|ONWARD he fled, he knew not whither; he only knew that he was flying
for the safety of his soul.
He passed far beyond the limits of the Priory grounds, but he did not
reach the high road. He crossed a meadow and came upon a trout stream.
He walked beside it for an hour. At the end of that time there was no
moonlight to glitter upon its surface. Clouds had come over the sky and
drops of rain were beginning to fall.
He crossed the stream by a little bridge, and reached the border of a
wood. It was now long past midnight. He had been walking for two hours,
but he had no consciousness of weariness. It was not until the rain was
streaming off his hair that he recollected that he had no hat. But on
still he went through the darkness and the rain, as though he were being
pursued, and that every step he took was a step toward safety.
He came upon a track that seemed to lead through the wood, and upon this
track he went for several miles. The ground was soft, and at some places
the rain had turned it into a morass. The autumn leaves lay in drifts,
sodden and rotting. Into more than one of these he stumbled, and when he
got upon his feet again, the damp leaves and the mire were clinging to
him.
For three more hours he went on by the winding track through the wood.
In the darkness he strayed from it frequently, but invariably found it
again and struggled on, until he had passed right through the wood and
reached a high road that ran beside it.
As though he had been all the night wandering in search for this road,
so soon as he saw it he cried, “Thank God, thank God!”
But something else may have been in his mind beyond the satisfaction of
coming upon the road.
At the border of the wood where the track broadened out, there was a
woodcutter’s rough shed. It was piled up with logs of various sizes, and
with trimmed boughs awaiting the carts to come along the road to carry
them away. He entered the shed, and, overpowered with weariness, sank
down upon a heap of boughs; his head found a resting place in a forked
branch and in a moment he was sound asleep.
His head was resting upon the damp bark of the trimmed branch, when it
might have been close to that whiteness which he had seen through the
window.
True; but his soul was saved.
He awoke, hearing the sound of voices around him.
The cold light of a gray, damp day was struggling with the light that
came from a fire of faggots just outside, and the shed was filled with
the smoke of the burning wood. The sound of the crackling of the small
branches came to his ears with the sound of the voices.
He raised his head, and looked around him in a dazed way. He did not
realize for some time the strange position in which he found himself.
Suddenly he seemed to recall all that had occurred, and once more he
said, “Thank God, thank God!”
Three men were standing in the shed before him. Two of them held
bill-hooks in a responsible way; the third had the truncheon of a
constable. He also wore the helmet of a constable.
The men with the bill-hooks seemed preparing to repel a charge. They
stood shoulder to shoulder with their implements breast high.
The man with the truncheon seemed willing to trust a great deal to them,
whether in regard to attack or defence.
“Well, you’re awake, my gentleman,” said the man with the truncheon.
The speech seemed a poor enough accompaniment to such a show of
strength, aggressive or defensive, as was the result of the muster in
the shed.
“Yes, I believe I’m awake,” said Harold. “Is the morning far advanced?”
“That’s as may be,” said the truncheon-holder, shrewdly, and after a
pause of considerable duration.
“You’re not the man to compromise yourself by a hasty statement,” said
Harold.
“No,” said the man, after another pause.
“May I ask what is the meaning of this rather imposing demonstration?”
said Harold.
“Ay, you may, maybe,” replied the man. “But it’s my business to tell
you that--” here he paused and inflated his lungs and person
generally-- “that all you say now will be used as evidence against
you.”
“That’s very official,” said Harold. “Does it mean that you’re a
constable?”
“That it do; and that you’re in my charge now. Close up, bill-hooks, and
stand firm,” the man added to his companions.
“Don’t trumle for we,” said one of the billhook-holders.
“You see there’s no use broadening vi’lent-like,” said the
truncheon-holder.
“That’s clear enough,” said Harold. “Would it be imprudent for me to
inquire what’s the charge against me?”
“You know,” said the policeman.
“Come, my man,” said Harold; “I’m not disposed to stand this farce any
longer. Can’t you see that I’m no vagrant--that I haven’t any of your
logs concealed about me. What part of the country is this? Where’s the
nearest telegraph office?”
“No matter what’s the part,” said the constable; “I’ve arrested you
before witnesses of full age, and I’ve cautioned you according to the
Ack o’ Parliament.”
“And the charge?”
“The charge is the murder.”
“Murder--what murder?”
“You know--the murder of the Right Honourable Lord Fotheringay.”
“What!” shouted Harold. “Lord--oh, you’re mad! Lord Fotheringay is my
father, and he’s staying at Abbeylands. What do you mean, you idiot, by
coming to me with such a story?” The policeman winked in by no means a
subtle way at the two men with the bill-hooks; he then looked at Harold
from head to foot, and gave a guffaw.
“The son of his lordship--the murdered man--you heard that, friends,
after I gave the caution according to the Ack o’ Parliament?” he said.
“Ay, ay, we heard--leastways to that effeck,” replied one of the men.
“Then down it goes again him,” said the constable. “He’s a
gentleman-Jack tramp--and that’s the worst sort--without hat or head
gear, and down it goes that he said he was his lordship’s son.”
“For God’s sake tell me what you mean by talking of the murder of Lord
Fotheringay,” said Harold. “There can be no truth in what you said. Oh,
why do I wait here talking to this idiot?” He took a few steps toward one
end of the shed. The men raised their bill-hooks, and the constable made
an aggressive demonstration with his truncheon.
Against Stupidity the gods fight in vain, but now and again a man with
good muscles can prevail against it. Harold simply dealt a kick upon
the heavy handle of the bill-hook nearest to him, and it swung round
and caught in the stomach the second man, who immediately dropped his
implement. He needed both hands to press against his injured person.
The constable ran to the other end of the shed and blew his whistle.
Harold went out in the opposite direction and got upon the high road;
but before he had quite made up his mind which way to go, he heard the
clatter of a horse galloping. He saw that a mounted constable was coming
up, and he also noticed with a certain amount of interest, that he was
drawing a revolver.
Harold stood in the centre of the road and held up his hand.
One of the few occasions when a man of well developed muscles, if he is
wise, thinks himself no better than the gods, is when Stupidity is in
the act of drawing a revolver.
“Are you the sergeant of constabulary?” Harold inquired, when the man
had reined in. He still kept his revolver handy.
“Yes, I’m the sergeant of constabulary. Who are you, and what are you
doing here?” said the man.
“He’s the gentleman-Jack tramp that the lads found asleep in the shed,
sergeant,” said the constable, who had hurried forward with the naked
truncheon. “The lads came on him hiding here, when they were setting
about their day’s work. They ran for me, and that’s why I sent for you.
I’ve arrested him and cautioned him. He was nigh clearing off just now,
but I never took an eye off him. Is there a reward yet, sergeant?”
“Officer,” said Harold. “I am Lord Fotheringay’s son. For God’s
sake tell me if what this man says is true--is Lord Fotheringay
dead--murdered?”
“He’s dead. You seem to know a lot about it, my gentleman,” said the
sergeant. “You’re charged with his murder. If you make any attempt at
resistance, I’ll shoot you down like a dog.”
The man had now his revolver is his right hand. Harold looked first at
him, and then at the foolish man with the truncheon. He was amazed. What
could the men mean? How was it that they did not touch their helmets to
him? He had never yet been addressed by a policeman or a railway porter
without such a token of respect. What was the meaning of the change?
This was really his first thought.
His mind was not in a condition to do more than speculate upon this
point. It was not capable of grasping the horrible thing suggested by
the men.
He stood there in the middle of the road, dazed and speechless. It was
not until he had casually looked down and had seen the condition of his
feet and legs and clothes that, passing from the amazed thought of
the insolence of the constables, into the amazement produced by his
raggedness--he was apparently covered with mire from head to foot--the
reason of his treatment flashed upon him; and in another instant every
thought had left him except the thought that his father was dead. His
head fell forward on his chest. He felt his limbs give way under him.
He staggered to the low hank at the side of the road and managed to seat
himself. He supported his head on his hands, his elbows resting on his
knees.
There he remained, the four men watching him; for the interest which
attaches to a distinguished criminal in the eyes of ignorant rustics, is
almost as great as that which he excites among the leaders of society,
who scrutinize him in the dock through opera glasses, and eat _pâté de
foie gras_ sandwiches beside the judge.