“Old Harry TrewinHad no breeches to wear,So he stole a ram’s skinTo make him a pair.The skinny side outAnd the woolly side in,And thus he doth go—old Harry Trewin!”
“Old Harry TrewinHad no breeches to wear,So he stole a ram’s skinTo make him a pair.The skinny side outAnd the woolly side in,And thus he doth go—old Harry Trewin!”
“Old Harry TrewinHad no breeches to wear,So he stole a ram’s skinTo make him a pair.The skinny side outAnd the woolly side in,And thus he doth go—old Harry Trewin!”
“Old Harry Trewin
Had no breeches to wear,
So he stole a ram’s skin
To make him a pair.
The skinny side out
And the woolly side in,
And thus he doth go—old Harry Trewin!”
“There’s a proper song for ’e!” said Bartley. “When you can turn a verse like that, you may call yourself a clever chap, John Beer.”
“The rhyme’s nought—’tis the tune,” retorted Beer. “The verse be very vulgar, and so’s the subject. You don’t understand these things, as how should a policeman? TakeWidecombe Faireven. ’Tis the tune of thicky that folks like. Never was foolisher verses.”
A little figure crossed the inn yard, and Sim leapt up. “Obi” followed, carrying certainparcels that the footman had brought with him. Matthew Sweetland stared at the tall, retreating figure in its long strangely-cut coat.
“The very cut of his shoulders,” he said; but nobody was listening to him.
In the yard Sim saw Minnie waiting for him. She wore black.
“I’m quite ready, Mrs Sweetland, if you are,” he said. Then he took off his hat to her.
Minnie nodded.
“I have come to see Mr Parkinson. It’s just time. Is that the poor negro that Mister Henry has brought home with him?”
“Yes. A fine fellow for all his afflictions.”
The widow stared fixedly at “Obi.” The black man drew in his breath and endured the ordeal. But he did not face her and grin. He turned his eyes away. He believed that if his hands had not been full of parcels, they must have gone round her.
“He is deaf and dumb, poor creature,” said Titus.
“Is Mister Henry going to keep him?”
“Yes.”
“Won’t he be cold in the winter? To think—to think! His eyes have seen all the things that my Daniel wrote about! He may have seen Dan’s dear self!”
The parcels fell; but “Obi” only stoopedquickly and picked them up again. He remembered in time the appalling fright that his black paws would bring to Minnie if they closed suddenly around her. He turned and went his way, then, looking round, he was in time to see Titus offer his arm to Minnie Sweetland and to mark that she refused it.
The black man winked great tears out of his eyes. He had not cried since he was a child.
“My own li’l, dear, dinky wife! The shape of her—the lovely voice of her! ‘Won’t he be cold in the winter?’ She axed that. ‘No, by God, he won’t!’ I had ’pon the tip of my tongue to tell her. But ’tis lucky I held it in, for it might have spoilt all.”
Deep in thought, Daniel returned to Middlecott Court. At the lodge gates he stood a moment, and stared up at the metal Diana with the bullet-hole under her breast. Once he had thought her a remarkable curiosity. Now, since his eyes had seen some of the world’s wonders, she seemed a poor thing upon her lofty pedestal. Somebody moved at the lodge gate and he knew that it was his mother. Instinctively he turned his head away and hurried forward.
There are no more profound disguises than a silent tongue and a black face. Even Titus Sim had not the least suspicion that Sweetlandnow lived at his elbow and listened to his every utterance. But Sim’s subtle genius never deserted him. No man had heard him say one unkind word of Daniel; many had listened to his fierce reproofs when others ventured to criticise the vanished man. Perfectly he played his part, and Daniel often warmed to the friend who could thus defend him and fight for his good name, even though, with the rest of the world, he supposed that his old comrade was dead and buried deep in the blue waters of the Caribbean.
Rix Parkinson had been a handsome man, but now disease and the shadow of death were upon his countenance; he had long sunk into a chronic crapulence, and only his eyes, that shone from a wasted and besotted face, retained some natural beauty. He was dying, but vitality still flashed up in him, and no physician could with certainty predict whether a week or a month might remain to him. Parkinson’s home adjoined that wherein young Samuel Prowse lived with his mother; and this woman it was who of her charity ministered to the sufferer, and carried out the doctor’s orders.
“Blood is thicker than water,” said a neighbour. “Why for don’t the man’s relations come to him?”
But Mrs Prowse shook her head. “An’ Christianity’s thicker than blood,” she answered. “As for the poor soul’s relations—why ’tis surely given to the Christian to scrape kinship with all the sick an’ the sorrowing? ’Tis our glory and our duty to do it.”
This good woman knew Minnie Sweetlandwell, and had known her since her childhood. Now she opened the door of Parkinson’s cottage to the widow and Titus Sim.
“He’m ready and waiting,” said Mrs Prowse. “He’ve just awoke from a long sleep, an’ be strong as a lion for the minute, and out of pain seemingly. Come in an’ let him say what he will to you while strength’s with him.”
They followed her into the sick room, where Rix Parkinson sat up in bed with a blue shawl wrapped round him. At his elbow was a table with bottles and a Bible upon it.
“You be come? Well, I’m glad of it. I won’t waste words, for my wind grows scanty. Sit here, young woman, please; an’ you leave us, mother. But don’t go far. I don’t like to see you out of my eyes so long as they be open.”
Mrs Prowse smiled at him and departed. Sim sat on one side of the sick man and Minnie took her place upon the other.
For a moment he was silent, breathing slowly and looking up at the ceiling. Then he spoke.
“They’ve given me the credit for a lot of night work in the free trade way with hares and pheasants as I didn’t do; but, against that, nobody’s never blamed me for a lot of things as I did do. For instance, the business of Adam Thorpe—there was only one name evercropped up in that—your husband’s. I seed him took away after you was married; and I laughed and said in the open street, ‘Lucky’s the he that gets that she!’ Meaning you, young woman. But God’s my judge, if it had gone further I should have told what I know about it. ’Tis only them as be careful of their skins that come to harm in the world. If you don’t care a curse what happens to you, the devil makes you his own care. Two men was in the row when Adam Thorpe got his last dose, and I was one of ’em. T’other be going strong still, but he don’t come into this story; and his name ban’t Daniel Sweetland; an’ it wasn’t him as shot Adam Thorpe. I done it. I didn’t go out to do it; but ’twas him or me as it chanced. I had to stop him, or he’d have stopped me. He bested me once afore—long ago—an’ I wasn’t going to let him do it again. So I shot him and fired low, hoping to stop him without killing him. But his time had come. So much for that. I went my way and made little doubt but the police would smell out the truth, for I’d done nought to hide it. But I heard nothing until next morning. Then there comed the news that Thorpe was dead, and that Dan Sweetland’s new gun had been found alongside the place where he was shot. That interested me, and I began to wonderwhat my pal had been up to. There was no chance to ax him just then. ’Twas his affair, anyway, not mine. And then I began to take a new interest in my life and find out what a damned fine thing it was to be alive and free. They nabbed Sweetland and I watched ’em do it. If it had come to hanging, I’d have given myself up for him; but instead of that, he gived ’em the slip. And the rest you know. Now he’s dead, they tell me, and, as I shall be after him afore the corn’s ripe, I want to clear his memory for evermore. He had no hand in that job, and, so far as I know, wasn’t within miles of the place. The matter of the gun be on my pal’s shoulders. He denied it when I taxed him. But right well I know that he put it there for his own ends. I’ll say no more about that. But God in Heaven can witness that I’d never have let ’em hang Daniel. My pal and me had one or two other little affairs afterwards, as we’d had many before; then my health gived way, an’ now I’m rotting alive and sha’n’t be sorry to go. Ax any questions you like. Mr Sim here will testify to what I’ve told you. I’ll swear afore my Judge that every word be true. As to Thorpe, I didn’t go that night to kill him; but if there was a man I should have liked to settle with, ’twas him. I slept no worse for it. If your husbandhad lived an’ got penal servitude, ’twas my intention to tell you the truth on my deathbed, as I have now; but not otherwise—unless they’d given him the rope. Then I’d have confessed an’ took it. That’s the living truth. He’s died afore me, after all; but now that you know how ’twas, his memory’s clear, and you can tell the world all about it so soon as I be gone.”
There was a silence; then Parkinson spoke again.
“I’m not hopeful to see Dan upalong; for ’twould be awful ’dashus for the like of me wi’ my sporting career, to count on Heaven; but I’ve done what I can to atone. Any way, if I do come up with Daniel Sweetland—whether ’tis the good place or the bad—this I’ll tell him: that his memory be clear an’ that ’tis known to Moreton he was guiltless. ’Twill be a comfort to the man, I should think—wherever he bides.”
A wonderful look rested on the face of Minnie Sweetland. For a moment pure thankfulness filled her soul; then there came gratitude into it. To dwell upon the past was vain; to ask this perishing wretch why he had kept silence when her husband was taken from her; to wring her hands or weep for the woful past—these things at any time were deeds foreign tothe woman’s nature. Her mind was practical. It had in it now no room for more than thankfulness and gratitude. She uttered a wordless and silent prayer—a thanksgiving that flashed through her heart in a throb; then she turned to the penitent and took his hand between hers.
“May a merciful Lord be good to you for this,” she said gently. “May you rest easier and die easier for knowing that you’ve righted my innocent husband’s memory and lifted darkness from the heads of his father and his mother. And mine—mine! You told me nought I didn’t know in my heart, for from his own lips ’twas spoken to me that he’d not done it or dreamed of it; but now the world can know. Nought will be hidden any more. All living men, as have ever heard my Daniel’s name, shall hear ’tis an honourable name—a name that I’ll go down to my grave proud of. ’Twill make my life easier to live—easier to bear; ’twill sweeten it till my own short years be run an’ I go back to him for ever.”
Titus Sim listened and said nothing; but he felt the scene sharply. His brows were down-drawn and her words made him suffer.
At last, with an effort, he spoke to Parkinson.
“We must leave you now. Your strength has been taxed enough. This is a good day for all of us—a day to make man trust surer inhis God and in the power of right. Say no more of this to any soul, Rix Parkinson. You’ve done your duty, and ’twill weigh for you in Heaven and lift you up at the end.”
“You’ll let me die in peace?” asked the sick man. But he spoke to Minnie: from the first moment of their entry he turned to her, and only her.
“Be sure of that. What avails to trouble your last hours now? Nothing shall be said till you’re asleep.”
“Don’t be gentle to me—ban’t in human nature. I don’t ax that. I don’t ax you to forgive or to forget what an everlasting rascal I’ve been.”
“I do forgive you,” she said.
“Why, then Dan will; an’ God will! Be He behind His own men and women in love an’ kindness? Now I can die laughing. To think ’twas in human power of a wife to forgive me!”
“Come,” said Sim. “We will leave him now.”
Titus rose and turned to get his hat. He was only removed from them a moment, but in that space the sufferer beckoned Minnie with his eyes and she leant her head towards him.
“Don’t marry that man!” he whisperedunder his breath; then continued aloud, to mask his message, “Good-bye—say, ‘good-bye’ to a sinner, who yet can go fearless now—ay, an’ thankful too. Fearless an’ thankful, because you could forgive him. ’Tis your goodness, widow Sweetland, that has lifted me to trust the goodness of God; ’tis your pardon hath made me trust in His. I’ll go to my punishment without flinching or fearing, for I know He’ll forgive me at the end.”
Mrs Prowse entered with food for the sick man, and Minnie and Sim took their eternal leave of him.
Within half an hour Parkinson was again sleeping peacefully, and while Titus ran home without stopping, for he was late, Minnie walked slowly to the Moor. Her sad face shone with this blessed news. She longed to cry from the housetops; she thirsted to tell each passer-by that her husband was innocent of the evil linked with his name. She thought of his mother first and then his father; she even felt more tenderly towards Titus Sim for the deep joy he had expressed on hearing the truth; but presently the living faded from her memory and she was in thought alone with her husband. At Bennett’s Cross, hard by Warren Inn, an impulse moved her from the lonely road to the lonely stone. And she passed over the heath and knelt bythe ancient granite carved into the symbol of her faith. She knelt and prayed and so passed on, much uplifted by the blessing of the day. She moved forward thankful, grateful for this unutterable good, strong to endure her life without him, fortified to face an existence which, like the faded yet lovely passage of an Indian Summer, should not lack for some subdued goodness, should not be void of beauty and content. The power to do good remained with her; she repined no more; her native bravery rose in her heart. She looked out fearless and patient upon the loneliness to come, and in that survey she intended that a memory would be her beacon, not a man. The dying drunkard need have felt no fear for Daniel’s widow. It was not in her nature to marry again.
The accident of illness prevented Henry Vivian from visiting Minnie in her home, as he intended. A bad chill struck him down soon after returning home, and for some days there was a fear that the evil would touch his lungs and become serious. Dan nursed him. He ran no small risk of detection, but escaped for three days. Then his master gained strength, and, since he could not visit Mrs Sweetland, his first act was to write to her and entrust the letter to her husband.
Daniel duly posted it and the man whose duty it was to deliver the note at Hangman’s Hut left it with Mr Beer at the Warren Inn.
Johnny put it aside until his wife should presently visit Minnie; but it happened that the note was overlooked until evening. Then, after nine o’clock, Titus Sim called upon his way to Mrs Sweetland, and he, after all, was the bearer of the great communication which told Dan’s wife that she was not a widow.
Events now rushed upon each other withsuch speed that to tell the story of them in exact sequence becomes difficult. For the present we are concerned with the meeting between Sim and the woman he desired to marry.
At another time Sim would have inspected the letter that he carried and, perhaps, noting that it came from Henry Vivian, whose hand he well knew, the footman, in obedience to his instincts, might have mastered the contents before delivering it. But Sim was full of his own affairs to-night. They had reached a climax. Much hung upon the next few hours, and his own devious career was destined to culminate before another sun rose. A great enterprise awaited him, and upon it he now prepared to embark.
Minnie sat alone beside her lamp, and the man approached her with his face full of news. Something in the way that he touched her hand told her of what was coming.
“Rix Parkinson is dead!” she cried.
“He is, Minnie; but how did you know that?”
She marked his use of her Christian name. It savoured of a sort of insolent right, and she resented it with a look, but not in words. Then she replied to his question.
“I knew it the moment that you came in,Mr Sim. Your face told me. He has not left us long to wait, poor fellow.”
“He went easily.”
“We must wait until the earth closes over him, then my Dan—”
“There is one thing first.”
He put his hand into his pocket and felt the letter.
“I had forgotten. Beer gave me this for you. But first listen to me. You can read when I have gone.”
“Speak,” she said, and put the letter on the mantel-shelf.
“I’ve said it once before, but you had no ears then, for your eyes were full of that terrible news from the West Indies. By some sad trick Providence willed that I should actually be asking you to marry me at the moment when you saw the fact of your husband’s death staring at you in print. Of course I said no more then. But now ’tis different. Now you know that poor Dan is at rest and is happy. Now you know he was innocent of that awful charge. Your soul is at peace too. You and I have the power to clear his name in the sight of the world. That is as good as done. Only days remain. And afterwards, Minnie? I have a right to ask that question now. Have I not earned my reward?God knows I’ve waited patiently enough. I’ve been loyal to you and to him. I’ve proved my friendship; and if I’d had to put down my life to clear Dan’s name I’d have done it. What follows? You know what I mean. I’ve waited long enough. I’ve been patient.”
“You want me to marry you?”
“You must; you shall. I’m only flesh and blood—not stone. I’ve waited at a cost to myself none knows. I’ve endured untold torments. My passion for you has shortened my days. To hide those burning fires was a task crueller than woman has a right to ask from man. You’re a human creature. You must love me—if ’tis only for my love of your dead husband you must love me. Say you’ll marry me—say it quick. Let my sleep be sweet this night; let care and fear and dread share my pillow no more.”
“Who was it planned this evil against Daniel Sweetland? We know who killed poor Adam Thorpe; but who killed my husband? Find that out, Titus Sim.”
“If man can, I will; but leave that for the present. I’m as set on it as you. ’Tis the task first to my hand after we are man and wife.”
“Man and wife we never shall be. I’d sooner far, and prouder far, be my Daniel’s widow than wife of any man. No call to stare.Stare into your own heart, not into my face. I’ll never marry anybody. Let that content you. You’ve done your work; now go your way.”
“You’d drop me so? By God! you make my fingers itch! D’you know what lies between love and hate? A razor-edge. Don’t scorn me so cold and cruel. Don’t turn away from the worship of a man whose very life be built upon your nod. I can’t stand that. ’Tis fatal. My days are nought to me without you. They are narrowed to a word; you, you, you! Think what I can give you if you’ve no liking for myself. I’ve got heaps of money—a small fortune. Hundreds of pounds—all for you. Never another stroke of work. Your own servant you shall have; and your own slave, too. I’ll be that. Let me show you what love for a woman is—what love for a woman can do. Be content to share life with me. Don’t drive me mad by saying ‘no’ again. Don’t turn my love into gall. For ’twill be poison, and that poison will mean death.”
“I must face all that you can threaten,” she said. “I’ve spoken. I’ll marry no man. ’Tis enough to live alone with the blessing of my Dan’s good name.”
“That rests with me!” he answered. “Don’t fool yourself to think everything’s going as youplease. If you will make me show my teeth, ’tis your fault, not mine. I’m human. I’ve fought and toiled and sweated for you, and only you. I’ve done deeper things than ever a man did for love of you. Grey’s come into my hair for love of you. And now—? No, by God! the time’s ripe for payment. There’s only two living souls on earth know that Daniel Sweetland’s innocent of murder, and them two must be man and wife, or that man’s memory shall stink of blood for evermore! That’s love! You stare, but I’ve spoken. You refuse me, but in so doing you leave your husband’s memory foul. Your testimony is nothing without mine. ’Tis an easy invention for a pious wife; but when they come to me, I shake my head and say ‘I fear the wish was father to the thought, for Parkinson said no such thing.’ Tell them! I’d rather die than tell them. I’ll cut my own throat rather than clear him. That’s love on the razor-edge. And a mind on a razor-edge too! I’m at a pass now when life or death be bubbles. You’ve made me desperate. You don’t know—you can’t guess—a girl like you with ice for a heart—what a man’s raging fires may be. Speak—don’t look at me with them steady, watch-fire eyes, or I’ll strangle you!”
She had never seen any man driven into a desperation that came so near actual madness.She was alive to her own danger, and yet, knowing a thing hidden from him, could spare a moment of thankfulness at her own prescience in the past. For Minnie had never trusted Titus Sim. Even before the prospect of going with him into the presence of death, she had feared his honesty. Because she knew him to be a liar, and believed him capable of any crime.
“Leave me now,” she said steadily, with her eyes upon his face. “This be no time for more speech between us. You have declared that my dead husband’s innocence hangs upon your speech. To prove him honest is all the world’s got left for me to do. And I will do it. At any cost—even to marriage with you I’ll do it.If ’tis only by marrying you that Daniel’s name can be cleared, then I’ll marry you, Titus Sim.”
He fell on his knees and made wild, incoherent sounds. He seized her hands and covered them with kisses. He uttered inarticulate cries and praised God. She endured it with difficulty, and continually implored him to depart from her. At last he rose, restrained himself, and spoke more calmly.
“Why did you make me say those cruel things? Why did you rouse the devil in me like that? Right well you know I never meant them. ’Twas only the very madness of disappointedlove made me think of such vile things. Forget them, Minnie! Forget them and forgive them. I only want your happiness. Marry me and leave the rest to me. You’ll never be sorry. I’ve got love enough for both of us. Wait and see. You’ll turn to me yet, and trust me, and be sorry for me. Then, please God, you’ll come to love me a little.”
“Go, now,” she said. “You’ve got my answer.”
“And sweeter words never fell on a sad man’s ear, my blessed wife to be! We’ll wait till the dead is buried. We promised him to say nothing until then. And afterwards all people shall know that your Daniel was innocent.”
He left her and she locked the cottage door behind him. After that Minnie fell shivering upon a seat beside the fire, and buried her face in her hands. She did not fear for herself; she was only frightened at the strange power within her that had from the first taught her to read this man aright. A secret voice had always spoken the truth to her heart concerning him, and now in her sight he stood very knave from head to heel. Even his faithful love was to her a loathsome circumstance.
She saw in Titus Sim the unknown accomplice of the dead drunkard. Their united cunninghad planned the subtle and skilful raids at Middlecott; again and again they had robbed the plantations: again and again Sim, unsuspected, had slipped from the Court by night and joined Parkinson at his work. But to Sim alone, his evil genius quickened by love, had belonged the sequel to the tragedy in Middlecott Lower Hundred. After Thorpe fell, he had hastened to the empty house on the Moor, well knowing that it would be empty. The gun he had taken and the gun he had hidden where he might find it on the first light of day. And now he had left her to choose between Daniel’s honour and himself, or neither. One depended upon the other. Her momentary refusal had lifted the curtain from him, and showed her in a lightning flash the real man. Life was nothing to him. He had already driven her husband to death, and if she refused him, she guessed that another swift tragedy would follow upon the refusal. She thought long and deeply how best to plan the future. But Titus Sim entered very little into her calculations.
While still she sat in thought, there came a knock at the door, and Jane Beer asked to be admitted. Her husband followed her, and while Mrs Beer kissed Minnie, the publican shook her hand with all his might.
“’Tis closing time,” he said. “But, though we could close the bar, me an’ Jane couldn’t close our own eyes till we’d comed over and wished you joy—first a girl and then a boy—according to the old saying. Sim tells us you’ve consented at last, so soon all sorrow will be past, an’ if I don’t tip you a fine rhyme ’pon your wedding day, ’tis pity.”
The woman smiled and thanked them.
“And Johnny have brought over a drink,” said Jane Beer. “’Tis some sparkling wine—one bottle of twelve as we’ve had ever since we opened house. An’ only one bottle sold all these years. Champagne, according to the label.”
Mr Beer drew forth the liquor.
“Now you shall taste stuff as’ll make you feel as though you’d got wings,” he told her, “and if you haven’t got no wine-glasses, cups will do just as well.”
But Minnie put her hand on his and prevented him from cutting the wires.
“Stop; this is all wrong; you are mistaken, you kind hearts,” she said. “Mr Sim didn’t tell you all—or nearly all. I cannot marry him; and if there was but one man left on earth and ’twas he, I’d not marry him. ’Twas this I said to him; that if the only way to clear my Daniel’s name was by taking him for a husband, then I’d do it.”
“He says that you promised?”
“Only that, Mr Beer. And how if my Daniel’s name don’t lie at the mercy of Titus Sim? I can’t tell you about it yet. Presently I will.”
Johnny Beer patted the bottle.
“Then we’ll keep this high-spirited liquor till we all know where we are,” he said. “Never shout when you’re in doubt. But we’ll shout an’ see the stuff foam another day. Come on home, Jane. And I do hope still, my dear, you’ll let that poor, white-faced wretch find his way into your heart. For it all points to him; and you can’t bide here wasting your womanhood in the midst of the desert for ever. You might so well go in a convent of holy women—a very frosty picture, I’m sure.”
“My!” said Mrs Beer. “If she haven’t stuck her letter ’pon the mantel-shelf an’ never read a line of it! Now, to me, a letter’s like a thorn in my finger till ’tis open and mastered.”
Minnie handed the note to her friend. She had felt a faint flutter on seeing it, and thought that by blessed chance Dan might have written to her again before the end of his life. But the postmark was ‘Moretonhampstead’; the writing she did not know.
“I’ve no secrets,” said Minnie. “Read it out, Jane. If there’s anything good in it forme, ’twill be as much a joy to you as to me.”
“Give it here,” commanded Johnny. “In the matter of reading a letter, I may be said to know what’s what. I’ll read it aloud, since you’ve got no secrets, my dear, and if there’s a pennyworth of good in it—enough for the excuse, I’ll open the champagne after all. We’m on the loose to-night seemingly.”
A moment later and the letter was perused. Whereupon Mr Beer found himself faced with material for a whole volume of new poems. He was also called upon to open his bottle of champagne in a hurry; for there was no other stimulant in the house, and very soon necessity for such a thing arose.
Henry Vivian wrote carefully and came to the tremendous truth as gently as possible; but it had to be told, and when she heard it—when the mighty fact fell upon her ear that Daniel was not dead, but alive and well and close at hand, ready to visit her on the dawn of the morrow—Minnie fainted; and Jane Beer very nearly did the same. Happily, the poet and publican kept his head. His own lady he summoned to resolution by the force of his uplifted voice. Then he loosed the champagne cork, which happily flew without hesitation, and soon had wine at the girl’s white lips.
It was long before she could listen to the end of the letter. Then the writer warned her that Daniel found it beyond human power to keep longer from her side, and that on the following morning, if a black man came thundering at the door of Hangman’s Hut, she must on no account refuse him admission.
“God’s light!” cried Mr Beer. “’Tis after midnight now. I lay the man will be dressing hisself to come to his wife within an hour or two! To think—to think that underneath that skin so black Dan Sweetland to his home came back! But ’tis a dead secret. Me an’ my missus didn’t ought to know it.”
“Tis safe enough with us, I’m sure,” said Mrs Beer, rather indignantly.
“Trust us for that. And now we’ll drain the flowing bowl to that brave hero. ‘Black but comely.’ And I wonder if he’s black all over? Ban’t likely, I should think. I hope not, for your sake, my dear. Drink again—drink to the bottom! ’Tis for him. And don’t you go for to meet him in that dress. There’s enough black ’pon Dan without you being black too.”
“That’s good advice—just like Johnny’s sense. Don’t you appear afore him like a widow woman,” said Mrs Beer. “’Twould be awful bad luck. You just put on your pretty print wi’ the lilac pattern. And, after breakfast,I’ll step over in my dandy-go-risset gown—out of respect. I must see the young youth afore he washes. ’Twill be a great adventure, I’m sure.”
She prattled on to distract Minnie’s mind from the force of this shock. The girl hardly spoke, but sat with her hand in Mrs Beer’s. Sometimes she sighed, and at last merciful tears came to her eyes and she wept.
“Now you come along of us,” said Johnny. “I ban’t going to let you bide here by yourself. You come back an’ have a good sleep with Jane, and I’ll call you at peep o’ day. Then you can rise up and step home, an’ light the fire an’ make all ready for his breakfast. ‘Obi’ be his name now, remember! And, if you’ll believe it, when first he stalked amongst us to the White Hart, as black an’ silent as a shadow in a coat, if his father didn’t half see through him! Yes, he did. He up an’ stared an’ said, ‘Why, that niggar do travel exactly like my son Dan!’ Well—the bottle’s empty. It did its duty better than many a living man have done. I feel it within me like a cheerful companion, and I hope ’tis the same with you, ladies. Now, let’s be going.”
But Minnie would not accompany them. She was firm, and presently regained her self-possession.
“I’ve bided here ever since the day I married him,” she said. “I won’t go now. God sent you both to me this night, for it might have gone hard with me if I’d took this wonnerful shower of blessings all alone; but your gentle hands was ready, Jane; an’ you, Mr Beer—”
“An’ the bottle, my dear.”
“Yes, yes. Come back to me to-morrow.”
“So us will then—to think of you having your breakfast with a black man! Poor Titus! He’ll be so white as t’other be dark. God’s a marvel! Come on, Jane. Leave her alone. She’d rather. But I lay my wife will be peeping through the blind to see him come to-morrow! Trust a woman to do that. Good night, bless your brave heart! ’Tis a glorious reward for all the grief you’ve suffered.”
Mrs Beer kissed Minnie and hugged her, and Mr Beer so far forgot himself as to do the same.
“’Twas the champagne,” he confessed afterwards. “I got above myself with the news. My poetic disposition, Jane. If it had been the Queen of England I should have done the like. To think of the verses to be made out of such a come-along-o’t!”
“I know,” answered Mrs Beer. “But what about Adam Thorpe? Of course he didn’t do it, but the world still thinks he did; and formy part I don’t see anything to make verses about while the rope be still waiting for the poor fellow. Black or white, ’tis all one.”
“But he’s safe, you see! Nobody but us and Mr Vivian and Minnie will know the secret. And you may bet your life Providence didn’t save him to hang him. The Lord’s on his side, whatever betide.”
“That’s comforting, if true,” answered Mrs Beer. “An’ no doubt it is true,” she added. “When did man or woman find you wrong?”
They retired and talked on, full of this great matter, until dawn touched their white window-blind, and Johnny slept.
A moment later sounds of a galloping horse broke the tremendous silence of the Moor, and Jane Beer leapt from her bed and ran to the window.
A rider passed swiftly in the dull beginning of light. Beyond the inn he turned from the highway and proceeded in the direction of Hangman’s Hut.
“He wasn’t the black man—that I’m sure!” she exclaimed; but her husband did not hear, and his only answer was a snore.
Mrs Beer crept back to his side.
“White as a dog’s tooth his face was!” she said to herself. “Even in the cock-light I could see that.”
She reflected uneasily. Then an explanation came.
“Why, the chap washed hisself, to be sure! No doubt the black comes off, like the Christy’s Minstrels us seed to Exeter. He wouldn’t go to see his wife like a black gorilla.”
This solution of the difficulty seemed satisfactory to Mrs Beer. “The good Lord bless ’em!” she said.
Then she also prepared to sleep; but a hideous din in her ear awoke her. A bellowing as of a thousand bulls came up from the road. It woke Mr Beer, as it was meant to do, and with his wife he hastened to peep into the dawn. Jane then told her husband what she had already seen, and this, combined with the spectacle now before them, roused both effectually. In another moment the publican was pulling on his clothes.
Titus Sim returned home with the spirit of a conqueror. The long struggle was over and the battle won. Minnie Sweetland had promised to marry him, if only by so doing her late husband could be proved innocent; and he well knew there was no alternative. She would keep her word: that he also knew.
At supper in the servants’ hall of Middlecott Court, Titus, who arrived as the others were finishing their meal, showed such evident lightness of heart that Mr Hockaday, the butler, inquired the cause. Sim ate and spoke together. He announced his approaching marriage with the widow of Daniel Sweetland; and Dan, who sat smoking his pipe in a corner of the kitchen by the fire, heard his friend’s news and witnessed his joy.
“At last!” said Mr Hockaday. “Well, she have taken her time, no doubt; but you can’t wonder at that. It had to be; an’ she was worth waiting for. So there’ll be more changes, and you’ll leave Middlecott, no doubt? When’s the nupshalls?”
“I don’t know. That’s for her to say. Soon, I hope. I can’t believe it, Hockaday; ’tis almost too good to be true. My cup’s full.”
Dan Sweetland’s pipe went out, and he rose, knocked the ashes from it, and retired to his room. It was in the servants’ quarters, and he always took good care to lock the door. None of the domestics had ever seen the inside of the chamber since Dan became occupant. Had they done so, it must have much surprised them to find a little photograph of Minnie Sweetland upon the mantelpiece.
To this secluded den “Obi” now departed, and his thoughts were a strange mixture of grave and gay. He was to see his wife in the morning, for that day had gone the letter from Henry Vivian. But Minnie could not yet have read the great news, since it seemed that within the hour she had engaged herself to Titus Sim. The fact struck with petrifying force upon Daniel’s mind. It woke a wide uneasiness and a great sorrow for the awful disappointment that must await his friend. Minnie’s own attitude puzzled him deeply. Could it be true that she had accepted Sim? Could it be possible that his return to life would not please her? This thought came and went like a flash of lightning. It left in his mind shame and wonder that it could havecome. Even at that moment he felt joy. She knew now; the letter must have reached her from Warren Inn after Sim had gone. She would be waiting for him in the dawn light; she would open her arms for him before another sun had risen. Only hours remained between their meeting; but Dan felt that those hours must be occupied with Titus Sim. To hide his secret from Titus was no longer possible. Often and often he had blamed himself for doing so. Sim’s love for Minnie had long been general knowledge and a frequent theme of conversation among men and maidens at Middlecott Court. Not seldom had Daniel risen and taken himself beyond earshot. One thing he remembered: that Sim had never in his hearing spoken an unkind word of him, or an improper one concerning his wife. Now, upon this night, Sim’s joy hurt and stabbed the man with the black face. To see Titus thus glad at the possibility of bliss impossible, was a tragic spectacle for Sweetland. He thought deeply, then resolved with himself that, despite the terrific shock of it, he would break the truth to Sim. To delay was the greater cruelty. He had, indeed, desired from the moment of his landing to let Titus into the great secret; but Henry Vivian refused to allow him to do so.
It was past midnight when Daniel, acting upon this new impulse, dressed himself and went to the room near his own in which Titus slept. A light was burning and Mr Sim, who had not retired, turned from the writing of a letter to see the black man standing in the door.
“Hullo, Obi! Whatever do you want?” he asked; then made the sign of a question.
But Daniel answered and Sim fell back speechless upon his bed to hear the long silent tones.
“What nightmare’s this? You can speak—speak in that voice? What are you then?”
“One as be your friend always—always—one as can’t live this lie no more—not for you, Titus. It have hurt me to the soul doing it; it have tormented me day by day to see your honest face and hear your honest speech. But you must forgive me for coming to life, old pal. ’Twas time an’ more than time I did so seemingly. After to-night I couldn’t hide myself behind this black face and this blank silence no more—not from you. Say you forgive me, Titus. ’Twas life or death, remember.”
“Your life is my death,” answered the other, slowly. “Do you understand that?”
Sim had turned deathly white, and perspiration made his face shine like ivory.
“Don’t say such things. You’re a free, honest man as no living soul can say one word against,” replied Daniel. “Your record be clean, an’ you can stand up in the face of the nation, and no man can cast a word at you. Don’t talk of death. ’Tis true I’ve got her—Minnie—my own wife; but that’s all I have got in the world; an’ God only knows if I shall ever be able to call her mine afore the people. Don’t grudge me my sole, blessed joy. Think what I be, Titus—an outcast, a wanderer, a man that have had to black his face an’ shut his mouth to escape the gallows. Don’t—but why should I say these things to you? Right well I know the steel you be forged of. Right well I know you never change. You’m my side still, Titus? Say you’m my side still. Say you’ve forgived me. ’Twas my neck I was playing for—I never thought to break your heart by this trick. An’ you must forgive Minnie, too. ’Twas only yesterday morn that Mr Henry’s letter went to her. He wouldn’t let me see her before, and he wrote to break it to her that I was alive an’ not far off. Of course, not knowing that, she said ‘Yes’ to you. To-morrow—to-day, I should say—at first glimmer of light, he’ve given me leave to go up along an’ hear what she’ve got to tell me. Shake my hand—I ban’t blackexcept my face. My heart’s white an’ well you know it, Titus.”
He offered his hand and the other took it mechanically.
“You’ve knocked me all of a heap,” he said. “Let me hear your tale. ’Twill give my heart time to still an’ beat level again. You at my elbow! And she—this very night—promised to marry me. ’Tis more than a man’s brain can hold.”
“Afore she knowed that I was back in life again.”
Sim desired to think. The crash of this news confused him and unsettled his mind.
“Tell your tale from the beginning, Daniel,” he said. “Let me hear it all: then I’ll tell you mine, and give you some idea of what I’ve been doing while you was away.”
“You haven’t cleared up the job in Middlecott Lower Hundred?”
“Speak your speech,” repeated Sim. “What I’ve got to say I’ll say afterwards.”
Thereupon Daniel told his long story from the beginning. He described his escape, his visit to Minnie, his journey to Plymouth, his experiences in thePeabody. He told of life in the West Indies, of his meeting with Henry Vivian and the tragedy of Jesse Hagan andJabez Ford. He finally explained the reasons for his present disguise, and his hopes how, during the next few months, that might happen which would clear his name and prove him an innocent and injured man.
To this recital, which occupied above an hour, Sim appeared to pay full heed, but in reality his thoughts were far away. He nodded from time to time, uttered an ejaculation or expression of wonder or regret, and suggested that he was devoting his whole mind to his friend’s sensational story, but in truth the man’s thought was otherwise engaged. Desperation and malice and hate were the furies that now drove him forward. While he lent his ear to Daniel, his brains were full of seething wrath, and he plotted how best to use that night, how best to ruin for ever this being who had returned thus inopportunely from the grave. He shook in secret, his rage nearly choked him unseen; and at last caution was thrown to the winds, craft was forgotten, passion whirled Sim out of himself, he played his part no more, and as Daniel to his friend had proclaimed the living truth behind the black veil that hid it, so now Titus also revealed himself, spoke in a frenzy of disappointed passion, and stripped his heart to the other’s horrified gaze. Even in the full tempest and springtime of his fury, Simperceived that he held the upper hand, and made that clear to Sweetland. The truth, indeed, he told, but without a witness, and it was beyond the listener’s power to prove anything. He might repeat Sim’s infamous confession, but there were none to substantiate the story. Only one man could have done so, and he lay waiting for his funeral on the morrow.
“I’ve heard you, now hear me,” said the footman. “The Devil’s kept you for the rope, Dan Sweetland; and ’twas I wove the rope and shall live to know you’ve worn it. Your friend once, your bitter enemy to the death from the day that woman put you before me and chose you for her husband. After that I cursed your shadow when you passed and only waited the right moment to get you out of my road for evermore. In the nick of time the chance fell, and I—that you trusted as a pig trusts the butcher—I caught you like a rabbit in a snare. Glare at me! Stare your damned black eyes out of your head! I did it—did it all! And I’ve not done with you yet—remember that. Rix Parkinson’s a dead man now—gone to have it out in hell with Adam Thorpe. ’Twas Rix that shot him, and ’twas I that thrashed your father the same night. We worked very well together—Rix and me. Look out of the window. Only a six-foot drop—you’ll have the same droppresently—with a rope round your neck. Down that wall I’ve gone a hundred times. Rix drank damnation with his money; I put my share away and let it grow. You was the black sheep in everybody’s mouth. I—that was twice and twenty times the skilled sportsman you was—I went my way quiet and unsuspected. Many and many and many’s the night me and Parkinson thinned the pheasants. Then came that hour when your old fool of a father and Adam Thorpe blundered on us. The best men will make a mistake now and again; yet after all’s said, the mistake was theirs, for one lost his life and t’other got his grey head broken. And then ’twas, after we’d gathered our birds again and gone, that the thought of what might be came to me. ‘Sweetland’s the man for this dirty work,’ says the Devil to me; and in an hour, when Rix was away with the birds, I went up over to your new home and found you at hand. You almost walked on top of me as you went away; then I slipped into the hovel by unlatching a back window with a bit of wire, and there was your gun waiting for me, with cartridges in it as had just been fired! I saw you hanging in Exeter gaol from that moment, if Thorpe died. The rest you know. I hid the gun that night afore the hue and cry, and, come morning, found it put away very carefullywhere ’twas supposed you meant to come for it some other day. Meantime Thorpe died in hospital. ’Twas all as easy as lying. And now you stand where you stood the hour that you were arrested. You’re a doomed man, for only I can prove your innocence, and that I never will. That’s what it is to come between a man and a woman he loves. If I don’t have her, nobody shall have her—least of all you.”
The other rose and gasped in amazement at this narrative.
“Be it Sim I hear, or some cold-blooded Dowl as have got into his shape?”
“You know well enough, ruin seize you! Wrecked my life—that’s what you’ve done; but the last word’s mine. I haven’t worked and toiled by night and day for this. I’ll have her yet. Why not? You’re dead already! Go—get out of my sight—sleep your last easy sleep. Go, I say, or I’ll do for you with my own hand! ’Tis time you were in hell. An’ there I’ll follow you; but not yet—not yet. Many a long year’s start of me you’ll have. I must marry and get children; and if I live long enough, I’ll cheat the Devil yet; but you—your thread’s spun; dead and buried in quicklime you shall be!”
Nothing could have exceeded the frantic passion with which Sim uttered this whirl ofwords. They burst from him with explosions and nearly choked him. His eyes blazed, his limbs worked spasmodically. For the time he behaved like a malignant lunatic.
Sweetland perceived that little was to be gained by further speech with one insane. Therefore he rose and went away, that Titus might have time to reflect and recover his senses. How much of this confession to believe, Daniel did not know. At first, though dazed by such dreadful tidings, he had credited the story and set it down to love run mad; but when real madness blazed on Sim’s white face and he ceased to be coherent—when the baffled rascal, in his storm and hurricane of disappointment, raved of death and hell, Dan began to suppose him insane in earnest. The wish was father to the thought. Even in his bewilderment and consternation at this result of his confession to his friend, there came sorrow for Titus Sim, and grief that such an awful catastrophe had overtaken him. He longed to believe the whole dreadful story was spun of moonshine; but he could not. There was too much method in it. Sim had been responsible for all, and still too clearly desired his destruction.
For a few moments Sweetland stood irresolute at the door of the footman’s room. Then he crept back to his own. No sign of day hadyet dawned. As he stood in profound thought, a clock below struck two.
At last the determination to see his master overcame Daniel. The gravity of his position was such that he did not hesitate. In a few moments he knocked at Henry Vivian’s door and was admitted.
The young man had now reached convalescence, but still kept his room. A fire was burning, and Vivian rose and lighted a lamp.
“Come in,” he said. “I cannot sleep. I suppose you can’t either, Dan. Well, an hour or two more and you’re in her arms! Be cautious and get back before the house is stirring. Put that soup on the fire and give me a cigarette. I wish you could take your wife some good news; but we hope the good news may come from her. You know what my father’s opinion is. He believes in you stoutly and will not raise a finger against you. But of course he thinks I left you in Tobago.”
Dan waited for his master to finish speaking, and then told him what had happened. Sweetland was so impressed with this new peril now sprung upon him, that he had not thought how the story of Sim would strike another listener. But Vivian’s attitude was naturally of a sort to relieve the innocent man not a little.
“Of all the infernal scoundrels I ever heard,this knave is the worst!” he cried. “But there’s no time to waste. We must strike instantly, or it may be too late. Even now precious time has been wasted. Confound my weakness! I can’t help you. Will you wake John, or Hockaday, or are you equal to tackling him single-handed?”
“Tackling Sim? Of course I can do it, sir. Come to think of it, he ought to be thrashed for thrashing my old father. But what good will a thrashing do?”
“None. I don’t mean that. Only he must be made fast before he can take any steps against you. I must see him. Go! Go! It was madness to leave him. Bring him to me, and if he refuses to come, shout and rouse the house.”
Sweetland started instantly, but his master called him back.
“Take this pistol,” he said. “This man’s a thousand times more dangerous than you dream of. Either mad or sane, it would be better for you to be in a cage with a tiger than with him. If he touches you, fire on him—and fire first. If he obeys you, bring him here, and let him walk in front of you. Be quick!”
Dan took the weapon and hurried back to Sim’s room, but it was empty. For a moment he stood staring round it, and, in that silence,he heard a horse gallop out of the stable yard not far distant. Henry Vivian’s fears were confirmed, and Titus had made first move in the grim game now to be played.
Dan rushed back with his news.
“You were right, sir; he’s gone—just galloped out of the yard. He’s off to the police station!”
“Not he,” answered the other. “Run for your life—or her life—your wife, Dan! That’s where he’s gone, and that’s where you’ll find him. Fly—take my horse; but I’m afraid he has; and, if so, you’ll never catch him. Nothing we’ve got will overtake my gelding.”
But his last words were spoken to air, for Dan, albeit he had been slow to rouse, was indeed alive at last. In two minutes he had left the house. There was no difficulty, for the doors stood open as Sim had left them. But Vivian’s fast hack was not in the stable, and nothing else there, under Dan’s heavy weight, stood the smallest chance of catching it.
The first tremor of dawn was in the sky, and its ghastly ray touched a circle of plate glass. The glass belonged to the great front lamp of Henry Vivian’s new motor-car, and it stood there, the incarnation of sleeping strength and speed. There was no time to ask leave or return to the house, but Daniel knew hismaster’s only regret would be that he could not accompany him. He understood the great machine well, and had already driven it on several occasions. It was of forty horse-power and easily able to breast the steep acclivities that stretched between Middlecott Court and the Moor; but the road was dangerous and a good horse had power to proceed more swiftly over half of the ground than any vehicle on wheels. Once in the Moor, however, it might be possible to make up lost ground. For four or five miles Daniel calculated that he could drive the car many times as fast as a horse could gallop. Thus he might get even with Sim at the finish.
As quickly as possible he lighted the lamp, set the motor in motion, and went upon his way. As he departed he hooted loudly, that Henry Vivian might know the thing he had done.
Dawn fought with night and slowly conquered as Dan in the great motor panted upwards from Middlecott to the high lands above. His way led through dense woods, and the blaze of the lamp threw a cone of light far ahead, while the wheels beneath him turned silently and swiftly over a carpet of pine needles under the darkness, or jolted over the tree roots that spread in ridges across the way. To the east a cold pallor stole between the regiments of trunks, but as yet no bird called or diurnal beast moved from its holt. In the earth as he drove along, Dan could mark the fresh imprint of hoofs upon the ground, stamped darkly there. The gate at the end of the wood hung open as the horseman had left it, and Sweetland perceived that his master was in the right. Now, chafed by the sweet cold air, his black face burned and his blood leapt at his heart. But anger it was that heated him. The trust and friendship and honest love of a lifetime were turned in these terrible moments to hatred. As he leapt forward and altered his gear forclimbing a steep and tortuous hill, his mind’s gear likewise changed. From his soul he shut off love and pity for ever; he forgot all this knave had suffered, but only remembered his own sufferings and accumulated misfortunes. Sim had hoped, and still hoped, to hang him; Sim had seized the chance offered by the Devil to tear him from his young wife’s side upon their wedding day; Sim had plotted and planned with a spider’s patience and craft to fill his shoes; and even now what fiend’s errand might he be upon? But the luxury of rage was not for this moment. Once Dan’s hand shook and in a second he came near wrecking the motor between lofty hedge-banks. He saved it by six inches and turned cold at the danger averted. Her life might depend upon his skill and coolness now. The car grunted slowly up a stiff hill of rough and broken surface. Here a horse’s progress must be infinitely swifter than his own. His heart sank at the necessary tardiness of progress; but his anger died, and, when it was possible to increase speed, the man had mastered himself and drove with utmost skill and judgment.
Light began to gather in the sky, and Dan was glad, for in five minutes more he would be upon the waste land and must make his effort. From the Moor gate to Johnny Beer’s publichousewas five miles, and Sweetland calculated that if he could accomplish that distance in as many minutes, he and Sim ought to arrive at the inn together. But two long and stiff hills occurred upon the road. These must slow him down considerably and, to make up for the lost time, it would be necessary to take declivities and level ground at the greatest pace his car could travel. He thoroughly estimated the tremendous risks he ran and the fatal issue of any mistake. He was only thankful that, for good or ill, the ordeal must be over in minutes. Either he would perish with a broken neck, or he would save his wife from possible destruction. It was now light enough to see the road ahead. The Moor gate, blown by the wind, also hung open; he rushed forward without slackening of speed.
Sim, it seemed, had not counted upon such swift pursuit. By shutting the gates behind him, he had much improved his own chances, but all stood ajar save one, and Sweetland’s hope was so much the higher. Now out on the high Moor, no further obstacles could be met with. The surface was good, the road wide, and it was unlikely that any vehicle would share the way with him or be passed, either going or approaching. Ponies or sheep might, indeed, interrupt him, but he trusted to hishooter to frighten them away before he reached them.
Dan set the powerful machine at work in earnest, and he felt it gather itself together beneath him, like a living thing, hum like a hive of bees, and leap forward with accelerated speed. The road, glimmering in dawn light, seemed a shining white ribbon that was wound up by the car as it flew onwards. There came a sensation that he sat upon a huge, busy, but motionless monster that was swallowing the track. The roadway poured under his wheels like a river; the Moor to right and left wound away like mighty wheels whose axes were on the horizon.
Though Dan drove the five miles in rather less than five minutes, the time to him seemed very long. Twice he was in peril, and twice escaped death by a shade. At a steep hill, where it became absolutely necessary to slow down, he put on pace again too soon while yet fifty yards of the declivity remained to be run. But the car responded quicker than he expected, and on a little bridge, which spanned the bottom of the coomb and crossed a stream, his right fore-wheel actually touched the parapet and the hub of the wheel struck a splinter from the granite, which shot upward like a bullet and tore Dan’s elbow to the bone.Then came the last straight mile—a long and level tract upon whose left stood Bennett’s Cross, while to the right lay Furnum Regis, the Oven of the King. Now a final rush began, and straining his watering eyes to look ahead and see if by chance Titus Sim might be in sight, Dan saw, three hundred yards in front of him, a sheep standing upon the middle of the road with its back towards the car. He was now running more than eighty miles an hour, and only seconds separated him from the creature. He sounded his hooter, but the sheep did not move, and Dan had barely time to grip the iron rail in front of him when there came the crash of impact. The car was now skimming the ground rather than running upon it; thus the full weight of the motor struck the wether. It was hurled ten yards forward and fell in a crushed heap of wool and bones. The impact carried away the motor-lamp, which dropped to the right, and the car had passed between lamp and sheep and was a hundred yards beyond them before Dan drew his breath. A bolt had given at one end of the bar he held, and a moment later it became detached in his hand.
Half a minute more and the Warren Inn came into sight, while, at the same moment, Daniel saw a horse galloping hard threehundred yards ahead of him. Compared with the speed of the car, it appeared to be standing still; but just as he found himself beside it, the Warren Inn rose on his right, and Sweetland was forced to slow down that he might stop. As he did so he sounded the hooter with all his might to waken Beer. Sim, on the horse, had become aware of a motor’s approach long before it reached him, and, guessing that Dan was following, he had pushed his horse too fast. He knew it was failing; but he also knew that Sweetland must slow down before he could alight, and the sequel proved him correct, for Daniel had already overshot the turning to Hangman’s Hut by two hundred yards before he could pull up. By rather more than two hundred yards, therefore, Sim had a start upon the half-mile of rough ground that separated the high road from Minnie’s home. Sim was also mounted, but herein lay no advantage, for his steed, cruelly over-ridden, now came down with a crash and threw the rider over his head. Titus turned a clean somersault and fell in a peat mire on his back unhurt. Dripping with black mud from head to heel, but none the worse, he rushed on, and as Daniel breasted the last hillock, he saw Titus knock at the door of Hangman’s Hut and Minnie throw it wide.Sim’s fall had lost him ground, and he was not a hundred yards ahead of his enemy when he entered the cottage.
Wild monsters both the men looked now, but Sweetland’s guise was the strangest. His shirt had blown open, his hat was off. A breast ivory white supported his ink-black neck and face. A sleeve had been torn away as he leapt out of the car, and from a white arm extended a black hand dripping blood. The blow at the bridge he had not felt, but the man’s arm was deeply wounded and now gore freely dripped from the injury. In his hand he carried the front bar of the motor-car, which had come off. Henry Vivian’s pistol was still in his pocket, but he had forgotten it.
The way now led downhill, and little more than ten seconds had elapsed before Daniel reached the door of his home. It was shut, but he threw himself against it and the latch broke. Then he stood in the kitchen of the cottage and saw Sim with Minnie on her knees at his feet. Titus was bending over her, and he had one hand on her hair dragging back her head. The other hand held a jack-knife to his mouth, and he opened this weapon with his teeth as Sweetland sprang in upon him. Sim’s hand went back for the blow, but it was not delivered. Instead, his arm was pinned to hisside and he found himself wrestling with a demon.
Both men were powerful, but both were spent. Sweetland had lost much blood from his elbow, and he found himself growing weak. Titus had fared better, though he too blew hard after a half-mile run.
He had come to kill Minnie Sweetland; now he exulted and worked to tire out the other. The knife had fallen out of his hand, but as Minnie rushed to reach it from him, Sim put his foot upon it.
“So much the better!” he cried, going down easily as Daniel threw him. “Do what you like—go on—you’re bleeding to death! But Death’s self sha’n’t cheat me of you. Your death’s my—”
He spoke no more, for Sweetland was now quite aware that only moments separated him from falling. He was growing weak fast, and his head swam. He knew that he must strike, and strike with every atom of strength that remained to him, or he would drop unconscious and leave his wife to her fate. For a moment he relaxed his hold, and as he did so Sim’s arm shot out and he grasped his knife. Then a strange thing happened, for the watching woman, who had disregarded Daniel’s order to fly and escape, flung herself straight betweenthe men; and it seemed that it was not to shield her husband, but the would-be murderer, that she came. Daniel had only loosed his grip to regain his iron bar. This he did and, in using it, he was quicker than Sim. Even as the footman regained his knife, the other, now on his knees, raised the heavy and shining metal rod over his shoulder and, with both hands and all his remaining strength, brought it down upon Sim’s head. Then between that certain death and the man’s skull Minnie lifted her slight arm and broke the blow. Like a carrot the bone cracked, but force enough still remained in Daniel’s stroke to stretch out his enemy senseless.
“God’s life! Why for did you do that?” cried Dan. “Oh—your little arm—Minnie—Minnie!”
“’Tis only broke,” she said. “That’s naught. I saw you were going to kill him. ’Twould have wasted all my work for ’e, husband, an’ spoilt all the time to come. You be free afore the world, an’ innocent afore the world. I can prove it, Dan. I can prove it!”
For answer his head rolled back and he fell forward from his knees to the ground. She stood above the two unconscious men, herself tottering and powerless to help either.
Then it was that Beer, in the lightest ofattire, and followed by his wife, rushed upon the scene. Mrs Sweetland bade him first tend her husband, and Johnny soon propped Dan’s head and tied up the bleeding arm above the elbow. After that Dan recovered consciousness and called to his wife.
“Give me something to drink—spirits. I shall be all right in an hour. You was right, Min. ’Twould have been a poor home-coming to kill this devil. But your arm—that awful sound.”
“You go,” said Johnny to his wife. “Get a bottle of brandy and nip back as quick as lightning. And call the boy at the same time an’ tell him to saddle the pony an’ ride like hell for Dr Budd. This chap’s dead, I’m thinking.”
He spoke of Sim, who had not recovered consciousness.
“What May games be these, Dan Sweetland?” asked Mr Beer. Dan, however, had no leisure for Johnny. He lay quite still and fought to keep consciousness.
“Us can’t wait for Sim,” he said; “Minnie’s more than this here man. After I’ve took in a tumbler of spirits, I’ll stand up again and get to the car. Then I’ll drive her straight to the cottage hospital and come back for Sim. He’s not dead. ’Twas that li’l broken arm there saved him.”
“A masterpiece you be, sure enough! Black, an’ blue, an’ bloody; an’ yet the real old Dan Sweetland, an’ no other! Let me see your elbow again. Yes, it have done bleeding now.”
“Don’t trouble about me,” said Dan. “Listen to his chest an’ see if you can hear his heart beating. Ban’t no odds if I’ve killed him; for if I hadn’t done it, he’d have killed me an’ my wife too. A near shave, by God! He had her by the hair an’ thicky pig-sticking knife between his teeth.”
“However comed you to let him in after last night, my dear?” asked Johnny.
“I was on the watch,” she answered. “I seed a man with a black face running through the dawnlight, an’ I didn’t stop to think, but rushed to the door an’ flinged it open for him. He was on me like a tiger, an’ I thought ’twas all over when my husband leapt at him.”