THE POACHER’S WIFE
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
- LYING PROPHETS
- CHILDREN OF THE MIST
- SONS OF THE MORNING
- THE STRIKING HOURS
- THE RIVER
- THE AMERICAN PRISONER
- THE SECRET WOMAN
- KNOCK AT A VENTURE
- THE PORTREEVE
- THE HUMAN BOY
- FANCY FREE
- MY DEVON YEAR
- UP ALONG AND DOWN ALONG
THE POACHER’S WIFE
BY
EDEN PHILLPOTTS
METHUEN & CO.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
First Published in 1906
This story originally appeared in the Weekly
Edition of The Times, and is now issued in
book form by arrangement with the Proprietors
of that journal.
CONTENTS
| CHAP. |
|
PAGE |
| I. |
At the “White Hart” |
1 |
| II. |
Hangman’s Hut |
15 |
| III. |
Guns in the Night |
27 |
| IV. |
The Wedding Day |
40 |
| V. |
A Ghost of a Chance |
53 |
| VI. |
The Wedding Night |
70 |
| VII. |
The Bad Ship “Peabody” |
85 |
| VIII. |
Mr Sim tells a Lie |
99 |
| IX. |
In Middlecott Lower Hundred |
116 |
| X. |
Dan’s Letter |
130 |
| XI. |
The Last of the “Peabody” |
146 |
| XII. |
Henry Vivian tries to do His Duty |
160 |
| XIII. |
The Obi Man |
177 |
| XIV. |
Jesse’s Finger-nail |
195 |
| XV. |
Daniel Explains |
210 |
| XVI. |
“Obi” at Moreton |
225 |
| XVII. |
The Confession |
238 |
| XVIII. |
A Bottle of Champagne |
247 |
| XIX. |
Mr Sim tells the Truth |
264 |
| XX. |
Five Miles in Five Minutes |
279 |
| XXI. |
Johnny Beer’s Masterpiece |
293 |
[1]
THE POACHER’S WIFE
CHAPTER I
AT THE “WHITE HART”
The bar of the “White Hart,” Moretonhampstead,
was full, and, in the atmosphere
of smoke and beer, a buzz of sound went
up from many throats.
In one corner, round a table, men sat and
laughed, but the object of their amusement
did not share the fun. He was a powerful,
bull-necked man with a clean-shorn face, grey
whiskers, and dark eyes that shone brightly
under pent-house brows, bushy and streaked
with grey.
Mr Matthew Sweetland heard the chaff of
his companions and looked grim. He was
head gamekeeper at Middlecott Court, and no
man had a worthier reputation. From his
master to his subordinates, all spoke well of
him. His life prospered; his autumn “tips”
were a splendid secret known only to himself
and his wife. He looked forward presently to
retiring from the severe business of a gamekeeper[2]
and spending the end of life in
peace. One thorn alone pricked Matthew;
and from that there was no escape. His only
son, Daniel Sweetland, had disappointed him.
The keeper’s wife strove to make her husband
more sanguine; neighbours all foretold pleasant
things concerning Daniel; but the lad’s reputation
was not good. His knowledge of sport
and his passion for sport had taken a sinister
turn. They were spiced with a love of adventure
and very vague ideas on the law of
property. Flogging had not eradicated these
instincts. When the time came to make choice
of a trade, Daniel decided against gamekeeping.
“I be too fond of sport,” he said.
And now he worked at Vitifer Mine on
Dartmoor, and was known to be the cleverest
poacher in the district.
On coming of age, the youth made his
position clear to his parents.
“I don’t think the same as you, father,
because I’ve larned my lessons at the Board
School, an’ ideas be larger now than they was
in your time. I must have my bit o’ sport;
an’ when they catches me, ’twill be time enough
to pull a long face about it. But this I’ll
promise on my oath; that never do I set foot
inside Middlecott woods, an’ never will I help
any man as does. I’ll not lift a gun against[3]
any bird of your raising; but more I won’t say.
As to game in general—well, I’ve got my
opinions; an’ being a Radical with large ideas
about such things, I’ll go my way.”
“Go your way to the gallows,” said Matthew
Sweetland. “If I’d knowed what I was breeding
you for, I’d have sent you to your uncle
the cobbler to London, an’ never taught you
one end of a gun from t’other. ’Tis poor
payment for a good father’s care to find his
only one be an ungrateful toad of a boy, an’ a
disgrace to the nation.”
“Sporting will out,” answered Daniel, calmly.
“I ban’t a bad sort; an’ I’ll disgrace nobody.
I’m a honest, plain dealer—according to my
own lights; an’ if I don’t agree with you about
the rights of property in wild things like birds
an’ fish, an’ a hare now an’ again—well, what
of it?”
“’Tis the beginning,” declared his father.
“From the day I catched you setting a wire in
a hedge unbeknownst to me, I felt that I’d
done wrong to let you bide in the country.”
And now Matthew Sweetland’s beer tasted
sour as he heard the talk of his neighbours
in the bar of the “White Hart.”
A handsome, fair man was speaking. He
looked pale for a country dweller, and indeed
his business kept him much within doors; for[4]
he was a footman at Middlecott Court. His
eyes were blue, his face was long, and his
features regular. He spoke slowly and with
little accent, for he had copied his master’s
guests carefully and so mended the local
peculiarities of his speech.
“’Tis said without doubt, Sweetland, that
the burglars must have been helped by somebody—man
or maid—who knew the house and
grounds. What did Bartley here think when
first he heard about it?”
The footman turned to a thin, weak-faced,
middle-aged person who sat next to him. Luke
Bartley was a policeman, at present off duty,
and a recent burglary of valuable plate was the
subject they now discussed.
Mr Bartley had a feeble mouth and shifty
eye. He avoided the gamekeeper’s scowling
glance and answered the footman.
“Well, we must judge of folks by their
records. I don’t say Dan Sweetland’s ever
been afore the Bench; but that’s thanks to his
own wicked cleverness. His father may flash
his eyes at me; but I will say that taking into
account Dan’s character an’ pluck an’ cheek,
I ban’t going to rule him out of this job. He
might have helped to do it very easily. He
knows Westcombe so well as anybody, and
his young woman was under-housemaid in the[5]
house till a week afore the burglary. Well, I
won’t say no more. Only ’tis my business as
a police constable to put two and two together;
which I shall do, by the help of God, until I
be promoted. Besides, where was Daniel
that night?”
“He was fishing on the Moor,” said another
man—a young and humble admirer of Daniel
Sweetland.
“So he may have told you; but what’s his
word worth?”
Then the youth, who was called Prowse,
spoke again and turned to the footman.
“Anyway, it ban’t a very seemly thing of
you, Titus Sim, to say a word against Dan;
for ’tis well known that you was after Minnie
Marshall yourself.”
Titus Sim grew paler than usual and turned
roughly on the youngster.
“What fool is this! And impertinent with
it! You ought to go back to school, Samuel
Prowse. ’Tisn’t right that you should talk
and drink with grown men, for you’re too young
to see a joke apparently. D’you think I
don’t know Daniel better than you? D’you
think I’d breathe a word against him—the
best friend I’ve got in the world? Of course
he had no hand in the burglary at Westcombe.
If I thought he had—but it’s a mad idea. He’s[6]
got his own sense of honour, and a straighter
man don’t walk this earth. As to Miss
Marshall—she liked him better than she liked
me; and there’s an end of that.”
“I’m sorry I spoke, then,” said Dan’s young
champion. “I beg your pardon, Titus Sim.”
“Granted—granted. Only remember this:
I’m Dan’s first friend, and best and truest
friend, and he’s mine. We’m closer than
brothers, him and me; and if I make a joke
against him now and then, to score against
Bartley here, it’s friendship’s right. But I’ll
not let any other man do it.”
The policeman nodded.
“There was the three of you,” he said.
“Dan, an’ you, an’ Sir Reginald’s son, Mr
Henry. When you were all boys, ’twas a saying
in Moreton that one was never seed without
t’others. But rare rascals all three in
them days! You’ve made my legs tired a
many times, chasing of ’e out of the orchards.”
“Such friendships ought to last for ever,”
declared Titus, thoughtfully. “Mister Henry’s
a good friend to me yet. When I got weakly
about the breathing, ’twas him that made Sir
Reginald take me on indoors. Though you’ll
witness, Sweetland, that I’d have made a good
enough gamekeeper.”
The grey man nodded.
[7]
“You was larning fast,” he admitted.
“But not so fast as Daniel. He took to it
like a duckling to water—in his blood, of course.”
“An’ be Mr Henry his friend still?” asked
the policeman.
Titus Sim hesitated.
“Mr Henry’s like his father—a stickler for
old ways and a pillar of the nation. He got
his larning at Eton—’tis different from what
Dan got at the Board School. He hears these
rumours about poaching, and he’s an awful
hard young man—harder than his father;
because there’s nobody in the world judges so
hard as them that never have been tempted.
No, to be frank, Mr Henry ain’t so favourable
to Daniel as he used to be.”
“Well, well,” said Bartley; “if ’tis proved
as Dan had no hand in the burglary at Westcombe,
I, for one, shall be thankful, an’ hope
to see him a credit to his father yet. But
that’s a very serious job, I warn ’e. Near five
thousand pounds of plate gone, as clean as if
it had all been melted and poured into a bog.
Not a trace. An’ the house nearly eight mile
by road from the nearest station.”
“They think the thieves had a motor-car,”
said the youngest of the party, Daniel’s admirer,
the lad Prowse. “’Twas your son himself,
Mr Sweetland, who thought of that; for I[8]
heard him tell the inspector so last week at the
Warren Inn; an’ the inspector—Mr Gregory,
I mean—slapped his leg an’ said ’twas the
likeliest thing he’d heard.”
They talked at length and the glasses were
filled again.
“As to Dan,” summed up Mr Bartley,
“come a few weeks more an’ he’ll be married.
There’s nought like marriage for pulling a man
together; an’ she’m a very nice maiden by all
accounts. Ban’t I right, gamekeeper?”
“You are,” answered Sweetland. “Though
I say it, Minnie Marshall’s too good for my
son. I never met a girl made of properer stuff—so
quiet and thoughtful. Many ladies I’ve
seen in the sporting field weren’t a patch on
her for sense an’ dignity. God He knows
what she seed in Daniel. I should have
thought that Sim here, with his nice speech,
an’ pale face, an’ indoor manners, was much
more like to suit her.”
Under the table Titus Sim clenched his
hands until the knuckles grew white. But on
his face was a resigned smile.
“Thank you for that word, Sweetland.
’Twas a knock-down blow; but, of course, my
only wish is her happiness now. I pray and
hope that Dan will make a good husband for
her.”
[9]
“She’ve got a power over him as I never
thought no female could get over Dan,” said
Prowse.
“That’s because you’m a green boy an’
don’t know what the power of the female be
yet,” answered Bartley. “There he is!” he
added. “He’m sitting in the trap outside, an’
Mr Henry’s speaking to him.”
Sweetland and the rest turned their eyes to
the window.
“He’s borrowed the trap from Butcher
Smart,” said Daniel’s father. “He’s going to
drive Minnie out to the Warren Inn on Dartmoor
this evening. There’s a cottage there,
within two miles of Vitifer Mine; an’ if she
likes it, he’s going to take her there to dwell
after they’m married.”
At the door of the White Hart stood a horse
and trap. A young woman held the reins and
beside the vehicle two men talked and walked
up and down. The threads of their lives were
closely interwoven, though neither guessed
it. Birth, education, position separated them
widely; it had seemed improbable that circumstance
could bring them more nearly together;
but chance willed otherwise, and time was to
see the friendship of their boyhood followed by
strange and terrible tests and hazards involving
the lives of both.
[10]
Young Henry Vivian had just come down
from Oxford. His career was represented by
a first-class in Classics and a “Blue” for
Rugby football. He thought well of himself
and had a right to do so. He had imbibed the
old-fashioned, crusted opinions of his race, and
his own genius and inclinations echoed them.
He was honourable, upright and proud. He
recognised his duty to his ancestors and to
those who should follow him. Time had not
tried him and, lacking any gift of imagination,
he was powerless to put himself in the place
of those who might have stronger passions,
greater temptations and fewer advantages than
himself. Thus his error was to be censorious
and uncharitable. Eton had also made him
conceited. He was a brown, trim, small-featured
man, with pride of race in the turn
of his head and haughty mouth. His small
moustache was curled up at the ends; his eyes
were quick and hard. He placed his hand on
Daniel Sweetland’s shoulder as they walked
together; and he had to raise his elbow pretty
high, for Dan stood six feet tall, while young
Vivian was several inches shorter.
“We’re old friends, Daniel, and I owe you
more than you’d admit—to shoot straight,
and to ride straight too, for that matter. So
it’s a sorrow to me to hear these bad reports.”
[11]
“Us don’t think alike, your honour,” said
Daniel. “But for you I’d do all a man might.
There’s few I’d trouble about; but ’twould be
a real bad day for me if I thought as you was
angry with me.”
“Go straight then—in word and deed.
With such a father as Matthew, there’s no
excuse for you. And such a wife, too. For
I’ll wager that young woman there will be a
godsend, Daniel. My mother tells me that
Lady Giffard at Westcombe says she never
had a better servant.”
Daniel’s eyes clouded at a recollection.
“Her ladyship tells true,” he said; “and
yet there be knaves here and there go about
saying that Minnie had a hand in the burglary
a fortnight since, and that she helped me to
know the ways of the house. I knocked
Saul Pratt down in the public street last
Wednesday for saying it; an’ broke loose two
of his front teeth.”
“I’d have done the same, for I know that
rumour is a lie, Dan; and so does every other
man who knows you. By the way, I’ve got
something for you. It will show you that I’m
going to forget the poaching stories against
you. If you’ll come up to-morrow night at
nine o’clock and ask for me, I’ll tell them to
bring you to my study, and we’ll have a yarn[12]
about old times. It’s a gun I have for you—a
real good one—as a wedding present. And
well I know you’ll never put it to a dishonest
use, Daniel.”
Young Sweetland grinned and grew hot
with pleasure. He was a fine, powerful man,
very like his father, but with some magic in
his face the parent lacked. Dan’s deep jaw
was underhung a trifle; his forehead sloped
back rather sharply, and his neck was thick
and sinewy. Every line of him spoke the
fighter, but he was bull-dog in temper as well
as build. Good-nature dwelt in his countenance
and he never tired of laughing. Strong,
natural sense of right and honour marked him.
He was clever, observant, and well-educated.
Only in the matter of game Dan’s attitude
puzzled his friends and caused them to mistrust
him. Women liked him well, for there
was that in his face, and black eyes, and curly
hair, that made them his friends. Children
loved him better than he loved them. As for
his sweetheart, she trusted him and trusted
herself to cure Dan’s errors very swiftly after
they should be married.
“I’m sure I’m terrible obliged to you; an’
I’ll walk up to-morrow night, if you please;
an’ every time I pull trigger I’ll think kindly
of you, Mister Henry, sir. Out by Vitifer,[13]
where I be going to live if my young woman
likes it, there’s scores of rabbits, and a good
few golden plover an’ crested plover in winter,
not to name scores o’ snipe.”
“I’ll come out occasionally,” said Henry
Vivian, “and when you can get a day off, you
shall show me some sport.”
“Sport I warrant you. An’ you’ll be
riding that way to hounds often, no doubt.
There’ll always be a welcome for ’e an’ a drop
of drink to my cottage, your honour.”
“To-morrow night, then. But don’t keep
your young woman waiting any longer.”
Dan touched his hat and turned to the dog-cart,
while his friend nodded and entered the
White Hart.
There Henry Vivian found his father and
two other Justices of the Peace at their
luncheon in a private room. Sir Reginald
and his friends were full of the burglary at
Westcombe. All knew Lady Giffard, a
wealthy widow, and all sympathised with her
grave loss. But no theory of the crime
seemed plausible, and the police were at fault.
The subject was presently dismissed, for
August had nearly run its course, and
partridges were the theme proper to the
time.
“I shall have some fun with them,” said[14]
young Vivian; “but I’m afraid the pheasants
won’t see much of me this year.”
His father explained.
“My son is going to visit our West Indian
estates this winter. I want to be rid of them,
for though they made my grandfather’s fortune
before the days of the Emancipation, they’ve
been rather a white elephant to our family for
the last half century and more. The returns
go from bad to worse. Indeed, there is more
in it than meets the eye. But Hal’s no dunce
at figures, and they’ll not hoodwink him out
there, even if they attempt it.”
[15]
CHAPTER II
HANGMAN’S HUT
Minnie Marshall was a quiet,
brown girl, with a manner very reserved.
Her parents were dead, her years,
since the age of sixteen, had been spent in
service. Now marriage approached for her
and, at twenty, she contemplated without fear
or mistrust a husband and a home. Of immediate
relations the girl possessed none, save
an old aunt at Moreton, who kept a little shop
there. Minnie was a beauty and well experienced
in the matter of suitors, but Daniel
Sweetland’s romance ran smooth and she left
him not long in doubt. That young Titus Sim
had been a better match, most folks declared;
and even Daniel, from the strong position of
success, often asked Minnie why she had put
him before his friend.
Now, as the lad drove his sweetheart to
inspect a cottage near his work on Dartmoor,
they overtook Mr Sim returning to Middlecott
Court.
“Jump up, Titus, an’ I’ll give ’e a lift to the
lodge,” said Daniel.
[16]
The footman took off his hat very politely
to Minnie, then he climbed into the vacant
seat at the back of the trap and the party
drove forward.
Dan was full of the interview with Henry
Vivian, and the two young men both sang the
praises of their old companion.
“He’s off to foreign parts in a few weeks,
but he hopes to be at my wedding,” said Dan.
“He’d be very sorry not to be there. But
he’ve got to go pretty soon to look after Sir
Reginald’s business, by all accounts.”
“There’s been a lot of talk about the sugar
estates in the West Indies,” explained Sim. “I
overhear these things at table. Mr Henry’s
going out to look into affairs. There’s an
overseer—the son of Sir Reginald’s old overseer.
But master doubts whether his figures
can be trusted, and whether things are as bad as
he says they are. So Mr Henry Vivian is going
to run out without any warning. He’ll soon
have the business ship-shape and find out any
crooked dealings—such a clever man as he is.”
“Awful strict sure enough,” said Dan, with
a chuckle. “He’d heard I was a bit of a free-trader
in matters of sporting, an’ he was short
an’ sharp, I promise you. However, ’tis only
the point of view, an’ all owing to me being a
Radical in politics. He knows that I’d not do[17]
a dirty trick, else he wouldn’t have bought me
a new gun for a wedding present. I’ll show
him some sport on Dartymoor come presently.”
Sim changed the subject.
“I hope you’ll like your home upalong,
Miss Marshall,” he said.
Her lips tightened a little; she turned round
and her fearless eyes met the speaker’s.
“Thank you, Mr Sim; and I hope so too.”
Her voice was cold and indifferent.
“An’ no man will be welcomer there than you,
Titus,” said Sweetland. “You an’ me will have
many a good bit of sporting upalong, I hope.”
“You’ll have something better to do than
that, Dan,” said Minnie. “Sporting be very
well for a bachelor, but work an’ wages must
be the first thought come a man’s got a wife.”
“No need to tell me that. I’ll work for ’e
as hard as a horse; an’ well you know it.”
A lodge rose beside them and Daniel pulled
up at the main entrance to Middlecott. Noble
gates of iron ascended here. Ancient leaden
statues ornamented the four posts of this
entrance, and one of them, a Diana, had a
bullet wound under her left breast. Others
among these figures were also peppered with
small shot—the folly of bygone sportsmen of
the Vivian clan. From the gates a wide
avenue of Spanish chestnuts extended, and half[18]
a mile away, rising above the heads of stately
conifers, stood Middlecott Court. Behind it,
ridge on ridge, billowed the fringes of the
Moor. The gate-lodge was Daniel Sweetland’s
home, and the sound of wheels brought his
mother from the door. Mrs Sweetland smiled
as she saw Minnie, and came out and kissed her.
“So you’m going up for to see the li’l house,
my pretty? I do hope you’ll like it. ’Tis
small but weather-proof, an’ all very nice an’
water-sweet.”
“I shall like it very well, mother, if Dan
likes it,” answered the girl.
“Us will be back by eight o’clock or earlier,
an’ Minnie will stay an’ eat a bit with us,”
declared Daniel.
Then he drove on and left his mother
looking after them. Mr Sim had already
started upon his way to the Hall.
“Poor old Titus,” said Dan, as he walked
by the trap presently to ease the horse at a
stiff hill. “However did you come to like me
best, Min?”
“Who can tell?”
“I wish, all the same, you thought kinder
of him. You’m awful cold to the man.”
“He makes me cold. For my part, I wish
you didn’t like him so well as you do.”
Dan grew rather red.
[19]
“No man, nor woman neither, will ever
stand between me an’ Titus Sim,” he said.
“You might think ’twas jealousy,” she
answered quietly, “for you are sun, an’ air,
an’ life to me, Daniel. ’Tis my love quickens
my heart. But I’m not jealous. Only I
can’t pretend to care for him. I’ve got
nought against him save a womanly, nameless
dread. An’ why it’s in my heart I don’t know,
for I ban’t one to mislike folks without a cause.”
“Then best to get it out of your heart,” he
said roughly. “You’m not used to talk
nonsense. The man’s one in a thousand—kind,
honest, gentle, an’ as good a shot as
there is in the county. Straight as a line,
too. Straighter than I be myself, for that
matter. He’ve behaved very game over this,
for well I know what it cost him to lose you.”
“I wish I felt to respect him like you do.
’Tis wicked not to, yet I be asking myself
questions all the time. He’m so rich, they
say. How can he be rich, Daniel? Where
do the money come from?”
“From the same place as my own father’s;
from gentlefolks’ pockets. The men he waits
on make no more of a five pound note than we
do of a halfpenny. Titus will die a rich man,
and glad am I to think it; for he’s been a most unlucky
chap in other ways. There was his health[20]
first, as wouldn’t let him be a keeper, though
he wanted to, and then—you. An’ a worthless
beggar like me—I can do what I please an’
win you. All the same, I don’t think no better
of you for not thinking better of my best friend.”
“I hope you’ll never find there was a reason
for what I feel, Daniel.”
“I swear I never shall; an’ I’ll thank you to
drop it, Minnie. I don’t want to think my
wife is a fool. Nothing on God’s earth shall
come between me an’ Sim—be sure of that.”
The girl’s lips tightened again, but she was
too wise to answer. In truth she had no just
grievance against her sweetheart’s friend.
Titus had asked her to marry him a week
before Daniel put the question; and she had
refused him. Two days later with passion he
had implored her to reconsider her decision;
and when again she answered “No,” he had
spoken wildly and called Heaven to witness
that she should be his wife sooner or later.
His white face had flamed red for once, and
his smooth, steady voice had broken. But on
their next meeting Titus was himself again.
He had then begged Minnie’s pardon for his
temper; and when their little world knew that
she was going to take the gamekeeper’s son,
Mr Sim was the first to give Daniel joy and
congratulate Minnie.
[21]
She had no definite case against him; but a
deep intuition dominated her mind, and frankly
she regretted Daniel’s affection for his old
rival.
Now, however, she returned silence to her
lover’s angry words, according to her custom.
Soon the climb to the Moor was accomplished,
and the cold wind lit Minnie’s eyes and calmed
her sweetheart. Over the great expanse of
autumnal purple and gold they took their way,
and now sank into valleys musical with falling
water, and now trotted upon great heaths,
where sheep ran, ponies galloped, and the red
kine roamed. To the horizon rose the granite
peaks of the land. Eastward there billowed
Hameldon’s huge, hogged back, and to the
north rolled Cosdon; but Yes Tor and High
Willhayes—the loftiest summits of the Moor—were
hidden. Westerly a mighty panorama
of hills and stony pinnacles spread in a semicircle,
and the scene was bathed with the clear
light that follows rain. The sun began to sink
upon his cloud pillows and heaven glowed with
infinite brilliance and purity.
“’Twill be good to live up here in this sweet
air, along with you, dear heart,” said Minnie.
“Yes, an’ it will; an’—an’ I’m sorry I
spoke harsh a minute agone, my own dear
darling Min,” he cried.
[22]
“I forgived ’e afore the words was out of
your mouth,” she answered.
Whereupon he dropped the reins and hugged
her close and nearly upset the trap.
Presently they passed Bennett’s Cross, where
that mediæval monument stands deep in the
heather; then they came to the Warren Inn,
perched on lofty ground under Hurston Ridge
in the middle of the Moor.
As Daniel drew up, a man came out of
the hostelry, walked to the horse’s nose and
stroked it.
He was almost hairless. His small eyes
glittered out of his round countenance like a
pig’s; his short figure was of amazing corpulence.
A smile sat on his fat face, and his voice
came in a thin and piping treble, like a bird’s.
“Here you be then?”
“Yes, Johnny, here us be. This is Minnie
Marshall, who’s going to marry me presently.
Minnie, this here man is Johnny Beer—beer
by name an’ barrel by nature! There’s not a
better chap ’pon the Moor, and him an’ his
wife will be our only neighbours for three miles
round.”
Mr Beer beamed and shook Minnie’s outstretched
hand.
“A bowerly maiden, sure enough,” he said
frankly. “I hope you’ll like the cot, my dear.[23]
’Tis lonesome to a town-bred mind, but very
pleasant you will find. And wi’ a husband handy,
you’ll have all you want. An’ my missis for
your friend, I hope. She’m not a beauty, but
she wears something wonderful, an’ she’ve a
heart so wide as a church-door, though fretful
where the poultry’s concerned. Everybody to
Postbridge will tell you of her qualities. Of
course it ban’t my place. But never was a one
like she in all the blessed West Countree.”
“Bring a pint of liquor an’ the key of the
cottage, Johnny,” said young Sweetland; “an’
then after a drink, us’ll walk down, an’ Minnie
can make up her mind.”
“There’s only one thing against the place,
an’ that is the name,” declared Mr Beer.
“Though for my part I don’t see why you
shouldn’t change the name. It can be done
without any fuss or documents, I believe.
’Tis called ‘Hangman’s Hut,’ because the first
person as lived there killed himself, being tired
of having the world against him. With an old
peat knife, he took his life. But if I was you, I
should just change that an’ call it by some pretty
name, like ‘Moor View Villa,’ or what not.”
“Never,” declared Daniel. “I’m above a
small thing like that—so’s my girl. ‘Hangman’s
Hut’ be a good, grim name—not easy
to forget. Shall be left so—eh, Minnie?”
[24]
“The name’s nought if the place is weather-tight,
an’ healthy, an’ clean. Call it what you
please, Daniel.”
Sweetland turned triumphantly to the innkeeper.
“That’s the sort she is,” he said.
“Ah—strong-minded, without a doubt,”
admitted Mr Beer. “Wish my Jane was.
Wish I was too. ’Tis a very good gift on
Dartymoor; but we’m soft in heart as well as
body. We live by yielding. I couldn’t bide
in a place by that name. It’s owing to the
poetry in me. ’Twill out. I must be rhyming.
So sure as there comes a Bank Holiday,
or the first snow, or an extra good run with
hounds, then verses flow out of me, like
feathers off a goose.”
The lovers drank a pint of beer between
them turn and turn about; but Minnie’s share
was trifling. Then they walked off to Hangman’s
Hut, where it stood alone in a dimple
of the hillside half a mile from the high
road.
The cottage looked east and was approached
by a rough track over the moor. High
ground shielded it from the prevalent riot of
the west wind; and nearly two miles distant,
in the midst of a chaos of broken land and
hillocks of débris, a great waterwheel stood[25]
out from the waste and a chimney rose above
Vitifer Mine.
Minnie gravely examined the cottage and
directed Daniel where to take measurements.
The place was in good repair, and had only
been vacant two months. It was not the last
tenant who had destroyed himself, but an
unhappy water-bailiff many years previously.
“The golden plover nearly always come
this way when they first arrive in winter.
Many’s the pretty bird I’ll shoot ’e, Min.”
She nodded. Her thoughts were on the
kitchen range at the time.
“You’ll often see hounds in full cry—’tis a
noble sight.”
But Minnie was examining the larder.
She spent an hour in the cottage, and no
experienced housewife could have shown
more judgment and care. Then, much to
Daniel’s satisfaction, his sweetheart decided
for Hangman’s Hut.
“But I wish you could get it for five
shillings a week, instead of six, Dan.”
“No, no, I can’t beat Beer down. He’m
too good a neighbour, an’ ’twould never do to
begin with a difference of opinion. Six ban’t
too much. An’ I’m to get twenty shillings
wages after Christmas. You always forget
that. There’ll be tons of money.”
[26]
Mrs Beer greeted them on their return to
the Warren Inn. She was a plain, careworn
soul who let her poultry get upon her
nerves and take the place of children as a
source of anxiety. In her sleep she often
cried out about laying hens and foxes; but
everybody knew her for the best creature on
Dartmoor. The women talked together and
the men drank. Then Daniel prepared to
start, and soon he and Minnie were jogging
home under the dusk of night. Dartmoor
stretched vast and formless round about them,
and Minnie discussed second-hand furniture.
She held that carpets were a luxury not to be
named; but Daniel insisted upon one in the
parlour.
“For our bedroom,” he said, “I’ve got six
jolly fine mats made of skins. One’s a
badger’s, an’ one’s a foxhound’s, an’ three be
made out of a horse’s skin, an’ one’s that old
collie as I used to have. There was a touch
of Gordon setter in him; an’ a very pretty
mat for your little feet he’ll make. An’ proud
he’d be if he knowed it, poor old devil.”
“They’ll do very nice if the moth don’t get
in them,” said Minnie.
Then, weary of sordid details, Dan let his
girl take the whip and reins; and while she
drove he cuddled her.
[27]
CHAPTER III
GUNS IN THE NIGHT
Time sped swiftly for the young miner and
his sweetheart, and Daniel told his friend
Prowse, as a piece of extraordinary information,
that he had killed nothing that ran, or swam,
or flew, for the space of three weeks. Seeing
that these innocent days formed part of the
month of September, the greatness of the
occasion may be judged. Every moment of
the man’s leisure was spent at Hangman’s
Hut; and once he took a whole holiday and
went with Minnie to Plymouth, that he might
spend ten pounds on furniture. He also purchased
a ready-made suit of grey cloth spotted
with yellow, which seemed well adapted for
his wedding day. It proved too small in the
back, but Daniel insisted on buying it, and
Minnie promised to let out the shoulders.
Then came the night before his wedding,
and the young man looked round his new
home and reflected that he would not enter it
again until he came with a wife on his arm.
Mrs Beer had proved of precious worth during
these preparations, and now all was ready.[28]
Even the little evening meal that would greet
Minnie on her arrival had been prepared. A
cold tongue, a cold fowl, two big red lettuces
from Johnny Beer’s garden, cakes, a bottle of
pale ale, and other delicacies were laid in.
Groceries and stores had been secured; and
many small matters destined to surprise and
delight the housewife were in their places; for,
unknown to Minnie, Daniel had spent five
pounds—the gift of his mother—and the
money represented numerous useful household
contrivances.
It began to grow dusk when young Sweetland’s
work was done. Then the ruling
passion had play with him and an enterprise
long since planned occupied his attention for
the rest of his last bachelor night. It was now
October.
“A brace of pheasants would look mighty
fine in Minnie’s larder,” thought Dan, “an’ there
they shall be afore I go home to-night.”
He had some vague idea of giving up his
dishonest sport after marriage, but in his heart
he knew that no such thing would happen.
Much talk of poaching was in the air at
Moretonhampstead about this season, and
raids and rumours of raids at Middlecott and
elsewhere kept the keepers anxious and wakeful;
but no sensation marked the opening of[29]
the season, though Matthew Sweetland had
secret troubles which he only imparted to his
second in command, a young and zealous man
called Adam Thorpe. Birds had gone and
there were marks in the preserves that told
ugly tales to skilled eyes; but Sweetland failed
to bring the evil-doers to justice, and a cloud
presently rose between his subordinate and
himself. For Thorpe did not hesitate to declare
that the headkeeper’s own son was responsible.
With all his soul Daniel’s father
resented this suspicion, and yet too well he
knew the other had just grounds for it. Once
only the father taxed Daniel, and the younger
man fell into a rage and reminded old Sweetland
how, long ago, he had sworn upon his
oath never to enter Middlecott preserves.
“You ought to know me better than think
it,” he said bitterly. “Be I what I may,
you’ve no just right to hold me an oath-breaker;
an’ if I meet that blustering fool,
Thorpe, I’ll mark him so’s he’ll carry my anger
to the grave. Any fool could hoodwink him.
He walks by night like an elephant. There’s
no fun in taking Middlecott pheasants. Anyway
I never have, an’ never will.”
But the preserves at Westcombe, Daniel
regarded differently. They extended under
Hameldon on the skirt of the Moor; and this[30]
night he meant to visit them and kill a bird or
two. The moon would rise presently, and he
knew where the pheasants roosted quite as
well as the keeper who had bred them.
In the one spare room of Hangman’s Hut
were possessions of the young couple not yet
arranged. Here stood the two little tin boxes
that held all Minnie’s possessions; and various
parcels and packages belonging to Daniel were
also piled together in the chamber. A certain
square wooden case was locked, and now,
lighting a candle and pulling down the window-blind,
Dan opened it. Not a few highly suspicious
objects appeared. There were nets
and wires here, with night-lines and a variety
of mysterious things whose uses were known
to the owner only. None other had ever set
eyes upon them. A long black weapon of
heavy metal lay at the bottom of the box, and
this the poacher drew forth. Then he oiled
it, pumped it, and loaded it. The thing was
an air gun, powerful enough to destroy ground
game at fifty yards. For a moment, however,
Dan hesitated between this engine and another.
Among his property was a neat yellow leather
case with D.S. painted in black letters upon
it. Within reposed the gun that Henry Vivian
had given his friend as a wedding present.
The owner hesitated between these weapons.[31]
His inclination was towards the fowling-piece;
his instinct turned him to the silent air-gun.
“Two shots at most, then a bolt,” he reflected.
“Anyway, there won’t be a soul that
side to-night, for Wilkins and the others at
Westcombe will all be down on the lower side,
where they are having a battoo to-morrow.
So I’ll chance it.”
He broke open a box of cartridges, loaded
the gun, and then left Hangman’s Hut, locking
the door behind him.
Westcombe lay midway between Middlecott
and the Moor. Of old there had existed great
rivalry between the houses of Vivian and
Giffard as to their game, but for many years
the first-named estates produced heavier bags,
and, after the death of Sir George Giffard,
Westcombe went steadily down, for Sir
George’s son and heir had little love of sport.
Old Lady Giffard, however, still dwelt at
Westcombe, and rejoiced to entertain the decreasing
numbers of her late husband’s friends.
A shooting party was now collected at the old
house, and a big battue had been planned for
the following day.
“’Twould keep any but Mister Henry away
from my wedding,” thought Daniel. “Of
course not one man in a million would put
another chap’s wedding afore a battoo. I[32]
wouldn’t. But he will. ’Tis an awful fine
thing never to break your word, no doubt.
You can trust that man like you can the sun.”
The young poacher pursued his way without
incident and sank into the underwoods of
Westcombe as the moon rose. He waited an
hour hidden within ten yards of the keepers’
path, but silence reigned in the forest, and
only the faint tinkle of frost under white moonlight
reached his ear. Once or twice an
uneasy cry or flutter from a bird that felt the
gathering cold fell upon the night; and once, far
away, Dan’s ears marked gun-fire. The sound
interested him exceedingly, for it certainly
meant that somebody else was engaged upon
his own rascally business. Long he listened,
and presently other shots in quick succession
clearly echoed across the peace of the hour.
They were remote, but they came from
Middlecott, as Daniel well knew.
“’Tis Thorpe an’ my father for sartain,” he
said to himself. “Well, I hope father haven’t
met with no hurt to keep him away from my
wedding.”
Now Dan turned his attention to his own
affairs and was soon in the coverts. He crept
slowly through the brushwood and lifted his
head cautiously at every few steps. Often for
five minutes together he remained motionless[33]
as the dead fern in which he stood, often he
might have been a stock or stone, so still was
he. Only the light in his eyes or the faint puff
of steam at his lips indicated that he was alive.
The pheasants slept snug aloft, and Dan heard
a fox bark near him and smiled.
“You’m wanting your supper, my red hero,
no doubt, an’ can’t reach it. Well, well, you’ll
have to go content wi’ a rabbit; the long-tails
be for your betters.”
He had crossed a drive ten minutes later
and was now in the midst of the preserves.
Presently, at a spinney edge, he got the moon
between himself and the fringe of the wood,
and sneaked stealthily along examining the
boughs above him as they were thrown into
inky relief against the shining sky. Many
birds he passed until at length he came to two
sitting near together. Then, working to a
point from which one bird came half into line
with the other, he fired and dropped both.
Like thunder the gun bellowed in that deep
silence, and a lurid flame dimmed the silver of
the night. Then peace returned, and long
before a flat layer of smoke had risen above
the tree-tops and dislimned under the moon;
while still a subdued flutter and cry in the
woods told of alarm, and the sharp smell of
burnt powder hung in the air, Daniel Sweetland[34]
was off the Moor with two fine pheasants
under his coat and his gun on his shoulder.
A mile away three keepers, watching round
the best and richest covers of Westcombe,
heard the poacher’s gun and used bad language.
Then two started whence the sound had come.
“I’ve christened you, anyway,” said Dan to
his new weapon. “Come to think of it, old
Wilkins, the keeper at Westcombe, never
gived my Minnie a wedding present, though a
cousin by marriage. So now these here birds
will do very nice instead, an’ make us quits.”
Within the hour he was back in the Moor
and soon returned to his cottage. But a
surprise awaited him, for upon the high road,
as he passed the Warren Inn and prepared
to turn off to where Hangman’s Hut lay, with
its two little windows glimmering like eyes
under the moon, Daniel heard steady feet
running slowly behind him and saw a man
approaching along the way. Dan leapt off the
high road instantly and hid himself beside the
path. But the other apparently had not seen
him, for he trotted past and went forward.
Daniel left his hiding-place just in time to see
a man vanishing into the night.
No little remained to be done before he
sought the room he occupied in his father’s
house at Middlecott lodge gates. First he[35]
returned to Hangman’s Hut; then he put up
his gun and, taking a hammer, a big nail, and
a piece of string, entered his garden and lifted
the cover off a little well that stood there. He
then bent over it and drove in his nail as far
down as he could reach from the top. Next he
fastened his pheasants to the string and
lowered them twenty-five yards into the gloom
beneath. The string he fastened to the nail.
“They’ll do very nice an’ comfortable there
till us feel to want ’em,” he thought. Then he
locked up the house once more and started for
Middlecott.
Again, as he passed over the Moor to the
main road, did he hear the sound of feet not
far off, and again did a man take shape out of
the darkness and move away before him.
This time the figure leapt up out of the heath
right in his path, and hastened in the direction
of Hangman’s Hut.
“Be blessed if the whole parish ban’t up an’
doing to-night!” laughed Daniel. “’Tis some
blackguard trapping Johnny Beer’s rabbits, I
lay.”
Then he set off briskly homewards and did
not stop until he passed the corner of Westcombe
woods and saw two men standing
together at the stile over which he had himself
crept some hours before.
[36]
“Seen anybody upalong, mate?” asked one.
“Yes, I did,” answered Daniel. “A chap
in a hurry, too—running for his life.”
“You be Dan Sweetland!” cried the other
man. “Did you hear a gun fire awhile back,
Sweetland?”
“I heard several,” replied the young man.
“They’ve been busy down to Middlecott, or
I’m mistaken. For my part, I wish I’d been
there; but I wasn’t. Too much on my hands,
you see, to trouble about sporting. I’m going
to be married to-morrow; an’ you can tell
your old man, Wilkins, that my sweetheart
was rather astonished he didn’t give her a
wedding present—him being related by
marriage.”
The keepers laughed. Both felt morally
certain that Daniel had fired the shot which
brought them from the distant woods; both
knew that to prove it would be impossible.
“An’ I dare say there’ll be a nice pheasant
for supper to-morrow night at Hangman’s Hut—eh,
Dan?” asked one.
“Oh, no, there won’t, Jack Bates. I like my
game hung a bit, same as the quality do. If
you’ll come to supper this day week, I’ll see
what I can do for ’e.”
The keepers laughed again, and Sweetland
went his way.
[37]
At home yet another surprise awaited him.
His father’s cottage flamed with lights.
Instead of silence and sleep brooding here,
with the glimmering leaden statues standing
like sentinels above, as he had often seen them
on returning from nocturnal enterprises, Dan
found his father’s cottage awake and full of
stir and bustle. The door was open and from
the kitchen came Matthew’s voice.
When Dan entered Mr Sweetland was
sitting in an old eared chair by the fire in his
nightshirt. A red nightcap covered his head,
and his person was largely exposed, where
Mrs Sweetland applied vinegar and brown
paper to red bruises. The keeper evidently
endured great agony, but no sign of suffering
escaped his lips.
He turned to Dan and spoke.
“Be that you? Where was you this night,
Daniel?”
“Not in Middlecott Woods, father; that I’ll
swear to. But I’m feared that you was—to
poor purpose. Have ’e catched anybody?”
“No; but Adam Thorpe was hit an’ went
down. Me an’ him have long knowed what was
doing, an’ we gived it out at the White Hart
bar in mixed company that we was to be in
Thorley Bottom to-night. Then we went to
the coverts instead, an’, sure enough, surprised[38]
my gentlemen. Two of ’em. They fired two
shots, an’ we laid wait an’ went for ’em as they
came out wi’ birds. I got one down an’ he
bested me. What he’ve broken, if anything, I
can’t say. T’other fired on Thorpe an’ he
couldn’t get up. Afterwards, when they’d got
clear, I found he was alive but couldn’t speak.
Then I crawled to the house, an’ some of the
gentlemen and a indoor man or two comed
out. ’Twas only eleven of the clock at latest.
They carried Thorpe to the cottage hospital at
Moreton, an’ sent me home. Us’ll hear to-morrow
how he fares, poor soul.”
“I knowed he’d catch it sooner or late,”
said Dan. “Such a cross-grained bully as
him. But I hope ’twill larn him wisdom. An’
you. Be you hurt in the breathing? Will ’e
be at my wedding to-morrow? It shall be put
off if you can’t come.”
“’Tis all right if you can swear you had no
hand in this. That’s the best plaster to my
bruises,” answered his father.
“Of course I can. Why for won’t you trust
me? I know nought about it—God’s my
judge.”
“Then you’d better get to your bed an’
sleep,” said his mother.
“All’s done at the Hut,” he answered, “an’
the carriage be ordered. After us be married,[39]
we’ll walk over to Minnie’s aunt an’ have the
spread as the old woman have arranged; then
we’ll drive straight away off to the Moor. An’
if ’tis wet weather, us be going to have a
covered cab; for I won’t have Minnie drowned
on her wedding-day. Please God, you’ll be
up to coming to church, father.”
“I shall be there,” said Matthew—“there
an’ glad to be there, since you wasn’t doing
any harm this night. But Mr Henry may not
come. I had speech with him, for the gentlemen
hadn’t gone to bed. Sir Reginald’s in a
proper fury. They’ll leave no stone unturned
to take the rascals. My man won’t travel far,
I should reckon, for I gived him quite as good
as I got, maybe better.”
“You’ve got enough anyway,” declared the
keeper’s wife. “Now lean on Dan an’ me,
an’ we’ll fetch ’e up to your chamber.”
Without a groan Matthew Sweetland let
them help him to his bed; but not until dawn
did the pain of his bruises lessen and suffer
him to sleep.
[40]
CHAPTER IV
THE WEDDING DAY
Daniel’s wedding day dawned gloriously,
and at the lodge gates a splendour
of autumn foliage blazed in the morning
light. But Mr Sweetland woke black and
blue, and stiff in all his joints. He had broken
a finger of the right hand; that, however,
did not prevent him dressing in his best clothes
and setting out to see his son married.
Daniel wished his friend, Titus, to be best
man; but the circumstances made that impossible,
since poor Sim himself had been a
suitor. The lad, Sam Prowse, therefore filled
that important post, and Minnie’s aunt, an
ancient widow named Mary Maine, gave the
bride away.
Daniel and his party were the first to
arrive at church; for Mr Sweetland called at
the cottage hospital on his way and had his
broken finger attended to. There he heard
black news, but the keeper kept it to himself
and presently joined his wife at church.
People began to drop in by twos and threes,
and Daniel, from a place in the choir stalls,[41]
kept turning his head to the door. But those
he looked for did not appear. Neither Titus
Sim nor Henry Vivian was at his wedding,
and the circumstance cast a gloom upon the
bridegroom. He grumbled under his breath
to Sam Prowse concerning the matter.
“I could have sworn them two men would
have been here, come what might. Titus
would never have missed seeing me turned
off, if there wasn’t some good reason against
it. As for Mr Henry—he gave me his word,
an’ his word no man have known him to break.
Something be wrong, Prowse, else they’d be
here, both of ’em. ’Tis last night’s work in
the woods.”
“Be that as it will, better not keep stretching
forward so, else you’ll burst thicky coat,” said
the cautious Prowse. “I see the seams of un
a-bulging over your back something cruel.
There’s Johnny Beer an’ his missus. I knowed
they’d come.”
Five-and-twenty people formed the little
congregation; the vicar appeared; the bride
with her aunt walked up the aisle.
Minnie was self-possessed as usual. She
wore a light blue dress, white thread gloves,
and a hat with a jay’s wing in it that Dan had
given her. One swift peep up at the face of
her lover she gave, one little smile touched her[42]
mouth and vanished; then, without a quiver,
she pulled off her gloves and opened her
prayer-book. Dan had his ready also. Beside
her niece stood Mrs Maine, in a bright purple
dress, and a bonnet that trembled with magenta
roses and red ribbons. On Daniel’s right
young Prowse appeared. He kept one hand
in his trouser pocket and held the ring tightly
on the tip of his little finger, so that it should
be ready for the bridegroom when the critical
moment came.
Mrs Sweetland was early dissolved in
moisture, and Mrs Beer likewise wept. Matthew
Sweetland seemed distracted and his thoughts
were elsewhere, for a great terror sat at the
man’s heart.
Then the ceremony concluded; the bellringers
clattered back to the belfry; the
wedding party entered the vestry.
A cloud hung dark over Daniel, and only
Minnie had power to lessen it. He signed his
name moodily and was loud to all who would
listen in expressions of wonder and regret that
Henry Vivian and Titus Sim had not been at
his wedding.
“Of course there was the battoo at Westcombe—yet
somehow—he promised, mind you—he
promised. As to Sim, he must be sick;
nought but illness would have kept him.”
[43]
“Don’t judge the young youth,” said Mary
Maine. “You forget he wanted Minnie too.
Perhaps, when it comed to the point, he felt he
couldn’t bear the wrench of seeing her made
over to you by holy Prayer-book for evermore.”
A brave banquet was spread at Mrs
Maine’s, and since all invited to it could
not get into the parlour, an overflow of
feeders took their dinner in the kitchen. Mr
Beer’s pleasure was spoilt entirely by this
circumstance, and his wife never liked Minnie’s
aunt again. For the publican, by reason of
his bulk, was invited to join the minor company
in the kitchen; and then, when the time
came, Daniel roared to him from the other
room to come into the parlour and propose the
bride’s health.
But this Mr Beer stoutly refused to do.
His lady answered for him and her tartness
struck all the wedding guests with consternation.
Sour words from Mrs Beer were like
bad grapes from a good vine.
“We’m very comfortable here, thank you,
Mr Sweetland,” she shrilled back in answer
to Daniel. “We know our place, since Mrs
Maine has made it so clear. Us will tell our
own speeches in the kitchen; an’ you can
tell yours in the parlour; an’ it may be news[44]
to Mrs Maine that all the jugs on our table be
empty—have been this long while.”
“An’ the room, small though it be, ban’t so
small as the beer was,” added Mr Beer, with
the note of an angry blackbird.
The empty jugs were filled; but nothing
could remedy Mrs Maine’s error. So she
lost her temper and began making pointed
remarks about a silk purse and a sow’s ear.
The visitors hastened to finish their meal,
and Dan’s wedding breakfast ended without
speeches or health-drinking. Since the
beginning of the festivity there had indeed
been a shadow in the air, and men and women
whispered under their breath concerning the
tragedy of the previous night. But the truth
was hidden with general kindness of mind
from the young bride and bridegroom. Now,
indeed, it could be concealed no longer, and,
horrible as a sudden death, there burst upon
Daniel Sweetland and his new-made wife the
tragedy of their lives.
The time for departure came and Daniel
noticed that a crowd considerably larger than
might have been expected began to gather at
the railings of Mrs Maine’s cottage garden.
Once or twice he saw Luke Bartley, the
policeman, pass and order the people further
back; then, as he himself emerged, with[45]
Minnie on his arm, the crowd overpowered
Mr Bartley and came close. Daniel stared
and his jaw stuck out and hardened, for no
cheer or friendly shout greeted him now.
Instead there rose hisses in the air and a
hoarse under-sound, or growl, as of angry
beasts.
Turning to learn the cause, two men
suddenly approached him. One was the local
inspector of police, a strong, brisk officer in
uniform; the other Daniel had never seen
before. Even at that tremendous moment
young Sweetland’s interest was arrested.
The stranger who now spoke to him stood
six feet six inches and was evidently as
powerful as he was tall. He dwarfed the
people about him and his big voice rolled out
so that it seemed to smother the church bells,
which were now clashing a final peal of farewell
to the departing pair.
“Who be you—Goliath of Gath, I should
reckon?” said Dan stoutly, as the big man
barred his way.
“No matter who I am,” he answered.
“The question is—Who are you?”
“’Tis Daniel Sweetland—just married,”
declared Inspector Gregory, who knew the
Sweetlands well. “Sorry I am, Dan, to come
between you an’ the joy of life at this minute;[46]
but so it must be. This here man’s a plain-clothes
officer from Plymouth; an’ he’ve got
the warrants all right an’ regular. You’m
arrested for the murder of Adam Thorpe last
night in Middlecott Lower Hundred. He
was shot in the belly, an’ he died to hospital
just after dawn this morning.”
The prisoner fell back and the world swam
round him. Then his wife’s small hand came
into his.
“Be a man, Dan. Swear afore God you
didn’t do it; an’ to God leave the rest,” she
said loud and clear so that all heard her.
“Afore God, an’ humans, an’ angels, I be
innocent of this,” said Daniel. “Never in all
my life have I lifted a hand against any fellow-creature—except
Saul Pratt when he insulted
me in the street. Who brings this against
me? Who charges me?”
The facts were briefly stated—not by the
police, but by Daniel’s friend, Titus Sim.
He broke through the crowd and spoke in the
other’s ear.
“Listen to me, Dan. ’Tis life or death
for ’e. Who had your gun last night? All
hinges on that. At dawn yesterday I was
called up by Mr Henry, and only then did I
know what had falled out. He told me of the
raid and ordered me to come down straight[47]
into the woods an’ search the ground to find
any mark or trace of the murderer. For
murder it was, because at cock-light came the
news from Moreton Hospital that Thorpe was
dead. We went—him and me alone—and
searched the ground foot by foot. Then I
found your gun—one barrel empty, t’other
loaded. I knew ’twas the new one he had
given you, and, in sudden fear, I was just
going to try and hide it. But Mr Henry had
seen it. He came over and recognised it at
once.”
“If it hinges on that, I’m safe,” said Daniel.
“’Tis all right, Minnie. I be safe enough!
You go to Hangman’s Hut, ’pon Dartymoor,
my bold heroes, an’ you’ll find my gun in its
case, where I put it last night with my own
hands.”
“Won’t do, Daniel,” answered the Inspector.
“We had a warrant for search as well as for
arrest. I was at Hangman’s Hut at midday
with this man here. Us did no harm, I promise
you. But we found the gun-case—empty—also
a box of cartridges broke open an’ two
missing.”
“You’ll have plenty of time to talk later on,”
said the big man. “But you’ve got to come
along wi’ us to Plymouth now, Daniel Sweetland,
so the sooner we start the better. I hope[48]
as you’ll prove yourself innocent with all my
heart; but that’s your business. Now I must
do mine.”
In an instant Dan’s hands were fastened
together. Powerful and stout though he was,
he found himself a child in the giant’s grasp.
Indeed, the young man made no struggle. He
felt dazed and believed that from this nightmare
he must presently awaken.
The steel clicked over his wrists and his
mother screamed. At the same moment
Bartley brought up a dog-cart. In it a big,
restive horse leapt to be gone.
Daniel turned to Titus Sim.
“I can’t believe I’m waking, old pal,” he
said. “Be I married? Be I dreaming?
Murder—to murder a man! Do your best,
Titus; do what you can for me. Try an’
bring a spark of hope to father an’ mother.
They know I’m innocent of this—so does
Minnie. Do what you can. An’ Mr Henry—he
don’t think ’twas me? He wouldn’t judge
me so cruel?”
“He’s hard and a terrible stickler for justice.
But be sure we’ll do what men may, Daniel.”
“Then ’tis to you I’ll trust—to you an’ my
own wits. Good-bye, Minnie; keep up your
brave heart as well as you can. ’Twill come
right. I must think—I can prove—at least.[49]
There—be brave, all of ’e. Don’t you weep,
mother. You’ve got my solemn word I didn’t
do it; an’ if the rope was round my neck, I’d
say the same.”
The old woman sank away from him and
fainted; Minnie stood close to him until he
was helped into the trap; Sim shook his handcuffed
hand. The crowd was divided and
men’s voices rose in argument. The last to
speak was Daniel’s father.
“Keep a stiff upper-lip, my son,” he said.
“Us’ll do what we can. I’ll go to Lawyer
Jacobs to Newton this very day. Us’ll fight
for ’e with all our power.”
Daniel nodded.
“Bid mother cheer up when she comes to,”
he said. “I ban’t feared. An’ take care o’
Minnie.”
He sat on the front of the trap and the big
man drove. Upon the back seat were Inspector
Gregory and the policeman, Luke
Bartley.
The horse was given its head, and soon
Daniel had vanished. He was to be driven
over the Moor to Plymouth.
For a moment Minnie seemed to be forgotten.
Then she went quietly to her weeping
aunt and kissed her.
“I be going now,” she said.
[50]
“Going—going where, you poor, deserted,
tibby lamb? Where should you go?”
“To my home,” answered the girl. “I’m
Mrs Daniel Sweetland now. I’ve got to keep
up Dan’s name afore the world an’ be the
mistress of his house. ’Tis waiting for me.
I’ll have it vitty for him when he comes backalong.”
“Go up there all alone to that wisht hovel
in the middle of them deadly bogs? You
sha’n’t do it, Minnie—I won’t let you.”
“An’ the name of the place!” groaned Mr
Beer. “I prayed un to alter it too. ’Twas
bound to bring ill fortune. Now ’tis an omen.”
“I’m going, however. ’Tis my duty. An’
so soon as may be I’ll get down to Plymouth
to see him,” declared the girl.
A cab, that was to have driven Daniel and
Minnie, still waited. Now she walked to it
and opened the door.
“Drive me up to Warren Inn ’pon Dartymoor,
my boy,” she said. “From there I can
walk.”
Then she turned and approached Mrs
Sweetland.
“My place is in his home, mother. Don’t
you fear nothing. I’ll be a good wife to your
son, an’ a good daughter to you. Our Dan be
in the hands of God. Good-bye, all—good-bye.”
[51]
She drove away, and the men who had hissed
at her husband cheered her.
“Dammy—a good pucked un!” cried a thin,
gnarled figure with a green shade over his
eye. “Lucky’s the he that gets that she,
whether it be yon chap or another after he
swings!”
The man was called Rix Parkinson, and he
held the proud dual position of leading drunkard
and leading poacher in Moreton. He was
drunk now, but people nearly always found
themselves in agreement with him when he
was sober and cared to talk.
A buzz and babel turned round Mrs Maine
and the Sweetlands. Then the gamekeeper
and Titus Sim talked apart.
“There’s a train to Newton Abbot half after
six,” said Matthew. “I’ll go by it an’ have a
tell with Lawyer Jacobs.”
“And what I can do with Mr Henry I will
do,” said Sim.
His eyes were upon Minnie Sweetland’s
carriage as it drove away with the little blue
figure sitting bravely in it—alone.
Johnny Beer’s wife had been forgotten, and
she wept in a small circle of children who had
gathered about her.
“What a wedding night for a dinky maiden!”
sobbed Jane Beer; “but me an’ my man will[52]
go over to hearten her up, if ’tis in mortal
power to do it.”
Anon the people scattered, and the day was
done. A grey gloaming settled upon the Moor,
and their eternal cloud-caps rolled over the
tors and stifled the light of evening.
A dog-cart with a fine trotting horse in it
swept along over the long, straight stretch to
the Warren Inn, and some miles in the rear of
it Daniel Sweetland’s wife followed behind.
She sat in an open fly and was drawn by an
old grey mare who had assisted at a hundred
weddings. But her driver had taken the
ribbons off his whip and flung away the flowers
from his buttonhole. He numbered only twelve
years; yet he had sense to see that the moment
was not one for show of joy.
“They’ll never hang such a rare fine chap,”
he said; “I’m sure they never would do such
a terrible rash thing, miss.”
[53]
CHAPTER V
A GHOST OF A CHANCE
His first experience of life crushed down
with all the weight of the world on
Daniel Sweetland and kept him dumb. He
stared straight before him and only answered
with nod or shake of head the remarks
addressed to him by Luke Bartley and the
inspector.
“Better leave the lad in peace,” said the
kindly giant, who drove. “He wants to think,
an’ no doubt he’s got a deal to think about.”
The prisoner’s native genius now worked
swiftly with him, and his sole thought was of
escape as dusk gathered on Dartmoor. He
puzzled his head in vain to see the drift of
these doings. It seemed that his gun had
been found beside the spot where Adam
Thorpe was shot. What human hands could
have put it there? He knew of no enemy on
earth. Measuring the chances of establishing
an alibi, he saw that they were small. Search
could prove the fact that he had killed
pheasants on the previous night, and it was[54]
quite possible for him to have killed a man
also. He might have shot Thorpe at Middlecott
and have spoken to the other keepers at
Westcombe afterwards. Indeed, the hours
agreed. Then he remembered the shadow
that had leapt up out of the heath when he left
Hangman’s Hut for the last time. That man
it was who had destroyed him; and that man
would never be found unless Daniel himself
made the discovery. Revolving the matter in
his young brains, the poacher believed that his
only chance was present escape.
Once free and beyond the immediate and
awful danger of the moment, Daniel Sweetland
trusted that he might establish his innocence
and prove the truth. But as a prisoner on trial,
with his present scanty knowledge, there
appeared no shadow of hope. He looked up
at the man who drove and instinctively strained
the steel that handcuffed his wrists. Escape
seemed a possibility as remote as any
miracle.
“What be your name, policeman?” asked
Daniel, meekly. “You took me very quiet an’
gentle, an’ I thank you for it.”
“I’m called Corder—Alfred Corder. I’m
the biggest man in the force.”
“An’ so strong as you’m big, by the looks
of it.”
[55]
“Well, I’ve yet to meet my master,” said
the officer. He had one little vanity, and
that was his biceps.
“Be you any relation to Alf Corder, the
champion of Devon wrestling, then?”
“I am the man,” said Mr Corder. “Never
been throwed since I was twenty-two; an’ now
I’m thirty-four.”
Daniel nodded.
“A very famous hero. I should have
thought you’d make more money wrestling in
London than ever you would doing cop’s work
to Plymouth.”
The giant was interested at this intelligent
remark.
“I’ve often been tempted to try; but I’m
not a man that moves very quick in my mind;
though I can shift my sixteen stone of carcase
quick enough when it comes to wrestling or
fighting. Once my hand gets over a limb, it
sticks—like a bull-dog’s teeth. ’Tis the
greatest grip known in the West Country—to
say it without boasting.”
Daniel nodded and relapsed into silence.
He was thinking hard now. All his ideas
centred on the wild hope to escape. Scheme
after scheme sped through his brains. Once a
shadowy enterprise actually developed, but he
dismissed it as vain.
[56]
Then Luke Bartley spoke to Mr Corder and
suggested another line of action.
“This here was the man who had that cute
thought that the burglars to Westcombe got
away on a motor-car—didn’t he, Gregory?”
The inspector admitted it.
“Yes; I gave you all credit for that, Sweetland.
’Twas a clever opinion, and the right
one. I’m sure of that. Hue an’ cry was so
quick that they never could have got clear off
with any slower vehicle.”
Daniel made no answer; but he jumped at
the topic of the recent burglary and turned it
swiftly in his mind. Here, perhaps, was the
chance he wanted. For half an hour he kept
silence; then he spoke to Bartley.
“’Twas you who first thought as I might
have a hand in that business myself, Luke?”
“No, no; Mr Gregory here.”
“Of course, I hope you hadn’t; but you
might have had. Anyhow, that will be a
mystery for evermore, I reckon,” said the
inspector.
“Five thousand pounds’ worth of plate they
took,” explained Daniel to his driver; but Mr
Corder knew all about it.
“Five thousand and more. ’Twas always
a great regret to me that I wasn’t in that
job.”
[57]
“You couldn’t have done no better than I
done,” struck in Gregory. “That I’ll swear
to. The London man gave me great credit
for what I did do. He said he’d never known
such a nose for a clue. That was his own
words.”
“It was,” declared Bartley. “That was
the very word of the London man, for I
heard it.”
“They are not a bit smarter than us to
Plymouth really,” said Corder. “I’ve known
them make mistakes that I’d have blushed to
make. But ’tis just London. If a thing
comes from London it must be first chop.
They only beat Plymouth in one matter as I
knows about; an’ that’s their criminal classes.”
“Not but what we’ve got our flyers at a
crime too,” said Mr Gregory, who was highly
patriotic. “Take that there burglary job to
Westcombe. ’Twasn’t a fool who planned
and carried that out.”
“But they comed down from London for
certain,” argued Corder.
“They might, or they might not,” answered
the inspector.
“Then, for murders like this here murder
of Adam Thorpe,” added Bartley. “I’m sure
the county of Devon stands so high as anybody
could wish. ’Tisn’t a deed to be proud[58]
of, certainly; but I won’t allow for one that
London beats Devonsheer in anything. As
many hangs to Exeter gaol as to any other
county gaol in my knowledge.”
“Shall I hang over this job, do ’e reckon,
Mr Corder?” asked Daniel, humbly.
“Ban’t for me to say, my son. A gun be a
very damning piece of evidence. But if you
can prove you wasn’t there, that’s all that need
be done.”
“I was using my gun, but—”
“Don’t say nothing to me,” interrupted the
giant. “I wish you well; but anything you
say is liable to be used against you according
to law. Therefore you’ll do wisest to keep
your mouth shut till you can get your lawyer
to listen to you.”
Silence fell; then the Warren Inn came
into sight, and at the same moment Mr Corder
pulled up and looked anxiously down his
horse’s flank.
“Just jump out, will ’e, one of you men, an’
see if he’s picked up a stone. He has gone
lame all of a sudden—in the near hind leg, I
think.”
Bartley alighted and lifted the horse’s hoof.
Then he examined the others. But there was
no stone. Yet the horse went lame when they
started again.
[59]
“He’s hurt his frog. He’ll be all right in
an hour,” said Gregory, who was learned on
the subject. “Here’s the Warren Inn just
handy. You’ll do well to put up there for a
bit. Us can go in the parlour an’ wait; then,
if there’s any in the bar, they won’t see us.”
John Beer and his wife were, of course, not
yet at home; but a potman kept house and
waited in the public room.
The place was empty. Mr Corder and
Gregory took Daniel Sweetland into a little
parlour, while Bartley stabled the lame horse.
Presently he returned and brought a lamp
with him, for it was now growing dark.
“An hour I’ll wait, and only an hour,”
declared Corder. “Then, if the horse be still
lame, we must get another.”
The officers sent for bread, cheese and
beer. They asked Daniel to join them, and
he agreed; then suddenly, while they were at
their meal, he spoke.
“I’ve got a word to say to you chaps. ’Tis
a terrible matter, but I’d rather have it off my
mind than on it just at present. Will you do
the fair thing if I tell you, an’ give me credit
after?”
“You’d better far keep quiet,” said Corder.
“’Tis like this. The cleverness of you three
men mazes me. To think as Gregory here[60]
saw so clear about the burglary; an’ Bartley
too! Well, now your horse goes lame an’
everything. ’Tis fate, an’ so I’ll speak if
you’ll listen. Only I ax this as a prisoner;
I ax this as the weak prays the strong for
mercy; that you’ll remember to my credit how
I made a clean breast of everything without
any pressure from any of you.”
Mr Corder stared.
“Trouble’s turned your head, my son, by
the looks of it. Whatever rummage be you
talking about?”
“’Tis sense, I promise you. I nearly told
just now when us was speaking about the
burglary. Then, just here of all places, your
horse falls lame. ’Tis like Providence calling
me to speak.”
Daniel was playing his solitary card. The
chances were still a thousand to one against
him; but he saw a faint possibility, if things
should fall out right. His swift mind had
seized the accident of the horse’s lameness, and
his plot was made.
“Be plain if you can,” said Corder. “Don’t
think I’m against you. Only I say again,
there’s no power in us to help you, even if we
had the will.”
“I’m thinking of last August—that burglary.
Well, now, how about it if I was able to help[61]
you chaps to clear that up? Wouldn’t I be
doing you a good turn, Greg, if you was
able to say at headquarters that by cross-questioning
me you’d wormed the truth out of
me?”
Mr Gregory stared. He licked his lips at
the very idea.
“An’ if Mr Corder here was agreeable, an’
let me explain, you might find that when you
drive into Plymouth in a few hours’ time, you
would be taking five thousand pounds of silver
plate along with you, besides me. Wouldn’t
there be a bit of a stir about it—not to name
the reward? Why, you’d all be promoted for
certain.”
“Twelve hundred and fifty pounds’ reward
was offered by the parties,” said Mr Corder.
“And do you mean that you know anything?”
asked the inspector, much excited.
“I mean this. You was right, Gregory, I
didn’t do the burglary, but I knowed about it,
and I can tell you all an’ more than you want
to know. There’s twelve hundred and fifty
pounds for the men who recover that Giffard
silver; an’ it can be done. But what I ax you
three men is this—If I put that money into
your pockets, will you do something for me?”
“That’s impossible,” answered Corder, firmly.
“I know what’s in your mind, my lad; and ’tis[62]
natural enough that it should be; but you
might so soon ask them handcuffs on your
wrist to open without my key as ask me to
help you now, if that’s your game.”
“It isn’t,” answered Daniel. “Afore God,
no such thought as axing you to let me go
comed in my mind. ’Twould be like offering
you three men five thousand pound to let me
off. I wouldn’t dream of such a thing. You’re
honourable, upright chaps, an’ I respect you
all a lot too much to do it. Five thousand
pound divided into three be only a dirty little
sixteen hundred or so apiece. Though, as a
matter of fact, there was far more took than
that. But I never meant no such thing. I’m
booked for trial, an’ you can’t help me. No,
you can’t help me—none of you. ’Tis my
poor little wife I be breaking my heart for.”
A fly crawled up to the inn as Daniel spoke
and stopped at the door. Looking out through
the open window, he caught a passing glimpse
of Minnie herself under the lamp at the door,
and heard her voice. She paid the driver and
he went into the bar; but Daniel knew that
Minnie was now walking alone across the Moor
to Hangman’s Hut.
“Go on,” said Gregory. “Let’s hear all
you’ve got to say. No harm in that. My
heart bleeds for your mother, not your wife,[63]
Sweetland. Little did she think that she was
bringing such a bad lot into the world the day
you was born.”
“I’m not so bad neither. Anyway, time’s
too short to be sorry now. ’Tis like this.
It’s not in my mind to ax anything for myself;
but I pray for a bit of mercy for my wife. If
I swing over this, what becomes of her?
She’ve got but fifty-five pounds in the world.”
“’Tis enough to keep her till an honest man
comes along an’ marries her,” said Bartley.
“For that matter, Titus Sim will wed her if
the worst overtakes you, Daniel.”
“You put it plain,” answered the prisoner,
“an’ I thank you for it, Luke. All the same,
they may not hang me; an’ if I get penal
servitude, Minnie can’t marry any other man.
Now the reward for finding out that burglary
job be twelve hundred an’ fifty pounds, as Mr
Corder says. That divided betwixt the three
of you would be four hundred odd apiece. An’
I want to know just what you’ll do about it.
In exchange for the money an’ fame an’ glory
this job will bring you men, I want two hundred
pounds—not for myself, but for my poor girl.
Ban’t much to ax, an’ not a penny less will I
take. That’s my offer, an you’d best to think
upon it. If you refuse, I shall make it to
somebody else.”
[64]
Silence followed. Then Dan spoke again.
“’Tis terrible awkward eating bread an’
cheese wi’ handcuffs on. Will e’ take ’em off
for a bit, please? I can’t get out of the winder,
for ’tis too small; so if you stands afore the
door, you needn’t fear I’ll give you the
slip.”
Mr Corder perceived the truth of this and
freed the prisoner’s hands.
“You’ve put a pretty problem afore us,
young man,” he said; “an’ us must weigh it
in all its parts. Can’t say as ever I had a
similar case in my experience.”
“Nor me neither,” declared Inspector
Gregory.
Bartley remained silent. He was asking
himself what it would feel like to be the richer
by hundreds of pounds.
Daniel ate his bread and cheese, drank a
pint of beer, and held out his wrists for the
handcuffs.
Then Mr Corder himself went to see to his
horse, and while he was away Daniel spoke to
the others.
“You chaps know how hard a thing it is to
get the public ear. Surely—surely ’tis worth
your while to find out this great burglary job an’
put money in your pockets? You’m fools to
hesitate. But if you be such greedy souls that[65]
you won’t spare a crumb to my poor wife, then
you sha’n’t have a penny, so help me.”
“’Tis throwing away money to refuse,”
declared Bartley to Corder, who now returned.
“You see, that money have got to be earned,
an’ why for shouldn’t we earn it? There’s no
under-handed dealings, or playing with the
law.”
“The hoss is all right again, an’ the sooner
we go the better,” answered Mr Corder.
“You won’t fall in then?” asked Daniel,
with a sinking heart.
“I don’t say that; but if you’m in earnest,
you can tell us all about it as we go along.”
“An’ you’ll swear, all three of you, to give
Minnie Sweetland two hundred pounds of the
reward?”
“I will,” said Bartley. “’Tis flying in the
face of Providence to do otherwise.”
“If it can be proved we’m not straining the
law, I’ll do the same,” declared Inspector
Gregory. “What do you say, Corder?”
“The law’s clear, for that matter,” answered
the big man. “The law ban’t strained. The
law have nothing to do with a private bargain.
This here man comes to us an’ says, ‘I’ll put
you chaps in the way to make twelve hundred
an’ fifty pounds between you.’ An’ we says,
‘Do it.’ Then he says, ‘But I must have two[66]
hundred for my wife; because I, who be her
natural support, be taken from her.’ Well—there
it is. My conscience is clear. Since
he’s brought to book an’ may go down on it,
the burglary never will be any use to him; so
he peaches. For my part I’ll promise what he
wants this minute.”
“And so will I,” said Bartley. “’Tis a very
honest, open offer for a condemned man.”
“Not condemned at all—merely an arrested
man,” corrected Gregory. “An’ I’ll take his
offer too,” he added; “so it only remains for
him to tell us where the stuff be hidden.”
Daniel looked straight into Corder’s face.
“That was why I axed you not to be in a
hurry,” he said. “The Giffard plate from
Westcombe was brought up to the Moor, an’
such a fuss have been made that the burglars
haven’t been able to get it clear for all these
weeks. Nobody dared to go near it. But I’ve
kept secret watch on it for ’em. As for the
stuff, ’tis within a mile of this very house,
though I daresay Johnny Beer would have a
fit if he knowed about it.”
“Within reach of us?” gasped Bartley.
“That’s why I said you could take it along
to Plymouth to-night, if you had a mind to.
Drive across with me into King’s Oven under
Hurston Ridge an’ borrow a spade or two, an’[67]
I’ll wager you’ll have every pennyweight of
the silver in your trap in two hours or less
from this minute. Take it or leave it. I’m in
solemn earnest; that I swear to. Only this I’ll
say: you’ll not find it without me—not if you
dig for ever an’ a day. ’Tis safe enough.”
The policemen held a hurried colloquy aside.
In Gregory’s mind was a growing suspicion
that the prisoner did not speak the truth. But
the others believed him.
“What motive should he have to lie about
it?” asked Corder, under his breath. “It
won’t advantage him if we find nothing. If we
do find it, the credit is ours. An’ I sha’n’t grudge
his wife her share of the reward, I’m sure.
Ban’t even as if ’twas blood money; for that
stealing job won’t make any difference to this
hanging one. Better let him show us the
stuff now. Who be the worse? If he’s fooling
us, he’s not helping himself. For my part,
I believe him. He’s just come from marrying
his wife; an’ ’tis human nature that she should
be the uppermost thought in his heart.”
“King’s Oven do lie no more than a mile
from here,” said Gregory; “so there’s no
reason why we shouldn’t get going. You put
in the hoss, Luke. Sooner this job’s over an’
we’m on the Plymouth road again, the better
I’ll be pleased.”
[68]
Corder spoke to Daniel.
“We’ll fall in with your offer, young man.
Show us that stuff an’ your missis shall have
her two hundred pounds so soon as the reward
is paid.”
“Very well. If you slip a spade and a pick
or two in the trap afore we start, ’twill be all
the better. An’ a bit of rope, for that matter.
Us have got our work cut out,” answered the
prisoner. “What they Londoners will say
to me for turning traitor, I don’t know; an’ I
don’t care now neither,” he added.
“You won’t give ’em up?”
“Not the men. Only the stuff—for my
wife’s sake.”
Bartley brought the trap to the door, and
as Sweetland was helped in, Mr Beer and
his wife drove up in their little market
cart.
The police said nothing, and soon they
were on their way again, but not before
Johnny Beer had spoken to his friend.
“Keep a cheerful face in this terrible case.
Us’ll do all we can for our old pal, Dan. To
think of the tragedy on your wedding day!
It have so got hold upon me that I’ve made
tragical rhymes upon it all the way back from
Moreton. Please God, I’ll get the chance to
tell ’em to ’e some day.”
[69]
“I hope you will, Johnny, though it don’t
look very likely.”
The trap drove off. Its lamps were lighted,
and they cast a bright blaze forward into a
dark night. Presently Daniel stopped them,
and Bartley jumped down and took the horse’s
head.
“Now keep over the grass track to the right
an’ us will be in King’s Oven in ten minutes,”
said Sweetland.
Swaying and jolting, their dog-cart proceeded
into the great central silence and stillness
of the Moor.
[70]
CHAPTER VI
THE WEDDING NIGHT
Furnum Regis, or the King’s Oven, is
a wild and lonely spot lying beneath a
cairn-crested hill of mid Dartmoor. Here in
centuries past was practised the industry of
tin-smelting, and to the present time a
thousand decaying evidences of that vanished
purpose still meet the eye. The foundations
of ruins are yet apparent in a chaos of
shattered stone; broken pounds extend their
walls into the waste around about; hard by a
mine once worked, and much stone from the
King’s Oven was removed for the construction
of buildings which are to-day themselves in
ruins. Now the fox breeds in this fastness,
and only roaming cattle or the little ponies
have any business therein. A spot better
adapted for the bestowal of stolen property
could hardly be conceived.
Three hundred yards from the entrance of
the Oven, Daniel stopped the trap and the
men alighted.
“I must get two of the rocks in line with[71]
the old stones ’pon top the hill,” said Daniel.
“That done, I know where to set you fellows
digging.”
They proceeded as he directed. Corder
walked on one side of the prisoner and
Gregory upon the other; while Luke Bartley,
with two spades and a pickaxe on his shoulder,
came behind them.
The moon now rose and the darkness lifted.
Sweetland walked about for some time until a
certain point arrested him. This rock, after
some shifting of their position, he presently
brought into line with another, and then it
seemed that both were hidden by the towering
top of the cairn that rose into the moonlight
beyond them.
“Here we are,” he said. “An’ first you’ve
got to shift this here gert boulder. It took
three men to turn it over and then pull it back
into its place; an’ it will ax for all you three
can do to treat it likewise.”
The rope was brought, and with the help of
the mighty Corder a large block of granite
was dragged out of its bed. The naked earth
spread beneath.
“You’ll find solid stone for two feet,”
declared Daniel, “for we filled up with soil an’
granite, an’ trampled all so hard an’ firm as
our feet could do it. The hole we dug goes[72]
two feet down; then it runs under thicky rock
to the left.”
Without words the men set to work and
Daniel expressed increasing impatience.
“Lord! to see you chaps with spades!
But, of course, you haven’t been educated to
it. You’ll be all night. I wish I could help
you; but I can’t.”
“We’ll shift it,” declared Corder. “Wait
till the moon’s a thought higher; then we’ll
see what we’re at easier.”
He toiled mightily and cast huge masses of
earth out of a growing hole; but the ground
was full of great stones; and sometimes all
three officers had to work together to drag a
mass of granite out of the earth.
“You chaps wouldn’t have made your
fortunes at spade work—that’s a fact,” said
Daniel. “I wish you’d let me help. If you
freed my hands, there’d be no danger in it so
long as you tied my legs.”
Bartley stopped a moment to rest his aching
back.
“’Tis a fair offer,” he said. “If you
make fast the man’s legs, he couldn’t give
us the slip. I can’t do no more of this
labour, anyway. I’ve earned my living
with my brains all my life, an’ I ban’t built
to do ploughboy’s work now I’m getting up[73]
in years. I be sweating my strength out
as ’tis.”
Gregory agreed.
“Time’s everything,” he said. “If you
take that there rope an’ tie him by the leg to
this stone what we’ve moved, he’s just as safe
as if he was handcuffed. Then he can dig for
us, as he well knows how.”
Mr Corder considered this course, and then
agreed to it. The rope was knotted round
Daniel’s leg, and he found himself tied fast to
the great rock that had been recently moved;
then Mr Corder took off the handcuffs.
“No tricks mind,” he said. “I’m a merciful
man an’ wish you no harm; but if you try to
run for it, I’ll knock you down as if you was a
rabbit.”
“You’re right not to trust me,” answered
the poacher, calmly; “but give me that spade
an’ you’ll see I’m in earnest. I want two
hundred pound for my wife, don’t I? If we
take turn an’ turn about, we’ll soon shift this
muck. ’Twill be better for two to dig. Ban’t
room for three.”
The critical moment of Daniel’s plot now
approached; but he kept a grip on his
nerves and succeeded in concealing his
great excitement. All depended on the next
half hour.
[74]
He and Corder now began to work steadily,
while the others rested and watched them.
The moon shone brightly, and a mound of
earth and stone increased beside the hole they
dug. Presently Gregory and Bartley took a
turn; but the latter had not dug five minutes
when Daniel snatched his spade from him and
continued the work himself.
“I can’t stand watching you,” he said.
“Such weak hands I never seed in my life. A
man would be rotten long afore his grave was
dug, if you had the digging.”
“I works with the intellects,” answered Mr
Bartley. “My calling in life is higher than a
sexton’s, I hope.”
After another period of labour, Corder took
the inspector’s place, and soon the aperture
gaped two feet deep.
“That’s it; now we’ve got to sink to the
left,” explained Sweetland. “We run another
two feet under this here ledge and then we
come to the stuff.”
Now he was working with Gregory again
and the moment for action had arrived. Opportunity
had to be made, however, and
Daniel’s escape depended entirely upon Mr
Corder’s answer to his next question. He
knew that with the giant present his plans
must fail; but if Corder could be induced[75]
to go aside, Daniel felt that the rest was not
difficult.
“Can’t see no more,” he said. “If you’ll
fetch one of the gig lamps, Mr Corder, us will
know where we are. You’ll want the lamp in
a minute anyway, when we come to the plate,
for ’twas all thrown loose into the earth.”
Without answering, the big policeman fell
into the trap. He had to go nearly three
hundred yards for the lamp, and, allowing him
above a minute for that journey, Daniel Sweetland
made his plunge for liberty. Suddenly,
without a moment’s warning, he turned upon
Gregory as the inspector bent beside him, and
struck the man an awful blow with his spade
full upon the top of the head.
“Sorry, Greg!” he cried, as the officer fell
in a heap, “but if I’ve got to swing, it shall be
for something, not nothing.”
Even as he spoke Daniel had reached to the
length of his rope and collared Bartley. The
strong man he had struck senseless according
to his intention; the weak one he now prepared
to deal with. Bartley screamed like
a hunted hare, for he supposed that his hour
was come. Then Daniel saw the distant light
leap forward. Only seconds remained, and
only seconds were necessary.
“Be quiet and hand me your knife, or I’ll[76]
smash your skull in too!” he shouted to the
shaking policeman; then he stretched for the
handcuffs, which Corder had put on a stone
beside him, and in a second Luke Bartley
found himself on the ground beside his
colleague. A moment later and he was chained
to the recumbent and senseless person of the
inspector, while Daniel knelt beside him and
extracted from his pocket the knife he now
required. With this he cut the rope that held
him prisoner and, during the ten seconds that
remained, before Mr Corder rushed upon the
scene, Daniel had put forty yards of darkness
between himself and his guards.
The Plymouth man now found his work cut
out for him. Gregory was still unconscious
and Bartley had become hysterical and was
rolling with his face on the earth howling for
mercy. Mr Corder liberated him and kicked
him into reason. Then Luke told his tale while
the other tended the unfortunate inspector.
“He falled upon the man with his spade,
like a devil from hell, an’ afore I could start my
frozen limbs an’ strike him down, he’d got me
in his clutches an’ handcuffed my wrist to this
poor corpse here.”
But Gregory was not a corpse. In two
minutes he had recovered his senses and sat
up with his feet in the pit.
[77]
“What’s happened?” he asked. “Where’s
Daniel Sweetland to? Who hit me? Was it
lightning?”
“’Twas him,” answered Corder; “an’
there’s no time to lose. If you can walk, take
my arm an’ we’ll go back this minute. I’m
going to drive to Princetown at once an’ give
the alarm there. ’Tis only a matter of ten
mile, an’ the civil guard at the prison know the
Moor an’ will lend a hand to catch the man as
soon as daylight comes. He can’t be off much
sooner.”
“An’ this here silver treasure?” asked Mr
Bartley.
“This here silver grandmother!” answered
the other bitterly. “He’s done us—done me—me
as have had some credit in my time, I
believe. There—don’t talk—I could spit
blood for this!—but words be vain. I sha’n’t
have another peaceful moment till I’ve got
that anointed rascal in irons again. ’Tis a
lesson that may cost me a pension.”
Corder gave his arm to Gregory and Bartley
walked in front with the lantern.
“A gashly company we make, sure enough,”
said the pioneer. “The wickedness of that
limb! An’ I thought for certain as my death
had come. Talk about London—I’d like to
see a worse unhung ruffian there, or anywhere.[78]
The man don’t live that’s worse than Sweetland.
I never knowed there was such a liar
in the universe.”
A last surprise awaited them and made the
long journey to Princetown impossible until
dawn.
When they reached the dog-cart they found
it supported by the shafts alone, for the horse
was gone.
“He’ll get to Plymouth after all, I reckon,”
said Corder, blankly; “but we sha’n’t—not this
side of morning. Us have got to walk ten
mile on end to reach Princetown, let alone
Plymouth. That’s what us have got to do.”
“While we talked, he took the hoss. The
devil’s cunning of that man!” groaned Bartley.
Meantime Daniel Sweetland was riding
bare-backed over Dartmoor to his new home.
He knew the way very well and threaded
many a bog and leapt a stream or two;
then breasted a hill and looked down where,
like a glow-worm, one little warm light glimmered
in the silver and ebony of the nocturnal
desert.
For the first time that day his heart grew soft.
“Her—all alone!” he thought. “I might
have knowed she’d come. That’s her place
now; an’ mine be alongside her!”
[79]
He formed the resolution to see Minnie at
any cost.
“Us’ll eat supper alone together for once,
though the devil gets the reckoning,” he said.
“I lay my pretty have had no stomach for
victuals this night.”
Five minutes later a horse stopped at Hangman’s
Hut, and Minnie, unlocking the door,
found herself in her husband’s arms.
“Ban’t much of a wedding night,” he said;
“but such as ’tis us’ll make the most of it. I’ve
foxed ’em very nice with a yarn about that
burglary, of which I know no more than the
dead really. But you’ll hear tell about that
presently. An’ to-night they’ll have a pretty
walk to Princetown, for the only horse except
this one within five miles belongs to Johnny
Beer; an’ ’tis tired out after the journey to
Moreton.”
Minnie was far less calm than when she left
him in the morning. Even her steady nerve
failed her now, and for the only time in his
life Daniel saw her weep.
“Don’t you do that,” he said. “Ban’t no
hour for tears. Fetch in all the food in the
house, an’ that bottle of wine I got for ’e.
Can’t stop long, worse luck.”
“I know right well you’m an innocent
man, Daniel; an’ I’ll never be happy again[80]
until I’ve done my share to prove it,” she
said.
“’Tis just that will be so awful hard. Anyway
I felt that the risk of a trial was too great
to stand, if there was a chance to escape.
And the chance offered. The lies I’ve told!
But I needn’t waste time with that. Keep
quiet about my visit to-night. Ban’t nobody’s
business but ours. A purty honeymoon, by
God! All the same, ’tis better than none.”
Minnie hastened to get the food; then, when
she had brought it, he put out the light and
flung the window open.
“Us must heed what may hap. They might
come this way by chance, though there’s little
likelihood of it.”
He listened, but there was no sound save
the sigh of a distant stream and the stamp of
the horse’s hoofs at the door.
“To leave you here in this forsaken place!”
he cried. “You mustn’t stop. You shall
not.”
“But I shall, for ’tis so good as any
other,” she answered. “I’ve got to work for
you while you are far off, Daniel. I’ve got to
clear you; an’ I will, God helping. What a
woman can do, I’ll do for ’e.”
“An’ more than any woman but you could
do! I know right well that if truth is to come[81]
to light ’twill be your brave heart finds it. You
an’ Sim. Trust him. He’ll do what a friend
may. He’ll work for me with all his might.”
“An’ what will you do?” she asked.
“Make myself scarce,” he answered. “’Tis
all I can do for the present. No good arguing
while the rope’s round your neck. I can’t prove
I’m innocent, so ’tis vain stopping to do it. I’ll
get out of harm’s way, if I can. I mean to get
to Plymouth afore morning an’ go down among
the ships. Then I’ll take the first job any man
offers me, an’ if my luck holds, I did ought to
be in blue water to-morrow.”
“They’ll trace you by the horse if you ride.”
“So they would, of course. ’Tis the horse
I trust to help me again as he’ve helped to-night.
Like enough, when you hear next about
me, they’ll tell you as I’ve been killed by the
horse. But don’t you feel no fear. I shall be
to Plymouth very comfortable.”
She ministered to him, and he ate and drank
heartily.
“One hour I’ll bide along wi’ my own true
love, then off I must go,” said Daniel. “I’ve
hit poor Gregory rather hard; but I hope he’ll
get over it. Anyway, it had to be done. Only
you go on being yourself, Min, an’ keep up your
courage, an’ fill your time working for me. The
case is clear. Some man have shot Adam[82]
Thorpe; but he didn’t shoot him with my gun,
because my gun was in my own hand when
Thorpe fell, an’ I was a good few mile away.
To be exact, I was getting pheasants for ’e in
Westcombe woods at the time—you’ll find ’em
in the well; an’ I heard the shots fired at
Middlecott quite clear, though I was five mile
off. But the thing be to show that I was five
mile off.”
“And your gun, Daniel?”
“I put my gun back in the case in the next
room to this long afore midnight yesterday,”
he said.
“Then ’twas fetched away after midnight?”
“Yes, it was; an’ if you can find the man as
took my gun, then you’ll find the man who killed
the keeper.”
“’Twill be the first thought an’ prayer of my
life to do it, Daniel.”
“An’ you will do it—if Sim don’t,” he prophesied.
Within an hour Daniel reluctantly prepared
to leave his home.
“’Tis a damned shame I must go,” he said;
“but I’ve no choice now. Only mind this,
Minnie Sweetland. Don’t you think you’m a
widow to-morrow when they comes an’ tells you
so. If they bring my carpse to ’e, then believe
it; but they won’t.”
[83]
“Take care of yourself, Daniel,” she answered,
“for your life’s my life. I’ll only live
an’ think an’ work an’ pray for you, till you come
homealong again.”
“Trust me,” he said. “You’m my star
wheresoever I do go. Up or down, so long as
I be alive, I’ll have you first in thought, my own
li’l wife. Nought shall ever come atween me
an’ you but my coffin-lid. An’ well God knows
it.”
“Go,” she said. “An’ let me hear how you
be faring so soon as you can.”
“Be sure of that. If I daren’t write to you,
I’ll write to Sim. But remember! it may be an
awful long time, if I have to go across seas.”
“Write to me—to me direct,” she begged
earnestly. “Send my letter through no other
man or woman. ’Twill be my life’s blood renewed
to get it. An’ I can wait; I can wait as
patient as any stone. Time’s nothing so long as
we come together again some day. We’ve got
our dear memories, an’ they’ll never grow dim,
though we grow grey.”
“Not the memory of this day an’ night, that’s
brought the greatest ill an’ the greatest joy into
my life to once,” he answered her. “Green for
evermore ’twill be.”
Then again and again they kissed, and Daniel
Sweetland rode away.
[84]
At the top of the next dark hill he turned and
looked back, but he saw nothing. Minnie had
not lighted her lamp again. She stood and
watched him vanish. Then she went to her
bed in the dark and prayed brave prayers until
the dawn broke.
[85]
CHAPTER VII
THE BAD SHIP “PEABODY”
Daniel Sweetland had decided on
his course of action before he bade his
wife farewell. Now he rode back to Furnum
Regis, found the King’s Oven empty as he
expected, and turned his horse’s head to the
south. He crossed the main road, struck
down a saddle path, and presently approached
Vitifer Mine. Here the land was cut and
broken into wild chaos of old-time excavations
and deep natural gulleys and fissures. The
place was dangerous, for terrific disused shafts
opened here, and a network of rails and posts
marked the more perilous tracts and kept the
cattle out. Sweetland knew this region well,
and now, dismounting, he led his horse to a
wide pit known as Wall Shaft Gully, and
tethered it firmly where miners, going to their
work, must see it on the following morning.
An ancient adit lined with granite yawned
below, and local report said that it was unfathomable.
Two years before a man had
accidentally destroyed himself by falling into
it, and though the fact was known, the nature[86]
of the place made it impossible to recover his
corpse.
Now Daniel took a pencil and paper from
his pocket. Then, under the waning moon,
he wrote the words “Good-bye, all. Let Sim
break it to my wife—D. Sweetland.” Next
he took a stick, stuck it up, and set his message
in a cleft of it; and lastly he kicked and broke
the soil at the edge of the shaft, so that it
should seem he had cast himself in with
reluctance. That done, he set out for Plymouth
at his best pace, consulted his watch, and saw
that if all went well he might reach the shelter
of the streets by four o’clock in the morning.
That information respecting his escape must
be there before him, he knew. As soon as the
police reached Princetown, telegrams would fly
to Exeter and Plymouth and elsewhere. But
Daniel trusted that early news would come
from the Moor. Then, if once it was supposed
that he had committed suicide, the severity of
the search was certain to relax.
His estimate of the distance to be travelled
proved incorrect, and the runaway found himself
surprised by the first grey of morning long
before he had reached the skirts of the town.
He turned, therefore, into the deep woods that
lie among those outlying fortresses which
surround the great seaport, and near the neighbourhood[87]
of Marsh Mills, where the river
Plym runs by long, shining reaches to the sea,
Daniel hid close under an overhanging bank
beside the water. Here he was safe enough,
and saw no sign of life but the trout that rose
beneath him. The food that Minnie made him
carry was soon gone, and another nightfall
found Sweetland ravenous. At dusk he lowered
himself to the river and drank his fill, but not
until midnight was past did he leave his snug
holt and set forth again.
By three o’clock on the following morning he
was in Plymouth, and turned his steps straightway
to the Barbican. For Daniel sought a
ship. He had debated of all possibilities, and
even thought of hiding upon the Moor and
letting Minnie feed him by night, until the truth
of Thorpe’s murder came to be known; but the
futility of such a course was manifest. To
intervene actively must be impossible for him
without discovery; he felt it wiser, therefore,
to escape beyond reach of danger for the
present. Then, once safe, he hoped to
communicate with his friends and hear from
them concerning their efforts to prove his
innocence.
The Barbican grew out of dawn gradually,
and its picturesqueness and venerable details
stood clear cut in the light of morning. It[88]
woke early, and Daniel hastened where a coffee-stall
on wheels crept down to the quay from an
alley-way that opened there. He was the first
customer, and he made a mighty breakfast, to
the satisfaction of the merchant. Daniel was
cooling his third cup when other wayfarers
joined him. Some were fishermen about to
sail on the tide; some were Spanish boys, just
setting out on their rounds with ropes of onions;
some were sailors from the ships.
A thin, hatchet-faced man in jack-boots and
a blue jersey attracted Daniel. He wore his
hair quite long in oily ringlets; gold gleamed
in his ears; his jaws were clean-shaven, and
his teeth were yellow.
“Have any of you chaps seen a Judas-coloured
man this morning?” he asked of the
company. “His name’s Jordan, and he carries
a great red beard afore him, and the Lord
knows where he’s got to. Went off his ship
last night and never came back.”
A fisherman was able to give information.
“I seed the very man last night. He was
drinking along with some pals and females at
the ‘Master Mariner’—that publichouse at the
corner. He’s got into trouble, mister.”
“Of course, of course; I might have knowed
it. He’s a man so fiery as his colour. Have
they locked him up?”
[89]
“That I couldn’t tell you. There was a
regular upstore an’ pewter mugs flying like
birds. First a woman scratched the man’s
face; then three chaps went for him all at once.
The police took him away, but whether he’s to
the lock-up or the hospital I couldn’t tell ’e.
One or t’other for sartain.”
The sailor with the earrings showed no great
regret.
“Let him stop there, the cranky, spit-firing
varmint. But we sail after midday on the tide,
and the question is where am I going to pick
up a carpenter’s mate between now and then?”
“What’s your ship?” asked Daniel Sweetland.
“The Peabody, bound for the West Indies,
and maybe South America after.”
“How long will you be away from England?”
“Can’t say to a month. Might be twelve
weeks, might be twenty; but most like we
shall be home by end of February.”
“I’ll come,” said Daniel. “I want a ship,
an’ I want it quick.”
“D’you know your job?”
“Ess, fay; an’ what I don’t know I’ll larn
afore we’m off the Eddystone light-house.”
“Come on then,” answered the other. “I’m
in luck seemingly. You’re all right—eh?
Ban’t running away from anybody?”
[90]
“I’m running away from my wife,” answered
Daniel, frankly.
The other shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, well, that’s a home affair—your
business, not mine. Sometimes there’s nought
better than a bit of widowhood for females.
You’ll make friends when you go back, no
doubt.”
“Very likely we shall.”
“There was one man shipped with me who
told that story, and I thought no more of it at
the time. But afterwards I found that the chap
had murdered his missis afore he ran away from
her. You haven’t done that, I hope?”
“No, no—just left her for her good for the
present,” explained Daniel. “And who be you,
if I may ax?”
“My name is James Bradley, and I’m mate
of the Peabody,” answered his companion.
“I’ll not deceive you. I’m offering you nothing
very well worth having. The Peabody’s an old
tank steamer, and rotten as an over-ripe pear.
Sometimes I think the rats will put their paws
through her bottom afore long. A bad,
under-engined, under-manned ship.”
“Why do you sail in her then?”
“That’s not here or there. I’m mate, and
men will risk a lot for power. Besides, I’m a
philosopher, if you know what that is, and I’ve[91]
got a notion, picked up in the East, that what
will happen will happen. If I’m going to be
drowned, I shall be drowned. Therefore, by
law an’ logic, I’m as safe in the Peabody as I
should be in a battleship. But perhaps your
mind is not used to logic?”
“Never heard of it,” said Daniel.
“I’ll larn you,” answered Mr Bradley.
“There’s the ship alongside that quay. I’ll
lay you never saw a uglier.”
The Peabody was not an attractive craft, but
Daniel had no eye for a ship and merely regarded
the steamer as an ark of refuge until
better days might dawn. She lay low in the
water, had three naked, raking masts, and
bluff bows. Her engines were placed right aft.
The well of the ship was not five feet above
the water-line.
Mr Bradley, ignorant of the fact that the
new carpenter’s mate had seldom seen a ship
in his life, and never been upon one, supposed
that Daniel was taking in the steamer with a
sailor’s eye.
“A better weather boat than you’d think, for
all she’s so low. Ten knots with a fair wind.
We’re taking out a mixed cargo and we shall
bring back all sorts and probably cruise around
on the South American coast till we can fill up
somehow.”
[92]
“What sort of a captain have you got?”
“A very good old man. Too good for most
of us. A psalm-smiter, in fact.”
“I’ll come an’ see the captain, an’ have a bit
more breakfast, if you’ve no objection,” said
Daniel.
“He won’t be there. He’s along with his
wife and family at Devonport. He’ll only come
aboard an hour afore we sail. But I’m in command
now. We’ll sign you on right away.
What sort of a sailor are you?”
“Never knowed what it was to be sea-sick
in my life,” said Daniel, laughing to himself at
the joke.
“Lucky for you. The Peabody finds the
weak spots in a man’s system when she’s in a
beam sea—that I promise you. I’m always ill
for a week after I’ve been ashore a fortnight.
Here’s Chips.”
The man addressed as “Chips” was standing
at the entrance of the forecastle as Bradley and
Daniel crossed a gangway and arrived on the
deck of the ship.
He came forward to the mate.
“Have ’e heard or seen aught of Jordan?”
he asked.
“Seen nought; heard all I want to hear.
He’s either in hospital or police-station. There
won’t be time for him to come back now, even[93]
if he wants to. Tell the boy to pack his kit-bag
and send it ashore to the ‘Master Mariner.’
They’ll know where he’s been taken. And this
man has come in his place. What’s your name,
my son?”
“Bob Bates.”
“Come and eat your breakfast, Bob Bates,”
said the carpenter. “Then I’ll find you plenty
to do afore we sail.”
“I’m a thought out of practice, but I’ll soon
get handy,” answered Daniel.
“Where’s your papers?” asked the mate.
“Haven’t got none,” answered the other.
“Old man will never take you without
papers.”
The carpenter, who liked the look of his
new mate, intervened. “Leave that, Bradley.
Cap’n will listen to me, if not to you. Seeing
this man ships in such a hell of a hurry, ’twill
be all right. Then, if he’s the proper sort, old
man will soon forget.”
“You can pretend I’m a stowaway an’ not
find me till we’re out to sea,” suggested Daniel.
“No need, no need; ’twill be all right,”
answered the other.
Time proved that the carpenter of the Peabody
was correct. His injured mate did not
reappear, and in the hurry of sailing no questions
were asked. That night, in a weak ship rolling[94]
gunwales under, Sweetland made acquaintance
with the ailment he had never known, and Mr
Bradley, who found him under the light of an
oil lamp in an alley-way, regarded the prostrate
wreck of Daniel with gloomy triumph.
“I told you as this ship would twist your
innards about a bit. I’m awful bad myself.
Drink a pint of sea-water; ’tis the only thing
to do. If it don’t kill you, it cures you.”
The landsman grunted inarticulately. He
was thinking that to perish ashore, even with
infamy, would be better than the dreadful death
that now prepared to overtake him.
But after twenty-four hours the Peabody
was ship-shape and panting solidly along on an
even keel. Daniel quickly recovered, and what
he lacked in knowledge he made up in power
to learn and power to please. Chips, of course,
discovered that his new mate was no carpenter,
and Bradley also perceived that Daniel had
never been to sea before. But your land-lubber,
if he be made of the right stuff, will often get
on with a ship’s company better than a seasoned
salt. Sweetland was unselfish, hard-working,
and civil. The men liked him, and the captain
liked him. He prospered and kept his own
dark cares hidden.
To detail at length the life on shipboard is
not necessary, since no events of importance[95]
occurred to be chronicled, and within a few
weeks of sailing, accident withdrew Sweetland
from the Peabody for ever. The usual experience
befell him; the wonders of the deep
revealed themselves to him for the first time;
but only one thing that the sea gave up interested
Sweetland, and that chanced to be an
English newspaper. It happened thus. When
off the Azores on the Sunday after sailing, a
big steamer overhauled the Peabody, went past
her as if she was standing still, and in two hours
was hull down again on the horizon.
“’Tis the Don,” said Bradley. “One of
the Royal Mail boats from Southampton for
Barbados and Jamaica.”
Sweetland frowned to himself and wondered
how it came about that the vessel’s name should
be familiar to him. Then he remembered that
it had entered his ear before the tragedy. Henry
Vivian intended to sail by this ship. Doubtless
he was on her now.
The liner passed within two hundred yards
of the tramp. Then, just as she drew ahead,
somebody pitched a newspaper over her taffrail
into the water. It was crumpled up, and the
sea being smooth, the journal floated, and a
current drifted it across the bows of the Peabody.
A man forward saw it, guessed that it
contained later news than any on the ship, and[96]
prepared to fish it up. Three sailors with lines
were ready for the floating paper as it passed
the side of the steamer, and the second angler
secured it. It proved to be The Times of a date
one day later than the sailing of the Peabody.
The journal was carefully dried and then, in
turn, each man who cared to do so studied it
at leisure.
For Daniel Sweetland it contained one highly
interesting paragraph, and he smiled to see how
successful his crude deception had proved.
The item of news may be reproduced, for it
defines the supposed situation left behind by
Sweetland, and fittingly closes this chapter of
his life’s story.
“THE TRAGEDY ON DARTMOOR
“A sensational sequel is reported to the arrest of
the man Daniel Sweetland on his wedding day. It
will be remembered that Sweetland, a notorious
poacher, was suspected—on the evidence of his own
gun—to have murdered a gamekeeper in the woods
of Middlecott Court estate near the little town of
Moretonhampstead, Devon. Three officers arrested
him and started to convey him to Plymouth. But
accident detained the party in the lonely central
region of the Moor, and their horse falling lame, they
spent some time at a solitary publichouse known as
the Warren Inn. Here Sweetland, taking the police
into his confidence, confessed to being an accomplice
in the recent famous burglary at Westcombe—the[97]
seat of the Giffards not far distant from Middlecott
Court.…”
The journal, after giving a very accurate
account of all that had happened at Furnum
Regis, proceeded—
“The hoodwinked officers lost no time in reaching
Princetown, and from the convict establishment at
that village, telegraphic communication was set up
with the neighbouring districts. But early morning
brought the sequel to the incident, for at dawn certain
labourers proceeding to their work in Vitifer Mine,
some few miles from the King’s Oven, discovered the
horse on which Sweetland had ridden off. It was
tethered in the midst of a wild and savage region
full of old workings, where lie some tremendous and
unfathomable shafts, sunk in past years but long
deserted. Here the unfortunate poacher appears to
have deliberately taken his own life, for at the head
of the Wall Shaft Gully—a famous chasm which has
already claimed human victims in the past—a stake
was discovered with a letter fastened to the top of it.
The words inscribed thereon ran as follows:—‘Good-bye
all. Let Sim break news to my wife.—D. Sweetland.’
The writing bears traces of great agitation, but those
familiar with Sweetland’s penmanship are prepared
to swear that these pathetic syllables were actually
written by him. Absolute proof, however, is impossible,
since the profound depths of the Wall Shaft
Gully cannot be entered. In the case of an accident
during 1883, when a shepherd was seen to fall in, all
efforts to recover his body proved fruitless, owing to
the fact that foul air is encountered at a depth of[98]
about one hundred yards beneath the surface of the
ground. The man ‘Sim’ alluded to in the poacher’s
last message is a footman at Middlecott Court, and
appears to have been Sweetland’s only friend. We
understand that he has carried out the trust imparted
to him by his ill-fated companion. Search at the
King’s Oven has proved unavailing. It is clear that
no treasure of any kind was secreted there.”
“That’s all right,” said Daniel. “Now the
sooner I get back to help ’em find out who
killed Thorpe, the better. If I’d known that
’twould all work out so suent an’ easy, I’d not
have gone at all. If it weren’t for the thought
of Minnie an’ mother, I could laugh.”
[99]
CHAPTER VIII
MR SIM TELLS A LIE
Though Daniel had expressly asked
Minnie to tell his friend Titus Sim that
he was not at the bottom of Wall Shaft Gully
but far away in present safety, the wanderer’s
wife did no such thing. She would not trust
herself to associate Sim with her husband’s
tragic misfortune; for she could not yet feel
certainty that the footman was all he pretended
and declared. His conduct after Sweetland’s
disappearance proved exemplary. He fulfilled
the mission left behind by Daniel with all possible
tact and judgment. Alone he visited
Minnie, and broke the news to her that she
was a widow. But she surprised him more than
he dismayed her.
“I pray that you an’ everybody be mistaken,
Mr Sim,” she said. “I hope my Daniel’s not
at the bottom of that awful place. But whether
his days are over an’ he lies there, or whether
he’s safe an’ beyond the reach of those who
want to take him, my part is the same. I’ll
never rest till I’ve done all a faithful wife can
do to clear his memory of this wicked thing.[100]
You know so well as I do that he was an
innocent man.”
“Yes, and trust me to prove him so, if wit
and hard work can do it.”
“Those who loved him must labour to clear
him. Let them who want my good word an’
good-will right Daniel. ’Tis the only way to
my heart, an’ I don’t care who knows it.”
Perhaps those words were the cleverest that
Minnie had ever uttered. At any rate, they
produced a profound effect on Titus Sim. He
pondered deeply before replying; then he
nodded thoughtfully to himself more than once.
“’Tis the great task before us all; to make
his memory sweet. Rest sure enough that I’ll
do my share,” he promised.
But Minnie Sweetland found her dislike of
Sim not lessened by his correct attitude during
these dark and troubled days. She avoided
him when possible. She kept the secret of her
husband’s flight very close. Indeed, two living
souls alone knew it beside Minnie, and they
were her husband’s parents. Dan need have
been in small concern for his mother, because
on the morning after the poacher’s flight Minnie
had private speech with the Sweetlands, and
made them understand the truth. The woman
was wise, and perceiving that her son’s salvation
probably hung upon this secret, she kept[101]
it. Matthew Sweetland also preserved silence.
His melancholy was profound, and only Minnie
had any power to lift him out of it. Her energy
and determination deeply impressed him; her
absolute belief and trust in her husband’s honour
put life into him. He told her all that he knew
concerning the death of Adam Thorpe, and
promised to take her to the scene of the outrage
that she might study it for herself.
“If only we can prove that he had no hand
in it,” said Matthew. “But there, ’tis vain to
hope so—look which way you will. If he was
innocent, why for did he run?”
“Innocent men have done so for nought but
terror,” she answered.
“Maybe; but not Daniel. He was never
afeared. No—no; he’s gone with blood on
his hands. ’Twill never be known till Judgment
Day. Then the record will be cried from
the Book.”
“Why for shouldn’t us believe him?” she
asked. “He never told me a lie in his life.
Can you call home that you ever catched him
in one?”
But the father refused to argue.
“He may have throwed himself down Wall
Shaft Gully for all he told you he would not.
And no man would have taken on that dreadful
death if he wasn’t in fear of a dreadfuller.[102]
However, you can come to the place an’ welcome.
I’ll show you where one rogue got me
down an’ nearly hammered the life out of me;
an’ I’ll show you where the other man let moonlight
into poor Thorpe. The detectives have
tramped every yard of the ground, but they
found nothing good or bad. The man or woman
as can prove my son innocent will have my blessing,
I promise you, though too well I know he’s
guilty. I’ve heard him threaten Thorpe myself.”
In process of time, therefore, Minnie visited
the coverts of Middlecott Court and traversed
the exact ground where Daniel was supposed
to have destroyed Adam Thorpe. Many other
more highly trained observers had done the like;
but public interest in the affair perished with
Sweetland’s supposed suicide; and even the
police when the events of Furnum Regis and
Wall Shaft Gully came to their ears, pursued
their operations at Middlecott Lower Hundred
and elsewhere with less ardour. Their labours
threw no light upon the past; nor could they
find Daniel’s accomplice. Mr Sweetland swore
to a second poacher; for one man fought with
him and broke his finger, while the other fired
on Thorpe; but both rascals had worn masks,
and no trace of either appeared after the affray,
excepting only the gun—Henry Vivian’s gift
to Daniel.
[103]
Proceedings presently terminated tamely
enough, and it was not until a fortnight after
the last detective had left Middlecott that
Minnie with her father-in-law visited the theatre
of Thorpe’s death.
But they took a detour, for Sweetland had
fresh troubles upon his hands.
“We’ll go by Flint Stone Quarry in the east
woods,” he said, “for there it was that more
birds were killed last night. You’d think the
anointed ruffians had done enough; but they be
at it still. ’Twas a great roosting-place—very
thick and warm, with snug shelter from north
and east. They might have killed scores o’
dozens for all me an’ the new keeper could do.
For all I know, they did. Of course when us
got there all was silent as the grave; but
Thomas went again first thing this morning and
found one dead bird an’ one lamed but living,
stuck in a tree fork. An’ there was feathers
everywhere an’ marks of feet. Ten pounds
worth of birds at least they took.”
The girl listened quietly.
“Maybe ’tis the old hands, father?”
“Or new ones, as have larned their wicked
tricks from my dead son.”
“I shall never love you while you say these
things against Daniel.”
The keeper did not answer. He was surveying[104]
the glaring evidence of another poaching
raid. A stone quarry stood in the centre of
heavy woods here, and gleamed white with flint
and yellow with gravel where it had been gouged
out of the hillside. All round it there crowded
trees, and an undergrowth of juniper and
rhododendron grew to the forehead of the cleft.
“Look!” said Matthew Sweetland. “The
scamps comed down there; an’ one slipped, I
reckon. See how the soil be tored away. I
lay he fell pretty heavy. ’Twas this here more[1]
catched his foot an’ over he comed. Here’s
feathers an’ blood where he fell.”
Minnie stood by her father-in-law and examined
the marks he indicated. It was clear
that some heavy body had crashed over the
edge of the quarry and fallen six feet into a bed
of fern beneath. While the man examined the
ground, Minnie picked up a feather or two,
regarded the clotted blood beneath, and wondered
whether it came from a dead pheasant or
a living poacher. She peeped about among the
fern, then started, bent down, picked up a small
object and put it into her pocket quickly.
When the keeper returned she was looking
listlessly at the wound on the quarry.
“The man must have fallen heavy, if ’twas
a man,” she said.
[105]
“The Dowl looks arter his own,” answered
Mr Sweetland. “’Twould have broke the neck
of any honest chap, no doubt.”
They proceeded a mile into the sweet recesses
of the woods. Then Minnie stood on
the scene of the murder and regarded, not without
emotion, the spot where her husband was
declared to have killed Adam Thorpe.
His father gloomily pointed out the place
where Daniel’s gun had been discovered by
Titus Sim.
“It have aged the poor wretch twenty year,”
he said. “Sim be a hang-dog creature now,
an’ slinks past me as though he was to blame
for Dan’s downfall. But I won’t have that.
He only done his duty. There was the gun,
an’ he had to show it. ’Tis all summed up in
that. How did it come to be there, if my
son was not? An’ why for did he run away or
else kill himself, if he had the power to prove
himself guiltless? Who can answer those
questions?”
“’Tis for me to do it,” replied Minnie. “An’
right’s my side, father. If he was dead, ’tis for
me to live to right his memory; but he be living,
’tis for me to clear him more than ever, so that
he may come back an’ stand afore your face
again like an honest man.”
“Never—never,” he answered. “That’s[106]
where us picked up Thorpe; an’ that’s where
the gun was; an’ there, alongside that fallen
tree in the brambles, was the spot where t’other
blackguard got me down an’ nearly beat the life
out of me.”
The girl looked round about her and
nodded.
“Now you go about your business, for I lay
this not a pleasant place to you,” she said. “I’ll
just peep around, if you please.”
“There’s no eyes of all them that have
searched here was so bright as yours, my dear;
but think twice afore you waste your time here.
’Tis not likely you’ll find aught; an’ if you find
anything more than others have found, ’tis most
certain to be sorrow.”
“I don’t think it. My heart tells me as there
be that hid here as will pay for finding. I’ve
felt it all along, an’ never more than to-day.”
“Seek then, an’ if you can find my son’s innocence,
me an’ his mother will bless you for
evermore, when us wakes and when us lies
down. You’ve my leave to come here as often
as you will, an’ I’ll tell Thomas an’ t’others that
you’m free of the woods. Your way home
along is by the path yonder. ’Twill fetch ’e out
’pon the side of Hameldon; then to the high
road ban’t above a mile.”
The old man left her, and Minnie, sitting[107]
down upon the fallen tree which he had pointed
out, made a quiet and systematic plan of search.
But her thoughts were divided between this
present site and that whereon she had stood
half-an-hour earlier. Now she mapped out the
region of the fray, and began her work where
Daniel’s gun had been discovered by Titus Sim.
She took a reel of stout white thread from her
pocket and with sticks marked out a space of
three square yards. Then yard by yard she
went over the ground, lifting every leaf and examining
every inch of grass and soil. Not an
atom of ground escaped this most laborious
scrutiny. With immense patience and care she
pursued the task, and at the end of three hours,
in the silent heart of the woods, she had inspected
six square yards. Nothing rewarded
the examination: but only a very trifling tract
out of that involved was yet inspected, and
Minnie, having carefully marked the portion investigated,
left Middlecott Lower Hundred and
prepared to return home.
She still lived at Hangman’s Hut, and the
fifty pounds with which Daniel had started life
promised to keep her there until time should
pass and news of her husband reach her. Already
the wonder waned and folks began to talk
of the “widow Sweetland” and ask each other
how long she must in decency remain alone[108]
before taking another husband. That Titus
Sim would be the man few doubted. He often
visited her, and he strove valiantly in many
directions to discover the secret of Thorpe’s
death. Sometimes he grew elated at the
shadow of a clue; then, again, he became
cast down as the hope of explanation vanished
and the problem evaded him.
Three nights after Minnie’s first great search,
Mr Sim called upon her. Of late he had seen
her not seldom, because the family at Middlecott
was away and the servants consequently
enjoyed unusual leisure.
Titus found Mrs Beer with her neighbour, for
the innkeeper’s wife often spent an evening
hour at the lonely girl’s cottage, and Mr Beer
also would occasionally run over if business
was quiet. But his motives were selfish, for
Minnie proved a good listener, and though
she did not praise the fat man’s poetry, she
was always prepared to give it respectful
hearing.
The footman knocked and entered, according
to his custom; then he sat by the fire and
stretched his gaitered legs to the blaze.
“A rough night,” he said. “I had a regular
fight with the wind coming up over the heath;
but you’m snug enough seemingly. I do welcome
these days when our people are away;[109]
for they give me a chance to be in the air.
Sometimes I’m sore tempted to throw up this
life and get out-of-door work again.”
“You wasn’t meant for a flunkey, I’m sure,”
declared Mrs Beer. “I never can think ’tis a
very dignified calling for a grown man, though
of course the quality must have ’em.”
“You are almost so fond of the woods and
the wild things as my Daniel is,” declared
Minnie.
“True for you,” he answered. “True for
you, Mrs Sweetland.”
“I dare say you get a breath of the woods
now an’ again while the folks are away?”
“All I can. These stirring times make me
long to be a gamekeeper—just like when the
country goes to war, we men all want to be
soldiers. I’m afraid poor old Sweetland gets
beyond his work. There’s been more trouble
in the preserves since Sir Reginald went to
Scotland.”
This information apparently reminded the
mistress of Hangman’s Hut that she had offered
Titus no hospitality.
“I’ll draw some cider for ’e. ’Tis all I’ve
got. Dan promised never to drink nought else
after we was married. An’ if you want for to
smoke, please do it.”
The footman pulled out a pouch of tobacco[110]
and a pipe from his pocket; as he did so he
groaned.
“What’s the matter?” inquired Mrs Beer.
“That’s the noise my old man makes in his
sleep when the rheumatics be at him.”
“My side. I had a cruel dig in the ribs two
days agone. Slipped and fell on the cellar
stairs with a scuttle o’ coals. I thought I’d
broke every bone in my body. And a pang
shoots through an’ through my side yet when
I move my right arm. But ’tis better than
’twas.”
Minnie expressed active regret and brought
Mr Sim a cushion for his back. His bright
eyes looked round the little comfortable kitchen
hungrily. He already pictured the time
when he might fill a dead man’s shoes, for he
was among the many who believed that Daniel
Sweetland had in reality perished and would be
heard of no more. Minnie never undeceived
him.
Now the mistress of Hangman’s Hut poured
her visitor out his drink, then sat and watched
the tobacco smoke curl from his lips. Presently
she spoke.
“Do you still use that wooden pipe what my
Dan gived ’e? ’Twas cut very cunning in the
shape of a fox’s mask wi’ li’l black beads for
eyes. I should like to think as you smoke it[111]
sometimes an’ remember him as gived it to
you.”
“And so I do. ’Tis my best pipe—for great
occasions only. There’s nought belongs to me
I treasure more. I had it betwixt my teeth
only this morning.”
The woman looked at him and nodded
gravely. There was nothing in her face that
showed his speech particularly interested her.
And yet, in wide ignorance of facts, Sim had
spoken words that might some day lead to his
discomfiture and ruin. For he had lied, and
Mrs Sweetland knew it.
He drank, talked on and suggested in his
speech and ideas a man of simple rectitude
and honourable mind. His admiration for
Minnie he made no attempt to conceal. It
presently fired Mrs Beer into a rather personal
remark.
“Lord! what a couple you’d make!” she
said, eying them. “I do hope, to say it without
rudeness, as you’ll see your way, my dear;
for Titus here be cut out for you; an’ everybody
be of the same opinion. When a man’s
saved enough to open a publichouse, that man’s
a right to look high for his partner, and he has
a right to the respect of us females. Take the
case of my Beer. He waited, so patient as Job,
till the critical cash was to his name in the Bank[112]
at Moreton. Then he flinged over service as
gardener up to Archerton and lifted his eyes to
me; but not afore he’d got three figures to his
name. An’ we all know that Mr Sim be a very
snug man.”
“I won’t deny it,” said Titus. “’Twould be
idle to do so. I am a snug man as young men
go. The guests at Middlecott are generous,
and five pound notes soon mount up. But we
mustn’t talk of that. Mrs Sweetland hopes that
my poor friend and her dear husband be still in
the land of the living. And, though it cuts the
ground from beneath me, I hope so too. Have
’e heard ’bout drunkard Parkinson? They say
he’s not likely to get over his last bout. Now
there’s a man famed for poaching since his
childhood, and as clever at it as any chap ever
I heard of. It strikes me that he knows a lot
more than his fellow creatures have heard him
speak. Anyway, I’m going to see him to-morrow,
if he’s well enough to see me. He’s
not above a bit of sport by night still, though
I guess he’s shot his last bird now, poor chap!
Put a gun in that man’s hand, and he is sober
in a minute. ’Tis an instinct with him.”
Minnie listened and said nothing. She appeared
to be working on a piece of red flannel,
but in reality her mind and attention were elsewhere.
She had private reasons for a close[113]
personal scrutiny of Titus, and now, from under
veiled lids, observed his every action, his dress,
his speech.
The man clearly endured physical pain from
time to time. He moved his right shoulder
gingerly and occasionally, forgetting it, puckered
his mouth into the expressions of suffering,
when a twinge reminded him of his accident.
He was clad in an old shooting jacket and
breeches, the gift of one of his master’s guests
at the end of a shooting season. One leg was
torn and the rent had been carefully drawn together.
His gaiters were fastened with yellow
horn buttons; but upon the right leg a button
was missing. It had, however, been replaced
with a black one.
Sim smoked and finished his cider; then he
loaded his pipe again, talked ten minutes longer
and prepared to depart.
“I was forgetting,” he said. “Mrs Sweetland,
at the lodge, sent a special message by
me. She wants for you to come down and take
supper along with her to-morrow. And she
was so kind as to ask me also. And I said as
I would do it and be proud to see you home
after, if agreeable to you.”
“I’ll come gladly. I shall be at Moreton to-morrow.
My fowls have beginned to lay finely,
an’ I hope to have a dozen eggs for market.”
[114]
“And may I see you home after?”
“If you’ve a mind to, though there’s no need—a
married woman like me.”
“You’m so brave. Good-night—good-night.
See how the moon is shining on the fog-banks.
There’ll come rain before morning, for the wind’s
fallen a lot already.”
He departed, and soon afterwards Mrs Beer
also returned to her home. Then Minnie tidied
up the kitchen, brought in from his kennel her
sole companion—a great yellow mongrel dog,
loved of Daniel—and then locked the door.
Next she turned out from a drawer in the
kitchen table a piece of brown wood and examined
it very closely. It was the bowl of a
pipe broken roughly from the stem. The fragment
had been carved to represent a fox’s mask,
and upon the bottom of it were cut in small
letters “T.S. from D.S.” Minnie Sweetland
collected some of the shreds of Mr Sim’s tobacco
and compared it with that still pressed
into the broken pipe. Thus, while the footman
walked home well satisfied with the progress of
events, and full of dreams for his future prosperity,
she upon whom it rested had made a
remarkable discovery. That Titus Sim was
involved in the murder of Thorpe, Minnie could
not guess or prove; but that he was implicated
in the recent raid—that it was, in fact, Sim who[115]
had fallen in the quarry—it seemed impossible
to doubt.
The young woman’s first thought was to tell
her father-in-law upon the following day. But
she abandoned the idea. “I’ll go on alone,”
she said to herself. “My Dan shall have none
to thank but me. I’ll prove afore all the world
that he told the truth; an’ maybe I’ll live to
bring the truth to light. An’ if there’s danger
in it, let the danger fall on me. I never was
afeared of a human an’ never will be, please
God.”
[116]
CHAPTER IX
IN MIDDLECOTT LOWER HUNDRED
At this juncture it is enough to relate of
Titus Sim that he honestly believed his
old friend was dead, and hoped with all his
heart to marry the widow. With no little self-control
he concealed his ambitions, but the
fact that others saw the propriety of the match
impressed him, and since not a few openly
held that he might fittingly wed the young wife,
he began to sound Minnie herself upon the
question.
There came a day after Christmas when
Titus did groom’s work and rode with a
message from his master to Two Bridges, nigh
Princetown. He pulled up his horse on the
return journey and stopped to drink at the
Warren Inn. Mr Beer was in the bar alone,
and it happened that he touched the matter
nearest the other’s heart.
“Seeing we’m without company for the
minute,” said Johnny, “I can read ’e a bit of
my last verses, Sim; an’ though you ban’t
addicted to poetry, yet you’ll do well to listen
patient, for the matter has to do with you in a[117]
manner of speaking, though ’tis poetry. In
fact, you be mentioned by name.”
The footman, who never quarrelled with any
man, pretended deep interest, and Johnny drew
a piece of foolscap from his pocket, unrolled it,
set a glass on the top, then spread out the
sheet and read with that deliberate and loving
unction peculiar to one who recites his own
composition.
“’Tis the whole tragedy of two young,
youthful lives told in a rhyme,” he explained.
“I’ve took the tale so far as it has got like.
Now ’tis for you to make history, so as I can
write the next verses.”
Then the poet began:—
“Oh, ’twas a direful business sure
When out come Sweetland from church door
And, almost afore he’d kissed his wife,
To find himself tried for his dear life.
Then up he sprang; policemen three
They wasn’t half so spry as he.
And even Corder, as comed from Plym-
Mouth, he couldn’t get quits with him.
But cruel sad and wisht the tale,
For Daniel from this mortal vale
Did take his leave; but there’s no mirth
Down in the bowels of the earth,
Where he be now—excuse my groans,
For fitches and weasles do pick his bones.
And that young woman sweet and slim,
She never was no wife for him.
[118]
Though she have lost her maiden name,
She’m just a maiden all the same.
And Sweetland’s her name and sweet’s her nature—
So sweet as any mortal creature.
And here, upon the Moor so desolate,
She lives, like a bird as have lost its mate.
All in a lonesome nest she bides;
Near by a little old river glides;
And Dan will never come no more, he
Is in the Land of eternal glory.
For that I swear, who pens this verse,
Though some was better and some was worse,
Yet never would that straight young Dan
Have shed the blood of any man.
But now who shall come forth and say,
‘I’ll take this poor young girl away
And marry her and give her joy
To atone for her unfortunate boy?’
I ask the question far and near,
And answer comes as clear as clear:
For Titus Sim, he loved her well,
And nothing but death true love shall quell.
And therefore I do hope afore long
He will make good this humble song;
And no chap will be happier than Titus Sim
If Minnie Sweetland will live along with him.”
“There!” said Mr Beer. “Every rhyme
out of my own head. An’ what d’you think
of it?”
“’Tis very fine poetry, and true, which all
poetry is not to my certain knowledge,”
answered Titus. “I have chances to dip into[119]
gentlefolks’ books, and the nonsensical rhymes
they have in ’em would much surprise you.
But here’s rhyme and reason both, I’m sure.
’Tis a beautiful poem, an’ I should be very much
obliged for a copy.”
“If ’twill fire you on to your duty, you shall
have it; an’ if she takes you, I’ll add a bit to
it,” said Mr Beer. “If you think in rhyme as
I often do,” he added, “’tis fifty pounds against
a bag of nuts, that you frequently hit on a bit
of wisdom. I’ve often been mazed at my own
cleverness. But I never surprise my wife. If
I found out a way of turning moor-stone into
solid gold, she’d merely say that she knowed
all along ’twas in me to do it. Therefore I
hope you’ll take the hint like a man, an’ offer
marriage so soon as you can. You’ve got the
good wishes of the parish behind you in the
adventure; an’ that’s half the battle, no doubt.”
“I’m thinking it’s too soon,” said Titus.
“Between you and me, Mr Beer, ’tis my dream
and hope to have her, but time must pass. In
the upper circles they wait a year afore they
approach a bereft female, and though I needn’t
be asked to keep off it so long as that, still
three months isn’t enough, I’m afraid. She
was very fond of Dan, remember.”
“I suppose three months is not enough, as
you say,” admitted Johnny, “especially as she[120]
won’t have it that he’s dead. There’s a crack-brained
thought in her poor young heart that
Daniel didn’t make away with himself at all;
an’ of course as the ashes of the poor chap
will never be seen by mortal eye until the last
Trump, ’tis impossible to prove she’s wrong.
For my part I’ve said that I reckon he’s dead;
but, at the same time, I never shall know why
he made away with himself until we stand
face to face beyond the grave. Then that will
be the fust question I ax the man. ‘Whatever
did ’e do such a terrible rash thing for,
Dan?’ I shall ax him as we meet in a golden
street.”
“I wish I could think with you that he
didn’t do it—shoot Thorpe I mean; but I’m
only too sure of it. What I believe is this:
that Rix Parkinson and Dan did the job
between them, and that poor Dan shot the
underkeeper while Parkinson tried to knock
the life out of Dan’s father. Of course Rix
denied it when I taxed him. However, truth
will out—at Doomsday, if not before, an’, be
it as it will, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t
ask the girl I love to marry me now she’s free
to. I’ll do it come the springtime, if not
before.”
Mr Beer applauded the resolve.
“I’m sure right an’ law be both your side.[121]
The Church likewise, for that matter. Parson
never would hold Minnie to that marriage.
She’m free, no doubt. What you’ve got to do
be to convince her loving mind that Daniel be
in glory, as my verses say; then she’ll let un
bide an’ turn her attention to you, if she’s so
wise as I think. Shall you live upalong to
Hangman’s Hut if she takes you?”
“No, I sha’n’t. I mean to go to Moreton.
I’ve a thought to take a little shop there, if
she likes the idea.”
“Better try for a public. Drink be a
more certain support than food. If I don’t
know Moreton men, who should? I tell you
that they put bread second to beer every day
of the year. I made a rhyme about it that
they wrote up in Sam Merritt’s bar. If you
like—?”
“Not now, master,” said Titus. “Though
I’ll wager ’tis a very clever rhyme, if you made
it. And I’ll keep in mind all you’ve said.
Now I must get going, else I’ll be late for
dinner.”
Sim rode off, and it chanced, as the dimpsy
light faded and the brief splendour of winter
sunset lighted the west, that he met young
Mrs Sweetland returning home. Minnie was
riding a pony which Mr Beer lent her when
she wanted it. She had been at Middlecott[122]
Lodge and in the coverts also, for her search
was not relaxed, and, when opportunity offered,
she continued it.
Little remained to be done. That day she
had paid her eighteenth visit to the spot where
Thorpe fell; and, for the first time since the
beginning of the search, the girl believed herself
rewarded. Most laborious and faithful
had been her scrutiny. She told herself that
to leave a twig unturned might be to lose the
chance of re-establishing her husband’s good
repute. She toiled with a patience only possible
to a woman; and now, while but three
or four more yards remained to be searched,
a significant fragment came to the light. Yet
it was not near the spot where Daniel’s gun
had been discovered. That tract, despite a
survey microscopical in its minuteness, yielded
her nothing but a flake of flint. The arrow-head,
for such it was, had told an antiquary of
some Danmonian warrior from neolithic days;
but to Minnie Sweetland it meant nothing,
and she threw it aside without interest.
Then, where Matthew Sweetland had suffered
his cruel beating, the searcher came upon a
yellow horn button. It reminded her instantly
of Sim’s leathern gaiters, and she stood silent
in the peace of the woods and stared before
her. Thus it seemed that her husband’s[123]
closest, dearest friend was identified with the
spot of the murder. But even in the flush of
discovery the young woman perceived how
slight and vain was such a clue unsupported.
If the button was Titus Sim’s, it proved
nothing against him, since all men knew that
he had been early on the scene of the fray.
But her heart leapt, though her head warned
it, and she left the forest full of hope renewed.
Returning from this discovery, Minnie met
Sim. Then they pulled up their horses and
spoke together.
“I do wish you’d come down off the Moor
to live, Mrs Sweetland. ’Tis much too cold
and lonely for a female upalong these winter
days.”
“I like it. ’Tis a stern life an’ keeps a body
patient. You’ve got to fight a bit wi’ nature.
It makes a woman brave to have to do that.
Last night the foxes got to my fowels an’ killed
three of ’em.”
“I’m sorry, indeed!”
“’Twill larn me to be wiser.”
“To think what it is to be a few miles nearer
the sun! At least, I suppose ’tis that. They’ve
heard from Mr Henry. Sir Reginald was
reading out a lot of his letter at luncheon to-day.
Such a place as that Tobago be! All
palm-trees, and lofty mountains, and flowers,[124]
and birds and butterflies, and sweltering sunshine,
and niggers, and cocoanuts and sugar-cane.
A different world, if words mean anything.
Mr Henry has a pretty pen seemingly.
I wish to God I’d been educated and could
write so easy and flowing. As to the overseer
of the estates, I didn’t hear about that.
’Twas only a bit here and there Sir Reginald
read out to her ladyship.”
“Have they heard anything ’bout the pheasant
thieves?”
“Not a syllable. Drunkard Parkinson
swears on his oath he had no hand in it, though
for my part I suspect him. And what d’you
think? Matthew Sweetland was at me only
yesterday to throw up my indoor work and
turn keeper again! He knows I understand
the work almost so well as Dan himself did.
But I’ve got my ideas. It all depends on—on
other parties what I do. I’ve told the old man
that he must wait for my answer till next Midsummer-day.”
“He’s always praising you an’ wishing how
my Daniel had been more like you.”
“No, no! I wasn’t a patch on Daniel. Still,
I know the outdoor work and love it, too!”
Minnie thought of her button.
“You’d want a wife then. A gamekeeper’s
life is a hard one. I suppose if you do that,[125]
you’ll take the north cottage and Thomas will
get warning?”
“Yes—I should have his place; he’s not
much good. But as to a wife—well, if you ask
me, I think a keeper’s better without one.
Men will talk to their wives; an’ women will
talk again to other women. They can’t help it.
A man whose business ’tis to keep secrets and
run the chance of sudden death had better bide
single. So it depends—as I told you just now—’pon
other parties. Come next Midsummer,
I shall ask a certain party a certain question;
and if the answer is ‘Yes,’ there’ll be no gamekeeping
for me; and if the answer is ‘No’—well,
I’d rather not think of that. There come
times in his life when a strong man can’t take
‘No’ for an answer.”
Minnie sat on her pony with one hand in her
pocket. She fingered the horn button and
spoke.
“You want somebody to look after you. A
girl’s eyes be sharp where she takes an interest.
I wonder your master have never called you to
account for that black button on your gaiter.
’Tis very untidy. If you was an outdoor man,
you’d never dare to go about like that.”
“Quite right,” he admitted. “To think
your sharp eyes have seen—but what don’t
they see—even to a button? It do make me[126]
feel proud all the same, that you can have
bestowed the least thought on such a thing.”
“I catched sight of it some time ago. If you
remind me one day, I’ll sew a yellow one on for
’e. I’ve got one. ’Twill match t’others an’
look more vitty than that black one.”
“I’m afeard it won’t match the others, my
dear, for they’m notched around the edge and
be peculiar. But your button will be more to
me than all the rest, and if ’tis yellow in colour,
’twill pass very well; and thank you kindly for
the thought.”
“Next time you come up then?”
“That will be Sunday night, if I may.”
She nodded.
“Good-night, and bless you for your kind
words,” said Mr Sim very fervently.
“Good-night,” she answered, and went her
way.
No definite course of action had prompted
her to this strange offer. Her only wish was
to get a closer view of the gaiter and compare
the button she had found with those upon it.
Now, as she rode on, a thousand plans passed
through her mind, but not one pleased her, and
she began doubtfully to speculate upon the
necessity of seeking help in this enterprise.
The danger grew. Let Sim once suspect, and
she could not guess the result. If he had himself[127]
destroyed the keeper and in cold blood
plotted the subsequent destruction of Daniel
Sweetland, then he would stick at nothing.
Minnie very clearly perceived the necessity for
caution. She also saw the direction in which
Sim’s thoughts were turning. That he would
ask her to marry him when Midsummer came
was certain. She only hoped that, long before
summer returned, the truth might have dawned
upon her darkness and her husband be by her
side again.
Daniel was in her thoughts and her young
heart yearned for him as she returned to her
lonely dwelling. Then, as if to answer the longing,
a great thing greeted her and the day closed
in splendour brighter than any sunset light.
Mr Beer was waiting for the pony when
Minnie arrived at the Warren Inn, and she remarked,
despite the gloaming, that his mouth
was full of news.
“Wonders never cease, but be on the increase,”
he began. “An’ well you know that
when I break out into poetry I’ve generally
got something on my mind. Well, so I have.
Onlight from your horse an’ I’ll give ’e a
present. What could be better than a postman’s
letter? An’ from foreign parts, if you’ll
believe me, though I didn’t know, my dear, as
you’d got friends in the distance.”
[128]
“Dan,” she said. “’Tis Dan—my heart
says it.”
“Now don’t think that, my poor maiden. I
wish it was. But there ban’t no letter-writing
in the grave. A man neither sends nor receives
’em in the pit. An’ ’tis not the worst
thing as you can say for death that it puts you
beyond reach of the penny post—not to name
telegrams. You must make up your mind that
Daniel be in the better land with saints an’
angels grand. This here is from the West
Indies where the rum comes from; an’ if the
place be as comforting as the drink, then I
make no doubt people do very well there. For
rum punch is a glorious brew to make the heart
and liver new. But, if you ax me, this letter is
from Mr Henry, who be in them parts. He
was a close friend of Dan’s; an’ his was the
gun that done the dreadful deed when death to
Adam Thorpe did speed—Lord! how full I be
of rhyme to-night! So, very like, he’s written
in his gentlemanly way to comfort you.”
Minnie’s bosom panted, and she put her hand
upon it to hide the swift rise and fall. Right
well she knew that Mr Beer was wrong, and
though the superscription of the letter spread
in a scrawling hand quite unlike Daniel’s yet
her heart saw through the envelope and she
felt that the letter came from her husband.
[129]
“Let me have it,” she said. “I’ll tell you
what’s to tell to-morrow.”
“Why not read it now?” he asked as he
handed the letter to her.
“Time enough. Now take the pony, an’
thank you, an’ good-night.”
Soon she was alone, but Minnie ate no supper
that night, for another sort of feast awaited
her. She read the long letter thrice from end
to end; then, finding that the hour was nine
o’clock, and the fireless cottage had grown very
cold, she went to bed, and read the letter three
times more by candle light. After that the
candle suddenly went out, so she cuddled her
soft bosom to the pages and slept with them
against a happy heart.
[130]
CHAPTER X
DAN’S LETTER
“My own, dear pretty-eyed wife,—Here
I be so safe as you could wish, with
many a mile o’ salt water betwixt me and
them as would harm me. A mighty lot of
terrible strange things I’ve seed; but first I
must say as I got to Plymouth all right and
met a chap as wanted a sailor-man. He took
me, because he couldn’t get a better, and we
sailed out of Plymouth on the very next tide.
My ship be called the Peabody. She’s a
steamer—not much to look at and a poor one
to go; but here we are anyway, and I be writing
to you from Tobago—an island in the
West Indies, where us get brown sugar and
cocoanuts and such like foreign contrivances.
“I’ll begin at the beginning, well knowing how
you like for things to be all in order and ship-shape
as we say. Well, the food’s cruel bad and
the ship’s under-manned and under-engined, but
we’m just on the windy side of the law, I believe,
which is all you can expect from a tramp like
the Peabody. The old man (Skipper) is a very
good sort and everybody likes him; also the[131]
mate; likewise the bosun. Everything’s all
right, in fact, except the grub and the engines.
I be the carpenter’s mate.
“Us seed a good few wonders coming out
over, but it blowed a bit off the Azores (which
you can find in father’s big map of the world),
and we took it green. By which I mean this
vessel shipped solid waves over her bows and
we had to slow down, else we’d have gone
down. The engines be good for nought in a
head wind. But we got to Barbados at last,
and I find ’tis called Bim for shortness. In the
dimpsy light us fetched it, but out here twilight
turns to night while the clock’s striking,
and afore we cast anchor ’twas dark and the
island lying like a sea monster with a red light
on his nose and a white on his tail—lighthouses
I mean. Bridgetown it was where us landed
part of our cargo—a place with windmills ’pon
it and tilled land and miles of stuff, as made me
think of home, so green it was; but ’tis sugar-cane
when you gets up to it. We didn’t bide
in Carlisle Bay long, else I’d have wrote from
there, but we was so terrible busy I hadn’t but
one chance to land. The folks here be every
colour you could name between white and black,
through all manner of shades of snuff colour,
and butter colour, and putty colour, and peat
colour. Cheerful, lazy devils, as like to laugh[132]
and smoke and chew sugar-cane all day. But
they properly hate work. Reckless mongrels,
I should say they was; but in Bim a man don’t
have any show unless he’ve got a touch of the
tar-brush as they say. That means nigger
blood. Such a way as they tell! I never
heard English spoke so comic in all my born
days. Their clothes be built for ventilation
mostly, and I never seed such a show of rags.
Barbados is made of coral, but t’other islands
are volcanoes, and they’ve a nasty way of going
off when you least count upon it. From
Carlisle Bay you can see white houses under
wooden tiles all scorched grey by the sun heat,
and in the streets a great crowd goes up and
down in the blazing air and shining dust. Such
a noise and clatter I never did hear. Mules
squealing, bells ringing, bands playing, niggers
bawling. The women all wear white dresses
and gay turbans. They’m amazing straight in
the back, owing to carrying all their goods ’pon
top their heads. They sell cocoanuts, cane,
pineapples, oranges, limes, mangoes, yams,
pickles, and Lord knows what beside. They
stride out beautiful owing to their short petticoats,
but their mouths be a caution. The
children look like little chocolate dolls, and much
you’d love ’em. The policemen all be dressed
in white. They fancy themselves an awful lot.[133]
The pigs run about the streets and be for all
the world like greyhounds (what we call long-dogs
to home). The climate’s that fiery that
you’ll never get no stock properly fatted in it.
But you don’t feel no call for much red meat.
We got fresh water and green stuff aboard here,
and how I wish I could have sent you my
dinner yesterday. I had flying-fish and sweet
potatoes and green-skinned oranges, red as gold
inside, and many other fine things as would
make your little mouth water to hear tell about.
But the mangoes is what I like best, though
they do say out here they be no better than a
bit of tow dipped in turps. Ban’t true, I assure
’e. I got off for two hour just afore we set sail,
and went into the country, trapsing round to
see what I could see. And if I didn’t come
across a great mango tree as ’peared to me to
be just a foreign, wild tree alongside the high
road. Well, I seed the fruit in it, an’ thinks I,
‘’twill be a fine thing for the ship.’ So up I
goes, hand over fist, but not before I made some
niggers stop throwing stones up at the tree.
Well, I shinned up aloft and began flinging
down the mangoes, and the wretched niggers
holloed out, ‘Good massa! Massa brave!
Massa no frightened ob nobody!’ Then suddenly
there was a mighty loud barking and up
comed a yellow dog, so big as a calf, and the[134]
nigs went off for dear life. ‘Him coming,
massa! Him running like de debbil, sar!’
they shouted out as they went; and then a big
chap arrived at the bottom of the tree and
began giving me all the law and the prophets,
I do assure ’e. For it happened to be his
tree.
“‘You tief, come down! come down and my
dog he tear you. I catch you at last! It all
ober wid you now!’
“‘Not much,’ I said. ‘I ban’t coming down
to be tored by thicky hulking dog, John.’ (Us
calls all niggers ‘John.’)
“‘You a tief and you take to gaol, sar. I no
go till you come down,’ he says.
“And I knowed as my ship would sail in
two hours or less!
“‘Now list to me, you black ass,’ I says.
‘I thought this here was a wild tree—as anybody
would. You ought to stick your name
on the tree. And I ban’t a thief, and if you
call me one, I’ll break your fat head. Just take
the dog and tie him up, then I’ll come down
and us’ll have a bit of a tell about it.’
“‘You tief my mangoes! You lodge in de
gaol!’ was all he could think of. So I told
him not to be such a tarnation fool.
“‘There’s your mangoes on the ground,’ I
said. ‘I’ll give you a bob for ’em, and if I[135]
hear any more about it, I’ll apply to the
Governor to have your beast of a dog shot.’
“’Twas the money done it!
“‘A bob—a bob, massa!’ he says. ‘Dat’s
diff’rent, sar! I’se too sorry I spoke so rude
to massa. A bob! Go home, you damn dog!’
“So the dog cleared out and I comed down
and gived the heathen his shilling, and took
the mangoes and marched off to the Careenage
and joined my ship. But I’d paid a lot too
much money, of course.
“Next morn us got to St Vincent—an island
that runs up into the sky, like a Dartmoor tor,
only ’tis a lot larger and the sides of un be all
covered with palms and savage trees. The
town lies spread at sea level—all white and red—and
the forest slopes behind with fine trees.
Some of them was blazing with red flowers. A
pride of the morning shower falled just as we
got here, and the rain flashed like fire. There
was a rainbow in it, and I never seed such a
bright one afore. The caps of the mountains
was hidden in clouds, but the sun touched ’em
and made ’em all rosy; then it swallowed ’em
up and drawed ’em into the blazing blue.
There’s Carib Indians to St Vincent, and one
Carib be worth five niggers when it comes
to a bit of work. They’ve got a queer sort of
religion, I’m told, though not so queer as the[136]
negroes. The niggers’ religion be called
Obeah, and the Obi Men be awful rum customers.
Missionaries try to stop ’em and
their goings-on, but Obi mysteries still happen
and all sorts of devilish deeds are done in
secret.
“I never knowed a place what smelled worse
than Kingstown, St Vincent. Farmer Chown’s
muck-heap’s a fool to it. Niggers be the same
here as everywhere—a poor, slack-witted lot.
If you want to see work, you’ve got to go and
look at the coolies in the sugar factories, or
the Caribs. Among niggers only one in a
hundred works. T’other ninety-nine look on
and talk and give advice. But they be men
and women all right, though our bosun, Jim
Bradley, says ’tis generally thought they
haven’t got no souls. St Vincent be the place
where arrowroot comes from. After that we
went down to next island, by name of Grenada,
and seed a long row of rocks sticking out of
the sea, which be called the Grenadines. They
are scorched up places—just splashes of yellow
rock against the blue sea; but folks dwell in
some of ’em and on some live nought but the
wild goats and pelicans. The fishes in these
seas fight like hell, and be always a-lashing the
surface with their fins and tails, seemingly.
Can’t live and let live by the looks of it. A[137]
flying-fish do put me in mind of myself, for he’s
always moving on. If he bides in the sea,
barracudas and other chaps go for him, and
when he comes out for a sail in the air, the
birds are after him. Then the swordfish go
for the porpoises, and the sharks go for everything.
“Grenada be a bigger place than St Vincent,
and very wild up on the mountains by the
look of it. All along the sea runs a strip of
silvery sand, and cocoanut palms almost dip in
the water. Our tub called here and there, and
I seed wonderful fine goyles and coombs running
inland, all full of blue air and forests and
waterfalls a-tumbling down off great crags in
the mountains. ’Tis an awful savage island as
was throwed up by volcanoes out of the sea
once ’pon a time, and will be throwed down
again in like manner sooner or late—so Jim
Bradley says.
“Grenada be a wonnerful brave place for
nutmegs, which you might not know grow ’pon
trees like almond trees. There be male and
female trees, and one male goes to every ten
females. A fine thing, even if you was a tree,
to have ten wives—so Bradley says! But I
only want one, and that’s my dinky Minnie, so
brave and so lovely.
“St George, Grenada, we stopped at for a[138]
week, and I seed a great deal of the place.
They’ve got a lunatic asylum and a klink there;
and they want ’em both. Niggers often go
mad, but it ban’t from over-work, that I will
swear.
“The King of the Caribs lived here, but he
was a poor fool and believed the French. They
gived him a few bottles of brandy and he gived
them his island on conditions. But of course
they broke the conditions. And pretty well all
the Caribs died fighting. The last of the
King’s men jumped into the sea and was
drowned rather than give in.
“The market would make you die of laughing,
I’m sure. Never seed such a chatter of
business even to Moreton on a Saturday.
Such a row! You’d think the wealth of the
nation was changing hands, but you could buy
up the whole lot pretty near for thirty shilling.
But a gay bit of coloured scenery, I promise
you, with the women’s turbans all a-bobbing,
like a million coloured parrots. ’Tis a very
fine place for cocoanut palms also. The little
young nuts look like giant acorns in long sprigs.
I went to a nigger man on business and met
with some mighty strange sights in his garden.
There was land-crabs lived there and a tame
tortoise, and a nursery of young cocoanut trees
and a nursery of young niggers also, for the[139]
man was a family man and had a lot of little
people.
“‘Dat my youngest darter,’ he said to me,
and pointed to a little maid playing along with
the lizards and things and dressed the same as
them.
“‘A very nice darter, too,’ I said to him.
“‘Dat my son ober dar,’ he said, ‘and dat
my next youngest son, and dem gals eating
dat shaddock—dey twins.’
“I told him I never seed a braver lot o’
childer, and then he went in his house and
fetched out his wife and his old father and his
aunt. And I praised the lot and told him what
a terrible lucky chap he was; and he got so
pleased that he gived me half a barrow-load of
fruit.
“There’s a lake inland by the name of Etang,
and the niggers say how the Mother of the
Rain lives in. But I told ’em that the Mother
o’ Rain lives homealong with us in Cranmere
Pool ’pon Dartymoor. But they wouldn’t believe
that. Anyway, their Mother of Rain
belongs to Obeah, and she’m an awful strong
party. ’Tis a wisht, silent place she do live
in, all hid in palms and ferns and wonderful
trees blazing with flowers. They do say the
witch comes out of the water of a moony night
to sing; but I don’t know nought about that.[140]
I’d go and have a look and see if I could teel
a trap here and there; but there ban’t no
game worth naming in these parts, though
Bradley tells me they’ve got deer in Tobago.
If there be, I’ll bring some pairs of their horns
home to ’e to stick over the doors to Hangman’s
Hut. How I do wish I was there; but
ban’t no good coming back yet awhile, and
when I do, us will have to be awful spry. I
wonder if you’ve found out aught—you or
Titus? I daresay such a clever man as
him have got wind of the truth afore now. I
be bringing home some pink coral studs for
him. You might let him know it, if you please.
I suppose they’ve gived back my gun to you?
They did ought to, since no doubt everybody
thinks I be dead. If you be very pressed for
money, sell the gun to Sim; but not if you
can help it.
“Mister Henry Vivian be in Tobago, and I
hope as he’ll suffer me to have speech with
him some day soon. ’Twould be a tower of
strength to get him ’pon our side. But such a
stickler as him and so quick to take a side and
hold to it—he may be against me, and, if so,
the less I see of him the better.
“But I must tell about Trinidad while my
paper holds out. We comed to it after Grenada,
and a very fine place it is. And a very terrible[141]
sight I seed in the Court House there, namely,
no less than a nigger tried for murder. The
coolies be short-tempered people and often kill
their wives. Then the vultures find ’em in the
sugar-canes. But niggers, though they talk a
lot, never kill one another as a rule. This chap
had shot a tax-collector, and the black people in
the court didn’t seem to take it very serious;
but the jury fetched it in murder, and he was
sentenced to be hanged, I’m sorry to say. My
flesh did cream upon my bones to hear it, for it
might have been me; and them words I should
certainly have heard but for my own way of
doing things after they took me. The nigger
stood so steady as if he was cut out of coal. A
good plucked man, and went to his doom like a
hero. It took three judges to hang him. They
sat under a great fan in court to keep ’em cool.
But all three growed awful hot over the job.
The people thought ’twas very hard on the man,
and so did I.
“They’ve got a pitch lake here, and there’s
a lot of business doing, and a racecourse and a
railway.
“At Port o’ Spain I met the rummest human
that ever I did meet. ’Twas in a drinking-place
what me and Bradley went to one evening.
This here chap was bar-keeper, and his
father had been a Norwegian, and his mother[142]
had been a Spaniard from Hayti, and he was
born in the Argentine Republic, and he said
he was an Englishman! Swore it afore all-comers!
Us told the man it couldn’t be so—according
to the laws of nature; and he got
his wool off something cruel, and cussed in five
languages, and axed us who the blue, blazing
hell we thought we were, to come teaching him.
He said he was English to the marrow in his
bones; and we proved he couldn’t be, in good
sailor language. Then he said that such trash
as us wasn’t going to be heard afore him; and
then we got a bit short like (though not in
liquor, that I promise you) and told the man
he was no better than a something or other
mongrel—like everybody else in foreign parts.
After that glasses got flying about, and we
slung our hook back to the ship. But it shows
what fools men are, I reckon.
“The coolies put all their money on their
wives. And I’d do the same, as well you know.
But they don’t do it in a manner of speaking,
but really and truly, for they hammer all their
silver money into nose-rings, and bracelets, and
armlets, and leglets, and their females go chinking
about with the family fortune hanging to
’em, like fruit to a tree. I seed a lot at a sugar
factory nigh Saint Joseph—a little place out
over from Port o’ Spain. One estate there[143]
done very well, but others was all falling to
pieces, and the machinery all rusting, and no
business doing at all. The air in a busy factory
smells of sugar, and the canes be smashed
between steel rollers, and the juice comes out
in a stream, like a moor brook. Then they set
to work and, after a lot of things have been
done to this here juice, including boiling, it
turns into brown sugar. And the remains be
treacle, and the crushed cane is used for firing.
They also make rum out of sugar-cane, and
very cheerful drinking ’tis. The coolie girls
be awful purty—so brown as my Minnie, with
dark eyes that flash. But they keep themselves
to themselves. They wouldn’t keep company
or go out walking with a sailor man for the
world. And their men folks be very short and
sharp with them. One gal was singing and
scrubbing a floor when I catched sight of her.
All in red she was, with silver bangles on her
arms, and wonnerful glimmering eyes, and not
a day more than thirteen years old. ‘That’s a
purty child,’ I said to Jim Bradley. ‘Child be
damned,’ he said in his short way. ‘She’s a
growed woman and very like got a family.’
The truth is that they be grandmothers at
thirty. But I’ve only seen one purtier girl in
all my born days, and that’s my gal.
“All the machinery in Trinidad be worked[144]
with cocoanut oil. ’Tis a very funny smell, but
you soon get used to it.
“Our next port was Tobago, and here we
shall bide for a good while and let our fires out
and have a go at the boilers. This letter will
go off from there to you, and I do hope and
trust as it will find you as it leaves me at present,
my dear wife. Ban’t much good for me to ax
you to write the news, because you wouldn’t
know where to send it. But I hope afore next
year be out that we’ll come together again, and
your poor chap will be proved an innocent man.
“I’ll send you three pound from here presently,
and another letter along with it. If
there’s any good news and the charges don’t
run too high, you might send a telegram on
getting this letter, to ‘Bob Bates, Steamship
Peabody, Bridgetown, Barbados.’ We go back
there in three weeks, and shall be there afore
you get this. I be ‘Bob Bates’ now, and shall
remain so for the present till I can be Dan
Sweetland again without running my neck in
the rope.
“Lord save us, but how I do long to be
squeezing my own true wife! Awful rough
luck we’ve had, but there’s a better time coming.
Tell mother and father all about me, but
make ’em swear on father’s old Bible fust that
they’ll name it to none else. They can hear[145]
bits of this letter, but not all. I’m sending you
twenty thousand kisses. I wish to God I was
bringing ’em. Last thing I done at Trinidad
was to cut your name and mine on a great aloe
leaf in the Botanical Garden when nobody was
looking. And over ’em I scratched two hearts
with a arrow skewered through. They aloe
leaves live for ever, I’m told; so our names
will be there for people to see long after we be
dead and gone, I hope. But that won’t be for
a mighty long time yet, please God.
“I may say that I’ve growed a bit religious
since we parted. Ban’t nothing to name and
won’t make any difference in my feelings to old
friends, but you can’t see the Lord’s wonders in
the Deep without growing a bit thoughtful like.
And if by good chance I ever get back to you
and stand afore the world clear of the killing of
poor Adam Thorpe, then I shall be a church-member
for ever more—or else a chapel member—which
you like best. But one for sartain. So
no more at present, from your faithful husband
till death,
Daniel Sweetland.”
[146]
CHAPTER XI
THE LAST OF THE “PEABODY”
Fate, it seemed, had ordered a final fleeting
happiness for the lonely young wife
before her sun was to set in sorrow. For a
season the glow of Daniel’s letter clung to her,
warmed her heart, and lighted her spirit. Nor
did she hide the news from all. Daniel’s
parents heard much of the letter, as he directed,
and Minnie trusted Mr Beer and his wife with
the news also. But nobody else heard it.
Then, as summer approached and she already
began to count the days until another letter
might reach her, a crashing grief fell upon the
woman, and all her future was changed. Hope
perished; life henceforth stretched forward
into the dreary future without one ray of light
to break its darkness.
For a moment in her shattering sorrow even
the truth itself seemed no longer worth discovery.
Nothing mattered any more, for the
end had come. Even while she was reading
his letter, so full of life and hope, the hand that
wrote it was clay again; and, under circumstances[147]
the most awful, his little vessel and all
thereon had perished.
When Titus Sim kept his appointment and
brought himself to Hangman’s Hut that Minnie
might sew a yellow button upon his gaiter, she
had some ado to hide her splendid thoughts
while she worked for him. From the first she
had studiously concealed the truth from Titus,
nor did she speak a word of it now. His
presence always made her heart cold and hard;
for as she thought of the past, his action grew
more and more clear to her. He had laid a
deadly trap for Daniel, and Daniel, trusting him
better than anybody in the world, had fallen
headlong into it. Whether Sim was actually
present at the death of Thorpe Minnie still
knew not; but that he was familiar with the
circumstances, and that he had on the night of
the murder fetched Daniel’s gun and placed it
ready to be found on the following morning,
she felt assured. His purpose was to gain herself.
But what to do at this juncture she did
not know. She dared not summon Daniel
home as yet, and she dared not impart her discoveries
to any other. Then happened circumstances
that made all vain and turned
revenge into a thing too mean and shallow to
pursue. After the announcement of her husband’s
death the perspective and significance[148]
of life were altered. For long days she moved
listlessly from her bed back to her bed again.
Sleep only had power to comfort her, while yet
the overwhelming tragic truth tortured each
waking hour. Sleep nightly she welcomed as
she would have welcomed death.
In this strange fashion came the fatal news
to her.
Sim was accustomed to bring books and
newspapers upon the occasion of his visits, and
in a daily journal, at the time of that awful event,
telegrams appeared of the volcanic catastrophe
that had burst upon the West Indies, had
shaken St Vincent to its heights, and overwhelmed
much of the unfortunate island of
Martinique. Chance ordered the intelligence
upon the day that Sim had fixed for his formal
proposal, and her eyes were actually fixed upon
the Western Morning News, where it lay spread
over her table, at the moment that the man was
asking her to marry him.
“I can’t hold it in no more,” he said. “You
know right well what I mean. I’ve been patient
too—the Lord knows how patient. Oh,
woman, don’t torment me any longer. For
God’s sake say you’ll marry me. My life’s one
cruel stretch on the rack as it is. All I’ve done
to get you you’ll never know. You’ve been the
one thought and hope and prayer and longing[149]
of my life ever since I first set eyes on you, and
now—now there’s nought between us—now—Minnie!
Good God—what’s the matter—what
have I done?”
He broke off and leapt to his feet, for she had
fallen back in her chair and an expression of
great terror and horror had come into her face.
She had only heard his last words. The woman
did not faint; but for the moment she was
powerless to speak. Her emotion had robbed
her cheek of blood and made her dizzy. In
response to his cry she pointed to the sheet
before her. He glanced at the long Reuter
telegram, and then noted the brief paragraph
upon which she kept her finger:—
“Among the ill-fated vessels that perished with all
hands was the English steamer Peabody (Nailer
and Co.). It is reported that she attempted to steam
out of harbour, but was overwhelmed and sunk in the
awful convulsion from above and below. Every soul
on board perished.”
“What is this to you or to me? What do
you know? Tell me if I can do anything,”
cried Titus Sim.
“‘Every soul—every soul,’” she said, quoting
in a strange voice under her breath. “‘Every
soul,’ but it means ‘everybody.’ The souls
have gone back where there’s no hopes nor
fears nor sorrows. But his body—his dear[150]
body—all—all—perished. I can’t read no
more. Does it say all?”
“That awful thing in Martinique. Yes, they
be full of it at the house, and full of thanksgivings
that it wasn’t Tobago that was smitten.
But you, Minnie—what is this to you?”
“Death,” she said. “His death; and his
death be mine—the death of all that’s best in
me—the death of all I kept alive for him.”
“For—for—you don’t mean your husband?
Not Daniel Sweetland?”
“He was on board her. ’Twas to her he
went and in her he sailed. I only heard it a
thought more than a month agone. Heard it
under his own hand. He wrote me a letter.
And now—”
“There might be another ship of that name.
But how much this means! And you could
hide it all from me! And I thought—”
“You thought he was in Wall Shaft Gully.
And now he lies in a bigger grave than that—my
Dan—driven away to die. May God remember
the man who ruined my husband!”
For once Sim was shaken from his power of
ready speech; for once his tongue seemed tied.
The tremendous nature of this event made him
powerless. Yet at the bottom of his bewildered
mind lurked joy. The thing he had toiled to
bring about appeared at last accomplished[151]
without further possibility of failure. Doubt
no longer existed. Sweetland was now dead
indeed. He concealed his thanksgiving and
began to mourn. No more of love he spake,
but strove to find consolation for her in religious
reflections. Dry-eyed she stared from him to
the newspaper, from the newspaper back to him.
Then she bade him leave her, and he went, but
stopped at the publichouse hard by and told his
tremendous news to Mr and Mrs Beer. They,
who knew the secret of Daniel’s disappearance,
were stricken with profound sorrow, and
scarcely had Sim proclaimed the truth before
Jane Beer hurried bare-headed from the house
and ran to her friend.
“Poor young woman!” groaned Johnny in
genuine grief, “what a world of up and downs
and hopes and fears she have suffered, to be
sure! To think as one pair of girl’s shoulders
be called upon to carry such a burden. There’s
nought to be done. Only time can help her;
an’ maybe you.”
“To think,” said Sim, “and I was that
moment putting marriage before her! Another
moment and she must have told me she was a
wife; and then it caught her eye—staring from
the printed page—that she was a widow!”
“She told us the secret and I made a joyous
rhyme about it; but what’s rhymes to her now?[152]
Yet I’ll do one, and this day I’ll do it, for many’s
the poor broken heart as have sucked comfort
from a well-turned verse—else why do we have
hymns? Well, it will come back to you, Titus.
For my part I could wish as Daniel had died
to home where first we thought he did. A sea
death be so open an’ gashly. For my part I’d
sooner have gone down Vitifer mine shaft and
know my bones would bide in the land that
bred ’em.”
“Well, the mystery be all out now. No
doubt he visited her that night he gave the
policemen the slip. ’Twas hard I should never
know the secret, for I’m sure Dan would have
told me afore all the world.”
“She’s only got his memory now, poor
lamb; an’ that won’t keep her warm of a winter
night. ’Twas ordained you should have her,
no doubt. But you mustn’t ax her till the tears
be dried. She’ll weep a lot. Turn and twist
as you may, death will grab you some day.
The appointed time comes round as sure as the
sun rises. Pig or man, each has his span.
There’s verses rising up in me, Titus, so I
won’t keep you. What was the name of the
poor hero’s ship? D’you call it to mind?”
“The Peabody,” answered Sim; then he departed
with strange thoughts for company.
In truth Titus had much ado to marshal his[153]
ideas. He stood exactly where he believed
that he had stood from the time of Daniel’s disappearance;
but the fact that Sweetland was
only now removed from his path by death
startled him not a little. He hardly realised his
fortune. In his mind was a dark cloud, for that
Minnie should so carefully have kept her secret
from him meant mischief. She had not trusted
him with the truth. There was a reason
for that, and the reason promised to be the
reverse of pleasant. Sim had been deceived
by Minnie’s attitude. Without attempt to
blind his eyes, her demeanour had led him
to suppose that she at least was content in his
society, that she trusted him, that she bore to
him the regard due to her husband’s first and
favourite companion. But she had deliberately
chosen to keep him in ignorance, not only of
Daniel’s safety, but also concerning his actual
existence; and this reserve caused Sim a great
deal of painful surprise. Surely it indicated
that Daniel’s widow did not trust him; and for
that distrust a reason must exist.
Titus perceived that much depended upon
his future attitude. To win her absolute
confidence would now be necessary before
any further talk of love. He ransacked
his sleepless mind that night, and ere
morning saw the way clear. His good faith[154]
must be made apparent; it must shine above
any shadow of suspicion. Minnie should learn
that her husband’s honour and fair name were
as much to Titus Sim as to herself. How to
effect this result was his problem, and the footman
believed that he could solve it. For Sim
was perfectly familiar with the truth concerning
Adam Thorpe’s end; and no man knew better
than did he that Daniel had no part in the crime.
The secret murderer was not hidden from Titus,
nor was the hand that placed Sweetland’s gun
where he had found it.
Everything conspired to his purpose. He
calculated that in a month’s time he would be
able to clear Sweetland’s name before the world.
Then his own reward seemed clear. Minnie,
once convinced that her vague fears and suspicions
did him wrong, could hardly deny him
what he begged. Into his fixed and immovable
resolution to make her his own he poured all
the strength of a tremendous will. He had
not come so far upon the journey to be repulsed.
He had not moved by dark ways and committed
worse than crimes for nothing. From a mental
condition of anger and uneasiness, his devious
soul plotted itself back into content and calm.
The end was assured and the means to play his
final strokes now lay clear before the man’s intelligence.
To establish absolute confidence in[155]
himself as Sweetland’s friend—true even
beyond death—was now his purpose; and the
thing he planned to do, if brought to a successful
issue, could hardly fail to show him in a
noble light and convince the sceptic, if any such
existed beside Minnie, that his aims were pure
and his faith above all suspicion.
A week later, when she had told her secret,
and her little world mourned in its wonder, and
yet also triumphed at the ingenuity of the native
who would never return again, Titus Sim
visited Minnie with offers to assist her in any
step she might now be contemplating. But she
did not avail herself of the suggestion.
“I’m going back to my aunt come presently,”
she said. “I can’t bide here no more now.
After Michaelmas I give it up an’ return to
Moreton.”
Her face was very pale against her black
dress, and darkness and sorrow haunted her
beautiful eyes; but no living soul had seen her
deepest grief. That was hidden from all. Her
voice never shook when she spoke of Daniel to
Titus Sim, for instinct told her the man, despite
his protestations, did not share her bereavement.
Only with Daniel’s mother, or in the
company of Jane Beer, did she reveal a glimpse
of her breaking heart.
“Command me, if I can serve you in any[156]
possible manner,” he said. “And don’t think
I’m forgetting this great sorrow because ’tis
not always upon my tongue. Far from it;
Daniel is never out of my thoughts. He’s
beyond the reach of aught but prayers; but
his honour and good name are the legacies he
left behind, and ’tis for us to treasure them and
make ’em shine out like the sun from behind
this cloud that darkens them. I know only too
well you don’t believe me. It’s been the
greatest grief in a sad life—the greatest but
Daniel’s death—that you kept his secret from
me and did not let me know that he was still
alive. I’ve had nought but sleepless nights
thinking of it. And why for you don’t trust
me I can’t guess, and why you hid the welfare
of my greatest friend from me I shall never
know; but this I know: you had no just reason
and not by word or deed, or thought or dream
have I ever done him wrong. Be that as it
may. I’ll say nothing about it and I’ll ask you
for no explanation, for ’tisn’t a time to wrangle
which of us—man or woman—friend or wife—loved
him best. I’ll not prate; I’ll do. I
believe even now that ’twill be my blessed lot
to clear his memory afore the world. You gaze
at me as if you thought that ’twould be no joy
to me to do it—see how I read what’s in your
eyes! But I swear afore the Throne of[157]
Heaven that I’d sooner clear his name and
sweeten his memory than be a prince in the
land, or the ruler of cities.”
“If you could do it, why have you waited
until now?” she asked coldly.
“Because Providence willed that I should
wait. And even now I’m only hopeful, not
positive. I should have striven to do all and
bring you the glad news when I’d got it proved
beyond the doubt of the world; but now
Heaven has hit upon a better way. Yes,
‘Heaven’s’ the word, for in righting Daniel in
the world’s eyes, I pray God will right me in
yours, Minnie Sweetland.”
He paused, but she only surveyed him
silently, and he spoke again.
“Thus it stands. The poor soul commonly
called ‘Drunkard’ Parkinson, is now at his last
gasp, or near it. He cannot live more than a
month; doctor has told him so. But, as I have
always feared, that man has evil secrets. What
they are I only guess, but my guess during the
last few days has developed into certainty.
You know young Prowse lives in the cottage
that adjoins Rix Parkinson’s? Two days ago
he came to tell me that poor Rix wanted to see
me, and to know how soon I could call upon
him. I went at once, and then he confessed
that there is much upon his conscience. I[158]
begged him to see Parson West, whose deep
wisdom and sympathy and knowledge of
Heaven are denied to no sinner; but he refused.
‘Not him, nor any other man,’ he said.
‘’Tis a woman I want to see—the wife of that
chap, Dan Sweetland, as runned away after
that they’d taken him for murder.’ He did
not know that Dan was dead, and I did not tell
him, for the fact might have changed his determination.
I promised to bring you to him,
and I prevailed with him that he would let me
be present also. He is desirous to tell you
something, and since the confession must have
a witness to make it of any worth, I, too, shall
hear it, that it may be supported in the world
after Parkinson dies. For he is on the way to
die, and he specially told me that the thing he
meant to tell you must not be made public
until his death. What it is I can guess,
as I have said; and doubtless you can,
too.”
“He killed Adam Thorpe.”
“I believe so with all my soul. They were
old enemies, and three years ago Parkinson
went to gaol for three months after assaulting
Thorpe. Either he did it, or he knows right
well who did. And he knows that the man
who did it was not our poor Daniel.”
“I will come when he pleases,” said Minnie.[159]
“I hope your opinion may be the right one,
Mr Sim.”
“And I hope that you will think kinder of
me when, through my ceaseless toil and labour,
I have cleared my friend’s memory.”
He left her then without waiting for an
answer, and a week later a day was fixed.
It happened that Minnie was in Moretonhampstead
upon the occasion of making this
final appointment to visit the sick man, and as
she returned to the Moor, she met young
Samuel Prowse—well known to her as an old
friend of Daniel. She passed him with a nod
of recognition; then she changed her mind; a
thought suddenly struck her, and she called the
youth to her side.
[160]
CHAPTER XII.
HENRY VIVIAN TRIES TO DO HIS DUTY
It is now necessary to be occupied directly
with Daniel, and those brief days before
the Peabody met her fate.
From Tobago she returned to Barbados
with a small cargo of turtle and cocoanuts;
then she sailed directly to the Northern Lesser
Antilles, and reached her next and last port,
St Pierre, in Martinique.
But we are concerned with earlier events
affecting young Sweetland, and these may best
be chronicled by setting down the opening
passages of a second letter that he began to
write to his wife at Scarborough, the little port
of Tobago. This communication was never
completed, but it covers a period of fifteen days
in the life of the writer, and when he put it
aside to finish on another occasion he little
dreamed that he would see the sheet no more.
“My own dear heart” wrote he—“Here’s
the old tub at Tobago with steam in her rotten
boilers again! Talk about volcanoes and suchlike!
’Tis us aboard the Peabody that be
on a volcano, not the shore folks. This here’s[161]
a very fine island, and I’ve had a merry time
when I could get ashore. They laugh at me,
because I be gathering together such a lot of
queer things for you. God He knows if you’ll
ever get ’em and hang ’em round the walls to
home, but if you do, I lay you’ll be mazed with
wonder. There’s a huge river by name of
Orinoco that pours out of the mainland of
South America, and it brings to these shores
all manner of queer seeds and shells and suchlike,
including coral and coraline, like stone
fans, all very beautiful for ornaments. I tramp
along when off duty and fill my pockets, and
say every minute, ‘My stars, won’t Minnie like
that!’ or ‘These here will make a necklace
almost so pretty as pearls, for her neck!’
There be little silver-like shells here, all curly.
I’ve got scores; and the niggers say as there
be real pink pearls to be got; but I doubt it,
’cause if there was, why don’t somebody with
plenty of time get ’em? Sometimes the cocoanuts
will fall with a bang just while you be
under the palms. I near had my head knocked
off by a whacker t’other day; then I forced a
hole in his monkey face (for they be all like
monkeys one end) and drank the milk and
shared the creamy inside with a hungry dog
as chanced to be passing that way. As for
adventures, I had one with a hoss would make[162]
’em laugh to home. I calls it a hoss, but never
you seed such a lop-sided bag o’ bones. But
’twas something to have un between my legs,
and I made un gallop a bit, much to his surprise,
afore I’d done with un. A nigger boy
went with me to get any queer things as might
happen by the way, and I rode into the island
to see a river where they say there be alligators.
The hoss was called ‘Nap,’ and the nigger
went by the name of Peter. And a very fine
time us had of it at first. The road led up and
up through palms and tamarinds and mangoes,
and a million trees I’d never seed or heard of.
Frangipani made the air sweet to the nose. It
grows in stars ’pon great naked boughs, and
they make scent of it. Then there was bindweeds,
like we get to home but larger, all
crawled all over the hedges, with yellow and
purple flowers to ’em. And everywhere in the
blazing woods was flowers and seeds, and
berries and cocoa trees, which be just like
them advertisements in the shop windows to
Moreton of Cadbury’s Cocoa! The pods hang
on the trees all purple and gold. I got seeds
and berries for you, and having a little shotgun
as Bradley lent me, I killed a few birds
and one sun-bird as be like a splash of fire on
the wing, and a green humming-bird or two.
My hoss he loafed along, thinking of anything[163]
but his business, but he was eating out of the
hedge all the while, and sometimes ’twas a
fight between us which should get to something
first. As to alligators, I never seed the tail of
one; but lizards was there by the million, and
iguanas too. They be very big chaps and
pretty eating when you can catch ’em, so Bradley
says. The lizards be all colours of the
rainbow and all sizes, from a tadpole to a
squirrel. In the trees was all manner of hothouse
things a-blazing away and quite at home,
and on the hill-sides grew wild plantain, wild
indigo, guinea-grass, cotton, cashew trees
(cashews be nuts), cabbage palms, and all
manner of other fine things, with the humming-birds
and butterflies looking like flowers blowed
out of the trees. Then, as for the stream, it
bustled along for all the world like a Dartmoor
brook, and the sound of it among the stones
was like a word from home. But instead of
the heather and whortleberries and fern, there
was all foreigners ’pon the bank, and instead of
a Moorman coming along with a nitch of reeds
or a cart of peat I found a lot of black gals
washing linen in the stream.
“‘Well, my dears, have ’e seed any alligators
upalong?’ I axed ’em; and they said, ‘No,
massa sailor, we no see no alligators.’
“I had a row with the hoss coming back and[164]
was much surprised to find he’d got devil
enough in him to run away. Of course I held
on, and ’twas rather amusing except for all the
things he jerked out of my pockets. ’Peared
to me that he galloped on one side and trotted
on t’other. When he runned away he was
going about three miles an hour. Afore that
I never seed the funeral as wouldn’t have
catched him up and passed him. He got me
down to the wharf; then his gear all carried
away and I falled off with the saddle on top of
me.
“’Tis pretty eating here, and we have tree
oysters, if you’ll believe it, that grow on the
roots of trees in the salt creeks. Also snapper-fish,
yams, gourd soup, muscovy ducks, cocoanut
pudding, guava cheese, and many other
tidy things.
“Yesterday I seed Mister Henry ’pon the
wharf, with his overseer from the Pelican
Sugar Estate—a chap by the name of Jabez
Ford. It made me feel terrible queer to see
Mister Henry. We was getting a boatload of
cocoanuts at the time, so I didn’t make myself
knowed to him. But when the chance comes
I will.
“That man Ford lost his wife rather sudden
two or three nights agone. She was half a
black woman and believed in a lot of queer,[165]
horrible things like the full-blooded niggers do.
And come nightfall, after she died, a awful
wailing and howling broke out ashore, for
scores of negresses was singing all round
Ford’s house to keep the Jumbies away.
Jumbies belong to the religion of Obi, and
they’m awful, flesh-sucking vampires as scent
out a corpse like vultures and come through
the air and out of the earth to be at it. But if
the beast hears women singing, it chokes him
off. Certainly the black females sing very
nice; and they sang hymns the parson out
here has taught them—hymns that comed
from England. I almost cried to hear ’em,
Minnie, till I remembered as they were being
sung to keep off Jumbies; then I laughed.
There’s another awful terrible customer called
a loopgaroo.[2] He’s worse than Jumby almost,
and he takes off his skin when he’s at his
nightly devilries, and hides it onder a silk
cotton tree. This be all part of Obeah, and I
hear tell there’s an awful wicked and awful
powerful Obi Man, called Jesse Hagan, in
Tobago, who’s gotten tame Jumbies to work
for him. The niggers shiver when they tell
about him.
“As to cocoanuts, which you’ve only seed at
a revel ‘three shies a penny,’ out here they be[166]
a regular trade, though not like what they was.
A grower told me that in the old days he’d
get a clear profit of £2 on every thousand nuts
he sold; now he don’t get £1. We be bringing
home hundreds of sacks of ’em, but the
seller don’t count to do much good. Another
queer freight we be taking back to Barbados
is turtles. These creatures be very common
round Tobago. They come up out of the sea
of a moonlight night and paddle about in the
sand, and lay their eggs. Then niggers, as be
lying in wait for ’em, rush out and catch ’em,
and throw ’em over ’pon their backs. There
they lie till the morn do come, and then they’m
brought off to the wharf for shipment. First
the owner’s mark be branded on the poor
devils with a red-hot iron on their yellow
bellies; but they be all shell outside, and it
don’t hurt ’em more than putting a hot shoe
on a horse’s hoof. Then the turtles is tied by
their flippers—two and three at a time—and
hoisted aboard. On deck we’ve got turtle
tanks ’waiting for ’em. These be full of salt
water, and the turtle lives there as best he
can; or if he can’t, he dies. No beasts on
God’s earth have a worse time than turtles
when they’m catched. They don’t get bit or
sup no more, for there’s nought we can give
’em that they’ll eat. Many die on the way[167]
home, if the weather turns very cold; and
aboard a ship you can tell how the turtle be
faring by the amount of turtle soup as comes
to dinner. And if they do get home, ’tis to
have their throats cut pretty quick. But they
pay well if they get home alive.
“Now I’ll knock off, because I be going
ashore to see Mister Henry. We sail to-morrow,
so I can’t leave it no longer. I’ll
finish this when I’ve had speech with him, and
much I do hope as I’ll find he’ll come over to
my side.”
Here the unfinished letter broke off, and the
things that happened after may be immediately
related.
Daniel went ashore with a special message
from his captain for the harbour master; but
the order was not delivered, because good
fortune, as it seemed, had brought Henry
Vivian to the pier-head, and, as Daniel climbed
up the steps, he almost touched his boyhood’s
friend. The overseer of the Pelican Estate
stood beside him. Mr Jabez Ford had a
private venture of turtles about to be shipped
in the Peabody for Barbados, and now he
watched his own mark being set upon the unhappy
reptiles. Vivian was also an interested
spectator. He turned with an expression of[168]
sorrow from the turtles and found Daniel
Sweetland’s eyes fixed upon them.
“Mister Henry, ’tis I, Sweetland, from
home! I be here this minute to speak to you.
And I pray you, for old time’s sake, to listen.”
Young Vivian started back, and the blood
leapt to his cheek.
“Alive!” he said.
“And kicking, your honour. I had to do
all I done an’ give they policemen the slip, for
the law was too strong for me. But afore God
I swear I’m an innocent man, and, after my
wife, I’d sooner you believed in me than any
living.”
“Oaths are nothing to you,” said the other,
coldly. “Come aside and speak to me.”
They walked apart on the wharf, and Vivian
continued,—
“Why did you lie to the officers and deceive
them, and escape, and subsequently delude the
world into supposing that you had destroyed
yourself? Tell me that. Were those the
actions of an innocent man, Daniel Sweetland?
I do not think so. If you can prove to me
that you did not murder Adam Thorpe, do it;
if not, my duty, painful as it may be, is clear.
You have escaped justice thus far; but you
shall not escape it altogether, if I can prevent
you.”
[169]
Dan stared aghast at such a turn of affairs.
The speaker was inflexible. No gentleness
marked his voice. He had not noticed the
hand that Daniel ventured timidly to put
forward.
“I thought ’twas Providence that threw me
here,” said the sailor. “I counted to find you,
sir, as was my friend always, ready to stand up
for me against—— But what can I say? How
can I prove aught, having no witnesses? My
gun was found—the beautiful gun you gived
me. And if I swear afore my Maker I know
no more than you do how it comed in Middlecott
woods upon that night, what’s the use? I
see in your face you be against me and won’t
believe me.”
“I am not a fool, whatever else I may be,”
answered the other. “To say you do not
know how that gun came into Middlecott
Lower Hundred is folly. You alone had
access to the gun. You must know. Whether
you killed Thorpe or not, I cannot say; that
you saw him die, I believe; and if you could
have thrown the blame elsewhere, you would
naturally have done so. I am sorry you dared
to come to me—sorry for your sake and my
own. I have enough anxiety and difficulty on
my hands at present without you.”
“Very well,” said Sweetland, “if that’s your[170]
answer, then we be man to man and no love
lost. I’ll go my way and you can go yours, an’
I hope afore your beard’s growed you’ll get a
larger heart in you. If it had been t’other way
round, I’d have believed your word like the
Bible, an’ I’d have fought for you an’ spared no
sweat to show the world you was an honest,
true man. But since you won’t believe further
than you can see, and haven’t got no friendship
stronger than what goes down afore
this trial, then go your way, an’ be damned to
you; an’ may you never find yourself at a
loose end with nought but sudden death waiting
for you an’ no friend’s hand ready to
help!”
“Friendships may be broken, and I will never
willingly assist a criminal against the laws he
has defied and the State he has outraged. You
fled to escape the just penalty of your deeds,
and no honourable man would succour you. It is
not I that am faithless, but yourself. I have
never changed; my devotion to duty and to
honour has never been hidden from you, and if
you had ordered your life on my example, you
would not stand where you do to-day.”
“I hope you’ll see clearer in the time to
come, then,” answered Daniel. “I be sorry to
have troubled you with my poor affairs. I’ll ax
no more from ’e except to keep your mouth[171]
shut about me. That, at least, ban’t too much
to ax?”
“Your moral sense is not merely weak, but
wanting,” answered the other. “To ignore you
is to ignore your crime. No Englishman can
do that. I, at least, will not have it on my
conscience that I let a murderer go free. Move
at your peril!”
The sailor glared in sheer wonder; then his
surprise gave place to passion.
“By God, but you’m a canting prig! Your
friendship—’tis trash I wouldn’t own for money.
Talk of vartue and duty to me! Do ’e think
of all I’ve suffered—all the torment and misery
I’ve gone through—a man as innocent as the
young dawn! Taken from my wife—called a
murderer afore I was tried—every man’s hand
against me! The likes of you would make Job
break loose. Your honour and your duty!
Bah—stinking stuff. I’d rather be a mongrel
nigger without a shirt than you! I’d—”
Vivian interrupted him and cried out in a
loud voice,—
“Arrest this man! In the name of the law,
take him! He is a murderer!”
They stood some distance from the rest, and
now Jabez Ford hastened forward with several
negroes. The coloured men chattered wildly,
but none made any effort to run in on Sweetland.[172]
Before they reached him Vivian had
already closed with his old friend.
“For justice!” he cried. “Right is on my
side, and well you know it!”
“Liar!” answered the other. “You’re no
man to do this thing. Neither right nor might
be on your side. Take what you’ve courted!”
The unequal struggle was quickly at an end,
for Vivian’s physical powers were as nothing
beside the strength of Daniel. The sailor shook
him like a dog shakes a rat; then he gripped
his huge arms round him and hugged him
breathless.
“So let all be sarved as turns upon their
friends in the time of need!” he bellowed.
“Come on—come on, the pack of ’e!”
It might have been observed that at this
sensational moment the overseer, Jabez Ford,
made no instant effort to come to Henry
Vivian’s rescue. He was as big as Daniel, and
apparently as powerful; but while his black
eyes blazed and he shouted wildly to the
negroes to secure Sweetland, himself he took
no risk. He saw the struggling men get
nearer and nearer to the edge of the wharf;
but he only bawled to the terrified coloured
men to separate the fighters.
At last a big buck negroe tried to grasp
Daniel from behind, and the sailor, bending his[173]
head, drove with full force at the black’s chest,
and fairly butted him head foremost into the
sea. A moment later Vivian was in the water
also, while Ford cried to the negroes to leap in
and frighten the sharks. The overseer
fumbled with a lifebelt the while; but long
before he had cut it from its fastenings Henry
Vivian swam with strong strokes to the landing
stage and climbed upon it.
No anger marked his demeanour, despite
this sharp reverse. He brushed the water from
his face and looked for Sweetland, only to find
Daniel had vanished.
“Thank Heaven—thank Heaven!” said
Ford, warmly. “My heart was in my mouth.
The water under this stage harbours a dozen
sharks.”
“Where’s that man?”
“He’s safe enough. He can’t escape in the
long run. He knocked down two policemen,
and then the harbour-master, who tried to stop
him. After that he bolted to the left there,
and has got into the woods. It may be a long
job, but he must be caught sooner or late.”
“He’s a runaway from justice—a poacher
and a murderer. By an amazing chance we
have met here. We were boys together.
Everything must be done that can be done to
arrest him.”
[174]
“Come to my house and get a change of
clothes,” answered Jabez Ford. “Thank God,
the wretch was not a murderer twice over.
You’ve had a merciful and marvellous escape,
Mr Vivian.”
“Which might have itself been escaped if
you had been quicker and braver,” answered
the young man, coldly. “I’m afraid you are
a coward, Jabez Ford.”
“Presence of mind is a precious gift,”
answered the overseer, with great humility.
“I did the best that I could think of. Of
course, had I guessed that he was going to
throw you into the sea, I should have rushed
at him myself, cost what it might.”
Mr Ford turned his face away as he spoke.
“Come,” he said. “You must change your
clothes quickly or you will be chilled.”
“After I have been to the Office of Police,
not before,” answered Henry Vivian.
Meanwhile the runaway made small work of
such opposition as was offered to his escape.
Two negroes tried to stop him, but only one
stood up to him at the critical moment, and was
paid for his pluck by a terrific knock-down blow
on his flat nose. The harbour-master—a small
but brave Scot—next stood in the way of
liberty and, despite Dan’s shouted warning,[175]
attempted to intercept the runaway. He was
in the dust a moment later, and Sweetland,
sending a dozen men, women, and children flying
like cackling poultry before his rush, got
clear of Scarborough and took to the hills.
He pushed steadily onwards and upwards to
an impenetrable jungle that lay on the steep
side of Fort Saint George, and there, where
aforetime French and English had fought at
death grips, he rested, drew his breath, and
considered his position. Far beneath spread
the stagnation of the little port, southward
gleamed the metal roofing of the Pelican Sugar
Estate, and from time to time, faint through the
distance, he heard a hooter roaring from the
hungry works to the plantations for more cane.
Steam puffed from tall pipes; smoke rolled
from chimneys; like bright insects the Coolies
ran hither and thither in the compounds.
Day died while the fugitive kept his hiding-place.
Then a swift, but amazing sunset encompassed
him. Rose and gold was the sky,
all streaked with tattered ribbons of orange
cloud. The light swam reflected upon the sea,
and it spread to the lofty horizon in broad
sheets of reflected splendour. From the mountains
the scene was superb in its manifold
glory; then the vision perished and inky
silhouettes of palm and plantain and bread-fruit[176]
tree stood out black and solid against the
water. Far below the Peabody lay, like a toy
ship, and twinkled with lights upon the rosy
sea. Darkness leapt out of the East and under
the fringes of the forest night had already
come. Tree-frogs chirruped with endless crisp
tinkle of sound; the air was filled with the
drowsy hum of insect life, fireflies flashed; and
from far below, the mournful boomings of
the marsh-frogs made music proper to the
time.
Sweetland pursued his slow way until midnight
came. He climbed on mechanically hour
after hour, until the air on his cheek and the
stars above told him that he had reached
some mountain-top. Further for the present it
was impossible to proceed. Until day, therefore,
he postponed thought and action. He
tightened his belt to stay hunger; then rolled
up in a dry corner under the savage and spined
foliage of an opuntia, and there slept dreamlessly
until the return of the sun.
[177]
CHAPTER XIII
THE OBI MAN
When Daniel awoke the sun was climbing
swiftly to the zenith, and the full blaze of
it burnt upon a tropical tangle of palmetto and
mango, plantain and palm. He found himself
hidden in a brake of luxuriant vegetation
almost at the apex of a lofty hill that overlooked
the Caribbean Sea. Strange sounds fell upon
his ears, and he perceived that his resting-place
was beneath a prickly-pear fence, on the other
side of which stood a thatched cottage and
extended an acre of cleared land. Beneath
stretched the dark green and orange-tawny of
the forests; strips of thorny cactus hedge
ensured privacy for the clearing, and here a
tamarind tree reared its delicate foliage, and
here the broad leaves of bananas rustled, with
foliage all tattered by the breezes. A goat was
tethered to a little pomegranate tree in the
garden, and over the cleared soil grew vines
of the sweet potato.
A second glance at the hut revealed to
Daniel its exceptional character and significance.
Before he saw the strange and solitary human[178]
being who inhabited it, the sailor guessed that
he stood upon the threshold of mystery. As a
matter of fact he had intruded into the secret
stronghold of Jesse Hagan, the Obi Man. The
situation was silent and mysterious; the place
was adorned, or made horrible, with fragments
of things dead. Two bullocks’ skulls stood at
the entrance of Mr Hagan’s dwelling, and
round his land bobbed a fantastic ribbon whereon
hung empty bottles, bright feathers, and
fragments of gaudy rag. Within this zone
none dared to enter uninvited, for Obeah is
still alive—a creed beyond the power of
missionary to shatter or destroy. Fools fear
Obi, and wise men find him useful; hence the
high priests of that Satanic cult still thrive. A
negro would no more speak disrespectfully of
them than he would of his own grand-parents.
Suddenly, as Daniel stared and felt a growing
inclination to be gone, the mystic himself
appeared and stood in the morning light. He
appeared profoundly ancient, and his ribs made
a gridiron of his lean breast. His limbs were
skin and bone; his scanty wool was grey; a
tangled network of furrows and deep lines
scarred and seamed his face in every direction;
and, curiously wide apart, on either side of a
huge, flat, Ethiopian nose, the man’s eyes
gleamed from his withered headpiece, like the[179]
eyes of a toad. Jesse was in extreme undress.
Only the ruins of a pair of trousers covered his
loins and a band of red cloth circled his throat.
Despite his advanced age, no little physical
strength remained to him, and now, as Daniel
watched, the negro displayed it. Taking an
iron spade and seeking a corner of the garden
near his unseen visitor, Jesse turned aside the
long, creeping fingers of a snake gourd that
trailed there under the shade of a citron tree,
and began to dig in soft earth. As the old
creature worked and sank swiftly downward
into the soil, he sang to himself in a piping
treble with the usual West Indian whine. The
voice was feeble; but the words were sinister
and told of evil. A blue bird sat on a thorn
and put his head on one side to hear the song;
a green lizard, with eyes like Jesse’s own,
rustled out from the cactus fence and stopped,
with palpitating, tremulous motion of its front
paws, to listen also. Then the bird flew and
the reptile fled, and Daniel Sweetland was sole,
secret audience of the song.
“Low dem lie, low dem lie—
Dey come, dey come, but dey never go by;
And de roots ob de creeping snake-gard know,
Where dey sleep so still in de hole so low—
Obeah-die!
Obeah-do!
[180]
Low dem lie, low dem lie—
Hark de buzz ob de carrion fly!
But nobody guess what the snake-gard know,
Twining him root far down below—
Obeah-die!
Obeah-do!
Low dem lie, low dem lie—
De worms dey crawl in de dead men’s eye,
And de snake-gard he suck, and Jesse he know
What lie so still in de hole so low—
Obeah-die!
Obeah-do!”
The song rose and sank and seemed to hang
in the trees and creep about like an evil
presence. The refrain rose into a wail, and its
last penetrating note was answered by crisp
stridulation of great winged grasshoppers.
Jesse’s uncanny melody fitted the place, the
man, and the task.
“I never did!” thought Daniel, as his eyes
grew round. “If the old devil ban’t digging
a grave! And singing rhymes to his beastly
self over it too! To think that Johnny Beer
ban’t the only verse-maker as I’ve met with in
my travels! But Johnny never in all his born
days let off such a rhyme as that. I’m sure us
never would have stood it. A grave, sure
enough—an’ more’n one poor wretch has been
buried there seemingly.”
[181]
The remark was called forth by an incident,
for Mr Hagan suddenly exhumed a skull. It
was low and flat-browed. Jesse set it very
gravely upon the edge of the pit and then
addressed it.
“Who was you, sar?” he asked. “You no
answer me, sar? Den you berry rude,
imperent young fellow!”
Whereupon he smacked the empty brain-pan
with a spade, so that some of the teeth fell
out. The man and the skull grinned at each
other, then Jesse grew serious and spoke
again.
“You larf—eh? You larf! Me Gard, I
dunno what you got to larf about! You’s
Jephson—dat’s you. I ’member Jephson.
Massa Ford, he want Jephson ‘rub out,’ and
send him wid a message to ole Jesse. Den ole
Jesse ‘rub you out.’ To kill a nigger is only
to rub out a black mark. Dey soon gone.
And some white folk too. Dey all berry
quiet when dey eat and drink poor ole Jesse’s
rum and cakes. He, he! Obi Man berry
good fren to Massa Ford!”
He laboured in silence and dug on until he
had sunk a hole five feet deep. Next he
concealed all trace of the work very carefully.
He buried the pile of damp earth under dead
palm leaves and brushwood, while the hole[182]
itself he covered with twigs and trailed over
them long shoots and sprays of the luxuriant
snake-gourd.
Now, having made an end of this business,
Jesse sought his outer gate and, posting himself
there, screened his face from the glare of
the risen sun and looked out with his bright,
lizard eyes down the tremendous escarpments
of the hill beneath him. An amazing panorama
of forest, shore and sea spread below; and
winding through the woods, struggling as it
were with difficulty through dense undergrowth
and narrow places full of cactus and thorns,
there ascended a bridle-path flanked by bewildering
tangles of foliage, by volcanic boulders
and huge trees. Here and there through the
forest flamed like fire the flowers of the bois immortelle;
at other points, all festooned and
linked together with twining and climbing parasites,
or grey curtains of lace-like lichens and
wind pines, arose notable forest giants, some
gleaming with blossoms, some bending under
wealth of fruits. And through the mingled
leafy draperies of green and brown, olive and
gold, under the feathery crown of the bamboo,
amongst the green inflorescence of the mango,
like liquid gems in the sunlight, did little humming-birds
with breasts of emerald and ruby,
flash and glitter. Every step or terrace in the[183]
steep acclivities of the hills was crowned with
cabbage palms or other lofty trees, and from
point to point the gaunt, bleached limbs of some
forest corpse stared out lightning-stricken,
where the dead thing waited for the next hurricane
to bring its bones to earth. Far below
glimmered a white beech, and, through the
woods, all silent in the growing heat, there rose
a sigh of surf breaking—surf that even from
this elevation could be seen lying like a band of
silver between the many-tinted sea and the pale
shore.
Away on the western side of the hills extended
long and undulating fields of green vegetation,
and in their midst arose buildings with tall
chimneys and metal roofs that flashed like liquid
silver under the sunshine. There extended the
Pelican Sugar Estate, and indications of prosperity
surrounded them; but elsewhere companion
enterprises had clearly been less fortunate.
In other parts of the island stagnation
marked similar concerns. The plantations
were deserted; the land was returning to the
wilderness; the works fell into ruins.
But Jabez Ford still held the key of success,
if it was possible to judge by visible signs.
Tobago felt proud of him and of the Pelican
Estates. Wide interest was taken in the visit
of the owner’s son, and none doubted but that[184]
Ford would benefit by the circumstance and win
a reward worthy of his long and honourable
stewardship.
Two people understood otherwise, however,
and one was Jabez Ford himself. The overseer
had failed to satisfy Henry Vivian, and he
knew it. The accounts were scrupulously rendered;
the staff of coolies from Bombay was
happy and contented; the sugar commanded
high praise and ready sale; but there was a disparity
between the apparent prosperity and the
real output. Other puzzling circumstances also
much tended to increase young Vivian’s doubt.
Ford was an easy and convincing talker. He
had an answer for every question, an explanation
of every difficulty. But the fact remained:
Henry Vivian disliked and distrusted him; and
Jabez knew it and did not conceal the truth from
himself. An implicit duel rapidly developed
between them and the elder man seemed likely
to win it, for he was the stronger every way.
He stood on his own dunghill and, for the
present, had no intention of being removed
therefrom. His private plans demanded another
year for their fulfilment. Then, the richer by
a sustained and skilful system of peculation,
he proposed to leave Tobago and take himself
and his hoard to some secret place in
South America, far beyond the reach of all[185]
former acquaintance. The sudden and unexpected
advent of Henry Vivian had taxed this
rascal’s ingenuity severely, and the visitor’s own
reserve made the matter more difficult, for Sir
Reginald’s son investigated everything without
comment and found fault with nothing. But
Ford was a student of human nature and
wanted no words to know that he stood in
danger.
Now, as Jesse Hagan looked down from his
mountain-top and waited, there rode through
the deep glen below the overseer. His plans
were already made. It needed only a further
conference with his ancient ally to mature them.
Jabez himself had black blood in his veins. His
great-grandfather had been a negro, and he
himself had married a Creole. This woman
shared the man’s life for twenty years; then
death fell upon her, and it was to keep Jumbies
from the body that negresses had sung all night
as Daniel described to Minnie.
A glimmer of white caught Jesse’s eyes far
below. He heard the tramp of a horse and
knew that his man was coming. Daniel still
lay concealed beside the cactus fence, and
through the flat and thorny leaves of opuntia,
he saw Jabez Ford ride up. Jesse had disappeared
for a moment into his hut, but now he
came forward with a bottle and a calabash.
[186]
“Marning, massa—rum punch for massa—what
Jesse get ready.”
The man drank before answering, then he
threw the calabash on the ground.
“I want another sort of brew to-morrow.
It’s got to be. I’m sorry for the young devil,
for I’ve no quarrel with him; but he’s too cute.
It don’t do to be too cute with Jabez Ford.”
“Him rub out, sar?”
“No choice. Let me come in. I’ll tell you
what happened last night. He’s booked.”
“Dar’s a nice, cool, quiet hole under de
snake-gourd waitin’ for Massa Vivian. He’ll
be berry comfable dar wid de udder gem’men.”
“You talk too much,” said Ford. “Come in
and don’t make jokes at your time of life.
Think of the Devil, your master, and how
precious soon you’ll go back to him, Jesse.”
“You my massa, sar; Jesse dun want no
udder massa dan Massa Ford. Marse Debbil,
he no pay such good wages as you.”
Ford laughed and dismounted from his horse.
He was a big, hard man, roasted and shrivelled
somewhat by a life in the tropics. He always
wore white ducks and a felt hat that sloped
well back over the nape of his neck. His hair
was black, his eyes were also black, and his face
might have been considered handsome. His
clean-shorn mouth showed unusual strength of[187]
character and spoke of greed and craft as well.
Tobago admired Jabez without liking him; the
little island was proud of his prosperity, but it
did not trust him. His downfall would have
brought sorrow to few, for many secretly suspected
him of dark things. But he was strong,
and not a man among his neighbours would
have cared or dared to fall foul of him.
Now Ford followed the priest of Obi into his
secret dwelling, where monstrous matters were
hidden in the gloom and evil smells stole out
of the darkness. Three dried mummies first
appeared. One was a crocodile and hung from
the roof; the other two had been human beings.
They sat propped in corners with a loathsome
semblance of living and listening about them.
Festoons of bird’s eggs, curious seeds, and dried
pumpkins were stretched across the ceiling;
skins of animals and birds littered the floor.
Unseen things squeaked in cages; there was a
piece of red glass in the roof and through it, on
to a wooden table, there fell a round, flaming
eye of light which luridly illuminated the
assembled horrors. Uncanny and malodorous
fragments filled the corners; filth, mystery and
darkness blended here; and across one corner
of the hut hung a curtain which hid Arcanum,
the Holy of Obeah Holies.
Jabez Ford sat down on a three-legged stool[188]
by the table, and the red light shone like a sulky
fire upon his dark locks. He sniffed the infamous
air, then took a cigar from his case and
lighted it.
Meantime, with more pluck than wisdom, and
only thinking of the things that he had heard and
seen, Daniel Sweetland followed close upon the
heels of the strange pair. Now he stood outside
the hut near the open door, and, crouching
here, listened clearly to the conversation within.
Beside him the tethered goat still browsed,
and Ford’s horse sniffed the ground for something
to eat. But only the lush foliage of the
snake-gourd spread within his reach, and that
the beast declined. It dragged its bridle as far
as possible, stamped the earth, and with unceasing
swish, swish, swish of tail kept the flies
from its sweating flanks.
“I’ll tell you what’s happened since we met,”
said Ford to his creature. “Last night the
youngster wrote his letters home and left them
with mine to be taken to the post office to catch
the mail. The Solent sailed this morning,
but she didn’t take Henry Vivian’s letter to his
father. She took one from me instead, signed
in his name. I’ve got his in my pocket, and it
contained exactly what I expected. He makes
no definite charge, because it is impossible to
prove anything against me; but he states in[189]
detail that more money is being made than
appears, and advises Sir Reginald to be rid of
me at once. Meantime he is going to look
round the island and find a new overseer. But
this little plan won’t suit me. I must stop at
the Pelican for another year at least. So,
having unsealed and read our young friend’s
letter after he retired to bed, I wrote another—on
my typewriter—and gave myself a better
character, you may be sure. His signature
was very easy to imitate, and now my letter,
not his, has set sail for home. There it goes
now.”
He pointed below where a steamer slipped
away from Tobago and the station ship,
Solent, proceeded on her course to Trinidad
and Barbados.
“My letter went in his envelope,” continued
Ford. “And when Sir Reginald reads it, he
will be favourably impressed because I gave
myself a better character than Vivian did. Of
course a letter from me will reach him by the
next mail.”
“You write, too, massa?”
“Yes—I shall write—all about what is going
to happen.”
“I see. You tell de great man at home how
his son meet wid dam sad accident and lose
him life in Tobago?”
[190]
“Exactly. The boy’s as good as dead. I
rather wish it had been possible to avoid this;
but it is not. He mustn’t go home.”
“He trust you?”
“Absolutely. He has no idea that I have
seen through him and know that he is not
satisfied. Therefore, from his standpoint, I
have no reason to hate him. We are the best
of friends. I am showing him all the sights
and taking him all over the island. He is
anxious to see everything and everybody. Of
course he is on the look-out for a new overseer,
but I’m not supposed to know that. Now he’s
excited, too, about that sailor who knocked
him down yesterday. A wretched fellow off a
tramp steamer. We were on the wharf watching
them load turtles, when he spotted the
man. Then there was a row, and my
gentleman got knocked into the water. I
hoped there might have been a shark cruising
round! It would have saved us a deal of
trouble.”
“I will do all Marse shark could do, sar.
A berry nice hole dug under the snake-gourd.
When he come?”
“Soon. I’ve told him that Jesse Hagan, the
Obi Man, is the first wonder of the island; so
he’ll be here with me to see you. Have all
your war-paint on. Afterwards, I’ll take his[191]
horse away—and his boots and clothes. The
rest is simple enough. They’ll find the horse
loose on the beach, and his garments together,
and prints of feet going to the bathing-place,
but none returning.”
“Dar’s nobody like Massa Ford!”
“We must be short and sharp. He’s resolute
and quick. But he’s small—what’s that?
There’s somebody moving out there!”
“My goat, sar.”
But Ford had leapt to his feet and left the
hut. A moment later and he stood face to face
with Daniel Sweetland. The sailor was some
distance from the cottage when Jabez accosted
him. His back was turned and he stood on a
stone and pulled down green bananas from one
of the Obi Man’s trees.
“Who are you and what do you do here?”
asked the overseer. “You must be mad or
a desperate man to run your head into this
place.”
The other looked innocently round. Mere
temporary fear seemed to leap into his eyes at
this threat. He showed by no deed or look
that the truth was known to him. But Daniel
had heard the course of conversation very
clearly, and the necessity for swift action had
forced itself upon his mind. His first idea was
to leap upon Ford’s horse, hasten to the Pelican[192]
Estate, and give an alarm; then he remembered
his own position as a hunted fugitive. A plan
worthy of the ingenious brain that had freed
him from the handcuffs of Mr Corder swiftly
dawned in the man’s head. He saw the
dangers waiting for Henry Vivian and for himself.
In a few moments he decided upon action,
and his words indicated that Daniel evidently
held self-preservation the first law of nature.
He left the heir of Middlecott to his fate, and
played for his own hand only.
“Please, sir, listen afore you give me up,”
said Daniel. “Afore God I’m innocent of what
this man says against me. He’s a hard, cruel
young devil, and many’s the poor chap at home
he’s driven desperate. Not a spark of pity has
he got, an’ now I be desperate—as any hunted
man would be—an’ so I’ve climbed up here
with my life in my hand to this terrible old
chap they tell me about. An’ I was going to
ax him to help me; but hearing voices, I just
waited here till he was free. I’ll pay him well
for his bananas, and I’ll pay him better for
something else, which is to help me against that
young bloodhound, Henry Vivian. I don’t
care what I do against him, for he’ll ruin me if
he can; and if I was guilty I’d say nought, but
I’m innocent. An’ if I’ve got to swing, I’ll
swing for him! That’s why I comed with a[193]
present to this here mystery man, to ax him to
hide me an’ help me against my enemy. An’
I’ll tell you something too, if you’ll listen, an’
that is that Mister Henry Vivian ban’t no friend
to you. I come from the same place he does,
and I heard about it afore my own trouble at
home. He’m here as a spy, an’ I lay after he’s
gone, you’ll find your goose be cooked.”
This speech interested Mr Ford not a little.
“’Twas you that shot his father’s gamekeeper
then?” he asked; but Daniel denied it.
“It looked bad against me—so bad that I
didn’t stop to talk about it, but got clear off.
Time will show ’twas no work of mine, however;
an’ this man, as have knowed me from my
youth up, ought to be my friend—not my enemy.
But since he’m against me, I’m against him,
an’ I’d cut his throat to-morrow if I got the
chance.”
The overseer nodded and turned to Jesse
Hagan. Jesse had brought a gun out of his
dwelling, and now deliberately pointed it at
Daniel.
“Shall I shoot dis gem’man?” he inquired
with his finger on the trigger. “Him berry
rude young man walk in my garden widdout
saying ‘please,’ an’ eat my bananas.”
“Stop!” answered Ford. “This sailor is a
friend. At least I think so. No, don’t shoot[194]
him. Let him come in and give him something
to eat. He’s hungry.”
“Lucky Massa Ford speak for you, Marse
sailor-man—else you food for de ‘John Crows’
dis minute. But he say ‘eat’; so you eat instead
ob being eaten, sar.”
Then Daniel entered the Obi Man’s hut with
Jabez Ford and old Jesse.
[195]
CHAPTER XIV
JESSE’S FINGER-NAIL
For an hour Jesse Hagan, Jabez Ford and
Daniel Sweetland spoke in secret together.
Then the overseer mounted his horse and
departed, while Daniel and the Obi Man
remained.
The result of this curious conference will
appear. Suffice it that for many a long month
no man ever saw Daniel’s face again. Meantime
Mr Ford resumed his attendance on Sir
Reginald Vivian’s son, who continued to enjoy
the generous hospitality of Tobago. Hue
and cry for Daniel Sweetland quite failed to
find him, or any sign of him. No trace of the
sailor rewarded a close and systematic search.
It was supposed that he had eluded all eyes,
risked the sharks, and either perished or succeeded
in swimming back to his ship on the
night before she sailed. But the crew knew
differently. To the deep regret of James
Bradley and the rest of his mates, Daniel returned
to the Peabody no more. To wait for
him could not be thought of. A black man
was, therefore, shipped in Sweetland’s stead,[196]
and the old steamer, with a small cargo of
cocoanuts and turtle, sailed to Barbados. Dan
from his hiding-place saw her depart unmoved,
for he knew not the awful fate that would soon
overtake his friends. Great issues had now
opened in his own life, and extreme hazards
awaited him.
A fortnight passed, and the afternoon of
Henry Vivian’s visit to the Obi Man arrived.
This event had been reserved for his last
holiday in Tobago. In two days’ time a Royal
Mail Packet would leave the island, and by it
the visitor designed to return to Barbados, that
he might pick up the next vessel that sailed
for home.
While he packed his cabin trunks young
Vivian reviewed the events of recent weeks,
and thought, not without regret, of much that
had happened. The pursuit of Sweetland had
caused him deep sorrow. He forgave Dan
his ducking, and only mourned that his own
sense of duty had made it necessary to try and
secure the escaped prisoner. He would have
given much to know what had become of the
fugitive, and hoped against his conscience that
Daniel was safe in the Peabody. But the
young man did not doubt that Sweetland had
been guilty, for evidence of his crime seemed
overwhelming, and the final fact that he had[197]
escaped from justice showed too certainly how
the poacher had feared it. The circumstance
of Jabez Ford’s dishonesty was also material
for unquiet reflections. Mr Ford acquitted
himself as an ideal host, and every instinct of
the guest rebelled and hurt him for the part
that he must play. Vivian felt himself guilty
of treachery, and it was only by keeping the
truth concerning Jabez Ford resolutely in sight
that he could view his courtesy, good nature,
and hospitality with an easy mind. That
Ford had robbed his father Henry Vivian
could not question; yet he blamed himself for
being so silent. He felt that he had done
better and more bravely to declare his doubts
and charge the other openly. Then he reminded
himself that he had actually done so,
that he had expressed frank dissatisfaction on
many occasions, and that Jabez Ford, with imperturbable
good humour, had listened to his
strictures, regretted his opinions, and assured
him of his mistakes. At least Vivian determined
that he would not leave the overseer
in any uncertainty. He had failed to find a
trustworthy and experienced man to take
Ford’s place in Tobago; but he doubted not
that such a man might be forthcoming at
Barbados. Letters would reach him there
from his father, and those letters Henry believed[198]
would grant him powers to dismiss
Jabez Ford and appoint another overseer. He
might, indeed, have to return to Tobago before
leaving the West Indies. At anyrate, on the
following day Ford was to lunch with Vivian
on shipboard before the steamer sailed, and
then Henry determined that the overseer
should hear the truth, in order that he might
make preparations for his departure from the
Pelican Estate.
While the traveller thus decided, Jabez
Ford was engaged upon a communication to
Sir Reginald; and it was this letter, and not
his employer’s son, that the overseer intended
should travel homeward in two days’ time.
The fireflies danced across the velvet darkness
of night; strange sounds of frogs echoed
in the marshes, and sheet lightning sometimes
outlined the dark heads of the palms as Jabez
wrote. Now he sipped his grog; now he
turned his cigar in his mouth; now he listened
to the footfall of his guest on the floor above.
Vivian was whistling “Widecombe Fair.”
Already he wearied of the tropics and began
to yearn for a sight of home.
Mr Jabez Ford tapped away at his typewriter
and described with many an artistic and
graphic touch events that had not yet happened.
He told how Henry Vivian accompanied[199]
him to the abode of the old negro,
Jesse Hagan; how, after inspecting the Obi
Man’s mysteries, the visitor had ridden off
alone to return to the Pelican Sugar Estate;
how he had not come back, and how, protracted
search being made, his clothes were
discovered upon the seashore, while a single
row of naked footprints were also observed
leading from them to the sea. He added that
young Vivian’s custom was to bathe twice
daily, and that on more than one occasion,
disregarding warnings, he had swum in the
open water instead of behind the protections
of the regular bathing-place. Mr Ford left it
to the sorrowing father to guess what must
have happened in those shark-haunted waters.
He concluded with haste to catch the mail.
He promised to write again as soon as possible,
and to send a message by cable if any hopeful
news might be despatched.
Then, well pleased with the effort, he slept,
and presently woke again refreshed to make
his story good.
Soon after noon Vivian and the overseer
rode together by the steep forest path to
Jesse’s lofty haunt, and the Obi Man in expectation
prepared himself. Daniel Sweetland
had vanished. Only an attendant negro
waited on the master of the mysteries. All[200]
being arranged to Jesse’s satisfaction, the
ancient man disappeared into an inner sanctum
behind a curtain, and there completed his own
horrible toilet. Upon his head he placed a
fur cap with long black horns sprouting out of
it, and over his lean carcase he drew hairy
garments daubed with white and scarlet paint.
These things were girt about his waist with a
belt of feathers of the king-bird—a tropic fowl
of gorgeous plumage. His arms remained
bare, but to his wrists and ankles he fastened
strips of lizard skin and hung bracelets of
rattling seeds. About his neck he placed a
chain of human teeth, and upon his breast for
a loathsome amulet, the shrivelled-up mummy
of a monkey hung. He next painted sundry
blue hieroglyphics over his wrinkled face, and
then gazed with unqualified pleasure at the
general effect seen in a scrap of looking-glass.
“Obi somebody dis day!” said Jesse as he
marched out into the daylight; and if he
looked unearthly in the gloom of his own den,
the display in full blaze of sunshine was still
more terrific. He pranced hither and thither
for his servant’s benefit. He jingled and clashed
and flamed. His fantastic adornments glittered
in the light; strange treasures, unseen until
now, appeared amongst his accoutrements. A
brass-bound Bible hung round his neck with a[201]
big jack-knife; upon his knees a pair of old
naval epaulettes were fastened. The ghastly
thing on his breast had yellow beads stuck into
its head for eyes, and now they flashed with a
sort of life, whilst its little mummied arms clung
about Jesse and seemed to hug him.
The attendant eyed him without awe or admiration.
Jacky, as he was called, lacked some
of his senses and never spoke. Then, while
Jesse capered about like a monkey, down in the
hot haze of the distance amid trees and rocks,
the old monster suddenly saw a cavalcade
struggling up the hill. Two horsemen were
approaching.
Now the Obi Man retired again to complete
very special and secret preparations for the hope
of the house of Vivian. He withdrew behind the
curtain, stooped low in his secret corner, and
drew forth a box from beneath much rubbish
that covered it. Next he lighted a candle,
opened the box and from it took a smaller one.
This contained a grey, sticky matter, like bird-lime.
Digging out some of the stuff upon the
point of a wooden skewer, Jesse, with his
thumb, held back the flesh of his middle right-hand
finger, and, under the nail, deposited the
compound from the box. He plastered it there,
and since all his nails were long and dirty, the
presence of this strange ointment was not likely[202]
to attract attention. He hid the box again,
blew out his candle, and, returning to the air,
went forward to meet his company.
The horsemen arrived and drew up before
Jesse’s gate as he leapt forward and bowed low,
while his finery made savage music.
“By Jove! we’re lucky!” exclaimed Jabez.
“I told you that you should see an Obi doctor,
but I never thought he would have all his war-paint
on!”
“Tell him to get further off,” answered
Vivian. “My horse is growing restive.”
“Gib you berry good day, Massa Ford; and
you too, sar!” cried Jesse, bowing again and
again. “Poor ole man Hagan, he berry pleased
to see gem’men.”
“This is Mr Vivian, Jesse,” explained the
overseer. “His father is Sir Reginald Vivian—the
great man who owns the Pelican
Estate.”
Jesse saluted respectfully.
“I proud nigger dis day. Wonderful esteats—wonderful
sugar esteats, massa. No canes
like de canes on Pelican land. Come in,
gem’men. Jacky hold your hosses and make
dem fast. I’se proud to see two such gem’men
in dis place.”
Ford made signs to the negro, but did not
speak. Then he turned to Henry Vivian.
[203]
“That’s old Jesse’s son,” he explained. “A
rare fine nigger—full-blooded and strong as a
horse. But he’s deaf and dumb—poor devil!—though
he’s got all his other wits about him.”
Jacky made fast the horses and brought them
a pail of water. Then Ford and the guest
entered Mr Hagan’s hut, and Jesse followed
them. He bustled about and fetched a basket
of fruit from the garden. Next he produced a
bottle of rum and drew the cork with his teeth.
Henry Vivian stared and showed a very
genuine interest in the strange scene around
him. Mr Ford sat on a barrel in a corner and
smoked his cigar.
“You’ve got to thank old Jesse here for more
than you know,” he declared. “He’s been
worth pounds and pounds to the Pelican; and
though I can’t show the profits that I’d like
to show you, and hope to show you soon, yet
but for this old wonder here, the figures would
be far worse than they are. Two years ago a
tremendous lot of sugar-cane was stolen from
our plantation. The black thieves came by
night—”
“He-he-he! Black tiefs come by night!”
echoed Jesse.
“And took tons of the stuff. I placed the
matter in the hands of the police; but it’s not
much good setting a nigger to catch a nigger[204]
as a rule. The officers did no good; then I
tried the parson. But he was powerless too.
So I came to Jesse, and he stopped the rascals
in no time.”
“Jesse stop de rascals in no time,” said the
old negro.
“He put your father’s lands under Obeah,
Mr Vivian. That doesn’t mean much to you;
but we West Indians understand. All rubbish
and nonsense really, perhaps, though I won’t
allow that myself. At anyrate, Obeah is a
terrible thing to Ethiopian ears. Some survival
and fragment of their ancient, infernal religion of
witchcraft and unimaginable devilries. There’s
something in it, I believe—what, I cannot say.
Our friend here is one of the last of the Obi
Men, and he threw his spell over the sugar
canes—hung up red rags and empty bottles on
the skirts of the plantation—uttered some
mumbo-jumbo spell in the ears of the frightened
people and departed. It was enough. Devil
another stick went.”
“Debble anudder stick go! He-he!”
sniggered Jesse.
“We ought to be greatly obliged,” confessed
Henry Vivian. “This has been a most
interesting experience, and I hope you’ll accept
an English sovereign from me in the name of
my father, old man. Be sure I’ll tell him[205]
of your exploits and all that he owes to
you.”
“Gold—me like gold berry much,” declared
Jesse. He took the money greedily and
slipped it into a pocket at his belt. “Massa
King ob England on it—good!” he said.
“And now I’ll depart, if you please, Ford,”
continued young Vivian. “I’m glad to have
had this most interesting experience, but I
can’t stand the place any longer. The uncanny
odours are choking me.”
“Smoke then. We can’t go immediately.
The old boy would never forgive us. I’ll be
off as soon as I dare.”
He turned to Jesse.
“Seen any turtle lately?”
“Plenty turtle, sar. I take my walks on
moony nights and see de great cock turtle
making a fuss and de ladies laying dar eggs
in de sand. Berry good soup—but Jesse like
rum better. It work quicker. You gem’men
shall taste Jesse’s rum punch. Nobody make
rum punch like me, massa.”
He made signs to Jacky, and the silent
negro, who stood at the door, drew three
calabash shells from a corner and took them
out to wash them.
“He my son, massa,” explained old Hagan.
“Him no speak or hear. Him tongue tied[206]
by de Lord. But him understand berry quick.
Him understand like a dog, sar. Him know
tings dat we no know, for all dat we have ears
and tongues.”
Vivian nodded dreamily and puffed his cigar.
The vile atmosphere of the hut and Jesse’s
voice that ran on ceaselessly began together to
hypnotise him. He felt sleepy.
“How much more of it?” he asked Ford,
and the other answered—
“Not five minutes. The drink is ready.
We will wish him good luck and long life.
Then we will clear out. His rum punch is
really worth drinking. I know nothing like
it.”
Meantime Jacky had rinsed out his three
split calabash bowls and now placed them on
the table in a row.
“Dis Obi punch I make for you, sar.
Nobody make him but Jesse!” declared the
host. Then he poured his concoction into the
three bowls and, when he had emptied a large
open pan, about half a pint of liquor filled each
calabash.
“Drink and remember de poor old Obi Man,
sars! Dar’s yours, Massa Ford, and dar’s
yours, Massa Vivian; and dis am mine. Jacky
and me will share and share togedder.”
He handed the calabashes to his son and a[207]
close observer might have noted that into one
bowl of refreshment—that intended for Henry
Vivian—Jesse dipped the long, bony middle
finger of his right hand.
A moment later Jabez Ford lifted his drink
and pledged the giver.
“Here’s to you, old fellow, and may your
shadow never grow less. Good luck and long
life to all of us!”
He drank heartily, smacked his lips, and set
his empty bowl upon the table, while Vivian
followed his example and drained his drink
also.
“Splendid—splendid!” he said. “I’ll give
you another sovereign for the secret of that!”
Jesse looked at the doomed man with his
toad’s eyes.
“I fraid de secret no good whar you gwaine,
massa. You dead gem’man, sar. Nuffing on
God earf save you now. Five minutes more
and we take off your tings and put you under
Jesse’s snake-gourd, sar.”
“What the deuce is he talking about?”
began Vivian. Then his jaw fell and he stared
at the face of Jabez Ford. Behind them stood
Jacky, and in front, on the other side of the
table, the Obi Man quietly sipped his rum
punch and waited.
But now a thing unforeseen occurred, and[208]
the awful, inevitable death that had been
mixed with Henry Vivian’s cup fell upon
another.
Jabez Ford it was who leapt to his feet, cried
a hoarse oath and turned upon the negro
behind him.
“Treachery—you—you—!” he began.
Then he fell in a heap on the floor, twisted
horribly like a snake, while his hands and feet
beat the earth.
“Air—air—my God—life!” he cried, and at
the same moment with a wild yell the Obi Man
leapt forward and hurled himself at his son’s
throat. But the younger negro was ready, and
in his grasp the old man’s strength availed
nothing. In a moment Mr Hagan was forced
to the earth and Jacky, with a rope in readiness,
had bound him hand and foot. His finery fell
from Jesse while he shrieked and struggled
and cursed. Then he sank into silence and
watched Jabez Ford die.
Vivian, believing himself in some appalling
nightmare, glared upon this scene; and its unreality
and horror seemed increased to a climax
worse than the sudden death of the overseer
when the dumb negro turned upon him and
spoke.
“Come!” said the man. “Come out of
this! The horses are waiting. I’ll tell you[209]
what’s to tell, but not here with that mad old
devil screeching in our ears and t’other glaring
there with death gripping his throat. Come,
Henry Vivian, an’ give heed to the man who
has saved your life at the cost of this twisted
clay here. Like him would you have been this
minute but for me. ’Tis now your turn to be
merciful.”
“Dan! Dan Sweetland!”
“So I be then—at your service. Come.
No more till we’m out o’ sight of this
gashly jakes. Let that old rip bide where he
be for the present. Us can come backalong
for him after dark, or to-morrow.”
A few moments later Sweetland, still disguised
as a negro, mounted the dead man’s
horse, and he and his old companion rode away
together.
[210]
CHAPTER XV
DANIEL EXPLAINS
“Afore you think about what all this
means, you’d best to hear me,” began
Daniel. “I’m very sorry I throwed you in the
water, Mister Henry, but ’twas ‘which he
should,’ as we say to home; an’ if I hadn’t
done it, you’d have had me locked up. You
thought you was right to go for me; an’ I
reckoned I was right to go for you. An’ I
should again, for I’m innocent afore Almighty
God. May He strike me dead on this here
dead man’s horse if I ban’t!”
“We’ll leave your affairs for the present,”
replied Vivian. “What you’ve got to do is to
tell me what all this means. Then I shall
know how to act.”
“That’s all right,” answered the other; “but
you’m rather too disposed to be one-sided, if I
may say so without rudeness. A man like me
don’t care to blow his own trumpet, but I must
just remind you that I’ve saved you from a
terrible ugly death during the last five minutes;
and I’ll confess ’twas a very difficult job and
took me all my time to do it. I’ve been a[211]
better friend to you than ever you was to me,
though I know you was all for justice an’ that
you meant to do your duty. But you was cruel
quick against me. Well, thus it stands: the
world thinks I’m a murderer, an’ my work in
life is to prove I am not. An’ that I shall do,
with or without your help, sir. But if you
believe the lie, say so, an’ I’ll know where I
be. If you’re my enemy still, declare it. Then
if there’s got to be fighting the sooner the
better. But think afore you throw me over.
’Twas because I loved you, when we were
boys, an’ because I thought that, when you
heard my story calmly, you’d come to believe
in me, that I let the past go an’ saved your
life. So now say how we stand, please, Mister
Henry. If you’m against me still, be honest
and declare it. But I know you can’t be. Ban’t
human nature after what I’ve just done for you.”
Vivian stopped his horse.
“It’s not a time for reserve, Dan. You’re
right and I’m wrong. You’ve taught me to
be larger-hearted. I’ll take your word, and
henceforth I’m on your side before a wilderness
of proofs. From this hour I will believe that
you’re an innocent man, and I thank you,
under God, for saving my life.”
He held out his hand, and Sweetland shook
it as if he could never let go.
[212]
“The Lord will bless you for that! I
knowed well how ’twould be when you understood.
An’ I hope you’ll forgive me for speaking
so plain; but ’twas gall to me to know you
thought me so bad. If you’m on my side, an’
my own Minnie at home, an’ my own friend,
Titus Sim—you three—then I’m not feared for
anything else. I’ll face the world an’ laugh at
it now. But first I must tell you the meaning
of all that’s happened to-day.”
“Here’s the Pelican,” interrupted Vivian.
“You’ll do well to come in and have a wash
while I send for the police.”
“Washing won’t get it off. I’ll be so black
as the ace of oaks for many a long day yet; an’
maybe it’s best so. ’Twas that dead man’s
idea that I should bide along with Jesse Hagan
an’ pretend to be a deaf an’ dumb nigger, an’
lend Jesse a hand when you arrived. A very
good idea too. So long as Dan Sweetland’s
thought to be a murderer, he’ll be better out
of the way.”
They entered the dwelling of Jabez Ford,
while a negro took their horses.
Then Sweetland told his story from the
beginning. He started with the night before
his wedding, and gave every particular of his
last poaching enterprise. He related how he
actually heard the shot that must have slain[213]
Adam Thorpe, and explained how he returned
to Hangman’s Hut, put his gun into its case,
and then went home to his father’s house. His
wedding, arrest, and subsequent escape followed.
He mentioned his ruse at the King’s Oven, his
visit to his wife, and his escape from Plymouth
in the Peabody. He resumed the narrative
at Scarborough, Tobago, and then related what
had happened to him after flying from the
wharf.
“I overheard Jesse and Jabez Ford talking,
an’ very quickly tumbled to it that you was a
deader if you comed to see the Obi Man. I’d
watched the old, grey-haired devil dig your
grave already. Then I set to work to save
you. Maybe ’twas a fool’s trick, but I hadn’t
much time to think about it, so I bluffed, an’
went in so bold as brass, an’ said as I wanted
to take your life. Well, you may guess what
Ford thought of that. A desperate, half-naked,
savage sailor-man was just the tool for him.
They let me help Jesse, an’ I make no doubt
that Ford meant to turn on me afterwards, if
ever he had to clear himself. He never smelt
a rat—he never saw I was playing a part—I
was that bitter against you. I axed the man
an’ begged him to let me kill you myself, an’
I think he would have agreed to it; but Jesse
said that ’twas his job, an’ he told us he wasn’t[214]
going to have no pig-killing in his house, but
ordered us to leave it to him. To the last he
wouldn’t tell me how he was going to do it.
So I had an anxious time, I promise you.
Then ’twas planned that I should be a black
man, an’ the old chap gived me some stuff for
my face an’ hands an’ neck—just the colour as
you see. I’ve got the rest up there in a bottle.
Well, Ford he went off, an’ Jesse told me what
my part was to be. Simple enough—only to
hand you your rum punch when the time came—nothing
more. ’Twas all in that drop of
drink. But he swore ’twasn’t when I axed
him afore you come. And what he put in, or
how he put it in, I can’t tell you. I only
guessed when he handed me the drink that death
was in your bowl, because he was so partickler
about which was yours an’ which was Ford’s.
So I said to myself, ‘I’ll change these here calabashes
behind their backs, an’ if one’s a wrong
’un, let that crafty chap have it; an’ if both
be honest, no harm’s done.’ You see how right
I was. When I seed Ford screech an’ topple
over, I knowed what I’d saved you from.”
“But why—what did the man want to poison
me for?”
“Because he’d seed through you an’ knowed
you’d seen through him. Because he found
out you wasn’t satisfied and meant to have him[215]
turned off. I heard him tell the Obi Man the
whole yarn. He read the letters you’d written
your father after you’d gone to bed; an’ then
he took yours out an’ put in others into your
envelopes, an’ forged your signatures to ’em.
Then, when they’d got you settled, they was
going to pretend you’d gone bathing an’ been
eaten by sharks. The story all hung together
very suent an’ vitty, I lay. But now he’s dust
himself, an’, if you take my advice, you’ll do
what he’s done afore you, an’ make Jesse
Hagan keep his mouth shut. No harm can
come of that; then you’re free to go home.
Whereas, if you have the whole thing turned
over to the police, there’ll be the devil to pay,
an’ a case at Trinidad, an’ lawyers, an’ trouble,
an’ Jesse Hagan hanged, an’ Lord knows what
else.”
“Let things go!” gasped Henry Vivian.
“Why not? Just consider. There’ll be
oceans of bother for you if you stir this up.
Nothing better could have happened. This
wicked scoundrel’s taken off in the nick of
time.”
“Hoist with his own petard, indeed!”
“Well, he’s gone—vanished like smoke—an’
nobody will mourn him neither. What
could suit you so well? Forget you know
anything about it. Why not? All you can do[216]
is to hang Jesse Hagan for his share. But, if
you arrest him, so like as not he’ll turn round
on me an’ say I done it. Then my name
comes in, an’ I’d very much rather it didn’t
just at present.”
They argued long upon this theme, but
Vivian would not give way. His sense of
justice and honour made him refuse to let the
matter drift, and Daniel’s worldly-wise advice
fell on deaf ears. They made a meal, and the
negroes who served it looked curiously at the
silent coloured man, who ate with their master’s
guest; for while others were present Daniel
kept dumb. Then, as the day advanced, the
horses were again saddled, and Vivian, with
Sweetland, rode off to the hut of Obeah.
While the attendants stared to see a ragged
negro galloping off on Jabez Ford’s horse, Dan
attempted again to convince Henry Vivian
that a cynical silence would for the present best
meet the case. It was only the thought of
Sweetland’s own position, if all came to be laid
bare, that made the other hesitate. Vivian,
indeed, found himself still in doubt when they
returned to the summit of the hill, tied their
horses to the opuntia hedge, and returned to
Jesse’s dim dwelling.
Profound silence reigned there, and the hut
was empty. Neither the distorted corpse of[217]
Jabez Ford nor any sign of the Obi Man
himself appeared. Hunting in a corner,
Daniel found the bottle of dye which had
served so effectually to disguise him; and at
the same moment Henry Vivian discovered a
scrap of paper on the table under the red eye
of light that fell from the roof upon it.
“Jesse larf at ropes and bars, but Jesse no
larf at Massa Judge at Trinidad who hang him.
Jesse tired, so him go to bed along with other
gem’men and Marse Ford under the snake-gourd
in him garden.”
Daniel rushed out to find this statement true.
The Obi Man had flung Ford into the grave
prepared for Henry Vivian. He had then
jumped in himself and, with a long knife that
lay beside him, had severed the arteries of his
thighs. A storm of insects rose up and whirled
away from the ghastly grave.
“Where’s his spade?” cried Daniel. “Even
you will grant there’s but one thing to do for
’em now.”
“My duty’s hard to know,” declared Vivian.
“Then leave it,” answered the other.
“Here’s Fate busy working for you. Why for
keep so glum about it? Let me advise, for I
know I’m right. Take the next ship home an’
set out all afore your faither. He’ll say what’s
proper to do. I’ll bury these sinners, an’ you[218]
can bear the tale home along; an’ when he’s
heard all, Sir Reginald will know very well
how to act. Trust him!”
“And you, Sweetland?”
“I’ll tell you what I think about myself so
soon as I be through with this job. One thing’s
clear as mud: the sooner we’re out of Tobago
the better. If you can only trust the second in
command at the Pelican works to carry on
for the present, I say ‘be off.’ Then this scarey
business will right itself. The bad man fades
away from memory. His sins are forgotten.
Never was a case where silence seemed like
to suit everybody best an’ do the least
harm.”
In his heart Henry Vivian felt somewhat
nettled to find an untutored man rising to
strength of character and practical force
greater than his own at this crisis. But he
could not fail to feel the sense of Dan’s advice.
Moreover, he was awake to the immense debt
he owed to Sweetland.
That night, while fireflies danced over the
raw earth of the grave under the snake-gourd,
Henry Vivian and the sailor held solemn
speech together. They talked for hours; then
Daniel had his way.
It was at length determined that Sir Reginald’s
son should return home at once. Having[219]
yielded slowly to Dan’s strong entreaties in
this matter, Vivian asked a question.
“And what do you do, Sweetland? Or, I
should ask, what can I do for you? Your
welfare is mine henceforth. This tragedy has
merely obscured the problem with respect to
you. I return home and convince my father
that what has happened was really for the best.
We will take it that he agrees, presently
appoints a new overseer, and leaves this
scoundrel in his unknown grave. So much for
me and the issue of my affairs; but now what
happens to you, my lad? One thing is to the
good: you’ll have the governor on your side
when he hears you saved my life.”
“Well,” answered Dan, “I was waiting for
us to come to my business. To tell you the
truth, I’ve thought of myself so well as you,
Mister Henry. An’ this is what I’ve got to
say. You’ll think I’ve gone cracked, I reckon,
yet I beg you’ll hear me out, for I’ve given a
lot of thought to the matter, you may be
sartain; an’ mad though it do sound, if you
think of it, you’ll see that ’tis about the only
way. If you count that you owe me ought, I
beg you’ll fall in with my plan; then I shall be
in your debt for everlasting.”
“I owe you everything, Dan. I owe it to
you that I’m not dead and buried in that old[220]
fiend’s garden, where he lies himself. Tell me
what’s best to be done for you, and be sure if
it’s in my power that I’ll do it.”
“Well, ’tis this way; you believe in me;
you take my oath I’m honest. But the world
don’t. I can’t go back to England and stand
up an’ say ‘I didn’t do it, neighbours,’ because
the Law’s up against me an’ there’s nought but
short shrift an’ long drop waiting for me as
things are. But—”
“Stop here, then, for the present.”
“That won’t do neither. I’ve gotten a
feeling pulling at me like horses, to get home.
I’m wanted there. My girl wants me. I know
it.”
“How’s that to be done? Show your nose
on the countryside and you’ll be arrested.”
“So I should be—such a nose as mine, for
there’s no mistaking it; but how if I bide the
colour I be now?”
“Go home black!”
“Why for not? ’Tis that I ax of you, sir,
as payment for saving your life. You take me
back as your black servant. I’m dumb, but I’m
such a treasure that you can’t get on without
me. Do it! Do it for love of a hardly-used
man! I’ll ax it on my knees, if you say so.
Let me go back with you as your nigger
sarvant, an’ if I don’t clear myself in six months[221]
from the day I set foot in England, then I’ll
clear out altogether and trouble you no more.
The man’s living that killed Adam Thorpe, and
who more likely to worm out the truth than I
be, with such a motive to find it as I’ve got?
There I’ll bide patient an’ quiet an’ dumb as a
newt, an’ I’ll work for you as never man yet
worked. I beg you let me do this—by my
faither’s good name an’ for love of my mother
an’ my little lonely wife, I beg you. You’ll
never regret it—never. ’Tis a good deed and
will stand to your credit in this world so well
as t’other.”
“They’ll find you out. Sim will see through
you, and your father will. Who can forget
your size and your walk?”
“Don’t fear that. Such things be forgotten
quick enough. Not a soul will know so long
as I keep my mouth shut; an’ that I’ll do for
my neck’s sake, be sure of it. Not a soul
living will guess. I only ax for six months.
Then I’ll vanish again, if I haven’t found some
damned rascal to fill my shoes. An’ this I will
bet; that my own mother don’t know me.
With my curly hair an’ black eyes I was half a
nig afore I comed here. Now I’m nigger all
over. The coloured men here think I am,
anyhow, for they axed me who I was, an’
where I comed from, an’ where Marse Ford[222]
was got to. But I just pointed to my mouth
an’ shook my head, so they all think I’m dumb.”
“It might be better at home if they thought
that you were deaf too,” reflected Vivian.
“Since you’re so set on this experiment, I
must fall in with it. I owe you too much to
refuse.”
“I knowed you would! Wasn’t we boys
together? Bless your good heart, sir! You’ll
never be sorry—never. I’m yours, body an’
soul, for this—yours to be trusted an’ ordered
while life’s in me.”
“So be it, Daniel; and, after your own wife,
there’s no human being will be better pleased
to see you proved guiltless than I shall. And
what I can do to help you and justice, that will
I do. Now our way is clear and we will waste
no time.”
“Ban’t my business to speak any more
then,” answered Sweetland. “For the future
I’ll keep my mouth shut and obey. But one
thing you must do; an’ that is cable home the
first moment you get to Barbados. Ford sent
his letter by the last station ship, an’ you can’t
stop it. Your father will hear that you’ve been
eaten by sharks. That’ll be likely to worry
him bad. Anyway, you’ll have to telegraph
an’ explain that you’re all right an’ on the way
to home.”
[223]
“There’s another steamer that sails in two
days’ time. To-morrow we’ll institute a solemn
search for Ford; I’ll appoint his clerk as
temporary overseer; and we’ll get back to
Barbados and take the first home ship.”
“’Tis just the very thing,” said Dan.
“You must sleep in my cabin, that’s
clear.”
“Good Lord, no! Who ever heard of a
common nigger in his master’s cabin, sir?”
“It’s unusual, no doubt; but you certainly
can’t go with the other servants, or share any
other cabin than mine, Dan.”
“Why ever not, Mister Henry?”
“For the simple reason that when you turn
in at night you’ll take your clothes off, I suppose;
and a nigger with black face and hands
and a white body might give rise to a little
discussion.”
Sweetland roared with laughter.
“There now, if I didn’t forget that!” he
said.
“The sooner you remember these difficulties
the better, Dan, for your part will be hard
enough to play at best,” his new master
answered.
“I know it; but I’ll think of my neck,
Mister Henry. That’ll steady me. An’ I’ll
think of you, too, sir. If I come well out of it,[224]
an’ save myself, I’ll never tire of thanks an’
gratitude.”
Events fell out as the Englishman expected.
Search for Ford failed, and the excitement
occasioned by his disappearance ran high. As
for Jesse, the old negro’s absence raised no
alarm, because the Obi man often hid himself
and vanished into the woods for many days
together. A young Creole was appointed
temporary overseer at the Pelican, and
Sweetland, in his character of a deaf and
dumb negro, returned with Henry Vivian to
Barbados.
Sir Reginald received a telegram three days
before Jabez Ford’s letter reached him, and ere
he had ceased to wonder concerning the
mystery, his son and Daniel were on their way
home in the Royal Mail steamer Atrato.
[225]
CHAPTER XVI
“OBI” AT MORETON
The red-gold light of evening beat into
the bar of the White Hart Inn at
Moretonhampstead, and its rich quality imparted
a lustre not only to the shining pewter,
the regiments of bottles, and the handles of the
beer-engines, but also to the countenances of
several customers. The day’s work was done;
a moment for leisure had fallen; and it
happened that amongst those that evening
assembled were many known to us as well as
to each other.
Mr Beer and Mr Bartley drank together and
discussed the times from different points of
view; but both agreed that they were bad.
The constable deplored their quietude, for
nothing ever happened to advance his interests
or offer him an opportunity; and Mr Beer
protested that history grew more and more
colourless. For a week there had happened
nothing to inspire so much as a couplet. Plenty
of incident, however, fell out before the publican
had finished drinking. Titus Sim dropped in[226]
and a murmur greeted his arrival, for behind
him walked a tall negro. The black man was
clothed in a long coat that reached to his feet,
and a big slouch hat came low over his forehead
and concealed most of his brows.
“’Tis Mister Henry’s new servant,” explained
Sim. “He’s deaf and dumb, poor
beggar, but harmless as an infant. I’m just
taking him for an airing.”
The company regarded this man, thus
removed from them by barriers impassable,
with great interest.
“How do you make him understand?” asked
Bartley.
“All by signs. There are a few very simple
signs, and he knows them. Never was a
creature less trouble, and certainly as a valet
he couldn’t be beat. He looks after the new
motor-car, too; but there’s a doubt if he can
drive it, being deaf.”
Titus tapped a glass and the black man
nodded and grinned.
“Give him rum and water, please; he don’t
drink nothing else. He comes from Tobago,
where the Vivian sugar estates are, you know.
I asked Mister Harry however he could choose
a poor lad minus two senses, and he said they
were senses that a valet might do without. And
so he can. Only we’ve got to tell him when[227]
his master’s bell goes. He can’t hear anything.”
“To think how many of these poor black
varmints was choked off like flies when poor
Dan Sweetland died,” said Mr Beer. “He’s
a fine figure of a man for all his blackness, and
since he’s deaf and dumb, he can’t do much
evil. Though whether the devil creeps into
us more through the ear than the eye be a nice
question. Why, he’d be almost handsome if
he wasn’t such a sooty soul.”
“Mister Henry has a good word for the
niggers and says they’m just as teachable as
dogs every bit. But the whites out there have
given him more trouble than all the blacks put
together.”
“They’m all human creatures, and their
colour don’t count for nought in the eye of
Heaven,” said an ancient man who sat in the
corner. He was mostly in shadow, but his
nose and hands caught the red sunshine.
“We’m all corn for the Lord’s grindstones,”
he continued; “black or white—oats or wheat,
neighbours. Rich and poor, Christian and
heathen will all be ground alike; and them with
horses and carriages and servants will be scat
just so small as us. And that’s a very comforting
thought to me, as have suffered from the
quality all my life.”
[228]
Mr Beer shook his head.
“Your Radical ideas will undo you yet,
Gaffer Hext,” he answered. “But ’tis the
way of Hext to be ever vexed. Principalities
and powers was always a thorn in the flesh to
him. Yet, when all’s said, the uppermost
folk pay the wages; and where’s the workers
without ’em?”
“Hext never had no luck with his wife, you
see. It have soured your spirit—eh, gaffer?”
asked Mr Bartley.
“That’s no reason he should be a born
Socialist an’ plan what’s going to happen at
the end of the world,” replied Johnny Beer.
“The Last Judgment ban’t his business, I
believe. An’ whether the quality will be scat
in pieces is an open question, if you ax me.
They’ve got plenty to put up with so well as
us. Look at what Quarter Day means to
them—a tragedy; no doubt. And think how
income-tax scourges ’em! No; for my part I
don’t reckon ’tis all fun being a man of rank.
I dare say Sir Reginald envies Sim here
sometimes. There’s nought like care to
thin the hair, and many a red-cheeked chap
as smiles at market and rides a fine hoss, be
so grim as a ghost behind the scenes, when
there’s nobody to see and hear him but his
wife.”
[229]
The black man tapped his tumbler again.
It was empty.
“He may have one more,” said Titus, “then
I must set him going. Mister Vivian calls him
‘Obi’; but I think he’s invented the name.
Obi is a sort of religion out there among the
black people, I hear tell. There’s been an
awful deal of trouble over our estates, by all
accounts, and the old overseer has bolted, or
something—don’t know the particulars. But
there’s money in sugar yet. Only last night I
heard Sir Reginald say to his son, ‘The man
gives you excellent advice. I shall not stir the
dark depths of that business, but appoint a new
overseer immediately—one who is honest and
has our interests at heart.’”
“I suppose it’s not a job within the reach of
the likes of me?” hazarded Mr Bartley. “I
wouldn’t mind a warm climate at all, and I
wouldn’t mind a change. My chance is gone—I
feel that. Ever since the affair of Daniel
Sweetland—”
“You was hookwinked in company.”
“That don’t make it better. And Corder
be in high favour again—just because he catched
that chap as killed his wife to Ashburton. To
think Sweetland didn’t jump down Wall Shaft
Gully after all! A crafty soul, a very first-rate
rascal.”
[230]
“Don’t you speak like that,” said Sim,
sharply. “Sweetland’s gone; but I ban’t, and
’tis pretty well known we were better than
brothers. ’Twasn’t him that was crafty, but
you and t’others that were fools. His craft
got him free, and he died like a man in the
hand of God, not like a dog in the hand of
man. I am speaking of your son, Matthew,”
he continued, for at that moment Sweetland
the elder had entered the bar. He was grey,
silent, morose as usual. Upon his left arm he
wore a mourning band.
“Can’t his name rest? Ban’t it enough he’s
gone to answer for his short life, an’ taken the
secrets of it along with him?” asked the father.
“A drop of gin cold,” he added; then he
turned and looked at the tall, dumb Ethiopian
who was regarding him.
“God’s truth!” he said harshly, “if that
savage ban’t built the very daps of my dead
boy—the very daps of un, if he wasn’t black!”
The others regarded the stranger critically,
and “Obi” grinned about him and tapped his
glass again. But Sim shook his head.
“No more, my lad. You must be moving
soon. He’s Mister Henry’s servant,” he continued
to Sweetland—“a poor, simple, afflicted
creature, but true and faithful; and wonderful
smart, seeing he can’t hear or speak. He[231]
saved Mister Henry’s life in some row he had in
foreign parts, and now he’s thought the world
of. Providence was looking after him, I
reckon. He’ll drive the new motor so like as
not, if it can be proved his deafness don’t
matter.”
Sweetland still regarded the coloured man
with interest. Then he turned to his glass.
Presently he spoke to Beer.
“How’s it with you?” he asked. “A man
may get a merry answer from you; and for
my part, being near the end of my days, I
shun sorrow where it can be done. Though
it meets you everywhere. There’s nought
else moving in town or country.”
“Don’t think it, Matthew,” urged the
publican. “Sorrow be like a lot of other
things; go to meet it and ’twill come half way.
Put off sorrow till to-morrow, and very often
you can stave it off altogether.”
“It’s no time for mourning either,” continued
Titus. “It’s the time to be busy. Dan be
gone; the memory of him be here. ’Tis for
us to round off his history and let him be
remembered as an honest man. And maybe
afore a week’s out, ’twill be done.”
“Obi” had his glass in his hand, and at this
noble sentiment he dropped it suddenly and it
broke to pieces.
[232]
He shrugged his shoulders and produced
twopence from his pocket and placed them on
the counter.
“He’ve got his intellects, evidently. He
knows it costs money to break glass,” said
Bartley. “That one may say for him.”
“That he has,” assented Titus. “And as
good-tempered as a bull-dog. Where’s my
parcels? I must be going. Have you seen
your daughter-in-law, Matthew?”
“Yes,” answered the gamekeeper. “I gave
her a lift to Moreton. She’s gone to her aunt’s.
She told me to tell you that she’d be in the
yard of the White Hart afore seven o’clock.
I hear poor Rix Parkinson be set on speaking
to her afore he dies.”
“Yes; we’re going there now. Much may
come of it.”
“A wasted life,” mused Mr Beer. “An’ a
man of great parts was Rix Parkinson. God
never made such a thirst afore. He’ll have to
lift that excuse at Judgment—not that excuses
will alter the set of things there. Yet they’m
a part of human nature come to think of it.
Adam’s self began it. He ate of the tree, then
said ’twas she. Drunkard Parkinson’s cruel
thirst have driven him from bad to worse; and
though he often had D.T.’s, he never was
seen upon his knees. If I had to write his[233]
tombstone, that would be the rhyme of it,” said
Mr Beer.
“’Tis wrong to admire him, but I never
could help doing so,” confessed Sim. “As a
sportsman myself, I always felt his cleverness.
He’ve had many and many a bird as you bred,
Matthew.”
“If he knows ought as would clear Daniel,
I’ll forgive him all,” answered the old
keeper.
“I hope to goodness it may be so,” replied
Titus. “My ear will be quick to hear it, I
promise you. And this I’d say: leave it to
Mrs Sweetland’s good time. If poor Parkinson
have got any dark thing to get off his conscience,
he won’t want it brought to the light
of day while yet he lives.”
“You make my flesh creep,” said Beer.
“Why for don’t the man call parson to him?
You can only hear; but parson can both hear
and forgive.”
The ancient in the corner spoke again.
“Don’t you know no wiser than that rot?
You read your Bible better, Johnny Beer, an’
you’ll very soon find that nobody can forgive
sins but God alone. An’ I lay it takes Him
all His holy time, with such a rotten world as
this.”
“No politics,” said the man behind the bar.[234]
“No politics, an’ no religion, Mister Hext,
if you please.”
“You’m getting too cross-grained to deal
with, gaffer,” answered Mr Beer, mildly. “’Tis
well known in a general way that the clergy
have power to forgive sins; an’ ’tis a very
proper accomplishment, come to think of it, for
their calling. Now, for my part—”
In the yard a voice broke into Beer’s argument,
and a venerable rhyme ascended from an
ostler’s throat:—
“Old Harry Trewin
Had no breeches to wear,
So he stole a ram’s skin
To make him a pair.
The skinny side out
And the woolly side in,
And thus he doth go—old Harry Trewin!”
“There’s a proper song for ’e!” said Bartley.
“When you can turn a verse like that, you may
call yourself a clever chap, John Beer.”
“The rhyme’s nought—’tis the tune,” retorted
Beer. “The verse be very vulgar, and so’s
the subject. You don’t understand these things,
as how should a policeman? Take Widecombe
Fair even. ’Tis the tune of thicky that
folks like. Never was foolisher verses.”
A little figure crossed the inn yard, and Sim
leapt up. “Obi” followed, carrying certain[235]
parcels that the footman had brought with him.
Matthew Sweetland stared at the tall, retreating
figure in its long strangely-cut coat.
“The very cut of his shoulders,” he said;
but nobody was listening to him.
In the yard Sim saw Minnie waiting for him.
She wore black.
“I’m quite ready, Mrs Sweetland, if you
are,” he said. Then he took off his hat to her.
Minnie nodded.
“I have come to see Mr Parkinson. It’s
just time. Is that the poor negro that Mister
Henry has brought home with him?”
“Yes. A fine fellow for all his afflictions.”
The widow stared fixedly at “Obi.” The
black man drew in his breath and endured the
ordeal. But he did not face her and grin.
He turned his eyes away. He believed that if
his hands had not been full of parcels, they
must have gone round her.
“He is deaf and dumb, poor creature,” said
Titus.
“Is Mister Henry going to keep him?”
“Yes.”
“Won’t he be cold in the winter? To think—to
think! His eyes have seen all the things
that my Daniel wrote about! He may have
seen Dan’s dear self!”
The parcels fell; but “Obi” only stooped[236]
quickly and picked them up again. He remembered
in time the appalling fright that his
black paws would bring to Minnie if they closed
suddenly around her. He turned and went his
way, then, looking round, he was in time to see
Titus offer his arm to Minnie Sweetland and
to mark that she refused it.
The black man winked great tears out of his
eyes. He had not cried since he was a child.
“My own li’l, dear, dinky wife! The shape
of her—the lovely voice of her! ‘Won’t he
be cold in the winter?’ She axed that. ‘No,
by God, he won’t!’ I had ’pon the tip of my
tongue to tell her. But ’tis lucky I held it in,
for it might have spoilt all.”
Deep in thought, Daniel returned to Middlecott
Court. At the lodge gates he stood a
moment, and stared up at the metal Diana
with the bullet-hole under her breast. Once he
had thought her a remarkable curiosity. Now,
since his eyes had seen some of the world’s
wonders, she seemed a poor thing upon her
lofty pedestal. Somebody moved at the lodge
gate and he knew that it was his mother. Instinctively
he turned his head away and hurried
forward.
There are no more profound disguises than
a silent tongue and a black face. Even Titus
Sim had not the least suspicion that Sweetland[237]
now lived at his elbow and listened to his every
utterance. But Sim’s subtle genius never deserted
him. No man had heard him say one
unkind word of Daniel; many had listened to
his fierce reproofs when others ventured to
criticise the vanished man. Perfectly he played
his part, and Daniel often warmed to the friend
who could thus defend him and fight for his
good name, even though, with the rest of the
world, he supposed that his old comrade was
dead and buried deep in the blue waters of the
Caribbean.
[238]
CHAPTER XVII
THE CONFESSION
Rix Parkinson had been a handsome
man, but now disease and the shadow of
death were upon his countenance; he had long
sunk into a chronic crapulence, and only his eyes,
that shone from a wasted and besotted face, retained
some natural beauty. He was dying,
but vitality still flashed up in him, and no physician
could with certainty predict whether a
week or a month might remain to him. Parkinson’s
home adjoined that wherein young Samuel
Prowse lived with his mother; and this woman
it was who of her charity ministered to the
sufferer, and carried out the doctor’s orders.
“Blood is thicker than water,” said a neighbour.
“Why for don’t the man’s relations come
to him?”
But Mrs Prowse shook her head. “An’
Christianity’s thicker than blood,” she answered.
“As for the poor soul’s relations—why ’tis
surely given to the Christian to scrape kinship
with all the sick an’ the sorrowing? ’Tis our
glory and our duty to do it.”
This good woman knew Minnie Sweetland[239]
well, and had known her since her childhood.
Now she opened the door of Parkinson’s cottage
to the widow and Titus Sim.
“He’m ready and waiting,” said Mrs Prowse.
“He’ve just awoke from a long sleep, an’ be
strong as a lion for the minute, and out of pain
seemingly. Come in an’ let him say what he
will to you while strength’s with him.”
They followed her into the sick room, where
Rix Parkinson sat up in bed with a blue shawl
wrapped round him. At his elbow was a table
with bottles and a Bible upon it.
“You be come? Well, I’m glad of it. I
won’t waste words, for my wind grows scanty.
Sit here, young woman, please; an’ you leave
us, mother. But don’t go far. I don’t like to
see you out of my eyes so long as they be
open.”
Mrs Prowse smiled at him and departed.
Sim sat on one side of the sick man and Minnie
took her place upon the other.
For a moment he was silent, breathing slowly
and looking up at the ceiling. Then he spoke.
“They’ve given me the credit for a lot of
night work in the free trade way with hares
and pheasants as I didn’t do; but, against that,
nobody’s never blamed me for a lot of things
as I did do. For instance, the business of
Adam Thorpe—there was only one name ever[240]
cropped up in that—your husband’s. I seed
him took away after you was married; and I
laughed and said in the open street, ‘Lucky’s
the he that gets that she!’ Meaning you,
young woman. But God’s my judge, if it had
gone further I should have told what I know
about it. ’Tis only them as be careful of their
skins that come to harm in the world. If you
don’t care a curse what happens to you, the
devil makes you his own care. Two men was
in the row when Adam Thorpe got his last
dose, and I was one of ’em. T’other be going
strong still, but he don’t come into this story;
and his name ban’t Daniel Sweetland; an’ it
wasn’t him as shot Adam Thorpe. I done it.
I didn’t go out to do it; but ’twas him or me
as it chanced. I had to stop him, or he’d have
stopped me. He bested me once afore—long
ago—an’ I wasn’t going to let him do it again.
So I shot him and fired low, hoping to stop
him without killing him. But his time had
come. So much for that. I went my way and
made little doubt but the police would smell
out the truth, for I’d done nought to hide it.
But I heard nothing until next morning. Then
there comed the news that Thorpe was dead,
and that Dan Sweetland’s new gun had been
found alongside the place where he was shot.
That interested me, and I began to wonder[241]
what my pal had been up to. There was no
chance to ax him just then. ’Twas his affair,
anyway, not mine. And then I began to take
a new interest in my life and find out what a
damned fine thing it was to be alive and free.
They nabbed Sweetland and I watched ’em do
it. If it had come to hanging, I’d have given
myself up for him; but instead of that, he gived
’em the slip. And the rest you know. Now
he’s dead, they tell me, and, as I shall be after
him afore the corn’s ripe, I want to clear his
memory for evermore. He had no hand in
that job, and, so far as I know, wasn’t within
miles of the place. The matter of the gun be
on my pal’s shoulders. He denied it when I
taxed him. But right well I know that he put
it there for his own ends. I’ll say no more
about that. But God in Heaven can witness
that I’d never have let ’em hang Daniel. My
pal and me had one or two other little affairs
afterwards, as we’d had many before; then my
health gived way, an’ now I’m rotting alive
and sha’n’t be sorry to go. Ax any questions
you like. Mr Sim here will testify to what
I’ve told you. I’ll swear afore my Judge that
every word be true. As to Thorpe, I didn’t
go that night to kill him; but if there was a
man I should have liked to settle with, ’twas
him. I slept no worse for it. If your husband[242]
had lived an’ got penal servitude, ’twas my
intention to tell you the truth on my deathbed,
as I have now; but not otherwise—unless
they’d given him the rope. Then I’d have
confessed an’ took it. That’s the living truth.
He’s died afore me, after all; but now that
you know how ’twas, his memory’s clear, and
you can tell the world all about it so soon as
I be gone.”
There was a silence; then Parkinson spoke
again.
“I’m not hopeful to see Dan upalong; for
’twould be awful ’dashus for the like of me wi’
my sporting career, to count on Heaven; but
I’ve done what I can to atone. Any way, if I
do come up with Daniel Sweetland—whether
’tis the good place or the bad—this I’ll tell
him: that his memory be clear an’ that ’tis
known to Moreton he was guiltless. ’Twill
be a comfort to the man, I should think—wherever
he bides.”
A wonderful look rested on the face of Minnie
Sweetland. For a moment pure thankfulness
filled her soul; then there came gratitude into
it. To dwell upon the past was vain; to ask
this perishing wretch why he had kept silence
when her husband was taken from her; to
wring her hands or weep for the woful past—these
things at any time were deeds foreign to[243]
the woman’s nature. Her mind was practical.
It had in it now no room for more than thankfulness
and gratitude. She uttered a wordless
and silent prayer—a thanksgiving that flashed
through her heart in a throb; then she turned
to the penitent and took his hand between hers.
“May a merciful Lord be good to you for
this,” she said gently. “May you rest easier
and die easier for knowing that you’ve righted
my innocent husband’s memory and lifted darkness
from the heads of his father and his mother.
And mine—mine! You told me nought I
didn’t know in my heart, for from his own lips
’twas spoken to me that he’d not done it or
dreamed of it; but now the world can know.
Nought will be hidden any more. All living
men, as have ever heard my Daniel’s name,
shall hear ’tis an honourable name—a name
that I’ll go down to my grave proud of. ’Twill
make my life easier to live—easier to bear;
’twill sweeten it till my own short years be run
an’ I go back to him for ever.”
Titus Sim listened and said nothing; but he
felt the scene sharply. His brows were down-drawn
and her words made him suffer.
At last, with an effort, he spoke to Parkinson.
“We must leave you now. Your strength
has been taxed enough. This is a good day
for all of us—a day to make man trust surer in[244]
his God and in the power of right. Say no
more of this to any soul, Rix Parkinson. You’ve
done your duty, and ’twill weigh for you in
Heaven and lift you up at the end.”
“You’ll let me die in peace?” asked the sick
man. But he spoke to Minnie: from the first
moment of their entry he turned to her, and
only her.
“Be sure of that. What avails to trouble
your last hours now? Nothing shall be said
till you’re asleep.”
“Don’t be gentle to me—ban’t in human
nature. I don’t ax that. I don’t ax you to
forgive or to forget what an everlasting rascal
I’ve been.”
“I do forgive you,” she said.
“Why, then Dan will; an’ God will! Be
He behind His own men and women in love
an’ kindness? Now I can die laughing. To
think ’twas in human power of a wife to forgive
me!”
“Come,” said Sim. “We will leave him
now.”
Titus rose and turned to get his hat. He
was only removed from them a moment, but
in that space the sufferer beckoned Minnie
with his eyes and she leant her head towards
him.
“Don’t marry that man!” he whispered[245]
under his breath; then continued aloud, to
mask his message, “Good-bye—say, ‘good-bye’
to a sinner, who yet can go fearless now—ay,
an’ thankful too. Fearless an’ thankful,
because you could forgive him. ’Tis your
goodness, widow Sweetland, that has lifted me
to trust the goodness of God; ’tis your pardon
hath made me trust in His. I’ll go to my
punishment without flinching or fearing, for I
know He’ll forgive me at the end.”
Mrs Prowse entered with food for the sick
man, and Minnie and Sim took their eternal
leave of him.
Within half an hour Parkinson was again
sleeping peacefully, and while Titus ran home
without stopping, for he was late, Minnie walked
slowly to the Moor. Her sad face shone with
this blessed news. She longed to cry from the
housetops; she thirsted to tell each passer-by
that her husband was innocent of the evil linked
with his name. She thought of his mother first
and then his father; she even felt more tenderly
towards Titus Sim for the deep joy he had
expressed on hearing the truth; but presently
the living faded from her memory and she was
in thought alone with her husband. At Bennett’s
Cross, hard by Warren Inn, an impulse moved
her from the lonely road to the lonely stone.
And she passed over the heath and knelt by[246]
the ancient granite carved into the symbol of
her faith. She knelt and prayed and so passed
on, much uplifted by the blessing of the day.
She moved forward thankful, grateful for this
unutterable good, strong to endure her life
without him, fortified to face an existence which,
like the faded yet lovely passage of an Indian
Summer, should not lack for some subdued
goodness, should not be void of beauty and
content. The power to do good remained with
her; she repined no more; her native bravery
rose in her heart. She looked out fearless and
patient upon the loneliness to come, and in that
survey she intended that a memory would be
her beacon, not a man. The dying drunkard
need have felt no fear for Daniel’s widow. It
was not in her nature to marry again.
[247]
CHAPTER XVIII
A BOTTLE OF CHAMPAGNE
The accident of illness prevented Henry
Vivian from visiting Minnie in her home,
as he intended. A bad chill struck him down
soon after returning home, and for some days
there was a fear that the evil would touch
his lungs and become serious. Dan nursed
him. He ran no small risk of detection, but
escaped for three days. Then his master
gained strength, and, since he could not visit
Mrs Sweetland, his first act was to write to her
and entrust the letter to her husband.
Daniel duly posted it and the man whose
duty it was to deliver the note at Hangman’s
Hut left it with Mr Beer at the Warren Inn.
Johnny put it aside until his wife should
presently visit Minnie; but it happened that
the note was overlooked until evening. Then,
after nine o’clock, Titus Sim called upon his way
to Mrs Sweetland, and he, after all, was the
bearer of the great communication which told
Dan’s wife that she was not a widow.
Events now rushed upon each other with[248]
such speed that to tell the story of them in
exact sequence becomes difficult. For the
present we are concerned with the meeting
between Sim and the woman he desired to
marry.
At another time Sim would have inspected
the letter that he carried and, perhaps, noting
that it came from Henry Vivian, whose hand
he well knew, the footman, in obedience to his
instincts, might have mastered the contents
before delivering it. But Sim was full of his
own affairs to-night. They had reached a
climax. Much hung upon the next few hours,
and his own devious career was destined to
culminate before another sun rose. A great
enterprise awaited him, and upon it he now
prepared to embark.
Minnie sat alone beside her lamp, and the
man approached her with his face full of news.
Something in the way that he touched her hand
told her of what was coming.
“Rix Parkinson is dead!” she cried.
“He is, Minnie; but how did you know
that?”
She marked his use of her Christian name.
It savoured of a sort of insolent right, and she
resented it with a look, but not in words.
Then she replied to his question.
“I knew it the moment that you came in,[249]
Mr Sim. Your face told me. He has not left
us long to wait, poor fellow.”
“He went easily.”
“We must wait until the earth closes over
him, then my Dan—”
“There is one thing first.”
He put his hand into his pocket and felt the
letter.
“I had forgotten. Beer gave me this for
you. But first listen to me. You can read
when I have gone.”
“Speak,” she said, and put the letter on the
mantel-shelf.
“I’ve said it once before, but you had no
ears then, for your eyes were full of that
terrible news from the West Indies. By some
sad trick Providence willed that I should
actually be asking you to marry me at the
moment when you saw the fact of your
husband’s death staring at you in print. Of
course I said no more then. But now ’tis
different. Now you know that poor Dan is at
rest and is happy. Now you know he was
innocent of that awful charge. Your soul is at
peace too. You and I have the power to clear
his name in the sight of the world. That is as
good as done. Only days remain. And afterwards,
Minnie? I have a right to ask that
question now. Have I not earned my reward?[250]
God knows I’ve waited patiently enough. I’ve
been loyal to you and to him. I’ve proved my
friendship; and if I’d had to put down my life
to clear Dan’s name I’d have done it. What
follows? You know what I mean. I’ve waited
long enough. I’ve been patient.”
“You want me to marry you?”
“You must; you shall. I’m only flesh and
blood—not stone. I’ve waited at a cost to
myself none knows. I’ve endured untold torments.
My passion for you has shortened my
days. To hide those burning fires was a task
crueller than woman has a right to ask from
man. You’re a human creature. You must
love me—if ’tis only for my love of your dead
husband you must love me. Say you’ll marry
me—say it quick. Let my sleep be sweet this
night; let care and fear and dread share my
pillow no more.”
“Who was it planned this evil against Daniel
Sweetland? We know who killed poor Adam
Thorpe; but who killed my husband? Find
that out, Titus Sim.”
“If man can, I will; but leave that for the
present. I’m as set on it as you. ’Tis the task
first to my hand after we are man and wife.”
“Man and wife we never shall be. I’d
sooner far, and prouder far, be my Daniel’s
widow than wife of any man. No call to stare.[251]
Stare into your own heart, not into my face.
I’ll never marry anybody. Let that content
you. You’ve done your work; now go your
way.”
“You’d drop me so? By God! you make
my fingers itch! D’you know what lies between
love and hate? A razor-edge. Don’t scorn
me so cold and cruel. Don’t turn away from
the worship of a man whose very life be built
upon your nod. I can’t stand that. ’Tis fatal.
My days are nought to me without you.
They are narrowed to a word; you, you, you!
Think what I can give you if you’ve no
liking for myself. I’ve got heaps of money—a
small fortune. Hundreds of pounds—all for
you. Never another stroke of work. Your
own servant you shall have; and your own
slave, too. I’ll be that. Let me show you
what love for a woman is—what love for a
woman can do. Be content to share life with
me. Don’t drive me mad by saying ‘no’ again.
Don’t turn my love into gall. For ’twill be
poison, and that poison will mean death.”
“I must face all that you can threaten,” she
said. “I’ve spoken. I’ll marry no man. ’Tis
enough to live alone with the blessing of my
Dan’s good name.”
“That rests with me!” he answered. “Don’t
fool yourself to think everything’s going as you[252]
please. If you will make me show my teeth, ’tis
your fault, not mine. I’m human. I’ve fought
and toiled and sweated for you, and only you.
I’ve done deeper things than ever a man did
for love of you. Grey’s come into my hair for
love of you. And now—? No, by God! the
time’s ripe for payment. There’s only two living
souls on earth know that Daniel Sweetland’s
innocent of murder, and them two must be
man and wife, or that man’s memory shall stink
of blood for evermore! That’s love! You
stare, but I’ve spoken. You refuse me, but in
so doing you leave your husband’s memory
foul. Your testimony is nothing without mine.
’Tis an easy invention for a pious wife; but
when they come to me, I shake my head and
say ‘I fear the wish was father to the thought,
for Parkinson said no such thing.’ Tell them!
I’d rather die than tell them. I’ll cut my own
throat rather than clear him. That’s love on
the razor-edge. And a mind on a razor-edge
too! I’m at a pass now when life or death be
bubbles. You’ve made me desperate. You
don’t know—you can’t guess—a girl like you
with ice for a heart—what a man’s raging fires
may be. Speak—don’t look at me with them
steady, watch-fire eyes, or I’ll strangle you!”
She had never seen any man driven into a
desperation that came so near actual madness.[253]
She was alive to her own danger, and yet, knowing
a thing hidden from him, could spare a
moment of thankfulness at her own prescience
in the past. For Minnie had never trusted
Titus Sim. Even before the prospect of going
with him into the presence of death, she had
feared his honesty. Because she knew him to
be a liar, and believed him capable of any
crime.
“Leave me now,” she said steadily, with her
eyes upon his face. “This be no time for more
speech between us. You have declared that
my dead husband’s innocence hangs upon your
speech. To prove him honest is all the world’s
got left for me to do. And I will do it. At
any cost—even to marriage with you I’ll do it.
If ’tis only by marrying you that Daniel’s name
can be cleared, then I’ll marry you, Titus Sim.”
He fell on his knees and made wild, incoherent
sounds. He seized her hands and covered them
with kisses. He uttered inarticulate cries and
praised God. She endured it with difficulty,
and continually implored him to depart from
her. At last he rose, restrained himself, and
spoke more calmly.
“Why did you make me say those cruel
things? Why did you rouse the devil in me
like that? Right well you know I never meant
them. ’Twas only the very madness of disappointed[254]
love made me think of such vile
things. Forget them, Minnie! Forget them
and forgive them. I only want your happiness.
Marry me and leave the rest to me. You’ll
never be sorry. I’ve got love enough for both
of us. Wait and see. You’ll turn to me yet,
and trust me, and be sorry for me. Then,
please God, you’ll come to love me a little.”
“Go, now,” she said. “You’ve got my
answer.”
“And sweeter words never fell on a sad
man’s ear, my blessed wife to be! We’ll wait
till the dead is buried. We promised him
to say nothing until then. And afterwards
all people shall know that your Daniel was
innocent.”
He left her and she locked the cottage door
behind him. After that Minnie fell shivering
upon a seat beside the fire, and buried her face
in her hands. She did not fear for herself;
she was only frightened at the strange power
within her that had from the first taught her to
read this man aright. A secret voice had always
spoken the truth to her heart concerning
him, and now in her sight he stood very knave
from head to heel. Even his faithful love was
to her a loathsome circumstance.
She saw in Titus Sim the unknown accomplice
of the dead drunkard. Their united cunning[255]
had planned the subtle and skilful raids at
Middlecott; again and again they had robbed
the plantations: again and again Sim, unsuspected,
had slipped from the Court by night
and joined Parkinson at his work. But to Sim
alone, his evil genius quickened by love, had
belonged the sequel to the tragedy in Middlecott
Lower Hundred. After Thorpe fell, he
had hastened to the empty house on the Moor,
well knowing that it would be empty. The
gun he had taken and the gun he had hidden
where he might find it on the first light of day.
And now he had left her to choose between
Daniel’s honour and himself, or neither. One
depended upon the other. Her momentary
refusal had lifted the curtain from him, and
showed her in a lightning flash the real man.
Life was nothing to him. He had already
driven her husband to death, and if she refused
him, she guessed that another swift tragedy
would follow upon the refusal. She thought
long and deeply how best to plan the future.
But Titus Sim entered very little into her
calculations.
While still she sat in thought, there came a
knock at the door, and Jane Beer asked to be
admitted. Her husband followed her, and
while Mrs Beer kissed Minnie, the publican
shook her hand with all his might.
[256]
“’Tis closing time,” he said. “But, though
we could close the bar, me an’ Jane couldn’t
close our own eyes till we’d comed over and
wished you joy—first a girl and then a boy—according
to the old saying. Sim tells us you’ve
consented at last, so soon all sorrow will be
past, an’ if I don’t tip you a fine rhyme ’pon
your wedding day, ’tis pity.”
The woman smiled and thanked them.
“And Johnny have brought over a drink,”
said Jane Beer. “’Tis some sparkling wine—one
bottle of twelve as we’ve had ever since we
opened house. An’ only one bottle sold all these
years. Champagne, according to the label.”
Mr Beer drew forth the liquor.
“Now you shall taste stuff as’ll make you
feel as though you’d got wings,” he told her,
“and if you haven’t got no wine-glasses, cups
will do just as well.”
But Minnie put her hand on his and prevented
him from cutting the wires.
“Stop; this is all wrong; you are mistaken,
you kind hearts,” she said. “Mr Sim didn’t
tell you all—or nearly all. I cannot marry
him; and if there was but one man left on
earth and ’twas he, I’d not marry him. ’Twas
this I said to him; that if the only way to clear
my Daniel’s name was by taking him for a
husband, then I’d do it.”
[257]
“He says that you promised?”
“Only that, Mr Beer. And how if my
Daniel’s name don’t lie at the mercy of Titus
Sim? I can’t tell you about it yet. Presently
I will.”
Johnny Beer patted the bottle.
“Then we’ll keep this high-spirited liquor
till we all know where we are,” he said.
“Never shout when you’re in doubt. But
we’ll shout an’ see the stuff foam another day.
Come on home, Jane. And I do hope still,
my dear, you’ll let that poor, white-faced wretch
find his way into your heart. For it all points
to him; and you can’t bide here wasting your
womanhood in the midst of the desert for ever.
You might so well go in a convent of holy
women—a very frosty picture, I’m sure.”
“My!” said Mrs Beer. “If she haven’t
stuck her letter ’pon the mantel-shelf an’ never
read a line of it! Now, to me, a letter’s like a
thorn in my finger till ’tis open and mastered.”
Minnie handed the note to her friend. She
had felt a faint flutter on seeing it, and thought
that by blessed chance Dan might have written
to her again before the end of his life. But the
postmark was ‘Moretonhampstead’; the writing
she did not know.
“I’ve no secrets,” said Minnie. “Read it
out, Jane. If there’s anything good in it for[258]
me, ’twill be as much a joy to you as
to me.”
“Give it here,” commanded Johnny. “In
the matter of reading a letter, I may be said to
know what’s what. I’ll read it aloud, since
you’ve got no secrets, my dear, and if there’s
a pennyworth of good in it—enough for the
excuse, I’ll open the champagne after all.
We’m on the loose to-night seemingly.”
A moment later and the letter was perused.
Whereupon Mr Beer found himself faced with
material for a whole volume of new poems.
He was also called upon to open his bottle of
champagne in a hurry; for there was no other
stimulant in the house, and very soon necessity
for such a thing arose.
Henry Vivian wrote carefully and came to
the tremendous truth as gently as possible;
but it had to be told, and when she heard it—when
the mighty fact fell upon her ear that
Daniel was not dead, but alive and well and
close at hand, ready to visit her on the dawn
of the morrow—Minnie fainted; and Jane Beer
very nearly did the same. Happily, the poet
and publican kept his head. His own lady he
summoned to resolution by the force of his uplifted
voice. Then he loosed the champagne
cork, which happily flew without hesitation,
and soon had wine at the girl’s white lips.
[259]
It was long before she could listen to the
end of the letter. Then the writer warned her
that Daniel found it beyond human power to
keep longer from her side, and that on the
following morning, if a black man came
thundering at the door of Hangman’s Hut,
she must on no account refuse him admission.
“God’s light!” cried Mr Beer. “’Tis after
midnight now. I lay the man will be dressing
hisself to come to his wife within an hour or
two! To think—to think that underneath that
skin so black Dan Sweetland to his home came
back! But ’tis a dead secret. Me an’ my
missus didn’t ought to know it.”
“Tis safe enough with us, I’m sure,” said
Mrs Beer, rather indignantly.
“Trust us for that. And now we’ll drain the
flowing bowl to that brave hero. ‘Black but
comely.’ And I wonder if he’s black all over?
Ban’t likely, I should think. I hope not, for
your sake, my dear. Drink again—drink to
the bottom! ’Tis for him. And don’t you go
for to meet him in that dress. There’s enough
black ’pon Dan without you being black too.”
“That’s good advice—just like Johnny’s
sense. Don’t you appear afore him like a
widow woman,” said Mrs Beer. “’Twould be
awful bad luck. You just put on your pretty
print wi’ the lilac pattern. And, after breakfast,[260]
I’ll step over in my dandy-go-risset gown—out
of respect. I must see the young youth afore
he washes. ’Twill be a great adventure, I’m
sure.”
She prattled on to distract Minnie’s mind
from the force of this shock. The girl hardly
spoke, but sat with her hand in Mrs Beer’s.
Sometimes she sighed, and at last merciful
tears came to her eyes and she wept.
“Now you come along of us,” said Johnny.
“I ban’t going to let you bide here by yourself.
You come back an’ have a good sleep with
Jane, and I’ll call you at peep o’ day. Then
you can rise up and step home, an’ light the
fire an’ make all ready for his breakfast. ‘Obi’
be his name now, remember! And, if you’ll
believe it, when first he stalked amongst us
to the White Hart, as black an’ silent as a
shadow in a coat, if his father didn’t half see
through him! Yes, he did. He up an’ stared
an’ said, ‘Why, that niggar do travel exactly
like my son Dan!’ Well—the bottle’s empty.
It did its duty better than many a living man
have done. I feel it within me like a cheerful
companion, and I hope ’tis the same with you,
ladies. Now, let’s be going.”
But Minnie would not accompany them.
She was firm, and presently regained her self-possession.
[261]
“I’ve bided here ever since the day I married
him,” she said. “I won’t go now. God sent
you both to me this night, for it might have
gone hard with me if I’d took this wonnerful
shower of blessings all alone; but your gentle
hands was ready, Jane; an’ you, Mr Beer—”
“An’ the bottle, my dear.”
“Yes, yes. Come back to me to-morrow.”
“So us will then—to think of you having
your breakfast with a black man! Poor Titus!
He’ll be so white as t’other be dark. God’s a
marvel! Come on, Jane. Leave her alone.
She’d rather. But I lay my wife will be peeping
through the blind to see him come to-morrow!
Trust a woman to do that. Good
night, bless your brave heart! ’Tis a glorious
reward for all the grief you’ve suffered.”
Mrs Beer kissed Minnie and hugged her,
and Mr Beer so far forgot himself as to do the
same.
“’Twas the champagne,” he confessed afterwards.
“I got above myself with the news.
My poetic disposition, Jane. If it had been
the Queen of England I should have done the
like. To think of the verses to be made out
of such a come-along-o’t!”
“I know,” answered Mrs Beer. “But what
about Adam Thorpe? Of course he didn’t do
it, but the world still thinks he did; and for[262]
my part I don’t see anything to make verses
about while the rope be still waiting for the
poor fellow. Black or white, ’tis all one.”
“But he’s safe, you see! Nobody but us
and Mr Vivian and Minnie will know the
secret. And you may bet your life Providence
didn’t save him to hang him. The Lord’s on
his side, whatever betide.”
“That’s comforting, if true,” answered Mrs
Beer. “An’ no doubt it is true,” she added.
“When did man or woman find you wrong?”
They retired and talked on, full of this great
matter, until dawn touched their white window-blind,
and Johnny slept.
A moment later sounds of a galloping horse
broke the tremendous silence of the Moor, and
Jane Beer leapt from her bed and ran to the
window.
A rider passed swiftly in the dull beginning
of light. Beyond the inn he turned from the
highway and proceeded in the direction of
Hangman’s Hut.
“He wasn’t the black man—that I’m sure!”
she exclaimed; but her husband did not hear,
and his only answer was a snore.
Mrs Beer crept back to his side.
“White as a dog’s tooth his face was!” she
said to herself. “Even in the cock-light I
could see that.”
[263]
She reflected uneasily. Then an explanation
came.
“Why, the chap washed hisself, to be sure!
No doubt the black comes off, like the Christy’s
Minstrels us seed to Exeter. He wouldn’t go
to see his wife like a black gorilla.”
This solution of the difficulty seemed satisfactory
to Mrs Beer. “The good Lord bless
’em!” she said.
Then she also prepared to sleep; but a
hideous din in her ear awoke her. A bellowing
as of a thousand bulls came up from the
road. It woke Mr Beer, as it was meant to
do, and with his wife he hastened to peep into
the dawn. Jane then told her husband what
she had already seen, and this, combined with
the spectacle now before them, roused both
effectually. In another moment the publican
was pulling on his clothes.
[264]
CHAPTER XIX
MR SIM TELLS THE TRUTH
Titus Sim returned home with the spirit
of a conqueror. The long struggle was
over and the battle won. Minnie Sweetland
had promised to marry him, if only by so doing
her late husband could be proved innocent;
and he well knew there was no alternative.
She would keep her word: that he also knew.
At supper in the servants’ hall of Middlecott
Court, Titus, who arrived as the others were
finishing their meal, showed such evident lightness
of heart that Mr Hockaday, the butler,
inquired the cause. Sim ate and spoke
together. He announced his approaching
marriage with the widow of Daniel Sweetland;
and Dan, who sat smoking his pipe in a corner
of the kitchen by the fire, heard his friend’s
news and witnessed his joy.
“At last!” said Mr Hockaday. “Well, she
have taken her time, no doubt; but you can’t
wonder at that. It had to be; an’ she was
worth waiting for. So there’ll be more changes,
and you’ll leave Middlecott, no doubt? When’s
the nupshalls?”
[265]
“I don’t know. That’s for her to say.
Soon, I hope. I can’t believe it, Hockaday;
’tis almost too good to be true. My cup’s full.”
Dan Sweetland’s pipe went out, and he rose,
knocked the ashes from it, and retired to his
room. It was in the servants’ quarters, and
he always took good care to lock the door.
None of the domestics had ever seen the inside
of the chamber since Dan became occupant.
Had they done so, it must have much surprised
them to find a little photograph of Minnie
Sweetland upon the mantelpiece.
To this secluded den “Obi” now departed,
and his thoughts were a strange mixture of
grave and gay. He was to see his wife in the
morning, for that day had gone the letter from
Henry Vivian. But Minnie could not yet
have read the great news, since it seemed that
within the hour she had engaged herself to
Titus Sim. The fact struck with petrifying
force upon Daniel’s mind. It woke a wide
uneasiness and a great sorrow for the awful
disappointment that must await his friend.
Minnie’s own attitude puzzled him deeply.
Could it be true that she had accepted Sim?
Could it be possible that his return to life
would not please her? This thought came and
went like a flash of lightning. It left in his
mind shame and wonder that it could have[266]
come. Even at that moment he felt joy. She
knew now; the letter must have reached her
from Warren Inn after Sim had gone. She
would be waiting for him in the dawn light;
she would open her arms for him before another
sun had risen. Only hours remained between
their meeting; but Dan felt that those hours
must be occupied with Titus Sim. To hide
his secret from Titus was no longer possible.
Often and often he had blamed himself for
doing so. Sim’s love for Minnie had long
been general knowledge and a frequent theme
of conversation among men and maidens at
Middlecott Court. Not seldom had Daniel
risen and taken himself beyond earshot. One
thing he remembered: that Sim had never in
his hearing spoken an unkind word of him, or
an improper one concerning his wife. Now,
upon this night, Sim’s joy hurt and stabbed the
man with the black face. To see Titus thus
glad at the possibility of bliss impossible, was
a tragic spectacle for Sweetland. He thought
deeply, then resolved with himself that, despite
the terrific shock of it, he would break the
truth to Sim. To delay was the greater cruelty.
He had, indeed, desired from the moment of
his landing to let Titus into the great secret;
but Henry Vivian refused to allow him to
do so.
[267]
It was past midnight when Daniel, acting
upon this new impulse, dressed himself and went
to the room near his own in which Titus slept.
A light was burning and Mr Sim, who had not
retired, turned from the writing of a letter to
see the black man standing in the door.
“Hullo, Obi! Whatever do you want?”
he asked; then made the sign of a question.
But Daniel answered and Sim fell back
speechless upon his bed to hear the long silent
tones.
“What nightmare’s this? You can speak—speak
in that voice? What are you
then?”
“One as be your friend always—always—one
as can’t live this lie no more—not for you, Titus.
It have hurt me to the soul doing it; it have
tormented me day by day to see your honest
face and hear your honest speech. But you
must forgive me for coming to life, old pal.
’Twas time an’ more than time I did so seemingly.
After to-night I couldn’t hide myself
behind this black face and this blank silence
no more—not from you. Say you forgive me,
Titus. ’Twas life or death, remember.”
“Your life is my death,” answered the other,
slowly. “Do you understand that?”
Sim had turned deathly white, and perspiration
made his face shine like ivory.
[268]
“Don’t say such things. You’re a free,
honest man as no living soul can say one word
against,” replied Daniel. “Your record be
clean, an’ you can stand up in the face of the
nation, and no man can cast a word at you.
Don’t talk of death. ’Tis true I’ve got her—Minnie—my
own wife; but that’s all I have
got in the world; an’ God only knows if I
shall ever be able to call her mine afore the
people. Don’t grudge me my sole, blessed
joy. Think what I be, Titus—an outcast, a
wanderer, a man that have had to black his
face an’ shut his mouth to escape the gallows.
Don’t—but why should I say these things to
you? Right well I know the steel you be
forged of. Right well I know you never change.
You’m my side still, Titus? Say you’m my
side still. Say you’ve forgived me. ’Twas my
neck I was playing for—I never thought to
break your heart by this trick. An’ you must
forgive Minnie, too. ’Twas only yesterday
morn that Mr Henry’s letter went to her. He
wouldn’t let me see her before, and he wrote
to break it to her that I was alive an’ not far
off. Of course, not knowing that, she said
‘Yes’ to you. To-morrow—to-day, I should
say—at first glimmer of light, he’ve given me
leave to go up along an’ hear what she’ve got
to tell me. Shake my hand—I ban’t black[269]
except my face. My heart’s white an’ well you
know it, Titus.”
He offered his hand and the other took it
mechanically.
“You’ve knocked me all of a heap,” he said.
“Let me hear your tale. ’Twill give my heart
time to still an’ beat level again. You at my
elbow! And she—this very night—promised
to marry me. ’Tis more than a man’s brain
can hold.”
“Afore she knowed that I was back in life
again.”
Sim desired to think. The crash of
this news confused him and unsettled his
mind.
“Tell your tale from the beginning, Daniel,”
he said. “Let me hear it all: then I’ll tell
you mine, and give you some idea of what I’ve
been doing while you was away.”
“You haven’t cleared up the job in Middlecott
Lower Hundred?”
“Speak your speech,” repeated Sim. “What
I’ve got to say I’ll say afterwards.”
Thereupon Daniel told his long story from
the beginning. He described his escape, his
visit to Minnie, his journey to Plymouth, his
experiences in the Peabody. He told of life
in the West Indies, of his meeting with Henry
Vivian and the tragedy of Jesse Hagan and[270]
Jabez Ford. He finally explained the reasons
for his present disguise, and his hopes how,
during the next few months, that might happen
which would clear his name and prove him an
innocent and injured man.
To this recital, which occupied above an
hour, Sim appeared to pay full heed, but in
reality his thoughts were far away. He nodded
from time to time, uttered an ejaculation or
expression of wonder or regret, and suggested
that he was devoting his whole mind to his
friend’s sensational story, but in truth the
man’s thought was otherwise engaged. Desperation
and malice and hate were the furies
that now drove him forward. While he lent
his ear to Daniel, his brains were full of seething
wrath, and he plotted how best to use that
night, how best to ruin for ever this being who
had returned thus inopportunely from the grave.
He shook in secret, his rage nearly choked him
unseen; and at last caution was thrown to the
winds, craft was forgotten, passion whirled Sim
out of himself, he played his part no more, and
as Daniel to his friend had proclaimed the
living truth behind the black veil that hid it,
so now Titus also revealed himself, spoke in a
frenzy of disappointed passion, and stripped his
heart to the other’s horrified gaze. Even in
the full tempest and springtime of his fury, Sim[271]
perceived that he held the upper hand, and
made that clear to Sweetland. The truth,
indeed, he told, but without a witness, and it
was beyond the listener’s power to prove anything.
He might repeat Sim’s infamous confession,
but there were none to substantiate the
story. Only one man could have done so, and
he lay waiting for his funeral on the morrow.
“I’ve heard you, now hear me,” said the footman.
“The Devil’s kept you for the rope, Dan
Sweetland; and ’twas I wove the rope and shall
live to know you’ve worn it. Your friend once,
your bitter enemy to the death from the day that
woman put you before me and chose you for
her husband. After that I cursed your shadow
when you passed and only waited the right
moment to get you out of my road for evermore.
In the nick of time the chance fell, and
I—that you trusted as a pig trusts the butcher—I
caught you like a rabbit in a snare. Glare
at me! Stare your damned black eyes out of
your head! I did it—did it all! And I’ve
not done with you yet—remember that. Rix
Parkinson’s a dead man now—gone to have it
out in hell with Adam Thorpe. ’Twas Rix that
shot him, and ’twas I that thrashed your father
the same night. We worked very well together—Rix
and me. Look out of the window.
Only a six-foot drop—you’ll have the same drop[272]
presently—with a rope round your neck. Down
that wall I’ve gone a hundred times. Rix drank
damnation with his money; I put my share
away and let it grow. You was the black sheep
in everybody’s mouth. I—that was twice and
twenty times the skilled sportsman you was—I
went my way quiet and unsuspected. Many
and many and many’s the night me and Parkinson
thinned the pheasants. Then came that
hour when your old fool of a father and Adam
Thorpe blundered on us. The best men will
make a mistake now and again; yet after all’s
said, the mistake was theirs, for one lost his
life and t’other got his grey head broken. And
then ’twas, after we’d gathered our birds again
and gone, that the thought of what might be
came to me. ‘Sweetland’s the man for this
dirty work,’ says the Devil to me; and in an
hour, when Rix was away with the birds, I
went up over to your new home and found you
at hand. You almost walked on top of me as
you went away; then I slipped into the hovel
by unlatching a back window with a bit of wire,
and there was your gun waiting for me, with
cartridges in it as had just been fired! I saw
you hanging in Exeter gaol from that moment,
if Thorpe died. The rest you know. I hid
the gun that night afore the hue and cry, and,
come morning, found it put away very carefully[273]
where ’twas supposed you meant to come for it
some other day. Meantime Thorpe died in
hospital. ’Twas all as easy as lying. And now
you stand where you stood the hour that you
were arrested. You’re a doomed man, for only
I can prove your innocence, and that I never
will. That’s what it is to come between a man
and a woman he loves. If I don’t have her,
nobody shall have her—least of all you.”
The other rose and gasped in amazement at
this narrative.
“Be it Sim I hear, or some cold-blooded
Dowl as have got into his shape?”
“You know well enough, ruin seize you!
Wrecked my life—that’s what you’ve done;
but the last word’s mine. I haven’t worked
and toiled by night and day for this. I’ll have
her yet. Why not? You’re dead already!
Go—get out of my sight—sleep your last easy
sleep. Go, I say, or I’ll do for you with my own
hand! ’Tis time you were in hell. An’ there
I’ll follow you; but not yet—not yet. Many a
long year’s start of me you’ll have. I must
marry and get children; and if I live long
enough, I’ll cheat the Devil yet; but you—your
thread’s spun; dead and buried in quicklime
you shall be!”
Nothing could have exceeded the frantic
passion with which Sim uttered this whirl of[274]
words. They burst from him with explosions
and nearly choked him. His eyes blazed, his
limbs worked spasmodically. For the time he
behaved like a malignant lunatic.
Sweetland perceived that little was to be
gained by further speech with one insane.
Therefore he rose and went away, that Titus
might have time to reflect and recover his senses.
How much of this confession to believe, Daniel
did not know. At first, though dazed by such
dreadful tidings, he had credited the story and
set it down to love run mad; but when real
madness blazed on Sim’s white face and he
ceased to be coherent—when the baffled rascal,
in his storm and hurricane of disappointment,
raved of death and hell, Dan began to suppose
him insane in earnest. The wish was father to
the thought. Even in his bewilderment and
consternation at this result of his confession to
his friend, there came sorrow for Titus Sim,
and grief that such an awful catastrophe had
overtaken him. He longed to believe the
whole dreadful story was spun of moonshine;
but he could not. There was too much method
in it. Sim had been responsible for all, and
still too clearly desired his destruction.
For a few moments Sweetland stood irresolute
at the door of the footman’s room. Then
he crept back to his own. No sign of day had[275]
yet dawned. As he stood in profound thought,
a clock below struck two.
At last the determination to see his master
overcame Daniel. The gravity of his position
was such that he did not hesitate. In a few
moments he knocked at Henry Vivian’s door
and was admitted.
The young man had now reached convalescence,
but still kept his room. A fire was
burning, and Vivian rose and lighted a lamp.
“Come in,” he said. “I cannot sleep. I
suppose you can’t either, Dan. Well, an hour
or two more and you’re in her arms! Be
cautious and get back before the house is stirring.
Put that soup on the fire and give me
a cigarette. I wish you could take your wife
some good news; but we hope the good news
may come from her. You know what my
father’s opinion is. He believes in you stoutly
and will not raise a finger against you. But of
course he thinks I left you in Tobago.”
Dan waited for his master to finish speaking,
and then told him what had happened. Sweetland
was so impressed with this new peril now
sprung upon him, that he had not thought how
the story of Sim would strike another listener.
But Vivian’s attitude was naturally of a sort to
relieve the innocent man not a little.
“Of all the infernal scoundrels I ever heard,[276]
this knave is the worst!” he cried. “But
there’s no time to waste. We must strike
instantly, or it may be too late. Even now
precious time has been wasted. Confound my
weakness! I can’t help you. Will you wake
John, or Hockaday, or are you equal to tackling
him single-handed?”
“Tackling Sim? Of course I can do it, sir.
Come to think of it, he ought to be thrashed
for thrashing my old father. But what good
will a thrashing do?”
“None. I don’t mean that. Only he must
be made fast before he can take any steps
against you. I must see him. Go! Go! It
was madness to leave him. Bring him to me,
and if he refuses to come, shout and rouse the
house.”
Sweetland started instantly, but his master
called him back.
“Take this pistol,” he said. “This man’s a
thousand times more dangerous than you dream
of. Either mad or sane, it would be better for
you to be in a cage with a tiger than with him.
If he touches you, fire on him—and fire first.
If he obeys you, bring him here, and let him
walk in front of you. Be quick!”
Dan took the weapon and hurried back to
Sim’s room, but it was empty. For a moment
he stood staring round it, and, in that silence,[277]
he heard a horse gallop out of the stable yard
not far distant. Henry Vivian’s fears were
confirmed, and Titus had made first move in
the grim game now to be played.
Dan rushed back with his news.
“You were right, sir; he’s gone—just
galloped out of the yard. He’s off to the police
station!”
“Not he,” answered the other. “Run for
your life—or her life—your wife, Dan! That’s
where he’s gone, and that’s where you’ll find
him. Fly—take my horse; but I’m afraid he
has; and, if so, you’ll never catch him. Nothing
we’ve got will overtake my gelding.”
But his last words were spoken to air, for
Dan, albeit he had been slow to rouse, was
indeed alive at last. In two minutes he had
left the house. There was no difficulty, for the
doors stood open as Sim had left them. But
Vivian’s fast hack was not in the stable, and
nothing else there, under Dan’s heavy weight,
stood the smallest chance of catching it.
The first tremor of dawn was in the sky, and
its ghastly ray touched a circle of plate glass.
The glass belonged to the great front lamp of
Henry Vivian’s new motor-car, and it stood
there, the incarnation of sleeping strength and
speed. There was no time to ask leave or
return to the house, but Daniel knew his[278]
master’s only regret would be that he could not
accompany him. He understood the great
machine well, and had already driven it on
several occasions. It was of forty horse-power
and easily able to breast the steep acclivities
that stretched between Middlecott Court and
the Moor; but the road was dangerous and a
good horse had power to proceed more swiftly
over half of the ground than any vehicle on
wheels. Once in the Moor, however, it might
be possible to make up lost ground. For four
or five miles Daniel calculated that he could
drive the car many times as fast as a horse
could gallop. Thus he might get even with
Sim at the finish.
As quickly as possible he lighted the lamp,
set the motor in motion, and went upon his
way. As he departed he hooted loudly, that
Henry Vivian might know the thing he had
done.
[279]
CHAPTER XX
FIVE MILES IN FIVE MINUTES
Dawn fought with night and slowly conquered
as Dan in the great motor panted
upwards from Middlecott to the high lands above.
His way led through dense woods, and the blaze
of the lamp threw a cone of light far ahead,
while the wheels beneath him turned silently and
swiftly over a carpet of pine needles under the
darkness, or jolted over the tree roots that
spread in ridges across the way. To the east
a cold pallor stole between the regiments of
trunks, but as yet no bird called or diurnal
beast moved from its holt. In the earth as he
drove along, Dan could mark the fresh imprint
of hoofs upon the ground, stamped darkly there.
The gate at the end of the wood hung open as
the horseman had left it, and Sweetland perceived
that his master was in the right. Now,
chafed by the sweet cold air, his black face
burned and his blood leapt at his heart. But
anger it was that heated him. The trust and
friendship and honest love of a lifetime were
turned in these terrible moments to hatred.
As he leapt forward and altered his gear for[280]
climbing a steep and tortuous hill, his mind’s
gear likewise changed. From his soul he shut
off love and pity for ever; he forgot all this
knave had suffered, but only remembered his
own sufferings and accumulated misfortunes.
Sim had hoped, and still hoped, to hang him;
Sim had seized the chance offered by the Devil
to tear him from his young wife’s side upon
their wedding day; Sim had plotted and
planned with a spider’s patience and craft to
fill his shoes; and even now what fiend’s errand
might he be upon? But the luxury of rage
was not for this moment. Once Dan’s hand
shook and in a second he came near wrecking
the motor between lofty hedge-banks. He
saved it by six inches and turned cold at the
danger averted. Her life might depend upon
his skill and coolness now. The car grunted
slowly up a stiff hill of rough and broken
surface. Here a horse’s progress must be infinitely
swifter than his own. His heart sank
at the necessary tardiness of progress; but his
anger died, and, when it was possible to increase
speed, the man had mastered himself
and drove with utmost skill and judgment.
Light began to gather in the sky, and Dan
was glad, for in five minutes more he would be
upon the waste land and must make his effort.
From the Moor gate to Johnny Beer’s publichouse[281]
was five miles, and Sweetland calculated
that if he could accomplish that distance in as
many minutes, he and Sim ought to arrive at
the inn together. But two long and stiff hills
occurred upon the road. These must slow him
down considerably and, to make up for the lost
time, it would be necessary to take declivities
and level ground at the greatest pace his car
could travel. He thoroughly estimated the
tremendous risks he ran and the fatal issue of
any mistake. He was only thankful that, for
good or ill, the ordeal must be over in minutes.
Either he would perish with a broken neck, or
he would save his wife from possible destruction.
It was now light enough to see the road
ahead. The Moor gate, blown by the wind,
also hung open; he rushed forward without
slackening of speed.
Sim, it seemed, had not counted upon such
swift pursuit. By shutting the gates behind
him, he had much improved his own chances,
but all stood ajar save one, and Sweetland’s
hope was so much the higher. Now out on the
high Moor, no further obstacles could be met
with. The surface was good, the road wide,
and it was unlikely that any vehicle would
share the way with him or be passed, either
going or approaching. Ponies or sheep might,
indeed, interrupt him, but he trusted to his[282]
hooter to frighten them away before he reached
them.
Dan set the powerful machine at work in
earnest, and he felt it gather itself together
beneath him, like a living thing, hum like a
hive of bees, and leap forward with accelerated
speed. The road, glimmering in dawn light,
seemed a shining white ribbon that was wound
up by the car as it flew onwards. There came
a sensation that he sat upon a huge, busy, but
motionless monster that was swallowing the
track. The roadway poured under his wheels
like a river; the Moor to right and left wound
away like mighty wheels whose axes were on
the horizon.
Though Dan drove the five miles in rather
less than five minutes, the time to him seemed
very long. Twice he was in peril, and twice
escaped death by a shade. At a steep hill,
where it became absolutely necessary to slow
down, he put on pace again too soon while yet
fifty yards of the declivity remained to be run.
But the car responded quicker than he expected,
and on a little bridge, which spanned
the bottom of the coomb and crossed a stream,
his right fore-wheel actually touched the
parapet and the hub of the wheel struck a
splinter from the granite, which shot upward
like a bullet and tore Dan’s elbow to the bone.[283]
Then came the last straight mile—a long and
level tract upon whose left stood Bennett’s
Cross, while to the right lay Furnum Regis,
the Oven of the King. Now a final rush
began, and straining his watering eyes to look
ahead and see if by chance Titus Sim might
be in sight, Dan saw, three hundred yards in
front of him, a sheep standing upon the middle
of the road with its back towards the car. He
was now running more than eighty miles an
hour, and only seconds separated him from the
creature. He sounded his hooter, but the
sheep did not move, and Dan had barely time
to grip the iron rail in front of him when there
came the crash of impact. The car was now
skimming the ground rather than running upon
it; thus the full weight of the motor struck the
wether. It was hurled ten yards forward and
fell in a crushed heap of wool and bones. The
impact carried away the motor-lamp, which
dropped to the right, and the car had passed
between lamp and sheep and was a hundred
yards beyond them before Dan drew his breath.
A bolt had given at one end of the bar he
held, and a moment later it became detached
in his hand.
Half a minute more and the Warren Inn
came into sight, while, at the same moment,
Daniel saw a horse galloping hard three[284]
hundred yards ahead of him. Compared with
the speed of the car, it appeared to be standing
still; but just as he found himself beside it, the
Warren Inn rose on his right, and Sweetland
was forced to slow down that he might
stop. As he did so he sounded the hooter
with all his might to waken Beer. Sim, on
the horse, had become aware of a motor’s
approach long before it reached him, and,
guessing that Dan was following, he had
pushed his horse too fast. He knew it was
failing; but he also knew that Sweetland must
slow down before he could alight, and the
sequel proved him correct, for Daniel had
already overshot the turning to Hangman’s
Hut by two hundred yards before he could pull
up. By rather more than two hundred yards,
therefore, Sim had a start upon the half-mile
of rough ground that separated the high road
from Minnie’s home. Sim was also mounted,
but herein lay no advantage, for his steed,
cruelly over-ridden, now came down with a
crash and threw the rider over his head. Titus
turned a clean somersault and fell in a peat
mire on his back unhurt. Dripping with black
mud from head to heel, but none the worse, he
rushed on, and as Daniel breasted the last
hillock, he saw Titus knock at the door of
Hangman’s Hut and Minnie throw it wide.[285]
Sim’s fall had lost him ground, and he was not
a hundred yards ahead of his enemy when he
entered the cottage.
Wild monsters both the men looked now,
but Sweetland’s guise was the strangest. His
shirt had blown open, his hat was off. A
breast ivory white supported his ink-black neck
and face. A sleeve had been torn away as he
leapt out of the car, and from a white arm
extended a black hand dripping blood. The
blow at the bridge he had not felt, but the
man’s arm was deeply wounded and now gore
freely dripped from the injury. In his hand
he carried the front bar of the motor-car, which
had come off. Henry Vivian’s pistol was still
in his pocket, but he had forgotten it.
The way now led downhill, and little more
than ten seconds had elapsed before Daniel
reached the door of his home. It was shut,
but he threw himself against it and the latch
broke. Then he stood in the kitchen of the
cottage and saw Sim with Minnie on her knees
at his feet. Titus was bending over her, and
he had one hand on her hair dragging back her
head. The other hand held a jack-knife to his
mouth, and he opened this weapon with his
teeth as Sweetland sprang in upon him. Sim’s
hand went back for the blow, but it was not
delivered. Instead, his arm was pinned to his[286]
side and he found himself wrestling with a
demon.
Both men were powerful, but both were
spent. Sweetland had lost much blood from
his elbow, and he found himself growing weak.
Titus had fared better, though he too blew
hard after a half-mile run.
He had come to kill Minnie Sweetland; now
he exulted and worked to tire out the other.
The knife had fallen out of his hand, but as
Minnie rushed to reach it from him, Sim put
his foot upon it.
“So much the better!” he cried, going down
easily as Daniel threw him. “Do what you
like—go on—you’re bleeding to death! But
Death’s self sha’n’t cheat me of you. Your
death’s my—”
He spoke no more, for Sweetland was now
quite aware that only moments separated him
from falling. He was growing weak fast, and
his head swam. He knew that he must strike,
and strike with every atom of strength that
remained to him, or he would drop unconscious
and leave his wife to her fate. For a moment
he relaxed his hold, and as he did so Sim’s arm
shot out and he grasped his knife. Then a
strange thing happened, for the watching
woman, who had disregarded Daniel’s order
to fly and escape, flung herself straight between[287]
the men; and it seemed that it was not
to shield her husband, but the would-be murderer,
that she came. Daniel had only loosed
his grip to regain his iron bar. This he did
and, in using it, he was quicker than Sim.
Even as the footman regained his knife, the
other, now on his knees, raised the heavy and
shining metal rod over his shoulder and, with
both hands and all his remaining strength,
brought it down upon Sim’s head. Then
between that certain death and the man’s skull
Minnie lifted her slight arm and broke the
blow. Like a carrot the bone cracked, but
force enough still remained in Daniel’s stroke
to stretch out his enemy senseless.
“God’s life! Why for did you do that?”
cried Dan. “Oh—your little arm—Minnie—Minnie!”
“’Tis only broke,” she said. “That’s naught.
I saw you were going to kill him. ’Twould
have wasted all my work for ’e, husband, an’
spoilt all the time to come. You be free afore
the world, an’ innocent afore the world. I can
prove it, Dan. I can prove it!”
For answer his head rolled back and he fell
forward from his knees to the ground. She
stood above the two unconscious men, herself
tottering and powerless to help either.
Then it was that Beer, in the lightest of[288]
attire, and followed by his wife, rushed upon
the scene. Mrs Sweetland bade him first tend
her husband, and Johnny soon propped Dan’s
head and tied up the bleeding arm above the
elbow. After that Dan recovered consciousness
and called to his wife.
“Give me something to drink—spirits. I
shall be all right in an hour. You was right,
Min. ’Twould have been a poor home-coming
to kill this devil. But your arm—that awful
sound.”
“You go,” said Johnny to his wife. “Get a
bottle of brandy and nip back as quick as
lightning. And call the boy at the same time
an’ tell him to saddle the pony an’ ride like hell
for Dr Budd. This chap’s dead, I’m thinking.”
He spoke of Sim, who had not recovered
consciousness.
“What May games be these, Dan Sweetland?”
asked Mr Beer. Dan, however, had
no leisure for Johnny. He lay quite still and
fought to keep consciousness.
“Us can’t wait for Sim,” he said; “Minnie’s
more than this here man. After I’ve took in a
tumbler of spirits, I’ll stand up again and get
to the car. Then I’ll drive her straight to the
cottage hospital and come back for Sim. He’s
not dead. ’Twas that li’l broken arm there
saved him.”
[289]
“A masterpiece you be, sure enough! Black,
an’ blue, an’ bloody; an’ yet the real old Dan
Sweetland, an’ no other! Let me see your
elbow again. Yes, it have done bleeding
now.”
“Don’t trouble about me,” said Dan. “Listen
to his chest an’ see if you can hear his
heart beating. Ban’t no odds if I’ve killed
him; for if I hadn’t done it, he’d have killed
me an’ my wife too. A near shave, by God!
He had her by the hair an’ thicky pig-sticking
knife between his teeth.”
“However comed you to let him in after
last night, my dear?” asked Johnny.
“I was on the watch,” she answered. “I
seed a man with a black face running through
the dawnlight, an’ I didn’t stop to think, but
rushed to the door an’ flinged it open for him.
He was on me like a tiger, an’ I thought
’twas all over when my husband leapt at
him.”
“A brave day’s doings,” said Mr Beer.
“Matter for a book of verses, if you only get
well again, Daniel.”
As he spoke he put his ear to the breast of
Titus Sim, and the others waited in silence.
“There’s something going on,” pronounced
the publican. “The works be moving—no
doubt ’tis the organ of his heart. But it don’t[290]
sound too merry by no means. However, where
there’s life there’s hope; and where there’s death
there’s hope in another world. Though ’twill
take the Almighty all His time to get this chap
saved. Cut off with murder in his heart!”
Mrs Beer returned. She had run all the
way, and could not speak for a time. Daniel
drank the spirits like a sailor; then Minnie was
made to take a little, but not until it had been
attempted to get some down the throat of Sim.
This, however, proved impossible.
“I’d take him with us in the car,” said
Sweetland, “but ’twill be all I can do to get
to it myself. The doctor may look after him.
Now, if you give me an arm, Johnny, I’ll make
shift to walk to the road.”
Mrs Beer remained by the senseless footman,
and her husband supported Daniel to the motor.
Minnie followed them. She was suffering great
agony, but made no sound. Once, midway between
the cottage and the road, Daniel sat down
to rest and drank more brandy; then he reached
the motor and mounted it. Minnie climbed by
his side, and the car was turned slowly round.
Dan now felt better, and refused Johnny Beer’s
offer to accompany him.
“I be right now,” he answered. “You go
back to that devil in my house, an’ save his
filthy life, if you can.”
[291]
Half way to Moreton, Daniel passed the
doctor hastening on horseback to Hangman’s
Hut. The medical man stopped a moment,
directed Minnie how to place her arm that her
pain might be lessened, and then rode forward
again.
The husband and wife hardly spoke upon
the journey into Moretonhampstead, and it was
Minnie’s turn to succumb as the grey, snug
shelter of the cottage hospital came before her
eyes. A minute later she was carried out of
the car, and within an hour her broken arm
had been set, and she found herself in a
comfortable bed with kind hands busy for
her.
In the afternoon of that day Daniel, who had
slept for six hours and taken plenty of useful
nourishment, came to spend a little while with
his wife. He found her light-headed, and
only stopped five minutes. He felt the
greatest alarm, but those in attendance on
the case assured him there was no need to
do so.
Next morning Minnie was better, and
Daniel’s visit went far to restore the even
tenor of her mind and customary, patient self-control.
“They brought Sim here last night,” he said.
“Mr Vivian went up himself and fetched the[292]
man down with the doctor in the motor-car. And
they tell me that at midnight Sim came to his
senses. He’ve got a concussion of the brain;
but his head-bones ban’t cracked, thanks to
you; an’ he’s very likely to live.”
[293]
CHAPTER XXI
JOHNNY BEER’S MASTERPIECE
Minnie Sweetland had no time to
lose, for well she understood that the
police would not wait her pleasure. It behoved
her, if possible, instantly to prove her husband’s
innocence, and, in order to do so, certain witnesses
and a magistrate, before whom they
could testify upon oath, were necessary. On
the night of the catastrophe, before she slept,
Daniel’s wife was permitted to see Mrs Prowse,
the widow who had attended to Rix Parkinson
during his last hours; and this woman, familiar
with the truth, promised to do all that was
right before the following day. Finally, the
wife obtained a physician’s solemn promise that
the police should not take her husband until
Sir Reginald Vivian was familiar with the circumstances;
then, knowing that Dan was safe,
she slept. But her repose proved fitful and
broken by pain. Thankfully she welcomed
dawn and gladly prepared for an ordeal now
hastening upon her.
At eleven o’clock a magistrate, with Sir
Reginald Vivian, Henry Vivian, Mrs Prowse,[294]
her son, Samuel Prowse, and a shorthand writer
entered the room where Minnie lay. Nurses
were also in attendance, and before Mrs Sweetland
told her story, Daniel and the physician
of the hospital appeared.
Then the wife made her statement. She
spoke calmly and clearly; there was no hesitation
in her voice; and those present were able
to confirm her account in every particular.
“When Titus Sim told me that poor Rix
Parkinson was going to die and wanted to see
me before he went, I was ready to visit him at
once. Mr Sim said that he believed that Rix
Parkinson could prove my husband innocent.
It was understood also that there must be a
witness of what was said. And Mr Sim was to
be that witness. I have never trusted him; so
I thought it would be well if there was another
witness. I told Mrs Prowse about it, and she
agreed with me that it might be safer. I had
already spoken to Sam Prowse here. He was
always a friend to my Daniel, and I trusted him.
As he lived next door to Mr Parkinson, it was
easy to have him there. His mother took
Samuel into the sick man’s room while Mr
Parkinson slept. He was hidden in a hanging
cupboard, and heard every word that passed.
Afterwards, when we had gone, and the sufferer
was asleep again, his mother let him out.[295]
None knew about it excepting Mrs Prowse and
Samuel and me. Samuel wrote down from
memory everything that Rix Parkinson said.
You can compare what he wrote with what I
am going to tell you. I have not seen Sam
Prowse since that day, and I do not know what
he wrote.”
Minnie then told the story of all that the
dead man had confessed, and young Prowse
confirmed it. His mother also explained how
she had concealed him in the room of the dying
man. Minnie went on to tell of Sim’s offer of
marriage and his threat when she refused him.
Daniel next told his story, related that he had
revealed himself to Sim, and that Sim, inflamed
by passion, had returned truth for truth and
laid bare his own plot to destroy his old friend
and marry the widow. Of this statement,
however, there was no witness; but, viewed in
the light of Sim’s subsequent actions, it appeared
in the highest degree credible. That
Sim was the dead poacher’s accomplice also
seemed certain. Minnie mentioned the broken
pipe found by her after the poaching raid at
Flint Stone Quarry, and the horn button, which
she had picked up in Middlecott Lower
Hundred. She had kept both articles, and,
after sewing on another button for him, was
positive that the button found at Middlecott belonged[296]
to Sim’s legging, by reason of its unusual
pattern and notched edge. To the
button Sir Reginald attached no importance,
since Sim had been early upon the scene of the
murder in the wood: but the pipe was serious
evidence.
Titus Sim himself proved not well enough
to be interrogated at this stage of affairs; but
a week later he left the hospital under arrest,
and, on the same day, Sweetland also departed.
The footman confessed to nothing; but his
wife’s testimony proved sufficient to free
Daniel and prove him innocent. A very
genuine triumph therefore awaited the young
man. Even Mr Corder from Plymouth wrote
and congratulated him; and in the streets the
small boys crowded behind him and shouted
“Hurrah!”
His father now wearied the world with Dan’s
praises; his mother spent half her time on her
knees thanking God, and the other half running
after her son. But, thanks to Henry Vivian
and Sir Reginald, something more solid than
popularity awaited Daniel. The knight, who
counted little of first importance but the life
and prosperity of his son and heir, amazed even
Daniel’s mother by his attitude towards young
Sweetland.
He sent for the hero of the moment, and a[297]
curious scene took place between them, the
drift of which was hidden from Daniel until
some weeks afterwards. Upon this occasion
Sweetland, off whose face Jesse Hagan’s dye
had scarcely as yet departed, found the master
of Middlecott and the village schoolmaster
awaiting him. On the study table were pens,
ink and paper, statements of accounts, and
various more or less complicated memoranda.
“Now, Dan,” said Sir Reginald, “I’m a
man of few words, and hate to waste them.
Therefore the meaning of this business can
very well be left to take care of itself. To
explain it now might be to do an unnecessary
thing; so I’ll explain afterwards, if explanations
are called for. This is Mr Bright, the master
of the Board School. You know him already,
and he tells me you were a sharp pupil and
good at figures, though abominably lazy. I
hope he’s right for your own sake, so far as the
mathematics are concerned. During the next
two hours or more Mr Bright is going to put
you through your facings and see what you are
good for. Do your best. Upon receiving his
report, you shall hear from me. When the
examination is ended, some supper will be
served for you both.”
Sir Reginald retired and for three hours Dan
and his old schoolmaster wrestled with figures.[298]
After midnight the young man went home to
Minnie with his head spinning.
A week later the mystery was solved and
Sweetland received a letter from Middlecott
which much surprised him. It was an autograph
communication from Sir Reginald
himself.
“My gratitude, young man,” he wrote, “is
already familiar to you. Under Heaven you
were instrumental in saving my son’s life, and
that alone ensures for you my active regard and
interest while I myself live. The only question
in my mind, since your acquittal, has been to
find out how best I may advance your welfare:
and at the instance of my son, whose brain is
quicker than my own, I agreed to offer you a
very onerous and responsible appointment—on
one condition. The work requires a clear
head and some knowledge of figures. Experience
might also have been reasonably demanded
but this I waived. You have already shown
qualities of mental readiness, nerve and ability
which, had they been exercised upon worthy
instead of highly improper pursuits, might
have excited admiration instead of suspicion.
But your unruly past is forgotten and forgiven
before the knowledge that you saved Henry
Vivian’s life. Therefore, since Mr Bright
reports that your attainments, though not[299]
splendid, are quite respectable, and that your
remarkable facility for learning will soon make
you master of the art of bookkeeping by
double entry, I have determined to offer you
the post of assistant overseer at my sugar
estates in the island of Tobago. Consult
with your wife whether she will entertain this
proposal. The climate is healthy but exceedingly
hot. My son will return to the West
Indies for a short time in the autumn; you will
follow if you agree to do so; and the nature
of your duties will then be made clear to you.
The necessary practical experience can only
be acquired on the spot; but I trust you to
learn quickly, and I believe that the measure
of your knowledge will swiftly increase to the
measure of your gratitude when you receive
this offer. But you must not be too much
obliged. I am under an obligation to you of
the mightiest description, and not the least of
an old man’s diminishing ambitions is to see
you and your courageous and noble-minded
wife happily embarked upon a worthy and a
prosperous career.”
“Minnie!” bawled Daniel, “listen to this
here! Of course ’tis settled. To think of you
seeing the world! ‘Exceedingly hot,’ he says.
But I lay ’twon’t half be so hot as ’twas last
time I was there!”
[300]
“If you’d let me read your letter, dear heart,
I should know a thought clearer what you was
talking about, and how to advise,” answered
Mrs Sweetland.
There came a merry night at the “White
Hart,” and the bar hummed with conversation
and laughter. Not a few friends were present;
not a few were missing.
“Have a drink along o’ me, Matthew?”
said Mr Beer. “You’ll ax why I’m in this
shop instead of behind my own counter; but
the missus is to home, an’ I told her that after
saying ‘good-bye’ to Dan and Minnie, I
should make a night of it along with a few of
the best. Well, they be gone after the sun.
You bore yourself very stiff at the station.
If he’d been my boy, I should have blubbered—such
a soft fool am I. But I’m afraid your
missus felt it cruel.”
“She’ll be all right,” said Matthew Sweetland.
“Think of the glory of it! Man’s work
he’ve gone to do. An’ no rough job neither.
Figures! It dries my old woman’s eyes when
I put it to her how uplifted he be. Hundreds
of pounds will pass through his hands! They
trust him, an’ well they may trust him.”
“And do you trust him yet?” croaked Gaffer
Hext from his corner.
[301]
The gamekeeper laughed.
“’Tis a fair hit,” he answered. “But I’ve
owned up afore all men that I wronged Daniel,
an’ humbly axed my own son’s pardon for
doubting him. If he can forgive me, you chaps
did ought to. Come to think of it, ’tis no
business of yourn, when all’s said.”
Mr Bartley and the young man Samuel
Prowse were discussing a recent trial.
“In my wide experience of evil-doers,” said
the policeman, “I never met his match for far-reaching
cunning. Such a straight Bible face
too—looked you in the eyeball like honesty’s
self! And all the time no better’n a nest of
snakes in his heart. From a professional view,
’tis a thing to be proud of, perhaps—I mean,
to have the wickedest criminal ever knowed in
the west country come from among us. ’Tis
a sort of fame, I suppose.”
“Your business have turned your head,
Bartley,” declared Mr Hext. “’Tis a thing
to be shamed of, not proud of—a blot
upon us—that such a outrageous rip should
appear here in this peaceful an’ honest
town.”
“He wasn’t Devonshire, however,” explained
Prowse. “The man comed from over the
border, I believe.”
“Somerset’s welcome to him,” said Sweetland.[302]
“Anyway he’s out of mischief for five
years. Maybe Portland Prison will drive the
fear of God into the man; but I’m not
hopeful.”
“’Twas a near touch they didn’t fetch him
in mad,” explained Bartley. “The chap who
defended him tried terrible hard to do it; and
he based his plea ’pon the fact that, even after
he was bowled out, Titus Sim wouldn’t confess
and wouldn’t support that last dying speech of
Parkinson’s.
“But he did afterwards,” Sam Prowse reminded
them. “He confessed after that he’d
been Parkinson’s accomplice all along.”
“Yes, after he’d got his five years and knew
the worst,” returned Mr Bartley. “He wasn’t
mad, though he certainly had a great gift of
loving a woman, which may be a sort of
madness.”
“There were strong qualities in the man,”
declared Gaffer Hext; “but once let the
devil in, he’ll soon mix the ingredients of
our natures and turn all sour, however good
the material.”
“They found four hundred and seventy-three
pounds, ten and eightpence to his name in the
bank,” said Johnny Beer. “Fifty pounds more
than I began wedded life with. A very saving
man; the last of the big poachers, you might[303]
say. There’ll be none so great an’ skilled as
him an’ Rix Parkinson in the future.”
“I hope you’m right, Johnny, with all my
soul,” answered Mr Sweetland.
“To think of they two young brave hearts on
the rolling deep!” mused Mr Bartley. “I
wonder if the ocean be fretful to-night?”
“What was you writing in your pocket-book,
Johnny, just after we gave ’em three cheers an’
the train steamed out o’ the station this morning?”
asked Samuel Prowse.
“Why, be sure ’twas verses,” answered Mr
Bartley. “At a rare time like that, ’tis well
known the rhyme rolls out of Beer like perspiration
off a man’s brow at harvesting. Come,
Johnny, wasn’t you turning a verse about it?”
“If truth must be told, I was,” confessed the
publican. “Upon such great occasions the fit
takes me, like drink will take another. I must
rhyme or be ill. ’Twas the same in the courthouse,
while us was waiting for the verdict.
And though I ban’t the best judge, my wife
said of the poetry I done to Exeter assizes at
the trial of Sim, that it read like print an’ made
her go goose-flesh down the spine. We all
know she’s weak where I’m concerned, but
notwithstanding few have got more sense than
her; and strangely enough, the rhyme about
Titus Sim’s sentence and trial be in my pocket[304]
this minute by a lucky accident. If anybody
would like—?”
“Nothing upon that grim subject to-night,
Johnny,” said Matthew Sweetland; “but if
you’ve got the stuff you turned out at the
station, and if it’s merry, us’ll hear it patiently,
I make no doubt.”
Mr Beer was disappointed; but the company
supported Daniel’s father.
“As you like, of course; but I haven’t
polished it up, you know. Many of my best
verses I’ve often been knowed to write over
twice. My wife will bear witness of it. But
as for merry rhymes, I do think I’m better at
solemn ones. There’s more sting to ’em.
Mirth an’ joy an’ an extra glass to the health of
a lass, an’ so on, be all very well; but they read
tame unless you was on the spot yourself an’
knowed how it tasted. Nothing on God’s
earth be so uninteresting reading as the account
of other folks at a revel, if you wasn’t
there. But with tragic matters, the creepiness
be very refreshing, an’ the fact you wasn’t there
adds to the pleasure. The very heart of comfortable
tragedy be to look on at other people
in a hell of a mess, while you’m all right, with
your pint an’ your pipe drawing easy.”
“Merry verses or none, however,” declared
Gaffer Hext. “What Sweetland says be[305]
proper. Ban’t a comely thing to gloat over a
man when he’s down. Sim have got five
years—an’ that’s prose; an’ ’tis more than any
man can do to make it poetry. So let’s have
what you’ve writ to-day of Minnie Sweetland
an’ Dan—that or nought.”
Johnny pulled forth his rhyme.
“I’m in your hands,” he said. “The polish
be lacking, but the rhymes is there I believe.
’Tis pretty generally granted to me that, whatever
be the quality when I pen verses, the
quantity’s generous and the rhymes come
regular.”
“Not a doubt of it, an’ you’d be a famous
man if you was better knowed,” declared Mr
Sweetland.
“For that matter, they as near as damn it
printed a rhyme of mine in the Newton Trumpet
awhile back,” answered Johnny. “I heard
two months afterward, from a young man as
works there, that if they hadn’t lost the poetry,
’twas as like as not they’d have put it in the
paper.”
“A near shave without a doubt,” assented
Prowse; “’tis any odds but they’ll print the
next.”
“Order for Johnny Beer!” cried Mr
Bartley.
Then the poet opened his pocket-book,[306]
smiled round about the company, and
read:—
“Let the merry bells be rung
And the joyous songs be sung,
While the happy and lucky pair
For ever leave their native air.
Yet ‘for ever’ I will not say,
Because they may come back some day.
See upon the platform stand
Folks from Middlecott so grand,
To shake the couple by the hand.
And his mother sheds some tears
Owing to very natural fears;
But when we all say ‘Hip horray!’
Then her tears do dry away.
Where they soon will happy be
’Tis a very fine countree.
Palms do wave and flowers do blow
Just wherever you do go.
Cocoanuts from there do come,
Also sugar, also rum;
And the bitters that in sherry
Often make a sad soul merry.
So we’ll wish them a jolly long life—
Both young Daniel and his wife.
Also babbies, fat and hearty,
To make up the little party.
So us’ll give ’em three cheers and one cheer more,
And hope they’ll some day reach a Heavenly Shore.
“You must understand me, neighbours, ’tis
not worked up to concert pitch as yet; but such
as ’tis, there ’tis.”
[307]
Everybody shouted congratulations. Some
stamped their feet; some rapped their mugs on
the bar and on the table.
“’Tis a very fine rhyme an’ meets the whole
case both in this world and the next. I’m
sure,” said Mr Sweetland, “it does you
credit, Beer, an’ I thank you for it.”
“Specially that part about the foreign land
they’ve gone to,” declared Mr Bartley. “To
hear you talk about palm-trees as if you’d
walked under ’em all your life! Be blessed if
I can’t see the place rise up in my mind like a
picture.”
“Sir Reginald Vivian would thank you for a
copy, I reckon,” continued Prowse. “He did
shake hands with ’em both. He was almost
the last to do it. I heard his final words to
Dan. ‘An’ you tell my son that the sooner
he’s home again the better, because I can’t
get on at all without him.’ They was his very
words.”
The conversation showed a tendency to drift
from Johnny’s verses. But he brought it back
again.
“If you ax me what I like best myself,” he
said, “’tis the first two lines. I never wrote a
better matched pair.”
“So they be then. ’Tis a very great gift,
Johnny, and the parish ought to be prouder of[308]
you than ’tis,” concluded Mr Sweetland. “I
must ax you for that bit of writing, if you
please,” he added, “for my old woman’s like
to have a very snuffly night of it, and these here
rhymes of yours will cheer up her lonely heart
better than spirits.”
Mr Beer handed over the paper.
“For such a high purpose, you’m welcome
to ’em,” he replied.
That night the sea was black and troubled.
Under the obscured glimmer of a waning moon,
the Royal Mail Packet Orinoco pushed down
Channel, while a man and his wife stood upon
deck with all the sounds of a great steamer in
their ears. They looked upon the waters and
saw white foam speeding in ghostly sheets
astern and great bodies of darkness heave upwards
along the bulwarks, then sink back hissing
into the vague. Across the sky, flying with
the low cloud-drift, gleamed brief sparks and
stars that shot upward from the funnels; and
below, the round windows of the engine-room
flashed like great eyes upon the night. But
forward was no twinkle or glimmer of light to
distract the keen eyes there. The steamer was
keeping double watches. A rushing and a
wailing wind filled the upper air; fingers invisible
played strange music on the harps of the[309]
shrouds; steam roared; deep sounds rose from
the engine-room; the steering gear jolted and
grated harshly. Now for a moment it was
silent; now it chattered on again, like a violent,
voluble, and intermittent voice. From time to
time came the clang of a bell to mark other
ships ahead, to port, or starboard: and through
all sounded the throb, throb, throbbing of the
ship’s pulse, where her propeller thundered.
Off the Start a light-house lamp flashed
friendly farewell. It shone, sank into darkness,
then smiled out again across the labouring
waters.
“How does my own little wife like these here
strange sights and sounds?” asked the man.
“Sea an’ land are all one to me,” she
answered, “so long as your dear arm be where
it is.”
COLSTON AND COY., LTD., PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
