RUNNINGHORSEINN 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 4 . 
 
 ALFBED TBESIDDER SHEPPABD
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN
 
 p 
 
 THE MUG SLIPPED BETWEEN THEM, AND CRASHED TO PIECES ON THE 
 
 FLOOR." 
 
 fl> 23-
 
 RUNNING 
 HORSE INN 
 
 BY 
 
 Alfred Tresidder Sheppard 
 
 With Illustrations in Color by 
 EDWIN F. BAYHA 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 
 
 1907
 
 Copyright, IBM, by ALFRED TXEBIDDKR SRKPFJRD 
 Copyright, 1007, by J. B. Lirmrcorr COMPANY 
 
 Publiihed May 1907 
 
 Electratyptd and printtd by J. B. Lippincott Caut^any 
 Tkt Washington Squart Prttt, t'kilcuitiphia, U. S. A.
 
 TO MY FATHER 
 
 2138192
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 "THE Muo SLIPPED BETWEEN THEM, AND CRASHED TO 
 
 PIECES ON THE FLOOR " Frontispiece. 23 
 
 "'THE SUN SANK IN JUST LIKE THAT SUDDENLY, 
 
 GEORGE ON THE NIGHT YOUR MOTHER DIED". 150 
 
 " HALT ! HALT ! " HE ORDERED . . 247
 
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 AN ostler, with a red face and a red waistcoat, straw- 
 coloured breeches, and a straw to match them 
 tucked in the corner of a wide, twisted mouth, flung 
 the last drops of water from his bucket over the 
 wheels of the Margate coach. George Kennett wondered 
 if this were the lad whose ears had tingled once under 
 his father's hand. How well he remembered that 
 drowsy summer afternoon, so long ago! A little, dreamy, 
 queer-tempered boy, George had trotted by his father's 
 side through the crowded Butter Market and among 
 the hucksters' stalls set against the very walls of 
 the Cathedral; his feet had clattered noisily through 
 those dim aisles where the years have stored so many 
 memories. " Doan't shuffle, George. That's where Becket 
 was killed; you've heard tell of him? Hold your head up; 
 I reckon that's the tenth time I've had to tell 'ee. They 
 covered his tomb all over with jewels and gimcracks, and 
 silly folk who didn't know no better flocked to Canter- 
 bury thinking his old bones would save 'em. The monks 
 pretended they had a bit of Aaron's rod too, and some of 
 the red earth God made Adam out of. That's what 
 Popery brings people to. How many more times am I 
 going to tell you to hold your head up?" 
 
 "What happened to the jewels, feyther? Were they 
 stolen?"
 
 12 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 "I reckon so. They kept a watchman to look after 
 them, and dogs " 
 
 "Dogs? What kind of dogs, feyther?" 
 
 "Bulldogs I doan't know. Can't you walk quicker?" 
 
 They had come at last to the very inn where the coach 
 was now standing; in this very yard, John Kennett, 
 emptying a last tankard while his horse was being put 
 between the shafts, had boxed the stable lad's ears for some 
 clumsiness which jerked his arm and spilt his liquor. 
 George remembered the lad's big, twisted mouth. And 
 his father's voice loud, peremptory, so ready to chide, to 
 moralise, to contradict he could almost hear it again on 
 this summer afternoon; though it was more than seven 
 years since he had heard it last, and five since any one in 
 this wide world had heard it. 
 
 The driver bunched up his reins. One or two new passen- 
 gers had clambered to their places. Few were left now of 
 those who had started that morning from the Bricklayers' 
 Arms. The soldier, whose bragging about Waterloo had 
 impressed all save George, had just nodded a self-confident 
 good-day; a glimpse of his swaggering young back showed 
 scarlet now and then, among carts and people in the busy 
 High Street. George thought of Crawfurd's march to Tal- 
 avera, and the few leagues of Belgian mud which this lad, 
 fresh from the plough-tail, had covered; of Ciudad, and 
 Badajoz, and all the stiff fighting that Toulouse finished, 
 and that single day of bloodshed round the farmsteads 
 and in the rye-fields of Brabant. Those few fierce hours had 
 won the lad his chevron. George remembered, rather 
 bitterly, the private's tunic stripped from him in the way- 
 side cottage near Toulouse. A headful of memories, a 
 bundle to be lifted with one hand these were his spoils 
 and his rewards. 
 
 He swung himself into his place on the coach; the ostler 
 stepped aside; the whip cracked; the horn sounded merrily.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 13 
 
 They rattled out of Canterbury. Every yard of the 
 way now was familiar ground. At Sturry he alighted, 
 and waited until the coach, half-hidden in dust, was 
 far down the Margate road. As his journey's end 
 grew nearer he felt a strange reluctance to arrive. For a 
 few minutes he loitered on the bridge, watching the white 
 foam flooding through the mill-wheel, and the swirl of 
 glassy water. His eyes followed the miller's man, face and 
 clothes and hands powdered white, as he went slowly 
 about his work; the clink, clink of the smithy was in his 
 ears; it seemed as if the task in progress years back was 
 still unfinished. John and Bessie and he had crossed it on 
 that memorable day when, playing truant, they had taken 
 the boat from the tiny quay at Fordwich, and pulled 
 through the image of the ancient little town-hall which the 
 water had shown for seven hundred years, and passed under 
 the ducking stool, and stuck among the reeds, while the 
 cattle collected at the river's edge to watch them, with 
 large, solemn eyes. The three pairs of sturdy little legs 
 had crossed the bridge again at eventide, taking their 
 owners back reluctantly to birchings and supperless beds. 
 
 The years of childhood and of manhood seemed to close 
 together, all that lay between forgotten wiped out 
 those images of death, of horror, of unbridled license, 
 cleansed from his life, like figures from a slate. He roused 
 himself reluctantly. This pleasant countryside of streams 
 and orchards and hop-fields and golden corn, the clean air 
 blowing in from the sea, were already making him forget. 
 
 George passed on, between the Blean woods, where, 
 driving out to see the world on that autumn evening, he 
 had seen the thin moon dance among dark tree-tops 
 with each wild jolting of the chaise. Everything was 
 stamped clearly on his memory: the nodding plumes and 
 wisps of floating colours in the recruiters' helmets in front 
 of him; the sword sticking like a tail from under the offi-
 
 14 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 cer's pelisse, which the half-drunken Sergeant-Major wore; 
 the oaths, the jests, the hiccupped songs as they drove 
 madly along the Canterbury Road, swaying, bumping, 
 zigzagging from hedge to hedge. He passed cottages 
 half-covered with honeysuckle and roses, half-hidden be- 
 hind flaming hollyhocks; tiny blue eyes of flowers peeped 
 from hedgerows and the dim glades of the woods. The 
 great trees of Strode Park flecked the white road with 
 shadows. 
 
 He left Herne behind him, and stepped on briskly 
 towards Eddington. At a white gate separating a long, 
 rutted lane from the road he stopped again. The dull red 
 walls of a farmhouse showed among green foliage. How 
 often the gate had been a trysting- place! An old cowman, 
 with bent back, bowed legs, brown gabardine, was com- 
 ing slowly down the lane, like some pale stag-beetle totter- 
 ing in an effort to walk erect. George opened his mouth 
 to hail him; and shut it again abruptly. Again this strange 
 reluctance to get at once into touch with his old life. He 
 would see Bessie soon. It was at this gate she had given 
 him her promise. Seven years ago! She would be twenty- 
 three now. If she were half as pretty 
 
 He walked on, planning his future, promising himself 
 amendment, happiness, forgetfulness of so much in the 
 past years from which his mind turned with horror and 
 loathing and miserable surprise. At last the sea-wind 
 caught him full in the face, and the road dipped abruptly 
 through sloping fields dotted with sheep to blue water. 
 
 He stood and looked at sky and sea in delight. Not a 
 cloud; not a crease of foam in all the vast sheet of blue 
 stretching to the fainter blue of the horizon. Away to the 
 right, deceptively near, rose the battered towers of Reculver, 
 at the end of the long ridge of downs. He turned to the 
 left, where the line of houses faced the shingle and the sea. 
 Here were Captain Rockett's cottage and garden and
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 15 
 
 minaretted summer-house, the last still guarded by its 
 battered figure-heads; Neptune leered at him as if in 
 friendly recognition. He passed the Ship Inn; the squat 
 black mill in the centre, of the hamlet, its sails revolving 
 slowly against the blue sky, with a drowsy creak and rustle. 
 
 George came to the Running Horse. 
 
 When at last he lifted the latch and entered, the famil- 
 iarity of it all struck him almost like a blow. Overhead 
 ticked the clock, sullen and yellow-faced, that had hurried 
 them off so many times to school, ended so many happy 
 evenings, marked the flying minutes of his farewell. It 
 had ticked out the last hours of his father's life, while he 
 was away; it ticked on still, to welcome his return. Tied 
 .to a nail in the wall were the cord and ball used for " Kick- 
 up-Jenny"; the ninepins were stowed away, as no game 
 was in progress. Perhaps the ballad-sheets and cartoons 
 on the walls had grown a little dingier with the years; he 
 noticed one addition, a print in vivid reds and greens and 
 yellows, showing the British lion swimming over the Dover 
 Straits, and, on the farther shore, Boney quaking in terror: 
 a stream of broken English, looped in by the artist, flowed 
 from his lips. . . . But on the shelves and hooks above 
 the little bar scarcely a bottle or a tankard seemed to have 
 been altered, and there were familiar names chalked 
 against the drink scores on the board. 
 
 Familiar faces, too, only a little changed by time, met 
 his eyes as, scarcely noticed, he took his seat in a dark 
 corner. There were more customers than usual for a late 
 summer afternoon. Three men sat with pipes and mugs at 
 the table where the recruiters had sat on the night when 
 George enlisted. That was Pinion, surely Pinion, a little 
 balder, a little more shrivelled and more wrinkled; and 
 Timothy Thorn, beside him, looked more like an owl than 
 ever, with his round, solemn eyes, his ruffled hair, his 
 moonish face spotted with moles, from which George had
 
 16 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 once thought the feathers were trying to force their way. 
 
 Captain Rockett, in the seat of honour by the empty 
 grate, took his pipe-stem from his lips. 
 
 "Coming yet, 'Lilah?" he asked. 
 
 "No sign yet, Cap'n. They'm late." 
 
 There was no sound in the room, save for the rattle of 
 juice in foul pipes, the clink of set-down tankards, and 
 the steady ticking of the clock. Delilah Gummer stood in 
 the bow-window, with her eyes on the cliff-path towards 
 Whitstable. Suspense and expectation seemed in the air. 
 For a few minutes no one spoke. 
 
 George was thirsty; the smell of ale and spirits made 
 him thirstier still. But he was glad he had been overlooked, 
 and, fearing that his voice might reveal his identity at once, 
 he waited in silence, shading the lower part of his face with 
 his hand. He had looked forward so long to this hour of 
 his return. So often on the transport, on the white and 
 dusty road, among the parched Iberian mountains, by 
 bivouac fires in cork-forest, or vineyard, or ploughed field 
 so very often, when he lay tossing in sleeplessness or 
 pain after his wound, with only the framed square of dark 
 sky and night to watch from his little bed in the cottage 
 near Toulouse he had pictured the welcome home. Once 
 he had thought he would come as a conqueror, a hero, 
 with honours, with wealth, with spoils of war. And then, 
 as years dulled the edge of youth, and life passed its blun- 
 dering hand over the glowing colours of his illusions and 
 ambitions, his heart had cried still for home home, 
 with its kindly faces its healing and consolation, and its 
 peace. 
 
 And now, with the moment of recognition so near, he 
 was a little frightened. He felt as he had felt on Christ- 
 mag mornings long ago, sitting up in bed, and hugging the 
 stuffed stocking half in enjoyment of a deferred pleasure; 
 half in fear, lest the disclosure of his gifts should bring dis-
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 17 
 
 appointment. He was afraid, now, of the great moment 
 falling tame and flat. 
 
 George watched Delilah standing in the window her 
 flaming hair, the back of her freckled neck, the strong 
 freckled arm and red hand resting on the sill. A queer 
 memory flashed across his mind. Delilah Glimmer's 
 father, puzzled to find a Biblical name for the last child of 
 a large family, had opened the Book at random, and dis- 
 covered this. One day, when George was a very little boy, 
 she told him the story of Samson and her namesake. A 
 few nights later, he remembered it to some purpose. That 
 red hand, which grated and knuckled him so terribly at his 
 toilet, had administered smart punishment for some mis- 
 deed. With the angry tears still smarting on his cheeks, 
 he crept from bed the moment she was sound asleep, and, 
 with the great scissors from her basket, snipped short her 
 fiery locks. But a woman's hair, though her glory, is not 
 her strength; and his father's stick rubbed in his disap- 
 pointment. . . . 
 
 His father! He would never hear that sturdy tread 
 again; never again his voice in breezy greeting, or noisy 
 argument, or anger. But he listened eagerly for his mother's 
 footstep; at any moment, the door between taproom and 
 little parlour might open, and her face, so dear and so 
 familiar, smile a welcome to the guests. He tried to pic- 
 ture the change the dawn of surprise, of incredulity, 
 merging into breathless delight with which she would see, 
 and know, and welcome him. And John, too John, his 
 loyal comrade and old playmate! He would be altered 
 almost out of knowledge in these years. 
 
 At the thought of his mother and his brother, George's 
 conscience pricked him. Before that awful night of Bada- 
 joz, he had answered the letters sent on to him through the 
 Town Mayor's Office at Lisbon, letters received and read 
 in scenes so different from the quiet home in which they 
 
 2
 
 18 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 had been written. After that, he had let month follow 
 month without writing; and the bullet at Toulouse snapped 
 the final link between him and home. 
 
 Sitting in the dark corner of the taproom, he watched 
 all that went on like one who comes back again from the 
 dead. From the dead? From hell, rather; a hell of shriek- 
 ing agony, of mangled and writhing and tortured forms, 
 of lust and horror, of license unbridled and sin unspeak- 
 able. But hell had ended. The lands he had fought and 
 suffered in were silent enough now, charnel-houses, hills 
 and valleys of dry bones, places of shuddering memories, 
 but burned-out passions and angers and torments; red 
 spaces, marked with names of secret and bitter mean- 
 ing, on the mind's map. But the clean sea shut them 
 off. 
 
 Oh, he would forget! He was born again into the world; 
 untrodden roads, white in the sun, lay before him. Already, 
 wholesome memories of childhood cleansed his thought. 
 His reveille now would be his mother's voice; his only 
 battles, against unkindness, against self, against pride and 
 discontent and unclean thoughts. . . . 
 
 Bess would be his loyal little comrade. That closed 
 door, with its little window screened with the red blind, 
 reminded him of her again. He saw vivid pictures from 
 the past, scenes in that parlour; afternoons when the dark- 
 haired, madcap girl had visited them, and sitting in smocks 
 and pinafores round the table, they had choked and giggled 
 over their bread and dripping, until his father had entered 
 from the taproom to call them all to order or his mother, to 
 hear and share the joke. Good days, those ! Oh, grand days, 
 those! And they had come again. His mind leapt over ob- 
 stacles; soon, very soon, he would hold Bess to her promise. 
 He pictured the little home they would make together. 
 He saw it, years ahead, noisy with the laughter of 
 children.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 19 
 
 Captain Rockett, knocking out his pipe against the grate, 
 recalled him from his dreams. 
 
 " I reckon I'll be catching it from Mrs. Rockett if they're 
 much longer," he said. "No sign yet, 'Lilah?" 
 
 "I hope there hasn't been no 'itch," answered 'Lilah 
 gloomily, from her window. "I only hope " 
 
 "No 'itch? Why, he ain't like Simmons, I hope, to be 
 put off with a few 'itches. Ever tell you about him, eh?" 
 Captain Rockett looked round inquiringly. " No? Well, to- 
 day reminds me of the afternoon I proposed to Mrs. Rockett; 
 wery hot day it was, too, and my last ashore from the old 
 Lydia. We had an outing on the downs near Reculver, 
 and Simmons he was a big footman at the Hall, where 
 she was in service was in the party, and on a similar tack 
 to me. Knowing it was my last chance afore I went 
 to sea, he stuck to us like our shadders, and I couldn't 
 shake him off for the life of me. 'Wery awkward, this, 
 James Rockett,' thoft I; 'if you ax her straight out, 
 he'll make it a duet, and 'tisn't fair to any lass to have a 
 couple of men shouting out, " Martha, be mine, be mine," 
 one to each ear.' At last we all sat down to have our wittles. 
 Just as I was getting down beside her, I saw I'd selected 
 an ant-hill so I let Simmons have that instead, and he 
 didn't notice. He did soon, though. By and by he began 
 fidgeting so much that Martha had to tell him, quite sharp, 
 to sit still. Well, the next thing was Martha insisted on 
 setting in the sun, and of course the ants jumped and danced 
 livelier than ever. 'Rockett,' says he at last, rubbing 
 his legs surreptitious-like, ' let's leave the girls a bit, and 
 go down and have a poochy.' 'Not me,' says I, 'I doan't 
 hold with sea-bathing after a meal. But you go, and Mar- 
 tha and me'll wait on the clifts.' 'I doan't like bathing 
 alone,' he began, when one of the other men said he'd go 
 too. 'No, Rockett says it ain't safe,' grunts Simmons, 
 almost dancing. Soon he couldn't stand it no longer.
 
 20 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 'Rockett,' whispers he, 'I've been a-setting on a ant-hill, 
 and I'm suffering like the damned. Come with me while 
 I shake my breeches out.' 
 
 " ' I'll stop here with Martha,' whispers I back. ' I can't 
 say it interests me to watch you shake 'em out.' 'Wery 
 well,' mutters Simmons, savage-like, 'I'll stay if I die for 
 it.' With that, knowing him to be a pretty determined 
 sort of chap, a thought struck me. 'All right,' says I, 
 'I'll come.' 
 
 "As soon as we got a chance, we went down near the edge 
 of the clift, behind some brambles, and he whipped his 
 breeches off in no time. 'That ain't the way to shake,' 
 says I; 'give 'em to me, and try rubbing your legs with 
 docks!' He gave 'em up like a lamb; and I shook 'em out 
 so wigorously that I soon shook 'em over the edge of the 
 clift. ' You done it a-purpose! ' he screamed. ' I'll give you 
 the rarest bannocking ' 
 
 " ' You'd better get behind the bushes and hide your legs, 
 'cause Martha's coming,' says I. And so I proposed to her 
 with him listening behind the bushes to every word!" 
 
 Captain Rockett drained his glass. 
 
 "Simmons married an innkeeper's widow a month 
 after," he continued, wiping his mouth, "and I've never 
 been sorry for taking Solomon's advice. Perhaps he'd 
 tried it with one of his three hundred. A wery loving 
 man, Solomon must ha' been. . . . Well, all's fair in 
 love and war, and married life ain't unlike the kingdom 
 of Heaven; if you don't get in by force, wery often you 
 don't get there at all. I reckon if John ' 
 
 "Here they be at last!" interrupted Delilah excitedly, 
 and flung the window open. 
 
 The inn guests sprang from their chairs; in an instant, 
 some were in the roadway, others on the threshold of the 
 open door, two or three standing with legs and bodies inside 
 the room, and heads thrust through the window which
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 21 
 
 Delilah had just opened. George went forward to the bow 
 and peered over. His heart leapt up and stood still. 
 
 A horse's hoofs clattered along the shingle-strewn path. 
 "Hurrah! Hurrah! Welcome home!" cried Captain 
 Rockett and the rest; 'Lilah, flapping a dust-cloth wildly 
 in her excitement, caught Thorn in one owlish eye. . . . 
 The horse passed the window, but already George had seen 
 its burden. He stood for a second like a man in a dream. 
 Was it a dream? All a dream the home-coming and 
 and this? It seemed as if, in a moment, the reveille bugles 
 might ring out, and he, waking from slumber, feel the stiff- 
 ness of his limbs again; see around him again his comrades 
 shaking off sleep; hear the yawns, the oaths, the gruff 
 orders to the sluggards; find, overhead, the rugged moun- 
 tains cleaving the morning sky. . . . Ah, if he could! 
 
 Dazed, he watched his brother swing himself, laughing, 
 from the saddle. He saw willing hands lift Bess, all smiles 
 and blushes, from her perch behind him. He heard a fisher 
 lad offer to stable the mare. "Ay, and give her a feed of 
 corn, Joe," said John's voice, as he patted the white coat; 
 "she's carried us well. Haven't you, Blossom, old lass? 
 My word, we came over the cliffs like the wind. Welcome 
 home, Bess," he whispered, and kissed her on the threshold 
 of their home. 
 
 Bess! Oh, Bess! 
 
 George kept in the background, silent, while all around 
 were talking and laughing at once. This was Bessie then. 
 This the little lass whose life had been linked with his, 
 actually or in memory and thought, as long as either could 
 remember. And John and she had come riding into his 
 new life riding down the hopes, the dreams, the unsub- 
 stantial fabrics built on the ruins of the old. 
 
 They stood by the parlour door, together; John's 
 bronzed, honest face aglow with a new pride and happiness; 
 Bess with eyes those eyes so well remembered sparkling,
 
 22 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 yet a little dim at their welcome; her cheeks flushed with 
 the wind; her dark hair unruly still. She brushed it back 
 with a quick, familiar gesture. He caught the glint of a 
 new ring in the sunshine. 
 
 Captain Rockett was making a little speech. "I do 
 think we ought to have had some decorations now," 
 George heard him saying. "But there wasn't no time to 
 arrange anything. 'Lilah here wanted to put up a text 
 from her bedroom 'The Wages of Sin is Death' over 
 the bar, but it didn't seem to me exackly suitable for the 
 occasion. I might ha' borrowed the 'Welcome' motto," 
 he went on, with twinkling eyes, "that they had up at 
 Canterbury Gaol when the royalists wisited the city; or 
 we might have hung up a wreath outside with a motto 
 only they'm liable to accidents. Leastways, I've beared 
 that they put up a laurel wreath for Boney once, with 
 'He well deserves it' underneath; but the wind (or per- 
 haps 'twas some one who didn't hold with Boney) knocked 
 the wreath down, and left the noose and the motto hang- 
 ing. . . . Well, if we haven't hung up any motto of wel- 
 come, we do welcome you, wery hearty, John and you, 
 Mrs. Kennett. Must' Huntingdon wouldn't give his con- 
 sent, so you've been bold and done without it. And you 
 don't regret it, eh?" 
 
 "Not I," said John, laughing, and hooked his wife's 
 arm in his. " Do you, Bess?" 
 
 "Oh, it's early days yet," she said, with a blush and a 
 smile. 
 
 A chorus of jovial laughter greeted her answer. 
 
 "Nor you won't neither," went on Rockett, "not for a 
 tale of years, I reckon. And if you ain't satisfied with her 
 on trial, John, you've only got to put a halter round her 
 neck and bring her along to me, and I'll give 'ee a pound 
 note for her any day, Mrs. Rockett making no objections. 
 There, I'm danged if my speech ain't gone clean out of my
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 23 
 
 head, though I learnt it off rude-heart. But, as Words- 
 worth says, John, you ' walked the world, gay and affecting 
 graceful gaiety,' until fortune made known 
 
 " ' A blooming lady a conspicuous flower, 
 Whom you had sensibility to love, 
 Ambition to attempt, and skill to win ' 
 
 and, one and all, we wish you happiness." 
 
 John made himself heard at last through the cheering. 
 He stammered out a few bluff words of thanks. "But 
 there, I'm no speaker," he said. "We thank you my wife 
 and I from the bottom of our hearts, I'm sure. I I'm 
 not here, 'Lilah," he broke off abruptly, "we'll fill up the 
 tankards, and our friends'll drink a health to your Missus. 
 Pinion, you can stand another mug or d'you say water?" 
 
 "Ale '11 do me, thankee, Must' Kennett," said Pinion, 
 with a slow, sheepish smile. There were the brisk sounds 
 of clinking earthenware and glass and pewter. Pinion, 
 having gulped his down too quickly for the toast, was in 
 querulous argument with Delilah. "I never done it a-pur- 
 pose!" George heard him say indignantly. "I thoft we 
 had to " 
 
 "Let me help too, "said Bess, and, taking a mug of ale, 
 looked round for any one still unprovided. She came 
 straight across to George; her smiling eyes looked directly 
 into his. "Will you have ?" 
 
 The question broke off abruptly. The mug slipped 
 between them, and crashed to pieces on the floor. 
 
 "That's unlucky," whispered some one, with a half 
 whistle. 
 
 John Kennett turned his head sharply.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 "AX THAT'S that? Who's talking about bad luck 
 VV to-day?" cried John, in his hearty, genial 
 voice, and caught sight of the broken mug and spilt ale. 
 "It doan't matter, Bess, a little ha'penny; plenty more 
 mugs where that come from, and beer too." 
 
 Bess stood looking at George, the smile gone from her 
 face, her eyes round with dazed wonder, unbelief even 
 alarm. George looked into the depths of them. Pinion 
 was growing garrulous over his ale. "A be seventy-dree, 
 a be," his quavering old voice was informing Thorn; "and 
 a mind when Must' John's feyther and mother eh?" He 
 broke off at a nudge, and looked at Bess and George, towards 
 whom other eyes were turning. In the sudden silence, 
 John caught sight, for the first time, of his wife's face. He 
 was at her side in an instant. 
 
 "My God, lass!" he cried. "What's happened? What 
 is it?" 
 
 The flush of pleasure and excitement had vanished; she 
 was as pale as death. 
 
 "It's it's George!" she gasped, and clutched her hus- 
 band's sleeve, nestling close to him. 
 
 "George!" He stared, open-mouthed, then passed his 
 hand over his forehead hastily. "It it can't George? 
 Why, poor old George's been dead and buried this twelve- 
 month. George?" 
 
 George Kennett gulped; his heart was thumping. "Ay, 
 it's me," he said at last, half-sullenly. "I've come back." 
 
 A feeling of resentment began to stir in him. They had 
 thought him dead and here was life flowing on undis- 
 turbed, merrily, noisily, in the hamlet, in the home where 
 they had thought his place vacant for ever. Life flowed on 
 
 24
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 25 
 
 like the sea, no poorer, though a child has spent his bucket- 
 ful upon the sands. Had he mattered so little? And Bess 
 and John stood facing him and John's ring was on her 
 finger and his brother's arm had stolen round her waist. 
 
 Every eye in the room was upon him; George heard the 
 gasp of surprise, detected, in that moment of tension, 
 scarcely audible breathings of recognition, in spite of the 
 changes that time, and wounds, and hardship had brought 
 about. But no one spoke. 
 
 "I I don't rightly understand," John muttered, like 
 one dazed. "You've come back? But and yet you've 
 George's face " 
 
 George nodded, swallowed. "Ay, I'm George right 
 enough." His throat was dry; conflicting impulses and 
 emotions struggled for mastery. What a home-coming! 
 Long ago the coloured bubbles blown in youth had been 
 broken ; he had expected no doffed hats, no strewn flowers, 
 no cheering crowds. But he had anticipated, again and 
 again, a day of which he would be sole hero in the hamlet. 
 He resented this division of the honours. At the end of 
 emotions resentment, jealousy, disappointment, misera- 
 ble self-pity at the end of all, like a weighed anchor at a 
 chain's end, came pride, greater and heavier than all. He 
 might make the moment still more dramatic by reproaches 
 and scorn. But if Bess had not cared to wait, had taken 
 his death so readily for granted, he would not own himself 
 jilted or wronged before those gaping villagers. 
 
 "Yes, I'm George," he said again. "Come back just in 
 time to drink your health and Bessie's, seemingly. You 
 don't seem to believe it now, but it's me, sure enough." 
 
 "I can't hardly believe it, George, and that's true," said 
 John, thrusting out a great hand and gripping his. "But 
 there, words weren't ever made that'll say how glad we 
 are. You were in the list of missing after Toulouse, and 
 we heard from some one who'd seen you shot down."
 
 26 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 "So I was. I had months and months on my back in a 
 cottage after the country folk found me; but they pulled 
 me round at last I've got to thank a pretty little French 
 girl for that." He threw in the last words by design. "I 
 couldn't write at first, and then well, then I thought I'd 
 take you by surprise. I reckon I have, too. You and Bess 
 married to-day, tool" 
 
 "Yes, from Tom and Mary's, over at Whitstable. Mr. 
 Huntingdon wouldn't hear of it, so we took our own way. 
 He don't know yet. ... I reckon there are some faces 
 here you'll remember. 'Lilah, you haven't forgot Must' 
 George? And Cap'n Rockett and Pinion " 
 
 They clustered round, shaking hands, expressing won- 
 der, pleasure, and congratulations. The deferred toast was 
 drunk at last but first, at John's bluff order, seconded by 
 Bess, they drank the health of the man back from the dead. 
 The hearty welcome, a sense of secret magnanimity, 
 warmed his heart. Bess was very silent; but John, ignorant 
 of the memory in George's mind and hers, made no secret 
 of his delight. "To think I should get a wife and a brother 
 same day!" he said. "I can't hardly believe my eyes even 
 now. To see you sitting there, George, just like the 
 old days though you've altered almost out of knowl- 
 edge " 
 
 George broke in at last on his repetitions of wonder and 
 
 unbelief. "Where " He swallowed again, for he was 
 
 groping his way in the darkness of past years. "Where's 
 mother, John? She'll know me quicker than you did, I 
 reckon." 
 
 Captain Rockett coughed uncomfortably, mumbled 
 something about work, and signed to those near him. They 
 went out softly, some reluctantly, and the inn door closed. 
 "They'm better left to theirselves a bit," he said. "Poor 
 George! It's him right enough. He's come back in the 
 midst of joy to bear sorrow. Joy and sorrow! It's what
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 27 
 
 all has in life, sure enough; but God don't often send both 
 in the same parcel." 
 
 For a moment or two John did not answer. George 
 glanced from his face to Bess, from Bess to Delilah. He 
 read their news. So often he had looked forward to his 
 mother's welcome. Why, his last words to her, shouted 
 back while she stood smiling through dim eyes at the inn 
 door, had been of the home-coming, and the fine gifts he 
 would bring from over-sea. He had shrunk sometimes 
 from the thought of meeting old acquaintances, after his 
 boasts of what war must bring him. But not her, never 
 her. Her face would show no less welcome ah, welcome 
 more tender and more loving perhaps if he came to her as 
 helpless, as naked, as when he first nestled in her bosom. 
 
 "She's ?" He could not bring the word out. 
 
 His brother nodded. There was a minute's silence. 
 
 "It was in August she took ill," John went on at last. 
 "She died three weeks after. It was in the evening, the 
 last Sunday of the month. She seemed better, we reckoned; 
 but she had a queer fancy to put on her best things. Bess 
 was in, helping to nurse, and she and 'Lilah dressed her, and 
 put on the brooch and chain that feyther gave her. Then 
 she sat in her chair, very quiet and happy, looking out over 
 the sea and along the cliffs towards Whitstable the way 
 we've just come. 'Feyther and I came that way home 
 when we were married, nigh thirty years ago,' she said, 
 though she couldn't speak much above a whisper. Bess 
 gave her a dish of tea, and then she sat watching the sun- 
 set. It was just going down over by Sheppey, and there 
 was a great broad path to it, over the wet sands and the 
 sea, all twinkling gold. Suddenly the light seemed to 
 catch her face, and she got up, quite straight, looking right 
 at the sun, and curtsied like she used when she met the 
 parson or the quality. You remember?" 
 
 George remembered.
 
 28 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 " Bess and I ran forward, and caught her, and and 
 George's eyes were on the floor; and he did not look up for 
 a full minute. 
 
 "Did she did she say anything about me?" 
 
 "She was talking about you in the afternoon. She 
 thought you were dead, though; we all did." 
 
 They talked quietly, soberly, over old memories, old 
 friends, while Delilah spread a meal in the little parlour. 
 George was taken up to the attic where he and his brother 
 had slept in years gone by. His mother was dead! His 
 mother dead! Under all the thronging thoughts ran that 
 sad knowledge. Disappointment, jealousy, even self-pity, 
 were blotted out. He washed his face and hands, and then 
 fumbled in his bundle for a packet of old letters. The one 
 he opened had been written just after his father's death. 
 Mrs. Kennett wrote of the many mansions; but between 
 the lines George read an aching longing for the old life: 
 for the little inn beside the shore to be given back some 
 day as it had been with its cosy winter fireside; the clatter 
 of hoofs in the yard as her husband came from his summer 
 marketings; their night talks in the bedroom where she 
 would have to sleep alone just the inn and its master, 
 with all the touchiness and contradictions that now seemed 
 dearer than other memories; if God gave her these again, 
 she would ask no mansion else. And was she, now, in some 
 heavenly mansion of God's preparing? How timid she 
 would be ; how shy of all the state and glory ; how anxious 
 that her husband should not find fault. The lines swam; 
 George's eyes grew dim. 
 
 He knelt on the broad window-seat for a few minutes; 
 mists were shrouding Sheppey, and night near at hand. 
 Here he had knelt and listened to the rumble of the 
 recruiters' voices down below, and had wept with rage 
 because his father had drowned the retriever pup Bess had 
 given him from the farm. It was a little incomprehensible
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 29 
 
 to him now, that coil about a puppy. He was glad that 
 when he had come back to the inn in the glory of his new 
 uniform, he and his father had shaken hands on that night's 
 quarrel. 
 
 There were some presents in his bundle; but he left 
 those for a later time. He came down the creaking stair- 
 case, and took his place at table. 
 
 It was difficult to shake off an impression of the unreal. 
 No longer back than yesterday, it seemed, John and Bess 
 and he had been still in the golden city of youth. To-day, 
 they had left its gates, and were well on the road of life. 
 They had grown up suddenly by magic in an hour. 
 Time's scythe seemed to have cut from each life so many 
 years, and joined the severed ends. He remembered John 
 as a grave, solemn, plodding lad shy and rather silent. 
 Now, his bronzed face was set in firmer lines; his voice 
 was fuller, like a strong echo of his father's; the day's 
 happiness shadowed over for a time by the remembered 
 loss seemed to give him an unfamiliar confidence. When 
 George won her promise at the trysting-gate, Bess was a 
 slim, undeveloped, pretty girl; and mischief lingered to tempt 
 her, while, in the other ear, life was already whispering its 
 graver secrets. And now the added years had fulfilled the 
 promise of maidenhood. George noticed the dimpled 
 throat and neck, the first soft rise of the breast, which the 
 low-cut dress revealed; her hair, still rebellious, with shades 
 like the dusky blue of autumn thickets in the dark mass; 
 her eyes so true and frank, yet so stored with mystery. 
 Wonderful eyes the inscrutable eyes of Devon rather 
 than of Kent, grey-blue, changing shade like the sea, and 
 fringed with long, dark lashes heightening their charm. 
 His own dropped when they met them dropped, as they 
 had dropped when the two were boy and girl together. 
 
 His heart had known its own mate when it had cried 
 "Bessie! Little Bess!" in the dark Iberian nights.
 
 30 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 They pushed back their chairs, and the two men chatted 
 over pipes and glasses. John told how his wedding had 
 come about. Evidently Bess had said nothing of her 
 promise. "Mind you," he said, "I was always fond of 
 Bess, even when I was a little chap, and we went black- 
 berrying or picnicking, all three of us. I was never one 
 able to talk, no more than I am now; though to-day, some- 
 how, saying 'I will' out loud to parson and folk seems to 
 have loosed my tongue. I often used to wish I could talk 
 like you, George. Bess never thought I cared twopence 
 for her. Did you, lass? But news of your death came; and 
 then mother's death, and Bess being there, seemed to 
 draw us closer like. Her feyther wouldn't hear of it, 
 though; he always wanted his family to rank again with 
 gentry, you know; and there was Akenside asking for her. 
 Well, she chose; and I pray God He'll make me a good 
 husband to her." 
 
 John looked at Bess, and George had to break a rather 
 awkward silence. 
 
 "Well, you're wed before me, John," he said, with a 
 short laugh, "and that's as it should be, you bein' two 
 years older. My wig! I thought of bringing back that 
 little French girl once or twice; but I reckon an English 
 lass is better than them foreigners for wear. Who's left, 
 now? Peg Hardwick? Nance Havers?" 
 
 "You can't have neither of them, George. Tis Cousin 
 Nance now; she and Will Ford have got a shop at Sturry. 
 Peg's tokened to young Homersham." 
 
 "Homersham! Why, he but of course he's grown up 
 along with the rest. How's Tom and Mary?" 
 
 "Grand doing well. Four more babies since you went 
 away. Three boys, and she made you an aunt two months 
 come Sunday, George." 
 
 George and Bess laughed. "I'll go over to-morrow and 
 see them, then. If you'll put me up so long, that is. "
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 31 
 
 "Put you up?" cried John. "We'll not let you go off 
 again in a hurry, I can tell you. There's our old room so 
 long as ever you want it, and I hope that'll be for many a 
 day yet eh, Bess? What's that? Get work? Look here, 
 George, if you talk about that to-day, I'll I'll I'll make 
 you pay for that mug you and Bess smashed between you. 
 I mean it," he said, and banged his fist down on the table. 
 
 By and by George got up. "I think I'll go and smoke a 
 pipe on the downs before bed," he said. "My word! there's 
 a lot happened. You wed; me come alive again; and 
 and " 
 
 He went out, with the thought of his mother in his mind. 
 That loss overshadowed all else just then even the mar- 
 riage. It softened everything. Now, she would under- 
 stand his not writing and forgive. 
 
 There were things, though, that he hoped she could not 
 know. Or could they, too, be forgiven? 
 
 It was dark now, save for soft starlight falling on land 
 and sea. Round the black hull of a Sunderland collier, run 
 high and dry on to the beach, men and horses were at work 
 by lantern light. Outside the Ship Inn a fire had been lit 
 for baking; in those days each household baked its own 
 bread on the shingle. Across the flames, which twisted 
 and writhed like fiery serpents over the heap of sticks and 
 wrack, some boys were jumping; and a fisherman's wife 
 called one of them to his bed. 
 
 "Yes, mother. I be coming dreckly-minute." 
 
 How many times George had answered like that, twenty 
 years before! 
 
 He stood on the crest of the downs, that scene of old 
 adventure; the sounds on the beach were softened by 
 distance, the twinkling lights at sea were dim and hazy, 
 a quiet breeze hushed and rocked to sleep the grasses and 
 wildflowers. He stood looking out over the dark waters 
 and his mind was full of the echoes of old dreams. This
 
 32 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 was real the soft, grass-covered earth under his feet; the 
 little, ragged line of houses, with the black arms of the mill 
 held up in the centre in droll surprise; the ships, the distant 
 laughter and voices, the sea. He had dreamed a dream of 
 seven years, and was awake again. 
 
 He thought over the things that he had dreamed. He 
 saw again the rugged heights of Lisbon rising above the 
 Tagus; the lights twinkling from a thousand villas on the 
 slopes; the feluccas, lateen-rigged, skimming past the trans- 
 port; the ropes stretched from the tall masts of harboured 
 ships across the great, low-hanging moon. He was in the 
 streets, dreaming smells, dreaming beggars, dreaming 
 pariah dogs, and snuff-coloured priests, and soft-footed 
 peasants with peaked hats and pointed sticks and skins 
 of wine. There were stalls bright with strange fruits, and 
 stalls where small fish fizzled in evil-smelling oil, and stalls 
 laden with bullets and ancient, rusty arms. Little boys 
 with cocked paper hats, and mimic swords, and flags, 
 marched in squads, or crowed in derision of the Gallic cock. 
 The black, ugly faces of negro pages grinned at him from 
 great head-dresses of gaudy velvet; running footmen in 
 gay liveries preceded the coaches of their masters; the 
 royal carriages, lent for some funeral, swayed and creaked 
 on their gloomy journey through the streets. 
 
 And then, suddenly, he was marching with the green- 
 jackets along dusty roads far from the city; trudging on, 
 staggering on, interminably; cursing the equipment that 
 weighed him down, cursing the fierce sun that showed no 
 mercy. Suddenly men Spaniards met them, screaming 
 defeat and Wellesley's death. Faster still they were goaded 
 on; dreams changed into a nightmare of war. That terrible 
 march, sixty miles, they said, in twenty-six hours, ended 
 on the field of Talavera. Pale and mangled bodies, some 
 still quivering, some masses of human pulp and blood that 
 still had power to shriek, lay in thousands. In the blazing
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 33 
 
 scrub between the lines, wounded men were burning to 
 death; on the blackened ground that the fire had done its 
 work with, shrivelled bodies, like huge dried-up frogs, were 
 massed. He saw, a little later, the long tables where the 
 surgeons were at work, and the piles of legs and arms 
 carelessly flung down. 
 
 With shuddering horror his mind passed to the scene 
 of his first fight. Barba del Puerco, they called the place; 
 a little post high among the mountains. He and some 
 comrades were crouching over a wood fire in a tiny church, 
 when the yells and volleys of the French were heard. Five 
 hundred French and less than half a hundred English were 
 fighting for possession of the bridge. He was afraid at 
 first but it was fear of fear rather than of the enemy. 
 How vividly that night came back to him! He saw the 
 rugged mountains, heard the firing, the drums, the shouts 
 echoing among the rocks; and the cold moonlight, pouring 
 through a film of misty cloud, glittered on the bayonets 
 as the riflemen pushed back their foes, foot by foot, across 
 the bridge. 
 
 Many a stiff fight, many a long march, many a night 
 under open sky, or canvas, or wattled branches torn from 
 the woods, had taught George his craft and hardened him. 
 Until to-night he had thought over many things without 
 pity or repulsion. But Badajoz was a memory he never 
 cared to dwell on. He turned from it now, and walked 
 back quickly towards the inn. 
 
 He had dreamed, and was awake again. He was dead, 
 and was alive again. Badajoz was the culminating horror 
 of his dreams, the hell visited in death. He must forget. 
 The man who had fought, and suffered, and sinned, far 
 away from the fair fields and orchards and woods of Kent, 
 was dead. He would shut out from his mind those awful 
 years. He would begin again, pick up life where he had 
 left it on that early morning when he had tramped from 
 3
 
 34 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 Hythe to Dover behind the bugle-horns, and "Over the 
 Hills and Far Away" had brought the sleepy rustics from 
 their beds. He would forget all that had happened since 
 he had stood, that day, on the Malabar transport, and 
 looked at the jostling boats round her, and watched the 
 waving of handkerchiefs on shore, and listened to the scam- 
 per of the sailors' feet around the windlass, and dreamed 
 his dreams of glory while Blue Peter was still flying at the 
 truck. Glory! What pictures he had painted, what plans 
 laid, when honours and wealth had seemed such easy 
 winning! What a future he had mapped out, not knowing 
 the iron rules of the world, "not knowing in any wise his 
 own heart, or what it would some day suffer." 
 
 George passed under the darkling houses towards the 
 inn. In his ears were the gasp of slipping shingle and the 
 murmur of the restless sea the sea, that laughs and sobs 
 its chorus to the joys and sorrows of mortality. He would 
 forget; he would live cleanly; he had learnt, and under- 
 stood. It would be easy to pick up the threads of his old 
 life again, the threads of all that the years had left him, 
 now that his father was gone, and his mother and Bessie. 
 
 On the red blind of the little parlour, as he passed to 
 the door opening into the courtyard beside the inn, he 
 saw the shadows of two heads, very close together. There 
 was a little hurried scuffle as the latch clicked; Bess smiled 
 at him, her face rosily flushed, her hair towsled. 
 "Oh, it's only George," she said,
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 EORGE woke early the next morning, with the sun 
 v_Jt streaming into the room, and the dazzle of waves 
 flickering on the walls. He lay some time before rising, 
 watching the blue rims of sea and sky through the little 
 window, and the white gulls skimming past on their rest- 
 less journeyings. When he came down, Bess, in pretty 
 flowered cotton, with her face rosy from soft rain-water, 
 was helping Delilah with the breakfast. John came in 
 from the stable a minute later. 
 
 "Slept well? I reckon the room seems smaller than 
 when you and I slept together there, eh, George?" he said 
 with a cheerful laugh. 
 
 "Plenty big enough for me," George answered. "Yes, 
 I slept like a top, thanks. I've got used to beds again by 
 now. In Spain, once, I remember, some of us came to a 
 house where there were decent beds, and the pillows fixed 
 up with bows of ribbon. We thought ourselves jolly 
 lucky, I can tell you; but blessed if we weren't all sleep- 
 ing on the floor before the night was out couldn't get a 
 wink sleeping soft, after so many months of the hard 
 ground. Never tasted ham " 
 
 He broke off, for John had closed his eyes suddenly, 
 and was saying grace. "I feel like saying grace for every- 
 thing now," he said, after the "Amen." "I catch myself 
 saying it inside every now and then; ay, ay, for what we 
 receive may we be truly thankful. God's given me some- 
 thing a sight more precious than ham or bread and butter." 
 John looked at Bess, who smiled back at him. 
 
 "I reckon I'd have said it for ham like this in Spain or 
 Portugal," said George; "better'n maize, and peanuts, 
 and mouldy biscuits, this is." 
 
 35
 
 36 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 "Home-cured ham," mumbled John, with his mouth 
 full. 
 
 Breakfast over, George remembered his bundle and his 
 presents. He ran upstairs to get them. 
 
 "I brought back one or two things for you," he said, 
 awkwardly, "nothing much precious little to show for 
 all this time, still," he bent red-faced over the bundle 
 "there's a Spanish pistol for you, John. I got it off a 
 dead guerilla " 
 
 "Oh, my!" exclaimed Delilah. "I see a stuffed one at 
 Herne Fair last Martinmas. But I thoft " 
 
 George laughed, and explained. "It's a handy weapon," 
 he went on, "better than what it looks. Here's a hand- 
 ful of bullets, too. I've only fired it half a dozen times, 
 but it's almost as certain as the Baker rifle at its distance." 
 
 John and Bessie bent over, examining the delicate 
 carving on the butt. 
 
 "Oh, my!" screamed Delilah, at a sudden movement 
 on John's part, "don't point it at me like that, Must' 
 John, the ugly thing! I'm skeered out of my life at fire- 
 arms." 
 
 " 'Tisn't loaded, 'Lilah," said George with a laugh, 
 taking it from his brother and clicking the trigger. "Click! 
 click!" he mimicked. "I reckon that's the last sound a 
 good many have listened to with whole skins." 
 
 "Has it killed any one, Must' George?" asked 'Lilah, 
 drawing a little closer, cautiously, as if fascinated. " Them 
 tiny little bullets, too! Oh, my!" 
 
 " I reckon so, 'Lilah. The man I got it off killed a good 
 many Frenchies in his time, 'fore he got nobbled himself. 
 A big, handsome chap he was. Here's the scarf I took 
 off him; you can have that, 'Lilah." He held out the 
 handsome scarf, silk of a purple hue that changed to green 
 and gold as it was handled. 
 
 "Off the dead gorilla, Must' George?"
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 37 
 
 She turned her property over, looking for gruesome 
 stains. 
 
 "He had a silver spur strapped round one foot no 
 shoes nor stockings but I lost that. There's a little gold 
 cross I got out of one of the churches for you, Bess. I 
 meant this chain for for mother, but you'd better keep 
 it too, now. I found that in a convent. There's a shawl 
 for Mary." He spread it out. 
 
 John was trying the lock of his pistol. "I hope it's 
 killed its last man, George," he said. "It'll be useful to 
 carry, though, when I'm going along with money at night. 
 There's been bother since you went away with flaskers 
 and poachers, and it ain't reckoned safe to go far on a 
 dark road unarmed." 
 
 "Craddock still on his work?" 
 
 "Brisker'n ever," said John. Craddock was the riding- 
 officer who patrolled the coast, night and day, from Faver- 
 sham Creek to the marshes beyond Reculver. Talk 
 turned on his exploits and reverses. John laid down laws 
 of his own, which were not laws of England, about free- 
 trading, but denounced with equal warmth the smuggling 
 of gold over Channel to pay Napoleon's troops. 
 
 "Oh, John," said Bess, "you'll break our best table if 
 you bang it like that!" 
 
 John's thunders stopped instantly in a sidelong glance 
 and shy smile. 
 
 One night, during George's absence, a smuggler had 
 been shot by the preventive men close to the inn. 'Lilah 
 gave a graphic account of hearing the noise of hoofs and 
 firing at dead of night. " Here be Judgment Day at last, 
 I thoft, and scratched out of bed to put on something 
 decent." Her chief concern seemed to have been whether 
 the other members of the household were prepared. They 
 brought the man into the inn, stone-dead; Delilah pointed 
 out to George on her own body, with pleasing accuracy,
 
 38 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 the site and magnitude of his wound. "Wery quiet 
 and peaceful-looking he was," said she, musing, "for a man 
 who'd been killed only three minutes before, and was wery 
 likely bein' pitched into the lake o' fire at that moment." 
 
 "Why, 'Lilah, what an awful thing to think!" said Bess. 
 
 "Well, I beared tell he was a wery ill-living man," 
 insisted Delilah. 
 
 " You ought to have seen as many men stick their spoons 
 in the wall as I have, 'Lilah," said George airily; "you 
 wouldn't set so much count then on what the parson fright- 
 ens you with. Good or bad, they don't look much differ- 
 ent when they're pitched in the trenches." 
 
 " 'Lilah's right, though, there is a difference," said 
 John with decision. "But it don't take long to send a 
 little prayer up, and let's hope that poor fellow " 
 
 "Most I've seen died swearing," persisted George. 
 
 "I reckon we can only go by what the Bible tells us." 
 
 "Oh " 
 
 George opened his mouth to speak, but changed his 
 mind suddenly and then the subject. He had no mind 
 just then for a religious controversy. He made them 
 laugh, instead, with a graphic description of a duel he had 
 witnessed on the quay at Lisbon. Two sailors who had 
 quarrelled were seated astride across a barrel, face to 
 face; and the seats of their breeches were nailed tightly 
 to the wood. They pommelled each other lustily, while 
 the barrel rocked to and fro. At last a well-directed blow- 
 sent one man flying backward, legs in air the nails and 
 stout canvas held him tightly to the rolling cask and 
 thus he had to stay, inverted, until the boatswain cut him 
 free. His flight from the jeering crowd to his ship was like 
 the exit of a blushing debutante who may not tun? her 
 back on royalty. 
 
 One of his comrades in the rifle corps was a ventrilo- 
 quist; George remembered one occasion on which his gift
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 39 
 
 had won them a good dinner. Some superstitious country 
 folk had cooked it for themselves; as they lifted their 
 goose out of the pot, it came to life again, and railed at 
 them, in Irish-Portuguese, for their brutality. The peas- 
 ants fled in terror, crossing themselves and muttering 
 prayers, and left the riflemen in sole possession. One 
 story led easily to another; and George, in his turn, lis- 
 tened to accounts of the few events that had broken the 
 monotony of village life tales of the sea, familiar on every 
 coast, of wrecks in winter, and the great comet, and how 
 the news of victories flamed through the land, and how 
 peace was celebrated with much ale and many roasted 
 oxen. 
 
 He wandered through the rooms, downstairs and up; 
 his long absence, and, more than all, his mother's death, 
 gave to things commonplace and prosaic a touch of poetry, 
 a kind of personality almost human. Half a pipe smoked 
 in the stable made him better acquainted with Blossom, 
 the white mare who had brought John and Bess back into 
 his life. George spent the sunny morning on the downs 
 and by the shore. In wholesome daylight his memories 
 of past years were robbed of half their horror. Conscience 
 approved his cheerful renunciation. He felt good a feel- 
 ing as pleasant as it was strange. In part payment for 
 his virtue George gave himself a little license. He ex- 
 panded in the warmth of self-approval, and posed, heroic, 
 before a knot of fishermen and idlers who clustered round 
 him on the beach. The eager interest of his audience car- 
 ried him too far. "My wig!" exclaimed a fisherman, 
 meaning no sarcasm, "you told us you were going to do 
 great things. I reckon, now, you got made a sergeant at 
 least for all that?" 
 
 "Oh, I didn't do so much. No, I joined a private, and 
 I was a private at Toulouse. Precious few chances in the 
 English army, except you've got money and friends."
 
 40 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 Stebbings, a small farmer who had joined the group, 
 came to his help. He was a man who prided himself on 
 his opposition to the existing order. Perhaps it was in 
 protest against nature, which had afflicted him with a 
 spasmodic, affirmative nodding of the head. Stebbings' 
 tongue might say no; his head perpetually nodded yes. 
 It had been nodding steadily throughout George's nar- 
 rative, though the sea wind, tugging at the long, sandy 
 whiskers which he wore in protest against the fashion of 
 the day, had tried to steady it by violent means. 
 
 " Money and friends! " growled Stebbings. " You've put 
 your finger on the spot I'm always trying to hammer in, 
 George, though they won't believe me. Money and friends 
 is the worms in the bud, so to speak, that's making shipwreck 
 of Old England. It's the same with the Church, the same 
 with Parliament. Does the best man come to the top, I 
 ask you? Has he a chance without wealth and influence? 
 Has he?" Stebbings said "No," emphatically, but his 
 head contradicted him with an equally emphatic "Yes." 
 
 He made George a text for a tirade against the Govern- 
 ment. "Government? I call them that; but we haven't 
 got no Government, and won't have till each man has his 
 vote. We've a lot of muddle-headed, money-grubbing, 
 blood-sucking old women that we call a Government, 
 but if you ask me " 
 
 A terrific uproar, shouts, gasps, laughter, mingled with 
 the spitting and mewing of a cat and the furious bark- 
 ing of a dog, brought Stebbings to an abrupt close. 
 
 "Starf take us!" cried a fisherman, flinging down a 
 corner of a net. "It's Mrs. Rockett and old Punch!" 
 
 "And the Ship cat!" yelled a boy, springing up. 
 
 On the road between the houses and the beach a pathetic 
 and unusual sight met their eyes. 
 
 The cat referred to, a sleek and bloated Tom, crouched in 
 the centre of the path, bristling with fear and indignation
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 41 
 
 and surprise. An enormous, shaggy dog, of some name- 
 less breed that did credit to the originality of its parents, 
 bore down on it, and dragged an elderly and unwilling 
 lady into battle. 
 
 "Drop the lead, mum; drop the lead!" cried a maid 
 from the Ship, who had come with a broom to the rescue 
 of her pet. 
 
 "I can't," gasped Mrs. Rockett. "It's twisted round 
 my wrist!" 
 
 Swearing and spitting, Puss made a dash for safety, 
 and mounted a water-butt in the yard of the Running 
 Horse. But here retreat was cut off, and Punch knew 
 it. He followed, straining at the lead and Mrs. Rockett. 
 There was a momentary tussle; but circumstances and 
 Punch were too strong for her spinning, swaying, stag- 
 gering, she was pulled after him into the yard. 
 
 Punch would have followed a cat even to the kennel of 
 Cerberus. He sprang at the butt. For an awful moment 
 Mrs. Rockett pictured herself (like Ganymede) soaring 
 through the air. The maid from the Ship flung her broom, 
 and missed Mrs. Rockett only by an inch. Some one 
 clutched the lady by the skirts, while George unfastened 
 the lead. 
 
 Freed from his burden, Punch made a still more des- 
 perate leap for the shrinking cat. But now Puss found a 
 champion. Bess, hearing the commotion, rushed out, and, 
 thinking only of the rescue, tried to save it from its ancient 
 enemy. 
 
 "Don't touch it, Bess!" cried George, but was too late. 
 The cat was too flustered to distinguish friend from foe. 
 Its Day of Judgment seemed to have broken the peace of 
 a pampered and slothful life. All the universe was sud- 
 denly in arms against it. And Bess, rushing in bravely 
 but recklessly, clapped her hand the next second to a 
 scratched cheek.
 
 42 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 George dragged the dog back by the collar, and, as 
 the cat slunk past him, kicked it savagely across the yard. 
 
 "Oh, George," cried Bess, "you shouldn't have kicked 
 it like that! Poor thing! Is it hurt?" 
 
 "Hurt? No thanks to him if it ain't dead," said the 
 maid from the Ship vindictively, glaring at George, and 
 embracing the fat, torpid body of her pet. "Nasty, sav- 
 age way to treat a poor dumb animal!" 
 
 " 'Bout as dumb as you, I reckon, your cat is," said 
 George. "Has it hurt you, Bess? Let's look." 
 
 "No, it's nothing much," said Bess, rather shortly. 
 "Mrs. Rockett, you'll come in and sit down a minute, 
 won't you?" 
 
 "Thank you, my dear," gasped Mrs. Rockett. "My 
 heart's all going pit-a-pat, and my legs there, it's given 
 me quite a turn; I haven't run like that since I was a 
 gel. What a mercy," she continued, sinking into a chair 
 in the little parlour, "what a mercy that the cat didn't go 
 the other way!" She shuddered at the mental picture of 
 Punch leaping, with her in tow, down on to the beach, of 
 a wild steeplechase over ropes, and baskets, and anchors, 
 and wooden breakwaters. 
 
 A dose of cordial and the application of some lotion 
 to her wrist revived her. "I dreamt last night that some- 
 thing was going to happen," she said solemnly. "Oh, 
 you naughty dog, Punch! You're getting as mischievous 
 as your master. What do you think I found this morn- 
 ing, my dear? You know that little bed I made last spring. 
 Well, all the flowers are dead every one of them. Cap- 
 tain Rockett offered to do some weeding for me last night, 
 and he pulled the flowers up by mistake, and left the 
 weeds. He must have found out what he'd done, because 
 he stuck them in again without any roots, to deceive 
 me. Really, I'm almost glad sometimes when he goes 
 away."
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 43 
 
 Captain Rockett commanded the hoy that plied, twice 
 weekly, between London and Herne Bay. 
 
 "I mustn't stop a minute, my dear," said Mrs. Rockett, 
 "but when he went this morning he told me to be sure 
 and come round, and I was coming when Punch met the 
 cat. I couldn't believe him when he said George was 
 back safe and sound, on your wedding day, too. And how 
 did you enjoy yourself, George?" Mrs. Rockett inquired 
 about the war as she had inquired, years back, about 
 picnics or children's parties, on the day following the event. 
 "I suppose you'll be thinking of getting married now 
 John's set the example? You know, my dear," she said, 
 turning to Bess, "I always used to fancy there was some- 
 thing between you and George, before he went away. I 
 never imagined it was John you cared about." 
 
 Bess coloured and smiled. She did not look at George, 
 who sat moody and uncomfortable, conscious that he was 
 not quite forgiven. He chafed secretly under the congrat- 
 ulations on the wedding that followed. 
 
 "John'll make you a good husband, my dear; I've 
 known him since he was a little boy, and I always have 
 been fond of John." Her voice dropped to an anxious 
 whisper. "Your father's not back yet, I suppose? And 
 he doesn't know?" 
 
 "Not yet," said Bess, and her face clouded. "He comes 
 back from London this evening." 
 
 "Ah! Well, I do hope he'll be reasonable and friendly 
 when he sees he can't alter things. Now I mustn't stop 
 any longer. Mother's in bed again, poor dear. Gracious! 
 that's never half-past twelve?" 
 
 "I'll see you safe home, Mrs. Rockett," said George, 
 "in case Punch takes you cat-chasing again. I think 
 I'll go over to Whitstable then, Bess, and see Tom and 
 Mary." 
 
 "Very well," said Bess.
 
 44 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 Mrs. Rockett turned again as she reached the door. 
 "Bless me!" she exclaimed, "I quite forgot!" She dived 
 into her skirts, and brought out a little package. "With 
 our love, my dear; it's a silver salt-cellar for you and John. 
 I hardly liked to give you a thing that was hundreds of 
 years old, but Captain Rockett said 
 
 "Why," cried Bess, as delighted as a child, "it's Queen 
 Anne! I like it ever so much better because it's old. Look, 
 George!" 
 
 They bent over the present, and made friends. 
 
 George saw Mrs. Rockett to her door, and then tramped 
 across the cliffs to Whitstable. His sister threw up ex- 
 cited hands at his coming back from the dead, and just 
 in time for dinner. Tom Dodson, a sandy-haired, simple- 
 faced fellow, came in beaming from the shop. The chil- 
 dren were presented, and made happy with small French 
 and Spanish coins. After a narrow escape from sitting 
 on the baby's bottle George was safely ensconced in the 
 only vacant chair. At intervals during dinner his sister 
 was overcome suddenly by the oddity of his return. " Fancy 
 your being alive after all, George! " But it was plain enough 
 that her whole life was wrapped up in her own small cir- 
 cle. She asked after his adventures in the same breath 
 with which she warned a baby not to suck his boots. She 
 broke off in the thick of his most thrilling recital to re- 
 prove a child, to kiss and make well some damaged limb. 
 "Go on, George, I'm listening," she would say "Yes, 
 dear; kind uncle to give Baby such a pretty thing." 
 Father and mother eyed each other over the meal like young 
 lovers. Battles of marshals and generals were of less 
 interest than the squabbles of little children. His return 
 to life was less marvellous than that everyday miracle of 
 birth, which had brought small faces that could smile or 
 cry out of nothingness. While George spoke of the loot 
 of cities, Tom Dodson would run from his cold mutton to
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 45 
 
 the shop, and come back jubilant over another halfpenny 
 profit on lard, or cheese, or tin tacks. 
 
 And yet, when George walked back at sunset along the 
 cliffs, he found that his visit had touched deep memories 
 and shaped thoughts from which it was difficult to escape. 
 He felt lonely. Mary in her home reminded him again of 
 his mother, years back, when they were all children. His 
 sister lacked absolutely the quick imagination which had 
 filled his own life with fierce joys and terrors and wild am- 
 bitions. For Dodson he had always felt a mild contempt, 
 and had wondered that these two could draw romance 
 from starry nights and green lanes like other lovers. Yet, 
 so long after marriage, their eyes told of some great pos- 
 session, some quiet happiness that he lacked. He had seen 
 the proud and happy look on John's face when he came 
 riding to the inn, bringing with him, to be shut fast within 
 the doors of home, all the colours, all the glory of the 
 world, like a warrior trailing captured banners homeward. 
 This was what love did for the poor man, though a fool; 
 he had no money to purchase romance, neither knowl- 
 edge nor imagination to tell of the sweet, aching sadness 
 of old times, old songs, old loves; tied to his hearth, he 
 could not wander on strange seas, tramp the heather of 
 far hills, walk the streets of glittering cities, taste the 
 sweetness of forest and mountain at dawn or sunset, know 
 the lust of power, the wild exultation of conquest; yet 
 an answering glance from a woman's eyes made him free 
 of love's kingdom, and all these things were added unto 
 him. Here were his triumphs; here his splendours of 
 sunset and sunrise; here the caught rainbow, the sky's 
 ending found at last, the bloom of autumn woods, the 
 blue distance of the mountains. Flooding into his homely 
 life came all these colours; stars mirrored in the pud- 
 dles of the highway, sunlight caught in a prism and 
 carried home.
 
 46 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 Bess might have meant all this to him. He might 
 have found all that his wanderings had hinted at in 
 her mysterious eyes. Children might have come to 
 them; children with eyes like hers, with dimpled rosy 
 cheeks. . . . 
 
 What was the use of thinking? John had won her; she 
 was his brother's wife. Good old John! 
 
 But when he entered the inn-parlour, he remembered 
 how her eyes had flashed reproach that morning and her 
 smile of peacemaking over Mrs. Rockett's present. Bess 
 was alone, stitching busily at a cluster of blue ribbons and 
 a mass of coloured scraps. 
 
 She glanced up, smiling. 
 
 "How are Tom and Mary and the children, George? 
 Wasn't she delighted to see you? Do you know, the elder 
 children went out yesterday morning before breakfast 
 and picked heaps of wildflowers heaps and heaps to 
 put about the house because we were going to be married. 
 Wasn't it sweet of them?" All the time the busy needle 
 went stitch, stitch, stitch, in and out among the patch- 
 work and the ribbons. 
 
 George picked up a scrap of Indian chintz and played 
 with it. 
 
 "Yes, Mary told me," he said. 
 
 "And did she tell you," asked Bess, with the needle be- 
 tween her lips, "what little George said the other Sunday, 
 when she was explaining a text to him? She was saying 
 how none of us are strong enough by ourselves, but must 
 have God to help us. 'No one, mother?' George asked, 
 wrinkling up his forehead in that queer little way he has. 
 'No one, George, not even the strongest, without God 
 helping him.' 'Why, not even a big, strong soldier like 
 poor Uncle George was, mother?' he asked. And then he 
 thought a minute, and said, 'No, I specks he wasn't, 
 'cause he got killed. But when I'm a man I'll go and
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 47 
 
 fight the Frenchies, and ask God to help me, and then 
 I'll kill them.' " 
 
 "Yes, Mary told me that too," said George. He laughed. 
 "I reckon the French won't want Must' George to go out 
 after them yet awhiles. What are you making, Bess?" 
 
 "Bows for the pillows see," she said, holding up a 
 handful of little ribbons. "And this is to be a patchwork 
 cushion for an armchair. This is for John's. I must make 
 one for you too, if you like." 
 
 "That for me!" cried John heartily, entering from the 
 courtyard door. "What is it? A cap, I reckon? Or a 
 pettycoat (waistcoat)? My word, I'll look smarter'n the 
 squire or the passon in that rig-out, Bess. They'll be 
 burning me for a pope on Guy Fawkes' Day if you make 
 me wear that gear." 
 
 "You great, silly man," said Bess, laughing, "I don't 
 want you to wear it. It's a cushion to sit on. And these 
 are ribbons to tie on the pillows " 
 
 " Why, I shan't sleep a wink for thinking how pretty I 
 look in bed, Bess. Seems sort of waste with only you to 
 see me." 
 
 She pouted. " Now you shan't have them or the cush- 
 ions either if you say that. I'll give them all to George." 
 
 " Well, don't leave no pins in, lass." He laughed again 
 a great, hearty, happy laugh and smoothed her hair 
 fondly. 
 
 "As if I fastened them with pins!" she said, and got up 
 to clear the table for their meal. John put his great arm 
 round the girl's slim waist, and kissed her. 
 
 "George, I've a bone to pick with you," he said, still 
 hugging her. "What do you mean by letting her get 
 scratched like that, eh? I reckon we ought to kiss the 
 place and make it well." 
 
 She wriggled, laughing and blushing. "Don't, John, 
 don't," she said, trying to get away.
 
 48 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 "Don't kiss you? My word, now! I'll do it six times 
 more for that. What is it? George? Why, George don't 
 matter; he's my brother, and yours too now. Here, you 
 missed your kiss yesterday, George, not being at the wed- 
 ding. Passon kissed her, and Tom kissed her, and I reckon 
 the clerk 
 
 "Oh, I'm sure he didn't. Don't you believe him, George." 
 
 " Well, 'tain't fair for George to be done out of his wed- 
 ding kiss. I'll kiss his wife when he's married if she's half 
 as pretty as you, Bess. Come on, George, do your duty." 
 
 George hesitated. Bess looked on the defensive, but not 
 so much so that she would not yield easily to a bold assault. 
 
 "Come on, George, now's your chance," cried John, 
 "I'll hold her. She's only pretending to be shy. I reckon 
 you've kissed a fair daffy of girls over at the wars, an old 
 soldier like you!" 
 
 More hesitation would have looked now like a slur on 
 Bess, standing there expectant, so pretty and winsome, 
 and only half-reluctant. George felt his cheeks burning. 
 His heart beat faster. He stepped forward, caught the 
 slim wrist of the hand that shielded her face, put his other 
 arm round her, feeling the soft, warm, dainty body for a 
 moment against his breast. He kissed her on the cheek 
 once, twice. 
 
 John chuckled, clapping the performance. " Now, 
 you've rumpled my hair," said Bess, pouting, and putting 
 up her hands with the quick, impetuous movement once 
 so familiar. " I'll have to go all the way upstairs 
 
 She stopped, listening, and the heightened colour left 
 her face. The sound of heavy feet was heard, crossing the 
 taproom. "Where's your master?" shouted a thick, angry 
 voice. They heard Delilah's answer, and her shriller voice 
 rang with a note of battle. 
 
 "Oh, John, it's father!" cried 
 
 John opened the door.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE taproom fell suddenly silent, like a little world 
 awaiting storm. Half-a-dozen men, interrupted in 
 their evening gossip about ploughs and politics, fishing 
 and hop-dogs, and smut and collar, sat with clays half-way 
 to opened mouths. The light from an oil-lamp hanging 
 from the blackened ceiling shone on their watching eyes. 
 The shadow of Stebbings' head in profile sharp nose, 
 protruding teeth, a haze of drooping whisker nodded 
 fantastically on wall and ballad-sheet. Every one knew 
 the meaning of the visit; they waited, expectant. 
 
 Roger Huntingdon and John eyed each other for a full 
 half-minute. George and Bess stood at the threshold of 
 the parlour, watching, and the girl's hand caught George's 
 sleeve. Her touch thrilled through him; his cheeks still 
 burned after the kiss. 
 
 A greater contrast than the two men at whom all were 
 looking it would have been difficult to find. John Kennett 
 was fair, ruddy, blue-eyed nearly a head taller than the 
 man whose daughter he had married. Huntingdon's low- 
 crowned beaver did not entirely hide his iron-grey hair; 
 his face was swarthy, and wrinkled and crow's-footed with 
 long years of scheming; his nose strong and masterful; his 
 eyes under fierce, shaggy brows hard and narrow. He 
 was thick-set; his legs, cased in high riding-boots white 
 with dust, were bowed to grip horseflesh. Over the white, 
 crumpled stock, set off by a long canary-yellow waistcoat 
 and bottle-green coat, his pouched throat sagged, swelling 
 and reducing like a frog's; but his mouth was shut tightly 
 savagely, like a trap fast locked to hold what was bit- 
 ing and chafing within. When he spoke at last, it was in 
 almost a sob of held rage. 
 
 4 49
 
 50 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 "I found your message waiting for me," he gasped, 
 "and I've come to drink a toast to your wedding. Hol- 
 lands, I'll take. Come, are you going to serve me? Hol- 
 lands, I said it's your darned trade to no, no, not yet." 
 He broke off in growled admonitions to himself, and stood 
 muttering, while John, mastering an impulse to refuse, 
 poured out the spirit. 
 
 "I'm sure we'll take it very kindly of you, Mr. Hunt- 
 ingdon," said John, "if you'll give us your good wishes 
 and be friends. What's done can't be altered. I know I 
 don't deserve Bess; 'tisn't only by birth that she's better 
 than me. But a girl has a right to choose her own hus- 
 band, and a man his wife. God knows, I'll try and be a 
 good man to her." 
 
 He stopped, for Huntingdon, ignoring him completely, 
 eyed the contents of the room under his shaggy brows 
 the beer-stained tables, the yellow clock, the chipped and 
 battered tankards, the homely faces of fishermen and 
 peasants among whom his daughter was to live her life 
 eyed them with pitiless, contemptuous scrutiny. He 
 walked up to a fly-specked ballad-sheet on the wall to peer 
 at it more closely. His riding crop, gripped in hands 
 thrust behind his back, jerked spasmodically. 
 
 John Kennett's face grew brick-red at this merciless 
 assessment of his home. He had an uneasy feeling that 
 some sinister resolve lay under Huntingdon's call for 
 spirits in which to drink their health. For the sake of 
 Bess he remained silent, and hoped that her father 
 meant, in the end, to give a grudging assent to the 
 inevitable. 
 
 At last Huntingdon took up the glass that was waiting 
 for him on the little counter. "How much?" he asked. 
 
 "You can drink our healths at my expense, Mr. Hunt- 
 ingdon, and welcome. I'm not so poor that I can't afford 
 that."
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 51 
 
 Huntingdon flung down a coin, which lay on the coun- 
 ter where it fell. For a second the spirit tossed in the 
 glass held by his shaking hand. 
 
 Something ominous in his face made Bess come forward 
 before he spoke. "Oh, father," she said, holding her hus- 
 band's arm, "I'm so glad you will drink our healths. I 
 hope you'll shake hands with John now, and and oh, 
 it'll be so nice all to be friends. I really couldn't help 
 marrying him; I couldn't indeed. A girl can't miss love, 
 you know; it's the best life has for us. You wouldn't like 
 me to be miserable always, just because my ancestors 
 were such grand folk? We had to marry like this; but 
 now it's done, and I'll even say I'm sorry if you like 
 at least, I'll promise never to do it again, and always be 
 a loving daughter " 
 
 Huntingdon raised his glass to his lips. "Here's the 
 toast I give you!" he cried, in a great bellow, like a bull 
 goaded into uncontrollable yet impotent wrath. "Here's 
 my toast! May my curse light on you and follow you in 
 living and in dying! May you be cursed in house and 
 stable, in field and highway, in eating and drinking, in 
 getting and spending! May you live until life is bitter, 
 until you hate and cannot part; may God send you sick- 
 ness, hunger, poverty, thirst and no one help you and 
 all faces set like flints against you " 
 
 "Stop!" cried John. "I'll not have you say these things 
 before my wife. You'll be sorry, Mr. Huntingdon, for all 
 you say in your anger. It's folly, I know; yet I'll not 
 have Bess frightened by you. Go in, lass, go in; he can 
 say what he likes to me " 
 
 "I'm not frightened," said Bess, with a little shiver of 
 excitement. "As if God, who's been so good to us, will 
 listen to it! Father, I'm sorry for you that you can have 
 such thoughts, but you don't mean what you are say- 
 ing "
 
 52 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 Huntingdon had stopped, choking; he gulped at the 
 spirit. 
 
 "Mean it? By God, I do mean it. May others come 
 between you and your love or lust, 'tis the same thing 
 and if you have children, may they be born under my 
 curse, spavined, wry-limbed, a burden, a disgrace, foul- 
 living, hating you that brought them into the world, 
 hateful to you " 
 
 "Father! Father!" cried Bess. 
 
 "Here, I've had enough of that," said John, striding 
 forward. "I've borne with it too long. Unless you keep 
 a decent tongue in your head you don't stay in my inn, 
 Mr. Huntingdon. I make allowances. You're eaten up 
 with foolish pride, and I know it's a sore blow to you that 
 we're wedded. I know I'm not half good enough for Bess; 
 but she's chosen me of her own will, and, if I haven't 
 wealth or birth equal to yours, I'm an honest man and a 
 God-fearing, and I've a home to give her where she'll 
 never want; and no more love could the richest lord in 
 England bring her than what I do. If you come when you'm 
 calm again and reasonable, we'll make you kindly welcome, 
 Bess and I, and say not another word of what's passed 
 to-night. But I'll listen to no more curses, though I fear 
 them no more than I do you." 
 
 Huntingdon's rage sprang suddenly from word to deed. 
 Before he quite realised his own action, he struck with 
 the lash of his crop at the face so near his own. 
 
 A white wheal marked the force of the blow. 
 
 "All right, Bess," said John, with a forced and painful 
 calmness. "I'll not hit you back, Mr. Huntingdon. You're 
 an older man, and Bess's father, when all's said; and I 
 reckon our Master tells us to turn the other cheek to the 
 smiter. You may strike again if you've the mind, and 
 I'll not hit you. But I'll have no more cursing and the 
 taking of God's name for your wicked threatenings.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 53 
 
 Another word like those you've said, and I'll turn you out 
 of the inn with no more force than you compel me to." 
 
 "You white-livered cur!" growled Huntingdon. "Strike 
 you again? By God, I will, and horsewhip the girl after 
 you " 
 
 He raised the crop; George sprang forward. 
 
 "By God, you won't!" he cried. "Not if I know it!" 
 He snatched the crop, already drawn back for the second 
 blow, and wrenched it suddenly from the man's grasp. 
 There was the snap of splitting wood; resting the lash 
 end against the floor, he broke it to pieces under his heavy 
 boot. He caught up the severed fragments. "Out you 
 go, now, you and your whip as well," he cried. 
 
 "Ay, you'd better go, Must' Huntingdon," echoed two 
 or three men, who had watched with smouldering resent- 
 ment that flamed into active wrath as George Kennett's 
 flashed out. They closed round him. John Kennett 
 stood by Bess, with the livid mark of the lash still on his 
 cheek. 
 
 Huntingdon stood irresolute, half-defiant, the sagging 
 throat-glands working. George began to whip off his coat. 
 
 "Go? Yes, I'm going. I've said what I wanted and 
 what I mean. Open the door, there. Let's have some air 
 after this beer-stinking hole." 
 
 Huntingdon flung himself out, and slipped the bridle 
 of his cob from the staple to which he had fastened it on 
 entering the inn. They heard the squeak of leather as he 
 swung into the saddle, the furious clatter of hoofs dying 
 away in the quiet night. 
 
 George flung the splintered fragments of the crop far 
 out on to the shingle, and slammed the door. 
 
 Bess's face grew suddenly crimson; she put up her 
 hands, and went quickly into the little room. 
 
 " Bess, lass," whispered John anxiously, going after her, 
 and closing the door behind them, "doan't cry, now,
 
 54 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 doan't." He flung himself down on the couch beside her, 
 and kissed the dark head buried in the cushion she was 
 making to beautify their home. "It's over, and no harm 
 done. Hard words doan't break no bones." He put his 
 arm round her; kissed away the rising tears; held her until 
 her heaving bosom had grown calm again, and long after. 
 "He's angry now; but 'twill soon blow over, and he'll 
 be sorry for what he's said. And we've got each other, 
 and that means everything in the wide world to us." 
 
 Out in the taproom, where George was angrily helping 
 Delilah to collect the tankards before closing for the night, 
 Stebbings nodded his head vigorously for a minute, and 
 then broke the silence. 
 
 " Thank the Lord I don't put up for being gentry!" he 
 said. "A cruel shame, I call it, to say such things to one's 
 own child, just for marrying where her heart tells her. 
 Disgrace to his family, I suppose! Fine family that's 
 been dicing and cock-fighting, and knocking about inno- 
 cent, peaceful folk in London streets. Well, curses come 
 home to roost, they say, and Roger Huntingdon'll see 
 some of his own back if the saying's true. Curses never 
 done much harm yet to the people they've been flung at. 
 They'm like the sticks the niggers throw boomyrangs, 
 I think Cap'n Rockett called them and come back to 
 the throwers." 
 
 Delilah shook her head dismally. "We'll hope so, I'm 
 sure," she said. "But the Bible believed in cursing, it 
 did. Jacob was feared of his feyther's curse; and Jotham 
 cursed the men of Shechem and it corned to pass as he 
 said. I heared about that only last Sunday." 
 
 "Well, Roger Huntingdon ain't Jotham, and John and 
 Mrs. Kennett ain't men of Shechem neither," said an old 
 fisherman, as they trooped out. "And there's plenty to 
 wish 'em well in spite of all Huntingdon can say. A regu- 
 lar old she I call him, starf take him! Anyway, I reckon
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 55 
 
 blessing's as powerful as cursing, and I'll bless 'em both as 
 hard as I can, all my way home." 
 
 George locked the outer door, and went into the par- 
 lour. John was pacing the room, alone. 
 
 "The little lass has gone up to bed," he said, as his 
 brother entered. He had lit his pipe, and was puffing at it 
 furiously. "Houghed shame," he said, under his breath, 
 "to make her cry like that! I I it's all very well," he 
 broke out, "being Christian and forgiving, but I'm a'most 
 sorry I didn't knock him down then trying to frighten 
 her with those play-acting curses!" 
 
 "I reckon I would have," said George. 
 
 " It isn't as if I hadn't asked him for her first, neither. 
 I did the fair thing about that. When he said no, 'twasn't 
 likely she'd let herself be sold like a slave in the planta- 
 tions or I'd stand by and see it done. He told me plain 
 that that was what he meant. 'She's for a better man 
 than you, John Kennett/ he said. 'She's for a gentle- 
 man, she is. Mr. Akenside's to have her, and he'll take 
 our name when he's wed. His lands join mine; they were 
 ours once.' 'But she won't have him, sir,' said I. 'She'll 
 have who I tell her to,' he yelled. I reckon he didn't 
 know Bess." 
 
 John flung himself into a chair. For a time the two 
 brothers smoked in silence. 
 
 Roger Huntingdon's ancestors had been gentlemen- 
 farmers in the neighbourhood for many generations. His 
 father, Anthony Huntingdon, had inherited a good es- 
 tate; but he had been fonder of the society of men with 
 wider means than his own than of the quiet country life 
 which had contented his forebears. Almack's, White's, 
 and Raggett's knew him in his younger days; he hung 
 on the fringe of the Prince's wild circle in town and water- 
 ing-place; he cared more for cock-fighting and wine and 
 cards than for the rotation of crops. In later years his
 
 56 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 doors were open to all comers, his house like that Bo- 
 kharan palace where the gates, nailed to the walls, wel- 
 comed all who chose to enter by day or night. What the 
 bucks of London and Bath and Brighton had begun the 
 squires and yeomen of Kent ended. He diced away his 
 wife's fortune and his ancestral fields. 
 
 When Anthony Huntingdon lost his bet with the doc- 
 tor that he would pull through an illness, Roger, then a 
 lad, took the battered hatchment from the lumber room 
 and hung it before his door. " He hasn't diced away coat 
 armour," he muttered, as he fixed it; and this incident 
 and this remark showed the whole aim of his life. He set 
 to work strenuously to retrieve the family fortunes. By 
 every means in his power, by the severest toil, the acutest 
 intelligence, the most rigid economy, he paid off the en- 
 cumbrances on the house, and won back, gradually, field 
 after field. His whole interest in life was to bring himself 
 once more into line with the old county families, who, 
 many of them, had been enriched by his father's folly, 
 and now looked down on the Huntingdons' reduced for- 
 tunes. A marriage, contracted on his part for money, on 
 the other for love of a strong and ambitious and deter- 
 mined man, helped him in this. A son was born, and his 
 joy was unbounded. His heir should inherit, not only 
 the estate which Anthony Huntingdon had gamed away, 
 but lands owned by their family when the Tudors were 
 on the throne of England. 
 
 The boy died when he was three years old. 
 
 Bess, then just beginning to prattle, was the only other 
 child born to Roger Huntingdon and his wife. As years 
 went on, poor Mrs. Huntingdon, a pretty, timid, loving, 
 clinging woman, was made to feel that she had disappointed 
 him, and endured, rarely complaining, the brunt of his 
 bitter, sarcastic nature. To Bess he was more gracious. 
 Unless his wife was so obliging as to die a civility she
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 57 
 
 often promised by delicate health, but managed to avoid 
 paying him unless that happened, and he could marry 
 again and have a son, Bess would inherit all that he pos- 
 sessed. She should marry well, retaining her own name, 
 and have a brood of stout young Huntingdons to carry on 
 the fortunes of his race. 
 
 With his eyes on this future, Roger added guinea to 
 guinea, field to field, cottage to cottage. His only extrav- 
 agance lay in improving his holding and his house. The 
 black horses that brought wealth out of the soil for him 
 were the best procurable; he paid for the best labour, and 
 saw to it himself that men and horses were at their work 
 not a minute later than six every morning by his watch; 
 where other farmers spent 3 in stocking and keeping up 
 an acre of ground, he would spend 5, and all the imple- 
 ments used on his farm down to the very peelers used to 
 set the hop-poles were the finest that money could pro- 
 cure. 
 
 And it was currently reported that good harvests and 
 careful farming were not the only causes of Roger Hunt- 
 ingdon's growing success. Men said that the ponds in his 
 meadows sometimes held their secrets; and his black horses, 
 that ploughed the soil innocently by day, had other work 
 to do by night, when they carried smuggled goods inland 
 through the Kentish lanes. In the height of Napoleon's 
 power, it was more than hinted that Roger Huntingdon 
 had a hand in that very profitable and unpatriotic business, 
 the smuggling of gold across Channel, to pay the imperial 
 troops. He was too cautious a man to let Craddock or 
 his men get wind of such doings. But sometimes, lying 
 awake at night, Bess would hear gruff voices in the room 
 below; once, looking out of her little window by the light 
 of winter stars, she saw her father going down towards 
 the white gate with a couple of seafaring men in great 
 waders white with salt, and heard, two minutes later, the
 
 58 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 crack of whips and a clatter of hoofs on the Canterbury 
 road. 
 
 In a notable summer, when Bess was a little girl of 
 twelve, the old house was put into the builders' hands for 
 repairs; and for two or three weeks Mrs. Huntingdon and 
 she went to stay at the Running Horse at Herne Bay, 
 while Huntingdon stayed at the farm to keep an eye on 
 the workmen. Bess inherited her mother's dark beauty 
 and sweetness of disposition, but not a little also of her 
 father's determined will. This showed itself on the first 
 day of their visit. Her mother's weak attempt at exert- 
 ing authority, now that the father's was removed, was 
 checkmated by Bess's seating herself deliberately on the 
 edge of a boat which George Kennett had just been paint- 
 ing; returning in all the glory of red and blue stripes to 
 the inn, she gained the privilege, by this move, of discard- 
 ing her prim frock, and tumbling in homelier dress among 
 the children. Many a delightful ramble the boys had with 
 their little visitor, and their friendship was continued after 
 her return. George, always more assertive than his brother, 
 took the lead in these expeditions to shaw, or down, or 
 river. While her father was busy in his fields, Bess 
 kept many an appointment at the white gate which was 
 their trysting-place. Sometimes, in the hot summer 
 days, she would come down to Herne Bay for a dip in 
 charge of the plump bathing-woman, and scamper after- 
 wards with the lads on to the downs, shaking the drops 
 of glistening sea-water from her hair as she ran as pretty 
 a picture of young health and grace as ever entered the 
 galleries of lads' memories. 
 
 If Roger Huntingdon knew of this and he must have 
 guessed he said nothing until Bess had nearly reached 
 her sixteenth year. Then she found herself suddenly under 
 closer guardianship. When George Kennett came from 
 the depot of the Riflemen at Hythe to say good-bye, she
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 59 
 
 escaped for a few hours, meaning nothing more serious 
 than a renewal of old friendship. She was little more 
 than a child, chafing against restraint after years of wild 
 freedom. His pleadings, aided by the uniform, the glam- 
 our of travel and war from which he might not return, 
 his vivid pictures of a glorious home-coming, spring and 
 a violet sky a dozen influences, many contradictory, 
 many not understood, made her give him a half-reluctant 
 promise. But late that night, looking out through the 
 green leaves of the creeper growing round her little window, 
 Bess surprised a half-formed wish that it had been John 
 instead, and reproved herself sharply, and told herself 
 again and again, with suspicious emphasis, that this mix- 
 ture of admiration, and affection, and regret, and anxiety, 
 was really the love that she had read and heard about. 
 
 George, sitting now with his brother in the parlour of 
 the Running Horse, was thinking again of that spring 
 evening. Then his dreams of glory had made light of all 
 obstacles. In the excitement of home-coming he had 
 brushed them aside again almost without a thought when 
 he had paused for a moment at the white gate on his way 
 from Sturry to the inn. But Huntingdon's objections to 
 his brother would have applied with equal or with greater 
 force to himself. 
 
 "I reckon we're as good as Huntingdon is, any day!" 
 he broke out suddenly, knocking out his pipe on the hob. 
 "Or Akenside! Nice time Bess would have had with him! 
 If he's what he used to be, he'd think more of his horses 
 or his dogs than he would of her a damned sight more. 
 Give him his honest choice between a day's ratting and a 
 day's marrying, and I reckon I know which he'd choose. 
 He's got his eyes on Huntingdon's land and live stock, that's 
 what it is, John. ... I wish I'd thrown Huntingdon out 
 along of his crop, I do. Blustering about like that, and 
 looking at every one and everything as if they were dirt!"
 
 60 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 "Ay, that angered me too," said John, and his fists 
 clenched and unclenched. "I knew he'd be angry, of 
 course; but there was no call to try and make her discon- 
 tented with her home by eyeing everything that fashion. 
 What we've got was good enough for mother. But of 
 course Bess has been brought up different," he added, 
 musing. 
 
 " Tisn't the first time she's been here, though," said 
 George. 
 
 "No. I reckon " John broke off, and pulled hard 
 
 at his pipe, thinking with knitted brows. After all, Bess 
 had known what he had to give her. She had made her 
 own choice. He shook off the uneasy fear lest in time, 
 however unwillingly, she might grow dissatisfied with her 
 surroundings. "I've been thinking of spending a pound 
 or two, though, George," he said suddenly, "to brighten 
 the old place up a bit for the little lass. And, speaking 
 of money, that reminds me of something I've got to talk 
 over with you. Mother had a little besides the inn about 
 three hundred pound and now you've come back you'll 
 have to have your share of it; as you would if she'd known 
 you were still alive. There's the inn too; half's yours by 
 rights, I reckon, and we must fix up something fair and 
 square, as between brothers. Bess and I were thinking 
 things over last night. What's your idea, George? Will 
 you stay on at the inn, and help with the work of it? Of 
 course you're welcome if you will; or perhaps you'd 
 rather but of course there's no hurry to decide." 
 
 George was surprised and touched by his brother's 
 plain facing of the change which his return made in the 
 disposal of their mother's little fortune. 
 
 "I don't know what to say exactly, John," he said, 
 "except that it isn't every brother who'd be so ready to 
 do the square thing. I'm not sure whether I ought to take 
 the money. In the eyes of the law, I suppose I'm still
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 61 
 
 dead and buried at Toulouse; and perhaps it wouldn't be 
 the easiest thing to prove I've come to life again. I don't 
 know. Of course I'd like to stay on at the inn just now, 
 at all events, and help. You say Bess is willing?" 
 
 "Willing and more'n willing," said John heartily. "And 
 you know I am. We'll be a happy family Bess, and you, 
 and me, and 'Lilah, and old Blossom, all together. I'd have 
 to get a man in, too, before very long, if you didn't stop." 
 
 " Well, I'll stay then, so that's settled. I've had enough 
 of wandering for a bit. Seems to me you can go all over 
 the world looking for fortune and that like; and all the 
 time happiness is sitting in your own chimney-corner. 
 You can give me board and wittles, and a guinea or so if 
 I'm worth it. But the money mother left you'd better 
 keep that, John." 
 
 "Not I!" said John stoutly. "I don't want a penny- 
 piece more'n my own. You'd better come to Canterbury 
 with me in a day or two, and see the lawyers. I want to 
 get a little money out, to buy a few things to brighten the 
 place up a bit; some pictures, and new tankards, and a 
 little furniture, and such like." 
 
 George reflected. "Look here, John," he said at last, 
 "I reckon we'd better club together, and lay our money 
 out on the inn. You can't do much good in trade without 
 outlay." 
 
 "What, all of it?" John stared in astonishment. "It 
 won't take more'n a few pounds " 
 
 " Oh, I don't mean only pictures and chairs and tankards. 
 But, now the war's over, we'll see changes; Herne Bay 
 won't always be a sleepy little place like it is now. It seems 
 to me there's the beginning of a fortune in the Running 
 Horse, if we're smart enough to look ahead a bit and get 
 ready for what's going to happen." 
 
 John looked dubious, and at last shook his head. "Safer 
 to keep it for a rainy day, George," he said. "They've
 
 62 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 been prophesying great things for years past, directly the 
 wars were over; but I can't see much improvement yet. 
 Trade's as bad as it can be. I don't want to run no risks." 
 
 "No, but still well, there's no hurry; I just thought of 
 it, though." 
 
 They knocked out their pipes, and went upstairs. Out- 
 side John's door the two brothers gripped hands. 
 
 "Good-night, John, old fellow," said George. 
 
 "Good-night, George. My word! I'm glad you're 
 back." 
 
 He entered; the latch clicked, shutting him in with Bess 
 shutting out George and his dreams. 
 
 He lay long awake, thinking. Once more his thoughts 
 jumped difficulties and the years.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 QUIET days followed at the inn: glorious summer 
 days, with light winds singing on the sea, and 
 the fleeciest of white clouds casting faint shadows over 
 corn-fields, and green downs, and dusty roads. George 
 bathed under the jolly round face of the sun; he 
 renewed old friendships; he helped in the house and in 
 the stable. It was pleasant to sleep again with the 
 murmur of the sea in his ears; to wake looking out 
 over blue water, with a white-sailed frigate, perhaps, 
 or a fishing boat bringing home her silver spoils, framed 
 in his little window, like a rich man's picture. It was 
 pleasant, too, to hear his brother's loud, hearty, wel- 
 coming voice when he came in to meals; to chat in the 
 evenings over war or politics or local matters with the 
 guests in the taproom; even to listen to Delilah's rigid 
 views, and to shock and please her at the same time with 
 tales of horror. Delilah had kept his early years ringed 
 round with "don'ts" and "mustn'ts," and, true to a 
 gloomy and narrow creed, had sent him often to his bed 
 in trembling yet half-rebellious fear of hell and judgment. 
 Now he could hold his own against her, and it amused him 
 to oppose his experience to her views. 
 
 But pleasantest of all was it to see Bess, fresh as the 
 dawn, greeting him good-morning; to sit next her at table; 
 to talk to her while her deft fingers kept the needle busy; 
 to watch the sparkle of her eyes just as he had done 
 years back when he told her stories of endurance, of 
 strength, and of valour. 
 
 Sunday came, and seemed to set a seal on his resolu- 
 tions of amendment. During the war the days had run 
 on unbroken into months, to the tune of drum and bugle 
 
 63
 
 64 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 and the crash of arms. One of his most excited arguments 
 with Delilah had been on this very point; she defending 
 Cuesta, the Spanish General, for declining to break the 
 Sunday's rest by fighting; he, laughing loudly at his 
 scruples. But the oasis in the busy week linked him more 
 closely to his childhood. His father had been a staunch 
 churchman. George remembered one Sunday when, for 
 some forgotten reason, they had been unable to go out, 
 and John Kennett had conducted a little service in the 
 parlour for his wife and children. He recalled the breaks 
 in the lesson, when his father's eye, wandering from the 
 book, found some occasion for reproof. "And Moses 
 said George, if you pull that cat's tail again, you'll go 
 straight to bed! unto Aaron, What did this people unto 
 thee, that thou hast brought so great a sin upon themf And 
 Aaron said, Let not the anger of my lord wax hot: thou 
 knowest the people, that they are set on mischief doan't 
 bite your nails." George, very small then, had been in 
 an agony of pent-up laughter, almost hysterical, because 
 of the solemnity of the occasion and the fearful danger of 
 discovery. Turning idly the leaves of the old Bible on this 
 first Sunday of his return, he chanced upon the very 
 passage, and read it between laughter and tears. 
 
 Bess and John and he went to Herne Church, leaving 
 Delilah to keep house. They passed the red farm at Edding- 
 ton, very quiet behind its trees; in Herne village they 
 peered in at the window of the schoolroom, where John and 
 he had struggled over pot-hooks and hangers and the queer- 
 shaped letters had pieced themselves into words. John 
 was the scholar; George had hated the dingy school- 
 books, though his imagination had kept some few shreds 
 of knowledge. The globes, with their coloured empires 
 and kingdoms shifting colour so fast in those days, as 
 Napoleon and his armies changed the face of the world 
 had held a constant fascination; he remembered hitting
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 65 
 
 on obscure names, out-of-the-way towns and villages, far 
 corners in the great blue spaces of ocean, and wondering 
 what was happening just there at that moment, whether 
 armies lay encamped, or vessels struggled in the grip of 
 fierce tempest, on seas that seemed, in the corner of the 
 quiet schoolroom, ever peaceful. From the histories, too 
 Baker's Chronicle, chiefly, a work worth the labour of 
 spelling out he had caught glimpses of old battles, 
 faded pageants, glorious tourneyings in arras-hung lists, 
 night landings of captains and bowmen on strange shores. 
 Well ; and now he had played his own part in history, 
 and would be hidden in its pages with unnumbered 
 and unnamed hosts. He had fought; he had seen; he 
 knew. 
 
 They entered the church. The service, the familiar 
 hymns, the droning voice of the preacher, the drowsy 
 summer atmosphere how they bridged the years, and how 
 potent all seemed to lay the ghosts and terrors of old sins! 
 The words meant little to him. For long years the names 
 he heard worshipped here in the quiet, peaceful church, 
 with the savour of mortality and change and decay cling- 
 ing to its pillars and cold walls these names, worshipped 
 and prayed to so decorously, he had heard on the dry lips 
 of men cursing in hunger and thirst, in pain, in riot, in 
 mere carelessness. He thought of one man after another 
 who had fallen gasping out oaths with his last, choking 
 breath. He listened to the reverent yet mechanical mutter 
 of the creed. "I believe in God, the Father Almighty 
 in the Resurrection of the Body, and the Life Everlasting. 
 Amen." Would those dry bones live again? Those men 
 slain on that moonlit night by the bridge of Barba del 
 Puerco? Those men brown and shrivelled on the black- 
 ened earth at Talavera? In the trenches of Ciudad Rod- 
 rigo? Impaled on the steel ramparts of Badajoz? That 
 
 old man, that young Spaniard 
 
 5
 
 66 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 He shut his mind against this memory. He was here, 
 in Herne Church; and now Bess's clear, sweet voice was 
 in his ears as they sang. But if they did live again, what 
 tales what tales to be told, when the Judgment Books 
 were opened and all secrets read! 
 
 It was over forgotten; or time would help him to for- 
 get. Not the names they worshipped, not the creed, not 
 the muttered prayers these he could not follow or under- 
 stand but the quiet decorum of the church, the memories 
 of childhood it brought back, the orderly, sober trooping 
 out into the sunshine, the silent graves under the chest- 
 nuts and the yews all these were peaceful, soothing, com- 
 forting, and like some inner balm, healing the wounds, 
 making whole the soul. 
 
 He stood, bare-headed, at the grave where his mother 
 and father had been laid to rest. 
 
 As the three passed through the churchyard into the 
 village, his eyes caught an old head-stone, leaning to one 
 side with age, and with skulls and cross-bones overgrown 
 with moss. Tall grass covered the lower part; he could 
 just make out the name and the first part of the inscrip- 
 tion: 
 
 " The wages of sin is death, but " 
 
 Tall grass covered the rest. 
 
 Had he taken his wages? Would he have to take still 
 the uttermost farthing for the sins committed? He shook 
 himself free from the thought; would not dwell on it or 
 his memories; and hurried down the road under the great 
 trees after John and Bess, like one hurrying from relentless 
 consequence, pitiless effect. 
 
 Five minutes later so swiftly did his moods change 
 he was laughing with the others over an interview with 
 old Pinion, whom they overtook as he was hobbling back 
 from church to Eddington. Pinion had served the Hunt- 
 ingdons, as man and boy, since George the Second's reign;
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 67 
 
 and Roger Huntingdon still paid him a small wage to do 
 odd jobs about the farm, and play the part of family re- 
 tainer. George asked after him, and then his wife. 
 
 "Thankee, Must' George, thankee. Her be among the 
 middlin's, too," he said, when the question had been re- 
 peated. "Tidn't the same Mrs. Pinion you knew, though. 
 Her died the year of the comet. A bad year for me, that 
 was; a wery bad year. First her took bad and died; and 
 that wasn't the worst, for then I lost my old sow. Fine 
 breedin' animal her was, too; I had many a litter off her. 
 My wife died only dree weeks afore that. I thoft of having 
 her stuffed, I did." 
 
 Perhaps it was George's expression that made Pinion 
 hasten to explain his reference. 
 
 "I was real fond of that sow, I was. I believe her died 
 out o' spite, 'cause I whispered the death to the bees, and 
 forgot her." Pinion held to the old Kent notion of whis- 
 pering news of death to the stock, as if it were a doctrine 
 of the Church. "I got another wife, a did; Bill Barlow's 
 widder; married her and her cottage same day, a did 
 he, he married her and t'cottage, as I told passon. I 
 bain't a vule, though a be seventy-dree. But I ain't 
 not been able to afford another sow," he added gloomily. 
 
 "Is she buried at Herne, Pinion?" asked George, think- 
 ing of the old country-woman who had often given him 
 red-cheeked apples on his way to school. 
 
 "Eh?" Pinion curled a knotted hand round his ear. 
 "Buried? No, her died a nachral death, her did; nothing 
 the matter at all but just cussedness. We eat her, Mrs. 
 Barlow and me did. Oh, I thoft you were talking of the 
 sow. No, her be buried over at Swalecliffe. I painted 
 the board myself cost me twopence, it did. 'Elizabeth, 
 wife of Job Pinion. In Memory of the Justice Blessed.' 
 Nice tex, that. I beared it at a funeral service when fold 
 squire died, and lamed it rude-heart, 'cause I thoft it'd
 
 68 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 do for Liza when her time corned. I kep it in mind all them 
 years. Well, Must' Jarge, there be rare changes, I reckon, 
 since you went foreign. They've altered everything now 
 'ligion and all. I mind the time when there were as 
 many smocks as broadcloth coats in church, and the 
 clatter of hobnails was fair deafening. Not many there 
 this morning, though; they've thoft out new-fangled ways. 
 I hold by the old church, though, I do. Tis terrible diffi- 
 cult to know what to believe, to be sure, but I doan't want 
 to take no risks being seventy-dree. Not but what I 
 hope to have the pleasure of seein' a good many other 
 folk buried yet, though," he added hastily. 
 
 "There aren't two questions about what's true, though," 
 said John. "You keep to church and what you've been 
 brought up to, Pinion, no matter what other folk say or 
 do." 
 
 "Ay, ay, I mean to. I baint such a vule as to run risks 
 at my time of life. Good-mornin', Must' Kennett. Good- 
 mornin'." He touched his cap, and they left him hob- 
 bling in the rear, with a puckered smile on his crafty, 
 self-satisfied old face. 
 
 "I couldn't help laughing at him," said Bess, with sud- 
 den contrition, "but really, one oughtn't to let him talk 
 like that about his poor old wife! I believe he understands 
 much more than he pretends to, George; and he only says 
 these things to get us to laugh." 
 
 "That's it," said John. "Pinion's more often deaf be- 
 cause he won't hear than because he can't. He comes to 
 church reg'lar, though, and that's something to be said 
 for him." 
 
 George was in half a mind to start a discussion on reli- 
 gion, but refrained. 
 
 During the week the two brothers drove together into 
 Canterbury, and half their mother's little property was 
 transferred to George's name. On their way back they
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 69 
 
 stopped at Sturry, where their cousin Ford married since 
 George had last seen him kept a small shop stocked 
 chiefly with bargains from country sales. For some little 
 time John had had his eye on an old spinet, with yellow 
 keys and faded scroll-work on the polished wood. 
 
 "What do you think of that, now, George?" he asked, 
 when Ford's back was turned. "I thought of getting that 
 for Bess as a wedding gift. You understand music better'n 
 I do, hearing them playing the bands so often, and all that. 
 Sounds all right, eh ? Not that I know one note from t'other, 
 but the little lass is rare clever at music, and it'll come as 
 a surprise I want to make her as happy as can be in her 
 new home." 
 
 During his campaigns George had learned to vamp out 
 a tune on spinets and harpsichords in the houses where 
 they were billeted. He hummed over a line or two of the 
 Riflemen's song 
 
 " Oh, Colonel Coote Manningham, he was the man, 
 For he invented a capital plan; 
 He raised a Corps of Riflemen, 
 
 To fight for England's glory " 
 
 and then knocked out the tune from the ancient wires. 
 The music to which the doggerel had been sung or shouted 
 on many a march and by many a camp-fire came feebly 
 enough from the instrument; like a faint echo, indeed, 
 from days and nights far off and half forgotten. But the 
 tone was sweet, with the hoarded sweetness of old years 
 and memories. John was delighted. He dived into his 
 deep pocket there and then for the money; the instrument 
 was to be overhauled, polished, and sent to the inn by 
 carrier, addressed to Bess, when it was ready. 
 
 "You ought to have asked him the price of that old 
 clock first, John," said his brother, as they came away.
 
 70 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 "Whatever for?" asked John in surprise. "I wanted 
 the spinet not the clock." 
 
 "Shouldn't let him see how bad you wanted it, though. 
 You'd have got it half a guinea cheaper if you hadn't been 
 in such a hurry." 
 
 "Oh, it's worth what I gave, and I'm satisfied. He's 
 honest, I should hope; and I don't want to do him out of 
 his profit to pleasure Bess. It wouldn't be straight to 
 pretend I wanted something else when I wanted that." 
 
 They drove home in the cool of the evening, John very 
 full of his purchase and the delight it would give his wife 
 when it came home. So pleased was he that it was with 
 difficulty he kept the cat in the bag at all. Over the even- 
 ing meal Bess more than once intercepted winks meant 
 only for George; he commiserated her on the fact that 
 marriage had robbed her of the harpsichord at the farm, 
 a legacy from the gay days of Anthony Huntingdon and 
 his wife; waxed so doleful, indeed, on the subject, that 
 Bess would have been very obtuse not to have suspected 
 his secret. She kept her own counsel, and held herself 
 in readiness to be surprised. 
 
 Already her influence was making itself felt at the inn. 
 The old rooms renewed their youth, and put on airs of 
 coquettish gayety. John chaffed her endlessly about her 
 little schemes and plans, but his manner made no secret 
 of his admiration and pride. Fresh rep curtained the little 
 window of the parlour door; the gay, soft cushion was 
 tied neatly to the back of John's great armchair; on the 
 mantelshelf cheap but pretty vases, bought from a wan- 
 dering pedlar at the door, were filled with silver honesty. 
 "It's lucky to have money in both pockets!" she said 
 jestingly, using the old Kentish name. Slippers were 
 ready for them directly they came in from a dusty or 
 muddy tramp; the sheets were scented with sweet laven- 
 der when they sought their beds at night. Corners that
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 71 
 
 had accumulated dust under Delilah's doleful regime were 
 now kept scrubbed and clean. Yet, at the evening meal, 
 Bess took her place at the table looking dainty, and neat, 
 and fresh as a wildflower as though she had been sitting 
 all day with folded hands, instead of working harder 
 than three hired helps. 
 
 And how they laughed over their meals, these three, at 
 the simplest, homeliest jokes! How John poked sly fun 
 at his wife about her schemes of improvement, and sug- 
 gested the most glaring and appalling combinations of 
 colours in place of those she had chosen, and winked across 
 at George when she feigned indignation! George took 
 credit to himself that he could look on with so little jeal- 
 ousy in his heart. But at night, when the door of their 
 room closed, and shut them in now and then on sum- 
 mer evenings, when the two went for a little stroll together 
 on the downs or in the cornfields once or twice, when he 
 came suddenly into the parlour, and they broke short some 
 conversation too intimate even for his ears George felt 
 a sudden smarting at the heart, a sense of loss and exclu- 
 sion, difficult to bear and to conceal. 
 
 The knowledge that money now stood in his name gave 
 him a better self-conceit; he winced less under the condo- 
 lences of those who remembered his expectations from the 
 war and realised his disappointment. He had done with 
 high ambitions. But the ideas that had flashed through 
 his mind when John first mentioned their mother's legacy, 
 on the night of Huntingdon's stormy visit to the inn, still 
 possessed him, and gathered force with the passing of the 
 quiet days. He began to chafe secretly at having to take 
 his place among the unknown, the unremarked, the ordi- 
 nary folk of every day. He still remembered, at the back 
 of all this ordered life, the squeak of fife, the rattle of 
 drum, the blare of bugle-horn, the songs on the march, 
 the glint of rifles in dazzling sunshine, the riotous entries
 
 72 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 into towns and villages where bright-eyed girls welcomed 
 the conquerors with song and dance. And all that he had 
 suffered, all that he had enjoyed and seen, raised him not 
 an inch above his fellows, now that his tales were told 
 and the wonder of his return had been forgotten. 
 
 Soon after the Canterbury visit, George called on Cap- 
 tain Rockett at his cottage under the shelter of the downs. 
 The little mariner hailed him cheerfully, and led the way 
 into the Turkish summer-house in front of which Nep- 
 tune and the battered figure-head of the old Lydia mounted 
 guard, with faces strangely unconcerned by their decapi- 
 tation. 
 
 " Let's go into the Seraglio, George," he said. " Paint's 
 dry, ain't it? Best to look before you sit; I forgot to tell 
 Mrs. Rockett I'd given it a fresh coat, and she left them 
 marks. Punch has taken her out on the downs, so we've 
 the place to ourselves 'cept for Mrs. Gowdy, who keeps 
 upstairs. Well, and how are you, George? Yes, yes," 
 he interrupted, with kindly haste, as George forestalled 
 awkward inquiries by speaking of the little profit war had 
 brought him, "I did hear about that. There's a lot of 
 luck about it, and 'tisn't always the best man comes to 
 the front. I remember once, a good many years ago it 
 was, a Russian General corned aboard the Neptune in the 
 Baltic. He was quite a young chap, not wery intelligent 
 neither; and I axed him how he'd rose so quickly. ' Wery 
 simple, Cap'n Rockett,' says he. ' It was all through a brass 
 hat-pin. We were fighting down south a year or two ago, 
 when I was only a lieutenant; and our regiment was march- 
 ing through a mountain pass. The General rode first; 
 then the Colonel; then the Major; then the Captains. 
 Suddenly I see a pin, glitterin' like gold in the sunshine, 
 and jumped off my horse to pick it up. At that wery 
 moment a cannon-ball corned whisking down the pass. 
 It snipped off the General's head; it snipped off the Col-
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 73 
 
 onel's head; it snipped off the Major's and the Captains'.' 
 And that's how, if you'll believe me, George, that there 
 young Russian became a General. But another poor fel- 
 low I knew was mad on being one in the French army, 
 he was and always 'sperimenting with things to try and 
 get his name known. One idea he had was a new kind of 
 carrier-pigeon. Leastways, it wasn't ezackly a pigeon 
 a pigeot or a parrigeon might be a better name. It was a 
 kind of cross between a pigeon and a parrot, so that it 
 could ask the way if it lost itself on its journeys. But 
 neither that nor nothing else ever made him a General, 
 poor fellow; and the last I beared of him was that he'd 
 blowed hisself to pieces trying to inwent a new kind of 
 gunpowder that'd send men off to sleep without killing 
 'em. But here comes the Harem," he said, dropping his 
 voice as Mrs. Rockett, dragged by Punch, entered the 
 garden. "Rum dog, that, George," he whispered; 
 "reminds me of a tortoise more'n anything else, 'cause I 
 never know which end of him to feed until he sticks his 
 head out. He knows, though. Well, my dear, here's George 
 come to see us. I reckon he'd like a dish of that Chany 
 tay Cap'n Walsh sent me, if you can get the kettle boiling." 
 
 When Mrs. Rockett had gone into the house, the mention 
 of tea sent Captain Rockett off on a tack more interesting 
 to his visitor. 
 
 "Talking of kettles," he said, "have you beared any- 
 thing in foreign parts of them new-fangled ships that sail 
 by steam, George? They've got 'em in America and in 
 Scotland, and now they're trying one on the Thames. 
 Rum-looking craft, with a big chimney to poison God's 
 air with. If she answers, they're going to start a Margate 
 steam-packet, and then it won't be long before it's good- 
 bye to the old hoys." 
 
 "My nable!" cried George. "They'll be stopping at 
 Herne Bay, then, very likely?"
 
 74 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 "Shouldn't wonder," said Captain Rockett gloomily; but 
 he cheered up almost instantly. "I'm trying to get the 
 hang of the thing by 'sperimenting with our old kettle. 
 Rather late at my time of life to larn new-fangled ways; 
 but I reckon we'll see a lot of changes now the wars are 
 over, and I believe in being ready. People won't pay 
 their half-crowns to come by the hoy, if they can get here 
 without waiting for tide or wind." 
 
 As George strolled homeward, an hour or so later, the 
 little sleepy village by the sea vanished like the fabric of 
 dreams; the wooden cottages with their moss-grown and 
 lichened tiles changed to great stuccoed mansions; rows 
 of gaudily painted machines took the place of the two or 
 three cumbrous chariots which now barely repaid Izzard, 
 their proprietor, for his enterprise; the Regent's coach 
 clattered along the front, between crowds of doffing vis- 
 itors. He saw great steamships vaguely shaped draw 
 alongside quays ill-defined and leave them black with 
 passengers. And all the passengers, with all their bags 
 and baggage, were flocking towards a palatial hostelry 
 that bore the sign of the Running Horse. 
 
 He burst in, hot with his schemes; Delilah was in the tap- 
 room, Bess alone in the parlour. His ambitions had time 
 to cool, and contracted in the cooling. Still, he saw for- 
 tune before them, as a reward for a little enterprise and 
 prevision. Some day not so far distant they would have 
 cause to be grateful for his return. The villagers would doff 
 their caps to him; a score of maids and drawers would run 
 to do his orders. Bess should wear silks, and diamonds, 
 and golden chains. They would make money enough to 
 buy up Huntingdon and all his acres; they could travel, 
 and see the wonders of lands far off; they might sell the 
 inn at last, and live like gentry in London or the shires. 
 
 Even John, cautious, unimaginative, slow in thought 
 and deed, was made at last to see some of these bright
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 75 
 
 visions. He was obviously disturbed in mind. "I suppose 
 things will go ahead a bit," he said dubiously, "but I 
 can't see much sign of better times yet, George. Look at 
 the price of bread. Look at the low wages, now that all 
 the soagers have come back, with mouths to feed and no 
 work to do. I hear the warehouses are crowded with stuff 
 they hoped to sell abroad as soon as peace come; and 
 peace has come, but there's no money in foreign parts to 
 buy anything. I daresay in time " 
 
 "That's it. But we've got to be ready beforehand. It's 
 only sense to look ahead a bit. You've got the inn and a 
 little trade to start with; well, if we use this money it'll 
 be like pouring water in the pump, only to bring more up. 
 Look at Brighton, just a fishing village not so long ago, and 
 now!" 
 
 "Yes, but the Prince " 
 
 "Well, why shouldn't great folk come here as well? 
 It's not so much further by road. And by sea " 
 
 "Ah, you'll never get many coming by the hoy. No, 
 no," said John sagely, shaking his head. 
 
 "No, I don't reckon you will/' said George, agreeing 
 readily enough, and now producing the trump card he 
 was holding in reserve. John was visibly impressed by 
 Captain Rockett's news and predictions. He sat with 
 puzzled and knitted brows, while his brother spoke eagerly 
 of the fishing the bathing the downs the air the 
 many places from which, in the glorious days now coming, 
 visitors might be expected to flock into Herne Bay and to 
 the inn. 
 
 "No doubt there's something in what you say, George," 
 he admitted at last, doubtfully. "But what do you want 
 us to do? Not pull the poor old place down about our 
 ears, surely?" 
 
 "It might pay if we could do that, even," said George. 
 "No, we can't do that, of course. We don't want to run
 
 76 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 risks, either. But we ought to build more stabling out at 
 the back; there's the paddock we could use I've thought 
 it all out and then more bedrooms, and a sitting-room 
 for better-class folk, and some furniture " 
 
 "My nable!" interrupted John, whistling. "And all on 
 three hundred pound?" 
 
 "Oh, we could raise a little more'n that. Borrow a bit 
 on the inn " 
 
 John shook his head. 
 
 "Why, what a cautious old fellow you are, John! Noth- 
 ing venture nothing have's my motto. War learns you 
 to take risks. Ever hear about that silver they poured 
 down the mountain side on the way to Corunna? They 
 shot waggon-loads of it fortunes pay for the troops, 
 you know over the edge of a precipice to get away from 
 the French quicker. That sort of thing learns you to take 
 risks, and lose a little to gain a lot." 
 
 He let his words sink in for a day or two. Some chance 
 words from Rockett made John give more serious thought 
 to the proposal. George managed, very skilfully, to in- 
 flame Bess's imagination to some degree not to the glow- 
 ing heat of his own, certainly but she was ambitious, for 
 John's sake rather than her own, and a hundred times more 
 impulsive than her husband. "There may be something 
 in what George says, John," she said, one night, as they 
 were going to bed. 
 
 "Don't want to run risks, though, lass," he answered; 
 but he was already playing with the idea. Before he blew 
 out the light, he adopted a method of divination then more 
 common than now. He opened the Bible at random, 
 and put his finger down; then read the passage it marked 
 out. 
 
 "And under the brim of it round about there were knops 
 compassing it, ten in a cubit, compassing the sea round 
 about; the knops were cast in two rows, when it was cast."
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 77 
 
 Little help to be gained from that, he thought, and 
 went to sleep trying to puzzle out some meaning from the 
 passage. 
 
 George returned to the attack later, and for some time 
 John heard him in silence. 
 
 "It's like this," George said, "other people won't stand 
 still, if you do, John. You remember the motto the old 
 parson read out to me, when he gave me my prize at the 
 stroke-bias 1 years ago? 'Neither go back, nor stand still, 
 but go forward.' It queered me then, and I didn't know 
 whether to walk straight past him without the prize; but 
 I know what it meant now. The Ship and the Dolphin 
 won't stand still; why, White's having his place painted 
 already. You won't like it if you let your chance slip, 
 and see Mrs. White and Mrs. Taylor in silk gowns and gold 
 chains, and Bess who's a lady born slaving away in 
 cotton all her days." 
 
 John was silent. "Well, lass," he said at last, "let's 
 hear what you say about it. You're sitting there as mum 
 as a mouse, and looking all the time as if you couldn't 
 say 'Boh' to a goose; but it's your business just as much 
 as ours. What do you think?" 
 
 "Boh!" said Bess, turning the laugh against her hus- 
 band. "Well, keep quiet, and I'll think." She tossed back 
 her hair, set her dimpled elbows on the table, and cradled 
 her chin and cheeks between her palms. The lamplight 
 shone on her puckered brow and downcast lashes. John 
 watched her, smiling. George watched, too. 
 
 She lifted her eyes at last slowly. "I think," she said, 
 solemnly, like one delivering a verdict, "I think I shouldn't 
 much mind the cotton dresses only I hope John '11 give 
 me linsey-woolsey if it's very cold indeed. And and I 
 
 1 An old Kentish sport, somewhat similar to prisoners' base, in 
 which rival villages took part.
 
 78 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 think I'd like John to wear silks and gold chains if he 
 likes them, and if Mr. Taylor and Mr. White are going to." 
 John chuckled. "And and I think you'd better settle 
 what you want to do yourself, John, and let me help you 
 afterwards." 
 
 "My wig, you ought to ha' married Solomon, Bess!" 
 laughed John, but instantly grew serious. After all, the 
 one bold stroke of his life had given him his wife. And 
 yet 
 
 "I doan't know what to say about it, George," he 
 said, doubtfully, at last. "I I opened the Book last 
 night, to see if that'd help; but there didn't seem to be 
 any message." 
 
 "Oh, you don't believe " George checked himself 
 
 suddenly. Military life had broken him loose from the be- 
 lief of the verbal inspiration of the Bible, which John still 
 firmly held; and experience had not yet taught him the 
 great, unalterable truths, ancient as man, which have been 
 written down, not in cold blood, nor with calculating 
 brain, but in suffering, in trial, and in deliverance; truths 
 confirmed line upon line, precept upon precept, here a 
 little, there a little, in the experience of unnumbered gen- 
 erations. But in John's unhesitating acceptance of the 
 views in which he had been brought up George thought he 
 might find a useful ally. "Let's try together what the 
 Bible says," he exclaimed, "and go by that, if it tells us 
 anything. Where is it? In your room? I'll get it." 
 
 He ran upstairs, and lit a rush. It was his father's 
 Bible, used at that service long ago. He turned the leaves 
 quickly; a short concordance at the end gave him at last 
 what he wanted. For a moment he felt some compunc- 
 tion, which he shook off with irritation, as a superstitious 
 survival of his rigid early training. He was convinced 
 that his schemes must be successful, and thought him- 
 self justified or tried to persuade himself that he was
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 79 
 
 justified in using any means to overcome his brother's 
 reluctance, and to induce him to take the tide in his 
 affairs which promised fortune. 
 
 He stiffened back the book, so that it should open at 
 the passage, and took the additional precaution of nick- 
 ing the end of the pages with his thumbnail; after one or 
 two attempts, he was able to ensure opening it at the page 
 he wanted. 
 
 He ran downstairs carrying the book. 
 
 "You've been a long time," said Bess. 
 
 "Couldn't find it at first. Now then, all of us together, 
 in the old way. Touch hands, Bess, and you, John." 
 
 They bent with fingers touching over the book, and 
 opened it. George pointed out at once the 3rd verse of 
 the 24th chapter of the Book of Proverbs. 
 
 "Here we are!" he cried. "Through wisdom is a house 
 builded; and by understanding it is established. And by 
 knowledge," he went on, "shall the chambers be filled with 
 all precious and pleasant riches." 
 
 John breathed heavily, and looked at Bess. Her eyes 
 were sparkling. 
 
 "I'll go over to Canterbury to-morrow and get esti- 
 mates," said George.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 /CONSCIENCE has an irritating habit of raising 
 \^J its voice, when its quiet warning has passed 
 unheeded and further words seem meaningless or use- 
 less. George had acted almost on impulse; he resented 
 with surprise the turmoil that followed a peccadillo so 
 well meant. Against the dark background of war his 
 action would have shone out like a virtue. On the pure 
 and simple home-life it looked strangely like the smear of 
 unclean fingers. 
 
 Plato says that exercise will almost silence an accusing 
 conscience. George threw himself heart and soul into the 
 new enterprise, meaning to justify his action by its results. 
 He was confident of success. Plans were prepared, esti- 
 mates furnished, the builders set to work. He was often 
 at Canterbury, discussing charges and new suggestions with 
 the man who had the work in hand. And these meetings 
 with Stokes meant the exchange of a good deal of liquid 
 hospitality. Once or twice he came back to the inn un- 
 certain of hand and foot and thick of speech. John noticed 
 that the bottles ranged over the bar emptied more quickly 
 than the receipts from the spirits warranted, but hesitated 
 to speak, in spite of promptings from Delilah. "I reckon 
 a soager can carry more'n another man without harm," 
 he reflected; "he must have got seasoned to liquor at the 
 wars, and misses those wine-vats he talks about." But 
 one night matters came to a kind of climax. 
 
 George left Canterbury that evening in a state border- 
 ing closely on intoxication. A glass or two at Herne made 
 his condition obvious to all who saw him. As he staggered 
 homeward, through Eddington, a group of farm lads return- 
 ing from work in Huntingdon's fields made some jesting 
 
 80
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 81 
 
 remarks that reached his fuddled brain. He swayed round, 
 with a volley of barrack-room oaths. 
 
 "Who be a-talkin' to you?" cried one lad, Pinion's 
 grandson. "Reckon us can say what us pleases, without 
 axing you. Some folk," he went on, speaking to a com- 
 panion, but loud enough for George to hear, "some folk 
 fancy theirselves Dooks of Wellington when they be drunk, 
 doan't they, Jim?" 
 
 George aimed a blow at him that missed its mark. 
 
 "Ah, would 'ee? Think yourself mighty clever, now, 
 doan't 'ee?" cried the boy, while the others laughed. "I 
 reckon you haven't much to boast of; with all your soa- 
 gerin' you've had to come back again and serve us with our 
 pots of ale. Look, Bill, he's a-showin' us how he fought 
 them Frenchies." Egged on by the admiration of his com- 
 rades, young Pinion darted within reach of George, and 
 dodged back again. But he played this game once too 
 often. George caught him suddenly by the throat. 
 
 "Leave go of me, can't you?" There was resentment in 
 the cry, changing almost instantly to a yell of pain. "Oh! 
 Oh! You'm chokin' me! Us wasn't talkin' about you, 
 Must' Kennett! Bill! Oh! Oh!" 
 
 Before the others could interfere, George had shaken 
 him like a rat, half-choking him. He flung the blubbering 
 lad down at last, and kicked him as he lay whining in the 
 dust. "Shame! Shame!" cried the others, and closed 
 round ominously. George burst through, muttering oaths 
 and pushing them to right and left. 
 
 "I'll pay 'ee for that, see if I doan't!" sobbed the boy 
 after him. A stone or two and taunts of "coward" fol- 
 lowed him down the road. 
 
 He had wit enough left to feel a vague sense of shame; 
 
 he was irritated with himself, with the boys, with the world. 
 
 He lurched into the taproom of the Running Horse. Delilah 
 
 sat alone, poring over a news-sheet which reported a murder 
 
 6
 
 82 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 case at the assizes; she was too busily occupied in spelling 
 out the longer words to pay him much attention. He 
 poured himself out another glass of spirits. When the time 
 came for their evening meal, he was flushed, quarrelsome, 
 almost incoherent. John and Bess noticed it directly he 
 entered the parlour, but said nothing as he staggered to his 
 seat. There was a difficult silence. John said grace. 
 
 Almost before the "Amen" was reached, George broke 
 out in a kind of growling monologue. 
 
 "Lotsh of thanksh for cold mutton," he muttered. 
 "More'n ever we said at Madrid for our lush o' wine and 
 kingsh' rations. Ought to have good wittles. Damned 
 non nonshensh saying thanks, John. Deserve more'n 
 cold mutton." 
 
 John and Bess exchanged glances and went on with 
 their meal in silence. George rambled on, finding fault, 
 speaking of the fortune they were going to make, and 
 at last woke up to the fact that there was no response. 
 He grew suspicious, then angry, and half rose from his 
 seat. 
 
 Bess, to quiet him, tried to make conversation. His 
 mumblings died down for a time into mollified incoherence; 
 but suddenly he broke out again. 
 
 "Here, steady," John was obliged to say at last. " Keep 
 a clean tongue in your head, George, old fellow. You ain't 
 in a barrack room now, you know. Bess don't want to 
 hear language like that." 
 
 "Mustn't talk now," he grunted resentfully. "Nice 
 shtate of hie thingsh, if a poor Rifleman, first in the 
 field and first out of it last, I mean what am I talking 
 about? I dunno." He looked round, grinning vacantly. 
 Suddenly the meat on his plate caught his eye. "Cold 
 mutton!" he hiccupped, with ineffable contempt. 
 
 "I'm very sorry, George," said Bess, incautiously. "We 
 had to finish up to-day because "
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 83 
 
 "Needn't apol hie ogise, Bess. Good enough for 
 you, good enough for me. There, there. Give's 'nother 
 kissh, Bess." An arm reached out unsteadily; before John 
 could interfere, he had clutched Bess round the waist and 
 was drawing her towards him. 
 
 "Here, let her be, George!" cried his brother with rising 
 anger. 
 
 "Whatsh matter now? Only going hie kissh Bess." 
 She tried to draw herself away, but before she or John 
 could stop him he was showering hot kisses on her hair and 
 cheeks and lips. 
 
 John caught him quickly by the shoulders; he swayed 
 for a minute, and then collapsed on the couch. He made 
 no attempt to rise, but sat huddled there, mumbling to 
 himself. "Ought to be my wife, too! Nice thing steal 
 away my girl when I'm fighting over hie shea. Wheresh 
 
 harm in a kiss? Wanted me to kiss her once " He 
 
 dozed off gradually into a drunken slumber, slack-mouthed, 
 flushed, breathing heavily; not a pleasant sight in the little 
 parlour which Bess had already made so cosy and so 
 home-like. 
 
 "Better get him up to bed, perhaps, Bess," said John at 
 last, under his breath. " People'll be coming into the tap- 
 room soon." He took his brother by the arm, and shook 
 him into drowsy, irritable consciousness. "Come up to 
 bed, old fellow," he said kindly, and at last, with some 
 difficulty, led him up the stairs to his room. 
 
 John was very silent and gloomy during the rest of the 
 evening. Far less stigma attached to drunkenness then 
 than now, but this touched the happiness of their home- 
 life very closely. "We must make a lot of allowances," he 
 said to his wife as they went to bed. "A man who's 
 knocked about at the wars drifts easily into loose ways. 
 I dare say he was in a hard-drinking, hard-swearing, reck- 
 less set, lass, and can't shake free from old habits all at
 
 84 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 once, however much he tries. He's told me a little of what 
 went on; and 'tis no wonder if a man who's seen so much, 
 and been through so much, and not even counted human 
 lives as being more than fair game for his gun like par- 
 tridges or rabbits 'tis no wonder if he breaks out now and 
 then. He's a good fellow at heart, is George; never a better. 
 He was disappointed, too, getting nothing for all his 
 fighting; and perhaps he feels out of it a bit, seeing us two 
 married, and as happy as the day is long. You are happy, 
 aren't you, Bess? I hardly knew what real happiness was 
 till we got married; not real, bubbling-up happiness, that 
 makes you feel like shouting day and night, and keeps you 
 thanking God for making life so good. I reckon he's been 
 working pretty hard too, and worrying about the building. 
 We'll have to try and make a change for him. I'll tell you 
 what. Let's go over to Fordwich on Friday in the chaise, 
 and take some wittles with us, and perhaps go on the 
 river. 'Lilah can look after the inn; I'll get young Graydon 
 in to help; he's out of a job, and it'll be doing him a turn." 
 
 George came down late to breakfast the next morning, 
 sullen and miserable and repentant ; yet ready to resent any 
 reference to the preceding night. But the only signs that 
 anything had happened were Bess's brisker waiting on his 
 wants and John's more genial gossip and kindlier manner. 
 All the afternoon Bess busied herself in making cakes to 
 take with them, and that famous old country dish of 
 custard and currants, "pudding-pie," which George, like 
 all Kentish boys, had been very partial to, when his 
 mother ruled the kitchen of the Running Horse. 
 
 On Friday morning Bess finished her housework early. 
 It was a glorious day; she sang in its opening, like the 
 birds. John, splashing and blowing over his morning rain- 
 water, chimed in untunefully on minor notes; she clapped 
 her hands to her ears in amused dismay. "Don't stop, 
 John, go on singing," she said. "I only put my hands over
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 85 
 
 my ears because it sounds sweeter far away. Music often 
 does." He punished her, laughing, with a kiss. 
 
 George put Blossom between the shafts; John lifted in 
 their basket of provisions enough for an army, almost, 
 he said and placed a cushion for his wife. Bess had 
 decked the whip with ribbons, and made little rosettes for 
 Blossom to wear behind her wise old ears; an honour of 
 which the mare seemed at first suspicious, then inordinately 
 vain. They started off under the reproachful eyes of 
 Delilah, who gave them grudging good wishes for the day 
 she longed to share, and incidentally mentioned as apropos 
 the fate of one boating party fished out of the river by her 
 father. Her gruesome details as to the condition of the 
 bodies (these particulars had furnished her with conversa- 
 tion for weeks after the catastrophe, especially when wait- 
 ing at meals) were cut short by John's " click " to the mare. 
 
 "Not much need for the whip, George," he said. "She 
 don't show her age a bit; willing as ever was. One of the 
 family, ain't you, old girl? She missed poor mother bring- 
 ing her a lump of sugar every morning as much as a human 
 could have done. Mother used to say Blossom was almost 
 a Christian; and if it comes to doing her duty in that state 
 of life to which God's called her, she's a better than many 
 I could tell of. Talk about animals having no souls! The 
 angels ride horses in Revelations, and if one of 'em wants a 
 good mount, or a good mare to drive without any wice 
 or " 
 
 "Never heared tell of chaises nor gigs in heaven, though, 
 John," said his brother, laughing. 
 
 "I'm none so sure about that. Elijah went up in a 
 chariot, and there were chariots as well as horses in the 
 heavenly army that compassed round Dothan. I reckon 
 Hello!" 
 
 Jogging along the road in front of them was the familiar 
 figure of Roger Huntingdon; shoulders bent, arms sawing,
 
 86 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 low-crowned beaver pressed well down over his grizzled, 
 bullet head, gaitered legs gripping his bay cob like a vice. 
 John held Blossom back, hoping that he would enter his 
 gate before they passed, and wishing to avoid another angry 
 encounter. But the white gate had caught, and Huntingdon 
 dismounted, swearing under his breath. As he set foot in 
 stirrup again, he saw the chaise and its occupants. 
 
 A sudden impulse urged John to make the first advance 
 towards friendship. He touched his hat with the whip. 
 
 "Good morning, sir," he said. 
 
 Huntingdon glared at them for a moment; his mouth 
 opened, and shut tightly again. He turned his head, and 
 spurred the cob through the gate without a word. 
 
 "Well, he needn't speak if he doesn't want to," said 
 John cheerfully. "Pity to keep up a grudge like that, for 
 it'll take more than sour looks to unmarry us." 
 
 "I wonder you touch your hat to him after what passed 
 the other night," growled George. "I'd see him hanged 
 before I'd do it." 
 
 "Oh, well, if we do what's right, the rest's his lookout. 
 The trees show up well, don't they, Bess, with the sunshine 
 glinting through them? My word, we've a lovely day." 
 
 They halted for a few minutes on the bridge at Sturry, 
 to watch the mill-wheel at work and the white water foam- 
 ing down into the green. "Remember that day we three 
 went to Fordwich, years ago?" said George. 
 
 "Ay, and didn't poor old feyther give us a bannocking 
 afterwards with that stick of his! We shan't have to sit 
 sideways for a week after this outing; won't be afraid of 
 going back home to-night, eh, George?" 
 
 Half a mile farther on brought them to the sleepy streets 
 of Fordwich. Here they put up the chaise at an ancient 
 inn, and then George and John carrying the basket 
 between them went down to the quay, where once, in 
 old centuries when Fordwich was the port for Canterbury,
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 87 
 
 many a blunt-nosed ship discharged her cargo, many a 
 company of knights and bowmen, many a motley throng 
 of pilgrims from over-sea, and many a prince and pre- 
 late with their chattering retinues landed or embarked. 
 The river whispered among the reeds, and chuckled softly 
 as it jostled past stones and piles and tree-boles, echoing 
 dreamily the songs, the jests, the laughter, of lips that had 
 so long been dust. 
 
 There were no Barons of Fordwich, no Abbots of St. 
 Augustine now, to fight and haggle over quay dues. John 
 bartered with an old and drowsy waterman for a boat, and 
 George, taking the sculls, pulled them past the press-yard 
 and beyond the tiny town into open country. Green fields 
 dotted with cattle sloped to the water's edge, and woods 
 lit by the first glow of autumn fires closed round them. 
 Hot sunshine made the air languorous and delightful; the 
 heat drew subtle odours from water, and earth, and bracken, 
 and late flowers on the banks; a million diamond points 
 of light glittered and sparkled on the smooth, gliding sur- 
 face of the stream. The gentle lap of water against the 
 boat and the soft music of trees and grasses, broken now 
 and then by the rustle of birds in the sedge and clustered 
 foliage lulled thought to sleep. George, rowing dreamily, 
 forgot for the time his restlessness, his ambitions, his 
 disappointments, his broken promises to himself. After 
 the first few minutes talk ceased. Bess leant back on the 
 cushions, and trailed one hand through the water, leaving 
 a dimpled track. Her eyes closed gradually, opened again, 
 closed, and remained closed. It was very pleasant to 
 watch her, so fresh, so young, with the long, dark lashes 
 brushing the soft skin tinged by golden sunlight, the rosy, 
 dimpled cheeks, the unruly hair almost black against the 
 bright cushions. Slowly the miles slipped by. Conscious- 
 ness, always too active, fretting George's brain with endless 
 introspection, seemed to shrink to a pin-point; he was just
 
 88 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 dreamily aware of the green banks, the green, sparkling 
 water, the girl dozing in the stern, his vague happiness 
 and existence. 
 
 At last John broke the silence by suggesting dinner. 
 They had reached a little shaw on the river bank; the 
 boat's painter was fastened to a pollard willow bristling 
 with shoots. Among tall trees, some brushing the water, 
 and spreading leaves and twigs over it as if to catch the 
 sunshine and sparkling river in a net of green and russet, 
 they found a camping place. Here, with laughter, and 
 talking, and occasional outbursts of dismal but happy song 
 from John, the basket was opened and the meal shared. 
 The two men lit their pipes; all lay quiet again under the 
 spreading branches that broke the sky into lozenges of 
 vivid blue. Birds sang round them; a couple of squirrels, 
 just beginning to change their light, creamy summer gar- 
 ments for ruddy winter jackets, slid down a neighbouring 
 oak, stood in silent consternation for a moment at the 
 intrusion on their quiet haunts, and scampered off, like a 
 flash, with a whisk of their bushy tails. 
 
 When they started back from Fordwich, the pageant of 
 sunset was nearly over. Crimson and gold ran like fire 
 through the sky ; but already moon and stars were usurping 
 the splendours of the sun that had made their day so 
 happy. In Blean woods, the trees merged together as the 
 soft touch of night blurred their outlines. A carter, trudg- 
 ing uphill by his team, halted to light his pipe; man, 
 horses, wagon, loomed out vague and black from the dusk 
 of the roadside. The man's face sprang into distinctness 
 for a second as the tinder caught, and was blotted out as 
 suddenly. In one of Huntingdon's fields the last wain had 
 just been loaded. Ricks of the summer's hay rose high 
 against the darkening sky ; a dog kennelled near the house 
 barked savagely as they passed. Pinion gave them a 
 wheezy "Good-night."
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 89 
 
 As they drove down towards the sea, the armies of the 
 stars marched before them. 
 
 Bess gave a little shiver, and in an instant John was all 
 solicitude. 
 
 "Cold, lass? We'll soon be home now. The nights are 
 getting chilly." 
 
 "Oh, no. I'm I'm not cold, dear. Only somehow 
 I don't know but the night seems so grand and and 
 lonely. It frightens me a little. Do you know that French 
 song, John, the Canadian boatmen sing about God's 
 ocean being so great, and our boats so very, very small? 
 And the stars are so far away and so cold " 
 
 George woke from great dreams. "What, frightened of 
 the stars, Bess?" he said. He had been binding the influ- 
 ences of Pleiades, loosing the bands of Orion; greater than 
 Mazzaroth and Arcturus; grasping the evening star. He 
 held up his hand. "Why, look here," he said. "That's 
 bigger than a hundred worlds. I like to think my eyes'll 
 take in all those millions on millions of miles." 
 
 John laughed. "Put your hand down again, George, 
 when you've done shutting the worlds out," he said. "I 
 want to see the road. I reckon God must be pretty busy, 
 keeping 'em all spinning; it's a wonder He never forgets 
 our bread-and-butters." 
 
 "We'll have better'n that soon," said George, and, com- 
 ing down to earth again, made even his brother share some 
 of his enthusiasm about the future of the Running Horse. 
 
 When they reached the inn, cool-cheeked and bright-eyed 
 after their drive, all seemed knit more closely by the happy 
 day spent together. Even old Blossom nuzzled against 
 George as he led her to her stall. Indoors they discovered 
 the spinet, which had arrived from Sturry that afternoon. 
 
 "Oh, John!" cried Bess, seeing through her husband's 
 slender pretence of ignorance at once, and ran to open it 
 but flew back, half-way, to kiss the giver.
 
 90 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 "George helped choose it," said John. "You ought 
 
 to " The memory of the previous night flashed through 
 
 his mind, but, rather than remind his brother, he finished 
 his sentence almost without a pause. "You ought to kiss 
 him for his share, lass." 
 
 Bess coloured. "I we must do that some other time, 
 in private," she said, among the chuckles of the taproom 
 guests. Smoothing her wind-blown hair, she seated her- 
 self before the instrument. A few uncertain notes trinkled 
 out sweetly. Young girls, who had grown up, and mar- 
 ried, and heard children of their own play it, had strummed 
 their exercises long ago on the yellow keys; it had joined 
 in the mirth of old wedding parties, of many a jovial 
 gathering; and dainty fingers that had once moved so 
 lightly over it had long been dust under iron-railed vaults 
 and the weeds and ivy of the churchyard. There were hints 
 of long, drowsy summer afternoons, of candle-light, and the 
 swish of silken dresses, and lavender and pot-pourri, and 
 old lace, in its music. And now, at the inn, Bess's fingers, 
 wandering over the keys, found there buried sweetness, 
 sad memories of old happiness, old songs, old love-stories. 
 
 "Let's have a song, lass," cried John, and was echoed 
 by the others. All sat silent; the first notes of her clear 
 young voice sounded, low and sweet, attuned to the haunt- 
 ing melancholy with which starry night and the music had 
 already put her mind in touch. 
 
 " Pale-cheeked, my lady watched in doubt, 
 
 Love in her eyes lay hiding, 
 But roses blushed, and love rushed out, 
 When she saw her lord come riding, 
 
 Riding, riding. 
 
 "A dinted helm he'd on his head, 
 
 A shattered lance was bearing, 
 'But what of that?' my lady said, 
 'When his griefs I now am sharing, 
 
 Sharing, sharing. '
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 91 
 
 "They sate them in the arrased room, 
 
 Wine and good fare not missing; 
 'Now eat and drink, dear lord: let gloom 
 Find no place when we are kissing, 
 
 Kissing, kissing. 
 
 "'Safe home!' my lady cried. 'Alack!' 
 
 Sighed he, ' my dear love, yonder 
 
 My plighted word must take me back, 
 
 I again from home must wander, 
 
 Wander, wander. 
 
 '"My word is pledged to cruel foes, 
 
 This sennight us must sever; 
 We'll sup on love until it close, 
 When we say farewell for ever, 
 
 Ever, ever.' 
 
 '"Oh, give them these,' my lady cried, 
 
 'My jewels, the best outvying, 
 And I will pray that He who died 
 Keep you safe from chains and dying, 
 
 Dying, dying.' 
 
 "He rode away at break of dawn; 
 
 She, when the sun was rosing 
 The ivory rood, sank down forlorn, 
 On her knees till long day's closing, 
 
 Closing, closing. 
 
 "Pale-cheeked, my lady watched in doubt, 
 
 Love in her eyes lay hiding; 
 The winter passed; the buds came out; 
 But no more her lord came riding, 
 
 Riding, riding." 
 
 "My, that's a sad song, Bess, lass, " said John. "Sounds 
 as dismal as one of mine, I reckon. Let's have something 
 more cheerful now. " John blew his nose loudly. "Pretty 
 song though; makes us feel as if we've all got to die some 
 day, and leave those dear to us; but let's hope, please
 
 92 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 God, that's a very long way off. Now give us something 
 to make us laugh. " Sad stories affected John very readily, 
 and his own happiness made him feel tenderly now towards 
 any true lovers' sadness. 
 
 "Soft-hearted old chap, you are, John," said George, 
 clapping his hand on his brother's shoulder. "Now, Bess, 
 finish up the funeral with something lively!" 
 
 Her lissom fingers ran over the notes; in a minute or 
 two she had set all heads nodding, all feet tapping; she 
 sang an arch, merry little song ending amid a storm of 
 laughter and clapping. Then George sang one or two army 
 songs, and snatches from Portugal and Spain: 
 
 " Vivir in Cadenas, 
 Quan' trist' es vivir, 
 Morir por la Patria, 
 Quan' bello morir." 
 
 "How mournful to live, when in bondage we sigh, 
 While to die for our country, how Godlike to die!" 
 
 the song of the Spanish patriots, struggling to free their 
 country from the yoke of Napoleon and King Joseph; or 
 La mujer es un angel del cielo, or Cuando suena la trompa 
 guerrera passionate songs of love and war, that he had 
 heard in Cuesta's camp, or in many a village where the 
 young men and maidens came, after the heat of the day, 
 to dance their fandangos and boleros and to sing to the 
 music of bagpipe or guitar. The words sung now in the 
 inn parlour, with the lamplight flickering on bronzed faces 
 in the taproom, seen through the open door, brought back 
 to him vividly those half-forgotten scenes in the life he had 
 left behind the low, painted cottages, the lean pigs and 
 pariah dogs rooting and sniffing among garbage, the short- 
 skirted, brown-skinned, dark-eyed girls, so haughtily grace- 
 ful, the men scowling even in their hour of enjoyment, the 
 watching, jesting, half-drunken soldiers, and, beyond all,
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 93 
 
 a glorious background of mauve mountains rising above 
 dark forests into a sky all blue and saffron. A little of 
 what he saw entered the minds of his auditors; George 
 had the pleasing consciousness that his efforts held the 
 stage of their thoughts for a time. He even, amid great 
 enthusiasm, volunteered imitations of some of the native 
 dances, and made Bess join him. 
 
 A fisherman rolled out a deep bass chanty; John, after 
 much demur, sang a harvest song in old Kent dialect; 
 George thumped out choruses to which all lent their voices 
 all save Delilah, who had scruples about the seemliness 
 of such mirth. 
 
 When closing time came, John and Bess and George 
 stood for a few moments at the door of the inn, with the 
 last strains still ringing in their ears. The sea was all 
 silvered with bright moonlight. The masts of a collier on 
 the beach stood out very clearly and distinctly, in ink- 
 black silhouette. It was a perfect night, closing a perfect 
 day. They clung to the last moments of the evening as 
 if they could hold the silvered skirts of it, and keep it and 
 their happiness from speeding back into the past, where 
 so many happy days have gone perhaps to be stored, and 
 given back,
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 WHEN Spring scattered her largesse of primrose gold 
 over coppice and hedgerow, the Running Horse 
 prepared to welcome fortune. The last guinea of Mrs. 
 Kennett's legacy had changed to bricks and mortar 
 early in autumn; George had succeeded in persuading his 
 brother to raise a mortgage on the inn, and much of 
 this money had gone into the pockets of furniture- 
 dealers and the builders. John tried to silence his mis- 
 givings by remembering the text that had promised 
 them success. 
 
 It was a relief to all of them when Summer's laughing 
 messenger chased Winter from the land. George, missing 
 the excitement of former years, chafed at the sunless days, 
 the narrow circle of their neighbours, the long evenings when 
 Stebbings recast the British Constitution, and Pinion 
 wheedled ale out of his neighbours, and Homersham the 
 miller prosed about great hoary, and yellow hammer, and 
 white straw. He thought of southern sunshine; the call 
 of the sea was in his ears; the fifes and drums of winter 
 storms, rattling at his window, stirred memories of old 
 ambitions, not quite dead. Sometimes his discontent 
 showed itself in open irritation; now and then, in drunken 
 lapses, soon repented and readily forgiven. "You see, 
 Bess," he said once in self-excuse, "I've got something to 
 grumble at, I have. All these years of fighting, and nothing 
 to show for 'em that's enough to make a man savage 
 when he thinks of it. I ought to have got on; I'm not a 
 fool. I reckon I would have if I'd been in Boney's army 
 instead of ours. He knew the way to treat soagers; for 
 all his faults, I'll say that about him. Look at those Mar- 
 shals of his Prince of this, Duke of that, King of t'other 
 
 94
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 95 
 
 place; nearly all of 'em in the ranks to begin with. Look 
 at Murat an innkeeper's son like me, and King of Naples 
 before he'd done!" 
 
 "And he's just been shot, poor man," said Bess. 
 
 " What of that? He'd lived, anyway. Did you hear how 
 he went into Moscow? He changed in his tent outside the 
 city, putting on his most splendid clothes, and jewels, and 
 rings in his very ears; and then mounted his best charger, 
 trapped out as fine as its master was himself. And the 
 wild Cossacks near the walls, when they saw his plume 
 above all the rest, came crowding round him, cheering and 
 shouting, and crying out that he was their chief. They 
 were enemies, too, mind you. I hear he flung them every 
 penny he had, and his watch even like a king. " 
 
 George paced up and down the room in his excitement. 
 For the moment, he was Murat, flinging royal largesse to 
 the acclaiming crowd. 
 
 Bess went on with her sewing, but her eyes sparkled. 
 
 " Did you hear how he came into Naples, too? People all 
 cheering, banners waving everywhere, flowers, music, all 
 along to his palace! An innkeeper's son, mind you." 
 
 "But if he'd never been a king," said Bess, "he might 
 have been alive now, with his wife and children. Look 
 at this, now, George; isn't it pretty?" 
 
 "It's all right," said George, scarcely glancing at the 
 work she held up for his inspection. "I reckon that hour 
 outside Moscow and that hour in the streets of Naples 
 were worth a dozen long lives like other folk have to live. 
 They don't give away no kingdoms or dukedoms or palaces 
 in our army. We reckoned ourselves lucky if we got our 
 rations regular, and pay not more'n three months over- 
 due. When I 'listed, I was young fool enough to swallow 
 all the recruiters told me about gold and glory. I've often 
 wished I'd let mother pay the smart money as she offered 
 to."
 
 96 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 " Perhaps you're just as happy without the glory, really, 
 George. I daresay Murat wished he was only an innkeeper 
 when he wrote that last letter to his poor wife 
 
 "Oh, if I was married " George stammered, and 
 
 went out. 
 
 But with spring, and the completion of their plans, he 
 shook off his discontent. All England looked forward to 
 the days of plenty, after so many lean and miserable years. 
 He saw himself again, in a narrower circle, a hero and a 
 child of fortune. 
 
 Early in May the Kennetts gave a house-warming to 
 inaugurate the new buildings, and invited Captain and Mrs. 
 Rockett and Mrs. Rockett's mother, Mrs. Gowdy, an 
 aged and decrepit dame who hibernated like a bear or a 
 tortoise throughout the winter, and rarely appeared during 
 other months save on holidays and high days. But she 
 had an inordinate appetite for pork, a dish usually for- 
 bidden because of its effects; and most of her sheltered 
 life was devoted to manoeuvres to obtain it. John induced 
 Mrs. Rockett to consider the house-warming as a birthday, 
 the only occasions on which the veto was withdrawn, and 
 lured Mrs. Gowdy from her room by using pork for bait. 
 
 Late on a spring morning, then, picture the little pro- 
 cession coming from Captain Rockett's cottage under the 
 lee of the downs, en route to the Running Horse. The old 
 lady led the way, in a wheeled contrivance which Captain 
 Rockett ingenious man had constructed for her use. A 
 year or so back she had travelled to church in this on 
 fine Sundays. An unfortunate habit for which senility was 
 responsible the habit of expressing her thoughts aloud and 
 unconsciously had put a stop to these attendances. One 
 Sunday morning, in the middle of the prayers, her high, 
 cracked old voice had startled the congregation by re- 
 marking, "What a hidjus bonnet the Squire's lady do 
 wear, to be sure! I wonder what dese great leddies be a-
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 97 
 
 coming to!" She was hustled out, to her amazement, in 
 the midst of a disquisition on the colour of a warden's 
 nose; and henceforward the wheeled chair was only used 
 to take her for occasional airings. 
 
 On this May morning Captain Rockett tested the vehicle 
 by jumping on it, Mrs. Rockett declining the experiment 
 remembering a trial trip which had deposited her in a rub- 
 bish heap, dangerously near a row of hives. Its stability 
 having been certified, the old lady, in rustling black silk, 
 with a towering cap decked with ornaments like a Christ- 
 mas tree, was carefully inserted and strapped down. 
 
 "Comfortable, Mrs. Gowdy?" asked Rockett. 
 
 "Comfortable, mother?" echoed Mrs. Rockett. 
 
 " Wery, thank you, Samuel. Wery, thank you, my dear. 
 Needn't have strapped me in so tight, though; this strap'll 
 cut me in half if Samuel upsets me. " 
 
 It was loosened immediately, to her surprise. "Ready, 
 Martha, my dear?" cried the Captain. "Up with the 
 anchor then, and let her go." 
 
 First went Mrs. Gowdy in her triumphal car, straining 
 forward against the strap, with laces and bugles and dang- 
 ling ornaments all quivering and jingling as the wheels 
 bumped over the shingle-strewn path. Behind, pushing 
 the chair, his face scarlet with his exertions, in vivid con- 
 trast to his snow-white hair, came little Captain Rockett, 
 puffing and blowing, and muttering nautical orders which 
 he himself had to carry out. Mrs. Rockett, fat, stately, 
 sleepy about the eyes as if she had just finished a good 
 dinner instead of being on the way to one, came next, 
 holding her best gown well above the ground. A few small, 
 bare-footed fisher-children brought up the rear, making 
 rude remarks about Guy Fawkes and Popeing day, until 
 one of the tinier girls, tender-hearted, began to cry, under 
 the sudden conviction that the poor old lady was really 
 on her way to be burned amid fireworks.
 
 98 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 Mrs. Rockett consoled her with a penny, and scattered 
 the others like chickens before the hawk. 
 
 A new sign-board, showing a white horse, swung before 
 the inn, "The wery image of old Blossom," said Captain 
 Rockett, to that poor quadruped's disparagement. Blos- 
 som's old stable had vanished in a cloud of white dust, 
 and now a new and more spacious building stood in its 
 place. On the site of the paddock rose a flimsy modern 
 structure, with another sitting-room, and bedrooms, fur- 
 nished in the latest style of provincial art ninety years 
 ago. The timber front of the inn had been repainted. The 
 appearance of John and Bess and Mrs. Gowdy's ill-con- 
 cealed impatience (she had scented the pork from afar, 
 as a war-horse scents the battle) brought Captain Rockett's 
 comments to an abrupt conclusion. 
 
 There were brand-new tables and benches in the tap- 
 room; pewter polished to look like silver was ranged be- 
 hind the bar; even the old clock had had its face and 
 hands washed, and looked surlier than ever after the 
 operation. But Bess had saved the fine old beams which 
 George had wished to whitewash, and John had insisted 
 on the parlour remaining unaltered. 
 
 George was in high spirits, showing this and that, and 
 naming the cost and his economies. Captain Rockett's 
 admiration gratified all. They took their seats at table. 
 Mrs. Gowdy said a loud and rather too premature " Amen " 
 to the grace, and purred "Pork, please" her wrinkled 
 face puckered with pleasure almost before she had been 
 asked. All were merry; all but Delilah, whose habitual 
 gloom added to the general mirth. 
 
 "Why, 'Lilah, what are you sighing for now?" asked 
 John, catching an ominous sound as she handed round 
 the plates. "Mustn't do that to-day, of all days." 
 
 "Oh, my!" she said, her freckled face clouding, "it do 
 remind me so, all this, of Maud Popple Maud Hickman
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 99 
 
 that was when she and her husband took on the under- 
 taking. Jim Popple's feyther was only a wirgin " 
 
 "A wirgin?" Captain Rockett screwed up his eyes. 
 
 " Yes, Captain Rockett, at Hunter's Forstall Church " 
 
 "Bless the girl! Werger, she means." 
 
 "Werger or wirgin, I dunno the names of these church 
 institutions, " said Delilah, with the contempt of a regular 
 attendant at Ebenezer Chapel; "but he set them up in a 
 nice little general shop. 'Fore wery long, Maud got so 
 eaten up with sinful pride that she made her husband 
 bury folk as well, to keep her in fine clothes and spending 
 money. But 
 
 " ' Not so, the impious and unjust; 
 What wain designs they form! 
 Their hopes are blown away like dust, 
 Or chaff before the storm.' 
 
 And so it was with her, like Dr. Watts says. For dreckly 
 they'd started, people seemed to stop dying, as if Provi- 
 dence didn't mean such wicked wanity to prosper; and 
 the first funeral her husband had was his own." 
 
 She went out, shaking her head mournfully, to fetch 
 the pudding. 
 
 "She's a rare one for the horribles, is 'Lilah!" said 
 John. "I've only seen her really cheerful once, and that 
 was when she went to stay with her aunt at Maidstone, 
 and told us how she'd shook hands with the hangman. " 
 
 "Most people'd rather have as little to do with him as 
 possible, " said George, laughing. 
 
 "Well, she ain't a wery cheerful person for a house- 
 warming, I must say, John," said Mrs. Rockett. "T'other 
 night I was dreaming about Dr. Watts, after one of those 
 dreadful hymns of hers. I dreamt I was in the other 
 world " 
 
 "Wasn't quite sure which, though, Martha, was you?" 
 said her husband, slyly.
 
 100 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 "And there was old Dr. Watts, a-standing by himself, 
 in a tie-wig and snuff-coloured clothes, singing his own 
 hymns. Not the nice ones, I don't mean. And he caught 
 sight of me watching, and made me join in, though I 
 can't sing a note, my dear. " 
 
 "She did it out loud too!" chuckled Captain Rockett. 
 "Woke me up, she did and such words! Hell, and 
 damned, and there, Martha, you ought to have took 
 lessons from the two Miss Barbers of Bristol. Ever tell 
 you about them?" 
 
 They had pushed back their chairs, and Captain Rockett 
 lit his pipe and continued. 
 
 " 'Twas when I was in the old Lydia, two-and-thirty 
 no, three-and-thirty year ago. One arternoon we picked 
 up a man who'd escaped from the Barbary pirates. He 
 told us he'd been wrecked off Sicily, and they found him 
 sitting on a rock, like a mermaid. Dreckly he got aboard 
 their dhow, he saw two white women wery white indeed, 
 they were just then drawn up ready to have their heads 
 shored off with a scimitar which a nigger was busy sharp- 
 ening. 'Be deaf and dumb,' they piped, 'for the love of 
 heaven, be deaf and dumb, Mr. Porter.' I forgot to say 
 his name was Porter. " 
 
 "Oh, my!" gasped Delilah, thrilling at the situation. 
 "But how did they know his name, Cap'n?" 
 
 "Saw it on his shirt-tail, which was flapping in the 
 wind a terrible shocking sight for two old maids," said 
 Captain Rockett, promptly. 
 
 " 'For the love of heaven,' they piped, 'be deaf and 
 dumb, or he'll have us killed dead for certain.' Well, 
 they were as ugly as sin, but he didn't want 'em killed on 
 that account, and he told 'em he wouldn't speak. Least- 
 ways, " Captain Rockett said, with a forbidding glance at 
 his wife, who was opening her mouth, "he winked at 'em 
 like this to show he wouldn't. He didn't know what a
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 101 
 
 starf they was at, but the Turkish skipper boffled him 
 still worse by axing him questions in English though such 
 English you never did hear outside the covers of a book. 
 The Cap'n seemed rare and angry when he wouldn't speak, 
 and swore at Porter something 'orrid; though the worst 
 words he knew were 'Fie' and 'Bother.' You see, he'd 
 only kept the two old maids to learn him English 'specially 
 strong language. Well, Porter kept ail-on being dumb, and 
 every day that long-bearded old skipper took his lessons 
 regular from the Misses Barber. Porter told me it made 
 his flesh creep to hear that cut-throat willain saying them 
 old-maid swears 'Fie,' and 'Bother,' and 'Shocking/ 
 and " 
 
 "Oh, my!" murmured Delilah. 
 
 " 'Twas so onnatural. Of course, when they corned to 
 Algier, he had no more manner of use for the ladies, and 
 as he couldn't sell 'em in the market, he got his scimitar 
 to cut their throats. 
 
 "They was a-shrieking for help Porter would have 
 helped them willing enough, he said, but six big rascals 
 had him by the legs when who should come along but 
 the Dey hisself , riding on a white donkey. ' Any nice fresh 
 slaves to-day, Bill?' he axed (I forget ezackly what the 
 skipper's name was), same as you or I might ax about a 
 catch of fish. 'There's a man might do for your honour,' 
 says he, pointing to Porter. 'I wish I might,' thoft 
 Porter. Well, the Dey bought him, and then looked at 
 the two old maidens of Bristol. It was wonnerful, Porter 
 said, what a lot of screams them two small bodies held. 
 'Two nice old ladies going cheap, your Majesty,' said the 
 skipper, ' wery useful for sticking up at your harem windows 
 with their weils off, to frighten folks away!' The Dey 
 was going off in contempt, when a thought struck him. 
 'I'll take 'em,' he said; 'send 'em up to the house with 
 the man.'
 
 102 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 "It so happened about this time that the Dey had caught 
 his greatest enemy, and was trying to think of new tor- 
 tures. He had him brought into the room in the Palace 
 where the two old maids were shaking and shivering, 
 wondering whether they were in for a honeymoon or 
 death. 'I'm going to be wery merciful,' he said; 'I'm 
 going to give you a choice. Will you prefer boiling oil, 
 or to marry these here ladies?' 
 
 "The Sheikh began to jump for joy, almost until they 
 took the weils off. Then he turned very pale; but he shut 
 his eyes, and was just going to say he'd take the ladies. 
 
 " 'To have and to hold, mind, till death do you part,' 
 the Dey reminded him. He opened his eyes again for one 
 more glance, and the Miss Barbers, knowing that their 
 fates were trembling in the balance, tried to look as in- 
 witing as they could, and nudged each other to smile. 
 And that was too much for the Sheikh. 'Please, Dey,' 
 he said, 'I'd rather have the boiling oil, if it's all the same 
 to you.' 
 
 " 'I doan't like to be too sewere,' said the Dey, smiling 
 pleasantly, as if he'd just thoft of something more merciful. 
 
 "The Sheikh cheered up at that, and banged the floor 
 with his head, which means being respectful in the East. 
 'O Dey,' he said, 'live for ever!' 
 
 " 'The same to you,' said the Dey, with a benevolent 
 smile, 'and may your beard never grow less!' 
 
 "Then he married him on the spot to the unfortunate 
 maiden ladies of Bristol." 
 
 Captain Rockett puffed at his pipe. "What queer 
 things do happen in foreign parts, now!" said his wife, 
 innocently. "I couldn't hardly believe some of the things 
 Samuel says, if he didn't assure me they were true. " 
 
 "True as I'm sitting here, my dear," said Rockett, 
 rising to take his tankard from Delilah, and winking 
 solemnly at John. "You and Bess are luckier than that
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 103 
 
 there Sheikh, John, being married to the two people you 
 want. Well, here's luck to the Running Horse! Can't 
 you give us a song, Bess?" 
 
 Bess sang not her dismal ballad, this time while 
 George turned over the leaves of her music. Now and 
 then their fingers met and touched as they fumbled with 
 the clinging page; George, stooping over her, felt her hair 
 brush his cheeks, and his heart quickened. The obser- 
 vant Mrs. Gowdy, eyeing them from her great chair, 
 muttered, "I declare now, George seems more like her 
 lover than her own husband is. Never did understand 
 why they weren't married, they two." Bess blushed; 
 George drew aside a little awkwardly ; ' n gave his great, 
 honest, unsuspecting laugh, and clapped his brother on 
 the back. "Mrs. Gowdy don't believe in only boy-and- 
 girl affairs, George. My word, she'll make me jealous. 
 Why, what's the matter, George?" 
 
 George had winced, and shaken himself free from the 
 rough embrace. 
 
 "N nothing," he stammered, flushing red. "I I 
 my wound stings a bit at times, old fellow. " 
 
 "Clumsy fool I am!" muttered John, in self-reproach. 
 Mrs. Rockett was reproving her mother. "Hush, mother," 
 she said; "you mustn't say such things. People mightn't 
 like it. You mustn't mind her, my dears," she added, in 
 a louder voice, glancing round the little circle with an 
 apologetic smile. 
 
 "Me? I never spoke a word, my dear!" protested Mrs. 
 Gowdy. 
 
 As the afternoon wore on, the pork had its usual effect 
 on the old lady. Outwardly still amiable, her spoken 
 thoughts showed that indigestion was ruffling her good 
 nature. After thanking people for their songs in the sweet- 
 est and most smiling manner, her cap would suddenly 
 quiver ominously, and she would burst out with some
 
 104 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 startling comment, muttered, but quite audible. "Thank 
 you, George, wery pretty, them foreign songs. . . . 
 Why can't he sing them in Christian words, I wonder, 
 so that folk can understand what he's saying? . . . 
 You'll have to give us some of your songs at home, now, 
 Samuel. ... I hope Martha won't dream of letting 
 him; bad enough listening to them yarns of his packs 
 of lies, every one of them. Why couldn't he sing at once 
 when he was axed, and get it over? Spoils all the pleasure 
 for me, when people want so much pressing." 
 
 This running fire of acrimonious comment, all the more 
 effective because unconscious (for Mrs. Gowdy made ob- 
 vious efforts to b^ . agreeable guest), fell on the company 
 as if naked Truth were being entertained in a roomful of 
 well-clad people, and sprinkling them, at each movement, 
 with cold water from the well out of which she had just 
 been drawn. When she began to mutter remarks about 
 the dinner, and ascribe her growing discomfort (always 
 the penalty for indulgence) to Bess's cooking, Captain 
 and Mrs. Rockett decided that it was time to wheel her 
 home. 
 
 "Well, my dear," said the Captain's lady to Bess, at 
 the door, "I'm sure we wish you all success though 
 that's bound to come. You're ready now to make hay 
 when the sun shines, as the saying goes. " 
 
 "I'll try and send you along any respectable folk I 
 bring down in the hoy, John," cried Captain Rockett, 
 turning his head, and nearly upsetting his aged passenger 
 against the post of the yard gateway. "Hello, where am 
 I steering to, I wonder?" 
 
 " Good-bye, " piped Mrs. Gowdy, nodding violently, until 
 every bugle and scrap of lace in her cap tossed as in a tem- 
 pest, "best wishes to you all, my dears." But before she 
 was out of the yard she muttered the uppermost thought. 
 
 "Wery silly of them, I'm sure, to lash out like that.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 105 
 
 Must be wiser than their feythers, I suppose; always the 
 way with young folks. All the geese nowadays want to 
 lay golden eggs, it seems to me. " 
 
 "Hush, mother, hush," protested Mrs. Rockett. 
 
 "Me? I was only wishing them good luck, my dear." 
 But as she was wheeled off, her head bobbing like a swim- 
 ming dab-chick's, they heard her mutter, "Martha's get- 
 ting much too interfering; she may be sixty, but she 
 hasn't caught up to me yet by more'n twenty year." 
 
 During the next week or two, George devoted some of 
 his leisure to coaching Delilah, in readiness for the time 
 when the inn would be filled with guests. When he was a 
 boy, the two had had many a battle royal; his lapses into 
 drunkenness and his open contempt for her narrow view 
 of life had long outworn his welcome, and she proved an 
 irritable and rebellious pupil. Bess was a little more suc- 
 cessful; but even Bess found it beyond her powers to pre- 
 vent 'Lilah's dismal interpellations at meals, or to cure her 
 of jerking her freckled thumb towards the new coffee- 
 room, with the gruff announcement, "Dinner's ready." 
 But the room was too rarely occupied. 
 
 "Seems to me," said 'Lilah, gloomily, some time after 
 the house-warming, "we've swept and garnished, and now 
 the spirits won't enter. Trade's not so good in the tap- 
 room neither, so our last state's worse than our first." 
 
 Indeed, poverty, famine, disease, debt, "the beadles 
 and guardsmen that hold us to common sense," were 
 bludgeoning Europe after its long folly, and the Kennetts, 
 in their quiet corner, did not escape their blows. The 
 year 1816, hailed so eagerly now that the wars were over 
 and Buonaparte chained to his rock, proved one of almost 
 unbroken gloom, of terrible and appalling distress; Eng- 
 land has experienced few such years in her long history. 
 The national debt; the senseless luxury of the rich; paper 
 money; machinery; corn laws men ascribed the distress
 
 106 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 to a hundred causes, groping blindly for solutions and for 
 remedies. In the home counties, labourers, with wives 
 and children to keep, were working for sixpence a day. 
 Disbanded soldiers made the roads unsafe; gangs of armed 
 poachers haunted the woods; smugglers held the coast- 
 line. In May the mills at Norwich were broken into, and 
 fire-balls thrown among the merchandise; while at the 
 other end of England, at Bideford, the North Devon 
 Yeomanry were hunting down prison-breakers, and try- 
 ing to protect the shipment of food, which men driven 
 mad by hunger were attempting to secure for their own 
 starving families. Later in the month riots broke out in 
 the Isle of Ely; guns and large fowling-pieces were used 
 against the authorities; the five ringleaders went to their 
 death, singing the 104th Psalm, through a mourning city. 
 Certainly, judge and gaoler and hangman found work in 
 plenty. The North of England was in open revolt. In the 
 Midlands, many a village which had been prosperous and 
 happy was now deserted, or the home of misery and squalor. 
 Once and not so long ago the open cottage doors had 
 invited the eyes of the stranger, as he passed, to glance at 
 the neatness and cleanliness of the interiors; merry and 
 healthy children played in the streets; the inhabitants, 
 hale and happy, saluted those who went by. But now 
 the scene was miserably changed. The doors were closed; 
 no children shouted near the thresholds; the very plants 
 trained up in the windows had pined and died. In place 
 of the decent, friendly villagers, perhaps one solitary in- 
 habitant might be seen, a ghastly living spectre, like a 
 dweller among the tombs, eyeing the traveller with hatred 
 or dull apathy. 
 
 And all this time George, Prince Regent of England, 
 talked platitudes of the meritorious endurance of his peo- 
 ple under unfortunate distresses, and dined sumptuously, 
 and drank rich wines, and invented shoe-buckles, and
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 107 
 
 gave ten thousand guineas for a punch-bowl, and played 
 practical jokes at Brighton and Carlton House; while 
 brave and honest toilers roamed the country in search of 
 work; while good women lay sick and starving and un- 
 tended; while little children cried for bread in Merry 
 England. 
 
 Week after week of expectancy and disappointment 
 passed at the Running Horse. George's dreams were fast 
 taking to their heels before these "beadles and guards- 
 men," whose approach they heard already at the inn. 
 But one rainy and gusty afternoon Captain Rockett re- 
 deemed his promise by bringing two passengers from the 
 hoy. The little mariner, very chirpy at being able to do 
 the Kennetts a good turn at last, escorted his captives to 
 the inn, in order that there should be no possibility of 
 their escape. 
 
 Bess was at the window of the taproom, looking out 
 disconsolately at the drizzle and grey sea. 
 
 "John, John!" she called, "I do believe there are some 
 people coming here at last." 
 
 John ran to the door, but Captain Rockett had already 
 flung it open with a flourish, and stood aside for the visitors 
 to enter. 
 
 "Famous surgeons from London," he whispered behind 
 his hand, "feyther and son. Recommend their patients, 
 wery likely."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 "/^ENTLEMEN," declaimed Captain Rockett, slightly 
 \~_JL altering a passage from the "Corsair," 
 
 " 'O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, 
 Our thoughts as boundless and our souls as free, 
 We've reached at last the famous Running Horse, 
 Where you can have good beds and meals, of course.' 
 
 Byron, gentlemen, Byron " 
 
 "A poet, sir," said the elder of the two visitors, un- 
 buttoning his drab overcoat, "for whose sentiments in 
 favour of liberty I have always had a vera profound re- 
 spect. " He made a stiff little bow to the Captain, who 
 had brought him "o'er the glad waters " in the stuffy 
 little cabin of the hoy from London to Herne Bay in 
 safety. "James, we will follow our good hostess to our 
 apartments. How long do we propose to stay? Well, 
 really eh, James? a few days, a few days; it is deefi- 
 cult to predict with certainty. I I presumably the 
 charges " 
 
 "Oh, we need not concern ourselves with that now, 
 father," said the younger man, irritably. He was in the 
 early twenties; short, thin-faced, with very prominent 
 features whose natural sallowness had not been improved 
 by a choppy sea. "Let's see our rooms." 
 
 As they followed Bess out of the taproom, Delilah 
 bringing up the rear with their valises, Captain Rock- 
 ett watched them with a whimsical look in his blue 
 eyes. "Wery bad sailor that young man, John," he 
 remarked, chuckling. "Came aboard talking big about 
 upsetting the Government; but he'd precious little 
 
 108
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 109 
 
 to say dreckly the sea began to upset him. First five 
 minutes outside the Thames did for him. 
 
 " 'His features' deepening lines and warying hue 
 At times attracted, yet perplexed the view, 
 As if within that murkiness of mind 
 Work'd feelings fearful and yet undefined.' 
 
 Wery soon defined, though, when ' gasp by gasp he faltered 
 out his soul.' I had a long talk with his feyther; and it 
 seems they're wery distinguished surgeons in Bloomsbury, 
 so they ought to do you some good. I must get on 
 home now, but I'll come in again before my next journey. 
 I reckon this means turn o' the tide, John. " 
 
 Except to sanguine eyes, like Captain Rockett's, the 
 appearance of the couple did not point to great distinction 
 or affluence, but John knew that famous surgeons were 
 frequently eccentric. Mr. Watson, senior, spoke with 
 the faintest tinge of a Scottish accent, and was a trifle 
 uncertain about his use of "shall" and "will"; his clothes 
 were rather threadbare, but scrupulously neat; his manner 
 polite, a little sententious; his habits verging on old- 
 maidishness. The son was of a different type. His eyes 
 had a restless, half-crazy look in them; all his movements 
 were eager, jerky, irritable. Bess, herself, anxious to do 
 all in her power to help the fortunes of the inn, waited 
 on them at their first meal in the new coffee-room. But 
 the younger Watson's eyes were so intrusive, and his 
 appreciation of her good looks showed so patently in 
 words as well as in glances, that Delilah had to take her 
 mistress's place. 
 
 Delilah performed this duty with singular alacrity. The 
 new guests were much to her liking. They had cut to 
 pieces many hundreds of their species; they were intimately 
 acquainted with all the diseases to which the human frame 
 is liable; a little shagreen case among their luggage held
 
 110 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 barbarous-looking instruments which must have assisted 
 in countless operations; they had books filled with grue- 
 some diagrams of dissected men and women. She listened, 
 open-mouthed, while the elder man (who was the chief 
 talker) prosed about his cases, with finger-tips together 
 and much admixture of dog-Latin. His son was busier, 
 as a rule, with knife and fork and tankard; now and then 
 he jerked in a few words, contemptuous of his father's 
 old-fashioned methods of treatment. Delilah Gummer's 
 thoughts hovered between her body and her soul; with 
 the conviction of sin she combined now the conviction 
 that she suffered from at least three terrible and hitherto 
 unheard-of maladies. Her frame of mind most nearly 
 corresponded to that of the ancient monks when they 
 were bled in company, in the abbey phlebotomeria, to 
 the solemn music of the Psalms. 
 
 The two guests spent much of their spare time, however, 
 in the taproom, and here politics engaged their attention 
 rather than surgery or medicine. On this subject the son 
 proved talkative enough. Reading between the excited 
 periods of the younger Watson and the father's senten- 
 tious remedies for the condition of England and the world, 
 it was easy to see that their modest equipment, the care- 
 fully brushed and darned garments, resulted rather from 
 lack of means than choice. Default of patients at Blooms- 
 bury had turned their attention to the ailments of a society 
 diseased, a world out of joint. 
 
 The remedies propounded by Spence, and preached, after 
 his death in 1814, by Evans, were those they favoured. 
 Watson senior proposed the dissemination of Spencean ideas 
 by meetings, by discussions, by clubs such as had already 
 been formed. The son advocated more drastic methods, 
 and, throwing off his cloak of gloomy reticence in the com- 
 pany of the taproom, talked wildly and mysteriously of 
 coming judgment on the men who misgoverned England.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 111 
 
 "I think I shall take some of er Dr. Lettsom's tenth 
 stage of intemperance punch, please, punch," the elder 
 man would say, with his polite, stiff little bow to John 
 or Delilah at the bar. "My dear James, we must not be 
 violent; let us trust to reason to er leaven the lump. 
 Already these principles are spreading. Thank you, thank 
 you. We know that England is h'm cachectic; in a 
 vera cachectic condition. The price of wheat now " 
 
 "Gone up to nigh eighty shillings a quarter at Canter- 
 bury now," said Stebbings, nodding his head. 
 
 "Exactly, sir. The enormous taxation, the great es- 
 tates of our nobility when in London, as I can testify, 
 people are packed like herrings in squalid attics the dis- 
 graceful I say disgraceful advisedly the disgraceful 
 luxury and waste in high circles all these Spence saw, 
 and proposed to remedy. He went to the root of the 
 matter; we should all go to the root of the matter." Dr. 
 Watson took a sip from his glass. "I remember, gen- 
 tlemen, when Spence was buried, a pair of scales was 
 placed on his coffin to show the justice of his views. Now, 
 the first and most important matter is to secure proper 
 representation for the people; we must do away with a 
 Parliament based on er nepotism and corruption. And 
 to secure this, our first step " 
 
 "Our first step," interrupted the son, fiercely, "is to 
 stamp out the present system by striking at the head. 
 France did it; are we to be behind France? We must do 
 what our fathers did under the Stuarts; cut out the canker 
 with the knife " 
 
 "My dear James," protested his father, pressing to- 
 gether the tips of his fingers and leaning forward, "let 
 us try milder measures first; knife or escharotic only in 
 the last resort. Spence proposed, as the first step, to abolish 
 the iniquitous private ownership of land. We must, he 
 says, form a corporation of the inhabitants of each parish,
 
 112 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 in which all the parish land shall be vested; the parish 
 officers will collect the rents, deduct state and local ex- 
 penses, and divide the lave among the parishioners. And 
 then " 
 
 "A wery wise system, a do think," said old Pinion, 
 from his corner. "And how much should I get from them 
 there politics, maister? I'd vote for that, to be sure. 
 What would it be, now, in Eddington? I often do think, 
 now I've been working these sixty-dree year, man and 
 boy seventy-fower a be now rook-starvin' first, a 
 was " 
 
 "But how on earth will you make these land-grabbers 
 give up their lands, sir?" interrupted the younger Watson, 
 excitedly. "How will you induce them to do that?" 
 
 "Well, we must educate educate. We cannot expect 
 these changes all at once. But an Act of Parliament, 
 when Parliament is filled with men imbued with Spencean 
 
 doctrines " He waved his hands vaguely, and went 
 
 on as if the difficulty had been brushed aside. "When 
 we have our parish corporations, we will have no tolls or 
 taxes but the rent that each man pays; all duties on 
 foreign goods shall be abolished; every man in the parish 
 will serve on the militia to defend his country; every man 
 who serves and pays his rent will be entitled to a vote. 
 Each parish will elect its representative every year for the 
 national assembly " 
 
 "But you're arguing in a circle, you're arguing in a 
 circle!" shouted his son. "Parliament to form the land 
 communities! The land communities " 
 
 "Oh, I admit deeficulties, James, I admit deeficulties. 
 But this snedding of heads " 
 
 "It must come to that, though!" cried James. "Will 
 education make the Regent give up the wealth he squan- 
 ders when his people are starving? They are starving 
 thousands of them, millions of them. There are men and
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 113 
 
 women and children dying for want of what he'll spend 
 on a waistcoat or a cravat. And the people only want a 
 leader. They have stood it long enough; if only the man 
 came forward, there would be revolution to-morrow. You 
 can't alter things now without force. We must use the 
 knife, we must " 
 
 "Seems to me," said Captain Rockett, who had just 
 come in, and had been listening quietly to an oration that 
 had risen almost to a scream of anger, "seems to me that 
 we're talking about drastic measures when our patient's 
 nearly on the mend. No good cutting off the head when 
 the body's getting well again. You must have a head; 
 they Frenchies, they cut off theirs, but they soon had 
 another worse than the first." 
 
 "They had a man, instead of a bran-stuffed puppet, 
 sir!" cried young Watson, excitedly. " Buonaparte was a 
 man, and he knew what France wanted, if he couldn't 
 carry out all his schemes. Why did our people cheer him 
 when he was aboard the Better ophon off Portsmouth? 
 Why did Hunt, who has the interests of the people at 
 heart if any Parliament man has nowadays why did he 
 put candles in his windows when Buonaparte escaped from 
 Elba?" 
 
 "And got his windows smashed for it served the traitor 
 right, " growled two or three men, who, in that room, had 
 hurra'd over the news of many a British victory, which 
 the former host had read out (standing on a table) from 
 the Extraordinary Gazettes. 
 
 Watson ignored the interruption. "George R.," he went 
 on scornfully, "those letters spell all the troubles of Eng- 
 land. It's the whole false, iniquitous system embodied in 
 one .figure at its head. Buonaparte did let merit have its 
 way: the only proper system for the government of a free 
 people. Did he care for rank, for birth, for the fact that 
 a man's father was a lord or had a great estate? He wanted 
 8
 
 114 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 talents, abilities, resource, brains, and saw that he got 
 them. In England " 
 
 "I reckon it won't help you to navigate that old wessel 
 through dirty weather to cut the figure-head off, though," 
 said Captain Rockett. "First thing is for each to do his 
 dooty at the pumps and yards. Righteousness exalteth 
 a nation, and sin is a reproach to any people. Let's re- 
 member that. If more of us did, there'd be less wicked- 
 ness perhaps in high quarters. 'Lilah, bring me a church- 
 warden, if it ain't against your scruples." He filled the 
 pipe slowly. Watson had half-turned his back. "Favour- 
 ite pipes of mine, sir; and I'll tell you for why. When I 
 commanded a wessel called the Neptune in the Baltic, 
 I once lost my bearings, and was looking round through 
 my glass, when I see the bowl of one of these here pipes 
 sticking through the water. And what do you think we 
 found? Under the pipe there was a shipwrecked sailor, 
 sitting on a submerged rock, a-drawing in air through the 
 pipe, and waiting for the tide to go down. We'd have 
 been on the rock in another brace o' shakes, so the church- 
 warden saved his life, and our lives, and a good wessel 
 which there wasn't never a finer than the old Neptune, to 
 my thinking. Of course, the sea was wery smooth, or he 
 wouldn't have been able to do it." 
 
 "Indeed, you surprise me, sir " began old Watson, 
 
 before a chuckle from the rest could inform him that 
 Captain Rockett's yarns might be taken as only relatively 
 true. 
 
 "And it seems to me, now," went on the little sailor, 
 "that Old England's sound enough under us, if we only 
 sit tight, and wait for the tide to go down. It don't do to 
 wriggle about or try to shove one another off the rock; 
 we've had a pretty high tide of bad fortune, but I reckon 
 it's going down fast, and before wery long we'll all have 
 our heads above water."
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 115 
 
 "Then you propose, sir," said the younger Watson, 
 excitedly, "you propose to retain things as they are? 
 To keep your figure-head, and rob the poor to gild and 
 paint it? To keep this gang of thieves and and bribers 
 in office? Let us be plain, sir. You prefer a system which 
 chooses the high officers for its army at the whim of a 
 Duke's mistress oh, 'tis common talk, sir to one like 
 Buonaparte's, where every soldier might find the marshal's 
 baton in his knapsack?" 
 
 " I don't say that, " answered Captain Rockett. "There's 
 a rare daffy of things want altering, I know. But still " 
 
 "Mr. Watson's right about the army!" said George, 
 suddenly. He had been silent hitherto; but his eyes were 
 bright, and his fists had been clenching and unclenching 
 with growing excitement. His interruption was so fierce 
 and unexpected that all eyes turned towards him. " Boney 
 did look after his men, and give them a chance, whatever 
 his faults were. He made his kings and dukes the way we 
 ought to make them out of men, not clothes. They don't 
 give a snap of the fingers for anything but birth or money 
 in our army. " 
 
 "I reckon you ought to know something about that, 
 now, Must' George," said Pinion, insinuatingly, fumbling 
 with his empty tankard, "serving all them years in our 
 army, and getting nothing for your pains and wounds." 
 
 Watson fixed his crazy eyes on George with sudden 
 interest. 
 
 "Have you served?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, in the Peninsula." He entered into a long 
 grumble about his grievances, to which young Watson 
 listened readily enough; the others, having already heard 
 him on this topic to the point of boredom, turned their 
 attention to other subjects. 
 
 During the remainder of the Watsons' stay at the Run- 
 ning Horse, George and the young surgeon were much in
 
 116 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 company. Watson plied him with questions about the 
 various regiments, inquiring particularly as to the state 
 of feeling in the army whether disaffection had spread 
 to any extent, and how far the influence of Spence, Cobbett, 
 and the Hampden Clubs which were forming throughout 
 the country had permeated the ranks. George was flat- 
 tered by so much notice from a man above him in the 
 social scale, and gave such information as he had not 
 very much, since he had lost touch with the army at Tou- 
 louse. He told innumerable stories of the war, of favorit- 
 ism and inefficiency, and brought out the Spanish pistol 
 from the drawer in which John kept it. Watson's curios- 
 ity about the army seemed inexhaustible. 
 
 When the two guests left, George went with them to 
 the hoy. Two or three sailors were stowing away the 
 cargo; they had half an hour or so to wait before sailing, 
 and George accompanied them on board, and had a drink 
 at their invitation in the little cabin where the passengers 
 took their meals or whiled away the tediousness of the 
 voyage with packs of greasy cards. 
 
 "You should be coming with us, Kennett, " said young 
 Watson. He glanced round; the man who had served 
 them with their drink "cook, mariner, attendant, cham- 
 berlain " combined had just been called on deck by 
 Captain Rockett; Watson waited until his striped trousers 
 had vanished through the hatchway. "You should be 
 coming with us," he went on, dropping his voice. "Great 
 schemes are hatching; there'll be chances for an able and 
 ambitious man like you, who knows a little of fighting. 
 Come to London." 
 
 " My dear James, " whispered the elder Watson, nervously, 
 "be cautious, be discreet. My son allows himself to be 
 carried away by his ideas, Mr. Kennett," he said, aloud. 
 "But if ever you come to London, we shall be obleeged 
 by your calling on us, I'm vera sure. Perhaps Mr. Kennett
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN ift 
 
 might be interested in one of our meetings at the Cock, 
 eh, James? A little gathering of h'm peaceful agita- 
 tors, Mr. Kennett " 
 
 "Peaceful agitators!" interrupted his son. "We'll find 
 better work for you than peaceful agitation, Kennett, I 
 promise you! In a few months, before the year's out 
 the country's almost ripe already " 
 
 "Man, ye'll have us all gaoled, with that tongue of 
 yours!" cried Dr. Watson, in agitation. "I I if it were 
 any one with less good sense than you, Mr. Kennett " 
 
 "Oh, you needn't be afraid of me, Dr. Watson. What- 
 ever your plans may be, I've not so much love for the 
 Government that I wouldn't help you, if my hands weren't 
 full. I reckon things are mending, though, and we'll be 
 too busy to worry our heads over politics at the Running 
 Horse. " 
 
 "Things mending? They're growing worse every day, 
 I tell you. Stick to your inn; but don't blame me if you 
 find you've missed " 
 
 Captain Rockett's genial shout of warning hurried 
 George to the gangway. 
 
 "I'll remember," he said. "If all else fails, I'll try 
 London. Good-bye, Dr. Watson, good-bye." 
 
 He watched the hoy until the faces on her deck grew 
 indistinct. Then, with slow steps, he made his way back 
 to the inn. What was the meaning of the vague promises 
 held out to him? Something great, he knew; something 
 beside which his ambitions at Herne Bay even if achieved 
 would shrink into paltriness and insignificance. "Stick 
 to your inn." The stinging contempt in Watson's tone 
 and words told of an alternative, high as his boyish 
 dreams and rejected. 
 
 Bess was in the parlour when he returned. " Oh, George, 
 it's nice to be alone again, " she said. 
 
 "Didn't you like them?"
 
 118 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 "Well, the father was very nice, but the son no, I 
 can't say I did, very much, George. He shouted so much 
 about every one being wrong, and about putting every 
 one to rights; but it seemed to me he hadn't started with 
 himself. " 
 
 During the next few weeks George's thoughts were 
 oftener in London than in Herne Bay. He studied the 
 news-sheets and Cobbett's Register, drank in eagerly all 
 the taproom gossip about hard times, low wages, rioting 
 and rick-burning, and other manifestations of public dis- 
 content, and at night dreamed himself into Westminster 
 and even Carlton House. Unhappily, he had time to 
 spare for these musings and imaginings. People could 
 not afford to come to the sea; even old customers had to 
 hoard their scanty pence against the winter, and came 
 less frequently. If Bess sang more cheerily at her work 
 about the house, and talked more hopefully than ever, 
 it was only when John or George was in hearing; alone, 
 she fell silent and thoughtful. 
 
 A dozen times, during that long summer, George deter- 
 mined to take such money as could still be spared and 
 go to London in search of fortune. Once or twice the 
 announcement of his decision was on his tongue. But a 
 glance from Bess, a touch in passing, a familiar gesture 
 or tone of the voice, shattered his dreams and held him 
 to their fortunes as by a spell. Bitter-sweet all these 
 were, the sparkle of her eyes like the gleam of water denied 
 to Tantalus, parched with thirst. John had grown cau- 
 tious and close-fisted now with the remnant of their little 
 fortune; he irritated his brother by declining to trust the 
 future and risk the little he had left. 
 
 "No, we'll keep the rest in the Bank, George; it's safer 
 there, I reckon. There won't be too much left, when the 
 mortgage money's paid, to carry us through into next 
 summer. "
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 119 
 
 A few days later Homersham, the miller, ran in, with 
 his face almost as white as the flour that smeared his 
 hands. John was alone in the taproom, drying a tankard, 
 at the moment. 
 
 "My God, Kennett!" cried Homersham, "have you 
 heard the news? The Bank's broke stopped payment 
 this morning Tom Butcher's just come from Canter- 
 bury! I've all my savings there; and they say we shan't 
 get a penny-piece!" 
 
 John still wiped the tankard, mechanically, like a man 
 working in sleep. He heard the footsteps of George and 
 Bess near the door. He heard the crunch of dust and 
 shingle under his brother's heavy tread as he went through 
 the yard to the stable. Bess came in. The miller gulped, 
 opened his mouth, and, shutting it again, hurried out 
 to spread the news. 
 
 John set down the tankard quite softly, and went after 
 her into the little parlour. He closed the door.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 BESS was knitting socks for the coming winter; she had 
 already taken up her work, and her eyes were bent 
 over it. John sank down, dazed with his misfortune, in 
 the old armchair and watched her. 
 
 "Bess," he said, at last, slowly. 
 
 "Yes, dear?" 
 
 "I I oh, lass, we've been happy together, haven't 
 we? We have been happy? And yet I've done you a 
 great wrong; I meant well, God knows I did 'twas only 
 to try and make a fitter home for you that I listened to 
 what George said. I can't say I'm sorry I asked you to 
 marry me, lass I can't say that; but now 
 
 She put down her work with a quick gesture, and turned 
 sharply, colouring, and her eyes growing brighter. 
 
 " 'But now' what, John?" she asked, with a little 
 shade of irritation in her voice. Once or twice lately his 
 thoughts had travelled on gloomy roads and not been 
 silent. Her own courage was so high that now she adopted 
 a tone which she thought might brace him to fresh energy 
 and hope. If she could be cheerful, surely he might make 
 some effort to throw off his despondency. 
 
 "I've been a fool, Bess; I see it now " 
 
 "Oh, goodness me, John, don't talk like that. What 
 is the good of grumbling and being sorry? You almost 
 said you were sorry you married me; yes, you did. Wishing 
 won't turn the new buildings back again into money, and 
 if it could, we'd be wanting to have the inn just like it is 
 now, directly the bad times are over. We're having our 
 share of misfortune like other people, and we've got to 
 be brave and wait like other people. Oh, really, John, 
 if you talk like this, and begin to wish you hadn't married 
 
 120
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 121 
 
 me, you'll make me wish the same thing. It'll be time 
 enough to think about being sorry when we're really 
 ruined. " 
 
 "If we were, Bess if oh, how can I ask?" He got up, 
 and paced the room in agitation. "Bess to lack bread 
 bread and a roof!" he muttered. "Oh," he cried, aloud, 
 "if we were ruined, lass turned adrift like so many 
 thousands " 
 
 He broke off. Bess did not answer for a minute. 
 Through the open window came the sound of footsteps and 
 the trample of hoofs as George led Blossom from her stable 
 into the yard; and then the noise of curry-comb at work. 
 
 "Well, if we were ruined really and truly ruined," 
 said Bess, at last, "if we hadn't a good roof over our heads, 
 and plenty to eat, and money put by why, then, of course, 
 I should be sorry I'd married you. You know I married 
 you for what you were going to give me. You know love 
 flies out of the window when poverty comes in. I don't 
 know what I'd do, I'm sure. Run away with some man 
 who'd sense enough to keep his wife from starving, per- 
 haps some man who'd courage enough not to give up 
 directly things went against him. " She knitted vigorously, 
 stabbing the needles viciously into the wool; her lips were 
 closed tightly. 
 
 "I I " John stammered; how was he going to 
 
 break this news ? He turned to the window, to gain control, 
 and shut it noisily, the sounds outside irritating him. 
 George had led him into this; for the first time he wished 
 vaguely that the past had not given back its dead. 
 
 "Bess, my girl," he said, sadly, "you may bespeaking 
 true, or you may be speaking jest; I know it's jest about 
 the other man; is it true love wouldn't last out ruin? 
 Because we are ruined, we are, lass. The Bank's 
 
 failed, and now and now " His face flushed scarlet, 
 
 suddenly; he sank again into the chair, burying his face
 
 122 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 in his hands, his breast heaving with sobs that he strug- 
 gled to control. 
 
 "John! John! dear old John!" Bess was at his side in a 
 second, kissing him, passing her hand over his bent head, 
 nestling into her old shelter against his heart. "Oh, my 
 dear, as if anything poverty death even could come 
 between love like ours! They can't take that away. I 
 thought oh, I didn't know! Of course, I didn't mean what 
 I said. Don't, John, don't. We're young still, you and I; 
 we'll get the better of this old world yet." 
 
 She stood up, throwing back her head. Her eyes were 
 moist, but they flashed through the held-back tears; she 
 stood defiant against the shafts of evil fortune. 
 
 " We won't be beaten," she cried. John looked up slowly; 
 hope stirred again. Oh, loyal little heart! Oh, courage 
 bright and true as steel! And yet 
 
 "Come," she said, "we must be brave now, you and I, 
 and set our wits to work. We're not going to throw down 
 our arms because we've lost one battle. Now, let's see just 
 how we stand at once, now that's the first thing. See, 
 we'll set it down on paper what we owe, what we have." 
 She dragged his chair to the table as he stood up; brought 
 pens and ink and paper and sandbox; took him by the 
 shoulders, and thrust him down into the chair. 
 
 John nibbled the end of the quill, set his pen-point aim- 
 lessly to paper; scored a line which wandered round and 
 round into the rude semblance of a grotesque face. "I I 
 don't know what to write," he said, dismally. 
 
 "Never mind; I'll tell you. This side for what we owe. 
 Interest on mortgage brewers Graydon's bill." 
 
 He wrote slowly to her dictation, in his round, school- 
 boy hand, his head slightly on one side, the tip of his 
 tongue just between his lips. Bess urged him on; better 
 anything that looked like an attempt to grapple with their 
 difficulties, rather than crushed submission to disaster.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 123 
 
 He set down, on the other side, the amount in the till 
 and the money from his pocket and hers. "We'll ask 
 George no, we won't," she said. "Why, notes, John?" 
 
 "Only two pound notes. They're not worth " 
 
 "Put down just what they are worth. Now, how much 
 have we to go on with? And we want " 
 
 "Twenty pounds would tide us over." 
 
 She put her chin in her hands, and thought. 
 
 " You'll have to see if the people at Canterbury will take 
 back some of the furniture, John. Perhaps Will can sell 
 it, if they won't. And ask the lawyers if they can't give us 
 a little longer time to pay the mortgage money in." 
 
 "I'll go over now," said John, in a glow of new enthusi- 
 asm kindled by her own. 
 
 "Oh, wait till after dinner; there's some cold goose left, 
 and I know you like that, you cannibal! Then you can 
 stay the night at Sturry with Nance and Will, and talk 
 things over with him after supper." 
 
 But when John had ridden off, Bess's spirits sank, and 
 she had a quiet little cry in her bedroom. George had been 
 very silent at their meal; he knew of the failure, and was 
 told the reason of John's going. Directly after dinner he 
 went out on to the downs to smoke a pipe. Delilah was 
 reading Foxe's Book of Martyrs in the taproom, and waiting 
 for the customers who so rarely came. 
 
 Bess began to rummage in her drawer among her few 
 treasures, hoping to find something on which money might 
 be raised. She did not want to part with the presents John 
 had given her; but there were some birthday presents, 
 trinkets and books, given her by her father, and she turned 
 these over, a little dolefully. Huntingdon had never been 
 lavish with his gifts, but he had generally remembered her 
 birthday, remarking at the same time, half in jest, half in 
 earnest, on the amount she cost him. These presents 
 marked the milestones of her earlier life. A brooch, given
 
 124 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 by her grandfather to his bride, before Welsh mains and 
 royals, dice and the devil's books had broken his fortunes, 
 was her chief asset. Perhaps Nash had seen it in the Bath 
 pump-room; the facets of its stones had echoed candle- 
 light that shone on the flushed faces of gamesters, on card- 
 strewn floors, on ruby wine circling between hands that 
 grew less and less steady with each round; it had glittered 
 once in the press of dainty women and gallant men: all 
 gone out now silks and satins and dimpled faces and 
 wine-flushed faces like the lights that shone upon them, 
 like the music danced to, like dreams in the morning, like 
 the colours of day when night closes. And here was Bess, 
 the grandchild of its first wearer, wanting these few pounds 
 to save her home. 
 
 But one or two of her treasures a little book, particu- 
 larly, given her when she first began to read brought into 
 her mind kindly memories of her father. It was a child's 
 colour-book, crudely painted with pictures of country life, 
 and explained by doggerel verse, about Mrs. Cow, and Mrs. 
 Duck, and Mr. Dog, and the rest of the farm family. How 
 she had loved that red cow, with the green grass mingling 
 with its tufted tail, and its blue eye wandering, by some 
 printer's freak, on the verge of its owner's framework! 
 Bess remembered her father, on one occasion, grunting like 
 the pig at her request a grunt so natural, so successful, 
 that she earned rebuffs afterwards for pestering him for 
 a repetition when he was in a less genial mood. "It sounds 
 almost human, doesn't it, mamma?" she had remarked, in 
 half-shuddering appreciation. 
 
 In Roger Huntingdon's life, as in that of every man, 
 there were little acts of kindness, and these shone out the 
 more brightly now because of the dark background. She 
 recalled long summer evenings, when she had grown tired, 
 and had been carried shoulder-high through green lanes or 
 corn-fields; now and then he had given her sixpence to buy
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 125 
 
 toys or sweets; casual words of praise and kindness, an 
 unexpected kiss or stroking of the dark, towsled hair these 
 she suddenly remembered. Nothing in life is quite for- 
 gotten; the brain stores up its most trivial impressions, 
 hiding them for years perhaps for half a lifetime, and 
 then, quite suddenly, flashes a memory which we recognise 
 with wonder; sometimes almost with terror, at the appall- 
 ing retentiveness, the possibly awful significance, of this 
 silent and pitiless record. But, mercifully, the happy 
 scenes of life stand out most clearly. 
 
 The memories speaking to Bess now were like Sunday 
 bells, ringing over a dark and troubled sea from peaceful 
 shores. 
 
 She straightened herself, tossing back her hair. 
 
 "I'll go to father!" she said, aloud. 
 
 Impetuous as ever, she decided to act at once on the 
 sudden inspiration. Her father was rich; he ought to help 
 her. Bad times to others meant to the farmer better prices, 
 and lower wages for his men. If she failed, there was no 
 need for John to know. He had threatened them in anger; 
 but that was long ago. Perhaps he was anxious now to be 
 friends waiting only for the first advance from them. 
 
 She thought at first of going as she was. Perhaps a 
 certain pride, perhaps a subconscious sense of sex that 
 plays its part, unanalysed, even in the relations between 
 parent and child, made her decide otherwise. She dragged 
 open press and drawer. Out came her best summer frock 
 jaconet muslin, cut to show the dimpled throat and 
 first firm rising of the breast; down from its peg came the 
 Sunday hat, of chipped straw, with pink strings and nodding 
 rosebuds; she kicked off her rough shoes, and from a 
 corner took a daintier pair, with little straps to fasten 
 round the instep. For a second she sat on the edge of her 
 bed, in hesitation. Then she dragged off the homely 
 woollen stockings of everyday; stood up, barefooted, and
 
 126 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 shook off her working dress. In shift and petticoat, she 
 washed until her face glowed with the soft, dark rain-water 
 and all signs of crying had been effaced. 
 
 When s>"' had dressed, and put the brooch in its place, 
 and tied the pink ribbons of the hat under her dimpled 
 chin, Bess eyed herself pensively for a few seconds in the 
 little mirror. At least she would not look like a prodigal 
 returning home. It was only right that her father should 
 help them. The clothes were not costly, but they were 
 pretty, and the knowledge that she was becomingly dressed 
 gave her more confidence in herself, and more hope of a 
 successful issue. 
 
 She felt a little self-conscious, and a little guilty, at 
 making this attempt without John's knowledge, as she 
 went downstairs, closed the inn door behind her, and hur- 
 ried along the road to Eddington. She had seen her father 
 three or four times since the night after her wedding, but 
 only in the distance; they had not spoken. Once, when 
 Huntingdon was away, her mother had come to the inn, 
 furtively an act of tremendous courage for a woman so 
 timid and so broken under her husband's masterful rule. 
 Mrs. Huntingdon had been loving and yet tearfully re- 
 proachful in a breath; afraid to sit down, afraid to eat or 
 drink, frightened all the time lest some eavesdropper 
 should see and overhear, and carry the matter of her visit. 
 It had been a difficult interview for all of them, and had 
 never been repeated. 
 
 Bess paused a minute at the white gate, that place of 
 memories. There was still time to turn back. Her mind 
 wavered, and before she had time to change it, she went 
 resolutely along the rutted lane, her heart beating fast, 
 and her brain trying desperately to set some words in order. 
 
 A retriever, near of kin to the pup which she had given 
 George on the day of his enlistment, barked savagely and 
 strained at its chain as she drew near the door; but he
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 127 
 
 recognised her voice, and welcomed her with delight. She 
 patted his curly head, and then knocked loudly. 
 
 A maid opened the door. 
 
 "Miss Bess!" The red-cheeked country girl forgot the 
 new name in her astonishment, and drew back, round-eyed 
 and open-mouthed. 
 
 " Is Mr. is father in? " Bess stepped across the drashel. 
 Without waiting for an answer, she wiped the dust from 
 her shoes on a mat bearing "Salve" in great black letters, 
 and entered the dining-room unannounced. 
 
 Mrs. Huntingdon was lying with a book on a horse- 
 hair couch. "Molly," she said, without looking up, "you 
 can clear the table; your master " 
 
 She glanced round suddenly; the book clattered to the 
 ground. Mrs. Huntingdon half rose, surprise and anxiety 
 clouding her face for a second, and yet, in her eyes, Bess 
 saw a shy look of love and furtive welcome. 
 
 "Bess!" she gasped, and kissed her. "Oh, my dear 
 you've come and oh, but your father's upstairs, and I 
 don't know " 
 
 Bess felt a sudden pang of pity, as her mother's eyes, 
 even while she still embraced her daughter, wandered 
 towards the door as the way of quick escape, and her ears 
 listened anxiously for heavy footsteps, and the gruff, 
 querulous, domineering voice. This was a misery they did 
 not know at the Running Horse a misery which it was 
 out of the power of creditors or misfortune to inflict. 
 
 Bess glanced round the room for signs of changes, while 
 her mother mingled endearments, timid questionings, 
 reproofs, in a limpid, forceless stream, a trickle of in- 
 effectual words. Long years of marriage had left Mrs. 
 Huntingdon without even connected ideas. She found her 
 chief interest now in reading silly books, sentimental, but 
 without even the merit of passion, like the one still lying 
 on the floor. These, and dress, and querulous bickerings
 
 128 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 with the maids, repaid by scarcely veiled impertinences, 
 made up her life. It was pitiful. A feeling of nausea swept 
 over Bess as she thought of its futility and emptiness, as 
 she thought that this had gone on unchanged, for all those 
 years had been going on, just as before, while she was 
 living at the inn. 
 
 The only alterations she saw were in the furnishing of 
 the room. She noticed that her father had gathered, even 
 since her departure, more of the old family treasures a 
 clock, a settle, a punch-bowl, two or three portraits which 
 her grandfather had sold or diced away. Ever since he 
 inherited the house, Roger Huntingdon had been searching 
 patiently for some of these; attending sales at country 
 houses; ransacking the stores of dealers in London, in 
 Maidstone and Canterbury and Tunbridge Wells. Now 
 many a dim, forgotten face that had once been seen in life, 
 laughing, frowning, enjoying at last sorrowing in this 
 room, on the stairs, peering through the open doorways, 
 watched her from the walls with curious and wistful eyes. 
 Bess could not repress a grudging admiration for her father, 
 so persistent, so indomitable in achieving the ends he had 
 in view against all obstacles. 
 
 Her mother brought back her wandering thoughts. 
 
 "You don't listen, Bess," she complained, with childish 
 peevishness, when some question remained unanswered. 
 "You're like your father; I may talk to him for an hour, 
 and he takes no more notice than if I were a stick or a 
 stone. You get too wrapped up in your own thoughts, my 
 dear; you must guard against it; it leads to a great deal 
 of unhappiness." 
 
 "Is father likely to be long, mother?" 
 
 "Why, dear, he's gone upstairs to write some letters, 
 I think though, to be sure, he never tells me what his 
 business is. I've often wished he would; I might help 
 him what do you want, Molly? Oh, the money for Mrs.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 129 
 
 Pinion; yes, yes; now where is my purse? I can't think 
 where I left it. I'll give it you by and by. What was I 
 saying?" The poor lady put her hand helplessly to her 
 head. "Oh, yes; I might have helped your father, Bess; 
 the mistress at school told me I wrote a beautiful Italian 
 hand. He was very proud of it when we were first married, 
 but he never lets me help him now. I know I make a good 
 many mistakes, but my memory's not what it was, and he 
 knows I'm not very well I must say he might be a little 
 more considerate. I hope John treats you kindly, dear? 
 Of course, it's early days yet. Though, to be sure, your 
 father and I oh, Bess, he's coming downstairs!" The 
 faded, plaintive face changed suddenly to dismay; she put 
 her hand to her side; Bess saw that she was trembling with 
 apprehension. "Oh, I don't know what he'll say," she 
 gasped; "he's so angry if we even talk of you and John; 
 and I get such sharp words when I try to get him to forgive 
 you. Good-bye, darling oh, I've been so glad " 
 
 Huntingdon came slowly down the stairs, and in her 
 agitation, only half-conscious of what she was doing, Mrs. 
 Huntingdon even tried to hustle her daughter from the 
 room. 
 
 "But I'm going to stop, mother," Bess said, firmly, her 
 courage braced by the pitiful weakness of the poor woman 
 who had done her husband no harm save to love him. " I'm 
 not going; I want to say something to father. You must 
 help me, too. I want " 
 
 "Oh, my dear, he'll never listen unless you're coming 
 home for good. Your father never changes. But it's not 
 to tell him that? You and John haven't been quarrelling, 
 my dear? Make it up with him if you have, because, after 
 all oh, I'd dearly love you back, but it's better, much 
 better " 
 
 She drew in her breath as Huntingdon entered the room. 
 Her hand was withdrawn slowly from her daughter's arm. 
 9
 
 130 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 He gave the two a passing glance his wife, the very 
 picture of pathetic, faded incompetence; his daughter, 
 bright-eyed, erect, cheeks flushed with excitement. 
 
 Huntingdon held the letters he had just written in his 
 hand. He walked across the room to a cabinet. " Where's 
 the wax?" he asked, gruffly, in a few moments, without 
 turning his head. "Have you taken it from my room?" 
 
 "No yes oh, yes, I remember I had it to seal a letter 
 to Maria." 
 
 Mrs. Huntingdon spoke like a frightened child, chidden 
 for some misdeed. "Now where did I put it? On the 
 mantelshelf? No, I think it was in the little pot- 
 She was flying round the room in an agitation made all 
 the greater by the watchful presence of her daughter; 
 fumbling here and there for the missing wax, making a 
 great clatter with ornaments and vases. The toe of her 
 husband's boot beat the ground impatiently. "For God's 
 sake, leave the things alone and think," he said, testily. 
 "Can't you remember?" 
 
 "My head's so bad to-day, Roger oh, yes, I know now." 
 She made a pounce on a corner cupboard, and produced the 
 red stump from behind a plate. There was a suggestion of 
 weak triumph in the discovery. "I remember now; I 
 put it there because Molly came in to lay the cloth, and 
 I thought I'd be sure to know then where to find it again 
 if you " 
 
 Her husband interrupted the long explanation with a 
 snarl. Bess remembered the pig in the country book; the 
 snarl was uncommonly like the conclusion of that famous 
 yet terrifying grunt. She was surprised suddenly by her 
 own coolness; she was even faintly amused; and then the 
 sense of her mother's complete subjection to all his whims 
 and moods filled her with an almost irresistible desire to 
 take her father by the shoulders, and shake him thoroughly 
 as one would shake a peevish and ill-mannered little boy.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 131 
 
 Huntingdon had snatched the wax from his wife's hand, 
 and was now folding and sealing his letters. He spent some 
 time at this; deciding, no doubt, while he plastered the 
 sputtering red wax on the edges of the paper, on some 
 course of action. At last he straightened himself, and 
 then made as if to quit the room. 
 
 "Father!" cried Bess, going forward with outstretched 
 hands. 
 
 He drew his own behind his back. "Well?" he said, 
 wheeling suddenly. 
 
 The one word, dryly uttered, was a question and yet 
 no question; it found her suddenly unprepared; all her 
 carefully-thought-out speeches were forgotten, and left 
 her mind almost a blank. She stammered and flushed, 
 then gained confidence in a kind of desperation. 
 
 "Father, I've come back, you see, but but I haven't 
 come to stop, and I haven't come to say I'm sorry I mar- 
 ried. You told me I wasn't to come unless for that. But 
 I'm not sorry; I'm glad; and I don't want to pretend. I 
 am sorry I had to cause you so much disappointment yes, 
 I am sorry for that. I we we've been unfortunate, 
 though, and " 
 
 Her father's keen eyes, under dark, shaggy brows, were 
 bent on her, without sign of feeling, without even curiosity. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "And now just for a little while I want you to help 
 us. You know what times have been, and how differently 
 things have turned out from what every one expected. Oh, 
 I know all you can say, if you like but you won't, now, 
 father, will you? John's been mistaken like other people 
 at least, he did what he thought was best and every one 
 thought so and if the Bank hadn't failed, we'd have been 
 able to wait. You know it was all for me he wanted to 
 make more money, and you'd have liked it better to see 
 your daughter mistress of a a "
 
 132 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 She broke off; the strain of those hard eyes, searching 
 her face, yet showing no sign of feeling, was disconcerting. 
 She hoped that this suggestion that John had tried to make 
 a home and position for her more in keeping with her class 
 might help her cause. Yet, "Good God!" Huntingdon was 
 thinking and kept his lip with difficulty from scorn "has 
 the girl no sense of caste at all ? Does she think that if her 
 husband owned all the inns in Kent it would make one whit 
 of difference? A tavern-keeper a man who has to doff 
 cap to any sweaty tosspot who calls for his mug! And her 
 to wait on them my daughter!" His blood heated; yet 
 he gave no sign. 
 
 " Well ? Go on, I'm listening." 
 
 "Oh, I wish you you'd make it a little easier for me, 
 father. I don't like asking you and John doesn't know; 
 but after all I am your daughter, and you ought to help us. 
 It's your duty to no, I won't say that but I've been 
 thinking over the many times you were kind to me when I 
 was a little girl, and it's natural I should come to you first. 
 We want some money to save our home ; not very much 
 
 "Why didn't your husband come himself?" interrupted 
 her father, suddenly. "He's very independent until his 
 folly brings him into difficulty, I notice. But he doesn't 
 scruple to come cringing for money " 
 
 "Father! father!" pleaded Mrs. Huntingdon, timidly, 
 breaking in for the first time. He silenced her with a 
 bitterly contemptuous glance, and again Bess felt her 
 courage rising with her anger. After all, this painful 
 interview was his shame, not hers. 
 
 "No, he's not even the spirit to do that," went on 
 Huntingdon, raising his voice. "He sends you, like the 
 cur " 
 
 "I told you he knew nothing of my coming," Bess 
 interrupted, hotly. "I'm sorry I came. Good-bye, mother." 
 She turned to kiss the little woman, who, torn between
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 133 
 
 affection and fear, summoned up the desperate courage to 
 appeal to her husband to forgive. 
 
 "No, no, mother, we don't want him to help us. We 
 have other we have friends, I mean. I'm going I'm 
 going back " 
 
 Tears of hot anger and disappointment were welling up; 
 fearing that she might show them, she passed quickly 
 towards the door. Huntingdon stopped her. 
 
 "I haven't said I wouldn't help you," he said, churlishly. 
 " I didn't say so. But I'm not going to put my hands in my 
 pockets without inquiry. You seem to think it's my duty 
 to make money so that I may hand it over to any brace of 
 fools who make a muck of their own fortunes, and then 
 come to me and cry, 'Stand and deliver.' Now sit down, 
 and don't be a fool." Bess hesitated a moment, then went 
 on towards the door. 
 
 "Oh, Bess dear," whispered her mother, catching her 
 arm, "don't be unreasonable, my darling. Father's ready 
 to help you; it's only natural he should want an explanation 
 first. He works hard for his money." 
 
 "No, mother; we must fight our own battles, I see. I 
 can't take help of any one who speaks like that about 
 John." 
 
 Roger Huntingdon caught her arm almost savagely, 
 and thrust her into a chair. "Sit down, I say, and don't 
 be a little fool. There, there, I'll take back what I said 
 about your husband." He eyed her with grudging admira- 
 tion. Her defiant little head, her flushed cheeks, her eyes 
 bright with angry tears, heightened her beauty. Perhaps 
 the brooch his gift woke old memories. He paced the 
 room for a minute in silence; Bess sat irresolute. 
 
 "How much do you want?" 
 
 " I I don't know whether I could take it, father. If 
 if John " 
 
 "Come, how much?"
 
 134 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 She named the amount. "But we'll only borrow it. 
 We'll pay- 
 
 " Look here," he said, " I'll tell you what I'll do. There's 
 a mortgage on the inn, isn't there? Who holds it? Well, 
 if you come back " 
 
 "Comeback?" 
 
 "Ay, come back leave your husband; I'll pay him 
 enough " 
 
 She rose, without a word for his offer. 
 
 "There, there," he said testily, "you can keep still until 
 I've finished. You won't do that? Well, I supposed not. 
 If you still live with him, I'll help you only on business 
 terms. I'll take over the mortgage; your husband need 
 not pay this quarter; the amount can stand over until 
 next. I'll see it put in proper legal form. Have you any 
 money now?" 
 
 He unlocked a cash-box, and brought out a roll of 
 guineas. "Look here," he said, and to her amazement his 
 face changed from surly gloom to a sudden smile of friend- 
 liness. "I've some of your grandfather in me still; we'll 
 have a wager with fortune. There, does that satisfy you? 
 Well, go home, and see if you can pull through with that. 
 When you're tired of your husband, or when he's brought 
 you to the gutter plague take you, miss, you won't let 
 your father have his joke, I see, even when he's beggaring 
 himself to help you! John's like the holy mountain that 
 no one may come near or touch. Oh, you needn't thank 
 me." 
 
 "I I don't know how to," said Bess, helplessly. The 
 change was so sudden, so amazing. A full quarter's grace! 
 And ten guineas to go on with! It was rare news to take 
 back to the inn. "Oh, I don't know how to thank you 
 enough!" She kissed him, an advance he received with an 
 ungracious roughness that checked her ardour and gave 
 her fresh cause for bewilderment.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 135 
 
 She walked back, however, in a tumult of delight. She 
 had succeeded the money in her hanging pocket was a 
 solid reality, and no fairy gold. No perplexity about that, 
 as about her father's sudden and mysterious changes of 
 mood; it was there there to convince her that the inter- 
 view was no dream. 
 
 A mat of purple heath on the common land skirting the 
 road caught her eyes; she ran to it like a child, and picked 
 a great bunch for the table, to celebrate the day it would 
 be fresh on the morrow, when John returned. She put some 
 in the bosom of her dress, and sang a snatch of song as she 
 gained the high road a little farther on. 
 
 Fifty yards from the sea she met George, coming to 
 meet her. "I won't tell him yet," she thought; "he shall 
 hear when John comes back. I won't tell John at first, 
 either." She planned the surprise; yes, she would listen 
 dolefully to John's account of failure if he had failed 
 hear his story to the bitter end; and then yes, she would, 
 to punish him for doubting her that morning, even for a 
 moment. But the punishment would soon be over, in 
 such a glad revulsion from gloom to joy. 
 
 "Hullo, Bess, my girl!" 
 
 She tried to practise looking doleful, but the effort was 
 a failure, and she answered George's greeting with a smiling 
 face.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 was smiling, too; the gloomy look of the last 
 V-J few weeks had vanished. There was the air of a 
 schoolboy freed from school about him; he walked with 
 more swing, and had, as the saying went, that "cock your 
 beaver and wink at the girls" look affected by men-at- 
 arms in all centuries. Bess's glad heart seemed to run 
 to meet his. If she had to keep her secret for a night and 
 half a day, it would certainly be easier to keep it in cheer- 
 ful company. 
 
 "I thought I saw you coming as I crossed the 
 downs, Bess," said George. "Where have you been? 
 My wig, what a bunch! In your frock, too! Let's have 
 some." 
 
 "There!" she said, shaking out the bunch of heath 
 towards him, "you can carry it home if you're good. 
 They're meant for the table, but why, what are you 
 doing, George?" He had stopped in front of her, and was 
 taking some of the heath from her bosom. "I want some 
 to wear," he said. "Let's have a bit you've been wearing. 
 You don't want no more colour than what you've got in 
 your cheeks; seems unnecessary, somehow." 
 
 "Oh, don't you like it in my frock? But I hope my face 
 isn't that colour; I must look a fright." She turned her 
 eyes on George; those provoking, smiling, inscrutable eyes, 
 a glance from which, even when he was a boy and she a 
 little lass, had filled his head with dreams. 
 
 " I'll take it out, then. No, don't you try." His fingers, 
 trembling and clumsy, were trying to detach the stems 
 from the lace. 
 
 "I'll do it. Oh, you're scratching me, George! Let be, 
 do I" 
 
 136
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 137 
 
 He put down his hands and stood watching; the feel of 
 the warm, firm young breast against which his fingers had 
 brushed for a second tingled through him still. Bess, 
 glancing down, so that the long lashes seemed almost to 
 brush the smooth curves of her sunlit cheeks, disentangled 
 the long stalks. She tossed the little cluster suddenly into 
 the dusty road. George stretched out his hand to catch 
 them, with a cry, but her foot pressed the tiny purple 
 bells into the dust. 
 
 "Now you're satisfied!" she said. "Do I look better 
 now? Oh, you can wear the whole bunch, if you like, you 
 know." George swallowed, but kept silence. "Now we 
 must hurry back in time for 'Lilah's kettle." 
 
 "You're rare smart this afternoon, Bess," said George, 
 at last, as they passed the mill. 
 
 "Think so?" 
 
 "Yes; best frock and shoes'n all. What's it for? No 
 one's birthday, or christening, is it?" 
 
 "Oh, it's it's " What reason should she give, 
 
 without telling the secret that made her heart sing? Light 
 banter, in the key which George had set when he asked for 
 the sprig of heath from her frock, gave her a way of 
 escape from the directness of the question. "It's because 
 we're going to have tea alone together, of course, George. 
 It's not often John's away." 
 
 "That's it, is it?" said George, in the same tone. "I 
 s'pose I'll have to dress myself up too, then." 
 
 "Oh, you look very nice this afternoon. I'll excuse 
 you if you wash your hands." 
 
 He washed in the yard; as he did so, he thought again 
 of the words he had overheard that morning while groom- 
 ing Blossom near the open window, words which had been 
 ringing in his ears all the afternoon. "If we were ruined, 
 of course I'd be sorry I'd married you. You know I married 
 you for what you were going to give me. . . . Love
 
 138 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 flies out of the window when poverty comes in. ... 
 I'd run away with some man who'd sense enough to keep 
 his wife from starving, perhaps. . . ." 
 
 The shade of irritation in her voice had convinced him 
 that she was angry with her husband. What she had said 
 about John's absence though under the mask of banter 
 seemed now to give significance to the words he had over- 
 heard. He thought of her merry mood, when they seemed 
 caught in the very net of ruin, and when John, heavy- 
 hearted, was, no doubt, searching from post to pillar for 
 some way of escape. He remembered, too and the hot 
 blood rose the scent of her hair as he bent over her, the 
 dark lashes brushing her cheeks, the thrill that went 
 through him as his fingers touched the soft skin half hidden 
 by the dainty edge of lace. 
 
 When he entered the parlour, Delilah was laying the 
 cloth for tea. She was in a state of joyful sniffing over a 
 sudden death which had occurred in an adjoining parish. 
 "A robustious man he was, too, mum," she was saying to 
 Bess, "which shows that there's but a step between us and 
 death, even the healthiest of us. You'm looking very 
 blooming now; but it's a norful thought as how to-morrow 
 you might be lying white as chalk on that bed upstairs, 
 which you will be doing, sure as fate, please God, one of 
 these days, Missus Kennett. Ay, you might be lying there 
 to-morrow and in a week's time " 
 
 "Well, cut the bread and butter, 'Lilah," interrupted 
 Bess, unfastening her hat strings. 
 
 " Yes'm." But Delilah was never to be silenced for many 
 minutes. 
 
 "Did you ever see Must' Tomson, mum? A great, 
 blustrous man he was, with a red face that ought to have 
 lasted him out nigh a hundred year; but a whited sepulchre 
 it was for all that, and didn't save him from going off quite 
 sudden. He had an abyss inside him, I did hear, and
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 139 
 
 it cut him down like a thief in the night, as the Bible says 
 somewhere. A free-living man, too, like his feyther before 
 him; fond of drink and worse, but I reckon he won't get no 
 drink where he's gone to, poor blood though serve him 
 right, certainly." 
 
 "Hello, more brimstone, 'Lilah?" said George. "That 
 parson of yours at Blengate seems to think the devil comes 
 for every one who don't hold with his own views. Very 
 obliging way of helping Mr. Podmore, the devil seems to 
 have." 
 
 Delilah tossed her head, and turned a gloomy, freckled 
 face towards George. 
 
 "I'd thank you not to jest on sacred subjects, Must' 
 George," she said, severely. " I suppose you think there's 
 no fiery indignation for the wicked; but you'm wery much 
 mistook, and I'm afraid you'll find that out when it's too 
 late for repentance, though seeking it with tears." 
 
 "Who's sacred, 'Lilah? The devil, or your Blengate 
 parson? Seems to me you take more interest in the Rev- 
 erend Podmore than's seemly in an unmarried female." 
 
 "You may throw that in my face, Must' George," said 
 Delilah, with the air of an early martyr; "yes, you may 
 reproach me with what ain't my fault " 
 
 "No, I'll allow it ain't your fault you're not married, 
 'Lilah," retorted George. "I reckon you've tried hard 
 enough. There's Thorn now " 
 
 "I pass that by," went on Delilah, "as the crackling of 
 thorns under the pot. But, be you Master's brother or not, 
 I'll listen to no words of yours against the devil; no, I will 
 not as if you know better'n what the Bible says! I wonder 
 you haven't been struck dead, I do, like that godless sailor 
 over at Rochester. Perhaps you didn't hear tell of it, as 
 you were away at the wars. They were talking about 
 'God willing' on a poster, laughing and jesting in their 
 reckless way; and the sailor, taking up his pot of beer,
 
 140 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 said, 'Well, God willing or not, I'm going to drink this 
 ale,' and just as he was putting it to his lips that wery 
 moment his face turned ashy white, and he fell forward, 
 and when they went to pick him up, they found he was 
 stone dead. And you can see that in print," she ended, 
 triumphantly. 
 
 "A mighty little thing to make so much fuss about, 
 'Lilah," said George. "Why, you or me wouldn't kill a 
 man for such a trifle." 
 
 "Ah, God's ways ain't ours, Must' George!" said 'Lilah, 
 shaking her head. "The Almighty don't reckon it no lit- 
 tle thing to be defied by His creatures. 
 
 " ' Fierce and relentless is His wrath, 
 
 Against the souls that sin ; 
 He opens wide the gates of Hell, 
 To let the '" 
 
 "Oh, Delilah," said Bess, who had been busily arranging 
 the heath, and had hitherto taken no part in the discussion, 
 "what frightful hymns you do learn! Can't you give us 
 something more cheerful? These flowers don't say much 
 about hell-fire and awful judgments; they tell us about the 
 beautiful world, and happiness, and the sunshine and warm 
 rains " 
 
 "That's all wery well, mum," said Delilah, no whit 
 relaxing her severity; "but it don't alter the fact that 
 'most all people are hurrying to destruction as fast as their 
 legs '11 carry 'em, and it's our duty to speak a word in sea- 
 son." 
 
 "Well, I think it'd do most people more good to think 
 about the flowers. If I love any one very much, and feel 
 very thankful to them for what they've done for me, I'd 
 much rather do what they want me to do, and try to please 
 them because of that, than if they were always frightening 
 me, and shouting at me, and holding up a stick to threaten
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 141 
 
 me. I always think God gave us flowers to tell us how kind 
 He really is, if we only knew it, in spite of all that puzzles 
 us and seems terrible and cruel. Just fancy inventing all 
 the different patterns, and different beautiful colours, and 
 different sweet scents, and making them so that, when 
 we're old or ill, some of the open air can be brought indoors 
 to us, just to show us what the gardens and the woods and 
 the hedgerows are like. And flowers are never cruel like 
 the sea; or too far off to be touched, like the sky; or buried 
 for the rich and the strong like gold and jewels every one 
 may have them, the rich and the poor and the feeble; and 
 they take part in all our happiness, and help to heal our 
 grief. When we're married, and when " 
 
 "I wonder if they'll have some at Tomson's funeral, 
 now," reflected Delilah. "Just as well to give him oh, 
 my, the water in the kettle's all boiling away, mum," she 
 broke off suddenly, rushing into the kitchen to pour the 
 water upon the tea-leaves. 
 
 Having filled the brown teapot, Delilah went into the 
 taproom, to pore over Foxe's Book of Martyrs and reflect 
 on her last discussion until some customer should come in. 
 She had some contempt for the Established Church, to 
 which John and Bess belonged, but had just tolerance 
 enough to admit that it was better than paganism, and 
 might possibly squeeze a few of the fortunate through the 
 narrow gate. But George had soon given up church-going, 
 and scoffed openly at her chapel and her minister a man 
 who regularly every Sunday shook the unelect over the pit, 
 but, out of pulpit, never knew how to refuse help and 
 kindly greetings even to the least deserving. Delilah was 
 observant; she had not failed to notice George's many 
 lapses; she had noticed, too, the way in which his eyes 
 followed his brother's wife as she moved like sunshine about 
 the house. She often trembled, on stormy nights, lest God 
 should launch some special judgment against the inn. In
 
 142 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 her own mind, Delilah Gummer, the one thoroughly 
 righteous person, acted as a kind of lightning conductor; 
 but for her, it and all its occupants might long ago have 
 been consumed, like Lot's city in the plain. To do her 
 justice, it was rather regard for John and Bess than the 
 wages they were able to pay her that kept Delilah from 
 shaking the dust of the inn from off her feet, and seeking 
 fresh employment at Jack and Joan's Fair in Canterbury 
 Market-place. 
 
 Bess and George had tea in quietness; she had not 
 changed her frock, and made a dainty and pretty picture, 
 sitting there at the neatly spread table. George had had 
 some such picture in his mind throughout the long cam- 
 paigns, a picture gazed at very often on dark, wakeful 
 nights, on long rainy marches, on his uneasy bed after 
 Toulouse. Now he played a child's game of imagination; 
 he and Bess were married, after all in their own home, at 
 tea together, the world shut out. At tea! De Quincey's 
 famous picture of comfort shows not the great steaming 
 joint, not the foaming tankard and blue smoke clouds, 
 but the tea-kettle humming in that little book-lined room 
 "seventeen feet by twelve," cups for two, and ("as it is 
 very unpleasant to make tea or pour it out for oneself") 
 a lovely young woman, with smiles like Hebe's, sitting at 
 the table. At tea! It was the ideal meal for cosiness and 
 comradeship and comfort. 
 
 The striking of the sullen-faced clock in the taproom 
 made him count the long evening hours until bedtime 
 five of them, five glorious hours, and his brother not there 
 not even his step to be listened for to remind him that 
 this was all a dream, never to be realised never! 
 
 He meant to be loyal to John in deed and word, and 
 if that were only possible in thought. Yet he felt the 
 glee of the slave on some Saturnalian morn; for a few 
 hours imagination, moving mountains of difficulty, might
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 143 
 
 set him in his brother's place. Gloom lay behind them, 
 darker clouds ahead, but for an evening he was going to 
 fling care to the winds and be happy. He tried to analyse 
 his emotions, his cheerfulness. Why had his heart leapt 
 up when he had heard that John was staying that night in 
 Canterbury ? He assured himself that he harboured no shade 
 of disloyalty to his brother good old John ! But what was 
 it that made his step jaunty, his voice ring with a new note, 
 when he went to meet Bess Bess, with the purple heath 
 gathered in her hand, the spray in the bosom of her frock 
 on the Canterbury road? Looking across the table, he 
 wished that he could see again the same glance from those 
 inscrutable eyes, the same demure compression of the lips, 
 that he had seen when he tried to disentangle the stems 
 from the lace, and felt the touch of her warm body. And 
 if she would look down again yes, she was looking down, 
 as she poured the tea into his cup and her dark lashes 
 were brushing the soft curves of her cheeks, lit with the 
 fires of youthful blood. 
 
 He took the cup from her with trembling fingers. " You're 
 very solemn and quiet, George," she said, half pouting. "I 
 don't like people to be too serious. Mind you'll spill it. 
 Tell me how you like this new kind of cake I've made oh, 
 but you must have bread and butter first; duty before 
 pleasure, you know. Now do talk; I can't all by myself." 
 
 Had he been very silent? It was the silence then, not 
 of gloom and reticence, but of a strange and almost ominous 
 happiness. He made some jest, in a voice that sounded 
 strained and unnatural to himself, but was greeted with 
 merry laughter and quick retort. Her eyes were bright, 
 there was a thrill as of some subtle excitement in her tone, 
 she was more gay than he had ever known her. And yet 
 this fearful shadow hung over them! And yet John 
 was away on an errand that all thought must be unsuc- 
 cessful !
 
 144 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 Late sunshine streamed into the room; bright, cheer- 
 ful colours glowed from the patchwork cushions; red 
 light filtered through the rep curtains, and stained the 
 white table-cloth. Through the chinks between blind 
 and window-frame they could see fowls pecking at 
 grain and worms in the yard, near the great butt of rain- 
 water. 
 
 Bess, at least, could not be accused of quietness. Soon 
 they were chatting, arguing, laughing, so loudly that 
 Delilah, reading her tragedies in the next room, frowned 
 and knit her freckled brows. 
 
 Bess rose at last, with a whisk of her skirt and petti- 
 coats, to clear away; George helped her clumsily, collid- 
 ing with her now and then in his efforts to be first, and 
 earning her laughing reproof. What a mad mood! The 
 most trifling thing made her merry. George thought again 
 of the words he had overheard. Less literal than his 
 brother, he had not taken them very seriously at first. 
 But were they true? He knew that poverty could not 
 have changed her love. But had she loved John? Was 
 she, too, playing that secret game now fancying that 
 George had really come back in time from the wars; that 
 they were married; that John had never come between 
 them? 
 
 Was she glad, as he was, because for a few hours the 
 tension was to be relaxed because they were alone to- 
 gether, and could make believe like children? At the 
 thought, his head grew dizzy. 
 
 She was pinning on a great pinafore now, and rolling up 
 her sleeves over her dimpled arms, getting ready to wash up. 
 "I ought to take my frock off," she said, "but I shan't 
 bother." 
 
 Yes; why had she put on her best dress, her brooch ? 
 A dozen little incidents and remarks, having no signifi- 
 cance before, but fraught now with a significance tre-
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 145 
 
 mendous, appalling, yet deliriously sweet, crowded upon 
 him. 
 
 He heard the rush of water against tin in the scullery, 
 the rattle of plates and cups. And Bess was singing 
 
 " ' Oh, a glad world, my dears, and a mad world, 
 IB this world that love walks in, 
 With his eye so bright, and his step so light, 
 As he comes to the cottage door at night, 
 Or the door ' 
 
 Come and help, George, you lazy boy." 
 
 "You seem glad and mad to-night, Bess," he said, his 
 voice husky. "Why is it?" 
 
 She paused a moment before answering. Yes, she was 
 in a mad and merry mood but no wonder. They were 
 saved; the breach between her father and her husband had 
 been healed and she had done it. But she wouldn't say 
 a word until John came back; they must share the joy 
 together. Oh, but what a joke it was to puzzle George! 
 
 She turned her eyes on him, narrowed; those eyes that, 
 even wide open, he could rarely read. "It's it's well, 
 don't you think, when you're married, George, you'll be 
 glad to have your freedom for a few hours, now and then ? 
 Only now and then, of course." 
 
 George looked at her so curiously and so hard that she 
 began to think he must suspect some secret. 
 
 "Depends on who I was married to," he said, with a 
 gruff, broken laugh. 
 
 "Oh, with any one any one," she said, and went on 
 again with her song. 
 
 " But a sad world, my dears, and a bad world, 
 Is this world when love walks out, 
 With his looks careworn, and his heart forlorn, 
 As he goes away ere the reddening dawn, 
 And leaves behind him hearts that doubt. " 
 10
 
 146 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 George went through into the taproom. Hands in 
 pockets, he strolled aimlessly about the room; Delilah's 
 eyes, lifted from stake and flames, followed him resentfully. 
 As he glanced at the ballad-sheets on the wall, without 
 reading them, the soft musical voice still sounded in his 
 ears. 
 
 The clock ticked away the minutes; he took a curious, 
 tantalising pleasure in denying himself Bess's company for 
 as long as he found it possible to resist. He looked out of 
 the window. The sun was marching down on the last post 
 of his journey, towards the misty outline of Sheppey. It 
 seemed as if the day's home lay in some haunt near 
 that green island of sheep and corn, and the tired trav- 
 eller was hurrying after his long march across the sky to 
 plunge into the cool water and be at rest. It was a 
 lovely autumn evening; the light, though tempered, was 
 yet strong enough to bring out all the colours of the 
 countryside colours that would now soften and grow 
 more beautiful, if less bright, with every minute of closing 
 day. 
 
 He went back suddenly to the parlour. "Come out on 
 the downs, Bess," he said, abruptly. "Best time of day 
 coming now. Just look at the beginnings of sunset!" 
 
 They went out together into the yard; the great evening 
 pageant was just commencing. 
 
 "It is lovely," she said, in a hushed voice. She was in 
 the mood for the open air. "I'm sure I should burst if 
 I had to keep many secrets," she thought to herself. Aloud, 
 she said, "I I don't quite know whether I ought to, 
 George. There won't be much for Delilah to do, though, 
 and we shan't be long." 
 
 "Oh, 'Lilah '11 sandwich any customers in between axe 
 and flames," said George. "Come along, Bess." 
 
 "Very well, I'll come. Wait a little minute while I put 
 on my hat."
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 147 
 
 She went into the taproom, and roused Delilah out of a 
 day-dream in which she was defying an army of inquisitors, 
 the chief of them having eyes like those of George. 
 
 "Mr. George and I are going out, 'Lilah," said Bess; 
 "we shan't be very long." 
 
 Delilah sniffed and bent down over her book. 
 
 George and Bess went out.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE tide was low; great stretches of green weed, brighter 
 than grass, had been bared by the receding waves. 
 Row-boats and small fishing-smacks lay canted over on the 
 sands, still and peaceful as if resting, exhausted, after 
 stiff tussles with the sea. Very far out so far that it 
 seemed almost as if they were walking to find the red hori- 
 zon were two or three dark figures; trawlers, these, 
 creeping slowly across the sky-line. A few children played 
 round the pools of glistening water; others, shouting and 
 laughing, pattered past them, with bare legs and feet 
 berry-brown. At present, vivid blue ruled the sky; the 
 far sea was a narrow ribbon of blue, rimming the world's 
 edge, but nearer Sheppey the ribbon had turned to red, 
 and from the west ochre and gold and rose and smoky 
 drabs were crowding forward like many regiments in an 
 army of invasion. 
 
 Bess, thrilling with a hundred thoughts of happiness, 
 loving the little place, and hoping now that it might be 
 their home until the evening of life, chattered on. They 
 passed the squat black mill; and the thought of Homer- 
 sham reminded her once more of the failure. What a day 
 it had been! Two or three neighbours were at their doors. 
 She need no longer fear wagging tongues, shaking heads, 
 comments sharp or, worse still, sympathetic on John's pre- 
 sumption in trying to be better than his fathers before him. 
 Already people were beginning to guess that their enterprise 
 had been hitherto unsuccessful, and to speculate about dis- 
 aster; Bess had noticed pitying or censorious glances some- 
 times as she passed. But now John could pay all his debts 
 in full, and look every one in the face, and wait a little 
 longer for the prosperous days that would be sure to come. 
 
 148
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 149 
 
 They stopped on the breast of the downs, with the little 
 hamlet and the sea below them. The mill, with its great 
 arms still, stood like a guardian over the cluster of red- 
 tiled and lichened roofs, wooden and plastered walls. 
 Now the western sky was all aflame with colour; the sun, 
 an enormous ball of fire, at the edge of the sea between 
 Sheppey and Whitstable. Water and sands seemed to 
 crouch very low, as if for sleep. Far away a few tiny oyster 
 boats caught the rosy glow on the tips of their sails. Sand 
 and water glittered like an enormous sheet of opal, flash- 
 ing pink and gold, amber, and pearl grey. Each little, 
 lonely pool among sand or weed stole its own choice of 
 colour from the sky. Inland, the country darkened; 
 masses of trees grew soft; harsh angles and outlines of 
 cottage and farmstead, lew and barn, were beginning to 
 lose the sharp definition of daylight, and to fade into dusky 
 vagueness. 
 
 Together, not speaking now, Bess and George drank in 
 the sight of all this glory, waiting breathlessly on each 
 changing moment. Once George turned away, but Bess 
 caught his sleeve and said: "Oh, let us just wait and see 
 the sun sink down!" A minute before it sank, he made 
 her look at the long range of yellow cliffs behind them, 
 fringed with hushed green, and, at the end, Reculver, 
 faint-rose against faint-blue. "Oh, it is beautiful!" said 
 Bess, and then caught his arm suddenly again as the great 
 burning sun seemed to pause on the rim of the sea. They 
 watched in silence. Quite suddenly, the sun fell from 
 heaven; the water closed on the fiery ball. So real was the 
 illusion, one almost listened for the hiss of molten gold 
 plunging into the cool depths. 
 
 A sigh, the faintest tremor, seemed to pass over the face 
 of the land. A little wind rustled the tasselled and feath- 
 ered grasses and shook the stubble in a barley-field on their 
 left, at the edge of the downs. Light still lingered, reluc-
 
 150 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 tant to leave the world, though the opal hues on sand and 
 shallows paled; deeper silence fell with the going of day. 
 High on the foreshore a collier from the north was moored; 
 her hull and spars grew gradually ink-black, the russet 
 sail darkened. Under her tall hull some little carts were 
 unloading her; the horses stood limply, hock-deep in water 
 left by the tide, with hanging heads, and wisps of tails 
 swaying now and then; when a cart was filled, men shouted, 
 and dragged the horses, plunging, up the shingle; the 
 sound of the voices, the sliding and grating of the beach 
 under hoofs and wheels, the hollow dropping of the coals 
 into the wooden carts all these sounds, coming from afar 
 through the stillness, only emphasised the placid quietude 
 of the autumn evening. 
 
 "The sun sank in just like that suddenly, George 
 on the night your mother died." 
 
 George did not answer for a few moments. "Ah," he 
 said at last, and was silent. The few words, the almost 
 whispered reminder, in conjunction with this loveliness 
 of evening silence, were like a spell cast over evil thoughts 
 that had worked in him since ruin had seemed inevitable 
 and since he had harboured the suspicion that his love 
 was secretly returned. Perhaps the saddest and most 
 solemn sight on earth is a sea sunset; and to him the 
 thought that this sight they had just seen together was the 
 last that his mother's eyes had witnessed gave it a great 
 and awful significance to-night. It was almost like a 
 warning, as if, on the eve of something terrible some 
 fearful springing-up of the beast that lurked in him, uncon- 
 quered, and had sprung out once with such havoc at Ba- 
 dajoz she had whispered a warning to her son. What 
 does go on behind the scenes of this mystery play, the 
 world? George had imagination, and it had fed on the 
 experiences of life in other climes and under strange con- 
 ditions. He had shaken off, gradually, the harness of the
 
 THE SUN SANK IN JUST LIKE THAT SUDDENLY, GEORGE ON THE 
 NIGHT YOUR MOTHER DIED."
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 151 
 
 old creeds in which his forefathers had worked; but there 
 were left mystery and wonder; in tense moments he had 
 this strange feeling of watching eyes and whisperings, of 
 onlookers ready to warn, to feel grief, to be gladdened by 
 resistance to prompting evil. 
 
 "We'll walk a little way along the downs," said Bess, 
 "and then I suppose we must go in." 
 
 Go in? Take up the thread of life again, if John came 
 back successful? But that was impossible; he could never 
 live on as he had been living. The climax in their fortunes, 
 the climax in his life, had come together. His hopes now 
 were bound up in ruin. From day to day he had gone on, 
 knowing that his only safety her safety, John's safety- 
 lay in his tearing himself away at any cost. The greatest 
 courage lies often in the daring to run away. He had made 
 up his mind to fight this terrible temptation where he was, 
 yet knew that some day it must prove too strong for him, 
 that already it held possession of his thoughts night and 
 day, day and night. And now his only hope of victory lay 
 not in resistance but in flight. "Now, now," an inner 
 voice urged him. "Go back to the inn take her back 
 go away keep yourself from sight and sound of her " 
 
 Oh, he couldn't! No, he must enjoy each bitter-sweet 
 moment but innocently still; he could never wrong John 
 poor old John, in trouble already, and so staunch a 
 friend and brother. 
 
 What reckless madness possessed Bess? She burst into 
 snatches of song ah, how sweet her voice she ran ahead 
 mischievously, calling George to follow, to see this, to see 
 that, laughing softly when they startled two lovers under 
 a tangled bush, pointing out the lights of ships at sea a 
 riding-light here, like a tiny silver bell hung on the taper- 
 ing mast; a red light glimmering there; a green, flashing 
 suddenly out of blue space. The sea had changed now 
 sea and sky both, and sands to the deep violet of perfect
 
 152 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 autumn night. Their footsteps made scarcely a sound on 
 the soft turf of the downs. She raced down a little hollow, 
 George following; he heard the soft swish of long grasses 
 and clover brushing her ankles, the snap of bramble and 
 sound of crushed-down dock and hogweed; the violet gulf 
 of night showed through a dark, nodding fringe on the 
 cliff's edge. They seemed on the very world's edge; violet 
 space before them, faint sounds of laughter, of voices, of 
 toil, followed them as from a far-off haunt of men. They 
 were alone alone the still night wrapping them in lone- 
 liness, and only the quiet eyes of the stars looked down. 
 If Bess would only be sober for a moment! Her mad- 
 cap mood as if her love for him, repressed so long, were 
 making itself manifest unconsciously tempted him al- 
 most beyond the limits of resistance. But now she was. 
 quiet, walking by his side, and, when she spoke, her voice 
 was hushed as if a thousand ears were listening. And in- 
 stantly the old, reckless mood of good-comradeship seemed 
 less dangerous. Oh, in any mood he loved her her only, 
 in the world and he had no right! He tried to cleanse 
 his thoughts, remembering the sinking of the sun, his 
 mother's death, and, by a natural transition, his own 
 boyhood. 
 
 The Lord let the house of a brute to the soul of a man, 
 
 And the man said, "Am I your debtor?" 
 And the Lord " Not yet, but make it as clean as you can, 
 
 And then I will let you a better. " 
 
 Everyman's task this to make clean the house, to fill 
 it with pure images, true and honourable thoughts. But 
 the remembrance of their childhood again made George 
 ache with longing. She caught his hand once, wanting 
 his help as she climbed a slope of broken, crumbling clay; 
 he held the firm little fingers tight for a moment, cool and 
 sweet as flowers; he clutched her arm her face was close
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 153 
 
 to him, he felt her sweet breath on his cheeks as she scram- 
 bled up. He took his hand from her arm abruptly, almost 
 roughly. A bat circled round them, a streak of darker 
 night broken from the dusk; moths fluttered from the 
 brambles. She looked moth-like too, in her white muslin, 
 showing so faintly like a spectral shape. 
 
 "Let's sit down, Bess," he said, huskily. 
 
 "Well, just for a minute. But isn't the grass damp?" 
 
 They bent down to feel, and his hand brushed against 
 hers as they groped in the dim light among the grass. 
 
 "It's only cool to the touch, I think." His hands were 
 burning. 
 
 She sat down, impetuously, as in all her movements; 
 George lay beside her. 
 
 "No, I don't think it's really very damp," said Bess. 
 "We've been through some long grass, but my shoes and 
 stockings seem quite dry. Aren't they?" 
 
 He touched her instep. "Yes," he said, and was silent. 
 
 "Oh, isn't it a lovely night, and a dear little place!" 
 Bess burst out suddenly. "I don't think I could bear to 
 leave it; could you? What shall we do if we can't pay our 
 debts? Shall we have to go into the Blean poorhouse? 
 Is that where they'll send us? Or I suppose I suppose" 
 (how delightful now to think of the awful possibilities from 
 which they had escaped!) "they'd have sent me there 
 they'll send me there, I mean, while John and you go to 
 some great horrid town like London to work. Or would 
 John have to go to a debtors' gaol? How frightful, poor 
 old John! He'll be as helpless as a baby if he has to do his 
 own house- work, or cell- work, do they call it? I must 
 give him lessons in making beds, and Delilah shall teach 
 him to scrub floors before he goes. They have to do that 
 sort of thing, don't they?" 
 
 Her mood was puzzling, without its key. The worst 
 side of George's nature found in it instant encouragement.
 
 154 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 He read into her words hints of a life that had grown insup- 
 portable; even the tragic climax seemed to come as a 
 relief. She was no longer so far above him; she, too, was 
 very human. A terrible combination of circumstances had 
 brought about this marriage. She had married, he thought, 
 for affection rather than love; had she known that he was 
 still alive, it could never have taken place. Love, real 
 love, laughs at the mutterings of priest and clerk. Now 
 that adverse fortune seemed to be breaking up their home, 
 she could no longer play the part she had played so bravely. 
 Poor little Bess! So human, so hot-blooded, so full, like 
 him, of unsatisfied love and longing! In his distorted 
 view, he read simulation into all outward signs of her 
 fondness for her husband. A fine actress, like most women 
 on occasion, she had played the loving wife before spec- 
 tators, with distaste and weariness at heart. 
 
 "I wonder -how many times we've been up here together, 
 George ? " she said, suddenly. "Can you remember the first 
 time we saw each other?" 
 
 " Tis so long back I can't, Bess," said George. "But 
 ever so long ago I remember going with mother to the 
 farm, and you were in the farmyard a little dark-haired 
 lass all dimpled arms and legs, seemed to me. You were 
 looking at the fowls, and such big eyes you had. 'What 
 are you looking at them so hard for, Bess?' said mother. 
 'Why, Pinion said if I gave them any more corn they'd 
 burst,' you said, only you couldn't say 's' properly then, 
 because you'd knocked a tooth out 'Pinion thaid if I 
 gave them any more corn they'd burtht.' ' 
 
 "Oh, I know," said Bess, laughing; "I don't remember, 
 but mother's told me heaps of times. So I'd given them 
 some more to see if what Pinion said was true." 
 
 "We must ha' been pretty young, though, when you 
 came down and paddled, and minded our clothes while 
 we bathed."
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 155 
 
 "Yes, but I remember that. I know how angry I got 
 with John one day because he wouldn't talk he looked 
 so solemn; and I'd quarrelled with you, and walked with 
 him instead, and never a word would he say, and seemed 
 half-frightened of me when I took his arm, and at last I 
 went off home in a huff, all by myself." 
 
 She chattered about these old memories; about long 
 Sunday afternoons when they made daisy chains on these 
 downs, and picked poppies and clover and great sheaves 
 of grasses timothy and foxtail and quake grass, and 
 sweet vernal that scents the meadows at haymaking. She 
 reminded him of their long tramps behind the soldiers 
 marching from the landing-place near the Ship to the great 
 barracks at Canterbury; of bands and bugle-horns on the 
 old camp-field when all England thought Boney and his 
 French were coming; and of their childish play at "French 
 and English," when John, showing less acquiescence than 
 usual, stoutly refused to take the side of France. "Oh, I 
 don't think there's another place in the world like this," 
 cried Bess at last, recalling the many links that bound them 
 to these ancient downs, which have heard the patter of 
 the feet of so many generations of children, the laughter 
 and voices of so many, flung by winds now dead to the sea 
 that remains. 
 
 "There are other places as beautiful, though, Bess," 
 George said, suddenly. 
 
 "Are there? I suppose there are. And yet " 
 
 "Heaps and heaps. Why, you've never been more'n 
 fifteen miles away from home." 
 
 "Oh, I have. I've been as far as Maidstone!" 
 
 "Maidstone? That's no journey." He wished he could 
 clear his voice of its huskiness; he was speaking with effort, 
 and all the time his head was throbbing with a thousand 
 wild thoughts, merged in one fierce desire that was rapidly 
 mastering him.
 
 156 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 "But oh, I say, you don't know how great and glorious 
 the world is. This place is all right, but it's nothing if 
 it wasn't for what we remember nothing to all the places 
 I've seen and heard about from other fellows in the Rifles. 
 London, now, first of all, you call it a horrid place, but 
 it's not so bad. Let me see. I'll try and tell you. There's 
 the river first the old, winding river and the crowded 
 bridges, and the great ships bringing in cargoes from all 
 the world over those ships you see sailing far out along 
 Channel; but they're great homes of men, like floating 
 houses when you see 'em close to. And there are the big 
 wharves and warehouses alongside, and queer little steps, 
 steep enough and slimy enough to break anybody's neck, 
 and rare old houses that look as if they were toppling down 
 into the water, and then, my word, the state barges glit- 
 terin' with gold! There's the Tower, too, where they used 
 to chop off great noblemen's heads " 
 
 "Ugh!" said Bess, with a little shudder, "I don't want 
 to see that. At Maidstone we got mixed up with the 
 crowd on Penenden Heath, one day, when there was a 
 hanging. I shut my eyes when I knew what was happen- 
 ing. 'Twas a woman who'd poisoned her husband; but 
 when I looked through my fingers to see if all was over, 
 she was just spinning, and shaking like a bird that's shot. 
 It made me feel oh, awful! I couldn't touch any food 
 for hours." 
 
 "Well, I reckon she deserved it," said George. "She 
 needn't have lived with him if she didn't like it. Why 
 didn't she run away? But you'd like to see the Beefeaters 
 in their old, ancient uniforms. And Carlton House, and 
 the old generals and admirals with all their medals and 
 cocked hats, and the chairs and coaches with ladies in 'em 
 covered with diamonds and pearls, in silks, and ostrich 
 plumes " 
 
 "Yes, I should like that."
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 157 
 
 "And the links flashing on it all like Cinderella's ball 
 at night and the fine ladies and gentlemen walking in 
 the Mall, and the shops " 
 
 "Oh, yes." 
 
 "Rare fine shops in London; and the theatres dresses 
 and jewels again, and lights and dancing, and music and 
 songs " 
 
 He could see the glistening of her eyes in starlight. 
 
 "And wouldn't you like to see those other countries, 
 too, the great mountains I've seen with the snow on top 
 of 'em, and clouds and houses and men and cattle and fir- 
 trees looking like toys in the valleys down below? And 
 Lisbon and the orange groves on the hills, where the 
 fruit hangs like lanterns all lit up? And the Moorish pal- 
 aces at Cintra, where you can sit perched over the top of 
 the world and look down on roofs, and towers, and woods, 
 and and gorges cram-full of ferns? Wouldn't you like to 
 see the village dances at night, and the long tropillas of 
 mules, and the fireflies in the forests, and the lizards as 
 bright as jewels wouldn't you like to see all that? Ah, 
 but I can't tell you a quarter not a fiftieth of all I've 
 
 seen; and as for what I've heard from other soagers " 
 
 He made a gesture of despair. "Let me think. There's 
 Montevideo " 
 
 He went on, speaking softly, imagination glowing like 
 a hot coal breathed upon, as he spoke of what men who 
 had been with Whitelocke's ill-fated expedition had told 
 him. George made her see as she had never seen before 
 the vastness and beauty of the world. He opened doors 
 for her showed her now a South American forest blazing 
 in sunshine, monkeys chattering, bright parrots scream- 
 ing, gemmed humming-birds not a finger long sparkling 
 through the air; matted networks of lianas, gorgeous or- 
 chids, great rivers flowing through overhanging trees and 
 crowded jungle; and now parched Africa, with its staring
 
 158 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 white cities of the north, its aloes, its bronzed desert gyp- 
 sies, its camels, its weird and barbaric rites. Then, like a 
 breath of fresh air, little Denmark took the place of those 
 burning tropic lands. He told her what he had heard from 
 Riflemen who had been at Copenhagen, and spoke of the 
 blue Belts, the blue Sound, the tiny, trim villages with 
 their church spires piercing the sky, the beech woods 
 on its shores, Hamlet's ancient castle looking towards the 
 misty Swedish coast-line. And, a moment later, she was 
 passing little Porto Santo, and saw Funchal Bay, with its 
 palms, its coloured villas, its peaks rising into rosy sunset 
 clouds, the many-coloured boats jostling round the trans- 
 ports, the tawny bodies of the diving boys, the swaying 
 heaps of basketware, the rich hues of fruits and flowers. 
 
 Bess listened breathlessly to all this. George seemed 
 carried away as he put all these scenes into painted words, 
 making them vivid for her as well. 
 
 "Wouldn't you like to see it?" he cried, at last, almost 
 gasping with the delight of all. 
 
 "Oh, I would I would dearly." She spoke dreamily, 
 then suddenly seemed to waken. "But I can't, so I must 
 just think of them." 
 
 "You can't? Why not, Bess?" he whispered. 
 
 " Why not ? Why, of course 
 
 "I remember," he went on, interrupting her, "when I 
 was a boy, how I used to look out over this sea yes, from 
 where we are now, Bess and watch the white sails, and 
 want to follow them. You know that sailor who came to 
 the inn, ever so long ago? I can see him now sitting in 
 the corner of the taproom, with his blue jacket and gilt 
 buttons, and ear-rings and shiny hat, and the great silver 
 buckles in his shoes, and gay ribbons sewed in his jacket 
 and red waistcoat; oh, I can see him now, just as if he 
 was here! Think of it! This sea's the great road that 
 leads everywhere everywhere to all those places and a
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 159 
 
 thousand more. Oh, many a night after that sailor came I 
 couldn't sleep for aching with the thought of all there was 
 going on in the world; and the old sea's voice was always 
 calling, Come and see; come and see. . . . So I went, at 
 last. But I've seen nothing yet nothing. When I came 
 back, I thought I'd want no more travelling, but the salt's 
 in my blood, I think, and soon and then," he went on, 
 abruptly, "you had married John. Oh, Bess, why didn't 
 you wait? Why didn't you wait and make sure? Ah, 
 we'd have been so happy " 
 
 "George!" She sprang up, a great surprise, a great ten- 
 derness, in her voice. "Oh, I didn't know; I thought 
 oh, surely you've thought no more of that! We were only 
 boy and girl. And you've seen so much, and so many 
 women over there, and talked about them to me " 
 
 "Yes, yes, to make you and John think I didn't care. 
 But now oh, it was bound to come out, Bess; it's been 
 like a great fire burning me up. And you think I haven't 
 cared? Why did I stay? With the world still calling but 
 I cared nothing for all that without you." 
 
 "Oh, George!" A little shiver at the tragedy of his 
 return ran through her. In the violet night his features 
 were hidden, but she saw the glitter of his eyes in starlight. 
 
 "God!" he said, almost fiercely, through clenched teeth, 
 "haven't I suffered? Do you think I haven't suffered? It's 
 been hell, I tell you; but I couldn't go. And I've heard 
 John calling at night, up the stairs, 'Bess! Bess!' and you 
 answering; and I've heard the handle of your door click, 
 and the door shut you in. Hour after hour I've lain awake, 
 thinking that if I'd come back just a day sooner I'd have 
 been in his place. On winter evenings, when you and he 
 have been sitting round the fire, and I've come in suddenly 
 when you and he came out here last thing at night, and I 
 heard your voices and your footsteps and your laughing 
 die away and come again, and the sharp wind's blown you
 
 160 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 in, all red-cheeked, and banged the door on your very 
 skirts, do you think I didn't care? Forget, Bess? Me for- 
 get? I can't stop my heart beating by telling it. And 
 John made me kiss you. ... I didn't mean to speak, 
 
 but it's all out now. And you you " he dropped his 
 
 voice and bent close to her ear, and when it brushed against 
 his lips, thrilling him through and through, he whispered. 
 
 "What do you mean, George?" she cried, stepping back, 
 frightened, indignant, half sobbing. 
 
 In his mad infatuation, he took her protest as the con- 
 fusion due to a long-hidden but now discovered secret. 
 
 "Oh, I know. Do you think I couldn't tell when your 
 eyes brightened at meeting me, when you were so happy, 
 though you knew the game was up here, and we've to turn 
 elsewhere even for bread? Oh, we've both tried to be true 
 to John, but there's no fighting against love. We've to 
 take our lives in our own hands now, Bess; we must. 
 There are money and fame to be got from the world yet, 
 and, by God! I'll get them for us two! I've a few pounds 
 left; we'll go to London. I know just what to do. Look 
 at France, look at Boney and the kings he made; do you 
 think there's no ladder like that in England? Not in the 
 army I found that out but among the people; the people 
 who are starving, and yet have to pay Germans, and keep 
 their mad old King in his palaces, and pay for the Regent's 
 wines and mistresses and jewels. You know what the 
 Watsons said; you know what's going on all over England. 
 They're only waiting for a strong man a leader. Bess, I'll 
 be the man. I know it; I feel it here. When I was a lit- 
 tle boy, you know how I was always captain or king among 
 the others. Boney was only a poor lieutenant when he was 
 my age. . . . Come to London with me, Bess, and share 
 it all. Come. I'm calling you to do a brave thing, I 
 know. It'll hurt John at first at first but we'll never 
 forgive ourselves if we're afraid to take our happiness."
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 161 
 
 Bess listened silently, but shivering a little now and then, 
 to his mad torrent of words. It was a revelation of things 
 not even dreamed of. As one lifts an ancient stone, and 
 finds beneath it a scurry of blind, repulsive insects that 
 have sheltered there from the light, so now these thoughts, 
 motives, lusts, ambitions, not even suspected, showed in 
 all their ugliness and squalor. 
 
 She caught suddenly at the reference to her husband. 
 "You say, George," she said, in a voice so calm that it sur- 
 prised herself, for she was trembling all over, "that this 
 would would hurt John a little. What " 
 
 "At first, I said; yes, at first. But that's better than 
 living a lie fairer to him, too. If I'd married you, and 
 you loved John better, I'd I'd rather it came out. A 
 priest's gabble and a few lines of writing don't make the 
 marriage, Bess; love does that. People cramped up all 
 their lives in a little place like this " 
 
 "Get strange ideas of honour and duty?" Bess could 
 not repress the question. 
 
 "Well, they do," said George, too intent to notice the 
 irony. "What's church marriage, after all? Who made 
 it? Abraham and Isaac didn't bother about that. Who 
 started it? But Adam and Eve were made for each other; 
 we know that. Look at the birds, the animals. They choose 
 their mates, and there's no parrot chatter or monkey talk 
 to bind 'em up so that they can't get loose, liking or no 
 liking. I don't care about that; and in London nobody '11 
 know. I do care about hurting John poor old John 
 but I've thought out everything, and it's kindest in the 
 long run. He'll suffer, of course; but why should two suffer 
 all their lives instead you and I? It's a case out of com- 
 mon." He paced to and fro on the soft turf. "It'd be 
 different if you'd married him with your eyes open, know- 
 ing me alive. We've got ourselves to think of as well as 
 
 John. Oh, Bess " 
 
 11
 
 162 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 "Don't touch me!" she cried, starting back. "Wait 
 and listen to what I've got to say. I've listened to you; 
 oh, I oughtn't to have listened I ought to have stopped 
 you at once, but I hoped at first you were only jesting. 
 You've made a terrible oh, a cruel and awful mistake, 
 George. Because because I love John, and I always 
 
 have loved him, and and " Her self-control broke 
 
 down suddenly. "Oh, I'm going home, I'm going home," 
 she said, with a sudden choking sob, and, putting her hands 
 to her eyes to brush back the starting tears, she began to 
 hurry down the slope towards the hamlet. 
 
 George was taken completely by surprise. He had ex- 
 pected some reluctance, but not in any form like this. 
 He flattered himself on knowledge of women's ways, gleaned 
 from the wars, and yet was puzzled. Could he have been 
 mistaken? Her distress urged him to follow her, to take 
 her in his arms, to shield her from the world with his 
 strength and yet her cry that her love for John was un- 
 changing held him back. 
 
 The white frock, swishing softly against the grasses, 
 glimmered through the violet dusk like wandering mist 
 like the silky wings of moths fluttering in the brambles. 
 Her little sobs, very pitiful, reached his heart but not 
 reproachfully, though she cried for the loss of something 
 dearer than success or gold. 
 
 For a few seconds he listened to the gentle sobbing, the 
 far-off murmur of the incoming sea, the faint sound of 
 muslin brushing the tall grasses, and little feet breaking 
 dock and briar. 
 
 All else in the world was silent. 
 
 "Bess!" he gasped, and hurried after her.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 "DESS, don't be silly don't cry," he gasped. "Oh, 
 
 D don't cry, dear. You know things can't go on 
 any longer like they were; you'd only grow to hate John; 
 you will, if you don't decide the right way now. Think 
 of all the years ahead of us. I love you all the more for 
 feeling the break; 7 feel that, too, and I wish to God " 
 
 She shook herself free from his arm, and turned, facing 
 him. Had it been light, the rising colour, the flashing eyes 
 still wet with tears, the bosom heaving with indignation, 
 might have warned him. But he still thought that conven- 
 tion so much more to a woman than a man and a nat- 
 ural reluctance to cause John so much pain held her back. 
 She was woman all over, Bess; how like woman's way, he 
 thought, to go to the very frontier of submission to coax 
 him on with pretty words, and smiles, and glances and 
 then to start back, frightened at the final step. A man's 
 hand was wanted now to draw her over. 
 
 "Do you want to make me hate you, George?" she said, 
 speaking fast, in a voice strained and excited. "Because 
 you will oh, you will! You must be mad to talk to me 
 like that. John will be back to-morrow " 
 
 "And you'll tell him? And what can you say except 
 that you love me, and I love you, and we're sorry love's 
 stronger than we are?" He dropped his voice. "Why, 
 we'll be in London town to-morrow miles of green fields 
 between us and here together in London. Ah, Bess!" 
 
 He sighed with aching longing; passion born of night 
 and silence and the abandonment of long restraint mas- 
 tered him, and he caught her to him with a sudden vio- 
 lence that left her breathless. In his body some unknown 
 spirit of evil seemed to have taken its abode, speaking 
 
 163
 
 164 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 through his lips, acting through his limbs; he had become 
 wholly unfamiliar, wholly dangerous. The change was 
 terrible, like some spell of madness altering out of knowl- 
 edge one loved and trusted for long years. 
 
 "Oh, leave go of me, let me go," she cried. "I don't 
 love you I never did not even when you went away 
 and made me promise to wait. I was only a silly girl then, 
 and you pressed me so and I was afraid you might be 
 killed and John didn't seem to care for me and your 
 uniform and all oh, George, I shall cry out if you don't 
 let me go!" 
 
 She looked desperately through the dusk for help, while 
 he kissed her hotly, and clutched one of her little hands 
 in his, and pressed her to him as if he could kindle some 
 answering fire. She was inert, passive; it was her most 
 effectual defence. Two lovers rose out of the gloom, and 
 passed them, and began to fade almost as soon as they were 
 seen. 
 
 "George," she gasped, "there's Jim Homersham and 
 Peg Hardwick; I'll call out to them if you don't leave off 
 at once. I've given you no right to treat me so, or to think 
 me to think me a woman who deserves such treatment. 
 All these encouragements you say I've given you meant 
 something quite different. I was going to tell you to-mor- 
 row. I was glad because no, I won't tell you to-night, I 
 won't. Let me go. Jim! Jim!" 
 
 " What are you doing ?" George muttered, angrily. " Don't 
 be a little fool, Bess. I'd like to see Homersham inter- 
 fere " 
 
 "Hullo!" cried a voice from the darkness, cheerful, yet 
 a little sheepish. 
 
 George let go of Bess, with a muttered oath; instantly 
 she broke away from him, and ran down on to the shingle- 
 strewn road, where the lights in the cottages showed like 
 friendly eyes. George stood alone, angry, baffled, at a loss.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 165 
 
 "Hullo! Who's that wants me?" cried young Homer- 
 sham, coming back with Peg hanging on his arm. 
 
 "Only Mrs. Kennett saying good-night," said George, 
 sulkily. 
 
 "Oh! Good-night. Good-night, Mrs. Kennett!" he cried 
 after her, and was answered from the distance. 
 
 George followed slowly. On the downs they had owned 
 the whole night of stars. Here the sights and sounds of 
 everyday life would be about them again; the walls and 
 the doors had ears. He laughed a little, uneasy laugh. 
 Had he been mistaken? Unless he carried out his purpose 
 now, his position would make even friendship even the 
 old intercourse that had been meat and drink to him 
 impossible. He had gone too far for retreat. It was all 
 or nothing, now all or nothing. 
 
 To his chagrin and bewilderment, she swung open the 
 gate of Captain Rockett's cottage and went in. 
 
 He strolled on to the inn in a turmoil of emotions. An 
 hour, or little more, had changed his world and hers. The 
 horses still plunged up the shelving shingle from the col- 
 lier, straining at their loads, and falling back to try again. 
 The fire that some boys had been lighting when they left 
 the inn, blazed fiercely, sending up spirals of smoke; sparks 
 floated star wards and went out. Three fishermen before 
 the Ship stood chatting in almost the same attitudes; they 
 nodded as he passed. 
 
 Delilah watched his entry, sour-visaged. A few of their 
 old customers were in the taproom. George tossed off a 
 glass of Hollands another a third and rapped out a sav- 
 age oath at Delilah when she protested. He went into the 
 parlour, slamming the door. What was he to do? The 
 battle between right and wrong had been fought out on 
 the downs, and was over. Whether she loved him now or 
 not, his purpose was fixed. It would be useless to call at 
 the Rocketts'. But he went out again, hoping to meet her
 
 166 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 as she returned. Would she sleep there? Had she said 
 anything? 
 
 He waited outside the cottage. The candles flung the 
 shadows of Mrs. Rockett, Bess, and Captain Rockett on 
 the blind. At last the door opened. 
 
 "I shan't be long, Martha," sang out Rockett's cheer- 
 ful voice. "Just going to walk home with this young lady, 
 by special request. Ever tell you about that dwarf in the 
 circus, Bess, I beared tell of on the Spanish Main? The 
 Inquisitors got hold of him, and clapped him in the rack. 
 The man who told me said it was pitiful to hear him 
 screaming, 'I won't be long, I won't be long!' and every 
 turn saw his bread-and-butters wanishing." He tucked 
 his arm in Bess's, and, waving his hand to his wife, trotted 
 off towards the Running Horse. George, in the shadow of 
 the wall, was unseen. He followed therm at a distance. 
 Rockett kept up a chatter, merry enough, all the way to 
 the inn door. 
 
 George waited until the Captain had had a glass, and 
 rolled back homewards, humming the tune "Drops of 
 Brandy" as he hurried along the front. George remem- 
 bered the words sailors sang to that tune, when the anchor 
 was being weighed or grog served on board ship: 
 
 "And Johnny shall have a new bonnet 
 
 And Johnny shall go to the fair, 
 And Johnny shall have a blue ribbon, 
 
 To tie up his bonny brown hair. 
 And why should I not love Johnny? 
 
 And why should not Johnny love me? 
 And why should I not love Johnny 
 
 As well as another bodie?" 
 
 The most popular song in the King's navy, and on land as 
 well as sea, only a guilty conscience could attach sinister 
 significance to Captain Rockett's choice. George waited 
 in the stable-yard, listening until the last strains died away
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 167 
 
 in the distance. Had Bess said anything? Did Rockett 
 know? If so, there was now another reason compelling 
 him to leave the inn with Bess or without her. He 
 clenched his fists. "By God, she shall come, she must 
 come!" he muttered. 
 
 He entered the parlour. Supper was set, bread and 
 cheese and ale and some cold pudding. Perhaps Bess was 
 taking off her things. After what had happened, he looked 
 forward uneasily to the moment when he should see her 
 face in the lamplight. How would she act? Be angry, 
 and reproach him? Be cold and silent? That at first, he 
 thought. But if she had loved him as, in his monstrous 
 egoism, he still assured himself he would have to use 
 every means, every artifice, every inducement to win her 
 over. Everything was staked on these closing hours of the 
 day. 
 
 George drew the red curtains closer, and moved the 
 lamp so that no shadows should be seen. After some min- 
 utes he opened the door into the taproom. "Where 
 where's your missus, 'Lilah?" he asked. 
 
 "You needn't wait for her. She's gone to bed." 
 
 "Gone to bed?" 
 
 "Yes. She's got a headache." 
 
 He went back into the parlour. Gone to bed? He had 
 frightened her, no doubt. Convention meant so much to 
 women. If he could only open her eyes to the wideness of 
 the world, its many creeds and customs, the things that 
 were done every day, and thought nothing of! He remem- 
 bered how lightly men had spoken in the barrack-room 
 and by the bivouac fires of just such deeds as he was urging 
 her to. He knew that in her heart of hearts she loved 
 him always had loved him. But she was afraid. 
 
 By daylight she would be braver; he would see her early 
 in the morning; they could be out and away before John's 
 return.
 
 168 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 He ate his supper with little appetite, straining his ears 
 all the time for sounds overhead. At last he pushed back 
 his plate, and, filling his pipe, went into the taproom. He 
 poured out a stiff glass of spirits, and sat in a corner, moody 
 and silent, listening to the talk of the night's visitors. 
 Pinion and another rustic were wrangling over the rival 
 merits of Suffolk ploughs and the old-fashioned turnwrists. 
 How could Bess choose the intolerable monotony of a life 
 like this! Talk turned on "wheat seasoning" sowing 
 corn; and Stebbings, who had taken a leading part at the 
 great Canterbury meeting against the Corn Bill in 1815, 
 found an opportunity of turning the topic to the present 
 state of England. He drew his chief enjoyment from oppo- 
 sition and discontent, and under the Regency had all the 
 material for a happy life close at hand. 
 
 "We want a Cromwell, we do!" he wound up, at last, 
 nodding fiercely. 
 
 "Ay, ay, we do that, Must' Stebbings," wheezed old 
 Pinion, ingratiatingly. "My son, as went to Ameriky, was 
 a-telling me about him, and a fine feller he must ha' been, 
 to be sure, finding a girt new country when things got too 
 oncomfortable at home." 
 
 "You're mixing him up with Columbius!" said Steb- 
 bings, "though it'll come to us all pilgrim-fathering before 
 long. They want some one to larn them history, these 
 law-makers of ours. That's what I said to young Deedes, 
 when he was humming and hawing on the hustings. ' You 
 go to school agen and get eddicated,' says I. Those were 
 my words. ' Get eddicated, and when you've got some one 
 to larn you history, then I'll listen to you.' Those were 
 my words." 
 
 "Terrible bold words to use, Must' Stebbings," said Pin- 
 ion, admiringly. "He, he ho, ho, ho!" His laugh broke off 
 in a wheezy fit of coughing. "My wig," he gasped, "I've 
 a terrifyin' cough. Ale's the only thing'll stop the ruttle
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 169 
 
 keeping me awake at night, and that's why I drinks it." 
 He peered suggestively into his empty tankard, and Steb- 
 bings took the hint. 
 
 "What-for a man was Deedes, now, Must' Stebbings?" 
 asked another labourer. 
 
 "Him? Oh, a King John's man, six score to the hun- 
 dred, as the saying goes. A little feller, not half my age 
 neither and him to make rules and taxes for me!" 
 
 "The best 'lection I ever see," said Pinion, his eyes 
 twinkling, "was forty-dree year ago no, forty-fower. My 
 nable, I never see such lashons of beer, before or since ! I 
 helped the buffs first, a did, but they wouldn't give me not 
 a merciful thing, they wouldn't; so I went to the blue man 
 he'd lived in the Indies most of his life, he had. Purple- 
 faced old feller, he was, with no more breath than what 
 I've got now; and they they I can't think of the word." 
 
 " 'Lectedhim?" 
 
 " No, no; something a cock has on his legs. Hackled 
 
 "Heckled him?" 
 
 "My nable, what a thing it is to have eddication, Must' 
 Stebbings! Ay, they heckled him terrible, and he never 
 couldn't answer them, 'cause of not knowing what was 
 coming. So he gived me a paper with some things wrote 
 down for me to ax him. 'I'll give you a crownd-piece 
 now,' he says, says he, 'and half a guinea afterwards if 
 you do it right. First of all I want you to say, " Who 
 run away from Plassey?" ' 
 
 " 'I doan't like to say that, sir,' says I, ' 'cause if you 
 did run away ' 
 
 " 'You're as big a fool as you look, my man/ says he, 
 puffing like a grampious. 'You've got to ax me that, and 
 then I'll say, "The Injuns did, and I run after them." 
 See? When you hear me say, " I'm for Church and State," 
 you'll shout out, "You oughter be drawn and quar- 
 tered." Then I'll say, "So I shall, my friend quartered
 
 170 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 at Westminster when the poll's declared."' 'Wery good, 
 sir,' says I. There were one or two other questions and an- 
 swers I forget. Well, I larned them off rude-heart, every 
 merciful one of 'em. At last the day corned, and I was there, 
 feeling wery happy-like with the ale inside me; and I listened 
 to one old feller a-speechifyin', and bowing and scraping 
 as he introduced the candidate; and then I listened to the 
 man hisself, puffing and blowing and sticking his chest 
 out and such a storm of cheering and hissing and yelling 
 you never did hear 'twas quite interesting. By and by 
 the heckling begun. Wery interesting that was, too. He 
 got rare and flustered; but he seemed to cheer up when 
 he see Bill Gimblett, who'd told me he was on the same 
 job as me, hollerin' out at him. 'Speak up there,' says he, 
 turning to the corner where Bill was standing 'cause some 
 one else was shouting at him, too, and Bill's was a wery 
 little small woice. 'What's that bottle-nosed rascal say- 
 ing? Don't be put out? No, gentlemen, I'll be put in.' 
 Before people had begun to laugh, old Billie pipes out 
 sharp as you likes, in that squeaky little small woice of 
 his'n, 'Yes, in gaol.' You should ha' seen the Colonel's 
 face. He! he! I knew at once the buffs had got hold of 
 Billie. And there was the blue man purple he was then, 
 though busting to say Billie shouldn't have the half- 
 guinea, but of course he daresn't. 
 
 " 'What a 'tarnal ideeot I was,' thoft I, 'not to ha' seen 
 what the buffs'd give me to answer him back agen.' Just 
 as I was wondering whether he'd call me a bottle-nosed 
 rascal, one of the blues near me, who knowed about it, 
 whispered, 'Now then, Pinion, there's your coo.' 'Where?' 
 says I. 'It can't be my coo,' says I, ' 'cause I ain't got one; 
 
 must be Must' Huntingdon's what's broke loose " 
 
 Then I see the old Colonel staring wery hard at me and 
 waiting, and the blue nudged me agen, so, all in a fluster, 
 I said, ' Why did you run away from Plassey ? ' '
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 171 
 
 "But what about the coo? Where did that come in?" 
 asked a fisherman. 
 
 "I dunno to this day. I never see none come in at all." 
 
 Stebbings again explained. 
 
 " 'Why did you run away from Plassey?' says I, in a 
 fluster. In course, I ought to ha' said, 'Who run away?' 
 The old Colonel got purpler and purpler, and then he 
 turned yellow like a pegle (cowslip), and spluttered and 
 shook his fists; but at last he went on with his speech. 
 'Jigger me tight,' thoft I, 'I'll have to be carefuller next 
 time!' So I shouted out, almost before he got to Church 
 and State, 'You oughter be tarred and feathered, you 
 ought!' 'Drawn and quartered,' I should have said; but 
 there, I'd spoilt his answer agen he! he!" 
 
 "He might have said he meant to feather his nest at 
 Westminster," said Stebbings, hotly, "for that's what they 
 all go there for, the lying, soft-speaking knaves!" 
 
 "There weren't wery much soft speaking about him, 
 though, when I went for my half-guinea," said Pinion, 
 chuckling. 
 
 George had listened in silence. Taking Pinion's story 
 as a text, Stebbings raved on about the state of England 
 and the type of men who ruled her. Calling again for 
 another Cromwell, he turned to George for support. 
 
 "What'd you do if you had one, though, Stebbings?" 
 growled George. 
 
 " Do ? I reckon we'd soon show what we'd do. Give us a 
 man, and we'll follow him soon enough. Our Club, now " 
 
 He rambled on, George listening and pulling at his pipe. 
 After all, Stebbings voiced the thoughts of thousands, of 
 millions, who were waiting for a man strong enough to 
 lead and to deliver. In the events of the evening, in the 
 lost fight against dishonour, George, flushed with drink, 
 saw the hand of destiny, urging him to London and to 
 fortune higher than his boyish dreams had reached.
 
 172 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 Delilah began sullenly to collect the tankards. The men 
 trooped out, yawning, and exchanging good-nights. "I'll 
 lock up," said George. 
 
 Delilah went up to bed without speaking; a scowl and 
 a sniff that seemed half a sigh were her only thanks. George 
 waited until he heard her on the stairs, and then opened 
 the front door, and stood before the inn, under the stars. 
 In the distance he could hear Stebbings and Pinion talk- 
 ing; the buzz of voices and sound of footsteps died away. 
 He drank in the air, laden with salt and the smell of weed. 
 
 "Grand night," shouted Craddock, the riding-officer, 
 clattering past on his way towards Reculver. "Ay, it is," 
 answered George. A wonderful night! All the houses 
 seemed asleep now. Old men and the wives of their youth 
 lay side by side, behind those walls, talking over the slow 
 day's events; young husbands and wives had locked out 
 the world, and locked in with them all woman's beauty 
 and all manhood's strength; lovers dreamed already of 
 their love, and of the next day's meeting. 
 
 George shut the door at last, and shot the bolts with a 
 tingling sense of mastery. It was his house to-night. He, 
 too, was locking out the world. 
 
 He filled his glass again, turned the light out in the tap- 
 room, and, taking John's chair in the parlour, lit the last 
 pipe of the day. He lay back, puffing out the blue clouds 
 slowly, and thinking. He felt the old eagerness for that 
 fight against a world which had hitherto defeated but not 
 vanquished him. From the height to which drink and 
 passion had raised him, the devil showed him all the king- 
 doms of the earth. He saw armies with banners and shin- 
 ing weapons; cheering crowds; courts ablaze with purple 
 and with gold; and ever Bess at his side, like and as 
 a queen. Napoleon dreamed such dreams in his youth, 
 and they came true. A score of innkeepers' sons, lawyers' 
 sons, peasants' sons, shopkeepers' sons, in France "men
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 173 
 
 made of mud," as the Emperor said himself had dreamed 
 these dreams, and found them true at last. Why not his? 
 His spurred thoughts leapt the years, the difficulties; the 
 ordinary moral laws were binding for ordinary men; already, 
 in imagination, he was high above them. 
 
 Little noises in the room above told him that Bess was 
 still awake and restless; they ceased at last. Oh, he would 
 have his way in the morning! He knocked out his pipe 
 on the grate, and went up to bed. 
 
 For an hour or more he lay sleepless. In the silent 
 night, with only the soft moaning of the sea and the gen- 
 tle rustling of the autumn wind to listen to, the fabric of 
 the earthly pomps he had built up in the smoke-clouds 
 vanished. Now he thought of Bess, and of her only. 
 Night whispered to him that the longest, sunniest day of 
 glory has its own night coming. Love alone lasted undark- 
 ened. With Bess, poverty, shame, sickness, death itself 
 would be endurable and even happy. He could not live 
 without her. He had loved her in boyhood; and now only 
 her love could complete the circle of his life. None other, 
 no one else no one, however far he might be borne on 
 the tide of fortune Bess once, and Bess always, and Bess 
 only! 
 
 It was unthinkable that year after year should pass, 
 and Bess and he grow grey and old, yet be no nearer. He 
 let his imagination dwell on her, and on the incidents of 
 the past day. He felt her once more in his arms; he saw 
 the glint of her eyes in starlight, the sun on her face and 
 downcast lashes; and her image seemed painted on his 
 mind, real, almost tangible not just a memory picture, 
 but a visible and actual image, with her dark, unruly hair, 
 her ripe lips, her eyes challenging, provoking, unsearchable. 
 Oh, Bess! Bess! 
 
 After tossing from side to side for hours, he got out of 
 bed, and went across to the window, which he flung open.
 
 174 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 He knelt on the broad sill, as he had knelt once, hot with 
 anger, when the rumbling voices of the recruiters, in the 
 room below, seemed like the call of the world. The fresh 
 air cooled his heated face; he looked for a long time over 
 the water. But no help came he prayed for none, wanted 
 none; instead, through the open window, the whole world 
 of beauty, and passion, and the sweet restlessness of love 
 flooded in. The sea sighed with longing; and the earth 
 was like a heart pulsing and throbbing with love in the 
 body of space. The vastness of all, too, furnished him 
 with specious arguments. Soon the dark sea, flecked with 
 tiniest lines of white under moon and stars, spoke to him 
 of broader laws than those made by man or conceived 
 by man as uttered by God's voice. What did that care, 
 that great power so cruel and so kind, the power that car- 
 ries men to their wars and commerces and sucks them 
 down in their floating homes with equal callousness, deaf 
 to prayers, blind to sights of pity and of woe what did 
 that care for the puny moralities that wreck lives for the 
 sake of a scrap of written paper, a churchman's gabbled 
 blessing? 
 
 He had come to this with long thinking; yet the voice 
 in his own heart was never altogether silent. His brain 
 and his desires shouted their logic at it, but he had to sin 
 with the voice still warning and reproving. 
 
 He flung himself down again, lying on the bed uncov- 
 ered. A church clock, far away, sounded the hour faintly. 
 The clock below answered to the call, as if waking suddenly 
 from sleep. Two o'clock! He grudged the past the hours 
 joining it so rapidly. Soon the morning would come; but 
 meantime, alone in her room below, Bess was sleeping, or 
 lying awake, like him, thinking, perhaps trying to brace 
 herself to make the great resolve, and find even the world 
 well lost for love. . . . But she should gain the world, 
 not lose it.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 175 
 
 He could not sleep, he could not rest. His brain, still 
 heated with the drink, harked back to those scenes of hor- 
 ror and license after Badajoz, which once he had tried, 
 shudderingly, to forget. He had not forgotten. Even 
 now he shrank from the memory a little; but he nerved 
 himself to look all he had done in the face. What was 
 this deed he contemplated, compared with those? And 
 it was not he alone an army had sinned with him, a 
 whole army. There seemed a kind of safety and assurance 
 in the thought. Thousands of men, thousands upon thou- 
 sands, had done things which would be hardly absolved 
 even with repentance. Many of them, he knew, had not 
 repented. They did not believe, many of them, in the 
 creed that was considered needful for salvation. The deeds 
 they did at Badajoz they had done before at Ciudad Rod- 
 rigo, and had done afterwards at San Sebastian. He had 
 seen scores of men cut down by his side, with oaths and 
 blasphemy on their lips, with lust in their hearts, with 
 drink in full possession of their senses at the very moment 
 of sudden death. Yes, if there were a reckoning some day 
 for all this, a great army of his old comrades would stand 
 with him before the throne of God an army defiant still 
 and fearless, ready to brave even hell with a jest, and 
 march cheering, shoulder to shoulder once more, against 
 the devil and his legions. 
 
 Oh, the tales they had told him in boyhood were spun 
 out of cowardice and ignorance of the world. Again he 
 saw the streets of Badajoz after that night of slaughter, 
 when corpses lay breast-high in fosse and on escarpment, 
 torn, scorched, pale and stiff in death, or writhing still in 
 agonies that death grudged to end. Again those who had 
 come unscathed or nearly so through fire and water, 
 were bursting into the doomed city, delirious with joy at 
 their safety, mad to drink of the cup of life which had so 
 nearly been taken from their lips. It had been like a
 
 176 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 nightmare to him for years; but now he saw little vivid 
 pictures which his mind, blurred though it had been by 
 drink, had retained. After Ciudad he had struggled with 
 the devil in him, not without success. He had even helped 
 when the officers of the 95th had called together a few reli- 
 able men to check the excesses of those who were getting 
 out of hand. As he was borne into Badajoz, and felt the 
 stir of passions as they rose to answer the call of lawless- 
 ness and disorder, he had muttered to himself had said 
 to himself aloud, though he did not know it in the tense 
 excitement, "Keep straight, now, keep straight; oh, for 
 God's sake, keep straight!" And was it his fault alto- 
 gether that he had been as bad as the rest? He saw one 
 street, a broad street, with trees lining it, and deserted 
 seats here and there a public promenade, no doubt, in 
 times of peace very plainly. There were tall houses on 
 either side, houses with iron-studded doors after the Span- 
 ish fashion, with grated windows, with long, balconied 
 windows up above, through which splinters of light showed 
 between closed blinds. Fires, made of wrecked furniture, 
 branches of trees, carts, shutters, doors, towered into the 
 night, and flung strange lights, and strange leaping shadows 
 of men in shakoes and helmets all manner of uncouth 
 shadow headgears on the white and painted walls. Near 
 one of these furnaces in the centre of the street a group of 
 men stood, unsteadily, round a great open barrel. The 
 flames brought their faces dodging in and out of darkness; 
 faces like the faces of madmen; red eyes, lips black or 
 grey from biting of cartridges, brows and cheeks scratched 
 and bleeding, hair matted with sweat and blood. Every 
 moment some came running up, laughing with a laughter 
 weird and inhuman, and crashed on to the blaze costly 
 spoils; gilt-legged chairs, consoles, hacked-out fragments 
 of doors, wooden saints and virgins from the churches, still 
 in their garbs of tinselled, dusty silk all went in; all were
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 177 
 
 greeted by hoarse cheers, and stifling smoke, and fresh 
 sheaves of sparks. George had dodged a line of men who, 
 linked arm in arm, kicking their legs high in air, shouting 
 at the top of their voices, were chasing all who were luck- 
 less enough to get in their way, and, overturning them at 
 last, left them trampled and bruised on the stones. He 
 had ducked time after time when men, senseless already 
 with drink and victory, had fired aimlessly down the street, 
 killing even their own comrades. Was any one sober in 
 the 95th? Any one sane in the whole army? The fight- 
 ing was over; but in Badajoz itself there was almost as 
 much danger as in the trenches or on the counterscarp. 
 He waited in a doorway for a moment. A girl rushed out, 
 her black eyes wild with terror, her dress dishevelled, torn 
 by some rough hand so that the swelling breasts were seen 
 plainly, heaving with excitement, with panic, with repul- 
 sion. Some soldiers of another regiment were close be- 
 hind her, yelling like hunters near the quarry. George 
 thrust his foot out; one of the men fell, but recovered, and, 
 paying no heed to the obstacle, staggered after her again 
 George heard her shrieks, and saw the men close round 
 her. He ran out of his shelter again; the girl's figure had 
 possession of his brain, but still he mastered himself. And 
 then the group round the barrel seized and hustled him, as 
 they seized and hustled every passer-by. "Drink! drink!" 
 they ordered; half-a-dozen mess-tins, dipped into the bar- 
 rel, and now running over, were thrust towards him. Why, 
 they made Wellington himself drink to the Army, these 
 fellows. George saw him saw him with his own eyes. 
 Two soldiers had him by the arms; other officers were with 
 him, at the men's mercy. The great commander was pulled 
 to this side and that with the rocking of the drunken men. 
 They thrust their powder-grimed faces close to his, shouted 
 at him, an inch from his lips; George saw him, in the clear 
 firelight saw his nostrils quiver, no doubt as the stench 
 12
 
 178 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 of their spirit-charged breath poured into him. Everything 
 was so distinct in that remembered scene; even the quiver 
 of the high-arched nose, round which the skin was drawn 
 tight as the parchment of a drum. Why, he could 
 see still even the hands of the men as they raised the 
 tins, hands wet and red. And Wellington tried to argue 
 with them, to order them back into their senses a task 
 impossible even to him. He was howled down. With 
 his short, grim laugh, like whooping-cough, he drank. 
 They clapped him on the back for a good fellow, and let 
 him go. 
 
 The maddening smell of the liquor was under George's 
 nose. "Drink! drink!" He took a draught of the fiery, 
 choking stuff. The tin was clapped down tight against 
 his face; its contents poured over him, down his neck, 
 down his uniform, already soaked with blood, and dirt, 
 and perspiration. A second man hurled the first aside. 
 " Drink ! drink ! " A firelock was pointed unsteadily against 
 his breast. What could he do? At any moment the un- 
 steady, fumbling fingers might press the trigger He 
 drank again. 
 
 Lying on his bed in the Running Horse, with the sea and 
 the autumn wind sighing in his ears, he saw all this as if 
 it were just happening. But the succeeding scenes were 
 dim and blurred. He had a faint vision of another line of 
 men, linked arm in arm, rushing down the street he was 
 one, shouting as wildly as any, oaths, blasphemies, ribald 
 songs, even snatches of hymns remembered from quiet 
 Sundays in another world.' Men, women, children, were 
 scurrying before them, yelling; now and then a dark mass 
 rolled over in the dust, and was kicked, and trampled on, 
 and left behind. They were breaking off now to enter 
 houses, the doors of which were open. They drank anew, 
 smashing the necks from bottles, lolling over open casks, 
 and lapping up the spirit of the wine like dogs. One door,
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 179 
 
 a great, handsome door, very solid, and studded with great 
 nails, was slammed in their faces. That door annoyed 
 them. There had been the shimmer of silk garments within. 
 George had a vague recollection of firing his rifle against 
 the lock. Other rifles and muskets were pressed against 
 his. As the door at last was battered open, some of the 
 men, with the inconstancy of those drunk, caught sight of 
 an officer in charge of some ladies and rushed after him; 
 they swung him to a post, with belts and accoutrements; 
 one great fellow, with a stupid, simpering laugh, pushed 
 him to and fro with the butt of his firelock, swinging him 
 as he was trussed laughing that silly, simpering laugh 
 all the time. George and two other men rushed into the 
 house. An old man with a white peaked beard hurled a 
 chair at the foremost; the man slipped on the marble 
 floor, and lay there, his ten black fingers and thumbs stuck 
 out in the most ludicrous fashion, his limbs like the stuffed 
 limbs of some lay figure. Then somehow or other the 
 old man's face and beard crimsoned; he crashed down, 
 and lay, a quivering heap of clothes. Why, he was a small 
 man, but suddenly he seemed to have shrunk into almost 
 nothingness. There was a cry in the room beyond, a wo- 
 man's shriek, and the curtains separating them parted, 
 showing the white, scared face of a young man, his little 
 stiff moustache very black against his colourless skin. 
 And behind him was a young woman, wide-eyed, in light 
 clothing. It was a race between George and the other 
 soldier. For a second the sword of the young Spaniard 
 flickered in the candle-light, a thin line of dancing light 
 itself. He flung his arms up, and fell backwards. George 
 had been first; but the second soldier was at his heels, 
 panting, clutching at his tunic. George looked round 
 savagely. That face, too, came back to him distinctly 
 a face with the lips drawn from the yellow dog-teeth, like 
 a snarling beast's perhaps his own were, too, at that
 
 180 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 moment. Desire went out of the snarling face suddenly, 
 as the butt of the rifle fell George had won. 
 
 He had thought afterwards, when the horror of waking 
 had come, that the young Spaniard must have been the 
 girl's newly wedded husband; she was quite young, and 
 one white hand that tried to keep him back had on it a 
 band of gold, broad and new and glistening. 
 
 This was the first night after the taking of Badajoz the 
 beginning of the three days' reign of anarchy, and terror, 
 and unchecked crime, which ended only when Wellington 
 ordered in the Portuguese troops, and set up the great 
 triple gallows in the Square. 
 
 For the first time since his senses had come back to him, 
 George dwelt willingly on these scenes. He had done all 
 this: the unwanted memory, forcing itself upon him, had 
 made the nights of his illness and convalescence terrible. 
 He had repented bitterly. And he had come back, meaning 
 to begin a clean and wholesome life; purged of his ambi- 
 tion; a slave no longer, he hoped, to the mad devils of lust, 
 and cruelty, and drunkenness that had ruled him. . . . 
 And what had he gained by his resolves? 
 
 He sat up in bed, then crossed to the door, and opened 
 it very quietly, and stood listening. It was very quiet in 
 the house.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 'T'HE air seemed stifling, though it was a cool autumn 
 1 night. He stood with strained ears, irresolute. What 
 had he gained by those resolves? Had God if there were 
 this God they talked about had He helped him? At the 
 threshold of his old home and his changed life, he had 
 found the girl whom he had loved an hour-old bride. At 
 their threshold, he had learnt that his mother had gone 
 where no letters could ever reach her, no love or sorrow 
 or remorse be told. For a year now he had had to watch 
 his brother's happiness in the smiles and glances and little 
 wifely duties that should have been for him. And yet he 
 had been loyal, true to his part of the bargain of reforma- 
 tion, and had thrown aside his own ambitions to help his 
 brother and his wife. Was it his fault that everything had 
 failed ? It seemed as if the heavens had a spite against him, 
 as if they remembered, and would not forget; as if the 
 Creator lacked the generosity to forgive sins so bitterly 
 repented. But he would repent no longer. He even found 
 excuses, in his earlier valour, in his half-hearted efforts to 
 keep straight, in the urgings of circumstance. Many a 
 score of men whom the old graves cover, shuddering in age 
 over those wild Badajoz nights, must have sought just 
 such excuses to shield them from the belated consequences 
 of their acts. 
 
 For George was reaping part of his punishment in weaker 
 resistance to this temptation. Bess was alone in the room 
 below John away the doors locked against the world! 
 If he were not to love her, what right had God to make the 
 forbidden fruit so sweet? He wondered whether Bess was 
 sleeping. Perhaps she was righting a battle, too, in her 
 room. Oh, he felt sure she loved him! 
 
 181
 
 182 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 After what seemed an age of thought and hesitation, one 
 motive swayed him: his desire. He stepped out, bare- 
 footed, into the passage. He crept very quietly past Deli- 
 lah's door, though she was always a sound sleeper, and 
 went down the short narrow flight of stairs. He had scarcely 
 formed any plan of action. There was the sound of regu- 
 lar breathing within Bess's room, and he listened, wonder- 
 ing whether she were awake. The clocks struck in the 
 still night, marking the hours remorselessly which brought 
 the unconscious sleepers nearer and nearer to the beds in 
 which they would all lie, one night, for the long sleep 
 solemn, warning voices, clear and distinct in the silence. 
 To George they meant only that day was coming; the 
 night ending, his opportunity perhaps slipping by. 
 
 Oh, he must win her over now to the great decision 
 he knew what to say, how to urge and coax her into flight. 
 They would be away before cock-crow away together 
 through the sleeping hamlet, through the sleeping country, 
 answering the call of the great city. . . . 
 
 "Bess!" he whispered, and tapped softly. 
 
 He waited anxiously for an answer. In the dead of 
 night, whispering together, young together, he knew he 
 could persuade her. Passion would leap out to meet passion 
 from the darkness and the silence. 
 
 "Bess!" 
 
 Had she been awake, his voice was so low, so hoarsely 
 timid of the great stillness in the house, that it could not 
 have reached her ears. Yet it seemed to him as if he had 
 shouted her name. His heart beat faster. 
 
 But no answer came; and now it seemed as if the sound 
 of his own voice had broken some spell which held him. 
 He realised suddenly where he was, what he was doing. 
 In the dead of night, at the door of the room in which his 
 brother's wife was sleeping! The room where his mother 
 and father had slept when he was a child! The door
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 183 
 
 through which their bodies had been carried to the grave! 
 Barefooted, as he was now, he had stood with his brother 
 at that door, years and years ago, carrying little gifts on 
 Christmas or birthday mornings. Oh, what a fool he was! 
 But there was still time to go back; to shut himself in his 
 room; to fight the evil in his heart and conquer it. He 
 went to the foot of the steps. Then the sudden recollec- 
 tion flashed across his mind that there was no bolt on 
 Bess's door; she and John always slept with it unfastened. 
 The temptation was too great. Some power, almost physi- 
 cal, seemed to drag him back, still unwilling. He would 
 open the door a little just an inch or two. A moon shone 
 now through filmy clouds. He would just push the door 
 wide enough open to see her lying there, flushed in sleep, 
 with her dark hair covering the pillow just wide enough 
 for that and then go back. 
 
 But if she were awake? Awake, with those mysterious, 
 compelling eyes open and turned towards him? Well, 
 
 then He resisted no longer. But he would be very 
 
 cautious; he must not startle her, and make her cry out, 
 with Delilah sleeping overhead. George beat down the 
 last warning impulse which might have been his salvation, 
 and hers. 
 
 The handle turned noiselessly almost noiselessly, though 
 his heart gave a great leap and stood still at the faint 
 creak that sounded, in his tense excitement, almost like a 
 pistol-shot ringing through the silent house. He waited a 
 second or two, his hand still circling the smooth metal, 
 then pushed the door gently, an inch, two inches. Some- 
 thing resisted. He pushed against the obstacle, cautiously 
 at first, then more boldly. 
 
 What was that? 
 
 He sprang back and stood quivering. Without warning, 
 a din like the outbreak of pandemonium rose inside the 
 room. A heavy chair, poised with its back against the door,
 
 184 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 its tilted legs resting against a box, had been suddenly 
 dislodged; it clattered sidelong down, making a noise out 
 of all proportion, in the silence, to the effect that caused it. 
 
 ' ' What is it ? Who 's there ? " 
 
 It was Bess's voice, strained and startled; yet he could 
 tell that courage struggled with her fear. The wooden 
 bedstead creaked; he heard the sound of her bare feet 
 crossing the floor. 
 
 "Bess! Bess!" he whispered, hoarsely, "I can't sleep, I 
 
 can't rest Oh, my love, it's no good, you must 
 
 come " 
 
 "George!" 
 
 Her nearness maddened him. He pushed desperately 
 at the door, thrust it a foot ajar, and, through the opening, 
 caught a glimpse of her there in the moonlight, pale, 
 wide-eyed, with her dark hair sweeping the shoulders of 
 her white nightgown like a cloud. All caution, all scruples, 
 all self-deception, were swept to the winds now. The mad 
 impulse only possessed him, to catch her to his breast, to 
 breathe into her ears all his sighing, aching passion; to 
 coax her, urge her, frighten her, if need were, into love 
 equal to his own love selfish, unbridled, intent only on 
 the satisfaction of its hunger. 
 
 With a little cry she sprang to the door, and pushed 
 against his great strength. How pitiful and almost laugh- 
 able! He caught one little hand roughly, and covered it 
 with hot kisses, even while he was overcoming her resist- 
 ance. "Delilah! Delilah!" she cried. Oh, it was not loud 
 enough, that, to carry to the attic where Delilah slept, 
 unawakened even by the uproar of his entry. Even now, 
 in his appalling egoism, he began to imagine that the 
 resistance was only feigned, the cry modulated intention- 
 ally so that it should not reach the sleeper's ears uttered 
 merely as a salve to modesty and convention. 
 
 An awful awakening came to him, quite suddenly.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 185 
 
 Loud and raucous, in the very room itself, rose Deli- 
 lah's voice. "What is it? Oh, my, it's the end what, 
 Must' George! Hold the door, mum, hold the door I'm 
 coming! Must' George trying to get in! Go away. Go 
 away at once. I never beared of such a thing. In a decent 
 house but the Lord only knows " 
 
 She was out of bed as she spoke, rushing across the room; 
 through the opening, now wider, he saw the freckled face 
 distorted with anger, the fiery hair, screwed tightly for the 
 night, shaking like Medusa locks. Her first thought had 
 been of that judgment day on which her mind was set so 
 often. The din of the falling chair had startled her into a 
 consciousness too confused for speech or action. But the 
 merely physical had few terrors for her none now, in the 
 revulsion of feeling from expectation of that final cata- 
 clysm. Spluttering out indignant threats, a running com- 
 mination service of splenetic abuse, she joined her strength 
 to that of her mistress. Before George had recovered 
 from the shock, the door was slammed in his face; one 
 of his fingers, withdrawn just too late, was numbed 
 and mangled. Pain, rage, the sudden awakening to 
 the fact that Bess's thoughts had never travelled the 
 same unclean road as his, made him persist, in ungovern- 
 able fury. 
 
 "What's it to do with you?" he shouted. "Open the 
 door, and come out, and go to your room. Bess, don't be 
 a little fool. You can't live this life you don't know 
 what you're doing " 
 
 "She knows well enough," screamed Delilah. She 
 jerked out texts, threats, fearful warnings of judgment to 
 come, between punctuating grunts, as her brawny, freckled 
 arms, used to years of hard work and the carrying of heavy 
 burdens, kept the door from yielding. It was like the door 
 at Badajoz again. "I never beared of such a thing! But 
 God Himself only knows what to expect from a soager
 
 186 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 who's been in those bloody wars, fearing neither Him nor 
 man 'hating the good and not the evil, plucking off their 
 skin from off them, and their flesh from' oh, oh, oh! 
 Mrs. Kennett the nasty-minded man, he's " 
 
 "Listen to me, listen, Bess. I'm not talking to you, 
 Delilah. Hold your tongue." 
 
 "Hold my tongue? Ah, you'll have more to fear than 
 my tongue for this in that great and notable day, Must' 
 George, when you're calling on the very rocks to cover you, 
 and they won't and you're hurled into that lake of brim- 
 stone to burn for ever an' ever for this night's work. I've 
 been af eared of some awful judgment for living in the seat 
 of sinners and the scornful ; but I see now why I was led to 
 stay the Lord's doing only, though marvellous in my eyes. 
 Push harder, Mrs. Kennett. It's well you you did ax 
 me to sleep with you to-night, my dear; though little I 
 knew why. Oh, oh!" 
 
 George drew back. He sucked his finger, and looked at 
 it ruefully in the moonlight, with which dawn would soon 
 contend. His thoughts were far away from the little 
 wound. A cock crew in the yard. 
 
 "Go to your room, Must' George; go to your room, and 
 fall on your knees, and then go your way. Even the bird 
 knows its Lord denied and mocked." 
 
 He would have that door down. Suddenly he rushed 
 forward, and struck at it savagely with both fists, kicked 
 at it even, though his feet were bare, and the impact sent 
 him back again, bruised and bleeding. From within he 
 heard Bess's hard breathing now and then a little, gasp- 
 ing sob, but no words. Delilah only broke off her torrent 
 to draw breath. He attacked the door again and again, 
 madly, insensately. At last Delilah called out with a new 
 note of hope and warning in her voice. 
 
 "The rattle! The rattle! Push hard, mum, just for a 
 moment." The door almost yielded; then, as the servant
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 187 
 
 hurled herself back at it with all her weight, was rammed 
 home once more into the frame. "I've got it, I've got it," 
 Delilah cried triumphantly. There was a warning whirr. 
 " Go away at once, or I'll sound it and call the neighbours." 
 He knew that she had in her hand now the great wooden 
 rattle, used in those days to give warning against robbers; 
 it clicked round again, like the clearing of some colossal 
 throat preparatory to speech. In another moment the 
 whole village would be alarmed. Fishermen, tradesmen, 
 peasants, would be running from all parts to the inn, 
 hammering at the door, effecting an entrance, if Delilah 
 ran to the window and shrieked for help. 
 
 George rapped out a flood of oaths all covering of de- 
 cent self-respect long gone and went back to his room. 
 He sat down on the bed, and tried to think. His brain was 
 in a whirl. What had he done? Was it all a dream? All a 
 nightmare? The whole scene was quite unpremeditated. 
 He had formed no active resolution when he left this room 
 so short a time ago. He had lost all hope of Bess for ever 
 now for ever. Although the reaction had not yet fully 
 come, he knew that he had to look forward now to an awful 
 reckoning, like that which followed Badajoz, for days, and 
 months, and at intervals for years. 
 
 He dressed almost mechanically, and put his few belong- 
 ings together, like a man acting in his sleep. The two wo- 
 men, clinging to each other in the bedroom behind hastily 
 made barricades, heard the slow footsteps creaking on the 
 stairs, heard the click of the bolt as he unfastened the 
 door leading from the passage to the parlour. George 
 went into the bar. In the faint light for the blinds were 
 drawn he groped his way to the little shelf where bottles 
 and tankards were ranged, and drew himself a stiff glass 
 of the liquor that was more than half responsible for the 
 night's mad scene. At last the listeners upstairs heard the 
 bang of the outer door.
 
 188 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 Bess flung herself into Delilah's arms, and wept at last, 
 unrestrained, while the freckled hand smoothed the dark, 
 cloudy hair. 
 
 George stood for a moment, haggard-eyed, looking at 
 the sea and the lonely beaches. Very empty and silent 
 lay the world. He passed below the sleeping houses by 
 Captain Rockett's quiet garden, where the carved figure- 
 heads seemed to eye him with wonder and reproach. What 
 a fool he had been! What a mad and wicked fool! He 
 could almost feel the sinking of his spirit from the exalta- 
 tion of rage and passion to the lowest hell of remorse and 
 depression. But as yet he could scarcely think. His head 
 was burning, his hands were dry and hot. He gave one 
 long look at the sea, which had watched his boyhood, and 
 helped him when he heard the news of his mother's death 
 and the ending of his dreams of happiness. There was no 
 help for him there now no soothing balm in its soft breezes, 
 no message of healing and forgiving. 
 
 He shuddered, and, turning his back on the great space 
 of water, strode quickly up the Canterbury road.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 A FEW hours later, while George was waiting in Canter- 
 bury for the London coach to start, John Kennett 
 left Sturry for his home. He rode slowly, burdened with 
 the weight of bad news. When he had visited the lawyers 
 on the previous day, they had received him cordially at 
 first, expecting the little genial pantomime which usually 
 preceded the payment of interest on the mortgage. Sitting 
 in their dusty office, the two partners had heard the delib- 
 erate, heavy tread on the stairs, the loud single knock at 
 the door. "Come in," cried Mr. Jeacock, the elder man, 
 fat, flabby, pasty-faced, with three chins, the lowest tucked 
 away as if in bashfulness beneath a heavy stock but con- 
 stantly emerging. "Ah, how do you do, Mr. Kennett?" 
 Then Mr. Wetherby, the junior partner, who was thin and 
 narrow-faced, with black hair and a skin like yellow 
 parchment, rose to welcome him. 
 
 Hitherto, the procedure had always been the same on 
 these visits. John would shake hands solemnly, brush his 
 hat on his sleeve, and place it with mathematical exact- 
 ness under the very centre of his chair. "A fine day, 
 gentlemen," he would say be the weather what it might 
 and then, correcting himself if it poured in torrents, " least- 
 ways, we've had some grand weather lately, so we mustn't 
 grumble. It seems to me all weather's specially made for 
 them that keep refreshment for man and beast. But I 
 suppose, gentlemen, it's much the same with you in your 
 walk of life? You can work rain or shine ha, ha! " 
 
 "Well, yes, Mr. Kennett," the stout partner would say, 
 "we're not much dependent on the weather not much 
 dependent on the weather. Mr. Wetherby, I daresay Mr. 
 Kennett will take a glass of wine." 
 
 189
 
 190 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 The junior partner would then get out a decanter and 
 thin-stemmed glasses from a neighbouring cupboard, and 
 over this refreshment local matters, crops, and the pros- 
 pects of business would be discussed. At last John would 
 rise, and say good-morning, and solemnly shake hands. 
 Not until he was near the door would he pause, as if puzzled, 
 and dive one hand deep into his breeches pocket. " Blessed 
 if I wasn't clean forgetting what I corned about, gentle- 
 men," he would say, with a bashful laugh. And, with that, 
 out would come a crumpled paper, a jack-knife, some 
 string, some coppers, and finally a netted purse of green 
 silk, with gilt rings, and tassels like acorns. From this he 
 dropped out slowly into his great palm the amount named 
 on the paper, and waited, twisting his hat between his 
 hands, while the receipt was being made out. The door 
 was never long closed before a throaty chuckle came from 
 the senior partner, and a short, barking laugh from the 
 junior. "A very honest fellow that, Mr. Wetherby," the 
 senior would say. "Always here to the minute with his 
 money to the very minute." "A very honest man, Mr. 
 Jeacock," his partner would reply. 
 
 John usually went homewards guffawing at intervals, 
 and told Bess, directly he got indoors, that he had made 
 the lawyers fancy they weren't going to get their money, 
 and had gained six and eightpence over the transaction. 
 "I reckon the talk I had with them was worth six and 
 eight, eh, lass?" he would say, chuckling at the recollection. 
 
 But on this occasion, though he doffed his hat as usual, 
 he did not put it underneath the chair. He shook hands, 
 because the hands were held out but hastily, and with 
 gloomy face. His hand then dived immediately into the 
 deep pocket. The genial laugh was gone; the corners of the 
 mouth turned down ruefully. The old partner tried to in- 
 tercept the motion. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Kennett? 
 Mr. Wetherby, I daresay Mr. Kennett will take a glass "
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 191 
 
 "No, I thank you, sir," said John, hastily, still fumbling 
 in his pocket. The crumpled paper was produced at last. 
 He peered at it closely, stammered, began a sentence and 
 broke off. It was curious it would have been curious, 
 had he raised his eyes to their faces to see the expressions 
 of Mr. Jeacock and Mr. Wetherby slowly change. At last 
 he managed to blurt out the fact that he couldn't pay. He 
 stammered out something about bad times, better pro- 
 pects, an extension of the days of grace. The two lawyers 
 looked very serious now. 
 
 " Dear, dear, dear!" said the senior partner. "I'm sorry 
 to hear this, for your sake, Mr. Kennett. But you'll take 
 a glass of wine while we talk the matter over? No? Well, 
 I'm sorry to hear this, as I say, because you find yourself 
 unable to pay at a very awkward time for us. The bank 
 failure has affected us too indirectly, of course indi- 
 rectly but still fairly seriously. I tell you this in confi- 
 dence. We've done business for your family for some years, 
 and it would be with the greatest regret eh, Mr. Wetherby? 
 with the very greatest regret that we should see any other 
 occupant of the Running Horse. Under different circum- 
 stances we would agree to anything rather than foreclose. 
 But in these times grave financial depression no busi- 
 ness doing eh, Mr. Wetherby?" 
 
 Mr. Wetherby wagged his thin, solemn, parchment- 
 visaged head gravely. 
 
 "Our profession is the first to be affected," continued 
 Mr. Jeacock. "If people have no money to leave, they 
 make no wills; no money means no litigation; no litiga- 
 tion but when do you expect to be able to pay? I ask 
 merely as a question, mind, without prejudice; but how 
 long do you anticipate eh " 
 
 "In a few months, I hope," muttered John, twirling his 
 hat; then, with a sudden shame at this hand-to-mouth 
 hoping which might mean anything or nothing, "but there,
 
 192 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 
 
 I can't promise, anyhow, gentlemen. I can't give my word. 
 If trade improves " 
 
 "Exactly. If trade improves. An asset which is en- 
 tirely in the air." Mr. Jeacock put the tip of his quill in 
 his mouth, and thrust his third chin back into the stock. 
 "Now, you're frank with us, Mr. Kennett, and we'll be 
 equally frank with you. If the payments are not forth- 
 coming, we are entitled to foreclose. It will probably 
 occur to you that in these times of bad trade we should 
 have a difficulty in finding another tenant if we took pos- 
 session. Your business has not paid, and empty bricks 
 and timber would be of no advantage to us." 
 
 "I had thought of that, sir," said John. Was there 
 anything he had not thought of on the road to Canterbury ? 
 
 His face cleared a little. Perhaps they would let him 
 stay on at the old home as their tenant, and make some 
 arrangement by which he could buy back the property in 
 better times. They were just and fair men, he believed. 
 
 "But," continued Mr. Jeacock, taking the quill out of 
 his mouth, and looking at his partner rather than his 
 client, "we have just had an offer which puts our relations 
 on a different footing a footing, I am afraid, less favour- 
 able to your hopes. A proposal has been made by which, 
 if you fail to meet the payments, we can dispose of the 
 property at a handsome profit. If it were any one but 
 you, Mr. Kennett to speak more correctly, if it were any 
 one with whose family we had had less friendly relations 
 in the past we should not hesitate to close with this offer. 
 Business is business, and I find no justification in Coke or 
 Blackstone for admixing it with sentiment. I think, 
 however " 
 
 "Might I ask you, sir, who made " 
 
 "No, no, Mr. Kennett," said Jeacock, with a reprov- 
 ing smile, "no, no; really, my dear Mr. Kennett, you 
 must not ask me to divulge professional secrets. Eh, Mr.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 193 
 
 Wetherby? We have no authority to tell you that; at 
 present our client does not wish his name to appear. But 
 we are ready to stretch a point in your favour. We'll be 
 generous, and give you a week's grace there, let us say a 
 fortnight's. I'll not conceal the fact that we run a grave 
 risk of losing money by doing so." 
 
 "It's very kind of you, gentlemen," said John, hope- 
 lessly. "I'm sure I'm much obliged to you " 
 
 "Not at all, not at all. And possibly, if you fail to ob- 
 tain the money then mind, I say possibly, not probably 
 our client might consent to retain you as a tenant. I 
 will mention the matter, and shall be pleased to recommend 
 you." 
 
 "It's very kind of you, sir," was all that John could 
 say, and a moment later he found himself bowed out. 
 
 He stood half-dazed in the street again, before he quite 
 realised how abruptly he had been dismissed. The lawyers 
 evidently meant to treat him with sympathy and kindli- 
 ness, but he had not failed to notice the change in their 
 manner. An acquaintance passed him, and turned his 
 head. John, unsuspicious, hurried after him; the man 
 responded awkwardly to his greeting, and took the first 
 opportunity of making his escape. The news of his loss 
 in the bank failure seemed to have spread; even old friends, 
 fearing the suggestion of a loan, shrank into themselves 
 like touched tortoises as he came near. He went to the 
 furniture dealers, and soon discovered how much easier it 
 is to buy than sell. His last hope was at Sturry. 
 
 The Fords welcomed him warmly enough, but his cousin 
 saw little prospect of raising sufficient money to tide him 
 over his difficulties. There were so many just then who 
 were breaking up their homes so few purchasers. But 
 Ford, before he left in the morning, pressed a small loan on 
 him, which John refused at first, and then, thinking of Bess, 
 pocketed, blushing like a first offender caught red-handed. 
 13
 
 194 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 He rode home slowly, thinking of his failure. The fort- 
 night's grace meant only a little longer waiting for the 
 sword to fall. Who had made the offer for the inn? No 
 other innkeeper at Herne Bay, he felt certain. Possibly 
 some man with capital, who foresaw the prosperity on 
 which they had built their hopes, and, unlike them, could 
 afford to wait until it came. It would be very galling if 
 this man stepped in and reaped the profits of their enter- 
 prise. He turned over a few names in his mind, but at 
 last gave up the problem as insoluble. 
 
 John led Blossom to her stall, and groomed her after 
 the journey. He was in no hurry to tell Bess his news. 
 Poor little lass! What a peck of troubles she had bar- 
 gained for, unknowingly, when she promised to take him 
 for better or for worse, in the grey old church at Whitstable! 
 
 Delilah Gummer came into the yard with a basket of 
 scraps for the fowls. She was red-eyed, gloomy-browed, 
 and flung the food inattentively to the cluster of black 
 Orpingtons who came clucking round, their red combs 
 wagging like poppies in a wind. She greeted her master 
 with a doleful sigh, and eyed him as if exacting a question. 
 
 "Good morning, 'Lilah. Is your missus indoors?" 
 
 "Yes, she be indoors." Another sigh of deep meaning. 
 
 "Ask Must' George if he'd mind finishing Blossom, will 
 'ee?" 
 
 " No, I won't do that, Must' John, 'cause I can't." She 
 took a dismal pleasure in the mystery, and the disclosure 
 she was on the point of making. It was a little irritating 
 that, in his abstraction of mood, John had not noticed the 
 sniffs and sighs. 
 
 "Won't? Can't?" John turned his head. "Why, what's 
 the matter now, 'Lilah? Aren't you well?" 
 
 "Oh, I'm well enough, Must' John. As well as may be, 
 that is. Not that I haven't my burdens to bear, like other 
 folk, with such a stummick as runs in our family, but I
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 195 
 
 can't grumble. I've always had that and I always will till 
 my dying day, but I know how to endure it and be thank- 
 ful, praise God." She groaned again. 
 
 "Well, if it ain't the goose you had yesterday, I suppose 
 you've been talking about religion again with Must' 
 George. You won't convart him by quarrelling and then 
 not speaking for hours, though. Go and give him my 
 message, there's a good woman." 
 
 "Good woman, Must' John! There's some as may be 
 in this house, and some as may not leaving women out 
 of the question, as they'd better be left out, poor souls, 
 out of the world too, I should think, with all respect; for 
 what on earth God made Eve for I can't humbly imagine. 
 Ah" with a deep-drawn sigh "true enough, as Job says, 
 we'm born to trouble, 'specially them as has pretty faces, 
 which are but a delusion and a snare." 
 
 John looked in bewilderment at Delilah's face, with its 
 jagged fringe of carrot-red hair, the small, red-rimmed 
 eyes, the freckled features on which squeezed-out tears 
 had traced channels through the grime of the morning's 
 house-work. Once or twice, when in high spirits, George 
 had pretended to pay ardent court to her. It was not 
 impossible that she had taken some of his recent endear- 
 ments too seriously, and was accusing herself of fanciful 
 sins of desire. A faint smile crept over John's face. 
 
 "Oh, it's not me; you needn't look at me like that, 
 Must' John. Oh, my, it's well you've come back. I shan't 
 never forget the night we've had. Oh, the wickedness of 
 the world! But I knowed well enough what'd come from 
 those beliefs of his 
 
 " ' From thoughts so dreadful and profane 
 
 Corrupt discourse proceeds, 
 And in their impious hands are found 
 Abominable deeds ' 
 
 and often and often have I said to myself "
 
 196 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 " What is the matter?" 
 
 "Ah, you may well ax me! Matter enough, Must' John; 
 but doan't say I spoke a word before you told me to. I 
 suppose your poor wife upstairs should tell you if any one 
 did, poor lamb going through all she has " 
 
 "What are you rambling on about now?" John asked, 
 impatiently. "Where's your mistress?" 
 
 "Upstairs in bed still, and the best place for her, poor 
 
 dear. But there " She stepped in front of him as he 
 
 was hurrying indoors. Delilah had no mind to leave the 
 first telling of her story to any other tongue. " If you must 
 have it, you must, so there's no more to be said. Must' 
 George has run away." 
 
 " Run away ? Whatever do you mean ? " 
 
 "Just what I say, Must' John," she said, standing with 
 arms akimbo, facing him in the doorway. "Runned away 
 first thing this morning. And time enough too. Bursting 
 into missus's bedroom! Shouting out about loving her, 
 and taking her away to London " 
 
 "What? What? Mr. George? I don't know what you're 
 talking of." 
 
 "Don't glare at me like that, Must' John, it's gospel 
 truth I'm telling you. Oh, don't pinch my arm so. You 
 hurt. Yes, he did, he did," she was gasping now, half- 
 frightened at what she had revealed, and its effect "I 
 beared him myself I was in the room and he got in ' 
 
 "Bess! Bess!" Before she could stop him, John was 
 springing up the stairs, three at a stride. He burst into 
 his wife's room. "Bess, what's this? Is Delilah lying? 
 Tell me tell me. Oh, I know it's true. I can see it's true." 
 A glance at her face confirmed the story without words. 
 He paced to and fro. "Tell me all, everything every- 
 thing! You went to your feyther's? Yes? And he prom- 
 ised to help us? Yes? Well, the world's beyond me. Go 
 on, go on. And George met you, and "
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 197 
 
 Piece by piece, he drew out the story. 
 
 "And you were engaged to him before? Oh, he asked 
 you not to say, did he? Yes? And he's been living under 
 our roof and plotting and scheming all this while my 
 brother my only brother!" 
 
 He was silent when she ended, and paced up and down 
 the room. 
 
 "John, dear my dear husband we've one another; 
 he's gone " 
 
 "Doan't talk, doan't talk now, Bess. My own brother! 
 In this room, too! Oh, let me think. The world's all 
 topsy-turvy, seems to me. Your feyther helps us; my 
 brother " 
 
 He flung open the window suddenly, as if the air was 
 suffocating perhaps with some dim sense of cleansing it 
 after the contamination of the night. In this room! The 
 room where his father had knelt, night after night, morning 
 after morning, for help to lead that clean and manly and 
 simple life which had made his name respected and his 
 memory loved. The room where his mother had passed 
 away, curtseying humbly to her Maker as the gates of 
 heaven opened at the sunset. The room where, by her 
 body, Bess's hand had first stolen into his. It was like a 
 nightmare, the thought of the hours that had so recently 
 sped back into the past. While he was sleeping in the 
 lavender-scented bed at Sturry, all this had been happen- 
 ing George slinking like a thief towards the room, forcing 
 open the door against their strength 
 
 "Curse him!" he broke out, suddenly. "May God's 
 curse follow him for this night's work! Love he love you! 
 Why didn't he go away before? Oh, why didn't he go? 
 I treated him well, lass, I did; I treated him fairly; all 
 that I had I shared. And he oh, if you'd married him, 
 and I'd loved you ever so, if you'd loved me, even, I'd never 
 have tempted you from your duty. And yet if it'd break
 
 198 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 my heart, I'd rather you'd have gone than keep on living 
 with one you didn't love. That must be hell on earth. 
 But not to go with another! Not to sin against God! We 
 could part with clean hearts. And he said you loved him? 
 It was him you always loved? Bess, look at me look 
 straight in my eyes. The truth, now, if it's to break my 
 heart. Were you do you, the least bit " 
 
 His eyes fell before her clear, direct glance. "Oh, lass, 
 lass, I doan't know what's coming over me," he said, mis- 
 erably. "I can't trust any one, seemingly. But I won't 
 ask it, lass. I won't ask you." He caught her suddenly 
 in his arms, crushing her to him until she could have cried 
 out with the fierce pain of the embrace. "Oh, God, lass 
 my little lass if I'd thought I'd lost you! If I thought 
 for one moment that you didn't love me still! But I didn't 
 ask I wouldn't ask because I knew. You're all the world 
 to me, and God's too kind to take your love away." 
 
 "And you're my world to me, John, you know you are," 
 she whispered. "Oh, I wanted you so last night!" 
 
 "Yes, yes, but he's gone now. I didn't never think I'd 
 live to be glad of that my own brother, him that was 
 nursed at the same breast, and clutched me round the 
 waist many a night in bed when we were tiny little chaps 
 and the sky was all split up with lightning, and the great 
 seas well, he's gone, and we've got each other. But if I 
 see him again if he comes back though he's my own 
 brother!" His fists clenched and unclenched slowly. 
 "And I said the Lord's Prayer this morning," he muttered, 
 "'Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive' but it's hard, 
 too hard for me, that!" 
 
 In the afternoon John went to Eddington to thank 
 Roger Huntingdon for his help. But for the incidents of the 
 night and his experiences at Canterbury the previous day, 
 he would have welcomed it with unreflecting and uncrit- 
 ical gratitude. Now he began to search for motives an
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 199 
 
 attitude of mind hitherto foreign to him. Why had Hunt- 
 ingdon relented so suddenly ? Why, after his terrible curse, 
 had he proved so ready to help them when the curse seemed 
 likely to be fulfilled? 
 
 Bess had kept the ten guineas in her room fortunately, 
 for they found that, before leaving, George had helped 
 himself to money from the till. 
 
 "I'll take the gold with me, Bess," said John, "in case 
 I think I ought to give it back. It'll depend on what he 
 says or does. I can't understand it. Is there anything 
 behind, I wonder? Oh, I won't give it back unless I feel 
 obliged to, lass; trust me for that. But oh, I don't 
 know. This world queers me, it does." 
 
 Huntingdon was near the house, booted and spurred; 
 he had just been riding through his fields. The retriever 
 which had barked at Bess, and then given her her first and 
 heartiest welcome to the house, rushed out growling as 
 John drew near, and stood a few feet from him, snarling, 
 and baring its teeth savagely. Huntingdon called it to 
 heel. It had not escaped his notice that his visitor had 
 not flinched before its onset. His small, keen eyes, browed 
 so heavily, had been watching for the slightest shade of fear. 
 
 "To heel, Caesar," he called, sharply. "He's not partial 
 to visitors, my dog. Short shrift to any one who hangs 
 round the farm when he's off his chain and I'm not near 
 to call him back." He stooped down and patted the brute's 
 shaggy coat. "A useful animal in these days, when the 
 roads are full of beggars and desperate men." 
 
 John wondered whether the last words veiled a taunt. 
 
 "Well, you want to see me?" 
 
 "I wanted to see you, yes, Mr. Huntingdon. Bess 
 my wife " 
 
 Huntingdon's eyelids flickered. 
 
 " has just told me about coming to see you yester- 
 day. I knowed nothing of her coming, and I don't know,
 
 200 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 sir, as I'd have let her if I had. Yet we've found our best 
 friend in one we least expected help from, and I came to 
 thank " 
 
 "You thought it unlikely a father'd save his daughter 
 from disgrace, eh ? " 
 
 "Not disgrace, sir no disgrace is there in misfortune; 
 but from misfortune, yes, I did. I see I did you an injus- 
 tice, sir, by thinking hard thoughts about you. And I 
 came to beg your pardon, and to thank you." 
 
 "You needn't thank me. But come inside, into the 
 house; we'll talk there." 
 
 As he led the way, the farmer pointed with his whip to 
 the portraits on the walls. 
 
 "See them?" he asked, abruptly. "My grandfather 
 there; and that's my great-grandfather; and that's a 
 Huntingdon who fought in King Charles's wars. All my 
 folk, for more than two hundred years though there's 
 two or three missing; those blanks are left for them. Your 
 wife comes of good stock, you see. Well, I can't have her 
 starving by the roadside." 
 
 It was gall and wormwood to John as, no doubt, his 
 father-in-law meant it this hint as to Bess's fate. Little 
 had he thought on that marriage day on that night when 
 Huntingdon came raving and cursing to the inn that so 
 soon he would be taunted with what would be the fact, or 
 at least the prospect, if he declined his help. John's fin- 
 gers itched at the guineas in his pocket. 
 
 Huntingdon watched his face change colour to an angrier 
 red, and gave a grim chuckle. 
 
 "There, there trade's bad, I suppose eh, what? 
 You've not done so well as you expected? I'm hit a little 
 myself by this bank failure a little." He broke off with 
 startling irrelevancy. "Look at that woman over there," 
 he said. "See? With the blue satin and the roses Lely 
 painted her, if you've ever heard of him; and she's worth
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 201 
 
 well, more than the Running Horse, I suppose." John's 
 glance followed the pointing whip; he saw a pretty, dim- 
 pled face, with some hint of Bess in the eyes sadder eyes, 
 though, wistful and lonely eyes, that seemed to hold mem- 
 ories of many happy faces all vanished now, while hers 
 still lived on canvas for other generations to look at, and 
 wonder over. Huntingdon stood before the portrait for a 
 few moments without speaking. "She's only just come 
 back," he said, at last. "Ambs-ace lost her; sink cater 
 won her again. Diced for, and I got her back with the 
 dice. Money wouldn't buy her, so I played for her; though 
 that's a game I don't affect without an object. . . . Well, 
 why don't you sit down? Molly," he shouted to the maid, 
 "bring in some wine." While it was being brought he 
 stood straddle-legged, his hands deep in the pockets of his 
 breeches, and eyed his guest with a queer, quizzical smile, 
 his mouth twisting. There may have been a threat meant 
 in the illustration of the stubbornness with which he set 
 himself to achieve any object he had fixed his heart upon; 
 John, scarcely suspecting it, felt vague uneasiness at the 
 smile and the irrelevancy of the words. "Yes, I'm only a 
 gamester when it suits me, or when it pleases me," he 
 went on. "No wine? Oh, yes; and we'll say what we 
 have to say over it. You've come to your last shift, I see; 
 and there's a blank wall ahead. Well, well." Hunting- 
 don flung himself into a chair and thrummed on the table 
 with his finger tips. " You've been married what ? fifteen 
 months; less than that." The devil's tattoo went on. 
 "And so," he continued, at last, "you've come to me for 
 help." John began to speak, but the farmer silenced him 
 with a gesture. "I know, I know, your wife did; it's the 
 same thing. Well, I made her an offer which she declined; 
 but I'll make it now to you. I'll take the mortgage over 
 I'll tear up the deed, or give it back to you, on one condi- 
 tion. I've not forgotten, and forgiveness is child's talk.
 
 202 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 I can't annul the marriage; I'd do that if I could, as you 
 know; we'll have no misunderstanding. But there you've 
 bettered me. That's a trump I can't beat, save by running 
 my neck in a halter, and I've no intention of doing that. 
 But the inn's yours again inn, and furniture, and money 
 to tide over the bad times we'll settle how much, and 
 then there'll be more if it's wanted on one condition." 
 
 "And that?" asked John, with dry lips. 
 
 "You must send your wife back home again. She must 
 live here, say no word to you, never enter " 
 
 John thrust his hand into his pocket without a word, 
 clutched the guineas, brought them out in a closed fist, 
 and opened his hand again, leaving a glittering pile on the 
 table. 
 
 "That's my answer to your condition, Must' Hunting- 
 don," he said. "It'd take even more than my father's 
 and mother's home " 
 
 "Well, well, that's all said. I was I expected your 
 answer. Keep the money. It's a stake in a way; the gam- 
 bling fever's not quit of my bones altogether. I can't af- 
 ford, in these times, to give you the clean sheet again. 
 But I'll keep my word with with Bess." He smiled, 
 showing all his teeth, as if suddenly the actor's mask were 
 stripped off the mask of resentment, of satire, of malice, 
 showing, beneath, a genial and human face. " You'll have a 
 quarter's grace and those guineas to play with. If you win, 
 good. If you lose come, put the money in your pocket. 
 The mortgage will be mine whatever you say or do." 
 
 John hesitated. When he spoke, his voice was husky. 
 
 "I I can't understand you, Mr. Huntingdon," he said. 
 
 "There aren't many folk hereabouts who can," said 
 Huntingdon, and, after a pause, gave a short laugh, like 
 a dog's bark broken off abruptly. 
 
 "I can't at all," said John. "One minute you talk as if 
 you want to make me feel feel how much we're in your
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 203 
 
 hands, and how fate's dealt with us. Because it wasn't in 
 the nature of things that we should have had such a run of 
 bad fortune. Some of the words you said at first though 
 you may not have thought or meant it cut me like a 
 whip. And all the time you meant to help us. I can't 
 understand it; but then I'm not used to gentlefolks' ways. 
 You mean kindly now, I'm sure. And you act kindly. I 
 we thank you, I'm sure; we thank you from the bottom 
 of our hearts." 
 
 He rose, and stretched out his great hand. Huntingdon 
 put his own into it, a hand dry and gripless, and saw his 
 visitor to the gate. 
 
 He stood watching him for a few seconds, with the 
 strange, quizzical look still in his eyes. Then he gave a 
 broken and mirthless laugh, and turned back into the house. 
 
 "I've a dash of your blood in me after all, you see," he 
 muttered, standing under the portrait of his father. "Well, 
 the cards are dealt again."
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 RED dawn was in the sky, and early labourers were 
 creeping to their work, when George Kennett entered 
 Canterbury. It was a chill autumn morning; he had an 
 hour or so to wait before the coach started, and spent the 
 time miserably enough, pacing the almost empty High 
 Street in order to keep his blood in circulation, and dwell- 
 ing, unwillingly, on each incident of the night. At last 
 other passengers began to assemble with their luggage in 
 the yard of the inn; the coach-office opened; George se- 
 cured an outside place, and snatched a hasty breakfast 
 before the horn gave the signal for departure. 
 
 Thank heaven, they were away at last. 
 
 Ostlers stepped aside; chickens scurried before the 
 wheels; dogs barked; the buxom woman in the little 
 wooden office waved a farewell. They clattered through 
 the ancient streets into open country. His fellow-travellers 
 were laughing and jesting, in high spirits; the burly, red- 
 faced driver, living up to his reputation as a wag, kept 
 them in a constant roar over his sallies. It was not long 
 before George's silence attracted his attention. After 
 fruitless attempts to excite a smile or elicit some sign of 
 appreciation, he began to turn his wit against his gloomy 
 fare, with sly winks at the other passengers. George was 
 too much occupied at first with his own thoughts to heed 
 this, and gave short replies to any of his companions who 
 ventured to address him. Before long he was left to his 
 own bitter reflections, made none the more pleasant by 
 the laughter and animated talk which greeted each incident 
 of the road. 
 
 They clattered into Sittingbourne and out again; Roches- 
 ter, with its grey castle and cathedral, was left behind; at 
 
 204
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 205 
 
 the Jolly Knight on Gadshill the horses were watered, 
 and George snatched time for a hasty drink. The air, the 
 rapid motion, the flying woods and orchards and hop- 
 fields, roused him at last from his dejection. He began to 
 take a languid interest now in the little Kentish villages 
 through which they clattered, and had eyes for the red- 
 cheeked maids who, here and there, waited by the wayside 
 for the coach, to take parcels from the guard, or to send 
 messages to lovers in other hamlets or in the great city 
 though he was reminded of the loss which his own folly had 
 brought to him. Bess had been all; and now was but a 
 bitter memory. He wondered what had happened since 
 his going. He pictured John's return, his anger at the 
 news, and saw them sitting down to their midday meal 
 without him, perhaps even with relief that he had gone. 
 Vainly, at first, he tried to stir up ambition to fill the 
 place which love had held. The wide world was before 
 him now. He was his own master at last, responsible to 
 no man. Before, when he had gone out to see and to con- 
 quer the world, it had been as a young soldier under orders 
 and surveillance, the slave of any whim of his sergeants 
 and his officers. Now he was nearly ten years older; he 
 had all his knowledge of life to aid him, and could go his 
 way without any one to direct or hinder. He tried to as- 
 sure himself that he was going to fill the place which the 
 distraught kingdom, clamouring for a man, promised to 
 the daring and the efficient. But these dreams seemed 
 stale and unprofitable now that he was actually in quest 
 of the realities. How should he set to work ? What should 
 he do? And, without Bess, where would be the profit of 
 all his conquests? None the less, he began to long for the 
 end of his journey and the brisk stir and stimulating 
 influences of the great city towards which he was hasten- 
 ing. Self-reproach grew less insistent under the healing 
 influences of the quiet countryside and the sensation of
 
 206 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 rapid transit which, above everything, suited at this time 
 with his mood. Milestone after milestone passed; they 
 left Cobham behind them, saw the tower of Chalk Church, 
 the river winding in the distance beyond the low fields, 
 the barge-sails creeping along the sky's edge; skirted 
 Swanscomb Park, through lovely scenery; clattered in and 
 out of Crayford; and at last, at Blackheath, drew near to 
 the beginnings of London. His spirits rose higher as New 
 Cross turnpike came in view and was left behind. By this 
 time, without joining in, he had listened with some inter- 
 est to the talk of his companions. A little, rusty Londoner 
 was discussing the condition of England with his neigh- 
 bour, a burly Kentish yeoman. Both were emphatic in their 
 condemnation of matters in town and country; the king- 
 dom was going to the dogs; from all parts came the same 
 cry of distress and disaffection. "It may be disloyal," 
 said the rusty man, speaking for the city, "but what I say 
 is things can't go on like this I don't care who hears me 
 say it, either the people won't stand it much longer. 
 You'd think there'd be some man in England to put things 
 straight. Castlereagh " 
 
 The name brought a low-muttered oath from the coun- 
 tryman; others chimed in. Every one agreed that the 
 condition of the country called for some desperate remedy; 
 opinions differed as to the method and the man. Several 
 names were discussed: Burdett, Lord Cochrane, Cobbett, 
 and old Major Cartwright were mentioned in turn, and 
 lauded or attacked. 
 
 " 'Unt's the man I swear by, now," said the little cock- 
 ney. " 'Enery 'Unt. 'E's a man, now; 'e is a man. Soon 
 make a clean sweep of all this " 
 
 " Hunt ? " interrupted another man, contemptuously. " A 
 fellow who wouldn't illuminate for British victories! Why, 
 he put a candle in every window in that cottage of his in 
 Hampshire when Boney escaped. That's not the fellow
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 207 
 
 we want. I'd not back up any one who didn't stand by 
 our soldiers against the French. Not me. I'm British, I 
 am, to the backbone, and it's only a true Briton I'll vote 
 for to get us out of this hole. I'll tell you who is the man, 
 though." 
 
 "Who?" asked a chorus of voices. 
 
 But at that moment the driver pulled up his leaders on 
 their haunches to avoid running down a herd of bullocks, 
 which were being harried along the Kent Road into Lon- 
 don. The outside passengers craned forward to see the 
 catastrophe or the escape. With a flick of his whip the 
 coachman drove an errant beast into the kennel. 
 
 "Who?" repeated the city man, as they resumed their 
 seats. "Who's a better man than 'Unt, now? Let's 'ave 
 his name." 
 
 His lips shaped themselves to snap a rejoinder directly 
 the name was given. 
 
 "Well, I could give you a dozen better than Hunt. 
 Hunt, indeed! Ever see him? ever hear him? Well, I 
 have. And he's just such a man as that butcher there 
 same build, and same-looking man. Just about as fit to 
 drive the ship o' state coach of state, if you like as that 
 man is to manage his bullocks. All very well to keep a 
 tavern, say, but to manage England " 
 
 "Well, tell us who your man is." 
 
 The answer was finally lost, for at that moment the coach 
 came to a halt before the Bricklayers' Arms, and the poli- 
 tician, rising suddenly to collect his luggage, was jerked 
 down again so violently by the stoppage that the name 
 was snapped short between his teeth. 
 
 George got down. There was no doubt, then, of the 
 truth of the rumours that had drifted to the quiet hamlet 
 by the sea. Town and country were alike dissatisfied, 
 waiting for a deliverer. On the coach, natives of the rural 
 districts and natives of the "great Wen," as Cobbett had
 
 208 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 called this city George was entering, had agreed on that, 
 however else they differed. And the countryside told its 
 own story. The coach had passed, that day, through some 
 of the richest land in England. Nature held out every in- 
 ducement for prosperity and contentment to dwell there. 
 Yet in the villages George had seen pinched and haggard 
 faces; dirty, ragged children whining for bread; men and 
 women with lowering faces because of the distress they 
 could not understand but had to suffer. And every man 
 had his theory, his own dim notion of the thing that lay 
 beneath this poverty, and was causing it. "The wars," 
 said some. "Why should we have spent all this money, 
 fighting other people's battles, instead of defending our 
 own sea-frontiers, and letting the foreigners cut each other's 
 throats as they chose?" National defence, too how 
 senselessly, even over this, had money been squandered: 
 on the chain of useless towers along the coast; on the mili- 
 tary canal as if the French, who had crossed the broad 
 rivers of Europe, could cover twenty miles of sea in safety, 
 and then be held in check by a paltry ditch! "Paper 
 money," said others; "Private ownership of the land," 
 said a third body; while many laid the blame on the Prince 
 and the royal family, living in luxury, spending the hardly- 
 earned money of the people on selfish indulgence. But 
 one thing was very clear among all the confusion. Eng- 
 land was calling in her misery for a man, to take all these 
 threads into his hands to join town and country, to 
 weave into warp and woof the scattered filaments of dis- 
 affection, to unite and discipline her enormous, yet unre- 
 alised strength, and bring back the days of her pros- 
 perity. 
 
 George Kennett, come to conquer London to be the 
 Buonaparte of England stood on the cobbles, with his 
 bundle at his feet. His task had seemed easy enough in 
 dreams. Now, with the miles of brick and stone in front
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 209 
 
 of him, the people who were to rally round him jostling 
 him as they passed now, in the face of fact, he felt the 
 chilling shock of disillusion. For some time he stood there, 
 watching the ever-passing crowds. After a glass at the 
 inn, he walked onwards towards the city. Dark and nar- 
 row lanes opened into that great highway leading from 
 leafy Kent; each alley discharged unruly hordes of un- 
 washed, uncombed, tattered men and women, and chil- 
 dren prematurely old; oaths and shrieks and ribald jests 
 saluted him; some, seeing the marks of the country in his 
 clothing and sun-tanned cheeks, jeered as they elbowed 
 him aside. Dingy shops lined the way; but many were 
 untenanted, and those that had customers sold only the 
 barest necessaries of life. The gin-houses, indeed, were 
 thronged, for round them revolved, then as now, the vi- 
 cious circle of poverty following drink, drink following 
 poverty. There was a sordidness and squalor in this town 
 poverty which seemed missing from the country districts, 
 where at least were clean air, sunshine, breezes laden with 
 salt, or the odours of garden and field and woodland. It 
 was so long since he had been in London and then only 
 for a day or two that the numbers appalled and repelled 
 him. They were like warrens, those alleys and courts, 
 teeming with life that hovered on the brink of death. 
 
 He passed London Bridge, and, through lines of offices, 
 where soberly and well-clad clerks bustled to and fro about 
 their work, tramped on to Fleet Street. Here he found 
 an inn. The money he had taken from the till, added to 
 his own, would last him for some weeks; he would be able 
 to look about him, and see something of the capital. But 
 with the fall of darkness his spirits fell; he was lonely, 
 miserable, and tired; he went to bed directly he had fin- 
 ished his supper though not to sleep. For with the snuff- 
 ing of the rushlight came a great horror of darkness and 
 his sin; his mind was too active to lose itself in uncon- 
 14
 
 210 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 sciousness, and when he slept at last, he dreamt not of 
 his ambitions but his loss. 
 
 The morning sun found him ashamed of night fears and 
 miseries. After breakfast, he sat watching the passing 
 crowds from a window which framed part of Fleet Street, 
 like a busy stage. Over a pipe he tried to make some plans 
 for his campaign. If only he had more money! But he 
 had health, will, he told himself, and youth. With these 
 to help him, a man, he had often bragged, could do anything 
 in the wide world he set his mind to. It pleased him, 
 thrilled him, to think of himself sitting there as a con- 
 spirator against the State; perhaps history would tell, one 
 day, of this solitary journey to London point out the inn 
 he stayed at, this very room picture him brooding here, 
 pipe in mouth as they told stories now of Napoleon in 
 poverty and insignificance. He laid out his money in a 
 row before him; these guineas were his sinews of war. 
 And Buonaparte, they said, had been worse off once not 
 able to pay a paltry washing-bill, at one time. London 
 knew nothing of the man who sat watching it from the 
 little window. Poverty, competence, wealth, passed be- 
 fore his eyes, in ignorance that one, whose name all Eng- 
 land would know soon, weaved his plots behind the dusty 
 glass. His mind wandered off on wild quests; in the blue 
 tobacco-clouds he saw pageants, ceremonies, palaces of 
 smoke. The vainest and most foolish dreams! Now he 
 was in the King's state-coach, all heavy gold, with the 
 eight white Hanoverians drawing it, on his way to his coro- 
 nation at Westminster. The multitudes were cheering, 
 tossing their caps in air, as they hailed him as their King 
 and their deliverer; on either side presenting troops kept 
 the way; the clamour of bands, and trumpets, and saluting 
 guns was in his ears. He heard the pealing organ as he 
 marched through the Cathedral towards the Coronation 
 Chair of England's Kings. Were Napoleon's dreams wilder
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 211 
 
 than these? And then the scene changed rapidly; he was 
 in the field, leading victorious armies against a foreign foe; 
 on the poop of a flagship, with the wooden walls of Britain 
 round him, her white cliffs gleaming between blue sky and 
 sea; guns thundered out their salutes to the returning 
 conqueror; he was marching in triumph through his cap- 
 ital, the guards his guards in new uniforms and wearing 
 sprigs of laurel, the captured cannon garlanded. Now he 
 was dispensing charity with a lavish hand, rendering little 
 kindnesses which mean so much from a King; and now 
 humbling the pride of some haughty monarch, who, taunt- 
 ing him with his origin, paid for his folly in ravished land 
 and scattered armies. 
 
 "You'b dud breakfast, I subbose? I cad clear away, 
 thed. And you didd't ought to smoke id here, you dow." 
 
 It was the maid-of-all-work at the inn, sleepy-eyed al- 
 ready after work begun in the early hours of the morning; 
 a slatternly girl who suffered from a chronic cold and an 
 aggressive temper. She whisked up the greasy plates, 
 and, eyeing him resentfully, brushed away some ash which 
 had fallen on the cloth. 
 
 "There's a roob dowdstairs," she continued, before he 
 had recovered sufficiently from the fall from his dizzy 
 heights to attempt an answer. "There's sub ladies cubbid 
 dowd to breakfast, and they wod't like that smell with 
 their hab ad eggs." George, without a word, took himself 
 and his pipe to the lower room, where the passing crowds 
 could not be seen. The barred window looked out on to 
 a shabby court, littered with barrels and crates and trolleys; 
 its only occupants were a stray cat, and two or three lads 
 daubed with ink from a printing office in the court. 
 
 He went out at last, and spent his day roaming about 
 London. Its vastness startled him. Vague dreams were 
 easier than work; day after day passed, and he was still 
 no nearer the achievement of his ends. With money in his
 
 212 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 pockets, the attractions of the capital, after his quiet life 
 at the inn, proved irresistible; he visited the sights and 
 the theatres, and wasted many hours watching the busy 
 groups round the clock-turret in the Fleet Market, chatting 
 to the prisoners at the grating of the Fleet, and envying 
 the well-dressed crowd in the parks, where the "Prince 
 Regent's Bomb" a cannon brought from Cadiz was just 
 then a centre of attraction. 
 
 One evening he was in the West End the camp of the 
 enemy, where the privileged and titled classes lived 
 when a stream of carriages, and a mob of hooting people 
 running alongside, attracted his attention. He eyed with 
 resentment the fine coaches, the footmen in their gay 
 liveries, the women in rich dresses and jewels lolling at 
 their ease, and the well-groomed horses, pampered and fed 
 when so many human beings starved. The carriages drew 
 up before a house with a colonnade in front of it, similar 
 to that at Carlton House. 
 
 "What is it?" George asked. "Whose house is that?" 
 
 "Some lord or other's, I suppose," answered a man near 
 him. "They say the Prince is coming." 
 
 George, taller than the rest, caught a glimpse of a red 
 carpet flung down, and powdered flunkeys waiting in the 
 portico. 
 
 " Dunno if you aren't bigger fools than me, if you want 
 to see him," another man said, with a low growl. "I've a 
 wife and children starving at home, and I'm just going 
 back to them after the first job I've had for weeks and 
 here I can't get through because of this gaping crowd. 
 Nice thing to be hustled back, neck and crop, and made to 
 wait for his convenience. I don't care who hears me. Here 
 he comes, and G d damn him for a wastrel!" 
 
 Peering over the heads of the crowd, George saw, not 
 the Prince, but a group of brilliantly clad men escorting 
 and carrying a sedan chair, from which a lady with
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 213 
 
 towering ostrich plumes in her head-dress alighted, and 
 entered the house. Several other chairs followed. Faint 
 cheers greeted the newcomers. "The Queen! Princess 
 Augusta! Princess Elizabeth!" They had just come from 
 the Queen's Palace, but the Regent had not yet appeared. 
 Suddenly the crowd strained forward. A little woman in 
 front of George, getting wedged too tightly in the throng, 
 uttered a squeak of alarm. "Here you are, missus, let me 
 help you out of it," said George, thrusting himself back 
 against the pressure, for her grey hair and faded face 
 wakened old memories. But his effort to clear a way for 
 her met with a disconcerting retort. "Yes, it's likely, 
 ain't it?" she snapped out, looking up to his face, high 
 above her own, with a queer shrewdness. "And get my 
 place for yourself, eh? No, you don't, long 'un." She 
 wedged herself back again; but before the laugh had died 
 away, a curious buzz from the outskirts of the crowd, ris- 
 ing into cries of alarm and protest into a noise of hooting 
 mingled with faint cheering announced the coming of 
 the Prince. An escort of Light Dragoons cleared the way 
 for his carriage. As the crowd was forced back, George 
 found himself in the front line, with a living yet unyielding 
 wall behind him. 
 
 He glanced round; the soldiers were near now, backing 
 their horses against the mob; men shouted angrily, wo- 
 men screamed, and there was some laughter now and then 
 when the danger had gone by. 
 
 "Get back there! Stand back!" 
 
 George felt his anger rising, but he tried to wedge him- 
 self back into the crowd. It was impossible; he darted out 
 into the clear way, hoping to cross, and find more room on 
 the side opposite. A trooper set his horse at him savagely ; 
 George gripped the rein, and the next moment the flat of 
 the man's sword swished down on his wrist; as his fingers 
 unclosed, he was seized by the collar and flung roughly
 
 214 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 aside. He stumbled, and fell on his knees; as he rose, 
 swearing, and half-mad with rage, some Bow Street offi- 
 cers broke through the crowd from the direction of the 
 colonnade, and, forcing a passage, dragged and hustled 
 him to the rear. He stood there, shaking and speechless. 
 The mob swayed forward, and closed behind the Regent's 
 carriage, yelling, hooting, hissing, cheering a babel of 
 sound, the predominant note hatred and discontent. 
 
 What if he headed a revolt, there and then? An appeal 
 to the crowd a sudden rush, headed by him the Regent 
 might be in their power, helpless. 
 
 The idea was absurd, and he knew it. They could do 
 nothing against the soldiers. Already, too, the mob was 
 dispersing. But as he walked back to his inn, still trem- 
 bling with rage and aching with the buffeting he had re- 
 ceived, a sense of burning resentment revived his ambitions. 
 He would waste no more time. All the elements that go 
 to make a revolution were round him. How was he to set 
 to work? He knew too little of history to act upon any 
 schemes by which the thrones of the world have, from 
 time to time, changed occupants, or been imperilled. Of 
 course, Cromwell had a Parliament at his back. Buonaparte 
 used the army as a stepping-stone to power. George had 
 heard of General Mallet's insurrection in Paris. That was 
 nearly successful and there was a man without advan- 
 tages, a patient in a prison hospital, who came within an 
 ace of winning the imperial crown. George wondered 
 whether handbills announcing the Regent's sudden death 
 would serve his ends. But the conditions were wholly dif- 
 ferent. Buonaparte was far away when Mallet put his 
 scheme in execution; and, with the exception of the infant 
 King of Rome, there was no one to take the Emperor's 
 place. Besides, London was not Paris. People would read 
 the proclamations with amusement; the Prince need only 
 show himself at the windows of his palace to convince
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 215 
 
 them of the lie; George had no money with which to bribe 
 support, no friends, as Mallet had, to help him in carrying 
 out his plot. 
 
 But the clubs! Those might furnish him with his oppor- 
 tunity. From the clubs in Paris the French Revolution 
 had sprung into being. A union of the clubs! Hampden 
 Clubs, Spencean Clubs, Union Clubs, Trades' Clubs, 
 Brothers of Freedom he did not know half the names, but 
 he could find them all out and combine them smoothing 
 over their differences, uniting them in one common purpose 
 under his direction. Then secret drillings; a sudden 
 night rising; attacks on the barracks; capture of the person 
 of the Regent he saw his way clearly. 
 
 In his hurried departure from the Running Horse, George 
 had left behind the paper on which he had jotted down 
 Dr. Watson's address in London. The name of the street 
 had slipped his memory, and during the first weeks of his 
 stay he had looked forward to carrying out his objects 
 alone. But now it became all-important to find out where 
 the Watsons were living. He haunted Bloomsbury for 
 some days without success. One morning, however, he 
 saw the elder Watson and another man coming from the 
 offices of the Scottish Corporation in Crane Court, near the 
 One Bell Inn where he was staying. In Fleet Street they 
 took a hackney coach, and, though he missed the oppor- 
 tunity of speaking, George overheard the address 11 
 Hyde Street. He went, a couple of days later. 
 
 Instead of the imposing house he had expected from Dr. 
 Watson's conversation, George found a little drugshop and 
 dispensary; but the shelves were empty of bottles, and the 
 place apparently deserted. After some interval a man 
 answered his knock. His manner was reticent and suspi- 
 cious; but he at last gave the information that the Watsons 
 had moved to Dean Street a day or two before, though 
 they still came occasionally to the Bloomsbury house.
 
 216 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 Dean Street opened into Fetter Lane, not far from the 
 One Bell Inn. George retraced his steps, and, after tea, 
 went out again to find his old acquaintances. 
 
 The door of Number 1 Dean Street was half opened by a 
 slatternly woman verging on old age. She poked her head 
 out of the dark and narrow passage, like some night-bird 
 disturbed in its haunts; round spectacles, rimmed with 
 horn, heightened the impression. 
 
 "Is Dr. Watson at home?" asked George. 
 
 The door opened to admit him, and closed again. Her 
 feet clattered down the passage, and he followed. "In 
 there," she mumbled, pointing to a door, and vanished 
 up the stairs. 
 
 George tapped. There was no answer. He knocked 
 again, and then pushed the door open. The room was 
 empty. 
 
 He hesitated a moment, then decided to enter, and wait 
 for his hosts. 
 
 A fire was in the grate, burning cheerfully enough, but 
 otherwise the room was in darkness. It bore all the marks 
 of a cheap London lodging-house. At one side of the fire- 
 place stood a pair of jack-boots, erect and stiff. The mantel- 
 shelf held a few cheap ornaments: a pink-cheeked shep- 
 herdess, a china dog with one ear missing and a broken 
 leg, a cracked glass dome enclosing a plaster hand holding 
 wax flowers and artificial leaves. On the walls were some 
 cheap prints, and a sampler worked in faded silks. This 
 bore some texts, the letters of the alphabet, and some nu- 
 merals, two birds in green and red plumage (Goldsmith 
 himself would have found it difficult to classify them), and 
 the name, "Mary Kinsley, aged 15, May, 1759." A por- 
 trait of Major Cartwright faced the door. 
 
 An oval table, covered with a cloth much stained and 
 darned, was littered with books and papers. A space had 
 been cleared for inkstand, quills, and a printed bill which
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 217 
 
 George glanced at. It was evidently a proof, and the ink 
 in which some marginal corrections had been made was 
 still wet. The first words caught his eye. 
 
 " BRITONS, TO ARMS !" 
 
 He sat down on a horsehair- covered chair which the 
 corrector had evidently just vacated, and read on. 
 
 "The whole country waits the signal from London to fly to arms! 
 Haste, break open gunsmiths' and other likely places to find arms! 
 Run all constables who touch a man of us; no rise of bread, no Regent, 
 no Castlereagh, off with their heads; no placemen, tithes, or enclos- 
 ures; no taxes; no bishops, only useless lumber! Stand true, or be 
 slaves for ever." 
 
 Here was a discovery. He had come, meaning to join 
 one of the disaffected clubs, and nurse it and others into 
 open revolution. And he had stumbled on a plot already 
 in the making doubtless near execution. What a stroke 
 of fortune! In all wide London, he had come straight to 
 the one quiet street, the one house, the one little room, 
 where conspiracy planned and wove its webs. Destiny 
 must have led his steps, marking him out for greatness. 
 
 On tiptoe, in his excitement, he examined the room for 
 other evidence. Every fresh scrap of knowledge he could 
 gain would be a lever with which to acquire influence. 
 Another paper bore a rough plan of some building. The 
 Tower! A third puzzled him. It seemed a kind of sketch- 
 map, with crosses here and there, and directions. "Form 
 3 divs at L.B. Proceed to Old Man. Navigators." Arrows 
 pointed in this direction and that. 
 
 George stood up and stretched himself. His eyes were 
 bright with excitement. He glanced round the room again. 
 There was a corner cupboard, rising to a third the height 
 of the wall; the top of it served as a stand for glasses, 
 bottles, and a few old books, some with Latin titles on 
 their rusty leather backs, some with the names of human
 
 218 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 ailments and diseases. George tried the metal knob on 
 the door, but the cupboard was locked. A screen shut off 
 one portion of the room; evidently this served the occu- 
 pants as a sleeping chamber. Peering behind the screen, 
 George made a new discovery of intense interest and im- 
 portance. 
 
 A large double bed was covered with packages, over 
 which a blanket had been thrown. One package had been 
 torn open, and he saw the glint of metal in the firelight. 
 Pike-heads! Dozens of them, scores of them why, there 
 must be hundreds, for under the bed as well were cases. 
 A smaller package was wrapped in thin paper, which he 
 unwound. A stream of tricolour ribbon, red and white 
 and green, fluttered to the ground. 
 
 He was rolling it again hastily, when, to his dismay, he 
 heard the door open suddenly, and close. A key turned 
 in the lock. At the same moment, a great shadow danced 
 on the wall behind him, high above the screen, and was 
 drowned almost instantly in a flood of yellow lamplight. 
 
 George crouched behind the screen, with the tell-tale 
 ribbon in his hand, and listened. He heard the beating of 
 his heart, like a drum, above all other sounds.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 IX the excitement of his discovery, George Kennett had 
 almost forgotten the risks he ran. In any case, foot- 
 steps in the passage should have given him ample warn- 
 ing. But the newcomer had entered almost noiselessly. 
 
 Here was a pretty business! George scarcely breathed. 
 Probably it was one of the Watsons; but how was he to 
 explain his being behind the screen? The long coils of 
 unwound ribbon in his hand would at once betray his 
 motive. The lamp and the locked door meant that he 
 would have no early chance of extricating himself from 
 his position if, indeed, he could remain in hiding without 
 attracting notice. Perhaps his better plan would have 
 been to take the bull by the horns, and reveal himself at 
 once; but he hesitated. 
 
 He heard the sound of the lamp as it was set down upon 
 the table; the man seated himself, and began to write. 
 For a few moments nothing was heard but the squeaking 
 of the quill and the rustle of the fire in the grate. Very 
 cautiously, George peered round the side of the screen. 
 
 It was the younger Watson, a little thinner, a little 
 paler, than when he had said good-bye to George in the 
 cabin of the hoy. His prominent features were flung in 
 grotesque and exaggerated shadow on the wall behind him. 
 In a minute he broke the silence. "My God," he burst 
 out, "that'll fetch them they'll rise to that!" He held 
 the bill at arm's length, gloating over it, and, pursing up 
 his thin lips, whistled a stave, very softly, of the Mar- 
 seillaise, that had set all Paris by the ears. George had 
 almost braced up his courage to step out of his hiding- 
 place, when Watson rose, and pushed back his chair. 
 From a hip-pocket in his drab kersey small-clothes he 
 
 219
 
 220 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 took a pistol, and brandished it at the wall. Then, with 
 crazy contortions of his face and the most extravagant 
 gestures of body, he harangued an invisible audience. 
 "Brothers Countrymen Englishmen," he declaimed, in 
 a hoarse, subdued voice, " to-day this very hour the knell 
 of tyranny is sounding. We have waited long. There are 
 four millions in distress, four millions embarrassed, a hun- 
 dred and fifty millions dreading want. Are we slaves or 
 men? Shall we let the thousands grind down the millions 
 any longer? Why do we wait? The time is ripe at last. 
 I will be your leader. Will you come? Will you follow?" 
 A mad yet comic figure, with his shabby clothing, his grey 
 stockings in folds about the thin legs, his tattered slippers, 
 he pirouetted round, as if, in turn, addressing sections of 
 his vast but unseen audience. He waited as if for an answer. 
 "Let us go, then. To the gunsmiths' for weapons! To 
 the Tower! The soldiers are our friends. To the Bank! 
 Down with the Regent! Down with " 
 
 But the impassioned, yet half-subdued harangue came 
 to a lame conclusion. There was a sudden tapping at the 
 door. Watson opened it, and four men entered, muffled 
 in neck-cloths and great-coats. 
 
 "My dear James," said the elder Watson, in a voice at 
 once testy and reproachful, "I wish we could impress 
 the need for caution on you. I distinctly heard your 
 harangue from the passage. It is ill-advised, ill-advised. 
 Supposing Mrs. Kinsley " 
 
 "She's as deaf as a post and as blind as an owl, " retorted 
 James. "If she did hear? We could rise to-night; Lon- 
 don's ready. I went to the Stone Kitchen at the Tower 
 
 "Hush, hush; the Old Man, James, the Old Man. We 
 have agreed " 
 
 "Oh, we're all friends here. The Old Man, if you like 
 it better. The soldiers are all hot for us. The navigators 
 are with us to a man."
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 221 
 
 "We'll hear your report in a minute," said another 
 man, flinging off his overcoat. "Let's do everything in 
 order. You've locked the door? That harangue of 
 yours might have been overheard in the street, you 
 know. " 
 
 They gathered round the table, and the man who had 
 last spoken took the chair which young Watson had 
 vacated. George's uneasiness now gave place to alarm, 
 not without reason. It was one thing to reveal himself 
 suddenly to the Watsons, quite another to stand out, 
 a self-convicted spy, in the presence of these desperate 
 and resolute men. Watching cautiously through a chink 
 in the screen, he saw them at the table five, all told, 
 including the two he had come to visit. The man in the 
 chair w r as evidently at the head of the conspiracy, and his 
 voice, when he spoke, demanded and received respect. He 
 was dressed in a light-blue coat, and grey pantaloons, and 
 tasselled Hessian boots. George saw his features distinctly 
 in the lamplight: a sallow, gloomy, dissatisfied face, with 
 plentiful dark-brown hair and whiskers, and dark brows, 
 peaked almost to the shape of arrow-heads, over hazel 
 eyes. Next him sat a man of much bigger and coarser 
 build. His face was red and blotched, the lips coarse, 
 the unshaven chin heavy and sensual, the mottled nose 
 indicative of deep potations. Indeed, his first words were 
 in keeping with his looks. "We're not going to settle this 
 here important business without something to wet our 
 throats with, eh, Doctor?" he growled. "Strike me, I'm 
 as hoarse as a crow with talking over those wooden-headed 
 soldiers." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Mr. Castle, I beg your pardon. 
 Perhaps a little refreshment would er oil the wheels 
 of our deleeberations. " Watson rose, and got bottles 
 and glasses from the cupboard. "Ah, that's better," said 
 Castle. "Here's to the cause!" He tossed off a glass,
 
 222 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 with some words, added to the toast, that brought forth 
 a remonstrance. 
 
 " Now, Jack, none of that, " said the chairman, sternly. 
 "We don't want any more of that. Remember you're 
 with gentlemen." 
 
 Castle muttered something savouring of London stews 
 beneath his breath. There was a hint of Yorkshire in his 
 accent, and the tongue of the breezy moorlands went ill 
 with the growled profanity and uncleanness. His reprover 
 took no further notice, but went on with the proof. ' ' That's 
 right, " he said, at last. " We'll have copies of these struck 
 off and distributed to-morrow. Now, the matter of the 
 soldiers. It's as well we dropped the project of firing the 
 barracks at King Street and Portman Street. The day's 
 ours if they'll come round to us." 
 
 "They'll do that, sir, I believe," said young Watson. 
 "I've sounded numbers of them, at the Tower, and in 
 the taverns near the theatres. They're all dissatisfied, 
 and ripe for mutiny." 
 
 "Still, if they have orders to charge," said Dr. Watson, 
 "I must confess I'm vera apprehensive. It occurred to 
 me, Mr. Thistlewood, a cavalry charge is an unco ill affair, 
 sir " 
 
 "There'll be barricades, of course," said Thistlewood. 
 "Where's the map? Well, we're going to block the streets, 
 here, and here." He pointed with the stump of his pen 
 to different points on the paper spread before him. " And 
 there'll be others thrown up as occasion requires, of course. 
 The crowd will bring the hackney coaches round, and with 
 drays and waggons well, a great deal must be left to the 
 day." 
 
 "I was going to suggest," Dr. Watson said, "a little 
 device of my designing. I've been figuring it out. Where 
 is it, now?" He fumbled in his pockets. "Ah, here we 
 are! An instrument something of this kind, now, to be
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 223 
 
 thrown down in front of the horses; you'll observe, sir " 
 
 He explained his invention at some length, leaning 
 forward across the table. "Of course, a rough sketch, 
 sir merely a rough sketch; but you see what I mean?" 
 
 "It'd do us all the good in the world if a few of our 
 lads were killed by the soldiers," broke in Castle. "That'd 
 rouse the crowd if nothing else did. Blood draws blood, 
 like water poured in a pump." 
 
 "You'd better be first martyr, then, Jack," said Thistle- 
 wood, still poring over the papers. 
 
 "Me? And me one of the Generals? I'm not afraid 
 of bloodshed, though, if that's what you mean. There's 
 some here want to do the business with kid gloves on. 
 That's not my sort. Why, when I was getting that French 
 officer out of England " 
 
 "We've all heard about that. But the man was unarmed 
 when you clapped your pistol to his head. Well, Dr. 
 Watson " 
 
 But Castle, already half-drunk, banged a great fist 
 down on the table, shaking the lamp, and making the 
 light dance in the room. "Look here," he cried, "does 
 any one want to call me a coward? Because, if that's 
 so, I'm ready to fight him here and now. I'm not afraid 
 of any one of you," he growled. "I tell you straight, 
 there's too much of the 'gentlemen' about this to please 
 me a damned sight too much. Gentlemen? We'll all 
 be gentlemen in a week's time. We'll all " 
 
 "Sit down, sit down," said Thistlewood. "I'm talking 
 to Dr. Watson. We'll hear what you have to say after- 
 wards. I think something might be done in that way, 
 Doctor. Perhaps Bentley might turn out a few. By the 
 way " 
 
 "I've a better plan than that," growled Castle, "though 
 I'm to take a back seat and say nothing, I suppose. If 
 you're afraid of the soldiers, the thing's easily settled.
 
 224 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 Get a few women prettier the better clap 'em in tri- 
 colour dresses, and, if the soldiers come, march 'em ahead 
 of the crowd. There won't be no firing nor charging then. 
 And if one or two get shot " 
 
 "I reckon Jack could supply the women all right," 
 the fifth man, who had not yet spoken, said, slyly. He 
 was lame, as George had noticed when he crossed the 
 room, and had long hair plastered down over his fore- 
 head. The assembly laughed. 
 
 "Ho! ho!" said Castle, joining in, "that's one for 
 Preston, that is. I'll bring as many of them what's 
 that? What the devil do you mean?" 
 
 Preston had whispered something to his neighbour, which 
 George could not hear, though Castle did, and resented 
 
 it. "I'll let you know " he began, his tone changing 
 
 swiftly to menace. 
 
 "All right, Jack, all right," said Thistlewood, smoothing 
 him down; "we've got something else than you to discuss 
 now, and Preston needn't have said that. We'll see 
 Bentley about your invention, Doctor; I think there's 
 something in it. It'll be rather a question of funds. By 
 the way, have any of the pikes come?" 
 
 "I was forgetting them," said young Watson, jumping 
 up. "Yes, he brought them this afternoon. I put them 
 on the bed. Oh, and there's some more ribbon " 
 
 George's -heart leapt, and stood still. The moment had 
 come at last, and found him still unready. A boy whistled 
 in the friendly street, so near, and yet so far away; he 
 heard the clatter of hoofs and wheels upon the cobbles. 
 
 Thistlewood rose. 
 
 "Oh, that's good! We'll have a look at them, then, 
 and see if they're all right. They'd better go to Grey- 
 stoke Place." 
 
 George's first impulse was to seize one of the pike-heads 
 from the opened bundle, and, using it as a dagger, force
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 225 
 
 his way through to the door under cover of their surprise. 
 He remembered in a flash that the door was locked, and 
 young Watson held the key. He was trapped like a rat. 
 The most probable result of resistance would be a sudden 
 shot, ending his life and his ambitions at the same moment. 
 The men were armed, and would stick at nothing. His 
 best policy indeed, his only chance of being admitted as 
 a confederate lay in coming boldly from his hiding-place, 
 and explaining the position of affairs quite frankly. But 
 even that moment of hesitation lost him his opportunity. 
 
 Thistlewood drew aside the screen. 
 
 "My God!" he cried, and staggered back, pale-faced. 
 The screen clattered down. 
 
 For a moment there was dead silence. All eyes turned 
 towards the stranger. The ribbon littered the floor, lying 
 in coils and spirals of red, and green, and white. The open 
 bundle on the bed told its own story. 
 
 "Put out the lamp!" gasped Preston, suddenly, and 
 limped towards it. Young Watson intercepted him. 
 "There's only one, you fool," he cried, and snatched the 
 pistol from his pocket. He aimed it in Kennett's direction. 
 But already Castle had rushed forward and clutched George 
 by the throat, forcing him back against the bed. "You 
 damned spy!" he hissed. 
 
 The attack was so sudden that George, expecting the 
 first movement from Thistlewood, was borne down, chok- 
 ing, before he could make any resistance. Castle, with 
 his knee against his victim's chest, twisted his knuckles 
 into his throat, dragging at the same time at collar and 
 neck-cloth until George's eyes started and his face grew 
 livid. The man's other hand fumbled for his knife. 
 
 Old Watson fluttered round, begging Castle to do the 
 
 spy no injury, and counselling them to secure him, in the 
 
 same breath, his wits in a startled flurry. Thistlewood 
 
 was the first to regain composure. "Don't choke him, 
 
 15
 
 226 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 Jack, until he's given an explanation. We'll listen to what 
 lies he has to tell, even if he's a Government informer. 
 Bring him to the light. Put your knife down; Watson, 
 keep him covered. We'll shoot you without hesitation, 
 my friend, if you attempt to escape. . . . That's it, 
 keep him there, against the wall. Now, sir, let's hear 
 what you have to say for yourself." 
 
 "Yes what the devil have you to say for yourself, 
 eh?" growled Castle, his face purple with the struggle. 
 "Though, by G , if I had my way, I wouldn't listen to 
 the pack of lies that's quivering on your lips." 
 
 "Stand clear of him, Jack; Watson's got him covered. 
 He's a dead man if he moves. Well, let's have your story, 
 sir. How did you come here?" 
 
 "I I came to see the Watsons," gasped George, when 
 he had breath enough for speaking. "How did I come? 
 Walked in through the door as I was told to. Dr. Watson 
 and his son will know me. " 
 
 "I?" cried James Watson. "I've never clapped eyes 
 
 on " But he broke off, as the man's features, seen now 
 
 distinctly and resuming normal colour, wakened remem- 
 brance. " Damme, it's the Herne Bay man! " he exclaimed. 
 
 " That's me, " said George, assuming a nonchalance he 
 by no means felt. "George Kennett, of the Running 
 Horse, Herne Bay. Dr. Watson'll know me, too. Let 
 me sit down, and I'll tell you all you want to know. If 
 my legs hadn't been stiff with standing behind the screen 
 all that time, he wouldn't have got me down so easy, I 
 can tell you." 
 
 Dr. Watson reached for a chair, and George sat down. 
 "Really, Mr. Kennett," said the Doctor, nervously, "this is 
 vera extraordinary. I doubt if you realise what a serious 
 position I recollect you now, of course; I recollect you 
 distinctly. But dear me of all the extraordinary meet- 
 ings "
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 227 
 
 He mopped his brow, nervous excitement and bewilder- 
 ment leaving him at a loss for words. 
 
 "Well, what's your explanation, sir?" asked Thistle- 
 wood, coldly. "Your acquaintance with Dr. Watson and 
 his son doesn't justify your spying on our movements. " 
 
 George had asked for the chair as a respite. Lack of 
 breath, at first real, then simulated, gave him time to 
 collect his thoughts. It was difficult to find a plausible 
 lie; but his wits came to his aid at last, and he carried off 
 the situation boldly. 
 
 "Why," he said, "it's a simple enough matter. The 
 old woman showed me in here when I asked to see Dr. 
 Watson. I've left Herne Bay, and they invited me to 
 call if ever I came to London. Some one at Hyde Street 
 sent me on here. There was no one in the room " 
 
 "But I've been here all the afternoon!" said James 
 Watson, really mystified. "I was sitting at that table 
 for an hour before you all came in." 
 
 "You went out to get the lamp, I suppose," said George. 
 "At least, you came in with it." 
 
 "My dear James!" cried his father, flinging up his 
 hands. "You'll ruin us all by your carelessness. That 
 door was always to be kept locked even Mrs. Kinsley 
 was not to enter unless some one was in here at the time. " 
 
 "Well, there's no harm done," said George, with a con- 
 fidence he was far from feeling. 
 
 "No harm?" interrupted Castle, with an oath. "Not 
 to us, by G , we'll take care of that. But you won't 
 go out of here except feet foremost, if I have my way with 
 you. " 
 
 "Hold your tongue, Jack," said Thistlewood, sternly. 
 "You've explained your presence in the room, but " 
 
 "Well, I'll tell you the rest if you'll give me time to 
 speak. I'm not concealing anything. When I found the 
 Watsons weren't here, and the old lady had gone upstairs,
 
 228 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 I thought I'd sit down by the fire and wait. I I pushed 
 the chair back, and the screen fell over. That upset one 
 of the parcels on the bed, and the ribbon all came out. 
 I was folding it up when Mr. Watson came in with the 
 lamp, and " 
 
 "But why didn't you come out then?" asked Watson. 
 
 "Why didn't I? Well, I reckon I made a mistake 
 there. I ought to have come out. But put yourself in 
 my place, Mr. Watson. I saw the tricolour; I saw the 
 pike-heads in the open parcel. Things looked rather odd, 
 you'll admit. It took my breath away a bit. I remembered 
 what you'd said at Herne Bay about a rising, and you 
 know you asked me to come to one of your club meetings. 
 But I didn't want you to think I'd come into your room 
 and been spying around. I was just going to explain how 
 it was, though, when those other gentlemen came in 
 and then " 
 
 "And then you listened, and spied on us?" 
 
 "Couldn't help listening. But look here, there's no 
 harm done. I'm one of you, I am. Mr. Watson knows 
 that. I reckon I'll be useful to you, too. It's an accident, 
 my finding this out; but it's the best accident that could 
 happen for me, and for you as well. You don't seem to 
 have made much secret of the plot to those soldiers you 
 were talking about." 
 
 "We've given them no chance of putting our necks in 
 the halter, though," said Thistlewood. "Oh, I'll be quite 
 plain with you, sir. There is a plot; you've discovered 
 it; and we can't afford to run risks of treachery." He 
 paced the room in uncertainty. "How do I know what 
 you are?" he burst out, at last. "Dr. Watson and his son 
 met you at Herne Bay; you " 
 
 "He was certainly in sympathy with us then," said 
 young Watson. "I think, sir, we can trust him, and make 
 him useful to us. " He whispered something to Thistlewood.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 229 
 
 "Oh!" said he, and turned to Castle. "Keep an eye 
 on him, Jack. We'll decide about this." 
 
 "You needn't be afraid," said George. "I shan't run 
 away. " 
 
 "No, I'm damned if you will," Castle grunted, drag- 
 ging out his knife. He stood in front of the prisoner, 
 eyeing him like a cat a mouse, while the others whispered 
 in a corner of the room. 
 
 At last Thistlewood turned his head. "Dr. Watson 
 and his son think we may trust you," he said. "They 
 tell me you were in the army, which is in your favour. 
 We may find you work among your old comrades. Just 
 hold up your hand." 
 
 Wondering what was coming, George obeyed; and 
 Thistlewood administered an oath, in which he bound 
 himself to their undertaking. "Now, remember, the least 
 sign of your revealing this house to any one to any one, 
 mind the slightest indication that you've played us false, 
 and your life will be the forfeit. I don't mind telling you 
 that you'll be watched. In the meantime, Dr. Watson 
 and his son will find you work." 
 
 "Stab me, " growled Castle, "is that all ? You're going to 
 let him off like that ? An oath ! What's the good of that ? " 
 
 "Oh, we know you've broken a few in your time, Jack," 
 said James Watson, with a laugh, in which the others 
 joined. 
 
 "Damned if I'd give him the chance of breaking one, 
 though," said Castle. He flourished his knife and patted 
 it, his eyes gleaming. "This is the best thing to swear a 
 spy on give him six inches of this in his witals, say I, 
 if you want safety. I wouldn't let him go, laughing up his 
 sleeve, to give us away to the first Bow Street officer 
 he sees." 
 
 "Oh, put that away, Jack," said Thistlewood. "You 
 won't want to use it till Monday."
 
 230 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 "I daresay we'll have the red weskits round before then, " 
 grumbled Castle. 
 
 Thistle wood picked up his great-coat and put it on. 
 "You can start Kennett on his work to-night, Watson," 
 he said. "Take him with you. Preston and you, Jack 
 help me with those pike-heads; they'll be safer at Grey- 
 stoke Place than here. " 
 
 Young Watson unlocked the door; Thistlewood, Preston, 
 and Castle went out, leaving the Watsons with their 
 visitor. George breathed freely again. 
 
 "Well," he said, jauntily, "your friends didn't seem to 
 find me a very welcome visitor, Dr. Watson. A rare 
 storm in a teacup about a little accident. But it's saved 
 me a lot of explanation. I've hit on what I wanted, the 
 very thing. I'm with you, soul and heart and body." 
 
 "It's fortunate for you we know you," said Watson 
 junior. "If we hadn't been here, I doubt if you'd have 
 left the room alive. But we want men, and I told Thistle- 
 wood you'd be useful. It's men who can handle weapons 
 we need now. At Herne Bay but how are they there, 
 Kennett? Your brother and Mrs. Kennett?" 
 
 George answered his inquiries briefly. His thoughts 
 were turned suddenly, and unpleasantly, into different 
 channels. "I've been in London some time, though," 
 he added. 
 
 "A pretty little woman, your sister-in-law, Kennett," 
 said Watson. "I was going to say that I told you to 
 expect something, when we were at Herne Bay. Every- 
 thing's ready now. On Monday we'll see an end of this 
 tyranny, this poverty and misery. You heard about the 
 Spa Fields meeting?" 
 
 "I heard some men talking about it the other day. 
 Proposed a petition to the Regent, didn't they?" 
 
 "Yes, asking him to relieve distress. And on Monday 
 there's to be a meeting to hear the answer. To hear the
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 231 
 
 answer! It's another sort of answer England will hear. 
 An answer written in blood; an answer 
 
 " Oh, I trust matters will go smoothly, " said Dr. Watson, 
 rubbing his hands. "I trust so. I have some recollection, 
 Mr. Kennett, that at Herne Bay I counselled moderation. 
 But there may have to be some blood-letting. We have 
 the nucleus of an armed force the nucleus. It is lament- 
 able; I regret the necessity; but England is really thor- 
 oughly cachectic thoroughly cachectic. Bills such as 
 you have heard read will be distributed. Others, more 
 tempered in tone, have been given away to those likely 
 to be more moderate; people in distress, who would not 
 favour harsh measures. But the leaven will then spread. 
 When the meeting is assembled, they shall find leaders; 
 they shall take sides, with us, I hope. It will be that 
 or the redding-straik a Scots term, Mr. Kennett, signi- 
 fying the blow folk who stand betwixt rival combatants 
 must expect. I trust that the soldiers will join us, how- 
 ever. It is a vera deplorable thing, Mr. Kennett, that 
 things have come to such a pass. But " 
 
 "The blood won't be on our heads!" interrupted young 
 Watson, dramatically. "They have goaded us to it, and 
 now they must take the consequences. There'll be thou- 
 sands tens of thousands at Spa Fields on the second, 
 desperate, burning with their grievances, and waiting to see 
 if the petition has a favourable answer. If it's received at 
 all, they'll get vague sympathy, a promise of considera- 
 tion, an exhortation to patience. Patience!" He foamed 
 at the mouth. "And then what '11 happen? Without 
 leaders, some would be gulled by empty words. More would 
 not be gulled, but would think there was no prospect of 
 redress or help. They'd slink back to their homes to try 
 and live on patience. There'd be a little shouting, hooting, 
 groaning." He danced round the room as he spoke. 
 " Perhaps a few they did, last time would loot the shops,
 
 232 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 and be chased away by police or soldiers. Then things 
 would go on as before. Hunt would slink away; the others 
 who pretend to be leaders would cry out about constitu- 
 tional means, and keep their necks well out of danger. 
 It'd all end in smoke. . . . But we'll take care that 
 doesn't happen. There'll be men to lead them: Thistle- 
 wood he was in the army, an officer in the 3rd Lincoln- 
 shire Regiment, a man used to leadership he's been in 
 America and France, and knows what he wants; my 
 father and I; Preston, a shoemaker, but a capable man 
 he'll represent the mechanics and artisans; Hooper, 
 another working man. Our Generals represent all classes 
 the professions, the army, the trades. Castle calls him- 
 self a smith now; he was a figure- maker children's dolls 
 but he's a fellow who's been in many a rough job before 
 this one. He got his living once by smuggling French 
 officers who had broken their parole across Channel. A 
 rough customer, he is, but he'll bring the people out of 
 the slums and stews of London." 
 
 "Unfortunately, Mr. Kennett, in an enterprise of this 
 nature we have to make use of strange tools. " Dr. Watson 
 sighed, and shook his head. "'Tis most regrettable, and 
 our army I have misgivings sometimes, sair misgivings. 
 I canna but think sometimes, with Horace 
 
 " ' Non his juventus orta parentibus 
 Infedt aequor sanguine Punico, 
 Pyrrhumque et ingentem ' " 
 
 "That's all Greek to Kennett, sir," interrupted his son, 
 sharply. "And I deny that it's true. We've better men 
 than you imagine. Castle may be a rough customer, but 
 he's useful. He's been working among the navigators on 
 the Paddington Canal; there'll be hundreds of them there 
 on Monday, as powerful men as you could wish. And 
 their friends will come in thousands. You have no idea,
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 233 
 
 even yet, father, how widespread the movement is. At 
 the lowest computation, I shall bring fourteen thousand 
 from the Minories and the neighbouring districts. And 
 when once the undecided, the wavering, even the moderate, 
 find leaders, they'll carry all before them. Revolt will 
 spread like fire on a parched heath. We've only to show 
 them they need expect no redress from the Government 
 or the Regent. Redress from him? All the redressing 
 he cares about is the redressing of his own fat body. The 
 country will rise, too. The coaches will carry out the news 
 of our success carry it through the length and breadth 
 of the land, like the fiery cross. Every town, every village 
 will rise. On Tuesday all England will be in arms. Club- 
 men, warned beforehand we have confederates every- 
 where will be waiting near the turnpikes at night, and 
 will signal the news from hill to hill. It'll be the French 
 Revolution again, but " 
 
 "Without the horrors, James, I sincerely hope," said 
 his father, "I trust, without the horrors. As you know, 
 Mr. Kennett, I am beginning to think that drastic measures 
 drastic measures in moderation " 
 
 "Drastic in moderation! Listen to him! We must 
 draw the sword, but for heaven's sake don't let it be 
 sharp. We're unhappily compelled to use firelocks, but 
 we'll be careful to put in no bullets that'll hurt. We'll 
 have our pound of flesh from those men who have owed 
 it to us for so long, but we mustn't draw blood oh, we 
 mustn't draw a drop of blood." 
 
 The young man's pinched, sharp-featured face worked 
 crazily; his voice grew shrill; he began to pace up and 
 down the narrow, poverty-stricken room, declaiming 
 angrily against the Government, against the Regent, 
 against the half-hearted. He mouthed threats that would 
 have done no disgrace to French sansculottism. And then, 
 suddenly, he wheeled round, and spoke in a calmer voice.
 
 234 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 "You think I'm making a fool of myself, Kennett? 
 You think I'm mad? Look at this this this." He 
 swung his arm round, pointing out the dingy walls, the 
 faded furniture, the evidences of poverty around him. 
 "Do you know what it is to be half-starved? Oh, we're 
 damned poor we're damned poor! All the patients we 
 get is patience to endure and not that, with me all 
 the practice, practice at living on next to nothing, when 
 men like the Regent and his leeches but there's the clock. 
 The evening's going. Stick this cockade in your hat, and 
 we'll set to work. Not outside, man, not outside in the 
 hat. You can wear it outside on Monday." 
 
 He snipped off several inches of the ribbon as he spoke, 
 and fashioned it into a tricolour cockade. 
 
 "White for truth, ye'll observe, Mr. Kennett," said old 
 Watson, hovering over as the cockade was adjusted, 
 "white for truth, green for nature, and red for justice." 
 
 George and young Watson went out together. They 
 spent the evening in taverns near the theatre and under 
 the Adelphi, and, working gradually towards the city, 
 ended at the Stone Kitchen in the Tower. James Watson 
 was used to his work. Here and there he found men wait- 
 ing for him and expecting him. George's army service 
 was a ready introduction; the soldiers were willing enough 
 to voice their discontent, grumble against the Govern- 
 ment, and drink the ale which Watson paid for. They 
 winked knowingly and sympathetically when the two 
 conspirators showed the cockades pinned to the linings of 
 their hats. . . . They winked again at each other when 
 the two backs were turned, and their comments among 
 themselves augured badly for the success of the conspiracy. 
 
 It was late at night when George Kennett, flushed and 
 excited with drink, said good-bye to young Watson at 
 the door of the One Bell Inn.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 HPHE conspiracy, which came to a head on the 2nd of 
 1 December, 1816, at Spa Fields, had been long in 
 contemplation. Since autumn the six Generals had dis- 
 cussed and rejected many projects which should over- 
 throw the Government, and place the reins of power in 
 their own hands. Meetings had taken place every day 
 during the last week or two, at the Cock in Grafton Street, 
 at Dr. Watson's room in Dean Street, at Southampton 
 Buildings, where Thistlewood and his wife lived, and at a 
 room in Greystoke Place, near Fetter Lane, which had 
 been rented for the purpose. Many of their original in- 
 tentions had been found impracticable. A proposal to 
 burn the barracks in King Street and Portman Street, 
 and to explode the powder magazine in Hyde Park, was 
 abandoned, owing to the difficulty of finding a house in 
 which to store combustibles. The suggested barricading 
 of the streets was also given up. But the meeting to hear 
 the answer to the petition was sure to draw a large con- 
 course of people to Spa Fields; and desperate efforts 
 were made to secure the presence of men who would be 
 prepared to go to all lengths, and by their action ensure 
 the co-operation of the mob. 
 
 Somewhat to his chagrin, George found that he would 
 have to play a very secondary part. With Hooper, Castle, 
 and young Watson, he paid many visits to the London 
 public-houses, especially in the neighbourhood of the 
 barracks, and the theatres where the soldiers spent their 
 leisure. He helped to spread disaffection among the work- 
 men in great centres of industry. In the King's Yard at 
 Wapping, at the Paddington Canal Works, at Dawson's 
 Brewhouse, and Mellish's Slaughterhouse, among porters 
 
 235
 
 236 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 in the London markets, and coal-heavers and wharfside 
 loafers on the Thames, they received many promises of 
 support. Thistlewood supplied funds for beer, and the 
 amount of sympathy they received was only limited by 
 the number of half-pints of ale or porter these supplies 
 could furnish. A fund had been raised to aid in the work, 
 and subscriptions came in, though slowly. Old Watson 
 spoilt innumerable sheets of paper with plans and designs 
 which came to nothing. Young Watson spent his morning, 
 when he was not engaged in canvassing, in making bullets 
 with a little mould. But George found himself excluded 
 from the secret meeting of the Generals. Vague promises 
 were made, to be redeemed in the event of success; and 
 with these he had to be content. A Provisional Committee 
 of Public Safety had been drafted, containing the names 
 of Sir Francis Burdett, Lord Cochrane, Major Cartwright, 
 Arthur Thistlewood, James Watson, senior, Hunt, and six 
 or seven more who were popular with the masses. Most 
 of these men had no knowledge of the plot, and would 
 have had little sympathy with it. George plumed himself 
 on his ability, if success came, to take a prominent place 
 by force or by diplomacy; in the meantime, he worked 
 loyally to ensure a fortunate ending to the conspiracy. 
 Early on the morning of the 2nd of December, George 
 Kennett breakfasted at the One Bell, and, in excitement 
 the more intense because suppressed, hurried to the Black 
 Dog, in Drury Lane, where the conspirators had arranged 
 to meet shortly before eight. Here the last few arrange- 
 ments were hastily made. Young Watson had already 
 gone to the Minories, to head the contingent from there, 
 and Preston to Spitalfields. Hooper was going to Chancery 
 Lane, to meet a waggon which had been engaged for the 
 purposes of the meeting. Watson, who had on a drab 
 great-coat covering him from neck to ankles, was in a 
 flutter of excitement, like a figure on wires. "A great
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 237 
 
 day in the history of Britain, this," he said, grasping 
 George's hand. "Oh, a memorable day indeed! Mr. 
 Kennett, I suggest your going with Hooper to the waggon. 
 Stay, you will have a drop of spirits to keep the cold out, 
 before you start. " He poured out half a tumbler each of 
 raw spirit for George and Hooper, and drank one himself. 
 "Here are the bullets, Hooper I trust they will not be 
 needed and the powder." He wound a handkerchief 
 round an old stocking knobbed with bullets; Hooper took 
 it under his coat, and carried also the canister of powder, 
 carefully concealed. "You can take these flags, Kennett 
 oh, and the blanket. Wrap it round them. Cover all 
 over in the waggon. We mustn't have accidents before 
 the field is reached." 
 
 With his bundle under his arm, George strode on beside 
 Hooper to the end of Chancery Lane. A man and a boy, 
 with long whips and broad-brimmed, low-crowned wag- 
 goners' hats, were waiting with the waggon. 
 
 "Are you going to Spa Fields?" asked Hooper. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "In with the things, then, Kennett. Pull the blanket 
 over them so, " he whispered. The incriminating luggage 
 was stowed away and covered; Kennett and Hooper took 
 their places ; the whips cracked, and the horses started. 
 
 Both men were silent, occupied with their thoughts. 
 One of the waggoners whistled a cheerful tune, and talked 
 to his horses, calling them by name. London gave no 
 sign of the tremendous issues hanging on the day that 
 had just begun. Here and there were lawyers in their 
 wigs hurrying to the courts, law clerks with blue bags; 
 tradesmen were at the doors of their shops; men stood on 
 the pavements, gossiping about the weather. A chilling 
 sense of the size and imperturbability of this great city 
 oppressed George. What would the day bring forth? 
 Revolution? Death? Would night see him in Carlton
 
 238 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 House, flushed with victory? In gaol? Or flung down 
 in some cobbled alley, on a dust-heap in the fields, dis- 
 membered, riddled, hacked and trampled out of human 
 shape ? 
 
 But, as they drew near the Fields, they found them- 
 selves wedged between crowds of people proceeding in 
 the same direction, and his spirits rose. Before long, 
 these crowds would know his name. Before long, England 
 should ring with it. The coaches, clattering out of the 
 capital at night, would spread the news far afield, and 
 soon it would reach the little hamlet by the sea. His 
 hurried departure from the inn would be forgotten in the 
 startling news that so soon he had made himself master 
 one of the masters of England. He fancied the gaping 
 mouths and breathless comments of peasants and fisher- 
 men in the taproom of the Running Horse. He imagined 
 the circle formed round the table, perched on which one 
 of the men Stebbings, very likely would read out from 
 the gazette the full report of his share in the revolution. 
 Oh, he could almost hear the muttered ejaculations of the 
 listeners. "My wig, now! George Kennett! He must ha' 
 been a likelier fellow than we thoft him, then. " And John 
 would hear and Bess would hear. 
 
 Almost before he realised it, they reached their desti- 
 nation. Clerkenwell was a district of which he had little 
 knowledge. During the previous century, Spa Fields 
 known then as Ducking Pond Fields had borne as evil 
 a reputation as any part of London or its environs; a place 
 ill to cross at night without escort, and by day the scene 
 of rough and savage sports, duck-hunting, bull-baiting, 
 and prize-fights in which women were frequently the com- 
 batants. At the time of the riot few signs were left of its 
 old usages. 
 
 Crowds of people were already assembled, though the 
 size of the Fields dwarfed the numbers, and gave George
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 239 
 
 a momentary sense of disappointment. At the previous 
 meeting, on the 20th of November, Hunt had addressed 
 the crowd from a room in the Merlin's Cave public-house, 
 and a number of people were now clustered round its 
 doors. Others were waiting in front of a chapel, the dome 
 of which was a conspicuous feature of the Fields; but the 
 main body assembled at one end, close to Coldbath Fields 
 Prison. The waggon came to a halt about twenty yards 
 from the turnpike, near a tavern which bore the sign of 
 the Cobham's Head. The horses were hastily taken out. 
 Thistlewood, the two Watsons, and other leaders were 
 waiting. They sprang up on to the waggon; others in 
 the crowd, without invitation boys and men climbed 
 on after them, until there was scarcely standing room. 
 Young Watson seized the flags and unfurled them. One, 
 a tricolour, bore the legend, "Nature to Feed the Hungry, 
 Truth to Protect the Oppressed, Justice to Punish Crimes." 
 A smaller tricolour flapped in the wind at the farther end 
 of the waggon. Between the two, a kind of standard was 
 raised, a wooden frame with calico stretched across, on 
 which, in red letters, was the inscription, "The Brave 
 Soldiers are our Friends Treat them Kindly." Rosettes 
 and scraps of ribbon were handed out to those who reached 
 for them; already the waggon was a blaze of colours, and, 
 like a magnet, drew the severed portions of the crowd 
 from all corners of the Fields. 
 
 Old Watson drew a heavy watch from its fob, and looked 
 at it nervously. It was just after eleven. He cleared his 
 throat, and glanced inquiringly at Thistlewood. For a 
 few minutes they looked round on the assembly, and 
 whispered. Then Dr. Watson pushed his way to the front 
 of the waggon. A storm of hand-clapping and cheers 
 prevented him, for a few moments, from gaining a hearing. 
 
 " Friends and Countrymen !" he began. "This meeting 
 has been convened to hear an answer to the petition which
 
 240 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 was decided upon at the last meeting in these Fields. 
 Mr. Hunt was deputed to present the petition in the hope 
 that the Prince Regent " 
 
 There was some ominous groaning. 
 
 " the Prince Regent would give an answer to the 
 
 cries of starving thousands. The Prince has resolved to 
 give no answer." (Hoots, groans, hisses, cries of "Damn 
 him," "We'll have an answer," "We'll force him to 
 answer.") "Will the people of England allow themselves 
 to be treated with contempt? Have the ministers done 
 their duty in not hearing the cries of distress? Has the 
 Prince Regent done his duty?" ("No, No!") "Friends, 
 Countrymen, we have been in a state of bondage longer 
 than the Israelites. They served under Pharaoh for four 
 hundred years; we English, who pride ourselves on liberty, 
 have been slaves since the No/man Conquest slaves to 
 kings and tyrants slaves " 
 
 George had joined mechanically in the applause, the 
 groans, the shouts of disapproval. His eyes wandered 
 now from the speaker to the listening crowd, pressing 
 and heaving to the very wheels of the waggon. Watson's 
 words were bold enough, his manner, on the other hand, 
 was forced and nervous; his movements were spasmodic; 
 his face was pale and twitching. No leader for a revolu- 
 tion, this little elderly doctor, in his neat clothes, his neat 
 drab overcoat, with his air of old-maidish precision. There 
 were men in the crowd who were ready for deeds rather 
 than for words. Some faces bore the stamp of merely 
 idle curiosity. But many there were, pale-faced and large- 
 eyed with hunger; men goaded to the very limit of endu- 
 rance; tow ready for the kindling flame. Oh, he could 
 move them! He would know what to say, and how to say 
 it. Raised thus above the crowd, he saw himself already 
 at the head of these burly fellows grimed with hard toil 
 these pale and thin-blooded city workers these dwellers
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 241 
 
 in dark, unwholesome slums, who had come out in the 
 hope of redress, of spoil, of ease, of relief. George felt 
 excitement rising in him, beginning to master him, to 
 carry him away. What was the good of talk ? They wanted 
 a leader. Oh, soon very soon in spite of their mapped- 
 out programme, in spite of the pre-arranged order of 
 speakers from which he had been excluded, he would 
 spring up, force his way to the front, and put himself at 
 the head of the people of England who were to wrest, this 
 day, the reins of power from the hands of their oppressors. 
 But the time had not yet come. A speech or two a few 
 inflaming words from others and then he, watching the 
 faces of the audience, would seize the great chance of life, 
 and send his name ringing through the world and time. 
 
 George could scarcely restrain his impatience, while the 
 Doctor droned on, his dull, precise delivery quenching 
 the fire that was in the words themselves. 
 
 "We must not have Kings of this country!" 
 
 Evidently Dr. Watson had no intention yet of making 
 an end. But the thoughts that were passing through 
 George's brain possessed the younger Watson in like fashion, 
 and he snatched the occasion at once. 
 
 "This man refuses your petition, and yet he calls him- 
 self the father of his people!" he shouted, suddenly, spring- 
 ing forward, and thrusting the Doctor in the background, 
 where he stood a little disconcerted, with a curious ming- 
 ling of relief and chagrin in his face. "The father of his 
 people! Is it not the duty of a father to protect his people?" 
 
 This was more the tone for his audience; here was 
 passion, here fire; his voice was almost a shriek, he foamed 
 at the mouth as he worked himself up into a rage of hatred 
 against the Regent; and the mob was quick to answer 
 his appeal. There was no lukewarmness now in their 
 answers. "Yes, yes!" they shouted, and looked each at 
 his neighbour. 
 16
 
 242 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 It was curious how the slight, pale, sharp-featured lad 
 seemed suddenly transformed. In the room at Dean 
 Street, pirouetting round as he made his speech, he had 
 seemed merely ridiculous; the presence of the swaying, 
 thrilling crowd gave him a measure of dignity or, if not 
 dignity, of importance and command. George eyed him, 
 and listened to him with envy and jealousy, but with 
 tingling blood. The infection of revolt caught him, and 
 had him now thoroughly in its grip. "I'll follow him," 
 he muttered. "I'll speak to them when he finishes. He 
 sows I'll reap." He could scarcely restrain himself, even 
 then, from rushing forward and shouting, " I will lead you! " 
 
 "There is scarcely a luxury he spares, " shrieked Watson, 
 "because he knows it comes out of your pockets. Out 
 of your pockets! Will Englishmen be trod on like the 
 poor African slaves in the West Indies? We have asked 
 for help; what have we received? They dole out a little 
 ox-cheek soup, a little ox-bone broth, and want us to go 
 down on our knees and thank them. They rob us, like 
 highwaymen, of all we have; and tell us to be grateful 
 when they give us a penny back to pay the turnpike. If 
 they will not give us what we want, shall we not take it?" 
 
 "Yes, yes!" roared a thousand throats. 
 
 "Are you ready to take it?" 
 
 Again the roar of answer, fierce and sinister. 
 
 George edged forward. His throat was dry; his fists 
 clenched and unclenched; in another second he would 
 rush forward, and, thrusting aside Watson, usurp his 
 place and influence. Oh, the moment that he had longed 
 for was waiting for him to grasp it! Here were the people, 
 ripe for revolt; here the conditions, leading to power 
 perhaps a throne and yet he hesitated. 
 
 "Yes, yes!" "We're ready!" "Damn the Regent!" 
 "Down with the Government!" "Down with the op- 
 pressors!"
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 243 
 
 "Will you go and take it?" 
 
 "Yes!" "We're ready." "Yes!" 
 
 " If I jump down among you, will you come and take it?" 
 
 "Yes, yes!" There was a tumult of assent. Each 
 question rang louder, mounting to the climax; the air 
 was electric. Now fists were in the air; sticks and imple- 
 ments were brandished, weapons produced as if by magic. 
 
 " Will you follow me?" 
 
 "YES!" 
 
 There was a sudden rush. George felt himself pushed 
 and jostled; he sprang forward; the waggon was empty 
 in a second. All its occupants had jumped together to 
 the ground. The flags and banners were wrenched from 
 their sockets. 
 
 Jostling, pushing, swaying, cursing, shouting, the crowd 
 poured towards Coppice Row, the nearest exit from the 
 Fields. Some of the more cautious broke away, running 
 in different directions to escape its onset. George found 
 himself near young Watson, who was rushing on with 
 starting eyes and open, froth-flecked mouth, with one 
 hand clutching the staff of a tricolour, the other brandish- 
 ing a naked sword. But there were already men and lads 
 in advance of them, the vanguard of the assault on London. 
 For an instant George caught sight of the pale face of 
 Dr. Watson; he stood, undecided, in the doorway of the 
 Cobham's Head; taken by surprise, evidently, at the 
 suddenness with which the climax had been reached. His 
 face was blotted out. In the thick of the crowd swayed 
 the banners, the tricolours. Suddenly one flag and the 
 framed standard were dragged down, and rose again. 
 "The Runners!" cried some one. "Bow Street Officers!" 
 Castle's hoarse voice rose above the tumult. "Down 
 them out them, lads!" The mob fell back, and heaved 
 forward again; the man who had snatched at the standard 
 was down, but another pair of hands clutched at the frame,
 
 244 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 and wrenched it apart, tearing the stiff calico: the report 
 of snapping wood sounded like pistol-shots. Watson and 
 another man bore the larger tricolour, unsteadily; the 
 long staff wavered and canted like the mast of a ship in a 
 tossing sea. Hands were stretched out to seize it. George 
 clutched the staff, joining his strength to that of its de- 
 fenders; he struck put, with his free hand, at the red 
 breast of a Bow Street man which thrust itself aggressively 
 in his way. Fingers were on his collar, but he shook 
 them off. 
 
 The flag was raised again at last, uncaptured, though 
 a fragment of green stuff was left with the constables to 
 solace them in their defeat. 
 
 "Weapons, weapons!" "To the Bank! To the Old 
 Lady!" "No, no, weapons first! Arms, arms!" "Break 
 open the gunsmiths', my lads! " " Down with the Regent!" 
 "To the Tower!" "Yes, to the Tower! The Old Man, 
 my lads the Tower!" "To the Lord Mayor!" 
 
 A hundred contrary cries, oaths, imprecations, savage 
 snarlings as of beasts let loose, mingled in one roar of 
 sound. They poured into Skinner Street; at the uproar, 
 the windows of the tall new houses on both sides were 
 crowded with onlookers; shopkeepers rushed to close their 
 doors and put up shutters. All the concerted plans, all 
 the schemes for barricades, for divisions, for separate 
 generalship, were swept away by the impetuous, disor- 
 ganised onrush of the rabble. The leaders were carried 
 with it. Young Watson had given the flag to other hands; 
 he ran on, shouting, mouthing, waving sword and pistol. 
 Preston limped as fast as the others with the aid of his 
 stout stick. They scarcely led now, but were carried by 
 the resistless force of the stream of men. But here, in 
 Skinner Street, was a rallying-point for disaffection. Al- 
 ready the mob was beginning to splay out, to stream into 
 byways, to split up into smaller groups. "Here, my lads,
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 245 
 
 here are weapons!" screamed Watson; George echoed 
 the cry. 
 
 "Weapons, weapons! Arms, arms!" The shout passed 
 like an echo. Men flocked together. The unlucky gun- 
 smith, struggling under a heavy shutter, was thrust aside. 
 In an instant the door was blocked with rioters; others, 
 unable to enter, broke the glass, and smashed in the shutters 
 that were already fixed, with their mattocks and pick- 
 axes. 
 
 For a few seconds George tried to force his way in. 
 He looked round; Watson was running on, alone, to 
 another gunsmith's farther down the street. George 
 followed him to the door. 
 
 A customer, a plump, pink-faced young man, was talk- 
 ing to the assistant in the doorway. He turned his head 
 at the uproar, and found himself face to face with young 
 Watson. "Arms! Arms! Arms!" cried Watson, stamp- 
 ing twice with his foot, and brandishing his pistol. There 
 seemed to be a scuffle; at the same moment the pistol 
 barked, and the customer fell back into the arms of the 
 assistant. "I am hit," screamed the customer, his pink 
 face going suddenly white; "he has hit me in my stomach. 
 For God's sake, fetch me a surgeon. Don't let him go. 
 Don't let him go. " 
 
 "No, sir, he shan't go." The man shouted an order to 
 a lad who was in the shop, "Roberts, fetch the constables." 
 George was on the threshold of the shop. He saw Watson 
 fling down the pistol on the 'prentice's bench, and turn 
 almost as pale as his victim. "Oh, my God!" he cried, 
 "I am a misled young man; I have been to Spa Fields, 
 but I am a surgeon; I " 
 
 "No, no," screamed the customer, "bring a surgeon 
 bring one, for God's sake don't let him go he has 
 hit me in my stomach." There was surprise and indig- 
 nation almost as much as pain in his cry, " my stomach
 
 246 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 my stomach. " It would have been laughable under other 
 circumstances, the pink-faced young man's concern at the 
 indignity offered to his anatomy. Sense of ownership ran 
 all through that cry; the "my," even, was emphasised 
 in George's fancy. He had seen men sobbing in battle, 
 as they bit cartridges, and played the parts of heroes. 
 He had heard them laughing and chuckling insanely to 
 themselves. And now, in the intense excitement of the 
 moment, he caught himself laughing almost hysterically. 
 "My stomach! My stomach!" 
 
 Everything had passed in a few seconds, while he stood 
 hesitating on the threshold. He turned to call the crowd, 
 swarming like flies round the shop across the way. Sud- 
 denly he was thrust aside by a posse of men whom the 
 'prentice had collected surgeon, constables, and neigh- 
 bours. They entered the shop and closed the door. 
 
 George ran across the road. When he reached the mob, 
 the looting was nearly ended; the shop was ransacked 
 almost from end to end guns had gone from the windows, 
 pistols and cutlasses from their racks; boxes, crates, 
 drawers, cupboards, had been flung or wrenched open; 
 their contents arms, canisters of powder, bags of bullets 
 had been taken and shared out. George seized a brace 
 of pistols and ammunition, which had been overlooked, 
 and then shouted his news. No one heeded. They seemed 
 drunk with success. Many were still in the shop; others 
 swaggered and stood yelling on the pavement. They were 
 like bandits or buccaneers out of hand. Coal-heavers, 
 "navigators" from the canal, butchers and drovers from 
 the markets, dockside labourers and river loafers, had 
 armed themselves from the gunsmith's stock after their 
 own choice, or strength, or luck. Some had an armoury 
 of pistols and knives and cutlasses in their belts. Some 
 staggered under the weight of heavy guns; two or three 
 men had a gun on each shoulder. The less fortunate were
 
 EDWIN F 13AYHA 
 
 HALT! HALT!" HE ORDERED.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 247 
 
 fighting to wrest weapons from the successful. One man 
 was already firing wildly in the air. But very few had 
 knowledge enough to cock or load a weapon. 
 
 If they were only disciplined! If only half these men 
 had learnt their lesson in the stern school of war! George 
 shouted in vain, at first, that young Watson was a prisoner. 
 His voice was disregarded; each man had a tongue and 
 no ears. "Halt! halt!" he ordered, stepping in front of 
 some, and appealing to them frantically to hear reason. 
 "Castle, for God's sake, let's halt them, and arm them 
 properly let's teach them the use of their weapons. If 
 the soldiers come " 
 
 "Damme, the soldiers are our friends!" shouted Castle, 
 mad as any. "On, my lads on to the Tower " 
 
 "Watson's in there, I tell you!" shrieked George, as 
 they were sweeping by. The soldier's instinct of camara- 
 derie made him insistent. The cry was at last taken up. 
 "Watson! Watson!" 
 
 "We'll have him out." "Break the house down." 
 "Smash the windows." 
 
 A brewer's man smashed the first window with a stout 
 staff; other blows followed. Men began to hammer at 
 the framework of the door, at the door itself. Suddenly 
 some one at the back of the crowd raised a shout. "There 
 he is! There's Watson! There's our leader!" 
 
 He was at an upper window, and the attack on the 
 shop went on with redoubled fury. The assistant, pale 
 and excited, opened the door. 
 
 "What do you want, my good folks?" he cried, tremu- 
 lously. "Go about your business; there's nothing the 
 matter. I'm one of you." 
 
 "Tower Hfll! Tower Hill!" 
 
 Some belated stragglers from the crowd, almost bowed 
 down with the weapons stolen from the other shop 
 staggering, one or two, with as many as a dozen guns
 
 248 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 apiece clasped in their arms, and shouldered raised the 
 cry afresh, not knowing the cause of the stoppage. 
 
 "Tower Hill, my boys!" echoed the assistant, in vain 
 hopes of saving his own master's stock. He flung up his 
 arms. "Tower Hill! Tower Hill!" He waved them 
 towards the city, as if to scatter them like chickens. At that 
 moment, Watson thrust his way past him, with a pistol in 
 each hand. "Here are arms, my boys; help yourselves." 
 
 They poured into the shop, and ransacked it like the 
 other. At last Watson led them on; there was the glint 
 of madness in his eyes, and he was shrieking hoarsely 
 and incoherently. Men were firing wildly, at random, 
 towards the winter sky. There was no semblance of dis- 
 cipline or order. George knew that a score of troopers 
 could scatter them like sheep. Thistlewood was near 
 him, flourishing a sword; his dark-blue overcoat, of French 
 pattern, was flung open, showing a coat of lighter blue 
 beneath, white breeches, and top-boots. "General Thistle- 
 wood," cried George, seizing his arm, "can't we do any- 
 thing? It's useless, this. Let's halt them, and make 
 them listen to reason." 
 
 Thistlewood looked at him vacantly for a second, then 
 shrugged his shoulders. "What can we do?" he said. 
 "We've weapons now we'll get more they'll learn to 
 use them when there's need. . . . On, on!" he shouted. 
 "Forward, my lads to the city!" 
 
 They poured into the Exchange; some passed round it, 
 drifting from the main body. George was carried into 
 the building, where the statues of the English kings looked 
 down on this strange rabble. "The Lord Mayor!" shouted 
 some; two gentlemen, with a marshal in bright uniform, 
 and five constables, were waiting in the Exchange, having 
 hurried there on the first news of the riot. The Lord 
 Mayor tried to address the mob, but could not make him- 
 self heard above the tumult.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 249 
 
 "Shut the gates!" he ordered, at last, and the constables 
 ran to close them. George slipped out just as the heavy 
 gates, forced back on their hinges, imprisoned the tail end 
 of the crowd, Hooper among them. A couple of men 
 turned to fire their pieces below the gates; but there was 
 no organised effort to rescue the prisoners. Already the 
 rabble had dwindled down to a few hundreds of reckless, 
 excited, witless men. "To the Tower! To Tower Hill!" 
 
 On the rise of the hill, one on either side of the Minories, 
 were gunsmiths' shops; the crowd clustered round, batter- 
 ing down the shutters, breaking the windows, and looting 
 at their pleasure. Here they gained a few adherents. 
 They swept on again towards the Tower. Two sailors 
 trundled along a brass three-pounder found in one of the 
 shops; a third pushed the carronade from the rear with a 
 marlin-spike. Perhaps there were four hundred men left, 
 now, of the thousands who had assembled in Spa Fields. 
 Most of these had arms. Women, mad drunk, with their 
 hair streaming like the harpies of Saint Antoine, ran with 
 the men, brandishing fowling-pieces and swords. A great 
 drayman, wielding an antiquated pike, was purple-faced 
 with hoarse shouting. One or two faces stamped them- 
 selves on George's memory. Now and then a gun went 
 off, by accident, or fired at random. 
 
 George raced on ahead of the crowd. For a moment 
 or two he led them. Thistlewood, still waving his sword, 
 was close behind him. The Tower, grey and grim, guarded 
 by its stone ramparts and stagnant, evil-smelling moat, 
 was at last before them. 
 
 And then, suddenly, rose a shout that spread through 
 the mob like a panic. "The soldiers! The soldiers!" 
 George glanced over his shoulder, and saw, above the 
 heads and between the raised weapons, the blue and red 
 of the Queen's Lancers, and the glitter of sun on steel. 
 The rioters were trapped between the Tower and the
 
 250 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 soldiers! If the men on the ramparts chose to fire if the 
 Lancers charged they would be shot or cut down to the 
 last man. And yet, even while he realised that the game 
 was lost, George made another effort to win the great stake. 
 
 "Stand firm! Stand firm!" he shrieked. "Fight now, 
 or be slaves for ever! I'm a soldier, I'll lead you. Men 
 with pikes and swords, kneel down in front. " Oh, if only 
 the familiar words heard so often in the wars meant any- 
 thing to these men! The simplest orders had to be framed 
 in words fit for the comprehension of children. "The rest 
 load and be ready behind the others." But the mere 
 threat of soldiery, the mere glimpse of these men, riding 
 jauntily not fast, not in anger slowly, smiling and 
 good-tempered turned all the braggarts to trembling 
 cravens on the instant. Watson had vanished; Castle 
 and Preston were nowhere to be seen. " The Brave Soldiers 
 are our Friends Treat them Kindly!" What unconscious 
 irony in the motto on the captured standard, and the 
 mob's obedience! But the troopers, some half hundred 
 in all, were still at the far end of the street. George caught 
 at one big fellow near him; held him by the coat a second: 
 "Fight, man; fight, if they won't join us!" The man 
 spat in his face, and tore himself away, scuttling like a 
 rabbit down a dark alley that was already choked with 
 fugitives. In twenty seconds the crowd had scattered, 
 flinging down their weapons as they ran. 
 
 George rushed on, stumbling over guns, staves, swords. 
 Thistle wood was ahead of him. In the kennel lay the 
 carronade, overturned, with one wheel off and the other 
 spinning. George rushed to the edge of the dark moat. 
 Thistlewood, several yards away, was under one of the 
 closed gates of the Tower, waving his sword and shouting 
 reckless promises to the garrison. 
 
 Behind the ramparts, at the top of the high wall beyond 
 the moat, George could see the grinning faces of the guards-
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 251 
 
 men, and the upper part of their scarlet coats and their 
 accoutrements. These were the men who, in the Stone 
 Kitchen, had listened to the schemes of the conspirators, 
 grumbled with them about grievances and injustice, and 
 sworn that they would be ready, when the time came, 
 to throw in their lot with the rebels. 
 
 "Open the gates!" he cried. "Surrender the Tower. 
 All London's in arms. You'll have your commissions to- 
 night if you join us. A hundred guineas to each man who 
 opens the gates to us!" 
 
 The men turned aside, made some jesting remarks 
 which he could not hear, and went on, unmoved. Abso- 
 lute contempt set the crown on the day's failure. They 
 were not even ordered to open fire. 
 
 The Queen's Lancers came jingling up the littered, 
 empty road. All was over. The tumult and the shouting 
 had died away. The immense, disordered crowd which 
 had poured that morning from the Fields, flooding the 
 city streets, filling them with sound and fury, had broken 
 and turned and been absorbed again in the ocean of Lon- 
 don's life leaving behind only this medley of abandoned 
 spoil, like wreckage tossed up and left by some great 
 winter wave. . . . 
 
 Well, all was over; and the great Revolt had failed.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 EORGE stood for a second or two under the Tower, 
 alone, and dazed by the completeness of the disaster. 
 The cavalry were only a few yards from him, when he 
 came to his senses. Life and liberty were left if little 
 else. The instinct of self-preservation seemed to hustle 
 him away, forcibly, almost against his will. He found 
 himself running. 
 
 He dashed round the Tower heedless where he went 
 and ran on and on, through narrow streets and dark 
 alleys. He wanted to stop and think ; he wanted to collect 
 his scattered wits; but, as he ran, he felt a kind of panic 
 rising in him. Capture meant gaol, gallows, a traitor's end. 
 Some boys stopped their play in a squalid court and ran 
 after him, shouting; a man in a doorway tried to trip him 
 up. He realised suddenly that he was still grasping a 
 pistol he had stolen. Wherever he went, it marked him 
 out as one of the defeated rebels. But it would be useful 
 if he had to turn at bay. He slipped it in his pocket, and 
 ran on. 
 
 At last he stopped in a dark doorway, gasping for 
 breath. There were no sounds of pursuit. He was in a 
 poor neighbourhood, utterly unknown to him; and here, 
 perhaps, the sight of a man running from justice, or hurry- 
 ing from the scene of robbery or brawl, was too familiar 
 to excite much notice. 
 
 His throat was dry; he was hoarse with shouting; the 
 stench of gunpowder was in his nostrils still. He crept 
 cautiously at last from his hiding-place. In a street near 
 by, he saw a swinging sign, the Fortune of War and on 
 the board were painted the emblems of soldiers' luck, the 
 gold chain and the wooden leg. No gold chains to reward 
 
 262
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 253 
 
 his fortunes! He cursed the yelling crowds who had turned 
 tail at the clatter of fifty troopers' horses, and robbed him 
 of all that the morning sun had promised. 
 
 George entered the tavern, and called huskily for drink. 
 He tossed off the tankard of porter, and put his hand in 
 his pocket for the money. He was still in a sweat after 
 his long run; but an icy shiver ran through him as he 
 felt through pocket after pocket. They were empty, save 
 for the pistol and a few small articles of little value. 
 
 The barman waited with outstretched palm. 
 
 "I I've been robbed!" cried George. "My God, I've 
 been robbed! Every penny's taken! I had three guineas 
 when I came out this morning, and " 
 
 " Oh, I've heard that tale before, " said the man. "Come, 
 out with your money, unless you want me to fetch a 
 constable. Three guineas?" He looked contemptuously 
 at his customer, with his grimed, perspiring face, his clothes 
 and boots spattered with London mud. "Why don't you 
 say a thousand? Won't cost you any more. You must 
 mean a thousand guineas, my lord. Come, out with it; 
 you don't have me," he said, his voice changing. 
 
 "What is it, Charlie?" cried a woman's shrill voice 
 from an inner room. The landlady came out, a large, 
 fair-haired woman in the prime of life, with a double chin, 
 and little, good-natured eyes set in a plump, round face. 
 
 "Here's a man won't pay for his drink, Mrs. Moggett, " 
 said the barman. "He's the Prince Regent, I should 
 think, from the way he talks. Will you go for a constable 
 while I keep him here?" 
 
 The landlady turned her lazy, good-humoured eyes, 
 half-buried in rolls of fat, upon her customer. 
 
 "Why won't you pay, young man?" she squeaked. 
 
 George repeated his statement. Perhaps the abject 
 misery or the dazed confusion of his looks confirmed it. 
 "You're from the country, ain't you?" she piped, with
 
 254 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 her plump, ringed hands resting on the counter. " 'Ow 
 much 'as he had, Charlie?" 
 
 "Pint of porter, mum, and bolted it down as if he was 
 afraid I'd ask him for the money before he could finish 
 it. An old trick, that. If you'll go " 
 
 "Well, I don't know as 'ow a pint of porter'll ruin me, 
 Charlie. You should look after your pockets, young man. 
 Where do you live? If I let you go, will you bring me the 
 money afterwards?" 
 
 "God knows where I'll get it from," said George. 
 "They've taken every penny. But I'll pay you I'll pay 
 you, if you'll let me go." 
 
 "Likely, that," growled the barman. "You're a deal 
 too haffable, Mrs. Moggett that's what you are. I 
 wouldn't let him go like that. Pay you? Oh, yes. He's 
 only to go to the Bank, and draw out a million, and he'll 
 pay the twopence on his way back. Shouldn't wonder 
 if he'll bring me a hundred for myself I don't think." 
 
 "Well, I'll trust you, young man. Only don't come in 
 here again after you've 'ad your pockets picked, because 
 another time " 
 
 George mumbled his thanks and went out. 
 
 He hurried away from the neighbourhood of the tavern, 
 lest the good-nature of the landlady should be overcome 
 by the barman's remonstrances. Arrest on a charge like 
 this might lead to more serious consequences. But, 
 directly he had turned the corner, he stopped to think. 
 The blow had stunned him. Some one in the crowd, at 
 all events, had profited by the riot. A crushing sense of 
 misery and humiliation took the place of wild excitement 
 and mad ambition. He was in a black mood; not a ray 
 of light broke the gloom of a day that had opened so 
 gloriously, and promised such a brilliant close. He had 
 had his chance of making history and the game had 
 gone against him. So often, in imagination, he had pictured
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 255 
 
 himself with others under him, bending them easily to his 
 will. How lamentably he had failed! How impotent he 
 had been to gain control even over the rabble of the London 
 slums! And Fate, whose child he thought himself, had 
 slyly fumbled in his pockets for his little wealth, while 
 he was dreaming of power, and palaces, and fairy gold. 
 This was the last touch of irony. This was the grim chuckle 
 of Life as it checkmated him. 
 
 He even laughed himself, bitterly, silently. It was so 
 fine a finish to the jest. The board was swept so thor- 
 oughly. He was alone and friendless in London; penniless; 
 without anywhere to turn for food or bed. 
 
 Nothing was left him nothing but liberty to starve, 
 and a worthless life to fling away. 
 
 He took out the pistol, but his courage failed him. He 
 had seen so many men die by bullet; memories of old 
 death-agonies, of strong men screaming in pain or terror, 
 of grim tragedies that the Provost-Marshal's pistol had 
 ended after Ciudad, and at other times and places, rose 
 before him, and made him hesitate. One could never be 
 sure. Perhaps drowning would be an easier death; they 
 said so. He went on towards the river. 
 
 The tide was out. It was growing dusk now; a pool 
 of barges, moored near the centre of the stream, showed 
 very black under the wintry sky; lights twinkled from 
 two or three windows already, and were reflected on ooze 
 and oily water. But up river sunset lingered still; the 
 sky was like an angry furnace, aflame with sullen red and 
 copper, broken and darkened by masses of smoky cloud. 
 Two or three small boats were canted over in the slime. 
 
 He went down to the beach, under the shadow of London 
 Bridge. The foreshore was littered with the debris of a 
 great city. Broken bottles, old boots, carcases of rats 
 and drowned dogs, had been washed up and left. A few 
 mudlarks were playing near him in the growing darkness.
 
 256 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 He shuddered at the thought of wading out the mud 
 squelching beneath his boots, filling them, dragging him 
 back into water deep enough for his purpose. And he 
 could swim. 
 
 He went up the steps again, to the bridge. He stood, 
 for some time, leaning over the stone parapet, and watch- 
 ing the oily eddies far below, the black water slipping 
 through the arches. What would happen if he jumped? 
 He wondered whether he would sink at once, stunned by 
 the dive; whether he would fight for life, and be dragged 
 under at last by the weight of his drenched clothing; 
 whether there might be an attempt at rescue. It was not 
 pleasant, the thought of choking out one's life in that 
 dark, foul stream. His imagination, so deft an artist, 
 turning everything to gay or gloomy pictures in his brain, 
 showed him the unclean river-bed in which he might soon 
 be lying, with the refuse, with the tragic remnants, of 
 London's long history. Or would he drift up river towards 
 the pleasant inland country bare now, though, and 
 hidden under winter's mists? Or towards the sea towards 
 the shore of home, like a prodigal returning from the husks? 
 
 He would jump feet foremost, and keep his hands in 
 his pockets, if he could, to prevent striking out instinc- 
 tively. He slipped his hands in, and felt a knife, John's 
 present, which set his thoughts suddenly at a tangent. 
 
 It would be useless to try and sell his pistol; that would 
 lead at once to his arrest. But the knife was a stout one, 
 and might bring him a few coppers. A curious whim seized 
 him. He thought of the fat landlady at the Fortune of 
 War. She was the last living soul who had done him a 
 kindness or given him a friendly word. He had promised 
 to repay her, and here was his opportunity. It struck 
 him as odd that such a trifle should lie on his conscience 
 at this moment, but, small as the debt was, whimsical as 
 the excuse for delay, he turned back towards the city.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 257 
 
 It would be one honourable deed to fling in the scale against 
 his many sins. One person, at least, in all this world of 
 millions, should think well of him in the hour of his death. 
 
 He found a pawnshop, and raised a few coppers on the 
 knife. He hurried to the tavern, and entered it. The 
 landlady was standing at the bar, arms akimbo. 
 
 "There's your twopence, mum," he said, curtly; "I 
 promised I'd bring it back." 
 
 He was going out hastily, when, recovering from her 
 surprise, she called him back. 
 
 "Young man! I say, young man!" 
 
 George stopped at the door. 
 
 "You needn't 'urry off like that. 'Ere, Charlie!" 
 
 The barman came out, tankard and dust-cloth in his 
 hands. 
 
 "Hullo!" he said; "trying the dodge on again, is he? 
 You've come to the same shop twice over, my boy, and " 
 
 He stopped short, seeing the pennies in the landlady's 
 chubby hand. 
 
 "Strike me dead!" he gasped. 
 
 "There, I told you 'e was honest, " squeaked his mistress, 
 triumphantly. "I liked 'is face, and I don't often make 
 a mistake. You're out of work, I suppose, young man? 
 'Ungry, ain't yer? Nothing to be ashamed of nowadays. 
 I don't know 'ow half the poor folks in London '11 get 
 through this winter, that I don't. There's been rare doings 
 to-day, I hear; and no wonder, poor things, when they've 
 nothing to eat or give their wives and little 'uns. I only 
 hope we shan't see what 'appened in them old Bible times 
 again; people eating each other I shan't stand much 
 chance if they start that, being fat. " She laughed huskily. 
 " A 'ungry man came in here begging, the other day, and 
 he looked at me so hard it sent the shivers down my back. " 
 
 "That's why you gave him threepence out of the till, 
 I suppose," growled Charlie. 
 17
 
 258 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 K Well, what if I did? It's my own money, I suppose? 
 You use your tongue too free, Charles. Little enough we 
 can do to 'elp in this world, Gawd knows; but now, set 
 down there, young man, you're in no 'urry. When did 
 you 'ave a meal last?" 
 
 The barman shook his head and groaned. 
 
 "Seven o'clock," muttered George. The day's incidents 
 had almost driven out the thought of hunger; at the 
 mention of food he realised his lack of it. 
 
 Without a word, Mrs. Moggett rolled into the inner 
 room, and came out with a cheese and half a loaf. " Now, 
 'elp yourself," she said. "What'll you drink with it? 
 Charlie, pour him out a glass of porter. Charlie, do you 
 'ear?" 
 
 He ate and drank ravenously. The landlady stood 
 watching him, her face beaming with smiles. 
 
 "What part of the country do you come from, now?" 
 she asked. "Kent? Lor, now, my pore mother came 
 from there; Cobham she lived at. I'm London born, I 
 am; but she took me down there once when I was a little 
 gel. I just remember it; a big park there was I used to 
 play about in, and the rabbits! Lor, you should have seen 
 the rabbits! She often told me, pore dear, 'ow she took 
 me through a barley-field for the first time, and I said I 
 never knew where shrimps grew before. You know 'ow 
 barley is, all spikey, don't you?" 
 
 She rambled on, and drew George on to talk between 
 mouthfuls of bread and cheese. 
 
 "Well, good-bye, young man," she said, at last, when 
 he had finished, "I wish you luck; mustn't say die, you 
 know. I 'ope you'll soon get a job." She stretched a 
 fat arm across the counter, and patted George on the 
 shoulder with her plump, soft hand. 
 
 He was warmed and cheered, in body by the food and 
 drink, in heart by the woman's friendliness and sympathy.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 259 
 
 Her words of praise for his honesty tingled through him, 
 like generous wine. Small seeds, scattered by a humble 
 sower, her smiles and gifts and words; but they sprang into 
 hopes and new courage, and George stepped briskly from 
 the tavern door, ready again for life's burden. 
 
 He must find work. The rich West drew him, where, 
 in an hour or two, theatres would be opening, and chairs 
 and coaches waiting before great houses. Even a few 
 pence, to tide him over the first day or two of waiting, 
 would now be welcome. In half an hour he found himself 
 in Fleet Street, near the inn where he had breakfasted. 
 His few possessions were within, but there were risks in 
 trying to remove them which he hesitated to face. He 
 loitered near for a few minutes; then, drawn by a curious 
 fascination, wandered into Dean Street, and stood watching 
 the house where they had discussed so sanguinely the plot 
 which had ended in so disastrous a fiasco. 
 
 It was about half-past six; the dark, narrow street 
 seemed to share his gloom and depression. George was 
 just leaving it when the two Watsons brushed past him, 
 and knocked at the door of their house. He ran up and 
 caught Dr. Watson by the arm. 
 
 "Dr. Watson!" 
 
 The little surgeon jumped as if all Bow Street had 
 suddenly clapped hands on him. 
 
 "Good heavens!" he cried; "eh, man, what a start ye 
 gave me! Come in, come in the house. What a day! 
 Oh, what a day!" 
 
 Young Watson was fumbling with flint and steel, and 
 swearing as spark after spark failed to catch the tinder. 
 
 "Close the shutters, James, close the shutters." The 
 doctor ran himself to carry out his own instructions. 
 "What a lamentable business, to be sure, Kennett! They 
 can't see in from the street? Oh, get the lamp alight, 
 James, and let us be quick." His teeth were chattering.
 
 260 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 Even before the room was fully lighted, he was flinging 
 open drawers and cupboards nervously, and dragging out 
 their contents. 
 
 "I'm lighting it as fast as I can," growled his son. 
 "Everything's wrong to-day. The cursed thing won't 
 catch. What on earth are you doing now? We can't 
 take all these things. Keep calm, for goodness' sake. 
 If you'd kept your head to-day, and led your men straight 
 towards the city " 
 
 "What could I do, James? They wouldn't listen," 
 said the older man, wringing his hands. "I am persuaded 
 now that the time was not ripe. I am fully persuaded 
 that the people were not " 
 
 "Oh, put the things together, and don't talk. If we 
 don't keep our heads now, we shan't have a chance of 
 keeping them. Keep calm, and we may have a chance 
 of getting safe out of London." 
 
 In the light of the lamp the room, like the street out- 
 side, seemed in keeping with their dejection; a funeral 
 party might have just entered it from the graveside its 
 life had gone out. The furniture was the same familiar, 
 and yet looked changed. In the grate were charred papers, 
 lying as they had been left before the start. A hand- 
 kerchief, flung down by some one early that morning, 
 lay in a corner untouched; and some glasses, used over- 
 night by George and his companions, stood in the places 
 where they had been last set down, unwashed, and with 
 the dregs still in them. It seemed strange that so much 
 could have happened, and the room, with all its silent 
 reminders, have waited like this for their return. 
 
 Dr. Watson and his son were dragging shirts and other 
 articles of clothing from the heaped mass on the floor, 
 and rolling them into bundles. Often they clutched at 
 the same garment; they squabbled like children, and it 
 would have been difficult to say which of the two was the
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 261 
 
 more agitated. Both, it was evident, had a very lively 
 horror of the scaffold. George was almost ignored in their 
 haste to get away. 
 
 "What happens now, Dr. Watson?" he asked, at last. 
 "I'm in a worse hole than any one, seems to me; one of 
 our fine army's picked my pockets and cleared me out. 
 What are we going to do?" 
 
 "Every one for himself now, Kennett; sauve qui pent. 
 We've failed; I am convinced now, as I say James, 
 shall I have room for the yellow vest? we're going to 
 the country, to Northampton 
 
 His son interrupted him with an exclamation, half 
 anger, half despair. "Good God!" he cried, "are you 
 going to shout that in everybody's ears?" 
 
 "I didn't shout, I spoke quite really, James, you 
 forget yourself. You tell me to be calm and collected, 
 and where's the string? Oh, here it is you exhibit 
 no self-command whatever. I am distressed, naturally; 
 distressed and disappointed, but I am quite calm. I am 
 pairfectly calm. I eh, man, who's that?" He ended 
 with a gasp, clutching his son's arm. There was a gentle 
 knocking at the door. After a minute's suspense, Thistle- 
 wood and Preston were recognised and admitted. 
 
 "Well, this is a pretty business," said Thistlewood, 
 gloomily, pacing the room. "These London crowds! 
 I'll head a flock of Lincoln sheep next time, before I'll 
 trust them. A Paris mob would have had the Tower with 
 only half the weapons. Well, it's over. Are you ready? 
 Where's Hooper?" 
 
 "They took him in the Exchange," said Preston. 
 
 " King's evidence, then, if we're not sharp. Hurry up, 
 Watson. Here, I'll fasten it." Dr. Watson gave up his 
 bundle like a lamb. " You're not coming with us, Preston?" 
 
 "No, I'll hobble off to my own hole," said Preston. 
 
 "Well, good-bye," and he turned to George.
 
 262 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 "I reckon I may as well come along with you, though. 
 I'm cleared out " 
 
 "But we're going to friends," said Thistlewood. "Oh, 
 come along then. We'll talk later. There's seven striking 
 now." 
 
 They went out, George and Thistlewood walking briskly 
 in front, the two Watsons following at a few paces' distance. 
 None of them spoke. It was a dark night, with a keen air; 
 but many people were about, and every now and then they 
 heard snatches of conversation bearing on the day's events. 
 Two pursy shopkeepers were congratulating themselves on 
 the suppression of the riot. "They were going to loot 
 London to-night, Mr. Jenkins, if they'd succeeded," said 
 one. "I hear they broke into twenty shops " 
 
 "Twenty! More like a hundred, Mr. Burge, " said the 
 other. "Why, a man told me just now there were thirty 
 people killed." 
 
 When the tradesmen were out of earshot, Thistlewood 
 said, abruptly, "Were any killed?" 
 
 " I don't know. Young Watson shot one in his stomach," 
 said George. A queer memory of the day, that incident 
 of the pink-faced customer. "I don't think he was hurt 
 much," he continued, after a pause. 
 
 "He'll make no difference to Watson's neck, one way or 
 another, if we're caught," said Thistlewood, and fell 
 silent. 
 
 All were tired and a little footsore. Now and then one 
 yawned. But George's eyes were wide enough awake to 
 note every incident, each passer-by. A curious day of 
 his life this, stranger even than any strange day of his 
 campaigns. What would be the end of it? What would 
 be the end of anything, of everything? A prim little girl, 
 with big eyes, and hair very trimly braided, was looking 
 out of a large window in a large, solemn house in Gray's 
 Inn Road. He wondered what she made of the world
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 263 
 
 she looked out upon. Would she ever be homeless? If 
 she lived, she would think some time or other (for every 
 moment makes its own memory) of this large window, 
 and this solemn house, and the little prim girl who once 
 looked out on the passing show. 
 
 A hackney coach clattered by, creaking, and pulled up 
 at another house. An elderly lady came out when the 
 door of the house was opened; two girls, pretty and young, 
 followed her. They were well wrapped in shawls, and 
 were chattering nineteen to the dozen about some party 
 they were bound for. One had dancing blue eyes, and fair 
 curly hair struggling to escape from her hood; the other 
 was dark, and George, catching her eye for a brief second 
 as she followed her mother to the coach, found his head 
 filled instantly with thoughts of Bess. Was she still at the 
 inn? Or were John and she themselves homeless wander- 
 ers perhaps even in London? A horn sounded, and the 
 mail dashed past, on its way to the Great North Road. 
 No coach would carry his name to-night to the distant 
 hamlet by the sea. And to-morrow night? He won- 
 dered. 
 
 As they reached the outskirts of town, the four men 
 walked together, talking more freely. George saw clearly 
 that only his knowledge of their plans made him free of 
 their company, and determined the more resolutely not 
 to be shaken off. They supped at an inn near Hampstead, 
 and stayed some time smoking and drinking, the elder 
 Watson paying the score for all. It was past ten when 
 they took the road again, making for Finchley. 
 
 Opposite Highgate Church one of the Bow Street horse- 
 patrols was stationed, and blocked the centre of the road. 
 George was a yard or two behind the others. They were 
 edging past when the man turned his horse's head. 
 
 "Where are you bound for?" he asked, gruffly. 
 
 "Northampton," said Dr. Watson.
 
 264 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 "You're late starting, then." He made a sign to two 
 watchmen who were lounging against the railing of the 
 church, and they came closer. "Show me your bundle." 
 
 "With pleasure," said the elder Watson, and held it 
 out. But quick as thought the man stretched out his 
 other hand, while his right seemed ready to receive the 
 bundle, and tore the doctor's coat open, dragging out his 
 pistol. He clapped it to the surgeon's head. "Move a 
 finger and I'll blow your brains out!" he shouted. "Help 
 here! Thieves, thieves! Help, in the King's name!" 
 
 All had happened in a few seconds. Thistlewood and 
 the younger Watson drew their own weapons, and George 
 heard the click of cocked hammers, but no report. Both 
 pistols missed fire. One of the watchmen sprang his 
 rattle. George and the other two took to their heels, 
 leaving Watson still covered by the pistol. Men poured 
 out of a little inn near the church, and after them came 
 the landlady, uttering shrill cries of alarm. "Stop 
 thief! Stop thief!" the patrol was still shouting. The 
 watchmen sprang at Thistlewood and dragged him down. 
 
 "Why don't you ride after the others?" shouted two 
 or three voices. 
 
 " Leave your prisoner with us. " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know these gentlemen, " said the landlady. 
 
 There was the clatter of hoofs in the road. 
 
 Young Watson took to the fields, but the patrol was 
 close at George's heels, and he had no time to turn. He 
 had drawn his pistol, but the thought that it would be 
 evidence against him flashed across his mind, and he flung 
 it into a ditch by the roadside, where it fell noiselessly into 
 dead leaves and mud. He raced on, back in the direction 
 of London, gasping, stumbling, the horse gaining on him 
 at every stride. He was two hundred yards or so from the 
 church, and had already given himself up for lost, when 
 the sound of a scuffle among the group near the railings
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 265 
 
 reached his ears, followed instantly by loud shouts. " Helpl 
 help! Come back, he's armed. Don't let him go! Take 
 the knife from him!" 
 
 The patrol dragged his horse back on its haunches; it 
 slid a yard or so, and was wrenched round. George turned 
 his head. The light of the watchmen's lanterns, hung on 
 the railings of the church, showed a knot of swaying, 
 struggling, shouting men. Old Watson, armed only with 
 his sword-stick, was making a brave fight for liberty, but 
 a hopeless fight, for the horseman was already clattering 
 back towards the church as fast as spurs could speed him 
 to secure his prisoner. 
 
 Five minutes before, the conspirators had been smoking 
 their pipes on the high road and talking of their prospects. 
 Now Dr. Watson was a prisoner; Thistle wood was no 
 doubt already being hustled towards the watch-house at 
 Somers Town; young Watson was hidden somewhere in 
 the blackness of the fields; and George was again alone, 
 friendless and almost penniless. 
 
 He hurried back towards London, that great Alsatia 
 of the destitute. Near the inn where they had supped 
 he saw its many lights glittering below him, and its vast 
 huddle of roofs under the dark sky. He stopped for a 
 minute or two on the crest of the hill. This was the city 
 which should have been the first prize of their success. 
 Its wealth and poverty were at his feet. As Don Cleofas 
 was shown, from the steeple of San Salvador, all Madrid 
 open before him, its walls and roofs like unclouded glass, 
 so imagination showed George now this greater city. 
 People sleeping, loving, hating, drinking, gaming, praying 
 men plotting crime, committing it, waiting in the death- 
 cell for its punishment women tending the sick the 
 poor crying with cold and hunger, the rich staking fortunes 
 on dice or cards he saw them all. Lives were beginning, 
 and death's stealthy tread was on some thresholds. Lights,
 
 266 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 and watchfires, and these busy haunts of men, could not 
 frighten death away; terror and misery could not be shut 
 out, though London's million herded there below him, 
 frightened of the vacant country, and seeking security 
 and comfort in their numbers. 
 
 What was the meaning of it all? 
 
 He wandered on aimlessly "towards the gate of God," 
 as the Arabs say, journeying without a goal. A sleepy 
 watchman, "more coat than man," emerged from his 
 box near a city square to call the hour. Two men, clad 
 heavily in furs, stood on their club steps and cursed the 
 cold while waiting for a coach. And below a lamp, not 
 many yards away, crouched an old woman, ragged, with 
 white hair, and a sweet, wrinkled, patient face; but she 
 was crying softly with cold and hunger. 
 
 What was the meaning of everything? Was this world 
 a stage, and life but a long, unending, busy play for the 
 gods to watch from their places in high heaven? A farce? 
 A comedy? It seemed so. There must be watchers, 
 laughing at the hot loves, the fierce ambitions, the hates, 
 the hopes, the pride of all these little strutting players. 
 George laughed at himself, bitterly. He had hoped and 
 schemed for a crown; and in his pocket were three coppers, 
 spoil of the busy day. He wandered by Carlton House, 
 and from the Palace heard the sounds of music, and on 
 the blinds of windows saw the shadows of the dancers. 
 The Palace he had coveted! The Palace where he and his 
 companions were to sleep! 
 
 He slept, instead, under an archway near the Adelphi, 
 with his coat shielding him imperfectly from the cold. 
 The moon rose, like a lamp hung in the sky above the 
 world for the watching gods. 
 
 "I'm not meant to be hung, at any rate," muttered 
 George, thinking of his escape; and at last, worn out by 
 his adventures, fell asleep.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 DAYS of almost ominous calm followed the night of 
 George Kennett's departure from the Running 
 Horse. His name was never unnecessarily mentioned, 
 and by and by, when the gloom which his going cast over 
 the lives of the dwellers at the inn had disappeared 
 receding from their sky like the last clouds of tempest 
 John and Bess found themselves sharers in an almost 
 unbelievable happiness. "Autumn's Rest" the bright 
 days that come between fall and the stern approach of 
 winter are often called; it was Autumn's Rest now, in- 
 doors and out; in their hearts, as well as in fields and 
 woodlands. Huntingdon's action had relieved the pres- 
 sure of immediate necessity. Now that foreclosure was 
 no longer to be presently feared, they could breathe freely 
 again and look round them. His gift of guineas, which 
 Bess had guarded in her room, more than counterbalanced 
 the money George had taken from the till. "We must 
 live a week at a time, and be thankful, Bess," said John. 
 "We'll do our best, and then take no more anxious thought 
 for the morrow. They hope the bank'll pay out a dividend, 
 and some of the money that's owing us ought to come in 
 soon. Even if we haven't all we want when the mortgage 
 money's due again, it won't be like dealing with a stranger. 
 I did your feyther an injustice, lass; and I feel downright 
 shamed at thinking no better of human nature." But a 
 shade passed over his face as he remembered how, in one 
 instance, he had been so terribly and so easily deceived. 
 Their life, for a time, passed like another honeymoon. 
 Without admitting it, they felt relief at being alone for 
 the first time since their marriage. There was no longer a 
 third party always sharing their meals, joining in their 
 
 267
 
 268 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 counsels, making light of their suggestions and plans, and 
 endeavouring to force another will on theirs. They realised, 
 through George's absence, the difference his restless, un- 
 stable, turbulent nature had made to their comfort and 
 peace. He was like one inmate in a room who is always 
 rising to fling open doors and windows, to rearrange this, 
 to find fault with that. The windows he flung open looked 
 out on a world many-coloured and dazzling a world of 
 adventure, of fascination, of tempting voices and eager, 
 beckoning hands; but a world the roads of which were 
 shut against them, and the vision of which meant only 
 vain longing and profitless discontent. They went to 
 church on Sundays now, and came back undisturbed by 
 caustic jeers at the words to which they had just been 
 listening. They found a new delight in walking back in 
 the quiet evenings under the old trees, the trees under 
 which Ridley and his generation walked, on that far-off 
 Sunday when, within the grey walls of Herne, the praise 
 of God was for the first time in all England chanted in our 
 English tongue. The red blinds in the cottages, brightening 
 the village as the days shortened and rushlights were 
 kindled early in the rooms, gave them a sense of friendly 
 homeliness that stayed with John and Bess when they 
 closed their own door, and pulled their own blinds close, 
 and sat over the fire together alone. 
 
 Delilah Gummer, too, was no longer in the state of 
 constant friction which found its only relief in groans and 
 outbursts of gloomy wrath. 
 
 At first, indeed, she found the injunction not to discuss 
 George's departure a sore burden. She hugged her knowl- 
 edge like the Spartan youth his fox, and found an indirect 
 way of relieving her feelings when the gnawing secret 
 almost forced her to release it. John, during the first few 
 days, heard her droning hymns that bore very pointedly 
 on the occasion, and punctuating them with appropriate
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 269 
 
 comments of her own. Her unmelodious, whining voice 
 broke into louder song with relish, whenever Judgment 
 Day was reached, and the last trumpet shook the skies, 
 and the pit mouth gaped for sinners. John left her the 
 relief and consolation of these hymns, which served the 
 purpose of a safety valve, and prevented the explosive 
 revelations which must otherwise have found vent, when- 
 ever inquiries were made about George, and her triumphant 
 vindication of her many prophecies trembled on her lips. 
 Delilah had Stackhouse's great Bible among her few 
 treasures, and had tried to fortify herself against scoffers 
 by reading his suggested objections to Holy Writ, and their 
 refutation. Now she found time to study the text rather 
 than the commentary, with more profit to herself and 
 more ease to her employers. Unfortunately, George had 
 a disconcerting way of asking questions much deeper than 
 those which Stackhouse's imaginary unbelievers only 
 raised, like ninepins, in order that his arguments might 
 strike them down. It was pathetic to see her spelling out 
 laboriously such sentences, for example, as this: "Angels, 
 indeed, are wise and powerful beings, and their knowledge 
 of Nature, by the Application of Actives and Passives, 
 may in some measure enable them to form an Insect" 
 but not to create man. And George would not trouble 
 his head much about discrepancies in the story of creation. 
 Had he asked, for instance, why God should have troubled 
 to make man and woman at different times and by different 
 methods, instead of in the same manner and on the same 
 day, she would have been ready at once with Stackhouse's 
 Socratic answer: "What if God, willing to show a pleasing 
 Variety in His works, condescended to have the matter, 
 whereof the woman was formed, pass twice through His 
 Hands, in order to soften the Temper and meliorate the 
 Composition?" But George always took an unfair ad- 
 vantage by asking questions not in the book and not
 
 270 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 prepared for. "If God created Adam, who created God? 
 You say there must have been a Creator to start with." 
 Poor Delilah, though firm in her belief, had no answer, 
 like so many wiser than herself. She was forced back at 
 once into her last entrenchment, "It's true because it is, 
 and I only hope you won't find it out when it's too late. " 
 She would take up the question of the ark, again using the 
 authority of the great volume which, in its day, perplexed 
 Lamb and other imaginative children and made their 
 night-dreams terrible with its appalling pictures. "People 
 who don't know nothing ax how all that daffy of animals 
 could live there so long without food 'cause the food'd 
 take up more room than they had to spare on board. 
 And they show how ignorant they be, not looking round 
 all sides of a question, Must' George. Them animals 
 hadn't been used to being in a ship, for one thing, and if 
 they was sea-sick as it's ten chances to one they were 
 Stackhouse says they wouldn't have no stummick for their 
 wittles " 
 
 "I don't care whether they had room in the ark or not," 
 George would say. "That don't bother me. What I say 
 is, if God is love, He wouldn't have destroyed the world like 
 that." 
 
 " He done it because of the world's wickedness, " retorted 
 Delilah, promptly. 
 
 "If He wanted 'em to be good, then why didn't He 
 make 'em good? Don't talk to me about the devil. Who 
 made the devil? God too? If He's all-powerful, as you 
 say He is " 
 
 "Look here, Must' George," Delilah would say, angrily, 
 "I ain't got no more time to waste argufying; there's 
 a God because there is a God, and you know it. It isn't 
 likely we can understand everything, and I doan't want to. 
 You can talk your tongue off, but you can't boffle me into 
 believing the Bible's wrong. I wonder you're not struck
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 271 
 
 dead like the men of Beth-shemesh, fifty thousand and 
 three score and ten men, who looked into the Ark of the 
 Lord and it's only His mercy that you're not." 
 
 "I wonder what those men you're talking about thoft 
 of His mercy. " 
 
 George's apprehensions about Captain Rockett were ill- 
 founded; Bess had said nothing, and the reason for his 
 going was kept secret, even from this near neighbour and 
 ancient friend. The less said the better, thought John; 
 they wanted no washing of dirty linen in public. If he 
 had suspicions, Captain Rockett was charitable enough 
 to keep them to himself. It was given out generally that 
 George had gone away again in search of fortune. "Well, 
 well," said the little master of the hoy, when he heard 
 the news, "George'll find it, too, if there's fortune to be 
 found anywhere. 
 
 " 'To give a young gentleman right education, 
 The Army's the only good school in the nation, 1 
 
 the poet tells us; and though I don't hold with him ezackly, 
 I reckon George's larned enough to tell green lights from 
 red. I'm wery sure it'll be better for you and Bess, John, 
 too, in the long run. Till the good times come (and they're 
 coming along fast now), the less mouths you have to feed 
 out of the business the better. Of course that's not saying 
 he hasn't been a rare help to you, or that you won't miss 
 him; but we've got to look on the best side o' things." 
 Bess and John went once to Roger Huntingdon's, but 
 the visit was not a great success, and was not repeated. 
 They found Mrs. Huntingdon alone, and very tearful 
 after a stormy day. "I really don't know what I shall 
 do, Bess, " she said, plaintively; " your father goes on at me 
 so I hardly know whether I'm on my head or my heels. 
 He knows I'm not well, and he only makes me worse. 
 I get so confused I can't do anything right when he's
 
 272 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 worrying ine. My memory's so bad, too. I did an awful 
 thing the other day." 
 
 "What was that, mother dear?" 
 
 "Why, I was writing some letters, and your father 
 called me away for something, and was so cross well, 
 you know I never could think of two things at once. I 
 was writing to Mrs. Tom Gedge and Mrs. James, and I'm 
 sure I mixed them up. I remember directly I sent the 
 letters off that I must have asked Mrs. James how her 
 husband was keeping, and told her I hoped he wouldn't 
 feel the cold so much this winter. Of course I meant to 
 ask after Mr. Tom." 
 
 "Well, but it doesn't matter very much, mother. I 
 shouldn't worry about that." 
 
 "But I can't help it, my dear. I tremble every time 
 I hear the post now. James Gedge died last February, 
 and Mrs. James'll think it so unfeeling of me oh, here's 
 your father." 
 
 Roger Huntingdon had come in to supper. He sat 
 through the meal gloomy and almost silent, and left the 
 table before the others had finished. 
 
 "It's your feyther's turn to come and see us next, Bess," 
 said John, significantly, as they walked back from Edding- 
 ton. 
 
 Winter set in, and its first weeks passed almost without 
 incident, though, to John's growing uneasiness, they 
 brought little money to the inn. Stebbings came one even- 
 ing with the first news of the Spa Fields Riot. Watson 
 and Thistlewood had been sent to the Tower strange 
 irony of fate! and a sailor who had played a less conspicu- 
 ous part had been arrested, and would probably be hanged. 
 Of course George's connection with the revolt was un- 
 known to those who heard the news. Stebbings waxed 
 very wroth about the catastrophe, and the ease with which 
 the riot had been suppressed. If he had been there! He
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 273 
 
 clenched his fist, and nodded vigorously, and looked round 
 with glaring eyes. Indeed, there were a good many people 
 now who regretted that the attempt to overthrow the 
 Government had failed. The coming of winter meant 
 distress to many who had hitherto kept their heads above 
 water. Some customers left the Running Horse; more 
 stayed on, but only to add chalk strokes to scores already 
 long overdue. This became a serious question with John 
 Kennett. The bank gave back none of his money; his 
 debtors still pleaded bad times. It was impossible to 
 carry on the business with only these long rows of figures 
 under the "P's" and "Q's" on the board to represent 
 stock purchased and consumed. Yet many of the peasants 
 and fishermen were old customers, and honest men who 
 meant to pay when they had the means. 
 
 John was thinking of going to consult Captain Rockett 
 on this difficult question of credit, when, one evening, 
 the little mariner appeared at the inn. 
 
 The Captain was in great distress of mind. 
 
 "John," he said, "we've lost poor old Punch." 
 
 "Lost him? What, no one's been and stolen him, 
 Cap'n Rockett?" 
 
 "No; passed away, " said the visitor. " Died this after- 
 noon at four o'clock. Mrs. Rockett's in a rare way about 
 it. He's been ailing ever since he had that big fight with 
 Mr. Huntingdon's dog, Caesar; couldn't get over the 
 thought of being beat, I reckon. We gived him all the 
 medicine we'd got in the house, pretty near; but 'twadn't 
 no good. I wanted to ax you if you'd be kind enough 
 to come and help me bury him." 
 
 "I'm sorry," said John. "Yes, I'll come." 
 
 When they were outside, "I didn't like to say no more 
 before listeners," remarked Captain Rockett, "but I don't 
 want you ezackly to help bury the poor old dog, John. 
 I want you to help pretend to bury him." 
 18
 
 274 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 Surprise took John's breath away. 
 
 "You see, it's like this," the Captain went on to ex- 
 plain. "My wife's rare set on Punch always has been 
 since he was a little puppy. Now, I know a man in London 
 who's a great hand at stuffing animals, and I thoft it'd 
 be a pleasant surprise for her to have him done for her 
 birthday. He's a rum shape to stuff, though, and I doan't 
 want to disappoint the old lady. I reckon it'll be more 
 of a surprise if we pretend to bury him first, eh, and then 
 carry him down to the hoy?" 
 
 John agreed, though he had some scruples about the 
 concealment; and he and Captain Rockett entered the 
 cottage, where Punch lay in state, with the ornament of 
 the little mariner's Seraglio weeping over him. 
 
 "Oh, John!" she said, weakly, holding out one hand, 
 while the other pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. 
 
 "Cheer up, my dear!" said Rockett, sniffing himself. 
 "Mustn't be too downhearted, you know. ... I 
 wish I knew where the tortoise was, now, " he remarked to 
 John, in an aside; "it might give her something else to 
 think of, if I could only find it. " 
 
 "The tortoise!" said Mrs. Rockett, contemptuously, 
 overhearing. "Oh, I knew something dreadful was going 
 to happen when I dreamt about teeth the other night, 
 and now it has. He's been just like a son to me, John, 
 he has indeed. I never thoft I could love a dog so much. 
 Me and Captain Rockett never had no children, you see, 
 John, though my Aunt Polly promised us two guineas 
 for each christening when we were married; and my sister 
 had hers regular for fifteen years. But I had Punch 
 and now " 
 
 "There, there, there! " said Rockett kindly, bending down 
 to kiss her. " Better get it over now, John, " he whispered. 
 "Doan't 'ee look out, my dear, and get your feelings worse 
 jiarrowed. Take a glass o' wine, and lie down a bit. "
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 275 
 
 The two men carried the dog into the garden. "She 
 wants him buried here," said the Captain, indicating a 
 bed, in summer always bright with flowers, opposite the 
 door of the Seraglio. 
 
 "She's not looking through the blind, is she? I thoft 
 of cheering her up by telling her to look forward to seeing 
 him again; but she might have suspected something. 
 He's been a good old dog in his time, though, bar cats 
 and not being ezackly what you might call a peacemaker. 
 Only natural she should have growed so fond of him, 
 when he's took her out for walks every day for twelve 
 years, and looked after her while I've been away. We'll 
 have to put some shingle in." 
 
 Working by lantern-light, they raised a mound, and 
 patted it into shape. Then the body of old Punch was 
 carried stealthily to the hoy, which was to start for London 
 early in the morning. 
 
 "Queer thing Mrs. Rockett should have had that dream," 
 said the Captain, as they had a glass together in the cabin 
 of the hoy. "I told you about that other time when she 
 threw me out of bed, didn't I? She dreamt that a man 
 was creeping round to stab me with a great knife, so she 
 clutched hold of me in her sleep I was lying there snoring 
 as peacefully as a child and dragged me over her. Why, 
 afore I could say Jack Robinson she'd pitched me out on 
 the floor. She's bigger'n I am, John, you know, and a 
 powerful fine woman when she likes to use her strength. 
 'Whatever did you want to do that for, my dear?' says I, 
 waking up and rubbing myself. 'Oh, James/ says she, 
 'I had sich a fright; I thoft a man was creeping round the 
 bed to kill you.' 'Well, my dear,' says I, 'you gived me 
 rather a shock too, but I suppose you reckoned you'd put 
 me out of harm's way by killing me first.' 
 
 John laughed, and his host went on, musingly: "And 
 the wery next morning we beared about thieves breaking
 
 276 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 in at Colonel Devine's, on the Canterbury Road. Of 
 course, it's more likely to ha' been the pickled onions. 
 Well, she'll think it's a rare long funeral if I doan't hurry 
 back." 
 
 John walked part of the way to the cottage with him, 
 and took the opportunity of asking advice about the 
 unsettled scores. 
 
 "It's a wery serious question that, John," he said, 
 "and wants sleeping over. You don't want to offend old 
 customers, and you don't want to be hard on 'em these 
 hard times but chalk 'PV and 'QV won't keep you 
 and Bess in bread-and-butters. I'll think it over, and 
 let you know when I come back from London." 
 
 When Captain Rockett returned three days later (Punch 
 being still in the hands of the taxidermist), he walked less 
 briskly than usual from the hoy to his cottage. Perhaps 
 the weather had something to do with his depression; 
 the air was raw, and there was a fine drizzling rain, and 
 in the darkness the sea moaned and fretted drearily, as 
 it told its loneliness to the lonely winter beach. Even a 
 few hours in the poorer parts of London, near the river, 
 had shown him many a pitiful sight, and told him many 
 a sad story. Here too, at Herne Bay, the old tales of 
 poverty, and hunger, and hard times were waiting him. 
 He had thought again and again over the fortunes of his 
 friends at the Running Horse, trying to puzzle out some 
 way of helping them. 
 
 "It'll be a hard winter for many," he muttered, "and 
 I doan't see my way clear to lend a helping hand. My 
 yarns won't bring food and drink to the belly, nor firing 
 to the hearth, worse luck! I wish I could do something 
 for 'em all. And John and that poor little Bess of his! 
 Well, God help all the poor, I say, deservin' and undeser- 
 vin', like He sends His rain and sun on just and unjust. 
 And now, James Rockett, put on a livelier face to greet
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 277 
 
 the missus with. Sour looks never mended matters yet, 
 and you've just got to shut your troubles and other folks' 
 up inside you, like the oak does his years. The tree don't 
 let you know how many storms he's weathered till you 
 cut him open. . . . Ah, here we are, safe and sound 
 again, my dear 
 
 " ' Safe from the billows' angry roar, 
 I packs my bundle, and I steps ashore,' 
 
 as Milton says; though that's poetic license, 'cause we've 
 had a wery good voyage, all things considering. My wig! 
 you've a nice fire waiting, Martha. Well, I've no bad news 
 about steam-kettle ships this evening; they told me in 
 London the hoys ain't likely to be bettered for a daffy of 
 years yet, so far as our trade goes. My, it's cosy indoors, 
 and good to be home again." 
 
 But when they were in bed that night, Captain and 
 Mrs. Rockett had a little talk together about the mis- 
 fortunes of their neighbours, while the rain beat against 
 the glass, and a melancholy breeze rattled the windows 
 in their frames. 
 
 "I'm afeared, Martha, that John Kennett and Bess 
 are having a bitter hard struggle," he said. "John don't 
 tell me much, but he was axing about the scores that 
 folk can't pay or won't and I've been putting two 
 and two together. I reckon George didn't go away for 
 nothing. He'd have stayed if there'd been work and pay 
 enough. That wenture of theirs hasn't been a success. 
 They're in want of money, that's certain." 
 
 " I've thoft of that for a long time, " sighed Mrs. Rockett. 
 "And how they'll get through the rest of the winter I 
 don't know nor yet a good many others in Herne Bay." 
 
 "Worst of it is," said Rockett, reflectively, "I don't 
 see what we can do to help them. I'd like to. We ain't 
 rich, Martha, and the bank took a lump out of our savings.
 
 278 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 And it don't do not to look ahead when them tin ships 
 are about not that they're going to interfere with us," 
 he added, hastily, "but it's wise to keep a sharp look- 
 out in queer weather. Still, if they'd only ax us to help 
 'em " 
 
 "They haven't done that, James?" 
 
 "No, they haven't. That's just the difficulty. He has 
 his pride, John has. If 'twere only a matter of lending 
 him ten pound or so or giving it, because we wouldn't 
 starve but I can't wery well offer it. " 
 
 "We might give them the chance of axing, though, 
 James. Perhaps we could make a chance. Let's have 
 them to tea on Sunday." 
 
 "Good idea, Martha! A birthday party. We'll try 
 that. Perhaps somehow we'll manage to give John a 
 'hit " 
 
 "Of course," said his wife, musing, "Huntingdon did 
 ought to be the one." 
 
 "He ought, but I reckon he won't. He's a but 
 there, I'm not going to say nothing against him. Only 
 old Pinion was saying he'd knocked down his wages, 
 and that don't seem a kind thing for a rich man oh, 
 there I go again, pulling motes out of other people's eyes. 
 But there's no excuse for us not doing what we can, because 
 others don't. Well, we'll talk about it again in the morning, 
 old lady. Things like that look better and more cheerful 
 by daylight. I shouldn't have said anything now, but I 
 felt a bit down, and I wanted your advice. Good-night, my 
 old dear. Doan't you get lying awake thinking. And 
 doan't get lying asleep dreaming, whatever you do." 
 
 The two heads turned on the frilled pillows, and loud 
 snoring soon drowned the hissing of the rain,
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 ON the next Sunday afternoon, just as darkness was set- 
 ting in, John and Bess started from the Running 
 Horse for Captain's Rockett's cottage. The garden Sera- 
 glio, in which many a glass of home-made country wine 
 and many a dish of fragrant tea had been sipped on old 
 summer afternoons, had been closed for the winter; John 
 tapped at the cottage door, and then opened it and entered. 
 
 In the little parlour, a scene no less perplexing than 
 amazing met their eyes. The cloth was set for tea; a 
 cheerful fire was in the grate, and the kettle was already 
 purring sociably. But the attitude of Captain Rockett and 
 his wife contrasted strangely with these indications of 
 comfort and domestic peace. 
 
 Captain Rockett was on the horsehair couch, almost 
 buried under the body of Mrs. Rockett, whom he was try- 
 ing to support. A razor lay open on the carpet, suggest- 
 ing, at first, some fearful tragedy. But Captain Rockett's 
 face was smeared with lather, and he was dabbing his 
 wife's brow with a shaving-brush held in his one free hand. 
 
 "Water! Water!" he cried. "John, get some water, 
 quick! Bess, pour out some brandy from that there 
 bottle!" 
 
 "Oh, what is it?" gasped Bess, running to the shelf 
 where the bottle stood among books and china ornaments, 
 towards which Rockett was wildly pointing his soapy 
 brush. 
 
 John took in the situation at a glance. Mrs. Rockett, 
 whose bosom heaved convulsively with her moans, opened 
 her eyes, fixed them on a furry object in the centre of the 
 patchwork rug before the fire, and showed signs instantly 
 of a second seizure. 
 
 279
 
 280 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 "All right, my dear. It's all right, Martha, I tell you. 
 He ain't alive; he's stuffed, that's all. I didn't mean to 
 startle you like this. . . . Put it to her lips, Bess. That's 
 better. Sprinkle some water on her, John; she's coming 
 round. Think snuff 'd do her any good? There's a box in 
 my weskit pocket, if I could only get it out. . . . There, 
 there, you're all right now, ain't you?" 
 
 Slowly, and with many threatenings of relapse, Mrs. 
 Rockett came to herself, and her husband was extricated. 
 "God bless my soul!" he gasped, mopping his brow, 
 "who'd have thoft he'd give her such a shock! I'd no 
 notion of alarming you like that, my dear. Of course, I 
 wanted it to be a surprise " 
 
 "But he was buried and his grave's outside!" she 
 gasped. 
 
 "That's only a whited sepulchre, so to speak, my dear. 
 We only pretended to bury un; we didn't, really. I brought 
 him back from London this morning, and smuggled him 
 in when you wasn't looking. When you went upstairs to 
 get ready, I put him afore the fire, but I didn't reckon on 
 you getting downstairs first. ... I heared Mrs. Rockett 
 scream," he continued, turning to John, "and runned 
 down just in time to catch her. Lucky I had cold soap on 
 the brush to bring her round with. She thoft it was poor 
 old Punch's ghost. . . . Nice bit of work, ain't he, Bess? 
 The man who fixed him up was rare glad of the job, these 
 hard times, and I reckon he's done the dog justice. Look 
 at the eyes; more natural than life, I call them." 
 
 No doubt the glaring eyes, turned towards the door 
 and reflecting the candlelight, had added largely to Mrs. 
 Rockett's terror. Punch's long body was even more shape- 
 less and sack-like than in life. Mrs. Rockett grew calm 
 enough at last to thank her husband for his birthday gift, 
 but the shock was so recent and the appearance of her 
 resurrected pet so affecting that Punch had to be carried
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 281 
 
 to a lumber room, to wait there until the passage of time 
 should enable her to look on him with equanimity and 
 pleasure. 
 
 After tea, Rockett turned the conversation a little awk- 
 wardly to the prevailing distress. 
 
 "Ay, it'll be a hard winter for many," said John, 
 gloomily, and was silent. 
 
 "Of course," said Rockett, "the summer'll make all right 
 again. There's good times coming, mark my words. I 
 adwised you to enlarge the inn and be ready, and it's a 
 great thing to have old Time by the forelock the way you 
 have. If you only wait and I " 
 
 Rockett stopped short, and blew his nose vigorously. 
 It was a difficult subject to broach. 
 
 "I we were wondering " 
 
 He caught his wife's eye, and screwed up his forehead 
 as a signal for her to come to his assistance. She gave no 
 help, and, attempting to touch her foot under the table, 
 he knocked against John's instead. 
 
 "Yes, next summer ought to see better times," said Bess, 
 cheerfully, breaking an awkward silence. 
 
 When the visitors announced their intention of going, 
 the proposal had not been made. In desperation, trying 
 to secure a further opportunity, the Captain suggested a 
 visit to Mrs. Gowdy, who kept her room. She was sitting 
 in her hooded chair, and woke from her hibernation only 
 to doze off again directly greetings had been exchanged. 
 
 "Sleeps most of the time now, poor old dear," whispered 
 Rockett, and then suddenly plucked up courage. "Look 
 here, John," he said, "I we there's something, I mean 
 to say, we'd like to have your advice about. Me and Mrs. 
 Rockett have a little money, as you know not much, but 
 a little to keep the wolf from the door and we thoft a 
 reliable inwestment that'd pay us well when the tide 
 turns'd be a wise thing. And we we it's a deal to ax,
 
 282 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 I know, and we hope you'll pardon us, wanting to take a 
 share in the foresight of other folk; but it's human nature, 
 anyway " 
 
 Captain Rockett did not often beat about the bush in 
 this fashion, and John wondered what was coming. 
 
 "Them scores, now " He came to a stop. "Here, 
 
 help me out, old lady," he said to his wife, at last, desper- 
 ately. " You know what we were talking about. A man's 
 tongue didn't ought to wag when there's a woman's at 
 his elbow." 
 
 "Get along with you, James!" said Mrs. Rockett; but 
 she came to the rescue, and explained that they wanted to 
 invest a little money in the Running Horse with a view to 
 future profits. "We can't spare much, but it'd be a real 
 favour if you'd let us put ten pound, say, in the business." 
 
 Unfortunately, Mrs. Gowdy came suddenly to life at this 
 moment, and unveiled the secret which Captain Rockett 
 and his wife had tried to conceal so delicately. "Just like 
 James!" she muttered, aloud, but unconsciously. "He 
 wants to help 'em and he don't like to tell 'em so straight 
 out. He thoft I didn't hear 'em talking about it this morn- 
 ing, but I heared every word. Well, it ain't my place to 
 interfere, though it's all nonsense to pretend they'll see a 
 penny-piece back again. ... I reckon Herne Bay'll be a 
 grand place one of these days, my dear," she continued, 
 addressing Bess. "James always had an eye to making 
 money, even when he was a boy; so it's only natural eh, 
 what's that?" 
 
 Captain Rockett coughed nervously, and looked at his 
 wife in whimsical distress. John broke the awkward silence. 
 
 "It's real kind of you, Cap'n, and of you, Mrs. Rockett. 
 You're old friends, and if we asked help of any one, we'd 
 soonest take it from you, I'm sure. But I reckon we'll 
 have to stand alone in this. We've sunk enough money 
 in the inn, and owe too much already for goods. I reckon
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 283 
 
 I must speak to the men about those scores, and I hope 
 we'll be able to pull through. But I've made up my mind 
 now and Bess has made up hers that we'll do no more 
 borrowing, if we can help it. It ain't fair to let our friends 
 pour money into it, 'cause it may be only like throwing it 
 down a well. But we thank you kindly, and " 
 
 "Oh, mother, mother!" cried Captain Rockett, shaking 
 his finger at the old lady, "you've been and done it 
 now!" 
 
 "Me? Why, I haven't spoke a word, James, 'cept to 
 try and help you. Me, indeed! Well, there, I'm like the 
 cat, I am, to be blamed for everything, I suppose." 
 
 "But, look here, John," said Rockett, "between old 
 friends, you know, as you say yourself! The cat's out of 
 the bag, so we may as well be straightforrard about it. 
 Martha and me'd really like to put some of our savings in. 
 It'd be only casting our bread on the waters, and finding 
 it again not even our bread, though, our jam or tobacco, 
 say " 
 
 "After a good many days, I'm afraid," said John. "No, 
 no, it's real kind of you " 
 
 "Well, I've seen things come back again in a wery ex- 
 traordinary way, and why not money? Did I ever tell you 
 of that poor feller I read the burial service over when I 
 was in the Lydia? No? My wig, that was a queer case, 
 now. Our carpenter, he was. He got eat by the niggers 
 we had as crew." 
 
 "Eat by niggers? Oh, James!" cried Mrs. Rockett, 
 "you never told me that." 
 
 "I wasn't wishful for to harrow your feelings. Fact, 
 though, my dear. They eat him indirectly, so to speak. 
 We lost him near the West Coast of Africa, wanished as 
 clean as a whistle, 'a did; and a week later our niggers 
 found his breeches buttons and a gimlet in an alligator 
 they'd caught and eat for supper. The only thing I could
 
 284 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 do was to hold a funeral serwice over the niggers. We 
 couldn't put up a tombstone, of course, so I got our bos'n, 
 who was a rare hand at tattooing, to prick in 'Sacred to 
 the Memory of John Jenkinson' on their stomachs. We 
 gived the fattest nigger 'Sacred' all to hisself, and the 
 other seven had four letters apiece. Jenkinson 's sisters 
 were wery upset, naturally, and they wanted me on my 
 next woyage to find my old crew, and keep his grave in 
 order, so to speak. . . . Well, they'd all scattered; but 
 one night, when we were on shore, we rescued a native 
 from a lot of cannibals who were just going to cook him. 
 And, my nable! if he hadn't T capital 'J o h' on his 
 stomach! I reckon it's about the first time a man ever 
 got eaten hisself, and then nearly had part of his grave 
 eaten, too. The sisters had that there black sent to a 
 missionary college, and now he's a missionary hisself. 
 It's a great consolation to them to know that their 
 brother being dead yet speaketh or part of him, at all 
 ewents." 
 
 In a few minutes John and Bess rose to go. Captain 
 Rockett saw them to the gate. "Look here, John, my 
 boy," he said, as he shook hands, "you might as well let 
 me have a chance of doing something. The mostest I can 
 do isn't much, but what's money for if it ain't for us to 
 help each other with? We'm old friends, and your feyther 
 and me were, too; and I know you're worried about things. 
 Nothing to be ashamed of in that; lots of people are now, 
 worse luck! I can't help 'em all, though I'd like to; but 
 I think till things mend a bit just a few pounds " 
 
 "It's it's real kind of you, Cap'n Rockett," said John, 
 with a lump in his throat. "But what's the use?" he asked, 
 with a touch of bitterness. "I couldn't take it, knowing 
 that ten chances to one I couldn't give it back. We'll 
 have to try and weather the storm alone, and then " 
 
 "Well, any time you want it, you know, John."
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 285 
 
 "I won't forget, Captain. If we don't ever ask you for 
 it, we'll always remember what rare good friends you and 
 Mrs. Rockett have been to us, all along." 
 
 "We can't ever forget that," said Bess. 
 
 Matters at the Running Horse went from bad to worse 
 as another year entered through the gate of time. Their 
 debtors could afford nothing but vague promises. Their 
 creditors pressed for payment. As yet they had enough 
 to keep the doors open, and for their own provision; but 
 the time for paying the instalment on the mortgage again 
 drew near, and there was nothing in hand with which to 
 meet the claim. Their only hope now lay in the forbearance 
 and generosity of Roger Huntingdon. 
 
 But when John wrote to the solicitors, shortly before 
 the money was due, and told them the position of affairs, 
 their reply, regretful, but brief almost to the point of curt- 
 ness, caused a very anxious consultation at the inn. Unless 
 the money was forthcoming, said Jeacock and Wetherby, 
 their instructions from their client were to foreclose. 
 
 On the evening when this answer came, John and Bess 
 sat for a long time over their fire together, hand in hand, 
 discussing the position, and trying to assure themselves 
 that Huntingdon would again release them from their 
 obligations. They based their hopes chiefly on his volun- 
 tary gift; surely he would have no object in foreclosing 
 and, even from a selfish standpoint, it would pay him better 
 to give them another opportunity of retrieving their for- 
 tunes. In winter they could scarcely be expected to do 
 this; but summer might, after all, see the turning in the 
 long lane of misfortune. Unfortunately, they would want 
 money even to keep their home together when the mort- 
 gage question was settled; and this meant still further help. 
 
 The next afternoon, Bess started for the farm, to see 
 her father. It was Delilah's half-holiday, and John Ken- 
 nett remained behind to serve chance customers. He was
 
 286 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 getting his own tea there was little enough doing in the 
 taproom when the outer door opened. A glance assured 
 him that this was no customer, but probably one of the 
 stream of beggars who, wandering penniless and starving 
 through Kent, often called at the inns in the hope of re- 
 ceiving a penny, a crust, or a drink of ale. The man a tall 
 fellow, but haggard and thin with want was in rags; a 
 stubble of some days' growth covered his sunken cheeks; 
 his eyes were wide, and bright with hunger. 
 
 "It's no use coming here, my man," said John, antici- 
 pating the usual whine. Time was when he need send no 
 one empty away. "I've nothing for you." He scarcely 
 gave a glance at the man's face, and the room was already 
 growing dark. 
 
 The stranger still stood on the threshold. 
 
 "I tell you I've nothing for you," said John Kennett. 
 "It's no good waiting. I mean what I say. I know times 
 are hard, and I'd help you if I could, but 
 
 "Well, I reckon perhaps you will, though," said the man, 
 suddenly breaking silence. "I've come far enough to have 
 a drink and a bite at the Running Horse. You don't 
 know me, John? Well, and no wonder. A pretty scare- 
 crow I am. Make a good moral for 'Lilah's books." He 
 spoke bitterly, like a desperate man, but in his manner 
 and words there was still a trace of his old jaunty air. 
 
 "You can bet," he went on, "I shouldn't come here if 
 there was anywhere else in the wide world I could go for 
 food. Oh, look at me. Stare at me; here's your revenge, 
 and plenty of it. I'm done, I am. You can think it's a 
 judgment, if you like. I don't care what you think. Give 
 me something to drink, though, for God's sake just 
 that " 
 
 "George!" gasped John, and drew back. 
 
 "Ay, it's me. I've come back though I never thought 
 I'd come like this. I've always had my pride, and you can
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 287 
 
 reckon how low misfortune's brought me. Not my own 
 fault but there, that don't matter. Drink, I say give 
 me something to drink now, John, and you can say what 
 you like to me about about that night, while I'm drinking 
 it." 
 
 John's fingers gripped the handle of the door; he tried 
 to retain his self-control. But anger mastered him, and 
 he flashed out at last. "So you've come back! You're 
 back, who I hoped might never darken these doors again! 
 After all the misery you've caused after bringing us to 
 poverty with your mad schemings after after that 
 night " 
 
 "Oh, I know. Preach as much as you like you always 
 were a one for that, John but let's drink while I'm lis- 
 tening. Poverty? Easy for you to talk about that. You 
 seem snug enough here still. Look at me. Have you ever 
 known what it is to wear rags like these? Oh, you can't 
 see in this light; but 'tis bitter weather for nakedness, 
 and I'm next door to that. Bitterer still, when not a bite's 
 passed your lips for twenty-four hours, nor a drink to 
 warm you and that's worse. I've not come to stay." 
 
 "No," said John, and muttered something. In the first 
 days after that insult to his wife, he had felt murder in his 
 heart against his brother. Sometimes he had thought of 
 what might happen if they came face to face again, and 
 had been afraid. But he had never anticipated a meeting 
 such as this. 
 
 " No, I don't ask you to take me in again. But, for old 
 times' sake, give me something to eat and drink, John 
 and a guinea or so to set me on my legs again. I won't 
 darken the doors, as you call it, after that. It's easy enough 
 to preach when a man's down. You've had all the luck, 
 you have. Married the girl who should have been my 
 wife by rights " 
 
 "Don't talk of that," interrupted John.
 
 288 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 "Well, I won't. But here you are with a good home 
 that's part mine by rights, as you know ' 
 
 "George," broke in his brother again, trying hard to 
 speak calmly, "I'll not talk with you of that neither. I 
 little thoft and less hoped that you and I would meet 
 again in this world. You know as well as I that I treated 
 you fair and square. You know how you acted. If you'd 
 come back here hale and strong, I couldn't and wouldn't 
 have listened to you as I'm listening now. It's just be- 
 cause I can't hit a man when he's down that I've listened 
 so long. I'll give you food and drink, now; it shan't be 
 said that I sent you away starving; but you shall take 
 them away from the house. I can't give you money " 
 
 "Let's have the drink first," said George. 
 
 John went to the inner room, and poured out into an 
 old mug some of the tea which he had just made. He cut 
 off half a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a few slices of 
 meat, and rolled them together in a piece of paper torn from 
 an old copy of the Kentish Gazette. "There you are," he 
 said, "you can take them away. Money I can't give 
 you." 
 
 George snatched the mug, and put it to his lips. He drew 
 it back instantly with a wry face, and a muttered oath. 
 
 "Tea!" he cried. "Good Lord, John, it isn't tea I'm 
 craving for. Give me something with heat in it spirits 
 
 "I'll give you nothing stronger. You shan't say this, 
 at all events, that I've kicked you any farther down the 
 road you've chosen. Tea's all you'll have not a drop of 
 spirits." 
 
 "You can keep your damned tea!" cried George, in a 
 burst of passion, and flung the mug down on the stones. 
 "Your mouldy bread and cheese as well!" He flung down 
 the bundle, and kicked it across the path. "I'll make you 
 pay dear for this! You in the house that's half mine by 
 rights with my girl "
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 289 
 
 John slammed the door in his face. For a minute or 
 two George thundered at it, storming and swearing. The 
 preventive officer, riding by at this moment, saw him bang- 
 ing with his fists at the inn door, and took him to be some 
 angry beggar, furious at being refused. He threw an 
 inquiry as he passed, which George did not answer. 
 
 At last George Kennett gave up his attempt to enter, 
 and sauntered away, still swearing, and turning at every 
 few yards to shake his clenched fist towards the inn. There 
 was no answer, and the door was not opened. The food 
 still lay on the shingle. He crept back, and, glancing at 
 the window to see that no eyes were upon him, picked up 
 the bread and cheese and meat, covered them with the 
 paper, and stuffed the bundle under his torn coat. 
 
 When he had turned the corner of the Canterbury Road, 
 he devoured some of the food ravenously, saving the rest 
 for a future meal. His life since the failure of the riot had 
 been a long nightmare of cold, and thirst, and hunger, with 
 the dread of dock and gallows ever in the background. 
 Cashman, the sailor, had been hanged; Thistlewood and 
 the older Watson were still awaiting trial. George scarcely 
 knew how life had been kept together during those awful 
 weeks. There was no work to be had in London. He had 
 begged, stolen, earned a few coppers honestly, now and 
 then, by holding links or minding horses. At last, in de- 
 spair, he had tramped back painfully towards the sea, get- 
 ting a meal here and there at farmhouses, sleeping in barns 
 and outhouses and in the naked woods. 
 
 His last hope, now almost his last had failed him. 
 Perhaps Huntingdon could give him work on his farm. 
 He remembered the strained relations between his brother 
 and the farmer, and thought possibly this might serve 
 him. They were birds of a feather, now, he and Hunting- 
 don, in their hate. He skirted the fields, which, one by 
 one, Roger Huntingdon had reclaimed from all the broad 
 19
 
 290 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 acres that had been diced away. A little boy, weary and 
 snivelling with the cold, was scaring birds listlessly, wait- 
 ing for the end of his long day's labour. The wide, bare 
 field, with the solitary little blue-smocked figure alone 
 breaking its emptiness, seemed to crouch very low under 
 the winter sky. Between the trees on the rim of the world, 
 a gleam of copper told of the dying of another day. George 
 heard the monotonous, whining, snuffling song of the child 
 as he plied his clappers 
 
 " We've ploughed our land, we've sowed our seed, 
 
 We've made all neat and gay, 
 So take a bit, and leave a bit, 
 Away, birds! Away!" 
 
 He reached the white gate, and hesitated. Pinion and 
 a young farm-lad were going up the rutted lane towards 
 the house. He hurried after them. 
 
 "Pinion! Job Pinion!" 
 
 "Ay, ay! Who be a-calling me? My eyes be getting too 
 dim-like, but why, 'tis Must' Jarge Kennett! But, my 
 wig, that doan't look much like making a fortune in Lunnon, 
 as I heared you were doing." 
 
 "No, I'm down on my luck for a bit." The confession, 
 made to a man who had cringed to him and flattered him 
 a few short months before, was gall to his pride. He no- 
 ticed instantly the change in the old peasant's crafty face 
 and in his bearing. The lad with Pinion was his grandson, 
 whom George had once maltreated; and the boy's sullen 
 face lit up with vindictive satisfaction. George had to 
 ignore all this. He was desperate; after all, a man must 
 live, and if he got work at the farm, Pinion might even be 
 his master. 
 
 "Does Must' Huntingdon want hands, do you know, 
 Pinion?" 
 
 "I reckon not. Want hands! He, he! Why 'a sent dree 
 men packing Sadderday, 'a did. My wig, though, what a
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 291 
 
 sight you be, Jarge! I thoft of trying Lunnon myself, but 
 jigger me if you look as if the streets are paved with gold. 
 No, I reckon you'm corned to the wrong place for work. 
 Leastways, dere's work enough" he gave a senile, rather 
 bitter laugh "if you'll do it without drink and wittles 
 and shillin's. A hard man, Must' Huntingdon be. Knocked 
 my wages down, 'a has; and me with him and his feyther 
 afore him sixty-fewer year, boy and man. Yen's another 
 of my grandsons in t 'field bird-starving, and 'a earns two- 
 pence a week, from dawn to dusk, 'a does. I reckon you'll 
 be wery lucky if you get that much out o' Roger Hunt- 
 ingdon." 
 
 "Well, I'll see," said George, and went up the rutted 
 lane. 
 
 "Bain't no use," wheezed Pinion after him, chuckling 
 and coughing. The lad with him gave a jeering laugh. 
 "Lord save us!" said Pinion to his grandson, " 'a be a-going 
 to try. I'll hurry away to listen, for Jarge Kennett'll 
 come away with a rare flea in his ear he, he! How the 
 mighty be fallen, to be sure! I thoft I was bad enough 
 off, but Jarge there, there! Old Grandfer Pinion bain't 
 such a vule as 'a looks, arter all. Wunnerful foresight in 
 me to marry agen, and get the cottage. Old Caesar'll grab 
 un afore Must' Huntingdon, if 'a doan't look out." 
 
 Caesar was dragging at his chain and barking savagely. 
 As George drew near the door, it opened, and a light in the 
 hall showed the faces of Huntingdon and Bess Kennett. 
 
 George drew aside, waiting until they should finish 
 speaking. He sheltered for some moments in the shadow 
 cast by some bushes near the house. Caesar had seen the 
 movement, and barked and growled persistently. 
 
 "Damn that dog!" snarled Huntingdon. "Lie down, 
 sir! . . . Well, that's all I've got to say to you. My 
 lawyers have instructions." 
 
 "It's a cruel thing you're doing, father."
 
 292 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 "Cruel? It's the kindest I can do for you. I'm not 
 going to throw my money down a hole to oblige your hus- 
 band. I've told you what I'll do. You can come back, on 
 the conditions I've named, and I'll give him a chance. 
 I'm a man, Bess, that gets his own way in this world; 
 and any one who thwarts me finds that out sooner or later, 
 to his cost." 
 
 "So it seems," said Bess, a little bitterly, and mused. 
 "Father," she said, suddenly, "I was reading this morn- 
 ing about the rich man who built his great barns, and 
 stored up his goods, and told his soul to take its ease. 
 Don't you think, when God spoke to that man, he must 
 have wished he had something else to remember than all 
 his riches and his plans some kindness done to some one, 
 some help given to " 
 
 "I don't want to listen to sermons from my own daugh- 
 ter," interrupted Huntingdon, impatiently. "I could 
 preach you some about duty to parents from the same Book. 
 If the man had looked after his health as well as his barns, 
 he might have enjoyed his riches. You won't frighten me 
 into changing my mind; I've never been afraid of man 
 yet, and I'm not afraid of God. ... As for that, I've 
 helped you. No one can say I've been hard on you if I 
 cared a copper farthing what people say or think ! I might 
 have foreclosed months ago, and I didn't. There's some 
 of the gamester in me, after all ; I gave you your chance. 
 You've lost now, anyhow. I'm not going to help your 
 husband again to play his cards against me. That's all, 
 my girl." 
 
 "I don't know what we'll do," said Bess, half to herself. 
 
 "You'll do what I want you to do. You'll come back 
 to the house you left without my leave." 
 
 "Never on your conditions, father," said Bess, and 
 went sadly down the lane. Huntingdon stood watching 
 her from the door. Once he stepped forward, and opened
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 293 
 
 his lips as if to call her; but he shut them again resolutely, 
 and went back towards the door. 
 
 George had meant to beg humbly enough foi work; yet, 
 for a moment, the sight of Bess almost roused him to an 
 angry protest. But for his rage against his brother, he 
 might have changed the purpose of his visit. As it was, 
 there was more independence in his tone than there would 
 otherwise have been when he stepped forward. 
 
 "Mr. Huntingdon!" 
 
 Huntingdon was just closing the door. He opened it 
 again. 
 
 "Who's that? What do you want?" 
 
 "I'm George Kennett, sir brother of John Kennett, 
 you remember not that there's more love lost between 
 us, for that, than between you and him. And " 
 
 "What's that to me?" snapped Huntingdon. "And 
 what the devil are you doing, lurking in my grounds? 
 Pinion," he shouted, "is that you there?" 
 
 "Yes, Maister," said Pinion's quavering voice. "I was 
 a-coming up to ax you, sir " 
 
 "Go to the kennel, and let Caesar off his chain directly 
 I tell you to. Now, if you've anything to say, Kennett, 
 be sharp about it. What are you mumbling? Want 
 work? I thought so. Every beggar seems to come here 
 to bleed me. I've no work for you. Go off. Do you hear? 
 Out of my grounds, I say!" 
 
 George snarled a threat. 
 
 "Oh, you won't go? Pinion, let the dog loose, and 
 we'll see. Here, Caesar, Caesar! Oh, you can shout 
 and threaten, my man. If you value your skin, I'd 
 advise you to run. A fine family my daughter's mar- 
 ried into!" 
 
 George saw there was nothing to be gained by stopping. 
 He ran down the lane. Pinion's grandson was in his way; 
 he struck at the lad blindly as he passed. Just in time,
 
 294 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 he slammed the white gate on the jaws of the dog. Hunt- 
 ingdon, who had watched the chase with saturnine enjoy- 
 ment, whistled Caesar back, and then went in and closed 
 the door. 
 
 Young Pinion rubbed his cheek with his sleeve, and 
 walked slowly down to the Canterbury Road, while his 
 grandfather chained up the dog.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 DELILAH GUMMER came back to the Running Horse 
 soon after George had left it. John, who was afraid 
 lest his brother might meet Bess and attempt to molest 
 her, left 'Lilah in charge, and walked quickly towards 
 Eddington. He met Bess, and, as they walked back to- 
 gether, she told him all that had passed between her father 
 and herself. 
 
 Huntingdon's revenge goaded John already angered by 
 his brother's visit, of which he said nothing, in order to spare 
 Bess unnecessary distress into a kind of dogged obstinacy. 
 Everything conspired against him; but he determined now 
 to fight fate to the bitter end. Whatever happened, he 
 and Bess would keep together. Whatever happened, even 
 if he had to strip the inn down to the last chair and even 
 the last tankard, he would keep it out of Huntingdon's 
 hands until he was absolutely compelled to give it up. 
 
 "I'll go to Will Ford's again to-night," he said. "We'll 
 keep the inn, if we have to sell everything out of it, Bess. 
 Even if it goes for a song, we'll raise what we can on the 
 furniture. Poor old Blossom must go, too; she's old, but 
 she'll fetch a few pounds. I'll talk to Will about it. Your 
 feyther shan't turn us out of the old home a minute sooner 
 than I can help." 
 
 He went into the stable. The old chaise, too, battered 
 and worn with many years of hard service, might bring 
 them a few guineas. If only their bed were left them, the 
 inn should be kept. Delilah would have to go. He went 
 indoors to tell her. She listened, stolid-faced, while he 
 told all that was necessary of the unhappy story. "So 
 I'm sorry, 'Lilah," he ended, "but we can't pay you your 
 wages no longer, and " 
 
 295
 
 296 RUNNING HORSE IXX 
 
 "Wages? I doan't want no wages, then," she said, fac- 
 ing him, with arms akimbo. " Arter all these years, nursing 
 you when you were a child an' all, you can't send me pack- 
 ing to the wilderness like Hagar, Must' John! I reckon I'm 
 not a hireling, nor yet a rat to leave a ship when it's sinking, 
 the nasty things! 
 
 '"Let others chuse the sons of mirth 
 To give a relish to their wine.' 
 
 I reckon I'm not like 'em, Must' John. I'll stop here " 
 
 "But it isn't only wages, even, 'Lilah," said John, gloom- 
 ily, though his heart was touched by her loyalty. "It's 
 wittles, too I don't know " 
 
 "Wittles? I doan't want them neither, then; I'll get 
 sewing, or washing, or I'll go out to help sometimes 
 they'll pay me enough to keep alive for sweeping out the 
 Blengate chapel, Must' John; but here I be, and here I'll 
 stay, and I'll work for you and the missus till I've no flesh 
 on my bones, I wull, and you can't turn me out no more 
 than Huntingdon can turn you out. So there! If I have to 
 tell Thorn to marry me, and keep myself out of his wages, 
 I'll do it. Arter all these years with your feyther and 
 mother, and then you and missus! No, I won't go. Oh, 
 
 my! I never reckoned on your saying such a thing " 
 
 Her freckled, honest face flushed scarlet, suddenly, and 
 began to work ominously; two great tears hung trembling 
 on the red lashes. 
 
 "There, there," said John, kindly, putting his hand on 
 her shoulder, "doan't cry, now, 'Lilah doan't; you'll 
 make me feel like it, too. We'll we'll have to talk it over 
 later." 
 
 "You won't never talk me out of the house that's given 
 me bed and board for so long, Must' John," sobbed 'Lilah. 
 "Not for all the Huntingdons in the world, you won't do 
 that."
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 297 
 
 Bess was taking off her things in their bedroom. She 
 turned over her few treasures again, wondering what they, 
 and even the clothing she could spare, might bring in. At 
 the bottom of a drawer, where it had been put when local 
 curiosity had been satisfied, lay the Spanish pistol which 
 George had brought from the wars. That might sell for a 
 few shillings. 
 
 She closed the drawer, and went downstairs again. John 
 was nearly ready to start for Sturry. He ran up to his 
 room, and took out the pistol and primed it ready for use. 
 He was likely to be late, and the gangs of smugglers and 
 armed poachers who infested the woods made night trav- 
 elling dangerous. He had little enough left to lose, but it 
 was not fair to Bess to run risks, and these bands generally 
 left the examination of pockets to the moment when their 
 victim lay senseless on the highway. But his chief thought 
 was of his brother. George's threats might mean anything 
 or nothing; but he was desperate, and it was well to be on 
 guard against foul play. 
 
 He said nothing to Bess about the weapon. She stood 
 in the doorway to see him off. 
 
 "Go indoors, lass, and get out of the cold," he said, 
 kissing her good-night. 
 
 "Won't you ride Blossom to-night, John?" 
 
 " No, lass; I'd as lief walk. Tis a good night for walking. 
 Will's a late bird, and I'll be in plenty of time to catch him." 
 
 "What time will you be back, John?" 
 
 "Pretty late, I reckon. Leave the door unbolted, and 
 don't sit up. I shan't be home till after midnight." 
 
 "Oh, but the road's so lonely, John, and the woods are 
 so dark. There are such a lot of starving men about, too." 
 
 "They won't hurt me," he answered, laughing to reas- 
 sure her. "I wouldn't go to-night, only we haven't any 
 time to spare. Now get in by the fire, lass; why, you're 
 shivering. Good-night ! "
 
 298 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 "Good-night, dear," she said. Her voice sounded very 
 clearly in the night air, and thrilled through him, cheering 
 his heart like a cordial as he started on his lonely walk. 
 He buttoned up his coat, and stepped briskly out, with 
 lips set tightly, for this new battle with fate. It was a 
 fight now to the last breath. All the latent stubbornness 
 of his nature, inherited from his father, was roused at last. 
 He remembered the proud motto which his county flaunts, 
 like a panache, among its fellows. Kent the Unconquered! 
 He, like those distant ancestors who went with their green 
 boughs to the Norman Conqueror and made their pact with 
 him, took pride in the remembrance that he was a Man of 
 Kent, and was nerved by it. But before he had gone many 
 yards on his six-mile tramp, his spirits fell again, and a 
 dull sense of wonder and bewilderment at his misfortunes 
 took possession of his mind. 
 
 It was a dark, gloomy night; green-black clouds drifted 
 quickly across the moon; the crests of waves, dazzling 
 white as far as the eye could reach in the day's sunshine, 
 now scarcely flecked the black expanse of waters. A cold, 
 biting wind was blowing, laden with the smell of weed 
 massed on the shingle and tossing on the restless sea. John 
 turned his back on the shore, and climbed the steep road 
 that was to take him out on to the highway. 
 
 Two or three labourers passed him close to the hamlet; 
 after that he had the dark road to himself. Very quiet 
 and silent lay the wintry fields; here and there on the 
 horizon lights twinkled, or latticed squares, lit up, showed 
 in the dark walls of cottages or farms; human sounds had 
 been left behind with the clatter of the last footsteps, and 
 all the world seemed shut within its doors. But the wind 
 moaned and chattered in the naked trees, and moved in 
 the black clumps of gorse and bramble on the common 
 lands; and overhead there seemed an astounding hurry in 
 the heavens flying masses of filmy green-black clouds
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 299 
 
 rushed past the moon, veiling and unveiling it, as if the 
 summons to-night had found them unprepared, and they 
 were hasting to their places in the soft volume of accumu- 
 lated darkness. 
 
 John Kennett whistled to keep up his spirits. Kent, in 
 those late Regency years, was becoming almost as notori- 
 ous for its highway robberies and assaults as it had been in 
 Elizabethan days, when its very name was synonymous, 
 in English literature, for a nest of thieves. He wondered 
 what George was doing. It was just the kind of night 
 when, on a lonely road, one fancies dogging footsteps, and 
 lurking figures in hedge or thicket. John was close to 
 Eddington, when there was a rustle in the hedge ahead 
 of him, to his right, and the figure of a man broke away 
 like a tiny dark section detaching itself from the tangle 
 of bush and bramble. John stopped abruptly, and watched 
 while the figure made its way across the field. "Some one 
 up to no good, I reckon," he thought, "or he wouldn't be 
 frightened of meeting me. Unless, maybe, he thinks I'm 
 a dangerous character myself." It was no business of his, 
 in any case, and he went on, though with his eyes on the 
 running figure until the darkness closed round it like water. 
 He was turning his head again to the road in front of him, 
 when a spark of light glowed suddenly below a great rick 
 in the corner of the field. 
 
 He stopped again. 
 
 "Rick-burning that's the business, then!" he muttered, 
 and, as a flame shot up suddenly, sprang through the hedge 
 to stop the outrage. It was one of Huntingdon's ricks, but 
 he acted on impulse, without stopping to consider whether 
 resentment would justify him in leaving the farmer to pro- 
 tect his own property. The fire shot up almost instantly, 
 and showers of sparks poured out in a column of black smoke. 
 
 "Out of that!" cried John, but the man had already 
 seen him, and was running.
 
 300 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 John Kennett rushed towards the rick, looming black 
 in the semi-darkness, but becoming every moment more 
 clearly defined in the light of its own burning. He began 
 to pull out the blazing hay by armfuls, and kicked and 
 stamped it down, in a desperate effort to put out the fire 
 before the wind could make the damage irreparable. 
 Shouts from the direction of the farmhouse reached his 
 ears, and he turned his head. A man, thick-set, was rush- 
 ing across the field; a dog ran alongside barking; behind 
 them came a lad, not far from his master; and several 
 yards in the rear hobbled another man, waving some im- 
 plement. John could as yet distinguish no faces, but he 
 knew the build of the two men, and in another moment 
 recognised the hoarse, angry voice of Roger Hunting- 
 don. 
 
 "Go for him, Csesar! Good dog! Bring him down, the 
 scoundrel. You'll swing for this! I know who you are! 
 Pinion! Pinion! Hurry your legs, you fool, all the rick'll 
 go!" 
 
 "I be coming, Maister, dreckly-minute. Oh, my side! 
 Oh! just arter my supper too! All right, Maister," he 
 wheezed, "I be a-coming!" 
 
 John bent almost double, and rushed to the dark side 
 of the rick. If he were caught, there would be little use in 
 explanation. The thought flashed instantly across his 
 mind. Rick-burning was a hanging matter. No doubt 
 some tramp was the culprit, but there was motive enough 
 to convict John Kennett a dozen times over, if he were 
 recognised, and taxed with the crime which he had been 
 trying to prevent. He heard the snuffling breathing of 
 the dog, as, ceasing to bark, it shot ahead of its master to 
 carry out his order. John took out the Spanish pistol. 
 Unless he could escape before the dog sprang at him, he 
 must kill the brute in self-defence. Huntingdon was still 
 far enough away to give him a chance of escaping in the
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 301 
 
 darkness. He looked behind him; there were open fields, 
 and beyond them a shaw, where, if once he reached it, he 
 would be safe. 
 
 He had nearly covered the length of the rick, when the 
 retriever reached the bend, and slid a yard or two, in a 
 desperate effort to double on its quarry. There was no 
 choice but to shoot. John dropped on one knee, cocked 
 the pistol, and took aim. 
 
 The dog spun round, its lips drawn back, wolf-like, over 
 the white gleam of teeth, its eyes glowing like balls of 
 green fire, phosphorescent in the darkness. John pressed 
 the trigger as it leapt forward; there was a flash, and a 
 report that echoed sullenly among the trees and hills. 
 
 At the moment when he pressed the trigger, Huntingdon, 
 shouting threats and curses, came round the bend. A 
 cry, sharp and sudden, answered the flash and the report. 
 "Pinion! I'm shot!" he jerked out, more in rage and 
 amazement than in pain. John saw him stagger for a 
 second, twist sharply, half round, as if some great hand 
 had taken him and were wrenching him aside against his 
 will. "Pinion! You, boy! Hold him! Never mind me! 
 Catch him, I say!" 
 
 The wind, veering a little, shot a lambent flame from 
 that side of the rick, as if throwing a torch to light the last 
 act of the tragedy. The retriever, startled by the report, 
 and half-blinded, drew back snarling, and then turned 
 piteous eyes towards its master, and licked his hand. 
 Huntingdon staggered blindly against the rick, and stood 
 there, propped against it, with one hand clapped tightly 
 against his breast. John, appalled at the horror of the 
 catastrophe, ran towards him instinctively, to give him 
 help. "Oh, my God!" he gasped. "Mr. Huntingdon, I 
 didn't mean it, I " 
 
 "Pinion, it's John Kennett!" cried Huntingdon, in a 
 voice extraordinarily loud and firm. "You'll hang for
 
 302 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 this, my fine fellow! Curse you, Pinion, why don't you 
 come! I'll I'll 
 
 His voice changed suddenly, sharply. "What's that?" 
 he gasped, and his legs seemed to give under him; he sank 
 down gradually in a limp heap, and sat there against the 
 hay, his head nodding horribly. 
 
 At the report of the pistol, the boy had waited for his 
 grandfather, whose rheumatism added to it now timidity 
 as an excuse for delay. "I be coming, Maister, I be com- 
 ing," quavered Pinion, still behind the friendly shelter of 
 the rick. "You won't shoot us, wull 'ee, Must' Kennett? 
 I be on'y a poor, harmless old man " 
 
 The dog slunk away with its tail between its legs, as if 
 to ask Pinion what had happened to its master. John 
 could hear the old peasant urging his grandson to look 
 round the edge of the rick. 
 
 "No, you look, grandfer; you'm older an' wiser'n me." 
 
 "I can't see nothing with dese here old eyes," said Pin- 
 ion, and evidently his teeth were chattering. "Here be 
 help at last, though! Shout, 'Zekiel, shout! Help, help!" 
 
 Huntingdon's neighbour, young Akenside, and some 
 labourers were hurrying across the field. John bent over 
 the fallen man; already the eyes were glazed, the fierce, 
 masterful spirit quelled by mastery stronger than its own. 
 He was past help. 
 
 John stood up. Should he stay and take the chance of 
 his story being believed? If he meant to escape, there 
 was not a moment to lose. He began to run. A narrow 
 plank spanned the ditch between field and shaw; he crossed 
 it, dropping the pistol as he ran. Safe in the shelter of 
 the thicket, he stopped for a second to draw breath. The 
 fire had caught the heart of the rick at last; he could see 
 the sky red above the trees, and sheaves of sparks floating 
 towards the clouds that moved so fast across the moon. 
 He was half-dazed; everything had passed so quickly. It
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 303 
 
 seemed an age since he had been whistling on the high- 
 road; yet only a few minutes could have passed. 
 
 His one thought, the one prompting of instinct, was to 
 get away to get away where he could think quietly of 
 all this. He ran on, breaking through the bushes, duck- 
 ing his head as if a bullet might come whizzing after him 
 at any moment, groping blindly among the trees, slipping 
 and stumbling over roots and crackling twigs and branches. 
 
 "Oh, Bess, Bess!" he moaned, as he ran. Huntingdon's 
 hate seemed as if it could pursue him and his wife even in 
 death. He ran over a ploughed field, crossed a stile, and 
 at last reached the darkness of the Blean woods. Then he 
 stopped, panting, and tried to think. What should he do? 
 Huntingdon had shouted his name; Pinion had answered 
 his master, and, almost in the same breath, had appealed 
 to John, by name, not to fire. At present he was safe. 
 Nothing stirred but the wind among the branches. Fear 
 of pursuit drove out all fear of the bands of lawless men 
 who made the Kentish woods their lair. The cover of trees 
 and undergrowth, the darkness of night, might give him a 
 few hours' freedom. He could not go back to the inn; 
 Bess would believe his story, Captain Rockett would, he 
 knew; but others, even his friends, would put their own 
 construction on the doings of the night, when they heard 
 of the foreclosure. Perhaps, even now, men were search- 
 ing for him at the Running Horse. What should he do? 
 He prayed to God for counsel and help, but in this terrible 
 hour his creed, so much a matter of long habit based on 
 that rather than on faced and thought-out facts seemed 
 to fail him. For some time past, the apparent cruelty 
 and blindness of fate had blurred his vision of that just and 
 beneficent Deity he had worshipped since boyhood, as the 
 Preserver of men, their Defence and Shield, the Rewarder 
 of those who sought and honoured Him. "All things 
 come alike to all; there is one event to the righteous, and to
 
 304 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 the wicked; to the good, and to the clean, and to the unclean. 
 . . . This is an evil among all things that are done under 
 the sun, that there is one event unto all." The bitter cry, 
 so ancient and so new, had been choked down often; but 
 now it welled up from his heart to the high heavens. Still 
 he prayed, but his hands were like those of a drowning 
 man, clutching the air for support, and finding nothing. 
 
 An owl hooted in the woods; the discordant screech, 
 not very many yards away, sent his heart to his mouth, 
 and his skin crept. Ever since he had bent over Hunting- 
 don, the vision of the dead man's face, with his fixed and 
 staring eyes, had been in John's mind, stamped there 
 with all its weird background the rick, flame, and dense 
 shadow; the shuddering trees; the green-black clouds fly- 
 ing through the troubled sky. That picture would always 
 be with him now, like the gruesome carving of the gallows 
 on the wall of a prison-cell, which generation after genera- 
 tion of criminals sees and trembles at, yet cannot shut out. 
 His nerves, steady enough generally, were all on edge. 
 But the sudden shock of the eerie hooting brought its own 
 revulsion in a flood of shame. He rallied his thoughts with 
 an effort. God's help or not God or blind fate he was 
 still a man, and could play that part. He must make his 
 decision without whining, and act on that decision. 
 
 Should he give himself up, and tell the truth? Death, 
 in that event, seemed certain. John remembered suddenly 
 that Huntingdon's death would mean the cancelling of 
 the order to foreclose, and an end, certainly, to all Bess's 
 anxiety about money. Her mother would never let her 
 want. But that would strengthen the case against him. 
 Not only revenge, as he at first thought, but this double 
 motive of freedom from embarrassment would be imputed 
 to him by the judges. 
 
 If only Huntingdon had not called out his name! Could 
 he brazen that out, deny it, put it down to malice even in
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 305 
 
 death? But to do that he must prove an alibi and how? 
 No, he must go away hide somewhere in London, and find 
 some means of letting Bess know his whereabouts. He 
 was afraid to go to the inn. Country wits moved slowly; 
 it might be some time before they attempted to arrest him; 
 but the risk of capture was too great. He decided at last 
 to carry out his original intention and go to Sturry. Ford 
 could be trusted with the real facts, and with a message. 
 
 He hurried through the woods, as if speed could put the 
 clocks back, and so prove his innocence. It was too late 
 now; he reproached himself bitterly for not running there 
 at once. But when he knocked at his cousins' door, a 
 neighbour told him that they had gone to Canterbury to 
 spend the evening with friends. 
 
 John entered an inn, where he was known, and called 
 for spirits. He had a kind of dazed notion that it might 
 be useful, at some time or other, to prove that he had 
 actually been to Sturry on this night. But all his thoughts, 
 all his plans, were hazy and confused. Huntingdon, inflex- 
 ible in all his schemes, had seemed to use his very death to 
 make his curse effective. 
 
 When John entered, a gamekeeper was telling the land- 
 lord that he had seen red on the sky-line beyond Herne 
 from the highroad. "Another rick burned, I reckon," he 
 said. "That's the fourth this month, in these parts." 
 
 "Did you see anything of it, Kennett?" asked his host. 
 
 "I saw the flames in the sky," said John, and felt miser- 
 ably guilty at the quarter-truth, for the cowardice of lying 
 had classed it, since his earliest boyhood, among the 
 unpardonable sins. 
 
 He stayed at the inn until closing time. There was not 
 much risk, though his heart quickened every time the 
 door opened. But he wanted to put off that lonely flight to 
 the great city as long as possible. He hoped, too, that by 
 and by the Fords would come back, though he scarcely 
 20
 
 306 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 knew yet whether he should tell them. One by one the 
 men trooped out of the warm taproom into the cold night 
 air. He lingered a few minutes, saying good-night to the 
 landlord, and then, when the street was empty, went again 
 to the Fords' door. They had not returned. 
 
 He determined to walk on in the direction of Canter- 
 bury; it was his road to the wider world, and he might 
 meet them. He was a mile on his way, when he heard a 
 clatter of hoofs and a creak of wheels behind him, and 
 turned his head. 
 
 Two soldiers rode beside a rough country cart, in which 
 were three men, whose figures he could just make out. 
 The horse was being driven rapidly towards Canterbury. 
 
 John drew aside to let them pass. 
 
 "Keep still, wull 'ee?" said a gruff voice from the cart 
 to one of its occupants. "You won't do no good by try- 
 ing to get away. Reckon us'd better take his boots off, 
 if 'a tries kicking " 
 
 "Leave my arm alone, curse you! I'll kick till you take 
 your houghed fingers off my sleeve. Curse the lot of you! 
 I'll I'll have the law on you for this. I'm evidence, I 
 am. I saw it done, I tell you. Let me go " 
 
 As the cart clattered into distance, the thick, drunken 
 yoice, almost incoherent with impotent rage, still reached 
 John's ears cursing, threatening, entreating. 
 
 It was George's voice! 
 
 Then it must have been his brother who had fired the 
 rick. John saw all or nearly all in a flash of intuition. 
 George had been caught, perhaps lurking near the place, 
 and was now a prisoner. Huntingdon's exclamation could 
 easily be explained had been, no doubt, already, to the 
 satisfaction of those who had effected the arrest. 
 
 John turned his back on Canterbury, and hurried 
 through Sturry towards the sea. He would be safe, to- 
 night at any rate, at the Running Horse. George had
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 307 
 
 prepared a halter for his brother's neck; his own was 
 caught in it, and should remain there. 
 
 Oh, there was God's justice still in this world of His! 
 John looked up to the sky, with a cry of praise and thank- 
 fulness rising from his heart. 
 
 But the huddle of sombre clouds, still moving, blotted 
 out the moon, and seemed to close the gates of prayer. 
 His praise could not pass that barrier, opaque, impervious, 
 guarded not by the flaming sword that turned every way 
 to keep the way of the tree of life, but by the gloomy 
 legions of the dark. It shut in even God.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 AFTER his repulse at the farm, George Kennett wan- 
 dered aimlessly towards Herne. He was in a fury of 
 blind and helpless rage. Hunger and thirst, the rags that 
 scarcely screened him from the cold all this ultimate 
 misery he had been brought to made him unfit to battle 
 with the world. He marvelled at himself that he, who had 
 faced shot and shell so often, and flung himself undismayed 
 against French steel, should have been sent packing by an 
 angry threat and the loosing of a farmyard dog. If he had 
 only stayed to hurl stones at the brute, menaced it with his 
 boot as it charged towards him, done anything rather than 
 run, with snarled oaths for his only protest. Huntingdon's 
 short, jeering laugh rang in his ears. The thought of the 
 sorry figure he had cut inflamed his rage to madness. 
 
 He sauntered in the old village, nursing schemes of re- 
 venge, and at last, when night closed down on the land, 
 turned back towards Eddington. Huntingdon should pay 
 for this in flaming rick or barn. Yet he knew the penalty if 
 he were caught, and hesitated. Once he thought he heard 
 stealthy footsteps dogging him, and looked round, but 
 there was no one in sight. 
 
 He hid in the hedge, meaning to wait until the lights of 
 the farmhouse went out, and Huntingdon and his men were 
 all safe abed. Perhaps he would sleep in the hay, and fire 
 it in the still hours just before dawn. He would have time 
 to get away, then, before the sleepy-eyed labourers came 
 to their work. 
 
 But he had not waited very long when he heard his 
 brother's whistle, and saw him coming down the road. 
 
 Not until then did the thought of a double vengeance 
 enter his mind. Destiny, if it had marked him out for a 
 
 308
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 309 
 
 sordid part, still favoured him. George's brain was dazed 
 with misery and privation, but he reflected vaguely that, 
 if the rick blazed out now, the penalty might attach itself 
 to John. Certainly, he would be suspected, if Huntingdon, 
 rushing out to save his hay, encountered the man with 
 whom he had so bitter a feud, and whose ruin he had just 
 effected. George acted by impulse rather than by delib- 
 erate choice. After all, he gave John the benefit of the 
 chance. He would have hesitated to attack him; but the 
 possibility of this indirect vengeance appealed to him too 
 strongly to be resisted. 
 
 George ran across the field, fired the rick, and crossed 
 the plank into the shaw, where, hidden by the undergrowth, 
 he waited and watched events. 
 
 He saw John hurry across the field to undo the mischief. 
 He heard the shouts from the house, the barking of the 
 dog, Huntingdon's savage orders to Pinion and the boy. 
 Pinion's wheezy rejoinders reached his ears, as the rheu- 
 matic old retainer hobbled, grunting and coughing, at a 
 long interval behind his master. And then George saw the 
 flash, heard the sharp report and realised suddenly what 
 had happened. 
 
 Shuddering at the tragedy, startled by its unexpected- 
 ness, George was on the point of running, when John 
 Kennett broke through the bushes, flinging the pistol in 
 the ditch as he sprang across it. There was no immediate 
 risk of discovery. George had heard Huntingdon shout 
 the name of his slayer. Now, even if George were found, 
 that fact would protect him. He lay still, peering through 
 the screen of naked twigs and branches at the scene which 
 the flaming rick lit up. Pinion would never venture alone 
 into the shaw. As Akenside and the rest drew near, the 
 old man hobbled towards them, piping out explanations 
 in his weak old voice. The body, deserted for the moment, 
 lay huddled at the foot of the rick. Grim and tragic
 
 310 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 death-scene for the last bearer of an ancient name! For 
 centuries the feet of his ancestors strong men, all of 
 them, fearless and indomitable in following their aims, 
 whether of good or ill for hundreds of years their feet 
 had trodden this ancestral soil. And now the sombre 
 clouds and the night's darkness seemed his pall the blaze 
 of his own wealth the torch which lit his bier, the wintry 
 earth. 
 
 Pinion shuffled back to the body, and bent over it tim- 
 orously, quavering, "Maister! Maister! Why doan't 'ee 
 speak? What be us to do, Maister?" At first he scarcely 
 seemed to realise the tragedy. The strong man, so full of 
 hot anger, had grown so suddenly impotent and silent. 
 Pinion ran back again to the others, as if afraid of the near 
 presence of death. Akenside and the men assembled in a 
 little dark group beside the body. "He's gone, "said some 
 one. After slow consultation, they dragged the corpse 
 away from the rick, for the flames were spreading. In 
 face of this grimmer catastrophe, no movement was made 
 to save the hay. George could not hear their muttered 
 consultations. Now and then a man would go to the corpse, 
 and draw aside, with timid fingers, the coat that now cov- 
 ered the great mystery. They had come to the blank wall 
 in every man's experience, and stood helpless, hushed, 
 puzzled. It seemed as if looking at the face of the dead 
 would give them some clue to death's secret. It seemed 
 almost as if they expected him soon to stir again, who 
 would never stir, or to speak, who would be ever silent. 
 But at last a man broke away, running to the road, then 
 another. No doubt they were going at last to fetch con- 
 stable and surgeon. The others, headed by Akenside, 
 turned towards the shaw, but cautiously, fearing a sudden 
 bullet from its coverts. 
 
 George broke the spell which held him, and crept away 
 noiselessly. He crossed the belt of wood, and a stretch
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 311 
 
 of rough common where, in the daytime, sheep pastured, 
 and made his way to the sea. He reached the cliffs between 
 Hampton and Herne Bay. He had laid his plans. Under 
 his tattered coat was the pistol which John had flung down 
 as he escaped. Huntingdon's cry, the actual fact that John 
 had fired the shot above all, this weapon, which every 
 one in Herne Bay would recognise all these made his own 
 position absolutely secure. There was evidence enough to 
 hang a dozen men. But he did not want his brother's life. 
 He wanted 
 
 Well, drink, first drink, drink something to stop that 
 craving, to warm his heart, to renew his sapped courage 
 and food, and clothes that would enable him to play a 
 bolder and more equal part in this world which judged so 
 much from appearances. But he promised himself more 
 than these, much more. This knowledge, this evidence, 
 should give him all or nearly all he had schemed for 
 hitherto without success. 
 
 He went down the slope of the cliff, and peered in at 
 the bar-room window of the Running Horse, to see if the 
 last customers had gone. Bess was sitting there alone. 
 Delilah, no doubt, was in the inner room. The clock hands 
 were drawing near the hour for closing. At this time of 
 night there was no likelihood of other customers coming 
 to the inn. 
 
 George stood for a little while, peering through the 
 window at the girl. She had a paper on her knee, but was 
 not reading; her eyes, shining in the candlelight, were 
 dreamy, and had an unwonted look of sadness. No doubt 
 she was thinking, as she looked into vacancy, of that last 
 interview with the man who was now lying with his face 
 covered from that world in which his share was ended, 
 the man to whose soul God had spoken. 
 
 George Kennett's hungry eyes drank in her beauty. A 
 hundred memories stirred in him, as he saw the dark,
 
 312 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 abundant hair, the still girlish figure, the dimpled throat just 
 showing, the neat instep latticed by the shoe-strings. He 
 felt even a momentary compunction. He shrank a little 
 from that moment when her eyes would be turned towards 
 him. Should he face them? He almost yielded to a sudden 
 impulse to go away, to leave the two whom he had already 
 harmed so much unmolested, and, while they faced their 
 own trouble, follow his own lonely and unhappy road. 
 But Bess's flushed face, the cheerful fire, the tankards 
 and bottles glittering in the light, all held him. After all, 
 it was her father who had been killed. Hard as Hunting- 
 don had been, could she condone that? Wouldn't her 
 childhood, and all that had been pleasant in it every 
 little kindness rendered and now magnified by death 
 wouldn't these rise between her and her husband, an im- 
 penetrable barrier? Even if she had loved John as dearly 
 as she said, this would surely be a crime unforgivable. 
 And George meant to be generous. He was going to offer 
 her her husband's life, for a price, of course; certainly, for 
 a price. 
 
 The stinging cold, kept at bay a little when he was 
 walking, but now very poignant in face of the open sea, 
 reminded him of his rags and emptiness. He moved 
 towards the door. The clock struck the hour at that 
 moment, and Bess stood up, flung her hands to her hair 
 with the old, familiar gesture, and came towards the door 
 to bolt it. George raised the latch, and stood there facing 
 her. 
 
 "We're just going to close," she said, not recognising 
 him, but starting back at the sight of the unkempt, haggard 
 figure on the threshold. 
 
 "You can close, Bess, if you shut me inside instead of 
 out," he said, with a little, nervous laugh, and shot the bolt. 
 "Don't know me, eh? Well, I reckon I'm altered. I'm 
 George back again."
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 313 
 
 "George! " She gave a little, startled cry. 
 
 "Ay, it's me. Well, haven't you a word of welcome? 
 Hullo, 'Lilah, you've not got rid of " 
 
 "You? What are you doing here again?" Delilah, who 
 had come from the inner room at the cry, interrupted 
 harshly. She went to her mistress's side. Her master 
 was away again and these two women left alone to face 
 the man whose very name they had been trying to forget. 
 "We don't want nothing more to do with you. You can 
 go back where you corned from, to your own wicked 
 ways and friends." 
 
 "What, when I've come for the fatted calf? You don't 
 hold with your religion about welcoming the prodigal, 
 seemin'ly, 'Lilah. There, I'm not going to do any one 
 any harm. I've come for your good, I have, to bring bad 
 news, but" he produced the pistol slowly from his coat 
 "but on an errand of mercy, so to speak. That ought to 
 please you, 'Lilah. Don't stare at me like that, Bess, my 
 girl. I'll not hurt you." 
 
 "No, that you won't," said Delilah, going to the door. 
 "Out you go. You won't?" But she changed her mind. 
 It would never do to leave Bess alone in the house with 
 him. "Missus," she said, "you go out and fetch the neigh- 
 bours Homersham or some one better bring two or three. 
 I'll stay here with him. The worstest he'll do is to shoot 
 me, and I doan't care. I've never been frightened by man 
 yet, and it'd take more'n him to do it. Run, missus, 
 run!" 
 
 "Run? Why, I'll open the door for you, if you like, 
 Bess. Oh, I shan't hinder you. Bring in all Herne Bay, if 
 you like." He flung himself down in a chair before the 
 fire, and stretched out his feet (one toe was showing through 
 the worn boot) towards the cheerful blaze. "I'll just tell 
 you this, though, first; John may have to thank you for 
 his death if you do."
 
 314 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 "John? What do you mean?" Bess hesitated, and 
 turned back. George watched her with provoking eyes, 
 hinting mystery. It was evident that he meant to let 
 them summon help if they chose to take that course. What 
 was the secret of that quiet, meaning smile on the haggard, 
 unshaven face that confronted hers the smile in the quiz- 
 zing eyes? Her glance fell on the pistol that he dandled 
 meaningly. She recognised it at once, and her heart 
 stopped. John must have taken it! What had happened? 
 Had he met with some accident some violence from his 
 brother, perhaps? 
 
 "George, tell me what is it? Has anything happened 
 to John? Oh, how cruel to look like that! Don't keep 
 me in suspense don't, George. Let me know " 
 
 " Well," he said, slowly, "something has and yet hasn't. 
 'Tis a difficult question to answer in that way, lass. But 
 something will if you or 'Lilah leave that door. At least, 
 'Lilah can go if she wants; she's nothing to me. Mind, I 
 shan't stop neither of you." 
 
 "Oh, George, it's cruel you don't know how cruel " 
 
 "What, when I'm doing a good action, Bess? Come, 
 I'll tell you, then. Let me have a drink first. 'Lilah, pour 
 me out a glass of Hollands a full glass, mind. I've not had 
 a drop pass my lips for God knows how long. And then 
 
 Delilah stood obstinate, with her lips pursed up, her 
 whole attitude defiant. 
 
 "Give it him, Delilah, if it'll only make him speak!" 
 
 "Well, I'll do it for you, mum. Not for him, I won't; 
 I wouldn't lift a merciful finger to help him. I'll pour the 
 spirits out, but they'm for you, missus, not for him." She 
 half-filled a glass, and, evading George's hand, put it into 
 the outstretched hand of Bess. George snatched it, with 
 a laugh, and tossed it off. 
 
 He smacked his lips. "Ah, it's terr'ble good," he mut- 
 tered, with a sigh of satisfaction. " Here, another, 'Lilah."
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 315 
 
 He handed the glass back. Already his eyes brightened, 
 his voice was stronger. That was what he wanted, before 
 playing the trump which was to win the drawn-out game. 
 But Delilah's hands remained clenched, her arms by her 
 side. "Damn you," he shouted, turning round, "I'll have 
 to get another servant." He poured out a second glass 
 and tossed it off. 
 
 " 'Lilah," he ordered, looking round from the bar, "go 
 and get something to eat ready in the parlour; I'm half 
 famished. Do you hear?" 
 
 There was something ominous and significant in his easy 
 assumption of command. 
 
 "Missus," broke out 'Lilah, looking at him fiercely, 
 "don't harken to that nonsense about maister; 'tis all 
 lies to deceive us. Go and get the neighbours, and I'll 
 stay here with him." 
 
 George filled his glass again, and brought it to the fire- 
 side and sat down. 
 
 "Do what you're told, 'Lilah," he said. "It'll be the 
 worse for you if you don't. I'm master here now. If you 
 want to stop here " 
 
 "I wouldn't stop not an hour not a minute if you 
 were," retorted the woman, her green eyes glaring. "I'll 
 get you no supper, and that's flat. Not if you went down 
 on your bended knees, I wouldn't; 'twould be like serving 
 Satan himself, and that I've never done, nor won't. If 
 he's anything to say, let him say it, and then go." 
 
 "Go?" George put his glass down, with great deliber- 
 ation, on the corner of the hearth, and chuckled. "Go? 
 Oh, I'm not going from the Running Horse again, 'Lilah. 
 You are, though. I give you notice," he cried, his voice 
 changing to anger, "I give you notice to-night. Damn 
 you! You won't get me supper? We'll see " He half- 
 rose from his chair, but a word from Bess checked him, and 
 he sank back. "There, there, I'll tell you, lass. It's bad
 
 31G RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 news in a way but I'll help you to forget it." He rubbed 
 his hands. 
 
 "What is it?" asked Bess, bending forward towards 
 him. "Oh, tell me, George." 
 
 "Well, I'm going to, lass, ain't I? You must give a 
 man time to think. Here, come and sit aside me. That's it." 
 
 "Now tell me." She forgot her fear, almost her repul- 
 sion, in her anxiety for her husband, and set a chair close 
 to him before the fire. 
 
 "That's it," he said; "now we're cosy. In our own 
 home at last. That's it; put your hand on my sleeve again 
 I like it." He looked at the tattered cloth, and blinked. 
 "Must dress better'n this to please you, though, Bess. 
 Damme, I'll go up and get John's clothes on." He half- 
 rose again, but sank back with a contented sigh. "That'll 
 do later on. We're comfortable now, and jolly, eh?" 
 Suddenly he broke into a soldier's song: 
 
 "Why, soldiers, why, 
 Should we be melancholy, boys? 
 
 Why, soldiers, why? 
 Whose business 'tis to die. 
 
 Not going to die, though. 
 
 "What, sighing? Fie! 
 Drink on, kill care, be jovial, boys. 
 
 There, don't start away like that, Bess. Here, come back." 
 It was his own hand he addressed, that had wandered 
 behind the girl's chair to circle her waist; he dragged it 
 back with the other, and looked round, laughing foolishly. 
 " 'Lilah, pour me out some more Hollands, there's a good 
 girl. Me go away? That's foolish, that is. 
 
 " "Tis he, you, or I, 
 
 Cold, hot, wet, or dry, 
 We're always found to follow, boys, 
 And scorn to fly.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 317 
 
 Why, where are you flying to, Bess? Come back, lass, and 
 sit aside me." 
 
 Bess stood up, her face pale, her eyes sparkling, her lips 
 pursed together. "Oh, 'Lilah, what shall I do? " she moaned, 
 at last. 
 
 "I'd not believe a word of his nonsense. Call the neigh- 
 bours," said Delilah. 
 
 Bess went to the door. 
 
 "Here, come back come back, you little fool!" cried 
 George. "There, I didn't mean to speak harsh to you; I 
 love you too well, I do. Never say an unkind word to 
 you, I wouldn't. I'll tell you. You almost drive out of my 
 head what I come about. Oh, I know. Houghed serious 
 thing, Bess; I don't half like telling you; but cheer up 
 
 " Tis he, you, or I, 
 Cold, hot 
 
 Cold, by now, I reckon," he muttered, in a drunken aside. 
 "What is it? Why, your father's dead and John killed 
 him that's what it is. Shot him with this pistol " 
 
 Bess gave a little startled cry, and Delilah, lowering at 
 George, ran to catch her, thinking she would fall. 
 
 "I'm all right, Delilah," she gasped; "I shan't faint." 
 But for a moment she clutched her bosom, and seemed 
 struggling for breath. 
 
 " You brute, you, oh, you brute! " hissed Delilah, between 
 her teeth. "What a starf be you got at, trying to kill her, 
 when she's never done you harm but good? It's not true. 
 Doan't 'ee believe his wicked romancin', missus. If Must' 
 Huntingdon's killed, it wusn't Must' John who killed him." 
 
 "It's true as gospel, 'Lilah, and truer, very likely. He's 
 dead enough. I saw him shot, and John running away. 
 But I won't say a word. I won't tell. And they shan't 
 have the pistol. Only he can't come back, of course. I'm 
 master now. Will you get me that supper?"
 
 318 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 "You'll not believe him, mum? You'll not believe that 
 of your husband?" 
 
 Bess was struggling with fearful suspicions. If George 
 were really the culprit, would he have run his head into 
 danger by coming to the inn? She knew the enmity be- 
 tween her father and her husband. She knew that John 
 must have taken the weapon with him when he went out; 
 and he had taken it without letting her know. Why, she 
 had spoken about the insecurity of the roads, and he had 
 not told her that he was armed. How had George obtained 
 the pistol, unless his story were true? He went on with 
 his rambling explanation, scarcely heeding so soon had 
 the drink affected him whether they listened or gave no 
 heed. But she detected the ring of truth in his words, and 
 her heart misgave her. Bess's eyes were on the weapon, 
 and Delilah knew at once what she was thinking. 
 
 "Lor, that's nothing!" she said. "As likely as not he 
 stole it first. That's no proof." Delilah did not know 
 as Bess knew that John had taken the pistol when he 
 left the inn. "I reckon he took it with him that night he 
 went to London." 
 
 "I won't tell, Bess," rambled George, lazily, "and we'll 
 send him some money if we find out where he is. Can't 
 do fairer than that! You'll have plenty now. We'll have 
 to pitch some yarn about his going away, and you and 
 I'll be as happy as turtle-doves now, we will. I always 
 loved you, and you did me, I know. Who are you glaring 
 at, 'Lilah? You'll go, my woman, if I have any more from 
 you. I'm master here, I tell you. I always did have my 
 way when I wanted it; but John was a silly fool to shoot 
 him. Not a nice death, hanging isn't. Perhaps he lost his 
 temper poor old John! " 
 
 He got up and walked, lurching, round the room, blink- 
 ing at the cartoons and ballad-sheets, and here and there 
 setting one awry as if in an effort to straighten it.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 319 
 
 Delilah went hastily into the parlour, and he followed her. 
 "Dear old Bess," he said, leering at the girl as he passed, 
 "there don't be frightened I wouldn't hurt you for 
 worlds, I'll only hie love you." She evaded his arms, 
 and he went chuckling into the parlour. "You ain't got 
 the supper, then, 'Lilah," he said, reproachfully, and groped 
 in a cupboard for food. Some plates fell with a clatter. 
 In a minute or two he came back, munching a pasty he 
 had found. 
 
 Delilah had returned to the taproom. "If you won't go 
 for the neighbours, missus, I'll see he don't harm you," 
 she said, and produced a knife which she had just secured. 
 
 "How can I go? How can I, when I don't know what 
 may have happened?" Bess said, in a strained whisper. 
 "Oh, I don't know what to do! What will become of 
 us?" 
 
 George lurched back to the bar, and flung down the 
 pasty testily. " I'm not hungry, though. Thirsty enough," 
 he poured out more spirit "but not hungry. Funny, 
 that." He seemed to reflect a minute as he stood swaying 
 with the glass in his hand. "Thirsty and sleepy." He 
 sank down into the chair again. "Come on, Bess, come 
 and be cosy together." 
 
 But he did not look round at her, and began singing 
 again, in a drowsy voice punctuated with hiccups. 
 
 " Tis but in vain 
 
 For soldiers to complain, 
 Send us to Him who made us, boys, 
 
 And if we remain, 
 A bottle and kind landlady cures all again. 
 
 Oh, I'm sleepy. Letsh have more wood on the fire." His 
 words, as drink took possession of his brain, grew indis- 
 tinct, and slurred together. He yawned, and, heaving a 
 log on the fire, took up the poker and made lunges at a 
 venture which stabbed erratically at wood and coal. The
 
 320 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 poker slipped from his fingers, and clattered down; quite 
 suddenly his head sank, his eyes closed, and he began to 
 snore, falling directly into drunken slumber. 
 
 The clock ticked; the fire creaked and rustled; for a 
 few moments, save for his snoring, there was no other 
 sound in the room. Outside the wind swept the shore; 
 the sea thundered and fell back moaning from the deserted 
 beach. 
 
 "Aren't you going for help now, missus?" asked Deli- 
 lah, at last, in a hoarse whisper. "I'll stay here. We 
 can't have him in the house alone; he'll set it afire or 
 something if we leave him. Must' John won't be home 
 yet-a- while. And when he wakes " 
 
 "I don't know what to do, 'Lilah. Oh, I'm sure some- 
 thing terrible has happened! And if it's true if he saw 
 
 "Well, if I was married, I shouldn't believe such a tale. 
 If any one's done murder, it's him, and not maister, I'll 
 be bound. I'd go off at once " 
 
 Bess clutched her arm. " What's that? Oh, what's that ?" 
 
 The two women stood listening. 
 
 "There are people coming listen!" 
 
 They heard the tramp of feet, the slow clatter of hoofs 
 like dropping water. 
 
 "Oh, what am I to do?" 
 
 "Do? Why, let them in, of course call out to them, I 
 should, if they're going by the door. Listen, missus. . . . 
 They'm stopping here." 
 
 There were voices outside, muffled; then a man stepped 
 forward and knocked. 
 
 "In the King's name!" 
 
 He waited, and knocked again, louder. George stirred 
 uneasily. 
 
 "I'll open the door," whispered Delilah, and went 
 towards it. 
 
 " No, no. Oh, let me think. He'll say "
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 321 
 
 "Let him say. We'll have to open it. Oh, my! They'll 
 have the door down, missus." 
 
 "Open the door! Open, in the King's name!" A fat, 
 pompous voice, but a little frightened withal. 
 
 "They don't seem to hear," said some one without. 
 "Didn't you ought to say in the Regent's?" 
 
 "I reckon I know my business," replied the more pom- 
 pous voice, in the space that was given for an answer. 
 
 "They're abed." 
 
 "What, with lights in the window?" 
 
 The knocking grew louder and more urgent. Bang, 
 bang, bang! The hammering would awake all the quiet 
 hamlet. 
 
 George opened his eyes slowly, and looked round. 
 "Where am I? My wig, I thoft I was in the open air. 
 Who the hell's making that row? Hullo, Bess, my girl. 
 Whatsh the matter ? " He rose, steadying himself against 
 the little table, and, leering at Bess, made a sudden at- 
 tempt, foolishly playful, to catch her to him. Delilah 
 interposed her sturdy body. " Now then," she said, sharply, 
 "get back to your chair. Open the door to them, Mrs. 
 Kennett. Do you think they'd listen to the nonsense a 
 drunken man babbles to 'em?" 
 
 Bess went slowly to the door, and drew the bolt. She 
 opened it. Two horses stood before the inn, and a little 
 knot of men. 
 
 "Look out! Mind he don't shoot!" cried the man who 
 had summoned them to open, springing back. 
 
 "What is it?" gasped Bess. 
 
 21
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 REASSURED by the sight of the pale, frightened girl, 
 the man who had spoken pulled himself together 
 donning majesty like a garment and stepped across the 
 threshold. A little, pursy man, very consequential, nor- 
 mally, no doubt, high-coloured, but his cheeks were mottled 
 and veined with red on a yellowish ground, now, and his 
 lips pale and twitching. 
 
 "There he is!" he cried, suddenly. "Seize him, my lads 
 I arrest you in the King's name! Now clap these on him 
 while I read the warrant. That's him." 
 
 Two soldiers, who had entered with him, stepped for- 
 ward. Through the open door curious eyes peered into the 
 well-lit room. "Shut the door we don't want every one 
 in," said the little man. Delilah closed it abruptly in the 
 faces of the onlookers, and shot the bolt. The horses' 
 hoofs grated on the shingle as some one who held the reins 
 dragged them along to the bow window, and pressed his 
 nose against the glass, trying to peer in. 
 
 "What are you doing? Here, whatsh this?" The man- 
 acles were on his wrists before George could clear his dulled 
 brain for thought; the click of locked steel answered him. 
 
 "Now read out your paper," said one of the soldiers. 
 The consequential little man glanced round, fumbling ner- 
 vously in his pocket, and then addressed himself to Bess. 
 "Sorry to trouble you, mum, 'specially if he's your hus- 
 band." He hesitated before the last word, and glanced 
 dubiously at the tattered, unshaven, blear-eyed wretch 
 before him. Delilah opened her mouth, but shut it, on 
 second thoughts, and kept it tightly closed. 
 
 "Dooty's dooty, though. I be the borsholder of Blen- 
 gate Hundred, and arrest him in the King's name for 
 
 322
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 323 
 
 murder. I'll read the warrant to 'ee." He put on his 
 spectacles, adjusting them slowly to his nose, and began to 
 read in a sing-song. The warrant fluttered in his fingers. 
 George, suddenly flaming out, tried to rush at him. 
 
 "Hold him! Don't let him go!" cried the borsholder, 
 jumping back, forgetful of all his assumed dignity, his 
 voice changed from the droning see-saw of legality to a 
 shrill quaver of fright. The two soldiers pinned George 
 back against the table, and the reading went on, a little 
 more hurriedly than before, many of the words gabbled 
 and mispronounced and stumbled over; the reader's eyes 
 wandered suspiciously from the sheet to the prisoner. But 
 when he ended, George threw back his head and gave a 
 great guffaw of laughter. 
 
 "A fine joke, that!" he roared. "Here, stand away, 
 can't you? John Kennett! Ha, ha, ha! My wig, I'll 
 have the laugh of them all for this!" He peered round, 
 still laughing; the laugh broke off suddenly. "I won't 
 tell, though, Bess. On conditions conditions, of course. 
 But John Kennett! Thatsh too hie good." 
 
 The borsholder stood looking at him, a picture of ag- 
 grieved dignity. He had been elected by the Hundred for 
 the year, and his range of office covered too large an area, 
 and even too many inns (though he did his best to make 
 his knowledge of these extensive), for him to know either 
 of the Kennetts. He pointed his crowned staff, like a 
 child's toy, at the prisoner. "Bring him along, my lads. 
 Oh, I'm forgettin'. Search him first search him first." 
 
 "I suppose we're all right in doing it? Law can't touch 
 us for it, eh?" asked one of the soldiers, dubiously. 
 
 "Certainly, you're right, my man. You'm all bound to 
 assist me." 
 
 "Don't know much about being bound," said the other 
 soldier. " 'Tain't no part of our duty, I reckon. We be- 
 long to the Tyler Hill picket, and only come along of you
 
 324 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 for what you promised us. We've collared the man for 
 you, but I reckon searching him's beyond what we bar- 
 gained for. That's your job. Nice thing if a mistake's 
 been made and we're had up by the law for pickin' 
 pockets." 
 
 "Oh, absurd, absurd! I inwest you with full powers. 
 Come, turn his pockets out." 
 
 "Ay," said George, nodding his head and blinking. 
 "Turn 'em out. I'll let you do it. Oh, I won't re reshist. 
 What a hie joke; eh, Bess? My wig, I'll have the 
 laugh of 'em for this! John Kennett! Ha, ha!" 
 
 "Look here, constable, I reckon you'd better do the 
 searching," said the first soldier. "We'll hold him for 
 you; eh, Bill?" 
 
 Seeing no help for it, the borsholder advanced gingerly 
 and felt in the pockets, bringing out tinder-box, flint, a 
 few soiled and crumpled papers, and, last of all, the remains 
 of the bread and cheese that John had given him, still 
 wrapped in the torn news-sheet. George, with his wrists 
 fastened and arms held, chuckled disconcertingly, and 
 mixed with his mirth an inventory of the constable's fea- 
 tures, viewed at such close quarters his mottled cheeks, 
 the small, bubukled nose, the rabbit eyes peering through 
 the glasses with an affectation of official sternness. The 
 little man jumped back briskly when he had finished. 
 "Tinder-box wery important ewidence," he muttered. 
 "Bread and cheese" these puzzled him. "And what's 
 this here paper? " He inspected it closely under the candles. 
 
 "Finished, eh?" asked George. "Well, now, I've a good 
 mind to come along with you to gaol, but I won't, 'cause 
 I'm going to stay here to-night. I've had enough of cold 
 quarters and short commons. It's all right, Bess you 
 know." He winked mysteriously at Bess, who stood 
 watching everything with startled eyes, and still clutched 
 Delilah's arm. "Now, I'm going to tell you something.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 325 
 
 That says John Kennett, that warrant. And my name 
 ain't John. Shan't tell you what it is. And I don't say 
 you're on the right tack with John. But it's not for me." 
 
 The borsholder glanced up, startled, from the news- 
 sheet which he had been examining. "What " He 
 
 stopped, and went to the door. "Come in here, my man. 
 Give the horses to the boy. I want your ewidence." 
 
 "I be quite safe, I hope, now? 'A bain't going to shoot? 
 I be a married man, I be; twice over married, an' " 
 
 "You'm safe enough. We'll protect you. That's the 
 man you saw, isn't it? Wait a little minute, though; that 
 ain't quite legal; 'tis a leading question, as we call it." 
 He pursed up his lips, considering, and framing words. 
 "Now," he said, wagging his finger at old Pinion, "is he 
 the man you saw or not? Consider afore you speak, be- 
 cause your words may be ewidence against you, but don't 
 hesitate. Speak the truth, now, so help you and may you 
 die for it." 
 
 "I doan't ezackly know how to speak it, maister, seein' 
 as I didn't see un." 
 
 "Is that John Kennett?" 
 
 Pinion wagged his head solemnly. "No, that bain't 
 Must' John. 'A be Jarge Kennett, 'a be. I didn't see 
 neither of them, though, not close to. Wery likely it 
 might be John shot Must' Huntingdon, or contrariwise wery 
 likely it might be Jarge. I didn't see neither of 'em." 
 
 "But," stammered the borsholder, his face resuming its 
 normal purple hue, "you told me and the magistrate 
 'twas 'John Kennett' the murderee shouted out." 
 
 "Whatsay?" Pinion curved a knotted hand round his 
 ear to gain time for consideration. The law wanted shrewd 
 handling; his crafty old wits suggested, too, that his evi- 
 dence might be worth money. 
 
 "Oh, ay," he said, when the question was repeated, "I 
 thoft he said John, but contrariwise he might have said
 
 326 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 Jarge. My grandson 'Zekiel, now, he beared him, too; but 
 he says 'twas Jarge he shouted. He says he see un, too, 
 running acrost the field. I be hard of hearing, and wery 
 likely 'twas no, no," he stammered, as he caught a threat- 
 ening glance from the prisoner, "it must ha' been " 
 
 "Is he the boy with the hosses? Call him in, then." 
 
 Young Ezekiel Pinion slouched in, very sheepish, and a 
 little sullen. 
 
 "That's him!" he said, when he was examined. "Grand- 
 fer told me not to say nothing yet, but I wull; he done it. 
 Must' Huntingdon set the dog on him, an' he hit me, an' 
 I followed un to Herne. I see him come back again, and 
 by and by he crossed the field, and I runned and telled 
 Must' Huntingdon about the rick." 
 
 "You damned young liar!" shouted George. "I was in 
 the shaw all along " 
 
 The boy shrank back, and pushed against the small 
 table, uptilting it as George tried to get at him. The 
 borsholder stooped down suddenly and picked up the 
 Spanish pistol. 
 
 "The pistol!" he cried. "That's ewidence!" 
 
 "Ay, that's ewidence," said Delilah, grimly. "Must' 
 John, indeed! What for should he want to kill any one 
 a God-fearing man like him?" 
 
 "God-fearing ain't ewidence, though," said the bors- 
 holder, pompously. " But his clothes look ewidence; there's 
 leaves on his boots, and hay sticking to him. And the 
 tinder-box is ewidence. And perhaps these here papers is 
 ewidence. Where's John Kennett?" 
 
 "Over at Sturry, he was, hours agone," said Delilah, 
 promptly. "You'll find him here if you want him later, 
 any day." 
 
 "Well, bring the prisoner along, men." 
 
 " He is the right one, I suppose, Bill ? " said the first soldier. 
 
 "Looks like it."
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 327 
 
 "Oh, you can take your authority from me, my men. 
 I give you full powers of meum and tuum over the afore- 
 said prisoner." 
 
 But as they began to drag George towards the door, he 
 rattled out a volley of barrack-room oaths. 
 
 "Curse you, what do you think you're doing?" he 
 shouted. "It was John, I tell you. He done it. I saw it 
 with my own eyes. Can't help it, Bess; itsh me or him, 
 now. I was in the hie shaw, going to sleep the night 
 there. That's his pistol, not mine; I picked it up in the 
 ditch after he'd fired. He had it. Delilah, didn't you see 
 him start with it? Bess, didn't you? Who saw him start? " 
 
 "You took the pistol when you runned off to Lunnon, 
 you know you did, you wicked man," said Delilah, basing 
 her statement on the suggestion she had already made, 
 and on her own conviction. 
 
 "Bess, you must ha' seen him start! Didn't he have 
 the pistol then? Come, lass. You know I didn't take it 
 away; anyhow, you know 'twas in the house. Bess!" 
 
 Bess stood with her hand to her breast. "O God, help 
 me!" she cried, silently; but it was a cry for her husband's 
 salvation rather than for guidance, and she knew it. She 
 did not answer she could not answer. The men looked 
 at her. " 'Tis a shame," muttered one of the soldiers; 
 "poor lass! She don't want to get him hung." No one 
 doubted what the answer must be, unless, perhaps, the 
 dazed and fuddle-witted Pinion and George himself. 
 
 "Come, mum," said the borsholder, " 'tis a painful 
 question, but must be answered. I authorises an answer." 
 He wagged the crowned staff of office, an almost ludicrous 
 affront to the tragedy of the moment on which so much 
 depended. 
 
 "Did George John, I mean John Kennett take the 
 pistol with him this evening when he started off for Sturry? 
 Take your time, and answer deliberate-like."
 
 328 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 "No," gasped Bess. "No," she repeated, with a des- 
 perate firmness, her eyes on George as if fascinated; "he 
 didn't take it. It wasn't in the house." 
 
 Delilah gave a sigh of relief. 
 
 "You'll swear to that, now, if need be?" 
 
 "Yes. Oh, yes." 
 
 At a word from the borsholder, Pinion flung open the 
 door and tottered out, giving the men a wide berth. The 
 soldiers dragged out their prisoner; he clutched at the 
 furniture, kicked, struggled, and, between his oaths, ap- 
 pealed madly to Bess for help in vain. She watched with 
 fixed, wide eyes, her hand still pressed to her bosom, 
 wanting to ask them to let him go, to treat him mercifully, 
 but powerless to speak. Rage rather than fear possessed 
 George rage at being turned away from the fireside, and 
 the drink, and the girl who, he thought, had been his at 
 last. The shock of the arrest had sobered him a little, but 
 even now he scarcely realised the seriousness of his posi- 
 tion. He knew that he was being dragged from the fire- 
 side into cold and want again. But of course he could 
 soon clear himself there was no question of that. 
 
 The village, as he was hurried through it, seemed asleep; 
 but here and there eyes peered from upper windows as the 
 little company passed towards the Canterbury Road. Pin- 
 ion hobbled on ahead; they waited for a few minutes by 
 the roadside, and soon a horse and cart from Eddington 
 drove down to meet the prisoner. He was hustled in; the 
 two soldiers from the Tyler Hill picket rode alongside as 
 escort. The rick had almost burned itself out, but the 
 embers still glowed in the night. There were lights in the 
 windows of the farm. 
 
 They clattered round the corner at Herne village, pass- 
 ing the quiet churchyard where his father and mother 
 lay. Nothing stirred but the dead leaves of last autumn, 
 tossed by the night wind. The hearts that would have
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 329 
 
 ached for him ached no more for ever in this world; grief 
 touched them no more, nor sympathy, nor any need calling 
 so loudly for their help. Many a night his mother's ears had 
 been strained for the faintest sound of childish fright, or 
 loneliness, or pain; many a night, when the wind moaned 
 and rattled at the windows, and the stormy seas thundered 
 on the beach, she had lain awake, worrying about her son at 
 the far-off wars. . . . She slept soundly enough now. 
 
 Canterbury was reached at last, and George, still thick- 
 witted with drink, but still impotently furious, was thrust 
 into a gloomy office under the West Gate. His angry 
 protests were disregarded. He was taken by his gaolers 
 through a little, stone-flagged day-room used by the few 
 prisoners. A pump with a stone sink beneath it stood in 
 one corner; the water trickled from the spout, dismally 
 and slowly. A fireplace was filled with grey ash and black- 
 ened cinders. Five sleeping cells opened on to the common 
 room. George was flung into one, a bare and tiny prison, 
 with a rush mat on the floor, and two blankets and a rug 
 to shelter him from the bitter cold. Here, and not to the 
 lavender-scented room at the Running Horse, the inci- 
 dents of the night had led him. The door was locked and 
 George left to himself. 
 
 He slept by and by, but uneasily, and his past ran 
 through his dreams. Through all was a hideous sense of 
 defeat, of pursuit; again and again he woke in a cold sweat 
 of horror. He saw the faces he had seen that night in 
 Badajoz the old man's face, the pale face of the young 
 Spaniard, the girl's face; but now they threatened him, 
 and he started broad awake with their cry for vengeance 
 in his ears. He was a young recruit again; fame and for- 
 tune seemed before him; he was leading his comrades on 
 to victory, and their shouts and cheers 
 
 " Passed, like a glorious roll of drums, 
 Through the triumph of his dream."
 
 330 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 But in a flash their faces changed; he saw the fierce, 
 menacing, hairy faces of the French closing round him, 
 and the tumult in his praise became suddenly a hoarse 
 shouting of " Vive I'Empereur! En avant! A la bayonnette! " 
 And the pas de charge rattled, and shakoes tossed on the 
 sword-points, and the red wings on the shoulders of the 
 infantry rose and fell as they drew nearer ever nearer 
 penning him between walls of advancing steel. . . . 
 
 He woke from one nightmare, in the grey winter dawn, 
 to intense misery and dejection. This was the end of his 
 scheming, his lust, his unbridled ambitions. "Drip, drip, 
 drip," sounded the water on the stone; he heard through 
 the thin partition the clank of double irons, as his neigh- 
 bour turned in his sleep. George remembered watching 
 this old gate on that sunny day when he had come to Can- 
 terbury with his father so many years before, and recalled 
 his stories of the old days when prisoners were caged below 
 for passers-by to see, and jeer at, or pity. 
 
 What was the meaning of it all this world, this life? 
 Its mystery caught him by the throat. Meaningless? 
 Not that. He knew there was some meaning, some design, 
 hidden from him, not even a glimpse vouchsafed. The 
 inanimate objects in the cell the tin platter, the earthen- 
 ware jug, his very shackles looked challenging, secret, 
 significant. They meant something. Things were not only 
 what they looked and seemed. If he could only take 
 these and tear their meaning from them with his hands, as 
 one tears the shell from the kernel, the rind from the fruit; 
 breaking through the external, breaking into the real 
 heart and inner significance finding out something of 
 God's plan! 
 
 And with this sense of mystery came the sense of the 
 folly not so much the wickedness, but the utter folly 
 of sin. Life was too great and awful a gift to be used as 
 he had used it. Why was it given? He did not know.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 331 
 
 He had fought, schemed, striven, for wealth, for fame, for 
 power; but these were not the answer. Not these not these. 
 
 Perhaps because his brain began to shake off the poison 
 of the spirit perhaps because rays of friendly morning 
 light began to stream through the grated window of his 
 cell George, sleeping again, dreamt quieter dreams. Like 
 one who, lost in a dark wood, wanders in a circle to his 
 starting place, he found his way back to childhood. He 
 was in Herne Church, on a drowsy Sunday morning, and 
 his hot, moist, sleepy little head nodded down against his 
 mother's arm. He was in his blue smock, scampering about 
 the downs with John and Bess. He was in bed with John, 
 in the attic of the Running Horse, very sleepy; but it was 
 time to get up, and there was a knocking at his door, and 
 his mother's voice 
 
 "Time to get up, boys! Out of bed, now, lazybones!" 
 
 He started out of dreams; but the attic, with its cosy 
 bed, its texts, the window framing the blue sea, the win- 
 dow-seat littered with boyish treasures, had all vanished. 
 
 A gaoler opened his door, and threw in his breakfast, 
 like a bone to a starving dog. It was quite early. Country 
 carts rumbled into the city through the gateway. Men 
 went out, talking and whistling, to their work. He heard 
 far-off country noises: the distant bark of a dog, the crow- 
 ing of a cock, dreamy and far away. Nearer at hand, birds 
 were singing in the trees, as if they were telling secrets to 
 the new-born day. It was a crisp, sunny winter morning. 
 
 And the world had shut him out from it! Shut out from 
 him the free sunshine, the glorious air, the hard, ringing 
 roads, the talk and laughter and evening fireside! His 
 hands were helpless; but his heart turned against every 
 man. Munching his dry bread, he thought bitterly of his 
 brother, and cursed him; but there was fierce hatred in 
 every fibre of his being for all who shared the splendour 
 of the day and denied him his part in it.
 
 332 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 As the old Northmen cried to their chief, "Haro! Haro! 
 mon Prince! On m'a fait tort! " so he railed to Destiny 
 or to God against his fellows. "O my Prince! They 
 have done me wrong!" 
 
 But when the question came, " Whof" deep in his heart 
 a voice could only answer, "I! I myself! I only!"
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 DIRECTLY the party had left the inn, Bess broke down. 
 Delilah herself was near the point of tears, but, 
 after looking helplessly at her mistress for a few minutes, 
 she made some clumsy attempts at consolation. George 
 had fulfilled the worst of her predictions, but in face of 
 the tragedy, now that he had gone, Delilah was shamed 
 into silence about his misdeeds. Perhaps in her heart she 
 had even some pity, remembering the little boy who 
 though he had so often defied her had still been the ob- 
 ject of her rough solicitude in years gone by. He no longer 
 flourished like the bay-tree; he no longer threatened harm 
 to John and Bess; and Delilah could afford to leave him 
 to the dealings of God, and even temper these dealings 
 with her prayers. 
 
 But she fully believed in George's guilt; and here, un- 
 known to her, but known well enough to her mistress, was 
 a barrier set up between the two women. Bess could say 
 nothing of her anxiety about John. It was pitiful to have 
 to act as she had done in the dark, and a bitter thought 
 that her answer to the borsholder's question might send 
 George to his death. She did not repent. The lie seemed 
 necessary to screen her husband; she had been obliged to 
 act promptly. But she knew now that, even had she been 
 given time and had still been compelled to act in igno- 
 rance of the night's real happenings she would have de- 
 cided in the same way. John must have taken the pistol 
 with him. Perhaps there was some explanation; but her 
 heart misgave her when she remembered George's confi- 
 dence, and Pinion's first assertion that her father had 
 called out John's name. Delilah, staunch friend and con- 
 soler as she was, was in the dark about the real inner 
 
 333
 
 334 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 tragedy of the position, and must remain in the dark. 
 John was not likely to return for some time yet. Bess both 
 feared his coming and was impatient for it. Suspense 
 was terrible; perhaps, after all, he could put her fears to 
 rest in a few words. It would be misery enough then to 
 know that George, her old playmate, had killed her father, 
 and plotted his brother's ruin. But more awful, a thousand 
 times, was the thought that George might be innocent, 
 and that she, to screen her husband, might have been com- 
 pelled to send him to his death. 
 
 Minutes dragged on; the time of waiting grew intol- 
 erable. Suddenly, for the first time, the thought of her 
 mother crossed her mind. Poor little timid, nervous wo- 
 man! Greater emotions almost blotted out Bess's sorrow 
 for her father's death; but she knew that the hand of 
 death must have softened and smoothed out all harsher 
 memories of him in her mother's mind, and one loving 
 heart, at least, would mourn him deeply and sincerely. 
 
 " 'Lilah," she said, suddenly, drying her eyes and start- 
 ing up, "I must go to mother. Get my hat, please, and 
 cloak." 
 
 "What, so late as this, missus?" 
 
 "Yes, yes. I ought to have thought of it before, instead 
 of crying like this. I must go to her now at once." 
 
 "Well, I'll go with you, then. You can't go along that 
 dark country road alone; after such doings as this, too." 
 
 "Yes, come with me. But I can't leave her alone I 
 oughtn't to with just the servants and farm-hands and 
 father lying dead " 
 
 "But what if Must' John comes in?" 
 
 "He'll come past the farm from Sturry; we may meet 
 him if he's early. Wait, I'll write a note saying where we 
 are. Very likely we'll be back before he comes home." 
 
 The two women put out the lights, and closed the inn 
 door behind them. Very dark and lonely was the road;
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 335 
 
 but at Eddington the windows of the farmhouse were still 
 lit up. A maid opened the back door; in the kitchen sev- 
 eral farm-hands were drinking ale, having brought in the 
 body from the field a little while before. There was none 
 of the laughter and noisy talk which usually attended a 
 gathering of labourers. Pinion sat at the head of the 
 table, and had evidently told his story in every detail; 
 the men sucked at their pipes, and one was asking him a 
 diffident question when Bess entered. They dragged off 
 their hats, and rose respectfully and in silence. 
 
 "Where's mother, Molly?" 
 
 "She's upstairs, mum not in there; they've put maister 
 in there. Would you like to see him, mum, afore you go 
 up?" 
 
 The girl half-opened the door of the dining-room; a 
 lamp was set on a table; and the eyes of Huntingdon's 
 ancestors and Bess's looked down on the still, sheeted 
 form of the master who had joined them. 
 
 "No, not now I'll go upstairs at once," said Bess. 
 
 In all the house there was that hush which comes when 
 the sleep unbreakable falls on one of the inmates. It was 
 very strange that the harsh, autocratic voice would never 
 again be heard in those rooms or on those stairs. Delilah 
 stayed below. Bess found her mother lying on a great, 
 gloomy four-post bed, sobbing quietly. 
 
 "Mother!" cried Bess, and flung her arms round the 
 poor woman's neck, and nestled to her breast. For a time 
 they had no words. At last her mother found relief in 
 talking. It had come so suddenly, this tragedy. He had 
 rushed from the supper-table, the meal only half-finished; 
 and now the table had been cleared for his body to lie on. 
 It was unrealised, unrealisable as yet. All the nagging, 
 all the querulousness, all the bullying, were forgotten. In 
 broken words Mrs. Huntingdon sobbed out little remem- 
 bered kindnesses, her pride in his strength, rare words of
 
 336 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 tenderness that had been kept in her heart and treasured 
 up through all that she had endured. And Bess, at last, 
 wept with her, but quietly. If her mother could recall all 
 this of such a life of such a husband what had she her- 
 self to recollect! Not a day since their wedding but John 
 had shown her love, and kindness, and constant thought 
 for her happiness. And now the awful suspicion would not 
 be silenced try as she might that Huntingdon, driving 
 John to madness, had met death at his hands. 
 
 They went back together, Delilah and Bess, to the inn, 
 and found John in his chair in the little parlour. No need 
 for questioning; his haggard face told that he knew of 
 the tragedy and the arrest. He said that he had seen the 
 flames, and the cart carrying George to prison, and had 
 heard of Huntingdon's death. Nothing else; nothing of 
 the pistol, not a word to take away her doubts. Delilah 
 was full of her story of the night, and John listened with- 
 out comment, and Bess let her speak. When they were 
 alone together, she might ask him the question that she 
 was longing to ask. But Delilah went to bed; and John 
 sat dejectedly in his chair; and Bess was frightened into 
 silence. His face was grey; his eyes, when he raised them 
 to hers, had a strange, half-furtive, almost hunted look, 
 quite unfamiliar. 
 
 "John dear, how was it " 
 
 Oh, she couldn't ask. He seemed lost in thought; when 
 she broke off lamely, and asked if he would have any food, 
 the question had to be repeated. No, he wanted nothing. 
 But a minute or two later he got up, and poured himself 
 out a glass of spirits, and came back to his seat. Long 
 minutes passed in silence. Bess took his hand and held it. 
 
 "Well, lass," he said, at last, miserably, "I reckon we'd 
 better go to bed." 
 
 He went upstairs slowly, dragging his feet, like a man on 
 whom age has rushed in a night.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 337 
 
 Directly after breakfast the next morning, John went 
 out without a word, and tramped across the downs towards 
 Reculver, anxious to be alone with his thoughts. He had 
 not been gone very long when Ford entered the taproom. 
 Delilah was still upstairs, making the beds. Bess's heart 
 beat faster as she came forward to meet him. Would he 
 give her any key to the mystery that had kept sleep at 
 bay through the long and awful night? 
 
 "Hullo, Bess," he said, in his bluff, jerky way and then 
 changed his manner awkwardly, suddenly remembering 
 that this was a house of mourning. "Terrible bad news I 
 hear it's true, I suppose? Your father shot, they say, 
 and George back again, and had up for shooting him. I 
 thought the man who told me had got hold of some yarn 
 or other, but I hurried away at once to see you. Didn't 
 like to call at the farm and ask; besides, I don't know your 
 mother very well. Where's John? I haven't seen him 
 for an age. It'll be a sad blow for him, and for you too. 
 I hope they'll find it wasn't George. John inside?" 
 
 " No he he's just gone out." 
 
 "Well, I can't stop. I've got a sale over at Swalecliffe; 
 but I thought I'd ride over here on my way. Thanks, 
 I'll have a mug of ale and then get back. Nance is in a 
 rare way about it. George and her used to be pretty good 
 friends; most on her side, I think. Lord! I've often chaffed 
 her about that. Arrested him here, too, they say? No 
 wonder you look pale, my girl." 
 
 He rode off again at last, and Bess went in, and shut the 
 door, with a sinking heart. Then it was John! Some 
 accident, perhaps something to be explained oh, she 
 could never believe that he had gone out with the inten- 
 tion and yet he had taken the pistol, he must have taken 
 it. Oh, if only fate had not sent her to that drawer, where 
 it had lain so long, unnoticed and undisturbed! John had 
 told her that he had meant to see the Fords; and he had 
 22
 
 338 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 not gone there. Pinion had thought her father called 
 John's name; George had protested that he had seen him 
 fire the shot; she knew only too well the motives which 
 might have driven her husband to such a deed, and how 
 much he had to gain from Roger Huntingdon's death. 
 Oh, what could she believe? What could she do? 
 
 This only she could fight, with all a woman's weapons; 
 fairly and unfairly; selfishly, with all the selfishness which 
 is part of the unselfishness of a woman's love she could 
 fight against fate for her husband's life. She had told one 
 lie; she felt that she had told another, tacitly, to Ford, 
 when she kept silence; yet if there were to be no more 
 truth for her in the world, if God would demand the utter- 
 most payment from her for defiance of truth, still she 
 must fight. 
 
 George had achieved one of his ambitions; people cer- 
 tainly talked of him in his native place, now that he had 
 returned. During the day the tragedy brought custom 
 to the inn; men dropped in ostensibly for their pots of 
 ale, but in reality to hear fresh news. They were disap- 
 pointed. Neither John nor Bess gave them any encour- 
 agement to discuss the matter. Even Delilah, so eager a 
 retailer usually of gruesome news, found this too near 
 home to be pleasant, and took her cue of reticence from 
 her employers. Most of the callers at the inn had sufficient 
 delicacy to wait, when they found that information was 
 not volunteered. Those who ventured to broach the sub- 
 ject themselves, and were rash enough to ask point-blank 
 questions, got little profit for their pains. 
 
 On the night following the tragedy, the borsholder 
 called to warn Bess and Delilah that their evidence might 
 be needed at the inquest, which was to be held the next 
 morning at the farm. Nothing connected John with the 
 tragedy except his brother's accusation; and his presence 
 would be entirely a matter of his own choice. The general
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 339 
 
 public would probably be excluded, but his relationship 
 to both George and Roger Huntingdon would no doubt 
 secure his admittance if he cared to attend. A difficult 
 question, this; he debated it anxiously, and was now all in 
 a heat to go, and now as eager to avoid the ordeal at any 
 cost. Would his absence lead to any comment? Would 
 George be there? 
 
 John felt little sympathy for his brother, and had few 
 compunctions about remaining silent. It seemed signifi- 
 cant of God's justice that George should have caught his 
 own neck in the noose he had prepared for an innocent 
 man, already so deeply wronged. Morally, George was 
 guilty of all that had happened, and deserved the penalty; 
 and, even by the bare letter of the law, his life was forfeit 
 for setting the rick in flames. John's silence would add 
 nothing to his punishment. 
 
 But it was one thing to keep silent; quite another to 
 deny his share in the tragedy, and swear that he had had 
 no hand in the farmer's death. Could George make him 
 speak? Could he force him, in open court before men 
 who had known him for years, and had known his word to 
 be his bond could George force him to choose deliberately 
 between truth and a spoken lie? 
 
 He passed a restless night; in the morning, he let Bess 
 and Delilah start for Eddington without him. But no 
 sooner had they gone, than anxiety to see and know every- 
 thing even at personal risk urged him to follow them. 
 A neighbour undertook to stay at the inn until his return. 
 They had reached the white gate before he caught up 
 with them, and a little group of men were already assem- 
 bled at the farmhouse door. 
 
 The sunshine of a bright morning in late winter seemed 
 to draw the warmth of hundreds of summers from the 
 mellowed, red-brick walls of the farm. Birds twittered 
 in the naked branches of the trees and among the
 
 340 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 evergreens; blue smoke curled from the old lichen-crusted 
 chimneys; on the peaked roof of Caesar's empty kennel a 
 robin had perched, and eyed the newcomers impudently, 
 with his head on one side, and his little scarlet vest thrust 
 forward consequentially a tiny travesty of the borsholder, 
 who, at that moment, was coming up the rutted lane. 
 John saw the wide brown slope of the fields, stretching to 
 the hazy woodlands; far away, a group of labourers, very 
 small, brown as the soil, like maggots bred of some great 
 cheese it was hard, indeed, to distinguish them from the 
 earth which had produced them and now supported them, 
 and would, at last, take them to itself again. Everything 
 was so familiar, and so quiet, and so secure, that it made 
 the day's business seem foreign and unreal. But in one 
 field close at hand that awful night had left its mark in 
 the charred and blackened earth. 
 
 The inquest was to be held in the kitchen of the farm- 
 house. The borsholder took John in, and pointed him out 
 a seat; Bess and Delilah and other witnesses had to wait 
 together in a little breakfast-room until their names were 
 called. The kitchen, a low, spacious room, floored with 
 worn red tiles, had been cleared as far as possible for its 
 new office. Pans and pails, brooms and brushes, had been 
 bundled out of sight; even the dusky hams had been taken 
 from their hooks in the blackened rafters. Benches were 
 set round the long table scarcely dry yet from Molly's 
 vigorous scrubbing in the early morning. Chairs had been 
 brought in from the dining-room; and the dead master's 
 great oak chair, used by many generations, and shiny with 
 much service, was at the head of the table ready for the 
 Coroner. 
 
 Several men were already in the room, huddled close 
 like sheep, and looking sheepish and ungainly; only one 
 had much to say, and he, John noticed, was Stebbings, the 
 taproom politician. But in a minute there was a cry of
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 341 
 
 "Order" and "Silence," and the Coroner came in, bowed 
 solemnly to the room, and took his seat. 
 
 It was Mr. Jeacock, of Jeacock and Wetherby, the Can- 
 terbury lawyers. His clerk, whom John had sometimes 
 seen during his visits about the mortgage, was already at 
 the table; a small, parched man, dressed in rusty brown, 
 very bright-eyed, very jerky in his movements a strik- 
 ing contrast in every way to his large and placid chief. 
 Mr. Jeacock took his watch from its fob and compared it 
 with the kitchen clock. He said something to his clerk 
 in a low voice, and Mr. Pilbeam, before answering, jumped 
 from his chair, jumped to the window, and jumped back 
 again like a boy playing at touch-wood. "No sign yet, 
 sir," he said. 
 
 For a few minutes Mr. Jeacock sat dangling his watch, 
 with his third chin deeply buried in his stock. The little 
 clerk took snuff, and snapped the lid of his box as if a 
 small brown double of himself were shut in it and might 
 spring out. One or two men coughed nervously, and there 
 was the sound of shuffling feet. Mr. Jeacock whispered 
 again, papers rustled, then the jury were told to answer 
 to their names. 
 
 John knew a few personally, some by name; others were 
 quite unknown to him. It was like schooldays again 
 the sing-song of the names, the men's answers, some bash- 
 ful, some bold, one a nervous squeak which sent a titter 
 through the room, instantly suppressed. Thirteen were 
 chosen, and they were directed to elect their foreman. 
 Stebbings and a burly butcher from Herne were close 
 rivals; perhaps the knowledge that Stebbings could make 
 himself unpleasantly cantankerous if opposed turned the 
 scale in his favour. 
 
 "There has been an arrest on suspicion in connection 
 with this case," said Mr. Jeacock, "and the prisoner has 
 elected to be present. We may expect him here, gentlemen,
 
 342 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 at any moment. But there is no reason why the jury 
 should not see the body at once, eh, Mr. Pilbeam?" 
 
 "None at all, sir oh dear no none at all." 
 
 "You will be good enough to accompany me into the 
 other room, then." 
 
 The Coroner rose ponderously, his clerk whipped up 
 books and papers in a great armful, and the jury trooped 
 out of the kitchen. Huntingdon's body was still lying in 
 the dining-room where it had been placed on the night of 
 his death. John could hear the mumble of distant voices 
 as Stebbings and the jurors took their oaths before exam- 
 ining the corpse. The kitchen clock ticked out the slow 
 minutes. Then he heard the sound of wheels drawing 
 near the house, and his heart beat faster. George had 
 come! 
 
 At last the Coroner returned, and the jury took their 
 places. The door opened again. "All right," said an 
 angry, husky voice in the passage; "I can go in by myself, 
 can't I? Take your hand off my collar then." 
 
 George's eyes swept the room. There was resentment 
 in them defiance a kind of sullen contempt for the men 
 who had trapped him, and the men who were to sit in 
 judgment on his deeds. At first he did not see his brother. 
 He was given a seat near the Coroner, and the two warders 
 who had brought him from Canterbury stood close at hand. 
 
 Mr. Jeacock was saying something to the jury in his 
 deliberate, cautious, heavy voice. John tried to keep his 
 eyes from his brother's face, but again and again they 
 sought it. George's appearance alone might have gone 
 far to convict him. He sat near the latticed window, and 
 the winter sun shone full on him. It lit up the pale, hag- 
 gard cheeks, unshaven and unwashed, the ragged clothes 
 clotted with dry mud; his restless eyes were bloodshot 
 through misery and lack of wholesome sleep. John was 
 puzzled by the look in them; was it haunting fear, now, or
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 343 
 
 hopelessness, or weariness and disillusion? He felt, against 
 his will, compassion rising in him. When George had 
 called at the inn that night, it had been too dark to see him 
 clearly; the change which a few months had wrought was 
 startling, appalling. And this pitiful, broken wretch, 
 caught in the remorseless wheels of the law. which would 
 tear his very life from him at last this was his brother! 
 George looked through the latticed window, over green 
 grass, brown fields, woods hazy with blue mist, blue sky 
 beyond all and over all. Freedom there for beast and 
 bird, and the humblest insect that sparkled in the sun- 
 shine or burrowed in the soil. The open world, lost and 
 shut out for ever! John remembered how his brother had 
 loved liberty and hated restraint even as a little lad. How 
 he used to shout for sheer joy of living, when the school 
 doors were flung open, and they were free to scamper on 
 the downs, to bathe in the summer sea, to play pirates and 
 adventurers in that little, round-bellied, snub-nosed boat, 
 which the glamour of boyhood made more wonderful than 
 Argo or Bucentaur, than the Golden Hind or the Revenge! 
 
 George turned his head again, and their eyes met. 
 
 Sudden hope seemed to rush into the prisoner's face. 
 He opened his lips as if to speak, but checked himself. 
 He gave his brother a long, direct look wistful, pleading, 
 half-grateful already. "Help me!" that glance cried; 
 "I know you have come to help me." "Oh, I must speak 
 I must tell everything!" John thought, pity master- 
 ing him. But at once he remembered that only truth and 
 a lie could help his brother. He must accept all the guilt 
 or none. There was no way out. He turned his head 
 away; when he looked again, George eyed him bitterly 
 and with contempt. 
 
 "Ezekiel Pinion! Ezekiel Pinion!" 
 
 The shouted name was echoed in the passage. John, 
 with his cheeks flaming, watched the lad's entry. Young
 
 344 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 Pinion shambled awkwardly into the room; the rustling 
 of his stiff, clean smock, the clatter of his hob-nailed boots 
 on the tiled floor, sounded very loud in the hushed silence. 
 He began his story with George's visit to the farm in search 
 of work. George listened in silence to his account of the 
 dog's attack; but he broke out suddenly when the lad 
 brought in imagination to help his facts. Malice and a 
 new sense of importance lent zest to Ezekiel's evidence; 
 but, to do him justice, he was honestly convinced of the 
 truth of his narrative. It had been embroidered, however, 
 in the course of much discussion and unwonted thinking; 
 and he asserted incidentally that he had seen the pistol 
 sticking from George's pocket. 
 
 "That's a lie!" cried George, half springing up. 
 
 Mr. Jeacock checked him with a motion of his white, 
 flabby hand. "Silence, silence, please!" he said. "It is 
 in my discretion to allow the prisoner to ask questions of 
 the witness afterwards. I will give you that opportunity 
 if you wish. . . . Now, my boy, be careful, and remem- 
 ber you are on your oath. You must be quite certain 
 before you speak quite certain. Yes, go on." 
 
 "I did see it, sir; I see the pistol sticking out of his 
 coat," the lad said, doggedly, his eyes never moving from 
 George's face. "So I follered un, and 'a went to Herne, 
 and corned back again, and I see un a-hiding in the hedge, 
 and I thoft " 
 
 "No, no, no. Never mind what you thought. Tell us 
 what you saw, and what you did." 
 
 "Why, I runned to t' farm, sir, and Must' Huntingdon 
 corned out " 
 
 He went on to the end of his story uninterrupted, though 
 once or twice George bent forward as if to speak. When 
 he had finished 
 
 " Now, if you have any questions to ask him " began 
 
 Mr. Jeacock.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 345 
 
 "Yes, I have," cried George. "It's a pack of lies, nearly 
 every word. I laced him once, and seemingly he hasn't 
 forgotten, and has trumped up all this out of spite. I 
 wasn't in the hedge; I went to the shaw to sleep; and I 
 hadn't the pistol that's a damned that's a lie, too, I 
 mean " 
 
 The Coroner tried in vain to silence him for a minute; 
 at last he ordered him peremptorily to hold his tongue. 
 "You can ask the lad any question you like. You must 
 please confine yourself to that. I cannot allow you to make 
 a speech." 
 
 "Very well, sir." George moistened his dry lips with 
 his tongue. "Look here," he said, "you say I had the 
 pistol in my coat. How did you know that?" 
 
 "I see it, I tell you." 
 
 "You've rare sharp eyes, then, to see through a pocket. 
 See if it was loaded, too, eh?" 
 
 " No. I see part of it sticking out, though, all glisterin'." 
 Perhaps the glitter of a button had caught the boy's eye, 
 and fixed the idea in his mind. 
 
 " If I had the pistol with me, why didn't I shoot the dog? " 
 
 "Idunno. Perhaps you hadn't loaded it then. I reckon 
 you didn't want Must' Huntingdon to know " 
 
 "Have you any other questions?" asked Mr. Jeacock. 
 
 "Yes, sir. Didn't Mr. Huntingdon shout out, 'It's 
 John Kennett, ' when he was shot?" 
 
 "No, 'a never. 'A shouted ' Jarge ' ' 
 
 "You liar!" 
 
 "Really," broke in the Coroner again, "you do yourself 
 no good by these outbursts no good at all. If you want 
 to ask the witness any other questions " 
 
 "It's no use asking for more lies," said George, sullenly. 
 
 "Do the jury want to ask any questions?" 
 
 The invitation found the jury unprepared. Stebbings 
 had been nodding his head energetically throughout; his
 
 346 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 face worked now spasmodically, and, just as the witness 
 was standing down, he blurted out the first inquiry that 
 entered his head: "What colour hair, now, had the man 
 who corned to ax Must' Huntingdon for work?" 
 
 "What colour? Why, same as his'n, of course!" 
 
 "Ah!" said Stebbings, nodding his head with an air of 
 great sageness and profundity, and jotted down a note. 
 
 The witness put his mark to the abstract of his evidence, 
 and went out, eyeing George with a look of malicious 
 triumph. Old Pinion came next, very cautious and as far 
 as possible non-committal in his evidence and answers. 
 He had not seen the pistol, but George's coat "looked 
 bulgy-like." "That was vittles in my pocket," said George. 
 On the most important point, however, the old man was 
 not to be shaken. Ever since the arrest he had been mut- 
 tering to himself the two names, John and George. He 
 had persuaded himself that the safest position lay not in 
 vagueness, but in unswerving adherence to one name. 
 Huntingdon, he said, had called out "Jarge Kennett" 
 but short-like "Jodge Kennett" he gave an imitation 
 of the cry, in his piping, senile voice. 
 
 The Coroner put a question or two. It was evident that 
 Huntingdon had felt himself in the near presence of death 
 when he had shouted out the name of his murderer. " You 
 have that down, Mr. Pilbeam?" 
 
 "One moment, sir." The quill scratched furiously. 
 "Yes, sir, yes." Mr. Pilbeam leant back and took a hasty 
 pinch from his box. 
 
 " Delilah Gummer! Delilah Gummer! " 
 
 Delilah had some scruples about the oath, but overcame 
 them when she found that without it her evidence could 
 not be given. She began her story with George's birth, 
 and had to be brought back abruptly to the present day. 
 Mr. Jeacock's third chin emerged several times from his 
 stock as he steered her clear of sermons and Dr. Watts.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 347 
 
 Her evidence did George this much harm, that it explained 
 his animus against his brother. He questioned her sharply 
 about the Spanish pistol. 
 
 "You know it was in the house after I went away?" 
 
 "I doan't know nothing of the sort, I doan't," she said. 
 "I never see it after that night until you corned back to 
 the inn with it. I wish the gorilla'd kep' the nasty thing, 
 I do. You won't never terrify me into saying what ain't 
 true, Must' Jarge, and it ain't no use glaring at me like 
 that me that smacked you many a time when you wasn't 
 not more'n this table high, though God forgive me for 
 sparing the rod as much as I did " 
 
 Delilah was brought to a stop at last, and Bess's name 
 was called. John had noticed his brother's anxiety to 
 prove that the pistol had not been in his possession, and 
 he knew that the whole case turned on this point. The 
 only evidence likely to connect him with the crime would 
 be an admission by Delilah or by Bess that George had not 
 taken the pistol with him to London. Since the nine days' 
 wonder of George's return from the wars, the weapon had 
 rested at the bottom of an old drawer, under a pile of things 
 which were rarely disturbed. Fortunately, Delilah had 
 not seen it. But Bess? 
 
 She did not seem to notice him as she passed to her 
 place; and John saw that she carefully kept her eyes from 
 his brother. A shaft of sunlight from the latticed window 
 fell on her, and found tints of unsuspected gold in her dark 
 hair, in the flushed dimpled cheeks, and the soft little 
 chin John thought of lovers' play with buttercups in the 
 fields. Bess was dressed in dark colours, almost black. 
 All eyes in the room were upon her. 
 
 She was sworn; Mr. Jeacock's ponderous manner be- 
 came almost paternal as he assured her that only the brief- 
 est statement was necessary. In a few words she told of 
 the arrest. George leant forward, listening intently; but
 
 348 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 all the time she was speaking she looked steadily at the 
 wall ahead of her. 
 
 "I want to ask you some questions, Bess," said George, 
 huskily, when she had finished; "I reckon you'll answer 
 true, and not swear my life away like others. Did Pinion 
 say it was my name your feyther shouted out, or some 
 one else's?" 
 
 Bess hesitated. 
 
 " Mind, I'm not asking you to say whose. Was it mine? " 
 
 "It seems to me that this is an attempt to make you 
 incriminate your husband, Mrs. Kennett," said Mr. Jea- 
 cock. "You can answer or not, as you please." 
 
 "I well, he was not sure at first," said Bess. "He 
 he said he could not hear very plainly." 
 
 "Well, that's something now," said George. "Now 
 about the pistol, Bess. You know I didn't take it away 
 that night? You must have seen it since in the drawer?" 
 
 She stood silent, trying to frame words; mechanically, 
 her hands went up to her hair with the old gesture as she 
 thought over her answer. Intense pity for her surged up 
 in John's heart, and indignation that she should be made 
 to stand there under those curious eyes; and, as the si- 
 lence was prolonged, a secret anxiety lest the pistol should 
 really have been noticed. 
 
 "Again I may tell you that you are not compelled to 
 answer, Mrs. Kennett,' ' said the Coroner, kindly. " I under- 
 stand your natural reluctance to er have any part in 
 bringing home the prisoner's guilt. On the other hand, as 
 I said before, you cannot be made to incriminate your 
 husband in any way." 
 
 "I'm not asking her to," said George, hotly. "I don't 
 want to prove he took it. Look here, Bess, if the pistol 
 was at the inn any time after I left for London just after, 
 if you like they can't hang me. No need to say John 
 had it. He might have given it away, or or anything "
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 349 
 
 "Will you allow me to speak without interruption?" 
 asked the Coroner, a little testily, after one or two attempts 
 to break in. "You can answer the question or leave it 
 unanswered, as you please, Mrs. Kennett." 
 
 "I I oh, I would rather not answer it," said Bess. 
 "No, I'd I'd rather not, please." 
 
 "You won't, Bess? Good God! my girl, you must; you 
 can't let me oh, you know well enough I never took it 
 away. Look at me don't get staring there out of window 
 look at me, and tell the truth; you know it well enough. 
 How could I have taken it to London that night? It was 
 in your bedroom. You won't answer because you know 
 oh, I don't care; I'll tell the truth and shame the devil, 
 if no one else will because you know in your heart who 
 killed your feyther. What else can your not answering 
 mean but that?" 
 
 "No, no!" gasped Bess. 
 
 "Yes, I say, yes!" His voice rose to a shout, drowning 
 the cries for order. "There's the man who ought to have 
 these things on" he sprang up, pointing out John with 
 his shackled hands, and clashing the iron manacles together 
 in his rage "there he is; it's him who killed Roger Hunt- 
 ingdon, not me! I saw him, and my evidence's as good as 
 anybody else's. Why don't you call him? Let him say 
 where he was that night what he was doing. Let me be 
 I saw him, I say " 
 
 George was forced back into his seat, but John had 
 risen almost instinctively in the excitement. Afterwards, 
 of all the three long hours of the inquest, that moment 
 alone was stamped clearly and vividly on his brain, every 
 detail and feature distinct, coloured, sharply cut. He saw 
 the latticed window, framing the fields and wood and sky; 
 the dull, worn red tiles of the floor, and Bess standing, 
 pale now and wide-eyed, in the shaft of sunlight. He saw 
 the jury, some full face, some in profile; Stebbings, with
 
 350 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 his long whiskers and red nose and rabbit teeth, the ruddy- 
 cheeked butcher beside him, and on the other side the wise, 
 solemn visage of Timothy Thorn. John realised almost 
 with a shock that he had risen to his feet. What was he 
 going to say? The crucial moment had come; he must 
 choose between denial and confession. And naked truth 
 alone could not save his brother, pis head swam. There 
 was George, dragged back by his gaolers, but thrusting 
 his linked hands towards him, forcing the lie upon him. 
 
 "Where were you that night? You're afraid to answer. 
 Where were you? Prove where you were." 
 
 "I was at Sturry." John's own voice seemed strange to 
 him. 
 
 "Prove it. Who saw you there?" 
 
 But Mr. Jeacock, having lost his voice in an asthmatic 
 fit of coughing, was hammering on the table for order. 
 "Mr. Kennett," he wheezed out, at last, "there is no occa- 
 sion for you to answer his questions. All this is most 
 irregular most disorderly. Eh, Mr. Pilbeam? Most irreg- 
 ular. This is an inquiry into the death of Mr. Hunting- 
 don. You are abusing the opportunity I have given you, 
 prisoner. I arranged in your interest that you should be 
 present, but you abuse the privilege. Your brother is not 
 on his trial; he has no need to exculpate himself. You can- 
 not ask him for an account of his movements. If you have 
 any direct knowledge of the tragedy, you may give evi- 
 dence, Mr. Kennett. I am willing to hear your evidence. 
 Otherwise " 
 
 "I have nothing to say, sir," said John, slowly. 
 
 "You won't say anything, you mean!" cried George. 
 "You " 
 
 "Silence! I will not allow you to interrupt like this. 
 If you persist in shouting across the court, I shall be com- 
 pelled to order your removal. . . . Call the next wit- 
 ness."
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 351 
 
 George listened in sullen silence to the evidence of the 
 succeeding witnesses, and asked no questions. When the 
 borsholder produced the tinder-box, and then fitted to- 
 gether a scrap of charred paper and the torn news-sheet 
 in which the food had been wrapped, he growled out one 
 comment. "That came from the inn. My brother knows 
 that. Oh, go on. It's no use my talking down a pack of 
 liars. Go on. Call your next liar in." He yawned, as if 
 weary of the whole proceedings, and settled himself again 
 in his chair. 
 
 Mr. Jeacock summed up at last, very briefly. There 
 was not a shred of evidence in favour of the prisoner. The 
 jury went out. The kitchen door opened again at last, and 
 Stebbings entered, anxious to refer some point of law or 
 form to the Coroner. They and the clerk whispered to- 
 gether, Stebbings's head nodding all the time like a toy 
 mandarin's. He clattered back to the panel. The clock 
 ticked; George yawned noisily; in the yard a hen clucked 
 proudly over a delivered egg. Mr. Pilbeam took snuff, and 
 closed his box with a loud snap as the jury shambled in. 
 
 "You have decided on your verdict, gentlemen?" asked 
 Mr. Jeacock. He put a few questions, which Stebbings 
 answered. "Wilful murder against George Kennett," the 
 Coroner said at last, briefly, summing up the verdict. 
 
 There was a buzz in court; Mr. Jeacock raised his hand. 
 "I shall issue a warrant of detainer, George Kennett, and 
 the principal witnesses will be bound over to appear at 
 the trial. There are none in your favour, and in any case 
 my office allows me to bind over only those for the prose- 
 cution. I think there is no need for Mrs. Kennett to ap- 
 pear again; her evidence and the maid's are identical. 
 You, of course, will have the opportunity of calling any 
 fresh evidence you wish." 
 
 Mr. Pilbeam was already busy with pen and parchment; 
 the jury were instructed to wait and sign the inquisition.
 
 352 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 George's warders stood by the prisoner until the warrant 
 of detainer authorising his continued imprisonment was 
 made out. 
 
 John and Bess rose and went towards the door. The 
 clerk was muttering over the words of the inquisition as 
 his pen moved across the parchment: " . . . and that the 
 said George Kennett did feloniously, wilfully, and of malice 
 aforethought, murder the said Roger Huntingdon. ..." 
 
 "Good-bye," cried George, as they reached the thresh- 
 old. "I hope you'll sleep sound after this day's work, 
 John, and think of me in church next Sunday, you canting 
 murderer and liar!" 
 
 John's cheeks stung, but he made no answer, though 
 for a second he met his brother's eyes. 
 
 Walking home, he saw nothing of the hard, white road, 
 the brown fields and waste land, the naked trees, the sky. 
 He saw nothing of the sun-bright, restless sea, fretting at 
 the yellow bases of the cliffs and tumbling its glassy waves 
 on the shingle with a noise like mocking laughter. The 
 door was shut. Soon after their meal the window framed 
 an afternoon sky all saffron and mauve and rose. He 
 looked out, but saw it not. All he saw was the farm 
 kitchen crowded with men; the latticed window, the 
 red-tiled floor; Bess standing in the sunshine and his 
 brother's eyes; his brother's eyes on him, not her hard, 
 unwinking, yet ever changing; his brother's eyes, angry, 
 frightened, hopeless, contemptuous, accusing.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 THE last weeks of winter passed; the lengthened days 
 passed quickly, bringing nearer, remorselessly, the 
 final tragedy. There was no need now at the inn for anxi- 
 ety about money. The shadow hanging over them made 
 John and Bess more tender and affectionate. But there 
 was a barrier between them, of which both were conscious. 
 Each had a secret to guard constantly from the other. 
 George's name was rarely mentioned; but in the brightest 
 hours of sunshine, while the trees were bursting into leaf, 
 and the flowers waking from their long sleep in the earth, 
 and the companies of joyous birds heralding spring in 
 the sunniest hours the gloom of the prison-house was over 
 all their thoughts. 
 
 John assured himself again and again that his silence 
 had not wronged his brother. It would have been the 
 maddest folly to speak. George would have to die in any 
 case, for arson if not for murder. What mattered the 
 charge against him? And murder a fouler crime than 
 the murder of Huntingdon would have been, a crime dia- 
 bolic in its cold and ingenious cruelty had been in his 
 heart when he ran across the field at the sound of John's 
 coming. He deserved his fate richly. John silenced bis 
 scruples by telling himself that his confession would not 
 have saved his brother. There was no object in putting 
 his own neck in danger. For Bess's sake rather than for 
 his own he had been silent, and must still be silent. 
 
 Bess found herself in a position even more terrible. She 
 was convinced by Ford's visit that John had caused her 
 father's death. Accidentally, she hoped, and thrust the 
 thought from her that he had gone out that night with 
 the deliberate intention of killing the man who had just 
 23 353
 
 354 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 ruined them. But he had taken the pistol; he had not 
 been to Sturry; he was desperate at the news that Hunt- 
 ingdon intended to foreclose; and her father's death would 
 mean an end to their distress. What was she to think? 
 Her mind was fixed on one point: come what would or 
 might, she would fight for her husband's life with any 
 weapon in her armoury. It was a bitter thing to have to 
 send George to his death the man whose childhood, what- 
 ever his faults and misdeeds, was linked so closely to her 
 own. But it was George's life, or John's. Resolutely she 
 resisted all stirrings of conscience; she had spoken on the 
 night of the arrest without time for thought; but at the 
 inquest she had suppressed the truth deliberately, and 
 would do so again, if need were, a hundred times, let con- 
 science say what it might. And the terrible thing was that 
 she had to keep her knowledge from John. She did know. 
 Every day, almost every hour of the day, confirmed her 
 fears. Hard as he tried, convinced though he was of his 
 success, his nature was too transparent to hold a secret so 
 tremendous. There was a new and furtive look, now 
 almost a hunted look in his eyes. He started guiltily at a 
 touch, a sudden movement, the opening of the door. But 
 not by word, not by sign, not by deed, must he suppose 
 for a moment that she suspected him. She made pitiful 
 efforts. Any one less firmly convinced than he of her abso- 
 lute ignorance must have been undeceived by her very 
 eagerness to prove it. Bess affected cheerfulness, and then 
 remembered that it was her part to make a decent show 
 of sorrow, so easily ah, so very easily achieved. And 
 then a morbid fear lest he should find some hint of the 
 truth in her subdued voice and dismal face changed her 
 manner instantly to forced gayety. She was in constant 
 dread lest at any moment something unforeseen, over- 
 looked George's sustained protests, some scrap of cir- 
 cumstantial evidence not guarded against might attach
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 355 
 
 suspicion to John. And her position with her husband 
 had been suddenly reversed. She had looked up to him, 
 admired his frankness, his manly simplicity of life and 
 purpose, and had believed that in no circumstances would 
 he for any gain swerve a hair's-breadth from the right. 
 If her respect grew more dim, a burning pity took its 
 place. Wifely love seemed to have become maternal a 
 love now that would overlook all, pity all, forgive all, be 
 loyal in spite of all. Her idol had feet of clay; well, if she 
 could not worship it as flawless any longer, her woman's 
 hands should stay it against the buffets of the world; she 
 could protect it even with her life, even at the cost of 
 heaven. 
 
 She lay awake at night with closed eyes thinking him 
 asleep, while he too heard the slow hours strike and went 
 over every incident again and again; now feeling con- 
 vinced for a moment, in a sudden uplifting of the heart, 
 that he was innocent, and her fancies were disloyal and 
 unfounded ; now weighed down with the crushing evidences 
 against him. She awoke in the morning with the dim 
 sense of something wrong, something terrible impending. 
 
 As summer drew near, Herne Bay found other interests 
 than George's arrest. It was a nine days' wonder, soon 
 talked threadbare. Out of sight, in gaol at Canterbury 
 and Maidstone, he was out of mind, except when, for a 
 day or two, his appearance at the Sessions was discussed. 
 John and Bess could not forget. The skeleton was in their 
 cupboard, locked away but not forgotten; in the back- 
 ground of their thoughts, on blustering wild March nights 
 when the wind rattled the door-frames and lattices, on 
 balmy spring and summer mornings when the sun laughed 
 again on the sea and poppies flamed among the ripening 
 corn, was the prison cell where, in cold, in heat, shut out 
 from the freedom which he had loved so passionately, 
 George waited for his trial.
 
 356 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 As the time for this drew near, a new and alarming 
 development took place in John's inner life. His resent- 
 ment had long cooled, in spite of his efforts to keep it at 
 white-heat; and now his conscience, which had pricked 
 him chiefly hitherto about the secret hidden from his wife, 
 grew more and more accusing at the thought of his brother's 
 fate. He tried to stamp out disquietude, and assured him- 
 self by a hundred specious reasons that it was his duty 
 rather to keep silence than to speak. But he knew, and 
 could not disguise the knowledge, that soon it would be 
 impossible to silence the insistent voice. 
 
 Day by day, week by week, very gradually, uneasiness 
 formed itself into a conviction. He had been little given 
 to introspection, and now he looked into his heart, night 
 and day, with surprise and irritation an irritation that 
 reflected itself a little in his outer bearing. He tried to 
 strengthen his resistance by reflecting on the conduct and 
 lives of others, who, he knew, would laugh at him for a 
 fool if they could read his thoughts. Unwillingly, almost 
 unconsciously, he found that every little incident, every 
 chance word overheard, every remembered episode of boy- 
 hood, was pressed into service by this clamorous voice 
 urging him to surrender. A still small voice! Why, it 
 was a herald's clarion at the gate of a strong walled city, 
 calling to the stubborn garrison. 
 
 He argued with himself angrily, tried to reason down 
 his discomfort; he ascribed it for a time to an illogical 
 feeling born of sentiment and early training; but by and 
 by reasons, sufficient to himself, supported conscience. 
 On Sundays Bess and he still went to Herne Church by 
 habit and partly because each was afraid to suggest a 
 discontinuance of the old routine. In days before the trag- 
 edy, John had listened placidly enough to doctrines which 
 he had accepted without effort from his boyhood. He had 
 joined lustily in the hymns, and had let the parson rate and
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 357 
 
 storm and argue without any ruffling of his mind or stirring 
 up of conscience. Now he joined in the responses as if he 
 were one of the stones that cried "Amen" when Bede, old 
 and blind, was deserted by his audience; but texts, frag- 
 ments of sermons, passages from the lives of patriarchs 
 and saints, stuck in his memory and remained with him. 
 His soul seemed like a magnet, drawing to it all that w-as 
 to its purpose, rejecting all else. The things it needed 
 gravitated towards it. He tried to shelter himself by ex- 
 amining the grounds of his creed. The scheme of the world 
 had seemed so simple before he was driven to examine 
 it: the Bible, God's unerring word; the fall of man; the 
 long striving, reasoning, reproaching, with which the Crea- 
 tor tried to bend His stubborn creatures to His will; the 
 whisper through the ages of some great event at hand; the 
 coming of God to earth at last, His death and resurrection; 
 heaven for those who accepted the sacrifice, hell for those 
 who rejected it. Until the tragedy, all had been so simple; 
 he had looked out on the world as a man looks through a 
 glass, with one eye closed, and through a narrow circle. 
 He had looked out on it through blinkers each blinker 
 the black cover of a book. "The Bible says so," had been 
 his sole rejoinder to George's arguments; and he had gen- 
 erally left all discussion of these questions to Stackhouse 
 and Delilah. Now that he had begun to think more deeply, 
 face to face with his soul and the world's problems, a thou- 
 sand difficulties confronted him. 
 
 John w r ent one night to Captain Rockett's, and turned 
 the subject towards religion. The Captain had his own 
 views, and, when questioned not too closely, made no 
 secret of his divergence from current orthodoxy. "Lord 
 bless you," he said, "I doan't believe in every word the 
 parson tells me. When I was a wery young youth, John, 
 I made up my mind to think things out for myself. Seems 
 to me the parsons know less about some things than I do.
 
 358 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 'Cause why? They haven't had no experience of the world 
 like I have, that's why. If I had the training of one of 
 'em, I'd take him out into the world a bit afore I let him 
 preach to others. I'd send him to college; but I'd clap 
 him in a smock for a while as well, and let him hear what 
 labouring men say and think, and let him puzzle a bit 
 about sheep and dogs and oxen. And I'd put him in a 
 ship, and make him see the stars at night all other worlds, 
 they tell us and see the great oceans in storm and calm; 
 and hear the sailor men's talk; and go foreign to lands 
 where millions of folk doan't believe a merciful thing that 
 he's been brought up to believe, and yet live out their 
 lives, and enjoy, and suffer, and die, just like we do. Then, 
 when he's fit to be a full-blown parson, he shouldn't just 
 get up in a pulpit and say what he likes without any one 
 contradicting. 'Tis bad for him, I reckon, and bad for other 
 folks. Let him be axed questions after his sermon well, 
 well, perhaps that'd lead to quarrelling, and wouldn't 
 answer; but there's some rare rubbish talked from these 
 here quarter decks o' churches." 
 
 "But you go to church like other folk, Cap'n Rockett?" 
 "Ay, I do sometimes. I like to go and worship God 
 with the rest, though the skies and seas have preached 
 many a better sermon than I've heard within church walls; 
 and the best sermons of all, I reckon, are bound between 
 hat-leather an' boot-soles. The parson at Herne's a good 
 one himself. But I doan't hold with half he says. In 
 them Turkish churches mosques, they call 'em folks 
 have to take their shoes off, but over here there's a rare 
 daffy of parsons who want you to take your heads off with 
 your hats. It makes me wriggle sometimes to hear 'em 
 thundering out hell-fire at little children who've just popped 
 their heads into the world. Nice greeting to give 'em! 
 Parsons are jolly enough at the weddings, and jolly enough 
 after the christenings but if it's true that God keeps
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 359 
 
 millions of poor souls in fire for ever, why, we didn't never 
 ought to worship Him, and we certainly didn't ought to 
 have nothing to do with marrying and giving in marriage. 
 It's too big a risk. I'm not afeared about what God'll do 
 to me when I have orders to go foreign. I never did quite 
 hold with Revelations, neither. John had his notions, and 
 I've got mine. I reckon 'twill just be going into quiet 
 anchorage, death, in a port that's new to us. I always 
 like to think of ports in them other twinkling worlds. 
 Mebbe fancy, but I like to think o' the lights of other ships 
 just gliding in; and the sun rising behind green hills and 
 trees; and faces we've known and loved waiting on the 
 quay to show us the way to where God lives." 
 
 "You don't believe in punishment for the wicked, then?" 
 "Oh, yes, I do. Believe it? Why, we get that in this 
 life, and wery likely in another. But I doan't believe God 
 punishes us without any sense in it, just for cruelty I 
 doan't believe that. He's our Father, and that's what 
 Christ corned to learn us ay, and show us. 'Tis a bit 
 boffling what the Bible says sometimes, and I reckon we'm 
 meant to use our common sense, same as with other old 
 ancient records. Not that God doan't speak to us in the 
 Bible, if we have ears to hear. Read it yourself, John, 
 and doan't worry too much about what parson tells you." 
 John had little help in his difficulty from this talk. 
 He might doubt his creed he began to doubt it but no 
 criticism could rob the Bible of its grip on his conscience 
 and inner life. For generations uncountable, its words, 
 penned in spiritual distress and agony, based on the ex- 
 perience of men of old time, and wrung from them by suf- 
 fering and loneliness and need, had gone sharper than any 
 sword to human hearts. He might doubt constructions, 
 conclusions, framed creeds; his sense of right answered to 
 a thousand remembered passages. He opened the Book 
 when he reached home; his eyes fell on the passage
 
 360 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 "Return unto thy rest, my soul; for the Lord hath dealt 
 bountifully with thee." 
 
 "Return unto thy rest?" Was that an injunction to 
 surrender to gain peace of mind by throwing aside every- 
 thing, every consideration, but that which he knew in his 
 own heart to be right? Rest? The rest of a quiet conscience 
 first, the long rest afterwards of death ? 
 
 But he read on, and the next words ran 
 
 "For thou hast delivered my soul from death, mine eyes 
 from tears, and my feet from falling. I will walk before the 
 Lord in the land of the living." 
 
 What was he to do? Oh, what was he to do? 
 
 In a few days now the Assizes at Maidstone were to open. 
 Delilah, who was to appear as a witness, started in a flutter 
 of melancholy self-importance. John let her go alone. 
 Bess and he had not been called upon to give evidence. 
 George, realising his impotence, had abandoned himself 
 to the sullen indifference of despair. He might call Bess, 
 but he knew that she would not help him, and could not 
 be forced to speak. The law would not allow him to call 
 on John for an account of his movements on the evening 
 of Huntingdon's death. The toils were closing round him, 
 and even his hands were tied. 
 
 John still resisted the voice of conscience. Reason left 
 him two excuses yet: his love of Bess, and the fact that 
 his intervention could not save George from the gallows 
 for rick-burning, even if the charge of murder were dis- 
 proved at the eleventh hour. But a chance remark of 
 Captain Rockett's took his second plea from him. An- 
 other rick in the neighbourhood had been burnt; the 
 farmer was a humane man, and, knowing the penalty, 
 had allowed the culprit to escape. Romilly's views on 
 the harshness of the law had many sympathisers, even 
 among men who suffered most from the lawlessness of 
 the times.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 361 
 
 " If George had only burnt the rick, now," John overheard 
 the Captain say to a neighbour, "he might find mercy." 
 
 The words, which he let pass without comment, gave 
 a new turn to John's thoughts. If the charge of murder 
 were disproved, George might escape. Mrs. Huntingdon 
 would not willingly prefer the second charge; and his long 
 imprisonment would influence men in his favour. 
 
 " But he meant more than the burning of the rick," John 
 told himself, and again steeled his heart. 
 
 After some anxious days Delilah came back, tearful, 
 travel-stained, but scarcely able to contain her tragic news 
 until the door was closed upon her. "He's he's found 
 guilty," she gasped, and broke down. But soon they had 
 to listen to every incident of her journey and the trial. 
 She told of the procession through the streets, the judges 
 in their scarlet, the sheriff, the javelin-men, the trumpeters 
 in cocked hats and Kentish grey. At the trial George had 
 had no chance from the first. In that year the Habeas 
 Corpus Act was twice suspended; the prisons of England 
 were full. Death was the penalty for petty theft, even for 
 the malicious cutting of hop-pole or bine. Some judges 
 sent men to their death after a few curt questions. But 
 George had had a fair trial. Lord Ellenborough was on 
 the bench. A new link in the chain of circumstantial evi- 
 dence had been forged against him. A bowl of water was 
 produced in court, and in it was placed the charred wad 
 from the pistol. As it uncurled, the fragmentary name 
 and date were revealed, "Kentish Gazette, Canterbury, 
 Februa " 
 
 And on the paper which the borsholder had taken from 
 George's pocket was the rest "ry 16th, 1817." 
 
 George had seemed "dazed and stupid-like" when the 
 verdict was brought in and sentence passed. 
 
 The Gazette, a few days later, told them that the execu- 
 tion would take place at Penenden Heath within ten days.
 
 362 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 Like an age, like a moment, like a dream set in all the 
 surroundings of the acutest consciousness, the time of 
 waiting passed. The last night came, too slowly too 
 soon. 
 
 There was an excuse, for husband and wife now, to re- 
 veal their sadness and unhappiness. The thoughts of both 
 were on the man in the condemned cell, miles away, who 
 had seen his last sunset in this world with emotions unut- 
 terable, unfathomed even by their sympathy. They 
 scarcely spoke, yet each was linked in a common bond of 
 grief. 
 
 "Bess," said John, suddenly, when they were sitting in 
 the little parlour after the scarcely-tasted evening meal, 
 " 'tis a long time since you sang anything let's hear you, 
 lass. We're alone together. Something something quiet, 
 I mean, of course." 
 
 "Oh, to-night, John!" cried Bess, almost in agony. And 
 then instantly she repented. "A hymn?" 
 
 "No not a hymn, lass. Just one of your old songs, 
 that you sang in in happier days. Sing sing that song 
 you sang the night after our picnic you remember." 
 
 "Oh, but to-night? If the neighbours hear me singing 
 now " 
 
 " 'Tis sad enough, if they do. But they're all abed. 
 And what do you and I care for people's thoughts?" 
 
 She hesitated for a moment, and then went to the old 
 spinet that George had tested, and John had purchased, 
 in those glad and happy days that seemed so far away. 
 
 A few uncertain notes tinkled out; then, in her clear 
 young voice, very low at first, she began 
 
 "Pale-cheeked, my lady watched in doubt, 
 
 Love in her eyes lay hiding, 
 But roses blushed, and love rushed out, 
 When she saw her lord come riding, 
 
 Riding, riding.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 363 
 
 "A dinted helm he'd on his head, 
 
 A shattered lance was bearing, 
 ' But what of that? ' my lady said, 
 
 'When his griefs I now am sharing, 
 
 Sharing, sharing!' " 
 
 John sat back in his father's chair, against the patch- 
 work cushion which had been his wife's first handiwork in 
 her new home. How he remembered George, buoyant, 
 gay, bright-eyed, as he had been on that day when the 
 spinet was bought at Sturry! He pulled at his long clay, 
 and listened with a lump in his throat to her voice. " When 
 she saw her lord come riding!" How he remembered that 
 day when, in sun and wind, they two had galloped over 
 the cliffs to their new home! 
 
 "They sate them in the arrased room, 
 
 Wine and good fare not missing; 
 ' Now eat and drink, dear lord: let gloom 
 Find no place when we are kissing, 
 
 Kissing, kissing!' " 
 
 The house-warming party rose before him; Captain 
 Rockett with his stories; Mrs. Gowdy, asking for more 
 pork, and disconcerting the whole table by her unconscious 
 asides; Mrs. Rockett and her dreams. What times of hap- 
 piness as well as gloom that room had seen! When they 
 were children when his father and mother were alive 
 when George came back from the wars 
 
 " 'Safe home!' my lady cried: 'Alack!' 
 
 Sighed he, 'my dear love, yonder 
 
 My plighted word must take me back, 
 
 I again from home must wander, 
 
 Wander, wander. ' " 
 
 And this music these words had floated out on another 
 summer evening to another summer sea when they were 
 all so happy! He scarcely noticed, lost in his dreams,
 
 364 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 that Bess's voice was growing dim; her eyes were glisten- 
 ing in the candlelight. 
 
 " 'My word is pledged to cruel foes, 
 
 This sennight us must sever; 
 We'll sup on love until it close, 
 When we say farewell for ever, 
 
 Ever, everl ' 
 
 " 'Oh, give them these, ' my lady cried, 
 
 ' My jewels, the best outvying, 
 And I will pray that He who died 
 Keep you safe from chains and dying, 
 
 Dying, dying. ' ' 
 
 Ah, what had she given, she thought what jewels of 
 truth, and ease of mind richer than any, yet not grudged 
 or regretted! 
 
 "He rode away at break of dawn; 
 She, when the sun was rosing 
 The ivory rood, sank down forlorn, 
 On her knees till long day's closing, 
 
 Closing, closing. 
 
 " Pale-cheeked, my lady watched in doubt, 
 
 Love in her eyes lay hiding, 
 The winter passed; the buds came out, 
 But no more her lord came riding, 
 
 Riding " 
 
 "Bess, lass!" 
 
 John was across the room in a moment. Her face was 
 buried in her hands, her dark head bowed over the spinet; 
 she sobbed as if her heart would break. 
 
 "Doan't, doan't, now, cry like that! Oh, I oughtn't to 
 have asked you to sing it. I thoft I thoft there, shut 
 it up, lass." His strong arm was round her, comforting 
 her; she clung to him like a frightened child. 
 
 "Oh, John, John, the world's so sad so sad! I'm 
 frightened of it."
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 365 
 
 "There, there," he said. "We're in God's hands, lass, 
 every one of us. Doan't cry now. Come, we'll go to bed; 
 the clock's at eleven. All the world's asleep. We'll go to 
 bed, and be alone together, you and me, in the darkness." 
 
 "Yes, let's go to bed, John dear." 
 
 They went up the creaking stairs, the rushlight casting 
 their shadows on the panelled walls. Hand in hand, like 
 little children (what are we all but that, in our ignorance, 
 and helplessness, and need?), they stood at the window 
 for a minute, looking out into the night. The sea, vast 
 and sad the sea that has watched so many, many gene- 
 rations come and go lay before them, unsleeping. Bess 
 shivered, and, with a sudden movement, pulled-to the 
 curtains, shutting out night, and stars, and sea all that 
 reminded of man's mortality, and a universe indifferent 
 and unchanging.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 IF one could only shut out thought as easily, closing some 
 curtain of the mind! Bess could not sleep. Only a 
 few short hours of a summer night lay between George and 
 death. Each tick of the clock, each crash of breaking 
 seas along the coast, reminded her of the inexorable dawn. 
 He was alive now; when darkness fell again, he would lie 
 with the uncounted dead and through her silence. Was 
 he sleeping? She had heard that men slept in the con- 
 demned cell soundly enough. Or was he, too, awake, think- 
 ing of the past dreading the moment when the footsteps 
 of death would draw near the door? She wondered whether 
 the knowledge that all was over would come to her as a 
 relief, or would prove the end of all happiness to John 
 and to herself. She was frightened. 
 
 And then, with the silence, came another fear. Why 
 had John asked for that song? Was there a significance in 
 the request, in his tenderness that night, which she had 
 not guessed? She had broken down from a crushing sense 
 of the suffering, the sorrow, the terror of the world. But 
 the words of the song cried out now with a new meaning. 
 At the eleventh hour, did he mean to surrender himself 
 to go away to try to save his brother? The thought, 
 the possibility, the interpretation caught her suddenly, 
 half choking her: it was like violent hands clutching her 
 throat; she was put to it to hide her agitation indeed, 
 she stirred so sharply that John asked the cause. " Noth- 
 ing, dear," she said, and lay still, thinking, calculating, 
 wondering. How long would it take to reach Maidstone? 
 Oh, it was absurd. But how long? The execution was to 
 be at nine. Surely, there would be no time! Again and 
 again she told herself that overwrought nerves had conjured 
 
 366
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 367 
 
 up this new terror, that there was no real cause for fear; 
 yet now her one anxiety was to keep awake until all risk 
 was passed. Her eyes were growing heavy-lidded but 
 she must keep awake. 
 
 "Bess, are you asleep, dear?" 
 
 " No, John dear." 
 
 That was at one. 
 
 The clock below ticked on and on, ticking out the last 
 hours of a life. 
 
 An hour or so later he asked again, very softly. 
 
 "No, dear." The answer was drowsy now. 
 
 "Try to get to sleep, my darling," he whispered, kissing 
 her. "Good-night, again. Doan't worry, lass; 'tis no use 
 worrying." 
 
 The monotonous ticking of the clock, the dreamy mur- 
 mur of the sea, did their work. Her last waking thought 
 was that it must surely be too late. When John whispered 
 next, there was no answer. 
 
 He disengaged her arm, very gently, and sat up in bed. 
 She was asleep sound asleep breathing like a child, 
 though once a little fretful sigh, like a child's, came from 
 her partly opened lips. 
 
 The cold, grey light preceding dawn showed through a 
 tiny line left uncovered by blind and curtain. He got out 
 of bed noiselessly, and pulled the curtains an inch or two 
 apart. The window framed a sea-scape strange and wan 
 and with a look of brooding death. Filmy mist screened 
 the sky and the horizon, like a curtain; nearer at hand, 
 the sea lay almost motionless, and the strangest colour 
 pale, cloudy green, like the green of bottle-glass smoothed 
 by many tides. Against it, the hulls and masts of boats 
 were ink-black. 
 
 He crept to the bed, and, scarcely breathing, watched 
 the sleeping girl. She looked very young in sleep. Her 
 dark hair lay like a cloud on the pillow; the long lashes
 
 368 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 swept cheeks soft as down; her nightgown, slightly open, 
 showed a glimpse of dimpled throat. One hand, limp on 
 the bed-clothes as it had fallen when he moved it from his 
 arm, showed his ring glimmering faintly on the wedding 
 finger the ring that had bound them, for weal or woe, 
 in sorrow or gladness, till death. Dear little lass! Loyal, 
 and unselfish, and uncomplaining through all their trouble 
 steel-true through all! His eyes swam with tears; a 
 long, last look, and, taking his clothes from the rush chair 
 beside the bed, John opened the door quietly, and went 
 out. 
 
 He dressed downstairs, fearing lest his movements in 
 the room might wake her. Then he took some milk and 
 rum for breakfast from closet and bar, and got out ink 
 and pens and paper from the press in the back parlour. 
 He sat for a long time, trying to pen a message. He could 
 scarcely see the signs made by his quill; but at last the 
 task was finished. 
 
 "My own Darling," he wrote, "I have gone to Maid- 
 stone. George did not kill your father. I shot him, acci- 
 dentally, trying to shoot the dog. I hope to make them 
 believe it was an accident. If not, we must meet again 
 in a world where there's less sorrow and less tears than 
 here, and no more partings. Oh, my darling! don't grieve 
 very much. Remember our happy days; no one can take 
 them away. God bless you for ever and ever, my dearest. 
 
 "JOHN." 
 
 He finished it, in his great, round, schoolboy hand; 
 folded and addressed it; and placed it on the spinet. 
 Then, carrying his boots in his hand, he opened the door, 
 and went out. The morning air was keen. Very distinctly 
 now, in the silent world, sounded the murmur of the sea. 
 
 John unlocked the stable door, and, taking an old lant- 
 horn from its nail, lit the stump of candle. The flicker- 
 ing light cast the shadow of Blossom's head and sharply
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 369 
 
 pricked ears on the whitewashed wall. She nuzzled to him, 
 surprised and delighted at the early visit. He gave her 
 a couple of handfuls of corn and some hay-chaff for her 
 long journey, and then led her out, very slowly, to the 
 back of the inn, where he mounted her. 
 
 "Now, Blossom, for our saddest journey and our last," 
 he muttered. 
 
 He came out at last on the cliff in the direction of Hamp- 
 ton, riding at a brisk pace, because with every stride, and 
 the knowledge of what each stride took him from and to 
 the impulse to return tempted him almost beyond bear- 
 ing. He had plenty of time. The coastguard station 
 showed very white against the green; but Hampton, with 
 its squalid, patched huts and hovels, the homes of men who 
 perhaps at that moment were leading the preventive offi- 
 cers a chase along the coast, nestled, black as a rook's 
 nest, in the elbow of the down. The mare's hoofs thudded 
 on the shorter turf; were swathed and muffled in long grass, 
 and clover, and white hogweed, and rusty docks. Near 
 Whitstable his way branched inland. He stopped to 
 breathe the mare, and take what might be a last look at 
 the sea by which he had spent his life. Scores of little 
 boats, canted over, were still dense black against the pale 
 green sea; lights twinkled from a gun-brig in the bay, 
 and their reflections smeared the oily water. He heard 
 her wash as she crept round towards the Medway with 
 the fog in stealthy chase; as he listened, a shrill call sounded 
 from the pipes of the bos'n's mates, and the cry, very 
 clear though far away, "Larboard watch, ahoy! Rouse out 
 there, you sleepers!" Then eight bells struck; ding, ding, 
 ding silvery and distinct. 
 
 It was four o'clock; he had ample time. Even while 
 he watched the vessel, drawing so close inshore that per- 
 haps she meant to anchor off Whitstable rather than nego- 
 tiate the river mouth in the mist, John saw the fog advance 
 24
 
 370 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 over the face of the waters, fast and ominous, as the dim 
 wood marching on Dunsinane. He said good-bye to the 
 sea he knew and loved so well the jovial playmate, the 
 bluff and cheery comrade of so many years, the sharer 
 in his joy, the comforter in times of sorrow. Its salt was 
 in his blood, its strength in the limbs which were soon, 
 perhaps, to hang limply in death. No more for him the 
 crested breakers, the coloured pools of sunset never more 
 the sight of gallant ships, the hearty voices of seafarers. 
 Yet, even as he bade farewell to it as to an old friend 
 linking his wife with every memory of its phases he saw 
 now, almost for the first time, the poignant cruelty of the 
 sea, and shuddered. 
 
 He turned his mare's head. "Now for Faversham, 
 Blossom," he said, his voice very strange and lonely in 
 the silence of early morning. The solitude, the half dark- 
 ness, the thin mist like an outpost from the advancing fog, 
 were oppressive. As he rode, the thud of hoofs beat time 
 to galloping thought. All life's order and seemliness had 
 been rudely torn aside; his old faith in God's goodness 
 had been sapped by misfortune ; and he saw the iron frame 
 of the world saw it, rather, like a skeleton, grim bone 
 and grinning skull, under the fair and smiling flesh. His 
 thoughts, his emotions, surprised him as they could never 
 have surprised his brother, with his more complex and 
 imaginative nature. A thousand incidents, unexplainable, 
 thrust themselves on his notice things that a month or 
 two before he would have accounted for in a text, a set 
 phrase, or have set aside carelessly as mysteries only to 
 be solved by the Creator. He could not solve them now 
 but his mind groped for a solution. "All things work 
 together for good." How could this work for good how 
 could Bess and he be made better by the punishing of the 
 innocent, by suffering like theirs? If God were all-wise and 
 all-powerful, why should He permit such suffering in His
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 371 
 
 world? Life was a school, they said; but deserved pun- 
 ishment only could teach undeserved could but harden 
 the pupil, and fill him with a burning sense of injustice. 
 While the struggle in his mind was going on, he had felt 
 assured that surrender and submission would at least bring 
 peace of mind. But he felt no peace now. He felt only a 
 bitter grudge against his Maker, who had overthrown their 
 happiness, made a mock of their wish to serve Him, caught 
 them in this net of cruel chances, and forced upon him 
 this decision. He went doggedly on, following his impulse 
 to do right; but it was with no sense of union with the 
 Great Companion; with a sense, rather, of some grim and 
 mocking fate that forced its commands upon him, made 
 resistance impossible, and then jeered at the offered 
 sacrifice. 
 
 But he resisted the impulse to turn back. His decision 
 had been made, once and for all; he rode on in bitterness, 
 not even praying for help, or relief, or ultimate reward. 
 
 The sea-fog dogged the hoofs of the mare, caught up 
 steed and rider, swept past them, and enclosed them. 
 For a time hedges, bushes, trees, loomed larger, and then 
 were blotted out in a great veil of white. It shut him in 
 now alone with that great and relentless fate. There 
 seemed no one left in the world now, but the solitary man 
 hurrying to his death. Hurrying to death! What was it, 
 after all, but this ride towards suffering and the grave 
 all the history of the world? He thought of the Roman 
 legions who had come to Reculver in their galleys, and 
 made their stronghold; of the Saxon kings who had held 
 their courts there; the warriors who drank and jested, 
 the monks muttering their prayers, the fair-skinned, 
 bright-eyed princesses who had wandered once with their 
 lovers by the shores he had just left. What was the aim 
 of it? He had seen, often, relics from Reculver of those 
 old years. A coin, a toy fashioned for a moment's sport,
 
 372 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 a strap or buckle from a garment, lasted longer than the 
 owners or their race. 
 
 John patted Blossom's rough coat, damp with the mist; 
 she, too, at the end of strenuous labour and loyal service, 
 would suffer, and share her master's fate; and the thought 
 of this fellowship of man and beast gave him a new sym- 
 pathy. She, too, was under the inexorable law. He thought 
 again of Bess. How many years would it be before the 
 loneliness of the journey's end lay before her? She was 
 young now. He fancied the dark hair whitening, the eyes 
 becoming dim, the cheeks, now rosy and dimpled, growing 
 faded and wrinkled, the lips that had met his sucked in 
 at last over toothless gums and then death. It seemed 
 incredible; so senseless, so ineffectual, so blindly cruel. 
 Early years, all bright with promise; food, air, everything 
 going to form strength and beauty then the gradual de- 
 cay, the slow undoing of all that had been built up so 
 painfully. Was God never to be satisfied? He seemed 
 like an artist striving after something, never satisfied with 
 His handiwork. 
 
 Blundering through the white fog, Blossom brushed her 
 master's leg against a wall, at the top of which he caught 
 the misty shapes of tombs. Some village churchyard; and 
 the bodies of many generations of dead had banked up 
 earth to the very top of the wall. The squire and his 
 dainty womankind from the Hall, the hind from the hovel, 
 made the very paths over which newcomers passed to the 
 recital of the ancient faith. Yet what text, what sermon, 
 what creed, framed by suffering humanity for its stay and 
 solace, explained this long succession stretching back, 
 unnamed and unremembered, into the very mists of time? 
 
 As John Kennett rode on stubbornly, the silence, the 
 oppression of the fog, forced on his notice the fearful lone- 
 liness and desolation of death. Here he was, whole, sound, 
 warm in body, strong in limb. And soon, no doubt, his
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 373 
 
 life would be forced out of him by violent hands. The law 
 gaped for him like the steel jaws of a trap. In the treat- 
 ment of the criminal, men acted with the relentlessness, 
 the unpitying mechanism, of some natural force. He 
 foresaw all the brutal machinery which he himself would 
 put in motion the machinery which would not be satis- 
 fied until it had ousted his soul, and left his body cold and 
 broken. He had rarely thought of death, and rarely feared 
 it. Now he began to fear. The ejection of the spirit, its 
 houselessness, thrust in a moment from the body, appalled 
 him. He felt sick. The instinct in all men or nearly all 
 to call for help to some Power higher than themselves, 
 nearly overcame him; yet he set his teeth. He had prayed 
 before; prayed desperately and earnestly that some way 
 might open out, and relieve him of the necessity for this 
 sacrifice. Now the cloud of fog seemed to shut out God; 
 the heavens were deaf; and his own obstinacy raised a 
 barrier even less penetrable. He realised, in that lonely 
 ride, something of Gethsemane; but there was no cry for 
 help. "I'm a man, I'm a man," he muttered to himself, 
 grappling with and subduing his fear. He would ride on; 
 he would not turn back; he would carry out his purpose; 
 but towards God if there were a God he felt nothing 
 but bitterness and resentment. 
 
 The muffled thud of the old mare's hoofs sounded like 
 the drum of death. But as he rode, he became conscious 
 gradually that the ground was softer and more deeply 
 rutted beneath them; was he still on the turnpike? He 
 drew rein. The mare's flanks were steaming into the 
 mist; his breath and hers were just visible in great clouds. 
 He harked back a little way, then on again. He was lost, 
 and unless the fog lifted would be too late. 
 
 "If there were a God?" Oh, he knew now, as he rode 
 slowly and helplessly this way and that, trying to find his 
 road. Not a blind God, but one with keen eyes for the
 
 374 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 little stage on which His puppets strutted. A jesting, 
 mocking God; and even now there must be laughter in 
 the heavens. It should have thundered; that was the 
 hoarse laughter in the sky when the keen fire-darts sped 
 to earth, spreading terror and destruction, striking alike 
 the barn where man stores his bread, the church where 
 he prays and worships. But this was a better jest. Here 
 were all so busy about their tasks; and the great, gauzy 
 net of fog had been flung down; and now they were grop- 
 ing blindly, and the roads were held as no armies could 
 ever hold them; and on the seas the great ships blundered 
 to their ruin. O terrible Omnipotence, using worlds as play- 
 things! John had given up all to go; he had left the mes- 
 sage which would tell Bess of his deed; and now this veil of 
 mist, silent, intangible, robbed him of the precious minutes. 
 
 Quite suddenly, the white walls of a cottage loomed 
 before him; a blurred light showed from a window. He 
 dismounted, and rapped at the door. After an impatient 
 wait, slow steps approached down the tiled passage; a 
 man opened, coughing and wheezing, and shading still 
 sleepy eyes with his hand. 
 
 "Am I on the road to Faversham?" 
 
 "Faversham? No, that you bain't, Maister. You'm two 
 mile out of your road." 
 
 He obtained explicit directions; the lane down which 
 he had travelled branched from the main road; he would 
 have to retrace his way. He thanked the man abruptly, 
 and, before his laboured directions were finished, clattered 
 off again, keeping close to the left side of the lane. At last 
 the firm main road was under the hoofs again; but much 
 time had been lost. The deflection, at least, had sent his 
 thoughts into another channel. If he were too late! He 
 thrust aside the temptation with scorn at his own weak- 
 ness. At least, it should be no fault of his if the gallows 
 were not reached in time.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 375 
 
 Close to Faversham, they emerged from the mist, and 
 left it behind them like a wall. John looked at his watch. 
 Six o'clock! Three hours more and only thirteen miles 
 covered. Still, they could do it they must do it. But he 
 would have to nurse the old mare's strength. They passed 
 between corn-fields into the town; the early sun shone 
 on golden wheat; at Cooksditch Farm, just outside Faver- 
 sham, labourers were beginning the long day's work. Peo- 
 ple were astir, too, in the street; women were scrubbing 
 down their doorsteps, and shaking mats and cloths; and 
 from a tiny window set in the blank wall of a fifteenth- 
 century house, a little child waved good-morning to the 
 horseman. John got a drink of water and a handful of 
 corn for Blossom at an inn near the Guildhall, and they 
 clattered off again, under the eaves of the ancient houses, 
 towards Ospringe. There was blue sky now; the birds 
 sang overhead; in the fields were men and horses, doing 
 their appointed tasks as leisurely as quiet Nature herself, 
 so slow and sure in all her operations. Here sheep dotted 
 the meadows; here were green-gladed woods; they passed 
 long stretches of brown-gold corn, and hedges bright with 
 flowers; old trees cast chequers of green and yellow sun- 
 light on the road. How beautiful this world was that he 
 was leaving! As the crushing sorrow of it all had oppressed 
 him, so now its very joyousness made death bitter. The 
 clean, pure morning air, the happy morning faces, the good- 
 natured greetings, the many peaceful country scenes 
 here some cattle hock-deep in a sleepy pool, there a group 
 of children making flower garlands and daisy chains, and 
 shouting and laughing with delight all these awoke old 
 and happy memories. They were to be shut out perhaps 
 probably for ever. By night long before night 
 stone walls and bars and manacles would keep him from 
 the wide summer world, grim and unpitying faces would 
 surround him, and those who spoke to him would treat
 
 376 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 him no longer as a fellow-man, but as a beast to be penned 
 up, and examined, and led at last, after so many weeks 
 of safeguarding and feeding, to the slaughter. 
 
 One after another, the milestones sped by. A coach 
 passed him, crowded with jovial occupants happy as school- 
 boys in the delightful morning; the driver flung him a 
 jest at his set face and downcast looks. He cast his eyes 
 neither to right nor left now, save when another mile was 
 nearly due. He had to map out his time. So much in 
 hand for Doddington; so much for Hollingbourne; he 
 must be at Bearsted at a quarter-past eight to give him 
 ample time to reach Penenden Heath and run no risk of 
 failure. He meant his journey and his long night-agony 
 to end in no fiasco. He must make sure. 
 
 But old Blossom, bearing him gallantly and bravely as 
 if they were on one of their old and happy journeys, was 
 beginning to feel the strain. He muttered words of encour- 
 agement, and she pricked up her ears and quickened her 
 stride for a few yards, but only to fall back into a more 
 laboured pace. His weight, the burden of her years, the 
 long and rapid ride, were telling on her at last. They 
 were late in Doddington. On the next three miles he lost 
 five precious minutes. Just beyond the milestone a drove 
 of sheep blocked the road; the men in charge were in no 
 hurry; he had to draw rein, and wait fuming for a minute, 
 then pick his way slowly through. Every one he met had 
 the long day and untold years before them; he alone in 
 the world seemed to be hurrying, to be aware of the pre- 
 ciousness of time. Not until he reached Hollingbourne 
 was he conscious of the possibility of failure. The minutes 
 flew so swiftly, so inexorably; the miles seemed intermin- 
 able. On, on! His brain was in a whirl of hurry. Hurry, 
 hurry! Under his thoughts that refrain seemed like a 
 singing voice, set to the dull thud, thud of the hoofs. A 
 man was driving a cow along the highroad an old coun-
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 377 
 
 try man, russet-faced like a shrivelled apple; he had a long, 
 peeled switch, and walked placidly behind his beast, not 
 troubling to hasten her; as she stopped to graze by the 
 roadside, he waited; he wandered after her, at a few yards' 
 interval, from one side of the road to the other, and only 
 muttered a half-reproachful "Gee along, Jemima," when 
 her stoppages grew too protracted even for his patience. 
 
 The man curled a hand round his ear, and the question 
 was repeated. 
 
 "Foive mile, a good foive mile, Maister. But what part 
 of Maidstone?" 
 
 "Penenden Heath." 
 
 "Penenden? Be you going to the hanging?" 
 
 "Yes, yes." 
 
 "I beared there were to be one. My wig! When I was 
 a boy, now, I'd ha' gone, too; I was a rare fellow for such 
 sights. I wouldn't go acrost the road now to see such a 
 thing, though. Penenden! Well, I reckon now " 
 
 "Do I go through the town? Is there a shorter way?" 
 
 "I be thinking, Maister," said the man, reprovingly. 
 "Let me see. No, you needn't but there bain't no good 
 hurrying; you'll " 
 
 John, with a muttered exclamation of impatience, shot 
 past him. 
 
 " Bain't so fur to Penenden," the man shouted after him, 
 "but if you think you'll see the hanging, you'll be disap- 
 pointed. You'll never get there in time not on that 
 mare, you won't." 
 
 Another mile: Blossom was stumbling, swaying in 
 vain the gallant animal tried to answer to her master's 
 voice. John tore a switch from an overhanging ash. If 
 he had to kill her loyal and trusty friend as she had been 
 he must reach the Heath in time. She winced under 
 the first blow, and glanced back reproachfully; at the 
 second she dashed forward madly. "On, Blossom, on,
 
 378 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 good lass," John hissed between his teeth. The road seemed 
 to fly under the hoofs. Stones shot up; one struck his 
 hand and cut it. Three miles now. They had covered 
 the last in better time. He rained down blows, though 
 each went to his own heart. He dragged his watch from 
 his fob, nearly unseating himself in the effort. Eighteen 
 minutes! She could never do it. 
 
 "She must! she must!" he muttered, and showered down 
 blows with switch and fist, that pain and terror might add 
 speed to her goodwill. He felt her weary limbs spring 
 beneath her; the road tore under them. Ah! that was 
 better; trees, cottages, grassy slopes where sheep nibbled 
 among gnarled roots high above the shaded road, flew 
 past. Bearsted was in sight. They would do it they 
 could just do it! 
 
 And then, without warning, Blossom stumbled, tried 
 to recover, and pitched headlong forward. 
 
 John was clear of the saddle in an instant. Good God, 
 if she failed him now, so close to their goal! 
 
 He bent over her. They were just outside the village; 
 she had fallen by the side of a little coppice, close to a 
 gate that hung loose on its hinges. "Up, old lady!" he 
 cried, and tried to drag her up in vain. She turned re- 
 proaching eyes, fast glazing, upon him eyes so wistful 
 and pathetic. This was the end of her long and faithful 
 service; this the ultimate reward. Quite suddenly she 
 rolled over on her back; he had barely time to spring 
 aside. Was it an effort, in last semi-consciousness, to carry 
 out her master's will even in death? Her limbs began to 
 move in the motion of galloping; at each jerked effort 
 the gate was struck by the hoofs, and flung backward 
 and forward, to meet them again and be repulsed. Faster, 
 faster was it that memories of old journeys came to her? 
 Did she fancy that the summer and winter roads of old 
 years were under her again; down, and meadow, and
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 379 
 
 turnpike, and rutted lane? John watched her, half fasci- 
 nated, and helpless. Was she drawing, in imagination, 
 his mother on her drives to Blean woods; or riding back 
 with him and his young bride from Whitstable; or what 
 fancied miles were under those hoofs beating the air, 
 rattling the ash-grey gate? Faster, faster, faster, grew 
 the mad gallop. Faster, faster 
 
 It stopped. Stopped so suddenly and abruptly that 
 silence fell almost like a blow. In place of that mad rush 
 and hurry, the rattle of the gate, the sense of terrible, 
 urgent haste in place of all these were left the lonely 
 road, the whispering leaves, the bleat of a sheep in a 
 near meadow. Blossom lay on her side, her legs thrust 
 out, her mouth flecked with foam, her eyes glazed and 
 dead. 
 
 John put a hand very tenderly on the rough, wet coat. 
 Then he sprang to his feet. It was twelve minutes to nine ; 
 he had over two miles to cover. He ran forward to the 
 village. Ancient, overhanging, clay-daubed cottages were 
 to his left; beyond them was the village green, with its 
 ivy-mantled church, and an inn, the White Horse, at the 
 farther side. The village was practically deserted; the 
 hanging had drawn away the people. Where could he 
 get another horse ? He entered the stable of the inn; there 
 was no one about, and no horses were in the stalls. A 
 few steps, of chipped and worn stone, led up into the house, 
 and he sprang up them, shouting, and entered a flagged 
 room. No one was below. A slatternly woman, with her 
 sleeves rolled above the elbows, came to the head of the 
 stairs. 
 
 "I want a horse!" cried John, almost desperate. "A 
 horse at once! Is there one in the village to be had?" 
 
 "There's not one in here, if that's what you mean," 
 said the woman, with evident disapproval. 
 
 "Where can I get one ? I want to ride to Penenden "
 
 380 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 "Then I'll not help you. Making a holerday of seeing 
 a poor fellow-mortal killed! You're all alike. Here's 
 my husband leaving everything to me, while " 
 
 John sprang out of the house and down the steps. 
 While he explained, while he found the horse and haggled 
 about it and mounted it, the precious minutes would be 
 gone. He had eleven now. He was stiff and sore after 
 his long ride, but there was still a chance. Perhaps they 
 would be late, too. There was sure to be a few minutes' 
 delay. He had been a good runner as a lad, and had won 
 a prize years back in one of the running matches between 
 rival villages which were popular at that time in Kent. 
 He raced on, the ground flying beneath him, seeming to 
 rise against him; trees and fields rushed past. Up a heart- 
 breaking hill, down again; some late-comers were hurry- 
 ing in front of him; he caught them up and passed them; 
 again the road rose steeply. He stumbled, staggered on, 
 his head almost bursting, his lungs empty, his limbs aching 
 and trembling, his knees bending beneath his weight. 
 
 Here was the Heath I 
 
 Dark belts of pine and fir skirted it on the left. Towards 
 the south of the great expanse of rough grass and scrub 
 thirty acres of it then a black crowd, noisy, swaying, 
 swearing, discussing in a loud hum of voices, thronged 
 round the gallows. It was set on rising ground; he saw 
 the beam and rope outlined against the clear summer sky. 
 A cart was moving slowly towards it; from the higher 
 ground over which he hurried he could see the javelin- 
 men clearing a way with their long halberds; Kentish 
 grey coats, with red collars and white metal buttons, 
 mingled with the darker costumes of the crowd. A cluster 
 of men in and round the cart blotted out the prisoner. 
 Chaplain, gaoler, officials in cocked hats and stove-pipe 
 hats, men with long black wands; he saw all very dis- 
 tinctly in the crisis of the moment. He was in time, then
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 381 
 
 if only he could make them hear. He staggered forward, 
 trying to find breath enough to shout. 
 
 But at that moment a great hush fell on the crowd. 
 High above the rest, with the chaplain and gaoler beside 
 him, rose the figure of his brother. George's face was 
 pale, but his lips were set and sullen. He glanced round 
 defiantly. The early morning sun was full on his face. 
 The mob waited breathlessly. One of the men near had 
 evidently just said something to the prisoner. George 
 glanced round. A bandage was ready in the executioner's 
 hand to blot out the last sight of the world from his eyes. 
 He waved it aside. He was going to speak. John, still 
 stumbling on, saw in that face, marked out so distinctly, 
 high above the rest, and lit by the glaring sun, a look of 
 bitter and vindictive hate. But at that instant, glancing 
 over the fair scene that would so soon be shut out for ever, 
 George's eyes met his brother's. 
 
 A look of incredulity passed over his face for a second, 
 then it changed, seeming to catch a little of the glory of 
 the sunshine. It seemed transfigured, passing instantly 
 from venomous hatred of the world to a consciousness 
 of triumph and final victory. He flung back his head 
 proudly. John did not understand. He knew that his 
 brother had seen him, and believed that in another moment 
 he would direct all eyes towards the gasping man striving 
 to reach the outskirts of the crowd. Was the last satis- 
 faction of self-surrender to be taken from him? Before 
 he could speak voluntarily, was George to point him out 
 and tax him with the crime? He must be first. John 
 tried to shout. No words came. The long run had left 
 him capable only of his shambling, staggering movement, 
 ever forward, but incapable of speech. Then, incredulous, 
 he saw his brother make a signal nod to the executioner. 
 The crowd strained and swayed forward; men at the 
 rear rose on tiptoe to see.
 
 382 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 "Save him! Stop, stop!" John gasped out, with a 
 sudden enlightenment. He was on lower ground now; 
 the figure of his brother was blotted out. A long shudder- 
 ing gasp passed through the crowd. . . . 
 
 When it opened, and broke away, he saw the dangling, 
 spinning body, and buried his head in his hands. Too 
 late! Too late!
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 IT was nearly seven when Bess woke from troubled 
 dreams. She felt for her husband; he was not beside 
 her; the room was very dark. Still half-asleep, she got 
 out of bed, and drew aside the blind to look at the new 
 day. The white curtain of fog veiled the familiar sight of 
 foreshore and sea. At first she was vaguely conscious 
 only of something wrong and unhappy. Delilah was astir; 
 her heavy tread shook the ceiling overhead. The recollec- 
 tion that this was the day so long looked forward to and 
 dreaded the day when her fatal secret was sending George 
 to death came to her suddenly with appalling and over- 
 whelming force. 
 
 She remembered that she had kept awake until the last 
 moment which, she thought, would allow John to reach 
 Maidstone in time. She felt convinced that he was below, 
 fancied, indeed, that she could hear him in the yard. 
 He often rose before her and went downstairs without 
 awaking her. She dressed hurriedly, and then flung her- 
 self on her knees beside the bed. As she prayed, she felt 
 that her prayers could scarcely reach the ears of God. 
 She could not repent. But she prayed desperately, almost 
 frantically, for the man whose last hours were speeding. 
 And her husband and she wanted help, too wanted it 
 so badly, since they had bought their own happiness at 
 the price of another's life. 
 
 Their own happiness? Could she could John ever 
 hope for that again? Or would the shadowy form of their 
 brother, murdered to all intents by them, rise between 
 them haunt them in gloom and sunshine ever reproach- 
 ing them with sad and resentful eyes? Oh, how miserable 
 she was! John's silence had not lessened her love; it 
 
 383
 
 384 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 had filled her with that fierce, maternal, protecting pity; 
 but she could look up to him and respect him and honour 
 him as she had done no longer. Her idol had feet of clay 
 feet of clay. 
 
 She went downstairs at last. Delilah was clattering 
 about the kitchen with mop and pail. 
 
 "Where's your master, Delilah?" she asked. 
 
 "I reckon he's in the yard, mum," said 'Lilah, dismally. 
 "The door's unlocked, so he's gone out." 
 
 Bess waited a second or two, then went to the stable. 
 Her heart leapt as she saw that Blossom was not in the stall. 
 
 She ran back again, and then her eyes fell on the little 
 note. Bess snatched it up and read it with burning eyes. 
 A little gasping cry escaped her. 
 
 "What is it, mum?" 
 
 "Nothing, 'Lilah, nothing," she almost whispered. 
 Oh, she must keep the secret still. She must keep it still 
 and save him. 
 
 He had gone then gone at the eleventh hour, to save 
 his brother! It must have been directly after she had 
 fallen asleep. What significance now in that song she 
 had sung unconsciously; what ground for her fears; what 
 folly hers, to sleep before all risk was over! She hoped, 
 even now, that he had started too late. But she knew 
 John better than that. He had made up his mind, and, 
 having done so, would run no risk of failure. 
 
 She crumpled up the note in her hand. "It's it's 
 a letter from your master, 'Lilah," she said. "He's gone 
 out for the day, and I'm I'm to meet him at once. I 
 must start now " 
 
 "But not before breakfast, mum? You must have 
 that first. You can't go without bite or drink, " cried the 
 astonished maid. 
 
 " No, I'm going to well, pour out a glass of milk, 'Lilah, 
 and cut a piece of bread and butter while I put my hat on. "
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 385 
 
 She went upstairs, her mind a tangled maze of thought. 
 What could she do? What was she to do? The need for 
 secrecy was so terrible. Even while she was deciding, 
 even in these few lost minutes, her husband was so much 
 farther from her so much nearer to his death. Tom 
 Dodson, their brother-in-law at Whitstable, must help 
 her. She would run there, run all the way love would 
 give her speed and borrow his fast little cob, and ride it, 
 spur it, along the roads to Maidstone, in the hope that 
 Blossom might be overtaken. She ran downstairs again. 
 Oh, was there still a chance? She must do something; 
 even if she failed, she must do something; if she were too 
 late, she could still be near the prison when they put John 
 in his brother's place. In the taproom, in the parlour, a 
 hundred things cried out to her of their married life so 
 cruelly broken. There were his slippers, as he had left 
 them; there the dregs in the glass that he had last drunk 
 from; and on the spinet in the parlour his pipe rested 
 where he had set it down the night before, with the caked 
 ash still in the bowl. She drank, and left the bread untasted. 
 
 White mist shut out everything now. Without listen- 
 ing to Delilah's protests and exclamations of surprise, she 
 ran out of the inn. In five yards the mist closed round 
 her. Thank God for that! It might delay him; it might 
 confuse his way; it would keep her screened from curious 
 eyes. She could explain to Delilah afterwards; she could 
 invent some story; oh, anything, everything might be 
 put right, if only she were in time! Running like the 
 wind, she left the shingled path, climbed the slope, passed 
 the white- walled coastguard house; faster than ever she 
 had raced in childhood, when, after her bathe, the boys 
 had followed her streaming hair and dimpled, flying feet 
 across the downs. She found the path almost by in- 
 stinct. Her hair shook loose again, dark and luxuriant; it 
 broke over her eyes, and she tossed it back with the old 
 25
 
 386 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 impetuous movement as she ran, though the raw, im- 
 penetrable mist made everything invisible. She took no 
 heed of the deep ruts in the cliff, the broken clay and 
 slipping clete; the rumour of the near sea guided her; 
 keeping within sound of that, she would reach Whit- 
 stable 
 
 And then? 
 
 Running on breathlessly, she pictured her arrival 
 the startled looks of Dodson and his wife the stammered 
 request what should she say? Oh, if only the reins 
 were in her hand, her foot in stirrup! If the stout little 
 cob were only beneath her now, while the minutes flew 
 so quickly! In her brain seemed the thud, thud, thud of 
 the old mare's hoofs on the road to gaol and death. Speed! 
 speed! speed! Oh, this halting, stumbling, footsore chase! 
 Her breast heaved; her knees trembled; and, sobbing 
 as she ran, she realised that the husband she had loved 
 at first, and lost during these few months, had come again 
 only to leave her. He had proved himself, by this last 
 sacrifice, the man she had once idolised. No more a craven 
 sheltering himself behind another, no more one struggling 
 against conscience, he had spared her to the last, and 
 then gone, bravely, unflinchingly, to his death. But he 
 must not die. It was an accident, she knew, but if the 
 law demanded any victim as it would she knew it 
 would he must not die. She could not spare him before 
 when she thought he would accept his brother's life; a 
 thousand times less could she spare him now. The thought 
 of her lie to save him had now an added bitterness. If 
 he reached Maidstone if he gave himself up the long 
 and guilty silence would take away the last chance of 
 proving her father's death an accident. She must find 
 him she must find him, and use all her arts, her persuasion, 
 her strength most of all her weakness to deter him 
 from his purpose.
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 387 
 
 But he would reach Maidstone. With terrible per- 
 sistence, as she stumbled on blindly through the mist, 
 that thought grew into a conviction, not to be shaken off. 
 Her first impulse to save him had laughed at impossi- 
 bilities. A love so great, so compelling, must break down 
 all obstacles, even of space and time. But the physical 
 effort to reach Whitstable brought facts before her in all 
 their cruelty and coldness. If he had had only half an 
 hour's start an hour's, perhaps and she the swift- 
 footed little steed under her at once, old Blossom and her 
 rider might have been ridden down. But now? The mist 
 seemed to clutch at her throat. Her eyes smarted; chok- 
 ing sobs, not to be restrained, shook her frame as she ran 
 on and on. 
 
 Still she staggered on, blindly, unthinkingly, save for 
 the maddening, despairing thought that John was ahead 
 of her, riding to his death; staggered on hopelessly, but 
 desperately, frantic with grief at the wreck of all their 
 happiness. 
 
 Three hours later, when the mist had cleared away, 
 leaving glorious summer daylight in its place, some children 
 from Hampton came laughing down the shingle to bathe 
 in the sea that was now all sparkling blue. They stripped, 
 and splashed for twenty golden minutes, shouting for joy 
 in the salt and sunshine, under the blue dome of sky. 
 One boy, glowing from the bath, with the glistening drops 
 on him like beads, raced down the sands, for the sun and 
 exercise to dry him. He stopped near the cliffs with a 
 startled cry, and the others came running, and then 
 clustered round him, frightened and suddenly silenced. 
 
 One of them flung on his clothes hastily, and raced to 
 the preventive station with his great news quivering on 
 his tongue. Craddock was there, and Captain Rockett, 
 who had gone over at Delilah's request to see the riding 
 officer. They hurried down to the beach.
 
 388 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 Bess lay there, at the foot of the cliffs, with her dark 
 hair free as in girlhood; her face marble-white, but very 
 beautiful and strangely young. Her eyes were wide open, 
 staring at the blue sky in which a lark was singing, though 
 the blindness of the mist clouded them still. 
 
 The men bent over her; touched her gently. There 
 was to be no more waking. 
 
 Up above, two white butterflies fluttered from the 
 grasses at the cliff's edge. In the summer air insects droned 
 and boomed; and a man was whistling at his work among 
 the corn. 
 
 Rockett and Craddock exchanged glances, and half 
 shook their heads. 
 
 "Poor little lass!" said Rockett, gulping. "Poor little 
 lass!" 
 
 Behind them, the little boys waited awestruck. 
 
 With a gentle, trembling hand, Captain Rockett closed 
 the lids with their dark, long lashes shutting out the 
 land with its trees and waving grasses; shutting out the 
 smiling sea and gallant ships; shutting out all this world's 
 colour and brightness; shutting out all its sorrow for ever. 
 
 Her spirit was not there: had it entered the jewelled 
 gates of John's Apocalypse? Was it reaching the quiet 
 and peaceful anchorage in Captain Rockett's thoughts, 
 with sunrise gilding trees and hills of a new but not un- 
 friendly country, and quays where smiling faces wait to 
 welcome newcomers, and lead them up the hill to the 
 house of God? 
 
 Her spirit was not there but those knotted fingers 
 that closed the eyes, still so young, closed them as if the 
 last touch of grief and friendship were a sacrament. All 
 this busy, striving, suffering, rejoicing world he was shut- 
 ting out; to leave her alone, it seemed, with God. 
 
 Craddock went off slowly to the station, while Rockett 
 waited. In her little hand, John's last note, in the round,
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 389 
 
 laboured, schoolboy lettering, was still tightly clenched. 
 Rockett's faded blue eyes brimmed over, and the slow 
 tears rolled down his tanned and wrinkled cheeks. Near 
 at hand, the sea, changeless yet ever changing, moaned 
 a drowsy requiem. 
 
 They carried her, very slowly, on a shutter brought 
 from the station, back to the Running Horse. Mrs. Rockett 
 came in, to help Delilah, red-eyed now with weeping; 
 and from the farm, soon afterwards, Mrs. Huntingdon 
 joined the sorrowful little party at the inn. 
 
 She was laid on the bed where, not many hours before, 
 John and she had been side by side, sad and wakeful, 
 dreading the morning that was about to break. 
 
 In the parlour, where John's slippers and her little 
 empty shoes stood side by side, and last night's pipe, 
 half choked with ash, lay on the spinet where it had been 
 put when her song ended, the mourners sat and talked in 
 whispers because of the dead girl who would hear no more 
 voices or music in this world for ever.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 THE minute's silence on the Heath, while the callous 
 business of the execution was transacting, broke at 
 last, like the crash of gathered waters. A half-shuddering 
 gasp ran through the vast a-tiptoe throng; they began 
 to whisper, to chat aloud a few to shout. The crowd, 
 wedged so closely, opened out, split into knots, and sent 
 off little companies of the less curious to all parts of the 
 Heath. Some took the road to Bearsted, passing John 
 by without notice. Had he shouted? Had the framed 
 words not found breath enough to reach even the nearest 
 ears? He did not know. Even now, he was gasping for 
 air after his long run. It seemed that, either through the 
 passing impotence of his voice, or the fascination of the 
 scene that had fixed all eyes and all thoughts, he had been 
 unnoticed. And George was dead. 
 
 A feeling of incredulity possessed him at first. Every- 
 thing had happened so quickly, so suddenly. It seemed 
 impossible that a life made up of so many days and nights, 
 so many thoughts and deeds, should have ended abruptly 
 in such a tiny space of time. Speech, sight, hearing, 
 touch all the senses and emotions, and the strength which 
 so many years had ministered to had been swung into 
 nothingness and darkness in the holding of a breath. 
 The hurry of the last catastrophe, after so many leisurely 
 years, left him confused, astounded. 
 
 Many of the people still pressed around the gibbet, 
 and were kept back by the javelin-men and officials. A 
 great part of the crowd swarmed over, talking and ges- 
 ticulating, to the Bull Inn across the Heath; still more 
 streamed back along the Maidstone road. John glanced 
 round him, at the solemn darkness of the pines, and the 
 
 390
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 391 
 
 stretch of common dotted with hurrying men; but he 
 tried to keep his eyes from that dread focus. There was 
 no use in waiting. Where the crime was murder, the 
 law retained the body of the condemned even in death. 
 His errand was over; he had failed. Dejectedly, he fol- 
 lowed the groups who took the Maidstone road. 
 
 His one thought now was home home to Bess; and 
 in Maidstone he would find some conveyance, no doubt, 
 to help him on his way. His throat was parched, and 
 he entered a hostelry in the High Street for a glass of ale; 
 he had no appetite for food. Bright summer sunshine 
 flecked the street, and brought out the colour of old houses 
 and swinging signs. Here and there the winds had tossed 
 into little heaps the strewings of straw that had been used, 
 during the assizes, to deaden the sound of traffic. In the 
 broad street were ranged, side by side, a dozen or so of 
 little hooded waggons, some with horses harnessed to them, 
 most with the shafts up-tilted. On each carrier's cart 
 was a board with the name of its destination in gaily painted 
 scroll-work. One cart was going shortly to Faversham, 
 and he bargained with the driver for a lift. He waited 
 impatiently for the start. Home! Home! It was the 
 one burden of his thoughts. 
 
 They started at last; the driver was taciturn, fortunately, 
 and devoted most of his attention to his horses. He made 
 one reference to the execution, asking John gruffly if he 
 had seen it. 
 
 "Yes," said John, reluctantly. 
 
 "I thoft so. Reckon it's turned your stomach a bit, 
 to look at your face. Died game, didn't he?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Died game? Why, he had died like a conqueror 
 like a General going into action, as one said of old Lord 
 Bal merino nothing in life fitting him so well as the 
 leaving it. The thrown-back head, the face changing
 
 392 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 from sudden gloom and resentment to decision and calm 
 happiness that momentary glance, before the crowd 
 strained forward, would remain in his brother's mind till 
 life's ending. The minute fraught with so much had been 
 fraught with a great resolution, a noble sacrifice. John 
 remembered, when they were little boys long back, how 
 his father's sternness would gain nothing from George but 
 sullen rebellion and defiance, while a single word of kind- 
 ness, his mother's loving hand and smiling voice checking 
 his outbursts, would melt him to submission, almost to 
 tears. John read everything that had passed through 
 his brother's mind at that last minute. He had gone to 
 his death hardened, desperate, meaning with his last 
 breath, in his last speech to the crowd, to throw all the 
 guilt, bitterly and falsely, on his brother. He had gone 
 to his death resenting the cruelty and blindness of men, 
 the cruelty and injustice of God. 
 
 And then, as his lips were opened, he had seen John 
 hurrying across the Heath and guessed his errand. 
 
 This broke him down. Love, or the sacrifice, broke 
 him down. Who could tell what great transaction passed 
 at that moment between George Kennett and his Maker? 
 In that moment he had the choice between life and death. 
 He could accept the substitution; he could reject it. 
 He chose and chose death. 
 
 All that restless ambition, all that vague longing, had 
 been satisfied. Not in war, not in revolt, had he been set 
 high above his fellows the object of all eyes. But there, 
 on the scaffold, with the summer sky above him, the sum- 
 mer wind singing in the pines, he had drawn for one little 
 space the eyes of assembled thousands and had acted 
 a part finer, nobler, than any dreamed. 
 
 As the carrier's van creaked its way back towards 
 Faversham, John began to feel the peace denied him 
 when he had, still grudgingly, resolved to obey the
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 393 
 
 imperious order of his heart. Circumstances had frustrated 
 his intention; the last cup of bitterness had been taken 
 from his lips; but he began to thank God, very fervently, 
 that he had resolved and endeavoured. His suffering 
 and Bess's, his long and terrible ride, had not been fruitless. 
 He seemed to catch a glimpse now of the inner working 
 of universal laws. Things more tremendous than the 
 snatching of life from death for a season had hung upon 
 his decision. It was his coming that had robbed George's 
 death of bitterness and impenitence, and his own surrender 
 had led to that supreme moment of renunciation and self- 
 sacrifice in which so much that was grasping and wrong 
 and wilful had been swallowed up. 
 
 John watched the slow passing of hop-fields and corn- 
 fields and sheep-dotted meadows; he saw the sleepy Kentish 
 villages with their inns, and grey churches clustered round 
 by quiet graves; he saw the women in the sun at their 
 cottage doors, the children playing in the fields, the men 
 at their round of work. But he saw all now with new eyes. 
 No longer heavens of brass cooped in slaves toiling in 
 misery and blindness with no aim or end. God was; 
 and God was good. Seen dimly, through suffering but 
 still seen was the great Father of all, too great to be held 
 by any creed, to be shut within any book, or ark, or shrine 
 in all these, yet greater than all working silently and 
 mysteriously in the hearts of men. Sin brought its penal- 
 ties, bitter and terrible; but even from the refuse, from 
 corruption, good was wrought at last, as, in the fields, 
 corn and wine and flowers come from changed pollution. 
 
 He left the van at Faversham, and started to walk home- 
 wards. Home! Home! He would tell Bess all every- 
 thing, now. All things had worked together for good. 
 If he were to blame for leaving his decision so late, he had 
 yet decided in time had not the eternal purpose ordered 
 otherwise; he begged forgiveness for what was wrong,
 
 394 RUNNING HORSE INN 
 
 and, feeling pardon, pardoned himself likewise. The sad- 
 ness of the morning's tragedy seemed robbed of its gloom 
 and pain by the manner of his brother's death. All his 
 hatred, all his resentment, all thought of their dissensions, 
 passed away, and left only chastened memories memo- 
 ries sad, but not harsh or poignant, of the days of child- 
 hood; of their summers by the sea; of the long winter 
 nights when they cuddled together in their little flannel 
 nightgowns; of the days when George and Bess and he 
 had lived and worked together at the inn, after the wars. 
 
 He stepped out briskly along the white roads under- 
 neath the trees, each yard taking him nearer home. The 
 journey in the morning mist, when he had seemed caught 
 by fate in a terrible trap from which even death might 
 not deliver him, seemed like a nightmare. He had longed, 
 like Swift, for some hole in the universe to creep out of 
 and be at rest. Now his spirits rose, in the reaction after 
 all his sufferings, to a great and yet solemn joy. How 
 good the world was! With all its sorrow, all its pain, 
 how much men had to thank their Maker for, that He had 
 set them in a world so wonderful, and given them their 
 share in a scheme so perfect, so fascinating perhaps so 
 endless. He had his birthright of life his title to all ex- 
 perience, not only here, perhaps, but in a thousand thou- 
 sand worlds, all wonderful and beautiful as this. 
 
 Faith! Faith! Preached so often, cloaked in so many 
 garbs by men seeing dimly, what a meaning it gave to 
 life and death! "Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him," 
 his heart sang. But God had not demanded his life. 
 Many years stretched before him; peaceful, happy life 
 like a summer's day, which at last should draw on softly 
 into twilight and evening. Bess would be with him, 
 sharing the sorrows that must come but would have their 
 meaning and their use sharing the joys which outnumber 
 human sorrows, and helping him to serve their day and
 
 RUNNING HORSE INN 395 
 
 generation. At last, when one was taken, it would be but 
 like a child going sleepy-eyed to bed a little before another. 
 Under the grass and daisies they would lie together at 
 last, with the sea-winds in the trees above them, and they 
 could leave the place and hour of waking to the Father 
 whom they had loved and trusted and not found wanting. 
 
 Home! Home! Home! Each step beat the refrain. 
 Soon he would clasp her to him again, all misunderstand- 
 ing, all secrets explained and revealed; they would mourn 
 together for the one whose better self had triumphed 
 finally in death; they would enjoy together; they would 
 shut the doors again, as so many times before, shutting 
 out the world as if their wedded life were but beginning. 
 
 There was the sea at last, smiling to welcome him. 
 Home! Home! 
 
 The uneven line of cottages and houses, with their roofs 
 of warm reds and soft russets crusted with grey and yellow 
 lichen, fronted the blue water and the long stretch of 
 shingle; white sails glinted in the sun on the horizon; 
 the arms of the mill creaked round against the unclouded 
 summer sky; he saw the hanging sign, the painted horse 
 blistered with heat, white with dust and salt he saw the 
 jutting windows and coloured blinds the door of home. 
 
 He came to the inn. 
 
 THE END
 
 THE VORTEX 
 
 BY THOMAS McKEAN 
 
 J2mo. Decorated Cloth, $1,50 
 
 The love-story is laid in Italy, and has to do with 
 the battle of two personalities. The leading characters 
 are drawn with a firmness and skill that will interest 
 every reader. 
 
 ' ' Mr. McKean gets enviably far away 
 from the smart novel that has the divorce 
 court as its finale and the trite conclusion. 
 A powerful moral novel, . . . that has 
 little to do with the frivolities." 
 
 Washington Club Fellow, 
 
 THE CHALLONERS 
 
 BY E. F. BENSON. 
 
 i2mo. Cloth, $1.50 
 
 ' ' When we remembered that E. F. 
 Benson was the author of ' Dodo, ' a 
 book about which every one was talking 
 a few years ago, we expected to find that 
 he had given us something pretty good 
 in ' The Challoners. ' We read it, breath- 
 lessly and absorbedly, and then we were 
 of the opinion that he had given us a 
 novel that is better than the book which 
 made him famous." 
 
 Newark Adertiser. 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA
 
 THE IMAGE IN THE SAND 
 
 A Love-Story Dealing with the Occult. 
 BY E. F. BENSON 
 
 izmo. Cloth, $1.50 
 
 ' ' The Image in the Sand " is a book that will en- 
 tertain every novel-reader and provoke discussion. It 
 speaks emphatically for the development of Mr. 
 Benson's powers as a writer, though it also emphasizes 
 that lightness of touch and happy faculty for sketching 
 character in outline which have marked his several 
 former books. 
 
 1 ' Spiritualism, hypnotism, demoniac 
 possession, white and black magic, 
 Oriental theosophy all are found among 
 the component parts of this tale. The 
 denouement is decidedly original and 
 highly imaginative. Decidedly, 'The 
 Image in the Sand ' will not fail to make 
 a strong appeal to every one who has any 
 . love for the marvellous and the unknown 
 or who appreciates a very well-written 
 story." Brooklyn Eagle. 
 
 ' ' The author of ' Dodo ' has written a 
 4 thriller. ' It is a spiritualistic story. Mr. 
 Benson sets part of his story in the East, 
 and part in London, and tells it in a 
 manner to keep the reader wide awake 
 and interested to the end. ' ' 
 
 Globe, N. Y. 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA
 
 THE ISSUE 
 
 By GEORGE MORGAN 
 
 Illustrated. Cloth, $1.50 
 
 "Will stand prom- 
 inently forth as the 
 strongest book that 
 the season has given 
 us. The novel is a 
 brilliant one, and 
 will command wide 
 attention. ' ' Phila- 
 delphia Public Led- 
 ger. 
 
 " The love story 
 running through the 
 book is very tender 
 and sweet. ' ' St. 
 Paul Despatch. 
 
 " Po, a sweet, lov- 
 able heroine." 
 The Milwaukee 
 Sentinel. 
 
 "Such novels as 
 ' The Issue' are rare 
 upon any theme. It 
 is a work that must 
 have cost tremen- 
 dous toil, a master- 
 piece. 1 1 is superior 
 to ' The Crisis.'" 
 Pittsburg Gazette. 
 
 "The best novel 
 of the Civil War 
 that we have had. ' ' 
 Baltimore Sun. 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA.
 
 THE HOUSEHOLD OF PETER 
 
 BY ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY 
 
 izmo. Cloth, $1.50 
 
 Perhaps no woman now writing has proven so 
 generally popular among young women as Miss Carey, 
 and all that need be said of her new book is that it will 
 realize every expectation aroused by "A Passage 
 Perilous ' ' and ' ' The Highway of Fate. ' ' 
 
 1 ' For girls who have outgrown childish 
 literature Miss Carey's books are most 
 desirable. They give wholesome and pure 
 views of life in a very interesting and en- 
 tertaining manner." Portland Press. 
 
 "Miss Carey ' s latest book is along the 
 lines that have already made her beloved 
 by thousands of readers. A spirited 
 story of intense human interest. ' ' 
 
 The Bookseller ; Chicago. 
 
 ' ' A pretty romance that, like all of its 
 predecessors, may be characterized as 
 sweet and wholesome. The story is 
 written in Miss Carey's own pleasant, 
 restful style, and is one of her best. ' ' 
 
 Louisville Courier-Journal. 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA
 
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