CHAPTER VI.—HOBB DIPPING BEWILDERED.
Mine host of the Saxonford Arms sits in his lonely back-parlour, looking thoughtfully into the fire, and taking alternate whiffs and pulls from a clay pipe and a beer-jug which stands on the table at his elbow. During the past week, no traveller has entered Hobb Dipping’s ancient house of entertainment, and the worthy man was beginning to wonder whether it was within the bounds of possibility that any one would ever enter it again. For several days the snow had been drifting up against his front-door, and for over a week the howling wind had stormed and beat against the walls of the old inn. True, the wind had dropped somewhat during the night; but Jerry—the man-of-all-work, and old Dipping’s special informant upon all matters—had reported that the snow-drift was ‘alarmin’ deep in places;’ while, if he needed any confirmation of this statement, he had but to turn his eyes towards the windows and gaze over the frozen waste which extended on every side.
Hobb Dipping was an old man now, and fifteen years had whitened his hair since the fatal night when Sir Carnaby Vincent was shot by the military in his house. The innkeeper’s thoughts had apparently at this moment been dwelling upon that catastrophe, for he muttered to himself: ‘Fifteen years! I shouldn’t ha’ thought it!’ at the same time looking gloomily at a well-thumbed scrap of paper which he was turning over between his fingers. ‘Fifteen years!’ muttered old Dipping, who was enveloped in a thick volume of smoke, consequent upon his exertions with the clay pipe aforesaid—‘fifteen years, an’ no one’s guessed it yet. Why, what fools we all be!’
‘Hi, master!’ says Jerry, popping his head in through the doorway. ‘Here’s a gentleman come; wants to know if he can be put up for a night or two.’
Old Hobb peeped through a little latticed window into the courtyard, and saw a gentleman of military aspect sitting motionless in his saddle amidst a thin cloud of falling snow. It is Reginald Ainslie.
‘Why do you keep the gentleman waiting out there?’ is the indignant exclamation of mine host, who seems to be endowed with sudden energy. ‘Put up for a night or two! Of course he can; for a month, if he likes. Show the gentleman in, and then go attend to his horse.’
When the man has disappeared, old Dipping bustles out of the room to find something to tie over his head, before he dares to venture into the cold biting air. On his return, he finds his visitor has thrown aside his heavy riding-cloak, and is reclining in an armchair, with every appearance of fatigue expressed in his attitude and countenance. Jerry whispers that the gallant must be right bad, for it was all he could do to help him out of the saddle. ‘And his nag ain’t much better,’ he goes on. ‘They ha’ come a long bad road this day, I’ll warrant.’
Dismissing his vassal hastily, Hobb Dipping pours out a mug of strong spiced ale, and presents it to his visitor.
‘I ask your pardon, sir,’ said the old man, ‘for letting you wait such a while outside; the snow lies so thick that I did not hear the sound of your horse’s hoofs.’
Before honest Dipping could finish his speech, he was startled by his visitor making a quick movement and catching eagerly at the scrap of paper which the landlord had a short while ago held in his hand, and which, on rising to receive the traveller, he had laid on the table. There was a short uncomfortable pause, while Reginald eagerly turned over the object in his hand. ‘How did you come by this?’ he at length gasped out, the tone of his voice expressing great eagerness and anxiety.
Hobb Dipping’s first thought was to hollo for Jerry, having some idea that his strange visitor’s head must be turned; his second, was to try and remember where he had placed his spectacles.
‘My sight is bad, sir,’ he said as he fumbled in his pockets. ‘I can scarcely make out what you be askin’ of.’
‘This—this piece of paper!’ exclaimed Ainslie, thrusting forward the identical scrap which old Hobb had been examining at the time of his arrival.
‘It come here by accident, sir,’ answered old Hobb slowly and unwillingly.
‘Was left here, eh?’
‘Just so, sir—it were.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Well, sir, it’s something between fifteen and sixteen year.’
‘Gracious powers!’ vociferated Ainslie, striking his fist on the table. ‘I believe the man was right.’
The landlord stretched out one hand imploringly towards his excited visitor.
‘What now?’ inquired Reginald, who was vainly endeavouring to peruse the writing with which the paper was covered.
‘I want you to give me back that paper, sir.’
‘Be good enough, landlord, to leave it with me for the present, and bring me something to eat!’
Old Hobb looked wistfully at the scrap of paper which his visitor was handling, and proceeded to the larder, with considerable misgiving expressed on his countenance. When mine host at length returned, he found his guest a trifle more composed. Reginald Ainslie was still poring over the mysterious piece of paper; but it was evident, from his disappointed mien, that he was considerably perplexed.
‘Landlord,’ he said in a low voice, when the arrangements for his meal were complete, ‘close the door!’
Hobb Dipping obeyed, and then stood waiting, as if for further orders.
‘Sit down,’ said the lieutenant.
The landlord seated himself in silence, and watched his visitor. After a few minutes had passed in silence, Reginald Ainslie laid down his knife and fork and leaned back in his chair.
‘Is your name Dipping?’
‘It is so, sir.’
‘Will you please to tell me,’ continued Ainslie, ‘the particulars of how you became possessed of this scrap of paper?’
Old Hobb waxed extremely uncomfortable under the visitor’s fixed gaze; he scratched his bald skull, looked wistfully round the room, and then asked in an affrighted whisper: ‘Be you anything to do with the magistrates, sir?’
Reginald shook his head.
‘If you’re not, sir,’ went on the landlord, evidently very much relieved, ‘would you mind first letting me know your reason for askin’ those questions?’
‘My reason for asking them,’ answered Reginald, ‘is because your reply may prove to be of serious importance to me. I have ridden a long way, a very long way, and solely on purpose to communicate with the landlord of this inn upon a subject which may prove the means of benefiting us both.—Do you remember a gentleman named Sir Carnaby Vincent?’
Hobb started a little at the abruptness of the question, but answered: ‘Ay, sir, that I do. And haven’t I good cause to remember him? That bit of paper, sir, I have always fancied belonged to the poor gentleman. I found it on the stairs while the red-coats were searchin’ his room; they must ha’ passed it somehow.’
‘That was on the night when he was shot here—was it not?’
‘You seem to know pretty much about it, sir,’ remarked the host, with an inquisitive look. ‘I ain’t going to deny the fact; it did happen on that night. But excuse me being so bold, sir; you must have been quite a young chap at that time; you can’t recollect it, surely?’
‘I remember nothing about the matter myself,’ replied Ainslie, ‘nor have I been in this part before. But Sir Carnaby’s attempted escape, and the fatal result, were officially reported to the government and to his friends. You think that this scrap of writing belonged to Sir Carnaby Vincent?’
‘Yes, sir; though I didn’t know his name till I learned it from the soldiers, after all was over.’
‘Why did you not deliver this up to them, when you discovered it on the stairs?’
‘Well, you see, sir, it was like this,’ replied old Hobb unwillingly. ‘I was sorry for the poor gentleman, besides being angry with the soldiers. But little they cared about that. So I thought as how I’d just keep it to myself, in case the man-servant who got off should venture here again. Thinks I: “I’ll give it up to him, and disappoint the other parties a bit for what they’ve done in my house.”—I hope your honour won’t inform against me!’ suddenly exclaimed the old man, who began to have an idea that he was disclosing somewhat more than was prudent to a total stranger.
‘My intentions are quite the opposite, I assure you,’ said Reginald, eager to set his informant’s mind at rest. ‘Go on; pray, do not stop.’
‘Well, sir,’ resumed Dipping, ‘as I said, I kept the paper, thinking that I might chance to drop across the man-servant. But though one of the labourers spoke to him that morning, I never see him again; and here I have been keeping this bit of writin’ over fifteen year without being able to make out what it means or anything about it. I should ha’ burnt it soon, I fancy.’
‘Burnt it!’ exclaimed Reginald. ‘What madness!’
‘Can you read it, sir?’ inquired old Hobb in a curious tone.
‘Read it! No, I cannot; worse luck. Chinese looks quite easy compared with the jumble of letters which are set down upon this scrap of paper.—Has any one seen it besides myself?’
‘Only one or two persons, sir,’ answered Dipping—‘I didn’t want the tale to get abroad—an’ when they see it, they turned it over just the same as you’re a-doing now: they none of ’em could make it out.’
‘What became of the other papers?’ suddenly demanded Ainslie, looking up, and desisting from the occupation of gnawing his thumb-nail.
‘There were none others as I know of, sir,’ replied old Dipping. ‘A pair of saddle-bags, I think, was took—my memory ain’t quite so good as it used to be. But this I do know for certain—there were no papers found except this one little bit. The soldiers swore hard, and said that the man who got off had taken ’em with him.’
‘Did it never occur to you that the attendant acted most strangely on that occasion?’ asked Ainslie.
‘Ay, sir, I have thought of that many a time,’ answered mine host, scratching his head. ‘It was a queer thing for him to do—to be sure it was. The man certainly was not running away cowardly-like, to leave his master in the lurch; he would never have hampered himself with the other horse in the way he did, and then go and cut his way through the middle of the redcoats. He might have got off t’ other way through the village without riskin’ his blessed neck. It’s my opinion, sir, an’ always was, that he did it to take the fire off on himself, while Sir Carnaby got away over Long Fen on foot. Very creditable it must ha’ been on him, sir; an’ had he drawn the redcoats away for a few minutes longer, the poor gentleman would have been clean away. He was nearly down at the foot of the stairs when they challenged him. It being dark, and getting no answer back, they blazed away. I let the soldiers in myself, or they would have beat the door down. But when they called out they would fire at the gentleman if he did not speak, I yelled to ’em not to do murder in my house. But it were too late,’ said old Hobb, sternly knitting his brows—‘it were too late. God help me! what could I do? I couldn’t stop it.’
‘It was no fault of yours, my man!’ said Ainslie, seeing that the old fellow faltered; ‘and do not imagine for an instant that you will get into any trouble by telling me all this. To set your mind easy on that score, I may as well inform you at once that Sir Carnaby Vincent, who so unfortunately lost his life here, was my uncle.’ Reginald paused for a moment to watch the effect which this announcement had upon his listener, and then went on once more. ‘The affair,’ said he, ‘which brings me here is of the greatest secrecy, and whatever consequences may result from my taking this step, I strictly require of you that no word of it shall ever be mentioned hereafter.’
‘Trust me for that, sir,’ returned the landlord: ‘it shall never pass my lips to any one.’
Directing mine host to draw his chair nearer to the fire, Reginald Ainslie commenced a narration which is sufficiently long to warrant its being the subject of another chapter.