The Revellers

“Are you – can you – that is, if you are not busy, you might show us the inn – and the farm?”

The gentleman seemed to have a slight difficulty in speaking, and his eyes dwelt on Martin with a queer look in them: but the answer came instantly:

“I’m sorry, sir; but I am going to the vicarage to tea, and you cannot possibly miss either place. The inn has a signpost by the side of the road, and the White House stands by itself on a small bank about a hundred and fifty yards farther down the village.”

The older gentleman broke in:

“That will be our best course, Colonel. We can easily find our way – alone.”

The hint in the words was intended for the ears that understood. Colonel Grant nodded, yet was loath to go.

“Is the vicar a friend of yours?” he said to Martin.

“Yes, sir. I like him very much.”

“Does a Mrs. Saumarez live here?”

“Oh, yes. She is at the vicarage now, I expect.”

“Indeed. You might tell her you met a Colonel Grant, who knew her husband in South Africa. You will not forget the name, eh – Grant?”

“Of course not, sir.”

Martin surveyed the stranger with redoubled attention. A live colonel is a rare sight in a secluded village. The man, seizing any pretext to prolong the conversation, drew out a pocketbook.

“Here is my card,” he said. “You need not give it to Mrs. Saumarez. She will probably recognize my name.”

The boy glanced at the pasteboard. It read:

Lieut. – Col. Reginald Grant,“Indian Staff Corps.”

Now, it chanced that among Martin’s most valued belongings was a certain monthly publication entitled “Recent British Battles,” and he had read that identical name in the July number. As was his way, he remembered exactly the heroic deeds with which a gallant officer was credited, so he asked somewhat shyly:

“Are you Colonel Grant of Aliwal, sir?”

He pronounced the Indian word wrongly, with a short “a” instead of a long one, but never did misplaced accent convey sweeter sound to man’s ears. The soldier was positively startled.

“My dear boy,” he cried, “how can you possibly know me?”

“Everyone knows your name, sir. No fear of me forgetting it now.”

The honest admiration in those brown eyes was a new form of flattery; for the first time in his life Colonel Grant hungered for more.

“You have astonished me more than I can tell,” he said. “What have you read of the Aliwal campaign? All right, Dobson. We are in no hurry.” This to his companion, who ventured on a mild remonstrance.

“I have a book, sir, which tells you all about Aliwal” – this time Martin pronounced the word correctly; no wonder the newspaper commented on his intelligence – “and it has pictures, too. There is a grand picture of you, riding through the gate of the fort, sword in hand. Do you mind me saying, sir, that I am very pleased to have met you?”

The man averted his eyes. He dared not look at Martin. He made pretense to bite the end off a cigar. He was compelled to do something to keep his lips from trembling.

“I hope we shall meet often again, Martin,” he said slowly. “I’ll tell you more than the book does, though I have not read it. Run off to your friends at the vicarage. Good-by!”

He held out his hand, which the boy shook diffidently. There was no doubt whatever in Martin’s mind that Colonel Grant was an extraordinarily nice gentleman.

“My God, Dobson!” cried the soldier, turning again to look after the alert figure of the boy; “I have seen him, spoken to him – my own son! I would know him among a million.”

“He certainly bears a marked resemblance to your own photograph at the same age,” admitted the cautious solicitor.

“And what a fine youngster! By Jove, did you twig the way he caught on to the pronunciation of Aliwal? Bless that book! It shall be bound in the rarest leather, though I never rode through that gate – I ran, for dear life! I – I tell you what, Dobson, I’d sooner do it now than face these people, the Bollands, and explain my errand. I suppose they worship him.”

“The position differs from my expectations,” said the solicitor. “The boy does not talk like a farmer’s son. And he is going to tea at the vicarage with a lady of good social position. Can the Bollands be of higher grade than we are led to believe?”

“The newspaper is my only authority. Ah, here is the ‘Black Lion.’”

Mrs. Atkinson bustled forward to assure the gentlemen that she could accommodate them. Colonel Grant was allotted the room in which George Pickering died! It was the best in the hotel. He glanced for a moment through the window and took in the scene of the tragedy.

“That must be where the two young imps fought,” he murmured, with a smile, as he looked into the yard. “Gad! as Heronsdale says, I’d like to have seen the battle. And my boy whipped the other chap, who was bigger and older, the paper said.”

Soon the two men were climbing the slight acclivity on which stood the White House. The door stood hospitably open, as was ever the case about tea-time in fine weather. In the front kitchen was Martha, alone.

The colonel advanced.

“Is Mr. Bolland at home?” he asked, raising his hat.

“Noa, sir; he isn’t. But he’s on’y i’ t’ cow-byre. If it’s owt important – ”

He followed her meaning sufficiently.

“Will you oblige me by sending for him? And – er – is Mrs. Bolland here?”

“I’m Mrs. Bolland, sir.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon. Of course, I did not know you.”

He thought he would find a much younger woman. Martha, in the close-fitting sunbonnet, with its wide flaps, her sleeves rolled up, and her outer skirt pinned behind to keep it clear of the dirt during unceasing visits to dairy and hen-roosts, looked even older than she was, her real age being fifty-five.

“Will you kindly be seated, gentlemen?” she said. She was sure they were county folk come about the stock. Her husband’s growing reputation as a breeder of prize cattle brought such visitors occasionally. She wondered why the taller stranger asked for her, but he said no more, taking a chair in silence.

She dispatched a maid to summon the master.

“Hev ye coom far?” she asked bluntly.

Colonel Grant looked around. His eyes were searching the roomy kitchen for tokens of its occupants’ ways.

“We traveled from Darlington to Elmsdale,” he said, “and walked here from the station.”

“My goodness, ye’ll be fair famished. Hev summat te eat. There’s plenty o’ tea an’ cakes; an’ if ye’d fancy some ham an’ eggs – ”

“Pray do not trouble, Mrs. Bolland,” said the colonel when he had grasped the full extent of the invitation. “We wish to have a brief talk with you and your husband. Afterwards, if you ask us, we shall be most pleased to accept your hospitality.”

He spoke so genially, with such utter absence of affectation, that Martha rather liked him. Yet, what could she have to do with the business in hand? Anyhow, here came John, crossing the road with heavy strides.

The farmer paused just within the threshold. His huge frame filled the doorway. He wore spectacles for reading only, and his deep-sunken eyes rested steadily, first on Colonel Grant, then on the solicitor. Then they went back to the colonel and did not leave him again.

“Good day, gentlemen,” he said. “What can I deä for ye?”

The man who stormed forts on horseback – in pictures – quailed at the task before him. He nodded to the solicitor.

“Dobson,” he said, “you know all the circumstances. Oblige me by stating them fully.”

The solicitor, who seemed to expect this request, produced a bulky packet of papers and photographs. He prefaced his explanation by giving his companion’s name and rank, and introduced himself as a member of the firm of Dobson, Son and Smith, Solicitors, of Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

“Fifteen years ago,” he went on, “Colonel Grant was a subaltern, a junior officer, in the Guards, stationed in London. A slight accident one day outside a railway station led him to make the acquaintance of a young lady. She was hurrying to catch a train, when she was knocked down by a frightened horse, and might have been injured seriously were it not for Lieutenant Grant’s prompt assistance. He escorted her to her lodgings, and discovered that she was what is known in London as a daily governess – in other words, a poor, well-educated woman striving to earn a respectable living. The horse had trampled on her foot, and she required proper attention and rest; a brief interview with her landlady enabled Mr. Grant to make the requisite arrangements, unknown to the young lady herself. He called a week later and found that she was quite recovered. She was a very beautiful girl, of a lively disposition, only twenty years of age, and working hard in her spare time to perfect herself as a musician. She had no idea of the social rank of her new friend, or perhaps matters might have turned out differently. As it was, they met frequently, became engaged, and were married. I have here a copy of the marriage certificate.”

He selected a long, narrow strip of blue paper from the documents he had placed before him on the kitchen table. He opened it and offered it to Bolland, as though he wished the farmer to examine it. John did not move. He was still looking intently at Colonel Grant.

Martha, all a-flutter, with an indefinite anxiety wrinkling the corners of her eyes, said quickly:

“What might t’ young leddy’s neäm be, sir?”

“Margaret Ingram. She was of a Gloucestershire family, but her parents were dead, and she had no near relatives.”

Martha cried, somewhat tartly:

“An’ what hez all this te deä wi’ us, sir?”

“Let be, wife. Bide i’ patience. T’ gentleman will tell us, neä doot.”

John’s voice was hard, almost dissonant. The solicitor gave him a rapid glance. That harsh tone boded ill for the smooth accomplishment of his mission. Martha wondered why her husband gazed so fixedly at the other man who spoke not. But she toyed nervously with her apron and held her peace. Mr. Dobson resumed:

“The young couple could not start housekeeping openly. Lieutenant Grant depended solely on the allowance made to him by his father, whose ideas of family pride were so extreme that such a marriage must unquestionably have led to a rupture. Moreover, a campaign in northern India was then threatening. It broke out exactly a year and two months after the marriage. Mr. Grant’s regiment was ordered to the front, and when he sailed from Southampton he left his young wife and an infant, a boy, four months old, installed in a comfortable flat in Clarges Street, Piccadilly. It is important that the exact position of family affairs at this moment should be realized. General Grant, father of the young officer, had suffered from an apopletic stroke soon after his son’s marriage, and to acquaint him with it now meant risking his life. Young Grant’s action was known to and approved by several trustworthy friends. He and his wife were very happy, and Mrs. Grant was correspondingly depressed when the exigencies of the national service took her husband away from her. The parting between the young couple was a bitter trial, rendered all the more heartrending by reason of the concealment they had practiced. However, as matters had been allowed to drift thus far, no one will pretend that there was any special need to worry General Grant at the moment of his son’s departure for a campaign. Lieutenant Grant hoped to return with a step in rank. Then, whatever the consequences, there must be a full explanation. He had not a great deal of money, but sufficient for his wife’s needs. He left her two hundred pounds in notes and gold, and his bankers were empowered to pay her fifty pounds monthly. His own allowance from General Grant was seventy-five pounds a month, and it was with great difficulty that he maintained his position in such an expensive regiment as the Guards. The campaign eased the pressure, or he could not have kept it up for long.”

“Are all these details quite necessary, Dobson?” said the colonel, for the steady glare of the farmer, the growing pallor of poor Martha, around whose heart an icy hand was taking sure grip, were exceedingly irksome.

“They are if I am to do you justice,” replied the lawyer.

“Never mind me. Tell them of Margaret – and the boy.”

“I will pass over the verification of my statement,” went on Mr. Dobson, bending over the folded papers. “Seven months passed. Mrs. Grant expected soon to be delivered of another child. She heard regularly from her husband. His regiment was in the Khyber Pass, when one evening she was robbed of her small store of jewelry and a considerable sum of money by a trusted servant. The theft was reported in the papers, and General Grant read of his son’s wife being a resident in Clarges Street. He went to the flat next day, saw the poor girl, behaved in a way that can only be ascribed to the folly of an old man broken by disease, and cut off supplies at once. Within a week Mrs. Grant found herself in poverty, and her husband at least a month’s post distant. She did not lose her wits. She sold her furniture and raised money enough to support herself and her baby boy for some time. Of course, she was very much distressed, as General Grant wrote to her, called her an adventuress, and stated that he had disinherited his son on her account. This was only partly true. He tore up one will, but made no other, and forgot that there was a second copy in possession of my firm. Mrs. Grant then did a foolish thing. She concealed her troubles from her husband’s friends, who would have helped her. She took cheap lodgings in another part of London, and changed her name. This seems to be accounted for by the fact that General Grant, in his insane suspicions, set private detectives to watch her. Moreover, the bankers wrote her a curt letter which added to her miseries. She rented rooms in St. Martin’s Court, Ludgate Hill, and gave her name as Mrs. Martineau.”

Martha sprang at the solicitor with an eerie screech:

“Hev ye coom to steal oor bairn, the bonny lad we’ve reared i’ infancy an’ childhood? Leave this house! John – husband – will ye let ’em drive me mad?”

John took her in his arms.

“Martha,” he said, with a break in his voice that shook his hearers and stilled his wife’s cries; “dinnat mak’ oor burthen harder te bear. A man’s heart deviseth his way, but the Lord directeth his steps!”

Servants, men and women, came running at their mistress’s scream of terror. They stood, abashed, in the kitchen passage. None paid heed to them.

Colonel Grant rose and approached the trembling woman cowering at her husband’s side. Her old eyes were streaming now; she gazed at him with the pitiful anguish of a stricken animal. He took her wrinkled hand and bent low before her.

“Madam,” he said, “God forbid that my son should lose his mother a second time!”

He could say no other word. Even in her agony, Martha felt hot tears falling on her bare arm, and they were not her own.

“Eh, but it’s a sad errand ye’re on,” she sobbed.

“Wife, wife!” cried John huskily, “if thou faint in the day of adversity thy strength is small. Colonel Grant is a true man. It’s in his feäce. He weän’t rive Martin frae yer arms, an’ no man can tak’ him frae yer heart.”

Colonel Grant drew himself up. He caught Bolland’s shoulder.

“Bear with me,” he said. “I have suffered much. I lost my wife and two children, one unborn. They were torn from me as though by a destroying tempest. One is given back, after thirteen long years of mourning. Can you not spare me a place in his affections?”

“Ay, ay,” growled John. “We’re nobbut owd folk at t’ best, an’ t’ lad was leavin’ oor roof for school in a little while. We can sattle things like sensible people, if on’y Martha here will gie ower greetin’. It troubles me sair to hear her lamentin’. We’ve had no sike deed i’ thirty-fower years o’ married life.”

The man was covering his own distress by solicitude in his wife’s behalf. She knew it. She wiped her eyes defiantly with her apron and made pretense to smile, though she had received a shock she would remember to her dying day. Some outlet was necessary for her surcharged feelings. She whisked around on the crowd of amazed domestics, dairymaids and farmhands, pressing on each other’s heels in the passage.

“What are ye gapin’ at?” she cried shrilly. “Is there nowt te deä? If tea’s overed, git on wi’ yer work, an’ be sharp aboot it, or I’ll side ye quick!”

The stampede that followed relieved the situation. The servants faded away under her fiery glance. Colonel Grant smiled.

“I am glad to see,” he said, “that you maintain discipline in your regiment.”

“They’re all ears an’ neä brains,” she said. “My, but I’m that upset I hardly ken what I’m sayin’. Mebbe ye’ll finish yer tale, sir. I’m grieved I med sike a dash at ye, but I couldn’t bide – ”

“There, there,” said John, with his gruff soothing, “sit ye doon an’ listen quietly. I guessed their business t’ first minnit I set eyes on t’ colonel. Why, Martha, look at him. He hez Martin’s eyes and Martin’s mouth. Noo, ye’d hev dark-brown hair, I reckon, when ye were a lad, sir?”

For answer, Colonel Grant stooped to the lawyer’s papers and took from them a framed miniature.

“That is my portrait at the age of twelve,” he said, placing it before them.

“Eh, but that caps owt!” cried Martha. “It’s Martin hissel! Oh, my honey, how little did I think what was coomin’ when I set yer shirt an’ collar ready, an’ med ye tidy te gan te tea wi’ t’ fine folk at t’ vicarage. An’ noo ye’re a better bred ’un than ony of ’em. The Lord love ye! Here ye are, smilin’ at me. They may mak’ ye a colonel or a gin’ral, for owt I care: ye’ll nivver forgit yer poor old muther, will ye, my bairn!”

She kissed the miniature as if it were Martin’s own presentment. The men left her to sob again in silence. Soon she calmed herself sufficiently to ask:

“But why i’ t’ wulld did that poor lass throw herself an’ her little ’un inte t’ street?”

Mr. Dobson took up his story once more:

“She explained her action in a pathetic letter to her husband. She was ill, lonely, and poverty-stricken. She brooded for days on General Grant’s cruel words and still more cruel letter. They led her to believe that she was the unwitting cause of her husband’s ruin. She resolved to free him absolutely and at the same time preserve his name from notoriety. Therefore she wrote him a full account of her change of name, and told him that her children would die with her.”

“That was a mad thing te deä.”

“Exactly. The doctor who knew her best told her husband six months later that Mrs. Grant was, in his opinion, suffering from an unrecognized attack of puerperal fever. It was latent in her system, and developed with the trouble so suddenly brought upon her.”

“Yon was a wicked owd man – ”

“The general was called to account by a higher power. Mrs. Grant wrote him also a statement of her intentions. Next morning he read of her death, and a second attack of apoplexy proved fatal. Her letter did not reach her husband until after a battle in which he was wounded. He cabled to us, and we made every inquiry, but it was remarkable how chance baffled our efforts. In the first instance, the policeman whom you encountered in Ludgate Hill and who knew you had adopted the child, had left the force and emigrated, owing to some unfortunate love affair. In the second, several newspapers reported the child as dead, though the records of the inquest soon corrected that error. Thirdly, someone named Bolland died in the hotel where you stayed and was buried at Highgate – ”

“My brother,” put in John.

“Yes; we know now. But conceive the barrier thus placed in our path when the dates of the two events were compared long afterwards.”

The farmer looked puzzled. The solicitor went on:

“Of course, you wonder why there should have been any delay, but the Coroner’s notes were lost in a fire. Nevertheless, we advertised in dozens of newspapers.”

“We hardly ever see a paper, sir,” said Martha.

“Yet, the wonder is that some of your friends did not see it and tell you. Finally, a sharp-witted clerk of ours solved the Highgate Cemetery mystery, and the advertisements were repeated. Colonel Grant was back in India by that time trying hard to leave his bones there, by all accounts, and perhaps we did not spend as much money on this second quest as if he were at home to authorize the expenditure.”

“When was that, sir – t’ second lot o’ advertisements, I mean?” asked John.

“Quite a year after Mrs. Grant’s death.”

Bolland stroked his chin thoughtfully.

“I remember,” he said, “a man at Malton fair sayin’ summat aboot an inquiry for me. But yan o’ t’ hands rode twenty miles across counthry te tell me that Martin had gotten t’ measles, an’ I kem yam that neet.”

“Naturally, I can give you every proof of my statements,” said Mr. Dobson. “They are all here – ”

“Mebbe ye’ll know this writin’,” interrupted Martha, laying down the miniature for the first time. She unlocked a drawer, took out a small tin box, and from its depths produced, among other articles, a crumbling sheet of note paper. On it was written:

“My name is not Martineau. I have killed myself and my boy. If he dies with his unhappy mother he will never know the miseries of this life.”

It was unsigned, undated, a hurried scrawl in faded ink.

“Margaret’s handwriting,” said Colonel Grant, looking at the pathetic message with sorrow-laden eyes.

“It was found on t’ poor leddy’s dressin’-table, fastened wi’ a hatpin. An’ these are t’ clothes Martin wore when he fell into John’s arms. Nay, sir,” she added, as Colonel Grant began examining the little frock, “she took good care, poor thing, that neäbody should find oot wheä she was. Ivvery mark hez bin picked off.”

“Martin is his feyther’s son, or I ken nowt aboot stock,” cried John Bolland, making a fine effort to dispel the depression which again possessed the little gathering at sight of these mournful mementoes of the dead past. “Coom, gentlemen, sit ye doon an’ hev some tea. Ye’ll not be for takkin’ Martin away by t’ next train. Martha, what’s t’ matter wi’ ye? I’ve nivver known folk be so lang i’ t’ hoose afore an’ not be asked if they had a mooth.”

“Ye’re on t’ wrang gait this time, John,” she retorted. “I axed ’em afore ye kem in. By this time, sure-ly, ye’ll be wantin’ soom ham an’ eggs?” she added to the visitors.

“By Jove! I believe I could eat some,” laughed the colonel.

Martha smiled once more. She liked Martin’s father. Each moment the first favorable impression was deepening. She was on the point of bustling away to the back kitchen, when they all heard the patter of feet, in desperate haste, approaching the front door. Elsie Herbert dashed in. She was hatless. Her long brown hair was floating in confusion over her shoulders and down her back. She was crying in great gulps and gasping for breath.

“Oh, Mr. Bolland!” she wailed. “Oh, Mrs. Bolland! – what shall I say? Martin is hurt. He fell off the swing. Angèle did it! I’ll kill her! I’ll tear her face with my hands! Oh, come, someone, and help father. He is trying to bring back Martin’s senses. What shall I do? – it was all on my account. Oh, dear! Oh, dear!”

And she sank fainting to the floor.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE SEVEN FULL YEARS

But Martin was not dead, nor even seriously injured. At first, the affair looked so ugly – its main features were so incomprehensible – that Mr. Herbert was startled into somewhat panic-stricken action. Here was Martin lying unconscious on the ground, with Elsie kneeling by his side, passionately beseeching him in one breath to speak to her, and in the next accusing Angèle Saumarez of murder.

The vicar was not blameworthy, in that he failed to grasp either the nature of the accusation or its seeming unreasonableness.

The single rope of the gymnastic swing erected in the garden for Elsie’s benefit had been cut deliberately with a sharp knife a few inches above the small bar on which the user’s weight was supported by both hands. Of the cutting there could be no manner of doubt. The jagged edges of the few strands left by a devilish ingenuity – so that the swing must need be in violent motion before the rope snapped – were clearly visible at the point of severance. But who had done this thing, and with what deadly object in view? And why did Elsie pitch on Angèle Saumarez so readily, glaring at her with such eyes of vengeance that the vicar was constrained to order, with the utmost sternness of which he was capable, that the torrent of words should cease. Indeed, he dispatched her to acquaint the Bollands with tidings of the disaster as a haphazard pretext to get her out of the way. Apart from sensing the accident’s inexplicable motive, its history was simple enough.