The Toll-Gate Read online

  Sir Peter, who had thought it one of Mr Assheson Smith’s sayings, smiled, and sipped his brandy. He encouraged his guest to talk, and when he saw his guest’s glass empty, he begged him to refill it. Under this genial influence Mr Coate expanded like a peony on a hot summer’s day, and thought he had achieved so excellent an understanding with his host that he was fatally emboldened to compliment him upon his granddaughter’s looks and high spirit. He said that he did not mind owning that he had not expected to find his friend’s cousin such a dashing chipper, and wound up this tribute by giving Sir Peter to understand that although he had steered clear of marriage and was not to be thought a fellow that was hanging out for a wife, he was damned if he wasn’t beginning to change his mind.

  It was at this point that Winkfield entered the room. He said that he fancied that Mr Henry was waiting for Mr Coate in the library; and since he stood holding the door in the evident expectation of ushering his master’s guest out of the room immediately, there was nothing for Coate to do but to bid Sir Peter good night, and take himself off. This was not accomplished without his shaking Sir Peter’s hand, and saying, with a wink, that he was happy to have met him, for he rather thought that they had reached a very tolerable understanding.

  Having closed the dressing-room door behind the guest, Winkfield returned to the bedchamber, and began quietly to clear away the glasses.

  ‘Winkfield!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You may get me to bed!’ Sir Peter said harshly.

  He did not speak again until he lay between the sheets, and the valet was drawing the curtains round his bed. Then he said, in quite a strong voice: ‘Send Joseph up to me in the morning!’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ Winkfield said, carefully lowering the wick of the lamp he had carried into the room.

  Sir Peter watched him, a grim smile curling his mouth. ‘I’ve had notice to quit, Winkfield, but I can stick to my leaders still, by God!’

  Seven

  Captain Staple, having been set down by Miss Stornaway at the toll-house, lost no time in changing his raiment for garments more suited to his new calling. He found the shirts he had bought a trifle harsh to the skin, but by the time he had removed his boots with the aid of the jack he had purchased (and which, he knew well, would rapidly ruin them) and exchanged them for coarse gray stockings and a pair of brogues; and had knotted one of the coloured neckcloths round his throat, in tolerable semblance of a Belcher-tie, he was very well-pleased with his appearance. He was inclined to think he looked his part, but this view was not shared by Ben, who, returning from his labours at the Blue Boar, made no secret of his disapproval. He said that flash coves didn’t wear coloured shirts or leather waistcoats.

  ‘I’m not a flash cove,’ replied John.

  ‘Yes, you are!’ Ben insisted. ‘Everyone knows that!’

  ‘Who is everyone?’ demanded John.

  ‘Well – everyone! Mr Sopworthy, and Mrs Skeffling, and Farmer Huggate!’

  ‘Did you tell them so?’

  ‘No! I says as you was me cousin, but Farmer Huggate says as Beau’s a proper high-bred ’un, which me cousin wouldn’t have come by honest.’

  ‘The devil!’ ejaculated John.

  ‘It’s all rug!’ Ben said consolingly. ‘Mr Sopworthy told Farmer Huggate as mum’s the word, ’cos I heard him.’

  ‘Oh, he did, did he?’ said John, somewhat taken aback.

  ‘Ay, ’cos of Miss Nell.’

  ‘Because of – What did he mean by that?’

  ‘I dunno,’ said Ben, uninterested.

  John did not pursue the subject; and, the grating of cartwheels coming to his ears a few minutes later, went out to attend to his duties. A heavily laden tumbril, drawn by an enormous carthorse, was slowly approaching from the direction of the village, the driver strolling beside his horse. At sight of John, he called out: ‘Open up, mate, will ’ee? There ain’t nothing to pay: I got a load o’ manure.’

  John lifted a hand, in token that he had heard the request, but addressed himself to a stocky, middle-aged man who was seated on the bench outside the toll-house, puffing at a short clay pipe. ‘Hallo!’ he said. ‘Aught I can do for you?’

  ‘Thank ’ee, I’m just having a bit of a set-down on this here bench of yours – if so be as you’ve no objection?’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ John said, going to open the gate.

  ‘Fine day!’ remarked the driver of the tumbril, with great affability. ‘Newcomer, ain’t you? It weren’t you opened to me when I was along last week – leastways, I disremember that it was.’

  ‘That’s right,’ John replied, his eyes on the tumbril. ‘What’s your load?’

  ‘Why, I telled ye! Manure!’

  ‘I know you did, but it looks to me like lime.’

  ‘Lord bless us, wherever was you reared?’ exclaimed the driver, with a fine show of astonishment. ‘Lime’s manure, cully, all right and tight!’

  ‘Yes, and also it ain’t exempt from paying toll!’ retorted John, grinning at him. ‘What kind of a knock-in-the-cradle do you take me for, dry-boots? You hand over the half of a fiddle!’

  ‘How was I to know you was a downy one?’ demanded the driver, philosophically accepting defeat. ‘I thought you was a cawker.’

  ‘You go and milk a pigeon!’ recommended John, handing him a ticket, and accepting in exchange three greasy coins.

  He shut the gate again behind the cart, and walked back to the house. The man on the bench, removing the pipe from between his teeth, said: ‘I dessay you get a good few coves trying to chouse you out of the toll.’

  John laughed. ‘Yes, when they think I’m a green-head.’

  ‘Been at the gate long?’

  ‘I’m only taking charge of it while the true man’s away. Gatekeeping’s not my trade.’

  ‘I suspicioned it weren’t. What might your calling be, if I’m not making too bold to ask?’

  ‘Trooper,’ John replied briefly. He had come to a halt a few paces from the bench, and was looking down at the stocky man, wondering who and what he might be. He had the accent of a Londoner, but the wide-brimmed hat he wore, the short, full coat of frieze, and the gaitered legs suggested that he might well be a bailiff, or a farmer. ‘Native of these parts?’ he asked.

  The man shook his head. ‘Never been in this here county afore. It’s too full of hills for my taste. I’m here on a matter o’ business. There’s a certain party as I’m acting for as has a fancy to buy a property hereabouts, if he could find what might suit him. I seen one or two, Buxton-way, but I dunno as any of ’em are just what I’m after, and the prices certainly ain’t. You know of anyone wanting to sell a decentish place, with a bit o’ land, not too dear?’

  ‘No, but I’m not a native either.’

  ‘Ah, pity! What’s your monarch – if you ain’t this cove?’ enquired the man, with a jerk of his thumb up at the fascia-board.

  ‘Jack Staple. What’s yours?’

  ‘Stogumber – Gabriel Stogumber.’ He glanced round, as Ben came out of the toll-house, and said: ‘Hallo! Didn’t I see you at the Blue Boar this morning? What are you a-doing of here?’

  ‘I lives here!’ said Ben indignantly.

  ‘Oh, you lives here! Beg parding, I’m sure, Master Booberkin!’

  ‘He’s Brean’s son,’ interposed John. ‘I’m his cousin.’

  ‘Oh, that’s how it is, is it?’ said Mr Stogumber, looking from one to the other. ‘To be sure, I did think you was too young to be his pa, and yet again too old to be his brother. How do ye like it in these parts? You seen a bit of service, I dessay?’

  ‘Ay, several years.’

  ‘I should think it must seem a dull sort of a place,’ observed Mr Stogumber. ‘I’m from Lunnon meself, and it looks to me like nothing ever happens here, nor ever will. I been setting on this here seat close on half an hou