CHAPTER VIA DEAD MAN AND A LIVE COWARDWHILEHarry’s brother officer was leaning over the dead man on the ground, Charley Turnbull was in terrible difficulties in an adjacent field behind the toll-house. As he heard the sound of hoofs he guessed that the yeomanry was coming up, and he stole, with a trembling heart, across the grass to where a gap in the hedge promised safe egress on to the Brecon road. If he could but reach it without being seen, he would have a good furlong’s start. The gates from field to field were locked, he knew, and, being so, presented insurmountable obstacles to a man of his temperament. He urged his old black horse along as silently as he could, trying the while to unfasten the strings of his bonnet, which, in truth, were almost choking him; but his fingers shook, and his heart beat so violently that he felt almost as if it would throw him from his unaccustomed saddle. Turnbull never rode if he could help it.As he reached the gap he left off pulling at his sun-bonnet, for he needed both hands with which to hold on to the reins. The horse cocked his ears, blew a long, snorting breath, and seemed anxious to test with his nose the nature of the difficulty he was asked to meet. Seeing the little ditch which divided the hedge from the road, he stuck out his forelegs stiffly in front of him, and snorted yet louder; he was a large, gross horse, with bunches of hair on his fetlocks, and his voice tallied with his appearance. Turnbull, in an agony lest the sound should reach the toll, where things were getting much quieter, gave him an angry blow. The beast started forward, pecked,crashed sideways through a stiff bit of wattle on one side of the gap, and landed by a miracle upon his ample feet in the hardest part of the road.The yeomanry officer, while his men were scattered in pursuit of the rioters, was still giving instructions to the police over Vaughan’s body, when he heard a breaking of wood, and saw Charley’s fat figure coming almost headlong through the gap. Howlie Seaborne, staring round-eyed at the scene by the gate, looked up on hearing the sound. The long trot from the courtyard of the Bull Inn had told somewhat upon his appearance, which was a little more dishevelled than before.“There a’ be!” he shouted. “There a’ be! That be Walters—’im as is Rebecca! Did yew ’ear Evans a-croin’ out?”The officer knew that Harry was in pursuit of the murderer—whoever he might be—for he had seen him forcing his way after the big man who had made towards the hill. He had not heard Hosea’s cry, but Howlie’s words were enough; there, at any rate, was the very ringleader of the band, barely half a furlong off. He mounted quickly.Charley had just presence of mind enough to pull his horse’s head towards Brecon, to cling with all his strength to the mane till he had righted himself in the saddle, and to set off at as great a pace as his underbred beast could muster. All that he could think of was those clattering hoofs gaining on him from the toll-gate, and his fear of the animal under him was as nothing to his fear of the man behind. Where he should make for he neither knew nor cared; flight—blessed flight—that was all that his scattered senses could picture. Again and again he struck his horse; use his heels he could not, for the simple reason that his wide skirt had got entangled in the stirrups as he came through the gap, and held his legs firmly bound to the leathers. Half-a-mile had not passed before his pace began to slacken, and, thrash as he might, he could not get the black horse to keep up the gallop at which he had started. Besides,he was getting breathless himself. The rider behind shot alongside, shouting to some one yet in the rear, and a strong hand jerked the bridle out of his convulsive grasp.“I’ve got him!” cried the yeomanry captain exultantly to his follower as they pulled up, “Sergeant, jump off and have him out of the saddle. It’s Walters of Great Masterhouse—I thought he was a better horseman than that!”The sergeant dismounted and seized the prisoner round the waist, but he clung like a limpet to the horse’s neck. Finally, a strong pull brought him heavily down in the road. Both man and officer burst into a peal of laughter.“Sir, sir,” said the stifled voice from the ground, “I swear to Heaven, sir, I be’ant he. Indeed, indeed, I were just pushed sore against my will into this night’s work.”“Who is the fellow?” asked the captain, when he had finished laughing. “The boy said he was Walters.”The sergeant took out a knife and ripped the bonnet-strings apart; mask and bonnet fell together.“It’s Charles Turnbull, sir,” he said, grinning widely. “Turnbull the auctioneer at Waterchurch village.”“Are you sure it’s not Walters?” said the captain, who had never seen Rhys.“No, no, sir, indeed I be’ant,” cried the auctioneer, scrambling to his feet, and stumbling helplessly in the skirt. “Rhys Walters o’ Masterhouse was dressed the same as me, but he’s off. Riding for his neck he is. I never struck a blow, sir, that I didn’t, for I were behind the toll-house, lookin’ on, and I says to myself——”“That’ll do,” said the captain shortly. “Now then, sergeant, up with him again; you can leave his clothes as they are, for the police will want to see all that. Pick up that thing on the ground.”The sergeant picked up the sun-bonnet with another grin, and then hoisted Turnbull into the saddle.“You can pull the reins over the horse’s head and lead him,” said the officer, “he is not likely to try and escape. He hasn’tgot courage enough even for that. And now for the lock-up at Llangarth.”As the three started to retrace their steps towards the town, the bell from the church steeple rang out half-past ten; the sound floated out in their direction, for the chill east wind carried it sharply along the highway. The captain turned up the collar of his cloak, and wished that he were at home in his comfortable quarters with the blankets snugly over him. To trot was out of the question, for the auctioneer, having no reins to hold on by, and possessing no other means of securing himself on horseback, would inevitably come to grief, while he, the officer, was now responsible for his safety until he should deliver him into other hands at Llangarth. The sergeant hooked Turnbull’s reins over his arm, and blew upon his unoccupied fingers.“It’s getting mighty cold, sir,” he hazarded.“We can’t get on any faster with this bundle of old clothes to look after,” said the captain crossly; “if you keep your mouth shut, the cold won’t go down your throat.”His temper was not improved by the prospect of the next couple of miles at a foot’s pace, and the toll was only just coming in sight. The road between them and it was dull and straight, and seemed interminable to two of the riders, Turnbull alone having no great desire to get to the end of the journey.A deathly silence surrounded the ruins of the gate as they reached it at last, and only a couple of figures were moving near the house in that odd, diffused light which precedes moonrise, and which was beginning to touch up the eastern sky. To one of these, which proved on inspection to be Howlie Seaborne, the captain gave his reins as he dismounted. A light could be seen burning through the diamond-paned window. He put his foot on the plinth and looked in, but a half-drawn dimity curtain, and a pot in which a geranium was struggling for life, prevented his seeing what was passing inside. Stepping down again, he turned to the door, and, as it wasajar, pushed it softly open and went in. After one look at the room he removed his busby, and stood holding it in his hand.A low bedstead made of unpolished wood had been drawn into the middle of the floor. The patchwork quilt which covered it trailed upon the carpetless flags, and had evidently been brought in a hurry from some more pretentious bed to spread upon this one. Upon it was the dead figure of the toll-keeper. He lay there waiting for the arrival of a magistrate from Llangarth, straight and still, as he would lie waiting for that other Judge who would one day come to judge his cause. He had wrought well, and his hands, laid simply by his sides, were still clenched. A dark bruise on his left temple from which the blood had oozed made a purple patch on his white, set face. His hair, grey, though abundant, was stained with blood; a pair of strong boots were on his feet, and the pipe he had just been smoking when he rushed out to meet the rioters was still in his pocket. Near him was the stick he had caught up from its corner by the door as he went, for a constable had found it by his body on the road and had brought it in. It had left its mark upon several skins that night.Vaughan was a widower, his wife having been dead some years, but one of those nondescript female relations who rise up to stop gaps in the lives of the poor was in the house, and, as the yeomanry officer came in, she was blowing up the flickering fire with a pair of brass-bound bellows. A constable who had been left to watch the body sat in the background.The captain stood silent, his shadow cast by the spasmodic firelight almost filling the small room. Everything was so still; the sound of the bellows jarred on the stillness; the trivial, persistent noise was like an insult to the presence which was there. He turned sternly to the woman at the hearth; her elbow rose and fell as she looked at him over her shoulder, the flames playing on the outline of her face. The constable in the distance coughed and spat.A rush of sharp air came in at the door, and the bellowsfaltered for a moment, then went on again with redoubled vigour. The woman nodded towards the threshold.“That be she—his daughter,” she explained as she turned again to the fire.The soldier drew reverently back as a girl entered and sprang past him. She sat down on the flags by the bedside and took the dead man’s hand in her own two hands. Not a tear was in her eyes; she only gasped like a trapped animal, and the man listening could see how her lips opened and shut. The sound of the bellows drowned everything. He strode to the hearth and shook the woman violently by the arm. “For God’s sake, put away that infernal thing,” he said.She rose from her knees and hung up the bellows in the chimney-corner, the fire-irons clattering as she searched about among them for the hook. When he looked round again he saw that the girl had fainted and was lying face downwards on the floor.He turned to the bellows-blower, who, now that her occupation had ended, was standing idle by the fire; she took but little heed of what had happened.“You had better do something for her,” he suggested after a pause. “Isn’t there another room that we could take her to? Poor thing, I can carry her there.”“She’s a shameless wench,” said the woman without moving.He went to the bedside and raised Mary in his arms. “Go on,” he ordered, nodding decisively towards the door at the back of the room, and the woman went sullenly forward, while he followed with his burden.He laid the girl in a large wooden chair which was almost the only piece of furniture to be seen. Kneeling by her, he rubbed her palms until her eyelids opened vacantly, and she tried to sit up. As recollection dawned in her eyes she gave a sob, hiding her face.“He’s dead, he’s dead,” she murmured more to herself than to her companions.“Aye, he be dead,” responded the elder woman in heruncompromising voice, “and afore you’ve had time to bring him to disgrace too.”“Sir, sir,” faltered Mary, turning to the captain, “how was it? How——?”“Rhys Walters did it,” interrupted the woman shortly, “he killed him. Ah—he’ll swing for it yet.”Mary got up like a blind person. Her hands were stretched out before her, and she walked straight to the wall till her face touched it. She put up her arms against it, and stood there like an image; only her two hands beat slowly upon the whitewashed stone.“’Twould be well if she had a ring on one o’ they hands o’ hers,” observed the woman.The scene was so painful that the man who was a participator in it could endure it no longer. Pity for the dead man who lay in the dignity of a death bravely come by, was swallowed up in pity for the poor young creature before him. One had faced death, the other had yet to face life. The two little hands beating against the wall, the hard, stupid face of the woman, the cheerless room, all were too horrible to a man of his disposition to be gone through with any longer. He could do nothing for Mary if he stayed, though he could not help feeling cowardly at leaving her to face the first moments of her grief with such a companion. A flutter of icy wind came through a broken pane near him, and his horse out in the road stamped once or twice; his mind ran towards the inn at Llangarth, and he thought of the bright, warm light in the bar.“Here,” he said, holding out half-a-sovereign to the woman, “and mind you look after her.”As he passed through the kitchen where the toll-keeper lay, his eye fell upon the bellows, and he shuddered. “Poor girl,” he said, “poor wretched girl.”Howlie Seaborne was one of those rare persons whose silences are as eloquent as their speech. While the owner of the horse he held was in the toll-house, he stood placidly by its head, his eyes fixed upon the prisoner’s face; he grinned steadily.The formation of his mouth was unusual, for, while other people’s smiles are horizontal, so to speak, his, owing to his rabbit-teeth, was almost vertical.At last Turnbull looked angrily at him. “’Twas you cried out I was Rhys Walters,” he said with a malignant glance.If Howlie heard the words, there was no sign of the fact on his changeless countenance; his one idea appeared to be to see as much of the auctioneer as he could.“I’ll remember this some day,” continued Turnbull; “do ye mind the hiding I gave ye at Crishowell auction last year? Well, ye’ll get another o’ the same sort.”“Oi do,” replied Howlie, his words leaving his grin intact; “if oi hadn’t, yew moightn’t be a-settin’ up there loike a poor zany, an’ on yew’re road to the joil.”Turnbull grew purple. “I’ll do for ye yet,” he said thickly.At this moment the officer came out and got on his horse, throwing a copper to the boy as he let the bridle go.“You’re a young fool, for all that,” he observed as the coin rang upon the road; “that’snot Walters of Masterhouse.”“Naw,” answered Howlie, his gaze still fixed upon the auctioneer.As the three men rode on towards Llangarth his boots could be heard toiling heavily up Crishowell Lane.
WHILEHarry’s brother officer was leaning over the dead man on the ground, Charley Turnbull was in terrible difficulties in an adjacent field behind the toll-house. As he heard the sound of hoofs he guessed that the yeomanry was coming up, and he stole, with a trembling heart, across the grass to where a gap in the hedge promised safe egress on to the Brecon road. If he could but reach it without being seen, he would have a good furlong’s start. The gates from field to field were locked, he knew, and, being so, presented insurmountable obstacles to a man of his temperament. He urged his old black horse along as silently as he could, trying the while to unfasten the strings of his bonnet, which, in truth, were almost choking him; but his fingers shook, and his heart beat so violently that he felt almost as if it would throw him from his unaccustomed saddle. Turnbull never rode if he could help it.
As he reached the gap he left off pulling at his sun-bonnet, for he needed both hands with which to hold on to the reins. The horse cocked his ears, blew a long, snorting breath, and seemed anxious to test with his nose the nature of the difficulty he was asked to meet. Seeing the little ditch which divided the hedge from the road, he stuck out his forelegs stiffly in front of him, and snorted yet louder; he was a large, gross horse, with bunches of hair on his fetlocks, and his voice tallied with his appearance. Turnbull, in an agony lest the sound should reach the toll, where things were getting much quieter, gave him an angry blow. The beast started forward, pecked,crashed sideways through a stiff bit of wattle on one side of the gap, and landed by a miracle upon his ample feet in the hardest part of the road.
The yeomanry officer, while his men were scattered in pursuit of the rioters, was still giving instructions to the police over Vaughan’s body, when he heard a breaking of wood, and saw Charley’s fat figure coming almost headlong through the gap. Howlie Seaborne, staring round-eyed at the scene by the gate, looked up on hearing the sound. The long trot from the courtyard of the Bull Inn had told somewhat upon his appearance, which was a little more dishevelled than before.
“There a’ be!” he shouted. “There a’ be! That be Walters—’im as is Rebecca! Did yew ’ear Evans a-croin’ out?”
The officer knew that Harry was in pursuit of the murderer—whoever he might be—for he had seen him forcing his way after the big man who had made towards the hill. He had not heard Hosea’s cry, but Howlie’s words were enough; there, at any rate, was the very ringleader of the band, barely half a furlong off. He mounted quickly.
Charley had just presence of mind enough to pull his horse’s head towards Brecon, to cling with all his strength to the mane till he had righted himself in the saddle, and to set off at as great a pace as his underbred beast could muster. All that he could think of was those clattering hoofs gaining on him from the toll-gate, and his fear of the animal under him was as nothing to his fear of the man behind. Where he should make for he neither knew nor cared; flight—blessed flight—that was all that his scattered senses could picture. Again and again he struck his horse; use his heels he could not, for the simple reason that his wide skirt had got entangled in the stirrups as he came through the gap, and held his legs firmly bound to the leathers. Half-a-mile had not passed before his pace began to slacken, and, thrash as he might, he could not get the black horse to keep up the gallop at which he had started. Besides,he was getting breathless himself. The rider behind shot alongside, shouting to some one yet in the rear, and a strong hand jerked the bridle out of his convulsive grasp.
“I’ve got him!” cried the yeomanry captain exultantly to his follower as they pulled up, “Sergeant, jump off and have him out of the saddle. It’s Walters of Great Masterhouse—I thought he was a better horseman than that!”
The sergeant dismounted and seized the prisoner round the waist, but he clung like a limpet to the horse’s neck. Finally, a strong pull brought him heavily down in the road. Both man and officer burst into a peal of laughter.
“Sir, sir,” said the stifled voice from the ground, “I swear to Heaven, sir, I be’ant he. Indeed, indeed, I were just pushed sore against my will into this night’s work.”
“Who is the fellow?” asked the captain, when he had finished laughing. “The boy said he was Walters.”
The sergeant took out a knife and ripped the bonnet-strings apart; mask and bonnet fell together.
“It’s Charles Turnbull, sir,” he said, grinning widely. “Turnbull the auctioneer at Waterchurch village.”
“Are you sure it’s not Walters?” said the captain, who had never seen Rhys.
“No, no, sir, indeed I be’ant,” cried the auctioneer, scrambling to his feet, and stumbling helplessly in the skirt. “Rhys Walters o’ Masterhouse was dressed the same as me, but he’s off. Riding for his neck he is. I never struck a blow, sir, that I didn’t, for I were behind the toll-house, lookin’ on, and I says to myself——”
“That’ll do,” said the captain shortly. “Now then, sergeant, up with him again; you can leave his clothes as they are, for the police will want to see all that. Pick up that thing on the ground.”
The sergeant picked up the sun-bonnet with another grin, and then hoisted Turnbull into the saddle.
“You can pull the reins over the horse’s head and lead him,” said the officer, “he is not likely to try and escape. He hasn’tgot courage enough even for that. And now for the lock-up at Llangarth.”
As the three started to retrace their steps towards the town, the bell from the church steeple rang out half-past ten; the sound floated out in their direction, for the chill east wind carried it sharply along the highway. The captain turned up the collar of his cloak, and wished that he were at home in his comfortable quarters with the blankets snugly over him. To trot was out of the question, for the auctioneer, having no reins to hold on by, and possessing no other means of securing himself on horseback, would inevitably come to grief, while he, the officer, was now responsible for his safety until he should deliver him into other hands at Llangarth. The sergeant hooked Turnbull’s reins over his arm, and blew upon his unoccupied fingers.
“It’s getting mighty cold, sir,” he hazarded.
“We can’t get on any faster with this bundle of old clothes to look after,” said the captain crossly; “if you keep your mouth shut, the cold won’t go down your throat.”
His temper was not improved by the prospect of the next couple of miles at a foot’s pace, and the toll was only just coming in sight. The road between them and it was dull and straight, and seemed interminable to two of the riders, Turnbull alone having no great desire to get to the end of the journey.
A deathly silence surrounded the ruins of the gate as they reached it at last, and only a couple of figures were moving near the house in that odd, diffused light which precedes moonrise, and which was beginning to touch up the eastern sky. To one of these, which proved on inspection to be Howlie Seaborne, the captain gave his reins as he dismounted. A light could be seen burning through the diamond-paned window. He put his foot on the plinth and looked in, but a half-drawn dimity curtain, and a pot in which a geranium was struggling for life, prevented his seeing what was passing inside. Stepping down again, he turned to the door, and, as it wasajar, pushed it softly open and went in. After one look at the room he removed his busby, and stood holding it in his hand.
A low bedstead made of unpolished wood had been drawn into the middle of the floor. The patchwork quilt which covered it trailed upon the carpetless flags, and had evidently been brought in a hurry from some more pretentious bed to spread upon this one. Upon it was the dead figure of the toll-keeper. He lay there waiting for the arrival of a magistrate from Llangarth, straight and still, as he would lie waiting for that other Judge who would one day come to judge his cause. He had wrought well, and his hands, laid simply by his sides, were still clenched. A dark bruise on his left temple from which the blood had oozed made a purple patch on his white, set face. His hair, grey, though abundant, was stained with blood; a pair of strong boots were on his feet, and the pipe he had just been smoking when he rushed out to meet the rioters was still in his pocket. Near him was the stick he had caught up from its corner by the door as he went, for a constable had found it by his body on the road and had brought it in. It had left its mark upon several skins that night.
Vaughan was a widower, his wife having been dead some years, but one of those nondescript female relations who rise up to stop gaps in the lives of the poor was in the house, and, as the yeomanry officer came in, she was blowing up the flickering fire with a pair of brass-bound bellows. A constable who had been left to watch the body sat in the background.
The captain stood silent, his shadow cast by the spasmodic firelight almost filling the small room. Everything was so still; the sound of the bellows jarred on the stillness; the trivial, persistent noise was like an insult to the presence which was there. He turned sternly to the woman at the hearth; her elbow rose and fell as she looked at him over her shoulder, the flames playing on the outline of her face. The constable in the distance coughed and spat.
A rush of sharp air came in at the door, and the bellowsfaltered for a moment, then went on again with redoubled vigour. The woman nodded towards the threshold.
“That be she—his daughter,” she explained as she turned again to the fire.
The soldier drew reverently back as a girl entered and sprang past him. She sat down on the flags by the bedside and took the dead man’s hand in her own two hands. Not a tear was in her eyes; she only gasped like a trapped animal, and the man listening could see how her lips opened and shut. The sound of the bellows drowned everything. He strode to the hearth and shook the woman violently by the arm. “For God’s sake, put away that infernal thing,” he said.
She rose from her knees and hung up the bellows in the chimney-corner, the fire-irons clattering as she searched about among them for the hook. When he looked round again he saw that the girl had fainted and was lying face downwards on the floor.
He turned to the bellows-blower, who, now that her occupation had ended, was standing idle by the fire; she took but little heed of what had happened.
“You had better do something for her,” he suggested after a pause. “Isn’t there another room that we could take her to? Poor thing, I can carry her there.”
“She’s a shameless wench,” said the woman without moving.
He went to the bedside and raised Mary in his arms. “Go on,” he ordered, nodding decisively towards the door at the back of the room, and the woman went sullenly forward, while he followed with his burden.
He laid the girl in a large wooden chair which was almost the only piece of furniture to be seen. Kneeling by her, he rubbed her palms until her eyelids opened vacantly, and she tried to sit up. As recollection dawned in her eyes she gave a sob, hiding her face.
“He’s dead, he’s dead,” she murmured more to herself than to her companions.
“Aye, he be dead,” responded the elder woman in heruncompromising voice, “and afore you’ve had time to bring him to disgrace too.”
“Sir, sir,” faltered Mary, turning to the captain, “how was it? How——?”
“Rhys Walters did it,” interrupted the woman shortly, “he killed him. Ah—he’ll swing for it yet.”
Mary got up like a blind person. Her hands were stretched out before her, and she walked straight to the wall till her face touched it. She put up her arms against it, and stood there like an image; only her two hands beat slowly upon the whitewashed stone.
“’Twould be well if she had a ring on one o’ they hands o’ hers,” observed the woman.
The scene was so painful that the man who was a participator in it could endure it no longer. Pity for the dead man who lay in the dignity of a death bravely come by, was swallowed up in pity for the poor young creature before him. One had faced death, the other had yet to face life. The two little hands beating against the wall, the hard, stupid face of the woman, the cheerless room, all were too horrible to a man of his disposition to be gone through with any longer. He could do nothing for Mary if he stayed, though he could not help feeling cowardly at leaving her to face the first moments of her grief with such a companion. A flutter of icy wind came through a broken pane near him, and his horse out in the road stamped once or twice; his mind ran towards the inn at Llangarth, and he thought of the bright, warm light in the bar.
“Here,” he said, holding out half-a-sovereign to the woman, “and mind you look after her.”
As he passed through the kitchen where the toll-keeper lay, his eye fell upon the bellows, and he shuddered. “Poor girl,” he said, “poor wretched girl.”
Howlie Seaborne was one of those rare persons whose silences are as eloquent as their speech. While the owner of the horse he held was in the toll-house, he stood placidly by its head, his eyes fixed upon the prisoner’s face; he grinned steadily.The formation of his mouth was unusual, for, while other people’s smiles are horizontal, so to speak, his, owing to his rabbit-teeth, was almost vertical.
At last Turnbull looked angrily at him. “’Twas you cried out I was Rhys Walters,” he said with a malignant glance.
If Howlie heard the words, there was no sign of the fact on his changeless countenance; his one idea appeared to be to see as much of the auctioneer as he could.
“I’ll remember this some day,” continued Turnbull; “do ye mind the hiding I gave ye at Crishowell auction last year? Well, ye’ll get another o’ the same sort.”
“Oi do,” replied Howlie, his words leaving his grin intact; “if oi hadn’t, yew moightn’t be a-settin’ up there loike a poor zany, an’ on yew’re road to the joil.”
Turnbull grew purple. “I’ll do for ye yet,” he said thickly.
At this moment the officer came out and got on his horse, throwing a copper to the boy as he let the bridle go.
“You’re a young fool, for all that,” he observed as the coin rang upon the road; “that’snot Walters of Masterhouse.”
“Naw,” answered Howlie, his gaze still fixed upon the auctioneer.
As the three men rode on towards Llangarth his boots could be heard toiling heavily up Crishowell Lane.