For a time after the Squire had driven away, Clement had sat his horse
and stared after him, and in his rage had wished him dead. He had
prepared himself for opposition, he had looked to be repulsed—he had
expected nothing else. But in the scene which his fancy had pictured,
his part had been one of dignity; he had owned his aspirations like a
man, he had admitted his insufficiency with modesty, he had pleaded the
power of love with eloquence, he had won even from the Squire a meed of
unwilling approbation.
But the scene, as played, had run on other lines. The old man had
crushed him. He had sworn at him, refused to listen to him, had
insulted him, had treated him as no better than a shop-boy. And all
this had cut to the quick. For Clement, born after Ovington had risen
from the ranks, had his pride and his self-respect, and humiliated, he
cursed with all his soul the prejudice and hide-bound narrowness of the
Squire and all his caste. For the time he was more than a radical, he
was a republican. If by a gesture he could have swept away King and
Commons, lords and justices, he would not have held his hand.
It took him some time to recover, and it was only when he found
himself, he hardly knew how, upon the bridge at Garthmyle that he grew
more cool. Even then he was not quite himself. He had vowed that he
would not see Josina again until he had claimed her from her father;
but the Squire’s treatment, he now felt, had absolved him from this,
and the temptation to see her was great. He longed to pour out his mind
to her, and to tell her how he had been insulted, how he had been
treated. Perhaps, even, he must say farewell to her—he must give her
up.
For he was not all hero, and the task before him seemed for the time
too prodigious, the labor too little hopeful. The Hydra had so many
heads, and roared so fearfully that for a moment his courage sank
before it—and his love. He felt that he must yield, that he must see
Josina and tell her so. In any event she ought to know what had
happened, and presently he put up his horse at the inn and made by a
roundabout road for their meeting-place by the brook.
There was but a chance that she would visit it, and in the meantime he
had to exercise what patience he might. His castles in the air had
fallen and he had not the spirit to rebuild them. He sat gazing moodily
on the rippling face of the water, or watched the ousel curtsying on
its stone; and he almost despaired. He had known the Squire to be
formidable, he now knew him to be impossible. He looked down the stream
to where Garth, lofty and fortress-like, raised its twisted chimneys
above the trees, and he shook his fist at it. Remote and islanded on
its knoll, rising amid ancestral trees, it stood for all that the
Squire stood for—governance, privilege, tradition, the past—all the
things he had not, all the things that mocked him.
He lingered there, savoring his melancholy, until the sun went down
behind the hills, and then, attacked by the pangs of hunger, he made
his way back to the village inn. Here he satisfied his appetite on such
home-baked bread and yellow butter and nut-brown ale as are not in
these degenerate times; and for wellnigh an hour he sat brooding in the
sanded parlor surrounded by china cats and dogs—they too, would be of
value nowadays. At length with a heavy heart—for what was he to do
next?—he rode out of the yard, and crossing the bridge under the
shadowy bulk of the squat church tower, he set his horse’s head for
home. It was nearly dark.
What was he to do next? He did not know, but as he rode through the
gloom, the solemn hills falling back on either side and the dark plain
widening before him, he took courage; he began to consider, with some
return of hope, what lay before him, and how he must proceed—if he were
not to give up. Clearly he must face the Squire, but it must be in the
Squire’s own house, where the Squire must hear him. The old man might
insult him, rave at him, order him out, but before he was put out he
would speak and ask for Josina, though the roof fell. There should be
no further mistake. And he would let the Squire know, if it came to
that, that he was a man, as good as other men. By heaven he would!
He was not all hero. But there were some heroic parts about him, and he
determined that the very next morning he would ride out and would beard
the Hydra in its den, be its heads ever so many. He would win his
lady-love or perish!
By this time he was half-way home. The market traffic on the road had
ceased, the moon had not yet risen, the night lay calm and still about
him. Presently as he crossed a wet, rushy flat, one of the loneliest
parts of the way, he saw the lights of a vehicle coming towards him.
The road at that point had not been long enclosed, and a broad strip of
common still survived on either hand, so that moving on this the
horse’s hoofs made no sound save a soft plop-plop where the ground was
wettest. He could hear, therefore, while still afar off, the tramp of a
pair of horses driven at a trot, and it occurred to him that this might
be the Squire returning late. If he could have avoided the meeting he
would have done so, though it was unlikely that the Squire would
recognize him in the dark. But to turn aside would be foolish. “Hang me
if I am going to be afraid of him!” he thought. And he touched up his
horse with his heel.
Then an odd thing happened. While the carriage was still fifty yards
from him, one of the lights went out. His eyes missed it, but his brain
had barely taken in the fact when the second vanished also, as if the
vehicle had sunk into the ground. At the same moment a cry reached his
ears, followed by a clatter of hoofs on the road as if the horses were
being sharply pulled up.
Clement took his horse by the head and bent forward, striving to make
out what was passing. A dull sound, as of a heavy body striking the
road reached him, followed by a silence that seemed ominous. Even the
wind appeared to have hushed its whisper through the rushes.
“Hallo!” he shouted. “What is it? Is anything the matter?” He urged his
horse forward.
His cry was lost in the crack of a whip, he heard the horses break
away, and without farther warning they came down upon him at a gallop,
the carriage bounding wildly behind them. He had just time to thrust
his nag to the side, and they were on him and past him, and whirling
down the road—a mere shadow, but as perilous and almost as noisy as a
thunderbolt. There was no doubt now that an accident had happened, but
before he could give help he had to master his horse, which had wheeled
about; and so a few seconds elapsed before he reached the scene—reached
it with his heart in his mouth—for who could say with what emergency he
might not have to deal?
Certainly with a tragedy, for the first thing he made out was the form
of a man stooping over another who lay in the road. Clement drew a
breath of relief as he slipped from his saddle—he would not have to
meet the crisis alone. But as his foot touched the ground, he saw the
stooping man raise his hand with something in it, and he knew
instinctively that it was raised not to help but to strike.
He shouted, and the blow hung in the air. The man, taken by surprise,
straightened himself, turned, and saw Clement at his elbow. He
hesitated; then, with an oath, he aimed his blow at the new-comer.
Clement parried it, rather by instinct than with intention, and so
weakly, that the other’s weapon beat down his guard and cut his
cheek-bone. He staggered back and the villain raised his cudgel again.
Had the second blow fallen where it was aimed, it would have finished
the business. But Clement, aware now that he fought for his life,
sprang within the other’s guard, and before the cudgel alighted,
gripped him by the neckcloth. The man gave ground, tripped backwards
over the body that lay behind him, and in a twinkling the two were
rolling together on the road, Clement striving to beat in the ruffian’s
face with the butt-end of his whip, while the man tried vainly to
shorten his weapon and use it to purpose.
It was a desperate struggle, in the mire, in the darkness—a struggle
for life carried on in a silence that was broken only by the
combatants’ breathing and a rare oath. Twice each rolled the other, and
once Clement, having the upper hand became aware that the fight had its
spectator. He had a glimpse of a ghastly face, one side of which had
been mangled by a murderous blow—a face that glared at them with its
remaining eye. He guessed rather than saw that the man lying in the
road had raised himself on an elbow, and he heard a gasping “At him,
lad! Well done, lad!” then in a turn of the struggle he lost the
vision. His opponent had him by the throat, he was undermost again—and
desperate. His one thought now was to kill—to kill the brute-beast
whose teeth threatened his cheek, whose hot breath burned his face,
whose hands gripped his throat. He struck again and again, and
eventually, supple and young, and perhaps the stronger, he freed
himself and staggered to his feet, raising his whip to strike.
But the same thing happened to him which had happened to his assailant.
As he stepped back to give power to the blow, he fell over the third
man. He came down heavily, and for a moment he was at the other’s
mercy. Fortunately the rascal’s courage was at an end. He got to his
feet, but instead of pursuing his advantage, he snatched up something
that lay on the ground, and sped away down the road, as quickly as his
legs could carry him.
Clement recovered his feet, but more slowly, for the fall had shaken
him. Still, his desire for vengeance was hot, and he set off in
pursuit. The man had a good start, however, and presently, leaving the
road and leaping the ditch, made off across the open common. To follow
farther promised little, for in a few seconds his figure, already
shadowy, melted into the darkness of the fields. Clement gave up the
chase, and turned back, panting and out of breath.
He did not feel his wound, much less did he feel the misgivings which
had beset him when he came upon the scene. Instead, he experienced a
new and thrilling elation. He had measured his strength against an
enemy, he had faced death in fight, he felt himself equal to any and
every event. Even when stooping over the prostrate figure he saw the
mangled and bleeding face turned up to the sky it did not daunt him,
nor the darkness, nor the loneliness. The injured man seemed to be
aware of his presence for he made an attempt to rise; but he failed,
and would have fallen back on the road if Clement, dropping on one
knee, had not sustained his head on the other. It was the Squire. So
much he saw; but it was a Squire past not only scolding but speech,
whom he held in his arms and whose head he supported. To all Clement’s
questions he made no answer. It was much if he still breathed.
Clement glanced about him, and his confidence began to leave him. What
was he to do? He could not go for help, leaving the old man lying in
the road; yet it was impossible to do much in the dark, either to
ascertain the extent of the Squire’s hurt, or to use means to stanch
it. The moon had not yet risen, the plain stretched dark about them, no
sound except the melancholy whisper of the wind in the rushes reached
him. There was no house near and it was growing late. No one might pass
for hours.
Fortunately when he had reached this stage he remembered that he had
his tinder box and matches in his pocket, and he fumbled for them with
his disengaged hand. With an effort, he got them out. But to strike a
light and catch it in the huddled posture in which he knelt was not
easy, and it was only after a score of attempts that the match caught
the flame. Even so, the light it gave was faint, but it revealed the
Squire’s face, and Clement saw, with a shudder, that the left eye and
temple were terribly battered. But he saw, too, that the old man was
conscious, for he uttered a groan, and peered with the uninjured eye at
the face that bent over him. “Good lad!” he muttered, “good lad!” and
he added broken words which conveyed to Clement’s mind that it was his
man who had attacked him. Then—his face was so turned that it was
within a few inches of Clement’s shoulder—“You’re bloody, lad,” he
muttered. “He’s spoiled your coat, the d—d rascal!”
With that he seemed to slip back into unconsciousness, and the light
went out. It left Clement in a strait to know what he ought to do, or
rather what he could do. Help he must get, and speedily, if he would
save the Squire’s life, but his horse was gone, and to walk away for
help, leaving the old man lying in the mud of the way seemed inhuman.
He must at least carry him to the side of the road.
The task was no light one, for the Squire was tall, though not stout;
and before Clement stooped to it he cast a last look round. But silence
still wrapped all, and he was gathering his strength to lift the dead
weight, when a sound caught his ear, and he raised himself. A moment,
and joy!—he caught the far-off beat of hoofs on the turf. Someone was
coming, approaching him from the direction of Aldersbury. He shouted,
shouted his loudest and waited. Yes, he was not mistaken. The soft
plop-plop of hoofs grew louder, two forms loomed out of the darkness, a
horse shied, a man swore.
“Here!” Clement cried. “Here! Take care! There’s a man in the road.”
“Where?” Then, “Confound you, you nearly had me down! Are you hurt?”
“No, but”
“I’ve got your horse. I met him a couple of miles this side of the
town. What has——”
Clement broke in. “There’s bad work here!” he cried, his voice shaky.
Now that help was at hand and the peril was over, he began to feel what
he had gone through. “For God’s sake get down and help me. Your uncle’s
man has robbed him and, I fear, murdered him.”
“The Squire?”
“Yes, yes. He’s lying here, half dead. We must get him to the side of
the road at once.”
Arthur slipped from his saddle, and holding the reins of the two
horses, approached the group as nearly as the frightened beasts would
let him. “Quiet, fools!” he cried angrily. And then, “Good heavens!” in
a whisper, as he peered awe-stricken at the injured man. “Is he dead?”
“No, but he’s terribly mauled. And we must get help. Help, man, and
quickly, if it is to be of any use. Shall I go?”
“No, no, I’ll go,” Arthur answered, recoiling. What he had seen had
given him no desire to take Clement’s place. “Garthmyle is the nearer,
and I shall not be long. I’ll tie up your horse—that’ll be best.”
There was an old thorn-tree standing solitary in the waste not many
yards away: a tree destined to be pointed out for years to come as
marking the spot where the old Squire was robbed. Arthur tied Clement’s
horse to this, then together they lifted the old man and carried him to
the side of the road. The moment that this was done, Arthur sprang on
his horse and started off. “Back soon,” he shouted.
Clement had not seen his way to object, but it was with a heavy heart
that he resigned himself to another period of painful waiting. He was
cold, his face smarted, and at any moment the old man might die on his
hands. Meantime he could do nothing but wait. Or yes, he could do
something; chilled as he was, he took off his coat, and rolling it up,
he slipped it under the insensible head.
Little had he thought that morning that he would ever pity the Squire.
But he did. The man who had driven away from him, hard, aggressive,
indomitable, asking no man’s help and meeting all men’s eyes with the
gaze of a master, now lay at his feet, crushed and broken; lay with his
head on the coat of the man he had despised, dependent on him for the
poor service that still might avail him. Clement felt the pathos of it,
and the pity. And his heart was sore for Josina. How would she meet,
how bear the shock that a short hour must inflict on her?
He was thinking of her, when, long before he had dared to expect
relief, he heard a sound that resolved itself into the rattle of
wheels. Yes, there was a carriage coming along the road.
Arthur had been fortunate. He had come upon the Squire’s horses, which
had been brought to a stand with the near wheels of the curricle wedged
in the ditch. He had found them greedily feeding, and he had let his
own nag go, and had captured the runaways. He had drawn the carriage
out of the ditch, and here he was.
“Thank God!” Clement cried. “I think that he is still alive.”
“And we’ve got to lift him in,” said Arthur, more practical. “He’s a
big weight.”
It was not an easy task. But they tied up the horses to the thorn-tree,
and lifting the old man between them, they carried him with what care
they might to the carriage, raised him, heavy and helpless as he was,
to the step, and then, while one maintained him there, the other
climbed in and lifted him to the front seat. Clement got up behind and
supported his shoulders and head, while Arthur, first tying the
saddle-horse behind the carriage, released the pair, and with the reins
in his hands scrambled to his place.
The thing was done and cleverly done, and they set off. But they dared
not travel at more than a walk, and never had the three miles to
Garthmyle seemed so long or so tedious.
They were both anxious and both excited. But while in Clement’s mind
pity, a sense of the tragedy before him, and thought for Josina
contended with an honest pride in what he had done, the other, as they
drove along, was already calculating chances and busy with
contingencies. The Squire’s death—if the Squire died—would work a great
change, an immense change. Things which had yesterday been too doubtful
and too distant to deserve much thought would be within reach, would be
his for the asking. And he was the more inclined to consider this
because Betty—dear little creature as she was—had shown a spirit that
day that was not to his liking. Whereas Josina, mild and docile—it
might be that after all she would suit him better. And Garth—Garth with
its wide acres and its rich rent-roll would be hers; Garth that would
give any man a position to be envied. Its charms, while uncertain and
dependent on the whim and caprice of an arbitrary old man, had not
fixed him, for to attain to them he must give up other things, equally
to his mind. But now the case was or might be altered. He must wait and
watch events, and keep an open mind. If the Squire died——
A word or two passed between the couple, but for the most part they
were silent. Once and again the Squire moaned, and so proved that he
still lived. At last, where the road to Garth branched off, at the
entrance to the village, they saw a light in front, and old Fewtrell
carrying a lanthorn met them. The Squire’s absence had alarmed the
house, and he had come thus far in quest of news.
“Oh, Lord, ha’ mercy! Lord, ha’ mercy!” the old fellow quavered as he
lifted his lanthorn and the light disclosed the group in the carriage,
and his master’s huddled form and ghastly visage. “Miss Jos said ’twas
so! Said as summat had happened him! Beside herself, she be! She’ve
been down at the gate this half-hour waiting on him!”
“Don’t let her see him,” Clement cried. “Go, man, and send her back.”
But, “That’s no good,” Arthur objected with more sense but less
feeling. “She must see him. This is women’s work, we can do nothing.
Let Fewtrell take your place and do you go for the doctor. You know
where he lives, and you’ll go twice as quick as he will, and there’s no
more that you can do. Take your horse.”
Clement was unwilling to go, unwilling to have no farther part in the
matter. But he could not refuse. Things were as they were; in spite of
all that he had done and suffered, he had no place there, no standing
in the house, no right beside his mistress or call to think for her. He
was a stranger, an outsider, and when he had fetched the doctor, there
would, as Arthur had said, be nothing more that he could do.
Nothing more, though as he rode over the bridge and trotted through the
village his heart was bursting with pity for her whom he could not
comfort, could not see; from whose side in her troubles and her
self-arraignment—for he knew that she would reproach herself—he must be
banished. It was hard.