The Toll-Gate

by Джорджетт Хейер

  “Winkfield!” Nell choked, between tears and laughter. “It was shocking! I was never so mortified!”

  “No, miss, I’m sure! But Sir Peter had the wing of a chicken, poached just as he likes it, and a curd pudding with wine sauce,” said Winkfield consolingly. “And Huby has been busy in the cellar all the morning, and no doubt he will warn you, miss, not to touch the burgundy at dinner. If you should be at liberty now, Sir Peter has been asking for you this hour past.”

  “I will come to him directly. I must put off this old riding dress: you know how much he dislikes to see me shabbily gowned!”

  She hurried away to her own bedchamber, to strip off the well-worn habit in which she spent the greater part of her days, and to put on instead a morning-gown of green velvet, not perhaps fashioned in the latest mode but not yet showing such signs of wear as would be perceptible to her grandfather. Ten minutes later she entered the dressing-room which formed an antechamber to Sir Peter’s big bedroom, and tapped on the door between the two. It was opened to her by Winkfield, who gave her a significant look, but said nothing, and at once went away, leaving her alone with her grandfather.

  “Nell?”

  She crossed the floor to the wing-chair that stood beside the wide fireplace. “Yes, sir. Now, don’t, don’t scold me, for I have passed the most amusing morning!” she said, bending to kiss Sir Peter’s brow.

  He did not raise his head, which was sunk forward on his breast, but he glanced up at her under his brows, and lifted his right hand. The other was almost powerless, and lay lightly clenched on his knee. “Well?” he said.

  His utterance was a little slurred, and he seemed to speak with a slight effort. He was the wreck of a once big man, the flesh having wasted away from large bones. His left side was semi-paralysed, and it was only with his valet’s assistance that he could move from his bed to a chair. He wore always a brocade dressing-gown, but every day it was Winkfield’s duty to arrange a freshly laundered neckcloth round his neck in the style he had adopted years earlier.

  Nell took the hand held up to her, and sat down beside him. “Well! I conveyed our new gatekeeper to Tideswell, as you know, while Joseph took care of the pike.”

  “H’m! I trust he behaved himself!”

  “With all the propriety in the world, sir! You need not look so suspiciously: he is most truly the gentleman.”

  “Much you know!” he grunted. “Playing off the airs of an exquisite, I daresay.”

  “Oh, no! nothing of the kind! He’s a soldier, not a fribble, dearest! I thought his coat was very well cut, but it was quite plain, and put me in mind of the coats Jermyn used to wear.”

  “Scott,” said Sir Peter. “If he was a Captain, and ain’t hoaxing you! Most of the military men go to him—or they did, in my day.”

  “Very likely. At all events, there was no fault to be found with his air, or address, and I think you would say that he has a well-bred ease of manner. I found him excellent company, and I am sure he must have great delicacy of principle, for he was most steady in refusing to drive with me into the town! He said that it would not do, and obliged me to set him down before we reached it.”

  Sir Peter grunted again. “What did you talk of?” he demanded.

  “Oh, all manner of things!” she replied easily. “He told me many—many interesting things about the Pyrenees, for instance!”

  “He did, did he? Fellow sounds to me like a damned nincompoop!” said Sir Peter irascibly.

  She laughed, but blushed too. “Oh, no! In fact, I fear he must cause his family the gravest anxiety with these whimsical starts of his! You, I think, would like him, sir. I have not, of course, seen him with a team, but I fancy he has good, even hands.”

  “That’s as may be. But what the devil’s he doing at the tollhouse?”

  “Oh, diverting himself! I think he finds life sadly flat.”

  He said no more, and she picked up a newspaper, and glanced through it, knowing that although he might weary soon of conversation he liked to feel that she was in the room. She thought he had fallen into a light sleep, but he startled her suddenly by saying in an abrupt tone: “Who is the fellow you have staying in the house?”

  “Henry, Grandpapa?”

  “Don’t be a fool, girl—or think me one! I want none of your bamboozling! Who is he?”

  “Oh, Coate!” she said indifferently. “A friend of my cousin’s.”

  “Why hasn’t he been brought to see me?”

  “Because I am persuaded you would give the poor man one of your famous set-downs, sir,” she replied, with great coolness. “He is not quite up to the trick, you know.”

  “Then what the devil does Henry mean by bringing him to my house? Henry’s half flash and half foolish, and any friend of his is bound to be a loose fish!”

  She was alarmed, for his colour was considerably heightened, and there was a note in his voice which warned her of rising temper. She said: “Oh, pray don’t send him away, sir! To be obliged to entertain my cousin would not suit me at all! I am grateful to Coate for bearing him company, and never see either of them, except at dinner.”

  “What brought Henry here? What is going on in my house, Nell? By God, I will not be hoaxed and humdudgeoned! Do you take me for a child, or a lunatic?”

  “No, sir, but indeed I don’t know what should be going on! You know that we settled it between us that Henry is escaping from his creditors! That was your notion, do you remember? and I am pretty sure you were right.”

  He stared at her, his eyes fierce under the jutting brows. “Don’t lie to me, Nell! don’t lie to me! You’re on the fidgets—blue-devilled! They’ve cut up your peace between the pair of ’em, eh? Damme, I should have seen to it you had a respectable female to keep you company!”

  “Now, that would indeed cut up my peace!” she said, laughing. “My dear sir, I cannot decide which of us would most deserve pity—me, or your respectable female! A widow, of course, and elderly, with the strictest notions of propriety! I should be the death of her!”

  He beat his hand against the arm of his chair, in a gesture of fretting impotence. “There is no one to look after you. I might as well be coffined!”

  She managed to possess herself of his hand, and held it between both of hers. “Dearest, this is the merest irritation of the nerves! I am beset by protectors!”

  He moved his head impatiently. “Servants, servants! That won’t fadge!”

  She said coaxingly: “You must not be so cross, sir: indeed, there is no reason for you to be vexed! If I needed a protector—which I assure you I do not!—I should send a message to the toll-house, and desire my military giant to come to my aid! I daresay he would be very happy to hurl out of your house anyone you chose to indicate.”

  He seemed to be diverted. He looked at her intently, and she was thankful to see that the angry spots of colour in his face were fading. “He would, would he?”

  “Certainly! He is a very obliging person, and has expressed his willingness to serve me at any time!” she said, with a saucy look. “And if we should feel the need of a man capable of ridding our house of invaders—which, however, I do not at all anticipate—he would be the very one for the task! I am persuaded, my dear sir, that he would mill cannisters, darken daylights, and draw corks with all the gaiety in the world! Like Hotspur, you know, in that passage which always makes you laugh! Fie upon this quiet life! I want work! is what he would say!”

  He smiled rather grimly. “Baggage!” he said. “Did I teach you that language?”

  “Yes, to be sure you did, and a great deal more beside!” she said merrily. This drew a laugh from him, and an adroit question putting him in mind of a contest he had once witnessed she soon had the satisfaction of seeing him restored to tranquillity. He dropped into a doze presently, and the knowledge that his memory was erratic encouraged her to hope that when he awoke he would have forgotten the episode.

  It seemed as though it had indeed faded from his mind. He did not speak of it again,
and she had the comfort, when she went away to change her dress for an evening-gown, of seeing him settle down to his dinner in quiet good spirits.

  The relief was short-lived. Her own dinner was partaken of in the company of her cousin and Mr. Coate. She sat at the head of the big table, entirely mistress of the situation, maintaining with quelling composure a conversation of such inane propriety as must, she hoped, lead her unwanted admirer to revise his opinion of her charms. He was apparently conscious of a little awkwardness in meeting her again, and seemed anxious to reinstate himself in her good graces; but before very long he was ogling her, and paying her broad compliments expressed in terms that could only disgust. She was almost glad when these were interrupted by an outcry from her cousin against the burgundy, which he declared, with an angry look at Huby, to have been watered; but civility obliged her to desire Huby to fetch up a fresh bottle, which was not at all what she had wished to do. Then she caught sight of the butler’s face, and her vexation yielded to an almost overmastering wish to burst out laughing. Every feeling had been offended: he was looking as outraged as though he had not, in fact, committed just that crime.

  The uncomfortable meal dragged on; she rose at last from the table, and was about to retire to the sanctuary of Sir Peter’s room when the hopes she had been cherishing were shattered by the entrance of Winkfield into the room, with a message from his master. Sir Peter, he announced, begged that Mr. Coate would do him the honour of drinking a glass of brandy with him.

  Nell gazed aghast at the valet, but he very slightly shook his head. She knew her grandfather well enough to guess that Winkfield judged it to be more dangerous to oppose his will than to permit Coate to be seen by him. She turned her eyes towards Coate, and said as calmly as she could: “I must beg you, sir, not to linger in my grandfather’s room. I need not remind you, I daresay, that he is a sick man.”

  “Oh, don’t fear me!” he said, with one of his loud laughs. “I shall be very happy to visit Sir Peter—famous sportsman, wasn’t he? We shall deal capitally!”

  In an agony, she watched him precede Winkfield out of the room. Her cousin’s voice broke into her agitated thoughts. “I must say I’m deuced glad the old gentleman’s sent for Nat!” Henry said, refilling his glass. “I wonder he shouldn’t have done so before, for it’s only civil, after all. What’s more, it’ll do him good. He’ll like Nat: you see if he don’t! Nat’s devilish good company—just the man to cheer the old gentleman up!”

  “Just the man to kill him!” she said, in a shaking voice. “One look at him will be enough to throw him into a passion! How could you bring such a creature into this house? how could you?”

  “Oh, pooh, you know nothing of the matter! My grandfather likes a good sportsman, and Nat’s a buck of the first head! Up to every rig and row in town, too. They’ll go along like winking!”

  She could not trust herself to answer him, but hurried out of the room, bent on warning Rose of what might at any moment befall. Her way led her past her grandfather’s apartments, and, after hesitating for a moment, she softly opened the door into the dressing-room, and looked in. Winkfield was there, and greeted her with a smile of reassurance. He said in a low voice: “You need not be afraid, miss. I fancy Sir Peter does not mean to lose his temper with that person. Remarkably calm, he is.”

  “It must do harm!” she whispered. “You know how much he dislikes men of Coate’s stamp! I am fearful of what the consequences may be! Could you not have prevented it?”

  “It seemed to me, miss, that once the master had formed a determination to see Mr. Coate it would be wiser to do as he bade me. He will not be opposed. And to fob him off with excuses would be to set up the very irritation to his nerves which Dr. Bacup has particularly warned us against.”

  She sighed, listening anxiously to the sound of voices in the room beyond. “You will not go out of earshot, Winkfield?”

  “I shall not leave this room, miss. We cannot but be uneasy, but I fancy Mr. Coate is comporting himself as well as he knows how, besides being set a little in awe of the master.”

  It was true. Coate, ushered formally into Sir Peter’s room, was indeed a trifle over-awed. He had a disconcerting feeling that he had been granted an audience, and the immobility of the gaunt figure in the wing-chair did nothing to dispel this. As he stood for a moment on the threshold, unusually uncertain of himself, he was aware of being scanned from head to foot by a pair of eyes, deep-sunken, but as hard and as fierce as an eagle’s. He began, without knowing it, to fidget with the elaborate folds of his neckcloth. A hand the colour of parchment found, and raised to one eye, a quizzing-glass. It was levelled at him; he thought all at once that the room was overheated. The glass was allowed to fall. “How do you do?” Sir Peter said courteously. “You must forgive my inability to rise from this chair, Mr. Coate.”

  “Oh, not at all! don’t give it a thought! Never one to stand upon ceremony! Sorry to find you in queer stirrups, sir!”

  “Thank you,” said Sir Peter, in a thin voice. “Pray be seated! I regret that circumstances should have prevented my making your acquaintance before, Mr. Coate. I apprehend that I have had the honour of entertaining you for some days. I trust my people have attended to your comfort?” Mr. Coate thought fleetingly of unaired sheets, underhung mutton, and watered wine, and said that he had no complaint to make. A slight lifting of his host’s brows then made him wish that he had phrased this assurance differently.

  Sir Peter made a sign to his valet, and said: “Do you mean to make a long stay in Derbyshire, sir?”

  “Oh, as to that—!” said Coate, watching Winkfield pour brandy into two glasses. “Daresay you know how it is! One needs to go into the country on a repairing lease every now and then, and my friend Stornaway having begged me to bear him company—well, the long and the short of it was that I told Mawdesley—you are acquainted with his lordship, I daresay: capital fellow! one of the Melton men!—he must not look for me immediately. ‘Why, how is this?’ he cried. ‘You do not mean to miss the cubbing! Here am I depending upon you to give us all a lead!’ But I was adamant. ‘My friend Stornaway has a claim upon me,’ I said. ‘I am promised to him, and there is no more to be said.’”

  “Ah, you hunt in the Shires?” said Sir Peter.

  “Oh, lord, where else should a man hunt? No humbug country for Nat Coate! Neck-or-nothing Nat: that’s what they call me! No fence you can’t get over with a fall, I say!”

  Sir Peter, who had thought it one of Mr. Assheson Smith’s sayings, smiled, and sipped his brandy. He encouraged his guest to talk, and when he saw his guest’s glass empty, he begged him to refill it. Under this genial influence Mr. Coate expanded like a peony on a hot summer’s day, and thought he had achieved so excellent an understanding with his host that he was fatally emboldened to compliment him upon his granddaughter’s looks and high spirit. He said that he did not mind owning that he had not expected to find his friend’s cousin such a dashing chipper, and wound up this tribute by giving Sir Peter to understand that although he had steered clear of marriage and was not to be thought a fellow that was hanging out for a wife, he was damned if he wasn’t beginning to change his mind.

  It was at this point that Winkfield entered the room. He said that he fancied that Mr. Henry was waiting for Mr. Coate in the library; and since he stood holding the door in the evident expectation of ushering his master’s guest out of the room immediately, there was nothing for Coate to do but to bid Sir Peter good-night, and take himself off. This was not accomplished without his shaking Sir Peter’s hand, and saying, with a wink, that he was happy to have met him, for he rather thought that they had reached a very tolerable understanding.

  Having closed the dressing-room door behind the guest, Winkfield returned to the bedchamber, and began quietly to clear away the glasses.

  “Winkfield!”

  “Sir?”

  “You may get me to bed!” Sir Peter said harshly.

  He did not speak again until he lay between
the sheets, and the valet was drawing the curtains round his bed. Then he said, in quite a strong voice: “Send Joseph up to me in the morning!”

  “Very good, sir,” Winkfield said, carefully lowering the wick of the lamp he had carried into the room.

  Sir Peter watched him, a grim smile curling his mouth. “I’ve had notice to quit, Winkfield, but I can stick to my leaders still, by God!”

  Chapter 7

  CAPTAIN STAPLE, having been set down by Miss Stornaway at the toll-house, lost no time in changing his raiment for garments more suited to his new calling. He found the shirts he had bought a trifle harsh to the skin, but by the time he had removed his boots with the aid of the jack he had purchased (and which, he knew well, would rapidly ruin them) and exchanged them for coarse gray stockings and a pair of brogues; and had knotted one of the coloured neckcloths round his throat, in tolerable semblance of a Belcher-tie, he was very well-pleased with his appearance. He was inclined to think he looked his part, but this view was not shared by Ben, who, returning from his labours at the Blue Boar, made no secret of his disapproval. He said that flash coves didn’t wear coloured shirts or leather waistcoats.

  “I’m not a flash cove,” replied John.

  “Yes, you are!” Ben insisted. “Everyone knows that!”

  “Who is everyone?” demanded John.

  “Well—everyone! Mr. Sopworthy, and Mrs. Skeffling, and Farmer Huggate!”

  “Did you tell them so?”

  “No! I says as you was me cousin, but Farmer Huggate says as Beau’s a proper high-bred ’un, which me cousin wouldn’t have come by honest.”