A CONFESSION
The vicar was in the throes of a new sermon when the news reached him.
He had been at work on the sermon all the day, for its delivery was to
be a great effort. Hence, it was long after dark before the tidings
filtered through to his study.
Mr. Seccombe laid down his pen, and looked thoughtful. The news sent his
thoughts running along an entirely new track. The thread of his sermon
was cut clean through, and every effort he made to pick up the ends and
splice them proved a dismal failure. From the triumphs of grace his
thoughts drifted away to the mysteries of Providence.
He pulled himself up with a jerk at length. How much had God to do,
after all, with what men called Providence? Was it the purpose of God
that his boy Julian should grow into a fighter? Was it part of the same
purpose that he should be killed in a distant land by an Arab's lance;
that out of that should grow the commercial ruin of one of the
saintliest men in the parish; and that his wife, in the closing years of
her life, should be driven into the cold shadow of the workhouse?
John Seccombe got up from his chair and began to pace up and down the
study.
He was interrupted in his meditations by a feeble knock on his study
door.
"Come in," he said, pausing in his walk; and he waited a little
impatiently for the door to open.
"A young man wants to see you, sir," the housemaid said, opening the
door just wide enough to show her face.
"Who is he?"
"I don't know, sir. He did not give any name."
"Some shy young man who wants to get married, I expect," was the thought
that passed through Mr. Seccombe's mind.
"Show him in," he said, after a pause. And a moment or two later a
pale-faced young man came shyly and hesitatingly into the room. He
carried a cloth cap in his hand, and was dressed in a badly fitting suit
of tweed.
Mr. Seccombe looked at him for a moment inquiringly. He thought he knew,
by sight, nearly everybody in the parish, but he was not sure that he
had seen this young man before.
"Will you take a seat?" he said, anxious to put the young man at his
ease; for he was still convinced that this was a timid bachelor, who
wanted to make arrangements for getting married.
"I would prefer to stand, if you don't mind," he answered, toying
nervously with his cap.
"As you will," the vicar said, with a smile. "I presume you are about to
take to yourself a wife?"
"Me? Oh dear, no. I've something else to think of."
"I beg your pardon," the vicar said, feeling a little confused. "I
thought, perhaps----"
"Nothing so pleasant," was the hurried answer. "The fact is, I've come
upon a job that--well, I hardly know if I can tell it, now I've come."
The vicar began to feel interested.
"You had better take a seat," he said. "You will feel more comfortable."
The young man dropped into an easy-chair and stared at the fire. He was
not a bad-looking young fellow. His face was pale, as though he worked
underground, and his cheeks were thin enough to suggest too little
nourishing food.
"The truth is, I only made up my mind an hour ago," he said abruptly.
"Yes?" the vicar said encouragingly.
"You have heard of that poor woman being carried off to the workhouse, I
expect."
"You mean Mrs. Penlogan?"
"Ay! Well, that floored me. I felt that I could hold out no longer. I
meant to have waited to see which way the trial went----"
"Yes?" the vicar said again, seeing he hesitated.
"I've always believed that no jury that wasn't prejudiced would convict
him on the evidence."
"You refer to Ralph Penlogan, of course?"
"The young man who's in prison on the charge of shooting Squire Hamblyn.
Do you think he's anything like me?"
"You certainly are not unlike him in the general outline of your face.
But, of course, anyone who knows young Penlogan----"
"Would never mistake him for me," the other interrupted.
"Well, I should say not, certainly."
"And yet bigger mistakes have been made. But I'd better tell you the
whole story. I don't know what'll become of mother and the young ones,
but I can't bear it any longer, and that's a fact. When I heard that
that poor woman had been took off to the workhouse, I said to myself,
'Jim Brewer, you're a coward.' And that's the reason I'm here----"
"Yes?" said the vicar again, and waited for his visitor to proceed.
"It was I who shot the squire!"
The vicar started, but did not speak.
"I had no notion that he was about, or I shouldn't have ventured into
the plantation, you may be quite sure. I was after anything I could
get--hare, or rabbit, or pheasant, or barnyard fowl, if nothing else
turned up."
"Then you were poaching?" said the vicar.
"Call it anything you like, but if you was in my place, maybe you'd have
done the same. There hadn't been a bit of fresh meat in our house for a
fortnight, and little Fred, who'd been ill, was just pining away. You
see I'd been off work, through crushing my thumb, for a whole month, and
we'd got to the end of the tether. Butcher wouldn't trust us no further,
and we'd been living on dry bread and a little skimmed milk, with a
vegetable now and then. It was terrible hard on us all. I didn't mind
myself so much, but to see the little one go hungry----"
"But what does your father do?" the vicar interrupted.
"Father was killed in the mine six years agone, and I've been the only
one as has earned anything since. Well, you see, I took the old
musket--though I knew, of course, I had no licence--and I went out on
the common to shoot anything as came in the way--but nothing turned up.
Then I went into the plantation, and as I was getting over a hedge I
came face to face with the squire.
"Well, I draws back in a moment, and that very moment something catches
the trigger, and off the gun went. A minute after I heard the squire
a-howling and a-screaming like mad, and when next I looks over the hedge
he was running for dear life and shouting at the top of his voice.
"Well, I just hid myself in the 'browse' till it was dark, and then I
creeps home empty-handed and never said a word to nobody. Well, next
day, in the mine, I hears as how young Penlogan had been took up on the
charge of trying to murder the squire. I never thought nobody would
convict him, and if I'd been in the police court when he were sent to
the Assizes I couldn't have kept the truth back. But you see I weren't
there, and I says to myself that no jury with two ounces of brains will
say he's guilty; and so I reckon I'd have held out till the Assizes if I
hadn't heard they'd took his poor old mother off to the workhouse. That
finished me. I says to myself, 'Jim Brewer, you're a coward,' I says,
and I made up my mind then and there to tell the truth. And so I've come
to you, being a parson and a magistrate. And the story I've told you is
gospel truth, as sure as I'm a living man."
"It seems a very great pity you did not tell this story before," the
vicar said reflectively.
"Ay, that's true enough. But I hadn't the courage somehow. You see, I
made sure he'd come out all right in the end; and then I thought of
mother and little Fred, and Jack and Mary and Peggy, and somehow I
couldn't bring myself to face it. It was the poor woman being drove to
the workhouse as did it. I think I'd rather die than that my mother
should go there."
"I really can't see, for the life of me, why you working people so much
object to the workhouse," the vicar said, in a tone of irritation. "It's
a very comfortable house; the inmates are well treated in every way, and
there isn't a pauper in the House to-day that isn't better off than when
outside."
"Maybe it's the name of it, sir," the young man went on. "But I feel
terrible bitter against the place. But the point now is, what are we
going to do with Ralph Penlogan, and what are you going to do with me?"
"Well, really I hardly know," the vicar said, looking uncomfortable.
"You do not own to committing any crime. You were trespassing,
certainly--perhaps I ought to say poaching. But--well, I think I ought
to consult Mr. Tregonning, and--well, yes--Budda. Would you mind waiting
while I send and ask Mr. Tregonning to come on?"
"No; I'll do anything you wish. Now I've started, I want to go straight
on to the end."
Mr. Seccombe was back again in a few moments.
"May I ask," he said, with his eyes on the carpet, "if you saw anyone on
the afternoon in question, or if anyone saw you?"
"Only Bilkins."
"He's one of Sir John's gardeners, I think."
"Very likely."
"And you were in the plantation when he saw you?"
"Oh no; I was on the common."
"And you were carrying the gun?"
"Well, you see, I pushed it into a furze bush when he come along, for,
as I told you, I had no gun licence."
"Did he speak to you?"
"Ay. He passed the time of day, and asked if I had any sport."
"And you saw no one else?"
"Nobody but the squire."
Later in the day Bilkins was sent for, and arrived at the vicarage much
wondering what was in the wind. He wondered still more when he was
ushered into the vicar's library, and found himself face to face with
Budda, Mr. Tregonning, and Jim Brewer, in addition to the vicar. For
several moments he looked from one to another with an expression of
utter astonishment on his face.
"I have sent for you, Bilkins," said the vicar mildly, "in order to ask
you one or two questions that seem of some importance at the present
moment."
"Yes, sir," said Bilkins, looking, if possible, more puzzled than
before.
"Can you recall the afternoon on which Sir John Hamblyn was shot?"
"Why, yes, sir. Very well, sir."
"Did you cross Polskiddy Downs that afternoon?"
"I did, sir."
"Did you see anybody on the downs?"
"Well, only Jim Brewer. We met accidental like."
"What was he doing?"
"Well, he wasn't doing nothing. He was just standing still with his
'ands in his pockets lookin' round him and whistlin'."
"Was he carrying a gun?"
"Oh no, sir. He had nothin' in his 'ands."
"Did you see a gun?"
Bilkins glanced apprehensively at Jim Brewer, and then at the policeman.
"Well, no," he said, with considerable hesitation. "I didn't see no
gun--that is----"
"Did you see any part of a gun?" Mr. Tregonning interjected.
"Well, sir, I don't wish to do no 'arm to nobody," Bilkins stammered,
growing very red, "but I did see somethin' stickin' out of a furze bush
as might have been a gun."
"The stock of a gun, perhaps?"
"Well, no; but it might 'ave been the barrel."
"You did not say anything to Brewer?"
"Well, I might, as a kind of joke, 'ave axed him if he 'ad any sport,
but it weren't my place to be inquisitive."
"And was this far from the plantation?"
"Oh no; it were almost close."
"Then why, may I ask," interjected the vicar sternly, "did you not
volunteer this information when the question was raised as to who shot
your master?"
"Never thought on it, sir. Jim Brewer is a chap as couldn't hurt
nobody."
"And yet the fact remains that you saw him close to the plantation on
the afternoon on which Sir John was shot, and that no one saw Ralph
Penlogan near the place."
"Yes, sir," Bilkins said vacantly.
"But what explanation or excuse have you to offer for such dereliction
of duty?"
"For what, sir?"
"You must know, surely, that information was sought in all directions
that would throw any light on the question."
"No one axed me anything, sir."
"But you might have told what you knew without being asked."
Bilkins looked perplexed, and remained silent.
"Why did you not inform someone of what you had seen?" Mr. Tregonning
interposed.
"Well, you see, sir, Sir John had made up his mind as 'twas young
Penlogan as shot him. He see'd his face as he was a-climbing over the
hedge, an' he ought to know; and besides, sir, it ain't my place to
contradict my betters."
"Oh, indeed!" And Mr. Tregonning, as one of his "betters," looked almost
as puzzled as Bilkins.
After a few more questions had been asked and answered, there was a
general adjournment to Hamblyn Manor.
Sir John was on the point of retiring for the night when he was startled
by a loud ringing of the door bell, and a moment or two later he heard
the vicar's voice in the hall.
Throwing open the library door, he came face to face with Mr. Seccombe
and Mr. Tregonning, two or three shadowy figures bringing up the rear.
"We must ask your pardon, Sir John, for intruding at this late hour,"
the vicar said, constituting himself chief spokesman, "but Mr.
Tregonning and myself felt that the matter was of so much importance
that there ought to be not an hour's unnecessary delay."
"Indeed; will you come into the library?" Sir John said pompously,
though he felt not a little curious as to what was in the wind.
Standing with his back against the mantelpiece, Sir John motioned his
visitors to seats. Budda, however, elected to stand guard over the door.
For several moments there was silence, while the vicar looked at Mr.
Tregonning and Mr. Tregonning looked at the vicar.
At last they appeared to understand each other, and the vicar cleared
his throat.
"The truth is, Sir John," he began, "I was interrupted in my work this
evening by a visit from this young man"--inclining his head toward
Brewer--"who informed me that it was he who shot you, accidentally, on
the 29th September last----"
"Stuff and nonsense," Sir John snapped, withdrawing his shoulders
suddenly from the mantelpiece. "Do you think I don't know a face when I
see it?"
"And yet, sir, it were my face you saw," Brewer interposed suddenly.
"Don't believe it," Sir John replied, with a snort.
"You must admit, sir," Mr. Tregonning interposed apologetically, "that
this young man is not unlike Ralph Penlogan."
"No more like him than I am," Sir John retorted, almost angrily.
"Anyhow, you had better hear the story from the young man's lips," said
the vicar mildly, "then your own man Bilkins will give evidence that he
saw him close to the plantation on the afternoon in question."
"Then why did you not say so?" Sir John snarled, glaring angrily at his
gardener.
"'Tweren't for the likes of me," Bilkins said humbly, "to say anything
as would seem to contradict what you said. I hopes I know my place."
"I hope you do," Sir John growled; and then he turned his attention to
the young miner.
Brewer told his story straightforwardly and without any outward sign of
nervousness. He had braced himself to the task--his nerves were strung
up to the highest point of tension, and he was determined to see the
thing through now, cost what it might.
Sir John listened with half-closed eyes and a heavy frown upon his brow.
He was far more angry than he would like anyone to know at the course
events were taking. He saw clearly enough that, from his point of view,
this was worse than a verdict of "not guilty" at the Assizes. This
story, if accepted, would clear Ralph Penlogan absolutely. Not even the
shadow of a suspicion would remain. Moreover, it would lay him (Sir
John) open to the charge of vindictiveness.
As soon as Brewer had finished the story, the squire subjected him to a
severe and lengthy cross-examination, all of which he bore with quiet
composure, and every question he answered simply and directly.
Then Bilkins was called upon to tell his story, which Sir John listened
to with evident disgust.
It was getting decidedly late when all the questions had been asked and
answered, and Budda was growing impatient to know what part he was to
play in the little drama. He was itching to arrest somebody. It would
have been a relief to him if he could have arrested both Brewer and
Bilkins.
Sir John and his brother magistrates withdrew at length to another room,
while Budda kept guard with renewed vigilance.
"Now," said the vicar, when the door had closed behind the trio, "what
is the next step?"
"Let the law take its course," said Sir John angrily.
"It will take its course in any case," said Mr. Tregonning. "The
confession of Brewer, and the corroborative evidence of Bilkins, must be
forwarded at once to the proper quarter. But the question is, Sir John,
will you still hold to the charge of malicious shooting, or only of
trespass?"
"If this story is accepted, I'll wash my hands of the whole
business--there now!" And Sir John pushed his hands into his pockets and
looked furious.
"I don't quite see why you should treat the matter in this way," the
vicar said mildly.
"You don't?" Sir John questioned, staring hard at him. "You don't see
that it will make fools of the whole lot of us; that it will turn the
tide of popular sympathy against the entire bench of magistrates, and
against me in particular; that it will do more harm to the gentry than
fifty elections?"
"That's a very narrow view to take," the vicar said, with spirit. "We
should care for the right and do the right, though the heavens fall."
"That may be all right to preach in church," Sir John said irritably,
"but in practical life we do the best we can for ourselves, unless we
are fools."
"Then you'll not proceed against this young man for trespass?" Mr.
Tregonning inquired.
"I tell you I'll wash my hands of the whole affair, and I mean it. It's
bad enough to be made a fool of once, without playing the same game a
second time," and Sir John strutted round the room like an angered
turkey.
"Then there's no excuse for keeping young Brewer here any longer, or of
keeping you out of your bed," said the vicar, and he made for the door,
followed by Mr. Tregonning.
Five minutes later the door closed on his guests, and Sir John found
himself once more alone.
"Well, this is a kettle of fish," he said to himself angrily, as he
paced up and down the room; "a most infernal kettle of fish, I call it.
I shouldn't be surprised if before a week is out that young scoundrel
will be heralded by a brass band playing 'See the Conquering Hero
comes.' And, of course, every ounce of sympathy will go out to him.
He'll be a kind of martyr, and I shall be execrated as a kind of Legree
and Judge Jeffreys rolled into one. And then, of course, Dorothy will
catch the popular contagion, and will interview him if she has the
chance; and he'll make love to her--the villain! And here's Lord Probus
bullying me, and every confounded money-lending Jew in the neighbourhood
dunning me for money, and Geoffrey taking to extravagant ways with more
alacrity than I did before him. I wonder if any other man in the county
is humbugged as I am?"
Sir John spent the rest of the waking hours of that night in scheming
how best he could get and keep Dorothy out of the way of Ralph Penlogan.