IN MIDDLECOTT LOWER HUNDRED
At this juncture it is enough to relate of Titus Sim that he honestly
believed his old friend was dead, and hoped with all his heart to marry
the widow. With no little self-control he concealed his ambitions, but
the fact that others saw the propriety of the match impressed him, and
since not a few openly held that he might fittingly wed the young wife,
he began to sound Minnie herself upon the question.
There came a day after Christmas when Titus did groom’s work and rode
with a message from his master to Two Bridges, nigh Princetown. He pulled
up his horse on the return journey and stopped to drink at the Warren
Inn. Mr Beer was in the bar alone, and it happened that he touched the
matter nearest the other’s heart.
“Seeing we’m without company for the minute,” said Johnny, “I can read ’e
a bit of my last verses, Sim; an’ though you ban’t addicted to poetry,
yet you’ll do well to listen patient, for the matter has to do with you
in a manner of speaking, though ’tis poetry. In fact, you be mentioned
by name.”
The footman, who never quarrelled with any man, pretended deep interest,
and Johnny drew a piece of foolscap from his pocket, unrolled it, set a
glass on the top, then spread out the sheet and read with that deliberate
and loving unction peculiar to one who recites his own composition.
“’Tis the whole tragedy of two young, youthful lives told in a rhyme,” he
explained. “I’ve took the tale so far as it has got like. Now ’tis for
you to make history, so as I can write the next verses.”
Then the poet began:--
“Oh, ’twas a direful business sure
When out come Sweetland from church door
And, almost afore he’d kissed his wife,
To find himself tried for his dear life.
Then up he sprang; policemen three
They wasn’t half so spry as he.
And even Corder, as comed from Plym-
Mouth, he couldn’t get quits with him.
But cruel sad and wisht the tale,
For Daniel from this mortal vale
Did take his leave; but there’s no mirth
Down in the bowels of the earth,
Where he be now--excuse my groans,
For fitches and weasles do pick his bones.
And that young woman sweet and slim,
She never was no wife for him.
Though she have lost her maiden name,
She’m just a maiden all the same.
And Sweetland’s her name and sweet’s her nature--
So sweet as any mortal creature.
And here, upon the Moor so desolate,
She lives, like a bird as have lost its mate.
All in a lonesome nest she bides;
Near by a little old river glides;
And Dan will never come no more, he
Is in the Land of eternal glory.
For that I swear, who pens this verse,
Though some was better and some was worse,
Yet never would that straight young Dan
Have shed the blood of any man.
But now who shall come forth and say,
‘I’ll take this poor young girl away
And marry her and give her joy
To atone for her unfortunate boy?’
I ask the question far and near,
And answer comes as clear as clear:
For Titus Sim, he loved her well,
And nothing but death true love shall quell.
And therefore I do hope afore long
He will make good this humble song;
And no chap will be happier than Titus Sim
If Minnie Sweetland will live along with him.”
“There!” said Mr Beer. “Every rhyme out of my own head. An’ what d’you
think of it?”
“’Tis very fine poetry, and true, which all poetry is not to my certain
knowledge,” answered Titus. “I have chances to dip into gentlefolks’
books, and the nonsensical rhymes they have in ’em would much surprise
you. But here’s rhyme and reason both, I’m sure. ’Tis a beautiful poem,
an’ I should be very much obliged for a copy.”
“If ’twill fire you on to your duty, you shall have it; an’ if she takes
you, I’ll add a bit to it,” said Mr Beer. “If you think in rhyme as I
often do,” he added, “’tis fifty pounds against a bag of nuts, that
you frequently hit on a bit of wisdom. I’ve often been mazed at my own
cleverness. But I never surprise my wife. If I found out a way of turning
moor-stone into solid gold, she’d merely say that she knowed all along
’twas in me to do it. Therefore I hope you’ll take the hint like a man,
an’ offer marriage so soon as you can. You’ve got the good wishes of the
parish behind you in the adventure; an’ that’s half the battle, no doubt.”
“I’m thinking it’s too soon,” said Titus. “Between you and me, Mr Beer,
’tis my dream and hope to have her, but time must pass. In the upper
circles they wait a year afore they approach a bereft female, and though
I needn’t be asked to keep off it so long as that, still three months
isn’t enough, I’m afraid. She was very fond of Dan, remember.”
“I suppose three months is not enough, as you say,” admitted Johnny,
“especially as she won’t have it that he’s dead. There’s a crack-brained
thought in her poor young heart that Daniel didn’t make away with himself
at all; an’ of course as the ashes of the poor chap will never be seen by
mortal eye until the last Trump, ’tis impossible to prove she’s wrong.
For my part I’ve said that I reckon he’s dead; but, at the same time, I
never shall know why he made away with himself until we stand face to
face beyond the grave. Then that will be the fust question I ax the man.
‘Whatever did ’e do such a terrible rash thing for, Dan?’ I shall ax him
as we meet in a golden street.”
“I wish I could think with you that he didn’t do it--shoot Thorpe I mean;
but I’m only too sure of it. What I believe is this: that Rix Parkinson
and Dan did the job between them, and that poor Dan shot the underkeeper
while Parkinson tried to knock the life out of Dan’s father. Of course
Rix denied it when I taxed him. However, truth will out--at Doomsday,
if not before, an’, be it as it will, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t
ask the girl I love to marry me now she’s free to. I’ll do it come the
springtime, if not before.”
Mr Beer applauded the resolve.
“I’m sure right an’ law be both your side. The Church likewise, for that
matter. Parson never would hold Minnie to that marriage. She’m free, no
doubt. What you’ve got to do be to convince her loving mind that Daniel
be in glory, as my verses say; then she’ll let un bide an’ turn her
attention to you, if she’s so wise as I think. Shall you live upalong to
Hangman’s Hut if she takes you?”
“No, I sha’n’t. I mean to go to Moreton. I’ve a thought to take a little
shop there, if she likes the idea.”
“Better try for a public. Drink be a more certain support than food. If I
don’t know Moreton men, who should? I tell you that they put bread second
to beer every day of the year. I made a rhyme about it that they wrote up
in Sam Merritt’s bar. If you like--?”
“Not now, master,” said Titus. “Though I’ll wager ’tis a very clever
rhyme, if you made it. And I’ll keep in mind all you’ve said. Now I must
get going, else I’ll be late for dinner.”
Sim rode off, and it chanced, as the dimpsy light faded and the brief
splendour of winter sunset lighted the west, that he met young Mrs
Sweetland returning home. Minnie was riding a pony which Mr Beer lent her
when she wanted it. She had been at Middlecott Lodge and in the coverts
also, for her search was not relaxed, and, when opportunity offered, she
continued it.
Little remained to be done. That day she had paid her eighteenth visit to
the spot where Thorpe fell; and, for the first time since the beginning
of the search, the girl believed herself rewarded. Most laborious and
faithful had been her scrutiny. She told herself that to leave a twig
unturned might be to lose the chance of re-establishing her husband’s
good repute. She toiled with a patience only possible to a woman; and
now, while but three or four more yards remained to be searched, a
significant fragment came to the light. Yet it was not near the spot
where Daniel’s gun had been discovered. That tract, despite a survey
microscopical in its minuteness, yielded her nothing but a flake of
flint. The arrow-head, for such it was, had told an antiquary of some
Danmonian warrior from neolithic days; but to Minnie Sweetland it meant
nothing, and she threw it aside without interest. Then, where Matthew
Sweetland had suffered his cruel beating, the searcher came upon a yellow
horn button. It reminded her instantly of Sim’s leathern gaiters, and she
stood silent in the peace of the woods and stared before her. Thus it
seemed that her husband’s closest, dearest friend was identified with
the spot of the murder. But even in the flush of discovery the young
woman perceived how slight and vain was such a clue unsupported. If the
button was Titus Sim’s, it proved nothing against him, since all men knew
that he had been early on the scene of the fray. But her heart leapt,
though her head warned it, and she left the forest full of hope renewed.
Returning from this discovery, Minnie met Sim. Then they pulled up their
horses and spoke together.
“I do wish you’d come down off the Moor to live, Mrs Sweetland. ’Tis much
too cold and lonely for a female upalong these winter days.”
“I like it. ’Tis a stern life an’ keeps a body patient. You’ve got to
fight a bit wi’ nature. It makes a woman brave to have to do that. Last
night the foxes got to my fowels an’ killed three of ’em.”
“I’m sorry, indeed!”
“’Twill larn me to be wiser.”
“To think what it is to be a few miles nearer the sun! At least, I
suppose ’tis that. They’ve heard from Mr Henry. Sir Reginald was reading
out a lot of his letter at luncheon to-day. Such a place as that Tobago
be! All palm-trees, and lofty mountains, and flowers, and birds and
butterflies, and sweltering sunshine, and niggers, and cocoanuts and
sugar-cane. A different world, if words mean anything. Mr Henry has a
pretty pen seemingly. I wish to God I’d been educated and could write
so easy and flowing. As to the overseer of the estates, I didn’t hear
about that. ’Twas only a bit here and there Sir Reginald read out to her
ladyship.”
“Have they heard anything ’bout the pheasant thieves?”
“Not a syllable. Drunkard Parkinson swears on his oath he had no hand
in it, though for my part I suspect him. And what d’you think? Matthew
Sweetland was at me only yesterday to throw up my indoor work and turn
keeper again! He knows I understand the work almost so well as Dan
himself did. But I’ve got my ideas. It all depends on--on other parties
what I do. I’ve told the old man that he must wait for my answer till
next Midsummer-day.”
“He’s always praising you an’ wishing how my Daniel had been more like
you.”
“No, no! I wasn’t a patch on Daniel. Still, I know the outdoor work and
love it, too!”
Minnie thought of her button.
“You’d want a wife then. A gamekeeper’s life is a hard one. I suppose if
you do that, you’ll take the north cottage and Thomas will get warning?”
“Yes--I should have his place; he’s not much good. But as to a
wife--well, if you ask me, I think a keeper’s better without one. Men
will talk to their wives; an’ women will talk again to other women. They
can’t help it. A man whose business ’tis to keep secrets and run the
chance of sudden death had better bide single. So it depends--as I told
you just now--’pon other parties. Come next Midsummer, I shall ask a
certain party a certain question; and if the answer is ‘Yes,’ there’ll be
no gamekeeping for me; and if the answer is ‘No’--well, I’d rather not
think of that. There come times in his life when a strong man can’t take
‘No’ for an answer.”
Minnie sat on her pony with one hand in her pocket. She fingered the horn
button and spoke.
“You want somebody to look after you. A girl’s eyes be sharp where she
takes an interest. I wonder your master have never called you to account
for that black button on your gaiter. ’Tis very untidy. If you was an
outdoor man, you’d never dare to go about like that.”
“Quite right,” he admitted. “To think your sharp eyes have seen--but what
don’t they see--even to a button? It do make me feel proud all the same,
that you can have bestowed the least thought on such a thing.”
“I catched sight of it some time ago. If you remind me one day, I’ll sew
a yellow one on for ’e. I’ve got one. ’Twill match t’others an’ look more
vitty than that black one.”
“I’m afeard it won’t match the others, my dear, for they’m notched around
the edge and be peculiar. But your button will be more to me than all the
rest, and if ’tis yellow in colour, ’twill pass very well; and thank you
kindly for the thought.”
“Next time you come up then?”
“That will be Sunday night, if I may.”
She nodded.
“Good-night, and bless you for your kind words,” said Mr Sim very
fervently.
“Good-night,” she answered, and went her way.
No definite course of action had prompted her to this strange offer.
Her only wish was to get a closer view of the gaiter and compare the
button she had found with those upon it. Now, as she rode on, a thousand
plans passed through her mind, but not one pleased her, and she began
doubtfully to speculate upon the necessity of seeking help in this
enterprise. The danger grew. Let Sim once suspect, and she could not
guess the result. If he had himself destroyed the keeper and in cold
blood plotted the subsequent destruction of Daniel Sweetland, then he
would stick at nothing. Minnie very clearly perceived the necessity for
caution. She also saw the direction in which Sim’s thoughts were turning.
That he would ask her to marry him when Midsummer came was certain. She
only hoped that, long before summer returned, the truth might have dawned
upon her darkness and her husband be by her side again.
Daniel was in her thoughts and her young heart yearned for him as she
returned to her lonely dwelling. Then, as if to answer the longing, a
great thing greeted her and the day closed in splendour brighter than any
sunset light.
Mr Beer was waiting for the pony when Minnie arrived at the Warren Inn,
and she remarked, despite the gloaming, that his mouth was full of news.
“Wonders never cease, but be on the increase,” he began. “An’ well you
know that when I break out into poetry I’ve generally got something on
my mind. Well, so I have. Onlight from your horse an’ I’ll give ’e a
present. What could be better than a postman’s letter? An’ from foreign
parts, if you’ll believe me, though I didn’t know, my dear, as you’d got
friends in the distance.”
“Dan,” she said. “’Tis Dan--my heart says it.”
“Now don’t think that, my poor maiden. I wish it was. But there ban’t no
letter-writing in the grave. A man neither sends nor receives ’em in the
pit. An’ ’tis not the worst thing as you can say for death that it puts
you beyond reach of the penny post--not to name telegrams. You must make
up your mind that Daniel be in the better land with saints an’ angels
grand. This here is from the West Indies where the rum comes from; an’
if the place be as comforting as the drink, then I make no doubt people
do very well there. For rum punch is a glorious brew to make the heart
and liver new. But, if you ax me, this letter is from Mr Henry, who be in
them parts. He was a close friend of Dan’s; an’ his was the gun that done
the dreadful deed when death to Adam Thorpe did speed--Lord! how full I
be of rhyme to-night! So, very like, he’s written in his gentlemanly way
to comfort you.”
Minnie’s bosom panted, and she put her hand upon it to hide the swift
rise and fall. Right well she knew that Mr Beer was wrong, and though
the superscription of the letter spread in a scrawling hand quite unlike
Daniel’s yet her heart saw through the envelope and she felt that the
letter came from her husband.
“Let me have it,” she said. “I’ll tell you what’s to tell to-morrow.”
“Why not read it now?” he asked as he handed the letter to her.
“Time enough. Now take the pony, an’ thank you, an’ good-night.”
Soon she was alone, but Minnie ate no supper that night, for another sort
of feast awaited her. She read the long letter thrice from end to end;
then, finding that the hour was nine o’clock, and the fireless cottage
had grown very cold, she went to bed, and read the letter three times
more by candle light. After that the candle suddenly went out, so she
cuddled her soft bosom to the pages and slept with them against a happy
heart.