WHAT can be the matter? How did you manage to come here? You must have travelled by the same train as we came by. Oh, Harold, my husband, I am so glad to see you. You have changed your mind—you are coming on with me? Oh, I see it all now. You meant all along to give me this delightful surprise.”
The words came from her in a torrent as she put her hand on his arm—he could feel the ring on her finger.
“No, no,” said he; “everything remains as it was this morning. I only wish that I were going on with you. Providentially something occurred to me when I was sitting alone after lunch. That is why I came. I managed to catch a train that brought me here just now—the train I was in ran past this platform and I saw your face.”
“What can have occurred to you that you could not tell me in a letter?” she asked, her face still bearing the look of glad surprise that had come to it when she had heard the sound of his voice.
“We shall have to go into a waiting-room, or—better still—an empty carriage,” said he. “I see several men whom I know, and—worse luck! women—they are on their way to Abbeylands, and if they saw us together in this confidential way, they would never cease chattering when they arrived. We shall get into a compartment—there is one that still remains unlighted, it will be the best for our purpose; there will be no chance of a prying face appearing at the window.”
“Shall we have time?” she asked.
“Plenty of time. By getting into the carriage you will run no chance of being left behind—the worst that can happen is that I may be carried on with you.”
“The worst? Oh, that is the best—the best.” They had strolled to the end of the platform where it was dimly lighted, and in an instant, apparently unobserved by anyone, they had got into an unlighted compartment at the rear of the train, and Harold shut the door quietly, so as not to attract the attention of the three or four men in knickerbockers who were stretching their legs on the platform until the train was ready to start.
“We are fortunate,” said he. “Those men outside will be your fellow-guests for the week. None of them will think of glancing into a dark carriage; but if one of them does so, he will be nothing the wiser.”
“And now—and now,” she cried.
“And now, my dearest, you remember the ring that I put upon your finger?”
“This ring? Do you think it likely that I have forgotten it already?” she whispered.
“No, no, dearest; it was I who forgot it,” he said. “It was I who forgot that my father and my sister are perfectly certain to recognize that ring if you wear it at Abbeylands: they will be certain to see it on your linger, and they will question you as to how it came into your possession.”
“Of course they will,” she said, after a pause. “You told me that it was a ring that belonged to your mother. There can only be one such ring in the world. Oh, they could not fail to recognize it. The little chubby wicked Eros surrounded by the rubies—I have looked at the design every day—every night—sometimes the firelight gleaming upon the circle of rubies has made them seem to me a band of blood. Was that the idea of the artist who made the design, I wonder—a circle of blood with the god Eros in the centre.”
She had taken off her glove, and had laid the hand with the ring in one of his hands.
He had never felt her hand so soft and warm before. His hand became hot through holding hers. His heart was beating as it had never beaten before.
The force of his grasp pressed the sharply cut cameo into his flesh. The image of that wicked little god, the son of Aphrodite, was stamped upon him. It seemed as if some of his blood would mingle with the blood that sparkled and beat within the heart of the rubies.
He had forgotten the object of his mission to her. Still holding her hand with the ring, he put his arm under the sealskin coat that reached to her feet, and held her close to him while he kissed her as he had never before kissed her.
Suddenly he seemed to recollect why he was with her. He had not hastened down from London for the sake of the kiss.
“My beloved, my beloved!” he murmured—each word sounded like a sob—“I should like to remain with you for ever.”
She did not say a word. She did not need to say a word. He could feel the tumult of her heart, and she knew it.
“For God’s sake, Beatrice, let me speak to you,” he said.
It was a strange entreaty. His arm was about her, his hand was holding one of hers, she was simply passive by his side; and yet he implored of her to let him speak to her.
It was some moments before she could laugh, however; which was also strange, for the humour of the matter which called for that laugh, was surely capable of being appreciated by her immediately.
She gave a laugh and then a sigh.
The carriage was dark, but a stray gleam of light from a side platform now and again came upon her face, and her features were brought into relief with the clearness and the whiteness of a lily in a jungle.
As she gave that laugh—or was it a sigh?—he started, perceiving that the expression of her features was precisely that which the artist in the antique had imparted to the features of the little chrysoprase Eros in the centre of that blood-red circle of the ring.
“Why do you laugh, Beatrice?8 said he.
“Did I laugh, Harold?” said she. “No—no—I think—yes, I think it was a sigh—or was it you who sighed, my love?”
“God knows,” said he. “Oh, the ring—the ring!”
“It feels like a band of burning metal,” she said.
“It is almost a pain for me to wear it. Have you not heard of the curious charms possessed by rings, Harold—the strange spells which they carry with them? The ring is a mystery—a mystic symbol. It means what has neither beginning nor ending—it means perfection—completeness—it means love—love’s completeness.”
“That is what your ring must mean to us, my beloved,” said he. “Whether you take it from your finger or let it remain there, it will still mean the completeness of such love as is ours.”
“And I am to take it off, Harold?”
“Only so long as you stay at Abbeylands, Beatrice. What does it matter for one week? You will see, dearest, how my plans—my hopes—must certainly he destroyed if that ring is seen on your finger by my father or my sister. It is not for the sake of my plans only that I wish you to refrain from wearing it for a week; it is for your sake as well.”
“Would they fancy that I had stolen it, dear?” she asked, looking up to his face with a smile.
“They might fancy worse things than that, Beatrice,” said he. “Do not ask me. You may be sure that I am advising you aright—that the consequences of that ring being recognized on your finger would be more serious than you could understand.”
“Did I not say something to you a few days ago about the completeness of my trust in you, Harold?” she whispered. “Well, the ring is the symbol of this completeness also. I trust you implicitly in everything. I have given myself up to you. I will do whatever you may tell me. I will not take the ring off until I reach Abbeylands, but I shall take it off then, and only replace it on my finger every night.”
“My darling, my darling! Such love as you have given to me is God’s best gift to the world.”
He had committed himself to an opinion practically to the same effect upon more than one previous occasion.
And now, as then, the expression of that opinion was followed by a long silence, as their faces came together.
“Beatrice,” he said, in a tremulous voice.
“Harold.”
“I shall go on with you to Abbeylands. Come what may, we shall not now be separated.”
But they were separated that very instant. The carriage was flooded with light—the chastened flood that comes from an oil lamp inserted in a hollow in the roof—and they were no longer in each others arms. They heard the sound of the porter’s feet on the roof of the next carriage.
“It is so good of you to come,” said she.
There was now perhaps three inches of a space separating them.
“Good?” said he. “I’m afraid that’s not the word. We shall be under one roof.”
“Yes,” she said slowly, “under one roof.”
“Tickets for Ashmead,” intoned a voice at the carriage window.
“We are for Abbeylands Station,” said Harold.
“Abb’l’ns,” said the guard. “Why, sir, you know the Abb’l’ns train started six minutes ago.”
HAROLD was out of the compartment in a moment. Did the guard mean that the train had actually left for Abbeylands? It had left six minutes before, the guard explained, and the station-master added his guarantee to the statement.
Harold looked around—from platform to platform—as if he fancied that there was a conspiracy between the officials to conceal the train.
How could the train leave without taking all its carriages with it?
It did nothing of the kind, the station-master said, firmly but respectfully.
The guard went on with his business of cutting neat triangles out of the tickets of the passengers in the carriages that were alongside the platform—passengers bound for Ashmead.
“But I—we—my—my wife and I got into one of the carriages of the Abbeylands train,” said Harold, becoming indignant, after the fashion of his countrymen, when they have made a mistake either on a home or foreign railway. “What sort of management is it that allows one portion of a train to go in one direction and another part in another direction?”
“It’s our system, sir,” said the official. “You see, sir, there’re never many passengers for either the Abbeyl’n’s”—being a station-master he did not do an unreasonable amount of clipping in regard to the names—“or the Ashm’d branch, so the Staplehurst train is divided—only we don’t light the lamps in the Ashm’d portion until we’re ready to start it. Did you get into a carriage that had a lamp, sir?”
“I’ve seen some bungling at railway stations before now,” said Harold, “but bang me if I ever met the equal of this.”
“This isn’t properly speaking a station, sir, it’s a junction,” said the official, mildly, but with the force of a man who has said the last word.
“That simply means that greater bungling may be found at a junction than at a station,” said Harold. “Is it not customary to give some notice of the departure of a train at a junction as well as a station, my good man?”
The official became reasonably irritated at being called a good man.
“The train left for Abbeyl’n’s according to reg’lation, sir,” said he. “If you got into a compartment that had no lamp——”
“Oh, I’ve no time for trifling,” said Harold. “When does the next train leave for Abbey-lands?”
“At eight-sixteen in the morning,” said the official.
“Great heavens! You mean to say that there’s no train to-night?”
“You see, if a carriage isn’t lighted, sir, we——”
The man perceived the weakness of Harold’s case—from the standpoint of a railway official—and seemed determined not to lose sight of it. “Contributory negligence” he knew to be the most valuable phrase that a railway official could have at hand upon any occasion.
“And how do you expect us to go on to Abbeylands to-night?” asked Harold.
“There’s a very respectable hotel a mile from the junction, sir,” said the man. “Ruins of the Priory, sir—dates back to King John, page 84 Tourist’s Guide to Brackenshire.”
“Oh,” said Harold, “this is quite preposterous.” He went to where Beatrice was seated watching, with only a moderate amount of interest, the departure of five passengers for Ashmead.
“Well, dear?” said she, as Harold came up.
“For straightforward, pig-headed stupidity I’ll back a railway company against any institution in the world,” said he. “The last train has left for Abbeylands. Did you ever know of such stupidity? And yet the shareholders look for six per cent, out of such a system.”
“Perhaps,” said she timidly—“perhaps we were in some degree to blame.”
He laughed. It was so like a woman to suggest the possibility of some blame attaching to the passengers when a railway company could be indicted. To the average man such an idea is as absurd as beginning to argue with a person at whom one is at liberty to swear.
“It seems that there is a sort of hotel a mile away,” said he. “We cannot be starved, at any rate.”
“And I—you—we shall have to stay there?” said she.
He gave a sort of shrug—an Englishman’s shrug—about as like the real thing as an Englishman’s bow, or a Chinaman’s cheer.
“What can we do?” said he. “When a railway company such as this—oh, come along, Beatrice. I am hungry—hungry—hungry!”
He caught her by the arm.
“Yes, Harold—husband,” said she.
He started.
“Husband! Husband!” he said. “I never thought of that. Oh, my beloved—my beloved!”
He stood irresolute for a moment.
Then he gave a curious laugh, and she felt his hand tighten upon her arm for a moment.
“Yes,” he whispered. “You heard the words that—that man said while our hands were together? ‘Whom God hath joined’—God—that is Love. Love is the bond that binds us together. Every union founded on Love is sacred—and none other is sacred—in the sight of heaven.”
“And you do not doubt my love,” she said.
“Doubt it? oh, my Beatrice, I never knew what it was before now.” They left the station together, after he had written and despatched in her name a telegram to her maid, directing her to explain to Mrs. Lampson that her mistress had unfortunately missed the train, but meant to go by the first one in the morning.
By chance a conveyance was found outside, and in it they drove to the Priory Hotel which, they were amazed to find, promised comfort as well as picturesqueness.
It was a long ivy-covered house, and bore every token of being a portion of the ancient Priory among the ruins of which it was standing. Great elms were in front of the house, and on one side there were apple trees, and at the other there was a garden reaching almost to where a ruined arch was held together by its own ivy.
As they were in the act of entering the porch, a ray of moonlight gleamed upon the ruins, and showed the trimmed grass plots and neat gravel walks among the cloisters.
Harold pointed out the picturesque effect to Beatrice, and they stood for some moments before entering the house.
The old waiter, whose moderately white shirt front constituted a very distinctive element of the hall with its polished panels of old oak, did not bustle forward when he saw them admiring the ruins.
“Upon my word,” said Harold, entering, “this is a place worth seeing. That touch of moonlight was very effective.”
“Yes, sir,” said the waiter; “I’m glad you’re pleased with it. We try to do our best in this way for our patrons. Mrs. Mark will be glad to know that you thought highly of our moonlight, sir.”
The man was only a waiter, but he was as solemn as a butler, as he opened the door of a room that seemed ready to do duty as a coffee-room. It had a low groined ceiling, and long narrow windows.
An elderly maid was lighting candles in sconces round the walls.
“Really,” said Harold, “we may be glad that the bungling at the junction brought us here.”
“Yes, sir,” said the man with waiter-like acquiescence; “they do bungle things sometimes at that junction.”
“We were on our way to Abbeylands,” said Harold, “but those idiots on the platform allowed us to get into the wrong carriages—the carriages that were going to Ashmead. We shall stay here for the night. The station-master recommended us to go here, and I’m much obliged to him. It’s the only sensible—”
“Yes, sir: he’s a brother to Mrs. Mark—Mrs. Mark is our proprietor,” said the waiter.
“Mrs. Mark,” said Harold.
“Yes, sir: she’s our proprietor.”
Harold thought that, perhaps, when the owner of an hotel was a woman, she might reasonably be called the proprietor.
“Oh, well, perhaps a maid might show my—my wife to a room, while I see what we can get for dinner—supper, I suppose we should call it.”
The middle-aged woman who was lighting the candles came forward smiling, as she adroitly extinguished the wax taper by the application of her finger and thumb. With her Beatrice disappeared.
Harold quite expected that he was about to come upon the weak element in the management of this picturesque inn. But when he found that a cold pheasant as well as some hot fish was available for supper, he admitted that the place was perfect. There was no wine card, but the old waiter promised a Champagne for which, he said, Mr. Lampson, of Abbeylands, had once made an offer.
“That will do for us very well,” said Harold. “Mr. Lampson would not make an offer for anything—wine least of all—of which he was uncertain.”
The waiter went off in the leisurely style that was only consistent with the management of an establishment that dated back to King John; and in a few minutes Beatrice appeared, having laid aside her sealskin coat, and her hat.
How exquisite she seemed as she stood for an instant in the subdued light at the door!
And she was his.
S HE was his.
He felt the joy of it as she stood at the door in her beautifully fitting travelling dress.
The thought sent an exultant glow through his veins, as he looked at her from where he was standing at the hearth. (There was no “cosy corner” abomination.)
She was his.
He went forward to meet her, and put out both his hands to her.
She placed a hand in each of his.
“How delightfully warm you are,” she said. “You were standing at the fire.”
“Yes,” he said. “I was at the fire; in addition, I was also thinking that you are mine.”
“Altogether yours now,” she said looking at him with that trustful smile which should have sent him down on his knees before her, but which did not do more than cause his eyes to look at her throat instead of gazing straight into her eyes.
They seated themselves on one of the old window-seats, and talked face to face, listlessly watching the old waiter lay a white cloth on a portion of the black oak table.
When they had eaten their fish and pheasant—Harold wondered if the latter had come from the Abbeylands’ preserves, and if Archie Brown had shot it—they returned to the window-seat, and there they remained for an hour.
He had thrown all reserve to the winds. He had thrown all forethought to the winds. He had thrown all fear of God and man to the winds.
She was his.
The old waiter re-entered the room and laid on the table a flat bedroom candlestick with a box of matches.
“Can I get you anything before I go to bed, sir?” he inquired.
“I require nothing, thank you,” said Harold.
“Very good, sir,” said the waiter. “The candles in the sconces will burn for another hour. If that will not be long enough—”
“It will be quite long enough. You have made us extremely comfortable, and I wish you goodnight,” said Harold.
“Good-night, sir. Good-night, madam.”
This model servitor disappeared. They heard the sound of his shoes upon the stairs.
“At last—at last!” whispered Harold, as he put an arm on the deep embrasure of the window behind her.
She let her shapely head fall back until it rested on his shoulder. Then she looked up to his face.
“Who could have thought it?” she cried. “Who could have predicted that evening when I stood on the cliffs and sent my voice out in that wild way across the lough, that we should be sitting here to-night?”
“I knew it when I got down to the boat and drew your hands into mine by that fishing-line,” said he. “When the moon showed me your face, I knew that I had seen the face for which I had been searching all my life. I had caught glimpses of that face many times in my life. I remember seeing it for a moment when a great musician was performing an incomparable work—a work the pure beauty of which made all who listened to it weep. I can hear that music now when I look upon your face. It conveys to me all that was conveyed to me by the music. I saw it again when, one exquisite dawn, I went into a garden while the dew was glistening over everything. There came to me the faint scent of violets. I thought that nothing could be lovelier; but in another moment, the glorious perfume of roses came upon me like a torrent. The odour of the roses and the scent of the violets mingled, and before my eyes floated your face. When the moonlight showed me your face on that night beside the Irish lough I felt myself wondering if it would vanish.”
“It has come to stay,” she whispered, in a way that gave the sweetest significance to the phrase that has become vulgarized.
“It came to stay with me for ever,” he said. “I knew it, and I felt myself saying, ‘Here by God’s grace is the one maid for me.’”
He did not falter as he looked down upon her face—he said the words “God’s grace” without the least hesitancy.
The moonlight that had been glistening on the ivy of the broken arches of the ancient Priory, was now shining through the diamond panes of the window at which they were sitting. As her head lay back it was illuminated by the moon. Her hair seemed delicate threads of spun glass through which the light was shining.
One of the candles flared up for a moment in its socket, then dwindled away to a single spark and then expired.
“You remember?” she whispered.
“The seal-cave,” he said. “I have often wondered how I dared to tell you that I loved you.”
“But you told me the truth.”
“The truth. No, no; I did not love you then as I regard loving now. Oh, my Beatrice, you have taught me what ‘tis to love. There is nothing in the world but love, it is life—it is life!”
“And there are none in the world who love as you and I do.”
His face shut out the moonlight from hers. There was a long silence before she said, “It was only when you had parted from me every day that I knew what you were to me, Harold. Ah, those bitter moments! Those sad Good-byes—sad Good-nights out of the moonlight from hers. There was a long silence before she said, “It was only when you had parted from me every day that I knew what you were to me, Harold. Ah, those bitter moments! Those sad Good-byes—sad Good-nights!”
“They are over, they are over!” he cried. The lover’s triumph rang through his words. “They are over. We have come to the night when no more Good-nights shall be spoken. What do I say? No more Good-nights? You know what a poet’s heart sang—a poet over whose head the waters of passion had closed? I know the song that came from his heart—beloved, the pulses of his heart beat in every line:"=
“‘Good-night! ah, no, the hour is ill
That severs those it should unite:
Let us remain together still,
Then it will be good night.=
”’ How can I call the lone night good,
Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight?
Be it not said—thought—understood;
Then it will be good night.=
“‘To hearts that near each other move
From evening close to morning light,
The night is good because, oh, Love,
They never say Good-night.’”=
His whispering of the last lines was very tremulous. Her eyes were closed and her lips were parted with the passing of a sigh—a sigh that had something of a sob about it. Then both her arms were flung round his neck, and he felt her face against his. Then.... he was alone.
How had she gone?
Whither had she gone?
How long had he been alone?
He got upon his feet, and looked in a dazed way around the room.
Had it all been a dream? Was it only in fancy that she had been in his arms? Had he been repeating Shelley’s poem in the hearing of no one?
He opened a glass door by which access was had to the grounds of the old Priory, and stood, surpliced by the moonlight, beside the ruined arch where an oriel window had once been. He turned and looked at the house. It was black against the clear sky that overflowed with light, but one window above the room where he had been sitting was illuminated.
It had no drapery—he could see through it half way into the room beyond.
Just above where a silver sconce with three lighted candles hung from the wall, he could see that the black panel bore in high relief a carved Head of the Virgin, surrounded with lilies.
He kept his eyes fixed upon that carving until—until....
There came before his eyes in that room the Temptation of Saint Anthony.
His eyes became dim looking at her loveliness, shining with dazzling whiteness beneath the light of the candles.
He put his hands before his eyes and staggered to the door through which he had passed. There he stood, his breath coming in sobs, with his hand on the handle of the door.
There was not a sound in the night. Heaven and earth were breathlessly watching the struggle.
It was the struggle between Heaven and Hell for a human soul.
The man’s fingers fell from the handle of the door. He clasped his hands across the ivy of the wall and bowed his head upon them.
Only for a few moments, however. Then, with a cry of agony, he started up, and with his clasped hands over his eyes, fled—madly—blindly—away from the house.
Before he had gone far, he tripped and fell over a stone—he only fell upon his knees, but his hands were clutching at the ground.
When he recovered himself, he found that he was on his knees at the foot of an ancient prostrate Cross.
He stared at it, and some time had passed before there came from his parched lips the cry, “Christ have mercy upon me!”
He bowed his head to the Cross, and his lips touched the cold, damp stone.
This was not the kiss to which he had been looking forward.
He sprang to his feet and fled into the distance.
She was saved!
And he—he had saved his soul alive!
ONWARD he fled, he knew not whither; he only knew that he was flying for the safety of his soul.
He passed far beyond the limits of the Priory grounds, but he did not reach the high road. He crossed a meadow and came upon a trout stream. He walked beside it for an hour. At the end of that time there was no moonlight to glitter upon its surface. Clouds had come over the sky and drops of rain were beginning to fall.
He crossed the stream by a little bridge, and reached the border of a wood. It was now long past midnight. He had been walking for two hours, but he had no consciousness of weariness. It was not until the rain was streaming off his hair that he recollected that he had no hat. But on still he went through the darkness and the rain, as though he were being pursued, and that every step he took was a step toward safety.
He came upon a track that seemed to lead through the wood, and upon this track he went for several miles. The ground was soft, and at some places the rain had turned it into a morass. The autumn leaves lay in drifts, sodden and rotting. Into more than one of these he stumbled, and when he got upon his feet again, the damp leaves and the mire were clinging to him.
For three more hours he went on by the winding track through the wood. In the darkness he strayed from it frequently, but invariably found it again and struggled on, until he had passed right through the wood and reached a high road that ran beside it.
As though he had been all the night wandering in search for this road, so soon as he saw it he cried, “Thank God, thank God!”
But something else may have been in his mind beyond the satisfaction of coming upon the road.
At the border of the wood where the track broadened out, there was a woodcutter’s rough shed. It was piled up with logs of various sizes, and with trimmed boughs awaiting the carts to come along the road to carry them away. He entered the shed, and, overpowered with weariness, sank down upon a heap of boughs; his head found a resting place in a forked branch and in a moment he was sound asleep.
His head was resting upon the damp bark of the trimmed branch, when it might have been close to that whiteness which he had seen through the window.
True; but his soul was saved.
He awoke, hearing the sound of voices around him.
The cold light of a gray, damp day was struggling with the light that came from a fire of faggots just outside, and the shed was filled with the smoke of the burning wood. The sound of the crackling of the small branches came to his ears with the sound of the voices.
He raised his head, and looked around him in a dazed way. He did not realize for some time the strange position in which he found himself. Suddenly he seemed to recall all that had occurred, and once more he said, “Thank God, thank God!”
Three men were standing in the shed before him. Two of them held bill-hooks in a responsible way; the third had the truncheon of a constable. He also wore the helmet of a constable.
The men with the bill-hooks seemed preparing to repel a charge. They stood shoulder to shoulder with their implements breast high.
The man with the truncheon seemed willing to trust a great deal to them, whether in regard to attack or defence.
“Well, you’re awake, my gentleman,” said the man with the truncheon.
The speech seemed a poor enough accompaniment to such a show of strength, aggressive or defensive, as was the result of the muster in the shed.
“Yes, I believe I’m awake,” said Harold. “Is the morning far advanced?”
“That’s as may be,” said the truncheon-holder, shrewdly, and after a pause of considerable duration.
“You’re not the man to compromise yourself by a hasty statement,” said Harold.
“No,” said the man, after another pause.
“May I ask what is the meaning of this rather imposing demonstration?” said Harold.
“Ay, you may, maybe,” replied the man. “But it’s my business to tell you that—” here he paused and inflated his lungs and person generally— “that all you say now will be used as evidence against you.”
“That’s very official,” said Harold. “Does it mean that you’re a constable?”
“That it do; and that you’re in my charge now. Close up, bill-hooks, and stand firm,” the man added to his companions.
“Don’t trumle for we,” said one of the billhook-holders.
“You see there’s no use broadening vi’lent-like,” said the truncheon-holder.
“That’s clear enough,” said Harold. “Would it be imprudent for me to inquire what’s the charge against me?”
“You know,” said the policeman.
“Come, my man,” said Harold; “I’m not disposed to stand this farce any longer. Can’t you see that I’m no vagrant—that I haven’t any of your logs concealed about me. What part of the country is this? Where’s the nearest telegraph office?”
“No matter what’s the part,” said the constable; “I’ve arrested you before witnesses of full age, and I’ve cautioned you according to the Ack o’ Parliament.”
“And the charge?”
“The charge is the murder.”
“Murder—what murder?”
“You know—the murder of the Right Honourable Lord Fotheringay.”
“What!” shouted Harold. “Lord—oh, you’re mad! Lord Fotheringay is my father, and he’s staying at Abbeylands. What do you mean, you idiot, by coming to me with such a story?” The policeman winked in by no means a subtle way at the two men with the bill-hooks; he then looked at Harold from head to foot, and gave a guffaw.
“The son of his lordship—the murdered man—you heard that, friends, after I gave the caution according to the Ack o’ Parliament?” he said.
“Ay, ay, we heard—leastways to that effeck,” replied one of the men.
“Then down it goes again him,” said the constable. “He’s a gentleman-Jack tramp—and that’s the worst sort—without hat or head gear, and down it goes that he said he was his lordship’s son.”
“For God’s sake tell me what you mean by talking of the murder of Lord Fotheringay,” said Harold. “There can be no truth in what you said. Oh, why do I wait here talking to this idiot?” He took a few steps toward one end of the shed. The men raised their bill-hooks, and the constable made an aggressive demonstration with his truncheon.
Against Stupidity the gods fight in vain, but now and again a man with good muscles can prevail against it. Harold simply dealt a kick upon the heavy handle of the bill-hook nearest to him, and it swung round and caught in the stomach the second man, who immediately dropped his implement. He needed both hands to press against his injured person.
The constable ran to the other end of the shed and blew his whistle.
Harold went out in the opposite direction and got upon the high road; but before he had quite made up his mind which way to go, he heard the clatter of a horse galloping. He saw that a mounted constable was coming up, and he also noticed with a certain amount of interest, that he was drawing a revolver.
Harold stood in the centre of the road and held up his hand.
One of the few occasions when a man of well developed muscles, if he is wise, thinks himself no better than the gods, is when Stupidity is in the act of drawing a revolver.
“Are you the sergeant of constabulary?” Harold inquired, when the man had reined in. He still kept his revolver handy.
“Yes, I’m the sergeant of constabulary. Who are you, and what are you doing here?” said the man.
“He’s the gentleman-Jack tramp that the lads found asleep in the shed, sergeant,” said the constable, who had hurried forward with the naked truncheon. “The lads came on him hiding here, when they were setting about their day’s work. They ran for me, and that’s why I sent for you. I’ve arrested him and cautioned him. He was nigh clearing off just now, but I never took an eye off him. Is there a reward yet, sergeant?”
“Officer,” said Harold. “I am Lord Fotheringay’s son. For God’s sake tell me if what this man says is true—is Lord Fotheringay dead—murdered?”
“He’s dead. You seem to know a lot about it, my gentleman,” said the sergeant. “You’re charged with his murder. If you make any attempt at resistance, I’ll shoot you down like a dog.”
The man had now his revolver is his right hand. Harold looked first at him, and then at the foolish man with the truncheon. He was amazed. What could the men mean? How was it that they did not touch their helmets to him? He had never yet been addressed by a policeman or a railway porter without such a token of respect. What was the meaning of the change?
This was really his first thought.
His mind was not in a condition to do more than speculate upon this point. It was not capable of grasping the horrible thing suggested by the men.
He stood there in the middle of the road, dazed and speechless. It was not until he had casually looked down and had seen the condition of his feet and legs and clothes that, passing from the amazed thought of the insolence of the constables, into the amazement produced by his raggedness—he was apparently covered with mire from head to foot—the reason of his treatment flashed upon him; and in another instant every thought had left him except the thought that his father was dead. His head fell forward on his chest. He felt his limbs give way under him. He staggered to the low hank at the side of the road and managed to seat himself. He supported his head on his hands, his elbows resting on his knees.
There he remained, the four men watching him; for the interest which attaches to a distinguished criminal in the eyes of ignorant rustics, is almost as great as that which he excites among the leaders of society, who scrutinize him in the dock through opera glasses, and eat pâté de foie gras sandwiches beside the judge.