THE HAPPENING AT THE INN
After I had partaken of food, I made my way to the harbour for the
purpose of finding out when a boat might be leaving for the
neighbourhood of Boulogne. By this time the rain had ceased, and
although the night was wellnigh upon the town I was able to see
something of its character. Not that it was of any great note. It
consisted of only a few narrow streets, which being wet, looked
miserable and squalid. The bold outline of the cliffs impressed me
greatly, however, and I judged that on fair days the whole district must
be pleasant to behold.
I found as I passed through, that here as well as in London the sole
subject of conversation was the coming of the new king, and of the
changes his coming would bring about. Here also as in London, men had it
that it would go hard with those who had fought against the late king,
and especially against those who had put him to death. Nevertheless
none, as far as I could discover, spoke against him; rather they even
praised the profligacy of which all seemed to believe him guilty.
But much to my disappointment I could hear of no vessel that would leave
for the French coast, at least for three days, and as I had not enough
money to hire one for myself I had to content myself with the prospect
of spending that time in the vicinity of Folkestone. I was not at all
dismayed at this, for I reflected that I might be able to discover
something of Master Elijah Pycroft, and might not indeed have to go to
France at all.
When I returned to the inn I found my way into a large low room where
several persons were sitting. Some were playing cards, others were
drinking, as it seemed to me for the sake of drinking, while others
still were laughing at their own wit for want of something better to
laugh at.
No one seemed to take note of my entrance, save one, who pointed to a
seat by his side, as if to bid me welcome.
"What will you drink?" he asked.
"What is the house noted for?" I asked, for although I determined not to
drink, remembering the old adage that "when the drink's in the wit's
out," I thought it best to attract no notice by failing to fall in with
the custom.
"Sack, my master, sack," replied the man. "There is no better sack
between here and London town than can be bought at the _Barley Sheaf_,
and what is more a man can drink his fill and no questions asked. We be
no longer troubled by a sour-faced Independent constable who is ever on
the watch for a man who seeks to be merry."
"Did they trouble you much in Cromwell's days?"
"Trouble me! Marry, and that they did. No man pleased unless he carried
a Bible at his belt, and sung psalms through his nose. Why a man could
in no wise make merry. The man who kept a dog or a cock was watched day
and night, while those who were suspected of having a Prayer-book in his
house was almost as much in danger as those who read the Bible in Queen
Mary's days. Why even the town crier had to speak through his nose, as
though he were singing psalms in church."
At this he laughed as though he had made a good joke.
"But all will be changed now?" I suggested.
"Ay, but they be changed already, young master," said another man who
was listening. "Already Old Nol's people be seeking to make friends with
those who be shouting 'God save the king!' while a man may kiss his
sweetheart, and no questions be asked. And what would you? The king, who
hath received fifty thousand pounds from Parliament to buy himself good
clothes, and good wine, hath sent word to us that we must drink his
health in the best wine and ale that our town affords."
"Ay," said the other, "and painters be everywhere washing out the
State's arms and painting the Lion and the Unicorn instead. I do hear,
too, that the king hath given orders that all the vessels built by Old
Nol are to be renamed, as his Majesty doth much dislike the present
names."
"Have you heard aught concerning what will be done to those who took
part in the king's father's death?" I asked.
"I would not stand in their shoes for something," he replied
significantly.
"In spite of the Act of Oblivion," I suggested.
"Act of Oblivion! Think you that the new king will forget the name of
those who killed his father? Why I do hear that Sir Charles Denman is
even now being followed by those who were faithful to Charles I."
"Sir Charles Denman, who is he?" I asked, for I had never heard his name
before.
"Never heard of Sir Charles Denman! Why where have you lived, young
master? He was one who cried loudest for the death of Charles I, and who
hath ever since Richard Cromwell died done his utmost to persuade
General Monk against having aught to do with the new king. He hath
spoken words which are said to be treasonable, and what is more is as
fanatical a preacher as Hugh Peters himself."
"Ay, but there are no edicts out against him?" I queried.
"But there are, young master; at least so men say. Some have it that the
king, no sooner was he invited to come back to his throne, than he sent
secret instructions that Sir Charles should be arrested and imprisoned
until his Majesty's pleasure be known."
"Know you aught of Sir Charles?" I asked.
"Nay, I know naught, but men have it that he is a dangerous man, and not
to be trusted. I have been told that his very preaching is only a cloak
to cover up his misdoings. Men say he hath never married, and yet he is
accompanied on his journeys by one who ought to be his wife. It is said,
too, that he whips her as a man might whip a spaniel. A sullen, cruel
man whom no one loves."
At this I was silent, whereupon the man went on.
"Some have it that he is married to this woman, who is of low degree,
while other gossips say that he hath stolen her from her father's house,
because she will inherit a great fortune when her father dies."
"Have you ever seen him?"
"Nay, but I am told he is the best swordsman in the kingdom, that he is
deadly with the pistol, and that he shews no mercy anywhere?"
"And are all the people loyal around here?" I asked.
"Ay, what would you?"
"And all the old families will receive the new king with open arms?"
"Ay, all as far as I know."
"I do not know the names of these families--at least not of all," I
said, feeling my way towards the information I desired, "but you as an
important man doubtless know them all."
"Ay," he replied, sitting back in his chair with a look of importance on
his face. "There be the Jeffries and old Sir Michael Oldbury, and
Admiral Billton, and Squire Barton, and my Lord Bridgman, and others.
Most of them nod to me when they come to town."
"I think I have heard of a Master Pycroft," I said, "know you him?"
He shook his head. "No," he replied, "there be no man of note within ten
miles of Folkestone who bears that name."
At this my heart seemed to sink in my shoes, for it seemed as though I
had come on a fool's errand. Still I kept a brave face, and answered as
though the matter were of no import.
"I must have mistaken the name," I said, "or perchance he lived in some
other part of the country."
"Stay," said the man, "there is an old place called 'Pycroft,' but it
hath been in ruins for years. It is an old house among the Pycroft
woods, and is said to be haunted. No man lives there, but I have heard
that an old miser had it long years ago. He was killed for his money,
and ever since the place hath been infested by evil spirits. Years ago,
about the time the king was beheaded, I mind me that I passed by it, but
not a soul was to be seen. The windows were broken, and the gardens were
all covered with weeds. Neither sight nor sound of living being could I
see or hear. Even the birds seemed afraid to sing."
"What was the name of the miser?" I asked.
"People called him 'Solomon the Fool,'" replied the man; "'Solomon,'
because he was said to have much learning, and 'The Fool' because he did
not know how to use it. Ah, and now I come to think of it, I have heard
that it was once held by the Denmans, but whether they were any kin to
Sir Charles, of whom we have been speaking, I know not."
After this I learnt but little more, for a man came in who said he had
ridden from Dover, and began to tell of the grand preparations which
were being made to welcome King Charles II when he landed on English
shores. So feeling somewhat weary, and desiring to think of what I had
heard, I made my way to the chamber the innkeeper had allotted to me,
and then by the light of the candle which had been given to me, I sought
to set down in order what had happened to me since I left London town. I
had come to my chamber very quietly, but even if I had made a noise the
shouts of the revellers in the room below had drowned any sounds I might
have made. When I had been alone an hour or more, however, they began to
grow more quiet, which led me to think they were leaving the inn for
their homes. I therefore decided that I would undress and go to bed, but
on second thoughts I simply pulled off my riding boots and doublet and
threw myself on the bed. I did not feel at all sleepy, but ere long I
felt myself becoming drowsy; but even then I did not think I should fall
asleep. In this I was mistaken, however, for after that I remembered
nothing until I suddenly awoke.
At first I scarce remembered where I was, but the sound of someone
sobbing brought everything to my recollection with great clearness.
"No, no! Not that!"
I heard the words with great distinctness, and they were spoken by a
woman. Moreover, the one who spoke them was in great terror, for
although she spoke not loudly, I detected the anguish in her voice.
As may be imagined, the woman's cries caused me to listen intently.
"I tell you, yes." It was a man's voice I heard, and the partition
between the room in which I lay and the next, from whence the sounds
came, was so thin that I could hear much of what was said. "This must be
done. It is my will."
He spoke in a low voice, but it vibrated with passion.
"But it is more than five miles away, and it is midnight."
This the woman said in a low, fearsome voice.
"What of that? The distance is not too great for you to walk easily. You
have rested, and you have had food. As to its being night, so much the
better. Every one is now abed, and no one will see you."
"But the way is lonely; besides, the place hath an evil name. You have
told me yourself that it is haunted."
"So much the better for my purposes. You must go thither, and find out
what I have told you of. You can be back here before folks be astir."
"It is cruel, cruel," said the woman with a sob.
"It is your duty; you owe it to me," replied the man. "Besides, you dare
not refuse. If I speak but a word you know what will happen, so do my
bidding, and that without delay."
"But who shall I find there? It is said to be an empty house; besides,
perchance I cannot find it. It is in the midst of woods; and even if I
met some one on the road, I dare not ask them where Pycroft is."
At this, as may be imagined, my heart gave a great bound. These people
were speaking of the very place I desired to enter; moreover, there was
evidently some secret surrounding it. Did this man know aught of what
had been told me? Did he seek to find the king's marriage contract as
well as I? Besides, who was he, and what was his relation to this woman?
These and many other questions I asked myself as I lay silently on my
bed, for in my eagerness I did not realize that I was playing the
eavesdropper. In truth, everything had come upon me so suddenly that I
scarce understood what was taking place.
"There will be no difficulty in finding the way," said the man. "You
will climb the hill out of the town, then you will take the road that
leads to London. This road you wot of as well as I. When you come to the
pond by the roadside you will see the gate on the right side of the
road, and from there you can easily follow the path leading to the
house."
"But why can you not go yourself?" said the woman.
"Because it is not my will," replied the man. "Besides, it would not be
safe for me to go until I know the old man's thoughts: he might betray
me, and then what would happen to you?"
"To me?" repeated the woman.
"Ay, to you. Whither can you go if I cease to protect you? Ay, and what
will befall you?"
"But I have done nothing."
"Nothing! Then go and show yourself to him. Ay, let it be known in the
inn who you are. If I had not given you my name, where would you be
now?"
I have recorded this conversation as well as I am able; nevertheless I
cannot vouch for its entire correctness, seeing that many of the words
were almost inaudible.
After this I heard sounds as though some one were preparing to go out; a
little later there were footsteps along the passage, and then silence.
My nerves were all tingling, while my brain was in a whirl. What did all
this mean, and what had I to do?
In a minute my mind was made up. I would wait until all was silent, and
time given for the man to return to his chamber, and then I would creep
out of the house, and follow the road the man had so clearly marked out.
If their interest was at Pycroft, so was mine; besides, my heart went
out in sympathy towards the woman whose voice was so plaintive, and
whose condition seemed so piteous.
Presently I heard stealthy footsteps outside my door. They passed along
the corridor, and presently were lost in the distance. Now was the time
for me to act. All my weariness had gone; I was eager and alert; the
mystery upon which I had happened threw its spell upon me, and I longed
to discover its meaning. Besides, it fell in with my plans; and I
remembered my father's words warning me never to allow want of courage
to stand in the way of fulfilling my purpose.
I fastened my sword carefully by my side, and having seen to my pistols,
I took my riding boots in my hand, and crept carefully along the
passage towards a doorway I had noted during the evening. No one seemed
astir, and the house was as silent as death. When I came to the door, I
found that it was unbolted. Evidently the man had left it so that the
woman might enter when she had performed his mission.
Closing the door silently behind me, I pulled on my boots, and a minute
later was creeping silently up the hill out of the town. Once away from
the houses, I realized the cruelty of the man in sending out a woman on
such an errand. It is true the night was neither dark nor cold, but for
a woman to take such a long weary journey alone at such a time was hard
indeed. The country, since Oliver Cromwell's death, had become infested
with footpads, while the thought of going to a haunted house was
terrible enough for a man, much less a woman. Besides, she was troubled
by some fear. The man had some power over her beyond the ordinary, or
she would never submit to his will. What was it? I called to mind the
story told me concerning Sir Charles Denman that very night. Was this
man Sir Charles? And was this woman the one who had been associated with
him? This might be the case; and yet I could not believe it, why I could
not tell. Perhaps it was because I had learnt to be wary of stories told
at taverns and inns, perhaps because I desired another solution to the
mystery.
When I was well out in the country I stopped and listened. I also looked
eagerly along the road, but I could neither hear nor see the woman I had
come out to follow. Thereupon I started running, for the road was better
than ordinary, and the light of the moon revealed all pits and dangerous
places. Presently I reached the top of the hill, where the road crossed
an open space. Neither hedge nor ditch hid aught from me, although a
mile on, skirting the open plain was a belt of trees. Here I stopped
again, and gazed eagerly along the roadway. Yes, there could be no doubt
about it, away in the distance was a dark object.
Up to this time I had formed no plan of action save to follow the woman.
Now it came to me that if I desired to speak to her I should not know
what to say, while if I watched her without letting her know of my
presence I should be acting the part of a spy. She was alone and
unprotected, she did not know that I heard something of what had passed
between her and the man at the inn. Therefore my presence would give her
a fright, while I had no excuse for intruding upon her as she took this
lonely and mysterious night journey.
What an older man might have done I may not say. What I should do now
that I have passed the age of impetuous youth I dare not hazard. But
then I was young, I knew naught of the world, and the mission upon which
I myself had come caused me to surround everything with the halo of
youthful vision. I determined that I would overtake her, tell her that I
had heard what had passed between her and the man at the _Barley Sheaf_,
and then offer to accompany her on her journey. Doubtless an older man
would have acted differently, but I suspect that my decision was that
which any youth of my age will understand.
I therefore commenced running again, and I saw that every step lessened
the distance between me and the dark form which toiled silently along
the lonely road. Not a house was in sight, neither could I see aught but
the line of road curling its way along the heather covered land, and the
belt of trees which lay beyond. I ran silently, because I kept on the
edge of the road, where grass grew, and as I drew nearer I saw that the
woman kept straight on, looking neither to the right nor to the left.
Presently the moon, which had been under a cloud, shot into the clear
sky, so that I could see her plainly. She was clad from head to foot in
a long garment, while on her head she wore a hood, as if even in the
loneliness of midnight she desired to hide her face. I could see, too,
that she was tall and that she moved with rapidity and ease; but that
was all, for her back was toward me, and although the light of the moon
was bright I could not even tell the colour of the garment she wore.
As I came up close to her, my heart fell to beating wildly, not because
of my exertion in overtaking her, but because of the strangeness of my
adventure. In truth it seemed as though I were in a dream from which I
should presently awake, only to find what had taken place was but the
wild fancy which comes to one when one loses control over one's own
imaginings.
Whether I should have dared to speak to her I know not, but when I was
only a few yards from her I happened to kick a stone which lay in my
way, and as it rattled along the road she turned around sharply, and
with a cry of fear.
"What do you wish?" she asked, and I noted that her voice trembled not
one whit.
But I did not reply; I was so much wrought upon that no words would come
to me.
"I have naught to give you," she said, "so pass on and allow me to go my
way."
As she spoke her hood dropped from her face and I saw her every feature
plainly.