The Triumph of the Scarlet Pimpernel - Baroness Orczy (the little red hen read aloud .txt) 📗

Mr. Jellyband: ‘ ’Ave no fellowship with the unfruitful work of darkness.’ I don’t ’old not with interfering. Remember what the Scriptures say: ‘ ’E that committeth sin is of the devil, and the devil sinneth from the beginning,’ ” he concluded with sublime irrelevance, sagely nodding his head.

But Mr. Jellyband was not thus lightly to be confounded in his argument⁠—no, not by any quotation, relevant or otherwise!

“All very fine, Mr. ’Empseed,” he said, “and good enough for them ’oo, like yourself, are willin’ to side with them murderin’ reprobates⁠ ⁠…”

“Like myself, Mr. Jellyband?” protested Mr. Hempseed, with as much vigour as his shrill treble would allow. “Nay, but I’m not for them children of darkness⁠—”

“You may be or you may not,” Mr. Jellyband went on, nothing daunted. “There be many as are, and ’oo’d say ‘Let ’em murder,’ even now, but I say that them as ’oo talk that way are not true Englishmen; for ’tis we Englishmen ’oo can teach the furriner just what ’e may do and what ’e may not. And as we’ve got the ships and the men and the money, we can just fight ’em as are not of our way o’ thinkin’. And let me tell you, Mr. ’Empseed, that I’m prepared to back my opinions ’gainst any man as don’t agree with me!”

For the nonce Mr. Hempseed was silent. True, a Scriptural text did hover on his thin, quivering lips; but as no one paid any heed to him for the moment its appositeness will forever remain doubtful. The honours of victory rested with Mr. Jellyband. Such lofty patriotism, coupled with so much sound knowledge of political affairs, could not fail to leave its impress upon the more ignorant and the less fervent amongst the frequenters of The Fisherman’s Rest.

Indeed, who was more qualified to pass an opinion on current events than the host of that much-frequented resort, seeing that the ladies and gentlemen of quality who came to England from over the water, so as to escape all them murtherin’ reprobates in their own country, did most times halt at The Fisherman’s Rest on their way to London or to Bath? And though Mr. Jellyband did not know a word of French⁠—no furrin lingo for him, thank ’ee!⁠—he nevertheless had mixed with all that nobility and gentry for over two years now, and had learned all that there was to know about the life over there, and about Mr. Pitt’s intentions to put a stop to all those abominations.

III

Even now, hardly had mine hosts conversation with his favoured customers assumed a more domestic turn, than a loud clatter on the cobblestones outside, a jingle and a rattle, shouts, laughter and bustle, announced the arrival of guests who were privileged to make as much noise as they pleased.

Mr. Jellyband ran to the door, shouted for Sally at the top of his voice with a “Here’s my lord Hastings!” to add spur to Sally’s hustle. Politics were forgotten for the nonce, arguments set aside, in the excitement of welcoming the quality.

Three young gallants in travelling clothes, smart of appearance and debonair of mien, were ushering a party of strangers⁠—three ladies and two men⁠—into the hospitable porch of The Fisherman’s Rest. The little party had walked across from the inner harbour, where the graceful masts of an elegant schooner lately arrived in port were seen gently swaying against the delicately coloured afternoon sky. Three or four sailors from the schooner were carrying luggage, which they deposited in the hall of the inn, then touched their forelocks in response to a pleasant smile and nod from the young lords.

“This way, my lord,” Master Jellyband reiterated with jovial obsequiousness. “Everything is ready. This way! Hey, Sallee!” he called again; and Sally, hot, excited, blushing, came tripping over from the kitchen, wiping her hot plump palms against her apron in anticipation of shaking hands with their lordships.

“Since Mr. Waite isn’t anywhere about,” my lord Hastings said gaily, as he put a bold arm round Mistress Sally’s dainty waist, “I’ll e’en have a kiss, my pretty one.”

“And I, too, by gad, for old sake’s sake!” Lord Tony asserted, and planked a hearty kiss on mistress Sally’s dimpled cheek.

“At your service, my lords, at your service!” Master Jellyband rejoined, laughing. Then added more soberly: “Now then, Sally, show the ladies up into the blue room, the while their lordships ’ave a first shake down in the coffee-room. This way, gentlemen⁠—your lordships⁠—this way!”

The strangers in the meanwhile had stood by, wide-eyed and somewhat bewildered in face of this exuberant hilarity which was so unlike what they had pictured to themselves of dull, fog-ridden England⁠—so unlike, too, the dreary moroseness which of late had replaced the erstwhile lighthearted gaiety of their own countrymen. The porch and the narrow hall of The Fisherman’s Rest appeared to them seething with vitality. Everyone was talking, nobody seemed to listen; everyone was merry, and everyone knew everybody else and was pleased to meet them. Sonorous laughter echoed from end to end along the solid beams, black and shiny with age. It all seemed so homely, so happy. The deference paid to the young gallants and to them as strangers by the sailors and the innkeeper was so genuine and hearty without the slightest sign of servility, that those five people who had left behind them so much class-hatred, enmity and cruelty in their own country, felt an unaccountable tightening of the heart, a few hot tears rise to their eyes, partly of joy, but partly too of regret.

IV

Lord Hastings, the youngest and merries of the English party, guided the two Frenchmen toward the coffee-room, with many a jest in atrocious French and kindly words of encouragement, all intended to put the strangers at their ease.

Lord Anthony Dewhurst and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes⁠—a trifle more serious and earnest, yet equally happy and excited at the success of their perilous adventure and at the prospect of reunion with their wives⁠—lingered a moment longer in the hall, in order to speak with the sailors who had brought the