CHAPTERLVII.THE RIDERLESS HORSE—CONSTERNATION AT STOKE FERRY FARMHOUSE—DISCOVERY OF THE BODY OF THE MURDERED MAN.There was not a merrier or more light-hearted girl than Patty Jamblin in the whole county.Her dulcet voice and ringing laugh brightened the old farmhouse like a ray of sunshine.No wonder, then, that she was her father’s pet; for, albeit she never crossed him by word or deed, she mostly managed to have her own way.But on this eventful evening Patty was sad and serious.Whether the deep blow that was about to fall on her and the old farmer had been by some strange mysterious influence foreshadowed, it is now impossible to say.Patty was dejected, and, indeed, it might be said, sorrowful—a circumstance very unusual with her.There are moments, however, when our hearts are open of their own accord to melancholy impressions. This will occur at times to the most vivacious of the human species. At such times a tone of music will bring tears into our eyes, or some simple tale or sight of suffering will fill us with presentiments of a terrible misfortune. Such appeared to be the case with Patty Jamblin.As the sun sank below the earth, and the curtain of darkness fell softly over Stoke Ferry House, the nightingale pouring forth his first sweet song, Patty dropped into her easy chair and covered her face with her cold and trembling hands.Her brother had not returned.She watched and waited—waited anxiously. Something whispered to her what was to happen next.There are times when a quick succession of “next” is found merely soothing; but there are times of reactionary languor when there is not left force enough to watch when that which we attend to is the rhythm only.Thus we may find the ticking of a clock nothing—indeed, to mention this is commonplace.But what a dreadful effect may be produced upon the mind by the sudden cessation of the ticking of the clock when once a certain experience has to be gone through!Who that has counted the beatings of a pulse or listened to the flutterings of a breath, watching for the next and the next and the next, and coming at last to the one which has no next, can bear without agony to hear a watch or a clock stop ticking, or to hear any rhythmical sound cease suddenly?One of the most horrible moments in my life was a moment in which the rhythmical noise of a common saw, heard over the parapet of a bridge in London, stopped suddenly when I was listening for it. In the distance the sound was softened; it had a sough with it which reminded me very painfully of the sound of human breath, but when it ceased I thought I could bear no more in this world, and longed to be at that moment taken away.Of course the emotion of that moment was imparted from my recollection of a moment of which it was the symbol, but I think the cessation of something with a beat in it has always a terror for me.“Can you draw an inference?” said Coleridge to the clown. “Yes, sir,” said the clown, “a cartload of them.”That is the way with most of us. We are too eager to draw a cartload of inferences, and when we find the inference will not be drawn we suffer.This was the case with Patty Jamblin. She was unable to draw an inference as to what was to follow: she only knew that she was depressed and distrustful.There is a peculiarity about the next thing, remember—that it is sure to happen, and what a blessing there is in certainty!We know the difficulty of holding in check our tyrannical habitual mode of passing on.Every second of time in our experience throws out a pontoon bridge to the next.We live by a clock that has two sets of hands on the same dial-plate. One is right and the other is always too fast.Patty was sitting in the parlour. Sometimes she would start upright in her chair and listen eagerly; then she would try to reproach herself for expecting her brother Philip so soon.He was detained, doubtless, had met with some friends, boon companions, who had prevailed upon him to pass a social hour or so with them.She endeavoured to persuade herself that he was not able to return from some cause which was not explained. It would, however, be made manifest upon his return.She felt that she must do something to break the monotony and suspense which she endured, and which every minute became more painful.She took from the book-case a volume, with which she strove to beguile the tedium of her lonely hours. She read till her eyes ached, and then she cast aside the book.“Why am I thus troubled?” she murmured. “Philip has been from home much later than this on many occasions. After all there is no reason for alarm, but—but I do wish he would come home, and father is away too, which makes me still more anxious.”The poor girl sighed to herself as she glanced at the clock, the hour hand of which pointed to eleven.“I wish one of them would come back,” she exclaimed. “I’ve a good mind to send for father, but he would only call me a little fool for my pains, and yet he knows I am all by myself, and he ought to consider that. I feel wretchedly lonely.”She arose and went to the window.The sky gathered over with clouds, and a cold wind muttered among the branches of the trees, and strewed the ground with brown and yellow leaves.The clouds grew darker and heavier and rose towards the moon, which was still shining brightly.Poor Patty went again to the book-shelf and took another volume from it at hazard.It was a romance of the last century, written with exaggeration, but with terrible force.It was not calculated to solace the recluse in Stoke Ferry Farm; but there was a fascination in its glowing pages, and Patty read on, her eyes rivetted on the pages of the volume, which contained accounts of murders and ghosts.Her form stiffened like a sitting corpse; her eyes protruded; her lips uttered low gasps at every gust of wind which shook the casement. She started as if she had received an electric shook.At last she could bear it no longer. The very words in the book seemed to have become blood-red, and long black spots ran up and down the page.The farmer’s daughter was fairly overcome, and she let the volume fall to the ground, and in the extremity of her fear ran to the window for fresh air; she leant out, and looked up to the sky, listening.Listening and watching for the next thing.“Oh!” she murmured, pressing one hand against her side, “but this suspense is dreadful—too dreadful to bear. Where can Philip be, and father too? He ought not to leave me thus.”She remained with her eyes fixed on the black vault of heaven; her heart beat audibly.“Heaven protect and preserve me,” she ejaculated—“preserve me and mine!”As the clock struck twelve she heard the faint ring of a horse’s hoof. It came nearer.“It is he. It is Philip,” she exclaimed.She listened more intently. The sound rang harshly on her ears—she felt sick and faint.A horse passed the window, snorting savagely. It appeared to her to be like some war charger whose rider had been stricken down in the field of battle.She uttered a scream which rang like a clarion note in the midnight air. Then she called aloud for assistance.“Joe—Stephen—help—help!” exclaimed the unhappy girl.She heard the clattering of men’s footsteps on the hard road.They were giving chase to the flying horse, which passed on snorting savagely, foaming at the mouth, and riderless.“Joe—Joe!” shrieked Patty to one of her father’s labourers, “for mercy’s sake tell me what’s the matter. Speak, I pray you.”The man looked in at the window, and said in a kind tone of voice—“We none on us know at present, but don’t ’e be frightened, missus. Summut’s amiss, but maybe it aint o’ much consequence. Cheer up, and wait till I coom back. There aint no call for no alarm—leastways not as we knows on at present.”Patty sank into a chair, and felt as if about to swoon.The man passed on.In a few minutes after this two of her father’s servants passed the window, leading a riderless horse.They carried lanterns in their hands, and were looking intently and examining the animal. Patty said nothing, but, pale and speechless, awaited the issue.The horse was taken to the yard, which was at the side of the farmhouse. It was the identical yard from which the boy, Alf Purvis, had been ignominiously driven with the hare round his neck some year or two before.The farmer’s men exchanged blank looks.“It looks precious queer, and may be as how it’s an ugly bis’ness,” ejaculated the carter. “Mr. Philip’s bin thrown, for sartin.”“He’s not a man to be throwed easily,” said Joe. “I dunno think the cob’s bin down.”“Yes, he has,” cried Stephen. “This off side be covered in mud and slush. There’s bin an accident o’ some sort.”“An accident?”“Aye, surely summut very near it. Look at his knees.”The speaker held down the lantern in front of the horse.“Why, heaven save us, what be this nn the saddle?” exclaimed another.“Here, man, hand us over the lantern.”By the fitful glare of the light they saw a stream of blood on the saddle, and the horse’s flanks.A low moan proceeded from all present, and they stood petrified with astonishment.“The saddle be wet!” cried one.“Ah! surely, that it be—wet wi’ blood!” exclaimed another. “There’s been foul play with our young master.”While all this had been going on, the elder Mr. Jamblin, who had been playing cards at a neighbour’s house, had been suddenly aroused to a sense of danger; he soon hastened homewards, and upon catching sight of his men around the house, he exclaimed, in a tone of indignation—“What be all on ’ee doin’ there? Aint one man enough to attend to a horse? Do it take five to stable a steed? Speak, some on ’ee. You’ve got tongues in yer heads, I s’pose?”But none of his men seemed disposed to speak. No one appeared to have the courage to declare the real state of the case.Puffing and panting Mr. Jamblin hastened up to the riderless steed.“Where be Mr. Philip?” he cried.“He aint coom back as yet, zur,” said the stableman.“Then where be he?” was the next question.“We none on us know; Pepper (that was the name of the horse) has been down.”Mr. Jamblin wiped the perspiration from his forehead.“Bin down, and Mr. Philip not here,” he ejaculated. Then turning to his men he said, in a voice of thunder—“Look here, men; what be the yoose o’ yer standing here like a set o’ stockfish? Ye’ve got eyes and legs I ’spose; why don’t some on ye start off and see if ye can find your young master?”“We’ll go at once,” cried several, simultaneously.“I have not a morsel of doubt as to the road he would take,” exclaimed the farmer. “He came from Brickett’s, and would pass through Dennett’s-lane, and then reach Larchgrove-road. Go, some on ’ee, at once in that direction.”Four of the men at once went in search of their young master. They carried lanterns, which, as they advanced steadily and cautiously along the road, swayed like the censers of priests above the altar.The clouds had by this time melted away; the moon and stars shone brightly.The rustics passed on till they reached the end of Larchgrove-road. Here they turned down, and as they entered the shadows of this cheerless place a cold chill fell upon them, for they seemed to feel that it was like entering a churchyard at midnight.“I dun’no what to mek of it,” said one. “The cob might have shied at summut, but Mr. Philip aint easily throwed.”“And yet it be certain that some accident ha’ taken place. It may be hard to say what it is. It may be worse than any on us think.”They flashed the lanterns in every direction, but failed to find as yet any solution to the mystery.They walked slowly and sadly along, examining every portion of the way as they did so.As they neared the end of Dennett’s-lane a cry from the foremost party caused a sudden panic.“What be the matter?” cried the other.“Matter!” exclaimed the man in front. “Here be our young master lying like one dead. There’s bin foul play, mates—Master Philip’s been murdered!”They now gathered round the body of the dead man.They lowered their lanterns and gazed at his wan features, which too plainly denoted that life had departed.They looked into each other’s faces, and gave a simultaneous cry.The open gash in the throat, the fractured skull, and the deep pool of blood were evidences of the terrible tragedy which had been enacted.Philip Jamblin had always been a special favourite with the labourers on Stoke Ferry Farm. It will therefore be readily understood that the sight of his remains had a powerful effect upon those who went in search of him.At first the farm labourers were too much appalled to give expression to their feelings by words.They stared at the ghastly face in stupid astonishment, then they moaned, and glanced around, as if they expected to see the assassin lurking in some dark corner.But all was silent—as silent as the grave.“Who ha’ done this deed?” exclaimed Joe Doughty. “A blighting curse cling to ’im whoever he may be. A blighting curse.”Footsteps were now heard proceeding from the further end of the road.The men glanced in the direction from whence they proceeded.“It be measter a comin’ this way,” they exclaimed.Joe Doughty walked rapidly on in the direction from whence the footsteps proceeded.In a moment or so he came up with his master, who, hastening to the spot where his son lay in his last sleep, said—“How now, Joe,” cried the farmer. “What be the matter, man? What’s amiss, eh?”“You mustn’t go any further. Bide where ye are, measter. Dunno’ attempt to go any further,” said Joe.“And why not? Speak—can’t you? Mr. Philip’s been throwed?”“Worse than that,” said the man. “Oh, Mr. Jamblin, ye mustn’t go no further!”He laid hold of the farmer by the coat, and drew him towards the trees by the side of the road.Jamblin looked at him, and as he did so his face became preternaturally pale. There was that in the conduct of Joe which made his master tremble like an aspen bough beneath the blast.“Summat’s happened,” said the farmer, in a low hoarse whisper.Joe nodded, but durst not trust himself to speak. There was a pause, after which Jamblin said, in a voice of perfect calmness—“Tell me what it is?”He was a huge brawny fellow, with a bronzed face, and having hands with thews and sinews like a giant, was this Joe Doughty; but when the farmer’s words fell upon his ears—they were spoken in a tone altogether so different to that he had been accustomed to hear—that, athlete and giant as he was, he seated himself on a felled tree which lay by the side of the road, and burst into tears.The sight of this man, sobbing and crying like an infant, so affected Jamblin, that he was fairly overcome, and had not the power to move.He looked at Joe, and then at the vault of heaven.“He be taken from us, measter,” said the latter, still sobbing; “and he was the best an’ truest friend I ha’ ever known; an’ I would ha’ given my life—ten lives, if I ’ad ’em—only to ha’ saved his. But it’s no yoose a bellowin’ or a crying, it be all over now.”“All over!” said the farmer. “What is over?”“He be dead and gone, measter.”When he heard these last words, Mr. Jamblin made a movement towards the scene of the tragedy.Joe rose suddenly, and caught him by the skirts of his coat.“Ye mustn’t go there, measter, indeed you mustn’t. ’Twill break your heart to see the sight I ha’ seen. Bide where ye be.”“Let me go,” cried the farmer. Do ’e think I am afraid to look the worst in the face?”“Bide here awhile,” repeated the man.“But I must and will know what’s the matter.”“Measter Philip be murdered!”At these words the farmer stepped back several paces.“Murdered!” he repeated. “And by whom?”“I dunno. But I will afore long. By the heaven above, I swear never to rest night or day till I hunt down the infamous wretch who ha’ done this foul deed,” exclaimed Joe Doughty, raising his right hand above his head. “I ha’ said it, and I mean it, as God is my judge.”“I must look upon my son,” cried Jamblin. “So don’t ’e seek to detain me, Joe. Leave go!”“If it’s to be so, I’ll go wi’ ’e, measter,” replied the latter.And so the two walked on together towards the fatal spot, for Joe Doughty would not trust his master to go alone.When they arrived at that part of the road where the dead body of the young farmer lay, the men with the lanterns were more affected by sight of their master than they had been by looking at the stark form of his son.The agony expressed on the countenance of the elder Mr. Jamblin was painful to behold.He said nothing, but his looks were more eloquent than words.After he had contemplated the heartrending sight for some little time, he turned towards Joe, who silently led him from the spot.“It is as you sed—he’s been foully murdered,” whispered Jamblin.“Get thee back, my dear measter. We will bring the body home.”“Home?” iterated Jamblin.“Yes, sir, unless you wish it otherwise.”“Poor Patty,” cried the farmer; “it will break her heart.”“Better get home and leave the rest to us,” suggested Joe. “My young missus had best hear it from your lips.”“You are right, I will return,” said the farmer. “I leave the arrangements to you—I dare not stop longer.”He walked away with rapid strides, and Joe hastened back to his companions.They placed the body on a hurdle, then they covered it over with a couple of sacks, and bore it along until they reached Stoke Ferry Farmhouse.They had the discretion to place it on a bench in a granary, the door of which they locked, and when all this had been effected in a gentle and thoughtful manner the farmer was made acquainted with the whole proceedings, at which he expressed his satisfaction.Patty Jamblin went into hysterics, and the village surgeon was sent for, who pronounced her to be in a very dangerous state.After recovering in a measure from the first shock she remained in a prostrate condition, and appeared to be but partially conscious of all that was going on.Her father was more concerned about her than aught else, and perhaps this was a merciful dispensation of Providence.As it was, to a certain extent it diverted his thoughts from the great and irreparable loss he had sustained.
There was not a merrier or more light-hearted girl than Patty Jamblin in the whole county.
Her dulcet voice and ringing laugh brightened the old farmhouse like a ray of sunshine.
No wonder, then, that she was her father’s pet; for, albeit she never crossed him by word or deed, she mostly managed to have her own way.
But on this eventful evening Patty was sad and serious.
Whether the deep blow that was about to fall on her and the old farmer had been by some strange mysterious influence foreshadowed, it is now impossible to say.
Patty was dejected, and, indeed, it might be said, sorrowful—a circumstance very unusual with her.
There are moments, however, when our hearts are open of their own accord to melancholy impressions. This will occur at times to the most vivacious of the human species. At such times a tone of music will bring tears into our eyes, or some simple tale or sight of suffering will fill us with presentiments of a terrible misfortune. Such appeared to be the case with Patty Jamblin.
As the sun sank below the earth, and the curtain of darkness fell softly over Stoke Ferry House, the nightingale pouring forth his first sweet song, Patty dropped into her easy chair and covered her face with her cold and trembling hands.
Her brother had not returned.
She watched and waited—waited anxiously. Something whispered to her what was to happen next.
There are times when a quick succession of “next” is found merely soothing; but there are times of reactionary languor when there is not left force enough to watch when that which we attend to is the rhythm only.
Thus we may find the ticking of a clock nothing—indeed, to mention this is commonplace.
But what a dreadful effect may be produced upon the mind by the sudden cessation of the ticking of the clock when once a certain experience has to be gone through!
Who that has counted the beatings of a pulse or listened to the flutterings of a breath, watching for the next and the next and the next, and coming at last to the one which has no next, can bear without agony to hear a watch or a clock stop ticking, or to hear any rhythmical sound cease suddenly?
One of the most horrible moments in my life was a moment in which the rhythmical noise of a common saw, heard over the parapet of a bridge in London, stopped suddenly when I was listening for it. In the distance the sound was softened; it had a sough with it which reminded me very painfully of the sound of human breath, but when it ceased I thought I could bear no more in this world, and longed to be at that moment taken away.
Of course the emotion of that moment was imparted from my recollection of a moment of which it was the symbol, but I think the cessation of something with a beat in it has always a terror for me.
“Can you draw an inference?” said Coleridge to the clown. “Yes, sir,” said the clown, “a cartload of them.”
That is the way with most of us. We are too eager to draw a cartload of inferences, and when we find the inference will not be drawn we suffer.
This was the case with Patty Jamblin. She was unable to draw an inference as to what was to follow: she only knew that she was depressed and distrustful.
There is a peculiarity about the next thing, remember—that it is sure to happen, and what a blessing there is in certainty!
We know the difficulty of holding in check our tyrannical habitual mode of passing on.
Every second of time in our experience throws out a pontoon bridge to the next.
We live by a clock that has two sets of hands on the same dial-plate. One is right and the other is always too fast.
Patty was sitting in the parlour. Sometimes she would start upright in her chair and listen eagerly; then she would try to reproach herself for expecting her brother Philip so soon.
He was detained, doubtless, had met with some friends, boon companions, who had prevailed upon him to pass a social hour or so with them.
She endeavoured to persuade herself that he was not able to return from some cause which was not explained. It would, however, be made manifest upon his return.
She felt that she must do something to break the monotony and suspense which she endured, and which every minute became more painful.
She took from the book-case a volume, with which she strove to beguile the tedium of her lonely hours. She read till her eyes ached, and then she cast aside the book.
“Why am I thus troubled?” she murmured. “Philip has been from home much later than this on many occasions. After all there is no reason for alarm, but—but I do wish he would come home, and father is away too, which makes me still more anxious.”
The poor girl sighed to herself as she glanced at the clock, the hour hand of which pointed to eleven.
“I wish one of them would come back,” she exclaimed. “I’ve a good mind to send for father, but he would only call me a little fool for my pains, and yet he knows I am all by myself, and he ought to consider that. I feel wretchedly lonely.”
She arose and went to the window.
The sky gathered over with clouds, and a cold wind muttered among the branches of the trees, and strewed the ground with brown and yellow leaves.
The clouds grew darker and heavier and rose towards the moon, which was still shining brightly.
Poor Patty went again to the book-shelf and took another volume from it at hazard.
It was a romance of the last century, written with exaggeration, but with terrible force.
It was not calculated to solace the recluse in Stoke Ferry Farm; but there was a fascination in its glowing pages, and Patty read on, her eyes rivetted on the pages of the volume, which contained accounts of murders and ghosts.
Her form stiffened like a sitting corpse; her eyes protruded; her lips uttered low gasps at every gust of wind which shook the casement. She started as if she had received an electric shook.
At last she could bear it no longer. The very words in the book seemed to have become blood-red, and long black spots ran up and down the page.
The farmer’s daughter was fairly overcome, and she let the volume fall to the ground, and in the extremity of her fear ran to the window for fresh air; she leant out, and looked up to the sky, listening.
Listening and watching for the next thing.
“Oh!” she murmured, pressing one hand against her side, “but this suspense is dreadful—too dreadful to bear. Where can Philip be, and father too? He ought not to leave me thus.”
She remained with her eyes fixed on the black vault of heaven; her heart beat audibly.
“Heaven protect and preserve me,” she ejaculated—“preserve me and mine!”
As the clock struck twelve she heard the faint ring of a horse’s hoof. It came nearer.
“It is he. It is Philip,” she exclaimed.
She listened more intently. The sound rang harshly on her ears—she felt sick and faint.
A horse passed the window, snorting savagely. It appeared to her to be like some war charger whose rider had been stricken down in the field of battle.
She uttered a scream which rang like a clarion note in the midnight air. Then she called aloud for assistance.
“Joe—Stephen—help—help!” exclaimed the unhappy girl.
She heard the clattering of men’s footsteps on the hard road.
They were giving chase to the flying horse, which passed on snorting savagely, foaming at the mouth, and riderless.
“Joe—Joe!” shrieked Patty to one of her father’s labourers, “for mercy’s sake tell me what’s the matter. Speak, I pray you.”
The man looked in at the window, and said in a kind tone of voice—
“We none on us know at present, but don’t ’e be frightened, missus. Summut’s amiss, but maybe it aint o’ much consequence. Cheer up, and wait till I coom back. There aint no call for no alarm—leastways not as we knows on at present.”
Patty sank into a chair, and felt as if about to swoon.
The man passed on.
In a few minutes after this two of her father’s servants passed the window, leading a riderless horse.
They carried lanterns in their hands, and were looking intently and examining the animal. Patty said nothing, but, pale and speechless, awaited the issue.
The horse was taken to the yard, which was at the side of the farmhouse. It was the identical yard from which the boy, Alf Purvis, had been ignominiously driven with the hare round his neck some year or two before.
The farmer’s men exchanged blank looks.
“It looks precious queer, and may be as how it’s an ugly bis’ness,” ejaculated the carter. “Mr. Philip’s bin thrown, for sartin.”
“He’s not a man to be throwed easily,” said Joe. “I dunno think the cob’s bin down.”
“Yes, he has,” cried Stephen. “This off side be covered in mud and slush. There’s bin an accident o’ some sort.”
“An accident?”
“Aye, surely summut very near it. Look at his knees.”
The speaker held down the lantern in front of the horse.
“Why, heaven save us, what be this nn the saddle?” exclaimed another.
“Here, man, hand us over the lantern.”
By the fitful glare of the light they saw a stream of blood on the saddle, and the horse’s flanks.
A low moan proceeded from all present, and they stood petrified with astonishment.
“The saddle be wet!” cried one.
“Ah! surely, that it be—wet wi’ blood!” exclaimed another. “There’s been foul play with our young master.”
While all this had been going on, the elder Mr. Jamblin, who had been playing cards at a neighbour’s house, had been suddenly aroused to a sense of danger; he soon hastened homewards, and upon catching sight of his men around the house, he exclaimed, in a tone of indignation—
“What be all on ’ee doin’ there? Aint one man enough to attend to a horse? Do it take five to stable a steed? Speak, some on ’ee. You’ve got tongues in yer heads, I s’pose?”
But none of his men seemed disposed to speak. No one appeared to have the courage to declare the real state of the case.
Puffing and panting Mr. Jamblin hastened up to the riderless steed.
“Where be Mr. Philip?” he cried.
“He aint coom back as yet, zur,” said the stableman.
“Then where be he?” was the next question.
“We none on us know; Pepper (that was the name of the horse) has been down.”
Mr. Jamblin wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
“Bin down, and Mr. Philip not here,” he ejaculated. Then turning to his men he said, in a voice of thunder—
“Look here, men; what be the yoose o’ yer standing here like a set o’ stockfish? Ye’ve got eyes and legs I ’spose; why don’t some on ye start off and see if ye can find your young master?”
“We’ll go at once,” cried several, simultaneously.
“I have not a morsel of doubt as to the road he would take,” exclaimed the farmer. “He came from Brickett’s, and would pass through Dennett’s-lane, and then reach Larchgrove-road. Go, some on ’ee, at once in that direction.”
Four of the men at once went in search of their young master. They carried lanterns, which, as they advanced steadily and cautiously along the road, swayed like the censers of priests above the altar.
The clouds had by this time melted away; the moon and stars shone brightly.
The rustics passed on till they reached the end of Larchgrove-road. Here they turned down, and as they entered the shadows of this cheerless place a cold chill fell upon them, for they seemed to feel that it was like entering a churchyard at midnight.
“I dun’no what to mek of it,” said one. “The cob might have shied at summut, but Mr. Philip aint easily throwed.”
“And yet it be certain that some accident ha’ taken place. It may be hard to say what it is. It may be worse than any on us think.”
They flashed the lanterns in every direction, but failed to find as yet any solution to the mystery.
They walked slowly and sadly along, examining every portion of the way as they did so.
As they neared the end of Dennett’s-lane a cry from the foremost party caused a sudden panic.
“What be the matter?” cried the other.
“Matter!” exclaimed the man in front. “Here be our young master lying like one dead. There’s bin foul play, mates—Master Philip’s been murdered!”
They now gathered round the body of the dead man.
They lowered their lanterns and gazed at his wan features, which too plainly denoted that life had departed.
They looked into each other’s faces, and gave a simultaneous cry.
The open gash in the throat, the fractured skull, and the deep pool of blood were evidences of the terrible tragedy which had been enacted.
Philip Jamblin had always been a special favourite with the labourers on Stoke Ferry Farm. It will therefore be readily understood that the sight of his remains had a powerful effect upon those who went in search of him.
At first the farm labourers were too much appalled to give expression to their feelings by words.
They stared at the ghastly face in stupid astonishment, then they moaned, and glanced around, as if they expected to see the assassin lurking in some dark corner.
But all was silent—as silent as the grave.
“Who ha’ done this deed?” exclaimed Joe Doughty. “A blighting curse cling to ’im whoever he may be. A blighting curse.”
Footsteps were now heard proceeding from the further end of the road.
The men glanced in the direction from whence they proceeded.
“It be measter a comin’ this way,” they exclaimed.
Joe Doughty walked rapidly on in the direction from whence the footsteps proceeded.
In a moment or so he came up with his master, who, hastening to the spot where his son lay in his last sleep, said—
“How now, Joe,” cried the farmer. “What be the matter, man? What’s amiss, eh?”
“You mustn’t go any further. Bide where ye are, measter. Dunno’ attempt to go any further,” said Joe.
“And why not? Speak—can’t you? Mr. Philip’s been throwed?”
“Worse than that,” said the man. “Oh, Mr. Jamblin, ye mustn’t go no further!”
He laid hold of the farmer by the coat, and drew him towards the trees by the side of the road.
Jamblin looked at him, and as he did so his face became preternaturally pale. There was that in the conduct of Joe which made his master tremble like an aspen bough beneath the blast.
“Summat’s happened,” said the farmer, in a low hoarse whisper.
Joe nodded, but durst not trust himself to speak. There was a pause, after which Jamblin said, in a voice of perfect calmness—
“Tell me what it is?”
He was a huge brawny fellow, with a bronzed face, and having hands with thews and sinews like a giant, was this Joe Doughty; but when the farmer’s words fell upon his ears—they were spoken in a tone altogether so different to that he had been accustomed to hear—that, athlete and giant as he was, he seated himself on a felled tree which lay by the side of the road, and burst into tears.
The sight of this man, sobbing and crying like an infant, so affected Jamblin, that he was fairly overcome, and had not the power to move.
He looked at Joe, and then at the vault of heaven.
“He be taken from us, measter,” said the latter, still sobbing; “and he was the best an’ truest friend I ha’ ever known; an’ I would ha’ given my life—ten lives, if I ’ad ’em—only to ha’ saved his. But it’s no yoose a bellowin’ or a crying, it be all over now.”
“All over!” said the farmer. “What is over?”
“He be dead and gone, measter.”
When he heard these last words, Mr. Jamblin made a movement towards the scene of the tragedy.
Joe rose suddenly, and caught him by the skirts of his coat.
“Ye mustn’t go there, measter, indeed you mustn’t. ’Twill break your heart to see the sight I ha’ seen. Bide where ye be.”
“Let me go,” cried the farmer. Do ’e think I am afraid to look the worst in the face?”
“Bide here awhile,” repeated the man.
“But I must and will know what’s the matter.”
“Measter Philip be murdered!”
At these words the farmer stepped back several paces.
“Murdered!” he repeated. “And by whom?”
“I dunno. But I will afore long. By the heaven above, I swear never to rest night or day till I hunt down the infamous wretch who ha’ done this foul deed,” exclaimed Joe Doughty, raising his right hand above his head. “I ha’ said it, and I mean it, as God is my judge.”
“I must look upon my son,” cried Jamblin. “So don’t ’e seek to detain me, Joe. Leave go!”
“If it’s to be so, I’ll go wi’ ’e, measter,” replied the latter.
And so the two walked on together towards the fatal spot, for Joe Doughty would not trust his master to go alone.
When they arrived at that part of the road where the dead body of the young farmer lay, the men with the lanterns were more affected by sight of their master than they had been by looking at the stark form of his son.
The agony expressed on the countenance of the elder Mr. Jamblin was painful to behold.
He said nothing, but his looks were more eloquent than words.
After he had contemplated the heartrending sight for some little time, he turned towards Joe, who silently led him from the spot.
“It is as you sed—he’s been foully murdered,” whispered Jamblin.
“Get thee back, my dear measter. We will bring the body home.”
“Home?” iterated Jamblin.
“Yes, sir, unless you wish it otherwise.”
“Poor Patty,” cried the farmer; “it will break her heart.”
“Better get home and leave the rest to us,” suggested Joe. “My young missus had best hear it from your lips.”
“You are right, I will return,” said the farmer. “I leave the arrangements to you—I dare not stop longer.”
He walked away with rapid strides, and Joe hastened back to his companions.
They placed the body on a hurdle, then they covered it over with a couple of sacks, and bore it along until they reached Stoke Ferry Farmhouse.
They had the discretion to place it on a bench in a granary, the door of which they locked, and when all this had been effected in a gentle and thoughtful manner the farmer was made acquainted with the whole proceedings, at which he expressed his satisfaction.
Patty Jamblin went into hysterics, and the village surgeon was sent for, who pronounced her to be in a very dangerous state.
After recovering in a measure from the first shock she remained in a prostrate condition, and appeared to be but partially conscious of all that was going on.
Her father was more concerned about her than aught else, and perhaps this was a merciful dispensation of Providence.
As it was, to a certain extent it diverted his thoughts from the great and irreparable loss he had sustained.