Джорджетт Хейер - The Toll-Gate

Ben, whose experience had not taught him to place any degree of reliance on the promises of his elders, burst into tears, and reiterated his conviction that he was to be left to his fate.

“Good God!” exclaimed John, setting the frying-pan down in the hearth. “Come here, you wretched little goosecap!” He picked up a candle, took Ben by the ear, and led him to Brean’s bedroom. “Does that look as though I meant to run away?”

Ben stopped knuckling his eyes. When he had assimilated the fact that the Captain’s ivory brushes still graced the chest of drawers, together with his shaving-tackle, and the knife he used for paring his nails, he became very much more cheerful; and by the time Joseph Lydd arrived at the tollhouse, soon after eight o’clock, he was able to greet him with perfect equanimity.

Lydd, who was riding the cob, slid from the saddle, and winked broadly at the Captain. “You’re looked for, sir,” he said. “Pretty bobbish he is—considering!”

“Bring the cob round the back, to the shed, then,” John said. “Beau’s there. I must saddle-up.”

“Begging your pardon, gov’nor, that’s my trade! Come on, booberkin! You show me this big prancer I’ve heard so much about!”

Half an hour later, Captain Staple trod up the path which led from the stables at Kellands to the eastern wing of the house. As he approached it, a door was opened, and lamplight showed him the silhouette of a man, who stood aside, and bowed, saying, in a quiet, precise voice: “Good-evening, sir. Will you be pleased to step this way?”

Captain Staple, entering the house, found himself in a flagged passage. An old chest stood against one wall, and he laid his hat and whip on this. As he straightened his cravat, he glanced down at Winkfield, seeing an elderly man, with grizzled hair, a pair of steady gray eyes set in an impassive countenance, and the unmistakeable stamp of the gentleman’s gentleman. “You’re Sir Peter’s man? How is your master?”

Some flicker of emotion crossed Winkfield’s face. He replied: “He is—as well as can be expected, sir. If you will follow me—? You will excuse my taking you up this staircase: it is not desirable that I should conduct you to the main hall.”

“No, I know. I am quite ready.”

He was led up to the gallery where the Squire’s rooms were situated, and ushered into the dressing-room. “What name should I say, sir?” enquired Winkfield.

“Captain Staple.”

Winkfield bowed again, and opened the door into the big bedchamber. Sir Peter was seated in his wing-chair, motionless; and beside him, reading to him a sporting article in one of the weekly journals, was his granddaughter. She looked up as the door opened.

“Captain Staple!” said Winkfield.

THE journal was cast aside; Nell rose swiftly, her face a study of conflicting emotions. Astonishment, incredulity, anger were all there. She looked magnificent, her eyes flaming, her colour suddenly heightened, and her breast, very white against the green of her old velvet gown, heaving with her quickened breath. Captain Staple, pausing on the threshold, met the challenge and the reproach in her eyes with the ghost of a rueful smile, and the slightest shake of his head.

“Pray come in, Captain Staple!”

The words, which were uttered by her grandfather, made Nell look quickly down at him, a still greater astonishment widening her eyes. He had raised his head, and was holding his quizzing-glass up. Through it he unhurriedly surveyed the Captain from head to foot. Then he let it fall, and held out his hand. “How do you do? I am glad that you have found yourself able to visit me, sir. You will forgive me for not rising to greet you: it is not, I regret to say, within my power to get up without assistance.”

The Captain came across the room, and took the hand in his. “How do you do, sir? It is I, rather, who should ask your pardon for coming to you so improperly dressed. Indeed, I have never more regretted being parted from my baggage!”

Sir Peter sought his quizzing-glass again, and levelled it. “Just as I thought: Scott!” he remarked.

The Captain smiled. “Why, yes, sir!”

“Schultz used to make my coats, but you military men always go to Scott. I fancy, Captain Staple, that you need no introduction to my granddaughter?”

“No, sir.” John turned to shake hands with Nell. His fingers gripped hers reassuringly. “I made Miss Stornaway’s acquaintance three days ago.”

“Just so!” said Sir Peter, regarding them from under drooping eyelids. “You must know, Nell, that Captain Staple is here in response to my invitation. I have had a great curiosity to meet him.”

“Miss Stornaway knows, sir, that it has been my earnest wish to visit you. Had it not been for your indisposition, I must have requested permission to do so.”

“Ah! I am, unfortunately, beset by persons who, from folly and good-will, seek to spare me the least excitement, and succeed only in vexing me beyond bearing!” said Sir Peter acidly.

John laughed. “It is too bad, sir! But I perceive that you contrive, in spite of anything they may do, to get your own way!”

As he spoke, he gently compelled Nell to seat herself again, and himself went to the chair on the opposite side of the fireplace to his host’s. Winkfield came back into the room, carrying the tea-tray. He shot one look at his master, and appeared to be satisfied, for he did not look at him again, but instead permitted himself to smile primly at Nell, as he set the tray down on a small table in front of her.

She began to pour out. Sir Peter said: “Don’t be alarmed! When my granddaughter has retired, you shall try my brandy.”

“To own the truth, sir,” said John, getting up, and going to the tea-table to receive from Nell’s hands a cup and saucer, “the sight of a tea-tray is most welcome!” He glanced round the room, saw a small table, and brought it to Sir Peter’s chair, and set the cup and saucer down on it, within reach of his right hand. “In my present—er—employment, such niceties are unknown. Such guests as I have prefer to take their refreshment out of a barrel or a bottle.” He took his own cup from Nell, and went back again to his chair.

Sir Peter gave a dry chuckle. “No doubt! Do you find your present employment congenial?”

“Not entirely,” returned the Captain. “I think it would soon grow to be excessively irksome. One’s movements are so restricted! I must own, however, that there is more to gatekeeping that I had previously supposed. I had no notion how many people there were in the world bent on cheating the tolls, for instance!”

Nell saw that her grandfather was looking amused. Her inward agitation grew less; she found herself able to put in a word, encouraging the Captain to continue on these lines. Her meetings with him had all been informal; she now realized that his manners, on more conventional occasions, had just that well-bred ease which she knew must please Sir Peter. He talked like a sensible man, and with a great deal of humour; and she soon saw that there was no need for her to feel anxious lest he should let fall some remark which would perturb her grandfather. Her heart did indeed take a jump into her mouth when Sir Peter asked him what he supposed had become of Brean; but he replied without hesitation, and with a twinkle in his eye, saying: “I’m much afraid, sir, that he may be languishing in gaol, and I trust, for his sake, it won’t come to the ears of his employers. It seems pretty plain that he went off on the spree, dipped rather too deep, and ended the night by falling foul of the watch. I expect there was a lively mill: four out of five of my troopers were always fatally ready to sport their canvases as soon as they became top-heavy!”

“You were in the cavalry, Captain Staple?”

“3rd Dragoon Guards, sir. I sold out in ’14.”

“You should be a hunting-man. Shires?”

The Captain shook his head. “Above my touch. I’ve had a day or two with the Quorn, but the most of my hunting is provincial. My home is in Hertfordshire. I find I get very good sport there with a modest stable. A friend of mine, who hunts regularly with the Quorn, assures me that a minimum of ten horses is necessary to him—and, having ridden over his country, I can readily believe it.”

“Twelve! Better, fourteen!” said Sir Peter, roused to animation. “I remember . . .”

His granddaughter, calling down silent blessings on her lover’s head, leaned back in her chair, and was content to listen to Sir Peter enjoying himself. His stories, which she had heard many times, she did not much attend to: it was enough to know that he was happy, forgetting present trouble in memories of bygone and better days. Had he shown clumsiness in his dealings with Sir Peter, she must still have loved Captain Staple; but his tact, which sprang, she knew, from kindliness, could not but enhance his value in her eyes. She fell into a pleasant reverie, from which she was aroused presently by hearing Sir Peter say: “Staple . . . There was a Staple up at Oxford in my time. Are you related to Saltash?”

“I’m his cousin, sir.”

“You are, are you?” Sir Peter picked up his snuffbox, and placed it in his enfeebled left hand, flicking it open. “The man I knew must have been his grandfather. We made the Grand Tour at much the same time. I remember meeting him in Rome, in ’63, or ’64—I forget. He had some kind of a tutor in tow, but he was getting his education from a charming little barque of frailty. Called herself a Contessa. No such thing, of course, but nobody cared for that. First and last, she cost him a pretty penny, but he used to be very well blunted. Gave capital parties, too: all the bucks and the Cyprians used to go. Iced champagne punch: he had a way of mixing it he learned from some fellow in Frankfurt: made you devilish castaway, if you weren’t accustomed to it. Staple was, of course: carried his wine very well. Never saw him really shot in the neck, though he wasn’t often stone sober, in those days. Believe he settled down when he came into the title.”