CHAPTER XI
THE SCARRED MAN
It was towards the hour of seven in the evening that I reached theAbbey Inn at Upper Crossleys, itself among the most hoary buildings ofthe ancient village. It belonged to the days when white-clad brethrenfrom the once great monastery of Croix-de-lis had labored in the abbeymeadows and fished in the little stream which ran slowly through aneighboring valley. Time had scarred it deeply and the balconyoverhanging the coachyard sagged in a rather alarming fashion asthough about to drop down from sheer old age.
The surrounding country had impressed me at first sight. There werelong billowing hills and vales, much of their surface densely wooded,but with wide spaces under cultivation and even greater tracts of asort of heath-land very wild in aspect and conjuring up pictures ofoutlaws' camps and the clash of battling feudal days. Hard by hadresided of old a warden of the marches, and the ruins of his strongholdmight still be seen on the crest of a near-by hill.
From the room allotted to me I could look out over a varied prospectof farmland and heath, terminated by the woody slopes which everywherehemmed in the valley. Peeping above the outer fringe of trees showeda tower of some old house whereof the rest was hidden by verdure.
Having partaken of a typical country dinner, the small number ofcourses being amply compensated by their quantity, I lighted my pipeand went down to the bar-parlor, being minded to learn something ofthe neighborhood at first hand from any chance visitor who might servemy purpose.
The landlord, a somewhat taciturn member of his class, sat behind thebar, pipe in mouth, as I entered, and only one other man was in theroom. This was a gipsy-looking fellow, with a very wild eye, attiredin the manner of a game-keeper, and wearing leggings and a fur cap. Asporting rifle stood in the corner beside him. The landlord nodded,and the other gave me a "Good evening" as I entered, whereupon Idetermined to try the game-keeper as the more likely source ofinformation, and:
"Is the shooting good hereabouts?" I asked, by way of opening aconversation.
My inquiry seemed hugely to amuse the man.
"None better," was the reply; "it's thick with game, sir, it is forsure--and nobody to profit, only"--he winked at the landlord--"youngJim Corder!"
The landlord emitted a deep grunt which was evidently recognized bythe other as a laugh; for he himself laughed in a wild and not whollypleasant manner, whereby I concluded that "young Jim Corder" was astanding joke in the neighborhood.
"You look as though you knew a hare from a partridge," said I, "soI'll take your word for it."
This remark provoked a second and deeper growl from the landlord and afurther burst of outlandish laughter from my acquaintance, thegame-keeper. Presently:
"Why, sir, if I tell you," declared the latter, "them birds all knowme like I was their father, they do. I says, 'Good morning' regularand them birds all bows to me, they does."
When the laughter had subsided, scenting possible information:
"I gather," said I, "that you get few shooting-parties nowadays?"
Gloom descended upon both my gossips.
"You're right, you are, sir," replied the game-keeper. "He's right,ain't he, Martin?"
Martin, the landlord, growled. It occurred to me that he regarded theother with a certain disfavor.
"This 'ere country," continued the game-keeper, vaguely waving his armaround, "is a blighted spot. A blighted spot, ain't it, Martin?"
Martin growled, whilst the game-keeper studied him covertly.
"Since Sir Burnham went to his long rest these 'ere parts ain't knowedthemselves. I'm tellin' you, sir. Ain't knowed 'emselves. It's allthat quiet, winter and summer alike. The Park all shut up; and thePark _was_ the Park in them days--warn't it, Martin?"
Martin achieved speech; he removed his pipe, and:
"It were, Hawkins," he concurred.
Silence fell for a minute or two. My new acquaintance, Hawkins, andMartin both seemed to be pondering upon the degeneracy of UpperCrossleys, and I could mot help thinking that Hawkins took a secretdelight in it. Then:
"Surely the Park is still occupied by Lady Coverly?" I asked.
"Aye," Hawkins nodded. "She's kep' me on, me and the missus, she has,like the real lady she is. But things is different; things is wrong.Ain't they, Martin?" he asked, with a mischievous glance at the stolidhost.
"Things is," agreed Martin.
"Best part of Park be shut up," declared Hawkins. "Horses gone,carriages gone, everybody gone; only me and my old woman."
"There must be house servants," I interjected.
"My old woman!" cried Hawkins triumphantly; "same as I'm tellin' you!"
"You mean that Lady Coverly lives alone in the place with only--er,Mrs. Hawkins to look after her?"
It was Martin the landlord who answered my question.
"Things ain't right," he observed, and returned to his mouth the pipewhich he had removed for the purpose of addressing me.
"You don't know half of it," declared Hawkins. "What's _my_ job, forinstance? I ask you--what is it?"
Having thus spoken, he exchanged a significant look with the landlordand relapsed into silence. Even my offer to replenish his tankard,although it was accepted, did not result in any further confidences.Prospects of crops and fruit were briefly touched upon, but thatexchange of glances between mine host and Hawkins seemed to have beenmutually understood to mean that the conversation touching Friar'sPark had proceeded far enough.
It was very mystifying, and naturally it served only to pique mycuriosity. A certain quality of loneliness which had seemed to belongto the village, even in the brightness of the summer evening, nowasserted itself potently. Seated there in the quiet little inn parlor,I recalled that many of the old-world cottages to right and left ofthe Abbey Inn had exhibited every indication of being deserted, andthe lack of patrons instanced by the emptiness of the bar-parlor wascertainly not ascribable to the quality of the ale, which wasexcellent. A sort of blight it would seem had descended upon humanityin Upper Crossleys. It was all very curious.
Reflecting upon the matter, and sometimes interjecting a word or twointo the purely technical and very desultory conversation proceedingbetween the landlord and Hawkins, I sat looking from one to the other,more than ever convinced that no friendship was lost between them. Myposition in the room was such that any one entering would not detectmy presence until he was right up to the bar, and to this shelteredseat I was undoubtedly indebted for a very strange experience.
During a lull in the patently forced conversation I heard footstepsupon the cobbles outside. Hawkins and the landlord exchanged a swiftglance, and then to my surprise they both stared at me questioningly.Before a word could be exchanged, however, and before I had time evento surmise what this covert uneasiness might portend, a young fellowentered whose carriage and dress immediately attracted my attention.
He was attired, then, in a sort of burlesque "fashionable" lounge suitand wore a straw hat set rakishly backward on his well-oiled darkhair. He carried gloves and a malacca cane, and his gait was one ofassured superiority. He was a stoutly-built, muscular young fellow andmight ordinarily have been good-looking after a rustic fashion, butwhat principally rendered him noticeable was the fact that he woresurgical bandages around his neck in lieu of a collar and that hisface was literally a mosaic of sticking-plaster!
"Evening, Martin--evening, Hawkins," he said jauntily; and advancingto the bar, "The usual, Martin."
As he gave the order and as the landlord turned to execute it,exhibiting a sort of half-amused deference, the embarrassed glance ofHawkins, who was watching me uncomfortably, drew the newcomer'sattention to my presence. He turned in a flash and I saw those partsof his face which were visible between the pieces of strapping to turnfierily red. His brown eyes glared at me, and:
"Martin!" he cried, throwing out his hand in the landlord's direction,"Martin, damn you! There is a stranger here! Why the devil didn't youtell me?"
"Sorry, Mr. Edward," said the landlord, setting a glass
of whiskybefore the excited man. "No time."
"It's a lie!" cried the other, with a wild fury which so trivial amatter did not seem to warrant, "a deliberate damned lie! You want tomake me the laughing-stock of the place!"
Taking up the newly-filled glass, he dashed it violently to the sandedfloor, so that it was shattered to bits. Then, snatching off his hat,he held it as a shield between my inquiring gaze and his plasteredface, and ran out of the room. At the door:
"Damn you all!" he shouted back at us.
I heard his quick footsteps receding. Then, as he turned the cornerthe sound died away. I looked across at Hawkins. He was staring intohis tankard with which he was describing slow circles as if to stirthe contents. Martin, having raised the bar-flap was phlegmaticallyengaged in sweeping up the fragments of glass into a dustpan. It cameto me all at once that these simple folk regarded the other's outburstas a personal matter; their attitude was that of the grieved elders ofa family, some member of which has misbehaved himself. But assuredly Iwas not prepared to concur in this shielding silence; the pressmanwithin me demanded an explanation.
"A strange young man," I said tentatively. "Very touchy, I shouldthink?"
"Touchy?" repeated Hawkins, glancing up quickly. "I seen him take TomPike by the scruff of his neck and the seat of his pants and pitch himin the horse-trough for askin' of him who his tailor was, I have."
"Indeed," said I, "a local Carpentier, no doubt?"
"Ah," said Martin, glancing at me as he turned to his seat behind thebar. "Very 'andy with 'is 'ands."
"He is evidently acutely sensitive of his present disfigurement. MightI suggest that his most recent encounter was with a barbed-wireentanglement?"
But to my acute disappointment, Martin merely growled, shaking hishead gloomily; and in this significant gesture he was closely imitatedby Hawkins. Therefore:
"Is he badly disfigured?" I persisted.
"Only one is deep," replied Hawkins, glancing almost apologetically atthe landlord. The unfortunate incident seemed to have drawn them moreclosely together. "The one on his neck. But he prides himself on hislooks, don't he, Martin?"
"He do," agreed Martin.
I took the bull by the horns. I never neglect an opportunity of thisnature, for however irrelevant to the matter in hand an episode mayseem to be, not infrequently I have found that it is by the pursuit ofsuch chance clews that one is led to the very piece of news that issought.
"Drink up, gentlemen," I said, "and as the night draws on, we shalljust have time for a peg of whisky before ten o'clock."
My effort proved successful, for whilst Martin prepared the ordereddrinks, almost with alacrity, Hawkins became quite confidential.
"Young Mr. Edward Hines that was, sir," he confided, in a churchwhisper. "His father is the biggest farmer round these parts and youngMr. Edward is a terror with the gals, he is. Mind you, he's straightout about it. Comes in here, he do, and says straight out who he'safter. And it's woe betide the one who takes him up on it. I'm glad mygal is up to London, with that Mr. Edward about, I am."
The drinks being placed upon the counter, he ceased, and:
"Good health!" said I; then: "Yes--about our mutilated young friend?"I prompted.
"Well," continued Hawkins--"it's kind o' funny, ain't it, Martin?"
The landlord growled.
"Mr. Edward he come in here three weeks back all puffed up withhimself. Said he'd got an appointment with a lady down from Londonwhat was coming all the way from West Wingham to see him. Didn't he,Martin?"
Martin corroborated.
"He see her, too," declared Hawkins with a sort of schoolboy naivete."And he see her again four nights after. She give him a present--akeepsake. He showed us. Then he seen her a third time, and--"
Hawkins ceased speaking and looked at the landlord as if mutelyappealing for his aid in making clear to me what occurred at thisthird tryst with the mysterious "lady from London."
"Go on," prompted Martin. "Tell him. He's stopping here; he's allright."
I keenly appreciated the compliment conveyed by this, the landlord'slongest speech of the evening, and raised my glass to him. "Well,then," Hawkins resumed, "we didn't see him for a night or two, but onthe Wednesday--"
"The Thursday," corrected Martin.
"Right you are, Martin," agreed Hawkins--"the Thursday it were. I metFarmer Hines comin' back from Wingham market as I came here mid-day.It were the Thursday. Well, then, on the Thursday young Mr. Edward heturns up after dark. Sort of slinked in he did. There was three orfour of us here, there was that night, wasn't there, Martin? 'Courseit were market day. Slinked in he did, and his face was like you seeit to-night only worse. He never said a word to nobody and nobodynever said nothin' to him, not likely. Just gulped down a doubleScotch and slinked out. What do you think about that for a story, eh,sir?"
He looked at me triumphantly. For my own part I must confess I wasdisappointed. A cat-and-dog squabble between a rustic Lothario andsome local virago did not excite me so intensely as it seemed toexcite my companions.
"Is that all you know of the matter?" I asked.
"No," answered Martin, "it ain't. Tell him, Hawkins."
"Aye," resumed Hawkins, "he might as well know, as he's livin' here.Well, sir, young Mr. Edward he's very quiet about what happened tohim. Maybe we shouldn't have thought so much about it like if ithadn't been that in this very bar, six months ago, he'd plagued thelife out of young Harry Adams."
"For what reason?" I asked idly; the conversation was beginning tobore me. But:
"Young Harry Adams," explained Hawkins with gusto, and his formerwicked look returning to his eyes, "at one time was Mr. Edward's onlyrival with the gals, he was. A good-lookin' young fellow; got acommission in the war he did. He's up to London now. Well, six monthsago young Harry Adams come staggerin' in here one night with bloodrunnin' from his face and neck. He fell down in that seat where you'resitting now and fainted right off, didn't he, Martin? We had to sendyoung Jim Corder (what used to come here in them days) off runnin' allthe way past Leeways for the doctor. Ah, that were a night."
"It were," agreed Martin.
"Same as Mr. Edward," continued the narrator, "young Harry Adamswouldn't say a word about what happened to him. But when Mr. Edwardfirst see him, all over sticking-plaster, he laughed till the potsnearly fell off the hooks, he did. Little did he guess his own turnwas to come!"
My interest revived.
"Then in the case of, er--Mr. Adams," I said, "you never had anyparticulars whatever?"
"Never," replied Martin. "Time, please, gentlemen."
"Aye," said Hawkins, rising. "Time it be. Well, good night, sir. Goodnight, Martin."
"Good night."
Hawkins moved towards the door, and indeed was on the point of goingout when I remembered something which I had meant to ask earlier, butwhich, owing to lack of opportunity, I had postponed asking.
"You spoke of a gift or keepsake, which the lady from London gave toMr. Hines," I said. "I think you mentioned that he had shown it toyou. I am rather curious about this story. Might I ask the nature ofthe gift?"
"Aye, to be sure," answered Hawkins, standing half in shadow on thestep of the bar-parlor, rifle on shoulder, where I thought he made avery wild figure. "Brought it here, he did. All of us see it. Thatstuck up about it, he was. Not as I should have thought much of it ifa party had give it to me, I do say."
"Then what was it?"
"Why--it were a little figure like--gold _he_ said it were, but brassI reckon. Ugly it were, but he says he's goin' to wear it on hiswatch-chain. Good night, sir."
He turned and departed, but:
"What kind of figure?" I called after him.
Out of the darkness his voice came back:
"A sort of a _cat_, sir."
And I heard his outlandish laughter dying away in the distance.