"Better that you should leave us all and forget us all, Peter Norcot."
"Ride on, I say, and let the maid come with me. This business shall be ended for ever, before time for tea-drinking."
Grace approached, and Peter waved his hat with customary politeness. Malherb turned away and galloped off; then the girl, dismayed, was about to follow him, when she found Norcot already at her side.
"Don't go!" he said. "'Twas your father's wish that we should speak in private together. Have no fear. 'Tis but a simple matter to do with the future, not the past. But we'll get within doors, so please you. I hate talking of anything important from the back of a horse. I believe in transmigration of souls, you see. Who knows what spirit inhabits your gallant 'Cæsar'?"
Without answer Grace turned homeward, and ere long she sat in the dining-room of Fox Tor Farm, while Peter stood before her and twirled his seals.
"Your father has explained facts, my dear. He is very unwell, and his judgment has left him with his health. He's haunted by something. I hope drugs will lay the ghost. Now you—I begged for the boon of a little talk. Tut, tut! 'tis beginning all over again—and that after the banns were called for the third and last time! Poor cousin Relton—how he squinted when Tom Putt brought the news of your retreat!"
"'To begin again'! Oh, Peter, have I not made my answer clear?"
"No; because your actions were not clear. They were very mysterious actions. For two pins I was going to rescue you from your father myself. But I had a suspicion that even if I brought wings you wouldn't wear 'em. Really, Grace, you've wickedly wronged a good man, though I say it. You've hurt me through and through."
"And what of all that you have made me suffer?"
"You haven't suffered. You've merely enjoyed an extremely exciting experience. Mentally you have not endured anything to name. No woman can suffer acutely so long as she's interested in three men. I say 'three.' 'Twas John Lee helped you to escape and risked his life and ruined his fortune for you. First, how do you stand towards that romantic young fellow now? 'Tis rather important—for him. To be frank, his life is in your hands. The law of the land has dealt with him finally; but the book of John Lee's days lies with you to shut or open at will. Have you forgot him, or do you desire to? That hardly sounds like another offer of marriage, does it? Yet I'm proposing with all my heart."
"Forget John! Forget him—forget to love him? Never. He saved my life."
"Indeed! All these delightful incidents are still hidden from me. But the question now is his life—happily not yours. You've doubtless heard that he helped that formidable skeleton, his grandmother, to dig a tunnel under the walls of the War Prison. Maybe he did it as much for you as anybody—to assist the young hero No. 2—Stark of the 'Stars and Stripes.' Well, call it what you like, 'twas high treason and poor John Lee must hang for it. I heard sentence of death pronounced at Plymouth yesterday—a solemn experience."
"John Lee—John!"
The girl reeled backwards, then started to her feet.
"He must be saved; he shall be saved. I cannot live if he dies. The guards—the soldiers. There must be some among them who would—oh, God, help me now! He must be saved if I tramp to the King myself!"
"Bravely spoken!
"'God and a soldier all people adoreIn time of war—but not before.'
Better leave the King out and trust to God and a soldier. And we'll set the soldier first, since pounds get answered quicker than prayers. There's no time to pray when the gibbet's up."
"He must be saved."
"He shall be—if I can save him. He shall be saved, though the price should be my wool factory. But this is a proposal of marriage—don't forget that."
"He must be saved."
Norcot nodded.
"So be it. 'I'll dare all heat but that in Gracie's eyes.' I may add that I'm probably the only man in Devonshire who could save him. And even I must do it by foul means, not fair ones. Say the word then!"
"I implore you, if ever you loved me. Oh, if I could do it myself I would not ask you."
"You can't do it."
"Then do you."
"And afterwards? Tut, tut! I may dance on the gallows I rob of him! One doesn't risk these highly coloured possibilities for a hand-shake. What afterwards, Grace?"
As she answered, Mr. Kekewich entered at the other end of the chamber, and he heard her reply.
"If you save John Lee's life, I'll marry you."
"Before Heaven you mean it?"
"Before Heaven."
"There's my brave heroine!"
"Tea is served in the drawing-room, Miss Grace," said Kekewich.
When approaching a problem Peter Norcot rarely made any error in his point of attack. By nightfall upon the day of Grace's promise he had left Fox Tor Farm, and only she knew the reason. But to Plymouth Peter did not go. He returned home, visited his safe and took from it the sum of one thousand pounds in notes. Any appeal to authority on behalf of John Lee must be vain. He had been sentenced to death for high treason, and four days separated him from the gallows. Norcot knew that the man would be hanged at Exeter, and that he was to leave Plymouth for that city under a military escort two days after his trial. He had learned the route of march and the constitution of the company responsible for the prisoner's safe custody. The journey would take two days, and the half-way house stood near Ashburton. A non-commissioned officer commanded, and upon that man Peter Norcot centred his hopes. Quarters for the company were already taken at Westover Farm, outside Ashburton; and here the wool-stapler designed to appear in good time. During the hours of that night he doubted little but that he would achieve his purpose.
Meanwhile a lesser man—one Thomas Putt—commands undivided attention. When Kekewich returned to the servants' hall after announcing tea to Grace and her lover, he found Mrs. Beer there. To them entered Tom with a fine salmon; but no voice of approval rewarded his achievement, for Kekewich was full of the tragic thing he had just heard.
"What a light it do throw!" cried Dinah Beer. "Poor tibby lamb; an' the hunger of that dreadful wolf for her! Now he'll get Lee off—see if he don't—though he's got to ax King George."
"If Lee knowed the price, I'm thinking as 'twould be more than Norcot could do to free him," said Kekewich. "I was for this marriage heart an' soul, so much as master; but he've changed since she runned away; an' so have I. I'm generally of his mind in secret, though I never tell the man so."
"'Tis too dreadful to think of," declared Dinah. "Poor dear Jack!—yet the price of his getting off be dreadful too."
"'Twill kill her to marry him—honest gentleman though he be," said Kekewich. "An' she'll do it. If Mr. Norcot gets Lee off, she'll take him without another murmur."
Then Tom Putt spoke. He knew a great deal about the matter of Lee, for he had been permitted to see John at Prince Town and had afterwards got a message to him, through Sergeant Bradridge, that Grace Malherb was safe. To the sergeant fell Lee's custody, and Putt knew that on the morrow his uncle Septimus Bradridge would convey John from Plymouth a day's march to Westover Farm.
Apart from any question concerning Grace, Tom had already determined to see his old companion once again, and he knew exactly where the soldiers would make their noontide halt upon the following morning. Now his mind quickened and he showed a spark of the genius that had so often been wasted in successful poaching on Dart. First Mr. Putt begged Kekewich to give him a few moments of private conversation, and then, when he and the old man were closeted together, John Lee's friend explained a part of his purpose.
"My uncle's a fierce warrior, but he've always showed a great liking for me, and I know he'll not stand between me and a word or two with Jack. The day's journey is to be broken where Dean Burn flows down out o' the woods between Buckfastleigh and Dean Prior. 'Tis a spot where two roads meet, and there's a bridge there. Now I can get to that place afore they do; an' if I have speech with Jack Lee, 'twill put iron into his will."
"You might see Norcot?"
"I shall not. Norcot will tackle my Uncle Septimus to-morrow night at Westover. An' he'll find my uncle's a man as wants a tidy mort o' money to go behind his duty. As to Norcot, he'll get Lee off, sure's fate; for Jack would run like any other chap to save his neck. But not if he knowed what price Norcot be getting for saving him. The gentleman may override Sergeant Bradridge, but he won't override Jack Lee."
"You'll want a bit of money, won't 'e, to get leave to talk to him?"
"Ess, I shall," said Putt. "That's what I wanted to say. A pound will go a long way with a common sojer, but not with my uncle. I wouldn't dare for to offer him small money. I shall just ax if I may speak to an old friend afore he's choked off; and I shall offer all you can let me have, an' hope for my mother's sake as Uncle Septimus will let me get a few private words."
"I can give 'e twenty pounds," said Kekewich, "an' that's every penny I've got by me. Money's scarce just now."
Putt nodded gloomily, because the elder touched a thorny subject. For the first time since Fox Tor Farm was built, had the master of it asked his men upon pay day to let their wages stand over for a week.
"I've not got a farden. Gived my maid to Chagford every penny," confessed Mr. Putt.
The old man nodded and produced his cash in the shape of two notes.
"I won't ax you your plans, Thomas, for you wasn't born yesterday. 'Tis a great source of strength that Sergeant Bradridge is your relation. Be witty about it; an' if John Lee can save her by taking his bad fortune like a man—well, so much the better, though 'tis a poor come along of it for him, poor chap."
Tom pouched the money carefully, but made no comment on the other's words.
"I'll take my uncle this here fish I've catched," he said, "for he's a man fond of pretty eating, and was brought up on Dart salmon. And I shall leave at cock-light to-morrow morning."
"Good luck go with you. Ban't often I wish anybody that; but this time I will for the maiden's sake. An' her good fortune will be his bad, poor blid! unless 'tis good fortune to die in a good cause."
"Us never knows what'll happen," declared Putt. "An' whether or no, 'tis bad fortune to be hanged, for it stops a man's usefulness."
The conversation ended with this just reflection, and very early next morning Thomas went his way. Mrs. Beer provided him with plentiful supplies of food and, upon his own account, he visited the tool-shed and work-loft before setting out. With him he carried a stout stick, and his salmon as a gift for Sergeant Bradridge.
He struck into Dean Woods while it was yet early, then called at a farm hard by, where he was known, partook of a pint of beer and had some conversation with the farmer's son. Presently, seated with this lad in front of a load of manure, Putt jogged onwards and proceeded to a cross-road not far distant from Robin Herrick's old home at Dean Prior. Here ran Dean Burn from its fountains on Dartmoor; and to Mr. Putt this stream, now in full torrent after rain, offered interesting problems. He examined the waters with a professional eye, and his friend upon the cart laughed at him.
"Ever thinking of fish; even at such a time as this!"
"No, by Gor!" answered Tom. "I'm just wondering how shallow it runs to the bridge yonder. Lend me your whip an' I'll find out."
He proved to his satisfaction that there was deep water at hand, and then, while still in earnest conversation with the young farmer, Thomas heard a tramp of feet and saw the troops advancing. Thereupon his friend drew his cart and its burden into a side path by the stream, and Putt, with the salmon well displayed, advanced to meet Sergeant Bradridge. The halt sounded as he approached. The troops grounded their arms and, weary and hungry after a march of fifteen miles, pulled food from their knapsacks and scattered in comfort by the grassy way. For drink, the river rolled at their feet.
Sergeant Bradridge himself had selected a comfortable spot upon a milestone, with a bank behind it for his back, just as Tom appeared. All the soldiers were now at ease, save two sentries, who kept guard over the prisoner. Lee was handcuffed, but his legs were free, and he had walked with his guards. He sat now, nodded and smiled at Putt, and welcomed him gratefully. But Thomas held his nose high, walked past the prisoner, and treated Lee as one no longer to be recognised by self-respecting people.
"Morning, Uncle Sep. I knowed you was passing this way, so I took a half-holiday, an' made bold to walk across the Moor."
The sergeant was an elderly man with a ruddy face, a pompous bearing, and a feeble, kindly mouth quite concealed under heavy moustaches.
"Tom, to be sure! Sit down an' have a bite. 'Tis dooty, an' a painful dooty. But us safeguards of the land have to do dirty work so well as clean work. That poor soul—well, but come to think of it, you knowed him better'n ever I shall. 'Tis a strange world. Back along I had to march your master out of War Prison, 'cause Mr. Malherb got in a rage the day we found out about that hole under the walls; then I had to take this here poor soul down along to Plymouth; an' now I be marching him to be hanged. Talk o' wars! Us as stays at home have just as terrible dooties thrust upon us."
"You was always ready for anything. Nothing never puzzles you. My mother says that if an earthquake comed, you wouldn't run. But as for Jack Lee—well, I grant us liked him very well. But he turned traitor to please the women, an' I've done with him."
"Ah!—a face like his was bound to get him mixed up with the female sex."
"You didn't ought to pity him—such a renowned King's man as you be," declared Putt.
"You'm quite correct," assented the sergeant, proceeding with his bread and cheese. "But though a King's man, I'm one as looks to the bottom of my glass, and to the bottom of everything. Many a poisonous root do bear wholesome seed. I've had speech with that chap, an' I'm devilish sorry for him—sorrier than he is for himself."
"You'm such a large-minded warrior, Uncle Sep. I wish there was more Bradridge and less Putt in my character, I'm sure. Bradridges is always heroes."
"Always—to a man," admitted the sergeant. "But your mother is a very proper-minded woman, an' you've got proper feelings, though you wouldn't go for a sojer when I wanted you."
"If he'd 'listed now," said Tom, pointing with his thumb to John Lee, "he'd never have found hisself in this fix."
"True for you. I wish I could take him to barracks 'stead of Exeter gaol. A modest man; and since I give him your message that 'twas well with the young lady, he's been quite content. He told me he didn't fear death no more than I do."
"All comes of bad company," replied his nephew. "I was half in mind to take the man's hand just now, but I couldn't bring myself to do it."
The sergeant shook his head.
"That's the Putt blood in you, Thomas. A Bradridge would never turn against a broken man just 'cause his life had fallen out crooked. Granted he've done wrong. Very well; he'm going to suffer for it. If you'd been tempted by a pretty maid, mayhap you'd be in the same box."
"He'm a traitor an' he tried to help they Yankees out of prison. That's enough for me," said Putt stoutly. "Us'll leave him to his righteous fate. See here, Uncle Sep, here's a brave fish I've brought 'e, knowing what a tooth you've got for Dart salmon. I thought as Mother Coaker—to Westover Farm where you lie to-night—would cook it for your supper."
Without words Sergeant Bradridge smelt the fish carefully; then his face shone.
"Fresh as a rose!" he said.
"Catched essterday morn."
"You'm a good boy, Tom, an' I thank you. Call that chap there who's just had a drink in the river. I'll send him forward with this here fish an' give him a pound of it for his trouble. He knows the way."
Thomas obeyed, and in ten minutes a soldier had started off with his sergeant's supper, while Putt professed great amazement.
"What power to put in one man's hands. You can order 'em about seemingly like a shepherd orders his dog! In these parts, of course, the name of Bradridge is a masterpiece. I lay they'll all turn out at Buckfastleigh as you go marching through."
"'Tis right a man's native town should mark his fame," said the soldier. "Of course my name be a household word there; and for that very reason I'm going round by King's Wood and Bilberry Hill, so as this poor chap shan't have all the eyes of the town upon him.'"
"'Tis a rough road."
"Not to me. I've knowed the way ever since I was breeched."
"Well," said Putt, rising, "I wish you kindly, Uncle Sep, and I hope you'll take it proper in me to have come. There's a chap going up through Dean Wood with a cart in a minute and I'll get a lift part o' the way to home."
"Well, I'm much obliged to you and I won't forget it. I've often thought, Thomas, as my maid 'Liza wouldn't say 'no' to you. Hast ever turned your mind to her?"
"Never reckoned I was good enough."
"Well, modesty's a very proper part of youth; but in love-making it can be carried too far. Think of it. She'm homely, but for that matter so be you. An' none the worse for that. Us can't all have picture-book faces."
"Like that poor chap-fallen gallows man there. Well, good-bye to 'e. An' my dooty."
Tom shook hands with his uncle, moved a step or two off and glanced irresolutely where John Lee sat between the standing soldiers. His hands were under his chin and his elbows on his knees.
"Be damned if I can bring myself to do it!" said Putt aloud; whereupon Sergeant Bradridge rose from the milestone and laid a hand upon his nephew's shoulder.
"Don't harden your heart against him, my lad. He's in a tight place, and no man can ever give him more than a handshake and a 'God speed.' It won't hurt 'e to wish him better luck in a better world; an', being your comrade, you ought to do it."
Putt scowled in the direction of John Lee.
"If you say it's my dooty—you're such a masterful man. You get my secrets out of me like a lawyer! To tell truth, I had a dozen messages for the fellow from Fox Tor Farm. And a last word from a maiden too. A good few tears have been shed for the chap, as hadn't an enemy in the world an' scores o' friends. 'Twas Kekewich axed me to speak to him; an' I named you, an' said as you'd never let me do it. And old Kek, he said, 'Your Uncle Bradridge is a man of valour an' a man knowed for his righteous character. Such as him,' Kek said, 'with a wife an' children an' a good heart, ain't going to stand between an orphan lad on his way to the gallows, and a last message from his friends.' He said also, 'Give the sergeant this here token with an old man's respects to a hero, an' ax him from me to let you just have five minutes with poor Jack Lee out o' ear-shot o' the sojers. This money, he says, 'ban't no more'n a sign of respect for his character as a sojer and a Christian; an' if there wasn't such men as him in the nation, us would have had Boney over long afore to-day,' says Kekewich."
"An' you wasn't going to deliver the old man's message?"
"Didn't think 'twas worth while, for I never knowed, Uncle Sep, that you was so powerful a sojer you could allow me to go aside an' have a talk with the rascal. Not as I wants to, I'm sure. 'Why,' I said to Kek, 'a general couldn't do it, let alone my Uncle Bradridge!' An' Kek, he says, 'Your uncle's every bit so good as a general in this job. He've got sole command, and his word's law. Sergeants be the very thews of an army,' said Kek, an' I suppose I ought to have believed him."
"Certainly you did," declared the warrior. "Every word he told you was truth. He'm a wise old man, and knows very well what he'm talking about. But as to money—'tis a ticklish thing to name it."
"So I told him, but he said you'd understand better'n a green lad like me. 'Do 'e think I'd offer money to a great man like Septimus Bradridge?' I asked him. An' he said, 'I've got far too much respect for him to dream of such an insult; but I want him to take this here twenty pound just as a token of admiration from an old man who once had a son a sojer. And if he'll let you have ten minutes with poor Jack, so as to cheer him up afore he goes into the Valley of the Shadow—why, 'tis only a sign he's as big in his heart as his valour, and nought to do at all with my present to him.'"
Tom pulled out the money and handed it to Sergeant Bradridge.
"I'm glad you remembered your dooty," said his uncle sternly, taking the notes and putting them into his breast. "An' 'tis lucky that I'm a parent and a man above suspicion of a mean trick; so I can take this here momentum just the same as I'd take a medal for valour—in a big military spirit. You'll bear me witness I've twice axed you to speak to the prisoner afore; an' now I ax you to speak to him again."
"If as my Uncle Septimus you command me, I must obey," said Putt reluctantly; "but I vow I won't be left with him over fifteen minutes. I can say all I've got to say inside that time. An', though the sojers mus'n't listen, I'd rather for 'em not to be too far off, for he might turn upon me."
"A handcuffed man! To think my sister's son be a coward!"
"He'm a desperate chap, an' us ban't all born with your great courage. If I sit 'pon yonder bank with him above the bridge, us won't be heard; an' if he sits 'pon top of the bank you can keep your eye upon us. Out of your sight I will not trust myself with that man."
"That's reasonable," admitted the sergeant; "let him keep his head over the grass, so as I can see him all the while I smoke my pipe."
He looked at his watch. "Fifteen minutes or so you shall have—him being an orphan."
"Don't make it a minute longer, for 'tis a very nasty job for me. An' if I call out, I pray you'll run an' save me," implored Putt.
With open contempt Sergeant Bradridge gave his order, and in a few moments Tom found himself alone beside John Lee on a shady bank above the stream. Some thirty yards and a hillock of grass now separated him from the soldiers; while a little further off, sitting on the milestone, Tom's uncle lighted his pipe, felt a pleasant crispness at his breast, and kept his eyes firmly fixed upon the back of John Lee's head.
Sergeant Bradridge smoked his tobacco, thought of his twenty pounds, of his salmon, and of his high position in the world.
"Some," he reflected, "might say that Tom there would never have seen yonder poor chap but for they two ten-pound notes. But old Kekewich knowed better. 'Tis merely a momentum. Give me an old man if you want an understanding man."
Nobody had ever before presented the soldier with twenty pounds, and the sensation was not only pleasant, but tended to the increase of self-respect. His days had been uneventful, and albeit an admirable officer, accident kept him at home despite the stirring times. He was a great recruiter, and had sent many a lad to the wars, though never himself had he heard a shot fired in anger. The hour was at hand when he would do so; and that in his own mother-county of Devon. Now he thought upon his wife and family, and then concerning the prisoner. Heartily he regretted John Lee's fate, but knew no way to mend it.
Meantime the doomed man and Putt conversed with earnestness. Their talk was of a practical nature, and they wasted not a moment in vain sorrow.
Tom told his friend the news and the solemn promise that Grace Malherb had given to Norcot.
"No man can save me if I won't be saved," said John. "It only makes death easier to know what hangs upon it."
"We've got but minutes," answered the other; "an' 'tis a fool's trick to die if you can live. Dead, you're no good to none but worms and body-snatchers; alive, you can't tell what might come along. You've got to get out of this coil without Norcot's help; then she's free again. 'Twas only if he freed you—not if you freed yourself."
"'Tis beyond human power."
"'Tis as easy as eating. D'you see that cart full of muck? Behind the tail-board there's a place scraped out big enough to hold you. An' there's a knot-hole in the bottom of the cart where you can put your mouth so you won't be choked. 'Twill be a thought foul, but better'n a rope. Here's a file for them bracelets presently. Wait a moment and watch."
Putt went across to the cart and opened the tail-board, behind which a space had been scooped in the farmyard stuff. Then he took a bundle of the dirty straw, rolled it into a ball, and returned to John Lee.
"'Tis a matter of moments now," he said. "Yonder chap, pretending to be asleep under the trees, only waits for you to slip in the cart; then he'll cover you up deep and set off through Dean Wood."
While he spoke Tom rolled his ball of straw into the shape of a head and stuck it upon his stick. Next he watched his uncle through the grass, and when Bradridge had turned away for a moment to speak to a soldier, John Lee's hat was thrust upon the dummy, while John himself slipped down the bank. Tom Putt's uncle, from his standpoint, still supposed that he saw the condemned man's head, and his nephew talking earnestly beside the prisoner; but in reality John was already under a mass of hot ordure behind the tail-board of the cart; and a moment later the vehicle took its lumbering way among the soldiers. It crept through the little camp, then ascended a hill upon the driver's left hand, and slowly disappeared from view in the direction of Dean Wood.
Meantime Putt sat by John Lee's hat on the stick and watched his uncle. The precious minutes passed until at last Sergeant Bradridge looked at his watch again, rose, and knocked the burning tobacco from his pipe.
Thereupon Thomas played his part. He removed Lee's hat and flung it into the river, where it floated fast down stream; he then struck himself a formidable blow on the side of the face with his stick, and shouting with all his might, himself leapt down into the water. It took him to his middle, and he waded deeper.
"Help, help, Uncle Sep! Help, sojers! Help; you'll never hang him, for he'll drown hisself, sure as death!"
A dozen redcoats answered Tom's bawling, and Sergeant Bradridge also ran to the spot as fast as he was able.
"He's done for me—I shall die!" cried Putt, holding his face; "I know'd how 'twould be. He leapt up like lightning, and then struck me with his handcuffed hands. I'll swear my jaw's broke. 'Death by water's better'n hanging!' he says, an' flings hisself into the river!"
"There's his hat," said a soldier; "but his head isn't under it."
"Get in the water! Get in the water!" shouted Sergeant Bradridge. "With his hands fast together he'll be drownded like a dog wi' a brick round his neck!"
"If he's carried under the bridge you'll lose him sure as death. Oh, my head! an' I never said a hard word to the man."
They waded in the rolling reaches of Dean Burn, but found nothing; then, at the sergeant's direction, his men prepared to make a drag that they might scrape the bottom of the river.
"There's scarce water to drown a sheep," said a soldier. "Are you sure of this chap?" he added, and looked at Putt.
Tom, still nearly up to his waist in the river, took the insult ill.
"Sure o' me, you gert cock-eyed lobster! Sure o' me! Ban't your officer my own uncle? Better you comed in the water to help than talk against your betters. But you'm too frightened of wetting your pipe-clay and getting more work! Do a man have his jaw split for fun? I hope as you'll be shot first time ever you go to war; an' a good riddance!"
"All the same," answered the soldier, "there was a cart full of straw went by ten minutes agone. Might be wise to overtake it and see that all's open and honest."
"I never took my eyes off the prisoner's head," declared Bradridge. "I suppose you'll not call my sight in question, Private Chugg?"
"No, sergeant; no man living's got a sharper eye; but there's heads and there's hats. How if his head weren't under his hat when you see'd it 'pon the mound there?"
"Three of you run up along after thicky cart, an' us'll scour the river banks," said Bradridge; "an' if there's any hookem-snivey dealings, Thomas Putt, 'tis you who will swing at Exeter, not t'other."
"You'll be sorry for that speech, Uncle Sep, when us gets his gashly carkiss out the water," answered Tom calmly. "He's here, I tell you—sunk down into some hole at the bottom—and dead as a hammer by now. An' if he ban't here, where is he? Tell me that?"
The soldiers hunted and probed without success; then they went down the stream and searched beneath the bridge and in every place where a fugitive might lurk with his head above water.
Meanwhile others, led by Private Chugg, ran fast, and soon overtook the cart that had conveyed John Lee. It stood half-way up a steep hill in the woods, with a stone stuck beneath one wheel while the horse rested.
Without ceremony, and despite fierce protests from Tom Putt's friend, the soldiers pitched the entire contents of this vehicle into the road. But they found nothing. Their prisoner had left his unpleasant quarters ten minutes before, and was now half a mile away in the deep woods of Dean.
Throughout that night the screech owls heard a steady sound like their own harsh voices, but subdued to a murmur. It was John at his handcuffs. To separate them proved a difficult task, even with Tom Putt's file; but that done, the man was quickly free.
Far away, as evening fell, Mr. Norcot waited with admirable patience for the arrival of Sergeant Bradridge and his prisoner; while Mother Coaker of Westover Farm mourned a good fish wasted. Tom Putt's salmon, despairing of being eaten, had fallen to pieces in the pot.
On a day in late autumn, while sad winds whispered of winter and the heather blossoms perished, Harvey Woodman and Thomas Putt were setting up hurdles round about a portion of a turnip field. Hard by Uncle Smallridge sat upon a stone, chewed tobacco and watched them. This aged man had made a close study of Providence's work at Fox Tor Farm, and, finding that all the evils resulting from the demolition of Childe's Tomb had fallen upon the head of Malherb, he felt increased respect for the logic of Heaven. Now he approached the labourers fearlessly, discussed the state of affairs with relish, and threw his weight upon the side of justice. But the household of Malherb showed an inclination to think the farmer too hardly treated. According to their measure of intelligence and gratitude, they mourned the master's evil fortune.
"He's changed under our living eyes," said Woodman.
"A scantle of his old self, an' goes heavily with backward glances as though the wisht-hounds was arter him day an' night," declared Putt. "So meek as Moses now most times. I miss the thunder of him. We'm so used to it that he seems like a new man without his noise."
"Not but he flashes up, like a dying fire, now an' again, however," added Woodman.
Uncle Smallridge chewed and nodded and uttered complacent platitudes.
"What did I say? What a picture of the wrath of the loving God! You won't find in all Scripture no case where the Lord took a matter into His own hands quicker an' polished off a sinner so sharp. First his son cut down; then his darter undutiful; then that tantara to the War Prison; then Lovey Lee carried away by the Devil, as I hopes an' believes; an' then Jack Lee vanished like a cloud; an' a bad wool year; an' wages coming by fits an' starts; an' doom writ upon the man's forehead. 'Tis all the hatched-out egg of the Lord. Full of meat—full of meat are His ways."
"Hard enough to stomach all the same," said Woodman; and Putt viewed the ancient with considerable disgust.
"You'm worse than Kekewich," he declared. "You fatten on other folks' troubles, like a crow on offal. I'd blush to smack my lips over a brave man's cares. Who gave 'e that tobacco you'm chowing?"
"Mr. Malherb," confessed Uncle. "An open-handed gentleman as need be, an' a good friend to me. An' why not? 'Tis the duty of the gentlefolks to support such as me. I've growed two-double working for 'em. An' now my balance of years be their proper business. I've nought against him myself; I be only pointing out how much the Lord had against him. We'm all corn for the A'mighty's grindstones; an' a very comforting thought that is for a common man. There's justice there." He waved to the sky. "Us shan't be driven about to work for small money an' bad masters in Eternity; but sit 'pon golden thrones an' share the property with the best of 'em."
"You're a Whig," said Woodman. "They talk like that in the Parliament."
"I be what I be. I know there won't be no squires an' ban-dogs an' man-traps an' spring-guns to maim honest men up-along. If us be all equal in Heaven, that should be the rule on earth, same as the Lord prayed in His own Prayer."
"You'd better keep them ideas till you get to Heaven then," said Thomas Putt; "for they won't work on Dartymoor."
As he spoke Mr. Beer arrived, and with him he brought interesting news.
"Leave that, souls," he said; "since the weather's lifted, us have all got to go along with master to Hangman's Hollow 'bout that job there was talk of a fortnight since. He's made up his mind all on a sudden. Go back to the farm for ropes an' picks, then come along."
"What's in the wind now, neighbour?" inquired Uncle Smallridge, and Beer answered him.
"Why, 'tis the hole where Miss Grace was found. 'Tis said 'twas old Lovey Lee's den afore she bolted. Dinah heard a whisper of treasures there, too. Anyway us have got to go an' pull the place down an' let in light an' air, so as us can see if there be aught worth fetching."
Uncle Smallridge went his way speculating as to what was the next unpleasant surprise hidden for Malherb by the Lord of Hosts; while Putt, Woodman and Beer returned home. They collected their tools and set out soon afterwards with Mark Bickford for Hangman's Hollow.
The first result of his present experiences and position had been a development of astounding patience in Maurice Malherb. Patient, indeed, he was not in any real sense; but a self-control relatively wonderful marked his goings now. He waited for the inevitable. Every instinct called out to him to hasten it, yet he took no step. This personal attitude amazed him in secret. Sometimes even a gleam of hope touched his darkness, and the fact that no word had been heard of Lovey, and no report of her death had reached mankind, awoke a shadowy thought that she was not dead. But he knew right well that no human foot trod the desert south of Cater's Beam once in a year. The dead might there mingle with dust and never be discovered or recorded. He did nothing from day to day for thinking of his wife and daughter. They stood between him and open confession of the crime. Yet each week of delay galled him worse than the last. Memory kept such a vivid wakefulness as it only holds under conditions of remorse. His sin coloured his life, and the hues of it faded neither by day nor night. As the hideous incubus of a dream slowly crawls upon us, to fasten its fangs in our bosom, so this horror nightly destroyed sleep, and by day it rode abroad with him, ate with him, thought with him, thrust its shadow between him and the few things he still loved.
A thousand times his feet turned to Cater's Beam, a thousand times he chose rather to live on and cherish the pallid hope that his daughter and his wife were not for ever disgraced. For him the events of that appalling dawn were neither gyves nor ropes about his real nature. He had long since retraced all in spirit, probed his act to the core, and even taken the consequences of it. For no thought of self-destruction returned to him; but his women came between and held his hand, and, though they knew it not, played the first part in his hidden life, as they now stood openly for all that he still held dear.
Yet at last, by an indirect road, he consented to satisfy himself, and after countless petitions from Grace and from Annabel, he gave way and abandoned what, from their standpoint, was a senseless determination. His daughter finally prevailed with him.
"Lovey Lee fled to save her own life," declared Grace. "Perchance she never returned to her hiding-place at all. There, then, remain her treasures and the amphora that I saw with my own eyes. Surely it is worth the trouble of a search?"
"'Twould be fifteen thousand pounds at least to us. Your brother himself might purchase it," said Annabel.
"He at least never will," answered her husband. "Rather would I grind it under my heel. 'Brother'! 'Tis too noble a title for him. Norcot can offer to aid me in my extremity, yet he whose duty it should be, and whose privilege—does he come forward?"
"For the best of all reasons, dearest. You have not told him a word of your circumstances."
"'Told him'! Do such things want telling to a brother? He ought to feel it in his bones; he ought to dream that all is not well with me; he ought to breathe it in with the air. If he were in trouble, my blood would have beat it into my heart. Nevertheless, no farthing of his would I take to keep my wife and daughter from starving."
"Yet here's your own money as like as not hid within five miles," said Grace. "How I've longed to go! Once I rode in sight, and I never felt so tempted to break my word to you, dear father. But I was glad afterwards, for, looking back, I marked a man moving in the ruin. He saw me too and vanished."
The matter dropped then; yet, within a week Malherb resolved to permit a search. To him the enterprise must be a crucial test of matters more vital than the amphora. If it was there, then Lovey indeed had perished; if it was not there, then she lived. But the truth might still be buried in his own bosom. It was not necessary that others should know of it; and, in any case, the circumstances of his family must be ameliorated by recovery of the treasure. That fact alone he strove to keep before him; yet now, as he tramped over the Moor with his daughter, and saw wan sunlight all soaked in moisture, spread great fleeting vans along the way, he prayed very earnestly that his mission might fail.
Grace was silent and busy with her own thoughts. That Lovey Lee had long since escaped from Dartmoor and taken her treasure with her, the girl felt certain; but that John Lee might be using the cavern in Hangman's Hollow seemed likely enough. His escape was a nine days' wonder, and some persons, Sergeant Bradridge among the number, stoutly maintained that John must have been born to drown and had met his destiny. The sergeant was back at Prince Town; only Kekewich knew of Putt's successful proceedings; while, as for Peter Norcot, he took this further rebuff from fortune smiling, and absented himself from Fox Tor Farm for a considerable time. For the present he was reported to be very diligent about his own affairs.
"You dream," said Malherb. "Twice I have spoken and received no answer, Grace."
"I did dream—of the blessedness of finding this treasure; yet I am sure 'tis too late to hope."
Her father sighed.
"Who can tell?" he said.
Only the carrion crows, that croaked aloft out of the morning air and flapped their sooty wings towards Cater's Beam, knew the truth. Often with his eyes he followed them out of sight; with his mind's eye he saw what they saw; and that was never out of sight.
Presently the labourers drew up in Hangman's Hollow and stood amazed at the secret which Grace revealed to them. From the top, Beer and Woodman set to work; and Putt and Bickford attacked the place beneath. They cut away the masses of briar and undergrowth that bound the foundations of the old blowing-house, forced a hole in the wall, and made entry from that point. Malherb also toiled and wearied his body with great feats of strength to distract his mind.
"If us should catch the old cat-a-mountain now!" said Woodman. "My stars, she'd scratch our faces to the bone, I lay!"
But the treasure house was empty. They let in light from every side, and after two hours' hard work had dismantled the den. Sweet air searched its dark corners; day illuminated its secrets.
Malherb's heart fell as Grace pointed to two great boxes of plate and jewels; but it rose with a bound, for they proved to be empty. Where Lovey's money-bags had stood and leered at Grace out of the darkness, like a row of little pot-bellied fiends roosting there, they found nothing. The ledges were bare. Malherb made no attempt to conceal his exultation. Dissimulation was impossible before his growing hope. He toiled like a giant, tore his clothes and smothered himself in dust and dirt.
"Not a watch—not a coin—not a teaspoon!" he shouted. "All gone—everything. But don't give up yet; seek and seek; make very sure. Tear every stone from another; break every stone in half. Dig up the floors; sound the nooks and crannies. Let no shadow of doubt remain!"
The men spoke under their breath to one another.
"He'm going daft, or I am," said Putt. "The less we find, the better he likes it!"
"'Tis his troubles have turned his head," answered Beer. "I've knowed it happen so. Look at him—all in a muck o' sweat like a common man."
Woodman, as he ripped up the floor, discovered a hole by Lovey's stone altar.
"See here, your honour; I be much feared something's been took out of this place. 'Tis lined wi' stone an' the cover lies beside it. But 'tis empty."
Maurice Malherb smiled and approached eagerly.
"Yes, yes; even here might she have hidden her treasure—not a doubt of it—not a doubt. Say!" he continued to Bickford, who stood nearest to him, "don't stand like a clown carved in wood. Speak. Tell me—is it not clear something has been lifted up from here and carried off?"
"Clear enough," answered the man in a surly voice. "Us was only wondering, begging your honour's pardon, why for you was so mighty pleased to find your trouble wasted."
"Then take yourself and your insolent wonder from Fox Tor Farm to-morrow at daybreak!" cried Malherb. The old flash was in his eyes, the old deep thunder in his voice.
"Jimmery! he'm coming back to hisself!" murmured Putt.
Then Malherb spoke again.
"Wonder as you will. What are your thoughts to me? Work—work on—all of you, and keep your wonder to yourselves."
His daughter, like the rest, felt upon the brink of mystery, yet doubted not but that her father would presently explain. She was bitterly disappointed yet not surprised.
At last Malherb flung down a pick and mopped his forehead.
"'Tis done—to the last corner!" he cried. "And what have we found?"
"A dead dog, some old rotten boxes, some-candle-ends and some crustes, your honour," said Mr. Beer.
"So be it. I thank God—before you all I thank God! And let each man remember this day!"
He pulled off two heavy signet rings, the only adornments that he wore, gave one to Beer and the other to Harvey Woodman.
"Keep them for a sign of your fruitless labour. And you men, come to me to-morrow: I've a guinea for each of you. Remember, all, that I'm your best friend for evermore. I'll never forget one of ye! You stare, you good, worthy clods—well, stare and wonder. It is your part to do so. Know at least that my heart is light."
He turned, drew on his coat, then gave his daughter his arm. He seemed to have shaken off a weight of years with his hard work. His step was elastic, his head was thrown back.
"I cannot say that I am sorry any more when I see your joy, dear father. Yet, like the men, I wonder too. But I will not ask you why you are glad to have lost your treasure, or I may get answered as Bickford was."
"The rascal had an impudent tone in his voice, though I'll swear he meant no offence. But for you, indeed, do not ask, my little maid. 'Tis enough that what looks evil news is not so. This day, as the wrecked sailor, who, from his perilous spar floating on ocean, sees suddenly a great ship at hand, and finds salvation even in the grave of his hopes, even so am I. I—I have been through dark waters—I have suffered to the very last hiding-places of the heart. My life turned upon me and rent me. My wrath roused up such a devil as I knew not man could harbour. God hid His face and I was lost in the darkness. But now—now my cup is full. He has spared me; He has lifted my load. I must commune with Him. I cannot talk to mankind until I have praised the name of the Lord. With David I could dance before Him, because He has made my heart whole again and lifted my head in my own sight."
"Then will I bless God too, dear father. Indeed, your face says more to me than your words. You are grown young. There is even laughter in your eyes again."
He held her hand and pressed it.
"Money's not everything—how well I know that," she said. "'Tis nothing—less than nothing—glorified mould—scum—a dirty mantle on the deep water of life—the poisonous berries we children clutch at. I hate it. I scorn it. The gilded moss in that hole there—the moss that will grow black and die in the glare of day—that is money. Let in light and we see it as it is."
"You never cared for money."
"And now less than before. A man might live in that den we've just torn down, and live happy, too, if he'd escaped from such dreams as have of late tormented me. This hour, with my own hands, would I build up a hut of stone and shaggy heath and dwell therein for ever rather than go back to yesterday. But yesterday is past, and to-morrow I shall make holiday and hold a revel that all must share if they still want my friendship."
"You are your dear self again!"
"What is myself? What am I? I have been a storm-cloud drifting over men's heads to burst in unseasonable hail. Now will I be a sun to shine upon men's hearts and warm 'em. Oh, I have learnt wisdom in a dreadful book; but leave that. Talk about her—the old woman—so tough and so terrible in her ways. She's far enough off now—in France, I'll wager."
"Indeed, she may be. I hope rather that poor John Lee is safe. He haunted me to-day. It seemed so possible that he might have chosen this place. Why, father, father! what has happened? Forgive me; I should not have named him."
She stopped, for Malherb suddenly stood still and stared up into the sky. The gladness fell away from his face like sunlight suddenly shadowed. He struck one fist thrice into his open palm, then dropped his hands again.
"Forgive me—I have hurt you cruelly," cried the girl. "I had thought you quite pardoned John Lee."
"Yes," he said gently; "I had pardoned him and I had forgot him too. Poor fool of one thought that I am! He knew—he knew this secret place and the wealth stored in it! 'Tis possible—nay, certain—that he rifled all. Who would blame him? 'Twas he whom you saw from far off in the ruins."
"Never! Had he found the amphora—— Is he not a Malherb himself?"
"Hold your peace," her father answered, in a voice grown harsh again. "That man has all, and who shall blame him? He may well hold it his dead father's portion. I, that thought I had awakened, only dreamed. Things are as they were."
"Oh, if I could understand! If I could help you in this suffering that you hide from us!"
"It is impossible. A dream, I say. Things are as they were."
He turned to her and she heard his voice sink down into a dreary lifeless monotone.
"The ship has passed by; but no man has seen the struggling wretch in the water or heard him shout."
"Come home," she said. "This suffering will kill you. If you would but let those who love you—— A great grief, though nothing shared by three, may break the heart of one."
Next morning Putt and Bickford approached their master in the farmyard and ventured to remind him of his promise. He had forgotten it, and now turned upon them and cursed them for a pair of greedy fools.
"Guineas—guineas! What have you to do with them? Madmen! If you only knew. There—take them, and get out of my sight. You can grin still. Gather enough of that and you'll grin no more!"
He dashed down the money at their feet and turned his back upon them.
Mr. Norcot invited himself to Fox Tor Farm for Christmas, but Maurice Malherb begged him to change his mind. Peter's generous offer of a loan had not been accepted; but he knew that Fox Tor Farm was now mortgaged to meet Malherb's demands.
Within the home circle a great difference of opinion obtained, yet it was impossible to argue the matter out, because it referred to Lovey Lee. Grace felt positive that the miser had returned to her hiding-place; the master expressed an opinion equally strong that John Lee had abstracted the fortune and hastened with it for safety to the Continent. His reasons he would not give; but that made no uncommon difficulty, for he was not used to offer reasons. His daughter marvelled at his obstinacy, for her heart well knew that John was incapable of such an act. He understood the significance of the amphora, and would have gloried to restore it at any personal risk. The matter slowly ceased to be a subject of conversation, not that Malherb forbade it, for he longed to discuss the possibility, and welcomed any shadow of hope; but now rumours of peace had grown into a promise. It seemed to Grace Malherb as though her ambitions for John Lee and Cecil Stark were to be realised; because while peace with America was soon to be declared, Bonaparte had left Elba, and Europe awakened from her brief respite.
Malherb sank into a settled but a gentle melancholy. Gloom folded him like a garment; yet he was kindly and even considerate to all. He ceased to hunt, a circumstance that brought more tears to his wife's eyes than any other, for she appreciated its full force. A thousand times he had dreaded the day when his passion for sport could be gratified no more. She had heard him desire to die before infirmity should keep him from riding to hounds. Now he abandoned his delight without a murmur; at a wrench he tore twenty years out of his book of life and performed the operation with indifference. In secret he marvelled at himself and at the tremendous operations of chance that could thus alter the whole ingrained tenour and bent of his existence.
Christmas came, and Grace with her mother rode to worship at Holne. Harvey Woodman was responsible for Annabel's safety, since she sat on a pillion behind him; while Grace rode 'Cæsar.'
"Peace comes to us through every sense," said Mrs. Malherb as they returned homeward. "It is in the air to feel, on men's tongues to hear, in their eyes to see. 'Peace on earth,' too, I pray. Peace everywhere, but——"
She broke off with a sigh. To speak further was not possible before Mr. Woodman. But now Harvey made a diversion. They were at the top of Ter Hill, half a mile distant from home, when his keen eyes caught sight of a small black object afar off on the Moor. He watched a while, then spoke.
"If there ban't that baggering sow as got out a week ago an' master thought was stolen! 'Tis her for sartain."
The wandering beast was a distinguished matron, and her loss had caused annoyance.
"How glad the master will be!" cried Mrs. Malherb. "Don't lose sight of her on any account, Woodman. Indeed, you will do well to follow her at once. I can easily walk home from here."
She alighted, and Harvey galloped off to secure the pig.
"Send Bickford or one of 'em after me!" he shouted back to the ladies.
The day was fine and the Moor dry and frozen, but Bickford grumbled not a little at his duty, for the Christmas dinner only waited to be eaten when Mrs. Malherb and her daughter returned. The servants' hall was full of grateful savours; the peat blazed in a pure, still heart of red-hot fire under a purple corona of flame; the walls were decked with holly and fir; it was a scene painful to leave. But the labourer soon returned, for he had not gone far when he met Harvey riding homeward at a great pace.
"Where's the pig to?" he asked.
"'Twas no pig at all, but a message from Heaven," gasped Mr. Woodman.
"If I didn't know, I should say you was drunk," answered Bickford; "but you wouldn't have dared get in liquor, having to ride back with missis. Be you mazed or pixy-led in daylight?"
"Mazed I be—to think—but five mile from our very doors—that awful—my flesh be creaming to my bones with the sight, an' my scalp's crawling down my back."
"You've catched the small-pox, I reckon. I'd best walk to windward of 'e."
"I can say nought till I stand afore the company. Then I'll properly terrify the whole pack of 'e."
As they entered the servants' hall Maurice Malherb was already standing over a great sirloin at one end of the table, while Mr. Beer carved two turkeys at the other. Threads of holly berries glittered against the shining green. There was a smell of gravy and evergreens in the air, and bright sunshine poured through the windows. On Christmas Day the family dined with their men and women, for it was an old custom of the Malherbs to do so.
Now appeared Harvey Woodman, and conscious that perhaps the greatest moment of his life had come, he determined to make the most of it.
"For the love of charity a drop of brandy, souls!" he cried. "Oh, your honour's goodness—such a shock as I've had—such a thing! I failed away in my middle when I seed it an' nigh dropped off the hoss."
"Fegs!" said Bickford, "when I comed to un, the man looked as if he'd been drawed through a brimble hedge backwards!"
Mrs. Woodman rushed to her husband's side, and Malherb, putting down the carvers, also approached.
"Speak," he said. "What has happened? Are you ill?"
"The pig, the pig, your honour. To the Beam her went—straight as any Christian; an' me after her. Then, far beyond, in they gashly bogs where the Jacky-twoads dance on moony summer nights, I seed the horridest sight ever these eyes rested on. I knowed there was a dead thing there very soon, an' thought 'twas a pony. But when I comed nearer—there—let me have another drink—my inward organs turn to vinegar when I think upon it."
"Speak on," said Malherb. He stood before Mr. Woodman with his eyes fixed upon him.
"First I seed a great patch of rotted turf; for a dead body decays the grass under it, your honour; then I seed a litter of bones lying on the stones around about, where the crows an' buzzards had carried 'em for cleaner picking; an' then—lor-amercy! a human face-bone staring at me with hollow eyes an' grinning like Death! I plucked up courage, however, an' got off my hoss an' went up to the rames of the poor soul. An' next thing I knowed was that I'd found out the secret of that old mullygrubs, Lovey Lee! To hell the old vixen went; not to France as was thoughted, for there was an awful crack in her skull upon the brow. All rags an' bones she was; an' I seed her old petticoat made of stolen sacks, an' her sun-bonnet, catched in a thorn bush an' black wi' blood yet; an' the long white hair of her shed round about in locks hither an' thither, like the cotton grass that waves on the bogs. Let me drink, for the picture of that unholy masterpiece do cleave to my brain like moss to a rock."
A great hum of excitement followed upon this news. Then Malherb spoke.
"Let us eat our dinner with what appetite we may," he said, in a dull and hollow voice. "Forget what we have heard until to-morrow. Then we will go with a sledge and a pair of oxen and gather up her dust and coffin it."
"Don't let the old varmint lie beside that American gentleman, your honour's goodness," said Dinah Beer; "for 'twould be an unseemly thing that such evil earth should rise, come Judgment, so near his clay."
Malherb stared round the table and spoke again in the heavy accents of one who talks in sleep.
"She shall lie at Widecombe in holy ground; and when we bury her I will tell you something concerning her."
They supposed that he spoke of Lovey Lee's rumoured treasures. Then the meal began, but no joy accompanied it. The men whispered, and Woodman repeated his story again and again, adding some particulars with each recital.
The banquet had turned into a funeral feast, whereat nobody loved the dead. This tragedy, indeed, added a zest to their food; they could not leave the subject, but returned to it between every mouthful. Then, like thunder upon their whisperings and excited speculations, burst the master's voice.
"Have done, ghouls! Cease to speak of this matter any more. Do you not remember that the house honours your board to-day? Sweeten your speech, I pray you."
Everybody lapsed into uneasy silence and soon afterwards Malherb, his wife and daughter, rose and left the company.
Then the voices broke loose and this rare business was turned and twisted and tasted by many tongues.
That night Maurice Malherb told his wife the thing he had done; and she thrust her meek disposition behind her and derided the crime as nothing, even while her teeth chattered with terror to hear him tell it.
"We are the ministers of God," she said. "To you fell this dreadful duty. It is well, because you had to do it. Forget it—pray God to let you forget it. None else must know but your wife."
"The sin—the sin. You are blind to that, or pretend to be. Heaven forces no man into sin. To say so is to deny free will. I have ever been on the side of freedom."
"She was doomed to die."
"Her death was the hangman's work—not mine. Murder! A Malherb a common murderer."
"Sins are forgiven before they are committed. The Lord was born and died to forgive this deed."
"Vain comfort. What is forgiveness to me? 'Tis a bribe for women and children. Can it make a reasonable man easy? God may forgive me; can I forgive myself? There lies the poison of evil-doing. This awful climax to my life of wrath has brought about such a thing as—— The Everlasting cannot give me yesterday, or bridle the sun and lead it back into the East. The thing done—the thing done—what will banish that? It lies frozen in Time for all eternity. God's own voice is vain to heal; His own hand powerless to take this sword from my heart—the sword I have planted there myself. The thing done. Yesterday! yesterday! That's the prayer that such as I am pray, and know, even while we pray, that it is in vain. She was a woman with hidden good in her, because she was human and made in the image of God; and when we put those ashes under the earth—I shall tell all that stand beside the pit that 'twas I slew her."
"You never shall!" she cried, leaping from her bed and striking flint on steel. "I have not thwarted your life until this night. I have yielded to every wish, trusted your wisdom in all things, never rebelled even in unspoken thoughts—questioned nothing. But upon this I'll speak, and struggle, and weary the air, and weep till I madden you into sense. I've done your will for near five-and-twenty years; and please God will do it for five-and-twenty more; but to-night, I'm a maiden again—a maid of the Carews; and you shall obey me, as you obeyed when you came a-courting."
"Hide that light and come to bed. You will be cold. I have spoken. At least let there be peace between us."
"There shall be no peace. You forget that you have a wife and a daughter."
"'Tis the part of sin to make us egoists—as all suffering does. And 'tis the part of sin not to stop at the sinner. God grants that interest on wickedness to the devil: that the ill deed done should strike more than he who does it."
But his wife poured out a flood of alternate entreaties and commands; and he marvelled even in that hour that the helpmate of many years had hidden so much from him.
"There is a greatness of purpose in you that I had not guessed," he said. "Maybe no man knows all of his wife until he comes before her a master sinner as I do now. She smiles on his fair hour, content to see him happy; but with storm—— It is my glory in this agony to know—— And yet no woman was ever born to lead me. To bury the dead without confession would be to act a lie. She shall have her rights and her revenge."
"We are not bound to trumpet our sins. And the rights of the dead are in the hand of the Lord. If it is His will that you suffer more than you have suffered, it will happen so. By making this unhappy thing known, you throw all into disorder, and strew many paths with difficult problems."
"What then? Difficulty is the road that every man walks."
Until dawn of day they spoke together; and then Maurice Malherb fell asleep and his wife, fancying that she had conquered, crept out of bed and knelt and thanked God for victory.
Yet her husband's waking words shattered Annabel's hope.
"I'm fixed and bate no jot of my intention," he said. "All shall know the thing I have done. I clung to the shadow of doubt like a coward. Now there is not even a shadow of doubt to cling to. Come what may to me, I'll speak. And for you—you who have shown what courage lies in you at a bad cause, now let it be your part to support a good one."
For Cecil Stark a matter greater far than his own failure and the treachery that had ruined the tunnel plot centred in thoughts of John Lee and the price that he must pay. Much the American suffered before news reached him in his solitary confinement, through a friendly turnkey who knew Tom Putt. And then the prisoner heard that Grace Malherb was safe at home, and John Lee had either escaped or been drowned in attempting to do so.
As for the prisoners, like the sea after a storm, their passions slowly stilled. Once only did they break into active rage, when, upon the release of their leaders, David Leverett did not return, and a soldier confessed that he had betrayed them for two hundred pounds. Then the plot and its failure were dismissed before rumours of peace. At first these woke and died again, yet gradually a greater degree of truth characterised them, and all men felt the music of freedom and of home playing at their hearts.
But in Prince Town was witnessed the spectacle of a worthy gentleman struggling with a task somewhat beyond his strength. As Commandant of a War Prison, wherein were nearly six thousand souls, now grown turbulent and reckless at rumours of approaching liberation, Captain Short found himself involved in countless difficulties.
After the discovery and defeat of their plot, the mass of prisoners was removed and confined in Nos. 1 and 3; while, by way of comprehensive punishment for their attempt, every man was docked of one-third of his allowance for the space of ten days. Grave friction resulted from this measure, and Short's officers went in secret fear of a rising. To check the possibility of such a disaster, he adopted stringent methods, and continual strife between the turnkeys and prisoners was the result. Both sides displayed passion, and many a sentry, for some disrespectful word concerning Congress or the President of the United States, had his head broken.
With the severe mid-winter weather, increased sickness fell upon the War Prison, and the most popular man at Prince Town in these days was Doctor Magrath, a surgeon whose humanity, energy and skill made him the personal friend of every sufferer. He struck up an acquaintance with Cecil Stark, and, at the doctor's advice, the young American henceforth eschewed prison politics and threw all his weight upon the side of law, order and patience.
A partial exchange of prisoners had wakened general hopes, but when it was found that nothing more in that sort would be done, the Americans vented their annoyance by playing a thousand pranks upon authority. On one occasion a man was seen ostentatiously escaping out of a window by moonlight. When challenged he refused to answer and continued to descend a rope. The guard at Short's own order fired, rushed in as the figure fell heavily to the earth, and found a dummy. Unfortunately, such jests bred an evil temper, and once when certain soldiers discovered a candle burning by night and ordered its extinction, they fired a volley through the windows almost before it had been possible to comply with their demand. By a miracle no harm was done, but every prisoner knew next day how the watch had fired upon sleeping men, and the soldiery justly suffered under the lash of a thousand tongues.
William Burnham it was who suspected that the outbursts of severity probably marked British reverses at sea; and the thing became a jest, so that whenever a hard word was spoken, or a harsh punishment ordered, the Americans shouted together and cheered their country's successes.
Burnham, indeed, had come into distinction of late days. Despite the advice of Stark and others, who now preached patience and obedience while all waited for peace, Burnham, ever jealous of his old messmate, and glad to find himself a leader of men, stayed not to consider the manner of men he led, but stood for a factious and unruly multitude, and promised to support their fancied rights. Ira Anson joined this party also and to him as much as Burnham belonged the discredit of various ill-timed and vicious commotions. Their conduct maddened Short, and finally they led him into tribulation and themselves paid the penalty.
With the end of the year came a persistent rumour that the crew of theMarbleheadwas about to be exchanged, but this hoped-for circumstance did not happen, and William Burnham, with his faction, grew more desperate and more unwise. Unfortunately, they numbered secret friends among the soldiers and non-commissioned officers at the Prison, for not a few of the baser sort were disaffected against their own superiors, and at least pretended sympathy with the Americans. On the other side laboured many more sensible men, and while each heart throbbed for the news so long withheld, law and order were re-established, and the schools, arranged for the young and ignorant, were opened again. For two years these institutions had done valuable work; it was only after the failure of the great plot to burrow out of the Prison that they became neglected.
There fell a memorable day at the year's end when news reached Prince Town that the Commissioners at Ghent had signed the Treaty of peace and that the sloop-of-war,Favourite, would sail immediately with the document to the United States. This occasion was seized for widespread rejoicings within the Prison, and Captain Short felt as thankful at heart as any of his charges. But while the day of thanksgiving drew to its close, the tumult in the prisons drew deafening; great masses of men stampeded from yard to yard; a mad spirit animated reckless thousands; the air grew heavily charged with human passion; and danger threatened in many shapes.
Burnham's party had obtained a quantity of gunpowder unknown to their guards, and with this they manufactured bombs which exploded with reports like cannon. Alarming rumours followed these discharges; some said efforts were being made to blow down the walls; many junior officers approached Commandant Short with fear upon their faces.