The Supper at the White Hart.
The White Hart of Tarningham was a neat little country inn, such as
was commonly found in most of the small towns of England at the period
of my tale. They are rapidly being brushed off the face of the earth
by the great broom of the steam-engine, and very soon the "pleasures
of an inn" will be no longer known but by the records of history,
while men run through the world at the rate of a hundred miles an
hour, finding nothing on their way but stations and "hotels." I hate
the very name hotel. It is unEnglish, uncomfortable, unsatisfactory, a
combination, I suppose, of host and hell, the one the recipient of
perturbed spirits, and the other their tormentor. But the word inn,
how comfortable it is in all its significations. We have only retained
the double _n_ in it that we may "wear our rue with a difference," and
whether we think of being _in_ place, or _in_ power, or _in_ the
hearts of those we love, or _in_ the house during a storm, how
pleasant is the feeling it produces. It has a home-like and British
sound, and I do with all my heart wish that my fellow-countrymen would
neither change their words nor their manners for worse things of
foreign parentage. An inn, in the days I speak of, was a place famous
for white linen, broiled ham, and fresh eggs. I cannot say that the
beefsteaks were always tender, or the veal cutlets always done to a
turn, or the beds always the softest in the world, but then think of
the white dimity curtains, and the casements that rattled just enough
to let you know that it was blowing hard without, and the rosy
apple-faced chambermaid, and the host himself, round as his own butts,
ay, and as full of beer. An innkeeper of those days would have been
ashamed to show himself under nineteen stone. He was a part of his own
sign, the recommendation of his own ale. His very paunch seemed to say
"Look what it has done for me." It entered into his fat, it flowed
through his veins, it puffed out his cheeks, it ran out at his eyes,
and malt and hops was heard in every accent of his tongue. You had no
lean, wizen-faced, black-silk-stockinged innkeepers in those days, and
the very aspiring waiters imitated their landlords, and hourly grew
fat under the eye, that they might be in a fit condition to marry the
widow and take the business when the poor dear gentleman was swallowed
up in beer.
Such an inn was the White Hart at Tarningham, and such a host was the
landlord, but he was a wise man, and loved not to look upon his
successors, for which cause, as well as on account of the trade not
being very brisk in that quarter, he maintained no regular waiter; he
had a tapster it is true, but the cloth in the neat little parlour on
the left hand was laid by a white-capped, black-eyed, blooming
maid-servant, and the landlord himself prepared to carry in the first
dish, and then leave his expected guest to the tendance of the same
fair damsel.
The room was already occupied by one gentleman, the same who in taking
his evening walk had joined with our friend the horseman in the rescue
of the two ladies, and to say truth, it was owing to his courtesy that
the cloth was laid there at all, for he had prior possession, and on
communicating to the landlord the fact that a guest would soon arrive
who proposed to sup upon roast chicken, the worthy host had exclaimed
in a voice of consternation, "Good gracious me, what shall I do? I
must turn those fellows out of the tap-room and serve it there, for
there is old Mrs. Grover, the lawyer's widow, in the other parlour,
and ne'er a sitting-room else in the house!"
"You can make use of this, landlord," replied the stranger; "this
gentleman seems a very good-humoured person, and I do not think
will be inclined to find fault, although he may not have a whole
sitting-room to himself."
"I'd bet a quart," cried the landlord, as if a sudden thought struck
him, "I'd bet a quart that it's the gentleman whose portmanteau and a
whole bundle of fishing-rods came down this morning. I'll run and see
what's the name."
Whatever he felt, the gentleman already in possession expressed no
curiosity, but in two minutes the host rolled back again--for to run,
as he threatened, was impossible, and informed his guest that the
things were addressed to "Edward Hayward, Esq., to be left at the
White Hart, Tarningham."
"Very well," said the guest, and without more ado, he took up a book
which had been lying on the mantelpiece since the morning, and putting
his feet upon another chair, began to read. The landlord bustled about
the room, and put the things in order. One of his fat sides knocked
his guest's chair, and he begged pardon, but the gentleman read on. He
took up the hat, which had been knocked off in the struggle with the
chaise, wiped off the red sand which it had gathered, and exclaimed,
"Lord bless me, Sir, your hat's all beaten about;" but his companion
merely gave a nod, and read on.
At length, when the table was laid, and mustard, pepper, salt,
vinegar, and bread had been brought in severally, when the maid had
re-arranged what the landlord had arranged before, smoothed what he
had smoothed, and brushed what he had brushed, a horse's feet trotting
past the window, were heard, and the minute after a voice exclaimed at
the door of the inn, "Here, ostler, take my horse, loose the girths,
but don't take off the saddle yet, sponge his mouth, and walk him up
and down for five minutes. Has his clothing come?"
"Oh, dear, yes, Sir, come this morning," answered the landlord. "This
way, Sir, if you please. Sorry you did not let me know before, for
positively there is not a whole sitting-room in the house."
"Well, then, I will do with half of one," answered the stranger. "Why,
my friend, if you grow any more you must have the doors widened. You
are the man for defending a pass; for, upon my life, in default of
harder materials, you would block up Thermopylæ. Ale, ale, ale, it's
all ale, landlord, and if you don't mind, it will set you ailing. Have
my fishing-rods come down?--all safe I hope;" and by the time he had
run through these questions and observations, he was in the doorway of
the little parlour on the left-hand. He stared for a minute at the
previous tenant of the room, who rose to receive him with a smile, and
whose face he did not seem to have observed very accurately in the
semi-darkness of the road. But the height and general appearance of
the stranger soon showed him that they had met before, and with an
easy, good-humoured, dashing air, he went up and shook him by the
hand.
"A strange means of making acquaintance, my dear Sir," he said, "but
I'm very happy to see you again, and safe and well, too, for I thought
at one time you were likely to get knocked on the head, and I scarcely
dared to interfere, lest I should do it for you myself in trying to
hit the other fellow. I hope you did not get any wounds or bruises in
the affray?"
"Oh, no," replied the stranger; "I was nearly strangled that is
certain, and shall not easily forget the grasp of that man's fingers
on my throat; but in regard to this way of making an acquaintance, no
two men, I should think, could desire a better than to be both
engaged, even accidentally, in rescuing two ladies from wrong."
"Quite chivalrous!" exclaimed the horseman, laughing; "but two Don
Quixotes would never do in the world, so I'll acknowledge, at once,
that I've not the least spark of chivalry in my nature. If I see a
strong thing hurting a weak thing, I knock the strong thing down of
course. I can't bear to see a big dog worry a little one, and don't
much like to see a terrier catch a rat. But it's all impulse, my dear
Sir, all impulse. Thank Heaven I am totally destitute of any sort of
enthusiasm. I like every thing in the world well enough, but do not
wish to like any thing too much, except, indeed, a particularly good
bottle of claret--there, there, I am afraid I am weak. As to helping
two ladies, it is always a very pleasant thing, especially if one of
them be a particularly pretty girl, as is the case in this instance, I
can tell you--but we really should do something to have these fellows
caught, for they might have the decency to wait till it is quite dark,
and not begin their lawless avocations before the sun has been down an
hour."
"I went immediately to a magistrate," answered the stranger; "but as
in very many country places, I did not find the ornament of the bench
very highly enlightened. Because I was not the party actually
attacked, he demurred to taking any steps whatever, and though I shook
his resolution on that point, and he seemed inclined to accede to my
demand, yet as soon as he found that I could not even give him the
names of the two ladies, he went all the way back again, and would not
even take my deposition. Perhaps after supper we had better go to him
again together, for I dare say you can supply my deficiency by this
time, and tell him the name of your pretty lady and her mother."
"No; 'pon my life I can't," rejoined his companion, "I quite forgot to
ask--a very beautiful girl, though, and I wonder I didn't inquire, for
I always like to ticket pretty faces. What is the name of your Midas,
we'll soon bring him to reason, I doubt not. A country magistrate not
take a deposition against a highwayman! By Heaven, he will make the
people think he goes shares in the booty."
"A highwayman!" exclaimed the landlord, who had been going in and out,
and listening to all that was said, whether he had roast chicken, or
boiled potatoes, or a jug of fresh drawn beer in his hand. "Why, Lord,
Mr. Beauchamp, you never told me!"
"No, my good friend," answered the other, "I did not, because to
spread such a tale through an inn, is the very best way I know of
insuring the highwayman's escape."
"Well, I dare say, my good round friend," exclaimed the horseman, whom
we shall hereafter call Hayward, or as almost all who knew him, had
it, Ned Hayward, "I dare say you can help us to the names of these two
ladies. Who was it one of your post-boys drove to-night, out there to
the westward, to a house in a park?"
"What, to Sir John Slingsby's?" exclaimed the host; but before he
could proceed to answer the more immediate question, Ned Hayward gave
himself a knock on the forehead, exclaiming,
"Sir John Slingsby's! why that's the very house I'm going to, and I
never thought to ask the name--what a fool I am! Well might they call
me, when I was in the 40th, thoughtless Ned Hayward. But come, 'mine
host of the garter'--"
"Of the White Hart, your honour," replied the landlord, with as low a
bow as his stomach would permit.
"Ay, of the White Hart be it then," said Ned Hayward, "let us hear who
are these beautiful ladies whom your post-boy drove so slowly, and
stopped with so soon, at the bidding of three gentlemen of the road,
with pistols in their hands?"
"Lord a mercy!" cried the host, "and was it Mrs. Clifford and her
daughter that they stopped? Well, I shouldn't wonder--but mum's the
word--it's no affair of mine, and the least said is soonest mended."
The host's countenance had assumed a mysterious look. His whole aspect
had an air of mystery. He laid his finger upon the side of his nose,
as men do for a practical exemplification of the process which is
taking place in their mind when they are putting "that and that"
together. He half closed one eye also, as if to give an indication to
the beholders that whatever might be the mental light in his own
brain, it should not escape for the illumination of those without.
There is a perversity in human nature which makes all men--saving the
exceptions that prove the general rule--anxious to discover any thing
that is hidden, and consequently both Mr. Hayward and Mr. Beauchamp
attacked the worthy landlord, _totis viribus_, and attempted to wrench
from him his secret. He held it fast, however, with both hands,
exclaiming,
"No, no, gentlemen, I'll not say a word--it's no business of
mine--I've nothing to do with it--it's all guess work, and a man who
beers and horses all the neighbourhood, must keep a good tongue in his
head. But one thing I will say, just to give you two gentlemen a hint,
that perhaps you had better not meddle in this matter, or you may make
a mess of it. Sally, is not that chicken ready?" And he called from
the door of the room to the bar.
"I certainly shall meddle with it, my good friend," said Ned Hayward,
in a determined tone, "and that very soon. I'm not the least afraid of
making a mess, as you call it, certain that none of it will fall upon
myself. So, as soon as we have got supper, which seems a devilish long
time coming, we will set off, Mr. Beauchamp, if you please, for this
good magistrate's and try--"
He was interrupted in the midst of his speech, though it had by this
time nearly come to a conclusion, by a voice in the passage,
exclaiming, "Groomber, Mr. Groomber," and the host instantly
vociferated, "Coming, Sir, coming," and rushed out of the room.
The voice was heard to demand, as soon as the landlord appeared
blocking up the way, "Have you a person by the name of Beauchamp
here?"
"Yes, your worship," replied the host, and after a few more words, in
a lower tone, the door of the room was thrown open, and Mr. Wittingham
was announced, just as Mr. Beauchamp was observing to his new-found
friend, Ned Hayward, that the voice was very like that of the worthy
magistrate to whom he had applied.
Mr. Wittingham was a tall and very respectable-looking gentleman,
somewhat past the middle age, and verging towards that decline of life
which is marked by protuberance of the stomach, and thinness of the
legs. But, nevertheless, Mr. Wittingham carried it off very well, for
his height diminished the appearance of that which is usually called a
corporation, and his legs were skilfully concealed in his top-boots.
He was exceedingly neat in his apparel, tolerably rosy in the gills,
and having a certain dogmatical peremptory expression, especially
about the thick eyebrows and hooknose, which he found wonderfully
efficacious in the decision of cases at petty sessions.
The moment he entered the room, he fixed his eyes somewhat sternly
upon Mr. Beauchamp (whom we have forgotten to describe as a very
gentlemanlike--even distinguished-looking person of about thirty
years of age), and addressing him in a rough, and rather uncivil tone,
said, "Your name, I think you told me, is Beauchamp, Sir, and you came
to lay an information before me against certain persons for stopping a
chaise upon the king's highway."
"I am, as you say, Sir, called Beauchamp," replied the other
gentleman, "and I waited upon you, as the nearest magistrate, to give
information of a crime which had been committed in your neighbourhood
which you refused to receive. Do me the honour of taking a seat."
"And pray, Sir, if I may be so bold as to ask, who and what are you?"
inquired the magistrate, suffering himself to drop heavily into a
chair.
"I should conceive that had very little to do with the matter,"
interposed Ned Hayward, before Mr. Beauchamp could answer. "The simple
question is, whether an attempt at highway robbery, or perhaps a worse
offence, has or has not been made this night, upon Mrs. and Miss
Clifford, as they were going over to my friend Sir John Slingsby's;
and allow me to say that any magistrate who refuses to take a
deposition on such a subject, and to employ the best means at his
command to apprehend the offenders, grossly neglects his duty."
The host brought in the roast fowl, and stared at the dashing tone of
Ned Hayward's speech towards one of the magnates of the neighbourhood.
Some words in the commencement of that speech had caused Mr.
Wittingham's countenance to fall, but the attack upon himself in the
conclusion, roused him to indignant resistance, so that his reply was
an angry demand of "Who the devil are you, Sir?"
"I am the devil of nobody, Mr. Wittington," answered Ned Hayward. "I
am my own devil, if any body's, and my name is Edward Hayward,
commonly called Captain Hayward, late of the 40th regiment, and now
unattached. But as my supper is ready, I will beg leave to eat my
chicken hot. Beauchamp, won't you join? Mr. Wittington, shall I give
you a wing? Odd name, Wittington. Descendant of the renowned Lord
Mayor of London, I presume?"
"No, Sir, no," answered the magistrate, while Beauchamp could scarcely
refrain from laughing. "What I want to know is, what you have to do
with this affair?"
"Every thing in the world," answered Ned Hayward, carving the chicken,
"as I and my friend Beauchamp here had equal shares in saving the
ladies from the clutches of these vagabonds. He came back here to give
information, while I rode on with the ladies to protect them. Bring me
a bottle of your best sherry, landlord. Now, I'll tell you what, Mr.
Wittington--haven't you got any ham that you could broil? I hate
chicken without ham, it's as insipid as a country magistrate.--I'll
tell you what, Mr. Wittington, this matter shall be investigated to
the bottom, whether you like it or not, and I have taken care to leave
such marks upon two of the vagabonds, that they'll be easily known for
the next month to come. One of them is devilish like you, by the way,
but younger. I hit him just over the eye, and down about the nose, so
that I'll answer for it I have lettered him in black and blue as well
as any sheep in your fields, and we'll catch him before we've done,
though we must insist upon having the assistance of the justices."
"I think, Sir, you intend to insult me," said the magistrate, rising
with a very angry air, and a blank and embarrassed countenance.
"Not a whit, my dear Sir," answered Ned Hayward. "Pray sit down and
take a glass of wine."
"I wont, Sir," exclaimed Mr. Wittingham, "and I shall leave the room.
If you have any thing to say to me, it must come before me in a formal
manner, and at a proper hour. To-morrow I shall be at the justice-room
till eleven, and I hope you will be then prepared to treat the bench
with respect."
"The most profound, Sir," said Ned Hayward, rising and bowing till his
face almost touched the table before him, and then as Mr. Wittingham
walked away with an indignant toss of the head, and closed the door
behind him, our gay friend turned to his companion, saying, "There's
something under this, Beauchamp. We must find out what it is."