The unfortunate Blewitt had never, in his lifetime, excited the
liking or respect of any one. Selfish and mean, he had been tolerated
because he was useful to his employers, who mistrusted him, and feared
and avoided by the rest of his neighbours. But these facts, so it
seemed to Barnabas Ugthorpe, heightened the tragedy of the
man-servant’s death. The honest farmer could not have expressed his
thought in words, he but felt that the poor wretch whose body lay at
his feet had somehow lost his chance forever.
As Barnabas stood there, considering the sight before him, Captain
Mulgrave, who had not uttered a word, turned quickly, and was about to
climb over the stone wall to the right, on his way back to the Abbey,
when he felt a strong hand on his shoulder.
“Not quite so fast, Capt’n,” said Barnabas drily, “Ah want yer opinion
o’ this metter.”
“My opinion is,” said Captain Mulgrave, shortly, “that this is the
most d--d mysterious thing I ever saw. And I’ve seen a few queer
things in my life too.”
“Aye,” said Barnabas, “it’s a bad job this.”
He continued to stare at the dead man, and never once raised his eyes
to the face of his living companion.
“Well,” said the Captain, after a long silence, “you don’t ask me to
tell you how I found him?”
“Noa, sir, Ah doan’t,” said Barnabas drily.
“Well, why not?”
“Weel,” said the farmer, scratching his ear, “Ah doan’t knaw as Ah
should knaw so mooch more’n Ah did afore.”
“You wouldn’t take my word then?”
“Ah doan’t know as, oonder t’ circumstances, Ah’d tek t’ word o’ any
gentleman.”
“You think I had a hand in this man’s death?”
Barnabas paused a long time, still looking at the body, still
scratching his ear.
“Aye, sir, it dew look like it,” he admitted at last.
“Well, at first sight it, dew,” mimicked Captain Mulgrave in a lighter
tone than the farmer thought becoming. “But I tell you it’s all d--d
nonsense, I was coming down here to see what state the roads were in,
and I heard men’s voices, and then two shots. I was half-way across
that field. I ran, got over the wall, and found the fellow lying like
this, with the revolver in his hand. I took it up, and found that two
chambers had been discharged. I looked up and down the lane, but I
couldn’t see any one.”
“Noa,” said Barnabas with a movement of the head, “Ah should suppose
not.”
He bent down over the body again, examining it.
“He’s shot in t’ back. Did it hissen, most loike.”
“Now what reason have you for supposing I shot him?”
“Weel, sir, asking yer pardon, but to begin with, ye’ve gotten t’ name
o’ being free wi’ them things.” And he raised the revolver, which he
still held in his hand. “Then, sir, Ah happen to knaw as he came to
bring ye a letter as were not loike to put ye into a good humour.”
He glanced at the letter which Captain Mulgrave held.
“I don’t know how you came to hear about this letter, but you’re quite
right as far as that is concerned. Only the man did not give it me; I
found it on his dead body.”
“Ye found it moighty quick then, Capt’n. That’s not t’ weay moast on
us cooms nigh a dead mon, to begin rummaging in ’s pockets before he’s
cawld.”
“As to that, I guessed he’d come on an errand to me and had some
message about him. And why should I have more respect for the fellow
dead than I had for him alive? His carcase has no more value in my
eyes than that of a carrion crow.”
“It’ll have a deal more, though, in t’ eyes of a jury, Capt’n.”
“Do you mean to try to hang me then, honest Barnabas?”
“Ah mean to tell what Ah seen, an’ leave it to joodge an’ jury to seay
what they thinks on it.”
“And knowing me for such a desperate character you dare to tell me
this to my face?”
“Happen Ah shouldn’t be so bold, but Ah gotten t’ revolver mysen.”
And Barnabas glanced at the weapon in his hand.
Captain Mulgrave laughed a little, and both men stood silent
considering.
“I can’t think who can have had such a grudge against the poor devil
as to shoot him,” he said at last, as if to himself. “It must have
been some one on foot, for there are no hoof-marks about but those of
the horse he was riding.”
Barnabas said nothing. With one steady look at Captain Mulgrave as if
to tell him that he hadn’t done with him yet, the farmer examined the
footprints in the snow round about. There were marks neither of wheels
nor of hoofs further than this point, but there were footprints both
of men and children, for this was the high road between Presterby and
Eastborough, the next important town southwards along the coast.
“Aye,” said the farmer, when he had finished his inspection, “it mun
ha’ been some one afoot, Capt’n, as you say.”
Captain Mulgrave had been considering the aspect of the affair, and he
looked more serious when Barnabas uttered these words.
“Barnabas,” he said at last, “I begin to see that these devils, with
their confirmed prejudice against me, may make this a serious
business.”
“Aye, so Ah’m thinking too.”
“Give a dog a bad name, you know. Because I shot down four rascals in
self-defence, I’m considered capable of depopulating the county in
cold blood.”
“Aye, that be so. Leastweays we knaw ye doan’t hawd human loife
seacred.”
“Well, and that’s true enough,--I don’t. There are men whom I should
consider it justifiable to exterminate like vermin.”
“Weel, sir, we moast on us thinks that in our seacret hearts, only we
moightn’t knaw wheer to stop if we let ourselves begin. But when we
foind a mon wi’ t’ courage o’ these opinions, we have to put a stop to
his little games pretty quick. It’s not that Ah bear ye any ill-will,
Capt’n, quoite t’ contrary: ye have t’ sympathy of all t’
coontry-soide, as ye knaw. But we must draw t’ loine soomwheer, an’ Ah
draw it at murder.”
“You won’t take my word?”
“Can’t, Capt’n.”
“Will you take my money?”
“Noa, sir.”
“What are you going to do then? Go down into the town and set the
police after me?”
Barnabas looked for a few moments puzzled and distressed. He would
have given this high-handed gentleman into custody without a moment’s
hesitation if it had not been for his little daughter, now on her way
to her unknown home all unconscious of the tragedy which darkened it.
On the other hand, he shrank from giving her into the care of a man
whose hands were reeking with the guilt of a most cowardly murder.
After pondering the matter, an idea struck him, and he raised his head
with a clear countenance.
“Ah’ll haud my toongue aboot this business, if so be ye’re ready to
mak’ a bargain.”
“Name your price then.”
“My price is that ye’ll give us yer room in these parts instead of yer
coompany. Ye’ve gotten a yacht, Capt’n, an’ a rich mon’s weays o’
gettin’ aboot an’ makhin’ yerself comfortable. So Ah’m not droiving a
hard bargain. But ye mun be aht of t’ Abbey by to-morrow, an’ all ye
gotten to do is to mak’ soom provision for your little darter.”
Captain Mulgrave was more startled by the three last words than by all
the rest of the farmer’s speech.
“My little daughter!” he repeated in a scoffing tone. “Yes, I’d
forgotten her. But what do you know about her, eh?”
“Ah was bringing her oop t’ Abbey,” answered Barnabas, jerking his
head and his thumb in the direction of the cart, which, however, was
not in sight.
Captain Mulgrave frowned.
“D----d nuisance!” he muttered to himself.
“Eh, but Ah think Ah’ll tak’ her aweay again till ye’re gone, Capt’n,”
said Barnabas drily. “T’ owd stoans will give her a better welcome
home than ye seem loike to.”
“No, you may as well take her up now. I shall not see her. You don’t
want to keep the girl out all day in the cold. I’ll just get across to
the house now and tell Mrs. Bean to make a fire for her. By the time
the cart comes round to the front I--I----” He hesitated, and Barnabas
saw that, under his devil-may-care manner, Captain Mulgrave was
agitated. “By that time,” continued he, recovering himself, “it will
be all ready for her, and--she’ll see nothing of me--I shall go
away--to-night--I shall be glad to. I’m sick of this pestilential
country, where one can only breathe by virtue of a special act of
parliament. Sha’n’t see you again, Barnabas.” He moved away, and just
as he put his hand on the stone wall to vault over, he turned his head
to say, “Thanks for your kindness to the little one.”
Then he disappeared from the farmer’s sight hastily, as he heard the
cart groaning and squeaking up the hill.
Freda had got tired of waiting for Barnabas, and after much vigorous
shaking of the reins, which he had put into her hands, she had
succeeded in starting the horse again.
“Barnabas!” she cried, as soon as she caught sight, in the gloom, of
the farmer’s figure, “is that you?”
“Aye, lassie,” said he, placing himself between the cart and the dead
body on the ground.
“Didn’t I hear you talking?”
“Aye, happen ye did.”
“Who were you talking to?”
“Eh, lass?” said he, pretending not to hear her, so that he might gain
time for reflection.
“Who--were--you--talking to?” she asked slowly but querulously, for
she was cold and tired, and full of misgivings.
“Eh, but Ah was talking to a mon as were passing.”
“Passing? He didn’t pass me.”
“Noa, lass, Ah didn’t seay as he did. Ye’re mighty sharp.”
“It’s because I don’t understand you. There’s something different
about your manners. Something’s happened, I believe!”
“Eh, lassie, why, what’s coom over ye?”
“What’s that on the ground?”
She almost shrieked this, guessing something.
“Ye’ve gotten too sharp eyes, lassie. Ye’d better not ask questions.”
“Barnabas, Oh!--Barnabas, it’s not--not--my father!” whispered the
poor child, clinging, over the side of the cart, to the rough hands
the farmer held out to her.
“Noa, lass, noa.”
“Who is it? Tell me, quick.”
“Why, lass, it’s a poor mon as--as has been hurt.”
“He’s dead. He wouldn’t be there, so still, like that, if he was
not--dead,” she whispered. “Who is it? Tell me, Barnabas.”
“Weel, Ah have a noetion--that he’s soommet loike servant Blewitt, oop
to Owdcastle Farm.”
“Oh, Barnabas, it’s dreadful! Is he really dead?”
But she wanted no answer. She put her hands before her face,
reproaching herself for having disliked the man, almost feeling that
she had had a share in his tragic death.
“Who did it?” she asked at last, very suddenly.
Now Barnabas meant most strongly that the girl should not have the
least suspicion that her father had a hand in this affair. The
farmer’s soft heart had been touched as soon as Captain Mulgrave
betrayed, by a momentary breaking of the voice, that he was not so
utterly indifferent to his daughter as he wished to appear. Upon that
reassuring sign of human feeling, Barnabas instantly resolved to hold
his tongue for ever as to what he had seen. But unluckily, his powers
of imagination and dissimulation were not great. Feminine wits saw
through him, as they had done many a time before. While he was slowly
preparing an elaborate answer, Freda had jumped at once to the very
conclusion he wished her to avoid.
“Who did it?” she repeated in tones so suddenly tremulous and
passionate that they betrayed her thought even to the somewhat
slow-witted Yorkshireman.
“Lord have mercy on t’ lass!” cried he below his breath. “But Ah
believe she knows.”
“Do you mean to say,” she went on in a low, monotonous voice, “that
you _saw_ my father--kill him?”
Her voice dropped on the last words so that Barnabas could only guess
them.
“Noa, lass, noa,” said he quickly, “Ah didn’t _see_ him do it.”
“Then he didn’t do it!” cried she, with a sudden change to a high key,
and in tones of triumphant conviction. “You can tell me all about it
now, for I’m quite satisfied.”
“It’s more’n Ah be, though,” said he dubiously. “Ah found him standing
over t’ corpse loike this ’ere, wi’ this in his hand.” He produced the
revolver from his pocket. “And in t’ other hand he gotten letter ye
spoake of, lass, that ye said would enreage him.”
“And what did he say? Did you accuse him?”
“He said he didn’t do it, an’ Ah, why, Ah didn’t believe him.”
“But I do,” said Freda calmly.
“Weel, but who could ha’ done it then?” asked he, hoping that she
might have a reason to give which would bring satisfaction to his mind
also.
But in Freda’s education faith and authority had been put before
reason, and her answer was not one which could carry conviction to a
masculine understanding.
“My father,” she said solemnly, “could not commit a murder.”
“Weel, soom folks’ feythers does, why not your feyther? There was
nobody else to do it, an’ t’ poor feller couldn’t ha’ done it hissen,
for he was shot in t’ back.”
“I will never believe my father did it,” said Freda.
“Happen he’ll tell ye he did.”
Freda shook her head.
“I have been very foolish,” she said at last, “to listen to all the
things I have heard said against him. And perhaps it is as a
punishment to me that I have heard this. He was good and kind when I
was a baby: how can he be bad now? And if he has done bad things since
then, the Holy Spirit will come down into his heart again now, if I
pray for him.”
“Amen,” said Barnabas solemnly.
This farmer had no more definite religion himself than that there was
a Great Being somewhere, a long way off behind the clouds, whom it was
no use railing at, though he didn’t encourage honest industry as much
as he might, and whom it was the parson’s duty to keep in good humour
by baptisms, and sermons, and ringing of the church-bells. But he had,
nevertheless, a belief in the more lively religion of women, and
thought--always in a vague way--that it brought good luck upon the
world. So he took off his hat reverently when the girl was giving
utterance to her simple belief, and then he led the horse past the
dead body, and jumping up into the cart beside her, took up the reins.