The Yeoman Adventurer
reverence's vinous gossip as much as possible. Except that he was
certainly neither soldier nor parson, and probably not a lawyer, I could
make nothing of him. He had a massive head and a resolute and intelligent
face. He wore no wig and his hair was grey and closely cropped. I judged
him to be a man nearing sixty, but he appeared strong and vigorous. He was
dressed with rich unostentation, in grey jacket and breeches, with a
lighter grey, silver-buttoned waistcoat, and stockings to match.
There was only one thing to be talked about in any company in Stafford
that night. What was going to happen? What of truth and substance was
there in the rumours that filled all mouths? At Master Dobson's two
currents of opinion ran violently in opposite directions. The soldiers on
my left were of course certain that the Stuart Prince and his Highland
rabble would be driven back. The towns-people opposite were equally
impressed with the fact that so far he had not been driven back but had
carried all before him.
Sir Ralph had been stoutly maintaining that the rebellion was hopeless.
"There's no getting away from it, Sir Ralph," squeaked Master Dobson,
summing up for the doubtful townsmen; "between the rebels and us this
night there's not thirty miles nor three hundred men, and you've so far
only got about two thousand men in Stafford. I'm as loyal a man as any in
England, but there's no getting away from that."
"Nobody wants to get away from it, Master Dobson," replied Sir Ralph.
"Any body of men with arms in their hands and the knack of using them, can
march much farther than the Highlanders have come, if no other body of
armed men stands in their way. The Stuart Prince's march will come to an
end just as soon as he is opposed, and we're here to oppose him."
Master Dobson was still gloomy. "What sort of men have you got? Raw
militia lads, young recruits, and newly raised dragoons form at least half
of your force in Stafford."
"Agreed," said Sir Ralph, "but we're rapidly licking 'em into shape, and
the Duke will be after us to-morrow with the regulars."
"My good Sir Ralph," put in the mercer, "fifty thousand savage
Highlanders will cut through Stafford as easily as if it were a Cheshire
cheese. I fear the worst."
"My worthy sir," said his lordship, and in his dulcet tones I heard the
tinkle of the mercer's guineas, "you need fear nothing. Neither stick nor
stone in Stafford will be disturbed. We are at least strong enough to make
good terms."
"And Mistress Allwood," said the rector with a leer, "will be spared the
wastage of her charms on a ragged Highlander."
The mercer's wife had all the charms of a withered apple, but here was
opening for discord, and our twittering host staved it off by appealing to
the stranger: "What do you think, Master Freake, of the way things are
going?"
"I have not formed an opinion as to what is likely to happen here, good
Master Dobson," he replied, "but, speaking generally, I should feel much
easier in mind if the Duke's horses were not so utterly worn out."
There was a distinct note of patronage in the tone in which this shrewd
and sensible remark was uttered, nor was this affected, I thought, but
rather the natural manner of a strong man speaking to a weak one.
"Egad, you're right there, sir," cried Jack. "Nineteen out of twenty of
them couldn't be flayed into doing another five miles. I was over an hour
getting them from Milford, under five miles."
"The Highlanders would march it in less," replied Master Freake, "and
this is not a campaign, but a race."
"Where to?" It was Brocton who spoke.
"London," was the prompt reply. "That's the heart of England, my lord,
and if Prince Charles gets into the heart he need not be concerned over
Wade marking time in the heels or the Duke sprawling about in its belly."
"Your speech is light, Master Freake," said the rector with drunken sense
and gravity. "I trust it savoureth not of treasonable hopes."
I turned during this absurd remark to glance at Brocton to see what
effect this excellent summary of the situation had had on him. To my
surprise I caught him looking so meaningly at the pimple-faced Major, that
I felt sure something was going to happen, and I was right.
"God rot the man," said the Major thickly. "Does he say that I'm
sprawling about in somebody's belly?" He staggered to his feet, hand on
sword, and made to cross to the stranger, shouting, "Damnation to you,
I'll thrust something into your belly!"
Brocton, not in the least to my surprise, made no attempt to interfere.
Jack couldn't, for I was in the way. His father began to splutter
helplessly. I shot out my foot, and swept the Major heavily to the floor.
I plucked him up by his collar as if he were a rabbit, and choked him till
his face was nearly black. Then I put him back in his chair, where he sat
huddled up and gasping.
"Sir," said I to him, with much politeness, "you are tired by the
exertions of the evening. But I like a man who sticks up for his
commander, and desire to have the honour of drinking your health." And I
toasted him complacently, smiling the while into his little pig's eyes.
This terminated the trouble, which Master Freake had watched with quiet
amusement. For my own part I was now anxious to go, for I was learning
nothing. Accident favoured me, for a servant came in and whispered
something to Brocton which took him out of the room. I seized the
opportunity to follow, declining to allow Jack to accompany me, and
wishing him good-bye and good luck. "Remember about Kate," were his last
words, whispered eagerly as he loosed my hand and opened me the door.
Several rooms opened on the landing, and I noticed that one door was
ajar. As I passed the slit of light I caught sight of the sergeant of
dragoons, and stopped beyond the door to listen. I heard Brocton's voice,
and caught the words, "Egad, I'll e'en try her. Take the best horse
available. There's no danger, but speed is everything." He dropped his
voice to a whisper and for a moment or two I caught nothing. Then, raising
his voice again, he said, "And now for your prize." I heard him move to
go, and darted ahead, silent as a bat in a barn, and a moment later was in
the noisy street. There was nothing to keep me now, and a few minutes
later I quietly lifted Marry-me-quick's latch, stepped into the room, and
observed at once that Mistress Waynflete's look imported news.
"Now, little mother," said I to Mistress Tonks, "supper's the blessedest
word I know."
"And the rabbit-stew's as good as done by now," she said, and went into
the back room to dish it up.
"The man with the slit face has been," said Mistress Waynflete
composedly. "He came hunting for quarters, but Mistress Tonks frightened
him off. At any rate, he soon left."
"Did he recognize you as 'Moll' of the Hanyards?"
"I'm quite sure that he did not. I turned my back the moment he entered,
and my hood was up. Moreover, I did not speak a word. Mother Tonks said
that I was staying here for the night because my father's house was full
of soldiers. She couldn't and wouldn't, she said, have a soldier here for
all the worshipful mayors in England. I was quite amused at the way she
talked him back to the door and through it."
The little woman bustled in to lay the supper things. She was bubbling
over with elation. "It'll be another ten or fifteen minutes, will the
rabbit-stew. The lady will have told you about ugly mug, Master Oliver. I
got him out in no time. His head was all mouth like a cod-fish. I'll soon
be back. I expect you're both hungry."
Off she bustled again, and we again settled down to our talk. I was
anxious to see if she could throw any light on Brocton's dealing with her
father. His conduct was to me wholly inexplicable. Then, too, there was
his obvious understanding with Major Tixall in the matter of the latter's
attack on Master Freake. Who was this stranger and why had he incurred
Brocton's enmity? Here was a whole string of puzzles awaiting solution.
But before I could start the conversation we were again interrupted. The
latch clicked, the door opened, and in walked my Lord Brocton.
CHAPTER VI
MY LORD BROCTON
I was as new to a life of action as an hour-old duckling is to water, and
this ironical upset of all my plans left me helpless. The very last man
whom I wanted to see Mistress Waynflete was here, his plumed hat sweeping
to the floor, triumph on his handsome face and in his easy, languid tones.
Indeed, more astonishing than his being here, was his manner and bearing.
At Master Dobson's, a natural remark of mine had beaten all his wits out
of him. Here his assurance was such that it puzzled me out of action.
"My sergeant, madam," he began, "no mean judge, since he has seen the
reigning beauties of half the capitals of Europe, told me to expect a
prize, but it is the prize. Master Wheatman, you are not, I am told, as
good a judge of cattle as Turnip Townshend, but you are, let me tell you,
a better one of women. I understand you know. Both acres and solatium
shall be mine in any event. And, dear Margaret, though I do not understand
what your haughtiness is doing here alone with my farmer friend, I need
hardly say that your devoted servant greets you with all humility."
Again his hat curved in mockery through the air. He replaced it on his
head, drew his rapier, with quick turns of his wrist swished the supple
blade through the air till it sang, then flashed it out at me like the
tongue of an adder, and said, "Sit you still, Farmer Wheatman, sit you
still. Move but your hand and I spit you like a lark on a skewer. So,
little man, so!"
The contempt in his words stirred the gall in my liver, but I neither
spoke nor shifted, and he continued, addressing her, but with cold, amused
eyes fixed on me, "You see, sweet Margaret, how yokel blood means yokel
mood. Your turnip-knight freezes at the sight of steel."
In part at least he spoke truth. I had rarely seen a naked sword, other
than our time-worn and useless relic of the doughty Smite-and-spare-not,
and had never sat thus at the point of one drawn in earnest on myself. It
is easy to blame me, and at the back of my own mind I was blaming and
cursing myself, as I sat helpless there. I was keen as the blade he bore
to help her, for here was her hour of uttermost need, but I did not see
that I should be capable of much service with a hole in my heart, and he
had me at his mercy beyond a doubt, so long as he had me in his eye. No,
galling as it was, there was nothing to do but to wait the turn of events.
Something might divert his attention. One second was all I wanted, and I
sat there praying for it and ready for it. Meanwhile the scene, the talk,
and she were full of interest.
Marry-me-quick's cottage was no hovel, either for size or appointments.
Brocton was standing with his back to a dresser. On his left was the outer
door, and on his right, between him and Mistress Waynflete, the door in
the party wall leading to the back room where the rabbit-stew was now
being dished up. Madam and I sat on opposite sides of the large hearth, a
small round table, drawn close to the fire for comfort and covered with
the supper things, occupied part of the space between us, but there was
plenty of room for action. When Brocton had stretched out his rapier
towards me in threat and command, the point was perhaps three feet from my
breast, and he could master my slightest movement.
And Mistress Waynflete. At the bridge in the afternoon I had noticed that
while danger for her father had stirred her heart to its dearest depth,
danger for herself troubled her not one whit. When I looked at her now
there was no fear in her face, which was calm as the face of a pictured