The Revellers

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 before 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 sisters’ evidence.

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 leät, an’ ye can bide i’ bed i’ t’ mornin’. 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 gracefully proportioned as Angèle’s elegant limbs, though Elsie was more robust.

Hearing the boy’s firm tread on the graveled approach, 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.”

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 recovering 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.

“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 Angèle Saumarez, at any rate.”

“There’s no comparison between you in any respect.”

And this young spark three short hours ago, behind the woodpile, had gazed into Angèle’s eyes!

“Do you remember – we were talking about her when that creature flew at me?”