GETTING AT THE TRUTH
Perhaps the only two people in St. Gaved--outside the Tregony
family--who could have thrown any ray of light on the situation were
Micah Martin and Timothy Polgarrow, and they, as far as the general
public was concerned, were both of them discreet enough to keep their
own counsel.
Micah's chief characteristic was loyalty to the Tregony family. He had
been on the estate as man and boy over fifty years. He had no ambition
to be anything other than a servant, and a word of praise from his
master now and then would atone for any amount of abuse. Comparative
serfdom, continued through several generations, had eliminated from his
blood every single corpuscle of independence. He possessed the genuine
serf spirit and temper. If his master told him to lie on the floor that
he might wipe his boots on him, he would have obeyed with a smile and
asked no questions. He had no will of his own, no views or opinions or
convictions. His master's politics were his. His master's wish his law.
The serf spirit made a machine of him. Even questions of right and wrong
were tested by loyalty to the family. If a thing was in the interests of
the Tregonys, it was right, if not it was wrong.
Yet Micah was not without a measure of shrewdness. He saw more than most
people gave him credit for. In his own slow way he put two and two
together. But he had the saving virtue of reticence--a most admirable
quality in a servant.
Micah knew very well that the Captain lied over the Sterne affair; but
that was his business. He had a reason for lying, and it was not his
place to contradict him. He knew well enough that Rufus was not drunk,
but it would be disloyal to his master to say so. If there was one
individual about the place who could break down Micah's reticence and
get him to talk it was Madeline. She had not been a month at the Hall
before she had made herself a general favourite with all the retainers.
Micah idolised her and would have given his scalp almost to please her.
Madeline discussed horticulture with him and floriculture--the mysteries
of grafting and budding, the best aspect for peaches and the best soil
for potatoes. Miss Grover was a wonder in Micah's eyes. She knew so much
and yet was so teachable--was so beautiful and yet so humble withal.
They talked about the Sterne affair one afternoon. Madeline approached
the subject with great caution, and carefully felt her way at every
step. When Micah became diffident she flattered him a little, and when
he obtruded his loyalty to the family she encouraged him.
She made him feel also that she was one of the family, and that he would
be perfectly justified and perfectly safe in confiding anything to her.
She talked to him about her early life, about the scenery and customs of
America, and so hypnotised him with her confidence and her sweet
graciousness that the old man talked more freely than he knew.
"Of course you will not repeat what I have told you, Micah?" she said,
with her most winning smile.
"Of course not, Miss," Micah said, stoutly. "I wouldn't repeat it for
the world."
"It's nice to have confidence in people, don't you think so?" she
questioned, demurely.
"It is, Miss; it's a terrible comfort."
"Some people repeat everything they hear. But you and I can trust each
other, eh, Micah?"
"I could trust you with uncounted gold, Miss," and Micah stuck his fork
into the ground, with an energy that was meant to give emphasis to his
assertion.
For awhile they talked about St. Gaved folks in general, but gradually
Madeline led the conversation round to Rufus Sterne and the quarrel
outside the Lodge gates.
"Mr. Sterne was not drunk, of course!" Madeline suggested, innocently.
"Well, no, I shouldn't say as how he was, though he might have been."
"Exactly. Now, between ourselves, Micah, how did the quarrel begin?"
"Well, Miss, just between you and me, it was this way," and Micah raised
his head and looked cautiously around him.
"There's no one to hear what you are saying," Madeline said,
encouragingly.
"One can never be too careful, Miss; but as I was saying, I went out to
close the gate after the Captin, and he hadn't gone many yards, before I
heard 'im shout out to somebody."
"Yes? What did he say?"
"Well. I don't remember his words exact. But there's no doubt he meant
you, Miss."
"Me, Micah?"
Micah nodded and smiled. "I should have felt just the same, Miss."
"I'm sure you would, Micah."
"'You scoundrel,'" he said, "or words like 'em. 'You're loiterin' round
here again to waylay her an' poison her mind.'"
"And what did the other say?"
"Oh! he up and says it was a lie right out to 'is face."
"Did he, really?"
"It's gospel truth, Miss; and of course the Captin, bein' insulted like
that, let fly at 'im."
"Do you wonder, Micah?"
"I don't, Miss. But lor', that young Sterne is a terrible strong and
'andsome young fellow, and he gived the Captin beans in two seconds."
"What a shame!"
"Of course, Miss, it's natural that you and me should side with the
Captin; but after all, it's human natur' to hit back again, ain't it?"
"Yes, I suppose it is. But what happened after that?"
"Oh! the Captin cried out, 'Martin, come and take away this drunken
brute, or he'll murder me.'"
"Of course, the Captain was bound to believe he was drunk?"
"Well, he was bound to say so, Miss," Micah answered, with a twinkle in
his eyes. "It 'ud never do to own he was beaten by a man as was sober in
a stand up fight--and he a sodger."
"Of course not, though you must admit, Micah, that the Captain was at a
disadvantage if the other was sober."
"That's what I've said to myself, Miss, fact is, Sterne was much too
sober. He was just as cool as a cucumber, and then he's a younger man
than the Captin."
"But the Captain got the best of it in the end," she said, with a tone
of triumph in her voice.
"That he did, Miss. He got his revenge sharp, sudden an' complete."
"The right nearly always wins in the end, Micah. But mind you don't
repeat a word of our conversation this afternoon."
"Me, Miss? You should see me gibbeted first."
Madeline walked out of the kitchen garden in a very sober mood. The
suspicion that had been haunting her mind for weeks was crystallising
rapidly into a certainty. The admissions of Micah threw a new and
sinister light on the entire situation. The underlying motive had been
laid bare as in a flash, and Gervase stood revealed in his true colours.
They were starting for the South of France in a week or so. She thought
she saw now the reason of that particular move. She would not act
precipitately, however. She would keep her eyes and ears open and her
mouth shut. It might be possible, with a little diplomacy, to get the
truth out of Tim Polgarrow as she had got it out of Micah Martin; but
there was no time to be wasted if she was to accomplish her purpose.
She was more than usually gracious with Gervase that evening, and in the
highest spirits. She rattled off waltzes on the piano, and sang any
number of cheery and sentimental songs. Gervase found the songs for her,
and stood behind and turned the leaves.
He felt that he was making headway rapidly. Now that Rufus Sterne was
disgraced and out of the way, he had no rival; there was no one to
distract her thoughts from him, and he flattered himself that something
of the old feeling of hero-worship was coming back to her.
He had given up pressing her to marry him, given up playing the part of
injured and broken-hearted lover, and entertained her instead with
stories of his exploits in India. And, generally speaking, he told his
stories well, making light of his own courage and powers of endurance,
and treating heroism as though it were an ordinary, common-place quality
of every soldier.
He had very little doubt that when he got her out of England she would
consent to an engagement, and Sir Charles, who had watched carefully the
progress of affairs, was of the same opinion.
On the day following her conversation with Micah, Madeline tried to get
an interview with Tim Polgarrow. She had seen Tim two or three times,
and had made up her mind as to the kind of man he was and the kind of
tactics she would have to adopt.
Had she been a man she would have gone into the public-house and
demanded an interview with him, but being a girl such a course was
impossible. So she had to wait on the chapter of accidents, and fortune
did not appear to favour her. She rode past the "Three Anchors" on
several occasions, but Tim kept persistently out of sight. She began at
last to fear that the opportunity would never come, and that the
particular information she wanted would be denied her.
In her heart she had little doubt of the truth of the accusation Rufus
had flung out on the day of the trial--that Tim had been bribed to swear
a falsehood. But she wanted direct evidence. She was anxious to be just
to Gervase, whatever happened.
On the day before leaving home she resolved on more direct measures.
Getting her horse saddled, she rode straight away to the "Three Anchors"
and knocked loudly on the front door with the handle of her
riding-crop.
[Illustration: "HAD MADELINE FIRED A REVOLVER HE COULD NOT HAVE BEEN
MORE STARTLED."]
A young man with a thick crop of reddish-brown hair, and a blue apron
tied round his waist, appeared at length from the recesses of the
tavern.
"Can I have a drink of barley-water for my horse?" she inquired.
"Yes, miss; I'll fetch it in a minute."
She backed her horse a few paces and waited. No one appeared to be
about. The inn stood at the junction of five roads, commonly known as
Five Lane Ends, and there was not another house within half a mile.
In a few minutes the shock-headed young man appeared with a pail, which
he held under the horse's nose.
Madeline felt her heart beating rapidly. She had resolved on a bold
stroke. Nothing less than a frontal attack. No flank movement would do
in the present case. She would have to stagger him with the first blow.
"You are Timothy Polgarrow?" she questioned, looking down from her
exalted position.
"Yes, miss, that's my name, at your service," he answered, glibly and
flippantly.
"I'm glad I've met you," she said, quietly.
"Yes?" And he looked up with a light of surprise in his eyes.
"I want to ask you a question."
"A dozen, if you like, miss. I'm always ready to oblige a lady."
"Then you will tell me how much money Captain Tregony paid you to swear
that Rufus Sterne was drunk?"
Had Madeline fired a revolver at him he could not have been more
startled. He dropped the bucket, which fell with a rattle on the
cobbles, and his freckled face grew ashen.
Madeline quickly followed the first blow with a second.
"Now, be careful what you say," she went on. "If you lie, it will be the
worse for you. You know that you committed perjury, and that you are
liable to a long period of imprisonment; but if you tell the truth, I
will be very merciful."
"Has he been blabbing?" he gasped, trembling in every limb.
"Don't trouble to ask questions," she said. "Your business is to answer
them."
Then he began to pluck up courage. "Nobody can prove nothing," he said,
insolently.
"There you are making a mistake," she answered. "It may be difficult to
prove that you received money, but there will be no difficulty in
proving that you committed perjury."
"You mean that I'll get all the blame and he'll go scot free."
"Exactly. The case against you is as clear as daylight."
"Who said so?"
"I say so."
"What have you found out?"
"That you swore falsely, and I cannot imagine that you would do it for
nothing."
"Look here," he said, still trembling, "you don't know nothing at all.
You're trying to gammon me, but I don't take on. Do you understand? I
know how to keep my mouth shut as well as other people."
"Very good. I came to you as a friend. If you like to risk the
consequences of a trial for perjury, that's your look-out."
"If I do, I don't go into the dock alone, mind you that."
"No, I guess when you get into the dock, you'll have to make a clean
breast of it. Why not do it now and avoid going into the dock?"
"You mean, if I tell the truth about--about--somebody, you won't
proceed?"
"I mean, I want to get hold of a certain fact. The fact of your
committing perjury is already settled. What I want to know is, how much
did the gentleman I have named pay you for doing it?"
"Look here," he said, "if I tell you all I know about that blooming
trial, will you promise not to split on me?"
"Only on one condition."
"And what is that?"
"That you will tell the whole truth, and that you put it in writing and
sign it."
"Look here, miss," he said, insolently, "do you take me for a blooming
fool?"
"If you had been wise," she answered, "you would not have put yourself
within reach of the law. However, you can take your own course." And she
reined up her horse, as though the interview was at an end.
"Don't go yet," he said, seizing the bridle-rein. "You don't give a
fellow time to think. How do I know that you're not pretending?"
"If I didn't know, how could I tell you?" she answered, severely. "What
I don't know I have confessed to."
"And if I tell you that, you won't blab about the rest?"
"If you put it in writing and sign it, it shall be kept absolutely
secret for a year."
He laughed scornfully. "I can assure you, miss," he said, "I'm not so
green as I look."
"Very good," she answered, with a laugh. "You ought to know best," and
she again pulled at the rein. But Tim was evidently afraid to let her
go.
"I'll put nothing in writing," he said; "not a blooming word. But if
you'll promise me on your word of honour as a lady that you'll not blab,
and that you'll not put the police on me, I'll tell you all I know. Mind
you, I've confessed nothing yet. Not a word."
"I don't want any confession as to your part. That's proved enough
already. What I want to know is how much you were paid for swearing
falsely?"
"Will you promise me never to say a word? Mind you, I'll go to gaol
sooner than put anything in writing."
"I don't want to be too hard on you," she said, after a pause.
"And the secret will be between our two selves?"
"Yes."
"And if I don't tell you, you'll set the police on me?"
"This very day."
"And if I do tell, fair and square, you'll deal fair and square with
me?"
"Well, yes. You deserve to be sent to prison for robbing an honest man
of his character, but for the information I want I will pay the price of
silence."
"You take your oath on it?"
Madeline hesitated for a moment. She would like to clear Rufus Sterne's
character if possible. But he had just as much proof of perjury as she
had unless this man confessed, and he refused to confess unless she
promised secrecy.
"I take my oath on it," she answered.
"Then he paid me twenty pounds."
"Only twenty pounds?"
"He offered me five at first, then ten, then fifteen; but when he rose
to twenty it was too much to resist. He said 'twouldn't harm Sterne.
That every gentleman got drunk now and then, and that as he was drunk it
might be as well to prove he got drunk here as anywhere else."
"And you didn't serve him with any drink?"
"I never served him with a drink in my life. He passed the "Three
Anchors" that night, but he didn't call."
"Thank you; that is all I wish to know."
"And you'll not set the police on me?"
"No."
She rode home by another way, and rode slowly. She was not an expert
horsewoman yet, though she was rapidly becoming one.
She entered the house without anyone seeing her, and went at once to her
own room. She wanted time to think, to shape her plans for the future.
Her life's programme had been torn into shreds. She would have to begin
over again. But how, or when, or where?
After lunch she took a stroll on the Downs and along the cliffs. "I
shall never come back here again," she said to herself. "This must be my
farewell."
She walked slowly, and with many pauses. She half hoped she would see
Rufus Sterne. She wanted to say good-bye to him, and in saying it tell
him that she believed in him.
But Rufus was busy elsewhere that afternoon, and they did not meet. She
looked in all directions as she strolled back across the Downs to the
Hall, and with a little sigh she passed through the lodge gates.
Another chapter had been completed in the story of her life. To-morrow a
fresh page would be turned.