CHAPTER XVI.
MR. JACK ROGERS AS A MAN OF AFFAIRS.
"I know," said I, meeting her gaze sturdily, "that you are indanger."
"How should I be in danger?"
"That I cannot tell you, Miss Isabel, unless you first tell mesomething."
She waited, her eyes searching mine.
"Last night," I went on, "in the road--you were expecting someone."
Her chin went up proudly; but a tide of red rose with it, flushingher throat and so creeping up and colouring her face.
"Was it Archibald Plinlimmon?"
She put up a hand as if to push me aside: but on a sudden turned andhastened from me, with bowed head, towards the cottage.
"Miss Isabel!" I cried, following her close. "I meant no harm--howcould I mean you harm? Miss Isabel!"
I would not let her go, but followed her to the door, entreating;even pushed after her into the small kitchen, where at last she facedon me.
"Why cannot you let me alone, boy? Into what have you comehere to pry? You are odious--yes, odious!" She stamped her foot."And I thought last night, that you were in trouble. Was I notkind to you for that, and that only?" She broke off pitifully."Oh, Harry, I am dreadfully unhappy!"
She sank into a chair beside the table, across which she flung an armand so leaned her brow and let the sobs shake her.
"And I am here to help you, Miss Isabel: only so much is puzzling me!Last night you said you had a secret, and that it was a happy one.To-day you are crying, and it is miserable to see."
"And why should I not be happy?" She lifted a hand to the bosom ofher bodice, and slipped over her third finger the ring she had wornover-night.
"Why should I not be expecting him?" she murmured.
For the moment I was slow in understanding. But I suppose that atlength she saw that in my eyes which satisfied her: for she drew downmy head to her lap, and sat laughing and weeping softly.
A kettle hanging from a crook in the chimney-place boiled over,hissing down upon the hot wood-ashes. She sprang up and lifted itdown to the hearth.
"Oh, and I forgot!" Her hand went back to her bodice again."Mr. Jack Rogers was here this morning inquiring for you. He droveup in his tilbury, and said he was on his way to Plymouth. But heleft this note."
I took it and deciphered these words, scrawled in an abominable hand:
"Meet me to-night, nine o'clock, at the place where we parted. J. R."
"Was Mr. Rogers going to Plymouth?" I asked.
"Yes, and in a hurry, by the pace he was driving."
As you may guess, this news discomposed me. Could Mr. Rogers bepreparing a trap? No: certainly not for me. Whitmore, if anyone, washis quarry. But I mistrusted that, if he once started this game, itwould lead him on to another scent. That Archibald Plinlimmon wasinnocent of the Jew's murder I felt sure. Still--what had he beenseeking on the roofs by the Jew's house? It would be an uglyquestion, if Mr. Rogers blundered on it; and in the way of honestblundering I felt Mr. Rogers to be infinitely capable. Would that,trusting in his good nature, I had made a clean breast to him!
A clean breast? Isabel too, poor girl, was aching to make confessionto her father. For weeks her secret had been a sword within her,wearing the flesh, and it eased her somewhat (as I saw) even to havemade confession to me. But she would not speak to her father withoutfirst consulting Archibald. It was he, I gathered, who had enjoinedsilence. Major Brooks (and small blame to him) would assuredlyhave imposed a probation: old men with lovely daughters do notsurrender them at call to penniless youths, even when the pennilessyouth happens to be the son of an old friend. I wished MasterArchibald to perdition for a selfish fool.
I talked long with Isabel: first in the kitchen, and again on our wayback to the summer-house, where her father sat awake and expectingme, book in hand.
There she left me, and he began to dictate at once as I settledmyself to write.
"First, then, for site. Seek, and instal your Bee Where nor may winds invade (for winds forbid His homeward load); nor sheep, nor heady kid Trample the flowers; nor blundering heifer pass, Brush off the dew and bruise the tender grass; Nor lizard foe in painted armour prowl Round the rich hives. Ban him, ban every fowl-- Bee-bird with Procne of the bloodied breast: These rifle all--our Hero with the rest, Snapped on the wing and haled, a tit-bit, to the nest. --But seek a green moss'd pool, with well-spring nigh; And through the turf a streamlet fleeting by."
So much, with interminably slow pauses, we accomplished before thelight waned in the summer-house and Isabel called us in to supper,which we ate together in a low-ceiled parlour overlooking the garden.At a quarter to nine, on pretence that I had still to make up arrearsof sleep, she signed to me to wish her father good-night and escortedme out into the passage. A slip of the bolt, and I was free of thenight.
I found the spot where I had dropped into the road, and cautiouslymounted the hedge, putting the brambles aside and peering throughthem into the fast falling twilight. A low whistle sounded, and Mr.Rogers stepped into view on the footbridge. But he left a companionbehind him in the shadow of the alders, and who this might be I couldneither see nor guess.
"Is that you, Master Revel?"
There was no help for it now; so over the hedge I climbed and methim.
"How did you find out--"
--"Your name? Miss Brooks told me, this morning. But, for thatmatter, it's placarded all over Plymouth and at every public andforge and signpost along the road. You're a notorious character, myson."
I began to quake.
"Parson," he went on, turning and addressing the figure in theshadow, "here's the boy. Better make haste, if you have anyquestions to ask him before we get to business."
There stepped forward, not Mr. Whitmore (as I was fearfullyexpecting), but a figure unknown to me; an old shovel-hatted manleaning on a stick and buttoned to the chin in a black Invernesscape. I felt his eyes peering at me through the dusk.
"He seems very young to be a trustworthy witness," croaked this oldgentleman in a voice which seemed to be affected by the night air.
"He's right enough," Mr. Rogers answered cheerfully.
"He shall tell his tale, then, in Mr. Whitmore's presence. I willnot yet believe that a minister of Christ's religion, whose papers--as I have proved to you--are in order, whose testimonials areunexceptionable, who has the Bishop's licence--"
"The Bishop's fiddlestick! The Bishop didn't license him to carrymarked guineas in his pocket, and I don't wait for a licence to carrya warrant in mine."
"You will at least afford him an opportunity of explaining before youexecute it. To be plain with you, Mr. Rogers, this business is liketo be scandalous, however you look at it."
"The constables shall remain outside, and the warrant I'll keep in mypocket until your reverence's doubts are at rest." Mr. Rogers gaveanother low whistle and two men, hitherto concealed at a littledistance in the trees' shadow, stepped silently forward and joinedus. "Ready, lads? Quick march, then!"
We took the path up the valley bottom, and across a grassy shoulderof the park to a small gate in the ring-fence. Beyond this gate alane, or cart-road, dipped steeply downhill to the right; andfollowing it, we came on a high stone wall overtopped by trees.
"Here's your post, Hodgson," whispered Mr. Rogers, after waiting forthe constables to come up. "Jim will take the back of the house: andunderstand that no one is to enter or leave. If anyone attempts it,signal to me: one whistle from you, Hodgson, and two from Jim.Off you go, my lad! The signal's the same if I want you--one whistleor two, as the case may be."
The constable he called Jim crept away in the darkness, while Mr.Rogers found and cautiously opened a wicket-gate leading to acourtlage, across which a solitary window shone on the ground-floorof a house lifting its gables and heavy chimneys against a sky onlyless black than itself.
"Gad!" said Mr. Rogers softly,
"I wonder what Whitmore's doing?The fun would be, now, to find one of these windows unfastened, andslip in upon him without announcing ourselves. 'Twouldn't be thething, though, for a Justice of the Peace, let alone Mr. Doidge here.No: we'll have to do it in order and knock. The maid knows me.Only you two must keep back in the shadow here while she opens thedoor."
He stepped forward and knocked boldly.
To the astonishment of us all the door opened almost at once, andwithout any noise of unlocking or drawing of bolts.
"For Heaven's sake, my dear--unless you want to wake the village--"began a voice testily. It was Mr. Whitmore's, and almost on theinstant, by the light of a candle which he held, he recognised theman on the doorstep.
"Mr. Rogers? To what do I owe--"
"Good evening, Whitmore! May I come in? Won't detain you long--especially since you seem to be expecting company."
"It's the maid," answered Mr. Whitmore coldly, though he seemedconfused. "She has stepped down to the village for an hour, to hermother's cottage, and I am alone."
"So you call her 'my dear'? That's a bit pastoral, eh?"
"Look here, Rogers: if you're drunk, I beg you to call at some othertime. To tell the truth, I'm busy."
"Writing your sermon? I thought Saturday was the night for that.'Pon my honour now I wouldn't intrude, only the business is urgent."He waited while Mr. Whitmore somewhat grudgingly set the door wide toadmit him. "By the way I've brought a couple of friends with me."
"Confound it all, Rogers--"
"Oh, you know them." Mr. Rogers, with his foot planted over thethreshold, airily waved us forward out of the darkness. "Mr. Doidge,your Rector," he announced; "also Mr. Revel--a recent acquaintance ofyours, as I understand."
"Good evening, Whitmore," said the Rector stepping forward. "I oweyou an apology (I sincerely hope) for the circumstances of thisvisit, as I certainly discommend Mr. Rogers's method of introducingus."
Now, as we two stepped forward, Mr. Whitmore had instantly shot outhis right hand to the door--against which Mr. Rogers, however, hadplanted his foot--with a gesture as if to slam it in our faces.But the sombre apparition of the Rector seemed to freeze him where hestood--or all of him but his left hand which, grasping thecandlestick, slowly and as if involuntarily lifted it above the levelof his eyes. Then, before the Rector had concluded, he lowered it,turned, and walked hastily before us down the passage.
Still without speaking he passed through a door on his right, and wefollowed him into a sparely furnished room lined with emptybook-shelves. A few books lay scattered on the centre table wherealso, within the shaded light of a reading lamp, stood a tray with adecanter and a couple of glasses. Beside this lamp he set down thecandle and faced us. In those few paces down the passage I hadobserved that he wore riding-boots and spurs, and that they werespotlessly bright and clean. But from this moment I had eyes onlyfor his face, which was ashen white and the more horrible because hewas essaying a painful smile.
"My dear Rector," he began, "this is indeed a--a surprise. You saidnothing of any such intention when I had the honour to call on you inPlymouth, two days ago."
"Good reason for why," interrupted Mr. Rogers. "Look here,Whitmore--with the Rector's leave we'll get this over. Do you knowthis coin?"
He held forward a guinea under the lamp.
I could see the unhappy man pick up his courage to fix his gaze onthe coin and hold it fixed.
"I don't understand you, Rogers," he answered. "I have, of course,no knowledge of that coin or what it means. To me it looks like anordinary guinea."
"I had it from you last night, Whitmore: and it is not an ordinaryguinea, but a marked one. What's more, I marked it myself--see, withthis small cross behind the king's head. What's more I sold it, somarked, to Rodriguez, the Jew."
--"Who, I suppose, promptly put it into circulation in Plymouth,where by chance it was handed to me amid the change when I paid myhotel-bill--if indeed you are absolutely sure you were given thiscoin by me."
"Come, Rogers, that's an explanation I myself suggested," put in theRector.
"The folks at the Royal Hotel," answered Mr. Rogers curtly, "tell methat you paid your bill in silver."
It seemed to me that Mr. Rogers was pressing Whitmore harshly, almostwith a note of private vindictiveness in his voice. But while Iwondered at this my eyes fell on the curate's hand as it playednervously with the base of the brass candlestick. There was a ringon the little finger: and in an instant I knew--though I could nothave sworn to it in court--yet knew more certainly than many thingsto which I could have testified on oath--that this was the hand I hadseen closing the door in the Jew's House.
Through a buzzing of the brain I heard him addressing the Rector andprotesting against the absurdity, the monstrosity, of the charge--yetstill with that recurring agonised glance at me. But my eyes nowwere on Mr. Rogers; and the buzzing ceased and my brain cleared whenhe swung round, inviting me to speak. I cannot tell what question heput to me, but what I said was:
"If you please, sirs, the runners are after me; and it isn't fair tomake me tell yet what happened in the Jew's house, or what I sawthere: for what I told might be twisted and turned against me."
"Nonsense!" interrupted Mr. Rogers. But the Rector nodded his head."The boy's right. He's under suspicion himself, and should have alawyer to advise him before he speaks. That's only fair play."
"But," I went on "there's another thing, if you'll be pleased to askMr. Whitmore about it. Why is he paying money to a soldier--a manwho calls himself Letcher, but his real name is Leicester? And whathave they been plotting against Miss Isabel down at the Cottage?"