The Inn at the Red Oak | Page 5

I forget you may not know my language. But now that
this good liquor has put new life in my poor old bones, I explain myself.
I am arrived, I infer, at the Inn at the Red Oak; and you, monsieur,
though so young, I take to be my host. I have your description, you
perceive, from the good postilion. You will do me the kindness to
provide me with supper and a bed?"
"Certainly, sir," said Dan. "It is late and we are unprepared, but we will
put you up somehow. You too, Manners, had best let me bunk you till
morning; you'll not be going back to the Port tonight? Nancy a fresh
bumper for Mr. Manners."
"Thankee, sir; I managed to get out with the gentleman yonder, and I
guess I'll manage to get back. But it's a rare night, masters. Just a
minute, sir, and I'll be getting his honour's bags.... Thank ye kindly,
Miss Nancy."
He drained the tumbler of raw spirit that Nancy held out. Then he
opened the door again and went out into the storm, returning almost at
once with the stranger's bags.
Dan turned to his sister. "Nancy dear, go stir up Susan and Deborah.
We must have a fire made in the south chamber and some hot supper
got ready. Tell Susan to rout out Jesse to help her. Say nothing to
Mother; no need to disturb her. And now, sir," he continued, turning
again to the stranger, "may I ask your name?"
The old gentleman ceased his springing seesaw for a moment, and

fixed his keen black eyes on the questioner.
"Certainment, monsieur--certainly, I should say," he replied in a high,
but not unpleasant, voice. "I am the Marquis de Boisdhyver, at your
service. I am to travel in the United States--oh! for a long time. I stay
here, if you are so good as to accommodate me, perhaps till you are
weary and wish me to go elsewhere. You have been greatly
recommended to me by my friend,--quiet, remote, secluded, an
auberge--what you call it?--an inn, well-suited to my habits, my tastes,
my desire for rest. I am very fatigué, monsieur."
"Yes," said Dan, with a grim smile, "we are remote and quiet and
secluded. You are welcome, sir, to what we have. Tom, see that
Manners has another drink before he goes, will you? and do the
honours for our guest, while Nance and I get things ready."
As he disappeared into the kitchen, following Nancy, the Marquis
looking after him with a comical expression of gratitude upon his face.
Tom drew another glass of rum, which Manners eagerly, if rashly,
devoured. Then the liveryman wrapped himself in his furs, bade them
good-night, and started out again into the storm for his drive back to
Monday Port.
All this time the old gentleman stood warming his feet and hands at the
fire, watching his two companions with quickly-shifting eyes, or
glancing curiously over the great bar which the light of the fire and the
few candles but faintly illuminated.
Having barred the door, Tom turned back to the hearth. "It is a bad
night, sir."
"But yes," exclaimed the Marquis. "I think I perish. Oh! that dreary
tavern at your Monday Port. I think when I arrive there I prefer to
perish. But this, this is the old Inn at the Red Oak, is it not? And it dates,
yes,--from the year 1693? The old inn, eh, by the great tree?"
"Yes, certainly," Pembroke answered; "at least, that is the date that
some people claim is on the old cornerstone. You have been here

before then, sir?"
"I?" exclaimed Monsieur de Boisdhyver. "Oh, no! not I. I have heard
from my friend who was here some years ago."
"Oh, I see. And you have come far to-day?"
"From Coventry, monsieur--Monsieur--?"
"Pembroke," Tom replied, with a little start.
"Ah! yes, Monsieur Pembroke. A member of the household?"
"No--a friend."
"I make a mistake," quickly interposed the traveller, "Pardon. I am
come from Coventry, Monsieur Pembroke, in an everlasting an eternal
stage, a monster of a carriage, monsieur. It is only a few days since that
I arrive from France."
"Ah, France!" exclaimed Tom, recalling that only a little while before
he and Dan had been dreaming of that magic country. And here was a
person who actually lived in France, who had just come from there,
who extraordinarily chose to leave that delightful land for the Inn at the
Red Oak in mid-winter.
"France," he repeated; "all my life, sir, I have been longing to go there."
"So?" said the Marquis, raising his white eyebrows with interest. "You
love ma belle patrie, eh? Qui Sait?--you will perhaps some day go
there. You have interests, friends in my country?"
"No, none,"