The Revellers

by Louis Tracy

  CHAPTER XVII

  TWO MOORLAND EPISODES

  Though all hands were needed on the farm in strenuous endeavor to repairthe storm's havoc, Dr. MacGregor forbade Martin to work when he examinedthe reopened cut. Thus, the boy was free to guide Fritz, the chauffeur,on the morning the man came to look at Bolland's herd.

  Fritz Bauer--that was the name he gave--had improved his Englishpronunciation marvelously within a fortnight. He no longer confused"d's" and "t's." He had conquered the sibilant sound of the "s." He waseven wrestling with the elusive "th," substituting "d" for "z."

  "I learnt from a book," he explained, when Martin complimented him onhis mastery of English. "Dat is goot--no, good--but one trains de earonly in de country where de people spik--speak--de language all detime."

  The sharp-witted boy soon came to the conclusion that his German friendwas more interested in the money value of the cattle as pedigreed stockthan in the "points"--such as weight, color, bone, level back, andmilking qualities--which commended them to the experienced eye. Bauerasked where he could obtain a show catalogue, and jotted down theprinter's address. When they happened on a team of Cleveland bays,however, Fritz was thoroughly at home, and gratified his hearer bydisplaying a horseman's knowledge of a truly superb animal.

  "Dey are light, yet strong," he said, his eyes roving from high-setwithers to shapely hocks and clean-cut fetlocks. "Each could pull a tonon a bad road--yes?"

  Martin laughed. He was blind to the cynical smile called forth by hisamusement.

  "A ton? Two tons. Why, one day last winter, when a pair of Belgianscouldn't move a loaded lorry in the deep snow, my father had the mantake out both of 'em, and Prince walked away with the lot."

  "So?" cried the German admiringly.

  "But you understand horses," went on Martin. "Yet I've read that men whodrive motors don't care for anything else, as a rule."

  "Ah, dat reminds me," said the other. "It is a fine day. Come wid me inde machine."

  "That'll be grand," said Martin elatedly. "Can you take it out?"

  "Oh, yes. Any time I--dat is, I'll ask Mrs. Saumarez, and she willpermit--yes."

  Quarter of an hour later the chauffeur was explaining, in German, thathe was going into the country for a long spin, and Mrs. Saumarez waslistening, not consenting.

  "Going alone?" she inquired languidly.

  "No, madam," he answered. "Martin Bolland will come with me."

  "Why not take Miss Angele?"

  The man smiled.

  "I want the boy to talk," he explained.

  Mrs. Saumarez nodded. She treated the matter with indifference. Not soAngele, who heard the car purring down the drive, and inquired Fritz'serrand. She was furious when her mother blurted out the news that Martinwould accompany Bauer.

  "Ce cochon d'Allemand!" she stormed, her long lashes wet with vexedtears. "He has done that purposely. He knew I wanted to go. But I'll geteven with him! See if I don't."

  "Angele!" and Mrs. Saumarez reddened with annoyance; "if ever you say aword about such matters to Fritz I'll pack you off to school within thehour. I mean it, so believe me."

  Angele stamped a rebellious foot, but curbed her tongue and vanished.She ran all the way to the village and was just in time to see theMercedes bowling smoothly out of sight, with Martin seated beside thechauffeur. She was so angry that she stamped again in rage, and EvelynAtkinson came from the inn to inquire the cause. But Angele snubbed her,bought some chocolates from Mr. Webster, and never offered the othergirl a taste.

  It happened that Martin, for his part, had suggested a call at thevicarage. Fritz vetoed the motion promptly.

  "Impossible!" he grinned. "I had to dodge de odder one, yes."

  Evidently Fritz had kept both eyes and ears open.

  They headed for the moors. Wise Martin had counseled a slow speed in thevillage to allay Mrs. Bolland's dread of a new-fangled device which she"couldn't abide"; but once on the open road the car breasted a steephill at a rate which the boy thought neck-breaking.

  "Dat is nodding," said Fritz nonchalantly. "Twenty--twenty-five. Waittill we are on de level. Den I show you fifty."

  Within six minutes Martin flew past Mrs. Summersgill's moor-edge farm.Never before had he reached that point in less than half an hour. Thestout party was in the porch, peeling potatoes for the midday meal. Shelifted her hands in astonishment as her young friend sped by. Martinwaved a greeting. He could almost hear her say:

  "That lad o' Bolland's must ha' gone clean daft. I'm surprised at Marthate let him ride i' such a conthraption."

  On the hedgeless road of the undulating moor, even after the ravages ofthe gale, fifty miles an hour was practicable for long stretches. Fritzwas a skilled driver. He seemed to have a sixth sense which warned himof rain-gullies, and slowed up to avoid straining the car. He beganexplaining the mechanism, and halted on the highest point of a far-flungtableland to lift the bonnet and show the delighted boy the operationsof the Otto cycle. In those days the self-starter was unknown, butMartin found he could start the heated engine without any difficulty.Fritz permitted him to drive slowly, and taught him the use of thebrakes. Finally, this most agreeable Teuton produced a packet ofsandwiches. He was in no hurry to return.

  "Dese farms," he said, pointing to a low-built house with tiled roof,and a cluster of stables and haymows, "dey do not raise stock, eh? Onlylittle sheep?"

  "They all keep milk-cows, and bring butter to the market, so they oftenhave calves and yearlings," was the ready answer.

  "And horses?"

  "Always a couple, and a nag for counting the sheep."

  "How many sheep?"

  "Never less than a hundred. Some flocks run to three or four hundred."

  "Ah. Where are dey?"

  Martin, proud of his knowledge, indicated the position and approximatedistance of the hollows, invisible for the most part, in which lay thelarger holdings.

  "Do you understand a map?" inquired Fritz.

  "Yes. I love maps. They tell you everything, when you can read themproperly."

  "Not everyding," and the man smiled. "Some day I want to visit one ofdose big farms. Can you mark a few?"

  He spread an Ordnance map--a clean sheet--and gave his guide a pencil.Soon Martin had dotted the paper with accurate information, such as nonebut one reared in that wild country could have supplied. He was eager toprove his familiarity with a map, and followed each bend and twist ofthe prehistoric glacier beds, where the lowland becks had their origin.He was not "showing off" before a foreigner. He loved this brown moorand was only too pleased to have found a sympathetic listener.

  "The heather is losing its color now," he said, pausing for a moment inhis task. "You ought to see it early in August, when it is all one massof purple flowers, with here and there a bunch of golden gorse--'whin,'we call it. Our moor is almost free from bog-holes, so you can walk orride anywhere with safety. I have often thought what a fine place itwould be for an army."

  "Wass ist das?" cried Fritz sharply. He corrected the slip with a laugh."An army?" he went on, though his newly acquired accent escaped him."Vot woot an army pe toing here?"

  "Oh, just a camp, you know. We hold maneuvers every year in England."

  "Yez. You coot pud all your leedle army on dis grount. Bud dere iss vongrade tefecd. Dere iss no water. A vell, in eej farm, yez; bud nodenough for a hundret dousand men, und de horses of four divisions."

  This point of view was novel to the boy. He knit his brows.

  "I hadn't thought of that," he confessed. "But, wait a bit. There's farmore water here than you would imagine. Stocks have to be watered, youknow. Some of the farmers dam the becks. Why, in the Dickenson placeover there," and out went a hand, "they have quite a large reservoir,with trout in it. You'd never guess it existed, if you weren't told."

  Fritz nodded. He had turned against the breeze to shield a match for acigarette, and his face was hidden.

  "You surprise me," he murmured, speaking slowly and with care again."And dere are
odders, you say?"

  "Five that I know of. Mrs. Walker, at the Broad Ings, rears hundreds ofducks on her pond."

  Fritz took the map and pencil.

  "You show me," he chuckled. "I write an essay on Yorkshire moor farms,and perhaps earn a new suit of clo'es, yes? Our Cherman magazines printdose tings."

  * * * * *

  That same afternoon a party of guns on a Scottish moor had been shootingdriven grouse flying low and fast over the butts before a strong wind.The sportsmen, five in number, were all experts. Around each shelter,with its solitary marksman and his attendant loader, lay a deep crescentof game, every bird shot cleanly.

  The last drive of the day was the most successful. One man, whosebronzed skin and military bearing told his profession, handed the empty12-bore to the gillie when the line of beaters came over the crest ofthe hill, and betook himself, filling his pipe the while, to a group ofponies waiting on the moorland road in the valley beneath.

  He joined another, the earliest arrival.

  "Capital ground, this," he said. "I don't know whose lot is the moreenviable, Heronsdale--yours, who have the pains as well as the pleasureof ownership, or that of wandering vagabonds like myself whom you makeyour guests."

  Lord Heronsdale smiled.

  "You may call yourself a wandering vagabond, Grant--the envy rests withme," he said. "It's all very well to have large estates, but I feel likedegenerating into a sort of head gamekeeper and farm bailiff combined.Of course, I'm proud of Cairn-corrie, yet I pine sometimes for theexcitement of a life that does not travel in grooves."

  The other shook his head.

  "Don't tempt fate," he said. "My life has been spent among the outerbeasts. It isn't worth it. For a few years of a man's youth,yes--perhaps. But I am forty, and I live in a club. There, you have mycareer in a nutshell."

  "There is a fine kernel within. By Gad! Grant, why don't you pretend Imeant that pun? I didn't, but I'll claim it at dinner. Gad, it's fine!"

  Colonel Grant laughed. His mirth had a pleasant, wholesome ring.

  "If you bribe me with as good a berth to-morrow," he said, "I'll giveyou the chance of throwing it off spontaneously during the first lull inthe conversation. The best impromptus are always prepared beforehand,you know."

  Others came up. The shooters mounted, and the wise ponies picked theirway with cautious celerity over an uneven track. Colonel Grant againfound himself riding beside his host.

  "Tell you what," said Lord Heronsdale suddenly, "you're a bit of anenigma, Grant."

  "I have often been told that."

  "Gad, I don't doubt it. A chap like you, with five thousand a year, tochuck the Guards for the Indian Staff Corps, exchange town for theNorthwest frontier, go in for potting Afghans instead of running a dragto Sandown; and, to crown all, remain a bachelor. I don't understandit."

  "Yet, ten minutes ago you were growling about the monotony of existenceat Cairn-corrie and half a dozen other places."

  "Not even a _tu quoque_ like that explains the mystery."

  "Some day I'll tell you all about it. When the time comes I must askLady Heronsdale to find me a nice wife, with a warranty."

  "Gad, that's the job for Mollie. _She'll_ put the future Mrs. Grantthrough her paces. You're not flying off to India again, then?"

  "No. I heard last week that a post is to be found for me in theIntelligence Department."

  "Capital! You'll soon have a K. before the C. B."

  "Possibly. Some fellows wear themselves to the bone in trying for thosethings. My scheming for years has been to avoid the humdrum ofcantonment life. And, behold! I am spotted for promotion. I don't knowhow the deuce they ever heard of me in Pall Mall."

  "Gad! Don't you read the papers?"

  "Never."

  "My dear fellow, they were full of you last year. That march through thesnow, pulling those guns through the pass, the final relief of thefort--Gad, Molly has the cuttings. She'll show 'em to you after dinner."

  "I sincerely hope Lady Heronsdale will do no such thing. Why on earthdoes she keep such screeds?"

  His lordship dropped his bantering air.

  "Do you really imagine, Grant," he said seriously, "that either she or Iwill ever forget what you did for Arthur at Peshawar?"

  The other man reddened.

  "A mere schoolboy episode," he growled.

  "Yes, in a sense. Yet Arthur told me that he had a revolver in hispocket when you met him that night at the mess and persuaded him toleave the business in your hands. You saved our boy, Grant. Gad, askMollie what she thinks!"

  "Has he been steady since?"

  "A rock, my dear chap--adamant where women are concerned. His mother isbeginning to worry about him; he wouldn't look at Helen Forbes, andMadge Bolingbrooke does her skirt-dances in vain. Both deuced nicegirls, too."

  Colonel Grant had navigated the talk into a safe channel, and kept itthere. He never spoke of the past.

  At dinner a man asked him if he was reading the Elmsdale sensation. Hehad not even heard of it, so the tale of Betsy and George Pickering, ofMartin Bolland and Angele Saumarez was poured into his ears.

  "I am interested," said his neighbor, "because I knew poor Pickering. Hehunted regularly with the York and Ainsty."

  "Saumarez!" murmured Colonel Grant. "I once met a man of that name. Hewas shot on the Modder River."

  "This girl may be his daughter. The paper describes her mother as a ladyof independent means, visiting the moors for her health."

  "Poor Saumarez! From what I remember of his character, the child must bea chip of the same block--he was an irresponsible daredevil, a terroramong women. But he died gallantly."

  "There's a lot about her in the local paper, which reached me thismorning. Would you care to see it?"

  "Newspapers are so inaccurate. They never know the facts."

  Yet the colonel, not caring to play bridge, asked later for the loan ofthe journal named by his informant, and read therein the story of thevillage tragedy. As fate willed it, the writer was the reporter of the_Messenger_, and his account was replete with local knowledge.

  Yes, Mrs. Saumarez was the widow of Colonel Saumarez, late of theHussars. But--what was this?

  "Martin Court Bolland, a bright-faced boy, of an intelligence far greater than one looks for in rustic youth, has himself a somewhat romantic history. He is the adopted son of the sturdy yeoman whose name he bears. Mr. and Mrs. Bolland were called to London thirteen years ago to attend the funeral of the farmer's brother. One evening while seeing the sights of the great metropolis they found themselves in Ludgate Hill. They were passing the end of St. Martin's Court, when a young woman named Martineau----"

  The colonel laid aside his cigar and twisted his body sideways, so thatthe light of the billiard-room lamps should fall clearly on the paperyet leave his face in the shade.

  "--a young woman named Martineau threw herself, with a baby in her arms, from the fourth story of a house in the court, and was killed by the fall. The baby's frock was caught by a projecting sign, and the child hung perilously in air. John Bolland, whose strong, stern face reveals a character difficult to surprise, impossible to daunt, jumped forward and caught the tiny mite as it dropped a second time. Mrs. Bolland still treasures a letter written by the infant's unhappy mother, and prizes to the utmost the fine boy whom she and her husband adopted from that hour. The old couple are childless, though with Martin calling them 'father' and 'mother,' they would scoff at the statement. This, then, is the well-knit, fearless youngster who fought the squire's son on that eventful night, and whose evidence is of the utmost importance in the police theory of crime, as opposed to accident."

  Colonel Grant went steadily through the neat sentences on which the_Messenger_ correspondent prided himself. He was a man of bronze; heshowed no more emotion than a statue, though the facts staring from theprinted page might well have produced external signs of the
tempestwhich sprang into instant being in his soul.

  He read each line of descriptive matter and report. For the sorrows ofBetsy, the final daring of George Pickering, he had no eyes. It was theboy he sought in the living record: the boy who fought youngBeckett-Smythe to rescue the thoughtless child--for so Angele figured inthe text; the boy who repudiated with scorn the solicitor's suggestionthat he formed part and parcel of the crowd of urchins gathered in thehotel yard; the farmer's adopted son, who spoke so fearlessly and borehimself so well that the newspaper noted his intelligence, his brightlooks.

  At last Colonel Grant laid down the sheet and lighted a fresh cigar. Hesmoked for a few minutes, watching the pool players, and declining aninvitation to join in the game. He seemed to be planning some line ofaction; soon he went to the library and unrolled a large scale map ofEngland. He found Nottonby--Elmsdale was too small a place to bedenoted--and, after consulting a railway timetable, wrote a longtelegram.

  These things accomplished, he seized an opportunity to tell LordHeronsdale that business of the utmost importance would take him away bythe first train next morning.

  Of course, his host was voluble in protestations, so the soldierexplained matters.

  "You asked me to-day," he said, "why I turned my back on town thirteenyears ago. I meant telling you at a more convenient season. Will itsuffice now to say that a kindred reason tears me away from your moor?"

  "Gad, I hope there is nothing wrong. Can I help?"

  "Yes; by letting me go. You will be here until October. May I return?"

  "My dear Grant----"

  So they settled it that way.

  About three o'clock on the second day after the colonel's departure fromCairn-corrie he and an elderly man of unmistakably legal appearancewalked from Elmsdale station to the village. The station master,forewarned, had procured a dogcart from the "Black Lion," but thevisitors preferred dispatching their portmanteaux in the vehicle, andthey followed on foot.

  Thus it happened--as odd things do happen in life--that the two men meta boy walking rapidly from the village, and some trick of expression inhis face caused the colonel to halt him with a question:

  "Can you tell me where the 'Black Lion' inn is?"

  "Yes, sir. On the left, just beyond the bend in the road."

  "And the White House Farm?"

  The village youth looked at the speaker with interest.

  "On the right, sir; after you cross the green."

  "Ah!"

  The two men stood and stared at Martin, who was dressed in a neat blueserge suit, obtained by post from York, the wildcat having ruined itspredecessor. The older man, who reminded the boy of Mr. Stockwell, owingto the searching clearness of his gaze, said not a word; but the tall,sparsely-built soldier continued--for Martin civilly awaited hispleasure--

  "Is your name, by any chance, Martin Court Bolland?"

  The boy smiled.

  "It is, sir," he said.

  "Are you--can you--that is, if you are not busy, you might show us theinn--and the farm?"

  The gentleman seemed to have a slight difficulty in speaking, and hiseyes dwelt on Martin with a queer look in them: but the answer cameinstantly:

  "I'm sorry, sir; but I am going to the vicarage to tea, and you cannotpossibly miss either place. The inn has a signpost by the side of theroad, and the White House stands by itself on a small bank about ahundred and fifty yards farther down the village."

  The older gentleman broke in:

  "That will be our best course, Colonel. We can easily find ourway--alone."

  The hint in the words was intended for the ears that understood. ColonelGrant nodded, yet was loath to go.

  "Is the vicar a friend of yours?" he said to Martin.

  "Yes, sir. I like him very much."

  "Does a Mrs. Saumarez live here?"

  "Oh, yes. She is at the vicarage now, I expect."

  "Indeed. You might tell her you met a Colonel Grant, who knew herhusband in South Africa. You will not forget the name, eh--Grant?"

  "Of course not, sir."

  Martin surveyed the stranger with redoubled attention. A live colonel isa rare sight in a secluded village. The man, seizing any pretext toprolong the conversation, drew out a pocketbook.

  "Here is my card," he said. "You need not give it to Mrs. Saumarez. Shewill probably recognize my name."

  The boy glanced at the pasteboard. It read:

  Lieut.-Col. Reginald Grant, "Indian Staff Corps."

  Now, it chanced that among Martin's most valued belongings was a certainmonthly publication entitled "Recent British Battles," and he had readthat identical name in the July number. As was his way, he rememberedexactly the heroic deeds with which a gallant officer was credited, sohe asked somewhat shyly:

  "Are you Colonel Grant of Aliwal, sir?"

  He pronounced the Indian word wrongly, with a short "a" instead of along one, but never did misplaced accent convey sweeter sound to man'sears. The soldier was positively startled.

  "My dear boy," he cried, "how can you possibly know me?"

  "Everyone knows your name, sir. No fear of me forgetting it now."

  The honest admiration in those brown eyes was a new form of flattery;for the first time in his life Colonel Grant hungered for more.

  "You have astonished me more than I can tell," he said. "What have youread of the Aliwal campaign? All right, Dobson. We are in no hurry."This to his companion, who ventured on a mild remonstrance.

  "I have a book, sir, which tells you all about Aliwal"--this time Martinpronounced the word correctly; no wonder the newspaper commented on hisintelligence--"and it has pictures, too. There is a grand picture ofyou, riding through the gate of the fort, sword in hand. Do you mind mesaying, sir, that I am very pleased to have met you?"

  The man averted his eyes. He dared not look at Martin. He made pretenseto bite the end off a cigar. He was compelled to do something to keephis lips from trembling.

  "I hope we shall meet often again, Martin," he said slowly. "I'll tellyou more than the book does, though I have not read it. Run off to yourfriends at the vicarage. Good-by!"

  He held out his hand, which the boy shook diffidently. There was nodoubt whatever in Martin's mind that Colonel Grant was anextraordinarily nice gentleman.

  "My God, Dobson!" cried the soldier, turning again to look after thealert figure of the boy; "I have seen him, spoken to him--my own son! Iwould know him among a million."

  "He certainly bears a marked resemblance to your own photograph at thesame age," admitted the cautious solicitor.

  "And what a fine youngster! By Jove, did you twig the way he caught onto the pronunciation of Aliwal? Bless that book! It shall be bound inthe rarest leather, though I never rode through that gate--I ran, fordear life! I--I tell you what, Dobson, I'd sooner do it now than facethese people, the Bollands, and explain my errand. I suppose theyworship him."

  "The position differs from my expectations," said the solicitor. "Theboy does not talk like a farmer's son. And he is going to tea at thevicarage with a lady of good social position. Can the Bollands be ofhigher grade than we are led to believe?"

  "The newspaper is my only authority. Ah, here is the 'Black Lion.'"

  Mrs. Atkinson bustled forward to assure the gentlemen that she couldaccommodate them. Colonel Grant was allotted the room in which GeorgePickering died! It was the best in the hotel. He glanced for a momentthrough the window and took in the scene of the tragedy.

  "That must be where the two young imps fought," he murmured, with asmile, as he looked into the yard. "Gad! as Heronsdale says, I'd like tohave seen the battle. And my boy whipped the other chap, who was biggerand older, the paper said."

  Soon the two men were climbing the slight acclivity on which stood theWhite House. The door stood hospitably open, as was ever the case abouttea-time in fine weather. In the front kitchen was Martha, alone.

  The colonel advanced.

  "Is Mr. Bolland at home?" he asked, raising his hat.

>   "Noa, sir; he isn't. But he's on'y i' t' cow-byre. If it's owtimportant----"

  He followed her meaning sufficiently.

  "Will you oblige me by sending for him? And--er--is Mrs. Bolland here?"

  "I'm Mrs. Bolland, sir."

  "Oh, I beg your pardon. Of course, I did not know you."

  He thought he would find a much younger woman. Martha, in theclose-fitting sunbonnet, with its wide flaps, her sleeves rolled up, andher outer skirt pinned behind to keep it clear of the dirt duringunceasing visits to dairy and hen-roosts, looked even older than shewas, her real age being fifty-five.

  "Will you kindly be seated, gentlemen?" she said. She was sure they werecounty folk come about the stock. Her husband's growing reputation as abreeder of prize cattle brought such visitors occasionally. She wonderedwhy the taller stranger asked for her, but he said no more, taking achair in silence.

  She dispatched a maid to summon the master.

  "Hev ye coom far?" she asked bluntly.

  Colonel Grant looked around. His eyes were searching the roomy kitchenfor tokens of its occupants' ways.

  "We traveled from Darlington to Elmsdale," he said, "and walked herefrom the station."

  "My goodness, ye'll be fair famished. Hev summat te eat. There's plentyo' tea an' cakes; an' if ye'd fancy some ham an' eggs----"

  "Pray do not trouble, Mrs. Bolland," said the colonel when he hadgrasped the full extent of the invitation. "We wish to have a brief talkwith you and your husband. Afterwards, if you ask us, we shall be mostpleased to accept your hospitality."

  He spoke so genially, with such utter absence of affectation, thatMartha rather liked him. Yet, what could she have to do with thebusiness in hand? Anyhow, here came John, crossing the road with heavystrides.

  The farmer paused just within the threshold. His huge frame filled thedoorway. He wore spectacles for reading only, and his deep-sunken eyesrested steadily, first on Colonel Grant, then on the solicitor. Thenthey went back to the colonel and did not leave him again.

  "Good day, gentlemen," he said. "What can I deae for ye?"

  The man who stormed forts on horseback--in pictures--quailed at the taskbefore him. He nodded to the solicitor.

  "Dobson," he said, "you know all the circumstances. Oblige me by statingthem fully."

  The solicitor, who seemed to expect this request, produced a bulkypacket of papers and photographs. He prefaced his explanation by givinghis companion's name and rank, and introduced himself as a member of thefirm of Dobson, Son and Smith, Solicitors, of Lincoln's Inn Fields.

  "Fifteen years ago," he went on, "Colonel Grant was a subaltern, ajunior officer, in the Guards, stationed in London. A slight accidentone day outside a railway station led him to make the acquaintance of ayoung lady. She was hurrying to catch a train, when she was knocked downby a frightened horse, and might have been injured seriously were it notfor Lieutenant Grant's prompt assistance. He escorted her to herlodgings, and discovered that she was what is known in London as a dailygoverness--in other words, a poor, well-educated woman striving to earna respectable living. The horse had trampled on her foot, and sherequired proper attention and rest; a brief interview with her landladyenabled Mr. Grant to make the requisite arrangements, unknown to theyoung lady herself. He called a week later and found that she was quiterecovered. She was a very beautiful girl, of a lively disposition, onlytwenty years of age, and working hard in her spare time to perfectherself as a musician. She had no idea of the social rank of her newfriend, or perhaps matters might have turned out differently. As it was,they met frequently, became engaged, and were married. I have here acopy of the marriage certificate."

  He selected a long, narrow strip of blue paper from the documents he hadplaced before him on the kitchen table. He opened it and offered it toBolland, as though he wished the farmer to examine it. John did notmove. He was still looking intently at Colonel Grant.

  Martha, all a-flutter, with an indefinite anxiety wrinkling the cornersof her eyes, said quickly:

  "What might t' young leddy's neaem be, sir?"

  "Margaret Ingram. She was of a Gloucestershire family, but her parentswere dead, and she had no near relatives."

  Martha cried, somewhat tartly:

  "An' what hez all this te deae wi' us, sir?"

  "Let be, wife. Bide i' patience. T' gentleman will tell us, neae doot."

  John's voice was hard, almost dissonant. The solicitor gave him a rapidglance. That harsh tone boded ill for the smooth accomplishment of hismission. Martha wondered why her husband gazed so fixedly at the otherman who spoke not. But she toyed nervously with her apron and held herpeace. Mr. Dobson resumed:

  "The young couple could not start housekeeping openly. Lieutenant Grantdepended solely on the allowance made to him by his father, whose ideasof family pride were so extreme that such a marriage must unquestionablyhave led to a rupture. Moreover, a campaign in northern India was thenthreatening. It broke out exactly a year and two months after themarriage. Mr. Grant's regiment was ordered to the front, and when hesailed from Southampton he left his young wife and an infant, a boy,four months old, installed in a comfortable flat in Clarges Street,Piccadilly. It is important that the exact position of family affairs atthis moment should be realized. General Grant, father of the youngofficer, had suffered from an apopletic stroke soon after his son'smarriage, and to acquaint him with it now meant risking his life. YoungGrant's action was known to and approved by several trustworthy friends.He and his wife were very happy, and Mrs. Grant was correspondinglydepressed when the exigencies of the national service took her husbandaway from her. The parting between the young couple was a bitter trial,rendered all the more heartrending by reason of the concealment they hadpracticed. However, as matters had been allowed to drift thus far, noone will pretend that there was any special need to worry General Grantat the moment of his son's departure for a campaign. Lieutenant Granthoped to return with a step in rank. Then, whatever the consequences,there must be a full explanation. He had not a great deal of money, butsufficient for his wife's needs. He left her two hundred pounds in notesand gold, and his bankers were empowered to pay her fifty poundsmonthly. His own allowance from General Grant was seventy-five pounds amonth, and it was with great difficulty that he maintained his positionin such an expensive regiment as the Guards. The campaign eased thepressure, or he could not have kept it up for long."

  "Are all these details quite necessary, Dobson?" said the colonel, forthe steady glare of the farmer, the growing pallor of poor Martha,around whose heart an icy hand was taking sure grip, were exceedinglyirksome.

  "They are if I am to do you justice," replied the lawyer.

  "Never mind me. Tell them of Margaret--and the boy."

  "I will pass over the verification of my statement," went on Mr. Dobson,bending over the folded papers. "Seven months passed. Mrs. Grantexpected soon to be delivered of another child. She heard regularly fromher husband. His regiment was in the Khyber Pass, when one evening shewas robbed of her small store of jewelry and a considerable sum of moneyby a trusted servant. The theft was reported in the papers, and GeneralGrant read of his son's wife being a resident in Clarges Street. He wentto the flat next day, saw the poor girl, behaved in a way that can onlybe ascribed to the folly of an old man broken by disease, and cut offsupplies at once. Within a week Mrs. Grant found herself in poverty, andher husband at least a month's post distant. She did not lose her wits.She sold her furniture and raised money enough to support herself andher baby boy for some time. Of course, she was very much distressed, asGeneral Grant wrote to her, called her an adventuress, and stated thathe had disinherited his son on her account. This was only partly true.He tore up one will, but made no other, and forgot that there was asecond copy in possession of my firm. Mrs. Grant then did a foolishthing. She concealed her troubles from her husband's friends, who wouldhave helped her. She took cheap lodgings in another part of London, andchanged her name. This seems to be accounted for by the fact thatGeneral Grant, in hi
s insane suspicions, set private detectives to watchher. Moreover, the bankers wrote her a curt letter which added to hermiseries. She rented rooms in St. Martin's Court, Ludgate Hill, and gaveher name as Mrs. Martineau."

  Martha sprang at the solicitor with an eerie screech:

  "Hev ye coom to steal oor bairn, the bonny lad we've reared i' infancyan' childhood? Leave this house! John--husband--will ye let 'em drive memad?"

  John took her in his arms.

  "Martha," he said, with a break in his voice that shook his hearers andstilled his wife's cries; "dinnat mak' oor burthen harder te bear. Aman's heart deviseth his way, but the Lord directeth his steps!"

  Servants, men and women, came running at their mistress's scream ofterror. They stood, abashed, in the kitchen passage. None paid heed tothem.

  Colonel Grant rose and approached the trembling woman cowering at herhusband's side. Her old eyes were streaming now; she gazed at him withthe pitiful anguish of a stricken animal. He took her wrinkled hand andbent low before her.

  "Madam," he said, "God forbid that my son should lose his mother asecond time!"

  He could say no other word. Even in her agony, Martha felt hot tearsfalling on her bare arm, and they were not her own.

  "Eh, but it's a sad errand ye're on," she sobbed.

  "Wife, wife!" cried John huskily, "if thou faint in the day of adversitythy strength is small. Colonel Grant is a true man. It's in his feaece.He weaen't rive Martin frae yer arms, an' no man can tak' him frae yerheart."

  Colonel Grant drew himself up. He caught Bolland's shoulder.

  "Bear with me," he said. "I have suffered much. I lost my wife and twochildren, one unborn. They were torn from me as though by a destroyingtempest. One is given back, after thirteen long years of mourning. Canyou not spare me a place in his affections?"

  "Ay, ay," growled John. "We're nobbut owd folk at t' best, an' t' ladwas leavin' oor roof for school in a little while. We can sattle thingslike sensible people, if on'y Martha here will gie ower greetin'. Ittroubles me sair to hear her lamentin'. We've had no sike deed i'thirty-fower years o' married life."

  The man was covering his own distress by solicitude in his wife'sbehalf. She knew it. She wiped her eyes defiantly with her apron andmade pretense to smile, though she had received a shock she wouldremember to her dying day. Some outlet was necessary for her surchargedfeelings. She whisked around on the crowd of amazed domestics,dairymaids and farmhands, pressing on each other's heels in the passage.

  "What are ye gapin' at?" she cried shrilly. "Is there nowt te deae? Iftea's overed, git on wi' yer work, an' be sharp aboot it, or I'll sideye quick!"

  The stampede that followed relieved the situation. The servants fadedaway under her fiery glance. Colonel Grant smiled.

  "I am glad to see," he said, "that you maintain discipline in yourregiment."

  "They're all ears an' neae brains," she said. "My, but I'm that upset Ihardly ken what I'm sayin'. Mebbe ye'll finish yer tale, sir. I'mgrieved I med sike a dash at ye, but I couldn't bide----"

  "There, there," said John, with his gruff soothing, "sit ye doon an'listen quietly. I guessed their business t' first minnit I set eyes ont' colonel. Why, Martha, look at him. He hez Martin's eyes and Martin'smouth. Noo, ye'd hev dark-brown hair, I reckon, when ye were a lad,sir?"

  For answer, Colonel Grant stooped to the lawyer's papers and took fromthem a framed miniature.

  "That is my portrait at the age of twelve," he said, placing it beforethem.

  "Eh, but that caps owt!" cried Martha. "It's Martin hissel! Oh, myhoney, how little did I think what was coomin' when I set yer shirt an'collar ready, an' med ye tidy te gan te tea wi' t' fine folk at t'vicarage. An' noo ye're a better bred 'un than ony of 'em. The Lord loveye! Here ye are, smilin' at me. They may mak' ye a colonel or a gin'ral,for owt I care: ye'll nivver forgit yer poor old muther, will ye, mybairn!"

  She kissed the miniature as if it were Martin's own presentment. The menleft her to sob again in silence. Soon she calmed herself sufficientlyto ask:

  "But why i' t' wulld did that poor lass throw herself an' her little 'uninte t' street?"

  Mr. Dobson took up his story once more:

  "She explained her action in a pathetic letter to her husband. She wasill, lonely, and poverty-stricken. She brooded for days on GeneralGrant's cruel words and still more cruel letter. They led her to believethat she was the unwitting cause of her husband's ruin. She resolved tofree him absolutely and at the same time preserve his name fromnotoriety. Therefore she wrote him a full account of her change of name,and told him that her children would die with her."

  "That was a mad thing te deae."

  "Exactly. The doctor who knew her best told her husband six months laterthat Mrs. Grant was, in his opinion, suffering from an unrecognizedattack of puerperal fever. It was latent in her system, and developedwith the trouble so suddenly brought upon her."

  "Yon was a wicked owd man----"

  "The general was called to account by a higher power. Mrs. Grant wrotehim also a statement of her intentions. Next morning he read of herdeath, and a second attack of apoplexy proved fatal. Her letter did notreach her husband until after a battle in which he was wounded. Hecabled to us, and we made every inquiry, but it was remarkable howchance baffled our efforts. In the first instance, the policeman whomyou encountered in Ludgate Hill and who knew you had adopted the child,had left the force and emigrated, owing to some unfortunate loveaffair. In the second, several newspapers reported the child as dead,though the records of the inquest soon corrected that error. Thirdly,someone named Bolland died in the hotel where you stayed and was buriedat Highgate----"

  "My brother," put in John.

  "Yes; we know now. But conceive the barrier thus placed in our path whenthe dates of the two events were compared long afterwards."

  The farmer looked puzzled. The solicitor went on:

  "Of course, you wonder why there should have been any delay, but theCoroner's notes were lost in a fire. Nevertheless, we advertised indozens of newspapers."

  "We hardly ever see a paper, sir," said Martha.

  "Yet, the wonder is that some of your friends did not see it and tellyou. Finally, a sharp-witted clerk of ours solved the Highgate Cemeterymystery, and the advertisements were repeated. Colonel Grant was back inIndia by that time trying hard to leave his bones there, by allaccounts, and perhaps we did not spend as much money on this secondquest as if he were at home to authorize the expenditure."

  "When was that, sir--t' second lot o' advertisements, I mean?" askedJohn.

  "Quite a year after Mrs. Grant's death."

  Bolland stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  "I remember," he said, "a man at Malton fair sayin' summat aboot aninquiry for me. But yan o' t' hands rode twenty miles across counthry tetell me that Martin had gotten t' measles, an' I kem yam that neet."

  "Naturally, I can give you every proof of my statements," said Mr.Dobson. "They are all here----"

  "Mebbe ye'll know this writin'," interrupted Martha, laying down theminiature for the first time. She unlocked a drawer, took out a smalltin box, and from its depths produced, among other articles, a crumblingsheet of note paper. On it was written:

  "My name is not Martineau. I have killed myself and my boy. If he dies with his unhappy mother he will never know the miseries of this life."

  It was unsigned, undated, a hurried scrawl in faded ink.

  "Margaret's handwriting," said Colonel Grant, looking at the patheticmessage with sorrow-laden eyes.

  "It was found on t' poor leddy's dressin'-table, fastened wi' a hatpin.An' these are t' clothes Martin wore when he fell into John's arms. Nay,sir," she added, as Colonel Grant began examining the little frock, "shetook good care, poor thing, that neaebody should find oot wheae she was.Ivvery mark hez bin picked off."

  "Martin is his feyther's son, or I ken nowt aboot stock," cried JohnBolland, making a fine effort to dispel the depression which againpossessed the little gathering at
sight of these mournful mementoes ofthe dead past. "Coom, gentlemen, sit ye doon an' hev some tea. Ye'll notbe for takkin' Martin away by t' next train. Martha, what's t' matterwi' ye? I've nivver known folk be so lang i' t' hoose afore an' not beasked if they had a mooth."

  "Ye're on t' wrang gait this time, John," she retorted. "I axed 'emafore ye kem in. By this time, sure-ly, ye'll be wantin' soom ham an'eggs?" she added to the visitors.

  "By Jove! I believe I could eat some," laughed the colonel.

  Martha smiled once more. She liked Martin's father. Each moment thefirst favorable impression was deepening. She was on the point ofbustling away to the back kitchen, when they all heard the patter offeet, in desperate haste, approaching the front door. Elsie Herbertdashed in. She was hatless. Her long brown hair was floating inconfusion over her shoulders and down her back. She was crying in greatgulps and gasping for breath.

  "Oh, Mr. Bolland!" she wailed. "Oh, Mrs. Bolland!--what shall I say?Martin is hurt. He fell off the swing. Angele did it! I'll kill her!I'll tear her face with my hands! Oh, come, someone, and help father. Heis trying to bring back Martin's senses. What shall I do?--it was all onmy account. Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"

  And she sank fainting to the floor.