SHOWING HOW MARTIN'S HORIZON WIDENS
The sufferings of the young are strenuous as their joys. When Martin
passed into the heart of the bustling fair its glamour had vanished. The
notes of the organ were harsh, the gay canvas of the booths tawdry, the
cleanly village itself awry. The policeman's surprise at his lack of
knowledge on the subject of his parentage was disastrously convincing.
The man treated the statement as indisputable. There was no question of
hearsay; it was just so, a recognized fact, known to all the grown-up
people in Elmsdale.
Tommy Beadlam, he of the white head, ran after him to ask why the
"bobby" brought him to the "Black Lion," but Martin averted eyes laden
with misery, and motioned his little friend away.
Tommy, who had seen the fight, and knew of the squire's presence this
morning, drew his own conclusions.
"Martin's goin' to be locked up," he told a knot of awe-stricken
youngsters, and they thrilled with sympathy, for their champion's
victory over the "young swell frae t' Hall" was highly popular.
The front door of the White House stood hospitably open. Already a
goodly number of visitors had gathered, and every man and woman talked
of nothing but the dramatic events of the previous night. When Martin
arrived, fresh from a private conversation with the squire and the
chief of police, they were on the tip-toe of expectancy. Perhaps he
might add to the store of gossip. Even Mrs. Bolland felt a certain pride
that the boy should be the center of interest in this _cause celebre_.
But his glum face created alarm in her motherly breast.
"Why, Martin," she cried, "what's gone wrong? Ye look as if ye'd seen a
ghost wi' two heaeds!"
The all-absorbing topic to Martin just then was his own history and not
the half-comprehended tragedy of the rural lovers. If his mother's
friends knew that which was hidden from him, why should he compel his
tongue to wag falsely? Somehow, the air seemed thick with deception just
now, but his heart would have burst had he attempted to restrain the
words that welled forth.
"Mother," he said, and his lips quivered at the remembrance that the
affectionate title was itself a lie, "Mr. Benson told the squire I was
not your boy--that father and you adopted me thirteen years ago."
Mrs. Bolland's face glowed with quick indignation. No one spoke.
Martin's impetuous repudiation of his name was the last thing they
looked for.
"It is true, I suppose," he went on despairingly. "If I am not your son,
then whose son am I?"
Martha lifted her eyes to the ceiling.
"Well, of all the deceitful scoundrels!" she gasped. "Te think of me
fillin' his blue coat wi' meat an' beer last neet, an' all t' return he
maks is te worry this poor lad's brains wi' that owd tale!"
"Oh, he's sly, is Benson," chimed in stout Mrs. Summersgill. "A
fortnight sen last Tuesday I caught him i' my dairy wi' one o' t'
maids, lappin' up cream like a great tomcat."
A laugh went round. None paid heed to Martin's agony. A dullness fell on
his soul. Even the woman he called mother was angered more by the
constable's blurting out of a household secret than by the destruction
of an ideal. Such, in confused riot, was the thought that chilled him.
But he was mistaken. Martha Bolland's denunciations of the policeman
only covered the pain, sharp as the cut of a knife, caused by the boy's
cry of mingled passion and sorrow. She was merely biding her time. When
chance served, she called him into the larder, the nearest quiet place
in the house, and closed the door.
"Martin, my lad," she said, while big tears shone in her honest eyes,
"ye are dear to me as my own. I trust I may be spared to be muther te ye
until ye're a man. John an' me meant no unkindness te ye in not tellin'
ye we found ye i' Lunnun streets, a poor, deserted little mite, wi'
nather feyther nor muther, an' none te own ye. What matter was it that
ye should know sooner? Hev we not done well by ye? When ye come to
think over 't, ye're angered about nowt. Kiss me, honey, an' if anyone
says owt cross te ye, tell 'em ye hev both a feyther an' a muther, which
is more'n some of 'em can say."
This display of feeling applied balm to Martin's wounds. Certainly Mrs.
Bolland's was the common sense view to take of the situation. He forbore
to question her further just then, and hugged her contentedly. The very
smell of her lavender-scented clothes was grateful, and this embrace
seemed to restore her to him.
His brightened countenance, the vanishing of that unwonted expression of
resentful humiliation, was even more comforting to Martha herself.
"Here," she said, thrusting a small paper package into his hand, "I
mayn't hev anuther chance. Ye'll find two pun ten i' that paper. Gie it
te Mrs. Saumarez an' tell her I'll be rale pleased if there's no more
talk about t' money. An' mebbe, later i' t' day, I'll find a shillin' fer
yersen. But, fer goodness' sake, come an' tell t' folk all that t'
squire said te ye. They're fair crazed te hear ye."
"Mother, dear!" he cried eagerly, "I was so--so mixed up at first that I
forgot to tell you. Mr. Beckett-Smythe gave me half a crown."
"Ye doan't say! Well, I can't abide half a tale. Let's hae t' lot i' t'
front kitchen."
It was noon, and dinner-time, before Martin could satisfy the cackling
dames as to all within his cognizance concerning Betsy Thwaites's
escapade. Be it noted, they unanimously condemned Fred, the groom;
commiserated with Betsy, and extolled George Pickering as a true
gentleman.
P. C. Benson, all unconscious of the rod in pickle for his broad back,
strolled in about the eating hour. Mrs. Bolland, brindling with
repressed fury, could scarce find words wherewith to scold him.
"Well, of all the brazen-faced men I've ever met--" she began.
"So you've heerd t' news?" he interrupted.
"Heerd? I should think so, indeed! Martin kem yam----"
"Martin! Did he know?"
"Know!" she shrilled. "Wasn't it ye as said it?"
"No, ma'am," he replied stolidly. "Mrs. Atkinson told me, and she said
that Mr. Pickerin' had ta'en his solemn oath te do't in t' presence of
t' super and t' squire!"
"Do what?" was the chorus.
"Why, marry Betsy, to be sure, as soon as he can be led te t' church.
What else is there?"
This stupendous addition to the flood of excitement carried away even
Martha Bolland for the moment. In her surprise she set a plate for
Benson with the others, and, after that, the paramount rite of
hospitality prevented her from "having it out wi' him" until hunger was
sated. Then, however, she let him "feel the edge of her tongue"; he was
so flustered that John had to restore his mental poise with another pint
of ale.
Meanwhile, Martin managed to steal out unobserved, and made the best of
his way to The Elms. Although in happier mood, he was not wholly pleased
with his errand. He was not afraid of Mrs. Saumarez--far from it, but he
did not know how to fulfill his mission and at the same time exonerate
Angele. His chivalrous nature shrank from blaming her, yet his unaided
wits were not equal to the task of restoring so much money to her mother
without answering truthfully the resultant deluge of questions.
He was battling with this problem when, near The Elms, he encountered
the Rev. Charles Herbert, M.A., vicar of Elmsdale, and his daughter
Elsie.
Martin doffed his straw hat readily, and would have passed, but the
vicar hailed him.
"Martin, is it correct that you were in the stableyard of the 'Black
Lion' last night and saw something of this sad affair of Mr.
Pickering's?" he inquired.
"Yes, sir."
Martin blushed. The girl's blue eyes were fixed on his with the innocent
curiosity of a fawn. She knew him well by sight, but they had never
exchanged a word. He found himself wondering what her voice was like.
Would she chatter with the excited volubility of Angele? Being better
educated than he, would she pour forth a jargon of foreign words and
slang? Angele was quiet as a mouse under her mother's eye. Was Elsie
aping this demure demeanor because her father was present? Certainly,
she looked a very different girl. Every curve of her pretty face, each
line in her graceful contour, suggested modesty and nice manners. Why,
he couldn't tell, but he knew instinctively that Elsie Herbert would
have drawn back horrified from the mad romp overnight, and he was
humbled in spirit before her.
The worthy vicar never dreamed that the farmer's sturdy son was capable
of deep emotion. He interpreted Martin's quick coloring to knowledge of
a discreditable episode. He said to the girl:
"I'll follow you home in a few minutes, my dear."
Martin thought that an expression of disappointment swept across the
clear eyes, but Elsie quitted them instantly. The boy had endured too
much to be thus humiliated before one of his own age.
"I would have said nothing to offend the young lady," he cried hotly.
Very much taken aback, Mr. Herbert's eyebrows arched themselves above
his spectacles.
"My good boy," he said, "I did not choose that my daughter should hear
the--er--offensive details of this--er--stabbing affray, or worse, that
took place at the inn."
"But you didn't mind slighting me in her presence, sir," was the
unexpected retort.
"I am not slighting you. Had I met Mr. Beckett-Smythe and sought
information as to this matter, I would still have asked her to go on to
the Vicarage."
This was a novel point of view for Martin. He reddened again.
"I'm sorry, sir," he said. "Everything has gone wrong with me to-day. I
didn't mean to be rude."
The vicar deemed him a strange youth, but tacitly accepted the apology,
and drew from Martin the story of the night's doings.
It shocked him to hear that Martin and Frank Beckett-Smythe were
fighting in the yard of the "Black Lion" at such an hour.
"How came you to be there?" he said gently. "You do not attend my
church, Martin, but I have always regarded Mr. Bolland as a God-fearing
man, and your teacher has told me that you are gifted with intelligence
and qualities beyond your years or station in life."
"I was there quite by accident, sir, and I couldn't avoid the fight."
"What caused it?"
"We fought to settle that question, sir, and it's finished now."
The vicar laughed.
"Which means you will not tell me. Well, I am no disbeliever in a manly
display of fisticuffs. It breaks no bones and saves many a boy from the
growth of worse qualities. I suppose you are going to the fair this
afternoon?"
"No, sir. I'm not."
"Would you mind telling me how you will pass the time between now and
supper?"
"I am taking a message from my mother to Mrs. Saumarez, and then I'll go
straight to the Black Plantation"--a dense clump of firs situate at the
head of the ghylls, or small valleys, leading from the cultivated land
up to the moor.
"Dear me! And what will you do there?"
The boy smiled, somewhat sheepishly.
"I have a nest in a tree there, sir, where I often sit and read."
"What do you read?"
"Just now, sir, I am reading Scott's poems."
"Indeed. What books do you favor, as a rule?"
Delighted to have a sympathetic listener, Martin forgot his troubles in
pouring forth a catalogue of his favorite authors. The more Mr. Herbert
questioned him the more eager and voluble he became. The boy had the
rare faculty of absorbing the joys and sorrows, the noble sentiments,
the very words of the heroes of romance, and in this scholarly gentleman
he found an auditor who appreciated all that was hitherto dumb thought.
Several people passing along the road wondered what "t' passon an' oad
John Bolland's son were makkin' sike deed about," and the conversation
must have lasted fifteen or twenty minutes, when the vicar heard the
chimes of the church clock.
He laughed genially. Although, on his part, there was an underlying
motive in the conversation, Martin had fairly carried it far afield.
"You have had your revenge on me for sending my daughter away," he
cried. "My lunch will be cold. Now, will you do me a favor?"
"Of course, sir; anything you ask."
"Nay, Martin, make that promise to no man. But this lies within your
scope. About four o'clock leave your crow's nest and drop over to Thor
ghyll. I may be there."
Overjoyed at the prospect of a renewed chat on topics dear to his heart,
the boy ran off, light-heartedly, to The Elms. His task seemed easier
now. The wholesome breeze of intercourse with a cultivated mind had
momentarily swept into the background a host of unpleasing things.
He found he could not see Mrs. Saumarez, so he asked for Miss Walker.
The lady came. She was prim and severe. Instantly he detected a note of
hostility which her first words put beyond doubt.
"My mother sent me to return some money to Mrs. Saumarez," he explained.
"Mrs. Saumarez is ill. Mrs. Bolland must wait until she recovers. As for
you, you bad boy, I wonder you dare show your face here."
Martin never flinched from a difficulty.
"Why?" he demanded. "What have I done?"
"Can you ask? To drag that poor little mite of a girl into such horrible
scenes as those which took place in the village? Be off! You just wait
until Mrs. Saumarez is better, and you will hear more of it."
With that, she slammed the door on him.
So Angele had posed as a simpleton, and he was the villain. This phase
of the medley amused him. He was retreating down the drive, when he
heard his name called. He turned. A window on the ground floor opened,
and Mrs. Saumarez appeared, leaning unsteadily on the sill.
"Come here!" she cried imperiously.
Somehow she puzzled, indeed flustered, him. For one thing, her attire
was bizarre. Usually dressed with unexceptionable taste, to-day she wore
a boudoir wrap--a costly robe, but adjusted without care, and all untidy
about neck and breast. Her hair was coiled loosely, and stray wisps hung
out in slovenly fashion. Her face, deathly white, save for dull red
patches on the cheeks, served as a fit setting for unnaturally brilliant
eyes which protruded from their sockets in a manner quite startling,
while the veins on her forehead stood out like whipcord.
Martin was utterly dismayed. He stood stock-still.
"Come!" she said again, glaring at him with a curious fixity. "I want
you. Francoise is not here, and I wish you to run an errand."
Save for a strange thickness in her speech, she had never before
reminded him so strongly of Angele. She had completely lost her
customary air of repose. She spoke and acted like a peevish child.
Anyhow, she had summoned him, and he could now discharge his trust. In
such conditions, Martin seldom lacked words.
"I asked for you at the door, ma'am," he explained, drawing nearer,
"but Miss Walker said you were ill. My mother sent me to give you this."
He produced the little parcel of money and essayed to hand it to her.
She surveyed it with lackluster eyes.
"What is it?" she said. "I do not understand. Here is plenty of money. I
want you to go to the village, to the 'Black Lion,' and bring me a
sovereign's worth of brandy."
She held out a coin. They stood thus, proffering each other gold.
"But this is yours, ma'am. I came to return it. I--er--borrowed some
money from Ang--from Miss Saumarez--and mother said----"
"Cease, boy. I do not understand, I tell you. Keep the money and bring
me what I ask."
In her eagerness she leaned so far out of the window that she nearly
overbalanced. The sovereign fell among some flowers. With an effort she
recovered an unsteady poise. Martin stooped to find the money. A door
opened inside the house. A hot whisper reached him.
"Tell no one. I'll watch for you in half an hour--remember--a
sovereign's worth."
The boy, not visible from the far side of the room, heard the voice of
Francoise. The window closed with a bang. He discovered the coin and
straightened himself. The maid was seating her mistress in a chair and
apparently remonstrating with her. She picked up from the floor a
wicker-covered Eau de Cologne bottle and turned it upside down with an
angry gesture. It was empty.
Martin, whose experience of intoxicated people was confined to the
infrequent sight of a village toper, heavy with beer, lurching homeward
in maudlin glee or fury, imagined that Mrs. Saumarez must be in some
sort of fever. Obviously, those in attendance on her should be consulted
before he brought her brandy secretly.
Back he marched to the front door and rang the bell. Lest Miss Walker
should shut him out again, he was inside the hall before anyone could
answer his summons, for the doors of country houses remain unlocked all
day. The elder sister reappeared, very starchy at this unheard-of
impertinence.
"I was forced to return, ma'am," he said civilly. "Mrs. Saumarez saw me
in the drive and asked me to buy her some brandy. She gave me a
sovereign. She looked very ill, so I thought it best to come and tell
you."
The lady was thoroughly nonplussed by this plain statement.
"Oh," she stammered, so confused that he did not know what to make of
her agitation, "this is very nice of you. She must not have brandy. It
is--quite unsuitable--for her illness. It is really very good of you to
tell me. I--er--I'm sorry I spoke so harshly just now, but--er----"
"That's all right, ma'am. It was all a mistake. Will you kindly take
charge of this sovereign, and also of the two pounds ten which Miss
Angele lent me?"
"Which Miss Angele lent you! Two pounds ten! I thought you said your
mother----"
"It is mine, please," said a voice from the broad landing above their
heads. Angele skipped lightly down the stairs and held out her hand.
Martin gave her the money.
"I don't understand this, at all," said the mystified Miss Walker. "Does
Mrs. Saumarez know----"
"Mrs. Saumarez knows nothing. Neither does Martin."
With wasp-like suddenness, the girl turned and faced a woman old enough
to be her grandmother. Their eyes clashed. The child's look said
plainly:
"Dare to utter another word and I'll disgrace your house throughout the
village."
The woman yielded. She waved a protesting hand. "It is no business of
mine. Thank you, Martin, for coming back."
Angele lashed out at him next.
"Allez, donc! I'll never speak to you again."
She ran up the stairs. He stood irresolute.
"Anyhow, not now," she added. "I may be out in an hour's time."
Miss Walker was holding the door open. He hurried away, and Francoise
saw him, wondering why he had called.
And for hours thereafter, until night fell, a white-faced woman paced
restlessly to and fro in the sitting-room, ever and anon raising the
window, and watching for Martin's return with a fierce intensity that
rendered her almost maniacal in appearance.
Happily, the boy was unaware of the pitiful tragedy in the life of the
rich and highly placed Mrs. Saumarez. While she waited, with a rage
steadily dwindling into a wearied despair, he was passing, all
unconsciously, into the next great phase of his career.
He took one forward step into the unknown before leaving the tree-lined
drive. He met Fritz, the chauffeur, who was so absorbed in the study of
a folding road-map that he did not see Martin until the latter hailed
him.
"Hello!" was the boy's cheery greeting. "That affair is ended. Please
don't say anything to Mrs. Saumarez."
The German closed the map.
"Whad iss ented?" he inquired, surveying Martin with a cool hauteur rare
in chauffeurs.
"Why, last night's upset in the village."
"Ah, yez. Id iss nod my beeznez."
"I didn't quite mean that. But there's no use in getting Miss Angele
into a row, is there?"
"Dat iss zo. Vere do you leeve?"
"At the White House Farm."
"Vere de brize caddle are?"
Martin smiled. He had never before heard English spoken with a strong
German accent. Somehow he associated these resonant syllables with a
certain indefinite stress which Mrs. Saumarez laid on a few words.
"Yes," he said. "My father's herd is well known."
Fritz's manner became genial.
"Zome tay you vill show me, yez?" he inquired.
"I'll be very pleased. And will you explain your car to me--the engine,
I mean?"
"Komm now."
"Sorry, but I have an engagement."
There was plenty of time at Martin's disposal, but he did not want to
loiter about The Elms that afternoon. This man was a paid servant who
could hardly refuse to carry out any reasonable order, and it would have
been awkward for Martin if Mrs. Saumarez asked him to give Fritz the
sovereign she had intrusted to his keeping.
"All aright," agreed the chauffeur, whose strong, intellectual face was
now altogether amiable; in fact, a white scar on his left cheek creased
so curiously when he grinned that his aspect was almost comical. "We
vill meed when all dis noise sdops, yez?" and he waved a hand toward the
distant drone of the fair.
Thus began for Martin another strange friendship--a friendship destined
to end so fantastically that if the manner of its close were foretold
then and there by any prophet, the mere telling might have brought the
seer to the madhouse.