Chapter Twenty Two.Vane is Taken at a Disadvantage.Vane felt for the moment quite startled, the place being so silent and solitary, but the idea of danger seemed to him absurd, and he stood watching the shadow till all doubt of its being human ceased, for an arm was raised and then lowered as if a signal was being made.“What can it mean?” he thought. And then:—“I’ll soon see.”Just as he had made up his mind to walk forward, there was a slight movement and a sharp crack as of a twig of dead wood breaking under the pressure of a foot, and he who caused the sound, feeling that his presence must be known, stepped out from behind the tree.“Why, I fancied it was Distie,” said Vane to himself with a feeling of relief that he would have found it hard to explain, for it was one of the gipsy lads approaching him in a slow, furtive way.“Thought they were gone long enough ago,” he said to himself; and then speaking: “Hi! you, sir; come here!—Make him try and dig some up. Wonder they don’t hunt for truffles themselves,” he added. “Don’t think they are wholesome, perhaps.”The lad came slowly toward him, but apparently with great unwillingness.“Come on,” cried Vane, “and I’ll give you a penny. Hallo! Here’s the other one!”For the second lad came slouching along beneath the trees.“Here, you two,” cried Vane, waving his trowel; “come along and dig up some of these. That’s right. You’ve got sticks. You can do it with the points.”The second boy had come into sight from among the trees to Vane’s left, and advanced cautiously now, as if doubtful of the honesty of his intentions.“That’s right,” cried Vane. “Come along, both of you, and I’ll give you twopence a piece. Do you hear? I shan’t hurt you.”But they did not hasten their paces, advancing very cautiously, stick in hand, first one and then the other, glancing round as if for a way of escape, as it seemed.“Why, they’re as shy as rabbits,” thought Vane, laughing to himself. “It’s leading such a wild life, I suppose. Here,” he cried to the first lad, who was now within a yard of him, while the other was close behind; “see these? I want some of them. Come on, and I’ll show you how to find them. Why, what did you do that for?”Vane gave a bound forward, wincing with pain, for he had suddenly received a heavy blow on the back from the short cudgel the boy behind him bore, and as he turned fiercely upon him, thrusting the trowel into his basket and doubling his fist to return the blow, the first boy struck him heavily across the shoulder with his stick.If the gipsy lads imagined that the blows would cow Vane, and make him an easy victim for the thrashing they had evidently set themselves to administer, they were sadly mistaken. For uttering a cry of rage as the second blow sent a pang through him, Vane dashed down his basket and trowel, spun round and rushed at his second assailant, but only to receive a severe blow across one wrist while another came again from behind.“You cowards!” roared Vane; “put down those sticks, or come in front.”The lads did neither, and finding in spite of his rage the necessity for caution, Vane sprang to a tree, making it a comrade to defend his back, and then struck out wildly at his assailants.So far his efforts were in vain. Sticks reach farther than fists, and his hands both received stinging blows, one on his right, numbing it for the moment and making him pause to wonder what such an unheard-of attack could mean.Thoughts fly quickly at all times, but with the greatest swiftness in emergencies, and as Vane now stood at bay he could see that these two lads had been watching him for some time past, and that the attack had only been delayed for want of opportunity.“I always knew that gipsies could steal,” he thought, “but only in a little petty, pilfering way. This is highway robbery, and if I give them all I’ve got they will let me go.”Then he considered what he had in his pockets—about seven shillings, including the half-pence—and a nearly new pocket-knife. He was just coming to the conclusion that he might just as well part with this little bit of portable property and escape farther punishment, when one of the boys made a feint at his head and brought his stick down with a sounding crack, just above his left knee, while the other struck him on the shoulder.Vane’s blood was up now, and forgetting all about compromising, he dashed at one of his assailants, hitting out furiously, getting several blows home, in spite of the stick, and the next minute would have torn it from the young scoundrel’s grasp if the other had not attacked him so furiously behind that he had to turn and defend himself there.This gave the boy he was beating time to recover himself, and once more Vane was attacked behind and had to turn again.All this was repeated several times, Vane getting far the worst of the encounter, for the gipsy lads were as active as cats and wonderfully skilful at dealing blows; but all thesame they did not escape punishment, as their faces showed, Vane in his desperation ignoring the sticks and charging home with pretty good effect again and again.“It’s no good; I shall be beaten,” he thought as he now protected himself as well as he could by the shelter afforded by the tree he had chosen, though poor protection it was, for first one and then the other boy would dart in feinting with his stick and playing into the other’s hand and giving him an opportunity to deliver a blow. “I shall have to give in, and the young savages will almost kill me.”And all this time he was flinching, dodging and shrinking here and there, and growing so much exhausted that his breath came thick and fast.“Oh, if I only had a stick!” he panted, as he avoided a blow on one side to receive one on the other; and this made him rush savagely at one of the lads; but he had to draw back, smarting from a sharp blow across the left arm, right above the elbow, and one which half numbed the member.But though he cast longing eyes round, there was no sticks save those carried by the boys, who, with flashing eyes, kept on darting in and aiming wherever they could get a chance. There was one fact, however, which Vane noticed, and which gave him a trifle of hope just when he was most despairing: his adversaries never once struck at his head, contenting themselves by belabouring his arms, back and legs, which promised to be rendered quite useless if the fight went on.And all the time neither of the gipsy lads spoke a word, but kept on leaping about him, making short runs, and avoiding his blows in a way that was rapidly wearing him out.Should he turn and run? No, he thought; they would run over the ground more swiftly than he, and perhaps get him down.Then he thought of crying for help, but refrained, for he felt how distant they were from everyone, and that if he cried aloud he would only be expending his breath.And lastly, the idea came again that he had better offer the lads all he had about him. But hardly had the thought crossed his brain, than a more vicious blow than usual drove it away, and he rushed from the shelter of the tree-trunk at the boy who delivered that blow. In trying to avoid Vane’s fist, he caught his heel, staggered back, and in an instant his stick was wrested from his hand, whistled through the air, and came down with a sounding crack, while what one not looking on might have taken to be an echo of the blow sounded among the trees.But it was not an echo, only the real thing, the second boy having rushed to his brother’s help, and struck at Vane’s shoulder, bringing him fiercely round to attack in turn, stick-armed now, and on equal terms. For Vane’s blow had fallen on the first boy’s head, and he went down half-stunned and bleeding, to turn over and then begin rapidly crawling away on hands and knees.Vane saw this, and he forgot that he was weak, that his arms were numbed and tingling, and that his legs trembled under him. If victory was not within his grasp, he could take some vengeance for his sufferings; and the next minute the beechen glade was ringing with the rattle of stick against stick, as in a state of blind fury now, blow succeeded blow, many not being fended off by the gipsy lad’s stick, but reaching him in a perfect hail on head, shoulders, arms, everywhere. They flew about his head like a firework, making him see sparks in a most startling way till Vane put all his remaining strength into a tremendous blow which took effect upon a horizontal bough; the stick snapped in two close to his hand, and he stood defenceless once more, but the victor after all, for the second boy was running blindly in and out among the trees, and the first was quite out of sight.As he grasped the position, Vane uttered a hoarse shout and started in pursuit, but staggered, reeled, tried to save himself, and came down, heavily upon something hard, from which he moved with great rapidity and picked up to look at in dismay.It was the trowel.A faint, rustling sound amongst the leaves overhead roused Vane to the fact that he must have been sitting there some time in a giddy, half-conscious state, and, looking up, he could see the bright eyes of a squirrel fixed upon him, while its wavy bushy tail was twitching, and the little animal sounded as if it were scolding him for being there; otherwise all was still, and, in spite of his sufferings, it seemed very comical to Vane that the pretty little creature should be abusing him, evidently looking upon him as a thief come poaching upon the winter supply of beech-nuts.Then the giddy feeling grew more oppressive, the trees began to slowly sail round him, and there appeared to be several squirrels and several branches all whisking their bushy tails and uttering that peculiar sound of theirs—chop, chop, chop,—as if they had learned it from the noise made by the woodman in felling trees.What happened then Vane did not know, for when he unclosed his eyes again, it was to gaze at the level rays of the ruddy sun which streamed in amongst the leaves and twigs of the beeches, making them glorious to behold.For a few minutes he lay there unable to comprehend anything but the fact that his head was amongst the rough, woody beech-mast, and that one hand grasped the trowel while the other was full of dead leaves; but as his memory began to work more clearly and he tried to move, the sharp pains which shot through him chased all the mental mists away and he sprang up into a sitting posture unable to resist uttering a groan of pain as he looked round to see if either of the gipsy boys was in sight.
Vane felt for the moment quite startled, the place being so silent and solitary, but the idea of danger seemed to him absurd, and he stood watching the shadow till all doubt of its being human ceased, for an arm was raised and then lowered as if a signal was being made.
“What can it mean?” he thought. And then:—“I’ll soon see.”
Just as he had made up his mind to walk forward, there was a slight movement and a sharp crack as of a twig of dead wood breaking under the pressure of a foot, and he who caused the sound, feeling that his presence must be known, stepped out from behind the tree.
“Why, I fancied it was Distie,” said Vane to himself with a feeling of relief that he would have found it hard to explain, for it was one of the gipsy lads approaching him in a slow, furtive way.
“Thought they were gone long enough ago,” he said to himself; and then speaking: “Hi! you, sir; come here!—Make him try and dig some up. Wonder they don’t hunt for truffles themselves,” he added. “Don’t think they are wholesome, perhaps.”
The lad came slowly toward him, but apparently with great unwillingness.
“Come on,” cried Vane, “and I’ll give you a penny. Hallo! Here’s the other one!”
For the second lad came slouching along beneath the trees.
“Here, you two,” cried Vane, waving his trowel; “come along and dig up some of these. That’s right. You’ve got sticks. You can do it with the points.”
The second boy had come into sight from among the trees to Vane’s left, and advanced cautiously now, as if doubtful of the honesty of his intentions.
“That’s right,” cried Vane. “Come along, both of you, and I’ll give you twopence a piece. Do you hear? I shan’t hurt you.”
But they did not hasten their paces, advancing very cautiously, stick in hand, first one and then the other, glancing round as if for a way of escape, as it seemed.
“Why, they’re as shy as rabbits,” thought Vane, laughing to himself. “It’s leading such a wild life, I suppose. Here,” he cried to the first lad, who was now within a yard of him, while the other was close behind; “see these? I want some of them. Come on, and I’ll show you how to find them. Why, what did you do that for?”
Vane gave a bound forward, wincing with pain, for he had suddenly received a heavy blow on the back from the short cudgel the boy behind him bore, and as he turned fiercely upon him, thrusting the trowel into his basket and doubling his fist to return the blow, the first boy struck him heavily across the shoulder with his stick.
If the gipsy lads imagined that the blows would cow Vane, and make him an easy victim for the thrashing they had evidently set themselves to administer, they were sadly mistaken. For uttering a cry of rage as the second blow sent a pang through him, Vane dashed down his basket and trowel, spun round and rushed at his second assailant, but only to receive a severe blow across one wrist while another came again from behind.
“You cowards!” roared Vane; “put down those sticks, or come in front.”
The lads did neither, and finding in spite of his rage the necessity for caution, Vane sprang to a tree, making it a comrade to defend his back, and then struck out wildly at his assailants.
So far his efforts were in vain. Sticks reach farther than fists, and his hands both received stinging blows, one on his right, numbing it for the moment and making him pause to wonder what such an unheard-of attack could mean.
Thoughts fly quickly at all times, but with the greatest swiftness in emergencies, and as Vane now stood at bay he could see that these two lads had been watching him for some time past, and that the attack had only been delayed for want of opportunity.
“I always knew that gipsies could steal,” he thought, “but only in a little petty, pilfering way. This is highway robbery, and if I give them all I’ve got they will let me go.”
Then he considered what he had in his pockets—about seven shillings, including the half-pence—and a nearly new pocket-knife. He was just coming to the conclusion that he might just as well part with this little bit of portable property and escape farther punishment, when one of the boys made a feint at his head and brought his stick down with a sounding crack, just above his left knee, while the other struck him on the shoulder.
Vane’s blood was up now, and forgetting all about compromising, he dashed at one of his assailants, hitting out furiously, getting several blows home, in spite of the stick, and the next minute would have torn it from the young scoundrel’s grasp if the other had not attacked him so furiously behind that he had to turn and defend himself there.
This gave the boy he was beating time to recover himself, and once more Vane was attacked behind and had to turn again.
All this was repeated several times, Vane getting far the worst of the encounter, for the gipsy lads were as active as cats and wonderfully skilful at dealing blows; but all thesame they did not escape punishment, as their faces showed, Vane in his desperation ignoring the sticks and charging home with pretty good effect again and again.
“It’s no good; I shall be beaten,” he thought as he now protected himself as well as he could by the shelter afforded by the tree he had chosen, though poor protection it was, for first one and then the other boy would dart in feinting with his stick and playing into the other’s hand and giving him an opportunity to deliver a blow. “I shall have to give in, and the young savages will almost kill me.”
And all this time he was flinching, dodging and shrinking here and there, and growing so much exhausted that his breath came thick and fast.
“Oh, if I only had a stick!” he panted, as he avoided a blow on one side to receive one on the other; and this made him rush savagely at one of the lads; but he had to draw back, smarting from a sharp blow across the left arm, right above the elbow, and one which half numbed the member.
But though he cast longing eyes round, there was no sticks save those carried by the boys, who, with flashing eyes, kept on darting in and aiming wherever they could get a chance. There was one fact, however, which Vane noticed, and which gave him a trifle of hope just when he was most despairing: his adversaries never once struck at his head, contenting themselves by belabouring his arms, back and legs, which promised to be rendered quite useless if the fight went on.
And all the time neither of the gipsy lads spoke a word, but kept on leaping about him, making short runs, and avoiding his blows in a way that was rapidly wearing him out.
Should he turn and run? No, he thought; they would run over the ground more swiftly than he, and perhaps get him down.
Then he thought of crying for help, but refrained, for he felt how distant they were from everyone, and that if he cried aloud he would only be expending his breath.
And lastly, the idea came again that he had better offer the lads all he had about him. But hardly had the thought crossed his brain, than a more vicious blow than usual drove it away, and he rushed from the shelter of the tree-trunk at the boy who delivered that blow. In trying to avoid Vane’s fist, he caught his heel, staggered back, and in an instant his stick was wrested from his hand, whistled through the air, and came down with a sounding crack, while what one not looking on might have taken to be an echo of the blow sounded among the trees.
But it was not an echo, only the real thing, the second boy having rushed to his brother’s help, and struck at Vane’s shoulder, bringing him fiercely round to attack in turn, stick-armed now, and on equal terms. For Vane’s blow had fallen on the first boy’s head, and he went down half-stunned and bleeding, to turn over and then begin rapidly crawling away on hands and knees.
Vane saw this, and he forgot that he was weak, that his arms were numbed and tingling, and that his legs trembled under him. If victory was not within his grasp, he could take some vengeance for his sufferings; and the next minute the beechen glade was ringing with the rattle of stick against stick, as in a state of blind fury now, blow succeeded blow, many not being fended off by the gipsy lad’s stick, but reaching him in a perfect hail on head, shoulders, arms, everywhere. They flew about his head like a firework, making him see sparks in a most startling way till Vane put all his remaining strength into a tremendous blow which took effect upon a horizontal bough; the stick snapped in two close to his hand, and he stood defenceless once more, but the victor after all, for the second boy was running blindly in and out among the trees, and the first was quite out of sight.
As he grasped the position, Vane uttered a hoarse shout and started in pursuit, but staggered, reeled, tried to save himself, and came down, heavily upon something hard, from which he moved with great rapidity and picked up to look at in dismay.
It was the trowel.
A faint, rustling sound amongst the leaves overhead roused Vane to the fact that he must have been sitting there some time in a giddy, half-conscious state, and, looking up, he could see the bright eyes of a squirrel fixed upon him, while its wavy bushy tail was twitching, and the little animal sounded as if it were scolding him for being there; otherwise all was still, and, in spite of his sufferings, it seemed very comical to Vane that the pretty little creature should be abusing him, evidently looking upon him as a thief come poaching upon the winter supply of beech-nuts.
Then the giddy feeling grew more oppressive, the trees began to slowly sail round him, and there appeared to be several squirrels and several branches all whisking their bushy tails and uttering that peculiar sound of theirs—chop, chop, chop,—as if they had learned it from the noise made by the woodman in felling trees.
What happened then Vane did not know, for when he unclosed his eyes again, it was to gaze at the level rays of the ruddy sun which streamed in amongst the leaves and twigs of the beeches, making them glorious to behold.
For a few minutes he lay there unable to comprehend anything but the fact that his head was amongst the rough, woody beech-mast, and that one hand grasped the trowel while the other was full of dead leaves; but as his memory began to work more clearly and he tried to move, the sharp pains which shot through him chased all the mental mists away and he sprang up into a sitting posture unable to resist uttering a groan of pain as he looked round to see if either of the gipsy boys was in sight.
Chapter Twenty Three.Where Vane Spent the Night.The squirrel and the squirrel only. There was not even a sound now. Vane could see the basket he had brought and the two pieces of the strong ash stick which he had broken over the fight with the second boy. The ground was trampled and the leaves kicked up, but no enemy was near, and he naturally began to investigate his damages.“They haven’t killed me—not quite,” he said, half-aloud, as he winced in passing his hand over his left shoulder and breast; and then his eyes half-closed, a deathly feeling of sickness came over him and he nearly fainted with horror, for at the touch of his hand a severe pain shot through his shoulder, and he could feel that his breast and armpit was soaking wet.Recovering from the shock of the horrible feeling he took out his handkerchief to act as a bandage, for he felt that he must be bleeding freely from one of the blows, and he knew enough from his uncle’s books about injured arteries to make him set his teeth and determine to try and stop that before he attempted to get to his feet and start for home.His first effort was to unbutton his Norfolk jacket and find the injury which he felt sure must be a cut across the shoulder, but at the first touch of his hand he winced again, and the sick feeling came back with a faint sensation of horror, for there was a horrible grating sound which told of crushed bone and two edges grinding one upon the other.Again he mastered his weakness and boldly thrust his hand into his breast, withdrew it, and burst out into a wild hysterical laugh as he gave a casual glance at his hand before passing it cautiously into his left breast-pocket and bringing out, bit by bit, the fragments of the bottle of preparation which the doctor had dispensed, and that it had been his mission to deliver that afternoon. For in the heat of the struggle, a blow of one of the sticks had crushed the bottle, saturating his breast and side with the medicament, and suggesting to his excited brain a horrible bleeding wound and broken bones.“Oh, dear!” he groaned; and he laughed again, “how easy it is to deceive oneself;” and he busied himself, as he spoke, in picking out the remains of the bottle, and finally turned his pocket inside out and shook it clear.“Don’t smell very nice,” he said with a sigh; “but I hope it’s good for bruises. Well, it’s of no use for me to go on now, so I may as well get back.”He was kneeling now and feeling his arms and shoulders again, and then he cautiously touched his face and head. But there was no pain, no trace of injury in that direction, and he began softly passing his hands up and down his arms, and over his shoulders, wincing with agony at every touch, and feeling that he must get on at once if he meant to reach home, for a terrible stiffness was creeping over him, and when at last he rose to his feet, he had to support himself by the nearest tree, for his legs were bruised from hip to ankle, and refused to support his weight.“It is of no good,” he said at last, after several efforts to go on, all of which brought on a sensation of faintness. “I can’t walk; what shall I do?”He took a step or two, so as to be quite clear of the broken bottle, and then slowly lowered himself down upon the thick bed of beech-mast and leaves, when the change to a recumbent position eased some of his sufferings, and enabled him to think more clearly. And one of the results of this was a feeling of certainty that it would be impossible for him to walk home.Then he glanced round, wondering whether his assailants had gone right away or were only watching prior to coming back to finish their work.“I don’t know what it means,” he said, dolefully. “I can’t see why they should attack me like this. I never did them any harm. It must be for the sake of money, and they’ll come back when I’m asleep.”Vane ground his teeth, partly from rage, partly from pain, as he thrust his hand into his pocket, took out all the money he had, and then after looking carefully round, he raised the trowel, scraped away the leaves, dug a little hole and put in the coins, then covered them up again, spreading the leaves as naturally as possible, and mentally making marks on certain trees so as to remember the spot.At the same time he was haunted by the feeling that his every act was being watched, and that the coins would be found.“Never mind,” he muttered, “they must find them,” and he lay back once more to think about getting home, and whether he could manage the task after a rest, but he grew more and more certain that he could not, for minute by minute he grew cooler, and in consequence his joints and muscles stiffened, so that at last he felt as if he dared not stir.He lay quite still for a while, half-stunned mentally by his position, and glad to feel that he was not called upon to act in any way for the time being, all of which feeling was of course the result of the tremendous exertion through which he had passed, and the physical weakness and shock caused by the blows.It was a soft, deliciously warm evening, and it was restful to lie there, gazing through the trees at the glowing west, which was by slow degrees paling. The time had gone rapidly by during the last two hours or so, and it suddenly occurred to him in a dull, hazy way that the evening meal, a kind of high tea, would be about ready now at the little manor; that Aunt Hannah would be getting up from her work to look out of the window and see if he was coming; and that after his afternoon in the garden, the doctor would have been up to his bedroom and just come down ready to take his seat at the snug, comfortable board.“And they are waiting for me,” thought Vane.The idea seemed more to amuse than trouble him in his half-stupefied state, for everything was unreal and dreamy. He could not fully realise that he was lying there battered and bruised, but found himself thinking as of some one else in whose troubles he took an interest.It was a curious condition of mind to be in, and, if asked, he could not have explained why he felt no anxiety nor wonder whether, after waiting tea for a long time, the doctor would send to meet him, and later on despatch a messenger to the village, where no news would be forthcoming. Perhaps his uncle and aunt would be anxious and would send people in search of him, and if these people were sent they would come along the deep lane and over the moorland piece, thinking that perhaps he would have gone that way for a short cut.Perhaps. It all seemed to be perhaps, in a dull, misty way, and it was much more pleasant to lie listening to the partridges calling out on the moor—that curiously harsh cry, answered by others at a distance, and watch the sky growing gradually grey, and the clouds in the west change from gold to crimson, then to purple, and then turn inky black, while now from somewhere not far away he heard the flapping of wings and a hoarse, crocketing sound which puzzled him for the moment, but as it was repeated here and there, he knew it was the pheasants which haunted that part of the forest, flying up to their roosts for the night, to be safe from prowling animals—four-legged, or biped who walked the woods by night armed with guns.For it did not matter; nothing mattered now. He was tired; and then all was blank.Sleep or stupor, one or the other. Vane had been insensible for hours when he woke up with a start to find that lie was aching and that his head burned. He was puzzled for a few minutes before he could grasp his position. Then all he had passed through came, and he lay wondering whether any search had been made.But still that did not trouble him. He wanted to lie still and listen to the sounds in the wood, and to watch the bright points of light just out through the narrow opening where he had seen the broad red face of the sun dip down, lower and lower out of sight. The intense darkness, too, beneath the beeches was pleasant and restful, and though there were no partridges calling now, there were plenty of sounds to lie and listen to, and wonder what they could be.At another time he would have felt startled to find himself alone out there in the darkness, but in his strangely dulled state now every feeling of alarm was absent, and a sensation akin to curiosity filled his brain. Even the two gipsy lads were forgotten. He had once fancied that they might return, but he had had reasoning power enough left to argue that they would have come upon him long enough before, and to feel that he must have beaten them completely,—frightened them away.And as he lay he awoke to the fact that all was not still in that black darkness, for there was a world of active, busy life at work. Now there came, like a whispering undertone, a faint clicking noise as the leaves moved. There were tiny feet passing over him; beetles of some kind that shunned the light; wood-lice and pill millipedes, hurrying here and there in search of food; and though Vane could not see them he knew that they were there.Again there was the soft rustling movement of a leaf, and then of another a short distance away on the other side of his head. And Vane smiled as he lay there on his back staring up at the overhanging boughs through which now and then he could catch sight of a fine bright ray.For he knew that sound well enough. It was made by great earth worms which reached out of their holes in the cool, moist darkness, feeling about for a soft leaf which they could seize with their round looking mouths, hold tightly, and draw back after them into the hole from which their tails had not stirred.Vane lay listening to this till he was tired, and then waited for some other sound of the night.It was not long in coming—a low, soft, booming buzz of some beetle, which sailed here and there, now close by, now so distant that its hum was almost inaudible, but soon came nearer again till it was right over his head, when there was a dull flip, then a tap on the dry beech-mast.“Cockchafer,” said Vane softly, and he knew that it had blundered up against some twig and fallen to earth, where, though he could not see it, he knew that it was lying upon its back sprawling about with its awkward-looking legs, vainly trying to get on to them again and start upon another flight.Once more there was silence, broken only by a faint, fine hum of a gnat, and the curious wet crackling or rustling sound which rose from the leaves.Then Vane smiled, for in the distance there was a resonant, “Hoi, hoi,” such as might have been made by people come in search of him. But he knew better, as the shout rose up, and nearer and nearer still at intervals, for it was an owl sailing along on its soft, silent pinions, the cry being probably to startle a bird from its roost or some unfortunate young bird or mouse into betraying its whereabouts, so that a feathered leg might suddenly be darted down to seize, with four keen claws all pointing to one centre, and holding with such a powerful grip that escape was impossible.The owl passed through the dark shadowy aisles, and its cry was heard farther and farther away till it died out; but there was no sense of loneliness in the beech-wood. There was always something astir.Now it was a light tripping sound of feet over the dead leaves, the steps striking loudly on the listener’s ear. Then they ceased, as if the animal which made the sounds were cautious and listening for danger. Again trip, trip, trip, plainly heard and coming nearer, and from half-a-dozen quarters now the same tripping sounds, followed by pause after pause, and then the continuation as if the animals were coming from a distance to meet at some central spot.Rap!A quick, sharp blow of a foot on the ground, followed by a wild, tearing rush of rabbits among the trees, off and away to their burrows, not one stopping till its cotton-wool-like tail had followed its owner into some sandy hole.Another pause with the soft petillation of endless life amongst the dead leaves, and then from outside the forest, down by the sphagnum margined pools, where the cotton-rushes grew and the frogs led a cool, soft splashing life, there came a deep-toned bellowing roar, rising and falling with a curious ventriloquial effect as if some large animal had lost its way, become bogged, and in its agony was calling upon its owner for rescue.No large quadruped, only a brown-ruffed, long necked, sharp-billed bittern, the now rare marsh bird which used to haunt the watery solitudes with the heron, but save here and there driven away by drainage and the naturalist’s gun.And as Vane lay and listened, wondering whether the bird uttered its strange, bellowing song from down by a pool, or as it sailed round and round, and higher and higher, over the boggy mere, he recalled the stories Chakes had told him of the days when “bootherboomps weer as plentiful in the mash as wild ducks in winter.” And then he tried to fit the bird’s weird bellowing roar with the local rustic name—“boomp boomp—boother boomp!” but it turned out a failure, and he lay listening to the bird’s cry till it grew fainter and less hoarse. Then fainter still, and at last all was silent, for Vane had sunk once more into a half-insensible state, it could hardly be called sleep, from which he was roused by the singing of birds and the dull, chattering wheezing chorus kept up by a great flock of starlings, high up in the beech tops.The feverish feeling which had kept him from being cold had now passed off, and he lay there chilled to the bone, aching terribly and half-puzzled at finding himself in so strange a place. But by degrees he recalled everything, and feeling that unless he made some effort to crawl out of the beech-wood he might lie there for many hours, perhaps days, he tried to turn over so as to get upon his knees and then rise to his feet.He was not long in finding that the latter was an impossibility, for at the slightest movement the pain was intense, and he lay still once more.But it was terribly cold; he was horribly thirsty, and fifty yards away the beech trees ended and the sun was shining hotly on the chalky bank, while just below there was clear water ready for scooping up with his hand to moisten his cracked lips. In addition, there were blackberries or, if not, dew-berries which he might reach. Only a poor apology for breakfast, but delicious now if he could only get some between his lips.He tried again, then again, each time the pain turning him sick; but there was a great anxiety upon him now. His thoughts were no longer dull and strained in a selfish stupor; he was awake, fully awake, and in mental as well as bodily agony. For his thoughts were upon those at the little manor, and he knew that they must have passed a sleepless night on his account, and he knew, too, that in all probability his uncle had been out with others searching for him, certain that some evil must have befallen or he would have returned.It was a terrible wrench, and he felt as if his muscles were being torn; but with teeth set, he struggled till he was upon hands and knees, and then made his first attempt to crawl, if only for a foot or two.At last, after shrinking again and again, he made the effort, and the start made, he persevered, though all the time there was a singing in his ears, the dead leaves and blackened beech-mast seemed to heave and fall like the surface of the sea, and a racking agony tortured his limbs. But he kept on foot by foot, yard by yard, with many halts and a terrible drag upon his mental powers before he could force himself to recommence. How long that little journey of fifty or sixty yards took he could not tell; all he knew was that he must get out of the forest and into the sunshine, where he might be seen by those who came in search of him; and there was water there—the pure clear water which would be so grateful to his parched lips and dry, husky throat.The feeling of chill was soon gone, for his efforts produced a burning pain in every muscle, but in a dim way he knew that he was getting nearer the edge, for it was lighter, and a faint splashing sound and the beating of wings told of wild-fowl close at hand in that clear water.On then again so slowly, but foot by foot, till the last of the huge pillar-like trunks which had seemed to bar his way was passed, and he slipped down a chalky bank to lie within sight of the water but unable to reach it, utterly spent, when he heard a familiar voice give the Australian call— “Coo-ee!” and he tried to raise a hand but it fell back.Directly after a voice cried:“Hi! Here he is!”The voice was Distin’s, and as he heard it Vane fainted dead away.
The squirrel and the squirrel only. There was not even a sound now. Vane could see the basket he had brought and the two pieces of the strong ash stick which he had broken over the fight with the second boy. The ground was trampled and the leaves kicked up, but no enemy was near, and he naturally began to investigate his damages.
“They haven’t killed me—not quite,” he said, half-aloud, as he winced in passing his hand over his left shoulder and breast; and then his eyes half-closed, a deathly feeling of sickness came over him and he nearly fainted with horror, for at the touch of his hand a severe pain shot through his shoulder, and he could feel that his breast and armpit was soaking wet.
Recovering from the shock of the horrible feeling he took out his handkerchief to act as a bandage, for he felt that he must be bleeding freely from one of the blows, and he knew enough from his uncle’s books about injured arteries to make him set his teeth and determine to try and stop that before he attempted to get to his feet and start for home.
His first effort was to unbutton his Norfolk jacket and find the injury which he felt sure must be a cut across the shoulder, but at the first touch of his hand he winced again, and the sick feeling came back with a faint sensation of horror, for there was a horrible grating sound which told of crushed bone and two edges grinding one upon the other.
Again he mastered his weakness and boldly thrust his hand into his breast, withdrew it, and burst out into a wild hysterical laugh as he gave a casual glance at his hand before passing it cautiously into his left breast-pocket and bringing out, bit by bit, the fragments of the bottle of preparation which the doctor had dispensed, and that it had been his mission to deliver that afternoon. For in the heat of the struggle, a blow of one of the sticks had crushed the bottle, saturating his breast and side with the medicament, and suggesting to his excited brain a horrible bleeding wound and broken bones.
“Oh, dear!” he groaned; and he laughed again, “how easy it is to deceive oneself;” and he busied himself, as he spoke, in picking out the remains of the bottle, and finally turned his pocket inside out and shook it clear.
“Don’t smell very nice,” he said with a sigh; “but I hope it’s good for bruises. Well, it’s of no use for me to go on now, so I may as well get back.”
He was kneeling now and feeling his arms and shoulders again, and then he cautiously touched his face and head. But there was no pain, no trace of injury in that direction, and he began softly passing his hands up and down his arms, and over his shoulders, wincing with agony at every touch, and feeling that he must get on at once if he meant to reach home, for a terrible stiffness was creeping over him, and when at last he rose to his feet, he had to support himself by the nearest tree, for his legs were bruised from hip to ankle, and refused to support his weight.
“It is of no good,” he said at last, after several efforts to go on, all of which brought on a sensation of faintness. “I can’t walk; what shall I do?”
He took a step or two, so as to be quite clear of the broken bottle, and then slowly lowered himself down upon the thick bed of beech-mast and leaves, when the change to a recumbent position eased some of his sufferings, and enabled him to think more clearly. And one of the results of this was a feeling of certainty that it would be impossible for him to walk home.
Then he glanced round, wondering whether his assailants had gone right away or were only watching prior to coming back to finish their work.
“I don’t know what it means,” he said, dolefully. “I can’t see why they should attack me like this. I never did them any harm. It must be for the sake of money, and they’ll come back when I’m asleep.”
Vane ground his teeth, partly from rage, partly from pain, as he thrust his hand into his pocket, took out all the money he had, and then after looking carefully round, he raised the trowel, scraped away the leaves, dug a little hole and put in the coins, then covered them up again, spreading the leaves as naturally as possible, and mentally making marks on certain trees so as to remember the spot.
At the same time he was haunted by the feeling that his every act was being watched, and that the coins would be found.
“Never mind,” he muttered, “they must find them,” and he lay back once more to think about getting home, and whether he could manage the task after a rest, but he grew more and more certain that he could not, for minute by minute he grew cooler, and in consequence his joints and muscles stiffened, so that at last he felt as if he dared not stir.
He lay quite still for a while, half-stunned mentally by his position, and glad to feel that he was not called upon to act in any way for the time being, all of which feeling was of course the result of the tremendous exertion through which he had passed, and the physical weakness and shock caused by the blows.
It was a soft, deliciously warm evening, and it was restful to lie there, gazing through the trees at the glowing west, which was by slow degrees paling. The time had gone rapidly by during the last two hours or so, and it suddenly occurred to him in a dull, hazy way that the evening meal, a kind of high tea, would be about ready now at the little manor; that Aunt Hannah would be getting up from her work to look out of the window and see if he was coming; and that after his afternoon in the garden, the doctor would have been up to his bedroom and just come down ready to take his seat at the snug, comfortable board.
“And they are waiting for me,” thought Vane.
The idea seemed more to amuse than trouble him in his half-stupefied state, for everything was unreal and dreamy. He could not fully realise that he was lying there battered and bruised, but found himself thinking as of some one else in whose troubles he took an interest.
It was a curious condition of mind to be in, and, if asked, he could not have explained why he felt no anxiety nor wonder whether, after waiting tea for a long time, the doctor would send to meet him, and later on despatch a messenger to the village, where no news would be forthcoming. Perhaps his uncle and aunt would be anxious and would send people in search of him, and if these people were sent they would come along the deep lane and over the moorland piece, thinking that perhaps he would have gone that way for a short cut.
Perhaps. It all seemed to be perhaps, in a dull, misty way, and it was much more pleasant to lie listening to the partridges calling out on the moor—that curiously harsh cry, answered by others at a distance, and watch the sky growing gradually grey, and the clouds in the west change from gold to crimson, then to purple, and then turn inky black, while now from somewhere not far away he heard the flapping of wings and a hoarse, crocketing sound which puzzled him for the moment, but as it was repeated here and there, he knew it was the pheasants which haunted that part of the forest, flying up to their roosts for the night, to be safe from prowling animals—four-legged, or biped who walked the woods by night armed with guns.
For it did not matter; nothing mattered now. He was tired; and then all was blank.
Sleep or stupor, one or the other. Vane had been insensible for hours when he woke up with a start to find that lie was aching and that his head burned. He was puzzled for a few minutes before he could grasp his position. Then all he had passed through came, and he lay wondering whether any search had been made.
But still that did not trouble him. He wanted to lie still and listen to the sounds in the wood, and to watch the bright points of light just out through the narrow opening where he had seen the broad red face of the sun dip down, lower and lower out of sight. The intense darkness, too, beneath the beeches was pleasant and restful, and though there were no partridges calling now, there were plenty of sounds to lie and listen to, and wonder what they could be.
At another time he would have felt startled to find himself alone out there in the darkness, but in his strangely dulled state now every feeling of alarm was absent, and a sensation akin to curiosity filled his brain. Even the two gipsy lads were forgotten. He had once fancied that they might return, but he had had reasoning power enough left to argue that they would have come upon him long enough before, and to feel that he must have beaten them completely,—frightened them away.
And as he lay he awoke to the fact that all was not still in that black darkness, for there was a world of active, busy life at work. Now there came, like a whispering undertone, a faint clicking noise as the leaves moved. There were tiny feet passing over him; beetles of some kind that shunned the light; wood-lice and pill millipedes, hurrying here and there in search of food; and though Vane could not see them he knew that they were there.
Again there was the soft rustling movement of a leaf, and then of another a short distance away on the other side of his head. And Vane smiled as he lay there on his back staring up at the overhanging boughs through which now and then he could catch sight of a fine bright ray.
For he knew that sound well enough. It was made by great earth worms which reached out of their holes in the cool, moist darkness, feeling about for a soft leaf which they could seize with their round looking mouths, hold tightly, and draw back after them into the hole from which their tails had not stirred.
Vane lay listening to this till he was tired, and then waited for some other sound of the night.
It was not long in coming—a low, soft, booming buzz of some beetle, which sailed here and there, now close by, now so distant that its hum was almost inaudible, but soon came nearer again till it was right over his head, when there was a dull flip, then a tap on the dry beech-mast.
“Cockchafer,” said Vane softly, and he knew that it had blundered up against some twig and fallen to earth, where, though he could not see it, he knew that it was lying upon its back sprawling about with its awkward-looking legs, vainly trying to get on to them again and start upon another flight.
Once more there was silence, broken only by a faint, fine hum of a gnat, and the curious wet crackling or rustling sound which rose from the leaves.
Then Vane smiled, for in the distance there was a resonant, “Hoi, hoi,” such as might have been made by people come in search of him. But he knew better, as the shout rose up, and nearer and nearer still at intervals, for it was an owl sailing along on its soft, silent pinions, the cry being probably to startle a bird from its roost or some unfortunate young bird or mouse into betraying its whereabouts, so that a feathered leg might suddenly be darted down to seize, with four keen claws all pointing to one centre, and holding with such a powerful grip that escape was impossible.
The owl passed through the dark shadowy aisles, and its cry was heard farther and farther away till it died out; but there was no sense of loneliness in the beech-wood. There was always something astir.
Now it was a light tripping sound of feet over the dead leaves, the steps striking loudly on the listener’s ear. Then they ceased, as if the animal which made the sounds were cautious and listening for danger. Again trip, trip, trip, plainly heard and coming nearer, and from half-a-dozen quarters now the same tripping sounds, followed by pause after pause, and then the continuation as if the animals were coming from a distance to meet at some central spot.
Rap!
A quick, sharp blow of a foot on the ground, followed by a wild, tearing rush of rabbits among the trees, off and away to their burrows, not one stopping till its cotton-wool-like tail had followed its owner into some sandy hole.
Another pause with the soft petillation of endless life amongst the dead leaves, and then from outside the forest, down by the sphagnum margined pools, where the cotton-rushes grew and the frogs led a cool, soft splashing life, there came a deep-toned bellowing roar, rising and falling with a curious ventriloquial effect as if some large animal had lost its way, become bogged, and in its agony was calling upon its owner for rescue.
No large quadruped, only a brown-ruffed, long necked, sharp-billed bittern, the now rare marsh bird which used to haunt the watery solitudes with the heron, but save here and there driven away by drainage and the naturalist’s gun.
And as Vane lay and listened, wondering whether the bird uttered its strange, bellowing song from down by a pool, or as it sailed round and round, and higher and higher, over the boggy mere, he recalled the stories Chakes had told him of the days when “bootherboomps weer as plentiful in the mash as wild ducks in winter.” And then he tried to fit the bird’s weird bellowing roar with the local rustic name—“boomp boomp—boother boomp!” but it turned out a failure, and he lay listening to the bird’s cry till it grew fainter and less hoarse. Then fainter still, and at last all was silent, for Vane had sunk once more into a half-insensible state, it could hardly be called sleep, from which he was roused by the singing of birds and the dull, chattering wheezing chorus kept up by a great flock of starlings, high up in the beech tops.
The feverish feeling which had kept him from being cold had now passed off, and he lay there chilled to the bone, aching terribly and half-puzzled at finding himself in so strange a place. But by degrees he recalled everything, and feeling that unless he made some effort to crawl out of the beech-wood he might lie there for many hours, perhaps days, he tried to turn over so as to get upon his knees and then rise to his feet.
He was not long in finding that the latter was an impossibility, for at the slightest movement the pain was intense, and he lay still once more.
But it was terribly cold; he was horribly thirsty, and fifty yards away the beech trees ended and the sun was shining hotly on the chalky bank, while just below there was clear water ready for scooping up with his hand to moisten his cracked lips. In addition, there were blackberries or, if not, dew-berries which he might reach. Only a poor apology for breakfast, but delicious now if he could only get some between his lips.
He tried again, then again, each time the pain turning him sick; but there was a great anxiety upon him now. His thoughts were no longer dull and strained in a selfish stupor; he was awake, fully awake, and in mental as well as bodily agony. For his thoughts were upon those at the little manor, and he knew that they must have passed a sleepless night on his account, and he knew, too, that in all probability his uncle had been out with others searching for him, certain that some evil must have befallen or he would have returned.
It was a terrible wrench, and he felt as if his muscles were being torn; but with teeth set, he struggled till he was upon hands and knees, and then made his first attempt to crawl, if only for a foot or two.
At last, after shrinking again and again, he made the effort, and the start made, he persevered, though all the time there was a singing in his ears, the dead leaves and blackened beech-mast seemed to heave and fall like the surface of the sea, and a racking agony tortured his limbs. But he kept on foot by foot, yard by yard, with many halts and a terrible drag upon his mental powers before he could force himself to recommence. How long that little journey of fifty or sixty yards took he could not tell; all he knew was that he must get out of the forest and into the sunshine, where he might be seen by those who came in search of him; and there was water there—the pure clear water which would be so grateful to his parched lips and dry, husky throat.
The feeling of chill was soon gone, for his efforts produced a burning pain in every muscle, but in a dim way he knew that he was getting nearer the edge, for it was lighter, and a faint splashing sound and the beating of wings told of wild-fowl close at hand in that clear water.
On then again so slowly, but foot by foot, till the last of the huge pillar-like trunks which had seemed to bar his way was passed, and he slipped down a chalky bank to lie within sight of the water but unable to reach it, utterly spent, when he heard a familiar voice give the Australian call— “Coo-ee!” and he tried to raise a hand but it fell back.
Directly after a voice cried:
“Hi! Here he is!”
The voice was Distin’s, and as he heard it Vane fainted dead away.
Chapter Twenty Four.The Law Asks Questions.Seeing the rush made by Gilmore and Macey, Bruff hesitated for a few moments, and then turned and shouted to Joseph, the next man.“They’ve fun suthin,” and ran after them.Joseph turned and shouted to Wrench, the carpenter.“They’ve got him,” and followed Bruff.Wrench shouted to Chakes and ran after Joseph, and in this House-that-Jack-built fashion the news ran along the line to the doctor and rector, and right to the end, with the result that all came hurrying along in single-file, minute by minute increasing the size of the group about where Vane lay quite insensible now.“Poor old chap,” cried Macey, dropping on his knees by his friend’s side, Gilmore kneeling on the other, and both feeling his hands and face, which were dank and cold, while Distin stood looking down grimly but without offering to stir.“Don’t say he’s dead, sir,” panted Bruff.“No, no, he’s not dead,” cried Macey. “Fetch some water; no, run for the doctor.”“He’s coming, sir,” cried Joseph, shading his eyes to look along the line. “He won’t be long. Hi—hi—yi! Found, found, found!” roared the man, and his cry was taken up now and once more the news flew along the line, making all redouble their exertions, even the rector, who had not done such a thing for many years, dropping into the old football pace of his youth, with his fists up and trotting along after the doctor.But the progress was very slow. It was a case of the more haste the worst speed, for a bee-line through ancient gorse bushes and brambles is not perfection as a course for middle-aged and elderly men not accustomed to go beyond a walk. Every one in his excitement caught the infection, and began to run, but the mishaps were many. Chakes, whose usual pace was one mile seven furlongs per hour, more or less, tripped and went down; and as nobody stopped to help him, three men passed him before he had struggled up and began to look about for his hat. The next to go down was Rounds, the miller, who, after rushing several tangles like an excited rhinoceros, came to grief over an extra tough bramble strand, and went down with a roar.“Are you hurt, Mr Rounds?” panted the doctor.“Hurt!” cried the churchwarden, “I should think I am, sir. Five hundred million o’ thorns in me. But don’t you wait. You go on, and see to that boy,” he continued, as he drew himself into a sitting position. “Dessay he wants you more than I do.”“Then I will go on, Mr Rounds; forgive me for leaving you.”“All right, sir, and you too, parson; goo on, niver mind me.”The rector seemed disposed to stay, for he was breathless, but he trotted on, and was close to the doctor, as he reached the group on the other side of the stream.“Not dead?” panted the doctor.“Oh no, sir,” cried Macey, “but he’s very bad; seems to have tumbled about among the trees a great deal. Look at his face.”The doctor knelt down after making the men stand back.“Must have fallen heavily,” he said, as he began his examination. “Head cut, great swelling, bruise across his face, and eye nearly closed. This is no fall, Mr Syme. Good heavens! look at his hand and wrist. The poor fellow has been horribly beaten with sticks, I should say.”“But tell me,” panted the rector; “he is not—”“No, no, not dead; insensible, but breathing.”“Found him, gentlemen?” said a voice; and as the rector looked up, it was to see the two police constables on their way to join them.“Yes, yes,” cried the rector; “but, tell me, was there any firing in the night—any poachers about?”“No, sir; haven’t seen or heard of any lately; we keep too sharp a look-out. Why, the young gent has got it severely. Some one’s been knocking of him about.”“Don’t stop to talk,” cried the doctor. “I must have him home directly.”“Here, how is he?” cried a bluff voice; and Rounds now came up, dabbing his scratched and bleeding face with his handkerchief.“Bad, bad, Rounds,” said the doctor.“Bad? Ay, he is. But, halloo, who is been doing this?”He looked around at his fellow-townsmen, and then at Vane’s fellow-pupils so fiercely that Gilmore said quickly:“Not I, Mr Rounds.”“Silence!” cried the doctor angrily. “It is of vital importance that my nephew should be carried home at once.”“Oh, we’ll manage that, sir,” said one of the constables as he slipped off his greatcoat and spread it on the ground. “Now, if we lift him and lay him upon that, and half-a-dozen take hold of the sides and try to keep step, we can get him along.”“Yes, that’s right,” cried the doctor, superintending the lifting, which drew a faint groan from Vane. “Poor lad!” he said; “but I’m glad to hear that. Now then, better keep along this side of the stream till we can cut across to the lane. Here, I want a good runner.”“I’ll go,” said Gilmore quickly.“Yes, you,” said the doctor, “go and tell my wife to have Vane’s bed ready. Say we have found him hurt, but not very badly.”“Why not take him to the rectory?” said Mr Syme. “It is nearer.”“Thank you, but I’ll have him at home,” said the doctor.“One moment, gentlemen,” said the first constable, book in hand. “I want to know exactly where he was found.”“Here, man, here,” cried the doctor. “Now then, lift him carefully, and keep step. If I say stop, lower him directly.”“Yes, sir; go on,” said the constable. “We must have a look round before we come away. P’r’aps you’d stop along with us, Mr Churchwarden, sir, and maybe one of you young gents would stay,” he continued, addressing Distin.“Me—me stay!” said the lad starting, and flushing to his brow.“Yes, sir. Young gents’ eyes are sharp and see things sometimes.”“Yes, Distin, my dear boy,” said the rector, “stop with them. You are going to search?”“Yes, sir. That young gent couldn’t have got into that state all by himself, and we want to find out who did it.”The man glanced sharply at Distin again as he spoke, and the young Creole avoided his eye with the result that the constable made a note in his book with a pencil which seemed to require wetting before it would mark.“I think,” said the rector, “it is my duty to stay here, as this matter is assuming a serious aspect.”“Thank ye, sir; I should be glad if you would,” said the constable. “It do begin to look serious.”“Joseph, run on after Dr Lee, and tell him why I am staying. Say that he is to use the carriage at once if he wishes to send for help or nurse. I shall not be very long.”Joseph ran off at a sharp trot after the departing group, and the constable went slowly forward after carefully examining the ground where Vane had been found.“Keep back, everybody, please. Plenty of footprints here,” he said, “but all over, I’m afraid. Hah! Look here, sir,” he continued, pointing down at the loose sand and pebbles; “he crawled along here on his hands and knees.”Distin looked sallow and troubled now, and kept on darting furtive looks at those about, several of the men having stopped back to see what the constable might find.“Don’t see no steps but his,” said the constable, who seemed to be keenly observant for so rustic-looking a man. “Hah, that’s where he come down, regularly slipped, you see.”He pointed to the shelving bank of chalk, on the top of which the beeches began, and over which their long, lithe branches drooped.“Steady, please. I’ll go on here by myself with you two gents. You see as no one else follows till I give leave.”The second constable nodded, and the bank was climbed, the rector telling Distin to hold out a hand to help him—a hand that was very wet and cold, feeling something like the tail of a codfish.Here the constable had no difficulty in finding Vane’s track over the dead leaves and beech-mast for some distance, and then he uttered an ejaculation as he pounced upon a broken stick, one of the pieces being stained with blood.“It’s getting warm,” he said. “Oh, yes, don’t come forward, gentlemen. Here we are: ground’s all trampled and kicked up, and what’s this here? Little trowel and a basket and—”He turned over the contents of the basket with a puzzled expression.“Aren’t taters,” he said, holding the basket to the rector.“No, my man, they are truffles.”“Oh, yes, sir, I can see they’re trifles.”“Truffles, my man, troofles,” said the rector. “The poor fellow must have been digging them up.”“But no one wouldn’t interfere with him for digging up that stuff, sir. I mean keepers or the like. And there’s been two of ’em here, simminly. Oh, yes, look at the footmarks, only they don’t tell no tales. I like marks in soft mud, where you can tell the size, and what nails was in the boots. Stuff like this shows nothing. Halloo, again.”“Found something else?” cried the rector excitedly.“Bits o’ broken glass, sir,—glass bottle. There’s a lot of bits scattered about.”The constable searched about the grass of the beech grove where the struggle had taken place, but not being gifted with the extraordinary eyes and skill of an American Indian, he failed to find the track of Vane’s assailants going and coming, and he was about to give up when the rector pointed to a couple of places amongst the dead leaves which looked as if two hands had torn up some of the dead leaves.“Ay, that’s someat,” said the constable quickly. “I see, sir, you’re quite right. Some one went down here and—Phee-ew!” he whistled as he picked up a leaf. “See that, sir?”The rector looked, shuddered and turned away, but Distin pressed forward with a curious, half-fascinated aspect, and stared down at the leaf the constable held out, pointing the while to several more like it which lay upon the ground.“Blood?” said Distin in a hoarse voice.“Yes, sir, that’s it. Either the young gent or some one else had what made that. Don’t look nice, do it?”Distin shuddered, and the constable made another note in his book, moistening his pencil over and over again and glancing thoughtfully at Distin as he wrote in a character that might have been called cryptographic, for it would have defied any one but the writer to have made it out.“Well, constable,” said the rector at last, “what have you discovered?”“That the young gent was out here, sir, digging up them tater things as he was in the habit of grubbing up—weeds and things. I’ve seen him before.”“Yes, yes,” said the rector. “Well?”“And then some one come and went at him.”“Some one,” said the rector, “I thought you said two.”“So I did, sir, and I thought so at first, but I don’t kind o’ find marks of more than one, and he broke this stick about Mr Vane, and the wonder to me is as he hasn’t killed him. Perhaps he has.”“But what motive? It could not have been the keepers.”“Not they, sir. They liked him.”“Could it be poachers?”“Can’t say, sir. Hardly. What would they want to ’tack a young gent like that for?”“Have there been any tramps about who might do it for the sake of robbery?”“Ha’n’t been a tramp about here for I don’t know how long, sir. We’re quite out of them trash. Looks to me more like a bit o’ spite.”“Spite?”“Yes, sir. Young gent got any enemies as you know on?”The rector laughed and Distin joined in, making the constable scratch his head.“Oh, no, my man, we have no enemies in my parish. You have not got the right clue this time. Try again.”“I’m going to, sir, but that’s all for to-day,” said the man, buttoning up his book in his pocket. “I think we’ll go back to the town now.”“By all means,” said the rector. “Very painful and very strange. Come, Distin.”As he spoke he walked from under the twilight of the great beech-wood out into the sunshine, where about a dozen of the searchers were waiting impatiently in charge of the second constable for a report of what had been done.As the rector went on, Distin looked keenly round and then bent down over the leaves which bore the ugly stains, and without noticing that the constable had stolen so closely to him, that when he raised his head he found himself gazing full in the man’s searching eyes.“Very horrid, sir, aren’t it,” he said.“Yes, yes, horrible,” cried Distin, hastily, and he turned sharply round to follow the rector.At that moment the constable touched him on the shoulder with the broken stick, and Distin started round and in spite of himself shivered at the sight of the pieces.“Yes,” he said hoarsely, as his face now was ghastly. “You want to speak to me?”“Yes, sir, just a word or two. Would you mind telling me where you was yesterday afternoon—say from four to six o’clock?”“I—I don’t remember,” said Distin. “Why do you ask?”“The law has a right to ask questions, sir, and doesn’t always care about answering of them,” said the man with a twinkle of the eye. “You say you don’t know where you was?”“No. I am not sure. At the rectory, I think.”“You aren’t sure, sir, but at the rectory, you think. Got rather a bad memory, haven’t you, sir?”“No, excellent,” cried Distin desperately.“You says as you was at the rectory yesterday afternoon when this here was done?”“How do you know it was done in the afternoon,” said Distin, quickly.“Reason one, ’cause the young gent went in the afternoon to Lenby. Reason two, ’cause he was digging them trifles o’ taters, and young gents don’t go digging them in the dark. That do, sir?”“Yes. I feel sure now that I was at the rectory,” said Distin, firmly.“Then I must ha’ made a mistake, sir—eyes nothing like so good as they was.”“What do you mean,” cried Distin, changing colour once more.“Oh, nothing, sir, nothing, only I made sure as I see you when I was out in my garden picking apples in the big old tree which is half mine, half my mate’s. But of course it was my mistake. Thought you was going down the deep lane.”“Oh, no, I remember now,” said Distin, carelessly; “I go out so much to think and study, that I often quite forget. Yes, I did go down the lane—of course, and I noticed how many blackberries there were on the banks.”“Ay, there are a lot, sir—a great lot to-year. The bairns gets quite basketsful of ’em.”“Are you coming, Distin?” cried the rector.“Yes, sir, directly,” cried Distin; and then haughtily, “Do you want to ask me any more questions, constable?”“No, sir, thankye; that will do.”“Then, good-morning.”Distin walked away with his head up, and a nonchalant expression on his countenance, leaving the constable looking after him.“Want to ask me any more questions, constable,” he said, mimicking Distin’s manner. “Then good-morning.”He stood frowning for a few minutes, and nodded his head decisively.“Well,” he said, “you’re a gentleman, I suppose, and quite a scholard, or you wouldn’t be at parson’s, but if you aren’t about as artful as they make ’em, I’m as thick-headed as a beetle. Poor lad! Only a sort o’ foreigner, I suppose. What a blessing it is to be born a solid Englishman. Not as I’ve got a word again your Irishman and Scotchman, or your Welsh, if it comes to that, but what can you expect of a lad born out in a hot climate that aren’t good for nobody but blacks?”He took a piece of string out of his pocket, and very carefully tied the trowel and pieces of broken stick together as firmly as if they were to be despatched on a long journey. Then he opened the basket, peeped in, and frowned at the truffles, closed it up and went out.“Any of you as likes can go in now,” he said, and shaking his head solemnly as questions began to pour upon him from all sides respecting the stick and basket, he strode off with his colleague in the direction of the town, gaining soon upon the rector, who was too tired and faint to walk fast, for it was not his habit to pass the night out of bed, and take a walk of some hours’ duration at early dawn.
Seeing the rush made by Gilmore and Macey, Bruff hesitated for a few moments, and then turned and shouted to Joseph, the next man.
“They’ve fun suthin,” and ran after them.
Joseph turned and shouted to Wrench, the carpenter.
“They’ve got him,” and followed Bruff.
Wrench shouted to Chakes and ran after Joseph, and in this House-that-Jack-built fashion the news ran along the line to the doctor and rector, and right to the end, with the result that all came hurrying along in single-file, minute by minute increasing the size of the group about where Vane lay quite insensible now.
“Poor old chap,” cried Macey, dropping on his knees by his friend’s side, Gilmore kneeling on the other, and both feeling his hands and face, which were dank and cold, while Distin stood looking down grimly but without offering to stir.
“Don’t say he’s dead, sir,” panted Bruff.
“No, no, he’s not dead,” cried Macey. “Fetch some water; no, run for the doctor.”
“He’s coming, sir,” cried Joseph, shading his eyes to look along the line. “He won’t be long. Hi—hi—yi! Found, found, found!” roared the man, and his cry was taken up now and once more the news flew along the line, making all redouble their exertions, even the rector, who had not done such a thing for many years, dropping into the old football pace of his youth, with his fists up and trotting along after the doctor.
But the progress was very slow. It was a case of the more haste the worst speed, for a bee-line through ancient gorse bushes and brambles is not perfection as a course for middle-aged and elderly men not accustomed to go beyond a walk. Every one in his excitement caught the infection, and began to run, but the mishaps were many. Chakes, whose usual pace was one mile seven furlongs per hour, more or less, tripped and went down; and as nobody stopped to help him, three men passed him before he had struggled up and began to look about for his hat. The next to go down was Rounds, the miller, who, after rushing several tangles like an excited rhinoceros, came to grief over an extra tough bramble strand, and went down with a roar.
“Are you hurt, Mr Rounds?” panted the doctor.
“Hurt!” cried the churchwarden, “I should think I am, sir. Five hundred million o’ thorns in me. But don’t you wait. You go on, and see to that boy,” he continued, as he drew himself into a sitting position. “Dessay he wants you more than I do.”
“Then I will go on, Mr Rounds; forgive me for leaving you.”
“All right, sir, and you too, parson; goo on, niver mind me.”
The rector seemed disposed to stay, for he was breathless, but he trotted on, and was close to the doctor, as he reached the group on the other side of the stream.
“Not dead?” panted the doctor.
“Oh no, sir,” cried Macey, “but he’s very bad; seems to have tumbled about among the trees a great deal. Look at his face.”
The doctor knelt down after making the men stand back.
“Must have fallen heavily,” he said, as he began his examination. “Head cut, great swelling, bruise across his face, and eye nearly closed. This is no fall, Mr Syme. Good heavens! look at his hand and wrist. The poor fellow has been horribly beaten with sticks, I should say.”
“But tell me,” panted the rector; “he is not—”
“No, no, not dead; insensible, but breathing.”
“Found him, gentlemen?” said a voice; and as the rector looked up, it was to see the two police constables on their way to join them.
“Yes, yes,” cried the rector; “but, tell me, was there any firing in the night—any poachers about?”
“No, sir; haven’t seen or heard of any lately; we keep too sharp a look-out. Why, the young gent has got it severely. Some one’s been knocking of him about.”
“Don’t stop to talk,” cried the doctor. “I must have him home directly.”
“Here, how is he?” cried a bluff voice; and Rounds now came up, dabbing his scratched and bleeding face with his handkerchief.
“Bad, bad, Rounds,” said the doctor.
“Bad? Ay, he is. But, halloo, who is been doing this?”
He looked around at his fellow-townsmen, and then at Vane’s fellow-pupils so fiercely that Gilmore said quickly:
“Not I, Mr Rounds.”
“Silence!” cried the doctor angrily. “It is of vital importance that my nephew should be carried home at once.”
“Oh, we’ll manage that, sir,” said one of the constables as he slipped off his greatcoat and spread it on the ground. “Now, if we lift him and lay him upon that, and half-a-dozen take hold of the sides and try to keep step, we can get him along.”
“Yes, that’s right,” cried the doctor, superintending the lifting, which drew a faint groan from Vane. “Poor lad!” he said; “but I’m glad to hear that. Now then, better keep along this side of the stream till we can cut across to the lane. Here, I want a good runner.”
“I’ll go,” said Gilmore quickly.
“Yes, you,” said the doctor, “go and tell my wife to have Vane’s bed ready. Say we have found him hurt, but not very badly.”
“Why not take him to the rectory?” said Mr Syme. “It is nearer.”
“Thank you, but I’ll have him at home,” said the doctor.
“One moment, gentlemen,” said the first constable, book in hand. “I want to know exactly where he was found.”
“Here, man, here,” cried the doctor. “Now then, lift him carefully, and keep step. If I say stop, lower him directly.”
“Yes, sir; go on,” said the constable. “We must have a look round before we come away. P’r’aps you’d stop along with us, Mr Churchwarden, sir, and maybe one of you young gents would stay,” he continued, addressing Distin.
“Me—me stay!” said the lad starting, and flushing to his brow.
“Yes, sir. Young gents’ eyes are sharp and see things sometimes.”
“Yes, Distin, my dear boy,” said the rector, “stop with them. You are going to search?”
“Yes, sir. That young gent couldn’t have got into that state all by himself, and we want to find out who did it.”
The man glanced sharply at Distin again as he spoke, and the young Creole avoided his eye with the result that the constable made a note in his book with a pencil which seemed to require wetting before it would mark.
“I think,” said the rector, “it is my duty to stay here, as this matter is assuming a serious aspect.”
“Thank ye, sir; I should be glad if you would,” said the constable. “It do begin to look serious.”
“Joseph, run on after Dr Lee, and tell him why I am staying. Say that he is to use the carriage at once if he wishes to send for help or nurse. I shall not be very long.”
Joseph ran off at a sharp trot after the departing group, and the constable went slowly forward after carefully examining the ground where Vane had been found.
“Keep back, everybody, please. Plenty of footprints here,” he said, “but all over, I’m afraid. Hah! Look here, sir,” he continued, pointing down at the loose sand and pebbles; “he crawled along here on his hands and knees.”
Distin looked sallow and troubled now, and kept on darting furtive looks at those about, several of the men having stopped back to see what the constable might find.
“Don’t see no steps but his,” said the constable, who seemed to be keenly observant for so rustic-looking a man. “Hah, that’s where he come down, regularly slipped, you see.”
He pointed to the shelving bank of chalk, on the top of which the beeches began, and over which their long, lithe branches drooped.
“Steady, please. I’ll go on here by myself with you two gents. You see as no one else follows till I give leave.”
The second constable nodded, and the bank was climbed, the rector telling Distin to hold out a hand to help him—a hand that was very wet and cold, feeling something like the tail of a codfish.
Here the constable had no difficulty in finding Vane’s track over the dead leaves and beech-mast for some distance, and then he uttered an ejaculation as he pounced upon a broken stick, one of the pieces being stained with blood.
“It’s getting warm,” he said. “Oh, yes, don’t come forward, gentlemen. Here we are: ground’s all trampled and kicked up, and what’s this here? Little trowel and a basket and—”
He turned over the contents of the basket with a puzzled expression.
“Aren’t taters,” he said, holding the basket to the rector.
“No, my man, they are truffles.”
“Oh, yes, sir, I can see they’re trifles.”
“Truffles, my man, troofles,” said the rector. “The poor fellow must have been digging them up.”
“But no one wouldn’t interfere with him for digging up that stuff, sir. I mean keepers or the like. And there’s been two of ’em here, simminly. Oh, yes, look at the footmarks, only they don’t tell no tales. I like marks in soft mud, where you can tell the size, and what nails was in the boots. Stuff like this shows nothing. Halloo, again.”
“Found something else?” cried the rector excitedly.
“Bits o’ broken glass, sir,—glass bottle. There’s a lot of bits scattered about.”
The constable searched about the grass of the beech grove where the struggle had taken place, but not being gifted with the extraordinary eyes and skill of an American Indian, he failed to find the track of Vane’s assailants going and coming, and he was about to give up when the rector pointed to a couple of places amongst the dead leaves which looked as if two hands had torn up some of the dead leaves.
“Ay, that’s someat,” said the constable quickly. “I see, sir, you’re quite right. Some one went down here and—Phee-ew!” he whistled as he picked up a leaf. “See that, sir?”
The rector looked, shuddered and turned away, but Distin pressed forward with a curious, half-fascinated aspect, and stared down at the leaf the constable held out, pointing the while to several more like it which lay upon the ground.
“Blood?” said Distin in a hoarse voice.
“Yes, sir, that’s it. Either the young gent or some one else had what made that. Don’t look nice, do it?”
Distin shuddered, and the constable made another note in his book, moistening his pencil over and over again and glancing thoughtfully at Distin as he wrote in a character that might have been called cryptographic, for it would have defied any one but the writer to have made it out.
“Well, constable,” said the rector at last, “what have you discovered?”
“That the young gent was out here, sir, digging up them tater things as he was in the habit of grubbing up—weeds and things. I’ve seen him before.”
“Yes, yes,” said the rector. “Well?”
“And then some one come and went at him.”
“Some one,” said the rector, “I thought you said two.”
“So I did, sir, and I thought so at first, but I don’t kind o’ find marks of more than one, and he broke this stick about Mr Vane, and the wonder to me is as he hasn’t killed him. Perhaps he has.”
“But what motive? It could not have been the keepers.”
“Not they, sir. They liked him.”
“Could it be poachers?”
“Can’t say, sir. Hardly. What would they want to ’tack a young gent like that for?”
“Have there been any tramps about who might do it for the sake of robbery?”
“Ha’n’t been a tramp about here for I don’t know how long, sir. We’re quite out of them trash. Looks to me more like a bit o’ spite.”
“Spite?”
“Yes, sir. Young gent got any enemies as you know on?”
The rector laughed and Distin joined in, making the constable scratch his head.
“Oh, no, my man, we have no enemies in my parish. You have not got the right clue this time. Try again.”
“I’m going to, sir, but that’s all for to-day,” said the man, buttoning up his book in his pocket. “I think we’ll go back to the town now.”
“By all means,” said the rector. “Very painful and very strange. Come, Distin.”
As he spoke he walked from under the twilight of the great beech-wood out into the sunshine, where about a dozen of the searchers were waiting impatiently in charge of the second constable for a report of what had been done.
As the rector went on, Distin looked keenly round and then bent down over the leaves which bore the ugly stains, and without noticing that the constable had stolen so closely to him, that when he raised his head he found himself gazing full in the man’s searching eyes.
“Very horrid, sir, aren’t it,” he said.
“Yes, yes, horrible,” cried Distin, hastily, and he turned sharply round to follow the rector.
At that moment the constable touched him on the shoulder with the broken stick, and Distin started round and in spite of himself shivered at the sight of the pieces.
“Yes,” he said hoarsely, as his face now was ghastly. “You want to speak to me?”
“Yes, sir, just a word or two. Would you mind telling me where you was yesterday afternoon—say from four to six o’clock?”
“I—I don’t remember,” said Distin. “Why do you ask?”
“The law has a right to ask questions, sir, and doesn’t always care about answering of them,” said the man with a twinkle of the eye. “You say you don’t know where you was?”
“No. I am not sure. At the rectory, I think.”
“You aren’t sure, sir, but at the rectory, you think. Got rather a bad memory, haven’t you, sir?”
“No, excellent,” cried Distin desperately.
“You says as you was at the rectory yesterday afternoon when this here was done?”
“How do you know it was done in the afternoon,” said Distin, quickly.
“Reason one, ’cause the young gent went in the afternoon to Lenby. Reason two, ’cause he was digging them trifles o’ taters, and young gents don’t go digging them in the dark. That do, sir?”
“Yes. I feel sure now that I was at the rectory,” said Distin, firmly.
“Then I must ha’ made a mistake, sir—eyes nothing like so good as they was.”
“What do you mean,” cried Distin, changing colour once more.
“Oh, nothing, sir, nothing, only I made sure as I see you when I was out in my garden picking apples in the big old tree which is half mine, half my mate’s. But of course it was my mistake. Thought you was going down the deep lane.”
“Oh, no, I remember now,” said Distin, carelessly; “I go out so much to think and study, that I often quite forget. Yes, I did go down the lane—of course, and I noticed how many blackberries there were on the banks.”
“Ay, there are a lot, sir—a great lot to-year. The bairns gets quite basketsful of ’em.”
“Are you coming, Distin?” cried the rector.
“Yes, sir, directly,” cried Distin; and then haughtily, “Do you want to ask me any more questions, constable?”
“No, sir, thankye; that will do.”
“Then, good-morning.”
Distin walked away with his head up, and a nonchalant expression on his countenance, leaving the constable looking after him.
“Want to ask me any more questions, constable,” he said, mimicking Distin’s manner. “Then good-morning.”
He stood frowning for a few minutes, and nodded his head decisively.
“Well,” he said, “you’re a gentleman, I suppose, and quite a scholard, or you wouldn’t be at parson’s, but if you aren’t about as artful as they make ’em, I’m as thick-headed as a beetle. Poor lad! Only a sort o’ foreigner, I suppose. What a blessing it is to be born a solid Englishman. Not as I’ve got a word again your Irishman and Scotchman, or your Welsh, if it comes to that, but what can you expect of a lad born out in a hot climate that aren’t good for nobody but blacks?”
He took a piece of string out of his pocket, and very carefully tied the trowel and pieces of broken stick together as firmly as if they were to be despatched on a long journey. Then he opened the basket, peeped in, and frowned at the truffles, closed it up and went out.
“Any of you as likes can go in now,” he said, and shaking his head solemnly as questions began to pour upon him from all sides respecting the stick and basket, he strode off with his colleague in the direction of the town, gaining soon upon the rector, who was too tired and faint to walk fast, for it was not his habit to pass the night out of bed, and take a walk of some hours’ duration at early dawn.
Chapter Twenty Five.Bates is Obstinate.Gilmore reached the Little Manor to find Aunt Hannah ready to hurry out and meet him, and he shrank from giving his tidings, fearing that it would be a terrible shock.But he could keep nothing back with those clear, trusting eyes fixed upon him, and he gave his message.“You would not deceive me, Mr Gilmore?” she said. “You are sure that he is only badly hurt; the doctor—my husband—hasn’t sent you on to soften worse news to come?”“Indeed no,” cried Gilmore warmly. “Don’t think that. He is very bad. It is not worse.”Aunt Hannah closed her eyes, and he saw her lips move for a few moments. He could not hear the words she spoke, but he took off his hat, and bent his head till she laid her hand upon his arm.“Thank God!” she said fervently. “I feared the worst. They are coming on, you say?”“Yes, but it will be quite an hour before they can get here. You will excuse me, Mrs Lee, I want to get back to poor old Vane’s side.”“Yes, go,” she said cheerfully. “I shall be very busy getting ready for him. The doctor did not say that you were to take anything back?”“No,” said Gilmore; and he hurried away, admiring the poor little lady’s fortitude, for he could see that she was suffering keenly, and only too glad to be alone.As he hurried back to the town he was conscious for the first time that his lower garments were still saturated and patched with dust; that his hands were torn and bleeding, and that his general aspect was about as disordered as it could possibly be. In fact he felt that he looked as if he had been spending the early morning trying to drag a pond, and that every one who saw him would be ready to jeer.On the contrary, though he met dozens of people all eager to question him about Vane, no one appeared to take the slightest notice of his clothes, and he could not help learning how popular his friend was among the townsfolk, as he saw their faces assume an aspect of joy and relief.“I wonder whether they would make so much fuss about me,” he said to himself; and, unable to arrive at a self-satisfying conclusion, he began to think what a blank it would have made in their existence at the rectory if Vane had been found dead. From that, as he hurried along, he began to puzzle himself about the meaning of it all, and was as far off from a satisfactory conclusion as when he began, on coming in sight of the little procession with the doctor walking on one side of Vane, and Macey upon the other.He had not spoken, but lay perfectly unconscious, and there was not the slightest change when, followed by nearly the whole of the inhabitants of Greythorpe, he was borne in at the Little Manor Gate, the crowd remaining out in the road waiting for such crumbs of news as Bruff brought to them from time to time.There was not much to hear, only that the doctor had carefully examined Vane when he had been placed in bed, and found that his arms and shoulders were horribly beaten and bruised, and that the insensibility still lasted, while Doctor Lee had said something about fever as being a thing to dread.They were the words of wisdom, for before many hours had passed Vane was delirious and fighting to get out of bed and defend himself against an enemy always attacking him with a stick.He did not speak, only shrank and cowered and then attacked in turn fiercely, producing once more the whole scene so vividly that the doctor and Aunt Hannah could picture everything save the enemy who had committed the assault.The next evening, while the rector sat thinking over the bad news he had heard from the Little Manor half-an-hour before, Joseph tapped at the door to announce a visitor, and the rector said that he might be shown in.Macey was at the Little Manor. Gilmore and Distin were in the grounds when the visitor was seen entering the gate, and the latter looked wildly round, as if seeking for the best way to escape; but mastering himself directly, he stood listening to Gilmore, who exclaimed:“Hallo! here’s Mr PC. Let’s go and ask him if he has any news about the brute who nearly killed poor old Vane.”“No,” said Distin, hoarsely; “let’s wait till he comes out.”“All right,” replied Gilmore; and he stood in the gloom beneath the great walnut tree watching the constable go up to the porch, ring, and, after due waiting, enter, his big head, being seen soon after, plainly shown against the study shaded lamp.“Well, constable,” said the rector; “you have news for me?”“Yes, sir.”“About the assailant of my poor pupil?”“Yes, sir, and I should have been here before, only it was Magistrates’ day, and I had to go over to the town to attend a case.”“Well, what have you found out? Do you know who the person was that assailed Mr Vane Lee?”“Yes, sir: I’m pretty sure.”“Not some one in this town?”“Yes, sir.”“Surely not. I cannot think that any one would be so cruel.”“Sorry to say it is so, sir, as far as I know; and I’m pretty sure now.”“But who? We have so few black sheep here, I am thankful to say. Not Tompkins?”“No, sir.”“Jevell?”“No, sir, some one much nigher home than that, sir, I’m sorry to say.”“Well, speak, and put me out of my suspense.”“Some one here, sir,” said the constable, after drawing a long breath.“What!”“Fact, sir. Some one as lives here at the rectory.”“In the name of common sense, man,” cried the rector, angrily, “whom do you mean—me?”“No, sir, that would be too bad,” said the constable.“Whom, then?”“Your pupil, sir, Mr Distin.”Had a good solid Japanese earthquake suddenly shaken down all the walls of the rectory and left the Reverend Morton Syme seated in his easy chair unhurt and surrounded by débris and clouds of dust, he could not have looked more astonished. He stared at the constable, who stood before him, very stiff, much buttoned up and perfectly unmoved, as a man would stand who feels his position unassailable.Then quietly and calmly taking out his gold-rimmed spring eye-glasses, the rector drew a white pocket-handkerchief from his breast, carefully polished each glass, put them on and stared frowningly at his visitor, who returned the look for a time, and then feeling his position irksome and that it called for a response, he coughed, saluted in military fashion and settled his neck inside his coat collar.“You seem to be perfectly sober, Bates,” said the rector at last.“Sober, sir?” said the man quickly. “Well, I think so, sir.”“Then, my good man, you must be mad.”The constable smiled.“Beg pardon, sir. That’s just what criminals make a point of saying when you charge ’em. Not as I mean, sir,” he added hastily, “that you are a criminal, far from it.”“Thank you, my man, I hope not. But what in the name of common sense has put it into your head that my pupil, Mr Distin, could be guilty of such a terrible deed? Oh, it’s absurd—I mean monstrous.”The constable looked at him stolidly, and then said slowly:“Suckumstarnces, sir, and facks.”“But, really, my good man, I—Stop! You said you had been over to the town and met your chief officer. Surely you have not started this shocking theory there.”“Oh, yes, sir. In dooty bound. I told him my suspicions.”“Well, what did he say?”The constable hesitated, coughed, and pulled himself tightly together.“I asked you what your chief officer said, sir.”“Well, sir, if I must speak I must. He said I was a fool.”“Ah, exactly,” cried the rector, eagerly. Then, checking himself, he said with a deprecating smile: “No, no, Bates, I do not endorse that, for I have always found you a very respectable, intelligent officer, who has most efficiently done his duty in Greythorpe; and unless it were for your benefit, I should be very sorry to hear of your being removed.”“Thankye, sir; thankye kindly,” said the constable.“But in this case, through excess of zeal, I am afraid you have gone much too far. Mr Lance Distin is a gentleman, a student, and of very excellent family. A young man of excellent attainments, and about as likely to commit such a brutal assault as you speak of, as—as, well, for want of a better simile, Bates, as I am.”The constable shook his head and looked very serious.“Now, tell me your reasons for making such a charge.”The explanations followed.“Flimsy in the extreme, Bates,” said the rector triumphantly, and as if relieved of a load. “And you show no more common sense than to charge a gentleman with such a crime solely because you happened to see him walking in that direction.”“Said he wasn’t out, sir.”“Well, a slip—a piece of forgetfulness. We might either of us have done the same. But tell me, why have you come here?”“Orders was to investigate, and if I found other facts, sir, to communicate with the chief constable.”“Of course. Now, you see, my good man, that what I say is correct—that through excess of zeal you are ready to charge my pupil—a gentleman entrusted to my charge by his father in the West Indies—a pupil to whom, during his stay in England, I actin loco parentis—and over whose career I shall have to watch during his collegiate curriculum—with a crime that must have been committed by some tramp. You understand me?”“Yes, sir, all except the French and the cricklum, but I daresay all that’s right.”The rector smiled.“Now, are you satisfied that you have made a mistake?”“No, sir, not a bit of it,” said the constable stolidly.The rector made a deprecating gesture with his hand, rose and rang the bell. Then he returned to his seat, sat back and waited till the bell was answered.“Have the goodness, Joseph, to ask Mr Distin to step here.”“If I might make so bold, sir,” interposed the constable, “I should like you to have ’em all in.”“One of my pupils, Mr Macey, is at the manor.”“Macey? That’s the funny one,” said the constable. “Perhaps you’d have in them as is at home.”“Ask Mr Gilmore to step in too.”Joseph withdrew, and after a painful silence, steps were heard in the porch.“By the way, Bates,” said the rector, hastily, “have you spread this charge?”“No, sir; of course not.”“Does not Doctor Lee know?”“Not yet, sir. Thought it my dooty to come fust to you.”“I thank you, Bates. It was very considerate of you. Hush!”Distin’s voice was heard saying something outside in a loud, laughing way, and the next moment he tapped and entered.“Joseph said you wished to see me, sir.” Then, with an affected start as he saw the constable standing there, “Have you caught them?”“Be good enough to sit down, Distin. Gilmore, take a chair.” Then, after a pause:“You are here, Gilmore, at the constable’s request, but the matter does not affect you. My dear Distin, it does affect you, and I want you to help me convince this zealous but wrong-headed personage that he is labouring under a delusion.”“Certainly, sir,” replied Distin, cheerfully. “What is the delusion?”“In plain, simple English, my dear boy, he believes that you committed that cruel assault upon poor Vane Lee.”“Oh,” exclaimed Distin, springing up and gazing excited at the constable, his eyes full of reproach—a look which changed to one of indignation, and with a stamp of the foot like one that might be given by an angry girl, he cried: “How dare he!”“Ah, yes! How dare he,” said the rector. “But pray do not be angry, my dear boy. There is no need. Bates is a very good, quiet, sensible man who comes here in pursuance of what he believes to be his duty, and I am quite convinced that as soon as he realises the fact that he has made a great mistake he will apologise, and there will be an end of it.”The constable did not move a muscle, but stood gazing fixedly at Distin, who uttered a contemptuous laugh.“Well, Mr Syme,” he said, “what am I to do? Pray give me your advice.”“Certainly, and it is my duty to act as your counsel; so pray forgive me for asking you questions which you may deem unnecessary—for I grant that they are as far as I am concerned, but they are to satisfy this man.”“Pray ask me anything you like, sir,” cried Distin with a half-contemptuous laugh.“Then tell me this, on your honour as a gentleman: did you assault Vane Lee?”“No!” cried Distin.“Did you meet him in the wood the day before yesterday?”“No.”“Did you encounter him anywhere near there, quarrel with and strike him?”“No, no, no,” cried Distin, “and I swear—”“There is no need to swear, Mr Distin. You are on your honour, sir,” said the rector.“Well, sir, on my honour I did not see Vane Lee from the time he left this study the day before yesterday till I found him lying below the chalk-bank by that stream.”“Thank you, Distin. I am much obliged for your frank disclaimer,” said the rector, gravely. “As I intimated to you all this was not necessary to convince me, but to clear away the scales from this man’s eyes. Now, Bates,” he continued, turning rather sternly to the constable, “are you satisfied?”“No, sir,” said the man bluntly, “not a bit.”“Why, you insolent—”“Silence, Mr Distin,” said the rector firmly.“But, really, sir, this man’s—”“I said silence, Mr Distin. Pray contain yourself. Recollect what you are. I will say anything more that I consider necessary.”He cleared his throat, sat back for a few moments, and then turned to the constable.“Now, my good fellow, you have heard Mr Distin’s indignant repudiation of this charge, and you are obstinately determined all the same.”“Don’t know about obstinate, sir,” replied the constable, “I am only doing my duty, sir.”“What you conceive to be your duty, Bates. But you are wrong, my man, quite wrong. You are upon the wrong scent. Now I beg of you try to look at this in a sensible light and make a fresh start to run down the offender. You see you have made a mistake. Own to it frankly, and I am sure that Mr Distin will be quite ready to look over what has been said.”Just then there was a tap at the door.“May I come in, sir?”“Yes, come in, my dear boy. You have just arrived from the Manor?”“Yes, sir,” said Macey.“How is Vane?”Macey tried to answer, but something seemed to rise in his throat, and when he did force out his words they sounded low and husky.“Awfully bad, sir. The doctor took me up, but he doesn’t know anybody. Keeps going on about fighting.”“Poor lad,” said the rector, with a sigh. “But, look here, Macey, you must hear this. The constable here—Bates—has come to announce to me his belief that the assault was committed by your fellow-pupil.”“Distin?” cried Macey, sharply, and as he turned to him the Creole’s jaw dropped.“Yes, but it is of course a mistake, and has been disproved. I was pointing out to Bates here the folly of an obstinate persistence in such an idea, when you entered.” Then turning once more to the constable, “Come, my man, you see now that you are in the wrong.”“No, sir,” said the constable, “I didn’t see it before, but I feel surer now that I’m right.”“What?”“That young gent thinks so too.”“Mr Macey? Absurd!”“See how he jumped to it directly, sir.”“Nonsense, man! Nonsense,” cried the rector. “Here, Macey, my dear boy, I suppose, as a man of peace, I must strive to convince this wrong-headed personage. Tell him that he is half mad.”“For thinking Distin did it, sir?” replied Macey, slowly.“Exactly—yes.”“It wouldn’t be quite fair, sir, because I’m afraid I thought so, too.”The constable gave his leg a slap.“You—you dare to think that,” cried Distin.“Hush! hush! hush!” said the rector, firmly. “Macey, my dear boy, what cause have you for thinking such a thing.”“Distin hates him.”The constable drew a long breath, and he had hard work to preserve his equanimity in good official style.“My dear Macey,” cried the rector reproachfully, “surely you are not going, on account of a few boyish disagreements, to think that your fellow-pupil would make such a murderous attack. Come, you don’t surely believe that?”“No,” said Macey slowly, “I don’t now: I can’t believe that he would be such a wretch.”“There!” cried the rector, triumphantly. “Now, constable, there is no more to say, except that I beg you will not expose me and mine to painful trouble, and yourself to ridicule by going on with this baseless charge.”“Can’t say, sir, I’m sure,” replied the constable. “I want to do my dooty, and I want to show respect to you, Mr Syme, sir, as has always been a good, kind gentleman to me; but we’re taught as no friendly or personal feelings is to stand in the way when we want to catch criminals. So, with all doo respect to you, I can’t make no promises.”“I shall not ask you, my man,” replied the rector; “what I do say is go home and think it over. In a day or two I hope and trust that my pupil Vane Lee will be well enough to enlighten us as to who were his assailants.”“I hope so, sir. But suppose he dies?”“Heaven forbid! my man. There, do as I say: go back and think over this meeting seriously, and believe me I shall be very glad to see you come to me to-morrow and say frankly, from man to man—I have been in the wrong. Don’t shrink from doing so. It is an honour to anyone to avow that he was under a misapprehension.”“Thankye, sir, and good-night,” said the constable, as the rector rang for Joseph to show him out; and the next minute all sat listening to his departing steps on the gravel, followed by theclick click click clickof the swing-gate.The rector looked round as if he were about to speak, but he altered his mind, and the three pupils left the room, Distin going up to his chamber without a word, while attracted by the darkness Gilmore and Macey strolled out through the open porch into the grounds.“Suppose he dies?” said Macey, almost unconsciously repeating the constable’s words.“Oh, I say, don’t talk like that,” cried Gilmore. “It isn’t likely, and you shouldn’t have turned against poor old Distie as you did.”“I couldn’t help it,” said Macey, sadly. “You’d have thought the same if the doctor had let you go up to see poor old Weathercock. It was horrid. His face is dreadful, and his arms are black and blue from the wrist to the shoulder.”“But Dis declared that he hadn’t seen him,” cried Gilmore.“I hope he hadn’t, for it’s too horrid to think a fellow you mix with could be such a wretch.”Gilmore turned sharply round to his companion, but it was too dark to see his face. There was something, however, in his tone of voice which struck him as being peculiar. It did not sound confident of Distin’s innocence. There was a want of conviction in his words too, and this set Gilmore thinking as to the possibility of Distin having in a fit of rage and dislike quarrelled with and then beaten Vane till the stick was broken and his victim senseless.The idea grew rapidly as he stood there beside Macey in the darkness, and he recalled scores of little incidents all displaying Distin’s dislike of his fellow-pupil; and as Gilmore thought on, a conscious feeling of horror, almost terror, crept over him till his common sense began to react and argue the matter out so triumphantly that in a voice full of elation he suddenly and involuntarily exclaimed:“It’s absurd! He couldn’t.”“What’s absurd? Who couldn’t,” cried Macey, starting from a reverie.“Did I say that aloud?” said Gilmore, wonderingly.“Why, you shouted it.”“I was thinking about whether it was possible that the constable was right.”“That’s queer,” said Macey; “I was thinking just the same.”“And that Distie had done it?”“Yes.”“Well, don’t you see that it is impossible?”“No, I wish I could,” said Macey sadly; “can you?”“Why, of course. Vane’s as strong as Distie, isn’t he?”“Yes, quite.”“And he can use his fists.”“I should rather think he can. I put on the gloves with him one day and he sent me flying. But what has that got to do with it?”“Everything. Do you think Distie could have pitched into Vane with a stick and not got something back?”“Why, of course he couldn’t.”“Well, there you are, then. He hasn’t got a scratch.”“Hist! What’s that,” said Macey, softly.“Sounded like a window squeaking.”“Come away,” whispered Macey taking his companion by the arm, and leading him over the turf before he stopped some distance now from the house.“What is it?” said Gilmore then.“That noise; it was old Distie at his window. I could just make him out. He had been listening to what we said.”“Listeners never hear—” began Gilmore.“Any good of themselves,” said Macey, finishing the old saying.“Well, I don’t mind.”“More don’t I.”And the two lads went in.
Gilmore reached the Little Manor to find Aunt Hannah ready to hurry out and meet him, and he shrank from giving his tidings, fearing that it would be a terrible shock.
But he could keep nothing back with those clear, trusting eyes fixed upon him, and he gave his message.
“You would not deceive me, Mr Gilmore?” she said. “You are sure that he is only badly hurt; the doctor—my husband—hasn’t sent you on to soften worse news to come?”
“Indeed no,” cried Gilmore warmly. “Don’t think that. He is very bad. It is not worse.”
Aunt Hannah closed her eyes, and he saw her lips move for a few moments. He could not hear the words she spoke, but he took off his hat, and bent his head till she laid her hand upon his arm.
“Thank God!” she said fervently. “I feared the worst. They are coming on, you say?”
“Yes, but it will be quite an hour before they can get here. You will excuse me, Mrs Lee, I want to get back to poor old Vane’s side.”
“Yes, go,” she said cheerfully. “I shall be very busy getting ready for him. The doctor did not say that you were to take anything back?”
“No,” said Gilmore; and he hurried away, admiring the poor little lady’s fortitude, for he could see that she was suffering keenly, and only too glad to be alone.
As he hurried back to the town he was conscious for the first time that his lower garments were still saturated and patched with dust; that his hands were torn and bleeding, and that his general aspect was about as disordered as it could possibly be. In fact he felt that he looked as if he had been spending the early morning trying to drag a pond, and that every one who saw him would be ready to jeer.
On the contrary, though he met dozens of people all eager to question him about Vane, no one appeared to take the slightest notice of his clothes, and he could not help learning how popular his friend was among the townsfolk, as he saw their faces assume an aspect of joy and relief.
“I wonder whether they would make so much fuss about me,” he said to himself; and, unable to arrive at a self-satisfying conclusion, he began to think what a blank it would have made in their existence at the rectory if Vane had been found dead. From that, as he hurried along, he began to puzzle himself about the meaning of it all, and was as far off from a satisfactory conclusion as when he began, on coming in sight of the little procession with the doctor walking on one side of Vane, and Macey upon the other.
He had not spoken, but lay perfectly unconscious, and there was not the slightest change when, followed by nearly the whole of the inhabitants of Greythorpe, he was borne in at the Little Manor Gate, the crowd remaining out in the road waiting for such crumbs of news as Bruff brought to them from time to time.
There was not much to hear, only that the doctor had carefully examined Vane when he had been placed in bed, and found that his arms and shoulders were horribly beaten and bruised, and that the insensibility still lasted, while Doctor Lee had said something about fever as being a thing to dread.
They were the words of wisdom, for before many hours had passed Vane was delirious and fighting to get out of bed and defend himself against an enemy always attacking him with a stick.
He did not speak, only shrank and cowered and then attacked in turn fiercely, producing once more the whole scene so vividly that the doctor and Aunt Hannah could picture everything save the enemy who had committed the assault.
The next evening, while the rector sat thinking over the bad news he had heard from the Little Manor half-an-hour before, Joseph tapped at the door to announce a visitor, and the rector said that he might be shown in.
Macey was at the Little Manor. Gilmore and Distin were in the grounds when the visitor was seen entering the gate, and the latter looked wildly round, as if seeking for the best way to escape; but mastering himself directly, he stood listening to Gilmore, who exclaimed:
“Hallo! here’s Mr PC. Let’s go and ask him if he has any news about the brute who nearly killed poor old Vane.”
“No,” said Distin, hoarsely; “let’s wait till he comes out.”
“All right,” replied Gilmore; and he stood in the gloom beneath the great walnut tree watching the constable go up to the porch, ring, and, after due waiting, enter, his big head, being seen soon after, plainly shown against the study shaded lamp.
“Well, constable,” said the rector; “you have news for me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“About the assailant of my poor pupil?”
“Yes, sir, and I should have been here before, only it was Magistrates’ day, and I had to go over to the town to attend a case.”
“Well, what have you found out? Do you know who the person was that assailed Mr Vane Lee?”
“Yes, sir: I’m pretty sure.”
“Not some one in this town?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Surely not. I cannot think that any one would be so cruel.”
“Sorry to say it is so, sir, as far as I know; and I’m pretty sure now.”
“But who? We have so few black sheep here, I am thankful to say. Not Tompkins?”
“No, sir.”
“Jevell?”
“No, sir, some one much nigher home than that, sir, I’m sorry to say.”
“Well, speak, and put me out of my suspense.”
“Some one here, sir,” said the constable, after drawing a long breath.
“What!”
“Fact, sir. Some one as lives here at the rectory.”
“In the name of common sense, man,” cried the rector, angrily, “whom do you mean—me?”
“No, sir, that would be too bad,” said the constable.
“Whom, then?”
“Your pupil, sir, Mr Distin.”
Had a good solid Japanese earthquake suddenly shaken down all the walls of the rectory and left the Reverend Morton Syme seated in his easy chair unhurt and surrounded by débris and clouds of dust, he could not have looked more astonished. He stared at the constable, who stood before him, very stiff, much buttoned up and perfectly unmoved, as a man would stand who feels his position unassailable.
Then quietly and calmly taking out his gold-rimmed spring eye-glasses, the rector drew a white pocket-handkerchief from his breast, carefully polished each glass, put them on and stared frowningly at his visitor, who returned the look for a time, and then feeling his position irksome and that it called for a response, he coughed, saluted in military fashion and settled his neck inside his coat collar.
“You seem to be perfectly sober, Bates,” said the rector at last.
“Sober, sir?” said the man quickly. “Well, I think so, sir.”
“Then, my good man, you must be mad.”
The constable smiled.
“Beg pardon, sir. That’s just what criminals make a point of saying when you charge ’em. Not as I mean, sir,” he added hastily, “that you are a criminal, far from it.”
“Thank you, my man, I hope not. But what in the name of common sense has put it into your head that my pupil, Mr Distin, could be guilty of such a terrible deed? Oh, it’s absurd—I mean monstrous.”
The constable looked at him stolidly, and then said slowly:
“Suckumstarnces, sir, and facks.”
“But, really, my good man, I—Stop! You said you had been over to the town and met your chief officer. Surely you have not started this shocking theory there.”
“Oh, yes, sir. In dooty bound. I told him my suspicions.”
“Well, what did he say?”
The constable hesitated, coughed, and pulled himself tightly together.
“I asked you what your chief officer said, sir.”
“Well, sir, if I must speak I must. He said I was a fool.”
“Ah, exactly,” cried the rector, eagerly. Then, checking himself, he said with a deprecating smile: “No, no, Bates, I do not endorse that, for I have always found you a very respectable, intelligent officer, who has most efficiently done his duty in Greythorpe; and unless it were for your benefit, I should be very sorry to hear of your being removed.”
“Thankye, sir; thankye kindly,” said the constable.
“But in this case, through excess of zeal, I am afraid you have gone much too far. Mr Lance Distin is a gentleman, a student, and of very excellent family. A young man of excellent attainments, and about as likely to commit such a brutal assault as you speak of, as—as, well, for want of a better simile, Bates, as I am.”
The constable shook his head and looked very serious.
“Now, tell me your reasons for making such a charge.”
The explanations followed.
“Flimsy in the extreme, Bates,” said the rector triumphantly, and as if relieved of a load. “And you show no more common sense than to charge a gentleman with such a crime solely because you happened to see him walking in that direction.”
“Said he wasn’t out, sir.”
“Well, a slip—a piece of forgetfulness. We might either of us have done the same. But tell me, why have you come here?”
“Orders was to investigate, and if I found other facts, sir, to communicate with the chief constable.”
“Of course. Now, you see, my good man, that what I say is correct—that through excess of zeal you are ready to charge my pupil—a gentleman entrusted to my charge by his father in the West Indies—a pupil to whom, during his stay in England, I actin loco parentis—and over whose career I shall have to watch during his collegiate curriculum—with a crime that must have been committed by some tramp. You understand me?”
“Yes, sir, all except the French and the cricklum, but I daresay all that’s right.”
The rector smiled.
“Now, are you satisfied that you have made a mistake?”
“No, sir, not a bit of it,” said the constable stolidly.
The rector made a deprecating gesture with his hand, rose and rang the bell. Then he returned to his seat, sat back and waited till the bell was answered.
“Have the goodness, Joseph, to ask Mr Distin to step here.”
“If I might make so bold, sir,” interposed the constable, “I should like you to have ’em all in.”
“One of my pupils, Mr Macey, is at the manor.”
“Macey? That’s the funny one,” said the constable. “Perhaps you’d have in them as is at home.”
“Ask Mr Gilmore to step in too.”
Joseph withdrew, and after a painful silence, steps were heard in the porch.
“By the way, Bates,” said the rector, hastily, “have you spread this charge?”
“No, sir; of course not.”
“Does not Doctor Lee know?”
“Not yet, sir. Thought it my dooty to come fust to you.”
“I thank you, Bates. It was very considerate of you. Hush!”
Distin’s voice was heard saying something outside in a loud, laughing way, and the next moment he tapped and entered.
“Joseph said you wished to see me, sir.” Then, with an affected start as he saw the constable standing there, “Have you caught them?”
“Be good enough to sit down, Distin. Gilmore, take a chair.” Then, after a pause:
“You are here, Gilmore, at the constable’s request, but the matter does not affect you. My dear Distin, it does affect you, and I want you to help me convince this zealous but wrong-headed personage that he is labouring under a delusion.”
“Certainly, sir,” replied Distin, cheerfully. “What is the delusion?”
“In plain, simple English, my dear boy, he believes that you committed that cruel assault upon poor Vane Lee.”
“Oh,” exclaimed Distin, springing up and gazing excited at the constable, his eyes full of reproach—a look which changed to one of indignation, and with a stamp of the foot like one that might be given by an angry girl, he cried: “How dare he!”
“Ah, yes! How dare he,” said the rector. “But pray do not be angry, my dear boy. There is no need. Bates is a very good, quiet, sensible man who comes here in pursuance of what he believes to be his duty, and I am quite convinced that as soon as he realises the fact that he has made a great mistake he will apologise, and there will be an end of it.”
The constable did not move a muscle, but stood gazing fixedly at Distin, who uttered a contemptuous laugh.
“Well, Mr Syme,” he said, “what am I to do? Pray give me your advice.”
“Certainly, and it is my duty to act as your counsel; so pray forgive me for asking you questions which you may deem unnecessary—for I grant that they are as far as I am concerned, but they are to satisfy this man.”
“Pray ask me anything you like, sir,” cried Distin with a half-contemptuous laugh.
“Then tell me this, on your honour as a gentleman: did you assault Vane Lee?”
“No!” cried Distin.
“Did you meet him in the wood the day before yesterday?”
“No.”
“Did you encounter him anywhere near there, quarrel with and strike him?”
“No, no, no,” cried Distin, “and I swear—”
“There is no need to swear, Mr Distin. You are on your honour, sir,” said the rector.
“Well, sir, on my honour I did not see Vane Lee from the time he left this study the day before yesterday till I found him lying below the chalk-bank by that stream.”
“Thank you, Distin. I am much obliged for your frank disclaimer,” said the rector, gravely. “As I intimated to you all this was not necessary to convince me, but to clear away the scales from this man’s eyes. Now, Bates,” he continued, turning rather sternly to the constable, “are you satisfied?”
“No, sir,” said the man bluntly, “not a bit.”
“Why, you insolent—”
“Silence, Mr Distin,” said the rector firmly.
“But, really, sir, this man’s—”
“I said silence, Mr Distin. Pray contain yourself. Recollect what you are. I will say anything more that I consider necessary.”
He cleared his throat, sat back for a few moments, and then turned to the constable.
“Now, my good fellow, you have heard Mr Distin’s indignant repudiation of this charge, and you are obstinately determined all the same.”
“Don’t know about obstinate, sir,” replied the constable, “I am only doing my duty, sir.”
“What you conceive to be your duty, Bates. But you are wrong, my man, quite wrong. You are upon the wrong scent. Now I beg of you try to look at this in a sensible light and make a fresh start to run down the offender. You see you have made a mistake. Own to it frankly, and I am sure that Mr Distin will be quite ready to look over what has been said.”
Just then there was a tap at the door.
“May I come in, sir?”
“Yes, come in, my dear boy. You have just arrived from the Manor?”
“Yes, sir,” said Macey.
“How is Vane?”
Macey tried to answer, but something seemed to rise in his throat, and when he did force out his words they sounded low and husky.
“Awfully bad, sir. The doctor took me up, but he doesn’t know anybody. Keeps going on about fighting.”
“Poor lad,” said the rector, with a sigh. “But, look here, Macey, you must hear this. The constable here—Bates—has come to announce to me his belief that the assault was committed by your fellow-pupil.”
“Distin?” cried Macey, sharply, and as he turned to him the Creole’s jaw dropped.
“Yes, but it is of course a mistake, and has been disproved. I was pointing out to Bates here the folly of an obstinate persistence in such an idea, when you entered.” Then turning once more to the constable, “Come, my man, you see now that you are in the wrong.”
“No, sir,” said the constable, “I didn’t see it before, but I feel surer now that I’m right.”
“What?”
“That young gent thinks so too.”
“Mr Macey? Absurd!”
“See how he jumped to it directly, sir.”
“Nonsense, man! Nonsense,” cried the rector. “Here, Macey, my dear boy, I suppose, as a man of peace, I must strive to convince this wrong-headed personage. Tell him that he is half mad.”
“For thinking Distin did it, sir?” replied Macey, slowly.
“Exactly—yes.”
“It wouldn’t be quite fair, sir, because I’m afraid I thought so, too.”
The constable gave his leg a slap.
“You—you dare to think that,” cried Distin.
“Hush! hush! hush!” said the rector, firmly. “Macey, my dear boy, what cause have you for thinking such a thing.”
“Distin hates him.”
The constable drew a long breath, and he had hard work to preserve his equanimity in good official style.
“My dear Macey,” cried the rector reproachfully, “surely you are not going, on account of a few boyish disagreements, to think that your fellow-pupil would make such a murderous attack. Come, you don’t surely believe that?”
“No,” said Macey slowly, “I don’t now: I can’t believe that he would be such a wretch.”
“There!” cried the rector, triumphantly. “Now, constable, there is no more to say, except that I beg you will not expose me and mine to painful trouble, and yourself to ridicule by going on with this baseless charge.”
“Can’t say, sir, I’m sure,” replied the constable. “I want to do my dooty, and I want to show respect to you, Mr Syme, sir, as has always been a good, kind gentleman to me; but we’re taught as no friendly or personal feelings is to stand in the way when we want to catch criminals. So, with all doo respect to you, I can’t make no promises.”
“I shall not ask you, my man,” replied the rector; “what I do say is go home and think it over. In a day or two I hope and trust that my pupil Vane Lee will be well enough to enlighten us as to who were his assailants.”
“I hope so, sir. But suppose he dies?”
“Heaven forbid! my man. There, do as I say: go back and think over this meeting seriously, and believe me I shall be very glad to see you come to me to-morrow and say frankly, from man to man—I have been in the wrong. Don’t shrink from doing so. It is an honour to anyone to avow that he was under a misapprehension.”
“Thankye, sir, and good-night,” said the constable, as the rector rang for Joseph to show him out; and the next minute all sat listening to his departing steps on the gravel, followed by theclick click click clickof the swing-gate.
The rector looked round as if he were about to speak, but he altered his mind, and the three pupils left the room, Distin going up to his chamber without a word, while attracted by the darkness Gilmore and Macey strolled out through the open porch into the grounds.
“Suppose he dies?” said Macey, almost unconsciously repeating the constable’s words.
“Oh, I say, don’t talk like that,” cried Gilmore. “It isn’t likely, and you shouldn’t have turned against poor old Distie as you did.”
“I couldn’t help it,” said Macey, sadly. “You’d have thought the same if the doctor had let you go up to see poor old Weathercock. It was horrid. His face is dreadful, and his arms are black and blue from the wrist to the shoulder.”
“But Dis declared that he hadn’t seen him,” cried Gilmore.
“I hope he hadn’t, for it’s too horrid to think a fellow you mix with could be such a wretch.”
Gilmore turned sharply round to his companion, but it was too dark to see his face. There was something, however, in his tone of voice which struck him as being peculiar. It did not sound confident of Distin’s innocence. There was a want of conviction in his words too, and this set Gilmore thinking as to the possibility of Distin having in a fit of rage and dislike quarrelled with and then beaten Vane till the stick was broken and his victim senseless.
The idea grew rapidly as he stood there beside Macey in the darkness, and he recalled scores of little incidents all displaying Distin’s dislike of his fellow-pupil; and as Gilmore thought on, a conscious feeling of horror, almost terror, crept over him till his common sense began to react and argue the matter out so triumphantly that in a voice full of elation he suddenly and involuntarily exclaimed:
“It’s absurd! He couldn’t.”
“What’s absurd? Who couldn’t,” cried Macey, starting from a reverie.
“Did I say that aloud?” said Gilmore, wonderingly.
“Why, you shouted it.”
“I was thinking about whether it was possible that the constable was right.”
“That’s queer,” said Macey; “I was thinking just the same.”
“And that Distie had done it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, don’t you see that it is impossible?”
“No, I wish I could,” said Macey sadly; “can you?”
“Why, of course. Vane’s as strong as Distie, isn’t he?”
“Yes, quite.”
“And he can use his fists.”
“I should rather think he can. I put on the gloves with him one day and he sent me flying. But what has that got to do with it?”
“Everything. Do you think Distie could have pitched into Vane with a stick and not got something back?”
“Why, of course he couldn’t.”
“Well, there you are, then. He hasn’t got a scratch.”
“Hist! What’s that,” said Macey, softly.
“Sounded like a window squeaking.”
“Come away,” whispered Macey taking his companion by the arm, and leading him over the turf before he stopped some distance now from the house.
“What is it?” said Gilmore then.
“That noise; it was old Distie at his window. I could just make him out. He had been listening to what we said.”
“Listeners never hear—” began Gilmore.
“Any good of themselves,” said Macey, finishing the old saying.
“Well, I don’t mind.”
“More don’t I.”
And the two lads went in.