by Louis Tracy
CHAPTER VIII
SHOWING HOW MARTIN'S HORIZON WIDENS
The sufferings of the young are strenuous as their joys. When Martinpassed into the heart of the bustling fair its glamour had vanished. Thenotes of the organ were harsh, the gay canvas of the booths tawdry, thecleanly village itself awry. The policeman's surprise at his lack ofknowledge on the subject of his parentage was disastrously convincing.The man treated the statement as indisputable. There was no question ofhearsay; it was just so, a recognized fact, known to all the grown-uppeople in Elmsdale.
Tommy Beadlam, he of the white head, ran after him to ask why the"bobby" brought him to the "Black Lion," but Martin averted eyes ladenwith misery, and motioned his little friend away.
Tommy, who had seen the fight, and knew of the squire's presence thismorning, drew his own conclusions.
"Martin's goin' to be locked up," he told a knot of awe-strickenyoungsters, and they thrilled with sympathy, for their champion'svictory over the "young swell frae t' Hall" was highly popular.
The front door of the White House stood hospitably open. Already agoodly number of visitors had gathered, and every man and woman talkedof nothing but the dramatic events of the previous night. When Martinarrived, fresh from a private conversation with the squire and thechief of police, they were on the tip-toe of expectancy. Perhaps hemight add to the store of gossip. Even Mrs. Bolland felt a certain pridethat the boy should be the center of interest in this _cause celebre_.
But his glum face created alarm in her motherly breast.
"Why, Martin," she cried, "what's gone wrong? Ye look as if ye'd seen aghost wi' two heaeds!"
The all-absorbing topic to Martin just then was his own history and notthe half-comprehended tragedy of the rural lovers. If his mother'sfriends knew that which was hidden from him, why should he compel histongue to wag falsely? Somehow, the air seemed thick with deception justnow, but his heart would have burst had he attempted to restrain thewords that welled forth.
"Mother," he said, and his lips quivered at the remembrance that theaffectionate title was itself a lie, "Mr. Benson told the squire I wasnot your boy--that father and you adopted me thirteen years ago."
Mrs. Bolland's face glowed with quick indignation. No one spoke.Martin's impetuous repudiation of his name was the last thing theylooked for.
"It is true, I suppose," he went on despairingly. "If I am not your son,then whose son am I?"
Martha lifted her eyes to the ceiling.
"Well, of all the deceitful scoundrels!" she gasped. "Te think of mefillin' his blue coat wi' meat an' beer last neet, an' all t' return hemaks is te worry this poor lad's brains wi' that owd tale!"
"Oh, he's sly, is Benson," chimed in stout Mrs. Summersgill. "Afortnight sen last Tuesday I caught him i' my dairy wi' one o' t'maids, lappin' up cream like a great tomcat."
A laugh went round. None paid heed to Martin's agony. A dullness fell onhis soul. Even the woman he called mother was angered more by theconstable's blurting out of a household secret than by the destructionof an ideal. Such, in confused riot, was the thought that chilled him.
But he was mistaken. Martha Bolland's denunciations of the policemanonly covered the pain, sharp as the cut of a knife, caused by the boy'scry of mingled passion and sorrow. She was merely biding her time. Whenchance served, she called him into the larder, the nearest quiet placein the house, and closed the door.
"Martin, my lad," she said, while big tears shone in her honest eyes,"ye are dear to me as my own. I trust I may be spared to be muther te yeuntil ye're a man. John an' me meant no unkindness te ye in not tellin'ye we found ye i' Lunnun streets, a poor, deserted little mite, wi'nather feyther nor muther, an' none te own ye. What matter was it thatye should know sooner? Hev we not done well by ye? When ye come tothink over 't, ye're angered about nowt. Kiss me, honey, an' if anyonesays owt cross te ye, tell 'em ye hev both a feyther an' a muther, whichis more'n some of 'em can say."
This display of feeling applied balm to Martin's wounds. Certainly Mrs.Bolland's was the common sense view to take of the situation. He forboreto question her further just then, and hugged her contentedly. The verysmell of her lavender-scented clothes was grateful, and this embraceseemed to restore her to him.
His brightened countenance, the vanishing of that unwonted expression ofresentful humiliation, was even more comforting to Martha herself.
"Here," she said, thrusting a small paper package into his hand, "Imayn't hev anuther chance. Ye'll find two pun ten i' that paper. Gie itte Mrs. Saumarez an' tell her I'll be rale pleased if there's no moretalk about t' money. An' mebbe, later i' t' day, I'll find a shillin' feryersen. But, fer goodness' sake, come an' tell t' folk all that t'squire said te ye. They're fair crazed te hear ye."
"Mother, dear!" he cried eagerly, "I was so--so mixed up at first that Iforgot 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 cacklingdames as to all within his cognizance concerning Betsy Thwaites'sescapade. Be it noted, they unanimously condemned Fred, the groom;commiserated with Betsy, and extolled George Pickering as a truegentleman.
P. C. Benson, all unconscious of the rod in pickle for his broad back,strolled in about the eating hour. Mrs. Bolland, brindling withrepressed 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 saidthat Mr. Pickerin' had ta'en his solemn oath te do't in t' presence oft' 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 evenMartha Bolland for the moment. In her surprise she set a plate forBenson with the others, and, after that, the paramount rite ofhospitality prevented her from "having it out wi' him" until hunger wassated. Then, however, she let him "feel the edge of her tongue"; he wasso flustered that John had to restore his mental poise with another pintof ale.
Meanwhile, Martin managed to steal out unobserved, and made the best ofhis way to The Elms. Although in happier mood, he was not wholly pleasedwith his errand. He was not afraid of Mrs. Saumarez--far from it, but hedid not know how to fulfill his mission and at the same time exonerateAngele. His chivalrous nature shrank from blaming her, yet his unaidedwits were not equal to the task of restoring so much money to her motherwithout answering truthfully the resultant deluge of questions.
He was battling with this problem when, near The Elms, he encounteredthe Rev. Charles Herbert, M.A., vicar of Elmsdale, and his daughterElsie.
Martin doffed his straw hat readily, and would have passed, but thevicar hailed him.
"Martin, is it correct that you were in the stableyard of the 'BlackLion' 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 innocentcuriosity of a fawn. She knew him well by sight, but they had neverexchanged a word. He found himself wondering what her voice was like.Would she chatter with the excited volubility of Angele? Being bettereducated than he, would she pour forth a jargon of foreign words andslang? Angele was quiet as a mouse under her mother's eye. Was Elsieaping this demure demeanor because her father was present? Certainly,she looked a very different girl. Every curve of her pretty face, eachline in her graceful contour, suggested modesty and nice manners. Why,he couldn't tell, but he knew instinctively that Elsie Herbert wouldhave drawn back horrified from the mad romp overnight, and he washumbled in spirit before h
er.
The worthy vicar never dreamed that the farmer's sturdy son was capableof deep emotion. He interpreted Martin's quick coloring to knowledge ofa 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 theclear eyes, but Elsie quitted them instantly. The boy had endured toomuch 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 abovehis spectacles.
"My good boy," he said, "I did not choose that my daughter should hearthe--er--offensive details of this--er--stabbing affray, or worse, thattook place at the inn."
"But you didn't mind slighting me in her presence, sir," was theunexpected retort.
"I am not slighting you. Had I met Mr. Beckett-Smythe and soughtinformation as to this matter, I would still have asked her to go on tothe 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. Ididn'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 werefighting in the yard of the "Black Lion" at such an hour.
"How came you to be there?" he said gently. "You do not attend mychurch, Martin, but I have always regarded Mr. Bolland as a God-fearingman, and your teacher has told me that you are gifted with intelligenceand 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 manlydisplay of fisticuffs. It breaks no bones and saves many a boy from thegrowth of worse qualities. I suppose you are going to the fair thisafternoon?"
"No, sir. I'm not."
"Would you mind telling me how you will pass the time between now andsupper?"
"I am taking a message from my mother to Mrs. Saumarez, and then I'll gostraight to the Black Plantation"--a dense clump of firs situate at thehead of the ghylls, or small valleys, leading from the cultivated landup 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 inpouring forth a catalogue of his favorite authors. The more Mr. Herbertquestioned him the more eager and voluble he became. The boy had therare faculty of absorbing the joys and sorrows, the noble sentiments,the very words of the heroes of romance, and in this scholarly gentlemanhe found an auditor who appreciated all that was hitherto dumb thought.
Several people passing along the road wondered what "t' passon an' oadJohn Bolland's son were makkin' sike deed about," and the conversationmust have lasted fifteen or twenty minutes, when the vicar heard thechimes of the church clock.
He laughed genially. Although, on his part, there was an underlyingmotive in the conversation, Martin had fairly carried it far afield.
"You have had your revenge on me for sending my daughter away," hecried. "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 yourscope. About four o'clock leave your crow's nest and drop over to Thorghyll. 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 easiernow. The wholesome breeze of intercourse with a cultivated mind hadmomentarily 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 ofhostility 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 foryou, 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 horriblescenes as those which took place in the village? Be off! You just waituntil Mrs. Saumarez is better, and you will hear more of it."
With that, she slammed the door on him.
So Angele had posed as a simpleton, and he was the villain. This phaseof the medley amused him. He was retreating down the drive, when heheard 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 attirewas bizarre. Usually dressed with unexceptionable taste, to-day she worea boudoir wrap--a costly robe, but adjusted without care, and all untidyabout neck and breast. Her hair was coiled loosely, and stray wisps hungout in slovenly fashion. Her face, deathly white, save for dull redpatches on the cheeks, served as a fit setting for unnaturally brillianteyes 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 wantyou. Francoise is not here, and I wish you to run an errand."
Save for a strange thickness in her speech, she had never beforereminded him so strongly of Angele. She had completely lost hercustomary air of repose. She spoke and acted like a peevish child.
Anyhow, she had summoned him, and he could now discharge his trust. Insuch 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. Iwant you to go to the village, to the 'Black Lion,' and bring me asovereign'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 somemoney from Ang--from Miss Saumarez--and mother said----"
"Cease, boy. I do not understand, I tell you. Keep the money and bringme what I ask."
In her eagerness she leaned so far out of the window that she nearlyoverbalanced. The sovereign fell among some flowers. With an effort sherecovered an unsteady poise. Martin stooped to find the money. A dooropened inside the house. A hot whisper reached him.
"Tell no one. I'll watch for you in half an hour--remember--asovereign's worth."
The boy, not visible from the far side of the room, heard the voice ofFrancoise. The window closed with a bang. He discovered the coin andstraightened himself. The maid was seating her mistress in a chair andapparently remonstrating with her. She picked up from the floor awicker-covered Eau de Cologne bottle and turned it upside down with anangry gesture. It was empty.
Martin, whose experience of intoxicated people was confined to theinfrequent sight of a village toper, heavy with beer, lurching homewardin maudlin glee or fury, imagined that Mrs. Saumarez must be in somesort of fever. Obviously, those in attendance on her should be consultedbefore he brought her brandy secretly.
Back he marched to the front door and rang the bell. Lest Miss Walkershould sh
ut him out again, he was inside the hall before anyone couldanswer his summons, for the doors of country houses remain unlocked allday. The elder sister reappeared, very starchy at this unheard-ofimpertinence.
"I was forced to return, ma'am," he said civilly. "Mrs. Saumarez saw mein the drive and asked me to buy her some brandy. She gave me asovereign. She looked very ill, so I thought it best to come and tellyou."
The lady was thoroughly nonplussed by this plain statement.
"Oh," she stammered, so confused that he did not know what to make ofher agitation, "this is very nice of you. She must not have brandy. Itis--quite unsuitable--for her illness. It is really very good of you totell 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 takecharge of this sovereign, and also of the two pounds ten which MissAngele lent me?"
"Which Miss Angele lent you! Two pounds ten! I thought you said yourmother----"
"It is mine, please," said a voice from the broad landing above theirheads. Angele 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. "DoesMrs. Saumarez know----"
"Mrs. Saumarez knows nothing. Neither does Martin."
With wasp-like suddenness, the girl turned and faced a woman old enoughto be her grandmother. Their eyes clashed. The child's look saidplainly:
"Dare to utter another word and I'll disgrace your house throughout thevillage."
The woman yielded. She waved a protesting hand. "It is no business ofmine. Thank you, Martin, for coming back."
Angele 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 Francoisesaw him, wondering why he had called.
And for hours thereafter, until night fell, a white-faced woman pacedrestlessly to and fro in the sitting-room, ever and anon raising thewindow, and watching for Martin's return with a fierce intensity thatrendered her almost maniacal in appearance.
Happily, the boy was unaware of the pitiful tragedy in the life of therich and highly placed Mrs. Saumarez. While she waited, with a ragesteadily dwindling into a wearied despair, he was passing, allunconsciously, into the next great phase of his career.
He took one forward step into the unknown before leaving the tree-lineddrive. He met Fritz, the chauffeur, who was so absorbed in the study ofa folding road-map that he did not see Martin until the latter hailedhim.
"Hello!" was the boy's cheery greeting. "That affair is ended. Pleasedon't say anything to Mrs. Saumarez."
The German closed the map.
"Whad iss ented?" he inquired, surveying Martin with a cool hauteur rarein 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 Angeleinto 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 strongGerman accent. Somehow he associated these resonant syllables with acertain 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 toloiter about The Elms that afternoon. This man was a paid servant whocould hardly refuse to carry out any reasonable order, and it would havebeen awkward for Martin if Mrs. Saumarez asked him to give Fritz thesovereign she had intrusted to his keeping.
"All aright," agreed the chauffeur, whose strong, intellectual face wasnow altogether amiable; in fact, a white scar on his left cheek creasedso curiously when he grinned that his aspect was almost comical. "Wevill meed when all dis noise sdops, yez?" and he waved a hand toward thedistant drone of the fair.
Thus began for Martin another strange friendship--a friendship destinedto end so fantastically that if the manner of its close were foretoldthen and there by any prophet, the mere telling might have brought theseer to the madhouse.