A DEAD MAN AND A LIVE COWARD
WHILE Harry's brother officer was leaning over the dead man on the
ground, Charley Turnbull was in terrible difficulties in an adjacent
field behind the toll-house. As he heard the sound of hoofs he guessed
that the yeomanry was coming up, and he stole, with a trembling heart,
across the grass to where a gap in the hedge promised safe egress on
to the Brecon road. If he could but reach it without being seen, he
would have a good furlong's start. The gates from field to field were
locked, he knew, and, being so, presented insurmountable obstacles to
a man of his temperament. He urged his old black horse along as
silently as he could, trying the while to unfasten the strings of his
bonnet, which, in truth, were almost choking him; but his fingers
shook, and his heart beat so violently that he felt almost as if it
would throw him from his unaccustomed saddle. Turnbull never rode if
he could help it.
As he reached the gap he left off pulling at his sun-bonnet, for he
needed both hands with which to hold on to the reins. The horse cocked
his ears, blew a long, snorting breath, and seemed anxious to test
with his nose the nature of the difficulty he was asked to meet.
Seeing the little ditch which divided the hedge from the road, he
stuck out his forelegs stiffly in front of him, and snorted yet
louder; he was a large, gross horse, with bunches of hair on his
fetlocks, and his voice tallied with his appearance. Turnbull, in an
agony lest the sound should reach the toll, where things were getting
much quieter, gave him an angry blow. The beast started forward,
pecked, crashed sideways through a stiff bit of wattle on one side of
the gap, and landed by a miracle upon his ample feet in the hardest
part of the road.
The yeomanry officer, while his men were scattered in pursuit of the
rioters, was still giving instructions to the police over Vaughan's
body, when he heard a breaking of wood, and saw Charley's fat figure
coming almost headlong through the gap. Howlie Seaborne, staring
round-eyed at the scene by the gate, looked up on hearing the sound.
The long trot from the courtyard of the Bull Inn had told somewhat
upon his appearance, which was a little more dishevelled than before.
"There a' be!" he shouted. "There a' be! That be Walters--'im as is
Rebecca! Did yew 'ear Evans a-croin' out?"
The officer knew that Harry was in pursuit of the murderer--whoever he
might be--for he had seen him forcing his way after the big man who
had made towards the hill. He had not heard Hosea's cry, but Howlie's
words were enough; there, at any rate, was the very ringleader of the
band, barely half a furlong off. He mounted quickly.
Charley had just presence of mind enough to pull his horse's head
towards Brecon, to cling with all his strength to the mane till he had
righted himself in the saddle, and to set off at as great a pace as
his underbred beast could muster. All that he could think of was those
clattering hoofs gaining on him from the toll-gate, and his fear of
the animal under him was as nothing to his fear of the man behind.
Where he should make for he neither knew nor cared; flight--blessed
flight--that was all that his scattered senses could picture. Again
and again he struck his horse; use his heels he could not, for the
simple reason that his wide skirt had got entangled in the stirrups as
he came through the gap, and held his legs firmly bound to the
leathers. Half-a-mile had not passed before his pace began to slacken,
and, thrash as he might, he could not get the black horse to keep up
the gallop at which he had started. Besides, he was getting breathless
himself. The rider behind shot alongside, shouting to some one yet in
the rear, and a strong hand jerked the bridle out of his convulsive
grasp.
"I've got him!" cried the yeomanry captain exultantly to his follower
as they pulled up, "Sergeant, jump off and have him out of the saddle.
It's Walters of Great Masterhouse--I thought he was a better horseman
than that!"
The sergeant dismounted and seized the prisoner round the waist, but
he clung like a limpet to the horse's neck. Finally, a strong pull
brought him heavily down in the road. Both man and officer burst into
a peal of laughter.
"Sir, sir," said the stifled voice from the ground, "I swear to
Heaven, sir, I be'ant he. Indeed, indeed, I were just pushed sore
against my will into this night's work."
"Who is the fellow?" asked the captain, when he had finished laughing.
"The boy said he was Walters."
The sergeant took out a knife and ripped the bonnet-strings apart;
mask and bonnet fell together.
"It's Charles Turnbull, sir," he said, grinning widely. "Turnbull the
auctioneer at Waterchurch village."
"Are you sure it's not Walters?" said the captain, who had never seen
Rhys.
"No, no, sir, indeed I be'ant," cried the auctioneer, scrambling to
his feet, and stumbling helplessly in the skirt. "Rhys Walters o'
Masterhouse was dressed the same as me, but he's off. Riding for his
neck he is. I never struck a blow, sir, that I didn't, for I were
behind the toll-house, lookin' on, and I says to myself----"
"That'll do," said the captain shortly. "Now then, sergeant, up with
him again; you can leave his clothes as they are, for the police will
want to see all that. Pick up that thing on the ground."
The sergeant picked up the sun-bonnet with another grin, and then
hoisted Turnbull into the saddle.
"You can pull the reins over the horse's head and lead him," said the
officer, "he is not likely to try and escape. He hasn't got courage
enough even for that. And now for the lock-up at Llangarth."
As the three started to retrace their steps towards the town, the bell
from the church steeple rang out half-past ten; the sound floated out
in their direction, for the chill east wind carried it sharply along
the highway. The captain turned up the collar of his cloak, and wished
that he were at home in his comfortable quarters with the blankets
snugly over him. To trot was out of the question, for the auctioneer,
having no reins to hold on by, and possessing no other means of
securing himself on horseback, would inevitably come to grief, while
he, the officer, was now responsible for his safety until he should
deliver him into other hands at Llangarth. The sergeant hooked
Turnbull's reins over his arm, and blew upon his unoccupied fingers.
"It's getting mighty cold, sir," he hazarded.
"We can't get on any faster with this bundle of old clothes to look
after," said the captain crossly; "if you keep your mouth shut, the
cold won't go down your throat."
His temper was not improved by the prospect of the next couple of
miles at a foot's pace, and the toll was only just coming in sight.
The road between them and it was dull and straight, and seemed
interminable to two of the riders, Turnbull alone having no great
desire to get to the end of the journey.
A deathly silence surrounded the ruins of the gate as they reached it
at last, and only a couple of figures were moving near the house in
that odd, diffused light which precedes moonrise, and which was
beginning to touch up the eastern sky. To one of these, which proved
on inspection to be Howlie Seaborne, the captain gave his reins as he
dismounted. A light could be seen burning through the diamond-paned
window. He put his foot on the plinth and looked in, but a half-drawn
dimity curtain, and a pot in which a geranium was struggling for life,
prevented his seeing what was passing inside. Stepping down again, he
turned to the door, and, as it was ajar, pushed it softly open and
went in. After one look at the room he removed his busby, and stood
holding it in his hand.
A low bedstead made of unpolished wood had been drawn into the middle
of the floor. The patchwork quilt which covered it trailed upon the
carpetless flags, and had evidently been brought in a hurry from some
more pretentious bed to spread upon this one. Upon it was the dead
figure of the toll-keeper. He lay there waiting for the arrival of a
magistrate from Llangarth, straight and still, as he would lie waiting
for that other Judge who would one day come to judge his cause. He had
wrought well, and his hands, laid simply by his sides, were still
clenched. A dark bruise on his left temple from which the blood had
oozed made a purple patch on his white, set face. His hair, grey,
though abundant, was stained with blood; a pair of strong boots were
on his feet, and the pipe he had just been smoking when he rushed out
to meet the rioters was still in his pocket. Near him was the stick he
had caught up from its corner by the door as he went, for a constable
had found it by his body on the road and had brought it in. It had
left its mark upon several skins that night.
Vaughan was a widower, his wife having been dead some years, but one
of those nondescript female relations who rise up to stop gaps in the
lives of the poor was in the house, and, as the yeomanry officer came
in, she was blowing up the flickering fire with a pair of brass-bound
bellows. A constable who had been left to watch the body sat in the
background.
The captain stood silent, his shadow cast by the spasmodic firelight
almost filling the small room. Everything was so still; the sound of
the bellows jarred on the stillness; the trivial, persistent noise was
like an insult to the presence which was there. He turned sternly to
the woman at the hearth; her elbow rose and fell as she looked at him
over her shoulder, the flames playing on the outline of her face. The
constable in the distance coughed and spat.
A rush of sharp air came in at the door, and the bellows faltered for
a moment, then went on again with redoubled vigour. The woman nodded
towards the threshold.
"That be she--his daughter," she explained as she turned again to the
fire.
The soldier drew reverently back as a girl entered and sprang past
him. She sat down on the flags by the bedside and took the dead man's
hand in her own two hands. Not a tear was in her eyes; she only gasped
like a trapped animal, and the man listening could see how her lips
opened and shut. The sound of the bellows drowned everything. He
strode to the hearth and shook the woman violently by the arm. "For
God's sake, put away that infernal thing," he said.
She rose from her knees and hung up the bellows in the chimney-corner,
the fire-irons clattering as she searched about among them for the
hook. When he looked round again he saw that the girl had fainted and
was lying face downwards on the floor.
He turned to the bellows-blower, who, now that her occupation had
ended, was standing idle by the fire; she took but little heed of what
had happened.
"You had better do something for her," he suggested after a pause.
"Isn't there another room that we could take her to? Poor thing, I can
carry her there."
"She's a shameless wench," said the woman without moving.
He went to the bedside and raised Mary in his arms. "Go on," he
ordered, nodding decisively towards the door at the back of the room,
and the woman went sullenly forward, while he followed with his
burden.
He laid the girl in a large wooden chair which was almost the only
piece of furniture to be seen. Kneeling by her, he rubbed her palms
until her eyelids opened vacantly, and she tried to sit up. As
recollection dawned in her eyes she gave a sob, hiding her face.
"He's dead, he's dead," she murmured more to herself than to her
companions.
"Aye, he be dead," responded the elder woman in her uncompromising
voice, "and afore you've had time to bring him to disgrace too."
"Sir, sir," faltered Mary, turning to the captain, "how was it?
How----?"
"Rhys Walters did it," interrupted the woman shortly, "he killed him.
Ah--he'll swing for it yet."
Mary got up like a blind person. Her hands were stretched out before
her, and she walked straight to the wall till her face touched it. She
put up her arms against it, and stood there like an image; only her
two hands beat slowly upon the whitewashed stone.
"'Twould be well if she had a ring on one o' they hands o' hers,"
observed the woman.
The scene was so painful that the man who was a participator in it
could endure it no longer. Pity for the dead man who lay in the
dignity of a death bravely come by, was swallowed up in pity for the
poor young creature before him. One had faced death, the other had yet
to face life. The two little hands beating against the wall, the hard,
stupid face of the woman, the cheerless room, all were too horrible to
a man of his disposition to be gone through with any longer. He could
do nothing for Mary if he stayed, though he could not help feeling
cowardly at leaving her to face the first moments of her grief with
such a companion. A flutter of icy wind came through a broken pane
near him, and his horse out in the road stamped once or twice; his
mind ran towards the inn at Llangarth, and he thought of the bright,
warm light in the bar.
"Here," he said, holding out half-a-sovereign to the woman, "and mind
you look after her."
As he passed through the kitchen where the toll-keeper lay, his eye
fell upon the bellows, and he shuddered. "Poor girl," he said, "poor
wretched girl."
Howlie Seaborne was one of those rare persons whose silences are as
eloquent as their speech. While the owner of the horse he held was in
the toll-house, he stood placidly by its head, his eyes fixed upon the
prisoner's face; he grinned steadily. The formation of his mouth was
unusual, for, while other people's smiles are horizontal, so to speak,
his, owing to his rabbit-teeth, was almost vertical.
At last Turnbull looked angrily at him. "'Twas you cried out I was
Rhys Walters," he said with a malignant glance.
If Howlie heard the words, there was no sign of the fact on his
changeless countenance; his one idea appeared to be to see as much of
the auctioneer as he could.
"I'll remember this some day," continued Turnbull; "do ye mind the
hiding I gave ye at Crishowell auction last year? Well, ye'll get
another o' the same sort."
"Oi do," replied Howlie, his words leaving his grin intact; "if oi
hadn't, yew moightn't be a-settin' up there loike a poor zany, an' on
yew're road to the joil."
Turnbull grew purple. "I'll do for ye yet," he said thickly.
At this moment the officer came out and got on his horse, throwing a
copper to the boy as he let the bridle go.
"You're a young fool, for all that," he observed as the coin rang upon
the road; "_that's_ not Walters of Masterhouse."
"Naw," answered Howlie, his gaze still fixed upon the auctioneer.
As the three men rode on towards Llangarth his boots could be heard
toiling heavily up Crishowell Lane.