“Enough, my lord,” the other replied. “Farewell! Heaven speed you!”
“Soh! there is a visitor who has cost you a good round sum, colonel,” Zachary remarked, drily, as Lord Wilmot departed.
“The visit will cost me nothing,” the other returned, coldly. “The money will be certainly repaid.”
“Be not too sure of that,” the usurer said. “One can be certain of nothing now-a-days. However, I can pretty well tell how it will be employed; and I sincerely hope it may lead to the desired result.”
“I heartily hope it may—for whatever purpose it is designed. And now let us complete our transaction, Master Trangmar. I am somewhat pressed for time.”
“I will only detain you while I draw out a memorandum for your signature, colonel. My scrivener, Thopas Tipnoke, shall wait upon you at Ovingdean Grange with the bond—it will be an obligatio simplex, as Tipnoke would style it—and he can receive from you the title-deeds of your farm at Bevingdean, which you propose to deposit with me. That is understood, and agreed, eh? Will you please to count this gold “—thrusting the heap towards him—”and see that you have your just amount.”
A few more minutes sufficed to bring the transaction to an end. Colonel Maunsel signed the document prepared by the crafty usurer, who was as great an adept in such matters as his scrivener, Tipnoke, and received, in exchange, the two hundred golden caroluses. The usurer attended him to the door, and, just as he was about to depart, said to him, “Let me give you one piece of counsel before you go, Colonel Maunsel. A rigorous search is about to be made of all houses in this part of the county suspected of harbouring fugitive Royalists, and as you are accounted—be not offended, I pray you—one of the most obnoxious malignants hereabouts, Ovingdean Grange hath the foremost place on the list. I ask you not whether you have any one hidden within your house? If it be so, be warned by what I tell you, and if you value your friend’s life and your own safety, let him depart without delay. The search will be made by an officer of the Lord General’s own troop of Ironsides, Captain Stelfax, who hath lately come to Lewes—a merciless man, with the powers of a provost-marshal—and if he should find an unfortunate Royalist, he would think no more of shooting him than of stringing up a deserter. Excuse me, colonel. I have thought it my duty to warn you.”
“I thank you, good Master Trangmar,” the old Cavalier replied, striving to conceal his uneasiness. “I will take all needful precaution. I met this Captain Stelfax on my way hither, and he threatened me with a domiciliary visit.”
“A pest upon him!” ejaculated the old usurer. “His visits are like witches’ curses—they kill. Fare you well, colonel. These are sad times. When good men part, now-a-days, they know not how, or when, they may meet again. Heaven grant his Majesty a speedy restoration!—and should we live to see that blessed day, you will not fail to tell him, I trust, who lent the five hundred pounds.”
“Nor to mention the rate of interest exacted for the loan,” rejoined the colonel, unable to repress a smile. “Well, so thou wilt treat any pestilent Puritan in the same fashion, I care not.”
“Trust me, I will sweat him properly if I get such an one into my clutches,” old Zachary replied, with a chuckle.
Upon this, Colonel Maunsel quitted Mock-Beggar Hall.
On returning to the priory ruins he found Dulcia and the ostreger where he had left them. With Saxby’s aid, he got once more into the saddle, and the party then started for Kingston, whence they mounted the steep hill at the foot of which the little village is nestled, and so shaped their course across the clowns towards Ovingdean Grange.
But we must hie thither before them.
III
HOW NINIAN DELIVERED HIS MESSAGE
IF Ninian had been mounted upon a swift steed he could not have reached the Grange more quickly than he contrived to do by the use of his own active limbs.
Not deeming it necessary to inquire whether Captain Stelfax and his troopers had made their appearance, for he felt certain he had beaten them, the young falconer’s first business on entering the house was to seek out John Habergeon. As luck would have it, he found him in the buttery, discussing a jug of ale and a mouthful of bread and cheese—”bren cheese,” the old trooper would have termed it in his Sussex vernacular—with Giles Moppett and old Martin Geere, and instantly delivered the colonel’s message to him, taking care to add that the leader of the Ironsides entertained the belief that Captain Clavering had been slain at Worcester.