The Toll-Gate

Chapter 3

THE Captain slept soundly, and awoke to daylight, and the sound of voices. On getting up, and looking out of the little latticed window, he saw that Ben was holding open the gate for a herd of cows to pass through, and exchanging courtesies with the boy who was driving them. A fine autumn day had succeeded the night’s downpour, and the mist still lay over the fields beyond the road. A glance at the watch which he had laid on the chair beside the bed informed John that it was half-past six. He strolled into the toll-office just as Ben shut the gate, and came in.

With the daylight the worst of Ben’s fears were laid to rest. He looked a different boy from the hag-ridden urchin of the previous evening; walked in whistling; and greeted the Captain with a grin.

“Your dad not back?” John asked.

The grin faded. “No. Likely he’s piked.”

“Run away? Why should he?”

“Well, if he ain’t piked, p’raps he’s gorn to roost,” temporized Ben. “’Cos when he loped off, he told me to mind the gate for an hour, and he’d be back. What’ll I do, gov’nor?”

This question was uttered, not in a tone of misgiving, but in one of cheerful confidence. Ben looked enquiringly up into John’s face, and John realized, ruefully, that his small protégé was reposing complete trust in his willingness and ability to settle the future satisfactorily for him.

“Well, that’s a problem which seems to hang in the hedge a trifle,” he said. “We shall have to talk it over. But first I want a wash, and breakfast.”

“I got some bacon cut, and there’s eggs, and a bit of beef,” offered Ben, ignoring the first of the Captain’s needs as a frivolity.

“Excellent! Where’s the pump?”

“Out the back. But”

“Well, you come and work it for me,” said John. “I want a towel, and some soap as well.”

Considerably surprised (for the Captain looked quite clean, he thought), Ben collected a piece of coarse soap, cut from a bar, and a huckaback towel, and followed his guest into the garden. But when he discovered that the Captain, not content with sousing his head and neck, proposed to wash the whole of his powerful torso, he was moved to utter a shocked protest. “You’ll catch your death!” he gasped.

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 the 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 tollhouse, 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”

“Who was the lady driving it? Do you know?”

“’Course I does! When I gives a carrot to Mr. Chirk’s Mollie, she—”

“Well, who is she?”

“I’m a-telling of you! She’s Mr. Chirk’s mare, and she shakes hands for carrots! You arsts her what she’ll do for it, and she lifts up her right fore—”

“The devil fly away with Mr. Chirk’s mare! Who was the lady in that gig?”

“Oh, her!” said Ben, losing interest. “That was only Miss Nell. She’ll be going to Church.”

“Where does she live? Will she be coming back?”

“Ay, out of course she will! There ain’t no other way she can get home from Crowford, not with the gig there ain’t.”

“Where is her home?”

Ben jerked his chin, vaguely indicating an easterly direction. “Over there. Mr. Chirk’s learnt Mollie to do all sorts of tricks. She—”

“He had best sell her to Astley, then. Does Miss Nell live nearby?”

“I telled you!” said Ben impatiently. “At the Manor!”

“What Manor? Where is it?”

It was plain that Ben thought poorly of persons who were so ignorant that they were unaware of the locality of the largest house in the vicinity. “Everyone knows where Squire’s house is!” he said scornfully.

“The Squire, eh? Is he Miss Nell’s father?”

“Squire? No! He’s her granfer. He’s an old gager. No one ain’t set eyes on him since I dunno when. They do say he’s as queer as Dick’s hatband, ever since he was took bad all on a sudden. He can’t walk no more. Folks say it’s Miss Nell as is Squire these days.”

“How far is it from here to the Squire’s place?”

“Kellands? A mile, I dessay.”

“Who is he? What is his name?”

Tired of this catechism, Ben sighed, and answered: “Sir Peter Stornaway, out of course!”

“Do you see her—do you see Miss Nell often?”

“Ay, most days,” replied Ben indifferently.

The Captain drew a breath, and stood for a few moments gazing down the road to where he had last seen the gig. Emerging suddenly from this trance, he ejaculated: “Good God, I must shave!” and strode into the tollhouse.

Miss Stornaway, returning homewards, was not obliged to summon the new gatekeeper to open for her. Captain Staple was on the watch, and came out of the toll-house as soon as he heard the sound of carriage-wheels. He was still in his shirt-sleeves, but he now sported a neatly tied neckcloth, and had pulled on his top-boots. He had recovered from his stupefaction, too, so that Miss Stornaway, pulling up, found herself looking down, not at a gigantic hobbledehoy, as tongue-tied as he was handsome, but at a perfectly assured man who smiled up at her without a vestige of shyness, and said: “Forgive me for having unlawfully demanded toll of you! I’m a new hand—shockingly green!”

Miss Stornaway’s eyes widened. She exclaimed involuntarily: “Good heavens! you can’t be Brean’s son!”

“No, no, I fancy he’s at sea. The poor fellow was pressed, you know.”

“But what are you doing here?” she demanded.

“Keeping the gate,” he replied promptly.

She was bewildered, but amused too. “Nonsense! How could you be a gatekeeper?”

“If you mean that I’m a bad one you must remember that I’m a novice. I shall learn.”

“Nothing of the sort! I mean—Oh, I believe you’re hoaxing me!”

“Indeed I’m not!”

“Where is Brean?” she demanded.

“Well, there you have me,” he confessed. “Like Ben—are you acquainted with Ben?—I dunno! That’s why I’m here.”

She wrinkled her brow. “Do you mean that Brean has gone away? But why should you take his place? Are you doing it for a wager?”

“No, but now that you come to suggest it I see that that might not be at all a bad notion,” he said..

“I wish you will be serious!” she begged, trying to frown and succeeding only in laughing.

“I am very serious. On the whole, I believe I shall do better to announce myself to be a cousin of Brean’s.”

“No one would credit such a tale, I assure you!”

“Don’t you think so? I can talk cant with the best, you know.”

She made a despairing gesture. “I don’t understand a word of this!”

The groom, who had been staring very hard at John, said: “Seems to me there’s something smoky going on here. If you ain’t playing a May-game, sir; nor cutting a sham—”

“I’m not, but I agree with you that there’s something smoky going on,” John interrupted. “The gatekeeper went off two nights ago, and hasn’t been seen since.”

“Well, that’s very bad,” acknowledged Miss Stornaway. “But I do not see why you should take his place!”

“But you must see that Ben is a great deal too young to remain here alone!” John pointed out.

“You are the oddest creature! How do you come here? Why—Oh, I wish you will explain it to me!”

“I will,” he promised. “It is quite a long story, however. Won’t you step down from your gig? I shan’t invite you to come into the toll-house, for although I have induced Ben to sweep out the kitchen it is not at all tidy, but we could sit on the bench.”

Her eyes danced; it seemed as if she were half inclined to fall in with this suggestion, but at that moment the groom said something to her in a low voice, directing her attention to the road ahead.

Coming towards the gate, on a showy-looking hack, was a thickset man, rather too fashionably attired for his surroundings. He wore white hunting-tops, a florid waistcoat with several fobs and seals depending from it, a blue coat with long tails and very large buttons, and a beaver hat with a exaggeratedly curled brim.

The laughter went out of Miss Stornaway’s eyes; she said rather hurriedly: “Some other time, perhaps. Please to open the gate now!”

John went to it immediately. It had a fifteen foot clearance, and the man on the gray hack reined in short of its sweep towards him. He looked rather narrowly at John for a moment, but rode forward as soon as the gate stood wide enough, and reined in alongside the gig. The beaver was doffed with a flourish, revealing exquisitely pomaded and curled black locks.

“Ah, Miss Nell, you stole a march on us, did you not?” challenged the gentleman jovially. “But I have found you out, you see, and come to meet you!”

“I have been to Church, sir, if that is what you mean,” Miss Stornaway replied coldly.

“Sweet piety! You will allow me to escort you home!”

“I cannot prevent you from doing so, sir, but I am sorry you should have put yourself to the trouble of coming to meet me. It was unnecessary,” said Miss Stornaway, whipping up her horse.

John shut the gate, and went back into the toll-house. A strong aroma of onions assailed him, from which he inferred that Ben considered it was time to start cooking dinner. He went into the kitchen, and said abruptly: “Ben, did you tell me that there is a woman who comes here to clean the place?”

“Ay, Mrs. Skeffling. She comes Wednesdays. She washes the duds too,” replied Ben. “We has a roast, Wednesdays, and a pudden, and all. Coo, she’s a prime cook, she is!”

“We must have her every day,” John said decidedly.

“Every day?” gasped Ben, nearly upsetting the pan he was holding over the fire. “Whatever for, gov’nor?”

“To keep the house clean, and cook the dinner, of course. Where does she live?”

“Down the road. But she has to have a sow’s baby every time!”

“In that case, I shall have to go to market and buy a litter of pigs,” said John. He perceived that Ben was looking quite amazed, and laughed. “Never mind! How much is a sow’s baby?”

“A half-horde—sixpence! Properly turned-up we’d be!”

“Don’t bother your head about that!” recommended John.

Ben eyed him with considerable respect. “You got a lot of mint-sauce, gov’nor?”

“I’m tolerably well-blunted,” responded John gravely. “Now, listen, Ben! I’m going to remain here—”

“You are?” cried Ben joyfully.

“Until your dad comes back, or, at any rate—”

“Coo, I hope he don’t never come back!”

“Quiet, you unnatural brat! If he doesn’t come back—lord, I’m dashed if I know what I’m to do with you, but I won’t throw you on the Parish, at all events! The thing is, if I’m to stay here I must make some purchases. How far off is the nearest town, and what is it?”

After reflection, Ben said that he thought Tideswell was only a matter of five miles or so. He added that his dad had bought the pig there, and a new coat for the winter. This sounded promising.

“I’ll ride there tomorrow,” John said. “You won’t be scared of minding the gate while I’m away, will you?”

“I ain’t scared—leastways, not in the day time I ain’t,” said Ben. “But I got to muck out Mr. Sopworthy’s henhouse, mind! He’ll tip me a meg, and likely want me to lend a hand at summat else. I dunno when I’ll be back.”

“Well, you must tell him that you’re needed here. What kind of a man is this Mr. Sopworthy?”

“He’s a leery cove, he is, me dad says. He ain’t one as’ll squeak beef on you, but it’s pound dealing with him, else he goes up in the boughs—proper, he does!”

“If that means that he’s an honest man, I fancy I had best make his acquaintance. I gather you don’t think he’d be likely to inform against your dad, so we shall tell him that your dad’s been called away for a few days, and left me to take his place. I’m a cousin of yours,” said the Captain.

“He won’t never swallow a rapper like that!” objected Ben. “He ain’t no chub! He’d know you was a flash cull, sure as check!”

“Not he!” grinned John.

“Soon as you opens your mummer, he will!” insisted Ben. “’Cos you talks flash, and you got a lot of cramp-words, like all the gentry-coves.”

“I’ll take care not to use ’em,” promised John.

“Yes, and what about that mish you got on, and them stampers?” demanded Ben, quite unconvinced.

“If you mean my shirt, I am going to buy some others, in Tideswell, and a stout pair of brogues as well. Don’t shake your head at me! I’ve been discharged from the Army, understand? Trooper, 3rd Dragoon Guards—and batman (that means a servant) to an officer. That’s how I come to talk a trifle flash. You remember that, and we shall come off all right!”

Ben looked dubious, but all he said was: “What’ll I call you, gov’nor?”

“Jack. What I must have is decent stabling for Beau. He can’t remain cooped up in a hen-house, and it seems to me that the Blue Boar’s the best place for him.”

“Why couldn’t you stable him in Farmer Huggate’s barn?” asked Ben captiously.

“I could, if I knew where it was,” John retorted.

“It’s nobbut a step, back of here,” Ben said. “Farmer Huggate and me dad’s as thick as hops. If you was to grease him in the fist, likely he’d let you have fodder for Beau, too, ’cos he’s got two big prads of his own.”

This suggestion pleased the Captain so well that he sent Ben to see Farmer Huggate as soon as he had eaten his dinner. He himself remained on duty, but was only twice called upon to open the gate. Whatever might happen during the week, the road seemed to be very little used on Sundays. Having discovered some clean sheets in a chest, John was able to make up his bed. He did some energetic work with the broom, drastically tidied the kitchen, and then sat down to compile a list of the various commodities which were needed to make life in a toll-house tolerable. He was engaged on this task when an imperative voice summoned him to the gate. He got up rather quickly, for he recognized the voice, and strode out.

Miss Stornaway, mounted on a good-looking hack, and unattended, said, with a slight smile: “Well, sir, I’ve come to hear that long story, if you please! You must know that they call me the Squire in these parts: that must serve as an excuse for my curiosity!”

“You need none,” he said, opening the gate a little way.

She touched her horse with her heel, saying as she went past John: “Do you mean to demand toll of me? I warn you, I shall inform against you if you do! I don’t go above a hundred yards from the gate: not as much!”

“Is that the rule?” he asked, going to her horse’s head.

“Of course!” She transferred the bridle to her right hand, brought one leg neatly over the pommel, and slipped to the ground. Shaking out the folds of her shabby riding-dress, she glanced up at John. “Heavens, how big you are!”

He smiled. “Why, yes! You told me so, this morning!”

She laughed, blushed faintly, and retorted: “I did not know how big until now, when I find myself on a level with you. You must know that in general I look over men’s heads.”

He could see that this must be so. She did not seem to him to be an inch too tall, but he realized that she was taller even than his sister, and built on more magnificent lines. Hitching her horse to the gate post, he said sympathetically: “It’s a trial, isn’t it? I feel it myself, and my sister tells me it has been the bane of her existence. Do you always ride unattended, Miss Stornaway?”

She had seated herself on the bench outside the tollhouse, under the fascia board, which bore, in staring black capitals, the name of Edward Brean. “Yes, invariably! Does it offend your sense of propriety? I am not precisely a schoolgirl, you know!”

“Oh, no!” he replied seriously, coming to sit down beside her. “I like you for it—if you don’t think it impertinent in me to tell you so. I’ve thought, ever since I came home, that there’s a deal too much propriety in England.”

She raised her brows. “Came home?”

“Yes. I’m a soldier—that is to say, I was one.”

“Were you in the Peninsula?” He nodded. “My brother was, too,” she said abruptly. “He was killed.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Where?”

“At Albuera. He was in the 7th.”

“You should be proud,” he said. “I was at Albuera, too. I saw the Fusiliers go into action.”

She lifted her chin. “I am proud. But he was my grandfather’s heir, and——Oh, well! What was your regiment?”

“3rd Dragoon Guards. I sold out after Toulouse.”

“And your name?”

“John Staple. I have told Ben to set it about that I’m a trooper—an officer’s batman. He says I talk flash, you see.”

She laughed. “Perfectly! But how do I address you?”

“In general, my friends call me Jack.”

“I cannot be expected to do so, however!”

“Well, if you call me Captain Staple you will undo me,” he pointed out. “I’m only a gatekeeper. Don’t be afraid I shall encroach! I won’t—Miss Nell!”

“You are certainly mad!” she said. “Pray, how do you come to be a gatekeeper?”

“Oh, quite by chance! I had been staying with one of my cousins, up in the north—the head of my family, in fact, and a very dull dog, poor fellow! There was no bearing it, so I made my excuses, and set out to ride into Leicestershire, to visit a friend of mine. Then my horse cast a shoe, up on the moors, I lost my bearings, became weather-bound, and reached this gate in darkness and drenching rain. Ben came out to open it for me. That seemed to me an odd circumstance. Moreover, it was easy to see he was scared. He told me his father had gone off on Friday evening, and hadn’t returned; so I thought the best thing I could do would be to put up here for the night.”

“Ah, that was kind!” she said warmly.

“Oh, no! not a bit!” he said. “I was deuced sick of the weather, and glad to have a roof over my head. I’m curious, too: I want to know what has become of Edward Brean.”

“It is odd,” she agreed, knitting her brows. “He is a rough sort of a man, but he has been here for a long time, and I never knew him to desert his post before. But you surely don’t mean to continue keeping the gate!”

“Oh, not indefinitely!” he assured her. “It’s not at all unamusing, but I expect it would soon grow to be a dead bore. However, I shall stay here for the present—unless, of course, the trustees find me out, and turn me off.”

“But your family—your friends! They won’t know what has become of you!”

“That won’t worry ’em. I’ve done it before.”

“Kept a gate?” she exclaimed.

“No, not that. Just disappeared for a week or two. I don’t know how it is, but I get devilish bored with watching turnips grow, and doing the civil to the neighbours,” he said apologetically.

She sighed. “How fortunate you are to be able to escape! I wish I were a man!”

He looked at her very kindly. “Do you want to escape?”

“Yes—no! I could not leave my grandfather. He is almost helpless, and very old.”

“Have you lived here all your life?”

“Very nearly. My father died when I was a child, and we came to live with Grandpapa then. When I was sixteen, my mother died. Then Jermyn went to the wars, and was killed.” She paused, and added, in a lighter tone: “But that is all a long time ago now. Don’t imagine that poor Grandpapa has kept me here against my will! Far from it! Nothing would do for him but to launch me into society—though I warned him what would come of it!”

“What did come of it?” John enquired.

She made her mouth prim, but her eyes were laughing. “I did not take!” she said solemnly. “Now, don’t, I beg of you, play the innocent and ask me how that can have come about! You must see precisely how it came about! I am by far too large. Grandpapa compelled my Aunt Sophia to house me for a whole season, and even to present me at a Drawing-room. When she saw me in a hoop, we were obliged to revive her with hartshorn and burnt feathers. I cannot love her, but indeed I pitied her! She can never have enjoyed a season less. It was so mortifying for her! I had no notion how to behave, and when she took me to Almack’s not all her endeavours could obtain partners for me. I don’t know which of us was the more thankful when my visit ended.”

“I expect I must have been in Spain,” he said thoughtfully. “I never went to Almack’s till after I had sold out, and my sister dragged me there. To own the truth, I found it devilish dull, and there wasn’t a woman there, beside my sister, whose head reached my shoulder. It made me feel dashed conspicuous. If you had been there, and we had stood up together, it would have been a different matter.”

“Alas, I’m more at home in the saddle than the ballroom!”

“Are you? So am I! But my sister can keep it up all night.”

“Is your sister married?”

“Yes, she married George Lichfield, a very good fellow,” he replied.

“I think I met him once—but I might be mistaken. It is seven years since my London season. Do you feel that Lady Lichfield would approve of your present occupation?”

“Oh, no, not a bit!” he said. “She and George don’t approve of any of the things I do. I shan’t tell her anything about it.”

“I think I am a little sorry for her. And still I don’t understand why you mean to remain here!”

“No,” he said, “I don’t suppose you do. I didn’t mean to, last night, but something happened today which made me change my mind.”

“Good gracious! What in the world was it?”

“I can’t tell you that now. I will, one day.”

“No, that’s too provoking!” she protested. “Is it about Brean? Have you discovered something?”

“No, nothing. It wasn’t that,” John replied.

“Then what, pray——”

“I must own I should be glad if I could discover what has happened to the fellow,” he remarked, as though she had not spoken. “If he had met with an accident, one would think there would have been news of it by now. He must be pretty well known in the district, isn’t he?”

She nodded. “Yes, certainly. He is red-haired, too, which makes him easily recognizable. You don’t think, I collect, that he can have gone off, perhaps to Sheffield, and drunk himself into a stupor?”

“I did think so,” he admitted, “but Ben assures me his dad don’t go on the mop. He is quite positive about it, and I imagine he must know. According to his story, Brean went out on Friday evening, saying that he would be back in an hour or two. He was not wearing his hat, or his best coat, which, in Ben’s view, precludes his having had the intention of going to town.”

“He would scarcely set out for Sheffield after dark, in any event. It is more than ten miles away! How very odd it is! Are you sure that Ben is telling you the truth when he says he doesn’t know where his father went?”

“Oh, yes, quite sure! Ben is excessively frightened—partly by the thought that he may be thrown on the Parish, much more by a mysterious stranger who seems to have formed the habit of visiting the toll-house after dark, and with the utmost secrecy.”

She looked startled. “Who—?”

“That I don’t know. But I have a strong suspicion that he is in some way concerned in Brean’s disappearance,” John said. “And I have another, even stronger, that there’s something devilish havey-cavey going on here!”