CHAPTER XV
WHICH INTRODUCES A FRIEZE COAT AND ITS WEARER, ONE GEORGE POTTER
“Old gammer du ha’ found ’ersen a man at last!” cried a voice.
“Ah, the danged owd witch du ha’ ’witched hersel’ a sweet’eart fur sure!” roared another.
“An’ sech a nice-lookin’ young man an’ arl!” quoth a matron with a fat baby in her arms, whom Sir John saluted with a bow, whereupon she hid blushing face behind her plump baby.
But as they progressed the crowd grew and, with increasing number, their attitude waxed more threatening; laughter changed to angry mutterings, clods and stones began to fly.
“I waarned ’ee ’ow ’twould be!” quoth old Penelope bitterly. “You’d best leave me an’ run, young man, quick—up the twitten yonder!” Even as she spoke, Sir John was staggered by a well-aimed clod and his hat spun from his head. Setting down the basket, he turned and stood fronting the crowd frowning a little, chin uptilted, serene of eye. Foremost among their assailants was a burly young fellow, chiefly remarkable for a very wide mouth and narrow-set eyes, towards whom Sir John pointed with his holly-stick.
“Pray, Mistress Haryott,” he inquired in his clear, ringing tones, “who is yonder ill-conditioned wight?”
“That?” cried old Penelope in fierce scorn. “It be Tom Simpson, a Lon’on lad ... one o’ th’ Excise as creeps an’ crawls an’ spies on better men——”
“Oh, do I, then!” snarled the burly young man. “I’ll knock your dummed eye out for that, I will!” And he reached for a stone, but checked suddenly as Sir John strode towards him carrying the holly-stick much as if it had been a small-sword.
“Talking of eyes,” quoth Sir John, with a graceful flourish of the stick, “drop that stone, lest I feel it necessary to blind you!” and he made an airy pass at the face of the young man, who leapt back so precipitately that he stumbled and fell, whereupon the crowd, roaring with laughter at his discomfiture, pressed nearer, eager for diversion.
“Doan’t let ’un bloind ’ee, lad!” cried one.
“’E bean’t so big as ’ee, Tom! Tak’ a ’edge-stake tu un!”
“Noa, tak’ my ol’ bat; it du be a good ’eavy ’un, Tom!” cried a second.
The burly young man, finding himself thus the centre of observation, snatched the proffered stick, squared his shoulders and approached Sir John in very ferocious and determined manner, but halted, just out of reach, to spit upon his palm and take fresh hold upon his bludgeon; whereupon the crowd encouraged him on this wise:
“Knock ’is little wig off, Tom!”
“Poke ’is eye out, lad!”
“Aim at ’is nob!”
“Go fur ’is legs!”
Suddenly the burly young man sprang, aiming a terrific blow, but, instead of attempting a parry, Sir John leapt nimbly aside, and the young man, impelled by the force of his stroke, once more stumbled and fell; and then before he could rise, old Penelope commenced to belabour him with her long staff as he lay, panting out maledictions with every blow until the crowd, laughing, shouting, cursing, surged forward to the rescue. Drawing the fierce and breathless old creature behind him, Sir John, seeing escape impossible, faced the oncoming menace strung and quivering for desperate action, while the crowd lashed itself to fury by such cries as:
“Down wi’ the young cock!”
“Scrag the owd witch, lads: to the watter wi’ ’er!”
“Aye, to the river with ’em—both of ’em!” cried Mr. Sturton, loudest of all.
And then forth from one of those narrow lanes, or rather passages that are known as “twittens,” sauntered a man in a short, frieze coat, vast of pocket and button, a wide-shouldered, comely man whose face, framed between neatly trimmed whiskers, wore an air of guileless good-nature. Guilelessness indeed! It was in his eyes despite their lurking twinkle, in the uptrend of his firm lips, the tilt of his nose, his close-cropped whiskers and square chin. Guilelessness beamed in the brass buttons of his short-skirted frieze coat, it was in the very creases of his garments, it seemed to enfold him from boots and gaiters to the crown of his weather-worn hat, it was in the tones of his soft yet resonant voice when he spoke:
“Lor’ love Potter, Mr. Sturton, sir, but ’oo’s been an’ give ye that theer tur’ble eye? Arl black it be, sir, leastways where it bean’t black ’tis green. An’ swole, sir! Lor’ love George Potter’s limbs, it du be a-swellin’ an’ a-puffin’ of itself up that proud, sir! ’Tis most alarmin’, Mr. Sturton! Shame on ye, neighbours; can’t none on ye du nothin’ fur poor Mr. Sturton’s ogle—look at ’ee——” But, uttering a fierce imprecation, Mr. Sturton turned his back, pushed his way angrily into the inn, and slammed the door behind him.
“I never seen a blacker eye, never——”
“Don’t go fur to blame we, Jarge Potter!” quoth a greybeard. “’Tidn’t none o’ our doin’—no!”
“Then what be the trouble, neighbours? What’s to du, good folk?” inquired Mr. Potter.
“It ain’t none o’ your business anyway!” retorted the burly young man sullenly. “We be honest folks, which be more than some can say with y’r poachin’, ah, an’ smugglin’!”
“Hold thy tongue, lad!” cried the greybeard, plucking the burly young man’s arm. “Don’t ’ee see as Jarge be wearin’ ’is ol’ frieze coat?”
“What do I care for ’is old coat!”
“That’s because ye be fullish an’ strange ’ereabouts an’ doan’t know Jarge.”
“Neighbours,” said Mr. Potter in his deep, leisured tones, his placid gaze roving from face to face, “you arl do know as Potter be a peaceable man, so here’s Potter a-beggin’ an’ a-pleadin’ o’ ye to leave old Pen alone—or I’m afeard some on ye might get ’urted—bad, I reckon!” As he spoke, Mr. Potter’s powerful hands disappeared into the deep pockets of his frieze coat, and he took a leisurely pace forward. “Simpson, my lad,” quoth he, nodding kindly at the burly young man, “your mouth’s so oncommon large as you’ll swaller yourself, boots an’ arl, one of these days if ye open it s’wide! So run along, my lad! ’Ome be the word, neighbours; off wi’ ye now—arl on ye. I bean’t a-goin’ t’ plead twice wi’ no one.”
Mr. Potter’s brow was smooth, guilelessness seemed to radiate and beam from his person, but, seeing how the crowd forthwith scattered and melted away, the burly young man betook himself off likewise, muttering darkly.
Then Mr. Potter turned in his unhurried fashion to look at Sir John, and the smile that lurked in the corners of his mouth slowly broadened.
“Young sir,” said he, touching his hat, “who you be or what, bean’t no consarn o’ mine nohow, but, sir, you stood up for a old ’ooman as aren’t got many to tak’ ’er part, d’ye see, an’ so ’ere’s Potter a-thankin’ of you—an’ that is my business, I rackon.”
“Indeed, Mr. Potter, ’twould seem I have to thank you also, you—or your coat——”
“Coat?” repeated Mr. Potter, glancing down at the garment in question as if mildly surprised to behold it. “Aye, to be sure—’tis a old jacket as I use in my trade, d’ye see——”
“A free-trade, I think?” added Sir John.
“Lor’ love ’ee, sir,” sighed Mr. Potter, opening his guileless eyes a trifle wider, “doan’t ’ee tak’ no ’eed o’ what that theer young Simpson says——”
“Mr. Potter,” quoth Sir John, smiling, “a week ago I was shaking hands with Captain Sharkie Nye aboard the True Believer, and I should like to shake yours.”
“What, be you the young gen’leman as crossed wi’ Sir Hector?”
“That same. And my name is Derwent.”
“Why, Mr. Derwent, sir, that du alter the case, I rackon. So theer be Potter’s ’and, sir, and heartily! Ah, an’ yonder be old Penelope a-beckonin’ ... her will curse we shameful if us du keep her waitin’ ... so come ’long, sir.”
“Aye, come y’r ways, du—both on ye!” cried the old creature imperiously. “’Tidn’t often I ’as comp’ny, so I’ll brew ye a dish o’ tay——”
“Tea?” exclaimed Sir John.
“Aye, all the way from Chaney, young man! Tay as costes forty shillin’ a pound an’ more up to Lunnon—tak’ care o’ my old trug! This way—down twitten!”
She led them down a narrow way between the walls of cottages and gardens, and at last to a very small cottage indeed, a forlorn little structure, its garden trampled, its broken window-panes stuffed with old rags to exclude the elements, itself all dilapidation from rotting thatch to crumbling doorstep.
“And is this your home?” cried Sir John, very much aghast.
“It be, young man. They bruk’ all my lattices months agone, an’ Mr. Sturton won’t put in no more. The chimbley smokes an’ the thatch leaks an’ I gets the ager bad, but it be my home an’ I love every brick. For ’twas here I were born, here I loved and lost, here I hoped to die, but Maaster Sturton be fur turning o’ me out next month ... bean’t ’e, Jarge?”
“’E be,” answered Mr. Potter softly, “dang ’im!”
“Come in, young man, an’ you tu, Jarge—come in; it du be better-lookin’ inside than out.” And indeed, once the door was shut—a particularly stout and ponderous door, Sir John noticed—the small, heavily beamed chamber was cosy and homelike, very orderly and clean, from the polished copper kettle on the hob to the china ornaments upon the mantel.
And now Mr. Potter reached a hand within the mysteries of the frieze coat and drew thence a couple of plump rabbits.
“Found ’em s’marnin’, Pen,” he nodded. “An’ here,” he continued, groping deeper within vast pocket, “’ere be a—no, that be wire ... ’ere—no, that be ’baccy for ’Osea ... ah, ’ere be a lump o’ pork t’ go wi’ ’em, Pen.”
“Thank’ee kindly, Jarge! An’ would ’ee moind a-skinnin’ of ’em whiles I tidies myself up a bit?”
“Heartily, Pen.”
“An’ you, young man, poke up the fire an’ put on the kittle t’ bile ... there be a pump in the yard.”
Having performed these duties, Sir John, seating himself on a bucket beside the pump, watched Mr. Potter deftly operate upon the rabbits, and there ensued the following conversation:
MR. POTTER: Stayin’ ’ereabouts, sir?
SIR JOHN: At the ‘Dering Arms.’
MR. POTTER: Stayin’ long, sir?
SIR JOHN: I hope so.
MR. POTTER: Why, so du I ... seein’ as you be known to Sharkie an’ Sir ’Ector. And, besides, old Pen du ha’ took to ye fair amazin’ ... an’ she’s an eye like a nawk ’as old Pen, aye, sharp as a gimblet it be. An’ she’s took to ye, d’ye see, sir.
SIR JOHN: I feel truly and deeply honoured.
MR. POTTER: Well, you stood up for ’er s’arternoon agin them fules as meant mischief.
SIR JOHN: She seems to have suffered more than her share.
MR. POTTER: Suffered? Sir, Potter be a peaceable man an’ bloodshed contrariwise to ’is natur’ ... no matter what you ’appen to hear ... but there be some folk as I’d tak’ a deal o’ j’y to skin, d’ye see, like this ’ere! (Mr. Potter held up a newly skinned and pinkly nude rabbit.)
SIR JOHN: Whom do you mean?
MR. POTTER: Ah! ’oo indeed, sir? Potter knows, but Potter’s mum!
SIR JOHN: And yet I think I could guess, if I tried.
MR. POTTER: Why, ye may guess, sir—this be a free country—leastways, fules say so.
SIR JOHN: One, I think, must be Mr. James Sturton. Am I right?
MR. POTTER: Why, as to that, sir, I answers plain and to the point as there be nobody nowhere breathin’ as can get s’much flavour into a jugged ’are ekal to old Pen—except Peter Bunkle as keeps the ‘Cross’ over tu Alfriston.
SIR JOHN: And the second is Lord Sayle. Am I wrong?
MR. POTTER: Why, as to that, sir, Potter don’t say nothing. Du ’ee know Lord Sayle?
SIR JOHN: I have met him.
MR. POTTER: Friend o’ yourn, sir?
SIR JOHN: So much so that I have determined to drive him out of the country, or kill him.
(Here Mr. Potter dropped the rabbit.)
MR. POTTER: Well ... love my limbs! Kill—hist! But ... but you, sir? Axing your pardon, but you aren’t got the look of a killer.
SIR JOHN: Thank you, Mr. Potter, I rejoice to hear it.
MR. POTTER: But—ki—hist! He be pretty big and pretty fierce, sir, an’ you, axing y’r pardon, ain’t exactly——
SIR JOHN: An elephant or a tiger—and yet I feel myself perfectly able to accomplish one or the other, Mr. Potter.
MR. POTTER: Well, love my eyes! He be a fightin’ man too, sir! Somebody stuck a sword into him lately, I hear, but it didn’t do no good; he be as well and ’earty as ever. Now if—hist!
(Here Mr. Potter paused, finger on lip, to glance stealthily around.)
SIR JOHN: If what, Mr. Potter?
MR. POTTER: (Drawing near and speaking in hushed voice) If you be ... set on a-doin’ of it ... very determined on ... the deed, sir, your best way is to—hist! A pistol ... no, a musket ... some good dark night. Hist—Potter’s mum!
SIR JOHN: You don’t love him, I think?
MR. POTTER: Love him? Well, there be things ’as ’appened ’ereabouts as no one can’t swear agin nobody, d’ye see, an’ yet ... old Pen knows more than she dare speak, I rackon, an’ Potter ain’t blind nor yet deaf.
SIR JOHN: What kind of things?
MR. POTTER: Well, theer was poor Dick Hobden as went a-walkin’ one evenin’ Windover way wi’ Lucy Price, a rare handsome lass. Poor Dick were found stone dead next day, but the lass vanished an’ nobody never seen her no more, nor never will, I reckon.
SIR JOHN: Vanished?
MR. POTTER: Ay, like Mary Beal as disappeared and came back and drownded of ’erself, pore lass. There was Ruth Wicks as likewise vanished an’ was found weeks arterwards singin’ in the dark atop o’ Windover ... died mad, she did. There was other lasses as disappeared from Wilmington an’ Litlin’ton an’ never come back.
SIR JOHN: A hateful tale!
MR. POTTER: It be, sir.
SIR JOHN: And whom do you suspect?
MR. POTTER: Mum for that, sir! But there be folk as Potter would be j’yful to ’ave the skinnin’ of——
SIR JOHN: You mean my Lord Sayle and Sturton——
MR. POTTER: Hist—sir! Speak soft! I don’t mean nothin’. Only what one bids t’other obeys.... And now Lord Sayle swears he’ll ruin all on us—every man an’ bye, ah, wumman, maid an’ babe, not forgettin’ wives an’ widders.
SIR JOHN: How so?
MR. POTTER: He’s took an oath to put down “the trade,” d’ye see. Potter be a inoffensive creater’ as never drawed steel in his life—except mebbe now and then—I prefers a short bat ... and never fired a shot in all my days—except p’r’aps once or twice an’ then only when com-pelled.... Ah, a peaceable man be Potter, but....
Here Mr. Potter laid finger to lip and looked slantwise at Sir John beneath lifted eyebrow. And then old Penelope called them; and, glancing round, Sir John was amazed to behold her clad in a sumptuous gown whose voluminous silken folds lent her a strangely arresting dignity, while upon her snowy hair was a mob cap marvellously belaced.
“Aye, it be real silk, young man!” quoth she, with a little shake in her voice. “List to it rustle!” And sighing ecstatically, she spread out the rich folds with her gnarled old fingers. “There bean’t a grander dress nowhere.... Jarge give it me las’ Christmas. ’Tidn’t often I wears it, no ... but when I die, I’ll be buried in it—won’t I, Jarge?”
“Aye, aye, Pen!” nodded Mr. Potter. “But, Lord—’oo’s a-talkin’ o’ dyin’! Be the kittle abilin’?”
“Aye, lad, tea’s ready. As for you, young man, if you’ll drink wi’ me as they name witch, an’ bean’t fruttened lest I blast ’ee wi’ a look o’ my eye—come your ways to tea.”
Following her into the cottage, Sir John beheld yet other unexpected wonders, as the handleless cups of exquisite ware, the beautiful Chinese teapot, the tray of priceless Chinese lacquer.
“Aha, you may stare, young man!” nodded old Penelope. “There bean’t a lady in arl the land can show ’ee sech chaney as mine.... Jarge give it tu me!”
“Why, ye see, sir,” added Mr. Potter apologetically, “I bean’t married!”
“An’ look at the lace in my cap, young man ... real French point—arl from Jarge.”
“Why, ye see, sir,” quoth Mr. Potter again, “I aren’t got no sweet’eart!”
And thus Sir John Dering, sitting between old Penelope Haryott the witch, and Mr. George Potter the guileless, drank smuggled tea out of smuggled china, talked and listened, asked questions and answered them, and enjoyed it all uncommonly well.