CHAPTER IV.
AT THE SIGN OF THE PESTLE AND MORTAR.
On the afternoon upon which the good ship _Pearl_ dropped anchor inSutton Pool, Peter Trollope was less busy than it was his wont to be atthat time of day. His one customer since noon had been a poor farrier'sapprentice, who had come in to have an aching tooth pulled out--anoperation which had occupied the barber-surgeon scarcely a minute, andearned for him the total sum of twopence. But he had seen the ship enterthe harbour, and knew well that sooner or later some of her crew wouldpay him a visit. In the meantime he engaged himself with two large,wild-looking birds, which he kept imprisoned in a dark box on a shelfnear the window. He had just been feeding them with raw meat and wasclosing the lid of the box, when the shop-door was flung open and hisson Timothy strode within, making a great clatter with his sword as hedragged the weapon behind him along the stone floor.
Tim threw his cap upon the oak settle at the farther end of the room,seated himself in an easy chair before the fire, and stretched out hislegs at full length in front of him with all the freedom of a full-grownman. The bull-dog, which had been asleep in one of the warm corners ofthe ingle, crept out yawning and wagging his stump of a tail by way ofgreeting.
"So thou hast at last thought fit to come in and see if we be all alivestill?" said Peter in an agrieved tone, as he regarded his stalwart son."Thou'rt a dutiful son to thy poor parents, in all conscience. 'Tisshameful of thee, thus to neglect us, Tim. Thou'rt so vastly taken upwith all the great folks at Modbury--my lord this, and my lady that, andall the rest of them--that thou dost seem to forget thine own flesh andblood. 'Twas only yesterday, as I live, that I saw thee passing by myvery door without so much as looking in to give me a good day! Zounds,boy, 'tis most unseemly!"
Timothy stroked the dog's ears without raising his eyes to hisjustly-offended father.
"I had been bidden to go quickly on my errand, father," he explained,"and I dared not tarry by the way. I might not even have come in at thispresent time to see thee, but that my master hath given me leave whilehe goes to the end of the town to take a message from my lord to SirFrancis Drake."
"Methinks Master Oglander might have saved himself a journey," remarkedthe barber; "for 'tis only a half-hour since that I saw Sir Francispassing the door here, on his way, as I do believe, to Modbury Manor;for he wore his new damson silk cape with the gold-lace trimmings, andyou may be sure by that token that he was going to where there will bewomen's eyes to look upon him."
Peter had approached the fireplace, and now stood with his back to thecrackling logs, facing his son.
"I am sorry," he continued in a more cheery tone, "that Master Gilbertdid not chance to come in with thee, Tim. I have wished to see him thesemany days past on a matter of business. I have here a pair of fine younggoshawks that he might be willing to buy from me."
"Show them to me," demanded Timothy, rising from his chair. "If they begoshawks indeed, and in goodly condition, I doubt not that he willgladly buy them. Let me see them. I shall soon know if they be of anyuse. But I will wager you ere I set eyes on them that they are no morefit to fly against a pheasant than a mere sparrow-hawk might be."
"Nay, I cannot myself swear to them," said the barber, crossing to theshelf near the window, and proceeding to open the box, "for I have notbeen brought up among gentlefolks as thou hast been, and have never inall my life been present at a hawking party. But the lad who left themin my keeping did positively declare them to be of the true goshawkbreed, and he bade me sell them for him if perchance I might find alikely customer." He threw back the lid of the box. "Here they be," saidhe.
Timothy looked over his father's shoulder at the birds. Then he thrusthis gloved hand deep into the box. There was a noisy flapping of wingsand a harsh rasping screech. Tim brought forth his hand with one of thehawks perched upon it. He held it aloft, examining the bird withcritical eye.
"He is somewhat short i' the neck and flabby of flesh," he remarked,with the air of one who was a judge of such points, "but the head is ofgood shape, and the eyes are clear. He is fierce enough too, o' myconscience. Here, put him back, lest he bite me! And now," he added,when the bird was restored to its prison, "what want you for the pair ofthem? No cozening, mind you. I will not have my master overcharged evenby my own father."
The barber-surgeon named the sum at which he was willing to sell thebirds, and Tim at once proceeded to beat down the price to half theamount. Neither noticed in the midst of their dispute that a customerhad entered the shop.
"Hi there, master barber!" cried the new-comer. "Cease your wrangling,and come and cut me my hair! Dost think I am going to wait for you allnight?"
"Presently, your worship--presently," answered Peter, snatching up hisscissors and comb. Then, turning to his son, he added: "Thy mother islaid abed with her old illness, Tim; get thee upstairs to her forawhile."
Timothy obediently disappeared through the door at the back of the shop,stumbling up the stairs with noisy feet and equally noisy sword; whilehis father, snipping his scissors merrily in his right hand and thusmaking a show of being exceedingly busy, offered his customer a chairwhere the light from the window might fall upon him.
He was a stranger to Peter Trollope, and therefore, it must be assumed,a stranger to Plymouth also. His long, untidy hair and beard, hisbronzed skin, and, indeed, his whole appearance, betokened that he hadnewly come off the sea. His doublet, which had once been velvet, wasworn threadbare; the colour, whatever it may originally have been, hadsuffered by the salt water, and was now an indistinct gray, stained hereand there with dark-brown patches, which Peter surmised to be the stainsof hardened blood. It was plain to see that the man was in some sort awarrior as well as a traveller.
While the barber was spreading a white napkin about him to protect hisclothing from the clippings of hair which must presently fall from thescissors, he looked into the stranger's face, and perceived that theright cheek was marred by an old wound--a long straight wound like thecut of a knife, beginning below the eye and ending somewhere in themidst of his thick black beard.
"Well?" quoth the stranger, seeing that the barber hesitated to make astart. "Cut me my hair, I say."
"I am ready to execute your worship's will," announced Peter with a lowbow, as he snipped his scissors. "Prithee, sir, will you have yourworship's hair cut after the Italian manner, short and round, and thenflounced with the curling-irons, or like a Spaniard's, long at the earsand curled like to the two ends of a new moon; or will you beFrenchified with a love-lock down to your shoulder, whereon you mayhang your lady's favour? The English cut is base in these days offashion, and gentlemen scorn it. Speak the word, sir; and howsoever youwould have it, it shall be done."
"Nay, a plague on your love-locks and curling-irons," the stranger criedimpatiently. "Do it as you please, but howsoever you do it, do itquickly. I know naught of your strange fashions and monstrous manners ofhaircutting. I have been absent from England so many years, that nowwhen I come back I am as one who hath risen from out his grave to findall things changed."
"In truth, sir," observed the barber, "your worship will indeed findmany changes, alike in government and in manners, if so be your absencehath been so long as you do say. Her Majesty's ministers andcounsellors, indeed, have changed as often as the seasons. But the Queenherself, God bless her, is yet with us; so England is merry Englandstill, and long may it so remain!"
Peter was now busy at work shearing his customer's plenteous crop oftangled hair.
"And how many years in all did your worship say that you had beenabroad?" he ventured presently to inquire.
"More years than I care to number," was the somewhat curt reply.
"Ah!" responded Peter. "Then, sir, you had no hand in the gloriousdefeat of the great Armada of Spain? Haply your worship was in somefar-distant country at that great time?"
The stranger shifted his position in his chair. His fingers movedrestlessly.
"Haply I was
," he answered. "But had I chanced to be at the veryextremities of the earth, methinks I should still have heard rumour ofthe matter; for wherever there be Spaniards and wherever there beEnglishmen, they are alike disposed to boast of their own prowess onthat occasion. And from neither the one nor the other is it possible toarrive at the simple truth."
"The simple truth is simply this, your honour," returned Peter Trollope,with a proud smile, "that the Spaniards, despite their greater ships andtheir greater army of soldiers, were utterly routed and defeated." Andthe gossiping barber proceeded to tell the whole story to his listeningcustomer as he continued with his clipping.
At length, having fairly come to the beard, he broke off in his wordynarrative and requested to know if his worship would have his beard cutshort and to a peak like Sir Francis Drake's, or broad and round like aspade. "Or shall I shave it off," said he, "and leave only yourworship's moustachios?" But he had scarcely made the last suggestionwhen his eye was once more caught by the cut on the man's cheek. "Iwould advise that the beard be left as it is," he said, "for it dothhelp to hide the wound upon your face. Although, indeed, there be manymen in Plymouth who would be mightily proud to display so honourable ascar, for I doubt not your worship came by it in some desperate battleagainst our enemies of Spain."
It was at this moment that Timothy returned into the shop. He overheardhis father's remark, and noticed that for some reason the strangerwinced, as though he were far from being proud of the old wound.
"I do perceive that 'tis the cut from a sword," added thebarber-surgeon, looking at the scar more closely. "I trust, for thehonour of England, that you slew the rascal who gave it you."
"'Tis no sword-cut, but a wound from an Indian's arrow, shot at me fromambush," declared the traveller; and there was a curious tone in hisvoice--a tone which seemed to indicate that he was in reality givingonly a half explanation, or perhaps even a totally false one. In anycase he hastened very plainly to change the subject.
"You named one Francis Drake just now," said he. "Peradventure you caninform me if he be still alive?"
"Alive? Ay, that he is! Alive and well, the Lord be praised! and inPlymouth town at this present time--ah! I beg your worship's pardon.Perhaps I caught your cheek with the point of my scissors?"
The stranger had given a slight nervous start, and a look of displeasureif not of actual annoyance had come into his dark eyes.
"In Plymouth at this present time?" he repeated. And then he mutteredsome words in a foreign tongue, which neither Timothy nor his fathercould comprehend.
"Had you chanced to come in but an hour earlier you might even haveencountered him," remarked the barber, "for he passed by this very door,and returned my salutation most graciously, as, indeed, he doth alwaysdo, whenever I come nigh him; for he is by no means proud, I promiseyou, for all that he hath done more for England than any other livingman. But I am talking thus while it may be that your worship doth knowhim far better than I--while it may even be that you are his personalfriend."
The man with the scarred cheek made no response to this last remark, butonly leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and knitting his brows.He remained silent until Trollope had clipped his beard to asatisfactory shape and was giving it the final touches. Then the warriorlooked up suddenly and said with curious earnestness, as though he wereseeking an answer to a most important question:
"There dwelt in the neighbourhood of Plymouth a score of years ago orso, a certain nobleman by name Baron Champernoun. Canst tell me, masterbarber, if there be any of his lordship's family still dwelling in theseparts?"
Peter Trollope glanced aside at his son and smiled. Timothy strolledslowly towards the window and seated himself near the two goshawks,whence he could watch the stranger's face.
"The name is passing well known to all men of Devon," answered Peter ashe surveyed his workmanship with excusable pride. "And Lord Champernounhimself--the only Lord Champernoun that I have known--still dwelleth athis family estate nigh unto the village of Modbury. He is stricken inyears and passing feeble; but clear in his mind withal, and as excellentand worthy a Christian gentleman as you will find in all the land. As tohis lordship's family, sir, 'tis small in number. He had two sons, yourworship, to wit, Edmund Oglander and Jasper; for Oglander is the familyname, you must know, Champernoun being but the baron's title, bestowedupon the head of the family in Henry the Fifth's time, and--"
"Ay, I wot well that there were two sons," interrupted the stranger,brusquely, "Edmund and Jasper, you say. Ay, and what of them, I prayyou?"
"They both are dead," returned Peter Trollope. "Both lost their lives indistant lands. The Honourable Edmund Oglander, my lord's eldest son,went over to the Netherlands some five years agone, and fell in thebattle of Zutphen--the same engagement in which the virtuous and gallantSir Philip Sidney received his death wound from a Spanish bullet. Theyounger son, Jasper, died of a fever or some such pestilent mischanceout in the Western Indies, whither he had gone to seek adventure andfortune in one of John Hawkins' ships. His lordship grieved not overmuchfor the loss of Jasper, 'tis said; nor do I marvel at it, for surely agreater scamp and reprobate than young Jasper Oglander hath neverlived."
"And both are dead, eh?" mused the traveller in a strange calculatingtone. "Ods life! and who would have thought it? Why, then," he presentlyadded, "it must be that the old baron is now quite alone in the world,and hath none of his own kin to follow him in his title and estates?Sooth, I do pity him to be thus left desolate in his old age, with nevera son or a son's son to carry on his honoured name!"
"'Tis doubtless a sore grief to his lordship that his son Edmundsurviveth not to enjoy his great inheritance," remarked Peter Trollope,"albeit Master Edmund gave up his life in a good and noble cause, andtherein Lord Champernoun hath assuredly a sweet consolation. But if hislordship hath no longer a son, there is, after all, his grandson--abright and gallant young gentleman, and a worthy heir to so vast anheritage."
The stranger raised his heavy eyebrows in quick surprise.
"So-ho?" quoth he; "a grandson, eh? Prithee, what might be the fortunatestripling's age?"
The barber turned to his son, who was at that moment looking out throughthe window at a strangely-dressed negro woman who was crossing the roadin company with a seaman in the direction of the Three Flagons.
"Tim, what might be Master Gilbert's age?" he asked of the lad.
"Fourteen years, mayhap," answered Timothy. "And speaking of MasterGilbert, father, that remindeth me that I am to meet him at themarket-cross at four by the clock; so I must tarry here no longer. Iwill let him know what you have said concerning the goshawks." And withthat he took up his cap, wished his father a "God speed you!" andstrolled out into the street.
As he approached the Three Flagons he was attracted by a little crowd ofboys and girls who stood on the causeway staring at the black woman asshe followed the seaman into the inn. At the same moment the youth whomTim had seen coming ashore from the _Pearl_ was making his way throughthe crowd. The lad glanced up at Tim in passing and seemed about tospeak. Tim returned the glance and said:
"If 'tis the tall man with the scarred cheek that you are seeking, mymaster, you will find him at the sign of the Pestle and Mortar, somedozen yards along the Barbican on your left-hand side."
"'Tis not him that I am in want of at this moment," responded the lad,"I am seeking for the old rascal who came from off the ship with us anhour ago. Canst tell me which way he went?"
Timothy shook his head, disliking the haughty way in which theinformation was demanded.
"No," he answered. "'Twas no business of mine to spy upon him."
"I will reward you well if you can find him for me," pursued the otherwith unmistakable eagerness. And he thrust his fingers into his pouchand drew forth a small silver coin.
Timothy Trollope smiled and bade him keep his money. "As for my turningconstable," he added, "I thank your honour, but I have other matters tooccupy me." And so saying he went on his way towards the ma
rket-place.
As he walked along the harbour front his thoughts wandered back to theold storm-beaten mariner who had named himself Jacob Hartop. Heremembered how Hartop, on stepping ashore, had gone down on his kneesand fervently thanked his God for having brought him safely back to hisnative land, and how the tears had come into his dim eyes when GilbertOglander had done him the slight kindness of giving him a garment tocover his ill-clad body. Such a devout and grateful old man, thoughtTim, could scarcely truly deserve the title of rascal which had justbeen applied to him. Why was this foreign-looking youth so very anxiousthat the old mariner should not escape him? Was it that he might do himsome good service or pay him some debt of gratitude? Or was it notrather that he sought to do him some personal injury?
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