44. SANDBOURNE - A LONELY HEATH - THE 'RED LION' - THE HIGHWAY
It was half-past eleven before the Spruce, with Mountclere and Sol
Chickerel on board, had steamed back again to Sandbourne. The
direction and increase of the wind had made it necessary to keep the
vessel still further to sea on their return than in going, that they
might clear without risk the windy, sousing, thwacking, basting,
scourging Jack Ketch of a corner called Old-Harry Point, which lay
about halfway along their track, and stood, with its detached posts
and stumps of white rock, like a skeleton's lower jaw, grinning at
British navigation. Here strong currents and cross currents were
beginning to interweave their scrolls and meshes, the water rising
behind them in tumultuous heaps, and slamming against the fronts and
angles of cliff, whence it flew into the air like clouds of flour.
Who could now believe that this roaring abode of chaos smiled in the
sun as gently as an infant during the summer days not long gone by,
every pinnacle, crag, and cave returning a doubled image across the
glassy sea?
They were now again at Sandbourne, a point in their journey reached
more than four hours ago. It became necessary to consider anew how
to accomplish the difficult remainder. The wind was not blowing
much beyond what seamen call half a gale, but there had been enough
unpleasantness afloat to make landsmen glad to get ashore, and this
dissipated in a slight measure their vexation at having failed in
their purpose. Still, Mountclere loudly cursed their confidence in
that treacherously short route, and Sol abused the unknown
Sandbourne man who had brought the news of the steamer's arrival to
them at the junction. The only course left open to them now, short
of giving up the undertaking, was to go by the road along the shore,
which, curving round the various little creeks and inland seas
between their present position and Knollsea, was of no less length
than thirty miles. There was no train back to the junction till the
next morning, and Sol's proposition that they should drive thither
in hope of meeting the mail-train, was overruled by Mountclere.
'We will have nothing more to do with chance,' he said. 'We may
miss the train, and then we shall have gone out of the way for
nothing. More than that, the down mail does not stop till it gets
several miles beyond the nearest station for Knollsea; so it is
hopeless.'
'If there had only been a telegraph to the confounded place!'
'Telegraph--we might as well telegraph to the devil as to an old
booby and a damned scheming young widow. I very much question if we
shall do anything in the matter, even if we get there. But I
suppose we had better go on now?'
'You can do as you like. I shall go on, if I have to walk every
step o't.'
'That's not necessary. I think the best posting-house at this end
of the town is Tempett's--we must knock them up at once. Which will
you do--attempt supper here, or break the back of our journey first,
and get on to Anglebury? We may rest an hour or two there, unless
you feel really in want of a meal.'
'No. I'll leave eating to merrier men, who have no sister in the
hands of a cursed old Vandal.'
'Very well,' said Mountclere. 'We'll go on at once.'
An additional half-hour elapsed before they were fairly started, the
lateness and abruptness of their arrival causing delay in getting a
conveyance ready: the tempestuous night had apparently driven the
whole town, gentle and simple, early to their beds. And when at
length the travellers were on their way the aspect of the weather
grew yet more forbidding. The rain came down unmercifully, the
booming wind caught it, bore it across the plain, whizzed it against
the carriage like a sower sowing his seed. It was precisely such
weather, and almost at the same season, as when Picotee traversed
the same moor, stricken with her great disappointment at not meeting
Christopher Julian.
Further on for several miles the drive lay through an open heath,
dotted occasionally with fir plantations, the trees of which told
the tale of their species without help from outline or colour; they
spoke in those melancholy moans and sobs which give to their sound a
solemn sadness surpassing even that of the sea. From each carriage-
lamp the long rays stretched like feelers into the air, and somewhat
cheered the way, until the insidious damp that pervaded all things
above, around, and underneath, overpowered one of them, and rendered
every attempt to rekindle it ineffectual. Even had the two men's
dislike to each other's society been less, the general din of the
night would have prevented much talking; as it was, they sat in a
rigid reticence that was almost a third personality. The roads were
laid hereabouts with a light sandy gravel, which, though not
clogging, was soft and friable. It speedily became saturated, and
the wheels ground heavily and deeply into its substance.
At length, after crossing from ten to twelve miles of these eternal
heaths under the eternally drumming storm, they could discern
eyelets of light winking to them in the distance from under a
nebulous brow of pale haze. They were looking on the little town of
Havenpool. Soon after this cross-roads were reached, one of which,
at right angles to their present direction, led down on the left to
that place. Here the man stopped, and informed them that the horses
would be able to go but a mile or two further.
'Very well, we must have others that can,' said Mountclere. 'Does
our way lie through the town?'
'No, sir--unless we go there to change horses, which I thought to
do. The direct road is straight on. Havenpool lies about three
miles down there on the left. But the water is over the road, and
we had better go round. We shall come to no place for two or three
miles, and then only to Flychett.'
'What's Flychett like?'
'A trumpery small bit of a village.'
'Still, I think we had better push on,' said Sol. 'I am against
running the risk of finding the way flooded about Havenpool.'
'So am I,' returned Mountclere.
'I know a wheelwright in Flychett,' continued Sol, 'and he keeps a
beer-house, and owns two horses. We could hire them, and have a bit
of sommat in the shape of victuals, and then get on to Anglebury.
Perhaps the rain may hold up by that time. Anything's better than
going out of our way.'
'Yes. And the horses can last out to that place,' said Mountclere.
'Up and on again, my man.'
On they went towards Flychett. Still the everlasting heath, the
black hills bulging against the sky, the barrows upon their round
summits like warts on a swarthy skin. The storm blew huskily over
bushes of heather and furze that it was unable materially to
disturb, and the travellers proceeded as before. But the horses
were now far from fresh, and the time spent in reaching the next
village was quite half as long as that taken up by the previous
heavy portion of the drive. When they entered Flychett it was about
three.
'Now, where's the inn?' said Mountclere, yawning.
'Just on the knap,' Sol answered. ''Tis a little small place, and
we must do as well as we can.'
They pulled up before a cottage, upon the whitewashed front of which
could be seen a square board representing the sign. After an
infinite labour of rapping and shouting, a casement opened overhead,
and a woman's voice inquired what was the matter. Sol explained,
when she told them that the horses were away from home.
'Now we must wait till these are rested,' growled Mountclere. 'A
pretty muddle!'
'It cannot be helped,' answered Sol; and he asked the woman to open
the door. She replied that her husband was away with the horses and
van, and that they could not come in.
Sol was known to her, and he mentioned his name; but the woman only
began to abuse him.
'Come, publican, you'd better let us in, or we'll have the law
for't,' rejoined Sol, with more spirit. 'You don't dare to keep
nobility waiting like this.'
'Nobility!'
'My mate hev the title of Honourable, whether or no; so let's have
none of your slack,' said Sol.
'Don't be a fool, young chopstick,' exclaimed Mountclere. 'Get the
door opened.'
'I will--in my own way,' said Sol testily. 'You mustn't mind my
trading upon your quality, as 'tis a case of necessity. This is a
woman nothing will bring to reason but an appeal to the higher
powers. If every man of title was as useful as you are to-night,
sir, I'd never call them lumber again as long as I live.'
'How singular!'
'There's never a bit of rubbish that won't come in use if you keep
it seven years.'
'If my utility depends upon keeping you company, may I go to h---
for lacking every atom of the virtue.'
'Hear, hear! But it hardly is becoming in me to answer up to a man
so much older than I, or I could say more. Suppose we draw a line
here for the present, sir, and get indoors?'
'Do what you will, in Heaven's name.'
A few more words to the woman resulted in her agreeing to admit them
if they would attend to themselves afterwards. This Sol promised,
and the key of the door was let down to them from the bedroom window
by a string. When they had entered, Sol, who knew the house well,
busied himself in lighting a fire, the driver going off with a
lantern to the stable, where he found standing-room for the two
horses. Mountclere walked up and down the kitchen, mumbling words
of disgust at the situation, the few of this kind that he let out
being just enough to show what a fearfully large number he kept in.
'A-calling up people at this time of morning!' the woman
occasionally exclaimed down the stairs. 'But folks show no mercy
upon their flesh and blood--not one bit or mite.'
'Now never be stomachy, my good soul,' cried Sol from the fireplace,
where he stood blowing the fire with his breath. 'Only tell me
where the victuals bide, and I'll do all the cooking. We'll pay
like princes--especially my mate.'
'There's but little in house,' said the sleepy woman from her
bedroom. 'There's pig's fry, a side of bacon, a conger eel, and
pickled onions.'
'Conger eel?' said Sol to Mountclere.
'No, thank you.'
'Pig's fry?'
'No, thank you.'
'Well, then, tell me where the bacon is,' shouted Sol to the woman.
'You must find it,' came again down the stairs. ''Tis somewhere up
in chimley, but in which part I can't mind. Really I don't know
whether I be upon my head or my heels, and my brain is all in a
spin, wi' being rafted up in such a larry!'
'Bide where you be, there's a dear,' said Sol. 'We'll do it all.
Just tell us where the tea-caddy is, and the gridiron, and then you
can go to sleep again.'
The woman appeared to take his advice, for she gave the information,
and silence soon reigned upstairs.
When one piece of bacon had been with difficulty cooked over the
newly-lit fire, Sol said to Mountclere, with the rasher on his fork:
'Now look here, sir, I think while I am making the tea, you ought to
go on griddling some more of these, as you haven't done nothing at
all?'
'I do the paying. . . . Well, give me the bacon.'
'And when you have done yours, I'll cook the man's, as the poor
feller's hungry, I make no doubt.'
Mountclere, fork in hand, then began with his rasher, tossing it
about the gridiron in masterly style, Sol attending to the tea. He
was attracted from this occupation by a brilliant flame up the
chimney, Mountclere exclaiming, 'Now the cursed thing is on fire!'
'Blow it out--hard--that's it! Well now, sir, do you come and begin
upon mine, as you must be hungry. I'll finish the griddling. Ought
we to mind the man sitting down in our company, as there's no other
room for him? I hear him coming in.'
'O no--not at all. Put him over at that table.'
'And I'll join him. You can sit here by yourself, sir.'
The meal was despatched, and the coachman again retired, promising
to have the horses ready in about an hour and a half. Sol and
Mountclere made themselves comfortable upon either side of the
fireplace, since there was no remedy for the delay: after sitting
in silence awhile, they nodded and slept.
How long they would have remained thus, in consequence of their
fatigues, there is no telling, had not the mistress of the cottage
descended the stairs about two hours later, after peeping down upon
them at intervals of five minutes during their sleep, lest they
should leave without her knowledge. It was six o'clock, and Sol
went out for the man, whom he found snoring in the hay-loft. There
was now real necessity for haste, and in ten minutes they were again
on their way.
Day dawned upon the 'Red Lion' inn at Anglebury with a timid and
watery eye. From the shadowy archway came a shining lantern, which
was seen to be dangling from the hand of a little bow-legged old
man--the hostler, John. Having reached the front, he looked around
to measure the daylight, opened the lantern, and extinguished it by
a pinch of his fingers. He paused for a moment to have the
customary word or two with his neighbour the milkman, who usually
appeared at this point at this time.
'It sounds like the whistle of the morning train,' the milkman said
as he drew near, a scream from the further end of the town reaching
their ears. 'Well, I hope, now the wind's in that quarter, we shall
ha'e a little more fine weather--hey, hostler?'
'What be ye a talking o'?'
'Can hear the whistle plain, I say.'
'O ay. I suppose you do. But faith, 'tis a poor fist I can make at
hearing anything. There, I could have told all the same that the
wind was in the east, even if I had not seed poor Thomas Tribble's
smoke blowing across the little orchard. Joints be a true
weathercock enough when past three-score. These easterly rains,
when they do come, which is not often, come wi' might enough to
squail a man into his grave.'
'Well, we must look for it, hostler. . . . Why, what mighty
ekkypage is this, come to town at such a purblinking time of day?'
''Tis what time only can tell--though 'twill not be long first,' the
hostler replied, as the driver of the pair of horses and carriage
containing Sol and Mountclere slackened pace, and drew rein before
the inn.
Fresh horses were immediately called for, and while they were being
put in the two travellers walked up and down.
'It is now a quarter to seven o'clock,' said Mountclere; 'and the
question arises, shall I go on to Knollsea, or branch off at
Corvsgate Castle for Enckworth? I think the best plan will be to
drive first to Enckworth, set me down, and then get him to take you
on at once to Knollsea. What do you say?'
'When shall I reach Knollsea by that arrangement?'
'By half-past eight o'clock. We shall be at Enckworth before eight,
which is excellent time.'
'Very well, sir, I agree to that,' said Sol, feeling that as soon as
one of the two birds had been caught, the other could not mate
without their knowledge.
The carriage and horses being again ready, away they drove at once,
both having by this time grown too restless to spend in Anglebury a
minute more than was necessary.
The hostler and his lad had taken the jaded Sandbourne horses to the
stable, rubbed them down, and fed them, when another noise was heard
outside the yard; the omnibus had returned from meeting the train.
Relinquishing the horses to the small stable-lad, the old hostler
again looked out from the arch.
A young man had stepped from the omnibus, and he came forward. 'I
want a conveyance of some sort to take me to Knollsea, at once. Can
you get a horse harnessed in five minutes?'
'I'll make shift to do what I can master, not promising about the
minutes. The truest man can say no more. Won't ye step into the
bar, sir, and give your order? I'll let ye know as soon as 'tis
ready.'
Christopher turned into a room smelling strongly of the night
before, and stood by the newly-kindled fire to wait. He had just
come in haste from Melchester. The upshot of his excitement about
the wedding, which, as the possible hour of its solemnization drew
near, had increased till it bore him on like a wind, was this
unpremeditated journey. Lying awake the previous night, the
hangings of his bed pulsing to every beat of his heart, he decided
that there was one last and great service which it behoved him, as
an honest man and friend, to say nothing of lover, to render to
Ethelberta at this juncture. It was to ask her by some means
whether or not she had engaged with open eyes to marry Lord
Mountclere; and if not, to give her a word or two of enlightenment.
That done, she might be left to take care of herself.
His plan was to obtain an interview with Picotee, and learn from her
accurately the state of things. Should he, by any possibility, be
mistaken in his belief as to the contracting parties, a knowledge of
the mistake would be cheaply purchased by the journey. Should he
not, he would send up to Ethelberta the strong note of expostulation
which was already written, and waiting in his pocket. To intrude
upon her at such a time was unseemly; and to despatch a letter by a
messenger before evidence of its necessity had been received was
most undesirable. The whole proceeding at best was clumsy; yet
earnestness is mostly clumsy; and how could he let the event pass
without a protest? Before daylight on that autumn morning he had
risen, told Faith of his intention, and started off.
As soon as the vehicle was ready, Christopher hastened to the door
and stepped up. The little stable-boy led the horse a few paces on
the way before relinquishing his hold; at the same moment a
respectably dressed man on foot, with a small black bag in his hand,
came up from the opposite direction, along the street leading from
the railway. He was a thin, elderly man, with grey hair; that a
great anxiety pervaded him was as plainly visible as were his
features. Without entering the inn, he came up at once to old John.
'Have you anything going to Knollsea this morning that I can get a
lift in?' said the pedestrian--no other than Ethelberta's father.
'Nothing empty, that I know of.'
'Or carrier?'
'No.'
'A matter of fifteen shillings, then, I suppose?'
'Yes--no doubt. But yond there's a young man just now starting; he
might not take it ill if ye were to ask him for a seat, and go
halves in the hire of the trap. Shall I call out?'
'Ah, do.'
The hostler bawled to the stable-boy, who put the question to
Christopher. There was room for two in the dogcart, and Julian had
no objection to save the shillings of a fellow-traveller who was
evidently not rich. When Chickerel mounted to his seat, Christopher
paused to look at him as we pause in some enactment that seems to
have been already before us in a dream long ago. Ethelberta's face
was there, as the landscape is in the map, the romance in the
history, the aim in the deed: denuded, rayless, and sorry, but
discernible.
For the moment, however, this did not occur to Julian. He took the
whip, the boy loosed his hold upon the horse, and they proceeded on
their way.
'What slap-dash jinks may there be going on at Knollsea, then, my
sonny?' said the hostler to the lad, as the dogcart and the backs of
the two men diminished on the road. 'You be a Knollsea boy: have
anything reached your young ears about what's in the wind there,
David Straw?'
'No, nothing: except that 'tis going to be Christmas day in five
weeks: and then a hide-bound bull is going to be killed if he don't
die afore the time, and gi'ed away by my lord in three-pound junks,
as a reward to good people who never curse and sing bad songs,
except when they be drunk; mother says perhaps she will have some,
and 'tis excellent if well stewed, mother says.'
'A very fair chronicle for a boy to give, but not what I asked for.
When you try to answer a old man's question, always bear in mind
what it was that old man asked. A hide-bound bull is good when well
stewed, I make no doubt--for they who like it; but that's not it.
What I said was, do you know why three fokes, a rich man, a middling
man, and a poor man, should want horses for Knollsea afore seven
o'clock in the morning on a blinking day in Fall, when everything is
as wet as a dishclout, whereas that's more than often happens in
fine summer weather?'
'No--I don't know, John hostler.'
'Then go home and tell your mother that ye be no wide-awake boy, and
that old John, who went to school with her father afore she was born
or thought o', says so. . . . Chok' it all, why should I think
there's sommat going on at Knollsea? Honest travelling have been so
rascally abused since I was a boy in pinners, by tribes of nobodies
tearing from one end of the country to t'other, to see the sun go
down in salt water, or the moon play jack-lantern behind some rotten
tower or other, that, upon my song, when life and death's in the
wind there's no telling the difference!'
'I like their sixpences ever so much.'
'Young sonny, don't you answer up to me when you baint in the story-
-stopping my words in that fashion. I won't have it, David. Now up
in the tallet with ye, there's a good boy, and down with another
lock or two of hay--as fast as you can do it for me.'
The boy vanished under the archway, and the hostler followed at his
heels. Meanwhile the carriage bearing Mr. Mountclere and Sol was
speeding on its way to Enckworth. When they reached the spot at
which the road forked into two, they left the Knollsea route, and
keeping thence under the hills for the distance of five or six
miles, drove into Lord Mountclere's park. In ten minutes the house
was before them, framed in by dripping trees.
Mountclere jumped out, and entered without ceremony. Sol, being
anxious to know if Lord Mountclere was there, ordered the coachman
to wait a few moments. It was now nearly eight o'clock, and the
smoke which ascended from the newly-lit fires of the Court painted
soft blue tints upon the brown and golden leaves of lofty boughs
adjoining.
'O, Ethelberta!' said Sol, as he regarded the fair prospect.
The gravel of the drive had been washed clean and smooth by the
night's rain, but there were fresh wheelmarks other than their own
upon the track. Yet the mansion seemed scarcely awake, and
stillness reigned everywhere around.
Not more than three or four minutes had passed when the door was
opened for Mountclere, and he came hastily from the doorsteps.
'I must go on with you,' he said, getting into the vehicle. 'He's
gone.'
'Where--to Knollsea?' said Sol.
'Yes,' said Mountclere. 'Now, go ahead to Knollsea!' he shouted to
the man. 'To think I should be fooled like this! I had no idea
that he would be leaving so soon! We might perhaps have been here
an hour earlier by hard striving. But who was to dream that he
would arrange to leave it at such an unearthly time of the morning
at this dark season of the year? Drive--drive!' he called again out
of the window, and the pace was increased.
'I have come two or three miles out of my way on account of you,'
said Sol sullenly. 'And all this time lost. I don't see why you
wanted to come here at all. I knew it would be a waste of time.'
'Damn it all, man,' said Mountclere; 'it is no use for you to be
angry with me!'
'I think it is, for 'tis you have brought me into this muddle,' said
Sol, in no sweeter tone. 'Ha, ha! Upon my life I should be
inclined to laugh, if I were not so much inclined to do the other
thing, at Berta's trick of trying to make close family allies of
such a cantankerous pair as you and I! So much of one mind as we
be, so alike in our ways of living, so close connected in our
callings and principles, so matched in manners and customs! 'twould
be a thousand pities to part us--hey, Mr. Mountclere!'
Mountclere faintly laughed with the same hideous merriment at the
same idea, and then both remained in a withering silence, meant to
express the utter contempt of each for the other, both in family and
in person. They passed the Lodge, and again swept into the
highroad.
'Drive on!' said Mountclere, putting his head again out of the
window, and shouting to the man. 'Drive like the devil!' he roared
again a few minutes afterwards, in fuming dissatisfaction with their
rate of progress.
'Baint I doing of it?' said the driver, turning angrily round. 'I
ain't going to ruin my governor's horses for strangers who won't pay
double for 'em--not I. I am driving as fast as I can. If other
folks get in the way with their traps I suppose I must drive round
'em, sir?'
There was a slight crash.
'There!' continued the coachman. 'That's what comes of my turning
round!'
Sol looked out on the other side, and found that the forewheel of
their carriage had become locked in the wheel of a dogcart they had
overtaken, the road here being very narrow. Their coachman, who
knew he was to blame for this mishap, felt the advantage of taking
time by the forelock in a case of accusation, and began swearing at
his victim as if he were the sinner. Sol jumped out, and looking up
at the occupants of the other conveyance, saw against the sky the
back elevation of his father and Christopher Julian, sitting upon a
little seat which they overhung, like two big puddings upon a small
dish.
'Father--what, you going?' said Sol. 'Is it about Berta that you've
come?'
'Yes, I got your letter,' said Chickerel, 'and I felt I should like
to come--that I ought to come, to save her from what she'll regret.
Luckily, this gentleman, a stranger to me, has given me a lift from
Anglebury, or I must have hired.' He pointed to Christopher.
'But he's Mr. Julian!' said Sol.
'You are Mrs. Petherwin's father?--I have travelled in your company
without knowing it!' exclaimed Christopher, feeling and looking both
astonished and puzzled. At first, it had appeared to him that, in
direct antagonism to his own purpose, her friends were favouring
Ethelberta's wedding; but it was evidently otherwise.
'Yes, that's father,' said Sol. 'Father, this is Mr. Julian. Mr.
Julian, this gentleman here is Lord Mountclere's brother--and, to
cut the story short, we all wish to stop the wedding.'
'Then let us get on, in Heaven's name!' said Mountclere. 'You are
the lady's father?'
'I am,' said Chickerel.
'Then you had better come into this carriage. We shall go faster
than the dogcart. Now, driver, are the wheels right again?'
Chickerel hastily entered with Mountclere, Sol joined them, and they
sped on. Christopher drove close in their rear, not quite certain
whether he did well in going further, now that there were plenty of
people to attend to the business, but anxious to see the end. The
other three sat in silence, with their eyes upon their knees, though
the clouds were dispersing, and the morning grew bright. In about
twenty minutes the square unembattled tower of Knollsea Church
appeared below them in the vale, its summit just touching the
distant line of sea upon sky. The element by which they had been
victimized on the previous evening now smiled falsely to the low
morning sun.
They descended the road to the village at a little more mannerly
pace than that of the earlier journey, and saw the rays glance upon
the hands of the church clock, which marked five-and-twenty minutes
to nine.
