"There was nothin' moved--or taken away--nothin' at all!--only that
patch. So then I went all round the farm, and there was nobody. I thought
'ee might ha' turned back by the grass road, p'raps, without my seein'
'im, so I went that way, and there was nothin'--until--a little way up
the road--there was blood again"--the old man's voice dropped--"every
couple o' yards or so--a drop or two here--an' a drop or two there--just
as they tracked old Watson by it, up the hill, and into yon wood--where
Dempsey set on him."
The two old men looked at each other. Betts was evidently impressed.
"Are you sure it was blood?"
"Sure. Last night, Hastings said it was sheep-dip! After I tole 'im, when
'ee went to look under the shed, it wor so dark 'ee couldn't see nothin'.
Well, 'ee knew better this mornin'. 'Ee fetched me, an' asst me if I'd
said anythin' to Miss Janet. And I said, no. So then he tole me I wasn't
to say nothin' to the ladies, nor the girls, nor anybody. An' 'ee'd done
summat wi' the sack--I dunno what. But 'ee might ha' held 'is tongue last
night about sheep-dip! Who's been dippin' sheep about here? 'As Miss
Henderson got any ruddle anywhere about the farm? I know she ain't!--an'
Muster Hastings knows she ain't."
"Why didn't yer tell Miss Janet?--about the bleedin'?"
"Well, I was a bit skeered. I thought I'd sleep on't, before I got
talkin' any more. But on the way 'ome, as I tellt yer, I met Hastings,
an' tole '_im_, an' then give 'im notice."
"That wor a bit hasty, worn't it?" said Betts after a moment, in a
judicial tone. But he had been clearly much exercised by his companion's
account, and his pipe hanging idly from his hands showed that his
thoughts were active.
"Well, it might ha' bin," Halsey admitted, "but as I said afore, I'm
gettin' an old man, and I don't want no truck wi' things as I don't
unnerstan'. It give me the wust night as I've had since I had that bad
turn wi' the influenza ten year ago."
"You didn't see his face?"
"No."
"An' 'ee didn't mind you of anybody?"
Halsey hesitated.
"Well, onst I did think I'd seen one o' the same build--soomwhere. But I
can't recolleck where."
"As for the blood," said Betts reflectively, "it's as curous as the
coughin'. Did you iver hear tell as ghosts could bleed?"
Hastings shook his head. Steeped in meditation, the two men smoked
silently for a while. Then Betts said, with the explosiveness of one who
catches an idea,--
"Have yer thought o' tellin' John Dempsey?"
"I hain't thought o' tellin' nobody. An' I shouldn't ha' told Miss
Leighton what I did tell her, if she 'adn't come naggin' about my givin'
notice."
"You might as well tell John Dempsey. Why, it's his business, is old
Watson! Haven't yer seen 'im at all?"
Halsey said "No," holding his handsome old head rather high. Had he
belonged to a higher station in life, his natural reticence, and a
fastidious personal dignity would have carried him far. To a modern
statesman they are at least as valuable as brains. In the small world
of Ipscombe they only meant that Halsey himself held rather scornfully
aloof from the current village gossip, and got mocked at for his pains.
The ordinary human instinct revenged itself, however, when he was
_tête-à-tête_ with his old chum Peter Betts. Betts divined at any rate
from the expression in the old man's eyes that _he_ might talk, and
welcome.
So he poured out what he knew about John Dempsey, a Canadian lad working
in the Forestry Corps at Ralstone, who turned out to be the grandson of
the Dempsey who had always been suspected of the murder of Richard Watson
in the year 1859. This young Dempsey, he said, had meant to come to
Ipscombe after the war, and put what he knew before the police. But
finding himself sent to Ralstone, which was only five miles from
Ipscombe, he saw no reason to wait, and he had already given all the
information he could to the superintendent of police at Millsborough. His
grandfather had signed a written confession before his death, and John
Dempsey had handed it over. The old man, it appeared, had "turned pious"
during a long illness before his death, and had wished to square matters
with his conscience and the Almighty. When his grandson had volunteered
for the war, and was about to sail for Europe, old Dempsey had sent for
him, had told him the story, and charged him, when he was able, to place
his confession in the proper hands. And having done that, he died "very
quiet and comfortable"--so John Dempsey reported.
"Which is more than poor Jem Watson did," growled Halsey. He felt neither
respect nor sympathy for a man who, having set up a secret, couldn't
keep it; and the confession itself, rather than the crime confessed,
confirmed the poor opinion he had always held of the elder Dempsey when
they were young men in the village together. But he agreed to let Betts
bring "young John" to see him. And thereupon they went back to the sowing
of one of Miss Henderson's big fields with winter wheat.
When the milking was done, and work was nearly over for the day, a note
brought by messenger arrived at the farm for Miss Henderson. It was from
Ellesborough--a few scribbled words. "I am prevented from coming this
evening. The Chief Forestry Officer of my district has just arrived, and
stays the night. I hope to come over to-morrow between six and seven.
Shall I find you?"
Rachel scribbled an answer, which a small boy on a bicycle carried off.
Then she went slowly back to the sitting-room, so disappointed and
unnerved that she was on the brink of tears. Janet who had just come in
from milking, was standing by the table, mending a rent in her
waterproof. She looked up as Rachel entered, and the needle paused in her
hand.
"I say, Rachel!--you do look overdone! You've been going at it too hard."
For all day long Rachel had been lifting, and sorting, and carrying, in
the potato-field, finding in the severe physical exertion the only relief
from restlessness. She shook her head irritably and came to stand by the
wood fire which Janet had just lit, a welcome brightness in the twilight
room.
"Suppose you knock up--" began Janet in a tone of remonstrance. Rachel
cut her short.
"I want to speak to you--please, Janet."
Janet looked round in astonishment and put down her work. Rachel was
standing by the fire, with her hands behind her back, her eyes fixed on
Janet. She was still in the graceful tunic and knee-breeches, in which
her young and splendid youth seemed always most at home. But she had
taken off her cap, and her brown hair was falling round a pale face.
"Janet--you know Captain Ellesborough and I had a long talk last night?"
Janet smiled.
"Of course I do. And of course I have my own thoughts about it!"
"I don't know what they are," said Rachel slowly. "But--I'd better tell
you--Captain Ellesborough asked me to marry him."
She paused.
"Did you think that would be news to any of us?" said Janet, laughing,
and then stopped. The sudden contraction of pain in Rachel's face, and
something like a sob startled her.
"Don't, Janet, please. I told him something--which made him
wonder--whether he did want to marry me after all."
Janet's heart gave an uncomfortable jump. A score of past conjectures and
misgivings rushed back upon her.
"What did you tell him?"
"What I see now I ought to have told you--as well as him--long ago.
Henderson is my maiden name. I was a married woman for three years. I
had a child which died. I divorced my husband, and he's still alive."
The colour had flamed back into her cheeks. Janet sat silent, her eyes
fixed on Rachel's.
"I did tell you I had a story, didn't I?" said Rachel insistently.
"You did. I took my chance. It was you who--who brought the action?"
"I brought the action. There was no defence. And the judge said--I'd been
awfully badly treated--it was no wonder I wanted--to get free. Well,
there it is. I'm sorry I deceived you. I'm sorry I deceived him."
"You didn't deceive me," said Janet. "I had practically guessed it."
She rose slowly, and going up to Rachel, she put her hands on her
shoulders,--
"Why didn't you tell me, you poor thing!" Her voice and eyes were full of
emotion--full of pity. But Rachel shrank away a little from her touch,
murmuring under her breath, "Because I wanted never to hear of it--or
think of it again." Then, after a pause, she added, "But if you want to
know more, I'll tell you. It's your right. My married name was Delane."
"Don't tell me any more!" said Janet peremptorily. "I don't want to hear
it. But you ought to be--quite frank--with _him_."
"I know that. Naturally--it was a great shock to him."
There was something very touching in her attitude. She stood there like a
shamefaced boy, in her quasi-male dress; and the contrast between her
strong young beauty, and the humility and depression of her manner
appealed with singular force to Janet's mind, so constantly and secretly
preoccupied with spiritual things. Rachel seemed to her so much cleverer
and more vigorous than herself in all matters of ordinary life. Only in
the region of religious experience did Janet know herself the superior.
But Rachel had never made any outward sign that she cared in the least to
know more of that region, whether in Janet or other people. She had held
entirely aloof from it. But self-reproach--moral suffering--are two of
the keys that lead to it. And both were evident here. Janet's heart went
out to her friend.
"When is he coming?"
"To-morrow evening. I dare say he'll give me up."
Janet marvelled at the absence of self-assertion--the touch of
despair--in words and tone. So it had gone as deep as this! She blamed
herself for lack of perception. An ordinary love-affair, about to end
in an ordinary way--that was how it had appeared to her. And suddenly it
seemed to her she had stumbled upon what might be tragedy.
No, no--there should be no tragedy! She put her arms round Rachel.
"My dear, he won't give you up! As if I hadn't seen! He worships the
ground you tread upon!"
Rachel said nothing. She let her face rest on Janet's shoulder. When she
raised it, it was wet. But she kissed Janet quietly, and went away
without another word.