Galloping Dick

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Galloping Dick

Being Chapters from the Life and Fortunes of Richard Ryder, otherwise Galloping Dick, sometime Gentleman of the Road-

Chapter I

Of the Bishop’s Quandary, and of the Humourous Events that ensued.-

Chapter I

Of the Bishop’s Quandary, and of the Humourous Events that ensued.

The chance seemed fallen into my hands, and without my expectation. The place was very privy; the sun stood at four of the afternoon, and already the heaven was blackening overhead. A thin cold wind whistled through the empty trees, tossing the snow in spray, and the devil of a hard night was brewing. In the centre of the road, and bare to this desolation, the carriage stood forlorn, the shafts half buried in a drift, and the broken wheel full circle to the sky. And there lay the Bishop, reclining against his cushions, with his interrogating eyes upon me.

“You say truly,” said the Bishop suavely, “the Church is ill-served by the minor clergy in some gross particulars.”

He set the tips of his fingers together, and complacently regarded the roof of his coach. I confess that I was mightily taken with his coolness, for he must needs have a notion of my calling, and yet there he sat, with his smug face uncrinkled, and his great body heaving placidly, as though he had been this half-hour at ease before his fire. I had the fancy to thrust him a little closer and, springing from Calypso, I drew to the carriage and leaned my arms across the window. At this new proximity he appeared to start ever so little, and glanced at me from the edges of his eyes.

“There’s the rub,” says I. “For myself, I am naturally a man of peace, who can split a weasand with his sword upon occasion. I pursue a sound life and a simple calling.” The Bishop bowed in affable audience. “I am content with what goods the world, or chance, provides. If there be some who have brought evil accusations of greed upon me, why, what matters it, if a man’s conscience be right with his Maker? And you, my lord, will surely know the calamitous and miserable calumniations put upon our poor human nature?”

The Bishop nodded slowly. “’Tis just,” says he, “for tongues will wag”; and returned to the equable contemplation of his cushions. The imperturbable air of those fat features nettled me.

“Sometimes,” I resumed, “’tis true that I have fallen away from my own conception of myself. I have suffered from an egregious desire to sound of fine repute, to cut a figure in the world. That vice, we know, lies also in the heart of many a priest.”

The Bishop assented gravely. “But ’tis after all but a minor flaw,” said I, “in a character of cardinal virtues.” The Bishop waved his hand politely, as though deprecating a matter of small import.

“And then2” said I. “But I fear I weary you?” The Bishop straightened himself upon his seat. “Indeed,” he replied, “I find your case of much interest and instruction.”

I vowed that I would break his resolute equanimity. “No man shall say,” says I with some heat, “that the Church has not ever had my inward fealty. Leal son have I been to her. I have paid tithes and given charities. But ofttimes … i’ faith”—and here I laughed—“’twas fetched out of some noodle’s pocket.”

I paused. The Bishop lifted the tips of his lingers apart, and looked at me. “I fear,” said he, “that there is no conscience but carries grievous burdens.”

He nestled more snugly in his cushions, crossed his plump legs, and closed his eyes; and with the act seemed to dismiss me from his presence. I surveyed him for a moment in silence, and with some amazement. Not a point upon his well-ordered body but witnessed to a life of ease and dignity. He was full-fed; his spreading belly was arrogant with appetite; his broad calm face was rich with ample and luxurious wastes. He was built generously upon secure and comfortable years. And there he lay, the rough wind thrashing his warm flesh, obnoxious to the instant handling of a wild highwayman, mumbling a conversation in polite terms, unmoved by danger, and underanged by discomfort. The control of the man was so admirable that I must push it to its limits. “’Fore Heaven,” says I to myself, “I will see this fine courage topple down, if I keep sheep by moonlight for it.” I had never a stomach for Mother Church, but this damned ugly lump was come near to turn me parson. I leaned over and tapped him on the knee. He opened his eyes with an air of weariness, and fastened them upon me with a faint gesture of apology.

“I fear I have been rude enough to fall asleep,” says he.

“Indeed,” I answered sharply, “’tis ill manners, as you may see, to split through a gentleman’s discourse so lightly. I did myself the honour to begin you my history.”

“You must forgive me,” said the Bishop, with that wave of his hand. “Pray continue. To be sure—your history.”

“Hark’ee,” said I roughly. “You profess yourself a vicar of God. Damn and shrive—these be the transactions of your precious trade! You hold a knife to poor mortal throats, and scare ’em with hell-fires, as I might tickle those thick creases of your own. And which were the greater sin?” I asked with indignation.

“Indeed,” said he softly, “you do us both injustice. But ’tis a bitter night for so long and engrossing an argument as this is like to develop between us. ’Twould please me greatly else, and if I may but see you at some other time2” He bowed, and left the invitation in his bow. “But I was to hear your history,” says he. “I interrupt you. Pray proceed.”

The serenity of his phrases staggered me, and I could do naught but scrape my wits up in a heap and burst out on him. “Fore gad,” I broke forth, “I have stopped a man’s vitals for less impudence than yours. A bloody priest, forsooth, to prate of justice and of argument! You are a man of Holy Writ. Faugh! Call me a ruffian, a cut-throat, or a vagabond—but I have broke your decalogue into a thousand pieces, and turned and shattered ’em again.”

“That,” said the Bishop gravely, “lies betwixt yourself and your Maker. ’Tis a pity in so well-favoured a youth as you would seem,” and his glance strayed over me deliberately. “But I have known many ruffians like yourself in a long and lively experience.”

He put his hand to his coat, and slowly withdrawing a snuff-box, tapped meditatively upon the lid. And at the sight I was divided strangely in a confusion between a roaring sense of laughter and an angry surge of ill-temper. Swinging in the balance uncertainly for a moment, I dropped with a plump at length upon the side of passion. The Bishop was staring into his snuff. I rapped a pistol over his knuckles, and when he looked up he gazed instead down the long hollows of the barrel.

“Come,” says I, with a rough oath, “forth with your precious guineas, or I’ll spoil the smooth beauty of those cheeks. I will have you unload your pockets, my fat vicegerent, an’ I cannot force you disburden your conscience. Off with your jewels and your rings!”

The Bishop inspected the weapon without flinching, and then looked me quietly in the face. “You have been very tedious, my friend,” says he. “Indeed, I was in some hopes that my rascals would have returned ere you had found your spirit for the job.”

I could not but admire him even through my irritation, but I kept the muzzle at his head, and cried out impatiently: “Ha’ done, my lord, ha’ done! ’Tis ill jesting with Dick Ryder on his rounds. Out, out with your long, fat purse.”

For the first time in our intercourse a slight smile gleamed in the Bishop’s eyes, and his white face fell into deeper corrugations. Withdrawing the rings from his fingers, he placed them with his purse in my hand without a word, and looked at me inquiringly. I clapped the booty in my pockets with a nod of satisfaction, while dropping back into his seat he slowly re-crossed his legs.

“And now,” quoth he, “you will, I trust, allow me to repose in quiet. I have had a long day’s journey, and my travels are not yet at their term. Perhaps you will permit me to say that your conversation, which I doubt not would have engaged me very pleasantly upon another occasion, fell somewhat inopportune. I am an old man, and have tired. If you will be so good as to leave me, betwixt now and the return of my coachman with the horses I shall have the felicitous chance of sleep.”

“My lord,” I answered amiably, for my ill-humour was gone, and I liked the possession of the man, “I wish you the deepest of slumber”—he inclined his head courteously. “And if,” says I, “there is any favour you might require of me ere I go, why, damn it,” says I, “you shall have it, and welcome.”

“My good Ryder, as that is your name,” said the Bishop suavely, “nothing in the world, I assure you, save perhaps that you will adjust the window, for the night is falling very shrewd.”

I threw Calypso’s bridle over my arm and bent myself to his request. As I finished, and was on the point of slapping to the door, the Bishop glanced at me. “I fear,” said he, with another smile, “that none of the guineas in that somewhat lean purse will find their way to church. ’Tis, of course, no business of mine. I do not presume to dictate to any man’s conscience. You pay tithes, you say, and give in charity. It is excellent hearing, and I confess that I was in some hope a little earlier, when you vaunted those virtues so proudly, that some of my guineas might perchance come back to me hereafter. But it was a momentary thought only. You know your own trade. I wish you good-night. I fear ’tis a cold ride for you.” And he dismissed me with a gentle motion of his hands.

Now I have ever been a fellow of red-hot impulse, and my passions and my humour mingle so strangely and vie so oddly, that I swear I can scarce tell at one moment what fit will take me the next. And at this inimitable farewell, so suavely phrased, and so courteously charged, stinging the while with such faint and friendly satire, I was so vastly tickled that I could not forbear bursting into laughter in that silent road.

“The devil take me!” says I, “I love a bishop, and to lighten a brother-wit is monstrously against my stomach. So here’s for you, my lord.” And with that I swept the purse and the rings at a motion into his apron.

The Bishop stirred and regarded me with mild surprise. Then, smiling and shrugging his heavy shoulders, he replaced the rings slowly upon his hands. “This, I take it, is not repentance?” he asked, thoughtfully.

“Nay,” said I jauntily. “Take it for what you will. Call it a whim, conceive it a doting fancy for a tough old cock, or imagine me a penitent ripe for the altar. It matters not so you carry off your jewels in safety.”

“You are mistaken, Ryder,” says the old gentleman, shaking his head. “Were it a whim, I should expect a sharp change. Should it be a pious penitence, I should have no option save to pursue the gracious miracle—with sound religious advice and the ordinances of the Church. And if it came of a sudden appreciation of, as you say”—he paused—“myself and my poor merits”—he paused again and, having settled his rings, took a pinch of snuff—“I should have a mind to ask your company at dinner.”

“Curse me!” says I, “let us put it at that, then. The cold is peaking my bowels into a very respectable appetite.”

The Bishop dusted the snuff from his apron and fell back into his lounge. “You press me too hard,” said he, reproachfully. “I am not of so young a blood to take these sharp turns with you;” and he eyed me as if inviting speech.

“The Devil!” I retorted warmly. “I will fasten myself upon no man’s hospitality. ’Twas of your own notion.”

“An offer,” he explained smoothly, “upon a fitting occasion.”

“Well,” says I, laughing, “what occasion will better this?”

The Bishop considered me coldly. “I am to dine,” he observed, “with my Lord Petersham, who celebrates to-night the marriage of the Lady Mary.”

I laughed again. “And you with a broken coach, my lord!” I cried.

The Bishop reflected. “It is true,” he replied, “that I am in some difficulty, but my rascals will be here shortly. And that, too,” he added, with a smiling blink, “upon the top of yourself, my friend.”

“A fig for your rascals!” said I. “They are lucky if they get them a pair of horses within five miles of Wretford this night.” The Bishop frowned. “The night is bleak and wild,” I continued, “and the snow is piled in deep drifts upon the highways. If your coachman has the road by heart2”

“He is a stranger to these parts,” interrupted the Bishop.

“Why, then,” says I, “he will reach your lordship by cock-crow, if he reach at all. Or rather, we shall stumble upon his body in some gutter by the way.”

“Your suggestions are drawn black, Ryder,” sighed the Bishop.

“As black as the night, or my own heart, your lordship,” said I gaily.

“And you would propose2?” he asked, after a pause.

“An inn close by, at which you might sup and repose with warmth and comfort. A bottle of wine and a roast loin of veal, my lord; and me, too, Dick Ryder, for company, in admiring witness of your estimable qualities.” I concluded with a long , and when I looked up again he was watching me with some suspicion.

“Faith,” said I, “you have reached me forth a warm invitation, and you would now withdraw? Fie, fie! my lord. But as I may not be your guest for lack of confidence, sink me,” says I, “then you shall be mine, and none the worse for that.”

The Bishop cocked his head upon one side and scrutinised me carefully.

“Lord, Lord!” I cried, “but here’s a doubting Thomas!” And loosening my belt I flung pistols and sword upon his lap.

The Bishop smiled, and took a pistol by the muzzle in a most gingerly manner of distaste. “I have never set off a firearm but once,” he mused, “and by accident it hit a grocer.”

“Pooh!” said I, grinning, “’tis all one, whether of design or accident. The hole is blown, and the poor groaning soul slides through. And I call you to witness that ’tis not so much for the meddling of your own fingers as to secure the weapons out of my own reach, and for the sake of these insolent suspicions.”

“I do you wrong, Ryder,” said the Bishop gravely, “I do you wrong. But I will have none of these detestable things about me.” And he pushed them from him with a little grimace of disgust.

“Why, then, let us begin,” I urged. “And if you will take my mare, I will put us both upon the proper way to a comfortable retirement.”

“And my Lord Petersham,” said the Bishop, with a twinkle in his eye, “must wait?”

“Faith, and he must,” I answered, “until our stomachs are filled, when I will myself conduct you upon the road.”

“Captain Ryder,” said the Bishop, lurching clumsily out of the carriage, “I am much in your debt for your insistence.”

The darkness had now fallen pretty thick, and the snow lay deep and soft underfoot; but we made safely, if at some pains, down the bye-road which led to Wretford, the Bishop a black lump upon Calypso, and myself straddling the carriage horse which his servant had left. The wind took us in the hindquarters only, and for that I was glad, as it stung like a thousand knives upon the naked face. I was mightily pleased to be out of that bleak night and stowed in a snug warm house: and in this regard I’ll warrant the Bishop was none behind me. The inn was empty; but the chamber into which the innkeeper showed us roared with flaming logs, and at the first glow of the light upon the wooden walls the Bishop turned to me and smiled. “We shall do well,” he says, “if the supper be in any keeping with this show of comfort.”

“And by the Lord, my lord,” I put in, “you may trust Dick Ryder for that.”

“And now,” says he, still smiling and very affably, “is it you that dine with me, or am I determined as the guest?”

“My lord,” said I, bobbing to. him, for I would take him in his own vein, “we gentle- men of the road claim the honours of the road; and if you will receive the hospitality of the road, your lordship’s invitation shall stand over for a better occasion.”

I think he was affected by the impudence of my offer, as indeed I had meant him to be, for he chuckled ever so softly, and turning to the fire warmed his hands. “So be it, Ryder, so be it,” he said.

My stomach was tolerable enough when the feast was served, and I clapped my spurs under the chair and fell to with all my teeth. And none so backward was his lordship, neither. He snuffed up the rich odours of the stuffed veal with his inordinate nostrils; he breathed in the fine-smelling spiceries with an air; and he took possession of the table with magnificent and easy pomp. The dignified behaviour of the creature, so incongruous to his circumstances, tickled me rarely, and I could have slapped my thigh to see me there, squatting over against such company, with all the graces of an Earl at Court. And first he flings me out his napkin and spreads it evenly across his belly. “And now,” says he, “a little grace, Ryder, will come convenient ’twixt you and me. We must e’en consecrate a feast derived one knows not whence.”

He spoke so smooth and with so gentle a sarcasm that I should have been a sorry knave to have taken any offence out of his words. Indeed, I had no disposition now to look upon anything save with humour, and the phrase was pat enough in all knowledge.

“If your reverence,” says I, “cannot muster prayers for both, why I’ll make shift to furbish up a tag for myself.”

“’Tis part of our episcopal duty,” he returned, “to take charge of these small courtesies to our Maker.” And with that, having muttered a scrap or so—which did well enough for me, God knows!—he whipped up a knife and fell on the victuals.

There was a fulness about his hunger which was much to my mind. The fire roared behind him, and the room was very pleasantly filled with warmth and perfume. I cannot bring to mind that we spoke much or of consequence for the first ten minutes. But somewhere about the third course (an extremely well jugged hare), and when for my own part the edge of my appetite was blunting, I looked up and met the Bishop’s eye, which was fixed upon me meditatively. He raised his glass and sipped of the claret slowly; set it down upon the table; and pinching up his eyes the while, stared thoughtfully from it to me and from me to it again.

“Of a cold hard night, Ryder,” said he, picking out his words, “a warm soft wine lines a stomach gratefully. We oppose opposites in the meetest sense; and, to take my own poor judgment, the frankest advice, if it be for the common comfort, consists with the most polite and sacred usages of society. This wine2?” He paused and inquired of me in silence.

I brought my fist with a thump upon the board. “Sink me for a scurvy worthless loon,” said I angrily, for I was in a blush of shame to have played so evil a trick on him. I took a draught myself, and plumped down the glass with an oath. “’Tis so, by Heaven,” I said; “cold harsh stuff and biting to the vitals.” And I sprang at the door to call upon mine host.

“I felt,” explained the Bishop politely, “that some point was askew in a dinner else so perfect.”

I roared to the landlord, who came falling up the stairs in his fuss and fright. I took him in by the shoulders and drubbed him with round abuse. “Perish my soul,” I cried, “you filthy tapster, to fub off upon the Bishop and me, this griping , that is fit not even for a surfeit of swine! Are we gutter hogs,” I said, “to swill on swipes and sour the edges of our teeth on vinegar? And his lordship there of as delicate a stomach as any lady in the straw!”

There was never a wretch made so mean a figure as the rascal when I had him by the collar under this storm; but the Bishop said nothing till the fool was got off, shambling in a fit of terror, to his cellars. Then he lay back and looked at me very mildly.

“There is a certain rough vigour in your tongue, Ryder,” said he, “and of scurril terms you have a most remarkable empire. But it sounds so strangely in my ears that it has fallen with something of a clap upon me. I will not criticise my host,” says he, “and to cross the habits of a life smacks of a meddling Anabaptist. But, an you must march in your full habit as a man, ‘Bishop’ were best left unsaid, Ryder, and ‘his lordship’ might with profit hold over till the blood runs cool. You will observe that I tuck up my apron for convenience.”

“You speak well, my lord,” I replied penitently, “and if you will be so good as shrive me for the sacrilege, split me, I’ll hold by your directions for the future.”

And here came the flasks with the innkeeper, which, uncorking, we dipped our noses in a rare old Burgundy. My lord held up his head and blinked at me good-humouredly across the table. “For all that I will not deny,” said he, “the value of such vigour.”

We drank again. The wine was rarely generous. The Bishop drained his glass and poured it full afresh. He beamed at me, and twirled the shank between his fingers and against the light.

“’Twas an admirable thought, Ryder,” he said, smiling, “that you should have recalled this inn. I wonder, now, where that laggard coachman of mine may be?”

“Deep to his neck in drifts,” says I, with a laugh.

“’Twould be a pity,” said the Bishop, shaking his head, “an ill bed upon a bitter night. But let us hope,” he added cheerfully, “that the rascal is kicking his heels by a comfortable fire.”

“And drinking some such noble liquor as his master,” I put in.

The Bishop laughed, showing his fine white teeth. He laughed, and drank again. “And yet,” said he, moralising, “rightly thought on, Ryder, these afflictions and visitations of the weather have still their divine uses.” I cocked my eye at him, in wonder, to see him break out in this preaching fashion. “They teach us, Ryder, to cast up the blessings of our homes, and they are uncommon fine in titillating an appetite,” he ended, with a chuckle.

“And a thirst, by your lordship’s leave,” I added, addressing myself to the wine.

The Bishop’s eyes followed the dusty flask, and lingered upon it with thoughtfulness. “We will have another,” said I, promptly, rising to my feet.

“Another?” said the Bishop dubiously.

“Why, yes, another,” I repeated, with decision, “I am no sand-bed, but I am no stop-the-bottle, neither.”

“Well, then, another,” assented the Bishop, with a sigh.

When I took my seat again, the Bishop was contemplating me with some curiosity. “You have a wife, Ryder?” he asked.

“I have as good,” I answered, “and as pretty a doxy as lives this side of London. Here’s to her health,” says I.

The Bishop took out his snuff-box, and, tapping it very carefully, “I do not know,” said he, “if there be any sufficient authority for the relation in canon law, but ’twill serve, doubtless, for my argument.”

“And for our toast, my lord,” said I stoutly. The Bishop looked at me, his eyes twinkled suddenly, and he lifted his glass. “And for our toast, as you have well observed, Ryder,” he agreed.

In the pursuit of my business I have had occasion to mingle in a variety of company. I have dined with the Lord Chief Justice—not with his will, to be sure; I have encountered a Royal Prince; and I have entertained several noble ladies and gentlemen of title upon compulsion. Altogether I have a tolerable acquaintance among the quality. But the Bishop was more to my taste than the most amiable among them; and when he spoke of Polly Scarlett in such kindly terms, the friendliness went straight to my heart, and I reached over my hand and stuck it at him.

“My lord,” says I, “you take me by the heart, and, ’fore Heaven, if you had a score of purses you should go free of the confraternity. As one gentleman of the road should speak to another, so do I speak to you. And now, if there be any toast your lordship may be nursing in his desires, do not smother it up,” said I, “but unwrap it and show it forth, and I will drink it, though it should be to the topsman himself.”

“I am under infinite obligations for the favour, Ryder,” said the Bishop, bowing at me, “but I fear I have no one for this honour.”

“Come,” I protested, “roll ’em all in your mind, my lord, and turn ’em over on your tongue. I’ll warrant there’s a pretty woman somewhere at the back.”

The Bishop seemed to consider, and shook his head gravely. “It appears, Ryder,” said he, “that you are too sanguine. We will leave the tribute where it stands.”

“Then,” I exclaimed, “sure, we will drink without it.” And I pushed over the flask.

The Bishop daintily filled his glass with his fat fingers, and we drank once more. His stomach merged over the table: it ranged collateral with the wine, and tickled me with the notion of some great vat beside the empty bottles. I shook with laughter, and the Bishop smiled genially. “Speaking as one gentleman of the road would to another, Ryder,” says he, “I declare I have never kept such disreputable company in my life.”

I have confessed the wine was rich and cordial: it flowed warmly through my veins, and set my head high and whirling like a weather-cock. And at this jest I fell to laughing louder, for the thrust appeared to me a piece of pretty wit. I smacked my thigh, and bellowed till the rheum ran over my eyes, and at last I pulled up and found the Bishop very quiet and fallen into a kind of abstraction. In my merry mood I took this ill; for a gentleman must needs complete a bargain to the end, and I hate your sour looks and solemn faces.

“Look’ee, my lord,” I cried, with some choler, “if ’tis my Lord Petersham that you are regretting, why have it out, and let us finish your thoughts aloud.”

The Bishop lifted his eyebrows with a faint expression of amusement. “I vow, Ryder,” said he, “that I had clean forgot my Lord Petersham.”

“That is well,” I returned, dropping back into my chair.

“But,” he continued, thoughtfully, “in truth, now that you recall me to my duty, I must remember also that pleasure has an end.”

He rose, and I rose with him. “My lord,” I said, for I was all for a long night, “it would ill become me to press you from your duty, but if you will consider the night2”

“Ah, Ryder,” he interrupted, smiling graciously, “pray do not beset a poor sinner with temptations.” He stood before the fire, warming his legs. “This has been a pleasant encounter,” says he, “and now I will keep you to your promise.”

As he put it in that way, I had no more words against his purpose, and, having settled the score, we set forth again upon the horses, myself this time upon Calypso. The night was still very bitter, but I, at least, was warm with wine, and I think the Bishop, too, was full enough for comfort. Yet the cold edge of the wind somewhat reduced my fervour, and where I was rolling three-parts-free in liquor ten minutes back, I was now mainly sobered and continent of all my senses. I knew the land by rote, and we proceeded easily by lanes and windings, through a grievous slush of snow, until, at the end of half an hour, we came out on the ridge of the hill (I knew it of old) which lies in the rear of my Lord Petersham’s castle.

At the cross-roads the Bishop reined in his horse, and turned to me. “I think, Ryder,” said he, but courteously, “that we shall be well quit of each other here. I make a dull companion for youth, and you have, doubtless, a long ride before you.”