The Scarlet Pimpernel Read online

  In the kitchen Sally was extremely busy--saucepans and frying-pans werestanding in rows on the gigantic hearth, the huge stock-pot stood ina corner, and the jack turned with slow deliberation, and presentedalternately to the glow every side of a noble sirloin of beef. The twolittle kitchen-maids bustled around, eager to help, hot and panting,with cotton sleeves well tucked up above the dimpled elbows, andgiggling over some private jokes of their own, whenever Miss Sally'sback was turned for a moment. And old Jemima, stolid in temper andsolid in bulk, kept up a long and subdued grumble, while she stirred thestock-pot methodically over the fire.

  "What ho! Sally!" came in cheerful if none too melodious accents fromthe coffee-room close by.

  "Lud bless my soul!" exclaimed Sally, with a good-humoured laugh, "whatbe they all wanting now, I wonder!"

  "Beer, of course," grumbled Jemima, "you don't 'xpect Jimmy Pitkin to'ave done with one tankard, do ye?"

  "Mr. 'Arry, 'e looked uncommon thirsty too," simpered Martha, one ofthe little kitchen-maids; and her beady black eyes twinkled as they metthose of her companion, whereupon both started on a round of short andsuppressed giggles.

  Sally looked cross for a moment, and thoughtfully rubbed her handsagainst her shapely hips; her palms were itching, evidently, to come incontact with Martha's rosy cheeks--but inherent good-humour prevailed,and with a pout and a shrug of the shoulders, she turned her attentionto the fried potatoes.

  "What ho, Sally! hey, Sally!"

  And a chorus of pewter mugs, tapped with impatient hands against the oaktables of the coffee-room, accompanied the shouts for mine host's buxomdaughter.

  "Sally!" shouted a more persistent voice, "are ye goin' to be all nightwith that there beer?"

  "I do think father might get the beer for them," muttered Sally,as Jemima, stolidly and without further comment, took a couple offoam-crowned jugs from the shelf, and began filling a number of pewtertankards with some of that home-brewed ale for which "The Fisherman'sRest" had been famous since that days of King Charles. "'E knows 'owbusy we are in 'ere."

  "Your father is too busy discussing politics with Mr. 'Empseed to worry'isself about you and the kitchen," grumbled Jemima under her breath.

  Sally had gone to the small mirror which hung in a corner of thekitchen, and was hastily smoothing her hair and setting her frilled capat its most becoming angle over her dark curls; then she took upthe tankards by their handles, three in each strong, brown hand, andlaughing, grumbling, blushing, carried them through into the coffeeroom.

  There, there was certainly no sign of that bustle and activity whichkept four women busy and hot in the glowing kitchen beyond.

  The coffee-room of "The Fisherman's Rest" is a show place now at thebeginning of the twentieth century. At the end of the eighteenth, in theyear of grace 1792, it had not yet gained the notoriety and importancewhich a hundred additional years and the craze of the age have sincebestowed upon it. Yet it was an old place, even then, for the oakrafters and beams were already black with age--as were the panelledseats, with their tall backs, and the long polished tables between,on which innumerable pewter tankards had left fantastic patterns ofmany-sized rings. In the leaded window, high up, a row of pots ofscarlet geraniums and blue larkspur gave the bright note of colouragainst the dull background of the oak.

  That Mr. Jellyband, landlord of "The Fisherman's Rest" at Dover, wasa prosperous man, was of course clear to the most casual observer. Thepewter on the fine old dressers, the brass above the gigantic hearth,shone like silver and gold--the red-tiled floor was as brilliant as thescarlet geranium on the window sill--this meant that his servants weregood and plentiful, that the custom was constant, and of that orderwhich necessitated the keeping up of the coffee-room to a high standardof elegance and order.

  As Sally came in, laughing through her frowns, and displaying a rowof dazzling white teeth, she was greeted with shouts and chorus ofapplause.

  "Why, here's Sally! What ho, Sally! Hurrah for pretty Sally!"

  "I thought you'd grown deaf in that kitchen of yours," muttered JimmyPitkin, as he passed the back of his hand across his very dry lips.

  "All ri'! all ri'!" laughed Sally, as she deposited the freshly-filledtankards upon the tables, "why, what a 'urry to be sure! And is yourgran'mother a-dyin' an' you wantin' to see the pore soul afore she'mgone! I never see'd such a mighty rushin'" A chorus of good-humouredlaughter greeted this witticism, which gave the company there presentfood for many jokes, for some considerable time. Sally now seemed inless of a hurry to get back to her pots and pans. A young man withfair curly hair, and eager, bright blue eyes, was engaging most of herattention and the whole of her time, whilst broad witticisms anent JimmyPitkin's fictitious grandmother flew from mouth to mouth, mixed withheavy puffs of pungent tobacco smoke.

  Facing the hearth, his legs wide apart, a long clay pipe in hismouth, stood mine host himself, worthy Mr. Jellyband, landlord of"The Fisherman's Rest," as his father had before him, aye, and hisgrandfather and great-grandfather too, for that matter. Portly in build,jovial in countenance and somewhat bald of pate, Mr. Jellyband wasindeed a typical rural John Bull of those days--the days when ourprejudiced insularity was at its height, when to an Englishman, be helord, yeoman, or peasant, the whole of the continent of Europe was a denof immorality and the rest of the world an unexploited land of savagesand cannibals.

  There he stood, mine worthy host, firm and well set up on his limbs,smoking his long churchwarden and caring nothing for nobody at home, anddespising everybody abroad. He wore the typical scarlet waistcoat, withshiny brass buttons, the corduroy breeches, and grey worsted stockingsand smart buckled shoes, that characterised every self-respectinginnkeeper in Great Britain in these days--and while pretty, motherlessSally had need of four pairs of brown hands to do all the work thatfell on her shapely shoulders, worthy Jellyband discussed the affairs ofnations with his most privileged guests.

  The coffee-room indeed, lighted by two well-polished lamps, which hungfrom the raftered ceiling, looked cheerful and cosy in the extreme.Through the dense clouds of tobacco smoke that hung about in everycorner, the faces of Mr. Jellyband's customers appeared red and pleasantto look at, and on good terms with themselves, their host and all theworld; from every side of the room loud guffaws accompanied pleasant,if not highly intellectual, conversation--while Sally's repeated gigglestestified to the good use Mr. Harry Waite was making of the short timeshe seemed inclined to spare him.

  They were mostly fisher-folk who patronised Mr. Jellyband's coffee-room,but fishermen are known to be very thirsty people; the salt which theybreathe in, when they are on the sea, accounts for their parched throatswhen on shore, but "The Fisherman's Rest" was something more than arendezvous for these humble folk. The London and Dover coach startedfrom the hostel daily, and passengers who had come across the Channel,and those who started for the "grand tour," all became acquainted withMr. Jellyband, his French wines and his home-brewed ales.

  It was towards the close of September, 1792, and the weather which hadbeen brilliant and hot throughout the month had suddenly broken up; fortwo days torrents of rain had deluged the south of England, doing itslevel best to ruin what chances the apples and pears and late plums hadof becoming really fine, self-respecting fruit. Even now it was beatingagainst the leaded windows, and tumbling down the chimney, making thecheerful wood fire sizzle in the hearth.

  "Lud! did you ever see such a wet September, Mr. Jellyband?" asked Mr.Hempseed.

  He sat in one of the seats inside the hearth, did Mr. Hempseed, for hewas an authority and important personage not only at "The Fisherman'sRest," where Mr. Jellyband always made a special selection of him as afoil for political arguments, but throughout the neighborhood, wherehis learning and notably his knowledge of the Scriptures was held inthe most profound awe and respect. With one hand buried in the capaciouspockets of his corduroys underneath his elaborately-worked, well-wornsmock, the other holding his long clay pipe, Mr. Hempseed sat therelooking dejectedly across the ro
om at the rivulets of moisture whichtrickled down the window panes.

  "No," replied Mr. Jellyband, sententiously, "I dunno, Mr. 'Empseed, as Iever did. An' I've been in these parts nigh on sixty years."

  "Aye! you wouldn't rec'llect the first three years of them sixty, Mr.Jellyband," quietly interposed Mr. Hempseed. "I dunno as I ever see'd aninfant take much note of the weather, leastways not in these parts, an'_I_'ve lived 'ere nigh on seventy-five years, Mr. Jellyband."

  The superiority of this wisdom was so incontestable that for the momentMr. Jellyband was not ready with his usual flow of argument.

  "It do seem more like April than September, don't it?" continued Mr.Hempseed, dolefully, as a shower of raindrops fell with a sizzle uponthe fire.

  "Aye! that it do," assented the worthy host, "but then what can you'xpect, Mr. 'Empseed, I says, with sich a government as we've got?"

  Mr. Hempseed shook his head with an infinity of wisdom, temperedby deeply-rooted mistrust of the British climate and the BritishGovernment.

  "I don't 'xpect nothing, Mr. Jellyband," he said. "Pore folks like us isof no account up there in Lunnon, I knows that, and it's not often as Ido complain. But when it comes to sich wet weather in September, and allme fruit a-rottin' and a-dying' like the 'Guptian mother's first born,and doin' no more good than they did, pore dears, save a lot more Jews,pedlars and sich, with their oranges and sich like foreign ungodlyfruit, which nobody'd buy if English apples and pears was nicelyswelled. As the Scriptures say--"

  "That's quite right, Mr. 'Empseed," retorted Jellyband, "and as I says,what can you 'xpect? There's all them Frenchy devils over the Channelyonder a-murderin' their king and nobility, and Mr. Pitt and Mr. Foxand Mr. Burke a-fightin' and a-wranglin' between them, if we Englishmenshould 'low them to go on in their ungodly way. 'Let 'em murder!' saysMr. Pitt. 'Stop 'em!' says Mr. Burke."

  "And let 'em murder, says I, and be demmed to 'em." said Mr. Hempseed,emphatically, for he had but little liking for his friend Jellyband'spolitical arguments, wherein he always got out of his depth, and had butlittle chance for displaying those pearls of wisdom which had earned forhim so high a reputation in the neighbourhood and so many free tankardsof ale at "The Fisherman's Rest."

  "Let 'em murder," he repeated again, "but don't lets 'ave sich rain inSeptember, for that is agin the law and the Scriptures which says--"

  "Lud! Mr. 'Arry, 'ow you made me jump!"

  It was unfortunate for Sally and her flirtation that this remark ofhers should have occurred at the precise moment when Mr. Hempseedwas collecting his breath, in order to deliver himself one of thoseScriptural utterances which made him famous, for it brought down uponher pretty head the full flood of her father's wrath.

  "Now then, Sally, me girl, now then!" he said, trying to force afrown upon his good-humoured face, "stop that fooling with them youngjackanapes and get on with the work."

  "The work's gettin' on all ri', father."

  But Mr. Jellyband was peremptory. He had other views for his buxomdaughter, his only child, who would in God's good time become the ownerof "The Fisherman's Rest," than to see her married to one of these youngfellows who earned but a precarious livelihood with their net.

  "Did ye hear me speak, me girl?" he said in that quiet tone, which noone inside the inn dared to disobey. "Get on with my Lord Tony's supper,for, if it ain't the best we can do, and 'e not satisfied, see whatyou'll get, that's all."

  Reluctantly Sally obeyed.

  "Is you 'xpecting special guests then to-night, Mr. Jellyband?" askedJimmy Pitkin, in a loyal attempt to divert his host's attention from thecircumstances connected with Sally's exit from the room.

  "Aye! that I be," replied Jellyband, "friends of my Lord Tony hisself.Dukes and duchesses from over the water yonder, whom the young lord andhis friend, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, and other young noblemen have helpedout of the clutches of them murderin' devils."

  But this was too much for Mr. Hempseed's querulous philosophy.

  "Lud!" he said, "what do they do that for, I wonder? I don't 'old notwith interferin' in other folks' ways. As the Scriptures say--"

  "Maybe, Mr. 'Empseed," interrupted Jellyband, with biting sarcasm, "asyou're a personal friend of Mr. Pitt, and as you says along with Mr.Fox: 'Let 'em murder!' says you."

  "Pardon me, Mr. Jellyband," feebly protested Mr. Hempseed, "I dunno as Iever did."

  But Mr. Jellyband had at last succeeded in getting upon his favouritehobby-horse, and had no intention of dismounting in any hurry.

  "Or maybe you've made friends with some of them French chaps 'oo theydo say have come over here o' purpose to make us Englishmen agree withtheir murderin' ways."

  "I dunno what you mean, Mr. Jellyband," suggested Mr. Hempseed, "all Iknow is--"

  "All _I_ know is," loudly asserted mine host, "that there was my friendPeppercorn, 'oo owns the 'Blue-Faced Boar,' an' as true and loyal anEnglishman as you'd see in the land. And now look at 'im!--'E madefriends with some o' them frog-eaters, 'obnobbed with them just as ifthey was Englishmen, and not just a lot of immoral, Godforsaking furrin'spies. Well! and what happened? Peppercorn 'e now ups and talks ofrevolutions, and liberty, and down with the aristocrats, just like Mr.'Empseed over 'ere!"

  "Pardon me, Mr. Jellyband," again interposed Mr. Hempseed feebly, "Idunno as I ever did--"

  Mr. Jellyband had appealed to the company in general, who werelistening awe-struck and open-mouthed at the recital of Mr. Peppercorn'sdefalcations. At one table two customers--gentlemen apparently by theirclothes--had pushed aside their half-finished game of dominoes, and hadbeen listening for some time, and evidently with much amusement atMr. Jellyband's international opinions. One of them now, with a quiet,sarcastic smile still lurking round the corners of his mobile mouth,turned towards the centre of the room where Mr. Jellyband was standing.

  "You seem to think, mine honest friend," he said quietly, "that theseFrenchmen,--spies I think you called them--are mighty clever fellowsto have made mincemeat so to speak of your friend Mr. Peppercorn'sopinions. How did they accomplish that now, think you?"

  "Lud! sir, I suppose they talked 'im over. Those Frenchies, I've 'eardit said, 'ave got the gift of gab--and Mr. 'Empseed 'ere will tell you'ow it is that they just twist some people round their little fingerlike."

  "Indeed, and is that so, Mr. Hempseed?" inquired the stranger politely.

  "Nay, sir!" replied Mr. Hempseed, much irritated, "I dunno as I can giveyou the information you require."

  "Faith, then," said the stranger, "let us hope, my worthy host, thatthese clever spies will not succeed in upsetting your extremely loyalopinions."

  But this was too much for Mr. Jellyband's pleasant equanimity. He burstinto an uproarious fit of laughter, which was soon echoed by those whohappened to be in his debt.

  "Hahaha! hohoho! hehehe!" He laughed in every key, did my worthy host,and laughed until his sides ached, and his eyes streamed. "At me!hark at that! Did ye 'ear 'im say that they'd be upsettin' myopinions?--Eh?--Lud love you, sir, but you do say some queer things."

  "Well, Mr. Jellyband," said Mr. Hempseed, sententiously, "you know whatthe Scriptures say: 'Let 'im 'oo stands take 'eed lest 'e fall.'"

  "But then hark'ee Mr. 'Empseed," retorted Jellyband, still holding hissides with laughter, "the Scriptures didn't know me. Why, I wouldn't somuch as drink a glass of ale with one o' them murderin' Frenchmen, andnothin' 'd make me change my opinions. Why! I've 'eard it said that themfrog-eaters can't even speak the King's English, so, of course, if anyof 'em tried to speak their God-forsaken lingo to me, why, I should spotthem directly, see!--and forewarned is forearmed, as the saying goes."

  "Aye! my honest friend," assented the stranger cheerfully, "I see thatyou are much too sharp, and a match for any twenty Frenchmen, and here'sto your very good health, my worthy host, if you'll do me the honour tofinish this bottle of mine with me."

  "I am sure you're very polite, sir," said Mr. Jellyband, wiping his eyeswhich were still streaming with the abundance of his l
aughter, "and Idon't mind if I do."

  The stranger poured out a couple of tankards full of wine, and havingoffered one to mine host, he took the other himself.

  "Loyal Englishmen as we all are," he said, whilst the same humoroussmile played round the corners of his thin lips--"loyal as we are, wemust admit that this at least is one good thing which comes to us fromFrance."

  "Aye! we'll none of us deny that, sir," assented mine host.

  "And here's to the best landlord in England, our worthy host, Mr.Jellyband," said the stranger in a loud tone of voice.

  "Hi, hip, hurrah!" retorted the whole company present. Then there was aloud clapping of hands, and mugs and tankards made a rattling musicupon the tables to the accompaniment of loud laughter at nothing inparticular, and of Mr. Jellyband's muttered exclamations:

  "Just fancy ME bein' talked over by any God-forsakenfurriner!--What?--Lud love you, sir, but you do say some queer things."

  To which obvious fact the stranger heartily assented. It was certainlya preposterous suggestion that anyone could ever upset Mr. Jellyband'sfirmly-rooted opinions anent the utter worthlessness of the inhabitantsof the whole continent of Europe.

  CHAPTER III THE REFUGEES