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 be addressed was beginning an angry reply in the same strain, when be 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 island in the wave (exclusive of women and children) rivet their eyes and thoughts on Lord George Gordon; and every day, from the rising up of the sun to the going down of the same, pray for his health and vigour. My lord,’ said the speaker, rising in his stirrups, ‘it is a glorious cause, and must not be forgotten. My lord, it is a mighty cause, and must not be endangered. My lord, it is a holy cause, and must not be deserted.’
‘It IS a holy cause,’ exclaimed his lordship, lifting up his hat with great solemnity. ‘Amen.’
‘John Grueby,’ said the long-winded gentleman, in a tone of mild reproof, ‘his lordship said Amen.’
‘I heard my lord, sir,’ said the man, sitting like a statue on his horse.
‘And do not YOU say Amen, likewise?’
To which John Grueby made no reply at all, but sat looking straight before him.
‘You surprise me, Grueby,’ said the gentleman. ‘At a crisis like the present, when Queen Elizabeth, that maiden monarch, weeps within her tomb, and Bloody Mary, with a brow of gloom and shadow, stalks triumphant —’
‘Oh, sir,’ cied the man, gruffly, ‘where’s the use of talking of Bloody Mary, under such circumstances as the present, when my lord’s wet through, and tired with hard riding? Let’s either go on to London, sir, or put up at once; or that unfort’nate Bloody Mary will have more to answer for — and she’s done a deal more harm in her grave than she ever did in her lifetime, I believe.’
By this time Mr Willet, who had never beard so many words spoken together at one time, or delivered with such volubility and emphasis as by the long-winded gentleman; and whose brain, being wholly unable to sustain or compass them, had quite given itself up for lost; recovered so far as to observe that there was ample accommodation at the Maypole for all the party: good beds; neat wines; excellent entertainment for man and beast; private rooms for large and small parties; dinners dressed upon the shortest notice; choice stabling, and a lock-up coach-house; and, in short, to run over such recommendatory scraps of language as were painted up on various portions of the building, and which in the course of some forty years he had learnt to repeat with tolerable correctness. He was considering whether it was at all possible to insert any novel sentences to the same purpose, when the gentleman who had spoken first, turning to him of the long wind, exclaimed, ‘What say you, Gashford? Shall we tarry at this house he speaks of, or press forward? You shall decide.’
‘I would submit, my lord, then,’ returned the person he appealed to, in a silky tone, ‘that your health and spirits — so important, under Providence, to our great cause, our pure and truthful cause’— here his lordship pulled off his hat again, though it was raining hard —‘require refreshment and repose.’
‘Go on before, landlord, and show the way,’ said Lord George Gordon; ‘we will follow at a footpace.’
‘If you’ll give me leave, my lord,’ said John Grueby, in a low voice, ‘I’ll change my proper place, and ride before you. The looks of the landlord’s friend are not over honest, and it may be as well to be cautious with him.’
‘John Grueby is quite right,’ interposed Mr Gashford, falling back hastily. ‘My lord, a life so precious as yours must not be put in peril. Go forward, John, by all means. If you have any reason to suspect the fellow, blow his brains out.’
John made no answer, but looking straight before him, as his custom seemed to be when the secretary spoke, bade Hugh push on, and followed close behind him. Then came his lordship, with Mr Willet at his bridle rein; and, last of all, his lordship’s secretary — for that, it seemed, was Gashford’s office.
Hugh strode briskly on, often looking back at the servant, whose horse was close upon his heels, and glancing with a leer at his bolster case of pistols, by which he seemed to set great store. He was a square-built, strong-made, bull-necked fellow, of the true English breed; and as Hugh measured him with his eye, he measured Hugh, regarding him meanwhile with a look of bluff disdain. He was much older than the Maypole man, being to all appearance five-and-forty; but was one of those self-possessed, hard-headed, imperturbable fellows, who, if they are ever beaten at fisticuffs, or other kind of warfare, never know it, and go on coolly till they win.
‘If I led you wrong now,’ said Hugh, tauntingly, ‘you’d — ha ha ha!— you’d shoot me through the head, I suppose.’
John Grueby took no more notice of this remark than if he had been deaf and Hugh dumb; but kept riding on quite comfortably, with his eyes fixed on the horizon.
‘Did you ever try a fall with a man when you were young, master?’ said Hugh. ‘Can you make any play at single-stick?’
John Grueby looked at him sideways with the same contented air, but deigned not a word in answer.
‘— Like this?’ said Hugh, giving his cudgel one of those skilful flourishes, in which the rustic of that time delighted. ‘Whoop!’
‘— Or that,’ returned John Grueby, beating down his guard with his whip, and striking him on the head with its butt end. ‘Yes, I played a little once. You wear your hair too long; I should have cracked your crown if it had been a little shorter.’
It was a pretty smart, loud-sounding rap, as it was, and evidently astonished Hugh; who, for the moment, seemed disposed to drag his new acquaintance from his saddle. But his face betokening neither malice, triumph, rage, nor any lingering idea that he had given him offence; his eyes gazing steadily in the old direction, and his manner being as careless and composed as if he had merely brushed away a fly; Hugh was so puzzled, and so disposed to look upon him as a customer of almost supernatural toughness, that he merely laughed, and cried ‘Well done!’ then, sheering off a little, led the way in silence.
Before the lapse of many minutes the party halted at the Maypole door. Lord George and his secretary quickly dismounting, gave their horses to their servant, who, under the guidance of Hugh, repaired to the stables. Right glad to escape from the inclemency of the night, they followed Mr Willet into the common room, and stood warming themselves and drying their clothes before the cheerful fire, while he busied himself with such orders and preparations as his guest’s high quality required.
As he bustled in and out of the room, intent on these arrangements, he had an opportunity of observing the two travellers, of whom, as yet, he knew nothing but the voice. The lord, the great personage who did the Maypole so much honour, was about the middle height, of a slender make, and sallow complexion, with an aquiline nose, and long hair of a reddish brown, combed perfectly straight and smooth about his ears, and slightly powdered, but without the faintest vestige of a curl. He was attired, under his greatcoat, in a full suit of black, quite free from any ornament, and of the most precise and sober cut. The gravity of his dress, together with a certain lankness of cheek and stiffness of deportment, added nearly ten years to his age, but his figure was that of one not yet past thirty. As he stood musing in the red glow of the fire, it was striking to observe his very bright large eye, which betrayed a restlessness of thought and purpose, singularly at variance with the studied composure and sobriety of his mien, and with his quaint and sad apparel. It had nothing harsh or cruel in its expression; neither had his face, which was thin and mild, and wore an air of melancholy; but it was suggestive of an indefinable uneasiness; which infected those who looked upon him, and filled them with a kind of pity for the man: though why it did so, they would............