“But you had news of your husband’s death, Sally, hadn’t you?”
“No more news than his staying away seventeen year and more without sending letter or message to tell that he was living in all those years, Miss Milly; and if that ain’t news enough to make a woman a widow, I don’t know what is!”
Millicent was sitting on a low stool at Mrs. Sally Pecker’s feet before a cheerful sea-coal fire in the landlady’s own snug little parlour at the Black Bear. It was a comfort for the poor girl to spend these long wintry evenings with honest Sally, listening to the wind roaring in the wide chimneys, counting the drops of rain beating against the window-panes, and talking of the dear old times that were past and gone.
The ordinary customers at the Black Bear were a very steady set of people, who came and went at the game hours, and ordered the same things from year’s end to year’s end; so when Sally had her dear young mistress to visit her, she left the feeble Samuel to entertain and wait upon his patrons, and, turning her back to business and the bar, took gentle Millicent’s pale golden head upon her knee, and smoothed the soft curls with loving hands, and comforted the forlorn heart with that talk of the clays gone by which was so mournfully sweet to Mistress George Duke.
Long as Sarah Masterson had been housekeeper at the Hall, Millicent never remembered having heard any mention whatever of the name of Thomas Masterson, mariner, nor had she ever questioned honest Sally about that departed individual; but on this dark November evening some chance word brought Sarah’s first husband into Mrs. Duke’s thoughts, and she felt a strange curiosity about the dead seaman.
“Was he good to you, Sally?” she asked; “and did you love him?”
Sally looked gloomily at the fire for some moments before she answered this question.
“It’s a long while ago, Miss Millicent,” she said, “and it seems hard, looking back so far, to remember what was and what wasn’t. I was but a poor stupid lass when Masterson first came to Compton.” She paused for a moment, still staring thoughtfully at the fire, and then said with a suddenness that was almost spasmodic, “I did love him, Miss Milly, and he warn’t good to me.”
“Not good to you, Sally?”
“He was bitter bad, and cruel to me,” answered Sally in a suppressed voice, her eyes kindling with the angry recollection. “I had a bit of money left me by poor old grandfather, and it was that the hardhearted villain wanted, and not me. I had a few bits of silver spoons and a tea-pot as had been grandmother’s, and he cared more for them than for me. I had my savings that I’d been keeping ever since I first went to se vice, and he wrung every guinea from me, and every crown-piece, and shilling, and copper, till he left me without clothe s to cover me, and almost without bread to eat. You see me here, miss, with Samuel, having of my own way in everything, and managing of him like; and perhaps it’s my recollection of having been ill-used myself, and the thought of what a man can be if once he gets the upper hand, that makes me rather sharp with Pecker. You wouldn’t believe I was the same woman if you’d seen me with Masterson. I was afraid of him, Miss Millicent — I was afraid of him!”
The very recollection of her dead husband seemed to strike terror to the stout heart of the ponderous Sarah. She cowered down over the fire, clinging to Millicent as if she would have turned for protection even to that slender reed, and, glancing across her shoulder, looked towards the window behind her, as if she expected to see it shaken by some more terrible touch than that of the wind and the rain.
“Sally! Sally!” exclaimed Millicent soothingly — for it was now her turn to be the comforter—” why were you afraid of him?”
“Because he was — I haven’t told you all the truth about him yet, Miss Millicent, and I’ve never told it to mortal ears, and never will except to your’s. I’ve called him a mariner, miss, for this seventeen years and past. It’s not a hard word, and it means almost anything in the way of sailoring; but he was one of the most desperate smugglers as ever robbed his king and country; and I found it out three months after we was married.”
It was some little time before Millicent uttered a word in reply to this. She sat with her slender hands clasped round one of Sarah’s plump wrists, with her large blue eyes fixed upon the red blaze, with the thoughtfully-earnest gaze peculiar to her. Perhaps she was thinking how little she knew of the Captain of the Vulture, or the nature of the service in which that vessel was engaged.
“My poor, poor Sally! it was very hard for you,” she said at last. “Compton seems so far away from the world, and we so ignorant, that it was little wonder you were deceived. Others have been deceived, Sally, since then.”
Mrs. Sarah Pecker nodded her head. She had heard the dark reports current among the Compton people about the good ship Vulture and her Captain. She only sighed thoughtfully as she murmured, —
“Ah, Miss Milly, if that had been the worst, I might have borne it uncomplaining, for I was milder-tempered in those days than I am now. We didn’t live at Compton, but in a little village on the coast, as was handy for my husband’s unlawful trade. We’d lived together five years, me never daring to complain of any hardships, nor of the wickedness of cheating the king as Thomas Masterson cheated him every day of his life. I seemed not much to care what he did, or where he went, for I had my comfort and my happiness. I had my boy, who was born a year after we left Compton — such a beautiful boy, with great black eyes and dark curly hair — and I was as happy as the day was long while all went well with him.
“But the bitterest was to come, Miss Milly; for when the child came to be four years old, I saw that the father was teaching him his own bad ways, and putting his own bad words into the baby’s innocent mouth, and bringing him up in a fair way to be a curse to himself and them that loved him. I couldn’t hear this; I could have borne to have been trampled on myself, but I couldn’t bear to see my child going to ruin before his mother’s eyes. I told Masterson so one night. I was violent, perhaps; for I was almost wild like, and my passion carried me away. I told him that I meant to take the child away with me out of his reach, and go into service and work for him, and bring him up to be an honest man. He laughed, and said I was welcome to the brat; and I took him at his word, thinking he didn’t care. I went to sleep that night with the boy in my arms, meaning to set out early the next morning, and come back to Compton, where I had friends, and where I fancied I could get a living for myself and my darling; and I thought we might be so happy together. O, Miss Millicent, Miss Millicent, may you never know such a bitter trial as mine! When I woke from pleasant dreams about that new life which never was to be, my child was gone. His cruel father had taken him away, and I never saw either Masterson or my boy again.”
“Yon waited in the village where he left you?” asked Millicent.
“For a year and over, Miss Milly, hopin’ that he’d come back, bringing the boy with him; but no tidings ever came of him or of the child. At the end of that time I left word with the neighbours to say I was gone back to Compton; and I came straight here. I’d been housemaid at the Hall when I was a slip of a girl, and your father took me as his housekeeper, and I lived happy in the dear old house for many years, and I loved you and Master Darrell as if you’d been my own children; but I’ve never forgotten my boy, Miss Millicent, and it’s very seldom that I go to sleep without seeing his beautiful black eyes shining upon me in my dreams.”
“O Sally, Sally, how bitterly you have suffered, and what reason you have to hate this man’s memory!”
“We’ve no call to talk harsh, of them that’s dead and gone, Miss Milly. Let ’em rest with their sins upon their own heads, and let us look to happier times. When Thomas Masterson went away and left me without a sixpence to buy a loaf of bread, I never thought to be mistress of the Black Bear. Pecker has been a good friend to me, miss, and a true, and I bless the providence that sent him courting to the Hall. I fancy I can see him now, poor creature,” said Mrs. Pecker, meditatively, “sitting of evenings in the housekeeper’s room, never
talking much, but always looking melancholic like, and dropping sudden on his knees one night, saying, ‘Sarah, will you have me?’”
Mr. Samuel Pecker here venturing to put his head into the room, and furthermore presuming to ask some question connected with the business of the establishment, was answered so sharply by his beloved wife that he retreated in confusion without obtaining what he wanted.
For the worthy Sarah, in common with many other wives, made a point of scrupulously concealing from her weaker helpmate any tender or grateful feeling that she might entertain for him; being possessed with an ever-present fear that if treated with ordinary civility, he might, to use her own words, try to get the better of her.
So the dreary winter time set in, and, except for this honest-hearted Sally Pecker, and the pale curate’s busy little wife, who had much ado to keep seven children fed and clothed upon sixty pounds a year, Millicent Duke was almost friendless. She was so gentle and retiring, of so reserved and diffident a nature, that she had never made many acquaintances. In the happy old time at the Hall, Darrell had been her friend, confidant, and playfellow; and she had neither needed nor wished to have any other. So now she shut herself up in her little cottage, with its quaint old mirrors and spindle-legged tables, and little casement windows looking out upon a patch of old-fashioned garden — she shut herself up in her prim orderly little abode, and the Compton people seldom saw her except at church, or on her way to the Black Bear.
Millicent received no news of Darrell from his own hand; but the young man wrote about once in six weeks to Mrs. Sarah Pecker, who was sorely put to it to scrawl a few lines in reply, telling him how Miss Millicent was but weakly, and how Captain Duke was still away with his ship the Vulture. Through Sally, therefore, Mrs. Duke had tidings of this dear cousin. He had found friends in London, and had been engaged as secretary by a noble Scottish lord, suspected of no very strong attachment to the Hanoverian cause. It was not so long since other noble Scottish lords had paid the terrible price of their loyalty. There were ghastly and hideous warnings for those who went under Temple Bar. So whatever was done for the exiled family was done in secret — for the failures of the past had made the bravest men cautious,
CHAPTER VII. HOW DARRELL MARKHAM FOUND HIS HORSE.
While Millicent sat in the little oaken parlour at the Black Bear, with her head on Sarah Pecker’s knee, and her melancholy blue eyes fixed upon the red recesses in the hollow fire, Darrell Markham rode westward through the dim November fog, charged with letters and messages from his patron, Lord C — , to some noble Somersetshire gentlemen, whose country seats lay very near Bristol.
On the first night of his journey, Darrell was to put up at Reading. It was dark when he entered the town, and rode between the two dim rows of flickering oil-lamps straight to the door of the inn to which he had been recommended. The upper windows of the hostelry were brilliantly illuminated, and the traveller could hear the jingling of glasses, and the noise of loud and riotous talk within. Though dark, it was but early, and the lower part of the house was crowded with stalwart farmers, who had ridden over to Reading market, and the townspeople who had congregated about the bar to discuss the day’s business.
Darrell flung the reins to the ostler, to whom he gave particular directions about the treatment of his horse.
“I will come round to the stable after I’ve dined,” said Mr. Markham, in conclusion, “and see how the animal looks; for he has a hard day’s work before him to-morrow, and he must start in good condition.”
The ostler touched his hat, and led the horse away.
The animal was a tall bony grey, not over handsome to look at, but strong enough to make light of the stiffest work.
The landlord ushered Darrell up the broad staircase, and into a long corridor, in which he heard the same loud voices that had attracted his attention outside the inn.
“You have rather a riotous party,” he said to the landlord, who was carrying a pair of wax lights, and leading the way for his visitor.
“The gentlemen are merry, sir,” answered the man. “They have been a long time over their wine. Sir Lovel Mortimer seems a rare one to keep the bottle moving amongst his friends.”
“Sir Lovel Mortimer?”
“Yes, sir’. A rich baronet from Devonshire, travelling to London with some of his friends.”
“Sir Lovel Mortimer,” said Darrell thoughtfully; “I know of no Devonshire man of that name.”
“He seems a gentleman used to great luxury;” answered the landlord; “he has kept every servant in the house busy waiting upon him ever since he stopped here to dine.”
Darrell felt very little interest in the customs of this Devonshire baronet. He ate a simple dinner, washed down with half a bottle of claret, and then went down stairs to ask the way to the stables. The ostler came to him with a lantern, and after leading him through a back-door and across a yard, ushered him into a roomy six-stalled stable. The stalls were all full, and as Darrell’s grey horse was at the further extremity of the stable, he had to pick his way through wet straw and clover, past the other animals.
“Them there bay horses belongs to Sir Lovel Mortimer and his friends,” said the man; “and very handsome beasts they be. Sir Lovel himself looks a pictur’ mounted on this here bay.”
He slapped his hand upon the haunch of a horse as he spoke. The animal turned round as he did so, and tossing up his head, looked at the two men.
“A tidy bit of horse-flesh, sir,” said the ostler; “a hundred guineas’ worth in any market, I should say.”
Darrell nodded, and striding up to the animal’s head, threw one strong arm round the arched neck, and catching the ears with the other hand, dragged the horse’s face to a level with his own.
“I’d have you be careful, sir, how you handle him,” cried the ostler, with a tone of considerable alarm; “the beast has a temper of his own; he tried to bite one of our boys not half an hour ago.”
“He won’t bite me,” said Darrell quietly. “Give me the lantern here, will you?”
“You’d better let go of his head, sir; he’s a stiffish temper,” remonstrated the ostler, drawing back.
“Give me the lantern, man; I know all about his temper.”
The ostler obeyed very unwillingly; and handed Darrell the lantern.
“I thought so,” said the young man, holding the glimmering light before the horse’s face. “And you knew your old master, Balmerino, eh, boy?”
The horse whinnied joyously, and snuffed at Darrell’s coat-sleeve.
“The animal seems to know you, sir,” exclaimed the ostler.
“We know each other as well as ever brothers did,” said Darrell, stroking the horse’s neck. “I have ridden him for seven years and more, and I only lost him a twelvemonth ago. Do you know anything of this Sir Lovel Mortimer who owns him?”
“Not over much, sir, except that he’s a fine high-spoken gentleman. He always uses our house when he’s travelling between London and the west.”
“And is that often?” asked Darrell.
“Maybe six or eight times in a year,” answered the ostler.
“The gentleman is fonder of the road than I am,” muttered the young man. “Has he ever ridden this horse before to-day?”
The ostler hesitated and scratched his head thoughtfully.
“I see a many bay horses,” he answered, after a pause; “I can’t swear to this here animal; he may have been here before, you see, sir; but then lookin’ at it the other way, you see, sir, he mayn’t.”
“Anyhow, you don’t remember him?” said Darrell. “Not to swear to,” repeated the man.
“I wouldn’t mind giving a hundred pounds for this meeting of to-night, Balmerino, old friend,” murmured Darrell, “though it was the last handful of guineas I had in the world!”
He returned to the house, and went straight to the bar, where he called the landlord aside.
“I must speak to one of your guests upstairs, my worthy host,” he said. “Sir
Lovel Mortimer must answer me two or three questions before I leave this house.”
The landlord looked alarmed at the very thought of an intrusion upon his important customer.
“Sir Lovel is not one to see over much company,” he said; “but if you’re a friend of his—”
“I never heard his name till to-night,” answered Darrell; “but when a man rides another man’s horse, he ought to be prepared to answer a few questions.”
“Sir Lovel Mortimer riding another man’s horse?” cried the landlord aghast. “You must be mistaken, sir!”
“I have just left a horse in your stable that I could swear to as my own before any court in England.”
“A gentleman has often been mistaken in a horse,” muttered the landlord.
“Not after he has ridden him seven years,” answered Darrell. “Be so good as to take my name to Sir Lovel, and tell him I should be glad of five minutes’ conversation at his convenience.”
The landlord obeyed very reluctantly. Sir Lovel was tired with his journey, and would take it ill being disturbed, he muttered; but as Darrell insisted, he went upstairs with the young man’s message, and returned presently to say that Sir Lovel would see the gentleman.
Darrell lost no time in following the landlord, who ushered him very ceremoniously into Sir Lovel’s apartment. The room occupied by the West-country baronet was a long wainscoted chamber, lighted by wax candles set in sconces between the three windows and the panels in the opposite walls. It was used on grand occasions as a ball-room, and had all the stiff old-fashioned grandeur of a state apartment. The flames from a pile of blazing logs went roaring up the wide chimney, and in an easy-chair before the open hearth lolled an effeminate-looking young man, in a brocade dressing-gown, silk stockings with embroidered clocks, and shoes adorned with red heels and glittering diamond buckles that emitted purple and rainbow sparks in the firelight. He wore a flaxen wig, curled and frizzed to such a degree that it stood away from his face, round which it formed a pale-yellow frame, contrasting strongly with a pair of large restless black eyes and the blue stubble upon his slender chin. He was quite alone, and in spite of the two empty punchbowls and the regiment of bottles upon the table before him, he seemed perfectly sober.
Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon Page 52