A Maggot - John Fowles (26 page)

Q. She never to your knowledge went privily to his
chamber, where you stayed?

A. No, sir. I cannot truly tell, seeing I was seldom
upstairs except to Mr Lacy. 'Tis most landlords' rule, no manservant
shall lie where the maids lie, I mean in that same part of the house.

Q. And wisely. So be it. Now let us come to what
passed at Wincanton.

A. One in a greatcoat came up to me, there at the
sign of the Greyhound, who had seen us ride in and said, What's
afoot? I said, Nothing's afoot, what mean you? Come, says he with a
wink, I know who your Mr Bartholomew truly is, I was coachman till
two years past to Sir Henry W-, and knew him there when he came to
visit. I would know him and that mute man of his in a thousand, he
said. He is - who I said you just now, sir.

Q. He spoke the name?

A. Yes, and his noble parent's as well. I was at a
stumble, sir, I knew not what to answer, but thought it best to make
no argument, so winked him back and said, Perhaps it may be, but hold
your tongue, he'd not be known. To which he said, Very well, have no
fear, but where goes he? I says, To hunt a young partridge in the
West. Ah, he says, plump and pretty, I don't doubt. Then that he had
guessed as much.

Q. Who was this man?

A. Coachman to an admiral, sir, who went with his
lady to the Bath. His name was Taylor. A well enough fellow, he meant
no harm beyond his curiosity, and was no trouble to turn aside, once
we were started. I said Mr Lacy to be his Lordship's tutor, and our
pretext that we made a tour, tho' it was truly to lay a siege, and
the girl Louise at hand for when the young lady was captured. Then
Dick came by and Taylor would greet him, and the fool near spoilt all
by making out he knew him not, and going off. I said he was
frightened, Taylor was to take no offence, he must know Dick had only
half his wits. Then ten minutes later down comes Louise to fetch me.
Farthing, she says, your master calls. So I went with her, and
outside the door she says, 'tis not Mr Brown, but Mr Bartholomew who
wants you, I know not why. So I go to him, sir, and he says, Jones, I
fear my disguise is pierced. I say, Yes, my lord, I fear it is, and
explained how it came about, and what I had said to Taylor. Very
well, he says, howsoever Mr Lacy knows nothing of this, and 'tis best
we continue so.

Q. Gave he a reason?

A. That he esteemed Mr Lacy, sir, and would not cause
him concern. To which I said I was his Lordship's to command. Then
say nothing, he says, and give the fellow this to drink my health and
hold his tongue, and here's a half-guinea for you also. Which I took,
sir, and felt myself beholden.

Q. And never spoke of this to Mr Lacy?

A. No, sir. And later, when I drank with Taylor, he
told me how he had heard his Lordship's noble father was in a great
rage that he had refused a party proposed to him. I began then to be
afraid, sir. Better a bed of nettles than a secret shared, as the
saying goes. I saw an angered parent, sir, and one such I ought not
dare offend. And thought of my Bible, and what is commanded in the
fifth of Moses, honour thy father.

Q. Had you never thought that before? Did you not
know the general case, what his Lordship was about, before you left
London?

A. I saw it in new light, sir.

Q. To wit?

A. 'Twas my duty, sir, to see if I might find out
more of what his Lordship intended.

Q. In plain, that it might serve thy pocket best to
serve his father?

A. That it was prudent, sir.

Q. You begin to cant, Jones, like all your nation.
You saw a smart profit, did you not?

A. I hoped for some reward, sir. If the gracious
gentleman saw fit.

Q. That I'll believe. From Wincanton on you were full
resolved to spy upon his Lordship. Was it not so?

A. If I might, sir. I knew not then that I would.
Those two days still of travelling were not in Gladherhat for Jones.

Q. In what?

A. 'Tis how we Welsh say of Somerset, sir, a merry
place, all cider and fat cattle.

Q. Now thou'dst grant thyself scruples. I will not
have it, thou art plain rogue. Why else didst thou call upon Mr Lacy
at Taunton to advance thee more of thy money - thou wert resolved,
and there's an end to it.

A. Yes, sir.

Q. And until you came to the Black Hart, you learnt
no more what his Lordship purposed?

A. No, sir.

Q. Tell me all, from the moment you waked on the
first of May.

A. Rogue I may be, sir, but I spent a poor night of
it. I knew not what it was best to do. Yet in the end I rose and went
quiet below and there found an end of candle and an inkhorn and wrote
what you know of to Mr Lacy.

Q. None of what I know of- pass to where they parted
upon the Bideford road.

A. 'Twas two miles' riding, sir, a place where the
road became two, a three-legged cross, and there I waited hid upon a
well-bushed hill, on purpose to command the place, seeing I did not
know which road they should take. 'Tis where the gibbet stands, you
may know it without trouble. And I waited a two hours or more, and
was pleased a fine clear sunshine day promised, fool that I was.

Q. Did none others pass?

A. A cart with some maids in, and young men beside
it, who made a great laughing and singing. They went to the maying.
Then others who came on foot, soon after, for the same.

Q. None came riding, as it might be messengers, upon
pressing business?

A. No, sir. His Lordship's party alone came for
Bideford, and stopped at the forking of the road, where the gibbet
stands.

Q. I know of this. You heard nothing of what was
said?

A. Not a word, sir. 'Twas four hundred paces to where
I lay.

Q. Proceed.

A. Well, sir, I was sorry to see Mr Lacy go by
himself in such a place. Soon he fell out of sight, for his road went
down the perm, while theirs went rather up. I bided till they reached
the first brow, and then came I down from where I was hid to the
road, and after them; to get down from my horse at the brow, to see
where they were and whether I might forward or must wait. And so,
sir, it may be two miles more, by which time we was entered in great
woods and the road with more close turns that a shipwright's awl,
that I feared me greatly to come straight upon them, I could nowhere
see far ahead. And so it fell, sir. For as I came round a bank, a
great rock beside the road, I saw them not one hundred and fifty
paces ahead. To my fortune their backs was turned. They was stopped
at where a stream that fell from higher crosses the road, which
happily made a rush, sir, or their ears must tell them I was behind.
Off I jump from my horse, and lead him back in a trice and tie him
out of sight, to come more cautious forward than before and peep. And
wist, they are gone, tho' not upon the road, for I see a glimpse of
Louise's back behind Dick, that climbs above it, upon the mountain.

Q. Know you the name of this place?

A. I do not, sir. I saw no farm nor house there, nor
none near. You may tell it, 'tis not the first crossing of water in
the woods, yet larger, and set well back in the hill. While the
stream falls sharp on the left side of the road, with much noise.

Q. Next.

A. When I judged it safe I went to where they had
stopped, beside the water, and saw 'twas a ford, mayhap some six
paces across, not more, for it goes on a great flat bed of stone, and
the road runs on behind it. And now I saw where they had gone, for
the ground above was less steep than where I had been, and went
uphill more in a cwm, as we call it, among the trees. Well, sir, I
could see at first no path, and must cast about, until at last I came
on where a way led up into the cwm, and could see where their horses
had trod.

Q. A path often used, you would say?

A. Sir, I'll swear no other horses had been upon it
that many a month. Further up, as I will tell, I saw signs 'twas a
shepherd path, to gain the summer grazing upon the mountain above.
Branches plashed yesteryear, their beasts' dry turds, the like.

Q. What supposed you they were at?

A. Upon some secret way to where the young lady
lived, sir, or to some meeting-place they had fixed apart. I could
not say, see you I knew not where the great houses and fine estates
lay in that country. Misery for me I did not turn back. But Jones, I
thought, hung for the lamb, hung for the ewe, as the saying goes.

Q. Where led this path?

A. To a desert place, sir, narrow and steep and
strewn with stones and great rocks among the trees. It lay on a
curve, as a new moon, so, and ever upwards to the mountain. 'Twas
melancholy, sir, despite the shining of the sun. I marked no birds
that sang, as is their nature at that time, as if all had forsook it,
which made me afeared. When I was already afeared enough for what I
was at, and so twice in doubt of it.

Q. When came you up with them?

A. Not for near an hour, sir. 'Twas not so far, not
beyond two miles, or hardly more. I must move very slow, with many
halts, to listen. I could see nothing for the thorn-trees and bushes,
and thought they must be in worse case than I, and slower still,
their ears a-cock for such as I, and nothing but the tumble of the
linn to hide me.

Q. Come to where you saw them first.

A. It was thus, sir. I came where the cwm made a
trifle more narrow, yet ran on more straight, and where could I but
find a vantage-point, I might see ahead. So I tied my horse, sir, and
climbed afoot a little to one side, where I could look better. At
first I saw nothing, though I saw the cwm's end. And thought, for all
seemed bare up there, how shall I come close. 'Tis bad today, 'twill
be worse tomorrow, as the saying goes. And I cursed myself then, sir,
that I had thought such following was easy as pissing abed. Then saw
I a man that climbed the side, a half mile ahead, and knew it was
Dick. I could not see his Lordship nor the wench, and supposed them
still below, with the horses, where the stream ran. He stopped upon a
shoulder and looked ahead, to beyond my sight, see you the cwm's end
was twain and forked like a serpent's tongue, and he sought into the
part that lay atwist to one side from t'other.

Q. Seemed he cautious in his manner?

A. Not that I could see, sir. He stood not long, and
walked on, out of my watching.

Q. And then?

A. I thought they must be come near their journey's
end, and I must ride no more, sir. That if I did they might hear or
see me from their better vantage. So I took me my horse to a thicket
and tied him, the best I could hide him in so buddled a place. Then
made my way on foot beside the stream, where they had passed. Where
after some little while I spy a white thing in the green, a hundred
paces or more off, as of linen laid out to dry. So stop, then creep
aside to where I can watch better, and find it is Louise, dressed
out.

Q. How mean you, man, what dressed out?

A. As I say, sir. As a May queen upon that day, all
in white linen, cambric, ribbands, I know not, as fine as fivepence.

Q. Jones, I will not be thy fool.

A. I swear it true, your worship. I lie not now.

Q. Saw you this dress earlier that day? Upon the road
to this place?

A. No, sir, I am certain she wore it not, for at the
gibbet she did go behind some bushes for her needs, begging your
pardon, and I saw her green and yellowy dress then, her quilt Norwich
petticoat, as always before.

Q. You maintain, she had changed garments at this
waiting_ place, while you crept up on them?

A. She must, sir, and not put back her cloak. There
was no wind, and the day grew warm. You must believe me, sir. If I
told some tale, I should make it more pleasing to your worship's
will.

Q. And his Lordship?

A. Stood apart, sir, by the horses, which were tied
higher, and watched up where Dick had gone.

Q. And what the wench?

A. She sat upon her cloak, on a stone above the
stream, sir, and made a chaplet of may on her lap, paring the thorns
with a pocket-knife Dick carried, that had brass ends, which I made
out. And how as I watched she pricked her fingers more than once, and
sucked upon them. And once looked back to where his Lordship stood,
so to complain she must suffer this for him.

Q. Against her will?

A. It might be, sir. I could not tell.

Q. Was this dress simple or rich? Such as a lady, or
more as village maid might wear?

A. Rather the last, sir. Though there was rose
ribbands at the hem and shoulder, and white stockings. The chaplet I
found less strange, for she'd pick her nosegay, wherever we stopped.
I rallied her once, I said I believed her no lady's maid, but crier
of flowers about the streets.

Q. What said she to that?

A. That there were worse ways to earn a penny.

Q. She did not speak with his Lordship?

A. No, sir. She made her maying crown, and looked as
innocent there amidst the green as a pail of milk. Faith, she'd have
slain a blind man, as 'tis said. She was killing pretty dressed so,
spite of all. I had not before seen her so sweet and handsome, sir,
begging your pardon.