CHAPTER XXIX
GIVETH SOME DESCRIPTIONS OF A TEA-DRINKING
“’Tis most excellent tea!” quoth my lady. “I vow I have never drank better!”
“Arl the way from Chaney, mam.”
“And these beautiful dishes!”
“Chaney, too!” nodded old Penelope proudly. “An’ look at my teapot! I means to tak’ it along wi’ me when they do turn me out, though ’twill be a bit ’ard to carry, I rackon. But ye see, mam, I——”
“Nay, godmother, call me Rose.”
“No, mam, it doan’t come easy to my tongue.”
“I may call you Penelope, mayn’t I?”
“For sure!”
“And fairy godmother?”
“Aye, though I be more witch than fairy, I rackon.”
“Then, godmother Penelope, pray call me Rose.”
“Rose, then!” she snapped.
“I think,” said Sir John in his pleasant voice, “you have some message for me, Mrs. Penelope?”
“Gimme time, young man, gimme time! I bean’t kissed an’ called a fairy every day, so gimme——” She paused suddenly and seemed to listen intently, “I rackon you’d best be goin’—both on ye!”
“But why, pray?” demanded my lady.
“Happen I’ll ha’ trouble here presently.”
“Then, of course, I shall stay with you!” quoth my lady in her most determined manner, but glanced round sharply, as upon the back door of the cottage sounded three soft raps repeated three several times.
“That will be Mr. Potter, I think,” said Sir John. “Shall I let him in?”
“Since ye seem to know arl about it, young man, ye may.”
Scarcely had Sir John loosed the bolts than, sure enough, Mr. Potter slid into the room and proceeded to lock and bolt and chain the door, further securing it with a stout iron bar that he reached from adjacent corner; thus busied, he spoke, albeit gasping a little with his late exertions.
“They nigh ’ad me once, Pen ... but I slipped ’em ... t’other side the ... ’anging wood. But I’ve gotten an ’are for ye ... a praper big ’un as I took ... in Dering Park and ... by the Pize!” he exclaimed as, turning, he espied my lady.
Mr. Potter was hardly himself, for his hat was gone, his clothes were torn and stained with the mud and green slime of damp hiding-places, while his unkempt hair clung in elf-locks about an unshaven face, grimed with dust and streaked with sweat; moreover, beneath one arm he carried a short, though very formidable bludgeon.
“Who is this horrid person?” demanded my lady, and took up the boiling kettle in her defence.
“By Goles!” ejaculated Mr. Potter, and, eyeing her heroic proportions and determined air, retreated to the door.
“Rose,” said Sir John, intervening, “it is my joy to present my friend, Mr. George Potter. Mr. Potter—Mrs. Rose!”
“Friend?” she repeated. “Your friend? Is he a murderer or merely a thief?”
“Neither, child. He is simply a friend o’ mine temporarily embarrassed by—circumstances.”
Mr. Potter made a leg and touched an eyebrow in polite salutation, and diving into the inner mysteries of the frieze coat, brought thence a large hare, which he laid upon the little dresser. Quoth he, “Theer ’e be, Pen! ’E should keep ’ee goin’ for a day or so, I rackon.”
“Aye, Jarge, an’ thank’ee!”
“An’ now I’ll better be goin’.”
“What be your ’urry, lad? There be rum i’ the cupboard an’ kittle’s a-biling.”
“Aye, I see it be!” answered Mr. Potter, retreating to the door again.
“Then sit ’ee down, do!”
“Why, y’see, Pen, Oxham an’ ’is men be a-seekin’ ’ereabouts, an’ I won’t ’ave ’em mak’ trouble for you arl along on account o’ pore Potter——”
“Bah!” exclaimed old Penelope fiercely. “What do I care for ’em! They can’t frutten me. So sit ye down, Jarge.”
“Why, I bean’t ’ardly fit for comp’ny, Pen, and——” Mr. Potter suddenly held his peace, and they heard a distant shout, a clamour of voices, a growing hubbub. “They’ve winded me, I rackon!” said he.
“Aye,” nodded Penelope composedly, “they’ll be breakin’ the door in prensly! So get ye below, Jarge; get ye down under stone.”
“No, no, Pen, they’ll come here sure an’ pull the old place t’ bits, an’ if they should find me ’twould be bad for us both! No, I’ll cut stick whiles I can, Pen!” And, crossing to the front door, Mr. Potter reached to draw the bolts then hesitated and stood listening, while old Penelope peered through the lattice.
“Ye be too late, Jarge,” said she calmly, “there be three or four of ’em waitin’ for ye in the road.”
“An’ pore Potter thought as he’d tricked ’em in Dering Wood!” sighed Mr. Potter gloomily. “An’ if they tak’ me in your cottage, Pen, they’ll take you ’long as my accomplish——”
“Let ’em!” said she serenely. “But as for you, get ’ee down under stone quick!”
Mr. Potter still hesitated, hearkening to the shouts and hallooing, the awful sound of the hue and cry that grew louder every moment.
“What is it?” questioned my lady, clasping her hands, for the terror seemed all about the cottage. “Oh, what does it mean?”
“Hold y’r tongue, lass!” answered Penelope. “You’ll know soon enough, I rackon!”
“The witch’s cottage!” boomed a voice. “The old hag’ll know where t’ find him, sure!” Here a clamour of assent. “If she doan’t open the door, burst it in!” boomed Mr. Oxham again.
“I be main grieved for this, Pen!” sighed Mr. Potter, crossing to the hearth in his leisured fashion, “but what is to be—must be!” So saying, he thrust an arm up the wide chimney and pulled lustily at some hidden object, whereupon was a creaking sound and my lady shrank back, uttering a gasp of surprise to see the broad hearthstone sink from sight and in its place a yawning cavity.
“Quick, Jarge!” warned Penelope, still peering from the lattice.
“If they dogs start ill-usin’ of ’ee, Pen, I be a-comin’ up!” quoth Mr. Potter, seating himself upon the floor, his legs a-dangle in the void below. “You, Mus’ Derwent,” he continued appealingly, “you took ’er part once afore——”
“And will again,” answered Sir John cheerily, “so down with ye, man; trust me, old Penelope shall suffer no harm.”
“God bless ’ee, sir!” growled Mr. Potter, and immediately vanished, whereupon the hearthstone rose demurely into place and became as innocent-seeming as any in all Sussex; then, setting the elbow-chair upon it, Penelope sat down and spread her thin, work-worn hands to the comfort of the fire.
“An’ now, my dear,” said she, “if there be any tay left, I’d like another cup.” So, while clamour raged without, my lady manipulated the priceless teapot, and Sir John, noting her firm wrist and untroubled demeanour, smiled happily.
And then was a tramp of feet, violent blows upon the door, and Mr. Sturton’s voice more authoritative than usual:
“Penelope Haryott, open the door! ’Tis me, James Sturton! Open the door, d’ye hear me?”
“Aye, I ’ears ye,” cried the old woman, “an’ I spits!”
“Damned hag!—will ye open?”
“Galler’s-bird, no!”
“Then we’ll break it down!”
“Why, then, break away, an’ a bloody end t’ye, James Sturton!” answered old Penelope, sipping her tea with relish.
A stick shivered one of the few remaining panes of glass in the lattice, and Mr. Oxham’s voice boomed:
“You shall suffer for it, Pen Haryott, when us do come in!”
“Bah!” she laughed in fierce derision. “I be used to suffering!” Here the stout door shook to a fierce blow that seemed the signal for others, for there began a furious battering.
“Sit still, young man,” cried old Penelope above the din, for Sir John had risen—“sit ye still! ’Tis a strong door an’ should hold ’em till we ha’ finished our tea-drinking, I rackon.”
“But,” answered he, as the hammering momentarily subsided, “it seems shameful to permit them to destroy your property——”
“My property!” cried she. “Mine? Lord, you must be a gurt fool of a young man!”
“Howbeit,” he answered, “we will endeavour to quiet ’em; their noise offends me.” So saying, Sir John drew the bolts and, turning the massive key, flung the door wide and thus came face to face with Mr. Oxham supported by some half-score sturdy fellows who crowded the little front garden and kept back the throng of excited villagers.
“Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Oxham, recoiling a step, “so ’tis you again, is it?”
Sir John affably admitted the fact.
“We want George Potter!”
“You usually do, it seems.”
“And we be a-comin’ into this cottage to find him!”
“I think not!”
Here Mr. Sturton pushed his way to the fore.
“Look’ee here, you!” quoth he, wagging bodeful finger, “if you bean’t out o’ this in two minutes we’ll apprehend you as the accomplice o’ this curst smuggler, this rogue Potter as dared to fire on the King’s uniform last night. We means to get him if we ha’ to pull this cottage down. Are ye goin’ to let us in?”
“Where is your search-warrant?” demanded Sir John.
“Search-warrant be damned!” roared Mr. Oxham. “We are here to tak’ George Potter, aye—and the old witch along wi’ him——”
“And I,” answered Sir John, slim hands disappearing into coat-pockets, “am here to prevent you.”
The man Oxham swung up his stick, Sir John stepped lightly back, and his hands flashed to view, each grasping a small, silver-mounted pocket-pistol, very arresting for all their lack of size. “Look’ee, fellow,” quoth he, “I ha’ no particular desire for your blood, but come one step nearer, you or any o’ your men, and I break that man’s leg!”
“Don’t believe him, lads!” cried Sturton. “He’d never dare; the law’s behind us; he’d never dare shoot; ’twould mean hanging or transportation.”
“Very well,” answered Sir John; “pray step forward, Mr. Sturton, and see for yourself.”
“Aye,” quoth Mr. Oxham, “you lead the way, Sturton, an’ we’ll foller!”
Mr. Sturton scowled at the threatening pistol-muzzles, at the serenely determined face behind them, and hesitated, as well he might.
And then, all in a moment, Sir John found matters taken entirely out of his hands; he saw an out-thrust, shapely arm, felt himself pushed aside with surprising ease, and my lady was between him and his would-be assailants. For a moment she faced the astonished crowd proudly contemptuous, and when she addressed them her disdain was such that despite hot anger she never thought to swear.
“Animals,” said she, “get out of my sight!”
For a moment was amazed silence, then rose a murmur, an angry growl.
“Who be the likes o’ her to miscall the likes o’ we?” cried a voice. “She be nobody—look at ’er gownd!”
Then Mr. Oxham spoke:
“You be a fine piece, I’ll allow, mistress, aye—fit for a lord or a dook ye be, but your handsome looks won’t——” Here, suddenly espying the nature of the weapon she held, he shrank and cowered away. “’Ware of her, Sturton!” he cried, but all too late, for with a graceful sweep of her long arm she swung the large pitcher she had hitherto kept hidden, discharging its boiling contents over the huddled crowd in a streaming deluge, whereupon arose screams, curses, groans, a very pandemonium, as these men, who had fronted Sir John’s pistols, retreated in wild confusion. Reaching the road, they halted to stamp and swear, while Mr. Oxham roared threats and cherished scalded face, and Sturton, cursing all and sundry, cried shame on them to “be beat by a damned slip o’ shrewish womanhood!” to such effect that they were presently back again more viciously threatening than ever, though keeping well away from the tall young Amazon who stood with pitcher recharged and the light of battle in her eyes, strung for action, yet supremely disdainful of them, one and all.
So was a momentary respite, for the men, uncertain and a little shamefaced, hung back, despite Sturton’s lashing tongue and Oxham’s bellowing. And then arose warning shouts from their fellows who guarded the roadway, a clatter of horse-hoofs and sounds of sudden strife, whereupon Oxham’s men hastened to join the fray. Thus the turmoil grew, while up rose a swirling cloud of dust wherein men strove hand to hand, a fierce hurly-burly whence ever and anon was heard a wild, eldritch screech of exultation. Suddenly, high above the reeling press, two legs appeared, very helpless legs that writhed and contorted themselves in desperate but futile kickings ere they vanished. Then the close-locked fray was split asunder, and through the seething dust a gigantic form appeared, with a man clutched helpless beneath each mighty arm, and who paused to glare round about and note the havoc he had wrought upon his bruised and dismayed assailants, and to vent another fierce screech of triumph ere he became articulate.
“Ye fules!” he roared. “Dinna anger me—dinna rouse the auld Adam in me or mebbe I’ll be hurtin’ some o’ ye!”
Thus stood Sir Hector Lauchlan MacLean, the very incarnation of strife, hatless and wigless, his clothes rent and torn, his wretched captives struggling vainly in the grasp of his arms, his lean face flushed with the ecstasy of the moment.
“Wha’ stays a MacLean meets the de’il!” quoth he. “An’ here’s MacLean the noo, an’ whaur’s the man tae gainsay him? You, Oxham-laddie, an’ you, Sturton, is it battle and bluidshed ye’re wantin’? If aye, speak the worrd. If no’, get ye oot o’ Dame Haryott’s but-an’-ben, an’ quick aboot it, for I’m fair yearnin’ for a wee mair tulzie-mulzie, y’ ken!”
“We’ve no quarrel wi’ you, Sir Hector,” answered Mr. Oxham sullenly.
“Mair’s the peety, lad, mair’s the peety!” sighed Sir Hector. “But we’ll no’ let a bit quarrel stand betwixt us, man; I can fecht wi’oot any quarrel at a’ when needfu’.”
“We are here, sir,” explained Mr. Sturton, “to arrest the notorious rogue and smuggler, George——”
“Ou aye, I ken that fine!” nodded Sir Hector. “An’, O man, but this smugglin’ ’s an awf’ business, I’ll no’ deny. But Penelope Haryott bides here, y’ ken, an’ she’s an auld body, stricken wi’ years, an’ auld folk lo’e peace an’ quiet! So I’m juist suggestin’ tae ye, Oxham, ma mannie, that ye gang awa’ an’ arrest your smuggler somewhaier else. Is it aye or no?”
“Aye, Sir Hector!” answered Mr. Oxham more sullenly than ever. “And us’ll tell Lord Sayle o’ this here business!”
“Good!” nodded Sir Hector, beginning in his most pedantic English: “Pray carry him my compliments and inform him, on my behalf, that should he experience the burning need of a little gentlemanly satisfaction, Sir Hector MacLean will be happy to meet him at any time, anywhere, with broadsword or rapier, pistol, dirk, or half-pike, right hand or left, to suit his own convenience, and ... aye, an’ damn him intae the bargain for a scoondrel, whateffer! An’ noo, tak’ ye’sels hence—awa’ wi’ ye or I’ll be crackin’ y’r twa thick heids taegither.”
Thus stood Sir Hector, indeed a very Hector, Achilles and Ajax rolled into one, his two captives still in durance, his brow a little sad as he watched the enemy’s retreat. Then, becoming aware of his helpless prisoners, he loosed them and patted each dazed fellow upon tousled crown.
“Losh,” quoth he, “I fair disremembered ye! Rin awa’, laddies, rin awa’ an’ dinna forget Hector Lauchlan MacLean.”
And now it was that he felt a touch upon his arm and, turning, came face to face with my lady.
“Save ’s a’,” he exclaimed, “’tis Rose!”
“Herself, dear Sir Hector!” she answered and, smiling, reached him both her hands. But instead of clasping them, he clapped his own to his wigless head and stood utterly discomfited and abashed.
“Hoot-toot,” quoth he, “I’m no’ a fit sicht for a lassie’s een—look awa’, Rose, look awa’! Rab!” he roared, “O Rabbie-man, bring me ma wig. Rin, laddie, rin!”
“Here, sir!” answered Robert, stepping from the shadow of the hedge with the object in question, which Sir Hector snatched and donned hastily; then, facing about, he bowed ceremoniously.
“Rose,” said he, “I rejoice to see thee safe back.”
“O Sir Hector,” cried she, reaching him her hands again, “thou’rt indeed a man ’tis joy to see, a man of action, of deeds not words—and marvellous strong. You fight as if you loved it!”
Sir Hector’s cheek flushed and his eye glistened.
“Yet ilka joy hath its sorrow, child!” he sighed. “Wull ye look at ma coat?”
“I vow it becomes you vastly, torn so!”
“Aye, but ’tis my third best!” he answered gloomily. “An’ though mebbe ’tis somewhat worn an’ weary wi’ hard service an’ length o’ days, ’tis an auld friend, y’ ken!”
“Then do but bring thine old friend within doors and I’ll cobble him for thee,” said my lady; and side by side they crossed the trampled garden to the cottage, while ex-Corporal Robert stared after them, rubbing his square chin thoughtfully. Then, being left thus to his own devices, he went back to her who stood awaiting him shyly in the shadow of the tall hedge.