that people might be saying, we gave Fred our best wishes for his
escape--in spite of the shot--and for effectually dodging old Jones and
the rest of the Philistines. Tod made no secret of his sentiments.
"It's a thing that might have happened to you or to me, you see, Johnny,
were we turned out of doors and driven to bay as Fred has been."
By the afternoon, great staring hand-bills were posted about, written
in enormous text-hand, offering a reward of twenty pounds for the
apprehension of Frederick Westerbrook. When old Westerbrook was
incensed, he went in for the whole thing, and no mistake.
What with the bustle the place was in, and the excitement of the
chase--for all the hedges and ditches, the barns and the suspected
dwellings were being looked up by old Jones and a zealous crowd, anxious
for the reward--it was not until after dinner in the evening that I got
away to practice. Going along, I met Duffham, and asked after Gisby.
"I am on my way to Shepherd's now," he answered. "I suppose he is still
alive, as they have not sent me word to the contrary."
"Is he sure to die, Mr. Duffham?"
"I fear so, Johnny. I don't see much chance of saving him."
"What a dreadful thing for Fred Westerbrook! They may bring it in wilful
murder."
"That they will be sure to do. Good-evening, lad; I have no time to
linger with you."
Bumford was probably looking out for the fugitive (and the reward) on
his own score, as he was not to be seen; but I found the key inside the
knife-box on the kitchen dresser, his store-place for it, opened the
door, and went into the church.
On one side the church-door, as you entered, was an enclosed place
underneath the belfry, that did for the vestry and for Clerk Bumford's
den. He kept his store of candles in it, his grave-digging tools (for he
was sexton as well as clerk), his Sunday black gown, and other choice
articles. On the other side of the door, not enclosed, was the nook that
contained the organ. I sat down at once. But I had come too late; for in
half-an-hour's time the notes of the music and the keys were alike dim.
Just then Bumford entered.
"Oh, you be here, be you!" said he, treating me, as he did the rest of
the world, with slight ceremony. "I thought I heered the organ a-going,
so I come on to see."
"You were not indoors, Bumford, when I called for the key."
"I were only in the field at the back, a-getting up some dandelion
roots," returned old Bumford, in his usual resentful tone. "There ain't
no obligation in me to be shut in at home everlasting."
"Who said there was?"
"Ain't it a'most too dark for you?"
"Yes, I shall have to borrow one of your candles."
Bumford grunted at this. The candles were not strictly his; they were
paid for by the parish; but he set great store by them, and would have
denied me one if he could. Not seeing his way clear to doing this, he
turned away, muttering to himself. I took my fingers off the keys--for I
had been playing while I talked to him--and followed. Bumford went out
of the church, shutting the door with a bang, and I proceeded to search
for the candlestick.
That was soon found: it always stood on the shelf; but it had no candle
in it, and I opened the candle-box to take one out. All the light that
came in was from the open slits in the belfry above. The next thing was
to find the matches.
Groping about quietly with my hands on the shelf, for fear of knocking
down some article or another, and wondering where on earth the match-box
had gone to, I was interrupted by a groan. A dismal groan, coming from
the middle of the church.
It nearly made me start out of my skin. My shirt-sleeves went damp. Down
with us, the ghosts of the buried dead are popularly supposed to haunt
the churches at night.
"It must have been the pulpit creaking," said I, gravely to myself. "Oh,
here's the match----"
An awful groan! Another! Three groans altogether! I stood as still as
death; calling up the recollection that God was with me inside the
church as well as out of it. Frightened I was, and it is of no use to
deny it.
"I wonder what the devil is to be the ending of this!"
The unorthodox words burst upon my ears, bringing a reassurance, for
dead people don't talk, let alone their natural objection (as one must
suppose) to mention the arch-enemy. The tones were free and distinct;
and--I knew them for Fred Westerbrook's.
"Fred, is that you?" I asked in a half-whisper, as I went forward.
No sound; no answer.
"Fred! it's only I."
Not a word or a breath. I struck a match, and lighted a candle.
"You need not be afraid, Fred. Come along. I'll do anything I can for
you. Don't you know me?--Johnny Ludlow."
"For the love of Heaven, put that light out, Johnny!" he said, feeling
it perhaps useless to hold out, or else deciding to trust me, as he came
down the aisle in a stooping position, so that the pews might screen him
from the windows. And I put it out.
"I thought you had gone out of the church with old Bumford," said he. "I
heard you both come away from the organ, and then the door was slammed,
leaving the church to silence."
"I was searching after the candle and matches. When did you come here,
Fred? How did you get in?"
"I got in last night. Is there much of a row, Johnny?"
"Pretty well. How came you to do it?"
"To do what?"
"Shoot Gisby."
"It was not I that shot him."
"Not you!"
"Certainly not."
"But--people are saying it was you. You were with the poachers."
"I was with the poachers; and one of them, like the confounded idiot
that he was, pointed his gun and fired it. I recognized the cry for
Gisby's, and knew that the charge must have struck him. I never had a
gun in my hand at all, Johnny."
Well, I felt thankful for that. We sat down on the bench, and Fred told
his tale.
After supper the previous night, he strolled out and met some fellow
he knew, who lived two or three miles away. (A black sheep in public
estimation, like himself.) It was a beautiful night. Fred chose to see
him home, and stayed there, drinking a glass or two, till he knew not
what hour. Coming back across the fields, he fell in with the poachers.
Instead of denouncing them, he told them half in joke, half in earnest,
that he might be joining their band himself before the winter was over.
Close upon that, they fell in with the watchers, Gisby and the rest.
Fred knew he was recognized, for Gisby called out his name; and that,
Fred did not like: it made things look black against him. Gisby attacked
them; a scuffle ensued, and one of the poachers used his gun. Then the
poachers turned to run, Fred with them; a shot was fired after them and
hit one of their body--but not Fred, as Rimmer had supposed. The man
tripped as the shot struck him, and caused Fred to trip and fall; but
both were up, and off, the next moment. Where the rest escaped to, Fred
did not know; chance led him past the church: on the spur of the moment
he entered it for refuge, and had been there ever since.
"And it is a great and good thing you did enter it, Fred," I said
eagerly. "Gisby swears it was you who shot him, and he is dying; and
Shepherd swears it too."
"Gisby dying?"
"He is. I met Duffham as I came here; he told me there was little,
if any, chance of his life; he had been expecting news of his death
all the afternoon. They have posted handbills up, offering a reward of
twenty pounds for your apprehension, Fred; and--and I am afraid, and
so is Duffham, that they will try you for wilful murder. The whole
neighbourhood is being searched for you for miles round."
"Pleasant!" said Fred, after a brief silence. "I had meant to go out
to-night and endeavour to ascertain how the land lay. Of course I knew
that what could be put upon my back would be put; and there's no denying
that I was with the poachers. But I did not think matters would be as
bad as this. Hang it all!"
"But, Fred, how did you get in here?"
"Well," said he, "we hear talk of providential occurrences: there's
nothing Mr. Holland is fonder of telling us about in his sermons than
the guiding finger of God. If the means that enabled me to take refuge
here were not providential, Johnny, I must say they looked like it. When
I met you yesterday afternoon, you must remember my chancing to say
that the little Hollands were playing at 'Salt Fish' in the study, while
I sat there, talking to Edna?"
Of course I remembered it.
"Directly after I left you, Johnny," resumed Fred Westerbrook, "I put my
hand in my coat-tail pocket for my handkerchief, and found a large key
there. It was the key of the church, that the children had been hiding
at their play; and I understood in a moment that Charley, whose turn it
was to hide last, had made a hiding-place of my pocket. The parson keeps
one key, you know, and Bumford the other----"
"But, Fred," I interrupted, the question striking me, "how came the
young ones to let you come away with it?"
"Because, lad, their attention got diverted to something else. Ann
brought in the tea-things, with a huge plate of bread-and-treacle: they
screamed out in delight, and scuffled to get seats round the table.
Well, I let the key lie in my pocket," went on Fred, "intending to take
it back to-day. In the night, when flying from pursuit, not knowing who
or how many might be after me, I felt this heavy key strike against me
continually; and, in nearing the church, the thought flashed over me
like an inspiration: What if I open it and hide there? Just as young
Charley had hidden the key in my pocket, so I hid myself, by its means,
in the church."
Taking a minute to think over what he said, it did seem strange. One of
those curious things one can hardly account for; the means for his
preservation were so simply natural and yet almost marvellous. Perhaps
the church was the only building where he could have found secure
refuge. Private dwellings would refuse to shelter him, and other places
were sure to be searched.
"You are safe here, Fred. No one would ever think of seeking you here."
"Safe, yes; but for how long? I can't live without food for ever,
Johnny. As it is, I have eaten none since last night."
My goodness! A shock of remorse came over me. When I was at old
Bumford's knife-box, a loaf of bread stood on the dresser. If I had
only secured it!
"We must manage to bring you something, Fred. You cannot stir from
here."
Fred had taken the key out, having returned it to his pocket in the
night when he locked himself in. He sat looking at it as he balanced it
on his finger.
"Yes, you have served me in good need," he said to the key. "I shall
turn out for a stroll during some quiet hour of the night, Johnny. To
keep my restless legs curbed indoors for a whole day and night would be
quite beyond their philosophy."
"Well, take care of yourself, if you do. There's not a soul in the
place but is wild for the reward; and I dare say they will look for you
by night more than by day. How about getting you in something to eat?"
"_I_ don't know," he answered. "It would never do for you to be seen
coming in here at night."
I knew that. Old Bumford would be down on me if no one else was. I sat
turning over possibilities in my mind.
"I will come in betimes to-morrow morning under the plea of practising,
Fred, and bring what I can. You must do battle with your hunger until
then."
"I suppose I must, Johnny. Mind you lock the door when you come in, or
old Bumford might pounce upon us. When I heard you unlock it on coming
in this evening, I can tell you I shivered in my shoes. Fate is very
hard," he added, after a pause.
"Fate is?"
"Why, yes. I have been a bit wild lately, perhaps, savage too, but I
declare before Heaven that I have committed no crime, and did not mean
to commit any. And now, to have this serious thing fastened upon my
back! The world will say I have gone straight over to Satan."
I did not see how he would get it off his back either. Wishing him
good-night and a good heart, I turned to go.
"Wait a moment, Johnny. Let me go back to my hiding-place first."
He went swiftly up the aisle, lighter now than it had been, for the
moonlight was streaming in at the windows. Locking the church safely, I
crossed the graveyard to old Bumford's. He was seated at his round table
at supper: bread-and-cheese, and beer.
"Oh, Mr. Bumford, as I have to come into the church very early in the
morning, or I shall never get my music up for Sunday, I will take the
key home with me. Good-night."
He shouted out fifteen denials: How dared I think of taking the key out
of his custody! But I was conveniently deaf, rushed off, and left him
shouting.
"What a long practice you have been taking, Johnny!" cried Mrs.
Todhetley. "And how hot you look. You must have run very fast."
The Squire turned round from his arm-chair. "You've been joining in the
hunt after that scamp, Mr. Johnny;--you've not been in the church, sir,
all this time. I hear there's a fine pack out, scouring the hedges and
ditches."
"I got a candle from old Bumford's den," said I, evasively. And
presently I contrived to whisper unseen to Tod--who sat reading--to come
outside. Standing against the wall of the pigeon-house, I told him all.
For once in his life Tod was astonished.
"What a stunning thing!" he exclaimed. "Good luck, Fred! we'll help you.
I knew he was innocent, Johnny. Food? Yes, of course; we must get it for
him. Molly, you say? Molly be shot!"
"Well, you know what Molly is, Tod. Let half a grain of suspicion arise,
and it might betray him. If she saw us rifling her larder, she would go
straight to the Squire; and what excuse should we have?"
"Look here, Johnny. I'll go out fishing to-morrow, you understand, and
order her to make a lot of meat pasties."
"But he must have something to eat to-morrow morning, Tod: he might die
of hunger, else, before night."
Tod nodded. He had little more diplomacy than the Squire, and would have
liked to perch himself upon the highest pillar in the parish there and
then, and proclaim Fred Westerbrook's innocence.
We stole round to the kitchen. Supper was over, but the servants were
still at the table; no chance of getting to the larder then. Molly was
in one of her tempers, apparently blowing up Thomas. There might be more
chance in the morning.
* * * * *
Morning light. Tod went downstairs with the dawn, and I followed him.
Not a servant was yet astir. He laid hold of a great tray, lodged it on
the larder-floor, and began putting some things upon it--a cold leg of
mutton and a big round loaf.
"I can't take in all _that_, Tod. It is daylight, you know, and eyes may
be about: old Bumford's are sure to be. I can only take in what can be
concealed in my pockets."
"Oh, bother, Johnny! You'd half famish him."
"Better half famish him than betray him. Some slices of bread and meat
will be best--thick sandwiches, you know."
We soon cut into the mutton and the bread. Wrapping them in paper, I
stowed the thick slices away in my pockets, leaving the rest of the loaf
and meat on the shelves again.
"How I wish I could smuggle him in a bottle of beer!"
"And so you can, Johnny. Swear to old Bumford it is for your own
drinking."
"He would know better."
"Wrap a sheet of music round the bottle, then. He could make nothing of
that."
Hunting out a bottle, we went down to the cellar. Tod stooped to fill it
from the tap. I stood watching the process.
"I've caught you, Master Johnny, have I! What be you about there,
letting the ale run, I'd like to know?"
The words were Molly's. She had come down and found us out: suspecting
something, I suppose, from seeing the cellar-door open. Tod rose up.
"I am drawing some beer to take out with me. Is it any business of
yours? When it is, you may interfere."
I was nobody in the household--never turning upon them. She'd have gone
on at me for an hour, and probably walked off with the beer. Tod was
altogether different. He held his own authority, even with Molly. She
went up the cellar-stairs, grumbling to herself.
"I want a cork for this bottle," said bold Tod, following her. And
Molly, opening some receptacle of hers with a jerk, perforce found him
one.
"Oh, and I shall want some meat pasties made to-day, for I think of
going fishing," went on Tod. "Let them be ready by lunch-time. I have
cut myself some slices of meat to go on with--if you chance to miss any
mutton."
Molly, never answering, left her kitchen-grate, where she was beginning
to crack up the huge flat piece of coal that the fire had been raked
with the previous night, and stalked into the larder to see what
depredations had been done. We tied up the bottle in paper on the
parlour-table, and then wrapped it in a sheet of loose music. It looked
a pretty thick roll; but nobody would be likely to remark that.
"I have a great mind to go with you and see him, Johnny," said Tod, as
we went together down the garden-path.
"Oh, don't, Tod!" I cried. "For goodness' sake, don't. You know you
never do go in with me, and it might cause old Bumford to wonder."
"Then, I'll leave it till after dark to-night, Johnny. Go in then, I
shall."
Bumford was astir, but not down yet. I heard him coughing, through his
open casement; for I went with a purpose round the path by his house,
and called out to him. He looked out in his shirt-sleeves and a cotton
night-cap.
"You see how early I am this morning. I'll bring you the key when I
leave."
"Eugh!" growled Bumford. "No rights to ha' took it."
Locking the church-door securely after me, I went down the aisle,
calling softly to Fred. He came forward from a dark, high-walled pew
behind a pillar, where he had slept. You should have seen him devour the
bread and meat, if you'd like to know what hunger means, and drink the
bottle of beer. I sat down to practise. Had old Bumford not heard the
sound of the organ, he might have come thundering at the door to know
what I was about, and what the silence meant. Fred came with me, and we
talked whilst I played. About the first question he asked was whether
Gisby was dead; but I could not tell him. He said he had gone out
cautiously in the night and walked about the churchyard for an hour,
thinking over what he could do. "And I really had an unpleasant
adventure, Johnny," he added.
"What was it?"
"I was pacing the path under the hedge towards Bumford's, when all at
once there arose the sound of voices and steps on the other side of
it--fellows on the look-out for me, I suppose."
I held my breath. "What did you do?"
"Crouched down as well as I could--fortunately the hedge is high--and
came softly and swiftly over the grass and the graves to the porch. I
only slipped inside just in time, Johnny: before I could close the door,
the men were in the churchyard. The key has a trick of creaking harshly
when turned in the lock, you know; and I declare I thought they must
have heard it then, for it made a fearful noise, and the night was very
still!"
"And they did not hear it?"
"I suppose not. But it was some minutes, I can tell you, before my
pulses calmed down to their ordinary rate of beating."
He went on to say that the only plan he could think of was to endeavour
to get away from the neighbourhood, and go out of the country. To stand
his trial was not to be thought of. His word, that he had not been the
guilty man, had never even had a gun in his hand that night, would go
for nothing, against Gisby's word and Shepherd's. Whatever came of it,
he would have to be out of the church before Sunday. The great question
was: how could he get away unseen? I told him Tod was coming with me at
night, and we would consult together. Locking up the church again, and
the prisoner in it, I gladdened Bumford's heart by handing over the key,
and ran home to breakfast.
Life yet lingered in Gisby; but the doctors thought he could not live
through the day. The injury he had received was chiefly internal,
somewhere in the region of the lungs. Fresh parties went out with fresh
ardour to scour the country after Fred Westerbrook; and so the day
passed. Chancing to meet Shepherd late in the afternoon, he told me
Gisby still lived.
At sundown I went in to practise again, and took a big mould-candle with
me, showing it to Bumford, that he might not be uneasy on the score
of his stock in the vestry. As soon as dusk came on, and before the
tell-tale moon was much up, I left the organ, opened the church-door,
and stood at it, according to the plan concerted with Tod. He came
swiftly up with his basket of provisions which he had got together by
degrees during the day; and then we locked the door again. After Fred
had regaled himself, we consulted together. Fred was to steal out of
the church about one o'clock on Sunday morning, and make off across
the country. But to do this with safety it was necessary he should be
disguised. By that time the ardour of the night-searching might have
somewhat passed; and the hour, one o'clock in the morning, was as silent
and lonely a one as could be expected. It was most essential that he
should not be recognized by any person who might chance to meet him.
"But you must manage one thing for me," said Fred, after this was
settled. "I will not go away without seeing Edna. She can come in here
with you to-morrow night."
We both objected. "It will be very hazardous, Fred. Old Bumford would be
sure to see her: his eyes are everywhere."
"Tell him you want her to sing over the chants with you, Johnny. Tell
him anything. But go away for an indefinite period, without first seeing
her and convincing her that it is not guilt that sends me, I will not."
So there was no more to be said.
Getting provisions together seemed to have been easy compared with what
we should have to get up now--a disguise. A smock-frock, say, and the
other items of a day-labourer's apparel. But it was more easy to decide
than to procure them.
"Mack leaves belongings of his in the barn occasionally," said Tod to
me, as we walked home together. "We'll look to-morrow night."
It was our best hope. Failing that, there would be no possibility of
getting a smock-frock anywhere; and Fred would have to escape in his
coat turned inside out, or something of that sort. His own trousers,
braced up high, and plastered with mud at the feet, would do very well,
and his own wideawake hat, pulled low down on his face. There would be
no more trouble about provisions, for what Tod had taken in would be
enough.
* * * * *
Saturday. And Tod and I with our work before us. Gisby was sinking fast.
Late in the afternoon I went to the Parsonage, wondering how I should
get to see Edna Blake alone. But Fortune favoured me--as it seemed
to have favoured us throughout. The children were all at play in
the nearest field. Edna was in what they called the schoolroom in
her lilac-print dress, looking over socks and stockings, about a
wheelbarrow-full. I saw her through the window, and went straight in.
Her large dark eyes looked as sad and big as the hole she was darning;
and her voice had a hopeless ring in it.
"Oh, Johnny, how you startled me! Nay, don't apologize. It is my fault
for being so nervous and foolish. I can't think what has ailed me the
last few days: I seem to start at shadows. Have--have you come to tell
me anything?"
By the shrinking voice and manner, I knew what she feared--that Fred
Westerbrook was taken. Looking round the room, I asked whether what we
said could be heard.
"There's no one to hear," she answered. "Poor Mrs. Holland is in bed.
Mr. Holland is out; and Anne is shut up, cleaning the kitchen."
"Well, then," I said, dropping my voice, "I have brought you a message
from Fred Westerbrook."
Down went the socks in a heap. "Oh, Johnny!"
"Hush! No: he is not taken; he is in safe hiding. What's more, Edna, he
is no more guilty than I am. He met the poachers accidentally that night
just before the affray, and he never had a gun in his hands at all."
A prolonged, sobbing sigh, as if she were going to faint, and then a
glad light in her eyes. She took up her work again. I went over to the
seat next her, and told her all. She was darning all the while. With
such a heap of mending the fingers must not be idle.
"To America!" she repeated, in answer to what I said. "What is he going
to do for money to carry him there?"
"He talks of working his passage over. He has enough money about him, he
says, to take him to the coast. Unfortunately, neither Tod nor I can
help him in that respect. We have brought empty pockets from school, and
shall have no money before the time of going back again. Will you go in
and see him, Edna?"
"Yes," she said, after a minute's consideration. "And I will bring a
roll of music in my hand, as you suggest, Johnny, for the satisfaction
of Clerk Bumford's curiosity. I will be at the stile as near eight
o'clock as I can, if you will come out there to meet me: but it is
Saturday night, you know, when there's always a great deal to do."