Chapter 2

THE VILLAGE ALE-HOUSE.

Railroads were unknown in the times in which our story occurred, and the village ale-house was still the rendezvous of the villagers of an evening; the parson still occasionally looked in and smoked his pipe with the lawyer, the exciseman, the sexton, and the parish-clerk; while the sturdy farmers, the smith, the butcher, and baker formed another circle; while the laborers and ploughmen, the butcher-boy and the tailor's apprentice lounged in to drink with greedy ears the news; to listen to the wise saws of the village politicians, and become in due time convinced that by some strange freak of fortune the only persons incompetent to rule the country were those in power at the time. Mrs. Alice Goodfellow, the landlady and proprietress of this village elysium, fair, fat, and forty, was a buxom widow, shrewd, good-humored and fond of pleasure, but careful withal and fond of admiration. She never, however, allowed any one of her admirers, to suppose himself more favored than the rest; neither did she suffer any of them to languish in despair. If she allowed the smith to hand her to her pew in church on Sunday, she, nevertheless, smiled sweetly on the baker; and if she took a drive in Farmer Dobson's pony-chaise for her health, yet, Farmer Thomas would sit for hours inside her bar; the truth was, the good widow was perfectly well aware that her snug little free-hold and thriving little trade were quite as great objects of attraction as her delectable self, and acting on the same principle as that old humbug 'Elizabeth,' insanely called 'the good Queen Bess,' viz: the balancing opposite interests, she drew custom to her house and grist to her mill, without troubling herself as to selection from her numerous admirers, which, besides displeasing the others, would place another in authority over that bar, which, for the last ten years, she had ruled monarch of all she surveyed. She had no relative, save one nephew, a wild, shy boy, strange and moody in his habits, passing whole days no one knew where--holding little or no communication with any of those who visited the tavern--none at all with the boys of the village, poring over some book of wild adventure when at home, ranging the woods with an old duck gun on his shoulders, or laying down beneath some shady tree poring over the same wild legends when abroad. His aunt could make nothing of him, and nobody else took the trouble. The curate, indeed, tried to teach him once or twice, but he disconcerted the old man so by discharging his musket at an old wig, hanging by the wall in the midst of a lecture on the propriety of going to school, that he gave him up as hopeless.

The tap-room presented its usual evening appearance when the agent entered. The curate and lawyer were deep in a discussion on the beauties of the new poor-law; the farmers grumbling at the weather; the landlady quietly seated behind the bar, while the bar-maid, a smart, coquettish girl of nineteen, carried the ale and brandy around to the thirsty customers, and all the usual concomitants of a scene then common, but, what we must now call of the olden time, though half a century has scarce passed away since it occurred. The agent was a great man there, few liked him--in fact, all hated him, for though generally a just man, he was entirely a man of business; punctuality was his deity--there was no excuse with him for not meeting rent or bills when due; he did not overcharge or wrong anyone, but he must have his bond, like Shylock, without his ferocity. If money was due it must be paid; sickness, bad crops, death itself was nothing to him; if not, he proceeded _legally_; oh, what a world of anguish! what a number of crimes, crying aloud to Heaven for justice and retribution, are committed under the cloak of Man's legality. The type was forged in Hell that stamped the letter of the law.

The agent, after exchanging courtesies, lip-deep, with the principal farmers, the curate, etc., walked up to the bar and entered into conversation with Mrs. Ally, as she was usually called.

'His lordship has desired me, Mrs. Ally, to put this notice up in a conspicuous place in your tavern, perhaps you will oblige me by placing it in a proper position.' So saying, he handed her the paper containing the reward, etc., offered for the apprehension of Hunter.

'You may stick it up yourself on the parish pump, Mr. Lambert, if you like, but my bar is no station-house or cage; give it to the town crier,' said the dame bristling, for she hated the agent, and feared him not.

'Dang my buttons!' said a burly farmer, 'Mrs. Ally ha the agent dumbfoundered--what be the matter?'

'It is simply this, good friends,' said the agent: 'his lordship has offered a reward of £500;--£500,' said the agent, slowly repeating the sum, 'for the apprehension of the notorious poacher, Horace Hunter, who has threatened his life, and will visit with his gravest displeasure any one who harbors him, or in any way countenances him; if a tenant he shall be discharged; and Mrs. Ally here, refuses to let me place the notice in her bar, thereby showing great disregard for my lord's wishes, to say the least.'

The farmers mostly shrunk back on this speech; the name of a lord, and that lord their landlord, appalled them. They knew the bitter wrong he had heaped upon Hunter's devoted head; they well could sympathize with him; they had known him a gay and thriving farmer, their lord's especial favorite--fatal favor--the companionship of the tiger and the deer. The beauty of Hunter's sister had struck the libidinous eye of the aristocratic villain--need I say more? ruin and desolation followed--no one knew what had become of her. The brother had been kidnapped by a press-gang, but of course the Earl knew nothing of that; he was now, however, supposed to be lurking in the neighborhood. The Earl had received a letter in which the brother's heart had been poured out in bitterness; he had injured, therefore he could not forgive. Not so, however, Mrs. Alice; she did not fear the lord one jot, and folks did say, she knew more about him than he would like told; be that as it may, she loudly protested against its being placed there at all; and was still indignantly haranguing; now crying shame upon his lordship; now bewailing poor Ellen, who had been a great favorite of hers, when her eccentric nephew entered; he looked dusty and fatigued, but there was a strange smile upon his lips as he looked at the agent. Without saying a word he walked straight up to the agent, and taking the paper from his hand procured a hammer and some tacks and nailed it up in the most conspicuous place in the bar, displacing some of his aunt's ornaments in so doing; then drinking a mug of ale, he threw himself along a bench and was or seemed to be sound asleep.

'Dash ma wig,' said the farmer, who had before spoken, 'that dangs all, the boy be daft and Mrs. Ally doant say nuthen--he be queer for sartain.'

Mrs. Ally said not a word, but gazed on her nephew with mute astonishment; she did not, however, attempt to remove the obnoxious paper. The agent having in this unexpected manner gained his point, called for wine and sat down with the curate, lawyer, etc. He had yet another object--to find Curly Tom, no easy matter, that worthy being by no means a welcome guest there; that he did come there sometimes, however, Lambert knew, for as long as no warrant was out against him, however bad his character, he could not be turned away from the inn when he paid his shot; he did not like openly to ask for such a character, but sat down trusting that when the ale made the farmers loquacious he should gain some clue to his whereabouts. Fortune seemed destined to be his friend in more than one way that evening. The sound of a pistol shot was heard in the road leading towards the seaport, which was some ten miles distant; and a few moments after, a burly seafaring man entered the tap-room, dragging after him, in his powerful grasp, a ruffianly ill-looking countryman; no other indeed than the man of all others Lambert wished most to see, viz: Curly Tom.

'Cast your anchor there,' said the seaman, 'and if you attempt to slip moorings, afore you've been over-hauled by the skipper, split my topsails but I'll bring you up all standing with this barking iron,' pressing the muzzle of a pistol to the fellow's forehead.

'Put up your pistol,' said the fellow sullenly. 'I beant going to run; you've broke my head and dinged all the wind oot of ma body.'

'What is the matter, my good man?' said Mr. Lambert, coming forward. 'I am a magistrate, and can take your deposition.'

'Matter!' said the sailor, 'piracy is the matter. I was making for this ere port, charged with despatches from my commanding officer, when this ere shark ranges alongside and pops his barking iron into my face, and wants me to break cargo and hand over to him, but I brought my harpoon handle to bear on his figure head and he capsized, and his barker got foul of his rigging, then I roused him up and brought him along to this port.'

'Highway robbery and attempt at murder,' said the agent. 'Simpkins, you are constable, take this man in charge, while I make out his committal. Stay!' he added, 'the cage is very insecure, and this is no trifling case. You had better take him up to the castle, my lord will examine him in the morning, and there is a strong room there; meantime, Mrs. Ally will perhaps see to his wound, it looks an ugly one.'

The kind hearted landlady readily undertook this latter office, even for so repulsive a being; his head had indeed received a terrific blow, a fur cap had somewhat deadened the force or he must have been killed on the spot; she bound his head up, and in charge of the constable and two stout laborers he was marched up to the castle. The agent after warning the mariner to attend in the morning at his examination, going with them, well pleased, not only to have found the man he sought, but also to have him in such a situation that he could only choose between doing his bidding or the gallows. The boy, had never stirred from his sleep during this scene. The company at the ale house also broke up, and each wended his way home, where, no doubt, each in his own way, regaled his family with the marvels of the evening, and the seaman alone remained, eating his supper as coolly as though nothing had happened, a combat of life and death seeming to him a thing too common to excite any emotion in his breast. Had it been daylight it is not likely he would have been attacked by one man; few that gazed upon his square muscular form, his brawny chest and strong hard hands, would have liked to cope with him in personal conflict, though his iron grey beard told that more than fifty years of storm had rolled over his head. His face had been handsome, scarred with storm and conflict, it still bore the impress of manly beauty, and there was a look of settled determination, upon it, that told was indeed,

'In close fight a warrior grim,'

and traces of fierce passion also showed him to be one whom no one would like for an enemy. His dress was finer than an ordinary seaman's, and though perfectly nautical, was free from any stain of tar or pitch, generally considered absolutely necessary in a sailor's attire. The boy gazed intently on him as he took his meal, closing his eyes however whenever the sailor looked at him, and preserving the appearance of slumber.

Mrs. Ally waited with becoming patience while her guest ate his fill and then approaching him with a brimming tumbler of punch said, 'Drink to the memory of old times, Walter.'

'You know me then!' said he, 'strange that but one eye alone of those who knew me in my boyhood should recognize me, but sea and storm do much to alter a man, human passion does more.' (He spoke now without any of the sea jargon that had made his account of the encounter with Curly Tom almost unintelligible to the farmers); 'but,' he added, 'you had better send this lad to bed.'

'You need not,' said the boy, rising as he spoke, 'I remembered you instantly. I will not betray you if you wish to remain unknown.'

'You may safely trust him,' said his aunt, 'he never breaks his word.'

'A good sign that,' said the seaman, 'and a bold boy I warrant, he is well grown too for his years, and like--'

'Like who?' asked aunt and nephew in one breath.

'Like one I never wish to speak of,' was the answer, 'let be, let be, I have much to ask you; first of my father, does he live?'

'He does, bowed down by age and now by sorrow, Walter. When you and I were younger--years ago--when my sister, who is now an angel in heaven, I hope, married you, I never thought the day would come when my lips should be the ones to tell you of the desolation of your child.'

Walter recoiled, and rising from his seat grasped the back of the chair he had been seated on with such a nervous gripe that the strong oak rail broke in two with the pressure, and his heaving chest and quivering lip told the fierce emotions that were struggling for utterance.--The landlady understood his look.

'Do not fear, Walter--your child is as pure as an angel. It is the desolation of her heart I speak of--not the pollution. It is the blight that has fallen upon her young love--upon a woman's first and holiest impressions--a virtuous love for a deserving object. Are you calm enough to hear the tale?'

'I am--proceed.'

'My tale will not be a long one, but sad--sad for more than one victim has and will fall yet to the fell passions of him, who rules this neighborhood with a rod of iron. You remember Geoffry Hunter, of the Toll gate farm?'

'Well; he and I were schoolmates.'

'He died some few years after you went on that voyage from which no one ever expected to see you return--I for one. Though remembering your daring courage and hardihood, I did not credit the tale that was brought here that you had perished in the woods attempting to escape. I felt confident you would one day return--as you did ten years ago, and brought this boy with you. Geoffry Hunter left two children. You knew them--Horace and Ellen. Poor Ellen! victim of a titled villain!' and the good woman paused, and tears filled her eyes. It was some moments ere she could proceed. 'Horace grew up a fine young-man. As a boy he was a playmate of our proud master; and when Ellen returned from Canterbury, where she had been educated by an aunt, she was the pride of the village, the joy of her widowed mother's heart, and the apple of her brother's eye. It was a beautiful thing to see, Walter, the strong love of those two--the exultant pride of the brother in his sister's loveliness--in her accomplishments, for she knew many things our country folks were unacquainted with. The deep affection of the sister--oh, it was a happy and a handsome picture, that mother, sister and brother. She took more pleasure in the society of your daughter than in any other of the village girls, and they were much together. Ellen taught her what she had learned, and thus it came about that her brother first noticed and finally loved her. And she loved him in return. A handsomer or more fitting pair never trod the sod together. You would have approved the match. Your father gave his consent--he had long mourned you as dead--and they were to have been married when she became 20 years of age. It yet wanted two years of this time when our lord returned from abroad. He soon visited the house of his old playfellow, and was struck with the beauty of Ellen Hunter--but he too well knew the character of Horace Hunter to openly show it. The first step he took was to dismiss your father from the stewardship, under pretence of his being too old, and settling a pension on him. He did not wish the good old man near him--it was a living reproach on his bad deeds.'

'On the infamous practices of his race,' said the seaman sternly; 'bad father and bad son--but proceed.'

'He installed this man Lambert in your father's place--a cold, unfeeling man--a money-worshiper, and suspected of being only too willing an instrument in furthering his master's infamous designs. Lambert sedulously cultivated an intimacy with the Hunters--condoled with the mother, ingratiated himself with the young man, and affected unbounded friendship. Ellen, however, with the true instinct of a pure and innocent girl, shrank from his companionship; innocence will ever shrink with innate consciousness from baseness. He persuaded Hunter to rent a farm in addition to his own, and lent him money to speculate largely in breeding fancy sheep. The speculation failed--the agent pressed for payment. His master came forward and paid the amount. Thus he appeared as a benefactor, and Ellen's gratitude soon ripened into love; but her brother was in the way. He went to Erith to make some purchases for his mother and sister, and was kidnapped by a press-gang. Lambert had been there a few days before.'

'Ah, I understand,' said the seaman--'too plain. Fire them--what right have they to seize a free man as if he were a negro slave?'

'It's a shame,' said Mrs. Ally, 'but good King George--'

'Imbecile old ass,' said the mariner--'go on with your story.'

'The mother grieved for her son's absence--he wrote from the tender ship asking for his clothes, and to buy off his discharge. She applied to the Earl. He deceived her--gave her hope--promised to write to the Admiralty--was sorry, but the necessities of the war were such, substitutes were not allowed, and a discharge could not be granted. Within a year the mother died, and Ellen was left alone. Beautiful, helpless, with no one to protect her, was it a wonder she fell a victim to the vile plot laid for her? Her seducer wearied of her after two years, and offered to settle a pension upon her and wed her to his base instrument Lambert. She spurned the offer, and left the cottage where he had established her in splendid infamy. None knew whither she went, and no tidings have since been heard of her.'

The seaman was pacing the floor in stern and gloomy silence. He paused. 'And him?--what became of him?'

'He came back three years after,' said the landlady, 'in sailor's garb, but without a seaman's manner. He had learned dissipation, and was gloomy and fierce. He had heard of his sister's shame, and he swore a terrible revenge. The Earl was in London at the time, but had he been here, Horace would have attempted nothing then. "I will not strike him now," said he--"no! that were a poor revenge. I will tame his pride first--then destroy him. Mine shall be no vulgar vengeance."--He however wrote a passionate letter to the Earl demanding his acknowledgment of his sister as his lawful wife, and threatening terrible vengeance. This was idle, but I suppose it merely done to cover deeper designs. He returned to sea--was absent two more years, but re-appeared here some three months ago, since when he has been frequently seen about the neighborhood, and is supposed to subsist by poaching. Curly Tom, the ruffian you captured last night, has been much with him. He has again written to the Earl something which has made him furious--so your father told me, who had been there, the good old man, trying to make him forego his pursuit of poor Horace. There will be something terrible, I am sure. God help us, and avert it.'

'Say rather, let his righteous judgments fall upon that base man and his infamous house,' said the mariner sternly. 'You need tell me no more. I can picture my sweet child, pining, grieving over the lost character of him she loved--two families of victims. But shall not vengeance take its course? It shall--terrible and full. But a short space of time shall elapse ere he shall be stripped of rank and title, and then--'

'Walter, you rave.'

'I speak in earnest. I never threaten in vain. But I must act now. I must find Hunter. How to do that--'

'I will take you to him,' said the boy, 'to-morrow evening.'

'Good. I must have some talk with you, but now I must rest. To-morrow night I shall have none.'

So saying, the burly seaman, preceded by the landlady, retired to his chamber. The house was soon in quiet, but the boy sat long by the decaying embers of the fire, musing over the words "he shall be stripped of his rank and titles"--then took from his vest a small gold locket. It contained a lock of hair--two persons' hair entwined together, dark and fair--but it bore the impress of a coronet, and the proud motto, "Nulli Secundi."