“The sly devil,” he muttered, laughing, “bribed her serving-wench with a kiss, did he? Oh! dearie, dearie me—Good King Jamie was more particular. What a thing it is to be young and to have a king to serve,” and he laughed again, this time quite loudly.
A female voice called shrilly from the room above.
“What’s ailing you, Francis?”
Master Myddleton put the letters hastily into his pocket.
“’Tis naught, Eliza, my foot doth trouble me somewhat.”
“Marry,” came the high, strident voice from the other room, “’tis strange that a gouty foot should make you laugh like a moon-struck lunatic.”
Master Myddleton made no reply, and, after a moment’s pause, the voice went on again:
“’Tis a wonder you can laugh when we have a man coming to take the very bread out of our mouths. You should be praying the Lord to succour your wife and daughter, not laughing yourself daft by the fireside.”
The old man sighed and shook the ashes from his pipe and began to slowly refill it.
“What’s o’clock?” he called out after a minute or so’s silence.
“Half after eight; he should be here by now if the river ain’t high over the bridle path by Tenpenny Heath.”
“Ay,” said Master Myddleton reflectively.
There was the sound of a chair being pushed back and of heavy steps on the stairs, and Mistress Eliza Myddleton entered the dining-room where her husband sat.
She was a big fair woman who still preserved a remnant of the great beauty which had once been hers, but as she often told her neighbours when she was in confidential mood, what with having a rapscallion stepson and a pretty daughter to look after, an excise-man for a husband, and also being a staunch, God-fearing woman and a puritan at that, lines and wrinkles would come, and they had—as indeed anyone might note for himself.
Now as she came into the room, her thin face pale with worry, Francis looked at her and old villain that he was he wondered why he had ever married her.
“What are you going to say to him?” began the lady, planting herself before him, her bony arms akimbo.
Master Francis shrugged his shoulders.
“Say?” he said. “Why, naught!”
Mistress Eliza threw her hands above her head in a gesture of despair.
“You would,” she said. “I don’t believe you realise the state we are in. I don’t believe you care if your wife and child are thrown into the streets. I don’t believe you could say a word to save yourself hanging. In God’s truth I don’t believe you have your wits about you, Master Myddleton.”
Francis sat still, puffing at his pipe, and his wife went on:
“Had you only done your duty, and gone out after the Mersea smugglers, I might be a fine lady this day or at least——”
“A widow!” put in Francis, without removing the pipe from his mouth.
“Oh!” Mistress Eliza gasped. “For shame, Master Myddleton, are you a coward?”
“Not more ’an others, but, Lord, Eliza, you wouldn’t have me trapesing about i’ the dusk hunting rum kegs?”
Francis took the pipe from his mouth and looked at his wife, a quizzical expression in his little grey eyes.
“’Tis what you’re paid for,” said Mistress Myddleton, lifting her eyes to the low-raftered ceiling.
Master Myddleton coughed explosively and his face grew red with anger.
“God’s body! Isn’t that just like a woman,” he shouted, dashing his hand so violently on the arm of his chair that his pipe flew into shivers, whereupon he swore an oath which made his wife shudder. “Just like a woman, sweet as honey till aught goes wrong,” he continued, getting more and more angry at every word. “Did you ever talk of hunting smugglers before the Mayor of Colchester must needs appoint an assistant to me? Lord! woman, you drink smuggled tea every day of your life so as to be i’ the fashion—don’t talk to me!”
“It’s very well for you to call this Thomas Playle an assistant, Master Myddleton,” observed his wife with asperity. “’Tis you are to be his assistant I’m thinking. That will be a nice thing for the neighbours to hear—now if only our Matilda and he could——”
Francis Myddleton fairly roared with fury.
“Peace with ye, designing woman,” he shouted, “Will I have my only daughter disposed of before my eyes? Unfeeling mother I Elizabeth, I am amazed at ye.”
Mistress Myddleton gulped with indignation.
“Francis, I am surprised at you. I disposing of your daughter! Oh, you scandalous man! Why ever was I married to such a lump of lying perfidy.”
“God knows!” said Master Myddleton bitterly.
Mistress Elizabeth’s answering outbreak was checked by the sound of horse’s hoofs in the cobbled yard outside.
“There he is—God help us!” she had time to whisper, and then composing her features into an amiable smile went out to meet their unwelcome guest.
Master Myddleton sat looking down at the fragments of his pipe: then he felt in his pocket and drew out a twist of tobacco which he smelt and rolled lovingly round his fingers.
He sighed.
“Drat women and work,” he said to the roaring fire which blazed, crackled, and spat as though it quite agreed with him.
Master Thomas Playle sprang out of his saddle and threw his bridle rein to the grinning ostler who ran out to meet him, and then marched up to the front door and pulled the bell sharply.
Mistress Myddleton was before him in an instant and so overwhelmed him with welcome and motherly concern for his wet muddy condition that he had nothing to say for himself for a minute or so.
The candle-light in the stone-flagged hall showed the newcomer to be a tall, rather handsome man, some seven and twenty years of age.
Mistress Myddleton regarded him with approval and mentally summed up her daughter Matilda’s attractive qualities: the result seemed to please her, for she smiled and conducted him to the dining-room.
“My husband hath a troubled foot,” she was at some pains to explain, “and prays you to pardon him for not being on the steps to meet you.”
Playle bowed coldly and followed his voluble hostess in silence.
Master Myddleton looked up casually as they entered, and after returning the younger man’s bow without rising he bade his wife hasten the supper, and, after waiting until she was out of the room, motioned his guest to a comfortable chair on the opposite side of the hearth.
“His worship, the Mayor and his——” began the young man sententiously, as he sat down and stretched out his high mud-caked boots to the friendly fire.
Master Myddleton waved his hand.
“After we have eaten, I pray you. The morning will do,” he said. “Until then I would like to speak of this heinous crime of smuggling as carried on in this town and on the Island over the Fleet.”
Playle felt disquieted. Here he was in this old gentleman’s house, drying himself at his fire, and making himself generally comfortable. How could he boldly announce that these affairs would be his care in the future, and that Master Myddleton need trouble himself no further? He decided to put it off till supper was over. After all he considered the old man must know something of use to him in his future work.
Master Playle was a very conscientious young man and one who had ambitions. He had fought for this appointment and meant to show his ability. He had served for a time in one of his Majesty’s own regiments and still held a commission.
Master Myddleton began to speak.
“We have a very difficult task before us, Master Playle,” he began in the deep pompous voice which he used on all official occasions. “I think I can truthfully say that on no other part of the coast is King Charles’ law—God bless him—more persistently, and I might almost say, courageously violated.”
He paused, and his little grey eyes sought a flicker of surprise on the young man’s face, but they were disappointed. Playle’s easy smile still played round his thin lips, as he listened wi
th polite attention.
Master Myddleton began again.
“With such a violent, all-daring, cut-throat gang against me, I have—er—yes, to be plain with you, Master Playle—I have—er—felt it unwise—not to say foolhardy—to take more than preliminary measures against these unruly vagabonds, until I received assistance from headquarters.”
Playle’s smile deepened and Francis, looking up suddenly, saw it. Instantly his manner changed.
“Ah, I see you know something of their customs, Master Playle,” he said, laughing wheezily.
Playle looked up a little disconcerted, but he laughed with the old man and nodded his head.
“I can see I can be quite plain with you,” went on Francis, his eyes scanning the other’s face.
Playle was a simple straightforward soldier, and he felt rather at a disadvantage with this quickwitted old villain with the gouty foot. However, he deemed it prudent to make some remark.
“Oh, yes, of a certainty, of a certainty!” he said as intelligently as possible. “I am determined to abolish this illegal trading.”
Master Myddleton sighed. He began to see a little more clearly how the land lay.
“Very right, an excellent spirit in youth,” he said heartily. “Go in and conquer—sweep all before you. That’s how I like to hear young people talk. It is for the old, with our gouty feet and long experience, to sit at home and think out campaigns, and for you, the young and healthful in body, to carry them out gloriously.”
He slapped his knee in applause at his own words, and then, as the young man said nothing, but sat still smiling into the fire, he continued, his voice resuming the pompous note:
“But believe me you have a difficult task, as I said before—a difficult task indeed. Now let me advise you first to attack the smuggling here on the mainland. Had you half a troop of infantry it would be madness to attempt to quieten Mersea Island.”
Playle sat up and became interested.
“The Island,” he said. “Yes, I’ve heard of the smuggling there; the block-house there was well guarded in the war I know.”
Master Myddleton waved him silent, and continued to talk. “There are two principal smuggling vessels,” he said casually. “The first, the Dark Blood, belongs to a man called de Witt, and then the Coldlight, which belongs to a mysterious Spaniard.”
Young Playle gasped. That the old man should know all this and yet take no measures to stop it, amazed him, and his youthful imagination began to play round his old ambitions until he saw himself lord of the customs and his Majesty’s right-hand man.
“Why not stop all vessels that enter the river?” he said.
“I had thought of it—I had thought of it,” said Myddleton, wagging his head sagely.
“Well, I’m going to do it,” replied Playle quickly.
Old Francis laughed deprecatingly and was about to answer him when Mistress Eliza, her daughter, a tall girl, fair like her mother and buxomly beautiful, with their little maid, Betsey, entered with the supper.
During the meal, Mistress Eliza talked almost incessantly and her husband filled up the few pauses in her streams of conversation with lurid stories of the smugglers’ cruelty. Once, after a more vivid one than usual, Mistress Matilda looked archly at the young soldier.
“If only it could be stopped!” she said, while her mother made some remark about poor little Matty’s childishness.
Thomas Playle looked up from the lump of boiled fish he was eating.
“It shall be stopped, Mistress,” he said. “Such flagrant crime is a disgrace to the glorious court of his Gracious Majesty.”
While Francis felt the bundle of letters in his pocket and grinned wickedly to himself.
“You have some men in your pay and arms for them, I suppose, Master Myddleton?” observed Playle a little later on in the evening.
“About five,” said Francis, and then, noting the other’s surprise, he added: “But some twenty more trustworthy men can be called out at a moment’s notice, if you find it necessary.”
Playle could hardly repress a smile of pleasure; life seemed suddenly to have opened up to him. Twenty-five men at his orders, a gang of ferocious smugglers to attack, and a pretty girl to stand by and admire at the proper time. His smile broadened.
His ambitions flew away with him and he sat staring at his plate, his brown eyes twinkling with pleasure, until Mistress Myddleton had to touch him on the shoulder and give him a candle, before he realised that Betsey, the little maid, waited to show him his room.
Once in their room Mistress Eliza and her husband argued over the situation until both were exhausted.
“He’s a handsome man, anyway,” said the lady at last, as she brushed her little wisp of grey-yellow hair before the oval mirror. “I wonder if Matilda——?”
Francis, who was already tucked in his side of the huge four-poster bed, growled through the curtains, and Mistress Eliza bit her lip.
“He’ll make a difference to the price of tea hereabouts, I’ll warrant,” she said, after a minute’s silence, as she blew out the candles and shut the casement.
Francis grunted.
“Methinks he’ll be a deal of nuisance to the trade,” he said bitterly. “No more cheap tabac—God help us!”
Mistress Eliza echoed his sigh, and they settled themselves to sleep.
Chapter XV
“There, look, there now, will that be the Coldlight—Anny, I mean?”
Anny paused in her walk and stared out across the bay. Hal followed the direction of her hand and then shook his head.
“Nay,” he said, “’tis too small.”
Anny sighed and moved on, but the boy still stared out at the white-sailed boat on the horizon.
“Last time I saw a craft like that,” he began reflectively, “was when the Preventative folk chased Fen de Witt half-way up the Pyfleet and then got stuck.”
Anny stopped quickly.
“Lord! It won’t be them, will it?” she said, a note of fear creeping into her voice.
Hal shrugged his shoulders.
“Like as not,” he said carelessly.
The girl stared fascinated at the white speck in the distance.
“And the Captain coming back this very day!” she said.
Hal reddened at her words, and wheeled round fiercely, but she was not looking at him and he turned away again.
“Hal, what if the Preventative folk got anyone?” she asked.
“They’d die, that’s all,” he replied laconically.
The girl looked round at the early summer landscape and shuddered.
“Look again, are you sure about the boat?” she commanded anxiously.
Hal threw a casual glance over his shoulder.
“Sure? Sure of what?” he asked gruffly.
“That it’s the Preventative folk!” Anny shook his sleeve as she spoke.
Hal wrenched his arm out of her grasp, and replied irritably:
“No, of course I’m not sure; don’t be stupid, girl; I only said ’twas like one.”
Anny looked at him in surprise.
“What’s the matter?” she laughed; they had come to a part where the wall melts into the high-lying fields and the path is very wide, and Hal stepped back a pace or two and turned a red and angry face towards the girl.
“Look here, Anny,” he said, his voice shaking with anger. “I’m tired of this hankering and whining after that dirty little Spaniard. You know we’re going to be married as soon as I can get some money; then I’ll be able to give you things—better things than him—aren’t you going to wait for me? See here, I won’t have this carrying on with the foreigner.”
Anny’s blood was up and she turned to her lover as fierce as a tiger-cat.
“Indeed and will you not, Master Hal Grame?” she said bitingly. “I’ll have you know that you have no authority over me, you—you tapster!”
Hal blinked; he had never seen Anny like this before, and he stood staring at her in amazement, his mout
h half open.
“I have not hankered after the Spaniard, as you call it.”
Anny’s eyes were bright with tears at his injustice, but she spoke firmly, and with great intensity.
“And as for you being tired, master Lord of the Island, so is Anny Farran, your servant—very, very tired of this fooling. Lord! you child—is it me that hankers,” the word seemed to have stuck in her mind, for she repeated it, hankers for the Captain? Is it me? Oh, Hal Grame—I—I hate you.”
Hal stepped back another pace or two and looked round him vaguely. This was a new departure of Anny’s. He had never seen her so indignant, and he thrust his hands in his pockets and turned on his heel.
“I hope that is the Preventative folk then,” he remarked, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, “then they’ll catch the little dog.”
Anny reddened.
“Hal Grame, you’re a jealous coward,” she said clearly, and then her tears began to fall and she sat down on the grass, looking out over the cloud-shadowed water.
Hal did not speak, but stood idly kicking the dust with his foot.
“You’re not saying that you don’t love me?” he said confidently.
Anny bit her lip.
“I’ve told you I hate you,” she said clearly; she was still very angry for the boy’s mistrust had hurt her.
He turned round slowly.
“Don’t be silly, Anny,” he said not unkindly. Anny furtively wiped her eyes; his confident attitude annoyed her, and she spoke clearly.
“Go away, Hal Grame; I won’t ever marry you.” Hal gasped.
“Anny, you’re bewitched,” he exclaimed. He couldn’t have chosen a more unfortunate remark for Anny was more irritated than ever.
“Nay, not now, but I was, ever to think at all on the likes of you,” she snapped. “Oh, go away.”
Hal wavered; his little sweetheart sat on the grass, her face turned away from him, but he felt that she was crying, so came a little nearer.
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