The Toll-Gate (27 page)

Thrusting the single sheet of paper into the pocket of his leathers, John strode through the toll-house to the garden, where he found Ben being given a lesson in horse-manage. He dismissed him curtly, telling him to go back to the gate. Ben, who thought that he had been on duty for long enough, cast him a darkling look, and went off with a lagging step, and an audible sniff.

"He'll make a likely lad in the stables," remarked Joseph. "Given he gets the chance, that is. I've told Brean so afore now."

"Yes, perhaps. Joseph, what is happening up at the Manor? Never mind what your mistress told you to say to me! I want the truth!"

"Squire's mortal bad," Joseph replied. "What's more, he ain't dying easy. He's worriting and worriting, and whether it's on account of Mr. Henry, or something as he's expecting his lawyer to send him from London, Mr. Winkfield don't know. Maybe it's his Will. He would have me ride to Sheffield to meet the mail yesterday afternoon, though me and Mr. Winkfield knew there wouldn't be nothing on it, 'cos there wasn't time enough, seeing when it was I carried his letter to the mail. He don't seem to be able to reckon the days no more, though he ain't dicked in the nob—far from it! I'm to go again this afternoon, and I hopes to God there'll be an express packet for him!"

"Miss Nell has told me that the Squire is dying. What she has not told me is what those two hell-born rogues are doing!"

"Now, there's no call for you to fly into your high ropes, gov'nor! Barring Mr. Henry's took to his bed, as blue as megrim, they ain't doing nothing. Nor they won't, not while Squire's above ground, and all of us still at the Manor. It's when Squire's dead and buried that the mischief will begin, by what Mr. Huby managed to hear Coate saying to Mr. Henry last night. He's a cunning old Trojan, Mr. Huby is! He saw Coate go up to Mr. Henry's room, and he hopped up after him, as spry as a two-year-old, and slipped into the room alongside Mr. Henry's. There's a powder-closet between the two of 'em, and into it he creeps, all amongst Mr. Henry's fine coats, which is hung up in it, and sets his ear to the door into Mr. Henry's room."

"What did he contrive to hear?" John asked quickly.

"Why, he says as Coate was in a rare tweak with Mr. Henry, calling him a paper-skulled gabster, and cursing him something wicked for having gone next or nigh Squire. 'Didn't I tell you I wouldn't have no trouble made, you mouth?' he says. Then Mr. Henry says something as Mr. Huby couldn't hear, and Coate says, 'Wait till he's snuffed it, and the game's our own!' he says. 'You'll send these damned servants packing, the whole curst set of insolent dotards!'—meaning Mr. Huby, and Mr. Winkfield, and me. 'You won't have no trouble over that,' he says, 'for they wouldn't work for you, Henry, not if you was to offer 'em a fortune for to do it!' Which is true as death," said Joseph meditatively. "Myself, I'd as soon drive a hack—or worse!"

"Yes, and then?"

"Well, then Mr. Huby heard Mr. Henry say, screeching like he was in a fury, yet scared too, 'And what about my cousin?' Coate, he cursed him some more for not keeping his voice down, and he says, 'I'll have to marry the girl, and, damme,' he says, 'I've a mind to, for I'll swear she's a piece as is worth taming!' Which fairly made Mr. Huby's blood boil, but there was worse to come. Ay! For Mr. Henry says as Miss Nell wouldn't have Coate, and Coate, he laughs, and says, 'Trust me, she'll be glad to have me! And once I've got her to wife,' he says, 'there ain't nothing to be afraid of, 'cos I'll school her to keep her chaffer close, don't doubt me! And once you're master here,' he says, 'me and she will stay long of you, and no one won't think it queer; and when they've called the hounds off, there's a fortune waiting for us!' Then Mr. Huby heard a board creak, like Coate had got up out of his chair so he crept away, soft-like. And pitiful it was to see him, when he told Mr. Winkfield and me what had passed! Fair napping his bib, he was, to think his strength was gone from him, and he couldn't give Coate a leveller, let alone choke the puff out of him, which he was wishful to do!"

"Let him not weep for that!" said Captain Staple, through his even, white teeth. "I will settle all scores with this villain, and in full!"

"Well, sir," said Joseph, with a deprecatory cough, "seeing as Mr. Huby was in such a taking, Mr. Winkfield took the liberty of telling him so. Which heartened him up wonderful—if I may say so!"

"Did you tell me you must go to Sheffield today?" John asked abruptly. "When will you be here again?"

"Oh, I'll be back by six o'clock at latest, sir! The London mail's due at four. It might be a minute or two late, but not above a quarter of an hour, at this season! What was you wanting me to do?"

"Come and take my place here after dark! I must see Miss Nell!"

Joseph nodded. "I'll come if I can, gov'nor," he promised. "But I better be off now—if that Coate has passed the gate!"

He had not, but in a few minutes he came into sight, trotting briskly down the road. John sent Ben out to open the gate; and, after a discreet pause, Joseph mounted the cob, and rode off in his wake.

The Captain then took pity on Ben, and released him from his duties, merely recommending him to eat his dinner before sallying forth to join certain of his cronies on an afternoon of high adventure. Since Mrs. Skeffling had left a stew redolent of onions simmering on the hob, Ben thought well of following this advice. He tried to engage the Captain in conversation, but found him to be in an abstracted mood. As his parent, by the simple expedient of clouting him heavily, had trained him not to obtrude his chatter upon unwilling ears, he immediately stopped talking, consumed with startling rapidity an enormous plateful of steak, and slid from the toll-house before his protector could (in the manner of adult persons) change his mind, and set him to perform some wearisome task.

The Captain finished his own meal in a more leisurely style, and, still deeply considering the problem which lay before him, washed up the crockery. He was wiping his hands on a towel when an imperative voice intruded upon his consciousness.

"Gate! Gate, there!" it called.

The Captain turned his head quickly. The call was repeated, in exasperated accents. The Captain cast the towel aside, and strode out into the road.

Drawn up before the toll-house was a sporting curricle, to which a pair of match-bays was harnessed. The bays were sweating a little, and their legs were mud-splashed, like the wheels of the curricle, but the turn-out was a handsome one, and nothing more point-device could have been imagined than the gentleman holding the reins in one elegantly gloved hand.

He was the model of a nonpareil attired for a journey in rural surroundings, and only the exquisite cut of his coat and breeches, and the high polish on his top-boots, drew attention to his person. His waistcoat was of a sober dove-colour; the points of his collar stiff, but by no means exaggeratedly high; his cravat tied with artistry, but without flamboyance. A beaver hat, of the same delicate hue as his waistcoat, was set at a slight angle on a head of glossy, carefully arranged locks; and cast over the back of the empty seat beside him was a very long and full-skirted greatcoat embellished with a number of shoulder-capes. Upon the Captain's appearance on the threshold of the toll-house, he transferred the reins to his whip hand, and with his disengaged hand sought the quizzing-glass which hung on a black riband round his neck, and raised it to one eye.

For a moment they stared at one another, the fair giant, in leather breeches and waistcoat, and a coarse shirt open at the throat, standing apparently transfixed; and the Tulip of Fashion looking him over from head to foot, an expression on his face of gathering anguish. "Good Gad!" he said faintly.

"Bab!" ejaculated the Captain. "What the devil——?"

"Dear boy—taken the words out of my mouth! What the devil——?" said Mr. Babbacombe.

"Confound you, what's brought you here?" demanded the Captain.

"Just reconnoitring, dear boy!" said Mr. Babbacombe, late of the 10
^th
Hussars, with an airy wave of the quizzing-glass. "No good flying into a miff, Jack! Dash it, no business to write me mysterious letters if you don't mean me to come and see what kind of a lark you're kicking up!"

"Damn you!" John said, reaching up to grip his hand. "I might have known it indeed, you inquisitive fribble! Did you bring my gear with you?"

Mr. Babbacombe removed his driving-coat from the seat beside him, disclosing a bulky package. Indicating this, with every evidence of revulsion, he said: "Take it! If there had been room for your portmanteaux as well as my own, dashed if I wouldn't have brought 'em! You great gudgeon, we had to smash the locks! I hadn't the keys!"

"Oh, that's of no consequence!" said John, picking up the package, and tucking it under his arm. "But what's this about your portmanteaux? I don't see them!"

"No, no, I left 'em at the inn!"

"What inn?"

"Little place down the road. I don't remember what it's called, but you must know it! It's only a mile away, dash it!"

"You can't stay at the Blue Boar!" John exclaimed.

"Just racking up for the night," explained Mr. Babbacombe. "Seems a snug little inn. Anything amiss with it?"

"Bab, have you been asking for me there?"

"Wasn't necessary. Fact of the matter is, Jack, I've had news of you for some way along the road. Dashed roadbook of mine ain't to be trusted 'cross country, so there was nothing for it but to ask the way. No, I didn't say a word about you, but it's my belief you couldn't mention the Crowford Toll-gate anywhere for six or seven miles round without being told that there's a queer new keeper to it, the size of a mountain. As for the ale-draper at this Blue Boar of yours, he seemed to twig it was you I wanted the instant I spoke of the toll-gate."

"Lord!" said John. "Oh, well! It must be all over the village by now, so there's no help for it! I'm devilish glad to see you, old fellow, but you must brush tomorrow! It won't do if certain fellows here get wind of you."

"I must what?" said Mr. Babbacombe, all at sea.

"Brush! Pike! Lope off!" said John, his eyes brimful of laughter. "In your own flash tongue, depart!"

"Yes, I know you're up to fun and gig," said Mr. Babbacombe severely. "Not but what I must depart tomorrow, because I didn't bring Fockerby along with me, and what with having to see to it that the ostler at the inn I stayed at last night looked after these tits of mine, and being obliged to dashed well stand over the boots this morning—and even now they don't look as they should—my boots, I mean!—it's devilish exhausting! Where can I stable the bays? I can't talk to you on the high road!"

"Well, you can't stable them here. You must take them back to the Blue Boar."

"But I want to talk to you!" objected Mr. Babbacombe.

"Of course, but you must see there's no place for a curricle here, let alone a pair of horses! You'll have to walk back: it's not much more than a mile! Oh, lord! here's the carrier! Mind, now, Bab, you've mistaken the road!" He then said, raising his voice: "No, sir, you should ha' turned right-handed, short of the village!" and turned from the curricle to fetch the tickets from the office.

Mr. Babbacombe sat in a trance-like state, listening to an interchange of conversation, during the course of which he learned that his eccentric friend was apparently keeping the gate for someone called Brean. The carrier seemed surprised that this person had not yet returned; Mr. Babbacombe was even more surprised to hear that Mr. Brean was John's cousin. No sooner had the pike been closed behind the carrier than he exclaimed: "If you are not the most complete hand I ever knew! Now, Jack, stop bamming, and tell me what the devil you're doing!"

"I will," John promised, grinning up at him, "but take that natty turn-out of yours away first! If Sopworthy—that's your ale-draper!—knows you've come here to see me, you may as well borrow his cob: I can stable him in the henhouse."

"Jack!" said Mr. Babbacombe. "Are you stabling your own horse in a dashed hen-house?"

"No, no, he's in that barn, up there! Now, do be off, Bab!" He watched Mr. Babbacombe turn his pair, and bethought him of something, and called out: "Wait, Bab!—I daresay you won't see him, but if you should meet a fellow at the Blue Boar called Stogumber, take care what you say to him! He was nursing a broken head and a gashed shoulder this morning, but if he gets wind of such an out-and-outer as you, putting up at the inn, he's bound to think it smoky, and very likely he'll leave his bed to discover what your business may be. You'd better tell him you came here to visit Sir Peter Stornaway, up at the Manor, but hearing that he's very ill you've thought it best not to intrude upon the family. Now, don't forget!—Stornaway—Kellands Manor! Stogumber's a Bow Street Runner, but he don't know I've bubbled him."

Mr. Babbacombe regarded him in fascinated horror. "A Bow Street—— No, by God, I'll be damned if I'll go another yard until you've told me what kind of a kick-up this is! Dear boy, you ain't murdered anyone?"

"Lor' bless you, gov'nor, I ain't a queer cove!" said the Captain outrageously. "Nor no trap ain't wishful to snabble me!"

"Dutch comfort! Do you mean the Runner ain't after you?"

"No, he only suspects he may be," replied the Captain. "He thinks I'm a trifle smoky."

"If he knew as much about you as I do," said Mr. Babbacombe, with feeling, "he'd know you're a dangerous lunatic, and dashed well put you under restraint!"

With these embittered words, he drove off, leaving the Captain laughing, and waving farewell.