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!”