The Major’s Visit to the “Nag’s-head.”

Major Buckley and his wife stood together in the verandah of their cottage, watching the storm. All the afternoon they had seen it creeping higher and higher, blacker and more threatening up the eastern heavens, until it grew painful to wait any longer for its approach. But now that it had burst on them, and night had come on dark as pitch, they felt the pleasant change in the atmosphere, and, in spite of the continuous gleam of the lightning, and the eternal roll and crackle of the thunder, they had come out to see the beauty and majesty of the tempest.

They stood with their arms entwined for some time, in silence; but after a crash louder than any of those which had preceded it, Major Buckley said:—

“My dearest Agnes, you are very courageous in a thunderstorm.”

“Why not, James?” she said; “you cannot avoid the lightning, and the thunder won’t harm you. Most women fear the sound of the thunder more than anything, but I suspect that Ciudad Rodrigo made more noise than this, husband?”

“It did indeed, my dear. More noise than I ever heard in any storm yet. It is coming nearer.”

“I am afraid it will shake the poor Vicar very much,” said Mrs. Buckley. “Ah, there is Sam, crying.”

They both went into the sitting-room; little Sam had petitioned to go to bed on the sofa till the storm was over, and now, awakened by the thunder, was sitting up in his bed, crying out for his mother.

The Major went in and lay down by the child on the sofa, to quiet him. “What!” said he, “Sammy, you’re not afraid of thunder, are you?”

“Yes! I am,” said the child; “very much indeed. I am glad you are come, father.”

“Lightning never strikes good boys, Sam,” said the Major.

“Are you sure of that, father?” said the little one.

That was a poser; so the Major thought it best to counterfeit sleep; but he overdid it, and snored so loud, that the boy began to laugh, and his father had to practise his deception with less noise. And by degrees, the little hand that held his moustache dropped feebly on the bedclothes, and the Major, ascertaining by the child’s regular breathing that his son was asleep, gently raised his vast length, and proposed to his wife to come into the verandah again.

“The storm is breaking, my love,” said he; “and the air is deliciously cool out there. Put your shawl on and come out.”

They went out again; the lightning was still vivid, but the thunder less loud. Straight down the garden from them stretched a broad gravel walk, which now, cut up by the rain into a hundred water channels, showed at each flash like rivers of glittering silver. Looking down this path toward the black wood during one of the longest continued illuminations of the lightning, they saw for an instant a dark, tall figure, apparently advancing towards them. Then all the prospect was wrapped again in tenfold gloom.

Mrs. Buckley uttered an exclamation, and held tighter to her husband’s arm. Every time the garden was lit up, they saw the figure, nearer and nearer, till they knew that it was standing before them in the darkness; the Major was about to speak, when a hoarse voice, heard indistinctly above the rushing of the rain, demanded:

“Is that Major Buckley?”

At the same minute the storm-light blazed up once more, and fell upon an object so fearful and startling that they both fell back amazed. A woman was standing before them, tall, upright, and bareheaded; her long black hair falling over a face as white and ghastly as a three days’ corpse; her wild countenance rendered more terrible by the blue glare of the lightning shining on the rain that streamed from every lock of her hair and every shred of her garments. She looked like some wild daughter of the storm, who had lost her way, and came wandering to them for shelter.

“I am Major Buckley,” was the answer. “What do you want? But in God’s name come in out of the rain.”

“Come in and get your things dried, my good woman,” said Mrs. Buckley. “What do you want with my husband such a night as this?”

“Before I dry my things, or come in, I will state my business,” said the woman, coming under the verandah. “After that I will accept your hospitality. This is a night when polecats and rabbits would shelter together in peace; and yet such a night as this, a man turns out of his house the woman who has lain beside him twenty years.”

“Who are you, my good soul?” said the Major.

“They call me Madge the Witch,” she said; “I lived with old Hawker, at the Woodlands, till to-night, and he has turned me out. I want to put you in possession of some intelligence that may save much misery to some that you love.”

“I can readily believe that you can do it,” said the Major, “but pray don’t stand there; come in with my wife, and get your things dried.”

“Wait till you hear what I have to say: George Hawker, my son —”

“Your son — good God!”

“I thought you would have known that. The Vicar does. Well, this son of mine has run off with the Vicar’s daughter.”

“Well?”

“Well, he has committed forgery. It’ll be known all over the country tomorrow, and even now I fear the runners are after him. If he is taken before he marries that girl, things will be only worse than they are. But never mind whether he does or not, perhaps you differ with me; perhaps you think that, if you could find the girl now, you could stop her and bring her home; but you don’t know where she is. I do, and if you will give me your solemn word of honour as a gentleman to give him warning that his forgery for five hundred pounds is discovered, I will give you his direction.”

The Major hesitated for a moment, thinking.

“If you reflect a moment, you must see how straightforward my story is. What possible cause can I have to mislead you? I know which way you will decide, so I wait patiently.”

“I think I ought to say yes, my love,” said the Major to his wife; “if it turned out afterwards that I neglected any opportunity of saving this poor girl (particularly if this tale of the forgery be true), I should never forgive myself.”

“I agree with you, my dear,” said Mrs. Buckley. “Give your promise, and go to seek her.”

“Well, then,” said the Major; “I give you my word of honour that I will give Hawker due warning of his forgery being discovered, if you will give me his direction. I anticipate that they are in London, and I shall start to-night, to be in time for the morning coach. Now, will you give me the address?”

“Yes!” said Madge. “They are at the Nag’s Head, Buckingham Street, Strand, London; can you remember that?”

“I know where the street is,” said the Major; “now will you go into the kitchen, and make yourself comfortable? My dear, you will see my valise packed? Ellen, get this person’s clothes dried, and get her some hot wine. By-the-bye,” said he, following her into the kitchen, “you must have had a terrible quarrel with Hawker, for him to send you out such a night as this?”

“It was about this matter,” she said: “the boy forged on his father, and I knew it, and tried to screen him. My own son, you know.”

“It was natural enough,” said the Major. “You are not deceiving me, are you? I don’t see why you should, though.”

“Before God, I am not. I only want the boy to get warning.”

“You must sleep here to-night,” said the Major; “and tomorrow you can go on your way, though, if you cannot conveniently get away in the morning, don’t hurry, you know. My house is never shut against unfortunate people. I have heard a great deal of you, but I never saw you before; you must be aware, however, that the character you have held in the place is not such as warrants me in asking you to stay here for any time.”

The Major left the kitchen, and crossed the yard. In a bedroom above the stable slept his groom, a man who had been through his campaigns with him from first to last. It was to waken him that the Major took his way up the narrow stairs towards the loft.

“Jim,” he said, “I want my horse in an hour.”

The man was out of bed in a moment, and while he was dressing, the Major continued:—

“You know Buckingham Street, Strand, Jim, don’t you? When you were recruiting you used to hang out at a public-house there, unless I am mistaken.”

“Exactly so, sir! We did; and a many good chaps we picked up there, gents and all sorts. Why, it was in that werry place, Major, as we ‘listed Lundon; him as was afterwards made sergeant for being the first man into Sebastian, and arterwards married Skettles; her as fell out of eighteen stories at Brussels looking after the Duke, and she swore at them as came to pick her up, she did; and walked in at the front door as bold as brass.”

“There, my good lad,” said the Major; “what’s the good of telling such stories as that? Nobody believes them, you know. Do you know the Nag’s Head there? It’s a terribly low place, is it not?”

“It’s a much changed if it ain’t, sir,” said Jim, putting on his breeches. “I was in there not eighteen months since. It’s a fighting-house; and there used to be a dog show there, and a reunion of vocal talent, and all sorts of villanies.”

“Well, see to the horse, Jim, and I’ll sing out when I’m ready,” said the Major, and went back into the house.

He came back through the kitchen, and saw that Madge was being treated by the maids with that respect that a reputed witch never fails to command; then, having sat for some time talking to his wife, and finding that the storm was cleared off, he kissed his sleeping child and its mother, and, mounting his horse in the stable-yard, rode off towards Exeter.

In the morning, when Mrs. Buckley came down stairs, she inquired for Madge. They told her she had been up some time, and, having got some breakfast, was walking up and down in front of the house. Going there, Mrs. Buckley found her. Her dress was rearranged with picturesque neatness, and a red handkerchief pinned over her rich dark hair, that last night had streamed wild and wet in the tempest. Altogether, she looked an utterly different being from the strange, storm-beaten creature who had craved their hospitality the night before. Mrs. Buckley admired the bold, upright, handsome figure before her, and gave her a cheery “good morning.”

“I only stayed,” said Madge, “to wish you goodbye, and thank you for your kindness. When they who should have had some pity on me turned me out, you took me in!”

“You are heartily welcome,” said Mrs. Buckley. “Cannot I do more for you? Do you want money? I fear you must!”

“None, I thank you kindly,” she replied; “that would break the spell. Good-bye!”

“Good-bye!” said Mrs. Buckley.

Madge stood in front of the door and raised her hand.

“The blessing of God,” she said, “shall be upon the house of the Buckleys, and more especially upon you and your husband, and the boy that is sleeping inside. He shall be a brave and a good man, and his wife shall be the fairest and best in the country side. Your kine shall cover the plains until no man can number them, and your sheep shall be like the sands of the sea. When misfortune and death and murder fall upon your neighbours, you shall stand between the dead and the living, and the troubles that pass over your heads shall be like the shadow of the light clouds that fly across the moor on a sunny day. And when in your ripe and honoured old age you shall sit with your husband, in a garden of your own planting, in the lands far away, and see your grandchildren playing around you, you shall think of the words of the wild, lost gipsy woman, who gave you her best blessing before she went away and was seen no more.”

Mrs. Buckley tried to say “Amen,” but found herself crying. Something there was in that poor creature, homeless, penniless, friendless, that made her heart like wax. She watched her as she strode down the path, and afterwards looked for her reappearing on a high exposed part of the road, a quarter of a mile off, thinking she would take that way. But she waited long, and never again saw that stern, tall figure, save in her dreams.

She turned at last, and one of the maids stood beside her.

“Oh, missis,” she said, “you’re a lucky woman today. There’s some in this parish would have paid a hundred pounds for such a fortune as that from her. It’ll come true — you will see!”

“I hope it may, you silly girl,” said Mrs. Buckley; and then she went in and knelt beside her sleeping boy, and prayed that the blessing of the gipsy woman might be fulfilled.

It was quite late on the evening of his second day’s journey that the Major, occupying the box-seat of the “Exterminator,” dashed with comet-like speed through so much of the pomps and vanities of this wicked world as showed itself in Piccadilly at half-past seven on a spring afternoon.

“Hah!” he soliloquized, passing Hyde-park Corner, “these should be the folks going out to dinner. They dine later and later every year. At this rate they’ll dine at half-past one in twenty years’ time. That’s the Duke’s new house; eh, coachman? By George, there’s his Grace himself, on his brown cob; God bless him! There are a pair of good-stepping horses, and old Lady E—— behind ’em, by Jove! — in her war-paint and feathers — pinker than ever. She hasn’t got tired of it yet. She’d dance at her own funeral if she could. And there’s Charley Bridgenorth in the club balcony — I wonder what he finds to do in peace time? — and old B—&m............