CHAPTER XIV
For a time after the Squire had driven away, Clement had sat his horseand stared after him, and in his rage had wished him dead. He hadprepared himself for opposition, he had looked to be repulsed--he hadexpected nothing else. But in the scene which his fancy had pictured,his part had been one of dignity; he had owned his aspirations like aman, he had admitted his insufficiency with modesty, he had pleadedthe power of love with eloquence, he had won even from the Squire ameed of unwilling approbation.
But the scene, as played, had run on other lines. The old man hadcrushed him. He had sworn at him, refused to listen to him, hadinsulted him, had treated him as no better than a shop-boy. And allthis had cut to the quick. For Clement, born after Ovington had risenfrom the ranks, had his pride and his self-respect, and humiliated, hecursed with all his soul the prejudice and hide-bound narrowness ofthe Squire and all his caste. For the time he was more than a radical,he was a republican. If by a gesture he could have swept away King andCommons, lords and justices, he would not have held his hand.
It took him some time to recover, and it was only when he foundhimself, he hardly knew how, upon the bridge at Garthmyle that he grewmore cool. Even then he was not quite himself. He had vowed that hewould not see Josina again until he had claimed her from her father;but the Squire's treatment, he now felt, had absolved him from this,and the temptation to see her was great. He longed to pour out hismind to her, and to tell her how he had been insulted, how he had beentreated. Perhaps, even, he must say farewell to her--he must give herup.
For he was not all hero, and the task before him seemed for the timetoo prodigious, the labor too little hopeful. The Hydra had so manyheads, and roared so fearfully that for a moment his courage sankbefore it--and his love. He felt that he must yield, that he must seeJosina and tell her so. In any event she ought to know what hadhappened, and presently he put up his horse at the inn and made by aroundabout road for their meeting-place by the brook.
There was but a chance that she would visit it, and in the meantime hehad to exercise what patience he might. His castles in the air hadfallen and he had not the spirit to rebuild them. He sat gazingmoodily on the rippling face of the water, or watched the ouselcurtsying on its stone; and he almost despaired. He had known theSquire to be formidable, he now knew him to be impossible. He lookeddown the stream to where Garth, lofty and fortress-like, raised itstwisted chimneys above the trees, and he shook his fist at it. Remoteand islanded on its knoll, rising amid ancestral trees, it stood forall that the Squire stood for--governance, privilege, tradition, thepast--all the things he had not, all the things that mocked him.
He lingered there, savoring his melancholy, until the sun went downbehind the hills, and then, attacked by the pangs of hunger, he madehis way back to the village inn. Here he satisfied his appetite onsuch home-baked bread and yellow butter and nut-brown ale as are notin these degenerate times; and for wellnigh an hour he sat brooding inthe sanded parlor surrounded by china cats and dogs--they too, wouldbe of value nowadays. At length with a heavy heart--for what was he todo next?--he rode out of the yard, and crossing the bridge under theshadowy bulk of the squat church tower, he set his horse's head forhome. It was nearly dark.
What was he to do next? He did not know, but as he rode through thegloom, the solemn hills falling back on either side and the dark plainwidening before him, he took courage; he began to consider, with somereturn of hope, what lay before him, and how he must proceed--if hewere not to give up. Clearly he must face the Squire, but it must bein the Squire's own house, where the Squire must hear him. The old manmight insult him, rave at him, order him out, but before he was putout he would speak and ask for Josina, though the roof fell. Thereshould be no further mistake. And he would let the Squire know, if itcame to that, that he was a man, as good as other men. By heaven hewould!
He was not all hero. But there were some heroic parts about him, andhe determined that the very next morning he would ride out and wouldbeard the Hydra in its den, be its heads ever so many. He would winhis lady-love or perish!
By this time he was half-way home. The market traffic on the road hadceased, the moon had not yet risen, the night lay calm and still abouthim. Presently as he crossed a wet, rushy flat, one of the loneliestparts of the way, he saw the lights of a vehicle coming towards him.The road at that point had not been long enclosed, and a broad stripof common still survived on either hand, so that moving on this thehorse's hoofs made no sound save a soft plop-plop where the ground waswettest. He could hear, therefore, while still afar off, the tramp ofa pair of horses driven at a trot, and it occurred to him that thismight be the Squire returning late. If he could have avoided themeeting he would have done so, though it was unlikely that the Squirewould recognize him in the dark. But to turn aside would be foolish."Hang me if I am going to be afraid of him!" he thought. And hetouched up his horse with his heel.
Then an odd thing happened. While the carriage was still fifty yardsfrom him, one of the lights went out. His eyes missed it, but hisbrain had barely taken in the fact when the second vanished also, asif the vehicle had sunk into the ground. At the same moment a cryreached his ears, followed by a clatter of hoofs on the road as if thehorses were being sharply pulled up.
Clement took his horse by the head and bent forward, striving to makeout what was passing. A dull sound, as of a heavy body striking theroad reached him, followed by a silence that seemed ominous. Even thewind appeared to have hushed its whisper through the rushes.
"Hallo!" he shouted. "What is it? Is anything the matter?" He urgedhis horse forward.
His cry was lost in the crack of a whip, he heard the horses breakaway, and without farther warning they came down upon him at a gallop,the carriage bounding wildly behind them. He had just time to thrusthis nag to the side, and they were on him and past him, and whirlingdown the road--a mere shadow, but as perilous and almost as noisy as athunderbolt. There was no doubt now that an accident had happened, butbefore he could give help he had to master his horse, which hadwheeled about; and so a few seconds elapsed before he reached thescene--reached it with his heart in his mouth--for who could say withwhat emergency he might not have to deal?
Certainly with a tragedy, for the first thing he made out was the formof a man stooping over another who lay in the road. Clement drew abreath of relief as he slipped from his saddle--he would not have tomeet the crisis alone. But as his foot touched the ground, he saw thestooping man raise his hand with something in it, and he knewinstinctively that it was raised not to help but to strike.
He shouted, and the blow hung in the air. The man, taken by surprise,straightened himself, turned, and saw Clement at his elbow. Hehesitated; then, with an oath, he aimed his blow at the new-comer.
Clement parried it, rather by instinct than with intention, and soweakly, that the other's weapon beat down his guard and cut hischeek-bone. He staggered back and the villain raised his cudgel again.Had the second blow fallen where it was aimed, it would have finishedthe business. But Clement, aware now that he fought for his life,sprang within the other's guard, and before the cudgel alighted,gripped him by the neckcloth. The man gave ground, tripped backwardsover the body that lay behind him, and in a twinkling the two wererolling together on the road, Clement striving to beat in theruffian's face with the butt-end of his whip, while the man triedvainly to shorten his weapon and use it to purpose.
It was a desperate struggle, in the mire, in the darkness--a strugglefor life carried on in a silence that was broken only by thecombatants' breathing and a rare oath. Twice each rolled the other,and once Clement, having the upper hand became aware that the fighthad its spectator. He had a glimpse of a ghastly face, one side ofwhich had been mangled by a murderous blow--a face that glared atthem with its remaining eye. He guessed rather than saw that the manlying in the road had raised himself on an elbow, and he heard agasping "At him, lad! Well done, lad!" then in a turn of the strugglehe lost the vision. His opponent h
ad him by the throat, he wasundermost again--and desperate. His one thought now was to kill--tokill the brute-beast whose teeth threatened his cheek, whose hotbreath burned his face, whose hands gripped his throat. He struckagain and again, and eventually, supple and young, and perhaps thestronger, he freed himself and staggered to his feet, raising his whipto strike.
But the same thing happened to him which had happened to hisassailant. As he stepped back to give power to the blow, he fell overthe third man. He came down heavily, and for a moment he was at theother's mercy. Fortunately the rascal's courage was at an end. He gotto his feet, but instead of pursuing his advantage, he snatched upsomething that lay on the ground, and sped away down the road, asquickly as his legs could carry him.
Clement recovered his feet, but more slowly, for the fall had shakenhim. Still, his desire for vengeance was hot, and he set off inpursuit. The man had a good start, however, and presently, leaving theroad and leaping the ditch, made off across the open common. To followfarther promised little, for in a few seconds his figure, alreadyshadowy, melted into the darkness of the fields. Clement gave up thechase, and turned back, panting and out of breath.
He did not feel his wound, much less did he feel the misgivings whichhad beset him when he came upon the scene. Instead, he experienced anew and thrilling elation. He had measured his strength against anenemy, he had faced death in fight, he felt himself equal to any andevery event. Even when stooping over the prostrate figure he saw themangled and bleeding face turned up to the sky it did not daunt him,nor the darkness, nor the loneliness. The injured man seemed to beaware of his presence for he made an attempt to rise; but he failed,and would have fallen back on the road if Clement, dropping on oneknee, had not sustained his head on the other. It was the Squire. Somuch he saw; but it was a Squire past not only scolding but speech,whom he held in his arms and whose head he supported. To all Clement'squestions he made no answer. It was much if he still breathed.
Clement glanced about him, and his confidence began to leave him. Whatwas he to do? He could not go for help, leaving the old man lying inthe road; yet it was impossible to do much in the dark, either toascertain the extent of the Squire's hurt, or to use means to stanchit. The moon had not yet risen, the plain stretched dark about them,no sound except the melancholy whisper of the wind in the rushesreached him. There was no house near and it was growing late. No onemight pass for hours.
Fortunately when he had reached this stage he remembered that he hadhis tinder box and matches in his pocket, and he fumbled for them withhis disengaged hand. With an effort, he got them out. But to strike alight and catch it in the huddled posture in which he knelt was noteasy, and it was only after a score of attempts that the match caughtthe flame. Even so, the light it gave was faint, but it revealed theSquire's face, and Clement saw, with a shudder, that the left eye andtemple were terribly battered. But he saw, too, that the old man wasconscious, for he uttered a groan, and peered with the uninjured eyeat the face that bent over him. "Good lad!" he muttered, "good lad!"and he added broken words which conveyed to Clement's mind that it washis man who had attacked him. Then--his face was so turned that it waswithin a few inches of Clement's shoulder--"You're bloody, lad," hemuttered. "He's spoiled your coat, the d--d rascal!"
With that he seemed to slip back into unconsciousness, and the lightwent out. It left Clement in a strait to know what he ought to do, orrather what he could do. Help he must get, and speedily, if he wouldsave the Squire's life, but his horse was gone, and to walk away forhelp, leaving the old man lying in the mud of the way seemed inhuman.He must at least carry him to the side of the road.
The task was no light one, for the Squire was tall, though not stout;and before Clement stooped to it he cast a last look round. Butsilence still wrapped all, and he was gathering his strength to liftthe dead weight, when a sound caught his ear, and he raised himself. Amoment, and joy!--he caught the far-off beat of hoofs on the turf.Someone was coming, approaching him from the direction of Aldersbury.He shouted, shouted his loudest and waited. Yes, he was not mistaken.The soft plop-plop of hoofs grew louder, two forms loomed out of thedarkness, a horse shied, a man swore.
"Here!" Clement cried. "Here! Take care! There's a man in the road."
"Where?" Then, "Confound you, you nearly had me down! Are you hurt?"
"No, but"
"I've got your horse. I met him a couple of miles this side of thetown. What has----"
Clement broke in. "There's bad work here!" he cried, his voice shaky.Now that help was at hand and the peril was over, he began to feelwhat he had gone through. "For God's sake get down and help me. Youruncle's man has robbed him and, I fear, murdered him."
"The Squire?"
"Yes, yes. He's lying here, half dead. We must get him to the side ofthe road at once."
Arthur slipped from his saddle, and holding the reins of the twohorses, approached the group as nearly as the frightened beasts wouldlet him. "Quiet, fools!" he cried angrily. And then, "Good heavens!"in a whisper, as he peered awe-stricken at the injured man. "Is hedead?"
"No, but he's terribly mauled. And we must get help. Help, man, andquickly, if it is to be of any use. Shall I go?"
"No, no, I'll go," Arthur answered, recoiling. What he had seen hadgiven him no desire to take Clement's place. "Garthmyle is the nearer,and I shall not be long. I'll tie up your horse--that'll be best."
There was an old thorn-tree standing solitary in the waste not manyyards away: a tree destined to be pointed out for years to come asmarking the spot where the old Squire was robbed. Arthur tiedClement's horse to this, then together they lifted the old man andcarried him to the side of the road. The moment that this was done,Arthur sprang on his horse and started off. "Back soon," he shouted.
Clement had not seen his way to object, but it was with a heavy heartthat he resigned himself to another period of painful waiting. He wascold, his face smarted, and at any moment the old man might die on hishands. Meantime he could do nothing but wait. Or yes, he could dosomething; chilled as he was, he took off his coat, and rolling it up,he slipped it under the insensible head.
Little had he thought that morning that he would ever pity the Squire.But he did. The man who had driven away from him, hard, aggressive,indomitable, asking no man's help and meeting all men's eyes with thegaze of a master, now lay at his feet, crushed and broken; lay withhis head on the coat of the man he had despised, dependent on him forthe poor service that still might avail him. Clement felt the pathosof it, and the pity. And his heart was sore for Josina. How would shemeet, how bear the shock that a short hour must inflict on her?
He was thinking of her, when, long before he had dared to expectrelief, he heard a sound that resolved itself into the rattle ofwheels. Yes, there was a carriage coming along the road.
Arthur had been fortunate. He had come upon the Squire's horses, whichhad been brought to a stand with the near wheels of the curriclewedged in the ditch. He had found them greedily feeding, and he hadlet his own nag go, and had captured the runaways. He had drawn thecarriage out of the ditch, and here he was.
"Thank God!" Clement cried. "I think that he is still alive."
"And we've got to lift him in," said Arthur, more practical. "He's abig weight."
It was not an easy task. But they tied up the horses to thethorn-tree, and lifting the old man between them, they carried himwith what care they might to the carriage, raised him, heavy andhelpless as he was, to the step, and then, while one maintained himthere, the other climbed in and lifted him to the front seat. Clementgot up behind and supported his shoulders and head, while Arthur,first tying the saddle-horse behind the carriage, released the pair,and with the reins in his hands scrambled to his place.
The thing was done and cleverly done, and they set off. But they darednot travel at more than a walk, and never had the three miles toGarthmyle seemed so long or so tedious.
They were both anxious and both excited. But while in Clement's mindpity, a sense of the tragedy before
him, and thought for Josinacontended with an honest pride in what he had done, the other, as theydrove along, was already calculating chances and busy withcontingencies. The Squire's death--if the Squire died--would work agreat change, an immense change. Things which had yesterday been toodoubtful and too distant to deserve much thought would be withinreach, would be his for the asking. And he was the more inclined toconsider this because Betty--dear little creature as she was--hadshown a spirit that day that was not to his liking. Whereas Josina,mild and docile--it might be that after all she would suit him better.And Garth--Garth with its wide acres and its rich rent-roll would behers; Garth that would give any man a position to be envied. Itscharms, while uncertain and dependent on the whim and caprice of anarbitrary old man, had not fixed him, for to attain to them he mustgive up other things, equally to his mind. But now the case was ormight be altered. He must wait and watch events, and keep an openmind. If the Squire died----
A word or two passed between the couple, but for the most part theywere silent. Once and again the Squire moaned, and so proved that hestill lived. At last, where the road to Garth branched off, at theentrance to the village, they saw a light in front, and old Fewtrellcarrying a lanthorn met them. The Squire's absence had alarmed thehouse, and he had come thus far in quest of news.
"Oh, Lord, ha' mercy! Lord, ha' mercy!" the old fellow quavered as helifted his lanthorn and the light disclosed the group in the carriage,and his master's huddled form and ghastly visage. "Miss Jos said 'twasso! Said as summat had happened him! Beside herself, she be! She'vebeen down at the gate this half-hour waiting on him!"
"Don't let her see him," Clement cried. "Go, man, and send her back."
But, "That's no good," Arthur objected with more sense but lessfeeling. "She must see him. This is women's work, we can do nothing.Let Fewtrell take your place and do you go for the doctor. You knowwhere he lives, and you'll go twice as quick as he will, and there'sno more that you can do. Take your horse."
Clement was unwilling to go, unwilling to have no farther part in thematter. But he could not refuse. Things were as they were; in spite ofall that he had done and suffered, he had no place there, no standingin the house, no right beside his mistress or call to think for her.He was a stranger, an outsider, and when he had fetched the doctor,there would, as Arthur had said, be nothing more that he could do.
Nothing more, though as he rode over the bridge and trotted throughthe village his heart was bursting with pity for her whom he could notcomfort, could not see; from whose side in her troubles and herself-arraignment--for he knew that she would reproach herself--he mustbe banished. It was hard.