There was a long pause after the tramp had addressed Mr. Brander. In
spite of herself, Olivia found herself at last holding her breath with
impatience to hear the clergyman’s answer. She would not look at him,
although through the gaps in the rough stonework she might easily have
done so; but her hands, with which she had at first tried to stop her
ears, fell down at her sides. When at last he spoke, Mr. Brander’s
voice was low and husky, affected by some strong feeling.
“Yes, Abel, it’s a long time--a very long time.”
The blood rushed to Olivia’s face, and her cold hands stole together;
there was something in the vicar’s voice which told so clearly of years
of keen suffering that a great throb of pity wrung the girl’s heart;
and she hoped, as eagerly as if the matter had affected her personally,
that this tramp would keep his secret.
“Ay,” said Abel, in whose tones, to do him justice, there was no
malignity. “Ah’ve kept ma word, parson. Ah promised ye that neeght as
Ah’d go on straight wi’out resting hereabouts. An’ on Ah went, and Ah
nivver said nowt, and Ah’ve nivver been nigh t’ pleace from that day to
this. Now that’s straight dealin’, parson, arn’t it?”
“Yes, Abel; I always knew you for a straight man.”
Mr. Brander spoke gravely and appreciatively, but there was no undue
humility in his tone, as of a man demanding mercy. Abel resumed.
“Ay, parson, so I be. Ah’m not mooch of a Christian, as tha knaws, an’
if so be a mon treats ma ill, Ah loike to be even wi’ him. But if so
be a mon treats ma fair, Ah treat him fair beck. An’ tha’s treated ma
more nor fair, parson, mony’s the time. An’ so, when tha says, ‘Shut
tha mooth an’ mak’ nae guesses,’ Ah shuts ma mooth, an’ Ah doan’t guess
nowt.”
“What brings you here now, then?” asked Mr. Brander, abruptly, with
perceptible anxiety in his tone.
“Weel, parson, tha knaws Ah wur born and bred hereaboots. An’ though Ah
been fond o’ trampin’ it i’ ma time, Ah’m not so spry-like as Ah wur,
an’ Ah’d like to settle in t’ pleace where Ah wur bred.”
“You’ve saved some money, then?” asked Mr. Brander as sharply as before.
“Not so mooch, not so mooch, mester, but Ah doan’t count to end ma days
in an eight-roomed villa, like t’ gentlefowk.”
There was a pause, and then the vicar spoke in a constrained tone, in
which the effort to repress some strong feeling was more manifest than
ever.
“And if I ask you not to settle here, Abel, but to pitch your tent for
the remainder of your days somewhere else, what would you do? Come, I
don’t want to throw in your face what I’ve done for you, but what would
you do?”
Olivia heard the man clearing his throat undecidedly, and kicking with
his wooden leg against the gravestones.
“You doan’t trust ma, parson, an’ it’s a bit hard, after howdin’ ma
tongue nigh eleven year. Eh, but if Ah’d wanted to ha’ spoke, wadn’t Ah
ha’ spoke afore now?”
“If you had wanted to speak about the business, I should never have
wasted my breath asking you not to,” said Mr. Brander with decision.
“I trust you, Abel, as much as one man may trust another. But judging
you as I should judge myself, I say it would be impossible for you to
live in this neighborhood, where that night’s occurrences are still
continually being raked up and discussed, without its leaking out that
you were here on that night, and that you met me. That, as you know, I
wish to keep secret.”
“But, parson,” began the man slowly, in a troubled tone----
Mr. Brander interrupted him.
“Now we’ve nothing further to discuss, Abel. I want the whole story
forgotten.”
“But it’s not a whole story, Mester Brander, an’ that’s why it nivver
will be forgotten. It’s a mystery to all but--to ivverybody; an’ until
t’ fowk knaw what become o’ Nellie Mitchell, a mystery it’ll be, an’
they’ll talk aboot it. Why, parson, dost knaw t’ tales as goes round?”
“What do tales matter as long as they are only idle ones?” said Mr.
Brander, hastily. “Now, Abel Squires, which is it to be? Is the parson
to have his way, or has he been wasting his breath?”
“He maun ha’ his way, Ah reckon: but Ah tell thee, parson, it’s all no
use. It’ll be none o’ ma doin’, but--murder will oot, tha knaws.”
He dropped his voice to a low, portentous whisper for the last words.
“Murder!” echoed Mr. Blander, also in a low voice. “What are you
talking about? Didn’t I tell you it was not murder?”
“Ay, that tha did,” said Abel, rather drily.
“And did you see anything?”
“Weel, not that neeght, but next day----”
“Ah!” ejaculated Mr. Brander, sharply. “Then you didn’t keep your word;
you didn’t go straight on!”
The man’s answer came deliberately.
“Ah went straight on that neeght, mester, as Ah towd tha Ah would. But
Ah coom back next mornin’. It wur only human natur’; an’ Ah took a look
round. Ay! parson, Ah hid summat as would ha towd a tale.”
“What was that?” asked Mr. Brander, slowly, and, as it seemed, with
difficulty.
“There wur marks on those steps down to t’ crypt as is now blocked oop.
An’ down at t’ bottom. An’ Ah tramped ’em oot. An’ there war marks in
other pleace as Ah made away. An’ it wur all for ye, parson, for Ah
thowt of what ye’d done for ma when Ah wur ill and nobody to care for
ma, an’ Ah did what Ah could.”
“You’re a good fellow, Abel,” said Mr. Brander, huskily, after a few
moments’ pause. “And you’ve been a good friend to me.”
“Ah, Mester Brander, but Ah’d ha’ liked to ha’ served ye a better way,”
said the man, who seemed affected in his turn.
The vicar silenced him with a peremptory “Sh-sh.” Then he said--
“You won’t be able to get far to-night on foot. It will be snowing
heavily in an hour from now. You must get home by train to-night.”
Olivia guessed that he must have put money into the man’s hand, for
Abel Squires answered reluctantly--
“Ah doan’t tak’ it for howding ma tongue, parson. But if ye want ma to
go further, it’s but fair ye should pay for it. Here’s good-day to you,
sir, and may you nivver----”
The voices were growing fainter. Olivia peeped between the stones for
the first time, and saw that the oddly assorted couple were making
their way among the ruined gravestones to the gate, where the vicar
shook hands with the tramp, who went back up the lane towards the
Sheffield road as fast as his wooden leg would let him. Mr. Brander
stood at the gate until long after Abel had disappeared from sight at a
bend of the lane. His back was towards Olivia, and all that she could
see was that he remained extraordinarily still. The snow, which from
a few feathery flakes had gradually thickened into a blinding storm,
grew at last so dense that no mental abstraction could shut it out.
The vicar suddenly threw back his head, and apparently taking in the
fact that he was getting wet through, gave himself a violent shake to
get rid of the white covering which already enveloped him, turned and
walked rapidly back to the church.
As soon as Olivia heard the rattle of the lock, she sprang out of her
shelter, struggling with her umbrella as she went, hurried over the
uneven ground within the ruined aisle, where a few minutes before Mr.
Brander and the tramp had been standing, and steering rapidly and
neatly between the broken and scattered tombstones, reached the gate
in very few seconds. As she flitted quickly through, however, a gust
of wind blew the skirt of her waterproof against the bars of the gate,
which swung to behind her with a loud creaking noise. She ran on, and
in a minute was out of sight to any one at the church door, hidden by
the churchyard wall. But Mr. Brander, hearing the noise, and being
naturally rather startled by the idea that some one had been about
during his very private conversation with Squires, was too quick for
her. He was out of the church and on the track of the intruder before
she had got many steps up the lane. She was just past the bend when he
suddenly came up with her. One umbrellaed and waterproofed woman in a
snowstorm is so like another that he had not the slightest idea who his
quarry was until he had passed her and turned to look back. As he did
so he caught sight of her face, and instantly stopped.
Olivia stopped too, and holding back her umbrella, met his glance
with a frank, straight gaze. He raised his hat, seemed about to speak
to her, but hesitated. She smiled and held out her hand. He saw at
once that this was not the ordinary greeting of an acquaintance she
was tendering him. The muscles about her mouth were quivering, and
her eyes, as they met his for a moment before dropping modestly, were
luminous with generous feeling, maidenly shame struggling with womanly
sympathy. Mr. Brander took her hand with some constraint. As he touched
it, however, something in the firm clasp of the girl’s fingers gave him
confidence.
“Miss Denison,” he said, gravely, while his keen black eyes seemed to
read the thoughts in her brain before they were uttered, “you have been
in the churchyard. Where were you?”
The blood, which was already crimson in Olivia’s cheeks, mounted to her
forehead, until her whole face was aglow. Her eyes fell, and it was in
a low, almost faltering, voice that she answered.
“I was in the ruined part of the church--where the roof is left.”
Mr. Brander was startled by this confession. He did not at once speak,
being evidently occupied in trying to recall the very words of the
conversation she must have overheard. But he soon gave up that attempt,
and asked, impatiently--
“Then you heard--what?”
Olivia’s breath come almost in sobs, as she answered at once, with bent
head, and almost in a whisper--
“I heard nearly all you said--you and the man. I am very, very sorry
and ashamed, and I ask your pardon. But I did not dare to come out
while you were there. I hoped to get away without your seeing me.”
“But what did I say? What did he say? What did you understand by it
all?” asked he, so eagerly that he almost seemed to be bullying her.
“Oh, I don’t know. Pray don’t ask me. I don’t want to remember. I would
rather forget it all. I never meant that a word about it should pass my
lips, and it will not after this,” said she, hurriedly without looking
up.
Mr. Brander said nothing to this at first, and Olivia, raising her head
to steal a look at his face, judged by his expression that he was in
the throes of some terrible mental struggle, the outcome of which would
be some passionate outburst. But he recovered command of himself, and
when he at last spoke to her, it was in a very quiet voice.
“I am keeping you standing in the snow, Miss Denison; I must not do
that. But we must come to a word of understanding now; it will put us
on a right footing for the future.”
“You need not say another word to me, Mr. Brander,” interrupted Olivia,
vehemently. “The understanding between us is clear enough; you are a
most warm-hearted gentleman, and have shown me more delicate kindness
than I ever received in my life; I am, and shall be as long as you let
me, your grateful friend. What understanding do you want more than
that?”
Her clear young voice rang out with enthusiastic warmth, which threw
the clergyman off his balance. He began to tremble like a leaf, and
again his thin, mobile face showed signs of the emotion within him. But
he still kept it under restraint, and spoke in a perfectly steady voice.
“Thank you; I expected generosity from you. But--do you quite
understand the position I am in, I wonder? Did you understand that
man--that tramp--is keeping a secret for me?”
“Yes,” answered Olivia, steadily.
“And you are aware of its nature?”
The girl drew a deep breath, but she answered bravely, though in a low
voice, “Yes.”
“And after that, and after hearing everything that you have heard, that
you must have heard, about this miserable story, you still are ready to
call yourself--my friend?”
He kept his voice at the same quiet pitch, but on the last two words it
broke a little. There was a pause of only a few seconds.
Then Olivia answered in a veritable whisper, but with the same sweet
and dignified seriousness, “Yes, Mr. Brander.”
She might reasonably have expected some acknowledgement of the
gracious, womanly daring of this speech; but instead of giving any sign
of gratitude, Mr. Brander, to her astonishment, turned upon her quite
sharply.
“Well, that’s quixotic, illogical, pretty perhaps from a
boarding-school young lady’s point of view, but not worthy of a woman
of sense.”
Olivia was surprised, but she was true woman enough to have her answer.
“I think I can justify it,” she said, holding her head back rather
obstinately.
“Very well. Justify yourself for being ready to make friends with a man
believed to have committed a very atrocious and cowardly murder.”
Olivia looked at him full and earnestly.
“I don’t believe----” she began, doubtfully.
“You don’t believe what?”
“That you--ever--did it.”
“Because I have the assurance to take the bull by the horns, waylay
you, and insist upon coming to an explanation?”
“No--o, not because of that.”
“Why then?”
Olivia continued to gaze at him as solemnly as if she had been a judge
passing sentence.
“It is very difficult to say quite why,” she began, deliberately. “They
say women hardly ever can say why they believe a thing.”
“Is that all your answer?”
“No,” she replied rather sharply, beginning to be a little annoyed
at the irony in his tone. “They have never proved it, for one thing
although they tried. And--how can a man have changed so in ten years?”
“The first is a reason; the other is not. But you have just seen with
your own eyes the only witness to my actions on that night, and heard
with your own ears that he has not been in the neighborhood since.”
Olivia assented.
“Then you say, ‘How can a man have changed so much in ten years?’
But I tell you I have changed so much in that time that, except for
externals, I might pass for a different man. Now what becomes of your
reasons for thinking me innocent?”
“I will believe you did it if you tell me so, of course,” said Olivia
quietly.
“And what then?”
“What then? I shall be sorry again, and puzzled.”
“And you will withdraw all those pretty professions of friendship?”
Olivia debated with herself for a few moments only. Then she answered,
vehemently, in a strong voice--
“No. You were my friend--a very good friend too--before I heard
anything against you. You were good to us, as I hear you are good to
everybody. When you met that man in the churchyard just now, you spoke
like a brave man, and not like a coward. I hear from every one about
the noble, self-denying life you lead. If you didn’t do it you are
almost a martyr; if--if you did, you are expiating what you did in
a manner which justifies our respect. Now if you call these women’s
reasons, I don’t care; they are good enough for me, Mr. Brander.”
“And for me, too, Miss Denison. I----”
He tried to keep his voice under proper command. But educated to
self-control by long years as he was, he gave way under the unexpected
rush of warm and generous feeling. A choking in his throat checked his
utterance; his keen eyes grew moist and dim. He saw, as in a mist, a
hand held out to him, and seizing it, he wrung it in a pressure which
made Olivia wince.
“Look here,” he said at last, in a voice still husky, while he
continued to hold her fingers in a strong nervous clasp; “I have
nothing to say to you; no confession, no explanation, nothing. But you
are a grand girl--a grand girl.”
He released her hand suddenly, as if with an effort, and then at once
struggled into his usual manner.
“You’re half frozen with standing in the cold (a very just penalty for
eavesdropping, by the way), and you’ll be half buried before you get
back. I must see you home.”
“Oh, no, indeed, I’m not going to drag you all that way on a day like
this.”
“But I choose to be dragged. You rash young woman, accustomed to the
peaceful security of Streatham; you must learn that it is not safe for
a young lady to tramp about this part of the world alone so late in the
day.”
“But it’s not late.”
“It will be dark before you get home. Go on up the hill, and I will
fetch my mackintosh and overtake you.”
He went into his bare-looking house while Olivia tramped on obediently.
She had not noticed, until then, how thickly the snowflakes were
falling, nor how the gloom of the leaden sky was deepening. Now, too,
she became aware, for the first time, that her jaws were stiff, and her
hands and feet bitterly cold; for the interview with Mr. Brander had
been too exciting to allow her to notice these things. He overtook her
in a very few minutes, and walked by her side, conversing on different
topics, until that scene by the churchyard scarcely seemed a reality.
They passed only one person, a rough-looking collier of unsteady gait,
whom Mr. Brander made use of to point a moral.
“Now, is that the sort of person you would care to meet if you were
alone?” he asked.
“I shouldn’t have been afraid of him,” answered Olivia.
“No; if he had been sober he would have been vastly afraid of you,
and of most girls I should say. So he is when he’s drunk. But your
courage doesn’t want stimulating; it wants repressing. For I tell you
my collier boys are good lads in the main, but there are black sheep
among them as among other folk, and you mustn’t risk falling in with
one towards nightfall on a lonely road. Do you hear?”
He spoke with playful peremptoriness, but Olivia understood that he
was giving a serious warning, which she promised to heed. He went on
talking about the colliers, who formed the bulk of the inhabitants
of his scattered parish, with affectionate interest which awakened
a sympathetic curiosity in her, until they reached the inn at the
entrance of Rishton village. Mr. Brander had grown so warm over what
Olivia afterwards discovered to be his favorite subject that, quite
unconsciously, his steps, and consequently hers, had grown slower and
slower, while his voice grew more and more eager until a passer-by
would have taken them for a pair of lovers reluctant to separate. They
had come to a complete standstill in the farmyard by the corner of the
house, when they heard the opening of the front door, a man’s footstep,
and then a woman’s strong shrill voice----
“It’s no use looking for her, Charles. She won’t be in yet. Olivia
never did care a straw for your comfort or for mine.”
Olivia turned to Mr. Brander, and held out her hand with a doleful
shake of the head.
“There,” she said, “isn’t that more eloquent than the longest
description? There’ll be an end to everything now she’s come!”
Fortunately it had grown by this time so dark that under her umbrella
the hot blushes which mounted to Olivia’s cheeks as soon as this
speech had escaped her lips could not be seen. Giving Mr. Brander her
hand very hastily, and not leaving him time for something, he half
hesitated, but wanted to say, she turned, and with a hasty “Good-bye;
thank you very much for coming,” ran round towards the front of the
house.