CHAPTER XIV.
THE MOCK-ORANGE BUSH.
To my dismay, he halted but five paces from me.
"Is that you, Leicester?" he whispered.
"Sergeant Letcher, if you please," answered a quiet voice close by;"unless you wish to be called Pickthall."
"Not so loud--the windows are open. How on earth did you come here?You're not with the van to-night?"
"I came on a horse, and a lame one: one of your tub-carriers.The captain saw me mount him, down at the cove, and sent me off toscour the country for evidence. I guessed pretty well in whatdirection he'd take me. But you're a careless lot, I will say.Look at this bit of rope."
"For God's sake don't talk so loud! Rope? What rope?"
"Oh, you needn't be afraid! It's not _your_ sort! Here--if you can'tsee, take hold and feel it. Left-handed, you'll notice--Frenchsling-stuff. And that Belcher woman has no more sense of cautionthan to tie up her roses with it! Now see here, my son"--and hisvoice became a snarl--"it may do for her to play tricks. All thecountry knows her, the magistrates included. But for the likes ofyou this dancing on the edge of the law is risky, and I can't affordit. Understand? Why the devil you haunt the house as you do is morethan I can fathom, unless maybe you're making up to marry the oldfool." He paused and added contemplatively, "'Twould be something inyour line to be sure. Women were always your game."
"You didn't whistle me out to tell me this," said Mr. Whitmorestiffly.
"No, I did not. I want ten pounds."
Mr. Whitmore groaned. "Look here, Leicst--"
"Be careful!"
"But this makes twice in ten days. It's pushing a man too hardaltogether!"
"Not a bit of it," Letcher assured him cheerfully. "You're toodevilish fond of your own neck, my lad; and I know it too devilishwell to be come over by that talk." He chuckled to himself."How's the beauty down at the cottage?"
"I don't know," Mr. Whitmore answered sulkily. "Is Plinlimmonthere?"
"No, he's not; and you ought to know he's not. Where have you been,all day?"
The curate was silent.
"He'll be down again on Saturday, though. Leave of absence is goingcheap, just now. I've an idea that our marching orders must be aboutdue. Maybe I'll be able to run down myself, though my father hadn'tthe luck to be a friend of the Colonel's. If I don't, you're to keepyour eye lifting, and report."
"Is there really a chance of the order coming?" asked Mr. Whitmore,with a shake in his low voice.
"Dissemble your joy, my friend! When it comes, I shall call onyou for fifty. Meanwhile I tell you to keep your eye lifting.The battalion's raw, yet. About the order, it's only my guesswork,and before we sail you may yet do the christening."
"It's damnable!"
"Hush, you fool! Gad, if somebody hasn't heard you! Who's _that_?"
They held their breath; and I held mine, pressing my body into themock-orange bush until the twigs cracked. Mr. Jack Rogers steppedout upon the verandah, and stood by one of the pillars, not a dozenyards from me, contemplating the sky where the dawn was now beginningto break over the dark shrubberies. I heard the two men tip-toeingaway through the laurels.
He, too, seemed to catch the sound, for he turned his head sharply.But at that moment Miss Belcher's voice called him back into theroom.
A minute later he reappeared with a loaf of bread in either hand, andwalked moodily past my bush without turning his head or observing me.
I faced about cautiously and looked after him. From the end of theverandah the ground, sheltered on the right by a belt of evergreentrees, fell away steeply to a valley where, under the paling sky, asheet of water glimmered. Towards this, down the grassy slope, Mr.Rogers went with long strides. I broke cover, and ran after him.
I ran as fast as my hurt hip and the trailing folds of the rugallowed. The grass underfoot was grey with dew, and overhead thebirds were singing. An old horse that had been sleeping in hispasture heaved himself up and gazed at me as I went by, and eitherhis snort of contempt or the sound of my footsteps must have struckon Mr. Rogers's ear. He turned and allowed me to catch up with him.
"It's you, eh?" He eyed me between pity and distrust. "Here, catchhold, if you're feeling peckish."
He thrust a loaf into my hands and I fell on it ravenously, pluckingoff a crust and gnawing it while I trotted beside him.
"Got to feed her blessed swans now!" he muttered. "The deuce is inher for perversity to-night."
He kept growling to himself, knitting his brow and pausing once ortwice for a moody stare. He was not drunk, and his high complexionshowed no trace of his all-night sitting; and yet something hadchanged him utterly from the cheerful gentleman of a few hours back.
The water in the valley bottom proved to be an artificial lake, verycunningly contrived to resemble a wild one. At the head of it, wherewe trod on asphodels and sweet-smelling mints and brushed the youngstalks of the loose-strife, stood a rustic bridge partly screened byalders. Here Mr. Rogers halted, and a couple of fine swans camesteering towards him out of the shadows.
He broke his loaf into two pieces. "That's for you," he exclaimed,hurling the first chunk viciously at the male bird. The pair turnedin alarm at the splash and paddled away, hissing. "And that's foryou!" The second chunk caught the female full astern, and Mr. Rogersleaned on the rail and laughed grimly. He thrust his hand into hisbreeches pocket and drew forth a guinea. The young daylight touchedits edge as it lay in his palm.
"I'm a Justice of the Peace; or I'd toss that after the bread."
"What's the matter with it, sir?"
He turned it over gingerly with his forefinger. "See?" he said."I put that mark on it myself, for sport, three weeks ago, and thisvery night I won it back."
"Was it one you sold to Mr. Rodriguez?"
"Hey?" I thought he would have taken me by the collar. "So you_are_ the boy! What do you know of Rodriguez, boy?"
"I--I was listening in the verandah, sir. And oh, but I've somethingto tell you! I'm the boy, sir, that Mr. Whitmore spoke about--theboy that's being searched for--"
"Look here," Mr. Rogers interrupted, "I'm a Justice of the Peace, youknow."
"I can't help it, sir--begging your pardon. But I was in the house,and I saw things: and if they catch me, I must tell."
"Tell the truth and shame the devil," said Mr. Rogers.
"But the more truth I told, sir, the worse it would look for someonewho's innocent."
"Whitmore?"
"You changed a note with Mr. Whitmore, didn't you, sir?"
This confused him. "You've been using your ears to some purpose," hegrowled.
"I don't know how Mr. Whitmore comes to be mixed up in it.But here's another thing, sir--You remember that he walked out afterthe game--for fresh air, he said?"
"Well?"
"And he didn't come back?"
"Well?"
"He stepped out because he was whistled out. There was a man waitingfor him."
"What man?"
"His name's Letcher--at least--"
"I don't know the name."
"He was one of the soldiers on the beach this evening."
"The devil!"
"But he hadn't come about _that_ business."
"About what, then?"
"Well now, sir, I must ask you a question. They were talking about'the beauty down at the cottage.' Who would that be?"
"That," said he slowly, "would be Isabel Brooks, for a certainty."
"And the cottage?"
"Remember the one we passed on the road?--the one with a lightdownstairs? That's it. She lives there with her father--an oldsoldier and three-parts blind. There's no mischief brewing against_her_, I hope?"
"I don't know sir," I went on breathlessly. "But if you please, goon answering me. Do you know a young man called Plinlimmon--Archibald Plinlimmon?"
"Plinlimmon? Ay, to be sure I do. Met him there once--anothersoldier, youngish and good-looking--in the ranks, but se
emed agentleman--didn't catch his Christian name. The Major introduced himas the son of an old friend--comrade-in-arms, he said, if I remember.He was there with a black-faced fellow, whose name I didn't catcheither."
"That was Letcher!"
"What? The man Whitmore was talking with? What were they saying?"
"They said something about a christening. And Letcher asked formoney."
"A christening? What in thunder has a christening to do with it?"
"That's what I don't know, sir."
Mr. Rogers looked at me and rubbed his chin. "I meant to take you toLydia," he said; "but now that Whitmore's mixed up in this, I'll beshot if I do. That fellow has bewitched her somehow, and where he'sconcerned--" He glanced up the slope and clutched me suddenly by theshoulder: for Whitmore himself was there, walking alone, and comingstraight towards us. "Talk of the devil--here, hide, boy--duck down,I tell you, there behind the bushes! No! Through the hedge, then--"
I burst across the hedge and dropped through a mat of brambles,dragging my rug after me. The fall landed me on all-fours upon thesunken high road, along which I ran as one demented--stark naked,too--a small Jack of Bedlam under the broadening eye of day; ran pastMiss Belcher's entrance gate with its sentinel masses of talllaurels, and had reached the bend of the road opening the low cottageinto view, when a sudden jingling of bells and tramp of horses droveme aside through a gate on the left, to cower behind a hedge therewhile they passed.
Two wagons came rumbling by, each drawn by six horses and covered bya huge white tilt bearing in great letters the words "Russell andCo., Falmouth to London." On the front of each a lantern shone paleagainst the daylight. At the head of each team rode a wagoner,mounted on a separate horse and carrying a long whip. Beside thewagons tramped four soldiers with fixed bayonets, and two followedbehind: they wore the uniform of the North Wilts Regiment.
I knew them well enough by repute--these famous wagons conveyinguntold treasure between London and the Falmouth Packets.They passed, and I crept out into the road again, to stare afterthem.
With that, turning my head, I was aware of a girl in the roadwayoutside the cottage door. But if she had come out to gaze after thewagons, she was gazing now at me. It was too late to hide, andmoreover I had come almost to the end of my powers. With a cry forpity I ran towards her.
The Adventures of Harry Revel Page 14