CHAPTER XXIV
OF MR. BUNKLE AND THE ROOM WITH FIVE DOORS
Ten o’clock was striking, and the old Cross, deserted and solitary, looked down upon a silent village; and Sir John Dering, leaning out from his open lattice, looked down upon the old Cross. Alfriston slept, and had done so for an hour or more apparently, like the highly decorous community it was; not a footfall disturbed its chaste silence, not a light glimmered anywhere.
A mournful wind moaned in fitful gusts, the signboard of ‘The Star,’ farther down the street, creaked dismally, but, save for this, all was brooding peace and reposeful silence.
But presently Sir John’s quick ear distinguished a sound not of the wind, though like the wind fitful—a faint throb of galloping hoofs, now lost, now heard again, growing ever louder; on they came, nearer and nearer, until the dark street rang and echoed, but never a door opened, never a light blinked, not even when they slowed to a trot, to an amble, to a walk, and finally stopped outside the inn of the ‘Market Cross’; Alfriston slept on serenely persistent.
The moon, though obscured by a flying scud, yet gave sufficient light to disclose the shape of horse and rider looming gigantic in the dimness. Ensued the creak of saddle and stamp of heavy foot as the horseman alighted, and thereafter a knocking soft but imperative.
“Bunkle!” quoth a voice—“Peter Bunkle! Are ye there, Peter man?” From somewhere adjacent Mr. Bunkle answered, his voice sounding remarkably wide awake:
“Be that y’rself, sir?”
“Aye. Are the lads by, yet?”
“Not yet, sir. But I doan’t expect ’em for another ’arf-hour. Be aught wrong, sir?”
“Soldiers.”
“Wheer away?”
“Lyin’ ambushed over by Exeat, an’ there’s more of ’em ’twixt here and Frogfirle. I tell ye the country’s thick with ’em.... I was stopped twice.... There’ll be bloody murder ere dawn, Peter man!”
“Why, sir, Jarge Potter knows, an’ Jarge aren’t nowise to be caught nappin’ nohow. ’E’ll send the lads cross-country wi’ the stuff, I rackon, an’ lead they so’jers a foine dance.... Bide a moment an’ I’ll let ye in.” Here, after brief delay, the sound of opening door, a heavy tread, a squeak of bolts and silence again, except for moaning wind and the snort of the horse below.
Then Sir John closed his lattice, and, taking up the candle, stood awhile lost in thought; finally he stepped from his chamber, closing the door behind him, and descended the stair, to find himself in a crooked passage full of dim nooks, odd corners and unexpected levels. Presently, guided by a murmur of voices, he espied a small door coyly hidden in most unlikely corner, and, lifting the latch, beheld a small, strangely shaped apartment further remarkable in that it possessed two windows and five doors; and here, in an elbow-chair before a smouldering fire, lolled the gigantic form of Sir Hector Lauchlan MacLean. His riding-coat was dusty like his long, booted legs outstretched upon the hearth, his unkempt periwig excessively askew; in one hand he held his cherished clay pipe, in the other a steaming glass that gave forth a delectable fragrance, while Mr. Bunkle busied himself at the table with a bowl and ladle.
At the sudden opening of the door, both men glanced up, and Sir Hector rose hastily.
“John!” he exclaimed.
Sir John bowed in his stateliest fashion, and so they confronted each other, Sir Hector flushed of cheek and frowning a little as one at a loss; Mr. Bunkle, suspending his operations, looked from one to the other and, with instinctive delicacy, opened the nearest of the five doors and incontinently vanished. Sir Hector set down his glass and drew himself to his extremest height, so that the curls of his peruke brushed the carven beam above.
“Sir John Dering!”
Sir John’s bow was entirely formal, whereupon Sir Hector puffed furiously at his pipe, but, finding it was out, laid it very carefully beside his glass and scowled blacker than ever.
“Sir John,” quoth he in his most precise English, “on the last occasion we had speech I felt constrained to tell you that you—lied!”
“Alas, yes!” sighed Sir John.
“And I named you liar because circumstances and your very evil reputation seemed more than to warrant it.”
“Perchance they did, sir,” murmured Sir John.
“Under the which circumstances, I was bound to draw upon you,” continued Sir Hector ponderously, “and you, sir, refused to fight, and stomached the insult. Well, sir, are you suffering from an indigestion? Have you thought better of your refusal?”
“I have!” answered Sir John. “Better and better.”
“Why, then, sir,” answered Sir Hector, reaching for his long Andrea Ferrara from adjacent corner, “there will be plenty of space for us in the tap-room——”
“But your arm, sir?” demurred Sir John.
“Tush—’tis well! Besides,’twas my left. But where is your sword?”
“Upstairs, sir, where it will surely remain,” answered Sir John, and smiled. And, meeting this smile, Sir Hector loosed his great weapon very suddenly, much as if it had burned his fingers.
“Johnnie—Sir John,” he stammered, “what d’ye mean? Why are you here?”
“Surely, Hector, oh, surely you can guess—you that were my father’s comrade and my best friend?”
Sir Hector turned to stare down into the fire, and when next he spoke, voice and manner were wholly changed.
“Sir John ... John ... O Johnnie lad ... is it forget an’ forgi’e ye mean ... for auld lang syne? Can ye forgi’e so deadly an insult? Na—na, lad, bide a wee!... Mebbe I was o’er hasty wi’ ye ... mebbe I was no’ juist mysel’ ... mebbe—oh, my certie, I was a muckle fule.... So, John—Johnnie man, if——”
“Why, Hector,” exclaimed Sir John, setting down the candle rather hastily, “’tis all forgotten long since, and ... and ... i’ faith, Hector, but your wig is most damnably askew! Stand still and let me straighten it for thee!”
And so Sir John reached up and resettled Sir Hector’s peruke as he had been wont to do as a boy coaxing forgiveness for some fault, or as a youth soothing the anger of a none too stern guardian; and somehow Sir Hector’s great arm, as it had ever done on such occasions, crept about Sir John’s shoulders and rested there.
“John,” quoth he, “I’m gettin’ auld ... and age, lad, is aye solitary.... We maun quarrel nae mair, Johnnie!”
“Never again, Hector.”
“Forbye, there’s nae wumman worth it—no, not one in a’ this warld, lad ... much less yon besom! An’ I gave ye the lie, John—you as ne’er leed tae me in a’ y’r days.... I tak’ it back—I withdraw it, John, every word, here and now. I did ye wrang, Johnnie, I did ye muckle wrang, an’ a’ by reason o’ yon feckless wench! I’m glad she ran awa’ ... though I’ll no deny I’ve been a wee lonesome o’ late! Ah well, come, lad, we’ll tak’ a glass an’ forget it—a wee drappie o’ Bunkle’s gumboo whilk is a concoction ye’ll no’ find in ony place but in Sussex, an’ worthy sic a sweet country. Ye’ll drink wi’ me, John?”
“With all my heart, Hector! But pray remember that my name is still Derwent.”
Sir Hector nodded and rapped gently on the panelling, at which summons one of the five doors opened and Mr. Bunkle reappeared, though from a totally opposite point of the compass; but scarcely had he, smiling and deft, fulfilled Sir Hector’s order and Sir John raised the fragrant beverage to his lips, than yet another door was softly unlatched and Robert the Imperturbable halted upon the threshold.
“Sirs,” said he, favouring them with that movement that was neither salute nor bow and yet something of both, “think it proper to report sounds of distant musketry.”
“Musketry, Robbie?” exclaimed Sir Hector. “Musketry, d’ye say?”
“The same, sir!”
“Did I no’ tell ye, Peter man, did I no’ tell ye? There’s murder afoot! And a’ by reason o’ that de’il Sayle, damn him!”
Silently Mr. Bunkle led the way into his unlighted tap-room and, opening the wide lattice, they stood there in the dark, hearkening with straining ears; and presently, borne upon the wind from afar, came the faint report of firearms, four or five shots in rapid succession.
“That’ll be ’twixt here an’ Exeat, I rackon,” quoth Mr. Bunkle.
“O man!” cried Sir Hector bitterly, “is it no’ a fearfu’ thocht that Sussex lads—aye, neighbours belike, may be murderin’ each ither?”
“Why, sir,” answered Mr. Bunkle, “it be only the sojers, d’ye see——”
“The soldiers!” exclaimed Sir Hector, “and ’tis Sayle hath brought ’em! Look’ee, John, hitherto all men, coastguard, preventive and trader, being Sussex men, have lived together like brothers—which, according to ‘The Word,’ is a vera desirable an’ blessed thing, y’ ken, John—not that I haud wi’ the nee-farious traffic, mind ye, but ... but ... aweel, damn Sayle, onyway!”
“’Eartily, sir! But never worrit,” admonished Mr. Bunkle philosophically. “Arter arl, it be only sojers a-shootin’ in the dark ... an’ even roses ’as thorns, sir, and——” Here Mr. Bunkle paused as more shots rang out.
“Tae the de’il wi’ y’r thorrns, man!” cried Sir Hector, “yon was much nearer.”
“Why, so it were, sir,” Mr. Bunkle admitted; “but they be only shootin’ at Jarge Potter, I do ’ope——”
“Hope, man, hope?” questioned Sir Hector fiercely.
“Aye, sir; ye see, whiles they sojers was a-laying in wait for Jarge, Jarge were a-layin’ in wait for they wi’ ponies an’ tubs arl complete an’ ’arf a dozen stout lads. Well, sirs, s’ soon as they sojers spy Jarge, away Jarge goes, though not too fast, an’ they sojers arter ’im. Jarge do know every yard o’ the country ’ereabouts, ah, blindfold ’e do—an’ leads they sojers up an’ down an’ ’ere an’ there by the ’ardest ways ’till, being a-top of an ’ill, Jarge gi’es the word, the lads unloose a tub an’ away goes that theer tub a-rollin’ an’ a-boundin’ down a-top o’ they sojers, d’ye see, an’ away goes Jarge again in the dark ’till ’e feels like lettin’ they sojers ’ave another ’un an’ another ’till arl ’is tubs be gone ... an’ then gallop it is an’ away goes Jarge leavin’ they sojers wi’ naun to show for their ’ard labour ’cept mud an’ gubber an’ bruises, d’ye see!”
“Ah—but the tubs, Peter man, they hae the tubs!”
“Oh ah, sir, they ’ave the tubs—plenty on ’em, sir, full o’ ditch-watter! And the rest o’ the lads safe away wi’ the stuff—ah, it should be arl stowed safe an’ sound by now, I rackon! So doan’t ye worry your ’ead nor yet grizzle, Sir ’Ector. They sojers woan’t never ketch Jarge, not by no means, an’ in a bit they’ll be a-marchin’ back a-carryin’ o’ they tubs o’ watter mighty careful an’ that ’appy-’earted, sir—like birds they’ll be—’till they finds out, d’ye see. So——”
Here Mr. Bunkle’s eloquence was again disturbed by shooting, a scattered volley so much nearer and louder that Sir John instinctively peered from the casement expecting to see the village start from its slumbers in clamorous dismay. But Alfriston slumbered on; it seemed as serenely unperturbed by such trivial happenings as the old Cross itself, which has doubtless known overmuch of the like episodes in its weary length of days; not a door opened, not a light glimmered, not a sound broke the chaste quiet of its street save blustering wind and creaking sign.
“Aweel, aweel, I’m awa’!” quoth Sir Hector, taking hat and cloak. “Say what ye will, Bunkle man, musket-balls be ill things day or nicht, ye ken, an’ amang the lads oot yonder be braw friends o’ mine, so I’m awa’——”
“What to do, Hector?” inquired Sir John.
“Wha kens, lad, wha kens! But yon men ha’ drunk wi’ me an’ grupped ma hand in friendship, an’ I’ll dae wha’ I may for ’em, be they smugglin’-bodies or no.”
“Why, then, I’ll come with ye, Hector——”
“Na, na, John! Hoot-toot, dinna be sic a muckle fule—”
“If you go, Hector, so do I.”
“But think, John, gin ye’re taken by Sayle’s soldiers, damn him!”
“Your risk shall be mine, Hector!”
“Well spoke, sir!” nodded Mr. Bunkle. “Sir ’Ector must not be mixed up in to-night’s business, not no’ow, sir, so if you be his friend——”
“Bunkle man, hand that clapper o’ yours!” cried Sir Hector.
“Your hat and cloak, sir!” said the imperturbable Robert.
“Lead on, Hector, we follow!”
“John, ye’re an unco’ obstinate, self-willed——”
“I am,” laughed Sir John, folding long cloak about him—“especially to-night!”
“Umph-humph!” exclaimed Sir Hector, and strode forth of the inn.