At Large

by E. W. Hornung

  XXV

  MELMERBRIDGE CHURCH

  Dick was in the passage, brushing a week's dust from his hard felt hat;he was going to church this Sunday morning; half the party were going.From the gun-room came the sound of a pen gliding swiftly over foolscap,and the perfume of Mr. Pinckney's pipe; from the open air a lowconversational murmur, kept up by Mrs. Parish and Mr. Miles on thesteps. Dick, though not unconscious of these sounds, was listening foranother--a certain footstep on the stairs. It came at last. Alice cameslowly down; Alice, prayer-book in hand, in the daintiest of whitedresses and the prettiest, simplest straw hat; Alice for whom Mrs.Parish and Miles and Dick were all three waiting.

  Her step was less light than it should have been. The slim little figurepositively drooped. Her eyes, too, seemed large and bright, and darkbeyond nature, though that may have been partly from the contrast with aface so pale. The girl's altered looks had caused anxiety at Teddington,but the change to Yorkshire had not visibly improved them. This morning,after a night made even more restless than others by a sudden influx ofhopes and fears, this was painfully apparent.

  The Colonel, coming in from outside at this moment, gazed earnestly athis daughter. It was easily seen that he was already worried aboutsomething; but the annoyance in his expression changed quickly to pain.

  "You are not going to walk to Melmerbridge Church?" he said to her.

  "Oh, yes, I am," she answered.

  Her tone and look were saucy, in spite of her pallor; one of the oldsmiles flickered for a moment upon her lips.

  "My child," said her father, more in surprise than disapproval, "it iseight miles there and back!"

  "With a nice long rest in between," Alice reminded him. "I thought itwould do one good, the walk; otherwise, papa, I am not in the leasteager; so if you think----"

  "Go, my dear, of course--go, by all means," put in Colonel Bristohastily; "unwonted energy like this must on no account be discouraged.Yes, yes, you are quite right; it will do you all the good in theworld."

  As he spoke, he caught sight of Miles in the strong light outside thedoor. The worried look returned to the Colonel's eyes. Anxiety for hisdaughter seemed to fade before a feeling that for the time wasuppermost. He watched his daughter cross over to the door, and Dick puton his hat to follow her. Then the Colonel stepped forward and pluckedthe young man by the arm.

  "Dick, I want you to stop at home with me. I want to speak with youparticularly, about something very important indeed."

  Dick experienced a slight shock of disappointment, succeeded by a senseof foreboding. He fell back at once, and replaced his hat on the stand.

  As for Alice, she felt a sudden inclination to draw back, herself. Butthat was not to be thought of. Mrs. Parish and Mr. Miles were waitingnow at the gate. Alice went out and told them that Dick was, after all,staying behind with the Colonel.

  "Not coming?" cried Mrs. Parish. "Why, I had promised myself a long chatwith him!" which, as it happened, though Dick was no favourite of hers,was strictly true. "Where is Mr. Pinckney?"

  "Busy writing to catch the post."

  "And Dr. Robson?"

  "Cousin Philip has gone to read the lessons for the Gateby schoolmaster,his new friend. Had we not better start?"

  The three set out, walking slowly up the road, for Mrs. Parish was areally old lady, and it was only the truly marvellous proportion ofsinew and bone in her composition, combined with a romantic andwell-nigh fanatical desire to serve the most charming of men, thatfortified her to attempt so formidable a walk.

  "You men are blind," she had told her idol, among other things on thesteps. "Where a word would end all, you will not speak."

  "You honestly think it would end it the right way?" Miles had asked her.

  "I do not think, I know," the old woman had said for the fiftieth time.

  She had undertaken to give him his opportunity that morning. With fourin the party, that would have been easy enough; with three, it became aproblem soluble only by great ingenuity.

  For some distance beyond the shooting-box the road ascended gently, thendipped deep down into a hollow, with a beck at the bottom of it, and abridge and a farmhouse on the other side. The hill beyond was reallysteep, and from its crest the shooting-box--with red-roofed Gatebybeyond and to the left of it--could be seen for the last time. But whenthey had toiled to the top of this second hill, Mrs. Parish with thekindly assistance of the attentive Miles, it occurred to none of them tolook round, or they might have made out the Colonel and Dick stillstanding on the steps, and the arm of the former raised and pointedtowards them.

  "It is about that man there," the Colonel was saying, "that I want tospeak to you."

  Dick could scarcely suppress an exclamation. He changed colour. His facefilled with apprehension. What was coming next? What was suspected? Whatdiscovered? Until these words the Colonel had not spoken since thechurch-goers left, and his manner was strange.

  The Colonel, however, was scrutinising the young man.

  "What rivals they are!" he was thinking. "The one starts at the merename of the other! The fact is, Dick," he said aloud, "Miles has dealtwith me rather queerly in some money matters, and--What on earth's thematter?"

  The strong young fellow at Colonel Bristo's side was trembling like achild; his face was livid, his words low and hurried.

  "I will tell you in a moment, sir. Pray go on, Colonel Bristo."

  "Well, the fact is I want you to tell me if you know anything--of yourown knowledge, mind--of this station of Miles's in Queensland."

  "Excuse me: I can only answer by another question. Has he been raisingmoney on his station?"

  "Do you mean by borrowing from me?"

  "Yes, that is what I do mean."

  "Well, then, he has. At Teddington--I don't mind telling you, betweenourselves--I lent him a hundred pounds when a remittance he expected bythe mail did not come. After that I found out that he had an agent intown all the while, and it then struck me as rather odd that he shouldhave borrowed of me, though even then I did not think much of it. Yousee, the man did me the greatest service one man can render another, andI was only too glad of the opportunity to do him a good turn of anysort. I can assure you, Dick, at the time I would have made it athousand--on the spot--had he asked it. Besides, I have always likedMiles, though a little less, I must confess, since he came up here. Butlast night, as we were strolling about together outside, he suddenlyasked me for another hundred; and the story with which he supported hisrequest was rambling, if not absurd. He said that his partner evidentlybelieved him to be on his way out again, and therefore still omitted tosend him a remittance; that he was thus once more 'stuck up' for cash;that he had quarrelled with his agent (whom I suggested as the mostsatisfactory person to apply to), and withdrawn the agency. Well, Ihave written out the cheque, and given it him this morning. Hisgratitude was profuse, and seemed genuine. All I want you to tell me isthis: Do you know anything yourself of his station, his partner, or hisagent?"

  Dick made his answer with a pale, set face, but in a tone free alikefrom tremor or hesitancy:

  "The man has no station, no agent, no partner!"

  "What?" cried out the Colonel. "What are you saying? You must not makestatements of this sort unless you are sure beyond the shadow of adoubt. I asked what you knew, not what you suspected."

  "And I am telling you only what I know."

  "That Miles is a common swindler?"

  "That his name is not Miles, to begin with."

  "Then do you mean to say," the Colonel almost shouted, "that you haveknown all this, and let me be duped by the fellow before your eyes?"

  "I never suspected what you have told me now," said Dick warmly. "But itis true that I have known for some weeks who and what this man is. Ifound him out at Graysbrooke, and got rid of him for you within a fewhours. I was at fault not to give him in charge. You have good cause toblame me--and I sha'n't want for blame by and by!--but if you willlisten
to me, I will tell you all--yes, all; for I have protected aworse scoundrel than I thought: I owe him not another moment's silence."

  "Come in here, then," said Colonel Bristo, sternly; "for I confess thatI cannot understand you."

  * * * * *

  Up hill and down dale was the walk to Melmerbridge; but the ascentsreally were a shade longer and steeper than the descents, and did notonly seem so to the ladies. For when at last they reached the long greystone wall at the edge of the moor, and passed through the gate into themidst of brown heather, dotted with heads of gay green bracken, theywere greeted by a breeze--gentle and even fitful, but inexpressiblyrefreshing. Now below, in the deep lanes between the hedge-rows, therehad been no breeze at all--for the morning was developing into hazy,sleepy, stifling heat, and the sun was dim--and the flies had been mostpestilent. Accordingly they all drew breath on the moor. Mr. Milesuncovered his head, and let the feeble breeze make mild sport with hislight brown locks. Then he lit a cigarette. As for the ladies, they satdown for a moment's rest; and, considering that one of them was well onin years, and the other combating with a sickness that was graduallytightening its hold upon her, they were walking uncommonly well. Butconversation had flagged from the start, nor did the magic air of themoorland quicken it.

  When they had threaded the soft, rutted track that girdled the heatherwith a reddish-brown belt, when they had climbed the very last knoll,they found themselves on the extreme edge of that range of hills. Farbelow them, to the right, stretched mile upon mile of table-land,studded with villages and woods, divided by the hedges into countlesssquares. No two neighbours, among these squares, were filled in with thesame colour; some were brown, some yellow, and the rest all shades ofgreen. Far ahead, where the squares were all lost and their coloursmerged in one dirty neutral tint--far ahead--at the horizon, infact--hung a low, perpetual cloud, like a sombre pall of death. Anddeath indeed lay under it: death to green fields, sweet flowers, andhonest blue skies.

  They viewed all this from a spot where the road had been carved roundthe rough brow of a russet cliff. This spot was the loftiest as well asthe ruggedest of the whole walk. On the left the road was flanked by theragged wall of the cliff; on the right it was provided with a lowparapet, over which one might gaze forth upon the wide table-land, ordrop stones upon the tops of the tallest fir-trees in the wood at thecliff's base.

  Old Mrs. Parish pointed to the long black cloud on the horizon, andexplained that it was formed almost entirely of the smoke ofblast-furnaces, and was the constant canopy of a great town that theycould not see, because the town was hidden in perennial smoke. More thanthis she might have said--about the mighty metals that were disgorgedfrom under their very feet--about the rich men of yonder town (oldOliver, for one), not forgetting the poor men, beggar-men, andthieves--had the old lady not perceived that Miles was gazing furtivelyat Alice, and Alice gazing thoughtfully into space, and neither of themlistening to a word.

  They walked on, and the descending road became smoother, but tortuous;and trees arched over it, and the view was hidden until they stood atthe top of straight, steep Melmerbridge Bank, and the good-sizedprosperous village lay stretched at their feet.

  One long row of houses and shops on the left; a long straight silverystream for the right-hand side of the village street; a bridge acrossthis stream, leading to a church and a public-house that stood side byside, on apparently the best of terms, and without another nearneighbour on that side of the beck--such was Melmerbridge from itsbank-top.

  As they crossed a white wooden bridge at the foot of the bank (for thebeck curved and twisted, like other becks, except where it did its dutyby that straight village street), a simple, modest Sabbath peal rang outupon the sultry air.

  The old church was roomy, twilit, and consequently cool. Strong lightnever found its way inside those old stone walls, for the narrow windowswere pictorial, one and all. Dusk lingered in these aisles throughoutthe longest days; upon them day broke last of all; they met nightfallhalf-way.

  After a long, hot, tiring walk there could have been no more gratefulretreat than this church of All Saints at Melmerbridge. The senses werelulled in the very porch, nor were they rudely aroused when the quietpeal had ended and the quiet service began. Everything was subdued andinoffensive, even to the sermon: a vigorous discourse from the dark oakpulpit would have grated on the spirit, like loud voices in adeath-chamber.

  As for Mrs. Parish, she was soon sleeping as soundly and reverently asthe oldest parishioner. Alice, on the other hand, gave her whole mind tothe service, and her mind filled with peace. Her sweet clear voicechimed in with every response (at which the parish clerk, with the fineold crusted dialect, who enjoyed a monopoly in the responses, snortedangrily and raised his tones), while in the first hymn it rose so highand clear that the young curate peered over his book through the dusk,and afterwards lost his place in the Litany through peering again.

  Miles, for his part, looked about him with a pardonable curiosity. Hethought that he might have been christened in some church as an infant;he had certainly been married in one as a comparatively respectableblackleg--but that was not a pleasant thing to recall to-day. He hadsince been once in a little iron Bush chapel, on a professional visitwith his merry men, the object of which visit was attained with suchcomplete success that all Australia thrilled with indignation. InLondon, the Bristos had insisted on taking him to St. Paul's and theAbbey. This was the full extent of his previous church-going. He wasinterested for a little while in looking about him. His interest mighthave lasted to the Benediction had there been less subjective food forthought, or, perhaps, if he had been sitting there alone.

  In the hush and the dusk of this strange place, and the monotonousdeclamation of phrases that conveyed no meaning to him, Miles sethimself deliberately to think. Wild and precarious as his whole life hadbeen, he felt its crisis to be within arm's length of him now atlast--he joined hands with it here in this peaceful Yorkshire church.Even the past few years of infamy and hourly risk contained no situationso pregnant with fate as the present. He ran over in his mind the chainof circumstances that had led up to this crisis.

  The train of thought took him back to Queensland, where, with Nemesisholding him by the throat at last, he had wrenched himself from hertightening grip, and escaped. He had tumbled upon English soil with afair sum of money, a past dead and buried, a future of some sort beforehim; by chance he had tumbled upon his feet. Chance, and that genius inthe water that had crowned his escape by drowning him in the eyes of theworld, had combined at once, and helped him to save an unknowngentleman's life. Mother-wit and the laws of gratitude enabled him todupe the man he had rescued, become his close friend, live upon him,draw upon him, extract with subtle cunning the last farthing of salvage,and all the while he guessed--pretty correctly--that his pursuers werearriving to learn his death and take ship back to Australia.

  Thus far everything had worked out so prettily that it seemed worthwhile turning thoroughly honest and beginning this second life onentirely different lines from the old one. Then he fell in love andbelieved that his love was returned, a belief that was not fostered byhis own fancy unaided; now more than ever he desired to improve on thepast, and to forget all ties and obligations belonging to the past.Edward Ryan was dead; then Edward Ryan's wife was a widow; Miles theAustralian was a new unit in humanity; then why should not Miles theAustralian marry?

  Up to this point he could look back on every step with intensesatisfaction; but here his reflections took a bitter turn. To go oncalmly recoiling step after step, beginning with the month of July, wasimpossible: he tried it; but to remember that night in the park--toremember subsequent weeks spent in scheming and plotting, in rejectingplot after plot and scheme after scheme, in slowly eating his heart outin the solitude of a London lodging, in gradually losing all taste forfresh enterprise and all nerve for carrying it out--to remember all thiswas to pour vitriol on the spirit. He would remember no more; he would
shut the gate on memory; he would annihilate thought; he would make hismind a blank. Yet he was powerless to do any of these things.

  In his helplessness he looked down on the white figure at his side. Thesecond hymn was being sung. He had stood, and sat, and knelt or leantforward with the rest, by mere mechanical impulse. He was even holdingthe book which she held without knowing it. When he realised this, hishand shook so much that the hymn-book was almost jerked from hisfingers. At this she looked up, and caught his eyes bent down upon her.

  Now Miles was at the end of the pew, next the wall, and in shadow. Alicenoticed nothing in his expression, and went on singing without pause orbreak. But either her face, as she raised it, came in direct line withthe skirt of some saint, in the window above Miles, and the sun, or elsethe sun chose that moment for a farewell gleam; in any case, the girl'spale face was instantly flooded with a rich, warm, crimson glow. Mileslooked down, and this warm glow caught in his heart like a tongue oflive flame.

  The hymn was over; they sank down side by side: she to listen to thesermon, no matter its calibre--he to his thoughts, no matter theirmadness.

  What were his thoughts? Not reflections now. Not hesitancy, his newunaccountable failing; not nervous doubt, his new humiliating enemy. No,his thoughts were of the old kind, but worse. He was contemplating acrime. He was contemplating the worst crime of his whole career. Theplain English of his thoughts was this:

  "I believe that she likes me. I see that she is, in the catch phrase,'pining.' I am told that it is for me. Very good. If that is the caseshe will believe what I tell her, and do what I ask her. I have somepower of persuasion. I am not without invention. I shall represent toher all kinds of reasons for precipitancy and secrecy--temporarysecrecy. In a word, she shall fly with me! Well, that is bad enough; butthere my badness ends. I will live without crime for her sake; I willretrieve what I can of the past. Henceforth my life is of her, withher--above all, it is for her. She need never know how I have wrongedher, therefore she will not be wronged."

  He looked at the face beside him; it was white as alabaster. Alice wasstraining her eyes towards some object that filled them with sadness andsympathy. He followed the direction of her gaze; and he saw an old, oldman--a man who would soon come to church for the last time, and remainoutside the walls, under the grass--who was gazing with patheticwistfulness at the preacher, and, with wrinkled hand raised to the ear,making the most and the best of every well-worn epithet and perfunctorystock phrase. That was all. Miles brought back his glance to the whiteprofile at his side, and found it changed in this instant of time: thelong eyelashes were studded with crystal tears!

  How sad she looked--how thin and ill! Would she look like thisafterwards? Would tears often fill her eyes in the time to come?

  Miles shut his eyes, and again exerted might and main to blot outthought. But he could not do it; and half his confidence was gone at themoment when he most needed it all. He knew it, and shuddered. A thoughtthat had haunted him of late crossed his mind for the hundredth time: hewas an altered man not only in pretence but in reality; his nerve andcoolness had deserted him!

  The sermon was over, and the congregation awake. Miles stood up with therest, and took between thumb and finger his side of the little hymn bookheld out to him. He heartily wished it all over. In his presentunfortunate state of mind another hymn was another ordeal: her voice,when she sang, put such weak thoughts into his head. Was he not a fooland a madman to think at all of a woman who unmanned him so? Nay, hush!The hymn was begun. She was singing it with her whole heart, the littlehead thrown backward, the little white face turned upward. She wassinging; he could hear nothing else. She was singing; would she singafterwards? She was singing from the depths of her tired soul. Would sheever sing like this again? Would he ever hear her voice again. Hush!This might be the last time!

  * * * * *

  Colonel Bristo was back on the steps, gazing under his thin, hollowedhand up the road. He looked anxious, and indignant, and determined--butold and careworn.

  "What a time they are!" said Dick, pointing to the crest of the secondhill, where the brown road met the silver sky. Next moment he would haverecalled his words, for two figures, not three, stood out black againstthe sky. They were only in sight for an instant, but during that instantthey were hand in hand!

  The two men on the steps waited without a word for many minutes. Neithercould bring himself to speak--perhaps each hoped that the other had notseen everything. Besides, one was the father of the girl, and theother--her jilted lover. More than once the father shivered, and hisfingers twitched the whole time. Simultaneously they both started insurprise; for all at once Alice appeared over the brow of the nearesthill, coming swiftly towards them--alone.

  "Thank God!" murmured the Colonel, forgetting Dick's presence. "He hasasked her to marry him, and she has refused. The villain!"

  "Then, if you are right," cried Dick with sudden intensity, "a milliontimes blacker villain he."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Mean? I mean--but there is no need to tell you now."

  "You may as well tell me everything."

  "Then I mean that he is married already."