The Revellers

by Louis Tracy

  CHAPTER VI

  WHEREIN THE RED BLOOD FLOWS

  They fought like a couple of young bulls. Frank intended to demolish hisrival at the outset. He was a year older and slightly heavier, butMartin was more active, more sure-footed, sharper of vision. Above all,he had laid to heart the three-pennyworth of tuition obtained in theboxing booth a few hours earlier.

  He had noted then that a boxer dodged as many blows with his head as hewarded with his arms. He grasped the necessity to keep moving, and thusdisconcert an adversary's sudden rush. Again, he had seen the excellenceof a forward spring without changing the relative positions of the feet.Assuming you were sparring with the left hand and foot advanced, a quickjump of eighteen inches enabled you to get the right home with all yourforce. You must keep the head well back and the eye fixed unflinchinglyon your opponent's. Above all, meet offense with offense. Hit hard andquickly and as often as might be.

  These were sound principles, and he proceeded to put them intoexecution, to the growing distress and singular annoyance of MasterBeckett-Smythe.

  Ernest acted as referee--in the language of the village, he "saw fairplay"--but was wise enough to call "time" early in the first round, whenhis brother drew off after a fierce set-to. The forcing tactics hadfailed, but honors were divided. The taller boy's reach had told in hisfavor, while Martin's newly acquired science redressed the balance.

  Martin's lip was cut and there was a lump on his left cheek, but Frankfelt an eye closing and had received a staggerer in the ribs. He wasaware of an uneasy feeling that if Martin survived the next round he(Frank) would be beaten, so there was nothing for it but to summon allhis reserves and deliver a Napoleonic attack. The enemy must be crushedby sheer force.

  He was a plucky lad and was stung to frenzy by seeing Angele offerMartin the use of a lace handkerchief for the bleeding lip, a delicatetenderness quietly repulsed.

  So, when the rush came, Martin had to fight desperately to avoidannihilation. He was compelled to give way, and backed toward the hedge.Behind lay an unseen stackpole. At the instant when Beckett-Smythelowered his head and endeavored to butt Martin violently in the stomach,the latter felt the obstruction with his heel. Had he lost his nervethen or flickered an eyelid, he would have taken a nasty fall and asevere shaking. As it was, he met the charge more than halfway, anddelivered the same swinging upper stroke which had nearly proved fatalto his gamekeeper friend.

  It was wholly disastrous to Beckett-Smythe. It caught him fairly on thenose, and, as the blow was in accord with the correct theory of dynamicsas applied to forces in motion, it knocked him silly. His head flew up,his knees bent, and he dropped to the ground with a horrible feelingthat the sky had fallen and that stars were sparkling among the roughpaving-stones.

  "That's a finisher. He's whopped!" exulted Jim Bates.

  "No, he's not. It was a chance blow," cried Ernest, who was stronglyinclined to challenge the victor on his own account. "Get up, Frank.Have another go at him!"

  But Frank, who could neither see nor hear distinctly, was too groggy torise, and the village girls drew together in an alarmed group. Suchviolent treatment of the squire's son savored of sacrilege. They weresure that Martin would receive some condign punishment by the law forpummeling a superior being so unmercifully.

  Angele, somewhat frightened herself, tried to console her discomfitedchampion.

  "I'm so sorry," she said. "It was all my fault."

  "Oh, go away!" he protested. "Ernest, where's there a pump?"

  Assisted by his brother, he struggled to his feet. His nose was bleedingfreely and his face was ghastly in the moonlight. But he was a spiritedyoungster. He held out a hand to Martin.

  "I've had enough just now," he said, with an attempt at a smile. "Someother day, when my eye is all right, I'd like to----"

  A woman's scream of terror, a man's cry of agony, startled the silentnight and nearly scared the children out of their wits.

  Someone came running up the garden path. It was Kitty Thwaites. Sheswayed unsteadily as she ran; her arms were lifted in franticsupplication.

  "Oh, Betsy, Betsy, you've killed him!" she wailed. "Murder! Murder!Come, someone! For God's sake, come!"

  She stumbled and fell, shrieking frenziedly for help. Another woman--awoman whose extended right hand clutched a long, thin knife such as isused to carve game--appeared from the gloom of the orchard. Her wan facewas raised to the sky, and a baleful light shone in her eyes.

  "Ay, I'll swing for him," she cried in a voice shrill with hysteria."May the Lord deal wi' him as he dealt wi' me! And my own sister, too!Out on ye, ye strumpet! 'Twould sarve ye right if I stuck ye wi' t' sameknife."

  With a clatter of ironshod boots, most of the frightened childrenstampeded out of the stable yard. Martin, to whom Angele clung inspeechless fear, and the two Beckett-Smythes alone were left.

  The din of steam organ and drums, the ceaseless turmoil of the fair, theconstant fusillade at the shooting gallery, and the bawling of men incharge of the various sideshows, had kept the women's shrieks from otherears thus far. But Kitty Thwaites, though almost shocked out of hersenses, gained strength from the imminence of peril. Springing up fromthe path just in time to avoid the vengeful oncoming of her sister, shestaggered toward the hotel and created instant alarm by her cries of"Murder! Help! George Pickering has been stabbed!"

  A crowd of men poured out from bar and smoking-room. One, who tookthought, rushed through the front door and snatched a naphtha lamp froma stall. Meanwhile, the three boys and the girl on the other side ofthe hedge, seeing and hearing everything, but unseen and unheardthemselves, took counsel in some sort.

  "I say," Ernest Beckett-Smythe urged his brother, "let's get out ofthis. Father will thrash us to death if we're mixed up in thisbusiness."

  The advice was good. Frank forgot his dizziness for the moment, and thetwo raced to secure their bicycles from a stall-holder's care. They rodeaway to the Hall unnoticed.

  Martin remained curiously quiet. All the excitement had left him. IfElmsdale were rent by an earthquake just then, he would have watched thetoppling houses with equanimity.

  "I suppose you don't wish to stop here now?" he said to Angele.

  The girl was sobbing bitterly. Her small body shook as though each gulpwere a racking cough. She could not answer. He placed his arm around herand led her to the gate. While they were crossing the yard the peoplefrom the hotel crowded into the garden. The man with the lamp hadreached the back of the house across the bowling green, and a stalwartfarmer had caught Betsy Thwaites by the wrist. The blood-stained knifefell from her fingers. She moaned helplessly in disjointed phrases.

  "It's all overed now. God help me! Why was I born?"

  Already a crowd was surging into the hotel through the front door.Martin guided his trembling companion to the right; in a few stridesthey were clear of the fair, only to run into Mrs. Saumarez's Germanchauffeur.

  He was not in uniform; in a well-fitting blue serge suit and straw hat,he looked more like a young officer in mufti than a mechanic. He was thefirst to recognize Angele, and was so frankly astonished that he bowedto her without lifting his hat.

  "_You_, mees?" he cried, seemingly at a loss for other words.

  Angele recovered her wits at once. She said something which Martin couldnot understand, though he was sure it was not in French, as the girl'sfrequent use of that language was familiarizing his ears with itssounds. As a matter of fact, she spoke German, telling the chauffeur tomind his own business, and she would mind hers; but if any talking weredone her tongue might wag more than his.

  At any rate, the man did then raise his hat politely and walk on. Theremainder of the road between Elmsdale and The Elms was deserted. Martinhardly realized the pace at which he was literally dragging hiscompanion homeward until she protested.

  "Martin, you're hurting my arm! What's the hurry?... Did she really killhim?"

  "She said so. I don't know," he replied.

  "Who was she?"

 
"Kitty Thwaites's sister, I suppose. I never saw her before. They werenot bred in this village."

  "And why did she kill him?"

  "How can I tell?"

  "She had a knife in her hand."

  "Yes."

  "Perhaps she killed him because she was jealous."

  "Perhaps."

  "Martin, don't be angry with me. I didn't mean any harm. I was onlyhaving a lark. I did it just to tease you--and Evelyn Atkinson."

  "That's all very fine. What will your mother say?"

  The quietude, the sound of her own voice, were giving the girl courage.She tossed her head with something of contempt.

  "She can say nothing. You leave her to me. You saw how I shut Fritz'smouth. What was the name of the man who was killed?"

  "George Pickering."

  "Ah. He walked down the garden with Kitty Thwaites."

  "Indeed?"

  "Yes. When I get in I can tell Miss Walker and Francoise all about it.They will be so excited. There will be no fuss about me being out. V'lala bonne fortune!"

  "Speak English, please."

  "Well, it is good luck I was there. I can make up such a story."

  "Good luck that a poor fellow should be stabbed!"

  "That wasn't my fault, was it? Good-night, Martin. You foughtbeautifully. Kiss me!"

  "I won't kiss you. Run in, now. I'll wait till the door opens."

  "Then _I'll_ kiss _you_. There! I like you better than all theworld--just now."

  She opened the gate, careless whether it clanged or not. Martin heardher quick footsteps on the gravel of the short drive. She rattled loudlyon the door.

  "Good-night, Martin--dear!" she cried.

  He did not answer. There was some delay. Evidently she had not beenmissed.

  "Are you there?" She was impatient of his continued coldness.

  "Yes."

  "Then why don't you speak, silly?"

  The door opened with the clanking of a chain. There was a woman'sstartled cry as the inner light fell on Angele. Then he turned.

  Not until he reached the "Black Lion" and its well-lighted area did herealize that he was coatless and hatless. Jim Bates had vanished withboth of these necessary articles. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound!There would be a fearful row, and the thrashing would be the same in anycase.

  He avoided the crowd, keeping to the darker side of the street. Apoliceman had just come out of the inn and was telling the people to goaway. All the village seemed to have gathered during the few minuteswhich had elapsed since the tragedy took place. He felt strangely sorryfor Betsy Thwaites. Would she be locked up, handcuffed, with chains onher ankles? What would they do with the knife? Why should she want tokill Mr. Pickering? Wouldn't he marry her? Even so, that was no reasonhe should be stabbed. Where did she stick him? Did he quiver likeAbsalom when Joab thrust the darts into his heart?

  At last he ran up the slight incline leading to the White House; therewas a light in the front kitchen. For one awful moment he paused, with afinger on the sneck; then he pressed the latch and entered.

  John Bolland, grim as a stone gargoyle, wearing his Sunday coat andold-fashioned tall hat, was leaning against the massive chimneypiece.Mrs. Bolland, with bonnet awry, was seated. She had been crying. Afrightened kitchenmaid peeped through the passage leading to the back ofthe house when the door opened to admit the truant. Then she vanished.

  There was a period of chill silence while Martin closed the door. Heturned and faced the elderly couple, and John Bolland spoke:

  "So ye've coom yam, eh?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "An' at a nice time, too. Afther half-past ten! An hour sen yer mutheran' me searched high and low for ye. Where hev ye bin? Tell t' truth,ye young scamp. Every lie'll mean more skin off your back."

  Mrs. Bolland, drying her eyes, now that Martin had returned, noticed hisdisheveled condition. His face was white as his shirt, and both weresmeared with blood. A wave of new alarm paled her florid cheeks. She ranto him.

  "For mercy's sake, boy, what hev ye bin doin'? Are ye hurt?"

  "No, mother, not hurt. I fought Frank Beckett-Smythe. That is all."

  "T' squire's son. Why on earth----"

  "Go to bed, Martha," said John, picking up a riding whip. But Mrs.Bolland's sympathies discerned a deeper reason for Martin's escapadethan a mere boyish frolic which deserved a thrashing. He was unnaturallycalm. Something out of the common had happened. He did not flinch at thesight of the whip.

  "John," she said sternly, "ye shan't touch him t'-night."

  "Stand aside, Martha. If all my good teachin' is of no avail----"

  "Mebbe t' lad's fair sick o' yer good teachin'. You lay a hand on him atyer peril. If ye do, I don't bide i' t' house this night!"

  Never before, during thirty years of married life, had Martha Bollanddefied her husband. He glowered with anger and amazement.

  "Would ye revile the Word te shield that spawn o' Satan?" he roared."Get away, woman, lest I do thee an injury."

  But his wife's temper was fierce as his own when roused. She was aMeynell, and there have been Meynells in Yorkshire as long as anyBollands.

  "Tak' yer threats te those who heed 'em," she retorted bitterly. "D'yethink folk will stand by an' let ye raise yer hand te me?... David,William, Mary, coom here an' hold yer master. He's like te have a fitwi' passion."

  There was a shuffling in the passage. The men servants, such as happenedto be in the house, came awkwardly at their mistress's cry. The farmerstood spellbound. What devil possessed the household that his authorityshould be set at naught thus openly?

  It was a thrilling moment, but Martin solved the difficulty. He wrenchedhimself free of Mrs. Bolland's protecting arms.

  "Father, mother!" he cried. "Don't quarrel on my account. If I must bebeaten, I don't care. I'll take all I get. But it's only fair that Ishould say why I was not home earlier."

  Now, John Bolland, notwithstanding his dealing in the matter of thepedigree cow, prided himself on his sense of justice. Indeed, the manwho does the gravest injury to his fellows is often cursed with anarrow-minded certainty of his own righteousness. Moreover, this matterhad gone beyond instant adjustment by the unsparing use of a whip. Hiswife, his servants, were arrayed against him. By the Lord, they shouldrue it!

  "Aye," he said grimly. "Tell your muther why you've been actin' t'blackguard. Mebbe she'll understand."

  Mrs. Bolland had the sense to pass this taunt unheeded. Her heart wasquailing already at her temerity.

  "Angele Saumarez came out without her mother," said Martin. "Mrs.Saumarez is ill. I thought it best to remain with her and take her homeagain. Frank Beckett-Smythe joined us, and he--he--insulted her, in away. So I fought him, and beat him, too. And then George Pickering wasmurdered----"

  "What?"

  Bolland dropped the whip on the table. His wife sank into a chair with acry of alarm. The plowmen and maids ventured farther into the room. Eventhe farmer's relentless jaw fell at this terrific announcement.

  "Yes, it is quite true. Frank and I fought in the yard of the 'BlackLion.' George Pickering and Kitty Thwaites went down the garden--atleast, so I was told. I didn't see them. But, suddenly, Kitty camescreaming along the path, and after her a woman waving a long knife inthe air. Kitty called her 'Betsy,' and said she had killed GeorgePickering. She said so herself. I heard her. Then some men came with alight and caught hold of Betsy. She was going to stab Kitty, too, Ithink; and Jim Bates ran away with my coat and hat, which he washolding."

  The effect of such a narration on a gathering of villagers, law-abidingfolk who lived in a quiet nook like Elmsdale, was absolutely paralyzing.John Bolland was the first to recover himself. A man of few ideas, hecould not adjust his mental balance with sufficient nicety to see thatthe tragedy itself in no wise condoned Martin's offense.

  "Are ye sure of what ye're sayin', lad?" he demanded, though indeed hefelt it was absurd to imagine that such a tale would be invented as amere excuse.

  "Quite sure, sir. If you
walk down to the 'Black Lion,' you'll see allthe people standing round the hotel and the police keeping them back."

  "Well, well, I'll gan this minit. George Pickerin' was no friend o'mine, but I'm grieved te hear o' sike deeds as these in oor village. Iwas maist angered wi' you on yer muther's account. She was grievin' sowhen we failed te find ye. She thowt sure you were runned over ordrownded i' t' beck."

  This was meant as a graceful apology to his wife, and was taken in thatspirit. Never before had he made such a concession.

  "Here's yer stick, John," she said. "Hurry and find out what's happened.Poor George! I wish my tongue hadn't run so fast t' last time I seedhim."

  Bolland and the other men hastened away, and Martin was called on torecount the sensational episode, with every detail known to him, forthe benefit of the household. No one paid heed to the boy's ownadventures. All ears were for the vengeance taken by Betsy Thwaites onthe man who jilted her. Even to minds blunted almost to callousness, the_crime passionel_ had a vivid, an entrancing interest. The women werequick to see its motive, a passive endurance stung to sudden frenzy bythe knowledge that the faithless lover was pursuing the younger sister.But how did Betsy Thwaites, who lived in far-off Hereford, learn thatGeorge Pickering was "making up" to Kitty? The affair was of recentgrowth. Indeed, none of those present was aware that Pickering and thepretty maid at the "Black Lion" were so much as acquainted with eachother. And where did Betsy spring from? She could not have been stayingin the village, or someone aware of her history must have seen her. DidKitty know she was there? If so, how foolish of the younger woman to beout gallivanting in the moonlight with Pickering.

  The whole story was fraught with deepest mystery. Martin could notanswer one-tenth of the questions put to him. Boy-like, he felt himselfsomewhat of a hero, until he remembered Angele's glee at the "good luck"of the occurrence--how she would save herself from blame by telling MissWalker and Francoise "all about it."

  He flushed deeply. He wished now that Bolland had given him a hidingbefore he blurted out his news.

  "Bless the lad, he's fair tired te death!" said Mrs. Bolland. "Here,Martin, drink a glass o' port an' off te bed wi' ye."

  He sipped the wine, wondering dimly what Frank Beckett-Smythe wasenduring and how he would explain that black eye. He was about to goupstairs, when hasty steps sounded without, and Bolland entered with apoliceman.

  This was the village constable, and, of course, well known to all.During the feast other policemen came from neighboring villages, but thelocal officer was best fitted to conduct inquiries into a case requiringmeasures beyond a mere arrest. His appearance at this late hour createda fresh sensation.

  "Martin," said the farmer gravely, "did ye surely hear Kitty Thwaitessay that Betsy had killed Mr. Pickering?"

  "Yes, sir; I did."

  "And ye heerd Betsy admit it?"

  "Oh, yes--that is, if Betsy is the woman with the knife."

  "There!" said Bolland, turning to the policeman. "I telt ye so. T' ladhas his faults, but he's nae leear; I'll say that for him."

  The man took off his helmet and wiped his forehead, for the night wasclose and warm.

  "Well," he said, "I'll just leave it for the 'Super' te sattle. Mr.Pickerin' sweers that Betsy never struck him. She ran up tiv him wi' t'knife, an' they quarrelled desperately. That he don't deny. Shethreatened him, too, an' te get away frev her he was climin' inte t'stackyard when he slipped, an' a fork lyin' again' t' fence ran intivhis ribs."

  "Isn't he dead, then?" exclaimed Mrs. Bolland shrilly.

  "Not he, ma'am, and not likely te be. He kem to as soon as he swallowedsome brandy, an' his first words was, 'Where's Betsy?' He was fair wildwhen they telt him she was arrested. He said it was all the fault ofthat flighty lass, Kitty, an' that a lot of fuss was bein' made aboutnowt. I didn't know what te deae. Beaeth women were fair ravin', and saidall soarts o' things, but t' upshot is that Betsy is nussin' Mr.Pickerin' now until t' doctor comes frae Nottonby."

  He still mopped his head, and his glance wandered to the goodly cask inthe corner.

  "Will ye hev a pint?" inquired Bolland.

  "Ay, that I will, Mr. Bolland, an' welcome."

  "An' a bite o' bread an' meat?" added Mrs. Bolland.

  "I doan't min' if I do, ma'am."

  A glance at a maid produced eatables with lightning speed. Mary fearedlest she should miss a syllable of the night's marvels.

  The policeman had many "bites," and talked while he ate. Gradually thestory became lucid and consecutive.

  Fred, the groom, was jealous of Pickering's admiration for Kitty. Havingoverheard the arrangement for a meeting on Monday, he wrote to Betsy,sending her the information in the hope that she would come fromHereford and cause a commotion at the hotel.

  He expected her by an earlier train, but she did not arrive until 9:20P.M., and there was a walk of over two miles from the station.

  Meanwhile, he had seen Kitty and Pickering steal off into the garden. Heknew that any interference on his part would earn him a prompt beating,so, when Betsy put in a belated appearance, he met her in the passageand told her where she would find the couple.

  Instantly she ran through the kitchen, snatching a knife as she went.Before the drink-sodden meddler could realize the extent of the mischiefhe had wrought, Kitty was shrieking that Pickering was dead. All this heblurted out to the police before the injured man gave another version ofthe affair.

  "Martin bears out one side o' t' thing," commented the constableoracularly, "but t' chief witness says that summat else happened. Therewas blood on t' knife when it was picked up; but there, again, there's adoubt, as Betsy had cut her own arm wi't. Anyhow, Betsy an' Kitty werecryin' their hearts out when they kem out of Mr. Pickerin's room fortowels; and he's bleedin' dreadful."

  This final gory touch provided an artistic curtain. The constablereadjusted his belt and took his departure.

  After another half-hour's eager gossip among the elders, in which Fredsuffered much damage to his character, Martin was hurried off to bed.Mrs. Bolland washed his bruised face and helped him to undress. She wasfolding his trousers, when a shower of money rattled to the floor.

  "Marcy on us!" she cried in real bewilderment, "here's a sovereign, ahalf-sovereign, an' silver, an' copper! Martin, my boy, whatever...."

  "Angele gave it to me, mother. She gave me two pounds ten to spend."

  "Two pund ten!"

  "Yes. I suppose it was very wrong. I'll give back all that is left toMrs. Saumarez in the morning."

  Martha Bolland was very serious now. She crept to the door of thebedroom and listened.

  "I do hope yer father kens nowt o' this," she whispered anxiously.

  Then she counted the money.

  "You've spent sixteen shillin's and fowerpence, not reckonin' t'shillin' I gev ye this mornin'. Seventeen an' fowerpence! Martin,Martin, whatever on?"

  Such extravagance was appalling. Her frugal mind could not assimilate itreadily. This sum would maintain a large family for a week.

  "We stood treat to a lot of other boys and girls. But don't be vexedto-night, mother, dear. I'm so tired."

  "Vexed, indeed. What'll Mrs. Saumarez say? There'll be a bonny row i' t'mornin'. You tak' it back t' first thing. An', here. If she sez owtabout t' balance, come an' tell me an' I'll make it up. You fond lad; ifJohn knew this, he'd never forgive ye. There, honey, go te sleep."

  There were tears in her eyes as she bent and kissed him. But he wasincapable of further emotion. He was half asleep ere she descended thestairs, and his last sentient thought was one of keen enjoyment, for hisknuckles were sore when he closed his right hand, and he remembered thesmashing force of that uppercut as it met the aristocratic nose ofMaster Beckett-Smythe.