The Toll-Gate (6 page)

After reflection, Ben said that he thought Tideswell was only a matter of five miles or so. He added that his dad had bought the pig there, and a new coat for the winter. This sounded promising. "I'll ride there tomorrow," John said. "You won't be scared of minding the gate while I'm away, will you?"

"I ain't scared—leastways, not in the day time I ain't," said Ben. "But I got to muck out Mr. Sopworthy's henhouse, mind! He'll tip me a meg, and likely want me to lend a hand at summat else. I dunno when I'll be back."

"Well, you must tell him that you're needed here. What kind of a man is this Mr. Sopworthy?"

"He's a leery cove, he is, me dad says. He ain't one as'll squeak beef on you, but it's pound dealing with him, else he goes up in the boughs—proper, he does!"

"If that means that he's an honest man, I fancy I had best make his acquaintance. I gather you don't think he'd be likely to inform against your dad, so we shall tell him that your dad's been called away for a few days, and left me to take his place. I'm a cousin of yours," said the Captain.

"He won't never swallow a rapper like that!" objected Ben. "He ain't no chub! He'd know you was a flash cull, sure as check!"

"Not he!" grinned John.

"Soon as you opens your mummer, he will!" insisted Ben. "'Cos you talks flash, and you got a lot of cramp-words, like all the gentry-coves."

"I'll take care not to use 'em," promised John.

"Yes, and what about that mish you got on, and them stampers?" demanded Ben, quite unconvinced.

"If you mean my shirt, I am going to buy some others, in Tideswell, and a stout pair of brogues as well. Don't shake your head at me! I've been discharged from the Army, understand? Trooper, 3
^rd
Dragoon Guards—and batman (that means a servant) to an officer. That's how I come to talk a trifle flash. You remember that, and we shall come off all right!"

Ben looked dubious, but all he said was: "What'll I call you, gov'nor?"

"Jack. What I must have is decent stabling for Beau. He can't remain cooped up in a hen-house, and it seems to me that the Blue Boar's the best place for him."

"Why couldn't you stable him in Farmer Huggate's barn?" asked Ben captiously.

"I could, if I knew where it was," John retorted.

"It's nob but a step, back of here," Ben said. "Farmer Huggate and me dad's as thick as hops. If you was to grease him in the fist, likely he'd let you have fodder for Beau, too, 'cos he's got two big prads of his own."

This suggestion pleased the Captain so well that he sent Ben to see Farmer Huggate as soon as he had eaten his dinner. He himself remained on duty, but was only twice called upon to open the gate. Whatever might happen during the week, the road seemed to be very little used on Sundays. Having discovered some clean sheets in a chest, John was able to make up his bed. He did some energetic work with the broom, drastically tidied the kitchen, and then sat down to compile a list of the various commodities which were needed to make life in a toll-house tolerable. He was engaged on this task when an imperative voice summoned him to the gate. He got up rather quickly, for he recognised the voice, and strode out.

Miss Stornaway, mounted on a good-looking hack, and unattended, said, with a slight smile: "Well, sir, I've come to hear that long story, if you please! You must know that they call me the Squire in these parts: that must serve as an excuse for my curiosity!"

"You need none," he said, opening the gate a little way.

She touched her horse with her heel, saying as she went past John: "Do you mean to demand toll of me? I warn you, I shall inform against you if you do! I don't go above a hundred yards from the gate: not as much!"

"Is that the rule?" he asked, going to her horse's head.

"Of course!" She transferred the bridle to her right hand, brought one leg neatly over the pommel, and slipped to the ground.

Shaking out the folds of her shabby riding-dress, she glanced up at John. "Heavens, how big you are!"

He smiled. "Why, yes! You told me so, this morning!"

She laughed, blushed faintly, and retorted: "I did not know how big until now, when I find myself on a level with you. You must know that in general I look over men's heads."

He could see that this must be so. She did not seem to him to be an inch too tall, but he realised that she was taller even than his sister, and built on more magnificent lines. Hitching her horse to the gate post, he said sympathetically: "It's a trial, isn't it? I feel it myself, and my sister tells me it has been the bane of her existence. Do you always ride unattended, Miss Stornaway?"

She had seated herself on the bench outside the toll-house, under the fascia board, which bore, in staring black capitals, the name of Edward Brean. "Yes, invariably! Does it offend your sense of propriety? I am not precisely a schoolgirl, you know!"

"Oh, no!" he replied seriously, coming to sit down beside her. "I like you for it—if you don't think it impertinent in me to tell you so. I've thought, ever since I came home, that there's a deal too much propriety in England."

She raised her brows. "Came home?"

"Yes. I'm a soldier—that is to say, I was one."

"Were you in the Peninsula?" He nodded. "My brother was, too," she said abruptly. "He was killed."

"I'm sorry," he said. "Where?"

"At Albuera. He was in the 7
^th
."

"You should be proud," he said. "I was at Albuera, too. I saw the Fusiliers go into action."

She lifted her chin. "I am proud. But he was my grandfather's heir, and—— Oh, well! What was your regiment?"

"3
^rd
Dragoon Guards. I sold out after Toulouse."

"And your name?"

"John Staple. I have told Ben to set it about that I was a trooper—an officer's batman. He says I talk flash, you see."

She laughed. "Perfectly! But how do I address you?"

"In general, my friends call me Jack."

"I cannot be expected to do so, however!"

"Well, if you call me Captain Staple you will undo me," he pointed out. "I'm only a gatekeeper. Don't be afraid I shall encroach! I won't—Miss Nell!"

"You are certainly mad!" she said. "Pray, how do you come to be a gatekeeper?"

"Oh, quite by chance! I had been staying with one of my cousins, up in the north—the head of my family, in fact, and a very dull dog, poor fellow! There was no bearing it, so I made my excuses, and set out to ride into Leicestershire, to visit a friend of mine. Then my horse cast a shoe, up on the moors, I lost my bearings, became weather-bound, and reached this gate in darkness and drenching rain. Ben came out to open it for me. That seemed to me an odd circumstance. Moreover, it was easy to see he was scared. He told me his father had gone off on Friday evening, and hadn't returned; so I thought the best thing I could do would be to put up here for the night."

"Ah, that was kind!" she said warmly.

"Oh, no! not a bit!" he said. "I was deuced sick of the weather, and glad to have a roof over my head. I'm curious, too: I want to know what has become of Edward Brean."

"It is odd," she agreed, knitting her brows. "He is a rough sort of a man, but he has been here for a long time, and I never knew him to desert his post before. But you surely don't mean to continue keeping the gate!"

"Oh, not indefinitely!" he assured her. "It's not at all unamusing, but I expect it would soon grow to be a dead bore. However, I shall stay here for the present—unless, of course, the trustees find me out, and turn me off."

"But your family—your friends! They won't know what has become of you!"

"That won't worry 'em. I've done it before."

"Kept a gate?" she exclaimed.

"No, not that. Just disappeared for a week or two. I don't know how it is, but I get devilish bored with watching turnips grow, and doing the civil to the neighbours," he said apologetically.

She sighed. "How fortunate you are to be able to escape! I wish I were a man!"

He looked at her very kindly. "Do you want to escape?"

"Yes—no! I could not leave my grandfather. He is almost helpless, and very old."

"Have you lived here all your life?"

"Very nearly. My father died when I was a child, and we came to live with Grandpapa then. When I was sixteen, my mother died. Then Jermyn went to the wars, and was killed." She paused, and added, in a lighter tone: "But that is all a long time ago now. Don't imagine that poor Grandpapa has kept me here against my will! Far from it! Nothing would do for him but to launch me into society—though I warned him what would come of it!"

"What did come of it?" John enquired.

She made her mouth prim, but her eyes were laughing. "I did not take!" she said solemnly. "Now, don't, I beg of you, play the innocent and ask me how that can have come about! You must see precisely how it came about! I am by far too large. Grandpapa compelled my Aunt Sophia to house me for a whole season, and even to present me at a Drawing-room. When she saw me in a hoop, we were obliged to revive her with hartshorn and burnt feathers. I cannot love her, but indeed I pitied her! She can never have enjoyed a season less. It was so mortifying for her! I had no notion how to behave, and when she took me to Almack's not all her endeavours could obtain partners for me. I don't know which of us was the more thankful when my visit ended."

"I expect I must have been in Spain," he said thoughtfully. "I never went to Almack's till after I had sold out, and my sister dragged me there. To own the truth, I found it devilish dull, and there wasn't a woman there, beside my sister, whose head reached my shoulder. It made me feel dashed conspicuous. If you had been there, and we had stood up together, it would have been a different matter."

"Alas, I'm more at home in the saddle than the ballroom!"

"Are you? So am I! But my sister can keep it up all night."

"Is your sister married?"

"Yes, she married George Lichfield, a very good fellow," he replied.

"I think I met him once—but I might be mistaken. It is seven years since my London season. Do you feel that Lady Lichfield would approve of your present occupation?"

"Oh, no, not a bit!" he said. "She and George don't approve of any of the things I do. I shan't tell her anything about it."

"I think I am a little sorry for her. And still I don't understand why you mean to remain here!"

"No," he said, "I don't suppose you do. I didn't mean to, last night, but something happened today which made me change my mind."

"Good gracious! What in the world was it?"

"I can't tell you that now. I will, one day."

"No, that's too provoking!" she protested. "Is it about Brean? Have you discovered something?"

"No, nothing. It wasn't that," John replied.

"Then what, pray——"

"I must own I should be glad if I could discover what has happened to the fellow," he remarked, as though she had not spoken. "If he had met with an accident, one would think there would have been news of it by now. He must be pretty well known in the district, isn't he?"

She nodded. "Yes, certainly. He is red-haired, too, which makes him easily recognisable. You don't think, I collect, that he can have gone off, perhaps to Sheffield, and drunk himself into a stupor?"

"I did think so," he admitted, "but Ben assures me his dad don't go on the mop. He is quite positive about it, and I imagine he must know. According to his story, Brean went out on Friday evening, saying that he would be back in an hour or two. He was not wearing his hat, or his best coat, which, in Ben's view, precludes his having had the intention of going to town."

"He would scarcely set out for Sheffield after dark, in any event. It is more than ten miles away! How very odd it is! Are you sure that Ben is telling you the truth when he says he doesn't know where his father went?"

"Oh, yes, quite sure! Ben is excessively frightened—partly by the thought that he may be thrown on the Parish, much more by a mysterious stranger who seems to have formed the habit of visiting the toll-house after dark, and with the utmost secrecy."

She looked startled. "Who——?"

"That I don't know. But I have a strong suspicion that he is in some way concerned in Brean's disappearance," John said. "And I have another, even stronger, that there's something devilish havey-cavey going on here!"

CHAPTER IV.

"WHAT makes you say that?" she asked quickly, her eyes fixed with great intentness on his face.

He looked a little amused. "Well, ma'am, when a man does his visiting at night, and takes the most elaborate precautions against being seen, he's not commonly engaged on honest business!"

"No. No, he cannot be, of course. But what could he be doing here? It is absurd!—it must be absurd!"

He turned his head. "That sounds as though you have been thinking what I have said," he remarked shrewdly.

She glanced at him, and away again. "Nonsense! You must let me tell you that you are a great deal too fanciful, Captain Staple!"

He smiled very warmly at her. "Oh, I would let you tell me anything!" he said. "You are quite right, of course, not to confide in strangers."