“What do you mean by splashing your drink about a gentleman’s house, sir?” said John.
“I’m drinking a toast,” Hugh rejoined, holding the glass above his head, and fixing his eyes on Mr. Haredale’s face; “a toast to this house and its master.” With that he muttered something to himself, and drank the rest, and setting down the glass, preceded them without another word.
John was a good deal scandalised by this observance, but seeing that Mr. Haredale took little heed of what Hugh said or did, and that his thoughts were otherwise employed, he offered no apology, and went in silence down the stairs, across the walk, and through the garden-gate. They stopped upon the outer side for Hugh to hold the light while Mr. Haredale locked it on the inner; and then John saw with wonder (as he often afterwards related), that he was very pale, and that his face had changed so much and grown so haggard since their entrance, that he almost seemed another man.
They were in the open road again, and John Willet was walking on behind his escort, as he had come, thinking very steadily of what he had just now seen, when Hugh drew him suddenly aside, and almost at the same instant three horsemen swept past—the nearest brushed his shoulder even then—who, checking their steeds as suddenly as they could, stood still, and waited for their coming up.
Chapter 35
When John Willet saw that the horsemen wheeled smartly round, and drew up three abreast in the narrow road, waiting for him and his man to join them, it occurred to him with unusual precipitation that they must be highwaymen; and had Hugh been armed with a blunderbuss, in place of his stout cudgel, he would certainly have ordered him to fire it off at a venture, and would, while the word of command was obeyed, have consulted his own personal safety in immediate flight. Under the circumstances of disadvantage, however, in which he and his guard were placed, he deemed it prudent to adopt a different style of generalship, and therefore whispered his attendant to address them in the most peaceable and courteous terms. By way of acting up to the spirit and letter of this instruction, Hugh stepped forward, and flourishing his staff before the very eyes of the rider nearest to him, demanded roughly what he and his fellows meant by so nearly galloping over them, and why they scoured the king’s highway at that late hour of night.
The man whom he addressed was beginning an angry reply in the same strain, when he was checked by the horseman in the centre, who, interposing with an air of authority, inquired in a somewhat loud but not harsh or unpleasant voice:
“Pray, is this the London road?”
“If you follow it right, it is,” replied Hugh roughly.
“Nay, brother,” said the same person, “you’re but a churlish Englishman, if Englishman you be—which I should much doubt but for your tongue. Your companion, I am sure, will answer me more civilly. How say you, friend?”
“I say it is the London road, sir,” answered John. “And I wish,” he added in a subdued voice, as he turned to Hugh, “that you was in any other road, you vagabond. Are you tired of your life, sir, that you go a-trying to provoke three great neck-or-nothing chaps, that could keep on running over us, back’ards and for’ards, till we was dead, and then take our bodies up behind ’em, and drown us ten miles off?”
“How far is it to London?” inquired the same speaker.
“Why, from here, sir,” answered John, persuasively, “it’s thirteen very easy mile.”
The adjective was thrown in, as an inducement to the travellers to ride away with all speed; but instead of having the desired effect, it elicited from the same person, the remark, “Thirteen miles! That’s a long distance!” which was followed by a short pause of indecision.
“Pray,” said the gentleman, “are there any inns hereabouts?” At the word “inns,” John plucked up his spirit in a surprising manner; his fears rolled off like smoke; all the landlord stirred within him.
“There are no inns,” rejoined Mr. Willet, with a strong emphasis on the plural number; “but there’s a Inn—one Inn—the Maypole Inn. That’s a Inn indeed. You won’t see the like of that Inn often.”
“You keep it, perhaps?” said the horseman, smiling.
“I do, sir,” replied John, greatly wondering how he had found this out.
“And how far is the Maypole from here?”
“About a mile”—John was going to add that it was the easiest mile in all the world, when the third rider, who had hitherto kept a little in the rear, suddenly interposed:
“And have you one excellent bed, landlord? Hem! A bed that you can recommend—a bed that you are sure is well aired—a bed that has been slept in by some perfectly respectable and unexceptionable person?”
“We don’t take in no tagrag and bobtail at our house, sir,” answered John. “And as to the bed itself—”
“Say, as to three beds,” interposed the gentleman who had spoken before; “for we shall want three if we stay, though my friend only speaks of one.”
“No, no, my lord; you are too good, you are too kind; but your life is of far too much importance to the nation in these portentous times, to be placed upon a level with one so useless and so poor as mine. A great cause, my lord, a mighty cause, depends on you. You are its leader and its champion, its advanced guard and its van. It is the cause of our altars and our homes, our country and our faith. Let me sleep on a chair—the carpet—anywhere. No one will repine if I take cold or fever. Let John Grueby pass the night beneath the open sky—no one will repine for him. But forty thousand men of this our
