THE BAYING OF THE HOUNDS
Out amongst the broken fragments of the storm, on the hill-top and down
the rain-drenched lane, Macheson sought in vain by physical exertion to
still the fever which burned in his veins. Nothing he could do was able
to disturb that wonderful memory, to lessen for an instant the
significance of those few amazing seconds. The world of women, all the
lighter and quieter joys of life, he had, with the fierce asceticism of
the young reformer, thrust so resolutely behind him. But he had never
imagined anything like this! Its unexpectedness had swept him off his
feet. The memory of it was most delicious torture!
Sleep?--he dared not think of it. Who could sleep with such a fire in
his blood as this? He heard the storm die away, thunder and wind and
rain melted into the deep stillness of midnight. A dim moon shone behind
a veil of mist. The dripping of rain from the trees alone remained. Then
he heard a footstep coming down the lane. His first wild thought was
that she had returned. His eyes burned their way through the darkness.
Soon he saw that it was a man who came unsteadily, but swiftly, down
the roadway.
Macheson leaned over the gate. He would have preferred not to disclose
himself, but as the man passed, he was stricken with a sudden
consciousness that for him the events of the night were not yet over.
This was no villager; he had not even the appearance of an Englishman.
He was short and inclined to be thick-set, his coat collar was turned
up, and a tweed cap was drawn down to his eyes. He walked with uneven
footsteps and muttered to himself words that sounded like words of
prayer, only they were in some foreign language. Macheson accosted him.
"Hullo!" he said. "Have you lost your way?"
The man cried out and then stood still, trembling on the roadside. He
turned a white, scared face to where Macheson was leaning against the
gate.
"Who is that?" he cried. "What do you want with me?"
Macheson stepped into the lane.
"Nothing at all," he answered reassuringly. "I simply thought that you
might have lost your way. These are lonely parts."
The newcomer drew a step nearer. He displayed a small ragged beard, a
terror-stricken face, and narrow, very bright eyes. His black clothes
were soaked and splashed with mud.
"I want a railway station," he said rapidly. "Where is the nearest?"
Macheson pointed into the valley.
"Just where you see that light burning," he answered, "but there will
be no trains till the morning."
"Then I must walk," the man declared feverishly. "How far is it to
Nottingham?"
"Twenty-five miles," Macheson answered.
"Too far! And Leicester?"
"Twelve, perhaps! But you are walking in the wrong direction."
The man turned swiftly round.
"Point towards Leicester," he said. "I shall find my way."
Macheson pointed across the trees.
"You can't miss it," he declared. "Climb the hill till you get to a road
with telegraph wires. Turn to the left, and you will walk into
Leicester."
For some reason the stranger seemed to be occupied in looking earnestly
into Macheson's face.
"What are you doing here?" he asked abruptly.
"I am close to where I am staying," Macheson answered. "Just in the wood
there."
The man took a quick step forwards and then reeled. His hand flew to his
side. He was attacked by sudden faintness and would have fallen, but for
Macheson's outstretched arm.
"God!" he muttered, "it is finished."
He was obviously on the verge of a collapse. Macheson dragged him into
the shelter and poured brandy between his teeth. He revived a little and
tried to rise.
"I must go on," he cried. "I dare not stay here."
The terror in his face was unmistakable. Macheson looked at him gravely.
"You had better stay where you are till morning," he said. "You are not
in a fit state to travel."
The man had raised himself upon one arm. He looked wildly about him.
"Where am I?" he demanded. "What is this place?"
"It is a gamekeeper's shelter," Macheson answered, "which I am making
use of for a few days. You are welcome to stay here until the morning."
"I must go on," the man moaned. "I am afraid."
Almost as he uttered the words he fell back, and went off immediately
into an uneasy doze. Macheson threw his remaining rug over the prostrate
figure, and, lighting his pipe, strolled out into the spinney. The man's
coming filled him with a vague sense of trouble. He seemed so utterly
out of keeping with the place, he represented an alien and undesirable
note--a note almost of tragedy. All the time in his broken sleep he was
muttering to himself. Once or twice he cried out in terror, once
especially--Macheson turned round to find him sitting up on the rug, his
brown eyes full of wild fear, and the perspiration running down his
face. A stream of broken words flowed from his lips. Macheson thrust him
back on the rug.
"Go to sleep," he said. "There is nothing to be afraid of."
After that the man slept more soundly. Macheson himself dozed for an
hour until he was awakened by the calling of the birds. Directly he
opened his eyes he knew that something had happened to him. It was not
only the music of the birds--there was a strange new music stirring in
his heart. The pearly light in the eastern sky had never seemed so
beautiful; never, surely, had the sunlight streamed down upon so perfect
a corner of the earth. And then, with a quick rush of blood to his
cheeks, he remembered what it was that had so changed the world. He
lived again through that bewildering moment, again he felt the delicious
warmth of her presence, the touch of her hair as it had brushed his
cheek, the soft passionate pressure of her lips against his. It was
like an episode from a fairy story, there was something so delicate,
so altogether fanciful in that flying visit. Something, too, so
unbelievable when he thought of her as the mistress of Thorpe, the
languid, insolent woman of the world who had treated him so coldly.
Then a movement behind reminded him of his strange visitor. He turned
round. The man was already on his feet. He looked better for his sleep,
but the wild look was still in his eyes.
"I must go," he said. "I ought to have started before. Thank you for
your shelter."
Macheson reached out for his spirit lamp.
"Wait a few minutes," he said, "and I will have some coffee ready."
The man hesitated. He looked sorely in need of something of the sort. As
he came to the opening of the shelter, the trembling seized him again.
He looked furtively out as though he feared the daylight. The sunshine
and the bright open day seemed to terrify him.
"I ought to have gone on last night," he muttered. "I must----"
He broke off his sentence. Macheson, too, had turned his head to listen.
"What is that?" he asked sharply.
"The baying of dogs," Macheson answered.
"Dogs! What dogs?" he demanded.
"Colonel Harvey's bloodhounds!"
The man's face was ashen now to the lips. He clutched Macheson's arm
frantically.
"They are after me!" he exclaimed. "Where can I hide? Tell me quick!"
Macheson looked at him gravely.
"What have you been doing?" he asked. "They do not bring bloodhounds out
for nothing."
"I have hurt a man down in the village," was the terrified answer. "I
didn't mean to--no! I swear that I did not mean to. I went to his house
and I asked him for money. I had a right to it! And I asked him to tell
me where--but oh! you would not understand. Listen! I swear to you that
I did not mean to hurt him. Why should I? He was old, and I think he
fainted. God! do you hear that?"
He clung to Macheson in a frenzy. The deep baying of the dogs was coming
nearer and nearer.
"Listen," Macheson said, "the dogs will not be allowed to hurt you, but
if you are loose I promise that I will protect you from them. You had
better wait here with me."
The man fell upon his knees.
"Sir," he begged, "I am innocent of everything except a blow struck in
anger. Help me to escape, I implore you. There are others who will
suffer--if anything happens to me."
"The law is just," Macheson answered. "You will suffer nothing except
justice."
"I want mercy, not justice," the man sobbed. "For the love of God, help
me!"
Macheson hesitated. Again the early morning stillness was broken by that
hoarse, terrifying sound. His sporting instincts were aroused. He had
small sympathy with the use of such means against human beings.
"I will give you a chance," he said. "Remember it is nothing more.
Follow me!"
He led the way to the slate pit.
"Can you swim?" he asked.
"Yes!" the man answered.
"This is where I take my morning bath," Macheson said. "You will see
that though you can scramble down and dive in, it is too precipitous to
get out. Therefore, I have fixed up a rope on the other side--it goes
through those bushes, and is attached to the trunk of a tree beneath the
bracken. If you swim across, you can pull yourself out of the water and
hide just above the water in the bushes. There is just a chance that you
may escape observation."
Already he was on his way down, but Macheson stopped him.
"I shall leave a suit of dry clothes in the shelter," he said. "If they
should give up the chase you are welcome to them. Now you had better
dive. They are in the spinney."
The man went in, after the fashion of a practised diver. Macheson turned
round and retraced his steps towards his temporary dwelling-house.