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 I III I II II III A 000129409 9