CHAPTER XIII
CONCERNING THE ADVENT OF JOHN DERWENT
Sir John, who, it would seem, never did things by halves, had within the week transformed that exquisite work of art, known at Paris and Versailles as Sir John Dering, into a very ordinary-looking Mr. Derwent. In place of flowing peruke, embroidered coat and perfumed silks and laces, Mr. Derwent wore a small, unpowdered scratch-wig and a sober, snuff-coloured suit extremely unpretentious, and instead of gold-hilted small-sword, carried a serviceable holly-stick. Indeed, Mr. Derwent’s whole appearance was so eminently unnoticeable and his bearing so ordinary that he might have been termed “insignificant,” except perhaps for a certain tilt of his chin and the brilliance of his long-lashed eyes.
It was a hot, languorous afternoon, birds chirped drowsily, butterflies hovered, and Sir John, or rather Mr. Derwent, seated upon the lofty summit of Firle Beacon, breathed an air fresh from the sea yet fragrant of the wild thyme of the Downs, and hearkened to the larks that soared high above and all around him, filling that same air with their joyous, trilling music: insomuch that he grew joyous also, since this was England and home. Beneath him the majestic Beacon swept down to the wide vale below in great, billowing, green curves of sweet, springy turf where a myriad flowers bloomed; away to the south rose the mighty shape of Windover, and between, a far-stretching vale where homestead and hamlet nestled amid trees that bosomed time-worn tower and ancient spire, backed by shady copse, denser wood and the dark, far-flung forest of Battle; a fair and wide prospect where brooks sparkled, a winding river gleamed and white roads ran between shady hedgerows and flowery banks; a vast expanse where the unwearied gaze might rove from distant Lewes away to Pevensey Level and a haze that was the sea.
So lost was Sir John in the ever-changing wonder of the scene that he started suddenly, beholding one who had approached unheard upon the velvet ling, a man who also surveyed the widespread landscape with eyes of awed delight. A man, this, of no great size yet of powerful build, a man in weather-stained coat, open-kneed breeches and rough shoes and stockings, yet who wore these garments with an unconscious ease, while the face beneath shapeless hat was well-featured and arresting; indeed, there was about his whole person an air of breeding and refinement that Sir John was quick to heed: in one hand he bore a long-barrelled musket, in the other a newly slain rabbit and upon his broad back a small colour-box.
“A glorious prospect, sir!” quoth Sir John.
“Indeed!” nodded the stranger, his gaze still upon the distance. “’Tis a sight to fill a man with wonder, a country to leave that a man may come back to it, to paint because it is so unpaintable ... so simple that it awes a man with its mystery ... a country to live in and die in ... ’tis the Down-country, sir!”
“You know it well, I perceive, sir.”
“Aye,” answered the stranger, seating himself upon the grass. “I know every ring, barrow and tumulus far as you can see—and farther. I have fished every bend o’ yon river and have painted it all so often that I begin to know that I never shall paint it ... no hand ever will! Though, to be sure, I have come nigh doing so once or twice! But what brush can suggest all the sublime majesty of these everlasting hills, yon sweep of valley? So when I’m tempted to try again, I generally bring Brown Bess here that my day be not wholly in vain.” And he patted the long weapon across his knees.
“Do you always shoot conies with a musket, sir?”
“Always!” nodded the painter, with sudden smile. “’Tis a little irregular, mayhap, but ’tis more sport to myself and fairer to the cony. If I miss, which is seldom, my cony is unharmed; when I hit, which I generally do, my cony is swiftly and very completely dead.... You are a stranger hereabouts, I think, sir?”
“Extremely!” answered Sir John.
“Aye, to be sure,” nodded the painter, smiling grimly. “Folk in these parts don’t take kindly to new faces——”
“Being all staunch believers in—free trade.... ‘True-believers’?” suggested Sir John.
“Aha, you’ve heard o’ that elusive craft, then?” inquired the painter, with a keen glance.
“And sailed aboard her a week ago!” nodded Sir John.
“What—the trip they crippled the Seahorse? Were this known ’twould make you at home wi’ all the Down folk hereabouts. For, egad, sir, we’re all smugglers, more or less, and are, on the whole, a very orderly, peaceable community—with the exception of that damned scoundrel, my Lord Sayle, whose life is a scandal in every way.”
“I’ve heard of him, sir; he is said to be a dangerous fellow—an inveterate duellist?” said Sir John.
“Aye, as notorious as Dering of Dering, whose empty house stands in the valley yonder. ’Twould be a blessing to the world in general if these two fine gentlemen could meet and exterminate each other; they have cumbered the earth too long—especially my Lord Sayle, one o’ your merciless rake-hells ... a very masterful libertine of whom I’ve heard such shameful tales—faugh!” and the painter spat in sheer disgust.
“And is my lord a smuggler also?”
“Why, at first he winked at ‘the trade’ and took many a bale and cask as a bribe, but later he demanded a percentage on every cargo, and, being refused, promptly ratted and set the law in motion, with the result that there’s been wild doings hereabouts o’ late and may be wilder yet. The excise officers will find theirs a hard task, for, as I say, we’re all ‘in it’ more or less. I’ve drank many a glass of right Nantzy, and even Parson Hartop, godly soul, has smoked tobacco that hath paid no more duty than the laces on my daughter’s petticoat. Are ye travelling far, sir?”
“To High Dering.”
“Ah, ’tis a village over yonder!” said the painter, with a jerk of his head. “’Tis a village, sir, that labours under a blight, a disease, a very effective curse.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Sir John, a little startled.
“Yes, sir. The name of this particular disease is Dering—Sir John Dering.”
“Ah,” sighed Sir John, “I have heard of him also——”
“And little to his good, I’ll warrant!” quoth the painter. “Dering of Dering is the biggest landlord in these parts—and the worst.”
“How so, sir?”
“Owning so much land, he consequently owes a duty to the county and to his tenants—a debt he hath never paid and never will, being a poor fool, sir, a miserable wretch who takes and gives nothing, who passes his life in riot and debauchery shut up in Paris salons when he might be walking these hills a free man, honoured by his tenantry.... Are you staying long hereabouts?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Sir John. “And my name is Derwent.”
“Then, Mr. Derwent, should you find yourself Alfriston way, come and see us. My daughter shall brew you a dish of such tea as you seldom drank before and that never passed the excise ... and I’ve some French brandy——We will smoke a friendly pipe and talk, sir, for to talk is to be alive!” So saying, the painter got lightly to his feet and stood a moment to survey the widespread prospect.
“Look around you!” quoth he. “In the brooding silence of these immemorial hills the long-forgotten dead may find voices to speak of vanished peoples whiles here we stand, you and I, alive for a little space, yet soon to pass and vanish, as they. How glorious, then, whiles we have life, to worship the Infinite God within and around us, here amid these fragrant solitudes ... and to poach an occasional rabbit!” saying which, the painter laughed, shouldered his musket and strode off, leaving Sir John to pursue his solitary and pensive way, filled with a strange new sense of responsibility, until, having descended the Beacon, he reached a stile and, seated thereon, fell to profound meditation.
Across undulating park, shaded by ancient trees, rose the stately pile of Dering Manor, his home; in the valley hard by, sheltered beneath lofty Firle, nestled Dering village; all around him, far as eye could see, the land was his: thus, as he surveyed this goodly heritage, his sense of responsibility grew, a feeling unknown until now.
From these reflections he was suddenly aroused by feeling a sharp prod in the back, and, glancing sharply around, beheld an old man who peered up at him from under a well-brushed, wide-eaved hat and poked at him with a knotted stick; a small, wrinkled, rosy-cheeked, exquisitely neat old man in spotless frock and highly polished boots, and who now addressed him in querulous tones, though his bright eyes held a lurking twinkle.
“Lord, young master, lordy-lord!” he quavered; “there ’ee du set s’ quiet an’ still as Peter Bunkle’s ’og as was killed day afore yesterday ’s ever was, that ’ee du!”
“I was thinking,” answered Sir John, almost apologetically.
“Well, I be thinkin’ tu ... I be thinkin’ ’tis toime ’ee comed off’n stile an’ mak’ way fur a old, ancient man as wur a-buryin’ folk older’n ’ee afore ’ee was born, I reckon.”
Down got Sir John forthwith and, seeing the old man so feeble, reached out a hand in aid, whereupon the ancient man swore at him, though a little breathlessly by reason of his exertions as he climbed.
“Dang’ee—lemme be!” he gasped. “Du ’ee think as oi caan’t cloimb a little bit of a stoile as I’ve clumb, man an’ bye, for seventy year? Lemme be—an’ dang’ee twoice!” Gasping these words and with infinite exertions the old man mounted the stile, seated himself on the top bar in Sir John’s place and, mopping wrinkled brow with the end of a newly washed and ironed neckerchief of vivid hue, nodded at Sir John in very fierce and determined fashion. “Look’ee naow,” he panted. “I’ve set ’ere on this yer stoile fur six-and-sixty year—ah, p’r’aps longer—every sunny arternoon, off an’ on, and ’ere I be a-goin’ to set ’cording to custom, so oi be—an’ dang you an’ arl! An’ what do ’ee say naow?”
“That you are very welcome,” smiled Sir John. “I hope you live to sit there for many a long day; you look hale and hearty——”
“Wot—me?” croaked the old man fiercely. “Me ’ale an’ ’earty! Lordy-lord, young man, ’ee must be a gert fule not t’see as oi du be waastin’ away an’ perishin’ wi’ a disease no doctor nor ’poth’cary can cure. There be ’poth’cary Mayfield, over tu Lewes, sez tu me: ‘’Osea Dumbrell,’ ’e sez, ‘if I wuz tu give ’ee arl th’ drugs in my shop they wouldn’t do ’ee no manner o’ good!’ ’e sez. An’ no wonder, for my disease bean’t no ordinary disease—no! My disease, young man, be a musket-ball in my in’ards as won’t come out no-’ow!”
“A musket-ball!” exclaimed Sir John, staring.
“Ah—in me in’ards!” nodded the old man triumphantly; “as won’t come out! An’ ’twixt you an’ me, a preventive bullet it were. Ketched me ’ere ’twixt wind an’ watter, it did! Six-an’-fifty years ago come Martinmas, an’ brings up agin me backbone wi’ a crack as nigh deafened me; ah, it be gert wonder as it didn’t kill oi stone-dead!”
“Indeed, yes!” murmured Sir John.
“An’ theer it du bide ever since, young man. I can feel it! Whens’ever oi walks tu fast or coughs a spell, that theer old musket-ball goes a-rollin’ an’ a-rattlin’ about in me pore old in’ards summat crool, lordy-lord! Las’ toime I seed Doctor Blake, t’ surgeon, about ’un, ’e shook ’is ’ead solemn-loike: ‘You’m a-goin’ t’ die, ’Osea Dumbrell,’ ’e sez. ‘Aye,’ I sez, ‘so be you, doctor, but as fur oi—when?’ ‘When ye du,’ ’e sez, ‘’twill be mortal sudden!’ ’e sez. That wur years an’ years ago, an’ ’ere be I alive an’ kickin’.... Doan’t seem right some’ow, fur doctor be mortal knowin’. But I doan’t look much loike dyin’, du I?
“No, indeed!” answered Sir John. “And you are surely the neatest, smartest——”
“That’ll du—that’ll du!” croaked the ancient man angrily. “’Tidn’t my fault! Don’t ’ee go a-blamin’ of oi—blame me granddarter Ann! Her du be for ever a-washin’ an’ a-breshin’ an’ a-cleanin’ o’ me, till it be gert wonder ’er don’t scrub me into me grave! Combed all th’ ’air off’n me ’ead, she ’ave, an’ now combin’ out arl me whiskers—what be left of ’em! ’Tidn’t respectful—no! ’Ef ’ee du get dirty,’ ’er sez tu me, ‘no baccy!’ ’er sez—a crool ’ard creeter be me granddarter Ann! Look at me boots, so bright an’ shinin’—I dassent go a-nigh a bit o’ mud! An’ I loike mud—leastways a bit o’ mud don’t nowise ’arm nobody, an’ when it be forbid I could waller in it, j’yful—ah, an’ I will one o’ these days an’ dang arl! A crool, flinty-’earted, brimstone witch be my granddart——”
“Granfer!” called a soft voice at no great distance. “Granfer!”
“By goles!” ejaculated the ancient; and skipping down from the stile with surprising agility, he was in the act of brushing imaginary dust from his immaculate smock-frock when round a bend in the lane there appeared a shapely young woman who, coming thus unexpectedly upon Sir John, blushed very prettily and dropped him a curtsy, then turned to glance at one standing immediately behind her, a tall, square-shouldered, powerful-looking fellow who, meeting Sir John’s quick, bright glance, flushed also, from square chin to the curls of very neat wig that showed beneath neat hat, and, flushing, bowed, though remarkably stiff in the back about it.
“Come, Granfer,” said the girl, “it be toime ye took your egg-an’-milk!”
“Cruel and flinty-hearted?” murmured Sir John reproachfully. “O Mr. Dumbrell!”
“Hesh-hesh!” whispered the ancient fiercely.
“Are ye catchin’ cold, Granfer deary?”
“Brimstone witch? O Mr. Dumbrell!”
“Who be the man ahint ye, Nan?” demanded the old man, pointing with his stick.
“Only the gentleman as took my part’s marnin’ agin Mr. Sturton, Granfer.”
“Sturton!” snarled the ancient, flourishing stick in tremulous hand. “Sturton—dang ’im! Ef I ketch ’im tryin’ t’ kiss ’ee, lass, I’ll break ’is ’ead for ’im so old as I be—aye, I will, an’ ’e can turn us out o’ th’ ow’d cottage arter if ’e loikes—dang ’im! Doan’t ’ee forget pore Mary Beal as drownded ’erself las’ year arl along o’ Sturton——”
“There, there, Granfer, you be gettin’ arl of a shake! That’ll du now, that’ll du or—no puddin’ fur your supper, mind that.”
“Arl right, lass, arl right! Only when I du think o’ that Sturton——”
“Then don’t ’ee, Granfer, or not a scrinch o’ sugar or nutmeg in y’r egg-an’-milk an’ nary a spot o’ rum. So be a good lad an’ come ’long o’ me!”
“Well, Robert,” quoth Sir John, seating himself on the stile again so soon as they were alone, “my letter reached you in time, then?”
“And I’m here in conse-quence, sir!”
“What is all this about Sturton?”
Ex-Corporal Robert shifted his right foot slightly, and raising stiff arm, coughed deprecatingly behind a discreet hand.
“Sir,” he answered, “I regret to be obleeged to inform your honour that I opened hostilities this morning without your honour’s orders, feeling myself obligated thereto by reason of a young fe-male——”
“I suggest ‘maid,’ Robert.”
“Maid, your honour, which young female crying out——”
“Damsel, Robert.”
“Damsel, your honour ... crying out, sir, I observed said young fe——”
“Nymph, Robert.”
“Yes, sir. I ob-served same a-struggling with Mr. Sturton. Whereupon, your honour, judging the ser-cumstances called for indi-vidual action, I opened hos-tilities forthwith.”
“Did Mr. Sturton receive any—injuries, Robert?”
“Only super-facially, sir. His right ogle, your honour; otherwise he retreated in fairly good order, sir.”
“Whiles you comforted the distressed damsel, Bob?”
“I did my endeavour, sir,” answered the ex-corporal, imperturbable as ever.
“Extreme commendable in you, Robert, for hitherto you have not been precisely a ‘squire o’ dames.’”
“Heretofore, sir, I have preferred horses.”
“And egad,” sighed Sir John wistfully, “’twould almost seem you were the wiser, Bob! For though horses may balk they cannot talk, they may break your neck but they cannot break your heart.... ’S life, Bob, ’tis subject suggestive for a lampoon on the Sex!... ‘The Jade Equine and Feminine,’ or ‘The Horse the Nobler Animal.’ ... It promiseth, Robert, it promiseth!... Hum! Though horses may balk, women will talk; break your necks, falsest sex. Though horses unseat ye they cannot ill-treat ye. What though they be glandered no fame ha’ they slandered. Though horses go lame they never defame. Yes, it promiseth exceeding well!” and out came Sir John’s memorandum. And after he had been thus busied for some minutes, Robert the Imperturbable spoke:
“Pray what are your honour’s orders?”
“Orders?” repeated Sir John, glancing up a little vacantly. “Though they be spavined ... spavined? ’Twon’t do—’tis a devilish awkward word—eh, Bob?”
“Yes, sir ... and your orders?”
“Aye, to be sure,” sighed Sir John, “you will pursue every inquiry and research in regard to Mr. James Sturton ... and inquire for me at the ‘Dering Arms’ about six o’clock this evening.”
“As Mr. Derwent, your honour?”
“As Mr. Derwent. And, by the way, Bob ... concerning the granddaughter of our ancient Mr. Dumbrell—her name is Ann, I think?”
“So I am give to understand, sir.”
“She is a fine, handsome creature, Robert?”
“Yes, your honour.”
“With a neat foot and a low, sweet voice.”
“Yes, your honour.”
“Some sage philosopher hath it, Bob, that ‘a pretty foot is the one element of beauty that defieth Time,’ but I, who pretend to some little discernment in such matters, incline to the belief that a low, soft-sweet voice may endure even longer.”
“Indeed, your honour?”
“Remembering which ... and Mr. Sturton’s apparently unwelcome attentions, I think ’twere as well you should keep an eye on old Mr. Dumbrell’s granddaughter, Robert.”
“Very good, sir!” answered the ex-corporal, and with a movement that was something between bow and salute, he wheeled and strode away, leaving Sir John, perched upon the stile, hard at work upon his lampoon.