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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




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 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 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 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 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 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.

“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 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.”

“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.

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.”

“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
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, 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 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.”




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.

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 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 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.

“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 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.

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.

“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. ’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?”

“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 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.”

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.




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. 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
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 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. 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 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 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 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 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.

“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.

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 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, 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.




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, 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 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.”

“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 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 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; 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 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 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. 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.

“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.”

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 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.”




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 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.”

“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.

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.”

“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 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.

“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 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 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 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, 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.”

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 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 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’ 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.”

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.”

“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.




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 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 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 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.

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 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 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.

“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. 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!”

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 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 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 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.”

“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.

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.




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 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 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 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-<DW52> 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?”

“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?”

“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 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.”

“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 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 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 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
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 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 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.”




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. 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 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. 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.

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 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.”

    [1] _More_: a tree root.

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.

“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 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 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 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; 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 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 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 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 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.”

“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 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.”




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 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.
    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 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 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. 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 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 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, and birds and
butterflies, and sweltering sunshine, and <DW65>s, 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, 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 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 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.”

“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.

“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.




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 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 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 <DW65> 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, <DW65>s 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. 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 <DW65>s
stop throwing stones up at the tree. Well, I shinned up aloft and began
flinging down the mangoes, and the wretched <DW65>s 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 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 <DW65>s ‘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 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 <DW72>s 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 <DW65>s
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 <DW64>s. The <DW65>s’ 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. <DW65>s 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 <DW65>s 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 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 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. <DW65>s 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 
scenery, I promise you, with the women’s turbans all a-bobbing, like
a million  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 <DW65> 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 <DW65>s also, for
the 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 <DW65>s 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. 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 sight
I seed in the Court House there, namely, no less than a <DW65> tried
for murder. The coolies be short-tempered people and often kill their
wives. Then the vultures find ’em in the sugar-canes. But <DW65>s, 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 <DW65> 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 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 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 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 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.”




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 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 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 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 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 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? 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 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 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 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 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 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 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. “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.




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 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 <DW65>s 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 ’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 <DW65> 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
<DW65> 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 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 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, horrible things
like the full-blooded <DW65>s 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 <DW65>s shiver when they tell about him.

    [2] Loopgaroo--Loupgarou.

“As to cocoanuts, which you’ve only seed at a revel ‘three shies a
penny,’ out here they be 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 <DW65>s, 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 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 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.”

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 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 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 <DW65> 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 <DW64>s. The <DW52> men chattered wildly, but none
made any effort to run in on Sweetland. 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 <DW64>s 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 <DW52>
men to separate the fighters.

At last a big buck negroe tried to grasp Daniel from behind, and the
sailor, bending his 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 <DW64>s 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.”

“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 <DW64>s 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, 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 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.




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 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 <DW64>
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 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 <DW64> 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!

    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.”

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 <DW65> 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 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 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 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 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 <DW64>, 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.

“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 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 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 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?”

“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 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 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 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 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.




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, 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 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 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 him to the abode of the old <DW64>, 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 <DW64> waited on
the master of the mysteries. All 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 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 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 <DW65> 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 <DW64>, but did not speak. Then he turned to Henry
Vivian.

“That’s old Jesse’s son,” he explained. “A rare fine <DW65>--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 <DW65> to catch a <DW65> 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 <DW64>.

“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 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 <DW64>, 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 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 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 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 <DW64> 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 <DW64> 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 <DW64> turned upon him
and spoke.

“Come!” said the man. “Come out of this! The horses are waiting. I’ll
tell you 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 <DW64>, mounted the
dead man’s horse, and he and his old companion rode away together.




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 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.

“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
<DW65>, 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 <DW64> 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 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 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 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 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 <DW64>s who served it looked curiously at the silent <DW52> 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 <DW64> 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 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 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 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 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 <DW65> sarvant, an’ if I don’t clear myself in
six months 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 <DW65> all over. The <DW52> men here think I am, anyhow, for
they axed me who I was, an’ where I comed from, an’ where Marse Ford 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.”

“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 <DW65> 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 <DW65> 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, 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 <DW64>’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 <DW64>, 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_.




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
and a murmur greeted his arrival, for behind him walked a tall <DW64>. 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 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 <DW65>s 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.”

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.”

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.”

“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
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 <DW52> 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.

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 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. “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 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 <DW64>
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 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 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.




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 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 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 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 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
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 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 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 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.




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 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, 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? 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. 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 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. 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 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 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.

“’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.”

“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 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.

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,
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.

“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 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.”

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.




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?”

“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 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.

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.

“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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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, 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, 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 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.




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 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 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 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. 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 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. 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
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 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 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.”

“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 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.”

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 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.”




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, 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. 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 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 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. 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 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!”

“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.

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. “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 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 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 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, 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.”

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 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 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.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poacher's Wife, by Eden Phillpotts

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