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THE BEQUEST OF

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WIN

TWO SIDES OF THE FACE

MIDWINTER TALES

TWO SIDES OF
THE FACE

MIDWINTER TALES

A. T. QUILLER-COUCH

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
NEW YORK t < t t i t t t904

i^-i ~^.^\ . L

HARVARD C0UE6E UBRARY

BEQUEST OF

WtNWARO PRERGOn

JANUARY 27, 1933

Published, November, 1903

Tww omtoToiir

raiNTINQ AND BOOKtlNOINQ OOMPANV
IWW YORK

CONTENTS

PAflX

Stephen of Stbens 1

The Horror on the Stair 98

The Mazed Election (1768) 126

The HotwbiiLS Duel 161

CiiEEYB Court 181

The CoiiLAborators 221

The Rider in the Dawn 278

My Lady's Coach 297

STEPHEN OF STEENS

STEPHEN OF STEENS
A TALE OF WILD JUSTICE

Beside a high-road in the extreme West of Eng-
land stands a house which jou might pass many times
without suspecting it of a dark history or, indeed, any
history worth mention. The country itself, which
here slopes westward from the Mining District to
Mount's Bay, has little beauty and — ^unless you hap-
pen to have studied it — ^little interest. It is bare,
and it comes near to be savage without attaining to
the romantic. It includes, to be sure, one or two
spots of singular beauty; but they hide themselves
and are not discoverable from the road, which re-
wards you only by its extravagant wealth of wild
flowers, its clean sea-breeze, and perhaps a sunset
flaming across the low levels and silhouetting the long
shoulder of Godolphin Hill between you and the At-
lantic, five miles distant.

Noting, as you passed, the size of the house, its
evident marks of age, and the meanness of its more

STEPHEN OF STEENS

modem outbuildings, you would set it down for the
residence of an old yeoman family fallen on evil
days. And your second thought — ^if it suggested a
second — ^might be that these old yeomen, not con-
tent with a lonely dwelling in a lonely angle of the
land, had churlishly built themselves in and away
from sight even of the infrequent traveller; for a
high wall enclosing a courtlage in front screens all
but the upper story with its slated roof, heavy chim-
neys and narrow upper windows ; and these again are
half hidden by the boughs of two ragged yew trees
growing within the enclosure. Behind the house, on
a rising slope, tilled fields have invaded a plantation
of noble ash trees and cut it back to a thin and ugly
quadrilateral. Hl-kept as they are, and already dilap-
idated, the modem farm-buildings wear a friendlier
look than the old mansion, and by contrast a cheer-
ful air, as of inferiors out-at-elbows, indeed, but un-
ashamed, having no lost dignities to brood upon.

Tet it may happen that your driver — reading, as
he thinks, some curiosity in your glance at Steens
(for so the house is called), or politely anxious to
beguile the way — pulls up his horse and with a jerk
of his whip draws your attention to certain pock-
marks in the courtlage wall. Or perhaps, finding you
really curious but unable from your seat in the vehi-

STEPHEN OF STEENS

cle to distinguish them, he dismounts and traces them
out for you with the butt of his whip-handle. They
are bullet-marks, he says, and there are plenty of
others on the upper front of the house within — even
grooves cut by bullets in the woodwork of the win-
dows. Then follows a story which you will find some
difficulty in swallowing. That in 1734, when Wal-
pole was keeping England at peace — ^that almost at
the moment when he boasted, "There are fifty thou-
sand men slain this year in Europe, and not one
Englishman'^ — an unmilitary pewterer was here hold-
ing at bay the Sheriff, his posse and half a regiment
of soldiers, slaying seven and wounding many; and
that for eight months he defied the law and defended
himself, until cannon had to be dragged over the
roads from Pendennis Castle to quell him — such a
tale may well seem incredible to you unless you can
picture the isolation of Cornwall in days when this
highway was a quag through which, perhaps twice a
week, a train of pack-horses floundered. The man
who brought Roger Stephen to justice, though tar-
dily and half against his sense of right, was Sir John
Piers, of Nansclowan, hard by. And when Sir John
— ^^%e little baronet" as he was called, a Parliament-
man, and the one whom Walpole never could bribe —
married pretty Mistress Catherine, the heiress of

STEPHEN OF STEENS

Sherrington across Tamar, lis lady's dowry was
hauled down through the Duchy to Nansclowan in
waggons — a wonder to behold — and stacked in
Nansclowan cellars : ten thousand pounds, and every
doit of it in half-crowns. Ei^ty thousand half-
crowns!

Be pleased to reflect upon these cellared piles of
silver, and what they indicate of Cornish life in those
days: and bear in mind that they were stacked in place
a short ten years before Roger Stephen, a mile-and-a-
half away, first let fly his bullets at the Sheriff, on
the principle that an Englishman's house is his castle,
and in firm conviction — shared by all the countryside
and in the bottom of his heart by Sir John himself —
that this particular castle was Boger Stephen's; not
perhaps by law, but assuredly by right.

Four miles south of Steens, and a trifle over, lies
the market town of Helston (or *Belleston" as men
wrote it in 1734, and ought to write it still); on the
road to nowhere and sonmolent then as now, but then
as now waking up once a year, on the 8th of May,
to celebrate the Feast of Flora and welcome back the

STEPHEN OF STEENS

summer. She is brought in at daybreak with green
boughs and singing, and at noon the citizens dance
through the streets in her honour, the Mayor himself
leading off as the town band strikes up its immemorial
quickstep, the staid burgesses following with their
partners. At first they walk or amble two and two,
like animals coming out of Noah's ark; then, at a
change in the tune, each man swings round to the
lady behind him, "turns" her, regains his partner,
^'tums" her too, and the walk is resumed. And so,
alternately walking and twirling, the procession sways
down the steep main street and in and out of the
houses left open for it — along the passage from front
door to court or garden, out at the back door, in at
the back door of the next open house, and through
to the street again — ^the beadles preceding with
wreathed wands, the band with decorated drum, the
couples "turning" duly at the break in the tune,
though it catch them in the narrowest entrance or
half-way down a flight of steps.

On the 8th of May, 1734, at the foot of Coinage-
hall Street, hard by the Bowling Green, a pewterer's
shop stood open, like its neighbours, to admit the
Flora. But the master of the shop and his assistant —
he kept no apprentice — sat working as usual at their
boards, perhaps the only two men in Helleston who

STEPHEN OF STEENS

disregarded the public holiday. But everyone knew
Roger Stephen to be a soured man, and what old
Malachi Hancock did was of no account.

Malachi sat at his bench in the rear of the shop
turning the rim of a pewter plate, and Boger Stephen
in the front, for the sake of better light, peering into
the bowels of a watch which had been brought to him
to be cleaned — a rare job, and one which in his sullen
way he enjoyed. From youth up he had been badly
used. His father, Humphrey Stephen, owned Steens,
and was a man of substance; a yeoman with money
and land enough to make him an esquire whenever
he chose. In those days it was the custom in Cornish
families of the better class to send the eldest son to
college (usually to Oxford), and thence, unless the
care of his estates claimed him at home, into one of
the liberal professions. Sometimes the second son
would follow him to college and proceed to Holy
Orders, but of tener he had to content himself as ap-
prentice to an apothecary or an attorney. The third
son would, like Roger Stephen, be bound to a pew-
terer or watchmaker, the fourth to a mercer, and so
on in a descending scale. But Roger, though the only
child of a rich man, had been denied his natural am-
bition, and thrust as a boy into the third class. His
mother had died young, and from the hour of her

STEPHEN OF STEENS

death (which the young man set down to harsh usage)
he and his father had detested each other's sight.
In truth, old Humphrey Stephen was a violent tyrant
and habitually drunk after two o'clock. Koger, self-
repressed as a rule and sullen, found him merely ab-
horrent. During his mother's lifetime, and because
she could not do without him, he had slept at Steens
and walked to and from his shop in Helleston; but
on the day after the funeral he packed and left home,
taking with him old Malachi, a family retainer whom
Humphrey had long ago lamed for life by flinging a
crowbar at him in a fit of passion.

So for twelve years he had lodged and taught
Malachi his trade in the dirty, low-browed shop, over
which a pewter basin hung for sign and clashed
against the tilt whenever a sea-breeze blew. Malachi
did his marketing; Roger himself rarely stepped
across his threshold, and had never been known to
gossip. To marriage he never gave a thought: "time
enough for that," he had decided, "when Steens be-
came his, as some day it must"; for the estate ever
since the first Stephen acquired it in the Wars of the
Eoses and gave it his name ("Steens" being but "Ste-
phen's" contracted) had been a freehold patrimony
descending regularly from father to son or next heir.
All in good time Koger Stephen would marry and

STEPHEN OF STEENS

install his wife in the manor-house. But the shop in
Coinage-hall Street was no place for a woman. She
would be a nuisance, sweeping the place out and up-
setting him and Malachi; an expense, too, and Boger
— always a penurious man — ^incurred no expense un-
til obliged.

But on a day, about two years before this 8th of
May, 1734, word had come down from Steens that
his father wished to speak with him.

^^ot dying, is he?" Koger asked the messenger in
Cornish. Half his customers spoke the old language,
and it came readier to his tongue.

The messenger chuckled. ^T)ying? He'll live to
be a hundred 1 Eh, it's not dying he's after," and the
man winked. He was near upon bursting with news
— or gossip — of his own.

"That's enough," said Roger. "Go back and tell
him that if he's well and wants to talk, he knows
where to find me." And he turned back to his
work.

Next day old Humphrey Stephen rode down into
Helleston in a towering rage, reined up before his
son's shop, and dismounted.

"You're a pretty dutiful kind of son," he snarled,
^^ut I've a word that concerns you belike. I'm go-
ing to marry again."

STEPHEN OF STEENS

"Ah?'' said Eoger, drawing in his breath and eye-
ing the old man up and down in a way that discon-
certed him. ^^Who's the poor soul?"

"She lives over to Porthleven," answered his
father, "and her name is Mary Nankivell. She's —
well, in fact she's a fisherman's daughter; but I've
lived long enough to despise differences of that
kind."

**! wasn't asking your age," said Roger medita-
tively. *n;VTiat's the woman's?"

"She'll be twenty next birthday." The old man
was sixty-five. *Well, what's your opinion?" he asked
testily, for he knew he was doing a wrong thing, and
craved an excuse to work himself into a rage.

"On which?" asked Eoger, " — ^you, or the woman?"

"On the marriage." Old Humphrey stood glower-
ing under his eyebrows, and tapped his boot impa-
tiently with the butt of his riding-whip. ^T. reckoned
it might concern you, that's all."

^H can't see that it does." There was that in
Roger's slow look which his father found maddening.

"Oh, can't you?" he sneered.

"No, for the life of me," answered Roger. "'Tis
wickedness of course, but I've no call to interfere.
Take and marry the miserable fool, if you're so
minded."

STEPHEN OF STEENS

Humphrey Stephen had more to say, but gulped
it down and mounted his horse with a devilish
grin.

Koger Stephen went back to his work-bench.

Ill

*Tack of fools!" growled old Malachi as the thump-
thump of the drum drew nearer. He rose and shifted
his stool to a corner, for the way to the back premises
lay through the shop. Roger looked forth into the
sunny street, blinked, and, picking up a pair of pin-
cers, returned to his watch.

The band came slowly down the street and halted
outside — still in full blast; for between the Market
House and the Bowling Green there must be no pause
in the Flora-dance or its music. And presently the
Mayor himself thrust his red face in at the shop-door.

"Good morninM" he nodded, jigging away with his
feet. "You'll lev' us come through, I suppose?"

"Welcome," grunted Eoger.

"And, darn'ee, take care o' my cabbages!" added
Malachi. "You ruined half a score of 'em last year
with your May-games."

"Cab — " Here the inexorable tune forced His
12

STEPHEN OF STEENS

Worship to face about and twirl his partner. "Cab-
bages?" he resumed. ^TTou dare to use such a word
to me, you saucy rascal? Why, Fve sent better men
than you to prison for less!"

'H donH doubt it,'' retorted Malachi. "But King
George is above us, and holds even a Mayor responsi-
ble for what he treads on. Dance along out, that's
a dear man, and if you want to be frolicsome, keep
to the paths."

"Of all the unpublicspirited houses I've danced into
this day, this here's the unpublicspiritedestl" ex-
claimed the Mayor. He had reached by this time the
door at the back of the shop, and would have said
more; but again the tune took him by the legs com-
pelling him to twirl his partner, and, twirling her,
he was swept out of sight.

Eoger Stephen still pored over his watch. Several
of the dancers — ^had the will to do it been enough —
were minded to stop and rebuke him for his churlish-
ness. A tradesman at work in Helleston on Flora-
day in the morning was a scandalous sight. But
Eoger stood six-foot-three in his socks, and had been
a famous wrestler in his youth.

The giddy throng went by, his hunched shoulders
expressing his contempt of it. But when all the
dancers had paraded through the shop and out into

STEPHEN OF STEENS

Malachi's cabbage garden, a man appeared in the en*
trance and said —

"Arise, Master Koger, and dance — or otherwise as
your feelings incline you I For Doctor Graye sends
down his compliments, and your father^s had a
stroke."

Roger Stephen dropped his pincers. "A stroke?
Is it serious?"

'TtfiddlinV answered the man, a wood-cutter on
the Steens estate. 'TSe took it at three in the morn-
ing and never said another word, but passed away a
little under two hours agone; and the funeral's on
Thursday."

Roger laid down the watch and stood erect. The
band in the street still thumped out the Flora tune.

^Ttfalachi," said he, "can you dance the Flora?"

"Bejimbers!" answered Malachi, "the old man did
his best to spoil my legs, but I feel like trying."

Up at Steens the young widow spent the three days
before the funeral in a flutter of the nerves. For
reasons of her own she stood in fear of her stepson,
and felt herself in hourly desperate need of a male
champion. Yet she had pluck as well as a head on

STEPHEN OF STEENS

her shoulders. She might have summoned — ^what
more natural at such a time? — ^her old father, the
fisherman, over from Porthleven; but she argued it
out with herself, and decided that his presence would
be a protection rather apparent than real, and might
easily set Eoger suspecting. Even less politic would
be the presence of her Penzance lawyer, Mr. Alfonso
Trudgian. In the early morning hours after her hus-
band's death she sat a long while with her hands in
her lap, thinking. She was a young and pretty wom-
an, and by no means a bad one. But she had not
married old Humphrey for love, and she meant to
have her rights now. Also her having married Hum-
phrey was proof of that courage which she now dis-
trusted. While her heart sank at the prospect, she
resolved to meet and face Eoger alone.

He came on horseback that same evening, with
Malachi on horseback behind him — ^both in their best
black clothes with hideous black streamers pinned to
their hats and dangling. Mrs. Stephen, having made
inquiries among the servants — ^it added to her help-
lessness that she had never prevailed on Humphrey
to dismiss his old servants, though she had made
more than one attempt, and they knew it and hated
her for it — had Eoger's old room prepared for him,
and met him at the door with decorous politeness.

STEPHEN OF STEENS

Roger had never set eyes on her before. But she
had long ago made it her business to see him; had, in
fact, put on bonnet and shawl one day and visited
Helleston on pretence of shopping, and had, across
the width of Coinage-hall Street, been struck with
terrified admiration of his stem face and great
stature, recognising at a glance that here was a
stronger man and better worth respecting than old
Humphrey — a very dangerous man indeed for an
enemy.

Eoger in return considered her merely as a hussy —
a designing baggage who had sold herself to an old
fool. He came with a mind quite clear about this,
and was not the sort of man to dismiss a prejudice
easily. But her greeting, though it did not disarm
him, forced him to defer hostilities for the moment,
and in his room he allowed to himself that the woman
had shown sense. He could not well send her pack-
ing while the old man lay above ground, and to begin
quarrelling, with his corpse in the house, would be
indecent. Go the woman should, but during her
three days' grace stepson and stepmother had best
keep up appearances.

He did not demur, when descending to supper, he
found his father's chair removed from its place at the
head of the table and his own set at the side on the

STEPHEN OF STEENS

widow's right. She met him with a smile, too, of
which he had to approve; it seemed to say, ^T. do not
forget that we are, and must be, antagonists; but in
trifles, and for the short while permitted to us, let
us do each other justice/' She discussed, in low tones
but frankly, the old man's illness — told him what
there was to tell, pausing now and then with a silent
invitation to question her were he minded, and
apologised very prettily for her shortcomings as a
hostess.

"But you will, of course, order just what you want.
Luckily the servants know you and your ways, and
you will forgive anything I have overlooked. In the
circumstances "

She broke off, and Eoger found himself grunting
that "she wasn't to trouble about that: he'd do well
enough." He did not actually thank her for her
preparations to make him comfortable, but discovered
with a kind of indignant surprise that he had come
very near to it. Somehow this woman, whom he had
expected to find an ignorant fisher-wench, hoity-toity
and brazen or tearful and sullen, was making him
painfully conscious of his own boorishness. Out she
must go, of course, after the funeral; but he wished
he had seen a little more of good company in the
past, and he kept up his temper by reminding himself

STEPHEN OF STEENS

that he had been ill-used and denied a college eda«
cation.

The meal ended, she rose and swept him a curtsey,
neither over-friendly nor stand-oflGlsh. *Teggy will
bring you the brandy and water," she said, "or, if you
prefer it, there is rum in the house. I thought, may-
be, the weather was warm for a fire; but, as you see,
it is laid, and only needs a light if you feel chilly.
Your father liked to sit by a fire even on summer
evenings." She did not add that he had invariably
come drunk to bed. "But there," she ended with a
faint smile, "we have the old servants, and they are
not likely to neglect you."

A second curtsey, and she was gone. Roger sat
down by the cold hearth and stroked his chin. By-
and-by he looked at his fingers, as if (absurdly
enough) to make sure he had not shaken hands with
her.

Next day this armed but almost friendly neutrality
continued. Koger spent the hours in striding about
his acres, planning how to improve them and curtail
expenses here and there. The farm to be sure was
neglected; but here and there he noted improvements,
and caught himself wondering if the credit of them
belonged to the old man. He left the household to
his stepmother, and returned to find his meals ready

STEPHEN OF STEENS

and his appetite courted by some of his favourite
dishes.

!A.t dinner Mrs. Stephen produced and handed to
him a sheet of paper. ^T, thought it might save trou-
ble," she explained, "if I made out a list of folks to
be invited to the funeral. You understand that Fve
only put down those that occurred to me. Please
take the list away and strike out or add any names
you choose."

Eoger was within an ace of telling her to look after
this for herself. He had forgotten that these invita-
tions were necessary, and the writing of them would be
a nuisance. But he recollected his suspicions, took the
paper, and carried it out into the fields to study it.
The list was a careful one, and almost all the names
belonged to neighbours or old family friends. Half a
dozen at most were unfamiliar to him. He pored over
these one by one, but scratched none out. "Let the
poor creature invite them if they're friends of hers,"
he decided ; "'twill be her last chance." At supper he
gave her back the list, and somewhat awkwardly asked
her to send the invitations.

Had he been cleverer in the ways of women, he
might still have failed to read the glint in her eyes
as she folded the paper and thrust it into her bodice.

So the three days passed.
19

STEPHEN OF STEENS

They buried Humphrey Stephen on the morning
of the 11th, and if any of the widow's own friends
attended the funeral they forbore to obtrude them-
selves during the ceremony or at the breakfast which
followed it. While the guests drank sherry and ate
cold chickens in the dining-room, Mrs. Stephen car-
ried her grief off to her own apartment and left Roger
to do the honours. She descended only when the
throng had taken leave.

The room, indeed, when she entered, was empty
but for three persons. Roger and the family attor-
ney — ^Mr. Jose, of Helleston — stood by one of the
windows in friendly converse, somewhat impatiently
eyeing a single belated guest who was helping himself
to more sherry.

"What the devil is he doing here?" asked Mr. Jose,
who knew the man. He turned and bowed as the
young widow entered. ^T. was on the point, madam,''
said he, "of sending up to request your presence.
With your leave, I think it is time to read the de-
ceased's will." He pulled out his watch and glanced
again, with meaning, towards the stranger.

He had lifted his voice purposely, and the stranger
20

STEPHEN OF STEENS

came forward at once with the half of a pasty in one
hand and his glass of sherry in the other.

"Certainly," agreed the stranger, with his mouth
full of pasty. He nodded familiarly to Mr. Jose,
drained his glass, set it down, and wiped his damp
fingers on the lappels of his coat. His habits were
not pretty, and his manners scarcely ingratiating.
The foxy look in his eyes would have spoilt a pleas-
anter face, and his person left an impression that it
had, at some time in the past and to save the expense
of washing, been coated with oil and then profusely
dusted over with snuff. "Shall we begin?" he asked,
drawing a parcel of papers from his breast-pocket.

Roger Stephen glared at him, somewhat as a bull-
dog might eye a shrew-mouse. ^'Who is this?" he
demanded.

"This is Mr. Alfonso Trudgian, my lawyer from
Penzance," explained the widow, and felt her voice
shaking.

"Then he's not wanted."

*^ut excuse me, Mr. Stephen, this lady's inter-
ests "

^Tf my father's will makes any provision for her I
can attend to it without your interference." Roger
glanced at Mr. Jose.

*T[ think," said that very respectable lawyer, "there
21

STEPHEN OF STEENS

can be no harm in suffering Mr. Trudgian to remainj
as an act of courtesy to Mrs. Stephen™ We need not
detain tim long- The will I have here was drawn by
me on the instruction of my late respected client,
and was signed by him and witnessed on the 17 th of
Jilarehj one thousand seven hundred and twenty-five.
It is hifl last and (I believe) his only one; for, like
many another man otherwise sensible, the deceased
had what I may call an unreasoning dislike "

"^Vhat date?'' put in Mr, Alfonso Trudgian
pertly,

**I beg your pardon? — the 17tb of March, one
thousand seven hundred and twenty-five,"

"Then I'm sorry to interrupt ye, Jose, but since
Mr, Koger wants me gone, I have here a will exe-
cuted by Mr* Stephen on February the 14th last —
St Valentine's day. And it reads like a valentine,
too» 'To my dear and lawful wife, Elizabeth Ste-
phen, I devise and bequeath all my estate and effects,
be they real or personal, to be hers absolutely. And
this I do in consideration of her faithful and constant
care of me.^ — Signed, Humphrey Stephen, Witnesses,
William Shapcott* — that's my clerk — *and Alfonso
Trudgian,' That's short enough, T hope, and sweet."

Mr< Joae reached out a shaking hand for the docu-
ment, but Koger was before him- At one stride he

STEPHEN OF STEENS

had reached Mr. Trudgian and gripped him by the
collar, while his other hand closed on the paper.

The attorney shrank back, squealing like a rabbit.
^Xet me go! 'Tis only a copy. Let me go, I say!"

^TTou dirty curl" Koger's broad palm crumpled
up the paper, and with a swift backward movement
tossed it at Mrs. Stephen's feet. "Out of the way,
Jose; he asks me to let him go, and I will." He
lifted the wretched man, and, flinging him on the .
windowHseat, pinned him there for a moment with his
knee while he groped for the latch and thrust open
the broad lattice.

A moment later, as she stood and shook, Mrs. Ste-
phen saw her legal adviser swung up by his collar
and the seat of his breeches and hurled, still squeal-
ing, out upon the flagstones of the courtlage; saw him
tumble sprawling, pick himself up, and flee for the
gate without even waiting to pick up his wig or turn-
ing to shake his fist. Nay, without one backward
look, but weakly clutching at his coat, which had been
split up the back and dangled in halves from his neck,
he broke for the open country and ran.

"Thank you," said she, as Boger swung round upon
her in turn. Her lips were smiling, but she scarcely
recognised her own voice. "Am — am I to follow by
the same way?"

STEPHEN OF STEENS

Boger did not smile^ but took her by the wrist.

^Gently, Mr. Stephen — gently, I implore you!"
interposed Mr. Jose.

Boger did not seem to hear, and the woman made
no resistance. He led her through the hall, across
the threshold of Steens, and up the courtlage path.
At the gate, as he pushed it wide for her, his grip
on her wrist relaxed, and, releasing her, he stood
aside.

She paused for one instant, and gently inclined
her head.

"Stepson, you are a very foolish man," said she.
*'Good day to you !"

She passed out. Koger closed the gate grimly,*
slipped forward its bolt, and walked back to the
house.

But the woman without, as he turned his back,
stepped aside quickly, found the wall, and, hidden
by it, leaned a hand against the stonework and bowed
her head.

A moment later, and before Boger had reached
the front door, her hand slipped and she fell forward
among the nettles in a swoon.

STEPHEN OF STEENS

'Well, thafs over!" said Eoger, returning to the
dining-room and mopping his brow. *TJpon my word,
Jose, that nasty varmint gave me quite a turn for the
moment, he spoke so confident/'

"Tut, tut!" ejaculated Mr. Jose, pacing the room
with his hands clasped beneath his coat-tails.

*T)o you know,'* Eoger continued musingly, "I'm
not altogether sorry the woman showed her hand.
Sooner or later she had to be got rid of, and a thing
like that is easier done when your blood's up. But
Lord! could anyone have thought such wickedness
was to be found in the world 1"

The lawyer rounded on him impatiently. "Mr.
Stephen," said he, in the very words the widow had
used two minutes before, *^ou're a very foolish man,
if you'll excuse my saying it."

"Certainly," Roger assured him. '^ut be dashed
to me if I see why."

*^ecause, sir, you're on the wrong side of the law.
Tour father executed that will, and it's genuine ; or
the vermin — as you call him — ^would never have
taken that line with me."

^ daresay. But what of that?"
25

STEPHEN OF STEENS

'^iVTiat of that ? Why, you've cut yourself off from
compromise — that's all. You don't think a fellow of
that nature — ^I say nothing of the woman-— will meet
you on any reasonable terms after the way you've
behaved!"

"Compromise? Terms? Why, dang it all, Jose!
You're not telling me the old fool could will away
Steens, that has passed as freehold from father to
son these two hundred years and more?"

"The law allows it," began Mr. Jose ; but his out-
raged client cut him short.

"The law allows it!" he mimicked. "How soon
d'ye think they'll get the country to allow it? Why,
the thing's monstrous — 'tis as plain as the nose on
your face!"

"Oh, you^U get sympathy, no doubt!"

"Sympathy? What the devil do I want with sym-
pathy? I want my rights, and I've got 'em. What's
more, I'll keep 'em — you seel Man, if that limb of
Satan dared to come back, d'ye think the whole coun-
tryside wouldn't uphold me ? But he won't ; he won't
dare. You heard him squeal, surely?"

"Drat the very name of politics!" exclaimed Mr.
Joae so inconsequently that Roger had good excuse
for staring.

"I don't take ye, Jose."
26

STEPHEN OF STEENS

^^No, I daresay not. I was thinking of Sir John.
He's up at Westminster speechifying against corrup-
tion and Long Parliaments, and, the pamphleteers
say, doing ten men's work to save the State; but for
your sake I wish he was home minding the affairs of
his parish. For I do believe he'd be for you at the
bottom of his heart, and, if he used his influence, we
might come to a settlement."

"^Settlement'?" Roger well-nigh choked over the
word. He took three paces across the room and three
paces back. His face twitched with fury, but for the
moment he held himself in rein. *TLook here, Jose,
are you my lawyer or are you not? What in thunder
do I want with Sir John? Right's right, and I'm
going to stand on it. Tou hnow Fm in the right, and
yet, like a cowardly attorney, at the first threat you
hum and haw and bethink you about surrender. I
don't know what you call it, sir, but I call it treachery.
^Settlement ?' I've a damned good mind to believe
they've bought you over!"

Mr. Jose gathered up his papers. "After that
speech, Mr. Stephen, it don't become me to listen
to more. As your father's friend I'm sorry for you.
You're an ill-used man, but you're going to be a
worse-used one, and by your own choice. I wish in-
deed I may prove mistaken, but my warning is, you

STEPHEN OF STEENS

have set your feet in a desperate path. Good day,
sir."

And so Roger Stephen quarrelled with his wisest
friend.

VII

Young Mrs. Stephen awoke in her bed of nettles,
and sitting up with her back to the wall, pressed her
hands to her temples and tried to think. She could
not. For the moment the strain had broken her, and
her mind ran only on trifles — ^her wardrobe, a hun-
dred small odds and ends of personal property left
behind her in the house.

She could not think, but by instinct she did the
wisest thing — ^found her feet and tottered off in the
direction of Nansclowan. She had barely passed the
turning of the road shutting her off from his sight
when Mr. Jose came riding out by the stable gate and
turned his horse's head towards Helleston.

When Lady Piers heard that Mrs. Stephen was
below in the morning-room and wished to speak with
her, she descended promptly, but with no very good-
will towards her visitor. She suspected something
amiss, for the maid who carried up the news had

STEPHEN OF STEENS

added that the widow was "in a pretty pore/' and
wore not so much as a shawl over her indoor gar-
ments. Also she knew, as well as her commoner
neighbours, that the situation at Steens must be a
difficult one. Now Lady Piers was a devoted and
gentle-hearted woman, a loving wife and an incom-
parable housekeeper (the news had found her busy
in her still-room), but her judgment of the young
fisher-girl who had wheedled old Humphrey Stephen
into matrimony was that of the rest of her sex; and
even good and devout women can be a trifle hard, not
to say inhuman, towards such an offender.

Therefore Lady Piers entered the morning-room
with a face not entirely cordial, and, finding the
pretty widow in tears, bowed and said, "Good morn-
ing, Mrs. Stephen. What can I do for you?''

^^He's turned me outl" Mrs. Stephen sobbed.

"Lideedl" Lady Piers was not altogether sur-
prised. ^'He used no violence, I hope?"

^H d — don't know what you'd c — call violence, my
lady, but he pitched Mr. Trudgian through the win-
dow."

^TThat seems to border on violence," said Lady
Piers with a faint smile. *TBut who is Mr. Trud-
gian?"

**He's my lawyer, and he comes from Penzance.'^
29

STEPHEN OF STEENS

^ see." Lady Piers paused and added, **Was it
not a little rash to introduce this Mr. Trudgiant In
the circnmstances'^ — she laid a slight stress here —
^ should have thought it wiser to leave the house as
quietly as possible/'

"But — ^but the house is miney my lady • . .
every stick of it willed to me, and the estate too ! Mr.
Trudgian had drawn up the will, and was there to
read it."

^TTou don't mean to tell me '' Lady Piers

started up from her chair. "'Tis atrocious!" she ex-
claimed, and a pink spot showed itself on each of her
delicate cheeks. "Indeed, Mrs. Stephen, you cannot
dare to come to me for help; and if you have come
for my opinion, I must tell you what I think — ^that
you are a wicked, designing young woman, and have
met with no more than your deserts."

^^ut he called me a dear wife, and he spoke of my
loving care."

"Who did? Mr. Roger?"

"My husband did, my lady."

"Oh!" There was a world of meaning in Lady
Piers' "oh!" Even a good and happy wife may be
allowed to know something of men's weakness. "And
Mr. Trudgian, I suppose, put that down on parch-
ment?"

STEPHEN OF STEENS

Mrs. Stephen gazed for a moment disconsolately
out of the window^ and rose to go.

*^ay/^ Lady Piers commanded, *^ou must sit
down for a while and rest. Sir John is in London,
as you know, and were he at home I feel sure you
would get little condolence from him. But you are
weak and over-worn, and have few friends, I doubt,
between this and Porthleven. You cannot walk so
far. Eest you here, and I will send you some food,
and order John Penwartha to saddle a horse. I can
lend you a cloak too, and you shall ride behind him
to Porthleven. A friend I cannot find, to escort you ;
but John is a sensible fellow, and keeps his opinions
to himself/'

VIII

Next day Eoger went over the house with Jane
Trewoof e, the cook, and collected all his stepmother's
belongings. These he did up carefully into three
bales, and had them ready at the gate by six o'clock
on the following morning, when Pete Nancarrow, the
carrier between Helleston and Penzance, passed with
his pack-ponies.

"You're to deliver these to the woman's own cot-
31

STEPHEN OF STEENS

tage over to Porthleven," was his order, conveyed by
old Malachi.

Two days later, towards evening, Boger himself
happened to be mending a fence on the slope behind
the house, when he looked along the road, spied Pete
returning, and stepped down to meet him.

^TTou delivered the parcels?"

Pete nodded.

**What's your charge?" asked Boger, dipping his
hand in his pocket.

*^less you, they^re paid for. I took the goods
round by way of Penzance, meaning to deliver them
on the return journey; but in Market-jew Street
whom should I run up against but the widow herself,
sporting it on the arm of a lawyer-fellow called
Trudgian. TSuUo, mistress I' says I, Tve a pack of
goods belonging to you that I'm taking round to
Porthleven.' So she asked what they were, and I told
her. There's no need for you to drag them round
to Porthleven,' said she, *for Pm lodging here just
now while Mr. Trudgian gets up my case.' And with
that they fetched me over to Trudgian's office and
paid me down on the table; *for,' says the lawyer, *we
won't put expense on a man so poor as Boger Ste-
phen is like to be, though he have given these fal-
lals a useless journey.' Tell ye what, master; they

STEPHEN OF STEENS

mean to have you out of Steens if they can, that
pair."

*Tet 'em come and try," said Boger grimly.

The packman laughed. *T?haf s what I told the
folks over to Penzance. That's the very speech I
used: TLet 'em come and try,' I said. Everyone's
prettily talking about the case."

**What can it concern anyone over there?"

**Why, bless you, the wide world's ringing with it!
And look here, master, I'll tell you another thing.
The country's with you to a man. You've been
shamefully used, they say, and they mean it. Why,
you've only to lift a hand and you can have 'em at
your back to defy the Sheriff and all his works — ^if
ever it should come to that."

*T.t won't," said Boger, turning back to the house.

This was the first news to rea<;h him that his affairs
were being publicly discussed, and for a moment it
annoyed him. Of danger he had scarcely a suspicion.
Here at Steens the days passed quietly, the servants
obeying him as though he had been master for years.
They brought him no gossip, and any rumours Mal-
achi picked up Malachi kept to himself. Boger,
never a man to talk with servants, brooded rather on
the attempted wrong. That in itself was enough to
sour a man. He had met it with prompt action and

STEPHEN OF STEENS

balked it, but he nursed a eenae of injury- He felt
especially bitter towards Mr, Jose, first of all for per-
mitting such a will to be made without discovering
itj and nest for shilly-shallying over the decisive coun-
ter-stroke. To possible trouble ahead he gave no
thought.

The days drew on to hay-harvestj and on the 5th
of June Eoger and his men started to mow Behan
ParCj a wide meadow to the east of the bouse, Koger
took a scythe himself: he enjoyed mowing*

By noon the field was half-shorn, and the master,
pausing to whet his scythe, had begun to think upon
dinner, when at a call from IMLalachi he looked up to
see a ragged wastrel of a man picking his way across
the swathes towards him with a paper in his hand,

**Hnllol What's this?*' be demanded, taking the
paper and unfolding it*

Aa his eye took in its contents the blood surged
up and about his temples. He tore the paper across
and across agaiu^ flung the pieces on the groundj and
stooped for his scythe.

The wastrel cast a wild look about him and fled.
As he turned, presenting his back, Eoger hurled bia
hone. It caught him a little above the shoulder-
blades, almost on the neck, and broke in two pieces.
The unhappy man pitched forward on his face,

STEPHEN OF STEENS

Some of the mowers ran to pick him up. ^Thee'at
killed him, master, for sure!^' cried one.

"Ch't 1'^ snarled Roger, and strode back to the house
without another look.

The law was in motion, then, and in motion to
oust him! He could scarcely believe it; indeed, it
was scarcely thinkable. But over his first blind, in-
credulous rage there swept a passionate longing to
be alone in the house — ^to sit in it and look about him
and assure himself. Without thought of what he did,
he touched the door-jamb reverently as he stepped
across the threshold. He wandered from room to
room, and even upstairs, feeling the groove in the
oaken stair-rail familiar under his palm. Yes, it was
his, this home of dead and gone Stephens; it was here,
and he was its master. And of this they would dare
to deprive him — ^they, an interloping trollop and a
dirty little attorney I No, it couldn't be done. He
clinched and unclinched his fists. It could never be
done in England; but the wrong was monstrous, all
the same.

By-and-by he grew calmer, went down to the par-
lour, ate his dinner, and sallied out to the meadow
again. The wastrel had disappeared. Boger asked
no questions, but took up his scythe, stepped into the
rank, and mowed. He mowed like a giant, working

STEPHEN OF STEENS

his men fairly to a standstill. They eyed him
askance, and eyed each other as they fell behind. But
disregarding the rank, he strode on and on, scything
down the grass — ^his grass, grown on his earth, reaped
with his sweat.

The hay had been gathered and stacked, and the
stacks thatched; and still Roger lived on at Steens
unmolested. He began to feel that the danger had
blown over, and for this security old Malachi was
responsible. Malachi had witnessed the scene in the
hayfield, and dreamed for nights after of the look
on his master^s face. The next time a messenger
arrived (he told himself) there would be murder
done; and the old man, hazy upon all other points
of the law and its operations, had the clearest notion
of its answer to murder. He had seen gibbets in his
time, and bodies dangling from them in chains.

He began to watch the road for messengers, and
never slackened his watch. Six in all he intercepted
during the next three weeks and took their papers
to carry to his master. It seemed to him to be raining

STEPHEN OF STEENS

papers. He could not read, and, had he been able,
their contents would have conveyed no meaning to
him. He burned every one in secret.

It is possible, and even likely, that had they reached
Eoger they would have had no effect beyond anger-
ing him. He believed — as for miles around every
man not a lawyer believed — ^that freehold land which
had once descended to an heir could not be alienated
without the next heir's consent: nor in all the coun-
tryside had such a wrong been perpetrated within
living memory. It would have taken twenty lawyers
with their books to shake him in this conviction. But
it is a fact that he never received a last letter from
Lawyer Jose imploring him to appear and fight the
suit entered against him, and not to sit in obstinate
slumber while his enemies destroyed him.

After this for some weeks the stream of messengers
ceased, and even Malachi breathed more freely. He
still, however, kept his eye lifting, and was able to
intercept the document announcing that in the case
of "Stephen versus Stephen" judgment had been en-
tered against the defendant, who was hereby com-
manded to evade the premises and yield up possession
without delay. This also he destroyed.

But there arrived a morning when, as Eoger sat at
breakfast; the old man came running with news of a

STEPHEN OF STEENS

gang of men on the road, not six hundred yards away,
and approaching the house.

"Are the gates bolted?" asked Koger, rising and
taking down two guns from the rack over the chim-
ney-piece.

*^Ay, master, bolted and locked," With some vague
notion that thereby he asserted possession, Eoger had
bought new padlocks and clapped them on all three
gates — the wrought-iron one admitting to the court-
lage, the side wicket, and the great folding-doors of
the stable-yard at the back.

'^Where's Joseph ?"^ — ^this was the farm-hind,

'^In the challs/'*

'Take you this gun and give hira the other, and
you^re to fire on anyone who tries to force the stable
gate. They're loaded, the pair of 'em, with buckshot.
Now, this fellow" — ^he reached down a third gun —
'*ig loaded blank, and here's another with a bullet in
him, I'll take these out to the front/'

'*But, master, His a hanging matter!"

"And I'll hangy and so shall you, before e'er a one
o' these scoundrels sets foot in Steens. Go you off
quick and tell Joseph, if there's trouble, to let slip
the tether of the shorthorn bull/'

Roger crammed a powder-flask into one pocket
• Cattle Bhedi,

STEPHEN OF STEENS

with a handful of wadding, a bag of bullets into an-
other, took his two guns, and went forth into the
courtlage, in time to see a purple-faced man in an ill-
fitting Dalmahoy wig climb off his horse and advance
to the gate, with half a dozen retainers behind him.

He tried the latch, and, finding it locked, began
to shake the gate by the bars.

^TBEuUo I" said Roger, "And who may you be, mak-
ing so boldr

^Is your name Roger Stephen?" the purple-faced
man demanded.

^T. asked you a question first. Drop shaking my
gate and answer it, or else take yourself off."

"And I order you to open at once, sir I I'm the
Under-Sheriff of Cornwall, and Fve come with a writ
of ejectment. YouVe defied the law long enough,
Master Stephen; youVe brought me far; and, if
youVe ever heard the name of William Sandercock,
you know he's one to stand no nonsense."

^T. never heard tell of you," said Roger, appearing
to search his memory; %\xt speaking off-hand and at
first sight, I should say you was either half -drunk or
tolerably unlucky in your face." And indeed the
Under-Sheriff had set out from Truro at dawn and
imbibed much brandy on the road.

"Open the gate I" he foamed,
39

STEPHEN OF STEENS

Roger stepped back and chose his gun. 'TTou'd
best lead him away quiet," he advised the men in the
road. 'TTou wonH? Then I'll give the fool till I
count three. One — two — three." And he let off his
gun full in the TJnder-SherifE's face.

The poor man staggered back, clapped his hand to
his jaw, and howled, for the discharge was close
enough to scorch his face and singe his wig. Also
one eyebrow was burnt, and before he knew if he
Btill retained his sight, his horse had plunged free
and was galloping down the road with the whole posse
in pursuit, and only too glad of the excuse for run-
ning. '

*Turn loose the bull!" shouted Roger, swinging
round towards the house.

The TJnder-Sheriff found his legs, and bolted for
dear life after his horse.

Travellers in the Great Sahara report many mar-
vels, but none so mysterious and inexplicable as its
power of carrying rumour. The desert (say they) is
one vast echoing gossip-shop, and a man cannot be
killed in the dawn at Mabruk but his death will be

STEPHEN OF STEENS

whispered before night at Bel Abbas or Amara, and
perhaps bmited before the next sun rises on the sea-
coast or beside the shores of Lake Chad.

We need not wonder, therefore, that within a few
hours the whole of West Cornwall knew how Roger
Stephen had defied the TJnder-Sheriff and fired upon
him. Indeed, it is likely enough that in the whole of
West Cornwall, at the moment, Eoger Stephen was
the man least aware of the meaning of the TJnder-
Sheriff's visit and least alive to its consequences.
Ever since his father's death that desolate county
had been humming with his fame: his wrongs had
been discussed at every hearthside, and his probable
action. There were cottages so far away as St. Ives
where the dispute over Steens had been followed
intently through each step in the legal proceedings
and the issue of each step speculated on, while in
Steens itself the master sat inert and blind to all but
the righteousness of his cause — thanks in part to
Malachi, but in part also to his own taciturn habit.
Men did not gossip with him; they watched him. He
was even ignorant that Mrs. Stephen had been pelted
with mud in the streets of Penzance, and forced to
pack and take refuge in Plymouth.

Next morning Malachi brought word of another
small body of men on the road, advancing this time

STEPHEN OF STEENS

from the direction of Helleston. Three of them (he
added) carried guns.

Eoger made his dispositions precisely as before,
save that he now loaded each of his guns with ball,
and again met his visitors at the gate.

"Don't fire, that's a dear man I" cried a voice
through the bars; and Eoger wondered; for it be-
longed to a young yeoman from St. Keverne, and its
tone was friendly.

*Bey, Trevarthen? What brings you here?" he
demanded.

"Goodwill to help ye, if you're not above taking
it. You've been served like a dog, Stephen; but we'll
stand by you, though we go to Launceston jail for it.
Open the gate, like a good man."

^Tou'U swear 'tis no trick you're playing?"

^1i we mean aught but neighbourliness, may our
bones rot inside of us!" Trevarthen took oath.

Eoger opened the padlock and loosened the chain.
^T. take this very kind of you, friends," he said slowly.

^^iVTiy, man, 'tis but the beginning!" the cheerful
Trevarthen assured him. "Once we've made the
start, you'll find the whole country trooping in; it but
wants the signal. Lift your hand, and by nightfall
you can have fivescore men at your back: ay, and I'm
thinking you'll need 'em; for Sandercock went back

STEPHEN OF STEENS

no farther than Kansclowan, and there he'll be get-
ting the ear of Sir John, that arrived down from
London but yesterday."

'Wight's right," growled Koger, "and not even Sir
John can alter it."

"Ay, and he won't try nor wish to, if we stand to
you and put a firm face on it. But in dealing with
Sandercock he deals with the law, and must point to
something stronger than you can be, standing here
alone. Trust Sir John: he's your friend, and the
stouter show we make the more we help him to
prove it."

"There's something in what you say," agreed
Roger.

**Why, 'tis plain common sense. A fool like San-
dercock wants a lesson he can understand, and he'll
understand naught but what stares him in his ugly
face."

All that day driblets of volunteers arrived at
Steens' gate, and at nightfall a party of twoscore
from Porthleven, the widow's native village, where
it seemed that her conduct was peculiarly detested.
Plainly the whole country was roused and boiling
over in righteous wrath. Roger, who had brooded
so long alone, could hardly credit what he saw and
heard, but it touched him to the heart. That day of

STEPHEN OF STEENS

rallying was perhaps the sweetest in his life. Most
of the men carried guns, and some had even loaded
themselves with provisions — a flitch of bacon or a bag
of potatoes — against a possible siege. They chose
their billets in the barns, hay-lofts, granaries, the
cider-house, even the empty cattle-stalls, and under
the brisk captaincy of Trevarthen fell to work stock-
ading the weak spots in the defence and piercing loop-
holes in the outer walls. Finding that the slope be-
hind the house commanded an open space in the
south-west comer of the yard, they even began to
erect a breastwork here, behind which they might
defy musketry.

That night fifty-six men supped in Steens kitchen,
drank Roger's health, and laughed over their labours.
But in the midst of their mirth Eoger, on his way to
the cellar with a cider-keg under each arm, was inter-
cepted by Malachi, who should have been standing
sentry by the yard gate.

*^Go back to your post, you careless fool!'* com-
manded Eoger, but the old man, beckoning mysteri-
ously, led him out and across the dark yard to a pent
beside the gate, and there in the deep shadow he
could just discern the figure of a man — a very short
man, but erect and somehow formidable even before
he spoke.

STEPHEN OF STEENS

"Good evening, Stephen!" said the stranger in a
low, easy voice.

"Sir John 1" Roger drew back a pace.

"Ay, and very much at your service. Fm your
friend, if you^U believe me, and I donH doubt youVe
been hardly used; but there^s one thing to be done,
and you must do it at once. To be short, stop this
fooling; and quit."

" 'Quit'?" echoed Roger.

"This very night. You've put yourself on the
wrong side of the law, or allowed yourself to be put
there. You're in the ditch, my friend, and pretty
deep. I won't say but I can get you righted in some
fashion — you may count on my trying, at least. But
you've fired on the TJnder-Sheriff, the law's after you^
and not a hand can I lift until you quit Steens and
make yourself scarce for awhile."

" 'Quit Steens'?" Roger echoed again with his hand
to his forehead. "But, Sir John, you are fresh home
from London, and you don't know the rights o' this:
'tis just to bide in Steens and be left quiet that I'm
fighting. And here's the whole country to back me.
Sir John; over fifty men in my kitchen at this mo-
ment, and all ready to burn powder rather than see
this wrong committed on me!"

"Yes, yes, so I've just discovered," answered Sir
46

STEPHEN OF STEENS

Jolin impatiently; "and there's your worst peril, Ste-
phen. Man, I tell you this makes matters worse ; and
to-morrow may turn them from worse to incurable.
Now, don't argue. I'm your friend, and am risking
something at this moment to prove it. At the top of
the lane here you'll find a horse: mount him, and
ride to Helford Ferry for dear life. Two hundred
yards up the shore towards Frenchman's Creek
there's a boat made fast, and down off Durgan a ketch
anchored. She's bound for Havre, and the skipper
will weigh as soon as you're aboard. Mount and ride
like a sensible fellow, and I'll walk into your kitchen
and convince every man Jack that you have done well
and wisely. Keach France and lie quiet for a time,
till this stotm blows over: the skipper will find lodg-
ings for you and supply you with money, and I shall
know your address. Come, what say you ?"

"Sir John," Eoger stammered hoarsely after a
pause, ^1 — ^I say it humbly, your house and mine
have known one another for long, and my fathers
have stood beside yours afore now — and — and I
didn't expect this from you. Sir John."

^^Whyy what ails ye, man?"

*n^hat ails me?" His voice was bitter. 'H reckon
'tis an honest man's right that ails me, and ails me
cruel. But let God be my witness" — and Eoger

STEPHEN OF STEENS

lifted Ws fist to the dark night — "they shall take my
life from me when I quit Steens, and kill the man in
me before I renounce it. Amen!''

^Hs that your last word, Stephen?"

'It is, sir."

"Then," said the little man gravely, "as you may
need me soon to beg mercy for you, I have a bargain
to make. You are fighting with one woman: beware
how you fight with two."

'T. don't take ye. With what other woman should
I fight?"

"When you turned Mrs. Stephen out at door she
fled to my wife. And my wife, not liking her, but in
common charity, gave her food and lent her a horse
to further her to her home. For this she has been
attacked, and even her life threatened, in a score of
unsigned letters — and in my absence, you under-
stand. She is no coward; but the injustice of it — the
cruelty — ^has told on her health, and I reached home
to find her sick in bed. That you have had no hand
in this, Stephen, I know well; but it is being done by
your supporters."

^Tf I catch the man. Sir John, he shall never write
another letter in his life."

'1 thank you." Sir John stepped out into the
yard and stood while Eoger unbarred the folding

STEPHEN OF STEENS

gates. Then, ^ think if mischief comes, you had
better not let them take you alive,*' said he quietly.

*T?hank you, Sir John; I won't," was Roger's reply,
and so he dismissed another good friend.

Sir James Tillie, Knight, of Pentillie Castle by
Tamar and High Sheriff of Cornwall, was an amiable
gentleman of indolent habits and no great stock of
brains. On receiving Sandercock's message and in-
stant appeal for help, he cursed his Under-Sheriff for
a drunken bungler, and reluctantly prepared to ride
"West and restore order.

^Tiers is a good fellow and a man of parts," he told
his wife; %ut he gives up too much of his time to
parliamenteering, and lets his neighbourhood get out
of hand. I protest, my dear, the miners down there
are little better than naked savages, and the substan-
tial farmers but a degree better. Here's a fellow, if
you please, who answers the law with armed violence
— a man, too, of education, as education goes. San-
dercock's a coward. On his own showing the gun was
loaded blank, and by this time no doubt Master Ste-
phen is quaking at his own temerity and wondering

STEPHEN OF STEENS

how to save his skin. A few firm words, and he'U be
meek as a lamb. What surprises me is that a man
of affairs like Piers should lose his head and endorse
Sandercock's sweating post; but I always say that,
if the gentlemen of England are to maintain their
influence, they should live on their own acres." From
this it will be seen that Sir James was a prolix rather
than a clear thinker.

He took an affectionate leave of his wife, and trav-
elling by easy stages with a single groom for escort,
on the third day reached Nansclowan, where Sir John
and his lady made him welcome.

"You have ridden ahead of your force?" said Sir
John pleasantly.

"My force?"

'Bow many are you bringing?"

'1 donH quite take you. Eh? 'Soldiers'? My dear
fellow — an affair of this kind — ^you surely didn't
expect me to make myself ridiculous by marching
through Cornwall with a regiment!"

"You mean to say that you've brought none?"

"Oh, to serve a writ on a yeoman!" and Sir James
laughed heartily.

'Tjook here, Tillie, you shall ride over with me to-
morrow at daybreak and look at the place. The man
has sixty stout farmers at his back. They know that

STEPHEN OF STEENS

the soldiery has been sent for, and for five days
they've been working like niggers. The front of the
house is loopholed, and along the rear, which was
their weak point, they've opened a trench six feet
wide by six deep. By to-night's report they have
even begun as outworks two barricades across the
high-road, and no traffic may pass without permis-
sion."

^t seems to me your part of the world needs look-
ing after," Sir James exclaimed testily.

Sir John ignored this shaft. 'TTou'd better ride
over to Pendennis Castle to-morrow and borrow as
many men as the garrison can spare you."

"A score should be plenty," said Sir James. ^Tit's
astonishing — or so I've always heard — ^what a few
trained men will do against irregulars."

"Treble the number, and you may save bloodshed,"
was Sir John's advice.

Early next morning, after a cursory inspection of
the defence^, the SheriflF rode over to Pendennis and
held consultation with the Governor. The Governor,
who had fifty men in garrison, agreed that twenty
would suffice for the job; so twenty were told oflF,
under command of a sergeant, and that same after-
noon marched with Sir James to Nansclowan. On
their way through Wendron church-town they were

STEPHEN OF STEENS

hissed and pelted with lumps of turf; but this hint
of popular feeling made slight impression on the
sanguine SheriflF, who had convinced himself that the
resistance of Steens would collapse at the sight of his
red-coats.

Having rested them at Nansclowan for the night,
he led them forth at dawn and along the high-road
to within fifty yards of the barricade which the de-
fenders had drawn across it. There was no thought
of tactics. He consulted for a minute with the ser-
geant, who knew nothing of the strength of the de-
fence except from gossip (which he disbelieved), and
the soldiers were ordered to charge.

Sir John Piers, seated on horseback a few paces ofF,
had a mind to ride forward and protest. To his mind
the order spelt sheer lunacy. The barrier, to begin
with, stood close on twenty feet high, built of rough
timbers staked in the ground and densely packed with
furze. Nothing could be seen behind it but the top
of the second barrier, which at fifty yards distance
guarded the approach from Helleston. This nearer
one stretched across the road from hedge to hedge,
and, though none were perceptible, loopholes there
must be and eyes watching every movement of the
soldiers.

But Sir John had already this morning proved
51

STEPHEN OF STEENS

himself a false prophet All the way from Nans-
elowan he had been assnring the Sheriff that the
whole country would be advertised of the red-coats'
arrival and agog for a fray; that he would have not
only the defenders of Steens to deal with but a sym-
pathetic mob outside, and likely enough a large one.
Nothing of the sort I They had overtaken indeed a
few stragglers on the road: a knot of boys had kept
pace with them and halted a furlong behind, climbing
the hedges and waiting to see the fun. • But Steens
itself stood apparently desolate. In the fields around
not even a stray group of sightseers could Sir John
perceive. It puzzled him completely; and the Sheriff,
after demanding in gently satirical accents to be
shown the whereabouts of the promised mob, had
somewhat pointedly ignored him and consulted with
the sergeant alone.

The soldiers charged well, holding their fire. And,
again to Sir John's flat astonishment, no volley met
them. They reached the foot of the barricade and
began demolishing it, dragging out the furze-faggots,
tearing a passage through.

In less than a minute they had laid open a gap:
and with that the mystery was clear. Leaping
through, they found themselves in the midst of a
cheerful and entirely passive crowd, lining the road

STEPHEN OF STEENS

in front of Steens' wall, the gate of which had been
closed with large baulks of timber from the mines.
The crowd numbered perhaps three hundred, and
included men, women anji children. Groups of them
squatted by the roadside or sat in the hedges, quietly
sharing out their breakfasts; and one and all, as the
Sheriff rode in through the gap on his grey horse,
greeted him with laughter, as a set of children might
laugh over an innocent practical joke.

Sir James lost his temper, and roughly ordered his
soldiers to clear the road. There was no difficulty
about this. The men withdrew most obligingly, col-
lecting their breakfast cans, helping their wives and
children over the hedge, laughing all the while. They
scattered over the fields in front of Steens and sat
down again in groups to watch. To disperse them
farther with his handful of soldiers would be waste
of time, and the Sheriff turned his attention to the
house, which faced him grim and silent.

He rode up to the gate, and rattling upon it with
his riding-whip, demanded admittance. There was
no answer. He looked along the wall to right and
left, and for the first time began to understand that
the place was strong and his force perhaps inadequate.
He could not retreat in the face of ridicule, and so —
to gain time — ordered the barricade to be burnt.

STEPHEN OF STEENS

The soldiers set to work, and soon had two fine
bonfires blazing, and the Sheriff withdrew up the road
with his sergeant to consult Sir John, the pair of them
a trifie shamefacedly. Sir James tried to ease his own
smart by an innuendo or two on the lawlessness of
the West and the responsibility of its Justices of the
Peace.

Sir John took his sneers very quietly. "My dear
Tillie," said he, ^T. am with you to support the law,
and you will remember that I advised your bringing
thrice your strength. But I tell you that the law is
doing this man a wrong, that all these people are
convinced of it, and are innocently scandalised to see
me here; and that I at this moment am undoing my-
self in their esteem, destroying a good feeling of over
thirty years' growth, and all for a cause I detest. Get
that into your head; and then, if you will, we'll ride
round and examine the defences.

Meanwhile, as if the bonfires had given a signal to
half the population of West Cornwall, the roads were
beginning to swarm with people. They poured down
from the north and up from the south, they spread
over the fields and lined the hedges. They carried
no weapons, they made no demonstration of anger.
There was no attempt to hustle or even to jeer at
the red-coats, who stood with grounded arms in a

STEPHEN OF STEENS

dear space of the roadway and fretted under the slow
curious scrutiny of thousands of eyes. Neighbours
nodded and "passed the time of day": acquaintances
from the two coasts of the Duchy met, exchanged
greetings and inquiries, lit their pipes and strolled
about together. It might have been a gathering for
a horse-race or a game of hurling, but for the extreme
orderliness of the throng and a note of strained ex-
pectancy in its buzz of talk; and the likeness was
strengthened about nine o'clock, when, in the broad
field to the south-west, half a dozen merchants be-
gan to erect their sweet-meat booths or "standings"
— ^always an accompaniment of Cornish merry-
making.

It was just then that Sir James rode back from
his reconnaissance. He had fetched a circuit of
Steens without discovering a weak spot, and his tem-
per had steadily risen with the increase of the crowd.
His dignity now stood fairly at stake. He moved his
soldiers up the road and gave orders to attack the
gate.

As they fell into rank, an old man, perched on the
hedge hard by, rose lazily and turned to the crowd
on the far side. ^Bere, help me down, some of ye,"
said he; ^T. knawed that there Sheriff was a fool the
moment I set eyes on 'en."

STEPHEN OF STEENS

Sir James heard and rode straight on. If a fool,
he was no coward. The soldiers carried axes at their
belts, and, dismounting, he led them up to the gate
and showed them where to attack. Blow after blow
rained on the stout timbers. At length two fell
crashing.

And then from a breastwork within, drawn across
the flagged pathway of the courtlage, a ragged volley
rang out and a dozen bullets swept the opening.

In the crowd across the road many women
screamed. Two red-coats dropped, one of them
striking the ironwork of the gate with his forehead.
A third ran back into the road, stared about him,
flung up his arms and tumbled dead. The man who
had fallen against the gate lifted himself by its bars,
sank again, and was dragged aside by his comrades.
The third soldier lay curled in a heap and did not
stir.

Across the smoke floating through the entrance
Sir James looked at the sergeant. His own coat-cuff
had been shorn through by a bullet. The sergeant
shook his head.

With a motion of his hand he gave the order to
desist. In silence the soldiers picked up their dead
and wounded and began their retreat, the crowd
pressing forward to watch them — a line of faces peer-

STEPHEN OF STEENS

ing through the hazel-boughs. It neither cheered
nor hissed.

As the enemy drew oflF, hundreds climbed down
into the road and crowded around the pools of blood,
gazing but saying little.

XII

The assailants returned to Nansclowan, where the
SheriflF opened his mind to Sir John in a bitter
harangue and rode homeward in dudgeon. The sol-
diers were marched back to Pendennis. And so, to
the scandal of the law^ for four months the quarrel
rested.

It sounds incredible. Sir James reached his house
and spent a week in drawing up a report alleging that
he and his twenty soldiers had been met by a crowd of
over a thousand people, all partisans of Stephen; and
that on attempting a forcible entry of Steens he had
been murderously fired upon, with the loss of two
killed and one wounded. There was not an incorrect
statement in the report; and no one could read it
without gathering that the whole of West Cornwall
was up in arms and in open rebellion against the
Crown.

STEPHEN OF STEEN8

Walpole read it in due conise, and sent for Sir
John Piers, who had returned to London for a short
visit on parliamentary business. The two men (you
will remember) were deadly political foes, and Sir
John's first thought on receiving the message was,
'Walpole is weakening, but he must be hard put to it
when he sends for me, to bribe me I" However, he
waited on the Minister.

Walpole greeted him with a pleasant bow: he had
always a soft spot in his heart for the chubby-faced
little Cornish baronet who always fought fair. 'Xet
us be friends for ten minutes and talk like men of
sense," said he. "Cast your eye over this paper and
tell me, for the love of Heaven, what it means."

Sir John read it through and burst out laugh-
ing.

^The poor man has lost his head, hey? I guessed
80," said Walpole.

"A reed shaken by the wind. As such he adver-
tised an exhibition and the folks came out to see —
that is all. To be sure, they feel for this Stephen as
an ill-used man; and so for that matter do I."

^TTou were present. Tell me the whole story, if
you will."

So Sir John told it and put it back into its true
colours. "As for open rebellion, TU engage to set

STEPHEN OF STEENS

down wliat Fve told you in a report which shall be
signed by every Justice between Truro and the Land's
End."

'1 don't need it," said Walpole. 'TBut when ail's
said, the fellow has defied the law and slaughtered
two men. We must make an example of him. You
agree, of course?"

"In due time I shall plead for mercy. But of
course I agree."

^Well, then, what do you advise?"

*^ait."

^^ey?"

"He won't run. I — ^well, in fact, I could have
shipped him oflF before this happened, and tried to
persuade him to go."

''The deuce you did!"

"Yes, but he refused. And he won't budge now.
My advice is — ^wait, and pick a strong sheriff for next
year. There's a neighbour of Tillie's — ^William
Symons, of Hatt — ^you had best choose someone who
doesn't belong to our neighbourhood, for many rea-
sons."

The Minister nodded.

"Symons won't drop the business until he has
pushed it through."

"I will make a note of his name."
69

STEPHEN OF STEENS

So for four months Roger Stephen remained nn-
molested, Sir James Tillie having received an answer
from London requesting him to hold his hand.

And Sir John's counsel to the minister began to
bear fruit even before the new SheriflF took up the
case. Until the day of the attack Roger's forces had
obeyed him cheerfully. They had volunteered to
serve him, and put themselves in jeopardy for his
sake. His sense of gratitude had kept him unusually
amiable, and when a sullen fit took him his lieutenant
Trevarthen had served for an admirable buffer. Tre-
varthen was always cheerful. But since Roger had
tasted blood Trevarthen and Malachi agreed that his
temper had entirely changed. He was, in fact, mad;
and daily growing madder with confinement and
brooding. What they saw was that his temper could
no longer be trusted. And while he grew daily more
morose, his supporters — ^left in idleness with the
thought of what had been done — ^began to wish them-
selves out of the mess. Without excitement to keep
their blood warm they had leisure to note Roger's
ill humours and discuss them, and to tell each other
that he showed very little of the gratitude he cer-
tainly owed them. Also, since it was certain that no
further attack could be delivered at less than a few
hours' warning, and since their own affairs called

STEPHEN OF STEENS

thein^ the garrison divided itself into "shifts," one
mounting guard while the the rest visited their
homes. And when the men were at home their wives
talked to them.

Boger himself never put his nose beyond the de-
fences. In all the years at Helleston a sedentary life
had not told on him; but it told on him now, and
rapidly. The true cause no doubt lay in his own sul-
len heart. It is a fact, however, that by this time the
state of Steens was insanitary to a high degree and
the well water polluted. At little cost of labour the
garrison could have tapped and led down one of the
many fresh springs on the hillside, but to this no
thought was given. The man grew gaunt and livid in
colour, and his flesh began to sag inwards at the back
of the neck. By the middle of December he was far
gone in what is now called Bright's disease, and with
this disease the madness in his brain kept pace.

The crisis came with the New Year. Eumours had
already reached Steens that the new Sheriff meant
business, and was collecting a regiment at Plymouth
to march westward as soon as he took up oj£ce; also
that Mrs. Stephen had travelled down ahead of him
and taken lodgings at a farmhouse on the near side
of Truro in readiness to witness her triumph. Con-
fident now that no danger threatened before the New

STEPHEN OF STEENS

Year, all but ten of the garrison — ^but these ten in-
cluded the faithful (and unmarried) Trevarthen —
had dispersed to their homes to keep Christmas.

Early in the morning of New Year's Day Tre-
varthen suggested riding into Helleston to purchase
fresh meat, their stock of which had run low with the
Christmas feasting. He had made many such expe-
ditions — always, however, with an escort of four or
five; for although the Justices held their hands, and
made no attempt to arrest the dispersed conspirators
in their own homes but suffered them there to go
about their private occupations, the purchase of vict-
uals for the besieged house was another matter, and
rumour had more than once come to Steens that the
Helleston constables meant to challenge it by force.
So to-day, with Eoger's leave, Trevarthen withdrew
five of the garrison and rode off, leaving but four men
on guard — ^Eoger himself, Malachi, a labourer named
Pascoe, and one Hickory Eodda — a schoolmaster
from Wendron, whose elder brother, Nathaniel, a
small farmer from -the same parish, went with the
expedition.

The short day passed quietly enough, if tediously.
Roger spent the morning in melting down lead for
bullets and running it into moulds. Long strips from
the roof and even some of the casement lattices had

STEPHEN OF STEENS

gone to provide Ids arsenal against the next assault;
and at the worst he fully meant to turn to his father's
stacks of silver coin in the locked cellar. That after-
noon he shut himself up with his Bible^ and read until
the print hurt his eyes. Then in the waning light he
took his hat and started for a stroll around the back
defences and out-buildings.

His way led through the kitchen, where Jane, the
cook — the only woman left at Steens — ^was peeling
potatoes for the night's supper; and there beside the
open hearth sat Hickory Rodda writing by the glow
of it, huddled on a stool with a sheet of paper on his
knee.

At Roger's, entrance the young man — he was scarce
twenty, long-legged, overgrown, and in bearing some-
what furtive — slipped a hand over the writing and
affected to stare into the fire.

''Hey? What's that you're doing?"

''Nun — nothing, Mr. Stephen; nothing particular
— that is, I was writing a letter."

"Hand it over."

Hickory rose, upsetting his stool, and began to back
away.

'"Tis a private letter I was writing to a friend."

Roger gripped him by the collar, plucked the paper
from him, and took it to the door for better light.

STEPHEN OF STEENS

As he read the dark blood surged up in his neck and
face. It was addressed to Lady Piers — a foul letter,
full of obscene abuse and threats. Roger cast back
one look at its author, and from the doorway shouted
into the yard —

^Tlalachil Pascoel"

His voice was terrible. The two men heard it at
their posts, and came running.

"Fetch a wain-rope!" He caught Hickory by the
collar again, and forced his face up to the window
against the red rays of the level sun. ^TLook on that,
you dirt! And look your last on it! Nay, you shall
see it once more, as you swing yonder."

He pointed across the courtlage to the boughs of
an ash tree in the comer, naked against the sky, and
with that began to drag the youth through the pas-
sage to the front door. Pascoe, not staying to com-
prehend, had run for a rope. But Malachi and Jan©
the cook broke into cries of horror.

^^ay, master, nay — ^you'll do no such thing — ^you
cannot! Let the poor boy go: he's half dead al-
ready/'

" ^Cannot'? I'll see if I cannot!" grunted Roger,
and panted with rage. "Open the door, you! He'll
hang, I tell you, afore this sun goes down."

"Surely, surely, master — 'tis a sin unheard of!
64

STEPHEN OF STEENS

The good Lord deliver us; 'tis mad you be to think
ofitr

'TMad, am I? P'raps so, but 'twill be an ill madness
for this coward." He spumed the dragging body
with his foot. "Ah, here's Pascoe! Quick, you:
swarm up the tree here, and take a hitch round that
branch. See the one I mean? — the third up. Take
your hitch by the knot yonder, but climb out first and
see if it bears."

'^^at for?" demanded Pascoe stolidly.

"Oh, stifle you and your questions I Can't you see
what for?"

'T!ss," Pascoe answered, ^T. reckon I see, and I ben't
goin' to do it."

'TLook here" — ^Roger drew a pistol from his pocket,
"who's master here — ^you or I?"

Malachi had run to the gate, and was dragging at
the baulks of timber, shouting vain calls for help into
the road. Jane had fled screaming through the house
and out into the backyard. Pascoe alone kept his
head. It seemed to him that he heard the distant
tramp of horses.

He looked up towards the bough.

"'Tis a cruel thing to order," said he, "and my
limbs be old; but seemin' to me I might manage it."

He began to climb laboriously, rope in hand. As
65

STEPHEN OF STEENS

his eyes drew level with the wall's coping he saw to
his joy Trevarthen's troop returning along the road,
though not from the direction he had expected. Bet-
ter still, the next moment they saw him on the bough,
dark against the red sky. One rider waved his whip.

He dropped. the rope as if by accident, crying out
at his clumsiness. "Curse your bungling!" yelled
Roger, and stooped to pick it up. Pascoe descended
again, full of apologies. He had used the instant
well. The riders had seen the one frantic wave of
his hand, and were galloping down the lane towards
the rear of the house.

Had Roger, as the sound of hoofs reached him,
supposed it to be Trevarthen's troop returning, he
might yet have persisted. But Trevarthen had ridden
towards Helleston, and these horsemen came appa-
rently out of the north. His thoughts flew at once to a
surprise, and he shouted to Pascoe and Malachi to get
their guns and hurry to their posts. The youth at his
feet lay in a swoon of terror. He kicked the body
savagely and ran, too, for his gun.

Half a minute later Jane came screaming back
through the house.

"Oh, master — they've caught her! They've caught
her!"

"Caught whom?"

STEI^HEN GF STEENS

^Why, Jezebel herself! TheyVe got her in the
yard at this moment, and Master Trevarthen^s
a-bringing her indoors!^*

XIII

Trevarthen had planned the stroke, and brought
it off dashingly. From the Helleston road that morn-
ing he and his troop had turned aside and galloped
across the moors to the outskirts of the village where
Mrs. Stephen lodged. No man dared to oppose them,
if any man wished to. They had dragged her from
the house, hoisted her on h^orseback and headed for
home unpursued. It was all admirably simple as Tre-
varthen related it, swelling with honest pride, by the
kitchen fire. The woman herself heard the tale,
cowering in a chair beside the hearth, wondering
what her death would be.

Koger Stephen looked at her. "Ah!" — ^he drew a
long breath.

Then Trevarthen went on to tell — for the wonders
of the day were not over — ^how on their homeward
road they had caught up with a messenger from
Truro hurrying towards Steens, with word that the
new Sheriff was already on the march with a regiment

STEPHEN OF STEENS

drawn off from the barracks at Plymouth, and had
reached Bodmin. In two days' time they might find
themselves besieged again.

Eoger listened, but scarcely seemed to hear. His
eyes were on the woman in the chair, and he drew
another long breath.

With that a man came crawling through the door-
way—or stooping so low that he seemed to crawl.

It was young Rodda, and he ran to his brother
Nathaniel with a sob, and clasped him about the
legs.

'Bullo !'' cried Nathaniel. '"Why, Hick, lad, whaf s
taken 'ee?"

Said Eoger carelessly, ^T. was going to hang him.
But I can afford to stretch a point now. Carry the
cur to the gate and fling him outside.^'

*T)ang it all, Mr. Stephen," spoke up Nat; "you
may be master in your own house, but I reckon Hick
and I didn' come here for our own pleasure, and I see
no sport in jokin' a lad till youVe scared 'en pretty
well out of his five senses. Why, see here, friends —
he's tremblin' like a leaf!"

"He — he meant it!" sobbed Hickory.

^Tkfeant it? Of course I meant it — the dirty,
thievin', letter-writer!" Roger's eyes blazed with
madness, and the men by the hearth growled and

STEPHEN OF STEENS

slirank away from him. He pulled out his pistol and,
walking up, presented it at Nat Kodda^s head. "Am
I captain here, or amnH I? Very well, then: I
caught that cur to-day writin' a letter — ^never you
mind of what sort. 'Twas a sort of which Fd prom-
ised that the man i caught writing one should never
write a second."

'TTou're mighty tender to women, all of a sudden!"
Nat — ^to do him credit — answered up plucldly enough
for a man addressing the muzzle of a pistol not two
feet from his nose.

"We'll see about that by-and-by," said Roger
grimly. ^TTouVe helped do me a favour, and Fll cry
quits with you and your brother for 't. But I want
no more of you or your haveage: yon*s the door —
walk!"

"Oh, if that's how you take it"— Nat Rodda
shrugged his shoulders and obeyed, his brother at his
heels. One or two of the men would have interfered,
but Trevarthen checked them. Malachi alone went
with the pair to let them forth and bar the gates
behind them.

*T[ thank ye. Master Stephen," said Nat, turning in
the doorway with a short laugh. *TouVe let two
necks of your company out o' the halter." He swung
round and stepped out into the darkness.

STEPHEN OF STEENS

His words smote like the stroke of a bell upon one
or two hearts in the kitchen. Trevarthen stepped
forward briskly to undo the mischief.

^ We'll have forty of the boys back before daylight :
Dick Eva's taken a fresh horse to <jarry round the
warning. Get to your posts, lads, and leave Jane
here to cook supper. 'Tis ^one and all' now, and fight
square; and if Hick Bodda has been sending his dirty
threats to Nansclowan and frightening women, he's a
good riddance, say I."

The woman in the chair heard all this, and saw
Trevarthen draw Koger aside as the men filed out.
They were muttering. By-and-by Eoger commanded
Jane to go and set candles in the parlour. Again they
fell to muttering, and so continued until she re-
turned.

Koger Stephen came slowly forward to the hearth.

"Stand up!" he said, and Mrs. Stephen stood up.

She could not raise her eyes to his face, but felt
that he was motioning her to walk before him. Her
limbs seemed weighted with lead, but she obeyed.

They passed out together and into the parlour,
where Eoger shut the door behind him and locked
it.

STEPHEN OF STEENS

XIV

A dull fire burnt on the hearth, banked high upon
a pile of white wood-ash. Beside it lay a curiously-
shaped ladle with a curl at the end of its iron handle.
Two candles stood on the oval table in the centre of
the room — the table at which she had been used to sit
as mistress. She found her accustomed chair and
seated herself. She had no doubt but that this man
meant to kill her. In a dull way she wondered how
it would be.

Roger, having locked the door, came slowly for-
ward and waited, looking down at her, with his back
to the hearth.

By-and-by she lifted her face. ^Bow will you do
it?" she asked, very quietly, meeting his eyes.

For the moment he did not seem to understand.
Then, drawing in his breath, he laughed to himself —
almost without sound, and yet she heard it.

"There's more than one way, if you was woman.
But I've been reading the Bible: there's a deal about
witches in the Bible, and so I came to understand
ye." He stared at her and nodded.

Having once lifted her face, she could eye him
steadily. But she made no answer.

STEPHEN OF STEENS

He stooped and picked up the ladle at his feet.
*You needn^t be afraid," he said slowly: "I promised
Trevarthen I wouldn't hurt you beforehand. And
afterwards — ^it^l be soon over. D'ye know what I
use this for? It's for melting bullets."

He felt in his waistcoat pocket, drew out a crown-
piece, held it for a moment betwixt finger and thumb,
and dropped it into the ladle.

"They say 'tis the surest way with a witch," said
he; then, after a pause, "As for that lawyer-fellow of
yours "

And here he paused again, this time in some aston-
ishment; for she had risen, and now with no fear in
her eyes — only scorn.

"Go on," she commanded.

*Well," concluded Roger grimly, "where you
fought me as my father's wife he fought for dirty
pay, and where you cheated me he led you into cheat-
ing. Therefore, if I caught him, he'd die no such
easy death. Isn't that enough?"

*1 thank you," she said, and her eyes seemed to
lighten as they looked into his. ^You are a violent
man, but not vile — as some. You have gone deep,
and you meant to kill me to-morrow — or is it to-
night? But I mean to save you from that."

*T! think not, mistress."

STEPHEN OF STEENS

^T. think 'yes/ stepson — that is, if you believe that,
killing me, you will kill also your father's child !'*

For a moment he did not understand. His eyes
travelled over her as she stood erect, stretching out
her hands.

Suddenly his head sank. He did not cry out,
though he knew — as she knew — that the truth of it
had killed him. Not for one moment — it was char-
acteristic of him — did he doubt. In her worst enemy
she found, in the act of killing him, her champion
against the world.

He groped for the door, unlocked it, and passed
out.

In the kitchen he spoke to Jane the cook, who ran
and escorted Mrs. Stephen, not without difficulty, up
to her own room.

Koger remained as she left him, staring into the
fire.

He served the supper himself, explaining Jane's
absence by a lie. Towards midnight the volunteers
began to arrive, dropping in by ones and twos; and
by four in the morning, when Roger withdrew to his
attic to snatch a few hours' sleep, the garrison seemed

STEPHEN OF STEENS

likely to resume its old strength. The news of the
widow's capture exhilarated them all. Even those
who had come dejectedly felt that they now possessed
a hostage to play off, as a last card, against the law.

That night Koger Stephen, in his attic, slept as he
had not slept for months, and awoke in the grey dawn
to find Trevarthen shaking him by the shoulder.

*Bist, man! Come and look," said Trevarthen,
and led him to the window. Eoger rubbed his eyes,
and at first could see nothing. A white sea-fog cov-
ered the land and made the view a blank; but by-and-
by, as he stared, the fog thinned a little, and dis-
closed, two fields away, a row of blurred white tents,
and another row behind it.

'TB[ow many do you reckon?" he asked quietly.

^'Soldiers? I put 'em down at a hundred and fifty."

"And we've a bare forty."

^Tifty-two. A dozen came in from Breage soon
after five. They're all posted."

"A nuisance, this fog," said Roger, peering into it.
Since the first assault he and his men had levelled the
hedge across the road, so that the approach from the
fields lay open, and could be swept from the loopholes
in the courtlage wall.

^T don't say that," answered Trevarthen cheer-
fully. *We may find it help us before the day is out.

STEPHEN OF STEENS

Anyway, there's no chance of its lifting if this wind
holds."

"I wonder, now, the fellow didn't try a surprise
and attack at once."

*TB[e'll summon you in form, depend on't. Be-
sides, he has to go gently. He knows by this time
you hold the woman here, and he don't want her
harmed if he can avoid it."

<'AhI" said Eoger. "To be sure— I forgot the
woman."

While the two men stood meditating a moan
sounded in the room below. It seemed to rise
through the planking close by their feet.

Trevarthen caught Eoger by the arm. '^What's
that? You haven't been hurting her? You prom-
ised ''

*^o," Eoger interrupted, *T haven't hurt her, nor
tried to. She's sick, maybe. I'll step down and have
a talk with Jane."

On the landing outside Mrs. Stephen's room the
two men shook hands, and Trevarthen hurried down
to go the round of his posts in the out-buildings.
They never saw one another again. Eoger hesitated
a moment, then tapped at the door.

After a long pause Jane opened it with a scared
face. She whispered with him, and he turned and

STEPHEN OF STEENS

went heavily down the stairs; another moan from
within followed him.

At the front door Malachi met him, his face twitch-
ing with excitement. The Sheriff (said he) was at the
gate demanding word with Master Stephen.

For the moment Koger did not seem to hear. Then
he lounged across the courtlage, fingering and exam-
ining the lock of his musket, with ne^er a glance nor
a good morning for the dozen men posted beside their
loopholes. Another half-dozen waited in the path for
his orders; he halted, and told them curtly to march
upstairs and man the attic windows, whence across
the wall's coping their fire would sweep the approach
from the fields; and so walked on and up to the gate,
on which the Sheriff was now hammering impa-
tiently.

''Who's there?'' he demanded.

"Are you Eoger Stephen?" answered the Sheriff's
voice.

''Roger Stephen of Steens — ay, that's my name."

"Then t command you to open to me, in the name
ofKingiibotge."

"What if I don'tf '

"Then 'twill be the worse for you and the ignorant
men you're misleading, I'll give you five minutes to
consider your answer.''

STEPHEN OF STEENS

"You may have it in five seconds. What you want
you must come and take. Anything more?"

'TTes," said the Sheriff, ^ am told that you have
taken violent possession of the plaintiff in this suit.
I warn you to do her no hurt, and I call upon you to
surrender her."

Roger laughed, and through the gate it sounded
a sinister laugh enough. 'T[ doubt," said he, "that
she can come if she would."

*T[ warn you also that any agreement or withdrawal
of claim which you may wrest from her or force her
to sign will under the circumstances be not worth the
paper 'tis written on."

Roger laughed again. 'T! never thought of such a
thing. I leave such dirty tricks to your side. Go
back with ye. Master Sheriff, and call up your sol-
diers, if you must."

They tell that the first assault that day came near-
est to succeeding. The Sheriff had provided himself
with scaling ladders, and, concentrating his attack on
the front, ordered his storming party to charge across
the road. They came with a rush in close ord8r, and
were checked, at the point where the hedge had been
levelled, by a withering fire from the loopholes and
attic windows. Four men dropped. Two ladders

STEPHEN OF STEENS

reached the walls, one of them carried by a couple of
men, who planted it, and then, finding themselves un-
supported, ran back to the main body. Six men with
the second ladder reached the wall, dropping a com-
rade on the way, and climbed it. The first man
leapt gallantly down among the defenders and fell
on the fiags of the courtlage, breaking his ankle. The
second, as he poised himself on the coping, was picked
off by a shot from the attics and toppled backwards.
The others stood by the foot of the ladder bawling
for support.

But the momentary dismay of the main body had
been fatal. Each man at the loopholes had two guns,
and each pair an attendant to reload for them. Be-
fore the soldiers could pull themselves together a
second volley poured from the loopholes, and again
three men dropped. One or two belated shots fol-
lowed the volley, and a moment later the captain in
command, as he waved his men forward, let drop his
sword, clinched his fists high above him, and fell
headlong in the roadway across their feet. Instinct
told them that the course to which he had been yell-
ing them on was, after all, the safest — to rush the
road between two volleys and get close under the
wall. Once there, they were safe from the marks-
men, who could not depress their guns sufficiently to

STEPHEN OF STEENS

take aim. And so^ with a shout^ at length they car-
ried the road ; but too late to recover the first ladder,
the foot of which swung suddenly high in air. This
ladder was a tall one, overtopping the wall by several
feet; and Pascoe, remembering the wain-rope lying
beneath the ash tree, had rim for it, cleverly lassoed
its projecting top, and, with two men helping, jerked
it high and dragged it inboard with a long slide
and a crash.

There were now about a hundred soldiers at the
foot of the wall, and the fate of Steens appeared to
be sealed, when help came as from the clouds.
Throughout the struggle forms had been flitting in
the rear of the soldiers. The fog had concealed from
the Sheriff that he was fighting, as his predecessor
had fought, within a ring of spectators many hun-
dreds in number; and to-day not a few of these spec-
tators had brought guns. It is said that in the hottest
of the fray Trevarthen broke out from the rear of
Steens and marshalled them. Certain it is that no
sooner were the soldiers huddled beneath the wall
than a bullet sang down the road from the north,
then another, then a volley; and as they faced round
in panic on this flanking fire, another volley swept up
the road from the south and took them in the rear.

They could see no enemy. Likely enough the
79

STEPHEN OF STEENS

enemy could not see them. But, packed as they were,
the cross-fire could not fail to be deadly. The men
in the courtlage had drawn back towards the house
as the ladder began to sway above the wall. They
waited, taking aim, but no head showed above the
coping. They heard, and wondered at, the firing in
the road: then, while still they waited, one by one
the ladders were withdrawn.

The soldiers, maddened by the fire, having lost
their captain, and being now out of hand, parted into
two bodies and rushed, the one up, the other down, the
road, to get at grips with their new assailants. But
it is ill chasing an invisible foe, and a gun is easily
tossed over a hedge. After pursuing maybe for a quar-
ter of a mile, they met indeed two or three old men,
innocent-looking but flushed about the face, saunter-
ing towards the house with their hands in their pock-
ets; and because their hands when examined were
black and smelt of gunpowder, these innocent-looking
old men went back in custody to the post where the
bugles were sounding the recall. The soldiers turned
back sullenly enough, but presently quickened their
pace as a yellow glare in the fog gave the summons
a new meaning. Their camp was ablaze from end to
end!

This was a bitter pill for the Sheriff. He had come
80

STEPHEN" OF STEENS

in force, determined to prove to the rebels that they
had a stronger man than Sir James Tillie to deal
with, and he had failed even more ignominiously. He
cursed the inhabitants of West Cornwall, and he
cursed the fog; but he was not a fool, and he wasted
no time in a wild-goose chase over an unknown coun-
try where his men could not see twenty yards before
them. Having saved what he could of the tents and
trodden out the embers, he consulted with the young
lieutenant now in command and came to two resolu-
tions: to send to Pendennis Castle for a couple of
light six-pounders, and, since these could not arrive
until the morrow, to keep the defence well harassed
during the remaining hours of daylight, not attempt-
ing a second assault in force, but holding his men in
shelter and feeling around the position for a weak
point.

The day had passed noon before these new disposi-:
tions were planned. Posting ten men and a corporal
to guard the charred remains of the camp, and two
small bodies to patrol the road east and west of the
house and to keep a portion of the defence busy in the
courtlage, the lieutenant led the remainder of his
force through an orchard divided from the south end
of the house by a narrow lane, over which a bam
abutted. Its high blank wall had been loopholed on

STEPHEN OF STEENS

both floors and was quite unassailable, but its roof
was of thatch. And as he studied it, keeping his men
in cover, a happy inspiration occurred to him. He
sent back to the camp for an oil-can and a parcel of
cotton wadding, and by three o'clock had opened a
brisk fire of flaming bullets on the thatch. Within
twenty minutes the marksmen had it well ignited.
Behind and close above it rose a gable of the house
itself, with a solitary window overlooking the ridge,
and their hope was that the wind would carry the fire
from one building to another.

Thatch well sodden with winter's rain does not
blaze or crackle. Dense clouds of smoke went up,
and soon small lines of flame were running along the
slope of the roof, dying down, and bursting forth
anew. By the light of them, through the smoke,
the soldiers saw a man at the window above, firing,
reloading, and firing again. They sent many a shot
at the window; but good aim from their cover was
impossible, and the loopholes of the barn itself spat
bullets viciously and kept the assault from showing its
head.

The man at the window — ^it was Roger Stephen —
exposed himself recklessly even when the fire from
the loopholes ceased, as to the lieutenant's surprise
it did quite suddenly.

STEPHEN OF STEENS

For a minute or so the thatch burned on in silence.
Then from within the building came the soimd of an
axe crashing, stroke on stroke, upon the posts and
timbers of the roof. Some madman was bring-
ing down the barn-roof upon him to save the
house. The man at the window went on loading
and firing.

The soldiers themselves held their breath, and al-
most let it go in a cheer when, with a rumble and a
thunderous roar, the roof sank and collapsed, sending
up one furious rush of flame in a column of dust. But
as the dust poured down the flame sank with it. The
house was saved. They looked about them and saw
the light fading out of the sky, and the lieutenant
gave the order to return to camp. The man at the
window sent a parting shot after them.

And with that ended the great assault. But
scarcely had the Sheriff reached camp when a voice
came crying after him through the dusk, and, turn-
ing, he spied a figure waving a white rag on a stick.
The messenger was old Malachi, and he halted at a
little distance, but continued to wave his flag vig-
orously.

'"Hey?" bawled back the Sheriff, '^hat is it?"

^Tlag o' truce!" bawled Malachi in answer. 'TMas-
ter's compliments, and if youVe done for the day

STEPHEN OF STEENS

he wants to know if youVe sucli a thing as a sur-
geon."

'Tretty job for ns if we hadn't," growled the
Sheriff. ^T. keep no surgeons for lawbreakers. How
many wounded have you?"

'^e'er a man amongst us, 'cept poor Jack Tre-
varthen, and he's dead. 'Tisn' for a man, 'tis for a
woman. Mistress Stephen's crying out, and the mas-
ter undertakes if you send a surgeon along he shall
be treated careful."

So back with Malachi went the regimental sur-
geon, who had done his work with the wounded some
hours before. Eoger Stephen met him at the side
wicket, and, leading him indoors, pointed up the
stairs. 'When 'tis over," said he, "you'll find me
yonder in the parlour." He turned away, and up-
stairs the young doctor went.

Eoger entered the parlour and shut the door be-
hind him. The room was dark and the hearth cold;
but he groped for a chair and sat for two hours alone,
motionless, resting his elbows on the table and his
chin on his clasped, smoke-begrimed hands. He was
listening. Now and again a moan reached him from
the room overhead. From the kitchen came the
sound of voices cursing loudly at intervals, but for the
most part muttering — muttering. • •

STEPHEN OF STEENS

The cursers were those who came in from their
posts to snatch a handful of supper^ and foraged about
in larder and pantry demanding to know what had
become of Jane. Jane was upstairs. • •

The mutterers were men who had abandoned their
posts to discuss the situation by the kitchen fire. A
brisk assault just now could hardly have missed suc-
cess. Trevarthen's death had demoralised the garri-
son, and these men by the fire were considering the
risk to their necks. Koger knew what they were
discussing. By rising and stepjHng into the kitchen
he could at least have shamed them back to duty. He
knew this full well, yet he sat on motionless. . .

A sound fetched him to his feet — a child's wail.

He stood up in the darkness lifting his arms • . •
as a man might yawn and stretch himself awakening
from a long dream.

Someone tapped at the door, turned the handle,
and stood irresolutely there peering into the dark-
ness.

'TTes?" said Roger, advancing.

"Ah!" it was the surgeon's voice — ^T. beg your
pardon, but finding you in darkness — ^Yes, it's all
right — a fine boy, and the mother, I should say, doing
well. Do you wish to go up?"

"God forbid!" said Eoger, and led him to the
85

STEPHEN OF STEENS

kitchen, where the whisperers started up at his en-
trance. In the middle of the room, on a board across
two trestles, lay something hidden by a white sheet —
Trevarthen's body, recovered from the ruins of the
barn.

*TLe was my friend,'^ said Roger simply, pausing
by the corpse. Then he turned with a grim smile on
the malcontents. ^^Where's the brandy?" he asked.
"The doctor '11 have a drink afore he turns out into
the night."

"No, I thank you, Mr. Stephen," said the young
surgeon.

'Won't take it from me? Well, I thank ye all the
same." He led his guest forth, let him out by the
wicket, and returned to the kitchen.

'Xads," said he, "the night's foggy yet. You may
slip away to your homes, if you go quiet. Step and
tell the others, and send Malachi to me, I — ^I thank
ye, friends, but, as you've been arguing to yourselves,
the game's up; we won't stand another assault to-
morrow."

They filed out and left him, none asking — ^as Tre-
varthen would have asked — concerning his own
safety. By Trevarthen's body Malachi found him
standing; and again, and in the same attitude, found
him standing by it a quarter of an hour later, when,

STEPHEN OF STEENS

having muffled the horses' hoofs in straw, he returned
to announce that all was ready, and the lane clear
towards the moors. In so short a time the whole
garrison had melted away.

'TB[e was my friend," said Roger again, looking
down on the sheet, and wondered why this man had
loved him. Indeed, there was no explanation except
that Trevarthen had been just Trevarthen.

He followed Malachi, wondering the while if he
had ever thrown Trevarthen an affectionate word.
Yet this man had cheerfully given up life for him,
as he, Roger Stephen, was at this moment giving up
more than life for a woman he hated.

He walked forth from Steens, leading his horse
softly. At the foot of the lane he mounted, looked
back in the darkness, and lifted a fist against the
sky.

Then they headed eastward, and rode, Malachi and
he, over the soundless turf and through the fog,
breasting the moor together.

A little after midnight, on the high ground, they
reined up, straining their ears at a rumbling sound
borne up to them from the valley road below — the
sound (though they knew it not) of two cannon
ploughing through the mire towards Steens.

At eight o'clock next morning one of these guns
87

STEPHEN OF STEENS

opened fire, and with its first shot ripped a breach
through the eourtlage wall. There came no answer.
When the Sheriff, taking courage, rode up to sum-
mon the house, its garrison consisted of two women
and one sleeping babe.

XVI

Four days later the fugitives were climbing a slope
on the south-eastern fringe of Dartmoor. They
mounted through a mist as dense almost as that in
which they had ridden forth — ^a cloud resting on the
hilFs shoulder. But a very few yards above them
the sky was blue, and to the south of them, had their
eyes been able to pierce the short screen of vapour,
the country lay clear for mile upon mile, away be-
yond Ashburton to Totnes, and beyond Totnes to
Dartmouth and the Channel.

Eoger Stephen's face was yellow with disease and
hunger; he could hardly sit in his saddle. He panted,
and beads stood out on his forehead as though he felt
every effort of his straining horse. Malachi's face
was white but expressionless. Life had never prom-
ised him much, and for him the bitterness of death
was easily passed.

By-and-by, as a waft of wind lifted the cloud's
88

STEPHEN OF STEENS

ragged edge, his eyes sought the long slopes below,
and then went up to a mass of dark granite topping
the white cumulus above, and frowning over it out of
the blue.

'^Better get down here," he said.

Roger rode on unheeding.

*^tter get down here, master," he repeated in a
wheedling voice, and, dismoimting, took Roger's rein.
Roger obeyed at once, almost automatically. As his
feet felt earth he staggered, swayed, and dropped for-
ward into Malachi's arms.

'^Surely! Surely!" the old man coaxed him, and
took his arm. They left their horses to graze, and
mounted the slope, the old man holding the younger's
elbow, and supporting him. Each carried a gun
slung at his back.

They reached the foot of the tor, and found a
granite stairway, rudely cut, winding to its summit.
Roger turned to Malachi with questioning eyes, like
a child's.

"Surely! Surely!" repeated Malachi, glancing be-
hind him. His eye had caught a glint of scarlet far
down on the uncoloured slope.

With infinite labour and many pauses they climbed
the stairway together, the old man always supporting
the younger and coaxing him. In the broad stand

STEPHEN OF STEENS

of granite at the summit the rains had worn a basin,
shallow, ample to recline in, even for a man of
Roger's stature. Here Malachi laid him down, first
drawing the gun-sling gently off his shoulders. Koger
said nothing, but lay and gasped, staring up into the
blue sky.

Malachi examined the two guns, looked to their
locks, and, fishing in his pockets, drew forth a powder-
horn and a bag of bullets. These he laid with the
guns on the granite ledge before him, and, crawling
forward on his stomach, peered over.

The cloud had drifted by. It was as he expected —
the soldiers were climbing the slope. For almost half
an hour he kept his position, and behind him Roger
muttered on, staring up at the sky. Amid the mut-
terings from time to time the old man heard a curse.
They sank at length to a mumble, senseless, rambling
on and on, without intelligible words.

Malachi put a hand out for a gun, raised himself
deliberately on his elbow, and fired. He did not look,
to see if his shot had told, but turned at once and, in
the act of fitting the cloth to his ramrod, looked
anxiously at his master. Even the mumbling had
now ceased, but still Roger gazed fixedly up into the
sky and panted. He had not heeded the report

Malachi reloaded carefully, stretched out his hand
90

STEPHEN OF STEENS

upon the second gun, and fired again. This time he
watched his shot, and noted that it had found its man.
He turned to his master with a smile, reaching out
his hand for the reloaded gun, picked it up, laid it
down again, and felt in his pocket.

''No good wasting time," he muttered.

He drew forth pipe and tinder-box, hunted out the
last few crumbs of tobacco at the bottom of his
pocket, and lit up, still keeping his eyes on Roger as
he smoked.

A voice challenged far down the slope. He
crawled to his master^s side.

'There's one thing we two never could abide, mas-
ter dear, could we? and that was folks interruptin^"

He took up the reloaded gun again, fired his last
shot, and sat pufllng.

Minutes passed, and then once more a voice chal-
lenged angrily from the foot of the tor. Malachi
leaned across, closed the eyes that still stared up im-
placably, and arose, knocking out the ashes of his pipe
against his boot-heel.

"Eight you are !" he sang down bravely. "There
be two men up here, and one was a good man; but he's
dead, and the law that killed 'en takes naught from
me but a few poor years that be worthless without
'en. Come ye up, friends, and welcome I"

THE HORROR ON THE STAIR

Particular8 concerning the end of Mistress Catherine
Johnstone^ late of GivenSj in Ayrshire ; from a private
relation made by the yofwng wommi Kirstie Maclachlan
to the Reverend James Souttar, J,M,y Minister of the
Parish of Wyliebanky and by him put into writing.

I had been placed in my parish of Wyliebank about
a twelvemonth before making acquaintance with Mr.
Johnstone, the minister at Givens, twelve miles away.
This would be in the year 1721, and from that until
the date of his death (which happened in the autumn
of 1725) I saw him in all not above a dozen times.
To me he appeared a douce quiet man, commonplace
in the pulpit and not over-learned, strict in his own
behaviour, methodical in his duties, averse from gos-
sip of all kinds, having himself a great capacity for
silence, whereby he seemed perhaps wiser than he
was, but not (I think) more charitable. He had
greatly advanced his fortunes by marriage.

This marriage made him remarkable, who else had
passed as quite ordinary; but not for the money it
brought him. Of his wife I knew no more than my

THE HOKEOR ON THE STAIR

neighbours. She was a daughter of Sir John Telfair,
of Balgamock, a gentleman of note in Renfrewshire;
and the story ran concerning her that, at the age of
sixteen, having a spite against one of the maid-
servants, she had pretended to be bewitched and
persecuted by the devil, and upheld the imposture so
cleverly, with rigors, convulsions, foaming at the
mouth and spitting forth of straws, chips and cinders,
pins and bent nails, that the Presbytery ordained a
public fast against witchcraft, and by warrant of
Privy Council a Commission visited Balgarnock to
take evidence of her condition. In the presence of
these Commissioners, of whom the Lord Blantyre
was president, the young lady flatly accused one
Janet Bums, her mother's still-room maid, of tor-
menting her with aid of the black art, and for witness
showed her back and shoulders covered with wales,
some blue and others freshly bleeding; and further,
in the midst of their interrogatories cast herself into
a trance, muttering and offering faint combat to
divers unseen spirits, and all in so lifelike a manner
that, notwithstanding they could discover no evident
proof of guilt, these wise gentry were overawed
and did commit the woman Janet Bums to take
her trial for witchcraft at Paisley. There, poor
soul, as she was escorted to the prison, the town

THE HORROR O^ THE STAIR

rabble met her with sticks and stones and closed the
case; for on her way a cobble cast by some unknown
hand struck her upon the temple, and falling into the
arms of the guard, she never spoke after, but breathed
her last breath as they forced her through the mob
to the prison gates.

This was the tale told to me; and long before I
heard it the reprobation of the vulgar had swung back
from Janet Bums and settled upon her accuser. Cer-
tain it was that swiftly upon the woman's murder —
as I may well call it — ^Miss Catherine made a recov-
ery, nor was thereafter troubled with fits, swoons or
ailments calling for public notice. Indeed, she was
shunned by all, and lived (as well as I could discover)
in complete seclusion for twenty years, until the min-
ister of Givens sought her out with an offer of mar-
riage.

By this time she was near forty; a thin, hard-
featured spinster, dwelling alone with her mother the
Lady Balgarnock. Her two younger sisters had mar-
ried early — ^the one to Captain Luce, of Dunragit in
Wigtownshire, the other to a Mr. Forbes, of whom I
know nothing save that his house was in Edinburgh:
and as they had no great love for Miss Catherine, so
they neither sought her company nor were invited to
Balgarnock. Her father. Sir John, had deceased a

THE HORROK ON THE STAIR

few months before Mr. Johnstone presented him*
self.

He made a short courtship of it. The common
tongues accused him (as was to be expected) of coming
after her money; whereas she and her old mother
lived a cat-and-dog life together, and she besides was
of an age when women will often marry the first
man that offers. But I now believe, and (unless I
mistake) the history will show, that the excuse vul-
garly made for her did not touch the real ground of
her decision. At any rate, she married him and lived
from 1718 to 1725 in the manse at Givens, where I
made her acquaintance.

I had been warned what to expect. The parish-
ioners of Givens seldom had sight of her, and set it
down to pride and contempt of her husband^s origin.
(He had been a weaver's son from Falkirk, who
either had won his way to the Marischal College of
Aberdeen by strength of will and in defiance of nat-
ural dulness, or else had started with wits but blunted
them in carving his way thither.) She rarely set foot
beyond the manse garden, the most of her time being
spent in a roomy garret under the slates, where she
spun a fine yarn and worked it into thread of the
kind which is yet known as "Balgarnock thread," and
was invented by her or by her mother — ^f or accounts

THE HORROR ON THE STAIR

differ as to this. I have beside me an advertisement
cKpped from one of the newspapers of twenty years
ago, which says: "The Lady Balgamock and her
eldest daughter having attained to great perfection
in making whitening and twisting of SEWING
THREED which is as cheap and white, and known
by experience to be much stronger than the Dutch,
to prevent people's being imposed upon by other
Threed which may be sold under the name of Balgar-
nock Threed, the Papers in which the Lady Balgar-
nock at Balgamock, or Mrs. Johnstone her eldest
daughter, at Givens, do put up their Threed shall,
for direction, have thereupon their Coat of Arms,
^Azure, a ram's head caboshed or.^ Those who want
the said Threed, which is to be sold from fivepence
to six shillings per ounce, may write to the Lady
Balgamock, at Balgamock, or Mrs. Johnstone at Giv-
ens, to the care of the Postmaster at Glasgow; and
may call for the same in Edinburgh at John Seton,
Merchant, his shop in the Parliament Close, where
they will be served either in Wholesale or Retail, and
will be served in the same manner at Glasgow, by
William Selkirk, Merchant, in Trongate."

In this art, then, the woman spent most of her
days, preparing the thread with her own hands and
bleaching her materials on a large slate raised upon

THE HORROR ON THE STAIR

brackets in the window of her garret. And, if one
may confess for all, glad enough were Mr. John-
stone's guests when this wife of his rose from the
table and departed upstairs. For a colder, more
taciturn and discomfortable hostess could not be con-
ceived. She would scarcely exchange a word through
the meal — ^no, not with her husband, though he
watched and seemed to forestall her wants with a ten-
der oflSciousness. To see her seated there in black
(which was her only wear), with her back to the win-
dow, her eyes on the board, and, as it seemed, the
shadow of a long-past guilt brooding about her con-
tinually, gave me a feeling as of cold water dripping
down the spine. And even the husband, though he
pretended to observe nothing, must have known my
relief when she withdrew and left us with the de-
canters.

Now I had tholed this penance, maybe, a dozen
times, and could never win a speech from Mrs. John-
stone, nor a look, to show that she regarded me while
present or remembered me after I had gone. So
you may think I was surprised one day when the min-
ister came riding over with word that his wife wanted
a young girl for companion and to help her with the
spinning, and had thought of me as likely to show
judgment in recommending one. The girl must be

100

THE HOEEOE ON THE STAIR

sixteen, or thereabout, of decent behaviour and tract-
able, no gadder or lover of finery, healthy, able to
read, an early riser, and, if possible, devout. For her
parentage I need not trouble myself, if I knew of a
girl suitable in these other respects.

It happened that I had of late been contriving
some odd work about the manse for the girl Eirstie
Maclachlan, not that the work needed doing, but to
help her old mother; for we had no assessment for
the poor, and the Session was often at its wits' end
to provide relief, wherein as a man without family
cares I could better assist than some of my neighbours.
The girl's mother was a poor feckless creature who had
left Wyliebank in her youth to take service in Glas-
gow, and there, beguiled at first by some villain, had
gone from bad to worse through misguidance rather
than wantonness, and at last crept home to her native
parish to starve, if by starving she could save her child
— then but an infant — ^from the city and its paths of
destruction. This, in part by her own courage, and
in part by the help of the charitable, she had man-
aged to do, and lived to see Kirstie grow to be a
decent, religiously minded young woman. Nor did
the lass want for good looks in a sober way, nor for
wit when it came to reading books; but in speech
she was shy beyond reason, and would turn red

101

THE HORROR ON THE STAIR

and stammer if a stranger but addressed her. I
think she could never forget that her birth had been
on the wrong side of the blanket, and supposing folks
to be pitying her for it, sought to avoid them and
their kindness.

It was Kirstie, then, whom I ventured to commend
to Mr. Johnstone for his lady's requirements; and
after some talk between us the good man sent for
her and was satisfied with her looks and the few
answers which, in her stammering way, she managed
to return to his questions. When he set off homeward
it was on the understanding that she should follow
him to Givens on foot, which she did the next day
with her stock of spare clothes in a kerchief. Nor,
although I twice visited Givens during her service
there, did I ever see her at the manse, but twice only
before she returned to us vsrith the tale I am to set
down — the first time at the burying of her mother
here in Wyliebank, and the second at Givens, when
I was called thither to inter her master who died very
suddenly by the bursting of a blood-vessel in the
brain. After that she went to live with the widow
in lodgings in Edinburgh; and from her, some fifteen
months later, I received the news, in a letter most
neatly indited, that Mrs. Johnstone had perished by
her own hand, and a request to impart it to all in this

102

THE HORROR ON THE STAIR

parish whom it might concern. The main facts she
told me then in writing, but the circumstances (being
ever a sensible girl) she kept to transmit to me by
word of mouth, rightly judging that the public in-
quiry had no business with them.

It seems, then, that Kirstie's first introduction to
Mrs. Johnstone was none too cheerful; indeed, it
came near to scaring her out of her senses. She
arrived duly at Givens shortly before five of the
afternoon (a warm day in June) and went straight
to the manse, where the door was opened to her by
Mr. Johnstone, who had seen her from the parlour
window. He led the way back to the parlour, and,
after a question or two upon her journey, took her
up the main stairs to the landing. Here he halted
and directed her up a narrow flight to her garret,
which lay off to the right, at the very top.

The door stood ajar, and facing it was another
door, wide open, through which a ray of the evening
sun slanted across the stairhead. Kirstie, with her
bundle in one hand and the other upon the hasp,
turned to look down upon the minister, to make sure
she was entering the right chamber. He stood at the
foot of the stairs, and his eyes were following her (as
she thought) with a very curious expression; but be-
fore he could nod she happened to throw a glance

103

THE HOEEOE ON THE STAIR

into the room opposite, and very nearly dropped her
bundle.

Yet there was nothing to be scared at; merely the
figure of an elderly woman in black bent over her
spinning-wheel there in the dim light. It was Mrs.
Johnstone, of course, seated at her work; but it came
upon the girl with suddenness, like an apparition, and
the fright, instead of passing, began to take hold of
her as the uncanny woman neither spoke nor looked
up. The room about her was bare, save for some
hanks of yam littered about the boards and a great
pile of it drying on a tray by the window. The one
ray of sunlight seemed to pass over this without
searching the comers under the sloping roof, and fell
at Kirstie's feet.

She has told me that she must have stood there
for minutes with her heart working like a pump.
When she looked down the stair again the minister
was gone. She pulled her wits together, stepped
quickly into her own room, and, having closed the
door behind her, sat down on the bed to recover.

Being a lass of spirit, she quickly reasoned herself
out of this foolishness, rose, washed, changed her
stockings, put off her shawl for cap and apron, and —
albeit in trepidation — ^presented herself once more at
the door of Mrs. Johnstone's garret.

104

THE HORROR ON THE STAIR

'Tlease you, mistress/' she managed to say, *T. am
Kirstie Maclachlan, the new maid from Wyliebank/'

Mrs. Johnstone looked up and fixed her with a
pair of eyes that (she declared) searched her through
and through; but all she said was, "The minister tells
me you can read/'

'TTes, mistress."

*^What books have you brought?"

Eirstie, to be sure, had two books in her bundle — ^a
Bible and John Bunyan's Orace Aboundingy the both
of them gifts from me. Mrs. Johnstone commanded
her to fetch the second and start reading at once;
"for," she explained, not unkindly, "it will suit you
best, belike, to begin with something familiar; and
if I find you read well and pleasantly, we will get a
book from the manse library."

So the girl found a stool in the comer, and, seating
herself near the window, began to read by the waning
light. She had, indeed, an agreeable voice, and I
had taken pains to teach her. She read on and on,
gathering courage, yet uncertain if Mrs. Johnstone
approved; who said no word, but continued her spin-
ning until darkness settled down on the garret and
blurred the print on the page.

At last she looked up, and, much to Kirstie's sur-
prise, with a sigh. 'That will do, girl, you read very

105

THE HORROR ON THE STAIR

nicely. Run down and find your supper, and after
that the sooner you get to bed the better. We rise
early in this house. To-morrow I will put you in the
way of your duties."

Downstairs Kirstie met the minister, who had been
taking a late stroll in the garden and now entered
by the back-door. He halted under the lamp in the
passage, '^ell," he asked, 'Svhat did she say?"

"She bade me get my supper and be early in the
morning," Kirstie answered simply.

For some reason this seemed to relieve him. He
hung up his hat and stood pulling at his fingers until
the joints cracked, which was a trick with him. "She
needs to be soothed," he said. *Ti you read much
with her, you must come to me to choose the books;
yet she must think she has chosen them herself. We
must manage that somehow. The great thing is to
keep her mind soothed."

Kirstie did not understand. A few minutes later
as she went up the stairs to her room the door
opposite still remained open. All was dark within,
but whether or not Mrs. Johnstone sat there in the
darkness she could not tell.

The next morning she entered on her duties, which
were light enough. Indeed, she soon suspected that
her mistress had sought a companion rather than a

106

THE HOEEOE ON THE STAIR

servant, and at first had much to-do to find employ-
ment. Soon, however, Mrs. Johnstone took her into
confidence, and began to impart the mysteries of
whitening and twisting the famous Balgamock
thread; and so by degrees, without much talk on
either side, there grew a strange affection betwixt
them. Sure, Kirstie must have been the first of her
sex to whom the strange woman showed any softness;
and on her part the girl asserts that she was attracted
from the first by a sort of pity, without well know-
ing for what her pity was demanded. The minister
went no farther with his confidences: he could see
that Kirstie suited, and seemed resolved to let well
alone. The wife never spoke of herself; and al-
beit, if Kirstie's reading happened to touch on the
sources of Christian consolation, she showed some
eagerness in discussing them, it was done without any
personal or particular reference. Yet, even in those
days, Kirstie grew to feel that terror was in some way
the secret of her mistress's strangeness; that for the
present the poor woman knew herself safe and pro-
tected from it, but also that there was ever a danger
of that barrier falling — ^whatever it might be — and
leaving her exposed to some enemy, from the thought
of whom her soul shrank.

I do not know how Kirstie became convinced that,
107

THE HOREOE ON THE STAIR

whoever or whatever the enemy might be, Mr. John-
stone was the phylactery. She herself could give no
grounds for her conviction beyond his wife's anxiety
for his health and well-being. I myself never ob-
served it in a woman, and if I had, should have set it
down to ordinary wifely concern. But Kirstie as-
Bures me, first, that it was not ordinary, and, secondly,
that it was not at all wifely — that Mrs. Johnstone's
care of her husband had less of the ministering un-
selfishness of a woman in love than of the eager con-
cern of a gambler with his stake. The girl (I need
not say) did not put it thus, yet this in effect was her
report. And she added that this anxiety was fitful
to a degree: at times the minister could hardly take a
walk without being fussed over and forced to change
his socks on his return; at others, and for days to-
gether, his wife would resign the care of him to Prov-
idence, or at any rate to Fate, and trouble herself not
at all about his goings-out or his comings-in, nor
whether he wore a great-coat or not, nor if he re-
turned wet to the skin and neglected to change his
wear.

Well, the girl was right, as was proved on the
afternoon when Mr. Johnstone, taking his customary
walk upon the Kilmarnock road, fell and burst a
blood-vessel, and was borne home to the manse on a

108

THE HOEKOK ON THE STAIR

gate. The two women were seated in the garret as
usual when the crowd entered the garden; and with
the first sound of the bearers' feet upon the path,
which was of smooth pebbles compacted in lime, Mrs.
Johnstone rose up, with a face of a sudden so grey
and terrible that Kirstie dropped the book from her
knee.

^T!t has come !" said the poor lady under her breath,
and put out a hand as if feeling for some stick of
furniture to lean against. *T!t has comel" she re-
peated aloud, but still hoarsely; and with that she
turned to the lass with a most piteous look, and
"Oh, Kirstie, girl," she cried, "you won't leave me ?
I have been kind to you — say you won't leave
me!"

Before Kirstie well understood, her mistress's arms
were about her and the gaunt woman clinging to her
body and trembling like a child. ^TTou will save me,
Kirstie? Tou will live here and not forsake me?
There is nobody now but youl" she kept crying over
and over.

The girl held her firmly with a grasp above the
elbows to steady her and allay the trembling, and,
albeit dazed herself, uttered what soothing words
came first to her tongue. *'Why, mistress, who thinks
of leaving you? Not I, to be sure. But let me get

109

THE HORROR ON THE STAIR

you to bed, and in an hour you will be better of this
fancy, for fancy it must be."

^^e is dead, I tell you," Mrs. Johnstone insisted,
"and they are bringing him home. Hark to the door
— ^that was never your master's knock — and the
voices 1"

She was still clinging about Kirstie when the cook
came panting up the stairs and into the room with a
white face; for it was true, and the minister had
breathed his last between the garden gate and his
house door.

As I have said, I rode over from Wyliebank four
days later to read the burial service. The widow was
not to be seen, and of Kirstie, who ever hid herseK
from the sight of strangers, I caught but a glimpse.
She did not follow the coffin, but remained upstairs
(as I suppose) comforting her mistress. The other
poor distracted servants, between tears and igno-
rance, made but a sorry business of entertaining the
company, so that but half a dozen at most cared to
return to the house, of whom I was not one.

The manse had to be vacated, and within a week
or two I heard that Mrs. Johnstone had sold a great
part of her furniture, dismissed all her household but
Kirstie, and retired to a small cottage a little farther

110

THE HORROR ON THE STAIR

up the street and scarcely a stone's-throw from the
manse.

"She made/' says Kirstie, ^little show of mourning
for her husband, nor for months afterwards did she
return to the terror she had shown that day in the
garret, yet I am sure that from the hour of his death
she never knew peace of mind. She had fitted up a
room in the cottage with her wheel and bleaching
boards, and we spent all our time in reading or thread-
making. At night my cot would be strewn in her
bedroom, and we slept with a candle burning on the
table between us; but once or twice I woke to see her
laid on her side, or resting on her elbow, with her
face towards me and her eyes fixed upon mine across
the light. This used to frighten me, and she must
have seen it, for always she would stammer that I
need not be alarmed, and beg me to go to sleep again
like a good child. I soon came to see that, whatever
her own terror might be, she had the utmost dread
of my catching it, and that her hope lay in keeping
me cheerful. Since I had nothing on my mind at
that time, and knew of no cause for fear, I used to
sleep soundly enough; but I begin to think that my
mistress slept scarcely at all. I cannot remember
once waking without finding her awake and her eyes
watching me as I say.

Ill

THE HOREOR ON THE STAIR

"She herself would not set foot outside the cottage
for weeks together, and if by chance we did take a
walk it would be towards sunset, when the fields were
empty and the folk mostly gathered on the green at
the far end of the village. There was a footpath
led across these fields at the back of the cottage, and
here at such an hour she would sometimes consent to
take the air, leaning on my arm; but if any wayfarer
happened to come along the path I used to draw her
aside into the field, where we made believe to be
gathering of wild flowers. She had a dislike of meet-
ing strangers and a horror of being followed; the
sound of footsteps on the path behind us would drive
her near crazy.''

I think 'twas this frequently pretence of theirs to
be searching for wild flowers which brought the sus-
picion of witchcraft upon them among the population
of Givens. The story of the woman's youth was re-
membered against her, if obscurely. Folks knew that
she had once been afflicted or possessed by an evil
spirit, and from this 'twas a short step to accuse her
of gathering herbs at nightfall for the instruction of
Kirstie in the black art. In the end the rumour drove
them from Givens, and in this manner.

Though the widow so seldom showed herself
abroad, in her care for Kirstie's cheerfulness she per-

112

THE HORROR ON THE STAIR

suaded the girl to take a short walk every morning
through the village. In truth Kirstie hated it. More
and more as her mistress clung to her she grew to
cling to her mistress; it seemed as if they two were in
partnership against the world, and the part of pro-
tector which she played so watchfully and coura-
geously for her years took its revenge upon her. For
what makes a child so engaging as his trust in the
fellow-creatures he meets and his willingness to ex-
pect the best of them? To Kirstie, yet but a little
way past childhood, all men and women were possible
enemies, to be suspected and shunned. She took her
walk dutifully because Mrs. Johnstone commanded
it, and because shops must be visited and groceries
purchased; but it was penance to her, and she would
walk a mile about to avoid a knot of gossips or to
while the time away until a shop emptied.

But one day in the long main street she was fairly
caught by a mob of boys hunting and hooting after a
negro man. They paid no heed to Kirstie, who shrank
into a doorway as he passed down the causeway — a
seaman, belike, trudging to Irvine or Saltcoats. He
seemed by his gait to be more than half drunk, and
by the way he shook his stick back at the boys and
cursed them; but they would not be shaken off, and
in the end he took refuge in the ^Xeaping Fish,*'

113

THE HORROR ON THE STAIR

where liis tormentors gathered about the doorway
and continued their booing until the landlord came
forth and dispersed them.

By this time Kirstie had bolted from the doorway
and run home. She said nothing of her adventure to
Mrs. Johnstone; but in the dusk of the evening a
riot began in the street a little way below the cottage.
The black seaman had been drinking all day, and on
leaving the ^Teaping Fish" had fallen into a savage
quarrel with a drover. Two or three decent fellows
stopped the fight and pulled him off; but they had
done better by following up their kindness and seeing
him out of the village, for he was now planted with
his back to a railing, brandishing his stick and furi-
ously challenging the whole mob. So far as concerned
him the mischief ended by his overbalancing to aim
a vicious blow at an urchin, and crashing down upon
the kerb, where he lay and groaned, while the blood
flowed from an ugly cut across the eyebrow.

For a while the crowd stood about him in some
dismay. A few were for carrying him back to the
public-house; but at some evil prompting a voice cried
out, "Take him to the widow Johnstone's! A witch
should know how to deal with her sib, the black man."
I believe so godless a jest would never have been
played, had not the cottage stood handy and (as one

114

THE HOKKOR ON THE STAIR

may say) closer than their better thoughts. But cer-
tain it is that they hoisted the poor creature and bore
him into Mrs. Johnstone's garden, and began to fling
handf uls of gravel at the upper windows where a light
was burning.

At the noise of it against the pane Mrs. Johnstone,
who was bending over the bedroom fire and heating
milk for her supper, let the pan fall from her hand.
For the moment Kirstie thought she would swoon.
But helping her to a seat in the armchair, the brave
lass bade her be comforted — it could be naught but
some roystering drunkard — and herseK went down-
stairs and unbarred the door. At the sight of her —
so frail a girl — quietly confronting them with a de-
mand to know their business, the crowd fell back a
step or two, and in that space of time by God's provi-
dence arrived Peter Lawler, the constable, a very re-
ligious man, who gave the ringleaders some advice and
warning they were not likely to forget. Being by this
made heartily ashamed of themselves, they obeyed his
order to pick up the man from the doorstep, where he
lay at Kirstie's feet, and carry him back to the "Leap-
ing Fish" ; and so slunk out of the garden.

When all were gone Kirstie closed and bolted the
door and returned upstairs to her mistress, whom she
found sitting in her chair and listening intently.

115

THE HOREOR ON THE STAIR

^'Who was it?" she demanded.

*'0h, nothing to trouble us, ma'am; but just a poor
wandering blackamoor I met in the street to-day. The
people, it seems, were bringing him here by mistake."

"A blackamoor!" cried Mrs. Johnstone, gasping.
"A blackamoor 1"

Now Kirstie was for running downstairs again to
fetch some milk in place of what was spilt, but at the
sound of the woman's voice she faced about.

"Pick together the silver, Kirstie, and fetch me my
bonnet!" At first Mrs. Johnstone began to totter
about the room without aim, but presently fell to
choosing this and that of her small possessions and
tossing them into the seat of the armchair in a nerv-
ous hurry which seemed to gather with her strength.
"Quick, lass! Did he see you? ... ah, but that
would not tell him. What like was he?" She pulled
herself together and her voice quavered across the
room. "Lass, lass, you will not forsake me? Do
not spier now, but do all that I say. Tou prom-
ised — ^you did promise!" All this while she was
working in a fever, pulling even the quilt from the
bed and anon tossing it aside as too burdensome. She
was past all control. "Do not spier of me," she kept
repeating.

*What, ma'am? Are we leaving?" Kirstie stam-
116

THE HQRROR ON THE STAIR

mered once; but the strong will of the woman — ^mad
though she might be — ^was upon her, and by-and-by
the girl began packing in no less haste than her mis-
tress, ^^ut will you not tell me, ma'am!" she en-
treated between her labours.

*^ot here! not here!" Mrs. Johnstone insisted.
^Tffelp me to get away from here!"

It was two in the morning when the women un-
latched the door of the cottage and crept forth across
the threshold — and across the stain of blood which
lay thereon, only they could not see it. They took
the footpath, each with a heavy bundle beneath her
arm, and, turning their backs on Givens, walked reso-
lutely forward for three miles to the cross-roads
where the Glasgow coach would be due to pass in
the dawn. Upon the green there beside the sign-post
Kirstie believes that she slept while Mrs. Johnstone
kept guard over the bundles; but she remembers little
until she found herself, as if by magic, on the coach-
top and dozing on a seat behind the driver.

From Glasgow, after a day's halt, they took an-
other coach to Edinburgh, and there found lodgings
in a pair of attics high aloft in one of the great
houses, or lands, which lie oflF Parliament Square to
the north. The building — a warren you might call
it — ^had six stories fronting the square, the uppermost

117

THE HORROR ON THE STAIR

far overhanging, and Kirstie affirms that her window,
pierced in the very eaves, stood higher than the roof
of St. Giles's Church.

Hither in due course a carrier's cart conveyed Mrs.
Johnstone's sticks of furniture, and here for fifteen
months the two women lay as close as two needles in
a bottle of hay. The house stood upon a ridge, and
at the back of it a dozen double flights of stairs dived
into courts and cellars far below the level of the front.
It was by these — a journey in themselves — that Kir-
stie sometimes made exit and entrance when she had
business at the shops, and she has counted up to me a
list, which seemed without end, of the offices, work-
shops, and tenements she passed on her way, begin-
ning with a wine store in the basement, mounting to
perruquiers^ and law-stationers' shops, and so up past
bookbinders', felt-makers', painters', die-sinkers', mil-
liners' workrooms, to landings on which, as the roof
was neared, the tenants herded closer and yet closer
in meaner and yet meaner poverty.

The most of Kirstie's business was with Mr. John
Seton, the agent, to whom she carried the thread
spun by her mistress in the attic, and from whom she
received the moneys and accounts of profits. Once
or twice, at their first coming, Mrs. Johnstone had
descended for a walk in the streets; but by this time

118

THE HOKKOR ON THE STAIR

the unhappy lady had it fixed in her mind that she
was being watched and followed, and shook with ap-
prehension at every comer. So pitiable indeed were
the glances she flung behind her, and so frantic the
precautions she used to shake off her supposed pur-
suers and return by circuitous ways, that Kirstie
pressed her to no more such expeditions.

To the girl, still ignorant of the cause of this ter-
ror, her mistress was evidently mad. But mad or no,
she grew daily weaker iii health and her handiwork
began to worsen in quality, until Kirstie was forced to
use deceit and sell only her own thread to Mr. Seton,
though she pretended to dispose of Mrs. Johnstone's,
and accoimted for the falling off in profit by a feigned
tale of brisker competition among their Dutch rivals
— an imposture in which the agent helped her, telling
the same story in writing, for Mrs. Johnstone, whose
eye for a bargain continued as sharp as ever, had
actually begun to suspect the lass of robbing her.

About this time as Kirstie passed down the stairs
she took notice that a new tradesman had set up
business on the landing below. At first she wondered
that a barber — ^f or this was his trade — should task hia
customers to climb so many flights from the street;
but it seemed that the fellow knew what he was
about, for after the first week she never descended

119

THE HOREOE ON THE STAIR

without meeting a customer or two mounting to his
door or being followed down by one with his wig
powdered and chin freshly scraped. The barber him-
self she never saw, though once, when the door stood
ajar, she caught a glimpse of his white jacket and
apron.

She believed that he entered into occupation at
Michaelmas; at any rate, he had been plying his trade
for close on two months, when on November 17th,
1739, and at a quarter to three in the afternoon,
Kirstie went down to the Parliament Close to carry
a packet of thread to Mr. Seton. The packet was
smaller than usual, for Mrs. Johnstone had not been
able to finish her weekly quantity; but this did not
matter, since for a month past she had made none that
was saleworthy.

Now this Mr. Seton was a pleasant man, in age
almost threescore, and full of interest in Mrs. John-
stone, having done business for her and her mother,
the Lady Balgamock, pretty well all his life. And
so it often happened that, while weighing the thread
and making out his receipt for it, he would invite
Kirstie to his office, in the rear of the shop, and dis-
cuss her mistress's health or some late news of the
city, or advise her upon any small difficulty touch-
ing which she made bold to consult him — ^as, for in-

120

THE HORROR ON THE STAIR

stance, this pious deception in the matter of the
thread.

But to-day in the midst of their discourse Kirstie
felt a sudden uneasiness. Explain it she could not.
Yet there came to her a sense, almost amounting to
certainty, that Mrs. Johnstone was in trouble and had
instant need of her. She had left her but a few min-
utes, and in ordinary health; there was no reason to
be given for this apprehension. Nevertheless, as I
say, she felt it as urgent as though her mistress's own
voice were calling. Mr. Seton observed her change
of colour, and broke off his chat to ask what was
amiss. She knew that if she stayed to explain he
would laugh at her for a silly fancy; and if it were
more than a fancy, why then to explain would be a
loss of precious time. Pleading, therefore, some for-
gotten duty, she left the good man hurriedly, and
hastening out through the shop, ran across Parliament
Close and up the great staircase as fast as her legs
could take her.

By the time she reached the fourth flight of stairs
she began to feel ashamed of the impulse which
brought her, and to argue with herself against it; but
at the same time her ears were open and listening
for any unusual sound in the rooms above. There
was no such sound until she had mounted half-way

121

THE HORROR ON THE STAIR

up the sixth flight, when she heard a light footstep
cross the landing, and, looking up, ?aw the barber^s
door very gently closing and shutting out a glimpse
of his white jacket.

For the moment she thought little of this. The
latch had scarcely clicked before she reached the land-
ing outside, from which the last flight ran straight
up to her mistress's door. It stood open, though she
had closed it less than a quarter of an hour before.
This was the first time she had found it open on her
return.

She caught at the stair-rail. Through the door and
over the line of the topmost stair she could just see
the upper panes of the window at the back of Mrs.
Johnstone's room. A heavy beam crossed the ceiling
in front of the window, and from it, from a hook she
had used that morning for twisting her yam, de-
pended a black bundle.

The bundle — ^it was big and shapeless — swayed
ever so slightly between her and the yellow light
sifted through the window. She tottered up, her
knees shaking, and flung herself into the room with
a scream.

While she fumbled, still screaming, at the bundle
hanging from the beam, a step came swiftly up the
stair, and the barber stood in the doorway. She

122

THE HORROR ON THE STAIR

recognised him by his white suit, and on the instant
saw his face for the first time. He was a negro.

He laid a finger on his lips. Somehow the light
showed them to her blood-red, although the rest of
his features, barring the whites of his eyes, were all
but indiscernible in the dusk. And somehow Kirstie
felt a silence imposed on her by this gesture. He
stepped across the boards swiftly and silently as a
cat, found a stool, and set it under the beam. In the
act of mounting it he signalled to Kirstie to run down-
stairs for help.

Silent as he, Kirstie slipped out at the door: on
the threshold she glanced over her shoulder and
saw him upon the stool fumbling with one hand at
the yam-rope, and with the other searching his apron
pocket for a knife or razor. She ran down the garret
stairs, down the next fiight. . .

Here, on the landing, she paused. She had not
screamed since the black man first appeared in the
doorway. She was not screaming now; she felt that
she could not even raise the faintest cry. But a sus-
picion fastened like a hand on the back of her neck
and held her.

She hesitated for a short while, and began to climb
the stairs again. From the landing she looked up
into the room. The black man was still on the stool,

123

THE HORROR ON THE STAIR

his hand still on the rope. He had not cut the bundle
down — ^was no longer even searching for a knife.

She had been deceived. The man, whoever he was,
had dismissed her when every moment was precious,
and was himself not even trying to help. Nay, it
might be • . •

She fought down the horror of it and rushed up
the stair to fight the thing, man or devil, and save her
mistress. On her way she fumbled for the scissors
in her pocket.' As she broke into the garret the bar-
ber, leaving the bundle to swing from its rope,
stepped oflf the stool and, darting to a comer of the
room, seemed to stand at bay there. Earstie sprang
towards the stool and hacked at the rope. As the body
dropped she faced around on the man's corner, mean-
ing to kill or be killed.

But there was no man in the corner. Her eyes
searched into its dusk, and met only the shadow of the
sloping attic. He h^d gone without a sound. There
had been no sound in the room but the thud of Mrs.
Johnstone's body, and this thud seemed to Kirstie to
be taken up and echoed by the blow of her own fore-
head upon the boards as she fell across the feet of
her mistress.

124

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)
FEOM THE OBAL HISTORY OP AEDEVOEA

Woman Suffrage ? It^s surprising to me how light
some folks will talk — ^with a Providence, for all they
know, waiting round the comer to take them at their
word. I put my head in at the Working Man^s In-
stitute last nighty and there was the new Coast-guard
oflScer talking like a book, arguing about Woman Suf-
frage in a way that made me nervous. "Look 'ee here,"
he was saying, "a woman must be either married, or
unmarried, or otherwise. Keep they three divisions
clear in your heads, and then I'll ask you to follow

me " And all the company sitting round with

their mouths open. I came away : I couldn't stand it.
It put me in mind how my poor mother used to warn
me against squinting for fun. "One of these days,"
she'd say, "the wind'U take and change sudden while
you're doing it ; and there you'll be fixed and looking

127

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

fifty ways for Sunday until we meet in the land of
marrow and fatness/'

And here in Ardevora, of all places! — ^where the
womenkind be that masterful already, a man must
get into his sea-boots before he can call his soul his
own. Why, there was a woman here once that never
asked for a vote in her life, and yet capsized an Elec-
tion for Parliament — candidates, voters, and the
whole apple-cart — as easy as you might turn over a
plate. Did you ever hear tell of Kitty Lebow and
her eight tall daughters? No; I daresay not. The
world's old and losing its memory when it begins to
talk of Woman Suffrage.

This Kitty, or Christian, or Christiana Lebow was
by birth a Bottrell : and a finer family than the Bot-
trells, by their own account, you wouldn't find in all
England. Not that it matters whether they came over
with William the Norman, nor whether they could
once on a time ride from sea to sea on their own acres.
For Kitty was the last to carry the name, and she
left it in Ardevora vestry the day she signed marriage
with Paul Lebow (or, as he wrote it, Lebeau —
"b-e-a-u") : and the property had gone generations be-
fore. As she said 'pon her death-bed, "five-foot-six
of church-hay will hold the only two achers left to

128

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

me," she being a little body and very facetious to the
last, and meaning her legs, of course.

Now the reason I can't tell you : but the mischief
with the Bottrells was this : That for generation after
generation all the spirit of the family went to the
females. The men just dandered away their time and
their money, fell into declines, or had fits and went
out like the snuff of a candle. But the women couldnH
be held nor bound, lived to any age they pleased, and
either kept their sweethearts on the hook or married
them and made their lives a burden. Oh, a bean-fed
sex, sir, and monstrous handsome 1 And Kitty,
though little, was as handsome as any, and walked
Ardevora streets with her eight daughters, all tall as
grenadiers and terrible as an army with banners.

Her father, old Piers Bottrell, had been a ship^s
captain : a very tidy old fellow in his behaviour, but
muddled in mind, especially towards the end ; so tiiat
when he died (which he did in his bed, quite peace-
ful) he must needs take and haunt the house. There
wasn^t a ha'porth of reason for it, that anyone could
discover ; and Kitty didnH mind it one farthing. But
some say it frightened her husband into his grave:
though I reckon he took worse fright at Kitty pre-
senting him with eight daughters one after the other.
With a woman like that, you can't say where accident

129

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

ends and loye of mischief begins. And for diat mat-
ter, there was no telling why she^d married the man
at all except for mischief : his father and mother be-
ing poor French refugees that had come to Ardevora,
thirty years before, and been given shelter by the
borough charity in the old Ugnes House* — ^the same
that old Piers Bottrell afterwards bought and died in :
and Lebow himself, though bom in the town and a
fisherman by calling, never able to get his tongue
round good plain English until the day he was
drowned on the whiting-grounds and left Kitty a
widow-woman.

All this, as you^l see by-and-by, has to do in one
way or another with the Great Election, which took
place in the year '68. (The way I'm so glib with Ae
date is that Kit Lebow was so proud of her doings
on that day, she had a silver cup made for a momen-
tum and used to measure out her guineas in it : and
her great-great-gran'daughter, Mary Ann Cocking,
has the cup to this day in her house in Nanjiwey
Street, where I Ve seen it a score of times and spelled
out the writing, "C. L.*' — ^for Christian Lebow —
"1768.'') And concerning this Election you must
know that "the Duke's interest,'* as they called it —
that's to say, the Whigs — ^had ruled the roost in Ar-
♦ Probably " Huguenots* House."
130

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

devora for more than fifty years ; mainly through the
Duke^s agent, old Squire Martin of Tregoose, that
collected the rents, held pretty well all the public
ofiices inside his ten fingers, and would save up a
grudge for time-out-of-mind against any man that
crossed him. Two members we returned in those
days, and in grown men^s memories scarce a Tory
among them.

There was grumbling, you may be sure: but the old
gang held their way, and thought to carry this Elec-
tion as easy as the others, until word came down that
one of the Tory candidates would be Dr. Macann, tiie
famous Bath physician ; and this was a facer.

What made this Dr. Macann such a tearing hot
candidate was his having been bom at Trudgian, a
mile out of town here to the westward. The Macanns
had farmed Trudgian for maybe a hundred years,
having come over from Ireland to start with : a poor,
hand-to-mouth lot, respected for nothing but their
haveage,* which was understood to be something out
of the common. But this Samuel, as he was called,
turned out a bright boy with his books, and won his
way somehow to Cambridge College; and from Col-
lege, after doing famously, he took his foot in his hand
and went up to walk the London hospitals; and so

♦ Lineage.
131

tHE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

bloomed out into a great doctor, with a gold-headed
cane and a wonderful gift with the women — ^a person-
able man, too, with a neat leg, a hi^ colour, and a
voice like a church-organ. The best of the fellow was
he helped his parents and never seemed ashamed of
'em. And for this, and because he^d done credit to
the town, the folks oouldn^t make too much of him.

Well, as I said, this putting up of Macann was a
facer for the Duke^s men, and they met at the George
and Dragon Inn to talk over their unpopularity.
There was old Squire Martin, as wicked as a buck
rat in a sink ; and his son Bob that had lately taken
over the Duke's agency; and his brother Ned, the
drunken Vicar of Trancells; and his second cousin
John Martin, otherwise John a Hall, all wit and no
character; and old Parson Polsue, with his curate,
old Mr. Grandison, the one almost too shaky to hold
a churchwarden pipe while the other lighted it; and
Roger Newte, whose monument you see over the hill
— a dapper, youngish-looking man, very careful of
his finger-nails and smooth in his talk till he got you
in a corner. Last but not least was this Roger Newte,
who had settled here as Collector of Customs and
meant to be Mayor next year; a man to go where
the devil can't, and that's between the oak and the
rind.

132

THE MAZED ELECTIOJT (1768)

Well, there they were met, drinking punch and
smoking their days and discussing this and that ; and
Mr. Newte keeping the peace between John a Half,
with his ill-regulated tongue, and the old Parson;
who, to say truth, was half the cause of their un-
popularity, the church services having sunk to a pub-
lic scandal ; and yet they durstn't cast him over, by
reason that he owned eight ramshackle houses, and
his curate a couple besides, and by mock-sale could
turn these into as many brand-new voters.

"There^s nothing for it but pluck," said Mr. Newte.
"We must make a new Poor Rate. They Ve been ask-
ing a new one for years; and, bejimbersl I hope
they'll like the one they get."

The old Squire stroked his chin. "That's a bit too
dangerous, Newte."

"Where's the danger? Churchwardens and Over-
seers, we can count on every man."

"The parish will appeal, as sure as a gun. King's
Bench will send down a mandamus^ and the game's
up. I don't want to go to prison at my time of life."

"I know something of the law," said Mr. Newte —
and indeed he'd studied it at Lincoln's Inn, and kept
more knowledge under his wig than any man in the
borough. "I know something of law, and there's no
question of going to prison. The Tories will appeal

133

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

to the next Quarter Sessions^ and Quarter Sessions
will maybe quash the Hate; and that'll take time.
Then the Overseers will sit still for a week or two,
or a month or two, until the Tories lose patience and
apply to London for a writ Down comes the writ,
we'll say. Whereupon the Overseers will sit down
and make out a new Bate just a shade different from
the last, and the Tories will have to begin again —
Quarter Sessions, Court o' King's Bench, mandor
mus ^"

"King's Bench will send down, more like, and at-
tach the Overseers for contempt of Court," suggested
young Bob Martin^ who was one of them.

"Not a bit of it ; but I'll allow you may find it hard
to keep their pluck to the sticking-point. Very well,
then here's another plan : When it comes to the writ,
the Overseers can make out a new Rate ^agreeable to
the form and tenor of the same,' as the words go. But
a new Rate's worthless until you, Squire, and you,
Parson, have signed the allowance for it as magis-
trates : and now comes your turn to give trouble."

"And how'm I to do that ?" asked the old Squire.

"Why, by keeping out of the way, to be sure.
Take a holiday: find out some little spa that suits
your complaint, and go and drink the waters."

"Ay, do, Parson," chimed in John & Hall. "Take
184

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

Grandison, here, along with you, and we'll all have a
holiday together."

"At the worse," chipped in Newte, "they'll fine
you fifty pounds for misbehaviour."

"Fifty pounds I Fine me fifty pounds ?" the Par-
son quavered, his pipe-stem waggling.

"Bless your heart, sir, we can work it in somehow
with the Election expenses. But it may not come to
that. Parliament's more than five years old already,
and I'll warrant the King dissolves it by next spring
at latest: which reminds me that keeping an eye on
the Voters' List is all very well, but unless we can find
a hot pair of candidates, this Macann may unsaddle
us after all."

Well, this or something like it was the plan agreed
on ; and for candidates they managed to get the Duke's
own son. Lord William, and a Major Dyngwall, a
friend of his, very handsome to look at, but shy in the
mouth-speech. With Dr. Macann the Tories put
up a Mr. Saule, from Bristol, who took a terrible
deal of snuff and looked wise, but had some maggot
in his head that strong drink isn't good for a man.
Why or how this should be he might have known but

135

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

couldn't tell, being a desperate poor speaker, and, if
possible, a worse hand at it than Major Dyngwall.

I wonH take you through all the battle over the
Poor Kate. You understand that the right of voting
for Parliament belonged to all the inhabitants of the
borough paying Scot and Lot; and who these were
the Eate-sheet determined. So you may fancy the
pillaloo that went up when the Overseers posted their
new assessment on the church door and 'twas found
they'd ruled out no less than sixty voters known, or
suspected to be, in Dr. Macann's interest. The Tories
appealed to Quarter Sessions, of course, and the Bate
was quashed. On their side, Roger Newte and Bob
Martin kept the Overseers up to the proper mark of
stubbornness : so to London the matter went, and from
London down came the order for a new assessment.
But by this time Parliament's days were numbered ;
and, speculating on this, Mr. Newte (who was now
Mayor of the Borough) played a stroke in a thousand.
He persuaded the Overseers to make a return to the
writ certifying they had obeyed it to the best of their
skill and conscience, and drawn up a new list : which
list they posted a fortnight later, and only seven days
— as it turned out — ^before Parliament dissolved : and
will you believe it, but the only difference between it
and the old one was that they'd added the name of

136

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

Christiana Lebow, widow — ^who, being a woman,
hadn't a vote at all 1

But wait a bitl The Overseers, choosing their
time, had this new list posted in the church porch at
ten o'clock one morning ; and having posted it, stepped
across the road to the "George and Dragon." The old
inn used to stand slap opposite the church ; and there,
in the parlour-window, were assembled all the Duke's
men — Squire Martin and his son, Roger Newte, John
k Hall, the Parson, and all the rest of the gang — as
well to see how the people would take it as to give the
timorous Overseers a backing. This was Newte's
idea — to sit there in full view, put a bold face on it,
and have the row — if row there was to be — over at
once. And, to top it up, they had both the Whig
candidates with them — these having arrived in Ar-
devora three days before, and begun their canvass,
knowing that Parliament must be dissolved and the
new writs issued in a few days at farthest.

Well, a crowd gathered at once about the list, and
some ran off with the dare-devil news of it, while
others hung about and grumbled and let out a few
oaths every now and then, and looked like men in
two minds about stoning the windows opposite, where
the Duke's gang lounged as careless as brass, sipping
their pundi and covering the poor Overseers, that half

137

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

expected to be ducked in the harbour sooner or later
for their morning's work.

For one solid hour they sat there, fairly daunting
the crowd: but as the church clock struck eleven,
Major Dyngwall, the candidate — ^that was talking to
old Parson Polsue, and carrying it off very fairly —
puts his eyeglass up of a sudden, and, says he, "Ama-
zons, begad I'' meaning, as I have heard it explained,
that here were some out-of-the-conmion females.

And out of the common they were — ^Kit Lebow
with her eight daughters, all wafting up the street like
a bevy of peacocks in their best hoops and bonnets :
Kit herself sailing afore, with her long malacca staff
tap-tapping the cobbles, and her tall daughters behind
like a bodyguard — ^two and two — ^Maria, Constantia,
Elizabeth Jane, Perilla, Christian the Younger, Mar-
cella, Thomasine, and Lally. Along she comes,
marches up to the board — ^the crowd making way for
her — and reads down the list, ^^'m," says she, and
wheeling to the rightabout, marches straight across to
the open window of the "George."

"Give you good morning, gentlemen," says she,
dropping a curtsey. "I see youVe a-put me on the
Voters' List ; and, with your leave, Fd like a look at
your candidates."

''With pleasure, madam," says Lord William,
188

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

starting up from the table where he was writing at
the back of the room, and coming forward with a bow.
And Major Dyngwall bowed likewise to her and to
the whole company of her daughters spreading out
behind her like a fan. "Take your glass down from
your eye, young man," she said, addressing herself
to the Major. "One window should be shelter enough
for a sojer — ^and la I you're none so ill-featured for a
pair of Whigs."

"Ay," put in John a Hall, "they'll stand compari-
sons with your Sammy Macann, mistress." And he
pitched to sing a verse of his invention, that the
Whigs of the town afterwards got by heart —

** Doctor Macann

'b an Irishman,
He's got no business here ;

Mister Saule

He's nothin' at all,
He won't lev us have no beer."

"Well, indeed now," answered Kitty, pitching her
voice back for the crowd to hear, "'tis the Martins
should know if the Macanns be Irish, and what busi-
ness an Irishman has in Ardevora : for, if I recollect,
the first Macann and the first Martin were ship-
wrecked together coming over from Dungarvan in a

139

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

cattle-boat^ and they do say 'twas Macann owned the
cattle and Martin drove 'em. And as for Mr. Saule,*'
she went on, while the crowd grinned to see John iL
Hall turning red in the gills, "if he stops off the beer
in this town, 'tis yourself will be the healthier for it,
who^er's hurt."

"May I have the pleasure to learn this lady's
name ?" asked Lord William very politely, turning to
the old Squire.

"She's just an eccentric body, my Lord," said he ;
"and, I'm sorry to say, a violent enemy to your Lord-
ship's cause."

"Hoity-me-toity 1" says Kitty. "I'm Christian
Lebow, that used to be Bottrell: which means that
your forefathers and mine, my Lord, came over to
England together, like the Macanns and the Martins,
though maybe some time before, and not in a cattle-
boat. No enemy am I to your Lordship, nor to the
Major here, as I'll prove any day you choose to drink
a dish of tea with me or to taste my White Ale; but
only to the ill company you keep with these Martins
and Newtes, that have robbed sixty honest men of
their votes and given one to me that can't use it. I
can't use it to keep you out of Parliament-house, I
would if I could — ^honest fighting between gentle-
folks ; but I may use it before the Election's over to

140

^BE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

make these rogues laugh on the wrong side of their
faces."

She used to say afterwards that the words came
into her mouth like prophesying: but I believe she
just spoke out in her temper, as women will. At any
rate, Lord William smiled and bowed, and said he,
"The Major and I will certainly do ourselves the
pleasure of calling and tasting your ale, Mrs. Le-
bow."

"The recipe is three hundred years old," said Kitty,
and swept him a curtsey, the like of which for stateli-
ness you don't see nowadays: it wants practice and
sea-room. And all her eight daughters curtsied to the
daps behind her in a half-moon, to the delight of
Major Dyngwall, that had been studying Lally, the
youngest (which is short for Eulalia), through his
eyeglass. And with that, to the admiration of the
multitude, they faced about and went sailing up the
street.

Ill

Well, I suppose in the heat of the fight — ^the nomi-
nation taking place a few days afterwards, and the
struggle being a mighty doubtful one, for all the trick
of the Eating List, against which the Tories had sent
up an appeal — ^Lord William forgot all about his

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THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

promise to call and taste Mrs. LeboVs White Ale.
It came into his mind of a sudden on the day before
the Election^ being Sunday morning, and he break-
fasting with the Major and half a dozen of their
supporters up at Tregoose, where old Squire Martin
kept open house for the Whigs right through the con-
test

"Plague take itl" says he, running his eye down
the Voters' List between his sips of coffee. "IVe
clean neglected that old lady and her brew. I sup-
pose 'tis dreadful stuff ?" he goes on, rather anxious-
like, lifting an eye towards the old Squire.

"IVe never had the privilege to taste it,'' says the
Squire.

"Oh, 'tis none so bad," puts in the Major care-
lessly.

"Why, Dyngwall — ^how the Dickens alive do you
know?"

"I dropped in the other day — in fact, I've called
once or twice. The old lady's monstrous entertain-
ing," answered the Major, pretty pink in the face.

"0-ho 1" Lord William screwed up one eye. "And
so, belike, are the eight handsome daughters? But
look ye here, Dyngwall," says he, "I can't have you
skirmishing on your own account in this fashion. If
there's a baby left to be kissed in this town — or any-

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THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)'

thing older, for that matter — ^we go shares, my
lad.

"You needn't be so cussedly offensive, need you V^
says the Major, firing up, to the astonishment of alL

Lord William looks at him for a moment. "My
dear fellow," says he, "I beg your pardon."

And the Major was mollified at once, the two (as I
said) being old friends.

"But all the same," says his Lordship to himself,
"I'd best go call on this old lady without losing time."
So he put it to Squire Martin: "I've a promise to
keep, and to-morrow we shall be busy-alL Couldn't
we fttart early to-day, and pay Mrs. Lebow a visit on
our way to church ?"

"You won't get no comfort out of calling," said the
Squire : "but let it be as you please."

So off they set: and as Kitty and her daughters
were tying their bonnet-strings for churchgoing — ^blue
and gold every one of them (these being the Tory
colours), and only Lally thinking to herself that scar-
let and orange might, maybe, suit her complexion bet-
ter — there came a knock at the door, and squinting
over her blind, Kitty caught sight of Lord William
and the Major, with the old Squire behind them, that
had never crossed her doorstep in his life.

She wasn't going to lower her colours, of course.
143

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

But down she went in her blue and gold^ opened the
door^ and curtseyed. (Oh I the pink of manners I)
''No inconvenience at all/' she said^ and if ever a
cordial was needed it would be before sitting out one
of old Parson Palsy's forty-year-old sermons. So out
came the famous White Ale, with the long-stemmed
glasses proper to drink it from, and a dish of ratafias
to corroborate the stomach. And behold, all was bow-
ing and compliments and enmity — ^forgot, till Lord
William happened to say :

"Strong stuflF, Squire — eh i The Major should look
to his head with it, after his morning tankard : but
for coffee-drinkers like you and me I reckon there's
no danger,"

Eitty gave a little gasp, all to herself. "Do you
take coffee with your breakfast, my Lord ?" she asked
— and declared to her last day it seemed like another
person speaking, her voice sounded so faint and \xn*
natural.

"Ha-bitually," says Lord William, and begins dis-
coursing on the coffee-bean, and how it cleared the
brain.

Kitty couldn't look at him steady, but was forced
to glance away and out of window. The tears and
the fun were rising together within her like a spring
tide. Lord William thought that her mind was run-

144

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

ning on the clock, and she wished to be rid of them.
So the bowing and compliments began again, and in-
side of ten minutes the visitors had made their con-
gees and were out in the street. The door was scarcely
shut upon them when Kitty sank down all of a heap
in her armchair and began to rock herself to and fro.

"Oh, oh, oh 1" she began ; and her daughters truly
thought at first 'twas hysterics. "I'll give it forty
minutes," she said. "Maria, if 'twasn't so near upon
church-time, I'd ask you to loosen my stays. White
Ale upon coffee 1 Oh, oh, oh !" And with that she
started up, "Forty minutes 1 What it'll do in forty
minutes no earthly power can tell. But get ready,
girls, and follow close till I'm safe in church."

So forth she sailed, and her eight daughters behind
her, down the street, in by the churchyard gate, and
up through the crowd to the porch with her face set
like the calm of Doomsday.

Well, the congregation settled itself, and service
began, and not a sign — as why should there be ? — of
any feelings but holy devotion. The Whigs looked
at their books, and the Tories looked at their books ;
and poor old Curate Grandison lost his place and his

145

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

spectacles^ and poor old Parson Polsue dropped asleep
in the First Lesson. He'd neglected two parishes to
come and preach the sermon : for Ardevora, you must
know, was one of three jivings he held besides a
canonry, and he kept Grandison to serve the three,
that being all he could afford after paying for his
carriage-and-pair and postillions to carry him back
and forth between us and Penzance, where he lodged
for the sake of his asthma and the little card-parties
for which Penzance was famous in those days. But
not even an Election Sunday could keep him properly
awake. So on went the old comedy, as by law estab-
lished ; the congregation, Whig and Tory, not able to
hear one word in ten, but taking their cues from
Tommy Size, the parish clerk.

The first sign of something amiss came about mid-
way in the hymn before the sermon, with old Squire
Martin's setting down his book and dropping into his
seat very sudden. Few noticed it, the pew being a
tall one ; but the musicianers overlooking it from the
gallery saw him crossing his hands over his waistcoat,
which caused one or two to play their notes false ; and
Nance Julian in the pew behind heard him groan:
"I can't sit it out ! Not for a hundred pounds can I
sit it out !"

By this time Parson Polsue, with his sermon tucked
146

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

O
under his arm^ was tottering up the pulpit stairs^ and

Churchwarden Hancock standing underneath, as
usual, to watch him arrive safe or to break his fall if
he tumbled. And just as he reached the top and
caught hold of the desk cushion to stay himself, Lord
William dropped out of view in the face of the con-
gregation, and the hymn — music and singing together
— ciphered out like an organ with its bellows slit.

The next moment open flew the door of the Tre-
goose pew, and out poured Lord William and Squire
Martin with judgment on their faces, making a bee-
line for the fresh air; and after them Major Dyng-
wall with a look of concern; and after him young
Bob Martin, that had only waited to pick up the
others' hats.

Well, you can't run a spark through a barrel of
gunpowder. Like wildfire it flew about the church
that the Duke's party and the Parson had quarrelled,
and this was a public protest. Whig and Tory settled
that with one scrape of the feet, and Major Dyngwall
turned in the porch to find the whole crowd at his
heels.

"My good people," says he, "pray don't alarm your-
selves ! I — I don't quite know what's the matter : a
sudden indisposition — ^nothing serious. Do, please,
go back!"

147

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

"Go back ? Not a bit of it 1 You're quite ri^t,
sir — disgrace to a Christian country — ^high time for
a public example — stand to it^ sir^ and the Bishop
will have to interfere. Three cheers for the Bed and
Orange I Three cheers for Beligion and no Abuses 1
Three cheers for Lord William and Major Dyngwalll
Hip-hip-hooray 1" Do what the Major might, the
crowd swept him and the poor sufferers throu^ the
churchyard and across the street, and hung cheering
around the "(Jeorge and Dragon," while he dosed the
pair inside with hot brandy-and-water.

And all this while Kitty stood — as she declared
ever after — ^with the thoughts hissing in her head like
eggs in a frying-pan. She heard the crowd cheering
outside, and felt the votes slipping away with every
cheer. She cast her eyes up to the pulpit, and there,
through a haze, saw old Parson Polsue rubbing his
spectacles and shaking like an aspen. Her wits only
came back to her when the Tory candidates, in the
pew before her, reached for their hats and prepared
to follow the mob. Dr. Macann was actually fumbling
with the button of the door. Quick as thought then
she seized a hassock, sprang on it, and, reaching over
the partition, pressed a hand down on his chestnut
wig.

"Sit still — sit still, man!" she commanded.
148

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

"Thee'rt throwing helve after hatchet, I tell 'ee.
What's a stomach-ache, after all ?"

"I don't follow you, Mrs. Lebow," said the Doctor :
and small blame to him.

"Never you mind about understanding," said
Kitty. "But sit you down and keep your eye on the
Parson. See the colour on him — ^that's anger, my
dear I And see his jaw, full of blessed stubbornness I
Nine good votes he has, and old Grandison a couple
beside: and every one of ^em as good as cast for you,
if you'll sit it out. Sit quiet for two minutes now,
and to-morrow you shall sit for Ardevora."

"But the crowd?" the Doctor couldn't help mur-
muring, though none the less he obeyed.

Kitty's eye began to twinkle. "Leave the crowd
to me," she was beginning, when her eye lit on John
a Hall, that had entered and was making his way
towards the pulpit, from which in the fury of his
anger old Polsue was climbing down with a nimble-
ness you wouldn't believe. And with that she almost
laughed out, for a worse peacemaker the Whigs
couldn't have chosen. But Major Dyngwall had sent
him, having none to advise, and being near to his
wits' end, poor young man.

"Beg your pardon, Parson," began John k Hall,
stepping up with that grin on his face whidb he

149

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

couldn't help and which the Parson ahominated : ^^t
Pm here to bring Lord William's compliments and
apologies, and assure you from him that your sermon
had nothing to do with his stomach-ache. Nothing
whatever 1"

Parson Polsue opened his mouth to answer, but
thought better of it. I reckon he remembered the
sacred edifice. At any rate he went past John iL Hall
with a terrific turn of speed, and old Grandison after
him : and the next news was the vestry-door slanmied-
to behind them both, as 'twere with the very wind of
wrath.

"And my poor mother used to recommend it for
the colic!" said Kitty; which puzzled the Doctor
worse than ever.

Before evening 'twas known through Ardevora that
the Parson's votes and interests had been booked by
the Tories ; which, of course, only made the Church
rebels (as you might call them) the more set on stand-
ing by their conversion and voting for the Whigs.
Nobody could tell their numbers for certain, but no-
body put them down under twenty ; and both the Doc-
tor and Mr. Saule called on Kitty that evening with
faces like fiddles. But Kitty wasn't to be daunted.

150

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

"My dears," she said, "if the worst comes to the worst,
and you can't win these votes back by four o'clock to-
morrow, I've a stocking full of guineas at your service ;
and I ha'n't lived in Ardevora all this while without
picking up the knowledge how to spend 'em; and
thaVs at your service too. But we'll try a cheaper
way firsf," says she, smiling to herself very com-
fortably.

Up at Tregoose they'd put Lord William and the
old Squire to bed: and a score of Whig supporters
spent the best part of the evening downstairs in the
dining-room, with Major Dyngwall in the chair,
working out the Voters' List and making fresh calcu-
lations. On the whole they felt cheerful enough, and
showed it : but they had to own, first, that the Parson's
votes were almost as bad as lost, whereas the amount
of gains couldn't be reckoned with certainty: and
second, that, resting as they did upon a confusion be-
tween religious feeling and the stomach-ache, 'twas
important that Lord William should recover by next
morning, show himself about the town and at the
hustings, and clinch the mistake. John a Hall, who
had a head on his shoulders when parsons weren't
concerned, shook it at this. He didn't believe for a
moment that Lord William could be brought up to
the poll; and as it turned out, he was right. But

151

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

towards the end of the discussion he put forward a
very clever suggestion.

"I don't know," says he, "if the Major here's an
early riser ?"

"Moderately," says Major Dyngwall, looking for
the moment as if the question took him fairly aback.
They didn't think much of this at the time, but it
came back to their minds later on.

"Well, then," says John a Hall, "you're all terrible
certain about the Parson's votes being lost ; but dang
me if I've lost hope of 'em yet Though I can't do
it myself, I believe the old fool could be handled. By
five in the morning, say, we shall know about Lord
William. If he can't leave his bed — and I'll bet he
can't — I suggest that the Major steps down, pays an
early call, and tells Parson the simple truth from be-
ginning to end."

"An excellent suggestion !" put in Mr. Newte. "I
was about to make it myself. There's nothing like
telling the truth, after all : and I'll take care it doesn't
get about the town till the poll's closed."

Well, so it was arranged : and early next morning,
after dressing himself very carefully and making sure
that Lord William couldn't leave his room (he was
as yellow as an egg, poor fellow, with a kind of mild
janders), away the Major starts upon his errand,

152

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

promising to be back by seven, to be driven down to
the poll behind a brass band.

On the stroke of eight, when Eoger Newte, as
Mayor and Eetuming Officer, declared the poll open,
down the street came the blue-and-gold band, with
Dr. Macann and Mr. Saule behind it bowing and
smiling in a two-horse shay, and a fine pillaloo of
supporters. They cheered like mad to find themselves
first in the field, though disappointed in their hearts
(I believe), having counted on a turn-up with the
opposition band, just to start the day sociably. The
Tory candidates climbed the hustings, and there the
Doctor fired off six speeches and Mr. Saule a couple,
while the votes came rolling in like pennies at the door
of a menagerie. And still no sign of the Whigs, nor
sound of any band from the direction of Tregoose.
By half -past eight Eoger Newte was looking nervous,
and began to send off small boys to hurry his friends
up. Towards nine o'clock Dr. Macann made another
speech, and set the crowd roaring with "'Tis the voice
of the sluggard,^' out of Dr. Watts's hymn-book. "But
I don't even hear his voice !" said he, very facetious-
like: and "Seriously, gentlemen, my Whig friends
might be more careful of your feelings. We know
that they consider Ardevora their own : but they might
at least avoid insulting the British Liberty they have

153

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

injured^^ — ^telling words, these, I can assure you.
"Nor,'' he went on, "is it quite fair treatment of our
worthy Mayor here, who cannot be expected, single-
handed, to defy you as he defied the Court of King's
Bench and treat your votes as he treated your Rate
List." Newte had to stand there and swallow this^
though it was poison to him, and he swore next day
he'd willingly spend ten years in the pit of the wicked
for getting quits with Macann. But what fairly
knocked the fight out of him was to see, five minutes
later, old Parson Polsue totter up the steps towards
him with a jaw stuck out like a mule's, and Grandison
behind, and all their contingent Though made up
of Tories to a man, the crowd couldn't help hissing;
but it affected the old Parson not a doit

"Macann and Saule," said he, speaking up sharp
and loud : and at the names the hissing became a dieer
fit to lift the roofs off their eaves.

Newte fairly forgot himself. "Ha — ^haven't you
seen Major Dyngwall this morning ?" he managed to
ask.

And with that the crowd below parted, and John k
Hall came roaring through it like a bull.

"Where's the Major? Major Dyngwall! Who's
seen Major Dyngwall ?"

"Ay, we're all asking that ?" called out some per-
154

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

8on^ sarcastic-like: and all began to laugh and to boo.
But John a Hall caught at the rail and swung himself
up the steps.

"You thundering fools 1" he bellowed. "Is it foul
play that tickles you ? One of our candidates youVe
contrived to poison, and I've left him at Tregoose
between life and death. What have you done with
the other?'' By this time he had the mob fairly
hushed and gaping. "What have you done with the
other ?" he shouted, banging his fist down on the Re-
turning Officer's table. "Let Parson Polsue speak
first, for to my knowledge the Major was bound for
his lodgings when last seen."

"I haven't set eyes on him," said Parson Polsue.

"I saw him!" piped up a woman in the crowd.
"I saw him about six this morning. He was walking
along the foreshore towards Mr. Grandison's."

At this everyone turned to the Curate ; but he shook
his head. "Major Dyngwall has not called on me this
morning. Indeed, I have not seen him."

"Then run you and search — ^half a dozen of you !"
commanded John a Hall. "I'll get to the bottom of
this, I warn you. And as for you, Dr. Macann, and
you, Mr. Saule — if you haven't learnt the difference
between honest fighting and poisoning — ^kidnapping

— ^murder, maybe "

155

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

But he got no further. ^^That's enou^ of big
words," said a voice, very quiet, but so that all had
to listen : and behold, there was Kitty Lebow mount-
ing the steps, as cool as cream in a dairy.

She landed on the platform and took a glance about
her, and the folk read in her eye that she had come
to enjoy herself. "Reckon I have a right here so well
as the best of you, since you put me on the Bate List,"
says she, with a dry sort of twinkle. And with that
she rounded on John a Hall. "I think I heard you
talkin' of poison, Mr. Martin," says she, "not to men-
tion kidnapping, and worse. And you asked, or my
ears deceived me, if we knew the difference between
poison and fair play? Well, we do. And likewise
we know the difference between sickness and sham-
ming; and likewise, again, the difference between
making a demonstration in church and walking out
because youVe three fingers of White Ale inside you
and it don't lie down with your other vittles. I ask
ye, folks all" — and here she swung round to the crowd
— "did ever one of you hear that Christiana Lebow's
White Ale was poison? Hasn't it been known and
famous in this town before ever a Martin came to
trouble us ? And hasn't it times and again steadied
my own inside when it rebelled against their attor-
ney's — tricks? Well now, I tell you, I gave three

156

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

fingers of it to Lord William yesterday when he called
in the way of politeness on his road to church : and
sorry I am for the young man ; and wouldn't ha' done
it if I guessed he'd been taking coffee with his break-
fast For White Ale and coffee be like Bottrells and
Martins: they weren't made to mix. And another
three fingers I doled out to the old Squire, and more
by token 'twas the first time he'd ever darkened my
threshold. That's my story : 'tis truth from a truth-
speaking woman. And now if any silly fellow is go-
ing to vote Whig because o' yesterday, all I can say
is — let him drink a breakfast cup of coffee and come
to me for a glass of the other stuff; and if in forty
minutes' time he's got any particular concern about
Church matters, you may call me a — a — Martin !"

"That's all very well, ma'am," shouted John a Hall,
as soon as he could make himself heard for the laugh-
ing. "But it don't account for the Major."

"'Twasn't meant to, my son," snapped Kitty, by
this time in high good humour over her success as a
public speaker. "But you started to talk about poison,
so I thought I'd correct 'ee before you made a second
goose of yourself over kidnapping."

But just at this moment a couple of men came run-
ning and shouting from the far end of the street.

"We've found 'en ! We've found 'en !"
157

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

"Where is he tof^ and "I told you so 1'' cried John
a Hall and Kitty both in one breath.

"He's over 'pon the Island, making love to Mrs.
LeboVs youngest daughter, Lallyl The tide's cut
'em off; but Arch'laus Trebiloock's put off to fetch
'em home in his new boat 1"

I've heard tell that Kitty took it steady as a regi-
ment. It must have been a dreadful moment, the
laughter turning on a sudden against her. But she
stood for a while, and then to the surprise of everyone
she lifted her head and smiled with the best. Then
she caught old Polsue's eye, who was watching her
as only a parson can, and, like a woman, she fixed on
him as the man to answer.

"I reckon I can trust a daughter o' mine," says
she.

It must have been nervous work for her, though,
as they brought the pair along the street: and poor
Lally didn't help her much by looking a picture of
shame. But the Major stepped along gaily and up
to the platform ; and I'll warrant a tier of guns there
couldn't have tried a man's courage worse.

"I humbly beg your pardon, madam. The tide cut
us off while I was engaged in persuading your daugh-
ter to accept my hand. I cannot tell you" — ^here he
let fly a lover's glance at Lally — "if the delay helped

158

THE MAZED ELECTION (1768)

me. But she has accepted me, ma'am, and with your
leave we shall be the happiest couple in England."

They do say that Mrs. Lebow's hand went up to
box the poor girl's ears. But the Bottrells had wits
as well as breed, one and all; and it ended by her
giving the Major two fingers and dropping him one
of those curtseys that I've described to you already.

Ay, and the cream of the fun was that, what with
her public speaking for one party and giving her
daughter to the other, the doubtful voters couldn't
for the life of them tell how to please her. "I'll vote,
if you please, for Mrs. Lebow," said more than one
of them, "if you'll tell me which side she's for." And
I suppose that gave Newte his chance. At any rate,
he returned Lord William and Major Dyngwall as
polling 85 and 127 against Dr. Macann 42 and Mr.
Saule 36. And so Miss Lally became a Member of
Parliament's wife and rode in her coach.

"Indeed, and I'm sony for Macann," said Kitty
that night, as she untied her bonnet-strings ; *T)ut tak-
ing one thing with another, 'tis long since I've had
such an enjoyable day."

159

THE HOTWELLS DUEL

FEOM THE MEMOIES OF JOSHUA FRAMP-

TON, ESQ., LATE HONOEAEY PHY.

SICIAN TO THE WELLS, AND

SUEGEON

I cannot pass this year 1790 without speaking of a
ridiculous adventure which, but that it providentially
happened at the close of our season, when the Spa was
emptying and our fashionables talked more of pack-
ing their trunks than of the newest scandals, might
have done me some professional damage besides bring-
ing unmerited public laughter upon the heads of two
honest gentlemen. As it was, our leading news-sheet,
the Hotwells Courant, did not even smoke the affair,
and so lost a nine days' wonder ; while the Whig Ex-
aminery after printing an item which threw me into
a two days' perspiration, forbore to follow up the
scent — ^the reason being that Mr. Lemoine, its editor,
was shortly expecting an addition to his family, and,
knowing his nervousness upon these occasions and his
singular confidence in my skill, I was able to engage

163

THE HOTWELLS DUEL

him by arguments to which at another time he might
have listened less amiably.

I have already related how, on the approach of
autumn, I advertised for an assistant. The young
man whom I selected was a Scotsman from the Uni-
versity of Glasgow, Duncan MacBea by name, and
no youth of his age could have brought better testi-
monials to ability or diaracter. Relying upon these,
I did not stand out for an interview — his home lying
so far away as Largs, in Ayrshire — ^but came to terms
at once, and he arrived at my door with his valise
at the untimely hour of five in the morning, the fif-
teenth of October, having travelled all the way to
Bristol in a ship laden with salted herrings.

I will own that this apparition on my doorstep in
the cold morning light (he had rung the night-bell)
surprised me somewhat. But I remembered the pro-
verbial impetuosity of Scotsmen in pushing their
fortunes, and his personal appearance may have helped
to conciliate me, since my mind had misgiven me that
I had done wiser to insist on an interview, instead of
buying a pig in a poke ; for looks no less than knowl-
edge are a physician's passepartout among the ladies
who bring their ailments to our provincial spas. The
face which the lad lifted towards my bedroom window
was a remarkably handsome one, though pallid, and

164

THE HOTWELLS DUEL

the voice in which he answered my challenge had a
foreign intonation, but musical and in no way re-
sembling the brogue for which I had been preparing
myself.

So delighted was I at this dissipation of my fears
that, slipping on my dressing-gown (I believe without
removing my nightcap), and pausing only on the
landing to call up to the maidservants to light a fire
and prepare coffee with all speed, I hurried down-
stairs and unbarred the door. Whereupon Master
MacBea instantly and with great cordiality shook me
by the hand.

"It is a great pleasure to me. Dr. Frampton, to
make your acquaintance, more especially, sir, to find
you surrounded by those evidences of a prosperous
practice which I had indeed inferred from your gen-
teel reticence and the quality of your notepaper. At
the end of a long journey, undertaken on the strength
of that inference, it is delightful to find my best hopes
confirmed."

He shook me by the hand again very warmly.
Taken aback by this extraordinary address, I gasped
once or twice, and even then could find nothing better
to say than that he must have found his journey
fatiguing.

"Fatiguing, perhaps, but not tiresome. To the
165

THE HOTWELLS DUEL

philosophic mind^ Dr. Erampton, there should be no
such thing as tedium^ boredom^ ennui, and I trust that
mine is philosophic. You were much in my thoughts,
sir, between the attacks of sea-sickness. By frequent
perusal I had committed your two epistles to memory,
and while silently rehearsing their well-turned sen-
tences, in the words of Dr. Samuel Johnson I pursued
in imagination the pleasures of hope, yet without lis-
tening to the whispers of credulity — ^for I was pre-
pared to find your flattering description fade upon a
nearer prospect. But I am reassured 1^'

Positively he shook hands for a third time. Con-
found the fellow 1 I had merely hinted that my pa-
tients, or the most of them, were of good social posi-
tion, and had offered him board and lodging, with a
salary of forty pounds, rising five pounds annually.

"And by Heavens !'^ he exclaimed, spinning round
on his heel at a sound of hasty footsteps crossing the
square, "here comes fresh confirmation! A black
manservant — and, as I live, in a gold-laced hat ! Of
such things I have read in books, but how much live-
lier. Dr. Frampton, is the ocular appeal of reality 1''

It was, to be sure. Major Dignum's black valet
Gumbo, and with a note for me. The fellow's dis-
ordered dress and quick breathing spoke of urgency,
and I broke the seal at once, wondering the while

166

THE HOTWELLS DUEL

what could have befallen the Major, a retired and
gouty West Indian whom I had been visiting daily
for three months at his apartments in the Grand Pump
Hotel. The missive ran : —

"My deab Dr. Fbampton, — ^As a friend rather
than a patient, I beg you to come to me without delay !
Pray ask no questions of Gumbo, who knows nothing.
You will need no spurring when I tell you that though
in no worse than my usual health, a few hours may
see me in eternity. Confidently yours,

"Oblaiok) Dignitm (Major)."

I folded the letter, and nodded to Gumba "Tell
your master that I will delay only to shave and dress
before calling on him.'*

The faithful fellow had been watching me anx-
iously. "In the name of goodness. Doctor, ain't you
going to tell me what's wrong ?"

"I know as little as you,'' said I. "But, whatever
it is, the Major thinks it serious ; so run, my man, and
say that I am following."

With something like a groan, Gumbo started oflf,
and I turned to Mr. MacBea. "You will find a cup
of coffee in your room," I said. "I must attend to
this sudden call; but possibly by the time you have

167

THE HOTWELLS DUEL

washed and changed^ I may be free to rejoin yon at
breakfast, when we can talk at leisure/'

The young man had caught up his valise, but set it
down again and laid three fingers on my sleeve. "You
speak of a change of clothes, sir. I will be frank with
you — ^these breeches in which you behold me are my
only ones. They were a present from my mother's
sister, resident in Paisley, and I misdoubt there will
have been something amiss in her instructions to the
tailor, for they gall me woundily — ^though in justice
to her and the honest tradesman I should add that my
legs, maybe, are out of practice since leaving Glas-
gow. At Largs, sir, I have been reverting to the an-
cestral garb."

"You'll wear no such thing about the Hotwells,"
I interposed.

"Indeed, I was not thinking it likely. My purpose
was to procure another pair on my arrival — ^aye, and
I would do so before breaking fast, had not circum-
stances which I will not detain you by relating put
this for the moment out of the question. Do not mis-
take me, Dr. Frampton. In public I will thole these
dreadful articles, though it cost me my skin ; but in
private, sir, if as a favour you will allow me — ^if, as
a bachelor yourself, you will take it sans gene. And,
by-the-bye, I trust you will not scruple to point out

168

THE HOTWELLS DUEL

any small defects in my French accent, which has
been acquired entirely from books."

He had, in fact, pronounced it "jeen," but I put
this by. "Quite impossible, Mr. MacBea 1 I have to
tiiink of the servants."

"Eh ? You have servants 1"

"Four or five," said I.

His eyes seemed ready to start out of his head.
"I had opined by the way you opened the door with

your own hand " He broke off, and exclaimed :

*Tour or five servants 1 It will be a grand practice
of yours! Well, go your ways, Dr. Frampton — I
must e'en study to live up to you."

Having piloted my eccentric upstairs and left him
to his toilet, I lost no time in dressing and presenting
myself at the Grand Pump Hotel, where I found my
West Indian friend in a truly deplorable state of agi-
tation. His face, ordinarily rubicund, bore traces of
a sleepless night ; indeed, it was plain that he had not
changed his clothes since leaving the Assembly Rooms,
where he invariably spent his evenings at a game of
faro for modest stakes. He grasped my hand, spring-
ing up to do so from a writing-table whereon lay
several sheets of foolscap paper.

"Ah ! my dear friend, you are late 1" was his greet-
ing.

169

THE HOTWELLS DUEL

"I thought I had been moderately expeditious/'
said I.

"Yes, yes — perhaps so/^ He consulted his watch.
"But with an affair of this sort hanging over one, the
minutes drag. And yet, Heaven knows, mine may
be few enough."

"Pardon me," I said, *T)ut to what sort of affair
are you alluding ?"

"An affair of honour," he answered tragically.

"Eh ?" I said. "A duel I You have engaged your-
self to fight a duel ?" He nodded. "Then I will have
nothing to do with it," I announced with decision.

"Aye," said he with marked irony, "it is at such a
pinch that one discovers his true friends ! But fortu-
nately I had no sooner despatdied Gumbo in search
of you than I foresaw some diance of this pusillan-
imity of which you give me proof."

"Pusillanimity ?" I interjected. "It is nothing of
the kind. But you seem to forget my position here
as honorary physician to the Hotwells."

"We'll call it lukewarmness, then," he went on in
yet more biting tones. "At the risk of seeming in-
trusive, I at once knocked up two Irish gentlemen on
the landing above who had been audibly making a
night of it while I sat here endeavouring to compose
my thoughts to the calmness proper for framing a

170

THE HOTWELLS DUEL

testamentary disposition. Although perfect strangers
to me, they cheerfully granted what you have denied
me; consented with alacrity — ^nay, with enthusiasm
— ^to act as my seconds in this affair; and started to
carry my cartel — ^which, having gone to bed in their
boots, they were able to do with the smallest possible
delay/'

"You have not yet told me the nature of the quar-
rel,'* I suggested.

His face at once resumed its wonted colour — ^nay,
took on an extra tinge inclining to purple. "And I
don't intend to 1" he snapped.

"Then you no longer need my services ?"

"Fortunately no, since you make such a pother of
granting them. Stay — ^you might witness my will
here, to which I am about to aflSx my signature.''

"With pleasure," said L "But who is to be the
other witness ? The law requires two, you know."

"Confound it — so it does ! I had forgotten. We
might ring up the Boots, eh ?"

"Better avoid dragging the servants of the hotel
into this business, especially if you would keep your
intention secret How about Gumbo ?"

*T5e's black, to begin with, and moreover he bene-
fits under the document to the extent of a small leg-
acy."

171

THE HOTWELLS DUEL

"That rules him out, at any rate. Ha!" I
exclaimed, glancing out of window, "the very
manr

"WhoT

"An excellent fellow at this moment crossing the
gardens towards the Mall — ^he is early this morning;
a discreet, solid citizen, and able to keep his counsel
as well as any man in the Hotwells; our leading
jeweller, Mr. Jenkinson."

I turned sharply, for the Major had sunk into his
chair with a groan.

" Jenkinson 1" he gasped. " Jenkinson 1 The man's
insatiable — ^he has been watching the hotel in his lust
for blood ! He threatened last night to cut my liver
out and give it to the crows — my unfortunate liver
on which you, Doctor, have wasted so much solicitude !
He used the most extraordinary language — ^not," the
Major added, gripping the arms of his chair and sit-
ting erect, "not that he shall find me slow in answer-
ing his threats."

"My dear Major," I cried, "under what delusion
are you labouring? Mr. Jenkinson, believe me, is
incapable of hurting a fly. Tou must have mistaken
your man. Come and see him for yourself." And
drawing him to the window, I pointed after the figure
of the retreating jeweller.

172

THE HOTWELLS DUEL

The Major's brow cleared. "No," he admitted,
"that is not in the least like him. Still, he gave me
his name as Jenkinson. Oh! decidedly that is not
the man.'*

"The name is not imcommon," said I. "Excuse
me, I must hurry, or he will be out of sight 1" And
I ran downstairs and out into the street as Mr. Jen-
kinson disappeared around the comer. Following
briskly, I brought him into sight again a moment be-
fore he turned aside into a small tavern — "The Lamb
and the Flag'' — ^half-way down the Mall.

Now "The Lamb and the Flag" enjoyed a low rep-
utation, and for a citizen of ordinary respectability
to be seen entering it at that hour — ^well, it invited
surmise. But I knew Mr. Jenkinson to be above sus-
picion ; he might be the ground-landlord — I had heard
of his purchasing several small bits of property about
the town. In short, it was almost with consternation
that, following into the dirty bar, I surprised him in
the act of raising a glass of brandy to his lips with a
trembling hand.

I certainly took him aback, and he almost dropped
the glass. "Excuse me, Dr. Frampton," he stam-
mered, "pray do not think — this indulgence — ^not a
habit, I assure you. Oh, Doctor ! I have passed a
fearful night !"

173

THE HOTWELLS DUEL

"Indeed V^ said I sympathetically. "If my services
can be of use ^^

"No, no," he interrupted, paused, and seemed to
consider. "At least, not yet"

"It seems, then, that I am doubly inopportune,"
I said, "for I have been following you to ask a small
favour — ^not for myself, but for a certain Major
Dignum, at the Orand Pump Hotel; nothing more
than the attesting of a signature — a mere matter of
form."

"Major Dignum t Ah, yes! the name is familiar
to me from the Couranfs Visitors^ List" Mr. Jen-
kinson passed an agitated hand across his forehead.
"I cannot recall seeing him in my shop. By all means,
Doctor — ^to oblige the gentleman — ^in my imhappy
frame of mind — ^it will be a — a distraction."

So back I led the jeweller, explaining on the way
how I had caught sight of him from the hotel window,
and ushered him up to the apartment where the Major
sat impatiently awaiting us.

"Good morning, sir," the Major began, with a bow.
"So your name's Jenkinson? Most extraordinary!
I — I am pleased to hear it, sir."

"Extraordinary!" the Major repeated, as he bent
over the papers to sign them. **I am asking you, Mr.
Jenkinson, to witness this signature to my last will

174

THE HOTWELLS DUEL

and testament In the midst of life — ^by the way,
what is your Christian name V^

"WiUiam, sir."

"Incredible I" The Major boimced np from his
chair and sat down again trembling, while he fumbled
with his waistcoat pocket. "Ah, no ! — ^to be sure — I
gave it to my seconds,'* he muttered. "In the midst
of life ''

'TTou may well say so, sir !** The jeweller took a
seat and adjusted his spectacles as I sanded the
Major's signature and pushed the document across the
table. "A man," Mr. Jenkinson continued, dipping
his pen wide of the ink-pot, "on the point of exchang-
ing time for eternity ^"

'*That thought is peculiarly impleasant to me just
now," the Major interrupted. "May I beg you not
to enlarge upon it ?"

"But I mustj sirl" cried out Mr. Jenkinson, as
thou^ the words were wrested from him by an in-
ward agony; and tearing open his coat, he plucked a
packet of folded papers from his breast-pocket and
slapped it down upon the tabla "You have called me
in, gentlemen, to witness a will. I ask you in return
to witness mine — ^which must be at least ten times
as urgent"

"Another will!" I glanced at the Major, who
176

THE HOTWELLS DUEL

stared wildly about him, but could only mutter:
"Jenkinsonl William Jenkinson I"

"To-morrow, sir," pursued the jeweller, his voice
rising almost to a scream, "you may have forgotten
the transient fears which drove you to this highly
proper precaution. For you the oun will shine, the
larks sing, your blood will course with its accustomed
liveliness, and your breast expand to the health-giving
breeze. I don't blame you for it — oh, dear, no 1 not
in the least. But you will admit it's a totally different
thing to repose beneath the churchyard sod on a mere
point of honour, with an assassin's bullet in your
heart — ^not to mention that he threatened to tear it out
and fling it to the crows I"

"The deuce !" shouted the Major, "your heart, did
you say ?"

"I did, sir."

"You are quite sure ! Your heart ? — ^you are cer-
tain it was your heart? Not your liver? Think,
man!"

"He did not so much as allude to that organ, sir,
though I have no doubt he was capable of it."

While we gazed upon one another, lost in a maze
of extravagant surmise, a riotous rush of feet took the
staircase by storm, and the door crashed open before
two hilarious Irishmen, of whom the spokesman wore

176

THE HOTWELLS DUEL

the reddest thatch of hair it has ever been my lot to
cast eyes on. The other, so far as I can remember,
confined his utterances to frequent, vociferous, and
wholly inarticulate cries of the chase.

The Major presented them to us as Captain Tom
O'Halloran and Mr. Einucane.

"And we've had the diwle's own luck. Major, dear,^'
announced Tom O'Halloran. "The blayguard's from
home. Ah, now! don't be dispirited, 'tis an early
walk he's after takin' ; at laste, that's what the slip
of a gurrl towld us who answered the door; and
mighty surprised she seemed to open it to a pair of
customers at such an hour. Eor what d'ye suppose
he calls himself when he's at home ? A jooler, sorr ;
a dirthy jooler."

"A jeweller !" I cried aloud.

"No more, no less. Says I, there's quare gentle-
folks going in these times, but I don't cool my heels
waitin' in a jooler's jshop with a challenge for the
principal when he chooses to walk in to business. So
I said to the gurrl : *You may tell your master,' I
said, there's two gentlemen have called, and will have
his blood yet in a bottle,' I said ; T)ut any time will
do between this and to-morrow.' And with that I
came away. But Mr. Finucane here suggested that,
whilst we were at it, we might save time and engage

177

THE HOTWELLS DUEL

the surgeon. So on our way back we rang up Dr.
Erampton. No luck again ; the doctor was out. Faix !
early walkin' seems the fashion at this health resort.
But we've brought along his assistant, if that's any
use to you, and he's downstairs at this moment on the
door-mat."

The captain put his head outside and whistled.
Mr. Finucane assisted with a lifelike imitation of a
coach-horn, and Mr. MacBea, thus summoned, ap-
peared upon the threshold.

I cannot accurately describe what followed, for the
jeweller, by casting himself into my arms, engaged
a disproportionate share of my attention. I believe
the Major caught up a loo table and held it before him
as a shield.

^TTou see," said Mr. MacBea, that afternoon, as I
escorted him to the office of the Bath Coaching Com-
pany, to book his seat for that city, "on arriving at
the Hotwells last evening, I naturally wished. Dr.
Frampton, to assure myself that your position as a
medical man answered to the glowing descriptions of
it in your correspondence. I could think of no better
method to arrive at this than by mingling with the
gay throng in the Assembly Rooms; and I deemed

178

THE HOTWELLS DUEL

that to take a hand at cards at the public tables would
be the surest way to overhear the chit-chat of the fash-
ionable world, and maybe elicit its opinion of you.
But alas, sir 1 a man cannot play at the cards without
exposing himself to the risk of losing. At the first
table I lost — ^not heavily indeed, yet considerably. I
rose and changed to another table ; again I lost— this
time the last sixpence in my pocket. Now, it is an
idiosyncrasy of mine, maybe, but I cannot lose at the
cards without losing also my temper; and the form
it takes with me. Dr. Frampton, is too often an in-
controllable impulse to pidl the winner^s nose. I have
argued with myself against this tendency a score of
times, but it will not be denied. So, sir, last night,
penniless and in a foreign land, I paced to and fro
beneath the trees in front of the Assembly Rooms,
and when this Mr. Jenkinson emerged, I accosted him
and pulled his nose. To my astonishment he gave me
a ticket and assured me that I should hear from him.
Sir, we have no such practice at Largs, but it is liiy
desire to conform with the customs of this country,
especially in matters of etiquette. Consequently,
after pulling the second gentleman^s nose, I handed
him the first gentleman^s ticket, having none of my
own and being ignorant (in the darkness) that it bore
the first gentleman's name. It was a mischance, sir,

17©

THE HOTWELLS DUEL

but so far as I can see one that might have happened
to anybody. You say that even after apologising — •
for on reflection I am always willing to apologise for
any conduct into which my infirmity of temper may
have betrayed me — ^it is impossible for me to continue
here as your assistant. I am glad, then, that prudence
coimselled me to provide two strings to my bow, and
engage myself to Dr. Mathers of Bath, on the chance
that you proved unsatisfactory ; and I thank you for
the month's salary, which I could not perhaps claim
tmder the circumstances as a right, but which I am
happy to accept as a favour."

180

CLEEVE COURT

CLEEVE COURT
I

Cleeve Court, known now as Cleeve Old Court, sits
deep in a valley beside a brook and a level meadow,
across which it looks southward upon climbing woods
and glades descending here and there between them
like broad green rivers. Above, the valley narrows
almost to a gorge, with scarps of limestone, grey and
red-streaked, jutting sheer over its alder beds and
fern-screened waterfalls ; and so zigzags up to the mill
and hamlet of Ipplewell, beyond which spread the
moors. Below, it bends southward and widens grad-
ually for a mile to the market-town of Cleeve Abbots,
where by a Norman bridge of ten ardies its brook
joins a large river, and their waters, scarcely mingled,
are met by the sea tides, spent and warm with crawling
over the sandbanks of a six-mile estuary.

Cleeve Old Court sees neither the limestone crags
above nor the town belbw, but sits sequestered in its
own bend of the valley, in its own clearing amid the
heavy elms; so sheltered that, even in March and

183'

CLEEVE COUET

November, when the wind sings aloft on the ridges,
the smoke mounts straight from its chimneys and the
trees drip as steadily as though they were clocks and
marked the seconds perfunctorily, with no real inter-
est in the lapse of time. For the house, with its
round-shouldered Jacobean gables, its stone-cropped
roof, lichen-spotted plaster, and ill-kept yew hedge,
has an air of resignation to decay, well-bred but spirit-
less, and communicates it to the whole of its small
landscape. Our old builders chose their sites for shel-
ter rather than for view; and this — and perhaps a
well of exquisite water bubbling by the garden gate
on the very lip of the brook — ^must explain the situ-
ation of the Old Court. Its present owner — ^being
inordinately rich — ^had abandoned it to his bailiff, and
built himself a lordly barrack on the ridge, command-
ing views that stretch from the moors to the sea. For
this nine out of ten would commend him ; but no true
a Cleeve would ever have owned so much of audacity
or disowned so much of tradition, and he has wasted
a compliment on the perished family by assuming its
name.

The last a Cleeve who should have inherited Cleeve
Court returned to it for the last time on a grey and
dripping afternoon in 1805 — on the same day and at
the same hour, in fact, when, hundreds of miles to

184

CLEEVE COUET

the southward, our guns were banging to victory off
Cape Trafalgar. Here, at home, on the edge of the
Cleeve woods, the air hung heavy and soundless, its
silence emphasised rather than broken now and again
by the JcuJc-Jcuh of a pheasant in the undergrowth.
Above the plantations, along the stubbled uplands,
long inert banks of vapour hid the sky-line ; and out
of these Walter a Cleeve came limping across the
ridge, his figure looming unnaturally.

He limped because he had walked all the way from
Plymouth in a pair of French sabots — a penitential
tramp for a youth who loathed walking at the best
of times. He knew his way perfectly, although he
followed no path; yet, coming to the fringe of the
woodland, he turned aside and skirted the fence as
if unexpectedly headed off by it. And this behaviour
seemed highly suspicious to Jim Burden, the under-
keeper, who, not recognising his young master, de-
cided that here was a stranger up to no good.

Jim's mind ran on poachers this year. Indeed he
had little else to brood over and very little else to
discuss with Macklin, the head keeper. The Cleeve
coverts had come to a pretty pass, and, as things were
going, could only end in worse. Here they were close
on the third week in October, and not a gun had been
fired. Last season it had been bad enough, and indeed

185

CLEEVE COURT

ever since the black day which brought news that
young Mr. Walter was a prisoner among the French.
"No more shooting-parties^ no more big beats, no more
handsome gratuities for Macklin and windfalls for
Jim Burden I Nevertheless, the Squire, with a friend
or two, had shot the coverts after a fashion. The
blow had shaken him: uncertainty, anxiety of this
sort for his heir and only child, must prey upon any
man's mind. Still (his friends argued) the cure lay
in his lifelong habits ; these were the firm ground on
which he would feel his footing again and recover
himself — since, if so colourless a man could be said
to nurse a passion, it was for his game. A strict Tory
by breeding, and less by any process of intellectual
conviction than from sheer inability to see himself in
any other light, indolent and contemptuous of poli-
tics, in game-preserving alone he let his Toryism run
into activity, even to a fine excess. 'The Cleeve cov-
erts, for instance, harboured none but pheasants of
the old pure breed, since extinct in England — ^the true
Colchian — and the Squire was capable of maintain-
ing that these not only gave honester sport (whatever
he meant by this), but were better eating than any
birds of later importation (which was absurd). The
appearance — old Macklin declared — of a single green-
plumed or white-ringed bird within a mile of Cleeve

186

CLEEVE COUET

Court was enough to give him a fit : certainly it would
irritate him more than any poacher could — ^though
poachers^ too, were poison.

When first the Squire took to neglecting his guns
all set it down to a passing dejection of spirit. He
alone knew that he nursed a wound incurable unless
his son returned, and that this distaste was but an
early stage in his ailing. Being a man of reserved
and sensitive soul, into which no fellow-creature had
been allowed to look, he told his secret to no one, not
even to his wife. She — ^a Eoman Catholic and devout
— ^had lived for many years almost entirely apart from
him, occupying her own rooms, divided between her
books and the spiritual consolations of Father Hal-
loran, who had a lodging at the Court and a board
of his own. In spite of the priest's demure eye and
neat Irish wit, the three made a melancholy house-
hold.

"As melancholy as a nest of gib cats,'* said old
Macklin. "And I feel it coming over me at nights
up at my cottage. How's a man to sleep, knowing
the whole place so scandalously overstocked — ^the
birds that tame they run between your legs — and no
leave to use a gun, even to club *em into good man-
ners?''

"Leave it to Charley Hannaford," growled Jun
187

CLEEVE COUET

bitterly. "He'll soon weed us out neat and clean. I
wonder the Squire don't pay him for doing our
work."

The head keeper looked up sharply. "Know any-
thing ?" he asked laconically.

Jim answered one question with another. "See
Hannaf ord's wife in church last Sunday ?"

"Wasn't there — ^had too much to employ me walk-
ing the coverts. I believe a man's duty comes before
his church-going at this time o' year ; but I suppose
there's no use to argue with a lad when he's court-
ing."

"Courting or not, I was there ; and, what's more,
I had it reckoned up for me how much money Bess
Hannaf ord wore on her back. So even going to church
may come in useful, Sam Macklin, if a man's got
eyes in his head."

"Argyments!" sniffed the head keeper. "You'll
be some time lagging Charley Hannaford with argy-
ments. Coverts is coverts, my son, and Bow Street
is Bow Street. Keep 'em separate."

"Stop a minute. That long-legg'd boy of his is
home from service at Exeter. Back in the summer
I heard tell he was getting on famous as a footman,
and liked his place. Seems to have changed his mind,
or else the Hannafords are settin' up a footman of

188

CLEEVE COURT

their own." (Jim, when put out, had a gift of sar-
casm.)

"Bow Street again," said Macklin stolidly, puflSng
at his pipe. "Anything more ?"

"Well, yes" — Jim at this point began to drawl his
words — "you've cast an eye, no doubt, over the apple
heaps in Hannaford's back orchard?"

Macklin nodded.

"Like the looks o' them?"

"Not much. Anything more ?"

Jim's gaze wandered carelessly to the horizon, and
his drawl grew slower yet as he led up to his triimiph.
"Not much — only I took a stroll down to town Satur-
day night, and dropped in upon Beame, the chemist
Hannaford had been there that afternoon buying nux
vomica."

"No?" The elder man was startled, and showed
it. "The gormed rascal! That was a clever stroke
of yours, though, I will say."

Jim managed to conceal his satisfaction with a
frown. "If I don't get a charge of buckshot some-
where into Charles Hannaford between this and
Christmas I'm going to enlist !" he announced.

But Macklin did not hear, being occupied for the
moment with this new evidence of Hannaford's guile,
which he contemplated, be it said, more dispassion-

189

CLEEVE POUET

ately than did Jim. In Jim there rankled a veno-
mous personal grudge^ dating from the day when,
having paid an Exeter taxidermist for a beautifully
stuffed Phasiantis colchicus, he had borne the bird
home, cunningly aflSxed it to a roosting-bough, and
left it there looking as natural as life. On arriving
at the tree early next morning he found Macklin (to
whom he had not imparted the secret) already there,
and staring aloft with a puzzled grin. Someone had
decorated the bird during the night with a thin collar
of white linen. "Very curious," explained Macklin ;
"I got a 'nonamous letter last night, pushed under
my door, and tellin' me there was a scandalous ring-
necked bird roosting hereabouts. The fellow went on
to say he wouldn't have troubled me but for knowing
the Squire to be so particular set against this breed,
and wound up by signing himself ^Yours truly, A
Well-wisheb.' "

The worse of it was that Macklin found the joke
too good to keep it to himself : by this time the whole
countryside knew of Jim's visit to the "tackyderma-
tist," and maddening allusions to it had kept Jim's
temper raw and his fists pretty active.

So it was that, on the misty afternoon when young
Mr. Walter a Cleeve passed him unawares, Jim had
been standing for twenty minutes flat against a tree

190

CLEEVE COURT

on the upper outskirts of the plantation^ sunk in a
brown study. The apparition startled him, for the
thick air deadened the sound of footsteps; and the
sound, when it fell on his ears, held something un-
familiar. (Jim was unacquainted with sabots.) He
stood perfectly still, let it go by, and at once prepared
to follow — ^not that his suspicions connected this
stranger with Charley Hannaford, who habitually
worked alone, but because the man's gait ("He lopped
like a hare," said Jim afterwards) and peculiar
slouch of the shoulders somehow aroused his misgiv-
ings. Who could this be ? And what might be his
business that he followed no path, yet seemed to be
walking with a purpose ?

A shallow ditch ran along the inner side of the
fence, clear of undergrowth and half filled with rotted
leaves. Along this Jim followed, gun in hand, keep-
ing his quarry's head and shoulders well in sight over
the coping. This was laborious work, for he plunged
ankle-deep at every step ; but the leaves, sodden with
a week's rain, made a noiseless carpet, whereas
the brushwood might have crackled and betrayed
him.

Walter i Cleeve limped forward, not once turning
his head. These were his paternal acres, and he knew
every inch of them, almost every spot of lichen along

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CLEEVE COURT

the fence* Abroad he had dreamed of them^ ni^t
after night ; but he did not pause to regreet them now,
for his thoughts were busy ahead, in the Court now
directly beneath him in the valley ; and in his thoughts
he was there already, announcing himself, facing his
mother in her unchanged room, and his father in the
library.

Amid these thoughts (and they were anxious ones)
he reached the point for which he had been steering,
a platform of rock and thin turf from which a lime-
stone cliff, parting the woods, descended almost sheer
to the valley. The White Eock it was called, and as
a child Walter a Cleeve had climbed about it a score
of times in search of madrepores ; for a gully ran down
beside it, half choked with fern and scree, and from
the gully here and there a ledge ran out across the
diff-face, otherwise inaccessible. The gully itself,
though daunting at fist sight, gave, in fact, a short
cut down to the meadows above Cleeve Court, easy
and moderately safe. Walter a Cleeve plunged into it
without hesitation.

Now it so happened that at this moment, some fifty
yards down the gully, and well screened by the over-
hanging rock, Charley Hannaford was crouching with
a wire in his hand. Even had you known his where-
abouts and his business, it would have been hard to

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CLEEVE COUET

stalk Charley Hannaford single-handed on the face
of the White Eock. But the wiliest poacher cannot
provide against such an accident as this — ^that a young
gentleman, supposed to be in France, should return
by an unfrequented path, and by reason of an awk-
ward French boot catch his toe and slide precipitately,
without warning, down twenty feet of scree, to drop
another six feet on to a grassy ledge. Yet this is just
what happened. Charley Hannaford, already prick-
ing up his ears at the unfamiliar footfall up the gully,
had scarcely time to rise on his knees in readiness for
retreat, when Walter a Cleeve came sprawling almost
on top of him.

"Hallo!" gasped Walter, scarcely more confused
by his fall than by the singular meeting. "Clumsy
of me " His eyes fell on the wire which Hanna-
ford was stealthily trying to pocket, and grew wide
with understanding. Then they sought the ground
by Hannaf ord's feet, and glanced from that up to the
fence of the plantation overhanging the far side of the

gully.

"Well, Charles Hannaford, you don't look over-
joyed to see me home again !"

The poacher grinned awkwardly. He was caught,
for certain : nevertheless, his wariness did not desert
bim.

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CLEEVE COUET

'TTou took me rather sudden, Mr. Walter."

"That's fairly evident. Maize, eh ?" He scooped
a few grains into his palm and sniffed at them. ^^£et-
ter maize than my father's, no doubt Where's
MacklinT

"Somewheres about. I say, Mr. Walter "

"And JimBurdonT

"Near abouts, too. Be you goin' to tell on me ?"

"Why on earth shouldn't I? It's robbery, you
know, and I don't care any more than my father does
for being robbed."

"That was a nasty tumble of yours, sir."

"Yes, I suppose it was something of a spill. But
I'm not hurt, thank you."

"It might ha' been a sight worse," said Charley
Hannaford reflectively. "A foot or two more, now —
and the rock, if I remember, sloping outwards just
here below." He leaned his head sideways and seemed
to drop a casual glance over the ledge.

Walter knew that the drop just there was a very
nasty one indeed. "Oh, but yon's where I came over

— I couldn't have fallen quite so wide " he began

to explain, and checked himself, reading the queer
strained smile on Hannaford's face.

"I — I reckon we'll call it Providence, all the same,"
said the poacher.

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CLEEVE COUET

Then Walter understood. The man was desperatej
and he — ^he, Walter a Cleeve, was a coward.

Had he known it, across the gully a pair of eyes
were watching. He had help within call. Jim Bur-
don had come to the upper end of the plantation a few
seconds too late to witness the accident. By the time
he reached the hedge there and peered over, Walter
had disappeared; and Jim — considerably puzzled,
half inclined to believe that the stranger had walked
over the edge of the White Eock and broken his neck
— ^worked his way down the lateral fence beside the
gully, to be brought up standing by the sight of the
man he sought, safe and sound, and apparently en-
gaged in friendly chat with Charley Hannaf ord.

But Walter a Cleeve^s back was turned towards the
fence, and again Jim failed to recognise him. And
Jim peered over the fence through a gorse-whin, un-
detected even by the poacher's clever eyes.

"It's queer, too," went on Charley Hannaford
slowly, as if chewing each word. "I hadn't even
heard tell they was expectin' you, down at the
Court."

"They are not," Walter answered. He scarcely
thought of the words, which indeed seemed to him
to be spoken by somebody else. He was even aston-
ished at the firmness of their sound; but he knew that

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CLEEVE COUET

his face was white, and all the while he was measur-
ing Hannaf ord's lithe figure, and calculating rapidly.
J ust here he stood at a disadvantage : a sidelong spring
might save him: it would take but a second. On the
other hand, if during that second or less . . . His
eyes were averted from the verge, and yet he saw it,
and his senses apprised every foot of the long fall
beyond. While he thought it out, keeping tension
on himself to meet Charley Hannaford's gaze with a
deceptive indifference, his heart swelled at the humil-
iation of it all. He had escaped from a two years*
captivity — and, Heavens! how he had suffered over
there, in France ! He had run risks : his adventures
— ^bating one unhappy blot upon them, which surely
did not infect the whole — ^might almost be called
heroic. And here he was, within a few hundred yards
of home, ignominiously trapped. The worst of it was
that death refused to present itself to him as possible.
He knew that he could save himself by a word: he
foresaw quite clearly that he was going to utter it.
What enraged him was the equal certainty that a
courageous man — one with the tradition he ought to
have inherited — ^would behave quite differently. It
was not death, but his own shameful cowardice, that
he looked in the face during those moments.

Into the poacher's eyes there crept his habitual
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CLEEVE COUET

shifty smile. "You'll have a lot to tell 'em down
there, Mr. Walter, without troublin' about me."

The unhappy lad forced a laugh. "You might say
so, if you knew what IVe been through. One doesn't
escape out of France in these days without adventures,
and mine would make pretty good reading."

"Surely, sir."

"But if I — if I overlook this affair, it's not to be a
precedent, you understand. I intend to live at home
now and look after the estate. My father will wish
it"

"To be sure."

"And stealing's stealing. If I choose to keep my
own counsel about this, you are not to suppose I shall
forget it. The others suspect only, but I know; and
henceforth I advise you to bear that in mind.'^

"And much obliged to you, sir. I know a gentle-
man and can trust his word."

"So the best advice I can give you is to turn over a
new leaf." Walter turned to go with an air of care-
less magnanimity, conscious of the sorry part he was
playing, yet not wholly without hope that it imposed
upon the other. "I want to be friends with all my
neighbours, you understand. Good-bye."

He nodded curtly and began to pick his way down
the gully with a slowness almost ostentatious. And

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CLEEVE COUET

as he went he cursed his weakness, and broke off curs-
ing to reconstruct the scene from the beginning and
imagine himself carrying it off with contemptuous
fearlessness, at hand-grips with Charley Hannaford
and defying him. He would (he felt) give the
world to see the look Charley Hannaford flung after
him.

The poadier's eyes did indeed follow him till he
disappeared, but it would have taken a wise man to
read them. After a meditative minute or so he coiled
up his wire, pocketed it, and made off across the face
of the rock by a giddy track whidi withdrew him at
once from Jim Burden's sight.

And Jim Burden, pondering what he had seen,
withdrew himself from hiding and went off to report
to Macklin that Charley Hannaford had an accom-
plice, that the pair were laying snares on the White
Eock, and that a little caution would lay them both
by the heels.

Walter a Cleeve did not arrive at the Court by the
front entrance, but by a door which admitted to his
mother's wing of the house, through the eastern garden
secluded and reserved for her use. This was his way.
From childhood he and his mother had lived in a sort

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CLEEVE COUET

of conspiracy — intending no guile, be it understood.
She was a Boman Catholic. Her husband, good easy
man, held to the Church of England, in which he had
been bred ; but held to it without bigotry, and supposed
heaven within the reach of all who went through life
cleanly and honourably. By consequence the lady had
her way, and reared the boy in her own faith. She
had delicate health, too — a weapon which makes a
woman all but invincible when pitted against a man
of delicate feeling.

The Squire, though shy, was affectionate. He sin-
cerely loved his boy, and there was really no good
reason why he and Walter should not open their hearts
to one another. But somehow the religious barrier,
which he did his best to ignore, had gradually risen
like an impalpable fence about him, and kept him a
dignified exile in his own house. Eor years all the
indoor servants, chosen by Mrs. a Cleeve, had been
Roman Catholics. In his own sphere — in the man-
agement of the estate — ^he did as he wished ; in hers
he was less often consulted than Father Halloran, and
had ceased to resent this, having stifled his first angry
feelings and told himself that it did not become a man
to wrangle with women and priests. He found it less
tolerable that Walter and his mother laid their plans
together before coming to him. Why ? Good Heav-

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CLEEVE COUET

ens I (he reflected testily) the boy might oome and
ask for anything in reason, and welcome 1 To give,
even after grumbling a bit, is one of a father's dearest
privileges. But no : when Walter wanted anything —
which was seldom — ^he must go to his mother and tell
her, and his mother promised to "manage it." In his
secret heart the Squire loathed this roundabout man-
agement, and tried to wean Walter by consulting him
frankly on the daily business of the estate. But no
again: Walter seemingly cared little for these confi-
dences: and again, although he learned to shoot and
was a fair horseman, he put no heart into his sports.
His religion debarred him from a public school ; or,
rather — in Mrs. k Cleeve's view — it made all the pub-
lic schools undesirable. When she first suggested
Dinan (and in a way which convinced the Squire that
she and Father Halloran had made up their minds
months before), for a moment he feared indignantly
that they meant to make a priest of his boy. But Mrs.
a Cleeve resigned that prospect with a sigh. Walter
must marry and continue the family. Nevertheless,
when Great Britain formally renounced the Peace of
Amiens, and Master Walter found himself among the
detenuSy his mother sighed again to think that, had
he been designed for the priesthood, he would have
escaped molestation ; while his father no less ruefully

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CLEEVE COUKT

cursed the folly which had brought him within Bona-
parte's clutches.

Mrs. a Cleeve sat by her boudoir fire embroidering
an altar frontal for the private chapel. At the sound
of a footstep in the passage she stopped her work with
a sharp contraction of the heart : even the clattering
wooden shoes could not wholly disguise that footstep
for her. She was rising from her deep chair as Wal-
ter opened the door ; but sank back trembling, and put
a hand over her white face.

"Mother!"

It was he. He was kneeling: she felt his hands go
about her waist and his head sink in her lap.

"Oh, Walter! Oh, my son!"

"Mother !" he repeated with a sob. She bent her
face and kissed him.

"Those horrible clothes — ^you have suffered ! But
you have escaped ! Tell me "

In broken sentences he began to tell her.

"You have seen your father ?" she asked, interrupt-
ing him.

"Not yet. I have seen nobody: I came straight
to you."

"He is greatly aged."

There came a knock at the door, and Father Hal-
loran stood on the threshold confounded.

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CLEEVE COUET

The priest was a tall and handsome Irishman,
white-haired, with a genial laughing eye, and a touch
of grave wisdom behind his geniality.

"Walter, dear lad 1 For the love of the saints tell
us — ^how does this happen ?"

Walter began his story again. The mother gazed
into his face in a rapture. But the priest^s brow, at
first jolly, little by little contracted with a puzzled
frown.

"I don't altogether understand," he said. "They
scarcely watched you at all, it seems ?"

"Thank Qod for their carelessness 1" put in Mrs. k
Cleeve fervently.

"And you escaped. There was nothing to prevent ?
They hadn't exacted any sort of parole ?"

"Well, there was a sort of promise" — ^the boy
flushed hotly — "not what you'd call a real promise.
The fellow — a sort of prefect in a tricolour sash —
had us up in a room before him, and gabbled through
some form of words that not one of us rightly under-
stood. I heard afterwards some pretty stories of this
gentleman. He had been a contractor to the late Re-
public, in horse-forage, and had swindled the Govern-
ment (people said) to the tune of some millions of
francs. Marengo finished him : he had been speculat-
ing against it on the sly, which lost his plunder and

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CLEEVE COUKT

the most of his credit. On the remains of it he had
managed to scrape into this prefecture. A nice sort
of man to administer oaths !"

Father Halloran turned impatiently to the window,
and, leaning a hand on one of the stone mullions,
gazed out upon the small garden. Daylight was fail-
ing, and the dusk out there on the few autimm flowers
seemed one with the chill shadow touching his hopes
and robbing them of colour. He shivered : and as with
a small shiver men sometimes greet a deadly sickness,
so Father Halloran's shiver presaged the doom of a
life's hope. He had been Walter's tutor, and had
built much on the boy: he had read warnings from
time to time, and tried at once to obey them and per-
suade himself that they were not serious — ^that his
anxiety magnified them. If honour could be inher-
ited, it surely ran in Walter's blood ; in honour — ^the
priest could assert with a good conscience — ^he had
been instructed. And yet

The lad had turned to his mother, and went on with
a kind of sullen eagerness : "There were sixteen of
us, including an English clergyman, his wife and two
young children, and a young couple travelling on their
honeymoon. It wasn't as if they had taken our word
and let us go : they marched us off at once to special
quarters — ^billeted us all in one house, over a green-

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CLEEVE COUET

grocer's shop, with a Gk)yemment concierge below
stairs to keep watch on our going and coming. A roll
was called every night at eight — ^you see, there was
no liberty about it The whole thing was a fraud.
Father Halloran may say what he likes, but there
are two sides to a bargain; and if one party breaks
faith, what becomes of the other's promise ?"

Mrs. a Cleeve cast a pitiful glance at Father Hal-
loran's bacL The priest neither answered nor turned.

"Besides, they stole my money. All that father
sent passed through the prefect's hands and again
through the concierge^s; yes, and was handled by half
a dozen other rascals, perhaps, before ever it reached
me. They didn't even trouble themselves to hide the
cheat. One week I might be lucky and pick up a
whole louis; the next I'd be handed five francs and
an odd sou or two, with a grin.''

"And all the while your father was sending out
your allowance as usual — twenty pounds to reach you
on the first of every month — and Dickinson's agents
in Paris sending back assurances that it would be
transmitted and reach you as surely as if France and
England were at peace !"

Father Halloran caught the note of anxious justi-
fication in Mrs. a Cleeve's voice, and knew that it was
meant for him. He turned now with a half audible

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CLEEVE COUBT

"Pishl^* but controlled his features — superfluously,
since he stood now with his back to the waning
light.

"Have you seen him ?" he asked abruptly.

"Seen whom?"

"Your father."

"I came around by the east door, meaning to sur-
prise mother. I only arrived here two minutes before
you knocked."

"For God's sake answer me *yes* or *no/ like a
man!" thundered Father Halloran, suddenly giving
vent to his anger : as suddenly checking it with a tight
curb, he addressed Mrs. k Cleeve. "Your pardon!"
said he.

The woman almost whimpered. She could not use
upon her confessor the card of weak nerves she would
have played at once and unhesitatingly upon her hus-
band. "I think you are horribly unjust," she said.
"Grod knows how I have looked forward to this mo-
ment : and you are spoiling all ! One would say you
are not glad to see our boy back !"

The priest ignored the querulous words. "You
must see your father at once," he said gravely. "At
once," he repeated, noting how Walter's eyes sought
his mother's.

"Of course, if you think it wise ^^ she began.

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CLEEVE COUET

"I cannot say if it be wise — ^in your meaning. It
is his duty."

"We can go with him ^^

"No."

"But we might help to explain ?"

Father Halloran looked at her with pity. "I think
we have done that too often," he answered; and to
himself he added : "She is afraid of him. Upon my
Boul, I am half afraid of him myself."

"You will think his father will understand ?" she
asked, clutching at comfort

"It depends upon what you mean by Wderstand-
ing.' It is better that Walter should go : afterwards
I will speak to him." The priest seemed to hesitate
before adding, "He loves the boy. By the way, Wal-
ter, you might tell us exactly how you escaped."

"The greengrocer's wife helped me," said Walter
sullenly. "She had taken a sort of fancy to me, and
— she understood the injustice of it better than Father
Halloran seems to. She agreed that there was no
wrong in escaping. She had a friend at Yvignac,
and it was agreed that I should walk out there early
one morning and find a change of clothes ready. The
master of the house earned his living by travelling
the country with a small waggon of earthenware, and
that night he carried me, hidden in the hay among his

206

CLEEVE COUET

pitchers and flower-pots, as far as Lamballe. I meant
to strike the coast westward, for the road to St. Malo
would be searched at once as soon as the concierge
reported me missing. From Lamballe I trudged
through St. Brisac to Guingamp, hiding by day and
walking by night, and at Guingamp called at the house
of an onion-merchant, to whom I had been directed.
At this season he works his business by hiring gangs
of boys of all ages from fourteen to twenty, marching
them down to Pampol or Morlaix, and shipping them
up the coast to sell his onions along the Seine valley,
or by another route southward from Etaples and Bou-
logne. I joined a party of six bound for Morlaix,
and tramped all the way in these shoes with a dozen
strings of onions slung on a stick across my shoulders.
At Morlaix I shipped on a small trader, or so the skip-
per called it: he was bound, in fact, for Guernsey,
and laden down to the bulwarks with kegs of brandy,
and at St. Peter's Port he handed me over to the cap-
tain of a Cawsand boat, with whom he did business.
I'm giving you just the outline, you understand. I
have been through some rough adventures in the last
two weeks" — the lad paused and shivered — "but I
don't ask you to think of that. The Cawsand skipper
sunk his cargo last night about a mile outside the
Eame, and just before daybreak set me ashore in

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CLEEVE COUET

Cawsand village. I have been walking ever
since."

Father Halloran stepped to the bell-rope.

"Shall I ring? The boy should drink a glass of
wine, I thinky and then go to his father without de-
lay."

Ill

"So far as I understand your story, sir, it leaves me
with but one course. You will go at once to your room
for the night, where a meal shall be sent to you. At
eight o'clock to-morrow morning you will be ready to
drive with me to Plymouth, where doubtless I shall
discover, from the Officer Commanding, the prompt-
est way of returning you to Dinan."

The Squire spoke slowly, resting his elbow on the
library table and shading his eyes with his palm,
under which, however, they looked out with fiery di-
rectness at Walter, standing upright before him.

The boy's face went white before his brain grasped
the sentence. His first sense was of utter helpless-
ness, almost of betrayaL From the day of his escape
he had been conscious of a weak spot in his story.
To himself he could justify his conduct throughout ;
and by dint of rehearsing over and over again the pros

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CLEEVE COUET

and contras^ always as an advocate for the defence,
he had persuaded himself at times that every sensible
person must agree with him. What consideration, to
begin with, could any of the English detembs owe to
Bonaparte, who by seizing them had broken the good
faith between nations ? Promises, again, are not un-
conditional ; they hold so long as he to whom they are
given abides by his counter-obligations, stated or im-
plied. . . . Walter had a score of good arguments
to satisfy himself. Nevertheless he had felt that to
satisfy his father they would need to be well pre*
sented. He had counted on his mother's help and
Father Halloran's. Why, for the first time in his life,
had these two deserted him ? Never in the same de*
gree had he wanted their protection. His mind groped
in a void. He felt horribly alone.

And yet, while he sought for reasons against this
sentence, he knew the real reason to be that he could
not face it. He hated suffering: a world which de-
manded suffering of him was wholly detestable, irra-
tional, monstrous : he desired no more to do with it.
What had he done to be used so ? He knew himself
for a harmless fellow, wishing hurt to no man. Then
why on earth could he not be let alone? He had
never asked to be bom : he had no wish to live at all,
if living involved all this misery. It had been bad

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CLEEVE COUET

enough in Dinan before his escape ; but to tread back
that weary road in proclaimed dishonour, exposed to
contemptuous eyes at every halting-place, and to take
up the burden again plus the shame — it was unthink-
able, and he came near to a hysterical laugh at the
command. He felt as a horse might feel when spurred
up to a fence which it cannot face and foresees it must
refuse at the last moment.

"Ketum — return to Dinan ?" he echoed, his white
lips shaking on each word.

"Certainly you will return to Dinan. For God's
sake " The Squire checked himself, and his ten-
derness swelled suddenly above his scorn. He rose
from the table, stepped to the boy, and laid a hand
on his shoulder. "Walter," he said, "we have some-
how managed to make a mess of it. You have behaved
disreputably; and if the blame of it, starting from
somewhere in the past, lies at your mother's door or
mine, we must sorrowfully beg your pardon. The
thing is done : it is reparable, but only through your
suffering. You are the last a Cleeve, and with our
faults we a Cleeves have lived cleanly and honour-
ably. Be a man : take up this burden which I impose,
and redeem your honour. For your mother's sake and
mine I could ask it : but how can we separate ourselves
from you ? Look in my face. Are there no traces in

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CLEEVE COUET

it of these last two years ? Boy, boy, you have not
been the only one to suffer 1 If further suffering of
ours could help you, would it not be given ? But a
man^s honour lies ultimately in his own hands. Go,
lad — endure what you must — ^and Qod support you
with the thought that we are learning pride in
youl"

"It will kill me r

The lad blurted it out with a sob. His father's
hand dropped from his shoulder.

"Are you incapable of understanding that it might
do worse ?" he asked coldly, and turned his back in
despair.

Walter went out unsteadily, fumbling his way.

The Squire dined alone that night, and after din-
ner sat long alone before his library fire — ^how long he
scarcely knew; but Narracott, the butler, had put up
the bolts and retired, leaving only the staircase-lantern
burning, when Father Halloran knocked at the library
door and was bidden to enter.

"I wished to speak with you about Walter — ^to
learn your decision," he explained.

"You have not seen him ?"

"Not since he came to explain himself."

"He is in his room, I believe. He is to be ready
at eight to-morrow to start with me for Plymouth."

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CLEEVE COUKT

"I looked for that decision," said the priest, after
a moment's silence.

"Would you have suggested another ?" The ques-
tion came sharp and stem; but a moment later the
Squire mollified it, turning to the priest and looking
him straight in the eyes. "Excuse me ; I am sure you
would not"

"I thank you," was the answer. "No : since I have
leave to say so, I think you have taken the only right
course."

The two men still faced one another. Fate had
made them antagonists in this house, and the antag-
onism had lasted over many years. But no petulant
word had ever broken down the barrier of courtesy
between them : each knew the other to be a gentleman.

"Father Halloran," said the Squire gravely, "I will
confess to you that I have been tempted. If I could
honestly have spared the lad "

"I know," said the priest, and nodded while Mr. h,
Cleeve seemed to search for a word. "If any sacri-
fice of your own could stand for payment, you could
have offered it, sir."

"What I fear most is that it may kill his mother."
The Squire said it musingly, but his voice held a
question.

"She will suffer." The priest pondered his opinion
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CLEEVE COURT

as he gave it, and his words came irregularly by twos
and threes. "It may be hard — ^for some while — ^to
make her see the — ^the necessity. Women fight for
their own by instinct — ^right or wrong, they do not ask
themselves. If you reason, they will seize upon any
sophistry to confute you — ^to persuade themselves.
Doubtless the instinct comes from God ; but to men,
sometimes, it makes them seem quite unscrupulous.''

"We have built much upon Walter. If our hopes
have come down with a crash, we must rebuild, and
build them better. I thii^ that, for the future, you
and I must consult one another and make allowances.
The fact is, I am asking you — as it were — ^to make
terms with me over the lad. *A house divided,' you
know. . . Let us have an end of divisions. I am
feeling terribly old to-night.''

The priest met his gaze frankly, and had half ex-
tended his hand, when a sudden sound arrested him —
a sound at which the eyes of both men widened with
surprise and their lips were parted — ^the sharp report
of a gun. Not until it shattered the silence of the
woods around Cleeve Court could you have been aware
how deep the silence had lain. Its echoes banged from
side to side of the valley, and in the midst of their
reverberation a second gun rang out

^The mischief!" exclaimed the Squire. "That
218

CLEEVE COUET

means poachers^ or I'm a DutchmaiL Maeklin''s in
trouble. Will you come?" He stepped quickly to
the door. "Where did you fix the sound? Some-
where up the valley, near the White Kock, eh V^

Father Halloran's face was white as a ghost's. "It
— it was outside the house," he stammered.

"Outside ? What the deuce Of «ouj»e it was

outside I" He paused, and seemed to read the priest'^s

thought. "Oh, for Grod's sake, man " Hurrying

into the passage, and along it to the hall, he called up,
"Walter I Walter !" from the foot of the ^fitaiTcasc.
"There, you see!" he muttered, as Walter's voice
answered from above.

But almost on the instant a woman's voice took ttp
the cry. "Walter I What has happened to Walter f
and as her son stepped out upon the landing Mrs. i
Cleeve came tottering through the corridor leading to
her rooms — came in disarray, a dressing-gown hastily
caught about her, and a wisp of grey hair straggling
across her shoulder. Catching sight of Walter, ske
almost fell into his arms.

"Thank God 1 Thank God you are safe !"

"But what on earth is the matter ?" demanded Wal-
ter, scarcely yet aroused from the torpor of his private
misery.

"Poachers, no doubt," his father aaifiwered.
214

CLEEVE COURT

"Macklin has been warning me of this for some time.
Take your mother back to her room. There is no
cause for alarm, Lucetta — if the affair were serious,
we should have heard more guns before this. Tou had
best return to bed at once. When I learn what has
happened I will bring you word."

He strode away down the lower corridor, calling as
he went to Narracott, the butler, to fetch a lantern
and unbolt the hall-door, and entered the gunroom
with Father Halloran at his heels.

"I cannot ask you to take a hand in this," he said,
finding his favourite gun and noiselessly disengaging
it from the rack, pitch dark though the room was.

"I may carry a spare weapon for you, I hope ?"

"Ah, you will go with me ? Thank you: I shall be
glad of someone to carry the lantern. We may have
to do some scrambling: Narracott is infirm, and
Roger" — ^this was the footman — ^*^is a chicken-hearted
fellow, I suspect."

The two men armed themselves and went back to
the hall, where Father Halloran in silence took the
lantern from the butler. Then they stepped out into
the night.

Masses of cloud obscured the stars, and the two
walked forward into a wall of darkness which the rays
of the priest's lantern pierced for a few yards ahead.

215

CLEEVE COUKT

Here in the valley the night air lay stagnant : scarcely
a leaf rustled : their ears caught no sound but that of
the brook alongside of which they mounted the
coombe.

"Better set down the lantern and stand wide of it,"
said the Squire, as they reached the foot of the White
Eock gully. "If they are armed, and mean business,
we are only offering them a shot." He paused at the
sound of a quick, light footstep behind him, not many
paces away, and wheeled about. "Who's there?" he
challenged in a low, firm voice.

"It's I, father." Walter, also with a gun under
his arm, came forward and halted in the outer ring
of light

"H'm," the Squire muttered testily. "Better you
were in bed, I should say. This may be a whole
night's business, and you have a long journey before
you to-morrow."

The boy's face was white: he seemed to shiver at
his father's words, and Father Halloran, accustomed
to read his face, saw, or thought he saw — ^years after-
wards told himself that he saw — a hunted, desperate
look in it, as of one who forces himself into the com-
pany he most dreads rather than remain alone with
his own thoughts. And yet, whenever he remembered
this look, always he remembered too that the lad's jaw

216

CLEEVE COURT

had closed obstinately, as though upon a resolve long
in making but made at last.

But as the three stood there a soft whistle sounded
from the bushes across the gully, and Jim Burden
pushed a ghostly face into the penumbra.

"Is that you, sir ? Then we'll have them for sure.''

"Who is it, Jim r

"Hannaf ord and that long-legged boy of his. Mack-
lin's up a-top keeping watch, sir. IVe winged one of
'em; can't be sure which. If you and his Eever-
ence ^"

Jim paused suddenly, with his eyes on the half -lit
figure of Walter i Cleeve, recognising him not only
as his young master, supposed to be in France, but
as the stranger he had seen that afternoon talking with
Hannaford. For Walter had changed only his sabots.

The Squire saw and interpreted his dismay. "Go
on, man," he said hoarsely ; "it's no ghost"

Jim's face cleared. "Tour servant, Mr. Walter!
A rum mistake I made then, this afternoon ; but it's
all right as things turn out. They're both hereabout,
sir, somewheres on the face of the rock, and the one
of 'em hurt, I reckon. Macklin'U keep the top : there's
no way off the west side ; and if you and his Rever-
ence'U work up along the gully here while I try up
the face, we'll have the pair for a certainty. Better

217

CLEEVE COURT

douse the li^t though; I've a bull's-eye here that'll
search every foot of the way, and they haven't a guu."

"That's right enough," the Squire answered; *Tbut
it's foolishness to douse the light. We'll set it up on
the stones here at the mouth of the gully while Walter
and I work up to the left of the gully and you up the
rock. It will light up their only bolt-hole ; and if you,
Father Halloran, will keep an eye on it from the
bushes here you will have light enough to see their
faces to swear by before they reach it No need to
shoot: only keep your eyes open before they oome
abreast of it ; for they'll make for it at once, to kick
it over — ^if they risk a bolt this way, which I doubt."

"Why not let me try up the gully between you and
Jim ?" Walter suggested.

His father considered a moment "Very well, I'll
flank you on the left up the hedge, and Jim will take
the rock. You're pretty sure they're there, Jim ?"

"I'd put a year's wages on it," answered Jim.

So the three began their clipib. At his post below
Father Halloran judged from the pace at which Wal-
ter started that he would soon lead the others; for
Jim had a climb to negotiate which was none too easy,
even by daylight, and the Squire must fetch a consid-
erable detour before he struck the hedge, along which,
moreover, he would be impeded by brambles and un-

218

CLEEVE COURT

dergrowth. He saw this^ but it was too late to call a
warning.

Walter, beyond reach of the lantern's rays, as-
cended silently enough, but at a gathering pace. He
forgot the necessity of keeping in line. It did not
occur to him that his father must be dropping far
behind; rather, his presence seemed beside him, in-
exorable, dogging him with the morrow's unthinkable
compulsion. What mad adventure was this? Here
he was at home hunting Charley Hannaford. WeU,
but his father was close at hand, and Father HaUoBan
just below, who had always protected him. At this
game he could go on for ever, if only it would stave
off to-morrow. To-morrow

A couple of lithe arms went about him in the dark-
ness. A voice spoke hoarse and quick in his ear —
•spoke, though for the moment he was chiefly awave
of its hot breath.

*T3roke your word, did ye ? Set them on ta ns,
you blasted young sprig I Look 'ee here — Fve a knife
to your ribs, and you can't use your gun. Stand still
while my boy slips across, or I'll cut your white heart
out. . .''

Walter k Cleeve stood still. He felt, rather than
heard, a figure limp by and steal across the gully. A
slight sound of a little loose earth dribbling readied

219

CLEEVE COUKT

him a moment later from the opposite bank of the
gully. Then, after a long pause, the arms about him
relaxed. Charles Hannaford was gone.

Still Walter i Cleeve did not move. He stared up
into the wall of darkness on his left, wondering
stupidly why his father did not shoot

Then he put out his hand : it encountered a bramble
bush.

He drew a long spray of the bramble towards him,
fingering it very carefully, following the spines of its
curved prickles, and, having found its leafy end, drew
it meditatively through the trigger-guard of his gun.

The countryside scoffed at the finding of the coro-
ner's jury that the last heir of the a Cleeves had met
his death by misadventure. Shortly after the inquest
Charley Hannaford disappeared with his family, and
this lent colour to their gossip. But Jim Burdon,
who had been the first to arrive on the scene, told
his plain tale, and, for the rest, kept his counseL
And so did Father Halloran and the Squire.

220

THE COLLABORATORS

OR, THE COMEDY THAT WROTE ITSELF
AS RELATED BY G. A. RICHARDSON

How pleasant it is to have money, heighol
How pleasant it is to have money!

sings (I think) Clough. Well, I had money, and
more of it than I felt any desire to spend ; which is
as much as any reasonable man can want. My age was
five-and-twenty, my health good, my conscience moder-
ately clean, and my appetite excellent: I had fame in
some degree, and a fair prospect of adding to it : and
I was unmarried. In later life a man may seek mar-
riage for its own sake, but at five-and-twenty he mar-
ries against his will — ^because he has fallen in love
with a woman; and this had not yet happened to me.
I was a bachelor, and content to remain one.

To come to smaller matters — The month was early
June, the weather perfect, the solitude of my own
choosing, and my posture comfortable enough to in-

223

THE COLLABORATORS

yite drowsiness. I had bathed and, stretched supine
in the shade of a high sand-bank, was smoking the
day's first cigarette. Behind me lay Ambleteuse; be-
fore me, the sea. On the edge of it, their shrill chal-
lenges softened by the distance to music, a score of
children played with spades and buckets, innocently
composing a hundred pretty groups of brown legs,
fluttered hair, bright frocks and jerseys, and inno-
cently conspiring with morning to put a spirit of
youth into the whole picture. Beyond them the blue
sea flashed with its own smiles, and the blue heaven
over them with the glancing wings of gulls. On this
showing it is evident that I, Greorge Anthony Richard-
son, ought to have been happy ; whereas, in fact, Rich-
ardson was cheerful enough, but George Anthony rest-
less and ill-content: by reason that Richardson, re-
membering the past, enjoyed by contrast the present,
and knew himself to be jolly well off; while Greorge
Anthony, likewise remembering the past, felt gravely
concerned for the future.

Let me explain. A year ago I had been a clerk
in the OfSce of the Local Grovernment Board — a de-
tested calling with a derisory stipend. It was all that
a University education (a second in Moderations and
a third in Literce Humaniores) had enabled me to
win, and I stuck to it because I possessed no patrimony

224

^HE COLLABORATORS

and had no "prospects" save one, which stood precari-
ously on the favour of an uncle — ^my mother's brother,
Major-General Allan Mcintosh, C.B, Now the Gen-
eral could not be called an indulgent man. He had
retired from active service to concentrate upon his
kinsfolk those military gifts which even on the wide
plains of Hindostan had kept him the terror of his
country's foes and the bugbear of his own soldiery.
He had an iron sense of discipline and a passion for
it; he detested all forms of amusement; in religion
he belonged to the sect of the Peculiar People; and
he owned a gloomy house near the western end of the
Cromwell Road, where he dwelt and had for butler,
valet, and factotum a Peculiar Person named Trew-
love.

In those days I found my chief recreation in the
theatre; and by-and-by, when I essayed to write for
it, and began to pester managers with curtain-raisers,
small vaudevilles, comic libretti and the like, you will
guess that in common prudence I called myself by a
nom de guerre. Dropping the ^Tlichardson," I signed
my productions "George Anthony," and as "George
Anthony" the playgoing public now discusses me. Por
some while, I will confess, the precaution was super-
fluous, the managers having apparently entered into
league to insure me as much obscurity as I had any

226

THE COLLABORATORS

use for. But at length in an unguarded moment the
manager of the Duke of Cornwall's Theatre (formerly
the Euterpe) accepted a three-act farce. It was poorly
acted, yet for some reason it took the town. ^^Larks
in Aspicy a Farcical Comedy by Qeorge Anthony,^'
ran for a solid three hundred nights; and before it
ceased my unsuspecting uncle had closed his earthly
career, leaving me with seventy thousand pounds (the
bulk of it invested in India Government stock), tiie
house in the Cromwell Road, and, lastly, in sacred
trust, his faithful body-servant, William John Trew-
love.

Here let me pause to deplore man's weakness and
the allurement of splendid possessions. I had been
happy enough in my lodgings in Jermyn Street, and,
thanks to Larks in Aspic, they were decently fur-
nished. At the prompting, surely, of some malig-
nant spirit, I exchanged them for a house too large
for me in a street too long for life, for my uncle's
furniture (of the Great Exhibition period), and for
the unnecessary and detested services of Trewlove.

This man enjoyed, by my uncle's will, an annuity
of fifty pounds. He had the look, too, of one who
denied himself small pleasures, not only on religious
grounds, but because they cost money. Somehow, I
never doubted that he owned a balance at the bank,

226

THE COLLABORATORS

or that, after a brief interval spent in demonstrating
that our ways were uncongenial, he would retire on a
competence and await translation to join my uncle
in an equal sky — equal, that is, within the fence of
the elect. But not a bit of it ! I had been adjured
in the will to look after him : and at first I supposed
that he clung to me against inclination, from a con-
scientious resolve to give me every chance. By-and-
by, however, I grew aware of a change in him; or,
rather, of some internal disquiet, suppressed but vol-
canic, working towards a change. Once or twice he
staggered me by answering some casual question in a
tone which, to say the least of it, suggested an un-
gainly attempt at facetiousness. A look at his se-
pulchral face would reassure me, but did not clear
up the mystery. Something was amiss with Trew-
love.

The horrid truth broke upon me one day as we
discussed the conduct of one of my two housemaids.
Trewlove, returning one evening (as I gathered) from
a small reunion of his fellow-sectarians in the Earl's
Court Road, had caught her in the act of exchanging
railleries from an upper window with a trooper in the
2nd Life Guards, and had reported her.

"Most unbecoming," said L

"Unwomanly," said Trewlove, with a sudden con-
227

THE COLLABOEATORS

tortion of the face; "unwomanly, sir! — ^but ah, how
like a woman !"

I stared at him for one wild moment, and turned
abruptly to the window. The rascal had flung a quo-
tation at me — out of Larks in Aspic! He knew, then !
He had penetrated the disguise of "George Anthony,"
and, worse still, he meant to forgive it. His eye had
conveyed a dreadful promise of complicity. Almost
' — I would have given worlds to know, and yet I dared
not face it — almost it had been essaying a wink !

I dismissed him with instructions — ^not very co-
herent, I fear — ^to give the girl a talking-to, and sat
down to think. How long had he known ? — ^that was
my first question, and in justice to him it had to be
considered: since, had he known and kept the secret
in my uncle's lifetime, beyond a doubt, and unpleas-
ant as the thought might be, I was enormously his
debtor. That stem warrior's attitude towards the
playhouse had ever been uncompromising. Stalls,
pit, and circles — ^the very names suggested Dantesque
images and provided illustrations for many a dis-
course. Themselves verbose, these discourses indi-
cated A Short Way with Stage-players, and it stood
in no doubt that the authorship of Larks in Aspic had
only to be disclosed to him to provide me with the
shortest possible cut out of seventy thousand pounds.

228

THE COLLABORATORS

I might, and did, mentally consign Trewlove to all
manner of painful places, as, for instance, the bottom
of the sea ; but I could not will away this obligation.
After cogitating for awhile I rang for him.

"Trewlove," said I, "you know, it seems, that I
have written a play.'^

"Yessir ! Larks in AspiCy sir."

I winced. "Since when have you known this ?"

The dog, I am sure, took the bearings of this ques-
tion at once. But he laid his head on one side, and
while he pulled one whisker, as if ringing up the
information, his eyes grew dull and seemed to be
withdrawing into visions of a far-away past. "I have
been many times to see it, Mr. Gteorge, and would be
hard put to it to specify the first occasion. But it was
a mattinay."

"That is not what I asked, Trewlove. I want to
know when you first suspected or satisfied yourself
that I was the author."

"Oh, at once, sir ! The style, if I may say so, was
unmistakable: tn-nimitable, sir, if I may take the
libbaty."

"Excuse me," I began ; but he did not hear. He
had passed for the moment beyond decorum, and his
eyes began to roll in a manner expressive of inward
rapture, but not pretty to watch.

229

THE COLLABORATORS

"I had not listened to your talk, sir, in private life
— I had not, as one might say, imbibed it — ^for noth-
ink. The General, sir — ^your lamented uncle — ^had a
flow : he would, if allowed, and meaning no disrespect,
talk the hind leg off a jackass ; but I found him lack-
ing in 'umour. Now you, Mr. George, 'ave 'umour.
You 'ave not your uncle's flow, sir — ^the Lord forbid !
But in give-and-take, as one might say, you are
igstreamly droll. On many occasions, sir, when you
were extra sparkling I do assure you it required pres-
sure not to igsplode."

"I thank you, Trewlove,'' said I coldly. "But will
you, please, waive these unsolicited testimonials and
answer my question ? Let me put it in another form.
Was it in my uncle's lifetime that you first witnessed
my play?"

Trewlove's eyes ceased to roll, and, meeting mine,
withdrew themselves politely behind impenetrable
mists. "The General, sir, was opposed to theatre-
going in toto ; anathemum was no word for what he
thought of it. And if it had come to Larks in
Aspicy with your permission I will only say Great
Scot!'^

"I may take it then that you did not see the play
and surprise my secret until after his death ?"

Trewlove drew himself up with fine reserve and
230

THE COLLABORiTOES

dignity. "There is such a thing, sir, I 'ope, as Lib-
baty of Conscience.'*

With that I let him go. The colloquy had not only
done me no service, but had positively emboldened
him — or so I seemed to perceive as the weeks went on
— in his efforts to cast oflF his old slough and become a
travesty of me, as he had been a travesty of my uncle.
I am willing to believe that they caused him pain.
A crust of habit so inveterate as his cannot be rent
without throes, to the severity of which his facial con-
tortions bore witness whenever he attempted a wit-
ticism. Warned by them, I would sometimes admon-
ish him —

"Mirth without vulgarity, Trewlove !''

"Yessir," he would answer, and add with a sigh,
"it's the best sort, sir — admittedly."

But if painful to him, this metamorphosis was tor-
ture to my nerves. I should explain that, flushed with
the success of Larks in Aspic, I had cheerfully en-
gaged myself to provide the Duke of Cornwall's with
a play to succeed it. At the moment of signing the
contract my bosom's lord had sat lightly on its throne,
for I felt my head to be humming with ideas. But
affluence, or the air of the Cromwell Koad, seemed
uncongenial to the Muse.

Three months had slipped away. I had not written
231

THE COLLABORATORS

a line. My ideas^ which had seemed on the point
of precipitation^ surrendering to some centrifugal
eddy, slipped one by one beyond grasp I suppose
every writer of experience knows these vacant terri-
fying intervals ; but they were strange to me then, and
I had not learnt the virtue of waiting. I grew flur-
ried, and saw myself doomed to be the writer of one
play.

In this infirmity the daily presence of Trewlove
became intolerable. There arrived an evening when
I found myself toying with the knives at dinner, and
wondering where precisely lay the level of his fifth
rib at the back of my chair.

I dropped the weapon and pushed forward my glass
to be refilled. "Trewlove," said I, "you shall pack
for me to-morrow, and send off the servants on board
wages. I need a holiday. I — I trust this will not be
inconvenient to you ?"

"I thank you, sir ; not in the least." He coughed,
and I bent my head, some instinct forewarning
me.

"I shall be away for three months at least," I put
in quickly. (Five minutes before I had not dreamed
of leaving home. )

But the stroke was not to be averted. For months
it had been preparing.

232

THE COLLABORATORS

"As for inconveniencje, sir — ^if I may remind you —
the course of Trewlove never did ^^

"For three months at least," I repeated, rapping
sharply on the table.

Next day I crossed the Channel and found myself
at Ambleteuse.

I chose Ambleteuse because it was there that I had
written the greater part of Larks in Aspic. I went
again to my old quarters at Madame Peyron's. As
before, I eschewed company, excursions, all forms of
violent exercise. I bathed, ate, drank, slept, rambled
along the sands, or lay on my back and stared at the
sky, smoking and inviting my soul. In short, I re-
produced all the old conditions. But in vain! At
Ambleteuse, no less than in London, the Muse either
retreated before my advances, or, when I sat still and
waited, kept her distance, declining to be coaxed.

Matters were really growing serious. Three weeks
had drifted by with not a line and scarcely an idea
to show for them ; and the morning's post had brought
me a letter from Cozens, of the Duke of Cornwall's,
begging for (at least) a scenario of the new piece.
My play (he said) would easily last this season out;

233

THE COLLABORATORS

but he mu8t reopen in the autumn with a new one^
and — in short, weren't we beginning to run some
risk?

I groaned, crushed the letter into my pocket, and
by an effort of will put the tormenting question from
me until after my morning bath. But now the time
was come to face it. I began weakly by asking my-
self why the dickens I — ^with enough for my needs —
had bound myself to write this thing within a given
time, at the risk of turning out inferior work. For
that matter, why should I write a comedy at all if I
didn't want to? These were reasonable questions,
and yet they missed the point. The point was that
I had given my promise to Cozens, and that Cozens
depended on it. Useless to ask now why I had given
it! At the time I could have promised cheerfully
to write him three plays within as many months.

So full my head was then, and so empty now ! A
grotesque and dreadful suspicion took me. While
Trewlove tortured himself to my model, was I, by
painful degrees, exchanging brains with him? I
laughed; but I was unhinged. I had been smoking
too many cigarettes during these three weeks, and the
vampire thought continued to flit obscenely between
me and the pure seascape. I saw myself the inheritor
of Trewlove's castoflF personality, his inelegancies of

234

THE COLLABOEATOES

movement, his religious opinions, his bagginess at the
knees, his mournful, pensile whiskers

This would never do 1 I must concentrate my mind

on the play. Let me see The title can wait.

Two married couples have just been examined at Dun-
mow, and awarded the "historic" flitch for conjugal
happiness. Call them A and Mrs. A, B and Mrs. B.
On returning to the hotel with their trophies, it is
discovered that B and Mrs. A are old flames, while
each finds a mistaken reason to suspect that A and
Mrs. B have also met years before, and at least dallied
with courtship. Thus while their spouses alternately
rage with suspicion and invent devices to conceal their
own defaults, A and Mrs. B sit innocently nursing
their illusions and their symbolical flitches. The sit-
uation holds plenty of comedy, and the main motive
begins to explain itself. Now then for anagnorisis,
comic peripeteia, division into acts, and the rest of the
wallet !

I smoked another two cigarettes and flung away a
third in despair. Useless! The plaguey thing re-
fused to take shape. I sprang up and paced the sands,
dogged by an invisible Cozens piping thin reproaches
above the hum of the breakers.

Suddenly I came to a halt. Why this play ? Why
expend vain efforts on this particular complication

235

THE COLLABORATORS

when in a drawer at home lay two acts of a oomedy
ready written, and the third and final act sketched
out ? The burden of months broke its straps and fell
from me as I pondered. My Tenant was the name of
the thing, and I had thrust it aside only when the idea
of Larks in Aspic occurred to me — ^not in any disgust
And really, now, what I remembered of it seemed to
me astonishingly good !

I pulled out my watch, and as I did so there flashed
on me — ^in that sudden freakish way which the best
ideas affect — a new and brilliant idea for the plot of
My Tenant. The whole of the third and concluding
act spread itself instantaneously before me. I knew
then and there why the play had been laid aside. It
had waited for this, and it wanted only this. I held
the thing now, compact and tight, within my five
fingers : as tight and compact as the mechanism of the
watch in my hand.

But why had I pulled out the watch? Because
the manuscript of My Tenant lay in the drawer of my
writing-table in the Cromwell Eoad, and I was calcu-
lating how quickly a telegram would reach Trewlove
with instructions to find and forward it. Then I be-
thought me that the lock was a patent one, and that I
carried the key with me on my private key-chain.
Why should I not cross from Calais by the next boat

236

THE COLLABORATOES

and recover my treasure ? It would be the sooner in
my possession. I might be reading it again that very
night in my own home and testing my discovery. I
might return with it on the morrow — ^that is, if I
desired to return. After all, Ambleteuse had failed
me. In London, I could shut myself up and work
at white heat. In London, I should be near Cozens :
a telegram would fetch him out to South Kensington
within the hour, to listen and approve. (I had no
doubt of his approval.) In London, I should renew
relations with the real Trewlove — ^the familiar, the
absurd. I will not swear that for the moment I
thought of Trewlove at all: but he remained at the
back of my mind, and at Calais I began the process
of precipitating him (so to speak) by a telegram ad-
vertising him of my return, and requesting that my
room might be prepared.

I had missed the midday boat, and reached Dover
by the later and slower one as the June night began
to descend. From Victoria I drove straight to my
club, and snatched a supper of cold meats in its half-
lit dining-room. Twenty minutes later I was in my
hansom again and swiftly bowling westward — I say
"bowling" because it is the usual word, and I was in
far too fierce a hurry to think of a better.

I had dropped back upon London in the fastest
237

THE COLLABORATORS

whirl of the season, and at the hour when all the
world rolls homeward from the theatres. Two han-
soms raced with mine, and red li^ts by the score
dotted the noble slope of Piccadilly. To the left the
street-lamps flung splashes of theatrical green on the
sombre boughs of the Green Park. In one of the
porticos to the right half a dozen guests lingered for
a moment and laughed together before taking their
leave. One of them stood on the topmost steps, light-
ing a cigarette: he carried his silk-lined Inverness
over his arm — so sultry the night was — and the ladies
wore but the slightest of wraps over their bright frocks
and jewels. One of them as we passed stepped for-
ward, and I saw her dismissing her brougham. A
night for walking, thought the party : and a fine night
for sleeping out of doors, thought the road-watchman
close by, watching them and meditatively smoking
behind his barricade hung with danger-lanterns.
Overhead rode the round moon.

It is the fashion to cry down London, and I have
taken my part in the chorus ; but always — ^be the ab-
sence never so short — I come back to her with the
same lift of the heart. Why did I ever leave her?
What had I gone a-seeking in Ambleteuse ? — a place
where a man leaves his room only to carry his writing-
desk with him and plant it by the sea. London offered

238

THE COLLABOEATOES

the only true recreation. In London a man might
turn the key on himself and work for so long as it
pleased him. But let him emerge, and — pf ! — ^the
jostle of the streets shook his head clear of tie whole
stuffy business. No; decidedly I would not return
to Madame Peyron's. London for me, until my com-
edy should be written, down to the last word on the
last page!

We were half way down ike Cromwell Eoad when
I took this resolution, and at once I was aware of a
gathering of carriages drawn up in line ahead and
close beside the pavement. At intervals the carriages
moved forward a few paces and the line closed up;
but it stretched so far that I soon began to wonder
which of my neighbours could be entertaining on a
scale so magnificent.

"What number did you say, sir ?" the cabman asked
through his trap.

"Number 402," I called up.

"Blest if I can get alongside the pavement then,"
he grumbled. He was a surly man.

"Never mind that. Pull up opposite Number 402
and I'll slip between. I've only my bag to carry."

"Didn't know folks was so gay in these outlyin'
parts," he commented sourly, and closed the trap, but
presently opened it again. His horse had dropped

239

THE COLLABORATORS

to a walk. "Did you say f our-nought-two ? " he
asked.

"Oh, confound it — ^yes !" I was growing impatient

He pulled up and began to turn the horse's head.

"Hi 1 What are you doing V

"Goin' back to the end of the line — ^back to take
our bloomin' turn," he answered wearily; "Four-
nought-two, you said, didn't you ?"

"Yes, yes ; are you deaf ? What have I to do with
this crowd ?"

"I hain't deaf, but I got eyes. Four-nought-two'g
where the homing's up, that's all."

"The horning? What's that?"

"Oh, I'm tired of egsplanations. A homing's a
homing, what they put up when they gives a party ;
leastways," he added reflectively, "JEfi don't."

"But there's no party at Number 402," I insisted.
"The thing's impossible."

"Very well, then; I'm a liar, and that ends it."
He wheeled again and began to walk his horse sul-
lenly forward. "'Oo's blind this time ?" he demanded,
coming to a standstill in front of the house.

An awning stretched down from the front door and
across the pavement, where two policemen guarded
the alighting guests from pressure by a small but
highly curious crowd. Overhead, the first-floor win-

240

THE COLLABORATORS

dows had been flung wide; the rooms within were
aflame with light; and^ as I grasped the rail of the
splashboard, and, straightening myself up, gazed over
the cab-roof with a wild surmise into the driver's
face, a powerful but invisible string band struck up
the "Country Girl" Lancers !

"'Oo's a liar now ?" He jerked his whip towards
the number "402" staring down at me from the illu-
minated pane above the awning.

"But it's my own house 1" I gasped.

"Hoh ?" said he. "Well, it may be. / don't con-
teraddict."

"Here, give me my bag !" I fumbled in my pocket
for his fare.

"Cook giving a party? Well, you're handy for
the Wild West out here — ^good old Earl's Court 1"
He jerked his whip again towards the awning as a
North American Indian in full war-paint passed up
the steps and into the house, followed by the applause
of the crowd.

I must have overpaid the man extravagantly, for
his tone changed suddenly as he examined the coins
in his hand. "Look here, guvnor, if you want any
little 'elp, I was barman one time at the *Ele-
phant' "

But I caught up my bag, swung off the step, and,
241

THE COLLABORATOES

squeezing between a horse's wet nose and the bade
of a brougham, gained the pavement^ where a red-
baize carpet divided the ranks of the crowd.

^^HuUo I" One of the policemen put out a hand to
detain me.

"It's all right," I assured him; "I belong to the
house." It seemed a safer explanation than that the
house belonged to mc.

"Is it the ices ?" he asked.

But I ran up the porchway, eager to get to grips
with Trewlove.

On the threshold a young and extremely elegant
footman confronted me.

"Where is Trewlove ?" I demanded.

The footman was glorious in a tasselled coat and
knee-breeches, both of bright blue. He wore his hair
in powder, and eyed me with suspicion if not with
absolute disfavour.

"Where is Trewlove ?" I repeated, dwelling fiercely
on each syllable.

The ass became lightly satirical. "Well we may
wonder," said he ; "search the wide world over ! But
reely and truly you've come to the wrong 'ouse this
time. Here, stand to one side !" he commanded, as a
lady in the costume of La Pompadour, followed by an
Old English Gentleman with an anachronistic He-

242

THE COLLABOEATOES

brew nose, swept past me into the hall. He bowed
deferentially while he mastered their names, "Mr.
and Mrs. Levi-Levy !'^ he cried, and a second footman
came forward to escort them up the stairs. To con-
vince myself that this was my own house I stared hard
at a bust of Havelock — ^my late uncle's chief, and for
religious as well as military reasons his beau ideal of
a British warrior.

The young footman resumed. "When you've had
a good look round and seen all you want to see ^^

"I am Mr. Eichardson," I interrupted ; "and up to
a few minutes ago I supposed myself to be the owner
of this house. Here — if you wish to assure yourself
— is my card."

His face fell instantly, fell so completely and woe-
fully that I could not help feeling sorry for him. "I
beg pardon, sir — ^most 'umbly, I do indeed. You will
do me the justice, sir — I had no idea, as per descrip-
tion, sir, being led to expect a different kind of gen-
tleman altogether."

"You had my telegram, then ?"

"Telegram, sir?" He hesitated, searching his
memory.

"Certainly — a telegram sent by me at one o'clock
this afternoon, or thereabouts ^"

Here, with an apology, he left me to attend to a
243

THE COLLABORATORS

new arrival — a Yellow Dwarf with a decidedly mnsio-
hall manner, who nudged him in the stomach and
fell upon his neck exclaiming, *^Mj long-lost
brother I"

"Cert'nly, sir. You will find the company up-
stairs, sir." The young man disengaged himself with
admirable dignity and turned again to me. ^^A tele-
gram did you say "

"Addressed to Trewlove, 402, Cromwell Road' "

"William I" He summoned another footman for-
ward. "This gentleman is inquiring for a telegram
sent here this afternoon, addressed ^Trewlove.' "

"There was such a telegram," said William. "I
heard Mr. Horrex a-discussing of it in the pantry.
The mistress took the name for a telegraphic address,
and sent it back to the oflBce, saying there must be
some mistake."

"But I sent it myself I"

"Indeed, sir?"

"It contained an order to get my room ready."

"This gentleman is Mr. Richardson," explained the
younger footman.

"Indeed, sir?" William's face brightened. "In
that case there's no 'arm done, for your room is ready,
and I laid out your dress myself: Mr. 'Erbert gave
particular instructions before going out."

244

THE COLLABORATOKS

"Mr. Herbert V I gazed around me blankly. Who
in the name of wonder was Mr. Herbert ?

"If you will allow me, sir," suggested William,
taking my bag, while the other went back to his post.

"Thank you," said I, "but I know my own room,
I hope."

He shook his head. "The mistress made some al-
terations at the last moment, and you're on the fourth
floor over the street Mr. 'Erbert's last words were
that if you arrived before him I was to 'ope you didn't
mind being so near the roof."

Well, of one thing at least I could be sure : I was
in my own house. For the rest, I might be Eip van
Winkle or the Sleeper Awakened. Who was this lady
called "the mistress" ? Who was Mr. Herbert ? How
came they here ? And — deepest mystery of all — ^how
came they to be expecting me? Some villainy of
Trewlove's must be the clew of this tangle ; and, hold-
ing to this clew, I resolved to follow whither fate
might lead.

Ill

William lifted my bag and led the way. On the
first landing, where the doors stood open and the music
went merrily to the last figure of the Lancers, we had
to pick our way through a fantastic crowd whidi eyed

245

THE COLLABOKATORS

me with polite curiosity. Couples seated on the next
flight drew aside to let us pass. But the second land-
ing was cmptj^ and I halted for a moment at the door
of my own workroom, within which lay my precious
manuscript

"This room is unoccupied?"

"Indeed, no, sir. The mistress considers it the
cheerfuUest in the 'ouse."

"Our tastes agree then."

"She had her bed moved in there the very first
night"

"Indeed." I swung round on him hastily. "By-
the-bye, what is your mistress's name ?"

He drew back a pace and eyed me with some em-
barrassment "You'll excuse me, sir, but that ainH
quite a fair question as between you and me."

"No ? I should have thought it innocent enough."

"Of course, it's a hopen secret, and you're only
askin' it to try me. But so long as the mistress fancies
a hincog "

"Lead on," said I. "You are an exemplary young
man, and I, too, am playing the game to the best of
my lights."

"Yes, sir." He led me up to a room prepared for
me — ^with candles lit, hot water ready, and bed neatly
turned down. On the bed lay the full costume of a

246

THE COLLABORATOES

Punchinello : striped stockings, breeches with rosettes,
tinselled coat with protuberant stomach and hump,
cocked hat, and all proper accessories — even to a false
nose.

"Am I expected to get into these things V^ I asked.

"If I can be of any assistance, sir ^^

"Thank you: no." I handed him the key of my
bag, flung off coat and waistcoat, and sat down to un-
lace my boots. "Your mistress is in the drawing-
room, I suppose, with her guests ?"

"She is, sir."

"And Mr. Herbert?"

"Mr. 'Erbert was to have been 'ome by ten-thirty.
He is — ^as you know, sir — ^a little irregilar. But
youth" — William arranged my brushes carefully —
"youth must 'ave its fling. Oh, he's a caution !" A
chuckle escaped him ; he checked it and was instantly
demure. Almost, indeed, he eyed me with a look of
rebuke. "Anything more, sir?"

"Nothing more, thank you."

He withdrew. I thrust my feet into the dressing
slippers he had set out for me, and, dropping into an
armchair, began to take stock of the situation. "The
one thing certain," I told myself, "is that Trewlove in
my absence has let my house. Therefore Trewlove
is certainly an impudent scoundrel, and any grand

247

THE COLLABORATORS

jury would bring in a true bill against him for a
swindler. My tenants are a lady whose servants may
not reveal her name, and a young man — ^her husband
perhaps — described as ^a little irregilar/ They are
giving a large fancy-dress ball below — ^which seems to
prove that, at any rate, they don't fear publicity.
And, further, althou^ entire strangers to me^ they
are expecting my arrival and have prepared a roouL
Now, why?"

Here lay the real puzzle, and for some minutes I
could make nothing of it. Then I remembered my
telegram. According to William it had been referred
back to the post-oflBce. But William on his own ad-
mission had but retailed pantry gossip caught up from
Mr. Horrex (presumably the butler). Had the tele-
gram been sent back unopened? William^s statement
left this in doubt. Now supposing these people to be
in league with Trewlove, they might have opened the
telegram, and, finding to their consternation that I
was already on the road and an exposure inevitable,
have ordered my room to be prepared, trusting to
throw themselves on my forgiveness, while Trewlove
lay a-hiding or fled from vengeance across the high
seas. Here was a possible explanation ; but I will ad-
mit that it seemed, on second thoughts, an unlikely
one. An irate landlord, returning unexpectedly and

248

THE COLLABOKATOKS

finding his house in possession of unauthorised tenants
' — catching them, moreover, in the act of turning it up-
side-down with a fancy-dress ball — ^would naturally
begin to be nasty on the doorstep. The idea of placat-
ing him by a bedroom near the roof and the costume
of a Punchinello was too bold altogether, and relied
too much on his unproved fund of good-nature. More-
over, Mr. Herbert (whoever he might be) would not
have treated the situation so cavalierly. At the least
(and however "irregilar"), Mr. Herbert would have
been waiting to deprecate vengeance. A wild suspi-
cion occurred to me that "Mr. Herbert" might be an-
other name for Trewlove, and that Trewlove under
that name was gaining a short start from justice. But
no : William had alluded to Mr. Herbert as to a youth
sowing his wild oats. Impossible to contemplate
Trewlove imder this guise 1 Where then did Trew-
love come in? Was he, perchance, "Mr. Horrex,"
the butler?

I gave it up and began thoughtfully, and not with-
out diflSculty, to case myself in the disguise of Punch-
inello. I resolved to see this thing through. The
costume had evidently not been made to my measure,
and in the process of induing it I paused once or twice
to speculate on the eccentricities of the figure to which
it had been shaped or the abstract anatomical knowl-

249

THE COLLABORATOES

edge of the tailor who had shaped it. I declare that
the hump seemed the one normal thing about it. But
by this time my detective-hunger — ^not to call it a
thirst for vengeance — ^was asserting itself above petty
vanity. I squeezed myself into the costume; and
then, clapping on the false nose, stood arrayed — as
queer a figure, surely, as ever was assumed by retrib-
utive Justice.

So, with a heart hardened by indignation and pre-
pared for the severest measures, I descended to the
drawing-room landing. Two doors opened upon it —
that of the drawing-room itself, which faced over a
terrace roofing the kitchens and across it to a garden
in the rear of the house, and that of a room over-
looking the street and scarcely less spacious. This
had been the deceased General's bedroom, and in in-
dolence rather than impiety I had left it unused with
all its hideous furniture — including the camp-bed
which his martial habits affected. And this was the
apartment I entered, curious to learn how it had been
converted into a reception-room for the throng which
now filled it

I recognised only the wall-paper. The furniture
had been removed, the carpet taken up, the boards
waxed to a high degree of slipperiness ; and across the
far end stretched a buffet-table presided over by a ven-

250

THE COLLABOEATOES

erable person in black, with white hair, a high clear
complexion, and a deportment which hit a nice mean
between the military and the episcopal.

I had scarcely time to tell myself that this must be
Mr. Horrex, before he looked up and caught sight of
me. His features underwent a sudden and astonish-
ing change; and almost dropping a bottle of cham-
pagne in his flurry, he came swiftly round the end of
the buffet towards me.

I knew not how to interpret his expression : surprise
was in it, and eagerness, and suppressed agitation,
and an appeal for secrecy, and at the same time (if
I mistook not) a deep relief.

"I beg your pardon, sir,'' he began, in a sort of
confidential whisper, very quick and low, "but I was
not aware you had arrived."

I gazed at him with stem inquiry.

"You are Mr. Eichardson, are you not ?" he asked.
There could be no doubt of his agitation.

"I am ; and I have been in this, my house, for some
three-quarters of an hour."

"They never told me," he groaned. "And I left

particular instructions But perhaps you have

already seen the mistress ?"

"I have not. May I ask you to take me to her —
since I have not the pleasure of her acquaintance ?"

251

THE COLLABOKATORS

''Cert'nly, sir. Oh, at once 1 She is in the drawing*
room putting the best face on it. Twice she has sent
in to know if you have arrived, and I sent word, ^No,
not yet,' though it cut me to the 'eart"

^^She is anxious to see me ?"

"Desprit, sir."

'^She thinks to avoid exposure^ then?" said I
darkly, keeping a set face.

"She 'opes, sir: she devoutly 'opes." He groaned
and led the way. "It may, after all, be a lesson to
Mr. 'Erbert," he muttered as we reached the landing.

"I fancy it's going to be a lesson to several of you."

"The things we've 'ad to keep dark, sir — the go-
ings-on !"

"I can well believe it."

"I was in some doubts about you, sir — ^begging your
pardon : but in spite of the dress, sir — which gives a
larky appearance, if I may say it — and doubtless is
so meant — ^you reassure me, sir: you do indeed. I
feel the worst is over. We can put ourselves in your
'ands."

"You have certainly done that," said I. "As for
the worst being over ^"

We were within the drawing-room by this time,
and he plucked me by the sleeve in his excitement,
yet deferentially. ^TTonder is the mistress, sir — in

252

THE COLLABOEATOES

the yellow h'Empire satin — ^talking with the gentle-
man in sky-blue rationals. Ah, she sees you !"

She did. And I read at once in her beautiful eyes
that while talking with her partner she had been
watching the door for me. She came towards me
with an eager catch of the breath — one so very like a
cry of relief that in the act of holding out her hand
she had to turn to the nearest guests and explain.

"It's Mr. Eichardson — ^George Anthony/ you
know — who wrote Larks in Aspic! I had set my
heart on his coming, and had almost given him up.
Why are you so cruelly late?" she demanded, turn-
ing her eyes on mine.

Her hand was still held out to me. I had meant
to hold myself up stiffly and decline it; but somehow
I could not. She was a woman, after all, and her
look told me — and me only — ^that she was in trouble.
Also I knew her by face and by report. I had seen
her acting in more than one exceedingly stupid musi-
cal comedy, and wondered why "Clara Joy" conde-
scended to waste herself upon such inanities. I re-
called certain notes in her voice, certain moments
when, in the midst of the service of folly, she had
seemed to isolate herself and stand watching, aloof
from the audience and her fellow-actors, almost pa-
thetically alone. Eeport said, too, that she was good,

253

THE COLLABOEATORS

and that she had domestic troubles, thou^ it had
not reached me what these troubles were. Certainly
she appeared altogether too good for these third-rate
guests — ^for third-rate they were to the most casual
eye. And the trouble, which signalled to me now in
her look, clearly and to my astonishment included no
remorse for having walked into a stranger's house and
turned it upside-down without so much as a by-your-
leave. She claimed my goodwill confidently, without
any appeal to be forgiven. I held my feelings under
rein and took her hand.

As I released it she motioned me to give her my
arm. "I must find you supper at once," she said
quietly, in a tone that warned me not to decline. "JSTot
— not in there ; we will try the library downstairs. **

Down to the library I led her accordingly, and
somehow was aware — ^by that supernumerary sense
which works at times in the back of a man's head — of
Horrex discreetly following us. At the library-door
she turned to him. ''When I ring," she said. He
bowed and withdrew.

The room was empty and dark. She switched on
the electric light and nodded to me to close the door.

"Take that off, please," she commanded.

"I beg your pardon ? . . . Ah, to be sure !" I
had forgotten my false nose.

254

THE COLLABORATOES

"How did Herbert pick up with you ?" she asked
musingly. "His friends are not usually so — so "

"Respectable V^ I suggested.

"I think I meant to say ^presentable.' They are
never respectable by any chance."

"Then, happily, it still remains to be proved that I
am one of them."

"He seems, at any rate, to reckon you high amongst
them, since he gave your name."

"Gave my name ? To whom ?"

"Oh, I don't know — ^to the magistrate — or the po-
liceman — or whoever it is. I have never been in a
police-cell myself," she added, with a small smile.

"Is Herbert, then, in a police-cell ?"

She nodded. "At Vine Street. He wants to be
bailed out."

"What amount?"

"Himself in ten pounds and a friend in another
ten. He gave your name ; and the policeman is wait-
ing for the answer."

"I see," said I ; "but excuse me if I fail to see why,
being apparently so impatient to bail him out, you
have waited for me. To be sure (for reasons which
are dark to me) he appears to have given my name to
the police; but we will put that riddle aside for the
moment. Any respectable citizen would have served,

255

THE COLLABORATORS

with the money to back him. Why not have sent Hor-
rex, for example ?"

"But I thought the— the ^'

"Surety?" I suggested.

"I thought he must be a householder. No," she
cried, as I turned away with a slight shrug of the
shoulder, "that was not the real reason 1 Herbert ia —
oh, why will you force me to say it ?"

"I beg your pardon," said L "He is at certain
times not too tractable ; Horrex, in particular, cannot
be trusted to manage him; and — and in short you
wish him released as soon as possible, but not brought
home to this house until your guests have taken
leave ?"

She nodded at me with swimming eyes. She was
passing beautiful, more beautiful than I had thought.

"Yes, yes ; you understand ! And I thought that —
as his friend — and with your influence over him ^"

I pulled out my watch. "Has Horrex a hansom in
waiting ?"

"A four-wheeler," she corrected me. Our eyes met,
and with a great pity I read in hers that she knew
only too well the kind of cab suitable.

"Then let us have in the policeman. A four-
wheeler will be better, as you suggest, since with your
leave I am going to take Horrex with me. The fact

256

THE COLLABOEATORS

is, I am a little in doubt as to my influence : for to tell
you the plain truth, I have never to my knowledge
set eyes on your husband."

"My husband ?" She paused with her hand on the
bell-pull, and gazed at me blankly. "My husband ?"
She began to laugh softly, uncannily, in a way that
tore my heart. "Herbert is my brother."

"Oh I" said I, feeling pretty much of a fool.

"But what gave you — ^what do you mean "

"Lord knows," I interrupted her ; but if you will
tell Horrex to get himself and the policeman into the
cab, I will rim upstairs, dress, and join them in five
minutes."

In five minutes I had donned my ordinary clothes
again and, descending through the pack of guests to
the front door, found a four-wheeler waiting, with
Horrex inside and a ^policeman whom, as I guessed,
he had been drugging with strong waters for an hour
past in some secluded chamber of the house. The
fellow was somnolent, and in sepulchral silence we
journeyed to Vine Street. There I chose to be con-
ducted to the cell alone, and Mr. Horrex, hearing my
decision, said fervently, "May you be rewarded for
your goodness to me and mine !"

267

THE COLLABOEATOES

I disoovered afterwards that he had a growing fam-
ily of six dependent on him^ and think this must ex-
plain a gratefulness which puzzled me at the time.

"He's quieter this last half -hour," said the police
sergeant, unlocking the cell and opening the door with
extreme caution.

The light fell and my eyes rested on a sandy-haired
youth with a receding chin, a black eye, a crumpled
shirt-front smeared with blood, and a dress-suit split
and soiled with much rolling in the dust.

"Friend of yours, sir, to bail you out,'* announced
the sergeant.

"I have no friends," answered the prisoner in hol-
low tones. "Who's this Johnny ?"

"My name is Eichardson," I began.

"From the Grampian Hills ? Al'ri', old man ; what
can I do for you ?"

"Well, if you've no objection, I've come to bail you
out."

"Norra a bit of it. Go 'way : I want t'other Eich-
ardson, good old larks-in-aspic ! Sergeant ^"

"Yessir."

"I protest — ^you hear ? — protest in sacred name of
law; case of mish — case of mistaken 'dentity. Not
this Eichardson — take him away ! Don't blame you :
common name. Eichardson I want has whiskers

258

THE COLLABORATORS

down to here, tiddy-f ol-ol ; calls 'em TiccadiUy weep-
ers.' Can't mistake him. li at first you don't suc-
ceed, try, try again."

"Look here," said I, "just you listen to this; I'm
Richardson, and I'm here to bail you out"

"Can't do it, old man; mean well, no doubt, but
can't do it One man lead a horse to the water —
twenty can't bail him out. Gk) 'way and don't fuss."

I glanced at the sergeant "You'll let me deal with
him as I like ?" I asked.

He grinned. "Bless you, sir, we're used to it /
ain't listening."

"Thank you." I turned to the prisoner. "Now,
then, you drunken little hog, stand up and walk," said
I, taking him by the ear and keeping my left r^ady.

I suppose that the drink suddenly left him weak,
for he stood up at once.

"There's some ho — ^horrible mistake," he began to
whimper. "But if the worst comes to the worst, you'll
adopt me, won't you ?"

Still holding him by the ear, I led him forth and
flung him into the cab, in a comer of which the trem-
bling Horrex had already huddled himself. He fell,
indeed, across Horrex's knees, and at once screamed
aloud.

"Softly, softly, Master 'Erbert," whispered the
259

THE COLLABOBATORS

poor man soothingly. "It^s only poor old Horrez,
that youVe known since a boy."

"Ilorrex ?" Master Herbert strai^tened himself
up. *^Do I understand you to say, sir, that your name
is Horrex ? Then allow me to tell you, Horrex, that
you are no gentleman. You hear t" He spoke with
anxious lucidity, leaning forward and tapping the
butler on the knee. "No gentleman."

"No, sir," assented Horrex.

"That being the case, we'll say no more about it.
I decline to argue with you. If you're waking, call
me early — ^there's many a black, black eye, Horrex,
but none so black as mine. Call me at eleven-fifteen,
bringing with you this gentleman's blood in a bottle.
Goo' night, go to bye-bye. . . ."

By the fleeting light of a street-lamp I saw his head
drop forward, and a minute later he was gently snor-
ing.

It was agreed that on reaching home Master Her-
bert must be smuggled into the basement of No. 402
and put to rest on Horrex's own bed; also that, to
avoid the line of carriages waiting in the Cromwell
Road for the departing guests, the cab should take us
round to the gardens at the back. I carried on my
chain a key which would admit us to these and un-
lock the small gate between them and the kitchens.

260

THE COLLABORATOES

This plan of action so delighted Horrex that for a
moment I feared he was going to clasp my hands.

"If it wasn't irreverent, sir, I could almost say you
had dropped on me from heaven !''

"You may alter your opinion,*' said I grimly, *T)e-
fore I've done dropping/'

At the garden entrance we paid and dismissed the
cab. I took Master Herbert's shoulders and Horrex
his heels, and between jis we carried his limp body
across the turf — a procession so suggestive of dark
and secret tragedy that I blessed our luck for protect-
ing us from the casual intrusive policeman. Our en-
trance by the kitchen passage, however, was not so
fortunate. Stealthily as we trod, our footsteps reached
the ears in the servants' hall, and we were met by
William and a small but compact body of female ser-
vants urging him to armed resistance. A kitchen-maid
fainted away as soon as we were recognised, and the
strain of terror relaxed.

I saw at once that Master Herbert's condition
caused them no surprise. We carried him to the ser-
vants' hall and laid him in an armchair, to rest our
arms, while the motherly cook lifted his unconscious
head to lay a pillow beneath it.

As she did so, a bell jangled furiously on the wall
above.

261

THE COLLABOEATORS

^^Qood Lord I" Horrex turned a scared f aoe up at

it. "The library r

"What's the matter in the library ?'*

But he was gone : to reappear, a minute later^ with
a face whiter than ever.

"The mistress wants you at on^st, sir, if you^ll fol-
low me. William, run out and see if you can raise
another cab — ^four-wheeler.'*

"What, at this time of ni^t ?" answered WillianL
"Gtet along with you !"

"Do your best, lad.*' Mr. Horrex appealed gently
but with pathetic dignity. "If there's miracles in-
doors there may be miracles outside. This way,
sir!"

He led me to the library-door, knocked softly,
opened it, and stood aside for me to enter.

Within stood his mistress, confronting another po-
liceman !

Her hands rested on the back of a library-chair:
and though she stood up bravely and held herself erect
with her finger-tips pressed hard into the leather, I
saw that she was swaying on the verge of hysterics,
and I had the sense to speak sharply.

"What's the meaning of this ?" I demanded.

"This one — comes from Marlborough Street !'' she
gasped.

262

THE COLLABORATORS

I stepped back to the door, opened it, and, as I ex-
pected, discovered Horrex listening.

"A bottle of champagne and a glass at once," I com-
manded, and he sped. "And now. Miss Joy, if you
please, the constable and I will do the talking. Whaf s
your business ?"

"Prisoner wants bail," answered the policeman.

"Name?"

"George Anthony Richardson."

"Yes, yes — ^but I mean the prisoner's name."

"That's what Fm telling you. 'George Anthony
Richardson, four-nought-two Cromwell Road' — ^that's
the name on the sheet, and I heard him give it my-
self."

"And I thought, of course, it must be you," put in
Clara; "and I wondered what dreadful thing could
have happened — ^until Horrex appeared and told me
you were safe, and Herbert too ^"

"I think," said I, going to the door again and tak-
ing the tray from Horrex, "that you were not to talk.
Drink this, please."

She took the glass, but with a rebellious face. "Oh,
if you take that tone with me ^"

"I do. And now," I turned to the constable, "what
name did he give for his surety t"

"Herbert Jarmayne, same addreas.**
263

THE COLLABORATOES

"Herbert Jarmaynet" I glanced at Clara, who
nodded back, pausing as she lifted her glass. ^-Ahl
yes — ^yes, of course. How much V^

"Two tenners."

"Deep answering deep. Drunk and disorderly, I
suppose ?"

"Blind. He was breaking glasses at Toscano's and
swearing he was Sir Charles Wyndham in David Oar-
rick: but he settled down quiet at the station, and
when I left he was talking religious and saying he
pitied nine-tenths of the world, for they were going
to get it hot."

"Trewlovel" I almost shouted, wheeling round
upon Clara.

"I beg your pardon ?"

"No, of course — ^you wouldn't understand. But all
the same it's Trewlove," I cried, radiant. "Eh ?" —
this to Horrex, mumbling in the doorway — "the cab
outside ? Step along, constable : I'll follow in a mo-
ment — to identify your prisoner, not to bail him out."
Then as he touched his hat and marched out after
Horrex, "By George, though! Trewlove!" I mut-
tered, meeting Clara's eye and laughing.

"So you've said," she agreed doubtfully; *T)Ut it
seems a funny sort of explanation."

"It's as simple as A B C," I assured her. "The
264

THE COLLABORATOES

man at Marlborough Street is the man who let you
this house."

"I took it through an agent."

"Fm delighted to hear it. Then the man at Marl-
borough Street is the man for whom the agent let the
house."

"Then you are not Mr. Eichardson — ^not ^George
Anthony' — and you didn't write Larks in Aspic f^
said she, with a flattering shade of disappointment in
her tone.

"Ohiyes, Idid."

"Then I don't understand in the least — ^unless —

unless " She put out two deprecating hands.

'TTou don't mean to tell me that this is your house,
and we've been living in it without your knowledge I
Oh I why didn't you tell me ?"

"Come, I like that!" said I. 'TTou'U admit, on
reflection, that you haven't given me much time."

But she stamped her foot. "I'll go upstairs and
pack at once," she declared.

"That will hardly meet the case, I'm afraid. You
forget that your brother is downstairs: and by his
look, when I left him, he'll take a deal of packing."

*TIerbert ?" She put a hand to her brow. "I was
forgetting. Then you are not Herbert's friend after
all?"

265

THE COLLABOEATORS

^'I have made a begiimiiig. But in f act^ I made
his acquaintance at Vine Street just now. Trewlove
• — ^that^s my scoundrel of a butler — ^has been making
up to him under my name. They met at the house-
agent's^ probably. The rogue models himself upon

me ; but when it comes to letting my house By

the way, have you paid him by cheque ?"

"I paid the agent I knew nothing of you un-
til Herbert announced that he'd made your acquaint-
ance "

"Pray go on," said I, watching her troubled eyes.
"It would be interesting to hear how he described
me."

*^e used a very funny word. He said you were
the rummiest thing in platers he'd struck for a long
while. But, of course, he was talking of the other
man."

"Of course," said I gravely: whereupon our eyes
met, and we both laughed.

"Ah, but you are kind !" she cried. "And when I
think how we have treated you — if only I could
think " Her hand went up again to her fore-
head.

"It will need some reparation," said I. "But we'll
discuss that when I come back."

266

THE COLLABORATOES

"Was — ^was Herbert very bad?" She attempted
to laugh, but tears suddenly brimmed her eyes.

"I scarcely noticed," said I; and, picking up my
hat, went out hurriedly.

Trewlove in his Marlborough Street cell was a dis-
gusting object — oflfensive to the eye and to one's sense
of the dignity of man. At sight of me he sprawled,
and when the shock of it was over he continued to
grovel until the sight bred a shame in me for being
the cause of it. What made it ten times worse was
his curious insensibility — even while he grovelled —
to the moral aspect of his behaviour.

"You will lie here," said I, ^^mtil to-morrow morn-
ing, when you will probably be fined fifty shillings
and costs, plits the cost of the broken glass at Tos-
cano's. I take it for granted that the money will be
paid?"

"I will send, sir, to my lodgings for my cheque-
book."

"It's a trifling matter, no doubt, but since you will
be charged imder the name of William John Trew-
love, it will be a mistake to put *G. A. Bichardson' on
the cheque."

267.

THE COLLABORATORS

'*It was an error of judgment^ sir, my giving your
name here.'*

"It was a worse one," I assured him, "to append it
to the receipt for Miss Jarmayne's rent''

"You don't intend to prosecute, Mr. George !"

"Why not r

"But you don't, sir; something tells me that you
don't"

Well, in fact (as you may have guessed), I did not
I had no desire to drag Miss Jarmayne into further
trouble ; but I resented that the dog should so count on
my clemency without knowing the reason of it

"In justice to myself, sir, I 'ave to tell you that I
shouldn't 'ave let the 'ouse to ^anybody. It was only
that, she being connected with the stage, I saw a
hopening. Mr. 'Erbert was, as you might say, a
haf terthought : which, finding him so affable, I
thought I might go one better. He cost me a pretty
penny first and last. But when he offered to intro-
juice me — and me, at his invite, going back to be put
up at No. 402 like any other gentleman — ^why, 'ow
could I resist it ?"

"If I forbear to have you arrested, Trewlove, it will
be on condition that you efface yourself. May I sug-
gest some foreign country, where, in a colony of the

Peculiar People — ^unacquainted with your past ^^

268

THE COLLABOEATOES

"Fm tired of them, sir. Your style of life donH
suit me — I've tried it, as you see, and I give it up —
I'm too late to learn ; but I'll say this for it, it cures
you of wantin' to go back and be a Peculiar. Now,
if you've no objection, sir, I thought of takin' a little
public down Putney way."

• • • • • • •

"You mean it?" asked Clara, a couple of hours
later,

"I mean it," said I.

"And I am to live on here alone as your ten-
ant?"

"As my tenant, and so long as it pleases you." I
struck a match to light her bedroom candle, and with
that we both laughed, for the June dawn was pouring
down on us through the stairway skylight.

"Shall I see you to-morrow, to say good-bye ?"

"I expect not We shall catch the first boat."

"The question is, will you get Herbert awake in
time to explain matters ?"

"I'll undertake that. Horrex has already packed
for him. Oh, you needn't fear : he'll be right enough
at Ambleteuse, under my eye."

"It's good of you," she said slowly; *T)ut why are
you doing it?"

"Can't say," I answered lightly.
269

THE COLLABORATORS

''Well, good-bye, and God bless you I'* She put out
her hand. "There's nothing I can say or do to—'*

"Oh, yes, by the way, there is,'' I interrupted, tug-
ging a key oflf my chain. "You see this t It unlocks
the drawers of a writing-table in your room. In the
top left-hand drawer you will find a bundle of
papers."

She passed up the stair before me and into the
room. "Is this what you want?" she asked, reap-
pearing after a minute with my manuscript in her
hand. "What is it ? A new comedy V^

"The makings of one," said I. "It was to fetch it
that I came across from Ambleteuse."

"And dropped into another."

"Upon my word," said I, "you are right, and to-
night's is a better one — ^up to a point."

"What are you going to call it ?"

''My Tenant.''

For a moment she seemed to be puzzled. "But I
mean the other," said she, nodding towards the manu-
script in my hand.

"Indeed, that is its name," said I, and showed her
the title on the first page. "And I've a really splendid
idea for the third act," I added, as we shook hands.

I mounted the stairs to my room, tossed the manu-
script into a chair, and began to wind up my watch.

270

THE COLLABOKATOKS

"But this other wants a third act tool'' I told my-
self suddenly.

You will observe that once or twice in the course
of this narrative my pen has slipped and inadvertently
called Miss Jarmayne "Clara/'

S71

THE RIDER IN THE DAWN

A passage from the Memoirs of Manuel (or Manus)
McNeill, agent in the Secret Service of Great Britain
during the campaigns of the Peninsula (1808-1813).
A Spanish subject by birth, and a Spaniard in all his
up-bringing, he traces in the first chapter of his Memoirs
his descent from an old Highland family through one
Manus McNeill, a Jacobite agent in the Court of Madrid
at the time of the War of Succession, mho married and
settled at Aranjuez. The second chapter he devotes to
his youthful adventures in the contraband trade on the
Biscayan Coast and the French frontier, his capture and
imprisonment at Bilbao under a two years* sentence,
which was remitted on the discovery of his familiar and
inherited conversance with the English tongue, and his
imprisonment exchanged for a secret mission to Corsica
(1794). The following extract tells of this, his first
essay in the calling in which he afterwards rendered
signal service to the Allies under Lord Wellington, — Q.

If I take small pleasure in remembering this youth-
ful expedition it is not because I failed of success. It
was a fool's errand from start to finish ; and the Min-
ister, Don Manuel Grodoy, never meant or expected it
to succeed, but furthered it only to keep his master
in humour. You must know that just at this time,

276

THE KIDEK IN THE DAWN

May, 1794, the English troops and Paoli's native
patriots were between them dislodging the French
from the last few towns to which they yet clung on
the Corsican coast. Paoli held all the interior: the
British fleet commanded the sea and from it ham-
mered the garrisons ; and/ in short, the French game
was up. But now came the question. What would
happen when they evacuated the island? Some be-
lieved that Paoli would continue in command of his
little republic, others that the crown would be offered
to King Greorge of England, or that it might go a-beg-
ging as the patriots were left to discover their weak-
ness. I understand that, on the chance of this, two or
three claimants had begun to look up their titles ; and
at this juncture our own Most Catholic King be-
thought him that once upon a time the island had
actually been granted to Aragon by a certain Pope
Boniface — ^with what right nobody could tell; but a
very little right might suffice to admit Spain's hand
into the lucky bag. In brief, my business was to
reach the island, find Paoli (already by shabby treat-
ment incensed against the English, as Godoy assured
me), and sound him on my master's chances. Among
the islanders I could pass myself off as a British
agent, and some likely falsehood would have to serve
me if by ill-luck I fell foul of the British soldiery.

276

THE RIDER IN THE DAWN

The King, who — saving his majesty — ^had turned the
least bit childish in his old age, actually clapped his
hands once or twice while his Minister gave me my
instructions, which he did with a face as wooden as
a grenadier's. I would give something, even at this
distance of time, to know what Grodoy's real thoughts
were. Likely enough he and the Queen had invented
this toy to amuse the husband they were both deceiv-
ing. Or Godoy may have wanted my information for
his own purpose, to sell it to the French, with whom —
though our armies were fighting them — ^he had begun
to treat in private for the peace and the alliance which
soon followed, and still move good Spaniards to spit
at the mention of his name. But, whatever the farce
was, he played it solemnly, and I took his instructions
respectfully, as became me.

No : my mission was never meant to succeed : and
if in my later professional pride I now think shame
of it — ^if to this day I wince at the remembrance of
Corsica — ^the shame comes simply from this, that I
began my career as a scout by losing my way like any
schoolboy. But, after all, even genius must make a
beginning ; and I was fated to make mine in the Corsi-
can macchia.

Do you know it ? If not — ^that is to say, if you
have never visited Corsica — I despair of giving you

277.

THE RIDEE IN THE DAWN

any conception of it But if chance has ever carried
you near its coast, you will have wondered — as I did
when an innocent-looking felucca from Barcelona
brought me off the Gulf of Porto — ^at an extraordi-
nary verdure spreading up the mountains and cut
short only by the snows on their summits. You ask
what this verdure may be, of which you have never
seen the like. It is the macchia.

1 declare that the scent of it — or rather, its thou-
sand scents — came wafted down on the night air and
met me on the shore as I landed at moonrise below
the ruined tower, planted by the Genoese of old, at the
mouth of the vale which winds up from Porto to the
mountains. We had pushed in under cover of the
darkness, for fear of cruisers : and as I took leave of
my comrades (who were mostly Neapolitan fisher-
men), their skipper, a Corsican from Bastia, gave me
my route. A good road would lead me up the valley
to the village of Otta, where a mule might be hired
to carry me on past Ewisa, through the great forest
of Aitone, and so across the pass over Monte Artica,
whence below me I should see the plain of the Niolo
stretching towards Corte and my goal: for at Corte,
his capital, I was sure either to find Paoli or to get
news of him, and if he had gone northward to rest
himself (as his custom was) at his favourite Convent

278

THE RIDEK IN THE DAWN

of Morosaglia, why the best road in Corsica would
take me after him.

In the wash of the waves under the old tower I bade
the skipper farewell, sprang ashore^ and made my way
up the valley by the light of the rising moon. Of the
wonders of the island^ which had shone with such
promise of wonders against yesterday's sunset, it
showed me little — only a white road climbing beside
a deepening gorge with dark masses of foliage on
either hand, and, above these, grey points and needles
of granite glimmering against the night. But at every
stride I drank in the odours of the macchiay my very
skin seeming to absorb them, as my clothes undoubt-
edly did before my journey's end; for years later I
had only to open the coffer in which they reposed, and
all Corsica saluted my nostrils.

Day broke as I climbed ; and soon this marvellous
brushwood was holding me at gaze for minutes at a
time, my eyes feasting upon it as the sun began to
open its flowers and subdue the scents of ni^t with
others yet more aromatic. In Spain we know monte'
baxoSy or coppice shrubs (as you might call them),
and we know tomillareSy or undergrowth ; but in Cor-
sica nature heaps these together with both hands, and
the Corsican, in despair of separating them, calls
them all macchia. Cistus, myrtle and cactus ; cytisus,

279

THE KIDEE IN THE DAWN

lentiaky arbutus; daphne^ heathy broom^ juniper and
ilex — ^these few I recognised, but there was no end to
their varieties and none to their tangle of colours. The
slopes flamed with heather bells red as blood, or were
snowed white with myrtle blossom : wild roses trailed
everywhere, and blue vetches : on the rock ledges the
cistus kept its late flowers, white, yellow, or crimson :
while from shrub to shrub away to the rock pinnacles
high over my left shoulder honeysuckles and clematis
looped themselves in festoons as thick as a man's waist,
or flung themselves over the chasm on my right, smoth-
ering the ilex saplings which clung to its sides, and
hiding the water which roared three hundred feet be-
low. I think that my month in prison must have
sharpened my appetite for wild and natural beauty,
for I skipped as I went, and whistled in sheer light-
ness of heart. "O Corsicans!" I exclaimed, "O
favoured race of mortals, who spend your pastoral
days in scenes so romantic, far from the noise of cities,
the restless ambition of courts !"
- At the first village of Otta, where the pass narrows
to a really stupendous gorge and winds its way up
between pyramidal crags soaring out of a sea of green
chestnut groves, one of this favoured race (by name
Giuse) attempted to sell me a mule at something like
twice its value. I hired the beast instead, and also

280

THE EIDEE IN THE DAWN

the services of its master to guide me through the two
great forests which lay between me and the plain of
the Niolo, one on either side of the ridge ahead. He
carried a gun, and wore an air of extreme ferocity
which daunted me until I perceived that all the rest
of the village-men were similarly favoured. Of his
politeness after striking the bargain I had no cause
to complain. He accepted — rand apparently with the
simplest credulity — ^my account of myself, that I was
an Englishman bound in the service of the Grovem-
ment to inspect and report on the forests of the inte-
rior, on the timber of which King Gteorge was pre-
pared to lend money in support of the patriot troops.
He himself had served as a stripling in Paoli's militia
across the mountains on the great and terrible day of
Ponte Nuovo, and by fits and starts, whenever the
road allowed our two mules to travel abreast in safety,
he told me the story of it, in a dialect of which I
understood but one word in three, so different were
its harsh aspirates and gutturals from any sounds in
the Italian familiar to me.

The mules stepped out well, and in the shade of the
ravine we pushed on steadily through the heat of the
day. We had left the macchia far below us, and the
road wound between and around sheer scarps of grey
granite on the edge of precipices echoing the trickle

281

THE KIDEE IN THE DAWN

of waters far below. We rode now in single file, and
so continued until Ewisa was readied, and the upper
hills began to open their folds. From Ewisa a rough
track, yet scored with winter ruts, led us around the
southern side of one of these mountain basins, and so
to the skirts of the forest of Aitone, into the glooms
of which we plunged, my guide promising to bring
me out long before nightfall upon the ridge of the
pass, where he would either encamp with me, or (if I
preferred it) would leave me to encamp alone and
find his way back to Ewisa.

So, with the sun at our backs and now almost half-
way below its meridian, we threaded our way up be-
tween the enormous pine-trunks, in a gloom full of
pillars which set me in mind of Cordova Cathedral.
From their dark roof hung myriads of cocoons white
as satin and shone in every glint of sunlight And,
whether over the carpet of pine-needles or the deeper
carpet of husks where the pines gave place to beech
groves, our going was always easy and even luxurious.
I began to think that the diflSculties of my journey
were over; and as we gained the bocca at the top of
the pass and, emerging from the last outskirt of pines,
looked down on the weald beyond, I felt sure of it.

The plain lay at my feet like a huge saucer filled

THE KIDEE IN THE DAWN

with shadow and rimmed with snowy mountains on
which the sunlight yet lingered. A good road plunged
down into the gloom of Valdoniello — a forest at first
glance very like that through which we had been rid-
ing, but smaller in size. Its dark green tops climbed
almost to our feet, and over them Giuse pointed to
the town of Niolo midway across the plain, traced
with his finger the course of the Golo, and pointed
to the right of it where a pass would lead me through
the hill-chain to Corte.

I hesitated no longer : but thanked him, paid him
his price and a trifle over, and, leaving him on the
ridge, struck boldly down-hill on foot towards the
forest.

As with Aitone so with Valdoniello. The road
shimned its depths and, leading me down through the
magnificent fringe of it, brought me out upon an open
slope, if that can be called open which is densely cov-
ered to the height of a man's knees at times, and again
to the height of his breast, with my old friend the
macchia.

It was now twilight and I felt myself weary.
Choosing an aromatic bed by the roadside where no
prickly cactus thrust its way through the heather, I
opened my wallet; pulled forth a sausage, a crust,

283

THE RIDEE IN THE DAWN

and a skin of wine; supped ; and stretdied myself to

sleep through the short summer ni^t

• ••••••

"The howly Mother presarve us ! Whist now, Dan-
iel Cullinan, did yeVer hear the like of it V^

I am glad to remember now that, even as the voice
fell on my ear and awoke me, I had presence enough
of mind to roll quickly off my bed of heath away from
the road and towards the shelter of a laurestinus bush
a few paces from my elbow. But between me and
the shrub lay a fern-masked hollow between two
boulders, into which I fell with a shock, and so lay
staring up at the heavens.

The wasted moon hung directly overhead in a sky
already paling with dawn. And while I stared up at
her, taking stock of my senses and wondering if here
— ^here in Corsica — I had really heard that inappro-
priate sound, soon across the hillside on my left
echoed an even stranger one — ^yet one I recognised at
once as having mingled with my dreams ; a woman's
voice pitched at first in a long monotonous wail and
then undulating in semitones above and below the
keynote — a voice which seemed to call from miles
away — a sound as dismal as ever fell on a man's
ears.

"Arrah, let me go, Corp'ril ! let me go, I tell yez I
284

THE EIDER IN THE DAWN

'Tis the banshee — ^who knows it better than I ? — ^that
heard the very spit of it the day my brother Mick
was drowned in Waterford harbour, and me at Bally-
roan that time in Queen's County, and a long twenty-
five miles away as ever the crow flies !"

"Ah, hold your whist, my son! Mebbee 'tis but
some bird of the country — ^bad end to it 1 — or belike
the man we're after, that has spied us, and is putting a
game on us."

"Bird !" exclaimed the man he had called Daniel
CuUinan, as again the wail rang down from the hills.
"Catch the bird can talk like yondhar, and I give ye
lave to eat him and me off the same dish. And if 'tis
a man, and he's anywhere but on the road, here's a
rare bottle of hay we'll search through for him. Eest*
aisy now, Corp'ril, and give it up. That man with
the mules, we'll say, was a liar; and turn back before
the worse befalls us !"

Through my ferny screen I saw them — ^two red-
coats in British uniform disputing on the road not
ten paces from my shelter. They moved on some fifty
yards, still disputing, the first sunrays glinting on the
barrels of the rifles they shouldered: and almost as
soon as their backs were turned I broke cover and
crept away into the macchia.

Now the macchia^ as I soon discovered, is prettier
285

THE RIDEE IN THE DAWN

to look at than to climb through. I was a fool not to
content myself with keeping at a tolerably safe dis-
tance from the road. As it was, with fear at my heels
and a plenty of inexperience to guide me, I crawled
through thickets and blundered over sharply pointed
rocks ; found myself on the verge of falls from twenty
to thirty feet in depth ; twisted my ankles, pushed my
head into cactus, tangled myself in creepers; found
and followed goat-tracks which led into other goat-
tracks and ended nowhere ; tore my hands with briers
and my shoes on jagged granite ; tumbled into beds of
fern, sweated, plucked at arresting thorns, and at the
end of twenty minutes discovered what every Corsican
knows from infancy — ^that to lose one's way in the
macchia is the simplest thing in life.

I had lost mine pretty thoroughly when, happening
on what seemed at least a promising track, I cast my
eyes up and saw, on a ridge some two or three hundred
yards ahead and sharply outlined against the blue
morning sky, a horse and rider descending the slope
towards me.

The horse I presently discerned to be a light roan
of the island breed: and my first thought was that
he seemed overweighted by his rider, who sat erect —
astonishingly erect — ^with his head cased in a pointed
hood and his body in a long dark cloak which fell

THE EIDER IN THE DAWN

from his shoulders to his knees. Although he rode
with saddle and bridle, he apparently used neither
stirrups nor reins, and it was a wonder to see how the
man kept his seat as he did with his legs sticking out
rigid as two vine-props and his arms held stiffly against
his sides. I wasted no time, however, in marvelling,
but ran forward as he approached and stretched out
my hand to his rein, panting out, "O, friend, be good
enough to guide me out of this tangle I — ^f or I am a
stranger and indeed utterly lost'*

And with that all speech froze suddenly within me :
and with good excuse — ^for I was looking up into the
face of a corpse I

His eyes, shaded by the hood he wore, were glazed
and wide, his features — ^the features of an old man —
livid in deatL As I blenched before them, I saw that
a stout pole held his body upright, a pole lashed firmly
at the tail of his crupper, and terminating in two
forking branches like an inverted V, against which
his legs had been bound with leathern thongs.

And again as I blenched from the horrible face my
eyes fell on the horse, and I saw that the poor little
beast was no less than distrau^t with f ri^t. What
I had taken for grey streaks in his roan coat were in
fact lathery flakes of sweat, and he nuzzled towards
me as a horse will rarely nuzzle towards a stranger

287

THE EIDER IN THE DAWN

and only in extremest terror. A glanoe told me that
he had been galloping wildly and bucking to free him-
self of his burden, but was now worn out and thor-
oughly cowed. His knees quivered as I soothed and
patted him ; and when I pulled out a knife to cut the
corpse free from its lashings, he seemed to understand
at once, and rubbed his nose gratefully i^inst my
waistcoat

A moment later the knife almost dropped from my
hand at the sound of a brisk hurrah from above, and
looking up I saw the stalwart form of the Irish cor-
poral wriggling along the branch of a cork-oak which,
overhung the slope. He carried his rifle, and, anchor-
ing himself in a fork of the boughs, stared down tri-
umphantly.

"Arrah now,'* he hailed, "which of you's the man
that came ashore at Porto and passed through Ewisa
overnight ? Spake up quick now, and surrender, for,
I have ye covered !''

He lifted his rifle. I cast my eye over the space of
macchia between us, and decided that I had only his
bullet to fear.

^^A pocoy a pocoy^ I called back. "Be in no hurry —
piano, my friend: this gentleman has met with an
accident to his stirrup !"

"The diwle take your impudence ! Step forward
288

THE RIDER IN THE DAWN

this moment and surrender, or it's meat I'll be mak-
ing of the pair of you 1"

And he meant it I slipped behind the corpse, and
hacked at its lashings as his rifle roared out ; and for
aught I know the corpse received the bullet With a
heave I toppled it and its ghastly frame together head-
long into the fern, sprang to the saddle in its place,
pointed to it, and with a shout of "Assassino I Assas-
sino 1" shook rein and galloped down the path.

A few strides removed me out of further danger
from the corporal, perched as he was in an attitude
extremely inconvenient for reloading. Of his com-
rade I saw no signs, but judged him to be foundered
somewhere in the macchia. The little roan had re-
gained his wind. He took me down the precipitous
track without a blunder, picked his way across the
dry bed of a mountain torrent, and on the farther
side struck off at right angles into a path which
mounted through the macchia towards a wedge-shaped
cleft in the foothills to the north. Now and again
this path returned to the very lip of the torrent, across
which I looked upon cliffs descending sheer for many
scores of feet from the heathery slope to the boulders
below. At the pace we held it was a sight to make me
shiver. But the good little horse knew his road, and
I let him take it. Up and up we mounted, his pace

289

THE EIDER IN THE DAWN

dropping at length to a slow canter, and so at an angle
of the gorge came suddenly into full view of a grassy
plateau with a house perched upon it — a house so
high and narrow that at first glance I took it for a
tower, with the more excuse because at first glance I
could discern no windows.

As we approadied it, however, I saw it to be a
dwelling-house, and that it had windows, thou^ these
were shuttered, and the shutters painted a light stone
colour; and I had scarcely made this discovery when
one of them jetted out a sudden puff of smoke and a
bullet sang over my head.

The roan, which had fallen to a walk — so steep
was the pitdi of ground immediately beneath the house
— halted at once as if puzzled ; and you may guess if
his dismay exceeded mine. But I reasoned from his
behaviour on the road that this must be his home, and
the folks behind the window shutters must recognise
him. So standing high in my stirrups I waved a hand
and pointed at him, at the same time shouting "Amico I
Amico !''

There was no answer. The windows still stared
down upon us blankly, but to my relief the shot was
not repeated. "Amico I Amico!" I shouted again,
and, alighting, led the horse towards the door.

It was opened cautiously and held a little ajar —
290

THE EIDER IN THE DAWN

just wide enough to give me a glimpse of a black-
bearded face.

"Who are you ?" a voice demanded in harsh Corsi-
can.

"A friend," I answered, "and unarmed : and see, I
have brought you back your horse 1"

The man called to someone within the house: then
addressed me again. "Yes, it is indeed Nello. But
how come you by him ?"

"That is a long story," said I. "Be so good as either
to step out or to open and admit me to your hospital-
ity, that we may talk in comfort."

"To the house, O stranger, I have not the slightest
intention of admitting you, seeing that the windows
are stuffed with mattresses, and there is no light
within — ^no, not so much as would show your face.
And even less intention have I of stepping outside,
since, without calling you a liar, I greatly suspect you
are here to lead me into ambush."

"Oho !" said I, as a light broke on me. "Is this
vendetta?^^

"It is vendetta^ and has been vendetta any day since
the Saturday before last, when old Stephanu Ceccaldi
swindled me out of that very horse from which you
have alighted : and it fills me with wonder to see him
here."

391

THE RIDEE IN THE DAWN

^'My tale will not lessen your wonder," said I,
"when you learn how I came by him. But as touch-
ing this Stephanu Ceccaldi?"

"As we hear, they were to have buried him last
night at moonrise : for a week had not passed before
my knife found him — the knife of me, Marcantonio
Dezio. All night the voceri of the Ceccalde's women-
folk have been sounding across the hills."

"Agreeable sir, I have later news of him. The
Ceocalde (let us doubt not) did their best. They
mounted him upon Nello here, the innocent cause of
their affliction. They waked him with dirges which —
now you come to mention them — ^were melancholy
enough to drive a cat to suicide. They tied him up-
right, and rode him forth to the burial. But it would
seem that Nello, here, is a true son of your clan : he
cannot bear a Ceccaldi on top of him. For I met him
scouring the hills with the corpse on his back, having
given leg-bail to all his escort."

The Corsican has a heart, if you only know where
to find it. Forgetting his dread of an ambush, or dis-
regarding it in the violence of his emotion, Marcan-
tonio flung wide the door, stepped forth, and casting
both arms about the horse's neck and mane, caressed
him passionately and even with tears.

292

THE RIDER IN THE DAWN

"O Nellol O brave spirit I O true son of the
Deziil''

He called forth his family, and they came trooping
through the doorway — ^an old man, two old women,
a middle-aged matron whom I took for Marcantonio's
wife, three stalwart girls, a stunted lad of about four-
teen and four smaller and very dirty children. Their
movements were dignified — even an infant Corsican
rarely forgets his gravity — ^but they surrounded Nello
one and all, and embraced him, and fed him on lumps
of sugar. (Sugar, I may say, is a luxury in Corsica,
and scarce at that.) They wept upon his mane and
called him their little hero. They shook their fists
towards that quarter, across the valley, in which I
supposed the Ceccalde to reside. They chanted a song
over the little beast while he munched his sugar with
an air of conscious worth. And in short I imagined
myself to be wholly forgotten in their delight at re-
covering him, until Marcantonio swung round sud-
denly and asked me to name a price for him.

"Eh r said I. "What— for Nello ? Surely, after
what has happened, you can hardly bring yourself to
part with him ?"

"Hardly, indeed. O stranger, it will tear my heart !
But where am I to bestow him ? The Ceccalde will
be here presently; beyond doubt they are already

298

THE RIDEE IN THE DAWN

climbing the pass. And for you also it will be awk-
ward if they catch you here/^

I had not thought of this danger. "The valley be-
low will be barred then ?" I asked.

"Undoubtedly."

"I might perhaps stay and lend you some help."

"This is the Dezii's private quarrel," he assured
me with dignity. "But never fear for us, O stranger.
We will give them as good as they bring."

"I am bound for Corte," said I.

"By following the track up to the hocca you will
come in sight of the high-road. But you will never
reach it without Nello's help, seeing that my private
affairs hinder me from accompanying you. Now con-
cerning this horse, he is one in a thousand : you might
indeed say that he is worth his weight in gold."

"At all events," said I smiling, *lie is a ticklish
horse to pay too little for."

"A price is a price," answered Marcantonio gravely.
"Old Stephanu Ceccaldi, catching me drunk, thought
to pay but half of it, but the residue I took when I was
sober. Now, between gentlefolks, what dispute could
there be over eighty livres ? Eighty livres ! — ^why it
is scarce the price of a good mare !"

Well, bating the question of his right to sell the
horse, eighty livres was assuredly cheap : and after a

294

THE RIDER IN THE DAWN

moment^s calculation I resolved to dose with him and
accept the risk rather than by higgling over a point of
honesty, which after all concerned his conscience
rather than mine, to incur the more unpleasant one of
a Ceccaldi bullet I searched in my wallet and paid
the money, while the Dezii, with many sobs, mixed a
half -pint of wine in a mash and oflFered this last tribute
to the vindicator of their family honour.

So when Nello had /fed and I had drunk a cup to
their very long life, I mounted and jogged away up
the pass. Once or twice I reined up on the ascent for
a look back at the plateau. And always the Dezii
stood there, straining their eyes after Nello and wav-
ing farewells.

On the far side of the ridge my ears were saluted
by sounds of irregular musketry in the vale behind ;
and I knew that the second stage in the Dezio-Ceccaldi
vendetta had opened with vigour.

Three days later I had audience with the great
PaoK in his rooms in the Convent of Marosaglia. He
listened to my message with patience and to the nar-
rative of my adventures with unfeigned interest. At
the end he said —

'^I think you had best quit Corsica with the least
possible delay. And, if I may advise you further, you

295

THE EIDER IN THE DAWN

will follow the road northwards to Bastia^ avoiding
all short cuts. In any case, avoid the Niolo. I hap-
pen to know something of the Ceocalde, and their
temper; and, believe me, I am counselling you for
the best'*

296

MY LADY'S COACH

FROM THE MILITARY MEMOIR OF CAPT. J.

DE COURCY, LATE OF THE NORTH

WILTS REGIMENT.

There were four of us on top of the coach that night
— ^the driver, the guard, the corporal and I — all well
muffled up and swathed about the throat against the
northwest wind ; and we carried but one inside passen-
ger, though he snored enough for six. You could hear
him above the chink of the swingle-bars and the drum-
ming of our horses^ hoofs on the miry road. What this
inside fare was like I had no means of telling; for
when the corporal and I overtook the coach at Torpoint
Ferry he was already seated, and being served through
the door with hot kidney pasty and hot brandy-and-
water. He had travelled down from London — so I
learned from the coachman by whose side I sat; and
as soon as he ceased cursing the roads, the inns, the
waiters, the weather and the country generally, his
snores began to shake the vehicle under us as with the
throes of Etna in labour.

299

MY LADY'S COACH

The corporal squatted behind me with his feet on
the treasure-chest and his loaded musket across his
thi^, and the guard yet farther back on the roof
nursing a blunderbuss and chanting to himself the
dolef ullest tuna For me I sat drumming my heels,
with chin sunk deep within the collar of my grfsatooat,
one hand in its left hip-pocket and the other thrust
through the breast-opening, where my fingers touched
the butts of a brace of travelling pistols.

I wfb senior ensign of my regiment (the North
Wilts), and my business was to overtake a couple of
waggons that had started some seven or eight hours
ahead of us with a consignment of pay-money to be
delivered at Falmouth, where two of His Majesty's
cruisers lay on the point of sailing for the West Indies.
The chest over which I mounted guard had arrived
late from London: it was labelled "supplementary,"
and my responsibilities would end as soon as I trans-
ferred it to the lieutenant in charge of the waggons,
which never moved above a walking-pace, and always,
when conveying treasure, under esco^ of eight or ten
soldiers or marines. "Russell's Waggons" they were
called, and there was no record of their having been
attacked.

The country, to which I was a stranger, appeared
wild enough, with hedgeless downs rolling up black

300

MY LADY'S COACH

and unshapely against the night But the coadiman,
who guessed what we carried, assured me that he had
always found the road perfectly safe. I remember
asking him how long he had been driving upon it: to
which he gave no more direct answer than that he had
been bom in these parts and knew them better than
his Bible. "And the same you may say of Jim," he
added, with a jerk of his whip back towards the guard.

"He has a cheerful taste in times," I remarked.

The fellow chuckled. "That's his favourite. *My
Lady's Coach' he calls it, and — come to think of it — I
never heard him sing any other."

"It doesn't sound like Tantivey." I strained my
ears for the words of the guard's song, and heard —

** The wheels go round without a sound
Or tramp or [inaudible] of whip — "

The words next following were either drowned by
the wind or muffled and smothered in the man's neck*
cloths ; but by-and-by I caught another line or two —

"Ho! hoi my lady saith,
Step in and ride with me:
She takes the baby, white as death.
And Jigs him on her knee.
The wheels go round without a sound—**

This seemed to be the refrain.

801

MY LADY'S COACH

'' The wheels go round without a sonnd
Or [maadible again] horse's tread,
My lady's breath is foul as death.
Her driver has no head — "

*'HuhI'' grunted I, sinking my shoulders deeper
in my overcoat. "A nice sort of vehicle to meet, say
on a night like this, at the next turn of the road I''

The man peered at me suddenly, and leaned for-
ward to shorten his reins, for we were on the edge of a
steepish dip downhilL The lamp-light shone on his
huge forearm (as thick as an ordinary man's thigh)
and on his clumsy, muffled hands.

"Well, and so we might," he answered, picking up
his whip again and indicating the dark moorland on
our left. "That's if half the tales be true."

"Haunted ?" I asked, scanning the darkness.

"Opposition coach — ^hearse and pair, driven by the
Old Gentleman hisself . For my part, I don't believe
a word of it. Leastways, I've driven along here often
enough, and in most weathers, and I ha'n't met it
yet."

"You're taking this bit pretty confidently anyhow,"
was my comment, as he shortened rein again ; for the
hill proved to be a precipitous one, and the horses, held
back against the weight of the coach, went down the
slope with much sprawling of hind-quarters and kick-

302

MY LADY^S COACH

ing up of loose stones. "Don't you put on the skid for
this, as a rule ?"

"Well, now, as you say, it might be wiser. This
half-thaw makes the roads cruel greasy.'* With a tre-
mendous wrench he dragged the team to a standstilL
"Jim, my lad, hop down and give her the shoe."

I heard Jim clambering down, then the loud rattle
of the chain as he unhitched the shoe, not interrupting
his song, however —

"Hoi hoi my lady salth,
Step in and ride with me:
She takes the bride as white as death ^

"Hold up, there I" commanded a voice out of the
darkness on my left.

"Hullo!" I whipped out one of my pistols and
faced the sound, at the same instant shouting to the
driver : "Quick, man I duck your head and give 'em
the whip I Curse you for a coward — don't sit there
hesitating ! — ^the whip, I say, and put 'em at it I"

But the fellow would not budge. I turned, leaned
past him, plucked the whip from its socket, and lashed
out at the leaders. They plimged forward as a bullet
sang over my head ; but before they could break into
a gallop the driver had wrenched them back again on

303

MY LADY'S COACH

their haunches. The coach gaye a lurch or two and
once more came to a standstill

"Look here/' said a voice almost at my feet, '*you
take it quiet, or you'll be hurt I" and a pair of hands
reached up and gripped the footboard. I let fly at the
man with my pistol and at the same moment heard the
corporal's musket roar out behind my ear. Then I
tried to do what I should have done at first, and
whipped out my second pistol to lay its muzzle against
the driver's cheek.

But by this time half a dozen dark figures were
scrambling along the roof from the rear, and as I
swung round I felt a sudden heavy push against my
shoulder, tottered for a moment, trod forward upon
air, and went sprawling, almost headlong, over the
side of the coach.

Luckily I struck a furze-bush first, but for all that
I hit the turf with a thud that stunned me, as I must
believe, for a minute at least. For when next I opened
my eyes driver and guard were standing helpless in
the light of the lamps, while a couple of highwaymen
dragged my chest off the roof. Another stood by the
heads of the leaders, and yet another was spread on
the footboard, with his head and shoulders well buried
in the boot. The rest had gathered in the rear about
the coach-door in altercation with the inside passenger.

804

MY LADY'S COACH

Close behind the near hind wheel lay the corporal,
huddled and motionless.

My head darted pain as though it had been opened
with a saw, and as I lifted myself and groped about
for my pistols, I discovered that my collar-bone was
broken and my hip-muscles had taken a bad wrench.
Hurt as I was, though, I managed to find one
of my pistols, and crawling until I had the coach-
door in view, sank into the ditch and began to re-
load.

The men at the rear of the coach were inviting the
inside fare to come forth and hand over his money;
which he very roundly refused to do, using the oddest
argument ; for he declared himself so far gone in con-
sumption that the night air was as bad as death to him,
the while that the noise he made proclaimed his lungs
as strong as a horse's. This inconsistency struck the
robbers, no doubt, for after awhile a pistol was
clapped in at the window and he was bidden to step
forth without more ado.

But for my misery I could have laughed aloud at
the queer figure that at length shuffled out and stood
in the light of a lantern held to examine his money.
In height he could not have been more than five feet
two ; and to say that he was as broad as he was long
would be no lie, for never in my life have I seen a man

305

MY LADY'S COACH

80 wrapped up. He wore a travelling cap ti^tlj
drawn about the ears, and round his neck a woollen
comforter so voluminous tibat his head, thou^ large
(as I afterwards discovered), seemed a button set on
top of it I dare be sworn tibat he unbuttoned six over-
coats before he reached his fob and drew out watch
and purse.

"There," he said, handing over the money, "take it
— seven good guineas — ^with my very hearty curse."

The robbers — ^they were masked to a man — pressed
forward around the lantern to count the coins.

"Give us your word," said one, "that you've no
more stowed about you."

"I won't," answered the old gentleman. "All the
word you'll get from me is to see you hanged if I can.
If you think it worth while, search me."

Just then they were summoned by a shout from the
coach roof to help in lowering my treasure. My pistol
was reloaded by this time, and I lifted myself to take
aim and account for one of the scoundrels at least:
but in the effort my broken bone played me false ; my
hand shook, then dropped, and I sank upon my face
in a swoon of pain,

I came back to consciousness to find myself propped
on the edge of the ditch against a milestone. The

306

MY LADY'S COACH

coach was gone. Driver, guard, highwaymen, even
the corporaPs body, had disappeared also. But just
before me in the road, under the light of a newly-risen
waning moon, stood the inside passenger, hopping first
on one leg, then on the other, for warmth ; and indeed
the villains had despoiled him of three of his great-
coats.

I sat up, groaned, and tried to lift my hands to my
face. My companion ceased hopping about and re-
garded me with interest.

"Lost money V^ he inquired.

"Public money,'* I answered, and groaned again.
'*It means ruin for me,'* I added.

"Well," said he, "Fve lost my own — every stiver
about me." He began to hop about again, halted, and
began to wag his forefinger at me slowly. "Come,
come, what's the use ? I'm sorry for you, but where's
your heart ?"

I stared, not well knowing what to make of his
manner.

"Look here," he went on after awhile, "you're
thinking that you've lost your character. Very well ;
any bones broken ?"

"My collar-bone, I think."

"Which, at your age, will heal in no time. Any-
thing else?"

807

MY LADY'S COACH

^^A twist of the hip here^ and a cut in the head^ I
believe.**

"Tut, tut! Good appetite r

He had approached, unwound his enonnous woollen
comforter, and was beginning to bandage me with it,
by no means unskilfully. I thought his question a
mad one, and no doubt my face, as he peered into it^
told him so.

"I mean,** he explained, "will you ever be able to
eat a beef -steak again — say, a trifle underdone, with a
dozen of oysters for prelude — and drink beer, d*ye
think, and enjoy them both ?**

"No doubt.**

"And kiss a pretty girl, and be glad to do it ?**

"Very likely.**

"And fight?**

He eyed his bandage critically, stepped back upon
the road and danced about, stamping with his feet
while he cut and thrust at an imaginary enemy. "And
fight, hey ?**

"I suppose so.**

"Then, bless the lad,** he exclaimed, stopping and
looking at me as fierce as a rat, "get on your legs,
and don*t sit moping as if life were a spilt posset 1'*

There was no disobeying this masterful old gentle-
man, so I made shift to stand up.

308

MY LADY'S COACH

"We have but one life to live," said he.

"I beg your pardon ?"

" — in this world. God forgive me, Fd almost for-
gotten my cloth 1 We have, I say, only one life to live
in this world, and must make the best of it. I tell you
so, and I'm a clergyman."

"Indeed, sir?"

"Damme, yes ; and, what's more, I'll take odds that
I'm not the rector of this very parish."

By this time, as you will guess, I had no doubt of
his madness. To begin with, anyone less like a parson
it would be hard to pick in a crowd, and, besides, I
remembered some of his language to the highway-
men.

"It ought to be hereabouts," he went on medi-
tatively. "And if it should turn out to be my parish
we must make an effort to get your money back, if
only for our credit's sake, hey ?"

"Oh," said I, suspicious all of a sudden, "if
these ruflSans are your parishioners and you know
them ^"

"Know them ?" he caught me up. "How the devil
should I know them ? I've never been within a hun-
dred miles of this country in my life."

"You say 'tis your parish ^"

"I don't. I only say that it may be."
809

MY LADY'S COACH

"But, excuse me, if youVe never seen it be-
fore "

"I don't see it now," he snapped.

"Then excuse me again, but how on earth do you
propose — ^here in the dead of night, on an outlandish
moorland, in a country you have never seen — ^to dis-
cover a chest of treasure which seven or eight scoun-
drelly, able-bodied natives are at this moment making
oflf with and hiding ?"

"The problem, my friend, as you state it is too
easy ; too ridiculously easy. ^Natives' you say : I only
hope they may be. The difficulty will only begin if
we discover them to be strangers to these parts."

"Have mercy then on my poor dull wits, sir, and
take the case at its easiest. We'll suppose these fel-
lows to be natives. Still, how are you to discover their
whereabouts and the whereabouts of my pay-chest ?"

"Why, man alive, by the simple expedient of find-
ing a house, knocking at the door, and asking ! You
don't suppose, do you, that seven or eight able-bodied
men can commit highway robbery upon one of His
Majesty's coaches and their neighbours be none the
wiser ? I tell you, these rural parishes are the veriest
gossip-shops on earth. Go to a city if you want to lose
a secret, not to a God-forsaken moor like this around
us, where every labourer's thatch hums with rumour.

310

MY LADY'S COACH

Moreover, you forget that as a parish priest among
this folk — as curator of their souls — I may have un-
usually good opportunities " Here he checked

himself, while I shru^ed my shoulders. "By the
way, it may interest you to hear how I came by this
benefice. Can you manage to walk ? If so, I will tell
you on the road, and we shall be losing no time.'*

I stood up and announced that I could limp a little.
He offered me his arm.

"It's an instructive story," he went on, paying no
heed to my dejection ; "and it may teach you how a
man should comport himself in adversity. Six weeks
ago this very night I lost two fortunes in less than
six hours. You are listening t"

"With what patience I can."

"Eight. You see, I was bom with a taste for ad-
venture. At this moment — ^you may believe it or not
— Fm enjoying myself thoroughly. But the deuce
of it is that I was also bom with a poor flimsy body.
Come, I'm not handsomely built, am I ?"

"Not particularly," I answered; and indeed his
body was shaped like an egg.

"Confound it, sir, you needn't agree quite so offen-
sively. You're none too straight in the legs yourself,
if it comes to that! However," he continued in a
more equable tone, 'T)cing weak in body, I sou^t my

311

MY LADY'S COACH

ddventures in a quarter where a long head serves one
better than long legs — I mean the gaming table. Now
comes my story. Six weeks ago I took a hand at las-
quenet in a company which included a nobleman
whom for obvious reasons I will only call the Duke.
He is of the blood royal, sir; but I mention him no
more closely, and you as a gentleman will not press
me. Eh ? Very well. By three o'clock in the morn-
ing I had lost fifteen thousand pounds. In such a
case, young man, you would probably have taken your
head in your hands and groaned. We called for wine,
drank, and went on again. By seven in the morning
I had won my money back, and was the Duke's cred-
itor for twenty-two thousand pounds to boot."

"But," said I, "a minute ago you told me you had
lost two fortunes."

"I am coming to that. Later in the day the Duke
met me in St. James' Street, and said, ^Noy' — ^my
name is Noy, sir, Timothy N'oy — ^N'oy,' said he, ^I
owe you twenty-two thousand pounds ; and begad, sir,
it's a desperate business for I haven't the money, nor
the half of it.' Well, I didn't fly out in a rage, but
stood there beside him on the pavement, tapping my
shoe with my walking-cane and considering. At last
I looked up, and said I, TTour Grace must forgive my
offering a suggestion ; for 'tis a cursedly awkward fix

312

MY LADY'S COACH

your Grace is in, and one to excuse boldness in a
friend, however humble/ ^Don't put it so, I beg,'
said he. 'My dear Noy, if you can only tell me how
to get quits with you, I'll be your debtor eternally/ '*

The old gentleman paused, lightly disengaged his
arm from mine, and fumbled among his many waist-
coats till he found a pocket and in it a snuff-box.

"Now that,'' he pursued as he helped himself to a
pinch, "was, for so exalted a personage, passably near
a mot. *Your Grace,' said I, 'has a large Church pat-
ronage.' 'To be sure I have.' 'And possibly a liv-
ing — ^with an adequate stipend for a bachelor — ^might
be vacant just now V 'As it happens,' said the Duke,
'I have a couple at this moment waiting for my pres-
entation, and two stacks of letters, each a foot high,
from applicants and the friends of applicants, waiting
for my perusal.' 'Might I make bold,' I asked, 'to
inquire their worth V 'There's one in Norwich worth
£900 a year, and another in Cornwall worth £400.
But how the deuce can this concern you, man ?' 'The
cards are too expensive for me, your Grace, and I have
often made terms with myself that I would repent of
them and end my days in a country living. This
comes suddenly, to be sure ; but so, for that matter,
does death itself, and a man who makes a vow should
hold himself ready to be taken at his word.' 'But, my

313

MY LADY'S COACH

dear fellow/ cries his Grace, ^with the best will in the
world you can't repent and end your days in two liv-
ings at once.' *I mi^t try my best/ said I ; *there are
such things as curates to be hired, I believe, and, at
the worst, I was always fond of travelling.' "

The Reverend Timothy stowed away his snuS-box
and gave me his arm again.

"The Duke," he continued, "took my point. He is,
by the way, not half such a fool as he looks and isr
vulgarly supposed to be. He wrote that same day to
his brother-in-law (whom I will take leave to call the
Bishop of Wexcester), and made me its bearer. It is
worth quotation. It ran: ^Dear Ted, — Ordain Noy,
and oblige yours, Fred.' The answer which I carried
back two days later was equally laconic. ^Dear
Fred, — N'oy ordained. Yours, Ted.' Consequently,"
wound up Mr. IsToy, "I am down here to take over my
cure of souls, and had in one of my pockets a sermon
composed for my induction by a gifted young scholar
of the University of Oxford. I paid him fifteen shill-
ings and the best part of a bottle of brandy for it.
The rascals have taken it, and I think they will find
some difficulty in converting it into cash. Hullo ! ia
that a cottage yonder ?"

It was a small cottage, thatched and whitewashed,
and glimmering in the moonlight beside the road on

314

MY LADY'S COACH

which its whitewashed garden-wall abutted. The
moonlight, too, showed that its upper windows were
closed with wooden shutters. Mr. Noy halted before
the garden-gate.

"H'm, we shall have trouble here belike. Poor
cottagers living beside a highroad donH open too easily
at this hour to a couple of come-by-chance wayfarers.
To be sure, you wear the King's uniform, and that
may be a recommendation. What's that track yonder,
and where does it lead, think you ?''

The track to which he pointed led off the road at
right angles, past the gable-end of the cottage, and
thence (as it seemed to me) up into the moorland,
where it was quickly lost in darkness, being but a
rutted cartway overgrown with grass. But as I
stepped close to examine it my eye caught the moon's
ray softly reflected by a pile of masonry against the
uncertain sky-line, and by-and-by discerned the roof
and chimney-stacks of a farmhouse, with a grey cluster
of outbuildings and the quadrilateral of a high-walled
garden.

"A farmhouse ?'* cried his reverence, when I re-
ported my discovery. "That's more in our line by a
long way. Only beware of dogs."

Sure enough, when we reached the courtlage gate
in front of the main building his lifting of the latch

815

MY LADY'S COACH

was the signal for half a dozen dogs to give tongae.
By the mercy of heaven^ however, they were all within
doors or chained, and after an anxious and unpleasant
half -minute we made bold to defy their clamour and
Step within the gate. Almost as we entered a window
was opened overhead, and a man's voice challenged
us.

^'Whoever you be, IVe a gun in my hand here I" he
announced.

"We are two travellers by the mail coach," Mr. Noy
announced; "one a clergyman and the other an officer
in the King's service."

"You don't tell me the coach is upset ?"

"And one of us has a broken collar-bone, and craves
shelter in Christian charity. What's the name of this
parish ?"

"Hey ?" The man broke off to silence the noise of
his dogs.

"What's the name of this parish ?"

"Braddock."

"I thought so. Then mine is N'oy — Timothy Noy
— and I'm your rector. Weren't you expecting
me?"

"Indeed, sir, if you're Mr. ISToy, the Squire had
Word you might be coming down this week ; and 'twas
I, as churchwarden, that posted your name on the

316

MY LADY'S COACH

church door. If you'll wait a moment, sir — ^the coach
upset, you say 1"

He disappeared from the window, and we heard
him shouting to awaken the household. By-and-by
the door was imchained and he admitted us, exclaim-
ing again, "The coach upset, you say, sir 1"

"Worse than that: it has been robbed. We keep
some bad characters in our parish, Mr. ^'

"Menhennick, sir; Greorge Menhennick — and this
is Tresaher Farm. Bad characters, sir ? I hope not.
We keep no highway robbers in this parish."

He faced us, rush-lamp in hand, in his great vaulted
kitchen, and the light fell on an honest, puzzled face.
As for Mr. Noy's face, I regret to say that it fell when
he heard this vindication of his flock.

"I brought ye into the kitchen, sirs," went on Far^
mer Menhennick, "because 'tis cosier. We keep a fire
banked up here all night." He bent to revive it, but
desisted as his wife entered with one of the house-
wenches, and gave them orders to light a lamp, fetch a
billet or two of wood, and make the place cheerful.

My face, I daresay, and the news of the robbery,
scared the two women, who went about their work at
once with a commendable quietness. But I think it
was a whisper from the maidservant which caused the
farmer to ejaculate, as he helped me to a chair:

317

MY LADY'S COACH

*'And youVe walked across Blackadon Down at
this hour of night! My word, sirs, and saving your
reverence, but you had a nerve, if you'd only known

itr

"Why, what's the matter with Blackadon ?" asked
Mr. Noy sharply.

Farmer Menhennick faced him with a deprecatory
grin,

"Nothing, sir — ^leastways, nothing more than old
woman's tales, not worth a man's heeding."

"Has it by chance," said I, "anything to do with a
hearse ?"

"A hearse !" Mr. Noy stared at me, and then his
eye fell on the farmer, who had been helping to un-
button my tunic, but was now drawn back a pace from
me with amazement written all over his honest face.
"A hearse ?" repeated Mr. Noy.

"Why, however " began the farmer, with his

eyes slowly widening.

"A hearse," said I, "with black nodding plumes

and (I believe) a headless driver. Let me see "

I began to hum the air sung by Jim the guard : —

" The wheels go round without a sound — "

The two women had dropped their work and stood
peering at me, the pair of them quaking.

318

MY LADY'S COACH

"He's seen it — ^he's seen it 1" gasped the farmer's
wife.

"A hearse?" cried Mr. Noy once more, and this
time almost in a scream. "When? where?"

"On Blackadon Down, sir," answered Mr. Men-
hennick. "'Tis an old story that the moor's haimted,
and folks have been putting it round that the thing's
been seen two or three times lately. But there — 'tis
nothing to pay any heed to."

"Oh, isn't it 1"

"You understand, sir, 'tisn't a real hearse ^"

"Oh, isn't it 1" repeated Mr. Noy in scorn. "And

youy sir ^" He had almost caught and shaken me

by the collar, but remembered my hurt just in time.
"And do you, sir, sit there and tell me that you've
known this all along, and yet — oh, you numskull 1"
He flung up two protesting hands.

"But even if it's a real hearse — ^" I began.

"That's the kind most frequently met, I believe.
And *the wheels go round without a sound.' Yes,
they would — on Blackadon turf I Any more ques-
tions? No? Then I'll take my turn with a few."
He wheeled round upon the farmer. "Ever seen it
yourself?"

"No, sir."

"Has anyone here seen it?"
319

MY LADY'S COACH

No; but the maidservant's father had seen it, three
weeks ago — ^the very night that Squire Granville's
house was tried

Mr. Noy was almost capering. "Splendid!" he
cried. "Splendid 1 That will sharpen his temper if
it don't his wits. The Squire's house was tried, you
say ?" He turned on the farmer again. "Hullo, my
friend 1 I imderstood there were no law-breakers in
this parish ?"

"'Tisn't known for certain that the house was
tried," the farmer explained. "'Tis thought that
some of the lads was giving the old boy a scare, he
having been extra sharp on the poaching this year.
All that's known is, he heard some person trying his
shutters, and let fly out of his bedroom window with
a gun ; and what you can build on that I don't see."

"You shall though." He began to cross-examine
the girl. "At what time that night did your father
see the hearse ?"

"I believe, sir, 'twas soon after eleven. He has a
cow, sir, in calf, and went round to the chall to make
sure she was all right ^"

Mr. Noy nodded. "And the hearse was passing —
in what direction ?"

"Towards the church town, sir ; or, as you may say,
towards St. Neot parish."

320

MY LADY'S COACH

"Inland^ that is?"

"Yes, sir. But later on that same night Keub
Clyma, up to Taphouse, saw it too; and this time
'twas moving fast and making towards Polperro."

"Fits like a puzzle. Is Polperro a seaport town ?"
he asked the farmer.

"A sort of fishing town, sir."

"Your nearest? Good. And you reach it by a
road running north and south across the coach-road ?
Good. Now if you wanted to drive to Polperro you
could do so across the downs for some distance, eh?
before striking this road. Good again. How far ?"

"You'll excuse me, but I don't know that I rightly
take your meaning."

"Then we'll go slower. Suppose that you wished
to drive towards Polperro over turf, never minding
the jolts, and not to strike into the hard road until
you were compelled. How far could you contrive to
travel in this way ?"

Farmer Menhennick found a seat and sat scratch-
ing his head. "Three miles, maybe," he decided at
length.

"And what sort of road is this when you strike it ?"

"Turnpike."

"Indeed ? And where's the pike ?"

"At Cann's Gate."

321

MY LADY'S COACH

"That tells me nothing, I'm afraid ; but we'll put
the question in another form. Suppose that we are
forced at length to leave the turf and fields and strike
into the road for Polperro. Now where would this
happen ? Some way beyond the turnpike, I imagine."

"Indeed no, sir : it would be a mile on this side of
the pike, or three-quarters at the least."

"You are sure ?"

"Sure as I sit here. Why the road goes down a
coombe; and before you get near the turnpike, the
eoombe narrows so." The farmer illustrated the V
by placing his hands at an angle.

Mr. Noy found his snuff-box, took a heavy pinch,
inhaled it, and closed his box with a snap. Then he
faced the farmer's wife with a low bow.

"Madam," said he, "you may put this young gen-
tleman to bed, and the sooner the better. He has lost
a large sum of money, which I am fairly confident I
can recover for him without his help ; and your parish
— which is also mine — ^has lost its character, and this
also I propose to recover. But to that end I must
require your excellent husband to fetch out his trap
and drive me with all speed to Squire Granville's."
He paused, and added, "We are in luck to-night un-
doubtedly ; but I fear I can promise him no such luck
as to meet a hearse and headless driver on the way.

322

MY LADY'S COACH

. . . One moment, Mr. Menhenniek' Have you
sucli things as pen, ink and paper itnd a farm-boy able
to rider

"Certainly I have, sir."

"Then while you are harnessing your nag, I'll drop
a line to the riding-officer at Polperro; and if after
receipt of it he allows a single fishing-boat to leave the
harbour, he'll be sorry — ^that's all. Now, sir — Eh?
Why are you hesitating ?"

"Well, indeed, your reverence knows best; and if
you force me to drive over to Squire Granville's, why
then I must. But I warn you, sir, that he hunts to-
morrow ; and if, begging your pardon, you knew the
old varmint's temper on a hunting day in the morn-
ing ^'

"Hunts, does he ? D'ye mean that he keeps a pack
of hounds ?"

"Why, of course, sir!"

Farmer Menhennick's accent was pathetically re-
proachful.

"Gk)d forgive me ! And I didn't know it — I, your
rector ! Your rebuke is just, I!:! r. Menhenniek. And
this Church of England of ours — I say it with shame
— is full of scandals. Where do they meet to-day ?"

"Four-barrow Hill, your reverence."

"Oh, no, they don't. On that point you really must
323

MY LADY'S COACH

allow me to correct you. If they meet at all,>it will

be at— what d'ye call it ?— Cami's Gate."

• ••••••

And so they did. The Granville Hounds are, or
were, a famous pack ; but the great and golden day in
their annals remains one on which they killed never
a fox ; a day's hunting from which they trailed home-
wards behind a hearse driven in triumph by a very
small clergyman without a heisid (for Mr. Noy had
donned the very suit worn by Satan's understudy,
even to its high stock-collar pierced with eye-holes).
That hearse contained my chest of treasure ; and that
procession is remembered in the parishes of Talland,
Pelynt, Lanreath, and Braddock to this day.

I did not see it, alas ! Bed claimed the invalid, and
Mrs. Menhennick soothed him with her ministering
attentions. But Parson Noy reported the day's do-
ings to me in a voice reasonably affected by deep pota-
tions at the "Punch Bowl Inn," Lanreath.

"My son, it was glorious ! First of all we ran the
turnpike-man to earth, and frightened him into turn-
ing King's evidence. He was at the bottom of the
mischief, of course ; and the hearse we found — ^where
d'ye think? Close behind his house, sir, in a hay-
stack — a haystack so neatly hollowed that It beat be-
lief — ^with a movable screen of hay, which the rogues

324

MY LADY'S COACH

replaced when the coach was stowed I We found
everything inside — masks, mourners' hatbands, the
whole bag of tricks ; everything, barring your treasure,
and that the preventive men dug out of the hold of an
innocent-looking lugger on the point to sail for Guern-
sey. Four of the rascals, too, they routed up, that
were stowed under decks and sleeping like angels."

"And the coachman ? And the guard ?"

"Squire Granville has posted off half a dozen con-
stables towards Falmouth; but FU lay odds that
precious pair are on shipboard before this and head-
ing out to sea. I'm sorry, too, for they were the wick-
edest villains of the piece ; but they'll be sorry before
they have finished waiting at Guernsey. One can't
expect everything; and Providence has been mighty
kind to us."

"To me, at all events."

"And to me, and to my parish."

"Yes, to be sure," said I ; "the parish is well rid of
such a bogey."

"I wasn't thinking of that," said he drily. "Fve
recovered my sermon."

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