CHAPTER IV.—AFTER FIFTEEN YEARS.
It wanted but a few days to Christmas 1760—a seasonable Christmas, and in keeping with that festive season of the year. Snow and sharp north-east winds had been plentiful for nearly a week past. The flat country all around the time-honoured cathedral city of Fridswold had been covered with a vast sheet of drifted snow, which had found its way into every nook and crevice, filling up all the ditches and dikes until they were level with the surrounding country. The minster tower was embellished with an innumerable number of white patches, and the minster roofs were hidden under a thick covering of frozen snow. It was evident that King Christmas had things to his liking this time, and was bent upon enjoying his own particular time in his own particular way. Meanwhile the wind roared on, roared and whistled, and whisked the sharp frozen snowflakes round and round, dashing them, as if in impotent rage, against the sturdy walls of the minster. The air was so thick that, although the hour was not late, darkness had set in with a density that obscured every object from view, while the tolling of the great vespers-bell was drowned by the distracting uproar of the elements.
It was during one of the uncertain lulls which occurred from time to time, that a figure emerged from the protecting shelter of one of the cathedral buttresses, and wrapping himself in the folds of a horseman’s cloak, strode hastily forward, evidently intending to take advantage of the brief calm and reach some haven of shelter. Scarcely a single person was to be seen in the deserted streets, through which the blast tore with such mad fury that the buffeted wayfarer staggered again. Visions of glowing fires, dry clothes, and comfortable shelter rose before his imagination as he passed a brightly lighted window. But there was no stopping for him; he must on and fight this tough battle with the pitiless wind as best he may. His destination is at length reached. The weather-beaten traveller descends a couple of steps, passes through an open doorway, and emerges from the outer darkness into a warm, cosy-looking bar—his clothes half-frozen, and crusted with patches of snow. He is apparently known here, for he is instantly relieved of his cloak and hat by a neat-looking damsel, who up to the present moment has been engaged in a light and refreshing flirtation with a large, hot-visaged man lounging before the fire.
‘Sharp weather this, sir,’ remarked that worthy, slightly moving from his place.
‘Sharp indeed!’ returned the other in a deep voice, as he shook some loose particles of snow from his person.
‘Ah, this’ll be a bad time for many people,’ was the next remark the large man ventured upon.
A muttered exclamation dropped from the lips of the last comer, but was too indistinct to be heard.
‘There’ll be many a person remember this night,’ continued he of the fiery countenance, with an insane notion that he was getting along capitally.
The individual addressed turned sharply round, fixing a pair of dark eyes upon the other’s face, but he did not speak.
Somewhat discouraged, the large man paused for a minute ere he spoke again. The person he seemed so wishful to converse with was a tall, handsome, young fellow, dressed in a sort of half-military costume, and with a bold dashing look, sufficient in itself to attract notice. By his side was a silver-hilted rapier, the ordinary weapon of a gentleman of the day; and the martial look of the wearer was sufficient proof that he would be prompt to use it in any emergency. Seemingly not satisfied with the long inspection he had thought fit to take, our red-faced friend once more endeavoured to enter into conversation; but the gentleman, after giving the maid some orders, quitted the room.
‘Is that gentleman staying in the house, Peggy, my dear?’ asked the red-faced one of the waiting-maid.
‘Yes; he came here last night,’ replied the girl, who was perfectly ready to resume the aforesaid flirtation, which had been interrupted by the entrance of the visitor.
But the man with the fiery face now seemed to be persistently interested in the stranger. ‘What may his name be, Peg?’ he asked in a tone of affected carelessness.
‘That’s no business of yours, Mr Goff,’ retorted the damsel a trifle tartly, for the swain’s indifference somewhat nettled her.
‘Now, Peggy, my chuck, don’t get crusty,’ said the big man in wheedling accents. ‘What’s that you’ve got in your pretty hand?’
‘It’s the gentleman’s hat,’ replied the fair maid, somewhat relaxing. ‘I’m going to dry it by the fire with his cloak. They’re sopping wet, now the snow’s melted on them.’
‘He’s not likely to lose his headpiece, whoever he may be,’ remarked Mr Goff. ‘I can see “R. Ainslie” on the lining quite plain, as you’re holding it now.’
‘You seem to take a deal of interest in the gentleman,’ laughed Peggy as she turned the hat away.
‘It’s mighty little interest I take in any one except you, my beauty,’ returned Mr Goff. ‘I only thought the young fellow looked wonderful weary and tired like.’
‘He looked that yesterday,’ said Peggy, warming to the subject. ‘I felt quite sorry for him when he rode up. It wasn’t fit weather to turn a dog out in.’
‘And he’s been out again to-day?’ hazarded the big man.
‘Yes,’ replied Peggy, depositing the hat and cloak in front of the roaring blaze. ‘He went out early on foot, leaving his horse in the stable, and we saw nothing more of him till two o’clock. He came back then, and ordered something to eat; but, as I’m a living creature, I think he scarcely touched it. After that, he went out again, and did not return till just now.’
‘It seems wonderful curious,’ said Mr Goff slowly, as he buttoned up his coat and prepared to go—‘seems wonderful curious that a young gent should go on in that fashion. When I see ’em a-doing so, I always have a sort of notion that they’ve got something on their minds, and are going to act rash.’
‘That’s your experience, is it?’ said the girl with a laugh. ‘I don’t think much of it.’
‘Possibly not,’ returned the other. ‘Good-night.’