THE PRICE OF INNOCENT BLOOD.
A month went by, and at the end of it every farthing of Mr. Levinger’s
ten pounds was spent, for the most part in satisfying creditors who either had
sued, or were threatening to sue, for debts owing to them. Finding herself once
more without resources, Mrs. Gillingwater concluded that it was time to deal
with Samuel Rock, taking the chance of her breach of confidence being found out
and visited upon her by Mr. Levinger. Accordingly, towards dusk one
evening— for she did not wish her errand to be observed by the
curious—Mrs. Gillingwater started upon her mission to Moor Farm.
Moor Farm is situated among the wind-torn firs that line the ridge of ground
which separates the sea heath between Bradmouth and Ramborough from the meadows
that stretch inland behind it. Perhaps in the whole county there is no more
solitary or desolate building, with its outlook on to the heath and the chain
of melancholy meres where Samuel had waylaid Joan, beyond which lies the sea.
The view to the west is more cheerful, indeed, for here are the meadows where
runs the Brad; but, as though its first architect had determined that its
windows should look on nothing pleasant, the house is cut off from this
prospect by the straggling farm buildings and the fir plantation behind them.
The homestead, which stands quite alone, for all the labourers employed about
the place live a mile or more away in the valley, is large, commodious, and
massively built of grey stone robbed from the ruins of Ramborough. When the
Lacons, Joan’s ancestors on the mother’s side, who once had owned
the place, went bankrupt, their land was bought by Samuel Rock’s
grandfather, an eccentric man, but one who was very successful in his business
as a contractor for the supply of hay to His Majesty’s troops. After he
had been the possessor of Moor Farm for little more than a year, this James
Rock went suddenly mad; and although his insanity was of a dangerous character,
for reasons that were never known his wife would not consent to his removal to
an asylum, but preferred to confine him in the house, some of the windows of
which are still secured by iron bars. The end of the tale was tragic, for one
night the maniac, having first stunned his keeper, succeeded in murdering his
wife while she was visiting him. This event took place some seventy years
before the date of the present story, but the lapse of two generations has not
sufficed to dispel the evil associations connected with the spot, and that
portion of the house where the murder was committed has remained uninhabited
from that day to this.
Mrs. Gillingwater was not a person much troubled by imaginative fears, but the
aspect of Moor House as she approached it on that November evening affected her
nerves, rudimentary as they were. The day had been very stormy, and angry rays
from the setting sun shone through gaps in the line of naked firs behind the
house, and were reflected from the broken sky above on to the surface of the
meres and of the sea beyond them. The air was full of the voices of wind and
storm, the gale groaned and shrieked among the branches of the ancient trees;
from the beach a mile away came the sound of the hiss of the surge and of the
dull boom of breakers, while overhead a flock of curlews appeared and
disappeared as they passed from sunbeam into shadow and from shadow into
sunbeam, till they faded among the uncertain lights of the distance, whence the
echo of their unhappy cries still floated to the listener’s ear. The
front of the house was sunk in gloom, but there was still light enough to
enable Mrs. Gillingwater, standing by the gate of what in other times had been
a little pleasure garden, but was now a wilderness overrun with sea grasses, to
note its desolate aspect, and even the iron bars that secured the windows of
the rooms where once the madman was confined. Nobody could be seen moving about
the place, and she observed no lamp in the sitting-room.
“I hope those brutes of dogs are tied up, for I expect _he’s_
out,” Mrs. Gillingwater said to herself; “he’s fond of
sneaking about alone in weather like this.”
As the thought passed through her mind, she chanced to glance to her left,
where some twenty paces from her, and beyond the intercepting bulk of the
building, a red sunbeam pierced the shadows like a sword. There in the centre
of this sunbeam stood Samuel Rock himself. He was wrapped in his long dark
cloak that fell to the knees, but his hat lay on the ground beside him, and his
upturned face was set towards the dying sun in such a fashion that the vivid
light struck full upon it, showing every line of his clear-cut features, every
hair of the long beard that hung from the square protruding chin, and even the
motion of his thin lips, and of the white hands that he moved ceaselessly, as
though he were washing them in the blood-red light.
There was something so curious about his aspect that Mrs. Gillingwater started.
“Now what’s he a-doing there?” she wondered: “bless me
if I know, unless he’s saying prayers to his master the devil. I never
did see a man go on like that before, drunk or sober; he gives me the creeps,
the beast. Look, there he goes sneaking along the wall of the house, for all
the world like a great black snake wriggling to its hole. Well, he’s in
now, so here’s after him, for his money is as good as anybody
else’s, and I must have it.”
In another half-minute she was knocking at the door, which was opened by Samuel.
“Who’s that?” he said. “I don’t want no visitors
at this time of day.”
“It’s me, Mr. Rock—Mrs. Gillingwater.”
“Then I want you least of all, you foul-mouthed, lying woman. Get you
gone, or I’ll loose the dogs on you.”
“You’d better not,” she answered, “for I’ve
something to tell you that you’d like to hear.”
“Something that I’d like to hear,” he answered, hesitating:
“is it about _her?_”
“Yes, it’s about her—all about her.”
“Come in,” he said.
She entered, and he shut and locked the door behind her.
“What are you a-doing that for?” asked Mrs. Gillingwater
suspiciously.
“Nothing,” he answered, “but doors are best locked. You
can’t tell who will come through them, nor when, if they’re left
open.”
“That’s just another of his nasty ways,” muttered Mrs.
Gillingwater, as she followed him down the passage into the sitting-room, which
was quite dark except for some embers of a wood fire that glowed upon the
hearth.
“Stop a minute, and I will light the lamp,” said her host.
Soon it burnt brightly, and while Samuel was making up the fire Mrs.
Gillingwater had leisure to observe the room, in which as it chanced she had
never been before, at any rate since she was a child. On the occasions of their
previous interviews Samuel had always received her in the office or the kitchen.
It was long and low, running the depth of the house, so that the windows faced
east and west. The fireplace was wide, and over it hung a double-barrelled
muzzle-loading gun, which Mrs. Gillingwater noticed was charged, for the light
shone upon the copper caps. There were two doors one near the fireplace,
leading to the offices and kitchen, and one by which she had entered. The floor
was of oak, half covered with strips of matting, and the ceiling also was
upheld by great beams of oak, that, like most of the materials in this house,
had been bought or stolen from the Abbey at the time when it was finally
deserted, a hundred and fifty years before. This was put beyond a doubt,
indeed, by the curious way in which it had been the fancy of the builder to
support these huge beams namely, by means of gurgoyles that once had carried
off the water from the roofs of the Abbey. It would be difficult to imagine
anything more grotesque, or indeed uncanny, than the effect of these
weather-worn and grinning heads of beasts and demons glaring down upon the
occupants of the chamber open-mouthed, as though they were about to spring upon
and to devour them. Indeed, according to a tale in Bradmouth, a child of ten,
finding herself left alone with them for the first time, was so terrified by
their grizzly appearance that she fell into a fit. For the rest, the walls of
the room were hung with a dingy paper, and adorned with engravings of a
Scriptural character, diversified by prints taken from Fox’s “Book
of Martyrs.” The furniture was good, solid and made of oak, like
everything else in the place, with the sole exception of an easy chair, in
which it was Samuel’s custom to smoke at night.
“I suppose, now, Mr. Rock,” said Mrs. Gillingwater, pointing to the
grinning gurgoyles, “that you don’t find it lonesome up here at
nights, with those stone parties for company?”
“Not a bit of it, Mrs. Gillingwater; why, I’ve known them all ever
since I was a child, as doubtless others have before me, and they are downright
good friends to me, they are. I have names for every one of them, and I talk to
them sometimes too—now this and now that, as the fancy takes me.”
“Just what I should have expected of you, Mr. Rock,” answered Mrs.
Gillingwater significantly; “not but what I dare say it is good
training.”
“Meaning?” said Samuel.
“Meaning, Mr. Rock, that as it is getting late, and it’s a long and
windy walk home, we’d better stop talking of stone figures and come to
business—that is, if you have a mind for it.”
“By all means, Mrs. Gillingwater. But what is the business?”
“Well, it’s this: last time we met, when we parted in anger, though
through no fault of mine, you said that you wanted Joan’s address: and
now I’ve got it.”
“You’ve got it? Then tell it me. Come, be quick!” and he
leaned towards her across the polished oak table.
“No, no, Mr. Rock: do you think that I am as green as an alder shoot,
that you should ask such a thing of me? I must have the money before you get
the address. Do you understand?”
“I understand, Mrs. Gillingwater; but be reasonable. How can you expect
me to pay you five-and-twenty pounds for what may be gammon after all?”
“Five-and-twenty pounds, Mr. Rock! No such thing, indeed: it is fifty
pounds I want, every farthing of it, or you get nothing out of me.”
“Fifty pounds!” answered Samuel; “then I don’t think
that we need talk no longer, Mrs. Gillingwater, seeing that I ain’t going
to give you fifty pounds, no, not for the address of all the angels in
heaven.”
“I dare say not, Mr. Rock: _they’d_ be precious little use to
you when you’d got them, either now or at any future time, to judge from
what I knows of you”—and she glanced significantly at the
sculptured demons beneath the ceiling—“but you see Joan’s
whereabouts is another matter, more especially since she isn’t an angel
yet, though she’s been nigh enough to it, poor dear.”
“What do you mean by that, ma’am? Is she ill, then?”
“When I’ve got the fifty pounds in my pocket, Mr. Rock, I’ll
be glad enough to tell you all about it, but till then my mouth is sealed.
Indeed, it’s a great risk that I run letting you know at all, for if the
old man yonder finds it out, I think that he’ll be the ruin of me. And
now, will you pay, or won’t you?”
“I won’t give you the fifty pounds,” he answered, setting his
teeth; “I’ll give you thirty, and that’s the last farthing
which you’ll screw out of me—and a lot of money too, seeing that
there’s no reason why I should pay you anything at all.”
“That’s just where you’re wrong, Mr. Rock,” she
answered: “not that I’m denying that thirty pounds is a lot of
money; but then, you see, I’ve got that to sell that you want to buy, and
badly. Also, as I told you, I take risks in selling it.”
“What risks?”
“The risks of being turned out of house and home, and being sold up,
that’s all. Old Levinger don’t want no one to know Joan’s
address; I can’t tell you why, but he don’t, and if he finds out
that I have let on, it will be a bad business for me. Now look here: I fancy
that there is another person as wouldn’t mind giving a trifle for this
address, and if you’re so mean that you won’t cash up, I shall take
a walk out yonder to-morrow morning,” and she nodded in the direction of
Rosham.
Samuel groaned, for he knew that she was alluding to his rival. “I doubt
that he knows it already, curse him,” he said, striking his hand upon the
table, “Thirty-five—there, that’s the last.”
“You’re getting along, Mr. Rock, but it won’t do yet,”
sneered Mrs. Gillingwater. “See here now, I’ve got something in my
hand that I’ll show you just for friendship’s sake,” and
producing Mrs. Bird’s letter, she read portions of it aloud, pausing from
time to time to watch the effect upon her hearer. It was curious, for as he
listened his face reflected the extremes of love, hope, terror and despair.
“God!” he said, wringing his hands, “to think that she may be
dead and gone from me for ever!”
“If she were dead, Mr. Rock, it wouldn’t be much use my giving you
her address, would it? since, however fond you may be of her, I reckon that you
would scarcely care to follow her _there._ No, I’ll tell you this
much, she is living and getting well again, and I fancy that you’re after
a live woman, not a dead one.’ This was written a month ago and
more.”
“Thank heaven!” he muttered. “I couldn’t have borne to
lose her like that; I think it would have driven me mad. While she’s
alive there’s hope, but what hope is there in the grave?” Samuel
spoke thus somewhat absently, after the fashion of a man who communes with
himself, but all the while Mrs. Gillingwater felt that he was searching her
with his eyes. Then of a sudden he leant forward, and swiftly as a striking
snake he shot out his long arm across the table, and snatched the letter from
her grasp.
“You think yourself mighty clever, Mr. Rock,” she said, with a
harsh laugh; “but you won’t get the address for nothing in that
way. If you take the trouble to look you’ll see that I’ve tore it
off. Ah! you’ve met your match for once; it is likely that I was going to
trust what’s worth fifty pounds in reach of your fingers, isn’t
it?”
He looked at the letter and saw that she spoke truth.
“I didn’t take it for that,” he said, gnawing his hand with
shame and vexation; “I took it to see if there was a letter at all, or if
you were making up lies.” And he threw it back to her.
“No doubt you did, Mr. Rock,” she answered, jeering at him.
“Well, and now you’re satisfied, I hope; so how about them fifty
sovereigns?”
“Forty,” he said.
“Fifty. Never a one less.”
Samuel sprang up from his seat, and, coming round the table, stood over her.
“Look here,” he said in a savage whisper, “you’re
pushing this game too far: if you’re a wise woman you’ll take the
forty and go, or—”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll twist what I want to know out of that black heart of
yours, and not a farthing shall you get for it perhaps you’ve forgotten
that the door is locked and we are alone in the house. Yes, you might scream
till you brought the roof down, but nobody would hear you; and scream you shall
if I take hold of you.”
Mrs. Gillingwater glanced at his face, and read something so evil on it, and in
the lurid eyes, that she grew frightened.
“Very well,” she said, as unconcernedly as possible, “I
won’t stand out for a tenner between friends: down with the cash, and you
shall have it.”
“Ah! ma’am, you’re afraid of me now I can feel it and
I’ve half a mind to beat you down; but I won’t, I’ll stand by
my word. Now you write that address upon this piece of paper and I’ll get
the coin.” And rising he left the room by the door near the fireplace,
which he took the precaution of locking behind him.
“The murdering viper!” reflected Mrs. Gillingwater; “I
pinched his tail a little too much that time, and I sha’n’t be
sorry to find myself outside again, though there’s precious little chance
of that until he chooses, as he’s locked me in. Well, I must brazen it
out now.” And somewhere from the regions of her ample bosom she produced
the fragment that she had torn off Mrs. Bird’s letter, on which was
written the address and a date.
Presently Samuel returned holding a small bag of money in his hand, from which
he counted out forty sovereigns.
“There’s the cash, ma’am,” he said; “but before
you touch it be so good as to hand me that bit of writing: no, you
needn’t be afraid, I’ll give you the money as I take the
paper.”
“I’m not afraid, Mr. Rock; when once I’ve struck a bargain I
stick to it like an honest woman, and so, I know, will you. Never you doubt
that the address is the right one; you can see that it is torn off the letter I
read to you. Joan is there, and through the worst of her illness, so the party
she’s lodging with wrote to me; and if you see her I hope you’ll
give her my love.” As she spoke she pushed the scrap of paper to him with
her left hand, while with her right she drew the shining heap of gold towards
herself.
“Honest!” he said: “I may be honest in my way, Mrs.
Gillingwater; but you are about as honest as other traitors who sell innocent
blood for pieces of money.”
“What do you mean by that, Mr. Rock?” she replied, looking up from
her task of securing the forty sovereigns in her pocket-handkerchief.
“I’ve sold no innocent blood; I’d scorn to do such a thing!
You don’t mean any harm to Joan, do you?”
“No, ma’am, I mean her no harm, unless it’s a harm to want to
make her my wife; but it would have been all one to you if I meant to murder
her and you knew it, so your sin is just as great, and verily the betrayers of
innocent blood shall have their reward,” and he pointed at her with his
long fingers. “I’ve got what I want,” he went on
“though I’ve had to pay a lot of money for it; but I tell you that
it won’t do you any good; you might as well throw it into the mere and
yourself after it, as expect to get any profit out of that forty pounds, the
price of innocent blood the price of innocent blood.” Then once more
Samuel pointed at her and grinned maliciously, till to her fancy his face
looked like that of the stone demon above him.
By now Mrs. Gillingwater was so frightened that for a moment or two she
hesitated as to whether it would not be wiser to return the money and free
herself from the burden of a dreadful thought. In the end her avarice
prevailed, as might have been expected, and without another word she rose and
walked towards the front door, which Samuel unlocked and opened for her.
“Good-bye,” he said, as she went down the passage.
“You’ve done me a good turn, ma’am, and now I’m sure
that I’ll marry Joan; but for all that a day shall come when you will
wish that your hand had been cut off before you touched those forty sovereigns:
you remember my words when you lie a-dying, Mrs. Gillingwater, with all your
deeds behind you and all the doom before.”
Then the woman fled through the storm and the night, more terrified than ever
she had been in her life’s day, nor did the gold that she clasped to her
heart avail to comfort her. For Rock had spoken truth; it was the price of
innocent blood, and she knew it.