The Toll-Gate (3 page)

"Mama is right!" declared Fanny. "We must find him an eligible wife!"

Candidate after candidate for this post did Fanny and her mama find, and cunningly throw in John's way. Apparently he liked them—all of them.

This one was a most conversable girl, that one seemed to him a very lively girl, another a remarkably pretty girl. But he asked none of them to marry him. When his sister ventured to ask him once if he had ever been in love, he had replied quite seriously, Yes: he rather thought he had been desperately in love with the lodgekeeper's wife, who used to regale him with brandy-snaps, and allowed him to keep in a hutch outside her kitchen-door the ferrets Mama had so much disliked. Was that all? had demanded an exasperated sister. No, there had been a girl in Lisbon, when he first joined. Juanita, or was it Conchita? He couldn't remember, but at all events she was the loveliest creature you ever saw. Dark, of course, and with the biggest eyes, and such a well-turned ankle! Had he been in love with her? "Lord, yes!" replied John. "We all were!" He admitted that it was time he was thinking of getting married: not, of course, to Fanny, but to Mama.

"Well, I know, Mama," he said apologetically. "But the thing is I've got no fancy for one of these dashed suitable marriages, where you don't really care a fig for the girl, or she for you. I don't mean to offer marriage to any girl who don't give me a leveller. So I daresay I shall remain a bachelor, for they don't—any of 'em! And if one did," he added thoughtfully, "it's Lombard Street to a China orange you wouldn't take to her!"

"Dearest boy, I should take to any girl whom you loved!" declared Mrs. Staple.

He grinned his appreciation of this mendacity, and gave her shoulders a hug, saying: "That was a whisker!"

She boxed his ears. "Odious boy! The fact of the matter is that it is a thousand pities we are not living in archaic times. What you would have liked, my son, is to have rescued some female from a dragon, or an ogre!"

"Famous good sport to have had a turn-up with a dragon," he agreed. "As long as you didn't find yourself with the girl left on your hands afterwards, which I've a strong notion those fellows did."

"Such girls," his mother reminded him, "were always very beautiful."

"To be sure they were! Dead bores too, depend upon it! In fact, I shouldn't be at all surprised if the dragons were very glad to be rid of 'em," said John.

Not very promising, this. But Fanny had discovered Elizabeth Kelfield, and Mrs. Staple had acknowledged, after careful and critical study of Miss Kelfield, that here was a lady who might well take John's fancy.

She was dark; she was decidedly handsome; her fortune was respectable; and although she was not quite twenty years of age she seemed older, the circumstance of her having taken from an invalid mother's shoulders the burden of household cares having given her an assurance beyond her years. Mrs. Staple thought she had quality, and began to cultivate the ailing Mrs. Kelfield.

And now, when mother and daughter had been coaxed to Mildenhurst, off went John into Leicestershire, so that all the scheming so painstakingly undertaken on his behalf seemed likely to be wasted.

In happy ignorance of this, Captain Staple, climbing the slopes of the Pennines, found himself in a wild, moorland country, and liked it.

Having a good sense of direction, he had left the pike road at the earliest opportunity, and with it, in a very short space of time, all signs of civilisation. This exactly suited his mood, and he rode over the moors, at an easy pace and in a south-easterly direction. He had meant originally to have spent the night in Derby, but his late start made this impossible. Chesterfield became his objective. That was before the bay cast a shoe. When this happened, the Captain had ample time in which to regret having left the pike road, for he appeared to be in the centre of a vast desert. The only habitations to be seen for miles were an occasional cottage, and a few rough sheds dotted about the moors for the protection of shepherds. It was dusk when the Captain, leading Beau, dropped off the moor into a small village, which boasted not only a forge, but an alehouse as well. The smith had gone home, and by the time he had been fetched from his cottage, and the fire had been blown up again, not only had the last of the daylight vanished, but the rain, which had held off all day, had begun to fall. There was no possibility of racking up for the night at the alehouse, but bait was forthcoming for man and beast. Captain Staple ate a hearty meal of ham and eggs, lit one of his Spanish cigarillos, and went out to see what hope there might be of the weather's clearing. There was plainly none. The rain was falling with persistent steadiness, and not a star was to be seen. The Captain resigned himself to a wet ride, and sought counsel of the landlord. This was his undoing. The worthy man not only knew of a comfortable inn a few miles distant, but, anxious to be helpful, directed the Captain to it by what he assured him was the shortest route. He said that the Captain could not miss it, and no doubt the Captain would not have missed it if the landlord had not omitted to tell him that when he bade him take the first lane on the right he did not mean the track which, as every native of those parts knew, led winding upwards to the moor, and ended at a small farmstead. It was an hour later when the Captain, trusting his instinct, and riding steadily southward, found a lane which, rough though it was, seemed likely to lead to some village, or pike road. He followed this, noting with satisfaction that it ran slightly downhill, and within a short space of time knew that his guess had been correct. The lane ran into a broader road, which crossed it at right angles. Captain Staple had no very certain idea where he was, but he was reasonably sure that Sheffield lay to the east, probably at no great distance, so he turned left-handed into the larger road. The rain dripped from the brim of his hat, and mud generously splashed his top-boots, but the heavy frieze cloak had so far kept him fairly dry. He leaned forward to pat Beau's streaming neck, saying encouragingly: "Not much farther now, old chap!"

A bend in the road brought into view an encouraging sight. A small light glowed ahead, which, from its position, the Captain judged to be the lantern hung upon a toll-gate. "Come, now, Beau!" he said, in heartening accents. "We're on the right track, at all events! If this is a pike road, it must lead to some town!"

He rode on, and soon saw that he had indeed reached a pike. The light, though very dim, enabled him to see that it was shut, and guarded, on the northern side of the road, by a gatehouse. No light was visible in the house, and the door was shut. "Cross-country road, not much used," the Captain informed Beau. He raised his voice, shouting imperatively: "Gate!"

Nothing happened. "Do I dismount, and open it for myself?" enquired the Captain. "No, I'll be damned if I do! Gate, I say! Gate! Turn out, there, and be quick about it!"

The door in the centre of the gatehouse opened a little way, and a feeble glimmer of lantern-light was cast across the road. "Well, come along!" said the Captain impatiently. "Open up, man!"

After a moment's hesitation, this summons was obeyed. The gatekeeper came out into the road, and revealed himself, in the light of the lantern he carried, to be of diminutive stature. The Captain, looking down at him in some surprise, as he stood fumbling with the gate-tickets, discovered him to be a skinny urchin, certainly not more than thirteen years old, and probably less. The lantern's glow revealed a scared young face, freckled, and slightly tear-stained. He said: "Hallo, what's this? Are you the gatekeeper?"

"N-no, sir. Me dad is," responded the youth, with a gulp.

"Well, where is your dad?"

Another gulp. "I dunno." A ticket was held up. "Frippence, please, your honour, an' it opens the next two gates."

But the Captain's besetting sin, a strong predilection for exploring the unusual, had taken possession of him. He disregarded the ticket, and said: "Did your dad leave you to mind the gate for him?"

"Yes sir," acknowledged the youth, with a somewhat watery sniff. "Please, sir, it's frippence, and——"

"Opens the next two gates," supplied the Captain. "What's your name?"

"Ben," replied the youth.

"Where does this road lead to? Sheffield?"

After consideration, Ben said that it did.

"How far?" asked the Captain.

"I dunno. Ten miles, I dessay. Please, sir——"

"As much as that! The devil!"

"It might be twelve, p'raps. I dunno. But the ticket's frippence, please, sir."

The Captain looked down into the not very prepossessing countenance raised anxiously to his. The boy looked frightened and over-watched. He said: "When did your dad go off?" He waited, and added, after a moment: "Don't be afraid! I shan't hurt you. Have you been minding the gate for long?"

"Yes—no! Dad went off yesterday. He said he'd be back, but he ain't, and please, sir, don't go telling no one, else Dad'll give me a proper melting!" begged the youth, on a note of urgent entreaty.

The Captain's curiosity was now thoroughly roused. Gatekeepers might have their faults, but they did not commonly leave their posts unattended except by small boys for twenty-four hours at a stretch.

Moreover, Ben was badly scared; and to judge by the furtive glances he cast round he was scared by something besides the darkness and his loneliness.

The Captain swung himself to the ground, and pulled the bridle over Beau's head. "Seems to me I'd better stay and keep you company for the night," he said cheerfully. "Now, where am I going to stable my horse?"

Ben was so much astonished that he could only stand staring up at the Captain with his mouth open and his eyes popping. The Captain knew that the generality of country gatehouses had small gardens attached to them with, often enough, rough sheds erected for the storage of hoes, swap-hooks, and wood. "Have you got a shed?" he demanded.

"Ay," uttered Ben, still gazing, fascinated, at this enormous and fantastic traveller.

"What's in it?"

"Cackling-cheats."

The Captain recognised the language. His troop had contained several of the rogues of whom his Grace of Wellington, in querulous humour, had more than once asserted that his gallant army was for the most part composed. "Hens?" he said. "Oh, well, no matter! Take me to it! Is it big enough for my horse?"

"Ay," said Ben doubtfully.

"Lead the way, then!"

Apparently Ben felt that it would be unwise to demur, which he seemed much inclined to do, for after giving another gulp he picked up his lantern, and guided the Captain to a wicket-gate behind the toll-house.

The shed proved to be surprisingly large, and when the lantern was hung up on a protruding nail its light revealed not only a collection of fowls, perched on a roost, but also some straw, and a truss of hay in one corner. There were unmistakable signs that Beau was not the first horse to be stabled there, a circumstance which John found interesting, but which he thought it wisest not to comment upon. Ben was regarding him with a mixture of awe and suspicion, so he smiled down at the boy, and said: "You needn't be afraid: I shan't hurt you. Now, my cloak's too wet to put over Beau here: have you got a blanket to spare?"

"Ay. But if Mr. Chirk was to come—— But I dessay he won't!" said Ben. "Coo, he is a big prancer!"

He then took the saddle-bag which John had unstrapped, and went off with it. When he returned it was with a pail of water, and a horse-blanket.

He found that the Captain, having shed his coat, was rubbing Beau down, and he at once collected a wisp of straw, and set to work on the big horse's legs. He seemed to have decided that his uninvited guest, though alarmingly large, really did mean him no harm, for he looked much more cheerful, and volunteered the information that he had set the kettle on to boil. "There's some rum left," he said.

"There won't be presently," replied John, watching the boy's fearless handling of his horse. The mild jest was well-received, a friendly grin being cast up at him. He said casually: "Do you work in a stable?"

"Some days I does. Others it's all sorts," replied Ben. "Mr. Sopworthy hires me mostly."

"Who is he?"

"Buffer, at Crowford. Blue Boar," said Ben, beginning to wipe the stirrups with a piece of sacking.

"Innkeeper?" hazarded John.

"Ay."

"Does your dad keep a horse?"

The wary look came back into Ben's face. "No." He eyed John sideways. "That horse-cloth ain't me dad's. It—it belongs to a friend. He comes here sometimes. Maybe he wouldn't like you using of it, so—so you don't want to go saying anything about it, please, sir! Nor about him, acos—acos he don't like meeting no strangers!"

"Shy, is he? I won't say anything," promised John, wondering if this were perhaps the man of whom Ben was afraid. He was by this time convinced that some mystery hung about the toll-house, with which, no doubt, the disappearance of its custodian was connected; but he was wise enough to keep this reflection to himself, since it was plain that Ben, in the manner of a colt, was uncertain of him, ready to shy off in a panic.

When Beau had been covered with the blanket, and left to lip over an armful of hay, Ben led the Captain up the garden to the back of the toll-house, where a central door opened into a small kitchen. The house, as John quickly saw, was of the usual pattern. It consisted of two tolerable rooms with another between them, which had been divided into two by a wooden partition. The rear half was the kitchen, and the front the toll-office. The kitchen was small, over-warm, and extremely untidy.