The Abduction

Mr. Granby came away from the Manor and his interview with his old friend, Squire Clifford, in anything but the most satisfied frame of mind. He was face to face with a very knotty problem―for a lover. However much the squire might favour his suit, the fact remained that sweet Jenny Egerton―the squire's ward―whilst very friendly disposed towards Granby, was obviously careful to be nothing more.

Mr. Granby strode through the dusk kicking the snow before him and making for the lights of the town at the foot of Manor Hill, and as he went his thoughts were very busy with what Squire Clifford had said. Jenny's nature was romantic, and if Mr. Granby would win her heart as well as her hand the squire opined that he might be well-advised to present himself romantically to her consideration. But Granby, for all that he was a stolid, unimaginative man, realised that, rising forty as he was and being a shade wider at the waist than at the shoulders, in aiming at the romantic he might achieve no more than the ridiculous.

Still brooding, with hands deep in the pockets of his riding-coat, whip under his arm, and three-cornered hat pulled down over his brows, he strode on through the town, where the snow was becoming slush under the traffic that was toward. He made his way up the High Street with ears deaf to the shouts of the busy shopkeepers and busier vendors at the booths of the Christmas fair, and, still deep at his thoughts, he turned into the King's Arms. He nodded carelessly to the drawer in the tap-room, and his ill-fortune guided his steps to the bar parlour and into the company of three graceless young neighbours of his, who sat with wigs awry and coats unlaced in a cloud of smoke over a bowl of punch.

He stood in the blaze of candle-light, the fine powder of snow that had gathered on the shoulders of his scarlet coat being rapidly transmuted by the warmth of the room into glittering diamonds of water, whilst those merry bloods hailed him noisily. Mr. Granby had long been a choice butt for the practical jokers of the country-side, though he had never yet perceived it.

They hailed him to the fire; they gave him punch to drink―a hot, delicious beverage of brandy, muscadine, lemon, and spices―which so warmed his heart and choked discretion that, when presently they toasted Jenny Egerton, and drank to her speedy union with Mr. Granby, he must needs pour out the whole story of his unprospering love affair and the quandary in which he now found himself, winding up with an appeal to those merry jesters for advice and guidance in the pursuit of the romantic.

Their response was prompt and hilarious. As with one breath, they urged him to carry his tale to Ned Pepper, who, they swore, was the very man to help him.

"You couldn't find a better man for your business in the whole country," one of them assured him. "Ned Pepper's the most romantic young dog in England."

"And he's upstairs now," added another, "drinking himself out of his senses in solitude." And so they urged him noisily to go up at once.

"But if I should intrude," he faltered. "Mr. Pepper and I are but slightly acquainted."

"Ned Pepper will give you a warm welcome," they assured him amid fresh laughter; and so, persuading and pushing, they got him above-stairs to the room where Ned Pepper sat wondering what might be the source of the bursts of merriment that floated up to him through the floor.

Granby found Mr. Pepper―a comely young gentleman, with a good chin and a roguish eye―very much at his ease before a blazing fire. He was comfortably ensconced in a spacious oak chair, and rested the shapeliest silk-cased legs in Surrey upon a second one. There was a bowl of steaming punch at Mr. Pepper's elbow, a pipe between his fingers. His head was rested against one of the wings of his chair, his peruke―which he had doffed for greater comfort―was perched upon the other, his broidered vest was open, and he had undone the silver buckles of his lacquered shoes. As I have said, Mr. Pepper was very much at his ease.

At the foot of the stairs the young bloods stood grouped expectantly, with smirks and nudges and smothered guffaws. They knew Ned Pepper to be as peppery as his name implied, and they had reason to believe that he would presently be kicking Mr. Granby downstairs. Therefore they waited.

But they were disappointed. At sight of Mr. Granby hesitating in the doorway a flicker of interest had for a moment lighted Mr. Pepper's dark eyes; then he smiled lazily, and as lazily invited him to come inside.

"A cold night, Mr. Pepper," said Granby civilly.

"Ring for another glass," said Mr. Pepper, like a man taking a hint, and with the stem of his long pipe he pointed to the brew, thus clearing up any obscurity in his meaning.

The glass was brought, and, having helped himself, Granby drew up to the fire and took a pipe.

"I hope," said he, "I'm not intruding, though I must confess that I am taking a great liberty. I have come to you for advice. I have been advised to do so."

Mr. Pepper took the pipe from between his teeth, and gave his guest every encouragement to proceed. They were alone in that cosy parlour. The punch warmed and expanded Granby's simple nature, and he remembered the assurances he had received that Mr. Pepper was the very man to help him in his quandary. So out came the whole story, all but the names, which, with a remnant of discretion, Granby thought better to omit.

"And do you tell me you were sent to me for advice in this matter?" quoth Mr. Pepper, whose eyes had now lost all sign of drowsiness. "By whom?"

Granby told him, and Pepper nodded with a slow smile.

"I am sore perplexed," added the luckless lover earnestly. "I don't know whether you have ever been in the like position."

"I have, indeed," answered Mr. Pepper, "with this difference that with me the maid was willing, but the father, who accounted me a hairbrain, wouldn't hear of it. I carried her off; we were overtaken, and I was laid by the heels for a time. Her father was too friendly with the sheriff."

"You carried her off," mused Granby. "Now that was a romantic enough thing to do!"

Mr. Pepper stared at him. "If it's romance you want, you may do the same. As for me, I prefer to wait until the lady is of age. The county gaol cured me of any leanings towards romance."

"But our cases are hardly parallel," Mr. Granby reminded him. "I have no pursuit to fear since her guardian is my friend."

"True," said Pepper with a roguish smile, "but, then, you say the lady isn't, and you'll hardly make her so by a display of violence."

"Ah!" sighed the unimaginative Granby, and his honest, rugged face grew clouded. Pepper puffed in silence for a moment or two; then spoke.

"To abduct her forcibly, and against her will, were to do a monstrous ill thing. Your suit thereafter must be hopeless and deservedly. But―" And be paused solemnly, raising a delicate white hand that sprouted from a cloud of lace, and poising it in line with Granby's suddenly uplifted eyes―"but if someone else were to do the thing, and you were to prove the heroic rescuer―"

"Gad!" cried Granby, and the pipe slipped from his fingers, and was shivered on the floor.

"You would reap the heroic rescuer's reward," concluded Pepper. "By your promptness of action you would inspire gratitude; by your ready courage―there might be a little sword-play in the comedy―admiration; and by your restraint and courtesy to the lady in her plight, you should awaken confidence and trust. These, my friend, are the compounds that go to make up that poison men call love."

"Yes, yes," gasped Granby, in some amazement at the other's fertility of imagination. "But how would you go about it, Mr. Pepper?"

Mr. Pepper pondered awhile, puffing vigorously. Then, setting down his pipe, he leaned forward, and propounded the result of his cogitations. On the morrow there was a Christmas dance to be held at Sir John Tyler's, two miles away, to which, no doubt, Squire Clifford and his ward would be going.