The Revellers

“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 recovery, 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 bustling 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 sympathy, 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 gathered, 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 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 célèbre.

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 heäds!”

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 remembrance 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. Summersgill. “A fortnight sen last Tuesday I caught him 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 blurting 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 Bolland’s denunciations 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 question her further just then, and hugged her contentedly. The very smell of her lavender-scented clothes was grateful, and this embrace seemed to restore her to him.

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. An’ mebbe, later i’ t’ day, I’ll find a shillin’ fer yersen. But, fer goodness’ sake, come 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 cognizance concerning Betsy Thwaites’s escapade. Be it noted, they unanimously condemned Fred, the groom; commiserated with Betsy, and extolled George Pickering 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?”

“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 hospitality 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 Angèle. 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.

“Martin, is it correct that you were in the stableyard 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 Angèle? Being better educated than he, would she pour forth a jargon of foreign words and slang? Angèle 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, suggested 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 overnight, 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 interpreted Martin’s quick coloring to knowledge of a discreditable episode. He said to the girl:

“I’ll follow you home in a few minutes, my dear.”

Martin thought that an expression of disappointment 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.

“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.