WHEREIN THE RED BLOOD FLOWS
They fought like a couple of young bulls. Frank intended to demolish his
rival at the outset. He was a year older and slightly heavier, but
Martin was more active, more sure-footed, sharper of vision. Above all,
he had laid to heart the three-pennyworth of tuition obtained in the
boxing booth a few hours earlier.
He had noted then that a boxer dodged as many blows with his head as he
warded with his arms. He grasped the necessity to keep moving, and thus
disconcert an adversary's sudden rush. Again, he had seen the excellence
of a forward spring without changing the relative positions of the feet.
Assuming you were sparring with the left hand and foot advanced, a quick
jump of eighteen inches enabled you to get the right home with all your
force. You must keep the head well back and the eye fixed unflinchingly
on your opponent's. Above all, meet offense with offense. Hit hard and
quickly and as often as might be.
These were sound principles, and he proceeded to put them into
execution, to the growing distress and singular annoyance of Master
Beckett-Smythe.
Ernest acted as referee--in the language of the village, he "saw fair
play"--but was wise enough to call "time" early in the first round, when
his brother drew off after a fierce set-to. The forcing tactics had
failed, but honors were divided. The taller boy's reach had told in his
favor, while Martin's newly acquired science redressed the balance.
Martin's lip was cut and there was a lump on his left cheek, but Frank
felt an eye closing and had received a staggerer in the ribs. He was
aware of an uneasy feeling that if Martin survived the next round he
(Frank) would be beaten, so there was nothing for it but to summon all
his reserves and deliver a Napoleonic attack. The enemy must be crushed
by sheer force.
He was a plucky lad and was stung to frenzy by seeing Angele offer
Martin the use of a lace handkerchief for the bleeding lip, a delicate
tenderness quietly repulsed.
So, when the rush came, Martin had to fight desperately to avoid
annihilation. He was compelled to give way, and backed toward the hedge.
Behind lay an unseen stackpole. At the instant when Beckett-Smythe
lowered his head and endeavored to butt Martin violently in the stomach,
the latter felt the obstruction with his heel. Had he lost his nerve
then or flickered an eyelid, he would have taken a nasty fall and a
severe shaking. As it was, he met the charge more than halfway, and
delivered the same swinging upper stroke which had nearly proved fatal
to his gamekeeper friend.
It was wholly disastrous to Beckett-Smythe. It caught him fairly on the
nose, and, as the blow was in accord with the correct theory of dynamics
as applied to forces in motion, it knocked him silly. His head flew up,
his knees bent, and he dropped to the ground with a horrible feeling
that the sky had fallen and that stars were sparkling among the rough
paving-stones.
"That's a finisher. He's whopped!" exulted Jim Bates.
"No, he's not. It was a chance blow," cried Ernest, who was strongly
inclined to challenge the victor on his own account. "Get up, Frank.
Have another go at him!"
But Frank, who could neither see nor hear distinctly, was too groggy to
rise, and the village girls drew together in an alarmed group. Such
violent treatment of the squire's son savored of sacrilege. They were
sure that Martin would receive some condign punishment by the law for
pummeling a superior being so unmercifully.
Angele, somewhat frightened herself, tried to console her discomfited
champion.
"I'm so sorry," she said. "It was all my fault."
"Oh, go away!" he protested. "Ernest, where's there a pump?"
Assisted by his brother, he struggled to his feet. His nose was bleeding
freely and his face was ghastly in the moonlight. But he was a spirited
youngster. He held out a hand to Martin.
"I've had enough just now," he said, with an attempt at a smile. "Some
other day, when my eye is all right, I'd like to----"
A woman's scream of terror, a man's cry of agony, startled the silent
night and nearly scared the children out of their wits.
Someone came running up the garden path. It was Kitty Thwaites. She
swayed unsteadily as she ran; her arms were lifted in frantic
supplication.
"Oh, Betsy, Betsy, you've killed him!" she wailed. "Murder! Murder!
Come, someone! For God's sake, come!"
She stumbled and fell, shrieking frenziedly for help. Another woman--a
woman whose extended right hand clutched a long, thin knife such as is
used to carve game--appeared from the gloom of the orchard. Her wan face
was raised to the sky, and a baleful light shone in her eyes.
"Ay, I'll swing for him," she cried in a voice shrill with hysteria.
"May the Lord deal wi' him as he dealt wi' me! And my own sister, too!
Out on ye, ye strumpet! 'Twould sarve ye right if I stuck ye wi' t' same
knife."
With a clatter of ironshod boots, most of the frightened children
stampeded out of the stable yard. Martin, to whom Angele clung in
speechless fear, and the two Beckett-Smythes alone were left.
The din of steam organ and drums, the ceaseless turmoil of the fair, the
constant fusillade at the shooting gallery, and the bawling of men in
charge of the various sideshows, had kept the women's shrieks from other
ears thus far. But Kitty Thwaites, though almost shocked out of her
senses, gained strength from the imminence of peril. Springing up from
the path just in time to avoid the vengeful oncoming of her sister, she
staggered toward the hotel and created instant alarm by her cries of
"Murder! Help! George Pickering has been stabbed!"
A crowd of men poured out from bar and smoking-room. One, who took
thought, rushed through the front door and snatched a naphtha lamp from
a stall. Meanwhile, the three boys and the girl on the other side of
the hedge, seeing and hearing everything, but unseen and unheard
themselves, took counsel in some sort.
"I say," Ernest Beckett-Smythe urged his brother, "let's get out of
this. Father will thrash us to death if we're mixed up in this
business."
The advice was good. Frank forgot his dizziness for the moment, and the
two raced to secure their bicycles from a stall-holder's care. They rode
away to the Hall unnoticed.
Martin remained curiously quiet. All the excitement had left him. If
Elmsdale were rent by an earthquake just then, he would have watched the
toppling houses with equanimity.
"I suppose you don't wish to stop here now?" he said to Angele.
The girl was sobbing bitterly. Her small body shook as though each gulp
were a racking cough. She could not answer. He placed his arm around her
and led her to the gate. While they were crossing the yard the people
from the hotel crowded into the garden. The man with the lamp had
reached the back of the house across the bowling green, and a stalwart
farmer had caught Betsy Thwaites by the wrist. The blood-stained knife
fell from her fingers. She moaned helplessly in disjointed phrases.
"It's all overed now. God help me! Why was I born?"
Already a crowd was surging into the hotel through the front door.
Martin guided his trembling companion to the right; in a few strides
they were clear of the fair, only to run into Mrs. Saumarez's German
chauffeur.
He was not in uniform; in a well-fitting blue serge suit and straw hat,
he looked more like a young officer in mufti than a mechanic. He was the
first to recognize Angele, and was so frankly astonished that he bowed
to her without lifting his hat.
"_You_, mees?" he cried, seemingly at a loss for other words.
Angele recovered her wits at once. She said something which Martin could
not understand, though he was sure it was not in French, as the girl's
frequent use of that language was familiarizing his ears with its
sounds. As a matter of fact, she spoke German, telling the chauffeur to
mind his own business, and she would mind hers; but if any talking were
done her tongue might wag more than his.
At any rate, the man did then raise his hat politely and walk on. The
remainder of the road between Elmsdale and The Elms was deserted. Martin
hardly realized the pace at which he was literally dragging his
companion homeward until she protested.
"Martin, you're hurting my arm! What's the hurry?... Did she really kill
him?"
"She said so. I don't know," he replied.
"Who was she?"
"Kitty Thwaites's sister, I suppose. I never saw her before. They were
not bred in this village."
"And why did she kill him?"
"How can I tell?"
"She had a knife in her hand."
"Yes."
"Perhaps she killed him because she was jealous."
"Perhaps."
"Martin, don't be angry with me. I didn't mean any harm. I was only
having a lark. I did it just to tease you--and Evelyn Atkinson."
"That's all very fine. What will your mother say?"
The quietude, the sound of her own voice, were giving the girl courage.
She tossed her head with something of contempt.
"She can say nothing. You leave her to me. You saw how I shut Fritz's
mouth. What was the name of the man who was killed?"
"George Pickering."
"Ah. He walked down the garden with Kitty Thwaites."
"Indeed?"
"Yes. When I get in I can tell Miss Walker and Francoise all about it.
They will be so excited. There will be no fuss about me being out. V'la
la bonne fortune!"
"Speak English, please."
"Well, it is good luck I was there. I can make up such a story."
"Good luck that a poor fellow should be stabbed!"
"That wasn't my fault, was it? Good-night, Martin. You fought
beautifully. Kiss me!"
"I won't kiss you. Run in, now. I'll wait till the door opens."
"Then _I'll_ kiss _you_. There! I like you better than all the
world--just now."
She opened the gate, careless whether it clanged or not. Martin heard
her quick footsteps on the gravel of the short drive. She rattled loudly
on the door.
"Good-night, Martin--dear!" she cried.
He did not answer. There was some delay. Evidently she had not been
missed.
"Are you there?" She was impatient of his continued coldness.
"Yes."
"Then why don't you speak, silly?"
The door opened with the clanking of a chain. There was a woman's
startled cry as the inner light fell on Angele. Then he turned.
Not until he reached the "Black Lion" and its well-lighted area did he
realize that he was coatless and hatless. Jim Bates had vanished with
both of these necessary articles. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound!
There would be a fearful row, and the thrashing would be the same in any
case.
He avoided the crowd, keeping to the darker side of the street. A
policeman had just come out of the inn and was telling the people to go
away. All the village seemed to have gathered during the few minutes
which had elapsed since the tragedy took place. He felt strangely sorry
for Betsy Thwaites. Would she be locked up, handcuffed, with chains on
her ankles? What would they do with the knife? Why should she want to
kill Mr. Pickering? Wouldn't he marry her? Even so, that was no reason
he should be stabbed. Where did she stick him? Did he quiver like
Absalom when Joab thrust the darts into his heart?
At last he ran up the slight incline leading to the White House; there
was a light in the front kitchen. For one awful moment he paused, with a
finger on the sneck; then he pressed the latch and entered.
John Bolland, grim as a stone gargoyle, wearing his Sunday coat and
old-fashioned tall hat, was leaning against the massive chimneypiece.
Mrs. Bolland, with bonnet awry, was seated. She had been crying. A
frightened kitchenmaid peeped through the passage leading to the back of
the house when the door opened to admit the truant. Then she vanished.
There was a period of chill silence while Martin closed the door. He
turned and faced the elderly couple, and John Bolland spoke:
"So ye've coom yam, eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"An' at a nice time, too. Afther half-past ten! An hour sen yer muther
an' me searched high and low for ye. Where hev ye bin? Tell t' truth,
ye young scamp. Every lie'll mean more skin off your back."
Mrs. Bolland, drying her eyes, now that Martin had returned, noticed his
disheveled condition. His face was white as his shirt, and both were
smeared with blood. A wave of new alarm paled her florid cheeks. She ran
to him.
"For mercy's sake, boy, what hev ye bin doin'? Are ye hurt?"
"No, mother, not hurt. I fought Frank Beckett-Smythe. That is all."
"T' squire's son. Why on earth----"
"Go to bed, Martha," said John, picking up a riding whip. But Mrs.
Bolland's sympathies discerned a deeper reason for Martin's escapade
than a mere boyish frolic which deserved a thrashing. He was unnaturally
calm. Something out of the common had happened. He did not flinch at the
sight of the whip.
"John," she said sternly, "ye shan't touch him t'-night."
"Stand aside, Martha. If all my good teachin' is of no avail----"
"Mebbe t' lad's fair sick o' yer good teachin'. You lay a hand on him at
yer peril. If ye do, I don't bide i' t' house this night!"
Never before, during thirty years of married life, had Martha Bolland
defied her husband. He glowered with anger and amazement.
"Would ye revile the Word te shield that spawn o' Satan?" he roared.
"Get away, woman, lest I do thee an injury."
But his wife's temper was fierce as his own when roused. She was a
Meynell, and there have been Meynells in Yorkshire as long as any
Bollands.
"Tak' yer threats te those who heed 'em," she retorted bitterly. "D'ye
think folk will stand by an' let ye raise yer hand te me?... David,
William, Mary, coom here an' hold yer master. He's like te have a fit
wi' passion."
There was a shuffling in the passage. The men servants, such as happened
to be in the house, came awkwardly at their mistress's cry. The farmer
stood spellbound. What devil possessed the household that his authority
should be set at naught thus openly?
It was a thrilling moment, but Martin solved the difficulty. He wrenched
himself free of Mrs. Bolland's protecting arms.
"Father, mother!" he cried. "Don't quarrel on my account. If I must be
beaten, I don't care. I'll take all I get. But it's only fair that I
should say why I was not home earlier."
Now, John Bolland, notwithstanding his dealing in the matter of the
pedigree cow, prided himself on his sense of justice. Indeed, the man
who does the gravest injury to his fellows is often cursed with a
narrow-minded certainty of his own righteousness. Moreover, this matter
had gone beyond instant adjustment by the unsparing use of a whip. His
wife, his servants, were arrayed against him. By the Lord, they should
rue it!
"Aye," he said grimly. "Tell your muther why you've been actin' t'
blackguard. Mebbe she'll understand."
Mrs. Bolland had the sense to pass this taunt unheeded. Her heart was
quailing already at her temerity.
"Angele Saumarez came out without her mother," said Martin. "Mrs.
Saumarez is ill. I thought it best to remain with her and take her home
again. Frank Beckett-Smythe joined us, and he--he--insulted her, in a
way. So I fought him, and beat him, too. And then George Pickering was
murdered----"
"What?"
Bolland dropped the whip on the table. His wife sank into a chair with a
cry of alarm. The plowmen and maids ventured farther into the room. Even
the farmer's relentless jaw fell at this terrific announcement.
"Yes, it is quite true. Frank and I fought in the yard of the 'Black
Lion.' George Pickering and Kitty Thwaites went down the garden--at
least, so I was told. I didn't see them. But, suddenly, Kitty came
screaming along the path, and after her a woman waving a long knife in
the air. Kitty called her 'Betsy,' and said she had killed George
Pickering. She said so herself. I heard her. Then some men came with a
light and caught hold of Betsy. She was going to stab Kitty, too, I
think; and Jim Bates ran away with my coat and hat, which he was
holding."
The effect of such a narration on a gathering of villagers, law-abiding
folk who lived in a quiet nook like Elmsdale, was absolutely paralyzing.
John Bolland was the first to recover himself. A man of few ideas, he
could not adjust his mental balance with sufficient nicety to see that
the tragedy itself in no wise condoned Martin's offense.
"Are ye sure of what ye're sayin', lad?" he demanded, though indeed he
felt it was absurd to imagine that such a tale would be invented as a
mere excuse.
"Quite sure, sir. If you walk down to the 'Black Lion,' you'll see all
the people standing round the hotel and the police keeping them back."
"Well, well, I'll gan this minit. George Pickerin' was no friend o'
mine, but I'm grieved te hear o' sike deeds as these in oor village. I
was maist angered wi' you on yer muther's account. She was grievin' so
when we failed te find ye. She thowt sure you were runned over or
drownded i' t' beck."
This was meant as a graceful apology to his wife, and was taken in that
spirit. Never before had he made such a concession.
"Here's yer stick, John," she said. "Hurry and find out what's happened.
Poor George! I wish my tongue hadn't run so fast t' last time I seed
him."
Bolland and the other men hastened away, and Martin was called on to
recount the sensational episode, with every detail known to him, for
the benefit of the household. No one paid heed to the boy's own
adventures. All ears were for the vengeance taken by Betsy Thwaites on
the man who jilted her. Even to minds blunted almost to callousness, the
_crime passionel_ had a vivid, an entrancing interest. The women were
quick to see its motive, a passive endurance stung to sudden frenzy by
the knowledge that the faithless lover was pursuing the younger sister.
But how did Betsy Thwaites, who lived in far-off Hereford, learn that
George Pickering was "making up" to Kitty? The affair was of recent
growth. Indeed, none of those present was aware that Pickering and the
pretty maid at the "Black Lion" were so much as acquainted with each
other. And where did Betsy spring from? She could not have been staying
in the village, or someone aware of her history must have seen her. Did
Kitty know she was there? If so, how foolish of the younger woman to be
out gallivanting in the moonlight with Pickering.
The whole story was fraught with deepest mystery. Martin could not
answer one-tenth of the questions put to him. Boy-like, he felt himself
somewhat of a hero, until he remembered Angele's glee at the "good luck"
of the occurrence--how she would save herself from blame by telling Miss
Walker and Francoise "all about it."
He flushed deeply. He wished now that Bolland had given him a hiding
before he blurted out his news.
"Bless the lad, he's fair tired te death!" said Mrs. Bolland. "Here,
Martin, drink a glass o' port an' off te bed wi' ye."
He sipped the wine, wondering dimly what Frank Beckett-Smythe was
enduring and how he would explain that black eye. He was about to go
upstairs, when hasty steps sounded without, and Bolland entered with a
policeman.
This was the village constable, and, of course, well known to all.
During the feast other policemen came from neighboring villages, but the
local officer was best fitted to conduct inquiries into a case requiring
measures beyond a mere arrest. His appearance at this late hour created
a fresh sensation.
"Martin," said the farmer gravely, "did ye surely hear Kitty Thwaites
say that Betsy had killed Mr. Pickering?"
"Yes, sir; I did."
"And ye heerd Betsy admit it?"
"Oh, yes--that is, if Betsy is the woman with the knife."
"There!" said Bolland, turning to the policeman. "I telt ye so. T' lad
has his faults, but he's nae leear; I'll say that for him."
The man took off his helmet and wiped his forehead, for the night was
close and warm.
"Well," he said, "I'll just leave it for the 'Super' te sattle. Mr.
Pickerin' sweers that Betsy never struck him. She ran up tiv him wi' t'
knife, an' they quarrelled desperately. That he don't deny. She
threatened him, too, an' te get away frev her he was climin' inte t'
stackyard when he slipped, an' a fork lyin' again' t' fence ran intiv
his ribs."
"Isn't he dead, then?" exclaimed Mrs. Bolland shrilly.
"Not he, ma'am, and not likely te be. He kem to as soon as he swallowed
some brandy, an' his first words was, 'Where's Betsy?' He was fair wild
when they telt him she was arrested. He said it was all the fault of
that flighty lass, Kitty, an' that a lot of fuss was bein' made about
nowt. I didn't know what te deae. Beaeth women were fair ravin', and said
all soarts o' things, but t' upshot is that Betsy is nussin' Mr.
Pickerin' now until t' doctor comes frae Nottonby."
He still mopped his head, and his glance wandered to the goodly cask in
the corner.
"Will ye hev a pint?" inquired Bolland.
"Ay, that I will, Mr. Bolland, an' welcome."
"An' a bite o' bread an' meat?" added Mrs. Bolland.
"I doan't min' if I do, ma'am."
A glance at a maid produced eatables with lightning speed. Mary feared
lest she should miss a syllable of the night's marvels.
The policeman had many "bites," and talked while he ate. Gradually the
story became lucid and consecutive.
Fred, the groom, was jealous of Pickering's admiration for Kitty. Having
overheard the arrangement for a meeting on Monday, he wrote to Betsy,
sending her the information in the hope that she would come from
Hereford and cause a commotion at the hotel.
He expected her by an earlier train, but she did not arrive until 9:20
P.M., and there was a walk of over two miles from the station.
Meanwhile, he had seen Kitty and Pickering steal off into the garden. He
knew that any interference on his part would earn him a prompt beating,
so, when Betsy put in a belated appearance, he met her in the passage
and told her where she would find the couple.
Instantly she ran through the kitchen, snatching a knife as she went.
Before the drink-sodden meddler could realize the extent of the mischief
he had wrought, Kitty was shrieking that Pickering was dead. All this he
blurted out to the police before the injured man gave another version of
the affair.
"Martin bears out one side o' t' thing," commented the constable
oracularly, "but t' chief witness says that summat else happened. There
was blood on t' knife when it was picked up; but there, again, there's a
doubt, as Betsy had cut her own arm wi't. Anyhow, Betsy an' Kitty were
cryin' their hearts out when they kem out of Mr. Pickerin's room for
towels; and he's bleedin' dreadful."
This final gory touch provided an artistic curtain. The constable
readjusted his belt and took his departure.
After another half-hour's eager gossip among the elders, in which Fred
suffered much damage to his character, Martin was hurried off to bed.
Mrs. Bolland washed his bruised face and helped him to undress. She was
folding his trousers, when a shower of money rattled to the floor.
"Marcy on us!" she cried in real bewilderment, "here's a sovereign, a
half-sovereign, an' silver, an' copper! Martin, my boy, whatever...."
"Angele gave it to me, mother. She gave me two pounds ten to spend."
"Two pund ten!"
"Yes. I suppose it was very wrong. I'll give back all that is left to
Mrs. Saumarez in the morning."
Martha Bolland was very serious now. She crept to the door of the
bedroom and listened.
"I do hope yer father kens nowt o' this," she whispered anxiously.
Then she counted the money.
"You've spent sixteen shillin's and fowerpence, not reckonin' t'
shillin' I gev ye this mornin'. Seventeen an' fowerpence! Martin,
Martin, whatever on?"
Such extravagance was appalling. Her frugal mind could not assimilate it
readily. This sum would maintain a large family for a week.
"We stood treat to a lot of other boys and girls. But don't be vexed
to-night, mother, dear. I'm so tired."
"Vexed, indeed. What'll Mrs. Saumarez say? There'll be a bonny row i' t'
mornin'. You tak' it back t' first thing. An', here. If she sez owt
about t' balance, come an' tell me an' I'll make it up. You fond lad; if
John knew this, he'd never forgive ye. There, honey, go te sleep."
There were tears in her eyes as she bent and kissed him. But he was
incapable of further emotion. He was half asleep ere she descended the
stairs, and his last sentient thought was one of keen enjoyment, for his
knuckles were sore when he closed his right hand, and he remembered the
smashing force of that uppercut as it met the aristocratic nose of
Master Beckett-Smythe.