I shall always say, always think, it was a curious thing we chanced to
go that day, of all days, to Pigeon Green. It is not chance that brings
about these strange coincidences.
"There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will."
Pigeon Green, a small colony of a dozen houses, formed a triangle, as
may be said, with Timberdale and Evesham, being a few miles distant from
each. Old Mr. and Mrs. Beele, life-long friends of the Squire, lived
here. Their nephew had brought his newly-married wife from London to
show her to them, and we were all invited to dinner. As the Squire did
not care to be out in the dark, his sight not being what it used to be,
the dinner-hour was fixed for two o'clock. We started in the large open
phaeton, the Squire driving his favourite horses, Bob and Blister. It
was the nineteenth of October. Mrs. Todhetley complained of the cold
as we went along. The lovely weather of September had left us; early
winter seemed to be setting in with a vengeance. The easterly wind was
unusually high, and the skies were leaden.
On this same wintry morning Mr. St. George left Timberdale in his gig
for Worcester, accompanied by Ellin Delorane. St. George had business to
transact with Philip West, a lawyer, who was Mr. Delorane's agent in
Worcester. Philip West lived in the Foregate Street, his offices being
in the same house. Ellin was very intimate with his wife, formerly Mary
Coney, and was invited to spend a few days with her. It was Aunt Hester
who had urged the acceptance of this invitation: seeing that Ellin was
nervous at the non-arrival of her lover, William Brook, was peeping into
the newspapers for accounts of shipwrecks and other calamities at sea.
So they set off after breakfast, Ellin well wrapped up, in this stylish
gig of Mr. St. George's. There are gigs and gigs, you know, and I assure
you some gigs were yet fashionable vehicles in those days.
It was bitterly cold. St. George, remarking that they should have snow
as soon as the high wind would let it come down, urged his handsome
grey horse to a fleet pace, and they soon reached Worcester. He drove
straight to Foregate Street, which lay at the other end of the town, set
down Ellin, and then went back again to leave his horse and gig at the
Hare and Hounds in College Street, the inn at which he generally put up,
retracing his steps on foot to Mr. West's.
And now I must return to ourselves.
After a jolly dinner at two o'clock with the Beeles, and a jolly dessert
after it, including plenty of fresh filberts and walnuts, and upon
that a good cup of tea and some buttered toast, we began to think about
getting home. When the phaeton came round, the Squire remarked that
it was half-an-hour later than he had meant to start; upon which, old
Beele laid the fault of its looking late to the ungenial weather of the
evening.
We drove off. Dusk was approaching; the leaden skies looked dark and
sullen, the wind, unpleasantly high all day, had increased to nearly a
hurricane. It roared round our heads, it whistled wildly through the
trees and hedges, it shook the very ears of Bob and Blister; the few
flakes of snow or sleet beginning then to fall were whirled about in
the air like demons. It was an awful evening, no mistake about that;
and a very unusual one for the middle of October.
The Squire faced the storm as well as he could, his coat-collar turned
up, his cloth cap, kept for emergencies in a pocket of the carriage,
tied down well on his ears. Mrs. Todhetley tied a knitted grey shawl
right over her bonnet. We, in the back seat, had much ado to keep our
hats on: I sat right behind the Squire, Tod behind Mrs. Todhetley. It
was about the worst drive I remember. The wild wind, keen as a knife,
stung our faces, and seemed at times as if it would whirl us, carriage
and horses and all, in the air, as it was whirling the sleet and snow.
Tod stood up to speak to his father. "Shall I drive, sir?" he asked.
"Perhaps you would be more sheltered if you sat here behind."
Tod's driving in those days was regarded by the Squire with remarkable
disparagement, and Tod received only a sharp answer--which could not be
heard for the wind.
We got along somehow in the teeth of the storm. The route lay chiefly
through by-ways, solitary and unfrequented, not in the good, open
turnpike-roads. For about a mile, midway between Pigeon Green and
Timberdale, was an ultra dreary spot; dreary in itself and dreary in its
associations. It was called Dip Lane, possibly because the ground dipped
there so much that it lay in a hollow; overgrown dark elm-trees grew
thickly on each side of it, their branches nearly meeting overhead. In
the brightest summer's day the place was gloomy, so you may guess how it
looked now.
But the downward dip and the dark elm-trees did not constitute all the
dreariness of Dip Lane. Many years before, a murder had been committed
there. The Squire used to tell us of the commotion it caused, all the
gentlemen for miles and miles round bestirring themselves to search out
the murderers. He himself was a little fellow of five or six years old,
and could just remember what a talk it made. A wealthy farmer, belated,
riding through the lane from market one dark night, was attacked and
pulled from his horse. The assailants beat him to death, rifled his
pockets of a large sum, for he had been selling stock, and dragged him
_through the hedge_, making a large gap in it. Across the field, near
its opposite side, was the round, deep stagnant piece of water known as
Dip Pond (popularly supposed to be too deep to have any bottom to it);
and it was conjectured that the object of the murderers, in dragging him
through the hedge, was to conceal the body beneath the dark and slimy
water, and that they must have been disturbed by some one passing in the
lane. Any way, the body was found in the morning lying in the field
a few yards from the gap in the hedge, pockets turned inside out, and
watch and seals gone. The poor frightened horse had made its way home,
and stayed whinnying by the stable-door all night.
The men were never found. A labourer, hastening through the lane earlier
in the evening, with some medicine from the doctor's for his sick wife,
had noticed two foot-pads, as he described them, standing under a tree.
That these were the murderers, then waiting for prey, possibly for this
very gentleman they attacked, no one had any doubt; but they were never
traced. Whoever they were, they got clear off with their booty, and--the
Squire would always add when telling the story to a stranger--with
their wicked consciences, which he sincerely hoped tormented them ever
afterwards.
But the most singular fact in the affair remains to be told. From
that night nothing would grow on the spot in the hedge over which
the murdered man was dragged, and on which his blood had fallen. The
blood-stains were easily got rid of, but the hedge, though replanted
more than once, never grew again; and the gap remained in it still.
Report went that the farmer's ghost haunted it--that, I am sure, you
will not be surprised to hear, ghosts being so popular--and might be
seen hovering around it on a moonlit night.
And amidst the many small coincidences attending the story (my story)
which I am trying to place clearly before you, was this one: that the
history of the murder was gone over that day at Mr. Beele's. Some remark
led to the subject as we sat round the dessert-table, and Mrs. Frank
Beele, who had never heard of it, inquired what it was. Upon that, the
Squire and old Beele recounted it to her, each ransacking his memory to
help the other with fullest particulars.
To go on with our homeward journey. Battling along, we at length
plunged into Dip Lane--which, to its other recommendations, added that
of being inconveniently narrow--and Tod, peering outwards in the gloomy
dusk, fancied he saw some vehicle before us. Bringing his keen sight to
bear upon it, he stood up to reconnoitre, and made it out to be a gig,
going the same way that we were. The wind was not quite so bad in this
low spot, and the snow and sleet had ceased for a bit.
"Take care, father," said Tod: "there's a gig on ahead."
"A gig, Joe?"
"Yes, it's a gig: and going at a strapping pace."
But the Squire was going at a strapping pace also, and driving two fresh
horses, whereas the gig had but one horse. We caught it up in no time.
It slackened speed slightly as it drew close to the hedge on that side,
to give us room to pass. In a moment we saw it was St. George's gig, St.
George driving.
"Halloa!" called Tod, as we shot by, and his shout was loud enough
to frighten the ghost at the gap, which lively spot we were fast
approaching, "there's William Brook! Father, pull up: there's William
Brook!"
Brook was sitting with St. George. His coat was well buttoned up,
a white woollen comforter folded round his neck and chin, and a
low-crowned, wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his brows. I confess
that but for Tom's shout I should not have recognized him--muffled up
in that way.
Anxious to get home, out of the storm, the Squire paid no heed to Tod's
injunction of pulling up. He just turned his head for a moment towards
the gig, but drove on at the same speed as before. All we could do was
to call out every welcome we could think of to William Brook as we
looked back, and to pull off our hats and wave them frantically.
William Brook pulled off his, and waved it to us in return. _I saw him
do it._ He called out something also, no doubt a greeting. At least, I
thought he did; but the wind swept by with a gust at the moment, and it
might have been St. George's voice and not his.
"Johnny, lad, it's better than nuts," cried Tod to me, all excitement
for once, as he fixed his hat on his head again. "How glad I am!--for
Nelly's sake. But what on earth brings the pair of them--he and St.
George--in Dip Lane?"
Another minute or so, and we reached the gap in the hedge. I turned
my eyes to it and to the pond beyond it in a sort of fascination; I
was sure to do so whenever I went by, but that was seldom; and the
conversation at the dessert-table had opened the wretched details
afresh. Almost immediately afterwards, the gig wheels behind us, which I
could hear above the noise of the wind, seemed to me to come to a sudden
standstill. "St. George has stopped," I exclaimed to Tod. "Not a bit of
it," answered he; "we can no longer hear him." Almost close upon that,
we passed the turning which led out of the lane towards Evesham. Not
heeding anything of all this, as indeed why should he, the Squire dashed
straight onwards, and in time we gained our homestead, Crabb Cot.
The first thing the Squire did, when we were all gathered round the
welcome fire, blazing and crackling with wood and coal, and the stormy
blasts beat on the window-panes, but no longer upon us, was to attack us
for making that noise in Dip Lane, and for shouting out that it was
Brook.
"It was Brook, father," said Tod. "St. George was driving him."
"Nonsense, Joe," reprimanded the Squire. "William Brook has not landed
from the high seas yet. And, if he had landed, what should bring him in
Dip Lane--or St. George either?"
"It was St. George," persisted Tod.
"Well, that might have been. It looked like his grey horse. Where was he
coming from, I wonder?"
"Mr. St. George went to Worcester this morning, sir," interposed Thomas,
who had come in with some glasses, the Squire having asked for some hot
brandy-and-water. "Giles saw his man Japhet this afternoon, and he said
his master had gone off in his gig to Worcester for the day."
"Then he must have picked up Brook at Worcester," said Tod, in his
decisive way.
"May be so," conceded the Squire, coming round to reason. "But I don't
see what they could be doing in Dip Lane."
* * * * *
The storm had disappeared the following morning, but the ground was
white with a thin coating of snow; and in the afternoon, when we started
for Timberdale to call on William Brook, the sky was blue and the sun
shining. Climbing up from the Ravine and crossing the field beyond it to
the high-road, we met Darbyshire, the surgeon, striding along as fast as
his legs would carry him.
"You seem to be in a hurry," remarked the Squire.
"Just sent for to a sick patient over yonder," replied Darbyshire,
nodding to some cottages in the distance. "Dying, the report is;
supposed to have swallowed poison. Dare say it will turn out to be a
case of cucumber."
He was speeding on when Tod asked whether he had seen William Brook
yet. Darbyshire turned to face him, looking surprised.
"Seen Brook yet! No; how should I see him? Brook's not come, is he?"
"He got home last night. St. George drove him from Worcester in his
gig," said Tod, and went on to explain that we had passed them in Dip
Lane. Darbyshire was uncommonly pleased. Brook was a favourite of his.
"I am surprised that I have not seen him," he cried; "I have been about
all the morning. St. George was in Worcester yesterday, I know. Wonder,
though, what induced them to make a pilgrimage through Dip Lane!"
Just, you see, as the rest of us had wondered.
We went on towards Mrs. Brook's. But in passing Mr. Delorane's, Aunt
Hester's head appeared above the Venetian blind of the dining-room. She
began nodding cordially.
"How lively she looks," exclaimed the Squire. "Pleased that he is back,
I take it. Suppose we go in?"
The front-door was standing open, and we went in unannounced. Aunt
Hester, sitting then at the little work-table, making herself a cap with
lace and pink ribbons, got up and tried to shake hands with all three of
us at once.
"We are on our way to call on William Brook," cried the Squire, as we
sat down, and Aunt Hester was taking up her work again.
"On William Brook!--why, what do you mean?" she exclaimed. "Has he
come?"
"You don't mean to say you did not know it--that he has not been to see
you?" cried the Squire.
"I don't know a thing about it; I did not know he had come; no one has
told me," rejoined Aunt Hester. "As to his coming to see me--well, I
suppose he would not feel himself at liberty to do that until Mr.
Delorane gave permission. When did he arrive? I am so glad."
"And he is not much behind his time, either," observed Tod.
"Not at all behind it, to speak of, only we were impatient. The truth
is, I caught somewhat of Ellin's fears," added Aunt Hester, looking at
us over her spectacles, which she rarely wore higher than the end of her
nose. "Ellin has had gloomy ideas about his never coming back at all;
and one can't see a person perpetually sighing away in silence, without
sighing a bit also for company. Did he get here this morning? What a
pity Ellin is in Worcester!"
We told Aunt Hester all about it, just as we had told Darbyshire, but
not quite so curtly, for she was not in a hurry to be off to a poisoned
patient. She dropped her work to listen, and took off her spectacles,
looking, however, uncommonly puzzled.
"What a singular thing--that you should chance to have been in Dip Lane
just at the time they were!--and why should they have chosen that dreary
route! But--but----"
"But what, ma'am?" cried the Squire.
"Well, I am thinking what could have been St. George's motive for
concealing the news from me when he came round here last night to tell
me he had left Ellin safely at Philip West's," replied she.
"Did he say nothing to you about William Brook?"
"Not a word. He said what a nasty drive home it had been in the teeth
of the storm and wind, but he did not mention William Brook. He seemed
tired, and did not stay above a minute or two. John was out. Oh, here is
John."
Mr. Delorane, hearing our voices, I suppose, came in from the office.
Aunt Hester told him the news at once--that William Brook was come home.
"I am downright glad," interrupted the lawyer emphatically. "What with
one delay and another, one might have begun to think him lost: it was
September, you know, that he originally announced himself for. What
do you say?"--his own words having partly drowned Aunt Hester's--"St.
George drove him home last night from Worcester? Drove Brook? Nonsense!
Had St. George brought Brook he would have told me of it."
"But he did bring him, sir," affirmed Tod: and he went over the history
once more. Mr. Delorane did not take it in.
"Are these lads playing a joke upon me, Squire?" asked he.
"Look here, Delorane. That we passed St. George in Dip Lane is a fact;
I knew the cut of his gig and horse. Some one was with him; I saw that
much. The boys called out that it was William Brook, and began shouting
to him. Whether it was he, or not, I can't say; I had enough to do
with my horses, I can tell you; they did not like the wind, Blister
especially."
"It was William Brook, safe enough, sir," interposed Tod. "Do you think
I don't know him? We spoke to him, and he spoke to us. Why should you
doubt it?"
"Well, I suppose I can't doubt it, as you speak so positively," said Mr.
Delorane. "The news took me by surprise, you see. Why on earth did St.
George not tell me of it? I shall take him to task when he comes in. Any
way, I am glad Brook's come. We will drink his health."
He opened what was in those days called the cellaret--and a very
convenient article it was for those who drank wine as a rule--and put on
the table some of the glasses that were standing on the sideboard. Then
we drank health and happiness to William Brook.
"And to some one else also," cried bold Tod, winking at Aunt Hester.
"You two boys can go on to Mrs. Brook's," cried the Squire; "I shall
stop here a bit. Tell William I am glad he has surmounted the perils of
the treacherous seas."
"And tell him he may come to see me if he likes," added the lawyer. "I
expect he did not get a note I wrote to him a few months back, or he'd
have been here this morning."
Away we went to Mrs. Brook's. And the first thing that flabbergasted us
(the expression was Tod's, not mine) was to be met by a denial of the
servant's. Upon Tod asking to see Mr. William, she stared at us and said
he was not back from his travels.
"Come in," called out Minty from the parlour; "I know your voices." She
sat at the table, her paint-box before her. Minty painted very nice
pieces in water-colours: the one in process was a lovely bit of scenery
taken from Little Malvern. Mrs. Brook was out.
"What did I hear you saying to Ann about William--that he had come
home?" she began to us, without getting up from her work--for we were
too intimate to be upon any ceremony with one another. "He is not come
yet. I only wish he was."
"But he is come," said Tod. "He came last night. We saw him and spoke to
him."
Minty put down her camel-hair pencil then, and turned round. "What do
you mean?" she asked.
"Mr. St. George drove William home from Worcester. We passed them in the
gig in Dip Lane."
Minty retorted by asking whether we were not dreaming; and for a minute
or two we kept at cross-purposes. She held to it that they had seen
nothing of her brother; that he was not at Timberdale.
"Mamma never had a wink of sleep last night, for thinking of the
dreadful gale William must be in at sea. Your fancy misled you," went on
Minty, calmly touching-up the cottage in her painting--and Tod looked as
if he would like to beat her.
But it did really seem that William had not come, and we took our
departure. I don't think I had ever seen Tod look so puzzled.
"I wish I may be shot if I can understand this!" said he.
"Could we have been mistaken in thinking it was Brook?" I was beginning;
and Tod turned upon me savagely.
"I swear it was Brook. There! And you know it as well as I, Mr. Johnny.
Where can he be hiding himself? What is the meaning of it?"
It is my habit always to try to account for things that seem
unaccountable; to search out reasons and fathom them; and you would be
surprised at the light that will sometimes crop up. An idea flashed
across me now.
"Can Brook be ill, Tod, think you?--done up with his voyage, or
something--and St. George is nursing him at his house for a day or two
before he shows himself to Timberdale?" And Tod thought it might be so.
Getting back to Mr. Delorane's, we found him and the Squire sitting at
the table still. St. George, just come in, was standing by, hat in hand,
and they were both tackling him at once.
"_What_ do you say?" asked St. George of his master, when he found room
for a word. "That I brought William Brook home here last night from
Worcester! Why, what can have put such a thing into your head, sir?"
"_Didn't_ you bring him?" cried the Squire. "Didn't you drive him home
in your gig?"
"That I did not. I have not seen William Brook."
He spoke in a ready, though surprised tone, not at all like one who is
shuffling with the truth, or telling a fable, and looked from one to
another of his two questioners, as if not yet understanding them. The
Squire pushed his spectacles to the top of his brow and stared at St.
George. He did not understand, either.
"Look here, St. George: do you deny that it was you we passed in Dip
Lane last night--and your grey horse--and your gig?"
"Why should I deny it?" quietly returned St. George. "I drew as close
as I could to the hedge as a matter of precaution to let you go by,
Squire, you were driving so quickly. And a fine shouting you greeted me
with," he added, turning to Tod, with a slight laugh.
"The greeting was not intended for you; it was for William Brook,"
answered Tod, his voice bearing a spice of antagonism; for he thought he
was being played with.
St. George was evidently at a loss yet, and stood in silence. All in a
moment, his face lighted up.
"Surely," he cried impulsively, "you did not take that man in the gig
for William Brook!"
"It was William Brook. Who else was it?"
"A stranger. A stranger to me and to the neighbourhood. A man to whom
I gave a lift."
Tod's face presented a picture. Believing, as he did still, that it
was Brook in the gig, the idea suggested by me--that St. George was
concealing Brook at his house out of good-fellowship--grew stronger and
stronger. But he considered that, as it had come to this, St. George
ought to say so.
"Where's the use of your continuing to deny it, St. George?" he asked.
"You had Brook there, and you know you had."
"But I tell you that it was not Brook," returned St. George. "Should I
deny it, if it had been he? You talk like a child."
"Has Brook been away so long that we shouldn't know him, do you
suppose?" retorted quick-tempered Tod. "Why! as a proof that it was
Brook, he shouted back his greeting to us, taking off his hat to wave
it in answer to ours. Would a strange man have done that?"
"The man did nothing of the kind," said St. George.
"Yes, he did," I said, thinking it was time I spoke. "He called back a
greeting to us, and he waved his hat round and round. I should not have
felt so sure it was Brook but for seeing him without his hat."
"Well, I did not see him do it," conceded St. George. "When you began
to shout in passing the man seemed surprised. 'What do those people
want?' he said to me; and I told him you were acquaintances of mine. It
never occurred to my mind, or to his either, I should imagine, but that
the shouts were meant for me. If he did take off his hat in response,
as you say, he must have done it, I reckon, because I did not take off
mine."
"Couldn't you hear our welcome to him? Couldn't you hear us call him
'Brook'?" persisted Tod.
"I did not distinguish a single word. The wind was too high for that."
"Then we are to understand that Brook has not come back: that you did
not bring him?" interposed the Squire. "Be quiet, Joe; can't you see you
were mistaken? I told you you were, you know, at the time. You and
Johnny are for ever taking up odd notions, Johnny especially."
"The man was a stranger to me," spoke St. George. "I overtook him
trudging along the road, soon after leaving Worcester; it was between
Red Hill and the turning to Whittington. He accosted me, asking which of
the two roads before us would take him to Evesham. I told him which, and
was about to drive on when it occurred to me that I might as well offer
to give the man a lift: it was an awful evening, and that's the truth:
one that nobody would, as the saying runs, turn a dog out in. He thanked
me, and got up; and I drove him as far as----"
"Then that's what took you round by Dip Lane, St. George?" interrupted
Mr. Delorane.
"That's what took me round by Dip Lane," acquiesced St. George, slightly
smiling; "and which seems to have led to this misapprehension. But don't
give my humanity more credit than it deserves. Previously to this I had
been debating in my own mind whether to take the round, seeing what a
journey was before me. It was about the wildest night I ever was out
in, the horse could hardly make head against the wind, and I thought we
might feel it less in the small and more sheltered by-ways than in the
open road. Taking up the traveller decided me."
"You put him down in Dip Lane, at the turning that leads to Evesham,"
remarked the Squire.
"Yes, I put him down there. It was just after you passed us. He thanked
me heartily, and walked on; and I drove quickly home, glad enough to
reach it. Who he was, or what he was, I do not know, and did not ask."
Tod was still in a quandary; his countenance betrayed it. "Did you
notice that he resembled William Brook, St. George?"
"No. It did not strike me that he resembled any one. His face was well
wrapped up from the cold, and I did not get a clear view of it: I am not
sure that I should know it again. I should know his voice, though," he
added quickly.
Poor Aunt Hester, listening to all this in dismay, felt the
disappointment keenly: the tears were stealing down her face. "And we
have been drinking his health, and--and feeling so thankful that he was
safely back again!" she murmured gently.
"Hang it, yes," added Mr. Delorane. "Well, well; I dare say a day or two
more will bring him. I must say I thought it odd that you should not
have mentioned it to me, St. George, if he had come."
"I should have thought it very odd, sir," spoke St. George.
"Will you take a glass of wine?"
"No, thank you; I have not time for it. Those deeds have to be gone
over, you know, sir, before post-time," replied St. George; and he left
the room.
"And if ever you two boys serve me such a trick again--bringing me over
with a cock-and-bull story that people have come back from sea who
haven't--I'll punish you," stuttered the Squire, too angry to speak
clearly.
We went away in humility; heads down, metaphorically speaking, tails
between legs. The Squire kept up the ball, firing away sarcastic
reproaches hotly.
Tod never answered. The truth was, he felt angry himself. Not with the
Squire, but with the affair altogether. Tod hated mystification, and
the matter was mystifying him utterly. With all his heart, with all the
sight of his eyes, he had believed it to be William Brook: and he could
not drive the conviction away, that it was Brook, and that St. George
was giving him house room.
"I don't like complications," spoke he resentfully.
"Complications!" retorted the Squire. "What complications are there
in this? None. You two lads must have been thinking of William Brook,
perhaps speaking of him, and so you thought you saw him. That's all
about it, Joe."
The complications were not at an end. A curious addition to them was at
hand. The Squire came to a halt at the turning to the Ravine, undecided
whether to betake himself home at once, or to make a call first at
Timberdale Court, to see Robert Ashton.
"I think we'll go there, lads," said he: "there's plenty of time. I
want to ask him how that squabble about the hunting arrangements has
been settled."
So we continued our way along the road, presently crossing it to take
the one in which the Court was situated: a large handsome house, lying
back on the right hand. Before gaining it, however, we had to pass the
pretty villa rented by Mr. St. George, its stable and coach-house and
dog-kennel beside it. The railway was on ahead; a train was shrieking
itself at that moment into the station.
St. George's groom and man-of-all-work, Japhet, was sweeping up the
leaves on the little lawn. Tod, who was in advance of us, put his arms
on the gate. "Are you going to make a bonfire with them?" asked he.
"There's enough for't, sir," answered Japhet. "I never see such a wind
as yesterday's," he ran on, dropping his besom to face Tod, for the man
was a lazy fellow, always ready for a gossip. "I'm sure I thought it 'ud
ha' blowed the trees down as well as the leaves."
"It was pretty strong," assented Tod, as I halted beside him, and the
Squire walked on towards the Court. "We were out in it--coming home from
Pigeon Green. There was one gust that I thought would have blown the
horses right over."
"The master, he were out in it, too, a coming home from Worcester,"
cried Japhet, taking off his old hat to push his red hair back. "When he
got in here, he said as he'd had enough on't for one journey. I should
think the poor horse had too; his coat were all wet."
Tod lifted up his head, speaking impulsively. "Was your master alone,
Japhet, when he got home? Had he any one with him?"
"Yes, he were all alone, sir," replied the man. "Miss Delorane were with
him when he drove off in the morning, but she stayed at Worcester."
Had Tod taken a moment for thought he might not have asked the question.
He had nothing of the sneak in him, and would have scorned to pump a
servant about his master's movements. The answer tended to destroy his
theory of Brook's being concealed here, and to uphold the account given
by Mr. St. George.
Quitting the railings, we ran to catch up the Squire. And at that
moment two or three railway passengers loomed into view, coming from the
train. One of them was Ellin Delorane.
She came along briskly, with a buoyant step and a smiling face. The
Squire dropped us a word of caution.
"Now don't go telling her of your stupid fancy about Brook, you two: it
would only cause her disappointment." And with the last word we met her.
"Ah ha, Miss Ellin!" he exclaimed, taking her hands. "And so the
truant's back again!"
"Yes, he is back again," she softly whispered, with a blush that was
deep in colour.
The Squire did not quite catch the words. She and he were at
cross-purposes. "We have but now left your house, my dear," he
continued. "Your aunt does not expect you back to-day; she thought you
would stay at Worcester till Saturday."
Ellin smiled shyly. "Have you seen him?" she asked in the same soft
whisper.
"Seen whom, my dear?"
"Mr. Brook."
"Mr. Brook! Do you mean _William_ Brook? He is not back, is he?"
"Yes, he is back," she answered. "I thought you might have seen him: you
spoke of the return of the truant."
"Why, child, I meant you," explained the Squire. "Nobody else. Who says
William Brook is back?"
"Oh, I say it," returned Ellin, her cheeks all rosy dimples. "He reached
Worcester yesterday."
"And where is he now?" cried the Squire, feeling a little at sea.
"He is here, at Timberdale," answered Ellin. "Mr. St. George drove him
home last night."
"There!" cried Tod with startling emphasis. "There, father, please not
to disparage my sight any more."
Well, what do you think of this for another complication? It took me
aback. The Squire rubbed his face, and stared.
"My dear, just let us understand how the land lies," said he, putting
his hand on Ellin's shoulder. "Do you say that William Brook reached
Worcester yesterday on his return, and that St. George drove him home
here at night?"
"Yes," replied Ellin. "Why should you doubt it? It is true."
"Well, we thought St. George did drive him home," was the Squire's
answer, staring into her face; "we passed his gig in Dip Lane and
thought that it was Brook that he had with him. But St. George denies
this. He says it was not Brook; that he has not seen Brook, does not
know he has come home; he says the man he had with him was a stranger,
to whom he was giving a lift."
Ellin looked grave for a moment; then the smiles broke out again.
"St. George must have been joking," she cried; "he cannot mean it. He
happened to be at Worcester Station yesterday when Mr. Brook arrived by
the Birmingham train: we suppose he then offered to drive him home. Any
way, he did do it."
"But St. George denied that he did, Ellin," I said.
"He will not deny it to me, Johnny. Gregory West, returning from a visit
to some client at Spetchley, met them in the gig together."
The Squire listened as a man dazed. "I can't make head or tail of it,"
cried he. "What does St. George mean by denying that he brought Brook?
And where _is_ Brook?"
"Has no one seen him?" questioned Ellin.
"Not a soul, apparently. Ellin, my girl," added the Squire, "we will
walk back with you to your father's, and get this cleared up. Come
along, boys."
So back we went to turn the tables upon St. George, Tod in a rapture of
gratification. You might have thought he was treading upon eggs.
We had it out this time in Mr. Delorane's private office; the Squire
walked straight into it. Not but that "having it out" must be regarded
as a figure of speech, for elucidation seemed farther off than before,
and the complications greater.
Mr. Delorane and his head-clerk were both bending over the same
parchment when we entered. Ellin kissed her father, and turned to St.
George.
"Why have you been saying that you did not drive home William Brook?"
she asked as they shook hands.
"A moment, my dear; let me speak," interrupted the Squire, who never
believed any one's explanation could be so lucid as his own. "Delorane,
I left you just now with an apology for having brought to you a
cock-and-bull story through the misleading fancies of these boys; but
we have come back again to tell you the story's true. Your daughter
here says that it was William Brook that St. George had in his gig.
And perhaps Mr. St. George"--giving that gentleman a sharp nod--"will
explain what he meant by denying it?"
"I denied it because it was not he," said Mr. St. George, not appearing
to be in the least put out. "How can I tell you it was Brook when it was
not Brook? If it had been----"
"You met William Brook at the Worcester railway-station yesterday
afternoon," interrupted Ellin. "Mrs. James Ashton saw you there; saw
the meeting. You _were_ at the station, were you not?"
"I was at the station," readily replied St. George, "and Mrs. James
Ashton may have seen me there, for all I know--I did not see her. But
she certainly did not see William Brook. Or, if she did, I didn't."
"Gregory West saw you and him in your gig together later, when you were
leaving Worcester," continued Ellin. "It was at the top of Red Hill."
St. George shook his head. "The person I had in my gig was a stranger.
Had Gregory West come up one minute earlier he would have seen me take
the man into it."
"William _has_ come," persisted Ellin.
"I don't say he has not," returned St. George. "All I can say is that I
did not know he had come and that I have not seen him."
Who was right, and who was wrong? Any faces more hopelessly puzzled than
the two old gentlemen's were, as they listened to these contradictory
assertions, I'd not wish to see. Nothing came of the interview; nothing
but fresh mystification. Ellin declared William Brook had arrived, had
been driven out of Worcester for Timberdale in St. George's gig. We felt
equally certain we had passed them in Dip Lane, sitting together in the
gig; but St. George denied it in toto, affirming that the person with
him was a stranger.
And perhaps it may be as well if I here say a word about the routes.
Evesham lay fifteen miles from Worcester; Timberdale not much more
than half that distance, in a somewhat different direction, and on a
different road. In going to Timberdale, if when about half-way there you
quitted the high-road for by-ways you would come to Dip Lane. Traversing
nearly the length of the lane, you would then come to a by-way leading
from it on the other side, which would bring you on the direct road to
Evesham, still far off. Failing to take this by-way leading to Evesham,
you would presently quit the lane, and by dint of more by-ways would
gain again the high-road and soon come to Timberdale. This is the route
that Mr. St. George took that night.
We went home from Mr. Delorane's, hopelessly mystified, the Squire
rubbing up his hair the wrong way; now blowing us both up for what he
called our "fancies" in supposing we saw William Brook, and now veering
round to the opposite opinion that we and Ellin must be alike correct in
saying Brook had come.
Ellin's account was this: she passed a pleasant morning with Mary West,
who was nearly always more or less of an invalid. At half-past one
o'clock dinner was served; Philip West, his younger brother Gregory, who
had recently joined him, and Mr. St. George coming in from the office
to partake of it. Dinner over, they left the room, having no time to
linger. In fact, Gregory rose from table before he had well finished.
Mary West inquired what his haste was, and he replied that he was off to
Spetchley; some one had been taken ill there and wanted a will made. It
was Philip who ought to have gone, who had been sent for; but Philip had
an hour or two's business yet to do with Mr. St. George. Mrs. West told
St. George that she would have tea ready at five o'clock, that he might
drink a cup before starting for home.
Later on in the afternoon, when Ellin and Mrs. West were sitting over
the fire, talking of things past and present, and listening to the
howling of the wind, growing more furious every hour, James Ashton's
wife came in, all excitement. Her husband, in medical practice at
Worcester, was the brother of Robert Ashton of Timberdale. A very nice
young woman was Marianne Ashton, but given to an excited manner. Taking
no notice of Mrs. West, she flew to Ellin and began dancing round her
like a demented Red Indian squaw.
"What will you give me for my news, Ellin?"
"Now, Marianne!" remonstrated Mrs. West. "Do be sensible, if you can."
"Be quiet, Mary: I am sensible. Your runaway lover is come, Ellin; quite
safely."
They saw by her manner, heard by her earnest tone, that it was true.
William Brook had indeed come, was then in the town. Throwing off her
bonnet, and remarking that she meant to remain for tea, Mrs. James
Ashton sat down to tell her story soberly.
"You must know that I had to go up to the Shrub Hill Station this
afternoon," began she, "to meet the Birmingham train. We expected Patty
Silvester in by it; and James has been since a most unearthly hour this
morning with some cross-grained patient, who must needs go and be ill at
the wrong time. I went up in the brougham, and had hardly reached the
platform when the train came in. There was a good deal of confusion;
there always is, you know; passengers getting out and getting in. I ran
about looking for Patty, and found she had not come: taken fright at the
weather, I suppose. As the train cleared off, I saw a figure that seemed
familiar to me; it was William Brook; and I gave a glad cry that you
might have heard on the top of St. Andrew's spire. He was crossing the
line with others who had alighted, a small black-leather travelling-bag
in his hand. I was about to run over after him, when a porter stopped
me, saying a stray engine was on the point of coming up, to take on the
Malvern train. So, all I could do was to stand there, hoping he would
turn his head and see me. Well: just as he reached the opposite
platform, Mr. St. George stepped out of the station-master's office, and
I can tell you there was some shaking of hands between the two. There's
my story."
"And where is he now?"
"Oh, they are somewhere together, I suppose; on their way here perhaps,"
rejoined Mrs. James Ashton carelessly. "I lost sight of them: that
ridiculous stray engine the man spoke of puffed up at the minute, and
stopped right in front of me. When it puffed on again, leaving the way
clear, both he and St. George had vanished. So I got into the brougham
to bring you the news in advance, lest the sudden sight of William the
deserter should cause a fainting-fit."
Ellin, unable to control herself, burst into glad tears of relief. "You
don't know what a strain it has been," she said. And she sat listening
for his step on the stairs. But William Brook did not come.
At five o'clock punctually the tea was brought in, and waited for some
little time on the table. Presently Mr. West appeared. When they told
him he was late, he replied that he had lingered in the office expecting
Mr. St. George. St. George had left him some time before to go to the
Shrub Hill Station, having business to see to there, and had promised to
be back by tea-time. However, he was not back yet. Mr. West was very
glad to hear of the arrival of William Brook, and supposed St. George
was then with him.
Before the tea was quite over, Gregory West got back from Spetchley. He
told them that he had met St. George just outside the town, and that he
had a gentleman in his gig. He, Gregory West, who was in his brother's
gig, pulled up to ask St. George whether he was not going home earlier
than he had said. Yes, somewhat, St. George called back, without
stopping: when he had seen what sort of a night it was going to be, he
thought it best to be off as soon as he could.
"Of course it was William Brook that he had with him, Gregory!"
exclaimed Mary West, forgetting that her brother-in-law had never seen
William Brook.
"I cannot tell," was the only answer the young lawyer could give. "It
was a stranger to me: he wore a lightish-coloured over-coat and a white
comforter."
"That's he," said Mrs. James Ashton. "And he had on new tan-coloured kid
gloves: I noticed them. I think St. George might have brought him here,
in spite of the roughness of the night. He is jealous, Ellin."
They all laughed. But never a shadow of doubt rested on any one of their
minds that St. George was driving William Brook home to Timberdale. And
we, as you have heard, saw him, or thought we saw him, in Dip Lane.