The village was not a little awed by the strange turn that affairs had
taken, for the two noisiest tongues in it had been silenced, Mrs. Fry's
by the restoration of her Tommy's power of speech, Mrs. Mugford's by
the arrest of her son. The Corporal had been vindicated and his
slanderers confounded; but Lady Eleanor as usual did all that she could
to make unpleasant things as little unpleasant as possible. The
deserter was sent away to Plymouth so quietly that hardly any one found
it out, and his disconsolate mother was somewhat comforted by Lady
Eleanor's assurance that everything would be done to obtain mercy for
him. Moreover the Corporal declared that he would not touch the two
guineas reward that he had earned, but would hand them over to Lady
Eleanor to spend for the good of the parish as she should think best;
which fact leaking out through the servants at the Hall did much to
regain for him the goodwill that he had so unjustly lost.
Another thing also helped to restore harmony; for Dick could not leave
home for school without going round to say good-bye to all his friends,
and these were so numerous that there was hardly a cottage at which he
did not step in, being always sure of welcome and good wishes. The
farewells ended with a visit to old Sally Dart, who, feeble and
crippled though she was, had prepared a great feast of hot potato-cake
(which was made under her own eye by a neighbour, since she was too
weak to make it herself) honey and clouted cream; while the little
silver cream-jug and the six silver spoons, which the old squire and
his lady had given her at her marriage, were all brought out for so
great an occasion. A great meal they ate, the Corporal attacking his
potato-cake and cream as heartily as Dick himself; and when all the old
stories had been related for the fiftieth time, old Sally produced the
greatest treasure that she owned, a little snuff-box mounted in silver,
which had been made from the horn of an ox that had been roasted whole
at the great election, when old Squire Bracefort had stood at the head
of the poll. This she gave to Dick for his own, and then setting the
boy in front of her she put his hair off his forehead and begged him
that if ever any child or children of her son Jan should appear, he
would be kind to them for her sake, and that he would think of this
when he looked at the box. Dick promised this readily, though he was a
little puzzled at her earnestness; and then she bade him good-bye and
God bless him, and prayed that he might grow up to be such another man
as his father had been. So the children and the Corporal returned to
the Hall thoughtful and subdued, though the children hardly knew why.
Two days later, early in the morning, Dick and the Corporal drove off
to meet the coach. Little Elsie stood on the steps crying silently,
but Dick was so much excited at the prospect of the journey, that he
held up bravely, and fluttered his handkerchief out of the window as
long as the house was in sight. So Lady Eleanor and Elsie waited until
the handkerchief could be seen no more, and then went in sadly
together. Lessons were a heavy task that morning; and when they were
over and Elsie was gone out, Lady Eleanor felt lonely and depressed and
out of heart with everything. She was roused by the sound of a horse
on the gravel; and presently Colonel Fitzdenys came in to say that he
had seen Dick off by the coach, and that the boy was in good spirits.
Lady Eleanor never felt more thankful for his presence than on that
morning; but they had not talked for very long, when a maid-servant
came in with a scared face to say that the strange woman from the moor
was come, and begged, if she might, to see her Ladyship directly.
So Lady Eleanor went out and Colonel George with her; and there the
woman was, with her face ghastly white, her eyes wild and weary, and
every line in her countenance ploughed thrice as deep as when they had
last seen her. She was sitting in a chair which the frightened maid
had brought to her, but rose wearily as Lady Eleanor came to her.
"Are you in trouble, my poor soul?" said Lady Eleanor, shocked at her
appearance. "Tell me what has happened!" and she motioned to her to
sit down again.
The woman waited for a moment and then said in a hard voice, "'Tis my
boy Jan; I can't rightly tell what's wrong wi' mun"--and then she
stopped, but seeing the sympathy in Lady Eleanor's eyes broke out
hurriedly, "Oh, my Lady, I believe that they've a-killed mun. Since I
took mun home three days agone he won't eat and won't take no notice of
naught, but lieth still; and 'twas only when I left mun for a minute
that he made a kind of crying and clung to me like. I had to carry mun
home herefrom the day I left you."
"You carried him home?" broke in Colonel George astonished.
"Yes," said the woman simply; "'most all the way, for he soon gived out
walking; and ever since he's growed weaker and weaker, till this
morning at daylight he didn't take notice of me no longer, so then I
was obliged to leave mun"--she stopped a minute and went on in a harder
voice--"I couldn't help it; I come to ask you if you could spare mun a
drop of wine or what you think might do mun good, for"--she stopped
again and buried her face in her hands.
Lady Eleanor did not speak; she only laid her hand gently on the
woman's shoulder, which sank down and down until she was bent double.
Colonel George at once slipped out of the room and presently returned
with wine, which he gave to Lady Eleanor. The woman revived when she
had drunk a little, and then Colonel George said to her: "Now, my good
woman, you must let me go back with you to your son and take with me
some things for him. Don't be afraid"--(for the woman was shaking her
head)--"I am your friend and you may trust me to keep your secret if
you have any to keep. Think, now, if I know the way, you can stay with
your son and I can bring him up whatever he wants on any day that you
please; and I'll bind myself not to show the way to any one, nor to
come back except on the day that you choose."
The woman hesitated and looked from Colonel George to Lady Eleanor, who
said: "Colonel Fitzdenys is right. You can trust him, and you will
show him the way; and I must come too in case I can be of use.
Remember that you saved my children for me."
The woman still shook her head, but she was evidently wavering.
Colonel George's tone of quiet authority at last prevailed with her,
and she consented to show them the way, saying gruffly that she would
always prefer a soldier, who knew what he was about, to a doctor. But
she refused to ride a pony which Lady Eleanor offered to her, and
insisted on starting off by herself, appointing a place in a valley by
the edge of the moor where she promised to meet them without fail. And
with that she strode away across the park, while Lady Eleanor ordered
her horse and ran to put on her habit.
The horses were soon ready, and Colonel George and Lady Eleanor started
off; but it was only by a long circuit that they could ride to the
appointed spot on horseback, and when they reached it the woman was
already there before them. She then led them by a very rough path,
which was unknown to Colonel George, to the very head of a deep combe,
where the oak coppice grew thinner and thinner until at last it died
out in the open moor. Among these thin trees was a rough Exmoor pony,
hobbled, which the woman caught and mounted, and then led the way
straight on over the hill.
"I don't understand this," said Colonel George to Lady Eleanor, "I have
always been told that the ground before us was impassable. It is the
bog in which most of the rivers in the moor rise. I have crossed it a
mile east and west of this after deer, and the ground is bad enough
there; but I had no idea that it could be crossed here."
"No," said the woman, who had evidently overheard him, "the deer don't
never cross here, but I know my way across well enough."
These were the only words that she spoke during the ride, except now
and again to bid her companions keep to right or left, for presently
they were on the treacherous ground across which she had guided the
children, and the horses sank deeper in it than the ponies. With all
his knowledge and experience of the moor the colonel found it difficult
to pick his way, and Lady Eleanor's horse floundered so deep that she
was once or twice obliged to dismount before he could get out. Still
the woman led them on until at last the worst of the ground was past,
though the horses still sank at least fetlock-deep at every step. The
watershed was left behind and the ground began to fall rapidly, though
it was so heavily seamed by a network of deep drains dug by the water
through the turf, that without a guide any one would have found it
almost impossible to find a way out. Colonel George watched carefully
for landmarks as he went on, and looked out keenly for the hut, but
could see nothing. Once or twice the woman smiled grimly as she saw
his eyes roving in every direction, and the colonel smiled back and
said: "It's a good job that the deer do not cross here, mistress, for
no horse could live with them;" but she only shook her head and said
nothing.
At length the rank red and yellow grass of the boggy ground showed a
patch or two of heather. They were riding upon a ridge between two
streams, and Colonel George was wondering which of the two they were
about to follow, when the woman turned sharply downward on one side and
followed the stream up for a little way; and then suddenly there opened
out a little cross combe, so deep and narrow that the colonel might
have been excused for not seeing it. At one point a mass of rock rose
out abruptly from the earth, which had evidently turned the water from
above, so that for a short distance the stream ran almost the reverse
way to its true course. Against the rock the washing of centuries had
thrown up a bank of pebbles, now thickly overgrown with grass; and
there lay the hut, almost invisible from any point, against the rock,
sheltered from the westerly gales and gathering more of the eastern and
southern sun than could have been thought possible. The goats ran
bleating towards the three as they rode up, for they had not been
milked that morning; and the woman's face was set hard as she went to
the door of the hut and presently returned to beckon Lady Eleanor in.
[Illustration: Still the woman led them on.]
It was little that could be seen of the sick man, except a white
shrunken face and closed eyes, as he lay on his bed of heather, with
every description of garment piled upon him. He lay quite still and
quiet, breathing rather heavily; and when his mother poured some wine
down his throat from the basket that Colonel George carried with him,
he only stirred slightly and composed himself again as it were to
sleep. Then Lady Eleanor came out to hold the horses and Colonel
George went in. She heard him ask a few questions, and when he came
out he could only shrug his shoulders in answer to her inquiring
glance. "I can make nothing of it and get nothing out of her," he
said, "but I have seen that look on a man's face before, and it is not
a look that I like to see. She seems unwilling to tell anything of the
reason for his illness, but there must be some story at the bottom of
it all, if we could only get at it. Go in and try."
So Lady Eleanor went in, while Colonel George stood at the door holding
the horses, and sat for a time looking at the sick man in silence, till
at last she asked the woman if she thought the bandsmen had hurt him
when they seized him.
"No, 'twasn't the bandsmen," said the woman absently, and without
looking up; "'twas the sarjint as did it."
"What did the serjeant do to him?" asked Colonel George from the door.
"It is a shameful thing if he hurt him, for Brimacott told me that he
had begged him not to be hard on him."
But the woman gave no answer, seeming rather ashamed to have said so
much; and after another silence Lady Eleanor asked another question or
two which was answered very shortly, and said something about calling
in a doctor.
"Doctor, no!" answered the woman fiercely. "They never do nought but
bleed a man to death."
"Are you sure?" said Colonel George. "I know there were army-doctors
who used to bleed men disgracefully. You remember," he added, turning
for a moment to Lady Eleanor, "what Charlie Napier of the Fiftieth
wrote from Hythe, that the doctors thought bleeding to death the best
way of recovering sick soldiers. But I don't suppose, my good woman,
that you have ever had to do with such."
"What! not I?" said the woman scornfully, but instantly restrained
herself and stopped.
"I should give him a drop more wine from time to time, mistress," said
Colonel George, as if taking no notice of what she had said; and
hitching the reins of the horses round the poles of the hut he took a
spoon, and poured a little between the sick man's lips himself. "The
poor fellow's dreadfully weak," he went on. "Was he ever sick or hurt
as a boy, mistress? Did you ever see him taken like this before? If
you could tell us, we might know better how to treat him." And as he
asked the question he looked straight into the woman's face, very
keenly but very kindly, and she dropped her eyes with a half sigh.
"You see," he went on, "my Lady's little son came home and told us of a
coat that you had put on him, which sounded to me like a drummer's
coat; though of course as I haven't seen it I may be quite wrong; but I
was wondering if he had ever been a soldier, as I am myself, and been
wounded at some time."
"No, he wasn't never a soldier," said the woman hastily.
"Ah," said Colonel George; "it was his knowing how to drum that made me
think so. And so you had to carry the poor fellow all this way the
other day? Well, it's more than many a strong man could have done.
Many's the man I've seen break down from the weight of his pack, and
many's the wife I've seen take the load off her husband's back and
carry it for him like a brave soul." He looked up at the woman and saw
her eyes glisten. "Ay," he said, "you've seen it too, maybe? Now, my
good mistress, just tell me what the serjeant did to your son here, or
what has happened to him to bring him to this state."
The woman hesitated long. "'Tis a long story," she said at last, "but
maybe it's time that it was told; for I'm thinking that before long
there may be none to tell it. You've been kind to my boy, the both of
'ee, and you've a promised to keep my secret. So if you have a mind to
hear, I'll tell 'ee."
So Colonel George stood in the doorway holding the horses, while Lady
Eleanor sat on the turfen table by the sick man; and the woman began
her story.