THE RIDERLESS HORSE――CONSTERNATION AT STOKE FERRY FARMHOUSE――DISCOVERY
OF THE BODY OF THE MURDERED MAN.
There was not a merrier or more light-hearted girl than Patty Jamblin
in the whole county.
Her dulcet voice and ringing laugh brightened the old farmhouse like a
ray of sunshine.
No wonder, then, that she was her father’s pet; for, albeit she never
crossed him by word or deed, she mostly managed to have her own way.
But on this eventful evening Patty was sad and serious.
Whether the deep blow that was about to fall on her and the old farmer
had been by some strange mysterious influence foreshadowed, it is now
impossible to say.
Patty was dejected, and, indeed, it might be said, sorrowful――a
circumstance very unusual with her.
There are moments, however, when our hearts are open of their own
accord to melancholy impressions. This will occur at times to the most
vivacious of the human species. At such times a tone of music will
bring tears into our eyes, or some simple tale or sight of suffering
will fill us with presentiments of a terrible misfortune. Such
appeared to be the case with Patty Jamblin.
As the sun sank below the earth, and the curtain of darkness fell
softly over Stoke Ferry House, the nightingale pouring forth his first
sweet song, Patty dropped into her easy chair and covered her face
with her cold and trembling hands.
Her brother had not returned.
She watched and waited――waited anxiously. Something whispered to her
what was to happen next.
There are times when a quick succession of “next” is found merely
soothing; but there are times of reactionary languor when there is not
left force enough to watch when that which we attend to is the rhythm
only.
Thus we may find the ticking of a clock nothing――indeed, to mention
this is commonplace.
But what a dreadful effect may be produced upon the mind by the sudden
cessation of the ticking of the clock when once a certain experience
has to be gone through!
Who that has counted the beatings of a pulse or listened to the
flutterings of a breath, watching for the next and the next and the
next, and coming at last to the one which has no next, can bear
without agony to hear a watch or a clock stop ticking, or to hear any
rhythmical sound cease suddenly?
One of the most horrible moments in my life was a moment in which the
rhythmical noise of a common saw, heard over the parapet of a bridge
in London, stopped suddenly when I was listening for it. In the
distance the sound was softened; it had a sough with it which reminded
me very painfully of the sound of human breath, but when it ceased I
thought I could bear no more in this world, and longed to be at that
moment taken away.
Of course the emotion of that moment was imparted from my recollection
of a moment of which it was the symbol, but I think the cessation of
something with a beat in it has always a terror for me.
“Can you draw an inference?” said Coleridge to the clown. “Yes, sir,”
said the clown, “a cartload of them.”
That is the way with most of us. We are too eager to draw a cartload
of inferences, and when we find the inference will not be drawn we
suffer.
This was the case with Patty Jamblin. She was unable to draw an
inference as to what was to follow: she only knew that she was
depressed and distrustful.
There is a peculiarity about the next thing, remember――that it is sure
to happen, and what a blessing there is in certainty!
We know the difficulty of holding in check our tyrannical habitual
mode of passing on.
Every second of time in our experience throws out a pontoon bridge to
the next.
We live by a clock that has two sets of hands on the same dial-plate.
One is right and the other is always too fast.
Patty was sitting in the parlour. Sometimes she would start upright in
her chair and listen eagerly; then she would try to reproach herself
for expecting her brother Philip so soon.
He was detained, doubtless, had met with some friends, boon
companions, who had prevailed upon him to pass a social hour or so
with them.
She endeavoured to persuade herself that he was not able to return
from some cause which was not explained. It would, however, be made
manifest upon his return.
She felt that she must do something to break the monotony and suspense
which she endured, and which every minute became more painful.
She took from the book-case a volume, with which she strove to beguile
the tedium of her lonely hours. She read till her eyes ached, and then
she cast aside the book.
“Why am I thus troubled?” she murmured. “Philip has been from home
much later than this on many occasions. After all there is no reason
for alarm, but――but I do wish he would come home, and father is away
too, which makes me still more anxious.”
The poor girl sighed to herself as she glanced at the clock, the hour
hand of which pointed to eleven.
“I wish one of them would come back,” she exclaimed. “I’ve a good mind
to send for father, but he would only call me a little fool for my
pains, and yet he knows I am all by myself, and he ought to consider
that. I feel wretchedly lonely.”
She arose and went to the window.
The sky gathered over with clouds, and a cold wind muttered among the
branches of the trees, and strewed the ground with brown and yellow
leaves.
The clouds grew darker and heavier and rose towards the moon, which
was still shining brightly.
Poor Patty went again to the book-shelf and took another volume from
it at hazard.
It was a romance of the last century, written with exaggeration, but
with terrible force.
It was not calculated to solace the recluse in Stoke Ferry Farm; but
there was a fascination in its glowing pages, and Patty read on, her
eyes rivetted on the pages of the volume, which contained accounts of
murders and ghosts.
Her form stiffened like a sitting corpse; her eyes protruded; her lips
uttered low gasps at every gust of wind which shook the casement. She
started as if she had received an electric shook.
At last she could bear it no longer. The very words in the book seemed
to have become blood-red, and long black spots ran up and down the
page.
The farmer’s daughter was fairly overcome, and she let the volume fall
to the ground, and in the extremity of her fear ran to the window for
fresh air; she leant out, and looked up to the sky, listening.
Listening and watching for the next thing.
“Oh!” she murmured, pressing one hand against her side, “but this
suspense is dreadful――too dreadful to bear. Where can Philip be, and
father too? He ought not to leave me thus.”
She remained with her eyes fixed on the black vault of heaven; her
heart beat audibly.
“Heaven protect and preserve me,” she ejaculated――“preserve me and
mine!”
As the clock struck twelve she heard the faint ring of a horse’s hoof.
It came nearer.
“It is he. It is Philip,” she exclaimed.
She listened more intently. The sound rang harshly on her ears――she
felt sick and faint.
A horse passed the window, snorting savagely. It appeared to her to be
like some war charger whose rider had been stricken down in the field
of battle.
She uttered a scream which rang like a clarion note in the midnight
air. Then she called aloud for assistance.
“Joe――Stephen――help――help!” exclaimed the unhappy girl.
She heard the clattering of men’s footsteps on the hard road.
They were giving chase to the flying horse, which passed on snorting
savagely, foaming at the mouth, and riderless.
“Joe――Joe!” shrieked Patty to one of her father’s labourers, “for
mercy’s sake tell me what’s the matter. Speak, I pray you.”
The man looked in at the window, and said in a kind tone of voice――
“We none on us know at present, but don’t ’e be frightened, missus.
Summut’s amiss, but maybe it aint o’ much consequence. Cheer up, and
wait till I coom back. There aint no call for no alarm――leastways not
as we knows on at present.”
Patty sank into a chair, and felt as if about to swoon.
The man passed on.
In a few minutes after this two of her father’s servants passed the
window, leading a riderless horse.
They carried lanterns in their hands, and were looking intently and
examining the animal. Patty said nothing, but, pale and speechless,
awaited the issue.
The horse was taken to the yard, which was at the side of the
farmhouse. It was the identical yard from which the boy, Alf Purvis,
had been ignominiously driven with the hare round his neck some year
or two before.
The farmer’s men exchanged blank looks.
“It looks precious queer, and may be as how it’s an ugly bis’ness,”
ejaculated the carter. “Mr. Philip’s bin thrown, for sartin.”
“He’s not a man to be throwed easily,” said Joe. “I dunno think the
cob’s bin down.”
“Yes, he has,” cried Stephen. “This off side be covered in mud and
slush. There’s bin an accident o’ some sort.”
“An accident?”
“Aye, surely summut very near it. Look at his knees.”
The speaker held down the lantern in front of the horse.
“Why, heaven save us, what be this nn the saddle?” exclaimed another.
“Here, man, hand us over the lantern.”
By the fitful glare of the light they saw a stream of blood on the
saddle, and the horse’s flanks.
A low moan proceeded from all present, and they stood petrified with
astonishment.
“The saddle be wet!” cried one.
“Ah! surely, that it be――wet wi’ blood!” exclaimed another. “There’s
been foul play with our young master.”
While all this had been going on, the elder Mr. Jamblin, who had been
playing cards at a neighbour’s house, had been suddenly aroused to a
sense of danger; he soon hastened homewards, and upon catching sight
of his men around the house, he exclaimed, in a tone of indignation――
“What be all on ’ee doin’ there? Aint one man enough to attend to a
horse? Do it take five to stable a steed? Speak, some on ’ee. You’ve
got tongues in yer heads, I s’pose?”
But none of his men seemed disposed to speak. No one appeared to have
the courage to declare the real state of the case.
Puffing and panting Mr. Jamblin hastened up to the riderless steed.
“Where be Mr. Philip?” he cried.
“He aint coom back as yet, zur,” said the stableman.
“Then where be he?” was the next question.
“We none on us know; Pepper (that was the name of the horse) has been
down.”
Mr. Jamblin wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
“Bin down, and Mr. Philip not here,” he ejaculated. Then turning to
his men he said, in a voice of thunder――
“Look here, men; what be the yoose o’ yer standing here like a set o’
stockfish? Ye’ve got eyes and legs I ’spose; why don’t some on ye
start off and see if ye can find your young master?”
“We’ll go at once,” cried several, simultaneously.
“I have not a morsel of doubt as to the road he would take,” exclaimed
the farmer. “He came from Brickett’s, and would pass through
Dennett’s-lane, and then reach Larchgrove-road. Go, some on ’ee, at
once in that direction.”
Four of the men at once went in search of their young master. They
carried lanterns, which, as they advanced steadily and cautiously
along the road, swayed like the censers of priests above the altar.
The clouds had by this time melted away; the moon and stars shone
brightly.
The rustics passed on till they reached the end of Larchgrove-road.
Here they turned down, and as they entered the shadows of this
cheerless place a cold chill fell upon them, for they seemed to feel
that it was like entering a churchyard at midnight.
“I dun’no what to mek of it,” said one. “The cob might have shied at
summut, but Mr. Philip aint easily throwed.”
“And yet it be certain that some accident ha’ taken place. It may be
hard to say what it is. It may be worse than any on us think.”
They flashed the lanterns in every direction, but failed to find as
yet any solution to the mystery.
They walked slowly and sadly along, examining every portion of the way
as they did so.
As they neared the end of Dennett’s-lane a cry from the foremost party
caused a sudden panic.
“What be the matter?” cried the other.
“Matter!” exclaimed the man in front. “Here be our young master lying
like one dead. There’s bin foul play, mates――Master Philip’s been
murdered!”
They now gathered round the body of the dead man.
They lowered their lanterns and gazed at his wan features, which too
plainly denoted that life had departed.
They looked into each other’s faces, and gave a simultaneous cry.
The open gash in the throat, the fractured skull, and the deep pool of
blood were evidences of the terrible tragedy which had been enacted.
Philip Jamblin had always been a special favourite with the labourers
on Stoke Ferry Farm. It will therefore be readily understood that the
sight of his remains had a powerful effect upon those who went in
search of him.
At first the farm labourers were too much appalled to give expression
to their feelings by words.
They stared at the ghastly face in stupid astonishment, then they
moaned, and glanced around, as if they expected to see the assassin
lurking in some dark corner.
But all was silent――as silent as the grave.
“Who ha’ done this deed?” exclaimed Joe Doughty. “A blighting curse
cling to ’im whoever he may be. A blighting curse.”
Footsteps were now heard proceeding from the further end of the road.
The men glanced in the direction from whence they proceeded.
“It be measter a comin’ this way,” they exclaimed.
Joe Doughty walked rapidly on in the direction from whence the
footsteps proceeded.
In a moment or so he came up with his master, who, hastening to the
spot where his son lay in his last sleep, said――
“How now, Joe,” cried the farmer. “What be the matter, man? What’s
amiss, eh?”
“You mustn’t go any further. Bide where ye are, measter. Dunno’
attempt to go any further,” said Joe.
“And why not? Speak――can’t you? Mr. Philip’s been throwed?”
“Worse than that,” said the man. “Oh, Mr. Jamblin, ye mustn’t go no
further!”
He laid hold of the farmer by the coat, and drew him towards the trees
by the side of the road.
Jamblin looked at him, and as he did so his face became preternaturally
pale. There was that in the conduct of Joe which made his master
tremble like an aspen bough beneath the blast.
“Summat’s happened,” said the farmer, in a low hoarse whisper.
Joe nodded, but durst not trust himself to speak. There was a pause,
after which Jamblin said, in a voice of perfect calmness――
“Tell me what it is?”
He was a huge brawny fellow, with a bronzed face, and having hands
with thews and sinews like a giant, was this Joe Doughty; but when the
farmer’s words fell upon his ears――they were spoken in a tone
altogether so different to that he had been accustomed to hear――that,
athlete and giant as he was, he seated himself on a felled tree which
lay by the side of the road, and burst into tears.
The sight of this man, sobbing and crying like an infant, so affected
Jamblin, that he was fairly overcome, and had not the power to move.
He looked at Joe, and then at the vault of heaven.
“He be taken from us, measter,” said the latter, still sobbing; “and
he was the best an’ truest friend I ha’ ever known; an’ I would ha’
given my life――ten lives, if I ’ad ’em――only to ha’ saved his. But
it’s no yoose a bellowin’ or a crying, it be all over now.”
“All over!” said the farmer. “What is over?”
“He be dead and gone, measter.”
When he heard these last words, Mr. Jamblin made a movement towards
the scene of the tragedy.
Joe rose suddenly, and caught him by the skirts of his coat.
“Ye mustn’t go there, measter, indeed you mustn’t. ’Twill break your
heart to see the sight I ha’ seen. Bide where ye be.”
“Let me go,” cried the farmer. Do ’e think I am afraid to look the
worst in the face?”
“Bide here awhile,” repeated the man.
“But I must and will know what’s the matter.”
“Measter Philip be murdered!”
At these words the farmer stepped back several paces.
“Murdered!” he repeated. “And by whom?”
“I dunno. But I will afore long. By the heaven above, I swear never to
rest night or day till I hunt down the infamous wretch who ha’ done
this foul deed,” exclaimed Joe Doughty, raising his right hand above
his head. “I ha’ said it, and I mean it, as God is my judge.”
“I must look upon my son,” cried Jamblin. “So don’t ’e seek to detain
me, Joe. Leave go!”
“If it’s to be so, I’ll go wi’ ’e, measter,” replied the latter.
And so the two walked on together towards the fatal spot, for Joe
Doughty would not trust his master to go alone.
When they arrived at that part of the road where the dead body of the
young farmer lay, the men with the lanterns were more affected by
sight of their master than they had been by looking at the stark form
of his son.
The agony expressed on the countenance of the elder Mr. Jamblin was
painful to behold.
He said nothing, but his looks were more eloquent than words.
After he had contemplated the heartrending sight for some little time,
he turned towards Joe, who silently led him from the spot.
“It is as you sed――he’s been foully murdered,” whispered Jamblin.
“Get thee back, my dear measter. We will bring the body home.”
“Home?” iterated Jamblin.
“Yes, sir, unless you wish it otherwise.”
“Poor Patty,” cried the farmer; “it will break her heart.”
“Better get home and leave the rest to us,” suggested Joe. “My young
missus had best hear it from your lips.”
“You are right, I will return,” said the farmer. “I leave the
arrangements to you――I dare not stop longer.”
He walked away with rapid strides, and Joe hastened back to his
companions.
They placed the body on a hurdle, then they covered it over with a
couple of sacks, and bore it along until they reached Stoke Ferry
Farmhouse.
They had the discretion to place it on a bench in a granary, the door
of which they locked, and when all this had been effected in a gentle
and thoughtful manner the farmer was made acquainted with the whole
proceedings, at which he expressed his satisfaction.
Patty Jamblin went into hysterics, and the village surgeon was sent
for, who pronounced her to be in a very dangerous state.
After recovering in a measure from the first shock she remained in a
prostrate condition, and appeared to be but partially conscious of all
that was going on.
Her father was more concerned about her than aught else, and perhaps
this was a merciful dispensation of Providence.
As it was, to a certain extent it diverted his thoughts from the great
and irreparable loss he had sustained.