Patricia at the inn

by J. C. Snaith

The landlord chuckled at the thought, and began to build his castles. Soon his son and the servant-maid went to their repose; but Gamaliel sat for long enough about the fire, staring into its ever-changing caverns and abysses—now sipping his liquor, now lost in meditation, now revolving choice schemes in his mind. Indeed, so happy was he in these circumstances, that it seemed better far to pass the night before the cheerful hearth in the society of his cups than with ice-cold sheets about him, and rats scuttling behind the wainscot of his chamber.

Thus he sat for many an hour, thinking and dozing and dreaming. He was wonderfully at peace to-night with the world and his own soul. True, he occasionally saw the sinister eye of the mariner gleaming out of the bars; once, too, he saw his knife flash through the shadows when the candles had waned into gloom. But even these chimeras had not the power to quell the ineffable satisfaction that was gradually invading the old man’s heart. A vista of delightful possibilities had been revealed by recent history; there was money to be made. Should good fortune preside over his affairs, he had a chance to earn more in a week by dabbling in political matters than he would in a lifetime by regular, straightforward trade.

“Not so straightforward neither,” he confided to his cup. “Oh, ye’re a cunning one, Gamaliel, my son! Now, Master Charles Stuart, King o’ Scotland, please to knock upon my door. I am sure your Highness will be more than welcome. There’s a cheerful hearth awaiting for you—ay, and a tun o’ liquor for your royal lips. I am sure, my liege, the good Gamaliel will entertain you as befits a prince. And, oh, Lord! to think the price o’ your blessed Majesty would buy that poor old man an annuity for the remainder of his days. And, prithee, bring your followers also, my liege—all in their nice new velvet breeches and point-lace frilly-dillies. Gamaliel shall find a lodgment for them too, good your Majesty, an he beds his own humble carcase with the cows.”

And so he dozed again. He dreamt that the King had come at last, and was knocking at his door. He dreamt that the King was entering—a most courtly, handsome gentleman, all graciousness and dignity; a wonderful white feather in his hat, secured by a clasp of solid silver; his sword-hilt wrought in gold and precious stones. It was all most singularly real. How, although only a simple country innkeeper, he had some little breeding, and strove to show it to the King; how he received him on one knee, and did not speak a word until his Majesty had spoken, as he heard they did at courts; and how the King said, “Rise, my honest fellow—’tis not your congees that I need, but your hospitality,” with just that smiling dignity that comes by nature to a prince. What a gracious gentleman he was! Had he not the modest self-effacement of good breeding, but withal the air and habit of command? Did it not make his old blood thrill to hear his gentle, noble tones? It was a dream; he knew it was indeed a dream, yet it was all very real and dazzling and grand.

And then the good Gamaliel dreamt that a heavy bag of gold was jingling in his hands. It was the fee the soldiers had paid him for the just delivery of the person of this splendid prince. Ugh! and then there was the sailor. He saw again the visage of that grim mariner, with the fierce eye, the earrings, the knife, the scar—the whole concentrated ugliness. And then there came the most vivid dream of all. The sailor’s lips parted in a hiss of malevolence, the knife flashed from his belt, and the old man felt it buried in his flesh. The knife seemed to burn him like a fire, so that he awoke with half a curse and half a scream.

Master Gamaliel did not marvel that his vision had such a terrible reality. A live faggot had fallen from the fire and lay smouldering on his foot. He shook it off with an oath of pain. But even in the act, a diversion came to startle him out of his sufferings.

There came a sound in the night. He lifted his ears like a startled fox. His nerves were in a plague of a twitter. For a man so old, he was in a ridiculous taking. Once more he clapt his head to the shutter. Yes; no; yes—horses again!

Could it be that the King was coming? Could he actually be coming in his own person, in the dead of the night, to the “Sea Rover”? Was the landlord awake, or was it a figment of his dreams?

Yes, horses undoubtedly, and the dead of night indeed. Was it not the season at which the King was most likely to arrive? Ay, and the place. After all, why should not the King, in his present circumstances, come to his inn? Nothing could be more natural, more expected. A presentiment, every second growing into a conviction, possessed the landlord. It seemed to send his heart beating against his brain.