THE HOUNDS OF FATE

In the fading light of a close dull autumn afternoon Martin Stoner

plodded his way along muddy lanes and rut-seamed cart tracks that led

he knew not exactly whither. Somewhere in front of him, he fancied,

lay the sea, and towards the sea his footsteps seemed persistently

turning; why he was struggling wearily forward to that goal he could

scarcely have explained, unless he was possessed by the same instinct

that turns a hard-pressed stag cliffward in its last extremity. In his

case the hounds of Fate were certainly pressing him with unrelenting

insistence; hunger, fatigue, and despairing hopelessness had numbed his

brain, and he could scarcely summon sufficient energy to wonder what

underlying impulse was driving him onward. Stoner was one of those

unfortunate individuals who seem to have tried everything; a natural

slothfulness and improvidence had always intervened to blight any

chance of even moderate success, and now he was at the end of his

tether, and there was nothing more to try. Desperation had not

awakened in him any dormant reserve of energy; on the contrary, a

mental torpor grew up round the crisis of his fortunes. With the

clothes he stood up in, a halfpenny in his pocket, and no single friend

or acquaintance to turn to, with no prospect either of a bed for the

night or a meal for the morrow, Martin Stoner trudged stolidly forward,

between moist hedgerows and beneath dripping trees, his mind almost a

blank, except that he was subconsciously aware that somewhere in front

of him lay the sea. Another consciousness obtruded itself now and

then--the knowledge that he was miserably hungry. Presently he came to

a halt by an open gateway that led into a spacious and rather neglected

farm-garden; there was little sign of life about, and the farm-house at

the further end of the garden looked chill and inhospitable. A

drizzling rain, however, was setting in, and Stoner thought that here

perhaps he might obtain a few minutes' shelter and buy a glass of milk

with his last remaining coin. He turned slowly and wearily into the

garden and followed a narrow, flagged path up to a side door. Before

he had time to knock the door opened and a bent, withered-looking old

man stood aside in the doorway as though to let him pass in.

"Could I come in out of the rain?" Stoner began, but the old man

interrupted him.

"Come in, Master Tom. I knew you would come back one of these days."

Stoner lurched across the threshold and stood staring uncomprehendingly

at the other.

"Sit down while I put you out a bit of supper," said the old man with

quavering eagerness. Stoner's legs gave way from very weariness, and

he sank inertly into the arm-chair that had been pushed up to him. In

another minute he was devouring the cold meat, cheese, and bread, that

had been placed on the table at his side.

"You'm little changed these four years," went on the old man, in a

voice that sounded to Stoner as something in a dream, far away and

inconsequent; "but you'll find us a deal changed, you will. There's no

one about the place same as when you left; nought but me and your old

Aunt. I'll go and tell her that you'm come; she won't be seeing you,

but she'll let you stay right enough. She always did say if you was to

come back you should stay, but she'd never set eyes on you or speak to

you again."

The old man placed a mug of beer on the table in front of Stoner and

then hobbled away down a long passage. The drizzle of rain had changed

to a furious lashing downpour, which beat violently against door and

windows. The wanderer thought with a shudder of what the sea-shore

must look like under this drenching rainfall, with night beating down

on all sides. He finished the food and beer and sat numbly waiting for

the return of his strange host. As the minutes ticked by on the

grandfather clock in the corner a new hope began to flicker and grow in

the young man's mind; it was merely the expansion of his former craving

for food and a few minutes' rest into a longing to find a night's

shelter under this seemingly hospitable roof. A clattering of

footsteps down the passage heralded the old farm servant's return.

"The old missus won't see you, Master Tom, but she says you are to

stay. 'Tis right enough, seeing the farm will be yours when she be put

under earth. I've had a fire lit in your room, Master Tom, and the

maids has put fresh sheets on to the bed. You'll find nought changed

up there. Maybe you'm tired and would like to go there now."

Without a word Martin Stoner rose heavily to his feet and followed his

ministering angel along a passage, up a short creaking stair, along

another passage, and into a large room lit with a cheerfully blazing

fire. There was but little furniture, plain, old-fashioned, and good

of its kind; a stuffed squirrel in a case and a wall-calendar of four

years ago were about the only symptoms of decoration. But Stoner had

eyes for little else than the bed, and could scarce wait to tear his

clothes off him before rolling in a luxury of weariness into its

comfortable depths. The hounds of Fate seemed to have checked for a

brief moment.

In the cold light of morning Stoner laughed mirthlessly as he slowly

realized the position in which he found himself. Perhaps he might

snatch a bit of breakfast on the strength of his likeness to this other

missing ne'er-do-well, and get safely away before anyone discovered the

fraud that had been thrust on him. In the room downstairs he found the

bent old man ready with a dish of bacon and fried eggs for "Master

Tom's" breakfast, while a hard-faced elderly maid brought in a teapot

and poured him out a cup of tea. As he sat at the table a small

spaniel came up and made friendly advances.

"'Tis old Bowker's pup," explained the old man, whom the hard-faced

maid had addressed as George. "She was main fond of you; never seemed

the same after you went away to Australee. She died 'bout a year

agone. 'Tis her pup."

Stoner found it difficult to regret her decease; as a witness for

identification she would have left something to be desired.

"You'll go for a ride, Master Tom?" was the next startling proposition

that came from the old man. "We've a nice little roan cob that goes

well in saddle. Old Biddy is getting a bit up in years, though 'er

goes well still, but I'll have the little roan saddled and brought

round to door."

"I've got no riding things," stammered the castaway, almost laughing as

he looked down at his one suit of well-worn clothes.

"Master Tom," said the old man earnestly, almost with an offended air,

"all your things is just as you left them. A bit of airing before the

fire an' they'll be all right. 'Twill be a bit of a distraction like,

a little riding and wild-fowling now and agen. You'll find the folk

around here has hard and bitter minds towards you. They hasn't

forgotten nor forgiven. No one'll come nigh you, so you'd best get

what distraction you can with horse and dog. They'm good company, too."

Old George hobbled away to give his orders, and Stoner, feeling more

than ever like one in a dream, went upstairs to inspect "Master Tom's"

wardrobe. A ride was one of the pleasures dearest to his heart, and

there was some protection against immediate discovery of his imposture

in the thought that none of Tom's aforetime companions were likely to

favour him with a close inspection. As the interloper thrust himself

into some tolerably well-fitting riding cords he wondered vaguely what

manner of misdeed the genuine Tom had committed to set the whole

countryside against him. The thud of quick, eager hoofs on damp earth

cut short his speculations. The roan cob had been brought up to the

side door.

"Talk of beggars on horseback," thought Stoner to himself, as he

trotted rapidly along the muddy lanes where he had tramped yesterday as

a down-at-heel outcast; and then he flung reflection indolently aside

and gave himself up to the pleasure of a smart canter along the

turf-grown side of a level stretch of road. At an open gateway he

checked his pace to allow two carts to turn into a field. The lads

driving the carts found time to give him a prolonged stare, and as he

passed on he heard an excited voice call out, "'Tis Tom Prike! I

knowed him at once; showing hisself here agen, is he?"

Evidently the likeness which had imposed at close quarters on a

doddering old man was good enough to mislead younger eyes at a short

distance.

In the course of his ride he met with ample evidence to confirm the

statement that local folk had neither forgotten nor forgiven the bygone

crime which had come to him as a legacy from the absent Tom. Scowling

looks, mutterings, and nudgings greeted him whenever he chanced upon

human beings; "Bowker's pup," trotting placidly by his side, seemed the

one element of friendliness in a hostile world.

As he dismounted at the side door he caught a fleeting glimpse of a

gaunt, elderly woman peering at him from behind the curtain of an upper

window. Evidently this was his aunt by adoption.

Over the ample midday meal that stood in readiness for him Stoner was

able to review the possibilities of his extraordinary situation. The

real Tom, after four years of absence, might suddenly turn up at the

farm, or a letter might come from him at any moment. Again, in the

character of heir to the farm, the false Tom might be called on to sign

documents, which would be an embarrassing predicament. Or a relative

might arrive who would not imitate the aunt's attitude of aloofness.

All these things would mean ignominious exposure. On the other hand,

the alternative was the open sky and the muddy lanes that led down to

the sea. The farm offered him, at any rate, a temporary refuge from

destitution; farming was one of the many things he had "tried," and he

would be able to do a certain amount of work in return for the

hospitality to which he was so little entitled.

"Will you have cold pork for your supper," asked the hard-faced maid,

as she cleared the table, "or will you have it hotted up?"

"Hot, with onions," said Stoner. It was the only time in his life that

he had made a rapid decision. And as he gave the order he knew that he

meant to stay.

Stoner kept rigidly to those portions of the house which seemed to have

been allotted to him by a tacit treaty of delimitation. When he took

part in the farm-work it was as one who worked under orders and never

initiated them. Old George, the roan cob, and Bowker's pup were his

sole companions in a world that was otherwise frostily silent and

hostile. Of the mistress of the farm he saw nothing. Once, when he

knew she had gone forth to church, he made a furtive visit to the farm

parlour in an endeavour to glean some fragmentary knowledge of the

young man whose place he had usurped, and whose ill-repute he had

fastened on himself. There were many photographs hung on the walls, or

stuck in prim frames, but the likeness he sought for was not among

them. At last, in an album thrust out of sight, he came across what he

wanted. There was a whole series, labelled "Tom," a podgy child of

three, in a fantastic frock, an awkward boy of about twelve, holding a

cricket bat as though he loathed it, a rather good-looking youth of

eighteen with very smooth, evenly parted hair, and, finally, a young

man with a somewhat surly dare-devil expression. At this last portrait

Stoner looked with particular interest; the likeness to himself was

unmistakable.

From the lips of old George, who was garrulous enough on most subjects,

he tried again and again to learn something of the nature of the

offence which shut him off as a creature to be shunned and hated by his

fellow-men.

"What do the folk around here say about me?" he asked one day as they

were walking home from an outlying field.

The old man shook his head.

"They be bitter agen you, mortal bitter. Aye, 'tis a sad business, a

sad business."

And never could he be got to say anything more enlightening.

On a clear frosty evening, a few days before the festival of Christmas,

Stoner stood in a corner of the orchard which commanded a wide view of

the countryside. Here and there he could see the twinkling dots of

lamp or candle glow which told of human homes where the goodwill and

jollity of the season held their sway. Behind him lay the grim, silent

farm-house, where no one ever laughed, where even a quarrel would have

seemed cheerful. As he turned to look at the long grey front of the

gloom-shadowed building, a door opened and old George came hurriedly

forth. Stoner heard his adopted name called in a tone of strained

anxiety. Instantly he knew that something untoward had happened, and

with a quick revulsion of outlook his sanctuary became in his eyes a

place of peace and contentment, from which he dreaded to be driven.

"Master Tom," said the old man in a hoarse whisper, "you must slip away

quiet from here for a few days. Michael Ley is back in the village,

an' he swears to shoot you if he can come across you. He'll do it, too,

there's murder in the look of him. Get away under cover of night, 'tis

only for a week or so, he won't be here longer."

"But where am I to go?" stammered Stoner, who had caught the infection

of the old man's obvious terror.

"Go right away along the coast to Punchford and keep hid there. When

Michael's safe gone I'll ride the roan over to the Green Dragon at

Punchford; when you see the cob stabled at the Green Dragon 'tis a sign

you may come back agen."

"But--" began Stoner hesitatingly.

"'Tis all right for money," said the other; "the old Missus agrees

you'd best do as I say, and she's given me this."

The old man produced three sovereigns and some odd silver.

Stoner felt more of a cheat than ever as he stole away that night from

the back gate of the farm with the old woman's money in his pocket.

Old George and Bowker's pup stood watching him a silent farewell from

the yard. He could scarcely fancy that he would ever come back, and he

felt a throb of compunction for those two humble friends who would wait

wistfully for his return. Some day perhaps the real Tom would come

back, and there would be wild wonderment among those simple farm folks

as to the identity of the shadowy guest they had harboured under their

roof. For his own fate he felt no immediate anxiety; three pounds goes

but little way in the world when there is nothing behind it, but to a

man who has counted his exchequer in pennies it seems a good

starting-point. Fortune had done him a whimsically kind turn when last

he trod these lanes as a hopeless adventurer, and there might yet be a

chance of his finding some work and making a fresh start; as he got

further from the farm his spirits rose higher. There was a sense of

relief in regaining once more his lost identity and ceasing to be the

uneasy ghost of another. He scarcely bothered to speculate about the

implacable enemy who had dropped from nowhere into his life; since that

life was now behind him one unreal item the more made little

difference. For the first time for many months he began to hum a

careless lighthearted refrain. Then there stepped out from the shadow

of an overhanging oak tree a man with a gun. There was no need to

wonder who he might be; the moonlight falling on his white set face

revealed a glare of human hate such as Stoner in the ups and downs of

his wanderings had never seen before. He sprang aside in a wild effort

to break through the hedge that bordered the lane, but the tough

branches held him fast. The hounds of Fate had waited for him in those

narrow lanes, and this time they were not to be denied.