The Tory Lover 53

The Tory Lover 53

He started as he read the brief page before him; the news of the letter

was amazingly welcome. It was written by some one who knew his most

intimate affairs. The chance had come to give up the last and best of

those papers which he had stolen from the captain’s desk. For this

treasure he had asked a great price,—so great that Thornton would not

pay it at Brest, and Ford’s messenger had laughed him in the face. Now

there was the promise of the money, the whole noble sum. Word of his

being with Paul Jones had somehow reached Bristol. The crafty captain

had been unwise, for once, in speaking with this make-believe

coppersmith, and the play was up! The writer of the letter said that a

safe agent would meet Mr. Dickson any night that week at seven o’clock,

at the inn by Old Passage, to pay him his own price for certain papers

or information. There was added a handsome offer for the body of Paul

Jones, alive or dead, in case he should not be in custody before that

time. The letter was sealed as other letters had been, with a device

known among Thornton’s errand runners.

 

"Old Passage!" repeated the happy Dickson. "I must now find where that

place is; but they evidently know my present situation, and the inn is

no doubt near!"

 

He stepped softly to the cabin hatchway, and looked down. The captain’s

face was turned aside, and he breathed heavily. The chart of that coast

was within easy reach; Dickson took it from the chest where it lay,

since it was an innocent thing to have in hand. There was all the shore

of the Severn and the Bristol Channel, with the spot already marked

nearest Westbury church where the captain was likely to land; and here

beyond, at no great distance, was Old Passage, where a ferry crossed the

Severn. He should have more than time enough for his own errand and a

good evening ashore, while Paul Jones was riding into Bristol, perhaps

to stay there against his will. For the slight trouble of ripping a few

stitches in his waistcoat seams and taking out a slip of paper, Dickson

would be rich enough at that day’s end.

 

"Yes, I ’ll go to the southward when I reach America, and start anew,"

he reflected. "I ’ve had it very hard, but now I can take my ease.

This, with the rest of my savings, will make me snug."

 

He heard the captain move, and the planks of the berth creak in the

stuffy cabin. They were running free before the east wind, and were

almost at the fishing grounds.

 

 

 

 

*XLII*

 

*THE PASSAGE INN*

 

"The Runlet of Brandy was a loving Runlet and floated after us out of

pure pity."

 

 

Just before nightfall, that same day, two travel-worn men came riding

along a country road toward Old Passage, the ancient ferrying-place

where travelers from the south and west of England might cross over into

Wales. From an immemorial stream of travel and the wear of weather, the

road-bed was worn, like a swift stream’s channel, deep below the level

of the country. One of the riders kept glancing timidly at the bushy

banks above his head, as if he feared to see a soldier in the thicket

peering down; his companion sat straight in his saddle, and took no

notice of anything but his horse and the slippery road. It had been

showery all the afternoon, and they were both spattered with mud from

cap to stirrup.

 

As they came northward, side by side, to the top of a little hill, the

anxious rider gave a sigh of relief, and his horse, which limped badly

and bore the marks of having been on his knees, whinnied as if in

sympathy. The wide gray waters of the Severn were spread to east and

west; the headland before them fell off like a cliff. Below, to the

westward, the land was edged by a long line of dike which walled the sea

floods away from some low meadows that stretched far along the coast.

Over the water were drifting low clouds of fog and rain, but there was a

dull gleam of red on the western sky like a winter sunset, and the wind

was blowing. At the road’s end, just before them, was a group of gray

stone buildings perched on the high headland above the Severn, like a

monastery or place of military defense.

 

As the travelers rode up to the Passage Inn, the inn yard, with all its

stables and outhouses, looked deserted; the sunset gust struck a last

whip of rain at the tired men. The taller of the two called impatiently

for a hostler before he got stiffly to the ground, and stamped his feet

as he stood by his horse. It was a poor tired country nag, with a kind

eye, that began to seek some fondling from her rider, as if she harbored

no ill will in spite of hardships. The young man patted and stroked the

poor creature, which presently dropped her head low, and steamed, as if

it were winter weather, high into the cool air.

 

The small kitchen windows were dimly lighted; there was a fire burning

within, but the whole place looked unfriendly, with its dark stone walls

and heavily slated roof. The waters below were almost empty of

shipping, as if there were a storm coming, but as the rider looked he

saw a small craft creeping up close by the shore; she was like a French

fishing boat, and had her sweeps out. The wind was dead against her out

of the east, and her evident effort added to the desolateness of the

whole scene. The impatient traveler shouted again, with a strong,

honest voice that prevailed against both wind and weather, so that one

of the stable doors was flung open and a man came out; far inside the

dark place glowed an early lantern, and the horses turned their heads

that way, eager for supper and warm bedding. There seemed to be plenty

of room within; there was no sound of stamping hoofs, or a squeal from

crowded horses that nipped their fellows to get more comfort for

themselves. Business was evidently at a low ebb.

 

"Rub them down as if they were the best racers in England; give them the

best feed you dare as soon as they cool,—full oats and scant hay and a

handful of corn: they have served us well," said Wallingford, with great

earnestness. "I shall look to them myself in an hour or two, and you

shall have your own pay. The roan’s knees need to be tight-bandaged.

Come, Hammet, will you not alight?" he urged his comrade, who, through

weariness or uncertainty, still sat, with drooping head and shoulders,

on his poor horse. "Shake the mud off you. Here, I ’ll help you, then,

if your wound hurts again," as the man gave a groan in trying to

dismount. "After the first wrench ’t is easy enough. Come, you ’ll be

none the worse for your cropper into soft clay!" He laughed cheerfully

as they crossed the yard toward a door to which the hostler pointed

them.

 

The mistress of the inn, a sharp-looking, almost pretty woman, suddenly

flung her door open, and came out on the step to bid them good-evening

in a civil tone, and in the same breath, as she recognized their forlorn

appearance, to bid them begone. Her house was like to be full, that

night, of gentlefolk and others who had already bespoken lodging, and

she had ceased to take in common wayfarers since trade was so meagre in

these hard times, and she had been set upon by soldiers and fined for

harboring a pack of rascals who had landed their run goods from France

and housed them unbeknownst in her hay barn. They could see for

themselves that she had taken down the tavern sign, and was no more

bound to entertain them than any other decent widow woman would be along

the road.

 

She railed away, uncontradicted; but there was a pleasant smile on

Wallingford’s handsome face that seemed to increase rather than diminish

at her flow of words, until at last she smiled in return, though half

against her will. The poor fellow looked pale and tired: he was some

gentleman in distress; she had seen his like before.

 

"We must trouble you for supper and a fire," he said to the landlady.

"I want some brandy at once for my comrade, and while you get supper we

can take some sleep. We have been riding all day. There will be a

gentleman to meet me here by and by out of Bristol," and he took

advantage of her stepping aside a little to bow politely to her and make

her precede him into the kitchen. There was a quiet authority in his

behavior which could not but be admired; the good woman took notice that

the face of her guest was white with fatigue, and even a little

tremulous in spite of his calmness.

 

"If he ’s a hunted man, I ’ll hide him safe," she now said to herself.

It was not the habit of Old Passage Inn to ask curious questions of its

guests, or why they sometimes came at evening, and kept watch for boats

that ran in from mid-channel and took them off by night. This looked

like a gentleman, indeed, who would be as likely to leave two gold

pieces on the table as one.

 

"I have supper to get for a couple o’ thieves (by t’ looks of ’em) that

was here last night waiting for some one who did n’t come,—a noisy lot,

too; to-night they ’ll get warning to go elsewhere," she said, in a loud

tone. "I shall serve them first, and bid them begone. And I expect

some gentlefolk, too. There ’s a fire lit for ’em now in my best room;

it was damp there, and they’d ill mix with t’ rest. ’T is old Mr.

Alderman Davis a-comin’ out o’ Bristol, one o’ their great merchants,

and like to be their next lord mayor, so folks says. He ’s not been

this way before these three years," she said, with importance.

 

"Let me know when he comes!" cried Wallingford eagerly, as he stood by

the fireplace. There was a flush of color in his cheeks now, and he

turned to his companion, who had sunk into a corner of the settle.

"Thank God, Hammet," he exclaimed, "we ’re safe! The end of all our

troubles has come at last!"

 

The innkeeper saw that he was much moved; something about him had

quickly touched her sympathy. She could not have told why she shared his

evident gratitude, or why the inn should be his place of refuge, but if

he were waiting for Mr. Davis, there was no fault to find.

 

"You ’ll sleep a good pair of hours without knowing it, the two of you,"

she grumbled good-naturedly. "Throw off your muddy gear there, and be

off out o’ my way, now, an’ I ’ll do the best I can. Take the left-hand

chamber at the stairhead; there’s a couple o’ beds. I ’ve two suppers

to get before the tide turns to the ebb. The packet folks ’ll soon be

coming; an’ those fellows that wait for their mate that’s on a fishing

smack,—I may want help with ’em, if they ’re ’s bad ’s they look. Yes,

I ’ll call ye, sir, if Mr. Davis comes; but he may be kept, the weather

is so bad."

 

Hammet had drunk the brandy thirstily, and was already cowering as if

with an ague over the fire. Wallingford spoke to him twice before he

moved. The landlady watched them curiously from the stair-foot, as they

went up, to see that they found the right room.

 

"’T is one o’ the nights when every strayaway in England is like to come

clacking at my door," she said, not without satisfaction, as she made a

desperate onset at her long evening’s work.

 

"A pair o’ runaways!" she muttered again; "but the tall lad can’t help

princeing it in his drover’s clothes. I ’ll tell the stable to deny

they ’re here, if any troopers come. I ’ll help ’em safe off the land

or into Bristol, whether Mr. Alderman Davis risks his old bones by night

or not. A little more mercy in this world ain’t goin’ to hurt it!"