Sir John Constantine by Prosper Paleologus Constantine

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Yet a common house-door is but a flimsy barricade against a mob,
especially if that mob be led by five-and-twenty stout-bodied seaman.
We had shut it merely to gain time, and when the cudgels outside
began to play tattoo upon its upper panels I looked for no more than
a minute's respite at the best.

It puzzled me therefore when--and immediately upon two ugly blows
that had well-nigh shaken the lock from its fastenings--the shouting
suddenly subsided into a confused hubbub of voices, followed by a
clang and rattle of arms upon the cobblestones. This last sound
appeared to hush the others into silence. I stood listening, with my
hip pressed against the lock to hold it firm against the next
concussion. None came: but presently some one rapped with his
knuckles on the upper panel and a voice, authoritative but civil
enough, challenged us in the name of King George to open.

To this I had almost answered bidding him go to the devil, when a
damsel put her head over the stair-rail of the landing above and
called down to us to obey and open at once: and looking up in the dim
light of the passage I recognized her for the one who had scattered
the flowers, just now, to the rioters.

"Pardon me," said I, "but how shall I know you are not playing us a
trick?"

"My good child," she replied, "open the door and don't stand arguing.
The riot is over and the square full of military. The person who
knocks is Captain Bright of the Pendennis Garrison. If you don't
believe me, step upstairs here and look out of window."

"My father--" I began.

"Your father is right enough, and so is that fool of a Mayor--or will
be when he has drunk down a glass of cordial."

Nevertheless I would not obey her until I had sent Nat Fiennes
upstairs to look; who within a minute called over the stair-head that
the woman told the truth and I had my father's leave to open.
Thereupon I pulled open the upper flap of the door, and stood
blinking at a tall officer in gorgeous regimentals.

"Hullo!" said he. "Good morning!"

"Good morning!" said I. "And forgive me that I kept you waiting."

"Don't mention it," said he very affably. "My fault entirely, for
coming late; or rather the Mayor's, who sent word that we weren't
needed. I took the liberty to doubt this as soon as my sentries
reported that a couple of boats' crews were putting ashore from the
_Townshend_ packet: and here we are in consequence. Got him safe?"

"The Mayor?" said I. "Yes, I believe he is upstairs at this moment,
drinking brandy-and-water and pulling himself together."

The Captain grinned amiably. "Sorry to disturb him," said he;
"but the mob is threatening to burn his house, and I'd best take him
along to read the Riot Act and put things ship-shape."

"He has read it already, or some part of it."

"Some part of it won't do. He must read the whole proclamation, not
forgetting 'God save the King.'"

"If you can find the paper," said I, "there's a lump of mud on it,
marking the place where he left off."

The Captain grinned again. "I doubt he'll have to begin afresh after
breaking off to drink brandy-and-water with Moll Whiteaway. For a
chief magistrate that will need some explaining. And yet," mused the
Captain, as he stepped into the passage, "you may have done him a
better turn than ever you guessed; for, when the mob sees the humour
of it, belike it'll be more for laughing than setting fire to his
house."

"But who is Moll Whiteaway?" I asked.

He stared at me. "You mean to say you didn't know?" he asked slowly.
"You didn't bring him here for a joke?"

"A joke?" I echoed. "A mighty queer joke, sir, you'd have thought
it, if your men had been five minutes earlier."

He leaned back against the wall of the passage. "And you brought him
here _by accident?_ Well, if this don't beat cock-fighting!"

"But who is this Moll Whiteaway?" I repeated.

The question again seemed to take his breath away. For answer he
could only point to a small brass plate in the lower flap of the
door; and, stooping, I read: _Miss Whiteaway, Milliner, Modes and
Robes_.

"Oh!" said I. "That accounts for the band-box of flowers."

"Does it?" he asked.

"She flung them out of window to the packet-men."

"Which, doubtless, seemed to you an everyday proceeding--just a
milliner's usual way of getting rid of her summer stock. My good
young sir, did you ever hear tell of a 'troacher'? Nay, spare that
ingenuous blush: Moll is a loose fish, but I mean less than your
modesty suspects. A 'troacher' is a kind of female smuggler that
disposes of the goods the packet-men bring home in their bunks; and
Moll Whiteaway is the head of the profession in Falmouth. Now, our
worthy Mayor took oath the other day to put down this smuggling on
board the packets; and he began yesterday with the _Townshend_.
He and the Port Searcher swept the ship, sir. They dug Portuguese
brandy in kegs out of the seamen's beds and parcels of silk out of
the very beams. They shook two case-bottles out of the chaplain's
breeches, which must have galled him sorely in his devotions.
They netted close on two hundred pounds' worth of contraband in the
fo'c's'le alone--"

"Good Heavens!" I interjected. "And as the riot began he was calling
himself short-sighted!"

Captain Bright laughed, clapped me on the shoulder and led the way
upstairs, where (strange to say) we found the Mayor again deploring
his defective vision. He lay in an easy-chair amid an army of
band-boxes, bonnet stands, and dummies representing the female
figure; and sipped Miss Whiteaway's brandy while he discoursed in
broken sentences to an audience consisting of that lady, my father,
Nat Fiennes, Mr. Fett, and the little man in black (who, by the way,
did not appear to be listening, but stood and pondered the borough
mace, which he held in his hands, turning it over and examining the
dents).

"It is a great drawback, Sir John--a great drawback," his Worship
lamented. "A man in my position, sir, should have the eye of an
eagle; instead of which on all public occasions I have to rely on
John Sprott. My good woman"--he turned to Miss Whiteaway--"would you
mind taking a glance out of window and telling me what has become of
John Sprott?"

"He's down below under protection of the soldiers," announced Miss
Whiteaway; "and no harm done but his hat lost and his gown split up
the back."

"I shall never have the same confidence in John Sprott. He takes
altogether too sanguine a view of human nature. Why, only last
November--you remember the great gale of November the 1st, Sir John?
I was very active in burying the poor bodies brought ashore next day
and for several days after; for, as you remember, a couple of
Indymen dragged their anchors and broke up under Pendennis Battery:
and John Sprott said to me in the most assured way, 'The town'll
never forget your kindness, sir. You mark my words,' he said,
'this here action will stand you upon the pinnacles of honour till
you and me, if I may respectfully say it, sit down together in the
land of marrow and fatness.' After that you'd have thought a man
might count on some popularity. But what happened? A day or two
later--that is to say, on November the 5th--I was sitting in my shop
with a magnifying glass in my eye, cleaning out a customer's watch,
when in walked half a dozen boys carrying a man's body between 'em.
You could tell that life was extinct by the way his head hung back
and his legs trailed limp on the floor as they brought him in, and
his face looked to me terribly swollen and discoloured.
'Dear, dear!' said I. 'What? Another poor soul? Take him up to the
mortewary, that's good boys,' I said; 'and you shall have twopence
apiece out of the poor-box.' How d'ye think they answered me?
They bust out a-laughing, and cries one: 'If you please, sir, 'tis
meant for _you!_ 'Tis the fifth of November, and we'm goin' to burn
you in effigy.' I chased 'em out of the shop, and later on in the
day I spoke to John Sprott about it. 'Well now,' said John Sprott,'
I passed a lot of boys just now, burning a guy at the top of the
Moor, and I had my suspicions; but the thing hadn't a feature of
yours to take hold on, barrin' the size of its feet.' And that's
what you call popularity!" wound up the Mayor with bitterness.
"That's what a man gets for rising early and lying down late to serve
his country!"

"Excuse me, Mr. Mayor," put in Captain Bright, "but they are
threatening to burn worse than your effigy fact I heard some talk of
setting fire to your house and shop. Nay," he went on as the Mayor
bounced up to his feet, "there's no real cause for alarm. I have
sent on my lieutenant with fifty men to keep the mob on the move, and
have stationed a dozen outside here to escort you home."

"The Riot Act--where's my Riot Act?" cried his Worship, searching his
pockets. "I never read out 'God save the King,' and without
'God save the King' a man may burn all my valybles and make turbulent
gestures and show of arms, and harry and murder to the detriment of
the public peace, and refuse to move on when requested, and all the
time in the eyes of the law be a babe unborn. Where's the Riot Act,
I say? for without it I'm a lost man and good-bye to Falmouth!"

"Then 'tis lucky that I came provided with a copy." Captain Bright
produced a paper from the breast of his tunic.

The Mayor took it with trembling hands. "Why, 'tis a duplicity!" he
cried. "A very duplicity! and, what's more, printed in the same
language word for word." He caught the mace from the little man in
black. "Lead the way, Captain!"

CHAPTER IX.

I ENLIST AN ARMY.

"If I be not ashamed of my soldiers, I am a soused gurnet."
_Sir John Falstaff_.

My father turned to me as they descended the stair. "This is all
very well, lad," said he, "but we have yet to find our army.
After the murder of Julius Caesar, now--"

"I did enact Julius Caesar once," quoted Mr. Fett, in parenthesis.
"I was killed i' the capitol; Brutus killed me."

My father frowned. "After the murder of Julius Caesar, when the mob
for two days had Rome at their mercy, I have read somewhere that two
men appeared out of nowhere, and put themselves at the head of the
rioters. None knew them; but so boldly they comported themselves,
heading the charges, marshalling the ranks, here throwing up
barricades, there plucking down doors and gates, breaking open the
prisons and setting fire to private houses, that presently the
whisper spread they were Castor and Pollux; till, at length, falling
into the hands of the aediles, these _dioscuri_ were found to be two
poor lunatics escaped from a house of detention. If we could
discover another such pair among the mob, now!"

"We are wasting time here for certain," said I. "And where, by the
way, is Billy Priske?"

"If you waste your time upstairs here, gentlemen," said Miss
Whiteaway, "belike you may do better in the parlour, where I had
prepared for some friends of mine with two-three chickens and a ham."

"Ah, to be sure," said I; "the packet-men!"

"Never you worry, young sir," she answered tartly, "so long as they
don't mind eating after their betters. And as for your man Priske, I
saw him twenty minutes ago escape towards Church Street with the
Methodists."

"Hang it!" put in Nat Fiennes, "if I hadn't clean forgotten the
Methodists!"

"We left them scurvily," said I; "every Jack and Jill of them but our
friend here." I nodded toward the little man in black. "And he not
only saved himself, but was half the battle."

The little man seemed to come out of himself with a start, and gazed
from one to another of us perplexedly.

"Excuse me, gentlemen." He drew himself up with dignity.
"Do my ears deceive me, or are you mistaking me for a Methodist?"

"Indeed, and are you not, sir?" asked my father. "Why, good God,
gentlemen!--if you'll excuse me--but I'm the parish clerk of
Axminster!"

My father recovered himself with a bow. "In Devon?" he asked
gravely, after a pause in which our silence paid tribute to the
announcement.

"In Devon, sir; a county remarkable for its attachment to the
principles of the Church of England. And that I should have lived to
be mistaken for a Methodist!"

"But, surely, John Wesley himself is a Clerk in Holy Orders? and, I
have heard, a great stickler for the Church's authority."

"He may say so, sir," answered the little man, darkly. "He may say
so. But, if he means it, why does he go about encouraging such a
low class of people? A man, sir, is known by the company he keeps."

"Is that in the Bible?" my father inquired. "I seem to remember, on
the contrary, that in the matter of consorting with publicans and
sinners--"

"It won't work, sir. It has been tried in Axminster before now, and
you may take my word for it that it won't work. You mustn't suppose,
gentlemen," he went on, including us all in the argument, "you
mustn't take me for one of those parrot-Christians who just echo what
they hear in the pulpits on Sundays. I _think_ about these things;
and I find that your extreme doctrines may do all very well for the
East and for hot countries where you can go about half-naked and
nobody takes any notice; but the Church of England, as its name
implies, is the only Church for England. A truly Christian Church,
gentlemen, because it selects its doctrines from the Gospels; and
English, sir, to the core, because it selects 'em with a special view
to the needs of our beloved country. And what (if I may so put it)
is the basis of that selection? The same, sirs, which we all admit
to be the basis of England's welfare and the foundation of her
society; in other words, the land. The land, gentlemen, is solid;
and our reformed religion (say what you will, I am not denying that
it has, and will ever have, its detractors) is the religion for solid
Englishmen."

My father put out a hand and arrested Mr. Fett, who had been
regarding the speaker with joyful admiration, and at this point made
a movement to embrace him.

"I must have his name!" murmured Mr. Fett. "He shall at least tell
us his name!"

"Badcock, sir; Ebenezer Badcock," answered the little man, producing
a black-edged visiting-card.

"But," urged my father, "you must forgive us, Mr. Badcock, if we find
it hard to reconcile your conduct this morning with these sentiments,
on which, for the moment, I offer no comment except that they are
admirably expressed. What song the Sirens sang, Mr. Badcock, or what
name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, are questions
(as Sir Thomas Browne observes) not beyond conjecture, albeit the
Emperor Tiberius posed his grammarians with 'em. But when a man
openly champions street-preaching, and goes on to lay about him with
a mace--"

"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Badcock, with sudden eagerness. "And what--by
the way, sir--did you think of that performance?"

"Why, to be sure, you behaved valiantly."

The little man blushed with pleasure. "You really think so?
It struck you in that light, did it? Well, now I am glad--yes, sir,
and proud--to hear that opinion; because, to tell you the truth, I
thought it pretty fair myself. The fact is, gentlemen, I wasn't
altogether sure what my behaviour would be at the critical moment.
You may deem it strange that a man should arrive at my time of life
without being sure whether he's a coward or a brave man; but
Axminster--if you knew the place--affords few opportunities for that
sort of thing."

"Allow us to reassure you, then," said my father. "But there remains
the question, why you did it?"

Mr. Badcock rubbed his hands. "Appearances were against me, I'll
allow," he answered, with a bashful chuckle; "but you may set it down
to tchivalry. We all have our weaknesses, I hope, sir; and tchivalry
is mine."

"Chivalry?" echoed my father.

"You spell it with an 's'? Excuse me; whatever schooling I have
picked up has been at odd times; but I am always open to correction,
I thank the Lord."

"But why call it a weakness, Mr. Badcock?"

"Call it a hobby; call it what you like. _I_ look upon it as a debt,
sir, due to the memory of my late wife. An admirable woman, sir, and
by name Artemisia; which, I have sometimes thought, may partially
account for it. Allow me, gentlemen." He drew a small shagreen case
from his breast-pocket, opened it, and displayed a miniature.

"Her portrait?"

"In a sense. As a matter of fact, I will not conceal from you,
gentlemen, that it came to me in the form of a pledge--that being my
late profession--and I have never been able to trace the original.
But, as I said when first I showed it to the late Mrs. B., 'My dear,
you might have sat for it.' A well-developed woman, gentlemen,
though in the end she went out like the snuff of a candle, that being
the way sometimes with people who have never known an hour's
sickness. 'Am I really like that, Ebenezer?' she asked. 'In your
prime, my dear,' said I--she having married me late in life owing to
her romantic nature--'in your prime, my dear, I'll defy any one to
tell you and this party from two peas.' 'I wish I knew who she was,'
said my wife. 'Hadn't you best leave well alone?' said I; 'for I
declare till this moment I hadn't dreamed that another such woman as
yourself existed in the world, and it gives me a kind of bigamous
feeling which I can't say I find altogether unpleasant.' 'Then I'll
keep the thing,' says she, very positively, 'until the owner turns up
and redeems it;' which he never did, being, as I discovered, a
strolling portrait painter very much down on his luck. So there the
mystery remained. But (as I was telling you), though a first-rate
manager, my poor dear wife had a number of romantic notions; and
often she has said to me after I'd shut up shop, 'If wishes grew on
brambles, Ebenezer, it's not a pawnbroker's wife I'd be at this
moment.' 'Well, my dear,' I'd say to soothe her, 'there _is_ a
little bit of that about the profession, now you come to mention it.'
'And them there was a time,' she'd go on, 'when I dreamed of marryin'
a red-cross knight!' 'I have my higher moments, Artemisia,' I'd say,
half in joke; 'Why not try shutting your eyes?' But afterwards, when
that splendid woman was gone for ever, and my daughter Heeb (which is
a classical name given her by her mother) comfortably married to a
wholesale glover, and me left at home a solitary grandfather--which,
proud as you may be of it, is a slight occupation--I began to think
things over and find there was more in my poor wife's notions than
I'd ever allowed. And the upshot was that seeing this advertisement
by chance in a copy of the _Sherborne Messenger_, I determined to
shut up shop and let Axminster think I was gone on a holiday, while I
gave it a trial; for, you see, I was not altogether sure of myself."

"Excuse me, Badcock," interrupted Mr. Fett, advancing towards him
with outstretched arms; "but have you perused the books of chivalry,
or is this the pure light of nature?"

"Books, sir?" answered Mr. Badcock, seriously. "I never knew there
were any books about it. I never heard of tchivalry except from my
late wife; and you'll excuse the force of habit, but she pronounced
it the same as in chibbles."

"You never read of the meeting of Amadis and Sir Galaor?"

Mr. Badcock shook his head.

"Nor of Percival and Galahad, nor of Sir Balin and Sir Balan? No?
Then embrace me!"

"Sir?"

"Embrace me!"

"Sit down, the pair of you," my father commanded. "I have a proposal
to make, which, if I mistake not, will interest you both.
Mr. Badcock, I have heard your aspirations, and can fulfil them in a
degree that will surprise you. I like you, Mr. Badcock."

"The feeling, sir, is mutchual." Mr. Badcock bowed with much
amiability.

"Is time an object with you?"

"None whatever, sir. I am on a holiday."

"Will you be my guest to-night?"

"With the more pleasure, sir, after my experience of the inns in
these parts. Though I may have presented her to you in a somewhat
romantic light, my Artemisia _did_ know how to make a bed; and
twenty-two years of her ministrations, not to mention her
companionship, have coddled me in this particular."

"And you, sir"--my father turned to Mr. Fett--"will you accompany
us?"

"With what ulterior object?" demanded Mr. Fett. "You will excuse my
speaking as a business man, and overlook the damned bad manners of
the question for the sake of its pertinence."

My father smiled. "Why, sir, I was proposing to invite you to a sea
voyage with me."

"There was a time, before commerce claimed me, when the mere hint of
a nautical expedition had evoked an emotion which, if it survive at
all, lingers but as in a sea-shell the whisper of the parent ocean."

"As a supercargo, at four shillings _per diem_," suggested my father.

"Say no more, sir; I am yours."

"As for Mr. Fiennes--nay, lad, I remember you well." My father
turned to him with that sweet courtesy which few ever resisted.
"And blush not, lad, if I guess that to you we all owe this meeting;
'twere a bravery well beseeming your blood. As for Mr. Fiennes, he
will accompany us in heart if he cannot in presence--being, as I
understand, destined for the law?"

"Why, sir, as for that," stammered Nat, "I have had the devil's own
dispute with my father."

"You treated him with all respect, I hope?"

"With all the respect in the world, sir. But it scarcely matters,
since he has cast me off, and without a penny."

"Why, then, you can come too!" cried my father, gripping him by the
hand. "Bravo, Prosper! that makes five; and with Billy Priske, when
we can find him, six; and that leaves but one to find before
dinner-time." He pulled out his watch. "Lord!" he cried, "and 'tis
high time to feel hungry, too. If this lady now will repeat her
hospitable offer--"

I thought at the moment, and I thought once or twice during the meal
downstairs, that my father was taxing this poor woman's hospitality.
I doubted that he, himself so carelessly hospitable, might forget to
offer her payment; and lingered after the others had trooped into the
passage, with purpose to remind him privately.

"Come," said he, and made a notion to leave, still without offering
to pay. On the threshold I had almost turned to whisper to him when
the woman came after and touched his arm.

"Nay, Sir John," said she, eagerly, in a low hoarse voice, "let the
lad hear me thank you. He is old enough to understand and clean
enough to profit. Shut the door, child. You know me, Sir John?"

My father bent his head. "I never forget a face," said he, quietly.

"Take notice of that, boy. Your father remembers me, whom to my
knowledge he never saw but once, and then as a magistrate, when he
sat to judge me. Never mind the offence, lad. I am a sinful woman,
and the punishment was--"

"Nay, nay!" put in my father, gently.

"The punishment was," she continued, hardening her voice, "to strip
me to the waist and whip me in public. The law allowed this, and
this they would have done to me. But your father, being chairman of
the bench--for the offence lay outside the borough--would have none
of it, and argued and forced three other magistrates to give way.
Little good he did, you may say, seeing that my name is such in
Falmouth that, only by entering my door, the Mayor just now did what
all his cleverness could never have done--stopped a riot by a silly
brutal laugh--the chief magistrate taking shelter with Moll
Whiteaway! You can't get below that for fun, as the folk will take
it; and yet I say your father did good, for he saved me from the
worst. And to-day of his goodness he has not remembered my sins, but
treated me as though they were not; and today, as only a good man
can, he goes from my house, no man thinking to laugh except at his
simplicity, even though it were known that I kissed his hand.
God bless you, Sir John, and teach your son to be merciful to women!"

My father was ever so shy of his own kind actions that, when detected
by chance or painfully tracked out in one, he kept always a quotation
ready to justify what pure impulse had prompted. So now, as we
hurried across the deserted Market Strand to catch up with the other
three, he must needs brazen things out with the authority of Bishop
Jeremy Taylor.

"It was a maxim of that excellent divine," said he, "that Christian
censure should never be used to make a sinner desperate; for then he
either sinks under the burden or grows impudent and tramples upon it.
A charitable modest remedy, says he, preserves that which is virtue's
girdle-fear and blushing. Honour, dear lad, is the peculiar
counsellor of well-bred natures, and these are few; but almost in all
men you will find a certain modesty toward sin, and were I a king my
judges should be warned that their duty is to chasten; whereas by
punishing immoderately they can but effect the exact opposite."

We found our trio waiting for us on the far side of the square; and,
having fetched our horses and left an order at the inn for Billy
Priske on his return to mount and follow us, wended our way out of
the town. The streets on this side were deserted and mournful, the
shopkeepers having fastened their shutters for fear of the mob, of
whose present doings no sound reached us but a faint murmuring hubbub
borne on the afternoon air from the northward--that is, from the
direction of the Green Bank and the Penryn Road.

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