CHAPTER VII
GEORGE PICKERING PLAYS THE MAN
Martin was awakened by the rays of a bright autumn sun. He sprang out ofbed in a jiffy, lest he should be late for breakfast, a heinous offenseat the farm; but the sight of William feeding the pigs in the yardbeneath told him that it was only half-past six.
The first puzzle that presented itself was one of costume. Should hewear his commonplace corduroys, or don all that was left of his graytweeds? During the Feast he was supposed to dress in his best each day;he decided to obey orders as far as was possible.
He missed the money from his trousers pocket and knew that his motherhad taken it. Also, he found that she had selected a clean shirt andcollar from the drawer and placed them ready for use. By degrees hisactive brain recalled the startling events of the previous evening intheir proper sequence, and he found himself speculating more on thereception Mrs. Saumarez might accord than on the attitude John Bollandwould certainly adopt when the overnight proceedings arranged themselvesin a slow-moving mind.
He was downstairs long before seven. The farmer was out. Mrs. Bolland,immersed in the early cares of the household, showed no traces of theexcitement of eight hours earlier.
"Martin," she cried as soon as she caught sight of him, "I heerd a hencluckin' a bit sen at t' bottom o' t' garth. Just look i' t' hedge an'see if she's nestin'?"
This was a daily undertaking in a house where poultry were plentiful assparrows in Piccadilly.
Martin hailed the mission as a sign that normal times were come again. Agate led into the meadow from the garden, but to go that way meantwalking twenty yards or more, so the boy took a running jump, caught astout limb of a pear tree, swung himself onto a ten-foot pile of wood,and dropped over into the field beyond.
Mrs. Bolland witnessed the feat with some degree of alarm. In the courseof a few hours she had come to see her adopted son passing fromchildhood into vigorous adolescence.
"Drat that lad!" she cried irately. "Does he want to break his neck?"
"He larnt that trick t' other day, missus," commented William, standingall lopsided to balance a huge pail of pig's food. "He'll mek a rarechap, will your Martin."
"He's larnin' a lot o' tricks that I ken nowt about," cried MistressMartha. "Nice doin's there was last night. How comes it none o' you mensaw him carryin' on i' t' fair wi' that little French la-di-dah?"
"I dunno, ma'am."
William grinned, though, for some of the men had noted the children'santics, and none would "split" to the farmer.
"But I did hear as how Martin gev t' Squire's son a fair weltin'," hewent on. "One o' t' grooms passed here an oor sen, exercisin' a younghoss, an' he said that beaeth young gentlemen kem yam at half-past ten.Master Frank had an eye bunged up, an' a nose like a bad apple. He wasthat banged about that t' Squire let him off a bastin' an' gev t' other adouble allowance."
Mrs. Bolland smiled.
"Gan on wi' yer wark," she said. "Here's it's seven o'clock, half t' daygone, an' nothin' done."
Martin, searching for stray eggs, suddenly heard a familiar whistle. Helooked around and saw Jim Bates's head over the top of the lane hedge.
Jim held up a bundle.
"Here's yer coat an' hat," he said. "I dursent bring 'em last neet."
"Why did you run away?" inquired Martin, approaching to take hisproperty.
"I was skeert. Yon woman's yellin' was awful. I went straight off yam."
"Did you catch it for being out late?"
"Noa; but feyther gev me a clout this mornin' for not tellin' him aboutt' murder. He'd gone te bed."
"Nobody was murdered," said Martin.
"That wasn't Betsy's fault. It's all my eye about Mr. Pickerin' stickin'a fork into hisself. There was noa fork there."
"How do you know?"
"Coss I was pullin' carrots all Saturday mornin' for Mrs. Atkinson, an'if there'd bin any fork I should ha' seen it."
"Martin," cried a shrill voice from the garth, "is that lookin' fereggs?"
Jim Bates's head and shoulders shot out of sight instantaneously.
"All right, mother, I'm only getting back my lost clothes," explainedMartin. He began a painstaking survey of the hedge bottom and wasrewarded by the discovery of a nest of six hidden away by a hen anxiousto undertake the cares of maternity.
At breakfast John Bolland was silent and severe. He passed but oneremark to Martin:
"Happen you'll be wanted some time this mornin'. Stop within hail untilMr. Benson calls."
Mr. Benson was the village constable.
"What will he want wi' t' lad?" inquired Mrs. Bolland tartly.
"Martin is t' main witness i' this case o' Pickerin's. Kitty Thwaitesisn't likely te tell t' truth. Women are main leears when there's a mani' t' business."
"More fools they."
"Well, let be. I'm fair vexed that Martin's neaem should be mixed up i'this affair. Fancy the tale that'll be i' t' _Messenger_--John Bolland'sson fightin' t' young squire at ten o'clock o' t' neet in t' 'BlackLion' yard--fightin' ower a lass. What ailed him I cannot tell. He mustha' gone clean daft."
The farmer pushed back his chair angrily, and Mrs. Bolland wondered whathe would say did he know of Martin's wild extravagance. Mother and sonwere glad when John picked up a riding-whip and lumbered out to mountSam, the pony, for an hour's ride over the moor.
Evidently, he had encountered Benson before breakfast, as that worthyofficer arrived at half-past ten and asked Martin to accompany him.
The two walked solemnly through the fair, in which there was alreadysome stir. A crowd hanging around the precincts of the inn made way asthey approached, and Martin saw, near the door, two saddled horses incharge of a policeman.
He was escorted to an inner room, receiving a tremulous, but gracious,smile from Evelyn as he passed. To his very genuine astonishment andalarm, he was confronted not only by the district superintendent ofpolice but also by Mr. Frank Reginald de Courcy Beckett-Smythe, themagnate of the Hall.
"This is the boy, your wuship," said Benson.
"Ah. What is his name?"
"Martin Court Bolland, sir."
"One of John Bolland's sons, eh?"
"No, sir. Mr. Bolland has no son. He adopted this lad some thirteenyears ago."
Had a bolt from the blue struck Martin at that moment he could not havebeen more dumbfounded. Both John and Martha had thought fit to keep thesecret of his parentage from his knowledge until he was older, as thefact might tend to weaken their authority during his boyhood. The adultsin Elmsdale, of course, knew the circumstances thoroughly, and respectedMr. and Mrs. Bolland's wishes, while the children with whom he grew upregarded him as village-born like themselves.
It took a good deal to bring tears to Martin's eyes, but they wereperilously near at that instant. Though the words almost choked him, hefaltered:
"Is that true, Mr. Benson?"
"True? It's true eneuf, lad. Didn't ye know?"
"No, they never told me."
A mist obscured his sight. The presence of the magistrate andsuperintendent ceased to have any awe-inspiring effect. What disgracewas this so suddenly blurted out by this stolid policeman? Whose childwas he, then, if not theirs? Could he ever hold up his head again inface of the youthful host over which he lorded it by reason of hisadvanced intelligence and greater strength? There was comfort in thethought that no one had ever taunted him in this relation. The veiledhint in Pickering's words to the farmer was the only reference he couldrecall.
Benson seemed to regard the facts as to his birth as matters of commonknowledge. Perhaps there was some explanation which would lift him fromthe sea of ignominy into which he had been pitched so unexpectedly.
He was aroused by Mr. Beckett-Smythe saying:
"Now, my lad, was it you who fought my son last night?"
"Yes--sir," stammered Martin.
The question sharpened his wits to some purpose. A spice of dread helpedthe process. Was he going to be tried on some dire charge of maliciousass
ault?
"Hum," muttered the squire, surveying him with a smile. "A propertrouncing you gave him, too. I shall certainly thrash him now forpermitting it. What was the cause of the quarrel?"
"About a girl, sir."
"You young rascals! A girl! What girl?"
"Perhaps it was all my fault, sir."
"That is not answering my question."
"I would rather not tell, sir."
Then Mr. Beckett-Smythe leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.
"'Pon my honor," he said to the superintendent, "these young sparks areprogressive. They don't care what happens, so long as the honor of thelady is safeguarded. My son refused point-blank to say even why hefought. Well, well, Martin, I see you did not come out of the frayscatheless; but you are not brought here because you decorated Frank'singenuous countenance. I want you to tell me exactly what took place inthe garden when Mr. Pickering was wounded."
Somewhat reassured, Martin told all he knew, which was not a great deal.The magistrate, who, of course, was only assisting the police inquiry,was perplexed.
"There were others present?" he commented.
"Yes, sir. Master Frank and Master Ernest----"
"Master Frank could not see much at the moment, eh?"
Martin blushed.
"But Ernest--surely, he might have noted something that you missed?"
"I think not, sir. He was--er--looking after his brother."
"And the other children?"
"Several boys and girls of the village, but they were frightened by thescreaming, sir, and ran away."
"Including the young lady who caused the combat?"
No answer. Martin thought it best to leave the point open. Again Mr.Beckett-Smythe laughed.
"I suppose this village belle is one of Mrs. Atkinson's daughters. Gad!I never heard tell of such a thing. All right, Martin, you can go now,but let me give you a parting word of advice. Never again fight for awoman, unless to protect her from a blackguard, which, I presume, washardly the cause of the dispute with Frank."
"I don't think he was to blame at all, sir."
"Thank you. Good-day, Martin. Here's a half-crown to plaster thatdamaged lip of yours."
Left to themselves, the magistrate and superintendent discussed theadvisability of taking proceedings against Betsy Thwaites.
"I'm sure Pickering made up his story in order to screen the woman,"said the police officer. "A rusty fork was found in the stackyard, butit was thirty feet away from the nearest point of the track made by thedrops of blood, and separated from the garden by a stout hedge.Moreover, Pickering and Kitty were undoubtedly standing in the orchard,many yards farther on. Then, again, the girl was collared by ThomasMetcalfe, of the Leas Farm, and the knife, one of Mrs. Atkinson's, fellfrom her hand; while a dozen people will swear they heard her sistercalling out that she had murdered George Pickering."
Beckett-Smythe shook his head doubtfully.
"It is a queer affair, looked at in any light. Do you think I ought tosee Pickering himself? You can arrest Betsy Thwaites without a warrant,I believe, and, in any event, I'll not sit on the bench if the casecomes before the court."
The superintendent was only too glad to have the squire's counsel indealing with a knotty problem. The social position of the wounded manrequired some degree of caution before proceedings were commenced, inview of his emphatic declaration that his wound was self-inflicted. Ifhis state became dangerous, there was only one course open to therepresentatives of the law; but the doctor's verdict was thatpenetration of the lung had been averted by a hair's breadth, andPickering would recover. Indeed, he might be taken home in a carriage atthe end of the week. Meanwhile, the hayfork and the blood-stained knifewere impounded.
The two men went upstairs and were shown to the room occupied by theinjured gallant. Kitty Thwaites, pale as a ghost, was flitting aboutattending to her work, the hotel being crowded with stock-breeders andgraziers. Her unfortunate sister, even more woebegone in appearance, wasnursing the invalid, at his special request. It was a puzzlingsituation, and Mr. Beckett-Smythe, who knew Pickering intimately, wasinclined to act with the utmost leniency that the law allowed.
Betsy Thwaites, who was sitting at the side of the bed, rose when theyentered. Her white face became suffused with color, and she looked atthe police officer with frightened eyes.
The magistrate saw this, and he said quite kindly:
"If Mr. Pickering is able to speak with us for a little while, you mayleave us with him."
"No, no," interrupted the invalid in an astonishingly strong and heartyvoice. "There's nothing to be said that Betsy needn't hear. Is there,lass?"
She began to tremble, and lifted a corner of her apron. Notwithstandingher faithless swain's statement to her sister, she was quite asgood-looking as Kitty, and sorrow had given her face a pathetic dignitythat in no wise diminished its charm.
She knew not whether to stay or go. The superintendent took the hintgiven by the squire.
"It would be best, under the circumstances, if we were left alone whilewe talk over last night's affair, Mr. Pickering."
"Not a bit of it. Don't go, Betsy. What is there to talk over? I made afool of myself--not for the first time where a woman was concerned--andBetsy here, brought from Hereford by a meddlesome scamp, lost hertemper. No wonder! Poor girl, she had traveled all day in a hot train,without eatin' a bite, and found me squeezing her sister at the bottomof the garden. There's no denying that she meant to do me a mischief,and serve me right, too. I'll admit I was scared, and in running away Igot into worse trouble, as, of course, I could easily have mastered her.Kitty, too, what between fear and shame, lost her senses, and poor Betsycut her own arm. You see, a plain tale stops all the nonsense that hasbeen talked since ten o'clock last night."
"Not quite, George." Mr. Beckett-Smythe was serious and magisterial."You forget, or perhaps do not know, that there were witnesses."
Pickering looked alarmed.
"Witnesses!" he cried. "What d'you mean?"
"Well, no outsider saw the blow, or accident, whichever it was; but anumber of children saw and heard incidents which, putting it mildly,tend to discredit your story."
Betsy began to sob.
"I told you you had better leave the room," went on the squire in a lowtone.
Pickering endeavored to raise himself in the bed, but sank back with agroan. The unfortunate girl forgot her own troubles at the sound, andrushed to arrange the pillow beneath his head.
"It comes to this, then," he said huskily; "you want to arrest, on acharge of attempting to murder me, a woman whom I intend to marry longbefore she can be brought to trial!"
Betsy broke down now in real earnest. Beckett-Smythe and thesuperintendent gazed at Pickering with blank incredulity. Thisdevelopment was wholly unlooked for. They both thought the man waslight-headed. He smiled dryly.
"Yes, I mean it," he continued, placing his hand on the brown hair ofthe girl, whose face was buried in the bedclothes. "I--I didn't sleepmuch last night, and I commenced to see things in a different light tothat which presented itself before. I treated Betsy shamefully--not in amonied sense, but in every other way. She's not one of the general runof girls. I promised to marry her once, and now I'm going to keep mypromise. That's all."
He was desperately in earnest. Of that there could be no manner ofdoubt. The superintendent stroked his chin reflectively, and themagistrate could only murmur:
"Gad, that changes the venue, as the lawyers say."
One thought dominated the minds of both men; Pickering was behavingfoolishly. He was a wealthy man, owner of a freehold farm of hundreds ofacres; he might aspire to marry a woman of some position in the countyand end his days in all the glory of J. P.-dom and County Aldermanship.Yet, here he was deliberately throwing himself away on a dairymaid who,not many hours since, had striven to kill him during a burst of jealousfury. The thing was absurd. Probably when he recovered he would see thisfor himself; but for the time it was best to humor him and
give officialsanction to his version of the overnight quarrel.
"Don't keep us in suspense, squire," cried the wounded man, angered byhis friend's silence. "What are you going to do?"
"Nothing, George; nothing, I think. I only hope your accident with thepitchfork will not have serious results--in any shape."
The policeman nodded a farewell. As they quitted the room they heardPickering say faintly:
"Now, Betsy, my dear, no more crying. I can't stand it. Damn it all, onedoesn't get engaged to be married and yelp over it!"
On the landing they saw Kitty, a white shadow, anxious, but afraid tospeak.
"Cheer up," said Beckett-Smythe pleasantly. "This affair looks likeending in smoke."
Gaining courage from the magistrate's affability, the girl saidbrokenly:
"Mr. Pickering and--my--sister--are quite friendly. You saw that foryourself, sir."
"Gad, yes. They're going to be--well--er--I was going to say we havequite decided that an accident took place and there is no call forpolice interference--so long as Mr. Pickering shows progress towardrecovery, you understand. There, there! You women always begin to cry,whether pleased or vexed. Bless my heart, let's get away, Mr.Superintendent."