Patricia at the inn

by J. C. Snaith

He had weighed every pro and con in his cunning heart. If it were the King who lay upstairs, it would be to his advantage to deliver him up to his enemies at once. He could afford to do so, for there was a great reward. Besides, as was known to all the world, delays were dangerous, especially in the case of kings. Assuming that they honoured your abode, were they not here to-day and gone to-morrow? And should their coming be by night, in stealth, was not their going likely to be also of that manner? Assuming this mysterious young man to be the King, this “incurable disease” of his was doubtless a blind, intended to mask his real intentions. Any morning might find him flown. Yes; if this young man really was the King, he must deliver him up immediately.

If he were not the King, however? If, as was very likely, instead of Charles Stuart, he proved to be only some fugitive cavalier from Worcester fight, he could not afford to denounce him at present. There was no such great solatium in regard to a cavalier. He must first bleed him to his very last fourpenny ere he allowed him out of his custody. The whole scheme was finely matured in his mind; would that he could be at peace in regard to the stranger’s identity! He would then know which course to follow.

He was still excogitating the hard matter, and forever twisting and turning it over, when, even as the night before, a stranger knocked on the door, and obtruded himself within the inn kitchen.

This time the visitor was humble enough. He was a tall, loose, shambling fellow, so discoloured by dirt and an outdoor life that he was as brown as a berry. His hat was low over his eyes; he wore a stained and torn pair of breeches, made of leather, and a jerkin of the same character. He had the appearance of a hedger and ditcher, or a woodman beset by adversity. The first words he uttered confirmed this impression.

“Are you wanting a serving-man or a drawer, good master?” he said, seating himself on a stool opposite the landlord.

The worthy Gamaliel regarded him keenly and suspiciously. The fellow looked an idle vagabond enough. Yet his swarthy countenance was not altogether destitute of a certain intelligence. He had a pair of keen, observing, humorous eyes to his face; there was a certain impudence and audacity about them which was sufficient to redeem their owner from the commonplace. The landlord, himself no mean observer, and a penetrating judge of his fellows, was rather interested by him. It was not usual to find a man of this type who merited looking at twice.

“And even if I do, sirrah?” asked Gamaliel, taking up his visitor’s question, after scrutinising him from head to heel.

“Well, master, if you do,” said the fellow, readily, “you would be acting a charity by giving a poor man a chance to serve you.”

“I do not doubt it,” said the landlord. “But if your looks be a true credential, I may live to rue the day. Upon my life, I never saw a countenance I like so little. If my eyes do not deceive me, I take ye to be a rogue of the first magnitude; a villain that I should fear to turn my back upon.”

The fellow laughed. Perchance it was well he did so. For in his laugh there was something frank and human. His lowering face grew vastly more engaging; and the landlord set the candour of it to his favour.