tapped once, twice, thrice, and received no answer;

then to his fourth knock came a response the tone of which, though not

the words, could be heard in the yard below. A colloquy ensued, of

which only the share of the inn servant was distinctly audible to

Sherebiah.

"A man from the country, Cap'n, to see you."

Mumble from within.

"So I told him, but here he bides."

More mumbling.

"Didn't tell me his name; a man from the country was all he said, and I

knows no more."

The answering mumble was of higher and impatient mood. Then the man

came slowly downstairs, grumbling under his breath all the way.

"You're to go up," he said to the stranger. "'Tis number thirty-two.

And fine tantrums he be in, waked out of sleep; as if I ain't waked out

of sleep or kept from it day and night, and all year long."

The man entered the inn after the servant, and began to ascend.

Sherebiah meanwhile, looking around, had espied another stairway at the

opposite angle of the courtyard. Darting across on tiptoe, he mounted

quickly, quietly, and reached the gallery above in time to see the

messenger disappear into the captain's room. He hurried along, and,

relying on the porter's complaint of the paucity of business, he opened

the door of the adjacent room and slipped in, leaving the door ajar.

Through the thin partition he heard the murmur of voices in the next

room, but could not catch a word distinctly. In a few moments, however,

there was a crash as of a chair being overthrown, followed by a torrent

of execrations from the captain. Then the door of the next room opened,

and Aglionby came out on to the gallery accompanied by his visitor.

"Hang you and the squire too!" said the angry warrior. "The tinder's

wet, and I can't light my candle. Give me the letter and I'll read it

by the light of the lantern yonder, and catch my death o' cold withal."

Shrinking back into the darkness of his room, Sherebiah caught sight of

Captain Aglionby as he passed the half-open door on his way to the

single lantern that feebly lit up the gallery. He had pulled on his

breeches and stockings, but for the rest was in night attire. The

lantern swung from a hook at the corner of the gallery, three rooms

beyond that into which Sherebiah had ventured. Standing beneath it, the

captain broke the seal of the letter given him by the visitor, and read

rapidly under his breath. The reading finished, he stuffed the paper

into his pocket and chuckled.

"Stap me, he begs and prays me now!" he exclaimed. "See, Jock, tell me

what ye know of this. Ye ha'n't read the letter, ha' ye? By the Lord

Harry, I'll slit--"

"Nay, nay, Cap'n," interrupted the man; "I know nought o' the letter.

I'll tell 'ee how it all come about. I was openen the gate for Squire,

when--"

"Speak lower, man; your brazen throat'll wake the house."

"I was openen the gate for Squire," resumed the fellow in a lower tone,

which was, however, still audible to Sherebiah's straining ears, "when

who should come by but young master popinjay dressed all in his black.

He never bobbed to Squire, not he; never so much as cast eyes on un; but

when Squire saw the young swaggerer he stopped still as a stone, and

looked after un dazed like. Then he put his arm on the gate, a' did,

and leant heavy on it, thinken mortal hard; 'twas a matter o' five

minutes afore he lifted his head again, and never seed I a stranger look

on any man's face than I seed then on Squire's. A' jumped when his eyes

fell on me; 'What be staren at, fool?' says he, in one of his rages.

'Shall I run for doctor?' says I; 'you do look mortal bad.' 'Nay,' says

he, ''tis nothen; a little faintness; 'twill pass.' I touched my cap,

as becomes me, and Squire went into park and shut gate behind un. But a'

hadn't walked more nor three steps when a' stops, swings about, and

'Jock!' says he, 'order post-horses for Hungerford road to-morrer. And

come up to hall inside of an hour; I shall ha' a job for 'ee.'

"Well, I went up to hall after I'd ordered horses, and Squire give me

this letter. 'You'll ride to Lun'on to-morrer, and take this letter to

Cap'n Aglionby at White Hart, South'ark. And you'll tell the cap'n

where young Master Rochester be stayen.' 'How'll I know that, Squire?'

says I. 'Pon that he burst into one of his terr'ble rages again. 'How,

fool!' says he; 'why, keep the coach in sight, and see that 'ee make no

mistake.' So here I be, Cap'n, and young Master Rochester he's at Angel

and Crown in Threadneedle Street."

"Thank 'ee, Jock; I know the house. And is the young springald alone?"

"Not he; has Sherry Minshull with un, a-carryen his belongens."

"Zounds and thunder! did Sherry see you?"

"No, i' feck; I kept too far from coach to be seen for sarten, and at

Angel and Crown Sherry was too heavy laden to spy me."

"Well for you, well for you! Jock, you'll come and take up your

quarters here; there's plenty of room. I'll tell 'em to gi' ye a bed."

"What about the horse, Cap'n? I left un at Angel and Crown."

"Let him bide till morning; then you can bring him here too."

"But Squire, Cap'n,--won't he expect us back, me and horse?"

"Not he; 'tis here written; I'm to keep you if there's any work for you,

and odzooks! I'll ha' some work for you, never fear. Jock, if your

story has made you as dry as it has made me you're main thirsty; go down

and bring up beer for two, and a lighted candle. I'll ring and wake

that rascal by the time you get to the foot of the stairs."

The man went down by the way he had come, and the captain returned to

his room. As soon as the coast was clear, Sherebiah slipped out into

the gallery, carrying his shoes to avoid noise, ran down the outer

staircase, stood for a few moments at the foot to make sure that all was

safe, then darted across the yard and out at the gate. The street was

quite deserted, and Sherebiah, secure from molestation, walked slowly

along towards London Bridge, deep in thought. His friend Harry had been

followed to London at the orders of the squire; what was the meaning of

that? Surely Mr. Berkeley did not intend to wreak vengeance on the son

for the baffled opposition of the father? What had Captain Aglionby to

do with the matter? Rumour the omniscient had informed the village that

the captain's departure had been occasioned by a violent quarrel with

the squire; yet it was plain that the squire knew the captain's

whereabouts and was enlisting his aid in some project. Sherebiah wished

that he could get a sight of Mr. Berkeley's letter; he was puzzled to

account for the old man's shock as Harry passed the gate; but try as he

might to piece these strange circumstances together, all his cogitation

suggested no clue.

So absorbed was he, so mechanical his movements, that he started

convulsively when, just as he had passed through Traitor's Gate, a man

stepped suddenly before him from a narrow entry and bade him stop in the

Queen's name. Looking up, he saw that his way was barred by a corpulent

constable in cocked hat and laced coat, with a staff two feet longer

than himself, and half a dozen ancient and decrepit watchmen with

lanterns and staves.

"Stand!" cried the constable. "Give an account of yourself."

Sherebiah took his measure.

"Not so, neither, master constable. Out o' my way; 'tis a late hour,

and I ought to be abed."

He made to move on, but the constable stood full in his path, and the

watchmen grouped themselves behind their superior.

"You may be a villain for aught I know," said the constable, "or even a

vagrom or thief. Why abroad at this hour o' night?"

"I'm as sober as a judge," replied Sherebiah, "and neither thief nor

vagrom. Stand aside, master constable."

"Well, 'tis dry and thirsty work watching o' nights, and there be seven

of us, and a shilling don't go far in these war times; we'll take a

shilling to let ye pass; eh, men?"

The watchmen mumbled assent. Sherebiah laughed.

"A shilling? 'Tis a free country, master constable, and a sober

countryman don't carry shillings to buy what's his. And seems to me, so

it does, as ye've had drink enough a'ready; out o' my way, I say!"

"Arrest him, men!" cried the constable, angry at being disappointed of

his expected tip.

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when with sudden energy

Sherebiah threw himself against him, at the same time placing a leg

behind his knee. As the constable fell, Sherebiah dashed at the

watchmen, toppled two of them over, their fall being accompanied by the

crash of their lanterns, scattered the rest, and ran rapidly across the

bridge. This unexpected onset from one whom they had taken for a simple

and timid country bumpkin was too much for the watch. They made no

attempt to pursue the fugitive, but returned surly and crestfallen to

their lair.

"Where on earth have you been, Sherry?" asked Harry, as his man

re-entered the inn.

"Payen a visit to a cousin o' mine, Master Harry. And I was nigh put in

lock-up, I was. Was stopped by the watch, but I toppled un over, I did.

I'm a man o' peace."

"If you are let alone," said Harry, laughing. "I feared some harm had

happened to you. Our Dutch friend tells me London is an ill place at

night for a stranger."

"Ay, and by day too, Master Harry," rejoined Sherebiah earnestly. "If I

med make so bold, I'd say, get 'ee to-morrow a good cane,--none of your

little small amber-tipt fancies as fine gentlemen swing in their dainty

fingers, but a stout length of oak or birch, fit to crack a pate."

"I have a sword, Sherry, and can use it, thanks to you."

"Ay, but 'tis not always easy to draw a sword in time in a street brawl,

and there be light-fingered gentry as can coax a sword from the scabbard

and the wearer none the wiser till it be too late. Be it your poor

feyther's sword you ha' brought, sir?"

"Yes, the silver-hilted one; I showed it you once, Sherry."

"Well, 'tis right for a gentleman to wear a sword, though I marvel, I

do, at a holy man o' peace like pa'son haven such a deadly piece o'

furniture."

"Ay, and I've often wondered how a man of peace like yourself is able to

handle a sword so well. You made a swordsman of me, Sherry; how did you

become one yourself?"

"Ah, sir, 'tis a many things a man o' peace has to know in the way o'

dressens. I believe in peace with a cudgel in your hand. Them as wants

peace be most like to get it an they be ready for war."

"You remind me of what Master Butler says:

'There's but the twinkling of a star

Betwixt the man of peace and war'.

But the hour is late, Sherry, and I must be up betimes in the morning,

for my visit to Lord Godolphin."

"You bean't gwine to see the high lard to-morrer, sir? Better larn to

find your way about this tangle o' busy streets first. 'Tis as easy as

sucken eggs to lose your way."

"I have made up my mind to go to-morrow. You see, I must lose no time.

I have only twenty guineas, as you know, and by to-morrow two of those

will be gone. And I sha'n't rest till I have tried my luck.

Good-night, Sherry! Wake me at seven."

Left to himself, Sherebiah ordered a pint of small beer, and sat for an

hour longer, ruminating, with knit brows and compressed lips. More than

once he got up and walked round the deal table, stopping to take a pull

at the tankard, heaving a sigh, then going on again. He was disquieted.

The sudden discovery that the squire's animosity was pursuing Harry no

less perplexed than disturbed him. Harry and Mr. Berkeley had never met

at close quarters; there had been no intercourse between hall and

parsonage. A personal cause of offence was, as it seemed to Sherebiah,

out of the question; yet it was strange that the squire's hatred of the

father should extend to the son. At length, muttering "No one can tell

what's what with the likes o' old Squire," Sherebiah brought his big

fist down on to the table with a bang that made the pewter jump and

rattle, and fetched the drawer from his place in the bar.

"What d'ye lack?" said the man.

"Nothen, sonny, nothen. 'Tis a way o' mine to hit out when I be

a-thinken, a bold way for a man o' peace, true. Bacon at half arter

seven, drawer,--and we be country eaters, mind 'ee. Good-night!"

*CHAPTER VI*

*My Lord Marlborough makes a Note*

London Streets--A Chair!--A Great Man's Portals--An Effort of

Memory--Patronage--Marlborough--A Step in the Peerage--A Memorandum--A

Friend in London--A Dinner at Locket's--Mr. Colley Cibber--Great

Expectations--A Thick Stick--Prevarication

Harry was awake long before Sherebiah tapped at his door next morning.

His projected visit to Lord Godolphin gave him some concern. He had no

tremors of shyness at the thought of meeting the Lord Treasurer; but,

ignorant as he was of London ways, he knew not how to time his visit,

and could hope for no counsel on that point from Sherebiah. He was too

much excited to do justice to the crisp rashers which were placed before

him at the breakfast-table, and felt little disposed to converse with

Jan Grootz the Dutchman opposite. Sherebiah had taken upon himself to

wait at table, but, as a privileged servitor, did not think it

unbecoming to throw in a word here and there. He gave Grootz his views

on the price of oats and the policy of King Louis of France with equal

assurance.

"Know ye where de lord live?" asked the Dutchman suddenly.

Harry had forgotten that he had mentioned his errand to his

fellow-passenger, and for the moment repented his confidence. Before he

could reply, Grootz went on:

"He live over against the Queen's Wood Yard, by Thames-side, leading to

Scotland Yard. My vrient John Evelyn built de house. I have been

dere."

"Oh!" exclaimed Harry. "Then can you tell me the best time to visit

him?"

"Ja! De best time, it is ten o'clock, before he go to de palace. He

rise late; he has many visitors; I zee him myself in his dressing-gown

before his zervant have curled his wig, and I wait my turn two hours.

And when you zee him, you zall lose no time; he like man to speak out,

mark you."

The Dutchman spoke very slowly, not interrupting his meal, and wagging

his fat finger as he concluded.

"And how shall I go? Shall I walk?"

"I' feck, no," said Sherebiah from behind. "The night have been rainy,

and the streets be mushed wi' mud; you'd be spattered from head to heel,

Master Harry. Nay; you med walk as far as the Exchange and buy 'ee a

pair o' gloves there for seemliness, and then get your shoes brushed by

one o' the blackguards at the corner. Then you can take a chair; 'tis a

shilling a mile, and easier goen nor the hackneys, for the chairmen walk

on the pavement, and you won't get jolted nor splashed so bad."

"Ja, and I tell you dis," added the Dutchman. "Short poles, and short

men; zo, dey take not zo much room, and if dey upzet you, why, you do

not fall zo much."

"Ay, and don't let 'em chouse 'ee out o' more than their due," said

Sherebiah. "I know they men. If they think a man be up from country,

they look at un and then at the shilling, up and down, and miscall un

wi' such brazen tongues that he'll pay anything to save his ears. A

shilling a mile, Master Harry, no more."

"Zo! De counsel is good. But I give you a better: go not at all.

Lords! I tell you dis before: an honest merchant is worth two, dree, no

man zay how many lords; and de Book zay, 'Put not your drust in

princes'. Still, I wish you good luck, my young vrient, Jan Grootz; zo!"

He squeezed Harry's hand in his own great fist, and then, having

demolished his mountain of food, filled his pipe and set forth for the

Custom House on Thames bank. Two hours later, Harry left the inn under

Sherebiah's guidance, and for the first time in his life trod the

streets of London. Filled though his mind was with the approaching

interview, which might mean so much to him, he was yet able to take an

interest in the strange scenes that opened before his inexperienced

eyes: the brilliant shops, each with its sign of painted copper, pewter,

or wood hanging from iron branches; the taverns and coffee-houses,

already crowded with people eager to hear and discuss the news, and

perhaps to get a peep at the morning's _Courant_; the court and

porticoes of the Royal Exchange, to which merchants were flocking; the

crowds of money-dealers in Change Alley, looking for clients. He went

up to the gallery on the first floor of the Exchange, and bought a pair

of gloves from a neat and pretty girl at one of the booths; then

strolled along, admiring the rich and dazzling display of silks and

jewellery which a few hours later would attract all the fine ladies in

town.