Undoubtedly the Coroner’s expedient had prevented a riot in the village. The police deferred execution of the warrant, and Mr. Stockwell, recognizing the hopelessness of the situation, co-operated with them in making arrangements which would serve to allay public excitement.
The dead man was removed unobtrusively to his Nottonby residence on Sunday evening. Accompanying the hearse was a closed carriage in which rode Mrs. Pickering and Kitty. At the door of Wetherby Lodge, Mr. Stockwell met the cortège, and when the coffin was installed in the spacious library the solicitor introduced the weeping servants to their temporary mistress, since he and Mr. Herbert had decided that she ought to reside in the house for a time. Such a fact, when it became known, would help to mold public opinion.
An elderly housekeeper was minded to greet Betsy with bitter words. Her young master had been dear to her, and she had not scrupled earlier to denounce in scathing terms the woman who had encompassed his death.
But the sight of the wan, white face, the sorrow-laden eyes, the graceful, shrinking figure of the girl-widow, restrained an imminent outburst, and the inevitable reaction carried the housekeeper to the other extreme.
“How d’ye do, ma’am,” she said brokenly. “’Tis a weary homecomin’ ye’ve had. Mebbe ye’ll be likin’ a cup o’ tea.”
Betsy murmured that she had no wants, but Yorkshire regards food as a panacea for most evils, and the housekeeper bade one of the maids “put a kettle on.”
So the ice was broken, and Mr. Stockwell breathed freely again, for he had feared difficulty in this quarter.
On Monday Pickering was buried, and the whole countryside attended the funeral, which was made impressive by the drumming and marching of the dead man’s company of Territorials. On Tuesday morning a special sitting of the county magistrates was held in the local police court. Betsy attended with her solicitor, the Coroner’s warrant was enforced, she was charged by the police with the murder of George Pickering, and remanded for a week in custody.
The whole affair was carried out so unostentatiously that Betsy was in jail before the public knew that she had appeared at the police court. In one short week the unhappy dairymaid had experienced sharp transitions. She had become a wife, a widow. She was raised from the condition of a wage-earner to the status of an independent lady, and taken from a mansion to a prison. Bereft of her husband by her own act and separated from friends and relatives by the inexorable decree of the law, she was faced by the uncertain issue of a trial by an impartial judge and a strange jury. Surely, the Furies were exhausting their spite on one frail creature.
On Sunday evening Mrs. Saumarez drove in her car through the rain to tea at the White House. She was alone. Her manner was more reserved than usual,though she shook hands with Mrs. Bolland with a quiet friendliness that more than atoned for the perceptible change in her demeanor. Her wonted air of affable condescension had gone. Her face held a new seriousness which the other woman was quick to perceive.
“I have come to have a little chat with you,” she said. “I am going away soon.”
The farmer’s wife thought she understood.
“I’m rale sorry te hear that, yer leddyship.”
“Indeed, I regret the necessity myself. But recent events have opened my eyes to the danger of allowing my child to grow up in the untrammeled freedom which I have permitted—encouraged, I may say. It breaks my heart to be stern toward her. I must send her to the South, where there are good schools, where others will fulfil obligations in which I have failed.”
And, behold! Mrs. Saumarez choked back a sob.
“Eh, ma’am,” cried the perturbed Martha, “there’s nowt to greet aboot. T’ lass is young eneuf yet, an’ she’s a bonny bairn, bless her heart. We all hae te part wi’ ’em. It’ll trouble me sore when Martin goes away, but ’twill be for t’ lad’s good.”
“You dear woman, you have nothing to reproach yourself with. I have. Your fine boy would never dream of rending your soul as Angèle has rent mine to-day—all because I wished her to read an instructive book instead of a French novel.”
“Mebbe you were a bit hard wi’ her,” said the older woman. “To be sure, ye wouldn’t be suited by this nasty inquest; but is it wise to change all at once? Slow an’ sure, ma’am, is better’n fast an’ feckless. Where is t’ little ’un now?”
“At home, crying her eyes out because I insisted that she should remain there.”
“Ay, I reckon she’d be wantin’ te see Martin.”
“Do you think I may have been too severe with her?”
“It’s not for t’ likes o’ me to advise a leddy like you, but yon bairn needs to be treated gently, for all t’ wulld like a bit o’ delicate chiney. Noo, when Martin was younger, I’d gie him a slap ower t’ head, an’ he’d grin t’ minnit me back was turned. Your little gell is different.”
“In my place, would you go back for her now?”
“No, ma’am, I wouldn’t. That’d show weak. But I’d mek up for’t te-morrow. Then she’ll think all t’ more o’ yer kindness.”
So the regeneration of Angèle commenced. Was it too late? She was only a child in years. Surely there was yet time to mold her character in better shape. Mrs. Saumarez hoped so. She dried her tears, and, with Bolland’s appearance, the conversation turned on the lamentable weather. She was surprised to hear that August was often an unsettled month, though this storm was not only belated but almost unprecedented in its severity.
Mr. Herbert went to Nottonby early next day. He attended the funeral, heard the will read at Wetherby Grange in the presence of some disappointed cousins of the dead man, visited Betsy to say a few consoling words, and drove back to the vicarage through the unceasing rain.
Tea awaited him in the drawing-room, but his first glance at Elsie alarmed him. Her face was flushed, her eyes red. She was a most woebegone little maid.
“My dear child,” he cried, “what is the matter?”
“I want you—to forgive me—first,” she stammered brokenly.
“Forgive you, my darling! Forgive you for what?”
“I’ve been—reading the paper.”
He drew her to his knee.
“What crime is there in reading the paper, sweet one?”
“I mean that horrid inquest, father dear.”
“Oh!”
The smiling wonder left his face. Elsie looked up timidly.
“I ought to have asked your permission,” she said, “but you were away, and auntie has a headache, and Miss Holland (her governess) has gone on her holidays, and I was so curious to know what all the bother was about.”
Yet he did not answer. Hitherto his daughter, his one cherished possession, had been kept sedulously from knowledge of the external world. But she was shooting up, slender and straight, the image of her dead mother. Soon she would be a woman, and it was no part of his theory of life that a girl should be plunged into the jungle of adult existence without a reasonable consciousness of its snares and pitfalls. So ideal were the relations of father and daughter that the vicar had deferred the day of enlightenment. It had come sooner than he counted on.
Elsie was frightened now. Her tears ceased and the flush left her cheeks.
“Are you very angry?” she whispered. He kissed her.
“No, darling, not angry, but just a little pained. It was an unpleasing record for your eyes. There, now. Give me some tea, and we’ll talk about it. You may have formed some mistaken notions. Tell me what you thought of it all. In any case, Elsie, why were you crying?”
“I was so sorry for that poor woman. And why did the Coroner believe she killed her husband, when Mr. Pickering said she had not touched him?”
The vicar saw instantly that the girl had missed the more unpleasing phases of the tragedy. He smiled again.
“Bring me the paper,” he said. “I was present at the inquest. Perhaps the story is somewhat garbled.”
She obeyed. He cast a critical glance over the leaded columns, for the weekly newspaper had given practically a verbatim report of the evidence, and there was a vivid description of the scene in the schoolroom, with its dramatic close.
“It is by no means certain, from the evidence tendered, that the Coroner is right,” said Mr. Herbert slowly. “In these matters, however, the police are compelled to sift all statements thoroughly, and the only legal way is to frame a charge. Although Mrs. Pickering may be tried for murder, it does not follow that she will be convicted.”
“But,” questioned Elsie, “Martin Bolland said he heard her crying out that she had killed Mr. Pickering?”
“He may have misunderstood.”
“Just imagine him fighting with Frank, and about Angèle Saumarez, too.”
“You may take it from me that Martin behaved very well indeed. Angèle is a little vixen, a badly behaved, spoilt child, I fear. Young Beckett-Smythe is a booby who encouraged her wilfulness. Martin thrashed him. It would have been far better had Martin not been there at all; but if he were my son I should still be proud of him.”
The girl’s face brightened visibly. There was manifest relief in her voice.
“I am so glad we’ve had this talk,” she cried. “I—like Martin, and it did seem so odd that he should have been fighting about Angèle.”
“He knew she ought to be at home, and told her so. Frank interfered, and got punched for his pains. It served him right.”
She helped herself to a large slice of tea-cake.
“I don’t know why I was so silly as to cry—but—I really did think Mrs. Pickering was in awful trouble.”
The vicar laid the paper aside. His innocent-minded daughter had not even given a thought to the vital issues of the affair. He breathed freely, and told her of the funeral. Nevertheless, he had failed to fathom the cause of those red eyes.
A servant clearing the tea-table bethought her of a note which came for Mr. Herbert some two hours earlier. She brought it from the study. It was from Mrs. Saumarez, inviting him and Elsie to luncheon next day.
“Angèle will be delighted,” she wrote, “if Elsie will remain longer than usual. It is dull for children to be cooped within doors during this miserable weather. I am asking Martin Bolland to join us for tea.”
Mr. Herbert was a kind-hearted man, yet he wishedmost emphatically that Mrs. Saumarez had not proffered this request. To make an excuse for his daughter’s non-attendance would convey a distinct slight which could only be interpreted in one way, after the publicity given to Angèle’s appearance at the inquest. He shirked the ordeal. Bother Angèle!
He glanced covertly at Elsie. All unconscious of the letter’s contents, the girl was looking out ruefully at the leaden sky. There might be no more picnics for weeks.
“Mrs. Saumarez has invited us to luncheon,” he said.
“When?” she asked unconcernedly.
“To-morrow. She wishes you to spend the afternoon with Angèle.”
Elsie turned, with quick animation.
“I don’t care to go,” she said.
“Why not? You know very little about her.”
“She seems to me—curious.”
“Well, I personally don’t regard her as a desirable companion for you. But there is no need to give offense, and it will not hurt you to meet her for an hour or so. Your friend Martin is coming, too.”
“Oh,” she cried, “that makes a great difference.”
Her father laughed.
“Between you, you will surely manage to keep Angèle out of mischief. And, now, my pet, what do you say to an hour with La Fontaine, while I attend to some correspondence? Where are my pupils?”
“They went for a long walk. Mr. Gregory said they would not be home until dinner-time.”
Next morning, for a wonder, the clouds broke, and an autumn sun strove to cheer the scarred and drownedearth. Mrs. Saumarez met her guests with the unobtrusive charm of a skilled hostess. Angèle, demure and shrinking, extended her hand to Elsie with a shy civility that was an exact copy of Elsie’s own attitude.
During luncheon she behaved so charmingly and spoke with such sweet naturalness when any question was addressed to her that Mr. Herbert found himself steadily recasting his unfavorable opinion.
The conversation steered clear of any reference to the inquest. Mrs. Saumarez was a widely read and traveled woman, and versed in the art of agreeable small talk.
Once, in referring to Angèle, she said smilingly:
“I have been somewhat selfish in keeping her with me always. But, now, I have decided that she must go to school. I’ll winter in Brighton, with that object in view.”
“Will you like that?” said the vicar to the child.
“I’ll not like leaving mamma; but school, yes. I feel I want to learn a lot. I suppose Elsie is, oh, so clever?”
She peeped at the other girl under her long eyelashes, and made pretense of being awe-stricken by such eminent scholastic attainments in one of her own age.
“Elsie has learnt a good deal from books, but you have seen much more of the world. If you work hard, you will soon make up the lost ground.”
“I’ll try. I have been trying—all day yesterday! Eh, mamma?”
Mrs. Saumarez sighed.
“I ought to have engaged a governess,” she said. “I cannot teach. I have no patience.”
Mr. Herbert did not know that Angèle’s educational efforts of the preceding day consisted in a smug decorum that irritated her mother exceedingly. This luncheon party had been devised as a relief from Angèle’s burlesque. She termed it “jouer le bon enfant.”
After the meal they strolled into the garden. The storm had played havoc with shrubs and flowers, but the graveled paths were dry, and the lawn was firm, if somewhat damp. Mrs. Saumarez had caused a fine swing to be erected beneath a spreading oak. It held two cushioned seats, and two propelling ropes were attached to a crossbar. It made swinging a luxury, not an exercise.
“By the way,” cried Mrs. Saumarez to the vicar, “do you smoke?”
He pleaded guilty to a pipe.
“Then you can smoke a cigar. Françoise packed a box among my belongings—the remnants of some forgotten festivity in the Savoy. Do try one. If you like it, may I send you the others?”
The vicar discovered that the gift would be costly—nearly forty Villar y Villars, of exquisite flavor.
“Do you know that you are giving me five pounds?” he laughed.
“I never learn the price of these things. I am so glad they are good. You will enjoy them.”
“It tickles a poor country vicar to hear you talk so easily of Lucullian feasts, Mrs. Saumarez. What must the banquet have been, when the cigars cost a half-crown each!”
“Oh, I am not hard up. Colonel Saumarez had only his army pay, but my estates lie near Hamburg,and you know how that port has grown of recent years.”
“Do you never reside there?”
Mrs. Saumarez inclined a pink-lined parasol so that its reflected tint mingled with the rush of color which suffused her face. Had the worthy vicar given a moment’s thought to the matter, he would have known that his companion wished she had bitten her tongue before it wagged so freely.
“I prefer English society to German,” she answered, after a slight pause.
Oddly enough, this statement was literally true, but she dared not qualify it by the explanation that an autocratic government exacted heavy terms for permitting her to draw a large revenue from her Hamburg property.
Blissfully unaware of treading on anyone’s toes, Mr. Herbert pursued the theme.
“In my spare hours I take an interest in law,” he said. “Your marriage made you a British subject. Does German law raise no difficulty as to alien ownership of land and houses?”
“My family, the von Edelsteins, have great influence.”
This time the vicar awoke to the fact that he might be deemed unduly inquisitive. He knew better than to apologize, or even change the subject abruptly.
“Land tenure is a complex business in old-established countries,” he went on. “Take this village, for example. You may have noticed how every garth runs up the hillside in a long, narrow strip. Ownership of land bordering the moor carries the right of free grazingfor a certain number of sheep, so every freeholder contrives to touch the heather at some point.”
“Ah!” said Mrs. Saumarez, promptly interested, “that explains the peculiar shape of the Bolland land at the back of the White House. An admirable couple, are they not? And so medieval in their notions. I attended what they call a ‘love feast’ the other evening. John Bolland introduced me as ‘Sister Saumarez.’ When he became wrapped up in the service he reminded me, or, rather, filled my ideal, of a high priest in Israel.”
“Was Eli Todd there?”
“The preacher? Yes.”
“He is a fine fellow. Given to use a spiritual sledge-hammer, perhaps, but the implements of the Lord are many and varied. Far be it from me to gainsay the good work done by the dissenting congregations. If there were more chapels, there would be more churches in the land, Mrs. Saumarez.”
They had strolled away from the girls, and little did the vicar dream what deeps they had skirted in their talk.
Angèle led Elsie to the swing.
“Try this,” she said. “It’s just lovely to feel the air sizzing past your ears.”
“I have a swing,” said Elsie, “but not like this one. It is a single rope, with a little crossbar, which I hold in my hands and propel with my feet. It is hard work, I assure you.”
“Grand Dieu! So I should think.”
“Oh!” cried Elsie, “you shouldn’t say that.”
“Vous me faites rire! You speak French?”
“Yes—a little.”
“How stupid of me not to guess. I can say what I like before Martin Bolland. He is a nice boy—Martin.”
“Yes,” agreed Elsie shortly.
She blushed. They were in the swing now, and swooping to and fro in long rushes. Angèle’s black eyes were searching Elsie’s blue ones. She tittered unpleasantly.
“What makes you so red when I speak of Martin?” she demanded.
“I am not red—that is, I have no reason to be.”
“You know him well?”
“Do you mean Martin?”
“Sapristi!—I beg your pardon—who else?”
“I—I have only met him twice, to speak to. I have known him by sight for years.”
“Twice? The first time when he killed that thing—the cat. When was the second?”
Angèle was tugging her rope with greater energy than might be credited to one of her slight frame. The swing was traveling at a great pace. Her fierce gaze disquieted Elsie, to whom this inquisition was irksome.
“Let us stop now,” she said.
“No, no. Tell me when next you saw Martin. Imustknow.”
“But why?”
“Because he became different in his manner all at once. One day he kissed me——”
“Oh, youarehorrid.”
“I swear it. He kissed me last Wednesday afternoon. I did not see him again until Saturday. Then he was cold. He saw you after Wednesday.”
By this time Elsie’s blood was boiling.
“Yes,” she said, and the blue in her eyes held a hardglint. “He saw me on Wednesday night. We happened to be standing at our gate. Frank Beckett-Smythe passed on his bicycle. He was chased by a groom—sent home to be horsewhipped—because he was coming to meet you.”
“O là là!” shrilled Angèle. “That was nine o’clock. Does papa know?”
Poor Elsie crimsoned to the nape of her neck. She wanted to cry—to slap this tormentor’s face. Yet she returned Angèle’s fiery scrutiny with interest.
“Yes,” she said with real heat. “I told him Martin came to our house, but I said nothing about Frank—and you. It was too disgraceful.”
She jerked viciously at her rope to counteract the pull given by Angèle. The opposing strains snapped the crossbar. Both ropes fell, and with them the two pieces of wood. One piece tapped Angèle somewhat sharply on the shoulder, and she uttered an involuntary cry.
The vicar and Mrs. Saumarez hurried up, but the swing stopped gradually. Obviously, neither of the girls was injured.
“You must have been using great force to break that stout bar,” said Mr. Herbert, helping Angèle to alight.
“Yes. Elsie and I were pulling against each other. But we had a lovely time, didn’t we, Elsie?”
“I think I enjoyed it even more than you,” retorted Elsie. The elders attributed her excited demeanor to the accident.
“If the ropes were tied to the crossbeam, they would be safer, and almost as effective,” said the vicar. “Ah!Here comes Martin. Perhaps he can put matters right.”
“I don’t want to swing any more,” vowed Elsie.
“But Martin will,” laughed Angèle. “We can swop partners. That will be jolly, won’t it?”
Blissfully unaware of the thorns awaiting him, the boy advanced. To be candid, he was somewhat awkward in manner. He did not know whether to shake hands all round or simply doff his cap to the entire company. Moreover, he noted Elsie’s presence with mixed feelings, for Mrs. Saumarez’s note had merely invited him to tea. There was no mention of other visitors. He was delighted, yet suspicious. Elsie and Angèle were flint and steel. There might be sparks.
Mrs. Saumarez rescued him from one horn of the dilemma. She extended a hand and asked if Mr. Bolland were not pleased that the rain had ceased.
“Now, Martin,” said the vicar briskly, “shin up the pole and tie the ropes to the center-piece. These strong-armed giantesses have smashed a chunk of timber as thick as your wrist. Don’t allow either of them to hit you. They’ll pulverize you at a stroke.”
“I fear it was I who broke it,” admitted Elsie.
“Then it is you he must beware of.”
The vicar, in the midst of this chaff, gave Martin a “leg-up” the pole, and repairs were effected.
When the swing was in order he slid to the ground. Mr. Herbert resumed the stroll with Mrs. Saumarez. There was an awkward pause before Martin said:
“You girls get in. I’ll start you.”
He spoke collectively, but addressed Elsie. He wondered why her air was so distant.
“No, thank you,” she said. “I’ve done damage enough already.”
“Martin,” murmured Angèle, “she is furious because I said you kissed me.”
This direct attack was a crude blunder. Mischievous and utterly unscrupulous though the girl was, she could not measure this boy’s real strength of character. The great man is not daunted by great difficulties—he grapples with them; and Martin had in him the material of greatness. He felt at once that he must now choose irrevocably between the two girls, with a most unpromising chance of ever again recovering lost ground with one of them. He did not hesitate an instant.
“Did you say that?” he demanded sternly.
“Ma foi! Isn’t it true?”
“The truth may be an insult. You had no right to thrust your schemes into Elsie’s knowledge.”
“My schemes, you—you pig. I spit at you. Isn’t it true?”
“Yes—unfortunately. I shall regret it always.”
Angèle nearly flew at him with her nails. But she contrived to laugh airily.
“Eh bien, mon cher Martin! There will come another time. I shall remember.”
“There will come no other time. You dared me to it. I was stupid enough to forget—for a moment.”
“Forget what?”
“That there was a girl in Elmsdale worth fifty of you—an English girl, not a mongrel!”
It was a boyish retort, feeble, unfair, but the most cutting thing he could think of. The words were spoken in heat; he would have recalled them at once if thatwere possible, but Angèle seized the opening with glee.
“That’s you!” she cried, stabbing her rival with a finger. “Parbleu! I’m a mixture, half English, half German, but really bad French!”
“Please don’t drag me into your interesting conversation,” said Elsie with bitter politeness.
“I am sorry I said that,” put in the boy. “I might have had two friends. Now I have lost both.”
He turned. His intent was to quit the place forthwith. Elsie caught his arm with an alarmed cry.
“Martin,” she almost screamed, “look at your left hand. It is covered with blood!”
Surprised as she, he raised his hand. Blood was streaming down the fingers.
“It’s nothing,” he said coolly. “I must have opened a deep cut by climbing the swing.”
“Quelle horreur!” exclaimed Angèle. “I hate blood!”
“I’m awfully sorry—” began Martin.
“Nonsense! Come at once to the kitchen and have it bound up,” said Elsie.
They hurried off together. Angèle did not offer to accompany them. Martin glanced at Elsie through the corner of his eye. Her set mouth had relaxed somewhat. Anger was yielding to sympathy.
“I was fighting another wildcat, so was sure to get scratched,” he whispered.
“You needn’t have kissed it, anyhow,” she snapped.
“That, certainly, was a mistake,” he admitted.
She made no reply. Once within the house she removed the stained bandage without flinching from the ugly sight of half-healed scars, one of which was bleedingprofusely. Cold water soon stopped the outflow, and one of the maids procured some strips of linen, with which Elsie bound the wound tightly.
They had a moment to themselves in recrossing the hall. Martin ventured to touch the girl’s shoulder.
“Look here, Elsie,” he said boldly, “do you forgive me?”
Something in his voice told her that mere verbal fencing would be useless.
“Yes,” she murmured with a wistful smile. “I’ll forgive, but I can’t forget—for a long time.”
On the lawn they encountered Mrs. Saumarez. Learning from Angèle why the trio had dispersed so suddenly, she was coming to attend to Martin herself.
The vicar joined them.
“Really,” he said, “some sort of ill luck is attached to that swing to-day.”
And then Françoise appeared, to tell them that tea was ready.
“What curious French she talks,” commented the smiling Elsie.
“Yes,” cried Angèle tartly. “Bad French, eh? And I know heaps and heaps of it.”
She caught Mr. Herbert’s eye, and added an excuse:
“I’m going to change all that. People think I’m naughty when I speak like a domestic. And I really don’t mean anything wrong.”
“We all use too much slang,” said the tolerant-minded vicar. “It is sheer indolence. We refuse to bother our brains for the right word.”
Though all hands were needed on the farm in strenuous endeavor to repair the storm’s havoc, Dr. MacGregor forbade Martin to work when he examined the reopened cut. Thus, the boy was free to guide Fritz, the chauffeur, on the morning the man came to look at Bolland’s herd.
Fritz Bauer—that was the name he gave—had improved his English pronunciation marvelously within a fortnight. He no longer confused “d’s” and “t’s.” He had conquered the sibilant sound of the “s.” He was even wrestling with the elusive “th,” substituting “d” for “z.”
“I learnt from a book,” he explained, when Martin complimented him on his mastery of English. “Dat is goot—no, good—but one trains de ear only in de country where de people spik—speak—de language all de time.”
The sharp-witted boy soon came to the conclusion that his German friend was more interested in the money value of the cattle as pedigreed stock than in the “points”—such as weight, color, bone, level back, and milking qualities—which commended them to the experienced eye. Bauer asked where he could obtain a show catalogue, and jotted down the printer’s address. When they happened on a team of Cleveland bays, however,Fritz was thoroughly at home, and gratified his hearer by displaying a horseman’s knowledge of a truly superb animal.
“Dey are light, yet strong,” he said, his eyes roving from high-set withers to shapely hocks and clean-cut fetlocks. “Each could pull a ton on a bad road—yes?”
Martin laughed. He was blind to the cynical smile called forth by his amusement.
“A ton? Two tons. Why, one day last winter, when a pair of Belgians couldn’t move a loaded lorry in the deep snow, my father had the man take out both of ’em, and Prince walked away with the lot.”
“So?” cried the German admiringly.
“But you understand horses,” went on Martin. “Yet I’ve read that men who drive motors don’t care for anything else, as a rule.”
“Ah, dat reminds me,” said the other. “It is a fine day. Come wid me in de machine.”
“That’ll be grand,” said Martin elatedly. “Can you take it out?”
“Oh, yes. Any time I—dat is, I’ll ask Mrs. Saumarez, and she will permit—yes.”
Quarter of an hour later the chauffeur was explaining, in German, that he was going into the country for a long spin, and Mrs. Saumarez was listening, not consenting.
“Going alone?” she inquired languidly.
“No, madam,” he answered. “Martin Bolland will come with me.”
“Why not take Miss Angèle?”
The man smiled.
“I want the boy to talk,” he explained.
Mrs. Saumarez nodded. She treated the matter with indifference. Not so Angèle, who heard the car purring down the drive, and inquired Fritz’s errand. She was furious when her mother blurted out the news that Martin would accompany Bauer.
“Ce cochon d’Allemand!” she stormed, her long lashes wet with vexed tears. “He has done that purposely. He knew I wanted to go. But I’ll get even with him! See if I don’t.”
“Angèle!” and Mrs. Saumarez reddened with annoyance; “if ever you say a word about such matters to Fritz I’ll pack you off to school within the hour. I mean it, so believe me.”
Angèle stamped a rebellious foot, but curbed her tongue and vanished. She ran all the way to the village and was just in time to see the Mercedes bowling smoothly out of sight, with Martin seated beside the chauffeur. She was so angry that she stamped again in rage, and Evelyn Atkinson came from the inn to inquire the cause. But Angèle snubbed her, bought some chocolates from Mr. Webster, and never offered the other girl a taste.
It happened that Martin, for his part, had suggested a call at the vicarage. Fritz vetoed the motion promptly.
“Impossible!” he grinned. “I had to dodge de odder one, yes.”
Evidently Fritz had kept both eyes and ears open.
They headed for the moors. Wise Martin had counseled a slow speed in the village to allay Mrs. Bolland’s dread of a new-fangled device which she “couldn’t abide”; but once on the open road the car breasted asteep hill at a rate which the boy thought neck-breaking.
“Dat is nodding,” said Fritz nonchalantly. “Twenty—twenty-five. Wait till we are on de level. Den I show you fifty.”
Within six minutes Martin flew past Mrs. Summersgill’s moor-edge farm. Never before had he reached that point in less than half an hour. The stout party was in the porch, peeling potatoes for the midday meal. She lifted her hands in astonishment as her young friend sped by. Martin waved a greeting. He could almost hear her say:
“That lad o’ Bolland’s must ha’ gone clean daft. I’m surprised at Martha te let him ride i’ such a conthraption.”
On the hedgeless road of the undulating moor, even after the ravages of the gale, fifty miles an hour was practicable for long stretches. Fritz was a skilled driver. He seemed to have a sixth sense which warned him of rain-gullies, and slowed up to avoid straining the car. He began explaining the mechanism, and halted on the highest point of a far-flung tableland to lift the bonnet and show the delighted boy the operations of the Otto cycle. In those days the self-starter was unknown, but Martin found he could start the heated engine without any difficulty. Fritz permitted him to drive slowly, and taught him the use of the brakes. Finally, this most agreeable Teuton produced a packet of sandwiches. He was in no hurry to return.
“Dese farms,” he said, pointing to a low-built house with tiled roof, and a cluster of stables and haymows, “dey do not raise stock, eh? Only little sheep?”
“They all keep milk-cows, and bring butter to the market, so they often have calves and yearlings,” was the ready answer.
“And horses?”
“Always a couple, and a nag for counting the sheep.”
“How many sheep?”
“Never less than a hundred. Some flocks run to three or four hundred.”
“Ah. Where are dey?”
Martin, proud of his knowledge, indicated the position and approximate distance of the hollows, invisible for the most part, in which lay the larger holdings.
“Do you understand a map?” inquired Fritz.
“Yes. I love maps. They tell you everything, when you can read them properly.”
“Not everyding,” and the man smiled. “Some day I want to visit one of dose big farms. Can you mark a few?”
He spread an Ordnance map—a clean sheet—and gave his guide a pencil. Soon Martin had dotted the paper with accurate information, such as none but one reared in that wild country could have supplied. He was eager to prove his familiarity with a map, and followed each bend and twist of the prehistoric glacier beds, where the lowland becks had their origin. He was not “showing off” before a foreigner. He loved this brown moor and was only too pleased to have found a sympathetic listener.
“The heather is losing its color now,” he said, pausing for a moment in his task. “You ought to see it early in August, when it is all one mass of purple flowers, with here and there a bunch of golden gorse—‘whin,’we call it. Our moor is almost free from bog-holes, so you can walk or ride anywhere with safety. I have often thought what a fine place it would be for an army.”
“Wass ist das?” cried Fritz sharply. He corrected the slip with a laugh. “An army?” he went on, though his newly acquired accent escaped him. “Vot woot an army pe toing here?”
“Oh, just a camp, you know. We hold maneuvers every year in England.”
“Yez. You coot pud all your leedle army on dis grount. Bud dere iss von grade tefecd. Dere iss no water. A vell, in eej farm, yez; bud nod enough for a hundret dousand men, und de horses of four divisions.”
This point of view was novel to the boy. He knit his brows.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” he confessed. “But, wait a bit. There’s far more water here than you would imagine. Stocks have to be watered, you know. Some of the farmers dam the becks. Why, in the Dickenson place over there,” and out went a hand, “they have quite a large reservoir, with trout in it. You’d never guess it existed, if you weren’t told.”
Fritz nodded. He had turned against the breeze to shield a match for a cigarette, and his face was hidden.
“You surprise me,” he murmured, speaking slowly and with care again. “And dere are odders, you say?”
“Five that I know of. Mrs. Walker, at the Broad Ings, rears hundreds of ducks on her pond.”
Fritz took the map and pencil.
“You show me,” he chuckled. “I write an essay onYorkshire moor farms, and perhaps earn a new suit of clo’es, yes? Our Cherman magazines print dose tings.”
That same afternoon a party of guns on a Scottish moor had been shooting driven grouse flying low and fast over the butts before a strong wind. The sportsmen, five in number, were all experts. Around each shelter, with its solitary marksman and his attendant loader, lay a deep crescent of game, every bird shot cleanly.
The last drive of the day was the most successful. One man, whose bronzed skin and military bearing told his profession, handed the empty 12-bore to the gillie when the line of beaters came over the crest of the hill, and betook himself, filling his pipe the while, to a group of ponies waiting on the moorland road in the valley beneath.
He joined another, the earliest arrival.
“Capital ground, this,” he said. “I don’t know whose lot is the more enviable, Heronsdale—yours, who have the pains as well as the pleasure of ownership, or that of wandering vagabonds like myself whom you make your guests.”
Lord Heronsdale smiled.
“You may call yourself a wandering vagabond, Grant—the envy rests with me,” he said. “It’s all very well to have large estates, but I feel like degenerating into a sort of head gamekeeper and farm bailiff combined. Of course, I’m proud of Cairn-corrie, yet I pine sometimes for the excitement of a life that does not travel in grooves.”
The other shook his head.
“Don’t tempt fate,” he said. “My life has been spent among the outer beasts. It isn’t worth it. For a few years of a man’s youth, yes—perhaps. But I am forty, and I live in a club. There, you have my career in a nutshell.”
“There is a fine kernel within. By Gad! Grant, why don’t you pretend I meant that pun? I didn’t, but I’ll claim it at dinner. Gad, it’s fine!”
Colonel Grant laughed. His mirth had a pleasant, wholesome ring.
“If you bribe me with as good a berth to-morrow,” he said, “I’ll give you the chance of throwing it off spontaneously during the first lull in the conversation. The best impromptus are always prepared beforehand, you know.”
Others came up. The shooters mounted, and the wise ponies picked their way with cautious celerity over an uneven track. Colonel Grant again found himself riding beside his host.
“Tell you what,” said Lord Heronsdale suddenly, “you’re a bit of an enigma, Grant.”
“I have often been told that.”
“Gad, I don’t doubt it. A chap like you, with five thousand a year, to chuck the Guards for the Indian Staff Corps, exchange town for the Northwest frontier, go in for potting Afghans instead of running a drag to Sandown; and, to crown all, remain a bachelor. I don’t understand it.”
“Yet, ten minutes ago you were growling about the monotony of existence at Cairn-corrie and half a dozen other places.”
“Not even atu quoquelike that explains the mystery.”
“Some day I’ll tell you all about it. When the time comes I must ask Lady Heronsdale to find me a nice wife, with a warranty.”
“Gad, that’s the job for Mollie.She’llput the future Mrs. Grant through her paces. You’re not flying off to India again, then?”
“No. I heard last week that a post is to be found for me in the Intelligence Department.”
“Capital! You’ll soon have a K. before the C. B.”
“Possibly. Some fellows wear themselves to the bone in trying for those things. My scheming for years has been to avoid the humdrum of cantonment life. And, behold! I am spotted for promotion. I don’t know how the deuce they ever heard of me in Pall Mall.”
“Gad! Don’t you read the papers?”
“Never.”
“My dear fellow, they were full of you last year. That march through the snow, pulling those guns through the pass, the final relief of the fort—Gad, Molly has the cuttings. She’ll show ’em to you after dinner.”
“I sincerely hope Lady Heronsdale will do no such thing. Why on earth does she keep such screeds?”
His lordship dropped his bantering air.
“Do you really imagine, Grant,” he said seriously, “that either she or I will ever forget what you did for Arthur at Peshawar?”
The other man reddened.
“A mere schoolboy episode,” he growled.
“Yes, in a sense. Yet Arthur told me that he hada revolver in his pocket when you met him that night at the mess and persuaded him to leave the business in your hands. You saved our boy, Grant. Gad, ask Mollie what she thinks!”
“Has he been steady since?”
“A rock, my dear chap—adamant where women are concerned. His mother is beginning to worry about him; he wouldn’t look at Helen Forbes, and Madge Bolingbrooke does her skirt-dances in vain. Both deuced nice girls, too.”
Colonel Grant had navigated the talk into a safe channel, and kept it there. He never spoke of the past.
At dinner a man asked him if he was reading the Elmsdale sensation. He had not even heard of it, so the tale of Betsy and George Pickering, of Martin Bolland and Angèle Saumarez was poured into his ears.
“I am interested,” said his neighbor, “because I knew poor Pickering. He hunted regularly with the York and Ainsty.”
“Saumarez!” murmured Colonel Grant. “I once met a man of that name. He was shot on the Modder River.”
“This girl may be his daughter. The paper describes her mother as a lady of independent means, visiting the moors for her health.”
“Poor Saumarez! From what I remember of his character, the child must be a chip of the same block—he was an irresponsible daredevil, a terror among women. But he died gallantly.”
“There’s a lot about her in the local paper, which reached me this morning. Would you care to see it?”
“Newspapers are so inaccurate. They never know the facts.”
Yet the colonel, not caring to play bridge, asked later for the loan of the journal named by his informant, and read therein the story of the village tragedy. As fate willed it, the writer was the reporter of theMessenger, and his account was replete with local knowledge.
Yes, Mrs. Saumarez was the widow of Colonel Saumarez, late of the Hussars. But—what was this?