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 THE REVELLERS
 
 By LOUIS TRACY 
 
 THE WINGS OF THE MORNING 
 
 THE CAPTAIN OF THE KANSAS 
 
 THE WHEEL O' FORTUNE 
 
 A SON OF THE IMMORTALS 
 
 CYNTHIA'S CHAUFFEUR 
 
 THE MESSAGE 
 
 THE STOWAWAY 
 
 THE PILLAR OF LIGHT 
 
 THE SILENT BARRIER 
 
 THE "MIND THE PAINT" GIRL 
 
 ONE WONDERFUL NIGHT 
 
 THE TERMS OF SURRENDER 
 
 FLOWER OF THE GORSE 
 
 THE RED YEAR 
 
 THE GREAT MOGUL 
 
 MIRABEL'S ISLAND 
 
 THE DAY OF WRATH 
 
 HIS UNKNOWN WIFE 
 
 THE POSTMASTER'S DAUGHTER 
 
 THE REVELLERS
 
 THE 
 REVELLERS 
 
 BY 
 
 LOUIS TRACY 
 
 AUTHOR OP 
 
 1 THE WINGS OF THE MORNING," 
 
 1 THE POSTMASTER'S DAUGHTER,' 
 
 ETC., ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 EDWARD J. CLODE
 
 COPYKIBHT, 1917, BY 
 
 EDWARD J. CLODE 
 All rights reserved 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AME1UCA
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. QUESTIONINGS ..... . 1 
 
 II. STRANGERS, INDEED ...... 13 
 
 III. THE SEEDS OF MISCHIEF .... 27 
 
 IV. THE FEAST ........ 40 
 
 V. " IT Is THE FIRST STEP THAT COUNTS " 55 
 
 VI. WHEREIN THE RED BLOOD FLOWS . . 71 
 
 VII. GEORGE PICKERING PLAYS THE MAN . 88 
 
 VIII. SHOWING How MARTIN'S HORIZON 
 
 WIDENS . ....... 100 
 
 IX. THE WILDCAT . . . . ., . . 115 
 
 X. DEEPENING SHADOWS ..... 128 
 
 XI. FOR ONE, THE NIGHT; FOR ANOTHER, 
 
 THE DAWN ....... 140 
 
 XII. A FRIENDLY ARGUMENT .; . . . 153 
 
 XIII. A DYING DEPOSITION . > : . 172 
 
 XIV. THE STORM ..... ... 190 
 
 XV. THE UNWRITTEN LAW ..... 206 
 
 XVI. UNDERCURRENTS ..... > . 225 
 
 XVII. Two MOORLAND EPISODES .... 243 
 
 XVIII. THE SEVEN FULL YEARS . . . .272 
 
 XIX. OUT OF THE MISTS ...... 292 
 
 XX. THE RIGOR OF THE GAME . . . . 307 
 
 XXI. NEARING THE END . .; > 323 
 
 2138478
 
 CHAPTER I 
 QUESTIONINGS 
 
 < < A ND the king was much moved, and went up to 
 
 /-% the chamber over the gate, and wept : and as he 
 
 went, thus he said, O my son Absalom, my son, 
 
 my son Absalom! Would God I had died for thee, O 
 
 Absalom, my son, my son ! " 
 
 The voice of the reader was strident, his utterance 
 uneven, his diction illiterate. Yet he concluded the 
 18th chapter of the second Book of Samuel with an 
 unctuous force born of long familiarity with the text. 
 His laborious drone revealed no consciousness of the 
 humanism of the Jewish King. To suggest that the 
 Bible contained a mine of literature, a series of stories 
 of surpassing interest, portraying as truthfully the 
 lives of the men and women of to-day as of the nomad 
 race which a personal God led through the wilderness, 
 would have provoked from this man's mouth a sluggish 
 flood of protest. The slow-moving lips, set tight after 
 each syllabic struggle, the shaggy eyebrows overhanging 
 horn-rimmed spectacles, the beetling forehead and bull- 
 like head sunk between massive shoulders, the very clutch 
 of the big hands on the Bible held stiffly at a distance, 
 bespoke a triumphant dogmatism that found as little 
 actuality in the heartbroken cry of David as in a de- 
 scription of a seven-branched candlestick. 
 
 The boy who listened wondered why people should 
 
 1
 
 " think such a lot about " high priests and kings who 
 died so long ago. David was interesting enough as a 
 youth. The slaying of Goliath, the charming of Saul 
 with sweet music on a harp, appealed to the vivid, if 
 unformed, imagination of fourteen. But the temptation 
 of the man, the splendid efforts of the monarch to rule 
 a peevish people these were lost on him. Worse, they 
 wearied him, because, as it happened, he had a reasoning 
 brain. 
 
 He refused to credit all that he heard. It was hard 
 to believe that any man's hair could catch in an oak so 
 that he should be lifted up between heaven and earth, 
 merely because he rode beneath the tree on the back of 
 a mule. This sounded like the language of exaggera- 
 tion, and sturdy little Martin Court Holland hated 
 exaggeration. 
 
 Again, he took the winged words literally, and the 
 ease with which David saw, heard, spoke to the Lord 
 was disturbing. Such things were manifestly impossible 
 if David resembled other men, and that there were simi- 
 larities between the ruler of Israel ami certain male 
 inhabitants of Elmsdale was suggested by numberless 
 episodes of the very human history writ in the Book of 
 Kings. 
 
 " The Lord " was a terrific personality to Martin a 
 personality seated on a thunder-cloud, of which the 
 upper rim of gold and silver, shining gloriously against 
 a cerulean sky, was Heaven, and the sullen blackness 
 beneath, from which thunder bellowed and lightning 
 flashed, was Hell. How could a mere man, one who 
 pursued women like a too susceptible plowman, one who 
 " smote " his fellows, and " kissed " them, and ate with
 
 Questionings 3 
 
 them, hold instant communion with the tremendous 
 Unseen, the ruler of sun and storm, the mover of worlds? 
 
 " David inquired of the Lord " ; " David said to the 
 Lord " ; " The Lord answered unto David " these 
 phrases tortured a busy intelligence, and caused the big 
 brown eyes to flash restlessly toward the distant hills, 
 while quick ears and retentive brain paid close heed to 
 the text. 
 
 For it was the word, not the spirit, that John Bolland 
 insisted on. The boy knew too well the penalty of 
 forgetfulness. During half an hour, from five o'clock 
 each day, he was led drearily through the Sacred Book ; 
 if he failed to answer correctly the five minutes' ques- 
 tioning which followed, the lesson was repeated, verse 
 for verse, again, and yet again, as a punishment. 
 
 At half-past four o'clock the high tea of a north- 
 country farmhouse was served. Then the huge Bible 
 was produced solemnly, and no stress of circumstances, 
 no temporary call of other business, was permitted to 
 interfere with this daily task. At times, Bolland would 
 be absent at fairs or detained in some distant portion 
 of the farm. But Martin's " portion of the Scriptures " 
 would be marked for careful reading, and severe cor- 
 poral chastisement corrected any negligence. Such was 
 the old farmer's mania in this regard that his portly, 
 kind-hearted wife became as strict as John himself in 
 supervising the boy's lesson, merely because she dreaded 
 the scene that would follow the slightest lapse. 
 
 So Martin could answer glibly that Ahimaaz was the 
 son of Zadok and that Joab plunged three darts into 
 Absalom's heart while the scapegrace dangled from the 
 oak. Of the love that David bore his son, of the state-
 
 4 The Revellers 
 
 craft that impelled a servant of Israel to slay the dis- 
 turber of the national peace, there was never a hint. 
 Bolland's stark Gospel was harshly definite. There 
 was no channel in his gnarled soul for the turbulent life- 
 stream flowing through the ancient text. 
 
 The cold-blooded murder of Absalom, it is true, in- 
 duced in the boy's mind a certain degree of belief in the 
 narrative, a belief somewhat strained by the manner of 
 Absalom's capture. Through his brain danced a tableau 
 vivant of the scene in the wood. He saw the gayly 
 caparisoned mule gallop madly away, leaving its rider 
 struggling with desperate arms to free his hair from 
 the rough grasp of the oak. 
 
 Then, through the trees came a startled man-at-arms, 
 who ran back and brought one other, a stately warrior in 
 accouterments that shone like silver. A squabble arose 
 between them as to the exact nature of the King's order 
 concerning this same Absalom, but it was speedily deter- 
 mined by the leader, Joab, snatching three arrows from 
 the soldier's quiver and plunging them viciously, one 
 after the other, into the breast of the man hanging be- 
 tween the heaven and the earth. 
 
 Martin wondered if Absalom spoke to Joab. Did he 
 cry for mercy ? Did his eyes glare awfully at his relent- 
 less foe? Did he squeal pitiful gibberish like Tom 
 Chandler did when he chopped off his fingers in the hay- 
 cutter? How beastly it must be to be suspended by 
 your own hair, and see a man come forward with three 
 barbed darts which he sticks into your palpitating 
 bosom, probably cursing you the while! 
 
 And then appeared from the depths of the wood ten 
 young men, who behaved like cowardly savages, for they
 
 Questionings 5 
 
 hacked the poor corpse with sword and spear, and made 
 mock of a gallant if erring soldier who would have slain 
 them all if he met them on equal terms. 
 
 This was the picture that flitted before the boy's 
 eyes, and for one instant his tongue forgot its habitual 
 restraint. 
 
 " Father," he said, " why didn't David ask God to 
 save his son, if he wished him to live? " 
 
 " Nay, lad, I doan't knoa. You mun listen te what's 
 written i' t' Book no more an' no less. I doan't ho'd 
 wi' their commentaries an' explanations, an' what oor 
 passon calls anilitical disquisitions. Tak' t' Word as 
 it stands. That's all 'at any man wants." 
 
 Now, be it observed that the boy used good English, 
 whereas the man spoke in the broad dialect of the dales. 
 Moreover, Bolland, an out-and-out Dissenter, was clan- 
 nish enough to speak of " our " parson, meaning thereby 
 the vicar of the parish, a gentleman whom he held at 
 arm's length in politics and religion. 
 
 The latter discrepancy was a mere village colloquial- 
 ism; the other the marked difference between father 
 and son was startling, not alone by reason of their 
 varying speech, but by the queer contrast they offered 
 in manners and appearance. 
 
 Bolland was a typical yeoman of the moor edge, a 
 tall, strong man, twisted and bent like the oak which 
 betrayed Absalom, slow in his movements, heavy of foot, 
 and clothed in brown corduroy which resembled curi- 
 ously the weatherbeaten bark of a tree. There was a 
 rugged dignity in his bearded face, and the huge spec- 
 tacles he had now pushed high up on his forehead lent 
 a semblance of greater age than he could lay claim to.
 
 6 The Revellers 
 
 Yet was he a lineal descendant of Gurth, the swineherd, 
 Gurth, uncouth and unidealized. 
 
 The boy, a sturdy, country-built youngster in figure 
 and attire, had a face of much promise. His brow was 
 lofty and open, his mouth firm and well formed, his eyes 
 fearless, if a trifle dreamy at times. His hands, too, 
 were not those of a farmer's son. Strong they 
 were and scarred with much use, but the fingers 
 tapered elegantly, and the thumbs were long and 
 straight. 
 
 Certainly, the heavy-browed farmer, with his droop- 
 ing nether lip and clumsy spatulate digits, had not be- 
 queathed these bucolic attributes to his son. As they 
 sat there, in the cheerful kitchen where the sunbeams 
 fell on sanded floor and danced on the burnished con- 
 tents of a full " dresser," they presented a dissimilarity 
 that was an outrage on heredity. 
 
 Usually, the reading ended, Martin effaced himself 
 by way of the back door. Thence, through a garden 
 orchard that skirted the farmyard, he would run across 
 a meadow, jump two hedges into the lane which led back 
 to the village street, and so reach the green where the 
 children played after school hours. 
 
 He was forced early to practice a degree of dissimu- 
 lation. Though he hated a lie, he at least acted a rever- 
 ent appreciation of the chapter just perused. His 
 boyish impulses lay with the cricketers, the minnow- 
 catchers, the players of prisoner's base, the joyous 
 patrons of well-worn " pitch " and gurgling brook. But 
 he knew that the slightest indication of grudging this 
 daily half-hour would mean the confiscation of the free 
 romp until supper-time at half-past eight. So he paid
 
 Questionings 7 
 
 heed to the lesson, and won high praise from his precep- 
 tor in the oft-expressed opinion: 
 
 " Martin will make a rare man i' time." 
 
 To-day he did not hurry away as usual. For one 
 reason, he was going with a gamekeeper to see some 
 ferreting at six o'clock, and there was plenty of time; 
 for another, it thrilled him to find that there were epi- 
 sodes in the Bible quite as exciting as any in the pages 
 of " The Scalp-Hunters," a forbidden work now hidden 
 with others in the store of dried bracken at the back 
 of the cow-byre. 
 
 So he said rather carelessly : " I wonder if he kicked? " 
 
 " You wunner if whea kicked? " came the slow 
 response. 
 
 " Absalom, when Joab stabbed him. The other day, 
 when the pigs were killed, they all kicked like mad." 
 
 Bolland laid down the Bible and glanced at Martin 
 with a puzzled air. He was not annoyed or even sur- 
 prised at the unlooked-for deduction. It had simply 
 never occurred to him that one might read the Bible 
 and construct actualities from the plain-spoken text. 
 
 " Hoo div' I knoa? " he said calmly; "it says nowt 
 about it i' t' chapter." 
 
 Then Martin awoke with a start. He saw how nearly 
 he had betrayed himself a second time, how ready were 
 the lips to utter ungoverned thoughts. 
 
 He flushed slightly. 
 
 " Is that all for to-day, father? " he said. 
 
 Before Bolland could answer, there came a knock at 
 the door. 
 
 " See whea that is," said the farmer, readjusting his 
 spectacles.
 
 8 The Revellers 
 
 A big, hearty-looking young man entered. He 
 wore clothes of a sporting cut and carried a hunt- 
 ing-crop, with the long lash gathered in his fin- 
 gers. 
 
 " Oah, it's you, is it, Mr. Pickerin'?" said Bolland, 
 and Martin's quick ears caught a note of restraint, 
 almost of hostility, in the question. 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Bolland, an' how are ye? " was the more 
 friendly greeting. " I just dropped in to have a settle- 
 ment about that beast." 
 
 "A sattlement! What soart o' sattlement?" 
 
 The visitor sat down, uninvited, and produced some 
 papers from his pocket. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Bolland," he said quietly, "it's not 
 more'n four months since I gave you sixty pounds for 
 a thoroughbred shorthorn, supposed to be in calf to 
 Bainesse Boy the Third." 
 
 " Right enough, Mr. Pickerin'. You've gotten t' 
 certificates and t' receipt for t' stud fee." 
 
 Martin detected the latent animosity in both voices. 
 The reiterated use of the prefix " Mr." was an exag- 
 gerated politeness that boded a dispute. 
 
 " Receipts, certificates ! " cried Pickering testily. 
 " What good are they to me ? She cannot carry a calf. 
 For all the use I can make of her, I might as well have 
 thrown the money in the fire." 
 
 " Eh, but she's a well-bred 'un," said Bolland, with 
 sapient head-shake. 
 
 " She might be a first-prize winner at the Royal by 
 her shape and markings ; but, as matters stand, she'll 
 bring only fifteen pounds from a butcher. I stand to 
 lose forty-five pounds by the bargain."
 
 Questionings 9 
 
 " You canna fly i' t' feace o' Providence, Mr. 
 Pickerin'." 
 
 " Providence has little to do with it, I fancy. I can 
 sell her to somebody else, if I like to work a swindle 
 with her. I had my doubts at the time that she was too 
 cheap." 
 
 John Bolland rose. His red face was dusky with 
 anger, and it sent a pang through Martin's heart to see 
 something of fear there, too. 
 
 " Noo, what are ye drivin' at ? " he growled, speaking 
 with ominous calmness. 
 
 " You know well enough," came the straight answer. 
 " The poor thing has something wrong with her, and she 
 will never hold a calf. Look here, Bolland, meet me 
 fairly in the matter. Either give me back twenty 
 pounds, and we'll cry ' quits,' or sell me another next 
 spring at the same price, and I'll take my luck." 
 
 Perhaps this via media might have been adopted had 
 it presented itself earlier. But the word " swindle " 
 stuck in the farmer's throat, and he sank back into his 
 chair. 
 
 " Nay, nay," he said. " A bargain's a bargain. 
 You've gotten t' papers " 
 
 It was the buyer's turn to rise. 
 
 " To the devil with you and your papers ! " he 
 shouted. " Do you think I came here without making 
 sure of my facts? Twice has this cow been in calf in 
 your byre, and each time she missed. You knew her 
 failing, and sold her under false pretenses. Of course, 
 I cannot prove it, or I would have the law of you ; but I 
 did think you would act squarely." 
 
 For some reason the elder Bolland was in a towering
 
 10 The Revellers 
 
 rage. Martin had never before seen him so angry, and 
 the boy was perplexed by the knowledge that what 
 Pickering said was quite true. 
 
 " I'll not be sworn at nor threatened wi' t' law in my 
 own house," bellowed the farmer. " Get out ! Look tiv' 
 your own business an' leave me te follow mine." 
 
 Pickering, too, was in a mighty temper. He took a 
 half stride forward and shook out the thong of the whip. 
 
 " You psalm-singing humbug ! " he thundered. " If 
 you were a younger man " 
 
 Martin jumped between them ; his right hand clenched 
 a heavy kitchen poker. 
 
 Pickering half turned to the door with a bitter laugh. 
 
 " All right, my young cub ! " he shouted. " I'm not 
 such a fool, thank goodness, as to make bad worse. It's 
 lucky for you, boy, that you are not of the same kidney 
 as that old ranter there. Catch me ever having more to 
 do with any of his breed." 
 
 " An' what affair is it of yours, Mr. Pickerin', who 
 the boy belongs to? If all tales be true, you can't 
 afford to throw stones at other f olks's glass houses ! " 
 
 Mrs. Bolland, stout, hooded, aproned, and fiery red 
 in face, had come from the dairy, and now took a hand 
 in the argument. 
 
 Pickering, annoyed at the unlooked-for presence of 
 a woman, said sternly : 
 
 " Talk to your husband, not to me, ma'am. He 
 wronged me by getting three times the value for a use- 
 less beast, and if you can convince him that he took an 
 unfair advantage, I'm willing, even now " 
 
 But Mrs. Bolland had caught the flicker of amaze- 
 ment in Martin's eye and was not to be mollified.
 
 Questionings 11 
 
 "Who are you, I'd like to know?" she shrilled, 
 " comin' te one's house an' scandalizin' us? A nice 
 thing, to be sure, for a man like you to call John Bol- 
 land a wrongdoer. The cow won't calve, won't she? 
 'Tis a dispensation on you, George Pickerin'. You're 
 payin' for yer own misdeeds. There's plenty i' Elms- 
 dale whea ken your char-ak-ter, let me tell you that. 
 What's become o' Betsy Thwaites ? " 
 
 But Pickering had resigned the contest. He was 
 striding toward the " Black Lion," where a dogcart 
 awaited him, and he laughed to himself as the flood of 
 vituperation swelled from the door of the farm. 
 
 " Gad ! " he muttered, " how these women must cackle 
 in the market! One old cow is hardly worth so much 
 fuss!" 
 
 Still smiling at the storm he had raised, he gathered 
 the reins, gave Fred, the ostler, a sixpence, and would 
 have driven off had he not seen a pretty serving-maid 
 gazing out through an upper window. Her face looked 
 familiar. 
 
 " Hello ! " he cried. " You and I know each other, 
 don't we? " 
 
 " No, we doan't ; an' we're not likely to," was the pert 
 reply. 
 
 " Eh, my ! What have I done now? " 
 
 " Nowt to me, but my sister is Betsy Thwaites." 
 
 " The deuce she is ! Betsy isn't half as nice-looking 
 as you." 
 
 " More shame on you that says it." 
 
 " But, my dear girl, one should tell the truth and 
 shame the devil." 
 
 " Just listen to him ! " Yet the window was raised a
 
 12 The Revellers 
 
 little higher, and the girl leaned out, for Pickering was 
 a handsome man, with a tremendous reputation for gal- 
 lantry of a somewhat pronounced type. 
 
 Fred, the stable help, struck the cob smartly with his 
 open hand. Pickering swore, and bade him leave the 
 mare alone and be off. 
 
 " I was sorry for Betsy," he said, when the prancing 
 pony was quieted, " but she and I agreed to differ. I 
 got her a place at Hereford, and hope she'll be married 
 soon." 
 
 " You'll get me no place at Hereford, Mr. Pickerin' ' 
 this with a coquettish toss of the head. 
 
 " Of course not. When is the feast here? " 
 
 " Next Monday it starts." 
 
 " Very well. Good-by. I'll see you on Monday." 
 
 He blew her a kiss, and she laughed. As the smart 
 turnout rattled through the village she looked after him. 
 
 " Betsy always did say he was such a man," she mur- 
 mured. " I'll smack his feace, though, if he comes near 
 me a-Monday." 
 
 And Fred, leaning sulkily over the yard gate, spat 
 viciously on Pickering's sixpence. 
 
 " Coomin' here for t' feast, is he?" he growled. 
 " Happen he'd better bide i' Nottonby."
 
 STRANGERS, INDEED 
 
 PICKERING left ruffled breasts behind him. The 
 big farm in the center of the village was known 
 as the White House, and had been owned by a Bol- 
 land since there were Bollands in the county. It was 
 perched on a bank that rose steeply some twenty feet 
 or more from the main road. Cartways of stiff gradient 
 led down to the thoroughfare on either hand. A strong 
 retaining wall, crowned with gooseberry bushes, marked 
 the confines of the garden, which adjoined a row of cot- 
 tages tenanted by laborers. Then came the White 
 House itself, thatched, cleanly, comfortable-looking; 
 beyond it, all fronting on the road, were stables and 
 outbuildings. 
 
 Behind lay the remainder of the kitchen garden and 
 an orchard, backed by a strip of meadowland that 
 climbed rapidly toward the free moor with its whins and 
 heather a far-flung range of mountain given over to 
 grouse and hardy sheep, and cleft by tiny ravines of ex- 
 ceeding beauty. 
 
 Across the village street stood some modern iron- 
 roofed buildings, where Bolland kept his prize stock, 
 and here was situated the real approach to the couple 
 of hundred acres of rich arable land which he farmed. 
 The house and rear pastures were his own ; he rented the 
 rest. Of late years he had ceased to grow grain, save 
 
 13
 
 14 The Revellers 
 
 for the limited purposes of his stock, and had gone in 
 more and more for pedigree cattle. 
 
 Pickering's words had hurt him sorely, since they held 
 an element of truth. The actual facts were these: One 
 of his best cows had injtfred herself by jumping a fence, 
 and a calf was born prematurely. Oddly enough, a 
 similar accident had occurred the following year. On 
 the third occasion, when the animal was mated with 
 Bainesse Boy III, Bolland thought it best not to tempt 
 fortune again, but sold her for something less than the 
 enhanced value which the circumstances warranted. 
 From a similar dam and the same sire he bred a yearling 
 bull which realized 250, or nearly the rent of his hold- 
 ing, so Pickering had really overstated his case, making 
 no allowance for the lottery of stock-raising. 
 
 The third calf might have been normal and of great 
 value. It was not. Bolland suspected the probable 
 outcome and had acted accordingly. It was the charge 
 of premeditated unfairness that rankled and caused him 
 such heart-burning. 
 
 When Mrs. Bolland, turkey-red in face, and with eyes 
 still glinting fire, came in and slammed the door, she 
 told Martin, angrily, to be off, and not stand there with 
 his ears cocked like a terrier's. 
 
 The boy went out. He did not follow his accustomed 
 track. He hesitated whether or not to go rabbiting. 
 Although far too young to attach serious import to the 
 innuendoes he had heard, he could not help wondering 
 what Pickering meant by that ironical congratulation 
 on the subject of his paternity. 
 
 His mother, too, had not repelled the charge directly, 
 but had gone out of her way to heap counter-abuse on
 
 Strangers, Indeed 15 
 
 the vilifier. It was odd, to say the least of it, and he 
 found himself wishing heartily that either the un- 
 fortunate cow had not been sold or that his father had 
 met Mr. Pickering's protests more reasonably. 
 
 A whistle came from the lane that led up to the moor. 
 Perched on a gate was a white-headed urchin. 
 
 " Aren't ye coomin' te t' green? " was his cry, seeing 
 that Martin heard him. 
 
 " Not this evening, thanks." 
 
 " Oah, coom on. They're playin' tig, an' none of 'em 
 can ketch Jim Bates." 
 
 That settled it. Jim Bates's pride must be lowered, 
 and ferrets were forgotten. 
 
 But Jim Bates had his revenge. If he could not run 
 as fast as Martin, he made an excellent pawn in the 
 hands of fortune. Had the boy gone to the rabbit 
 warren, he would not have seen the village again until 
 after eight o'clock, and, possibly, the current of his life 
 might have entered a different runnel. In the event, 
 however, he was sauntering up the village street, when 
 he encountered a lady and a little girl, accompanied by 
 a woman whose dress reminded him of nuns seen in 
 pictures. The three were complete strangers, and 
 although Martin was unusually well-mannered for one 
 reared in a remote Yorkshire hamlet, he could not help 
 staring at them fixedly. 
 
 The Normandy nurse alone was enough to draw the 
 eyes of the whole village, and Martin knew well it was 
 owing to mere chance that a crowd of children was not 
 following her already. 
 
 The lady was tall and of stately carriage. She was 
 dressed quietly, but in excellent taste. Her very full
 
 16 The Revellers 
 
 face looked remarkably pink, and her large blue eyes 
 stared out of puffy sockets. Beyond these unfavorable 
 details, she was a handsome woman, and the boy thought 
 vaguely that she must have motored over from the castle 
 midway between Elmsdale and the nearest market town 
 of Nottonby. 
 
 Yet it was on the child that his wondering gaze dwelt 
 longest. She looked about ten years old. Her elfin 
 face was enshrined in jet-black hair, and two big 
 bright eyes glanced inquiringly at him from the depths 
 of a wide-brimmed, flowered-covered hat. A broad blue 
 sash girdled her white linen dress ; the starched skirts 
 stood out like the frills of a ballet dancer. 
 
 Her shapely legs were bare from above the knees, 
 and her tiny feet were encased in sandals. At Trouville 
 she would be pronounced " sweet " by enthusiastic ad- 
 mirers of French fashion, but in a north-country vil- 
 lage she was absurdly out of place. Nevertheless, being 
 a remarkably self-possessed little maiden, she returned 
 with interest Martin's covert scrutiny. 
 
 He would have passed on, but the lady lifted a pair 
 of mounted eyeglasses and spoke to him. 
 
 " Boy," she said in a flute-like voice, " can you tell 
 me which is the White House ? " 
 
 Martin's cap flew off. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," he said, pointing. " That is it. I 
 live there." 
 
 " Oh, indeed. And what is your name ? " 
 
 " Martin Court Bolland, ma'am." 
 
 " What an odd name. Why were you christened 
 Martin Court?" 
 
 " I really don't know, ma'am. I didn't bother about
 
 Strangers, Indeed 17 
 
 it at the time, and since then have never troubled to 
 inquire." 
 
 Now, to be candid, Martin did not throw off this 
 retort spontaneously. It was a little effusion built up 
 through the years, the product of frequent necessity to 
 answer the question. But the lady took it as a corusca- 
 tion of rustic wit, and laughed. She turned to the 
 nurse : 
 
 " E m'a rendu la monnaie de ma piece, Fran9oise." 
 
 " J'en suis bien sur, madame, mais qu'est-ce qu'il a 
 dit? " said the nurse. 
 
 The other translated rapidly, and the nurse grinned. 
 
 " Ah, il est nai'f , le petit," she commented. " Et tres 
 gentil." 
 
 " Oh, maman," chimed in the child, " je serais 
 heureuse si vous vouliez me permettre de jouer avec ce 
 joli gar9on." 
 
 " Attendez, ma belle. Pas si vite. . . . Now, Mar- 
 tin Court, take me to your mother." 
 
 Not knowing exactly what to do with his cap, the boy 
 had kept it in his hand. The foregoing conversation 
 was, of course, so much Greek in his ears. He realized 
 that they were talking about him, and was fully alive 
 to the girl's demure admiration. The English words 
 came with the more surprise, seeing that they followed 
 so quickly on some remark in an unknown tongue. 
 
 He led the way at once, hoping that his mother had 
 regained her normal condition of busy cheerful- 
 ness. 
 
 Silence reigned in the front kitchen when he pressed 
 the latch. The room was empty, but the clank of pat- 
 tens in the yard revealed that the farmer's thrifty wife
 
 18 The Revellers 
 
 was sparing her skirts from the dirt while she crossed 
 to the pig tub with a pailful of garbage. 
 
 "Will you take a seat, ma'am?" said Martin po- 
 litely. " I'll tell mother you are here." 
 
 With a slight awkwardness he pulled three oaken 
 chairs from the serried rank they occupied along the 
 wall beneath the high-silled windows. Feeling all eyes 
 fixed on him quizzically, he blushed. 
 
 " Ah, v'la le p'tit. II rougit ! " laughed the nurse. 
 
 " Don't tease him, nurse ! " cried the child in English. 
 " He is a nice boy. I like him." 
 
 Clearly this was for Martin's benefit. Already the 
 young lady was a coquette. 
 
 Mrs. Bolland, hearing there were " ladies " to visit 
 her, entered with trepidation. She expected to meet 
 the vicar's aunt and one of that lady's friends. In a 
 moment of weakness she had consented to take charge 
 of the refreshment stall at a forthcoming bazaar in aid 
 of certain church funds. But Bolland was told that 
 the incumbent was adopting ritualistic practices, so he 
 sternly forbade his better half to render any assistance 
 whatsoever. The Established Church was bad enough; 
 it was a positive scandal to introduce into the service 
 aught that savored of Rome. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Bolland therefore racked her brain for a 
 reasonable excuse as she crossed the yard, and it is not 
 to be wondered at if she was struck almost dumb with 
 surprise at sight of the strangers. 
 
 "Are you Mrs. Bolland?" asked the lady, without 
 rising, and surveying her through the eyeglasses with 
 head tilted back. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am."
 
 Strangers, Indeed 19 
 
 " Ah. Exactly. I er am staying at The Elms 
 for some few weeks, and the people there recommended 
 you as supplying excellent dairy produce. I am er 
 exceedingly particular about butter and milk, as my 
 little girl is so delicate. Have you any objection to 
 allowing me to inspect your dairy? I may add that I 
 will pay you well for all that I order." 
 
 The lady's accent, no less than the even flow of her 
 words, joined to unpreparedness for such fashionable 
 visitors, temporarily bereft Mrs. Holland of a quick, if 
 limited, understanding. 
 
 " Did ye say ye wanted soom bootermilk ? " she 
 cried vacantly. 
 
 " No, mother," interrupted Martin anxiously. For 
 the first time in his life he was aware of a hot and 
 uncomfortable feeling that his mother was manifestly 
 inferior to certain other people in the world. " The 
 lady wishes to see the dairy." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " She wants to buy things from you, and er I sup- 
 pose she would like to sefe what sort of place we keep 
 them in." 
 
 No manner of explanation could have restored Mrs. 
 Holland's normal senses so speedily as the slightest hint 
 that .uncleanliness could harbor its microbes in her 
 house. 
 
 " My goodness, ma'am," she cried, " whea's bin tellin' 
 you that my pleace hez owt wrong wi't ? " 
 
 Now it was the stranger's turn to appeal to Martin, 
 and the boy showed his mettle by telling his mother, in 
 exact detail, the request made by the lady and her refer- 
 ence to the fragile-looking child.
 
 20 The Revellers 
 
 Mrs. Holland's wrath subsided, and her lips widened 
 in a smile. 
 
 " Oah, if that's all," she said, " coom on, ma'am, an' 
 welcome. Ye canna be too careful about sike things, 
 an' yer little lass do look pukey, te be sure." 
 
 The lady, gathering her skirts for the perilous pas- 
 sage of the yard, followed the farmer's wife. 
 
 Martin and the girl sat and stared at each other. 
 She it was who began the conversation. 
 
 " Have you lived here long? " she said. 
 
 " All my life," he answered. Pretty and well-dressed 
 as she was, he had no dread of her. He regarded girls 
 as spiteful creatures who scratched one another like 
 cats when angry and shrieked hysterically when they 
 pla'yed. 
 
 " That's not very long," she cried. 
 
 " No ; but it's longer than you've lived anywhere else." 
 
 " Me ! I have lived everywhere in London, Berlin, 
 Paris, Nice, Montreux O, je ne sais I beg your par- 
 don. Perhaps you don't speak French? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Would you like to learn? " 
 
 " Yes, very much." 
 
 " I'll teach you. It will be such fun. I know all 
 sorts of naughty words. I learnt them in Monte Carlo, 
 where I could hear the servants chattering when I was 
 put to bed. Watch me wake up nurse. Fran9oise, mon 
 chou! Cre nom d'un pipe, mais que vous etes triste 
 aujourd'hui! " 
 
 The bonne started. She shook the child angrily. 
 
 " You wicked girl ! " she cried in French. " If 
 madame heard you, she would blame me."
 
 Strangers, Indeed 21 
 
 The imp cuddled her bare knees in a paroxysm of 
 glee. 
 
 " You see," she shrilled. " I told you so." 
 
 " Was all that swearing? " demanded Martin gravely. 
 
 " Some of it." 
 
 " Then you shouldn't do it. If I were your brother, 
 I'd hammer you." 
 
 " Oh, would you, indeed ! I'd like to see any boy lay 
 a finger on me. I'd tear his hair out by the roots." 
 
 , Naturally, the talk languished for a while, until 
 Martin thought he had perhaps been rude in speaking 
 so brusquely. 
 
 " I'm sorry if I offended you," he said. 
 
 The saucy, wide-open eyes sparkled. 
 
 " I forgive you," she said. " How old are you? " 
 
 "Fourteen. And you?" 
 
 " Twelve." 
 
 He was surprised. " I thought you were younger," he 
 said. 
 
 " So does everybody. You see, I'm tiny, and mamma 
 dresses me in this baby way. I don't mind. I know 
 your name. You haven't asked me mine." 
 
 " Tell me," he said with a smile. 
 
 " Angele. Angele Saumarez." 
 
 " I'll never be able to say that," he protested. 
 
 " Oh, yes, you will. It's quite easy. It sounds 
 Frenchy, but I am English, except in my ways, mother 
 says. Now try. Say ' An ' " 
 
 " Ang " 
 
 " Not so much through your nose. This way 
 ' An-gele.' " 
 
 The next effort was better, but tuition halted abruptly
 
 22 The Revellers 
 
 when Martin discovered that Angele's mother, instead 
 of being " Mrs. Saumarez," was " the Baroness Irma 
 von Edelstein." 
 
 " Oh, crikey ! " he blurted out. " How can that be? " 
 
 Angele laughed at his blank astonishment. 
 
 " Mamma is a German baroness," she explained. 
 " My papa was a colonel in the British army, but 
 mamma did not lose her courtesy title when she mar- 
 ried. Of course, she is Mrs. Saumarez, too." 
 
 These subtleties of Burke and the Almanach de 
 Gotha went over Martin's head. 
 
 " It sounds a bit like an entry in a stock catalogue," 
 he said. 
 
 Angele, in turn, was befogged, but saw instantly that 
 the village youth was not sufficiently reverent to the 
 claims of rank. 
 
 " You can never be a gentleman unless you learn these 
 things," she announced airily. 
 
 " You don't say," retorted Martin with a smile. He 
 was really far more intelligent than this pert monitress, 
 and had detected a curious expression on the stolid face 
 of Fran9oise when the Baroness von Edelstein's name 
 cropped up in a talk which she could not understand. 
 The truth was that the canny Norman woman, though 
 willing enough to take a German mistress's gold, thor- 
 oughly disliked the lady's nationality. Martin could 
 only guess vaguely at something of the sort, but the 
 mere guess sufficed. 
 
 Angele, however, wanted no more bickering just then. 
 She was about to resume the lesson when the Baroness 
 and Mrs. Bolland re-entered the house. Evidently the 
 inspection of the dairy had been satisfactory, and the
 
 Strangers, Indeed 23 
 
 lady had signified her approval in words that pleased 
 the older woman greatly. 
 
 The visitor was delighted, too, with the old-world 
 appearance of the kitchen, the heavy rafters with their 
 load of hams and sides of bacon, the oaken furniture, 
 the spotless white of the well-scrubbed ash-topped table, 
 the solemn grandfather's clock, and the rough stone 
 floor, over which soft red sandstone had been rubbed 
 when wet. 
 
 By this time the tact of the woman of society had 
 accommodated her words and utterance to the limited 
 comprehension of her hearer, and she displayed such 
 genuine interest in the farm and its belongings that Mrs. 
 Bolland gave her a hearty invitation to come next morn- 
 ing, when the light would be stronger. Then " John " 
 would let her see his prize stock and the extensive build- 
 ings on " t' other side o' t' road. . . . T'kye (the 
 cows) were fastened up for t'neet " by this time. 
 
 The baroness was puzzled, but managed to catch the 
 speaker's drift. 
 
 " I do not rise very early," she said. " I breakfast 
 about eleven" she could not imagine what a sensation 
 this statement caused in a house where breakfast was 
 served never later than seven o'clock " and it takes me 
 an hour to dress; but I can call about twelve, if that 
 will suit." 
 
 " Ay, do, ma'am," was the cheery agreement. " You'll 
 be able to see t' farm-hands havin' their dinner. It's a 
 fair treat te watch them men an' lads puttin' away a 
 beefsteak pie." 
 
 " And this is your little boy ? " said the other, evi- 
 dently inclined for gossip.
 
 24 The Revellers 
 
 Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " He is a splendid little fellow. What a nice name 
 you gave him Martin Court Bolland so unusual. 
 How came you to select his Christian names? " 
 
 The question caused the farmer's wife a good deal of 
 unnoticed embarrassment. The baroness was looking 
 idly at an old colored print of York Castle, and the 
 boy himself was far too taken up with Angele to listen 
 to the chat of his elders. 
 
 Mrs. Bolland laughed confusedly. 
 
 "Martin," she said. " Tak t' young leddy an' t' 
 nurse as far as t' brig, an' show 'em t' mill." 
 
 The baroness was surprised at this order, but an ex- 
 planation was soon forthcoming. In her labored speech 
 and broad dialect, the farmer's wife revealed a startling 
 romance. Thirteen years ago her husband's brother 
 died suddenly while attending a show at Islington, and 
 the funeral took John and herself to London. They 
 found the place so vast and noisy that it overwhelmed 
 them; but in the evening, after the ceremony at Abn^y 
 Park, they strolled out from their hotel near King's 
 Cross Station to see the sights. 
 
 Not knowing whither they were drifting, they found 
 themselves, an hour later, gazing at St. Paul's Cathedral 
 from the foot of Ludgate Hill. They were walking 
 toward the stately edifice, when a terrible thing hap- 
 pened. 
 
 A young woman fell, or threw herself, from a fourth- 
 floor window onto the pavement of St. Martin's Court. 
 In her arms was an infant, a boy twelve months old. 
 P idence saved him from the instant death met by his 
 lother. A projecting signboard caught his clothing,
 
 Strangers, Indeed 25 
 
 tore him from the encircling arms, and held him a pre- 
 carious second until the rent frock gave way. 
 
 But John Bolland's sharp eyes had noted the child's 
 momentary escape. He sprang forward and caught the 
 tiny body as it dropped. At that hour, nearly nine 
 o'clock, the court was deserted, and Ludgate Hill hact 
 lost much of its daily crowd. Of course, a number of 
 passers-by gathered; and a policeman took the names 
 and address of the farmer and his wife, they being the 
 only actual witnesses of the tragedy. 
 
 But what was to be done with the baby? Mrs. Bol- 
 land volunteered to take care of it for the night, and 
 the policeman was glad enough to leave it with her when 
 he ascertained that no one in the house from which the 
 woman fell knew anything about her save that she was 
 a " Mrs. Martineau," and rented a furnished room be- 
 neath the attic. 
 
 The inquest detained the Bollands another day in 
 town. Police inquiries showed that the unfortunate 
 young woman had committed suicide. A letter, stuck 
 to a dressing-table with a hatpin, stated her intention, 
 and that her name was not Martineau. Would the lady 
 like to see the letter? 
 
 " Oh, dear, no ! " said the baroness hastily. " Your 
 story is awfully interesting, but I could not bear to read 
 the poor creature's words." 
 
 Well, the rest was obvious. Mrs. Bolland was child- 
 less after twenty years of married life. She begged for 
 the bairn, and her husband allowed her to adopt it. 
 They gave the boy their own name, but christened him 
 after the scene of his mother's death and his own mvv/^- 
 ulous escape. And there he was now, coming up thn
 
 26 The Revellers 
 
 village street, leading Angele confidently by the hand a 
 fine, intelligent lad, and wholly different from every 
 other boy in the village. 
 
 Not even the squire's sons equaled him in any respect, 
 and the teacher of the village school gave him special les- 
 sons. Perhaps the lady had noticed the way he spoke. 
 The teacher was proud of Martin's abilities, and he 
 tried to please her by not using the Yorkshire dialect. 
 
 " Ah, I see," said the baroness quietly. " His his- 
 tory is quite romantic. But what will he become when 
 he grows up a farmer, like his adopted father? " 
 
 " John thinks te mak' him a minister," said Mrs. 
 Bolland with genial pride. 
 
 " A minister ! Do you mean a preacher, a Noncon- 
 formist person ? " 
 
 " Why, yes, ma'am. John wouldn't hear of his bein' 
 a parson." 
 
 " Grand Dieu ! Quelle betise ! I beg your pardon. 
 Of course, you will do what is best for him. . . . Well, 
 ma belle, have you enjoyed your little walk? " 
 
 " Oh, so much, maipma. The miller has such lovely 
 pigs, so fat, so tight, that you can't pinch them. And 
 there's a beautiful dog/^Kth four puppy dogs. I'm so 
 glad we came here. J'eh suis bien aise." 
 
 " She's a queer little girl," said Mrs. Bolland, as 
 Martin and she watched the party walking back to The 
 Elms. " I couldn't tell half what she said." 
 
 " No, mother," he replied. " She goes off into French 
 without thinking, and her mother's a German baroness, 
 who married an English officer. The nurse doesn't speak 
 any English. I wish I knew French and German. 
 French, at any rate."
 
 CHAPTER III 
 THE SEEDS OF MISCHIEF 
 
 PREPARATIONS for the forthcoming " Feast " were 
 varied by gossip concerning " the baroness," her daugh- 
 ter, and the Normandy bonne. Elmsdale had never be- 
 fore set eyes on any human beings quite so foreign to 
 its environment. At first, the canny Yorkshire folk 
 were much intrigued by the lady's title. A princess or 
 a duchess they had read of ; a marchioness and a countess 
 they had seen, because the county of broad acres finds 
 room for a great many noble houses; and baronets' 
 wives, each a " Lady " by perspective right, were so 
 plentiful as to arouse no special comment. 
 
 But a " baroness " was rather un-English, while 
 Elmsdale frankly refused to pronounce her name other 
 than " Eedelsteen." The village was ready to allude 
 to her as " her ladyship," but was still doubtful whether 
 or not to grant her the prefix " Lady," when the ques- 
 tion was settled in a wholly unexpected way by the 
 announcement that the baroness preferred to be ad 
 dressed as " Mrs. Saumarez." In fact, she was rather 
 annoyed that Angele should have flaunted the title at 
 .all. 
 
 " I am English by marriage, and proud of my hus- 
 band's name," she explained. " He was a gallant officer, 
 who fell in the Boer War, and I have long since left the 
 use of my German rank for purely official occasions. 
 
 27
 
 28 The Revellers 
 
 It is no secret, of course, but Angele should not have 
 mentioned it." 
 
 Elmsdale liked this democratic utterance. It made 
 these blunt Yorkshire folk far readier to address her 
 as " your ladyship " than would have been the case 
 otherwise, and, truth to tell, she never chided them for 
 any lapse of the sort, though, in accordance with her 
 wish, she became generally known as Mrs. Saumarez. 
 
 She rented a suite at The Elms, a once pretentious 
 country mansion owned by a family named Walker. 
 The males had died, the revenues had dwindled, and two 
 elderly maiden ladies, after taking counsel with the 
 vicar, had advertised their house in a society newspaper. 
 
 Mrs. Saumarez said she was an invalid. She required 
 rest and good air. Fran9oise, since Angele had out- 
 grown the attentions of a nurse, was employed mainly 
 as her mistress's confidential servant. Fran9oise either 
 could not or would not speak English; Mrs. Saumarez 
 gave excellent references and no information as to her 
 past, while Angele's volatile reminiscences of continental 
 society had no meaning for Elmsdale. 
 
 But it was abundantly clear that Mrs. Saumarez was 
 rich. She swept aside the arrangements made by the 
 Misses Walker for her comfort, chose her own set of 
 apartments, ordered things wholly her own way, and 
 paid double the terms originally demanded. 
 
 The day following her visit to the White House she 
 descended on the chief grocer, whose shop was an em- 
 porium of many articles outside his trade, but mostly 
 of a cheap order. 
 
 " Mr. Webster," she said in her grand manner, " few 
 of the goods you stock will meet my requirements. I
 
 The Seeds of Mischief 29 
 
 prefer to deal with local tradesmen, but they must meet 
 my wants. Now, if you are prepared to cater for me, 
 you will not only save me the trouble of ordering supplies 
 from London, but make some extra profit. You have 
 proper agents, no doubt, so you must obtain everything 
 of the best quality. You understand. I shall never 
 grumble at the prices ; but the least inferiority will lead 
 me to withdraw my custom." 
 
 It was a sore point with Mr. Webster that " the 
 squire " dealt with the Stores. He promised implicit 
 obedience, and wrote such instructions to Leeds, his 
 supply town, that the wholesale house there wondered 
 who had come to live at Elmsdale. 
 
 The proprietress of the " Black Lion," hearing the 
 golden tales that circulated through the village, dressed 
 in her best one afternoon and called at The Elms in 
 the hope of obtaining patronage for wines, bottled beer, 
 and mineral waters. Mrs. Saumarez was resting. The 
 elder Miss Walker conveyed Mrs. Atkinson's name and 
 business. Some conversation took place between Mrs. 
 Saumarez and Fran9oise, with the result that Mrs. 
 Atkinson was instructed to supply Schweppe's soda 
 water, but " no intoxicants." 
 
 So Mrs. Saumarez was a teetotaller. The secretary 
 of the local branch of the Good Templars donned a faded 
 black coat and a rusty tall hat and sent in a subscrip- 
 tion list. It came out with a guinea. The vicar was at 
 The Elms next day. Mrs. Saumarez received him gra- 
 ciously and gave him a five-pound note toward the 
 funds of the bazaar which would be opened next week. 
 Most decidedly the lady was an acquisition. When 
 Miss Martha Walker was enjoined by her sister, Miss
 
 30 The Revellers 
 
 Emmy, to find out how long Mrs. Saumarez intended to 
 remain at Elmsdale on the plausible pretext that the 
 terms would be lowered for a monthly tenancy she 
 was given a curt reply. 
 
 " I am a creature of moods. I may be here a day, a 
 year. At present the place suits me. And Angele is 
 brimming over with health. But it is fatal if I am told I 
 must remain a precise period anywhere. That is why 
 I never go to Carlsbad." 
 
 Miss Martha did not understand the reference to 
 Carlsbad; but the nature of the reply stopped effectu- 
 ally all further curiosity as to Mrs. Saumarez's plans. 
 It also insured unflagging service. 
 
 Hardly a day passed that the newcomer did not call 
 at the White House. She astounded John Bolland by 
 the accuracy of her knowledge concerning stock, and 
 annoyed him, too, by remarking that some of his land 
 required draining. 
 
 " Your lower pastures are too rank," she said. " So 
 long as there is a succession of fine seasons it does not 
 matter, but a wet spring and summer will trouble you. 
 You will have fifty acres of water-sodden meadows, and 
 nothing breeds disease more quickly." 
 
 " None o' my cattle hev had a day's illness, short o' 
 bein 5 a trifle overfed wi' oil cake," he said testily. 
 
 " Quite so. You told me that in former years you 
 raised wheat and oats there. I'm talking about grass." 
 
 Martin and Angele became close friends. The only 
 children of the girl's social rank in the neighborhood 
 were the vicar's daughter, Elsie Herbert, and the squire's 
 two sons, Frank and Ernest Beckett-Smythe. Mr. 
 Beckett-Smythe was a widower. He lived at the Hall,
 
 The Seeds of Mischief 31 
 
 three-quarters of a mile away, and had not as yet met 
 Mrs. Saumarez. Angele would have nothing to do with 
 Elsie. 
 
 " I don't like her," she confided to Martin. " She 
 doesn't care for boys, and I adore them. She's trop 
 reglee for me." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 " Well, sjie holds her nose so." 
 
 Angele tilted her head and cast down her eyes. 
 
 " Of course, I don't know her, but she seems to be a 
 nice girl," said Martin. 
 
 "Why do you say, 'Of course, I don't know her'? 
 She lives here, doesn't she? " 
 
 " Yes, but my father is a farmer. She has a 
 governess, and goes to tea at the Hall. I've met 
 her driving from the Castle. She's above me, you 
 see." 
 
 Angele laughed maliciously. 
 
 " O la la ! c'est pour rire ! I'm sorry. She is what 
 do you say a little snob." 
 
 " No, no," protested Martin. " I think she would 
 be very nice, if I knew her. You'll like her fine when 
 you play with her." 
 
 " Me ! Play with her, so prim, so pious. I prefer 
 Jim Bates. He winked at me yesterday." 
 
 " Did he ? Next time I see him I'll make it hard for 
 him to wink." 
 
 Angele clapped her hands and pirouetted. 
 
 " What," she cried, " you will fight him, and for me ! 
 What joy! It's just like a story book. You must 
 kick him, so, and he will fall down, and I will kiss you." 
 
 " I will not kick him," said the indignant Martin.
 
 32 The Revellers 
 
 " Boys don't kick in England. And I don't want to be 
 kissed." 
 
 " Don't boys kiss in England ? " 
 
 " Well . . . anyhow, I don't." 
 
 " Then we are not sweethearts. I shan't kiss you, 
 and you must just leave Jim Bates alone." 
 
 Martin was humiliated. He remained silent and 
 angry during the next minute. By a quick turn in the 
 conversation Angele had placed him in a position of 
 rivalry with another boy, one with whom she had not 
 exchanged a word. 
 
 " Look here," he said, after taking thought, " if I 
 kiss your cheek, may I lick Jim Bates ? " 
 
 This magnanimous offer was received with derision. 
 
 " I forbid you to do either. If you do, I'll tell your 
 father." 
 
 The child had discovered already the fear with which 
 Martin regarded the stern, uncompromising Methodist 
 yeoman a fear, almost a resentment, due to Bolland's 
 injudicious attempts to guide a mere boy into the path 
 of serious and precise religion. Never had Martin 
 found the daily reading of Scripture such a burden as 
 during the past few days. The preparations for the 
 feast, the cricket-playing, running and jumping of the 
 boys practicing for prizes these disturbing influences 
 interfered sadly with the record of David's declining 
 years. 
 
 Even now, with Angele's sarcastic laughter ringing 
 in his ears, he was compelled to leave her and hurry to 
 the front kitchen, where the farmer was waiting with the 
 Bible opened. At the back door he paused and looked 
 at her. She blew him a kiss.
 
 The Seeds of Mischief 33 
 
 " Good boy ! " she cried. " Mind you learn your 
 lesson." 
 
 " And mind you keep away from those cowsheds. 
 Your nurse ought to have been here. It's tea 
 time." 
 
 " I don't want any tea. I'm going to smell the milk. 
 I love the smell of a farmyard. Don't you? But, there ! 
 You have never smelt anything else. Every place has 
 its own smell. Paris smells like smoky wood. London 
 smells of beer. Here there is always the smell of 
 cows ..." 
 
 " Martin ! " called a harsh voice from the interior, 
 and the boy perforce brought his wandering wits to 
 bear on the wrongdoing of David in taking a census of 
 the people of Israel. 
 
 He read steadily through the chapter which de- 
 scribed how a pestilence swept from Dan to Beersheba 
 and destroyed seventy thousand men, all because David 
 wished to know how many troops he could muster. 
 
 He could hear Angele talking to the maids and mak- 
 ing them laugh. A caravan lumbered through the 
 street; he caught a glimpse of carved wooden horses' 
 heads and gilded moldings. His quick and retentive 
 brain mastered the words of the chapter, but to-day 
 there was no mysterious and soul-awakening glimpse of 
 its spirit. 
 
 " What did David say te t' Lord when t' angel smote 
 t' people?" said Bolland when the moment came to 
 question his pupil. 
 
 " He said, * Lo, I have sinned ; but what have these 
 sheep done ? ' 
 
 "And what sin had he dean?"
 
 34 The Revellers 
 
 " I don't know. I think the whole thing was jolly 
 unfair." 
 
 "What!" John Bolland laid down the Bible and 
 rested both hands on the arms of the chair to steady 
 himself. Had he heard aright? Was the boy daring 
 to criticize the written word? 
 
 But Martin's brain raced ahead of the farmer's slow- 
 rising wrath. He trembled at the abyss into which he 
 had almost fallen. What horror if he lost an hour on 
 this Saturday, the Saturday before the Feast, of all 
 days in the year! 
 
 " I didn't quite mean that," he said, " but it doesn't 
 say why it was wrong for a census to be taken, and it 
 does say that when the angel stretched his hand over 
 Jerusalem the Lord repented of the evil." 
 
 Bolland bent again over the book. Yes, Martin was 
 right. He was letter perfect. 
 
 " It says nowt about unfairness," growled the man 
 slowly. 
 
 " No. That was my mistake." 
 
 " Ye mun tak' heed agin misteaks o' that sort. On 
 Monday we begin t' Third Book o' Kings." 
 
 So, not even the Feast would be allowed to interfere 
 with the daily lesson. 
 
 Angele had departed with the belated Fran9oise. 
 Martin, running through the orchard like a hare, dou- 
 bled to the main road along the lane. In two minutes 
 he was watching the unloading of the roundabout in 
 front of the " Black Lion." Jim Bates was there. 
 
 " Here, I want you," said Martin. " You winked at 
 Angele Saumarez yesterday." 
 
 " Winked at whea ? " demanded Jim.
 
 The Seeds of Mischief 35 
 
 " At the young lady who lives at The Elms." 
 
 " Not afore she pulled a feace at me." 
 
 " Well, if you wink at her again I'll lick you." 
 
 " Mebbe." 
 
 " There's no * mebbe ' about it. Come down to the 
 other end of the green now, if you think I can't." 
 
 Jim Bates was no coward, but he was faced with the 
 alternative of yielding gracefully and watching the 
 showmen at work or risking a defeat in a needless battle. 
 He chose the better part of valor. 
 
 " It's nean o' my business," he said. " I dean't want 
 te wink at t' young leddy." 
 
 At the inn door Mrs. Atkinson's three little girls 
 were standing with Kitty Thwaites, the housemaid. 
 The eldest, a bonnie child, whose fair skin was covered 
 with freckles, ran toward Martin. 
 
 '* Where hae ye bin all t' week ? " she inquired. " Are 
 ye always wi' that Saumarez girl ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " I heerd tell she was at your pleace all hours. What 
 beautiful frocks she has, but I should be asheamed te 
 show me legs like her." 
 
 " That's the way she dresses," said Martin curtly. 
 
 " How funny. Is she fond of you ? " 
 
 " How do I know? " He tried to edge away. 
 
 Evelyn tossed her head. 
 
 " Oh, I don't care. Why should I?" 
 
 " There's no reason that I can tell." 
 
 " You soon forget yer friends. On'y last Whit Mon- 
 day ye bowt me a packet of chocolates." 
 
 There was truth in this. Martin quitted her sheep- 
 ishly. He drew near some men, one of whom was Fred,
 
 36 The Revellers 
 
 the groom, and Fred had been drinking, as a prelimi- 
 nary to the deeper potations of the coming week. 
 
 " Ay, there she is ! " he muttered, with an angry leer 
 at Kitty. " She thinks what's good eneuf fer t' sister 
 is good eneuf fer her. We'll see. Oad John Bollan' 
 sent 'im away wiv a flea i' t' lug a-Tuesday. I reckon 
 he'll hev one i' t'other ear if 'e comes after Kitty." 
 
 One of the men grinned contemptuously. 
 
 " Gan away ! " he said. " George Pickerin' ud chuck 
 you ower t' top o' t' hotel if ye said ' Booh ' to 'im." . 
 
 But Fred, too, grinned, blinking like an owl in day- 
 light. 
 
 " Them as lives t' longest sees t' meast," he muttered, 
 and walked toward the stables, passing close to Kitty, 
 who looked through him without seeing him. 
 
 Suddenly there was a stir among the loiterers. Mrs. 
 Saumarez was walking through the village with Mr. 
 Beckett-Smythe. Behind the pair came the squire's two 
 sons and Angele. The great man had called on the new 
 visitor to Elmsdale, and together they strolled forth, 
 while he explained the festivities of the coming week, and 
 told the lady that these " feasts " were the creation of 
 an act of Charles II. as a protest against the Puritan- 
 ism of the Commonwealth. 
 
 Martin stood at the side of the road. Mrs. Saumarez 
 did not notice him, but Angele did. She lifted her chin 
 and dropped her eyelids in clever burlesque of Elsie 
 Herbert, the vicar's daughter, but ignored him other- 
 wise. Martin was hurt, though he hardly expected to 
 be spoken to in the presence of distinguished company. 
 But he could not help looking after the party. Angele 
 turned and caught his glance. She put out her tongue.
 
 The Seeds of Mischief 37 
 
 He heard a mocking laugh and knew that Evelyn 
 Atkinson was telling her sisters of the incident, where- 
 upon he dug his hands in his pockets and whistled. 
 
 A shooting gallery was in process of erection, and its 
 glories soon dispelled the gloom of Angele's snub. The 
 long tube was supported on stays, the target put in 
 place, the gaudy front pieced together, and half a dozen 
 rifles unpacked. The proprietor meant to earn a few 
 honest pennies that night, and some of the men were 
 persuaded to try their prowess. 
 
 Martin was a born sportsman. He watched the com- 
 petitors so keenly that Angele returned with her youth- 
 ful cavaliers without attracting his attention. Worse 
 than that, Evelyn Atkinson, scenting the possibility of 
 rustic intrigue, caught Martin's elbow and asked quite 
 innocently why a bell rang if the shooter hit the bull's- 
 eye. 
 
 Proud of his knowledge, he explained that there was 
 a hole in the iron plate, and that no bell, but a sheet of 
 copper, was suspended in the box at the back where the 
 lamp was. 
 
 Both Angele and Evelyn appreciated the situation 
 exactly. The boy alone was ignorant of their tacit 
 rivalry. 
 
 Angele pointed out Martin to the Beckett-Smythes. 
 
 *' He is such a nice boy," she said sweetly. " I see 
 him every day. He can fight any boy in the village." 
 
 " Hum," said the heir. How old is he? " 
 
 " Fourteen." 
 
 " I am fifteen." 
 
 Angele smiled like a seraph. 
 
 " Regardez-vous done ! " she said. " He could twiddle
 
 38 The Revellers 
 
 you round so," and she spun one hand over the other. 
 
 " I'd like to see him try," snorted the aristocrat. The 
 opportunity offered itself sooner than he expected, but 
 the purring of a high-powered car coming through the 
 village street caused the pedestrians to draw aside. 
 The car, a new and expensive one, was driven by a chauf- 
 feur, but held no passengers. 
 
 Mr. Beckett-Smythe gazed after it reflectively. 
 
 " Well, I thought I knew every car in this district," 
 he began. 
 
 " It is mine, I expect," announced Mrs. Saumarez. 
 " I've ordered one, and it should arrive to-day. I need 
 an automobile for an occasional long run. For potter- 
 ing about the village lanes, I may buy a pony cart." 
 
 " What make is your car? " inquired the Squire. 
 
 " A Mercedes. I'm told it is by far the best at the 
 price." 
 
 " It's the best German car, of course, but I can 
 hardly admit that it equals the French, or even our own 
 leading types." 
 
 " Oh, I don't profess to understand these things. I 
 only know that my banker advised me to buy none other. 
 He explained the matter simply enough. The German 
 manufacturers want to get into the trade and are con- 
 tent to lose money for a year or so. You know how 
 pushful they are." 
 
 Beckett-Smythe saw the point clearly. He was even 
 then hesitating between a Panhard and an Austin. He 
 decided to wait a little longer and ascertain the facts 
 about the Mercedes. A month later he purchased one. 
 Mrs. Saumarez's chauffeur, a smart young mechanic 
 from Bremen, who spoke English fluently, demonstrate/!
 
 The Seeds of Mischief 39 
 
 that the buyer was given more than his money's worth. 
 The amiable Briton wondered how such things could be, 
 but was content to benefit personally. He, in time, 
 spread the story. German cars enjoyed a year's boom- 
 let in that part of Yorkshire. With nearly every car 
 came a smart young chauffeur mechanic. Surely, this 
 was wisdom personified. They knew the engine, could 
 effect nearly all road repairs, demanded less wages than 
 English drivers, and were always civil and reliable. 
 
 " Go-ahead people, these Germans ! " was the general 
 verdict.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 THE FEAST, 
 
 AN Elmsdale Sunday was a day of rest for man and 
 beast alike. There could be no manner of doubt that 
 the horses and dogs were able to distinguish the Sab- 
 bath from the workaday week. Prince, six-year-old 
 Cleveland bay, the strongest and tallest horse in the 
 stable, when his headstall was taken off on Sunday morn- 
 ing, showed his canny Yorkshire sense by walking past 
 the row of carts and pushing open a rickety gate that 
 led to a tiny meadow kept expressly for odd grazing. 
 After him, in Indian file, went five other horses ; yet, on 
 any other day in the week they would stand patiently 
 in the big yard, waiting to be led away singly or in 
 pairs. 
 
 Curly and Jim, the two sheep-dogs who never failed 
 between Monday and Saturday to yawn and stretch 
 expectantly by the side of John Bolland's sturdy nag 
 in the small yard near the house on the seventh day 
 made their way to the foreman's cottage, there attend- 
 ing his leisure for a scamper over the breezy moorland. 
 
 For, Sunday or weekday, sheep must be counted. If 
 any are missing, the almost preternatural intelligence 
 of the collie is invoked to discover the hollow in which 
 the lost ones are reposing helplessly on their backs. 
 They will die in a few hours if not placed on their legs 
 
 40
 
 The Feast 41 
 
 again. Turn over unaided they cannot. Man or dog 
 must help, or they choke. 
 
 Even the cocks and hens, the waddling geese and 
 ducks, the huge shorthorns, which are the pride of the 
 village, seemed to grasp the subtle distinction between 
 life on a quiet day and the well-filled existence of the 
 six days that ^iad gone before. At least, Martin 
 thought so ; but nfr did not know then that the windows 
 of the soul let in imageries that depend more on mood 
 than on reality. 
 
 Personally he hated Sunday, or fancied he did. He 
 had Sunday clothes, Sunday boots, Sunday food, a 
 Sunday face, and a Sunday conscience. Things were 
 wrong on Sunday that were right during the rest of the 
 week. Though the sky was as bright, the grass as 
 green, the birds as tuneful on that day as on others, 
 he was supposed to undergo a metamorphosis through- 
 out all the weary waking hours. His troubles often 
 began the moment he quitted his bed. As his " best " 
 clothes and boots were so little worn, they naturally 
 maintained a spick-and-span appearance during many 
 months. Hence, he was given a fresh assortment about 
 once a year, and the outfit possessed three distinct 
 periods of use, of which the first tortured his mind and 
 the third his body. 
 
 He being a growing lad, the coat was made too long 
 in the sleeves, the trousers too long in the legs,, and the 
 boots too large. At the beginning of this epoch he 
 looked and felt ridiculous. Gradually, the effect of roast 
 beef and suet dumplings brought about a better fit, and 
 during four months of the year he was fairly smart in 
 appearance. Then there came an ominous shrinkage.
 
 42 The Revellers 
 
 His wrists dangled below the coat cuffs, there was an 
 ever-widening rim of stocking between the tops of the 
 boots and the trousers' ends, while Mrs. Bolland began 
 to grumble each week about the amount of darning his 
 stockings required. Moreover, there were certain quite 
 insurmountable difficulties in the matter of buttons, and 
 it was with a joy tempered only by fear of the grotesque 
 that he beheld the " best " suit given away to an urchin 
 several sizes smaller than himself. 
 
 Happily for his peace of mind, the Feast occurred 
 in the middle stage of the current supply of raiment, 
 so he was as presentable as a peripatetic tailor who 
 worked in the house a fortnight at Christmas could 
 make him. 
 
 But this Sunday dragged terribly. The routine of 
 chapel from 10 : 30 A.M. to noon, Sunday-school from 
 3 P.M. to 4 : 30 P.M., and chapel again from 6 : 30 P.M. 
 to 8 P.M., was inevitable, but there were compensations 
 in the whispered confidences of Jim Bates and Tommy 
 Beadlam, the latter nicknamed " White Head," as to 
 the nature of some of the shows. 
 
 The new conditions brought into his life by Angele 
 Saumarez troubled him far more than he could measure. 
 Her mere presence in the secluded village carried a 
 breath of the unknown. Her talk was of London and 
 Paris, of parks, theatres, casinos, luxurious automobiles, 
 deck-cabins, and Pullman cars. She seemed to have 
 lived so long and seen so much. Yet she knew very 
 little. Her ceaseless chatter in French and English, 
 which sounded so smart at first, would not endure 
 examination. 
 
 She had read nothing. When Martin spoke of " Rob-
 
 The Feast 43 
 
 inson Crusoe " and " Ivanhoe," of " Treasure Island " 
 and " The Last of the Mohicans " a literary medley 
 devoured for incident and not for style she had not 
 even heard of them, but produced for inspection an 
 astonishingly rude colored cartoon, the French com- 
 ments on which she translated literally. 
 
 He was a boy aglow with dim but fervent ideals ; she, 
 a girl who had evidently been allowed to grow up almost 
 wild in the midst of fashionable life and flippant serv- 
 ants, all exigencies being fulfilled when she spoke nicely 
 and cleverly and wore her clothes with the requisite 
 chic. The two were as opposed in essentials as an 
 honest English apple grown in a wholesome garden and 
 a rare orchid, the product of some poisonous equa- 
 torial swamp. 
 
 He tried to interest her in the sights and sounds of 
 country life. She met him more than halfway by put- 
 ting embarrassing questions as to the habits of animals. 
 More than once he told her plainly that there were some 
 things little girls ought not to know, whereat she laughed 
 scornfully, but switched the conversation to a topic on 
 which she could vex him, as was nearly always the case 
 in her references to Elsie Herbert or John Bolland's 
 Bible teaching. 
 
 Yet he was restless and irritable because he did not 
 see her on the Sunday. Mrs. Saumarez, it is true, sped 
 swiftly through the village about three o'clock, and 
 again at half-past seven. On each occasion the particu- 
 lar chapel affected by the Bollands was resounding 
 with a loud-voiced hymn or echoing the vibrant tones of 
 a preacher powerful beyond question in the matter of 
 lungs and dogmatism. The whir of the Mercedes shut
 
 44 The Revellers 
 
 off these sounds; but Martin heard the passing of the 
 car and knew that Angele was in it. 
 
 It was a novel experience for the Misses Walker to 
 find that their lodgers recognized no difference between 
 Sunday and the rest of the week. Mrs. Saumarez dined 
 at 6 : 30 P.M., a concession of an hour and a half to 
 rural habits, but she scouted the suggestion that a cold 
 meal should be served to enable the " girls " to go to 
 church. The old ladies dared not quarrel with one who 
 paid so well. They remained at home and cooked and 
 served the dinner. 
 
 As Fran9oise, to a large extent, waited on her mis- 
 tress, this development might not have been noticed had 
 not Angele's quick eyes seen Miss Emmy Walker carry- 
 ing a chicken and a dish of French beans to a small 
 table in the hall. 
 
 She told her mother, and Mrs. Saumarez was an- 
 noyed. She had informed Miss Martha that if the 
 servants required a " night out," the addition of another 
 domestic to the household at her expense would give 
 them a good deal more liberty, but this ridiculous " Sun- 
 day-evening " notion must stop forthwith. 
 
 " It gets on my nerves, this British Sabbath," she 
 exclaimed peevishly. " In London I entertain largely 
 on a Sunday and have never had any trouble. Do you 
 mean to say I cannot invite guests to dinner on Sunday 
 merely to humor a cook or a housemaid? Absurd! " 
 
 Miss Martha promised reform. 
 
 " Let her have her way," she said to Miss Emmy. 
 " Another servant will have nothing to do, and all the 
 girls will grow lazy ; but we must keep Mrs. Saumarez 
 as long as we can. Oh, if she would only remain a year,
 
 The Feast 45 
 
 we'd be out of debt, with the house practically recar- 
 peted throughout ! " 
 
 Unfortunately, Mrs. Saumarez's nerves were upset. 
 She was snappy all the evening. Fran9oise tried many 
 expedients to soothe her mistress's ruffled feelings. She 
 brought a bundle of illustrated papers, a parcel of 
 books, the scores of a couple of operas, even a gorgeous 
 assortment of patterns of the new autumn dress fabrics, 
 but each and all failed to attract. For some reason the 
 preternaturally acute Angele avoided her mother. She 
 seemed to be afraid of her when in this mood. The 
 Misses Walker, seeing the anxiety of the maid and the 
 unwonted retreat of the child to bed at an early hour, 
 were miserable at the thought that such a trivial matter 
 should have given their wealthy tenant cause for dire 
 offense. 
 
 So Sunday passed irksomely, and everyone was 
 glad when the next morning dawned in bright cheer- 
 fulness. 
 
 From an early hour there was evidence in plenty that 
 the Elmsdale Feast would be an unqualified success, 
 though shorn of many of its ancient glories. 
 
 Time was when the village used to indulge in a week's 
 saturnalia, but the march of progress had affected rural 
 Yorkshire even so long ago as 1906. The younger 
 people could visit Leeds, York, Scarborough, or Whitby 
 by Saturday afternoon " trips " special excursion 
 trains run at cheap rates while " week-ends " in Lon- 
 don were not unknown luxuries, and these frequent op- 
 portunities for change of scene and recreation had 
 lessened the scope of the annual revels. Still, the trad- 
 ing instinct kept alive the commercial side of the Feast ;
 
 46 The Revellers 
 
 the splendid hospitality of the north country asserted 
 itself; church and chapels seized the chance of reaching 
 enlarged congregations, and a number of itinerant 
 showmen regarded Elmsdale as a fixture in the yearly 
 round. 
 
 So, on the Monday, every neighboring village and 
 moorland hamlet poured in its quota. The people came 
 on foot from the railway station, distant nearly two 
 miles, on horseback, in every sort of conveyance. The 
 roads were alive with cattle, sheep, and pigs. The pro- 
 gramme mapped out bore a general resemblance on each 
 of the four days. The morning was devoted to business, 
 the afternoon and evening to religion or pleasure. 
 
 The proceedings opened with a horse fair. An agent 
 of the German Government snapped up every Cleveland 
 bay offered for sale. George Pickering, in sporting 
 garb, and smoking a big cigar, was an early arrival. 
 He bid vainly for a couple of mares which he needed to 
 complete his stud. Germany wanted them more 
 urgently. 
 
 A splendid mare, the property of John Holland, was 
 put up for auction. The auctioneer read her pedigree, 
 and proved its authenticity by reference to the Stud 
 Book. 
 
 " Is she in foal? " asked Pickering, and a laugh went 
 around. Bolland scowled blackly. If a look could have 
 slain the younger man he would assuredly have fallen 
 dead. 
 
 The bidding commenced at 40 and rose rapidly 
 to 60. 
 
 Then Pickering lost his temper. The agent for Ger- 
 many was too pertinacious.
 
 The Feast 47 
 
 " Seventy," he shouted, though the bids hitherto had 
 mounted by single sovereigns. 
 
 " Seventy-one," said the agent. 
 
 " Eighty ! " roared Pickering. 
 
 " Eighty-one ! " nodded the agent. 
 
 " The reserve is off," interposed the auctioneer, and 
 again the surrounding farmers guffawed, as the mare 
 had already gone to twenty pounds beyond her value. 
 
 Pickering swallowed his rage with an effort. He 
 turned to Bolland. 
 
 " That's an offset for my hard words the other day," 
 he said. 
 
 But the farmer thrust aside the proffered olive 
 branch. 
 
 " Once a fule, always a fule," he growled. Pickering, 
 though anything but a fool in business, took the un- 
 gracious remark pleasantly enough. 
 
 " He ought to sing a rare hymn this afternoon," he 
 cried. " I've put a score of extra sovereigns in his 
 pocket, and he doesn't even say * Thank you.' Well, 
 it's the way of the world. Who's dry ? " 
 
 This invitation caused an adj ournment to the " Black 
 Lion." The auctioneer knew his clients. 
 
 Pickering's allusion to the hymn was not made with- 
 out knowledge. At three o'clock, on a part of the green 
 farthest removed from the thronged stalls and the blare 
 of a steam-driven organ, Bolland and a few other 
 earnest spirits surrounded the stentorian preacher and 
 held an open-air service. They selected tunes which 
 everybody knew and, as a result, soon attracted a crowd 
 of older people, some of whom brought their children, 
 Martin, of course, was in the gathering.
 
 48 The Revellers 
 
 Meanwhile, along the line of booths, a couple of 
 leather-lunged men were singing old-time ballads, deal- 
 ing for the most part with sporting incidents. They 
 soon became the centers of two packed audiences, mainly 
 young men and boys, but containing more than a sprink- 
 ling of girls. The ditties were couched in " broad York- 
 shire " sometimes too broad for modern taste. When- 
 ever a particularly crude stanza was bawled forth a 
 chuckle would run through the audience, and coppers 
 in plenty were forthcoming for printed copies of the 
 song, which, however, usually fell short of the blunt 
 phraseology of the original. The raucous ballad singers 
 took risks feared by the printer. 
 
 Mrs. Saumarez, leading Angele by the hand, thought 
 she would like to hear one of these rustic melodies, and 
 halted. Instantly the vendor changed his cue. The 
 lady might be the wife of a magistrate. Once he got 
 fourteen days as a rogue and a vagabond at the instance 
 of just such another interested spectator, who put the 
 police in action. 
 
 Quickly surfeited by the only half-understood humor 
 of a song describing the sale of a dead horse, she wan- 
 dered on, and soon came across the preacher and his 
 lay helpers. 
 
 To her surprise she saw John Bolland standing bare- 
 headed in the front rank, and with him Martin. She had 
 never pictured the keen-eyed, crusty old farmer in this 
 guise. It amused her. The minister began to offer up 
 a prayer. The men hid their faces in their hats, the 
 women bowed reverently, and fervent ejaculations 
 punctuated each pause in the preacher's appeal. 
 
 "I do believe!"
 
 The Feast 49 
 
 *' Amen ! Amen ! " 
 
 " Spare us, O Lord ! " 
 
 Mrs. Saumarez stared at the gathering with real 
 wonderment. 
 
 " C'est incroyable ! " she murmured. 
 
 " What are they doing, mamma? " cried Angele, try- 
 ing to guess why Martin had buried his eyes in his cap. 
 
 " They are praying, dearest. It reminds one of the 
 Covenanters. It really is very touching." 
 
 " Who were the Covenanters ? " 
 
 " When you are older, ma belle, you will read of them 
 in history." 
 
 That was Mrs. Saumarez's way. She treated her 
 daughter's education as a matter for governesses whom 
 she did not employ and masters to whose control Angele 
 would probably never be entrusted. 
 
 The two entered the White House. There they found 
 Mrs. Bolland, radiant in a black silk dress, a bonnet 
 trimmed with huge roses, and a velvet dolman, the wings 
 of which were thrown back over her portly shoulders to 
 permit her the better to press all comers to partake of 
 her hospitality. , 
 
 Several women and one or two men were seated at the 
 big table, while people were coming and going con- 
 stantly. 
 
 It flustered and gratified Mrs. Bolland not a little 
 to receive such a distinguished visitor. 
 
 " Eh, my leddy," she cried, " I'm glad to see ye. 
 Will ye tek a chair? And t' young leddy, too? Will 
 ye hev a glass o' wine ? " 
 
 This was the recognized formula. There was a de- 
 canter of port wine on the sideboard, but most of the
 
 50 The Revellers 
 
 visitors partook of tea or beer. One of the men drew 
 himself a foaming tankard from a barrel in the 
 corner. 
 
 Mrs. Saumarez smiled wistfully. 
 
 " No wine, thank you," she said ; " but that beer 
 looks very nice. I'll have some, if I may." 
 
 Not until that moment did Mrs. Bolland remember 
 that her guest was a reputed teetotaller. So, then, Mrs. 
 Atkinson, proprietress of the " Black Lion," was mis- 
 taken. 
 
 " That ye may, an* welcome," she said in her hearty 
 way. 
 
 Angele murmured something in French, but her 
 mother gave a curt answer, and the child subsided, be- 
 ing, perhaps, interested by the evident amazement and 
 admiration she evoked among the country people. To- 
 day, Angele was dressed in a painted muslin, with hat 
 and sash of the same material, long black silk stockings, 
 and patent-leather shoes. She looked elegantly old- 
 fashioned, and might have walked bodily out of one of 
 Caran d'Ache's sketches of French society. 
 
 Suddenly she bounced up like an india-rubber ball. 
 
 " Tra la ! " she cried. " Via mon cher Martin ! " 
 
 The prayer meeting had ended, and Martin was speed- 
 ing home, well knowing who had arrived there. 
 
 Angele ran to meet him. 
 
 " She's a rale fairy," whispered Mrs. Summersgill, 
 mistress of the Dale End Farm. " She's rigged out like 
 a pet doll." 
 
 " Ay," agreed her neighbor. " D'ye ken wheer they 
 coom frae? " 
 
 " Frae Lunnon, I reckon. They're staying wi' t*
 
 The Feast 51 
 
 Miss Walkers. That's t' muther, a Mrs. Saumarez, 
 they call her, but they say she's a Jarman baroness." 
 
 " Well, bless her heart, she hez a rare swallow for a 
 gill o' ale." 
 
 This was perfectly true. The lady had emptied her 
 glass with real gusto. 
 
 " I was so hot and tired," she said, with an apologetic 
 smile at her hostess. " Now, I can admire your wonder- 
 ful store of good things to eat," and she focussed the 
 display through gold-rimmed eyeglasses. 
 
 Truly, the broad kitchen table presented a spectacle 
 that would kill a dyspeptic. A cold sirloin, a portly 
 ham, two pairs of chickens, three brace of grouse 
 these solids were mere garnishings to dishes piled with 
 currant cakes, currant loaves and plain bread cut and 
 buttered, jam turnovers, open tarts of many varieties, 
 " fat rascals," Queen cakes, sponge cakes battalions 
 and army corps of all the sweet and toothsome articles 
 known to the culinary skill of the North. 
 
 " I'm feared, my leddy, they won't suit your taste," 
 began Mrs. Bolland, but the other broke in eagerly : 
 
 " Oh, don't say that ! They look so good, so whole- 
 some, so different from the French cooking we weary of 
 in town. If I were not afraid of spoiling my dinner 
 and earning a scolding from Fransoise I would certainly 
 ask for some of that cold beef and a slice of bread and 
 butter." 
 
 " Tek my advice, ma'am, an' eat while ye're in t' 
 humor," cried Mrs. Bolland, instantly helping her guest 
 to the eatables named. 
 
 Mrs. Saumarez laughed delightedly and peeled off a 
 pair of white kid gloves. She ate a little of the meat
 
 52 The Revellers 
 
 and crumbled a slice of bread. Mrs. Holland refilled the 
 glass with beer. 
 
 Then the lady made herself generally popular by ask- 
 ing questions. Did they use lard or butter in the 
 pastry? How was the sponge cake made so light? 
 What a curious custom it was to put currants into plain 
 dough; she had never seen it done before. Were the 
 servants able to do these things, or had they to be 
 taught by the mistress of the house? She amused the 
 women by telling of the airs and graces of London 
 domestics, and evoked a feeling akin to horror by 
 relating the items of the weekly bills in her town 
 house. 
 
 " Seven pund o' beacan for breakfast i' t' kitchen ! " 
 exclaimed Mrs. Summersgill. " Whea ivver heerd tell 
 o' sike waste? " 
 
 " Eh, ma'am," cried another, " but ye mun addle yer 
 money aisy t' let 'em carry on that gait." 
 
 Martin, who found Angele in her most charming 
 mood unconsciously pleased, too, that her costume was 
 not so outre as to run any risk of caustic comment by 
 strangers came in and asked if he might take her 
 along the row of stalls. Mrs. Bolland had given him a 
 shilling that morning, and he resolved magnanimously 
 to let the shooting gallery wait ; Angele should be treated 
 to a shilling's worth of aught she fancied. 
 
 But Mrs. Saumarez rose. 
 
 " Your mother will kill me with kindness, Martin, if I 
 remain longer," she said. " Take me, too, and we'll see 
 if the fair contains any toys." 
 
 She emptied the second glass of ale, drew on her 
 gloves ? bade the company farewell with as much courtesy
 
 The Feast 53 
 
 as if they were so many countesses, and walked away 
 with the youngsters. 
 
 At one stall she bought Martin a pneumatic gun, a 
 powerful toy which the dealer never expected to sell in 
 that locality. At another she would have purchased a 
 doll for Angele, but the child shrugged her shoulders 
 and declared that she would greatly prefer to ride on 
 the roundabouts with Martin. Mrs. Saumarez agreed 
 instantly, and the pair mounted the hobby-horses. 
 
 Among the children who watched them enviously were 
 Jim Bates and Evelyn Atkinson. When the steam organ 
 was in full blast and the horses were flying round at a 
 merry pace, Mrs. Saumarez bent over Jim Bates and 
 placed half a sovereign in his hand. 
 
 " Go to the ' Black Lion,' " she said, " and bring me 
 a bottle of the best brandy. See that it is wrapped in 
 paper. I do not care to go myself to a place where 
 there are so many men." 
 
 Jim darted off. The roundabout slackened speed 
 and stopped, but Mrs. Saumarez ordered another ride. 
 The whirl had begun again when Bates returned with a 
 parcel. 
 
 " It was four shillin's, ma'am," he said. 
 
 " Thank you, very much. Keep the change." 
 
 Even Evelyn Atkinson was so awed by the magnitude 
 of the tip that she forgot for a moment to glue her eyes 
 on Angele and Martin. 
 
 But Angele, wildly elated though she was with the 
 sensation of flight, and seated astride like a boy, until 
 the tops of her stockings were exposed to view, did not 
 fail to notice the conclusion of Jim Bates's errand. 
 
 " Mamma will be ill to-night," she screamed in Mar-
 
 54 The Revellers 
 
 tin's ear. " Fran9oise will be busy waiting on her. I'll 
 come out again at eight o'clock." 
 
 " You must not," shouted the boy. " It will be very 
 rough here then." 
 
 " C'la va I mean, I know that quite well. It'll be 
 all the more jolly. Meet me at the gate. I'll bring 
 plenty of money." 
 
 " I can't," protested Martin. 
 
 "You must!" 
 
 " But I'm supposed to be home myself at eight 
 o'clock." 
 
 " If you don't come, I'll find some other boy. Frank 
 Beckett-Smythe said he would try and turn up every 
 evening, in case I got a chance to sneak out." 
 
 " All right. I'll be there." 
 
 Martin intended to hurry her through the fair and 
 take her home again. If he received a " hiding " for 
 being late, he would put up with it. In any case, the 
 squire's eldest son could not be allowed to steal his 
 wilful playmate without a struggle. Probably Adam 
 reasoned along similar lines when Eve first offered him 
 an apple. Be that as it may, it never occurred to 
 Martin that the third chapter of Genesis could have the 
 remotest bearing on the night's frolic.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 " IT IS THE FIRST STEP THAT COUNTS " 
 
 MRS. SAUMAREZ and Angele returned to The Elms, 
 but Martin had to forego accompanying them. He knew 
 that with Bible opened at the Third Book of Kings 
 John Bolland was waiting in a bedroom, every down- 
 stairs apartment being crowded. 
 
 He ran all the way along the village street and darted 
 upstairs, striving desperately to avoid even the sem- 
 blance of undue haste. Bolland was thumbing the 
 book impatiently. He frowned over his spectacles. 
 
 " Why are ye late ? " he demanded. 
 
 " Mrs. Saumarez asked me to walk with her through 
 the village," answered Martin truthfully. 
 
 " Ay. T' wife telt me she was here." 
 
 The explanation served, and Martin breathed more 
 freely. The reading commenced: 
 
 " Now king David was old and stricken in years ; and 
 they covered him with clothes, but he gat no heat. 
 
 " Wherefore his servants said unto him, Let there be 
 sought for my lord the king a young virgin : and let her 
 stand before the king, and let her cherish him, and let 
 her lie in thy bosom, that my lord the king may get 
 heat." 
 
 Martin, with his mind in a tumult on account of the 
 threatened escapade, did not care a pin what method 
 
 55
 
 56 The Revellers 
 
 was adopted to restore the feeble circulation of the 
 withered King so long as the lesson passed off satis- 
 factorily. 
 
 With rare self-control, he bent over the, to him, un- 
 meaning page, and acquitted himself so well in the par- 
 rot repetition which he knew would be pleasing that 
 he ventured to say: 
 
 " May I stay out a little later to-night, sir? " 
 
 "What for? You're better i' bed than gapin' at 
 shows an' listenin' te drunken men." 
 
 " I only ask because because I'm told that Mrs. 
 Saumarez's little girl means to see the fair by night, and 
 she er would like me to be with her." 
 
 John Bolland laughed dryly. 
 
 " Mrs. Saumarez'll soon hev more'n eneuf on't," he 
 said. " Ay, lad, ye can stay wi' her, if that's all." 
 
 Martin never, under any circumstances, told a down- 
 right lie, but he feared that this was sailing rather too 
 near the wind to be honest. The nature of Angele's 
 statement was so nebulous. He could hardly explain 
 outright that Mrs. Saumarez was not coming that 
 Angele alone would be the sightseer. So he flushed, and 
 felt that he was obtaining the required permission by 
 false pretense. He could have pulled Angele's pretty 
 ears for placing him in such a dilemma, but with a man 
 so utterly unsympathetic as Bolland it was impossible 
 to be quite candid. 
 
 He had clear ideas of right and wrong. He knew it 
 was wrong for Angele to come out unattended and mix 
 in the scene of rowdyism which the village would present 
 until midnight. If she really could succeed in leaving The 
 Elms unnoticed, the most effectual way to stop her was
 
 " It is the First Step That Counts " 57 
 
 to go now to her mother or to one of the Misses Walker 
 and report her intention. But this, according to the 
 boy's code of honor, was to play the sneak, than which 
 there is no worse crime in the calendar. No. He would 
 look after her himself. There was a spice of adventure, 
 too, in acting as the chosen squire of this sprightly 
 damsel. Strong-minded as he was, and resolute beyond 
 his years, Angele's wilfulness, her quick tongue, the 
 diablerie of her glance, the witchery of her elegant little 
 person, captivated heart and brain, and benumbed the 
 inchoate murmurings of conscience. 
 
 Oddly enough, he often found himself comparing her 
 with Elsie Herbert, a girl with whom he had never 
 exchanged a word, and Angele Saumarez invariably fig- 
 ured badly in the comparison. The boy did not know 
 then that he must become a man, perhaps soured of life, 
 bitter with experience, before he would understand the 
 difference between respect and fascination. 
 
 With housewife prudence, Mrs. Bolland hailed him 
 as he was passing through the back kitchen. 
 
 " Noo, then, Martin, don't ye go racketin' about too 
 much in your best clothes. And mind your straw hat 
 isn't blown off if ye go on one o' them whirligigs." 
 
 " All right, mother," he said cheerfully, and was gone 
 in a flash. 
 
 Two hours must elapse before Angele could appear. 
 Jim Bates, who bore no malice, stood treat in ginger- 
 bread and lemonade out of the largesse bestowed by 
 Mrs. Saumarez. Martin, carried away by sight of a 
 champion boxer who offered a sovereign to any local 
 man under twelve stone who stood up to him for three 
 two-minute rounds, spent sixpence in securing seats
 
 58 The Revellers 
 
 for himself and Jim when the gage of combat was 
 thrown down by his gamekeeper friend. 
 
 There was a furious fight with four-ounce gloves. 
 The showman discovered quickly that Velveteens " knew 
 a bit." Repeated attempts to " out " him with " the 
 right " on the " point " resulted in heavy " counters " 
 on the ribs, and a terrific uppercut failed because of the 
 keeper's quick sight. 
 
 The proprietor of the booth, who acted as timekeeper, 
 gave every favor to his henchman, but at the end of the 
 third round the professional was more blown than the 
 amateur. The sovereign was handed over with apparent 
 good will, both showmen realizing that it might be money 
 well spent. And it was, as the black eyes and swollen 
 lips among the would-be pugilists of Elmsdale testified 
 for many days thereafter. 
 
 Martin, who had never before seen a real boxing 
 match, was entranced. With a troop of boys he accom- 
 panied the two combatants to the door of the " Black 
 Lion," where a fair proportion of the sovereign was 
 soon converted into beer. 
 
 George Pickering had witnessed the contest. Gen- 
 erous to a fault, he started a purse to be fought for in 
 rounds inside the booth. Wanting a pencil and paper, 
 he ran upstairs to his room he had resolved to stay at 
 the inn for a couple of nights and encountered Kitty 
 Thwaites on the stairs. 
 
 She carried a laden tray, so he slipped an arm around 
 her waist, and she was powerless to prevent him from 
 kissing her unless she dropped the tray or risked up- 
 setting its contents. She had no intention of doing 
 either of these things.
 
 '* It is the First Step That Counts }) 59 
 
 " Oh, go on, do ! " she cried, not averting her face 
 too much. 
 
 He whispered something. 
 
 " Not me ! " she giggled. " Besides, I won't have a 
 minnit to spare till closin' time." 
 
 Pickering hugged her again. She descended the 
 stairs, laughing and very red. 
 
 The boys heard something of the details of the pro- 
 posed Elmsdale championship boxing competition. 
 Entries were pouring in, there being no fee. George 
 Pickering was appointed referee, and the professional 
 named as judge. The first round would be fought at 
 3 P.M. next day. 
 
 The time passed more quickly than Martin expected; 
 as for his money, it simply melted. Tenpence out of 
 the shilling had vanished before he realized how precious 
 little remained wherewith to entertain Angele. She said 
 she would have " plenty of money," but he imagined that 
 a walk through the fair and a ride on the roundabout 
 would satisfy her. Not even at fourteen does the male 
 understand the female of twelve. 
 
 A few minutes before eight he escaped from his com- 
 panions and strolled toward The Elms. The house was 
 not like the suburban villa which stands in the center 
 of a row and proudly styles itself Oakdene. It was 
 hidden in a cluster of lordly elms, and already the day 
 was so far spent that the entrance gate was invisible 
 save at a few yards' distance. 
 
 The nearest railway station was situated two miles 
 along this very road. A number of slow-moving coun- 
 try people were sauntering to the station, where the 
 north train was due at 9 : 05 P.M. Another train, that
 
 60 The Revellers 
 
 from the south, arrived at 9 : 20, and would be the last 
 that night. A full moon was rising, but her glories 
 were hidden by the distant hills. There was no wind ; 
 the weather was fine and settled. The Elmsdale Feast 
 was lucky in its dates. 
 
 Martin waited near the gate and heard the church 
 clock chime the hour. Two boys on bicycles came flying 
 toward the village. They were the Beckett-Smythes. 
 They slackened pace as they neared The Elms. 
 
 "Wonder if she'll get out to-night?" said Ernest; 
 the younger. 
 
 " There's no use waiting here. She said she'd dodge 
 out one evening for certain. If she's not in the village, 
 we'd better skip back before we're missed," said the heir. 
 
 " Oh, that's all right. Pater thinks we're in the 
 grounds, and there won't be any bother if we show up 
 at nine." 
 
 They rode on. The quarter-hour chimed, and Martin 
 became impatient. 
 
 " She was humbugging me, as usual," he reflected. 
 " Well, this time I'm pleased." 
 
 An eager voice whispered: 
 
 " Hold the gate ! It'll rattle when I climb over. 
 They've not heard me. I crept here on the grass." 
 
 Angele had changed her dress to a dark-blue serge 
 and sailor hat. This was decidedly thoughtful. In her 
 day attire she must have attracted a great deal of notice. 
 Now, in the dark, neither the excellence of her clothing 
 nor the elegance of her carriage would differentiate her 
 too markedly from the village girls. 
 
 She was breathless with haste, but her tongue rattled 
 on rapidly.
 
 "It is the First Step That Counts" 61 
 
 " Mamma is ill. I knew she would be. I told 
 Fran9oise I had a headache, and went to bed. Then I 
 crept downstairs again. Miss Walker nearly caught 
 me, but she's so upset that she never saw me. As for 
 Fritz, if I meet him poof ! " 
 
 "What's the matter with Mrs. Saumarez?" asked 
 Martin. 
 
 " Trop de cognac, mon cheri." 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 " It means a ' bit wobbly, my dear.' " 
 
 "Is her head bad?" 
 
 " Yes. It will be for a week. But never mind 
 mamma. She'll be all right, with Fran9oise to look after 
 her. Here! You pay for everything. There's ten 
 shillings in silver. I have a sovereign in my stocking, 
 if we want it." 
 
 They were hurrying toward the distant medley of 
 sound. Flaring naptha lamps gave the village street 
 a Rembrandt effect. Love-making couples, with arms 
 entwined, were coming away from the glare of the 
 booths. Their forms cast long shadows on the white 
 road. 
 
 " Ten shillings ! " gasped Martin. " Whatever do 
 we want with ten shillings ? " 
 
 " To enjoy ourselves, you silly. You can't have any 
 fun without money. Why, when mamma dines at the 
 Savoy and takes a party to the theater afterwards, it 
 costs her as many pounds. I know, because I've seen 
 the checks." 
 
 " That has nothing to do with it. We can't spend 
 ten shillings here." 
 
 "Oh, can't we? You leave that to me. Mais, voyez-
 
 62 The Revellers 
 
 vous, imbecile, are you going to be nasty? " She halted 
 and stamped an angry foot. 
 
 " No, I'm not ; but " 
 
 " Then come on, stupid. I'm late as it is." 
 
 " The stalls remain open until eleven." 
 
 " Magnifique ! What a row there'll be if I have to 
 knock to get in ! " 
 
 Martin held his tongue. He resolved privately that 
 Angele should be home at nine, at latest, if he dragged 
 her thither by main force. The affair promised diffi- 
 culties. She was so intractable that a serious quarrel 
 would result. Well, he could not help it. Better a last- 
 ing break than the wild hubbub that would spring up 
 if they both remained out till the heinous hour she 
 contemplated. 
 
 In the village they encountered Jim Bates and Eve- 
 lyn Atkinson, surrounded by seven or eight boys and 
 girls, for Jim was disposing rapidly of his six shil- 
 lings, and Evelyn bestowed favor on him for the 
 nonce. 
 
 " Hello ! here's Martin," whooped Bates. " I thowt 
 ye'd gone yam (home). Where hev ye " 
 
 Jim's eloquence died away abruptly. He caught 
 sight of Angele and was abashed. Not so Evelyn. 
 
 " Martin's been to fetch his sweetheart," she said 
 maliciously. 
 
 Angele simpered sufficiently to annoy Evelyn. Then 
 she laughed agreement. 
 
 " Yes. And won't we have a time ! Come on ! Every- 
 body have a ride." 
 
 She sprang toward the horses. Martin alone fol- 
 lowed.
 
 " It is the First Step That Counts " 63 
 
 " Come on ! " she screamed. " Martin will pay for 
 the lot. He has heaps of money." 
 
 No second invitation was needed. Several times the 
 whole party swung round with lively yelling. From the 
 roundabouts they went to the swings; from the swings 
 to the cocoanut shies. Here they were joined by the 
 Beckett-Smythes, who endeavored promptly to assume 
 the leadership. 
 
 Martin's blood was fired by the contest. He was 
 essentially a boy foredoomed to dominate his fellows, 
 whether for good or evil. He pitched restraint to the 
 winds. He could throw better than either of the young 
 aristocrats; he could shoot straighter at the galleries; 
 he could describe the heroic combat between the boxer 
 and Velveteens ; he would swing Angele higher than any, 
 until they looked over the cross-bar after each giddy 
 swirl. 
 
 The Beckett-Smythes kept pace with him only in 
 expenditure, Jim Bates being quickly drained, and even 
 they wondered how long the village lad could last. 
 
 The ten shillings were soon dissipated. 
 
 " I want that sovereign," he shouted, when Angele and 
 he were riding together again on the hobby-horses. 
 
 " I told you so," she screamed. She turned up her 
 dress to extricate the money from a fold of her stock- 
 ing. The light flashed on her white skin, and Frank 
 Beckett-Smythe, who rode behind with one of the Atkin- 
 son girls, wondered what she was doing. 
 
 She bent over Martin and whispered : 
 
 " There are two! Keep the fun going! " 
 
 The young spark in the rear thought that she, was 
 kissing Martin; he was wild with jealousy. At the next
 
 64 The Revellers 
 
 show that of a woman grossly fat, who allowed the 
 gapers to pinch her leg at a penny a pinch he paid 
 with his last half-crown. When they went to refresh 
 themselves on ginger-beer, Martin produced a sovereign. 
 The woman who owned the stall bit it, surveyed him sus- 
 piciously, and tried to swindle him in the change. She 
 failed badly. 
 
 " Eleven bottles at twopence and eleven cakes at a 
 penny make two-and-nine. I want two more shillings, 
 please," he said coolly. 
 
 " Be aff wid ye ! I gev ye seventeen and thruppence. 
 If ye thry anny uv yer tricks an me I'll be afther askin' 
 where ye got the pound." 
 
 " Give me two more shillings, or I'll call the police." 
 
 Mrs. Maguire was beaten; she paid up. 
 
 The crowd left her, with cries of " Irish Molly ! " 
 "Where's Mick?" and even coarser expressions. 
 Angele screamed at her: 
 
 " Why don't you stick to ginger-beer ? You're 
 muzzy." 
 
 The taunt stung, and the old Irishwoman cursed her 
 tormentor as a black-eyed little witch. 
 
 Angele, seeing that Martin carried all before him, 
 began straightway to flirt with the heir. At first the 
 defection was not noted, but when she elected to sit by 
 Frank while they watched the acrobats the new swain 
 took heart once more and squeezed her arm. 
 
 Evelyn Atkinson, who was in a smiling temper, felt 
 that a crisis might be brought about now. There was 
 not much time. It was nearly ten o'clock, and soon her 
 mother would be storming at her for not having taken 
 herself and her sisters to bed, though, in justice be it
 
 " It is the First Step That Counts " 65 
 
 said, the girls could not possibly sleep until the house 
 was cleared. 
 
 Ernest Beckett-Smythe was her cavalier at the 
 moment. 
 
 " We've seen all there is te see," she whispered. 
 " Let's go and have a dance in our yard. Jim Bates 
 can play a mouth-organ." 
 
 Ernest was a slow-witted youth. 
 
 " Where's the good? " he said. " There's more fun 
 here." 
 
 " You try it, an' see," she murmured coyly. 
 
 The suggestion caught on. It was discussed while 
 Martin and Jim Bates were driving a weight up a pole 
 by striking a lever with a heavy hammer. Anything 
 in the shape of an athletic feat always attracted 
 Martin. 
 
 Angele was delighted. She scented a row. These 
 village urchins were imps after her own heart. 
 
 " Oh, let's," she agreed. " It'll be a change. I'll show 
 you the American two-step." 
 
 Frank had his arm around her waist now. 
 
 " Right-o ! " he cried. " Evelyn, you and Ernest lead 
 the way." 
 
 The girl, flattered by being bracketed publicly with 
 one of the squire's sons, enjoined caution. 
 
 " Once we're past t' stables it's all right," she said. 
 " I don't suppose Fred'll hear us, anyhow." 
 
 Fred was at the front of the hotel watching the road, 
 watching Kitty Thwaites as she flitted upstairs and 
 down, watching George Pickering through the bar win- 
 dow, and grinning like a fiend when he saw that some- 
 what ardent wooer, hilarious now, but sober enough
 
 66 The Revellers 
 
 according to his standard, glancing occasionally at his 
 watch. 
 
 There was a gate on each side of the hotel. That on 
 the left led to the yard, with its row of stables and cart- 
 sheds, and thence to a spacious area occupied by hay- 
 i stacks, piles of firewood, hen-houses, and all the miscel- 
 laneous lumber of an establishment half inn, half farm. 
 The gate on the right opened into a bowling-green and 
 skittle-alley. Behind these lay the kitchen garden and 
 orchard. A hedge separated one section from the other, 
 and entrance could be obtained to either from the back 
 door of the hotel. 
 
 The radiance of a full moon now decked the earth in 
 silver and black; in the shade the darkness was intense 
 by contrast. The church clock struck ten. 
 
 Half a dozen youngsters crept silently into the stable 
 yard. Angele kicked up a dainty foot in a preliminary 
 pas seul, but Evelyn stopped her unceremoniously. The 
 village girl's sharp ears had caught footsteps on the 
 garden path beyond the hedge. 
 
 It was George Pickering, with his arm around Kitty's 
 shoulders. He was talking in a low tone, and she was 
 giggling nervously. 
 
 " They're sweetheartin'," whispered a girl. 
 
 " So are we," declared Frank Beckett-Smythe. 
 " Aren't we, Angele? " 
 
 " Sapristi! I should think so. Where's Martin? " 
 
 " Never mind. We don't want him." 
 
 " Oh, he will be furious. Let's hide. There will be 
 such a row when he goes home, and he daren't go till 
 he finds me." 
 
 Master Beckett-Smythe experienced a second's twinge
 
 " It is the First Step That Counts " 67 
 
 at thought of the greeting he and his brother would 
 receive at the Hall. But here was Angele pretending 
 timidity and cowering in his arms. He would not leave 
 her now were he to be flayed alive. 
 
 The footsteps of Pickering and Kitty died away. 
 They had gone into the orchard. 
 
 Evelyn Atkinson breathed freely again. 
 
 " Even if Kitty sees us now, I don't care," she said. 
 " She daren't tell mother, when she knows that we saw 
 her and Mr. Pickerin'. He ought to have married her 
 sister." 
 
 " Poof! " tittered Angele. " Who heeds a domestic? " 
 
 Someone came at a fast run into the yard, running 
 in desperate haste, and making a fearful din. Two 
 boys appeared. The leader shouted: 
 
 " Angele ! Angele ! Are you there ? " 
 
 Martin had missed her. Jim Bates, who knew the 
 chosen rendezvous of the Atkinson girls, suggested that 
 they and their friends had probably gone to the hag- 
 garth. 
 
 " Shut up, you fool ! " hissed Frank. " Do you want 
 the whole village to know where we are? " 
 
 Martin ignored him. He darted forward and caught 
 Angele by the shoulder. He distinguished her readily 
 by her outline, though she and the rest were hidden in 
 the somber shadows of the outbuildings. 
 
 " Why did you leave me ? " he demanded angrily. 
 "You must come home at once. It is past ten 
 o'clock." 
 
 " Don't be angry, Martin," she pouted. " I am just 
 a little tired of the noise. I want to show you and the 
 rest a new dance."
 
 68 The Revellers 
 
 The minx was playing her part well. She had read 
 Evelyn Atkinson's soul. She felt every throb of young 
 Beckett-Smythe's foolish heart. She was quite certain 
 that Martin would find her and cause a scene. There 
 was deeper intrigue afoot now than the mere folly of 
 unlicensed frolic in the fair. Her vanity, too, was 
 gratified by the leading role she filled among them all. 
 The puppets bore themselves according to their temper- 
 aments. Evelyn bit her lip with rage and nearly yielded 
 to a wild impulse to spring at Angele and scratch her 
 face. Martin was white with determination. As for 
 Master Frank, he boiled over instantly. 
 
 " You just leave her alone, young Bolland," he said 
 thickly. " She came here to please herself, and can 
 stay here, if she likes. I'll see to that." 
 
 Martin did not answer. 
 
 " Angele," he said quietly, " come away." 
 
 Seeing that he had lived in the village nearly all his 
 life, it was passing strange that this boy should have 
 dissociated himself so completely from its ways. But 
 the early hours he kept, his love of horses, dogs, and 
 books, his preference for the society of grooms and 
 gamekeepers above all, a keen, if unrecognized, love of 
 nature in all her varying moods, an almost pagan wor- 
 ship of mountain, moor, and stream had kept him aloof 
 from village life. A boy of fourteen does not indulge 
 in introspection. It simply came as a fearful shock to 
 find the daughter of a lady like Mrs. Saumarez so ready 
 to forget her social standing. Surely, she could not 
 know what she was doing. He was undeceived, promptly 
 and thoroughly. 
 
 Angele snatched her shoulder from his grasp.
 
 " It is the First Step That Counts " 69 
 
 " Don't you dare hold me," she snapped. " I'm not 
 coming. I won't come with you, anyhow. Ma foi, 
 Frank is far nicer." 
 
 " Then I'll drag you home," said Martin. 
 
 " Oh, will you, indeed? I'll see to that." 
 
 Beckett-Smythe deemed Angele a girl worth fighting 
 for. In any case, this clodhopper who spent money like 
 a lord must be taught manners. 
 
 Martin smiled. In his bemused brain the idea was 
 gaining ground that Angele would be flattered if he 
 " licked " the squire's son for her sake. 
 
 " Very well," he said, stepping back into the moon- 
 light. " We'll settle it that way. If you beat me, 
 Angele remains. If I beat you, she goes home. Here, 
 Jim. Hold my coat and hat. And, no matter what 
 happens, mind you don't play for any dancing." 
 
 Martin stated terms and issued orders like an em- 
 peror. In the hour of stress he felt himself immeasur- 
 ably superior to this gang of urchins, whether their 
 manners smacked of Elmsdale or of Eton. 
 
 Angele's acquaintance with popular fiction told her 
 that at this stage of the game the heroine should cling 
 in tears to the one she loved, and implore him to desist, 
 to be calm for her sake. But the riot in her veins 
 brought a new sensation. There were possibilities 
 hitherto unsuspected in the darkness, the secrecy, the 
 candid brutality of the fight. She almost feared lest 
 Beckett-Smythe should be defeated. 
 
 And how the other girls must envy her, to be fought 
 for by the two boys pre-eminent among them, to be the 
 acknowledged princess of this village carnival! 
 
 So she clapped her hands.
 
 70 The Revellers 
 
 " O la la ! " she cried. " Going to fight about poor 
 little me ! Well, I can't stop you, can I? " 
 
 " Yes, you can," said one. 
 
 " She won't, anyhow," scoffed the other. " Are you 
 ready?" 
 
 " Quite ! " 
 
 " Then go.' " 
 
 And the battle began.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 WHEREIN THE RED BLOOD FLOWS 
 
 THEY fought like a couple of young bulls. Frank 
 intended to demolish his rival at the outset. He was a 
 year older and slightly heavier, but Martin was more 
 active, more sure-footed, sharper of vision. Above all, 
 he had laid to heart the three-pennyworth of tuition 
 obtained in the boxing booth a few hours earlier. 
 
 He had noted then that a boxer dodged as many blows 
 with his head as he warded with his arms. He grasped 
 the necessity to keep moving, and thus disconcert an 
 adversary's sudden rush. Again, he had seen the excel- 
 lence of a forward spring without changing the relative 
 positions of the feet. Assuming you were sparring with 
 the left hand and foot advanced, a quick jump of eight- 
 een inches enabled you to get the right home with all 
 your force. You must keep the head well back and the 
 eye fixed unflinchingly on your opponent's. Above all, 
 meet offense with offense. Hit hard and quickly and as 
 often as might be. 
 
 These were sound principles, and he proceeded to put 
 them into execution, to the growing distress and singu- 
 lar annoyance of Master Beckett-Smythe. 
 
 Ernest acted as referee in the language of the vil- 
 lage, he " saw fair play " but was wise enough to call 
 " time " early in the first round, when his brother drew 
 off after a fierce set-to. The forcing tactics had failed, 
 
 71
 
 72 The Revellers 
 
 but honors were divided. The taller boy's reach had 
 told in his favor, while Martin's newly acquired science 
 redressed the balance. 
 
 Martin's lip was cut and there was a lump on his left 
 cheek, but Frank felt an eye closing and had received a 
 staggerer in the ribs. He was aware of an uneasy feel- 
 ing that if Martin survived the next round he (Frank) 
 would be beaten, so there was nothing for it but to sum- 
 mon all his reserves and deliver a Napoleonic attack. 
 The enemy must be crushed by sheer force. 
 
 He was a plucky lad and was stung to frenzy by see- 
 ing Angele offer Martin the use of a lace handkerchief 
 for the bleeding lip, a delicate tenderness quietly re- 
 pulsed. 
 
 So, when the rush came, Martin had to fight desper- 
 ately to avoid annihilation. He was compelled to give 
 way, and backed toward the hedge. Behind lay an 
 unseen stackpole. At the instant when Beckett-Smythe 
 lowered his head and endeavored to butt Martin violently 
 in the stomach, the latter felt the obstruction with his 
 heel. Had he lost his nerve then or flickered an eyelid, 
 he would have taken a nasty fall and a severe shaking. 
 As it was, he met the charge more than halfway, and 
 delivered the same swinging upper stroke which had 
 nearly proved fatal to his gamekeeper friend. 
 
 It was wholly disastrous to Beckett-Smythe. It 
 caught him fairly on the nose, and, as the blow was in 
 accord with the correct theory of dynamics as applied 
 to forces in motion, it knocked him silly. His head flew 
 up, his knees bent, and he dropped to the ground with a 
 horrible feeling that the sky had fallen and that stars 
 were sparkling among the rough paving-stones.
 
 Wherein the Red Blood Flows 73 
 
 " That's a finisher. He's whopped ! " exulted Jim 
 Bates. 
 
 " No, he's not. It was a chance blow," cried Ernest, 
 who was strongly inclined to challenge the victor on his 
 own account. " Get up, Frank. Have another go at 
 him!" 
 
 But Frank, who could neither see nor hear distinctly, 
 was too groggy to rise, and the village girls drew to- 
 gether in an alarmed group. Such violent treatment of 
 the squire's son savored of sacrilege. They were sure 
 that Martin would receive some condign punishment by 
 the law for pummeling a superior being so unmerci- 
 fully. 
 
 Angele, somewhat frightened herself, tried to console 
 her discomfited champion. 
 
 " I'm so sorry," she said. " It was all my fault." 
 
 " Oh, go away ! " he protested. " Ernest, where's 
 there a pump ? " 
 
 Assisted by his brother, he struggled to his feet. His 
 nose was bleeding freely and his face was ghastly in the 
 moonlight. But he was a spirited youngster. He held 
 out a hand to Martin. 
 
 " I've had enough just now," he said, with an attempt 
 at a smile. " Some other day, when my eye is all right, 
 I'd like to " 
 
 A woman's scream of terror, a man's cry of agony, 
 startled the silent night and nearly scared the children 
 out of their wits. 
 
 Someone came running up the garden path. It was 
 Kitty Thwaites. She swayed unsteadily as she ran ; her 
 arms were lifted in frantic supplication. 
 
 " Oh, Betsy, Betsy, you've killed him ! " she wailed.
 
 74 The Revellers 
 
 " Murder ! Murder ! Come, someone ! For God's sake, 
 come ! " 
 
 She stumbled and fell, shrieking frenziedly for help. 
 Another woman a woman whose extended right hand 
 clutched a long, thin knife such as is used to carve 
 game appeared from the gloom of the orchard. Her 
 wan face was raised to the sky, and a baleful light 
 shone in her eyes. 
 
 " Ay, I'll swing for him," she cried in a voice shrill 
 with hysteria. " May the Lord deal wi' him as he dealt 
 wi' me! And my own sister, too! Out on ye, ye 
 strumpet! 'Twould sarve ye right if I stuck ye wi' t 5 
 same knife." 
 
 With a clatter of ironshod boots, most of the fright- 
 ened children stampeded out of the stable yard. Martin, 
 to whom Angele clung in speechless fear, and the two 
 Beckett-Smythes alone were left. 
 
 The din of steam organ and drums, the ceaseless tur- 
 moil of the fair, the constant fusillade at the shooting 
 gallery, and the bawling of men in charge of the various 
 sideshows, had kept the women's shrieks from other ears 
 thus far. But Kitty Thwaites, though almost shocked 
 out of her senses, gained strength from the imminence 
 of peril. Springing up from the path just in time to 
 avoid the vengeful oncoming of her sister, she staggered 
 toward the hotel and created instant alarm by her cries 
 of " Murder ! Help ! George Pickering has been 
 stabbed!" 
 
 A crowd of men poured out from bar and smoking- 
 room. One, who took thought, rushed through the front 
 door and snatched a naphtha lamp from a stall. Mean- 
 while, the three boys and the girl on the other side of
 
 Wherein the Red Blood Flows 75 
 
 the hedge, seeing and hearing everything, but unseen 
 and unheard themselves, took counsel in some sort. 
 
 " I say," Ernest Beckett-Smythe urged his brother, 
 " let's get out of this. Father will thrash us to death 
 if we're mixed up in this business." 
 
 The advice was good. Frank forgot his dizziness for 
 the moment, and the two raced to secure their bicycles 
 from a stall-holder's care. They rode away to the Hall 
 unnoticed. 
 
 Martin remained curiously quiet. All the excitement 
 had left him. If Elmsdale were rent by an earthquake 
 just then, he would have watched the toppling houses 
 with equanimity. 
 
 " I suppose you don't wish to stop here now? " he 
 said to Angele. 
 
 The girl was sobbing bitterly. Her small body shook 
 as though each gulp were a racking cough. She could 
 not answer. He placed his arm around her and led her to 
 the gate. While they were crossing the yard the people 
 from the hotel crowded into the garden. The man with 
 the lamp had reached the back of the house across the 
 bowling green, and a stalwart farmer had caught Betsy 
 Thwaites by the wrist. The blood-stained knife fell 
 from her fingers. She moaned helplessly in disjointed 
 phrases. 
 
 " It's all overed now. God help me ! Why was I 
 born?" 
 
 Already a crowd was surging into the hotel through 
 the front door. Martin guided his trembling companion 
 to the right; in a few strides they were clear of the fair, 
 only to run into Mrs. Saumarez's German chauffeur. 
 
 He was not in uniform; in a well-fitting blue serge
 
 76 The Revellers 
 
 suit and straw hat, he looked more like a young officer 
 in mufti than a mechanic. He was the first to recognize 
 Angele, and was so frankly astonished that he bowed to 
 her without lifting his hat. 
 
 ** You, mees? " he cried, seemingly at a loss for other 
 words. 
 
 Angele recovered her wits at once. She said some- 
 thing which Martin could not understand, though he was 
 sure it was not in French, as the girl's frequent use of 
 that language was familiarizing his ears with its sounds. 
 As a matter of fact, she spoke German, telling the chauf- 
 feur to mind his own business, and she would mind hers ; 
 but if any talking were done her tongue might wag more 
 than his. 
 
 At any rate, the man did then raise his hat politely 
 and walk on. The remainder of the road between Elms- 
 dale and The Elms was deserted. Martin hardly 
 realized the pace at which he was literally dragging his 
 companion homeward until she protested. 
 
 " Martin, you're hurting my arm ! What's the 
 hurry? . . . Did she really kill him?" 
 
 " She said so. I don't know," he replied. 
 
 "Who was she?" 
 
 " Kitty Thwaites's sister, I suppose. I never saw 
 her before. They were not bred in this village." 
 
 " And why did she kill him? " 
 
 "How can I tell?" 
 
 " She had a knife in her hand." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Perhaps she killed him because she was jealous." 
 
 " Perhaps." 
 
 " Martin, don't be angry with me. I didn't mean any
 
 Wherein the Red Blood Flows 77 
 
 harm. I was only having a lark. I did it just to tease 
 you and Evelyn Atkinson." 
 
 " That's all very fine. What will your mother 
 say?" 
 
 The quietude, the sound of her own voice, were giving 
 the girl courage. She tossed her head with something 
 of contempt. 
 
 " She can say nothing. You leave her to me. You 
 saw how I shut Fritz's mouth. What was the name of 
 the man who was killed ? " 
 
 " George Pickering." 
 
 " Ah. He walked down the garden with Kitty 
 Thwaites." 
 
 "Indeed?" 
 
 " Yes. When I get in I can tell Miss Walker and 
 Fran9oise all about it. They will be so excited. There 
 will be no fuss about me being out. Via la bonne 
 fortune ! " 
 
 " Speak English, please." 
 
 " Well, it is good luck I was there. I can make up 
 such a story." 
 
 " Good luck that a poor fellow should be stabbed ! " 
 
 " That wasn't my fault, was it? Good-night, Martin. 
 You fought beautifully. Kiss me ! " 
 
 " I won't kiss you. Run in, now. I'll wait till the 
 door opens." 
 
 " Then I'll kiss you. There ! I like you better than 
 all the world just now." 
 
 She opened the gate, careless whether it clanged 
 or not. Martin heard her quick footsteps on the 
 gravel of the short drive. She rattled loudly on the 
 door.
 
 78 The Revellers 
 
 " Good-night, Martin dear ! " she cried. 
 
 He did not answer. There was some delay. Evi- 
 dently she had not been missed. 
 
 " Are you there ? " She was impatient of his con- 
 tinued coldness. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then why don't you speak, silly ? " 
 
 The door opened with the clanking of a chain. There 
 was a woman's startled cry as the inner light fell on 
 Angele. Then he turned. 
 
 Not until he reached the " Black Lion " and its well- 
 lighted area did he realize that he was coatless and hat- 
 less. Jim Bates had vanished with both of these neces- 
 sary articles. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound! 
 There would be a fearful row, and the thrashing would 
 be the same in any case. 
 
 He avoided the crowd, keeping to the darker side of 
 the street. A policeman had just come out of the inn 
 and was telling the people to go away. All the village 
 seemed to have gathered during the few minutes which 
 had elapsed since the tragedy took place. He felt 
 strangely sorry for Betsy Thwaites. Would she be 
 locked up, handcuffed, with chains on her ankles ? What 
 would they do with the knife? Why should she want to 
 kill Mr. Pickering? Wouldn't he marry her? Even so, 
 that was no reason he should be stabbed. Where did 
 she stick him? Did he quiver like Absalom when Joab 
 thrust the darts into his heart? 
 
 At last he ran up the slight incline leading to the 
 White House; there was a light in the front kitchen. 
 For one awful moment he paused, with a finger on the 
 sneck; then he pressed the latch and entered.
 
 Wherein the Red Blood Flows 79 
 
 John Bolland, grim as a stone gargoyle, wearing his 
 Sunday coat and old-fashioned tall hat, was leaning 
 against the massive chimneypiece. Mrs. Bolland, with 
 bonnet awry, was seated. She had been crying. A 
 frightened kitchenmaid peeped through the passage 
 leading to the back of the house when the door opened 
 to admit the truant. Then she vanished. 
 
 There was a period of chill silence while Martin closed 
 the door. He turned and faced the elderly couple, and 
 John Bolland spoke: 
 
 " So ye've coom yam, eh? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " An' at a nice time, too. Af ther half-past ten ! An 
 hour sen yer muther an' me searched high and low for 
 ye. Where hev' ye bin ? Tell t' truth, ye young scamp. 
 Every lie'll mean more skin off your back." 
 
 Mrs. Bolland, drying her eyes, now that Martin had 
 returned, noticed his disheveled condition. His face 
 was white as his shirt, and both were smeared with 
 blood. A wave of new alarm paled her florid cheeks. 
 She ran to him. 
 
 " For mercy's sake, boy, what hev ye bin doin' ? Are 
 ye hurt?" 
 
 " No, mother, not hurt. I fought Frank Beckett- 
 Smythe. That is all." 
 
 " T' squire's son. Why on earth " 
 
 " Go to bed, Martha," said John, picking up a riding 
 whip. But Mrs. Bolland's sympathies discerned a 
 deeper reason for Martin's escapade than a mere boyish 
 frolic which deserved a thrashing. He was unnaturally 
 calm. Something out of the common had happened. 
 He did not flinch at the sight of the whip.
 
 80 The Revellers 
 
 " John," she said sternly, " ye shan't touch him to- 
 night." 
 
 " Stand aside, Martha. If all my good teachin' is of 
 no avail " 
 
 " Mebbe t' lad's fair sick o* yer good teachin'. You 
 lay a hand on him at yer peril. If ye do, I don't bide 
 i' the house this night ! " 
 
 Never before, during thirty years of married life, had 
 Martha Bolland defied her husband. He glowered with 
 anger and amazement. 
 
 " Would ye revile the Word te shield that spawn o' 
 Satan? " he roared. " Get away, woman, lest I do thee 
 an injury." 
 
 But his wife's temper was fierce as his own when 
 roused. She was a Meynell, and there have been Mey- 
 nells in Yorkshire as long as any Bollands. 
 
 " Tak' yer threats te those who heed 'em," she re- 
 torted bitterly. " D'ye think folk will stand by an' let 
 ye raise yer hand te me? . . . David, William, Mary, 
 coom here an' hold yer master. He's like te have a fit 
 wi' passion." 
 
 There was a shuffling in the passage. The men ser- 
 vants, such as happened to be in the house, came awk- 
 wardly at their mistress's cry. The farmer stood 
 spellbound. What devil possessed the household 
 that his authority should be set at naught thus 
 openly? 
 
 It was a thrilling moment, but Martin solved the 
 difficulty. He wrenched himself free of Mrs. Bolland's 
 protecting arms. 
 
 " Father, mother ! " he cried. " Don't quarrel on my 
 account. If I must be beaten, I don't care. I'll take
 
 Wherein the Red Blood Flows 81 
 
 all I get. But it's only fair that I should say why I 
 was not home earlier." 
 
 Now, John Bolland, notwithstanding his dealing in 
 the matter of the pedigree cow, prided himself on his 
 sense of justice. Indeed, the man who does the gravest 
 injury to his fellows is often cursed with a narrow- 
 minded certainty of his own righteousness. Moreover, 
 this matter had gone beyond instant adjustment by the 
 unsparing use of a whip. His wife, his servants, were 
 arrayed against him. By the Lord, they should rue it ! 
 " " Aye," he said grimly. " Tell your muther why 
 you've been actin' t' blackguard. Mebbe she'll under- 
 stand." 
 
 Mrs. Bolland had the sense to pass this taunt un- 
 heeded. Her heart was quailing already at her temerity. 
 
 " Angele Saumarez came out without her mother," 
 said Martin. " Mrs. Saumarez is ill. I thought it best 
 to remain with her and take her home again. Frank 
 Beckett-Smythe joined us, and he he insulted her, in 
 a way. So I fought him, and beat him, too. And then 
 George Pickering was murdered " 
 
 "What?" ' 
 
 Bolland dropped the whip on the table. His wife 
 sank into a chair with a cry of alarm. The plowmen 
 and maids ventured farther into the room. Even the 
 farmer's relentless jaw fell at this terrific announcement. 
 
 " Yes, it is quite true. Frank and I fought in the 
 yard of the ' Black Lion.' George Pickering and Kitty 
 Thwaites went down the garden at least, so I was told. 
 I didn't see them. But, suddenly, Kitty came screaming 
 along the path, and after her a woman waving a long 
 knife in the air. Kitty called her * Betsy,' and said she
 
 82 The Revellers 
 
 had killed George Pickering. She said so herself. I 
 heard her. Then some men came with a light and caught 
 hold of Betsy. She was going to stab Kitty, too, I 
 think; and Jim Bates ran away with my coat and hat, 
 which he was holding." 
 
 The effect of such a narration on a gathering of vil- 
 lagers, law-abiding folk who lived in a quiet nook like 
 Elmsdale, was absolutely paralyzing. John Bolland 
 was the first to recover himself. A man of few ideas, he 
 could not adjust his mental balance with sufficient nicety 
 to see that the tragedy itself in no wise condoned Mar- 
 tin's offense. 
 
 " Are ye sure of what ye're sayin', lad ? " he de- 
 manded, though indeed he felt it was absurd to imagine 
 that such a tale would be invented as a mere excuse. 
 
 " Quite sure, sir. If you walk down to the ' Black 
 Lion,' you'll see all the people standing round the hotel 
 and the police keeping them back." 
 
 " Well, well, I'll gan this minit. George Pickerin' 
 was no friend o' mine, but I'm grieved te hear o' sike 
 deeds as these in oor village. I was maist angered wi' 
 you on yer muther's account. She was grievin' so when 
 we failed te find ye. She thowt sure you were runned 
 over or drownded i' t' beck." 
 
 This was meant as a graceful apology to his wife, 
 and was taken in that spirit. Never before had he made 
 such a concession. 
 
 " Here's yer stick, John," she said. " Hurry and find 
 out what's happened. Poor George ! I wish my tongue 
 hadn't run so fast t' last time I seed him." 
 
 Bolland and the other men hastened away, and Martin 
 was called on to recount the sensational episode, with
 
 Wherein the Red Blood Flows 83 
 
 every detail known to him, for the benefit of the house- 
 hold. No one paid heed to the boy's own adventures. 
 All ears were for the vengeance taken by Betsy Thwaites 
 on the man who jilted her. Even to minds blunted 
 almost to callousness, the crime passionel had a vivid, an 
 entrancing interest. The women were quick to see its 
 motive, a passive endurance stung to sudden frenzy by 
 the knowledge that the faithless lover was pursuing the 
 younger sister. But how did Betsy Thwaites, who lived 
 in far-off Hereford, learn that George Pickering was 
 "making up" to Kitty? The affair was of recent 
 growth. Indeed, none of those present was aware that 
 Pickering and the pretty maid at the " Black Lion " 
 were so much as acquainted with each other. And where 
 did Betsy spring from? She could not have been stay- 
 ing in the village, or someone aware of her history must 
 have seen her. Did Kitty know she was there? If so, 
 how foolish of the younger woman to be out gallivanting 
 in the moonlight with Pickering. 
 
 The whole story was fraught with deepest mystery. 
 Martin could not answer one-tenth of the questions put 
 to him. Boy-like, he felt himself somewhat of a hero, 
 until he remembered Angele's glee at the " good luck " 
 of the occurrence how she would save herself from 
 blame by telling Miss Walker and Fran9oise " all 
 about it." 
 
 He flushed deeply. He wished now that Bolland had 
 given him a hiding before he blurted out his news. 
 
 " Bless the lad, he's fair tired te death ! " said Mrs. 
 Bolland. " Here, Martin, drink a glass o' port an' off 
 te bed wi* ye." 
 
 He sipped the wine, wondering dimly what Frank
 
 84 The Revellers 
 
 Beckett-Smythe was enduring and how he would explain 
 that black eye. He was about to go upstairs, when 
 hasty steps sounded without, and Bolland entered with 
 a policeman. 
 
 This was the village constable, and, of course, well 
 known to all. During the feast other policemen came 
 from neighboring villages, but the local officer was best 
 fitted to conduct inquiries into a case requiring measures 
 beyond a mere arrest. His appearance at this late 
 hour created a fresh sensation. 
 
 "Martin," said the farmer gravely, " did ye surely 
 hear Kitty Thwaites say that Betsy had killed Mr. 
 Pickering? " 
 
 "Yes, sir; I did." 
 
 " And ye heerd Betsy admit it ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes that is, if Betsy is the woman with the 
 knife." 
 
 " There ! " said Bolland, turning to the policeman. 
 " I telt ye so. T' lad has his faults, but he's nae leear ; 
 I'll say that for him." 
 
 The man took off his helmet and wiped his forehead, 
 for the night was close and warm. 
 
 " Well," he said, " I'll just leave it for the Super ' 
 te sattle. Mr. Pickerin' sweers that Betsy never struck 
 him. She ran up tiv him wi' t' knife, an' they quarrelled 
 desperately. That he don't deny. She threatened him, 
 too, an' te get away frev her he was climin' inte t' 
 stackyard when he slipped, an' a fork lyin' again' t' 
 fence ran intiv his ribs." 
 
 "Isn't he dead, then?" exclaimed Mrs. Bolland 
 shrilly. 
 
 " Not he ? ma'am, and not likely te be. He kem to as
 
 Wherein the Red Blood Flows 85 
 
 soon as he swallowed some brandy, an' his first words 
 was, 'Where's Betsy?' He was fair wild when they 
 telt him she was arrested. He said it was all the fault 
 of that flighty lass, Kitty, an' that a lot of fuss was 
 bein' made about nowt. I didn't know what te dea. 
 Beath women were fair ravin', and said all soarts o' 
 things, but t' upshot is that Betsy is nussin' Mr. Pick- 
 erin' now until t' doctor comes frae Nottonby." 
 
 He still mopped his head, and his glance wandered to 
 the goodly cask in the corner. 
 
 " Will ye hev a pint ? " inquired Bolland. 
 
 " Ay, that I will, Mr. Bolland, an' welcome." 
 
 " An' a bite o' bread an' meat? " added Mrs. Bolland. 
 
 " I doan't min' if I do, ma'am." 
 
 A glance at a maid produced eatables with lightning 
 speed. Mary feared lest she should miss a syllable of 
 the night's marvels. 
 
 The policeman had many " bites," and talked while he 
 ate. Gradually the story became lucid and consecutive. 
 
 Fred, the groom, was jealous of Pickering's admira- 
 tion for Kitty. Having overheard the arrangement for 
 a meeting on Monday, he wrote to Betsy, sending her 
 the information in the hope that she would come from 
 Hereford and cause a commotion at the hotel. 
 
 He expected her by an earlier train, but she did not 
 arrive until 9 : 20 P.M., and there was a walk of over 
 two miles from the station. 
 
 Meanwhile, he had seen Kitty and Pickering steal off 
 into the garden. He knew that any interference on his 
 part would earn him a prompt beating, so, when Betsy 
 put in a belated appearance, he met her in the passage 
 and told her where she would find the couple.
 
 86 The Revellers 
 
 Instantly she ran through the kitchen, snatching a 
 knife as she went. Before the drink-sodden meddler 
 could realize the extent of the mischief he had wrought, 
 Kitty was shrieking that Pickering was dead. All this 
 he blurted out to the police before the injured man gave 
 another version of the affair. 
 
 " Martin bears out one side o' t' thing," commented 
 the constable oracularly, " but t' chief witness says that 
 summat else happened. There was blood on t' knife 
 when it was picked up ; but there, again, there's a doubt, 
 as Betsy had cut her own arm wi't. Anyhow, Betsy an' 
 Kitty were cryin' their hearts out when they kem out of 
 Mr. Pickerin's room for towels; and he's bleedin' 
 dreadful." 
 
 This final gory touch provided an artistic curtain. 
 The constable readjusted his belt and took his de- 
 parture. 
 
 After another half-hour's eager gossip among the 
 elders, in which Fred suffered much damage to his char- 
 acter, Martin was hurried off to bed. Mrs. Bolland 
 washed his bruised face and helped him to undress. She 
 was folding his trousers, when a shower of money rattled 
 to the floor. 
 
 " Marcy on us ! " she cried in real bewilderment, 
 " here's a sovereign, a half-sovereign, an' silver, an' 
 copper! Martin, my boy, whatever ..." 
 
 " Angele gave it to me, mother. She gave me two 
 pounds ten to spend." 
 
 " Two pund ten ! " 
 
 " Yes. I suppose it was very wrong. I'll give 
 back all that is left to Mrs. Saumarez in the morn- 
 ing."
 
 Wherein the Red Blood Flows 87 
 
 Martha Bolland was very serious now. She crept to 
 the door of the bedroom and listened. 
 
 " I do hope yer father kens nowt o' this," she whis- 
 pered anxiously. 
 
 Then she counted the money. 
 
 " You've spent sixteen shillin's and fowerpence, not 
 reckonin' t' shillin' I gev ye this mornin'. Seventeen 
 an' fowerpence! Martin, Martin, whatever on?" 
 
 Such extravagance was appalling. Her frugal mind 
 could not assimilate it readily. This sum would main- 
 tain a large family for a week. 
 
 " We stood treat to a lot of other boys and girls. 
 But don't be vexed to-night, mother, dear. I'm so 
 tired." 
 
 "Vexed, indeed. What'll Mrs. Saumarez say? 
 There'll be a bonny row i' t' mornin'. You tak' it back 
 t' first thing. An', here. If she sez owt about t' bal- 
 ance, come an' tell me an' I'll make it up. You fond 
 lad; if John knew this, he'd never forgive ye. There, 
 honey, go te sleep." 
 
 There were tears in her eyes as she bent and kissed 
 him. But he was incapable of further emotion. He was 
 half asleep ere she descended the stairs, and his last 
 sentient thought was one of keen enjoyment, for his 
 knuckles were sore when he closed his right hand, and 
 he remembered the smashing force of that uppercut as 
 it met the aristocratic nose of Master Beckett-Smythe.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 GEORGE PICKERING PLAYS THE MAN 
 
 MARTIN was awakened by the rays of a bright autumn 
 sun. He sprang out of bed in a jiffy, lest he should be 
 late for breakfast, a heinous offense at the farm ; but 
 the sight of William feeding the pigs in the yard beneath 
 told him that it was only half-past six. 
 
 The first puzzle that presented itself was one of cos- 
 tume. Should he wear his commonplace corduroys, or 
 don all that was left of his gray tweeds? During the 
 Feast he was supposed to dress in his best each day; 
 he decided to obey orders as far as was possible. 
 
 He missed the money from his trousers pocket and 
 knew that his mother had taken it. Also, he found that 
 she had selected a clean shirt and collar from the 
 drawer and placed them ready for use. By degrees his 
 active brain recalled the startling events of the previous 
 evening in their proper sequence, and he found himself 
 speculating more on the reception Mrs. Saumarez might 
 accord than on the attitude John Bolland would cer- 
 tainly adopt when the overnight proceedings arranged 
 themselves in a slow-moving mind. 
 
 He was downstairs long before seven. The farmer 
 was out. Mrs. Bolland, immersed in the early cares of 
 the household, showed no traces of the excitement of 
 eight hours earlier. 
 
 " Martin," she cried as soon as she caught sight of 
 
 88
 
 George Pickering Plays the Man 89 
 
 him, " I heerd a hen cluckin' a bit sen at t' bottom o' t' 
 garth. Just look i' t' hedge an' see if she's nestin'? " 
 
 This was a daily undertaking in a house where poul- 
 try were plentiful as sparrows in Piccadilly. 
 
 Martin hailed the mission as a sign that normal times 
 were come again. A gate led into the meadow from the 
 garden, but to go that way meant walking twenty yards 
 or more, so the boy took a running jump, caught a stout 
 limb of a pear tree, swung himself onto a ten-foot pile 
 of wood, and dropped over into the field beyond. 
 
 Mrs. Bolland witnessed the feat with some degree of 
 alarm. In the course of a few hours she had come to 
 see her adopted son passing from childhood into vig- 
 orous adolescence. 
 
 " Drat that lad ! " she cried irately. " Does he want 
 to break his neck ? " 
 
 " He larnt that trick t'other day, missus," commented 
 William, standing all lopsided to balance a huge pail 
 of pig's food. " He'll mek a rare chap, will your 
 Martin." 
 
 " He's larnin' a lot o' tricks that I ken nowt about," 
 cried Mistress Martha. " Nice doin's there was last 
 night. How comes it none o' you men saw him carryin' 
 on i' t' fair wi' that little French la-di-dah? " 
 
 " I dunno, ma'am." 
 
 William grinned, though, for some of the men had 
 noted the children's antics, and none would " split " to 
 the farmer. 
 
 " But I did hear as how Martin gev t' Squire's son a 
 fair weltin'," he went on. " One o' t' grooms passed 
 here an oor sen, exercisin' a young hoss, an' he said that 
 beath young gentlemen kern yam at half-past ten.
 
 90 The Revellers 
 
 Master Frank had an eye bunged up, an' a nose like a 
 bad apple. He was that banged about that t' Squire 
 let him off a bastin' an* gev t'other a double allowance." 
 
 Mrs. Holland smiled. 
 
 " Gan on wi' yer wark," she said. " Here's it's seven 
 o'clock, half t' day gone, an' nothin' done." 
 
 Martin, searching for stray eggs, suddenly heard a 
 familiar whistle. He looked around and saw Jim Bates's 
 head over the top of the lane hedge. 
 
 Jim held up a bundle. 
 
 " Here's yer coat an' hat," he said. " I dursent bring 
 'em last neet." 
 
 " Why did you run away ? " inquired Martin, ap- 
 proaching to take his property. 
 
 " I was skeert. Yon woman's yellin' was awful. I 
 went straight off yam." 
 
 " Did you catch it for being out late? " 
 
 " Noa ; but feyther gev me a clout this mornin' for 
 not tellin' him about t' murder. He'd gone te bed." 
 
 " Nobody was murdered," said Martin. 
 
 " That wasn't Betsy's fault. It's all my eye about 
 Mr. Pickerin' stickin' a fork into hisself. There was 
 noa fork there." 
 
 " How do you know ? " 
 
 " Coss I was pullin' carrots all Saturday mornin' for 
 Mrs. Atkinson, an' if there'd bin any fork I should ha' 
 seen it." 
 
 " Martin," cried a shrill voice from the garth, " is 
 that lookin' fer eggs ? " 
 
 Jim Bates's head and shoulders shot out of sight 
 instantaneously. 
 
 " All right, mother, I'm only getting back my lost
 
 George Pickering Plays the Man 91 
 
 clothes," explained Martin. He began a painstaking 
 survey of the hedge bottom and was rewarded by the 
 discovery of a nest of six hidden away by a hen anxious 
 to undertake the cares of maternity. 
 
 At breakfast John Bolland was silent and severe. 
 He passed but one remark to Martin: 
 
 " Happen you'll be wanted some time this mornin*. 
 Stop within hail until Mr. Benson calls." 
 
 Mr. Benson was the village constable. 
 
 "What will he want wi' t' lad?" inquired Mrs. Bol- 
 land tartly. 
 
 " Martin is t' main witness i' this case o' Pickerin's. 
 Kitty Thwaites isn't likely te tell t' truth. Women are 
 main leears when there's a man i' t' business." 
 
 " More fools they." 
 
 " Well, let be. I'm fair vexed that Martin's neam 
 should be mixed up i' this affair. Fancy the tale that'll 
 be i' t' Messenger John Bolland's son fightin' t' young 
 squire at ten o'clock o' t' neet in t' * Black Lion ' yard 
 fightin' ower a lass. What ailed him I cannot tell. He 
 must ha' gone clean daft." 
 
 The farmer pushed back his chair angrily, and Mrs. 
 Bolland wondered what he would say did he know of 
 Martin's wild extravagance. Mother and son were glad 
 when John picked up a riding-whip and lumbered out 
 to mount Sam, the pony, for an hour's ride over the 
 moor. 
 
 Evidently, he had encountered Benson before break- 
 fast, as that worthy officer arrived at half -past ten and 
 asked Martin to accompany him. 
 
 The two walked solemnly through the fair, in which 
 there was already some stir. A crowd hanging around
 
 92 The Revellers 
 
 the precincts of the inn made way as they approached, 
 and Martin saw, near the door, two saddled horses in 
 charge of a policeman. 
 
 He was escorted to an inner room, receiving a tremu- 
 lous, but gracious, smile from Evelyn as he passed. To 
 his very genuine astonishment and alarm, he was con- 
 fronted not only by the district superintendent of police 
 but also by Mr. Frank Reginald de Courcy Beckett- 
 Smythe, the magnate of the Hall. 
 
 " This is the boy, your wuship," said Benson. 
 
 "Ah. What is his name?" 
 
 " Martin Court Bolland, sir." 
 
 " One of John Bolland's sons, eh? " 
 
 " No, sir. Mr. Bolland has no son. He adopted this 
 lad some thirteen years ago." 
 
 Had a bolt from the blue struck Martin at that 
 moment he could not have been more dumbfounded. 
 Both John and Martha had thought fit to keep the 
 secret of his parentage from his knowledge until he was 
 older, as the fact might tend to weaken their authority 
 during his boyhood. The adults in Elmsdale, of course, 
 knew the circumstances thoroughly, and respected Mr. 
 and Mrs. Bolland's wishes, while the children with whom 
 he grew up regarded him as village-born like themselves. 
 
 It took a good deal to bring tears to Martin's eyes, 
 but they were perilously near at that instant. Though 
 the words almost choked him, he faltered: 
 
 "Is that true, Mr. Benson?" 
 
 " True? It's true eneuf, lad. Didn't ye know? " 
 
 " No, they never told me." 
 
 A mist obscured his sight. The presence of the mag- 
 istrate and superintendent ceased to have any awe-
 
 George Pickering Plays the Man 93 V 
 
 inspiring effect. What disgrace was this so suddenly 
 blurted out by this stolid policeman? Whose child was 
 he, then, if not theirs ? Could he ever hold up his head 
 again in face of the youthful host over which he lorded 
 it by r.eason of his advanced intelligence and greater 
 strength? There was comfort in the thought that no 
 one had ever taunted him in this relation. The veiled 
 hint in Pickering's words to the farmer was the only 
 reference he could recall. 
 
 Benson seemed to regard the facts as to his birth as 
 matters of common knowledge. Perhaps there was some 
 explanation which would lift him from the sea of igno- 
 miny into which he had been pitched so unexpectedly. 
 
 He was aroused by Mr. Beckett-Smythe saying: 
 
 " Now, my lad, was it you who fought my son last 
 night?" 
 
 " Yes sir," stammered Martin. 
 
 The question sharpened his wits to some purpose. A 
 spice of dread helped the process. Was he going to be 
 tried on some dire charge of malicious assault? 
 
 " Hum," muttered the squire, surveying him with a 
 smile. " A proper trouncing you gave him, too. I shall 
 certainly thrash him now for permitting it. What was 
 the cause of the quarrel? " 
 
 " About a girl, sir." 
 
 " You young rascals ! A girl! What girl? " 
 
 " Perhaps it was all my fault, sir." 
 
 " That is not answering my question." 
 
 " I would rather not tell, sir." 
 
 Then Mr. Beckett-Smythe leaned back in his chair 
 and laughed heartily. 
 
 " Ton my honor," he said to the superintendent,
 
 94 The Revellers 
 
 " these young sparks are progressive. They don't care 
 what happens, so long as the honor of the lady is safe- 
 guarded. My son refused point-blank to say even why 
 he fought. Well, well, Martin, I see you did not come 
 out of the fray scatheless ; but you are not brought here 
 because you decorated Frank's ingenuous countenance. 
 I want you to tell me exactly what took place in the 
 garden when Mr. Pickering was wounded." 
 
 Somewhat reassured, Martin told all he knew, which 
 was not a great deal. The magistrate, who, of course, 
 was only assisting the police inquiry, was perplexed. 
 
 " There were others present? " he commented. 
 
 " Yes, sir. Master Frank and Master Ernest " 
 
 " Master Frank could not see much at the 
 moment, eh? " 
 
 Martin blushed. 
 
 " But Ernest surely, he might have noted something 
 that you missed?" 
 
 " I think not, sir. He was er looking after his 
 brother." 
 
 " And the other children ? " 
 
 " Several boys and girls of the village, but they were 
 frightened by the screaming, sir, and ran away." 
 
 " Including the young lady who caused the com- 
 bat?" 
 
 No answer. Martin thought it best to leave the 
 point open. Again Mr. Beckett-Smythe laughed. 
 
 " I suppose this village belle is one of Mrs. Atkinson's 
 daughters. Gad! I never heard tell of such a thing. 
 All right, Martin, you can go now, but let me give you 
 a parting word of advice. Never again fight for a 
 woman, unless to protect her from a blackguard, which,
 
 George Pickering Plays the Man 95 
 
 I presume, was hardly the cause of the dispute with 
 Frank." 
 
 " I don't think he was to blame at all, sir." 
 
 " Thank you. Good-day, Martin. Here's a half- 
 crown to plaster that damaged lip of yours." 
 
 Left to themselves, the magistrate and superintendent 
 discussed the advisability of taking proceedings against 
 Betsy Thwaites. 
 
 " I'm sure Pickering made up his story in order to 
 screen the woman," said the police officer. " A rusty 
 fork was found in the stackyard, but it was thirty feet 
 away from the nearest point of the track made by the 
 drops of blood, and separated from the garden by a 
 stout hedge. Moreover, Pickering and Kitty were un- 
 doubtedly standing in the orchard, many yards farther 
 on. Then, again, the girl was collared by Thomas 
 Metcalfe, of the Leas Farm, and the knife, one of Mrs. 
 Atkinson's, fell from her hand ; while a dozen people will 
 swear they heard her sister calling out that she had 
 murdered George Pickering." 
 
 Beckett-Smythe shook his head doubtfully. 
 
 " It is a queer affair, looked at in any light. Do you 
 think I ought to see Pickering himself? You can arrest 
 Betsy Thwaites without a warrant, I believe, and, in 
 any event, I'll not sit on the bench if the case comes 
 before the court." 
 
 The superintendent was only too glad to have the 
 squire's counsel in dealing with a knotty problem. The 
 social position of the wounded man required some degree 
 of caution before proceedings were commenced, in view 
 of his emphatic declaration that his wound was self- 
 inflicted. If his state became dangerous, there was only
 
 96 The Revellers 
 
 one course open to the representatives of the law; but 
 the doctor's verdict was that penetration of the lung 
 had been averted by a hair's breadth, and Pickering 
 would recover. Indeed, he might be taken home in a 
 carriage at the end of the week. Meanwhile, the hay- 
 fork and the bloodstained knife were impounded. 
 
 The two men went upstairs and were shown to the 
 room occupied by the injured gallant. Kitty Thwaites, 
 pale as a ghost, was flitting about attending to her work, 
 the hotel being crowded with stock-breeders and graziers. 
 Her unfortunate sister, even more woebegone in appear- 
 ance, was nursing the invalid, at his special request. It 
 was a puzzling situation, and Mr. Beckett-Smythe, who 
 knew Pickering intimately, was inclined to act with the 
 utmost leniency that the law allowed. 
 
 Betsy Thwaites, who was sitting at the side of the bed, 
 rose when they entered. Her white face became suf- 
 fused with color, and she looked at the police officer 
 with frightened eyes. 
 
 The magistrate saw this, and he said quite kindly: 
 
 " If Mr. Pickering is able to speak with us for a little 
 while, you may leave us with him." 
 
 " No, no," interrupted the invalid in an astonishingly 
 strong and hearty voice. " There's nothing to be said 
 that Betsy needn't hear. Is there, lass ? " 
 
 She began to tremble, and lifted a corner of her 
 apron. Notwithstanding her faithless swain's state- 
 ment to her sister, she was quite as good-looking as 
 Kitty, and sorrow had given her face a pathetic dignity 
 that in no wise diminished its charm. 
 
 She knew not whether to stay or go. The superin- 
 tendent took the hint given by the squire.
 
 George Pickering Plays the Man 97 
 
 " It would be best, under the circumstances, if we were 
 left alone while we talk over last night's affair, Mr. 
 Pickering." 
 
 " Not a bit of it. Don't go, Betsy. What is there 
 to talk over? I made a fool of myself not for the first 
 time where a woman was concerned and Betsy here, 
 brought from Hereford by a meddlesome scamp, lost 
 her temper. No wonder! Poor girl, she had traveled 
 all day in a hot train, without eatin' a bite, and found 
 me squeezing her sister at the bottom of the garden. 
 There's no denying that she meant to do me a mischief, 
 and serve me right, too. I'll admit I was scared, and 
 in running away I got into worse trouble, as, of course, 
 I could easily have mastered her. Kitty, too, what be- 
 tween fear and shame, lost her senses, and poor Betsy 
 cut her own arm. You see, a plain tale stops all the 
 nonsense that has been talked since ten o'clock last 
 night." 
 
 " Not quite, George." Mr. Beckett-Smythe was 
 serious and magisterial. " You forget, or perhaps do 
 not know, that there were witnesses." 
 
 Pickering looked alarmed. 
 
 " Witnesses ! " he cried. " What d'you mean? " 
 
 " Well, no outsider saw the blow, or accident, which- 
 ever it was; but a number of children saw and heard 
 incidents which, putting it mildly, tend to discredit 
 your story." 
 
 Betsy began to sob. 
 
 " I told you you had better leave the room," went on 
 the squire in a low tone. 
 
 Pickering endeavored to raise himself in the bed, but 
 sank back with a groan. The unfortunate girl forgot
 
 98 The Revellers 
 
 her own troubles at the sound, and rushed to arrange the 
 pillow beneath his head. 
 
 " It comes to this, then," he said huskily ; " you want 
 to arrest, on a charge of attempting to murder me, a 
 woman whom I intend to marry long before she can be 
 brought to trial ! " 
 
 Betsy broke down now in real earnest. Beckett- 
 Smythe and the superintendent gazed at Pickering with 
 blank incredulity. This development was wholly un- 
 locked for. They both thought the man was light- 
 headed. He smiled dryly. 
 
 " Yes, I mean it," he continued, placing his hand on 
 the brown hair of the girl, whose face was buried in the 
 bedclothes. " I I didn't sleep much last night, and I 
 commenced to see things in a different light to that 
 which presented itself before. I treated Betsy shame- 
 fully not in a monied sense, but in every other way. 
 She's not one of the general run of girls. I promised 
 to marry her once, and now I'm going to keep my prom- 
 ise. That's all." 
 
 He was desperately in earnest. Of that there could 
 be no manner of doubt. The superintendent stroked 
 his chin reflectively, and the magistrate could only 
 murmur : 
 
 " Gad, that changes the venue, as the lawyers say." 
 
 One thought dominated the minds of both men; 
 Pickering was behaving foolishly. He was a wealthy 
 man, owner of a freehold farm of hundreds of acres ; he 
 might aspire to marry a woman of some position in 
 the county and end his days in all the glory of 
 J. P.-dom and County Aldermanship. Yet, here he was 
 deliberately throwing himself away on a dairymaid who,
 
 George Pickering Plays the Man 99 
 
 not many hours since, had striven to kill him during a 
 burst of jealous fury. The thing was absurd. Prob- 
 ably when he recovered he would see this for himself; 
 but for the time it was best to humor him and give offi- 
 cial sanction to his version of the overnight quarrel. 
 
 " Don't keep us in suspense, squire," cried the 
 wounded man, angered by his friend's silence. " What 
 are you going to do ? " 
 
 " Nothing, George ; nothing, I think. I only hope 
 your accident with the pitchfork will not have serious 
 results in any shape." 
 
 The policeman nodded a farewell. As they quitted 
 the room they heard Pickering say faintly : 
 
 " Now, Betsy, my dear, no more crying. I can't 
 stand it. Damn it all, one doesn't get engaged to be 
 married and yelp over it ! " 
 
 On the landing they saw Kitty, a white shadow, anx- 
 ious, but afraid to speak. 
 
 " Cheer up," said Beckett-Smythe pleasantly. " This 
 affair looks like ending in smoke." 
 
 Gaining courage from the magistrate's affability, 
 the girl said brokenly : 
 
 " Mr. Pickering and my sister are quite friendly. 
 You saw that for yourself, sir." 
 
 " Gad, yes. They're going to be well er I was 
 going to say we have quite decided that an accident 
 took place and there is no call for police interference 
 so long as Mr. Pickering shows progress toward recov- 
 ery, you understand. There, there ! You women always 
 begin to cry, whether pleased or vexed. Bless my heart, 
 let's get away, Mr. Superintendent."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 SHOWING HOW MARTIN'S HORIZON WIDENS 
 
 THE sufferings of the young are strenuous as their 
 joys. When Martin passed into the heart of the bus- 
 tling fair its glamour had vanished. The notes of the 
 organ were harsh, the gay canvas of the booths tawdry, 
 the cleanly village itself awry. The policeman's surprise 
 at his lack of knowledge on the subject of his parentage 
 was disastrously convincing. The man treated the 
 statement as indisputable. There was no question of 
 hearsay; it was just so, a recognized fact, known to all 
 the grown-up people in Elmsdale. 
 
 Tommy Beadlam, he of the white head, ran after him 
 to ask why the " bobby " brought him to the " Black 
 Lion," but Martin averted eyes laden with misery, and 
 motioned his little friend away. 
 
 Tommy, who had seen the fight, and knew of the 
 squire's presence this morning, drew his own conclusions. 
 
 " Martin's goin' to be locked up," he told a knot of 
 awe-stricken youngsters, and they thrilled with sympa- 
 thy, for their champion's victory over the " young swell 
 frae t' Hall " was highly popular. 
 
 The front door of the White House stood hospitably 
 open. Already a goodly number of visitors had gath- 
 ered, and every man and woman talked of nothing but 
 the dramatic events of the previous night. When 
 Martin arrived, fresh from a private conversation with 
 
 100
 
 How Martin's Horizon Widens 101 
 
 the squire and the chief of police, they were on the 
 tip-toe of expectancy. Perhaps he might add to the 
 store of gossip. Even Mrs. Bolland felt a certain pride 
 that the boy should be the center of interest in this 
 cause celebre. 
 
 But his glum face created alarm in her motherly 
 breast. 
 
 " Why, Martin," she cried, " what's gone wrong? 
 Ye look as if ye'd seen a ghost wi' two heads ! " 
 
 The all-absorbing topic to Martin just then was his 
 own history and not the half-comprehended tragedy of 
 the rural lovers. If his mother's friends knew that 
 which was hidden from him, why should he compel his 
 tongue to wag falsely? Somehow, the air seemed thick 
 with deception just now, but his heart would have burst 
 had he attempted to restrain the words that welled forth. 
 
 " Mother," he said, and his lips quivered at the re- 
 membrance that the affectionate title was itself a lie, 
 " Mr. Benson told the squire I was not your boy that 
 father and you adopted me thirteen years ago." 
 
 Mrs. Bolland's face glowed with quick indignation. 
 No one spoke. Martin's impetuous repudiation of his 
 name was the last thing they looked for. 
 
 " It is true, I suppose," he went on despairingly. 
 " If I am not your son, then whose son am I? " 
 
 Martha lifted her eyes to the ceiling. 
 
 " Well, of all the deceitful scoundrels ! " she gasped. 
 " Te think of me fillin' his blue coat wi' meat an' beer 
 last neet, an' all t' return he maks is te worry this poor 
 lad's brains wi' that owd tale ! " 
 
 " Oh, he's sly, is Benson," chimed in stout Mrs. Sum- 
 mersgill. " A fortnight sen last Tuesday I caught him
 
 102 The Revellers 
 
 i' my dairy wi' one o' t' maids, lappin' up cream like a 
 great tomcat." 
 
 A laugh went round. None paid heed to Martin's 
 agony. A dullness fell on his soul. Even the woman he 
 called mother was angered more by the constable's blurt- 
 ing out of a household secret than by the destruction 
 of an ideal. Such, in confused riot, was the thought 
 that chilled him. 
 
 But he was mistaken. Martha Holland's denuncia- 
 tions of the policeman only covered the pain, sharp as 
 the cut of a knife, caused by the boy's cry of mingled 
 passion and sorrow. She was merely biding her time. 
 When chance served, she called him into the larder, the 
 nearest quiet place in the house, and closed the door. 
 
 " Martin, my lad," she said, while big tears shone in 
 her honest eyes, " ye are dear to me as my own. I trust 
 I may be spared to be muther te ye until ye're a man. 
 John an' me meant no unkindness te ye in not tellin' ye 
 we found ye i' Lunnun streets, a poor, deserted little 
 mite, wi' nather feyther nor muther, an' none te own ye. 
 What matter was it that ye should know sooner? Hev' 
 we not done well by ye? When ye come to think over 't, 
 ye're angered about nowt. Kiss me, honey, an' if 
 anyone says owt cross te ye, tell 'em ye hev both a 
 feyther an' a muther, which is more'n some of 'em can 
 say." 
 
 This display of feeling applied balm to Martin's 
 wounds. Certainly Mrs. Bolland's was the common- 
 sense view to take of the situation. He forbore to ques- 
 tion her further just then, and nugged her contentedly. 
 The very smell of her lavender-scented clothes was grate- 
 ful, and this embrace seemed to restore her to him.
 
 How Martin's Horizon Widens 103 
 
 His brightened countenance, the vanishing of that 
 unwonted expression of resentful humiliation, was even 
 more comforting to Martha herself. 
 
 " Here," she said, thrusting a small paper package 
 into his hand, " I mayn't hev anuther chance. Ye'll 
 find two pun ten i' that paper. Gie it te Mrs. Saumarez 
 an' tell her I'll be rale pleased if there's no more talk 
 about t' money. A' mebbe, later i' t' day, I'll find a 
 shillin' fer yersen. But, fer goodness' sake, some an' 
 tell t' folk all that t' squire said te ye. They're fair 
 crazed te hear ye." 
 
 " Mother, dear ! " he cried eagerly, " I was so so 
 mixed up at first that I forgot to tell you. Mr. Beckett- 
 Smythe gave me half a crown." 
 
 " Ye doan't say ! Well, I can't abide half a tale. 
 Let's hae t' lot i' t' front kitchen." 
 
 It was noon, and dinner-time, before Martin could 
 satisfy the cackling dames as to all within his cog- 
 nizance concerning Betsy Thwaites's escapade. Be it 
 noted, they unanimously condemned Fred, the groom; 
 commiserated with Betsy, and extolled George Picker- 
 ing as a true gentleman. 
 
 P. C. Benson, all unconscious of the rod in pickle 
 for his broad back, strolled in about the eating hour. 
 Mrs. Bolland, brindling with repressed fury, could 
 scarce find words wherewith to scold him. 
 
 " Well, of all the brazen-faced men I've ever met " 
 she began. 
 
 " So you've heerd t' news ? " he interrupted. 
 
 "Heerd? I should think so, indeed! Martin kem 
 yam " 
 
 "Martin! Did he know?"
 
 104 The Revellers 
 
 " Know ! " she shrilled. " Wasn't it ye as said it? " 
 
 " No, ma'am," he replied stolidly. " Mrs. Atkinson 
 told me, and she said that Mr. Pickerin' had ta'en his 
 solemn oath te do't in t' presence of t' super and t' 
 squire ! " 
 
 " Do what? " was the chorus. 
 
 " Why, marry Betsy, to be sure, as soon as he can 
 be led te t' church. What else is there? " 
 
 This stupendous addition to the flood of excitement 
 carried away even Martha Bolland for the moment. 
 In her surprise she set a plate for Benson with the 
 others, and, after that, the paramount rite of hos- 
 pitality prevented her from " having it out wi' him " 
 until hunger was sated. Then, however, she let him 
 " feel the edge of her tongue " ; he was so flustered 
 that John had to restore his mental poise with another 
 pint of ale. 
 
 Meanwhile, Martin managed to steal out unobserved, 
 and made the best of his way to The Elms. Although 
 in happier mood, he was not wholly pleased with his 
 errand. He was not afraid of Mrs. Saumarez far 
 from it, but he did not know how to fulfill his mission 
 and at the same time exonerate Angele. His chivalrous 
 nature shrank from blaming her, yet his unaided wits 
 were not equal to the task of restoring so much money 
 to her mother without answering truthfully the resultant 
 deluge of questions. 
 
 He was battling with this problem when, near The 
 Elms, he encountered the Rev. Charles Herbert, M.A., 
 vicar of Elmsdale, and his daughter Elsie. 
 
 Martin doffed his straw hat readily, and would have 
 passed, but the vicar hailed him.
 
 How Martin's Horizon Widens 105 
 
 " Martin, is it correct that you were in the stable- 
 yard of the ' Black Lion ' last night and saw something 
 of this sad affair of Mr. Pickering's ? " he inquired. 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 Martin blushed. The girl's blue eyes were fixed on 
 his with the innocent curiosity of a fawn. She knew 
 him well by sight, but they had never exchanged a word. 
 He found himself wondering what her voice was like. 
 Would she chatter with the excited volubility of Angele ? 
 Being better educated than he, would she pour forth a 
 jargon of foreign words and slang? Angele was quiet 
 as a mouse under her mother's eye. Was Elsie aping 
 this demure demeanor because her father was present? 
 Certainly, she looked a very different girl. Every curve 
 of her pretty face, each line in her graceful contour, sug- 
 gested modesty and nice manners. Why, he couldn't 
 tell, but he knew instinctively that Elsie Herbert would 
 have drawn back horrified from the mad romp over- 
 night, and he was humbled in spirit before her. 
 
 The worthy vicar never dreamed that the farmer's 
 sturdy son was capable of deep emotion. He inter- 
 preted Martin's quick coloring to knowledge of a dis- 
 creditable episode. He said to the girl: 
 
 " I'll follow you home in a few minutes, my dear." 
 
 Martin thought that an expression of disappoint- 
 ment swept across the clear eyes, but Elsie quitted them 
 instantly. The boy had endured too much to be thus 
 humiliated before one of his own age. 
 
 " I would have said nothing to offend the young 
 lady," he cried hotly. 
 
 Very much taken aback, Mr. Herbert's eyebrows 
 arched themselves above his spectacles.
 
 106 The Revellers 
 
 " My good boy," he said, " I did not choose that my 
 daughter should hear the er offensive details of 
 this er stabbing affray, or worse, that took place 
 at the inn." 
 
 " But you didn't mind slighting me in her presence, 
 sir," was the unexpected retort. 
 
 '* I am not slighting you. Had I met Mr. Beckett- 
 Smythe and sought information as to this matter, I 
 would still have asked her to go on to the Vicarage." 
 
 This was a novel point of view for Martin. He red- 
 dened again. 
 
 " I'm sorry, sir," he said. " Everything has gone 
 wrong with me to-day. I didn't mean to be rude." 
 
 The vicar deemed him a strange youth, but tacitly 
 accepted the apology, and drew from Martin the story 
 of the night's doings. 
 
 It shocked him to hear that Martin and Frank 
 Beckett-Smythe were fighting in the yard of the " Black 
 Lion " at such an hour. 
 
 " How came you to be there? " he said gently. " You 
 do not attend my church, Martin, but I have always 
 regarded Mr. Bolland as a God-fearing man, and your 
 teacher has told me that you are gifted with intelligence 
 and qualities beyond your years or station in life." 
 
 " I was there quite by accident, sir, and I couldn't 
 avoid the fight." 
 
 "What caused it?" 
 
 " We fought to settle that question, sir, and it's 
 finished now." 
 
 The vicar laughed. 
 
 " Which means you will not tell me. Well, I am no 
 disbeliever in a manly display of fisticuffs. It breaks
 
 How Martin's Horizon Widens 107 
 
 no bones and saves many a boy from the growth of 
 worse qualities. I suppose you are going to the fair 
 this afternoon? " 
 
 "No, sir. I'm not." 
 
 " Would you mind telling me how you will pass the 
 time between now and supper? " 
 
 " I am taking a message from my mother to Mrs. 
 Saumarez, and then I'll go straight to the Black Plan- 
 tation " a dense clump of firs situate at the head of 
 the ghylls, or small valleys, leading from the cultivated 
 land up to the moor. 
 
 " Dear me ! And what will you do there? " 
 
 The boy smiled, somewhat sheepishly. 
 
 " I have a nest in a tree there, sir, where I often sit 
 and read." 
 
 "What do you read?" 
 
 " Just now, sir, I am reading Scott's poems." 
 
 " Indeed. What books do you favor, as a rule? " 
 
 Delighted to have a sympathetic listener, Martin 
 forgot his troubles in pouring forth a catalogue of his 
 favorite authors. The more Mr. Herbert questioned 
 him the more eager and voluble he became. The boy 
 had the rare faculty of absorbing the joys and sorrows, 
 the noble sentiments, the very words of the heroes of 
 romance, and in this scholarly gentleman he found an 
 auditor who appreciated all that was hitherto dumb 
 thought. 
 
 Several people passing along the road wondered 
 what " t' passon an' oad John Bolland's son were 
 makkin' sike deed about," and the conversation must 
 have lasted fifteen or twenty minutes, when the vicar 
 heard the chimes of the church clock.
 
 108 The Revellers 
 
 He laughed genially. Although, on his part, there 
 was an underlying motive in the conversation, Martin 
 had fairly carried it far afield. 
 
 " You have had your revenge on me for sending my 
 daughter away," he cried. " My lunch will be cold. 
 Now, will you do me a favor? " 
 
 " Of course, sir ; anything you ask." 
 
 " Nay, Martin, make that promise to no man. But 
 this lies within your scope. About four o'clock leave 
 your crow's nest and drop over to Thor ghyll. I may 
 be there." 
 
 Overjoyed at the prospect of a renewed chat on 
 topics dear to his heart, the boy ran off, light-heartedly, 
 to The Elms. His task seemed easier now. The whole- 
 some breeze of intercourse with a cultivated mind had 
 momentarily swept into the background a host of un- 
 pleasing things. 
 
 He found he could not see Mrs. Saumarez, so he 
 asked for Miss Walker. The lady came. She was prim 
 and severe. Instantly he detected a note of hostility 
 which her first words put beyond doubt. 
 
 " My mother sent me to return some money to Mrs. 
 Saumarez," he explained. 
 
 " Mrs. Saumarez is ill. Mrs. Bolland must wait until 
 she recovers. As for you, you bad boy, I wonder you 
 dare show your face here." 
 
 Martin never flinched from a difficulty. 
 
 " Why? " he demanded. " What have I done? " 
 
 " Can you ask? To drag that poor little mite of a 
 girl into such horrible scenes as those which took place 
 in the village? Be off! You just wait until Mrs. 
 Saumarez is better, and you will hear more of it."
 
 How Martin's Horizon Widens 109 
 
 With that, she slammed the door on him. 
 
 So Angele had posed as a simpleton, and he was the 
 villain. This phase of the medley amused him. He was 
 retreating down the drive, when he heard his name 
 called. He turned. A window on the ground floor 
 opened, and Mrs. Saumarez appeared, leaning unsteadily 
 on the sill. 
 
 " Come here ! " she cried imperiously. 
 
 Somehow she puzzled, indeed flustered, him. For one 
 thing, her attire was bizarre. Usually dressed with 
 unexceptionable taste, to-day she wore a boudoir wrap 
 a costly robe, but adjusted without care, and all untidy 
 about neck and breast. Her hair was coiled loosely, 
 and stray wisps hung out in slovenly fashion. Her 
 face, deathly white, save for dull red patches on the 
 cheeks, served as a fit setting for unnaturally brilliant 
 eyes which protuded from their sockets in a manner 
 quite startling, while the veins on her forehead stood 
 out like whipcord. 
 
 Martin was utterly dismayed. He stood stock- 
 still. 
 
 " Come ! " she said again, glaring at him with a 
 curious fixity. " I want you. Fran9oise is not here, 
 and I wish you to run an errand." 
 
 Save for a strange thickness in her speech, she had 
 never before reminded him so strongly of Angele. She 
 had completely lost her customary air of repose. She 
 spoke and acted like a peevish child. 
 
 Anyhow, she had summoned him, and he could now 
 discharge his trust. In such conditions, Martin seldom 
 lacked words. 
 
 " I asked for you at the door, ma'am," he explained,
 
 110 The Revellers 
 
 drawing nearer, " but Miss Walker said you were ill. 
 My mother sent me to give you this." 
 
 He produced the little parcel of money and essayed 
 to hand it to her. She surveyed it with lackluster eyes. 
 
 "What is it?" she said. "I do not understand. 
 Here is plenty of money. I want you to go to the 
 village, to the ' Black Lion,' and bring me a sovereign's 
 worth of brandy." 
 
 She held out a coin. They stood thus, proffering each 
 other gold. 
 
 " But this is yours, ma'am. I came to return it. 
 I er borrowed some money from Ang from Miss 
 Saumarez and mother said " 
 
 " Cease, boy. I do not understand, I tell you. Keep 
 the money and bring me what I ask." 
 
 In her eagerness she leaned so far out of the window 
 that she nearly overbalanced. The sovereign fell among 
 some flowers. With an effort she recovered an unsteady 
 poise. Martin stooped to find the money. A door 
 opened inside the house. A hot whisper reached him. 
 
 " Tell no one. I'll watch for you in half an hour re- 
 member a sovereign's worth." 
 
 The boy, not visible from the far side of the room, 
 heard the voice of Fran9oise. The window closed with 
 a bang. He discovered the coin and straightened him- 
 self. The maid was seating her mistress in a chair and 
 apparently remonstrating with her. She picked up 
 from the floor a wicker-covered Eau de Cologne bottle 
 and turned it upside down with an angry gesture. It 
 was empty. 
 
 Martin, whose experience of intoxicated people was 
 confined to the infrequent sight of a village toper, heavy
 
 How Martin's Horizon Widens 111 
 
 with beer, lurching homeward in maudlin glee or fury, 
 imagined that Mrs. Saumarez must be in some sort of 
 fever. Obviously, those in attendance on her should 
 be consulted before he brought her brandy secretly. 
 
 Back he marched to the front door and rang the bell. 
 Lest Miss Walker should shut him out again, he was 
 inside the hall before anyone could answer his summons, 
 for the doors of country houses remain unlocked all 
 day. The elder sister reappeared, very starchy at this 
 unheard-of impertinence. 
 
 " I was forced to return, ma'am," he said civilly. 
 " Mrs. Saumarez saw me in the drive and asked me to 
 buy her some brandy. She gave me a sovereign. She 
 looked very ill, so I thought it best to come and tell 
 you." 
 
 The lady was thoroughly nonplussed by this plain 
 statement. 
 
 " Oh," she stammered, so confused that he did not 
 know what to make of her agitation, " this is very nice 
 of you. She must not have brandy. It is quite un- 
 suitable for her illness. It is really very good of you 
 to tell me. I er I'm sorry I spoke so harshly just 
 now, but er " 
 
 " That's all right, ma'am. It was all a mistake. 
 Will you kindly take charge of this sovereign, and also 
 of the two pounds ten which Miss Angele lent me ? " 
 
 " Which Miss Angele lent you ! Two pounds ten ! 
 I thought you said your mother " 
 
 " It is mine, please," said a voice from the broad 
 landing above their heads. Angele skipped lightly down 
 the stairs and held out her hand. Martin gave her the 
 money.
 
 112 The Revellers 
 
 " I don't understand this, at all," said the mystified 
 Miss Walker. " Does Mrs. Saumarez know " 
 
 " Mrs. Saumarez knows nothing. Neither does 
 Martin." 
 
 With wasp-like suddenness, the girl turned and faced 
 a woman old enough to be her grandmother. Their 
 eyes clashed. The child's look said plainly: 
 
 " Dare to utter another word and I'll disgrace your 
 house throughout the village." 
 
 The woman yielded. She waved a protesting hand. 
 " It is no business of mine. Thank you, Martin, for 
 coming back." 
 
 Angele lashed out at him next. 
 
 " Allez, done ! I'll never speak to you again." 
 
 She ran up the stairs. He stood irresolute. 
 
 " Anyhow, not now," she added. " I may be out in 
 an hour's time." 
 
 Miss Walker was holding the door open. He hurried 
 away, and Fran9oise saw him, wondering why he had 
 called. 
 
 And for hours thereafter, until night fell, a white- 
 faced woman paced restlessly to and fro in the sitting- 
 room, ever and anon raising the window, and watching 
 for Martin's return with a fierce intensity that ren- 
 dered her almost maniacal in appearance. 
 
 Happily, the boy was unaware of the pitiful tragedy 
 in the life of the rich and highly placed Mrs. Saumarez. 
 While she waited, with a rage steadily dwindling into 
 a wearied despair, he was passing, all unconsciously, 
 into the next great phase of his career. 
 
 He took one forward step into the unknown before 
 leaving the tree-lined drive. He met Fritz, the chauf-
 
 How Martin's Horizon Widens 113 
 
 feur, who was so absorbed in the study of a folding 
 road-map that he did not see Martin until the latter 
 hailed him. 
 
 " Hello ! " was the boy's cheery greeting. " That 
 affair is ended. Please don't say anything to Mrs. 
 Saumarez." 
 
 The German closed the map. 
 
 " Whad iss ented?" he inquired, surveying Martin 
 with a cool hauteur rare in chauffeurs. 
 
 " Why, last night's upset in the village." 
 
 " Ah, yez. Id iss nod my beeznez." 
 
 " I didn't quite mean that. But there's no use in 
 getting Miss Angele into a row, is there ? " 
 
 " Dat iss zo. Vere do you leeve? " 
 
 " At the White House Farm." 
 
 " Vere de brize caddie are ? " 
 
 Martin smiled. He had never before heard English 
 spoken with a strong German accent. Somehow he 
 associated these resonant syllables with a certain in- 
 definite stress which Mrs. Saumarez laid on a few words. 
 
 " Yes," he said. " My father's herd is well known." 
 
 Fritz's manner became genial. 
 
 " Zome tay you vill show me, yez ? " he inquired. 
 
 " I'll be very pleased. And will you explain your car 
 to me the engine, I mean ? " 
 
 " Komm now." 
 
 " Sorry, but I have an engagement." 
 
 There was plenty of time at Martin's disposal, but 
 he did not want to loiter about The Elms that after- 
 noon. This man was a paid servant who could hardly 
 refuse to carry out any reasonable order, and it would 
 have been awkward for Martin if Mrs. Saumarez asked
 
 114 The Revellers 
 
 him to give Fritz the sovereign she had intrusted to 
 his keeping. 
 
 " All a-right," agreed the chauffeur, whose strong, 
 intellectual face was now altogether amiable; in fact, a 
 white scar on his left cheek creased so curiously when 
 he grinned that his aspect was almost comical. " We 
 vill meed when all dis noise sdops, yez? " and he waved 
 a hand toward the distant drone of the fair. 
 
 Thus began for Martin another strange friendship 
 a friendship destined to end so fantastically that if the 
 manner of its close were foretold then and there by any 
 prophet, the mere telling might have brought the seer 
 to the madhouse.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE WILDCAT 
 
 i 
 
 IT was nearly three o'clock when Martin re-entered 
 the village. Outside the boxing booth a huge placard 
 announced, in sprawling characters, that the first round 
 of the boxing competition would start punctually at 
 3 P.M. " Owing to the illness of Mr. George Pickering, 
 deeply regretted," another referee would be appointed. 
 
 It cost the boy a pang to stride on. He would have 
 dearly liked to watch the display of pugilism. He 
 might have gone inside the tent for an hour and still 
 kept his tryst with Mr. Herbert, but John Bolland's 
 dour teaching had scored grooves in his consciousness 
 not readily effaced. The folly of last night must be 
 atoned in some way, and he punished himself deliber- 
 ately now by going straight home. 
 
 The house was only a little less thronged than the 
 " Black Lion," so he made his way unobserved to the 
 great pile of dry bracken in which he hid books bor- 
 rowed from the school library. Ten minutes later he 
 was seated in the fork of a tree full thirty feet from 
 the ground and consoling himself for loss of the reality 
 by reading of a fight far more picturesque in detail the 
 Homeric combat between FitzJames and Roderick Dhu. 
 
 From his perch he could see the church clock. Shortly 
 before the appointed hour he climbed down and sur- 
 mounted the ridge which divided the Black Plantation 
 
 115
 
 116 The Revellers 
 
 from Thor ghyll. It was a rough passage, naught save 
 gray rock and flowering ling, or heather, growing so 
 wild and bushy that in parts it overtopped his height. 
 But Martin was sure-footed as a goat. Across the 
 plateau and down the tree-clad slope on the other side 
 he sped, until he reached a point whence he could 
 obtain a comprehensive view of the winding glen. 
 
 On a stretch of turf by the side of the silvery beck 
 that rushed so frantically from the moorland to the 
 river, he spied a small garden tent. In front was a 
 table spread with china and cakes, while a copper kettle, 
 burnished so brightly that it shone like gold in the sun- 
 light, was suspended over a spirit lamp. Mr. Herbert 
 was there, and an elderly lady, his aunt, who acted as 
 his housekeeper also Elsie and her governess and two 
 young gentlemen who " read " with the vicar during the 
 long vacation. Evidently a country picnic was toward ; 
 Martin was at a loss to know why he had been invited. 
 
 Perhaps they wished him to guide them over the moor 
 to some distant glen or to the early British camp two 
 miles away. Sometimes a tourist wandering through 
 Elmsdale called at the farm for information, and 
 Martin would be dispatched with the inquirer to show 
 the way. 
 
 It was a pity that Mr. Herbert had not mentioned 
 his desire, as the daily reading of the Bible was due in 
 an hour, and most certainly, to-day of all days, Martin 
 must be punctual. 
 
 If his brain were busy, his eye was clear. He sprang 
 from rock to rock like a chamois. Once he swung him- 
 self down a small precipice by the tough root of a whin. 
 He knew the root was there, and had already tested its
 
 The Wildcat lir 
 
 capabilities, but the gathering beneath watched him with 
 dismay, for the feat looked hazardous in the extreme. 
 In a couple of minutes he had descended two hundred 
 feet of exceedingly rough going. He stopped at the beck 
 to wash his hands and dry them on his handkerchief. 
 Then he approached the group. 
 
 " Do you always descend the ghyll in that fashion, 
 Martin ? " cried the vicar. 
 
 " Yes, sir. It is the nearest way." 
 
 " A man might say that who fell out of a balloon." 
 
 " But I have been up and down there twenty times, 
 sir." 
 
 " Well, well ; my imaginary balloonist could make no 
 such answer. Sit down and have some tea. Elsie, this 
 is young Martin Bolland, of whom I have been telling 
 you." 
 
 The girl smiled in a very friendly way and brought 
 Martin a cup of tea and a plate of cakes. So he was a 
 guest, and introduced by the vicar to his daughter! 
 How kind this was of Mr. Herbert ! How delighted 
 Mrs. Bolland would be when she heard of it, for, how- 
 ever strict her Nonconformity, the vicar was still a 
 social power in the village, and second only to the 
 Beckett-Smythes in the estimation of the parish. 
 
 At first poor Martin was tongue-tied. He answered 
 in monosyllables when the vicar or Mrs. Johnson, the 
 old lady, spoke to him ; but to Elsie he said not a word. 
 She, too, was at a loss how to interest him, until she 
 noticed a book in his pocket. When told that it was 
 Scott's poems she said pleasantly that a month ago 
 she went with her father to a place called Greta Bridge 
 and visited many of the scenes described in " Rokeby."
 
 118 The Revellers 
 
 Unhappily, Martin had not read " Rokeby." He 
 resolved to devour it at the first opportunity, but for 
 the nonce it offered no conversational handle. He re- 
 mained dumb, yet all the while he was comparing Elsie 
 with Angele, and deciding privately that girls brought 
 up as ladies in England were much nicer than those 
 reared in the places which Angele named so glibly. 
 
 But his star was propitious that day. One of the 
 young men happened to notice a spot where a large 
 patch of heather had been sliced off the face of the moor. 
 
 He asked Mr. Herbert what use the farmers made 
 of it. 
 
 " Nothing that I can recall," said the vicar, a man 
 who, living in the country, knew little of its ways; 
 " perhaps Martin can tell you." 
 
 " We make besoms of it, sir," was the ready reply, 
 " but that space has been cleared by the keepers so that 
 the young grouse may have fresh green shoots to 
 feed on." 
 
 Here was a topic on which he was crammed with in- 
 formation. His face grew animated, his eyes sparkled, 
 the words came fast and were well chosen. As he spoke, 
 the purple moor, the black firs, the meadows, the corn 
 land red with poppies, became peopled with fur and 
 feather. On the hilltops the glorious black cock, in 
 the woods the dandy pheasant and swift pigeon, among 
 the meadows and crops the whirring partridge, became 
 actualities, present, but unseen. There were plenty of 
 hares on the arable land and the rising ground; as for 
 rabbits, they swarmed everywhere. 
 
 " This ghyll will be alive with them in little more 
 than an hour," said Martin confidently. " I shouldn't
 
 The Wildcat 119 
 
 be surprised, if we had a dog and put him among those 
 whins, but half-a-dozen rabbits would bolt out in all 
 directions." 
 
 " Please, can I be a little bow-wow? " cried Elsie. 
 She sprang to her feet and ran toward the clump of 
 gorse and bracken he had pointed out, imitating a dog's 
 bark as she went. 
 
 " Take care of the thorns," shouted Martin, making 
 after her more leisurely. 
 
 She paused on the verge of the tangled mass of vege- 
 tation and said, " Shoo ! " 
 
 " That's no good," he laughed. " You must walk 
 through and kick the thick clumps of grass this way." 
 
 He plunged into the midst of the gorse. She fol- 
 lowed. Not a rabbit budged. 
 
 " That's odd," he said, rustling the undergrowth vig- 
 orously. " There ought to be a lot here." 
 
 " You know Angele Saumarez ? " said the girl sud- 
 denly. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 He ceased beating the bushes and looked at her 
 fixedly, the question was so unexpected. Yet Angele 
 had asked him the selfsame question concerning Elsie 
 Herbert. One girl resembled another as two peas in 
 a pod. 
 
 " Do you like her? " 
 
 " I think I do, sometimes." 
 
 " Do you think she is pretty? " 
 
 " Yes, often." 
 
 " What do you mean by * sometimes,' ( often? ' How 
 can a girl be pretty ' often '? " 
 
 " Well, you see, I think she is nice in many ways, and
 
 120 The Revellers 
 
 that if she knew you and copied your manner your 
 voice, and style, and behavior she would improve very 
 greatly." 
 
 Martin had recovered his wits. Elsie tittered and 
 blushed slightly. 
 
 " Really ! " she said, and recommenced the kicking 
 process with ardor. 
 
 Suddenly, with a fierce snarl, an animal of some sort 
 flew at her. She had a momentary vision of a pair of 
 blazing eyes, bared teeth, and extended claws. She 
 screamed and turned her head. In that instant a wild- 
 cat landed on her back and a vicious claw reached for 
 her face. But Martin was at her side. Without a sec- 
 ond's hesitation he seized the growling brute in both 
 hands and tore it from off her shoulders. His right 
 hand was around its neck, but he strove in vain to grasp 
 the small of its back in the left. It wriggled and 
 scratched with the ferocity of an undersized tiger. 
 Martin's coat sleeves and shirt were slashed to shreds, 
 his waistcoat was rent, and deep gashes were cut in his 
 arms, but he held on gamely. 
 
 Mr. Herbert and the others ran up, but came unarmed. 
 They had not even a stick. The vicar, with some pres- 
 ence of mind, rushed back and wrenched a leg from the 
 camp table, but by the time he returned the cat was 
 moving its limbs in its final spasms, for Martin had 
 choked it to death. 
 
 The vicar danced about with his improvised weapon, 
 imploring the boy to " throw it down and let me whack 
 the life out of it," but Martin was enraged with the 
 pain and the damage to his clothing. In his anger he 
 felt that he could wrench the wretched beast limb from
 
 The Wildcat 121 
 
 limb, and he might have endeavored to do that very 
 thing were it not for the presence of Elsie Herbert. As 
 it was, when the cat fell to the ground its struggles had 
 ended, but Mr. Herbert gave-it a couple of hearty blows 
 to make sure. 
 
 It was a tremendous brute, double the size of its 
 domestic progenitors. At one period in its career it 
 had been caught in a rabbit trap, for one of its forelegs 
 was removed at the joint, and the calloused stump was 
 hard as a bit of stone. 
 
 A chorus of praise for Martin's promptitude and 
 courage was cut short when he took the table leg and 
 went back to the clump of gorse. 
 
 " I thought it was curious that there were no rabbits 
 here," he said. " Now I know why. This cat has- a 
 litter of kittens hidden among the whins." 
 
 " Are you gug-gug-going to kuk-kuk-kill them ? " 
 sobbed Elsie. 
 
 He paused in his murderous search. 
 
 " It makes no matter now," he said, laughing. " I'll 
 tell the keeper. Wildcats eat up an awful lot of game." 
 
 His coolness, his absolute disregard of the really 
 serious cuts he had received, were astounding to the 
 town-bred men. The vicar was the first to recover some 
 degree of composure. 
 
 " Martin," he cried, " come this instant and have 
 your wounds washed and bound up. You are losing a 
 great deal of blood, and that brute's claws may have 
 been venomous." 
 
 The boy obeyed at once. He presented a sorry spec- 
 tacle. His arms and hands were bathed in blood and 
 his clothes were splashed with it.
 
 122 The Revellers 
 
 Elsie Herbert's eyes filled with tears. 
 
 " This is nothing," he said to cheer her. " They're 
 only scratches, but they look bad." 
 
 As a matter of fact, he did not realize until long 
 afterwards that were it not for the fortunate accident 
 which deprived the cat of her off foreleg, some of the 
 tendons of his right wrist might have been severed. 
 From the manner in which he held her she could not get 
 the effective claws to bear crosswise. 
 
 The vicar looked grave when a first dip in the brook 
 revealed the extent of the boy's injuries. 
 
 " You are plucky enough to bear the application of 
 a little brine, Martin? " he said. 
 
 Suiting the action to the word, he emptied the con- 
 tents of a paper of salt into a teacup and dissolved it in 
 hot water. Then he washed the wounds again in the 
 brook and bound them with handkerchiefs soaked in the 
 mixture. It was a rough-and-ready cauterization, and 
 the pain made Martin white, but later on it earned the 
 commendation of the doctor. Mr. Herbert was pallid 
 himself when Elsie handed him the last handkerchief 
 they could muster, while Mrs. Johnson was already 
 tearing the tablecloth into strips. 
 
 " It is bad enough to have your wrists scored in this 
 way, my lad," he murmured, " but it will be some conso- 
 lation for you to know that otherwise these cuts would 
 have been in my little girl's face, perhaps her eyes 
 great Heaven ! her eyes ! " 
 
 The vicar could have chosen no better words. Mar- 
 tin's heart throbbed with pride. At last the bandages 
 were secured and the tattered sleeve turned down. All
 
 The Wildcat 123 
 
 this consumed nearly half an hour, and then Martin 
 remembered a forgotten duty. 
 
 " What time is it ? " he said anxiously. 
 
 " A quarter past five." 
 
 " Oh, bother ! " he murmured. " I'll get into another 
 row. I have missed my Bible lesson." 
 
 "Your Bible lesson?" 
 
 " Yes, sir. My father makes me read a portion of 
 Scripture every day." 
 
 The vicar passed unnoticed the boy's unconsciously 
 resentful tone. He sighed, but straightway resumed his 
 wonted cheeriness. 
 
 " There will be no row to-day, Martin," he promised. 
 " We shall escort you home in triumphal procession. 
 We leave the things here for my man, who will bring 
 a pony and cart in a few minutes. Now, you two, tie 
 the hind legs of that beast with a piece of string and 
 carry it on the stick. The cat is Martin's spolia opima. 
 Here, Elsie, guide your warrior's faltering footsteps 
 down the glen." 
 
 They all laughed, but by the time they reached the 
 White House the boy was ready to drop, for he had 
 lost a quantity of blood, and the torment of the saline 
 solution was becoming intolerable. 
 
 John Bolland, after waiting with growing impatience 
 long after the appointed time, closed the Bible with a 
 bang and went downstairs. 
 
 " What's wrang wi' ye now? " inquired his spouse as 
 he dropped morosely into a chair and answered but 
 sourly a hearty greeting from a visitor. 
 "Where's that lad?" he growled. 
 
 "Martin. Hasn't he come yam?"
 
 124 The Revellers 
 
 She trembled for her adopted son's remissness on 
 this, the first day after the great rebellion. 
 
 " Yam ! " with intense bitterness " he's not likely 
 te hearken te t' Word when he's encouraged in guile." 
 
 " Eh, but there's some good cause this time," cried 
 the old lady, more flustered than she cared to show. 
 " Happen he's bin asked to see t' squire again." 
 
 " T' squire left Elmsdale afore noon," was the gruff 
 reply. 
 
 Then the vicar entered, and Elsie, leading Martin, 
 and the two pupils carrying the gigantic cat. Mrs. 
 Johnson and the governess-companion had remained 
 with the tent and would drive home in the dog-cart. 
 
 Mr. Herbert's glowing account of Martin's conduct, 
 combined with a judicious reference to his anxiety when 
 he discovered that the hour for his lesson had passed, 
 placed even Bolland in a good humor. Once again the 
 boy filled the mouths of the multitude, since nothing 
 would serve the farmhands but they must carry 
 off the cat to the fair for exhibition before they 
 skinned it. 
 
 The doctor came, waylaid on his return from the 
 " Black Lion." He removed the salt-soaked bandages, 
 washed the wounds in tepid water, examined them care- 
 fully, and applied some antiseptic dressing, of which he 
 had a supply in his dog-cart for the benefit of George 
 Pickering. 
 
 "An' how is Mr. Pickerin' te-night?" inquired Mrs. 
 Bolland, who was horrified at first by the sight of 
 Martin's damages, but reassured when the doctor said 
 the boy would be all right in a day or two. 
 
 " Not so well, Mrs. Bolland," was the answer.
 
 The Wildcat 125 
 
 " Oh, ye don't say so. Poor chap ! Is it wuss than 
 ye feared for ? " 
 
 " No ; the wound is progressing favorably, but he is 
 feverish. I don't like that. Fever is weakening." 
 
 No more would the doctor say, and Mrs. Bolland soon 
 forgot the sufferings of another in her distress at 
 Martin's condition. She particularly lamented that he 
 should be laid up during the Feast. 
 
 At that the patient laughed. 
 
 " Surely I can go out, doctor ! " he cried. 
 
 " Go out, you imp ! Of course, you can. But, remem- 
 ber, no larking about and causing these cuts to reopen. 
 Better stay in the house until I see you in the morning." 
 
 So Martin, fearless of consequences, hunted up 
 " Rokeby," and read it with an interest hardly lessened 
 by the fact that that particular poem is the least excit- 
 ing of the magician's verse. At last the light failed 
 and the table was laid for supper, so the boy's reading 
 was disturbed. More than once he fancied he had heard 
 at the back of the house a long, shrill whistle which 
 sounded familar. Curiosity led him to the meadow. 
 He waited a little while, and again the whistle came 
 from the lane. 
 
 "Who is it? "he called. 
 
 "Me. Is that you, Martin?" 
 
 " Me " was Tommy Beadlam, but his white top did 
 not shine in the dark. 
 
 "What's up?" 
 
 " Come nearer. I mustn't shout." 
 
 Wondering what mystery was afoot, Martin ap- 
 proached the hedge. 
 
 " Yon lass," whispered Tommy " I can't say her
 
 126 The Revellers 
 
 name, but ye ken fine whea 'tis she's i' t' fair ageean." 
 
 "What! Angele?" 
 
 " That's her. She gemme sixpence te coom an' tell 
 yer. I've bin whistlin' till me lips is sore." 
 
 " You tell her from me she is a bad girl and ought to 
 go home at once." 
 
 " Not me ! She'd smack my feace." 
 
 " Well, I can't get out. I've had an accident and 
 must go t'o bed soon." 
 
 " There's a rare yarn about you an' a cat. I seed it. 
 Honest truth did you really kill it wi' your hands ? " 
 
 " Yes; but it gave me something first. Can you see? 
 My arms and left hand are all bound up." 
 
 " An' it jumped fust on Elsie Herbert? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " An' yer grabbed it off en her? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Gosh ! Yon lass is fair wild te hear all about it. 
 She greeted when Evelyn Atkinson telt her yer were 
 nearly dead, but yan o' t' farmhands kem along an' we 
 axed him, an' he said ye were nowt worse." 
 
 Martin's heart softened when he heard of Angele's 
 tears, but he was sorry she should have stolen out a 
 second time to mix with the rabble of the village. 
 
 " I can't come out to-night," he said firmly. 
 
 " Happen ye'd be able to see her if I browt her here? " 
 
 The white head evidently held brains, but Martin had 
 sufficient strength of character to ask himself what his 
 new friends, the Herbert family, would think if they 
 knew he was only too willing to dance to any tune the 
 temptress played. 
 
 " No, no," he cried, retreating a pace or two. " You
 
 The Wildcat 127 
 
 must not bring her. I'm going to supper and straight 
 to bed. And, look here, Tommy. Try and persuade 
 her to go home. If you and Jim Bates and the others 
 take her round the fair to-night you'll all get into 
 trouble. You ought to have heard the parson to-day, 
 and Miss Walker, too. I wouldn't be in your shoes for 
 more than sixpence." 
 
 This was crafty counsel. Beadlam, after consulting 
 Jim Bates, communicated it to Angele. She stared with 
 wide-open eyes at the doubting pair. 
 
 " Misericorde ! " she cried. " Were there ever such 
 idiots ! Because he cannot come himself, he doesn't want 
 me to be with you." 
 
 There was something in this. Their judgment wav- 
 ered, and and Angele had lots of money. 
 
 But she laughed them to scorn. 
 
 " Do you think I want you ! " she screamed. " Bah ! 
 I spit at you. Evelyn, ma cherie, walk with me to The 
 Elms. I want to hear all about the man who was stabbed 
 and the woman who stabbed him." 
 
 Thereupon, Evelyn and one of her sisters went off 
 with a girl whom they hated. But she was clever, in 
 their estimation, and pretty, and well dressed, and, oh, 
 so rich ! Above all, she was not " stuck up " like Elsie 
 Herbert, but laughed at their simple wit, and was ready 
 to sink to their level. 
 
 Martin, taking thought before he slept, wondered 
 why Angele had not come openly to the farm. It did 
 not occur to him that Angele dared not face John Bol- 
 land. The child feared the dour old farmer. She 
 dreaded a single look from the shrewd eyes which seemed 
 to search her very soul.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 DEEPENING SHADOWS 
 
 THE doctor came late next morning. He did not 
 reach Elmsdale until after eleven o'clock. He called 
 first at the White House and handed Mrs. Bolland a 
 small package. 
 
 " These are the handkerchiefs I took away yester- 
 day," he said. " I suppose they belong to Mr. Herbert's 
 household. My servant has washed them. Will you see 
 that they are returned?" 
 
 " Mercy o' me ! " cried Martha. " I nivver knew ye 
 took 'em. What did ye want 'em for, docthor? " 
 
 " There might have been some malignant substance 
 some poisonous matter in the cat's claws, and as the 
 county analyst was engaged at my place on some other 
 business I Oh, come now, Mrs. Bolland, there's no 
 need to be alarmed. Martin's wounds were cleansed, 
 and the salt applied to the raw edges so promptly, that 
 any danger which might have existed was stopped 
 effectually." 
 
 Yet the doctor's cheery face was grave that morning 
 and his brow was wrinkled as he unfastened the band- 
 ages. Beyond a slight stiffness of certain sinews and 
 the natural soreness of the cut flesh, Martin had never 
 felt better in his life. After a disturbed slumber, when 
 he dreamed that he was choking a wildcat a cat with 
 Angele's face which changed suddenly in death to Elsie 
 
 128
 
 Deepening Shadows 129 
 
 Herbert's smiling features he lay awake for some 
 hours. Then the pain in his wrists abated gradually, 
 he fell sound asleep, and Mrs. Holland took care that 
 he was left alone until he awoke of his own accord at 
 half-past eight, an unprecedented hour. 
 
 So the boy laughed at his mother's fears. Her lips 
 quivered, and she tried to choke back a sob. The doctor 
 turned on her angrily. 
 
 " Stop that ! " he growled. " I suppose you think 
 I'm hoodwinking you. It is not so. I am very much 
 worried about another matter altogether, so pilease 
 accept my assurance that Martin is all right. He can 
 run about all day, if he likes. The only consequence of 
 disturbing these cuts will be that they cannot heal 
 rapidly. Otherwise, they will be closed completely by 
 the end of the week." 
 
 While he talked he worked. The dressings were 
 changed and fresh lint applied. He handed Mrs. Bol- 
 land a store of materials. 
 
 " There," he said, " I need not come again, but I'D 
 call on Monday, just to satisfy you. Apply the lotion 
 morning and night. Good-by, Martin. You did a brave 
 thing, I hear. Good-by, Mrs. Bolland." 
 
 He closed his bag hurriedly and rushed away. Mrs. 
 Bolland, drying her eyes, and quite satisfied now, went 
 to the door and gazed after him. 
 
 " He's fair rattled wi' summat," she told another 
 portly dame who labored up the incline at the moment. 
 " He a'most snapped my head off. Did he think a body 
 wouldn't be scared wi' his talk about malignous pison 
 i' t' lad's bluid, I wonder?" 
 
 The doctor did not pull up outside the " Black Lion."
 
 130 The Revellers 
 
 He drove to the Vicarage a circumstance which would 
 most certainly have given Mrs. Bolland renewed cause 
 for alarm, were she aware of it and asked Mr. Herbert 
 to walk in the garden with him for a few minutes. 
 
 The two conversed earnestly, and the vicar seemed to 
 be greatly shocked at the outcome of their talk. At 
 last they arrived at a decision. The\ doctor hastened 
 back to the " Black Lion." He did not remain long in 
 the sick room, but scribbled a note downstairs and gave 
 it to his man. 
 
 " Take that to Mr. Herbert," he said. " I'll make a 
 few calls on foot and meet you at the bridge in a quarter 
 of an hour." 
 The note read: 
 
 " There is no hope. Things are exactly as I feared." 
 The vicar, looking most woebegone, murmured that 
 there was no answer. He procured his hat and walked 
 slowly to the inn, which was crowded, inside and out. 
 Nearly every man knew him and spoke to him, and many 
 noted that " t' passon looked varra down i' t' mooth this 
 mornin'." 
 
 He went upstairs. The conjecture flew around at 
 once that Pickering was worse. Someone remembered 
 that Kitty Thwaites said the patient had experienced a 
 touch of fever overnight. Surely, his wound had not 
 developed serious symptoms. The chief herd of his 
 Nottonby estate had seen him during the preceding 
 afternoon and found his master looking wonderfully 
 well. Indeed, Pickering spoke of attending to some 
 business matter in person on Saturday, or on Monday 
 for certain. Why, then, the vicar's visit? What did 
 it portend? People gathered in small groups and their
 
 Deepening Shadows 131 
 
 voices softened. By contrast, the blare of lively music 
 and the whistle of the roundabout were intolerably loud. 
 
 In the quiet room at the back of the hotel, with its 
 scent of iodoform mingling with the sweet breath of the 
 garden wafted in through an open window, Pickering 
 moved restlessly in bed. His face was flushed, his eyes 
 singularly bright, with a glistening sheen that was 
 abnormal. 
 
 By his side sat the pallid Betsy, reading a newspaper 
 aloud. She followed the printed text with difficulty. 
 Her mind was troubled. The fatigue of nursing was 
 nothing to one of her healthy frame, but her thoughts 
 were terrifying. She lived in a waking nightmare. Had 
 she dared to weep, she might have felt relief, but this 
 sure solace of womankind was denied her. 
 
 The vicar's entrance caused a sensation. Betsy, in a 
 quick access of fear, dropped the paper, and Pickering's 
 face blanched. Some secret doubt, some inner monitor, 
 brought a premonition of what was to come. He flinched 
 from the knowledge, but only for a moment. 
 
 Mr. Herbert essayed most gallantly to adopt his 
 customary cheerful mien. 
 
 " Dr. MacGregor asked me to call and see you, 
 George," he said. " I hope you are not suffering 
 greatly." 
 
 " Not at all, thanks, vicar. Just a trifle restless with 
 fever, perhaps, but the wound is nothing, a mere cut. 
 I've had as bad a scratch and much more painful when 
 thrusting through a thorn hedge after hounds." 
 
 "Ah. That is well." 
 
 The reverend gentleman seemed to be strangely at a 
 loss for words. He glanced at Betsy.
 
 132 The Revellers 
 
 " Would you mind leaving me alone with Mr. Picker- 
 ing for a little while? " he said. 
 
 The wounded man laughed, and there was a note in 
 his voice that showed how greatly the tension had 
 relaxed. 
 
 " If that's what you're after, Mr. Herbert," he said 
 promptly, " you may rest assured that the moment I'm 
 able to stir we'll be married. I told Mr. Beckett-Smythe 
 so yesterday." 
 
 " Indeed ; I am glad to hear it. Nevertheless, I want 
 to talk with you alone." 
 
 The vicar's insistence was a different thing to the 
 wish expressed by a magistrate and a police superin- 
 tendent. Betsy went out at once. 
 
 For an appreciable time after the door had closed 
 no word was spoken by either of the men. The vicar's 
 eyes were fixed mournfully on the valley, through which 
 a train was winding its way. The engine left in its track 
 white wraiths of steam which vanished under the lusty 
 rays of the sun. The drone of the showman's organ 
 playing " Tommy Atkins " reached the hardly con- 
 scious listeners as through a telephone. From a dis- 
 tant cornfield came the busy rattle of a reaping machine. 
 The harvest had commenced a fortnight earlier than 
 usual. Once again was the bounteous earth giving to 
 man a hundredfold what he had sown. " As ye sow, so 
 shall ye reap." Out there in the field were garnered the 
 wages of honest endeavor; here in the room, with its 
 hospital perfume, were being awarded the wages of sin, 
 for George Pickering was condemned to death, and it 
 was the vicar's most doleful mission to warn him of his 
 doom.
 
 Deepening Shadows 133 
 
 " Now, Mr. Herbert, pitch into me as much as you 
 like," said the patient, breaking an uneasy silence. 
 " I've been a bad lot, but I'll try to make amends. 
 Betsy's case is a hard one. You're a man of the world 
 and you know what the majority of these village lasses 
 are like; but Betsy " 
 
 The vicar could bear the suspense no longer. He 
 must perform his task, no matter what the cost. 
 
 " George," he broke in tremulously, " my presence 
 here to-day is due to a very sad and irrevocable fact. 
 Dr. MacGregor tells me that your condition is serious, 
 most serious. Indeed indeed there is no hope of your 
 recovery." 
 
 Pickering, who had raised himself on an elbow, gazed 
 at the speaker for an instant with fiery eyes. Then, as 
 though he grasped the purport of the words but gradu- 
 ally, he sank back on the pillow in the manner of one 
 pressed down by overwhelming force. The vicar moved 
 his chair nearer and grasped his friend's right hand. 
 
 " George," he murmured, " bear up, and try to pre- 
 pare your soul for that which is inevitable. What are 
 you losing? A few years of joys and sorrows, to which 
 the end must come. And the end is eternity, compared 
 with which this life is but a passing shadow." 
 
 Pickering did not answer immediately. He raised his 
 body again. He moved his limbs freely. He looked at a 
 square bony wrist and stretched out the free hand until 
 he caught an iron rail, which he clenched fiercely. In 
 his veins ran the blood of a race of yeomen. His hardy 
 ancestors had exchanged blow for blow with Scottish 
 raiders who sought to steal their cattle. They had 
 cracked the iron rind of many a marauder, broken many
 
 134 The Revellers 
 
 a border skull in defense of their lives and property. 
 Never had they feared death by flood or field, and their 
 descendant scoffed at the grim vision now. 
 
 " What nonsense is this MacGregor has been talk- 
 ing? " he shouted. "Die! A man like me! By gad, 
 vicar, I'd laugh, if I wasn't too vexed ! " 
 
 " Be patient, George, and hear me. Things are worse 
 than you can guess. Your wound alone is a small mat- 
 ter, but, unfortunately, the knife " 
 
 " There was no knife ! It was a pitchfork ! " 
 
 " Bear with me, I pray you. You will need to con- 
 serve your energy, and your protest only makes my duty 
 the harder. The knife has been submitted to analysis, 
 as well as corpuscles of your blood. Alas, that it should 
 fall to me to tell it ! Alas, for the poor girl whom you 
 have declared your intention to marry ! The knife had 
 been used to carve grouse, and some putrid matter from 
 a shot wound had dried on the blade. This was com- 
 municated to your system. The wound was cleansed 
 too late. Your blood was poisoned before the doctor 
 saw you, and and there is no hope now." 
 
 The vicar bowed his head. He dared not look in the 
 eyes of the man to whom he was conveying this dire 
 sentence. He felt Pickering subsiding gently to the 
 pillow and straightening his limbs. 
 
 " How long? " 
 
 The words were uttered in a singularly calm voice 
 so calm that the pastor ventured to raise his sorrow- 
 laden face. \ 
 
 " Soon. Perhaps three days. Perhaps a week. But 
 you will be delirious. You have little time in which to 
 prepare."
 
 Deepening Shadows 135 
 
 Again a silence. A faint shriek reached them from 
 afar, the whistle of the train entering Nottonby, the 
 pleasant little town which Pickering would never more 
 see. 
 
 " What a finish ! " he muttered. " I'd have liked it 
 better in the saddle. I wouldn't have cared a damn if 
 I broke my neck after hounds." 
 
 Another pause, and the vicar said gently : 
 
 " Have you made your will? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 '* Then it must be attended to at once." 
 
 " Yes, of course. Then, there's Betsy. Oh, God, I've 
 treated her badly. Now, help me, won't you? There's 
 a hundred pounds in notes and some twenty-odd in gold 
 in that drawer. Telegraph first to Stockwell, my lawyer 
 in Nottonby. Bring him here. Then, spare no money 
 in getting a license for my marriage. I can't die unless 
 that is put right. Don't delay, there's a good chap. 
 You have to apply to the Archbishop, don't you? 
 You'll do everything, I know. Will you be a trustee 
 under my will? " 
 
 " Yes, if you wish it." 
 
 " It'll please me more than anything. Of course, I'll 
 make it worth your while. I insist, I tell you. Go, now ! 
 Don't lose a moment. Send Betsy. And, vicar, for 
 Heaven's sake, not a word to her until we are married. 
 I'll tell her the fever is serious; just that, and no more." 
 
 " One other matter, George. Mr. Beckett-Smythe 
 will come here to-day or to-morrow to take your sworn 
 deposition. You must not die with a lie on your con- 
 science, however good the motive." 
 
 " I'll jump that fence when I reach it, Mr. Herbert.
 
 136 The Revellers 
 
 Meanwhile, the lawyer and the license. They're all- 
 important." 
 
 The vicar left it at that. He deemed it best to take 
 the urgent measures of the hour off the man's mind be- 
 fore endeavoring to turn his thoughts toward a fitting 
 preparation for the future state. With a reassuring 
 handclasp, he left him. 
 
 The two sisters waylaid him in the passage. 
 
 " Ye had but ill news, I fear, sir," said Betsy despair- 
 ingly, catching Mr. Herbert by the arm. 
 
 The worried man stooped to deception. 
 
 "Now, why should you jump to conclusions?" he 
 cried. " Dr. MacGregor asked me to look up his 
 patient. Am I a harbinger of disaster, like Mother 
 Carey's chickens ? " 
 
 " Oh, parson," she wailed, " I read it i' yer face, an' 
 in t' doctor's. Don't tell me all is weD. I know better. 
 Pray God I may die " 
 
 " Hush, my poor girl, you know not what you say. 
 Go to Mr. Pickering. He wants you." 
 
 He knew the appeal would be successful. She darted 
 off. Before Kitty, in turn, could question him, he 
 escaped. 
 
 It was easier to run the gantlet of friendly inquirers 
 outside. He telegraphed to the solicitor and sent a tele- 
 graphic remittance of the heavy fees demanded for the 
 special license. Within two hours he had the satisfac- 
 tion of knowing that the precious document was in the 
 post and would reach him next morning. 
 
 Mr. Stockwell's protests against Pickering's testa- 
 mentary designs were cut short by his client. 
 
 " Look here, Stockwell," was the irritated comment,
 
 Deepening Shadows 137 
 
 " you are an old friend of mine and I'd like this matter 
 to remain in your hands, but if you say another word 
 I'll be forced to send for someone else." 
 
 " If you put it that way " began the lawyer. 
 
 "I do, most emphatically. Now, what is it to be? 
 Yes or no? " 
 
 For answer the legal man squared some foolscap 
 sheets on a small table and produced a stylographic pen. 
 
 " Let me understand clearly," he said. " You intend 
 to marry this er lady, and mean to settle four hun- 
 dred a year on her for life? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Suppose she marries again? " 
 
 " God in heaven, man, do you think I want to play 
 dog-in-the-manger in my grave? " 
 
 " Then it had better take the form of a marriage 
 settlement. It is the strongest instrument known in 
 the law and avoids the death duties." 
 
 Pickering winced, but the lawyer went on remorse- 
 lessly. He regarded the marriage as a wholly quixotic 
 notion, and knew only too well that Betsy Thwaites 
 would be tried for murder if Pickering died. 
 
 " Have you no relatives ? " he said. " I seem to 
 recollect " 
 
 " My cousin Stanhope? He's quite well off, an M.P., 
 and likely to be made a baronet." 
 
 " He will not object to the chance of dropping in for 
 1,500 a year." 
 
 " Do you think the estate will yield so much ? " 
 
 " More, I imagine. Did you ever know what you 
 spent? " 
 
 " No."
 
 138 The Revellers 
 
 " Well, is it to be this Mr. Stanhope? " 
 
 " No. He never gave me a thought. Why should I 
 endow him and his whelps? Let the lot go to the County 
 Council in aid of the county orphanage. By Jove, that's 
 a good idea ! I like that." 
 
 " Anything else ? " demanded the lawyer. 
 
 " Yes. You and Mr. Herbert are to be the trustees." 
 
 " The deuce we are. Who said so? " 
 
 *' I say so. You are to receive 50 a year each from 
 the estate for administering it." 
 
 " Ah. That gilds the pill. Next? " 
 
 " I have nearly a thousand in the bank. Keep half as 
 working capital, give a hundred to my company in the 
 Territorials, and divide the balance, according to salary, 
 among all my servants who have more than five years' 
 service. And Betsy is to have the use of the house and 
 furniture, if she wishes it." 
 
 " Anything else? " 
 
 Pickering was exhausted, but continued to laugh 
 weakly. 
 
 " Yes ; I had almost forgotten. I bequeath to John 
 Bolland the shorthorn cow he sold me, and to that lad 
 of his you must find out his proper name my pair of 
 hammerless guns and my sword. He frames to be a 
 sportsman, and I think he'll make a soldier. He picked 
 up a poker like a shot the other day when I quarreled 
 with old John." 
 
 " What was the quarrel about? " 
 
 " When you send back the cow, you'll be told." 
 
 Mr. Stockwell scanned his notes rapidly. 
 
 " I'll put my clerks to work at this to-night," he said. 
 " As I am a trustee, my partner will attend to-morrow
 
 Deepening Shadows 139 
 
 to get your signature. Of course, you know you must 
 be married before you make your will, or it will be in- 
 valid? Before I go, George, are you sure it is all over 
 with you ? " 
 
 " MacGregor says so. I suppose he knows." 
 
 " Yes, he knows, if any man does. Yet I can't believe 
 it. It seems monstrous, incredible." 
 
 They gazed fixedly at each other. Of the two, the 
 man of law was the more affected. Before either could 
 speak again they heard Betsy's agonized cry: 
 
 " Oh, for God's sake, miss, don't tell me I may not 
 be with him always ! I've done my best ; I have, indeed. 
 I'll give neither him nor you any trouble. Don't keep 
 me away from him now, or I'll go mad ! " 
 
 The lawyer, wondering what new frenzy possessed the 
 woman who had struck down his friend, opened the door. 
 He was confronted by a hospital nurse sent by Dr. 
 MacGregor. She looked like a strong-minded person 
 and was probably a stickler for the etiquette of the sick 
 room. He took in the situation at a glance. 
 
 " There need be no difficulty, nurse, where Miss 
 Thwaites is concerned," he said. " She is to be married 
 to Mr. Pickering to-morrow, and as he has only a few 
 days to live they should see as much of each other as 
 possible. Any other arrangement would irritate your 
 patient greatly, and be quite contrary to Dr. Mac- 
 Gregor's wishes, I am sure." 
 
 The nurse bowed, and Betsy sobbed as the secret that 
 was no secret to her was revealed. None of the three 
 realized that several men standing in the hall beneath, 
 whose talk had been silenced by Betsy's frenzied excla- 
 mation, must have heard every word the lawyer uttered.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 FOR ONE, THE NIGHT; FOR ANOTHER, 
 THE DAWN 
 
 So Elmsdale was given another thrill, and a lasting 
 one. The Feast was ruined. Not a man or a woman 
 had heart for enjoyment. If a child sought a penny, it 
 was chided sharply and asked what it meant by gadding 
 about " when poor George Pickerin' an' that lass of his 
 were in such trouble." 
 
 Martin heard the news while standing outside the box- 
 ing booth, waiting for the sparring competition to com- 
 mence. He went in, it is true, and saw some hard hit- 
 ting, but the tent was nearly empty. When he and 
 Jim Bates came out an hour later, Elmsdale was a place 
 of mourning. 
 
 A series of exciting events, each crowding on its 
 predecessor's heels as though some diabolical agency 
 had resolved to disturb the community, had roused the 
 hamlet from its torpor. 
 
 Five slow-moving years had passed since the village 
 had been stirred so deeply. Then it endured a fort- 
 night's epidemic of suicide. A traveling tinker began 
 the uncanny cycle. On a fine summer's day he was re- 
 pairing his kettles on a corner of the green, when he 
 was observed to leave his little handcart and go into 
 a neighboring wood. He did not return. Search next 
 day discovered him swaying from a branch of a tall 
 
 140
 
 The Night The Dawn 141 
 
 tree, looking like some forlorn scarecrow suspended there 
 by a practical joker. 
 
 The following morning a soldier on furlough, one of 
 the very men who helped to cut down the tinker's body, 
 went into a cow-house at the back of his mother's cottage 
 and suspended himself from a rafter. An odd feature 
 of this man's exit was that the rope had yielded so much 
 that his feet rested on the ground. Before the hanging 
 he had actually cut letters out of his red-cloth tunic and 
 formed the word " Farewell " in a semicircle on the 
 stable floor. A girl soon afterwards selected the mill- 
 dam for a consoling plunge ; and, to crown all, the vicar, 
 Mr. Herbert's forerunner, having received a telegram 
 announcing the failure of a company in which he had 
 invested some money, opened his jugular vein with a 
 sharp scissors. That these tragedies should happen 
 within a fortnight in a community of less than three 
 hundred people was enough to give a life-insurance 
 actuary an attack of hysteria. 
 
 But each lacked the dramatic flavor attached to the 
 ill-governed passion of Betsy Thwaites and her fickle 
 swain. Kitty was known to all in Elmsdale, Betsy to 
 few, but George Pickering was a popular man through- 
 out the whole countryside. It was sensation enough that 
 one of his many amours should result in an episode more 
 typical of Paris than of an English Sleepy Hollow. But 
 the sequel the marriage of this wealthy gentleman- 
 farmer to a mere dairymaid, followed by his death from 
 a wound inflicted by the bride-to-be this was undiluted 
 melodrama drawn from the repertoire of the Petit 
 Guignol. 
 
 That night the story spread over England. A re-
 
 142 The Revellers 
 
 porter from the Messenger came to Elmsdale to glean 
 the exact facts as to Mr. Pickering's " accident." 
 Owing to the peculiar circumstances, he, perforce, 
 showed much discretion in compiling the story tele- 
 graphed to the Press Association. Not even the use of 
 that magic word " alleged " would enable him to charge 
 Betsy Thwaites with attempted murder, after the police 
 had apparently withdrawn the accusation. But he con- 
 trived to retail the legend by throwing utter discredit 
 on it, and the rest was plain sailing. Moreover, he was 
 a smart young man. He pondered deeply after dis- 
 patching the message. He was employed on the staff 
 of a local weekly newspaper, so his traveling allowance 
 was limited to a third-class return ticket and a shilling 
 for " tea." Yet he decided to remain in Elmsdale at his 
 own expense. The departure of the German Govern- 
 ment agent for another horse-fair left a vacant bedroom 
 at the " Black Lion." This he secured. He foresaw a 
 golden harvest. 
 
 Luck favored him. Conversing with a village Solon 
 in the bar, he caught a remark that " John Bolland's 
 lad " would be an important witness at the inquest. Of 
 course, he made inquiries and was favored with a full 
 and accurate account of the wanderings of the farmer 
 and his wife in London thirteen years earlier, together 
 with their adoption of the baby which had literally fallen 
 from the skies. To the country journalist, Fleet Street 
 is the Mecca of his earthly pilgrimage, and St. Martin's 
 Court, Ludgate Hill, was near enough to newspaperdom 
 to be sacred ground. The very name of the boy smacked 
 of " copy." 
 
 John Holland, lumbering out of the stockyard at tea-
 
 The Night The Dawn 143 
 
 time, encountered Dr. MacGregor. The farmer had 
 been thinking hard while striding through his diminished 
 cornfields, and crumbling ears of wheat, oats, and barley 
 in his strong hands to ascertain the exact date when 
 they would be ripe. Already some of his neighbors were 
 busy, but John was more anxious about the condition 
 of the straw than the forwardness of the grain; more- 
 over, men and women did not work so well during feast- 
 time. Next week he would obtain full measure for his 
 money. 
 
 " I reckon Martin'll soon be fit? " he said. 
 
 The doctor nodded. 
 
 " He's a bright lad, yon ? " went on the farmer. 
 
 " Yes. What are you going to make of him? " 
 
 Dr. MacGregor knew the ways of Elmsdale folk. 
 They required leading up to a subject by judicious 
 questioning. Rarely would they unburden their minds 
 by direct statements. 
 
 " That's what's worryin' me," said John slowly. 
 " What d'ye think yersen, docthor? " 
 
 " It is hard to say. It all hinges on what you intend 
 doing for him, Bolland. He is not your son. If he 
 has to depend on his own resources when he's a man, 
 teach him a useful trade. No matter how able he may 
 be, that will never come amiss." 
 
 The farmer gazed around. As men counted in that 
 locality, he was rich, not in hard cash, but in lands, 
 stock, and tenements. His expenses did not grow pro- 
 portionately with his earnings. He ate and dressed 
 and economized now as on the day when Martha and he 
 faced the world together, with the White House and its 
 small meadows their only belongings. In a few years
 
 144 The Revellers 
 
 the produce of his shorthorn herd alone would bring in 
 hundreds annually, and his Cleveland bays were noted 
 throughout the county. 
 
 He took the doctor's hint. 
 
 " I've nayther chick nor child but Martin," he said. 
 " When Martha an' me are gone te t' Lord, all that we 
 hev'll be Martin's. That's settled lang syne. I med 
 me will four years agone last Easter." 
 
 There was something behind this, and MacGregor 
 probed again. 
 
 " Isn't he cut out for a farmer? " 
 
 " I hae me doots," was the cautious answer. 
 
 The doctor waited, so John continued. 
 
 " I was sair set on t' lad being a minister. But I 
 judge it's not t' Lord's will. He's of a rovin 5 stock, I 
 fancy. When he's a man, Elmsdale won't be big eneuf 
 te hold him. He cooms frae Lunnon, an' te Lunnon 
 he'll gang. It's in his feace. Lunnon's a bad pleace 
 for a youngster whea kens nowt but t' ways o' moor 
 folk, docthor." 
 
 Then the other laughed. 
 
 " In a word, Bolland, you have made up your mind, 
 and want me to agree with you. Of course, if Martin 
 succeeds you, and you have read his character aright, 
 there is but one line open. Send him to a good school, 
 leave the choice of a profession to his more cultivated 
 mind, and tie up your property so that it cannot be 
 sold and wasted in a young man's folly. When he is 
 forty he may be glad to come back to Elmsdale and 
 give thanks for your foresight on his bended knees. In 
 any event, a little extra book lore will make him none 
 the worse stock-raiser. Eh, is that what you think? "
 
 The Night The Dawn 145 
 
 " You're a sound man, docthor. There's times I 
 wunner hoo it happens ye cling te sike nonsense as that 
 mad Dutchman " 
 
 MacGregor laughed again, and nudged his groom's 
 arm as a signal to drive on. He favored neither church 
 nor chapel, but claimed a devoted adherence to the doc- 
 trines of Emanuel Swedenborg, thus forming a sect 
 unto himself. There was not a Swedenborgian temple 
 within a hundred miles. Mayhap the doctor's theo- 
 logical views had a geographical foundation. 
 
 The farmer lumbered across the street and took a 
 corner of the crowded tea-table. Mrs. Summersgill was 
 entertaining the company with a description of George 
 Pickering's estate. 
 
 " It's a meracle, that's what it is ! " she exclaimed. 
 " Te think of Betsy Thwaites livin' i' style in yon fine 
 hoos ! There's a revenue o' trees quarther of a mile 
 long, an' my husband sez t' high-lyin' land grows t' 
 best wuts (oats) i' t' county. An' she's got it by a 
 prod wi' a carving-knife, while a poor body like me hez 
 te scrat sae hard for a livin' that me fingers are worn 
 te t' bone ! " 
 
 Mrs. Summersgill weighed sixteen stone, but she was 
 heedless of satire. Her eye fell on Martin, eating 
 silently, but well. 
 
 " Some folks git their bread easy, I'm sure," she went 
 on. " Ivver sen I was a bit lass I've tewed and wrowt 
 an' mead sike deed ower spendin' hawpenny, whiles 
 uthers hev a silver spoon thrust i' their gob frae t' time 
 they're born ! " 
 
 " T' Lord gives, an' t' Lord taks away. Ye munnot 
 fly i' t' feace o' t' Lord," said Bolland.
 
 146 The Revellers 
 
 " I'm not built for flyin' anywhere," cried the old 
 lady. " I wish I was. 'Tis flighty 'uns as wins nowa- 
 days. Look at Betsy Thwaites! Look at Mrs. Sau- 
 marez! She mun hae gotten her money varra simple 
 te fling it about as she does. My man telt me that her 
 little gal, t'other neet " 
 
 " Yer cup's empty, Mrs. Summersgill," put in Martha 
 quickly. " Bless my heart, ye talk an' eat nowt. 
 Speakin' o' Mrs. Saumarez, hez anyone heerd if she's 
 better? One o' Miss Walker's maids said she was 
 poorly." 
 
 Martin caught his mother's eye, and rose. He went 
 upstairs ; the farmer followed him. The two sat near 
 the window; on the broad ledge reposed the Bible; but 
 Bolland did not open the book. He laid his hand on it 
 reverently and looked at the boy. 
 
 " Martin," he began, " yer muther tells me that 
 Benson med yer mind sair by grabbin' te t' squire aboot 
 yer bringin' up. Nay, lad, ye needn't say owt. 'Tis no 
 secret. We on'y kept it frae ye for yer good. Any- 
 how, 'tis kent noo, an' there's nae need te chew on 't. 
 What troubled me maist was yer muther's defiance 
 when I was minded te punish ye for bein' out late." 
 
 " It won't occur again, sir," said Martin quietly. 
 
 " Mebbe. T' spirit is willin', but t' flesh is wake. 
 Noo, I want a straight answer te a straight question. 
 Are these Bible lessons te yer likin' ? " 
 
 It was so rare for the farmer to speak in this down- 
 right fashion that the boy was alarmed. He knew not 
 what lay behind; but he had not earned his reputation 
 for honesty on insufficient grounds. 
 
 " No, they're not," he said.
 
 The Night The Dawn 147 
 
 Bolland groaned. " T' minister said so. Why not? " 
 
 " I can hardly explain. For one thing, I don't under- 
 stand what I read. And often I would like to be out in 
 the fields or on the moor when I'm forced to be here. 
 All the same, I do try hard, and if I thought it would 
 please you and mother, I'd do much more than give up 
 half an hour a day." 
 
 " Ay, a'y. 'Tis compulsion, not love. I telt t' minis- 
 ter that Paul urged insistence in season an' out o' 
 season, but he held that the teachin' applied te doctrine, 
 an' not te Bible lessons for t' young. Well, Martin, I've 
 weighed this thing, an' not without prayer. I've seen 
 many a field spoiled by bad farmin', an', when yer 
 muther calls my own hired men te help her agen me; 
 when a lad like you goes fightin' young gentlemen aboot 
 a lass ; when yon Frenchified ninny eggs ye on te spend 
 money like watter, an' yer muther gies ye t' brass next 
 day te pay Mrs. Saumarez, lest it should reach my 
 ears why, I've coom te believe that my teachin' is 
 mistakken." 
 
 Martin was petrified at hearing his delinquencies laid 
 bare in this manner. He had not realized that the ex- 
 travagant disply of Monday must evoke comment in a 
 small village, and that Bolland could not fail to inter- 
 pret correctly his wife's anxiety to hush up all refer- 
 ence to it. He blushed and held his tongue, for the 
 farmer was speaking again. 
 
 " T' upshot of all this is that I've sought counsel. 
 Ye're an honest lad, I will say that fer ye, but ye're a 
 lad differin' frae those of yer age i' Elmsdale. If all 
 goes well wi' me, ye'll nivver want food nor lodgin', but 
 an idle man is a wicked man, nine times out o' ten, an'
 
 148 The Revellers 
 
 I'd like te see ye sattled i' summat afore I go te my 
 rest. You're not cut out fer t' ministry, ye're none for 
 farmin', an' I'd sooner see ye dead than dancin' around 
 t' countryside after women, like poor George Pickerin'. 
 Soa ye mun gang te college an' sharpen yer wits, an' 
 happen fower or five years o' delvin' i' books'll shape yer 
 life i' different gait te owt I can see at this minnit. 
 What think you on't?" 
 
 " Oh, I should like it better than anything else in the 
 world." 
 
 The boy's eyes sparkled at this most unlooked-for 
 announcement. Never before had his heart so gone out 
 to the rugged old man whose stern glance was now 
 searching him through the horn-rimmed spectacles. 
 
 What magician had transformed John Bolland? Was 
 it possible that beneath the patriarchial inflexibility of 
 the rugged farmer's character there lay a spring of 
 human tenderness, a clear fountain hidden by half a 
 century of toil and narrow religion, but now unearthed 
 forcibly by circumstances stronger than the man him- 
 self? The boy could not put these questions into words. 
 He was too young to understand even the meaning of 
 psychological analysis. He could only sit there mute, 
 stunned by the glory of the unexpected promise. 
 
 Of course, if a thinker like Dr. MacGregor were 
 aware of all the facts, he would have seen that the rebel- 
 lion of Martha had been a lightning stroke. The few 
 winged words she shot at her husband on that memo- 
 rable night had penetrated deeper than she thought. It 
 chanced, too, that the revivalist preacher whom Bolland 
 took into his confidence was a man of sound common 
 sense, and much more acute in private life than anyone
 
 The Night The Dawn 149 
 
 could imagine who witnessed his methods of hammering 
 the Gospel into the dullards of the village. He it was 
 who advised a timely diminution of devotional exercises 
 which were likely to become distasteful to a spirited lad. 
 He recommended the farmer to educate Martin beyond 
 the common run, while the choice of a profession might 
 be left to maturer consideration. Among the many 
 influences conspiring in that hour to mold the boy's 
 future life, none was more wholesome than that of the 
 tub-thumping preacher. 
 
 Bolland seemed to be gratified by Martin's tongue- 
 tied enthusiasm. 
 
 " Well," he said, rising. " Noo my hand's te t' plow 
 I'll keep it there. Remember, Martin, when ye tak te 
 study t' Word o' yer own accord, ye can start at t' 
 second chapter o' t' Third Book o' Kings. I'll be 
 throng wi' t' harvest until t' middle o' September, but 
 I'll ax Mr. Herbert te recommend a good school. He's 
 a fair man, if he does lean ower much te t' Romans. 
 Soa, fer t' next few days, run wild an' enjoy yersen. 
 Happen ye'll never hae as happy a time again." 
 
 He patted the boy's head, a rare sign of sentiment, 
 and walked heavily out of the room. Martin saw him 
 cross the road and clout a stable-boy's ears because the 
 yard was not swept clean. Then he called to his fore- 
 man, and the two went off to the low-lying meadows. 
 Bolland had been turning over in his mind Mrs. 
 Saumarez's remarks about draining; they were worthy 
 of consideration and, perhaps, of experiment. 
 
 Martin remained standing at the window. So he was 
 to leave Elmsdale, go out into the wide world beyond the 
 hills, mix with people who spoke and acted and moved
 
 150 The Revellers 
 
 like the great ones of whom he had read in books. He 
 was glad of it ; oh, so glad ! He would learn Greek and 
 Latin, French and German. No longer would the queer- 
 looking words trouble his eyes. Their meaning would 
 be made clear to his understanding. He would soon 
 acquire that nameless manner of which the squire, the 
 vicar, Mrs. Saumarez, the young university students 
 he met yesterday, possessed the secret. Elsie Herbert 
 had it, and Angele was veneered with it, though in her 
 case he knew quite well that the polish was only skin 
 deep. 
 
 It was what he had longed for with all his heart, yet 
 now that the longing was to be appeased he had never 
 felt more drawn to his parents; his only by adoption, 
 it was true ; but nevertheless father and mother by every 
 tie known to him. 
 
 By the way, whose child was he? No one had told 
 him the literal manner in which he fell into the hands 
 of the Bollands. Probably his real progenitors were 
 dead long since. Were it not for the kindness of the 
 farmer and his wife he might have been reared in that 
 awful place, the " Union," of which the poverty-stricken 
 old people in the parish spoke with such dread. His 
 own folk must have been poor. Those who were well 
 off were fond of their children and loth to part from 
 them. Well, he must be a real son to John and Martha 
 Bolland. They should have reason to be proud of him. 
 He would do nothing to disgrace their honored name. 
 
 What was it his father said just now? When he 
 studied the Bible of his own accord he might begin at 
 the second chapter of the Second Book of Kings. 
 
 It would please the old man to know that he gave the
 
 The Night The Dawn 151 
 
 first moment of liberty to reading the Word which was 
 held so precious. He opened the book at the page where 
 the long, narrow strip of black silk marked the close of 
 the last lesson. For the first time in his life the boy 
 brought to bear on the task an unaided and sympa- 
 thetic intelligence, and this is what he read : 
 
 " Now the days of David drew nigh that he should 
 die; and he charged Solomon his son, saying, 
 
 " I go the way of all the earth : be thou strong there- 
 fore, and shew thyself a man ; 
 
 " And keep the charge of the Lord thy God, to walk 
 in his ways, to keep his statutes, and his command- 
 ments, and his judgments, and his testimonies, as it is 
 written in the law of Moses, that thou mayest prosper 
 in all that thou doest, and whithersoever thou turnest 
 thyself : 
 
 " That the Lord may continue his word which he 
 spake concerning me, saying, If thy children take heed 
 to their way, to walk before me in truth with all their 
 heart and with all their soul, there shall not fail thee 
 (said he) a man on the throne of Israel." 
 
 Not even a boy of fourteen could peruse these words 
 unmoved, coming, as they did, after the memorable in- 
 terview with Bolland. The black letters seemed to 
 Martin to have fiery edges. They burnt themselves into 
 his brain. In years to come they were fated to stand 
 out unbidden before the eyes of his soul many a time 
 and oft. 
 
 He read on, but soon experienced the old puzzled 
 feeling when he encountered the legacy of revenge which 
 David bequeathed to his son after delivering that in-
 
 152 The Revellers 
 
 spired message. It reminded Martin of the farmer's 
 dignified and quite noble-hearted renunciation of his own 
 dreams in order to follow what he thought was the bet- 
 ter way, to be succeeded by his passage to the farm 
 buildings across the road in order to box the ears of a 
 lazy hind. 
 
 Ere he closed the book, Martin went over the open- 
 ing verses of the chapter. He promised himself to obey 
 the injunctions therein contained, and it was with a 
 host of unformed ideals churning in his brain that he 
 descended the stairs. 
 
 Mrs. Bolland was gazing through the front door. 
 
 " Mercy on us," she cried, " if there isn't Mrs. 
 Saumarez coomin' doon t' road wi' t' nuss an' her little 
 gell. An' don't she look ill, poor thing ! I'll lay owt 
 she hez eaten summat as disagreed wi' her, an' it gev 
 her a bilious attack." 
 
 " Dod, ay," said Mrs. Summersgill. " Some things 
 are easy te swallow, but hard te digest. Ye could hev 
 knocked me down wi' a feather when our Tommy bolted 
 a glass ally last June twelve months."
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 A FRIENDLY ARGUMENT 
 
 MRS. SAUMAREZ did indeed look unwell. It was not 
 that her pallor was marked or her gait feeble ; obviously, 
 she had applied cosmetics to her face, and her carriage 
 was as imposing and self-possessed as ever. But her 
 cheeks were swollen, her eyes bloodshot, her eyelids puffy 
 and discolored. To a certain extent, too, she simulated 
 the appearance of illness by wearing a veil of heliotrope 
 tint, for it was part of her intent to-day to persuade 
 Elmsdale that her complete seclusion from its society 
 during the past forty-eight hours was due to a cause 
 beyond her own control. 
 
 In very truth this was so ; she suffered from a malady 
 far worse than any case of dyspepsia ever diagnosed by 
 doctor. The unfortunate woman was an erratic dipso- 
 maniac. She would exist for weeks without being trou- 
 bled by a craving for drink ; then, without the slightest 
 warning or contributory error on her part, the demon 
 of intoxication would possess her, and she yielded so 
 utterly as to become a terror to her immediate asso- 
 ciates. 
 
 The Normandy nurse, Fran9oise, exercised a firmer 
 control over her than any other maid she had ever 
 employed ; hence, Fran9oise's services were retained long 
 after other servants had left their mistress in disgust or 
 fright. This distressing form of lunacy seemed also 
 
 153
 
 154 The Revellers 
 
 to account for the roving life led by Mrs. Saumarez. 
 She was proud, with the inbred arrogance of the Junker 
 class from which she sprang. She would not endure the 
 scorn, or, mayhap, the sympathy of her friends or de- 
 pendants. Whenever she succumbed to her malady she 
 usually left that place on the first day she was able to 
 travel. 
 
 But the Elmsdale attack, thanks to a limited supply 
 of brandy and Eau de Cologne, was of brief duration. 
 Fran9oise knew exactly what to do. Every drop of 
 alcoholic liquor even the methylated spirit used for 
 heating curling-irons must be kept out of her mis- 
 tress's way during the ensuing twenty-four hours, and a 
 deaf ear turned to frantic pleadings for the smallest 
 quantity of any intoxicant. Threats, tears, pitiable 
 requests, physical violence at times, must be disregarded 
 callously; then would come reaction, followed by ex- 
 treme exhaustion. Fran9oise, despising her German 
 mistress, nevertheless had the avaricious soul of a French 
 peasant, and was amassing a small fortune by attend- 
 ing to her. 
 
 The Misses Walker were so eager to retain their 
 wealthy guest that they pretended absolute ignorance 
 of her condition. They succeeded so well their own 
 dyspeptic symptoms were described with such ingenuous 
 zeal that the lady believed her secret was unknown to 
 the household at The Elms. 
 
 Oddly enough, certain faculties remained clear during 
 these attacks. She took care that the chauffeur should 
 not see her, and remembered also that young Martin 
 Bolland had conversed with her while she was in the 
 worst paroxysm of drink-craving. He was a quick boy,
 
 A Friendly Argument 155 
 
 observant beyond his age. What did he know? What 
 wondrous tale had he spread through the village? A 
 visit to his mother, a meeting with the gossip-loving 
 women sure to be gathered beneath the farmer's hos- 
 pitable roof, would tell her all. She nerved herself for 
 the ordeal, and approached slowly, fearfully, but out- 
 wardly dignified as ever. 
 
 Mrs. Bolland's hearty greeting was reassuring. 
 
 " Eh, my lady, but ye do look poorly, te be sure. 
 I've bin worritin' te think ye've mebbe bin upset by all 
 this racket i' t' place, when ye kem here for rest an' 
 quiet." 
 
 Mrs. Saumarez smiled. 
 
 " Oh, no, thank you, Mrs. Bolland," she said. " I 
 cannot blame Elmsdale, except, perhaps, that your won- 
 derful air braced up my appetite too greatly, and I had 
 to pay the penalty for so many good things to 
 eat." " 
 
 " Ay, I said so," chimed in Mrs. Summersgill, in the 
 accents of deep conviction. " Ower much grub an' nowt 
 te do is bad for man or beast." 
 
 Mrs. Saumarez laughed frankly at that. 
 
 " In which category do you place me, Mrs. Summers- 
 gill? " she inquired. Meanwhile, her eyes wandered to 
 where Martin stood. She was asking herself why the 
 boy should gaze so fixedly at Angele. 
 
 The stout party did not know what a category was. 
 She thought it was some species of malady. 
 
 " Well, ma'am," she cried, " if I was you, I'd try 
 rabbit meat for a few days. Eat plenty o' green stuff' 
 an' shun t' teapot. It's slow p'ison." 
 
 She stretched out a huge arm and poured out a cup
 
 156 The Revellers 
 
 of tea. There was a general laugh at this forgetful- 
 ness. Mrs. Sumraersgill waved aside criticism. 
 
 " Ay, ay ! " she went on, " it's easier te preach than 
 te practice, as t' man said when he fell off a haystack 
 efther another man shooted tiv him te ho'd fast." 
 
 Mrs. Saumarez took a seat. Thus far, matters had 
 gone well. But why did Martin avoid her? 
 
 " Martin, my little friend," she said, " why did you 
 not come in and see me yesterday when you called at 
 The Elms?" 
 
 " Miss Walker did not wish it," was the candid 
 answer. " I suppose she thought I might be in the way 
 when you were so ill." 
 
 " There nivver was sike a bairn," protested Martha 
 Bolland. " He's close as wax sometimes. Not a wud 
 did he say, whether ye were ill or well, Mrs. Saumarez." 
 
 The lady's glance rested more graciously on the boy. 
 She noticed his bandaged arms and hands. 
 
 "What is the matter?" she asked. "Have you 
 been scalding yourself? " 
 
 Martin reddened. It was Angele who answered 
 quickly : 
 
 "You were too indisposed last night to hear the 
 story, chere maman. It was all over the village. H y 
 a tout le monde qui sait. Martin saved Elsie Herbert 
 from a wildcat. It almost tore him into little pieces." 
 
 And so the conversation glided safely away from the 
 delicate topic of Mrs. Saumarez's sudden ailment. She 
 praised Martin's bravery in her polished way. She 
 expressed proper horror when the wildcat's skin was 
 brought in for her edification, and became so lively, so 
 animated, that she actually asked Mrs. Bolland for
 
 A Friendly Argument 157 
 
 some tea, notwithstanding Mrs. Summersgill's earnest 
 warnings. 
 
 She made a hearty meal. Fran9oise,'too, joined in the 
 feast, her homely Norman face perceptibly relaxing its 
 grim vigilance. Her mistress was safe now, for a month, 
 two months, perchance six. The desire for food was the 
 ultimate sign of complete recovery for the time. Had 
 Mrs. Saumarez dared ask for a glass of beer from the 
 majestic cask in the corner, Fran9oise would have pre- 
 vented her from taking it, using force if necessary. The 
 sturdy peasant from Tinchebrai was of stronger moral 
 fiber than the born aristocrat, and her mistress 
 knew it. 
 
 Martin stood somewhat shyly near the broad ingle. 
 Angele approached. She caressed his lint-wrapped 
 arms, saying sweetly: 
 
 " Do they pain you a great deal ? " 
 
 " Of course not. They're just a bit sore to the 
 touch that's all." 
 
 His manner was politely repellant. He wished she 
 would not pat him with her nervous fingers. She pawed 
 him like a playful cat. To-day she wore the beautiful 
 muslin frock he had admired so greatly on the first day 
 of the fair. The deep brim of her hat concealed her 
 eyes from all but his. 
 
 " I am quite jealous of Elsie," she murmured. " It 
 must be simply lovely to be rescued in that way. Poor 
 little me! At home nursing mamma, while you were 
 fighting for another girl ! " 
 
 " The thing was not worth so much talk. I did noth- 
 ing that any other boy would not have done." 
 
 " My wud," cried Mrs. Summersgill suddenly, " it'd
 
 158 The Revellers 
 
 do your little lass a power o' good te git some o' that 
 fat beacon intiv her, Mrs. Saumarez." 
 
 From the smoke-blackened rafters over the spacious 
 fireplace were hanging a dozen sides of home-cured 
 bacon, huge toothsome slabs suggesting mounds of lus- 
 cious rashers. The sturdy boy beneath gave proof that 
 there was good nutriment in such ample store, but the 
 girl was so fragile, so fairy-like in her gossamer wings, 
 that she might have been reared on the scent of flowers. 
 
 The attention thus drawn to the two caused Martin 
 to flush again, but Angele wheeled round. 
 
 " Do all pigs grow fat when they are old ? " she asked. 
 
 " Nay, lass, that they don't. We feed 'em te mak' 
 'em fat while they're young, but some pigs are skinny 
 'uns always." 
 
 Mrs. Saumarez smiled indulgently at this passage 
 between two such sharp-tongued combatants. Angele's 
 eyes blazed. Fran9oise, eating steadily, wondered what 
 had been said to make the women laugh, the child angry. 
 
 Angele caught the astonished expression on the nurse's 
 face. Quickly her mood changed. Fran9oise sat near. 
 She bent over and whispered : 
 
 " Tiens, nanna ! Voici une vieille truie qui parle 
 comme nous autres ! " 
 
 Fran9oise nearly choked under a combination of pro- 
 test and bread crumbs. Before she could recover her 
 breath at hearing Mrs. Summersgill described " an old 
 sow who talks like one of us ! " Angele cried airily to 
 Martin : 
 
 " Take me to the stables. I haven't seen the pony 
 and the dogs for days and days." 
 
 He was glad to escape. He dreaded Mrs. Summers-
 
 A Friendly Argument 159 
 
 gill's mordant humor if a war of wits broke out between 
 her and the girl. 
 
 " All right," he said. " I'll whistle for Curly and Jim 
 at the back and join you at the gate." 
 
 But Angele skipped lightly toward her hostess. 
 
 " Please, Mrs. Holland," she said coaxingly, " may I 
 not go through the back kitchen, too? " 
 
 " Sure-ly, honey," cried Martha. " One way's as 
 good as another. Martin, tak t' young leddy anywheres 
 she wants te go, an' dinnat be so gawky. She won't 
 bite ye." 
 
 The two passed into the farmyard. 
 
 " You see, Martin," explained Angele coolly, " I 
 must find out how Jim Bates and Tommy Beadlam 
 always get hold of you without other people being the 
 wiser. Show me the lane and the paddock they tell 
 me of." 
 
 " I don't see why it should interest you," was the 
 ungracious reply. 
 
 " You dear boy ! Are you angry yet because I 
 wouldn't let you kiss me the other night? " 
 
 He was compelled to laugh at the outrageous untruth. 
 
 " I'm afraid I spoke very crossly then," he admitted, 
 thinking it best to avoid argument. 
 
 " Oh, yes. I wept for hours. My poor little eyes 
 were sore yesterday. Look and see if they are red now." 
 
 They were standing behind the woodpile. She thrust 
 her face temptingly near. Her beautiful eyes, clear and 
 limpid in their dark depths, blinked saucily. Her parted 
 lips revealed two rows of white, even teeth, and her 
 sweet breath mingled with the fragrance that always 
 clung to her garments. He experienced a new timidity
 
 160 The Revellers 
 
 now ; he was afraid of her in this mood, though secretly 
 flattered by the homage she was paying. 
 
 " Martin," she whispered, " I like you better than 
 any of the other boys, oh, a great deal better, even 
 though Evelyn Atkinson does say you are a milksop." 
 
 What a hateful word to apply to one whose flesh was 
 scarred by the claws of an infuriated wildcat conquered 
 in fair fight. Milksop, indeed ! He knew Angele's ways 
 well enough by this time to give convincing proof that 
 he was no milksop. 
 
 He placed his bandaged right arm around her waist, 
 boldly drew her toward him, and kissed her three times 
 on the lips. 
 
 " That is more than I ever did to Evelyn Atkinson," 
 he said. 
 
 She returned the embrace with ardor. 
 
 " Oh, Martin, I do love you," she sighed. " And you 
 fought for me as well as for Elsie, didn't you ? " 
 
 If the thought were grateful to Angele, it stung the 
 boy's conscience. Under what different circumstances 
 had he defended the two girls! He grew scarlet with 
 confusion and sought to unclasp those twining arms. 
 
 " Someone may see us," he protested. 
 
 " I don't care," she cooed. " Tommy Beadlam is 
 watching us now over the hedge. Tell him to go away." 
 
 He wrenched himself free. True enough, " White 
 Head " was gazing at them, eyes and mouth wideropen. 
 
 " Hello, Tommy ! " shouted Martin. 
 
 " By gum ! " gasped Tommy. 
 
 But the spell was broken, and the three joined com- 
 pany to make a tour of the farm. Angele was quite 
 unembarrassed and promptly rescued both boys from
 
 A Friendly Argument 161 
 
 sheepishness. She knew that the observant " White 
 Head " would harrow Evelyn Atkinson's soul with a full 
 description of the tender episode behind the big pile of 
 wood. This pleased her more than Martin's gruff 
 " spooning." 
 
 Inside the farmhouse conversation progressed vigor- 
 ously. Mrs. Saumarez joined in the talk with zest. 
 The quaint gossip of the women interested her. She 
 learnt, seemingly with surprise, that these, her humble 
 sisters, were swayed by emotions near akin to her own. 
 Some quiet chronicle of a mother's loss by the death of 
 a soldier son in far-off South Africa touched a dormant 
 chord in her heart. 
 
 " My husband was killed in that foolish war," she 
 said. " I never think of it without a shudder." 
 
 " I reckon he'd be an officer, ma'am," said Martha. 
 
 " Yes ; he was shot while leading his regiment in a 
 cavalry charge at the Modder River." 
 
 " It's a dreadful thing, is war," observed the bereaved 
 mother. " My lad wouldn't hurt a fly, yet his capt'in 
 wrote such a nice letter, sayin' as how Willie had killed 
 four Boers afore he was struck down. T' capt'in meant 
 it kindly, no doot, but it gev me small consolation." 
 
 " It is the wives and mothers who suffer most. Men 
 like the army. I suppose if my child were a boy he 
 would enter the service." 
 
 " Thank the Lord, Martin won't be a sojer! " cried 
 Martha fervently. 
 
 " You're going to make him a minister, are you not? " 
 
 " Noa," said John Bolland's deep voice from the door. 
 " He's goin' to college. I've settled it to-day." 
 
 None present appreciated the force of this statement
 
 162 The Revellers 
 
 like Martha, and she resented such a momentous decision 
 being arrived at without her knowledge. Her head bent, 
 and twitching fingers sought the ends of her apron. 
 John strode ponderously forward and placed a huge 
 hand on her shoulder. 
 
 " Dinnat be vexed, Martha," he said gently. " I 
 hadn't a chance te speak wi' ye sen Dr. MacGregor an' 
 me had a bit crack about t' lad. I didn't need te coom 
 te you for counsel. Who knew better'n me that yer 
 heart was set on Martin bein' browt up a gentleman? " 
 
 This recognition of motherly rights somewhat molli- 
 fied his wife. 
 
 " Eh, but I'm main pleased, John," she said. " Yet 
 I'll be sorry to lose him." 
 
 " Ye'll wear yer knuckles te t' bone makkin' him fine 
 shirts an' fallals, all t' same," laughed her husband. 
 
 Mrs. Saumarez had seen the glint of tears in Mrs. 
 Bolland's eyes, and came to the rescue with a request 
 for a second cup of tea. 
 
 " England is fortunate in being an island," she said. 
 " Now, in my native land every man has to serve in the 
 army. It cannot be avoided, you know. Germany has 
 France on the one hand and Russia on the other, each 
 ready to spring if she relaxes her vigilance for a 
 moment." 
 
 " Is that so? " inquired Bolland. " I wunner why? " 
 
 The lady smiled. 
 
 " That is a wide political question," she replied. " To 
 give one reason out of many, look at our at Germany's 
 thousand miles of open frontier." 
 
 " Right enough, ma'am. But why is Jarmany 
 buildin' such a big fleet ? "
 
 A Friendly Argument 163 
 
 Mrs. Saumarez raised her lorgnette. She had not 
 expected so apt a retort. 
 
 " She is gathering colonies, and already owns a huge 
 mercantile marine. Surely, these interests call for ade- 
 quate protection? " 
 
 " Nobody's threatenin* 'em, so far as I can see," per- 
 sisted Bolland. 
 
 " Not at present. But a wise government looks ahead 
 of the hour. Germany's aim is to educate the world by 
 her culture. She is doing it already, as any of your own 
 well-informed leading men will tell you; but the time 
 may come when, in her zeal for advancement, she may 
 tread on somebody's toes, so she must be prepared, both 
 on land and sea. Fortunately, this is the one country 
 she will never attack." 
 
 John shook his head. 
 
 " I'm none so sure," he said slowly. " I hevn't much 
 time fer readin', but I did happen t'other day on a 
 speech by Lord Roberts which med me scrat me head. 
 Beg pardon, ma'am. I mean it med me think." 
 
 " Lord Roberts ! " began the lady scornfully. Then 
 she sipped her tea, and the pause gave time to collect 
 her wits. " You must remember that he is a professional 
 soldier, and his views are tainted by militarism." 
 
 " Isn't that the trouble i' Jarmany ? " 
 
 Mrs. Saumarez drank more tea. 
 
 " Circumstances alter cases," she said. " The broad 
 fact remains that Germany harbors no evil designs 
 against Great Britain. She believes the world holds 
 plenty of room for both powers. And, when all is said 
 and done, why should the two nations quarrel? They 
 are kith and kin. They look at life from the same view-
 
 164 The Revellers 
 
 points. Even their languages are alike. Hardly a word 
 in your quaint Yorkshire dialect puzzles me now, because 
 I recognize its source in the older German and in the 
 current speech of our Baltic provinces. Germany and 
 England should be friends, not enemies. It will be a 
 happy day for England when she ceases worrying about 
 German measures of self-defense, but tries, rather, to 
 imitate her wonderful achievements in every field of 
 science. Any woman who uses fabrics need not be told 
 how Germany has taught the whole world how to make 
 aniline dyes, while her chemists are now modernizing the 
 old-time theories of agriculture. You, Mr. Bolland, as 
 a practical farmer, can surely bear out that conten- 
 tion?" 
 
 " Steady on, ma'am," said Bolland, leaning forward, 
 with hands on knees, and with eyes fixed on the speaker 
 in an almost disconcerting intensity. " T' Jarmans hev 
 med all t' wo'ld buy their dyes, but there hezn't been 
 much teachin', as I've heerd tell of. As for farmin', they 
 coom here year after year an' snap up our best stock i' 
 horses an' cattle te improve their own breeds. 7 can't 
 grummel at that. They compete wi' t' Argentine an' t' 
 United States, an' up go my prices. Still, I do think 
 our government is te blame for lettin' our finest stallions 
 an' brood mares leave t' country. They differ frae 
 cattle. They're bowt for use i' t' army, an' we're bein' 
 drained dhry. That's bad for us. An' why are they 
 doin'it?" 
 
 Mrs. Saumarez pushed away her cup and saucer. She 
 laughed nervously, with the air of one who had gone a 
 little further than was intended. 
 
 " There, there ! " she cried pleasantly. " I am only
 
 A Friendly Argument 165 
 
 trying to show you Germany's open aims, but some 
 Englishmen persist in attributing a hostile motive to her 
 every act. You see, I know Germany, and few people 
 here trouble either to learn the language or visit the 
 country." 
 
 " Likely not, ma'am," was the ironical answer. " Mr. 
 Pickerin' went te some pleace Bremen, I think they call 
 it two year sen this July, te see a man who'd buy every 
 Cleveland bay he could offer. George had just been med 
 an officer i' t' Territorials which meant a week's 
 swankin' aboot i' uniform at a camp, an' givin' his men 
 free beer an' pork pies te attend a few drills an' he 
 was fule enough te carry a valise wi' his rank an' regi- 
 ment painted on it. Why, they watched him like a cat 
 watchin' a mouse. He couldn't eat a bite or tak a pint 
 o' their light beer that a 'tec wasn't sittin' at t' next 
 table. They fairly chased him away. Even his friend, 
 the hoss-buyer, got skeered at last, an' advised him te 
 quit te avoid arrest." 
 
 " That must have been a wholly exceptional case," 
 said Mrs. Saumarez, speaking in a tone of utter indiffer- 
 ence. " Had I known him, for instance, and given him 
 a letter of introduction, he would have been wel- 
 comed, not suspected. By the way, how is he ? I 
 hear " 
 
 The conversation was steered into a safer channel, 
 They were discussing the wounded man's condition when 
 Mrs. Saumarez's car passed. The door stood open, so 
 they all noted that the vehicle was white with dust, but 
 the chauffeur was the sole occupant. 
 
 " Her ladyship " was pleased to explain. 
 
 " It is a new car, so Fritz took it for a long spin to-
 
 166 The Revellers 
 
 day," she said. " You will understand, Mr. Bolland, 
 that the engine has to find itself, as the phrase goes." 
 
 " Expensive work, ma'am," smiled John, rising. " An' 
 now, good folk," he continued, " whea's comin' te t' 
 love feast ? " 
 
 There was a general movement. The assembly dear 
 to old-time Methodism appealed to the majority of the 
 company. Mrs. Saumarez raised her lorgnette once 
 more. 
 
 " What is a love feast? " she asked. 
 
 " It's a gathering o' members o' our communion, 
 ma'am," was Holland's ready answer. 
 
 " May I come, too? " 
 
 Instantly a rustle of surprise swept through her hear- 
 ers. Even John Bolland was so taken aback that he 
 hesitated to reply. But the lady seemed to be in earnest. 
 
 " I really mean it," she went on. " I have a spare 
 hour, and, as I don't care for dinner to-night, I'll be 
 most pleased to attend that is, if I may? " 
 
 The farmer came nearer. He looked at the bulbous 
 eyelids, the too-evenly tinted skin, the turgid veins in 
 the brilliant eyes, and perhaps saw more than Mrs. 
 Saumarez dreamed. 
 
 " Happen it'll be an hour well spent, ma'am," he said 
 quietly. " Admission is by membership ticket, but t' 
 minister gev' me a few * permits ' for outside friends, 
 an' I'll fill yan in for ye wi' pleasure." 
 
 He produced some slips of paper bearing the written 
 
 words, " Admit Brother " or " Sister ," and 
 
 signed, " Eli Todd." With a stubby pencil he scrawled 
 " Saumarez " in a blank space. The lady thanked him, 
 and gave some instructions in French to Fran9oise.
 
 A Friendly Argument 167 
 
 Five minutes later " Sister Saumarez," escorted by 
 " Brother " and " Sister " BoUand, entered the village 
 meetinghouse. 
 
 The appearance of a fashionable dame in their midst 
 created a mild sensation among the small congregation 
 already collected. They were mostly old or middle-aged 
 people; youngsters were conspicuous by their absence. 
 There was a dance that night in a tent erected in a field 
 close to the chapel; in the boxing booth the semi-final 
 round would be fought for the Elmsdale championship. 
 Against these rival attractions the Gospel was not a 
 " draw." 
 
 Gradually the spacious but bare room so unlike 
 all that Mrs. Saumarez knew of churches became fairly 
 well filled. As the church clock chimed the half-hour 
 after six the Rev. Eli Todd came in from a neighboring 
 classroom. This was the preacher with the powerful 
 voice, but his bell-like tones were subdued and reverent 
 enough in the opening prayer. He uttered a few earnest 
 sentences and quickly evoked responses from the people. 
 The first time John Bolland cried " Amen ! " Mrs. 
 Saumarez started. She thought her friend had made a 
 mistake, and her nerves were on edge. But the next 
 period produced a hearty "Hallelujah!" and others 
 joined in with " Glory be ! " " Thy will, O Lord ! " and 
 kindred ejaculations. 
 
 One incident absolutely amazed her. The minister 
 was reciting the Lord's Prayer. 
 
 " Give us this day our daily bread," he said. 
 
 " And no baccy, Lord ! " growled a voice from the 
 rear of the chapel. 
 
 The minister had a momentary difficulty in concluding
 
 168 The Revellers 
 
 the petition, and a broad grin ran through the congre- 
 gation. Mrs. Saumarez learned subsequently that the 
 interrupter was a converted poacher, who abandoned his 
 pipe, together with gun and beer jug, " when he found 
 Christ." Eli Todd was a confirmed smoker, and the two 
 were ever at variance on the point. 
 
 All stood up when their pastor gave out the opening 
 verses of a hymn : 
 
 ' what a joyful meeting there, 
 
 In robes of white arrayed; 
 Palms in our hands we all shall bear 
 
 And crowns upon our heads. 
 
 The joyous energy of his declamation, the no less 
 eager volume of sound that arose from the congregation, 
 atoned for any deficiencies of meter or rhyme. The 
 village worshipers lost themselves in the influence of the 
 moment. With spiritual vision they saw the last great 
 meeting, and thundered vociferously the closing lines of 
 the chorus: 
 
 ' And then we shall in Heaven reign, 
 And never, never part again. 
 
 " Grace before meat " was sung, and, to Mrs. 
 Saumarez's great discomfiture, bread and water were 
 passed round. Each one partook save herself; Bolland, 
 with real tact, missed her in handing the tray and 
 pitcher to the other occupants of their pew. 
 
 " Grace after meat " followed, and forthwith Eli 
 Todd began to deliver an address. His discourse was
 
 A Friendly Argument 169 
 
 simple and well reasoned, dealing wholly with the suste- 
 nance derived from God's saving spirit. It may be that 
 the unexpected presence of a stranger like Mrs. 
 Saumarez exercised a slightly unnerving influence, as 
 he spoke more seriously and with less dramatic intensity 
 than was his wont. 
 
 Suddenly he rebelled against this sensation of re- 
 straint. Changing, with the skill of a born revivalist, 
 from the rounded periods of ordinary English to the 
 homely vernacular of the district, he thundered out : 
 
 " There's noa cittidell o' sin 'at God cannot destroy. 
 Ay, friends, t' sword o' t' Spirit s'all oppen a way 
 through walls o' brass an' iron yats (gates). Wean't 
 ye jine His conquerin' army? He's willin' te list ye ,noo. 
 There's none o' yer short service whilst ye dea t' Lord's 
 work it's for ivver an' ivver, an' yer pension is life 
 ivverlastin'." 
 
 And so the curious service went to its end, which came 
 not until various members of the congregation made 
 public confession of faith, personal statements which 
 often consisted of question and answer between pastor 
 and penitent. It was a strange interrogatory. Eli 
 Todd had a ready quip, a quick appreciation, an em- 
 phatic or amusing disclaimer, for each and every avowal 
 of broad-minded Christianity or intolerant views. For 
 these dalesfolk did not all think alike. Some were in- 
 clined to damn others who did not see through the 
 myopic lenses of their own spiritual spectacles. 
 
 The preacher would have none of this exclusive right- 
 eousness. As he said, in his own strenuous way: 
 
 " The Lord is ivverywhere. He isn't a prisoner i' 
 this little room te-night. He's yonder i' t' street amang
 
 170 The Revellers 
 
 t' organs an' shows. He's yonder i' t' tent where fool- 
 ish youths an' maidens cannot see Him. If ye seek Him 
 ye'll find Him, ay, in the abodes of sin and the palaces 
 of wantonness. No door can be closed to His saving 
 mercy, no heart too hardened to resist His love." 
 
 As it happened, his glance fell on Mrs. Saumarez as 
 he uttered the concluding words, and his voice uncon- 
 sciously tuned itself to suit her understanding. She 
 dropped her eyes, and the observant minister thought 
 that she was reading a personal meaning into his address. 
 
 At once he began the " Doxology," which was sung 
 with great fervor, and the love feast broke up after a 
 brief prayer. Mr. Todd overtook Mrs. Saumarez on the 
 green. Bolland and his wife were escorting her to The 
 Elms. 
 
 " I hope you liked the service, madam," he said 
 politely. 
 
 " I thought it most interesting," she answered slowly. 
 " I think I shall come again." 
 
 He took off his hat and assured her that she would 
 always be welcome at Bethel Chapel. He, worthy man, 
 no less than the Bollands, could little guess this woman's 
 motives in thus currying favor with the villagers. Had 
 an angel from Heaven laid bare her intent, they would 
 scarce have believed, or, if conviction came, they would 
 only have deemed her mad. 
 
 A breathless Fran9oise met her mistress at the gate. 
 Angele was not to be found anywhere, and it was so late, 
 nearly eight o'clock. Nor was Martin to be seen. 
 Madam would remember, they had gone off together. 
 
 Mrs. Saumarez explained what all the gesticulation 
 was about.
 
 A Friendly Argument 171 
 
 " If she's wi' Martin, she'll be all right," said Holland. 
 " He'll bring her yam afore ye git yer things off, ma'am." 
 
 He was right. Angele had discovered that Elsie 
 Herbert would be at the church bazaar that evening, and 
 planned the ramble with Martin so that the vicar's 
 daughter might meet them together on the high road. 
 
 It delighted her to see the only rival she feared flash 
 a quick side glance as she bowed smilingly and passed on, 
 for Mr. Herbert did not wholly approve of Angele, so 
 Elsie thought it best not to stop for a chat. Martin, 
 too, was annoyed as he doffed his cap. He thought 
 Elsie would surely ask how he was. Moreover, those 
 hot kisses were burning yet on his lips; the memory 
 made him profoundly uncomfortable. 
 
 That was all. When he left Angele at the gate she 
 did not suggest a rendezvous at a later hour. Not only 
 would it be useless, but she had seen Frank Beckett- 
 Smythe earlier in the day, and he said there was a dinner 
 party at the Hall. 
 
 Perhaps he might be able to slip away unnoticed 
 about nine.
 
 CHAPTER XIH 
 A DYING DEPOSITION 
 
 BEFORE Mr. Beckett-Smythe sat down to dinner that 
 evening a very unpleasant duty had been thrust on him. 
 
 The superintendent of police drove over from Not- 
 tonby to show him the county analyst's report. 
 Divested of technicalities, this document proved that 
 George Pickering's dangerous condition arose from 
 blood poisoning caused by a stab from a contaminated 
 knife. It was admitted that a wound inflicted by a 
 rusty pitchfork might have had equally serious results, 
 but the analysis of matter obtained from both instru- 
 ments proved conclusively that the knife alone was im- 
 pregnated with the putrid germs found in the blood 
 corpuscles, which also contained an undue proportion 
 of alcohol. 
 
 Moreover, Dr. MacGregor's statement on the one 
 vital point was unanswerable. Pickering was suffering 
 from an incised wound which could not have been in- 
 flicted by the rounded prongs of a fork. The doctor 
 was equally emphatic in his belief that the injured man 
 would succumb speedily. 
 
 In the face of these documents it was necessary that 
 George Pickering's depositions should be taken by a 
 magistrate. Most unwillingly, Mr. Beckett-Smythe ac- 
 companied the superintendent to the " Black Lion 
 Hotel " for the purpose. 
 
 172
 
 A Dying Deposition 173 
 
 They entered the sick room about the time that Mrs. 
 Saumarez was crossing the green on her way to the 
 Methodist Chapel. A glance at Pickering's face showed 
 that the doctor had not exaggerated the gravity of the 
 affair. He was deathly pale, save for a number of vivid 
 red spots on his skin. His eyes shone with fever. Were 
 not his malady identified, the unskilled observer might 
 conclude that he was suffering from a severe attack of 
 German measles. 
 
 Betsy was there, and the prim nurse. The contrast 
 between the two women was almost as startling as the 
 change for the worse in Pickering's appearance. The 
 nurse, strictly professional in deportment, paid heed 
 to naught save the rules of treatment. The word " hos- 
 pital," " certificate," " method," shrieked silently from 
 her flowing coif and list slippers, from the clinical ther- 
 mometer on the table, and the temperature chart on the 
 mantelpiece. 
 
 Poor Betsy was sitting by the bedside, holding her 
 lover's hand. She was smiling wistfully, striving to 
 chatter in cheerful strain, yet all the time she wanted 
 to wail her despair, to petition on her knees that 
 her crime might be avenged on herself, not on its 
 victim. 
 
 When the magistrate stepped gingerly forward, 
 Pickering turned querulously to see who the visitor was, 
 for the nurse had nodded permission to enter when the 
 two men looked through the half-open door. 
 
 " Oh, it's you, squire," he said in a low voice. " I 
 thought it might be MacGregor." 
 
 " How are you feeling now, George ? " 
 
 " Pretty sick. I suppose you've heard the verdict? "
 
 174 The Revellers 
 
 " The doctor says you are in a bad state." 
 
 " Booked, squire, booked ! And no return ticket. I 
 don't care. I've made all arrangements that is, I'll 
 have a free mind this time to-morrow and then, well, 
 I'll face the music." 
 
 He caught sight of the police officer. 
 
 " Hello, Jonas ! You there ? Come for my last dying 
 depositions, eh? All right. Fire away! Betsy, my 
 lass, leave us for a bit. The nurse can stay. The more 
 witnesses the merrier." 
 
 Betsy arose. There was no fear in her eyes now 
 only dumb agony. She walked steadily from the room. 
 While Mr. Beckett-Smythe was thanking Providence 
 under his breath that a most distressing task was thus 
 being made easy for him, they all heard a dreadful sob 
 from the exterior landing, followed by a heavy thud. 
 The nurse hurried out. Betsy had fainted. 
 
 With a painful effort Pickering raised himself on one 
 arm. His forced gayety gave place to loud-voiced 
 violence. 
 
 " Confound you all ! " he roared. " Why come here 
 to frighten the poor girl's life out of her? " 
 
 He cursed both the magistrate and Superintendent 
 Jonas by name; were he able to rise he would break their 
 necks down the stairs. The policeman crept out on 
 tiptoe; Mr. Beckett-Smythe sat down. Pickering 
 stormed away until the nurse returned. 
 
 " Miss Thwaites is better," she said. " She was over- 
 come by the long strain, but she is with her sister now, 
 and quite recovered." 
 
 Betsy was crying her heart out in Kitty's arms: 
 fortunately, the sounds of her grief were shut out from
 
 A Dying Deposition 175 
 
 their ears. Jonas came back and closed the door. The 
 doomed man sank to the pillow and growled sullenly : 
 
 " Now, get on with your business, and be quick over 
 it. I'll not have Betsy worried again while I have breath 
 left to protest." 
 
 " I am, indeed, very sorry to disturb you, George," 
 said the magistrate quietly. " It is a thankless office for 
 an old friend. Try and calm yourself. I do not ask 
 your forbearance toward myself and Mr. Jonas, but 
 there are tremendous issues at stake. For your own 
 sake you must help us to face this ordeal." 
 
 " Oh, go ahead, squire. My bark is worse than my 
 bite not that I have much of either in me now. If I 
 spoke roughly, forgive me. I couldn't bear to hear 
 yon lass suffering." 
 
 Thinking it best to avoid further delay, Mr. Beckett- 
 Smythe nodded to the police officer, who drew forward 
 a small table, which, with writing materials, he placed 
 before the magistrate. 
 
 A foolscap sheet bore already some written words. 
 The magistrate bent over it, and said, in a voice shaken 
 with emotion: 
 
 " Listen, George. I have written here : * I, George 
 Pickering, being of sound mind, but believing myself 
 to be in danger of death, solemnly take oath and depose 
 as follows ' : Now, I want you to tell me, in your own 
 words, what took place last Monday night. You are 
 going to the awful presence of your Creator. You must 
 tell the truth, fully and fearlessly, not striving to deter- 
 mine the course of justice by your own judgment, but 
 leaving matters wholly in the hands of God. You are 
 conscious of what you are doing, fully sensible that you
 
 176 The Revellers 
 
 will soon be called on to meet One who knoweth all 
 things. I hope, I venture to pray, that you will give 
 testimony in all sincerity and righteousness. ... I 
 am ready." 
 
 Pickering heard this solemn injunction with due grav- 
 ity. His features were composed, his eyes fixed on the 
 distant landscape through the open window. No dis- 
 turbing noise reached him save the lowing of cattle and 
 the far-off rattle of a reaping machine, for the police 
 had ordered the removal of the shooting gallery and 
 roundabout to the other end of the green. 
 
 He remained silent so long that the two men glanced 
 at him anxiously, but were reassured by the belief that 
 he was only collecting his thoughts. Indeed, it was not 
 so. He was striving to bridge that dark chasm on whose 
 perilous verge he tottered striving to frame an excuse 
 that would not be uttered by his mortal lips. 
 
 At last he spoke. 
 
 " On Monday night, about five minutes past ten, I 
 met Kitty Thwaites, by appointment, at the wicket gate 
 which opens into the garden from the bowling green of 
 the * Black Lion Hotel,' Elmsdale. We walked down 
 the garden together. We were talking and laughing 
 about the antics of a groom in this hotel, a fellow named 
 Fred I do not know his surname who was jealous of 
 me because I was in the habit of chaffing Kitty and 
 placing my arm around her waist if I encountered her 
 on the stairs. This man Fred, I believe, endeavored to 
 pay attentions to Kitty, which she always refused to 
 encourage. Kitty and I stopped at the foot of the 
 garden beneath a pear tree which stands in the boundary 
 fence of the paddock.
 
 A Dying Deposition 177 
 
 " I had my arm around her neck, but was only play- 
 ing the fool, which Kitty knew as well as I. There was 
 a bright moon, and, although almost invisible ourselves 
 in the shadow of the hedge and tree, we could see clearly 
 into both paddock and garden. My back was toward 
 the hotel. Suddenly, we heard someone running down 
 the gravel path. I turned and saw that it was Betsy 
 Thwaites, Kitty's sister, a girl whom I believed to be 
 then in a situation at Hereford. I had promised to 
 marry Betsy, and was naturally vexed at being caught 
 in an apparently compromising attitude with her sister. 
 Betsy had a knife in her hand. I could see it glittering 
 in the moonlight." 
 
 He paused. He was corpse-like in color. The red 
 spots on his face were darker than before by contrast 
 with the wan cheeks. He motioned to the nurse, who 
 gave him a glass of barley water. He emptied it at a 
 gulp. Catching Mr. Beckett-Smythe's mournful glance, 
 he smiled with ghastly pleasantry. 
 
 "It sounds like a coroner's inquest, doesn't it?" he 
 said. 
 
 Then, while his eyes roved incessantly from the face 
 of the policeman to that of the magistrate, he continued : 
 
 " I imagined that Betsy meant to do her sister some 
 harm, so sprang forward to meet her. Then I saw that 
 she was minded to attack me, for she screamed out: 
 * You have ruined my life. I'll take care you do not 
 ruin Kitty's.' " 
 
 The words, of course, were spoken very slowly. They 
 alternated with the steady scratching of the pen. Others 
 in the room were pallid now. Even the rigid nurse 
 yielded to the excitement of the moment. Her linen
 
 178 The Revellers 
 
 bands fluttered and her bosom rose and fell with the 
 restraint she imposed on her breathing. 
 
 George Pickering suddenly became the most composed 
 person present. His hearers were face to face with a 
 tragedy. After all, did he mean to tell the truth? Ah, 
 it was well that his affianced wife was weeping in an 
 adjoining room, that her soul was not pierced by the 
 calm recital which would condemn her to prison, per- 
 chance to the scaffold. 
 
 " Her cry warned me," he went on. " I knew she 
 could not hurt me. I was a strong and active man, she 
 a weak, excited woman. She was very near, advancing 
 down the path which runs close to the dividing hedge 
 of the garden and the stackyard. To draw her away 
 from Kitty, I ran toward this hedge and jumped over. 
 It was dark there. I missed my footing and stumbled. 
 I felt something run into my left breast. It was the 
 prong of a pitchfork." 
 
 The pen ceased. A low gasp of relief came from the 
 nurse, for she was a woman. The superintendent looked 
 gravely at the floor. But the magistrate faltered: 
 
 " George remember you are a dying man ! " 
 
 Pickering again lifted his body. His face was con- 
 vulsed with a spasm of pain, but the strong voice cried 
 fearlessly : 
 
 " Write what I have said. I'll swear it with my last 
 breath. I'll tell the same story to either God or 
 devil. Write, I say, or shall I finish it with my own 
 hand?" 
 
 They thought that by some superhuman effort he 
 would rise forthwith to reach the table. The nurse, the 
 policeman, leaped to restrain him.
 
 A Dying Deposition 179 
 
 Mr. Beckett-Smythe was greatly agitated. 
 
 " If I cannot persuade you " he began. 
 
 "Persuade me to do what? To bolster up a lying 
 charge against the woman I am going to marry? By 
 the Lord, do you think I'm mad ? " 
 
 They released him. The set intensity of his face was 
 terrible. It is hard to say what awful power could have 
 changed George Pickering's purpose in that supreme 
 moment. Yet he clenched his hands in the bedclothes, 
 as if he would choke some mocking fiend that grinned 
 at him, and his voice was hoarse as he murmured : 
 
 " Oh, man, if you have a heart, end your inquisition, 
 or I'll die too soon ! " 
 
 Again the pen resumed its monotonous scrape. It 
 paused at last. The fateful words were on record. 
 
 " And then what happened ? " 
 
 The magistrate's question was judicially cold. He 
 held strong convictions regarding the deeper mysteries 
 of life ; his faculties were benumbed by this utter defiance 
 of all that he believed most firmly. 
 
 " I said something, swore very likely, and staggered 
 into the moonlight, at the same time tearing the fork 
 from my breast. Betsy saw what I was doing, and 
 screamed. I managed to get over the hedge again, and 
 she ran away in mortal fright, for I had pulled open 
 my waistcoat, and she could see the blood on my shirt. 
 She fell as she ran, and cut herself with the knife. By 
 that time Kitty had reached the hotel, screaming wildly 
 that Betsy was trying to murder me. That is all. 
 Betsy never touched me. The wound I am suffering 
 from was inflicted by myself, accidentally. It was not 
 caused by the knife, as is shown by the fact that I am
 
 180 The Revellers 
 
 dying of blood poisoning, while Betsy's cuts are healing 
 and have left her unharmed otherwise." 
 
 His hearers were greatly perturbed, but they knew 
 that further protest would be unavailing. And there 
 was an even greater shock in store. 
 
 Pickering turned in the bed and poised his pain- 
 racked frame so as to reach the manuscript placed 
 before him for signature. With unwavering hand he 
 added the words: 
 
 "So help me God!" 
 
 Then he wrote his name. 
 
 " Now, sign that, all of you, as witnesses," he com- 
 manded, and they did not gainsay him. It was useless. 
 Why prolong his torture and their own? 
 
 Mr. Beckett-Smythe handed the sheets of paper to 
 Jonas. He seemed inclined to leave the room without 
 another spoken word, but humane impulse was stronger 
 than dogma ; he held out his hand. 
 
 " Good-by, George," he said brokenly. " ' Judge not,' 
 it is written. Let my farewell be a prayer that you 
 may die peacefully and painlessly, if, indeed, God in His 
 mercy does not grant your recovery." 
 
 " Good-by, squire. You've got two sons. Find 'em 
 plenty of work; they'll have less time for mischief. 
 Damn it all, hark to that reaper! It'll soon be time to 
 rouse the cubs. I'll miss the next hunt breakfast, eh? 
 Well, good luck to you all! I've had my last gallop. 
 Good-by, Jonas ! Do you remember the fight we had 
 that morning with the poachers ? Look here ! When 
 you meet Rabbit Jack, tell him to go to Stockwell for a 
 sovereign and swim in beer for a week. Nurse, where's 
 Betsy? I want her before it is dark."
 
 A Dying Deposition 181 
 
 And in a few minutes Betsy, the forlorn, was bending 
 over him and whispering: 
 
 " I'll do it for your sake, George ! But, oh, it will 
 be hard to face everybody with a lie in my mouth. The 
 hand that struck you should wither. Indeed, indeed, I 
 shall suffer worse than death. If the Lord took pity 
 on me, He would let me be the first to go." 
 
 He stroked her hair gently, and there were tears in 
 his eyes. 
 
 " Never cry about spilt milk, dearie. At best, or 
 worst, the whole thing was an accident. Come, now, no 
 more weeping. Sit down there and write what I tell 
 you. I can remember every word, and Kitty and you 
 must just fit in your stories to suit mine. Stockwell 
 will defend you. He's a smart chap, and you need have 
 no fear. Bless your heart, you'll be twice married be- 
 fore you know where you are ! " 
 
 She obeyed him. With careful accuracy he repeated 
 the deposition. He rehearsed the evidence she would 
 give. When the nurse came in, he bade her angrily to 
 leave them alone, but recalled her in the next breath. 
 He wanted Kitty. She, too, must be coached. At his 
 command she had placed the fork where it was found. 
 But she must learn her story with parrot-like accuracy. 
 There must be no contradiction in the sister's evi- 
 dence. 
 
 Martin was eating his supper when Mrs. Bolland, 
 bustling about the kitchen, made a discovery. 
 
 " I must be fair wool-gatherin'," she said crossly. 
 " Here's a little pile o' handkerchiefs browt by Dr. 
 MacGregor, an' I clean forgot all about 'em. Martin, 
 it's none ower leat, an' ye can bide i' bed i' t' mornin'.
 
 182 The Revellers 
 
 Just run along te t' vicarage wi' these, there's a good 
 lad. They'll mebbe be wantin' 'em." 
 
 He hailed the errand not the less joyfully that it led 
 him through the fair. But he did not loiter. Perhaps 
 he gazed with longing eyes at its vanishing glories, for 
 some of the showmen were packing up in disgust, but 
 he reached the vicarage quickly. It lay nearer the 
 farm than The Elms, and, like that pretentious mansion, 
 was shrouded from the highroad by leafy trees and 
 clusters of laurels. 
 
 A broad drive led to the front door. The night was 
 drawing in rapidly, and the moon would not rise until 
 eleven o'clock. In the curving avenue it was pitch- 
 dark, but a cheerful light shone from the drawing-room, 
 and through an open French window he could see Elsie 
 bending over a book. 
 
 She was not deeply interested, judging by the listless 
 manner in which she turned the leaves. She was leaning 
 with her elbows on the table, resting one knee on a chair, 
 and the attitude revealed a foot and ankle quite as grace- 
 fully proportioned as Angele's elegant limbs, though 
 Elsie was more robust. 
 
 Hearing the boy's firm tread on the graveled ap- 
 proach, she straightened herself and ran to the window. 
 
 " Who is there? " she said. Martin stepped into the 
 light. 
 
 " Oh, it's you ! " 
 
 " Yes, Miss Herbert. Mother sent me with these." 
 
 He held out the parcel of linen. 
 
 "What is it?" she asked, extending a hesitating 
 hand. 
 
 " It is perfectly harmless, if you stroke it gently."
 
 A Dying Deposition 183 
 
 She could see the mischief dancing in his eyes, and 
 grabbed the package. Then she laughed. 
 
 " Our handkerchiefs ! It was very kind of Mrs. 
 Bolland " 
 
 " I think Dr. MacGregor had them washed." 
 
 This puzzled her, but a more personal topic was 
 present in her mind. 
 
 " I saw you a little while ago," she said. " You were 
 engaged, or I would have asked you if you were recov- 
 ering all right. Your hands and arms are yet bound up, 
 I see. Do they hurt you much? " 
 
 "No. Not a bit." 
 
 He felt absurdly tongue-tied, but bravely continued : 
 
 " I was told to take Miss Saumarez home. That is 
 how you happened to meet us together." 
 
 " Indeed," she said, drawing back a little. Her tone 
 conveyed that any explanation of Miss Saumarez's 
 companionship was unnecessary. No other attitude 
 could have set Martin's wits at work more effectually. 
 He, too, retreated a pace. 
 
 " I'm very sorry if I disturbed you," he said. " I 
 was going to ring for one of the servants." 
 
 She tittered. 
 
 " Then I am glad you didn't. They are both out, 
 and auntie would have wondered who our late visitor 
 was. She has just gone to bed." 
 
 " But isn't your isn't Mr. Herbert at home? " 
 
 " No ; he is at the bazaar. He asked me to sit up 
 until one of the maids returns." 
 
 Again she approached the window. One foot rested 
 on the threshold. 
 
 " I've been reading ' Rokeby,' " ventured Martin.
 
 184. The Revellers 
 
 Do you like it?" 
 
 " It must be very interesting when you know the 
 place. Just imagine how nice it would be if Sir Walter 
 had seen Elmsdale and written about the moor, and the 
 river, and the ghylls." 
 
 " Do you think he would have found a wildcat in Thor 
 
 ghyll?" 
 
 " I hope not. It might have spoiled the verse ; and 
 Thor ghyll is beautiful." 
 
 " I'll never forget that cat. I can see it yet. How 
 its eyes blazed when it sprang at me ! Oh, I don't know 
 how you dared seize it in your hands." 
 
 She was outside the window now, standing on a strip 
 of turf that ran between house and drive. 
 
 " I didn't give a second thought to it," said Martin 
 in his offhand way. 
 
 " I can never thank you enough for saving me," she 
 murmured. 
 
 " Then I'll tell you what," he cried. " To make quite 
 sure you won't forget, I'll try and persuade mother to 
 have the skin made into a muff for you. One of the 
 men is curing it, with spirits of ammonia and saltpeter." 
 
 " Do you think I may need to have my memory 
 jogged?" 
 
 " People forget things," he said airily. " Besides, 
 I'm going away to school. When I come back you'll 
 be a grown-up young lady." 
 
 " I'm nearly as tall as you." 
 
 " Indeed you are not." 
 
 " Well, I'm much taller than Angele Saumarez, at 
 any rate." 
 
 " There's no comparison between you in any respect."
 
 A Dying Deposition 185 
 
 And this young spark three short hours ago, behind 
 the woodpile, had gazed into Angele's eyes ! 
 
 " Do you remember we were talking about her when 
 that creature flew at me? " 
 
 He laughed. It was odd how Angele's name kept 
 cropping up. The church clock struck nine. They 
 listened to the chimes. Neither spoke until the tremu- 
 lous booming of the bell ceased. 
 
 " I'm afraid I must be going," said Martin, without 
 budging an inch. 
 
 " Did you did you find any difficulty in opening 
 the gate ? It is rather stiff. And your poor hands must 
 be so sore." 
 
 From excessive politeness, or shyness, Elsie's tongue 
 tripped somewhat. 
 
 " It was a bit stiff," he admitted. " I had to reach 
 up, you know." 
 
 " Then I think I ought to come and open it for 
 you." 
 
 " But you will be afraid to return alone." 
 
 "Afraid! Of what?" 
 
 " I really don't know," he said, " but I thought girls 
 were always scared in the dark." 
 
 " Then I am an exception." 
 
 She cast a backward glance into the room. 
 
 " The lamp is quite safe. It will not take me a 
 minute." 
 
 They walked together down the short avenue. The 
 gate was standing open. 
 
 " Really," laughed Martin, " I had quite forgotten." 
 
 " So boys have weak memories, too? " 
 
 " Of gates, perhaps."
 
 186 The Revellers 
 
 "Well, now, I must be off. Good-night, and thank 
 you so much." 
 
 She held out her hand. He took it in both of his. 
 
 " I do hope Mr. Herbert will ask me to another 
 picnic," he said. 
 
 A boy on a bicycle rode past slowly. Instinctively, 
 they shrank into the shadow of a tree. 
 
 "Wasn't that Frank Beckett-Smythe ? " whispered 
 Elsie, forgetting to withdraw her imprisoned hand, and 
 turning a startled face to Martin. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Where can he be going at this time ? " 
 
 Martin guessed accurately, but sheer chivalry pre- 
 vented him from saying more than : 
 
 " To the fair, I suppose." 
 
 "At this hour; after nine o'clock?" 
 
 " S-s-h. He's coming back." 
 
 She drew closer. There was an air of mystery in this 
 nocturnal bicycle ride that induced bewilderment. Mar- 
 tin's right hand still inclosed the girl's. What more 
 natural than that his left arm should go around her 
 waist, merely to emphasize the need for caution, con- 
 cealment, secrecy? Most certainly his knowledge of 
 womankind was striding onward in seven-leagued boots. 
 
 The trot of a horse sounded sharply on the hard road. 
 It was being ridden by someone in a hurry. The young 
 scion of the Hall, who appeared to be killing time, 
 inclined his machine to the opposite hedge. 
 
 But the rider pulled up with the skill of a practiced 
 horseman. Even in the dim light the boy and girl 
 recognized one of Mr. Beckett-Smythe's grooms. 
 
 " Is that you, Master Frank? " they heard him say.
 
 A Dying Deposition 187 
 
 " Hello, Williams ! What's up? " 
 
 " What's up, indeed ! T' Squire has missed ye. A 
 bonny row there'll be. Ye mun skip back lively, let me 
 tell ye." 
 
 "Oh, the deuce!" 
 
 " Better lose nae mair time, Master Frank. I'll say 
 I found ye yon side o' T' Elms." 
 
 " What has The Elms got to do with it? " 
 
 The man grinned. 
 
 " Noo, Master Frank, just mount an' be off in front. 
 T' Squire thinks ye're efther that black-eyed lass o' Mrs. 
 Saumarez's. Don't try an' humbug him. He telt me te 
 lay my huntin'-crop across yer shoulders, but that's 
 none o' my business. Off ye go ! " 
 
 The heir, sulky and in deep tribulation, obeyed. They 
 heard the horse's hoofbeats dying away rapidly. 
 
 Elsie, an exceedingly nice-mannered girl, was essen- 
 tially feminine. The episode thrilled her, and pleased 
 her, too, in some indefinable way, for her companion 
 was holding her tightly. 
 
 " Just fancy that ! " she whispered. 
 
 " Oh, he will only get a hiding." 
 
 " But, surely, he could not expect to meet Angele ? " 
 
 " It looks like it. But why ' should we trouble 
 about it?" 
 
 " I think it is horrid. But I must be going. Good- 
 night Martin." 
 
 He felt a gentle effort to loosen his clasp. 
 
 " Good-night, Elsie." 
 
 Their faces were very close. Assuredly, the boy must 
 have been a trifle light-headed that day, for he bent and 
 kissed her.
 
 188 The Revellers 
 
 She tore herself from the encircling arm. Her cheeks 
 were burning. At a little distance a few feet she 
 halted. 
 
 " How dare you? " she cried. 
 
 He came to her with hands extended. 
 
 " Forgive me, Elsie ; I couldn't help it." 
 
 " You must never, never do such a thing again." 
 
 He had nothing to say. 
 
 " Promise ! " she cried, but her voice was less emphatic 
 than she imagined. 
 
 " I won't," he said, and caught her arm. 
 
 " You won't ! How can you say such a thing? " 
 
 " Because I like you. I have known you for years, 
 though we never spoke to each other until yesterday." 
 
 " Oh, dear ! This is terrible ! You frightened me so ! 
 I hope I didn't hurt your poor arms ? " 
 
 " The pain was awful," he laughed. 
 
 The girl's heart was beating so frantically that she 
 could almost hear its pulsations. The white bandages 
 on Martin's wrists and hands aroused a tumult of emo- 
 tion. The scene in the ghyll flashed before her eyes ; she 
 saw again the wild struggles of the snarling, tearing, 
 biting animal, the boy's cool daring and endurance until 
 he crushed the raging thing's life out of it and flung it 
 away contemptuously. 
 
 An impulse came to her, and it was not to be repelled. 
 She placed both hands on his shoulders and kissed him, 
 quite fearlessly, on the lips. 
 
 " I think I owed you that," she said, with a little sob, 
 and then ran away in good earnest, never turning her 
 head until she was safe within the drawing-room. 
 
 Martin, his brain in a whirl and his blood on fire,
 
 A Dying Deposition 189 
 
 closed the gate for himself. When the vicar came, 
 half an hour later, his daughter was busy over the same 
 book. 
 
 "What, Elsie! None of the maids home yet?" he 
 cried. 
 
 " No, father, dear. But Martin Bolland brought 
 these." 
 
 " Oh, our handkerchiefs. What did he say? " 
 
 " Nothing of any importance. I understood that 
 Dr. MacGregor caused the linen to be washed, but for- 
 got to ask him why." 
 
 "Is that all?" 
 
 " Practically all, except that his arms and hands are 
 all bound up, so I went with him as far as the gate. It 
 is stiff, you know. And yes he has been reading 
 'Rokeby.' He likes it." 
 
 The vicar filled his pipe. He had had a trying day. 
 
 " Martin is a fine lad," he said. " I hope John Bol- 
 land will see fit to educate him. Such a youngster should 
 not be allowed to vegetate in a village like this." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Elsie, " that reminds me. He told me 
 he was going away to school." 
 
 " Capital ! " agreed the vicar. " Out of evil comes 
 good. It required an earthquake to move a man like 
 Bolland!"
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 THE STORM 
 
 ON the morrow rain fell. At first the village regarded 
 the break in the weather as a thunderstorm, and har- 
 vesters looked to an early resumption of work. " A 
 sup o' wet'll do nowt any harm," they said. But a 
 steadily declining " glass " and a continuous downpour 
 that lost nothing in volume as the day wore caused in- 
 creasing headshakes, anxious frowns, revilings not a 
 few of the fickle elements. 
 
 The moorland becks became raging torrents. The 
 gorged river rose until all the low-lying land was flooded, 
 hundreds of pounds' worth of corn in stook swept away, 
 and all standing crops were damaged to an enormous 
 extent. Cattle, sheep, poultry, even a horse or two, 
 were caught by the rushing waters and drowned. A 
 bridge became blocked by floating debris and crumbled 
 before the flood. Three men were standing on the 
 structure, idly watching the articles whirling past in 
 the eddies; one, given a second's firm footing, jumped 
 for dear life and saved himself ; the bodies of the others 
 were found, many days afterwards, jammed against 
 stakes placed in the stream a mile lower down to prevent 
 fish poachers from netting an open reach. 
 
 This deluge, if indeed aught else were needed, 
 wrecked the Feast. Every booth was dismantled, each 
 wagon and caravan packed. The van dwellers only 
 
 190
 
 The Storm 191 
 
 ceased their labors when all was in readiness for 
 a move to the next fair ground; the Elmsdale week, 
 usually a bright spot in their migratory calendar, was 
 marked this year with absolute loss. At the best, 
 and in few instances, it yielded a bare payment of 
 expenses. 
 
 Farmers, of course, toiled early and late to avert 
 further disaster. Stock were driven from pastures 
 where danger threatened; cut corn was rescued in the 
 hope that the next day's sun might dry it; choked 
 ditches were raked with long hoes to permit the water 
 to flow off. 
 
 At last, when night fell, and the rain diminished to a 
 thin drizzle, though the barometer gave no promise of 
 improvement, men gathered in the village street and 
 began comparing notes. Everyone had suffered in some 
 degree ; even the shopkeepers and private residents com- 
 plained of ruined goods, gardens rooted up, houses 
 invaded by the all-pervading floods. 
 
 But the farmers endured the greatest damage. Some 
 had lost their half-year's rent, many would be faced 
 with privation and bankruptcy. Thrice fortunate now 
 were the men with capital those who could look for- 
 ward with equanimity to another season when the wan- 
 ton havoc inflicted by this wild raging of the waters 
 should be recouped. 
 
 John Bolland, protected by an oilskin coat, crossed 
 the road between the stockyard and the White House 
 about eight o'clock. 
 
 " Eh, Mr. Bollan', but this is a sad day's wark," said 
 a friend who encountered him. 
 
 "Ah, it's bad, very bad, an' likely te be worse,"
 
 192 The Revellers 
 
 replied John, lifting his bent head and casting a weather- 
 wise glance over the northerly moor. 
 
 "I've lost t' best part o' six acres o' wuts," (oats) 
 growled his neighbor. " It's hard to know what spite 
 there was in t' clouds te burst i' that way." 
 
 " Times an' seasons aren't i' man's hands," was the 
 quiet answer. " There'd be ill deed if sunshine an' 
 storm were settled by voates, like a county-council 
 election." 
 
 " Mebbe, and mebbe nut," cried the other testily. 
 " 'Tis easy to leave ivvrything ';e Providence when yer 
 money's mostly i' stock. Mine happens te be i' crops." 
 
 " An' if mine were i' crops, Mr. Pattison, I sud still 
 thry te desarve well o' Providence." 
 
 This shrewd thrust evoked no wrath from Pattison, 
 who was not a chapel-goer. 
 
 " Gosh ! " he laughed, " some folks are lucky. They 
 pile up riches both i' this wulld an' t' wulld te come. 
 Hooivver, we won't argy. Hev ye heerd t' news fra' te 
 t < Black Lion'?" 
 
 "Aboot poor George Pickerin'? Noa. I've bin 
 ower thrang i' t' cow-byre." 
 
 " He's married, an' med his will. Betsy is Mrs. Pick- 
 erin' noo. But she'll be a widdy afore t' mornin'." 
 
 "Is he as bad as all that?" 
 
 " Sinkin' fast, they tell me. He kep' up, like the 
 game 'un he allus was, until Mr. Croft left him alone 
 wi' his wife. Then he fell away te nowt. He's ravin', 
 I hear." 
 
 " Croft ! I thowt Stockwell looked efther his affairs." 
 
 "Right enough! But Stockwell's ya (one) trustee, 
 Mr. Herbert's t'other. So Croft had te act."
 
 The Storm 193 
 
 " Well, I'm rale sorry for t' poor chap. He's coom 
 tiv a bad end." 
 
 " Ye'll be t' foreman o' t' jury, most like? " 
 
 " Noa. I'll be spared that job. Martin is a witness, 
 more's t' pity. Good-night, Mr. Pattison. It'll hu't 
 none if y' are minded te offer up a prayer for betther 
 weather." 
 
 But the prayers of many just men did not avail to 
 save Elmsdale that night. After a brief respite, the 
 storm came on again with gusty malevolence. Black 
 despair sat by many a fireside, and in no place was its 
 grim visage seen more plainly than in the bedroom where 
 George Pickering died. 
 
 Dr. MacGregor watched the fitful flickering of the 
 strong man's life, until, at last, he led the afflicted wife 
 from the room and consigned her to the care of her 
 weeping sister and the hardly less sorrowful landlady. 
 
 At the foot of the stairs were waiting P. C. Benson 
 and the reporter of the Messenger. 
 
 " It is all over," said the doctor. " He died at a 
 quarter past ten." 
 
 " The same hour that he was wounded," commented 
 the reporter. " What was the precise cause of death? " 
 
 " Failure of the heart's action. It was a merciful 
 release. Otherwise, he might have survived for days 
 and suffered greatly." 
 
 The policeman adjusted his cape and lowered his 
 chin-strap. 
 
 " I mun start for Nottonby," he said. " T' inquest'll 
 likely be oppenned o' Satherday at two o'clock, doctor." 
 
 " Yes. By the way, Benson, you can tell Mr. Jonas 
 that the county analyst and I are ready with our evi-
 
 194 The Revellers 
 
 deuce. There is no need for an adjournment, unless the 
 police require it." 
 
 The constable saluted and set off on a lonely tramp 
 through the rain. He crossed the footbridge over the 
 beck the water was nearly level with the stout 
 planks. 
 
 " I haven't seen a wilder night for monny a year," he 
 muttered. " There'll be a nice how-d'ye-do if t' brig is 
 gone afore daylight." 
 
 He trudged the four miles to Nottonby. Nearing 
 the outskirts of the small market town, he was startled 
 by finding the body of a man lying face down in the 
 roadway. The pelting gale had extinguished his lamp. 
 He managed to turn the prostrate form and raise the 
 man's head. Then, after several failures, he induced a 
 match to flare for a second. One glance sufficed. 
 
 " Rabbit Jack ! " he growled. " And blind as a bat ! 
 Get up, ye drunken swine. 'Twould be sarvin' ye right 
 te lave ye i' the road until ye were runned over or caught 
 yer death o' cold." 
 
 From the manner of P. C. Benson's language it may 
 be inferred that his actions were not characterized by 
 extreme gentleness. He managed to shake the poacher 
 into semi-consciousness. Rabbit Jack, wobbling on his 
 feet, lurched against the policeman. 
 
 " Hello, ole fell', coom along wi' me," he mumbled 
 amiably. " Nivver mind t' brass. I've got plenty. 
 Good soart, George Pickerin'. Gimme me a sov', 'e did. 
 Fo-or, 'e's a jolly good feller " 
 
 A further shaking was disastrous. He collapsed 
 again. The perplexed policeman noted a haymew be- 
 hind a neighboring gate. He dragged the nondescript
 
 The Storm 195 
 
 thither by the scruff of his neck and threw him on the 
 lee side of the shelter. 
 
 " He'll be sober by mornin'," he thought. " I hev 
 overmuch thrubble aboot te tew mysen wi' this varmint." 
 
 And so ended the first of the dead man's bequests. 
 
 The gathering of a jury in a country village for an 
 important inquest like that occasioned by George Pick- 
 ering's death is a solemn function. Care is exercised in 
 empaneling men of repute, and, in the present instance, 
 several prominent farmers were debarred from service 
 because their children would be called as witnesses. 
 
 The inquest was held, by permission, in the National 
 schoolhouse. No room in the inn would accommodate 
 a tithe of the people who wished to attend. Many jour- 
 nalists put in an appearance, the Messenger reporter's 
 paragraphs having attracted widespread attention. 
 
 It was noteworthy, too, that Superintendent Jonas 
 did not conduct the case for the police. He obtained 
 the aid of a solicitor, Mr. Dane, with whom the coroner, 
 Dr. Magnus, drove from Nottonby in a closed carriage, 
 for the rain had not ceased, save during very brief in- 
 tervals, since the outbreak on Thursday morning. 
 
 The jury, having been sworn, elected Mr. Webster, 
 grocer, as their foreman, and proceeded to view the 
 body. When they reassembled in the schoolroom it was 
 seen that Betsy, now Mrs. Pickering, was seated next 
 her sister. With them were two old people whom a few 
 persons present recognized as the girls' parents, and 
 by Betsy's side was Mr. Stockwell. Among the crowd 
 of witnesses were Martin, Frank and Ernest Beckett- 
 Smythe, and Angele. 
 
 The mortification, the angry dismay of Mrs. Sau-
 
 196 The Revellers 
 
 marez when her daughter was warned to attend the in- 
 quest may well be imagined. The police are no re- 
 specters of persons, and P. C. Benson, of course, 
 ascertained easily the name of the girl concerning whom 
 Martin and young Beckett-Smythe fought on the event- 
 ful night. She might be an important witness, so her 
 mother was told to send her to the court. 
 
 Mrs. Saumarez disdained to accompany the girl in 
 person, and Fran9oise was deputed to act as convoy. 
 The Normandy nurse's white linen bands offered a 
 quaint contrast to the black robes worn by the other 
 women and gave material for a descriptive sentence to 
 every journalist in the room. 
 
 Mr. Beckett-Smythe, the vicar, Dr. MacGregor, and 
 the county analyst occupied chairs beside the Coroner. 
 The latter gentleman described the nature of the inquiry 
 with businesslike brevity, committing himself to no 
 statements save those that were obvious. When he con- 
 cluded, Mr. Dane rose. 
 
 " I appear for the police," he said. 
 
 " And I," said Mr. Stockwell, " am here to watch the 
 interests of Mrs. Pickering, having received her hus- 
 band's written instructions to that effect." 
 
 A deep hush fell on the packed assembly. The curious 
 nature of the announcement was a surprise in itself. 
 The reporters' pencils were busy, and the Coroner ad- 
 justed his spectacles. 
 
 " The written instructions of the dead man ? " he 
 exclaimed. 
 
 " Yes, sir. My friend, my lifelong friend, Mr. George 
 Pickering, was but too well aware of the fate that 
 threatened him. I have here a letter, written and signed
 
 The Storm 197 
 
 by him on Thursday morning. With your permission, I 
 will read it." 
 
 " I object," cried Mr. Dane. 
 
 " On what grounds ? " asked the Coroner. 
 
 " Such a letter may have a prejudicial effect on the 
 minds of the jury. They are here to determine, with 
 your direction, a verdict to be arrived at on certain 
 evidence. This letter cannot be regarded as evidence." 
 
 Mr. Stockwell shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " I do not press the point," he said. " I fail to see 
 any harm in showing a husband's anxiety that his wife 
 should be cleared of absurd imputations." 
 
 Mr. Dane reddened. 
 
 " I consider that a highly improper remark," he cried. 
 
 The other only smiled. He had won the first round. 
 The jury knew what the letter contained, and he had 
 placed the case for the police in an unfavorable 
 light. 
 
 The first witness, Pickering's farm bailiff, gave formal 
 evidence of identity. 
 
 Then the Coroner read the dead man's deposition, 
 which was attested by the local justice of the peace. 
 Dr. Magnus rendered the document impressively. Its 
 concluding appeal to the Deity turned all eyes on Betsy. 
 She was pale, but composed. Since her husband's death 
 she had cried but little. Her mute grief rendered her 
 beautiful. Sorrow had given dignity to a pretty face. 
 She was so white, so unmoved outwardly, that she re- 
 sembled a clothed statue. Kitty wept quietly all the 
 time, but Betsy sat like one in a dream. 
 
 " Catherine Thwaites," said the Coroner's officer, 
 and Kitty was led by Mr. Jones to the witness stand.
 
 198 The Revellers 
 
 The girl's evidence, punctuated by sobs, was practically 
 a resume of Pickering's sworn statement. 
 
 From Mr. Dane's attitude it was apparent that he 
 regarded this witness as untruthful. 
 
 " Of course," he said, with quiet satire in word and 
 look, " as Mr. Pickering impaled himself on a fork, you 
 did not see your sister plunge a knife into his breast ? " 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " Nor did you run down the garden shrieking : ' Oh, 
 Betsy, Betsy, you've killed him.' You did not cry 
 ' Murder, murder! Come, someone, for God's sake '? " 
 
 "Yes, sir; I did." 
 
 This unexpected admission puzzled the solicitor. He 
 darted a sharp side glace at Stockwell, but the latter 
 was busy scribbling notes. Every pulse in court 
 quickened. 
 
 " Oh, you did, eh ? But why charge your sister with 
 a crime you did not see her commit? " 
 
 " Because she had a knife in her hand, and I saw 
 Mr, Pickering stagger across the garden and fall." 
 
 " In what direction did he stagger? " 
 
 " Away from the stackyard hedge." 
 
 " This is a serious matter. You are on your oath, 
 and there is such a thing as being an accessory 
 after " 
 
 Up sprang Stockwell. 
 
 " I protest most strongly against this witness being 
 threatened," he shouted. 
 
 " I think Mr. Dane is entitled to warn the witness 
 against false testimony," said the Coroner. " Of course, 
 he knows the grave responsibility attached to such 
 insinuations."
 
 The Storm 199 
 
 Mr. Dane waved an emphatic hand. 
 
 " I require no threats," he said. " I have evidence 
 in plenty. Do you swear that Mr. Pickering did not 
 lurch forward from beneath the pear tree at the foot of 
 the garden after being stabbed by your sister, who sur- 
 prised him in your arms, or you in his arms? It is the 
 same thing." 
 
 " I do," was the prompt answer. 
 
 The lawyer sat down, shrugging his shoulders. 
 
 " Any questions to put to the witness, Mr. Stock- 
 well? " said the Coroner. 
 
 " No, sir. I regard her evidence as quite clear." 
 
 " Will you er does your client Mrs. Pickering 
 wish to give evidence? " 
 
 " My client she is not my client of her own volition, 
 but by the definite instructions of her dead husband 
 will certainly give evidence. May I express the hope 
 that my learned friend will not deal with her too 
 harshly? She is hardly in a fit state to appear here 
 to-day." 
 
 Mr. Dane smiled cynically, but made no reply. He 
 declined to help his adversary's adroit maneuvers by 
 fiery opposition, though again had Mr. Stockwell suc- 
 ceeded in playing a trump card. 
 
 Betsy was duly warned by the Coroner that she might 
 be charged with the wilful murder of George Pickering, 
 notwithstanding the sworn deposition read in court. 
 She could exercise her own judgment as to whether or 
 not she would offer testimony, but anything she said 
 would be taken down in writing, and might be used as 
 evidence against her. 
 
 She never raised her eyes. Not even those terrible
 
 200 The Revellers 
 
 words, " wilful murder," had power to move her. She 
 stood like an automaton, and seemed to await permission 
 to speak. 
 
 " Now, Mrs. Pickering," said Dr. Magnus, " tell us, 
 in your own words, what happened." 
 
 She began her story. No one could fail to perceive 
 that she was reciting a narrative learnt by heart. She 
 used no words in the vernacular. All was good English, 
 coherent, simple, straightforward. On the Monday 
 morning, she said, she received a letter at Hereford from 
 Fred Marshall, ostler at the " Black Lion Hotel." 
 
 "Have you that letter?" asked the Coroner. 
 
 " Yes," interposed Mr. Stockwell. " Here it is." 
 
 He handed forward a document. A buzz of whispered 
 comment arose. In compliance with Dr. Magnus's re- 
 quest, Betsy identified it listlessly. Then it was read 
 aloud. Apart from mistakes in spelling, it ran as 
 follows : 
 
 " Dear Miss Thwaites. This is to let you know that 
 George Pickering is carrying on with your sister Kitty. 
 He has promised to meet her here on Monday. He has 
 engaged a bedroom here. You ought to come and stop 
 it. I inclose P.O. for one pound toward your fare. 
 Yours truly, Fred Marshall, groom, ' Black Lion,' 
 Elmsdale.?' 
 
 The fact that this meddlesome personage had sent 
 Betsy her railway fare became known now for the first 
 time. A hiss writhed through the court. 
 
 " Silence ! " yelled a police sergeant, glaring around 
 with steely eyes. 
 
 ** There must be no demonstrations of any sort here,"
 
 The Storm 201 
 
 said the Coroner sternly. " Well, Mrs. Pickering, you 
 traveled to Elmsdale? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " With what purpose in view ? " 
 
 " George had promised to marry me. Kitty knew 
 this quite well. I thought that my presence would put 
 an end to any courtship that was going on. It was very 
 wrong." 
 
 " None will dispute that. But I prefer not to ques- 
 tion you. Tell us your own story." 
 
 " I traveled all day," she recommenced, " and reached 
 Elmsdale station by the last train. I was very tired. 
 At the door of the inn I met Fred Marshall. He was 
 waiting, I suppose. He told me George and Kitty were 
 at the bottom of the garden." 
 
 A quiver ran through the audience, but the police 
 sergeant was watching, and they feared expulsion. 
 
 " He said they had been there ten minutes. I ran 
 through the hotel kitchen. On a table was lying a long 
 knife near a dish of grouse. I picked it up, hardly 
 knowing what I was doing, and went into the garden. 
 When I was halfway down Kitty saw me and screamed. 
 George turned round and backed away toward the 
 middle hedge. I remember crying out some things 
 but I do not know what I said." 
 
 She swayed slightly, and everyone thought she was 
 about to faint. But she clutched the back of a chair 
 and steadied herself. Mr. Jones offered her a glass of 
 water, but she refused it. 
 
 " I can go on," she said bravely. 
 
 And she persevered to the end, substantially repeat- 
 ing her sister's evidence.
 
 202 The Revellers 
 
 When Mr. Dane rose to cross-examine, the silence in 
 court was appalling. The girl's parents were pallid 
 with fear. Kitty sat spellbound. Mr. Stockwell pushed 
 his papers away and gazed fixedly at his client. 
 
 " Why did you pick up the knife, Mrs. Pickering? " 
 was the first question. 
 
 " I think I am almost sure I intended to strike 
 my sister with it." 
 
 This was another bombshell. Mr. Dane moved un- 
 easily on his feet. 
 
 " Your sister ! " he repeated in amazement. 
 
 " Yes. She was aware of my circumstances. What 
 right had she to be flirting with my promised 
 husband ? " 
 
 " Hum ! You have forgiven her since, no doubt ? " 
 
 " I forgave her then, when I regained my senses. She 
 was acting thoughtlessly. I believe that George and she 
 went into the garden only to spite Fred Marshall." 
 
 Mr. Dane shook his head. 
 
 ** So, if we accept your statement, Mrs. Pickering, 
 you harmed no one with the knife except yourself? " 
 
 " That is so." 
 
 He seemed to hesitate a moment, but seemingly made 
 up his mind to leave the evidence where it stood. 
 
 " I shall not detain you long," said Mr. Stockwell 
 when his legal opponent desisted from further cross- 
 examination. " You were married to Mr. Pickering on 
 Thursday morning by special license? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " He had executed a marriage settlement securing 
 you 400 a year for life? " 
 
 " Yes."
 
 The Storm 203 
 
 " And, after the accident, you remained with him 
 until he died?" 
 
 "Yes God help me!" 
 
 " Thank you. That is all." 
 
 " Just one moment," interposed the Coroner. " Were 
 you previously acquainted with this man, Marshall, the 
 groom? " 
 
 " No, sir. I saw him for the first time in my life 
 when he met me at the hotel door and asked me if I was 
 Miss Thwaites." 
 
 " How did he obtain your Hereford address ? It 
 appears to be given in full on the envelope." 
 
 " I don't know, sir." 
 
 Fred Marshall was the next witness. He was sober 
 and exceedingly nervous. He had been made aware 
 during the past week that public opinion condemned him 
 utterly. His old cronies refused to drink with him. 
 Mrs. Atkinson had dismissed him; he was a pariah, an 
 outcast, in the village. 
 
 His evidence consisted of a disconnected series of 
 insinuations against Kitty's character, interlarded with 
 protests that he meant no harm. Mr. Stockwell showed 
 him scant mercy. 
 
 " You say you saw Mrs. Pickering, or Betsy Thwaites, 
 as she was at that time, seize a knife from the table? " 
 
 " I did." 
 
 " What did you think she meant to do with it? " 
 
 " What she did do stick George Pickerin'. I heerd 
 her bawlin' that oot both afore an' efther." 
 
 The man was desperate. In his own parlance, he 
 might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, and he 
 would spare no one.
 
 204 The Revellers 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! You knew she intended to commit 
 murder? " 
 
 " I thowt so." 
 
 "Then why did you not follow her?" 
 
 " I was skeered." 
 
 " What ! Afraid of a weak woman ? " 
 
 " Well, I didn't give a damn if she did stab him ! 
 There, ye hev it straight ! " 
 
 Mr. Stockwell turned to Mr. Dane. 
 
 " If you are looking for accessories in this 
 trumped-up case, you have one ready to hand," he 
 exclaimed. 
 
 " You must be careful what you are saying, Marshall," 
 observed the Coroner severely. " And moderate your 
 language, too. This court is not a stable." 
 
 " He shouldn't badger me," cried the witness in sullen 
 anger. 
 
 " I'll treat you with great tenderness," said Mr. 
 Stockwell suavely, and a general smile relieved the 
 tension. 
 
 " How did you obtain Miss Thwaites's address at 
 Hereford?" 
 
 No answer. 
 
 "Come, now. Where are your wits? Will you accuse 
 me of badgering you, if I suggest that you stole a letter 
 from Kitty Thwaites's pocket ? " 
 
 " I didn't steal it. It was in a frock of hers, hangin* 
 in her bedroom." 
 
 " You are most obliging. And the sovereign you sent 
 her? Did you, by any chance, borrow it from Mrs. 
 Atkinson ? " 
 
 " Frae Mrs. Atkinson? Whea said that? "
 
 The Storm 205" 
 
 " Oh, I mean without her knowledge, of course. From 
 Mrs. Atkinson's till, I should have said." 
 
 The chance shot went home. The miserable groom 
 growled a denial, but no one believed him. Quite satis- 
 fied that he had destroyed the man's credibility, Mr. 
 Stockwell sat down. 
 
 " Martin Court Bolland ! " said the Coroner's officer, 
 and a wave of renewed interest galvanized the court. 
 Mr. Dane arranged his papers and looked around with 
 the air of one who says : 
 
 " Now we shall hear the truth of this business." 
 
 Martin came forward. It chanced that the first pair 
 of eyes he encountered were Angele's. The girl was 
 gazing at him with a spiteful intensity he could not un- 
 derstand. He did not know then of the painful expose 
 which took place at The Elms when Mrs. Saumarez 
 learnt on the preceding day that her daughter was a 
 leading figure among the children in the " Black Lion " 
 yard on the night of the tragedy. 
 
 Angele blamed Martin for having betrayed her to the 
 authorities. She did not know how resolutely he had 
 declined to mention her name; he loomed large in her 
 mind, to the exclusion of the others. 
 
 She regarded him now with a venomous malice all 
 the more bitter because of the ultra-friendly relations 
 she had forced on him. 
 
 He looked at her with genuine astonishment. She 
 reminded him of the wildcat he choked to death in Thor 
 ghyll. But he had to collect his wandering faculties, 
 for the Coroner was speaking.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 THE UNWRITTEN LAW 
 
 MABTIN'S evidence was concise. He happened to be 
 in the " Black Lion " yard with other children at a 
 quarter past ten on Monday night. He heard a woman's 
 scream, followed by a man's loud cry of pain, and both 
 sounds seemed to come from the extreme end of the 
 garden. 
 
 Kitty Thwaites ran toward the hotel shrieking, " Oh, 
 Betsy, Betsy, you've killed him ! " She screamed " Mur- 
 der ! " and called for someone to come, " for God's 
 sake ! " She fell exactly opposite the place where he 
 was standing. Then he saw Betsy Thwaites he identi- 
 fied her now as Mrs. Pickering running after her sister 
 and brandishing a knife. She appeared to be very ex- 
 cited, and cried out, " I'll swing for him. May the Lord 
 deal wi' him as he dealt wi' me ! " She called her sister 
 a " strumpet," and said it would " serve her right to 
 stick her with the same knife." He was quite sure those 
 were the exact words. He was not alarmed in any way, 
 only surprised by the sudden uproar, and he saw the 
 two women and the knife as plainly as if it were broad 
 daylight. 
 
 Mr. Dane concluded the examination-in-chief, which 
 he punctuated with expressive glances at the jury, by 
 touching on a point which he expected his acute rival 
 to raise. 
 
 206
 
 The Unwritten Law 207 
 
 " What were you doing in the ' Black Lion ' yard at 
 that hour, Bolland?" 
 
 " I was having a dispute with Master Frank Beckett- 
 Smythe." 
 
 " What sort of a dispute? " 
 
 " Well, we were fighting." 
 
 A grin ran through the court. 
 
 " He is an intelligent boy and older than you. Can 
 you suggest any reason why he should have failed to see 
 and hear all that you saw and heard? " 
 
 Martin paused. He disliked to pose as a vainglorious 
 pugilist, but there was no help for it. 
 
 " I got the better of him," he said quietly. " One, at 
 least, of his eyes were closed, and I had just given him 
 an uppercut on the nose." 
 
 " But his brother was there, too ? " 
 
 " Master Ernest was looking after him." 
 
 " How about the other children ? " 
 
 " They ran away." 
 
 "All of them?" 
 
 " Well, nearly all. I can only speak for myself, sir. 
 No doubt the others will tell you what they saw." 
 
 Obviously, Mr. Dane was unprepared for the cool self- 
 possession displayed by this farmer's son. He nodded 
 acquiescence with Martin's views and sat down. 
 
 Mr. Stockwell, watching the boy narrowly, had 
 caught the momentary gleam of surprise when his look 
 encountered that of the pretty dark-eyed child whose 
 fashionable attire distinguished her from the village 
 urchins among whom she was sitting. 
 
 " By the way," he began, " why do you call yourself 
 Bolland?"
 
 208 The Revellers 
 
 " That is my name, sir." 
 
 " Are you John Holland's son? " 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " Then whose son are you ? " 
 
 " I do not know. My father and mother adopted me 
 thirteen years ago." 
 
 The lawyer gathered by the expression on the stolid 
 faces of the jury that this line of inquiry would be 
 fruitless. 
 
 " What was the cause of the fight between you and 
 young Beckett-Smythe? " 
 
 This was the signal for an interruption from the jury. 
 Mr. Webster, the foreman, did not wish any slight to be 
 placed on Mrs. Saumarez. The upshot might be that 
 he would lose a good customer. The Squire dealt at the 
 Stores. Let him protect his own children. But Mrs. 
 Saumarez needed a champion. 
 
 " May I ask, sir," he said to the Coroner, " what 
 a bit of a row atween youngsters hez te do wi' t' 
 case ? " 
 
 " Nothing that I can see," was the answer. 
 
 " It has a highly important bearing," put in Mr. 
 Stockwell. " If my information is correct, this witness 
 is the only one whose evidence connects Mrs. Pickering 
 even remotely with the injuries received by her husband. 
 I assume, of course, that Marshall's testimony is not 
 worth a straw. I shall endeavor to elicit facts that may 
 tend to prove the boy's statements unreliable." 
 
 "I cannot interfere with your discretion, Mr. Stock- 
 well," was the ruling. 
 
 " Now, answer my question," cried the lawyer. 
 
 Martin's brown eyes flashed back indignantly.
 
 The Unwritten Law 209 
 
 " We fought because I wished to take a young lady 
 home, and he tried to prevent me." 
 
 " A young lady ! What young lady? " 
 
 " I refuse to mention her name. You asked why we 
 fought, and I've told you." 
 
 " Why this squeamishness, my young squire of dames ? 
 Was it not Angele Saumarez ? " 
 
 Martin turned to the Coroner. 
 
 " Must I reply, sir ? " 
 
 " Yes. ... I fail still to see the drift of the cross- 
 examination, Mr. Stockwell." 
 
 " It will become apparent quickly. Yes, or no, 
 Bolland?" 
 
 " Yes ; it was." 
 
 " Was she committed to your care by her mother ? " 
 
 " No. She came out to see the fair. I promised to 
 look after her." 
 
 " Were you better fitted to protect this child than the 
 two sons of Mr. Beckett-Smy the ? " 
 
 " I thought so." 
 
 " From what evil influences, then, was it necessary to 
 rescue her? " 
 
 " That's not a fair way to put it. It was too late for 
 her to be out." 
 
 " When did you discover this undeniable fact ? " 
 
 " Just then." 
 
 " Not when you were taking her through the fair in 
 lordly style?" 
 
 " No. There was no harm in the shows, and I realized 
 the time only when the clock struck ten." 
 
 Every adult listener nodded approval. The adroit 
 lawyer SAW that he was merely strengthening the jury's
 
 210 The Revellers 
 
 good opinion of the boy. He must strike hard and 
 unmercifully if he would shake their belief in Martin's 
 good faith. 
 
 " There were several other children there a boy 
 named Bates, another named Beadlam, Mrs. Atkinson's 
 three girls, and others? " 
 
 " Bates was with me. The others were in the yard." 
 
 " Ah, yes ; they had left you a few minutes earlier. 
 Now, is it not a fact that these children, and you with 
 them, had gone to this hiding-place to escape being 
 caught by your seniors? " 
 
 "No; it is a lie." 
 
 " Is that your honest belief? Do you swear it? " 
 
 " I shirked nothing. Neither did the others. Hun- 
 dreds of people saw us. As for Miss Saumarez, I think 
 she went there for a lark more than anything else." 
 
 " A questionable sort of lark. It is amazing to hear 
 of respectable children being out at such an hour. Did 
 your parents did the parents of any of the others 
 realize what was going on? " 
 
 " I think not. The whole thing was an accident." 
 
 " But, surely, there must be some adequate explana- 
 tion of this fight between you and Beckett-Smythe. It 
 was no mere scuffle, but a severe set-to. He bears even 
 yet the marks of the encounter." 
 
 Master Frank was supremely uncomfortable when the 
 united gaze of the court was thus directed to him. His 
 right eye was discolored, as all might see, but his nose 
 was normal. 
 
 " I have told you the exact truth. I wished her to go 
 home " 
 
 "Did she wish it?"
 
 The Unwritten Law 211 
 
 " She meant to tease me, an,d said she would remain. 
 Frank Beckett-Smythe and I agreed to fight, and settle 
 whether she should go or stay." 
 
 " So you ask us to believe that not only did you 
 engage in a bout of fisticuffs in order to convoy to her 
 home a girl already hours too late abroad, but that you 
 alone, of all these children, can give us a correct version 
 of occurrences on the other side of the hedge? " 
 
 " I don't remember asking you that, sir," said Martin 
 seriously, and the court laughed. 
 
 Mr. Stockwell betrayed a little heat. 
 
 " You know well what I mean," he said. " You are a 
 clever boy. Are you not depending on your imagination 
 for some of your facts ? " 
 
 " I wish I were, sir," was the sorrowful answer. 
 
 Quite unconsciously, Martin looked at Betsy. Some 
 magnetic influence caused her to raise her eyes for the 
 first time, and each gazed into the soul of the other. 
 
 Mr. Stockwell covered his retreat by an assumption 
 of indifference. 
 
 " Fortunately, there is a host of witnesses to be heard 
 in regard to these particular events," he exclaimed, and 
 Martin's inquisition ceased. 
 
 The superintendent whispered something to Mr. 
 Dane, who rose. 
 
 " A great deal has been made out of this quarrel 
 about a little girl," he said to the boy. " Is it not the 
 fact that you have endeavored consistently to keep her 
 name out of the affair altogether? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because Mrs. Saumarez is only a visitor here, and
 
 212 The Revellers 
 
 her daughter could not know anything of village ways. 
 I was mostly to blame for allowing her to be there at all, 
 so I tried to take it onto my shoulders." 
 
 It was interesting to note how Angele received this 
 statement. Her black eyes became tearful. Her hero 
 was rehabilitated. She worshiped him again passion- 
 ately. Someone else had peached. She brushed away 
 the tears and darted a quick look at the Squire's eldest 
 son. 
 
 He was the next witness. He saw George Pickering 
 and Kitty go down the garden, the man's arm being 
 around Kitty's neck. Then he fought with Martin. 
 Afterwards he heard some screaming, but could not tell 
 a word that was said he was too dazed. 
 
 " Is it not possible the hubbub was too confused that 
 you should gain any intelligible idea of it ? " asked Mr. 
 Stockwell. 
 
 " Yes, that might be so." 
 
 " You are a bigger boy than young Bolland. Surely 
 he could not pummel the wits out of you ? " 
 
 " I don't think he will next time. He caught me a 
 stinger by chance." 
 
 A roar of laughter greeted this candid confession of 
 future intentions. Even Mr. Beckett-Smythe and the 
 vicar joined in. 
 
 " Why did you wish to keep this girl, Angele Sau- 
 marez, away from her residence? " 
 
 " She's a jolly sort of girl, and I think we were all a 
 bit off our heads," said Frank ruefully. 
 
 " But you had some motive, some design. Remember, 
 you fought to retain her." 
 
 " I wish I hadn't," said the boy, glancing at his
 
 The Unwritten Law 213 
 
 father. His most active memory was of a certain pain- 
 ful interview on Wednesday night. 
 
 " You were not groggy on your legs," was Mr. Stock- 
 well's first remark to Ernest. " What did you hear or 
 see beyond the garden hedge? " 
 
 " There was a lot of yelling, and two women ran 
 toward the hotel. The woman with a knife was threat- 
 ening to stick it into somebody, but I couldn't tell 
 who." 
 
 " Ah. She was running after the other woman. 
 Don't you think she might have been threatening her 
 only?" 
 
 " It certainly looked like it." 
 
 " Can't you help us by being more definite ? " 
 
 " No. Frank was asking for a pump. I was thinking 
 of that more than of the beastly row in the garden." 
 
 He was dismissed. 
 
 " Angele Saumarez." 
 
 The strangers present surveyed the girl with ex- 
 pectant interest. She looked a delightfully innocent 
 child. She was attired in the dark dress she wore on 
 the Monday evening. Her hat, gloves, and shoes were 
 in perfect taste. No personality could be more oddly 
 at variance with a village brawl than this delicate, gos- 
 samer, fairylike little mortal. 
 
 She gave her evidence without constraint or shyness. 
 rier pretty continental accent enhanced the charm of 
 her manners. In no sense forward, she won instant ap- 
 probation, and the general view was that she had drifted 
 into an unpleasant predicament by sheer force of cir- 
 cumstances. The mere love of fun brought her out to 
 see the fair, and her presence in the stackyard was
 
 214 The Revellers 
 
 accounted for by a girlish delight in setting boys at 
 loggerheads. 
 
 But she helped the police contention by declaring that 
 she heard Betsy say : 
 
 " I'll swing for him." 
 
 " I remember," she said sweetly, " wondering what 
 she meant. To swing for anybody ! That is odd." 
 
 " Might it not have been ' for her ' and not ' for 
 him'?" suggested Mr. Stockwell. 
 
 " Oh, yes," agreed Angele. " I wouldn't be sure 
 about that. They talk queerly, these people. I am cer- 
 tain about the * swing.' ' 
 
 Really, there never was a more simple little maid. 
 
 " You must never again go out at night to such 
 places," remarked the Coroner paternally. 
 
 She cast down her eyes. 
 
 " Mamma was very angry," she simpered. " I have 
 been kept at home for days and days on account of 
 it." 
 
 She glanced at Martin. That explanation was in- 
 tended for him. As a matter of fact, Mr. Beckett- 
 Smythe called at The Elms on Thursday morning and 
 told Mrs. Saumarez that her child needed more control. 
 He had thrashed Frank soundly the previous evening 
 for riding off to a rendezvous fixed with Angele for 
 nine o'clock. He whispered this information to Mr. 
 Herbert, and the vicar's eyes opened wide. 
 
 The other non-professional witnesses, children and 
 adults, did not advance the inquiry materially. Many 
 heard Kitty shrieking that her sister had murdered 
 George Pickering, but Kitty herself had admitted saying 
 so under a misapprehension.
 
 The Unwritten Law 215 
 
 P. C. Benson raised an important point. The pitch- 
 fork was first mentioned about eleven o'clock, when Mr. 
 Pickering was able to talk coherently, after being laid 
 on a bed and drinking some brandy. Neither of the 
 two women had spoken of it. And there were footprints 
 that did not bear out the movements described in the 
 dead man's deposition. 
 
 " But Mr. Pickering's first lucid thought referred to 
 this implement? " said Mr. Stockwell. 
 
 " Neabody was holdin' him, sir." 
 
 The policeman imagined the lawyer had said " loos- 
 ened." 
 
 " I mean that the first account he ever gave of this 
 accident referred to the pitchfork, and his subsequent 
 statements were to the same effect." 
 
 " Oah, yes. There's no denyin' that." 
 
 "And you found the fork lying exactly where he 
 described its position?" 
 
 " Why, yes ; but he was a desp'rate lang time i' 
 studdyin' t' matter oot afore he's speak." 
 
 " Do you suggest that someone placed the fork there 
 by his instructions ? " 
 
 " Noa, sir. Most like he'd seen it there hissen." 
 
 " Then why do you refuse to accept his statement 
 that an accident took place? " 
 
 " Because I fund his footprints where he ran across 
 t' garden te t' spot where he was picked up." 
 
 " Footprints ! After a month of fine weather ! " 
 
 " It was soft mold, sir, an' they were plain enough." 
 
 " Were not a dozen men running about this garden 
 at twenty minutes past ten ? " 
 
 " Ay quite that."
 
 216 The Revellers 
 
 " And you tell us coolly that you could distinguish 
 those of one man? " 
 
 " There was on'y one man's track i' that pleace, 
 sir." 
 
 Benson was not to be flurried. Mr. Jonas and a 
 police sergeant corroborated his opinion. 
 
 Dr. MacGregor followed. He described Pickering's 
 wound, the nature of his illness, and the cause of death. 
 The stab itself was not of a fatal character. Had it 
 diverged slightly it must have reached the lung. As 
 it was, the poison, not the knife, had done the mischief. 
 
 The county analyst was scientifically dogmatic. His 
 analyses had been conducted with the utmost care. The 
 knife was contaminated, the pitchfork was only rusty. 
 The latter was a dangerous implement, but in no way 
 responsible for the state of Pickering's blood corpus- 
 cles. 
 
 Mr. Dane, of course, made the most of these wit- 
 nesses, but Mr. Stockwell wisely forbore from pressing 
 them, and thus hammering the main items again into 
 the heads of the jury. 
 
 The Coroner glanced at his watch. It was six o'clock. 
 Neither of the solicitors was permitted to address the 
 court, and he made up his mind to conclude the inquiry 
 forthwith. 
 
 " There is one matter which might be cleared up," he 
 said. " Where is Marshall, the groom ? " 
 
 It was discovered that the man had left the court 
 half an hour ago. He had not returned. P. C. Benson 
 was sent to find him. The two came back in five minutes. 
 Their arrival was heralded by loud shouts and laughter 
 outside. When they entered the schoolroom Marshall
 
 The Unwritten Law 217 
 
 presented a ludicrous spectacle. He was dripping wet, 
 and not from rain, for his clothes were covered with slime 
 and mud. 
 
 It transpired that he had gone to a public house for 
 a pint of beer. Several men and youths who could not 
 gain admittance to the court took advantage of the 
 absence of the police and amused themselves by ducking 
 him in a convenient horse pond. 
 
 The Coroner, having expressed his official annoyance 
 at the incident, asked the shivering man if he followed 
 Betsy into the garden. 
 
 No ; he saw her go out through the back door. 
 
 " Then the threats you heard were uttered while she 
 was in the passage of the hotel or in the kitchen? " 
 
 Yes ; that was so. 
 
 " It is noteworthy," said the Coroner, " that none of 
 the children heard this young woman going toward the 
 couple. She must have run swiftly and silently down 
 the path, and the witnesses were so absorbed in the fight 
 that she passed them unheard and unseen." 
 
 Mr. Stockwell frowned. If this gave any indication 
 of the Coroner's summing-up, it was not favorable to 
 his client. 
 
 Dr. Magnus showed at once that he meant to cast 
 aside all sentimental considerations and adhere solely 
 to the judicial elements. He treated George Pickering's 
 deposition with all respect, but pointed out that the 
 dying man might be actuated by the desire to make 
 atonement to the woman he had wronged. The human 
 mind was capable of strange vagaries. A man who 
 would slight, or, at any rate, be indifferent, to one of 
 the opposite sex, when far removed from personal con-
 
 218 The Revellers 
 
 tact, was often swayed by latent ties of affection when 
 brought face to face with the woman herself. 
 
 In a word, the Coroner threw all his weight on the 
 side of the police and against Betsy. He regarded Fred 
 Marshall and young Bolland as truthful witnesses, 
 though inspired by different motives, and deemed the 
 medical evidence conclusive. 
 
 Betsy sat sphinx-like through this ordeal. Her un- 
 happy parents, and even more unhappy sister, were pro- 
 foundly distressed, and Stockwell watched the jury 
 keenly as each damning point against his client was 
 emphasized. 
 
 " The law is quite clear in affairs of this kind," con- 
 cluded Dr. Magnus gravely. " Either this unfortunate 
 man was murdered, in which event your verdict can only 
 take one form, or he met with an accident. Most 
 fortunately, the last word does not rest with this court, 
 or it would be impossible to close the inquiry to-day. 
 The deceased himself raised a pertinent question: Why 
 did his wife escape blood-poisoning, although he became 
 infected? But the solicitors present apparently concur 
 with me that this is a matter which must be determined 
 elsewhere " 
 
 " No, no," broke in Mr. Stockwell. " I admit nothing 
 of the sort." 
 
 The Coroner bowed. 
 
 " You have the benefit of my opinion, gentlemen," he 
 said to the jury. " You must retire now and consider 
 your verdict." 
 
 The jury filed out into a classroom, an unusual pro- 
 ceeding, but highly expedient in an inquiry of such im- 
 portance. Tongues were loosened instantly, and a hum
 
 The Unwritten Law 219 
 
 of talk arose, while the witnesses signed their recorded 
 statements. Kitty endeavored to arouse her sister from 
 the condition of stupor in which she remained, and the 
 girl's mother placed an arm around her shoulders. But 
 Betsy paid little heed. Her mind dwelt on one object 
 only a sheet-covered form, lying cold and inanimate 
 in a room of the neighboring hotel. 
 
 Angele sidled toward Martin when a movement in 
 court permitted. Fran9oise would have restrained her, 
 but the child slid along a bench so quickly that the 
 nurse's protest came too late. 
 
 " Martin," she whispered, " you behaved beautifully. 
 I was so angry with you at first. But it was not you. 
 I know now. Evelyn Atkinson told." 
 
 " I wish it had never happened," said the boy bitterly. 
 He hated the notion that his evidence was the strongest 
 link in the chain encircling the hapless Betsy. 
 
 " Oh, I don't find it bad, this court. One is all pins 
 and needles at first. But the men are nice." 
 
 " I am not thinking of ourselves," he growled. 
 
 " Tiens ! Of whom, then? " 
 
 "Angele, you're awfully selfish. What have we to 
 endure, compared with poor Mrs. Pickering? " 
 
 " Oh, pouf ! That is her affair. Mamma beat me on 
 Thursday. Beat me, look you! But I made her stop, 
 oh, so quickly. Miss Walker pretends that mamma was 
 ill. I know better, and so do you. I said if she hit me 
 again " 
 
 He caught her wrist. 
 
 " Shut up ! " he said in a firm whisper. 
 
 " Don't. You are hurting me. Why are you so 
 horrid? Do you want me to be beaten? "
 
 220 The Revellers 
 
 " No ; but how can you dare threaten your mother ? " 
 
 " I would dare anything rather than be kept in the 
 house away from you." 
 
 Frank Beckett-Smythe, sitting near his father, was 
 wondering dully why he had been such a fool as to incur 
 severe penalties for the sake of this " silly kid," who 
 was now ogling his rival and whispering coyly in that 
 rival's ear. Martin was welcome to her, for all he cared. 
 No girl was worth the uneasiness of the chair he occu- 
 pied, for his father's hunting-crop had fallen with such 
 emphasis that he felt the bruises yet. 
 
 The jury returned. They had been absent half an 
 hour. Mr. Webster was flustered that was per- 
 ceptible instantly. He, as foreman, had to deliver 
 the finding. 
 
 " Have you agreed as to your verdict? " said the 
 Coroner. 
 
 " We have." 
 
 "And it is?" 
 
 " Not guilty ! " 
 
 " What are you talking about? This is not a criminal 
 court. You are asked to determine how George Picker- 
 ing met his death." 
 
 " I beg pardon," stammered Mr. Webster. He turned 
 anxiously to his colleagues. Some of them prompted 
 him. 
 
 " I mean," he went on, " that our verdict is c Acci- 
 dental death.' That's it, sir. ' Accidental death,' I 
 should hev said. Mr. Pickerin's own words " 
 
 The Coroner frowned. 
 
 " It is an amazing verdict," he said. " I feel it my 
 bounden duty "
 
 The Unwritten Law 221 
 
 Mr. Stockwell, pale but determined, sprang to his 
 feet. 
 
 " Do hear me for one moment ! " he cried. 
 
 The Coroner did not answer, so the solicitor took 
 advantage of the tacit permission. 
 
 " I well recognize that the police cannot let the mat- 
 ter rest here," he pleaded. " On your warrant they 
 will arrest my client. Such a proceeding is unnecessary. 
 In her present state of health it might be fatal. Surely 
 it will suffice if you record your dissent and the inquiry 
 is left to other authorities. I am sure that you, that 
 Mr. Dane, will forgive the informality of my request. 
 It arises solely from motives of humanity." 
 
 The Coroner shook his head. 
 
 " I am sorry, Mr. Stockwell, but I must discharge 
 my duty conscientiously. The verdict is against the 
 weight of evidence, and the ultimate decision rests with 
 me, not with the jury. They have chosen deliberately to 
 ignore my directions, and I have no option but to set 
 aside their finding. I am compelled to issue a warrant 
 charging your client with * wilful murder.' Protests 
 only render the task more painful, and I may point out 
 that, under any circumstances, the date of arrest can- 
 not be long deferred." 
 
 A howl of vehement indignation came from the packed 
 court. Nearly everyone present sympathized with 
 Betsy. They accepted George Pickering's dying decla- 
 ration as final ; they regarded the Coroner's attitude as 
 outrageous. 
 
 For an instant the situation was threatening. It 
 looked as though the people would wrest the girl from 
 the hands of the police by main force. Old Mrs.
 
 222 The Revellers 
 
 Thwaites fainted, Kitty screamed dreadful words at 
 the Coroner, and the girl's father sprawled across the 
 table with his face in his hands and crying pitifully. 
 
 Mr. Beckett-Smythe rose, but none would listen. 
 There was a scene of tense excitement. Already men 
 were crowding to the center of the room, while an irre- 
 sistible rush from outside drove a policeman headlong 
 from the door. 
 
 Mr. Herbert strove to make himself heard, but an 
 overwrought member of the jury bellowed: 
 
 " Mak' him record oor vardict, parson. What right 
 hez he te go agean t' opinion o* twelve honest men? " 
 
 Solicitors and reporters gathered their papers hastily, 
 fearing an instant onslaught on the Coroner, and some- 
 one chanced to step on Angele's foot as she clung in 
 fright to Martin. The child squealed loudly; her toes 
 had been squeezed under a heavy boot. 
 
 Fran9oise, whose broad Norman face depicted every 
 sort of bewilderment at the tumult which had sprung 
 up for some cause she in no way understood, rose at the 
 child's cry of anguish, and incontinently flung two 
 pressmen out of her path. She reached Angele and 
 faced the crowd with splendid courage. 
 
 The voluble harangue she poured forth in French, 
 her uncommon costume, and fierce gesticulations gained 
 her a hearing which would have been denied any other 
 person in the room, save, perhaps, Betsy. And Betsy 
 was striving to bring her mother back to consciousness, 
 without, however, departing in the least particular from 
 her own attitude of stoic despair. 
 
 The Coroner availed himself of the momentary lull. 
 Fran9oise paused for sheer lack of breath, and Dr.
 
 The Unwritten Law 223 
 
 Magnus made his voice heard far out into the village 
 street. 
 
 "Why all this excitement?" he shouted. "The 
 jury's verdict will be recorded, but you cannot force me 
 to agree with it. The police need not arrest Mrs. 
 Pickering on my warrant at once. I hope they will not 
 do so. Surely, as men of sense, you will not endeavor 
 to defy the law? You are injuring this poor woman's 
 cause by an unseemly turmoil. Make way, there, at the 
 door, and allow Mrs. Pickering to escort her mother to 
 the hotel. You are frightening women and children by; 
 your bluster." 
 
 Mr. Stockwell joined the superintendent in appeal- 
 ing to the crowd to disperse, and the crisis passed. In 
 a few minutes the members of the Thwaites family were 
 safe within the portals of the inn, and the schoolroom 
 was empty of all save a few officials and busy re- 
 porters. 
 
 Fran9oise held fast to Angele, but the girl appealed 
 to Martin to accompany her a little way. He yielded, 
 though he turned back before reaching the vicarage. 
 
 " Mother and I are coming to tea to-morrow," she 
 cried as they parted. 
 
 " All right," he replied. " Mind you don't vex her 
 again." 
 
 " Not I. She will want to hear all about the inquest. 
 It was as good as a play. Wasn't Fran9oise funny? 
 Oh, I do wish you had understood her. She called the 
 men ' sacres cochons d'Anglais ! ' It is so naughty in 
 English." 
 
 On the green, and dotted about the roadway, excited 
 groups discussed the lively episode in the schoolroom.
 
 224 The Revellers 
 
 They were rancorous against the Coroner, and not a few 
 boohed as he entered his carriage with Mr. Dane. 
 
 " Ay, they'd hang t' poor lass, t' pair of 'em, if they 
 could," shouted a buxom woman. 
 
 " Sheam on ye ! " screamed another. " I'll lay owt 
 ye won't sleep soond i' yer beds te-neet." 
 
 But these vaporings broke no bones, and the Coroner 
 drove away, glad enough that so far as he was concerned 
 a distasteful experience had ended. 
 
 The persistent rain soon cleared loiterers from the 
 center of the village. John Bolland came to the farm 
 while Martin was eating a belated meal. 
 
 " A nice deed there was at t' inquest, I hear," he said. 
 " I don't know what's come te Elmsdale. It's fair smit- 
 ten wi' a moral pestilence. One reads o' sike doin's i' 
 foreign lands, but I nivver thowt te see 'em i' this law- 
 abidin' counthry." 
 
 Then Martha flared up. 
 
 " Whea's i' t' fault? " she cried. " Can ye bleam t' 
 folk for lossin' their tempers when a daft Crowner cooms 
 here an' puts hissen up agean t' jury? If he had a bit 
 o' my tongue, I'd teng (sting) him ! " 
 
 So Elmsdale declared itself unhesitatingly on Betsy's 
 side. A dead man's word carried more weight than all 
 the law in the land.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 UNDERCURRENTS 
 
 UNDOUBTEDLY the Coroner's expedient had prevented 
 a riot in the village. The police deferred execution of 
 the warrant, and Mr. Stockwell, recognizing the hope- 
 lessness of the situation, co-operated with them in mak- 
 ing arrangements which would serve to allay public 
 excitement. 
 
 The dead man was removed unobtrusively to his Not- 
 tonby residence on Sunday evening. Accompanying the 
 hearse was a closed carriage in which rode Mrs. Picker- 
 ing and Kitty. At the door of Wetherby Lodge, Mr. 
 Stockwell met the cortege, and when the coffin was in- 
 stalled in the spacious library the solicitor introduced 
 the weeping servants to their temporary mistress, since 
 he and Mr. Herbert had decided that she ought to 
 reside in the house for a time. Such a fact, when it 
 became known, would help to mold public opinion. 
 
 An elderly housekeeper was minded to greet Betsy 
 with bitter words. Her young master had been dear 
 to her, and she had not scrupled earlier to denounce in 
 scathing terms the woman who had encompassed his 
 death. 
 
 But the sight of the wan, white face, the sorrow-laden 
 eyes, the graceful, shrinking figure of the girl-widow, 
 restrained an imminent outburst, and the inevitable re- 
 action carried the housekeeper to the other extreme. 
 
 225
 
 226 The Revellers 
 
 " How d'ye do, ma'am," she said brokenly. " 'Tis a 
 weary homecomin' ye've had. Mebbe ye'll be likin' a 
 cup o' tea." 
 
 Betsy murmured that she had no wants, but York- 
 shire regards food as a panacea for most evils, and the 
 housekeeper bade one of the maids " put a kettle on." 
 
 So the ice was broken, and Mr. Stockwell breathed 
 freely again, for he had feared difficulty in this quarter. 
 
 On Monday Pickering was buried, and the whole 
 countryside attended the funeral, which was made im- 
 pressive by the drumming and marching of the dead 
 man's company of Territorials. On Tuesday morning 
 a special sitting of the county magistrates was held in 
 the local police court. Betsy attended with her solicitor, 
 the Coroner's warrant was enforced, she was charged 
 by the police with the murder of George Pickering, and 
 remanded for a week in custody. 
 
 The whole affair was carried out so unostentatiously 
 that Betsy was in jail before the public knew that she 
 had appeared at the police court. In one short week 
 the unhappy dairymaid had experienced sharp transi- 
 tions. She had become a wife, a widow. She was raised 
 from the condition of a wage-earner to the status of an 
 independent lady, and taken from a mansion to a prison. 
 Bereft of her husband by her own act and separated 
 from friends and relatives by the inexorable decree of 
 the law, she was faced by the uncertain issue of a trial 
 by an impartial judge and a strange jury. Surely, the 
 Furies were exhausting their spite on one frail creature. 
 
 On Sunday evening Mrs. Saumarez drove in her car 
 through the rain to tea at the White House. She was 
 alone. Her manner was more reserved than usual,
 
 Undercurrents 227 
 
 though she shook hands with Mrs. Bolland with a quiet 
 friendliness that more than atoned for the perceptible 
 change in her demeanor. Her wonted air of affable 
 condescension had gone. Her face held a new serious- 
 ness which the other woman was quick to perceive. 
 
 " I have come to have a little chat with you," she 
 said. " I am going away soon." 
 
 The farmer's wife thought she understood. 
 
 " I'm rale sorry te hear that, yer leddyship." 
 
 "Indeed, I regret the necessity myself. But recent 
 events have opened my eyes to the danger of allowing 
 my child to grow up in the untrammeled freedom which 
 I have permitted encouraged, I may say. It breaks 
 my heart to be stern toward her. I must send her to the 
 South, where there are good schools, where others will 
 fulfil obligations in which I have failed." 
 
 And, behold ! Mrs. Saumarez choked back a sob. 
 
 " Eh, ma'am," cried the perturbed Martha, " there's 
 nowt to greet aboot. T' lass is young eneuf yet, an' 
 she's a bonny bairn, bless her heart. We all hae te part 
 wi' 'em. It'll trouble me sore when Martin goes away, 
 but 'twill be for t' lad's good." 
 
 " You dear woman, you have nothing to reproach 
 yourself with. I have. Your fine boy would never 
 dream of rending your soul as Angele has rent mine to- 
 day all because I wished her to read an instructive 
 book instead of a French novel." 
 
 " Mebbe you were a bit hard wi' her," said the older 
 woman. " To be sure, ye wouldn't be suited by this 
 nasty inquest; but is it wise to change all at once? 
 Slow an' sure, ma'am, is better'n fast an' feckless. 
 Where is t' little 'un now? "
 
 228 The Revellers 
 
 " At home, crying her eyes out because I insisted that 
 she should remain there." 
 
 " Ay, I reckon she'd be wantin' te see Martin." 
 " Do you think I may have been too severe with her ? " 
 " It's not for t' likes o' me to advise a leddy like you, 
 but yon bairn needs to be treated gently, for all t' 
 wulld like a bit o' delicate chiney. Noo, when Martin 
 was younger, I'd gie him a slap ower t' head, an' he'd 
 grin t' minnit me back was turned. Your little gell is 
 different." 
 
 " In my place, would you go back for her now? " 
 " No, ma'am, I wouldn't. That'd show weak. But 
 I'd mek up for't te-morrow. Then she'll think all t' 
 more o' yer kindness." 
 
 So the regeneration of Angele commenced. Was it 
 too late? She was only a child \n years. Surely there 
 was yet time to mold her character in better shape. 
 Mrs. Saumarez hoped so. She dried her tears, and, with 
 Bolland's appearance, the conversation turned on the 
 lamentable weather. She was surprised to hear that 
 August was often an unsettled month, though this storm 
 was not only belated but almost unprecedented in its 
 severity. 
 
 Mr. Herbert went to Nottonby early next day. He 
 attended the funeral, heard the will read at Wetherby 
 Grange in the presence of some disappointed cousins of 
 the dead man, visited Betsy to say a few consoling 
 words, and drove back to the vicarage through the 
 unceasing rain. 
 
 Tea awaited him in the drawing-room, but his first 
 glance at Elsie alarmed him. Her face was flushed, her 
 eyes red. She was a most woebegone little maid.
 
 Undercurrents 229 
 
 " My dear child," he cried, " what is the matter? " 
 
 " I want you to forgive me first," she stammered 
 brokenly. 
 
 " Forgive you, my darling! Forgive you for what? " 
 
 " I've been reading the paper." 
 
 He drew her to his knee. 
 
 " What crime is there in reading the paper, sweet 
 one?" 
 
 " I mean that horrid inquest, father dear." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 The smiling wonder left his face. Elsie looked up 
 timidly. 
 
 " I ought to have asked your permission," she said, 
 " but you were away, and auntie has a headache, and 
 Miss Holland (her governess) has gone on her holidays, 
 and I was so curious to know what all the bother was 
 about." 
 
 Yet he did not answer. Hitherto his daughter, his 
 one cherished possession, had been kept sedulously from 
 knowledge of the external world. But she was shooting 
 up, slender and straight, the image of her dead mother. 
 Soon she would be a woman, and it was no part of his 
 theory of life that a girl should be plunged into the 
 jungle of adult existence without a reasonable conscious- 
 ness of its snares and pitfalls. So ideal were the rela- 
 tions of father and daughter that the vicar had deferred 
 the day of enlightenment. It had come sooner than he 
 counted on. 
 
 Elsie was frightened now. Her tears ceased and the 
 flush left her cheeks. 
 
 "Are you very angry?" she whispered. He kissed 
 her.
 
 230 The Revellers 
 
 " No, darling, not angry, but just a little pained. It 
 was an unpleasing record for your eyes. There, now. 
 Give me some tea, and we'll talk about it. You may 
 have formed some mistaken notions. Tell me what you 
 thought of it all. In any case, Elsie, why were you 
 crying? " 
 
 " I was so sorry for that poor woman. And why did 
 the Coroner believe she killed her husband, when Mr. 
 Pickering said she had not touched him ? " 
 
 The vicar saw instantly that the girl had missed the 
 more unpleasing phases of the tragedy. He smiled 
 again. 
 
 " Bring me the paper," he said. " I was present at 
 the inquest. Perhaps the story is somewhat garbled." 
 
 She obeyed. He cast a critical glance over the leaded 
 columns, for the weekly newspaper had given practically 
 a verbatim report of the evidence, and there was a vivid 
 description of the scene in the schoolroom, with its dra- 
 matic close. 
 
 " It is by no means certain, from the evidence ten- 
 dered, that the Coroner is right," said Mr. Herbert 
 slowly. " In these matters, however, the police are com- 
 pelled to sift all statements thoroughly, and the only 
 legal way is to frame a charge. Although Mrs. Picker- 
 ing may be tried for murder, it does not follow that she 
 will be convicted." 
 
 " But," questioned Elsie, " Martin Bolland said he 
 heard her crying out that she had killed Mr. 
 Pickering? " 
 
 " He may have misunderstood." 
 
 "Just imagine him fighting with Frank, and about 
 Angele Saumarez, too."
 
 Undercurrents 231 
 
 " You may take it from me that Martin behaved very 
 well indeed. Angele is a little vixen, a badly behaved, 
 spoilt child, I fear. Young Beckett-Smythe is a booby 
 who encouraged her wilfulness. Martin thrashed him. 
 It would have been far better had Martin not been there 
 at all ; but if he were my son I should still be proud of 
 him." 
 
 The girl's face brightened visibly. There was mani- 
 fest relief in her voice. 
 
 " I am so glad we've had this talk," she cried. " I 
 like Martin, and it did seem so odd that he should have 
 been fighting about Angele." 
 
 " He knew she ought to be at home, and told her so. 
 Frank interfered, and got punched for his pains. It 
 served him right." 
 
 She helped herself to a large slice of tea-cake. 
 
 " I don't know why I was so silly as to cry but I 
 really did think Mrs. Pickering was in awful trouble." 
 
 The vicar laid the paper aside. His innocent-minded 
 daughter had not even given a thought to the vital issues 
 of the affair. He breathed freely, and told her of the 
 funeral. Nevertheless, he had failed to fathom the 
 cause of those red eyes. 
 
 A servant clearing the tea-table bethought her of a 
 note which came for Mr. Herbert some two hours earlier. 
 She brought it from the study. It was from Mrs. 
 Saumarez, inviting him and Elsie to luncheon next day. 
 
 " Angele will be delighted," she wrote, " if Elsie will 
 remain longer than usual. It is dull for children to be 
 cooped within doors during this miserable weather. I 
 am asking Martin Bolland to join us for tea." 
 
 Mr. Herbert was a kind-hearted man, yet he wished
 
 232 The Revellers 
 
 most emphatically that Mrs. Saumarez had not proffered 
 this request. To make an excuse for his daughter's non- 
 attendance would convey a distinct slight which could 
 only be interpreted in one way, after the publicity given 
 to Angele's appearance at the inquest. He shirked the 
 ordeal. Bother Angele ! 
 
 He glanced covertly at Elsie. All unconscious of the 
 letter's contents, the girl was looking out ruefully at 
 the leaden sky. There might be no more picnics for 
 weeks. 
 
 " Mrs. Saumarez has invited us to luncheon," he said. 
 
 "When?" she asked unconcernedly. 
 
 " To-morrow. She wishes you to spend the after- 
 noon with Angele." 
 
 Elsie turned, with quick animation. 
 
 " I don't care to go," she said. 
 
 "Why not? You know very little about her." 
 
 " She seems to me curious." 
 
 " Well, I personally don't regard her as a desirable 
 companion for you. But there is no need to give offense, 
 and it will not hurt you to meet her for an hour or so. 
 Your friend Martin is coming, too." 
 
 " Oh," she cried, " that makes a great difference." 
 
 Her father laughed. 
 
 " Between you, you will surely manage to keep Angele 
 out of mischief. And, now, my pet, what do you say 
 to an hour with La Fontaine, while I attend to some 
 correspondence ? Where are my pupils ? " 
 
 " They went for a long walk. Mr. Gregory said they 
 would not be home until dinner-time." 
 
 Next morning, for a wonder, the clouds broke, and an 
 autumn sun strove to cheer the scarred and drowned
 
 Undercurrents 233 
 
 earth. Mrs. Saumarez met her guests with the unob- 
 trusive charm of a skilled hostess. Angele, demure and 
 shrinking, extended her hand to Elsie with a shy civility 
 that was an exact copy of Elsie's own attitude. 
 
 During luncheon she behaved so charmingly and spoke 
 with such sweet naturalness when any question was 
 addressed to her that Mr. Herbert found himself steadily 
 recasting his unfavorable opinion. 
 
 The conversation steered clear of any reference to the 
 inquest. Mrs. Saumarez was a widely read and traveled 
 woman, and versed in the art of agreeable small talk. 
 
 Once, in referring to Angele, she said smilingly : 
 
 " I have been somewhat selfish in keeping her with me 
 always. But, now, I have decided that she must go to 
 school. I'll winter in Brighton, with that object in 
 view." 
 
 " Will you like that ? " said the vicar to the child. 
 
 "I'll not like leaving mamma; but school, yes. I 
 feel I want to learn a lot. I suppose Elsie is, oh, so 
 clever? " 
 
 She peeped at the other girl under her long eyelashes, 
 and made pretense of being awe-stricken by such 
 eminent scholastic attainments in one of her own 
 age. 
 
 " Elsie has learnt a good deal from books, but you 
 have seen much more of the world. If you work hard, 
 you will soon make up the lost ground." 
 
 " I'll try. I have been trying all day yesterday ! 
 Eh, mamma? " 
 
 Mrs. Saumarez sighed. 
 
 " I ought to have engaged a governess," she said. " I 
 cannot teach. I have no patience."
 
 234 The Revellers 
 
 Mr. Herbert did not know that Angele's educational 
 efforts of the preceding day consisted in a smug decorum 
 that irritated her mother exceedingly. This luncheon 
 party had been devised as a relief from Angele's bur- 
 lesque. She termed it " jouer le bon enfant." 
 
 After the meal they strolled into the garden. The 
 storm had played havoc with shrubs and flowers, but 
 the graveled paths were dry, and the lawn was firm, if 
 somewhat damp. Mrs. Saumarez had caused a fine 
 swing to be erected beneath a spreading oak. It held 
 two cushioned seats, and two propelling ropes were 
 attached to a crossbar. It made swinging a luxury, 
 not an exercise. 
 
 " By the way," cried Mrs. Saumarez to the vicar, " do 
 you smoke? " 
 
 He pleaded guilty to a pipe. 
 
 " Then you can smoke a cigar. Fran9oise packed a 
 box among my belongings the remnants of some for- 
 gotten festivity in the Savoy. Do try one. If you like 
 it, may I send you the others ? " 
 
 The vicar discovered that the gift would be costly 
 nearly forty Villar y Villars, of exquisite flavor. 
 
 " Do you know that you are giving me five pounds ? " 
 he laughed. 
 
 " I never learn the price of these things. I am so 
 glad they are good. You will enjoy them." 
 
 " It tickles a poor country vicar to hear you talk so 
 easily of Lucullian feasts, Mrs. Saumarez. What must 
 the banquet have been, when the cigars cost a half- 
 crown each ! " 
 
 " Oh, I am not hard up. Colonel Saumarez had only 
 his army pay, but my estates lie near Hamburg,
 
 Undercurrents 235 
 
 and you know how that port has grown of recent 
 years." 
 
 " Do you never reside there ? " 
 
 Mrs. Saumarez inclined a pink-lined parasol so that 
 its reflected tint mingled with the rush of color which 
 suffused her face. Had the worthy vicar given a 
 moment's thought to the matter, he would have known 
 that his companion wished she had bitten her tongue 
 before it wagged so freely. 
 
 " I prefer English society to German," she answered, 
 after a slight pause. 
 
 Oddly enough, this statement was literally true, but 
 she dared not qualify it by the explanation that an auto- 
 cratic government exacted heavy terms for permitting 
 her to draw a large revenue from her Hamburg 
 property. 
 
 Blissfully unaware of treading on anyone's toes, Mr. 
 Herbert pursued the theme. 
 
 " In my spare hours I take an interest in law," he 
 said. " Your marriage made you a British subject. 
 Does German law raise no difficulty as to alien owner- 
 ship of land and houses ? " 
 
 " My family, the von Edelsteins, have great influ- 
 ence." 
 
 This time the vicar awoke to the fact that he might 
 be deemed unduly inquisitive. He knew better than to 
 apologize, or even change the subject abruptly. 
 
 " Land tenure is a complex business in old-established 
 countries," he went on. " Take this village, for ex- 
 ample. You may have noticed how every garth runs 
 up the hillside in a long, narrow strip. Ownership of 
 land bordering the moor carries the right of free graz-
 
 236 The Revellers 
 
 ing for a certain number of sheep, so every freeholder 
 contrives to touch the heather at some point." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Mrs. Saumarez, promptly interested, 
 " that explains the peculiar shape of the Bolland land 
 at the back of the White House. An admirable couple, 
 are they not? And so medieval in their notions. I 
 attended what they call a ' love feast ' the other evening. 
 John Bollard introduced me as ' Sister Saumarez.' 
 When he became wrapped up in the service he reminded 
 me, or, rather, filled my ideal, of a high priest in Israel." 
 
 "Was Eli Todd there?" 
 
 "The preacher? Yes." 
 
 " He is a fine fellow. Given to use a spiritual sledge- 
 hammer, perhaps, but the implements of the Lord are 
 many and varied. Far be it from me to gainsay the 
 good work done by the dissenting congregations. If 
 there were more chapels, there would be more churches 
 in the land, Mrs.. Saumarez." 
 
 They had strolled away from the girls, and little did 
 the vicar dream what deeps they had skirted in their 
 talk. 
 
 Angele led Elsie to the swing. 
 
 " Try this," she said. " It's just lovely to feel the 
 air sizzing past your ears." 
 
 " I have a swing," said Elsie, " but not like this 
 one. It is a single rope, with a little crossbar, which I 
 hold in my hands and propel with my feet. It is hard 
 work, I assure you." 
 
 " Grand Dieu ! So I should think." 
 
 " Oh ! " cried Elsie, " you shouldn't say that." 
 
 " Vous me faites rire! You speak French? " 
 
 " Yes a little."
 
 Undercurrents 237 
 
 " How stupid of me not to guess. I can say what I 
 like before Martin Bolland. He is a nice boy Martin." 
 
 " Yes," agreed Elsie shortly. 
 
 She blushed. They were in the swing now, and swoop- 
 ing to and fro in long rushes. Angele's black eyes were 
 searching Elsie's blue ones. She tittered unpleasantly. 
 
 " What makes you so red when I speak of Martin ? " 
 she demanded. 
 
 " I am not red that is, I have no reason to be." 
 
 " You know him well? " 
 
 " Do you mean Martin ? " 
 
 " Sapristi! I beg your pardon who else?" 
 
 " I I have only met him twice, to speak to. I have 
 known him by sight for years." 
 
 " Twice? The first time when he killed that thing 
 the cat. When was the second ? " 
 
 Angele was tugging her rope with greater energy than 
 might be credited to one of her slight frame. The swing 
 was traveling at a great pace. Her fierce gaze disquieted 
 Elsie, to whom this inquisition was irksome. 
 
 " Let us stop now," she said. 
 
 " No, no. Tell me when next you saw Martin. I 
 must know." 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 " Because he became different in his manner all at 
 once. One day he kissed me " 
 
 " Oh, you are horrid." 
 
 " I swear it. He kissed me last Wednesday after- 
 noon. I did not see him again until Saturday. Then 
 he was cold. He saw you after Wednesday." 
 
 By this time Elsie's blood was boiling. 
 
 " Yes," she said, and the blue in her eyes held a hard
 
 238 The Revellers 
 
 glint. " He saw me on Wednesday night. We hap- 
 pened to be standing at our gate. Frank Beckett- 
 Smythe passed on his bicycle. He was chased by a 
 groom sent home to be horsewhipped because he was 
 coming to meet you." 
 
 " O la la ! " shrilled Angele. " That was nine o'clock. 
 Does papa know ? " 
 
 Poor Elsie crimsoned to the nape of her neck. She 
 wanted to cry to slap this tormentor's face. Yet she 
 returned Angele's fiery scrutiny with interest. 
 
 " Yes," she said with real heat. " I told him Martin 
 came to our house, but I said nothing about Frank and 
 you. It was too disgraceful." 
 
 She jerked viciously at her rope to counteract the 
 pull given by Angele. The opposing strains snapped 
 the crossbar. Both ropes fell, and with them the two 
 pieces of wood. One piece tapped Angele somewhat 
 sharply on the shoulder, and she uttered an involun- 
 tary cry. 
 
 The vicar and Mrs. Saumarez hurried up, but the 
 swing stopped gradually. Obviously, neither of the 
 girls was injured. 
 
 "You must have been using great force to break 
 that stout bar," said Mr. Herbert, helping Angele to 
 alight. 
 
 " Yes. Elsie and I were pulling against each other. 
 But we had a lovely time, didn't we, Elsie ? " 
 
 " I think I enjoyed it even more than you," retorted 
 Elsie. The elders attributed her excited demeanor to 
 the accident. 
 
 " If the ropes were tied to the crossbeam, they would 
 be safer, and almost as effective," said the vicar. " Ah !
 
 Undercurrents 239 
 
 Here comes Martin. Perhaps he can put matters 
 right" 
 
 " I don't want to swing any more," vowed Elsie. 
 
 " But Martin will," laughed Angele. " We can swop 
 partners. That will be jolly, won't it?" 
 
 Blissfully unaware of the thorns awaiting him, the boy 
 advanced. To be candid, he was somewhat awkward 
 in manner. He did not know whether to shake hands 
 all round or simply doff his cap to the entire company. 
 Moreover, he noted Elsie's presence with mixed feelings, 
 for Mrs. Saumarez's note had merely invited him to tea. 
 There was no mention of other visitors. He was de- 
 lighted, yet suspicious. Elsie and Angele were flint 
 and steel. There might be sparks. 
 
 Mrs. Saumarez rescued him from one horn of the 
 dilemma. She extended a hand and asked if Mr. Bolland 
 were not pleased that the rain had ceased. 
 
 " Now, Martin," said the vicar briskly, " shin up the 
 pole and tie the ropes to the center-piece. These strong- 
 armed giantesses have smashed a chunk of timber as 
 thick as your wrist. Don't allow either of them to hit 
 you. They'll pulverize you at a stroke." 
 
 " I fear it was I who broke it," admitted Elsie. 
 
 " Then it is you he must beware of." 
 
 The vicar, in the midst of this chaff, gave Martin a 
 " leg-up " the pole, and repairs were effected. 
 
 When the swing was in order he slid to the ground. 
 Mr. Herbert resumed the stroll with Mrs. Saumarez. 
 There was an awkward pause before Martin said: 
 
 " You girls get in. I'll start you." 
 
 He spoke collectively, but addressed Elsie. He won- 
 dered why her air was so distant.
 
 240 The Revellers 
 
 " No, thank you," she said. " I've done damage 
 enough already." 
 
 " Martin," murmured Angele, " she is furious because 
 I said you kissed me." 
 
 This direct attack was a crude blunder. Mischievous 
 and utterly unscrupulous though the girl was, she could 
 not measure this boy's real strength of character. The 
 great man is not daunted by great difficulties he grap- 
 ples with them; and Martin had in him the material of 
 greatness. He felt at once that he must now choose 
 irrevocably between the two girls, with a most unprom- 
 ising chance of ever again recovering lost ground with 
 one of them. He did not hesitate an instant. 
 
 " Did you say that? " he demanded sternly. 
 
 "Mafoi! Isn't it true?" 
 
 " The truth may be an insult. You had no right to 
 thrust your schemes into Elsie's knowledge." 
 
 " My schemes, you you pig. I spit at you. Isn't 
 it true? " 
 
 " Yes unfortunately. I shall regret it always." 
 
 Angele nearly flew at him with her nails. But she 
 contrived to laugh airily. 
 
 " Eh bien, mon cher Martin ! There will come another 
 time. I shall remember." 
 
 " There will come no other time. You dared me to it. 
 I was stupid enough to forget for a moment." 
 
 "Forget what?" 
 
 " That there was a girl in Elmsdale worth fifty of 
 you an English girl, not a mongrel ! " 
 
 It was a boyish retort, feeble, unfair, but the most 
 cutting thing he could think of. The words were spoken 
 in heat; he would have recalled them at once if that
 
 Undercurrents 241 
 
 were possible, but Angele seized the opening with glee. 
 
 " That's you ! " she cried, stabbing her rival with a 
 finger. " Parbleu ! I'm a mixture, half English, half 
 German, but really bad French ! '* 
 
 " Please don't drag me into your interesting conver- 
 sation," said Elsie with bitter politeness. 
 
 " I am sorry I said that," put in the boy. " I might 
 have had two friends. Now I have lost both." 
 
 He turned. His intent was to quit the place forth- 
 with. Elsie caught his arm with an alarmed cry. 
 
 " Martin," she almost screamed, " look at your left 
 hand. It is covered with blood ! " 
 
 Surprised as she, he raised his hand. Blood was 
 streaming down the fingers. 
 
 " It's nothing," he said coolly. " I must have opened 
 a deep cut by climbing the swing." 
 
 " Quelle horreur ! " exclaimed Angele. " I hate 
 blood!" 
 
 " I'm awfully sorry " began Martin. 
 
 " Nonsense ! Come at once to the kitchen and have 
 it bound up," said Elsie. 
 
 They hurried off together. Angele did not offer to 
 accompany them. Martin glanced at Elsie through the 
 corner of his eye. Her set mouth had relaxed some- 
 what. Anger was yielding to sympathy. 
 
 " I was fighting another wildcat, so was sure to get 
 scratched," he whispered. 
 
 " You needn't have kissed it, anyhow," she snapped. 
 
 " That, certainly, was a mistake," he admitted. 
 
 She made no reply. Once within the house she re- 
 moved the stained bandage without flinching from the 
 sight of half -healed scars, one of which was bleed-
 
 242 The Revellers 
 
 ing profusely. Cold water soon stopped the outflow, 
 and one of the maids procured some strips of linen, with 
 which Elsie bound the wound tightly. 
 
 They had a moment to themselves in recrossing the 
 hall. Martin ventured to touch the girl's shoulder. 
 
 " Look here, Elsie," he said boldly, " do you for- 
 give me ? " 
 
 Something in his voice told her that mere verbal 
 fencing would be useless. 
 
 " Yes," she murmured with a wistful smile. " I'll 
 forgive, but I can't forget for a long time." 
 
 On the lawn they encountered Mrs. Saumarez. Learn- 
 ing from Angele why the trio had dispersed so suddenly, 
 she was coming to attend to Martin herself. 
 
 The vicar joined them. 
 
 " Really," he said, " some sort of ill luck is attached 
 to that swing to-day." 
 
 And then Fran9oise appeared, to tell them that tea 
 was ready. 
 
 " What curious French she talks," commented the 
 smiling Elsie. 
 
 "Yes," cried Angele tartly. "Bad French, eh? 
 And I know heaps and heaps of it." 
 
 She caught Mr. Herbert's eye, and added an excuse: 
 
 " I'm going to change all that. People think I'm 
 naughty when I speak like a domestic. And I really 
 don't mean anything wrong." 
 
 " We all use too much slang," said the tolerant- 
 minded vicar. " It is sheer indolence. We refuse to 
 bother our brains for the right word."
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 TWO MOORLAND EPISODES 
 
 THOUGH all hands were needed on the farm in strenu- 
 ous endeavor to repair the storm's havoc, Dr. Mac- 
 Gregor forbade Martin to work when he examined the 
 reopened cut. Thus, the boy was free to guide Fritz, 
 the chauffeur, on the morning the man came to look at 
 Bolland's herd. 
 
 Fritz Bauer that was the name he gave had im- 
 proved his English pronunciation marvelously within a 
 fortnight. He no longer confused " d's " and " t's." 
 He had conquered the sibilant sound of the " s." He 
 was even wrestling with the elusive " th," substituting 
 " d " for " z." 
 
 " I learnt from a book," he explained, when Martin 
 complimented him on his mastery of English. " Dat is 
 goot no, good but one trains de ear only in de 
 country where de people spik speak de language all 
 de time." 
 
 The sharp-witted boy soon came to the conclusion 
 that his German friend was more interested in the money 
 value of the cattle as pedigreed stock than in the 
 " points " such as weight, color, bone, level back, and 
 milking qualities which commended them to the ex- 
 perienced eye. Bauer asked where he could obtain a 
 show catalogue, and jotted down the printer's address. 
 When they happened on a team of Cleveland bays, how- 
 
 243
 
 '244 The Revellers 
 
 ever, Fritz was thoroughly at home, and gratified his 
 hearer by displaying a horseman's knowledge of a truly 
 superb animal. 
 
 " Dey are light, yet strong," he said, his eyes roving 
 from high-set withers to shapely hocks and clean-cut 
 fetlocks. " Each could pull a ton on a bad road yes? " 
 
 Martin laughed. He was blind to the cynical smile 
 called forth by his amusement. 
 
 "A ton? Two tons. Why, one day last winter, 
 when a pair of Belgians couldn't move a loaded lorry 
 in the deep snow, my father had the man take out both 
 of 'em, and Prince walked away with the lot." 
 
 " So ? " cried the German admiringly. 
 
 " But you understand horses," went on Martin. 
 " Yet I've read that men who drive motors don't care 
 for anything else, as a rule." 
 
 " Ah, dat reminds me," said the other. " It is a fine 
 day. Come wid me in de machine." 
 
 " That'll be grand," said Martin elatedly. " Can you 
 take it out?" 
 
 " Oh, yes. Any time I dat is, I'll ask Mrs. Sau- 
 marez, and she will permit yes." 
 
 Quarter of an hour later the chauffeur was explaining, 
 in German, that he was going into the country for a 
 long spin, and Mrs. Saumarez was listening, not con- 
 senting. 
 
 " Going alone? " she inquired languidly. 
 
 " No, madam," he answered. " Martin Bolland will 
 come with me." 
 
 " Why not take Miss Angele ? " 
 
 The man smiled. 
 
 " I want the boy to talk," he explained.
 
 Two Moorland Episodes 245 
 
 Mrs. Saumarez nodded. She treated the matter with 
 indifference. Not so Angele, who heard the car purring 
 down the drive, and inquired Fritz's errand. She was 
 furious when her mother blurted out the news that 
 Martin would accompany Bauer. 
 
 " Ce cochon d'Allemand ! " she stormed, her long 
 lashes wet with vexed tears. " He has done that pur- 
 posely. He knew I wanted to go. But I'll get even 
 with him ! See if I don't." 
 
 " Angele ! " and Mrs. Saumarez reddened with annoy- 
 ance ; " if ever you say a word about such matters to 
 Fritz I'll pack you off to school within the hour. I 
 mean it, so believe me." 
 
 Angele stamped a rebellious foot, but curbed her 
 tongue and vanished. She ran all the way to the village 
 and was just in time to see the Mercedes bowling 
 smoothly out of sight, with Martin seated beside the 
 chauffeur. She was so angry that she stamped again in 
 rage, and Evelyn Atkinson came from the inn to inquire 
 the cause. But Angele snubbed her, bought some choc- 
 olates from Mr. Webster, and never offered the other 
 girl a taste. 
 
 It happened that Martin, for his part, had sug- 
 gested a call at the vicarage. Fritz vetoed the motion 
 promptly. 
 
 " Impossible ! " he grinned. " I had to dodge de 
 odder one, yes." 
 
 Evidently Fritz had kept both eyes and ears open. 
 
 They headed for the moors. Wise Martin had coun- 
 seled a slow speed in the village to allay Mrs. Bolland's 
 dread of a new-fangled device which she " couldn't 
 abide " ; but once on the open road the car breasted a
 
 246 The Revellers 
 
 steep hill at a rate which the boy thought neck- 
 breaking. 
 
 " Dat is nodding," said Fritz nonchalantly. " Twenty 
 twenty-five. Wait till we are on de level. Den I show 
 you fifty." 
 
 Within six minutes Martin flew past Mrs. Summers- 
 gill's moor-edge farm. Never before had he reached 
 that point in less than half an hour. The stout party 
 was in the porch, peeling potatoes for the midday 
 meal. She lifted her hands in astonishment as her 
 young friend sped by. Martin waved a greeting. He 
 could almost hear her say: 
 
 " That lad o' Bolland's must ha' gone clean daft. 
 I'm surprised at Martha te let him ride i' such a 
 conthraption." 
 
 On the hedgeless road of the undulating moor, even 
 after the ravages of the gale, fifty miles an hour was 
 practicable for long stretches. Fritz was a skilled 
 driver. He seemed to have a sixth sense which warned 
 him of rain-gullies, and slowed up to avoid straining 
 the car. He began explaining the mechanism, and halted 
 on the highest point of a far-flung tableland to lift the 
 bonnet and show the delighted boy the operations of the 
 Otto cycle. In those days the self-starter was unknown, 
 but Martin found he could start the heated engine with- 
 out any difficulty. Fritz permitted him to drive slowly, 
 and taught him the use of the brakes. Finally, this most 
 agreeable Teuton produced a packet of sandwiches. He 
 was in no hurry to return. 
 
 " Dese farms," he said, pointing to a low-built house 
 with tiled roof, and a cluster of stables and haymows, 
 " dey do not raise stock, eh? Only little sheep? "
 
 Two Moorland Episodes 247 
 
 " They all keep milk-cows, and bring butter to the 
 market, so they often have calves and yearlings," was 
 the ready answer. 
 
 "And horses?" 
 
 " Always a couple, and a nag for counting the sheep." 
 
 " How many sheep? " 
 
 " Never less than a hundred. Some flocks run to 
 three or four hundred." 
 
 "Ah. Where are dey?" 
 
 Martin, proud of his knowledge, indicated the posi- 
 tion and approximate distance of the hollows, invisible 
 for the most part, in which lay the larger holdings. 
 
 " Do you understand a map ? " inquired Fritz. 
 
 " Yes. I love maps. They tell you everything, when 
 you can read them properly." 
 
 " Not everyding," and the man smiled. " Some day 
 I want to visit one of dose big farms. Can you mark 
 a few? " 
 
 He spread an Ordnance map a clean sheet and 
 gave his guide a pencil. Soon Martin had dotted the 
 paper with accurate information, such as none but one 
 reared in that wild country could have supplied. He 
 was eager to prove his familiarity with a map, and 
 followed each bend and twist of the prehistoric glacier 
 beds, where the lowland becks had their origin. He was 
 not " showing off " before a foreigner. He loved this 
 brown moor and was only too pleased to have found a 
 sympathetic listener. 
 
 " The heather is losing its color now," he said, paus- 
 ing for a moment in his task. " You ought to see it 
 early in August, when it is all one mass of purple 
 flowers, with here and there a bunch of golden gorse
 
 248 The Revellers 
 
 * whin,' we call it. Our moor is almost free from bog- 
 holes, so you can walk or ride anywhere with safety. 
 I have often thought what a fine place it would be for 
 an army." 
 
 " Wass ist das? " cried Fritz sharply. He corrected 
 the slip with a laugh. " An army? " he went on, though 
 his newly acquired accent escaped him. " Vot woot an 
 army pe toing here ? " 
 
 " Oh, just a camp, you know. We hold maneuvers 
 every year in England." 
 
 " Yez. You coot pud all your leedle army on dis 
 grount. Bud dere iss von grade tefecd. Dere iss no 
 water. A veil, in eej farm, yez ; bud nod enough for a 
 hundret dousand men, und de horses of four di- 
 visions." 
 
 This point of view was novel to the boy. He knit 
 his brows. 
 
 "I hadn't thought of that," he confessed. But, 
 wait a bit. There's far more water here than you would 
 imagine. Stocks have to be watered, you know. Some 
 of the farmers dam the becks. Why, in the Dickenson 
 place over there," and out went a hand, " they have 
 quite a large reservoir, with trout in it. You'd never 
 guess it existed, if you weren't told." 
 
 Fritz nodded. He had turned against the breeze to 
 shield a match for a cigarette, and his face was hidden. 
 
 " You surprise me," he murmured, speaking slowly 
 and with care again. " And dere are odders, you say? " 
 
 " Five that I know of. Mrs. Walker, at the Broad 
 Ings, rears hundreds of ducks on her pond." 
 
 Fritz took the map and pencil. 
 
 " You show me," he chuckled. " I write an essay on
 
 Two Moorland Episodes 249 
 
 Yorkshire moor farms, and perhaps earn a new suit of 
 clo'es, yes? Our Cherman magazines print dose tings." 
 
 That same afternoon a party of guns on a Scottish 
 moor had been shooting driven grouse flying low and 
 fast over the butts before a strong wind. The sports- 
 men, five in number, were all experts. Around each 
 shelter, with its solitary marksman and his attendant 
 loader, lay a deep crescent of game, every bird shot 
 cleanly. 
 
 The last drive of the day was the most successful. 
 One man, whose bronzed skin and military bearing told 
 his profession, handed the empty 12-bore to the gillie 
 when the line of beaters came over the crest of the hill, 
 and betook himself, filling his pipe the while, to a group 
 of ponies waiting on the moorland road in the valley 
 beneath. 
 
 He joined another, the earliest arrival. 
 
 " Capital ground, this," he said. " I don't know 
 whose lot is the more enviable, Heronsdale yours, who 
 have the pains as well as the pleasure of ownership, or 
 that of wandering vagabonds like myself whom you 
 make your guests." 
 
 Lord Heronsdale smiled. 
 
 " You may call yourself a wandering vagabond, 
 Grant the envy rests with me," he said. " It's all 
 very well to have large estates, but I feel like degenerat- 
 ing into a sort of head gamekeeper and farm bailiff com- 
 bined. Of course, I'm proud of Cairn-corrie, yet I pine 
 sometimes for the excitement of a life that does not 
 travel in grooves." 
 
 The other shook his head.
 
 250 The Revellers 
 
 " Don't tempt fate," he said. " My life has been 
 spent among the outer beasts. It isn't worth it. For a 
 few years of a man's youth, yes perhaps. But I am 
 forty, and I live in a club. There, you have my career 
 in a nutshell." 
 
 " There is a fine kernel within. By Gad ! Grant, 
 why don't you pretend I meant that pun? I didn't, but 
 I'll claim it at dinner. Gad, it's fine ! " 
 
 Colonel Grant laughed. His mirth had a pleasant, 
 wholesome ring. 
 
 " If you bribe me with as good a berth to-morrow," 
 he said, " I'll give you the chance of throwing it off 
 spontaneously during the first lull in the conversation. 
 The best impromptus are always prepared beforehand, 
 you know." 
 
 Others came up. The shooters mounted, and the 
 wise ponies picked their way with cautious celerity over 
 an uneven track. Colonel Grant again found himself 
 riding beside his host. 
 
 " Tell you what," said Lord Heronsdale suddenly, 
 " you're a bit of an enigma, Grant." 
 
 " I have often been told that." 
 
 " Gad, I don't doubt it. A chap like you, with five 
 thousand a year, to chuck the Guards for the Indian 
 Staff Corps, exchange town for the Northwest frontier, 
 go in for potting Afghans instead of running a drag to 
 Sandown ; and, to crown all, remain a bachelor. I don't 
 understand it." 
 
 " Yet, ten minutes ago you were growling about the 
 monotony of existence at Cairn-corrie and half a dozen 
 other places."
 
 Two Moorland Episodes 251 
 
 " Not even a tu quoque like that explains the 
 mystery." 
 
 " Some day I'll tell you all about it. When the time 
 comes I must ask Lady Heronsdale to find me a nice 
 wife, with a warranty." 
 
 "Gad, that's the job for Mollie. She'll put the 
 future Mrs. Grant through her paces. You're not fly- 
 ing off to India again, then? " 
 
 " No. I heard last week that a post is to be found 
 for me in the Intelligence Department." 
 
 " Capital ! You'll soon have a K. before the C. B." 
 
 " Possibly. Some fellows wear themselves to the bone 
 in trying for those things. My scheming for years has 
 been to avoid the humdrum of cantonment life. And, 
 behold! I am spotted for promotion. I don't know 
 how the deuce they ever heard of me in Pall Mall." 
 
 " Gad ! Don't you read the papers ? " 
 
 " Never." 
 
 " My dear fellow, they were full of you last year. 
 That march through the snow, pulling those guns 
 through the pass, the final relief of the fort Gad, 
 Molly has the cuttings. She'll show 'em to you after 
 dinner." 
 
 " I sincerely hope Lady Heronsdale will do no such 
 thing. Why on earth does she keep such screeds ? " 
 
 His lordship dropped his bantering air. 
 
 " Do you really imagine, Grant," he said seriously, 
 " that either she or I will ever forget what you did for 
 Arthur at Peshawur? " 
 
 The other man reddened. 
 
 " A mere schoolboy episode," he growled. 
 
 " Yes, in a sense. Yet Arthur told me that he had
 
 252 The Revellers 
 
 a revolver in his pocket when you met him that night 
 at the mess and persuaded him to leave the business in 
 your hands. You saved our boy, Grant. Gad, ask 
 Mollie what she thinks ! " 
 
 " Has he been steady since? " 
 
 "A rock, my dear chap adamant where women are 
 concerned. His mother is beginning to worry about 
 him; he wouldn't look at Helen Forbes, and Madge 
 Bolingbrooke 'does her skirt-dances in vain. Both 
 deuced nice girls, too." 
 
 Colonel Grant had navigated the talk into a safe 
 channel, and kept it there. He never spoke of the 
 past. 
 
 At dinner a man asked him if he was reading the 
 Elmsdale sensation. He had not even heard of it, so 
 the tale of Betsy and George Pickering, of Martin 
 Bolland and Angele Saumarez was poured into his ears. 
 
 " I am interested," said his neighbor, " because I knew 
 poor Pickering. He hunted regularly with the York 
 and Ainsty." 
 
 " Saumarez ! " murmured Colonel Grant. " I once 
 met a man of that name. He was shot on the Modder 
 River." 
 
 " This girl may be his daughter. The paper de- 
 scribes her mother as a lady of independent means, visit- 
 ing the moors for her health." 
 
 " Poor Saumarez ! From what I remember of his 
 character, the child must be a chip of the same block 
 he was an irresponsible daredevil, a terror among women. 
 But he died gallantly." 
 
 " There's a lot about her in the local paper, which 
 reached me this morning. Would you care to see it? "
 
 Two Moorland Episodes 253 
 
 " Newspapers are so inaccurate. They never know 
 the facts." 
 
 Yet the colonel, not caring to play bridge, asked later 
 for the loan of the journal named by his informant, and 
 read therein the story of the village tragedy. As fate 
 willed it, the writer was the reporter of the Messenger, 
 and his account was replete with local knowledge. 
 
 Yes, Mrs. Saumarez was the widow of Colonel 
 Saumarez, late of the Hussars. But what was this? 
 
 " Martin Court Bolland, a bright-faced boy, of an 
 intelligence far greater than one looks for in rustic 
 youth, has himself a somewhat romantic history. He is 
 the adopted son of the sturdy yeoman whose name he 
 bears. Mr. and Mrs. Bolland were called to London 
 thirteen years ago to attend the funeral of the farmer's 
 brother. One evening while seeing the sights of the 
 great metropolis they found themselves in Ludgate Hill. 
 They were passing the end of St. Martin's Court, when 
 a young woman named Martineau " 
 
 The colonel laid aside his cigar and twisted his body 
 sideways, so that the light of the billiard-room lamps 
 should fall clearly on the paper yet leave his face in 
 the shade. 
 
 " a young woman named Martineau threw herself, 
 with a baby in her arms, from the fourth story of a 
 house in the court, and was killed by the fall. The 
 baby's frock was caught by a projecting sign, and the 
 child hung perilously in air. John Bolland, whose 
 strong, stern face reveals a character difficult to sur- 
 prise, impossible to daunt, jumped forward and caught 
 the tiny mite as it dropped a second time. Mrs. Bol- 
 land still treasures a letter written by the infant's
 
 254 The Revellers 
 
 unhappy mother, and prizes to the utmost the fine boy 
 whom she and her husband adopted from that hour. 
 The old couple are childless, though with Martin calling 
 them * father ' and * mother,' they would scoff at the 
 statement. This, then, is the well-knit, fearless young- 
 ster who fought the squire's son on that eventful night, 
 and whose evidence is of the utmost importance in the 
 police theory of crime, as opposed to accident." 
 
 Colonel Grant went steadily through the neat sen- 
 tences on which the Messenger correspondent prided 
 himself. He was a man of bronze; he showed no more 
 emotion than a statue, though the facts staring from 
 the printed page might well have produced external 
 signs of the tempest which sprang into instant being 
 in his soul. 
 
 He read each line of descriptive matter and report. 
 For the sorrows of Betsy, the final daring of George 
 Pickering, he had no eyes. It was the boy he sought in 
 the living record: the boy who fought young Beckett- 
 Smythe to rescue the thoughtless child for so Angele 
 figured in the text; the boy who repudiated with scorn 
 the solicitor's suggestion that he formed part and parcel 
 of the crowd of urchins gathered in the hotel yard ; the 
 farmer's adopted son, who spoke so fearlessly and bore 
 himself so well that the newspaper noted his intelligence, 
 his bright looks. 
 
 At last Colonel Grant laid down the sheet and lighted 
 a fresh cigar. He smoked for a few minutes, watching 
 the pool players, and declining an invitation to join 
 in the game. He seemed to be planning some line of 
 action ; soon he went to the library and unrolled a large 
 scale map of England. He found Nottonby Elmsdale
 
 Two Moorland Episodes 255 
 
 was too small a place to be denoted and, after consult- 
 ing a railway timetable, wrote a long telegram. 
 
 These things accomplished, he seized an opportunity 
 to tell Lord Heronsdale that business of the utmost 
 importance would take him away by the first train next 
 morning. 
 
 Of course, his host was voluble in protestations, so 
 the soldier explained matters. 
 
 " You asked me to-day," he said, " why I turned my 
 back on town thirteen years ago. I meant telling you 
 at a more convenient season. Will it suffice now to say 
 that a kindred reason tears me away from your moor? " 
 
 " Gad, I hope there is nothing wrong. Can I help ? " 
 
 " Yes ; by letting me go. You will be here until 
 October. May I return ? " 
 
 " My dear Grant " 
 
 So they settled it that way. 
 
 About three o'clock on the second day after the 
 colonel's departure from Cairn-corrie he and an elderly 
 man of unmistakably legal appearance walked from 
 Elmsdale station to the village. The station master, 
 forewarned, had procured a dogcart from the " Black 
 Lion," but the visitors preferred dispatching their port- 
 manteaux in the vehicle, and they followed on foot. 
 
 Thus it happened as odd things do happen in life 
 that the two men met a boy walking rapidly from the 
 village, and some trick of expression in his face caused 
 the colonel to halt him with a question : 
 
 " Can you tell me where the * Black Lion ' inn is ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir. On the left, just beyond the bend in the 
 road." 
 
 " And the White House Farm? "
 
 256 The Revellers 
 
 The village youth looked at the speaker with interest. 
 
 " On the right, sir; after you cross the green." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 The two men stood and stared at Martin, who was 
 dressed in a neat blue serge suit, obtained by post from 
 York, the wildcat having ruined its predecessor. The 
 older man, who reminded the boy of Mr. Stockwell, owing 
 to the searching clearness of his gaze, said not a word ; 
 but the tall, sparsely-built soldier continued for Mar- 
 tin civilly awaited his pleasure 
 
 " Is your name, by any chance, Martin Court 
 Bolland?" 
 
 The boy smiled. 
 
 " It is, sir," he said. 
 
 " Are you can you that is, if you are not busy, 
 you might show us the inn and the farm ? " 
 
 The gentleman seemed to have a slight difficulty in 
 speaking, and his eyes dwelt on Martin with a queer 
 look in them : but the answer came instantly : 
 
 " I'm sorry, sir ; but I am going to the vicarage to 
 tea, and you cannot possibly miss either place. The inn 
 has a signpost by the side of the road, and the White 
 ^House stands by itself on a small bank about a hundred 
 and fifty yards farther down the village." 
 
 The older gentleman broke in : 
 
 " That will be our best course, Colonel. We can 
 easily find our way alone." 
 
 The hint in the words was intended for the ears that 
 understood. Colonel Grant nodded, yet was loath to go. 
 
 " Is the vicar a friend of yours? " he said to Martin. 
 
 " Yes, sir. I like him very much." 
 
 " Does a Mrs. Saumarez live here? "
 
 Two Moorland Episodes 257 
 
 " Oh, yes. She is at the vicarage now, I expect." 
 
 " Indeed. You might tell her you met a Colonel 
 Grant, who knew her husband in South Africa. You 
 will not forget the name, eh Grant?" 
 
 " Of course not, sir." 
 
 Martin surveyed the stranger with redoubled atten- 
 tion. A live colonel is a rare sight in a secluded village. 
 The man, seizing any pretext to prolong the conversa- 
 tion, drew out a pocketbook. 
 
 " Here is my card," he said. " You need not give it 
 to Mrs. Saumarez. She will probably recognize my 
 name." 
 
 The boy glanced at the pasteboard. It read: 
 
 L Lieut.-Col. Reginald Grant, 
 "Indian Staff Corps" 
 
 Now, it chanced that among Martin's most valued 
 belongings was a certain monthly publication entitled 
 " Recent British Battles," and he had read that identical 
 name in the July number. As was his way, he remem- 
 bered exactly the heroic deeds with which a gallant 
 officer was credited, so he asked somewhat shyly: 
 
 " Are you Colonel Grant of Aliwal, sir? " 
 
 He pronounced the Indian word wrongly, with a short 
 " a " instead of a long one, but never did misplaced 
 accent convey sweeter sound to man's ears. The soldier 
 was positively startled. 
 
 " My dear boy," he cried, " how can you possibly 
 know me? " 
 
 " Everyone knows your name, sir. No fear of me 
 forgetting it now."
 
 258 The Revellers 
 
 The honest admiration in those brown eyes was a new 
 form of flattery; for the first time in his life Colonel 
 Grant hungered for more. 
 
 " You have astonished me more than I can tell," he 
 said. "What have you read of the Aliwal campaign? 
 All right, Dobson. We are in no hurry." This to his 
 companion, who ventured on a mild remonstrance. 
 
 " I have a book, sir, which tells you all about Aliwal " 
 this time Martin pronounced the word correctly; no 
 wonder the newspaper commented on his intelligence 
 " and it has pictures, too. There is a grand picture of 
 you, riding through the gate of the fort, sword in hand. 
 Do you mind me saying, sir, that I am very pleased to 
 have met you ? " 
 
 The man averted his eyes. He dared not look at 
 Martin. He made pretense to bite the end off a cigar. 
 He was compelled to do something to keep his lips from 
 trembling. 
 
 " I hope we shall meet often again, Martin," he said 
 slowly. " I'll tell you more than the book does, though 
 I have not read it. Run off to your friends at the 
 vicarage. Good-by ! " 
 
 He held out his hand, which the boy shook diffidently. 
 There was no doubt whatever in Martin's mind that 
 Colonel Grant was an extraordinarily nice gentleman. 
 
 " My God, Dobson ! " cried the soldier, turning again 
 to look after the alert figure of the boy ; " I have seen 
 him, spoken to him my own son! I would know him 
 among a million." 
 
 " He certainly bears a marked resemblance to your 
 own photograph at the same age," admitted the cau- 
 tious solicitor.
 
 Two Moorland Episodes 259 
 
 " And what a fine youngster ! By Jove, did you twig 
 the way he caught on to the pronunciation of Aliwal?> 
 Bless that book ! It shall be bound in the rarest leather, 
 though I never rode through that gate I ran, for dear 
 life ! I I tell you what, Dobson, I'd sooner do it now 
 than face these people, the Bollands, and explain my 
 errand. I suppose they worship him." 
 
 " The position differs from my expectations," said 
 the solicitor. " The boy does not talk like a farmer's 
 son. And he is going to tea at the vicarage with a lady 
 of good social position. Can the Bollands be of higher 
 grade than we are led to believe? " 
 
 " The newspaper is my only authority. Ah, here is 
 the * Black Lion.' " 
 
 Mrs. Atkinson bustled forward to assure the gentle- 
 men that she could accommodate them. Colonel Grant 
 was allotted the room in which George Pickering died! 
 It was the best in the hotel. He glanced for a moment 
 through the window and took in the scene of the tragedy. 
 
 " That must be where the two young imps fought," 
 he murmured, with a smile, as he looked into the yard. 
 " Gad ! as Heronsdale says, I'd like to have seen the 
 battle. And my boy whipped the other chap, who was 
 bigger and older, the paper said." 
 
 Soon the two men were climbing the slight acclivity 
 on which stood the White House. The door stood hos- 
 pitably open, as was ever the case about tea-time in fine 
 weather. In the front kitchen was Martha, alone. 
 
 The colonel advanced. 
 
 " Is Mr. Bolland at home? " he asked, raising his hat. 
 
 " Noa, sir ; he isn't. But he's on'y i' t' cow-byre. If 
 it's owt important "
 
 260 The Revellers 
 
 He followed her meaning sufficiently. 
 
 " Will you oblige me by sending for him ? And er 
 is Mrs. Holland here? " 
 
 " I'm Mrs. Bolland, sir." 
 
 " Oh, I beg your pardon. Of course, I did not know 
 you." 
 
 He thought he would find a much younger woman. 
 Martha, in the close-fitting sunbonnet, with its wide 
 flaps, her sleeves rolled up, and her outer skirt pinned 
 behind to keep it clear of the dirt during unceasing 
 visits to dairy and hen-roosts, looked even older than she 
 was, her real age being fifty-five. 
 
 "Will you kindly be seated, gentlemen?" she said. 
 She was sure they were county folk come about the 
 stock. Her husband's growing reputation as a breeder 
 of prize cattle brought such visitors occasionally. She 
 wondered why the taller stranger asked for her, but he 
 said no more, taking a chair in silence. 
 
 She dispatched a maid to summon the master. 
 
 " Hev ye coom far ? " she asked bluntly. 
 
 Colonel Grant looked around. His eyes were search- 
 ing the roomy kitchen for tokens of its occupants' ways. 
 
 " We traveled from Darlington to Elmsdale," he said, 
 " and walked here from the station." 
 
 " My goodness, ye'll be fair famished. Hev summat 
 te eat. There's plenty o' tea an' cakes ; an' if ye'd fancy 
 some ham an' eggs " 
 
 " Pray do not trouble, Mrs. Bolland," said the colonel 
 when he had grasped the full extent of the invitation. 
 " We wish to have a brief talk with you and your hus- 
 band. Afterwards, if you ask us, we shall be most 
 pleased to accept your hospitality."
 
 Two Moorland Episodes 261 
 
 He spoke so genially, with such utter absence of affec- 
 tation, that Martha rather liked him. Yet, what could 
 she have to do with the business in hand ? Anyhow, here 
 came John, crossing the road with heavy strides. 
 
 The farmer paused just within the threshold. His 
 huge frame filled the doorway. He wore spectacles for 
 reading only, and his deep-sunken eyes rested steadily, 
 first on Colonel Grant, then on the solicitor. Then they 
 went back to the colonel and did not leave him again. 
 
 " Good day, gentlemen," he said. " What can I dea 
 for ye?" 
 
 The man who stormed forts on horseback in pic- 
 tures quailed at the task before him. He nodded to 
 the solicitor. 
 
 " Dobson," he said, " you know all the circumstances. 
 Oblige me by stating them fully." 
 
 The solicitor, who seemed to expect this request, pro- 
 duced a bulky packet of papers and photographs. He 
 prefaced his explanation by giving his companion's 
 name and rank, and introduced himself as a member of 
 the firm of Dobson, Son and Smith, Solicitors, of Lin- 
 coln's Inn Fields. 
 
 " Fifteen years ago," he went on, " Colonel Grant 
 was a subaltern, a junior officer, in the Guards, stationed 
 in London. A slight accident one day outside a railway 
 station led him to make the acquaintance of a young 
 lady. She was hurrying to catch a train, when she was 
 knocked down by a frightened horse, and might have 
 been injured seriously were it not for Lieutenant Grant's 
 prompt assistance. He escorted her to her lodgings, and 
 discovered that she was what is known in London as 6. 
 daily governess in other words, a poor, well-educated
 
 262 The Revellers 
 
 woman striving to earn a respectable living. The horse 
 had trampled on her foot, and she required proper 
 attention and rest; a brief interview with her landlady 
 enabled Mr. Grant to make the requisite arrangements, 
 unknown to the young lady herself. He called a week 
 later and found that she was quite recovered. She was 
 a very beautiful girl, of a lively disposition, only twenty 
 years of age, and working hard in her spare time to 
 perfect herself as a musician. She had no idea of the 
 social rank of her new friend, or perhaps matters might 
 have turned out differently. As it was, they met fre- 
 quently, became engaged, and were married. I have 
 here a copy of the marriage certificate." 
 
 He selected a long, narrow strip of blue paper from 
 the documents he had placed before him on the kitchen 
 table. He opened it and offered it to Bolland, as though 
 he wished the farmer to examine it. John did not move. 
 He was still looking intently at Colonel Grant. 
 
 Martha, all a-flutter, with an indefinite anxiety wrin- 
 kling the corners of her eyes, said quickly : 
 " What might t' young leddy's neam be, sir ? " 
 " Margaret Ingram. She was of a Gloucestershire 
 family, but her parents were dead, and she had no near 
 relatives." 
 
 Martha cried, somewhat tartly: 
 " An' what hez all this te dea wi' us, sir? " 
 " Let be, wife. Bide i' patience. T' gentleman will 
 tell us, nea doot." 
 
 John's voice was hard, almost dissonant. The solic- 
 itor gave him a rapid glance. That harsh tone boded 
 ill for the smooth accomplishment of his mission. 
 Martha wondered why her husband gazed so fixedly at
 
 Two Moorland Episodes 263 
 
 the other man who spoke not. But she toyed nervously 
 with her apron and held her peace. Mr. Dobson 
 resumed : 
 
 " The young couple could not start housekeeping 
 openly. Lieutenant Grant depended solely on the allow- 
 ance made to him by his father, whose ideas of family 
 pride were so extreme that such a marriage must unques- 
 tionably have led to a rupture. Moreover, a campaign 
 in northern India was then threatening. It broke out 
 exactly a year and two months after the marriage. 
 Mr. Grant's regiment was ordered to the front, and 
 when he sailed from Southampton he left his young wife 
 and an infant, a boy, four months old, installed in a 
 comfortable flat in Clarges Street, Piccadilly. It is 
 important that the exact position of family affairs at 
 this moment should be realized. General Grant, father 
 of the young officer, had suffered from an apopletic 
 stroke soon after his son's marriage, and to acquaint 
 him with it now meant risking his life. Young Grant's 
 action was known to and approved by several trust- 
 worthy friends. He and his wife were very happy, and 
 Mrs. Grant was correspondingly depressed when the 
 exigencies of the national service took her husband 
 away from her. The parting between the young couple 
 was a bitter trial, rendered all the more heartrending by 
 reason of the concealment they had practiced. How- 
 ever, as matters had been allowed to drift thus far, no 
 one will pretend that there was any special need to 
 worry General Grant at the moment of his son's de- 
 parture for a campaign. Lieutenant Grant hoped to 
 return with a step in rank. Then, whatever the conse- 
 quences, there must be a full explanation. He had not
 
 264 The Revellers 
 
 a great deal of money, but sufficient for his wife's needs. 
 He left her two hundred pounds in notes and gold, and 
 his bankers were empowered to pay her fifty pounds 
 monthly. His own allowance from General Grant was 
 seventy-five pounds a month, and it was with great diffi- 
 culty that he maintained his position in such an expen- 
 sive regiment as the Guards. The campaign eased the 
 pressure, or he could not have kept it up for long." 
 
 " Are all these details quite necessary, Dobson? " said 
 the colonel, for the steady glare of the farmer, the grow- 
 ing pallor of poor Martha, around whose heart an icy 
 hand was taking sure grip, were exceedingly irk- 
 some. 
 
 " They are if I am to do you justice," replied the 
 lawyer. 
 
 " Never mind me. Tell them of Margaret and the 
 boy." 
 
 " I will pass over the verification of my state- 
 ment," went on Mr. Dobson, bending over the folded 
 papers. " Seven months passed. Mrs. Grant ex- 
 pected soon to be delivered of another child. She 
 heard regularly from her husband. His regiment was in 
 the Khyber Pass, when one evening she was robbed of 
 her small store of jewelry and a considerable sum of 
 money by a trusted servant. The theft was reported 
 in the papers, and General Grant read of his son's wife 
 being a resident in Clarges Street. He went to the flat 
 next day, saw the poor girl, behaved in a way that can 
 only be ascribed to the folly of an old man broken by 
 disease, and cut off supplies at once. Within a week 
 Mrs. Grant found herself in poverty, and her husband 
 at least a month's post distant. She did not lose her
 
 Two Moorland Episodes 265 
 
 wits. She sold her furniture and raised money enough 
 to support herself and her baby boy for some time. Of 
 course, she was very much distressed, as General Grant 
 wrote to her, called her an adventuress, and stated that 
 he had disinherited his son on her account. This was 
 only partly true. He tore up one will, but made no 
 other, and forgot that there was a second copy in pos- 
 session of my firm. Mrs. Grant then did a foolish thing. 
 She concealed her troubles from her husband's friends, 
 who would have helped her. She took cheap lodgings 
 in another part of London, and changed her name. 
 This seems to be accounted for by the fact that General 
 Grant, in his insane suspicions, set private detectives to 
 watch her. Moreover, the bankers wrote her a curt let- 
 ter which added to her miseries. She rented rooms in 
 St. Martin's Court, Ludgate Hill, and gave her name 
 as Mrs. Martineau." 
 
 Martha sprang at the solicitor with an eerie screech : 
 
 " Hev ye coom to steal oor bairn, the bonny lad we've 
 reared i' infancy an' childhood? Leave this house! 
 John husband will ye let 'em drive me mad? " 
 
 John took her in his arms. 
 
 " Martha," he said, with a break in his voice that 
 shook his hearers and stilled his wife's cries ; " dinnat 
 mak' oor burthen harder te bear. A man's heart deviseth 
 his way, but the Lord directeth his steps ! " 
 
 Servants, men and women, came running at their mis- 
 tress's scream of terror. They stood, abashed, in the 
 kitchen passage. None paid heed to them. 
 
 Colonel Grant rose and approached the trembling 
 woman cowering at her husband's side. Her old eyes 
 were streaming now; she gazed at him with the pitiful
 
 266 The Revellers 
 
 anguish of a stricken animal. He took her wrinkled 
 hand and bent low before her. 
 
 " Madam," he said, " God forbid that my son should 
 lose his mother a second time ! " 
 
 He could say no other word. Even in her agony, 
 Martha felt hot tears falling on her bare arm, and they 
 were not her own. 
 
 " Eh, but it's a sad errand ye're on," she sobbed. 
 
 " Wife, wife ! " cried John huskily, " if thou faint in 
 the day of adversity thy strength is small. Colonel 
 Grant is a true man. It's in his feace. He wean't rive 
 Martin frae yer arms, an' no man can tak' him frae yer 
 heart." 
 
 Colonel Grant drew himself up. He caught Bolland's 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Bear with me," he said. " I have suffered much. 
 I lost my wife and two children, one unborn. They 
 were torn from me as though by a destroying tempest. 
 One is given back, after thirteen long years of mourning. 
 Can you not spare me a place in his affections ? " 
 
 " Ay, ay," growled John. " We're nobbut owd folk 
 at t' best, an' t' lad was leavin' oor roof for school in- 
 a little while. We can sattle things like sensible people, 
 if on'y Martha here will gie ower greetin'. It troubles 
 me sair to hear her lamentin'. We've had no sike deed 
 i' thirty-fower years o' married life." 
 
 The man was covering his own distress by solicitude 
 in his wife's behalf. She knew it. She wiped her eyes 
 defiantly with her apron and made pretense to smile, 
 though she had received a shock she would remember to 
 her dying day. Some outlet was necessary for her sur- 
 charged feelings. She whisked around on the crowd of
 
 Two Moorland Episodes 267 
 
 amazed domestics, dairymaids and farmhands, pressing 
 on each other's heels in the passage. 
 
 " What are ye gapin' at ? " she cried shrilly. " Is 
 there nowt te dea? If tea's overed, git on wi' yer work, 
 an' be sharp aboot it, or I'll side ye quick ! " 
 
 The stampede that followed relieved the situation. 
 The servants faded away under her fiery glance. Colonel 
 Grant smiled. 
 
 " I am glad to see," he said, " that you maintain dis- 
 cipline in your regiment." 
 
 " They're all ears an' nea brains," she said. " My, 
 but I'm that upset I hardly ken what I'm sayin'. Mebbe 
 ye'll finish yer tale, sir. I'm grieved I med sike a dash 
 at ye, but I couldn't bide " 
 
 " There, there," said John, with his gruff soothing, 
 " sit ye doon an' listen quietly. I guessed their business 
 t' first minnit I set eyes on t' colonel. Why, Martha, 
 look at him. He hez Martin's eyes and Martin's mouth. 
 Noo, ye'd hev dark-brown hair, I reckon, when ye were 
 a lad, sir? " 
 
 For answer, Colonel Grant stooped to the lawyer's 
 papers and took from them a framed miniature. 
 
 " That is my portrait at the age of twelve," he said, 
 placing it before them. 
 
 "Eh, but that caps owt!" cried Martha. "It's 
 Martin hissel! Oh, my honey, how little did I think 
 what was coomin' when I set yer shirt an' collar ready, 
 an' med ye tidy te gan te tea wi' t' fine folk at t' vicar- 
 age. An' noo ye're a better bred 'un than ony of 'em. 
 The Lord love ye! Here ye are, smilin' at me. They 
 may mak' ye a colonel or a gin'ral, for owt I care : ye'll 
 nivver forgit yer poor old muther, will ye, my bairn ! "
 
 268 The Revellers 
 
 She kissed the miniature as if it were Martin's own 
 presentment. The men left her to sob again in silence. 
 Soon she calmed herself sufficiently to ask : 
 
 " But why i' t' wulld did that poor lass throw herself 
 an' her little 'un inte t' street? " 
 
 Mr. Dobson took up his story once more: 
 
 " She explained her action in a pathetic letter to her 
 husband. She was ill, lonely, and poverty-stricken. 
 She brooded for days on General Grant's cruel words 
 and still more cruel letter. They led her to believe that 
 she was the unwitting cause of her husband's ruin. She 
 resolved to free him absolutely and at the same time pre- 
 serve his name from notoriety. Therefore she wrote 
 him a full account of her change of name, and told him 
 that her children would die with her." 
 
 " That was a mad thing te dea." 
 
 " Exactly. The doctor who knew her best told her 
 husband six months later that Mrs. Grant was, in his 
 opinion, suffering from an unrecognized attack of puer- 
 peral fever. It was latent in her system, and developed 
 with the trouble so suddenly brought upon her." 
 
 " Yon was a wicked owd man " 
 
 " The general was called to account by a higher 
 power. Mrs. Grant wrote him also a statement of her 
 intentions. Next morning he read of her death, and a 
 second attack of apoplexy proved fatal. Her letter did 
 not reach her husband until after a battle in which he 
 was wounded. He cabled to us, and we made every in- 
 quiry, but it was remarkable how chance baffled our 
 efforts. In the first instance, the policeman whom you 
 encountered in Ludgate Hill and who knew you had 
 adopted the child, had left the force and emigrated,.
 
 Two Moorland Episodes 269 
 
 owing to some unfortunate love affair. In the second, 
 several newspapers reported the child as dead, though 
 the records of the inquest soon corrected that error. 
 Thirdly, someone named Bolland died in the hotel where 
 you stayed and was buried at Highgate " 
 
 " My brother," put in John. 
 
 " Yes ; we know now. But conceive the barrier thus 
 placed in our path when the dates of, the two events 
 were compared long afterwards." 
 
 The farmer looked puzzled. The solicitor went on : 
 
 " Of course, you wonder why there should have been 
 any delay, but the Coroner's notes were lost in a fire. 
 Nevertheless, we advertised in dozens of newspapers." 
 
 " We hardly ever see a paper, sir," said Martha. 
 
 " Yet, the wonder is that some of your friends did not 
 see it and tell you. Finally, a sharp-witted clerk of ours 
 solved the Highgate Cemetery mystery, and the adver- 
 tisements were repeated. Colonel Grant was back in 
 India by that time trying hard to leave his bones there, 
 by all accounts, and perhaps we did not spend as much 
 money on this second quest as if he were at home to 
 authorize the expenditure." 
 
 " When was that, sir t' second lot o' advertisements, 
 I mean ? " asked John. 
 
 " Quite a year after Mrs. Grant's death." 
 
 Bolland stroked his chin thoughtfully. 
 
 " I remember," he said, " a man at Malton fair 
 sayin' summat aboot an inquiry for me. But yan o' t' 
 hands rode twenty miles across counthry te tell me that 
 Martin had gotten t' measles, an' I kem yam that neet." 
 
 " Naturally, I can give you every proof of my state- 
 ments," said Mr. Dobson. " They are all here "
 
 270 The Revellers 
 
 " Mebbe ye'll know this writin'," interrupted Martha, 
 laying down the miniature for the first time. She un- 
 locked a drawer, took out a small tin box, and from its 
 depths produced, among other articles, a crumbling sheet 
 of note paper. On it was written : 
 
 " My name is not Martineau. I have killed myself 
 and my boy. If he dies with his unhappy mother he 
 will never know the miseries of this life." 
 
 It was unsigned, undated, a hurried scrawl in faded 
 ink. 
 
 " Margaret's handwriting," said Colonel Grant, 
 looking at the pathetic message with sorrow-laden 
 eyes. 
 
 " It was found on t' poor leddy's dressin'-table, 
 fastened wi' a hatpin. An' these are t' clothes Martin 
 wore when he fell into John's arms. Nay, sir," she 
 added, as Colonel Grant began examining the little 
 frock, " she took good care, poor thing, that neabody 
 should find oot whea she was. Ivvery mark hez bin 
 picked off." 
 
 " Martin is his feyther's son, or I ken nowt aboot 
 stock," cried John Bolland, making a fine effort to 
 dispel the depression which again possessed the little 
 gathering at sight of these mournful mementoes of the 
 dead past. " Coom, gentlemen, sit ye doon an' hev 
 some tea. Ye'll not be for takkin' Martin away by t' 
 next train. Martha, what's t' matter wi' ye? I've 
 nivver known folk be so lang i' t' hoose afore an' not be 
 asked if they had a mooth." 
 
 " Ye're on t' wrang gait this time, John," she re- 
 torted. " I axed 'em afore ye kem in. By this time,
 
 Two Moorland Episodes 271 
 
 sure-ly, ye'll be wantin' soom ham an' eggs ? " she added 
 to the visitors. 
 
 " By Jove ! I believe I could eat some," laughed the 
 colonel. 
 
 Martha smiled once more. She liked Martin's father. 
 Each moment the first favorable impression was deepen- 
 ing. She was on the point of bustling away to the back 
 kitchen, when they all heard the patter of feet, in des- 
 perate haste, approaching the front door. Elsie Her- 
 bert dashed in. She was hatless. Her long brown hair 
 was floating in confusion over her shoulders and down 
 her back. She was crying in great gulps and gasping 
 for breath. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Bolland!" she wailed. "Oh, Mrs. Bol- 
 land! what shall I say? Martin is hurt. He fell off 
 the swing. Angele did it! I'll kill her! I'll tear her 
 face with my hands ! Oh, come, someone, and help 
 father. He is trying to bring back Martin's senses. 
 What shall I do? it was all on my account. Oh, dear! 
 Oh, dear!" 
 
 And she sank fainting to the floor.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 THE SEVEN FULL YEARS 
 
 BUT Martin was not dead, nor even seriously injured. 
 At first, the affair looked so ugly its main features 
 were so incomprehensible that Mr. Herbert was 
 startled into somewhat panic-stricken action. Here 
 was Martin lying unconscious on the ground, with Elsie 
 kneeling by his side, passionately beseeching him in one 
 breath to speak to her, and in the next accusing Angele 
 Saumarez of murder. 
 
 The vicar was not blameworthy, in that he failed to 
 grasp either the nature of the accusation or its seeming 
 unreasonableness. 
 
 The single rope of the gymnastic swing erected in 
 the garden for Elsie's benefit had been cut deliberately 
 with a sharp knife a few inches above the small bar on 
 which the user's weight was supported by both hands. 
 Of the cutting there could be no manner of doubt. The 
 jagged edges of the few strands left by a devilish inge- 
 nuity so that the swing must need be in violent motion 
 before the rope snapped were clearly visible at the 
 point of severance. But who had done this thing, and 
 with what deadly object in view? And why did Elsie 
 pitch on Angele Saumarez so readily, glaring at her 
 with such eyes of vengeance that the vicar was con- 
 strained to order, with the utmost sternness of which he 
 
 272
 
 The Seven Full Years 273 
 
 was capable, that the torrent of words should cease. 
 Indeed, he dispatched her to acquaint the Bollands with 
 tidings of the disaster as a haphazard pretext to get 
 her out of the way. Apart from sensing the accident's 
 inexplicable motive, its history was simple enough. 
 
 Before tea was served, Martin and Elsie were using 
 the swing alternately, vying with each other in the effort 
 to touch with their toes the leaves of a tree nearly twenty 
 feet distant from the vertical line of the rope. Angele, 
 of course, took no part in this contest; she contented 
 herself with a sarcastic incredulity when Elsie vowed 
 that she had accomplished the feat twice already. 
 
 Martin, stronger, but less skilled in the trick of the 
 swing than the girl, strove hard to excel her. Yet he, 
 too, fell short by a few inches time after time. At last, 
 Elsie vowed that when she was rested after tea she 
 would prove her words, and threw a pebble at the branch 
 which she claimed to have reached a week ago. 
 
 Neither Mrs. Saumarez nor the vicar attached any 
 weight to the somewhat emphatic argument between the 
 two girls. It was a splendid contest between Mar- 
 tin and Elsie. It interested the elders for conflicting 
 reasons. 
 
 To see the graceful girl propelling herself through 
 the air in a curve of nearly forty feet at each pendulum 
 stroke of the swing was a pleasing sight to her father, 
 but it caused Mrs. Saumarez to regret again that her 
 daughter had not been taught to think more of athletic 
 exercises and less of dress. 
 
 While the young people were following their seniors 
 to the drawing-room, Angele said to Elsie : 
 
 " I think I could do that myself with a little practice."
 
 274 The Revellers 
 
 " You are not tall enough," was the uncompromising 
 answer, for Elsie's temper was ruffled by the simpering 
 unbelief with which the other treated her assurances. 
 
 " Not so tall, no ; but I can bend back like this, and 
 you cannot." 
 
 Without a second's hesitation Angele twisted her head 
 and shoulders around until her chin was in a line with 
 her heels. Then she dropped lightly so that her hands 
 rested on the grass of the lawn, straightening herself 
 with equal ease. The contortion was performed so 
 quickly that neither Mr. Herbert nor Mrs. Saumarez 
 was aware of it. It was a display not suited to the con- 
 ditions of ordinary costume, and it necessarily exhibited 
 portions of the attire not usually in evidence. 
 
 Martin had eyes only for the girl's acrobatic agility, 
 but Elsie blushed. 
 
 " I don't like that," she said. 
 
 " I can stand on my head and walk on my hands," 
 cried Angele instantly. " Martin, some day I'll show 
 you." 
 
 Conscious though she was that these things were said 
 to annoy her, Elsie remembered that Angele was a 
 guest. 
 
 " How did you learn ? " she asked. " Were you 
 taught in school? " 
 
 " School ! Me ! I have never been to school. Edu- 
 cation is the curse of children's lives. I never leave 
 mamma. One day in Nice I saw a circus girl doing 
 tricks of that sort. I practiced in my bedroom." 
 
 " Does your mother wish that? " 
 
 " She doesn't know." 
 
 " I wonder you haven't broken your neck," said the
 
 The Seven Full Years 275 
 
 practical Martin, who felt his bones creaking at the 
 mere notion of such twisting. 
 
 Angele laughed. 
 
 " It is quite easy, when you are slim and elegant." 
 
 Her vanity amused the boy. 
 
 " You speak as though Elsie were as stiff as a board," 
 he said. " If you had watched her carefully, Angele, you 
 would have seen that she is quite as supple as you, only 
 in a different way. And she is strong, too. I dare say 
 she could swing with one hand and carry you in the 
 other, if she had a mind to try." 
 
 This ready advocacy of a new-found divinity angered 
 Angele beyond measure. Possibly she meant no greater 
 harm than the disconcerting of a rival; but she slipped 
 out of the room when Mr. Herbert sent Elsie to the 
 library to bring a portfolio of old prints which he 
 wished to show Mrs. Saumarez. Although it was never 
 definitely proved against Angele, someone tampered with 
 the rope before a move was made to the garden after 
 tea. The cause, the effect, were equally clear; the 
 human agent remained unknown. 
 
 " Now, I'll prove my words," cried Elsie, darting 
 across the lawn in front of the others. 
 
 " Here, it's my turn," shouted the boy gleefully. " I'll 
 race you." 
 
 " Martin ! Martin ! I want you ! " shrieked Angele, 
 running after him. 
 
 He paid no heed to her cries. Outstripping both girls 
 in the race, he sprang at the swing, and was carried 
 almost to the debated limit of the tree by the impetus 
 of the rush. When he felt himself stopping he threw 
 up his feet in a wild effort to touch the leaves so tanta-
 
 276 The Revellers 
 
 lizingly out of reach, and in that instant the rope broke. 
 
 He turned completely over and fell with a heavy thud 
 on the back of his bent head. - The screaming of the girls 
 brought the vicar from his prints in great alarm, and 
 his agitation increased when he discovered that the boy 
 could neither move nor speak. 
 
 Elsie was halfway to the White House before Martin 
 regained his breath. Once vitality returned, however, 
 he was quickly on his feet again. 
 
 " What happened ? " he asked, craning his head awk- 
 wardly. " I thought someone fired a gun ! " 
 
 " You frightened us nearly out of our wits," cried 
 the vicar. " And I was stupid enough to send Elsie 
 flying to your people. Goodness knows what she will 
 have said to them ! " 
 
 Promptly the boy shook himself and tried to break 
 into a run. 
 
 " I must follow her," he gasped. But not yet was 
 the masterful spirit able to control relaxed muscles ; he 
 collapsed again. 
 
 Mrs. Saumarez cried aloud in a new fear, but the 
 vicar, accustomed to the minor accidents of the cricket 
 field and gymnasium, was cooler now. 
 
 " He's all right only needs a drink of water and a 
 few minutes' rest," he explained. 
 
 He bade one of the maids go as quickly as possible 
 to the Bollands' farm and say that the mischief to 
 Martin was a mere nothing, and then busied himself in 
 more scientific fashion with restoring his patient's 
 animation. 
 
 Unfastening the boy's collar and the neckband of his 
 shirt, Mr. Herbert satisfied himself that the clavicle
 
 The Seven Full Tears 277 
 
 was uninjured. There was a slight abrasion of the 
 scalp, which was sore to the touch. In a minute, or less, 
 Martin was again protesting that there was little the 
 matter with him. He would not be satisfied until the 
 vicar allowed him to start once more for the village, 
 though at a more sedate pace. 
 
 Then Mrs. Saumarez, in a voice of deep dis- 
 tress, asked Mr. Herbert if the rope had really been 
 cut. 
 
 " Yes," he said. " You can see yourself that there 
 is no doubt about it." 
 
 " But your daughter charged Angele with this this 
 crime. My child denies it. She has no knife or imple- 
 ment of any sort in her pocket. I assure you I have 
 satisfied myself on that point." 
 
 " The affair is a mystery, Mrs. Saumarez. It must 
 be cleared up. Thank God, Martin escaped ! He might 
 be lying here dead at this moment." 
 
 " Are you sure it was not an accident? " 
 
 "What am I to say? Here is a stout hempen cord 
 with nearly all its strands severed as if with a razor, 
 and the other torn asunder. And, from what I can 
 gather, it was Elsie, and not Martin, for whose benefit 
 this diabolical outrage was planned." 
 
 The vicar spoke warmly, but the significance of the 
 incident was dawning slowly on his perplexed mind. 
 Providence alone had ordained that neither the boy nor 
 the girl had been gravely, perhaps fatally, injured. 
 
 Mrs. Saumarez was haggard. She seemed to have 
 aged in those few minutes. 
 
 " Angele ! " she cried. 
 
 The girl, who was soblnng, came to her.
 
 278 The Revellers 
 
 " Can it be possible," said the distracted mother, 
 " that you interfered with the swing? Why did you 
 leave the drawing-room during tea ? " 
 
 " I only went to stroke a cat, mamma. Indeed, I 
 never touched the swing. Why should I? And I could 
 not cut it with my fingers." 
 
 " On second thoughts," said the vicar coldly, " I 
 think that the matter may be allowed to rest where it is. 
 Of course, one of my servants may be the culprit, or a 
 mischievous village youth who had been watching the 
 children at play. But the two girls do not seem to get 
 on well together, Mrs. Saumarez. I fear they are en- 
 dowed with widely different temperaments." 
 
 The hint could not be ignored. The lady smiled 
 bitterly. 
 
 " It is well that I should have decided already to leave 
 Elmsdale," she said. " It is a charming place, but my 
 visit has not been altogether fortunate." 
 
 Mr. Herbert remembered the curious phrase in after 
 years. He understood it then. At the moment he was 
 candidly relieved when Mrs. Saumarez and 'Angele took 
 their departure. He jammed on a hat and hastened to 
 the White House to learn what sort of sensation Elsie 
 had created. 
 
 A week later he made a discovery. He had a curious 
 hobby he was his own bootmaker, and Elsie's, having 
 taught himself to be a craftsman in an art which might 
 well claim higher rank than it holds. When next he 
 rummaged among his implements for a shoemaker's 
 knife it was missing. It was found in the garden next 
 spring, jammed to the top of the hilt into the soft 
 mold beneath a rhododendron. The tools were kept on
 
 The Seven Full Years 279 
 
 a bench in the conservatory; so Angele might have 
 accomplished her impish desire in a few seconds. 
 
 On reaching the White House he was mildly surprised 
 at finding Martin propped against the knee of a tall, 
 soldierly stranger, who was consoling the boy with a 
 reminiscence of a far worse toss at polo, by which a 
 hard sola topi was flattened on the iron surface of an 
 Indian maidan. Elsie, white, but much interested, was 
 sipping a glass of milk. 
 
 " Eh, Vicar," cried Mrs. Bolland, in whose face Mr. 
 Herbert saw signs of recent excitement, " your lass gev 
 us a rare start. She landed here like a mad thing, 
 screamed oot that Martin was dead, an' dropped te t' 
 flure half dead herself." 
 
 " The fault was mine, Mrs. Bolland. There was an 
 accident. At first I thought Martin was badly hurt. 
 I am, indeed, very sorry if Elsie alarmed you." 
 
 His words were meant to reassure the others, but his 
 eyes were fixed on the girl's pallid face. John Bolland 
 laughed in his dry way. 
 
 " Nay, Passon, dinna fret aboot Elsie. She's none t' 
 warse for a sudden stop. She was ower-excited. 
 Where's yon lass o' Mrs. Saumarez's? " 
 
 " Gone home with her mother. I hear they are leav- 
 ing Elmsdale." 
 
 " A good riddance ! " said John heartily. He turned 
 to Martin. " Ye'll be winded again, I reckon? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Well, I left my ash stick i' t' low yard. Mebbe 
 you an' t' young leddy will fetch it. There's noa need 
 te hurry." 
 
 This was an oblique instruction to the boy to make
 
 280 The Revellers 
 
 himself scarce for half an hour. With Elsie as a com- 
 panion he needed no urging. They set off, happy as 
 grigs. 
 
 " Noo, afore ye start te fill t' vicar wi' wunnerment," 
 cried Martha, " I want te ax t' colonel a question." 
 
 "What is it, Mrs. Bolland?" 
 
 Colonel Grant was smiling at the vicar's puzzled air. 
 These good people knew naught of formal introductions. 
 
 " How old is t' lad? " 
 
 " He was fourteen years old on the sixth of last 
 June." 
 
 " Eh, but that's grand." She clapped her hands de- 
 lightedly. " I guessed him tiv a week or two. We 
 reckoned his birthday as a twel'month afore we found 
 him, and that was June the eighteenth. And what's his 
 right neam? " 
 
 " He was christened after me and after his mother's 
 family. His name is Reginald Ingram Grant." 
 
 " May I ask who in the world you are talking about? " 
 interposed the perplexed vicar. 
 
 " Wheii? Why, oor Martin ! " cried Martha. " He's 
 a gentleman born, God bless him ! " 
 
 " And, what is much more important, Mrs. Bolland, 
 he is a gentleman bred," said the colonel. 
 
 The scene in the kitchen of the White House had 
 been too dramatic that some hint of it should not reach 
 the village that night. Soon all Elmsdale knew that 
 the mystery of Martin's parentage had been solved, 
 and great was the awe of the boy's playmates when they 
 heard that his father was a " real live colonel i' t' 
 army." A garbled version of the story came to Mr.
 
 The Seven Full Years 281 
 
 Beckett-Smythe's ears, and he called on Colonel Grant 
 at the " Black Lion " next day. 
 
 He arrived in state, in a new Mercedes car, handled 
 by a chauffeur replica .of Fritz Bauer. Beckett-Smythe 
 had hardly mastered his surprise at the colonel's con- 
 firmation of that which he had regarded as " an in- 
 credible yarn " when Mrs. Saumarez drove up. She, 
 too, recalling the message brought by Martin from her 
 husband's comrade-in-arms, came to verify the strange 
 tale told by the Misses Walker. Angele accompanied 
 her, and the girl's eyes shot lightning at Martin, who 
 was on the point of guiding his father to the moor when 
 Mr. Beckett-Smythe put in an appearance. 
 
 The lawyer had departed for London by the morning 
 train; the three older people and the two youngsters 
 gathered in the room thus set at liberty, Mrs. Atkinson 
 having remodeled it into a sitting-room for the colonel's 
 use. 
 
 Mrs. Saumarez hailed the stranger effusively. 
 
 " It is delightful to run across anyone who knew my 
 husband," she said. " In this remote part of Yorkshire 
 none seems to have ever heard of him. Believe me, 
 Colonel Grant, it is positively a relief to meet a man 
 who recognizes my name." 
 
 She may have intended this for an oblique thrust at 
 Beckett-Smythe, relations between the Hall and The 
 Elms having been somewhat strained since the inquest. 
 The Squire, a good fellow, who had no inkling of 
 Angela's latest escapade, hastened to make amends. 
 
 " You two must want to chat over old times," he said 
 breezily. "Why not come and dine with me to-night? 
 I have only one other guest an Admiralty man. He's
 
 282 The Revellers 
 
 prowling about the coast trying to select a suitable 
 site for a wireless station." 
 
 Now, Mrs. Saumarez would have declined the invita- 
 tion had Beckett-Smythe stopped short at the first sen- 
 tence. As it was, she accepted instantly. 
 
 " Do come, Colonel Grant," she urged. " What be- 
 tween the Navy and the Intelligence Department it 
 should be an interesting evening. . . . Oh, don't look 
 so surprised," she went on, with an engaging smile. 
 " I still read the Gazette, you know." 
 
 "And what of the kiddies?" said Beckett-Smythe. 
 " They know my boys. Your chauffeur can bring them 
 home at nine. By the way, the meal will be quite in- 
 formal come as you are-" 
 
 " What do you say, Martin? " said the colonel. 
 
 " I shall be very pleased, sir ; but may I ask my 
 mother first? " 
 
 The boy reddened. His new place in the world was 
 only twenty-four hours old, and his ideas were not yet 
 adjusted to an order of things so astounding that he 
 thought every minute he would wake up and find he 
 had been dreaming. 
 
 " Oh, certainly," and a kindly hand fell on his shoul- 
 der. " I am glad you spoke of it. Mrs. Bolland is 
 worthy of all the respect due to the best of mothers." 
 
 " I'll go with you, Martin," announced Angele sud- 
 denly. 
 
 Martin hesitated. He was doubtful of the reception 
 Mrs. Bolland might give the minx who had nearly 
 caused him to break his neck, and, for his own part, he 
 wanted to avoid Angele altogether. She was a disturb- 
 ing influence. He feared her not at all as a spitfire.
 
 The Seven Full Years 283 
 
 It was when she displayed her most engaging qualities 
 that she was really dangerous, and he knew from experi- 
 ence that her mood had changed within the past five 
 minutes. On alighting from the car she would like to 
 have scratched his face. Now he would not be surprised 
 if she elected to walk with him hand in hand through 
 the village street. 
 
 His father came to the rescue. 
 
 " Let us all go and see Mrs. Bolland," he said. " It 
 is only a few yards." 
 
 They went out into the roadway. Then Beckett- 
 Smythe was struck by an afterthought. 
 
 " If you'll excuse me, I'll run along to the vicarage 
 and ask Herbert and his daughter to join us," he said. 
 
 Mrs. Saumarez bit her lip. 
 
 " I think I'll leave Angele at home," she said in a low 
 tone. " The child is delicate. During the past week I 
 have insisted that she goes to bed at eight every 
 evening." 
 
 Colonel Grant understood why the lady did not want 
 the two girls to meet, but it was borne in on him that 
 she herself was determined not to miss that impromptu 
 dinner party. In a vague way he wondered what her 
 motive could be. 
 
 " Ah, that's a pity," he heard Beckett-Smythe say. 
 " She can be well wrapped up, and the weather is 
 mild." 
 
 He moved a little ahead of the two. Martin, deter- 
 mined not to be left alone with Angele, hastened to 
 greet his friend, Fritz. The two chauffeurs were con- 
 versing in German. Apparently, they were examining 
 the engine of the new car.
 
 284 The Revellers 
 
 " Martin," murmured Angele, " don't bother about 
 Fritz. He'll snap your head off. He's furious because 
 he lost a map the other day." 
 
 But Martin pressed on. No longer could Angele 
 deceive him " twiddle him around her little finger," as 
 she would put it. 
 
 "Hello, Fritz!" he cried. "What map did you 
 lose? Not the one I marked for you? " 
 
 Fritz turned. The new chauffeur closed the bonnet 
 of the engine. 
 
 " No," he said, speaking slowly, and looking at 
 Angele. " It was a small road map. You haf not seen 
 it, I dink." 
 
 " Was it made of linen, with a red cover? " 
 
 " Yez," and the man's face became curiously stern. 
 
 " Oh, I saw you studying it one day at The Elms, 
 but you didn't have it on the moor. 
 
 Fritz's scowl changed to an expression of disap- 
 pointment. 
 
 " I haf mislaid it," he grunted, and again his glance 
 dwelt on Angele, who met his gaze with a bland indiffer- 
 ence that seemed to gall him. 
 
 Colonel Grant drew near. He had been eyeing the 
 two spick-and-span chauffeurs. 
 
 " Who is your friend, Martin ? " he said. He was 
 interested in everything the boy did and in everyone 
 whom he knew. 
 
 " Oh, this is Fritz Bauer, Mrs. Saumarez's chauf- 
 feur. . . . Fritz, this is Colonel Grant, of the 
 Indian Army." 
 
 Instantly the two young Germans straightened as 
 though some mechanism had stiffened their spines and
 
 The Seven Full Years 285 
 
 thrown back their heads. The newcomer's heels clicked 
 and his right hand was raised in a salute. Fritz, better 
 schooled than his comrade by longer residence in Eng- 
 land, barely prevented his heels from clicking, and man- 
 aged to convert the salute into a raising of his cap. 
 There could be no doubt that he was flustered, because 
 he said not a word, and the open-air tan of his cheeks 
 assumed a deeper tint. 
 
 Apparently, Colonel Grant saw nothing of this, or, 
 if he noticed the man's confusion, attributed it to 
 nervousness. 
 
 " Two Mercedes cars in one small village ! " he ex- 
 claimed laughingly. " You Germans are certainly con- 
 quering England by peaceful penetration." 
 
 Mrs. Saumarez elected, after all, not to visit the 
 White House that afternoon, so Angele, having said 
 good-by to the colonel and Martin in her prettiest man- 
 ner, was whisked off in the car. 
 
 " By the way, Martin," said his father as the two 
 walked to the farm. " Mrs. Saumarez is German by 
 birth. Have you ever heard anything about her 
 family?" 
 
 Martin had a good memory. 
 
 " Yes, sir," he said. " She is a baroness the Baron- 
 ess Irma von Edelstein." 
 
 The colonel was surprised at this glib answer. 
 
 "Who told you?" he inquired. 
 
 " Angele, sir. But Mrs. Saumarez did not wish 
 people to use her title. She was vexed with Angele for 
 even mentioning it." 
 
 Mrs. Saumarez sent her car to bring Colonel Grant 
 .and his son to the Hall. She was slightly ruffled when
 
 286 The Revellers 
 
 Fritz told her that they had gone already, Mr. Beckett- 
 Smythe having collected his guests from both the inn 
 and the vicarage. 
 
 She might have been positively indignant if she had 
 overheard Grant's comments to the Admiralty official 
 while the two strolled on the lawn before dinner. 
 
 " A couple of Prussian officers, if ever I saw the genu- 
 ine article," said the colonel. " Real junkers smart- 
 looking fellows, too. Mrs. Saumarez is the widow of a 
 British officer a fine chap, but poor as a church mouse 
 and she belongs to a wealthy German family. Verbum 
 sap." 
 
 " Nuff said," grinned the sailor. " But what is one 
 to do? No sooner is this outfit erected but it'll be 
 added to the display of local picture postcards, and the 
 next German bigwig who visits this part of the coun- 
 try will be invited to amuse himself by ringing up 
 Bremen." 
 
 At any rate, Mrs. Saumarez was told that night that 
 the Yorkshire coast was too highly magnetized to suit 
 a wireless station. The sailor thought an inland town 
 like York would provide an ideal site. 
 
 " You see," he explained politely, " when the German 
 High Seas Fleet defeats the British Navy it can shell 
 our coast towns all to smithereens." 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 " You fighting men invariably talk of war with Ger- 
 many as an assured thing," she said. " Yet I, who know 
 Germany, and have relatives there, am convinced that 
 the notion is absurd." 
 
 " The Emperor has been twenty years on the throne 
 and has never drawn sword except on parade," put in the
 
 The Seven Full Years 287 
 
 vicar. " There may have been danger once or twice in 
 his hot youth, but he has grown to like England, and I 
 cannot conceive him plunging a great and thriving coun- 
 try into the morass of a doubtful campaign." 
 
 " Ninety-nine per cent of Englishmen like to think 
 that way," said the Admiralty man. " In a multitude 
 of counselors there is wisdom, so let's hope they're 
 right." 
 
 When the young folk got together on the terrace, 
 Frank Beckett^Smythe asked Martin why his neck was 
 stiff. 
 
 " I took a toss off Elsie's swing yesterday," was the 
 airy answer. Not a word did he or Elsie say as to 
 Angele, and the Beckett-Smythes knew better than to 
 introduce her name. 
 
 Mrs. Saumarez left for the South rather hurriedly. 
 She paid no farewell visits. She and Angele traveled 
 in the car; Fran9oise followed with the baggage. The 
 Misses Walker were consoled for the loss of a valued 
 lodger by receiving a less exacting one in the person of 
 Martin's father. 
 
 The boy himself, when his mental poise was adjusted 
 to the phenomenal change in his life, soon grew accus- 
 tomed to a new environment. Mr. Herbert undertook 
 to direct his studies in preparation for a public school, 
 and Martha Bolland became reconciled gradually to 
 seeing him once or twice daily, instead of all day, for 
 he, too, lived at The Elms. 
 
 Officially, as it were, he adopted his new name, but 
 to the small world of Elmsdale he would ever be " Mar- 
 tin." Even his father fell into the habit.
 
 288 The Revellers 
 
 The colonel drove him to the adjourned petty sessions 
 at Nottonby when Betsy's case came on for hearing. 
 Mr. Stockwell abandoned his critical attitude and con- 
 curred with the police that there was no need to bring 
 Angele Saumarez from London to attend the trial. 
 Mrs. Saumarez gave no thought to the fact that the 
 girl might be needed to give evidence, but the authorities 
 decided that there were witnesses in plenty as to the 
 outcry raised in the garden after Pickering was 
 wounded. 
 
 It was November before Betsy appeared at the county 
 assizes. When she entered the dock, those who knew her 
 were astonished by the improvement in her appearance. 
 It was probable that the enforced rest, the regular exer- 
 cise, the judicious diet of the prison had exercised a 
 beneficial effect on her health. 
 
 Her demeanor was calm as ever, and the able bar- 
 rister who defended her did not scruple to suggest that 
 it would create a better effect with the jury if she 
 adopted a less unemotional attitude. 
 
 Her reply silenced him. 
 
 " Do you think," she said, " that I will be permitted 
 to atone for my wrongdoing by punishment? No. I 
 live because my husband wished me to live. I will be 
 called to account, but not by an earthly judge or jury." 
 
 She was right. The assize judge held the scales of 
 justice impartially between the sworn testimony of 
 George Pickering and Betsy's witnesses, on the on 
 hand, and the evidence of Martin and the groom^ 
 backed by the scientists, on the other. 
 
 The jury gave her the benefit of the doubt and ac- 
 quitted her, but it was noticed by many that his lord-
 
 The Seven Full Years 289 
 
 ship contented himself with ordering her discharge from 
 custody. He passed no opinion on the verdict. 
 
 So Betsy was installed as mistress of Wetherby 
 Lodge, the trustees having decided that she was well 
 fitted to manage the estate. 
 
 Tongues wagged in Elmsdale when Mr. Stockwell 
 drove thither one day and solemnly handed over to 
 Martin the sword and the double-barreled gun, and to 
 John Bolland the pedigree cow bequeathed by George 
 Pickering. 
 
 The farmer eyed the animal grimly. 
 
 " 'Tis an unfortunate beast," he said. " Mebbe if I 
 hadn't sold her te poor George he might nivver hae 
 coom te Elmsdale just then." 
 
 " Do not think that," the solicitor assured him. 
 " Pickering would most certainly have visited the fair. 
 I know, as a matter of fact, that he wished to purchase 
 one of your brood mares." 
 
 " Ay, ay. She went te Jarmany. Well, if I'm spared, 
 I'll send a good calf to Wetherby." 
 
 The lawyer and he shook hands on the compact. Yet 
 Pickering's odd bequest was destined to work out in a 
 way that would have amazed the donor, could he but 
 know it. 
 
 Martin was at Winchester his father's old school 
 when he received a letter in Bolland's laborious hand- 
 writing. It read: 
 
 " MY DEAR LAD Yours to hand, and this leaves your 
 mother and self in good health. We were glad to hear 
 that the box arrived all right and that your mates think 
 well of Yorkshire cakes. You may learn a lot of use- 
 ful things at school, but you will not often meet with a
 
 290 The Revellers 
 
 better cook than your mother. She is sore upset just 
 now about a mishap we have had on the farm. I turned 
 out nearly all my shorthorns to graze on the low pas- 
 tures. The ground was a bit damp, and a strange cow 
 broke in at night to join them. I don't rightly know 
 what to blame, but next day they showed signs of 
 rinderpest. I sent for the vet, and they had to be 
 slaughtered all but one two-year-old bull, Bainesse 
 Boy IV., and Mr. Pickering's cow, which were not with 
 them in the meadow. It is a great loss, but I don't 
 repine, now that you are provided for, and it is not quite 
 like starting all over again, as I have my land and my 
 Cleveland bays, and I am in no debt. In such matters I 
 turn to the Lord for consolation. I have just read this 
 verse to Martha : ' I have been young, and now am old ; 
 yet I have not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed 
 begging bread.' If you are minded to look it up, you 
 will find it in the Thirty-seventh Psalm. 
 
 " I don't want to pretend that the blow has not been 
 a hard one, but, God willing, there will be a hamper for 
 you at Christmas, if Colonel Grant is too busy to bring 
 you North. Your mother joins in much love. 
 
 "Your affect., 
 
 "JOHN BOLLAND." 
 
 " P. S. Maybe you will not have forgotten that Mrs. 
 Saumarez said the land needed draining. She was a 
 clever woman in some ways." 
 
 The boy's eyes filled with tears. He understood only 
 too well the far-reaching misfortune which had befallen 
 the farmer. The total value of the herd was 5,000, 
 and he remembered that experts valued the young sur- 
 viving bull at 300 as a yearling. In all, twenty-three 
 animals had been slaughtered by the law's decree, and 
 the compensation payable to Bolland would not cover 
 a twentieth part of the actual loss. 
 
 Martin not only wrote a letter of warm sympathy to
 
 The Seven Full Years 291 
 
 his adopted parents but sent Bolland's letter to his 
 father, with an added commentary of his own. Colonel 
 Grant obtained short leave and traveled to Elmsdale 
 next day. It took some trouble to bring John round 
 to his point of view, but the argument that the farm 
 should be restocked in Martin's interests prevailed, and 
 negotiations were opened with prominent breeders else- 
 where which resulted in the purchase of a notable bull 
 and eight heifers, for which Bolland and the colonel 
 each found half the money. The farmer would listen to 
 no other arrangement, though he promised that if he ex- 
 perienced any tightness for money he would not hesitate 
 to apply for further help. 
 
 The need never made itself felt. The first animal to 
 produce successful progeny was George Pickering's cow ! 
 No man in the North Riding was more pleased than 
 John that day. Throughout the whole of his life the 
 only person who ever brought a charge of unfair dealing 
 against him was Pickering. The memory rankled, and 
 its sting was none the less bitter because of a secret 
 dread that he had perhaps been guilty of a piece of 
 sharp practice. Now his character was cleared. 
 
 Pattison, his old crony, asked him, by way of a joke, 
 how much " he'd tak' for t' cauf." 
 
 John blazed into unexpected anger. 
 
 "At what figger de you reckon yer own good neam, 
 Mr. Pattison?" 
 
 " I don't knoa as I'd care te sell it at onny price, 
 Mr. Bollan'." 
 
 " Then ye'll think as I do aboot yon cauf. Neyther 
 it nor any other of its dam's produce will ivver leave 
 my farm if I can help it."
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 OUT OF THE MISTS 
 
 THIS record of a Yorkshire village a true chronicle 
 of life among the canny folk who dwell on the " moor 
 edge " might well be left at the point it reached when 
 one of its chief characters saw before him the smooth 
 and sunlit road of a notable career. 
 
 But history, though romantic, is not writ as romance, 
 and the story of Elmsdale is fact, not fiction. After 
 eight years of somnolence the village awoke again. It 
 was roused from sleep by the tumult of a world at war ; 
 mayhap the present generation shall pass away before 
 the hamlet relapses into its humdrum ways. 
 
 Martin was twenty-two when his father and he jour- 
 neyed north to attend the annual sale of the Elmsdale 
 herd, which was fixed for the two opening days of July, 
 1914. Each year Colonel Grant brought his son to the 
 village for six weeks prior to the twelfth of August; 
 this year there was a well-founded rumor in the little 
 community that the colonel meant to buy The Elms. 
 
 The announcement of Bolland's sale brought foreign 
 agents from abroad and well-known stock-raisers from 
 all parts of the Kingdom. No less than forty animals 
 entered the auction ring. One bull, Bainesse Boy VI., 
 realized 800. Bainesse Boy IV. held a species of levee 
 in a special stall. He had grown into a wonder. On a 
 
 292
 
 Out of the Mists 293 
 
 table, over which Sergeant Benson mounted guard, were 
 displayed five championship cups he had carried off, 
 while fifteen cards, arranged in horseshoe pattern on 
 the wall, each bore the magic words, " First Prize," 
 awarded at Islington, Birmingham, the Royal, and wher- 
 ever else in Britain shorthorns and their admirers most 
 do congregate. 
 
 The village hummed with life; around the sale ring 
 gathered a multitude of men arrayed in Melton cloth 
 and leather leggings, whose general appearance betok- 
 ened the wisdom of Dr. Johnson's sarcastic dictum: 
 " Who drives fat oxen should himself be fat." 
 
 Martha and a cohort of maids boiled hams by the 
 dozen and baked cakes in fabulous quantities. John 
 graced the occasion by donning a new suit and new 
 boots, in which the crooked giant was singularly ill 
 at ease. 
 
 Mrs. Pickering drove over from Nottonby Kitty 
 was married two years before to a well-to-do farmer at 
 Northallerton and someone rallied her on " bein' ower 
 good-lookin' te remain a widow all her days." 
 
 She laughed pleasantly. 
 
 " I'm far too busy at Wetherby to think of adding a 
 husband to my cares," she said ; but those who knew her 
 best could have told that she had refused at least two 
 excellent offers of matrimony and meant to remain Mrs. 
 Pickering during the rest of her days. 
 
 At the close of the second day's sale, when the crowd 
 was thinned by the departure of a fleet of cars and a 
 local train at five o'clock, the White House was thronged 
 by its habitues, who came to make a meal of the " high 
 tea."
 
 294 The Revellers 
 
 Colonel Grant and John had just concluded an ami- 
 cable wrangle whereby it was decided that they should 
 jointly provide the considerable sum needed to acquire 
 The Elms and some adjoining land. The house and 
 grounds were to be remodeled and the property would 
 be deeded to Martin forthwith. 
 
 The young gentleman himself, as tall as his father 
 now, and wearing riding breeches and boots, was stand- 
 ing at the front door, turning impatient eyes from a 
 smart cob, held by a groom, to the bend in the road 
 where it curved beyond the " Black Lion." 
 
 A smartly-dressed young lady passed, and although 
 Martin lifted his hat with a ready smile his glance wan- 
 dered from her along the road again. Evelyn Atkinson 
 wondered who it was that thus distracted his atten- 
 tion. 
 
 A few yards farther on, Elsie Herbert, mounted on a 
 steady old hunter, passed at a sharp trot. Evelyn's 
 pretty face frowned slightly. 
 
 " If she is home again, of course, he has eyes for 
 nobody else," she said to herself. 
 
 And, indeed, it was true. Elsie had been to Dresden 
 for two years. She had returned to Elmsdale the pre- 
 vious day, and a scribbled note told Martin to look for 
 her after tea. 
 
 The two set off together through the village, bound 
 for the moor. Many a critical look followed them. 
 
 " Eh, but they're a bonny pair," cried Mrs. Summers- 
 gill, who became stouter each year. " Martin allus 
 framed to be a fine man, but I nivver thowt yon gawky 
 lass o' t' vicar's 'ud grow into a beauty." 
 
 " This moor air is wonderful. Look at the effect
 
 Out of the Mists 295 
 
 it has on you, Mrs. Summersgill," said Colonel Grant 
 with a twinkle in his eye. 
 
 " Oh, go on wi' ye, Colonel, pokin' fun at a poor owd 
 body like me. But I dean't ho'd wi' skinny 'uns. 
 Martha, what's become o' Mrs. Saumarez an' that 
 flighty gell o' hers. What did they call her Angel? 
 My word! a nice angel not that she wasn't as thin 
 as a sperrit." 
 
 " Miss Walker told me, last Christmas twel'month, 
 they were i' France," said Martha. 
 
 " France ? Ay, maist like ; it's a God-forsaken place, 
 I'll be boun'." * 
 
 " Nay," interposed Bolland, " that's an unchristian 
 description of onny counthry, ma'am. Ye'll find t' Lord 
 ivverywhere i' t' wide wulld, if ye seek Him. There's 
 bin times when He might easy be i' France, for He 
 seemed, iv His wisdom, to be far away frae Elms- 
 dale." 
 
 Mrs. Summersgill snorted contempt for all " fur- 
 riners," but Martha created a diversion. 
 
 " Goodness me ! " she cried, " yer cup's empty. I 
 nivver did see sike a woman. Ye talk an' eat nowt." 
 
 Martin, now in his third year at Oxford, was some- 
 what mystified by the change brought about in Elsie by 
 two years of " languages and music " passed in the most 
 attractive of German cities. Though not flippant, her 
 manner nonplussed him. She was distinctly " smart," 
 both in speech and style. She treated a young gentle- 
 man who had already taken his degree and was reading 
 for honors in history with an easy nonchalance that was 
 highly disconcerting. The last time they parted they 
 had kissed each other, she with tears, and he with a lump
 
 296 The Revellers 
 
 in his throat. Now he dared no more offer a cousinly, or 
 brotherly, or any other sort of salute in which kissing 
 was essential, than if she were a royal princess. 
 
 " You've altered, old girl," he said by way of a con- 
 versational opening when their horses were content to 
 walk, after a sharp canter along a moorland track. 
 
 " I should hope so, indeed," came the airy retort. 
 " Surely, you didn't expect to find the Elmsdale label 
 on me after two years of Jcultur? " 
 
 " Whatever the label, the vintage looks good," he 
 said. 
 
 " You mean that as a compliment," she laughed. 
 " And, now that I look at you carefully, I see signs of 
 improvement. Of course, the Oxford swank is an abomi- 
 nation, but you'll lose it in time. Father told me last 
 night that you were going in for the law and politics. 
 Is that correct? " 
 
 Martin, masterful as. ever, was not minded to endure 
 such supercilious treatment at Elsie's hands. He had 
 looked forward to this meeting with a longing that had 
 almost interfered with his work; it was more than irri- 
 tating to find his divinity modeling her behavior on the 
 lines of the Girton " set " at the University. 
 
 They had reached a point of the high moor which 
 overlooked Thor ghyll. Martin pulled up his cob and 
 dismounted. 
 
 " Let's give the nags a breather here," he said. 
 "Shall I help you?" 
 
 "No, thanks." 
 
 Elsie was out of the saddle promptly. She rode 
 astride. In a well-fitting habit, with divided skirt and 
 patent-leather boots, she looked wonderfully alluring,
 
 Out of the Mists 297 
 
 but her air of aloofness was carried almost to the verge 
 of indifference. 
 
 She showed some surprise when Martin took her 
 horse's reins and threw them over his left arm. 
 
 " Are you going to lecture me? " she said, arching her 
 eyebrows. " It would be just like a fledgling B.A., who 
 is doubtless a member of the Officers' Training Corps, to 
 tell me that my German riding-master taught me to sit 
 too stiffly." 
 
 " He did," said Martin, meeting the sarcastic blue 
 eyes without flinching. " But a few days with the York 
 and Ainsty and Lord Middleton's pack will put that 
 right. You'll come a purler at your first stone wall if 
 you ride with such long stirrup leathers. However, I 
 want you to jump another variety of obstacle to-day. 
 You asked me just now, Elsie, if I was going in for the 
 law. Yes. But I'm going in for you first. You know 
 I love you, dear. You know I have been your very 
 humble but loyal knight ever since I won your recogni- 
 tion down there in the valley, when I was only a farmer's 
 son and you were a girl of a higher social order. I have 
 never forgotten that you didn't seem to heed class dis- 
 tinctions then, Elsie, and it hurts now to have you treat 
 me with coldness." 
 
 Elsie, trying valiantly to appear partly indignant 
 and even more amused at this direct attack, failed most 
 lamentably. First she flushed ; then she paled. 
 
 She faced Martin's gaze confidently enough at the 
 outset, but her eyes dropped and her lips quivered when 
 she heard the words which no woman can hear without 
 a thrill. Still, she made a brave attempt to rally her 
 forces.
 
 298 The Revellers 
 
 " I didn't quite mean what you say," she faltered, 
 which was a schoolgirl form of protest for one who had 
 achieved distinction in a course of English literature. 
 
 Martin took her by the shoulders. The two horses 
 nosed each other. They, perforce, were dumb, but their 
 wise eye's seemed to exchange the caustic comment : 
 " What fools these mortals be ! Why don't they hug, 
 and settle the business ? " 
 
 " I must know what you do mean," said Martin, 
 almost - fiercely. " I love you, Elsie. Will you marry 
 me?" 
 
 She lifted her face. The blue eyes were dim with 
 tears, but the adorable mouth trembled in a smile. 
 
 " Yes, dear," she murmured. " But what did you 
 expect? 6id you think I would throw my arms 
 around you in the village street? " 
 
 'After that Martin had no reason to accuse Elsie of 
 being either stiff or cold. When the vicar heard the 
 news that night for Martin and the colonel dined at 
 the Vicarage he stormed into mock dissent. 
 
 " God bless my soul," he cried, " my little girl has 
 been away two whole years, and you come and steal her 
 away from me before she has been home twenty-four 
 hours ! " 
 
 Then he produced a handkerchief and yielded, appar- 
 ently, to a violent attack of hay fever. Yet it was a 
 joyous company which gathered around the dinner 
 table, for Elsie herself, casting off the veneer of Dresden, 
 drove posthaste to summon the Bollands to the feast. 
 
 John was specially deputed by Colonel Grant to make 
 a significant announcement. 
 
 " We're all main pleased you two hev sattled matters
 
 Out of the Mists 299 
 
 so soon," he said, peering alternately at Martin's atten- 
 tive face and Elsie's blushing one. " Yer father an' 
 me hev bowt The Elms, an' a tidy bit o' land besides, 
 so ye'll hev a stake i' t' county if ivver ye're minded te 
 run for Parlyment. The Miss Walkers (John pro- 
 nounced the name "Wahker") are goin' te live in a 
 small hoos i' Nottonby. They've gotten a fine lot o' 
 Spanish mahogany an' owd oak which they're willin' te 
 sell by vallyation ; so the pair of ye can gan there i' t' 
 mornin' an' pick an' choose what ye want." 
 
 Elsie looked at her father, but neither could utter a 
 word. Martha Bolland put an arm around the girl's 
 neck. 
 
 " Lord luv' ye, honey ! " she said brokenly, " it'll be 
 just like crossin' the road. May I be spared te see you 
 happy and comfortable in yer new home, for you'll 
 surely be one of the finest ladies i' Yorkshire." 
 
 No shadow darkened their joy in that cheerful hour. 
 Even next day, when a grim specter flitted through 
 Elmsdale, the ominous vision evoked only a passing 
 notice. Colonel Grant and the vicar, each an expert 
 in old furniture, accompanied the young people to The 
 Elms and examined its antique dressers, sideboards, 
 tables, and the rest. Many of the bedroom chests were 
 of solid mahogany. The Misses Walker had cleared 
 the drawers of the lumber of years, so that the prospec- 
 tive purchasers could note the interior finish. 
 
 Miss Emmy, not so tactful as her elder sister, brought 
 in a name which the others present wished to forget. 
 
 " Mrs. Saumarez used this room as a dressing-room," 
 she said, " and while turning out rubbish from a set of 
 drawers I came across this."
 
 300 The Revellers 
 
 She displayed a small red-covered folding road-map, 
 such as cyclists and motorists use. Martin thought he 
 recognized it. 
 
 " I believe that is the very map lost by Fritz Bauer, 
 Mrs. Saumarez's chauffeur," he said. 
 
 " Probably, sir. He made a rare row with Miss 
 Angele about it. I was half afraid he meant to shake 
 her. No one knew what had become of it, but either 
 Miss Angele or her mother must have hidden it. Why, 
 I can't guess." 
 
 Elsie helped to smooth over an awkward incident. 
 She took the map and began to open it. 
 
 " It couldn't have been such an important matter," 
 she said. Then she shook apart the folded sheet, and 
 they all saw that it bore a number of entries and signs 
 in faded ink, black and red. The written words were v 
 in German, and Elsie scanned a few lines hurriedly. 
 She looked puzzled, even a trifle perturbed, but recov- 
 ered her smiling self-possession instantly. 
 
 " The poor man, being a foreigner, jotted down some 
 notes for his guidance," she said. " May I have it? " 
 
 " With pleasure, miss," said the old lady. 
 
 It was not until the party had returned to the 
 vicarage that Elsie explained her request. She spread 
 the map on a table, and her smooth forehead wrinkled 
 in doubt. 
 
 " This is serious," she said. " I have lived in Ger- 
 many long enough to understand that one cannot mix 
 with German girls in the intimacy of school and at their 
 homes without knowing that an attack on England is 
 simply an obsession of their menfolk, and even of the 
 women. They regard it as a certainty in the near
 
 Out of the Mists 301 
 
 future, pretending that if they don't strike first Eng- 
 land will crush them." 
 
 " I wish to Heaven she would ! " broke in Colonel 
 Grant emphatically. " In existing conditions this coun- 
 try resembles an unarmed policeman waiting for a burg- 
 lar to fire at him out of the darkness." 
 
 Mr. Herbert, man of peace that he was, might have 
 voiced a mild disclaimer, had not Elsie stayed him. 
 
 " Listen, father," she said seriously. " Here is proof 
 positive. That chauffeur was a military spy. See 
 what is written across the top of the map : * Gutes 
 Wasser; Futter in Fiille; Uberfluss von Vieh, Schafen 
 und Pferden. Einzelheiten auf genauen Ortlichkeiten 
 angegeben.' That means * Good water ; abundance of 
 fodder; plenty of cattle, sheep, and horses. Details 
 given on exact localities.' And, just look at the details! 
 Could a child fail to interpret their meaning? " 
 
 Elsie's simile was not far-fetched, yet gray-headed 
 statesmen, though they may have both known and under- 
 stood, refused to believe. That little road-map, on a 
 scale of one mile to an inch, contained all the informa- 
 tion needed by the staff of an invading army. 
 
 The moor bore the legend : 
 
 " Platz f iir Lager, leicht verschanzt ; beherrscht 
 Hauptstrassen von Whitby und Pickering nach York. 
 Rote Kreise kennzeichnen reichlichen Wasservorrat f iir 
 Kavallerie und Artillerie." (Site for camp, easily en- 
 trenched. Commands main roads from Whitby and 
 Pickering to York. Red circles show ample water sup- 
 ply for cavalry and artillery.) 
 
 Every road bore its classification for the use of 
 troops, showing the width, quality of surface, and gradi-
 
 302 The Revellers 
 
 ents. Each bridge was described as " stone " or " iron." 
 Even cross-country trails were indicated when fordable 
 streams rendered such passage not too difficult. 
 
 The little group gazed spellbound at the extraor- 
 dinarily accurate synopsis of the facilities offered by 
 the placid country of Yorkshire for the devilish purposes 
 of war. Martin, in particular, devoured the entries 
 relating to the moor. On Metcalf 's farm he saw : " Six 
 hundred sheep here," and at the Broad Ings, " Four hun- 
 dred sheep, three horses, four cows." Well he knew 
 who had given the spy those facts. His glowing eyes 
 wandered to the village. A long entry distinguished 
 the White House, and though he knew a good deal of 
 German he was beaten by the opening technical word. 
 
 " What is that, Elsie? " he said, and even his father 
 wondered at the hot anger in his utterance. 
 
 The girl read: 
 
 " Stammbaum Vieh hier ; drei Stiere, achtzehn Kiihe 
 und Farsen, nicht zum Schlachten, sehr wertvoll. Neben 
 bei sechs Stuten, besten Types zur Zucht." 
 
 Then she translated: 
 
 " Pedigree cattle here ; three bulls, eighteen cows and 
 heifers, not to be slaughtered ; very valuable. Also six 
 brood mares of best type for stud." 
 
 " The infernal scoundrel ! " blazed out Martin. " So 
 the Bolland stock must be taken to the Fatherland, and 
 not eaten or drafted into service! And to think that I 
 gave him nearly all that information ! " 
 
 "You, Martin?" cried Elsie. 
 
 " Yes. He pumped me dry. I even showed him the 
 site of every pond on the moor." 
 
 '* Don't blame the man," put in Colonel Grant. " I
 
 Out of the Mists 303 
 
 knew him as a Prussian officer at the first glance. But 
 he was simply doing his duty. Blame our criminal care- 
 lessness. We cannot stop foreigners from prowling 
 about the country, but we can and should make it impos- 
 sible for any enemy to utilize such data as are contained 
 in this map." 
 
 " But, consider," put in the perturbed vicar. " This 
 evil work was done eight years ago, and what has all the 
 talk of German preparation come to ? Isn't it the bom- 
 bast of militarism gone mad? " 
 
 " It comes to this," said the colonel. " We are just 
 eight years nearer war. I am convinced that the break 
 must occur before 1916 and for two reasons: Ger- 
 many's financial state is dangerous, and in 1916 Russia 
 will have completed on her western frontier certain strat- 
 egic lines which will expedite mobilization. Germany 
 won't wait till her prospective foes are ready. France 
 knows it. That is why she has adopted the three years' 
 service scheme." 
 
 " Then why won't you let me join the army, dad? " 
 demanded Martin bluntly. 
 
 Colonel Grant spread his hands with the weary gesture 
 of a man who would willingly shirk a vital decision. 
 
 " In peace the army is a poor career," he said. " The 
 law and politics offer you a wider field. But not you 
 only every young man in the country should be trained 
 to arms. As matters stand, we have neither the men nor 
 the rifles. Our artillery, excellent of its type, is about 
 sufficient for an army corps, and we have a fortnight's 
 supply of ammunition. I am not an alarmist. We have 
 enough regiments to repel a raid, supposing the enemy's 
 transports dodged the fleet ; but Heaven help us if we
 
 304 The Revellers 
 
 dream of sending an expeditionary force to France or 
 Egypt, or any single one of a score of vulnerable points 
 outside the British Isles ! " 
 
 " Beckett-Smythe retained one of those German 
 chauffeurs in his service for a whole year," said the 
 vicar, on whom a new light had dawned with the dis- 
 covery of the telltale map. 
 
 "Are there many of the brood in the district now? " 
 inquired the colonel. 
 
 " I fancy not." 
 
 " There is no need, they have done their work," said 
 Elsie. " Last winter I met a young officer in Dresden, 
 and he told me he had taken a walking tour through this 
 part of Yorkshire during the summer. He knew Elms- 
 dale quite well. He remembered the vicarage, The 
 Elms, and the White House. Yet he said he was here 
 only a day ! " 
 
 " Fritz Bauer's maps are the best of guides," com- 
 mented Colonel Grant bitterly. 
 
 The vicar was literally awe-stricken. He stooped 
 over the map. 
 
 " Is this sort of thing going on all over the country ? " 
 he gasped. 
 
 " More or less. Naturally, the east coast has been 
 the chief hunting ground, as that must provide the ter- 
 rain of any attack. Of course, so long as the political 
 sky remains fairly clear, as it is at this moment, there 
 is always a chance that humanity will escape Armaged- 
 don for another generation. The world is growing more 
 rational and its interests are becoming ever more identi- 
 cal. Even the Junkers are feeling the pressure of public 
 opinion, and the great masses of the people demand
 
 Out of the Mists 305 
 
 peace. That is why I want Martin to learn the power 
 of voice and pen rather than of the sword. I have been 
 a soldier all my life, and I hate war ! " 
 
 The man who had so often faced death in his country's 
 cause spoke with real feeling. He longed to make war 
 impossible by making victory impossible for an agressor. 
 He claimed no rights for Britain that he would deny 
 Germany or any other country in the comity of nations. 
 
 Suddenly he took the map off the table and folded it. 
 
 " I'll send this curio to Whitehall," he said with a 
 smile. " It will form part of a queer collection. Now, 
 let's talk of something else. . . . Martin, after the 
 valuer has inspected that furniture, you might see to it 
 that the whole lot is stored in the east bedrooms. The 
 architect will not disturb that part of the house." 
 
 " Oh, when can we look at the plans ? " chimed in 
 Elsie. 
 
 These four people, who in their way fairly represented 
 the forty millions of Great Britain, discussed the spy's 
 map in the drawing-room of Elmsdale vicarage on 
 July 6th, 1914. On the sixth of August, exactly one 
 month later, two German army corps, with full artillery 
 and commissariat trains, were loaded into transports 
 and brought to the mouth of the Elbe. They hoped to 
 avoid the British fleet, and their objective was the York- 
 shire coast between Whitby and Filey. Once ashore, 
 they meant entrenching a camp on the Elmsdale moor. 
 Obviously, they did not dream of conquering England 
 by one daring foray. Their purpose was to keep the 
 small army of Britain fully occupied until France was 
 humbled to the dust. They would lose the whole hundred 
 thousand men. But what of that? German soldiers are
 
 306 The Revellers 
 
 regarded as cannon fodder by their rulers, and the price 
 in human lives would not be too costly if it retained 
 British troops at home. 
 
 It was an audacious scheme, and audacity is the first 
 principle of successful war. Its very spine and marrow 
 was the knowledge of the North and East Ridings 
 gained in time of peace by the officers who would lead 
 the invading host. That it failed was due to England's 
 sailors, the men who broke Napoleon, and were destined, 
 by God's good grace, to break the robber empire of 
 Germany.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 THE RIGOR OF THE GAME 
 
 ELMSDALE at war is very like Elmsdale in peace. At 
 least, that was Martin's first impression when he and 
 General Grant motored to the village from York on a 
 day in September, 1915. Father and son had passed 
 unscathed through the hellfire of Loos, General Grant 
 in command of a brigade, and Martin a captain in a 
 Kitchener battalion. They were in England on leave 
 now, the middle-aged general for five days, and the 
 youthful captain for ten, and the purpose of this joint 
 home-coming was Martin's marriage. 
 
 When it became evident that the world struggle would 
 last years rather than months, General Grant and the 
 vicar put their heads together, metaphorically speaking, 
 since the connecting link was the field post-office, and 
 arranged a war wedding. Why should the young people 
 wait? they argued. Every consideration pointed the 
 other way. With Martin wedded to Elsie, legal for- 
 malities as to Bolland's and the general's estate could, 
 be completed, and if Heaven blessed the union with chil- 
 dren the continuity of two old families would be assured. 
 
 So, to Martin's intense surprise, he was called to the 
 telephone one Saturday morning in the trenches and 
 told that he had better hand over his company to the 
 senior subaltern as speedily as might be, since his ten 
 days' leave began on the Monday, such being the ami- 
 
 307
 
 308 The Revellers 
 
 able device by which commanding officers permit juniors 
 to reach Blighty before an all-too-brief respite from 
 the business of killing Germans begins officially. 
 
 He met his father at Boulogne, and there learnt that 
 which he had only suspected hitherto : he and Elsie were 
 booked for an immediate honeymoon on a Scottish 
 moor at Cairn-corrie, to be exact. By chance the two 
 travelers ran into Frank Beckett-Smythe, a gunner 
 lieutenant in London, and he undertook to rush north 
 that night to act as " best man." Father and son 
 caught a train early on Sunday and hired a car at York, 
 Elmsdale having no railway facilities on the day of rest. 
 
 They arrived in time to attend the evening service at 
 the parish church, to which, mirdbile dictu, John and 
 Martha Bolland accompanied them. The war has 
 broken down many barriers, but few things have crum- 
 bled to ruin more speedily than the walls of prejudice 
 and sectarian futilities which separated the many phases 
 of religious thought in Britain. 
 
 The church, with its small graveyard, stood in the 
 center of the village, and the Grants had to wring scores 
 of friendly hands before they and the others walked to 
 the vicarage for supper. Martin and Elsie contrived 
 to extricate themselves from the crowd slightly in ad- 
 vance of the older people. They felt absurdly shy. 
 They were wandering in dreamland. 
 
 Early next morning Martin strolled into the village. 
 He wanted to stir the sluggish current of enlistment, 
 for England was then making a final effort to maintain 
 her army on a voluntary basis. Elmsdale was so un- 
 changed outwardly that he marveled. He hardly 
 realized that it could not well be otherwise. He had
 
 The Rigor of the Game 309 
 
 seen so many French hamlets torn by war that the snug 
 content of this sheltered nook in rural Yorkshire was 
 almost uncanny by contrast. The very familiarity of 
 the scene formed its strangest element. Its sights, its 
 sounds, its homely voices, were novel to the senses of 
 one whose normal surroundings were the abominations 
 of war. Here were trim houses and well-filled stock- 
 yards, smiling orchards and cattle grazing in green 
 pastures. Everywhere was peace. He was the only 
 man in uniform, until Sergeant Benson appeared in the 
 doorway of a cottage and saluted. The village had its 
 own liveries the corduroys of the carpenter, redolent 
 of oil and turpentine, the tied-up trouser legs of the 
 laborer, the blacksmith's leather apron, ragged and 
 burnt, a true Vulcan's robe, the shoemaker's, shiny with 
 the stropping of knives and seamed with cobbler's wax. 
 The panoply of Mars looked singularly out of place in 
 this Sleepy Hollow. 
 
 But, by degrees, he began to miss things. There 
 were no young men in the fields. All the horses had 
 gone, save the yearlings and those too old for the hard 
 work of artillery and transport. He questioned Benson 
 and found that little Elmsdale had not escaped the levy 
 laid on the rest of Europe. Jim Bates was in the 
 Yorkshire Regiment. Tommy Beadlam's white head 
 was resting forever in a destroyed trench at Ypres. Tom 
 Chandler had fallen at Gallipoli. Evelyn Atkinson was 
 a nurse, and her two sisters were " in munitions " at 
 Leeds. Yes, there were some shirkers, but not many. 
 For the most part, they were hidden in the moorland 
 farms. " T' captain " would remember Georgie Jack- 
 son? Well, he was one of the stand-backs wouldn't
 
 310 The Revellers 
 
 go till he was fetched. The village girls made his life a 
 misery, so he " hired " at the Broad Ings, miles away 
 in the depths of the moor. One night about a month 
 ago one of those " d d Zeppelines " dropped a bomb 
 on the heather, which caught fire. A second, following 
 a murder trail to Newcastle, saw the resultant blaze 
 and dropped twelve bombs. A third, believing that real 
 damage was being done, flung out its whole cargo of 
 twenty-nine bombs. 
 
 ** So, now, sir," grinned Benson, " there's a fine lot 
 o' pot-holes i' t' moor. Georgie was badly scairt. He 
 saw the three Zepps, an' t' bombs fell all over t' farm. 
 Next mornin' he fund three sheep banged te bits. An' 
 what d'ye think? He went straight te Whitby an' 
 'listed. He hez a bunch o' singed wool in his pocket, 
 an' sweers he'll mak* some Jarman eat it." 
 
 So Martin only recruited a wife that day, and evi- 
 dently secured a sensible one, for Elsie, taking thought, 
 on hearing certain vivid descriptions of trench life on 
 the Sunday evening, vetoed the wedding trip to Scot- 
 land, and persuaded her husband to " go the limit " in 
 London, where plenty of society and a round of theaters 
 acted as a wholesome tonic after the monotony of high- 
 explosive existence in a dugout. 
 
 In February, 1917, Martin was " in billets " at 
 Armentieres. He had been promoted to the staff, and 
 had fairly earned this coveted recognition by a series 
 of daring excursions into " No Man's Land " every 
 night for a week, which enabled him to plan an attack 
 on the German lines at Chapelle d'Armentieres. Never 
 thinking of any personal gain, he drew up a memo-
 
 The Rigor of the Game 311 
 
 randum, which he submitted to his colonel. The latter 
 sent the document to Divisional Headquarters; the 
 scheme was approved. Fritz was pushed forcibly half 
 a mile nearer Lille, and " Captain Reginald Ingram 
 Grant " was informed, in the dry language of the 
 Gazette, that in future he would wear a red band around 
 his field service cap and little red tabs on the shoulders 
 of his tunic. 
 
 That was a great day for him, but his elation was as 
 nothing compared with the joy of Elmsdale when the 
 Messenger reprinted the announcement. Elsie, of course, 
 imagined that her husband was now comparatively safe 
 for the rest of the war, and he has never undeceived her. 
 As a matter of fact, his first real " job " was to carry 
 out a fresh series of observations at a point south of 
 Armentieres along the road to Arras. This might 
 involve another six days of lurking in dugouts at the 
 front and six nights of crawling through and under 
 German barbed wire. 
 
 His companion was a sapper sergeant named Mason. 
 They suspected that the German position was heavily 
 mined in anticipation of an attack at that very point, 
 and it was part of their business at the outset to ascer- 
 tain whether or not this was the case. 
 
 The enemy's lines were about one hundred and fifty 
 yards away, and all observers agree that the chief 
 difficulty experienced in the pitch-black darkness of a 
 cloudy, moonless night is to estimate the distance cov- 
 ered. Crawling over shell-torn ground, slow work at 
 the best, is rendered slower by the frequent waits neces- 
 sary while rockets flare overhead and Verrey lights 
 describe brilliant parabolas in unexpected directions.
 
 312 The Revellers 
 
 Martin, up to every trick and dodge of the " listening 
 post," surveyed the field of operations through a peri- 
 scope, and noticed that one of the ditches which mark 
 boundaries in northern France ran almost in a straight 
 line from the British trenches to the German, and had 
 at one time been reinforced by posts and rails. The 
 fence was destroyed, but many of the posts remained, 
 some intact, others mere jagged stumps. He estimated 
 that the nineteenth was not more than a couple of yards 
 from the enemy's wire, and knew of old that it was in 
 just such an irregular hollow he might expect to find a 
 weak place in the entanglement. 
 
 Mason agreed with him. 
 
 " We can save a lot of time by following that trail, 
 sir," he said. " There's only one drawback " 
 
 " That Fritz may have hit on the same scheme," 
 laughed Martin. " Possible ; but we must chance it." 
 
 Mason and he were old associates. They had per- 
 fected a code of signals, by touch, that enabled them to 
 work in absolute silence. Thus, a slight hold meant 
 "Halt"; a slight push, "Advance"; a slight pull, 
 " Retire." Each carried a trench knife and a revolver, 
 the latter for use as a last resource only. They were 
 not going out for fighting but for observation. If 
 enemy patrols were encountered, they must be avoided. 
 Germans are not phlegmatic, but, on the contrary, 
 highly nervous. Continuous raids by British bombing 
 parties had put sentries " on the jump," and the least 
 noise which was not explained by a whispered password 
 attracted a heavy spray of machine-gun fire. Especially 
 was this the case during the hour before dawn. By 
 hurrying out immediately after darkness set in, the two
 
 The Rigor of the Game 313 
 
 counted on nearing the German front-line trench at a 
 time when reliefs were being posted and fatigue parties 
 were plodding to the " dump " for the next day's 
 rations. 
 
 "What time will you be back?" inquired the sub- 
 altern in charge of the platoon holding that part of the 
 British trench. It was his duty to warn sentries to be 
 on the lookout for the return of scouting parties. 
 
 Martin glanced at the luminous watch on his wrist. 
 It was then seven o'clock, and the night promised to be 
 dark and quiet. The evening " strafe " had just ended, 
 and the German guns would reopen fire on the trenches 
 about five in the morning. During the intervening hours 
 the artillery would indulge in groups of long shots, 
 hoping to catch the commissariat or a regiment march- 
 ing on the pave in column of fours. 
 
 " About twelve," said Martin. 
 
 " Well, so long, sir ! I'll have some coffee ready." 
 
 " So long ! " And Martin led the way up a trench 
 ladder. 
 
 No man wishes another " Good luck ! " in these enter- 
 prises. By a curious inversion of meaning, " Good 
 luck ! " implies a ninety per cent chance of getting 
 killed! 
 
 The two advanced rapidly for the first hundred yards. 
 Then they separated, each crawling out into the open 
 for about twenty yards to right and left. Snuggling 
 into a convenient shell hole, they would listen intently, 
 with an ear to the ground, their object being to detect 
 the rhythmic beat of a pick, if a mining party was busy. 
 Each remained exactly ten minutes. Then they met 
 and compared notes, always by signal. If necessary,
 
 314 The Revellers 
 
 they would visit a suspected locality together and en- 
 deavor to locate the line of the tunnel. 
 
 It was essential that the British side of " No Man's 
 Land " should not be too quiet. Every few minutes a 
 rocket or a Verrey light would soar over that torn 
 Golgotha. But there was method in the seeming mad- 
 ness. The first and second glare would illuminate an 
 area well removed from Martin's territory. The third 
 might be right over him or Mason, but they were then 
 so well hidden that the sharpest eye could not discern 
 their presence. 
 
 By nine o'clock they had covered more than a hundred 
 yards of the enemy's front, skirting his trip-wire 
 throughout the whole distance. They had heard no 
 fewer than six mining parties. Each had advanced 
 some thirty yards. In effect, if the German trench was 
 to be taken at all, the attack must be made next day, 
 and the artillery preparation should commence at dawn. 
 Instead of returning to the subaltern's dugout at mid- 
 night, Martin wanted to reach the telephone not later 
 than ten, and hurry back to headquarters. The staff 
 would have another sleepless night, but a British bat- 
 talion would not be blown up while its successive 
 " waves " were crossing " No Man's Land." 
 
 Mason and he crept like lizards to the sunk fence. 
 All they needed now was a close scrutiny of the German 
 parapet in that section. It was a likely site for a 
 machine-gun emplacement and, in that case, would re- 
 ceive special attention from a battery of 4.7's. 
 
 They reached the ditch shortly before a rocket was 
 due overhead. Making assurance doubly sure, they 
 flattened against the outer slope of a shell hole, took off
 
 The Rigor of the Game 315 
 
 their caps, and each sought a tuft of grass through 
 which to peer. 
 
 Simultaneously, by two short taps, both conveyed a 
 warning. They had heard a slight rustling directly in 
 front. A Verrey light, and not a rocket, flamed through 
 the darkness. Its brilliancy was intense. But the 
 Verrey light has a peculiar property : far more effective 
 than the rocket when it reveals troops in motion, it is 
 rendered practically useless if men remain still. Work- 
 ing parties and scouts counteract its vivid beams by 
 absolute rigidity. The uplifted pick or hammer, the 
 advanced foot, the raised arm, must be kept in statu- 
 esque repose, and the reward is complete safety. A 
 rocket, on the other hand, though not half so deadly in 
 exposing an attack, demands that every man within its 
 periphery shall endeavor forthwith to blend with the 
 earth, or he will surely be seen and shot at. 
 
 The two Britons, looking through stalks of withered 
 herbage, found themselves gazing into the eyes of a 
 couple of Germans crouching on the level barely six 
 feet away. It seemed literally impossible that the enemy 
 observers should not see them. But strange things 
 happen in war. The Germans were scanning all the 
 visible ground; the Englishmen happened to be on the 
 alert for a recognized danger in that identical spot. 
 So the one party, watching space, saw nothing; the 
 other, prepared for a specific discovery, made it. What 
 was more, when the light failed, the Germans were 
 assured of comparative safety, while their opponents 
 had measured the extent of an instant peril and got 
 ready to face it. 
 
 They knew, too, that the Germans must be killed or
 
 316 The Revellers 
 
 captured. One was a major, the other a noncommis- 
 sioned officer, and men of such rank were seldom deputed 
 by the enemy to roam at large through the strip of 
 debated land which British endeavor, drawn by its 
 sporting uncertainties, had rendered most unhealthy 
 for human " game " of the Hun species. 
 
 A dark night in that part of French Flanders be- 
 comes palpably black during a few seconds after a flare. 
 The Englishmen squatted back on their heels. Neither 
 drew his revolver, but each right hand clutched a trench 
 knife, a peculiarly murderous-looking implement with 
 an oval handle, and shaped like a corkscrew, except that 
 the screw is replaced by a short, flat, dagger-pointed 
 blade. No signal was needed. Each knew exactly what 
 to do. The accident of position allotted the major to 
 Martin. 
 
 The Germans came on stealthily. They had noted 
 the shell-hole, and sat on its crumbling edge, meaning 
 to slide down and creep out on the other side. Martin's 
 left hand gripped a stont boot by the ankle. In the 
 fifth of a second he had a heavy body twisted violently 
 and flung face down in the loose earth at the bottom 
 of the hole. A knee was planted in the small of the 
 prisoner's back, the point of the knife was under his 
 right ear, and Martin was saying, in quite understand- 
 able German: 
 
 " If you move or speak, I'll cut your throat ! " 
 
 The words have a brutal sound, but it does not pay 
 to be squeamish on such occasions, and the German 
 language adapts itself naturally to phrases of the kind. 
 
 Sergeant Mason had to solve his own problem by a 
 different method. The quarry chanced to be leaning
 
 The Rigor of the Game 317 
 
 forward at the moment a vicious tug accelerated his 
 progress. As a result, he fell on top of the hunter, and 
 there was nothing for it but the knife. A ghastly squeal 
 was barely stifled by the Englishman's hand over the 
 victim's mouth. At thirty yeards, or thereabouts, and 
 coming from a deep hole, the noise might have been a 
 grunt. Nevertheless, it reached the German trench. 
 
 " Wer da?" hissed a voice, and Martin heard the 
 click of a machine-gun as it swung on its tripod. 
 
 He did not fear the gun, which only meant a period 
 of waiting while its bullets cracked overhead. What he 
 did dread was a search party, as German majors are 
 valuable birds, and must be safeguarded. The situation 
 called for the desperate measure he took. The point 
 of the knife entered his captive's neck, and he whispered : 
 
 " Tell your men they must keep quiet, or you die 
 now!" 
 
 He allowed the almost choking man to raise his head. 
 The German knew that his life was forfeit if he did not 
 obey the order. A certain gurgling, ever growing 
 weaker, showed that his companion would soon be a 
 corpse. 
 
 " Shut up, sheep's head ! " he growled. 
 
 It sufficed. That is the way German majors talk to 
 their inferiors. 
 
 The engineer sergeant wriggled nearer. 
 
 " Couldn't help it, sir," he breathed. " I had to give 
 him one ! " 
 
 " Go through him for papers and bring me his 
 belt." 
 
 Within a minute the officer's hands were fastened 
 behind his back, Then he was permitted to rise and,
 
 318 The Revellers 
 
 after being duly warned, told to accompany Mason. 
 Martin followed, and the three began the return jour- 
 ney. A German rocket bothered them once, but the 
 German was quick as they to fall flat. Evidently he 
 was not minded to offer a target for marksmen on 
 either side. 
 
 Soon Mason was sent forward to warn the sentries. 
 Quarter of an hour after the episode in the shell hole 
 Martin, having come from the telephone, was examining 
 his prisoner by the light of an electric torch in a dug- 
 out. 
 
 " What is your name ? " he inquired. 
 
 " Freiherr Georg von Struben, major of artillery," 
 was the somewhat grandiloquent answer. 
 
 " Do you speak English? " 
 
 " Nod mooch." 
 
 Some long dormant chord of memory vibrated in 
 Martin's brain. He held the torch closer. Von Struben 
 was a tall, well-built Prussian. He smiled, meaning 
 probably to make the best of a bad business. His face 
 was soiled with clay and perspiration. A streak of 
 blood had run from a slight cut over an eyebrow. But 
 the white scar of an old saber wound, the outcome of a 
 duelling bout in some university burschenschaft, creased 
 down its center when he smiled. Then Martin knew. 
 
 "Fritz Bauer!" he cried. 
 
 The German started, though he recovered his self- 
 control promptly. 
 
 " You haf nod unterstant," he said. " I dell you 
 my nem " 
 
 "That's all right, Fritz," laughed Martin. "You 
 spoke good English when you were in Elmsdale. You
 
 The Rigor of the Game 319 
 
 could fool me then into giving you valuable information 
 for your precious scheme of invading England. Now 
 it's my turn ! Have you forgotten Martin Bolland? " 
 
 Blank incredulity yielded to evident fear in the other 
 man's eyes. With obvious effort, he stiffened. 
 
 " I was acting under orders, Captain Bolland," he 
 said. 
 
 "Not Bolland, but Grant," laughed Martin. "I, 
 too, have changed my name, but for a more honorable 
 reason." 
 
 The words seemed to irritate von Struben. 
 
 " I did noding dishonorable," he protested. " I was 
 dere by command. If it wasn't for your d d fleet, I 
 would have lodged once more in de Elms eighdeen monds 
 ago." 
 
 " I know," said Martin. " We found your map, the 
 map which Angele stole because you wouldn't take her 
 in the car the day we went on the moor." 
 
 In all likelihood the prisoner's nerves were on edge. 
 He had gone through a good deal since being hauled 
 into the shell hole, and was by no means prepared for 
 this display of intimate knowledge of his past career 
 by the youthful-looking Briton who had manhandled 
 him so effectually. Be that as it may, he was so dis- 
 concerted by the mere allusion to Angele that a fantastic 
 notion gripped Martin. He pursued it at once. 
 
 " We English are not quite such idiots as you like to 
 imagine us, major," he went on, and so ready was his 
 speech that the pause was hardly perceptible. " Mrs. 
 Saumarez or, describing her by her other name, the 
 Baroness von Edelstein was a far more dangerous 
 person than you. It took time to run her to earth
 
 320 The Revellers 
 
 you know what that means? when a fox is chased to a 
 burrow by hounds but our Intelligence Department 
 sized her up correctly at last." 
 
 Now this was nothing more than the wildest guessing, 
 a product of many a long talk with Elsie, the vicar, 
 and General Grant during the early days of the war. 
 But von Struben was manifestly so ill at ease that he 
 had to cover his discomfiture under a frown. 
 
 " I have not seen de lady for ten years," he said. 
 
 This disclaimer was needless. He had been wiser to 
 have cursed Angele for purloining his map. 
 
 " Perhaps not. She avoided Berlin. But you have 
 heard of her." 
 
 Again was the former spy guilty of stupidity. He 
 set his lips like a steel trap. Doubtful what to say, he 
 said nothing. 
 
 Martin nodded to Sergeant Mason. 
 
 " Just go through the major's pockets," he said. 
 " You know what we want." 
 
 Mason's knowledge was precise. He left the prisoner 
 his money, watch, pipe, and handkerchief. The remain- 
 der of his belongings were made up into a bundle. 
 Highly valuable treasure-trove was contained therein, 
 the major having in his possession a detailed list of all 
 arms in the Fifty-seventh Brandenburg Division and a 
 sketch of the trench system which it occupied. A glance 
 showed Martin that the Fifty-seventh Division lay 
 directly in front. 
 
 He turned to the subaltern whose dugout he was using 
 and who had witnessed the foregoing scene in silence. 
 
 " Can you send a corporal's guard to D.H.Q. in 
 charge of the prisoner?" he asked.
 
 The Rigor of the Game 321 
 
 " Certainly," said the other. " By the way, come 
 outside and have a cigarette." 
 
 Cigarettes are not lighted in front-line communication 
 trenches after nightfall not by officers, at any rate 
 nor do second lieutenants address staff captains so flip- 
 pantly. Martin read something more into the invita- 
 tion than appeared on the surface. He was right. 
 
 " About this Mrs. Saumarez you spoke of just now," 
 said the subaltern when they were beyond the closed door 
 of the dugout. " Is she the widow of one of our fellows, 
 a Hussar colonel ? " 
 
 Yes." 
 
 " Do you know she is living in Paris ? " 
 
 " Well, I heard some few years since that she was 
 residing there." 
 
 " She's there now. She runs a sort of hostel for 
 youngsters on short leave. She's supposed to charge a 
 small fee, but doesn't. And there's drinks galore for 
 all comers. She's extraordinarily popular, of course, 
 but I er well, one hates saying it. Still, you made 
 me sit up and take notice when you mentioned the Intel- 
 ligence Department. Mrs. Saumarez has a wonderful 
 acquaintance with the British front. She tells you 
 things don't you know and one is led on to talk sort 
 of reciprocity, eh ? " 
 
 Martin drew a deep breath. He almost dreaded put- 
 ting the inevitable question. 
 
 " Is her daughter with her a girl of twenty-one, 
 named Angele? " 
 
 " No. Never heard Mrs. Saumarez so much as men- 
 tion her." 
 
 " Thanks. We've done a good night's work, I fancy.
 
 322 The Revellers 
 
 And this for yourself only there may be a scrap to- 
 morrow afternoon." 
 
 " Fine ! I want to stretch my legs. Been in this 
 bally hole nine days. Well, here's your corporal. 
 Good-night, sir." 
 
 " Good-night ! " 
 
 And Martin trudged through the mud with Sergeant 
 Mason behind von Struben and the escort.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 NEARING THE END 
 
 SIXTY hours elapsed before Martin was able to un- 
 wrap the puttees from off his stiff legs and cut the laces 
 of boots so caked with mud that he was toi3 weary to 
 untie them. In that time, as the official report put it, 
 " enemy trenches extending from Rue du Bois to Houp- 
 lines, over a front of nearly three miles, were occupied 
 to an average depth of one thousand yards, and our 
 troops are now consolidating the new territory." 
 
 A bald announcement, indeed ! Martin was one of 
 the few who knew what it really meant. He had helped 
 to organize the victory ; he could sum up its costs. But 
 this record is not a history of the war, nor even of one 
 young soldier's share in it. Martin himself has devel- 
 oped a literary style noteworthy for its simple direct- 
 ness. Some day, if he survives, he may tell his own 
 story. 
 
 When the last of twelve hundred prisoners had been 
 mustered in the Grande Place of Armentieres, when the 
 attacking battalions had been relieved and the reserve 
 artillery was shelling Fritz's hastily formed gun posi- 
 tions, when the last ambulance wagon of the " special " 
 division had sped over the pave to the base hospital at 
 Bailleul, Martin thought he was free to go to bed. 
 
 As a matter of fact, he was not. Utterly spent, he 
 had thrown himself on a cot and had slept the sleep of 
 
 323
 
 324 The Revellers 
 
 complete exhaustion for half an hour, when a brigade 
 major discovered that " Captain Grant " was at liberty, 
 and detailed him for an immediate inquiry. The facts 
 were set forth on Army Form 122 : " On the night of 
 the 10th inst. a barrel of rum, delivered at Brigade 
 Dump No. 35, was stolen or mislaid. It was last seen in 
 trench 77. For investigation and report to D.A.Q.M.G. 
 50th Div." That barrel of rum will never be seen again, 
 though it was destined to roll through reams of vari- 
 ously numbered army forms during many a week. 
 
 But it did not disturb Martin's slumbers. A brigadier 
 general happened to hear his name given to an orderly. 
 
 "Who's that?" he inquired sharply. "Grant, did 
 you say ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," answered the brigade major. 
 
 " Don't be such a Heaven-condemned idiot ! " said the 
 general, or, rather, he used words to that effect. 
 " Grant was all through that push. Find some other 
 fellow." 
 
 Brigade majors are necessarily inhuman. It is noth- 
 ing to them what a man may have done they think 
 only of the next job. They are steeled alike to pity and 
 reproach. This one was no exception among the tribe. 
 He merely thumbed a list and said to the orderly : 
 
 " Give that chit to Mr. Fortescue." 
 
 So a subaltern began the chase. He smelt the rum 
 through a whole company of Gordons, but the barrel 
 lies hid a fathom deep in the mud of Flanders. 
 
 That same afternoon Martin woke up, refreshed in 
 mind and body. He secured a hot bath, " dolled up " in 
 clean clothes, and strolled out to buy some socks from 
 " Madame," the famous Frenchwoman who has kept her
 
 Nearing the End 325 
 
 shop open in Armentieres throughout three years of 
 shell fire. 
 
 A Yorkshire battalion was " standing at ease " in the 
 street while their officers and color sergeants engaged in 
 a wrangle about billets. The regiment had taken part 
 in the " push " and bore the outward and visible signs 
 of that inward grace which had carried them beyond the 
 third line German trench. A lance corporal was playing 
 " Tipperary " on a mouth-organ. 
 
 Someone shouted : " Give us ' Home Fires,' Jim " 
 and " Jim " ran a preliminary flourish before Martin 
 recognized the musician. 
 
 " Why, if it isn't Jim Bates ! " he cried, advancing 
 with outstretched hand. 
 
 The lance corporal drew himself up and saluted. His 
 brown skin reddened as he shook hands, for it is not 
 every day that a staff captain greets one of the rank 
 and file in such democratic fashion. 
 
 " I'm main glad te see you, sir," he said. " I read of 
 your promotion in t' Messenger, an' we boys of t' owd 
 spot were real pleased. We were, an' all." 
 
 " You're keeping fit, I see," and Martin's eye fell to 
 a pickelhaube tied to the sling of Bates's rifle. 
 
 " Pretty well, sir," grinned Bates. " I nearly had a 
 relapse yesterday when that mine went up. Did ye 
 hear of it?" 
 
 " If you mean the one they touched off at L'Epinette 
 Farm, I saw it," said Martin. " I was at the cross- 
 roads at the moment." 
 
 " Well, fancy that, sir ! I couldn't ha' bin twenty 
 yards from you." 
 
 " Queer things happen in war. Do you remember
 
 326 The Revellers 
 
 Mrs. Saumarez's German chauffeur, a man named Fritz 
 Bauer?" 
 
 " Quite well, sir." 
 
 " We caught him in ' No Man's Land ' three nights 
 ago. He is a major now." 
 
 Jim was so astonished that his mouth opened, just as 
 it would have done ten years earlier. 
 
 "By gum!" he cried. "That takes it! An' it's 
 hardly a month since I saw Miss Angele in Amiens." 
 
 Martin's pulse quickened. The mouth-organ in 
 Bates's hand brought him back at a bound to the night 
 when he had forbidden Jim to play for Angele's dancing. 
 And with that memory came another thought. Mrs. 
 Saumarez in Paris her daughter in Amiens why this 
 devotion to such nerve centers of the war? 
 
 "Are you sure?" he said. "You would hardly 
 recognize her. She is ten years older a woman, not 
 a child." 
 
 Bates laughed. He dropped his voice. 
 
 " She was always a bit owd-fashioned, sir. I'm not 
 mistakken. It kem about this way. It was her, right 
 enough. Our colonel's shover fell sick, so I took on 
 the car for a week. One day I was waitin' outside the 
 Hotel dew Nord at Amiens when a French Red Cross 
 auto drove up, an' out stepped Miss Angele. I twigged 
 her at once. I'd know them eyes of hers anywheres. 
 She hopped into the hotel, walkin' like a ballet-dancer. 
 Hooiver, I goes up to her shover an' sez : * Pardonnay 
 moy, but ain't that Mees Angele Saumarez ? ' He 
 talked a lot these Frenchies always do but I med 
 out he didn't understand. So I parlay-vooed some more, 
 and soon I got the hang of things. She's married now,
 
 Nearing the End 327 
 
 an' I have her new name an' address in my kit-l 
 But I remember 'em, all right. I can't pronounce 'em, 
 but I can spell 'em." 
 
 And Lance Corporal Bates spelled : " La Comtesse 
 Barthelemi de Saint-Ivoy, 2 bis, Impasse Fautet, Rue 
 Blanche, Paris." 
 
 " It looks funny," went on Jim anxiously, " but it's 
 just as her shover wrote it." 
 
 Martin affected to treat this information lightly. 
 
 " I'm exceedingly glad I came across you," he said. 
 " How would you like to be a sergeant, Jim? " 
 
 Bates grinned widely. 
 
 " It's a lot more work, but it does mean better grub, 
 sir," he confided. 
 
 " Very well. Don't mention it to anyone, and I'll 
 see what can be done. It shouldn't be difficult, since 
 you've earned the first stripe already." 
 
 Martin found his brigadier at the mess. A few 
 minutes' conversation with the great man led him to a 
 greater in the person of the divisional general. Yet a 
 few more minutes of earnest talk, and he was in a car, 
 bound for General Grant's headquarters, which he 
 reached late that night. It was long after midnight 
 when the two retired, and the son's face was almost as 
 worn and care-lined as the father's ere the discussion 
 ended. 
 
 Few proble.ms have been so baffling and none more 
 dangerous to the Allied armies in France than the Ger- 
 man spy system. It was so perfect before the war, 
 every possible combination of circumstances had been 
 foreseen and provided against so fully, that the most 
 thorough hunting out and ruthless punishment of enemy
 
 328 The Revellers 
 
 agents has failed to crush the organization. The snake 
 has been scotched, but not killed. Its venom is still 
 potent. Every officer on the staff and many senior regi- 
 mental officers have been astounded time and again by 
 the completeness and up-to-date nature of the informa- 
 tion possessed by the Germans. Surprise attacks 
 planned with the utmost secrecy have found enemy 
 trenches held by packed reserves and swarming with 
 additional machine-guns. Newly established ammuni- 
 tion depots, carefully screened, have been bombed next 
 day by aeroplanes and subjected to high-angle fire. 
 Troop movements by rail over long distances have be- 
 come known, and their effect discounted. Flanders, in 
 particular, is a plague-spot of espionage which has cost 
 Britain an untold sacrifice of life and an almost immeas- 
 urable waste of effort. 
 
 Small wonder, then, that Martin's forehead should 
 be seamed with foreboding. If his suspicions, which 
 his father shared, were justified, the French Intelli- 
 gence Department would quickly determine the truth, 
 and no power on earth could save Angele and her mother 
 from a firing party. France knows her peril and stamps 
 it out unflinchingly. Of late, too, the British authorities 
 adopt the same rigorous measures. The spy, man or 
 woman, is shown no mercy. 
 
 And now the whirligig of events had placed in Mar- 
 tin's hands the question of life or death for Mrs. Sau- 
 marez and Angele. It was a loathsome burden. He 
 rebelled against it. During the long run to Paris his 
 very soul writhed at the thought that fate was making 
 him their executioner. He tried to steel his resolution 
 by dwelling on the mischief they might have caused by
 
 Nearing the End 329 
 
 thinking rather of the gallant comrades laid forever in 
 the soil of France because of their murderous duplicity 
 than of the woman who was once his friend, of the girl 
 whose kisses Wd once thrilled him to the core. Worst 
 of all, both General Grant and he himself felt some 
 measure of responsibility for their failure to institute 
 a searching inquiry as to Mrs. Saumarez's whereabouts 
 when war broke out. 
 
 But he was distraught and miserable. He had a 
 notion a well-founded one, as it transpired that an 
 approving general had recommended him for the Mili- 
 tary Cross; but from all appearance he might have 
 expected a letter from the War Office announcing his 
 dismissal from the service. 
 
 At last, after a struggle which left him so broken 
 that at a cordon near Paris he was detained several 
 minutes while a sous-officier who did not like his looks 
 communicated with a superior potentate, he made up 
 his mind. Whate'er befell, he would give Angele and 
 her mother one chance. If they decided to take it, well 
 and good. If not, they must face the cold-eyed inquisi- 
 tion of the Quai d'Orsay. 
 
 Luckily, as matters turned out, he elected to call on 
 Mrs. Saumarez first. For one thing, her house in the 
 Rue Henri was not far from a hotel on the Champs 
 Elysees where he was known to the management; for 
 another, he wished to run no risk of being outwitted by 
 Angele. If she and her mother were guilty of the 
 ineffable infamy of betraying both the country of their 
 nationality and that which sheltered them they must 
 be trapped so effectually as to leave no room for 
 doubt.
 
 330 The Revellers 
 
 He was also fortunate in the fact that his soldier 
 chauffeur, when given the choice, decided to wait and 
 drive him to the Rue Henri. The man was candid as to 
 his own plans for the evening. 
 
 " When I put the car up I'll have a hot bath and go 
 to bed, sir," he said. " I've not had five hours' sleep 
 straight on end during the past three weeks, an' I 
 know wot'll happen if I start hittin' it up around these 
 bullyvards. Me for the feathers at nine o'clock! So, 
 if you don't mind, sir " 
 
 Martin knew what the man meant. He wanted to be 
 kept busy. One hour of enforced liberty implied the 
 risk of meeting some hilarious comrades. Even in 
 Paris, strict as the police regulations may be, Britons 
 from the front are able to sit up late, and the parties 
 are seldom " dry." 
 
 So officer and man removed some of the marks of a 
 long journey, ate a good meal, and about eight o'clock 
 arrived at Mrs. Saumarez's house. Life might be con- 
 vivial enough inside, but the place looked deserted, 
 almost forbidding, externally. 
 
 Indeed, Martin hesitated before pressing an electric 
 bell and consulted a notebook to verify the street and 
 number given him by the subaltern on the night von 
 Struben was captured. But he had not erred. His 
 memory never failed. There could be no doubt but that 
 his special gift in this direction had been responsible 
 for a rapid promotion, since military training, on the 
 mental side, depends largely on a letter-perfect accuracy 
 of recollection. 
 
 When he rang, however, the door opened at once. 
 A bareheaded man in civilian attire, but looking most
 
 Nearing the End 331 
 
 unlike a domestic, held aside a pair of heavy curtains 
 which shut out the least ray of light from the hall. 
 
 " Entrez, monsieur," he said in reply to Martin, after 
 a sharp glance at the car and its driver. 
 
 Martin heard a latch click behind him. He passed 
 on, to find himself before a sergeant of police seated at 
 a table. Three policemen stood near. 
 
 *' Your name and rank, monsieur ? " said this offi- 
 cial. 
 
 Martin, though surprised, almost startled, by these 
 preliminaries, answered promptly. The sergeant nodded 
 to one of his aides. 
 
 " Take this gentleman upstairs," he said. 
 
 " Is there any mistake? " inquired Martin. " I have 
 come here to visit Mrs. Saumarez." 
 
 " No mistake," said the sergeant. " Follow that man, 
 monsieur." 
 
 Assured now that some dramatic and wholly unex- 
 pected development had taken place, Martin tried to 
 gather his wits as he mounted to the first floor. There, 
 in a shuttered drawing-room, he confronted a shrewd- 
 looking man in mufti, to whom his guide handed a 
 written slip sent by the sergeant. Evidently, this was 
 an official of some importance. 
 
 "Shall I speak English, Captain Grant?" he said, 
 thrusting aside a pile of documents and clearing a space 
 on the table at which he was busy. 
 
 " Well," said Martin, smiling, " I imagine that your 
 English is better than my French." 
 
 He sat on a chair indicated by the Frenchman. He 
 put no questions. He guessed he was in the presence 
 of a tragedy.
 
 332 The Revellers 
 
 "Is Mrs. Saumarez a friend of yours?" began the 
 stranger. 
 
 " Yes, in a sense." 
 
 " Have you seen her recently ? " 
 
 " Not for ten years." 
 
 Obviously, this answer was disconcerting. It was 
 evident, too, that Martin's name was not on a typed list 
 which the other man had scanned with a quick eye. 
 Martin determined to clear up an involved situation. 
 
 " I take it that you are connected with the police 
 department ? " he said. " Well, I have come from the 
 British front at Armentieres to inquire into the uses to 
 which this house has been put. A number of British 
 officers have been entertained here. Our people want to 
 know why." 
 
 He left it at that for the time being, but the French- 
 man's manner became perceptibly more friendly. 
 
 " May I examine your papers ? " he said. 
 
 Martin handed over the bundle of " permis de voy- 
 age," which everyone without exception must possess in 
 order to move about the roads of western France in 
 wartime. 
 
 " Ah ! " said the official, his air changing now to one 
 of marked relief, " this helps matters greatly. My 
 name is Duchesne, Captain Grant Gustave Duchesne. 
 I belong to the Bureau de 1'Interieur. So you people 
 also have had your suspicions ? There can be no doubt 
 about it the Baroness von Edelstein was a spy of the 
 worst kind. The mischief that woman did was incal- 
 culable. Of course, it was hopeless to look for any real 
 preventive work in England before the war ; but we were 
 caught napping here. You see, the widow of a British
 
 Nearing the End 333 
 
 officer, a lady who had the best of credentials, and whose 
 means were ample, hardly came under review. She kept 
 open house, and had lived in Paris so long that her 
 German origin was completely forgotten. In fact, the 
 merest accident brought about her downfall." 
 
 One of the policemen came in with a written memo- 
 randum, which M. Duchesne read. 
 
 " Your chauffeur does not give information will- 
 ingly," smiled the latter. " The sergeant had to 
 threaten him with arrest before he would describe your 
 journey to-day." 
 
 It was clear that the authorities were taking nothing 
 for granted where Mrs. Saumarez and her visitors were 
 concerned. Martin felt that he had stumbled to the lip 
 of an abyss. At any rate, events were out of his hands 
 now, and " for that dispensation he was profoundly 
 thankful. 
 
 " I think I ought to tell you what I know of Mrs. 
 Saumarez," he said. " I don't wish to do the unfortu- 
 nate woman an injustice, and my facts are so 
 nebulous " 
 
 " One moment, Captain Grant," interposed the 
 Frenchman. " You may feel less constraint if you hear 
 that the Baroness died this morning." 
 
 " Good Heavens ! " was Martin's involuntary cry. 
 " Was she executed? " 
 
 " No," said the other. " She forestalled justice by a 
 couple of hours. The cause of death was heart failure. 
 She was intemperate. Her daughter was with her at 
 the end." 
 
 " Madame Barthelemi de Saint-Ivoy ! " 
 
 " You know her, then? "
 
 334 The Revellers 
 
 " I met her in a Yorkshire village at the same time as 
 her mother. The other day, by chance, I ascertained 
 her name and address from one of our village lads who 
 recognized her in Amiens about a month ago." 
 
 " Well, you were about to say " 
 
 Martin had to put forth a physical effort to regain 
 self-control. He plunged at once into the story of those 
 early years. There was little to tell with regard to 
 Mrs. Saumarez and Angele. " Fritz Bauer " was the 
 chief personage, and he was now well on his way to a 
 prison camp in England. 
 
 Monsieur Duchesne was amused by the map episode 
 in its latest phase. 
 
 " And you were so blind that you took no action ? " 
 he commented dryly. 
 
 " No. We saw, but were invincibly confident. My 
 father sent the map to the Intelligence Department, 
 with which he was connected until 1912, when he was 
 given a command in the North. He and I believe now 
 that someone in Whitehall overlooked the connection 
 between Mrs. Saumarez and an admitted spy. She had 
 left England, and there was so much to do when war 
 broke out." 
 
 " Ah ! If only those people in London had writ- 
 ten us!" 
 
 " Is the affair really so bad? " 
 
 " Bad ! This wretched creature showed an ingenuity 
 that was devilish. She deceived her own daughter. 
 That is perfectly clear. The girl married a French 
 officer after the Battle of the Marne, and, as we have 
 every reason to believe, thought she had persuaded her 
 mother to break off relations with her German friends.
 
 Nearing the End 335 
 
 We know now that the baroness, left to her own devices, 
 adopted a method of conveying information to the 
 Boches which almost defied detection. Owing to her 
 knowledge of the British army she was able to chat 
 with your men on a plane of intimacy which no ordinary 
 woman could command. She found out where certain 
 brigades were stationed and what regiments composed 
 them. She heard to what extent battalions were deci- 
 mated. She knew what types of guns were in use and 
 what improvements were coming along in caliber and 
 range. She was told when men were suddenly recalled 
 from leave, and where they were going. Need I say 
 what deductions the German Staff could make from such 
 facts?" 
 
 " But how on earth could she convey the information 
 in time to be of value? " 
 
 " Quite easily. There is one weak spot on our fron- 
 tier south of the German line. She wrote to an agent 
 in Pontarlier, and this man transmitted her notes across 
 the Swiss frontier. The rest was simple. She was 
 caught by fate, not by us. Years ago she employed a 
 woman from Tinchebrai as a nurse '* 
 
 " Fran9oise ! " broke in Martin. 
 
 " Exactly Fran9oise Dupont. Well, Madame Du- 
 pont died in 1913. But she had spoken of her former 
 mistress to a nephew, and this man, a cripplej is now a 
 Paris postman. He is a sharp-witted peasant, and, as 
 he grew in experience, was promoted gradually to more 
 important districts. Just a week ago he took on this 
 very street, and when he saw the name recalled her 
 aunt's statements about Mrs. Saumarez. He informed 
 the Surete at once. Even then she gave us some trouble.
 
 336 The Revellers 
 
 Her letters were printed, not written, and she could post 
 them in out-of-the-way places. However, we trapped 
 her within forty-eight hours. Have you a battery of 
 four 9.2's hidden in a wood three hundred meters north- 
 west of Pont Ballot?" 
 
 Martin was so flabbergasted that he stammered. 
 
 " That is the sort of thing we don't discuss any- 
 where," he said. 
 
 " Naturally. It happens to be also the sort of thing 
 which Mrs. Saumarez drew out of some too-talkative 
 lieutenant of artillery. Luckily, the fact has not 
 crossed the border. We have the lady's notepaper and 
 her secret signs, so are taking the liberty to supply the 
 Boches with intelligence more useful to us." 
 
 " Then you haven't grabbed the Pontarlier man ? " 
 
 " Not yet. We give him ten days. He has six left. 
 When his time is up, the Germans will have discovered 
 that the wire has been tapped." 
 
 Martin forced the next question. 
 
 "What of Madame d'e Saint-Ivoy?" 
 
 " Her case is under consideration. She is working 
 for the Croix Rouge. That is why she was in Amiens. 
 Her husband has been recalled from Verdun. He, by 
 the way, is devoted to her, and she professes to hate all 
 Germans. Thus far her record is clean." 
 
 Martin was glad to get out into the night air, though 
 he had a strange notion that the quietude of the dark- 
 ened Paris streets was unreal that the only reality lay 
 yonder where the shells crashed and men burrowed like 
 moles in the earth. His chauffeur saluted. 
 
 " Glad to see you, sir," said the man. " Those 
 blighters wanted to run me in."
 
 Nearing the End 337 
 
 " No. It's all right. The police are doing good 
 work. Take me to the hotel. I'll follow your example 
 and go to bed." 
 
 Martin's voice was weary. He was grateful to Provi- 
 dence that he had been spared the ordeal which faced 
 him when he entered the city. But the strain was 
 heavier than he counted on, and he craved rest, even 
 from tumultuous memories. Before retiring, however, 
 he wrote to Elsie guardedly, of course but in suffi- 
 cient detail that she should understand. 
 
 Next morning, making an early start, he guided the 
 car up the Rue Blanche, as the north road could be 
 reached by a slight detour. He saw the Impasse Fautet, 
 and glanced at the drawn blinds of Numero 2 bis. In 
 one of those rooms, he supposed, Angele was lying. He 
 had resolved not to seek her out. When the war was 
 over, and he and his wife visited Paris, they could in- 
 quire for her. Was she wholly innocent ? He hoped so. 
 Somehow, he could not picture her as a spy. She was 
 a disturbing influence, but her nature was not mean. 
 At any rate, her mother's death would scare her effec- 
 tually. 
 
 It was a fine morning, clear, and not too cold. His 
 spirits rose as the car sped along a good road, after 
 the suburban traffic was left behind. The day's news 
 was cheering. Verdun was safe, the Armentieres 
 " push " was an admitted gain, and the United States 
 had reached the breaking point with Germany. Thank 
 God, all would yet be well, and humanity would arise, 
 blood-stained but triumphant, from the rack of torment 
 on which it had been stretched by Teuton oppression ! 
 
 " Hit her up ! " he said when the car had passed
 
 338 The Revellers 
 
 through Creil, and the next cordon was twenty miles 
 ahead. The chauffeur stepped on the gas, and the 
 pleasant panorama of France flew by like a land 
 glimpsed in dreams. 
 
 Every day in far-off Elmsdale Elsie would walk to 
 the White House, or John and Martha would visit the 
 vicarage. If there was no letter, some crumb of com- 
 fort could be drawn from its absence. Each morning, 
 in both households, the first haunted glance was at 
 the casualty lists in the newspapers. But none ever 
 spoke of that, and Elsie knew what she never told the 
 old couple that the thing really to be dreaded was a 
 long white envelope from the War Office, with " O.H. 
 M.S." stamped across it, for the relatives of fallen 
 officers are warned before the last sad item is 
 printed. 
 
 Elsie lived at the vicarage. The Elms was to 
 roomy for herself and her baby boy, another Martin 
 Bolland such were the names given him at the chris- 
 tening font. So it came to pass that she and the vicar, 
 accompanied by a nurse wheeling a perambulator, came 
 to the White House with Martin's letter. And, heinous 
 as were Mrs. Saumarez's faults, unforgivable though 
 her crime, they grieved for her, since her memory in 
 the village had been, for the most part, one of a gracious 
 and dignified woman. 
 
 Martha wiped her spectacles after reading the letter. 
 The word " hotel " had a comforting sound. 
 
 " It must ha' bin nice for t' lad te find hisself in a 
 decent bed for a night," she said. 
 
 Then Elsie's eyes filled with tears.
 
 Nearing the End 339 
 
 " I only wish I had known he was there," she mur- 
 mured. 
 
 "Why, honey?" 
 
 " Because, God help me, on one night, at least, I could 
 have fallen asleep with the consciousness that he was 
 safe!" 
 
 She averted her face, and her slight, graceful body 
 shook with an uncontrollable emotion. The vicar was 
 so taken aback by this unlooked-for distress on Elsie's 
 part that his lips quivered and he dared not speak. 
 But John Bo Hand's huge hand rested lightly on the 
 young wife's shoulder. 
 
 " Dinnat fret, lass," he said. " I feel it i' me bones 
 that Martin will come back tiv us. England needs such 
 men, the whole wo'ld needs 'em, an' the Lord, in His 
 goodness, will see to it that they're spared. Sometimes, 
 when things are blackest, I liken me-sen unto Job; for 
 Job was a farmer an' bred stock, an' he was afflicted 
 more than most. An' then I remember that the Lord 
 blessed the latter end of Job, who died old and full of 
 days; yet I shall die a broken man if Martin is taken. 
 O Lord, my God, in Thee do I put my trust ! " 
 
 THE END
 
 
 
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