The Toll-Gate

Chapter 14

FINDING it impossible to turn the Captain from his purpose, Mr. Babbacombe allowed himself to be diverted presently into talk of old campaigning days, and an exchange of news about erstwhile companions in arms. Dusk fell, and the two friends still sat on either side of the fire, fortified by tankards of Sopworthy’s best ale, and only occasionally interrupted by calls from the gate. By the time the daylight had quite gone, and the Captain went out to hang lamps on the gate, Mr. Babbacombe had begun to think of his dinner. It seemed to him a pity that John could scarcely accompany him to the inn, to share it; but when he learned that John had dined at midday he was quite aghast, and perceived that he had had, until that moment, a very incomplete conception of the rigours endured by gatekeepers.

“And I think,” said John, “you’d best stay here, Bab, and have supper with me. There will be Ben too—if the little wretch comes home in time!—but you won’t mind that! I’ll give you eggs, and ham, and sausages, and some excellent coffee. The thing is, I am determined to visit the Manor this evening, and I can’t leave this place under Ben’s charge after dark: he’s scared, and won’t stay here alone. If the Squire’s groom is unable to come to relieve guard, you could remain here till I come back, couldn’t you?”

“What, mind the pike?” exclaimed Mr. Babbacombe. “No, I’ll be damned if I do!”

“Oh, you needn’t do that! Ben will attend to any calls, and I daresay he won’t mind, if he knows you’re here to protect him.”

“Protect him from what?” demanded Mr. Babbacombe.

“Nothing—but he can’t be brought to believe that. Damn the brat, I wonder what mischief he’s up to? I must go up to attend to Beau. And, now I come to think of it, I never fed the hens, or the pig!”

With these conscience-stricken words, he seized a bucket, into which had been emptied various scraps of food, and went out into the garden. Mr. Babbacombe heard him at the pump a few minutes later, and he came in almost immediately, saying, as he dried his dripping hands on a towel: “I suppose the hens had picked up all they wanted in the garden, for they’ve gone to roost; but the pig always seems to be starving! You know, Bab, when I started gatekeeping here I’d no notion how much work there was to do! What with the gate, and Beau, and those curst hens, and the pig, and the brat, and keeping my clothes in order, I never seem to have a moment in which to be idle! Confound you, don’t laugh! If Ben don’t come in soon, you shall have a taste of gatekeeping, for I won’t neglect my horse just because you’re too high in the instep to take over my duties for me! Besides, I want Beau here, not half a mile away!”

But at this moment the errant Ben slid into the kitchen from the office, his sharp countenance schooled to an expression of almost angelic innocence. One stocking had descended in rucks about his ankle, and was generously smeared with blood from a badly grazed leg; a rent in his shirt allowed a glimpse of a skinny chest; and every portion of his anatomy, unprotected by clothing, seemed to have attracted grime.

“Disgusting!” said his mentor, after a brief but comprehensive survey. “Take that shirt off, and get under the pump! No, don’t go without the soap, woolly-crown! And if I see one speck of dirt on you when you come in, I’ll send you to bed in the pigsty!”

In any ordinary circumstances, so exquisitely humorous a threat would have drawn from Ben its meed of his broadest grin, but he had by this time perceived Mr. Babbacombe. His mouth fell open, and his eyes widened to their fullest extent. Having taken that elegant gentleman in thoroughly, he gave utterance to his feelings with brevity and simplicity. “Coo!” he said reverently.

The Captain’s lips twitched, but he said severely: “Just so!

Be off and make yourself tidy directly! This gentleman can’t bear dirty boys!”

“Coo, he is a swell cove!” said Ben, accepting reluctantly the bar of soap thrust into his hand. “What’s he come here for, gov’nor?”

“He’s a friend of mine. Now, shake your shambles! I want to go up to Huggate’s barn!”

“He ain’t come to take you away?” Ben cried, with swift suspicion.

“No, no!” the Captain said, pushing him through the door. “He’s come to supper with us!”

“Yes, but I don’t think I have!” protested Mr. Babbacombe, who had been regarding his friend’s protégé with disfavour. “And if you think I mean to spend the evening here with that horrid brat—why, I’d as lief spend it with a Portuguese muleteer!”

“Nonsense! He’s quite a good lad. Did you never fall out of a tree yourself, and go home with a torn shirt, and dirt all over you? Besides, the poor little devil’s been orphaned!”

“What are you going to do with him?” demanded Mr. Babbacombe, looking at him with misgiving.

“Damned if I know!” confessed John. “I’m bound to look after him, of course. Might hand him to Cocking to train: he’s got a way with horses, and will make a splendid groom when he’s older.”

“I should think Cocking will enjoy that!” said Mr. Babbacombe sardonically.

But when Ben reappeared presently with a well-scrubbed face, and in his other shirt, he admitted that he was not so repulsive an urchin as at first sight he had thought him. Encouraged by this moderate praise, the Captain informed Ben that if Joseph Lydd did not come to the toll-house that evening, Mr. Babbacombe would stay to keep him company while he himself went out for an hour. Ben looked dubious, but the Captain said: “And he’s a soldier, too, so you needn’t be afraid he would let anyone carry you off! If anyone tried to, he would draw his pistol, and shoot him!”

“No, I dashed well would not!” said Mr. Babbacombe. “What’s more, I won’t be dragged into this business!”

“Won’t stand by me?” John said. “Bab!”

“Well, what I mean is——No, confound you, Jack, I’m not queer in my attic, if you are!”

“You come and see my horse, old fellow!” said John soothingly. “Cut some ham, Ben, and put the sausages in the pan! I’m only going as far as the barn.”

Half an hour later, when they re-entered the kitchen, Mr. Babbacombe wore the look of one resigned to his fate, and there was a decided twinkle in the Captain’s eye. They were greeted by the pleasant aroma of sausages sizzling over the fire, and the intelligence that Joseph Lydd had passed through the gate not five minutes earlier, driving the gig.

“Driving the gig?” John said. “Where was he bound for? Did he tell you?”

“No. He asked me where you was, and I told him you was up at the barn, and he said as he’d be back presently. And I didn’t say nothing to him about the swell cove,” added Ben, with conscious rectitude.

“That’s the dandy! Don’t you say anything to anybody about the swell cove! Did Lydd leave any message for me?”

But Joseph had apparently not seen fit to entrust a message to Ben. With his assurance that he would be back presently, John had to be satisfied. Leaving Mr. Babbacombe to superintend the cooking of supper, he went off to make himself presentable, and to speculate upon the nature of the errand that could have taken Lydd, driving the gig, towards Crowford at such an hour. The doctor, as John knew, lived five miles to the east of the gate; he could think of no other person who might be wanted at the Manor.

He had just arranged his cravat to his satisfaction when the gig returned. He heard Ben go out, and followed him, trying to perceive, in the darkness, who was the man seated beside Lydd. A low-brimmed hat, and a dark cloak, were the only things he could distinguish, until the man turned a little, to look at him, and he saw the gleam of white bands. At the same moment, Joseph spoke.

“You’re wanted up at the Manor, Mr. Staple. But I got to drive the Reverend back to Crowford presently.”

“I’ll come,” John replied curtly. “Open the gate, Ben!”

He did not wait to see this order obeyed, but strode back into the toll-house, where he found Mr. Babbacombe, in his shirt-sleeves, wincing from the savagery of eggs, spitting furiously in boiling fat.

“Bab—I’m sorry, indeed I am!—but I must leave you in charge here!” he said. “The Squire’s groom has just gone past the pike, with the Vicar, driving him to Kellands. I’m needed there—and even if Joseph had not told me so I must have gone! I fear it can only mean that the Squire is dying.”

Mr. Babbacombe removed the eggs from the fire, and tenderly licked the back of one scalded hand. “If that’s so, dear boy,” he remarked mildly, “it don’t seem to be quite the moment for you to be paying him a visit. No doubt you know best, but I shouldn’t do it myself.”

“I think you would. Joseph will come to relieve you if he can, but he will be obliged to remain at the Manor until the Vicar leaves. Ben will attend to the gate, but you’ll get very few calls. I’ll return as soon as I may—but I might be some time.”

“Very well,” said his long-suffering friend, returning the pan to the fire. “It’s to be hoped Ben likes eggs: there are six here, and I never want to see one again!”

“Poor Bab! What a way to treat you! But you will shake the dust of this place from your feet tomorrow, so take heart!” John said, sitting down to pull on his boots.

“Ah!” said Mr. Babbacombe. He saw that Ben had come back into the kitchen, and said imperatively: “Here, boy, come and finish cooking these eggs!”

Ben took the pan, but gave it as his opinion that the eggs were fried hard.

“Then turn ’em out, or fry some more!” recommended Mr. Babbacombe.

John lifted his saddle from the top of the beer-barrel, where he had laid it when he brought it down from the barn, and went out into the garden, accompanied by his friend. Mr. Babbacombe stripped off the rug from Beaus back, but no sooner had John set the saddle in place than he ejaculated: “Chirk! I must warn Ben,” and went back into the kitchen.

“If,” said Mr. Babbacombe, when he presently reappeared, “you’re expecting a visit from your High Toby friend, how should I receive him? I don’t wish to be backward in any attention, but the truth is, Jack, I never entertained a highwayman before, and I can’t but feel that if he did not find me acceptable he might prefer my watch and my money to my company.”

“No such thing! He’s an excellent fellow! But I’ve told Ben to go quietly out to him, when he hears his signal, and to tell him how it is. It won’t do to let him in while you’re here: he would dislike it—and me too, for having told you about him.” Mr. Babbacombe paused in the act of tightening a girth. “Do you mean to say I’m not to meet the fellow? No, that’s too shabby!” he said indignantly. “What the devil am I going to do with myself while you’re away?”

“Play casino with Ben!” said the Captain, unhitching his bridle from the fence.

Ten minutes later, he was dismounting in the stable yard at the Manor, and handing Beau over to Joseph, who said apologetically: “I’d have come back if I could, sir, but the master don’t understand as how you can’t leave Ben, and he would have me fetch Parson.”

“It doesn’t signify: I’ve left a friend of mine at the tollhouse. Was it your master who sent for me?”

“Ay, and mighty anxious he is you should come, gov’nor. Mr. Winkfield says as he’s been fretting outrageous, all on account of this letter I had to fetch in Sheffield. But it come by today’s mail, and it seems like he’s ready to slip his wind now he’s got it, for nothing would do but he must have Parson sent for, and you too.” He peered up at John’s face in the faint moonlight, and added pleadingly: “If you could set his mind at rest, sir, so as he’ll go easy——”

“You may be sure I will. I’ll go up to the house immediately. Where are Coate and young Stornaway?”

“Mr. Henry’s still abed, and Coate’s eating his dinner. There’s no fear you’ll see either of ’em.”

The Captain strode up the path to the side of the house. The door into the flagged passage was not locked, and a lamp was burning on the chest against the wall. John laid his hat and whip down beside it, and went along the passage to the narrow stairs. At the top, he met Winkfield. The valet greeted him with relief, and with less than his usual impassivity. It seemed for a moment as though he wished to make some kind of a communication. He started to speak, but faltered, and broke off, saying, after a pause: “I think, sir—I think I had best take you to my master directly!”

“Please do so! Joseph tells me he has been fretting, and you may be sure I’ll use my best endeavours to soothe him.”

“Yes, sir, I’m sure——Only it seems as if he’s almost taken leave of his senses! If I’d guessed—but he never told one of us! If you should not like it, I hope you’ll pardon me! Indeed, I’d no notion what was in his head!” Winkfield said, opening the dressing-room door, and ushering John into the room.

“Why should I dislike it?” John asked, a puzzled frown in his eyes. “I collect that he is dying—is he not?”

“I don’t know that, sir. I didn’t think to see him live the day out, but—but he’s in wonderful spirits now! As you’ll see for yourself, sir!”

He opened the door into the bedchamber, and announced formally: “Captain Staple!”

The Captain stepped into the room, and paused, blinking in the unexpected light of many candles. Two great chandeliers stood on the mantelpiece; two more flanked the bed; and two had been set on a side-table, drawn into the middle of the room, and draped with a cloth. Beside this improvised altar was standing an elderly clergyman, whose mild countenance showed bewilderment, disapproval, and uncertainty. The Squire was lying in bed, banked up by many pillows, his eyes glittering, and a smile twisting one side of his mouth. Rose was standing by the window, and Nell at the head of the bed, in her old green velvet gown. Across the room she stared at John, and he saw that her eyes were stormy in her very white face, and her hands tightly gripped together. She said, in a shaking voice: “No, no! I won’t! Grandpapa, I beg of you don’t ask it of him!”

“Don’t be missish, girl!” Sir Peter said, his utterance slow, and very much more slurred than when John had previously visited him.

“Sir Peter!” said the Vicar nervously. “If Miss Stornaway is reluctant, I must and I will be resolute in declining to perform——”

“You hold your tongue, Thorne!” said Sir Peter. “She ain’t reluctant. Nothing but a stupid crotchet! Staple!”

“Sir?” John responded, going to the bedside.

“Told me you’d marry Nell with or without my consent, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“Mean it?”

John looked steadily down into those over bright eyes. “Most certainly!”

Sir Peter gave a little cackle of laughter. “Very well! You shall marry her—now!”

There was a moment’s astonished silence. “Tell him it is impossible!” Nell said, in a panting undervoice.

“It ain’t impossible,” said Sir Peter. “I’ve seen to that! Special license,” he told John, with impish triumph. “Thorne’s got it, but I sent for it! Told you I could still keep my horses together!”

“You’re at home to a peg, sir!” John assured him, amusement quivering in his voice. He looked up, and stretched out his hand across the bed to Nell. “But how is this? Won’t you marry me after all, my love?”

“No, no, unthinkable!” she said, wringing her hands. “You are being forced—forced—into marrying me—in such a way!”

“Am I? But how unnecessary! I don’t even need persuading!”

“Told you so!” said Sir Peter. “He don’t suffer from distempered freaks!”

“If we are to talk of distempered freaks——!” she exclaimed hotly.

“Yes, but we are not going to talk of any such thing,” John interposed.

“That’s the way!” approved Sir Peter. “Stand no nonsense! You’ll do as you’re bid, miss!”

“No, certainly not!” said John. “She will do as she wishes, now and always!” He walked round the end of the bed, and took Nell’s tense hand, smiling very kindly at her. “You shall tell me just what you wish, dearest. I ask nothing better than to be allowed to marry you here and now. Indeed, it seems to me an admirable scheme! To receive you from the hands of your grandfather is just what I would myself have chosen. But I’ll drag no unwilling bride to the altar, so if your heart misgives you, my love, tell me so!”

“John, John, not my heart!” she whispered chokingly, her fingers clutching his hand.

“No? Some other consideration, then, which naturally you must explain to me. But we really cannot discuss the matter in public! Let us go into the dressing-room, shall we? We must beg you, Sir Peter, to hold us excused for a short space.”

He drew Nell’s hand through his arm, as he spoke, and led her to the door, which Winkfield opened, and held. As he shut it again behind them, the Squire said, on a note of satisfaction: “Clever in the saddle: he’ll handle her!”

“Sir Peter, loth though I must be to disoblige you, I cannot perform this ceremony unless I am fully persuaded that both parties to it are willing!” declared the Vicar, looking more harassed than ever.

“Oh, sir, never say so!” Rose begged involuntarily. She whisked out her handkerchief, and rather defiantly blew her nose. “He is so truly the gentleman, and so kind!” she sobbed.

“Indeed, I must own myself agreeably surprised in him,” acknowledged Mr. Thorne. “I do not perfectly understand why he should be taking Brean’s place—in fact, I do not understand it at all! There is something in such eccentric behaviour which one cannot quite like, but I must suppose him to have good and sufficient reason for indulging in what bears the appearance of a mere prank, for there is nothing wild or unstable in his face or in his bearing. But if Miss Stornaway is, I repeat, reluctant, I must decline to perform my office!”

“She ain’t,” said the Squire. “Mere female scruples! She’s head over ears in love with the fellow! Winkfield, my cordial!”

In the dressing-room, Nell was folded in the fellow’s arms, saying agitatedly: “John, I cannot, I cannot!”

“Then you shall not,” he replied comfortingly. “But tell me why you cannot!”

“There are so many reasons—you must perceive! Oh, I couldn’t do it!”

“It’s too sudden? Of course, you have had no time to prepare for it! What a selfish fellow I am! The thing is that I should like a private wedding so much myself that I forgot that you would wish for something in quite a different style. All girls do, I collect, and God forbid I should deny you anything you want, my treasure!”

This had the effect of making her lift her head from his shoulder. “No, no! Oh, how can you think me so stupid?” she demanded indignantly. “As though I care for bride-clothes, or any flummery! Oh, John, how infamous you are!

He laughed. “But what else am I to think, unless that you mean to cry off?”

She tried to shake him, gripping the lapels of his coat.

“You know I don’t! Cannot you perceive how wrong it would be in me to marry you like this?”

“No,” he replied simply.

“How can I be sure that you did not say you were willing only to oblige a dying man?”

His answer to this left her too breathless to speak, and with a strong suspicion that at least three of her ribs had been broken.

“Have you any more nonsensical questions you would like to ask me, my love?” asked John, a little unsteadily.

“I d-dare not!” she said, between tears and laughter.

“Good! Because I think we should not keep the Vicar waiting, or your grandfather either. And if the only qualms you have are on my behalf there is no reason why we should. Can you wear this signet-ring of mine?”

“John, I am persuaded I ought not to do this!”

“If you feel that I shall turn out to be the devil of a husband, undoubtedly you ought not,” cordially agreed John, sliding his ring on to her finger, and off again. “This is too loose, but it will have to serve until I can buy a wedding ring. If, on the other hand, you mean to abide by our engagement, I shall think you have less than common sense if you cannot recognize the advantages attaching to this charmingly unusual wedding.”

“And if I have less than common sense I daresay you will cry off?” she murmured, snuggling her cheek into the hollow of his shoulder.

“Very likely. Now, consider, my love! If we are to wait until your grandfather is dead, how awkward in every respect must be our situation! You will then scruple to marry me until you are out of your blacks, and what the deuce are we to do for a whole year? Where will you go? How will you support yourself? With so many scruples you would never permit me to do that!”

“No, indeed! I hope I have a little more propriety than that! Perhaps I could take a situation as a governess, or some such thing,” she said doubtfully.

“No one in possession of her senses would engage you,” he assured her. “Besides, I have a great deal of pride, and it would not suit me to marry a governess!” A stifled gurgle sounded. “You may laugh!” he said severely. “But I have some pretty stiff notions of what is due to my consequence, let me tell you!”

“I wonder what can have put it into my head that you had none?”

“There is no telling that. Well, my darling? Shall we go?”

She lifted her head, and looked up at him. “Yes, John. But afterwards?”

“Are you afraid I mean to carry you off to the tollhouse? You will remain here, of course, while you are needed.”

“I must, you know,” she said, a little wistfully.

“Yes, I know. If I were living in a palace, I would not ask you to leave your grandfather now. But henceforth I shall have the right to protect you. Come, let us go and tell Sir Peter that we are very willing to oblige him!”

The Squire was lying with closed eyes, watched intently by Winkfield, and in pity and doubt by the Vicar; but he roused at the sound of the opening door, and turned his head slightly on the pillow. The Vicar, rising to his feet, and looking anxiously at Nell, was astonished to see that the rigid and decidedly wrathful young Amazon had vanished. She was leaning on the Captain’s arm, one hand lost in his larger one, her face softly glowing, and the tenderest of smiles hovering round her mouth as she glanced up at him.

“Well?” said Sir Peter.

“We are very happy to obey you, sir,” John replied.

“Is this indeed so, Miss Stornaway?” the Vicar asked.

“Oh, yes!” she sighed. “If you don’t think it wrong of me!”

“Wrong? Why should he?” said the Squire snappishly. “Let’s have no more time wasted! I’m tired!”

So Miss Helen Stornaway and Captain John Staple were made man and wife in that candle-lit bedroom, watched by a dying man, and attended by a nurse and a valet. The Vicar had to look up to their faces, and thought he had never married a more splendid couple, though the lady’s dress was shabby, and the gentleman’s leathers were stained. They made their responses firmly; and they looked so happy that Rose (as she afterwards explained) could not help crying a little, and even Winkfield admitted that it was a very touching ceremony.

When it was over, they kissed, and John led Nell back to the bed. Everyone could see that already the Squire’s face had altered subtly. The sharpened look had been smoothed, and the eyes had lost some of their unnatural glitter; he looked more peaceful, but when he lifted his right hand, it was with an effort, and it shook perceptibly. Nell hung over him for a minute; he smiled at her; and said indistinctly: “You’ll do now!”

Then he ordered Winkfield to bring wine and glasses, so that the bride’s and groom’s healths could be duly pledged. “I feel as though I shall sleep sound tonight,” he remarked. His gaze fell upon the Vicar, and a gleam of amusement shone in it. “Much obliged to you, old friend! Thought you was here on a different errand, didn’t you? You should have guessed I’d surprise you yet! Don’t look so glum: I know what I’ve done, and, damme, it’s the best deed of my life, and atones for a deal of past folly! Whatever happens now, my girl’s safe. I’ll bid you good-night now. I want a word or two with this new grandson of mine before I go to sleep, and I’m tired, very tired.”

The Captain drew his wife a little to one side, and said in her ear: “Take him away, Nell, and leave me alone with your grandfather! He is very much exhausted, and the sooner he has said what he desires to say to me the better it will be.”

She nodded, and moved away from his side, glancing significantly at Winkfield. In a very few moments, only John was left with the Squire. He returned to the big four-poster, drawing the curtains along the foot of it, to shut off the glare of the candles.

“It wasn’t you I forced into it,” Sir Peter said. “It was Nell. I don’t know what it is Henry has done, but it’s something damnable. The dog threatened me—threatened me!—Said if I would not give orders Coate must be treated with extraordinary civility he and I and Nell would be ruined! By God, I—”

“Let me assure you, sir,” interposed the Captain calmly, “that there is not the slightest danger of such a thing! Nor does Master Henry’s attempt to conjure up bogeys in any way impress me.”

“What are he and Coate doing?” demanded the Squire.

“I’m not in a position to tell you that, though I have some inklings. Henry, I think, is nothing more than a tool, and I have every expectation of being able to bring him off without public scandal.”

The Squire’s eyes narrowed. “You know more than you mean to tell me, eh? Coate will drag Henry into it, if there’s a discovery.”

“Not if his mouth is shut, sir.”

“Very likely! And, pray, how is that to be achieved?”

“I think, sir,” replied John, smiling down at him, “that that is something you had best leave to me.”

One corner of the Squire’s mouth lifted a little. “You do, do you? Know how to do the trick?”

“Yes,” John said.

The deep, imperturbable voice had its effect. The Squire sighed, and seemed to relax. “I daresay you’ll handle it,” he said. “I’ve shot my bolt. But I’ve made all safe for Nell. If Henry’s disgraced us, she wouldn’t have married you, you know. Forced you into this, of course. If you disliked it—”

“I did not,” interrupted John. He bent over the bed, gently taking the old man’s hand, and holding it. “Indeed, I’m grateful to you, sir, and I swear to you Nell shall never have cause to regret this night’s work.” He added, with a twinkle: “It was, besides, an education to see how a difficult team could be driven to an inch!”

The Squire chuckled. “Ah, I was a top-sawyer in my day!”

“I should describe you today as a Nonpareil, sir,” John retorted. “I am going to leave you now. May I beg you to think no more of your grandson’s nonsense? There is not the least need for you to tease yourself about it.”

The waxen hand feebly returned the pressure of his fingers. “You came in the very nick of time, you know. Old Mops and Brooms’ grandson—! Send Nell in to say goodnight to me!”

The Captain left him with no more words. In the dressing-room he found Nell awaiting him, with Winkfield. He smiled at her, and said: “Go to Sir Peter, my love: he wishes to bid you goodnight.”

She nodded, and went at once into the bedchamber. The Captain, closing the door behind her, said: “Before she comes back, tell me this! Is Mr. Stornaway sick, or is he shamming it?”

“He’s sick enough, sir—if you call it being sick to have caught cold! We had Dr. Bacup here today, and Mr. Henry desired him to go to him, which he did. He was always one to think himself dying for the least ailment, and no sooner did he start sneezing and coughing than he was persuaded he had an inflammation of the lungs. It’s no such thing, of course, but his man’s been carrying up cans of hot water for mustard foot-baths all day, and he’s eaten nothing but tea and toast, because he says his pulse is tumultuous. However, the doctor left a draught for him to take, and I don’t doubt he will be more the thing by tomorrow.”

“I see.” John was silent for a moment, frowning a little. “There is nothing to be gained by my seeing him tonight, then.”

“Seeing him, sir?” Winkfield repeated.

“Yes, and as soon as may be possible. Not before he has left his bed, however—and I myself have certain plans to be made. Where is his room?”

“In the other wing of the house, sir—his and Mr. Coate’s room too,” Winkfield answered, eyeing him wonderingly.

“Can you describe to me precisely which room it is, and how it may be reached from this wing?”

Winkfield gave a slight gasp. “Yes, sir, but—”

“Then do so! I am coming to pay Mr. Henry a visit, but since I don’t wish Coate to know of it, it will be a nocturnal one—probably tomorrow night, if I can arrange it so.”

“Indeed, sir!” said Winkfield, rather faintly. “Were you—were you thinking of climbing through the window?”

“Your windows weren’t made for a man of my size, I’m afraid. I was rather thinking of entering by the side-door—which you would leave unlocked.”

“That would undoubtedly be better, sir,” agreed Winkfield. “If you were to proceed along this corridor, you would find yourself on the gallery that runs round the main staircase. Immediately opposite, is a similar corridor to this. The first door upon the right of it opens into Mr. Henry’s room. Beyond it is a small spare-room, and opposite to that is Mr. Coate’s room, with a dressing-room beside it.”

“Thank you, that’s very clear.”

“If I might venture to suggest, sir—I have been sleeping here, in this room, lately, and if you were to wake me—”

“I think I won’t, Winkfield. It is possible that you might not be able to attend to me, or be the only person in this room,” John said bluntly. “I’m afraid the end is very near now. I’ve seen men die, and that look is in your master’s face tonight.”

“Yes, sir,” Winkfield said quietly, and turned away, as Nell came back into the room.

“Will you go to him now, Winkfield?” she said. “He is so tired, but—but wonderfully peaceful, and even in spirits!”

The valet went into the bedchamber without a word, his face rather set. Nell looked up at John. “Do you think—do you think he is better, John?”

He did not hesitate. “No, dearest,” he replied gently.

“I see.” She went slowly towards him, and leaned against his shoulder as he put his arm round her. “I couldn’t wish it, of course. It is only that there have been just the two of us for so long.”

“I know.”

She put her hand up to touch his cheek. “And now there is you, and—and so much happiness in my heart that there seems to be hardly room enough for anything else. Am I really married, or is it a dream?”

“You are really married, my wife. It is the strangest wedding ever two people had, but the knot was well and truly tied.”

“I think, even though you would not say so, you must have disliked it very much.”

“No.” He turned her face up, and kissed her. “Only to be obliged to leave you, my wife. That—I do indeed dislike!”