The Revellers

“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 beäth young gentlemen kem yam at half-past ten. 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. Bolland 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, approaching 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 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. Bolland 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 neäm 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 breakfast, 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 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 tremulous, but gracious, smile from Evelyn as he passed. To his very genuine astonishment and alarm, he was confronted 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 magistrate and superintendent ceased to have any awe-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 reason 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 ignominy into which he had been pitched so unexpectedly.

He was aroused by Mr. Beckett-Smythe saying:

“Now, my lad, was it you who fought my son last night?”

“Yes – sir,” stammered Martin.

The question sharpened his wits to some purpose. A spice of dread 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.”