The Toll-Gate Read online

  The Captain, briskly rubbing the soap over his chest, and down his arms, laughed. ‘Not I!’

  ‘But you don’t need to go a-washing of yourself all over!’

  ‘What, after sleeping all night in my clothes? Don’t I just!’ John glanced critically down at Ben, and added: ‘It wouldn’t do you any harm to go under the pump either.’

  Ben stepped out of reach instinctively, but was summoned back to work the pump handle. He would then have beat a hasty retreat, but was frustrated. A large hand caught and held him; he looked up in alarm, and saw the blue eyes laughing. ‘I had a wash Sunday last!’ he said imploringly. ‘I ain’t cutting no wheedle! Honest, I did!’

  ‘Did you, by Jupiter? Then it’s a week since you were clean, is it? Strip, my lad!’

  ‘No!’ said Ben tearfully, wriggling to be free of the grip on his shoulder. ‘I won’t!’

  The Captain dealt him one hard, admonitory spank. ‘You’d better!’ he said.

  His voice was perfectly good-humoured, but Ben was no fool, and, with a despairing sniff, he capitulated. It was doubtful if ever before he had been obliged to scrub his skinny person so thoroughly; and certainly no well-wisher had ever held him remorselessly under the pump, and worked it with such a will. He emerged spluttering and shivering, and eyed his persecutor with mingled respect and resentment. John tossed the towel to him, saying: ‘That’s better! If you own another shirt, put it on!’

  ‘What, clean mish too?’ gasped Ben.

  ‘Yes, – and comb your hair!’ said John. ‘Bustle about, now! I’m hungry.’

  Half an hour later, surveying Ben across the kitchen table, he professed himself satisfied. He said that Ben looked much more the thing, an observation which caused that young gentleman’s bosom to swell with indignation. His eyes were red-rimmed and watering from contact with the soap, and his skin felt as though it had been scoured. He still thought the Captain a fascinating and an awe-inspiring personage, but having watched him vigorously brushing his teeth he now suspected that he must be queer in his attic. When a hearty breakfast had been disposed of, and the Captain insisted not only that all the crockery should be washed, but that the floor should be swept clean of mud, crumbs, scraps of bacon rind, and some decayed cabbage stalks, he was sure of it. He explained that Mrs Skeffling, from down the road, came to clean the place every Wednesday, but the Captain paid no heed, merely telling him to fetch a broom, and to be quick about it. He himself, having discovered some blacking and a brush in the cupboard, took his boots into the garden, and set about the unaccustomed task of removing the dried mud from them. He also tried, not very successfully, to get rid of the travel stains from his buckskin breeches. He recalled, as he worked on them, Cocking’s words, and realized that there was more to the care of leathers than he had supposed. In fact, the upkeep of a gentleman’s wardrobe seemed to entail a great deal of unforeseen labour, not the least arduous of which was the removal of Beau’s hairs from the skirts of his coat, where they obstinately stuck, resisting all efforts to brush them off.

  When this was accomplished, there was Beau to be watered, fed, and groomed, his bit to be cleaned, the saddle-girths to be brushed free of mud, by which time the morning was considerably advanced. While he performed all these labours John tried to think of some solution to Ben’s problem. He thought of several, but not one that was likely to meet with any sort of approval. It began to seem as though he would be obliged, instead of continuing his journey to Leicestershire, to spend the day in making discreet enquiries into the gatekeeper’s possible whereabouts.

  He went back into the gatehouse, a crease between his brows. This did not escape Ben’s notice. He made haste to point out that he had thoroughly swept the kitchen; and as this was productive of nothing more than a nod ventured to ask if the Captain was angry.

  John, who was rather absently ladling water into the iron kettle which hung from a hook above the old-fashioned fireplace, paused, dipper in hand, and looked down at him. ‘Angry? No. Why should I be?’

  ‘I thought you looked as if you was in a tweak – a bit cagged, like,’ explained Ben.

  ‘I was wondering what’s to be done with you, if your dad doesn’t come back today. Can you think of any place where he might have had business? Did he ever visit anyone in Sheffield, for instance?’

  ‘He don’t visit nobody, me dad don’t. And if he was going to town, he’d put his best toge on, and a shap on his head, and he didn’t,’ replied Ben shrewdly. ‘He loped off just like he was going down to the Blue Boar. P’raps he’s been pressed, like Simmy!’

  Since this solution did not seem in any way to disturb Ben, the Captain refrained from trying to convince him that the Press Gang neither operated in remote inland districts, nor pressed such persons as gatekeepers. He went on ladling water into the kettle; and Ben, suddenly remembering that he had not fed the pig, which led a somewhat restricted life in a sty at the bottom of the ground, took himself off to repair this omission.

  As soon as the kettle began to sing the Captain poured some of the water into a tin mug, and bore it off to the gatekeeper’s bedroom. He had just set out his shaving tackle, and was about to lather his face, when he heard the sound of a vehicle approaching down the road. A shout of Gate! was raised, and John was obliged to put down his brush. Collecting the tickets on his way, he strolled out of the toll-house, and saw that a gig had drawn up to the east of it. A cursory glance showed him that the reins were being handled by a woman, and that a middle-aged groom sat beside her; and a rapid scrutiny of the list of tolls set up on a board beside the house informed him that the charge at this pike for a one-horse vehicle was threepence. He walked up to the gig, and the groom, who had been looking at him in some surprise, said: ‘Well, shake your shambles, can’t you? Who are you? What are you doing here?’

  John raised his eyes from the book of tickets. ‘Gatekeeping. The charge is –’

  The words died on his lips. He stood perfectly still, gazing not at the groom, but at the girl beside him.

  A very tall girl, and nobly proportioned, she was dressed in a green pelisse that was serviceable rather than fashionable. A pair of tan gloves, not in their first youth, covered her capable, well-shaped hands; and a plain bonnet with no other trimming than a bow of ribbon was set on a head of thick chestnut hair, which showed tawny gleams in the sunlight. Humorous gray eyes looked down into John’s, the arched brows above them lifting slightly; an amused smile hovered about a mouth too generous for beauty. But this faded as John stood looking up at her. She stared down at him, seeing an unshaven young giant, in stained leathers and a shirt unbuttoned at the throat, with curly fair hair ruffled by the breeze, and the bluest of eyes fixed unwaveringly on her face.

  ‘Church!’ said the groom impatiently. ‘Open up, my lad!’

  If John heard him he paid no heed. He stood as though stunned, for he had received his leveller at last.

  A flush crept into the lady’s cheeks; she said, with an uncertain laugh: ‘I suppose you must be Brean’s elder son. You are certainly a big fellow! Please open the gate! Churchgoers, you know, are exempt from tax.’

  Her voice recalled John to his senses. Colour flooded his face; he uttered an inarticulate apology, and made haste to open the gate. It was a single one, and he stood holding it at the side of the road while the gig passed beyond it. The lady nodded to him, quite kindly, but in the manner of one immeasurably his superior; and drove away at a brisk trot.

  John remained where he was, still holding the gate, and looking after the gig until it passed round the bend in the road, and was gone from his sight.

  He became aware of Ben, who had emerged from the toll-house, and was regarding him in mild surprise. He shut the gate, and said: ‘Did you see that gig, Ben?’

  ‘Ay. I give that big prancer of yours a carrot. Coo, he is –’

  ‘Who was the lady driving it? Do you know?’