CHAPTER XXXVII
OF ROGUES AND PLOTS
The moon was fast rising as they left the shadow of the trees and crossing a meadow presently saw before them the loom of a building which, on near approach, proved to be a very tumble-down, two-storied cottage. The Sergeant led the way past a broken fence through a riotous tangle of weeds and so to a door whereon he rapped softly; almost immediately it was opened and old Betty the witch stood on the threshold peering into the dimness under her hand.
"Mam," said the Sergeant, "'tis us—we've come!"
"Aha!" she croaked. "'Tis you—'tis my big sojer—my fine sojer-sergeant an' the lord squire o' the Manor! Come your ways—come your ways in—'tis an ill place for fine folk but 'tis all they've left me. Come in!" Following Sergeant Zebedee's broad back the Major stumbled down three steps into a small, dim chamber, very close and airless, lighted by a smoky rushlight. Old Betty closed the door, curtseyed to the Major and clutching at Sergeant Zebedee's hand, stooped and kissed it, whereupon he glanced apologetically at the Major and saluted.
"'Tis her gratitood, sir," he explained, "on account o' Mr. Jennings me having kicked same, as dooly reported."
"An ill place for the likes o' your honour," croaked the old woman, "an evil place for evil men as will be here anon—the rogues, the fools! They think old Betty's blind and deaf—the rogues! Come, dearies, the moon's up and wi' the moon comes evil so get ye above—yonder, yonder and mum, dearies, mum!" As she spoke old Betty pointed to a corner of the dingy chamber where a rickety ladder gave access to a square opening above. "Go ye up, dearies and ye shall see, ye shall hear, aha—but mum, dearies, mum!"
Forthwith they mounted the ladder and so found themselves in a small, dark loft full of the smell of rotting wood and dank decay. Above their heads stars winked through holes in the mouldering thatch, beneath their feet the rotten flooring showed great rents and fissures here and there through which struck the pallid beams of the twinkling rushlight in the room below.
"God bless my soul!" exclaimed the Major, "does this pestiferous ruin belong to me, Zeb?"
"Well, I don't rightly know, your honour, 'tis a mile and a half out o' the village d'ye see, and hath stood empty for years and years they do tell me, on account of a murder as was done here, and nobody would live here till old Betty come. Folk do say the place is haunted and there be few as dare come nigh the place after dark. But old Betty, being a powerful witch d'ye see sir, aren't nowise afeard of any ghost, gobling nor apparation as ever—ssh!"
Upon the night without, was a sound of voices that grew ever louder, the one hoarse and querulous the other upraised in quavering song:
"O 'tis bien bowse, 'tis bien bowse,
Too little is my skew.
I bowse no lage, but one whole gage
O' this I'll bowse to you——"
"Stow the chaunting, Jerry!" growled the hoarse voice, "close up that ugly gan o' yourn. Oliver's awake——"
"Oliver? Aye, so 'tis with a curse on't! The moon's no friend o' mine. Gimme a black night, darkmans wi' a popper i' my famble and t'other in my cly and I'm your cull, ecod!" Here the door of the cottage swung open and two men entered, the one a tall, wild, gipsy-looking fellow, the other a shortish man in spurred boots and long riding-coat from the side-pockets of which protruded the brass-heeled butts of a pair of pistols.
"What, Benno, my lad—what Benno," he cried, scowling round the dismal room beneath the cock of his weatherbeaten hat, "blind me, but here's a plaguy dog-hole for a genty-cove o' the high-toby!"
"O, the high pad is a delicate trade
And a delicate trade o' fame
We bite the cully of his cole
And carry away his game
Oho, and carry away——"
"Quit, Jerry, quit!" growled the man Benno. "Hold that dasher o' yourn won't 'ee——"
"No, Benno my cove, if I do ha' a mind for t' sing, I'll sing and burn all, says I!"
"I keep my prancer and two pepps
A tattle in my cly.
When bowsing——"
"Keep your chaffer still, won't 'ee!" snarled the other. "'Swounds, a pal can't hear hisself! Ha, Bet!" he roared, "old Bet—what grannam, oho—lights, more lights here!"
"Lights—aye," nodded Jerry, "lights inside's well enough but lights outside's the devil! Look at Oliver, look at th' moon, well—curse th' moon says I and—O ecod! What's yon i' the corner? A ladder as I'm a roaring boy—a ladder! Well, here's to see what's above. A doxy, aha, a dimber-dell, oho—"
"When my dimber-dell I courted
She had youth and beauty too——"
As he sang he whipped a pistol from his pocket and lurched towards the ladder; and Sergeant Zebedee, watching through one of the many crevices, smiled happily and drew his bayonet. Jerry had one foot on the ladder when his companion caught his shoulder and swung him roughly away.
"How now?" he demanded. "What's your ploy?"
"Look'ee Benno, if you're a-hiding of some dimber mort aloft there I'm the cove to——"
"Ah, you're lushed, Jerry, foxed t' your peepers, sit down—sit down and put away your popp—afore I crack your mazzard!"
Sulkily enough Jerry obeyed and seating himself at the table turned, ever and anon, to view the ladder with a drunken stare.
"Lushed am I?" he repeated. "Drunk hey? Well, so I am and when lushed 'tis at my best I am, my lad. And look'ee a ladder's meant for to climb ain't it? Very well then—I'm the cove to climb it! And look'ee, what's more 'tis a curst dog-hole this for a genty-cove o' the high pad and——" But here his companion roared again for "Old Bet" and "Lights" until the old woman hobbled in.
"Eh, eh?" she whimpered, blinking from one to the other. "Did ye call, dearie?"
"Aye—bring more glims, d'ye hear——"
"Candles, dearie, eh—eh?"
"Aye, candles! And I'm expecting company, so bring candles and get ye to bed, d'ye hear?"
"Aye, aye, I hear, dearie, I hear—candles, candles," and muttering the word she hobbled away and presently was back again and stood, mowing and mumbling, to watch the candles lighted.
"Now get ye to bed," cried Benno, "to bed, d'ye hear?"
"Dead, dearie?" she croaked. "Who's dead now? Not me, no, no, nor you—yet. No no, but 'tis coming, aha—'tis coming—dead oho!"
The man Benno fell back a step, eyes wide and mouth agape, then very suddenly made a cross in the air before him, while Jerry, getting on his feet, did the same with unsteady finger on the table.
"The evil eye! 'Tis the evil eye!" he muttered, while old Betty nodded and chuckled as her quick, bright eyes flashed from one to the other.
"I said 'bed'!" roared the gipsy-looking fellow clenching his fists fiercely but falling back another step from old Betty's vicinity, "bed was the word——"
"Aye, aye, dearie!" she nodded, "some in bed an' some out—dead, aye, aye, some by day and some by night—all go dead soon or late, you an' me and all on us—one way or t'other—dead, dearie, dead!"
So saying old Betty hobbled out of the room closing the door behind her.
"A curst old beldam, a hag, a damned witch as I'm a roarer!" exclaimed Jerry shaking his head, while his companion wiped sweat from his brow. "O rot me, a nice dog-hole this and wi' a ladder look'ee, leading devil knoweth where, but I'm the cove to see——"
"Sit still—sit still and take a sup o' this, Jerry!" And crossing to a corner Benno brought thence a stone jar and a couple of mugs and brimming one unsteadily he tossed it off; then sitting down at the rickety table they alternately drank and cursed old Betty.
"Come now, Benno my dimber cove," cried Jerry at last, "what's the game? What ha' ye brought me here for? Tip us the office!"
"Why then we're on the spiriting lay—a flash blowen—a genty mort, Jerry."
"Aha, that should mean shiners, plenty o' lour, Benno?"
"Fifty apiece near as nothing."
"Here's game as I'm a flash padder. What more, cove, what more? Let's hear."
"Not me, Jerry—there's one a-coming as will tip you the lay—an old pal, Jerry, a flaming buck o' the high pad, a reg'lar dimber-damber, a—hist! 'Tis him at last, I think, but ha' your popps ready in case, Jerry."
Here Benno arose and crossing a little unsteadily to the door stood there listening: after a while came a knock, a muffled voice, and, opening the door, he admitted three men. The first a great, rough fellow who bore one arm in a sling, the second a little man, point-de-vice from silvered spurs to laced hat, yet whose elegant appearance was somewhat marred by a black patch that obscured one eye; the third was the obsequious Joseph, but now, as he stood blinking in the candle-light, there was in his whole sleek person an air of authority and command, and a grimness in the set of smooth-shaven jaw that transfigured him quite.
At sight of him Jerry sprang up, nearly upsetting the table, and stood to stare in gaping astonishment.
"'Tis Nick!" he cried at last, "Galloping Nick, as I'm a hell-fire, roaring dog! 'Tis Nick o' the High Toby as hath diddled the nubbing-cheat arter all, ecod! Ha, Nick—Nicky lad, tip us your famble and burn all, says I!"
Joseph suffered his hand to be shaken and nodded.
"Drunk as usual, Jerry?"
"Ecod and so I am! Drunk enough t' shoot straight—drunk as I was that night by the gravel-pits on Blackheath. You'll mind that night, Nick and how you——"
"Bah, you're talking lushy, Jerry! Here's Captain Swift and the Chicken so—let's to business."
"Aye, to business, my cullies!" cried Jerry saluting them in turn. "To business—'tis the spiriting of a genty mort, eh Nick?"
"A fine lady, aye!" nodded Joseph. "There's two hundred guineas in't, which is fifty for me and the rest atween you, share and share."
"Which is fair enough, rabbit me!" said the Captain.
"Now hark'ee all," continued Joseph beckoning them near and lowering his voice. "You, Jerry and the Captain will come mounted and meet us at the cross-roads beyond——"
"Cross-roads?" hiccoughed Jerry, "not me, Nick, no, no—there's cross-roads everywhere hereabouts I tell'ee, and I don't know the country hereabouts—no meetings at cross-roads, Nicky, burn my eyes no——" Here Joseph cursed him and fell to biting his nails.
"Why not meet here?" suggested Benno.
"No, nor here!" snarled Jerry, "I don't like this place, 'tis a dog-hole and wi' a ladder look'ee a ladder leading devil knoweth where look'ee—a ladder as is meant to climb and as I'm a-going to c-climb——" But as he rose unsteadily Joseph's heavy hand dragged him down again.
"There's the mill then," said he, "the ruined mill beyond Westerham, we'll meet there. We all know it——"
"I don't," growled Jerry, "and don't want——"
"The Captain does and you'll ride with him. At the ruined mill then to-morrow night a half after ten—sharp."
"And what then, Nick—ha?" enquired the Captain, taking a pinch of snuff.
"Why then——" Here Joseph sunk his voice so low as to be inaudible to any but those craning their necks to listen.
"'Tis a simple plan and should be no great matter!" nodded the Captain. "Aye, rat me, I like your plan, Nick——"
"Aye, but the genty mort," demurred Jerry, "now if she squeal and kick—burn me I've had 'em scratch and tear d-damnably ere now——"
"Squeeze her pretty neck a little," suggested the Captain.
"Or choke her with her furbelows," grinned Benno.
"No!" said Joseph, scowling, "there's to be no strangling—no rough work, d'ye take me—it's to be done gentle or——"
"Gentle, ho—gentle, is it!" cried Jerry fiercely. "And how if she gets her claws into me—the last one as I culled for a flash sportsman nigh wrung my ear off—gentle? 'Tain't fair to a man it don't give a man a chance, it d-don't——"
"And that's all now!" said Joseph, rising. "To-morrow night at the ruined mill—I'll give you your last instructions to-morrow at half after ten. Now who's for a glass over at the inn—landlord's a cull o' mine." At this everyone rose excepting Jerry who lolled across the table scowling from one candle to another.
"Ain't you a-coming, Jerry?" enquired the gipsy-looking fellow, turning at the door.
"No—not me!" snarled Jerry. "Bones do ache—so they do! 'S-sides I've drunk enough, and I—I'm a-going—to climb—that ladder an' burn all, says I."
"Then climb it and be damned!" said the other and strode away after his companions, slamming the door behind him. Jerry sat awhile muttering incoherently and drew a pistol from his pocket; then he rose and steadying himself with infinite pains against the rickety table, fixed his scowling gaze upon the ladder and lurched towards it. But the liquor had affected his legs and he staggered from wall to wall ere, tripping and stumbling, he finally reached the ladder that shook under the sudden impact. For a long moment he stood, weapon in hand, staring up into the blackness above, then slowly and with much labour began the ascent rung by rung, pausing very often and muttering hoarsely to himself; he was already half-way up and the Sergeant, crouched in the shadow, was waiting to receive him with upraised pistol-butt, when he missed his hold, his foot slipped and pitching sideways he crashed to the floor and lay still, snoring stertorously. Almost immediately old Betty appeared, crossed to the outstretched body, looked at it, spat at it and spoke:
"'Tis all well, dearies—he be nice and fast what wi' drink and fall. Come down, my dearies, come down and get ye gone."
The Major followed Sergeant Zebedee down the ladder and crossing to the old woman, removed his hat.
"Mam," said he, "'tis like enough you have saved a great wrong being committed and I am deeply grateful. Words are poor things, mam, but henceforth it shall be my care to see your remaining days be days of comfort. Meantime pray accept this and rest assured of the future." Saying which the Major laid a purse upon the table, then turned rather hastily to escape old Betty's eager, tremulous thanks and stepped from the cottage.
"Zebedee," said he as they led their horses out of the coppice, "I recognised two of these rascals. One is the tramping gipsy I broke my cane over and the other——"
"The other is Mr. Dalroyd's man Joe, sir."
"Ha! Art sure o' that, Zeb?"
"I am so, sir!"
"Excellent!" said the Major, swinging to saddle. "Our expedition to-night hath not been in vain, after all."
"Where now, sir?" enquired the Sergeant, gathering up his reins.
"Home!"
"What—ha' we done, your honour?"
"Until to-morrow night—at the ruined mill, Zeb."
"To-morrow night—zounds, sir!" chuckled the Sergeant as they broke into a trot. "'Twill be like old times!"
"'Twill be five to two, Zebedee!" said the Major thoughtfully.
"Warmish, sir—warmish! Though t' be sure the big rascal bore his arm in a sling, still, 'tis pretty odds, I allow."
"There must be no shooting, Zeb."
"Why your honour, pistols are apt t' be a trifle unhandy for close work, d'ye see. Now, a bagnet——"
"And no steel, Zeb. We'll have no killing if it can be avoided!"
"No steel sir?" gasped the Sergeant. "No steel—!"
"Bludgeons will be best if it should come to fighting," continued the Major thoughtfully, "though I hope to effect their capture without any undue violence——" The Sergeant turned to stare:
"What, is there to be no violence now, your honour?" he sighed.
"Violent methods are ever clumsy, Zeb, I propose to use the element of surprise."
"Ah!" exclaimed the Sergeant and smiling grimly up at the moon he slowly closed one eye and opened it again.
After this they rode some time in silence, the Sergeant's mind preoccupied with the "Element of Surprise" as applied to the odds of five to two, while the Major, looking round about on the calm beauty of the night, dreamed ever of my lady Elizabeth Carlyon as had become his wont and custom.
In due time they reached a certain quiet bye-lane and here the Major checked his horse.
"Sergeant," said he, "'tis a fair night for walking what with the moon—er—the moon d'ye see and so forth——"
"Moon, sir?"
"Aye, the moon!" said the Major, dismounting. "Do you go on with the horses, I've a mind for walking." So he handed Sergeant Zebedee the reins of his horse and turned aside down this quiet bye-lane.
This lane that led away between blooming hedges, that wandered on, haphazard as it were, to lose itself at last in a little wood where nightingales sang; this bye-lane wherein he had walked with her that never-to-be-forgotten night and stood with her to watch the world grow bright and joyous with a new day; this leafy sheltered lane that held for him the sweet magic of her presence and was therefore a hallowed place.
Thus as he walked, his slow steps falling silent on soft mosses and dewy grass, the Major took off his hat.
Bareheaded and with reverent feet he wandered on dreaming of those joys that were to be, God willing, and turning a sharp bend in the lane stopped all at once, smitten to sudden, breathless immobility.
She sat upon the wall, dainty foot a-swing, while below stood Mr. Dalroyd who seized that shapely foot in irreverent hands, stooped and covered it with kisses that grew more bold and audacious until she, stifling laughter in her cloak, freed herself with a sudden, vigorous kick that sent Mr. Dalroyd's hat flying—
The Major turned and hurried away looking neither right nor left; becoming conscious of the hat in his hand, he laughed and crammed it on his head. So he went with great strides until he reached a stile beside the way and halting, he leaned there, with face bowed upon his arms. Long he stood thus, silent and motionless and with face hidden. At last he raised his head, looked up at heaven and round about him like one who wakes in a new world, and limped slowly homewards.
"Sir," said the Sergeant, meeting him at the door, "Colonel Cleeve is here."
"O!" said the Major, slowly. "Is he, Zeb? That is well!"
"A-snoring in the library, sir!"
"Aye, to be sure—to be sure!" said the Major vaguely.
"Y' see 'tis getting late, your honour," continued Sergeant Zebedee, viewing the Major's drawn features anxiously.
"Why then—go you to bed, Zebedee."
"Can I get you aught first, sir—a bite o' something—a bottle or so?"
"No, Zeb, no—stay! Bring me my Ramillie coat."