ANOTHER LOAD.
THE sad procession moved to Morwell out of the wood, preceded by the
man Westlake, mounted on Jasper’s horse, riding hard for the doctor.
Then came a stable-boy with the lantern, and after the light two
gates—first, that on which was laid the dead body of Mr. Jordan; then
another, followed closely by Barbara, on which lay Eve breathing, but
now not even moaning. As the procession was half through the first
field the bell of the house tolled. Westlake had communicated the news
to the servant-maids, and one of them at once went to the bell.
Lagging behind all came Joseph Woodman, the policeman. The King of
France in the ballad marched up a hill, and then marched down again,
having accomplished nothing. Joseph had reversed the process: he had
leisurely marched down the hill, and then more leisurely marched up
it again; but the result was the same as that attained by the King of
France.
On reaching Morwell Jasper said in a low voice to the men, ‘You must
return with me: there is another to be sought for. Who saw the boy
with the lantern last? He may have found him by this time.’
Then Joseph said slowly, ‘As I was down by the boathouse I saw
something.’
‘What did you see?’
‘I saw up on the hill-side a lantern travelling this way, then that
way, so’—he made a zigzag indication in the air with his finger.
‘It went very slow. It went, so to speak, like a drop o’ rain on a
window-pane, that goes this way, then it goes a little more that way,
then it goes quite contrary, to the other side. Then it changes its
direction once again and it goes a little faster.’
‘I wish you would go faster,’ said Jasper impatiently. ‘What did you
see at last?’
‘I’m getting into it, but I must go my own pace,’ said Joseph with
unruffled composure. ‘You understand me, brothers—I’m not speaking
of a drop o’ rain on a window-glass, but of a lantern-light on the
hill-side—and bless you, that hill-side was like a black wall rising up
on my right hand into the very sky. Well then, the light it travelled
like a drop o’ rain on a glass—first to this side, then to that. You’ve
seen drops o’ rain how they travel’—he appealed to all who listened.
‘And I reckon you know how that all to once like the drop, after having
travelled first this road, then that road, in a queer contrary fashion,
and very slow, all to once like, as I said, down it runs like a winking
of the eye and is gone. So exactly was it with thicky (that) there
light. It rambled about on the face of the blackness: first it crawled
this way, then it crept that; always, brothers, going a little lower
and then—to once—whish!—I saw it shoot like a falling star—I mean a
raindrop—and I saw it no more.’
‘And then?’
‘Why—and then I came back the same road I went down.’
‘You did not go into the bushes in search?’
‘How should I?’ answered Joseph, ‘I’d my best uniform on. I’d come out
courting, not thief-catching.’
‘And you know nothing further?’
‘How should I? Didn’t I say I went back up the road same way as I’d
come down? I warn’t bound to get my new cloth coat and trousers tore
all abroad by brimbles, not for nobody. I know my duty better than
that. The county pays for ‘em.’
Directed by this poor indication, Jasper led the men back into the wood
and down the woodman’s truck road, that led by a long sweep to the
bottom of the cliffs.
The search was for a long time ineffectual; but at length, at the
foot of a rock, they came on the object of their quest—the body of
Martin—among fragments of fallen crag, and over it, clinging to his
brother with one arm, the hand passed through the ring of a battered
lantern, was Walter. The light was extinguished in the lantern and the
light was beaten out of the brothers. Jasper looked into the poor boy’s
face—a scornful smile still lingered on the lips.
Apparently he had discovered his brother’s body and then had tried to
drag it away down the steep slope towards the old mine, in the hopes
of hiding there and finding that Martin was stunned, not dead; but in
the darkness he had stumbled over another precipice or slidden down a
run of shale and been shot with his burden over a rock. Again the sad
procession was formed. The two gates that had been already used were
put in requisition a second time, and the bodies of Martin and Watt
were carried to Morwell and laid in the hall, side by side, and he who
carried a light placed it at their head.
Mr. Coyshe had arrived. For three of those brought in no medical aid
was of avail.
Barbara, always practical and self-possessed, had ordered the cook to
prepare supper for the men. Then the two dead brothers were left where
they had been laid, with the dull lantern burning at their head, and
the hungry searchers went to the kitchen to refresh.
Joseph ensconced himself by the fire, and Jane drew close to him.
‘I reckon,’ said the policeman, ‘I’ll have some hot grog.’ Then he slid
his arm round Jane’s waist and said, ‘In the midst of death we are in
life. Is that really, now, giblet pie? The cold joint I don’t fancy’—he
gave Jane a smack on the cheek. ‘Jane, I’ll have a good help of the
giblet pie, please, and the workmen can finish the cold veal. I like
my grog hot and strong and with three lumps of double-refined sugar.
You’ll take a sip first, Jane, and I’ll drink where your honeyed lips
have a-sipped. When you come to consider it in a proper spirit’—he drew
Jane closer to his side—’there’s a deal of truth in Scriptur’. In the
midst of death we _are_ in life. Why, Jane, we shall enjoy ourselves
this evening as much as if we were at a love-feast. I’ve a sweet tooth,
Jane—a very sweet tooth.’