The Revellers

“Mother, dear!” he cried eagerly, “I was so – so mixed up at first that I forgot to tell you. Mr. Beckett-Smythe gave me half a crown.”

“Ye doan’t say! Well, I can’t abide half a tale. Let’s hae t’ lot i’ t’ front kitchen.”

It was noon, and dinner-time, before Martin could satisfy the cackling dames as to all within his cognizance concerning Betsy Thwaites’s escapade. Be it noted, they unanimously condemned Fred, the groom; commiserated with Betsy, and extolled George Pickering as a true gentleman.

P. C. Benson, all unconscious of the rod in pickle for his broad back, strolled in about the eating hour. Mrs. Bolland, brindling with repressed fury, could scarce find words wherewith to scold him.

“Well, of all the brazen-faced men I’ve ever met – ” she began.

“So you’ve heerd t’ news?” he interrupted.

“Heerd? I should think so, indeed! Martin kem yam – ”

“Martin! Did he know?”

“Know!” she shrilled. “Wasn’t it ye as said it?”

“No, ma’am,” he replied stolidly. “Mrs. Atkinson told me, and she said that Mr. Pickerin’ had ta’en his solemn oath te do’t in t’ presence of t’ super and t’ squire!”

“Do what?” was the chorus.

“Why, marry Betsy, to be sure, as soon as he can be led te t’ church. What else is there?”

This stupendous addition to the flood of excitement carried away even Martha Bolland for the moment. In her surprise she set a plate for Benson with the others, and, after that, the paramount rite of hospitality prevented her from “having it out wi’ him” until hunger was sated. Then, however, she let him “feel the edge of her tongue”; he was so flustered that John had to restore his mental poise with another pint of ale.

Meanwhile, Martin managed to steal out unobserved, and made the best of his way to The Elms. Although in happier mood, he was not wholly pleased with his errand. He was not afraid of Mrs. Saumarez – far from it, but he did not know how to fulfill his mission and at the same time exonerate Angèle. His chivalrous nature shrank from blaming her, yet his unaided wits were not equal to the task of restoring so much money to her mother without answering truthfully the resultant deluge of questions.

He was battling with this problem when, near The Elms, he encountered the Rev. Charles Herbert, M.A., vicar of Elmsdale, and his daughter Elsie.

Martin doffed his straw hat readily, and would have passed, but the vicar hailed him.

“Martin, is it correct that you were in the stableyard of the ‘Black Lion’ last night and saw something of this sad affair of Mr. Pickering’s?” he inquired.

“Yes, sir.”

Martin blushed. The girl’s blue eyes were fixed on his with the innocent curiosity of a fawn. She knew him well by sight, but they had never exchanged a word. He found himself wondering what her voice was like. Would she chatter with the excited volubility of Angèle? Being better educated than he, would she pour forth a jargon of foreign words and slang? Angèle was quiet as a mouse under her mother’s eye. Was Elsie aping this demure demeanor because her father was present? Certainly, she looked a very different girl. Every curve of her pretty face, each line in her graceful contour, suggested modesty and nice manners. Why, he couldn’t tell, but he knew instinctively that Elsie Herbert would have drawn back horrified from the mad romp overnight, and he was humbled in spirit before her.

The worthy vicar never dreamed that the farmer’s sturdy son was capable of deep emotion. He interpreted Martin’s quick coloring to knowledge of a discreditable episode. He said to the girl:

“I’ll follow you home in a few minutes, my dear.”

Martin thought that an expression of disappointment swept across the clear eyes, but Elsie quitted them instantly. The boy had endured too much to be thus humiliated before one of his own age.

“I would have said nothing to offend the young lady,” he cried hotly.

Very much taken aback, Mr. Herbert’s eyebrows arched themselves above his spectacles.

“My good boy,” he said, “I did not choose that my daughter should hear the – er – offensive details of this – er – stabbing affray, or worse, that took place at the inn.”

“But you didn’t mind slighting me in her presence, sir,” was the unexpected retort.

“I am not slighting you. Had I met Mr. Beckett-Smythe and sought information as to this matter, I would still have asked her to go on to the Vicarage.”

This was a novel point of view for Martin. He reddened again.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “Everything has gone wrong with me to-day. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

The vicar deemed him a strange youth, but tacitly accepted the apology, and drew from Martin the story of the night’s doings.

It shocked him to hear that Martin and Frank Beckett-Smythe were fighting in the yard of the “Black Lion” at such an hour.

“How came you to be there?” he said gently. “You do not attend my church, Martin, but I have always regarded Mr. Bolland as a God-fearing man, and your teacher has told me that you are gifted with intelligence and qualities beyond your years or station in life.”

“I was there quite by accident, sir, and I couldn’t avoid the fight.”

“What caused it?”

“We fought to settle that question, sir, and it’s finished now.”

The vicar laughed.

“Which means you will not tell me. Well, I am no disbeliever in a manly display of fisticuffs. It breaks no bones and saves many a boy from the growth of worse qualities. I suppose you are going to the fair this afternoon?”

“No, sir. I’m not.”

“Would you mind telling me how you will pass the time between now and supper?”

“I am taking a message from my mother to Mrs. Saumarez, and then I’ll go straight to the Black Plantation” – a dense clump of firs situate at the head of the ghylls, or small valleys, leading from the cultivated land up to the moor.

“Dear me! And what will you do there?”

The boy smiled, somewhat sheepishly.

“I have a nest in a tree there, sir, where I often sit and read.”

“What do you read?”

“Just now, sir, I am reading Scott’s poems.”

“Indeed. What books do you favor, as a rule?”

Delighted to have a sympathetic listener, Martin forgot his troubles in pouring forth a catalogue of his favorite authors. The more Mr. Herbert questioned him the more eager and voluble he became. The boy had the rare faculty of absorbing the joys and sorrows, the noble sentiments, the very words of the heroes of romance, and in this scholarly gentleman he found an auditor who appreciated all that was hitherto dumb thought.

Several people passing along the road wondered what “t’ passon an’ oad John Bolland’s son were makkin’ sike deed about,” and the conversation must have lasted fifteen or twenty minutes, when the vicar heard the chimes of the church clock.

He laughed genially. Although, on his part, there was an underlying motive in the conversation, Martin had fairly carried it far afield.

“You have had your revenge on me for sending my daughter away,” he cried. “My lunch will be cold. Now, will you do me a favor?”

“Of course, sir; anything you ask.”

“Nay, Martin, make that promise to no man. But this lies within your scope. About four o’clock leave your crow’s nest and drop over to Thor ghyll. I may be there.”

Overjoyed at the prospect of a renewed chat on topics dear to his heart, the boy ran off, light-heartedly, to The Elms. His task seemed easier now. The wholesome breeze of intercourse with a cultivated mind had momentarily swept into the background a host of unpleasing things.

He found he could not see Mrs. Saumarez, so he asked for Miss Walker. The lady came. She was prim and severe. Instantly he detected a note of hostility which her first words put beyond doubt.

“My mother sent me to return some money to Mrs. Saumarez,” he explained.

“Mrs. Saumarez is ill. Mrs. Bolland must wait until she recovers. As for you, you bad boy, I wonder you dare show your face here.”

Martin never flinched from a difficulty.

“Why?” he demanded. “What have I done?”

“Can you ask? To drag that poor little mite of a girl into such horrible scenes as those which took place in the village? Be off! You just wait until Mrs. Saumarez is better, and you will hear more of it.”

With that, she slammed the door on him.

So Angèle had posed as a simpleton, and he was the villain. This phase of the medley amused him. He was retreating down the drive, when he heard his name called. He turned. A window on the ground floor opened, and Mrs. Saumarez appeared, leaning unsteadily on the sill.

“Come here!” she cried imperiously.

Somehow she puzzled, indeed flustered, him. For one thing, her attire was bizarre. Usually dressed with unexceptionable taste, to-day she wore a boudoir wrap – a costly robe, but adjusted without care, and all untidy about neck and breast. Her hair was coiled loosely, and stray wisps hung out in slovenly fashion. Her face, deathly white, save for dull red patches on the cheeks, served as a fit setting for unnaturally brilliant eyes which protruded from their sockets in a manner quite startling, while the veins on her forehead stood out like whipcord.

Martin was utterly dismayed. He stood stock-still.

“Come!” she said again, glaring at him with a curious fixity. “I want you. Françoise is not here, and I wish you to run an errand.”

Save for a strange thickness in her speech, she had never before reminded him so strongly of Angèle. She had completely lost her customary air of repose. She spoke and acted like a peevish child.

Anyhow, she had summoned him, and he could now discharge his trust. In such conditions, Martin seldom lacked words.

“I asked for you at the door, ma’am,” he explained, drawing nearer, “but Miss Walker said you were ill. My mother sent me to give you this.”

He produced the little parcel of money and essayed to hand it to her. She surveyed it with lackluster eyes.

“What is it?” she said. “I do not understand. Here is plenty of money. I want you to go to the village, to the ‘Black Lion,’ and bring me a sovereign’s worth of brandy.”

She held out a coin. They stood thus, proffering each other gold.

“But this is yours, ma’am. I came to return it. I – er – borrowed some money from Ang – from Miss Saumarez – and mother said – ”

“Cease, boy. I do not understand, I tell you. Keep the money and bring me what I ask.”

In her eagerness she leaned so far out of the window that she nearly overbalanced. The sovereign fell among some flowers. With an effort she recovered an unsteady poise. Martin stooped to find the money. A door opened inside the house. A hot whisper reached him.

“Tell no one. I’ll watch for you in half an hour – remember – a sovereign’s worth.”

The boy, not visible from the far side of the room, heard the voice of Françoise. The window closed with a bang. He discovered the coin and straightened himself. The maid was seating her mistress in a chair and apparently remonstrating with her. She picked up from the floor a wicker-covered Eau de Cologne bottle and turned it upside down with an angry gesture. It was empty.

Martin, whose experience of intoxicated people was confined to the infrequent sight of a village toper, heavy with beer, lurching homeward in maudlin glee or fury, imagined that Mrs. Saumarez must be in some sort of fever. Obviously, those in attendance on her should be consulted before he brought her brandy secretly.

Back he marched to the front door and rang the bell. Lest Miss Walker should shut him out again, he was inside the hall before anyone could answer his summons, for the doors of country houses remain unlocked all day. The elder sister reappeared, very starchy at this unheard-of impertinence.

“I was forced to return, ma’am,” he said civilly. “Mrs. Saumarez saw me in the drive and asked me to buy her some brandy. She gave me a sovereign. She looked very ill, so I thought it best to come and tell you.”

The lady was thoroughly nonplussed by this plain statement.

“Oh,” she stammered, so confused that he did not know what to make of her agitation, “this is very nice of you. She must not have brandy. It is – quite unsuitable – for her illness. It is really very good of you to tell me. I – er – I’m sorry I spoke so harshly just now, but – er – ”

“That’s all right, ma’am. It was all a mistake. Will you kindly take charge of this sovereign, and also of the two pounds ten which Miss Angèle lent me?”

“Which Miss Angèle lent you! Two pounds ten! I thought you said your mother – ”

“It is mine, please,” said a voice from the broad landing above their heads. Angèle skipped lightly down the stairs and held out her hand. Martin gave her the money.

“I don’t understand this, at all,” said the mystified Miss Walker. “Does Mrs. Saumarez know – ”

“Mrs. Saumarez knows nothing. Neither does Martin.”

With wasp-like suddenness, the girl turned and faced a woman old enough to be her grandmother. Their eyes clashed. The child’s look said plainly:

“Dare to utter another word and I’ll disgrace your house throughout the village.”

The woman yielded. She waved a protesting hand. “It is no business of mine. Thank you, Martin, for coming back.”

Angèle lashed out at him next.

“Allez, donc! I’ll never speak to you again.”

She ran up the stairs. He stood irresolute.

“Anyhow, not now,” she added. “I may be out in an hour’s time.”

Miss Walker was holding the door open. He hurried away, and Françoise saw him, wondering why he had called.

And for hours thereafter, until night fell, a white-faced woman paced restlessly to and fro in the sitting-room, ever and anon raising the window, and watching for Martin’s return with a fierce intensity that rendered her almost maniacal in appearance.

Happily, the boy was unaware of the pitiful tragedy in the life of the rich and highly placed Mrs. Saumarez. While she waited, with a rage steadily dwindling into a wearied despair, he was passing, all unconsciously, into the next great phase of his career.

He took one forward step into the unknown before leaving the tree-lined drive. He met Fritz, the chauffeur, who was so absorbed in the study of a folding road-map that he did not see Martin until the latter hailed him.

“Hello!” was the boy’s cheery greeting. “That affair is ended. Please don’t say anything to Mrs. Saumarez.”

The German closed the map.

“Whad iss ented?” he inquired, surveying Martin with a cool hauteur rare in chauffeurs.

“Why, last night’s upset in the village.”

“Ah, yez. Id iss nod my beeznez.”

“I didn’t quite mean that. But there’s no use in getting Miss Angèle into a row, is there?”

“Dat iss zo. Vere do you leeve?”

“At the White House Farm.”

“Vere de brize caddle are?”

Martin smiled. He had never before heard English spoken with a strong German accent. Somehow he associated these resonant syllables with a certain indefinite stress which Mrs. Saumarez laid on a few words.

“Yes,” he said. “My father’s herd is well known.”

Fritz’s manner became genial.

“Zome tay you vill show me, yez?” he inquired.

“I’ll be very pleased. And will you explain your car to me – the engine, I mean?”

“Komm now.”

“Sorry, but I have an engagement.”

There was plenty of time at Martin’s disposal, but he did not want to loiter about The Elms that afternoon. This man was a paid servant who could hardly refuse to carry out any reasonable order, and it would have been awkward for Martin if Mrs. Saumarez asked him to give Fritz the sovereign she had intrusted to his keeping.

“All aright,” agreed the chauffeur, whose strong, intellectual face was now altogether amiable; in fact, a white scar on his left cheek creased so curiously when he grinned that his aspect was almost comical. “We vill meed when all dis noise sdops, yez?” and he waved a hand toward the distant drone of the fair.

Thus began for Martin another strange friendship – a friendship destined to end so fantastically that if the manner of its close were foretold then and there by any prophet, the mere telling might have brought the seer to the madhouse.

CHAPTER IX

THE WILDCAT

It was nearly three o’clock when Martin re-entered the village. Outside the boxing booth a huge placard announced, in sprawling characters, that the first round of the boxing competition would start punctually at 3 P.M. “Owing to the illness of Mr. George Pickering, deeply regretted,” another referee would be appointed.

It cost the boy a pang to stride on. He would have dearly liked to watch the display of pugilism. He might have gone inside the tent for an hour and still kept his tryst with Mr. Herbert, but John Bolland’s dour teaching had scored grooves in his consciousness not readily effaced. The folly of last night must be atoned in some way, and he punished himself deliberately now by going straight home.

The house was only a little less thronged than the “Black Lion,” so he made his way unobserved to the great pile of dry bracken in which he hid books borrowed from the school library. Ten minutes later he was seated in the fork of a tree full thirty feet from the ground and consoling himself for loss of the reality by reading of a fight far more picturesque in detail – the Homeric combat between FitzJames and Roderick Dhu.

From his perch he could see the church clock. Shortly before the appointed hour he climbed down and surmounted the ridge which divided the Black Plantation from Thor ghyll. It was a rough passage, naught save gray rock and flowering ling, or heather, growing so wild and bushy that in parts it overtopped his height. But Martin was sure-footed as a goat. Across the plateau and down the tree-clad slope on the other side he sped, until he reached a point whence he could obtain a comprehensive view of the winding glen.

On a stretch of turf by the side of the silvery beck that rushed so frantically from the moorland to the river, he spied a small garden tent. In front was a table spread with china and cakes, while a copper kettle, burnished so brightly that it shone like gold in the sunlight, was suspended over a spirit lamp. Mr. Herbert was there, and an elderly lady, his aunt, who acted as his housekeeper – also Elsie and her governess and two young gentlemen who “read” with the vicar during the long vacation. Evidently a country picnic was toward; Martin was at a loss to know why he had been invited.

Perhaps they wished him to guide them over the moor to some distant glen or to the early British camp two miles away. Sometimes a tourist wandering through Elmsdale called at the farm for information, and Martin would be dispatched with the inquirer to show the way.

It was a pity that Mr. Herbert had not mentioned his desire, as the daily reading of the Bible was due in an hour, and most certainly, to-day of all days, Martin must be punctual.

If his brain were busy, his eye was clear. He sprang from rock to rock like a chamois. Once he swung himself down a small precipice by the tough root of a whin. He knew the root was there, and had already tested its capabilities, but the gathering beneath watched him with dismay, for the feat looked hazardous in the extreme. In a couple of minutes he had descended two hundred feet of exceedingly rough going. He stopped at the beck to wash his hands and dry them on his handkerchief. Then he approached the group.

“Do you always descend the ghyll in that fashion, Martin?” cried the vicar.

“Yes, sir. It is the nearest way.”

“A man might say that who fell out of a balloon.”

“But I have been up and down there twenty times, sir.”

“Well, well; my imaginary balloonist could make no such answer. Sit down and have some tea. Elsie, this is young Martin Bolland, of whom I have been telling you.”

The girl smiled in a very friendly way and brought Martin a cup of tea and a plate of cakes. So he was a guest, and introduced by the vicar to his daughter! How kind this was of Mr. Herbert! How delighted Mrs. Bolland would be when she heard of it, for, however strict her Nonconformity, the vicar was still a social power in the village, and second only to the Beckett-Smythes in the estimation of the parish.

At first poor Martin was tongue-tied. He answered in monosyllables when the vicar or Mrs. Johnson, the old lady, spoke to him; but to Elsie he said not a word. She, too, was at a loss how to interest him, until she noticed a book in his pocket. When told that it was Scott’s poems she said pleasantly that a month ago she went with her father to a place called Greta Bridge and visited many of the scenes described in “Rokeby.”

Unhappily, Martin had not read “Rokeby.” He resolved to devour it at the first opportunity, but for the nonce it offered no conversational handle. He remained dumb, yet all the while he was comparing Elsie with Angèle, and deciding privately that girls brought up as ladies in England were much nicer than those reared in the places which Angèle named so glibly.

But his star was propitious that day. One of the young men happened to notice a spot where a large patch of heather had been sliced off the face of the moor.

He asked Mr. Herbert what use the farmers made of it.

“Nothing that I can recall,” said the vicar, a man who, living in the country, knew little of its ways; “perhaps Martin can tell you.”

“We make besoms of it, sir,” was the ready reply, “but that space has been cleared by the keepers so that the young grouse may have fresh green shoots to feed on.”

Here was a topic on which he was crammed with information. His face grew animated, his eyes sparkled, the words came fast and were well chosen. As he spoke, the purple moor, the black firs, the meadows, the corn land red with poppies, became peopled with fur and feather. On the hilltops the glorious black cock, in the woods the dandy pheasant and swift pigeon, among the meadows and crops the whirring partridge, became actualities, present, but unseen. There were plenty of hares on the arable land and the rising ground; as for rabbits, they swarmed everywhere.

“This ghyll will be alive with them in little more than an hour,” said Martin confidently. “I shouldn’t be surprised, if we had a dog and put him among those whins, but half-a-dozen rabbits would bolt out in all directions.”

“Please, can I be a little bow-wow?” cried Elsie. She sprang to her feet and ran toward the clump of gorse and bracken he had pointed out, imitating a dog’s bark as she went.

“Take care of the thorns,” shouted Martin, making after her more leisurely.

She paused on the verge of the tangled mass of vegetation and said, “Shoo!”

“That’s no good,” he laughed. “You must walk through and kick the thick clumps of grass – this way.”

He plunged into the midst of the gorse. She followed. Not a rabbit budged.

“That’s odd,” he said, rustling the undergrowth vigorously. “There ought to be a lot here.”

“You know Angèle Saumarez?” said the girl suddenly.

“Yes.”

He ceased beating the bushes and looked at her fixedly, the question was so unexpected. Yet Angèle had asked him the selfsame question concerning Elsie Herbert. One girl resembled another as two peas in a pod.

“Do you like her?”

“I think I do, sometimes.”

“Do you think she is pretty?”

“Yes, often.”

“What do you mean by ‘sometimes,’ ‘often?’ How can a girl be pretty – ‘often’?”

“Well, you see, I think she is nice in many ways, and that if – she knew you – and copied your manner – your voice, and style, and behavior – she would improve very greatly.”

Martin had recovered his wits. Elsie tittered and blushed slightly.

“Really!” she said, and recommenced the kicking process with ardor.

Suddenly, with a fierce snarl, an animal of some sort flew at her. She had a momentary vision of a pair of blazing eyes, bared teeth, and extended claws. She screamed and turned her head. In that instant a wildcat landed on her back and a vicious claw reached for her face. But Martin was at her side. Without a second’s hesitation he seized the growling brute in both hands and tore it from off her shoulders. His right hand was around its neck, but he strove in vain to grasp the small of its back in the left. It wriggled and scratched with the ferocity of an undersized tiger. Martin’s coat sleeves and shirt were slashed to shreds, his waistcoat was rent, and deep gashes were cut in his arms, but he held on gamely.

Mr. Herbert and the others ran up, but came unarmed. They had not even a stick. The vicar, with some presence of mind, rushed back and wrenched a leg from the camp table, but by the time he returned the cat was moving its limbs in its final spasms, for Martin had choked it to death.