University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.,
Wherein the Storm becomes so fierce that I
Scud before it.

I went home immediately from the
castle, and entered the printing room
in no pleasant frame of mind. I felt
that I had been led by my passion into
a serious error. The allusion to Espinel's
abduction, or murder, whichever
it might be, was entirely wrong—not
only unnecessary of itself, but a breach
of confidence. The Earl would know
very well the source from whence
I had my information, and thus I had
compromised myself. The attempt
against myself I could trace to nothing
but a belief that I was acquainted
with the secret of Espinel; and unfounded
though that belief was, the
boast would confirm it. In any view
of the case I had let my resentment
get the better of my prudence—no very
wonderful position for a youth to take.

Tom Brown expressed surprise at
my quick return and commented on my
fretted countenance; but I parried his
thrusts and answered his questions by
evasive monosyllables. I took my
composing stick in hand and commenced
to set up one of Mr. Hinck's
ponderous leaders. But I was too
moody and restless, and emptying my
half-filled stick on a galley, I left the
copy on the case, threw off my apron,
and started for the shop. Here I found
Mr. Guttenberg behind the counter
serving some customers with stationery.

“You are soon back from the castle
to-day, Ambrose.”

The fact that I went to the castle
regularly by invitation of the Earl was
a matter of pride with the printer, and
he was fond of alluding to it before
strangers.

I answered him in the affirmative
and passed on to the back room. As
I did so I heard him say, in reply to
some remark made by one of the customers—

“Oh, yes! a great favorite with his
lordship.”

“Why, dear me, Ambrose!” exclaimed
Mrs. Guttenberg, looking up
from her work as I entered the apartment
where she was engaged in sewing,
“you look quite ill. What is the
matter? Are you sick?”

“Heart-sick, mother,” I answered;
for I often called her mother, though I
never called her husband father;
“heart sick.”

“What's the matter now, Brosy?”
inquired Mary, “you are pale as a
ghost.”

“Mary, I want to talk to your father
and mother a while. Suppose you go
into the shop and ask your father to
come here when he is disengaged.
You can take his place awhile.”

“What's it all about? Can't I know
too?”

“Do as Ambrose bids you,” said her
mother.

Mary went out pouting, and in a
few minutes Mr. Guttenberg came in
I told the couple all that had occurred
between me and the Earl, with the exception
of my own parting speech.

“The vile wretches!” exclaimed Mrs.
Guttenberg, indignantly.

But Mr. Guttenberg only looked
grave.

“There seems to be no doubt about
Mr. Osborne,” he said; “but you did
wrong to insult his lordship. He no
doubt thought you did take the box.
It was natural enough under the circumstances,
he not knowing you
well.”

“Why,” said I, “he was in the plot.”

“That can't be,” was the rejoinder.
“A peer of the realm! Impossible!”

“A peer of the realm may be a
rascal as well as a peasant of the
soil.”

“But he could have no motive.”

“He has one, depend on it. I have
reason to suspect it, and know why;
but it is quite enough, I think, to recall
the warning of the old Countess.”

“She is half crazy—wholly so at
times. You look at it wrongly.”

We talked the matter over without
coming to any agreement. While still
engaged in the discussion, Mary came
in to tell us that a footman was at the
door with a message from Lord Landys
who desired to see Mr. Guttenberg
immediately, and his lordship's own
carriage was in waiting to convey the
stationer to the castle.

“To see me! Bless me!” exclaimed
the tradesman, in a flutter of excitement.
“Get me my best coat, Mrs.
Guttenberg. Mary, tell the servant
I'll be ready presently. His lordship's
own coach! What an honor! Thank
you, my dear. Tidy my cravat a little,
Mrs. Guttenberg. It's all about
you, Ambrose. I'll be conciliatory,
but firm.”

Firm! a tradesman with an earl!

“There, my dear, that will do. Ambrose,
take charge of the shop till I
return.”

When we left the back room we
found Berkeley and the lieutenant-colonel
of the regiment, a gray-haired,
ramrodish individual, named Carden,
chatting with Mary.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, but I have
to go to the castle on a little business.
His lordship has sent for me, and his
lordship's coach is waiting, and Am
brose and Mary will attend to you”—
and with this off went the delighted
printer, riding grandly for the first
time in his life, in a coach with a coronet
on the panels.

“He's in a doosid hurry, to be sure,”
said Berkeley. “Miss Guttenberg, the
Colonel wants that novel I had yesterday.
Is there a copy in?”

“Two of them, Captain. Which
will you have, Colonel?”

“Whichever you choose.”

“Take care, Colonel,” laughed Berkeley.
“One is dog's-eared, and the
other mortally wounded in the last
leaf. Now, the question is, dog's-ears,
or the veteran.”

“The complete one, by all means,
then.”

While the Colonel was examining
some stationery, I took the Captain
aside.

“Are you engaged to-night?” I asked.

“No—at least to nothing which
can't be put off. Why?”

“Can you spare me a couple of
hours?”

“Yes.”

“Then meet me at the Crown and
Angel at seven.”

“Of course, my boy, if it will oblige
you. What's up?”

“I'll tell you then.”

Out went the brace of officers. I
went to the desk and wrote a note to
Sharp, requesting him to meet me at
the Crown and Angel at seven, if he
were at all interested in a matter that
concerned me very much. I gave this
to a neighbor's boy, with directions to
hunt Sharp up, and get a verbal answer.
In about an hour the lad returned
with the reply that he would
attend to it.

Mary was on nettles all the time to
know what was going on.

It was quite late in the day when
Mr. Guttenberg returned in the noble
man's coach. He was filled with news,
and called me into the back room,
where Mrs. Guttenberg impatiently
awaited us.

“I have arranged it all properly,”
he said. “It was all as I conjectured.
His lordship has been very much deceived
in his steward, whom he has
discharged. His lordship is very much
hurt at what you said to him, but
sends his regret at having suspected
you even for a moment; though I must
agree with him that, under the circumstances,
the suspicion was not unnatural.
Of course I promised that you
would apologize for your very rash,
and, I must say, notwithstanding the
provocation, very offensive words.”

“This I cannot do, sir. His lordship
was a party to the whole affair.”

“How unreasonable and absurd you
are, Ambrose; and after his lordship,
a peer of the realm, has condescended
to make the first advances, too. He a
party! Why he is perfectly furious
against Mr. Osborne!”

“Is he? Will he have his steward
arrested for his attempt to fasten crime
on me?”

“He has sent him away.”

“He will bring him back in good
time.”

“Now, my dear boy, you surely
won't refuse, when I've made a promise.
There's nothing disgraceful in
a frank apology for such words to a
superior.”

“True, sir; but here the apology
would involve a falsehood. I am not
the least sorry for my conduct, which
was proper enough.”

“Ambrose,” said Mr. Guttenberg,
“I need not remind you that I have
always done my duty by you. I have
treated you like a son. Can you refuse
me a favor, and not only lose me
a patron, but gain me an enemy?”

I was a little affected by this appeal,
but none the less firm. I answered
promptly:

“I am grateful to you—I would
serve you in almost anything; but I
will not apologise to Lord Landys, and
certainly will never hold any intercourse
with him. He is an unprincipled
man, and my enemy.”

“What nonsense! He's your friend—
spoke of you in the warmest manner,
said you were a young man of the
highest promise; and even offered to
have you appointed to a post in India,
and to advance a thousand pounds for
your outfit. A thousand pounds!
Think of that!”

“Yes, for some motives of his own
he is quite anxious to exile me to India.”

“Motives! What could he have?”

“I do not know; but I do know
that he's a scoundrel.”

“Goodness! the boy is mad! A
scoundrel! An earl! a nobleman that
will be a duke when his grace of Sellingbourne
dies—a scoundrel! What
folly! I tell you what, Ambrose, you
are standing in your own light. You
will be of age in a few days. I have
the papers drawn up, all ready to sign
and seal, making you a full partner,
not only in the printing and stationery
business, but in the Chronicle. I
had always meant you should share
equally with Mary, as though you
were my own son; and now you make
me go back of my word.”

“I am very sorry, but I can't help it.”

“Then there'll be no Guttenberg &
Fecit, I can tell you. No, sir! you'll
be no partner of mine—no anything
here. You shall leave this house. I'll
have no further to do with you!”

“Oh, don't say that, John,” sobbed
his wife. “Give him time. He won't
be so obstinate if he has time to consider.”

I shook my head.

“I'll give him twenty-four hours,
and not one moment more. Let him
make up his mind by this time to-morrow.
If he chooses to sacrifice his
home and his prospects, and to repay
me with ingratitude, all through his
selfishness and obstinacy, let him do
it—that's all.”

Off flounced Mr. Guttenberg into
the shop, really believing himself a
much-injured man, and I absolutely
and positively heard him speak snappishly
to a customer. Mrs. Guttenberg
cried, and pleaded with me. I
answered the good old soul kindly and
affectionately, but I was determined,
nevertheless. Mary came in and looked
on in double distress—a two-headed
misery on her part—firstly, on account
of the general unhappiness, and
secondly, because she couldn't tell
what it was all about.

That night I went to the Crown and
Angel, called for a private room, and
directed the waiter to send in those
who inquired for me.

Captain Berkeley came in about ten
minutes before seven.

“Here I am, old fellah,” cried he,
“in advance of time. Now, what is
it?”

“Wait awhile, Captain. I don't
want to tell the same story twice.”

“A council of three, eh? Who's
the third?”

“Mr. Sharp.”

“Whew!” whistled Berkeley. “Old
money-bags, eh? This will be a queer
confabulation.”

“You won't have to wait long, Captain,
for there goes the first stroke of
my godfather.”

The last peal of the great bell of St.
Stephen's was still echoing when a
tap at the door announced the servant
who came to usher in old Sharp. The
latter stared in surprise at Berkeley,
and then, recovering himself, said:

“Well, what is it, Ambrose? Don't
keep me waiting. Time is money.”

“I wish the bankers agreed with
you, old fellah,” said Berkeley, gaily.

“Pshaw!”

I hastened to prevent a threatened
explosion by telling the story of the
Earl's attempt, as I had told it before
to the Guttenbergs. I did not give
my own history—it was not needed.
Had I done so it might have saved me
some after trouble. But who knows
his future?

“Now,” said I, when I had finished,
“the question is—what shall I do?”

“The Countess is mad, and the Earl
is madder, and Guttenberg is maddest.
Mad or no mad,” said Berkeley,
“he wants to get you out of the road,
for some reason best known to himself.
It is quite clear to my mind that
if you don't go he'll do you a mischief.
My advice is, cut and run. What do
you say, Mr. Sharp?”

“The Captain is right, Ambrose.
You must leave Puttenham for the
present, and quickly.”

“But how, and when?”

“At once. Four wagons start for
London at two to-morrow morning.
One of these will take you. The wagoner
will not disoblige me; he owes

me nine pound five shillings nop'nse
ha'penny. You can get into the wagon
just out of town, and I'll instruct him
what to do. Don't attempt to leave
the wagon for the mail, no matter how
slowly you go. When you get to London—but
have you any friend there?”

“Yes; one I can rely on, I think,
Mr. Paul Bagby.”

“Well, go to him, and keep quiet.
Have you any money?”

“About five pounds; that will last
me until I get employment in some
printing-house.”

“Let me give you some money, or
you may get into trouble.”

Berkeley raised his eyebrows at
such an offer from Sharp, and then a
second time when I declined it.

“Very foolish,” muttered the old
man. “Better lean on a friend's staff
than be struck by an enemy's cudgel.
However, I'll give you a sealed letter
to my bankers when you leave, and
you must promise to avail yourself of
it when you are in need.”

I promised.

“Now, go home,” said Sharp, “get
what you want at home; but don't
encumber yourself with a large bundle.
Light load, more speed. Slip
out unobserved, and meet us at the
Reindeer an hour after midnight.”

“But this looks like flight, and I am
not sure—”

“Not a word,” said Berkeley. “You
asked us to do your thinking, and we
have done it. The enemy is too strong,
and you must retreat. Leave us to
cover your rear.”

I could see no help for it. It was a
choice between going at once of my
own accord, or of being kicked out
the next day by Mr. Guttenberg. So
I returned home, and when the family
had retired, made a bundle of a spare
suit and some shirts, took the ring
and other tokens connected with my
history, rolled up Zara's portrait, which
I cut from its frame, and at a few minutes
after one o'clock, let myself
quietly out into the street.

I found the Reindeer. There were
several large wagons in the yard. I
was about to go to them, when some
one tapped me on the shoulder. It
was Berkeley, cloaked. He whispered
to me:

“Keep from the wagon. We have
talked with the wagoner, who will
take you up at a distance from town.
You know St. George Clyst.”

This was a church on the high-road,
nearly five miles from town.

“Yes.”

“Well, walk on, and remain in the
by-road there. The wagon has one
grey horse in the lead; the rest are
bays. There are three other wagons,
and yours will start last. When you
see it approach the mouth of the bye-road,
step up to it, and say to the
driver, `fine night for a race.' He'll tell
you to get in. Keep close until you
arrive in London.”

Sharp, who had come forward during
the utterance of these instructions,
slipped the promised letter into my
hand. They both wished me good-speed,
and I promised to write to them,
and give them the name I should assume,
for it was not deemed advisable
to retain my own in London. We
shook hands and parted, and I pushed
on to the place of rendezvous.

I waited at the spot pointed out for
a long while. At length I heard the
jingling of bells, and watched first one
and then two other wagons pass as I
lay in the shadow of the wall. The

fourth, with the light horse in the lead,
came according to promise in its turn.
The wagoner was walking with his
horses, evidently expecting some one.
I advanced, spoke as had been agreed
on, and was helped into the wagon,
which only contained hay and a couple
of bags of feed. The train was
returning empty. I buttomed my great
coat closely around me, and was soon
fast asleep.

I waked up about an hour after day-dawn.
We had stopped at a road-side
tavern, called the Fair-Mile Inn, and
here the wagoner secured me a lunch.
The second night I got out of the wagon
before we arrived at our stopping-place,
and took lodgings as though I
were a foot-passer. In the morning I
went out before the starting of the
wagon, which picked me up two or
three miles farther on. And this was
the daily manner of the journey.

On the fifth day after our departure
for London, when within two miles of
the town of Coppleton, the fore axletree
broke short off in the middle, and
our progress was suddenly checked.
After a consulation between the wagoner
and myself, it was agreed that I
should walk to the town, and send
back a wheelwright. I did so, although
I had some trouble to find an artizan
disengaged, and more trouble to induce
him to go so far. As I was now within
forty miles of London, I concluded
to remain in the town a few days to
recruit myself after my five days'
shaking. So I took lodgings at a quiet
looking inn, sent for my scanty luggage,
and bestowed it and myself in a
snug apartment, where I passed a very
pleasant night.