“You may come in,” was the answer I got at last; and so in I went; and a queerer room I never did go into. But wonderful as the room was surely, and leaving on memory a shade of half-seen wonders afterwards, for the time I had no power to look at anything but the man.
People may laugh (and they always do until they gain experience) at the idea of one man binding other men prisoners to his will. For all their laughing, there stands the truth; and the men who resist such influence best are those who do not laugh at it. I have seen too much of the tricks of the world to believe in anything supernatural; but the granting of this power is most strictly within nature’s scope; and somebody must have it. One man has the gift of love, that everybody loves him; another has the gift of hate, that nobody comes near him; the third, and far the rarest gift, combines the two others (one more, one less), and adds to them both the gift of fear. I felt, as I tried to meet his gaze and found my eyes quiver away from it, that the further I kept from this man’s sight, the better it would be for me.
He sat in a high-backed chair, and pointed to a three-legged stool, as much as to say, “You may even sit down.” This I did, and waited for him.
“Your name is David Llewellyn,” he said, caring no more to look at me; “you came from the coast of Glamorgan, three days ago, in the Rose of Devon schooner.”
“Ketch, your reverence, if you please. The difference is in the mizzenmast.”
“Well, Jack Ketch, if you like, sir. No more interrupting me. Now you will answer a few questions; and if you tell me one word of falsehood—”
He did not finish his sentence, but he frightened me far more than if he had. I promised to do my best to tell the truth, so far as lies in me.
“Do you know what child that was that came ashore drowned upon your coast, when the coroner made such a fool of himself?”
“And the jury as well, your reverence. About the child I know nothing at all.”
“Describe that child to the best of your power: for you are not altogether a fool.”
I told him what the poor babe was like, so far as I could remember it. But something holy and harmless kept me from saying one word about Bardie. And to the last day of my life I shall rejoice that I so behaved. He saw that I was speaking truth; but he showed no signs of joy or sorrow, until I ventured to put in—
“May I ask why your reverence wishes to know, and what you think of this matter, and how—”
“Certainly you may ask, Llewellyn; it is a woman’s and a Welshman’s privilege; but certainly you shall have no reply. What inquiry has been made along your coast about this affair?”
I longed to answer him in my humour, even as he had answered me. With anyone else I could have done it, but I durst not so with him. Therefore I told him all the truth, to the utmost of my knowledge—making no secret of Hezekiah, and his low curiosity; also the man of the press with the hat; and then I could not quite leave out the visit of Anthony Stew and Sir Philip.
This more than anything else aroused Parson Chowne’s attention. For the papers he cared not a damn, he said; for two of them lived by abusing him; but as he swore not (except that once), it appeared to me that he did care. However, he pressed me most close and hard about Anthony Stew and Sir Philip.
When he had got from me all that I knew—except that he never once hit upon Bardie (the heart and the jewel of everything), he asked me without any warning—
“Do you know who that Sir Philip is?”
“No, your reverence; I have not even heard so much as his surname, although, no doubt, I shall find out.”
“You fool! Is that all the wit you have? Three days in and out of Barnstaple! It is Sir Philip Bampfylde of Narnton Court, close by you.”
“There is no Narnton Court, that I know of, your reverence, anywhere round our neighbourhood. There is Candleston Court, and Court Isa, and Court—”
“Tush, I mean near where your ship is lying. And that is chiefly what I want with you. I know men well; and I know that you are a man that will do anything for money.”
My breath was taken away at this: so far was it from my true character. I like money well enough in its way; but as for a single disgraceful action—
“Your reverence never made such a mistake. For coming up here I have even paid more than you were pleased to give me. If that is your point I will go straight back. Do anything, indeed, for money!”
“Pooh! This is excellent indignation. What man is there but will do so? I mean, of course, anything you consider to be right and virtuous.”
“Anything which is undeniably right, and upright, and virtuous. Ah! now your reverence understands me. Such has always been my character.”
“In your own opinion. Well, self-respect is a real blessing: I will not ask you to forego it. Your business will be of a nature congenial as well as interesting to you. Your ship lies just in the right position for the service I require; and as she is known to have come from Wales, no Revenue-men will trouble you. You will have to keep watch, both day and night, upon Sir Philip and Narnton Court.”
“Nothing in the nature
