IT was with confused feelings that Appleby, treading softly as he
crossed the gravelled terrace, slipped into the gloom of a shrubbery.
There was a trace of frost in the air, and the stars shone brightly, but
here and there a thin white mist hung in filmy wisps. He was, however,
conscious of an elation which had a curious bracing effect. Violet Wayne
had trusted him with her confidence, and it was the first time a woman
of her station had cast more than a passing glance on him. Her reposeful
serenity, with its faint suggestion of imperiousness, had impressed him
more than her beauty, and he was sensible of an unbounded respect and
admiration for Tony's fiancee. Tony had also, in his indolent fashion,
and perhaps because the favors he dispensed cost him nothing, been a
good friend to him, which was, however, not astonishing, since Appleby
had fought most of his battles for him and stood between him and the
results of his easy-going carelessness at school. Tony Palliser was one
of the men who need the guidance of a stronger hand, and usually obtain
it.
Appleby had, however, affairs of his own to think of that night, and as
he swung across a misty meadow the half-formed resolution which had been
long in his mind took definite shape, and he decided he would not go
back to the drudgery his soul detested. His father had risen by valor
from the ranks, and the instincts he had stubbornly held in check at
last asserted themselves dominantly. He remembered the sordid poverty,
the struggle to maintain appearances, and the strain of forced attention
to an uncongenial task, and asked himself half contemptuously why he had
borne them so long. He had spent his early years in Spain, where he had
been taught out of charity by an army chaplain, and had reckless brown-
faced muleteers and smugglers and grave artillery officers, the
gatekeepers of the Mediterranean, for his friends, while the fortnight
spent at Northrop had brought back old associations overwhelmingly.
It was, however, not the leisure and wealth and luxury which appealed to
him--and indeed there was little of the latter at Northrop Hall--but the
smell of the brown woods and the ringing of the guns. There were also
the horses, for Appleby had learned to ride in Spain, the wide spaces he
could gallop through with tingling blood, and the hours he had spent
pitting every faculty against the wariness of the grayling in the
stream. He felt he could never go back to the old colorless life again,
and as he looked out into the dusky blueness under the stars and across
the dim landscape which rolled away before him, silent, and wide, and
shadowy, his courage rose. There was room, he felt, beyond the confines
of English cities for men with thews and sinews who were willing to hew
their own way to fortune out in the wind and sun.
He stopped for a few moments on a hillside and looked about him, while
his heart throbbed faster. There was still a light or two in the hall
behind him, but none in the village, and the earth lay asleep wrapped in
fleecy draperies of drifting mist, while the low murmur of the river
came out of the great stillness. He could see its pale blink where it
slid out from the gloom of a wood, and above, across the stubble where
the footpath led, a clump of rigid spires that rose black and solid
against the faintly luminous night. That, he knew, was the fir spinny
where he was to meet the blackmailer, and shaking all thought of his own
affairs from him he went on quietly resolute to do battle for his
friend. Appleby was an impulsive man, quick to decide; but there was
also an obdurate persistency in him, and the decision once made was
usually adhered to. Keeper Davidson was not to find an easy victim that
night.
He stopped outside the spinny with the riding crop held, where it would
not be seen, behind him, and a man who had been listening for his
footsteps came out of it. It was unfortunate for him that he had spent
most of the evening in the hostelry at the village, or he might have
recognized the difference between them and Tony Palliser's reluctant
tread. Appleby had come up with swift, resolute stride, as one who had a
purpose, and meant to accomplish it.
"Davidson?" he said, with a little ring in his voice, which was very
unlike Tony's then.
The man stared at him. "It was Mr. Palliser I expected to see," he said.
"I have come in place of him, and don't think it likely that he will
meet you here again," Appleby said dryly. "In fact, unless we can come
to some arrangement, it is very probable that you will get a month's
notice from Mr. Godfrey Palliser to-morrow."
Davidson laughed unpleasantly. "Mr. Tony tried that game before, and
found it wouldn't pay. Now, you listen to me, though I'm not telling you
anything you don't know. Mr. Tony has to marry money, and Miss Wayne is
a particular young lady. They say he's fond of her, too; but if I
thought it my duty to tell her the kind of man he is there'd be no more
talk of that match."
"The trouble is that Miss Wayne would not believe you," said Appleby.
Now, though Appleby was not aware of this, Davidson had consumed a good
deal of liquid refreshment that evening, or he might not have shown his
hand so plainly. Nor did he know that Appleby had any connection with
the legal profession.
"It would be easy convincing her when she saw his letter. I've got
witnesses--and a certificate," he said.
The sullen anger in the last words would probably have caught Appleby's
attention had he been an older man, and shown him that it was not
avarice alone which prompted Davidson. As it happened, however, he did
not notice it.
"That proves nothing," he said. "We do not dispute the fact it relates
to, but maintain that Mr. Palliser had no connection with it."
"Do you think you could convince anybody who heard my story?"
"We can try. Isn't it clear to you that Mr. Palliser can't go on
subsidizing you forever?"
"He'll go on until there's enough put by to bring his daughter up a
lady."
Again Appleby failed to discern the sincerity of conviction in
Davidson's tone, which would have been evident to him had he possessed
any of the qualities which go to make a successful lawyer.
"I think you are mistaken," he said. "It is quite clear to us that you
will tell your story sooner or later, and because it is Mr. Palliser
will tell it before you in his own way. That cuts the ground from under
your feet, you see. Then he will indict you and your daughter for
conspiracy. It is a somewhat serious thing to blackmail anybody, but you
shall have one more chance. I will pay you twenty pounds for Mr.
Palliser's letter, on condition that you sign a statement confessing
there is no truth in the slander you have brought against him, and leave
his uncle's service within a month from to-morrow."
The man stood silent a moment or two, his gun on his arm; and it was
unfortunate that Appleby could not see the passion in his face. A sullen
hatred of the class he served had smouldered within him since the day a
gunshot accident, for which he had obtained no adequate compensation,
left him with a limp, and now when he saw the game was up it blazed into
unreasoning anger. He may also have been as fond of his daughter as he
was of gold, and deceived by her, for the veins were swollen on his
forehead when he made a step forward.
"Who are you to thrust yourself into what doesn't concern you?" he said.
"I am a lawyer," said Appleby quietly. "Don't come any nearer!"
Davidson dropped the gun into the palm of his left hand with a rattle.
"I might have known it by your tricks," he said. "Well, I'll make you
fight, and we'll see who Miss Wayne will believe to-morrow. Now take
yourself and your money to ---- out of this!"
He raised the gun, and Appleby's calmness deserted him. With a sweep of
the riding crop he struck the barrel aside, and, perhaps without
Davidson intending it, there was a flash and an explosion. Then the
riding crop came down upon a dim white face. The man reeled, recovered,
and lurched forward, while next moment he and his adversary were panting
and straining in a breathless grapple. Davidson was a strong man, but
the blow had dazed him, and the refreshment consumed at the "Black Bull"
had endued him with an unreasoning passion, which was not an advantage
in a conflict with a man who kept his head. Appleby was also wiry, and
tolerably proficient in a certain useful art. Thus when he got his fist
home in a place where it would hurt Davidson slackened his grasp, and
Appleby struck again as he flung him off. He staggered backwards and
went down heavily. Appleby stood still until he rose shakily to his feet
again.
"Go home," he said. "You will be sorry for this tomorrow. It will
probably cost you twenty pounds."
Davidson turned without a word, and Appleby waited a minute or two
watching him cross the meadow towards the narrow, one-railed footbridge
that spanned the river. He was walking unevenly, but Appleby was too
shaken himself to trouble about his condition. Perhaps keeper Davidson
was still dazed by the blows dealt him, or his brain was clouded by
impotent anger, for he passed on, a dim, shadowy figure, into the gloom
of a coppice, and no man saw him alive again. Then Appleby went back to
the hall and let himself in through the conservatory. He found Tony
waiting him in a state of feverish anxiety, told him briefly what had
passed, and, assuring him that Davidson would in all probability listen
to reason next day, went to sleep. He also slept soundly, and awakened
later than usual when Tony's man, who had found knocking useless,
entered the room with some of his garments on his arm.
"Mr. Palliser was asking if you were up, sir, and they're getting
breakfast now," he said, and then glanced at the clothes. "I've been
giving them a brush. There was some mud on the trousers, and I notice a
seam split in the coat. I could ask one of the maids to put a stitch in
it before it gets worse."
"No," said Appleby, a trifle too hastily. "You can put them in my bag. I
am leaving by the night train."
He got into his tweeds, and went down to find the rest of the men who
had finished breakfast lounging about the hall, while Tony and his uncle
stood on the terrace outside. A dog-cart was also waiting, and another
vehicle coming up the avenue. Appleby commenced his breakfast,
wondering--because he surmised that Miss Wayne would be anxious to hear
what he had accomplished--whether any of the ladies would come down
before the shooters started. By and by he saw a light dress flit across
the gallery at the head of the stairway, and immediately got up with the
ostensible purpose of going back to his room. He, however, stopped in
the corridor which led out of the gallery, where, as he had expected,
Violet Wayne was waiting him. She usually appeared to as much advantage
in the morning as she did under the glitter of the lamps at night, but
Appleby fancied that she had not slept very well. There was, so far as
he could see, nobody else about.
"You have something to tell me?" she said quietly.
"No," said Appleby. "I fancied I should have had, but instead I have ten
pounds to give you back."
"Then some plan you had has failed?"
"Not exactly! I am going to try a bolder course."
The girl looked at him steadily. "I have trusted you, Mr. Appleby. Would
it be too much if I asked you to take me into your confidence?"
Appleby shook his head. "I am afraid I can't very well do that just
now," he said. "In the meanwhile you can be kind to Tony. He has been
foolish--and a trifle weak--but he has done nothing that you could not
readily forgive him."
There was a faint sparkle in Violet Wayne's eyes, and a suspicion of
color in her cheek. "How do you know that my code is as lenient as your
own--and are you wise in asking me to take so much on trust?"
Appleby smiled gravely. "I think I grasp your meaning, but if you try to
follow up any clue I may have given you it can only lead you into a
pitfall. Please wait, and I think I can engage that Tony will tell you
the whole story. It would come best from himself, but he must
substantiate it, and that is what I expect I can enable him to do."
The color grew a trifle plainer in Violet Wayne's cheek, and Appleby,
who guessed her thoughts, shook his head.
"There is a question you are too proud to ask, but I will venture to
answer it," he said. "I have known Tony a long while, and he has never
wavered in his allegiance to you. To doubt that would be an injustice
you have too much sense to do yourself. Now you have the simple truth,
and if it is a trangression to tell it you, you must remember that I
have had no training in conventional niceties."
The girl looked at him with a curious little glow in her eyes. "Tony has
the gift of making good friends," she said. "One could have faith in
you."
She turned and left him, while Appleby, who went down, found Godfrey
Palliser talking to the under-keeper on the terrace. He was a spare,
gray-haired gentleman, formal and fastidious, and betrayed his
impatience only by a faint incisiveness of speech.
"Davidson has kept us waiting half an hour, it has never happened
before, and it shall not occur again," he said. "You have been round to
the lodge, Evans?"
"Yes, sir," said the man. "They had not seen him since last night. He
told them he was going to the fir spinny. Some of the Darsley men had
been laying snares for hares."
"It shall be looked into, but we will make a start now as you have sent
the beaters on," said Palliser, who turned to his guests. "I am sorry we
have kept you waiting, gentlemen."
They started, and, as it happened, Tony and Appleby sat at the back of
the dog-cart which followed the larger vehicle, while the rattle of
gravel beneath the wheels rendered their conversation inaudible to those
who sat in front.
"You heard what Evans said?" asked Tony anxiously.
"Of course!" said Appleby. "I am almost afraid Davidson has made a bolt.
If he hadn't he would have come for the twenty pounds."
"I hope so," and Tony drew in a deep breath. "It would be a merciful
relief to feel I had seen the last of him. Why in the name of all that's
wonderful are you afraid he has gone?"
"Because I wanted a statement and your letter from him," said Appleby.
"You see, you will have to tell Miss Wayne that story sooner or later."
"Tell her!" said Tony blankly. "I'll be shot if I do!"
"Then she'll find out, and it will be considerably the worse for you."
Now, Tony Palliser was a good-natured man, and had as yet never done
anything actually dishonorable, but whenever it was possible he avoided
a difficulty, which, because difficulties must now and then be grappled
with, not infrequently involved him in a worse one. He lived for the
present only, and was thereby sowing a crop of trouble which he would
surely have to reap in the future.
"I don't think it's likely, and there is no reason why I should make
unpleasantness--it wouldn't be kind," he said.
"You don't know Violet yet. She is almost unmercifully particular, and
now and then makes one feel very small and mean. It would hurt her
horribly to know I'd been mixed up in the affair at all--and, the fact
is, I don't feel equal to telling her anything of that kind. Besides, I
did kiss the girl, you see--and I don't think Violet would understand
what prompted me."
"Still," said Appleby dryly, "that story will have to be told."
Just then one of the other men touched his shoulder and asked a
question, while there are topics which when once left off are difficult
to commence again; but Appleby fancied that Tony had made one incorrect
statement. He felt, strange as it seemed, that he knew Violet Wayne
better than her prospective husband did.
They drove on, and nothing of moment happened during the shooting, or at
the lunch they were invited to at one of Palliser's neighbor's houses,
though Tony, who seemed to have recovered his spirits, shot unusually
well. He also bantered the beaters and keepers, and, though he was as
generous as such men usually are, the largesses he distributed somewhat
astonished the recipients. It was a bright day of early winter, with
clear sunlight that took the edge off the faint frost; and most men with
healthy tastes would have found the hours spent in the brown woods,
where the beech leaves still hung in festoons about the lower boughs,
invigorating, even if they had not just had a weight lifted off their
minds. Tony made the most of them, and it was, perhaps, as well he did,
for it was long before he passed another day as free from care again.
Still, the troubles he could not see were trooping about him, and it was
doubtless as part of the scheme that was to test him, and bring about
his retribution when he was found wanting, that a nut on the bush of the
dog-cart's wheel slackened during the homeward journey. As a result,
four men and several guns were flung without serious injury into the
road; and when the horse had been taken to a neighboring farm, Tony and
three of his friends found themselves under the necessity of walking
home. He took them the shortest way by lane and stile, and they came to
the footbridge across the river as dusk was closing down. Both he and
Appleby long remembered that evening.
The sun had sunk behind a bank of smoky cloud, and a cold wind wailed
dolefully through the larches in the wood, under which the black water
came sliding down. There was no mist in the meadows now, and straggling
hedgerow and coppice rose shadowy and dim against the failing light. The
river, however, still shone faintly as it swirled round the pool beneath
the bridge, and the men stopped a moment and leaned upon the single
rail. It was seldom any one but a keeper took that path to the hall.
Appleby noticed how the dead leaves came sailing down, and little
clusters of them swung round and round in the eddies. It was a trifle,
but it fixed his attention, and often afterwards he could see them drift
and swing at the mercy of the current. Then it seemed to him that their
aimless wandering had been curiously portentous. He, however, looked up
when Tony struck a match to light a cigarette with, and saw his face by
the pale flame of it. Tony shook off his troubles readily, and there was
a twinkle in his eyes, while his laugh rang lightly at a jest one of the
others made. Then a man standing further along the bridge stretched out
his hand.
"There's a stone among the boulders at the tail of the pool that seems
different from the rest. One could almost fancy it was somebody's head,"
he said.
"Good Lord!" said one of the others. "One could do more than fancy it.
Can't you see his shoulder just above the water?"
Tony dropped his cigarette, and stared at Appleby with a curious horror
in his face, but the latter gripped his arm.
"Keep your head!" he said sternly.
Nobody else heard him, for the rest were hastening across the bridge,
and in a moment or two one of them sprang down among the boulders at the
edge of the pool. He called out sharply as the others followed him, and
standing very still when they came up with him, they saw a white face
that moved as the stream swirled about it looking up at them. A wet
shoulder also bumped softly against a stone.
"I think it's your keeper, Palliser," said one of them a trifle
hoarsely. "It would have been more pleasant if somebody else had found
him, but we can't leave him in the water."
Tony seemed to shiver, and glanced at Appleby. "Yes," he said, and his
voice was very strained, "it's Davidson."
It was Appleby who, as one of the rest remembered, stooped down and
grasped the dead man's arm. "Give me a lift," he said.
The men had evidently little liking for the task, but they accomplished
it, and stood still again when the rigid object lay with the water
draining from it at their feet.
"He must have fallen over the bridge and struck his head. There are
stones yonder, and you can see the bruise," said one. "Still, it might
not have happened that way, and it seems to me we had better push on to
the hall, and send somebody for the police."
They went on in haste, and twenty minutes later Tony stood, a little
white in face, in Appleby's room.
"I don't ask you whether it was the truth you told me last night," he
said.
"No," said Appleby, who was flinging articles of clothing into his bag.
"I could not have taken that from you, but I told you what happened
precisely. Perhaps I should have seen him across the bridge, but I never
thought of it. Still, there will be an inquest, and when they find out a
little more it will be difficult to convince an average jury that one of
us didn't kill him."
"It could be managed," said Tony, a trifle hoarsely.
"Yes," said Appleby, "I think it could, though I couldn't be certain;
but, if there was a defendant, not before everything came out. That
would spoil my two best friends' lives. You see, he did not sign the
statement, and folks are very quick to believe the kind of story that
would certainly get about."
"That would ruin me," said Tony. "Godfrey Palliser would turn me out for
bringing it on him. It's a trifle horrible. You have got to help me!"
"Yes," said Appleby, closing the bag with a snap. "I fancy it would.
Still, there will be no defendant, because I'm going out of the country.
If you sent to the bank you might lend me fifty pounds, and tell
somebody to get the dog-cart out. There's a train I can get through to
Liverpool starts in an hour. If I am ever able, I'll send you back the
money."
Palliser stared at him. "But they may bring it in homicide against you!
I can't let you do this for me."
Appleby smiled curiously. "I had decided to go, anyway, and I haven't a
friend who would worry about me except yourself, and perhaps Miss Wayne.
It would be very different with you. Now, don't waste a minute, Tony. I
have made my mind up."
Tony Palliser had usually yielded to the domination of his friend, and
was not in a condition to think very concisely then, so he did what he
was bidden, and ten minutes later grasped Appleby's hand as the dog-cart
came up to the door. He did not remember if he said anything, but
Appleby, perhaps for the groom's benefit, laughed as he drew the rug
about him.
"You will remember to send on the cigars you promised me," he said.
Then the groom flicked the horse, the dog-cart rattled away, and Tony
Palliser was left standing, flushed in face, on the steps, with his
heart beating painfully.