CHAPTERLVI.THE LOVERS—A WARNING VOICE—THE MURDER OF MR. PHILIP JAMBLIN.Since the castigation Peace received from the hands of Mr. Philip Jamblin and the flight of the boy, Alf Purvis, we have had occasion to take but one cursory glance at the inmates of Stoke Ferry Farm, this being on the occasion of Richard Ashbrook’s visit to the hospitable English homestead.The observation made by Mr. Jamblin, sen., to his son, Philip, respecting his falling into the same pitfall as young Ashbrook, had special significance.After the departure of Peace from the neighbourhood young Jamblin had paid frequent visits to the grounds and house owned by Nelly’s aunt.It was pretty plainly demonstrated to most persons who took the trouble to interest themselves in such matters that the farmer’s son had a sneaking fondness for Nell Fulford.This was very wrong, seeing that he was supposed to be engaged to a young lady in a very superior position to Nell, but despite this an attachment was formed, and, as far as Nell herself was concerned, there was but little doubt that it was one of a self-sacrificing nature.This fact was afterwards but too clearly demonstrated.For many months after Peace’s departure a course of love-making was carried on between young Jamblin and Nell.They did not appear to be able to break the spell which bound them—a spell, indeed, which ended in the death of one and long years of sorrow for the other.But Nell was infatuated with the handsome young farmer, who had been her valiant champion when persecuted so persistently by our hero.The man Giles, who had been worsted in a conflict with Peace, was also a devoted admirer of Nell’s.He was a moody, morose, vindictive fellow, whom nobody liked, and had left the neighbourhood long before Peace.Whither he had gone no one appeared to know, and, indeed, to say the truth, nobody seemed to care.Thus matters stood when, at the close of one market day, Mr. Philip Jamblin arrived at the old “Carved Lion.”He dismounted from his horse and went into the public room of Brickett’s hostelry. He had some business to transact with a malster whom he had appointed to meet there.When this was over the two had divers and sundry glasses together, and soon after nightfall Jamblin’s steed was brought round to the front door of the inn.The young farmer remounted, and trotted leisurely along Dennett’s-lane in the direction of his own home.Upon arriving at that part of the lane where Peace’s workshop stood, he, much to his surprise and pleasure, beheld Nell at some little distance off, awaiting his coming.“Why, sweetheart, who would have thought of seeing you, at this hour, too, when all good lasses should be at home?” said the former.“Ah! Master Philip,” she answered, “I was sartin sure you’d be for coming this way, and that’s why I be here.”“Ah! I see. Well, I’m glad to see thee, Nell, but ye bee’st a looking a little pale, I’m thinking.”“Am I?”“Yes, I fancy so; however, it may be but fancy after all.”“May be it is.”“And may be it aint.”“You’ve come from the market?” she said, quickly.“I was there for a goodish while in the early part of the day, but I’ve just come now from the ‘Carved Lion.’”“Ah! I see; that’s why you didn’t call at aunt’s.”“I had a little business to do—had to meet a customer at Brickett’s. Now, don’t be jealous; it wasn’t a leddy or a lass.”“And bee’st thee going home, then?”“Aye, surely, I hope to get home some time to-night. Why, what ails thee, Nell, dear?”On either side of the lane in which they were conversing ran a high thick-set edge. Nell glanced at the opposite side to that on which she stood, and placed her finger on her lips.She then laid hold of the bridle, and drew the horse some little distance forward. Then she glanced again at the hedge.“What’s up?” cried her companion.“Hush!” she whispered. “Somebody has been watching us from behind the hedge, and has heard every word we have said.”“My darling girl, you are full of strange fancies to-night,” said her lover.“It be as I ha’ told ye,” she answered. “I seed a pair of dark flashing eyes a-gleamin’ through the branches.”“And what matters if anybody has been ‘a listnin’? Much good will it do ’em.”She drew his horse still further on, and again glanced around.“It be of no use yer shakin’ yer head,” said Nell. “I see’d him as plainly as I see you now.”“Well, what if you did, lass? Who was it? That pedlar fellow, Peace?”“No, not him.”“Who then?”“Giles Chudley. That’s who it was. He did not think I saw him, but I did; and he means mischief.”“Who cares for an idle, good-for-nothing like that?”“Come back, Master Philip; come back, as you love your poor Nell. For her sake come back.”“Come back to where?”“To the ‘Lion.’ Don’t go home to-night. I am a poor, weak fool—weak as water. I’ve no head or heart of my own when your eyes be a-shinin’ on my face, and when your words be a-whisperin’ in my ears. Oh, Master Philip, ye know well enough how silly, how miserably foolish I’ve been.”The young farmer was touched; he reproached himself at that moment, and would have gladly recalled the past, if that had been possible.“I can ill bear reproaches, Nell, although I well deserve them; but no man is wise at all times, and the most prudent women are not always as careful as they might be, and to say the truth they mostly pay the penalty, which is hard.”He leant forward over the side of his horse, and placed his hands on her forehead. Then he said, in a voice of touching sweetness—“Thee bee’st trembling, Nelly.”“I feel timmersome loike, and something whispers in my ear that you ought not to go home to-night. If ye do it will go hard wi’ both on us.”He tried to laugh away her fears, but she would not be so deceived.A horrible foreboding had seized her, and she endeavoured to turn his horse’s head in an opposite direction to the one he had been taking.“Well, you are in a strange mood to-night; something’s upset you.”She shook her head.Young Jamblin’s face grew cloudy and dark. He did not very well know what to make of her.Presently he said—“I’ve done ye wrong, lass—I’m free to confess that, but ye shan’t suffer for it. We’ll settle matters all right enough, and if there be no other course left, no one can say anythin’ agen ye when thee beest my wife.”The girl uttered a cry which seemed to come from the depths of her heart.“Be of good cheer, darling,” cried her companion, “and don’t ye give way to doubts and fears. I’ll show ye that I’m not the man to forget one so truthful and trusting as ye have been.”“I do not mind about myself; it be for you that I’m fearful and timmersome.”“And for what reason are you so fearful?”She put her lips to his ear, as if the words she whispered were too terrible to be spoken aloud in that lonely place.He laughed, as with one hand he smoothed the soft brown hair over her forehead.“Don’t you have any fear about me. I’m well able to take very excellent care of myself. No—no, Nelly, it won’t do; you’re not going to frighten Phil Jamblin by any such groundless fears.”“Oh, don’t turn away,” she cried; “do come back to the ‘Lion.’”“But, my dear girl, what will the guv’nor and my sister say at my stopping out all night without letting them know?”“I’ll let them know—I’ll send a message by Stephen,” she exclaimed, gently.“And they’ll put me down as a milksop—as a craven. Ah, no, lass—that would never do!”“Suppose you were ill?”“But I am not ill—was never better in my life.”“Ah, Philip, you must let me have my way for this once—only for this once—you know,” she murmured, in a soft and beseeching manner.But it was of no use—the farmer was obstinate, he could not or would not see the force of her argument, or yield to her powers of persuasion.He told her again that she was a prey to groundless fears.She looked at him sadly.“Ye be more obstinate and harder than I took ye for,” she cried.He smiled, and placed his hand on her shoulder caressingly.He found that she was still trembling, even more than before.“Philip!” cried the girl, creeping closer to him, “I tell ye again this be no fancy; and even if it be, there would be no harm in your giving way to me for this once. I’ve tried to forget what happened between us two not long ago, when your head was lost to pleasure, and when my heart was lost to you; but I tell ye that something will soon see the light which will prevent my forgetting that foolish hour.”A shudder seemed to pass over the frame of the young farmer, who was evidently deeply moved at this declaration.“Oh, Nell,” he murmured, “it is I who have been to blame.”“I do not reproach you,” she answered. “I meant to have kept it all from you, that I might suffer for it; but I tell ye of it now that I may ask ye by that which is your’n, and your’n alone, not to go further to-night, but to turn back and put up at Brickett’s house. I implore ye to do this kindness by that which will soon mek’ me love or hate ye more. Oh, Philip Jamblin, for the love of mercy hearken unto me. I ask ye by the memory of the happy hours we have spent together, by the remembrance of the past and hope for the future, not to return to Stoke Ferry Farm this night. I’ve watched and waited for ye, that I might give thee timely warning.”“But, my dear Nell, you seem to be full of fancies to-night. No harm will come to me. I will see ye to-morrow, lass. I shall have good news for you then.”The girl shook her head and looked mournfully at her companion, who did not fail to note that her eyes were filled with tears.His limbs trembled with emotion—he was greatly troubled; but, even at this time, he was under the full impression that her forebodings were conjured up by the agency of an over-heated imagination.He drew her towards him, and covered her face with burning and passionate kisses.Then he bade her a hasty good-night, and urged on his horse.Half stupefied and numbed the girl stood as immovable and passionless as a statue.No.27.Illustration: THERE HAS BIN FOUL PLAY“THERE’S BIN FOUL PLAY, MATES—MASTER PHILIP’S BIN MURDERED!” EXCLAIMED THE MAN.In a few moments she aroused herself from her lethargy, and, placing her hands against her temples, uttered a deep-drawn sigh; then she started off at full speed in pursuit of Jamblin.She heard the clattering of his horse’s hoofs, but he was far away and out of sight. She ran after him like one possessed, and never paused till fairly exhausted. Then she sat on a stile by the side of the road, and, burying her face in her hands, sobbed convulsively.“All is of no avail,” she ejaculated; “a wilful man will have his own way.”The sky gathered over with clouds, and rose towards the moon.A cold wind swept over the surface of the earth and muttered among the branches of the trees. The clouds grew darker and heavier; the moon was darkened by a small black cloud.Nell still sat silent and dejected on the stile. She gave a low and plaintive wail.Meanwhile Philip Jamblin, heedless of the warning he had received from his sweetheart, was making the best of his way towards Stoke Ferry Farm.He passed safely through Dennett’s-lane, and reached a bridle road, which was nearly at right angles with it.This road, or rather the greater part of it, was sheltered on either side by tall trees, hedges, and underwood. At noontide in summer it was a charming retreat, but at night it was lonely and cheerless.The farmer had not gone a very great distance after turning out of the lane before he had sufficient reason, for disquietude, or indeed alarm; his horse became restive and pricked up his ears. Jamblin, however, held him well in hand, and proceeded along with greater caution.In a few minutes after this the animal stumbled, but quickly recovered itself.A terrible blow was delivered from behind by some unseen person full on the head of young Jamblin.“You scoundrel!” exclaimed the young farmer, who although partially stunned had not lost his presence of mind. Grasping the thin end of his riding-whip, he whirled round the handle, which was loaded with lead, in the hope of striking his mysterious and unseen assailant.The horse he was bestriding now fell, and Mr. Jamblin, who was a powerful, active young man, sprang to his feet to confront the enemy.He beheld a big hulking fellow, who was armed with a hedge stick, standing in front of him.Jamblin struck out with his whip, the blow from which was received on the upraised left arm of his assailant, who again aimed a blow at the head of the other. This Mr. Jamblin turned on one side with his whip.Perceiving now that it was a question of life or death he advanced a step or two, raised the handle of his riding-whip, with which he struck another tremendous blow. The man, however, drew back his head, and instead of alighting on his head the blow was received on the upper jaw, his lip was laid open, and two of his teeth were knocked out.The man was driven to desperation, and the struggle after this was but of short duration. The cowardly ruffian stepped back a pace or two and delivered a crushing stroke on the head of the ill-fated young farmer, who fell to the earth helpless and powerless.Then the murderer rained a series of merciless blows on the prostrate man, thereby reducing him to a state of insensibility.All this had been but the work of two or three minutes at the most.But the diabolical wretch had not as yet completed his murderous work. Drawing a clasp knife from his pocket he inflicted with its blade a severe gash in the throat of his victim.Ruffian as he was he was also a coward. As he was stooping over the dead body of the farmer he became alarmed.He thought he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and the knife, which by this time was covered with blood, slipped out of his hand.He searched for it in vain. The ground was strewed with fallen leaves, and the knife was nowhere to be seen.Big drops of perspiration fell from the murderer’s temples on his horny hands as he was groping about for the missing weapon.A horrible thought took possession of him. It was this. Possibly the instrument with which the deed was done would rise up in judgment against him, and be the means of his identification.He shook and trembled with fear—a death-like spasm crept through his heart.He became almost frantic, and turned over the leaves in the hope of finding the knife, but his endeavours were not crowned with success.As he was thus engaged his eyes fell upon the pale, ghastly face of his victim, which was turned upwards towards the sky.Fearful lest he should be discovered by some chance traveller, he arose to his feet, and ran off as fast as his legs would carry him.He soon reached a place known as Larch Green. At one part of this was a stagnant pool of water.He knelt down beside this, and washed his ensanguined hands.While thus occupied, he saw the figure of a man approaching. He was some distance off, but he could see that the stranger’s attention was directed towards him.The murderer flew in the opposite direction over several meadows, never pausing till he felt assured that he was far removed from the scene of death.Then, panting and groaning, he crept into a dense thicket of trees.After waiting here a considerable time, with his heart knocking against his ribs, ha emerged from his hiding-place, and fled precipitately, he knew not nor cared not whither.But during his flight he had attracted the attention of another observer.Henry Adolphus, the earl’s footman, had been sent by his master with a message to a landholder and a baronet.The radiant footman, upon returning from the errand on which he had been sent, thought it a little singular that a man should be running at headlong speed over mead and meadow.He paused and watched the fugitive; and, as he did so, muttered to himself—“That chap aint after no good, I’ll be sworn. I expect he’s been doing a little prigging on his own account. Howsomever, it aint no bis’ness o’ mine, and as to catching him, it aint to be thought of. What’s every man’s bis’ness is no man’s bis’ness.”And so, consoling himself with this trite axiom, Mr. Henry Adolphus pursued his dignified course homewards.He had no occasion to go down the road where the body of the dead man lay, and hence it was that our radiant footman escaped having his feelings shocked, which, to say the truth, would have been a terrible thing to a man of his delicate organisation.He reached Broxbridge utterly unaware of the fact that a near neighbour and a tenant of his master’s had been foully murdered, and that the dead body of the murdered man was lying in a road the end of which he—Henry Adolphus—had passed as he trudged home.Upon reaching Broxbridge he did not go at once to the Hall.He just dropped in at the “Carved Lion,” to have a “cooler” and a little friendly chat with the landlord. The aforesaid “cooler” not having the desired effect, Henry Adolphus supplemented it by another, insisting at the same time upon Brickett joining him.“That’s a deal better,” said the footman, after he had swallowed the contents of his second glass. “I’ve put on the steam coming home, and felt as hot and dry as a salamander.”“I’ve had a goodish turn myself,” returned Brickett, “and have only just come in. Any fresh news?”“None as I know on,” observed the flunkey, “only that I saw a queer-looking chap a-running like mad over Squire Curtis’s meadows.”“You did, eh? What sort of customer was he?”“Oh! an ugly, evil-looking fellow, as any one would wish to be shut of.”“A tall chap with a black beard, and bushy eyebrows?”“Yes, something after that fashion, as far as I could see; but I was a long way off. He seemed to me to have a cut or bruise on his ugly mug.”“The very same!” exclaimed Brickett.“Do you know him?”“No; but I saw a chap answering that description washing his face and hands in the pool at Larch Green. When he caught sight of me he made off. He’s been up to something, I’ll dare be sworn—burglary, or summut of that sort.”“I shouldn’t wonder, if it be the same as I saw.”“Should you know ’im agen?”“I might; but I aint quite certain about that?”Brickett remained for some time silent and thoughtful after this.“I hope as how he aint been up to mischief,” he said, presently. “I do hope that; but I tell ’ee candidly, Master Henry, I didn’t at all like the look of the varmint, and had it not been that I aint so lively on my pins as I used to be, I should have med arter him, and no mistake.”“Oh, it’s all right enough, I dare say the fellow’s been having a set to—a mill with someone, that’s how I take it, and may be he’s got the worst of it.”“I dunno’ so much ’bout that; from what I could see of him he looked a good deal like Giles; him as worked at Stoke Ferry Farm some year or two agone. If it war he, which I somehow think it war, he be’s a deal altered.”“Giles, eh? Well, now you mention it I don’t know, but it might be he.”“I shouldn’t loike to swear to ’im, but that’s the idea I formed at the time, but may be we shall larn more ’bout ’im afore long. He aint a much good, anyhow.”“Well, Mr. Brickett, I must be for moving—so, good-night,” said Henry Adolphus, who at once bent his steps in the direction of the hall.
Since the castigation Peace received from the hands of Mr. Philip Jamblin and the flight of the boy, Alf Purvis, we have had occasion to take but one cursory glance at the inmates of Stoke Ferry Farm, this being on the occasion of Richard Ashbrook’s visit to the hospitable English homestead.
The observation made by Mr. Jamblin, sen., to his son, Philip, respecting his falling into the same pitfall as young Ashbrook, had special significance.
After the departure of Peace from the neighbourhood young Jamblin had paid frequent visits to the grounds and house owned by Nelly’s aunt.
It was pretty plainly demonstrated to most persons who took the trouble to interest themselves in such matters that the farmer’s son had a sneaking fondness for Nell Fulford.
This was very wrong, seeing that he was supposed to be engaged to a young lady in a very superior position to Nell, but despite this an attachment was formed, and, as far as Nell herself was concerned, there was but little doubt that it was one of a self-sacrificing nature.
This fact was afterwards but too clearly demonstrated.
For many months after Peace’s departure a course of love-making was carried on between young Jamblin and Nell.
They did not appear to be able to break the spell which bound them—a spell, indeed, which ended in the death of one and long years of sorrow for the other.
But Nell was infatuated with the handsome young farmer, who had been her valiant champion when persecuted so persistently by our hero.
The man Giles, who had been worsted in a conflict with Peace, was also a devoted admirer of Nell’s.
He was a moody, morose, vindictive fellow, whom nobody liked, and had left the neighbourhood long before Peace.
Whither he had gone no one appeared to know, and, indeed, to say the truth, nobody seemed to care.
Thus matters stood when, at the close of one market day, Mr. Philip Jamblin arrived at the old “Carved Lion.”
He dismounted from his horse and went into the public room of Brickett’s hostelry. He had some business to transact with a malster whom he had appointed to meet there.
When this was over the two had divers and sundry glasses together, and soon after nightfall Jamblin’s steed was brought round to the front door of the inn.
The young farmer remounted, and trotted leisurely along Dennett’s-lane in the direction of his own home.
Upon arriving at that part of the lane where Peace’s workshop stood, he, much to his surprise and pleasure, beheld Nell at some little distance off, awaiting his coming.
“Why, sweetheart, who would have thought of seeing you, at this hour, too, when all good lasses should be at home?” said the former.
“Ah! Master Philip,” she answered, “I was sartin sure you’d be for coming this way, and that’s why I be here.”
“Ah! I see. Well, I’m glad to see thee, Nell, but ye bee’st a looking a little pale, I’m thinking.”
“Am I?”
“Yes, I fancy so; however, it may be but fancy after all.”
“May be it is.”
“And may be it aint.”
“You’ve come from the market?” she said, quickly.
“I was there for a goodish while in the early part of the day, but I’ve just come now from the ‘Carved Lion.’”
“Ah! I see; that’s why you didn’t call at aunt’s.”
“I had a little business to do—had to meet a customer at Brickett’s. Now, don’t be jealous; it wasn’t a leddy or a lass.”
“And bee’st thee going home, then?”
“Aye, surely, I hope to get home some time to-night. Why, what ails thee, Nell, dear?”
On either side of the lane in which they were conversing ran a high thick-set edge. Nell glanced at the opposite side to that on which she stood, and placed her finger on her lips.
She then laid hold of the bridle, and drew the horse some little distance forward. Then she glanced again at the hedge.
“What’s up?” cried her companion.
“Hush!” she whispered. “Somebody has been watching us from behind the hedge, and has heard every word we have said.”
“My darling girl, you are full of strange fancies to-night,” said her lover.
“It be as I ha’ told ye,” she answered. “I seed a pair of dark flashing eyes a-gleamin’ through the branches.”
“And what matters if anybody has been ‘a listnin’? Much good will it do ’em.”
She drew his horse still further on, and again glanced around.
“It be of no use yer shakin’ yer head,” said Nell. “I see’d him as plainly as I see you now.”
“Well, what if you did, lass? Who was it? That pedlar fellow, Peace?”
“No, not him.”
“Who then?”
“Giles Chudley. That’s who it was. He did not think I saw him, but I did; and he means mischief.”
“Who cares for an idle, good-for-nothing like that?”
“Come back, Master Philip; come back, as you love your poor Nell. For her sake come back.”
“Come back to where?”
“To the ‘Lion.’ Don’t go home to-night. I am a poor, weak fool—weak as water. I’ve no head or heart of my own when your eyes be a-shinin’ on my face, and when your words be a-whisperin’ in my ears. Oh, Master Philip, ye know well enough how silly, how miserably foolish I’ve been.”
The young farmer was touched; he reproached himself at that moment, and would have gladly recalled the past, if that had been possible.
“I can ill bear reproaches, Nell, although I well deserve them; but no man is wise at all times, and the most prudent women are not always as careful as they might be, and to say the truth they mostly pay the penalty, which is hard.”
He leant forward over the side of his horse, and placed his hands on her forehead. Then he said, in a voice of touching sweetness—
“Thee bee’st trembling, Nelly.”
“I feel timmersome loike, and something whispers in my ear that you ought not to go home to-night. If ye do it will go hard wi’ both on us.”
He tried to laugh away her fears, but she would not be so deceived.
A horrible foreboding had seized her, and she endeavoured to turn his horse’s head in an opposite direction to the one he had been taking.
“Well, you are in a strange mood to-night; something’s upset you.”
She shook her head.
Young Jamblin’s face grew cloudy and dark. He did not very well know what to make of her.
Presently he said—
“I’ve done ye wrong, lass—I’m free to confess that, but ye shan’t suffer for it. We’ll settle matters all right enough, and if there be no other course left, no one can say anythin’ agen ye when thee beest my wife.”
The girl uttered a cry which seemed to come from the depths of her heart.
“Be of good cheer, darling,” cried her companion, “and don’t ye give way to doubts and fears. I’ll show ye that I’m not the man to forget one so truthful and trusting as ye have been.”
“I do not mind about myself; it be for you that I’m fearful and timmersome.”
“And for what reason are you so fearful?”
She put her lips to his ear, as if the words she whispered were too terrible to be spoken aloud in that lonely place.
He laughed, as with one hand he smoothed the soft brown hair over her forehead.
“Don’t you have any fear about me. I’m well able to take very excellent care of myself. No—no, Nelly, it won’t do; you’re not going to frighten Phil Jamblin by any such groundless fears.”
“Oh, don’t turn away,” she cried; “do come back to the ‘Lion.’”
“But, my dear girl, what will the guv’nor and my sister say at my stopping out all night without letting them know?”
“I’ll let them know—I’ll send a message by Stephen,” she exclaimed, gently.
“And they’ll put me down as a milksop—as a craven. Ah, no, lass—that would never do!”
“Suppose you were ill?”
“But I am not ill—was never better in my life.”
“Ah, Philip, you must let me have my way for this once—only for this once—you know,” she murmured, in a soft and beseeching manner.
But it was of no use—the farmer was obstinate, he could not or would not see the force of her argument, or yield to her powers of persuasion.
He told her again that she was a prey to groundless fears.
She looked at him sadly.
“Ye be more obstinate and harder than I took ye for,” she cried.
He smiled, and placed his hand on her shoulder caressingly.
He found that she was still trembling, even more than before.
“Philip!” cried the girl, creeping closer to him, “I tell ye again this be no fancy; and even if it be, there would be no harm in your giving way to me for this once. I’ve tried to forget what happened between us two not long ago, when your head was lost to pleasure, and when my heart was lost to you; but I tell ye that something will soon see the light which will prevent my forgetting that foolish hour.”
A shudder seemed to pass over the frame of the young farmer, who was evidently deeply moved at this declaration.
“Oh, Nell,” he murmured, “it is I who have been to blame.”
“I do not reproach you,” she answered. “I meant to have kept it all from you, that I might suffer for it; but I tell ye of it now that I may ask ye by that which is your’n, and your’n alone, not to go further to-night, but to turn back and put up at Brickett’s house. I implore ye to do this kindness by that which will soon mek’ me love or hate ye more. Oh, Philip Jamblin, for the love of mercy hearken unto me. I ask ye by the memory of the happy hours we have spent together, by the remembrance of the past and hope for the future, not to return to Stoke Ferry Farm this night. I’ve watched and waited for ye, that I might give thee timely warning.”
“But, my dear Nell, you seem to be full of fancies to-night. No harm will come to me. I will see ye to-morrow, lass. I shall have good news for you then.”
The girl shook her head and looked mournfully at her companion, who did not fail to note that her eyes were filled with tears.
His limbs trembled with emotion—he was greatly troubled; but, even at this time, he was under the full impression that her forebodings were conjured up by the agency of an over-heated imagination.
He drew her towards him, and covered her face with burning and passionate kisses.
Then he bade her a hasty good-night, and urged on his horse.
Half stupefied and numbed the girl stood as immovable and passionless as a statue.
No.27.
Illustration: THERE HAS BIN FOUL PLAY“THERE’S BIN FOUL PLAY, MATES—MASTER PHILIP’S BIN MURDERED!” EXCLAIMED THE MAN.
“THERE’S BIN FOUL PLAY, MATES—MASTER PHILIP’S BIN MURDERED!” EXCLAIMED THE MAN.
In a few moments she aroused herself from her lethargy, and, placing her hands against her temples, uttered a deep-drawn sigh; then she started off at full speed in pursuit of Jamblin.
She heard the clattering of his horse’s hoofs, but he was far away and out of sight. She ran after him like one possessed, and never paused till fairly exhausted. Then she sat on a stile by the side of the road, and, burying her face in her hands, sobbed convulsively.
“All is of no avail,” she ejaculated; “a wilful man will have his own way.”
The sky gathered over with clouds, and rose towards the moon.
A cold wind swept over the surface of the earth and muttered among the branches of the trees. The clouds grew darker and heavier; the moon was darkened by a small black cloud.
Nell still sat silent and dejected on the stile. She gave a low and plaintive wail.
Meanwhile Philip Jamblin, heedless of the warning he had received from his sweetheart, was making the best of his way towards Stoke Ferry Farm.
He passed safely through Dennett’s-lane, and reached a bridle road, which was nearly at right angles with it.
This road, or rather the greater part of it, was sheltered on either side by tall trees, hedges, and underwood. At noontide in summer it was a charming retreat, but at night it was lonely and cheerless.
The farmer had not gone a very great distance after turning out of the lane before he had sufficient reason, for disquietude, or indeed alarm; his horse became restive and pricked up his ears. Jamblin, however, held him well in hand, and proceeded along with greater caution.
In a few minutes after this the animal stumbled, but quickly recovered itself.
A terrible blow was delivered from behind by some unseen person full on the head of young Jamblin.
“You scoundrel!” exclaimed the young farmer, who although partially stunned had not lost his presence of mind. Grasping the thin end of his riding-whip, he whirled round the handle, which was loaded with lead, in the hope of striking his mysterious and unseen assailant.
The horse he was bestriding now fell, and Mr. Jamblin, who was a powerful, active young man, sprang to his feet to confront the enemy.
He beheld a big hulking fellow, who was armed with a hedge stick, standing in front of him.
Jamblin struck out with his whip, the blow from which was received on the upraised left arm of his assailant, who again aimed a blow at the head of the other. This Mr. Jamblin turned on one side with his whip.
Perceiving now that it was a question of life or death he advanced a step or two, raised the handle of his riding-whip, with which he struck another tremendous blow. The man, however, drew back his head, and instead of alighting on his head the blow was received on the upper jaw, his lip was laid open, and two of his teeth were knocked out.
The man was driven to desperation, and the struggle after this was but of short duration. The cowardly ruffian stepped back a pace or two and delivered a crushing stroke on the head of the ill-fated young farmer, who fell to the earth helpless and powerless.
Then the murderer rained a series of merciless blows on the prostrate man, thereby reducing him to a state of insensibility.
All this had been but the work of two or three minutes at the most.
But the diabolical wretch had not as yet completed his murderous work. Drawing a clasp knife from his pocket he inflicted with its blade a severe gash in the throat of his victim.
Ruffian as he was he was also a coward. As he was stooping over the dead body of the farmer he became alarmed.
He thought he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and the knife, which by this time was covered with blood, slipped out of his hand.
He searched for it in vain. The ground was strewed with fallen leaves, and the knife was nowhere to be seen.
Big drops of perspiration fell from the murderer’s temples on his horny hands as he was groping about for the missing weapon.
A horrible thought took possession of him. It was this. Possibly the instrument with which the deed was done would rise up in judgment against him, and be the means of his identification.
He shook and trembled with fear—a death-like spasm crept through his heart.
He became almost frantic, and turned over the leaves in the hope of finding the knife, but his endeavours were not crowned with success.
As he was thus engaged his eyes fell upon the pale, ghastly face of his victim, which was turned upwards towards the sky.
Fearful lest he should be discovered by some chance traveller, he arose to his feet, and ran off as fast as his legs would carry him.
He soon reached a place known as Larch Green. At one part of this was a stagnant pool of water.
He knelt down beside this, and washed his ensanguined hands.
While thus occupied, he saw the figure of a man approaching. He was some distance off, but he could see that the stranger’s attention was directed towards him.
The murderer flew in the opposite direction over several meadows, never pausing till he felt assured that he was far removed from the scene of death.
Then, panting and groaning, he crept into a dense thicket of trees.
After waiting here a considerable time, with his heart knocking against his ribs, ha emerged from his hiding-place, and fled precipitately, he knew not nor cared not whither.
But during his flight he had attracted the attention of another observer.
Henry Adolphus, the earl’s footman, had been sent by his master with a message to a landholder and a baronet.
The radiant footman, upon returning from the errand on which he had been sent, thought it a little singular that a man should be running at headlong speed over mead and meadow.
He paused and watched the fugitive; and, as he did so, muttered to himself—
“That chap aint after no good, I’ll be sworn. I expect he’s been doing a little prigging on his own account. Howsomever, it aint no bis’ness o’ mine, and as to catching him, it aint to be thought of. What’s every man’s bis’ness is no man’s bis’ness.”
And so, consoling himself with this trite axiom, Mr. Henry Adolphus pursued his dignified course homewards.
He had no occasion to go down the road where the body of the dead man lay, and hence it was that our radiant footman escaped having his feelings shocked, which, to say the truth, would have been a terrible thing to a man of his delicate organisation.
He reached Broxbridge utterly unaware of the fact that a near neighbour and a tenant of his master’s had been foully murdered, and that the dead body of the murdered man was lying in a road the end of which he—Henry Adolphus—had passed as he trudged home.
Upon reaching Broxbridge he did not go at once to the Hall.
He just dropped in at the “Carved Lion,” to have a “cooler” and a little friendly chat with the landlord. The aforesaid “cooler” not having the desired effect, Henry Adolphus supplemented it by another, insisting at the same time upon Brickett joining him.
“That’s a deal better,” said the footman, after he had swallowed the contents of his second glass. “I’ve put on the steam coming home, and felt as hot and dry as a salamander.”
“I’ve had a goodish turn myself,” returned Brickett, “and have only just come in. Any fresh news?”
“None as I know on,” observed the flunkey, “only that I saw a queer-looking chap a-running like mad over Squire Curtis’s meadows.”
“You did, eh? What sort of customer was he?”
“Oh! an ugly, evil-looking fellow, as any one would wish to be shut of.”
“A tall chap with a black beard, and bushy eyebrows?”
“Yes, something after that fashion, as far as I could see; but I was a long way off. He seemed to me to have a cut or bruise on his ugly mug.”
“The very same!” exclaimed Brickett.
“Do you know him?”
“No; but I saw a chap answering that description washing his face and hands in the pool at Larch Green. When he caught sight of me he made off. He’s been up to something, I’ll dare be sworn—burglary, or summut of that sort.”
“I shouldn’t wonder, if it be the same as I saw.”
“Should you know ’im agen?”
“I might; but I aint quite certain about that?”
Brickett remained for some time silent and thoughtful after this.
“I hope as how he aint been up to mischief,” he said, presently. “I do hope that; but I tell ’ee candidly, Master Henry, I didn’t at all like the look of the varmint, and had it not been that I aint so lively on my pins as I used to be, I should have med arter him, and no mistake.”
“Oh, it’s all right enough, I dare say the fellow’s been having a set to—a mill with someone, that’s how I take it, and may be he’s got the worst of it.”
“I dunno’ so much ’bout that; from what I could see of him he looked a good deal like Giles; him as worked at Stoke Ferry Farm some year or two agone. If it war he, which I somehow think it war, he be’s a deal altered.”
“Giles, eh? Well, now you mention it I don’t know, but it might be he.”
“I shouldn’t loike to swear to ’im, but that’s the idea I formed at the time, but may be we shall larn more ’bout ’im afore long. He aint a much good, anyhow.”
“Well, Mr. Brickett, I must be for moving—so, good-night,” said Henry Adolphus, who at once bent his steps in the direction of the hall.